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yurifies phantom of the opera .𖥔 ݁ ˖

Okay okay listen Tim would never understand Jason’s need to provide but he recognizes the devotion of it all and when he finally gets it… he’s never letting go. A different kind of devotion. That’s something they can both understand

yessss. YES. they initially have completely different views on it! Tim hates the part of himself that Jason craves to feed - he sees it as parasitic, a reason for shame, and the possibility that he could go too far one day and kill what he loves. For Tim, it's something to hate; for Jason, it's something to love.

But Tim understands devotion. He understands wanting to be claimed, wanting to belong wholly and utterly to someone, and he starts to see Jason's obsession with it as akin to that feeling. He wants it too, he feels it too OwO

Because what makes me insane about it is just...their problems are the same. Jason hates the wolf; Tim loves the wolf, because the wolf is Jason. Tim hates his thirst; Jason loves his thirst, because the thirst is Tim. It's so... if we have to hurt to live, then let me bear it with you. i'm not normal about it

ok i've never read the novel but your tags on that post about jc and matchmaker requirements...mxtx girl i don't think you wrote what you thought you wrote lmao (jc noticing beauty? doesn't seem like he does sorry that's whats on the page)

Exactly!! The only time that novel Jiang Cheng is even hinted at having sexual thoughts is when (after loudly decrying NHS and WWX for looking at spring books) he wakes up with a book next to his head.

I do kind of sort of enjoy the idea that MXTX shared, that while that's his list for the matchmakers, that's not actually what he wants in a wife. Emotional vulnerability? 0%, he can't be targeted. Tactical evasion: A+++. No one will ever know he wants to be held!!!

🐿️⚜️

The meme

it obviously proves that it's very dangerous for the two of them to be together lol

Vow

For the kinks prompts, how about some Geraskier for 23. possessiveness?

(possessiveness, 2.7k, explicit, trans jaskier, jaskier has a vagina, semi-public sex, also on ao3)

happy belated birthday @kueble! hope you like it! ❤️

(and then this ended up being kind of a birthday gift to me, too)

sam is this guy, also featured in this wonderful verse and the sam the baker tag. his simeon in particular is the creation of @valdomarx!

-

The afterparty in the library is a merry thing, good food and good wine flowing as Oxenfurt’s finest (and their less fine) celebrate the triumphant victor of the annual bardic competition. Jaskier’s pink-cheeked with the thrill of it, basking in the glow of his adoring fans. He’s accepted many a drink and congratulations from eager partygoers, though he’s turned down the barrage of their other offers, to their chagrin.

It’s a very new thing, between Jaskier and the sharp-eyed witcher nursing his drink between bookshelves. Jaskier’s unaccustomed to refusing advances on behalf of an actual possible reason, not merely tormented wanting. He’s still not sure Geralt wants something exclusive, that he’s not himself tempted by the intrigued glances aimed in his direction.

They…haven’t exactly talked about it.

Jaskier does know him well enough, though, to recognize Geralt’s deepening scowl when a burly, kind-eyed baker approaches. Jaskier meets Geralt’s gaze and flashes him a look that he hopes conveys just a little longer, I’ll be right there.

He doesn’t want to rush this exchange, though. Sam’s not like the rest—he’s the very best baker in town, and after commiserating over their shared woes, he’d once kept Jaskier quite warm during one of the winters Geralt had left him for Kaer Morhen.

“—and you were right, of course,” Sam’s saying, smiling warmly at him. “Being direct was the best way. That and the brioche.”

“Gods, your sinful brioche!” Jaskier groans. “Wait—so—you and Simeon at last?”

Sam blushes, his curls bouncing as he nods.

“We’re to be handfasted come the solstice,” he says, and Jaskier’s heart swells with happiness for his friend.

“Oh, Sam!” he exclaims, “I’m so happy for you!”

“And I you, my dear Jaskier. Quite the victory tonight.” Sam claps him on the shoulder, his warm eyes softening. “It’s good to hear you singing happier songs, my friend.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, smiling. Sam inclines his head in the direction of the man in the corner.

“That’s him, isn’t it? Watching us like he’d like to throttle me?” He grins knowingly. “Another victory, then?”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to blush.

“I—something like that.”

Sam’s smile broadens.

“Good. Good. You deserve the best, you know.”

“As do you, you darling boy.”

Jaskier sinks into Sam’s embrace, inhaling the familiar scent of cinnamon.

“Go on,” Sam whispers. “I know you want to. I’ll cover for you, it’s all right,” he adds with a wink.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says gratefully. “Can we come by the bakery before we leave town?”

Sam chuckles. “I’ll have honey cakes ready for you both.”

Jaskier squeezes his arm in gratitude, and makes his way through the crowd, shaking off admirers as he goes.

“Hey,” he says, somewhat breathless, as he reaches Geralt’s corner.

Geralt hums, staring daggers at a particularly interested young lord near Jaskier’s shoulder.

“You know,” Jaskier starts, tracing his thumb Geralt’s knuckles where they’re white around his mug. “I’m not going home with any of them. You know that, right?”

Geralt’s brows knit. He’s still not looking at Jaskier.

“You can do what you want.” The words come through gritted teeth, a muscle in his clenched jaw twitching. Jaskier’s heart twists.

“I want you, you must know that by now! I just…didn’t want to assume you wanted me…you know, to yourself. Or in public.”

Geralt’s frown doesn’t loosen, but he looks at Jaskier now. And oh, the blazing gold of that gaze makes heat surge through Jaskier’s whole body.

“What?”

“I don’t know the rules of this!” Jaskier hisses. “It’s all so new! I—I want everyone to know I’m yours, Geralt. Fuck, I’ve wanted it since I was eighteen and all the more now that I know what it means to be yours. I just…don’t want to scare you off.”

“How would it—”

“I want you so badly, Geralt,” Jaskier says, and the heat has spread to his cheeks now, he knows he’s blushing, he can’t stop. “I want to be yours so badly. But if you just want to be casual, if you want me to see other people, or to stay apart while we’re in public, well, that’s…fine. I’ll take whatever you give me.”

For one terrifying moment, Geralt stares at him, unreadable. And then—

It’s a deep crushing sort of kiss, nothing like the tentative, tender ones they’ve shared so far. Geralt’s big hands on him, one heavy as it cradles his head, the other pulling him close at the small of his back. Geralt licks into his mouth and it’s dizzyingly romantic and terribly, magnificently demonstrative, making Jaskier’s knees turn to water.

“Oh,” he says, breathless. He’s grinning like a fool. Geralt’s still holding him tightly, breathing hard as if he’s just come from a hunt. Jaskier hears, vaguely, the young lord behind him heave a disappointed sigh and turn away. Jaskier clears his throat. “Shall we, ah, make our way back to the room, then?”

“Through the rabbit warren of this place?” Geralt groans.

“It’s a fifteen minute walk,” Jaskier laughs, wonderfully light-headed at the thought of Geralt wanting him now.

Geralt leans in. Takes Jaskier’s lower lip between his teeth, and tugs.

“Know anywhere closer?”

*

Jaskier drags Geralt through the outskirts of the crowd, hiding behind his bulk as best as he can as he maneuvers his lover through an unassuming doorway and the narrow corridor behind it. It’s just a few steps until it opens into the wide, windowed archival room, crowded with precious manuscripts, towering shelves, and sturdy tables for individual study. It’s blessedly empty, though the chatter of the party filters through the corridor; this room has no lock, as the only entrance is the one which they just came through.

“Ah, there’s no couches or anything, but we could—mmph!”

Geralt shoves him against the nearest shelf with a groan of relief, heedless of the books that teeter perilously with the force of it. He shoves his thick, muscled thigh between Jaskier’s legs and Jaskier melts against him, grinding helplessly as Geralt spurs him on, those strong hands rolling Jaskier’s hips. The friction is exquisite, and Jaskier blushes as Geralt deepens the kiss. He knows Geralt can smell his slick.

“I don’t want casual,” Geralt growls. “I don’t want you to see other people. I don’t want to stay apart.” He presses his leg higher and Jaskier whimpers. He could almost come just like this, especially if Geralt keeps saying these things. Geralt shakes his head, his fingers bruise-tight on Jaskier’s hips. “I want to make you mine. I want everyone to know. I want it so badly I’m…terrified.”

“What?” Jaskier whispers, smoothing the hair from Geralt’s face where it’s fallen from the braid Jaskier’d set it in. “Why?”

“Are you joking?” Geralt snorts. “Jaskier. I’ve been standing in the corner wishing I’d bitten my claim into you last night so everyone knows you’re mine. You are your own person. The star of this night, of this town. And you should be! Fuck, you’re magnificent.” He shakes his head, nuzzles Jaskier’s jaw. “And I—this is—I don’t want to scare you away. To ask for more than you want to offer.”

Jaskier groans, rocking against him, and pulls him into another searing kiss.

“Doesn’t make me any less of my own person to be yours, Geralt,” he whispers. “I want to be yours! Fuck, are you joking? I’ve wanted it for years, please, please.”

Geralt blinks at him.

“You’re serious. You’re sure?”

“Mark me,” Jaskier pants, tilting his chin in offering, clawing at Geralt’s clothes. “Claim me, fuck me, Geralt! I love you, I want you, I’m yours. All yours. I don’t want anyone else.”

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs, pressing against him. “I don’t want anyone else either.”

They’ve only said it a handful of times. I love you. And never like this, never a promise, a claim.

Jaskier laughs in relief, biting his lip to try and stay quiet. And then Geralt’s fumbling with the bow on the back of his trousers, and he lets out a helpless moan.

“I’m not waiting another fucking minute to get my mouth on you,” Geralt growls.

Everything goes a bit fuzzy, a whirlwind of wonder and desire. Geralt drags Jaskier’s pants and braies to his ankles, spreads his legs as far as they’ll go, and sinks to his knees to bury his face in Jaskier’s cunt.

Jaskier tries to muffle his cry in the heel of his hand, his head falling back against the weathered spines of the books. He’s slippery with slick and Geralt eats him like he’s fucking starving, fingers digging into Jaskier’s ass and bringing him as deep into his mouth as he can. Jaskier’s trousers trap his ankles, and even though at first he longs to fling his legs around Geralt’s shoulders like usual, the angle seems to give Geralt pronounced access to his swollen clit, which Geralt uses to his advantage.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier whispers, “oh fuck, Geralt.”

It’s Geralt, really, who ends up needing to force himself to be quiet. He whines into Jaskier’s pussy, wriggling his tongue as deep as he can between Jaskier’s folds, lapping at his slick and groaning as if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmurs, gazing up at Jaskier through eyes heavy with desire. “And you’re all mine.”

“Yours,” Jaskier breathes, his chest heaving, “yours, yours.”

Jaskier’s come to suspect Geralt loves doing this, and bites back a grin as he senses Geralt trying to focus, for once, instead of lavishing Jaskier with his mouth for ages as he usually does, bringing him to the edge over and over until Jaskier’s a sobbing mess, shaking all over and screaming when Geralt finally lets him peak.

This time, Geralt swirls his tongue around Jaskier’s clit in the precise way he knows gets him off quick. Usually it takes at least a finger inside him to bring him off this fast too, but something about Geralt’s hunger for him, the party next door, you’re all mine—

Jaskier comes with a long, high moan, as quietly as he can. Geralt licks him hard through it, eager and reverent, that perfect, rough tongue drawing out his pleasure. Jaskier trembles, tangling his fingers in Geralt’s hair, grinding into Geralt’s mouth as he peaks a sharper, sweeter second time, Geralt snarling in feverish appreciation as Jaskier overflows.

Jaskier’s still seeing stars when Geralt pulls off him, with one last tantalizing kiss on his sensitive clit.

“You’re gonna fuck me, right?” Jaskier whispers. Geralt kisses him and Jaskier goes weak at the taste of himself, the nudge of Geralt’s perfect tongue making his cunt throb again.

“You’re sure?” Geralt murmurs, thumbing Jaskier’s lower lip. He’s so close, he smells so good, and fuck, Jaskier can feel that big, powerful cock straining through his trousers.

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, his voice breaking on it. “Didn’t you want to…bite your claim into me? So everyone knows I’m yours?”

“Jask,” Geralt says into his jaw, sounding strangled. “We’re going to have to walk past all of them on the way out. You’ve got your congratulatory banquet tomorrow morning, and then we’re going home.” And oh, it makes Jaskier giddy that Geralt wants him to think of Kaer Morhen as home, all the giddier that he already does. “I shouldn’t leave any marks. They’ll see. They’ll all see.”

Jaskier takes Geralt’s face in his hands and looks him in the eye.

“I want them to,” he says. “Don’t you?”

The look on Geralt’s face is something Jaskier will never forget. It’s a blaze of desire, warm love cracking through the last of Geralt’s defenses.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I really fucking do.”

And then Geralt spins him, manhandling his front against the bookshelves. Jaskier barely has time to register what’s happening and brace himself on a shelf as Geralt unbuckles his trousers and slides into his slick cunt, covering Jaskier’s mouth with his palm just in time to muffle Jaskier’s scream of pleasure.

This, this feels like coming home. The way Geralt parts him, opens him, fills him so thoroughly and so fucking good. It feels more right than anything Jaskier’s ever done, every single time.

“Move,” he whispers into Geralt’s hand.

His eyes roll back as Geralt does, fucking him in long, hard strokes, his free hand yanking Jaskier back onto his cock with every thrust. Jaskier almost never comes from penetration alone, but he’s still tingling from his orgasms, and then Geralt sinks his fucking teeth into Jaskier’s throat just beneath his jaw, sucking a hard, obvious bruise there. Something about the sharp ache of it makes everything feel extra wild and wonderful, Geralt’s hunger for him and the way Jaskier had loved him in secret for so long, and now Geralt wants the whole world to know. And another on his shoulder, and another just behind his ear, flicking his tongue over the sensitive skin as his cock hits Jaskier’s g-spot at exactly the fucking angle that makes him bright with pleasure, and Jaskier comes harder than he has in his life, writhing in Geralt’s grasp, sobbing into his palm as the ecstasy pulses through him.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps, “please.”

Geralt snarls in his ear, pleased, possessive. He pulls out of him and Jaskier whimpers, but it’s only to yank Jaskier’s trousers off of one foot and lay him out on his back on the nearest desk, sinking into him so deep. He works his thumb over Jaskier’s clit and Jaskier arches, muffling his cry in his fist as he comes again, sweating and twitching and alight with it. Geralt fucks him hard as he’s coming down, bending over him, his hips stuttering in a way that tells Jaskier he’s close.

Jaskier wraps his arms around him and holds him, reveling in the stretch and the rhythm of it. Over Geralt’s shoulder, he can see the familiar starry designs etched in the ceiling. He used to spend evenings reading in this very room as a student, but more recently, he used to spend tortured winters here writing sad, angry songs about Geralt. He’d been so defined by his heartache for so long, and now, fuck, now—if he’d known then what he would get to have, oh.

He squeezes Geralt tight, moaning in delight as Geralt wrecks another bit of his throat with his teeth.

“You’re so fucking good, love, fuck,” Jaskier tells him, shivering and grinning helplessly. “You make me feel better than anyone else, no one fucks me like you, no one loves me like you. I love you, I love you, I’m yours.”

Geralt groans, thrusting harder.

“I’m yours,” he murmurs. “Fuck, Jask—I’m—”

It occurs to Jaskier very suddenly that perhaps they’re not entirely equipped for him to walk back to their room with his pussy dripping come.

“Ah—here, love. Let me.”

Geralt pulls out of him with a regretful sound, but it turns rakish when Jaskier slips off the desk and onto his knees, wrapping his lips around Geralt’s throbbing cock.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, in something like awe.

He barely has time to savour the taste of himself before Geralt’s spilling down his throat and the two tastes mingle perfectly, thick with sex and sweet with love. Jaskier’s intoxicated by it, hollowing his cheeks to get every drop.

Geralt sinks onto the floor to join him, gathering Jaskier in his arms. Their breathing slows, the passionate heat of the magic between them easing to a glowing, familiar warmth.

“I love you,” Geralt murmurs. “Fuck.” He nuzzles the bruises on Jaskier’s throat, petting over the marks on his chest in wonder. He makes a low, growling, beautifully possessive sound, and Jaskier grins in his arms.

“I know,” he whispers, and kisses him.

Presently they tug on their clothes, trying to rearrange each other into something only moderately scandalous. There’s no mirror in the library, but Jaskier’s beginning to ache all over in the best way, so he suspects he looks quite wrecked indeed.

“Congratulations again, Jask,” Geralt says, earnest. “You really did well tonight. I—” he grins, somewhat sheepish. “I love your singing.”

They will walk back through the party, and Jaskier will wave a gracious tonight to all his jealous admirers, wearing Geralt’s bite proud on his throat. Tomorrow, he’ll be celebrated again, and then he’ll get to go to Kaer Morhen and have Geralt show him off to his whole family.

It’s not the first time Jaskier’s taken home the grand prize, but it’s the first time he really, truly feels like he’s won.

Lambert/Aiden (slightly angsty) reunion snuggles!

Smut under the cut.

For all Geralt was absolute crap at reading the room when it came to his own relationships, he was an expert when it came to those of his family. Something Lambert had never been more thankful for when the White Wolf made some absolute bullshit excuse and left Lambert and Aiden alone at the inn in their shared room after a shared dinner to "Talk or whatever. I'll be back in the morning."

He owed the older Wolf big time. First helping in tracking down Jad and then Aiden after they heard mention in a tiny village of a green eyed Witcher passing through some months ago. They'd worn no medallion and armour seemingly cobbled together from scraps, but Lambert had been adamant it couldn't possibly be anybody else.

He had absolutely no idea how he was even going to begin paying brother back, but that was a worry for when he wasn't sat in the middle of the narrow bed, stark naked and knuckles deep in his lover.

Aiden keened from where he was straddling the others hips as Lambert's need to take this slow warred with just pure need. The new scars criss crossing the Cats body - more sinewy than the last time they'd seen each other but no less appealing - were covered in red and purple love marks, the pupil of his remaining eye blown wide as damp strands of hair clung to his forehead and neck. The other had given as good as he'd got and had left Lambert's nipples deliciously tender from where he'd played with them until they were raw and he was pretty sure his back was absolutely covered in scratches by this point in the proceedings.

"Shit, Lambert please. I'm ready."

"You sure?" He asked, giving a shit eating grin as he twisted his fingers and caused the other to bite out one of the Elder curses Lambert remembered teaching him.

"Yes, I'm fucking sure. It's been almost two years. I'm not waiting a minute longer to have you in me."

Despite his insistence, Aiden's face still pinched in discomfort, followed by a brief bitter-sharp undercurrent of pain to his scent as he was breached.

"Woah, woah. You sure you're ok?" Lambert asked, stopping the others descent with a firm grip on his hips.

"I'm fine. Like I said, it's been almost two years."

Neither of them were sure how much time had passed until Lambert finally bottomed out, Aiden arching his back with a moan and a satisfied smile, "I missed you."

It was then it slammed into him like one of the mountain avalanches: This was Aiden! Aiden whimpering and writhing in his lap, Aiden tight and warm around him and so, so alive. Aiden was alive, and he was here!

"Lam?" A hand cupping his jaw brought him back. Concerned, green eye searching his face, "Where did you go just now?"

"Sorry, I -" Lambert faltered, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Do you need to stop?"

"No! I mean." He buried his face in Aiden's shoulder, "I don't want to stop but can we....just stay like this for a bit?"

"Oh, Lam. Come here." Aiden said, changing his bruising grip on the other to a gentle hug whilst Lambert pressed his nose hard against Aiden's neck, feeling the other press kisses to the top of his head.

"Pup, you're shaking."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. S'just you being here. Doesn't feel real."

"... Lambert, I need you to listen for a minute. Alright?"

Lambert nodded before he felt Aiden gently guide his head until one ear was pressed over his Witcher slow heart.

"Hear that? I'm real, this is real. I'm here."

Lambert gave a small whimper in response, still trembling with the sudden emotional upheaval as his hands wandered over every part of the other he could reach, the Cat only pausing in his litany of reassurances to give a small gasp when Lambert's fingers brushed over where they were joined, "That's it. You feel that? Me and you together again. Just as it should be, and that's how it's going to stay now."

"You promise?"

Aiden tilted the Wolf's head up, amber eyes full of emotions usually banked deep, deep down as he brushed their noses together.

"I promise."

'replacing jc in someone's affection' I am crying! wwx doesn't do it once but twice! It's fascinating! Also, this makes me understand why some people, reading the novel, come to the conclusion that wwx doesn't care anymore about jc. Yeah, it's a valid interpretation!

Listen, I just rotated, and rotated, and rotated this scenario (—because, like, both child and adult Wei Wuxian are sincerely in need of support and affection, but I think receiving it as a child while it was withheld from someone he loved, what might have seemed like taking it away from someone who also needed it, also contributed to his boundary problems and self-sacrificial tendencies and eventual resentment—like he needs it but it hurts someone he loves deeply when he gets it but he still needs it, how can he reconcile these conflicting truths?? OK I will stop now—) and, uh, have a tiny little sketch of that zhanchengxian fic concept below, with which I will exorcise my sad past chengxian/past zhancheng/current wangxian thoughts.

It was going to be a perfect triple triple drabble but I needed 80 more words in the centre section to describe Jiang Cheng's tears. You know how it is.

Pursued by Lesser Ghosts

At first he was busy and grateful for it.

Then, Jin Ling settled, elders cowed, sect in order, Jiang Cheng was forced to returned to Lotus Pier. Empty, now.

His sect ran as it always did. He slept poorly. He dreamed often. He walked up and down the pier at night, pursued by lesser ghosts, echoes of people who were alive, just gone. His own life closed around him as tight as any noose, one long merciless sequence of work, sleep, work.

He had a minor qi deviation.

“Go back to dual cultivation,” said the doctor.

“That’s no longer possible,” he said.

The doctor looked up. When Jiang Cheng didn’t say anything else, she said, “Well. Come here for acupuncture once a week. Consider visiting Jin Ling.”

Relax, she didn’t bother to say.

Jiang Ping, his one surviving cousin, took tea with him, and said: “I know things have been stressful. Perhaps you would consider marriage now?”

“I didn’t think marriage was relaxing,” said Jiang Cheng, drily.

“It can be. After everything, well… it’s nice to have someone there.” Jiang Ping looked up, thinking. “Having someone there and working a lot. I don’t think it’s possible for Sect Leader to work harder, so you’ll have to try the other thing.”

Jiang Cheng let out a snort despite himself. Jiang Ping grinned at him.

He could get married, he supposed. What was there to prevent him?

He didn’t call for a matchmaker. He worked harder, kept himself so busy he could hardly think, but at night, laying in his bed, he ached with loneliness before sleep. And in sleep, he saw them, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian both, invariably walking away from him, hand in hand.

Sometimes he was silent; sometimes he called to them. It didn’t matter. They never turned around.

-

In Wei Wuxian’s dream, it was high summer, air as thick as syrup, and he was lying under the trees along the riverbank with his head in Jiang Cheng’s lap.

Above him, Jiang Cheng was eating tanghulu. Playfully, Wei Wuxian opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Jiang Cheng, rolling his eyes, took a piece of fruit and fed it to him, red and almost glowing. His index finger brushed against Wei Wuxian’s mouth.

Sometimes, he dreamed and he didn’t know whether it was just a dream or a fragment of a memory. He thought this might have happened—he faintly remembered begging Jiang Cheng to let him rest his head in his lap, across his narrow, muscled thighs.

Suddenly it was night, and Jiang Cheng was gone.

“Jiang Cheng?” called Wei Wuxian, and found his voice was a child’s voice, high-pitched and nervous. “Jiang Cheng?”

He rushed through Lotus Pier, now dark and empty, towards Jiang Cheng’s room. Then, in the way of dreams, Jiang Cheng was in front of him, a child again, too, face swollen with tears as he wept alone on the pier.

Wei Wuxian froze, panicked.

Someone picked him up; Uncle Jiang had appeared. But instead of saying anything, he turned and walked away. “Uncle Jiang,” Wei Wuxian whispered, but Jiang Fengmian didn’t respond.

All Wei Wuxian could do was look over Uncle Jiang’s shoulder at Jiang Cheng, at his crumpled, sobbing face. You don’t understand, he thought, suddenly, I love you but I need this, I need it, I need it.

That face changed again, blurred into Jiang Cheng's adult face, still weeping as he knelt on the pier. And then the strong arms around him weren’t Uncle Jiang’s but Lan Zhan’s, holding him tight in a bridal carry, taking him away as he squirmed to look back, to not look away from Jiang Cheng’s face, they had been so happy only a moment ago—

Wei Wuxian woke late, his face wet. Went to look for a handkerchief. Opened a drawer he hadn’t looked in before to find: two purple hair ribbons. An open jar of salve, carved with the insignia of a well-known Yunmeng herbalist. And a lavender handkerchief, embroidered with a little frog. Wei Wuxian traced it gently with his thumb.

-

The day was a little crisp, but bright and beautiful. Lan Wangji had risen at the appointed time, eaten breakfast serenely with the sect, and taught some advanced guqin lessons. Lan Sizhui was coming along beautifully, playing more delicate and precise every day, a delight to teach.

Everything was just as it should be in the Cloud Recesses, but Lan Wangji was still somehow uneasy.

He had gained everything he had dreamed of as a teenager, in one bewildering fell swoop. His life had been overturned, but for the better, the man he had wanted for so long delivered to him on a silver platter. He was unbelievably lucky.

Of course, he grieved what had happened to his brother. Lan Xichen deserved only good things. It was bitter to find out someone you had loved so deeply had deceived you—had failed you—had abandoned you.

But with the exception of that dark spot, the suffering and absence of his brother, his life was everything he had ever asked for, wasn’t it? A pristine life, on the surface.

If there was a dark shadow underneath, the ripple of something passing through a lake on a sunny day—something slipping out of an incautious hand, lost to the water—that too was life, wasn’t it?

He had never been so happy in his life. He had never before been so happy in his life, as he had once imagined it.

He averted his eyes from that shadow.

Until, one day, he returned home, and found Wei Ying, sitting at the room’s low table, holding a handkerchief in one hand. Remnants of a different life that had collected in his home. No—that he had kept. Gripped tightly.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, brightly, face stretched in a brittle smile. “What’s this?”

Childhood Crush

(Jayce sneaks off to the Undercity often because he hears rumors about good materials there. Then, he met Viktor and it was instant...)

Lambert/Aiden (slightly angsty) reunion snuggles!

Smut under the cut.

For all Geralt was absolute crap at reading the room when it came to his own relationships, he was an expert when it came to those of his family. Something Lambert had never been more thankful for when the White Wolf made some absolute bullshit excuse and left Lambert and Aiden alone at the inn in their shared room after a shared dinner to "Talk or whatever. I'll be back in the morning."

He owed the older Wolf big time. First helping in tracking down Jad and then Aiden after they heard mention in a tiny village of a green eyed Witcher passing through some months ago. They'd worn no medallion and armour seemingly cobbled together from scraps, but Lambert had been adamant it couldn't possibly be anybody else.

He had absolutely no idea how he was even going to begin paying brother back, but that was a worry for when he wasn't sat in the middle of the narrow bed, stark naked and knuckles deep in his lover.

Aiden keened from where he was straddling the others hips as Lambert's need to take this slow warred with just pure need. The new scars criss crossing the Cats body - more sinewy than the last time they'd seen each other but no less appealing - were covered in red and purple love marks, the pupil of his remaining eye blown wide as damp strands of hair clung to his forehead and neck. The other had given as good as he'd got and had left Lambert's nipples deliciously tender from where he'd played with them until they were raw and he was pretty sure his back was absolutely covered in scratches by this point in the proceedings.

"Shit, Lambert please. I'm ready."

"You sure?" He asked, giving a shit eating grin as he twisted his fingers and caused the other to bite out one of the Elder curses Lambert remembered teaching him.

"Yes, I'm fucking sure. It's been almost two years. I'm not waiting a minute longer to have you in me."

Despite his insistence, Aiden's face still pinched in discomfort, followed by a brief bitter-sharp undercurrent of pain to his scent as he was breached.

"Woah, woah. You sure you're ok?" Lambert asked, stopping the others descent with a firm grip on his hips.

"I'm fine. Like I said, it's been almost two years."

Neither of them were sure how much time had passed until Lambert finally bottomed out, Aiden arching his back with a moan and a satisfied smile, "I missed you."

It was then it slammed into him like one of the mountain avalanches: This was Aiden! Aiden whimpering and writhing in his lap, Aiden tight and warm around him and so, so alive. Aiden was alive, and he was here!

"Lam?" A hand cupping his jaw brought him back. Concerned, green eye searching his face, "Where did you go just now?"

"Sorry, I -" Lambert faltered, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"Do you need to stop?"

"No! I mean." He buried his face in Aiden's shoulder, "I don't want to stop but can we....just stay like this for a bit?"

"Oh, Lam. Come here." Aiden said, changing his bruising grip on the other to a gentle hug whilst Lambert pressed his nose hard against Aiden's neck, feeling the other press kisses to the top of his head.

"Pup, you're shaking."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. S'just you being here. Doesn't feel real."

"... Lambert, I need you to listen for a minute. Alright?"

Lambert nodded before he felt Aiden gently guide his head until one ear was pressed over his Witcher slow heart.

"Hear that? I'm real, this is real. I'm here."

Lambert gave a small whimper in response, still trembling with the sudden emotional upheaval as his hands wandered over every part of the other he could reach, the Cat only pausing in his litany of reassurances to give a small gasp when Lambert's fingers brushed over where they were joined, "That's it. You feel that? Me and you together again. Just as it should be, and that's how it's going to stay now."

"You promise?"

Aiden tilted the Wolf's head up, amber eyes full of emotions usually banked deep, deep down as he brushed their noses together.

"I promise."