Perhaps a shattered glass Skyfire x Starscream for intoxication where Skyfire drugs him into thinking they live a happy little life?
Thanks for the ask! 💖I'm gonna use you as an example for tumblr posting :3
I'm gonna post the board I'm working off of with this square marked off:
And then here's a little snippet of the fic, with the rest under the cut! For a purely AO3 posted fic, the link would go here. :3
Lastly and most importantly the tags! I'll put a little block warnings here, and then more tags down below for blocking and finding purposes. Remember not to censor words, participants! Censoring words only makes it harder for those who don't want to see to block fic and art.
Warnings for: Mind altering intoxication, implied sexual assault, captivity, implied poisoning.
Intoxication:
There was something amiss.
Starscream peered down at his hands as he stood at his fuel prep station. They were pristine as always, shining white plating and well-oiled joints.
There was something amiss.
His hands fascinated him, the healthy finish, most of all. He felt good, healthy- and there was something amiss with that.
He'd- They'd slept in that morning, but Starscream woke up first, and wanted to do something nice for his ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️- No, that was wrong, Skyfire was his spouse, surely.
Skyfire kept him maintained, worked hard in their idyllic little life to keep his frail frame healthy and work for their living. If Starscream was one for finery outside of Skyfire's preference, he was sure he'd always be dripping with jewels and precious metals.
And that was wrong, somehow, a part of him whispered. There was no part of the planet that should be able to produce-
"Starscream."
Starscream jumped, sending the cube of fuel he'd been dispensing flying and clattering to disperse and spread on the floor.
It was almost devastating, to see the precious resource wasted because of him- but the vice of fear around his spark was worse-
He turned, for some reason feeling a tremble take up in his frame.
"Skyfire-" He started, but stopped, stopped by something, some process. His lover's face was placid, relieved, even if those red optics blazed down at him something fierce.
"You're out of bed." Skyfire said, casually. "Are you feeling alright?"
Starscream felt great, better than he had - had- had before, before what? It wasn't right, he knew he was sick.
He could say nothing, with the grip of dread choking him. Was he really so jumpy? Instead he nodded, not trusting of what his response could be.
Skyfire moved from him briefly to activate the cleaning drone system, and then came back to rest his huge hand in the space between Starscream's low neck and wings.
"Let me get you some fuel." He purred, before directing Starscream to their seating area.
How sweet was he? To soothe his clumsy conjunx, to make sure he was taken care of? Skyfire was telling him all the time he would do anything for him, all he needed to do was relax, and it would all be taken care of for him.
There was something wrong with it all, something askew in his world but just out of his grasp. He was a scientist so he should be able to- no, he wanted to br a scientist? But instead Skyfire was taking care of him?
He looked down at his hands and startled to find them pristine, instead of chipped and dull, and most importantly stained with the life fluids of other Cybertronians.
He could feel the impression of a sword's hilt in his hand, when a cube alighted next to his open palm. Starscream looked up and up, where Skyfire was stood over him, holding the cube between his thumb and forefinger. His optics gleamed their beautiful red, and he watched expectantly.
Starscream looked back to the cube, and took in it's deep hie as compared to Skyfire's own.
His mouth went dry, as he brought both hands to cup around it.
"This is my med-grade?" He asked weakly.
A smile spread over Skyfire's face.
"Of course, my spark." He assured warmly. "I even added that static dissipator compound you like, it should calm the spinning of that overactive pulse for you."
Starscream ruminated as fast as he could, which was glacial as compared to before- When before? Where before?- and looked back at Skyfire one more time.
The huge mech look at him intensely.
In just a split second, his expression softened back out into gentle interest.
"Something wrong, Star?" Skyfire asked placidly.
"N-no." Starscream said, and brought the cube that much closer. "I just…."
Skyfire motioned him to go on.
"Can- I mean…. Could we perhaps go flying after this? I think I would be okay to do a short flight." He glanced down at his cube and froze still, seeing an absolute look of malice pass over Skyfire's expression.
He brought the cube to his mouth and drank, feeling strongly- wrongly -SURELY wrongly, that this was his only safe motion.
It was delicious- tasted good like a drop of fuel after a long period of starvation (Why would he know what anything like starvation was like??).
He couldn't help but drink deep.
Skyfire was serene and pleased with him when he looked back up, with half the fuel down.
"Finish your fuel." His lover prompted. "And if you feel properly energized after, I would love to take you on a flight. It's a good day, when you're feeling better."
There were already prickles of discomfort sliding through Starscream's lines somehow, but for some reason so much was already less alarming, his spouse's behavior included.
He felt warm, and the warmth spread in frame in his next mouthful.
Another gulp, and the world was prettier. One more, his frame felt that much heavier, and he was relaxing, frame sunk into his luxurious couch more and more.
What could've been wrong? The cube dissipated as he finished it, and his levels pinged him back a cheery full. Skyfire took his hand in both of his, and when Starscream looked at him, he saw only beneficence.
"How are your tanks feeling?" He asked, and Starscream knew the smooth calculation in that voice was pure care, he'd never allow anything bad to happen to him.
"A little unsettled." Starscream said, though part of him felt far away, dreamy.
There was nothing amiss, Skyfire would take care of him.
"I want to fly." He admitted, and his mouth felt looser, but he felt safer. "But I don't think it's a good idea." He didn't know why he didn't think it was a good idea- probably because he was sick.
Skyfire leaned in and nuzzled his face, nipped at his jaw with unsaid suggestion. Heat flashed through his frame.
"No, my darling one." He murmured, and Starscream leaned into the contact. His interface systems could prime in a moment, for his love.
"As tempting as it is to let those filthy Deceptions peek from their holes see you so well cared for- you're all mine. Forever."
So Much for a Quiet Halloween
Ship: Steve/ Tony; Rating: A loose M?
Steve took another sip of his coffee and settled into the balcony lounge chair. He let his mind wander as he watched the city wake up. It was his third Halloween since joining the 21st century, and he knew coats would be covering costumes on the streets below as people made their way to work.
In the future, Halloween was "a big deal", and it wasn't just for kids.
The nip in the air made him tuck the blanket a bit more securely around his lap. Later, there would be a fundraiser on the rooftop where dozens of children would ask their favorite superhero for candy. Steve looked forward to it every year.
A click behind him drew his attention. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Tony. They were alone in the penthouse, most of the team opting to stay in the bedrooms attached to the common room floor, where Steve's own room had been before...
Before he and Tony had come to their senses and kissed wildly after the last battle fought and won.
"You're up early--" the rest of the sentence caught in his throat as Steve took the sight of Tony in. Standing by the door, in tight, tight, red, white, and blue spandex, Tony grinned from under a Captain America cowl. The fabric seemed made for his frame, tight around his shoulders, abs, over his thighs...not to mention the space in between them. Was Steve's bulge always on display like this?
Steve swallowed, utterly gobsmacked. His words had fallen over the balcony.
"That good, huh?" Tony smirked.
Steve was glad he had a blanket tucked over his lap because there was no way Tony would let him live his reaction down, if he saw how incredibly affected he was at the sight of him. He took a sip of coffee, trying to act normal.
Tony stepped onto the balcony and did a little twirl. "Did I nail America's Ass, or what?"
The coffee slid down the wrong side of his throat, causing Steve to choke and cough. Tony laughed as a million filthy replies flew through his brain.
Tony stepped closer, and Steve put down the cup of coffee before he had a Captain-America-clad-Tony sliding into his lap, running his hands over Steve's shoulders to lock around his neck.
Steve, finally, found his voice just as his hands landed on Tony's waist, roaming down to feel the fabric stretch over Tony's American Ass.
Darling, Verklempt (one of my favorite words). Can it be either Obitine adjacent or Satine and Korkie???
Ah, so it took me ages and ages but I DID IT! Huzzah!!!! For you, friend, a little bit of all of the above.
verklempt
Sometimes she looks at him and cannot speak. Her heart, a stupid, stupid thing she keeps pressed down beneath the cage of her fingers and her ribs like a little bird, flutters in her chest. It has soft wings, yes, but claws, and those tear at her throat, fighting to get out, but she locks her jaw and presses it down again.
“And so you must agree, Auntie-dearest, that it was quite an impossible situation to get out of and therefore it would be entirely unreasonable to punish me for the…unfortunate way the evening fell out. Yes?”
He is so like his father it is embarrassing. She half-turns to check her shoulder, afraid someone else has seen, someone else has heard and understood. But her Protectors stare straight ahead at the doors, and her companion continues beating out the wrinkles from her gown, and her advisor doesn’t lift his head from the datapad he holds, poring over the agenda for tonight’s event.
Korkie looks at her anxiously. She can see his hands twisting at the cuff of his sleeve, and she reaches out to put a stop to it. He stills.
“Do you agree?”
“No,” she says. And she says nothing else. Partly because Korkie launches into a speech so eloquent and well-argued that she wants to laugh, but so familiar that it makes her tongue ache with biting it.
At the end of it, seeing her unmoved, Korkie heaves a sigh that sends his entire bearing collapsing in upon itself as if weighed down by the burden of her stubborn ignorance.
“Fine,” he says. “I suppose in that case I shall simply have to languish in utter ignominy in the prison of my bedroom.”
And then she does laugh.
“The prison of your bedroom ? Korkie, my love, you have the largest suite in the palace. Two balconies. All your holonovels. Your vid-projector. Your pad. Your com-stage. Your collections. Your clothes, your shimmer-sheets, your down pillows, your plush toys –”
“ –Auntie!”
“Access to the kitchens and the private grounds outside your rooms. In what way do you think this at all like a prison?”
“In that I am being confined to it!” he says, face flushed and indignant. “A prison is a prison no matter how narrow its bars. And truly, it wasn’t my fault.”
“You were caught racing through the quad wearing the helm of your professor’s beskar’gam.”
“Yes, but –”
“Wearing only the helm.”
“Yes, well but it was a dare.”
“Korkie –”
“Why do you call me that? I’m not a child!”
“You’re certainly not an adult.”
“Auntie–” His voice spins out in a wheedle that seems to come straight from infancy, and instead of being infuriated, Satine smiles.
She sets her hand upon his head, and strokes his hair. “I’m very old, my love. You must forgive me for forgetting.”
He shuts his mouth, eyeing her with something like suspicion. Then he inhales, and she sees that forbearance of his father come through. When he speaks, his voice is full of patience and sophistication that will one day suit him well – if he doesn’t tarnish it with the polishing before then.
“I accept your judgement,” he says, “And I shall cloister myself in solitude for the evening.”
“Thank you.”
“For you ,” he says. “Not because I am conceding guilt. Not because you’re right.”
“Alright.”
“I had to do it.”
“Of course.”
“It was my honour at stake.”
“Yes.”
“My honour, Auntie.”
“I understand. And you understand that you are not to leave your rooms under any circumstances. Not for your friends. Not for a quick trip to the plaza. Not to go check on something really, really quick. You are grounded for the evening.”
“Fine.”
“Good.” She kisses him on the brow. “I shall expect a good report from your Protectors when I get home.”
He clicks his tongue. “Babysitters,” he scoffs.
--
She bites her tongue. She ought to be used to it by now, but though her words are law, and her tongue is made of flailing steel, it still bleeds between her teeth. She wants to say something, she wants to speak, but it has come upon her by surprise and nothing comes but hurt and useless anger.
“Theirs is no great loss, anyway,” says one, a prince of Tracyn. “The Jedi have only ever been leeches on the Republic at best, and conspirators and cowards at worst.”
“Conspirators?” laughs another. “They wear their treachery openly, consorting with enemies of their precious Republic in the name of diplomacy. If you ask me, diplomacy is only another word for weakness.”
“I’d like to see you challenge that weakness, Tom-Yamin.” Satine’s shoulders drop. Finally, someone speaking with sense. “Those witches would work such magick on you that not even your beskar would survive.”
“Pah! Hiding behind their lightswords! Cowards!” says the prince again. “Let them die in their war. Let them fall. Let them rot. My beskar will outlast their bones.”
They all laugh, and Satine says, “You know, there was a Mandalorian who was a Jedi, too, once.”
“What?”
“He was both. A Mandalorian and a Jedi.”
“Really? What was his name?”
“Tarre Vizsla,” she says.
“A Vizlsa!” exclaims Tom-Yamin. “There you go then. A traitor and a coward after all.”
Satine feels her cheeks flush. Tom-Yamin throws her a jovial nudge with his elbow, acknowledging her joke, and she bites her tongue again. It is not worth the fight, it is not worth the fight . She smiles, and the prince and the politicians watching her join in, relieved she is again on their side, relieved she is one of them. The prince stops a passing waiter and distributes glasses of frizz to the group, raising a toast to the Duchess.
“To our Lily!” he says. “Better than any Vizsla. Braver than any Jedi. Best of Mandalore.”
The rest lift their glasses, and Satine bites into her smile holding it in place even as it writhes and twists into a grimace. She thinks of the Republic, and the war, and those distant planets. She thinks of the dust, and the sweat, and a hand limp and empty, the hilt of a saber still burning uselessly. She thinks of the heat, and the smell of a body as it rots.
All at once, she wants to speak to Korkie.
“Excuse me,” she says, and she steps away.
The hallway outside the ballroom is populated only by service staff and couples hoping to find some discretion in the shadows. She lets one fall over her and pulls out her comlink.
The number rings through.
She dials again. And again, it rings through.
The chrono says it is only just past tay’rash, hours before Korkie usually goes to bed.
She rings, Boz, his Protector.
There is no answer there, either.
Somewhere, a platter hits the ground. The clamor of metal against stone sounds like an alarm, and her own heart stutters in her chest. A hush falls behind the ballroom doors. A cry goes up. She dials Korkie again.
Nothing.
“Ma’am.” An aide from her office is behind her. She recognises their face, but at the moment she can’t think of their name. She turns away, dialing again.
“One moment,” she says.
“Ma’am, the palace is under attack.”
--
When he was two years old, a woman snatched Korkie from the arms of his nurse as she walked with him beneath the galek trees of Sundari’s Memorial Park. The nurse was distraught, weeping hysterically. Satine remembers the sound of her grief, but she hadn’t cried herself.
He’d been found a few hours later, more irritated than injured, but it was three days before the numbness disappeared. Then, she’d broken down in her room, crying until she threw up. But before that, she’d felt nothing. Only cold.
That numbness comes over her now, and all she can think is that she ought to have let him come with her tonight.
If he’d come, he would have been with her. If he’d come, he would have been safe.
But instead, they’d argued. She’d laughed. She’d left.
She leaps out of the speeder before it’s come to a stop, the city spinning out dizzyingly between the vehicle and the ledge of the platform. She doesn’t notice. It is all a blur.
Protectors follow behind her, more joining from the palace grounds. Security badges flash around the perimeter, and voices shout out orders and commands. People sit on benches crying. Her lady's maid. A cook. She doesn’t know, she doesn’t know. She keeps running, racing up the steps, her dress tangling in her legs. It is woven with palladium, so it doesn’t tear. It only holds her back.
Peti, the head of her Home Guard, steps through the doors of the Grand Entrance Hall, his arms outstretched to catch her.
“My Lady!”
“Where is he?”
“My Lady –”
“Where is he!” she demands. She claws at his arms, and twists like a wild striil caught in a trap.
But Peti is built like a behr, and he shakes her hard enough that her teeth snap together.
“My Lady, he is safe. He is safe. Not even a bruise on him. He is safe.”
“Take me to him,” she says, still cold, still numb. She has to see. In her voice is the steel that took Mandalore like a blade pressed against a throat. “Take me to him now.”
He is sitting on top of one of the long counters that runs down the centre of the primary kitchens. He is wearing his pajamas. He is leaning back upon his hands. His feet are bare. A medic is holding him by the ankle. He is smiling.
Her son is smiling.
And like a river in springtime, the numbness thaws into a melt. She is filled with the currents of grief, and fear, and relief, and utterly overcome. He looks at her as if he can feel the springtime too, and she is filled with love.
“Auntie!”
He leaps to his feet and she sees nothing and no one else as she runs to him, and wraps him in her arms.
“Auntie,” he says, squirming away. “I can’t breathe.”
“Are you alright? My love, my love –” She kisses his reddened cheeks, her own tears running down his face.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I promise.”
“I thought I lost you. I could have lost you.”
“I was never really in much danger,” he says.
The medic speaks up from behind him. “An aborted kidnapping, Your Grace,” they say. “By all accounts, your nephew showed remarkable bravery in the face of a serious threat.”
She tries to laugh, but it comes out sounding like something newly drowned. “Not much danger!” she says, giving her boy a teasing slap on his shoulder. Then she soothes it, unable to bear the thought of even an invisible wound.
“Not much ,” he insists.
“Oh, kairkiyc, don’t do that to me, don’t ever do that to me again.”
“Well, of course I didn’t mean to,” he says. “It was hardly my fault.”
“What happened?” With one last kiss to his cheek, she pulls him in for another hug and turns to the medic for answers.
“Several intruders made it past the perimeter security. They killed one guard before they were detected. Most were detained by security, but one slipped through the gardens into the young master’s room. By the time his Protectors arrived, the situation was well in hand, and the man was arrested without any further injury.”
“He wanted to abduct me, Auntie,” says Korkie, with great indignation. “Can you believe it? I’m far too old for a kidnapping.”
“Are you indeed?” she asks. “I take it your would-be kidnapper disagreed.”
“He told me to keep quiet and not put up a fuss. He said I ought to behave, and if I did exactly as he said, he promised not to hurt me. Absolutely ridiculous.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Korkie lifts his chin. "I told him he was quite welcome to pass the evening with me, but it would be quite impossible that I should go anywhere with him as I was under strict instructions not to leave my bedroom."
So this idea came from the amazing @thetinymm who wrote me a fantastic outline and then told me to go nuts. I hope this was what you were looking for darling. <3
It hadn’t been the first time, and Geralt knew it wouldn’t be the last time that they would be nearly violently removed from a village. Jaskier walked beside him, spitting acidic though not completely inaccurate curses the entire time as they made their way back to the main road.
“The actual fucking nerve of some of these backwood mouth breathing…” Jaskier fumed, pulling his lute round from behind his back as he plucked out a few chords angrily.
Was that a twig? Geralt’s head turned and he looked, but he couldn’t see anything.
Jaskier beside him belted furiously over his shoulder the first few lines of “Toss a Coin.”
“Jaskier,” Geralt growled a warning. There was a feeling of being watched crawling up his neck but he couldn’t seem to focus.
“When the White Wolf fought,” he bit around the word, spinning on his heel.
“Jask!” There had to be rustling in the forest. Heavy feet but he couldn’t tell where they were.
“A silver tongued devil.” The notes thumped heavily. Geralt turned just in time when Jaskier turned to face back up the road to see the bandits emerge from the wood, stalking toward them.
“JASKIER! ENOUGH!” Geralt drew his sword and only had a second to regret the look of fear and hurt that crossed Jaskier’s face before he flew past him, handily disarming and running off the men that were obviously sent to ‘take care of the Witcher problem’.
Jaskier stood next to Roach, his lute clutched in one hand, his other at the back of his neck. He wouldn’t look at Geralt exactly when he returned, only stepping aside to let him pass and returning his lute to his back.
Fuck.
-o-O-o-
They had made it into a more accommodating town when Geralt realized why the road felt so strained for the past few days. Only in the safety of the tavern did he realize Jaskier was singing. He tried to think back over the past few days and realized with consternation that Jaskier hadn’t sang at all since the bandits. Not only that, Geralt couldn’t remember him really speaking.
He frowned, watching Jaskier dance around the room, taking in the bright smile he gave the barmaid and the bawdy shout he gave when the crowd cheered. But there was a tightness to him too that Geralt didn’t care for, along his shoulders and the way his eyes didn’t seek out Geralt like they usually did.
He just needs to loosen up a little. He’ll be okay once he works out his nerves. I shouldn’t have shouted. Geralt thought, scowling down at the ale in front of him.
“Hmm… fuck,” he murmured softly. He would have to watch now. Not like he didn’t usually watch Jaskier.
-o-O-o-
Geralt hated that he had nearly lost track of the times in the following week he had heard Jaskier start to hum and then quickly stop himself. He hated how when he did he’d quickly look up at Geralt then behind them. Around the camp they would set, Jaskier would talk quieter than Geralt had ever remembered him doing.
The tightness in his chest wasn’t panic. It wasn’t fear that was tearing up his chest; fear that any day now Jaskier would realize how much safer it was to just be anywhere where Geralt wasn’t.
He had to do something, anything. He cleared his throat and leaned back a little, looking at Jaskier.
“It’s a really clear night tonight. Did you hear that rail back there? Never hear them that close,” he tried.
Jaskier looked up from where he was scribbling some notes, his teeth painfully sunk into his bottom lip. He looked around, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment before he only nodded, going back to his work.
Geralt sighed, poking at the fire. He just needs time. It’s only a matter of time, he thought.
The next day he tried again, opting to walk beside Jaskier, and pointing out over the hills that ran along their left. “That storm is going to get caught up against those mountains. We’ll have decent conditions today and tomorrow, but then we might find us a cave if we don’t come across a village.”
Jaskier only looked out toward the horizon, squinting. “Ah. Good to know.” And then fell silent again.
Geralt had never found himself on this end of whatever it was they were and suddenly he had a new appreciation for the trouble he put Jaskier through. But more than that, he realized he missed it; the sound of Jaskier talking openly, his singing, even the bickering. He was beginning to desperately miss the sound of his bard.
They found a village before the storm blew over, and again, Geralt watched as Jaskier seemed to come back out of the shell he had built around himself. The tightness in his shoulders seemed worse now and when they asked about a room, Jaskier chose to ask for a separate one.
“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for both,” he said, too quietly, before Geralt could protest. Though even Geralt wasn’t sure what he was about to protest.
That night he laid awake and listened through the thin walls as he heard Jaskier pluck softly at his lute, his voice raspy and subdued. There was a quality to it that hadn’t been down in the bar that night. The thing that wasn’t fear in his chest reared up and raked painfully against his ribs.
The ache pushed him up onto his feet and he walked carefully over to the shared door between their rooms, but as he raised his hand to knock, he heard Jaskier make a soft gasping noise and then the unmistakable noise of a lute being quickly put away.
Geralt pulled back from the door, glowering. He took another step back, his hands rubbing against his thighs as he shifted from one foot to the other. What was he supposed to do? Thinking back on it, Jaskier didn’t smell like fear to him recently. He wasn’t afraid of Geralt was he? That thought alone fed the beast that was now wrapping thick bands around his lungs and it squeezed tighter for it.
He felt himself deflate slightly as he stepped as lightly as he could back to the door, pressing an ear to it as he slowly slid down to the floor. He closed his eyes and hoped that Jaskier might return to his soft plucking, his half murmured tune.
He didn’t. Geralt sat through the night in a silence that was nearly deafening.
The next morning, Geralt waited out front, not quite expecting Jaskier to show. But he did, packed and ready to go.
He watched as Jaskier gave a warm greeting to the barmaid at the bottom of the step, before turning back to Geralt. There was a smile there but it wasn’t as warm as he remembered Jaskier’s smiles to be.
“Shall we then, Witcher. Those contracts won’t fill themselves.” It was the most Jaskier had said to him in weeks, but it meant nothing. They were still standing in the safety of an inn.
“Hmm.” And he tried to pour as much warmth as he could into that one small sound but he was out of practice.
They walked in near silence for half the day, Geralt making small attempts to point out that they were clear of any danger and that Jaskier could say something, anything, even if it was just to yell at Geralt, he’d give his last Gwent card for a bickering match.
They stopped at a stream to water Roach. Geralt stood beside her, Jaskier leaning against a tree just on his other side.
There was a toad beside Roach’s hoof who swelled up and let out a loud croak in warning. Roach was unimpressed and went about her drinking.
“Reminds me of this bard I used to know.” Geralt says softly. One last play. That’s all he gets. One last try to make things right before he was certain that Jaskier would peel off from him before too long.
“You know many bards, Witcher?” Jaskier shot back. It was sudden and Geralt turned to see Jaskier looking around, already tucking himself further back against the trunk of the tree.
He always found himself failing to protect those he cared for, even from himself.
“Jaskier, why don’t you go home?” He finally said.
“You- You want me gone?” Jaskier’s eyes were bright with tears that came far too quickly for Geralt to think that they hadn’t been already pressing against the surface.
“No, Jask. No, I don’t want you to leave.” He was shaking his head, looking back down at the toad that now focused on his boot and made another attempt to be threatening. “You stopped talking, Jaskier. You don’t sing except when we’re in towns and I…” He couldn’t bring himself to look up at Jaskier.
“I messed up. I was too loud and I nearly got us killed and you-” Geralt had to look up now because how couldn’t he, “you were so angry, Geralt, I thought you were going to just leave me right outside of that backwater heap and be on your merry way without me.”
“Hmm.” Geralt took a slow step forward. “And in the inn? When you stopped playing in your room?” He had to know. He had to know so that he could stop it from ever happening again.
“Didn’t want to be a bother,” Jaskier huffed through a wet laugh. “There is no home for me, Geralt. Well… There is, but I thought I almost lost it.” He looked up at Geralt, half a smile not quite reaching his eyes. “Oxenfurt is nice and all, but where’s the adventure in blackboards, chalk dust, and old hacks with too long beards and no imagination left in them? I thought maybe if I tried to stay quiet on the road… you,” Jaskier gulped, wincing slightly, “I thought maybe you wouldn’t leave me behind. I hoped my home… wouldn’t leave me behind.”
Geralt ran a hand over his face. “Jaskier. Please, please don’t stop singing because of that. Please don’t stop talking,” The tightness around his chest pressed in more, making it hard to talk, hard to breathe. “I… I miss it. I miss the sound of you.”
He dared to look up and Jaskier was inching terribly close, his hands up as if trying not to spook Geralt. “Oh?”
“I miss the talking and the singing and… I didn’t realize it sounded like home until it stopped.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop himself. He looked down at the ground, his arms over his chest as he silently cursed at himself.
It started small and then rolled and tumbled and gathered around the edges like a coming storm. Jaskier was laughing, tears streaking down his face as he stepping in closer to Geralt than he had in weeks and he kept crowding in until Geralt had to wrap his arms around him. They stood there for a time, Jaskier pressing his face into Geralt’s shoulder. He closed his eyes and let the feeling of home wash over him.
When they finally broke apart, Jaskier already had that look that Geralt knew he was going to end up eating his words, but he couldn’t fight the fond warmth that settled in and squashed the fear that had taken root before into nothingness.
“You like my singing, Geralt.” Jaskier teased, looking at him sidelong with a knowing smile.
“Fuck.” Geralt chuckled and it was the safest either of them had felt in too long.
hi hello may I request soft/angsty! absconding w harry concepts? through some *vague handwaving* circumstances harry gets deaged, so crowley and aziraphale have to deal w 5/6 yr old harry both soft BABEY shenanigans but also them realizing the extent of harry's neglect/abuse bc he's not quite old enough to try to hide it
"Okay, so, maybe I didn't think this through." a Anthony J-for-Janthony Crowley stared at the trembling five year old staring at him in the middle of the bookshop.
"Really?" Aziraphale said. "I couldn't tell."
Crowley gave The Angel of The Lord™ a glare from behind his sunglasses. The glare was lost on Aziraphale because: 1) sunglasses, and 2) the Angel didn't care about his glaring.
"In my defence," Crowley began, before he stopped. "Listen," he tried again. "I thought it wouldn't work." He shrugged a shoulder—a little helplessly, but not too helplessly; after all, demon. "It's not like you thought it'd work either!"
Crowley pointed a finger at The Angel of The Lord™. "Besides," he continued. "Why do you even have that book? I thought Heaven went and burnt all the copies; even the one they had in the Golden Library."
Aziraphale, sneaky bastard that he was, shifted on his feet and smiled that awkward, I-appear-innocent-and-harmless-but-really-I'm-not smile of his. "Ah, well. Funny story that." The Angel's hands fidgeted with a button on his vest. "I was minding the library that day—as a favour, you know—and—well—I couldn't just let a book be burnt because it contained some Forbidden Knowledge now, could I? What sort of bibliophile would I be if I'd let that happen? So I..."
"You stole it."
"I liberated it."
"You nicked it."
"I rescued it from an undeserving fate."
"You absconded with a book from the bloody Golden Library and hid it here in this bookshop mortals visit and left it on a shelf a twelve-year-old could reach it!"
Aziraphale grimaced. "Yes," he said. "I—uh—suppose that's accurate."
Crowley sighed. "How long does it last?"
The Angel studied the book on the table—open on the page with the spell Mortals Should Not Try—and frowned. "Ah, well," he began.
"Well?"
"It—uhm—oh my." Aziraphale looked at the twelve- now five-year-old still stood in the middle of the bookshop. He hadn't spoken the entire time; or moved. "We need to provide something that was lacking at the time the spell has returned him to."
Crowley frowned. "Provide what?"
"I'm afraid it doesn't specify."
"So how'd we figure out what he needs?" Crowley glared at the book. That, at least, trembled; good, it should fear him. "Does he need a trip to Disneyland or—I don't know—the zoo, Angel?"
Aziraphale closed the book with a SNAP of pages, and turned his attention to the temporary five-year-old. "Harry," he said, in that Kind™ way of his. "Can you tell me how you feel right now? We need to understand what happened and how best to help you, but we need to you to tell us how you're feeling."
Harry stared at Aziraphale with those big, green eyes of his. Aziraphale and Crowley could both see the wariness in his eyes; the kid was weighing up what answer to give.
"I'm hungry."
Aziraphale blinked. "I can make you a sandwich."
"And cold."
Crowley snapped his fingers. A blanket settled on Harry's shoulders. "Solved."
Harry stared at Crowley. He stared at the blanket on his shoulders. He stared at Aziraphale. "How-"
"Magic," Crowley answered the question Harry began to ask. "It's magic. You have magic too. That's why you're five right now. You're normally twelve. You look the same but you're a bit taller at twelve."
Harry bit his lip. "The same?"
Aziraphale nodded. "Yes, you still have the same hairstyle, same face. Though we acquired new spectacles for you, and a far nicer wardrobe than your previous one," the Angel told Harry.
"Why?"
Crowley saw Aziraphale frown. He stepped in to answer before the Angel could Be A Little Offended At Being Asked Why He Would Be Kind.
"You're our kid, why wouldn't we get you new things to wear?"
Harry's eyes, already wide, grew bigger. His mouth dropped open a little. He looked like a fish, but in a cute way. How fish could be cute, Crowley wasn't quite sure, but goldfish were kinda okay...
"Your kid?" Harry blinked several times. "Wha- I- My Aunt and Uncle-"
"We adopted you," Aziraphale said. The Angel's voice was as gentle as downy feathers were soft. "You live with us, here, Harry. You don't- you will never sleep in a cupboard again. You have your own room. You have friends who visit. You read many books and have fun. You're not-" Aziraphale stopped. He bit his own lip.
"You're not alone, anymore," Crowley told the five-year-old. "You'll never be alone."
Harry looked at Crowley. "Oh."
Aziraphale and Crowley glanced at each other. They communicated perfectly in that moment, and knelt down in front of Harry. "Can we- would you- uh-"
Crowley rolled his eyes at the Angel's dithering. "Can we hug you, Harry?"
Harry stared at them. "No one has ever hugged me before," he told them, sounding confused and hopeful and a little bit scared.
Crowley didn't like feeling rage. He didn't. It was loud and demanding and always gave him a headache after. He was okay with anger. Frustration. Ire. But rage... Now that was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.
Unfortunately, Harry's words brought out rage. He hid it away, and let Harry tuck himself between an Angel and a Demon. But Crowley promised—he promised—that Vernon and Petunia Dursley would know no joy, no pleasure, no happiness in life. They would feel nothing good.
And with the rage of One Of The Fallen, the universe moved to make it so.
The hug, at least, broke the spell and returned their twelve-year-old Harry to them, who didn't let go of them both. If anything, Harry hugged them tighter.
"Thank you," he mumbled into Aziraphale's shoulder.
"For what, dear one?" The Angel asked, stroking the crown of Harry's head.
"For giving me my first hug when I was five," Harry answered. He lifted his head enough to look at them both. "I always wondered who the people who hugged me were, even if I couldn't remember what they'd said until now."
Crowley and Aziraphale stared at Harry. Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Aziraphale looked at Crowley.
Neither of them could explain Harry's memories. His five-year-old self shouldn't remember them, not the way he so clearly did before the spell. That... This reeked of something Bigger Than Them pulling some strings.
Crowley wasn't sure he liked that thought or not, so he did what he did best; he shoved it aside in his brain to focus on the now. He'd ask questions later, in his flat, where the fallout wouldn't affect his Angel and their kid.
Hey I saw you were taking prompts for your Marco/ace/Sabo fics, could pretty please do one with omega/beta/alpha dynamics? Thank you I love you
Hello~! Thanks for the prompt love, but a/b/o is not my preference in writing :’) SO here, have a fucking RIDICULOUS, but actually-I’m-perfect-serious-about-this-I-did-Research-and-I-love-evolutionary-biology fic on one particular a/b/o trope.
MAS, Second Chances ‘verse, rated T for general allusions to sex & violence (but nothing explicit)
“Marco I’m about to ask you something awkward and maybe even a little offensive, and I need you to not get mad.”
“And by mad,” Sabo piped up, “he means embarrassed, because you’re about to be so embarrass— Ow.”
The scariest thing about this whole affair, Marco thought, was that Ace was clearly holding back laughter of his own, even as he elbowed Sabo in the stomach to shut Sabo up. And Sabo, when he unfolded from nursing the blow, was still grinning.
“Can I ask?” Ace said, kind of muffled as his mouth twisted into awkward I’m-totally-not-smiling shapes and his eyes danced. “I swear I won’t judge your an—”
Nobody elbowed anybody this time; Ace had cut off himself because, probably, he would’ve burst out laughing if he’d continued. Degrees of dread increased by tenfold, and Marco, because he was an experienced adult who practiced things like mental health, turned on his heel and walked away toward the afterdeck.
“—aw, c’mon Marco!”
“You really don’t wanna walk any further than that,” Sabo called, “if you don’t want your crewmates hearing us ask about your self-lubricating asshole—”
Marco has never truly regretted resuscitating Sabo in Ace’s life until now. Such a pity that Ace loved a guy that was about to die in 0.3 seconds when Marco’s talons snapped his fucking neck.
Sabo danced out of the way of Marco’s sudden charge, and then Ace got in the way. Marco never knew fire could burn in a way that so closely approximated a shit-eating grin. Haki flashed, because Marco was out for blood dammit, but the trouble twins were hardly an easy force to contend with. They have Marco bracketed in a second, each one ready to launch an offense the second the other needed to fly into a defense.
And they were both still fucking smiling—
“Marco don’t get mad!” Ace yelped as he tried to tackle Marco around the waist and Marco flipped them both into the sky. Ace would’ve been unceremoniously kicked into the ocean, had Sabo not taken the moment to hop up as well, wrapping himself in a very koala-like fashion around Marco’s torso to prevent any pivoting momentum.
“Yeah Marco don’t get mad,” Sabo repeated, and got a wing smack to the side of his head for his cheek. Also, for his fingers dipping under the back of Marco’s pants, as if aiming to touch—
Marco went full phoenix (which did not help his biological situation but that couldn’t be helped right now) and promptly dumped the two demon brothers onto the deck. Crew mates were vaguely looking on, but fights at this scale were hardly worth the effort of rubbernecking, especially when they’ve all learned one-too-many times that playing peanut gallery to a Marco-Ace-and-Sabo fight could quickly descend into something else they’d never come to see.
In the middle of choosing between permanent migration and permanent self-immolation, Marco was bombarded with a wrap of flame a lot like a hug around his whole body. Ace attacked with enough force to also bring Marco down, and keep him down, pinned to the deck by the joint perseverance of two boys who obviously grew up in the jungle hunting wild beasts for survival.
“Look,” Ace panted into Marco’s beaked face, because they couldn’t make him talk if he stubbornly remained a bird. “You obviously don’t have to tell us, if you don’t want.”
And you are obviously as big of a liar as your brother, Marco wanted to howl, but that would require turning human, which would be playing right into their devious little hands, and Sabo had been tasked with pinning down Marco’s talons but now he’s got an odd little glint in his eyes as he contemplated the limbs that he was gripping and what those limbs were connected to and—
Marco transformed back to full-human in a flash of bright blue, and then promptly kneed Sabo in the face.
“Ow,” Sabo said once more, plaintively gripping his nose.
“It is an evolutionary biological trait,” Marco hissed, hopelessly red from the entire neck up. Hell, he didn’t know which was hotter, his skin or Ace’s hand, still half-flames, gripping his arms (which definitely was not helping with the situation down under). “And I despise both of you yoi.”
“That’s—”
“—fine,” Sabo interrupted Ace nasally, eyes way too shiny for the pathological mind underneath. “But just fucking tell us why you get wet, Marco. Y’know, evolutionarily speaking.”
“I would really,” Marco said, the picture of abject misery, “rather die.”
“Not like that’s ever stopped—Oh.” Fucking Ace. He was almost always the spanner in the works for moments like this, because Sabo’s fanged curiosity could be batted off with a careful defense but Ace’s intuition was merciless as no other. And he wasn’t even nasty about it like Sabo, just open and friendly enough to lull Marco into a false sense of security until Marco’s divulged everything.
“Is this like,” Ace asked, “a bird thing?”
It would be so undignified to try to thrash away like a fish caught on land. Marco seriously contemplated it though, as Sabo’s grin gained teeth.
“Oh Marco,” Sabo sighed breathlessly, “do you have anal gland secretions—”
Marco thrashed. Fuck dignity; it’s not like he’d have any left if he just lied there anyways. He went for Ace first this time, headbutting the guy (of course with haki) and then going for Sabo’s throat. He had windpipe in hand ready to wring when a familiar burst of heat hit his very human back, igniting the blue feather-flames and shooting in a by-now-predictable path down to Marco’s—
“Will you stop that,” Marco snapped, twisting to toss Ace off (not fucking like that) once more. The way he instinctively kept his hip from impacting the ground though, as he rolled uncomfortable into another defensive position, had the unfortunate side effect of tipping Sabo off.
“Oh, so this isn’t just a bird thing, it’s a fire thing. It’s an Ace thing.”
Ace had already hopped back to his feet, no worse for the wear. He wore a confused frown.
“What’s an Ace thing? Marco? Wait, I make you wet?”
Giving up on his pride and his life entirely, Marco slammed his head back into the deck, starfishing onto the ground.
“I don’t get wet,” he answered hollowly, because of all the ways they told him being a pirate on the Grand Line would kill him, nobody’s ever warned him about the twin devils and their persistent fucking questions. “It’s oil, yoi. Phoenixes secret flammable oil that then needs to be preened onto feathers.”
“And you produce those oils…” Ace said.
“Anally,” Sabo finished. Marco nodded, and felt himself die right then and there. Death by humiliation was worse than death by exsanguination, but still somehow better than disembowelment. “Well. That’s convenient.”
“It happens all the time,” because Marco might as well make this death as total as posible, “but the presence of fire encourages more secretions, yes.”
Ace’s face appeared in Marco’s vision, coming over to hove above Marco’s prone body. He wasn’t smiling anymore, really.
“Listen,” he said quite solemnly, “I’m not not-turned on.”
“Yup,” Sabo said, popping the P as he joined Ace’s side, eyeing Marco’s crotchal region. “I’m a total romantic; I can definitely still get it up for your flammable ass grease.”
…Forget death. Phoenixes rose from the ashes anyways. He’d kill Sabo with extreme prejudice, then Ace, then himself, and then murder the blond mouthy bastard all over again in hell, where they’d surely all end up for having this conversation in the first place. He’d show them romantic.
(Have mercy on me while I try to get these links up!!!)
List 1/4 of AU/trope mashups filled for the Dawning. Hope everyone had a great holiday season!
Ada-1/Female Guardian, birthday + love confession
Somewhere, someone requested female Guardian and Ada-1 with birthday + love confession and I have absolutely no idea where that request was
Eriana-3/Wei Ning, I didn't mean to turn you on + It's not you, it's my enemies
idk if you're still doing the trope mash-up, but 66 and 86 with whoever feels spicy?
I started to go angsty with this but then my heart wen
Devrim Kay+Guardian!Uldren, innocent physical contact + almost kiss
Request via my 18+ Discord which can be joined by a one time donation patreon.com/foxficandink
Dev/Guardian Uldren innocent physical contac
Cayde/Ikora, airport + birthday
10 and 31 could be fun. (Airport/Birthday) Very festive. For a pairing, Cayde and Ikora!
Ah! This could be so fun and sweet.
Ikora works
Cayde/Banshee, proposal + poorly timed confession
You broke my heart and I'm a little afraid to trust you now, but 28 + 60?
If I broke your heart, it's only right to mend it with more Cayde/
Saint-14/Osiris, war au + accidental marriage
War au + accidental marriage, Saint-14/Osiris
Ooooh!
Years of civil war are finally coming to an end with the longest paper trail Saint-
Cayde/Andal, sick/injury + sleep intimacy
27. Sick/injury & 95. Sleep Intimacy with Cayde/Andal? either that or 37. Coming out fic & 41. First kiss. You can choose! Either NSFW or SF
If you submitted a prompt and I missed it, send me a message!
Sidenote: I've also decided to go to GCX in June 2020 (formerly DestinyCon and GuardianCon) so I'll probably have a couple rounds of commissions before then to help with costs.
Also available: new Patreon
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