#have been quite displeased with my art as of late i think i am in the Skill Gap once more. but this is decent enough

[emberglowfox]

chatty

[jaskierswolf]

No Regrets

A noble!Jaskier A/B/O arranged marriage fic for @greyduckgreygoose as part of a server exchange. - AO3

Ship: Jaskier x Aiden

Rating: E

Length: 2.8k

CW: Smut, Alpha Aiden/Omega Jask, scent kink, fingering, oral sex, penetrative sex, knotting, mating bites

_

If there was one thing in life that Jaskier regretted, it was that he was a noble. Without the ties of his blood, being an omega wouldn’t be so bad. He could have chosen his own alpha, been happily mated if he wished, or stayed free and wild as he roamed the Continent to his heart’s desire. As a child he’d declared that he would be a travelling bard or a merchent, renouncing all claim to the stupid title that now bound his dear sister to the estate. He’d dreamed of his life as a barker to some witcher or other adventurer, strumming tunes on his lute and spreading his music all across the Continent.

A pipe dream.

Jaskier didn’t even regret being an omega. It was actually quite thrilling, the sex was easier with the slick he produced and the desperation his heats brought was really quite incomparable. There was nothing quite like getting fucked within an inch of his life and knotted by some strapping alpha, lost in orgasm after orgasm until he quite literally passed out.

He knew the real thief of his freedom was his blood, his nobility, his dear old parents caught in their archaic ways. Only, now he was to be married to some mysterious alpha that had saved his father’s life a few weeks ago and Jaskier was kicking up a fuss, purposely not looking his best for the wedding. His neck was littered with hickies from a rather lovely beta he’d fucked the night before, but when the alpha, his alpha, walked into the room, Jaskier regretted every decision he’d made that morning.

The bastard was handsome, unbelievably so, and he was wild. Jaskier had been expecting some stuck up noble alpha that only cared about the pups Jaskier could provide, but, oh, ho, ho, gods, this man was a work of art! Long dark hair was pulled back into a messy half updo, long waves falling down past his shoulders. He had tanned skin, covered in scars, from what Jaskier could see, a particularly nasty one striking along his left eye and cutting into his cheek, but gods, those eyes… startling gold like the sweetest honey. Most interesting were his clothes, pretty dark blue garments that Jaskier could have sworn were armoured, and a hood resting on his shoulders. He seemed to be unarmed but something in Jaskier’s gut told him that the man was still dangerous, and that thought had him pressing his thighs together as he felt another rush of slick escape him.

The alpha’s nostrils flared and those gorgeous molten eyes met his from across the room. Jaskier felt as though he had been hit by lightning as he basked in the heat of his alpha’s stare. From beside him, Jaskier heard his mother gasp, the bitter scent of her anger clouding the air, but it was far too late for mother dearest to back out now.

Jaskier was going to marry a witcher!

Maybe his plans of travelling the Continent hadn’t been so far fetched after all. Destiny had truly blessed him on this day, he would be free from the society he hated so much, travelling by this fine specimen’s side until death.

Oh, ho, ho!

He was thrilled.

The alpha didn’t seem too displeased either as he winked at Jaskier from across the room, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. The man bowed deeply to Jaskier’s parents but there was something in his manner that made Jaskier laugh. There was nothing sincere in his greeting, and the Viscount of Lettenhove knew this, that much was clear from the sneer on his face, the nasty curl of his lips.

And oh didn’t that make Jaskier’s victory all the sweeter. He wondered what the alpha had done or said to convince his old man to give up his only son, and a precious omega to boot. Jaskier supposed a life debt was hard to argue against.

The witcher seemed like a bit of a cad, all flirty winks and mockery of nobility that made Jaskier swoon, his knees buckling a little underneath him under the heavy musk of the alpha’s scent. Slick soaked through his underclothes and he wriggled uncomfortably, his hands itching to slip beneath his breeches and tease at his cock, his hole, anything that could relieve him of the aching arousal in his gut. The alpha let out a wave of pheromones, calming Jaskier’s mind and subduing him. Even his poor mother seemed to relax beside him, but the strong scent of alpha, had his father growling low in his chest. The deluded fool, as if he could take on a witcher, although he probably knew he couldn’t and that was the only reason Jaskier was allowed to marry this god of a man.

“You came,” Lord Alfred of Lettenhove hissed through gritted teeth.

To Jaskier’s surprise, the alpha just laughed, one hand resting on his hips. “I told you I would. I don’t lie, human.”

“Not my son, Alfred, please. You can’t give my son to a witcher!” Jaskier’s mother begged, falling to her knees in front of her husband. “Anyone but a witcher, I’ll even agree to that lass from Nilfgaard, please, alpha.”

It was a pitiful display, one Jaskier hadn’t expected from his mother, but one that truly showed her desperation. Jaskier almost felt sorry for her…

Almost.

“What’s done is done, mother, now please, introduce me to my new husband!” Jaskier trilled happily, subconsciously baring his neck to the stranger that he was about to bind himself to, eyeing up the cat head on the silver chain around the witcher’s neck.

He’d heard rumours about those witchers; feral, insane… assassins.

Gods, Jaskier was weak.

He always had liked an alpha that could tear him in two, but it was rarer than it should have been. Jaskier was not a timid and fragile omega, in fact most people that met him confused him for a beta at first. He had a less sweet and floral scent than most omegas, and his chest was covered in thick dark hair that was almost unheard of even in male omegas, but he liked to feel small and dainty once in a while.

“Julian, I presume,” the witcher greeted, reaching out his hand which Jaskier gladly took, his heart fluttering as his alpha kissed his fingers with a surprising amount of grace. Heat prickled over his skin, as their eyes met, and that thick scent of alpha arousal almost had Jaskier on his knees, ready to worship this man’s cock in front of the entire household.

As it was he was barely able to suppress a moan, as the alpha brought Jaskier’s wrist to his neck, pressing it against the scent gland, making Jaskier whine softly at the gentle waves of pleasure that rolled over him. Fuck, the bastard was going to trigger his heat two weeks early at this rate. He bit his lip as he let his gaze roam over the Alpha’s body, hot and heavy.

“My friends call me Jaskier,” he shot back with a wink.

“And what about your husband?”

Jaskier smirked, “Darling, you can call me whatever you like.”

“Julian, you’re being indecent!” his mother snapped, scandalised in a manner that only nobility could manage.

Jaskier scoffed, “I am talking to my future husband, the man that daddy dearest picked out for me. Although,” Jaskier smirked as he turned to face the witcher, “he has been terribly rude and not even told me his name.”

“Darling, you can call me whatever you like,” the alpha winked and Jaskier gasped, stumbling back in mock offence, “but my name is Aiden.”

After that, the wedding went off without a hitch, all the necessary paperwork being completed, as their hands were tied together. It was sealed by a rather enthusiastic kiss as Jaskier jumped into his alpha’s arms, crashing his lips against his new husband’s in a mess of teeth and tongues, finally getting to inhale the alpha’s scent from up close.

His alpha.

His husband.

Jaskier had never anticipated that he would enjoy even thinking those words, but the look of despair on his parents’ faces made everything worth it. He giggled, taking his new husband by the hand and leading him to his bedchambers, thrilled by the protests from his parents who were trying to stop him from consummating the marriage, but there was no fucking way that Jaskier was going to turn down such a tempting cornucopia of delights.

“Eager, pretty little omega, aren’t you?” Aiden growled, a purr rumbling in his chest as he grazed his teeth over the scent gland on Jaskier’s neck, sending a rush of pleasure through him, slick leaking down his thighs.

“Not what you were expecting, witcher?” Jaskier teased, pulling at the ties on Aiden’s trousers.

“Not some stuck up little prick,” Aiden hummed, groping Jaskier’s arse as he pushed down Jaskier’s breeches, leaving him in just a shirt. One hand moved to run through Jaskier’s chest hair, fingers pinching at his nipples, eliciting a moan from his lips that was better suited to a whore house. “Not exactly the fragile flower you claim to be either, omega.”

“Not as easy to break, alpha,” Jaskier hummed as Aiden’s lips nipped along his neck, teeth pulling at his ear.

His scent, fuck, his scent was almost overpowering, strong, rich, sending all of Jaskier’s reason out of the window to be replaced with the desire to be fucked, knotted, mated. A now familiar tug of pre-heat clouded his mind, his cock aching, his hole empty and wanting. With a soft sigh, he ran his fingers through his own slick before pushing them inside, not nearly enough, but it took the edge off as he rocked against his own hand, pressing his body flush against his alpha’s.

He smirked as he mouthed over Aiden’s scent gland, his husband shivering under his touch. He brought his slick covered hand up to Aiden’s lips and the alpha sucked at the digits with a needy moan, his grip on Jaskier’s waist almost bruising. “Now are you going to talk all day, or are you going to fuck me? It’s been far too long since I’ve had the pleasure of an alpha’s knot.”

Jaskier’s words made something snap in Aiden, a fearsome snarl tearing from the alpha’s throat, and Jaskier was thrown onto the bed, barely able to catch his breath before Aiden’s hands were on him, calloused fingers running through the mess of slick on his thighs before pressing inside his leaking hole. Aiden’s fingers were thicker than Jaskier’s, caressing, searching, stroking until he hit that sweet spot inside of Jaskier, making him keen.

“Mine,” Aiden growled.

Jaskier moaned, bucking up off the mattress, pushing back on Aiden’s hand. “Yours, alpha, my alpha.”

Any other words Jaskier might have said were muffled by a bruising kiss, Aiden’s tongue licking into his mouth fervently. Oh and it was blissful, the alpha’s fingers fucking him so beautifully, until he was a panting mess on the bed, sweat and slick sticking to his skin. The fog of heat ruined him, turning him into nothing more than a whore, begging to be filled, knotted, claimed, and Jaskier barely recognised his own voice, hoarse, wrecked, as he cursed, and pleaded with his alpha. His fingers scraped down Aiden’s back as he thrust against his alpha’s hand, trying to get more, more, more, but Aiden had the patience rivaling the priestesses of Melitele.

Aiden pulled his fingers out, leaving Jaskier feeling so achingly empty, pitiful cries resounding in the bedchamber, howling as he was denied everything he needed.

“Fucking bastard!” he slurred, as his building pleasure eased, leaving him wanting.

“Patience, omega,” Aiden hummed, kissing the corner of Jaskier’s mouth before trailing his lips down Jaskier’s chest, sucking and nibbling at each of his nipples as he passed them, chuckling at the needy sounds Jaskier was making. He pressed soft kisses to Jaskier’s belly, nuzzling at the curve of his stomach almost reverently until Jaskier huffed, threading his fingers through his alpha’s hair and pushing his head down further. Finally, Jaskier was rewarded with his alpha’s lips around his cock, hot and wet and oh so good.

Jaskier didn’t know many alpha’s who would suck their omega’s cock, but this gorgeous stranger, seemed more than content to get lost in Jaskier’s pleasure, purring around Jaskier’s cock as if he were the most beautiful thing in the world. His fingers gripped at Jaskier’s thighs, keeping them spread as his tongue flicked over the head, lapping up the pre-cum that was leaking from the tip.

But omegas were meant to be filled, and as much as he was enjoying the heat of Aiden’s mouth around him, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t cum like this, not whilst he was feeling so fucking empty, and gods, he needed to cum, he needed it so much he could barely think of anything else. He whined, writhing underneath Aiden’s ministrations desperate for something else, something more.

“Alpha, I need- I need,” he whimpered, his words cut off by another moan as Aiden’s tongue delved inside him, the alpha moaning into him as he tasted sweet omega slick.

The bastard had the audacity to laugh, nuzzling against Jaskier’s thigh as his lips pressed against the soft tender skin. “What do you need, little omega?” he asked before biting at the skin beneath his lips. There was a sharp pain, the alpha’s fangs not quite breaking skin but enough to hurt in the best possible way.

“F-fuck you!” Jaskier hissed, his cheeks heating up but gods, he would not let his alpha gain the upper hand.

Faster than lightning, Aiden was gone from between Jaskier’s leg, straddling Jaskier’s hips and pinning him to the bed. Fingers threaded through Jaskier’s hair and his head was yanked backwards. “Try again, buttercup.”

“Fuck me, knot me, Aiden, alpha.”

“Better,” Aiden growled, one hand moving to pin Jaskier’s wrists onto the mattress and in one swift movement had pushed inside Jaskier.

The stretch felt so good, pleasure and lustful fire burning through him, as he arched off the bed, keening as their scents mixed around him, soothing his omega, his need to get as close to his alpha as possible. Every thrust had Aiden’s cock buried deep inside him, filling him up until he could see a slight bulge on his stomach, the alpha hitting Jaskier’s sweet spot with every snap of his hips, until Jaskier was crying, tears streaming down his face as he begged for release. His alpha’s hand wrapped around his cock, tiny in comparison, pulling his orgasm from him with a start, sparks flying as he gasped, panting into Aiden’s shoulder, biting down gently as his alpha fucked him through the waves of pleasure, but it still wasn’t enough. He ground back against Aiden’s cock, sounding desperately needy, pathetic. In his heat hazed mind, he wondered how many times he could cum on his alpha’s cock. He wanted that, wanted to please his husband, his alpha, his Aiden. Jaskier would be the prettiest omega, filled with his alpha’s cum. No one would mistake Jaskier as belonging to anyone else. He was Aiden’s now, and there was nothing anyone in the world could do about it.

“Alpha,” he whined, “please. Your knot, I need it, please, fuck… gods, alpha!”

Aiden purred, a deep rumbling in his chest, pressing his lips against Jaskier’s scent gland and nuzzling into his neck until Jaskier melted against his chest, fingers digging into his Alpha’s back. Despite his orgasm, he felt more aroused than he had ever been before, a mantra of alpha, fuck, please, falling from his lips in a dizzying blur, until finally, he felt the press of Aiden’s knot teasing at his rim.

“Gods, yes,” Jaskier moaned. “Knot me, fuck, please, Alpha.”

“My omega.”

“Yours,” Jaskier agreed, “my alpha.”

Aiden growled, his fangs latching onto Jaskier’s neck, turning Jaskier’s world upside down as the mating bond snapped into place in a rush of pheromones and emotions, triggering Jaskier’s orgasm from out of the blue. One moment he’d been blissfully sated on his alpha’s cock, the next pleasure tore through him like lightning, cum spilling over his stomach for a second time as Aiden pumped him full, breeding him, the knot popping into place and tying them together.

“Oh- oh fuck,” Jaskier groaned, falling back against the mattress and Aiden collapsed on top of him, still rolling his hips in shallow thrusts to push the knot deeper inside. “Bloody hell, that was good.”

Aiden snorted, not bothering to lift his head from Jaskier’s chest. “Good?”

“Perfect,” Jaskier sighed, running his hands through Aiden’s hair until the witcher was purring happily, nuzzling against him, murmuring soft praise into Jaskier’s skin.

Perhaps being a noble wasn’t so bad, not when your parents married you off to a gorgeous and charming witcher.

_

Taglist: @geraltrogerericduhautebellegarde, @comfyswitcherblanketfort, @fontegagrilledcheese, @dani-dandelino, @dapandapod @unyielding-as-the-sea @officerjennie @feraljaskier @geralt-of-riviass @kueble @gilberik @llamasdumpsterfire

[ddarker-dreams]

Sweet Talkin’. Yan Dabi x Reader [COMM]

There’s been an abnormal amount of sirens tonight.

It should be unnerving -- and to an extent it is -- but this isn’t what keeps you awake. Not that, or even the dogs barking outside accompanied with an occasional derogatory yell. With a heavy heart, you can say that you’ve gotten used to all of that noise. No, it’s something different that steals you from the welcoming comfort of a deep slumber. 

The thing that truly keeps you up is the anticipation of what is to come. Or more precisely, who. 

The bright glow of your phone strains your tired eyes, but it’s your best shot at finding entertainment. Squinting at the blinding light, exhaustion seeps into your being despite your best efforts to ward it off. No matter how much caffeine you drink later on in the day, it’s not enough to to thwart your natural inclinations to sleep.

For most, nighttime is a relaxing time of day that’s coveted. It brings a time of solitude, to reflect and rest up for the next day. While you wish you could return to the days where you felt like that, it’s long behind you now. Instead, you evade sleep, in fear of what could occur when you’re in the defenseless state. 

An illusion of control is better than none at all.

“You’re gonna get dark circles under those pretty eyes if you keep staying up this late.” 

A deep voice rumbles from the entrance to your shared room, one that you instantly recognize. Even in your groggy state, your emotions heighten in his presence. Turning off your phone and placing it down, you stretch your arms out, a yawn leaving your lips in the process.  

So he’s back. 

“Yeah, yeah…” you grumble back, caring little for the teasing comment. After feeling around your nightstand, a click resonates, light illuminating your room. Once your eyes adjust, you spot your unwelcome visitor, who makes himself at home. Dabi walks towards you, your bed creaking under his added weight as he sits down. Untying his shoes, he throws them carelessly in the corner.

Sensing your staring, he looks over his shoulder and grins at you. “Awe, you miss me or somethin’? How cute.” 

A groan leaves your lips, and you reach to throw a pillow at him. He easily deflects it with a snicker, working on taking his shirt off next. At least now that he’s back you feel more inclined to sleep, knowing that he can’t sneak up on you. Splatters of dark vermilion catch your attention, mouth curling downwards into a frown. 

If there’s anything you’ve learned in your time with Dabi, it’s that you shouldn’t ask where the blood stains come from. Ignorance is bliss, right? It’s still an unnerving sight, especially since you know it isn’t his. 

The relationship you two share is nothing if not unconventional. His occupation -- if you can even call it that -- has him coming and going at unholy times at night. Sleep is difficult to come by, not knowing when he might make an appearance. It’s what leads you to stay up some nights, a preferable experience to tossing and turning with anxious thoughts plaguing you.

As long as you stay in your designated place, Dabi holds true to his promise of doing you no harm. Thinly veiled threats under the pretense of being your “roommate” lead you to the current day, an awkward routine settling in. For all it’s worth, it could be worse. You’re acutely aware of what Dabi is capable of, having seen the ashes of corpses blurred out in the news. 

Why he’s taken a liken to you is beyond you. It still beats dying, only by a sliver. 

“There are some leftovers in the fridge,” you tap your phone, reading the time. Three in the morning. Great, and you have work tomorrow too. “I think I’ll give sleeping a shot now that you’re back.” 

Dabi raises an eyebrow at this, a fresh shirt without blood stains now on. “You always sleep when I get back. It hurts my feelings. What, am I not good enough company?”  

‘If I’m being honest, not really.’

He grins at how you shiver, lazily crawling over to be by your side. His sudden presence fills your nose with unknown scents, ranging from smoke to burnt leather. Underneath is hints of his cologne, all mixing together to disorient you further. Dabi loves riling you up, testing the limits of what you can handle. 

You take a deep breath, hugging your knees to your chest. As long as you don’t let it get to you, it’ll be fine. He always gets bored eventually, leaving you to do as you please. That’s what you’ll aim for.

“It’s not that. I just have stuff to do tomorrow, and I don’t like being exhausted. It’s my long shift.” 

His trademark grin melts away, furrowing eyebrows and a grimace taking its place. Mentioning your life outside of him is a tricky battle, and you can’t help but regret mentioning it. Being in a sleep deprived state is a major disadvantage in your interactions with him.

“This again? I thought I told you to quit. Rent or whatever won’t be an issue, I’ll handle it.” Dabi scoots closer to you, wrapping an arm around your bare shoulder. His skin feels rough against yours, coarse hands rubbing circles into  you. You bite your lip at the sensation, hair on the back of your neck standing. 

“I... I like my job. Sure, it can be irritating at times, but it gives me something to do during the day. I’d go stir crazy without something concrete to focus on.” The words are heartfelt, unfiltered. When he responds in silence you worry you’ve made a mistake, upsetting him with your defiance.

He huffs against your neck, lifting his head and shooting you a displeased look.  His voice is a low murmur, one that reverberates into the core of your very being. “Always making trouble for me..." 

Dabi’s grip around you tightens, and you gulp thickly. With how casual he speaks to you, it can be easy to forget the major power imbalance. Instead of greeting you with insults, or worse, he lightly flicks your forehead.

You blink, baffled.

“Don’t most people hate their jobs? I figured you’d be jumping at the idea of having more free time, or whatever. So you can focus on other things.” 

It’s not a confession you were expecting, your cheeks flushing at the considerate nature of his words. While it’s true quitting your job is an appealing thought, it creates a semblance of balance within your now chaotic life. Helping you stick to a schedule, in the same way school used to. 

Now feeling confident in expressing yourself, your taut muscles relax into his touch. “I’m too tired to think about it properly, if I’m being honest. I don’t know how you can stay up this late all the time without losing it.” 

Deflecting from the previous topic makes you feel better. If Dabi notices your intentions he doesn’t point them out, allowing you to take control of the conversation without complaint. He must prefer it over when you’d just shake and cry in his presence.

“You get used to it, sweetheart,” he drums his fingers against you, smirking. “I’ll make a night owl outta you yet.” 

Any implications in his words go straight over your head.

“As tempting an offer as that is, I think I’ll pass. ” 

He shrugs at your indifference, removing his arms from your frame. The lack of enveloping warmth causes you to shiver, Dabi searching through his bag. You peak over his shoulder out of curiosity, his scarred hands settling on an object which he pulls out. 

It’s a copy of Animal Crossing, in all of its beautiful glory. You wipe your eyes, unsure if what you’re seeing is reality.

“W-what?” you guffaw before your brain has the chance to stop you, jaw agape and head tilted. Dabi places it on your lap, and returns to his previous position of holding you. There’s clear amusement in his eyes at your stunned state, relishing in your every reaction.

“Did I get the wrong thing? This is that game you wanted, isn’t it?” 

It had to have been a week or so ago. You lamented to him about not being able to afford this, not even realizing he was giving it any attention. To think he remembered, and acted on it for your sake... is a touching sensation. Maybe he is capable of selflessness after all.

The cute box art puts a smile on your face, one that Dabi stares at. 

“I have to say, I’m surprised,” you pick it up, looking at the back with wide eyes. “Did the cashier give you a funny look when you picked this out?” 

‘I really need to start thinking before I speak.’

He shakes his head at your blunt comment, not taking any offense. “I didn’t get it that way.”

‘Oh, well... better not ask more than necessary. There’s no blood on it so at least that’s a good sign.’

Wiggling free from his grip, you rotate your legs over the side of the bed, intent on getting your switch. An opportunity like this must be taken advantage of, and you’ve wanted to play this game for some time now. Dabi must’ve read your mind, and pulls you back to him with little effort before you get the chance. 

“If I remember correctly, you said you were tired just a few minutes ago.” 

He plucks the game from your fingers, and places it on the side furthest from you. What a cruel world this is, to have paradise so close and yet so far. You can’t help the pout that forms at his actions.

“The situation changed, I’m wide awake now.” you explain to an unmoved Dabi, launching over his lap to get your coveted game back. He picks it up, lifting it over your head with a chuckle. So that’s how it’s going to be. 

Defeat settling in, you retreat for now. A sigh leaves your lips, arms crossing over your chest. You should’ve known better, Dabi has made it clear to you that he wants your attention. Looks like you’ll have to wait until after work to get a taste of Animal Crossing. 

There’s a glint of mischievous in his azure eyes, one that you’ve seen more often than you wish. Dabi sighs in mock hurt, placing a hand over his heart. “Not even so much as a thank you for my efforts. That’s cold, babe. Real cold.” 

“I’m sorry, you’re right. Thank you, it means a lot.” 

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “That’s not what I was looking for. Try again, sweetheart.” 

A flurry of thoughts fly through your mind, all competing with one another to offer a solution. Does he want money for it? He should know that you’re not capable of producing that amount, or you would’ve bought the game for yourself. Dabi gives you a moment to think, before offering the answer to you.

He puts his pointer finger on your lip, maintaining eye contact while doing so. 

“Oh, t-that.”

“So glad to see that you’re finally catching on.” 

It could be the summer heat winning over your AC, the room suddenly feeling warmer than it did a few moments prior. You look down at your blankets, focusing on anything other than the person in front of you. This level of teasing is nothing new with Dabi, he always manages to fluster you. 

He sits, relaxed, waiting for you to make a move. There aren’t any other options that you can think of, so you give into what he wants. Moving closer to his face, you feel his warm breath fanning against your skin. Your hand twitches, pressing against his chest to offer balance.

Squeezing your eyes closed, you tilt your head, soft lips brushing over his own. All of your movements are hesitant, your entire body feeling like it’s on fire. Heart pounding violently against your chest, you move to pull back. Only to discover his hand on the back of your head is stopping you from doing so.

Dabi slants his lips back over your own, nibbling your bottom lip. You freeze, the unexpected affection leaving you incapable of reacting. It’s when you squeak that he finally loosens his grip, opening his eyes to take in your embarrassed countenance. 

All things considered, it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. 

You cover your burning face with your shaking hands, feeling the warmth emanating off of you. He makes it even worse by chuckling, the low rumble filling you with indignation. There never is hope of catching a break with Dabi. 

“You might be the one with a fire quirk after all,” he leans forward, placing a hand against your hot forehead. “Mm... that look you’re giving me is too much. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point.” 

Fed up with his relentless teasing, you smack his hand away and purse your lips. He props his arms behind his head, letting you glare at him to your heart’s content. From his lack of reaction, you get the feeling he isn’t too intimidated by you. 

“Whatever, I’m going to bed,” you huff, returning to your side and pulling up the blankets. He doesn’t make a move to stop you, and you take the opportunity to lay down on your side. Refusing to look at him, you focus on the wall. 

Dabi pokes your cheek, which you ignore. 

He lets out a long sigh at your antics, joining you underneath the covers. You hear shuffling behind you, and can’t help but wonder what it is that he’s up to. Maybe he’s succumbing to his own exhaustion, and will let you sleep in peace? What a perfect world it’d be if that’s the case.

The thought is entertained for three seconds before you’re pulled against his firm chest from behind, toned arms snaking around your torso and staying there. His body is always so warm. It doesn’t help that you’re already embarrassed from before. Dabi grumbles something incoherent, placing his head in the crook of your neck. 

Accepting the situation for what it is, you stop moving. He reaches over you to turn off the light, and darkness surrounds you once more. All you can hear are your own labored breaths, and rapidly pounding heart. It might be impossible to sleep like this. 

You’ll call out of work for tomorrow. 

“... Dabi?” you whisper, voice soft and barely audible. He grunts in response, nuzzling further into your neck. For the past few months, there’s been a thought that haunts you at every turn. One that you can never find an answer to, and have been too frightened to investigate beyond your own musings.

It’d be easy to play this off as sexual attraction alone, yet a voice in the back of your head says otherwise. That what Dabi feels for you goes beyond that, into a sinister territory that you want desperately to avoid. Why is it he’s patient -- borderline kind -- with you, yet cruel to everyone else? None of it makes logical sense, his actions erratic and seemingly without reason.

Maybe you shouldn’t know. Still, you ask, against your better judgement. 

“Why do you like me so much?” 

You feel how he smiles against the skin of your neck, the sensation stirring up unknown emotions within. He squeezes you against him once, letting out a low hum as he considers your words. While waiting for him to speak, you hold in a breath. 

“Dunno. Just do,” Dabi offers a noncommittal response, one that leaves you greatly unsatisfied. It seems he’s not even aware of it himself, the effect you have on him unlike anything he’s ever experienced. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” 

“... Alright, I won’t.” 

“Good. Now get some sleep, before I ask you to kiss me again.” 

[fullmetalscullyy]

a moment of repose

summary: riza wakes to a light weight covering her shoulders, but the feeling of it doesn’t completely register with her right away. it’s warm and holds a distinctly familiar smell but she cannot place it while still half asleep. the comfort it brings is almost enough to lull her back to sleep, but something within her is fighting the urge. [inspired by fanart]

an: this fic was inspired by the wonderful @mienaime‘s art, which you can find on tumblr and twitter

rating: g | words: 2207 | tags: royai, inspired by fanart, fluff, thoughtful gestures

read on ao3

Roy feels ready to fall asleep at his desk as he approaches the double doors to his office. The hot coffee cup in his hand is the only thing keeping his eyes open. He’s conscious of not spilling it as he walks and the heat bleeds through the supposedly heatproof cardboard holder, searing his fingertips. Every so often on the walk back he had to switch hands to stave off the pain. Roy had even glared at the cardboard once or twice, grumbling about false advertising as he switched for the umpteenth time.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s slept in the office, but he can’t. He’s stayed back with the Lieutenant to finish up some loose ends from the week, so he really needs to buckle down and get to work. He also couldn’t do that to her. Not only because they were working overtime and he’s not that much of an asshole, but also because, unfortunately, they’d somehow uncovered even more work to do while finishing things up, so they were due in for a long night. Hence the late-night coffee run.

The Lieutenant had declined his caffeine offer, opting to remain in the office and continue working. So, Roy had rushed across the street from Central Command and picked up a coffee for himself and a pastry for her. She may not want to eat it tonight, but it would keep until tomorrow, the shop owner assured him. It would be a small surprise and gesture of thanks at least. Far less than what she deserves, but all he can give tonight.

Regardless of their long day, the evening is not all bad, Roy muses as he pulls down the door handle outside the office, because he gets to spend some time with her.

Once inside the office, Roy freezes. He blinks at the sight before him, seeing the Lieutenant’s head down on her desk. Immediately he thinks something is wrong, but the spark of panic isn’t given a chance to form fully. He can see her face and takes note of how relaxed her expression is. He can also see the gentle rise and fall of her back as she breathes evenly. One hand is tucked underneath her cheek, lying flat on the desk, while her other arm is a pillow for her head.

Roy blinks.

She’s asleep.

He blinks again because he can’t quite comprehend the fact.

The sudden burning heat from his coffee makes him hiss in annoyed pain and it jerks him out of his shock. He switches hands immediately.

Once the surprise has worn off a fond smile tugs Roy’s lips upwards because he can’t help but think about how peaceful – and beautiful – she looks. She’s completely at rest and without any worry or stress.

He turns quickly and locks the office door. No one should be making the rounds at this hour, however he knows that if they caught the Lieutenant asleep, not only would she be mortified and be wracked with shame and guilt for succumbing to her exhaustion in the first place, but there would be disciplinary action as well.

Roy contemplates waking her. He knows he should and knows she would want him to do so as well, but he doesn’t have it in him. It’s been an arduous week for all of the team, but especially for the two of them. Their hours have been long, with little time for breaks, and their sleep has been cut short because they needed to return to the office early to make their way through the workload. This is the last night of it all – tomorrow they are free – and, Roy supposes, there is only a small bit of work left to do. He can take over the reins for a while and let her sleep.

Riza Hawkeye simply does not fall asleep at work or at her desk, so she must need the extra rest.

He can give her that for a while. She deserves it more than anyone.

His feet carry him over to her desk, to the side of her chair, and Roy can’t help but smile again as he sets his eyes upon her features, so serene and relaxed. Roy places his coffee and the paper bag with her pastry down atop her desk. He gives in to the urge to reach out to her, placing his hand atop hers. It’s tucked underneath her cheek, so his knuckles brush against the soft skin of her face. The Lieutenant stirs slightly at the contact but doesn’t awaken. Her skin is warm to the touch because of her breath and the heat from her face. Like a welcoming fire on a long, cold night, warming his soul with its presence.

Leaning over, Roy presses a kiss against the side of her head.

“Sleep well, Riza,” he breathes. His lips move against her hair, and it tickles his skin as he catches a waft of her shampoo. It’s the one he remembers, and the one she’s used for years. It is so quintessentially her, that it makes him grin like a fool when he recognises it.

Riza sighs gently in her sleep.

Chancing his luck even further, Roy presses another kiss, but against her cheek this time. When he pulls away, he regretfully removes his hand from atop hers, but then starts unbuttoning his jacket. Once he’s shrugged it off, Roy drapes it over her shoulders, ensuring it’s tucked in securely, so it won’t slip away from her.

He walks over to his own desk with his coffee, leaving the pastry be, and settles in to get to work. The brief moment of affection has invigorated him, for if he works quickly, he can hopefully finish the work before she wakes up. It would spare her from needing to do more work when she clearly needs to rest instead.

Roy takes a sip of his coffee and puts pen to paper, determined and motivated to work.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Riza wakes to a light weight covering her shoulders, but the feeling of it doesn’t completely register with her right away. It’s warm and holds a distinctly familiar smell but she cannot place it while still half asleep. The comfort it brings is almost enough to lull her back to sleep, but something within her is fighting the urge. Her eyelids are heavy with fatigue when she blinks them open, but eventually they manage to pry themselves apart and she comes face to face with a… desk?

Her body jerks upright. In the chair her spine is ramrod straight and a cold sweat breaks across her skin. It has nothing to do with her lingering cold from earlier on in the week, it’s because she realises she’s fallen asleep at her desk. At work.

Panic flies through her and adrenaline courses through her veins, banishing any lingering tiredness immediately. She’s completely alert and awake.

That was also the moment she finally registered the weight on her shoulders. It had slipped off her body when she lurched upright, sliding down her back and pooling in a heap at the back of her chair. Before she can get her bearings properly and look down to see what it is, someone speaks.

“Lieutenant,” a voice greets cordially, as if nothing is amiss.

Her head snaps around to find the Colonel sitting at his desk in just his shirt with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His brow is furrowed as he almost glares at the document within his hands. She fears it’s because of her misconduct, however when he glances up expectantly to await her answer, his expression relaxes, and he smiles.

“Did you rest well?” His question is spoken quietly, but it is not mocking, sarcastic, or displeased. He’s completely genuine.

The skin of her face heats up with shame. Before she can open her mouth to apologise profusely, the Colonel holds up his hand to halt her.

“Don’t worry about it,” he assures her. “No harm, no foul.”

“Sir, I am so sorry for falling asleep at my post.”

“Lieutenant, it’s fine,” he replies softly with a gentle smile. “I figured you could use the rest,” he shrugs casually and goes back to his work. “I know I desperately want to do the same, so I don’t blame you,” he chuckles, and Riza realises he’s not lying. She can see the fatigue on his face, around his eyes. Like her, there were dark circles underneath them.

That not the point though, and she tells him as much.

“Either way, the work is… done!” With a flourish he finishes his signature and tosses the pen down on the desk in triumph, looking extremely proud of himself. “I was hoping to get it completed before you… woke up.” He lowers his voice tactfully at the end of his sentence, and she appreciates that.

What if someone had walked in while you were asleep?

Riza internally berates herself again.

While the Colonel stretches in his chair, Riza straightens her uniform. Out the corner of her eye she sees a white paper bag sitting on top of her desk and she frowns at it. Before she can comment, the back of her hand brushes against something. She sees a sleeve of their standard issue jacket lying haphazardly across her lap, and Riza remembers the weight that had been on her shoulders when she awoke.

Riza blinks down at it.

“Is it all right if I take my jacket back?” The Colonel is before her suddenly, speaking in a gentle voice as a smile teases the corners of his lips. His hand is held out, patiently awaiting her to return his item of clothing.

Nodding, Riza reaches around and hands it back. She averts her eyes before standing from her chair to pack up her things.

It’s not lost on her that he covered her with his own jacket while she slept. It was very sweet of him but is something she’ll probably be better mulling over once she’s in the privacy of her own home and away from the source of her embarrassment and disappointment. She shelves it for later, deeply appreciating his gesture, but honestly just wants out of the office as fast as possible, if she can.

“Here.” In his hands, held out towards her, is the paper bag that had been on her desk. “I picked it up for you when I ran out to get some coffee. If you don’t want to eat it tonight, the shop owner said it will keep until tomorrow,” the Colonel explains as he shrugs his jacket on his shoulders.

Peeking inside, Riza is curious.

He’d bought her a pastry.

She doesn’t know what to say. First the jacket, now this.

“Sir…”

“Call it a thank you gift for all your hard work,” he grins. “I only wish I could offer you more.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Sir, this is more than enough. That was very kind of you. Thank you.” She’s completely touched by what he’s done for her. She’d make sure to repay the stolen work time back later, as well as pay the Colonel back as well. It was the least she could do.

“You’re welcome,” he nods happily. “Would you like a lift home?”

It wouldn’t be responsible for her to get behind the wheel. The adrenaline that had been raging through her veins upon the realisation she’d fallen asleep at work had dwindled, leaving her with the same fatigue she’d felt all week due to the workload and her recovering from a bothersome cold. The same fatigue that had betrayed her that evening.

“Thank you, sir,” she agrees.

His grin makes her stomach do a small, pleasant flip.

She reaches for the door and finds it locked. Confused, she turns to see the Colonel pulling a key out of his pocket.

“I took some precautionary measures,” he answers her unspoken question. “And it was also to ensure you would remain undisturbed.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he replies as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, that he would do such a thing for her.

But, Riza supposes, it really is for Roy. He would absolutely do something like that for her.

A warm feeling coils inside her stomach and slowly spreads, climbing up her ribcage and settling gently and comfortably around her heart. It causes a smile to spread across her face as she stares back at him, once again, extremely grateful of his thoughtfulness.

In response, the Colonel's expression softens, and he returns her smile. “Anything for you, Lieutenant,” he murmurs quietly before opening the door and offering her to step through first. “You know that,” he adds, his voice stronger as she walks passed him. “Plus, how many times have you covered for me when I sneak a few minutes of rest,” he winks. “It’s about time I repaid the favour,” he snorts as they step outside.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you’re purposefully going to continue that habit,” she frowns, then lifts an eyebrow in warning.

He just laughs, and Riza thinks, dryly, that she doesn’t like the sound of that laugh. But the sound of it still makes her smile regardless, like always.

[lightspeed-lightspeed-lightspeed]

How did it happen?

(Bucky barnes x Female reader)

A/n:  (Tw: cat. If you don't like cats gtfo of here) Although it is narrated in third person, the narration gravitates more around Bucky's pov (sorta). This is gonna be quite lousy so have fun, I guess.. If you can.

"How did this happen?" he whisper-sighed. "How? When?" He asked himself as he was staring into the distance, absent-mindedly stroking the white ball of fur curled up on his lap. Alpine let out a soft meow as if answering his soliloquies.

But for real though, how did he fall for you? The last he checked, you both were calling each other names out of contempt. Y/n y/l/n was simply insufferable, he always thought. Where did your acts of annoyance start blooming into everything he now yearns for?

As much as he would like to hide behind the idea that these sudden, irrational feelings hold no reason and meaning- how could he? How could he hide from what he knows? from what he realized? He could lie to himself all he wants- Hell, he had been lying to himself all this time, ignoring the wisps of light that marked the warnings through the pavements of this path he was sauntering down. He was walking into love and he refused to know it.

He wondered how different things would be now if he hadn't screwed up in your last mission and got you demoted to the archive library duty. Of course, jeopardizing a high stakes mission by starting a quarrel during field action is a grave mistake, but still Fury was being a little too extreme by suspending Y/n off the field for a month. Bucky didn't really believe that any of it was his fault, according to him it was you who were being your impossible self on the field that day. But he did feel sort of bad for you now. Maybe what Bucky shouldn't have done, was to try and make it up to you by spending time with you in that desolate library. Truth be told, it was partly an excuse for wanting to be around you.

There he was again, his thoughts lingering around you. Recounting the events of day before yesterday.

(  The  day  before  yesterday  )

"Did you find it?," Bucky's voice echoed through the aisles as he walked towards the base of the ladder you were perched on looking for an old file Bucky needed for his mission. "Not just yet," you mused.

The archives library was completely empty except for the two of you. The sound of his boots against the spotless vinyl flooring filled the room as he was pacing back and forth. Clack-tap,  Clack-tap,  Clack-tap,  Clack-tap.  He found the rhythm weirdly gratifying. And he could see you didn't. If something could get you to lose your cool, what's not to love?

"Quit pacing," you sighed, slightly annoyed. He started to stomp on even louder. Clack-tap, Clack-TAP, CLACK-TAP,CLACK-TAP,CLACK-TAP.  Your breathing quivered with exasperation, as your shoulders hunched and fell in gliding motions. Just as gratifying, he thought looking at it.

"Quit pacing, Goddamnit!" You practically growled.

"No." He said, scrunching up a smile fighting it's way on his face. "What are you? obsessed? Mind your business," he shot smugly.

"You're making it really hard for me to, you moron," You muttered as he broke out into a grin. Annoying you practically counted as top-tier entertainment for him.

~

"C'mon man, do something," You cried.

"Do what?"

"Search for those godforsaken files, maybe. I honestly-"

"I am searching,"

"No, you're not." You huffed.

"I am, and I'm beginning to think the files are not in he-"

"Shhh" you cut him off. He shot you a questioning look.

"Don't you hear it?" you whisper-hissed.

"Hear what?" he asked as he reached for his weapons, falling into a defensive posture.

"There's somebody else in he-" before you could complete the sentence, you were screaming and everything was collapsing as you fell off the ladder yanking the racks down along with you, a daunting cacophony of heavy crashes and clamours deafening as you and Bucky were whipped by gravity, with absolutely no idea what is happening for a solid couple of moments.

"What the fuck just happened?" Bucky asked as he looked around, his pale blue eyes wide and gleaming with absolute confusion. The racks were all fallen, everything loosely covered with the papers lying around. The room had become a little darker. "I- um.." You started, "I... It was a cat.." you said frantically as you were still trying to shake yourself from the shock. "It was a what?" he asked incredulously. "A cat! I mean, It sort of jumped at my face, and I.. It sneaked up behind the rack... and I jumped and everything fell.. I guess..." You cringed at yourself. Bucky winced and looked around again and that's when he realized. You both were cornered against the inner edge of the wall. The racks had fallen in front of you into perfect forts, blocking your way out. He was practically stuffed against you into a crooked modicum of space. Your back was pressed against his chest, his leg pitted against yours. There wasn't a lot he could've done about that. He was trapped in there with you. But most importantly, he had never been this close to you.

His heart did parkours and cartwheels. He could only hope you don't feel how hard it was beating. Where were all these butterflies coming from? His breath hitched, he wasn't even sure if he was breathing anymore, although it was the last concern on his dumb-foundedly racing mind. He could feel the softness of your hair against his neck, he'd be lying if he said that wasn't the softest, gentlest thing he has felt in about the past seven decades. It smelled like an orchard of flowers. He liked flowers. Although he couldn't tell what flower it smelled like, he knew it would've been his favourite flower. It calmed him down, that was, of course until his eyes looked down. He could see the stretch of your dangerously gorgeous collar bones sparkling in your sweat above your dress's boat-like neckline. His atheism breaking at the sight of that sculpted divinity, he couldn't help but pray, "God give me all the strength you can to keep me from kissing that work of art." The quantum leaps between the intervals of his heartbeats weren't helping either. Oh, at this moment, what he wouldn't give up to be the brittle golden necklace cascading from the graceful steeps and lows of your neck to the flesh over your heart. He held back not of strength, but because of fear.

As he was trying to fathom where all these thoughts were coming from, he was interrupted by you glazing your body against his body as you were striving to reach for a way out of the current situation. The way you groaned softly as you tried to reach for the other side of the rack-fort did things to him that he never would have expected. He was practically petrified. You gave up after a few moments, your head falling back against his ribs due to the impact. "Oof," he said his breath tickling your neck, cooling the sweat enough to send chills down your spine. "I'm sorry," you quivered in embarrassment. "So... there's no way out unless someone helps us out from the outside," you reported. He sighed in reply. He was way too nervous right now to speak in words.

~

"Are you claustrophobic or something?" you asked.

"What?"

"No, your heart has been racing real loud for quite some time now."

"I.. um.. small spaces do that to me,"

"Huh" you huffed.

You felt the coolness of his metal arm against the heated skin below the back of your neck, it was very soothing. He had laid the forearm carefully at a distance from you, and you couldn't help but wish he would wrap it around you. You could feel the vibrations of his vocal cord against your ear lobe as he talked. You were glad he couldn't see your face flushing at that.

Eventually he was able to relax, his heart slowing down. Although the situation was still quite awkward, he was not sure if he was complaining. That's when he heard footsteps. Someone was coming to their rescue. The footsteps grew louder, and there he was.

"Noah!" You exclaimed as he stood in front of you on the other side of the rack-fort. "Y/n! What's.. going on?" Noah asked as he looked at the mess. "Ah, we're trapped. Can you help us out of here?"

~~~

"Thank you," you smiled as he got them out of there with the help of the floor service. "How did you find us here?"

"We had a date, remember? You didn't show up so I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Oh my god, yes we did. All this happened and It totally slipped my mind. Thank god, we did though," you chuckled, looking around,    "Hey Barnes, This is Noah, he works in the communications department,"

"Hey, man" Noah greeted. Bucky gave him a half-nod and a mean look.

~

"You know, it's not exactly late. If you are up to it, we could still go grab some dinner," Noah said, giving you this innocent look that Bucky, for some reason, found revolting.

"Yeah? of course," You were all smiles.

Since when does y/n smile like that? What did she see in this guy? He doesn't even know the guy, so why does he hate him so much? He felt displeased with himself for staring at you and Noah, like, why did he even care now? Bucky had so many questions. The answer was walking out of the hall with somebody else, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He was standing there in the once again empty library, lost in the middle of the bustling race track of his thoughts. That was when he felt something tugging at his legs, pulling him out of the maze he was being consumed by. He looked down at his little rescuer with fur as white as snow. "Hello there," He called, gentleness taking over his voice as he squatted down to pet the little cat that was rubbing its ears on his shoe straps. "Where did you come from, doll?" he giggled, scratching it's chin.

~ ( Today ) ~

"You were a no-show at the debriefing. Where were you yesterday?" You asked as you plopped down on the couch in the kitchen Island, your arm resting on the back pillow, turning your head back and looking at Bucky toying with the cutlery on the counter. "I.. was in my room," he said pushing back a stray lock of hair. "Coffee?"  "Yeah," you muttered.

As you turned your head you saw a little white cat hopping onto your lap.

"I found her in the library, you know, the other day.. after you left. Guess I'm her owner now, kind of," he said as he handed you the coffee.

"Aww, he made a friend!" You giggled as you scratched the back of the cat's ears. "Hello! Do you like that, you little troublemaker?" you chuckled as the cat warmed up to you with it's eyes closed.

Bucky was blushing like an idiot. You were not gonna lie, that shade of red made him look a little too cute.

"Has she got a name?"

"Yeah well, I named her Alpine. It's a good name, right?"

"Alpine!" you grinned, "It's a lovely name."

~~

"What?" He asked, as you gave him a surprised look after sipping your coffee.

"The coffee is actually good," You said.

"Why, you didn't think I could make good coffee?"

"No, in all these three years, you've brought me coffee like 4 times, 3 out of which you put salt in my coffee and the one time you messed up the sugar real bad. On purpose, I suppose," you accused.

"To be fair, you deserved it,"

"Ah, there it is," you said.

Bucky couldn't help but stare at you. Here he was, sitting on the couch beside you, getting high of sorts on how close he was to you. He had been craving for it ever since the archive library. He locked himself in his room all yesterday, convincing himself that what he felt towards you wasn't real, although it only made more sense despite his inability to believe it. And here you were now, recklessly playing with his heartstrings. The image of a rogue strand of your hair caressing your temple, and your eyes becoming a softer shade of (y/e/c) as the sunlight fell on them vaporized the levee he built around the feelings he never thought would see the light of day again.

As if breaking him out of his trance, you said, "Ah, I'd love to hang around with you guys, but I gotta go. I said I'll be meeting Noah in a couple minutes."

"Right," he could feel his heart dropping for a second.

"Alright then... bye!" You called, and walked out of the room, as he watched your hair swaying to your stride.

And here he was, on the couch, wondering about what just happened. Alpine half asleep on his lap as he unconsciously whispered, "How did this happen?"

~~~~

[val-aquenta]

Mace Windu Appreciation Day One. 

Prompt: Serenity/Acting

Here on ao3

 Mace Windu sat on his seat in the council, hands steepled in front of him. He let out a long breath. The problem of Ryloth was complex and with multiple faces. The Senate was pushing for one side, and while he in part agreed, he could see and understand the other side. He shook his head. He had already spent long on this issue even though the Senate’s push had solidified what the Order would do. They disagreed, but if they made it known, the Senate would be quick to order them. As he walked from the seat into the centre and then to the door, he shed the mantle of authority that came with his seat. He was still the Master of the Order, but away from the seat of decision making there, he felt more free, closer to his family. As he exited the room, Mace took a deep breath of relief. The room was somewhat stifling after so long. “Padawan Aleya, you’re free to go if you wish.” The twi'lek smiled widely. “Apologies for keeping you so late. I should have signalled.” 

“No worries, Master Mace. You aren’t that late.” Aleya assured, bustling at the desk and picking up a stack of datapads. Mace lifted a bemused eyebrow. “I had some work to do.” He mutters, blushing a bright green in embarrassment. Suddenly, he perked up, clearly remembering something. “Oh… Knight Depa had a message, Master. There’s an opening in the play they’re doing soon if you want to join. Not sure about the play, though. She just said you should meet her at the theatre.” Aleya stumbled slightly to the side, the datapads tilting precariously. Mace moved forwards, drawing the Force around the Twi’Lek to keep him from falling. 

“Well, I look forwards to the play. Perhaps you’ll even see me on stage, hmm?” Mace grinned, bemused at the bright green flush again. Aleya had only recently been assigned to the Council desk as Shaak Ti’s padawan. He still had, despite his older age, that youthful hero-worship of some members of the Council. Shaak herself, though, was an exception. “And yourself? It’s nearing exams, isn’t it?”

Aleya cringed, his face twisting into a displeased frown. “Yeah. I’m busy, but still managing. The exams come up soon.” He frowned, fiddling with his stack of datapads. “I still don’t get the Ryloth War in 406. Elya seems to be the cause of the revolt, but then the Rila commune also could be part of it, and the-” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry, Master. I was babbling.”

“No worries, Padawan. I’m afraid I’m not too well-versed in Ryloth’s history. I had not studied it. Cyslin, my Master, she studied Ryloth, though it was a while back before I became her Padawan.” Mace explained, a contrite look on his face. 

“Oh! That would be helpful. I’ll talk to her.” They reached the end of the hall. Aleya tried to manage a wave around the datapads. He was… somewhat successful. “Well, see you tomorrow, Master!” And with that, he walked down the left corridor. 

Mace raised a hand in an aborted way. “Good luck with your studies!” He called back, receiving a smile his way. Alright, now for the theatre. It would be fun to act again. Even for just a moment.

Depa was outside the arts centre, waiting for him. She smiled widely as he neared, looking up from a holo and placing the datapad in her robe pocket. “Master! You got my message.” She had changed her hairstyle from a braided crown into four looped braids. 

“Of course. Padawan Aleya is nothing if not diligent.” Mace commented, close enough to feel the gentle warmth of his former student. She shuffled a bit closer, her youthful features lighting up in happiness. 

“Indeed.” She paused for a while, simply soaking in the familiar presence of Mace before speaking once more. “Well, the younglings were putting together a show, and they need a Master and a Knight.” She pointed to Mace and then to herself. “I already volunteered you.” 

Mace sighed, of course. “Depa, you know I am quite busy now-” He started only to be interrupted by Depa. 

“I already checked your schedule, Master.” She grinned unashamedly. Mace had idly wondered if knighting Depa would lessen the amount she pestered him. It appeared not. “I’ve cleared it for practice and rehearsal. As Master of the Order, shouldn’t you be spending some time with the younglings?” She raised an eyebrow slyly.

Mace snorted, “That’s Master Yoda’s job.” Still, he followed Depa into the theatre centre, hands folded into his sleeves. If she had, in fact, cleared his schedule, it would be silly for him to miss this. Depa shot him a smug smile, unfazed by the dry look she received in response.

“Master Windu, Knight Depa!” The crechemaster, a tall mirialan surrounded by a small gaggle of younglings. “Thank you for coming.” Mace bowed, Depa copying him, her hair bobbing playfully. She shot a smile at one of the younglings, a young nautolan who smiles hesitantly in return. Mace takes a glance over the group. There are nine children of various ages, spanning until probably 12. He can’t truly tell. “We’re acting out the tale of the caves for the day of discovery.”

“Ah, a lovely choice,” Mace assured, trying not to feel too sad when some of the children seemed to startle. It appeared he had been missing creche supervision because of all the paperwork from the council seat he had gotten right after knighting Depa. “I’m quite familiar with it. I’m sure you are too, Depa?”

Depa nodded, a hand reaching out to move her braid out of the way. “Yes, we acted it a few times when I was younger. You played the knight if I recall?”

“Indeed.” It had been where he first met Depa. A fond memory he kept close to his heart. “So, when will we begin?” He asked the crechemaster, Tirna if he recalled correctly. 

Tirna was about to speak before a flimsi was pushed into her hands. She looked down to peer at it for a moment. “It’s lovely.” She murmured with a soft smile to the small twi’lek, returning the drawing and receiving a bright smile in return. “We were waiting for you two, so I suppose we can go in. 

The younglings were corralled in, excitedly whispering to each other. The theatre was a familiar place. When he was younger, he had spent most of his time here being taught the art of acting on stage. He’d even dabbled in music on stage, though he preferred to simply speak and not sing on stage. Both Cyslin and himself were surprised when he had gotten an offer from the theatre to become an instructor here. Sadly, his path to knighthood had gotten in the way and Instructor Rhuy had been disappointed, but not exactly surprised by Mace turning down the offer. Sadly, the chiss had passed to the Force a few years ago in his few missions offworld. He had not become familiar with the new instructor, too busy with Depa’s final years of apprenticeship. Mace looked at the brown and gray walls, breathing in the familiar scent and soaking in the warmth of the place. It was a place for entertainment. While, yes, people were driven to tears with some performances, the imprint left in the place was one of happiness and joy. 

Depa, at his side, watched him with a sideways glance. She had not seen him act much in recent years. In the middle of their years, when they were on rotation at the Temple for Depa’s studies, Mace would find himself often in the theatre, but a lot of those memories were hazy, just long enough ago that Depa could only recall them with a blurriness on the edges. A striking image of Mace in full attire of older Jedi, the ornamental robes and rather fancy modified training hilts came to mind. He turned in an elaborate fighting dance with another Jedi, a crechemate in the story. Another image, this time of Mace in more modern Jedi robes, a Nautolan next to him as he acted out a confession scene. She recalled the way she had cringed away from the stage. By the Force, it was her Master up there with that knight. Cyslin’s soft chuckle and a warm hand on her head finished the memory, the faint murmur of Mace’s voice in the background. 

He belonged in the theatre, she concluded, watching his eyes light up as they saw the familiar sight around him. Just as he belonged in the Council chambers, or in some blaster fight on some war-torn planet, or at some negotiation table, impassively looking between the two sides. Mace was many things, and that included being an actor. He looked at home here amongst the rows of seats, the stage as a backdrop, but he also belonged elsewhere. His eyes caught hers. Depa lifted her brow in question. Mace shook his head and followed Tirna up the stairs to the backstage and rehearsing room. Depa took one more look at the theatre, lit up with a warm yellow light, before following the group. 

The rehearsing room was, essentially, a large room, somewhat soundproof and almost large enough to duel. There were mirrors in one corner. The kids stood with Tirna in the corner where she handed out papers. The play was short, most of it being a question and response play. It was a kid's play after all. Depa and he stood in the corner, Mace trying to relax his back. Sitting in the Council chair for so long is a painful experience. He would rather not be there sometimes. Depa eyes him sympathetically, her hand reaching out to rest on his shoulders. They both turn to Tirna, in a strange synchronisation that is a result of their partnership. The mirialan blinks before offering the script. Mace accepts it, though he thinks he can recall all the words. “Thank you.” He says softly, flicking through it. The flimsi flutters under his fingers. He looks up to catch the woman smiling at Depa as she hands the flimsi. It occurs to Mace that he never asked why Tirna had asked Depa for her help first. It appears Mace muses with a bemused smile, that Depa is hiding something from me. And that she is doing a rather poor job. He turns back to the script

Tirna floats through the class as they read through it dramatically. The exaggerated expressions and voices of a few directly contrast the other side who read with a bored monotonous voice. It is endearing and familiar. Depa shuffles where she’s seated, rearranging her clothes, a nervous tell Mace has noted for a while. Mace shuffles a bit closer to her, hand going out to rest on her free one. Depa settles, easily leaning into the familiar warmth. They continue reading this way. The nautolan boy near them shoots him a look before returning to his rather exaggerated fearful voice. “But, Master, it’s too cold. I’ll freeze here.”

“Worry not, I feel a heat coming forth.” He tries to be comforting. “Knight Lea, you feel it too?” He asks Depa.

“Indeed, Master.” She responds, easily falling into a lightheartedness as a part of her character. “Younglings… see the light, it comes through the chamber and… through the ice.” The children act as though they are surprised, and relieved. 

“It will save us from the caves. The ice, it’s going down.” A young mirialan says, veil pushed quickly to the side from where it falls on his face. “Melting.” He’s rather good at it, Mace muses. The mirialan boy looks awed. And so, the play ends. Mace finds himself clapping happily much to the embarrassment of the younglings who end up blushing and sharing glances. Depa hands out compliments easily, the children used to her mannerisms indicating she’s been here often. 

The mirialan, Lameo, comes up to him. “Knight Depa says that you were once part of the theatre, but you chose to become a council member instead.” Mace blinks from where he sits, looking slightly upwards at the boy. 

“Indeed, I did.” He confirms, his head tilting slightly to the left. 

Lameo seems to perk up, sitting down in front of Mace. “What was it like, the theatre I mean, not being a Master? I want to join the theatre club, Master Windu, and I was wondering if I should or if I shouldn’t.” 

Mace hums thoughtfully, hands unconsciously steepling in front of him, “If you desire it, and you feel that it is your path, join it. I must say, you have a knack for it as well.” He grins a bit, happy when the young mirialan smiles back. “The theatre would benefit greatly if you joined.” 

“You think so?” 

“I would not lie, young one,” Mace says.

Lameo breathes in deep, furrowing his brow for a moment before he stands and bows thankfully, “I’ll think about it.”  

The performance happens two weeks later. Mace wears slightly more traditional robes, extra ornaments and embellishments on the cream robes. The children, all decked out in their own gear, like all children do, love the elaborately designed hilts, not made for comfort in dueling, but made to look flashy and beautiful. He turns to welcome Depa and is taken aback for a moment. Her robes are designed differently from what she usually wears. The sleeves are more poofed, less easy to fight in, the pants billow before coming to a close at the boots, and there is a pattern on the fabric itself, intricate little swirls that seem to fit. He recalls a younger Depa in cream coloured tunics before she became a Padawan. It appears, he muses, that she has grown up. Her hair has been intricately plaited on top of her head, in a style that Mace would say tops even the most intricate Naboo hairstyles. When he looks at her, he feels happy, yet also sad, yearning for the time when she would only reach his elbow.

“Master?” Depa asks as she sides up beside him after praising enough of the initiates for their costumes. “Are you alright? You seem… off. Are you nervous?” She seems genuinely concerned. 

“No worries, Depa. Just… thinking.” She shoots him a confused look, obviously not exactly understanding at all. Like he’s done before, he starts explaining. “You’ve grown up. It is… novel sometimes.”

Depa snorts, reaching out to smooth non-existent wrinkles on his robes. “You knighted me a year ago.” She murmurs. “I was far from my Padawan years then.”

“I suppose it is only hitting now,” Mace admits, shifting the tunic a bit from where it sits skewed to the left. It was a tradition to make sure they were both dressed properly before leaving the apartments. It has carried on to this day. “In many ways, I can still see the little you.” Depa laughs lightly, a small chuckle really. Her eyes sparkle like they always do when she finds something humorous. 

“Oh dear, I must have a long way to go then, before I am fully grown in your eyes, my Master.” Her affectionate tone accompanies her hands squeezing his. “Well, are you ready?”

“Of course,” Mace says. Depa smiles and joins Tirna in corralling the kids onto the stage. Mace takes a moment to breathe before following her on the stage.

[gayregis]

right away sorry if this gets too ranty I've just been Thinking lately and i feel like twn is such a good example of like. this idea that Real and Good film and television can only be made by Hollywood i guess? like there's even this polish saying that roughly translates to "you praise the foreign and don't know your own" which gets made fun of a lot but also. it's very true imo. like i still wonder what could've been if actual good polish filmmakers were entrusted with making a new witcher (1/?

and it would've been such a good opportunity for like. one showcasing that there Can be good art and entertainment made locally and two some genuine cultural exchange. like i know its too big of an idea for Capitalism™ but if there was a well made polish-language show on international Netflix like. idk i feel like maybe that could spark some interest in like broadening peoples horizons and changing their views on what fantasy looks like etc and its just frustrating that there wasnt even a chance

i really agree. i have been dreaming recently about what my ideal "visual adaptation" of the witcher would look like, and what i've come up with essentially is something like the polish audiodramas set to 2D animation by fans of the witcher. subs, not dubs, i guess?

audiodramas

gilthoniel1173 on youtube has uploaded many select clips of the audiodramas, translated them and set them to pictures. amazing work and i highly recommend this.

i really value the majority of sapkowski's prose, though there are faults with the witcher, his prose really has a marvelous quality to it and i am trying to think of a way to keep this intact. something like the audiodramas in which there are narration may be the best way to go, with subtitles so that

animation

it's the sort of thing i think about like, hey, if i had netflix's budget (approx. $70 to $80 million, [dies]), how would i make the witcher adaptation?

disclaimer: i hesitated to @ artists because i feel like it sends the message that i am saying, "hey you, specifically, should do this idea for free, also btw, i only see you as a witcher fanartist and nothing more :)" this is not my intention, what i want to do here is just want to bring light to these artists in the community and the work they have done, both witcher-related and original work (and i hope that i am in no way defining them as 'only-witcher' artists). additionally, this is in no way suggesting that i don't want to involve any artists i did not mention or that i do not adore the work of other artists in the witcher fandom, these are just the immediate two i think of when i think of animating the witcher.

i imagine it in the style of @paticmak , @astrolunos , @johix because they have done just such gorgeous art of the witcher... <3 (i hope everyone reading knows of these artists already, but if you do not, please check out their work and support!)

paticmak's cherry vodka, an original animation which you should watch: [x]

paticmak's witcher fanart: [x]

astrolunos' animations, including geralt and ciri from sword of destiny and yennefer and ciri from blood of elves: [x]

astrolunos' witcher fanart: [x]

johix's jadýrko, an original interactive story which you should check out: [x] [x]

johix's art (some ship and ns/fw): [x]

specific witcher pieces from these artists that i think about:

[paticmak / "The witcher drawings redraws and sketches"]

[astrolunos / slavic-inspired outfits]

[astrolunos / "yen and ciri’s room, ellander"]

[johix / geralt and dandelion at beltane (ship)]

other major inspirations in my dreams of this:

studio ghibli movies (spirited away and howl's moving castle)

independent animators like felix colgrave (double king)

laika studio animations (kubo and the two strings)

gobelins studio (sundown)

embracing the roots, introducing diversity

my main point in this section is that i believe the polish & eastern european culture of the witcher is essential to it, at the same time i also value diversity and uplifting people of color. i do not believe that these two concepts are in conflict with one another! a discussion simply needs to be held, which is something that netflix did not do because it had few eastern european voices on the set, and kept the voices of color it did have down.

something netflix failed to do is acknowledge the witcher's cultural origins... at all. really, at all. in the writing, in the dialogue, in the set design, in the character and fashion design... and they had the opportunity to do this. this is massively disappointing and thoughtless.

my goal would be to bring polish & other eastern european writers who are fans of the witcher to work through the prose to tell the story. i would also like to have female and lgbt voices in this because the witcher has some elements that are...! disconcerting, let's just say. as we saw with lauren, having a woman in charge doesn't immediately make things not misogynist anymore, somehow she added to the misogyny of the witcher. but i think this is still a step in the right direction. additionally, this writing process would NOT look like writing fanfiction. it would really be going through and working with the artists and translating the prose, deciding what should be kept and what should be left out (some things like forest gramps should be left out, wouldn't you agree?).

new scenes could be added, but they would just have to be done for a reason. i believe the 2002 hexer did this somewhat-successfully in scenes such as this one, in which they develop relationships between characters just that little bit more and add to the pathos of the witcher (which is quite direct and does not "loiter" upon many things!)

i would also really value the voices of set designers, fashion historians, food historians, and cultural anthropologists who are from + study poland & eastern europe because i believe the history and culture should be integrated into the witcher and appreciated, demonstrated in a positive and celebratory light to the world, without doing so in a cultural appropriation-like manner (in which elements are just taken without any knowledge of where they are from and what context they hold). also, yes, the witcher is not a historical fantasy - but its setting is inspired by history and it would be rewarding to see a visual fantasy universe that is not based in english culture!

i think the witcher community is really vast and holds many opinions... this is both a good and bad thing, because "the witcher fandom" includes both people of color and like, white supremacists. i will say that i wouldn't want the latter working on the project, just saying. i would like to see designs of color for the cast of the witcher (i have done a few but hesitated to post them, lol) and sensitivity readings, NOT just diversity for views like netflix performed, but diversity that empowers, makes sense, and isn't "people of color are in this, they are either white-passing or just there to support the white characters." ... i also would like to think about how we approach diversity, as in, designs/casting of color should not be relegated to insignificant or evil characters, the good protagonists could be people of color. i would also like to think about and avoid problematic tropes such as when white characters in a media teach and "civilize" a young person of color, or when "monsters" or non-human characters are cast as people of color... i think people of color should be given roles in which they are in control, powerful, desirable, and good. we need to think about the message we send. in the end, my goal would be "genuine cultural exchange" as you said.

additionally: i think involving jewish and indigenous (broad terms, but i mean them to be broad) voices specifically in conversations about writing would be significant because sapkowski made some decisions in the witcher which can come off as offensive to these groups in particular (regarding the parts of the story about elves, dwarves, gnomes, dryads, and specific characters such as yennefer and regis).

music

honestly, not many thoughts here! can we really get any better than the soundtrack of the witcher 3? cdpr has many faults, but their music is not one of them in my opinion.

afterthoughts

i was displeased to learn that alik sakharov left twn because of not being appreciated and instead being fought on his writing, but i feel a project like this would actually value input like his instead of kicking him out and citing "creative differences"

what is really the most significant thing to me is good writing and ciri's relationship with her parents, because i believe these being taken away is one of the things which was most painful about netflix's "adaptation."

[lunarthedragon]

Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daisies

Written mostly from excitable inspiration from a previous post of mine here. Wrote this mostly in my free time at school so bound to have mistakes.

Read on Ao3: here

Oxenfurt University was a school of prestige. Only the best of the best went there to study; which really just meant rich kids or the exceptionally, exceptionally talented. It was a haughty establishment, encouraging space-minded men to keep their minds in space, asking questions no one actually cared to ask in the real world.

That was its reputation, anyway. What the common man or woman might say when asked what they thought of the establishment.

To a degree… they weren’t wrong. The main classes did contain quite a few children of wealth, but that was only the surface. Every old, near ancient, organization is bound to have bones in its closet, and Jaskier was intimately associated with those very bones in Oxenfurt University.

He attends classes, studying the seven liberal arts, bettering his craft, but somewhere along the way he had been noticed. He isn’t sure what it was that drew the Chancellor’s eye to him. He likes to think it was his angelic voice, but he suspects it was his innate talent of talking himself out of trouble. It was a very impressive skill, and it had gotten him an invitation to the “Society of Foxes.”

Jaskier had no idea what a Society of Foxes was supposed to be, but he had assumed it was an elite club. Oxenfurt University had quite a few of them, but Jaskier had never been invited until then.

He’d gone without hesitation, meeting the head of the Society, Anatol, far after the sun had set.

This was when he had been introduced to the dangerous, but invigorating life, of a Bard, and he never looked back.

+++

Jaskier was a marvelous minstrel. He loved to sing and dance and keep people entertained, but he was also observant. He could tell when a room began to shift and the mood of his songs needed adjusting. He knew who to focus on in a tavern or party if he wanted to get the most coin out of them.

“Your honest enjoyment in this work will make you a better Bard,” Anatol had assured Jaskier when he’d first joined their Society. Anatol was an unremarkable man. Not short or tall, not strong or skinny, not dark or light. He wore nice clothes, sure, but he wasn’t much of anything. He had sharp eyes, though, like he’d seen far more than a regular minstrel should ever have seen.

“I thought Bards were just a myth to keep the nobility entertained,” Jaskier says, suspicious and not entirely sure if he’s being hazed or not. “You know… they hire a bunch of performers and try to figure out who the Bard must be? Like a game?”

“To them, it is a game,” Anatol nods, his eyes hardening even further. “Until the actual Bard that has been spying on them for months slits their throat without anyone being the wiser.”

He’d been told he would be hired for some of the most dangerous parties, where the nobility made a point of keeping an eye on their performers and drunkenly trying to declare who the hidden spy must be. A performer might even get executed right on the spot, if a noble was certain, or drunk, enough.

Jaskier would have to ensure that performer wasn’t himself.

But there was training for that.

Jaskier continued with his courses at Oxenfurt University, but in the evenings and sometimes late into the night, Jaskier was in the belly of the school, slipping into hidden corridors and rooms, learning how to twist his words in just the perfect way to get the results he wanted.

Learning every poison imaginable and how to concoct them.

Learning how to wield, sharpen, maintain, and hide a seemingly infinite variety of knives.

Learning how to shoot an arrow near perfect every time.

Memorizing important nobles all over the Continent.

It was grueling, exhausting work, but through it all Jaskier thrived. He complained, sure, but he always managed to find time to write songs, to play his lute for his fellow Bards, to crack a joke and make his peers laugh off their nerves.

They called him the Laughing Fox, most of them got silly nicknames like that, but he was still proud of it. He felt like he was part of something bigger. Not a bigger cause, no. The Society of Foxes, and likely most Bard schools, weren’t associated with anyone. They did as they pleased and their Bards could go off and do whatever they wanted and would always be welcomed back.

They were a family, in a way, looking out for their own kind. They were competitive, sure, and they were literally taught how to murder people without detection… but every family had its quirks, right?

Well, Jaskier loved his quirky, murderous family very, very much. He doubts his blood parents would have ever approved, if they’d been alive, but he never really cared about any of that anyway.

He had a family and he was happy.

+++

Until he wasn’t.

Jaskier was a fidgety man, and eventually the walls of Oxenfurt University felt more imposing than they felt welcoming. He was suffocating within the stone, the horizon a tempting siren’s call.

It came as no surprise to anyone when Jaskier announced he wanted to travel the world. “You could never sit still for long,” Anatol nods, before giving Jaskier a warm farewell hug.

“Aw, Anatol,” Jaskier coos, hugging his mentor back, “You were always like the strange, senile uncle I never wanted.”

“Off with you, heathen,” Anatol responds, swatting at Jaskier as he laughs and flees.

Wojciecha, one of Jaskier’s fellow Bards who had trained alongside him and garnered the title Sharpened Fox during her time perfecting her capabilities with bladed chains, accompanies him to the edge of Oxenfurt territory. Jaskier knew for a fact that those very lethal chains of hers were hidden under her flowing, flashy sleeves, but that was only because he knew her so well. No one else would be the wiser.

Wojciecha, or just Sharp for short, was a tall, dark-skinned woman with severe eyes, long dreads, and not a musical bone in her body. She was a spectacular dancer, however, and often slipped through parties, gaining information, with ease, her flashy clothes and movements distracting any man or woman that suspected her.

She was also significantly taller than Jaskier, which he once felt was a strike to his masculinity. Nowadays, though, he just felt lucky to count her among his family.

“Careful of monsters,” Sharp says as they walk.

“I’ll stick an arrow in their eye and run, if needed,” Jaskier assures, waving off the woman’s concerns.

“I still don’t understand what you hope to gain from this little adventure of yours,” Sharp grumbles, rolling her eyes.

“Hopefully something more substantial than ‘little’,” Jaskier huffs, looking forward along the path.

“Is that what the men and women you sleep with say before you take off your pants?” Sharp smirks, her smile as cutting as her name, and Jaskier shoots her a displeased glare.

“I wish to see the world,” Jaskier answers Sharp’s original consideration, “And, if I really must have a more specific, beneficial goal to everything… I wish to increase my reputation across the Continent. More and more people of power will invite me to perform, Jaskier the Greatest Minstrel, and then I can rob them of all their secrets.”

“And maybe a few hearts?”

“I am not THAT promiscuous, you know.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Yeah, I am…”

They share a laugh and continue walking. Eventually Sharp stops and wishes him a proper good-bye before heading back to Oxenfurt University, leaving Jaskier alone to continue on his grand journey.

+++

Jaskier had not lied when he told Sharp and the rest of the Society of Foxes that he wanted to better his reputation as a minstrel to increase his success as a Bard, but that had not been the entire truth. There was a selfish part of him, the fantastical part of him that lived in his music, that wanted to make just as much coin as a minstrel that he did as a Bard.

A paying job for a Bard usually came from nobles or those with a lot of money to their name. Information wasn’t cheap on any day, and the nobility were willing to pay out their asses if they could get even a little dirt on their rivals.

Thus, a Bard could make a hefty amount of coin if they were consistent enough. A Bard couldn’t be too present, though, for threat of being found out, but still it was a very prolific, if seedy, business.

Jaskier wanted that kind of financial security to come from just his music alone. He wanted people to speak as highly of the Greatest Minstrel, Jaskier, as they did the frightening Laughing Fox.

It was an optimistic dream. It was a foolish dream. But Jaskier didn’t care. He was a great Bard, but he had always been called to his lute and his lyrics more than his knives and his bow.

This was a selfish journey he was embarking on, and he didn’t have enough shame in his body to feel guilty about it.

+++

Bards know monsters. Maybe not the monsters in fairy tales or nightmares, but rather the most terrifying, destructive monster of them all: Man.

Wild monsters, without souls or a care for anything but themselves, were born that way. They had no choice in the matter. Still dangerous, and needing to be eradicated at times, but blameless for their nature.

Man, though? Humans? They had souls, but some actively chose to ignore theirs. They were born with the capacity for greatness and love and compassion, but chose a darker, colder path instead.

Bards knew these monsters. Bards fought these monsters with their own, twisted games. Bards toyed with the remnants of these monsters’ souls to get them to do what they wanted.

Bards knew a few basic facts about wild monsters, too. Just enough if they were travelling on the road and needed to get away, but they were hardly experts. No, that was more of a Witcher’s expertise, not a Bard’s.

So, Jaskier stuck to what he knew. He performed every chance he got, but he knew his situation was going to be bleak for quite some time until he got his feet firmly on the ground. Knowing that, he kept his eyes and ears peeled, collecting secrets, and selling any information or service he could.

He had a mask for in-person meetings, of course, he wasn’t a fool.

It still wasn’t much. Without the direct contracts through the Society of Foxes, he had to begin building his own contacts out in the world. He was tempted to invest in business cards, honestly. Or a nice pamphlet.

Still, he made a decent amount of coin with the information he gathered, along with one or two assassinations here or there. Jaskier was never a fan of blood or murder, but he knew how to work with both when it was required of him.

He even helped a tiny village struggling with a bandit problem. He was rightly proud of that one.

He was complete rubbish in a proper fight. He could bob and weave, but he could hardly throw a punch or square off against a child, much less a fully grown attacker. He wasn’t ashamed to admit his short comings, because he was fully aware of his capabilities in stealth.

No one ever saw him coming.

“I wonder if there is a song to be written here,” Jaskier had wondered aloud, standing alone in the middle of the bandit camp, the bandit leader face down in his cot, an arrow through the back of his skull. Scattered all over the camp were corpses, painstakingly dispatched without a single person ever being made aware, until every, single bandit was dead.

Jaskier looks around the bandit leader’s room, searching for inspiration, but nothing comes. He always had trouble writing songs about himself that weren’t mournful, after all.

“They didn’t seeeee,” Jaskier attempts anyway, under his breath, digging around for some of the villagers’ possessions. “Didn’t see the fox cominggggg. Didn’t seeeee… Didn’t see their death risingggg.”

Jaskier cringes at the words and shakes his head. No, likely nothing worthy of performance would be coming of this.

He drops the stolen possessions he finds off at the village center in the dead of night, mask in place, then slips away to sing at their tavern and get completely boo’ed into silence.

+++

At most taverns Jaskier performs at he is boo’ed and heckled out of the building, or at least into a corner. At a few he is ignored. At far, far less he is applauded.

He knows how to read a ballroom, he realizes with more and more clarity the more he travels. People come to a noble’s gathering expecting music and finery, and often don’t even applaud the performances anyway. The musicians and entertainers are, for the most part, background noise. It is what makes it so easy for a Bard to work in secret.

Taverns, though… taverns have opinions. Sometimes they don’t want music at all, but more often than not they are just going to lay it out, very clearly, exactly what they think of your performances.

Jaskier has always been less successful performing in taverns, but that point is hammered home when taverns are the only venue that will currently take him. Nonetheless, he perseveres on, learning what works and what doesn’t. He gets better, has a few more cheers, but still people boo.

He tries to think of what he can do better. What he can adjust and perfect to assure more success. He has made changes to how he performs, but perhaps it is his subject matter he should be updating.

He has… no idea how to even begin to do that. But, he figures, inspiration will hit at precisely the right time it must.

+++

Bards don’t much believe in Destiny. It isn’t like Destiny wronged Bards in some way, it is more like Destiny ignores them and none of them have time to worry over it.

There weren’t many “Destinies” that took place with a bunch of spies.

“Destiny is a powerful mistress,” Anatol had said once, momentarily distracted from his class lecture when he’d been distracted by questions. “But… she may only garner power if we give it to her. What happens, happens. Do not put weight to it and you will live well.”

Anatol had always been a very straightforward man. Not rough, but he didn’t mince words, either.

Still, despite most Bards not putting much thought in Destiny and what she wanted, Jaskier found he quite liked the romantic element of it all. He’d written a few poems and songs about fate and Destiny before, but even he didn’t think it had much sway over his very life.

And then Geralt of Rivia had entered his life and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

+++

Bards had no reason to gather information on Witchers. Witchers had no human enemies for Bards to sell that information to, and Witchers had no major affiliations with anyone that might make them a target.

Also, they never showed up at parties, which could make things difficult for most Bards.

But, with Jaskier struggling to find new material for his songs, and still with that incessant itch to go out into the world and experience as much of it as he could, he had decided Geralt of Rivia was an exception.

It wasn’t like Jaskier wanted information on Witchers or Geralt specifically to hurt them. He mostly wanted information on monsters and the hunts themselves. He thought that was very reasonable!

But, clearly, Geralt did not share the same idea. He clearly didn’t want Jaskier following him around, that much was obvious. Jaskier wasn’t blind or stupid, he knew when he wasn’t wanted. But, he was also a very, VERY stubborn man.

He offered to be Geralt’s barker, even, to hopefully sweeten the deal. Better his name and reputation through these new songs.

Still Geralt wanted nothing to do with him.

So, Jaskier being such a very, very stubborn man, had followed the Witcher anyway.

The man in the tavern had claimed they were being terrorized by a devil of sorts and Jaskier was frightened, but mostly intrigued to see what such a monstrous beast must look like. Except Geralt claimed devils didn’t exist and suddenly was getting nailed in the head by a tiny cannonball.

A sylvan, Jaskier will later find out. The people are being threatened by a sylvan with a slingshot. Talk about anticlimactic. How was Jaskier meant to write a glorious ballad from that?

The Bard just narrowly dodges a tiny cannonball aimed at his own head. He had been being a bit more boisterous and louder than was necessary, but he thinks that the projectile was completely unnecessary, and he swiftly answers in kind.

A throwing knife is removed from its hiding place and let loose in one swift move, knocking the slingshot out of the sylvan’s hands where he hides in the bushes. The muffled, angry cursing Jaskier hears only makes him smile. Served the bastard right.

It doesn’t look like Geralt noticed Jaskier’s incredibly helpful move, however, as he prowls around the plants, looking for the best place to pull the sylvan from his hiding spot. “Get back, minstrel,” Geralt orders sharply, not looking back at him, and Jaskier pouts but does as he’s told.

“Very well, very well, but if anything happens—”

The sylvan charges at that moment, running at Geralt with a furious cry, and Jaskier instinctively pulls out another throwing knife. He need not worry, however, as Geralt swiftly pins his attacker down with only a minor tussle.

Jaskier watches at a distance as Geralt angrily interrogates the goat-man, but not before some… interesting banter. He tries not to outwardly cringe at what Geralt must assume is witty insults.

A dick with balls? Really?

He, unfortunately, does not notice the shadowy figure moving off to the side before a sharp pain erupts on the back of his head and the world goes black.

+++

Jaskier wakes up before Geralt does, the both of them sitting on the ground, back-to-back, with their hands bound together. They appear to be in a room built out of stone. Either that or a cave, but it seems a bit more charming than just a cave.

Ah, the story was getting more interesting! Jaskier would have to be more excited about that once he stopped being terrified for his life.

What had even happened?

Jaskier tried to get a look around, eyes frantically searching out a clue as to the current predicament. He spots his lute sitting atop a table on the other side of the room, along with Geralt’s swords. Beside them is Geralt’s belt of… potions? Jaskier doesn’t know what he keeps on there. Along with… a lot of knives. Just, a pile of knives. All likely taken off Jaskier’s person.

Oops. Maybe shouldn’t have thrown that first one at the sylvan. Tipped them off to the rest…

There isn’t much else to notice in the room, unfortunately, so Jaskier begins shifting around, feeling out his bonds. They are too tight to wriggle out of, but he could always break his thumb if absolutely necessary and slip out. It was a last-ditch effort, but Bards were taught plenty of ways to escape captivity, along with plenty of healing techniques for afterwards.

The thumb trick is Jaskier’s least favorite, however, because it leaves him unable to play his lute for a few days of recovery.

It doesn’t look to be necessary, however, as he realizes their captors didn’t take all of his knives. His rings are still in place and he easily clicks the side of one to snap out a tiny blade and begin sawing at the ropes.

When Geralt stirs, then awakens, Jaskier is about halfway through the ropes.

“Ah, lovely, you’re awake,” Jaskier hums in fake pleasantness, leaning back to nudge Geralt’s head when it sways too much. He can feel the Witcher’s hair smack the back of his head when he shakes his head out, clearing it.

“Where…?” Geralt begins, but doesn’t finish, likely realizing Jaskier can’t surely know where they are.

“No clue,” Jaskier answers anyway, “I am working on getting these ropes off of us, however, but if you have some Witchering magic you could use to speed things up, this would be the time to do that.”

“This is the time that they kill us!” Geralt snaps viciously, yanking at the binds and growling furiously when nothing happens. “How are YOU supposed to get these off?” Geralt demands after a few more attempts, sounding furious.

“Ah, quite simple, really,” Jaskier chirps, masking his fear with cheer, and taps Geralt’s fingers carefully with the small blade on his ring. Geralt makes a noise that sounds like it could be surprise but is mostly confused. “My mother was always very invested in my safety, you see,” he shrugs, then goes back to sawing the ropes.

It wasn’t a lie… His mother had always been a worry wart, and technically the ring was from her. The modifications, however…

He doesn’t get much more time to work on their escape, unfortunately, because right then an elf, of all things, comes charging in. They both get kicked quite a few times, Jaskier being reminded of just how much he hated fights, and his precious lute is shattered.

Dreadful adventure. Really. Worst in the world…

Jaskier tries not to cry at the sight of his ruined instrument.

It certainly doesn’t get better when Filavandrel arrives and lays out, in no uncertain terms, the mistreatment that has been set upon his people. It makes Jaskier’s muscles go loose in shock, his eyes haunted as he listens.

He’d thought…

Well, he’d thought a lot of things, but he was here to learn truths of the world, wasn’t he? And what a way to start his journey.

Jaskier remains mostly quiet as Filavandrel and Geralt speak. He knows when it is crucial for him to stay quiet, and now is one of those times. It takes a lot not to say anything, however, when Geralt starts talking about his resolution in being killed. Thankfully, that doesn’t play out. But it’s a close call that leaves a pit in Jaskier’s stomach.

They’re freed, actually freed, by the elves, Filavandrel himself taking his knife to their binds. He releases the Witcher first, of course, then pauses as he sees Jaskier’s wrists. “It would appear we did not take all of your weapons,” the elven king says sardonically, then snaps off the remainder of the ropes on Jaskier’s wrists.

“My mother was always very invested in my safety,” he says to the room as a whole, rubbing his wrists as he stands and flicking the blade in his ring back into hiding. The elves all give him unimpressed glares while Geralt ignores him, going to fetch his gear instead.

Jaskier clears his throat and hops after the Witcher quickly, beginning to pick up knife after knife from the pile on the table, assessing them then slipping them back into their hiding places.

Geralt has long finished being ready to go, swords and gear back on his person, and he and the elves all stand in silence, watching as Jaskier keeps picking up blade after blade, the weapons disappearing swiftly on his person, and he only looks up after he’s almost done. He glances around at all of the stares, flushing in embarrassment.

“What? My mother—”

“Was very invested in your safety,” Geralt interrupts, arms crossed and irritable-looking. Jaskier only offers him a sheepish grin, then finishes hiding the last of his knives.

+++

With a new lute, gifted to him from the elves, Jaskier composes his greatest hit, “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.” Geralt won’t stop glaring at him, but Jaskier doesn’t much care. It isn’t ready for a performance by the time they get back to the tavern and Geralt is paid his coin, but Jaskier knows it will be a hit when he is finished.

The morning after they return, just before the sun has fully risen, Jaskier finds Geralt saddling up Roach, clearly getting ready to leave.

“So!” Jaskier says cheerfully as he steps towards him, his lute on his back and a bag on his shoulder. He’d left the bag in the tavern before, too rushed to catch up with Geralt to go up and get it, but he has no intention of forgetting it again. “Where to next?”

He’s looking at Geralt’s back and he sees the man’s shoulder sag with a deep, unhappy sigh. The Witcher takes a few seconds to probably question his life choices before he says, without looking back, “There is no next. Not for you.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt! You can’t possibly expect me to just back down now? After just one adventure? I’ve only had a taste, a singular glimpse, at the greatness that is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf!” Jaskier is grinning, not deterred at all, even when Geralt finally turns around and glares darkly at him.

“There is no greatness, minstrel,” Geralt gruffs and Jaskier thinks this is the most he’s heard him talk to the Bard before.

“I beg to differ,” Jaskier shrugs. In just one mission Jaskier had seen a side to Geralt of Rivia he doubted anyone else ever had. The man was gruff and intense, sure, but… “You are a good man, Geralt,” Jaskier says, his face and tone taking on a more serious feeling, and the other man watches him with a blank expression.

In all honesty, Jaskier is worried. In a way he probably shouldn’t be for a man he’s only just met.

Geralt is far too flippant about people’s general disdain towards Witchers. He acts like it doesn’t matter, doesn’t affect him, but there’s no way that can be true. No one can go through life completely unaffected by constant cruelty. No one. Not even a supposedly emotionless Witcher.

Especially a supposedly emotionless Witcher, who punches supposedly harmless minstrels when they so much as utter the word “Butcher.”

Geralt isn’t immune, and Jaskier knows it, but he hadn’t grown worried until their return trip from the elves.

He’d made a flippant comment, complimenting Geralt’s reverse psychology while dealing with the elves. Geralt’s “go ahead and kill me” schtick had seemed so convincing! Jaskier had been impressed by his acting capabilities and thought it necessary to let Geralt know that.

Except Geralt wasn’t responding to the compliments. He wasn’t looking at Jaskier at all.

Jaskier’s heart had very quickly jumped into his throat.

He still wanted information. He still wanted material for his songs. He still was in this for completely selfish reasons.

But now there was an extra layer. He’d offered to be the Witcher’s barker because he’d hoped it would win the man’s favor. He’d intended to write a song or two for him, it was no skin off his bones, and it would hopefully win him fame and fortune.

The boost to Geralt’s reputation would have just been a nice extra. Jaskier would have claimed it was all on purpose, then moved on to bigger and better things.

Now, though… Now Jaskier’s bleeding heart was demanding he do more. Demanding he not be only selfish.

Geralt really was a good man and he deserved more than the distrustful glares he got from everyone he ran across. He deserved to have people know all his good deeds, even if they had to be a tiny bit altered to be more thematically appropriate for a minstrel’s song.

“You won’t need to worry,” Jaskier continues, cheerfully, as he approaches Geralt when the man doesn’t respond. “I may be rubbish in a fight, but I can pull my weight on the road.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums and it sounds very suspicious.

“Yes, really,” Jaskier huffs then sets down his bag. It is filled with clothes and perfumes and oils, which he pushes aside as he pulls out a folded-up device. Geralt eyes it, still suspicious but edging on curious, and with a flick of Jaskier’s wrist the device snaps out and takes the rigged shape of a recurve bow.

Geralt’s brows have risen, watching as Jaskier next pulls out a modest, leather quiver with a few arrows rolling around in it. He holds up both – bow and quiver – and beams at Geralt proudly. “I can catch food, no problem,” he announces and Geralt’s brows lower, then one arches upwards.

“You? Preparing food?”

“Well… catch, definitely,” Jaskier mumbles, arms lowering and the quiver bumping against his leg. Geralt gives him a bland look. “What? Skinning them is disgusting!” He knew his limits. Was that so bad?

“Why do you have a bow in your bag, minstrel?” Geralt questions, sounding exhausted and resigned. He likely was beginning to realize he wouldn’t be losing Jaskier so easily.

“Because—”

“If you say it’s because of some protective mother I will drag you back into that tavern and leave you there,” Geralt snaps and Jaskier stiffens, eyes widening, before he clears his throat and glances down at the bow.

He couldn’t very well say he was a trained spy and assassin, now could he? He highly doubted the man who hardly trusted a minstrel would ever trust a Bard. Luckily, though, a good Bard always had plenty of stories at their disposal.

“I had to hunt for my family when I was younger,” Jaskier eventually sighs, glancing away like he’s wrapped up in a memory. “I caught, my father skinned, my mother cooked.”

“And the knives?”

Jaskier looks back at him, head tilting. “Now that one IS my mother,” he smiles, half-joking, and Geralt keeps staring at him. When the silence stretches on for too long Jaskier sighs dramatically. “Glare as much as you like. You aren’t getting rid of me. Your adventures are the best muse I’ve ever had!”

Geralt keeps staring for a long while, weighing his options, weighing Jaskier’s usefulness, weighing a lot in his head. Jaskier attempts to wait without squirming, but he still ends up tapping his fingers over his bow’s grip.

“You will do as I say,” Geralt suddenly says, making Jaskier straighten up. His voice is gruff with authority and warning. “If I say run, you run. If I say stay, you stay. If I say shut up, you shut up.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he’s going to be all that successful with those orders, but he can give it a shot. “Alright,” he nods, a smile pulling at his lips. Geralt narrows his golden eyes at him in disbelief, but Jaskier doesn’t let it deter him.

“Should we stop for breakfast first, though? You certainly got out of there quickly,” Jaskier continues, jabbing a finger back at the tavern and inn, but Geralt is already turning away and pulling himself up onto Roach.

The man grunts, noncommittal, and Jaskier pouts as he hefts his bag back onto his shoulder. He flicks the bow, clicking at a hidden button, and it folds back into itself so that Jaskier can hang it on his belt, the quiver hanging beside it.

Good fashioned Bard gadgets. It was amazing the doodads and contraptions the Society of Foxes had been able to get for Jaskier, and he treated his bow with such delicate care because of it. Even if it was dreadfully dull in design…

He follows after the Witcher as the man begins moving, chattering away about nothing, and giddily looking forward to his next adventure.

[paxohana]

Menagerie, Pt. 1

The evening was chilly for late spring, leaving him wishing he had worn a heavier jacket or better yet remained at home.  He was expected to be there, however.  It was the ball of the season, the event of the elite in the city.  While he didn’t consider himself in the upper crust of society, his family name carried notable weight.

He felt confident in his appearance, wearing the latest fashion from Paris.  The coattails were something that took some getting used to but paired along with pinstripe trousers he felt dapper. His crimson cravat felt as if it were choking him and the highly polished shoes pinched his feet, but such was the bane of aristocracy.  He just prayed he’d get through all the pomp and circumstance of the occasion.

“Viktor,” his date began, “I’m thirsty.  When we get inside, would you be a darling and get me something to drink?”

“Of course, my dear,” Viktor said, lifting her gloved hand and kissing it.

They walked through the archway leading to the grand room, only pausing to be introduced.  The scattered applause didn’t bode well with Viktor, but he knew it was because of his date.  Her family prayed Viktor took a liking to her and wedded her, but Viktor knew it was hopeless on their part.  He invited her to the ball as a favor to his father since her family’s clout was deteriorating. 

After excusing himself, Viktor headed toward the refreshment table and perused the offerings.  Every delicacy befitting a ball of this magnitude was present.  Scrutinizing the appetizers, Viktor was pleased when he saw a towering platter of finger sandwiches.  He grabbed a plate and stacked several on it along with a few petit fours.  Deciding he had enough to last most of the evening, Viktor returned to his date.

“I think you forgot something,” she said, frowning when he looked at her cluelessly, “My drink.  I swear, Viktor, you are so scatterbrained for someone your age!”

“I apologize,” he said, handing her his plate, “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Heading to the table once more, Viktor waited until the server assisted those ahead of him.  The band had struck up a tune and several couples headed for the dance floor.  He turned around and watched the dancers waltz around in the open.  His eyes darted from pair to pair, and he recognized a few before his gaze stopped.

That’s when he saw him.

The young man appeared to be an angel descended from the heavens.  His tan plaid jacket complimented his jet black hair perfectly, the golden wire-framed glasses giving him a glowing appearance.  Viktor admired his slender figure and the way his vest hugged his upper body.  His hands seemed delicate under the white gloves he wore, but the way he held his date in his arms suggested admirable strength.  

Viktor was instantly smitten.

He watched the graceful flow of the man’s body as he twirled his dance partner around the floor.  His movements denoted one skilled in the art, and Viktor thoroughly enjoyed being privy to see it.  He could tell the man was carrying on a conversation with his date, and when his eyes crinkled when he smiled, Viktor thought his heart would cease beating.  His smile was brighter than any star imaginable and the joy on his face ethereal.  Viktor wanted nothing more than to swoon over the man, wished it was him being held in his arms, spinning around the hardwood floor with him.

Shaking the impossible thoughts from his mind, Viktor ordered a drink for his date and returned to her.  His gaze remained fixed on the man, however. Viktor was intrigued by him, and he thought he must introduce himself.  Trying to think of a way to strike up a conversation with him, Viktor was jolted from his reverie when applause broke out among the guests.

“Viktor?”

“Yes, dear?” he responded with a question of his own.

“I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.  I would like to dance now,” she declared, taking his hand and dragging him to the floor.

The band switched to a slower tune and Viktor held his date closer, but his eyes never left the young man.  He barely heard the words his companion was speaking, nodding every so often or giving a hum of approval.  His mind wasn’t on the woman in his arms, but of the man mere feet away from him.

The song seemed to drone on forever.  He wanted to break away from the crowd, find the man that caught his fancy and chat until the small hours of the morning.  He wanted to know everything about him, wanted to hear his laughter and see that broad smile directed at him.

Bowing to his date, Viktor excused himself and scanned the people surrounding him, but became dismayed when he couldn’t locate the one that fascinated him.  Deciding to get a breath of fresh air, Viktor headed for the balcony but froze when he saw someone leaning against the railing. 

It was him, the one that took his breath away.  

Viktor couldn’t believe his luck and wondered if the heavens were smiling down upon him.  Clearing his throat as not to frighten the young man, Viktor ambled up to the railing and stood next to him.

“Good evening, sir,” Viktor said, trying to steady his voice to contain his growing excitement.

“Good evening,” the man said, smiling softly at him.

“Quite the party, isn’t it?” Viktor asked, grinning when the other man chuckled.

“I hate these soirees,” he replied, “Too many expectations and secrets.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Viktor said, holding out his hand, “Viktor Nikiforov.”

“Yuuri Katsuki,” the young man said, shaking Viktor’s hand with a strength he found enchanting, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine.  What brings you to the Kelly’s tonight?”

“My father is their investor,” Yuuri said, “I’m representing my family.  I almost wish they had sent my sister.”

“I completely understand,” Viktor lamented, “My father is a steel magnate.  We’re expected to attend events such as this.”

“Wait, Nikiforov Metals?” Yuuri inquired.

“That’s us.”

“My father was just asked to take over as their financier,” Yuuri said in astonishment, “and here I am running into the scion of my father’s newest client.”

“I suppose it is a small world,” Viktor replied, chuckling slightly, “Maybe the stars have aligned or whatnot.”

“Perhaps.”

Viktor watched Yuuri as he stared out at the inky darkness sparsely sprinkled with gas lamps.  He wanted to know what was going through his head but thought it impolite to comment on it.  Leaning against the railing, Viktor looked at Yuuri when he sighed.

“I wish we didn’t have such social responsibilities,” Yuuri began, “I want to feel free and alive, not stifled under others’ expectations.”

“I agree wholeheartedly.  I’m expected to marry and carry on the family business,” Viktor said.

“What would you rather do?” Yuuri inquired.

“Travel the world, help the less fortunate,” Viktor elaborated, “I see the underprivileged in our city and it tugs at my heart.”

“That’s quite admirable of you,” Yuuri said, giving a smile that made Viktor’s heart skip a beat.

“What would be in your future if you had a choice?” Viktor questioned.

“I’d like to go to school for medicine,” Yuuri explained.

“A doctor is a highly respectable career choice,” he said.

“Alas, I feel my life will be dedicated to taking over for my father’s position once he retires,” Yuuri said, sadness mingling in his voice.

“As will mine.  Such are the burdens of an only child,” Viktor said, sighing deeply.

Yuuri nodded in sympathy.  While he wasn’t in the same situation as Viktor, he was the only male heir and was expected to carry on his father’s legacy.  He felt trapped in his circumstances and wasn’t ready to resign himself to his destiny.

“Perhaps in the next lifetime,” Yuuri mused, desperately hoping it were true.

“Mayhap,” he agreed, “but enough about melancholic subjects.  What does Yuuri Katsuki do to pass his time throughout the day?”

“Typically follow my father around and learn from him,” Yuuri revealed, “Other times I spend time in the park reading or playing croquet.  I’m the family champion.”

“Impressive,” Viktor said, grinning when Yuuri smiled, “Have you ever tried your hand at polo?”

“I can’t say that I have,” he said.

“Would you like to join me this week?  There is a spot open on our team since Harold will be out of town.  I’d love for you to experience such a grand occasion,” Viktor invited, sincerely hoping Yuuri would agree.

“Alright,” Yuuri said, “It sounds like fun.  As long as it doesn’t interfere with my schedule, I’d be delighted to tag along.”

“We generally meet up in the square at ten o’clock on Wednesday mornings.  Is that agreeable?” Viktor inquired.

“Quite so.  See you then?”

After exchanging information in case one needed to cancel, they parted for the night to return to their dates.  Viktor kept scouring the crowd for Yuuri much to his date’s chagrin.  The last time Viktor spotted him, he knew he had gone too far.

“You could be couth enough to hide your fancy for other women, Viktor,” she complained, gathering her clutch, “I’m ready to leave now.”

Grimacing as his date angrily shrugged into her shawl, Viktor played scenarios through his head to appease her.  He knew if word got back to his father that he avoided her most of the evening, the man would be most displeased.

“I apologize, my dear,” Viktor said when they reached the stoop of her house, “My wits were not about me tonight.  I promise I shall make it up to you.”

“Don’t bother,” she grumbled, “Good night, Viktor.”

He leaned in to kiss her cheek but was spurned when she spun on her heel and opened the door, slamming it seconds later.  He knew he should have felt horrible at the manner he treated the woman, but he couldn’t help feeling relieved.  Not only would the limelight of her family’s expectations dim, but he wouldn’t be pressed into future engagements involving the woman.

Which left him more time with Yuuri Katsuki.

Grinning to himself, Viktor whistled as he wound his way through the darkened streets toward his own home.

Just something @princessmimoza​ and I thought up in 2018 and finally decided to get going on this project lol.  This ficlet will be updated on the first and sixteenth of every month.  We hope you like it!

[shockpop]

         being  a  textbook  overthinker  is  a  strong  suit  denki  is  not  particularly  known  for .    a  head  regularly  presumed  empty  has  worked  to  incessantly  churn  the  argument  on  playback  over  the  course  of  three  days ,   violet  staining  crescents  beneath  his  eyes  at  some  point  between  the  late - night  mumbling  and  a  time  wherein  he  doesn’t  even  remember  falling  asleep .     his  oh - so - gracious  host  is  left  at  a  loss  when  she  is  forcibly  tasked  with  shoving  him  awake  each  morning .    

as  much  an  empath  as  mina  prides  herself  in  being ,   it  ain’t  exactly  a  cakewalk  to  get  into  a  neurotic’s  mindset  when  he’s  the  one  insisting  that  he’s  fine ,   that  everything  is  fine    ;    practiced  charisma  a  much - appreciated  plus  in  attempts  to  persuade  his  longtime  best  friend  that  he  just  needed  a  little  breathing  space  from  the  situation .     because  that’s  what  they  have  to  call  it ,   now .    ‘ the  situation ’ .

this  was  all  before  denki  proceeded  to  peel  himself  from  eyesore - chartreuse  cushions  an  hour  late  each  day ,   and  the  reason  why  mina  now  harbors  heavy  concern  beneath  the  initial  irritation  as  she  beats  him  awake  with  a  pillow  for  the  third  day  in  a  row .

astonishingly  enough ,   through  all  the  budding  bruises  and  little  cricks  of  his  bones ,   denki’s  still  not  used  to  it  ----  confused  as  to  why  in  place  of  a  fluffy  orange  butt  sat  directly  on  his  face  is  a  firm  pink  hand ,   squishing  freckled  cheeks  that’d  never  quite  lost  their  baby  fat .  

the  phone  promptly  shoved  in  his  face  (  raw - eyed ,   drool - sticky ,   red  where  strong  fingers  have  imprinted  themselves  into  his  skin  )  reads  7:12  am ,   a  good  hour  and  some  past  his  normal  wakeup  time .    he  shouldn’t  be  so  pikachu - meme  shocked  when  this  scenario  is  the  direct  result  of  a  profuse  refusal  to  take  the  device  off  silent  mode  these  past  few  days  ----  afraid  to  wake  up  to  any  late - night  texts  or  calls .    

and  yet  here  he  is ,   eyes  squeezing  shut  as  he  mutters  his  third ,   grumbly  shit  this  short  week .

       ❛   seriously ,   dude ?   ❜      mina  chides  as  she  flips  through  the  unsung  alarms ,   each  set  five  minutes  apart  from  one  another  beginning  at  5:30  in  the  morning .    

getting  himself  out  of  bed  always  had  been  something  of  a  chore ,   emphasized  by  recent  reasoning  that  he’d  not  been  catching  more  than  half  a  wink  prior  to  that  exact  time  each  day .      ❛   you  teach  people  for  a  living  and  yet  remain  willfully  oblivious  to  the  very  accessible ,   very  convenient  do  not  disturb  function .   ❜      

she  lets  the  phone  fall  unceremoniously  onto  denki’s  lap ,   cushions  creaking  beneath  their  weight .       ❛   get  off  my  couch ,   spud .   ❜

he’d  love  to ,   actually .    every  node  in  his  spine  pops  in  agreement .

the  minutes  between  then  and  hurriedly  collecting  stray  pieces  of  clothing  off  the  floor  pass  in  a  rheumy - eyed  blur ,   other  possessions  that’re  repeatedly  tripped  over  a  courtesy  of  the  emergency  overnight  bag  he’d  emptied  out  over  the  week .    kept  in  the  back  of  his  car  for  situations  that  call  for  it ,   this  doesn’t  really  qualify  as  one  of  those  times .

        ❛   hey .    what’s  the  status  of  you  reevaluating  your  life  choices  so  that  you’re  not  crawling  out  my  door  late  to  work  in  the  same  inside - out  v - neck  you’ve  been  wearing  all  week ?   ❜      mina  prompts  in  midst  of  tossing  on  a  jacket  as  gaudy  in  design  as  the  rest  of  her ,   somehow  completely  comprehending  what  vague  semblance  of  shut  up ,   shut  up ,   shut  up  denki  conveys  through  hand  gestures  in  between  hurriedly  scrubbing  his  teeth .

without  time  to  style  his  hair  this  morning ,   he’s  left  to  ruffle  through  the  unkempt  locks  in  his  reflection  through  the  elevator  doors ,   displeased  in  how  they  refuse  to  obey  any  law  of  gravity  but  deciding  that  he  might  as  well  just  go  ahead  and  look  as  shitty  as  he  feels .    hurts  less  to  acknowledge  it  himself  before  mina  eagerly  relays  just  how  divorced  he  looks  mere  moments  later .

         ❛   you’re  gonna  have  to  talk  to  him  eventually ,   ❜      she  reminds  him  just  before  they  part ,   chaste  kiss  pressed  to  either  cheek  and  equally  reciprocated .      ❛   before  it’s  too  late .    i  know  you’re  both  pretty  keen  on  letting  things  fester ,   but  how  ‘bout  you  just  nut  up  before  your  idiot  boy  pride  makes  things  completely  irreversible ?   ❜   

at  her  humble  suggestion ,   denki  mulls  on  the  air  of  an  amused  hum ,   shouldering  open  one  of  the  glass  doors  for  her  to  walk  through  first .      ❛   my  idiot  boy  pride ,   huh .    s'a  little  misandristic ,   don’tcha  think ?   ❜

she  replies  with  a  wag  of  her  middle  finger  in  the  air  behind  her ,   a  stark  gesture  that  bakugou  would  appreciate  and  that  denki  hates  thinking  that  bakugou  would  appreciate .    he  silently  curses  mina  once  for  the  reminder ,   then  again  for  her  uncanny  talent  of  always  being  right .

on  that  note ,   he  mentally  checks  ‘ idiot  boy  pride ’  as  a  contender  for  the  working  title  of  an  eventual  autobiography .  

           lunch  passes  by  a  lot  more  slowly  in  the  days  he’d  been  forcibly  weened  off  of  bakugou’s  cooking .    left  to  survive  off  what  loose  change  could  nab  from  the  vending  machines  outside  and  random  snacks  found  throughout  the  cabinets  of  the  teachers’  lounge ,   denki  finds  that  whey  milk  and  loose  granola  by  the  fistful  are  not  all  that  amazing  a  combo .   

mina  is  wise  beyond  her  years .    this  is  a  meal  of  a  divor - fuckin’ - cee .

actually ,   the  sudden  absence  of  a  balanced  diet  may  even  be  reaching  the  point  of  a  pressing  health  issue .    when  he  brushes  granola  grains  off  his  shirt  ----  now  worn  correctly ,   after  having  uncomfortably  fumbled  with  it  in  his  car  earlier  ----  he  notices  how  tight  his  chest  has  begun  to  feel  over  the  course  of  the  morning .    an  ache  like  a  scream  that  won’t  come  out .    he’s  bound ,   yes ,   and  dry  granola  has  probably  not  made  the  trip  down  his  esophagus  very  easy    ;    but  had  the  pain  always  been  so  prominent ?

❛   didja  check  twitter  yet ?   refresh  your  timeline  ----  look ,   see ,   it’s  trending !  ❜ 

denki’s  attention  piques ,   turning  towards  the  flood  of  students  rushing  by  the  lounge  door .    on  their  way  back  to  their  classrooms  to  ride  out  the  last  few  periods  of  the  day ,   he’s  not  surprised  to  see  so  many  of  their  eyes  glued  to  their  phones  as  they  walk ,   given  that  lunch  and  homeroom  make  up  the  only  two  slots  of  time  wherein  students  are  allowed  access  to  such  devices .

their  conversations  spill  in  a  slew  of  muddled  topics   :   is  the  villain  big ?    how’d  you  do  on  that  art  history  exam ?    shouldn’t  he  have  backup?    my  sister’s  taking  me  to  that  new  poke  bowl  restaurant  tonight .    is  he  breathing ?    cats  can  doggy  paddle ,   can’t  they ?    blasty’s  a  top - five !   indestructible !    i  hope  i  have  a  team  one  day .    but  so  was  jeanist ,   and  look  what  happened  to  him .

          ❛   bla ----   ❜      denki  starts ,   sparing  a  few  minutes  heading  back  himself  to  fish  his  phone  from  his  cardigan .    he’s  usually  never  without  it ,   idly  recalling  a  time  in  their  youth  where  bakugou  would  have  to  manually  pluck  it  from  his  grasp  so  that  he’d  settle  into  bed  for  the  night .    over  the  past  few  days ,   though ,   he's  been  more  than  content  to  break  character  and  distance  himself  from  the  buzz  of  social  media  under  some  years - too - late  guise  of  self - care  and  breaking  addiction .

waking  his  phone  now ,   the  top  notification  banner  reads  a  single  message  from  his  current  roommate .    

are  you  ok?

below  it ,   an  informal  update  from  twitter ,   alerting  him  of  exactly  what  his  curiosity  demands  to  be  sated  with  right  now .

 trending  in  heroics    :    #BLASTYEXPLODO .

he  doesn’t  need  a  little  shoulder  mina  angel  to  tell  him  that  reading  about  his  ex  is  technically  just  the  time - sensitive  equivalent  of  purposefully  sifting  through  bakugou’s  online  presence   ;    mostly  because  the  app  is  barely  flicked  open  when  the  tightness  across  his  chest  constricts  to  a  sudden ,   sharp  PANG .    

it  doesn’t  take  some  deep  search  to  unearth  the  context  of  his  students’  obsessive  chattering  nearby ,   considering  that  his  entire  timeline  is  being  consistently  updated  with  live  footage  from  the  scene .    a  bird’s - eye  view  of  the  site  below  captures  where  several  heroes  can  be  spotted  as  moving  dots  along  the  destruction  of  the  outskirts    ;    all  save  for  one ,   reported  to  have  been  caught  in  the  fray  after  a  building  collapsed .

fingers  press  deep  into  the  pain  of  his  chest .    his  shoulder  hits  the  wall  to  support  his  weight ,   face  paling  as  he  forces  himself  to  read  the  oncoming  slew  of  tweets  one  by  one .    a  lot  are  unhelpful  ----  mere  wishes  for  blasty  to  hang  in  there ,   some  questioning  where  he  is ,   false  memoriam  by  people  denki  knows  bakugou’s  never  met ,   lots  of  clickbait  for  merch  and  inappropriate  thirst  posts  layered  in  between .    

nothing  gives  him  a  solid  answer .    because  nobody  has  a  solid  answer .

lacking  the  word  association  necessary  to  properly  reply  to  mina’s  text  without  stirring  either  concern  or  cause  for  a  possible  lecture ,   he  shoots  something  quick  to  kirishima  instead .

hey  man ,   thanks  for  everything  lately .    i’ll  feed  the  cats  tonight .    can  you  do  me  a  solid  and  leave  a  key ?

           the  car  ride  home  is  as  long  as  ever  in  traffic  surrounding  the  incident .    every  instance  of  a  top  hero  barely  escaping  the  brink  of  death  is  all  but  a  grim  reminder  that  life  is  short ,   speaking  volumes  to  average  citizens  rushing  home  to  spoil  their  families  before  everything  settles  back  into  a  regular ,   non - life - threatening  routine  for  them  tomorrow .

shortly  after  lunch  (  and  trying  to  shake  off  what  he  was  certain  were  signs  of  a  small  heart  attack  ) ,   denki  decided  that  there  was  no  use  cutting  his  day  short  to  make  an  appearance  at  the  scene .    rapid  updates  from  twitter  and  associates  alike  informed  him  that  blasty  had  eventually  made  it  out  on  two  legs ,   triumphant  as  ever ,   before  being  escorted  to  an  unspecified  hospital  in  order  to  avoid  the  public  eye  in  his  recovery .

denki  takes  his  chances  in  calling  his  mom  between  catching  every  red  light ,   hope  breaking  in  a  small ,   audible  whimper  when  she  doesn’t  answer  his  one - or - nine  calls .    bakugou  wasn’t  the  only  victim  in  today’s  events    ;    he  rationalizes  that  nariko  is  probably  up  to  her  neck  in  new  admissions  regardless ,   but  the  thought  doesn’t  exactly  bring  him  any  peace  of  mind .

breathe .    an  impossible  demand  to  meet ,   but  one  necessary  to  keep  his  electricity  from  snapping  at  the  wheel .

he  doesn’t  exactly  know  why  he’d  even  bothered  showing  up ,   sluggish  steps  treading  the  long  lengths  of  tiled  hallway  leading  to  bakugou’s  residence .    not  really  any  use  hanging  around  an  empty  apartment  all  night    ;   even  despite  the  pressing  matter  of  the  question  mark  tacked  behind  his  current  living  situation .    he’s  not  really  looking  to  task  himself  with  packing  just  yet .

             ❛   it’s  just  something ,   ❜      denki  tiredly  tells  himself  aloud  at  the  foot  of  their  doorstep ,   head  tipped  to  the  ceiling  in  a  brief  moment  of  reprieve .    the  sentiment  resonates  as  somewhat  redundant .    it’s  always  something .    he’s  got  a  million  somethings  in  his  life  that  he’s  never  cared  to  name ,    piling  one  over  the  other  in  the  corner  of  his  mind  without  thought  to  the  mental  repercussions  dealt  to  everyone  involved .    

maybe  there’s  only  one  something  afterall .    maybe  the  common  denominator  was  just  him .

tip  of  his  shoe  peels  back  the  corner  of  the  mat  he’d  insisted  on  laying  there  some  short  while  ago ,    the  key  tucked  beneath  it  shining  in  the  hallway  lighting  once  its  cover  is  disturbed .    bless  his  heart ,   but  kirishima’s  not  very  creative  in  his  hiding  places .

this  copy  is  as  shiny  and  unbroken - in  as  the  one  bakugou  had  given  denki  when  he  first  moved  here ,   spare  a  few  spots  of  dirt  he  brushes  off  before  lodging  it  into  the  keyhole .    

without  a  set  of  miscellaneous  dangling  objects  attached  to  it ,   the  action  of  turning  a  bare  key  into  the  lock  takes  him  back  a  full  year  ago  ----  wherein  he’d  rigidly  haunted  this  exact  spot  on  a  matless  tile ,   uneager  to  begin  a  new  phase  in  his  life  eventually  titled  reversed  strength .

unlike  back  then ,   however ,   the  key  is  met  this  time  around  without  resistance  in  its  lock ,   nothing  to  combat  it  as  it  turns .    the  door  before  him  is  open .     presently .

his  stomach  drops .    

hesitant  to  ease  himself  inside  when  so  actively  adorned  in  hair - raising  suspicion ,   denki  is  met  with  the  usual  stagnancy  of  an  empty  apartment  ----  no  wafts  of  food  cooking  on  the  stove ,   no  sound  of  the  television  on  for  background  noise ,   no  cats  tripping  over  each  other  to  greet  him  with  a  howling  demand  for  kibble  and  petty - pets  (  which  smarts  a  little ,   considering  his  absence  ) .    

there  is  dim  warmth  from  sunlight  pouring  through  the  windows  and  little  else .    not  even  a  speck  of  dust  found  to  sift  through  it .    he  wonders  if  kirishima  had  simply  forgotten  to  lock  the  door  behind  him .

and  yet ,   even  with  this  thought  in  mind  ----  this  silent  prayer  ----  denki  still  holds  a  name  on  his  tongue  as  he  steps  fully  into  the  apartment ,   pocketing  the  key  where  its  triplet  sits  unperturbed  a  few  feet  away .    it’s  a  momentary  struggle  to  find  his  voice ,   and  he  doesn’t  recognize  the  sound  that  comes  out .      

          ❛   k ------- ...   katsuki ?   ❜

@blstys​ .

[artemis-entreri]

[[ Artemis is finally coming to Idle Champions! 😄🥰😍 I am super pleased with his imminent arrival, although this wasn’t always the case. However, Codename Entertainment has not only satisfied my expectations, they’ve blown them out of the water.  

I’d been anticipating Artemis’ addition to the game with both excitement and dread. Excitement for the obvious reasons, and dread because I’m extremely particular about how he’s presented. Too many people erroneously depict Artemis too pale, to the point of making him a white dude, when in reality, as a native Calishite, Artemis’ skin tone would be dusky brown, similar to how people from our world’s Middle East look. Furthermore, an oft-overlooked fact is that even in canon, Artemis is stated to have brown skin. Post-Shade absorption his skin is tinted gray, but gray mixed with brown is brown-gray, not grayish-white like many people think it is for some reason. 

The second mistake that many make is depicting him too young. While Artemis’ exact age isn’t known due to his birthdate not being known, during The Sellswords he estimates himself to be in his 40s. Calculating based on this, he first meets Drizzt in his early 30s, and first set off after Regis in his late 20s. While he’s not old, he’s not exactly young either. It is explicitly stated in the books that his aging was frozen to his middle-ages. Many people depict Artemis with the face of a 20-year-old, and while it is also stated in the books that he has the lean athleticism of someone half his age, this refers more to the exceptional state of his physique rather than his facial features. 

I’m so happy about how Idle Champions has exactly nailed down Artemis’ physical appearance. His skin color is appropriately dark, comprising of an awesome mix of brown and gray. His portrait shows the wrinkles of an older man (who also happens to be done with your shit. XD) 

His in game sprite is such a delight too! When I first saw it, I couldn’t help but wonder if CNE’s artists might’ve considered my own artwork in making his design. Pretty much everything I’d studied from Lockwood’s paintings is there: the concave shape at the bottom of his leather breastplate, the distinct triangular cloak clasp under which extends the two belts, shoulderpads over sleeves composed of strips ending in rivets, a double-belt with unique angular-shaped buckles, belt over one leg, vambraces arcing over and around his elbows, kneepads over his tall boots, dual belts over his boots and the double earrings. Heck, even the sword and dagger shape are the same as how I’d interpreted them.

Honestly, if I’d been designing his sprite, there is very little that I’d have done differently. For comparison, here’s the line art of a chibi-style painting I did back in 2015:

I can’t express how giddy I am that CNE’s artists apparently studied Lockwood’s paintings as much as I had. It’s something that pretty much no other artist I know has bothered to do. They picked up even the smallest details, for instance the shape of the base of Artemis’ sword, which is really such a minor feature in this painting:

There are some aspects in CNE’s depiction that don’t come from Lockwood’s paintings that I can’t help but wonder about. First, Artemis’ garment underneath his armor, it wasn’t until very recently that I noticed Lockwood having depicted it as a complex series of even more layers and rivets:

I’ll be changing my own depiction of his outfit from now on, but up until now I’d interpreted what was underneath as a gambeson, which can be seen in my lineart above. In CNE’s depiction, he’s also wearing a gambeson underneath his breastplate.

While both CNE and I apparently drew our inspiration for the vampiric dagger’s design from Lockwood’s paintings, Lockwood’s depiction of the dagger does not contain any gems, despite the weapon’s jeweled nature. As seen in the sprite above, Artemis’ dagger has an emerald in the crosspiece. Is it just yet another coincidence with this painting I did in 2017?

And of course, those double earrings -- a feature that most artists change, yet it is one that’s both prominent and consistent in all of my work. 

Ultimately though, despite these similarities, as much as I’d like to think that my own art contributed to CNE’s depiction of Artemis in what’s an official WotC/D&D product, I fundamentally believe that it’s all just a happy coincidence. In Idle Champions, Artemis’ earrings are silver, his leg belt’s on his right leg rather than left, the pommel of his sword is different and his facial hair is different. However, I do know that I was able to affect his final appearance, for originally, his portrait had brown eyes, and his sprite’s dagger had a red gem rather than a green gem. CNE addressed both of these things after I’d brought them up.

Game mechanics-wise, without having seen him in action yet, I really like how CNE designed him. Artemis’ superb improvisational abilities are a big part of what makes him such a capable fighter, so his kit in Idle Champions being built around him mirroring other DPS champions’ buffs makes a lot of sense. His jeweled dagger, as his signature weapon consistently throughout the ages, is similarly adequately tied in to his damage-dealing capacities. 

I absolutely love that Artemis will be in seat 3, next to a certain drow mercenary. (灬♥ω♥灬)

The one thing that is a little strange is the nature of his epic items. 

Idle Champions’ snapshot of Artemis, based on his game description, is from the pre-Sellswords era. During this time period, Artemis had the bat-winged cloak and his dagger, but it wasn’t until after he thought he’d killed Drizzt did he acquire the nightmare figurine, the bolero, Idalia’s Flute, and Charon’s Claw. By that point, he’d lost his bat-winged cloak. The bolero was disassembled and presumably discarded after its final usage in Road of the Patriarch. In the current timeline, Artemis only has his dagger, Claw, and the nightmare figurine. Furthermore, he’d be quite displeased if presented with Idalia’s Flute again, and most likely would reject having it in his possession. All in all though, I can understand why CNE chose these items, and I really love how the flavor text isn’t Artemis discussing them as they are for other champions. It is definitely more fitting to cite them as rumors whispered among third parties.  

Overall, it feels like the “real” Artemis has come to Idle Champions, and I’m very glad about that. I’ve been saving up forever for Artemis’ arrival.

He might very well fall flat like new DPS champions have in the past and/or not be up to par to the current meta best DPS champion, but the recent trend with new champion releases is that each has been better than the previous, so I’m hoping that it’ll mean Artemis will be the new meta DPS. However, even if he isn’t, I still plan on blowing all of this on him, because sometimes, personal preference trumps the need to min/max. 

Thank you so much Codename Entertainment! Artemis coming to your game is already such a great joy, but to arrive in the way that he is -- I’m absolutely thrilled! ]]

[oumiyuki]

Teachers don’t date teachers (but You-sensei and Riko-sensei definitely are) Ch9

Summary: The whole student body and teachers teases the gym teacher, Watanabe You, with the new art teacher, Sakurauchi Riko, that they make a cute couple. How long can You deny this when Riko isn’t helping to reduce the rumours?

Pairing: YouRiko

Genre: Romance, Fluff, Slice of Teacher Life ;D

Words: 1205

Author Notes

Ah, I love them so much~ XD

May you enjoy~ XD

-----

Tease09 – You-sensei sleeps with Riko-sensei!? (Because Riko invites her to!?)

-----

 The next time Riko wakes up, she feels better. Not entirely well where she can jump about and hold classes, but at least she wasn’t feeling faint and all-round horrible. The auburn-haired teacher blinks and lifts a hand to rub her eye.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Riko looks up, alarmed that there was someone in her house. “Y-You-sensei? Why are you here?”

You pretends to be upset and sulks at Riko. “That’s hurtful…I’ve been taking care of you since morning, Riko-sensei.”

Ever since I found you sick…

“Oh…” Riko lowers her gaze slightly, her flushed face growing a bit warmer from embarrassment that she doesn’t remember all that has happened since morning at the moment.

“It’s fine. I’m just kidding with you.” You lifts the bowl up from the side table to offer to Riko her dinner, a relieved smile on her lips.

At least you’re getting better.

Riko puts up a hand to stop You. “I…I think I can feed myself now…”

“Alright…” You carefully hands the bowl filled with hot rice porridge to the art teacher. “Carefully…”

“Mmph…” Riko takes a bite and her eyes lit up, turning to You with a smile. “It’s delicious…”

You chuckles. “You’re welcome.” And the gym teacher relaxes in the spare chair she placed beside Riko’s bed for her to sit in.

I’m glad you like my Watanabe style cooking!

The ash-brunette watches Riko eat more and more energetically with each scoop; the gym teacher couldn’t help but smile at that. The art teacher is enjoying her cooking and getting better at the same time. Nothing could make You more happier in this instance.

Once Riko was done eating, You helped take the bowl out of Riko’s hands with a smile thrown Riko’s way. “I’ll wash it.”

Riko resigns to the fact that her caretaker was stubborn that way, so she remains in bed while You does the dishes. Idly looking around her room, noting how…nothing much was different. Yet the addition of a chair by her bed made her heart do a soft flutter and her lips unable to be set any other way than an upward curve.

.

.

.

You returns to Riko’s room by popping her head inside, making eye contact with the art teacher who arcs a questioning eyebrow before You blinks away, doing her best to not break her composure as she steps back inside.

Sheesh, Riko-sensei somehow…makes me…

You shakes her head to dispel the string of words ‘makes my heart race and feel weird’ away from her brain that has been mean to her lately. Why does she keep thinking of Riko-sensei so much?

“Ahem.” You clears her throat and reaches a hand to her neck awkwardly. “I guess…you’re feeling better now.” You looks up to Riko again, staring back at her, and when her eyes rest on the clothes Riko was wearing she lowers her head again, feeling heat rush her cheeks. “Um…”

Riko tilts her head to the side. “I guess I do…”

She said yes to asking her to change her clothes. She asked me to. I wasn’t doing anything against the law or anything!

You presses a hand to her cheek and counted to ten to calm herself down. She then strides over to Riko and bends over, a hand moving towards the art teacher. “I, er… Just gonna check your temp…”

Riko nods and lifts her fringe away. You’s takes her hand away shakily.

“Your fever isn’t as high too…”

That’s good.

“I’m glad.” Riko comments as she adjusts her fringe absentmindedly.

You stares at that simple action for longer then she thinks she should have as Riko was now staring back at her. You coughs into her hand awkwardly, turning away; not understanding why it’s so hard to act normally around the art teacher some times.

“R-Riko-sensei… I guess, I’ll, er, head home first. And only go to school if you’re not feverish or dizzy, kay?” You walks fast but robotically over to the chair to pick up, walk out, place it where it should be and go home, but the auburn haired teacher stops her mid-lift.

“If…I asked you to stay the night…would you?” Riko averts eye contact with those bulging in surprise blue hues.

STAY THE NIGHT!?

“Why-”

“I’ll go to school even if I’m not feeling well.” Riko was quick to add, still not daring to look into the gym teacher’s eyes. “So You-sensei…should make sure I’m truly well enough to go…”

Riko-sensei…!

You chews down hard on her bottom lip, her cheeks strawberry red and blue eyes trying its best to read how serious Riko was, maybe was teasing her, maybe was joking about going to school when she should not, maybe…maybe…maybe…

But the art teacher simply remained slightly pale skinned, hazel eyes trained to the left not looking at You; embarrassed? And the same rather dishevelled hair telling You that this art teacher still needed her to look after of.

You sighs softly. “You don’t play fair, Riko-sensei.”

You could make out a twitch at Riko’s lips; a smile. And You knew she played into Riko’s hands but she really can’t help it.

Riko-sensei is unfair…

  You puts the chair back down and sits on it - a bit far off from the bed and not too near the door either; quite literally ‘middle of nowhere’. She looks around the room that she’s looked around enough to remember where was what already until Riko breaks the silence.

“Ne.”

“Mm?” You looks over; appreciating the fact that Riko talked.

Yeah, start a conversation, Riko-sensei-

“You-chan.”

!!!!!

“Mm!?” You jolts in surprise.

“Call me by my name too?” Riko asks in that gentle lilt.

Eh?! N-Name?

“R-Riko-sensei.” You furrowed her eyebrows; knowing what Riko meant but unable to comply.

“Without the ‘sensei’.” Riko spells it out, hazel eyes staring earnestly at You.

Ugh….Why is this happening?

“But you are a teacher.” You reasons.

Why am I unable to..?

“We’re not in school right now.” Riko counters.

“…” You grimaces at herself.

Riko’s expression softens at that, thinking she might be putting the gym teacher in the spot…but she really wants… “You don’t want to..?”

You’s body droops to the side as she scratches her ear subconsciously. “…It’s not that…”

It’s not. I don’t understand why I’m being against it. For Mari-chan or Kanan-chan, I can just call them by their name without the ‘sensei’ title too. So why when it’s Riko-sensei-

“Shy?” Riko throws out a suggestion and You grunts displeased and embarrassed. Riko chuckles soft at the close-eyed, big frown You displayed.

Ahhh, she’s laughing at me now. I-

“Ugh… …Riko-chan!” You shouts; eyes still closed, blush still apparent, heart still racing.

There! I said it!

Riko chuckles louder, happy, before staying quiet.

You opens her eyes to look and she was met with a smiling Riko. You thinks she forgot to breathe as she stared at Riko whose eyes crinkled; smiling, Riko’s lips a smooth curve up; smiling, Riko’s cheekbone pushed up; smiling, Riko’s hands holding the blanket because of the chuckle; smiling. You never knew someone’s smile could be this breathtaking.

“Thank you…You-chan.” Riko smiles more and You stares at the floor.

“A-Ah…mmph.”

Riko-chan… What is this feeling..?

 Author Notes

YouRiko-sensei are a work in progress ;D

And!

It’s not a month yet! It’s not the 11th of August, so it’s not a month yet! XD even if it’s just a few minutes to the day change XD

It’s not like I posted it on midnight the other day too! Hehe~ :P

A-A-Anyways! I hope y’all love and enjoyed this chapter!

They are now on “You-chan” and “Riko-chan” status when not in school! *O* yay~ banzai~

Is this the end of the sick arc? XD hahas.

Leave a comment if you like! I would love to hear from you all the time, any time~ :D

Oh, and they do sleep together XD Since Riko gets You to stay the night :P thus the title. Wahaha. XD

See you next Tease~ ;D  

[kakosindustries]

Kakos Industries is ad-free. To help keep it that way, please visit KakosIndustries.com/Patreon, that’s p-a-t-r-e-o-n, and consider a pledge of a dollar or more a month.

Intro: What you are about to hear is gonna make that booty work work work work.

Junior: Hello and welcome to the Kakos Industries corporate shareholder announcements. At Kakos Industries, we squeeze every last ounce of Evil out of every person on the planet, and then we feed it back to them in preparation of beginning the process again. My name is Junior and I am a consultant here at Kakos Industries. Perhaps the best consultant. Everyone’s favorite consultant. Just the other day, they took a poll and I came out as the number one consultant in the building. You see, it’s because I’m so smart. I have the intellect of dozens of ordinary humans, leading to emergent properties of thought that you cannot even imagine. I know of one other mind that might be able to fathom my depths, but she spends all of her time making crossword puzzles.

Things have been in a slight disarray around Kakos Industries recently for obvious reasons, but I have decided that it is my responsibility to make sure that our responsibilities to you, shareholders, are being met. You see, while many of our employees have experience podcasting, because everyone has a podcast, I have slightly more experience doing actual broadcast like this. I’ve interrupted Corin so many times that I technically have more on air experience than just about anyone. Combine that with my vast intellect, and I am the obvious choice, albeit self-appointed.

What are you trying to tell me, Soundman? Oh, I shouldn’t be here? And what about you? Should you be here? You should be cowering in your home overcome with grief and guilt.

Today, our broadcast is coming to you from a fancy new cellular device you should have received in the mail. This cellular device is the new Evilixia 7, coming to us from the collaboration between our Division of Distraction and DigInfoDox, a company that will give you anything for free as long as you tell it your darkest secrets. While this is very nearly the production model of the Evilixia 7, it is slightly different in that it is much cheaper, and many of the functions were removed or never added so that it would be a perfect vessel for this very transmission and nothing else. The broadcast, as you may have noticed, has come to you as a phone call you couldn’t ignore, and now you must hold the cellular device to your ear and pretend like you’re having a conversation so that those around you will not be in any danger of finding out about us here at Kakos Industries before they’re ready. Be sure to pepper in some uh-huhs and some for sures and some yes daddys to make it believable. If you happened to have answered this call on behalf of a shareholder, or because you’re a snooping jealous lover, then I am afraid I must tell you now that you will have some difficulty putting this device down before its self-destruct mechanism is activated at the end of the broadcast. To save your life, you must now do something extraordinarily Evil and selfish to become a shareholder before your doom. We’ll give you some time to get creative. It may help you to land on our new and noteworthy list.

Now, I do not believe we still have an Automobile Celebration every year, but just recently, there were a lot of you shareholders and a handful of our employees who showed up to the building in modified and incredibly fast vehicles to do donuts in the parking lot and generally cause a ruckus. It seems that some people miss this festival. I do not. I do not fit in automobiles. When I need to get places, I use a helicopter. If you have never gone to the grocery store in a helicopter, I can firmly recommend it.

The Festival of Darkness was a smashing success as always. This one was even darker than normal. We painted the walls of the basement ballroom with pigments that absorb all light. We took away your cell phones and digital devices. Those of you who glow or have blinking lights just below your skin were placed in enormous black bags to keep any light from emerging. And then you were ushered down into the still and quiet room. You were placed on a special rug and allowed to spread out. We moved through the room quietly to make sure that everyone was behaving. Then, we walked through with a collection of man-eating beasts held on a tight leash. We have no reports of any of the handler making mistakes, but we would also have no way of knowing if they did as it was dark and quiet down there. If one of you shareholders disappeared, we would have no way of knowing. Perhaps you just never arrived. We can’t be certain. People disappear so often these days. Probably gone off the grid, I wager.

We also recently had the Festival of Genes. I believe it is technically the Festival of Genes Mark III. I’m not sure why we began to number them, but there you are. This festival holds a special place in my heart because I have genes. A whole lot of them in fact. More Evil genes than any other known living creature. It’s what makes me so smart and so great at everything, and so Evil. It’s always interesting for me to see what augmentations humans choose to get. Longer limbs. Enhanced bosoms. Softer elbows. At this year’s festivities, we wanted to make things a little more interesting. We allowed people to line up based on the type of changes they might like, and then we drew a genetic modification out of a hat and gave them that one. It would be in the right conceptual family, but not always what they wanted. We had one young woman get in line for cheek bones, hoping to get larger cheek bones, but instead, we gave her three more. She was quite displeased, but I personally found it to be very hot. A man waited in line for something to do with fire, hoping he could perhaps create fire with his mind or with some sort of secretion, but instead he became fire. That was something to see, although it didn’t last very long. We also had someone get in line for a tail, and end up with six tails. Some people find this to be unpalatable, but I can firmly get behind tails, if you know what I mean. We wrote “medley” on one of the slips of paper and mixed it into a random hat. When that one was drawn, we gave that person a huge number of modifications, so many that it should take a physiology as strong as mine to handle them. But the woman in question, Dana Govern, is still alive. She doesn’t seem to have changed much as of yet, but we’re keeping a close eye on her. I will say that something about her aroma has changed, and I find this change to be… alluring. No one else seems to be able to smell the difference, but I can’t get it out of my nose. I can tell where she has been, and I can find her in a crowd, and soon, I may even speak to her.

Coming up, we have the Shareholders’ Ball! This is one of my favorite celebrations. It is possible that this is because I have an enormous share in Kakos Industries. It is also possible that it is just the wildest, most debauched event we throw. This year, we will have grilled abominations as the main course. These abominations are anything that comes out of one of our genetic modification labs that we cannot suffer to live. Some have been on ice for a long while in preparation for this feast. We would love to tell you what sort of flavors to expect, but we cannot. We can only tell you that these creatures lived short and painful lives, and now we will consume them so that we can pretend that they never existed. There will, of course, be veggie options as well. The entertainment will be a combination of ventriloquism and puppetry that is certain to unsettle everyone in the audience. The dolls that the Puppetto Miserables troupe use reach an astounding 297 MegaNopes on the standard freakiness scale. But we will not nope out of there. We will stay, and we will witness, and our skin will crawl, and our anuses will pucker, and we will feel a strange arousal of a possibly sexual nature. I personally cannot wait. Following the show from Puppetto Miserables, we will have the blood orgy. This year, I am proud to announce the creation of the Blood Monster, an unfeeling, unthinking creation that produces incredible amounts of blood. It would possibly be useful in transfusions, or other medical applications, but instead we will poke a hole in it and allow its hot, red circulatory fluid to rain over all of us as we get busy. And get busy we shall. Those of you who are interested in doing the horizontal tango with me had better make arrangements soon, as my dance card fills up quickly.

We also have the Chili Cookoff coming up. I assume that many of you will create chili-as-performance-art again this year. And I will eat it all the same because my hunger will not be conquered.

Corin: Junior? What are you doing?

Junior: I’m doing the announcements. I wasn’t sure…

Corin: You weren’t sure what?

Junior: I wasn’t sure if you would be ready.

Corin: I was at work all day, Junior. I’m fine. I promise. I was just running around ten minutes late.

Junior: You should really take it easy.

Corin: I really appreciate that, but I’ve been fine for weeks. Everyone just keeps telling me that I should rest, and take it easy, and allow myself time to recover, but I’m totally fine. I don’t even need the crutches anymore.

Junior: I can see that.

Corin: So, please let me take over. This is my job.

Junior: Yes. Of course.

Corin: So where were we… What’s that, Soundman? He already did the Shareholders’ Ball? For fuck’s sake, Junior, it’s the best part of the announcements all year! Come on.

Junior: I think we can all agree that I did a fantastically Evil job selling it to the shareholders.

Corin: You don’t have to sell it to the shareholders. They’re already going to be there. It’s more of a victory lap. A chance to brag. A chance to tell them what they mean to us. What’s that Soundman? Well, okay, I guess you did okay, Junior. Been doing a lot of things okay.

Junior: What’s that?

Corin: Well, I know you took over a chunk of my workload while I was out of commission. No complaints, I hear.

Junior: I did my best, of course, and, as you know, my best is astronomically great.

Corin: I know. I just… I don’t like feeling replaceable.

Junior: Continue the announcements. While everything I do is amazing and better than anyone else could do it, I do not wish to step on your toes.

Corin: I feel like I owe you an update, shareholders. I took a little bit of unexpected time off recently after… Soundman shot me. I survived. I assume. I could be a clone of some sort, but I don’t think that was necessary. Soundman, in the throes of some sort of power fantasy, was pointing his firearm at my genital region when he had a terrible sneeze, or maybe some sort of whole body climax, that led to the gun going off. His aim is not that great, so he actually grazed my thigh. I was sitting at the time, so it grazed my thigh longways. It nicked the femoral artery, I assume, or something that bleeds like crazy in that area. I don’t actually know. I contend that I passed out due to blood loss, but they tell me it was far more likely the sight of the blood that caused me to lose consciousness. Then I hit my head. I was unconscious for a few days, but the speedy response of my medical team had me patched up in no time. If you’re keeping score at home, this means that Soundman came far closer to killing me than I did him. And let me tell you, our very own Soundman de Sade has had an unyielding erection ever since. It nearly tore through his pants when I hit the floor, I’m told. I understand that this detail is a source of great shame for Soundman, but I’m just happy to have him back at 110%. I am told that his return to his original stature has increased productivity here at Kakos Industries so much that it completely offset the month plus that I took off, and with Junior taking over some of my responsibilities, me getting shot was a greater boon to Evil than if I had just come to work in that time. I can tell you that feels great to know. I can personally think of no better way to enter my fifth year as CEO than from a hospital bed with the smallest hole in my leg slowly healing itself up. They even left the carpet bloody in here, which is really cute.

Here’s the strange thing about my time in the hospital. There was this beautiful woman taking care of me. A nurse practitioner, but I think I may have been her only patient. Striking eyes. One of those colors of gray violet-ish green that makes you think one of their grandparents had to be a space alien. I was sedated to some extent, probably unnecessarily, for the first week as my support staff tried to get me to take a break by any means necessary, so I only barely remember interacting with her. But she was so kind. I don’t believe I’ve ever been so doted on in my life. When I was getting ready to go home to finish my recovery, she offered to come check on me. She handed me a card with all of her contact information on it. I smiled and told her that I would be happy to see her. She walked away and I kind of laughed to myself until I looked down to see that her name was Tabitha.

Kimzzzzzzzzzzz has made a new decree. Apparently, in order to be sexy now, you must dye exactly half of your hair red. If your hair is already red, you have to make half redder. I think I’m just going to sit this one out. I’ve seen enough red for a little while.

Our drones down in hell have found Meredith Gorgoro’s left arm. We are unsure as of yet if this is the only remaining piece of her after some dramatic battle, or if the rest of her is still out there fighting monsters. We are hopeful, of course, but it cannot be easy to survive down there with this new disability, even for her.

I stopped by the Division of Erotic Experiences earlier to check on Jasmine Aashna and Dr. Dunkelwissen. They are still trying to answer the question “What is most sex?” They were both asleep in their boardroom with their heads down on the table while a very bored and very naked pair were sitting inside of an observation room you could see through a large window in one wall. I looked at the white board beside the sleeping duo. It simply said “putting it all the way in?” with a bunch of question marks at the end. It seems that they have been working tirelessly on this one, and it doesn’t look good. I don’t know what “it” is, and I don’t know where “it” is going all the way into, though I can imagine, and something tells me that’s not the answer to their question. I will keep you updated.

The Division of Figuring Out What All These Keys Go To has unchained a monster. In fairness, the monster was quite communicative and persuasive. In unfairness, it has since eaten three people and mailed their teeth to their loved ones. The missile they launched is still MIA.

They say that Evil once toured the planet in a traveling carnival. Its attraction was sitting quietly in a room full of people and making all of them feel gut-wrenching, insurmountable terror. This is Things We’re Taking Credit for Now. Today, we are taking credit for plastic litter, the aroma of decomposition, and the fact that your body is basically decomposing at all times. As always, some of these things are kind of big, and it’s difficult to tell if we actually caused them, but we did. And if you disagree, you’ll start to decompose a little faster than the rest of us.

Jonathan Ulrich has won today’s Ruin-A-Life Drawing. As a result, the life of Zweelee TeeHee Me Three will be ruined. We assume that Zweelee is Jonathan’s nemesis, but really that’s not strictly a requirement, though we often make it sound like it. We spun the wheel of misery in the same direction as Earth’s rotation and it landed on the space for covetous. From this day forward, Zweelee will be 90% more covetous, leading to an ever greater amassing of objects and lovers. For Evil measure, Jonathan Ulrich will be 13% less covetous, which might just push Jonathan over the edge to not having much interest in stuff at all. That could be trouble. Congratulations on the win, and best of luck.

This brings us to the end of today’s broadcast. Your Evilixia 7 will now self-destruct momentarily. If you’re not a shareholder yet, and that phone is stuck to your ear, it would probably be a smart idea to do something Evil quick. Like headbutting someone who would really be a lot better off without being headbutted, or telling your pet that they have been very, very bad, when in fact they have been completely obedient. The numbers are next.

18

7

17

7

16

7

22

7

99

7

44

7

4

7

4

7

4

7

88

7

337

7

7

4

Corin: Hey, Junior.

Junior: Yes?

Corin: Thanks.

Junior: Glad to help. You know, you can always give me more to do.

Corin: You know they don’t like that.

Junior: Yes. I know.

Credits: Kakos Industries is written and produced by Conrad Miszuk, who is also the voice of Corin Deeth, and the composer of the music. The introduction is read by Kim Aiello, and the credits are read by Kelsey Kemmer, the second most interesting conversationalist in the room. Any room. Please visit KakosIndustries.com for news, extras, and more episodes. There are also transcriptions on the website if you’d like to read along with the Kakos Industries announcements. That’s K-A-K-O-S-I-N-D-U-S-T-R-I-E-S dot com. Please visit store.KakosIndustries.com for merchandise and special offers and get wonderful benefits by becoming a subscription donor at kakosindustries.com/patreon. Questions, comments, or a strong desire to collaborate? Drop us a line at inquiries@kakosindustries.com. If you like Kakos Industries, be sure to rate and review us on your favorite podcasting service, and connect with us on YouTube (YouTube.com/KakosIndustries), Facebook (facebook.com/kakosindustries), Tumblr (kakosindustries.tumblr.com), and Twitter (@KakosIndustries). We encourage fan art and listener participation on all our social media platforms. Please visit our website for cast details and the credits for all of our social media contributors. We’ve recently expanded our social media team, so please visit the website to view their credits and current projects.

Special thanks to our esteemed shareholders Iain Croall, Dan Shumway, William Brandon, and Jack Attack. Also thanks to honored employee Dorkpool Dorkuss, who chewed enough gum to blow an enormous bubble, which saved the woman falling from the window of the Division of Defenestration, and Chris Leclerc, who scooted all of the glassware a little further away from the edge of the countertop moments before the earthquake. And thanks to our division heads Britney Garcia, head of The Division of Beanies, Booties, and Construction Projects That Are Probably Too Large for Yarn, Valerie Koop, Director of the Division of Inappropriate Games to Play in Public, Patrick Green, head of The Division of Oceanic Micro-Cryptozoology, Lynne Herman, director of the Division of Increasingly Improbable Slash Fiction, Carl H, Director of the Division of Unanswered Messages, Xavier Jarman, Director of The Division of We Know Magic Doesn’t Exist But We’re Going to Keep on Trying, Craig Czyz, director of the Division of Obscure Vintage Technology, And Lady Squidney, Director of the Division of Cephalopod Psychology. The Division of Beanies, Booties, and Construction Projects That Are Probably Too Large for Yarn has run out of Ultra Yarn in Dayglo Yellow. Everything in the building seems to have a dayglo koozie wrapped around it.  The Division of Inappropriate Games to Play in Public has introduced public park mud wrestling. We looked it up. Mud wrestling is pretty much always pornographic in nature. The Division of Oceanic Micro-Cryptozoology claims they have found the puddle-cabra, a rare cryptid that lurks in small puddles, and resembles a goat, kind of. They say that it is very shy and doesn’t like being looked at too much.. The Division of Increasingly Improbable Slash Fiction has started shipping keeping things nice with having a thriving arts culture. There’s gotta be a give and take there somewhere. The Division of Unanswered Messages has left a “You up?” text message unanswered so long that the person who sent it is now monogamously married. It seems unnecessary to say that they never RSVP’d to the wedding either. The Division of We Know Magic Doesn’t Exist But We’re Going to Keep on Trying has given up on the hunt for magic words for now, but instead they are looking for ancient scrolls with some kind of power. They’ve gone right through our dry storage trying to read the paper towels. The Division of Obscure Vintage Technology has found a box of old brass finger screws. They’re not as hard as steel ones, but they still hurt like hell when applied to fingers. The Division of Cephalopod Psychology has discovered that the exectopuses do feel quite a bit, but usually they feel jealousy and frustration and anger. They tend to clam up when asked why. Clams are not cephalopods, in case you were expecting a pun there. Our esteemed shareholders, honored employees, division heads, and other Patreon patrons are the best. If you want a thank you in the credits, your own division, or other great rewards that help to keep this show running, please head to Kakosindustries.com/patreon. That’s Patreon: p-a-t-r-e-o-n.

Kakos Industries can be heavy sometimes. Try volunteering with a secular charity to bolster your indie cred.

[caddy-whump-us]

This is really long. I’m really, really sorry. But it just happened that way.

“There you are, Lucien. Come here and sit down.”

His master, better known outside the walls of his house as artist and bête noire of the art world, Richard Bridgerton (”the true heir apparent to Francis Bacon” or so a reviewer said), was half-sitting on the great table in his dining room. His own art hung on the walls or twisted in the corners. Here he’d celebrated and been celebrated by the great names in art of his generation. But here, to Lucien, he was and could only be Master (lest he earn another bruise, another cold night, or more, or worse). 

The chair at the head of the table was turned out and away from the table. On the table was a silver tray covered by a white linen cloth and his master’s favorite camera. And propped in the seat of another chair was a massive gilt mirror. 

Lucien had seen this mirror before and he felt his stomach tighten.

Lucien padded towards him softly on bare feet, eyes down, face gentle. “Master, have I displeased you?”

“Displeased? Quite the opposite: you’ve been extraordinarily well-behaved. So much so that I’ve been considering taking you on, oh, occasional excursions, shall we say.”

His master pointed at the chair and Lucien sat, as he was bidden. 

It’s the same mirror as before, so perhaps he’s going to cut off all my hair this time. It was bad enough the first time, especially since he went so slow. He could have simply done it and gotten it over with. 

But instead his master had taken the scissors to his hair lock by lock, and set the mirror before him, and made him watch this change made against his wishes and by another’s hands.

“I’m glad to have pleased you,” he answered, quietly.

“But,” his master went on, “your collar, such as it is now, would likely arouse undue curiosity if you were to wear it out. And I will not have you going without it.”

Lucien dropped his gaze. “Yes, Master.”

His master got down from his perch on the table and came to crouch before Lucien. He took up both Lucien’s hands in his and pressed them. “And so today we are going to transmute your collar.”

“I don’t understand,” Lucien said, as his master rose again.

“You shall, you shall.” He was rubbing the corner of the linen cloth between two fingers. “You are destined to be my greatest work. But now you’re yet more canvas; you are the figure still trapped in the stone.”

Lucien looked down at his hands in his lap and said nothing. He had, at the start, wanted to apprentice himself to this artist, to learn from him. And now he had become his project. Was this a greater honor than learning at his knee?

“But before we begin, let me paint you first.”

This never meant paint or ink on canvas or paper. Instead, with deft hands, his master smudged Lucien’s eyes black and painted his lips a soft and golden rose. And after he held Lucien’s face in his hands and admired his work.

“It takes so little to make you beautiful. But one cannot be misled by the beauty of the stone before the carving or the purity of the canvas before the painting.”

And then his master knelt before him, but only to bring up the wide leather straps that he used as restraints far too often. Lucien tried not to pull against the straps as his master tightened them around his ankles and his wrists.

His master covered his hand with his own. “You’ve been so sweet and so pleasant of late. You’ve proven to me that you are learning. Don’t undo all that work now.”

And Lucien stilled, but he followed his master with his gaze as he passed behind the chair and returned to the tray on the table.

“I am fond of your collar. It’s the clearest sign of your purpose here with me. And I chose it carefully and only for you. So you will still wear it, won’t you?”

He was waiting for an answer: Lucien nodded.

“But it’s too blunt and an all-too-easily misunderstood sign out in the rest of the world. So if I am to take you with me to, shall we say, a gallery opening, we must have a more subtle sign. Something shared between you and me.

He picked up the tray and brought it before Lucien. With a flourish, he lifted away the cloth. And, arrayed on the tray, on another white cloth, were long and delicate needles and a row of tiny jeweled earrings.

“See? Opals for you, amethysts for me, and gold for the paleness of your skin. Wear them for me.”

Lucien was still staring open-mouthed as his master rose and set the tray on the table again.

“We shall make them wonder ‘who is this young man? he looks like a fairy prince.’ And they’ll say to one another, ‘look at him--look at the jewels in his ears’.”

“Master,” Lucien began, and he hesitated a moment, trembling, “Please. Please. I don’t want--”

But his master interrupted: “Does the canvas say it doesn’t want color? Does the clay say it doesn’t long for form? Does the figure trapped in stone not long to be free? They all long for the artist’s hand. You are lying if you say you don’t long as they do, Lucien.”

His mater took out a tiny sketchbook and a pencil from his pocket. Lucien was looking away and aside. He longed, but for that? He had wanted to make art, not be art--but was he not also part of this creation? He was the art, and therefore a participant in it--but these were just the things his master had said to him before, below, down in the basement of this house, when he had begged to be let free and it had earned him new bruises every time--not scars; that was his master’s preference. And every new bruise brought with it a flurry of photographs and sketches and studies of the evanescence of bruises and pain.

“Let me look at you.” And Lucien raised his head so his master could compare his sketches and plans to life. Lucien licked his lips nervously and tasted the lipstick his master and painted there.

“It will be perfect,” his master said softly, running his fingers up and around the curves of Lucien’s ears. “Cry out if you want, weep if you want. It will be perfect.” And he returned to the tray of implements again.

Over his shoulder, Lucien could hear him putting on a pair of gloves.

This is only his beginning, he thought to himself. He could see his reflection in the gilt mirror and he met his own eyes. He has hinted and more (and worse): tattoos, teeth, surgeries... And he had to look away from himself.

His master laid the sketchbook in his lap and turned Lucien’s head gently aside. “Give yourself to me. As the clay does.”

Though his heart was pounding, even in his ears, Lucien still closed his eyes and tried to loosen his grip on the arms of the chair--to please his master.

First a cold sting on the lobe of his ear and the harshness of rubbing alcohol and then he was surrounded by the smell of his master. 

“As the clay does, Lucien.”

The first jab of the first needle made his breath catch in his throat and brought the first tears to his eyes. And he was panting as the needle was drawn through and the earring set in place.

“Amethysts for me,” his master said quietly, “and opals for you.”

Birthstones, Lucien thought to himself. Of course. And he waited for the next jab of the needle.

But the second was perhaps worse than the first, now that his adrenaline had drained away. And he did cry out. 

The third was worse still and he tried to pull away--which earned him a slap across the face. With the needle still in Lucien’s ear, his master grabbed his chin and brought their faces close together. Lucien opened his eyes, blinking away tears to meet his master’s eyes.

“Art requires pain. Beauty requires pain. Pain and pleasure are our constant bedfellows.”

Lucien was breathing in huge, shuddering gulps. He felt the first trickle of blood begin to drip, warm, on his ear. His master wiped it away with the white linen cloth and set the next earring.

And then he paused. And for one moment, Lucien thought that, perhaps, he was finished (so soon? so easily?).

Instead his master stood behind and above him and tipped Lucien’s head back. Their eyes met. His master set a cork behind the curve at the top of Lucien’s ear and took up the needle.

“Master. Please.”

“Like the clay, Lucien,” his master answered and drove in the needle.

There was a crunch as the needle broke through the cartilage and Lucien cried out again. His eyes were watering in earnest now and he felt blood again. 

How many more? How many were on the tray? I didn’t even think to count and I should have.

This time his master set the cork just behind the bowl of his ear and drove the needle home. Lucien gritted his teeth to keep from crying out again and blinked away tears stained black with the makeup on his eyes. His master let him fall forward with the needle still in his ear, gasping. He felt his master’s hands on his shoulders. Despite the bonds on his legs, he was kicking at the floor.

“Lucien.”

But his eyes were squeezed shut and watering. Black streaks were running down his face.

“Lucien. Open your eyes. Look in the mirror. Look at yourself.”

His breath was ragged, but he did as he was told, looking at himself half-hunched and weeping in the gilt mirror. His master leaned over his shoulder and whispered, “Even now, this too is art.”

He rose then and Lucien followed him with his eyes. But his master didn’t pick up the next jewel to put in his ear. Instead, he took up his camera. He caught one inky tear as it fell off Lucien’s chin, caught the needle and the blood trickling in the bowl of his ear, caught his mouth open and panting, caught the tension of his hands in their restraints, caught the blood on the linen cloth... And only after he was content with his photographs did he set the earring in place.

And then he knelt before Lucien again, holding his face in his hands. “You are unspeakable,” he said. So gently, so gently, he smeared the lipstick he’d painted on Lucien’slips in a rosy gash at the corner of his mouth.

He tilted Lucien’s head back again, stroking his throat with long fingers. “We are come to the last one. But then we will begin again on the other side.”

Lucien closed his eyes. Perhaps I can faint and not feel the rest of them. A pause. No, he probably won’t let me faint.

This time his master set the cork almost down in the opening of his ear, as though to block it. And when he drove in the needle, Lucien’s groan turned to a high and desperate whine.

With the earring in place, Lucien dropped his head against the back of the chair and tried to catch his breath.

“Remember, Lucien: we are transmuting your collar. In the same way that I set your collar around your neck, I am setting these marks in your ears.”

Again his master was kneeling before him, this time touching his unpierced ear, feeling at the lobe, following the upper curves, cupping the whole in his hand. With his free hand, he turned the page in the sketchbook in Lucien’s lap (a drop of blood had struck the previous page and had begun to soak into the next).

“In art,” he said, still touching the lobe of Lucien’s ear, “Asymmetry but with balance is key.”

His master drove in the needle without even a word of warning. But Lucien could feel exhaustion creeping up his back and could barely moan. His master struck a second time in the lobe of Lucien’s ear and, this time, drew through a delicate loop of gold.

And again his master, with gentle hands, drew Lucien’s head back and set the cork behind the curve of his ear. Lucien closed his eyes.

“Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Lucien did as he was told, but he couldn’t help but squeeze his eyes shut at the jab of the needle. He opened them again and his master drew through another golden loop. Lucien was beginning to tremble from fatigue and pain.

His master tipped his head forward again and Lucien found himself looking at his own pale, exhausted, tear-streaked face in the mirror. His master was still holding the cork behind his ear and was whispering to him in that same ear: “Look at yourself. Look at your eyes.”

But Lucien closed his eyes for a moment instead.

“Open your eyes. You need to see.”

What else could he do but obey? He did open his eyes and, in the mirror, he watched as his master chose where to set the next jewel, watched his own trembling grimace as the needle crunched through to the cork, and watched as his master set an amethyst earring in place.

His master moved the cork a little higher on his ear. “This is the last. An opal--to represent you, sweet boy.”

“I can’t,” Lucien began, hoarsely. 

“You will,” his master said, and drove in the final needle. Lucien watched this strike as well, but barely felt it. He saw himself in the mirror, saw the needle pierce his ear, saw his master draw away the cork and leave the needle in place. Blood dripped down his ear and onto the collar of his shirt. There were already bloodstains on the other side that he’d not noticed before. He was, in that moment, within himself but disconnected from himself, a watcher in his own mind. Even his face looked serene, though smeared with tears and makeup.

He dropped his gaze to the floor before his feet and tried to breathe. His master stripped off the gloves again with a snap and came to stand behind him with his hands on Lucien’s shoulders. He studied them both in the mirror.

“These will do for now. I may refine them yet.”

Lucien’s ears felt almost heavy with the metal and stones, despite how small they all were. Now his master was undoing the buckles on the restraints and Lucien rubbed at the red marks on his wrists: they were almost certain to bloom into bruises soon. He reached up to touch his ears (red, hot, swelling, throbbing now) and his master caught his hands sharply.

“No, no: don’t touch them. We must let them heal.”

He settled Lucien’s hands back into his lap, then tipped up his chin with one long finger. “I must take care of my work.”

Lucien sat still for a long while, glancing at himself in the mirror at intervals before looking away again. His master set to collecting all his tools on the silver tray again. He caught Lucien’s glance at himself and quick look of horror

“Oh, Lucien. Even if, someday, you take out these jewels, the scars will remain. Your memories of this time will remain. A gesture once made cannot be unmade now or ever. And that too is art.”

[queenofcats17]

BATIM Inktober 31

Last day and it’s Reborn. I decided to focus on Esther and Joey’s relationship since Esther’s been on my mind lately.

This is three days late, and for that I am sorry. 

Most people who were friends with Esther Klein didn’t know she even had a brother. Her best friend hadn’t even known Esther had a sibling until she’d been invited to the Drew household and had seen the family portraits. She wasn’t surprised, honestly. She’d led most of her life separate from Joey. She was six years older, after all, always too old to be a proper playmate for him. She’d had expectations to meet, responsibilities to perform. By the time he’d run away from home, she’d been up to her ears in work at the law firm. Still, she remembered the day her mother had called her with cold clarity. She’d gotten home from work to find the phone ringing off the hook. She’d answered, expecting it to be a colleague from the firm who had been pursuing her relentlessly. She’d been ready to yell until she heard her mother crying on the other end. Her mother was speaking too fast, her voice clouded with tears.

“Ma, slow down,” Esther said. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“It’s…It’s Joey.” Her mother sobbed. “He’s gone.”

“Gone…? What do you mean gone?”

“He ran away!”

Esther’s heart sank. Looking back, she felt like she should have seen it coming. Her parents had been worried about Joey, telling her about how angry he’d been getting, how he’d been drawing away from them. Looking back, she felt like she should have done something. She hadn’t been able to go back home to comfort her parents, so she tried to assuage their fears on the phone. Her heart was heavy when she hung up. She knew Joey’s mind had been set on art, but their parents had been worried he wouldn’t be able to live comfortably like that. Joey had evidently taken this to mean that they didn’t believe in him. He was always doing things like this. Always acting impulsively without any regard for the consequences. But she couldn’t force herself to be angry with him. She was terrified. She didn’t know where he’d go or what was going to happen. And that was petrifying.

She didn’t see her brother again for almost 20 years. By that point, he’d made quite a name for himself in the animation world. Joey Drew Studios. When the studio had opened, Esther had almost cried from relief. Her brother was safe and alive. And best of all, he was making cartoons like he’d wanted. She allowed herself to believe, for a time, that he was happy. But this only lasted for so long. When the rumors of bankruptcy began to circle, she paid a visit to her brother’s studio. She told no one at the office where she was going, nor did she tell Robert. But her husband knew. He always seemed to know. No one at the studio recognized her, not that she expected them to, especially since she introduced herself as Esther Klein. The employees looked nervous when she said she was a lawyer, but also resigned. She was led down to Joey’s office by a thin man with crooked glasses and dark bags under his eyes who told her he was the accountant, Grant Cohen. He assumed she was there because of the bankruptcy, and she did nothing to tell him otherwise.

“Mr. Drew, there’s someone here to see you,” Grant said when he opened the door.

“Tell them to wait.” Joey snapped. He looked to be buried under a mountain of paperwork.

“I’m not waiting.” Esther’s voice made him freeze. He looked up very slowly. Grant took one look at Joey’s face and got out, leaving the siblings alone.

“What are you doing here?” Joey’s expression was closed and guarded. There was no trace of the bright-eyed boy who had tugged on her sleeves to show her his drawings.

“I came to see you.” She replied. God, he looked so much older. She could see the beginnings of grey at his temples, mixed in with his dark brown hair. There were lines around his mouth, his eyes. He’d filled out a bit since she’d last seen him, stocky like their father. He’d grown a mustache too. It looked good. He looked like an adult. He was an adult. So why did she still think of him as that gangly kid?

“I figured.” Joey narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come to see me?”

“I missed you, Jojo.”

“Don’t call me that!” He stood up abruptly, slamming his hands on the desk. She didn’t flinch. She was used to his outbursts.

“I missed you.” She repeated. “Ma and Pa miss you.”

“It’s been 20 years. If you really missed me that much you would have found me sooner.”

“How?” She could feel her temper beginning to rise. “You ran away, Joey. You didn’t want to be found. You didn’t tell us where you were going, you didn’t tell us where you were staying, you didn’t even tell us you started this studio. Ma and Pa had to find out from the paper that you were even still alive.” She still remembered that news clipping her parents had sent her, the photo of Joey standing side by side with a man she didn’t recognize, looking happier than she’d seen him in years.

Joey grumbled something, sitting down. “What do you want Esther?”

She sighed, pulling out a check from her purse and placing it on the desk. Joey looked at her, then at the check, then back again.

“It’s not going to bite you.” Esther folded her arms. Joey snatched the check up, looking it over. His eyes widened.

“This…This is a lot of money.”

“It is.”

“Are you…giving it to me?”

“I am.”

For a moment, relief seemed to wash over her brother’s face. Then it was gone.

“You think I can’t do this.” He snarled, face transforming into a mask of rage.

“I think you’re having a hard time right now.” She chose her words carefully. “But I believe in you. I just want to give you a little help.” He scowled at her, then at the check.

“You changed your name.” He said. “Did you get married?”

“I did.” She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Robert.

“Do you have kids?” His anger was ebbing now, curiosity peeking through.

“You have a niece and nephew, Joey.” She pulled out a photo, handing it to him. It was a family photo of her, Robert, and their two children. Rachel scowled at the camera, displeased by the dress she’d had to wear. Isaac dozed in his mother’s arms. He’d never minded getting dressed up as long as he was being held. Joey held the photo gingerly. The children in the picture were so small. The girl looked a lot like Esther, and the boy looked like the man he assumed was Esther’s husband, but with that trademark Drew dark hair.

“What are their names?” He asked quietly.

“The girl is Rachel and the boy is Isaac.” It was hard to miss the pride on Esther’s face. He’d always known she’d make a wonderful mother. Joey felt his stomach begin to twist into knots. She was like Henry. She had a family, a good job. There was no place for him in their perfect lives.

“They’re…They’re beautiful kids.” He handed the photo back to her. Esther tucked the picture back into her purse, studying his face carefully. He looked so sad.

“I’d love for you to meet them.” She said. Joey’s eyes shifted away from her. He pursed his lips, folding his hands on the desk.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I just can’t.”

“That’s not an answer, Joey,” Esther said flatly. “Why can’t you come to meet them?”

“There’s no place for me in your perfect life.” Joey shook his head, a touch of bitterness entering his voice. “You’re some big-shot lawyer. I’d be a disgrace if you introduced me to any of your friends.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “As if I’d ever be friends with someone who would think that of you.” The people at the firm who spoke disparagingly about Joey and his cartoons were not the kind of people she liked to associate with. Elitist assholes who looked down on her and the people she was close to.

“You’d eventually become ashamed of me.”

“Joey.”

“You’d throw me out eventually. As soon as I do something you don’t like, you’ll just pretend you’re not related to me.”

“I would never do that to you,” Esther said softly. She was honestly hurt that he thought she’d do something like that to him.

“You will.” Joey looked up at her, his expression hard and his eyes cold. “You’re just like everyone else.” Esther stared at him for a moment before her expression hardened as well.

“You want to wallow in self-pity? Fine.” She said, turning away. “But don’t come crawling back to me when this whole thing blows up in your face.”

“I don’t need your pity!” Joey stood up again, hands on his desk. “You never believed in me anyway! None of you ever did! But I’ll show you!”

“I hope you drown in ink!” She stormed out of the office and up the stairs. The employees whispered as she passed, saying something about how Joey had pissed off another lawyer. Grant shot her an apologetic look as she passed his office. She drove him, going upstairs once she returned and curling up on her bed. Robert came to join her a few minutes later.

“I’m guessing it didn’t go great.” He sat down beside her, rubbing her back.

“I don’t even recognize him anymore.” She muttered. “What happened to my brother?” She felt on the verge of tears. Esther didn’t like crying. When she’d been young, bullies had called her crying a sign of weakness. Unless she trusted someone, she didn’t want to cry in front of anyone.

“It’s going to be okay.” Robert pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair. “We’ll figure this out.”

There were many times in the years following that where Esther wondered what it would have been like if she’d been able to talk Joey down, if her children had been able to grow up with their uncle. Maybe she could have saved his employees from the fates they’d suffered. But she’d been so angry at him after that conversation at his office that she hadn’t gone back for a long time. And when she did…It was too late. Her brother had died a long time ago. In his place, there was only a monster. And Esther felt she’d helped to create that monster.

[msilet]

Hello, Beloved Husband (2/3)

Summary: Harry and Eggsy finally find Merlin lying in a coma in Thailand. Harry uses his marital status with Merlin to gain visiting right.

Ship: Harry Hart/Merlin

Chapter: 2 / 3

Link to chapter 1: http://msilet.tumblr.com/post/167977795700/hello-beloved-husband

Link to chapter 3: http://msilet.tumblr.com/post/168964840325/hello-beloved-husband-33

Link to AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/12853176/chapters/29435082

Note: I told myself I would just write a small epilogue with the proposal and the wedding. 2500+ words later and I still have no wedding. That will have to be in chapter 3.

Chapter behind the cut

It has been 3 months since they brought Merlin back to the UK. The Kingsman doctors have assured him that Merlin is healing nicely and he should be up and about in the foreseeable future. Whiskey came over last month to examine Merlin and assured Harry that things are going remarkably well.

Another great news is that they located both Lancelot and Percival alive. Roxy had a lot of her bones broken and sustained a few fractures on her skull due to the building collapsing on her panic room but there was nothing their doctors could not mend. Martin was extremely lucky to escape completely unscathed thanks to not being home. He was on a mission and only routed his communication via his house to encrypt it. Martin was the one finding and bringing Roxy in. Eggsy, Harry, Martin and even Roxy in her temporary wheelchair take turn looking over Merlin so that the others can be away to attend to personal and Kingsman business.

Harry would like nothing more than to spend time at the temporary HQ with all the people closest to him but Kingsman has to come first. At the moment he is up in Scotland to oversee the construction of the new Kingsman distillery and below it, the Scottish base. They have decided to decentralize so that all of them can no longer be wiped out at once anymore. The tailor shop is being rebuilt as well as the original HQ, this time with state of the art defense systems. Harry sighs, when it comes to technologies, he would have loved to have the opinion and skills of his wizard. He does hope Merlin will be up soon and help him out because sometimes, all these tech stuff confound him.

Suddenly, Harry's glasses beep. Right after he turns it on he hears Eggsy yelling breathlessly, as if he's running from a stampede, into the mic, "Harry! Harry! Back to HQ! I'm on my way!"

"Eggsy, what's wrong?", he panics slightly, "Are we getting attacked? Is everyone alright?"

"No! No, nothin' like that!", Eggsy sounds like he does not slow down, "Roxy called! Merlin's up! He opened his eyes!"

Harry is speechless for a moment, then he starts running too. "Eggsy, where are you right now? Can you get to him soon?"

"Yeah, Harry, 'm in London, can be there in less than 30 minutes!"

"Good, tell Merlin I'm on my way. I'll find the fastest way possible even if I'll have to fly the helicopter myself!"

"Harry! You only have one eye, if you fly that helicopter I swear to God Merlin's gonna kill you himself!"

"That would require him being able to kill me first!"

"Harry, bruv, I will help him kill you if you fly that helicopter, call the pilot! Now I've got to go, bye!"

3 hours later

Harry walks to the hospital wing, a bloody long walk if you ask him. He can even hear Merlin taunting late again, Sir in his head. All his grand idea of being there when Merlin wakes up not only went up in flames but now he is late for his own husband finally coming back to the living world. Not that he is displeased, he's beyond happy but deep down there's a little pettiness, just a little. He was there the whole day yesterday. As he approaches Merlin's room, he sees Eggsy wheeling Roxy out. Eggsy's face lights up when he sees Harry. "About damn time, Harry. What took you so long?"

"Had to make a detour for something. Am I the last one?"

Eggsy grins mischievously and says "Nah Harry, lucky for you, Percival is still in mainland Europe!"

Harry exhales, "Well thank God for small favours."

Eggsy, and by extent, Roxy, moves closer to Harry. Roxy tells him "Merlin is still awake, come inside and talk to him before he falls asleep again, Arthur." Eggsy nods and continues Roxy's words, "She's right and I figure you've got lots to talk about, yeah? Good luck!" and then off they go.

Harry stands alone in front of the door, wondering why he is so hesitant. The adrenaline level he has been running on is now dropping low and all kinds of irrational doubts float to the forefront of his mind. What if this is a dream and when he pushes that door open he will see Merlin still in a coma or worse, dead? He had nightmares like that before.

"You coward, get a grip on yourself", he mumbles to himself. He takes a deep breath and pushes the door open.

The sight that greets him makes him tear up. It is really his dear Hamish sitting on the bed with pillows propped up behind him. As Merlin sees Harry, he smiles. His smile is slightly tired but genuine and that is definitely the greatest sight Harry has ever seen. "Hello, Galahad.", Merlin greets him with the familiar line. It is their thing; the sentence sounds completely professional to others but holds so much meaning for them.

"Hello, beloved husband. It is Arthur now.", Harry can't help but says as he walks over to Merlin's side as quick as possible, feeling like he is floating on cloud nine.

"Oh, my. Please forgive me, Your Majesty. I would have loved to stand up and greet you properly but…", Merlin gestures to his legs sarcastically.

Harry does not say anything, just silently raises his hands to touch Merlin's face while staring into his eyes. "Hamish…", he manages to choke out, his voice breaking.

"Harry…", Merlin only manages before Harry pulls him into a tight hug. He can feel Harry shaking.

"You're back, you're really back, alive, in my arms.", Harry says between sobs, still clinging onto Merlin.

Despite being in pain, Merlin lifts his bandaged arms up and wraps them around Harry, holding him close. "I'm here, Harry. It seems our time together isn't at an end yet."

"You are damn right it isn't. If I have my way, it won't be over for a long time.", Harry's voice is muffled by Merlin's shirt but audible.

"Yes, Your Majesty.", Merlin chuckles.

After a while, calmed down, Harry realizes that he is still holding onto Merlin tightly, too tightly in fact, that he might be hurting him. He pulls back and asks, "Did I hurt you? Sorry, I was quite overwhelmed." When Merlin shakes his head, Harry lets out a sigh of relief. He sits down on the chair next to the bed and smiles shyly at Merlin. "How do you feel, Hamish?"

"It hurts all over and I still feel pain where my legs used to be but I am happy to be alive and have my mind intact."

"No Kingsman test for you then", Harry grins, his eye watery.

"Fucking hell, no, Harry.", Merlin grins back. Both of them then just sit together in silence for a few moments. Harry uses this time to collect his thoughts and muster up some ideas of what to say next.

"Look, Hamish, there is something very important I need to tell you right now."

"I just woke up from a coma, Harry, can't it wait a few days?"

Harry hesitates but then looks at Merlin, pleading. "I made a promise when I found you in Thailand that I would do this the moment you come back to me. Indulge me, please?"

"Well then, Harry, what is it?", Merlin is fully curious.

"I remember that you love John Denver now, amongst other artists."

Merlin laughs uneasily "Well that's good, Harry, but I don't see why it's so important that you need to say it today."

"Please just let me finish. I am nervous enough as it is."

"Alright, go ahead."

"Hamish, I told Eggsy that when I was shot, loneliness and regret was all I felt, I had no one. That was not true. I did not want to tell the truth because I knew you could hear me. I did not want you to know that while I was filled with regret, it was because of all the things I wanted to say to you and experience with you. I lied about having nobody because I did not want to explain everything to Eggsy and take the focus away from him and Tilde. I was also still slightly confused and did not wish to deal with complicated matters while not operating at full mental capacity. That was a shit decision. When that mine went off, it was the worst moment of my life, much worse than when I thought I was about to die. I had to watch the most important person to me on this earth getting killed without being able to even shed a tear."

"The 6 months that you were missing, I could not go a moment without thinking of you, of what we could have had. You haunted me even in my sleep, saying I failed you. I didn't know how you could do it the 2 years before. Maybe you were better at controlling your emotions, maybe I didn’t mean as much to you as you do to me, I don't know, but I don't care anymore. You are here, now, and it's all that matters."

Taking advantage of a shocked Merlin, Harry pulls out a box from his suit pocket and gets down on one knee, looking up at Merlin. He opens the box, revealing a platinum ring with intricate patterns on the sides.

"I bought this ring before the day we signed our civil partnership document but only now can I do this properly. I love you, Hamish Andrew Ferguson, will you marry me? I mean, for real this time. I promise I would do everything in my power to make sure you are always loved, cherished and happy."

Harry waits for an answer but after a while, none was given. Merlin looks like he has frozen and become a statue. Reluctantly, Harry says, "Well this is the part where you either say yes, try to let me down gently or laugh at my face. This silence is not doing my heart any favour."

Merlin opens his mouth, then closes it, blinks, then open his mouth again but no sound comes out. Seeing Harry nearing a heart attack, he says, "Excuse me, Harry. It's not every day a man wakes up from a 9-month-long coma to a marriage proposal, I need time to process the information."

Harry deflates, all bravado leaving his body. He knows the request is definitely reasonable and he should not be demanding an answer immediately but he'd be lying if he did not dream of Merlin saying yes right away and then they share some sort of true love's kiss and everything would be right as rain, damn hopeless romantic that he is. He tries to smile, "Sure, love. You must be tired, you should rest. I'm sorry for springing it upon you so soon. It just feels wrong, keeping secrets between us any longer, life is too precious for that." Harry stands up and is about to turn around to the door but Merlin reaches a hand out to stop him. "Harry, sit down." Years of conditioning makes Harry obey Merlin's order without thinking. Merlin is looking at Harry now while Harry is staring down at his hands, still holding the box.

"Did you mean it?", Merlin broke the silence.

"Everything.", Harry does not look up.

"I am crippled now, Harry. Look at me, I'm going to be a burden on everyone. Are you really sure about this?"

"Sweetheart, granted, your long legs were so sinful they should have been illegal but they aren't the only reason why I love you. Without them, you are not a burden. Whatever your answer shall be, I will be there to help you through all this, even when you get mad at me, shout at me or tell me to fuck off. I love all of you, just as you are, regardless of circumstances."

"Since when?"

Harry chuckled dryly, "I don't know? I can't pinpoint an exact moment that made me fall in love with you. There were so many moments, across so many years that before I knew it, the only one I could have asked that day was you."

"Th…That day, it wasn't just for professional reasons?"

"No, I was just trying to find any reason to get you to say yes. Figured if I sounded too desperate I'd scared you off.", Harry smiles uneasily.

And then Merlin does something Harry does not expect at all, he giggles. "Oh God", Harry sighs, looking up at Merlin, "you are laughing at me. May I get an explanation as to why?"

"You are an idiot," Merlin signals Harry to let him finish speaking before getting upset, "and so am I."

"What does that even mean?"

"The answer is yes."

"That makes no sense! You just answered yes to a 'what' que...", Harry trails off, and then his eye widens, "Yes?"

Merlin still has a smile on his face. "Yes, I will marry you."

Now it is Harry's turn to be speechless. He just sits and stares at Merlin. "Y...yes.", he repeats.

The giggles are back. "Harry Hart, speechless. What a sight to see. To be quite honest, I expected you to be livelier."

And then Merlin finds himself with an armful of Harry Hart, crashing hard enough onto him that he has the air knocked out of his lungs. "Ouch, that hurts."

Harry is hyperventilating, he babbles, "You said yes. You said yes! Oh my God you said yes"

Merlin pats his back then slowly rubs it. "Would have said yes if you asked me like this then, too. I've been in love with you since our second year together as agent-handler. You were under serious hostile fire and yet still managed to steal that rare Star Wars action figure and brought it back unscathed for me as a souvenir just because you heard me talking about liking the series once in passing. To be absolutely honest with you, I would have said yes right that moment."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Many reasons, I guess. First, it was not professional. Being a handler and falling for your agent is both cliché and dangerous, not even counting it being bad for the team environment. What if people accuse me of favouring you? What if you don't reciprocate and then it would be awkward and hinder the missions. Not only that, Arthur was an old judgemental prick that would have given us hell if he suspected anything. Second, you are the Harry Hart, you could have had anyone you'd liked. I'm the plain Scottish nerd with shit upbringing and I spend too much time with books and computers. Figured I should have been contented with being friends with benefits. And then you asked me to enter the civil partnership and I jumped at the chance to take what I could get without asking too many questions.”

"We have been idiots, we wasted so much time." Harry sniffles, while his face is still buried against Merlin's shoulder.

"I cried so much the day I came to empty your safe after V-Day. I found the ring, you know, I had so many questions. What did you mean by buying this, why did you not give it to me, was it even for me. I thought I would never have a chance to know anymore. I shut myself off emotionally and carried on. Kingsman, especially Eggsy, needed me. Helping him accomplishing the vision you had for him was a way to keep you in my heart. Sometimes I dream of you proposing to me and us getting married somewhere beautiful in Scotland surrounded by our friends and I let myself indulge a little in that fantasy during the late hours at night before getting back to the missions in the morning. When we found you, you couldn't remember and then you did but not really, I was devastated but if you asked me to let you go, I would have."

"Please don't ever let me go. I won't let you go, Hamish. And it is not a fantasy anymore. I love you, I want to marry you and I'd do anything for you."

"I love you too, Harry", Merlin says, a tear rolling down his face.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes, Harry, you can kiss me."

Harry lifts his head up, cups Merlin's face with his hands and leans his face in closer, then Merlin meets him halfway. The kiss was full of love and longing and although no magic happens, Merlin's legs don't get magically healed, Harry is pretty sure it is True Love's Kiss.

Footnote:

Well yeah Hamish is a little easily persuaded but I would probably marry someone who gets me a rare expensive Batman action figure too. I chose the name Martin for Percival because I love Lywinis and bearfeathers stories so much, this is a little tribute.