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painted-bees · 1 year ago

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August 12, 2008.

Magritte had only ever heard good things about Vancouver's Granville Island and so, naturally, it was the first place she set out to find upon arriving in the city. The Greyhound station her bus pulled into had been only a short walk from the Skytrain that would carry her two minutes to Granville Station. And it was here that Magritte had the good sense to find a nice, unintrusive space to sit cross-legged and lay her old, faithful piano keyboard across her lap.

The instrument, pulled out of its cozy bed from within her large duffel bag, was a well loved Yamaha PSS-270. Its dull, black, plastic body was covered in ancient, disintegrating stickers, and a generous amount of electrical tape served to hold its batteries in place.

With an affectionate press of a button, she woke the machine up from its slumber, selected her choice presets and, with no specific setlist in mind, began to improvise a little tune. Something cute and fun, perhaps a little bit like Donkey Kong’s Stickerbrush Symphony in tempo and progression. Or just…”Stickerbrush Symphony”, wholesale, why the hell not? Improvisation melted seamlessly into the classic video game tunes that were fondly familiar to her.

The beloved instrument cradled in Magritte’s lap had been pulled apart and reassembled more times than she kept track of. But still, it held together and played its charming FM sounds dutifully. A tidy row of silver metal switches, lined up along the side of its body, were left carefully undisturbed as her fingers danced across the yellowed plastic keys. Magritte had learned very early in her busking career that the general public did not appreciate the unpredictable discordinance of a bent circuit as much as she did. And so that row of silver little switches connecting the data lines stood stoically in their ‘on’ position, not allowing for any delightful surprises, but also not deteriorating the synth-chip’s sound into glitchy noise on a bad turn. Perfectly vanilla, perfectly agreeable, endearingly nostalgic.

She had placed an old ball cap upside down infront of her, tossing in a few quarters of her own as a way of inviting more from friendly pockets. Ideally, she’d play an hour or two and leave with enough change to buy a coffee. Not just a Tim’s coffee–no. She wanted a decadent foamy latte from a cute, artsy little cafe she could sit in. She couldn’t bear to walk through the streets of Granville Island without having the spare change to treat herself on an impulse. And so–she’d not leave the train station until the passing public funded her frivolous spending habits.

After all, it was her birthday. She deserved a little gift.

Busking in a transit station was always a bit of a trade-off. It was a bustling place full of foot traffic but the people here were focused on reaching their destination; busy and preoccupied. In a place like this, Magritte had no expectation to captivate loiterers. Not many transit-goers could spare a minute or two to sit and listen while she hammered out her cheap little tunes on cheap little piano keys. And so, when a well worn pair of tan colored, loose-laced Timberlands entered her field of vision, stopping definitively to stand before her, Magritte turned her gaze upward to welcome the listener with a wide, sloppy smile.

Without giving her brain time to register the face she was speaking to, Magritte opened her mouth to chime a cheery greeting. She was cut off faster than she could process his expression.

“You’re in my spot.”

The man’s voice was curt, and the cold annoyance in his tone was mirrored in the expression on his short, square face. Pale blue eyes looked down a sharp, slightly bent nose at her. His narrow lips were pressed narrower still in a stern line, framed by a full, sandy colored beard and moustache. Atop his head, long hair of the same light color was pulled back into a small, tight bun; more slick and tidy, but far less full than the sloppy bun that Magritte’s unruly mane of curly rust colored hair had been wrangled up into.

Her dorky smirk dissolved with a few confused blinks into a slack jaw of nervous apology. “O-oh! I uh-s-sorry!”

Her startled gaze snagged itself on the acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder, and the instrument’s exciting potential made her straighten her back with intent.

She found her smile again. “What if–maybe we could jam? For a few minutes! And then I can scoot on outta here and leave you to it if you want. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to–”

“Do you have a permit?” His tone was unchanged by her eager proposition.

“Huh?” It wasn’t that Magritte didn’t hear him, but she needed a moment to process what was being asked.

“You can’t be here without a permit. Not the stations, not anywhere in Granville either.” The unaccommodating man took a few steps towards her duffel bag and used the top of his foot to lift and slide it away from where she had safely tucked it. “Get a move on.”

Magritte protectively reached out to grab her bag as the man carelessly footed it out of ‘his’ space. And in doing so, she caused her keyboard to slide off her lap, forcing her to clumsily abort her duffel-grabbing effort in favor of clutching her instrument before it could somersault over the edge of her knees and land face-down onto hard ground.

The man, it seemed, was done with words and had already begun moving into the small space that shoving her bag out of the way had created. She felt her face turn hot as she began to gather up her items. Any desire to engage the guy more than she already had was lost along with her nerve.

As she relented to stowing her keyboard back into her duffel bag, an unfamiliar hand shoved a cold, unopened can of Coke in front of her face.

“Here you go.” Another man’s voice. A softer one, this time. Magritte glanced up to meet eyes with the stranger who was offering her a free drink, only to gaze into a pair of red, plastic, star shaped dollar store sunglasses.

He gave the soda can a little shake, prompting her to take it into her hands. “Sorry I took long, I had to give someone directions to the aquarium.”

“Is this…for me?” Holding the can in both hands, Magritte stared at the unopened beverage, unsure what to do with it.

The new stranger leaned onto his back foot. “You said coke, right?”

Before Magritte could stammer out a response, the new stranger turned his attention to the man with the guitar. “‘Ey, Kurtis. You mind, dude?”

The unaccommodating man, ‘Kurtis’, had just started settling in, and looked towards the new stranger with an expression that appeared as perplexed as Magritte herself felt. He turned up both his palms in a slightly contentious gesture. “Didn’t know you were playin’ here again. I’ve had this spot for, like, a year. People don’t usually park here without asking me first.”

“Okay, but you can’t just kick ‘em out like this, man.”

“I didn��t know she was with you–”

“Doesn’t matter,” Magritte’s new best friend replied. “Sixty minutes. It’s not a long time to wait if you gotta wait.”

Magritte, who had been watching Kurtis’ confidence slowly drain from his body with each passing second, turned to examine the cut of her spontaneous new accomplice. His hair was a shade or two darker than Kurtis’, and trimmed much, much shorter, with longer locks in front that fell in straight tufts over the tops of his ears and just past his thick, blocky eyebrows. His eyes remained obscured by the cheap plastic shades, and their childish novelty paired strangely with the well trimmed goatee that fanned out from under his lip to define the curve of his somewhat long but gentle chin. And he had with him a rectangular instrument case of…some variety. Not big enough for a guitar, not small enough for a flute. It didn’t give away the shape of the instrument inside, but the black oxford cloth and gold colored metallic detailings of its exterior gave it a classy, charming look she had not seen for an instrument case before. It was cute. Magritte wondered if such a style was available for portable keyboards.

His hands, which wore white fingerless driving gloves, cracked open his can of sprite, and he took a casual sip while waiting for Kurtis to, “Get a move on.”

Relenting, Kurtis shuffled away from the spot he had been deliberately crowding Magritte out of. With a snort and a nod of his head towards her, Kurtis said, “Can’t exactly play Paganini on a Portasound, Raf. What’s on your setlist?”

Raf brandished a lopsided smirk and jutted his chin in the direction of Magritte’s upturned hat on the ground. “Put a toonie down and I’ll show you.”

“Fuck off.” Kurtis’s scoff was accompanied by a laugh–one that sounded surprisingly genuine to Magritte's ear. “I came here to earn change, not spend it. But I’m curious to hear how the Ephrem Classical pairs with Toy Piano.”

Raf let out a low groan that could have been mistaken for a growl. Moving into the corner that Kurtis had surrendered, he unslung his instrument off his shoulder with a shrug. “There’s plenty you can play on just forty-nine keys.”

Being very confident about this fact, Magritte couldn’t help but provide her insight on the matter. With an enthusiastic lean-in, she interjected, “Yeah, like Kirby’s Dreamland!”

Raf’s head flinched in her direction almost imperceptibly, and if she had caught the subtle downward twitch of his eyebrows that betrayed a pang of confusion, she might have felt a bite of embarrassment. But instead, she heard him agree. “Like…Kirby’s Dreamland, yeah.”

He turned to look over his shoulder at her, his sunglasses mercifully hiding the bafflement in his eyes. Magritte beamed gleefully back up at him.

“Well, have fun.” Kurtis levelled a stern yet somewhat pleading glance at Raf.” I’ll be back here in an hour. Don’t let anyone else move in if you leave early, please.”

Raf simply shrugged and sipped loudly from his can of sprite in response.

As Magritte watched Kurtis disappear into the foot traffic, she began to tentatively scoot back towards where she had previously sat. “I didn’t mind giving that guy his spot back, he was just kinda–”

“A dick. Nah, I saw that. S’why I stepped in.” Raf had carefully set his instrument case down, and was in the process of zipping it open.

Leaning slightly to get a peek at what he was playing, Magritte said, “Thanks for the pop, by the way! I can pay you back after. If uh–you’re actually gonna stick around and jam with me.”

He pulled his instrument out of its protective cradle; a pale varnished wooden violin. “Don’t worry about it.”

Inside the carrying case, Magritte noticed two bows neatly stowed. The bowstrings on the bow Raf selected was a standard white color, but the strings on the one he left in the case were an eye-catching red.

“Truth be told,” tucking the chin rest of the violin beneath his chin, he played one string, and then two experimentally, “I don’t really play anymore.” His fingers closed around one of the tuning knobs at the head of the violin, but if he had tweaked it at all, it wasn't perceptible. “So it’s gonna be pretty rough. But uh…gotta commit to the bit, I guess.”

Magritte took the moment to open her soda and enjoy a refreshing sip. “What kinda music do you normally play?”

“Classical,” he replied almost too quickly. “You?”

Magritte hesitated for a second. She should have had an easy answer for this by now, but all she could manage was, “a bit of everything. Anything, really!”

Raf ran his bow over the strings again to hear their tune before turning to look at her. “Yeah?” His eyebrows were raised, and his smirk favored one side of his face; an expression Magritte interpreted as incredulous. He fidgeted with a tiny, lone knob on the violin's body where the strings ended.

“Y-yeah! I, um…” Settling her keyboard back into her lap, she turned it on. “You can just play whatever, and I can fill it in. I can improvise, I think.”

Raf paused and stared down at Magritte’s little Portasound with a sigh much heavier than he intended. The thing was lacking, not just in keys, but in sound. It was a struggle to think of something he could play that she’d be able to accompany. The titles which did come to mind where…overplayed and would have to be simplified considerably to suit the keyboard's limitations. Weighing it in his mind, however, he decided that ‘simple’ may benefit not just the limited range of her instrument, but of her musical skill as well.

He ran the bow over his strings to measure their tune one last time before tentatively, very slowly playing the first few crystalline notes of Für Elise. He felt a tension he didn’t know he was holding melt off his shoulders as he watched Magritte’s face light up. She curled over her little piano in a hurry to play his accompaniment. She knew this one.

She picked a soft, more ambient sound from the keyboard’s voicebank, electing to quietly cushion the violin’s notes rather than chafe against them. It was…difficult. Her little yamaha and its quaint library of FM chip sounds did not get along nicely with ‘real instruments’ that were being played ‘straight’. It wanted to be weird and annoying, just like her. But the notes Raf played, while simple, were extremely clear in tone; neat and tidy. The bow did not once stutter on the rough strings, it glided with practised ease. And with a great deal of restraint.

This guy…he was playing beneath his skill level. For her sake, presumably. Like a gentleman.

As Raf brought Für Elise to a close with the last, steady draw of his bow, Magritte swapped her soft, ambient voicing out with an annoying music box sound, and began hammering out a choice section from the 3rd movement of Appassionata. Her fingers slammed the keys harder than was necessary, solely because she enjoyed the percussive sound it added to each obnoxious, feverish note.

Lowering his violin, Raf watched Magritte’s fingers flutter furiously across the mini keys with respectable precision. Holding both the bow and the neck of his violin in one hand, his free hand reached up to remove his sunglasses and he rubbed his eye with the heel of his palm. A humbled snort escaped through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

“Play any song.” Magritte slowed her fingers to a stop without completing the movement. “Even if I don’t know it, even if it goes beyond the range of my little piano, I can improvise something nice for it, I promise!”

Fitting his sunglasses back on, Raf let out a tentative hum. “I’m not much of an improviser–”

“You don’t have to improvise anything! Play whatever you want, however you wanna play it. I will improvise around whatever you give me!” Magritte’s voice had risen to an excited shout, and instinctively, she withdrew into herself just a little bit, as if making herself smaller would also make her voice smaller, too. “It’s my favorite thing to do. It’s a lot of fun.”

His incredulous smirk returned, but this time his brow furrowed slightly, encouragingly, under his growing sense of intrigue.

“It’s–” Magritte held up both hands haltingly, “it’s probably not gonna be like how you know it should be. Just…so you know. It might even be…bad? In some parts? But-! Mostly it’ll be neat! I promise!”

“Neat…” Raf brought the violin up once again to rest under his chin. “Neat’s cool. Alright, let’s see, then.”

As though he had been inspired by Magritte’s aggressive interpretation of Appassionata, he began with a series of fast, chirpy, clean notes of his own. A wholly different song, but Magritte recognized this one too. She had most often heard it as a phone ringtone, but she couldn’t recall who composed it nor what the song was titled. She provided a jaunty, equally bouncy accompaniment that she’d have described as ‘percussive’. The violin’s unwavering confidence was a delight for Magritte’s deft little fingers to dance around. He never fell out of tempo, and she was able to punctuate his notes with hers in perfect time. Maintaining synchrony for the entire length of the fast paced composition filled her with such satisfying joy, she had failed to properly appreciate an obvious fact about her musical accomplice until he brought the song to a close; he was a skilled musician.

Staring up at him from her spot on the floor, Magritte’s wide eyes almost sparkled with delight. “You’re like…Concert hall good, aren’t you? Are you part of the local orchestra? Or at least like–aspiring to be?”

Raf’s gaze hung on her as both his jaw and posture slackened. “Uh…”

She didn’t give him enough time to respond, hitting him with another question. “What was the title of that song? I just know it as one of the Nokia ringtones.”

“P–” Raf’s stunned silence cracked with a laugh that sprang forth from his chest and took him by surprise almost as much as Magritte’s line of questioning had. “Paganini. It’s��it’s Paganini, Caprice number…number 24.” The response was punctuated with warm chuckling. “Or, you know, that one phone ringtone, yeah.” He smirked at her for a moment longer, studying her for any sign that she was putting him on. “How do you…accompany me that well, on that little machine, and not even know the song?”

Magritte waved her hands in front of her. “No, no, I knew the song! I’ve heard it before, I just didn’t know what it was called.”

“Yeah, alright.” He snorted one last incredulous laugh and brought his violin back up for another song.

Magritte stopped him before he could settle on his next pick. “Do you play professionally? I mean, it sounds like it but, like–”

“No.” Before Magritte could inquire further, the first notes of their next song filled the space between them, drawn out of his violin with long, purposeful strokes of his bow.

The next several songs, Raf played seamlessly one into the other–without pausing for conversation. That was just as well for Magritte. It had been ages since she was given the chance to play music with someone, and never had she played with someone who was so…solid? Consistent? The real deal. Usually, she had to avoid getting carried away when playing with another person. It was very easy for her to close her eyes and get taken to places that her musical partners could not follow along with. But with Raf, she was finding herself challenged to keep up with him. Most of the songs he had chosen, she had not heard before. And so she needed to keep an attentive ear out if she wanted to pick out repeated phrases, and predict melodic trajectories.

Finally, they arrived at the end of an especially eclectic piece, and Raf did not immediately follow through into another composition. Instead he lowered his bow, and Magritte took her opening to converse again.

“I really liked that one. It was super janky, in a fun way.”

“Yeah,” Raf said. “I was always fond of it, too.”

“I liked the plucky bits. Did you write it?”

“Did I–” Raf palmed both his bow and violin in one hand, and massaged his eyes and browline with the other. “No, some guy named Ravel did. Tzigane, that one’s called.”

Magritte chewed the inside of her cheek. “R-right.”

He furrowed his eyebrows at her. “You knew that one, though.”

“I didn’t.”

“...You just let me solo the first four minutes based on vibes?”

“I thought I missed the bus on it.”

“The actual composition has no accompaniment until about half way through, so…bravo.”

“Wait, really?” Magritte leaned forward eagerly. “Did I play the accompaniment correctly, too?”

“Not even close.”

“Drat.” She slumped.

“Was good, though.” Raf picked up his sprite from where he had placed it, on the ground next to his case, and drained the last bit of its contents.

Magritte perked up again. “Yeah!?”

He held the lip of the empty can between his teeth as he began tucking his violin back into its carrying case. “Mmhm.”

Magritte watched him pack up for a moment longer than it should have taken her to realise, “Wait, you’re leaving already?”

Raf zipped his instrument safely away before removing the empty soda can from his mouth. “Yeah, I gotta get going. But look,” He bent over to collect Magritte’s upturned ball cap off the ground. The few quarters she had started with now had a generous handful of friends with them; more quarters, some loonies, a few toonies and–

Magritte accepted the hat when Raf handed it to her, and pulled a crisp twenty dollar bill out of it. “W-who left this!? I wasn’t even paying attention, I should have said thanks!”

“A mystery.” He slung his violin case over his shoulder.

Magritte urged him to wait, fluttering a hand at him. “Half of this is yours!”

“Nah.” He favored her with a smile. “Genuinely, this was a treat in itself. It’s been a long time since I’ve played for fun like this. It…was fun.” That last part sounded as though it came as a surprise to him.

Frowning, Magritte pleaded with him. “Okay, okay but–okay. Lemme treat you to a coffee then, at least? If you’re in no real hurry.”

Raf paused to regard her with a measuring stare. He then sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his black denim hoodie jacket, waiting for Magritte to stow her keyboard away into her bag.

Zipping the duffel closed, she hoisted it with effort over her shoulder and beamed up at her new friendly acquaintance. “If you know any cute, cozy coffee places with a real decadent latte, I’m open to suggestions!”

“There are…a few.”

“I’m Magritte, by the way!” She extended her hand out to him.

With slight hesitation, Raf shook it. “Rafael.”

As the two of them began to make their way out of the station together, he dared to ask, “Are you here visiting, or..?”

“Oh!” She bounced on the balls of her feet, “I just came in from Calgary like…two hours ago. Ideally, I’d like to stay until the spring, but that’s gonna depend on things.”

“Calgary?”

“Yeah! I was in Edmonton before that, and in Winnipeg before that–but that was mostly a fever dream. I wasn’t there long. Montreal before that, though, was nice..!” She talked the entire walk, and he was content to quietly listen. part ii

#meet cute?#meet cute.#unedited...sorry about that lmao #Hi-Note #rafael #magritte

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hunterrrs · 1 year ago

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Brian Dumoulin may be one of the most interesting men to wear black and gold in quite some time, as he's got so many passions outside of hockey, like travel, food and wine. The 31-year-old shared some of his must-haves, both on and off the ice, at home and on the road.

Wine books, magazines and podcasts

One magazine I've subscribed to that I really like is called Noble Rot. It's from London, where they have two different wine bars and a wine store. I really like the stuff that they write. It's really, really cool.

For podcasts, there hasn't been as many recently. But through the course of like 2010 to 2021, there was a podcast called 'I'll Drink to That!' It's a guy named Levi Dalton. He basically interviews everyone, from people who work in restaurants, winemakers, wholesale distributors - anyone in the wine trade. They talk about how they got into wine. With the winemaking, it can be very technical, where they talk about decisions with the barrels, decisions with when to pick, how their vineyards are different than the other… so it's very intricate. I wouldn't say it's for a beginner (laughs), but it's really good information.

For books, the last one I read is called 'Terrior Footprints' by Pedro Parra. He's sort of an expert. It's a book about wine and how when you blind taste, you kind of taste soil in the glass, and that's a good way to blind taste because you can really pick up different notes if you know where it's grown in.

Grassl universal glasses

I use those normally. I also use Zalto universal glasses for whites, Zalto burgundy glasses for pinots and lighter reds, and Zalto bordeaux glasses for heavier reds

Loose leaf imported tea

I do a lot of green. Lingering Clouds is a green tea that I really like. Then there's Gaba, which is good for after meals, for digestion. That still has a little caffeine, so I don't try to do that towards nighttime. I always have loose leaf chamomile before bed. I'll usually do that around 7-7:30 PM, or I'm going to the bathroom all night (laughs).

Snacks with a bit of a kick

I mean, it's not healthy or anything, but I like salt and vinegar chips. Those get me, my wife too (laughs). We'll have a bag and all of sudden, it's gone. It's easy to finish a whole bag. I also like Smart Sweets sour gummy bears [the green package]. We have them on the team plane.

The stovetop

My favorite kitchen utensil is honestly the stovetop. I like cooking on the stove a lot better, I'd say, just because grilling is a little bit harder to control. I'll do steak on the stovetop, but obviously I'll cook burgers on the grill, and stuff like that. But I like just trying a bunch of different things on the stovetop.

Broom and dustpan

I love to clean and sweep, it's soothing. I like the broom and dustpan. I'm old fashioned. That's all I need.

Beanie

That's just because I don't want to comb my hair. It's just laziness. That's one thing that I'm not into, is clothes. I'm not a clothes guy.

Lacrosse ball

I like to roll out on that for recovery. I really like that, it's easy. It's really good for your legs and your hips, to get into the small little muscles.

michelle giving us what we need: dumo, man of culture

#me 🤝 dumo: loose leaf teas #brian dumoulin #pittsburgh penguins

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alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody · 1 month ago

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kinktober #16

Runway Ready 👠 / Crystal Ball 🔮

Q offers to clean up the kitchen, which is great because if Eliot doesn’t get horizontal right now, he’ll probably die. The remnants of their Chinese takeout are strewn across the coffee table, and Eliot arranges himself as come-hither as he possibly can while lying on the couch and stuffed with so much fried rice, lo mein, egg rolls, and Sichuan chicken, that he’s afraid to take too deep a breath lest he burst the buttons off his waistcoat.

It’s very unlike Eliot to have kept quiet about his kinks for so long, but what he’s whispered in the ear of many one-night stands suddenly gets stuck in his throat when he thinks about telling Q. It’s not that he thinks Q will react badly — it’s just that he seems so vanilla that even something as relatively mild as “Hey, I wanna eat until I physically can’t anymore” seems like a risk. Eliot would have to explain everything and it would be awkward for both of them and that, Q might not be as willing to put up with. It feels, as so many things about Eliot do, that the whole picture might be Too Much™ for any one person long-term.

So instead, he’s trying to settle for dropping clues. It’s like therapy; if Q puts it together himself, it’ll be more meaningful than if Eliot tells him. Or something. It’s been a long time since Eliot’s been to therapy.

Now, as Q scoops empty plates and half-empty containers from the table, Eliot groans performatively and rests a hand on the rounded swell of his belly, aiming a plaintive look up at him.

Q looks back fondly. “You ate a lot, huh?”

Eliot’s ears perk up. “Mmm-hmmm,” he hums, trying to apply a coy overlay to the sound. “Yeah, I did.”

“Good thing we got the extra order of eggrolls,” says Q, ferrying the plates and containers to the kitchen. Eliot slumps back on the couch.

He knows Q is just being careful, that’s the thing. He would be, too, if the roles were reversed and it was Q who’d gained some weight recently, whose clothes fit differently and whose appetite had changed. He wants to think that in that case, he would be the one to talk about it, to open a conversation about how Quentin felt about his body, how he wanted Eliot to feel and talk and touch about it. It would be so easy if it were Q’s body. He knows exactly what he’d say: Q’s body is Q’s body, and bigger or smaller it’s the one he loves. Nothing could dissuade him from thinking it was perfect. But of course his confidence in his own body is much less; he can’t imagine being less into someone for a few extra pounds, but it’s frighteningly easy to imagine the same scenario with himself in the crosshairs.

Maybe tonight is the night that Eliot pioneers voluntary telepathic communication. As the sounds of running water and clinking plates waft in from the next room, he tries to beam his kink profile to Quentin wholesale, just upload the whole thing to him in one go so they can pass the checkpoint and move along.

The water runs. The plates clink. Eliot thinks he might burst a blood vessel.

Q’s right; he did eat a lot. The heaviness is starting to pull at him, the weight of his overfull stomach bearing down on his hips, shading discomfort into even the most comfortable position to bloat in. He stifles a burp and gives his stomach a little massage himself, but it’s not the same. It’s like trying to give yourself a scalp massage; it’s just nicer when it’s someone else’s hands on you.

He huffs and adjusts the pillow behind his head. Fine. He’ll wait.

Finally Q flops back down on the couch, carrying the crystal ball he’s been working on fixing for the better part of a week. So far it’s managed to outsmart Margo, Katy, and even Alice, so now it’s Quentin’s turn. Eliot watches through half-mast eyelids as Q turns it over and over in his hands, looking for a scratch or a hairline fracture or some other clue as to why it’s suddenly taken to showing everyone their deepest desires no matter what they’ve asked it.

“Mmmm,” he tries again, rolling his hips gently and sighing. “I’m so full.”

Q’s busy pulling something up on his phone. He pats Eliot’s knee absently and goes back to squinting between his phone screen and at the crystal ball.

Are you fucking kidding me!!! Eliot beams in Q’s direction. Q doesn’t get the message.

His stomach cramps, and he pulls in a sharp breath. Eliot’s no stranger to overeating, overindulgence is kind of his whole thing, but there’s a lot in his stomach right now and he’s starting to have a few regrets. He swallows a burp and tries to subtly work the cramp out with one hand. Until tonight, he’s been playing a sort of game with himself to see how far he can get without replacing any of his clothes, but it’s starting to look like he’s nearing the limit. The waistband of his pants bites into the soft flesh of his waist, and even on its last hole, his belt constricts his movement.

He whines and rolls his hips with more urgency. “Oh,” he whines, aiming for a balance of exquisite suffering and irresistible seduction. “I shouldn’t have eaten so much. Mmmm, Q, I really overdid it.”

“Yeah, you ate a lot,” says Q, the crystal ball barely a centimeter from his face.

“Put that down,” complains Eliot. “Feel, Q.”

Q puts down the crystal ball, and Eliot grabs his hand and pulls it to the straining buttons of his waistcoat. “Feel,” he repeats, but it’s too much movement for how overfull he is, and he loses the word in a hiccup that does more to erode his dignity than most of his middle school gym experience, which is saying a lot.

Q stares at him, his eyebrows coming together in confusion. “Are you okay?”

“I could use a little — hic — help,” Eliot mumbles, turning his face toward the pillow. God forbid any of this process be normal and dignified and casual.

“Oh,” says Quentin, his whole expression changing. He tosses his phone onto the coffee table, turns himself to face Eliot. “What is it? Your stomach?”

Eliot nods, keeping his mouth shut in case he hiccups again.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Hic — touch me, please.”

“Like …?” Q reaches up and brushes Eliot’s hair from his face. “Like that?”

“More like — hic — here,” says Eliot, pulling Q’s hand back to his belly. “Just … rub it? It helps.”

Q looks uncertain, but he straddles Eliot’s hips and looks to him for confirmation, as if to say Is this okay? Eliot nods, his stomach jumping with another hiccup.

“You, um, kind of seem to do this a lot,” says Quentin, concern lining his face. “Not judging you! It’s fine, as long as you’re not, like, hurting yourself. Which … you’re not, right?”

Eliot shakes his head and hiccups. Unbelievable that millions of magicians have existed throughout history and not one of them has figured out a spell to get rid of these? What’s even the point of having magic if not to rid life of all its little cruelties and indignities?

“Promise?” says Q, laying his hand softly on Eliot’s stomach.

“Yes, Q. I — hic — promise I’m not hurting myself.”

“Okay,” says Q, applying some pressure, “then … what?”

Eliot burps miserably. This is not how he wanted this to go. He’s supposed to be in control, putting Q at ease, divulging his preferences with the practiced, easy sex appeal of the hedonist, not beached on the couch with his partner hovering over him trying to figure out if he has an eating disorder. There’s no glamor in this!

He groans instead. “Can we talk about this later? When I’m not about to pop a button?” He can tell from the way Q’s eyebrows jump that he isn’t satisfied, but it’s the best he can do at the moment.

And it does inspire Q to undo the buttons of his waistcoat, which is something. He can breathe a little easier, even if now he’s on the hook. Who knows, Q might get too caught up in fixing that crystal ball tomorrow to even remember to ask.

—

Eliot gets up early the next morning, or earlier than Q, at least. He makes coffee, starts pancakes, even slices fruit, all the trappings of a very well-adjusted partner with a totally normal relationship with food. His bloat from last night is gone, but his stomach is stretched, and he’s starving. If he’s fast enough, he can eat a few pancakes before Quentin even wakes up, and he can avoid any potential questions about what happened last night until he’s ready to bring up the conversation himself, gilded and gift-wrapped and perfectly packaged to present him in the most confident possible light.

An illusion that’s instantly shattered when Quentin wanders into the kitchen and says suspiciously, “You’re up early.”

“I slept well,” replies Eliot, pouring him a cup of coffee and adding milk before passing it to Q. “You?”

Q sits at one of the kitchen barstools, elbows on the counter, mug cupped between his hands. He’s sleep-soft in a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms Eliot has been trying to convince him to donate for years, and his hair is in the bare minimum of what could be called a ponytail, falling around his face in tendrils like a ’90s pop star. He’s lovely in the morning sunlight. He’s definitely worried.

“All right,” he says finally. “Thanks for making breakfast. I like seeing you cook.”

Eliot’s long past the days of his substance abuse, even if something like that is never truly gone and always lurks like a specter just out of sight. But cooking is what he threw himself into once he’d come out of rehab, once he’d joined a magicians’ recovery group, once he’d come far enough to trust himself with knives and hot pans and cooking wine. It took a long time to get here, and he’s not unaware that Q associates it with recovery. Is it a strategic choice for this morning in particular? Maybe. But he’s hungry, and the only thing he wants in his stomach after a night of indulgence is something else indulgent, and besides, he’s not the only one who’s cute with his mouth full.

Quentin drinks his coffee and rolls the crystal ball between his hands. It throws spears of light across the kitchen like a contrary disco ball, and Eliot gyrates to imaginary music as he cooks and smiles when it makes Q smile, too.

And maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the smell of coffee and butter, maybe it’s Q’s determination to find what’s wrong with that crystal ball that makes Eliot think that if Q thinks there’s something wrong with him, he’ll dump just as much time and energy into trying to fix it. It’s what he does. And maybe there isn’t any sense in hiding from someone like that, because if they want to fix what’s wrong so badly, then they must care. Right?

He flips the last pancake and adds it to the stack that’s been warming in the oven, refills both their mugs of coffee, and slides onto the barstool beside Q’s, angling himself so they can look each other in the eye. “Hey,” he says as Q’s serving himself, trying to keep his voice even and non-alarmist. “So, about last night.”

Quentin’s eyes are on him instantly. “Yeah?”

“First of all, I’m okay,” he says, holding up his hands. “I promise. It’s not some fun new way to self-destruct. It’s actually … kind of the opposite. Usually. I’m not proud of my performance last night.”

The concern on Quentin’s face doesn’t disappear, but it doesn’t deepen, either. “Okay …”

“But this is something I like,” says Eliot, and he half-expects the windows to shatter or a water pipe to burst for how vulnerable and dangerous it feels. “It feels good. I know it sounds like maybe I just traded one vice for another, but — I drank because I didn’t want to feel anything. I do this because I do.”

“You … like to overeat to feel good?”

“Yes? It can’t be that much of a surprise. Once a hedonist, always a hedonist.”

“No, yeah,” says Q, “I’m just going back through the last few months and yeah, that tracks. That makes a lot of things make sense, actually.” He takes one of Eliot’s hands and laces their fingers together, then meets Eliot’s eyes. “I trust you if you say it’s a good thing for you, even if I don’t really get that part. And you’re okay with — I mean, your body has changed a little lately. Are you okay with that too?”

“Yes,” says Eliot without hesitating. “Especially in recovery. It’s like an extra fuck you to everything I spent the rest of my life trying to hide from. Like, I lived, bitch.”

Quentin cracks a smile. “For what it’s worth, I like it on you. You look settled, in a good way. Like you’re not having coke for breakfast anymore.”

“God,” says Eliot, shuddering. Sure, there will probably always be a part of him that’s rosily nostalgic for the part of his life that was one party after another, but he knows now that his picture of it isn’t accurate, that none of the ways he behaved then bear repeating now that he’s seen the alternative. That Eliot didn’t know he was loved. That Eliot didn’t know that he could be.

Quentin squeezes his hand. “Thanks for telling me,” he says. “I’m open to playing with it. Just tell me what you want.”

“Well,” says Eliot, “I’m about to eat a lot of pancakes, and then I’d really like it if we went back to bed and you held me and rubbed my belly. Some light to medium body worship would also be welcome.”

“Deal,” says Q. He reaches across the counter for the maple syrup, and as he brings it toward his plate, his elbow catches the crystal ball and knocks it to the floor.

“Oh, fuck,” says Eliot, but Q’s not bothered. He cleans up the glass with a flick of his hand and directs it into one jagged, sparkling clump on the coffee table.

“Honestly?” he says. “Sometimes it’s so much easier to fix shit after you just crack it open. It’s not like I’m in a rush, anyway. I’ve got a date this morning.”

Eliot grins as he piles pancakes onto his plate. When he’s finished, Q leans over, takes one more from the stack, and drops it on top.

“You know, I think I can get behind this,” Q muses, sitting back. “I’m in favor of anything that keeps you well-fed and means there’s more of you to hold.”

“Mmm,” says Eliot, cutting into his pancakes. “Then let’s get started.”

#feedist kinktober #feedist kinktober 2024 #my fic #my writing #the magicians #quentin x eliot #chubby eliot #queliot

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lelianasbong · 1 year ago

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YES OKAY I listened to Father Figure by George Michael over and over and over again while writing this. But @hiriaeth..... your post crawled into my brain matter!! accessed only the horniest and most Sopping Wet Sad parts!! and this happened oops.

nsfw wyllstarion fic with feelings beneath the cut :)

He's floating, now. It's not their first time, nor their fifth. Weeks after soft confessions full of hard truths, the indisputable realities of their lives made more and less complicated by their unexpected camaraderie, it is comfortable. It is familiar.

It is novel still.

"Eager," Astarion hisses into the fabric of Wyll's trousers, above the pulse-point in his thigh. Only it's more of a whisper, equal parts hunger and reverence for what lies beneath.

Beneath his haphazardly discarded clothing there is the solid weight of a rod within him - smooth stone, phallic and flared at the base, enchanted with warming runes that tingle pleasantly on contact. And there is a lot of contact. Lines of nascent fire run parallel on either side of the device, pulled further into his clenching heat by the harried, desperate movements of his hips as Astarion sits astride him, casual as can be. His lover strokes his own cock, grinding slowly, unhurried as he bears witness to Wyll's pleasure.

He feels. He feels.

"One little stone cock and you're this undone?" he tuts, one hand idly palming his balls now. "Your other lovers haven't been doing their job." He looks... not displeased - at least not with Wyll - and removes his hands from their work, crossing his arms over his pale chest. His brow is furrowed in consternation.

Wyll laughs, exalted in surrender and so turned on he wants to... wants to do something. Chew through his own flesh maybe, or Astarion's. "What other lovers?" he manages at last, panting through his pleasure and aching for- Astarion huffs out an answering laugh before he can complete the thought, breath soft on his skin.

Wyll's been asked to stay still - asked, only, it wasn't a request. Not really. There's a tilt in his lover's unusually sharp smile, a playful gleam in his eye. "You'll want to heed me," he says, promising nothing. His words are flint but his face is honey-sweet, like Wyll knew he'd be. Hoped he'd be, his soul whispers, and for once in his life he was rewarded for his faith.

Isn't that how it's always been between them?

Astarion merely stares into Wyll's good eye, placid as a lake. Wyll wonders if he's satisfied with what he sees there, but before he can ask the other man is grinding his hips into his own again, victorious as Wyll stutters on words he wasn't going to say.

The weight of expectations and the song of yearning deep within his heart, the hot blood throbbing in his cock, his composure warring against the perilous realization that he wants. That he needs. He cries out as his unfettered ego breaks against the rocky shores of the unknown.

Deft fingers are unbuckling his belt, drawing his trousers down and out of the way. Revealing the mess in his smallclothes - oil and precum and the thick unforgiving stone of that damnable disembodied cock, hours in him now, hours.

Astarion's tongue is a fine instrument. Not least for all its charm or its propensity towards vexatiousness. He knows what to do with it, how to drive Wyll to madness, surely he knows-

His lips - a little cold, a little dry, but soft as satin and sure as the sun make their way from Wyll's chest down to the waistline of his undergarments. Damp as they are with slick and arousal and sweat, they leave little to the imagination. Astarion licks a horizontal line above them - a demarcation of intent - before nuzzling his face into the fabric covering Wyll's package and he cannot hope to contain the throaty noise that escapes his mouth, hips juttering forward, betraying his excitement wholesale if his moaning hadn't already given him away. The stone cock within him shifts sweetly in response to his movements and he chokes on the sensation.

Astarion looks half mad, half affectionate. His normally well-coiffed hair is a mess, owing to their earlier activities more than these before them but his sole focus is on Wyll now. He pets Wyll's face, tenderly. Smiles meanly and sing-songs,

"Young, dumb, and full of cu-"

Wyll groans, half ecstasy and half exasperation at Astarion's insistence on being completely insufferable at every inopportune moment.

"Do not finish that sentence," he grinds out. His teeth are clenched and it's hard to focus on chastising him. It is rather difficult to speak in general when his attention's so divided between the cock in his arse and the one on display before him.

"Or what?" Astarion scoffs, reaching down between Wyll's legs, stopping momentarily to gently roll his balls in his hand before drifting lower still, until he's fingering the base of the stone phallus. Those clever fingers circle his twitching, swollen hole and Wyll tries to remember what words are. His body is too hot. He wonders if this is what Karlach feels like all the time - vitality and scorched earth bound impossibly to one's own living form.

Astarion continues, words blithe, seemingly disaffected. "You are young, and dumb..." He pushes the phallus in, alternating between shallow, quick thrusts and slow and deep, and Wyll gasps like he expects that magical stone cock to come up through his throat. His want is beading at the tip of his cock, fluid pearlescent in the fading light. "And full of come, my sweet," he whispers, torturous tongue applying delicate kitten-licks to the head of his cock which drive him mad but aren't enough.

His horns - 'not the only one,' he had teased some nights ago, the absolute cad - slam against the pillow behind him as his hips cant up, up into that sweet cool mouth only to be overwhelmed by the presence of implacable stone pressing hot and hard into his prostate. It's sweet, it's so sweet and he wants to scream. He twists desperately, Astarion's weight upon him a cornerstone of comfort amidst the ache, and the moan that escapes him is gutteral and involuntary.

It's torturous and too good.

And for a moment, he can't help the fear that washes over him. Not of his lover, of course, nor their current activities, but of his devilish patron Mizora. Of the last time he had attempted... not this, but an approximation of this, with an almost-lover who was many years removed from Wyll's present. Still. The joy Mizora had taken in denying him the respite, this most fundamental of intimacies. It ached then and the threat of it aches now.

Astarion - perhaps via their tadpole, or perhaps Wyll's feelings are more naked on his face than he'd initially thought - takes Wyll's chin in his fine-fingered hands and says, "If she wants to watch, I'll give her a show." No coyness in his voice - well, none more than usual - but... defiant. Protective. It rises in Wyll's heart like an echo, a mirror he didn't know he had - there's a hot swelling in his chest and behind his eyes that has little to do with his throbbing cock. It's been so long since someone cared what he wanted.

Since someone had looked after him.

"See, Mizora?" Astarion's lips, his eyes, his flesh say in tandem. There is mirth and fury in his voice. "There's no room for you here." Bony fingers dig indelicately, indulgently into the sharpest part of Wyll's hips, centering him. Steady. He stares into Wyll's sending stone eye as if he expects her to be staring back. But there is only Wyll, his eyelashes fluttering delicately under the scrutiny.

He's a <good boy> one of them thinks, and between the hot flush of arousal that takes him then and the tadpole-fueled psionic power they're imbued with he cannot tell if it's Astarion or himself that thinks it. That feels it. It makes him cry out regardless.

Astarion, who surely must've heard it - or thought it - only smiles wider and grinds his bare arse against Wyll's leaking cock once more, the pressure of his body weight pushing the warm, pulsating stone phallus deeper still into Wyll, and he cries out, feeling wrecked- feeling-

Faster, he's moving. Wyll can only hold on, torn between wanting to grind down into the fullness or up into Astarion, who is reaching back down and pushing his thumb into Wyll's perineum, staring at Wyll through his lashes, his sweaty brow - their minds brush as their bodies brush, and he hears-feels 'My good, sweet boy' and all at once he is launched off the precipice of pleasure and to his completion.

When he comes to his senses, gasping for air still, heart hammering inside his chest - never one to linger in his own afterglow, as attentive in bed as he is on the battlefield - it's to find Astarion furiously stroking himself, head thrown back as he chases his own climax. Wyll surges up to- help, perhaps. Encourage, at least. But Astarion puts one hand to his chest and shoves him back down, gently but insistently. In seconds Wyll's chest - old scars, new ridges, all parts him - is striped with his lover's spend, evidence of his satisfaction.

They are still for long moments. Astarion rests his head against Wyll's chest - and Wyll knows him well enough to know he's enjoying the thundering of his heart beneath his ribcage, the sound of blood coursing through his overheated body - before groaning and wearily trying to flip them over. This time, he lets Wyll help.

The enchanted stone cock slips out of him with a wet noise that he can't bring himself to be embarrassed about. The whole of him is exposed, laid plain here in this quiet place. His body moves like molasses and feels just as sticky as he rolls over and nuzzles into Astarion's too-cold chest, offsetting some of the unbearable heat.

Astarion holds him as he cards careful, knowing fingers through Wyll's hair, over his horns, tracing the transmogrified points of his ears with a kind of intention that's kind and intentional.

They lay together in the fading light, and it is more than enough.

#good evening wyllstarion nation 😘#take my p*rn offering homiesexuals #baldur's gate 3 #wyll ravengard #astarion ancunin #wyllstarion #bloodpact #fanfiction

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sohannabarberaesque · 2 years ago

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Ursine Battle Royale!

(part 6)

Pratt's Rainbow Gardens, for its somewhat frumpish, though not-quite-down-at-heel look such as was bound to attract especially the regular stop from United Interstate Wrestling for taping matches (as well as past glory chronicled in displays in the lobby and vestibule), was no doubt packed to the rafters and to a man, woman and child as was fond of "wrasslin'" (as opposed to the WWE brand thereof in its kitschy tackiness) for what Hokey Wolf hoped would be the ultimate challenge of ursine supremacy last seen indirectly on no less than three occasions at Milwaukee's since-closed Washington Park Zoo in 1932, to the chagrin of zoo management and the parks board, as things turned out.

Yet before the match was to get underway (two falls out of three deciding the winner), even before the crowd warmup, there was certainly much in the way of discussion over whether a polar bear like Breezly Bruin or a Kodiak like the Hair Bear Bunch's somewhat klutzy and inept Square Bear would be the ultimate exemplar of ursine supremacy in the "wrasslin'" arena.

=============

Meanwhile, back in the alley off Hollywood and Vine, Top Cat and clowder's somewhat amateurish sports book was taking wagers wholesale on the probable outcomes, including several (howbeit modest) such predicting that such would come out as a "Mexican standoff" (as in having no clear or obvious winner, even with two falls becoming the winner), and even Benny the Ball imagined just how lush the gravy train would turn out being until Spook realised that TC would have to pay back the winners if their wagers came out as predicted, and then some.

"Technicalities, Spook, technicalities!" was how an irate TC responded, adding that "What really matters, boys, is that we made quite the money and we're bound to be living high for awhile!" Prompting Choo-Choo to wonder how long that could turn out being, which left TC speechless and bereft of response.

=============

Returning to Pratt's, Huckleberry Hound's predictably-awful musical voice in the warmup generated a guaranteed share of laughs and catcalls as much as The Bungle Brothers' ur-vaudeville act, consisting mostly of washed-up puerile schoolyard humour and some play-acting of wrestling which, in its own way, played up the laughs wholesale ... and before long, it was time for The Main Event, Hokey Wolf striding forth into the centre of the ring to announce the start of the match, acknowledging that "the inspiration, folks, came by way of some bizarre history I read recently about what happened once at the zoo in Milwaukee," replete with no less than three incidents where the dominant polar bear "dunked" in a small water hole in the bear display to death brown bear cubs, no doubt attracting much visitor unease ... and the introductions of the combatants pulled no punches in hyperbole:

For the polar bear side, no less than the Terror of the Tundra, the Nuisance of Camp Frostbite until its shock deactivation ... from no less than Nome, Alaska ... BREEZLY BRUIN!!!!

And--

In the brownish bear arena, he may be lovably dumb, let alone comfortably numb, and yet Hair Bear and crew like him as much as everybody else! So, from Malibu, California, put your hands together for--SQUARE BEAR!!

(As for who got the more blatant entrance into the ring, the debate is bound to be rather long, but many will say Square Bear's treatment ran rings around the legendary Gorgeous George, himself known for theatrically flamboyant ring entrances ahead of televised wrestling matches back in the 1950's, the kind Snagglepuss would just drool over.)

Once it got down to business ... things couldn't have become more farcical, almost kabuki-like, plenty of bluffing and hysterics such as were good for laughter. Yet you could hear calls from supporters of both in the stands demanding some action for once, each trying to determine their first move.

Until exactly four minutes, thirty-three seconds into the match, when Breezly Bruin pulled off a near-tripping manouvre which had Breezly's right foot grabbing Square Bear unawares in like fashion, hoping such would send Square Bear to the mat. It did, but momentarily, as Square Bear pulled a reprisal move identical to the original on Breezly Bruin ... and from there on out, the Ursine Battle Royale! (as such had been promoted all along) was going at a rather hilarious and at once comical pace, with both polar bear and Kodiak bear pulling no punches, comedic and physical, in seeking to assert ursine dominance once and for all.

Shoving, belly bumps, fist grabs, tripping moves, nothing was too good for the match to hand, and never mind how far it was bound to go before either one wrestler fell twice in three attempts or had to be otherwise stopped by the referee--or whomever else had the duty to do so.

And as a matter of fact, a full-on thirty-nine minootas into the match, to be precise about it, an utterly incessant sounding of the timer's bell (and an almost fanatical pitch thereof, at that) caught as much the in-person audience as those watching on pay-per-view cable and satellite feeds off their guard as Hokey Wolf stepped into the ring and, in his Sgt. Ernie Bilko tone and nuance, made the following announcement:

"I am hereby stopping the match as of this moment ... and the match is hereby declared--A DRAW!"

And you could just hear the sheer outrage of catcalls and aroused anger from the stands as the announcement faded away, followed by both combatants having to be escorted posthaste from the ring to avoid likely assaults from attendees on the news of this Battle Royale having been declared a draw.

How did it turn out for both? I'll leave you, the reader and Old Hanna-Barberian, to decide as much.

=============

Not long afterward, Honey and Sis' shortwave worldcast devoted some discussion to the whole farce, the following being but an excerpt:

HONEY: Thankfully, folks, we didn't bet any money on this joke of a wrestling match, and whoever bet anything probably must be crying into their beer big time.

SIS: Except, maybe, such who hoped the match would end up as a draw like it did. Some even using "Mexican standoff" in their wagers on the outcome.

HONEY, wryly: And you wonder what kind of a payday they'll have on the news.

SIS, imitating the stentorian tones of a male announcer delivering the "billboard" type of announcement: "And now, stay stewed for the nudes ..."

(Which certainly saw quite the share of hilarity ensuing on the shortwave ether among such listening, especially so in the standbys of Gilly-Gilly Ossenfeffer Katzenellenbogen-by-the-Sea, Mixingham-on-Sea, and, for good measure, Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch, Wales.)

=============

Top Cat and clowder: When it emerged that the match had ended in a draw, and that substantial sums had been wagered thus to that effect, when it came time for the payoff ... when it was all over, the clowder were left with pretty much enough to kill a Sunday afternoon at some isolated beach between Venice and Malibu off Pacific Coast Highway in a basic sort of way, yet while still being able to wear but themselves.

*************

@warnerbrosentertainment @nighttimehound @iheartgod175 @theweekenddigest @archive-archives @thylordshipofbutts @screamingtoosoftly @themineralyoucrave @princessgalaxy505 @warnerbrosent-blog @thebigdingle @jellystone-enjoyer @shewhotellsstories @warnerbros-blog1

#hanna barbera #fanfic #fanfiction #serial #wrestling #rasslin'#wrestling nonsense #audience warmup #breezly bruin #square bear #4'33"#farce #wrestling farce #draw #match ends in a draw #mexican standoff #how could it happen?#hannabarberaforever

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expogroups24 · 3 days ago

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