#damn i just noticed i never colored in lambert's glasses

[harpoonsandmusicals]

finally got around to drawing how i picture lovelace's og crew! I decided on blood red flight suits to be reminiscent of the main crew's orange but allude to these guys' much darker fate. I'm not quite satisfied with Rhea yet, synesthesia brain is giving me colors that just don't exist in real life, and I was trying to make her look bittersweet, wise but also her life was so short...idk she's tricky

[alittlebitmaybe]

tying you to me

For @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: crafting

Pairing: Geraskier, implied Geralt/Yen in one line

Rating: T for language

Warnings: None

Summary:

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

Or: Geralt doesn't know about the boyfriend sweater curse.

Read more on AO3 or below the cut!

Geralt learned to knit out of necessity. Winters in Kaedwen, especially up in the mountains, are bitter cold, and require not only animal skins but woolen socks, hats, scarves, blankets. They keep a flock of sheep for the very purpose. And before—when there were others, even occasionally a proper staff—it would be part of the normal workings of the castle to have several sets of hands dedicated to knitting up useful garments to keep them from freezing their balls off when the frost came.

There are fewer hands now, but also fewer balls in danger of freezing. Geralt and Vesemir handle the bulk of it, these days—Eskel with fingers too big and clumsy to be much help, Lambert too fidgety and quick to rip out all his progress into a tangled mess of wool in a fit of frustration. In the evenings they sit by the great hall fire in mostly silence and take turns spinning the roving into yarn, winding skeins, chipping away at the endless miles of plain stocking stitch, and seaming panels together. (Sometimes Geralt will embellish the design with cables, or a moss stitch—unconventional patterns he’s started to see in the larger cities, sold by the fancier merchants. He may have paid a few crowns for the scroll describing the pattern for one particular sweater he saw in a shop in Novigrad. He has not mentioned this to Vesemir.)

It may be necessity, but Geralt would choose it even if it wasn’t. These are the things his hands are good for: wielding a sword; harvesting various glands and organs; curling into fists; crushing windpipes; skinning rabbits. Bandaging Ciri’s scrapes. Bringing Yen’s pleasure. Curling around the back of Jaskier’s neck, drawing their lips together. And, when it’s over, when there’s nothing to kill and no one to care for, he can create. He can put it all to the side and count off to himself, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit-purl, knit, knit, knit, around and around, back and forth, and this thing will grow from the rhythm of his fingers, from the steady loop and pull that he’s done thousands of times, taught by some witcher instructor decades ago whose name he no longer recalls. He had bushy eyebrows that waggled as he worked. That’s all the memory that’s left of him.

Anyway, it’s easy to allow the hours to pass until Vesemir excuses himself to bed and the fire burns down and takes the light with it. One such night, just as Geralt is squinting at his work to finish this one last row, the hall door creaks open.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says sleepily, “are you still in here? ‘S late, love.”

Knit, knit, knit. “Mm,” says Geralt. “I’m here. Just finishing up.”

“I’ll wait for you, then.” Jaskier pads in his sockfeet across the stone to the armchair Geralt occupies. He sits himself on the rug with his back against Geralt’s legs, knees pulled up to his chest. “Brr. ‘S chilly, too.”

Geralt drops the needle in his right hand, maintaining tension on the working yarn with his left. He runs his free hand through Jaskier’s bed-mussed hair, brushes against his cold ear, down to the soft skin behind it. “Not wearing a coat.”

“Well I wasn’t heading outside, seemed like a—” He yawns, jaw cracking. “—a lot of trouble just to come downstairs. But I now see my mistake.”

“Always have to wear a coat at night,” Geralt says. “Or be under blankets. Or both.”

“Or acquire a personal witcher furnace, unless he’s down here ‘til gods know what hour making yet more mittens for the princess.”

Geralt looks down at the large rectangle he’s been working on. “Lap blanket,” he says. For Ciri, when she’s studying in the library. It gets drafty in there even with the fire blazing.

“For the library?” says Jaskier, tipping his head back to see Geralt. “Good thinking. She’ll love it.”

Geralt releases him and goes back to his work, but knits at most ten stitches before Jaskier shivers again, his teeth chattering before he gets himself under control. Setting the blanket aside, middle of the row be damned, he concedes, “Let’s go back to bed.”

“No, you’re—you’re not done with—” Jaskier cannot finish his sentence for the yawn that overtakes him. “M’kay. Let’s go.”

As they lay in bed, Jaskier snuggled and breathing humid against his chest hair, Geralt remembers the pattern from Novigrad. A sweater with stretchy ribbing around the wrists and bottom hemline, a high collar. Intricate cabling criss-crossing up the front, making the fabric thick and sturdy. The scroll is stuffed into one of his saddlebags where he’d put it after purchase when he’d cursed himself for wasting the coin.

Jaskier snuffles closer, his grip tightening around Geralt’s waist as he soaks the added warmth through his skin, and Geralt has an idea.

*

The next evening, after dinner has been consumed and cleaned up, Vesemir and Geralt move to the fire as usual. Vesemir is working up a new hat for Lambert, who has the shortest hair among them and has one practically pasted to his head all winter long.

Geralt spares a glance to his blanket-in-progress, and then veers toward the wooden chest that stores their yarn stash. He puts aside plain ball after plain ball, until finally he admits defeat and turns to Vesemir and asks, “Do we have any dye?”

“No,” says Vesemir, not looking up. He knits with the yarn looped around the back of his neck to keep the tension, instead of around his fingers. He says it’s easier on his old joints. Geralt thinks it looks preposterous, but it gets the job done. “Not a drop. And that’s never bothered you before.”

“I’m thinking of making a gift,” says Geralt. “I think they’d prefer it to be dyed.”

“Ah, the bard. Yes. I suppose he would.”

“I want him to actually wear it.”

“Indeed.”

“He says coats are too bulky and ponderous, and they dampen his spirits.”

“Foolish boy. He’ll learn.”

“So we have no dye? Of any color?”

“None,” says Vesemir. “Though it may be that there are some old skeins in the back of the cupboard by the linens. I recall that some of our forebears had rather expensive taste, for witchers. Quite wasteful of them. If you ask me.”

Geralt murmurs his thanks, pulls on a cloak, and makes his way through the frozen corridors to the cabinet in the laundry. Along the way he passes the study, and overhears Eskel dominating Jaskier in another round of Gwent.

“Eskel, you dirty cheating bastard, there is no way you just had that card.”

“Where d’you think I kept it, bard?”

“Up your sleeve, behind your ear, under the table, I dunno—”

“Down your pants,” Lambert chimes in, and Geralt hears Ciri giggle. She’s been spending too much time with the witchers now that Yen has departed for the season. Geralt should probably intervene more often.

“—maybe you magicked me with a sign thingy so I wouldn’t notice, but I’m sure you didn’t have it in hand a turn ago, I’ll swear that on—”

“Yes, Lambert, I’ve got Gwent cards lining my codpiece, naturally, even a few stuffed between my—”

Geralt rounds the corner and their voices fade away.

As Vesemir said, there is a small box pushed all the way to the back of the cupboard in amongst the linens. He opens it without much hope, but is surprised to find it full to the brim with yarn of deep reds and blues, all of some soft texture very unlike the itchy wool they’re accustomed to. Sniffing it, he decides it is from some type of goat. He also decides, based on its lack of musty odor, that it is not nearly old enough to have belonged to one of their forebears.

Well, in exchange for the use of the yarn, he’ll allow Vesemir his secret.

He carries the whole lot back to the great hall.

“You found it,” Vesemir remarks, now nearly done with the hat.

“Right where you said,” says Geralt. “You don’t mind if I use it?”

“As much as you like,” he replies disinterestedly, “if you’ll leave me the fuck alone while you do.”

Fair enough.

Geralt selects the red—a deep burgundy that will pair with the blush on Jaskier’s cheeks after a few glasses of wine. He pulls the scroll from his trouser pocket, and begins casting on as the pattern instructs.

*

When he hears Jaskier’s tread in the hall, he hastily pulls the half-finished lap blanket over his new project.

“Bedtime, Witcher,” says Jaskier, peering over his shoulder. “Didn’t make much progress on that tonight, did you?”

“It’s a big blanket,” Geralt grunts. “Eskel’s been practicing sleight of hand since we were boys. Don’t play him for money.”

“I bloody knew it,” Jaskier exclaims. He wheels around and stomps back out of the hall, suitably distracted. “Eskel! You’ll never believe what Geralt’s just told me!”

*

The sweater is slow going, since he does have to put real work into the blanket every once in a while to keep Jaskier’s suspicions to heel.

Over the next few weeks, it becomes near an open secret in the keep what Geralt is up to. Lambert catches him cursing late one evening as he is ripping back several rows to fix a cable he’d mistakenly crossed the wrong way.

“Whazzat,” Lambert says, crunching on a mouthful of tree nuts.

“Fuck off,” Geralt says. He squints and carefully tries to secure a dropped loop back on the needle. If it ladders down, he’s done for—there’ll be no fixing it while maintaining the pattern. He’s not nearly good enough for that.

“Looks like you’re fucking it up,” Lambert chews.

“I am. That’s why I told you to fuck off.”

“Thought that’s just how you decided to greet me now. That’s what Vesemir does.” He shoves another fistful of nuts into his mouth, though Geralt isn’t sure he’s swallowed the first.

“It’s not a bad idea.”

He manages to pick up that last loop before disaster strikes, and moves the stitches around on the needles to make sure they all look right. Then he shoves the left-hand stitches all the way up to the tip so he can continue.

Lambert leans down to examine the fabric, then runs his finger down the pattern with his eyebrow raised. “This is some fancy shit, Geralt, you giant poof.”

“It’s not for me,” he says.

Lambert swallows, belches, and says, “My point exactly. ‘S for Jaskier, innit.”

Geralt doesn’t bother answering as he approaches the cable he’d made a mess of the first time around. Lambert claps him on the shoulder with the hand he’s been using as a nut-to-mouth delivery tool, which leaves salt behind on his tunic.

“That’s okay. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Thanks,” says Geralt wryly.

“Anyway, I’m outta here. This boring bullshit still gives me hives.”

He exits the hall and the door shuts heavily behind him. Geralt finishes recrossing the cable and, turning to check his pattern, finds it covered in greasy fingerprints.

Eskel, on the other hand, sits himself in Vesemir’s usual seat one night and sets to quietly whittling a whistle. After several hours, Geralt holds up the near completed front panel of his sweater and says, “Do you think Jaskier will like this?”

Eskel doesn’t even look at it. “Geralt, you could spit on a log and hand it to him and Jaskier would love it.” His knife stills. “Maybe don’t do that, though.”

To their credit, none of the other witchers say a word—possibly for lack of caring—and Geralt is able to rely on them to keep Jaskier occupied most nights while he finishes the front and back panels and seams them up.

Before he begins work on the sleeves, the pattern warns, the wearer should try on the body to ensure proper fit.

“Well, shit,” he says aloud. He can’t ask Jaskier to try it on and ruin the surprise. He holds it up against himself, trying to judge if they are similar enough size to judge whether it will fit Jaskier. Geralt, certainly, is wider in the chest and shoulders, but as long as he can get it on without stretching it too much he should be able to check the length. And, if it fits Geralt or is loose, it will certainly be too large on Jaskier.

It will have to do.

The next morning he rises early and takes the sack in which he’s been storing his project to Ciri’s bedroom. He knocks softly.

“Ciri?” he calls, mouth close to the door. “Can I use your mirror for a moment?”

“Mnnngh,” he hears. He takes this as an invitation.

The only visible part of her, when he lets himself in, is a tangle of hair escaping from under the pile of furs on the bed. He sets his sack delicately in front of the only full-length mirror in the keep and says, “Morning, Princess.”

“F’ off,” the fur pile groans. “No it’s not.”

“You really have been spending too much time with Lambert,” Geralt comments mildly as he pulls the unfinished sweater out and checks it for damage in transport, though he knows it was safe in the bag and only traveled up some stairs. “He’s a bad influence.”

“I’ve always been like this when rudely awakened at the crack of dawn,” Ciri says, muffled. “Don’t think any of you are special.”

“You cursed at the royal servants?”

“Quite regularly.”

Geralt shrugs the layers off his top half down to his undershirt while she continues to stretch and grumble wordlessly in the warmth of her bed. He pulls the sweater over his head; the neckline snags on his ears but otherwise he should be okay to try to get his arms in. He squeezes his right arm in and up, aiming for the proper hole—

“Geralt,” Ciri says icily, “what, by the gods, is that?”

He turns around, contorted in the confines of the too-tight sweater. She’s sitting up with her hair a wild tangle and her eyes wide in horror. “What’s what?”

“That garment!”

“It’s…a sweater? I’m making it.”

Geralt thinks he may be missing something very important.

“For yourself?”

“…No, for Jaskier. He needs another—”

“Don’t you care about the curse?”

Geralt finishes fitting himself into the sweater and tugs it down over his stomach while Ciri continues to stare at him in expectant horror. Thus no longer trapped, he decides to engage. “The what?”

Ciri slumps forward, briefly puts her face in her hands. “Good gods, Geralt, you really can’t be helped. But I also cannot allow you to give Jaskier a handmade sweater. Despite your…personal challenges”—at this, Geralt tilts his head and opens his mouth to ask exactly what the hell that means, but she barrels on—“I really have become fond of the two of you, so I cannot let you carry on with this foolish nonsense.”

Her voice goes more posh the longer speaks. Geralt thinks she will make a fine queen someday. “Ciri, I—”

“And really,” she continues, “it’s like you’re trying to sabotage a good thing. He does nothing but care for you, and this is how you repay him? Honestly. Melitele’s tits!”

“Melitele’s—? Where did you learn that one?”

“I’m hardly sheltered. And you’re one to talk, caring about my language when you’re about to lose Jaskier for good!”

“For good? Lose Jask—okay, Ciri.” He sits down at the foot of her bed, probably looking downright silly confined to a sleeveless sweater that is at least one size too small for him. He can feel it constricting the rise and fall of his chest and stretching tight in his armpits. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What curse?”

The expression she aims at him is sharper than at least four of the blades in the armory. “The sweater curse, Geralt. If one makes a sweater for a person one is interested in romantically, that person leaves within a fortnight. Everyone knows this.”

“Oh, of course. How stupid of me,” Geralt says.

Ciri raises an eyebrow that says Yes, obviously.

“So you’re telling me that if I finish this sweater and give it to Jaskier, he will suddenly no longer be able to stand the sight of me and will stomp off on down the mountain, even with the good foot of snow and ice blocking the path.”

She sniffs. “Indubitably.”

“Hmm,” says Geralt. “I think I’ll take my chances.” He claps his hands on his knees as he stands and moves back to the mirror to inspect the sizing more closely. The armholes are definitely a bit small—he’ll have to let out the seam to increase the circumference—but the rest, if he tries to overlay Jaskier’s body onto his own, seems like it should be about right.

Ciri leaves the bed with a fur wrapped around her as a cape and comes to his side. “You’re impossible,” she declares, though the royal snootiness is diminished somewhat by her morning breath and tangled hair. Then she reaches out and touches the textured pattern between the cable running up the front. “Though, you know, it is quite beautiful, if horribly misguided.”

He grins indulgently at her. “Thank you, Princess.”

*

“Have you heard of the sweater curse?”

Vesemir snorts. “Poppycock. Who told you about that old superstition?”

“Just came across it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Vesemir looks at Geralt over his spectacles. “I hope that it’s not bothering you.”

“No,” says Geralt. “Of course not.”

*

He has fuck-all in his hand of cards, but he stares down at them like they might contain the secrets of the Continent.

“It’s your turn, Geralt,” Eskel says.

“I know,” he replies, absently rearranging the cards.

“So…you gonna play or pass?” Lambert asks. He digs his hand into the bowl of nuts at his elbow.

“Not sure.”

“Is something on your mind?” Eskel, again.

“No. Well…do either of you believe in the sweater curse?”

They both look at him blankly.

“Nuh uh,” says Lambert with his mouth full.

Geralt says, “Pass.”

*

He speaks clearly into the xenovox. “Yen? Are you there?”

“Geralt?” comes the reply, as if she were beside him in the room. “Is Ciri all right?”

“We’re all fine. It’s good to hear from you, too.”

“If there’s no trouble, then make it quick.”

Now he hesitates, but he chokes the question out anyway. “Do you know about the sweater curse?”

There is silence.

“Yen?”

“For the love of the gods, Geralt, please don’t bother me with frivolous garbage. I’m much too busy. Is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all,” Geralt says, suitably shamed.

*

The finished, washed, and blocked sweater rests folded at the bottom of his wardrobe for more than a week before he works up the nerve to bring it down to dinner with him in his knitting sack.

Even with the flaws that Geralt, as the creator, inevitably notices—a few loose stitches three quarters down the back panel, the right sleeve is slightly longer than the left—he has to admit that it turned out well. He could fetch a pretty penny for it in a large city. Silky soft, thick, and vivid burgundy, it would be a stand-out piece among any merchant’s wares even without the detailing that stretches collar to hem and even down the outside of the arms.

Knitting it was a nightmare. He will never do anything like it ever again, so Jaskier had better appreciate this one.

Still, every time he resolves to finally gift it, Ciri’s words echo in the back of his mind. You’re about to lose Jaskier for good.

On the ninth day, he shushes that voice, takes the sack, and marches straight into the hall for dinner. After all, if Yen and Vesemir aren’t worried, then he shouldn’t be either.

Everyone but Jaskier is there already. Eskel looks up from pouring ale into each mug and says, “Hullo, Geralt. What do you have there?” and Lambert says, “Ooh, didja finish it?” and Vesemir digs wordlessly into his mutton.

Ciri’s eyes zero in on the sack.

“Hello,” says Geralt. “Is Jaskier still washing up?”

“Yeah,” says Lambert. “He fell in a pile of snow.”

“Lambert pushed him into a pile of snow,” Eskel amends.

Geralt glares at the accused, setting the sack on the bench at his usual spot.

“He asked for it. Bloody said ‘Lambert, throw me into that snow over there!’ didn’t he?”

“Since you were alone with him at the time, I don’t think I can confirm or deny—”

“Geralt,” Ciri interrupts, “tell me you’re not still planning what you said.”

“I am,” he tells her.

“You were standing not ten feet away.”

“My back was turned—”

“You’re a godsdamned witcher! Or have you gone deaf?”

“Even after what I told you! I thought you were going to think about it!” Ciri pushes back from the table. “I forbid you from giving that to him.”

Geralt snorts. “Or what, Princess? Look, I don’t think Jaskier is planning to leave—”

“Of course he’s not planning to, the curse will make him! Why are you tempting destiny this way?”

“I’m just saying, Lambert, that it wouldn’t be out of your character to shove an unsuspecting bard into a snowbank.”

“Oh, and hustling him at Gwent wasn’t out of your character, so maybe you’re actually the one who shoved him. Thought about that one, Eskel?”

Geralt says, “If he tries to leave, I’ll tie him to the bed until the urge passes.”

She wrinkles her nose in disgust, but then moves past that comment. “At least let me give it to him. I’ll say I brought it from Cintra, or bought it on the way here.”

“And let my hard work go unacknowledged? I don’t think so. And why would you have bought a man’s sweater?”

Among the arguments, no one notices Jaskier enter the hall and come up behind Vesemir, wide eyed. “What did I miss?” he stage whispers.

“Just open your present, bard,” Vesemir mutters, gesturing to the sack at Geralt’s knee.

“Ooh, a present? For little old me?”

He picks up the sack and tests the weight curiously, before opening it and drawing out the most marvelous sweater he has ever seen.

“Jaskier, no!” Ciri cries, and everyone else falls quiet.

“What, why?” he says, looking between Ciri’s stricken face and the furrow between Geralt’s brows. “What is this?”

“It’s for you,” Geralt murmurs. “I made it.”

“You made it?” he repeats dumbly.

“Yes. For you. Because you were…cold.”

“Because I was cold?”

Geralt gently takes it from him and holds it up so he can see the full design. “That night, you came in when I was knitting, and you were cold. I wanted to make you something warm to wear that you would like.”

Jaskier squishes the soft fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you,” says Geralt, “like it?”

“It’s stunning,” Jaskier breathes. Geralt may as well have hit him over the head with a hammer.

“I cannot believe you, Geralt of Rivia,” Ciri cuts in. “You never listen to anyone. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves the hall.

Geralt grimaces. “Do you, er, have any particular desire to leave me?”

“Leave you? Why would I—Geralt, is this a breakup gift? Is it pity?” He panics, pushing the sweater back into Geralt’s hands. “I don’t want your gorgeous pity breakup sweater, Geralt. I’ve played that game before.”

Geralt steadies him, as ever. “No, it’s—Ciri thinks there’s a curse, or something. And that if I made you a sweater, you would leave.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier. “Well, I assure you I will not. And in that case I do want the sweater.” He shucks off his coat right there at the table and pulls the sweater on over his tunic. “There!” He spreads his hands wide. “How does it look?”

The smile Geralt gives him is answer enough. “Perfect,” he says. “You look perfect.”

“Not bad, bard,” Eskel says.

Lambert shoots him a thumbs up. Vesemir does not appear to be paying attention.

Jaskier leans in and kisses Geralt on the lips. “Thank you very much,” he whispers. “I adore it and promise to thank you more appropriately later tonight. For now, shall I go after Ciri?”

“That may be best,” Geralt says. “I don’t think she likes me much right now.”

“My pleasure. Say,” he says louder, “while I’m gone, don’t let my food get cold.” He opens the door and barely feels the usual chill of the drafty hallways at all. Over his shoulder, he adds, “You can get Lambert to tell you all how he threw me in a snow pile today! It was great fun!”

“I told you—” he hears, but then the door closes behind him.

[crowleyellestair]

Dream- Witcher Lambert

AN/ I was requested to make another Lambert fic, so here it is. Enjoy : )

Soulmate AU!

 As a boy, Lambert had a dream. It involved a cozy cottage on the top of a large rolling hill. Stable boys and laborers out in the fields tending to the land and animals as he was off helping people. The home would be run by his mum and wife who got along- arguably more than he would with the two themselves. He wouldn’t want kids as he barely got along with the kids on the block, and he didn’t want to risk having a jerk for a kid. Even if he were dead, his father still had no business in the boy’s dream, so there was no time wasted in that.

It was something he could achieve, though it seemed harder with every hit or drink downed by his father. Lambert was hardheaded however, and he knew in his heart he could get that dream. Then Vesemir showed up. Dreams became jokes and fleeting thoughts, and nothing seemed achievable unless it revolved around getting thrown out of town and being under-paid. They lived in child’s stories or wife’s tales.

A soul bond became the biggest joke of them all, and he would cast off any signs of it. The continent was riddled with folks who have marks that match their significant others’, yet the young witcher cast that off farther than any dream he had before. Not everyone found their mate if they appeared to have ‘the mark’ and not everyone had what sorcerers considered to be ‘the mark’ to begin with. Once Lambert was changed on a cellular level, he really only believed in empirical proof. At this point, it had all been chalked up to correlation. His mother had said that she liked to think that she and her husband were soul mates, yet it turned so poorly that he never wanted it even if it had been real.

The problem was, however, that he apparently had a mark.

Geralt had brought Yen to the keep for the second year in a row, and Lambert finally decided not to care. After the first couple of nights, he decided to shed most of his layers so he could lounge comfortably under the mountain of furs he always had. He might be a witcher, but winter is cold, despite what every one of his brothers say. The man and the sorceress had gotten into another dispute, and she had said some pretty harsh things, but nothing the man couldn’t take. Until, she had brought up the dark, rorschach blotch on his collarbone.

“I see you have a mark. Pity should be sent to however is bound to you.”

She apologized afterwards, admitting that she hadn’t truly meant it, and he could tell her sincerity. He hadn’t even believed in the tale, so why would it affect him? Well, it had. He stayed up, trying not to let himself dream again. It had been years, and he was no longer a witcher. He was a man, seeking to protect those who seem to not want to be protected, and he was going to do it even if he’s put down every step of the way. He had no time for fake lovers. Lives were on the line somewhere.

He had cast the day out of his mind until it was brought up again, years later. The mark used to be a pale color, but once he became a witcher, it became dark. He had always thought it was because of the trials, but Kiera had explained that once a mark becomes light, the mate was dead. She assumed that his mate was born once it became dark. It was all a theory however, and one Lambert didn’t want, as he only received this info after he tried to flirt with her. It was going swimmingly until he became too hot and discarded his gambeson, which allowed her to see it. She also explained that magic users could tell it was a bond mark due to the magic it gave off, but again, he thought it hogwash.

Again, it made him hope. It made his chest tighten with excitement and his heart pound with nerves. It made his eyes water with despair, as even if he was bound, the path was no life for anyone but the people forced onto it. And he would never force someone, not like his father.

Lambert doesn’t cry, however, so he held his head high and continued on his journey. It was cut short in the spring after another two decades of the mark not being mentioned. He was traveling down towards Flotsam when he was alerted by an explosion. Usually, if there wasn’t a contract, he wouldn’t worry. He was simply passing through after an empty notice board. Lambert was familiar with the sound, though. It was eerily similar to a bomb he used himself, and if another witcher was wreaking havoc, he’d need to help. A medium cottage had smoke coming through every window blown open from the blast. Glass littered the grass and black scorch marks could be seen on the sills. He was jumping off his horse when the front door blew open, and a woman stumbled out.

She coughed into the grass as she fell to her knees. He couldn’t tell the color of her hair, as it was covered by ash and sticking every which way. Lambert quickly made his way to her side, asking if anyone else was in the home.

“No, just me.” There was another coughing spell from the woman before she got to her feet, and smiled to him bashfully. “Sorry bout that. My igniter went out this morning, but this is my bakery, and I needed the fire to start. I had some sulfur and a few other ingredients, but it seems I put too much saltpeter in.” Lambert listened intently as he used Aard to blow the rest of the flames away before they consumed the rest of the bakery. The woman walked in behind him, seemingly looking for something. When she found it, she smiled to him and grabbed the cloth tucked in her apron pocket. A bucket of water had been behind a flipped metal table, and she quickly dipped in. Soot quickly started to disappear from her face, and he began to notice that he stopped breathing. Despite the rogue streaks of dirt, her skin looked to be the softest visage he had ever laid eyes on. Bright eyes crinkled with joy as they sustained contact with his slit ones. It wasn’t until she started to look around her shop for another item that the air turned sour. “Damn it!” was exclaimed before she started to apologize to him for the outburst.

“I didn’t realize bread was something to swear over.” He didn’t know what it was, but instead of turning towards the door after seeing everything was fine, he leaned over the counter, arms crossed on his chest. Paranoia was a great friend of his, but he seemed peaceful with the arsonist.

“It wouldn’t be, but the bread was important.” His eyes flew over the half-destroyed place. Most everything was salvageable. Too much saltpeter made the explosion larger, but it seemed to have a controlled sulfur amount, so the damage was reduced only to the kitchen portion of the open shop. It seemed to the man that she knew what she was doing, only having a minor slip up. He didn’t know what it was, but he wanted to know more. Why was the bread important? How did she know the basics to an explosive? What was her name? He didn’t want to seem interested, however, so he took a note from Geralt’s book, and gave a questioning hum.

“Well, there’s an orphanage a couple of miles from here in the estate down the way. The kitchen made from the main house gives them leftovers.” A life-threatening explosion for an orphanage, huh?

“It seems they should be fine then.” He watched from the counter as she started moving things around while continuing to wipe herself down. The young witcher wanted to smile when anger and snark flew into her tone against him.

“It would be fine, if it wasn’t practically treating them like dogs. There kids, and orphans- through no fault of their own. They’re going to get food like people should.”

“Sounds very noble.” He too let snark into his tone, but he could tell by her heartbeat that she was telling the truth.

“Said the man who rushed here with no inkling of what was happening. Another explosion might have gone off, yet you rushed in to put out the rest of the flames.” With that, Lambert pushed himself up to square with the woman.

“Who said I rushed here?” Lambert watched as her eyes crinkled, and his heart quickened by the joyous sound that was her laugh.

“It’s a large open field. I looked out and made sure no one was around if something went wrong. If I got hurt by my own explosion, that’s fine, but I wouldn’t stand for a random person to be caught in it too.” He had stopped listening to cast his gaze over her figure. The cloth was still wiping, though it seemed she had gotten all of the dirt. His heart only stopped when he noticed the blotch that was oh so familiar to him on her collarbone. He cleared his throat, pointing to it.

“You missed a spot.” Her gaze cast downwards, and made an indifferent grunt.

“That’s actually a birthmark.” How was the man supposed to proceed? He didn’t believe, but now he was standing face to face with someone who was his soulmate. Again, he cleared his throat, and looked away.

“Verden is not too far from here. How much bread would you need.” He could feel her shift with surprise.

“Um, three loafs.” There was a silence that he wished he could escape from, yet didn’t want to leave. Luckily, she broke it. “What’s your name?” He could hear a smile enter her tone. “A noble hero should always have a name.”

“Lambert,” was forced past his lips. His gloved hand rubbed the back of his neck before nodding and turning to leave. He was practically out the door when he stopped himself. He never backed down from something, and this was the start to his dream. A long forgotten one, but his none the less. “And what should I call the woman who blew up her own shop?” A soft chuckle came from behind him before he heard a softer,

“Y/n.” For the hundredth time in the last half-hour, Lambert had no clue as to why, but he smiled at the name. It was one he’d happily say the rest of his life. Of course, he’d need to tell her first.

[swan--writes]

Don’t Leave Me

(I was listening to Easy to Leave by Mary Lambert while I wrote this.)

Damn, this was a hard one. Anyway, remember that woodworking reader who likes knives and goes to mortuary school from this fic? I’m making her an OC. The two stories aren’t really connected though, you don’t have to read Jealousy to understand this story.

Warnings: cursing, suicide mention, mentions of abuse

When Cerys Dormouth was sixteen years, six months, and four days old, she used spirit work for the first time. It was uneventful, just a Ouija board quasi-experiment that no-one in the Netherworld bothered to respond to. It was, however, an important, formative experience for her. Humans are funny that way. Still, it wasn’t until she was twenty-one that she begun doing her research, and she was twenty-three before she summoned her first spirit.

At the time, she couldn’t see the spirit, but she felt someone in the room with her. She would later find out she was something of a target in the Netherworld for a few months after that. Cerys was an easy mark for any ghost who needed a quick body snatch. In retrospect, she should have been much more careful with her wards and her words. By the time she was twenty-five, she had finally learned to avoid being possessed. She learned her way around banishing spells, and she kept at least one on standby every time she did spirit work. She researched which substances would react most effectively with every spirit she summoned, communicated with, and would eventually need to send away. This was fortunate because at twenty-five, Cerys set her sights on something much more powerful than a simple ghost.

When Cerys Dormouth was twenty-five years, eleven months, and six days old, she summoned the demon Beetlejuice. He was a little dirtier than she had imagined, but he would do.

Cerys needed a demon so she could gain practical insight into her assignments for mortuary school. She needed to have a power kick around to help with her witchy endeavors. Mostly though, Cerys needed someone – literally anyone – to make her side of the duplex feel like more than half a home. So, she let Beetlejuice stick around after the ritual.

Quickly, Cerys came to have fairly low expectations for Beetlejuice. Sometimes she would come home to find her apartment a mess. It would look like she had been robbed, though she knew that was impossible. Her resident demon would never allow that. Sometimes she would come home to find the place spotless. She just rolled with it. Once, she found Beetlejuice squirming around her floor as an oversized snail. He later told her that he enjoyed the security of his shell. As a result, she gave him virtual free range of her apartment. If she hadn’t, she knew that not only would he ignore her restrictions, but he would deliberately get all up in shit that he had no business getting up in, just to make a point.

So when Cerys first heard the rustling in her apartment almost two months after first summoning Beetlejuice, she didn’t think much of it. She didn’t know or particularly care what Beetlejuice did when she was sleeping, as long as he didn’t directly disturb her. Hesitantly, she stuck an arm out from her blanket cocoon and lifted her phone from her bedside table. 2:12 AM. No way in hell was she getting out of bed for Beetlejuice’s antics.

There was no way anyone could have broken into her apartment, or that anyone who managed to break in could do any real damage. And if Beetlejuice was making all the noise, she probably didn’t want to know what he was doing.

After just a few moments, the rustling subsided. Cerys closed her eyes and let out a soft sigh.

Not two minutes later, the rustling was back. This time, she was out of bed in an instant, shoving on her glasses and hastily pulling her thin black robe on over her pajamas as she padded out of her room on bare feet. It wasn’t because she felt a need to tell off the demon, or because she was actually concerned about an intruder. The concern that Cerys felt sloshing around in her stomach acid was for the low sound she had heard before the rustling. It was the rolling of a desk drawer.

The only place she didn’t allow Beetlejuice to access was the bottom drawer of her desk. Cerys had never told him that he wasn’t allowed to open it, she had merely used her woodworking skills to seal it shut during one of his trips to the Netherworld. The last time he went through her desk, she had ever-so casually strolled past her office door to see if he could open it. Beetlejuice seemed to have accepted that, for whatever odd Swedish reason, the bottom drawer was not meant to open and moved on. It had never come up between them – she couldn’t think of any reason it would – she never asked him about it, and any anxiety she had concerning it had evaporated over time.

Now that anxiety was creeping back into Cerys’s mind. She heard a crash and jumped, halting for a moment. As much as she hoped Beetlejuice had simply transformed himself into another large gastropod and she could go back to bed confused but otherwise unbothered, she knew tonight was unlikely to be that easy.

When she finally make it to her office, she stilled again and stared. The second drawer up in her desk had been pulled out completely, exposing the contents of the bottom drawer. It looked like the crash had been Beetlejuice losing his patience with reaching through the opening, opting instead to yank the bottom drawer out of place. He had separated the door from the rest of the drawer box on one side. Some of the drawer’s contents lay on the floor, others had been placed atop the desk.

The drawer’s contents had been scattered all over the office. There were keys attached to ribbons, feathers, a messy black journal, a scratched zippo lighter, baggies of pressed flowers, and several daggers. She hadn’t used any of these supplies in nearly two months. Cerys was reasonably certain that the lighter was dead. She considered snagging it and throwing it into the trash outside, just in case.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, intentionally preserving the tired rasp in her voice. The more casual she came across, the better.

But Beetlejuice didn’t answer her. He was searching through a pile on the floor, clearly looking for something and becoming more and more frustrated that he couldn’t find it. His movements were rushed and jerky, and he didn’t seem to care about the mess he was creating. His left hand was closed around something, though Cerys couldn’t tell what it was. What she took the most notice of was his hair.

It had taken Cerys all of two days to learn that Beetlejuice’s hair was practically a mood ring. Most often, when she was around, it was the same shade of healthy green. Now it was extremely dark, different colors flashing in different parts of it. Red, yellow, purple, blue, purple again–or was that red? All against a layer of deep black.

She frowned and rubbed at the back of her head, tan fingers slipping through her short dark hair . When she took a step further into the office, she felt the cuff of her purple pajama pants dragging the faux-wood laminate floor. Beetlejuice didn’t even look at her. She tilted her head. “Beej, what’s–”

“You were gonna send me away.” His voice was bordering on manic.

“What?”

“You know goddamn well what I mean!” he growled.

She flinched. “What did you find?” Cerys asked carefully. Her stomach was beginning to twist itself into slow, deliberate knots. In a rush of stripes and lichen and righteous anger, Beetlejuice marched up to her and shoved his left hand into her face. In it sat a small curled strip of paper. Hesitantly, watching him, Cerys took the paper from him. It felt weathered between her fingers and her heart fell into her stomach with a splash when she realized what it was.

Her nervousness must have shown on her face, and Beetlejuice seemed to take it as an admission of some sort. Slowly, very slowly, the red in his hair was winning out. Every other color ceded and from his roots, an intense crimson begun to spread.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“Oh, it’s not a banishing spell? Of course. I’m sure you were gonna use it to summon a fairy, right? What do I have to worry about? Your precious little pet demon.”

The mocking in his voice stung. “No, I mean I wasn’t going to use–”

“Don’t lie to me!” Immediately, Cerys went silent. “Where is it?”

She knew better than to ask what he meant. Beetlejuice had only found one part of two components. Cerys swallowed and stepped around the demon. She bent down at the edge of the heap of materials he had scattered on the floor and lifted a small glass vial.

The vial was cone-shaped and about as long as one of Cerys’s fingers. It was almost empty, but for about a quarter teaspoon of course black salt and a small moldavite stone. The vial was corked, and there was black wax holding the cork tightly in place. The scroll in her hand had once been bound to it by twine. It must have fallen off.

Beetlejuice was advancing on her now, forcing her to move backwards. “Haven’t I done everything you asked? I came when you called, I scared off your shitty neighbors, I tear myself apart every goddamn day for your stupid projects! I’ve done everything for you! You’re not gonna send me away!”

Cerys’s back hit the wall and she stared at the demon’s flashing eyes. “Of course I won’t–”

“Stop fucking lying to me!”

“I’m not–”

“This thing could exorcise me!”

“Why do you think I locked it away?!”

Beetlejuice froze.

For all his menace, he seemed entirely unprepared for Cerys to yell at him. They had fought before, tensions had risen, they had both raised their voices. But never had Cerys shouted back at him, and certainly never with tears stinging in her eyes. Not once in nearly two months had Beetlejuice seen her cry. He almost looked taken aback.

“You’re the first demon I ever tried to summon, it would’ve been stupid to not have an exorcism!”

“And what, you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I knew this would happen if I did.” Cerys gestured violently between them. Beetlejuice took a step back. “I knew that if you knew I had it, you’d think I would use it.”

“Well, aren’t you going to?”

“No! But what if you leave and I have to summon someone else?” Beetlejuice scoffed and turned away from her. She stared at him, shaking her head. Impossible, impossible man. There was a long silence before she finally made a decision. Cerys held the vial out to him. “Take it.”

Beetlejuice’s head snapped around and he locked his gaze on her. “…what?”

“Take it. I’m serious, do whatever you want with it.”

“How do you know I won’t use exorcise some other dead guy?”

Cerys shrugged. “You don’t need this to do that.” Beetlejuice didn’t move. “You don’t want me to have it, right?”

The demon’s expression was unreadable, his tone half as harsh as it had been moments before. “Don’t fuck with me, breather.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t–”

“Take it, Beetlejuice.”

He flinched almost imperceptibly at the sound of the name. That was when she noticed the shakiness of his breathing. The slow fading of the red in his hair as it turned to black. The wet gleam of his golden eyes and how much deeper the bags under them seemed in this moment.

“Beej…” Cerys whispered.

Both their hands were shaking when he reached out. Slowly, carefully, Beetlejuice lifted the vial from Cerys’s fingers. He wrapped his chilled hand around it, clutched it to his chest, and heaved in a breath before either of them realized that he was crying.

For a full minute, Cerys could only watch in shock as he lowered himself to the floor. Beetlejuice did not cry. Demons did not cry. Cerys didn’t know it, but that phrase was playing unbearably loudly in Beetlejuice’s head, in an old, harsh, unforgiving voice.

Demons don’t cry. Don’t be stupid. Don’t be worthless, you’re a demon.

Demons don’t cry.

Cerys pushed out a breath and sank to her knees beside a shaking, sobbing demon. Beetlejuice was curled around his hand, around the exorcism, around his cold self. With as much feeling as she could hold in her body, Cerys wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He gave a startled cry, but relaxed into her almost automatically. She leaned sideways against the desk, curving around where the bottom drawers should have been, and he pillowed his head on her chest.

From this close, Cerys eventually noticed that he was trying to uncork the vial with his thumb.

Her words left her in a rush, in a breath. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He whined when she took the vial from him, slamming it on top of the desk.

“But–”

“You can’t leave, Beej.” She spoke softly, but with a vehement strength. “You can’t leave me. Not like that.” A few hot tears dropped from Cerys’s eyes and onto Beetlejuice’s forehead, and she let go of him for a moment. When he looked at her hands, he saw her tearing the paper he had handed her into two, then four, then eight frayed squares. She tossed them aside harshly.

“C–Cerys…”

She wrapped both of her arms around him now, cradling him against her. One arm returned to its place around his shoulders, the other draped across his front and hanging onto his waist. He clung to her waist. “Don’t go. Please don’t go,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Beetlejuice mumbled. “Demons aren’t supposed to cry, I–I’m sorry.” Cerys took her hand from his waist and ran it through his purple and black hair.

“Cry as much as you need to, just stay.” He leaned up and pressed his face into her neck, letting her silent tears fall into the hair she was still stroking.

“Okay.”

When Cerys Dormouth was twenty-six years, one month, and two days old, she kissed the demon Beetlejuice for the first time. It was wet and brief and a little messy, and more meaningful than any kiss she had ever taken or given before.

Buy Me a Coffee?

[starblazerm31]

Sonata of Whoa

A fic request by @coloursagainstthewall

Modern AU Hector Vasallis x Julian (featuring Azalea and Imalia! OMG I was so happy...)

Hector’s band is performing at the Rowdy Raven.  Julian is not prepared for the performance.

Ko-Fi ☕

Julian sat in the parking lot of the Rowdy Raven for a moment, checking his hair in the rear-view mirror.  His phone lit up.  He picked it up and saw the photo of Azalea giving the raspberry, signalling her text.  He opened up his messages and saw the words "Are you here yet?" followed by "they're doing sound checks, the band is gonna start soon!!!"

She had been really insistent that he be here tonight.  One of her favorite cover bands was playing live, and she had invited her friends to come and enjoy the show with her.  Another text, this one a photo.  In it, he saw four faces.  Azalea, her aqua-coral ombré hair up in pigtails, making a pained face.  Next to her was Imalia, glaring.  In the background, Asra could be seen taking a swig of beer from a bottle, and just beyond him was Lucio making a lewd gesture with his golden fore and middle fingers.  Julian snorted and replied with "On my way in, hold your horses.  Geez."

He climbed out of his car, locked the door, and closed it.  From outside, he could hear random chords on a guitar as it was being tuned and checked.  His boots clicked on the steps as he reached for the door and opened it.  Inside was the sound of many patrons talking and laughing.  He walked inside, and shut the door.  Immediately he was greeted with a loud "JULIAN!!!!"  He barely had time to react before Azalea hurled herself at him, jumping up and landing on him like a koala on a tree.

He hugged her strongly.  "Sorry I'm late," he said, "traffic was a bitch." "It's okay, at least you made it before the first set," she said, climbing off of him.  Her blue and gold eyes flashed.  "You can't miss Sonata of Whoa.  You CAN'T!"

Julian chuckled to himself.  That was a clever band name.

"Nice duds!" Azalea said.  "Very hawt."

Julian looked down at himself.  He'd decided on a black button up shirt (with the buttons only halfway closed) and a pair of fitted grey slacks.  He wore his usual thigh-high boots.

"Thanks," he said.  "Looks like you went with Anime Raver Chick?"

She looked cute in a powder blue Sailor Moon babydoll t-shirt and high-riding pink Daisy Duke shorts.  She sported rainbow leg warmers and purple Chuck Taylor shoes.

"No other way to do it!" Azalea said.  "C'mon, we've got good seats, and the Bitters are free flowing tonight."  She leaned in close.  "Lucio's paying." Azalea grabbed his hand and pulled him through the crowd.  At the table, he saw four chairs.  Imalia and Asra took up two of them, and Lucio sat in the third.  Asra waved them over.

"Ilya!  Sit down, we just got a new pitcher."  Julian did as he was told, and a frosty glass of Salty Bitters was slid to him.  He couldn't help but blush slightly at Asra's outfit.  He was wearing rainbow tye-dyed leggings and a neon pink fishnet shirt that Julian distinctly remembered stripping off of him when they had dated several years ago.  He had on neon blacklight reactive eyeshadow and numerous glow necklaces and bracelets.  He noted that Asra was also wearing a new choker.  Black leather with a ruby-encrusted "I" charm.  A glance to Imalia gave an explanation, since she was wearing an identical choker with an opal "A".  She was sporting a red and black leather corset with tight black pants and leather knee-high boots.  Her brown and burgundy hair was in its typical ponytail.  She fist-bumped Julian as he sat.

Julian noticed that there wasn't enough chairs for everyone.  He was about to offer to swipe another, when Azalea simply sat down in Lucio's lap.  Lucio looked like a mafioso, with an open silk shirt in crimson red and white pants.  And way. Too. Many. Gold. Chains.

Julian took a swig of his drink.  "Lots of people here to see a cover band," he remarked.

Azalea gave him a petulant look.  "Hey, don't knock it," she said.  "Cover bands have some of the absolute best talent that just gets overlooked.  The lead singer tonight...man, he's amazing.  Kicks Mick Jagger's ass, seriously."

"Hey, don't disrespect Mick Jagger," Lucio said.

Azalea smiled mischievously at him.  "Mick Jagger doesn't have a magical voice, if ya get my meaning, babe."

"So...this guy sings with magic?" Julian asked

. "Yes and no," Asra said.  "He's genuinely talented, but he does seem to use a bit of song magic in his shows."

"Voice layering without all the clunky machines, you know," Imalia said.  "Plus, if you can do it, why not?"

The hype man appeared on stage and the crowd erupted with applause. "I hope you all brought towels," he said enthusiastically, "because you're all gonna be jizzing your pants!  I give you the first secret wonder of the music world...SONATA! OF!! WHOA!!!"

Azalea leapt out of Lucio's lap and screamed at the top of her lungs along with everyone else in the bar.  The sounds of synth in a catchy beat seemed to start out of nowhere.  No one was on stage.  Then suddenly there was a blast of smoke as several fog machines spilled their contents at the same time, absolutely covering the stage.  The stage lights came on, covering the mist in several different colors and then with a blast of magical flame, the mist was totally gone and the band were on stage, instruments in hand.  And front and center was the lead singer.  He was around 5'4", clad in a denim hooded vest and leather pants.  His very muscular arms and chest gleamed in the stage light.  Atop his head was a crown of brown curls that fell around his golden eyes in a way that made Julian completely stop mid-sip.

"So hot Out the box Can we pick up the pace? Turn it up, Heat it up I need to be entertained Push the limit Are you with it? Baby, don't be afraid I'm a hurt 'ya real good, baby"

Julian's eyes were glued.  As the singer danced and gyrated on stage, Julian took in everything.  Every movement, every sound.  This guy was entrancing and the song had just started.

"Um...hey, Julian?" Imalia said.

"Let's go It's my show Baby, do what I say Don't trip off the glitz That I'm gonna display I told ya I'm a hold ya down until you're amazed Give it to ya 'til your screaming my name!"

"Julian?"

He didn't respond.  It was like he had frozen in place.

"Dude, you're spilling your drink!!"

Julian blinked and realized that while he had forgotten to drink his Bitters, he apparently hadn't forgotten to tilt the glass.  Now the front of his shirt was completely soaked.  Lucio cackled, holding up his phone.  He'd been recording.

Imalia laughed.  "Now you're back with us.  Here."  She waved her hand, and the beer on his shirt lifted away and flitted through the crowd into a garbage can.  Imalia then took the glass from Julian and set it down on the table.

"Take time to ogle and THEN take a sip," she said, refilling the drink.

Asra had gotten up and danced along with Azalea, the two of them appearing to freeze in time each time the strobe lights in the rafters blinked.  Julian's eyes went back up to the singer and he felt his entire body explode in heat.  The singer was looking dead at him.  Those eyes, like golden coins from a treasure long hidden, pierced Julian straight to the core.  It was like the song had changed at was directed only to him.

"Oh! Don't you know what you got into? Can you handle what I'm 'bout to do? 'Cause it's about to get rough for you I'm here for your entertainment!"

The singer winked and continued the song, every so often looking at Julian.  Julian felt like he needed air...but to leave while that specimen performed would be a travesty.

Each song afterwards took on a whole new meaning to Julian.  "Story Ain't Over" by Avanstasia.  "Runnin'" by Adam Lambert.  And then, the cherry..."Angel" by Aerosmith.  Everyone in the bar swayed to the music; Imalia and Asra and Azalea and Lucio all danced together in time to the beat, both couples gazing into each others' eyes.  Julian desperately wished that beautiful creature on stage were doing the same with him.  But his eyes never left Julian's.  It were almost as if he were dancing with him, dedicating each note and word to him.

The spell was broken when the lights came up.

"Thanks for coming everyone, we will be in the back selling our album!  Stop by the table and visit us!"

Oh. My. God.  He has an accent.  Slightly hard to place, but it had a Cajun lilt to it that made Julian want to seep through the floor in bliss.  He stood up as the band all filed offstage and settled in the large booth in the back, the table littered with albums and merch.  He felt a pang of jealousy as Azalea shot over to the table as soon as the singer was seated.  Julian's face turned red as she spoke to him with animated gestures and he jumped up and gave her a huge hug.

"Don't even think about it, Curly," Julian heard next to him.  He glanced over to see Lucio with his arms folded, a scowl on his face.

"C'mon, she's just talking to the guy," Julian grumbled.  "This whole thing was her idea."

Julian felt a lump form in his chest when he saw the singer lean forward and say something conspiritory to Azalea.  She glanced back at Julian and got a devilish smile.  What was she doing??  She said something else, gesturing to their table, and the singer stood up and followed her.  Julian felt himself panicking.

"Hey, guys, this is Hector!" Azalea proclaimed.  "Thank him for his show, it was bomb!"

"Hell yes, you guys rock!" Imalia said.  "Damn fine!"

"Yes, thank you so much, it was amazing," Asra chimed in.

Lucio didn't speak.  He just puffed up his chest and pulled Azalea against him.

Those eyes fell on Julian and he felt his legs go weak.  Hector leaned forward and reached for Julian's hand.

"Hector Vasallis," he said.  "And you are, cher?"

Julian's mouth suddenly went bone dry.  He opened his mouth to speak, but words completely failed him.

Imalia rolled her eyes.  "That's Julian," she said.  "Sorry, your performance has struck him dumb."

"That's sad, cher," Hector said.  "I really like it when fans shout."

Julian felt heat from his chest to his ears.  Holy shit, this man was fine.  And his hands, strong and calloused, felt warm and gentle wrapped around his own.

"It...it was an amazing show," Julian somehow managed.  Hector smiled.

"Why don't I buy you a drink?  I'd love to get to know you better."

Julian evaporated into a cloud of steam before coming back to his senses. "I'd, uh, really love that."

Julian would have to thank Azalea for this later.