#Fancy Boots

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Chapter 2 - Closed Eyes

Fancy Boots

And he continues to have a wonderful time, because I decided to share my migraine with someone.

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Riordan trudged down the road from the Citadel into town. His feet barely lifted off the ground, nausea roiled in his gut with every step, and he squinted at the path ahead through almost closed eyes. Even so, the light of the afternoon sun bore into his skull, and the sound of birds chirping on the trees lining the path made him feel like his brain was turning into soup.

The way would have been fine—probably—had he left an hour earlier. But he had not. Instead, he had filled out the necessary paperwork, made sure to submit a note of his absence in the proper places, and handed a pile of his clothes over for laundry, because the clothes he was wearing at the moment were the last clean ones. Freya didn’t seem like the kind of person who would admonish someone for a stained shirt, but he wanted to make a good impression.

The impression he was currently making was anything but good. A group of travelers cast him questioning looks as they walked past him. He ignored the whispers behind his back and focused on setting one foot in front of the other. In the haze of growing pain and declining ability to focus, the course of action had been so clear to him: visit the people he felt safest and most comfortable with. But as the town came into view and he stumbled along the streets leading him to his friends’ house, doubt began to settle in his heart.

How rude of him to bother them once more during one of his attacks. He could as well have waited it out in his rooms. Sometimes, he did, but the citadel was not a quiet place, and he craved silence as much as he craved some company—company he knew he would be barely able to stand. So his friends would once again be walking on tiptoes around him, half driven by pity, and half by guilt that still lingered no matter how often he assured them it hadn’t been their fault.

When he arrived at their house, he made his way through a garden in full bloom and sat on the small stone step in front of the backdoor. Torn between longing and guilt, he buried his face in his hands. Pressing against his eyeballs didn’t help against the pain, not really, but it did elicit the illusion that as long as his eyes were unable to move, it would at least not get worse.

Slowly, he leaned back until his shoulder hit the door and he relaxed against it. Shit. Rude or not, he wouldn’t make it all the way back to the citadel before this attack was over. He could think about a way to make it up to them afterwards, but for now, his focus would have to stay on not throwing up on their doorstep.

The door opened. Riordan flinched. He tried to catch himself, but his reflexes were too slow. When he began to topple backwards, his fall was stopped with a knee between his shoulder blades. 

“Riordan?”

Hands on his shoulders replaced the knee, holding him upright as the figure stepped in front of him. He pulled one hand down and cracked his right eye open, meeting a concerned gaze from storm-gray eyes.

“Hey,” he croaked.

“Shit.” Merridy straightened up without letting go of him, kicking the door fully open. “Can you get up?”

He lowered the other hand as well but kept his eye closed as he grabbed the edge of the step. If he didn’t want to spend the next twenty-four hours or more on the ground behind her house, he had no choice but to get up. That didn’t make it any more pleasant. Pain shot through his head, but he gritted his teeth, glad that between Merridy’s hands and the doorframe, he was unable to collapse.

She led him inside and pushed him in the direction of a chair, pulling it out with one foot so he could sit down. He did so gladly, laying his head on his crossed arms and breathing slowly to combat the sick feeling in his stomach. He shouldn’t have taken a second dose, knowing so well that it would make the nausea worse. It didn’t seem to help at all, but every time he decided to stop taking the medication, a small voice inside his head wondered if it would be even worse without. He was not keen on finding out.

Merridy returned with Damien in tow. He didn’t say anything, he only put his hand on Riordan’s shoulder and squeezed it. Riordan relaxed ever so slightly, the touch a welcome distraction that grounded him without being too much.

Cupboards and containers opened and closed. Water splashed. Footsteps approached. Merridy didn’t say anything, either, but she took his arm and nudged him to get up. There was little he wanted to do less, but he couldn’t stay at their kitchen table—or in their kitchen, as tempting as the thought of curling up under the bench was.

It was his luck that he knew the house reasonably well. Clinging to Merridy on one side and the handrail on the other, he climbed the stairs, eyes squeezed shut against the pain. Any kind of exertion only made it worse; getting up had been bad enough, but stairs were a special kind of nightmare.

At the top of the stairs, Merridy gave him a moment to catch his breath before she nudged him onwards into the living room. When his toes hit the sofa, he opened his eyes after all, to make sure he was dropping down at the right spot. He all but fell onto his stomach, wrapped his arm around a pillow, and buried his face in the fabric. 

“Mpf.”

Gods, he was not going to get up again anytime soon.

The muffled footsteps on the carpet moved around him. Merridy closed the curtains, the sound of heavy fabric sliding over the wooden rods a familiar one. She grabbed his feet and pulled off his boots, pushing his legs fully onto the sofa. Next, she slipped the strap of the small bag he had brought over his head and pulled it out from under him. A blanket followed, tucked in around him and pulled up to his shoulders.

Damien entered the room. Riordan felt it more than he heard it. The sound of ceramic on wood promised a cup of water waiting for him, should he need it, and something was placed at his side, spreading blissful warmth across his skin. A hot water bottle, but not a metal one like the one his family always used. Instead, it was made from soft leather, which made it less hot, but much more comfortable to lean against. 

In the face of so much care, his bad conscience reared its head again. He had to pull himself together. He wasn’t dying, his head just hurt, and here he was, having them tend to him like he was a toddler. Pushing himself to the side, he squinted through almost-closed eyes. Damien was crouching in front of him. That was good. He didn’t want to speak, didn’t want to have his own voice tumble around in his head. 

“I’m sorry,” he signed, small and jittery.

Damien took his hand and squeezed his fingers before moving them.

“No. Sleep.”

The signs weren’t quite right, but close enough for Riordan to understand. His eyes burned at the obvious attempt to be quiet for his sake, and he pressed his face into the pillow again, because if he started to cry now, it would hurt so much more.

Damien was still holding his hand, so it couldn’t be his fingers brushing through Riordan’s hair. They pushed a few curls behind his ear before rubbing his temple. A second hand joined, tracing the tense muscles along his neck and shoulders, exerting a bit of pressure, but not enough to cause him more pain.

Riordan was aware Merridy knew where it hurt because he had told both of them about his frustration after visiting multiple healers with no success. That didn’t make it any less wonderful that she remembered. He willed his body to relax and his heartbeat to slow down, focusing only on her touch. For a moment, the pain faded, and that was all it took for him to fall asleep.

[ID: The banner shows the feet of two people wearing boots, sitting next to each other in the grass. The title fancy boots is written next to them in a fancy looking, curly font in a bright green to yellow gradient. All other images are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

[xxphoenixexlipsxx]

I want these so bad

[noramsblog]

More modern au 👨‍👨‍👦

[enverwhoretrash]

hands behind back? slut behaviour

[viviraptor-art]

a nice sunset can make you do the weirdest things... ☀️

just something sappy for a certain someone's special day... and i'm a sucker for sunsets. is that enough alliteration? anyway, happy birthday, weevil! 🪲

[ask2ps]

this guy's got issues. unfortunately, i love him

[tev-the-random]

"Wow, Starlo only occupies 60% of your brain?" It's because this motherfucker exists, ok??? Come on, my brain can only blorbo so much at once. Starlo's gotta schedule his time like everybody else

[zimt-deathnote]

Oh wow now they're slow dancing to oldies playing in another room on a rooftop at the mafia wedding someone help, can they never stop dancing please

now I kinda want a jazz oldies playlist with animated snippets of those two looping in the background

----- My other socials Commission Info Let's drink some Ko-Fi! 🍵

[i-can-even-burn-salad]

Chapter 1 - Unfortunate Timing

Fancy Boots

Riordan is back \o/

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Riordan stared at the squiggly letters of his own handwriting in the small, leather-bound book on the table in front of him. Were the lines blurry, or was he just focusing too hard? Not that it mattered much. If they weren’t blurry yet, they would be in a little while. The growing pressure inside his head left little doubt about that.

On the other side of the table, one of the citadel’s researchers concluded the presentation about their upcoming expedition. Something about lichen. Riordan had paid little attention, because while he knew, objectively, that every bit of research was important, his enthusiasm about this topic was as flat as most of the specimens the last mycologist he had accompanied had scratched off a bunch of rocks. 

“Thank you, Bexx.” The head of studies waited until the lichen-enthusiastic nyvi had sat down before she addressed the last of the researchers, a human woman with dark skin and piercing blue eyes. Water mage, most likely. “Now for today’s highlight. Gemma?”

Paper rustled. People whispered. Riordan resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands. 

He couldn’t blame them. If he was honest, he, too, had been waiting for this presentation. An expedition to the underwater city of—he held his pen, trying to remember the city’s name in the common language. The words escaped him, which had been a frustratingly common experience those past months. Instead, he drew a few lazy circles, listening half-heartedly to the explanations.

It was an incredible chance, and one everyone at this table was going to fight over. Everyone but him. Oh, he might very well have the right qualifications for a job like this, and up until two hours ago, he had been determined to try his luck. Then the first signs of one of his blasted headaches had set in, and even though he had quickly taken a dose of the mixture that was supposed to help against the pain, it had steadily grown worse. Now, he felt nauseous on top of miserable and wondered, not for the first time, whether the medicine was worth it. 

The mission was to start in three days. Three days he would, by the looks of it, be spending in bed with a pillow over his head, in no shape or form to participate in the preparations. Knowing that everyone’s attention was on Gemma, he gave in to the urge to rub his eye. Closing it felt good. He focused on the burning sensation, wishing it would reach deeper, would burn the part of his brain away that had decided to fuck up his plans once more. It didn’t do him that favor, just like rubbing the back of his neck never reached deep enough to ease the pain boring into his skull.

“That boring, huh?” the man next to him whispered.

Riordan opened his eyes. The guy’s face was unfamiliar to him. He took a slow breath as the nausea slammed back into his awareness, forcing a smile onto his lips but not bothering to reply. It didn’t hurt that badly yet, but it was only a matter of time until his eye would move from feeling out of place to feeling like someone had stabbed an ice pick into it. He wasn’t going to speed up the process by arguing.

As he took a few last notes, the presentation concluded. Whispered voices rose, only to be shushed one more time by the head of studies. As always, she explained the procedure, whether there were people unaccustomed or not, closing with the request to spread evenly onto the available projects.

Of course, most people swarmed Gemma. A nyvi beelined to the geologist who had proposed an upcoming excavation, and two others, one of them a kalani, approached the lichen-guy. Riordan wondered if those plant-people didn’t like water or something, but it wasn’t his problem.

He consulted his notes, finding them hard to read. His already not very neat handwriting was absolutely shitty on days like these, and the fact that he had straight up forgotten a bunch of letters didn’t help. Once Gemma would have picked her escort to the underwater city, the unlucky mercenaries who had not been chosen would split up among the remaining offers, but for now, he had free choice.

Determined to get out of here as quickly as possible, he stood up and approached a woman standing alone at the far wall, a scowl on her face. Her brown hair was tied into a messy ponytail, her stocky frame hidden beneath layers of wide clothes in earthen tones. Her pale green eyes watched him warily as he approached. 

“Hello. Freya, is that right?” He pulled a smile onto his lips and extended his hand. “I’m Riordan.”

“What do you want?” she asked without taking it. Her voice was deep, her accent as she spoke placing her as coming from far to the west.

“Offer my services for the upcoming expedition?” he tried, clinging to the last scrap of his patience.

“You sure about that? The queue for a visit to Shining Pearl is over there.” She nodded in the direction of Gemma, who was barely visible behind the crowd gathered around her. 

“Great.” Riordan’s grin as he pulled back his hand was definitely forced, but he hoped Freya wouldn’t notice. “And I’m over here. So. About this mission?”

“The correlation of weather patterns and the fluctuation of ambient magical energy?” She raised an eyebrow. “Sure you’re interested in that?”

“Well, if you want to know,” he snapped, “I don’t give a flying fuck about weather patterns. Just like I don’t care about lichen or rocks or the quality of water in a swamp. I’m a mercenary, not a researcher.” He took a breath and continued in a much calmer tone, regretting his outburst as the pain pulsed behind his eye. “But I will be unavailable due to personal matters in the next four to five days, and this mission is set to start ten days from now. Before coming to the Order, I’ve also been stationed in Raqhar before, so I know the area. So you can either take my offer or refuse, but make up your mind before the only thing left is lichen.”

The disgusted face he had made at the last word seemed to have been worth it. A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. When she extended her hand, Riordan pushed any lingering annoyance aside and took it.

“Freya Artell.”

“Riordan Finnley.”

By the time she let go of his hand, any hostility had fallen off her posture. The look she gave him was open, the way she looped her fingers into her belt relaxed. 

“There’s three of us. The area we’ll be visiting has been calm for a couple of years, but you know the situation in Raqhar.” She paused a moment, giving him a chance to ask for clarification, but he only nodded. “We requested the assistance of two mercenaries and one hand, as well as an emergency portal, just to make sure. If everything goes well, the expedition will take around two weeks, but if the conditions aren’t right, it could take twice as long. Is that all right?”

Riordan nodded again. Most of it was in the notes he had taken, but it couldn’t hurt to hear it a second time. The first spike of pain stabbed at his eye. He ignored it and took a few more scribbled notes. 

“I will hand in the paperwork as soon as I get out of here,” he said. “I have a few colleagues I’ve worked with in the past. Some of them might be a good match. I think I’ll include them in the request and see what they say. That is, if they’re not going on a seafloor vacation.” He winked. It was a bad idea. The burning of his eye reminded him how nice it would feel to keep his eyes closed. “I will return in four, at most five days. Is that enough time for preparations?”

“Definitely. We don’t have much to pack, and we can handle most of it on our own. We’d just like to get acquainted, go through the planned routes, adjust our supplies, stuff like that.” She waved in the general direction of the room’s exit. “When you return, just look for us in the department of ambient magic.”

“Will do.” Riordan smiled, delighted to see her return his smile. He hoped he would enjoy working with her. “See you then.”

[ID: The banner shows the feet of two people wearing boots, sitting next to each other in the grass. The title fancy boots is written next to them in a fancy looking, curly font in a bright green to yellow gradient. All other images are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

[nomicones]

Every cowboy needs a hat needs a hat needs a hat

(click for higher img quality)

[mikasenpaidesu]

Personally, this outfit is my favourite one

[gringolet]

notes on hair and uniforms on the hms camelot in 1811!

i have a lot of thoughts on the matter

[shakingparadigm]

He didn't even wear good looking shoes. He didn't even wear fake ass jordans. They put white slippers on a traumatized man and called it a day. I am distraught.

can't believe I drew those fuckass jordans just for his actual shoes to look like that. makes complete sense from an animation standpoint but also. what the fuck. I mean at least he's finally wearing them....

[prissypixie]

Fancì Club Boots ༊*·˚

[doodle-empress66]

Basically these 2 are the embodiment of giving a reality check.

Reminder: most people dont notice but they are not the villains of the movie. Just an antagonistic force against the protagonist that push him forward yet eventually both earning mutual respect.

This 2 are the real villains.

[nuclearanomaly]

Post workout cuddle, y/n?

pose ref