Strong Jaskier who doesn't realize how strong he is?
Carrying an injured Geralt on his back like a sack of potatoes, muttering something about reckless witchers.
***
Geralt lifting one of Jaskier’s bags to pass it to the bard, almost tripping because of how heavy it is.
***
Jaskier, bathing shirtless in the river, showing off his ripped torso: Why can't we just go around? I don't want to climb another mountain, Geralt! I'm a delicate man!
Geralt, internally: eyes on his face, eyes on his face
***
Geralt refuses to take a medicine the healer gave him. "I'm fine, Jaskier. It will heal on its ow-"
Jaskier tackling Geralt to the ground, pinning him down. Both knees on Geralt’s shoulders, holding his mouth open, as he forces him to take the medicine. Yes, the same way you give medicine to a cat.
***
Kicking Geralt out of the bed, when the Witcher tries to steal the blanket back.
***
Knocking Geralt down on his ass, when Geralt tries to drag him out of the bed in the morning.
***
Lambert: C'mon, just hit me. I want to see how you throw a punch.
Jaskier: Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you.
Lambert: *snorts* You won't hurt me, bard, c'mon.
Jaskier: ...Okay, then. Here goes nothing. *knocks Lambert unconscious*
Bruce Being Super Protective of His Kids in Their Out-Of-Costume Lives Pt. 2 Re-Write
Basically this story with a little bit of extra angst injected in
Jason isn’t particularly well adapted to the kinds of social gatherings that Bruce’s position within the city demands they participate in. He attends his first event a few months into his stay at Wayne manor. He goes in fully expecting it to be terrible, and is not disappointed.
The old ladies trying to pinch his cheeks were something that Dick had warned him about. His tone had been light, like maybe it was something that he thought was funny, or was trying to think of as funny. But Jason doesn’t like to be touched, not by people he doesn’t know. He’s only just starting to feel okay about casual physical affection from his new family. He doesn’t think Dick was trying to scare him exactly, but he accomplishes it anyway.
Vesemir: I'm so glad you have someone special in your life. I can't wait to meet him.
Vesemir: Can you at least tell me a bit about him? What's he like?
Geralt: Jaskier... He's sweet. He has a good heart, he cares about people. He's... Cheerful. And bubbly. He's soft for children and animals. And me, apparently. He... He's adorable.
Vesemir: That sounds lov-
Geralt: And he's also the type who'd put on feral face paint and go scream in the woods. He writes lyrics that can make someone like Lambert blush. He'll stab anyone who'll say something rude to me. I wanted to get him something for our anniversary and he asked for a dagger.
Vesemir:
Eskel: I've met Jaskier only twice, and I gotta say, Geralt’s description is very accurate.
Geralt: Why do you insist on following me all the time? I've been nothing but rude to you.
Jaskier: Why do you ask?
Geralt: I just want to know.
Jaskier: I-
Geralt: And don't give me the whole muse and adventure bullshit. We both know you have enough song material to last you a decade. And you hate this lifestyle.
Jaskier: Maybe because you're my friend and I like you?
Geralt: We're not friends, and why the fuck would you like someone like me?
Jaskier: Lots of reasons. Like, umm... I can be real around you?
Geralt: Real?
Jaskier: Yeah, I can be myself. I don’t have to pretend that everything's fine. Like I do around everybody else.
Jaskier: I can just come to you and say "Life sucks. Everything is terrible". And you'll be like "Hmm. Yeah".
Jaskier: And that's it. No bullshit. No comforting lies. That's all a person needs sometimes.
Jaskier: I've learned that’s what you need, too. Someone to listen and agree with you that everything’s shit. I tried lying to you and cheering you up in the past, just cause I wanted to say something to make you feel better. But now I just listen.
Jaskier: And you do the same for me. And that's why I like you, a lot. I hope you get it.
Geralt: Hmm.
Jaskier: *teasing* Was that a fond "hmm"?
Geralt: *failing to suppress a smile* Shut up and go to sleep, Jaskier.
1, 4, 6, 11, 14, 15, 17, 27, 33, 36, 42, 45, 46, 47, 50 .For the kiss prompt with Geraskier ... umm ... is this too many? lol I'm sorry, I tried so hard not to put down every number, this is what my restraint got me. Please pick whichever one (or more than one if I'm lucky XD) that makes your muse sing <3
Your ask really made me smile 😆❤️ I chose (1) and (14)!
1. Small kisses littered across the other’s face.
14. A kiss so desperate that the two wind around each other, refusing to let go until they are finished.
****
Jaskier paced nervously around the room, glancing out of the window every couple of minutes.
It’s been almost four months since he and Geralt last seen each other, and Jaskier had missed him so badly. Jaskier missed Geralt every year, when they parted for the winter.
But this year it was a bit different.
After confessing their feelings for each other, he and Geralt had barely two weeks of sharing breathless giggles between kisses and holding each other, before they had to part ways. Geralt was almost about to join Jaskier on his trip to visit his parents (Jaskier’s father fell ill at that time), when Jaskier insisted on Geralt going to visit his own family. Jaskier knew how much Geralt wanted to see his brothers and Vesemir.
And although he knew he’d miss him terribly, four months was a small price to pay for his Witcher’s happiness.
And there he was. Pacing around the room he rented at the inn Geralt and he agreed to meet at when spring comes.
Just as Jaskier managed to sit down and try to focus on writing his latest song, a familiar voice coming from the outside caught his ear.
Lambert.
Jaskier rushed to the window, gazing down at the street outside. His breath hitched in his throat.
Standing beside the stables, there they were. Lambert was talking heatedly to Eskel about something, waving his hands in the air. Geralt was loading his bags off of Roach, glancing at his younger brother with an amused smile.
Jaskier’s heart started hammering in his chest. His hands begun to sweat as he rushed out of the room and went down the stairs, two steps at a time. Once he was outside, Jaskier froze by the door, staring at the three men.
He took a moment to gaze at Geralt, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading itself in his chest and belly. He looks beautiful, Jaskier thought. His hair was slightly longer and he grew a small beard, which really suited him. He was wearing a short-sleeved, dark-grey shirt, the one Jaskier confessed to him about that he really liked. Jaskier smiled to himself, realizing that Geralt probably wore that shirt on purpose today.
Gulping quietly, he started slowly approaching the three men, not knowing what to do with his hands. How should he greet them? Should he just give Geralt a hug, or should he also kiss him? Would Geralt be okay with Jaskier kissing him in front of his brothers? Do they even know about their relationsh-
“Jaskier!” Eskel cried, waving at him. “It’s great to see you! You were deeply missed during the winter. How’s your father? Geralt told us he had fallen ill”.
Jaskier returned Eskel’s smile. “Thank you, he’s doing alright. It was just a bad cold. How was yo-”.
Before Jaskier could finish his question, he was crushed between two muscular arms and pulled against a broad chest. Geralt buried his nose in Jaskier’s soft hair, inhaling, before moving down to catch his lips in a deep kiss. “I missed you,” Geralt whispered in a low voice, placing another kiss onto the tip of Jaskier’s nose, causing the other man to grin. “Been dreaming of this moment for weeks”.
Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt’s neck, pulling him into another passionate kiss. “I missed you too, darling. I love the beard, by the way. Suits you well”.
“Hmm,” Geralt smiled in return, moving to kiss the corner of Jaskier’s mouth, his cheeks, his eyes, his forehead. “You look good as always”. Geralt tightened his embrace around the other man’s waist, as he continued littering small kiss all over his face.
“You’re tickling me,” Jaskier chuckled, but didn’t make an attempt to move away from Geralt’s embrace. He was still a little shocked by Geralt expressing his emotions like this, but he could definitely get used to it.
“Oh, and congratulations on that.” Eskel called, giving them a warm smile. “I’m happy you two finally got a hold of a single braincell”.
“One can argue about that,” Lambert muttered, not unkindly. “Can you idiots take this up to your room, after we eat? I’m fucking starving”.
Geralt rolled his eyes, chuckling, and pulled Jaskier into another kiss. This kiss was deeper than the previous ones, and Jaskier sighed quietly as he buried his hands in Geralt’s hair.
“Gross,” Lambert called, pulling a smiling Eskel after him. “I’m stealing your coin to buy myself dinner”.
Geralt couldn’t give a damn at that moment. He squeezed Jaskier’s waist and smiled in return, when he felt Jaskier smiling against his lips.
I love a nice Merlin-reveals-his-magic-to-Morgana-and-they-become-a-super-awesome-power-duo fic as much as the next person, but I’d love to see more Merlin-reveals-his-magic-but-he-and-Morgana-still-don’t-see-eye-to-eye fics.
Like, they fundamentally disagree on a lot of things, and it would be excellent to see more fics where they argue and fight but still ultimately want the same thing (ie. freedom from oppression).
Bonus points if they’re not mortal enemies but just like…passive aggressive allies, or magical pals who would die before revealing the other’s secret but also low-key poison each other over, like, the most minute differences in opinion.
The great thing about this dynamic is the way it would just confuse the fuck out of everyone. All the castle residents are certain the king’s ward and the prince’s manservant must be friends since they’re always hanging out together (so they can learn magic), but they also so clearly hate each other, what with their habit of glaring daggers across the room, exchanging ruthless insults in otherwise polite company, and competing in an alarmingly intense prank war.
Of course, the glaring daggers across the room is the result of constant arguments over Mindspeak (usually discussing Uther’s murder right in front of him)
Morgana: I could kill him right now.
Merlin: Morgana…
Morgana: It would be so easy. I’ll accuse Lord Halstead, and everyone will believe me.
Merlin: Morgana, you can’t just go around framing innocent people for murder! We’ve talked about this.
Morgana: …
Morgana: He was a jerk to Gwen yesterday.
Merlin: Oh shit, really? Well in that case, continue.
Three seconds later:
Merlin: Wait, fuck! Murder is still bad! STOP USING GWEN TO SWAY MY DECISIONS!!!
And of course, the ‘prank war’ is actually just Morgana repeatedly attempting to take over Camelot while Merlin stops her in increasingly bizarre ways. Morgana’s chamber being stuffed full of live chickens and Merlin’s clothes mysteriously becoming three sizes too small were necessary parts of cleverly laid plans, NOT juvenile pranks thankyouverymuch.
But despite their differences, if anyone tries to attack one of them or (gods forbid) accuse one of them of having magic, you can bet the other will drop everything to shut that the fuck down. Because when it comes down to it, they’re in the same struggle, even if they have very different ideas about what the solution looks like.
Harry’s hair would be more slicked back and shinier than Draco could ever hope to achieve
Harry still gets sorted into Gryffindor
Morticia says he gets that from Gomez’ side of the family
Sorting hat: Yeah no, no, sit back down kid. You’re Slytheren. I have never been more sure of anything in my existence.
*Later at Slytheren dorm*
Draco: Well look, if it isn’t Potter’s little Mudblood sister, listen up you little…
Wednesday: *Shoots Malfoy a glare which instantly silences him.* You will listen to me and listen carefully. I do not like repeating myself. Harry is off limits. In fact, everyone in Gryffondor is off limits, that goes for the rest of you. If you cause ANY trouble for my adopted brother, you will answer directly to me. Is this understood?
Draco:…Yes mum.
*Later in potions class*
Snape: Potter, you were two seconds late, twenty points from Gryffondor.
Wednesday: *Picks up beaker and smashes it on the floor.* Professor Snape. I have wilfully destroyed school property. I believe that is a twenty point deduction from Slytheren house.
Snape: Did you? Well I didn’t see it so.
Wednesday: *Gets up, walks to the front of the class, looking Snape in the eye the entire time, smashes another beaker on the ground right in front of him.* Twenty. Points. From Slytheren.
Snape:….. Alright then twenty points from Slytheren.
Wednesday: *Returns to seat, still glaring at Snape*
Snape: Now before we get on with classes I have the results of last weeks pop quiz, fairly expected stuff, Mr. Weasley you did adequate, but your penmanship was atrocious which is…
Wednesday *Grabs another beaker and holds it up with a look on her face that says ‘I can keep this up as long as you can old man’*
Snape:….Something you should work on in the future.
*Later*
Draco: Can’t you just expel her professor?
Snape: Well I could in theory, but considering her muggle father keeps somehow sneaking in here I think whether she has permission to be here or not is rather Academic. Besides, I’m not crossing her after what she did to Umbridge.
I just imagined the third book when they learn Sirius Black is trying to kill Harry, and is his godfather.
Gomez: well that makes him family, we must invite him over.
Harry: but father, everyone says he’s trying to kill me.
Gomez: oh, of course, how thoughtless of me. Lurch, put away the swords for guests and sharpen up the good swords we use for special occasions! A relative visiting is one thing, but a murderous relative needs to be celebrated.
Okay but the Addams Family going off on Dumbledore for all the BS he put Harry through without warning him like he could have. (Because fuck that shit. Destiny/fate my ass.)
Just…just all of this…
Mortisha: So how was your first year of schooling children?
Wensday: *pouting* Harry got to see a 3 headed dog and play with it.
Harry: Only a little!
Gomez: Oh how fun! Maybe we should look into getting one or 2!
When they find out Lupin was fired for being a werewolf they offer him a place to stay. Granmama brews his wolfbane potion every month, better than Snape!
And they start calling him “cousin Remus” before the end of the second week.
Dark Academia Characters, According to Their Bedrooms
Inspired by @betweenthemustypages’s post.
The Starry Eyed Dreamer: Glow in the dark stars arranged to mimic real constellations on the ceiling. Star maps plastered on the walls, strings of Moroccan lanterns stretched through the air casting diamond shaped pinpricks of light. A massive oil painting of a nebula hangs above their velvet indigo headboard, and every time they look at it they wonder what the stardust would feel like slipping through their fingers. A telescope stands on the floor next to the wide window, pointing at Orion. Open books litter the floor nearby, pages on stargazing and constellation myths. Models of planets hang from the ceiling and spin with the barest breeze. The fragmented galaxies that exist in every human body sing to return home every time they stare up at the night sky.
The Hedonist: The antithesis of minimalism. The walls are covered in gold framed art: sketches, watercolors, poetry, work from small Etsy shops mixed with Monet; anything they find beautiful. The room is bursting with rich, ornate fabrics: a violet silk armchair covered in a gold tasseled blood red blanket, a comforter covered in Uzbek embroidery, deep red oriental rugs on the floor. Dozens of candles in metal holders drip wax onto a dark wood desk that has barely enough space for a laptop covered in stickers. There are piles of raw gemstones, jars of of sea glass and paintbrushes and bones, glass bottles in jewel tones, cut crystal tumblers, seashells filled with nests of gold and silver jewelry, teacups that house overgrown succulents, gold gilded mirrors— anything they find beautiful, anything that makes their heart pound and happiness rise in their chest.
The Messy Poet: The open window brushes against flowing curtains and grabs at loose sheets of paper that were left without some kind of weight holding them down: old tea tins, empty perfume bottles with French labels, a silver pocket knife carved with delicate flowers. A mosaic jar filled with fountain pens sits next to a dictionary of dead, forgotten words. A record player switches between Bach and Halsey, anything that makes them feel. A silk bathrobe is thrown carelessly over a comfortable reading chair, a small basket of fresh strawberries on the side table. Their bookshelf is filled with books on history, horror, religion. How did Achilles feel when Patroclus died in his stead? How did Judas feel when he kissed God? They pick up a porcelain teacup at their elbow, and drink the ginseng. It is cold.
The Sleep Deprived Grad Student: Every flat surface is covered in books and stacks of papers. In some areas, there is only a few feet of space to squeeze through the piles of books that line the walls and hallways, forming tight paths to get from one place to another. Even the walls are covered, plastered with pages covered in messy pen, cutting through theories and circling back to half formed theses. You can tell what they study the second you walk in. Their friend group all have different focuses, and their little gifts litter the room: a map of their hometown’s street plan from the civil engineer, ancient books relating to their studies from the classics student. They drink rich coffee from delicate teacups with scones from the small bakery down the street, because it’s the small pleasures that make it all worth it.
The Botanist: Plants hanging in every patch of light that escapes the window crowded by pots and leaves. An herb garden on the windowsill. Animal bones hang from the ceiling, attached with string and bright beads, nothing is wasted, even in death. Microscopes and magnifying glasses are cluttered around a messy desk, along with teetering piles of books on foraging, herbalism, poisons. Framed bugs with Latin names underneath are next to pressed flowers on the walls, maps of nearby forests interspaced between. The bookshelves are stuffed with leather-bound journals, each one filled with sketches and discoveries. Dirt covered hiking boots carpet the floor of the closet. A ball python, massive and silk-smooth, peers from a glass tank at any intruders.
inspired by italians screaming at ‘food hack’ videos online and the monstrosities lurking within the freezer section of my local german discount supermarkt
(joe doesn’t speak to nile for like 2 days after this. not because he’s mad but because he almost had a heart attack in a lidl)
This poem is the foundation of one of my favourite headcanons, set in between their journey from platonic to romantic soulmates:
Nicky is still struggling with speaking Arabic but by now understands most of what he hears. Joe hasn't realised just how much Nicky understands because he doesn't say much in Arabic.
One moonlit night by their dying campfire Joe is experiencing peak yearning hours. He sits on one side of the fire, tracing shapes into the earth with a stick, while Nicky seemingly sleeps peacefully on the other side of the fire.
The moonlight illuminates him while the embers of the fire cast a faint warm glow on his cheeks. Joe quietly and earnestly recites love in bloom. After a moment of silence Nicky sits up, looks him directly in the eyes and thanks him, in Arabic, for sharing the poem with him.
i want a scene in 2 old 2 guard where someone tells nicky to drop his weapons and after he hands over his gun they’re like all your weapons and there’s a five minute montage of nicky pulling out daggers, switchblades, throwing stars, etc from increasingly ridiculous places on his body
Booker has only been in the Paris safe house for three weeks when the package arrives. He places it on the table and stares at it. No one should have this address. No one should want this address. Except one of them.
It takes him nearly three hours and a bottle of vodka to get up the confidence to open it. He carefully cuts open the tape and unwraps the tissue paper. The sob escapes his throat before he can choke it back.
It’s a pillow, dark red, with a gorgeous hand-stitched silver pattern over it. Booker traces the lines with trembling fingers. He closes his eyes for a moment, just allowing himself to feel the raised thread. Joe hates working in metallic thread. He says it splits and tangles. Booker likes the way it glints in the light.
Booker’s crying openly now, hot tears streaming down his face, so he nearly misses it. But his fingers slide near the edge and he frowns. The pattern changes suddenly, no longer the beautifully interlocking shapes. Booker wipes his eyes on the back of his grimy sleeve and leans in close.
It’s writing: old Occitain, his first language. Nicky’s the only one who speaks it with him anymore really, and Booker feels a sudden stab to his heart to think of Nicky writing this out for Joe, their bodies bent close together, hands and legs bushing one another with the easy familiarity of centuries. Booker reads it slowly. A giggle bubbles up, unbidden, to his lips. He drops the pillow and bends over. He starts laughing, great barking laughs, until suddenly he’s sobbing. Some minutes past before he can catch his breath, his chest aching and his head in his hands.
That night, as he crawls into bed, he traces the words over and over again until he falls alseep.
Joe doesn’t drink. There was a brief time in his twenties when he’d been convinced he’d wanted to, that it was something he was missing out on. So he’d tried, for awhile, kept secret from his mama. Not that he had to keep it long. He’d gotten buzzed a few times, properly drunk only a few more. Didn’t like the headaches, or the fuzziness. Nor the taste of Booker’s choice in beer, particularly.
So he’s sober, once again. And somehow the designated driver whenever Andy and Booker want to go get plastered.
He sips his water now, sitting at the bar, watching them dance. Both of them seem to have partners for the night, Booker a handsome man with a beard rather like his own, Andy with a woman who has some lovely braids.
If they both leave with these people tonight and it turns out Joe could have spent the time sleeping, he’s going to be upset. (Maybe. Not really. Would rather know where they are, that they’re safe.)
He keeps sipping his water, busying himself with a bowl of nuts when suddenly a rather broad shouldered, giggly man falls into the seat next to him.
Joe doesn’t make a habit of engaging with drunk strangers, but this man is wobbling quite a lot, trying to get situated. Joe finds his eyes warily drawn to him, and then he finds himself looking into some of the brightest blue-green eyes he’s ever seen.
Ever so sweetly, drunk-guy leans his elbow against the bar, and then puts his strong, handsome chin in his hand. He sighs, bats his eyelashes a few times, and levels Joe with a smile that might have been intended as flirtatious, but comes out vaguely frog like. In a cute way, but still distinctly like a frog.
“Hi, stranger.”
His voice is lilting and deep. Slurred, too.
Joe turns towards him, can’t help but smile a little in return. Feels rather like he did watching the video of himself getting drunk in Andy’s living room that first time. “Hello.”
The man grins, and then his head sways down to rest on the bar, eyelids fluttering shut.
“Are you alright, there?”
The man smiles up at him.
“Mhm. Just came to get ‘nother drink. Oh, what do you think I should get?”
The man stares up at him so earnestly, so clearly intoxicated. Joe can see at least two men down the bar eyeing him hungrily, the way his pert ass is on display in his tight jeans, the way he’s barely clinging onto the stool. Feels a bit protective, certainly doesn’t want this man going and trusting those strangers with himself and his drinks, especially not if he’s planning on getting even more drunk.
Sighs, takes one more pull from his water and then slides the glass, still half full, in front of the man.
“Why don’t you finish mine for me? I think you’ll like it.”
The man smiles at him again. Sits a little straighter, and then, with no hesitation, lifts Joe’s glass, discards the straw, and chugs most of it down in one go. Joe watches his throat work, eyebrow raising slowly.
The man licks his lips, squinting at him a moment. Then he breaks into another grin. “This is water!” He laughs a little, pats Joe on the forearm like he’s made a clever joke, tipping up the glass and finishing it off.
“Thank you, stranger. Actually, maybe I should- hic -more water. Think I drank too much. Alcohol.”
Joe stares at him with a smile, and then lifts a hand to signal the bartender.
“Two more waters, please. Thanks.”
He goes ahead and pulls the straw out of the man’s glass before he slides it over.
“Do you have a name?”
The man sips at his water, yawning. Puts his face down on the bar again, resting over his crossed arms.
“My name is Nicolo diGenova. Nicky. Nico. Nicholas, if you feel like teasin’.”
Joe hums, watches one of those men stand and start to approach with eyes on Nicky. Puts his hand out and runs it over Nicky’s shoulders, warm and firm and lovely, stares the man down until he gets the hint and turns around.
“That’s a lovely name, Nicolo. I’m Yusuf Al-Kaysani, or Joe.” He takes his hand back now that the man has turned away, but Nicky whines at him.
“Why’d you stop?”
Joe blinks at his increasingly sleepy face, and tentatively reaches his hand out again. Nicky giggles, yawns.
“S’it normal to get sleepy?”
Joe pulls his stool a bit closer, mostly because Nicky’s voice has suddenly dropped way down in volume. Also a little bit to make sure nobody thinks he’s free real estate.
“Normal? When you’re drunk, you mean?”
Nicky snuffles, nods. Doesn’t clarify.
“I’d say so, hon. Seems like maybe you drank too much.”
Nicky sighs. “Probably. Never did it before.”
Joe curls the arm around him tighter, eyebrows drawing together.
“You’ve never drank before?”
Nicky nods.
“Celebratin’. Quit my job. Was a priest. Now I’m gay, and drunk, and living- hic -my best life.”
Joe blinks.
“That sounds like a lot. Congratulations.”
Nicky’s dimple appears, but he doesn’t lift his head.
“Thanks. You’re sweet. I like your whole- face, and voice, and hand, and everything.”
Joe squeezes his shoulder. ”Thank you, Nicky. I like yours too.”
He’s not sure if Nicky’s heard. Doesn’t move at all, just sighs again.
“Maybe it’s about time you got home, Nicky, hm? Are you here with anyone? Can I call you a cab?”
That gets his attention. He blinks up at Joe, and then lifts his head to point towards the corner, where there are booths, but then the woman Andy had been dancing with materializes seemingly out of thin air.
“Nicky, I see you’ve found a friend.” She sounds delighted, and Joe gets the impression that she’s been watching since Nicky sat down. Thinks about removing his hand from the warmth of Nicky’s back, and then doesn’t.
“Mhm. His name is Yusuf. Joe.”
Nicky yawns again, then, presses his flushed cheek against the cool glass of water.
Joe smiles at Quynh. “I think he’s ready to go.”
Quynh grins back.
“Yeah, I’d say so. Nicky, dear, why don’t you ask the nice man for his number, and maybe he’d like to pet you again some other time when you aren’t hammered?”
Joe almost blushes, skimming his fingers again against Nicky’s shoulder. Nicky just blinks up at him, wide eyed.
Joe shakes his head with a smile, and then finally pulls his arm back, holds out his palm.
Nicky grabs it and holds it.
Joe knows his face is doing something vulnerable and sappy, but he finds he doesn’t quite care.
“I was asking for your phone, love. So I could put my number in it.”
Nicky murmurs a quiet “oh,” taking his hand back and producing an old, banged up phone. Unlocks it, and hands it to Joe, watches with heavy eyelids while Joe puts his number in and saves it under “Joe the stranger.”
Quynh gets Nicky up and standing, then, and he reaches his hand out once more instead of saying anything like a goodbye. Joe indulges him, and gives his big palm a squeeze.
“All right, Nicky. Get home safe. Text me sometime if you still remember me in the morning, and I’ll take you out for coffee to celebrate being a gay ex-priest. Okay?”
Quynh nudges him when he just gives Joe another of his sweet, dopy smiles.
“Mhm, okay. I’ll remember. Promise. Bye, Joe.”
“Bye, Nicky.”
(Nicky remembers. They get coffee. And next time Joe is the designated driver, he has his boyfriend there to share water with, to keep him company.)
still thinking about how andy lit up like the sun on the plane when nile challenged her authority and fought her like she meant it like imagine being andy and the only people you have to work and spar with for 500 years are three men who respect you too much to ever step out of line and who call you boss and just don’t say anything when you get mad and never argue when you tell them what the next move is and then suddenly there’s a new one who will give you lip and try and physically overpower you when she thinks you’re being stupid and stab you with a knife like damn andy i get it i’d be a little bit in love with nile too
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