florianniss

[florianniss]

Full nsfw here

A thank you to @inklessletter for bullying me into the smutty abyss with her. She did some amazing nsfw drawings yesterday here and here and the full uncensored version here

[florianniss]

modern day icarus with burns on his back and full of bitterness and throws out cynicism but sometimes he just looks at the sun like it’s the best thing in the world  (◡‿◡✿)

[florianniss]

so…. apparently I still remember how to draw them 🫠

[florianniss]

Corroded Coffin’s frontman on their newfound fame

When talking about their upcoming album Resurrection, Munson’s face beams with pride. “[The album]’s about being reborn.” He fiddled with the plethora of rings on his fingers as he spoke. “Life’s all about second chances, right?” When leaning in closer, he confided that he repeated his senior year not once, but twice, before he graduated in ‘86. “You’ve just gotta keep moving forward, army crawling if you have to, until you get to the other side.” (ID in alt text—DO NOT REPOST)

[florianniss]

"Let me hate you." "That won't change a thing."

This is what happens when the amazing, unbelievably talented @stervrucht suggest that we collab (like, this morning, literally). Dropped everything to give her something to work her magic on.

At risk of being a bit too much (I warned you), let me tell you, this is the most fun I've had playing around with art in a long, LONG time. Thank you for this amazing experience, art buddy 💞

Lineart + ficlet (below) - @inklessletter

Colouring - @stervrucht

WC: 917 | Steddie, Steve's POV, Mild Hurt/Comfort, internalized homophobia.

THE CAGE

In the cage, they're always skin to skin.

Lip to lip.

In the cage, there's an obscene amount of props to change the scene whenever Steve feels like it, so they can be together in every alternative universe.

(Oh, Steve knows now a lot of alternative universes, because it's hard not to listen to him when he speaks so passionately.)

He speaks up, shares secrets, holds hands and looks straight in the eye of Eddie Munson with no fear, in the cage.

And Eddie reciprocates. He stares back right into Steve's soul and he feels like nothing but flesh and bones made to break with love words. Steve longs to be no more, no less.

In the cage.

The cage is safe, because it's secret. Nobody knows about it, not even Robin. Talking about the cage means it exists. And if it exists, then he has to do something about it. It hasn't always existed, though. There was a time where Steve wore his heart on his sleeve and, well, you know, he never got a good eye to guess how strong or delicate are the things he holds.

His heart was fine once, though. Now it's patched up, now he's more careful with it. Fragile, damaged goods that he's sure that can't afford another blow. Not even a little one.

Not even by accident.

So, the cage is impenetrable. Nobody comes in, nobody comes out except what Steve decides, and this time, the cage fits everything that can't exist with Eddie Munson out of it.

The cage is where all those feelings he can't ever express go to die, and they both bury them together. Steve and Eddie. They make art with it.

The cage is fine, the cage is safe, because everything is contained in there.

Until it's not.

Until that stupid morning he wakes up in a mess of bed sheets that feel ablaze, and he's sweaty, and half hard, and wet, and he wakes up with Eddie's name in his lips.

But hey, nobody is there to listen to it, so does a tree make a sound when there's nobody to hear it fall down?

That is no comfort, though. Not even in the slightest.

Because there's a breach in the cage, now.

He said his name and his heart is balancing on breaking branches and unstable now.

After that day, everything leaks.

He blushes, ridiculously so, when Eddie so much looks at him.

He tries not to flinch at the accidental touch, not to react to the shock wave it sends through his system, and given that Eddie is a very tactile person, it's torture.

He never looks at him in the eye. He might see the breach. The cage.

They are never alone.

Not anymore, really.

Steve avoids it, and it's getting more and more difficult to find excuses, because they see each other all the time.

He's starting to notice that Eddie knows something and Steve is freaking out. Eddie acts a bit hurt with every rejection, and good. Steve would rather Eddie thinks that he doesn't like him than to admit the truth.

But it's a loss.

The cage is the home of uninvited grief now.

Steve wonders, when he's alone, holding his heart with shaky hands, if he has the right to cry.

Hasn't cried in years.

Steve decides that he hasn't any.

Puts his heart away, broken glass, in a shelf to gather dust, though he knows he might forget about it and break it accidentally when he tries to clean his cage.

Has happened before, will happen again, because Steve is cursed.

A fight is the better choice.

Destroy the cage.

He goes to meet Eddie to be his worst self, he's got experience in that. He can be mean, no, cruel. He'll be cruel, he'll make him want not to be in the same room with him and Steve will eventually find peace.

He will be able to rest.

To fall in a dreamless sleep in what's left of what was safe once.

Yeah, he'll do that.

Only it's not that what happens.

Steve is tense, doesn't know if to punch or run. Push him against the wall because how dares Eddie to be understanding. How dares he to be considerate, and how dares he to read and listen what's coming out of the cage.

What give him the right.

How dares he to say "it's okay."

Fuck you, Eddie, it is not okay.

He's wrong.

He's delicate.

How dares he to grab his heart, he's going to crush it with those stupid, careless fingers full of stupid rough silver chunks he wears for jewelry.

Fuck you, Eddie.

He actually says that, though.

"Fuck you."

The fact that he's about to cry, now, of all times he could have done it, he's about to cry now, when his voice is shaky, and his insults don't land.

"I love you."

His heart is in pieces.

He is in pieces. Destroyed. Demolished.

"Let me hate you", is what he begs. Isn't that pathetic?

"That won't change a thing."

Eddie is touching him now and Steve is not flinching. He wants to grab his face, push him away, scream and spit on his face. Why is Eddie not seeing what Steve is trying to do here? He's just trying to survive, because he can't avoid it anymore. He's already broken.

Has been for a while now.

Outside the cage, they're now skin to skin.

Lip to lip.

[florianniss]

Patreon | Bluesky | Instagram

[florianniss]

wow i haven’t drawn geraskier in ten million years, let’s ignore how weird the foam looks

full piece here

[florianniss]

[florianniss]

Does this make it not NSFW???

[florianniss]

[florianniss]

Winston Knows - RatedE, Sci-fi AU

Steve stared down at the order as Hopper held the document, watching for the other man’s reaction. Behind him, leaning over his shoulder to be able to read, Eddie stood so closely they could have been sharing the same space.

It was fine though. Steve felt much safer huddled that closely together. There was no sign of any coyotes, and the house appeared the same as when they’d left it earlier that evening. But something had the hairs on Steve’s arms standing so rigidly it hurt. And Winston hadn’t stopped whining where he sat shut inside Hopper’s truck.

“Hm,” Hopper grunted, flicking and refolding the piece of stiff paper. “Looks legit.” 

It was a disappointed acceptance. He handed the search warrant back to Chief Powell while Officer Callahan smirked beside him.

There was something very off about the man’s smile.

Powell nodded once and then fixed Steve with a look that said he was sorry about the whole thing, but that it was out of his hands. Then he waved to the other officers and marched into the unlocked house.

Callahan, ridiculous mustache wriggling with glee, grinned at Steve before following the others.

“I don’t like this,” Eddie whispered against the back of Steve’s neck. “They’ve already searched the house for evidence of your mom’s disappearance. Why are they back? Why now?”

Eddie blew out a huff of air that touched Steve's cheek. If it had been any other time, Steve would have shuddered and thought a little too hard about the soft curve of his friend’s lower lip. As it was, his attention was directed to the dog as he scrabbled with frantic claws on the driver’s side window.

“I’m going to let him out,” Steve said, feeling as if he were listening to someone else say the words. “Otherwise he’ll scratch the glass.”

“And why aren’t they asking about the coyotes?” Hopper hissed back at Eddie as Winston sprinted from the car. Steve watched his dog skid on the concrete sidewalk before launching against the closed front door. He growled, perched on back legs, watching the people inside through the panes of glass set into the wood.

It was at that moment that every single light in the goddamned house turned on. Officers could easily be seen throughout the kitchen and living area, shining flashlights into dark spaces, opening cupboards and drawers and closets. The unshaded windows flared with a yellow glow, so bright that even the non-existent people clear across the valley in the abandoned town would have wondered what the hell was going on in the Harrington household. 

Eddie was growling almost as viciously as the dog. “What the fuck does this have to do with your mom?”

Hopper had crossed both arms over his burly chest. He shook his head, equal parts disbelieving and disgusted. “I can’t believe they’ve got Powell on their side.”

Both statements were intriguing by themselves, but Steve was occupied with watching the dog. Frustrated with the strangers inside his house, he was racing along the perimeter, nose to the ground. Near the garden, he stopped, turning in tight circles and snortling so loudly Steve worried the cops inside would hear. It was clear that Winston had found something, and Steve was certain he didn’t want the police to know.

It was a feeling.

“Where are you going?”

Ignoring Eddie’s hushed question, Steve hurried after the dog, avoiding the spill of light from the lit windows and hugging the edge of the dry and nearly dead shrubbery. He followed his canine friend into the garden, cursing softly when he tripped over one of the holes that had been dug earlier. Behind him, Eddie very nearly slammed into him where he sat holding his ankle on the ground.

“Shit! Steve! You OK?”

Eddie’s big, warm, hands found his shoulders, shaking him slightly with tender anger in pursuit of a response. Steve didn’t answer; he was too busy watching Winston in the dark shadows, right back to churning the dirt around his mom’s rose bushes.

What was he searching for?

“I’m fine,” Steve hissed, pushing Eddie away and crouching onto hands and knees near Winston’s excavation. He could hear claws scratching at roots, listened as his dog snorted and snuffled in the fresh earth. Owners of normal pets would have scolded and pulled them away, not understanding why a midnight fossil discovery was so fucking important while their home was being invaded. But Winston wasn’t normal.

“What are you looking for?” he asked quietly, peering over the edge of the hole and trying to see inside. Eddie had joined them, kneeling in the dirt, catching on to what was happening, and scooping the earth away as fast as Winston could dig it up.

“Help him!” Eddie whispered, sounding urgent. Above their heads, men’s voices, overlapping rumbles, sounded in the kitchen. If they looked out the window over the sink they’d see —

A metallic scratch brought everything to a halt. Eddie froze, Steve gasped and held his breath. Even Winston stopped and cocked his head, one ear dropping comically over the side of his face. Deep inside the hole, under the roots, the dog had found something.

Eddie immediately reached across Steve and caught Winston’s collar, pulling him out of the way. Steve dove into the earth, fumbling around in the almost darkness, until his fingers found the sharp, unnatural edge of something very like a small box.

“There’s something here,” he said, and Eddie sucked in a breath. Steve followed a hard line in the dry soil until he found a corner, then dug into the untouched dirt to locate the rest. 

Except roots coiled and tangled around it, holding it in a tight, unyielding embrace. It was very clear that the box had been planted there before the roses. The flowering bush provided a hiding space.

Another voice emerged from the dark and hissed around the corner of the house. Hopper with a warning: “Whatever you’re doing, do it fast. They want you to come inside.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie reached in one-handed to help, just as ineffectively as Steve, until an idea presented itself in the form of a heavy, folded tool still residing in Steve’s pocket.

The knife.

“I got it,” Steve said, elbowing Eddie to safety and flipping open the blade. Using both hands, he began to saw at the finger-like tangles, scraping against the box in that horrible metallic way.

“Shh!” Eddie warned. “Slip the knife between the root and the box and cut upward instead.”

Steve did, and it wasn’t long before the plant gave way and the treasure popped free. 

“Steve!” Hopper called again.

“Coming!” he whispered back.

The box was the size of the small humidor his grandfather once used to store cigars. Steve’s grandmother didn’t like him smoking the things, so grandfather had taken to hiding the box inside the huge terra cotta planter on their deck. He could still remember the man winking at Steve as he sat in his rocker after grandmother found herself busy with other things. Steve had an irrational thought about how burying the box would probably wreak havoc on the moisture level inside.

“Got it,” Steve said again, and Eddie immediately began pushing dirt into the hole. Backing up to give him space, Steve folded and pocketed the knife, then called the dog’s name.

Winston put his wet nose against Steve’s hand as he stuffed the object inside his sweatshirt, tucking it beneath the band of his shorts. He continued to snuffle at the box, and Steve scolded him. “Stop doing that or you’ll give it away!”

The dog stopped. So did Eddie. 

Steve stood and hurried back toward the front of the house, Winston close on his heels with Eddie right behind. He rushed to the truck, slipping the earth-covered object under the back bench seat. Then he stepped back and let the dog jump inside.

“Leave it alone,” Steve commanded, pulling Winston’s snout from his incessant sniffing. “We’ll open it later, when the cops are gone.”

The dog wrinkled his soiled nose and sneezed all over Steve’s shirt. He looked down and realized his clothing was covered in incriminating evidence.

“Fuck.”

Steve carefully closed the door and turned to find Eddie frantically patting himself clean. He dusted his hands together, then scowled at the state of Steve’s clothing. 

“Shit,” Eddie said. And then his hands were all over Steve.

In a perfect world, free from the terror that was current reality, Steve would have reveled in Eddie’s touch, no matter how hard and hurried. But as his friend took up both hands in his own and brushed them together to remove the soil, Steve was very suddenly reminded of alien-faced coyotes. Endless, dense voids with writhing tentacles. And now a mysterious buried item and half a dozen police officers scavenging his home.

Eddie’s frown was darker than usual as he dropped Steve’s hands. “Are you all right?”

Steve could have laughed for all the things that were wrong with him. Could have made a list and enjoyed the ridiculousness of it all. Instead, he took a deep breath and beckoned for Eddie to accompany him inside.

Inside the foyer, Eddie reached for the light panel and lowered the dials.    Chief Powell, waiting in the hallway, narrowed his eyes, confused.

“It’s Steve’s home,” Eddie challenged unapologetically, chest thrown out and tone stern. The Chief tilted his head and allowed his eyes to drop to the dirt stains on Eddie’s knees. They lingered there for a moment before his gaze slid sideways to Steve.

“I’d like to show you something upstairs.”

Hopper joined them inside, closing the door and wrapping a firm hand around Steve’s upper arm.

“You don’t owe them any answers you don’t feel comfortable with.”

Eddie and Hopper shared a look, both understanding the warning there. It was becoming more and more clear that he and Eddie, with their shared fondness for strange things, their mistrust and hesitancy to accept the status quo, had the right idea.

Steve tugged at Eddie’s elbow to come with him, and the two followed Powell up the long flight of stairs to the landing.

The chill Steve felt as the man turned toward his mother’s office was brutal. The others had congregated there, gathered in the hallway by the door. Callahan, still wearing that smug smile, stared at Steve as he rounded the corner and ducked inside. He couldn’t shake the claustrophobic feeling of being trapped inside his own house.

Terror seized him as he realized the poster had been removed from the wall and the safe exposed. The heavy door swung partially open, open enough to see nothing remained inside. Steve scrambled his brain trying to remember what else had been in there.

“Hey!” Eddie shouted, stepping closer to Steve, as if to provide physical protection. “You can’t just break into someone’s safe like that! Even with a warrant!”

Hopper spoke up from the hallway. “They can if it’s already opened.”

By the look on Powell’s face, it appeared it had been. Steve cursed himself; he must have forgotten to reset the lock.

“What was kept in here?” the chief asked, and Eddie opened his mouth, probably to tell the man where he could shove his question. Steve pressed his knuckles into his friend’s side to stop him. There was another way to handle it.

“My dad’s papers. Life insurance. Bomds. Birth certificate. Stuff like that. I hope you’re here to help me find out who stole it.”

The chief’s brow wrinkled as his eyebrows lifted. One hand rested on his side, the other covering his weapon below his belt. The man turned his head to look pointedly at Callahan, who sniffed and continued to sneer. 

Powell sighed heavily and closed his eyes. He seemed exhausted, disappointed. It was clear they hadn’t found what they were looking for.

Perhaps Winston had gotten to it first.

“All right everyone,” he said, raising his voice to the level of utmost importance. “Let’s leave Mr. Harrington to the rest of his evening. He’ll likely need to get some rest once the sun comes up.”

It wasn’t a secret, Steve’s aversion to sun exposure. The way gossip traveled in the broken, almost deserted town was like wildfire through dry brush. He was used to it.

Hopper waited next to his truck with Steve and Eddie, watching the policemen get into their vehicles to leave. Steve was glad for the support; he was very quietly freaking out, knowing how close they were to discovering the box. Nobody even glanced at Winston sitting calmly in the back seat, with his broad chest and strong snout, eyeing them like nothing at all had happened. Steve would take a page out of the animal’s book and be still. It was almost over.

Powell nodded at them before climbing into his car, and Steve nearly reminded him about the missing paperwork. He bit his tongue and reached out for Eddie’s hand to keep himself quiet. His friend squeezed him back.

As the last police officer opened a car door, he paused to take one last, long look at the three men. The floodlights reflected back at them from the man’s glasses. For a moment, Steve thought he saw something. Something that wasn’t the glass, or the light, or anything like that. It reminded him of the coyotes, and it caused his heart to beat a little more quickly.

When the cars had pulled away from the house, disappearing down the drive and around the bend, Eddie inhaled sharply and said, “Did you see that?”

Hopper nodded, jaw clenched. “Eyeshine.”

The pit of Steve’s anxious stomach boiled, and he had to swallow back sickness. 

Officer Callahan was Emerging.

“Fuck,” Eddie swore, squeezing Steve’s hand tighter still. “We have to get outta here. Go somewhere.”

Although Steve didn’t fully understand, he agreed wholeheartedly.

“Where?” Hopper asked. He continued to stare after the visitors as the dust settled in their wake.

The laugh Eddie gave was not a happy one. “Well, Steve and I don’t exactly have a fortified compound complete with razor wire and skill in combat.”

Hearing his friend joke about it wasn’t exactly reassuring. Especially something so terrifyingly serious.

“Don’t suppose you can stay with Robin,” Hopper suggested, with little hope. Steve shook his head. There was no way they were involving Buckley and her parents in whatever this was.

“I got a place,” Eddie said, eyes focused somewhere in the distance. He dropped Steve’s hand and opened the back door of Hopper’s truck, pushing Winston out of the way and climbing inside. Steve caught Hopper’s eye, walked around to the other side, and joined his friend in the back seat.

The dog licked his face, warm and wet and disgusting.

They returned to Hopper’s place. The former police chief dropped them off where they’d left their bikes in the woods. He warned them against doing anything stupid without telling him, and Eddie and Steve secured backpacks and climbed on. Winston ran circles around him in his joy at finally being out of the truck.

They rode the curving, winding road into town, avoiding the A1 and sticking to the cover of the trees. Twice Eddie veered off and doubled back, just in case they were being followed, then cut through the forest on foot.

Winston’s panting was rapid, and Steve flagged his friend down to pull out a water bottle. The dog lapped greedily and messily from his hand. Eddie kept looking over his shoulder, spooked.

“OK?” Steve asked, concerned and more than a little bit scared.

Eddie cast him a quick flash of brown eyes, then lifted his chin toward the sky. “Almost dawn. We gotta hurry.”

They flew down the empty highway, out of town and into the State Forest. The soaring redwoods hid the sky, but the pink hue low in the east was chasing them, and gaining.

By the time Eddie dismounted and began walking his bike again, all three were out of breath. Steve’s palms were vibrating and his back sweaty beneath his pack. Winston’s tongue lolled out twice as long as the length of his face. Eddie’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes wild as his head swiveled left and right, watching for potential danger. It solidified Steve’s fears that they weren’t in Kansas anymore.

And they certainly weren’t at Eddie’s trailer either.

It appeared to be a campsite, set back off the dirt road and near one of the many, many dried-up mountain streams. In the spring it might be prone to landslides, especially considering it had been cleared of trees and sat precariously on the side of the hill. Parked near the bottom, its windows dark and dead grasses slumped over all four tires, sat an ancient, rusted van, complete with an enclosed trailer hitched to the back.

 Winston crawled under the vehicle and thumped down in the dirt, seeking a cool space and a place to rest. Eddie dropped his bike on the ground and began searching his backpack for a lanyard with a key.

Up close, the van appeared sturdier than Steve had thought. The natural brown color was only pretending to be rust, and the windows had been painted over with a metallic mirrored surface.

Eddie unlocked and swung open the suicide doors and dumped his pack inside. Steve leaned in to see the inside. Two rows of bench seats had been converted into a bunk on each side and a carpeted floor and ceiling, curtains over blacked-out windows, and what looked like a whole damn ham radio setup.

“Make yourself at home,” Eddie said, backing away with eyes averted. “I’m going to get some supplies from the trailer.”

Steve blinked at his friend’s retreating form, taking note of the sweat-soaked state of his sweatshirt, the wind-whipped mess of his already unkempt hair. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d have thought his friend had given up civilization to live in a van by the river. It would explain a few things over the past two years.

Steve hopped into the back of the van, stashing his bag under one of the bunks and tamping down on the urge to bust the box open with the knife. It was stale and stifling inside, and he swung the double doors more widely open to let the outdoor air circulate into the cabin.

Eddie had mentioned he always wanted an RV. This was hardly that, more of a tent on wheels than a luxury rolling home. But it was clear Eddie had put a lot of thought and time into it, considering Steve as part of the build. Once the doors were closed, little to no light would penetrate the living space. Eddie had done that for him.

Winston, panting less and tired of the outdoors, launched himself up and onto one of the bunks. He spun three times before collapsing with a whump, looking out of large baleful eyes and warning Steve off, forcing him down.

Steve laughed without mirth. “All right. Guess you did work harder than any of us.”

The dog closed his eyes and snorted once, then promptly went to sleep without another word.

Steve was suddenly curious about where Eddie had gone. Maybe he needed help with these supplies he’d mentioned. Although the sun was quickly breaking free from the horizon, perhaps his friend could use an extra hand or two.

What Steve found as he rounded the back of the van was a stab to his heart. Eddie sat on the ground, hugging knees to his chest, back curled around them in protective mode. Thinking he was hurt, Steve scrambled to his side, fell to his knees, and reached for Eddie’s face. His friend’s eyes were screwed shut and his forehead clammy. Something was very, very wrong.

“What is it?” Steve shouted, eyes roving frantically to find what had happened. But Eddie just shook his head and whimpered.

“You need to get away from me!”

Shocked, startled, and frightened, Steve squeezed Eddie’s cheeks between his palms. “What the hell are you talking about? I’m not leaving you!”

Eddie snarled a fearsome growl in the back of his throat. He clutched himself more tightly, fingers digging into soft flesh.

When his eyes opened, they were vaguely empty, as if he were seeing something from a nightmare come true. He shook his head again and looked up at Steve. Feral-looking and wounded, his voice broke when he spoke. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Steve thought they might get to this point, where Eddie took it upon himself to pull away because of the trauma of his past. They’d never actually spoken about what might happen if — if —

But Steve, remembering Eddie’s embrace in Robin’s basement, had made a decision a long time ago. No matter what happened, he wasn’t leaving Eddie to die.

He leaned in, pulling Eddie’s face closer to his own. There was no stutter when he shared this decision with his best friend.

“You won’t hurt me because you love me,” Steve explained, chest swelling with emotion as he planned the next sentence. “And I’m not leaving you because I love you.”

Steve set eyes on his target, crouched even lower, and inched forward on the balls of his feet until his chest rested on his friend's bent knees. He took Eddie’s whole head between trembling hands, and kissed him.

Read on AO3

[florianniss]

Happy Valentines day everyone! I hope you all have a lovely day! Kisses and smooches

[florianniss]

Djo Hiii

[florianniss]

What you’re missing

RatedE - WolfGeralt, Oblivious Jaskier, Winter at Kaer Morhen

The eager enthusiasm with which Jaskier scrambles to his feet dies the instant he stands. Blood rushes into his ears like water breaking a dam and his stomach lurches in such a way as to empty what little nourishment he’s taken. He swears he hears a man snarl with laughter as the world begins to spin. At least the furry white blanket is waiting for him as he falls.

The air whooshes out of his chest. His head lolls forward against his wishes. Snow swirls down the back of his neck, and for one strange moment, he feels a warm, wet nuzzling at his jugular.

Jaskier finds it much too difficult for another try. He’s weak and he’s dizzy, and he’s become quite attached to his bed companion.

But Geralt!

Luckily, the man with the scarred face takes pity on him, hoisting the Bard to a vertical position and holding him there with impressive, unwavering strength.

“Graceful, isn’t he?” he says to the other man. A scoffing snort sounds in the distance on a lull in the storm’s howling.

Jaskier works the thick uselessness of his tongue over his upper teeth and tries to argue. “I’ll have you know that Geralt of Rivia thinks I’m very graceful indeed. Especially my hands. He’s mentioned it many, many times.”

Jaskier is lifted and hoisted sack-style onto a horse’s back, his legs swung over and then manhandled into place. The man is laughing when he rights Jaskier into the saddle.

“Yeah, right. Geralt of Little to No Expression said that!”

Jaskier coils his fingers in a snow-wet mane and remembers brilliant gold eyes focused intently on his playing of the lute. Kept to himself in the corner of a tavern, the Witcher always watched the Bard’s fingers as they worked. Jaskier never understood why; the man never explained.

“Well, perhaps he didn’t say those very exact words.” 

Geralt stubbornly resisted a smile whenever Jasier approached him after a set. The response over the years was almost always an enthusiastic grunt, though. Affectionate and sincere and — 

“But still — in his own way, the weight of the compliment was heavy indeed.”

The horse shifts its weight and Jaskier tips backward. The Bard turns his head as he lurches to the side, clenching his jaw against the fog in his brain. They’ve begun to move, the man leading the horse while the other follows. Snow pelts them from every angle now, and Jaskier shivers.

The horse is large and tall, some kind of work animal, and the ground is a very very long way down. Jaskier struggles to slide his feet in the stirrups. Even in his confused and delirious state, he understands what a fall can do. He thinks briefly of the handful of times Geralt took him to safety on Roach’s strong back. It’s imperative that he keeps his balance.

The way is rocky and winding, and combined with a very determined wind, Jaskier fights and fights and fights to remain centered. Several times, as his eyes close without his permission, he finds himself slipping into dreamland.

The first time, he is awoken by a sharp, deep bark.

“What?” he splutters, grasping for purchase in the animal’s mane. Below him, trotting alongside and somehow not scaring the horses, is the great, white wolf.

Jaskier frowns at it. “No need to be so bossy, now. I’ve been riding half my life.”

The beast whuffles a disbelieving huff and shakes its massive head.

It continues thusly for some time. Jaskier drifts and the wolf snarls. Sometimes it nips at his ankle. Sometimes it whines and darts forward and back, slowing the horse to a stop so that he can regain his balance. Eventually, though, Jaskier loses the battle and cannot prevent the downward descent.

He lands not on the ground, but against the wolf’s solid, sturdy back. 

Voices call back and forth, urgently. Jaskier’s foot is caught up. Leg stuck in the air, boot gone completely through the stirrup, it’s not an ideal way to die.

“Fuck,” the first man swears, sounding suddenly behind him. “Get the horse’s head, will you, Aiden?”

The second man, name of Aiden, answers immediately. “Wolf’s already got it covered.” Then, he breathes out an enormous exhale. “He’ll have to ride with one of us.”

An argument ensues as to who will take Jaskier. It’s too rushed and whispered for his ears to understand. He makes out the words ‘duty,’ ‘disgusting,’ and ‘strength.’ Jaskier opens his eyes to find golden slits peering down into his own.

“Hello, Wolf,” he slurs, trying to raise a hand to pat its head in thanks. “Perhaps I should ride you? Sounds like neither wants to take on the responsibility of guarding me from myself.”

The first man growls, and large hands grip under Jaskier’s armpits. “You’d enjoy carrying him too much, Brother,” he says as he hoists the Bard back into the saddle. 

The second man snarls out a laugh. “I was thinking the same thing about you, Lambert.”

Lambert. Where has Jaskier heard that name before?

The man named Lambert tries three times to mount behind Jaskier. Each time he does, the saddle sways dangerously to the side, enough to nearly upset Jaskier’s sketchy balance. Another argument occurs between the men on the ground. The wolf presses its snout into the space behind Jaskier’s knee.

“I can do it!” Lambert shouts in his snarling voice. “I don’t need your help!”

It's cruel. Aiden seems to have this man tamed, though. He laughs the rebuke off with a flirty tease. “You’ve never said ‘no’ to my hands on your backside before. Just pretend we’re alone.”

Lambert doesn’t like this, if his responding growl gives any hint. But still, the next attempt lands the man solidly against Jaskier’s back. As if he has straddled the horse from behind.

Arms wrap harshly around Jaskier’s torso, pinning both elbows against his body. Strong, thick thighs close in against his own from behind the saddle. The horse readjusts its stance to be able to handle both men’s weight.

Lambert draws in a deep breath as he collects the reins. “He stinks,” he complains. 

The wolf begins a series of short, yipping howls in rapid succession. As if disagreeing most vehemently.

“All right, all right!” Lambert says, kicking the horse into forward movement. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

The horse’s side-to-side action is much more noticeable with the added weight. Jaskier jostles around uncomfortably, until Lambert grunts heavily and scoots closer. He folds the Bard against his chest, and even rests his head on Jaskier’s shoulder blade. He’s warm and large and wonderfully strong. Jaskier could die a happy man in these arms.

It’s a stiff embrace, however. As if the man is revolted to be in such a position. Jaskier, too, attempts to keep his distance. Tries to resist falling limply into safety, into bliss. He succeeds for quite some time. Succeeds, that is, until Lambert’s beard rubs against his cheek.

“Hmm,” the man says. And, oh, does that particular sound make Jaskier’s heart sing! He gives up trying to be anything other than a loosely assembled mass of fluid limbs and pounding chest. Lambert strengthens his hold as the Bard goes limp.

An urgent bark shatters the air, and Lambert’s chest rumbles as he speaks.

“He’s fine. Just exhausted,” the man says, rocking his wide hips more securely against the saddle. “And you’re right. He does smell like flowers.”

Jaskier doesn’t even try to understand this. He’s too far gone, pulled firmly into a widening dark hole.

The overwhelming blackness is not totally devoid of sensation. He still feels the cold wind on his exposed cheeks, still hears the muffled noise of voices. He’s partially aware of himself, of the heated body behind him. Maybe he turns his face into it. Perhaps a steadfast arm keeps him close. It’s possible the gentle grumble of nonsensical words lulls him into a state of suspended reality.

Several times reality starts up again, and Jaskier’s eyes open to a wolf dancing alongside on its back legs, as if trying to get a good look into the safety of Lambert’s arms. The Bard smiles down (at least, he thinks he does) and whispers words of reassurance.

“No worries, Wolf. I’m alive. He’s got me.”

“Bet your sweet ass, I do,” Lambert barks back, sounding equal parts annoyed, protective, and fond. Jaskier smiles with contentment at eliciting all three emotions as he settles back into his mind.

He must dive deeper than before, because the next thing he knows, the horse’s not-so-gently rocking has stopped, and Lambert is gone. And as Jaskier panics at the loss, reliable and steady hands lift, lower, and lift him again. Until the Bard is being carried bridal-style against the man’s wide chest.

“You could have had this,” Lambert says to no one in particular. “If you weren’t such a coward.”

“Harsh,” Jaskier hears himself say. Or feels, rather. He’s not exactly sure. 

“Lamb!” an excited voice shouts. It’s a newcomer to the party. Jaskier’s ears perk and he tries to open his eyes. But he’d have more luck standing on his own, and that’s so far from his capabilities it’s laughable.

“Eskel,” Lambert grunts in acknowledgment. It sounds as if he’s underwater. Or maybe Jaskier is. “Got the fire ready?” he continues, shifting the Bard higher in his arms. “This sonofabitch is heavier than he looks.”

Jaskier would beam with pride at the term of endearment if he wasn’t currently in another plane altogether.

Also. Eskel? 

“Yep. In his room.”

The Bard rubs his cheek against the rough leather armor that protects Lambert’s shoulder. How kind of them to give him his own room.

The large man carries him into some kind of – building – Jaskier can tell this because the wind dies, and it’s marginally warmer. It’s brighter, too. Lit up with braziers, as far as he can tell, behind heavy, crusted eyelids. 

And, oh, a fire sounds lovely.

As Lambert bends at the waist, Jaskier begins to fall. At this point, the only safety he knows is in this man’s arms. Who knows what happens next, where he is and who these strange, very masculine men are. He throws both arms around Lambert’s neck and clutches his protector’s neck like life depends on it.

“Hm-hm,” Lambert chuckles, hands tightening beneath Jaskier’s knees, around his back, tucked inside his armpit. The roughness of his chin scrapes against Jaskier’s forehead. “No wonder Geralt likes you,” he mumbles against the top of Jaskier’s head. “Little Songbird.”

It’s almost affectionate, the way he says it. The Bard buries his face in Lambert’s burly bristled neck. He smells of tobacco and cherries, something that is surprisingly pleasing. Jaskier never was that fond of a pipe. At least, not before this.

“He doesn’t like me,” Jaskier corrects, noting how Lambert seems to follow him down as he’s laid onto a warm, fur-covered surface. “He thinks I’m a pie with no filling, something to be tossed aside when used up. Besides. He prefers the cruel, dangerous female type anyway.”

His arse sets down onto what can only be described as a bed, hard as it may be, and Lambert pries all ten fingers from around the nape of his neck. A jumble of other voices rumble low and unintelligible. Lambert moves away, leaving a cold, empty crush of nothing over Jaskier. He very suddenly feels the weight of the world on his chest.

“If he doesn’t want him –” Lambert begins. He’s cut off by a short growl from Aiden.

“Lamb.”

More grumbles. More conversation. Meanwhile, Jaskier just wants to sleep.

Someone begins working his boots off his feet. Someone else unlaces and pulls his cloak out from under him. A third person works at the jacket, lifting Jaskier to be able to remove that too. His body floats as if emerged in water.

“I’ll sit with him,” the man named Eskel says, loud enough to be the end of an argument.

“No,” Lambert insists. It’s terrifying. “He needs a tonic.”

Eskel’s voice raises as he begins a rebuff. It’s Aiden who has the final word.

“You’re the best with humans, Esk,” Aiden says, complimentary, as if he’s had experiences softening the other two to his will before. “The rest of us are bound to kill him if we’re put in charge.”

Acknowledging rumbles follow as Aiden speaks again. “Lambert,” he pauses, affection clear in his voice. “Your talent for soothing words aside –” Quickly stifled laughs ring out “ – I think you and I can find something more productive to do.”

If Jaskier was feeling better, he might recognize the lurid suggestion in those words. As it is, he rolls away from it all, groping for the edge of the fur and pulling it over himself.

He sleeps, dreamless, his head pounding and throat full of sharp, dry pain. It’s impossible to ignore, and he’s actually glad when he’s stirred awake once again.

“Come on,” Eskel says kindly. “Sit up. Wouldn’t want you to choke.”

Jaskier is caught in another sturdy embrace, his neck cradled in another large, dry palm. It’s a bit like being handled by a pack of overpowered ruffians intent on stealing his coin. Only less rough. With more growling.

A glass vial presses against his lower lip and a warm liquid dribbles inside his mouth. It burns his tongue and nostrils and stings his eyes, and that’s saying something since he’s lost all sense of smell and taste and sight. But he’s thirsty, greedy with it, and he opens his throat to swallow it down.

“E-e-easy!” Eskel laughs, a rich sound of music without lyrics. Jaskier is instantly jealous of how low of tone the man’s voice reaches. He can only reach such depths the morning after a bender night of drinking and singing and moaning and other selfish pleasures.

Eskel lowers Jaskier once again to the furs, and someone purrs contentedly.

Before Jaskier can curl back into the bedthings, his caretaker speaks again. Just not to him, or at least that’s how it seems.

“You’re making a mistake,” Eskel whispers, scolding. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to go about this —“

A growl grows from behind Jaskier, blooming between himself and the stone wall. He turns his head and forces his eyes open. Orange and red flames catch silver fur and heat reflects back at his face.

It’s marvelous.

“All right!” Eskel says decisively. He sounds defensive, defeated. “But I’ll be the first person ready to hurl an ‘I told you so’ later on.”

The furs shift slightly and a shadow blocks the firelight. Eskel’s hands are on his hips.

“At least let him rest for a bit, will you?”

Someone gives an impatient ‘woof,’ and Eskel exits the room. Jaskier hears the hollow clunk of a heavy iron latch inside its casing, and he’s left alone.

Except he’s not alone. 

“I wonder,” he mumbles as he rolls into the wolf’s body and throws an arm over its barrel. The beast smells of the forest, the snowstorm, the chill in the air itself. Jaskier ruts deep inside the fur with his nose and catches a scent that reminds him of someone.

He yawns. A reminder of the tonic clings to his tongue like a thick blanket. Whatever Eskel gave him begins to seize hold of his consciousness.

“I wonder,” he tries again as the wolf leans and rests its heavy body against his chest. “I wonder what Geralt would say if he knew I slept with a wolf.”

Read on AO3

[florianniss]

[florianniss]

[florianniss]

Huge thanks to Richard of the Order of the Blade for throwing me around!

(If you’re in the UK, consider checking them out! The order are a combat school with a really fun and welcoming ethos)

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