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mrfancyfoot · 27 days

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Raphael x Evie (f!OC) | Fic Rating: E/Varied | Chapter 1 on AO3

I couldn't resist the mix of culture clash and potential for flirty fun! This one is mostly fluff but may have a part 2 or more in the future. ;)

Chapter 9: Fox Tail Things begin to take a bit of a turn as Raphael thinks Evie is flirting with him.

Ch. Rating: M-ish / NSFW-ish Ch. Word Count: 881 Ch. Tags: POV Raphael; (Unintentional vs Intentional) Tail Flirting; Culture Clash; Raphael is Not the Most Reliable Narrator; Character Analysis-ish Ch. Warnings: Evie might be new to her tail but she’s also not (neuro)typical and that’s made a bit more evident in this chapter through an outsider’s (Raphael’s) unfamiliar perspective; Raphael’s Enormous Ego that doesn't even consider the possibility of Evie not being interested in that way

Read under the cut or on AO3-

Did she know?

It rose and curled behind her, now lazily swaying from side to side.

A novel behavior from the fox.

Were this any other mortal before him, he would presume it to be purposeful. A coquettish play to charm, persuade, or signal availability to the handsome devil before them.

He supposed that he had to remind himself that, though she had a tail, she was no devil nor tiefling…but human. Ish.

The fox did not have- Could she? She had said herself there were none but humans in her yester-world. No. She did not have the cultural knowledge nor social conditioning to know what she was doing was considered flirtatious at its most innocent and outright propositional at its most indecent.

Yet that did not mean there wasn’t any deeper…instinct behind it.

Which led to- Whether or not she knew, was there an instinctive or unconscious cause for her behavior?

In the mere spark of time spent following this mote - nearly the same length of time she’d had the fluffy appendage - there had been an escalation in her behavior from a reserved, neutral carry to animated expression reflecting whatever excited or in cited her. All in thanks to his tireless efforts to draw out her trust and get her to open up to him.

The addition of the ears added a somewhat helpful dimension: even a careful mask was rendered ineffective when one did not know how or to alter expressions and signals from…newer extensions of their anatomy. This, however, did have the frustrating side effect of furthering incongruencies in her behaviors.

Was their discussion of tea truly that exciting? Was it meant to signal approval?

How much was influenced by the canine nature of her Aspect?

It was not an unfounded assumption to believe there was within her a vixen on the hunt that identified him as desirable.

A curious new degree of separation from the vampire spawn now existed - mum as Evie was of it. A flame snuffed as quickly as it was lit! A lonely spirit seeking a replacement for lost carnal companionship?

He had not initially bothered with more sensual seduction tactics, preferring her to focus on forging such a relationship with a curated few to suit the future. Even if those involved insisted on going off script. Whatever had changed between them, the spawn remained clung to her, terrified to lose that little beacon of light in his life.

Which still worked perfectly in his favor.

There was no longer any reason he saw not to sway her in such a manner. Should he prove successful - and perhaps that was a better means by which to convince her to sign away her soul - the Hero would be that much further under his claw.

And he was growing so fond of the little fox.

It was safe to say that the fox did not recognise his own deliberate signals in response to her less-than-deliberate tail flirting.

The next time she raised and flicked and swayed her tail so invitingly while they were seated in conversation, he caught it within his own, coiling around it securely in a manner that should have been nigh impossible to dismiss out of hand. An open acceptance of what she was offering!

Evie stopped mid-sentence, gesturing hands frozen, and looked down, her face scrunching in confusion as she stared. After a few beats, she reached down and deftly yanked her tail from his, only to stuff it under her leg. “Sorry, if I was distracting,” was all she said before clasping her hands together and relaunching into her prior discussion point seemingly without another thought about it.

It was so completely the wrong conclusion to draw, that he found himself in a rare moment - though these were becoming disconcertingly more common wherever she was involved - without words as he studied her for a fracture, a crack that indicated this was a bluff, a trick, a trial. A hidden smile, a flush of lust, the musk of arousal, desire hungering her gaze, a retreating grimace of shame from the yearn of forbidden fruit - anything.

But to what end would it serve her to play coy? To rile him? To cause him to pursue harder? It was customary for women to feign disinterest, after all - to turn away even a person of interest possibly numerous times before accepting their attentions. There were whole contrived social conventions around such inane behaviors and the taboo of appearing too eager for the attentions of another. Was he not already chasing the fox? Having his offers of salvation rebuffed time and again?

After further reflection, he concluded dear Evie was genuinely ignorant in her singalling of an unconscious attraction.

What fun there was to be had with that!

Another facet to this challenge of winning over her soul.

Following her amusingly hostile reactions to Haarlep crassly propositioning her on more than one occasion, he was reluctant to escalate in this moment. It was advantageous to allow her to continue to draw distinctions between him and the incubus, to see him as a safe and trustworthy presence. Thus he bit his tongue and played the perfect gentleman devil as he patiently stalked his prey.

Perhaps he would be the one with a spoiled pet by the conclusion of this all.

Thanks for reading!

#baldur's gate 3 raphael #bg3 Raphael #Raphael x OC #raphael x tav #raphael the cambion #baldur's gate 3 fanfic #baldur's gate 3 raphael fanfic #Plots & Prosody #mrfancyfoot

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ao3feed-nalu · 11 months

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Ice and Igni

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/MsFw2nH

by fairydares

**Tags, categories, and relationships may be updated. There will at least be a part 2 as it's already been written, but idk if there will be any more.**

PREVIEW:

"Coming on the hidden location with a relieved sigh, he brushed a branch aside, looked up—

"—and saw it. No, not “it”—*her*. He saw a female, bare under the sun and standing knee-deep in the spring, clutching her chest with one arm and peering over her shoulder at him with wide eyes.

"Greige had never gone so still so fast in his life."

SUMMARY:

Exactly as packaged, this is a Stone Age Omake featuring second gen kids, mainly the Nalu kid and the Gruvia kid (though I also have ideas for some others, if I decide to make this longer). kind of fever wrote the first 2 chapters tbh.

I deliberated posting this a LOT. Mainly because of my other second gen-ish fic through which I thought of some of these headcanons, but I decided I wanted to post it anyway :)

Words: 1555, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Fairy Tail

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Greige (Fairy Tail), Nasha (Fairy Tail), Gray Fullbuster, Natsu Dragneel, Gajeel Redfox

Relationships: Greige/Nasha (Fairy Tail), Gray Fullbuster/Juvia Lockser, Natsu Dragneel/Lucy Heartfilia

Additional Tags: stone age omake, Second Generation, 2nd generation, second gen, 2nd gen, fairy tail second generation, Nudity, Hunting, Humor, Angst, Gray and Juvia are separated, so are natsu and lucy this time, i'm evil what can i say, have this feral baby mammoth, sexual awakening, discovering sexuality, possibly forever-unsatisfied mystery/angst, graphic and deeply hetero descriptions of naked bodies, and that may just be the beginning, Gruvia - Freeform, Nalu - Freeform, grasha (?)

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/MsFw2nH

#ao3feed #fanfic #Nalu #Natsu x Lucy #Fairy Tail

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patrice-bergerons · 1 year

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🔥

Free reign - use this for anything you want to be a hater about!

Okay here is a controversial opinion/practice: I often approach AO3 tags - especially on angsty fic - from a 'legal compliance' framework, where I think if this wording was in a legal contract and I was sued would I be in trouble?

So I will never use deliberately false/misleading tags, I comply with major archive warnings, and I also make an effort to tag / otherwise warn for darker content that some readers might find triggering, but, for example, if I haven't tagged an angsty story as "Angst with Happy Ending" then an unhappy or open ending is absolutely fair game, because why should the happy ending be the default expectation? To the extent a reader is extremely sensitive to any hint of angst in the story, then it is their responsibility to evaluate what the tags promise as well as what they don't, and not mine to e.g. announce in blazing all caps "this story does not have an unequivocally happy ending".

Ultimately as an angst writer, I just don't vibe with how fluff and happy endings are the default expectation in fandom spaces and prioritized above all else, but also, I think we lose something if every bit of angst is expected to be meticulously tagged.

Perhaps this is because I love my unreliable narrators; I love reading and writing stories that have multiple and opposing potential interpretations (such as i never left heheh where quite a few people read it as straightforward h/c), I love having that WAIT HOLD ON moment partway into a story and rushing back, or stories in which where the characters go next or what repercussions they face (the worth of one life comes to mind) are left to the reader. AO3 tags are wonderful but much like say black pepper they can sometimes overpower all else in a delicate story and I'd then rather use them in moderation in such cases.

#this is also very personal preference btw and not a value judgement on other writers!#i just had people complaining about fics not being meticulously tagged for every little thing in past on my dash #and I also know im a little outside the mainstream approach perhaps #i also know some readers who are very sensitive (no shame in that) will as a result not read my fics bc of above habits and i've #made my peace with that too

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ariaste · 3 years

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Feel free to ignore this if you'd like but considering that Vox just made an article about this and AO3 I figured I'd ask. Any thoughts on the "sexy times with wangxian" fic debacle?

I had to install a SKIN!!!!!!!!!! on ao3!!!!!!!!! A SKIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I had to INSTALL A SKIN to collapse all tags into a scrollable field!!!!!!!! Just so that I wouldn’t have to spend four goddamn months of my life scrolling past Sexy Times with Wangxian whenever I looked for fic!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I did read the Vox article and I think virtual1979 is being what is known in professional circles as A Little Bitch by saying that they’re obeying the “letter of the law” and that it’s on AO3 to change policies to make them stop. To that person, I say: “Ma’amsir, shut the fuck up. Actually, no, it’s on YOU to behave in ways that aren’t deliberately and egregiously antisocial and spiteful. Just because AO3 provided you a hammer to use for pounding nails doesn’t mean that you are free to use that hammer to bash people over the head or to smash ‘in case of fire, break glass’ boxes for fun. Members of the community reached out to tell you that the tags were burdensome to everyone and site-breakingly intrusive to people using screen readers, and your response was to maliciously, intentionally do the thing TWICE AS HARD. Shut the fuck up.”

That said, I do also appreciate AO3 for standing by their policies. Protecting transformative works means protecting ALL transformative works, even the ones that are distasteful. I do NOT believe that they should begin moderating fics -- I’ve seen enough fandom drama in my time, I know how easily “reporting” tools get weaponized against people by the mob. I have no problem with STWWX existing on AO3, and if virtual1979 thinks it’s a fun way to spend their time, then sure, whatever, glad they’re doing that instead of selling heroin on the street or hijacking cars or whatever. However, there’s gotta be some kind of tiny tweak, SOMEWHERE, because the fic is genuinely breaking the site for a lot of users, and I am worried that other bad actors will take a look at what virtual1979 is doing and will be inspired to spam-tag fics of their own as well.

I would love a “block user” or “hide work” function (I’ve heard some people want to have them so that the site will remember your preferences on all devices even if you’re not logged in, and I think that is a WILDLY unreasonable ask made by people who don’t know how the fuck back-end coding works). If AO3 is worried about this function being weaponized against individuals, then even a something like an ability to permanently add a tag/archive warning to your “do not show” list (rather than having to enter it in the “Exclude” search function every time) would be really helpful.

On the other hand, AO3 gets a VAST amount of traffic -- it’s one of the most-accessed websites on the entire internet -- and adding functions like that would be an enormous extra load on their servers. They aren’t a corporation; they’re a NONPROFIT. They have limitations and different perspectives on resource management and allocation than a corporation does, and it is essential to acknowledge that in any discussion.

At the end of the day, Archive of Our Own is an ARCHIVE, not a social media site. The cost of being a human living in the world is that we have to share it with all the Very Annoying other people who live in the world, and sometimes those people have AO3 accounts and post their Very Annoying thoughts there. I don’t need those people kicked off the site, but I do hope AO3, an archive, is able to make tweaks that will improve its archival functionality and accessibility. I have SO MUCH TRUST in them. There are a lot of smart people behind AO3 and the OTW, and they’ve brought us so, so so far from the dark ages that fandom used to live in. I have faith that they will come up with good solutions in time.

#archive of our own #ao3 #sexy times with wangxian #huntforachievements

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ao3feed-izuku-midoriya · 3 years

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Fooling Them Once is All It Takes

Fooling Them Once Is All It Takes (Accidents Are Meant To Happen) by Otaku6337

It starts, as many things in Izuku's life do, with a notebook.

It continues with an agony of misunderstandings, both deliberate and not, and with far more confusion than anyone could be paid to deal with.

It ends with a revelation. ~~~ See, Aizawa has learnt over many, painful years of being both a hero and simply a person, that first assumptions are often somewhat biased and made with incomplete facts. On the other hand, they are often a gut reaction, and sometimes that can be more accurate than any logical explanations. And he hopes to Nedzu that here, in this case, his first instinct of Problem Child being a forced traitor at worst will be the full truth of the situation. Because the idea of the sunshine centre of his class - one with an over-powered Quirk and a quick mind but, above all that, the hearts of all of his class, all of UA even, in his hands - willingly betraying them all? It hardly bears thinking about.

It's clear that Aizawa isn't going to have any choice though. Not if he wants to keep as many of his kids safe as possible. ~~~ (My take on a "suspected" traitor Izu AU~)

Words: 6803, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 85 of Ota's One-Shot Wonders, Part 84 of Ota's BNHA Ficlets, Part 28 of Fics From The Trenches ( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Class 1-A, Nedzu

Relationships: Class 1-A & Midoriya Izuku, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku

Additional Tags: Suspected Traitor Midoriya Izuku, Traitor Midoriya Izuku, Forced Villain Midoriya Izuku, or maybe he's not, that's what everyone's trying to figure out, Worried Class 1-A, Worried Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Smart Midoriya Izuku, Scary Midoriya Izuku, Midoriya Izuku's Hero Analysis For The Future Notebooks, Everyone Loves Midoriya Izuku, this is perhaps not a good thing for once, all of 1-A have hero complexes, Class 1-A Needs a Hug, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead Needs a Raise, Married Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead/Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, 1-A are actually good at keeping secrets for once, again perhaps a bad thing in this case, I don't know how to tag this, Class 1-A as Family, Sneaky Midoriya Izuku, NWA Fic Fight Team 1-A

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32345584

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Izuku #♠#Izuku Midoriya #Aizawa Shouta #Nedzu #R:T #A:Otaku #Villain AU

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ao3feed-dadzawa · 3 years

Text

Fooling Them Once is All It Takes

Fooling Them Once Is All It Takes (Accidents Are Meant To Happen) by Otaku6337

It starts, as many things in Izuku's life do, with a notebook.

It continues with an agony of misunderstandings, both deliberate and not, and with far more confusion than anyone could be paid to deal with.

It's clear that Aizawa isn't going to have any choice though. Not if he wants to keep as many of his kids safe as possible. ~~~ (My take on a "suspected" traitor Izu AU~)

Words: 6803, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 85 of Ota's One-Shot Wonders, Part 84 of Ota's BNHA Ficlets, Part 28 of Fics From The Trenches ( ⓛ ω ⓛ *)

Fandoms: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Midoriya Izuku, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Class 1-A, Nedzu

Relationships: Class 1-A & Midoriya Izuku, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Midoriya Izuku

Read Here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32345584

#AO3 Feed #FanFiction #AO3 Dadzawa #♢#Aizawa Shouta #Izuku Midoriya #R:T #A:Otaku #Villain AU

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sociallyawkward--fics · 3 years

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Last Christmas

Here it is, lol. The fic I wrote last night with Wham!’s “Last Christmas” on repeat for literally Three Hours Straight lol. It is entirely unedited except for me having a friend read it over briefly and them go “you’re missing a period here” and nothing else lol. Please be kind though, I have not written for months and any Christmas fics I’m posting are more just warm-ups to get me back to the level of writing I was before I accidentally took a break, cuz no way I’m jumping back into my Big Projects without getting myself back up to par lol

ALSO, I know Jaskier seems like,,, really aggressive towards Yen in this fic. She's not meant to be a villain! Jaskier just is jealous and sad so he takes it out on her a little bit, which is definitely not the right thing to do but I think it's a very human thing to do. After this I imagine them going for coffee or smth and just lovingly trash-talking Geralt and realizing "wow we can actually be decent friends" lol

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Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandoms: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types; Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game); The Witcher (TV); Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Relationship: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion

Characters: Jaskier | Dandelion; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Triss Merigold; Zoltan Chivay; Iorveth (The Witcher); Eskel (The Witcher); Vernon Roche

Additional Tags: eskel triss iorveth and roche are barely-there btw; Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion; Mistletoe; Getting Together; Misunderstandings; Miscommunication; Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg; Alcohol; Drinking; Smoking; (very briefly) - Freeform; Communication; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings; Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia; Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion; Mutual Pining; Kissing; Hugs; Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers; Alternate Universe - No Powers; Holidays; Christmas; Christmas Party

Word Count: 3614 words

[ao3 link]

------------------------------------------

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Jaskier to work up the courage to leave his car. Instead he sat there, heat off and car growing increasingly frosty, forehead against the steering wheel as he bemoaned his own very existence. He did not want to go to this party, which was very out of character for him.

But Jaskier couldn’t take another repeat of last year’s holiday party. And he knew the second he saw Geralt, he would be back there again.

They had both been decently tipsy, which was their first mistake, but Jaskier knew that neither of them were drunk. That’s why he had been so shocked when Geralt made the first move, pressing him up against the wall to the men’s room and ravishing his mouth. They’d gone home together to Jaskier’s flat and had a wonderful night together, but Geralt had been gone come morning.

They never spoke of that night. And by the next week, Geralt had been back in his on-again, off-again relationship with Yennefer.

Jaskier thought he’d gotten over it. As much as he didn’t regret it, it was clear that Geralt did, and he wasn’t going to push his feelings onto the man when they were so clearly unwanted. It was a miracle their friendship survived it, with how testy they had been with each other for weeks afterward.

Jaskier took a deep breath and tightened his scarf around his neck, finally leaving his car to make his way into the hotel ballroom that Foltest had booked for the night. At least their work holiday parties weren’t held in the offices, Jaskier wouldn’t have been able to force himself back to work after last year if they were.

Jaskier’s traitorous eyes immediately sought out Geralt the moment he walked in. He wasn’t hard to find, with his striking silver hair and refusal to wear anything but black. He stuck out like a sore thumb, in the sea of red and green and gold. But god, did he look good. Unfortunately, he was already occupied with the only other person in the room who refused to wear color: Yennefer.

Jaskier forced his eyes away, directing them instead towards the makeshift bar. Zoltan was already there, and, judging by the red on his cheeks, already several drinks in. Jaskier couldn’t exactly judge. He was going to need quite a few drinks to get through this night as well.

“Good old Dandelion!” Zoltan crowed as he approached, words only slightly slurred.

“Zoltan,” Jaskier greeted with an easy smile, nodding at the bartender. “When are you ever going to give up on that silly nickname?”

Zoltan snorted. “You’re the one who calls himself a flower, Julian.”

Jaskier shrugged. “Fair enough.”

Soon enough, Jaskier had a drink in his hand and an earful of Zoltan’s voice, accent only growing thicker and harder to understand the drunker he got. He was barely following what Zoltan was talking about, anymore. Something about his ex father-in-law’s business tanking? He seemed rather pleased by it, in any case. Jaskier probably would be to, if he wasn’t still so anxious.

“What’s got a stick up yer ass?” Zoltan asked after a while, winding down from his latest story.

“Just… not in a partying mood, I suppose.”

Zoltan laughed uproariously. “You? Not in a party mood? Never thought I’d see the day!”

Jaskier gave a half-hearted smile, knowing Zoltan was too far gone to notice that fact, and let his eyes wander the crowd. After a few drinks, he was beginning to feel pleasantly tipsy. The idea of lasting out the party was actually beginning to feel manageable, though he still felt like giving Yennefer and Geralt a wide berth. They always exploded at these things, and Jaskier didn’t want to be caught in the middle of that.

Again.

That was one fight their friendship almost hadn’t survived, and it was the worst six months of Jaskier’s life. And that was including the past twelve months after the last holiday party.

“Come on, Dandelion,” Zoltan said, and Jaskier’s attention was drawn back to the bar. “Sit down for a game of cards with me! Or perhaps a round of dice?”

Jaskier laughed, his first true laugh of the night. “I know better than to gamble with you, old friend. It’s about time I mingled, don’t you think? Give the masses what they desire.”

Zoltan laughed again and gave him a sloppy wink. “Go get ‘em, tomcat. I’ll find some other poor fool to swindle.”

Jaskier grinned. “I don’t doubt it.”

Jaskier slipped away from the bar and into the crowd. He greeted people with hugs and kisses on the cheek, making them laugh and shove him away with teasing grins. He twirled between groups of people in a carefully perfected dance, muscle memory even with the alcohol in his system.

Unfortunately, that muscle memory rather quickly led him to Geralt’s current circle of companions. Yennefer and Triss were there, clearly making an intense effort to not be at each other’s throats. Eskel was there, which wasn’t surprising: as much as a sweetheart as he was, Eskel’s social skills definitely needed some development, and he tended to use Jaskier and Geralt as a social crutch (despite the fact that his brother was even worse with people than he was). Iorveth and Vernon Roche were on opposite sides of the little circle the group had formed, and Jaskier dreaded that disaster waiting to happen.

Really, how did Geralt attract such dramatic people to him so easily?

Despite how suddenly off-kilter Jaskier felt being so close to Geralt, last year flashing through his mind, he knew he couldn’t show it. Geralt would notice, and then it would be awkward for them both, and Jaskier would never forgive himself for ruining Geralt’s Christmas two years in a row.

So he flitted around the group, being his charming self. His smile felt forced as he gave Iorveth and Roche (very awkward) one-armed hugs. His stomach churned as he kissed Triss on the cheek. His balance felt off as he waltzed into Eskel’s arms for one of his patented bear hugs (though that was likely the alcohol, now that he thought about it).

“How is it that you’re already drunk, Jaskier?” Geralt said as Jaskier pulled out of Eskel’s arms.

Jaskier shot him a cheeky grin. “Not drunk, my dear--friend. My dear friend. Merely tipsy.”

“With a stutter like that forming?” Yennefer teased, holding out her hand.

Jaskier indulged her dramatics and pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, chest burning white hot all the while. His smile was probably slightly too-sharp when he stood back up again, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

“The heavier side of tipsy, perhaps,” Jaskier replied, smoothly sliding in beside Geralt to drape himself over Geralt’s shoulders.

A chorus of titters and chuckles went through the circle and Jaskier furrowed his brow. He rubbed his face and ran a hand through his hair, searching for imperfections but finding none. He then looked toward Geralt for an explanation, but the poor man looked just as confused as Jaskier was.

“Aren’t you wondering why none of us were standing all that close to Geralt?” Triss asked, that coy smile Jaskier was all-too-familiar with making its way onto her lips.

And now that she mentioned that, it was odd. Yennefer was usually glued to Geralt’s other side, and Triss was almost always trying to butt her way in. Her jealousy tended to be a great deal more obvious than Jaskier’s, deliberately trying to provoke the two of them. Jaskier simply got drunk and wrote songs about unrequited love, he knew better than to try and put himself between them.

Roche rolled his eyes as Jaskier and Geralt still just stared at the group rather dumbly. He pointed upwards and their eyes followed his finger.

Geralt, very unfortunately, was halfway into a doorway. Taped to the top of the frame of said doorway was a little sprig of green. Jaskier felt his heart stop. He had to swallow to keep the bile from rising up in his throat. He pulled away from where he was leaning on Geralt. The group was still laughing and teasing good-naturedly, but Jaskier felt like his world was crashing down around him. He looked toward Eskel for help, being the kindest of the group.

Only Eskel just shrugged with a grin. “It is tradition.”

“Oh come on, now,” Yennefer said, her voice twisting around Jaskier’s throat like a noose. “We’re all adults here. Just get it over with.”

Jaskier slowly met Geralt’s eyes. He was impossible to read, even moreso than normal, and Jaskier felt that familiar pit open up in his stomach. He needed to get this over with and then smoothly make his escape. Perhaps claim he’d had more to drink than he thought and needed to call a cab.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked quietly, barely more than a whisper.

Jaskier gave him a small smile and leaned forward. He pressed a feather-light kiss to the scruff of Geralt’s cheek before pulling away, his heart not able to take much more than that.

Jaskier couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes as he walked away.

Jaskier’s kiss was a barely-there peck to the cheek. Before Geralt could even hope to respond, he was gone.

The group’s teasing had quieted down, and Geralt dared to look up. Iorveth and Roche seemed confused, not close enough to the rest of the group to be caught up on the drama. Eskel seemed torn between beating himself up and beating Geralt up. Triss seemed guilty.

And Yennefer was just smug.

Geralt found himself grinding his teeth. Of course she was behind this (though it was clear that Triss had some hand in it, as well). Their most recent breakup, for once, had been amicable. The past few years had been hell for them, trying to make their relationship work even though they both knew it was never going anywhere. Jaskier was Yennefer’s last straw.

Geralt was more horrified that Yennefer had so easily picked up on his feelings for Jaskier than hurt by the breakup. If she had picked up on them, then surely Jaskier had?

Is that what that hauntingly sad smile Jaskier gave him before he kissed him was for? Did Jaskier pity him? Was he trying to let Geralt down easy?

“Go after him,” she said simply.

“Yen, this isn’t one of your games--”

“No,” she replied, voice suddenly terse. “So stop treating it like one and act like an adult, Geralt. I think we’ve all had quite enough of you two being like this, and it only got worse after last year’s party.”

“Which you still won’t talk about,” Triss chimed in, raising an eyebrow.

“So go talk to him.”

Geralt resisted the urge to growl. “Fine.”

Jaskier wasn’t hard to find, when you knew him as well as Geralt did. He liked to be high up when he was upset, saying it made him feel like he was getting some perspective on his problems. Geralt liked to joke that it was because he was more at home with his head in the clouds.

Jaskier was on a balcony overlooking the city, a pack of cigarettes sitting on the railing. A lit one rested between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air and entwining with the condensation trailing from his lips thanks to the cold air.

“I thought you quit,” Geralt said quietly.

Jaskier turned his head, not far enough to face Geralt but far enough to let Geralt see the wry half smile on his lips.

“You know how the holidays are,” Jaskier replied, taking a long drag from his cigarette and turning back to the cityscape.

Geralt moved forward to lean against the railing next to him, letting out a heavy sigh and watching the white vapor twist into the air. He didn’t know how to have this conversation. Between the two of them, Jaskier was by far the more emotionally intelligent one. With him shutting down like this, Geralt didn’t know what to say.

“Are you… okay?”

Jaskier snorted. “Yeah, Geralt. I’m great.”

Geralt considered the words for a few moments, turning around the tone of voice in his head. “Sarcasm,” he decided.

It was much easier to decipher when he himself was using it, rather than try to pick out when others were.

Jaskier sighed, hanging his head. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Geralt shook his head. “What’s going on?”

Jaskier took another drag of his cigarette. “Nothing, Geralt. Don’t worry about it.”

Geralt let out a frustrated growl, not sure how else to express himself in the moment. He snatched the pack of cigarettes off the railing (breathing out a sigh of relief when only one was missing -- the one between Jaskier’s fingers) and ripped the lit one out of Jaskier’s hand, tossing both items over the edge of the balcony.

“What the fuck, Geralt?!”

Geralt stared at him. “You told me last time you quit to not let you start up again.”

Jaskier groaned and put his head into his hands. “Shit. I did, didn’t I?”

Geralt hummed an affirmative.

“Aside from saving my lungs, was there something you needed, Geralt?”

Geralt leaned back against the railing, clasping his hands together. “To know what’s had you acting so weird all night.”

He felt Jaskier’s eyes on him, could see him staring out of his peripheral, but Geralt kept his eyes on the lights of the city. With all the light pollution, it was probably as close to stars as they would get without driving out to the mountains.

“You really want to know?” Jaskier asked eventually, his voice low.

“Yes.”

“Tonight I was pressured into kissing the man that broke my heart, about a year ago now.”

Geralt flinched back, finally looking over toward Jaskier. Jaskier was still staring at him, his blue eyes almost seeming to glow in the dark of the balcony.

“Who--Who broke--”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, face remaining impassive.

Geralt hesitated. “I broke your heart?”

Jaskier sighed and turned away, looking toward the horizon. “Last holiday party, we went home together. We made love for hours. I told you I cared for you deeply. And when I woke up, you were gone.”

Geralt wanted to say something, wanted to defend himself, but his voice felt like it was glued in his throat, unable to escape.

“Barely any time had passed before you were back in Yennefer’s pocket, not a thought given to us. And we never talked about it.”

Geralt swallowed. “I didn’t realize--”

Jaskier threw his hands up in the air, a frustrated laugh escaping his lips. Geralt’s frown deepened when he saw Jaskier’s eyes glistening.

“Didn’t realize what, Geralt? I thought I was being pretty obvious about the fact that I’m in love with you!”

“Yennefer and I broke up,” Geralt said, deciding to tackle the topic he knew how to talk about first.

Jaskier snorted, leaning his back against the railing and crossing his arms. “What else is new?”

Geralt shook his head. “For good, this time.”

Jaskier only stared at him. Geralt huffed out a breath as he searched for his words, running a hand through his hair.

“You know how… Sometimes, you can have a great friendship with each other, but when you try to date you end up being really toxic and horrible to each other? That’s me and Yen.”

“Could’ve told you that three years ago. Oh wait, I did.”

Geralt sighed. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t listen, Jask. I just… I wanted it to work so bad, we both did. Even though we knew it never would.”

Jaskier looked down at his feet. “I know. I’m sorry for snapping like that.”

“It’s okay.”

Jaskier looked back up at him. “So what was the final nail in the coffin? What sealed the deal for you two?”

Geralt looked away, choosing a specific building to look at and staring at it intensely. His fingers itched to fiddle with something, but he forced them to stay still, clenching the freezing metal of the railing.

“I love Yen. But she and I both realized that I would never love her as much as I loved you.”

The silence stretched on for far too long and Geralt could feel his skin prickling with anxiety. His throat felt like it had swollen shut, making it difficult to breathe and impossible to get any words out. He wanted to look at Jaskier, see his reaction, but his body was locked in place.

“And if you love me so much, Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice even more icy than the balcony railing leeching the warmth from his fingers, “why did you leave me?”

Geralt gave into the urge to fidget, reaching up for the pendant on his chest. His fingers were clumsy and numb from the cold, making him fumble, but the action was still soothing.

“I didn’t realize you meant it. Jaskier, you flirt with everyone. You’ve probably slept with half the company, and while I don’t judge you for that, I couldn’t help but feel like I was just the next notch in your bedpost.”

Jaskier dropped his face into his hands. “God, Geralt, I only slept with most of those people to try and get over you. You had Yennefer, and I was just me. I knew you would never choose me over her.”

“I am now.”

Jaskier stayed silent for a moment. “And if I decide that it’s too late?”

There was an uncomfortable burning feeling behind Geralt’s eyes and he did his best to push it back down.

“Then I would respect your decision, and hope we could still be friends come tomorrow. I don’t want to lose you, Jask.”

Jaskier didn’t reply.

“I’m sorry I made you wait so long. I’m sorry I was so blind to your feelings.”

“And say we did do this,” Jaskier said, his voice still guarded. “What about Yennefer?”

Geralt shook his head. “There’s nothing left for me and Yen. We’re done hurting each other for a relationship that will never feel good.” Geralt couldn’t help the grin that tugged at his lips as he tacked on, “Plus, with the looks Triss has been shooting her, I don’t think Yennefer will be too lonely.”

Jaskier shot him an incredulous look. “Triss and Yennefer hate each other!”

Geralt chuckled. “Yeah, when I was involved. Yen can, quite frankly, be a jealous bitch, and Triss certainly wasn’t letting up on the flirting.”

Jaskier searched his face. “And Triss?”

“There was never going to be any me and Triss, and she knew that. Honestly, I think her flirting these days has been more to toy with Yen than to actually try and woo me.”

Jaskier turned his gaze toward the night sky, a muddy brown-black-orange that ruined any hope of seeing the stars “Huh.”

“They both know there’s only one person I’m looking to woo me, anyway.”

Geralt watched Jaskier break out in a goofy, giddy smile, clearly involuntarily based on the way he quickly bit his lip to try and suppress it. Slowly, carefully, Geralt reached out for one of Jaskier’s hands, tugging gently until his arms came unravelled.

“I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier shook his head. “I’m sorry, too. I should’ve said something.”

“Can I hug you?”

Jaskier’s goofy smile was back and Geralt felt his heart clench. He hoped to see that smile so much more.

“Only if I can kiss you,” Jaskier replied, bouncing on his toes a little.

Geralt grinned. “I find that an acceptable trade.”

Jaskier laughed then, pulling him into a tight hug. They stayed like that for a long while, sharing heat and just soaking in each other’s presence. Slowly starting to accept that this was real, that this was happening. Geralt clenched his hands tightly into Jaskier’s sweater.

And then, some long minutes later, they pulled back from the hug just enough to press their lips together. It was soft and chaste, but by no means short. Geralt decided that kissing Jaskier felt like coming home.

They slipped away after that, deciding not to head back to the party. Their friends would assume things, sure, but they didn’t care. They had lost time to make up for, they could make up for not saying goodbye later.

Geralt drove them home, back to Jaskier’s flat just like last year. Jaskier fiddled with the radio as the streets blurred around them, trying to find an appropriately-themed holiday station. He burst into cackles the second he found one.

“Tell me this is not Wham!,” Geralt begged.

Jaskier was laughing too hard to reply.

“I hate it,” Geralt said, despite being on the verge of laughter himself. “I hate it so much. Stop laughing, it’s not funny.”

“It’s so funny!” Jaskier wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over in his seat.

Jaskier had only just barely calmed down by the time they got to his flat. They curled up on his ratty old couch with some hot chocolate and put on a Christmas movie, but it became more background noise than anything.

Instead they talked. They talked about their past together and how it hurt them, and their future and how they would prevent that from hurting too. They talked until Geralt’s throat was sore and Jaskier was nodding off on his shoulder. Geralt couldn’t find the energy to carry him to bed, so he simply readjusted their position on the couch to be something more comfortable and settled in to sleep himself.

“L’ve ‘ou” Jaskier breathed out against his neck.

Geralt smiled, closing his eyes. “Love you too, Jaskier.

#witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #the witcher fanfic #witcher fanfic #My writing #triss merigold #Yennefer of Vengerberg #zoltan chivay #iorveth #vernon roche #eskel

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screechingpulsar · 3 years

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Why I Value Tagging Over Censorship

(TW for descriptions of antisemitism, nazism, cocsa (child-on-child sexual assault), necrophilia, and torture-porn. I will mark in bold the sections where this is discussed in more detail.)

@olderthannetfic you asked to be tagged in this post, so here you go! It’s uhhh... Not a fun story! But I thought it was important to share since people tend to claim that those on the more “freedom of expression” side of things have no experience with running into explicit/problematic work as a minor, or have been groomed into believing that it’s okay to do this and that’s... not accurate.

TLDR: When an archive’s policy is that problematic or triggering content must be tagged rather than deleted, it is actually much easier to root out bigoted garbage and/or otherwise objectionable content than on a site where such content is not allowed, but also not warned for. As an example, as a child I was exposed to a truly terrible piece of work deliberately made to trigger and hurt others. Had that work been forced to use proper tags, I would have never seen it, or seen the tags and known to stay away.

The anti/pro-ship debate is exhausting to watch, tbh. I hold opinions on the issue that I’m sure people from both sides would take issue with. But one thing that I’ve seen crop up lately that rubs me the wrong way is the debate over AO3.

The argument I’ve seen from antis boils down to: AO3 hosts problematic content-- namely underage explicit fics, rape/noncon fics, incest and rpf, and has it enshrined in its policy that it’s pretty much impossible to get something deleted off the site for being morally repugnant or gross-- therefore it should not exist or instead moderate its content to remove these things. Doing this would make it safer for minors to use the site.

Funny story. As a kid, about 12 years old, maybe a bit younger, I went on a fanfic website that had a policy against hateful or offensive works, and it’s there that I was exposed to the nastiest piece of work I’ve ever seen in my life (and I’ve read HP Lovecraft /half joking).

This site was not AO3. It was FFN (fanfiction.net for those unaware). The fandom was Phineas and Ferb, a widely beloved kid’s cartoon.

I avoided AO3 because even as a 12 year old I recognized that site had Adult Content(tm) on it, and if I didn’t want to see that I shouldn’t go on there. So I didn’t.

FFN didn’t allow NC17/E-rated stuff on its site, and because of the relatively stricter moderation policy, people tended to skew their ratings up to avoid being reported. This meant my creepypasta loving ass often looked through T and M stories to find that good good horror content. Also, FFN didn’t have a smut filter of any kind, the best I could do was remove any works tagged “romance”. Which I did, because again, horror-loving child.

(TW comes into effect most prominently here)

The fic was called, “The Final Solution for Isabella”. Should I have known better from the title alone? As a Jewish descendant of a Holocaust survivor, yeah probably. Except I didn’t, because I was twelve and naive, and didn’t think that someone would be fucking sick enough to write what they did.

(I thought the title was a reference to the dynamic between Isabella and Phineas where she constantly flirts with him and he ignores her advances/is unaware of them. And that this fic would be her trying some wacky scheme to finally get him to notice. I was, of course, very wrong.)

Short version of the fic: Phineas tortures and rapes Isabella for being Jewish, then is graphically described to set her on fire and then have sex with her charred corpse.

The fic’s taken down now (I checked about 5 years ago, I don’t know how long it was up after or before I saw it), don’t go looking for it. Not that I imagine you’d want to.

It wasn’t the only or first story I’d seen that covered topics like WW2 and the Holocaust either. Again, creepypasta kid, I saw tons of nazi-experiment ghost stories. On the creepypasta wiki. Where I expected them. Where it was often made abundantly clear in advance what kind of horror I’d be dealing with.

(a rare advantage to formulaic, bad writing)

It was the first (and only) fic that genuinely traumatized me though.

I want to be clear here: this wasn’t merely dark fiction, or someone’s weird snuff. This was malicious, created to deliberately upset as many people as possible, especially Jewish fans of PnF. This was beyond even the grooming material antis talk about. There aren’t enough insults in the world to describe what this was.

(Graphic description is over.)

FFN’s moderation policy didn’t catch the most blatantly terrible and hateful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. How many other kids saw that fic, I wonder? How many little Jewish kids were exposed to that kind of vitriol while just trying to have some fun with a show they liked?

Trust me. You want people to have a place where they can put their fucked up fics and have them be well-tagged. I can go on AO3 and filter out adult content of any flavour with a couple clicks. I could have even gone on it without the age filters and just filtered out smut, but still gotten the gratuitous violence my tiny edgelord soul craved!

(Sidebar: there was another fic on FFN in the PnF fandom that my child self absolutely loved: it was about a haunted house where most of the cast ended up dying brutally and graphically. It was messed up, kinda trashy and gorey for gore’s sake, but that’s what I was looking for, and that’s what I found.

(I’m not sure if that one’s better or worse than the circus AU one I saw where Phineas literally ate people’s souls... I liked that one because it’s how I learned about Creature Feature. Probably should have just picked up Cirque du Freak, eh?)

No matter how morally reprehensible I find some of the content on AO3 to be, I will never fault them for having the tagging system they do. I would much rather see a sign that says, “WARNING: Horrible, awful, no good, very bad stuff ahead” and go somewhere else than see a sign that says, “We don’t allow the horrible, awful, no good etc. content here!” only to be smacked in the face by something I’d rather have not seen.

(Disclaimer: I’m aware that someone could just as easily not tag their shit on AO3 and have the same effect, but fun thing about AO3′s policy: if you don’t put any ratings/warnings on your work, they will automatically put the tags “Not Rated” and/or “Creator chose not to use archive warnings”. So even then, the work could be avoided if a user is, in AO3′s terms, “risk-averse”.)

#fandom discourse #shipping discourse #ao3 #archive of our own #in which i out myself as a huge edgelord for internet discourse #fun fact about my lovecraft jab: i found out what he named his cat through the necronomicon i got for my birthday at 14 #and surprise surprise! reading lovecraft didn't make me think racism and xenophobia was okay!#in fact: it's a big part in how I started noticing problematic themes in horror! and then in other genres too!#anyway that's not quite relevant to the main point of this post #which boils down to: if people wanted to expose kids to abuse/incest/underage fics against their will #thoroughly tagging them so content filters can pick up on them on a website known for its robust tagging system #is a pretty bad way to accomplish this #in other words: i have moral issues with some shit people write #but i have ethical issues with trying to censor things instead of just labelling them as what they are and moving on

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thwip--thwip · 4 years

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Safe Spaces (and why AO3 is not one)

I’ve been seeing a lot of posts circulating lately about what content should and should not be allowed on AO3 (usually with a conclusion being drawn at the end of these posts proclaiming that we should not donate to the org until said content is taken down), and maybe I’m yelling into the void, but I feel the need to address it.

AO3 is not a safe space.

It was never meant to be a safe space. It is, by definition, a fan-created, fan-run, nonprofit, noncommercial archive for transformative fanworks...you know the rest.

The Archive does not prescreen for content. Complaints are investigated only when they are submitted through the appropriate channels and with the appropriate information.

That is a direct quote from the Content and Abuse policies page for AO3. The Archive does not screen content, there is no content policing on AO3 and there never has been, never will be. The Archive was created specifically so there wouldn’t be any content policing, stemming directly from the consequences of the Livejournal bans, in which LGBTQ+ content and sexually explicit content was purged due to ‘objectionable content’...by which LJ was permitted to delete anything they didn’t agree with, anything they didn’t think had the right to exist.

While the Archive does not prescreen for content, they do have one of the most advanced warning systems for any online library...literally ever. Authors can tag their works with as many warnings as they like, they can write in their own warnings, and users can cultivate their own experience by excluding specific tags.

“But what if it’s not tagged, and I see it anyway?”

As a rule, the creator controls the warnings.

Selecting "choose not to use Archive warnings," or the equivalent text as specified on the creator upload form, satisfies a creator's obligation under the warnings policy. If a fanwork uses this option, we will not sustain any failure-to-warn complaints.

If the fic is marked with the ‘choose not to use Archive warnings’ option, then they’ve fulfilled the most basic obligation to warn you that yeah, any of the major warnings could indeed be present in their fic. Don’t read it.

“Well they should use the warnings! Everybody should use them!”

Yeah, but they didn’t want to and they put a blanket warning on it that you specifically ignored. Not the Archive’s fault.

Users who wish to avoid specific elements entirely should not access fanworks marked with "choose not to use Archive warnings."

Oh, and would you look at that? AO3 literally tells you not to access those works if you’re not willing to risk the content.

“The rating was misleading/they forgot to tag XYZ.”

In general, failure to use an appropriate rating or Archive warning is not a violation of the abuse policy.

(Also note, if you submit a ticket for this issue, AO3 will go in and tag the fic properly with no consequences for the author, unless the writer goes in and changes it back, now that is a violation.)

Is this system perfect? No, I never said it was. But the Archive was founded on the principle of protecting all fan works - and yes, this does include the content you may think shouldn’t exist, why would somebody write that, etc. If you find any content on AO3 unacceptable, for any reason (you find it offensive, triggering, disgusting, morally reprehensible, etc)...I’m sorry to tell you that it is indeed permitted on the Archive. As well it should be.

The Archive does its best to help readers cultivate their own experience, because they know this content is out there. They protect our right to exist, but they protect fandom as a whole - the good, the bad, and yes, even the ugly. And that’s important, too, because I’m sorry to say that the boundaries for what should and should not exist are blurred, and AO3 said you know what, no, we won’t stand for this anymore, no, we will not take down our Harry Potter slash, up yours Warner Brothers. We deserve to exist, and we will never tell anyone what they can and cannot create, whether or not I personally agree with it or want to see it - because hey, that’s what we built the extensive warning system for.

At the end of the day, it’s important to recognize that the Archive deliberately chose to keep their content open to all, even while knowing that doing so would essentially be opening Pandora’s Box. If you disagree with their decision, that is absolutely fine, and you’re under no obligation to donate to them - but they do not and will not change to meet your standards, nor should they. If you disagree, then the Archive simply isn’t for you - and I hope you find that place out there somewhere, in one of the vast corners of the internet. Godspeed.

#i just had to get it out fam #trust me there are tags i block every time i search for fics #there are browser extensions to permanently blocks stuff from ao3 #it couldn't be more tailored to you if they tried #it's literally the most advanced tagging system ever created #and it is not their fault if you do not use it properly #ao3 #i speaketh #thwippity thwip #fandom #i need to fucking sleep

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ao3feed-lokiangst · 3 years

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the empty vessel makes the greatest sound

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/38LEdG4

by crimson_headache

Learning a lover, mapping their body, familiarising himself with every inch of a person, has always been one of Loki’s favourite things. There is an intimacy in unraveling the story of a person, in knowing them and what has shaped them that goes beyond any physical act he cares to name. It’s a slow and deliberate thing, a study in devotion, and he intends to spend every moment he has, now that the fight is done and the struggle is over, dedicating himself to knowing Sylvie. Which is why, while they’re sprawled in bed, less than a week out from the end of their final mission, finally relaxed and safe, still sweat-slick and breathless as they bask in the afterglow, he asks about the scar. She has a few, most small, or long since faded, but there’s one, on her right arm, a hard, thick line of scar tissue that zig-zags across her bicep in a meandering scrawl. -- Not long after dealing with the TVA, Loki and Sylvie are lying in bed, comparing scars, comparing stories. Loki's scars do not have a happy history.

Inspired by the Norse legend of Loki's bet with Brokk, in which his mouth was sewn shut - an event that is very much depicted in this fic.

Words: 6308, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Loki (TV 2021), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Characters: Loki (Marvel), Sylvie (Loki TV), Thor (Marvel), Sif (Marvel), Odin (Marvel), Frigga | Freyja (Marvel)

Relationships: Loki/Sylvie (Loki TV)

Additional Tags: odin is a terrible parent, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Specifically That One Legend With The Sewing, Sif's hair, Violence, Trauma, Sex as Therapy, Gags, Bondage, Vaginal Sex, Butt Plugs, Ice, Fun With Frost Giant Anatomy, Self-Esteem Issues, Collars, Loki Needs a Hug (Marvel), Bottom Loki (Marvel), Top Sylvie (Marvel), Dom/sub, Subspace

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/38LEdG4

#IFTTT #ao3feed #fanfic #loki #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #marvel cinematic universe #angst

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advena87 · 3 years

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Chapters: 1/?

Fandom: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Kiyan (The Witcher) / Adrien (The Witcher)

Characters: Kiyan (The Witcher), Adrien (The Witcher), Original Male Character(s), Original Male Character(s) of Color, Joël (The Witcher), Guxart (The Witcher), Ireneus var Steingard, Original Female Character(s), Sigismund Gloger (The Witcher), Gottfried Oss (The Witcher), Marco Gedl (The Witcher), Michelle Sabina Ruxer (The Witcher)

Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, Blood and Violence, Blood and Injury, Bisexual Kiyan, Unbury The Gays, saving Kiyan, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Witcher Senses, Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Sexual Tension, Murder Husbands, Cat School (The Witcher), The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, Demonic Possession, Rare Pairings, Rare Characters, Just two growly tops, Possessive Behavior, Misunderstandings, Hurt/Comfort, Get Together, Main Character(s) of Color, Est Tayiar, Oxenfurt Academy (The Witcher), Based on Scavenger Hunt: Cat School Gear quest, game canon mostly, Swordfighting, The Witcher Lore, Developing Relationship

Summary:

"The ruins of the elven palace Est Tayiar in Redania were mentioned several times in the records of the oldest cat school masters as a potential source of exquisite weapons and diagrams, but the records didn’t specify the exact location of the palace or what it had been, exactly, in its heyday. Either way, Kiyan had nothing better to do, except avoid headhunters, so he planned on spending this year on the path searching for treasures."

*cover picture by Dai (bookscorpion)

_____________________________

This text is the result of scheming on a discord, some very smart, inventive, wonderful people who gave their ideas and HC here and with all their heart wanted to Unbury The Gays.

CaptainMinette, DanyTheET, Gavilan, Lynge, sohydrated - Everything good about this fic comes from them. Everything bad is my fault, because I didn't have enough talent or language skills to fully reflect their ideas. And I gave them a lot of work with editing, correcting and repairing this. Please give them a lot of love, because they deserve it and check out their works, because they are great, talented people with beautiful minds.

_____________________________

Kiyan stuck a shovel into the ground, pushed his heel, and scooped the first piece of soil aside. Although he could see well in the dark, he appreciated the fact that the moon was shining brightly in the cloudless sky. He didn't like working in the dark. The mutation of his eyes had gone a bit off-plan; although his cat's eyes gave him clear vision, he started to suffer from dry-eye very quickly whenever he had to strain his eyesight in the dark.

And he had a lot of work to do tonight. He had excavated two of the four boxes so far, and the cemetery was full of necrophages. The witcher deliberately chose this place to hide his loot from last year's plunder: he could be sure that any grave robber would never leave this place alive, and therefore take nothing from him. The loot was safe here, and it might have stayed so for another year, but the witcher had a client for this stuff, a friendly fence from Oxenfurt who had helped him get his new swords last season. Kiyan was responsible and kept his word. He hadn’t intended to delay, but unfortunately, before he had time to close his business in Redania, the bounty hunters had caught his trail again and he had been forced to flee all the way to Skellige. He waited out the winter with the pirates on Faroe, for only there could he be sure that the hunters wouldn’t follow him

However, it was not an obligation to the fence that brought him back to Redania, but the diary of one of the old masters of his witcher school. Some time ago, Kiyan and Joël had taken a risk and returned to Stygga Castle. It was quite dangerous, as the Castle was still being watched by the royal guards and headhunters, but it had paid off. Guxart had ordered them to retrieve the old books about mutations and Trials, but Kiyan and Joël had taken the opportunity to take a few more trinkets from the keep’s library. One of these things was the diaries of the old masters. Of course, Guxart didn't know anything about it; he would be furious if he found out that they were taking extra risks for this.

Keep reading

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dhufflebee · 3 years

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when I see you like that (a Glee fanfiction)

One-shot Fandom: Glee Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jesse St. James & Andrea Cohen; Jesse St. James/Rachel Berry - mentioned (and at this point very much one-sided) Characters: Jesse St. James; Andrea Cohen Additional Tags: rambling phone calls; basically just Jesse moping a lot; Friendship; Pining; Self-Worth Issues; rated T for some swearing

Read on: AO3 | ff.net Summary: After the loss at Nationals, Jesse can’t face his Vocal Adrenaline students, and calls his friend Andrea instead. Talking with her, though, painfully reveals his well-concealed sense of inadequacy—and his unquenchable feelings for one Rachel Berry

This fic is basically 3k words of Jesse moping, in a weird half-dialogue half-rant format. I’ve felt the need to write this since I’ve rewatched ‘Nationals’: that three-second shot of Jesse on the verge of tears has been haunting me, and I had to get the story out of my system. Most of all, I needed him to get some of the love and validation that the show deprived him of.

In my mind, it isn’t at all out of character for Jesse to be this miserable in private. He is crazy talented and he knows it, but he also has deep self-worth issues (due to his demanding and not very loving upbringing), for which he compensates with pride and overconfidence. He also has his (in)famous showface that rarely goes away, and he doesn’t feel comfortable being emotionally vulnerable. Except with Andrea—and, well, with Rachel.

By the way, I know Jesse and Andrea's friendship is mostly fanon, but I like it very much nonetheless.

Jesse had never felt so upset in his life. His heart, his mind, his guts were telling him conflicting things, and his knees were starting to give way under him as the adrenaline of the competition slowly went away. He barely managed to close the door to his room before he had to sit on the bed. He was feeling lightheaded, with black pushing at the edge of his vision—the way he would feel after a long training when he hadn’t eaten enough. But it wasn’t low blood pressure, Jesse knew that. It was the same dreadful mix of emotions and thoughts as that damn day two years before, but somehow a hundred times worse. Then it had been divided loyalties, two shattered hearts, and the gut punch of feeling like an utter bastard, but now… damn, he’d added so many failures in the past two years that he had no idea how his showface was still so good. He was starting to feel like a hollow husk at times. Something had definitely broken back then, and the constant, cyclical reminders of what he’d stupidly lost weren’t doing him any favors—that evening after Nationals, the castle of cards that had been Jesse St. James’s so-called adult life was a breath away from collapsing, once and for all.

Jesse kicked off his shoes, threw the suit jacket haphazardly on a chair, and lay down on the bed, trying to steady his breath against his inner turmoil. After a while, he felt blindly around his legs for his phone, until he found it lying precariously near the edge of the bed. He then flung the duvet up over his head and snuggled under it, shirt and nice slacks be damned. He unblocked his phone and opened his recent calls, dialing his best (only?) friend’s number.

“Victory boy! Hey!” a chipper voice answered.

“Andrea…”

“Ah. You didn’t win, then.”

Jesse sighed. Andrea’s reaction made him realize he sounded as dejected as he felt—something he’d long learned how to conceal, but the Chicago air must have jinxed him or something. Or maybe he was simply beginning to crumble under the pressure of his feelings. Whatever.

“I feel like crap, Andy. I should be with the guys, drowning our disappointment in ginger ale or what-have-you, but I don’t even have the energy for that. I barely managed to tell them I was proud of them—and I am—before I had to get out of there. They were crying, Andy, and the looks on the seniors’ faces… I just—I couldn’t stay.”

Jesse knew he was rambling, but a big part of his and Andrea’s friendship had always been taking turns in unloading while the other listened and then offered some honest advice. No one else in his life had ever made him feel safe enough to be so open and vulnerable—except for Rachel, but he’d thrown away his chance to have her at the other end of the line again, hadn’t he?

“I’m sure they understand, Jesse. You told them you were proud, and that’s what matters. Remember how nice it felt when they would tell us? Eased the disappointment of losing somewhat, no?” Andrea asked, a tinge of wistfulness in her voice.

“Yeah, well… god, they worked so hard for this. I really thought we’d win, you know? I honestly miss the high of victory—as I’m sure you do, too,” Jesse said with a smirk, getting a chuckle from Andrea in response. “Nevertheless, Carmel High is going to kick me out the minute I get back to Akron, as they so candidly told me they would when I got the job. And I guess they have all the rights to do it—what kind of failure am I, four-time champion and I can't even coach fucking Vocal Adrenaline to victory? I wouldn't want to keep me around either."

Jesse heard himself getting whinier by the minute, and he hated it, hated how earnest he ended up being while talking with Andrea (and with Rachel, too—he never quite managed to keep his walls up for long with her either… Stop! Stop thinking about that!). Andrea hesitated and exhaled, and Jesse could imagine her shaking her head as well.

"Why didn't you win, though?" she asked at last. "I've seen those videos you sent me: the choreo was incredible! What happened?"

"A ragtag bunch of misfits, that's what happened," Jesse answered, trying to sound mean but only managing desolate. Figures. "The New Directions really busted their asses this year, apparently. You should have seen them, everyone performed at a level they'd never reached before—and you know how they've always been so endearingly energetic. I loathe to admit it, but they were great, and I guess they did deserve to win. Probably. Couldn't tell that to my guys, though," he chuckled, gloomily.

"I'm glad to hear that," Andrea said, with a careful, knowing tone that Jesse instantly dreaded. "Is that it, though? This whole call just because the New Directions finally snatched first place after years of trying?"

Jesse didn't answer. He couldn't, he wouldn't tell Andrea the real reason of his moping—besides, he knew she could easily guess it.

"Unless..." (There it is.) "What about Rachel, Jesse? Did she sing?"

Jesse was thankful the conversation was happening on the phone, Andrea at one end of the nation and himself buried under a duvet in a hotel room in Chicago. He wouldn't have been able to sustain her gaze, otherwise. At least on the phone he didn't need his showface, and his instinct to flee from emotional vulnerability was somewhat tamed (but not much).

"Jesse?"

He squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the phone more tightly, hoping to keep at bay the flood of emotions that he could sense coming. At last, he whispered: "Yeah, she did. It's All Coming Back to Me Now".

"Oh."

And that was it. Andrea’s understanding tone was all it took for the floodgates to open and for Jesse’s rambling, vulnerable side to come out in full force. Tears threatened to escape his eyes, but he them firmly shut—he would not cry.

“God, Andy, when she sung that song—it felt like she was saying all those things to me!” Jesse’s voice traitorously cracked at that last word.

“I don’t think that’s—”

“I know!” Good lord, he was whining again. “I know that it’s ridiculous! that I’m reading too much into it, that they chose the song way beforehand and Rachel has much better things to think about than me… But what if she was singing about us after all? The words are rather fitting, and she knows that—same as she knew we were bound to meet here tonight. It’s there, Andy, the whole story! Me being an idiot, all my mistakes and the hurt I inflicted her—she was reproaching me, and I cannot blame her because I deserve it. And I especially deserve to hear it from her magnificent voice, even if god knows I don’t need to be reminded of what I did to her.” Jesse was breathing heavily, almost unable to articulate his feelings, his words spilling out at an alarming speed.

Andrea remained silent for a few seconds, then answered with a deliberate yet soothing tone—the one she reserved for Jesse’s rare mopey moments. “I don’t think your history with Rachel had anything to do with the song, Jesse.” He scoffed lightly, but she ignored him. “Besides, you were a teenager back then, and you were forced between a rock and a hard place. Shelby was a bitch that manipulated you and treated both Rachel and the parents of that baby like dirt. Sure, you were a bit of a dick, but you’ve got to cut yourself some slack. You were not stupider than the average teen in love, all things considered.”

Jesse tried to scoff again, but what escaped his throat sounded more like a sob than anything else. “Andy, you don’t understand,” he pleaded, pressing the heel of his free hand on his eyes. “I threw away the one truly warm thing in my life because Shelby threatened to take away my scholarship to UCLA, and look how well that went,” Jesse laughed bitterly. Ah, the familiar taste of self-deprecation. Saying all that out loud felt better than just mulling over it constantly, though. “I’m such an imbecile—I got college handed to me on a silver platter, and I couldn’t even manage to float just above the pass grade? Or, I don’t know, use my fucking brain for a change? And to think I would be so conceited about it, as if I could ever hope to accomplish anything intelligence-related…”

“Jesse, stop!” Andrea interjected vehemently. “You’re spiraling and you’re starting to sound like your father. You’re not stupid, you’re not brainless—you’re smart, and the most brilliant guy I know as far as musical theater is concerned. And don’t start with how acting or singing or whatever is bullshit, because I’ll come down there, slap you, and then find your dad and punch him on his ugly mug.” At that, Jesse felt a sharp surge of affection for his friend, regardless of her proclivity for mild physical threats. “We all sweated blood in Vocal Adrenaline, but we were happy and good—you above all, because performing is your passion and your talent. Who cares if you didn’t pass gen eds? You’re wonderful, and you will take Broadway by storm soon.”

“Ms. Tibideaux didn’t seem to think so,” Jesse replied, dejectedly.

“Who?”

“Carmen Tibideaux. NYADA?”

“What does she have to do with anything now?” Andrea asked, confused. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah, right—the first of my many failures.” Jesse’s tone was more bitter than he expected. He intentionally hadn’t thought much about his audition since, but he guessed disappointments never actually stopped stinging, did they?

“Come on, Jesse…”

“I didn’t get in, okay? No point in sweetening the pill. I was good but apparently not enough—and I always knew that, but now I have confirmation from the woman’s own voice that I ‘showed promise’ but couldn’t overcome the obstacles to be the best. So really, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with my life.” Was he being overdramatic and overly self-critical? Absolutely. At that moment, though, Jesse had no idea how to stop.

“Enough!” Andrea exclaimed. Deep down, the rational part of Jesse’s brain had realized he was being maddening, but he also had to admit he didn’t mind Andy’s forceful tone. It felt strangely soothing, being told to get a grip from someone who cared about him.

“I can’t believe you are saying this,” she pressed on. “I’ve already told you: you are incredible, and I won’t let you wallow in this kind of negativity. The audition was years ago, and believe me, I’ve seen you get absurdly better in the meantime. Ms. Tibideaux said you showed promise, and that’s good! You did and you do, and you will reach even higher that she could ever imagine.”

Jesse hummed, not entirely convinced but certainly relieved that someone else was eager to vouch for his talent. He knew he was good (okay, very good), but that didn’t mean he wasn’t, from time to time, afraid he’d been deluding himself due to his own arrogance.

“When did you speak with the woman?” Andrea asked.

“She was here to see Rachel perform. And when I went and told her she shouldn’t let Rachel slip through her fingers, she remembered me and made a list of all the flaws in my audition. Lovely experience, really,” Jesse said, with a bitter chuckle.

“Aw, you put in a good word for Rachel—that’s so sweet! Did you tell her?”

“I can’t! Are you crazy? She cannot know ever. I don’t deserve her knowing, if anything I owe her.” Jesse replied, his voice half-strangled. (Pathetic.) “Rachel and I bantered for a couple of minutes before the competition, and it almost got me punched by Finn, in addition to giving me some serious doubts about my ability to function properly.” He smiled at the memory. Rachel’s red dress was still incredibly vivid in his mind. “God, Andrea, you should have seen her—she was radiant. I’d ever seen her inhabit the stage so perfectly. She is the one who deserves to take Broadway by storm and who will. She’s a powerhouse, and she’s absurdly talented, and tonight she looked so beautiful with that smile of hers, and then she sang Céline and I couldn’t—”

Jesse heard Andrea exhale, as if ready to answer, but he rambled on, unable—unwilling—to stop now that someone was there to listen to him for once.

“I just—I miss Rachel so much. She earnestly thought I was worth all the fuss. Even with Shelby, it’d always seem like my work was barely acceptable, and that all the trophies were just due to luck and the power of a good routine or something. Which yeah, I guess is true, but—honestly, Andy, except for you, Rachel’s the only person who’d always tell me how much she liked when I performed, and how good I was. I was starved—I am starved for that, Andy. D’you know my grades improved while I was in Lima with her? I actually had to study, and I wasn’t half bad at it. All thanks to her. God knows why she stayed with me after the initial razzle-dazzle, because she was way better that I could ever deserve. And she definitely deserved more than yours fucking truly,” Jesse spat out.

“And I guess she will have it,” he continued, barely taking time to breathe, “since she’s getting married soon to Finn. And sure, I hate him and he hates me, but I can see how Rachel looks at him, and he looks at her the same way. I mean, he’s a rhythmically-challenged dumbass, but I can’t deny he makes her happy—that’s the truly important thing. I ruined everything, and I know I’d never be able to make her feel that way. I think Rachel could really be the one, you know? I feel it in my bones, I’ll never be as happy with anyone else as I was with her… But it doesn’t matter. All that matters is Rachel won’t have a fuckup like me beside her, who’d just end up wiping her wonderful smile away.”

Jesse had to stop—his throat was aching due to the strain of putting one coherent word after another, of trying to talk as fast as his inner turmoil demanded. Tears were escaping his eyes and running down his cheeks and in his hair. He didn’t care that he was crying, though: he already felt like an utter failure, another embarrassing thing wouldn’t change anything. Besides, it was nice, having a friend listen to him while he moped and pined. Crying is good, right? It helps get the toxins and the sadness out, doesn’t it? A good cry and I’ll stop feeling like shit—

“Oh, Jesse…” Andrea whispered after a beat, and that shattered Jesse’s attempts at regaining his composure—he started sobbing uncontrollably, burying himself more and more under the duvet.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that?” Andrea asked, softly. “God, Jesse, I wish I was there to hug you. Believe me, though, Rachel is right—everything she told you and everything she thinks about you is true. You’ve had a lot of shitty people in your life, but never for a second doubt that Rachel was sincere and saying things as they are. You’re brilliant and very talented, whether you believe it or not,” Andrea added, in a decisive tone that drew a wet smile from Jesse, “and no amount of Shelby or Ms. Tibideaux or your asshole of a father can claim otherwise. All that hard work and dedication… you do deserve the world, Jesse.”

Calming his breath enough to answer took Jesse a moment—his gratefulness to Andrea and his longing for Rachel were a killer combination, and he didn’t want to start bawling again.

“Thank you, Andy,” he finally managed to say. “I just wish I’d made fewer mistakes, you know? Maybe then I wouldn’t always feel like such a failure, maybe I wouldn’t be so lonely all the time and it wouldn’t hurt this much… I know things between me and Rachel probably won’t ever be mended, but gosh what I wouldn’t give to sing with her on a real stage, to have a partner that inspires me to be better and lets me share the spotlight with her.” Jesse exhaled shakily, willing himself to not cry until he had finished talking. “It’s too late now, though, and it’s all my fault, no point in denying that. I just wish for her to be as wonderful and captivating as she was tonight, forever—she lit up the whole place. I really hope I didn’t make an ass of myself with Ms. Tibideaux, and that Rachel’s dreams will come true. No, scratch that: I know they will. I just pray I’ll be able to get a glimpse of her happy as can be.”

Andrea’s silence at the other end of the line was almost deafening, but Jesse pressed on, feeling that he’d never have another chance (nor the nerve) to admit to it all out loud.

“Sorry for the rant, Andy. We lost Nationals and it hurts like hell, but it will pass—it’s going to be a nifty addition to the You’re A Failure pile, though,” Jesse mused, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have no idea what my plans for the future are going to be, after Carmel High parts ways with me. I guess I could finally try and go to New York for real. It’s just that, you know, seeing Rachel again really threw me for a loop, even after all this time, and I’m not sure why—”

“It’s love, Jesse,” Andrea interjected. “The way you talk about Rachel—you love her.”

Jesse inhaled sharply. Repeating that to himself was one thing, but hearing someone else say it so matter-of-factly felt real, definitive. (Scary.) “Hurray for me, then,” he muttered, at a loss for words to describe how his heart was ablaze, dismayed, and longing at the same time.

“I really hope you and Rachel will put your cracked pieces back together, Jesse,” Andrea said, sounding softer than she did at any other point in the phone call. “You both deserve a great life, and to have your talents shine—you and her alongside each other? Musical theater won’t ever be prepared, let me tell you.”

“Thank you, Andy.” Jesse’s eyes had filled with tears once again, and he’d once again buried himself under the duvet, in hopes of preventing the onslaught of painful memories he was sure would come. But it was no use—he thought back to Rachel singing, and a loud sob escaped his lips. Tears started falling freely down his cheeks and neck, reaching his hair and the collar of his shirt. “I wish. I’m not sure I believe that, but god, I wish.”

#glee #jesse st james #andrea cohen #fanfiction #pining #glee (tv)#my fics #i've finally written this after obsessing over the episode and this whole plot bunny for more than a week #the format is wwird and it's rambly but i like how it turned out #i needed to get it out of my system and to give jesse some much needed love #me

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eirian-houpe · 4 years

Text

Rack ‘Em Up.

So, this is a birthday gift for @emospritelet. She has been such an inspiration to me since I found her fic on AO3 and she brought me into the fandom here on Tumblr. I wanted to show how much I appreciate her, and her fic, and so I wrote this one shot for her, which is my first foray into Golden Lace... and without her that’s probably something I would never have written... nor AU, nor Woven Beauty... nor... well you get the idea. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Lacey/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Lacey (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Additional Tags: One Shot, Smut, PWP, Happy Birthday Sprite!

Summary: Gold indulges Lacey with a night out at the Rabbit Hole, and she teases him while hustling the other patrons at pool. This is a game that Lacey is playing to win, but the money's not the object.

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Ignoring the abhorrent quality of even the bottle from beneath the counter, Gold sipped his glass of whiskey, letting his eyes trail slowly up the creamy columns of Lacey’s legs. From the slender ankles, over the well sculpted calves, shaped by many years in impossibly high heels, the muscular thighs - the memory of which clasped around his hips the previous night had his cock twitch in his pants - to the tantalizing hint of the barely there lace that shielded her silken folds from view, but accentuated the tight curves of her rear as she bent over the pool table to line up her shot and her already short skirt rode even higher. He moaned softly, the ache in his loins increasing as he sat watching her play, fleece the unsuspecting patrons of the Rabbit Hole.

It wasn’t the kind of establishment that he would usually patronize, but Lacey wanted to play, and between wanting to give her everything she desired, and the opportunity for him to terrorize some of those who spent their time drinking away his rent money, and those who were otherwise in violation of their tenancy agreements, who was he to deny his wild, wide eyed beauty.

The shot that she had been so carefully lining up fell short, or at least he was sure that was the impression she meant to give. There was a loud, “Oooh,” from the crowd of onlookers, and Lacey let her head fall, but caught his eye under her arm in the moment before she stood up and grounded her cue. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Shame,” the man she was currently playing tossed her a predatory grin. “Let me show you what a real man can do.”

“Ha,” she answered, “When you’re big enough, you’ll be too old!”

There was another collective, “Oooh,” this one in a slightly different tone than the last, and while he made a show of chalking his cue, and posturing to all of his supporters, Lacey sauntered over to where Gold was sitting.

She plucked the glass from his hand and took a swig of his whiskey, then pulled a face and handed it back, before picking up the shot glass from the table and tossing the contents back, swilling it around her mouth as she did. He didn’t blame her.

Lacey slammed the glass down decisively on the table top, upside down, and then straddled Gold’s lap, sliding her fingers into his hair, and caressing his jawline with her thumbs to tip his head back. In the next moment she pressed her mouth to his, her lips coaxing and pulling until he parted his own to admit her hungry, searching tongue. She tasted of tequila and passion. His set down his glass blindly and wrapped his arms around her. His fingers teasing at the open back of the sequined top she was wearing, sliding lower as she lifted her head from his and grinned.

“Bored yet?” she teased.

“What do you think?” he replied, and pulled her closer, against his growing hardness.

“Hmmm,” she said, and writhed against him until he could feel her heat even though his pants. “I think it’s about time I wrapped this up.”

Behind her, the clack of pool balls rattling together was followed by a half swallowed, “Fuck!” and Gold looked over her shoulder in time to see the cue ball rolling down the chute to nestle against the few, already potted, balls.

“No time like the present,” he suggested, with a light tap to her behind, even more impatient, now, to get her somewhere where they could both act upon their obvious desires.

Lacey chuckled low in her throat as though she knew what he was thinking. The sound went through him, right down to his core. Then she climbed off his lap and went to assess the state of the game.

She replaced the cue ball on the table, and turning her head to find her opponent, said softly, “Shame… why don’t I show you how to play with your big-boy pants on.”

She made easy work of the first shot, sinking the solid number three, leaving herself in a good position to pot the four without too much trouble. The five looked harder, but Gold wasn’t entirely sure that assessment was accurate. He suspected she was playing for effect, to give the other guy some hope that she would screw up. His suspicion was confirmed when she made sinking the six look like a fluke, and then turned with a shrug to her opponent, whose face was starting to color with incredulity and disbelief.

“Just lucky, I guess,” she said, and flounced to Gold’s side of the table, gifting him with another tantalizing glimpse beneath her skirt. Oh, how he wanted to bury himself deep inside the hot, wet jewel he knew lay beneath her delicate lace.

The seven followed the six, rebounding off the far side of the table to fall with ease into the center pocket, which left her lined up perfectly to send the eight ball down into the chute and end the game. Gold came to his feet and sauntered over.

Lacey straightened up, set the cue on the still crowded table, and reached out toward where the stack of twenty dollar bills was resting on the wooden frame. No sooner had her fingers touched the money than a rough hand closed around her wrist.

“I’ll be taking that, bitch!” her opponent spat, snatching the money from beneath her grasp. “You fucking—”

He didn’t get any further than that, and even that was too far. He suddenly flew back against the nearby wall, as if pulled on an elastic cord, upending a table on the way. Onlookers scattered as Gold walked almost lazily toward where he was pinned. He lifted his cane to press the handle against the man’s windpipe, pressing a little more each moment.

“I think you need to show the lady some manners, dearie,” he growled softly, his tone predatory. “Or maybe you like to spend the rest of your days as a ball on the table. Something of lesser value. Perhaps a number two?”

He felt Lacey’s hand on his shoulder as she came to stand beside him, leaning into his side, and he wrapped his free arm around her waist, drawing her closer still.

“Well?” she purred.

“She’s waiting,” Gold almost sang, pressing the cane just a little bit harder.

The man’s reddened face became suddenly pale, and he managed, somehow, to raise his hand and hold out the money in Lacey’s direction.

“Nice game,” he croaked past the obstruction on his windpipe.

“And?” Gold snarled.

“Thank you… Miss Lacey.” The man added.

Lacey took the money from his outstretched hand, and slipped the bills deliberately inside the cup of her bra, affording Gold an alluring glimpse of her perfect curves. Not wanting to waste any more time he released the man from his grasp, and keeping his arm around Lacey’s waist, steered her toward the door, and outside into the cold night air.

Once outside, she linked her arm through his, laughing softly, as she said, “My gallant knight in shining armor.”

Gold kept her steps steady as the two walked down the middle of the street, heading for the pawn shop. It was the closest, and needed to show her just how dishonorable his desires.

“Hardly,” he said with a chuckle that matched his thoughts, “I can assure you my intentions are anything but chivalrous.”

Lacey shivered.

“Mmm, sound promising,” she purred, and turned to face him as they walked, her steps wavering as she walked backwards, at the same time leaning up to take his mouth in hers in a heated, needful and suggestive kiss.

They barely made it through the door of the shop before she began to push the jacket from his shoulders, and he had little choice but to release her and let it fall from his arms or be pinned, and he had far better things to do with his hands that have them confined in the sleeves of his jacket. He reached for her again, but she sidestepped his grasp, instead catching hold of his tie, and turning with the end of it in her hand, pulled over her shoulder. The tie clip flew off somewhere into a dark corner of the shop. He didn’t care. He’d find it later… or not. For now his entire focus was on Lacey, and what he wanted to do with her.

As they neared the counter, he reached suddenly forward, wrapping his arms around Lacey’s waist and pulling her back against him. He lowered his head to the crook of her neck, nipping and then soothing the sharpness of his teeth with open mouthed kisses. She stopped walking and leaned back into him, moaning softly and he turned her in his arms and reached up to cup her face in the palms of his hands, taking her mouth with his in a searing kiss as he plunged his tongue into her mouth; tasting, possessing, tangling his tongue with hers. It wasn’t enough.

He felt her pull his tie loose and cast it aside, her fingers deftly twisting the tiny buttons of his shirt open, until she could slip her hands inside, and he felt the pinch of her fingers on his nipples. He moaned against her lips and wrapping one arm around her waist, and sweeping the counter clear with the other, lifted her to its polished wooden top.

Immediately she wrapped her legs around him, tugging him closer, slipping her hands free of his shirt to grasp his wrists and guide them under the bottom edge of her top. Truly he needed little prompting, sliding his fingers up over the soft skin of her taut belly, to find the lower curve of her breasts in the exact moment that she reach behind herself to unclasp her bra. She spilled into his hands, and he brushed aside the twenties that tumbled like leaves over his fingers. He pushed her top and her bra upward as he leaned over her, a line of hot kisses ascending her body until they could meet with his fingers, lavish the attention of his tongue on the hardened buds of her nipples, first one and then the other, while his caresses ensured that neither was bereft.

Lacey moaned and writhed beneath him. A sharp cry, that tugged at his balls, left her when at last he closed his mouth around one dark, rosy tip, tugging with lips and teeth, laving with his tongue.

His kisses reversed direction, drawing him ever nearer to the heady scent of her arousal as he abandoned her breasts, his hands sliding beneath her short skirt to slip beneath her lace panties, tugging at the waistband until he could draw them down as she release him from the clasp of her thighs; wanting him as much as he wanted to taste her, to drink down all of her dark desires.

He slipped his hands under her to draw her closer as his attentions climbed back up the twin columns of her legs, his nose nuzzling at her inner thighs, breathing her in, becoming almost drunk on the sweet musk of her.

He breathed out, deep hot breaths against her mound, and she whimpered needfully.

“Please, Gol—”

His name became a cry on her lips as his mouth took her. His tongue pushed between her folds in long strokes, pushing, thrusting, flicking, teasing now at her entrance, now at her clit, tasting her in pure hedonistic indulgence.

She thrust against him seeking the touch of him when he denied her; to tease, to prolong the climb, letting out another wordless cry when at last his lips closed over the hard bud of her clit, and suckled, hard and soft in turn, driving her wild with the need for release; keening softly as he pushed first one, then a second finger inside of her.

In and out, his fingers filled her then left her empty and wanting, slowly at first, then faster as she began to tremble, tightening with the intensity of her pleasure, nearing her peak.

He release her clit from the pull of his mouth, teasing and caressing instead with the pad of his thumb, and raised his head, wanting to see her face as she dissolved into bliss. He was not waiting long and she came with a loud cry, pulsing and trembling around his fingers, her clit dancing against his thumb. Her face radiated light and passion, her closed eyes, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed.

Her breathing was unsteady, coming in short, sharp gasps as the aftershocks took her, intensified as he pressed his mouth to her again, to bathe his tongue in the liquid nectar of her rapture.

Drawing away, at last, he reached for her hands, pulling her upright, holding her close, kissing her deeply and feeling the moan she gave into the kiss.

She wrapped her arms, and her legs, around him once more, pressing her mouth to the shell of his ear, and whispered, “Back room… bed.” She nipped at his lobe drawing a sharp breath from him, though not one of pain, before telling him, her words a sensual murmur, “I want you inside me. I want to feel you fill me when you come.”

“Lacey…” he growled, his voice a needful rumble in his chest as he picked her up and obeyed her command, carrying her through to the back room, and setting her down gently on the bed.

He went to take a step back, but she caught hold of his belt and pulled him back to her. Working at the buckle with trembling fingers until she could unfasten it, unfasten his pants and push them off his hips to gather at his ankles. Somehow he maintained the presence of mind to toe off his shoes and step out of his pants as she cupped his hot and heavy balls through his shorts, before she pulled away, leading by example as she pulled off her already unfastened clothes.

He disrobed entirely, uncaring where the garments fell, catching Lacey’s hand as she reached for him and joined her on the narrow bed. She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, rubbing herself against him, and covering him in her wet heat. He moaned and reached up to cup her breasts, to pinch her nipples between thumbs and forefingers as she reached between them to bring him into place at her entrance, drawing another moan from him as the sensitive head of his cock nuzzled at her - a willing supplicant to her desires.

She let out a cry as she sank down on him, and he echoed, the sensations almost overwhelming. She was hot and wet and tight around him, and he filled her perfectly. She caught herself on his arms as she started to pitch forward and he released her breasts to support her, arching his back to meet her descent, thrusting up into her even as she lifted herself and took him again, slow and deep.

Their lazy pace did not last, both soon became lost in the mounting sensations. She gasped as he released her arms and let his hands travel down over her body as her muscles bunched and released in the throes of their lovemaking. She leaned back, grasping his thighs as she rocked against him, taking him deeper yet.

Faster and harder… he was so close but wanted her to fall with him; to drink him down - milk him dry. He slipped his hands up the length of her inner thighs, parted her folds with his thumbs and teased her clit with rhythmic caresses, feeling her tighten around him, feeling the tightness growing inside of him until, unlocked at last he shattered, flying apart and thrusting hard as he pulsed and pulsed inside of her.

They cried out together as she broke with him, her breath more like a sob, to match his breathlessness. His heart pounded in his chest as he emptied every last drop of his seed inside of her, and she possessed it all with every clasp of her heat around him until the two of them were spent, and she dropped onto his chest, nestling her head beneath his chin.

“Hmmm,” she began, when she could at last catch sufficient breath to speak, “I’m gonna have to tease you with pool more often.” She lifted her head to look at him, and he quirked an eyebrow. “Seems to bring out the best in you… when they protest that I win.”

“Oh, you win, Lacey, sweetheart,” he murmured, drawing her up to catch her mouth in a kiss that was deeply sexual. Then murmured against her mouth, “You always win.”

#rumbelle #golden lace #smut #pwp #emospritelet #a visit from the smut fairy #happy birthday

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starfleetdoesntfirefirst · 3 years

Text

(Discovery Season 3 Episode 4 “Forget Me Not” Spoilers)

Greetings disco friends, here is my attempt at a fix-it fic.

What I mind most of all was them showing his graphic death scene, whether it’s partially-temporary or completely-temporary, after doing the same with Hugh and Michael’s then-death scenes. As far as the future of Gray's plotline goes (this season and into the next, since we know the actor is filming Season 4), I think there's a chance (especially given that GLAAD was helping them write the storyline) that he'll be completely brought back from the dead like Hugh and a chance that he won't be brought back fully but rather will continue to hang around noncorporeally like he's doing now. But either way, as with Hugh and Michael's graphic then-death scenes, that doesn't change the fact that they showed that in this episode.

I think I've reached the point of hard 'no’ on continuing to watch the show myself. (Though of course I completely support y’all in watching or not watching the show, as works for you!) And I’ll still be around here, writing fic based on Season 1 through to this episode.

Also, I’m currently brainstorming ways to put something affirming into the fandom this season while not watching, since I won't be writing fix-it ficlets and…obviously I know no one ~depends~ on my fix-it ficlets, but this community means a lot to me and I guess I want to feel like I'm putting something into the fandom even as I'm (aside from continuing to make content for older season stuff) walking away, if that makes sense? (Maybe some book giveaways of sci-fi books with trans characters, tho that may or may not work logistically/financially, or something like that.) Please let me know if you have suggestions! <3

Dreampt Of More Things

Other, F/F, M/M | Teen And Up | Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings | 2,600 words

ao3 link in a reblog since Tumblr still seems unpredictable about when posts with links are allowed in the tags

and/or, full fic + tags here:

Tags – Jett Reno, Jett Reno’s Wife, Michael Burnham, Hugh Culber, Ellen Landry, Philippa Georgiou (original Captain version), Adira Tal, Paul Stamets, Gray Tal, Sylvia Tilly, Tracy Pollard Adira Tal/Gray Tal, Jett Reno/Jett Reno’s Wife, Ellen Landry/Amna Patel, Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets Grief (Ellen’s) and mentions of Lorca, no serious injury since again we are sidestepping that but very brief description of Adira’s joining surgery, Gray Tal Lives, Jett Reno’s Wife Lives, Philippa Georgiou Lives

Note: This is not an Amna Patel Lives universe (Ellen Landry’s fiancée from Star Trek Online), as I am Making A Point about how no, it’s not that queer stories about loss and grief are bad or that I personally don’t want to write/read them; it’s about context, and how many characters have died over the course of your franchise, and the nature of your franchise, and what to portray versus not portray onscreen (in the context of your show), and how you’ve advertised your characters, and reading the room.

***

“Burning the midnight oil, huh?”

Jett looks up as Michael steps closer to her workbench in the corner of Engineering, raising an eyebrow, as Michael had known she would.

“Here to check my work on your outfit, Commander?” she asks, laconically, before bending her safety-goggled face back to her work.

Michael grins despite herself as she pulls out a chair opposite Jett. “I’m entirely confident in your work, Commander.”

“So you’re here to pester me because…?”

“Because I’m curious to see the work-in-progress. And, more importantly, because I ran into your wife on her way to turn in for the night, and she told me to tell you that she’s taking you out on a fantastic date when all this is over.”

“Where’s she think she’s gonna scare up a place to go out on any kind of date in the ass-middle of the 32nd century?”

Michael grins again. “I think it was a ‘looking for a way to take my wife on a fantastic date and if I cannot find one I will create one’ kind of thing.”

“Yeah, that tracks.” Michael can hear the smirk in Jett’s voice as she fiddles with the wiring on the angel suit’s chestplate.

“Don’t stay up too late, Commander,” she says as she stands. “We’re still gonna need you on shift tomorrow.”

Jett grunts in acknowledgement, and Michael smiles as she walks past the spore cube and towards her quarters for the night.

***

“How are you doing with all this, Landry?” Hugh ventures, after a few days of deliberation, when he and Ellen have a quiet moment alone together at the end of a meeting.

Ellen takes a minute before answering, dropping a PADD into her bag. “One of my security lieutenants said it seemed implausible that we’d be able to find a way to send Burnham back in time, once again, especially with the way the Burn affected ability of the time crystals on Boreth to interface with the suit even if we are granted one.”

Hugh raises an eyebrow and waits, silent.

“I told her that if she thought implausible was going to stop this crew, she must've not been paying attention to half the weird shenanigans they’ve pulled off.”

Hugh smiles wryly. “‘More things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” he quotes.

Ellen gives him a look, and he holds up his hands in surrender. “Maybe I’ve been spending too much time around this ship’s surprisingly high number of Shakespeare fans.”

“And we’ve already dreamt of more things, haven’t we?” Ellen asks simply, pausing and leaning a hip against the table. “At this point, it’s just a matter of choosing philosophies.”

High raises an eyebrow again. “That's an interesting way of looking at it, Commander.”

Ellen folds her arms. “Yes, thank you, I am a font of excellent observations, at least when I’m not busy misreading dipshit captains and making the worst choices in the universe. You can stop giving me the sympathy look, by the way.”

Hugh watches her, silent.

“Yes," she tells him in a sing-song voice, "I have in fact experienced one or two emotions while helping prepare for a mission to bring someone back from the dead and knowing I can never bring my own fiancée back.” Her tone drops back to a flat command. “The only person in my, this, situation who actually deserves your sympathy is Amna, and she’s not here to receive it. You’re a busy man; you’re needed all over the place. Go do something clever and medical somewhere.”

Hugh watches her for a moment longer before he says simply, “I’m so sorry. For your loss.”

“Don’t. No.” Ellen’s voice is firm, though without rancor. “Those words are not for me. I am not a good widow. Do you understand that? Instead of honoring my fiancée in any substantive way, I went off and got manipulated by some dipshit. And what’s worse, if it hadn’t been for the manipulation and the secretly evil part, I might not have ever figured out to regret it. Do you understand that? Can you understand that? You’re a good person. Your partner is a good person. Do you know what it is to not just not be able to save her but to get even grieving wrong?”

For a long moment, Hugh considers what to say.

“I think your actions in helping Lorca were wrong,” he says. “I don’t think it’s possible to grieve wrong.”

Ellen, eyes dubious, grunts in a way that could be dismissal, acknowledgement, or something in between.

“Take care, Commander,” Hugh says quietly, heading for the door.

He is nearly in the hallway when Ellen speaks.

“This is part of hers.”

Hugh pauses, turning to face her again. “Hers--?”

“Amna. This mission would have been part of her philosophy.” Ellen’s lip twitches in what could be the shadow of an exhausted smile, voice still blunt and the expression in her eyes still characteristically direct. “Without question.”

***

When Georgiou returns from Boreth, she discovers that Adira has slipped down to the shuttle bay to meet her.

“How did it go?” they ask, hesitantly, eyes wide with some unknown emotion.

“Successful,” she tells them, as the two of them make their way out of the bay together. She pats one strap of her pack. “We now have a time crystal.” Given that Gray’s life rests on having a crystal to power the suit, it’s unsurprising that Adira has been worried.

“No, I mean—I knew you’d be able to do it,” Adira tells her, as if this is obvious, a trust and confidence in their eyes that makes Georgiou’s heart ache. “But, I just, I do talk with the rest of the crew, and they talked about how Pike was so f—messed up by whatever he had to go through to get the crystal, like it was really really…bad. And I just—” They stare at their feet as they walk, sneaking a quick glance sideways at Georgiou. Georgiou knows she probably looks like shit. “If I’d never come to this ship, you wouldn’t have done that for Gray. For us.”

Georgiou stops walking, turning to face Adira, and Adira watches her, their face pinched and anxious.

“Listen to me, Adira.”

Adira nods.

“This might not be something you fully, truly understand until you’re an adult yourself, but when kids are hurt or in danger, it’s us adults' job to protect you. That’s one of the most important parts of being a caring adult Human. Caring adult person,” she corrects herself. “Maybe the most important thing.”

Adira nods uncertainly.

“Saving Gray is the most important thing right now,” Georgiou says gently, as the two of them resume walking. “To all of us. You arriving on this ship was a very, very good thing for so many reasons, Adira. Saving him is one of them.”

“And that’s a go, Burnham!” comes Paul’s voice in Michael’s ear, and she launches herself upwards from Discovery’s stationary hull, the soft interior padding of the red angel suit once again surrounding her as she hovers in space, programming her coordinates.

“Jump commencing in thirty seconds,” she reports.

“Take good care, Commander,” Paul says, his voice gentle in her ear against the silent cushion of the vacuum around her.

“I will.”

A pause of a few seconds. “Adira says ‘good luck.’”

Michael can picture the two of them as they were when she flew out of the shuttle bay, Paul standing at his portable console in the shuttle bay's cobbled-together mission control, one arm around Adira.

“Tell them—” Michael swallows. “Tell them thank you. Tell them that I’ll—tell them that we’ll be back soon.”

“I will.”

The countdown completes, and Michael falls forward into a bright shower of instants.

***

Outside the generation ship, Michael shifts reality out of the timeline with a wave of one Jett-Reno-enhanced suit hand, glancing at the two figures inside the viewport in front of her before tractoring the asteroid off its course. After confirming its trajectory away from the ship, she punches the personal transporter on her chest, materializing inside.

Gray and Adira startle, each making as though to stand protectively in front of the other.

“I mean you no harm,” Michael says quickly. “And you’re both going to be safe. I am going to make sure of that. My name is Michael Burnham, and the next year is going to be very difficult for you, Adira,” she continues, feeling the words tumble from her lips as quickly as she can say them, “but I want you to know that when that year is over, you’re going to see Gray again. Gray,” she says, holding out the unpowered exoskeleton of a second timesuit, “I need you to put this on and come with me.”

Gray steps closer to Adira. “What? No, I—”

“Your name is Gray Tal, and your last name was Senna Tal, and when he was a child his favorite thing to do was to read books to his collection of plush tribble toys,” Michael says.

Gray’s eyes widen. “That’s—“

Michael continues, rattling off former Tal host facts as quickly as she can, before explaining, also as quickly as she can, about the asteroid they’ve just seen her deflect, and the symbiont, and the Discovery.

“Adira needs to have the symbiont,” she explains, “in order not to cause a time paradox. But the modified time crystal in my suit will allow me to shift you—” she nods at Adira—“back into the real timeline in time for the medbots to give you the symbiont. I just need to do it at exactly the right time, so that Gray doesn’t actually die, and you snap back just as the medbots are holding the symbiont.” Do medbots hold things? Hover them? Whatever; she’s getting the point across. And Gray is putting the suit on.

“Luckily, my amazing crewmates have worked out all the timing,” she continues, “so I just need to transport us back outside and then snap the timeline back to the right instant. And, yes, there will be two Tals in the galaxy when you see each other again and I’m sure that will make things very interesting. Ready to go?”

She holds out a hand, and Gray takes it. “I love you, Adira,” he says, as Michael reaches for the transporter.

“I love you too—” Adira says, and Michael and Gray reappear meters away in space. Adira is standing watching them, and standing watching them, and then with a motion of her hand Michael slams them back into the timeline and Gray puts a hand to his mouth over his suit visor as he watches the medbots complete the surgery and place a blanket over Adira, flying the newly-joined Human slowly away down the hallways and out of sight.

“You’ll see them again,” Michael whispers, “in just a minute.”

“Them?” Gray sounds puzzled.

Oh, right. Well, in just moments, there will be ample time for explanations. “Adira. You’ll see Adira, who’s going to be so very, very happy to see you. It will have been a year,” Michael adds, as she pulls up the angel suit controls, “and Adira is going to be so glad to see you again.”

They fall forward into sparking and sparkling time together, and all at once they’re dropping back into the timeline, floating easily in the vacuum in front of Discovery’s shuttle bay.

“Ready?” Michael asks.

Gray nods. “Yeah. I mean—of course I’m ready. I’m ready.”

Michael smiles, floating them into the bay as the forcefield ripples obligingly to let them enter and landing them both on the smooth floor, steadying Gray as his feet make contact.

“Gray?”

Adira is pressing their own hand to their mouth as Michael and Gray release the visors on their suits, and then they take a step toward him, staring as though they don’t quite believe he’s real.

“It’s me,” Gray says quietly, smiling nervously at them. “I’m here.”

This appears to be all the encouragement Adira needs to dash forward, wrapping their arms around him. He hugs them back, eyes closed as he buries his head against their shoulder. Adira is smiling and crying at the same time.

“I’m here,” he whispers to them again.

Michael steps away from the two of them, leaving them to it, and Sylvia hurries forward to wrap her arms around her. “Welcome back, Michael,” she says.

Michael hugs her for several long seconds before releasing her to accept a hug from Philippa and then a pat on the back from Paul as Tracy steps forward to scan her with a medical tricorder. “No adverse effects of the jump,” she reports, smiling.

Hugh is stepping over to do the same for Gray as Gray and Adira finally—though, Michael suspects, temporarily—pull apart. Paul echoes his motion, heading for Adira and rubbing their back before wrapping a supportive arm around their shoulder as Hugh reports that Gray is fine as well and the two teenagers grin exhaustedly at each other.

Michael watches the four of them for another moment, smiling, before turning to glance at the place where Ellen stands at her own console, studiously powering it down. Her eyes flick up just briefly toward the reunion in front of her before she lowers her gaze again, turning and slipping out the doors of the shuttle bay. Michael catches Tracy’s eye, and the two of them walk after her as Sylvia steps over to power her and Paul’s consoles down in turn and Philippa begins the process of packing the rest of mission control up.

***

At 20:00 hours in an undisclosed location on the starship Discovery, Jett’s wife leads her, eyes closed and complaining happily, into a room that has been decorated to a degree that resembles an explosion in a paper snowflake factory, while a few decks up on the bridge, Philippa settles into the captain’s chair for the night shift. Tilly climbs into bed, pulling out her PADD with its book on 30th century Earth, and at the table next to the viewport in Discovery’s rec room, Michael and Tracy sit beside Ellen in silence, keeping her company in her complicated grief. Hugh hums to himself while he brushes his teeth, and Paul yawns as he finishes slipping on his pajamas, stepping forward as Hugh sets his toothbrush back in its holder and wrapping his arms around him, humming deliberately off-key. He garners an eye-roll for his trouble, and two decks down, Gray and Adira sit in Discovery’s mess hall, gazing into each others’ eyes as Adira lapses into silence after explaining how Paul found them in the Jefferies tubes in orbit over Earth.

“You’ve had so many adventures all this time,” Gray says, grinning. “Adira Tal.”

Adira half laughs, shrugging one shoulder. “I guess so.” They look up at him. “I think my adventures are about to get even weirder, Gray Tal.”

Gray grins again. “You know, I didn’t think I or anyone I know was ever going to have the chance to visit the pools. What was it like?”

“Yes, I suppose you would have to ask me what it’s like, since it’s one of the memories we don’t share,” Adira comments with a mischievous grin of their own.

Gray laughs, shaking his head, and they beam at each other in shared exhaustion and confusion and joy as Adira begins their story and the Discovery floats onward through the night.

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zacekova · 4 years

Note

i don't have any specific prompts but your singeiji fic was like MANNA to me so would you consider writing something post-GoL for them?

I’m sorry this took me an actual, literal year to fulfill. I hope you’re still around!

Title: Can’t Put It Into Words Rating: General AudiencesArchive Warning: No Archive Warnings ApplyFandom: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)Relationship: Okumura Eiji/Sing Soo-LingAdditional Tags: Post-Side Story: Garden of Light | Fluff and Hurt/Comfort | First KissWords:1545

AO3

Something was different between them after that trip to Cape Cod, but Sing couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Akira went home and life seemed to have gone back to normal, all the usual patterns of their lives reestablishing themselves with little effort. The only visible change was the extra frames on the walls, a scattering of new-old photographs, all of Ash — smiling, scowling, pouting, smirking, sleeping, eating — never as bright or present or powerful as he was in life, but close. As close as Sing could imagine a picture getting to the real thing, thanks to Eiji’s adoring, talented eye.

But otherwise, everything was the same. Sing went to work and bickered with Yut Lung over the phone and battered a punching bag every evening before dragging his sweaty self back to Eiji’s house for dinner. Eiji’s face would still be glued to whatever project he had piled in haphazard, precarious stacks on the table and they still chatted absentmindedly about inconsequential things while they ate, the random events of the day they thought the other would find interesting. They still veged out on the couch with a movie or night show most weeknights and still did the grocery shopping together every Saturday morning and they still parted ways at the top of the stairs with a quiet “good night” before going to bed.

Everything was the same, seemingly, until one night it wasn’t.

They climbed the stairs together, like usual, and Sing mumbled out his customary, sleepy “Night, Eiji,” and then Eiji’s fingers wrapped around Sing’s wrist before he could turn away. Sing’s gaze flicked back to Eiji’s face, brow furrowing when he took in Eiji’s expression.

It was… sober, serious in a way Sing hadn’t seen in years. “There’s something I didn’t say to you, that day,” Eiji said, softly spoken in the dim hallway, but solid, intense.

“…What day?” Sing asked, though he had a pretty good idea what Eiji meant. It had only been a few weeks, after all, and nothing monumental had happened aside from that trip to Cape Cod since… Well.

Since.

“I apologized, but I didn’t say thank you,” Eiji finished, not even bothering to clarify. “You’ve stayed with me all this time, Sing, even when you thought I blamed you for what happened to Ash. You looked out for me and made sure I wasn’t alone and…” Eiji’s expression softened, lips curling in a sad smile. “I know some of that was probably because you felt guilty, but still — I can’t even begin to tell you how much it means to me that you stayed. So thank you, Sing. Thank you so much.”

There was a lump in Sing’s throat, monstrously large and impossible to swallow, but he kept trying, over and over again, because he couldn’t think of anything to say. He didn’t deserve to be thanked. He’d only done what was his responsibility to do, considering what happened, and no amount of effort would ever make up for everything.

But Eiji’s feelings were sincere and Sing wasn’t going to reject them, wouldn’t throw them back in his face by voicing his own thoughts even though Eiji’s were sorely misplaced. So he worked up a nod in acknowledgment and squeezed Eiji’s hand, hoping that was enough. Enough to get across a message Sing couldn’t put into words.

Tension drained out of Eiji’s shoulders and his fingers tightened around Sing’s, the curve of his mouth shifting to a more genuine smile. But there was something knowing in his gaze as it roved over Sing’s face, and sad — suddenly, inexplicably sad — and Sing braced himself for the kind of brutal, efficient honesty he’d come to expect from Eiji’s mouth.

“You know, Ash wouldn’t want you carrying that burden for the rest of your life,” Eiji said, apologetic and soft, so soft, but it still didn’t keep his words from punching the breath out of Sing’s chest like a physical blow. “I know he would have gone for help if he wanted it,” Eiji continued, “but he decided not to. That’s not something you can be faulted for, Sing.”

The lump was the size of a mountain now and Sing’s eyes burned , but he swallowed it all down, swallowed through the ache and shook his head, once, sharp, pulling his hand out of Eiji’s even as he mourned the loss. “You know it doesn’t work that way, Eiji,” he said, voice rasping. “Guilt doesn’t—”

“I know,” Eiji cut in, stepping forward and snatching Sing’s hand back, tangling their fingers together. “I know, but I had to say that, too. Maybe one day we’ll both believe it.”

Usually, when Sing faced situations like this, had this whole mess shoved into his face and was incapable of voicing the mess inside himself, he got angry, he cussed and pushed back until his opponent backed down or gave up. Because you couldn’t be weak on the streets, you couldn’t be weak in the conference room, you couldn’t be weak when your heart was on the line.

But he couldn’t be angry with Eiji, never Eiji, and that only left quiet surrender. Sing didn’t agree with the sentiment, couldn’t fathom agreeing, but he didn’t want to argue. So he nodded again, letting it go, because he knew Eiji was kind enough to let him.

And he did. He smiled softly in that way of his and let Sing’s hand go with a final squeeze of reassurance. “That’s all I wanted to say. Thanks for listening, Sing.”

Sing backed up a step, and then another, swallowing through his still-tight throat as he headed toward his room. “Night, Eiji,” he said, repeating his words from earlier; he had nothing else to say.

And this time, Eiji murmured back, the way he always did, “Good night, Sing,” and slipped behind his own door.

~~~

He thought it would be an anomaly, everything about that night, but when Sing stumbled into the kitchen the next morning something had shifted, beyond the change in the air from before that Sing hadn’t been able to name. And this time it was so significant it was impossible to miss, but he was even more at a loss.

Eiji was… closer. Physically. As they puttered around the kitchen preparing their breakfasts, they knocked elbows and brushed hips over and over again, all deliberate touches as far as Sing could tell, since it’d never been like that before. And Eiji kept looking at him, gaze gentle and smile sweet, and Sing didn’t know what the hell was going on. They sat next to each other at the table instead of across because Eiji slid into the chair at Sing’s side, completely breaking the status quo. In the tiny kitchen at the miniscule table, their thighs pressed together, warming Sing up from the inside out, even though that was completely backwards, heat spreading from the center of his chest out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

He didn’t know what was happening.

Well, he knew what it looked like, but he had to be reading things wrong. Sing pushed away from the table and deposited his dishes in the sink, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t take any of this the wrong way.

But he came home that evening and it happened all over again at dinner, and then again the next day, and then the day after that. Casual touches and soft smiles, more and more frequently, until he expected it, welcomed it — no matter how much Sing tried to tell himself he shouldn’t because he’d already taken enough, too much. And still, Eiji drew him closer and closer, moth to warm, soothing flame, until one day Sing looked down at where Eiji was snuggled up to his side on the couch, some movie playing that Sing had barely paid attention to because he was too busy running his fingers through Eiji’s hair, listening to his soft sights of contentment as Eiji let him…

And he thought — Oh.

And he must have said it out loud too, because Eiji pulled away enough to look up at him, expression curious, and whatever he saw on Sing’s face made his eyes widen, mouth parting sweetly, and Sing — as he had a countless number of times before — thought there was nothing more beautiful in the entire world than the spark of life in those rich, brown eyes.

Sing wrapped his arm around Eiji’s waist and tugged him impossibly closer, something in his chest going soft and warm as Eiji practically melted into him. “I haven’t… I haven’t been reading this wrong at all, have I?” Sing asked, hardly above a whisper.

Eiji’s fingers tangled in Sing’s shirt and he shook his head, eyes shining. “You could have figured it out a little sooner, though,” he said, lips quirking in a teasing grin.

“Shut up,” Sing said, and pressed their lips together.

Eiji hummed, still smiling even as he pushed back against Sing’s mouth, the sheer delight radiating out from him making Sing feel like maybe he’d fulfilled his promise to himself from all that time ago to see Eiji happy again, that maybe Eiji was finally free.

~~~

Something had been different ever since Cape Cod; Sing could put it into words, now.

#banana fish #fic tag #singeiji #sing soo ling #okumura eiji #Garden of Light

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