#man if it was actually twice or even thrice the length to get through the same material……… what a world | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bonky-n-steeb · 4 years ago

Text

𝐶𝑂𝐷𝐸 𝐵𝐿𝑈𝐸

𝙎𝙏𝙀𝙑𝙀 𝙍𝙊𝙂𝙀𝙍𝙎 𝙭 𝙍𝙀𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙍

𝗦𝗨𝗠𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗬: Steve is angry on you for behaving recklessly and you decide to let him take his anger out on you in a very unprofessional way...

𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦: Unprotected sex, spanking, shower sex, rough sex, hair pulling, handjob, choking, PWP (porn with a very little plot... wait who am I lying to? It’s porn.) 𝙈𝙄𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙎 𝙋𝙇𝙀𝘼𝙎𝙀 𝘿��𝙄!

For my sake, your sake, your mom’s sake and for the betterment of the entire world, if you are a minor, please do not read this!🔞

Beta’d by the wonderful @lex-the-flex But all mistakes are mine

This is my first time writing smut, so please be kind 🥺 It’s filth... absolutely filth, even I can’t believe I’ve written this 🤦🏽‍♀️ I hope to god my mom never finds this and Marvel is probably gonna sue me for writing this.

“Steve!”

You exclaimed as he shut the door right in front of your face. Closing your eyes, you pressed your face to the door and sighed. You wanted to bang the door until he opened and explain Steve that all you did was your job. But you didn’t, instead you went to your own room next door and sulked.

You and Steve were on a mission to take down a hydra base. For the first few days, all you both did was map out the building. Once sure enough of your plans, you had finally breached it this morning.

In the beginning everything was just as expected. But then during the fight, you had spotted a man aiming his gun at an unaware Steve and like the love crazed woman you were, you shielded Steve with your own body.

Gladly Steve realised it before the damage was done and quickly held the shield in front of your both, deflecting the bullet. At your stunt, he had clenched his jaw and given an angry glare to you and had resumed fighting.

You had thought that was the extent of his anger at your carelessness, but apparently you were wrong. Steve hadn’t spoken a word to you after that. He had been silent throughout the entire ride to the hotel.

As he kept on fuming with unspoken anger, you tried your best to mend the situation by repeatedly calling out his name and talking about random things to yourself.

You actually didn’t know why he was angry. Agreed it was a stupid decision to be standing in front of a bullet, but you did it to save your teammate, at least that’s what you justified it with.

The truth was you were hopelessly in love with Steve Rogers. Soon after you had joined the avengers, you and Steve had become best friends. You hadn’t even planned on befriending him, forget about falling in love.

But with all his charm and naivety it was impossible not to fall for him. Not to mention his godly body. With the way he sometimes got flustered in front of you, you thought he felt something for you too, but you canceled it down by calling it wishful thinking.

While you both shared all your problems and worries with each other, you kept your emotions under wraps.

When you had seen the man aim his gun at Steve, your heart had literally stopped beating. The thought of living in a world without Steve in it was much more harrowing than your own death. So you did what you had to.

But now his silence was speaking louder than his words. It wouldn’t have felt this bad if he had scolded you or given you one of his long boring lectures, but this tactic of not talking with you was hurting you much worse.

The entire time you stripped out of your Kevlar suit and bathed, your mind was occupied by Steve’s silence. No matter how much you thought, you still couldn’t understand what had made him so mad.

After all, signing up with the avengers meant you would get into fights and get injured. The mantle of being an avenger came with a few broken bones.

And you weren’t the first to make such risky decisions during a mission, there had been many before you and there would be many after. So what was all this fuss about?

As you were pacing around your room, chewing your bottom lip, you stopped suddenly and took in a sharp breath. You couldn’t go back with this mess. Whatever it was, you had to sort it out and for that you needed to talk.

Deciding that it was now or never, you stepped out of your room and stood in front of Steve’s. You placed your ear on the door to check for any activity but there was none. You hoped to god he hadn’t fallen asleep.

Gathering all the strength you had, you knocked on the door, once, twice... thrice. But there was still no response. This had your mental alarms ringing. Steve sure wouldn’t ignore you this much, what if he was in danger?

Thinking of the worst case scenario, you crouched down and started picking the lock with your hair pin. As you opened the door and entered the room, you finally heard the noise of cascading water.

You huffed out a breath of relief. All this time he was just taking a shower and you thought about the possibilities of him getting murdered; you sure were an over thinker.

You didn’t know why but your feet weren’t retreating from the room. The sane part of your brain was telling you to go and come back later. And yet you stood awkwardly straight in the middle of his room.

You didn’t know how it happened, you swear to god didn’t realise. But all of a sudden you were standing in front of the bathroom door. You were burning with warmth from head to toe and you could listen to your heart beat in your ear.

Placing one hand on the door and the other on the knob, you tried to think for a moment. But somehow, your brain couldn’t process anything, except Steve. You slowly turned the knob and the door creaked open.

If Steve asked you what you were doing, which he definitely was going to, you would answer that you were sleepwalking or maybe you were possessed by a horny ghost. You wondered which one was more plausible.

The sight which greeted you was better than any you had ever seen. Steve was standing with his broad back facing you, glistening under the trickling water droplets.

His muscled expanse was stretched out magnificently under the shower, the water making rivulets into the grooves of his chiseled back. He straightened visibly under your watchful eye as he became aware of your entrance.

You waited for his scolding as you nibbled your bottom lip. You waited for him to tell you how immoral and indecent this was. You waited for him to fire you on the spot.

But nothing came from his side except strained breaths. It was as if he was doing some physical exertion by standing ramrod straight. As he tensed, his back muscles flexed even more and you wanted nothing more than to lick up the water drops.

Your mouth had fallen open and you were already panting and his body wasn’t the only thing wet. Seeing that he was neither bursting with anger nor reprimanding you for your actions, you decided to let your eyes wander further.

Your body lit itself on fire the moment you eyed his sculpted glutes. It was definitely, undoubtedly America’s ass. God, the things you wanted to do to him and the things you’d let him do to you.

You looked up to see Steve had turned his head a little and was staring at you through the corner of his eye. Taking that as a hint, you walked further until you were inside the shower.

The water seeped through your clothes as you stood right behind Steve. You were so close that the only thing in front of your eyes was his broad back. Yet he didn’t turn to face you.

Your hand shivered despite the warm water as you touched his back. That simple contact passed an electric current through Steve and you could hear his audible gasp.

Keeping one hand on his back, you moved your dominant hand further onto his chest. After palming his abs for sometime, you snaked your hand further down.

But before you could reach your destination, a strong hand curled around your wrist, limiting your movements. “Don’t.” It was the first word he had said to you after the mission.

His voice was hoarse and deep and you wondered if it was possible for you to come just with his voice. “But what if I want to?” You really were possessed, because you definitely didn’t have this much confidence.

Unexpectedly, your defiance worked and he loosened his hold, though he didn’t remove his hand. When you finally touched his warm cock, which was standing hard proudly, you moaned and buried your face into his back.

“Fuck.” Steve cursed as you rubbed him. You had heard him cursing a few times before, but listening to it now just melted you into a puddle. You pressed your face further into his back as you kept palming him, his hand was still on your wrist as a reminder, though he wasn’t guiding your movements.

You wondered how he would fit inside you, as you were barely able to curl your hand around his massive length. One second you were jerking him off and the next you were pinned to the wall, facing him. You blinked rapidly to steady your senses.

The hand he had used to pull you forward was now held against the wall and you had placed the other on his chest. His entire body was blushing hard and his face was just as flustered as yours.

Steve placed his hand gently on your cheek, a stark contrast to his previous actions. He bent down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips as first but he didn’t go any further.

Looking up at him through hooded eyes, you stared at him in confusion. Noticing the question on his face, you realised he was asking for permission. Nodding your head rapidly, you replied with a breathy yes.

That’s all it took for him to smash his face into yours. His kiss wasn’t a perfect or a practiced one, but what he lacked in experience, he made it up with his passion and edge.

You were actually tongue fucking each other and you didn’t regret a moment. You were close to eating each other’s faces off when you finally parted.

You panted and arched your back, exposing your neck as he sucked down your jaw to your neck. Without giving you a moment to gather yourself, he tore your tank top right through the middle.

And the only thing your mushy brain capable of saying was, “Holy shit.” It was the hottest thing you had ever seen. The way his arms flexed as he tore the fabric made you gush.

He discarded the now useless tank top carelessly on the floor and bent down to suck your nipples. You were about to go to sleep and thus weren’t wearing any bra. You let out an unholy moan at the sensation and the sight of him suckling you.

You carded your hands through his hair only for him to take your hands and pin them back to the wall. “Oh Steve.” As you moaned his name, he looked up at you through his lustrous blue eyes.

All of a sudden he let go of your hands and nipple and as you whimpered in dissatisfaction, he quickly tugged your pants down. He practically growled at the sight of you naked in front of him.

He placed his hands on your ass as he knead it while simultaneously kissing you stupid. He shifted his hands from your ass to your thighs and in one swift motion picked you up.

You hadn’t ever been picked up by anyone before and for once you were glad that Steve had taken the serum. He carried you out of the shower and into the room.

You were going to complain about how you were going to ruin the carpet with water when he all but gently threw you into the bed, face down.

You gathered yourself on your hands and knees just as he positioned himself behind you. Steve didn’t know what got into him when he saw your ass perched up in the air, but he went absolutely feral.

He wanted to talk and tell you things, but currently he was incapable of doing anything but devour you. He placed his huge palms on your ass and started kneading, but the thing he did next, took you by absolute surprise.

He spanked your ass, hard. At the contact you let out a loud surprised shriek. You had no idea captain America was a kinky little shit, not that you were complaining.

While you were turned on beyond your senses, Steve mistook your surprise for pain. He snapped out of whatever haze had taken over him, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You looked back at Steve with confusion. “God. No. Steve, you didn’t hurt me. I liked it.” You said with such shyness as if you hadn’t just given him a handjob moments ago.

“Do more.” You asked and he delivered. Steve understood that you wanted it rough, and who was he to deny. He spanked your ass thrice more, alternating the cheek, in quick succession, only to rub it gently later.

He kept up with the contrast of quick spanks and gentle kneads until you sobbed with wrecked pleasure and delightful pain.

When you came back from your blissful high, you realised Steve was pressing soft kisses to your back. You strained your neck at an odd angle and pulled Steve in for a kiss.

It was gentle and filled with adoration and love, a great disparity to what just happened. Steve was rutting against your ass as he deepened the kiss.

Parting from the kiss, he took hold of his cock and jerked it a few times before rubbing himself against your drenched folds. You were already so dripping that you didn’t need any extra stimulation.

Finally he pushed in the tip and you moaned like in heat at the sweet pressure. Gladly he gave you a moment before pushing slowly further, inch by inch.

No matter how wet, or in a sex haze you were, you both knew he wasn’t easy to take. All the while, Steve was muttering praises and soft words to you.

When he finally bottomed out, you both moaned out with pleasure. After giving you some time to adjust, he pulled back only to push back in with a measured but powerful thrust.

“Oh fuck!” Overcome with pleasure, you slapped a hand on the headboard to hold yourself steady while you clutched Steve’s ass with the other to hold him as close to you as possible.

He began with slow yet hard thrusts but soon he changed rhythm and started fucking you in earnest. The headboard rattled against the wall as Steve held your shoulder with one hand and supported you both with another placed firmly on the bed.

You had got a hundred dreams about Steve railing the shit out of you. But nothing matched the actual thing.

Steve experimentally wove his fingers through your hair and when you let out something between a moan and a demand for more, he clutched and pulled it tightly making your eyes roll back with euphoria.

“Stevveee, I... Stevie, I’m close,,... oh fuck!” The only thing you could do was moan wantonly and take everything Steve gave you.

Just as Steve felt your walls quivering, he pulled out. He groaned with frustration as you were so so close. But before you could formate any words, he flipped you around.

“I want to watch you as you come for me.” He said bending down to press a kiss. This time, he entered you in one swift motion.

Curling a hand around his neck, you held the head board with other as you arched into his touch. He was grunting loudly and his voice was having more effect than it should have on you.

You were close, so very close, but you needed more, something more. “Steve, choke me.” You whimpered. Steve faltered for a moment before realising what you had said.

When Steve placed his hand delicately on your throat, which you had exposed to him, you knew you were going to have the best orgasm of your life.

Steve squeezed your throat, and at that very second, you orgasmed like never before. Your toes curled and legs shook uncontrollably as you babbled nonsense.

You felt as if you saw the deepest crevices of the universe and snorted the most powerful drug as white pleasure enveloped you.

Steve, in spite of his super soldier stamina, gave in to pleasure as your walls hugged him tight. With a shout, he came deep within you.

After the pleasure faded and the fatigue had set in, you both laid limply within a tangle of limbs and in each other’s embrace.

“Steve.” You croaked as he kept on prepping you with kisses. He only hummed in response. “I love you.” At that the kisses stopped.

You worried if this was the end of everything, but when you looked up in his eyes, you knew it was just the beginning. His eyes were filled with love.

“I love you too.” He smashed your lips once again and you responded just as enthusiastically. “I can’t think of living without you. You mean everything to me.

When I saw you in front of the gun, I was so scared. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to save you.” You caressed his face as you said, “But you did. And I know you always will Steve.”

“That I will.” You knew that Steve would keep you safe. You knew that in his warm embrace, nothing in this world would touch you.

“Steve, if you ever get mad at me, talk to me, scold me, give me on of your boring lectures if you want, but please don’t stop talking to me.”

“If ignoring you is going to lead to this, then I’ll probably give you the silent treatment.” He chuckled as you punched him playfully.

You couldn’t believe you were in love with this goof, or that he was just as in love with you.

#chris evans #mcu #marvel #steve rogers #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #Steve Rogers x reader smut #marvel smut #steve rodgers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x y/n #filthy smut #chris evans smut #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers one shot

3K notes · View notes

trekkiepirate · 4 years ago

Text

Master of All

My Witcher Secret Santa gift for @motionalocean! @thewitchersecretsanta

Crossposted to AO3 HERE

nearly 9.2K of BAMF!Jaskier and Geralt being progressively more smitten. 5 Times Jaskier Is Good At Things Geralt Didn't Expect And The 1 Thing He Knew Jaskier Was Good At. PG-13 for bad words, canon-typical violence, and the +1 Under cut because it’s hella long.

1. Pickpocketing

“Well,” Jaskier huffed, “I sincerely hope you missed one of those ghouls and they come back and eat this whole rotten village. Starting with that alderman. No, starting with his appalling son who has the AUDACITY to claim he was a better singer than me. My gods, Geralt, I don’t even think I’ll complain of the lack of a roof and a bed this evening. Sleeping under the stars with my very dear friend-“

“-not friends,” Geralt huffed.

The interruption entirely ignored by Jaskier. “-who is twice, thrice, no no no ten, a hundred, a THOUSAND times the man that they could ever dream of being. Asking a man-“

“-not a man,” Geralt said, expecting, correctly, Jaskier would ignore this comment too.

Jaskier, instead, whirled and looked at Geralt like he had punched him. Actually, he looked more upset than when Geralt has, in fact, punched him. “Of course you’re a man.” Jaskier tilted his head. “Well, I cannot say for certain as I have not yet seen you… in a state of undress. Though not that the having of a penis makes one a man. It’s more about your own identity-”

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, sliding two now-skinned hares onto sticks over the fire.

“You’re a man because that’s who you tell the world you are.”

“I don’t.”

It seemed only every other sentence was going to get through Jaskier’s tirades as he stopped speaking.

For a few blissful seconds. “Geralt,” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, voice exasperated as if he were a teacher who expected better of his pupil. “Geralt,” he said again, “you are the best man I have ever met. Smarter than any scholar, kinder than any priest, more noble than any titled twat.”

Geralt blinked. Jaskier seemed so sincere. “We’ve just met.”

“Right, well, we’ve actually been traveling together for four months, but I imagine time feels different when you’re basically immortal, so we’ll let that slide.”

A frown twisted Geralt’s face. “You’re young. You can’t have met that many people.”

Jaskier pursed his lips and put on what he called his Viscount voice. Though why he’d pretend to be a Viscount was beyond Geralt. “I studied for years at the most prestigious and widely attended university on the Continent. I have met plenty of people, Geralt. And you are still the best one I know.”

Geralt hmmed. “Your good opinion won’t buy us a roof and a bed.”

A grin like a succubus, pretty and dangerous, spread over Jaskier’s face. He reached into his trousers and produced a bag of coins. “It might do.”

The same bag of coins that the alderman had refused to give Geralt after he cleared a nest of ghouls from a field. He’d taken three crowns and told Geralt that it couldn’t be worth the whole bag if it only took him an hour.

As it was, most of that hour was building the bomb he’d need to destroy the nest. The ghouls had been sated by feeding on villagers who’d tried to kill them and were slow.

“Where-” Geralt shook his head, he knew the answer to that one. “How?”

Jaskier tossed the bag in the air and caught it. He continued doing so as he spoke. “Remember when I gestured around his, frankly gaudy and most certainly fake, prized vase?”

Geralt stared at the boy. “You distracted him by making him think you might break his vase and then stole his coin out of his pocket.”

“Exactly! Really it’s his fault for so blatantly putting the coin away while looking down his nose at you.” Jaskier grinned bright and extracted one coin from the bag before handing it to Geralt.

“Thief’s fee?” Geralt nodded at the coin.

Jaskier’s smile got even more mischievous. He balanced the coin on his thumb, then flicked it.

It hit Geralt in the chest and fell into his lap.

“Well, tossing a coin is the chorus of the song anyway,” he winked, then spun around, grabbing a cooked hare and blowing on it before taking a large bite. “They’ll see,” he said as he chewed, “my song will become a hit! ‘Toss a Coin’ will be sung the entire length and breadth of the Continent and men like that will be the pariahs, the outcasts. Anyone who denigrates a witcher will be spit upon in the streets. See how they like that!” Jaskier’s next bite was near savage, tearing the meat from the bone. But the next moment, he grinned over the fire at Geralt. “And until it does become a hit and you are lauded as the hero you are, and don’t say you’re not a hero, I see your mouth opening and you can very well shut it again for all the credence I’m going to give you saying you’re not a hero.” He gestured wildly with his hare, grease dripping slowly down his hand and forearm, on display since he’d rolled up the sleeves as his chemise on such a warm night.

Geralt found his next breath a little harder to take as he stared at the bare forearm. He hmmed and took up his own meal.

“So until that day, I will gladly make sure you are properly paid for your work,” he waggled the fingers of his left hand at Geralt. “One way or another.”

“Don’t get caught,” Geralt said. “I won’t break you out of any jail cell you land in.”

Jaskier laughed. “That is a bald-faced lie. You did the exact thing two towns ago and that wasn’t even me risking my freedom and safety for you to be given all you deserve.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, then quickly back to his hare when he found the expression on Jaskier’s face too… too much like something warm settling in his stomach. He ate the rest of the hare as fast as he could.

No one had ever said Geralt deserved anything. Not anything nice, anyway. But Jaskier seemed to think that Geralt was a kind of hero in a tale and wanted him to be treated as such.

Fool’s errand, he thought. Jaskier was young and didn’t know how the world worked outside of the high walls of a university. He’d learn. Until then…

“Fine.”

Having gone back to eating, Jaskier was silent for a moment as if trying to recall where the conversation was picking up from. “What’s fine? Oh! Me stealing when people refuse to pay you your just wage. Of course it’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty head for a moment; I’ve never been caught yet.” He waggled his fingers in Geralt’s direction. “Dexterity is name of the game when one spends one’s life dedicated to possibly the most delicate and finnicky instrument known to man.” He looked down at his gifted elven lute like it was his flesh and blood child, so loving and soft.

When he raised his head and looked at Geralt, his adoring expression didn’t change in the least.

Geralt cleared his throat and threw the hareless stick onto the fire. ‘Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

A few more large bites and Jaskier did as he was told, snuggling into his bedroll. Which Geralt had bought him when Jaskier proved that no amount of silence or disinterest would keep him from staying at Geralt’s side, praising every deed in song. He picked up the bag of coin and wandered over to Roach to tuck it safely in her saddlebag.

The horse nickered softly and seemed to throw her head repeatedly in Jaskier’s direction.

“Don’t get attached,” Geralt scolded.

Roach tilted her head in Jaskier’s direction and kept it there.

Geralt sighed and whispered into the still night air. “Thank you, Jaskier.” He patted Roach, now seemingly satisfied, and made his way to his own bedroll, set a bit behind Jaskier’s so the bard was close to the warm fire and that anything that leapt at them from the woods would have to get through Geralt before it could get to Jaskier.

He laid there, thinking about how quickly making sure the boy warm and safe had become a priority.

2. Knowing Who The Nobles Are Everywhere They Go

“Nope,” Jaskier plucked the sun-faded paper from Geralt’s hand, ignoring Geralt’s exasperated expression. “Oh no, no, no, no. Nope, you will not be taking this. Well, you will not be taking this contract with Duke Hereward. He’s an absolute bastard and will quite surely stiff you of your deserved coin. No, we’d best find where,” he squinted at the ink, “Meadwood Farms is and go straight to the farmers themselves. Hereward will weasel his weasely way out of giving you anything. I’d gladly steal anything he might have of worth-“

Geralt glanced around, hoping no one who worked for the Duke was listening, as Jaskier did not seem to understand what the word ‘discretion’ meant.

“-alas the double-edged sword of fame means if something were to go mysteriously but deservedly missing after we took our leave, I’d find my lovely new position as a professor at Oxenfurt suddenly taken from me.” He smiled at Geralt. “I need something to do during the winter while you hide away in your Witchery mountains to do… mountainous Witchery things.”

Suppressing the urge to smile, Geralt nodded towards the inn. “I’m sure someone will know who owns the farm in there.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s arm and began to drag him (well, steer him as if Geralt had truly not wanted to be led, there was no way the boy, barely into his twenties, could move him) towards the inn. “Good people of Ellander!”

“Jaskier,” Geralt nearly rolled his eyes.

“Your prayers to the Great Meletile have been answered,” Jaskier continued. “Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf himself, has come to aid you with your monster problems. Merely point us to Meadwood Farms and you shall soon see why Geralt is the hero of the Continent.”

Geralt was strangely glad his body no longer had the ability to blush. Jaskier’s absolute faith in Geralt was steadfast and it made something heavy and warm settle in Geralt’s chest. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be able to feel this way, to be so… cared about.

A pretty-eyed maiden made her way over to them. She smiled brightly at Jaskier. “I work at the farm. I’d be ever so glad to lead you… and the witcher there.”

The eye rolling couldn’t be controlled this time, as Jaskier immediately brightened under her attentions. “Well lead on, good miss. I presume it’s miss?”

“It is,” she giggled.

Geralt was rather glad they barely paid any heed to him as they flirted their way across town to the countryside. “What is it?” Geralt eventually asked.

Both Jaskier and the young woman, Elzbet apparently, startled as if they’d forgotten Geralt was still there. They probably had.

“The monster,” Geralt clarification. “What is it?”

Elzbet shrugged. “I didn’t see it. I do not know. Master Prospero was the one who saw it. He’s in the big house.”

Jaskier grinned. “Yes, yes, Geralt head up to see Master Prospero. Elzbet has promised to show me a most charming little corner of the barn. Apparently, there’s an owl’s nest there.”

Geralt would turn over every coin he received for the contract if there was actually an owl’s nest anywhere in the barn. All Jaskier was likely to see was up the girl’s skirts. Stomping away with a little more force than he probably needed to use, Geralt found the farm owner and got the information he needed.

It was a nest of nekkars and Geralt has cleared them all out by that night. The reward scraped together by the workers was only a third of what Hereward had promised, but it was given in gratitude and with open hands. Prospero himself was so grateful, he offered Geralt and Jaskier a room in his home for the night, as well as their dinner that night and breakfast the next morning.

Jaskier spent most of the night trying to find a suitably dirty rhyme he approved of for owl.

“Howl. Or yowl, which I will make you do if you do not put that candle out.” Geralt said at last.

“Oh you,” Jaskier tsked as he quickly scribbled down a few more lines. “You know what that Witchery magic does to me.” He winked.

Geralt buried his head further into the pillow. “Didn’t get enough with your farm girl?”

Jaskier gasped, affronted. “Excuse you, Elzbet is more than a farm girl, she is the love of my life.” He sighed dreamily. “I might stay, you know. With her.”

“Better her than me,” Geralt grumbled.

“I know you don’t truly mean those words or I’d be heartbroken beyond repair to hear you say that,” Jaskier shrugged out of his doublet and pinched out the candle flame between his licked fingers. “But what if I did? Stay?”

Geralt huffed. “You’d make a piss poor farmer.”

Jaskier laughed lightly. “Probably true.” He sighed. “Would you miss me?”

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt said in lieu of an actual answer. “If you’re to be a farmer, you must get used to early mornings.”

Humming thoughtfully, Jaskier settled down, the line of his back just an inch away from Geralt’s in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

In the morning, Jaskier packed and took his place at Geralt’s side. He tried out lyrics and chords and by the time he and Geralt made camp that night, Jaskier had a new ballad. It was about love between a wanderer and a maiden, whom he loved but left to follow the open road he had long ago promised his heart to, his truest love.

Though he never actually sang the word road, Geralt realized as he watched Jaskier sing it a week later in a tavern. The song itself was called Walking The Path.

3. Gwent

“Dammit,” Geralt growled as he threw down his remaining card. A clear weather was useless when there were no weather cards in effect. The score was tied, but his opponent played with a Nilfgaardian deck and therefore won all ties.

The smarmy git was smiling at him like a smarmy git. “Fair is fair,” he held out a hand, “I’ll be taking your unique card now.”

It was lying next to the card the other man had anted up in the center of the table, but clearly humiliation was part of his winnings.

Geralt picked up the card and dropped it into the other man’s hand. “Here.”

“Better luck next time,” the bastard called out and he gestured another player to take Geralt’s place.

He still had all the coin he’d won, the cards had been the only prizes in that last round, so Geralt went over to the bar and ordered two ales and a glass of wine.

By the time he was picking up the second mug of ale, Jaskier had finished his set and bounded over, downing the wine in one go as always and ordering himself another.

“What’s this face? Is my singing truly that bad? Please know, if you say anything about pie, I will be forced to waste this lovely wine on your rude head.” Geralt grunted. “Singing was fine. Lost my game is all.”

Jaskier tilted his head. “You were winning when I last checked in on you.” He looked at his glass. “Do you need some coin? I got a fair amount tonight, people around here are very anti-Nilfgaard and my lovely little ditty went a treat. You must have heard the cheers.”

Geralt nodded. He had. In between games, he’d kept his eye on Jaskier. The djinn incident was two weeks ago, but this was Jaskier’s first performance since he almost lost his voice. And life.

The bard had been nervous and Geralt hadn’t even started playing gwent until the anxious scent faded into his usual confident burst of sundried linen and mint. The crowd was just as adoring, just as loud as always. Jaskier’s voice hadn’t suffered any permanent damage and Geralt was relieved. After all, his unthinking words had been the reason Geralt had almost lost… that Jaskier had almost lost his voice.

“Not coin,” Geralt said at last, draining his mug. “Lost my best card though. Drew an unlucky hand and couldn’t seem to bring it back around. Ended in a draw, but the bastard played as Nilfgaard so he took the tie.”

Jaskier frowned. “No chance to get it back?”

Geralt shrugged. “He plays here a lot, apparently. Has rules about only one match per opponent.” He shook his head. “Nothing for it.”

Putting down his half full glass, Jaskier nodded. “Right, well then.” He turned and headed towards the tables set up for cards.

“Jaskier?” Geralt blinked at the space the bard had occupied a second ago. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier was already standing in front of the bastard.

Geralt couldn’t remember his name, wasn’t even sure he’d been told who he’d been playing against.

Jaskier’s relaxed ease was gone, instead his shoulders hunched up, making him look for all the world like an angry cat about to take a chunk out of the next person who tried to pet it. “Valdo Marx,” Jaskier hissed out like the very letters of the name offended him.

Huh. Geralt looked at the man who’d defeated him.

Valdo looked up with a beatific smile. “Julian, is that you? I did think I heard your particular brand of empty words and trite notes in that boyish tenor of yours.”

Now no longer just upset about the card, Geralt’s fingers twitched towards his sword. Sure, he’d not exactly complimented Jaskier’s songs recently, but his insult was born of trying to offend the man into shutting up so Geralt could find the damnable djinn and get some fucking sleep.

Which, looking back, was a useless attempt as Jaskier had been drunk and Drunk Jaskier was even more prone to rambling than Sober Jaskier.

“Normally, I’d be quite glad to just punch you in the nose,” Jaskier smirked, “again.”

Taking a closer look, Geralt did notice that Valdo’s nose was slightly crooked. As if broken a few too many times.

“But if seems you have some pretentious rule about not allowing people to win their losings back from you like an honourable gentleman would.” Jaskier crossed his arms. “So I’ll play you for Geralt’s card.”

Valdo blinked blankly. “Geralt?”

Jaskier clucked his tongue as he sat down. “My goodness, you are out of touch. Everyone on the Continent knows I sing of Geralt of Rivia, heroic Witcher of legend and my very best friend in the whole world.”

Geralt didn’t bother to object.

“Then again, you rarely get to leave Cidaris, don’t you?” Jaskier produced his gwent deck and began to shuffle it. “I often wonder how you’d do in a town you didn’t grow up in? But then your father’s money wouldn’t be there to buy you a court position now would it? Has he bought you a title yet?”

Though Jaskier couldn’t see it, perhaps because Jaskier couldn’t see it, Geralt grinned broadly at that.

Valdo grinned back nastily, revealing he had a missing canine tooth as well. “If he did, at least one of us would use their title to make a difference to their homeland. Tell me, Julian,” he laid out his deck and dealt himself a hand, “when did you last visit Lettenhove? Or do you still think wandering amongst the common folk singing dirty songs in dirty taverns is the proper way a viscount should behave? Whatever would your mother day?”

Geralt watched Jaskier’s grip on his own hand tighten, just slightly. “Just play, Marx.”

Huh. Apparently Jaskier wasn’t making the whole viscount thing up.

“Oh now now,” Valdo laid down his hand, “we haven’t set terms yet. You want the Witcher’s card, right? This one,” he picked it up and flipped it along the back of his hand. “But what will you bet? I never play for anything as gauche as coin. Some of us get wages, not a handful of coins in a dusty lute case. Actually,” Valdo leaned forward, “that’s what we’ll play for. Your pretty lute. See if you can perform in royal courts without your maaaagical little instrument.”

“No.”

Jaskier and Valdo both snapped their attention to Geralt.

“No,” he repeated. Jaskier’s lute was his livelihood, his most precious possession. Geralt wanted his card back, but not at that price. Jaskier was a clever player, Geralt knew, but Valdo’s deck was evil, full of spies and scorch cards. “Not the lute. Choose something else.”

Valdo shook his head. “Don’t think I will,” he turned back to Jaskier. “You bet your lute or I walk away and your witcher never sees his card again.”

Geralt put a hand out to grab Jaskier’s shoulder and urge him up to their room, but Jaskier just nodded. “It’s a bet. Play, Marx.”

Worry came over Geralt and he found himself pacing behind Jaskier, trying not to look at his cards because then he’d know if Jaskier had a good hand and if he didn’t…

If Jaskier lost his lute, he’d be crushed. Geralt would buy him another; he’d have to. But to lose the lute Filavandrel had given him… Jaskier always said it brought him luck, sounded sweeter than all others, even when slightly out of tune.

“It will always remind me of the day my life changed forever,” he’d smile at it, then at Geralt.

Geralt still hadn’t worked out whether he meant the day he wrote the song that made him famous or the day he learned the world was much more complicated than his human-written studies might have led him to believe.

Geralt watched as Jaskier’s hand dwindled to two cards.

Valdo still had half a dozen.

It was the last hand; both had won a turn and this would decide the winner.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Geralt closed his eyes and leaned back, trying to meditate or at least clear his mind. He still had his winnings from the other matches he’d played tonight. He had no idea how much a lute cost, but he’s fairly sure he’d be able to cover it. Did this town even have a shop that might carry one? It was only just inside the borders of Cidaris, not a particularly large village now that Geralt thought about it.

“You,” he heard a hiss, “cheated.”

Jaskier was smiling. “I did no such thing. I merely used your same tactics against you.” He held out a hand. “The card. Unless you’d like to try and win it back?”

Valdo spit out some words in Elder as he threw the card at Jaskier and stomped out like a petulant child.

Geralt was rusty and only caught every few words. Something about Jaskier’s bedroom habits and something else about being a pathetic, he thinks the word was supposed to mean hound or something like that. One phrase that Geralt did catch, as he’d heard it assigned to him once or twice before translated to ‘unlovable’.

Jaskier sat frozen through the tirade and when Geralt rounded the table, he found Jaskier’s eyes to be far more full of wrath and pain than it ought to for someone who had just won a game against a rival.

His face schooled into a triumphant grin, though there was still a sheen of sadness in his eyes. “Your card, Geralt.”

Geralt took it gently, sliding out his deck into order to tuck it away. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well, if I lost I was thinking of just stabbing him and making a run for it,” Jaskier waved a hand.

“It’s not that important,” Geralt insisted, ten minutes later as they readied for bed. “It wasn’t worth risking your lute. If you’d lost it. It’s more precious to you than everything, else you’ve said so yourself.”

Jaskier looked up from folding his doublet and smiled, not his cheeky performance grins but a small, genuine thing. “Not everything. Now,” he sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots, “may I see the card I won from Marx in what is going to be immortalized into an incredibly epic song as soon as I come up with a rhyme for ‘thrice broken nose’?”

Geralt took it out and handed it over.

It was a fairly new card for the Northern Kingdoms deck. An ashen haired little girl pouted in a frilly pink dress, clearly displeased at being painted.

“Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Princess of Cintra,” Jaskier read. He handed back the card but his hand hovered, as if he might reach out for Geralt’s shoulder or even his cheek. “Yes, this is something worth taking a risk for, no question. …15 points and all,” he said after a moment, when he realized Geralt wasn’t responded. “Course I missed the opportunity of stabbing Marx, but I’ve no doubt the chance will arise again someday.” He laid down and stared at the ceiling.

“Jaskier,” Geralt began, finding his words dry up when those beautiful (when did he start thinking of Jaskier’s eyes as beautiful?) blue eyes blinked up at him. “I… th- you played well.”

A pleased and nearly shy look came over Jaskier’s face. “I know how much you enjoy it. Just wanted to be sure I’d be a worthy opponent for you, dearest witcher.” He stared at Geralt a moment longer, as if looking for something in his face. He shook his head slightly as if coming out of a dream. “Goodnight, Geralt.” Jaskier turned and faced the wall.

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed as he laid down, facing the opposite wall. “Goodnight. Jaskier.”

4. Sailing

Geralt surveyed the people sitting around the table and frowned to notice one missing. “Where’s Jaskier?”

“Went fishing,” Eskel said off hand, jumping right back into his conversation with Coën.

“He what?”

Lambert looked up from his gwent match with Ciri, “He took my boat and went fishing. Said he wouldn’t be much help in a hunt, but this way he wouldn’t be and I quote, ‘useless’ and he could be a ‘worthy winter companion’.”

Geralt winced. He’d apologized for his harsh words on the mountain and Jaskier had forgiven him. But it seems some of the hurt from that day still lingered.

“Where did he go?”

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a look.

“I don’t know his coordinates,” Lambert answered.

“Dammit!” Geralt barely kept himself from hitting the table; he didn’t want to scare Ciri, who had put her cards down and was watching the scene with interest. “You know what’s out there. Drowners and bears and I’m not sure we entirely destroyed that harpy nest from last winter and-“

“And he assured us he could handle it,” Eskel said.

Geralt growled. “He’s human! He could get hurt.”

Coën piped up at last. “Jaskier went north from the lakeside hut.” When all eyes turned to him, Coën shrugged, “He wanted to know where the good fishing spots are. I told him.”

Spinning on his heel, Geralt headed for the door to the keep, grabbing a silver sword from a rack of them on the way. He had a location and a direction. He could pick up Jaskier’s scent from there.

Geralt hadn’t bothered to grab a coat and the winter winds bit through his leather and linen clothes almost immediately. It didn’t matter. Jaskier had been alone in the wilds for who knows how long and even without the monsters and the beasts, there were dangers. The bard could overbalance and tumble into the icy waters. What if he hadn’t thought to grab warmer clothes? Geralt picked up speed, wishing he’d thought to bring Roach. Wishing he’d thought about anything other than running to get to Jaskier and…

And he wasn’t sure what would happen after. He just… needed to know that Jaskier was all right. That he was safe. He hadn’t been safe, Geralt sighed to himself as he ran, after Geralt had snapped at him.

Geralt was sure it was just another spat; that he’d arrive back at camp and Jaskier would be there very pointedly writing a song about a heartless cad who was mean to his very best friend in the whole wide world. Jaskier had a good half dozen songs like it already, this would be one more.

Only he wasn’t there. Geralt arrived to find Roach eating the last of the apples Jaskier had packed just for her and giving Geralt a very judgmental look. “Leave off,” he growled at her as he packed up what was left and led her down the mountain. “We’ll pick him up in town and you two can whisper about how mean I am.”

But Jaskier wasn’t in town either. Nor could anyone say which way he went. Geralt cursed then like he cursed now, seeing the roof of the hut by the lake and yet no sign of Jaskier.

Bad things happened when Jaskier went off alone. Geralt shook his head to rid himself of the image of Jaskier, strung up by his hands, those beautiful talented livelihood-making hands threatened and Jaskier said nothing, gave no secrets away. Some because he didn’t know and some because he…

Geralt doesn’t know why Jaskier didn’t break, except he does. The man is brave, he’s stupid and criminally loud, but he is also the most loyal man Geralt has ever known. Steel dressed in silk.

Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, Geralt picked up Jaskier’s scent. It’s his soap and sweat and Geralt knows it like he knows his own.

Jaskier has the only boat and Geralt doesn’t fancy a swim, so he sticks to the shoreline, eyes casting about for any signs of danger or Jaskier.

Geralt very specifically tries to avoid thinking about danger AND Jaskier, which means that is all his brain will show him. Images of Jaskier surrounded by drowners, of a boat floating listlessly because the man at the rudder had been torn to pieces by harpies, a bear raising its blood-covered maw with a scrap of bright fabric caught in its teeth.

The last thing he’s thinking is that he will come upon Jaskier peacefully hauling a net of fish into the boat, adding the larger ones to a bucket next to him. So of course, that’s how the story goes.

“Geralt?” Jaskier called, eyes as round and surprised as the fish wriggling its last throes in his hands. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is everyone okay?”

Jaskier dropped the net thoughtlessly onto the boat’s hull and with a series of quick and efficient movements, had the boat floating over to where Geralt stood on the shore. The bard hopped over the side and hurried to Geralt, hands twitching as if he wanted to check the witcher over for any injuries. “Geralt?”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

A frown coming to rest on his face, Jaskier put his hands on his slim hips. “What was I thinking? What were you thinking? You’re going to catch your death without a coat, yes I know,” he said as Geralt opened his mouth, “witchers can’t catch colds, immune systems, mutagens, blah blah,” he went back to the boat and finished sorting the fish, “blah. What could possibly have happened that you hurried all the way from Kaer Morhen without so much as a single piece of armour or a cloak?” He turned, suddenly serious. “Is everyone all right? Is Ciri all right? She’s not ill, is she? Did she take a tumble on the training course?”

Touched by how much Jaskier cares about Ciri, despite having known her a relatively short time, Geralt shook his head. “She’s fine. Everyone is fine.”

“Then what in the name of Meletile, Freya and any other four gods you would care to name are you doing here?”

Geralt wished he’d spent less time thinking about the past and more time thinking about the future as he ran. He’s starting to get used to that feeling in general. “You weren’t there.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened, then softened. “Surely someone told you I’d gone fishing? I let everyone know. I didn’t,” he smiled sardonically, “think you’d even notice.”

“Why?”

Head tilted like a puppy, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Why did I go fishing or why did I think you wouldn’t notice? I went fishing because everyone does something at Kaer Morhen. I don’t,” he sighed, “have anything but music to offer and I’m well aware of your opinions on that. I assume your fellow witchers share them and also your witcher hearing, hence my lute case gathers dust. I do, however, know how to sail a boat, catch some fish, and cook said fish. So I thought I would make myself useful. As for you not noticing, well, I’m hardly your first priority here and,” he quickly added, “I understand completely. I shouldn’t be. Ciri comes first, always, of course. Hell, I wasn’t your first priority when we traveled together. Roach was. Speaking of, where is she? You couldn’t have tied her up too far away now.” Jaskier looked at the tree line as if a large mare would suddenly appear.

“I… didn’t bring her,” Geralt said, shame slowly rising in him at Jaskier’s words. Geralt couldn’t refute any of them. He hadn’t noticed the lack of music, assuming Jaskier still played in his room. As for when they travelled together, it hurt deep in Geralt’s gut that Jaskier thought he wasn’t a priority to Geralt. His words were often harsh, but Geralt made sure Jaskier had enough food and hunted more to ensure that he would. He bought Jaskier a warmer, if less stylish, cloak that had seen the bard through most of his twenties.

Jaskier had hefted a bucket of fish in his arms and just stared blankly at Geralt. “You… didn’t bring Roach? You, what, walked all the way here?”

Geralt’s eye twitched. “I ran.”

“For Meletile’s sake, why?”

“There’s…” Geralt cleared his throat, “drowners around. Sometimes. And bears. There might be some harpies left over from a nest we destroyed last winter.”

Jaskier settled the bucket back into the boat. “Were you… worried about me?”

Geralt nodded. Words were awkward and he wished to use as few as possible.

A look not unlike something like wonder crossed Jaskier’s face. “Oh. I… oh. I’m,” he spread his arms as if presenting himself, “fine. As you see. I… guess we should head back.” He gestured towards the boat. “I’ve a decently sized haul. I can make use of this for a while.” Jaskier stood in the shallow water, “Climb on in, and I’ll take us back.”

Geralt didn’t move.

“Oh,” Jaskier looked abashed. “Unless you’d prefer to steer?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head. “You can steer.”

He could. As Geralt had seen, Jaskier clearly knew his way not only around fishery, but sailing.

Jaskier nodded again to the boat and Geralt stepped in, settling at the bow.

Proving him right, Jaskier shoved them into the water and hauled himself over the side, quickly settling at the rudder and turning them around to head back towards Kaer Morhen.

Geralt cast a glance into the bucket of fish, seeing a few other smaller ones surrounding it. Several fish stared unblinkingly at Geralt as he stared back.

Jaskier hummed then cut himself off when he realized he was doing so, with a nervous glance at Geralt.

He wanted to say something. Tell Jaskier the humming was fine with him. That he should get out his lute and play for them. That Geralt wanted to hear his music, his voice. That the fillingless pie comment all those years ago hadn’t been a slight to Jaskier’s singing but the content of his songs, so many full of dirty humour or exaggerated lies.

All he could manage was “You sail good.”

Staring just as wide-eyed and unblinking as the fish, Jaskier slowly said, “Thank… you… I, uh,” he looked back at the water, “grew up on the coast. Been sailing since I was strong enough to move a rudder. Fishing even longer.”

“Why didn’t you fish that day? You could have caught your own.” Geralt winced as his words were said. Jaskier wasn’t focusing on that day with the djinn. He’d need to be specific.

But Jaskier was already answering, “I was heartbroken and near blind drunk,” he laughed, light and slightly forced. “I’d have fallen in as soon as I bent over to grab the net, hence why I was hoping you would share your haul.” He pursed his lips. “Rather wish I hadn’t, looking back.”

Geralt found himself stuck for words again. They came easy with his brothers in arms. Even with Ciri, he found himself managing to find words of comfort or encouragement when it seemed she needed them.

But Jaskier had always made things complicated for Geralt, since the day they’d met. He could annoy Geralt like nobody and nothing else; Jaskier got himself into trouble on a fairly regular basis, was fussy about his clothes and hair, and could talk the hind legs off a donkey while never saying a blessed thing of worth.

But damn if Geralt didn’t want him there, in all his messy and loud glory. He wanted Jaskier safe and, as recent events had shown, Jaskier was safest at Geralt’s side, because Geralt would move heaven and earth, call upon any help and damn the cost, to keep Jaskier so.

Geralt was in love with Jaskier. The revelation felt both sudden and slow at once. Like he’d been falling in love so quietly and steadily, there was no way to point to the day or hour that he’d actually fallen.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier, lost in daydreams, started. “What’s the matter now?”

“I,” Geralt scrambled for something to say. Should he tell Jaskier he loved him? No, that was absurd. Jaskier, for all his lingering stares and the near constant scent of lust that used to surround him, didn’t love Geralt as more than a friend, if that. Lust was not love, Geralt knew that well. He was with him for the songs and the safety. Sure, Jaskier cared for Geralt, he said it often enough, but he didn’t love him. Like how Geralt was realizing he loved Jaskier.

Who was staring at him expectantly.

At least this time, Geralt kept his annoyed at himself ‘fuck’ inside his head. “I was thinking of all the times we could have taken the river, instead of the roads.” He found words, though he wasn’t sure they were the right ones. “If I’d known you could sail. We could have… sailed. Before now.”

Jaskier dropped his eyes to the bottom of the boat, then turned away as if needing to check where he was going, as if he hadn’t been steering blind for the past several minutes, instinctive. “Ah. I’m sorry. Maybe I should have told you. Though we weren’t often by the,” a slight hesitation, “the coast.”

“You’re doing very well.” Geralt twitched his lips into as big a smile as he could manage and still felt it came up short.

But Jaskier’s visible cheek rose in a smile. “Thank you, Geralt.”

5. Sword Fighting

A whirl of light green and silver flashed from Geralt’s side, a movement near dancelike in its fluidity, accompanied by a whisper that sounded almost like counting.

Geralt turned just in time to see the bandit’s surprised face before his cleaved straight through torso fell, leaving the remains of his trunk and his lower body to fall to the ground a couple seconds after his head and shoulders had.

Jaskier stood behind the now deceased bandit, blood splattered all over his outfit and his face, still twisted into a mask of wrath. The sword in his hand was red with blood, silver glinting through the drops.

Geralt thinks it’s possible he has never been so turned on in his whole life and he’s going to have a good long talk with himself about why that might be later on.

The moment passed and Jaskier lowered the sword, wiping it on the deserter’s trousers. “Oh blast, sorry about that Geralt, I’ll clean all the blood off properly once we get back to camp. No worries. I know it’s silver for monsters,” he sneered at the dead man and then at the others who had foolishly decided to try to rob a witcher and his companion, “but I rather think it’s still apt. I’ll pay for the repair at the next blacksmith we come across if I damaged it too much.” He held the blade at eye level and examined it. “I think it’s mostly all right and Geralt are you okay? They didn’t manage to knock you in the head, did they? You’ve been staring at me for the past few minutes.”

Geralt was trying to sear the image of Jaskier looking over the blade as if, as if he KNOWS what to look for in a damaged sword. A sword he had used to kill a man creeping up on Geralt. A sword he had welded with deadly and graceful precision. Geralt’s own sword.

A very, very long talk. Possibly in the cold stream they’d just come from before they’d been ambushed.

Jaskier leaned past Geralt to sheathe the sword into its place across the witcher’s back and the spicy smell of anger had dissipated completely into Jaskier’s usual chamomile and honey concern scent. Underlaid by the copper of the blood.

It took a good deal of self-discipline for Geralt to not outright whine when Jaskier laid a warm hand on his cheek, tilting his head to check for injuries.

“Your pupils are very round, darling,” Jaskier said, the endearment he used so often sounded like music to Geralt. “Are you injured? I could grab you a potion if you are. Or maybe you’re just tired.” Jaskier dropped his hand and turned back to where they had laid down their belongings when the first men broke through the cover of the trees, using speed and surprise over strategy.

Geralt was sure he’d had them all until… until Jaskier killed the man who had managed to sneak up on him. Who would have put a sword through Geralt if not for Jaskier’s quick action and Geralt circled back to the image of Jaskier, bloody and snarling like a feral animal as he cut the man down with no hesitation.

A very, very long talk in a very, very cold stream.

Jaskier whistled and Roach came from her hiding spot in the trees. He patted her neck and dug through her saddlebags. “Geralt, are you out of Swallow? We have the spirit and the celandine but I think we might need to head towards the coast so you can cut down some drowners for their brains.” He smiled brightly. “Maybe they’ll be a contract for them as well. And a tavern that appreciates fine music. We could have a va- a very nice day. Or two.” Jaskier ducked his head and pink bloomed in his cheeks.

Geralt found his hand lifting of its own accord and landing on Jaskier’s shoulder.

The bard turned expectantly, then frowned when after a moment Geralt didn’t say or do anything else. “Geralt?” His voice was soft, the scent of his concern drew stronger. “Geralt, are you sure you’re okay? You seem stunned or something. Are you sure you didn’t take a hit to the head?”

“Sword,” Geralt said at last.

“He speaks,” Jaskier smiled briefly. “He speaks nonsense, but he speaks. What about a sword? I already told you I’d take care of any repairs needed after my impromptu maneuver. I don’t think there’s any permanent damage done. It wasn’t even that difficult. You have very good moves, dear.”

Geralt blinked as he realized where he’d seen the move Jaskier had performed. It was one he’d been taught at the School of The Wolf. Jaskier used one of Geralt’s own moves. One of his Witcher moves. To save his life. “That was… that was a witcher move. How did you…” he couldn’t even finish his question.

Jaskier shrugged. “I’ve followed you for over two decades, Geralt. On and off, sure, but still. I’ve seen you fight nearly every creature you could come across. Including bastards like those,” he nonchalantly tossed his head towards the dead men on the ground, his fringe flicking back into his eyes boyishly. “I memorized the moves you use. Granted, I’ve mostly practiced on training dummies and sparring partners, but I’ve run across my fair share of evil and desperate men before.”

“That… wasn’t your first kill?”

“Gods no,” Jaskier tilted his head and scrunched up his nose as he calculated. “Maybe my… dozenth? Or so. Now I tried not to pick up a sword unless necessary but that gutless bastard,” he spit at the man’s bisected body, “was in your blind spot. You probably would have managed to parry, but I didn’t want to take the chance.” Jaskier smiled. “Good thing too, now that we know you’re out of Swallow. Here,” he held out a canteen of water, “drink this. Get your strength back.”

Geralt took the canteen and drank slowly to give himself time to readjust his worldview on Jaskier. “Did you… count? When you were…”

Jaskier nodded. “Oh yes. Your movements are so like a dancer’s that I memorized them to a beat.” He smirked. “I’ll make a ballad out of them some day. I’m still in the habit of the counting, but eventually I’ll stop needing that, I suppose.”

“Right,” Geralt said, nodding as if he wasn’t imaging Jaskier, in plain shirt and tight trousers, sparring with Geralt on the grounds of Kaer Morhen. A blink and it was a different kind of sparring. In a bedroom. “Huh.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, as he dug back through the saddlebag, “there’s some White Raffard’s if push comes to shove. Makes sense after that last nest of nekkars. Frightful creatures by the way, possibly my least favourite of them all. Though you’re low on White Honey as well, so hopefully we can find a herbalist and stock up a bit before you have to do any major fighting. ”I’m glad now that I all but raided Oxenfurt’s gardens before I joined you for Spring. Got plenty of honeysuckle in my bag and I’m sure we can find some white myrtle with no problem this time of year. Where’s your alcohest, dear? I’m sure Lambert didn’t let you leave Kaer Morhen without every type of spirit known to man.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, unable to take it anymore. “We need to get back to camp.”

Jaskier whirled around and looked at Geralt then up at the sky, the sun slowly descending in the late afternoon light. “Oh you’re right. Best head back now before we lose the light. Pity we had to have that fight after the nice splash we’d had in that stream. Do you think there’s time to wash again before we head back?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes. Let’s do that first, getting clean again. That’s a very, very good idea.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier hummed, “I didn’t expect that answer from Mr Uses Monster Guts As Shampoo.”

“We’re going to need to get very clean,” Geralt said, “because as soon as we get back to camp I am going to fuck you.”

Jaskier froze. “Whaaaat did you just say? Geralt, I think I misheard you.”

Geralt shrugged. “Or you can fuck me. After seeing you fight like that, I’m letting you choose how we do it.”

“Seeing me fight.” Jaskier opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying to find which of the many words he had at his disposal he wished to use.

“Or I could just suck you off, if you’d prefer that instead.”

“Geralt of Rivia. Geralt… Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde and I have never been more grateful for the night Vesemir got drunk and shared stories of your youth, I need you to be very, very serious about that offer.” Jaskier licked his lips. “Because I would very much like to take you up on it and if… if it’s just for the night, I don’t rightly think we should risk our… ye gods, you’ve never even called me your friend and here you are offering sex as if… is this just because you feel obligated? I’m sure you would have moved just in time but I couldn’t risk letting that man hurt you and-“

Geralt reached out and pulled Jaskier close, which shut the bard up. A trick Geralt was wishing he’d let himself try before. “I am very serious. If you want it to be for the night, it’s just for the night. It could be a more… formal arrangement if you’d prefer that.”

Jaskier dropped his head to Geralt’s shoulder and breathed out heavily. “I died, didn’t I? I misjudged the distance and the bandit killed me and this is heaven. I didn’t think I’d go to heaven. Huh.”

“Not dead,” Geralt said, lifting a hand to thread through Jaskier’s hair. “Not letting you die. Ever. Especially now that I know how well you fight. You’re living just as long as I am. Don’t know how. I’ll ask Yen, maybe she’ll know of some-“

“Okay,” Jaskier took a step back. “Now, now you’re just being… you want to ask Yennefer, a very very scary witch that you sleep with on the regular-“

Geralt shrugged. “Going to have to stop that now that I have you.”

A high-pitched whine issued from Jaskier’s throat. “I’m going to need you to stop saying things like that if you don’t mean them… how I… ho- expe- think you mean them.”

“I mean them how you think I mean them,” Geralt said. “Most likely. I mean that I would very much like to take you back to our camp and check at least a few things off the mental list of sexual acts we’ve both been compiling right now.”

Jaskier squeaked, “Both?”

Geralt nodded. “I would very much like to do so tomorrow night and for as many nights as you want me. And to extend your allotment of nights somehow. Yennefer has been searching arcane magic things for decades, surely she’s found some anti-ageing or immortality spell by this point. She wouldn’t have needed it, but I’m sure she would have made note of any.”

“Sure she can’t make me younger before she does that?’ Jaskier asked, relying on humour to help him deal with the inrush of information he was being given.

Tilting his head, Geralt looked Jaskier over very thoroughly, noting with some satisfaction what effect his assessing stare had on the state of Jaskier’s trousers. “I like you as you are now. Not the whelp that followed me when It was stupid and dangerous. You’re a grown man now. You’ve filled out. I like how you look.”

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair. “Pardon me if this all seems very sudden.”

“Not sudden,” Geralt said. “I’ve liked how you looked for years.”

“You never said anything.”

Geralt smirked slightly. “I know you’ve lusted for me. I can smell arousal. You never said anything either.”

Jaskier flailed again. “You didn’t consider me your friend, so forgive me for assuming ‘Hey Geralt, you’re the most bloody gorgeous person I’ve ever seen in my whole life would you like to bed me and then marry me’ wouldn’t go down very well.”

“I thought,” Geralt started, “you only wanted to follow me for the songs. For the fame and coin it earns you. It’s why you started following me.”

Struck speechless, Jaskier just stared.

Geralt continued. “I’ve thought of you as my friend, but I didn’t think you thought of me as yours. Until you saved me. Until you learned how I fight in case you ever needed to save me. Until you knew what my potions do and which ones they are. All the little things you’ve done for me throughout the years make sense now. I know friendship. That’s not friendship; it’s love.”

“I have loved you since,” Jaskier waved a hand theatrically, “since you told the elves to let me go. Since you let me stay with you even though you could have outrun me easily on Roach. You hunted enough for two and laid our bedrolls close so I wouldn’t freeze on cold nights and especially after the mountain, you’ve barely let me out of your sight and… oh my gods, I am thick, aren’t I? I am so thick! I am Mr. Thick Thick Thickety Thickface from Thicktown, Thickania. You don’t talk, you do. That was your way of… of… saying how you feel. Isn’t it?”

Geralt hummed and nodded.

Jaskier’s smile could have outshone the lovely sunset happening somewhere behind them. “You love me. Geralt, you… love me. Like I love you. Oh my gods, are you sure I’m not dead? Or having the most wonderful dream? This is real,” he took a step closer and reached out cautiously to pull Geralt into his arms. “This is real, right?”

“It’s real,” Geralt nodded again.

A laugh bubbled out of Jaskier, eliciting a smaller but no less sincere one from Geralt. “If I wasn’t covered in blood, I would be kissing you alre-“

Geralt leaned in and pressed their lips together, relishing the happy gasp Jaskier made against his mouth. “Hmm, I’m bloody too.”

Jaskier kissed Geralt, a small peck and then another. “Where was that stream again?”

Geralt pulled back and took Jaskier’s hand, guiding him in the dimming light. “I won’t be bedding you and then marrying you,” he said.

Confusion scrunched up Jaskier’s face before he realized what he had said before. “Oh bollocks, I didn’t mean that- necessarily- I don’t- where would we find a priest or priestess any- I wasn’t suggesting-”

“We have to have some courting time before we should even think about marrying,” Geralt continued. “it’s only proper.”

“Right,” Jaskier nodded so fast, it was a miracle his head didn’t fly away. “Right, right, right, right. Of course, of course, of course. Proper… proper courting. Geralt?” he asked as they arrived at the stream. “I love you. I just… can I say that now? Because I’ve wanted to say it so many times and I’ve been biting it back for years and I just… I just love you.”

Geralt smiled. “I love you too.”

Wow,” Geralt said, staring up at the ceiling. “That’s how you manage to get away with those abysmal pickup lines. I mean… wow.” His heart was racing so fast it almost sounded human after the passionate, athletic and frankly innovative sex they’d just had. "I always did think it would be good."

He didn’t need to turn to see Jaskier’s smug smile, but he did anyway.

Jaskier’s grin was wide and stretched his cheeks even higher than normal. He tossed his sweaty fringe out of his face and kissed Geralt, deeply, slowly, perfectly. “You’re welcome.”

#the witcher netflic #my fanfic #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #bamfjaskier

99 notes · View notes

myfeetkeepdancing · 4 years ago

Text

KoH!Tom x Male Reader Blurb

A/N: In the past few weeks I’ve been playing this game called Hades, and completely and utterly fell in love with Zagreus 😍 I mean... Look at him... I couldn’t help myself and envisioned Tom in such attire. And so this short blurb was born.

Forgive me! I can’t stop thinking about it! I’ll go back to regular content soon 😉

Words: 2404

- - - - -

Moist and warmth roll after you the moment you first set foot from underneath the shower. The colder air immediately nipping at your exposed skin. But nothing beats a refreshing warm shower to start the day. With a quick rinse of your towel, you slap around your waist and turn into your room. You open your wardrobe in search of underwear. It had to be there somewhere.

Rummaging through as you sense an odd tingle, a jolt shooting up along your spine. Something close to a shiver. But it wasn't the cold fresh air getting a grip on your naked body.

"Hmmm… That's a good look on you (Y/N)." A voice, somewhat deep and teasing, sounds behind you. Followed by a sinister chuckle. "I like it..."

"Holy-!" You jump scare, turning around on the balls of your heel, covering your mouth with one hand. Keeping you from blurting out any more. You blinked once, twice, and thrice. But your eyes didn't deceive you. "What the…?!" Your other hand caught the towel just in time. Taking a step backward, bumping into your wardrobe butt first. Almost letting the towel fall to the floor again.

A mischievous smile and eyes sparkling as you had never seen before stared directly into yours. It captivated you. The way he seated himself on the edge of your bed, with such calm and ease. Lounging like he owns the place. It's unnerving. "Yes…" He says, tilting his head to the side. "Yes… You should walk around like that more often." His smile broadened with contempt as he eyed your naked form, top to bottom.

"Wh-..." Your lips move, but no sounds come from your throat. It takes your mind a few seconds to comprehend what was happening and get yourself together. "How'd you get into my house?!" You ask, somewhat aggravated while shaking your head and trying to blink away the image before you. But to no avail. He was as real as they get. "Is this some kind of joke? Who the hell are you?"

"You don't recognize me?" He says, raising an eyebrow.

"No, of course I don't! If I would, I'd reacted differently!"

"That's fair." He nodded. "You know…" He grunted lightly. "I don't have much… time-..." Speaking with a slight interval in his sentence... "-...in this mortal realm of yours."

"Mortal… realm?" You reply, annoyed, eyeing the shirt from the corner of your eye. It lay crumpled together on the closet, within arm's length. "Speak up. You're freaking me the fuck out."

"(Y/N). I'm here with good intentions. Only took me some time, years actually-..." Raking his fingers absentmindedly through his hair. "-to find you." His smile was contagious. Something about it, the way he wanted your attention, it cooled your sudden anger. "You hid well (Y/N)."

"I didn't… I'm here. Always have been. Just... tell me what's going on. And… what are you wearing?" Eyeing the very much revealing attire he wore.

"I only need a little bit of your time." He pursed his lips into a small smile. "You can start by calling me Tom." The way he spoke his name had a certain ring to it. Like a tug at the back of your mind. A tingling running up your spine. A ring of familiarity. The way he looks at you, as if he's searching for a reaction. Your guts feel rearranged, entangled in something you haven't felt before. Your eyes are drawn to him. And the more you give your eyes the time to look. The more you want to. Something pulls you to him.

The man sitting in front of you was truly something. You had never seen anything quite like it before. He is broad, muscular, a physique you've only seen in the movies. The muscles were big and tempting to look at, the way they tensed and relaxed under his movement. The man himself wore not much more than you did. From his shoulder ran some sort of a robe—an unusual style of clothing. What you can see are two layers of cloth— both of stark contrast to one another yet satisfying to the eye: a deep dark crimson red and the other black, as dark as night. The black one covered most of his body. Its edges were ornated with a gray line and odd symbols. The second red layer sat atop the black one. Both running slanted from the shoulder downwards to the belt, covering half his chest and stomach. It ended up tucked underneath the belt, and the remaining of the cloth covered his waist and that which sat beneath. He wore no pants, nor shoes. He is just like you… scarcely dressed.

This clothing reminded you of the Greeks and their Gods. The robes hang loosely from his figure, thus showing a lot of his physique. This much skin, bare and about, was confronting at first. And you can't help but stare. It all fitted so well together. The lines, curves, and shapes all coalesce together perfectly. He's like one of those statues you see in a museum. He's stunning. Perfection. In every possible way. Sculpted like, through, and by the Gods themselves. His chest is big, with one pec in the open. Down that smooth and galant line of his robe showed the smooth ridges and valleys of muscles. It displayed much, and the man seemed to hold his physique with pride and confidence. As he slowly leaned to the other side, giving you more to look at what was hiding underneath. It's breathtaking to gaze upon.

You only notice as you try to peel your eyes off of him. The room itself seemed darker, intensifying the colors he somehow emitted. You don't understand any of it at all. But it draws your eye. And it keeps your attention. It's so random, and yet… satisfying to watch. Your eyes slide upwards to the source of light, past the exposed collarbones and strong neck leading to his head.

It illuminated the small space surrounding him. A hue of orange, yellow and red cast upon the wall, dancing like flames. There was no draft in the room. Yet small laurels, ember bright and glowing, detached from the wreath that wrapped around his hair. Once detached, it twirled up into the air and slowly burned out like a cinder from a fire—curling and twisting into itself before disappearing into thin air.

"Did something caught your eye?" He taunts with a seducing twist in his voice. "Is it my clothing?" Running his hand along the lining, down from his hip to his shoulder. The way he did was almost like a tease. As his hand ended up at his shoulder, he pulled the cloth back into position. It looked regal again. Almost official. Yet it felt like foreplay. You wanted to see more. It's as if he knew. "Or what's underneath?" He continued with a grin spreading across his face.

"I… don't know." You stammered, licking your lips nervously. Feeling your cheeks color with blushes. "I haven't… seen something… or someone… like this… before." Your heart raced inside your cavity. Blood pressure rising. "I'm pretty sure…"

"Take a good look." He leaned forward, allowing the cloth to slowly slide from his shoulder again. Giving you more to absentminded gaze at again. "You had something similar." Reaching underneath the layered fabric to scratch his chest, breaking your line of sight. In response, shooting your eyes back into his. "But I've always preferred this…" Eyeing your bare naked body again.

With two fingers, he dismissively gestures towards the shirt you were reaching for. But completely forgot once your eyes and mind were occupied elsewhere. "No need for that."

You jerk your head towards the shirt as it spontaneously bursts into raging flames. Consuming it at a rapid pace. You release a yelp, afraid the fire might catch something else. But within a blink or two, the shirt had burned up without affecting the rest. The ashes dwindling away from existence with a gust of sudden air out of nowhere. "Wh-...?"

"You look mighty fine as is." He said. "I suggest you don't open any drawers for... more clothing." He groans again, holding his midriff, trying to get himself together. "Now…" He continued with his dark seducing voice. "Did something come back to you? When you… looked."

"Holy shit… !" You curse loudly. "Y-Your… You're some kind of… God?"

"Something like that." He smirked. "But far from holy." Rising to his feet with his arms hanging beside him. He seemed to be on the short side, but now you finally got to see the whole picture. The real proportions and volume of his muscle now really began to show. His abs and chest. Veins running on his lower arms. "Think (Y/N)." He pressed on. Pulling you from your daydreaming again. "Can you remember anything?" He actually looked menacing. As he stood up, the belt around his waist came into view. Panic suddenly hits you as you notice various white stones with carved smiling skulls depicted on his belt.

"No-No-No!" You hold out one hand, trying to keep him at bay. While the other barely held the towel in place and your back pressed against the wardrobe. "I… I don't remember! Please!? I don't! Please?! J-Just… just leave me be!"

"(Y/N)..." The way your name rolled from his mouth. With such calm and coolness. The way he carried himself, step by step. Careful and slowly. "Nothings going to happen to you. On the contrary..." He said, stepping even closer to you. "I'm going to help you." His voice had a peaceful and reasonable tone. You automatically lower your arm as he comes in reach. Something withholds you from touching him.

"I… don't… W-With what...? With what... are you going to help?" You feel your hairs rise, the air stock in your throat. He was so close.

"You..." He hesitated for a moment. Clearly rethinking what he was about to say. "I need... you back…" His breathing got hampered. "And it's… Please… (Y/N)...Nnggh…" he groaned as he averted his eyes. His entire body shook for a moment before returning his gaze. "Listen…" Taking one final step forward. Making the whole conversation up close and personal. "My time here is… s-short… and I want you to show something." His eyes draw you in. You hang to each and every word that falls from his lips. So close, he's even more impressive to look at.

"I… I... don't understand..." You stammer, watching him with big eyes. "I've always been here… And… never knew you?" With every fleeting moment of silence, and your eyes captivated by his, you begin to feel caught between the wardrobe and him. If you could move, you maybe would. But somehow, you didn't. Only the tingling sensation on your thighs snapped you out of glaring at him. You look down, past your fingers holding the towel, and panic hits you again. The orange and red glow of sundering flame reflected in your eyes. Slowly consuming the towel. "What are you doing?!" Your eyes dart up and down from the towel to him. "Tom! Talk to me!"

"I'll... help you… remember." Before you manage to react, two fingers lift you by your chin. It's him. Even closer. Standing merely inches away from you. You meet his eyes up close, and for the first time are truly realizing the beautiful features of his face. It's gorgeous. The angles, the lines. The proportions, they match perfectly. Drowning in his eyes. They're deep and meaningful. And there's something in his eyes you have never seen before with anyone before.

Words fall short from your mouth as he moves closer. Ghosting dangerously close to your lips

"You'll soon... r-re...member what… once... w-was." He whispers, almost like a spell, it captures you. Tantalizing you. His breath fanning across your skin. "Fr...agments. Glimpses-s... of the… past." A reassuring smile was more than enough.

"C-Can't… you tell me?"

"It doesn't work that way…" He grunted. "You'll understand soon enough."

"I… I… Tom?"

"Close... your eyes..." He interjected. Slightly tilting his head to the side.

"And if I don't…"

The touch of his lips upon yours sets things in motion you had never experienced before. Your eyes closed as he said you should, and you follow in the motion. The soft, warm cushions of his lips dancing against yours. It's slow at first. With both his hands cupping your cheek. He has full control. He knows what he's doing.

The conversation must have taken only several minutes. But your body has cooled down quickly. And you only notice that once his lips are sealed with yours. Like the morning sun touching upon your skin. A fireplace coming to life again. A spark igniting what once was. This glowing sensation boiling from deep within you. A warmth is flowing through you. A jolt of life dashing through you. You feel alive. Better. Stronger.

It's unheard of.

"I… I… w-will… return…" He grunted against your lips. "And I… I'll… keep… d-d-doing… this…-" Until his lips part, resting his forehead against yours. The brush of his fingers, stroking along your cheek. "-Until… y-you… remember…”

Your eyes shoot wide open. A gasp of air sucked into your lungs brings you back once more. Your vision scans left and right throughout the room. The light hitting your eyes again. But the visage of the man was gone. One hand holding onto your member, no towel in sight. You pull back the other hand in surprise, hanging there mid-air before you, as if reaching out for something or someone. You swallow the lump in your throat as the images flashed through your mind again. But it's vague, distant, and ...new?

A laurel, bright in color and familiar to the ones you saw earlier, dwindled through the air in front of you. With two fingers, you grab it, afraid it might burn up like the one you saw. Between your fingers, it felt warm to the touch. The texture was gold-like. Smooth and shiny. Yet, it didn't disintegrate. A confirmation that what just happened was real. It filled you with more questions than answers. But above all, you felt alive. As so did your body. In your other hand, your member had stiffened at the thought of the man. Tom. A shuddering breath left yout shaking body. A strong, aching itch started to arise.

He better return.

#tom holland x male reader #tom holland x male!reader #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland oneshot #tom holland blurb #oneshot #blurb #tom holland male!reader #tom holland male reader #koh!tom #king of hell #male reader #male!reader #mlm

125 notes · View notes

apothecarinomicon · 3 years ago

Text

Spring week 1 part 2

It was, in fact, someone looking for my help. Aidan Bankhead, one of the bakers in town (so he introduced himself), stood there practically filling up the doorframe.

He asked me if I was the new witch and I said I supposed I was. He looked me over and seemed to approve. He held up his thumb, showing me that there was a screw sticking out of it. I told him a puncture wound was more the domain of a surgeon, but he shook his head and asked if he could come in.

I hadn’t made it all the way through my “yes” before he was in the door. The instant he made it to the center of the room, the copper alembic zipped from its place on the shelf to slam against his thumb. He winced. It stayed stuck there. Magnetic thumb, he told me. A hereditary disorder, and particularly inconvenient for baking. Not curable, but it only crops up every few months and when it does there’s a tincture that can help. He said the old witch (that’s what he called her, “the old witch”) used to make it for him, though he’s not sure what exactly went into it.

I mentioned that I didn’t think copper magnetized, and he said that pure copper was probably too soft to hold the shape of the apparatus in its pure form and that the alembic was likely made of an alloy—though not in those exact words. Said he’d picked that tidbit up from his best friend, the father of the mining family.

I told him I hadn’t cured any cases of magnetic thumb before, but I had heard of it, and I knew the basic mechanisms. I told him it would be easy enough to recreate my predecessor’s tincture by combining our notes, and that I would let him know when it was done.

It was clear that he hadn’t expected any kind of significant wait, but I knew I’d need time to collect the reagents. So, I told him to feel free to use the stream or the latrine to clean his wound, and lent him the first aid kit I’d brought with me. I figured that would buy me some time.

I got to work immediately, cross-referencing my predecessor’s notes on the environment surrounding Greenmoor with my own knowledge base about which substances cure which symptoms, and in what environments they were likely to be found. More quickly than I expected, I had my shopping list.

I decided to make my way to Moonbreaker Mountain first, both because one of my ingredients was likely there, and because according to my predecessor’s notes there’s a direct (albeit circuitous) route from there to the other place I’ll be needing to go, that isn’t as easy to traverse the other way around.

────⊱⁜⊰────

It is a strange mountain, mostly due to the land surrounding it. As far as I understand, mountains are typically surrounded by foothills, the land creasing higher and higher until it finally reaches its peak. Furthermore, mountains rarely stand alone: they come in twos or threes in lines or clusters, all formed together. Moonbreaker Mountain has neither of these features. It stands alone, shooting up abruptly from flat ground to a peak past the clouds. Fortunately, I shouldn’t need to climb that far up today.

It occurred to me as I began to scale the side (two feet and one hand on the ground at all times) that with a landscape like this, I might be able to make the best of a bad situation. After all, isn’t mountain climbing an adventure? It certainly felt like adventure, or at least close enough.

I was pulled from my thoughts when I tripped over a rock and almost went skittering back down the path before I managed to find my footing. Only after I’d stopped did it occur to me that as my foot struck it the rock had sounded hollow. I carefully picked my way back up to it for a closer look.

As it turned out, it wasn't a rock at all, but what looked to be a large metal boot (well, larger than mine, at least—although that’s not difficult to achieve). The top of it was buried in a large tangle of vines that coated a much larger form, maybe twice as big as me.

Well, if this wasn’t something presenting itself I didn’t know what was.

When cleared away, the vines revealed a vaguely humanoid form—it had clear arms and legs, though its torso was just a rough cylinder, it had no neck, and the head was a strange shape with only the barest hint of facial features. It was made almost entirely out of stone, though below the knees and past the elbows it transitioned to rusted metal. Running the entire length and circumference of the torso were carved runes. They weren’t the ones I’d have used, but their purpose was clear nonetheless: among them were instructions for life, for consciousness, for autonomy. This was a stone golem, abandoned here and left to the elements.

And it had certainly been dutiful in offering itself up to the cold and rain. Its limbs were rusted, its movement sluggish even once freed from the tangle of plants. It could be of real use around the cottage, but it’d need repairs first.

My gut murmured something to me, and I deemed it worth a try.

I leaned in and whispered to the golem, gently, since it likely hadn’t heard anyone speak in quite a while. I told it that I could repair it (I didn’t actually know how, but left that small stumbling block for later), but that I didn’t have the materials I’d need with me.

I asked if it had enough energy to make it home.

It didn’t move at first. I almost gave up, resigning myself to lugging a bag of anything that might help up the mountain at some later date. Then sluggishly, clumsily, it stood. It looked at me for a moment and I wondered what it was thinking. Then, it began to walk slowly down the slope in the direction of the village.

Among the tangle of vines that had covered the golem, I found exactly what I was looking for: hiker’s helper. Its leaves can be boiled into a tincture that helps with pain. How serendipitous.

I plucked a handful of leaves from the vine and headed on my way.

────⊱⁜⊰────

When I reached the bottom of the mountain—a different part than I’d climbed up, closer to Meltwater Loch, where I was headed—I came across a small rest stop. It seemed designed for adventurers, with raised platforms for tents (I assume a particularly bad rain could easily cause torrents to rush down the mountain), a pump, a latrine, and complementary bear bags. There was a family sitting by an empty fire pit—a man, a woman, a son, and a daughter. They were absolutely grimy, covered in dust and soot. I wasn’t really interested in talking, but the woman spotted me before I could slink away and called me over.

She was Crystal. He was Angus. The teenagers didn’t introduce themselves. She asked if I was the new witch, and I asked how she guessed. She said it was just a hunch at the same time that he said that no one who wasn’t a witch would choose to dress the way I was. She swatted him on the arm.

I suppose I’ll have to visit the tailor in town.

They are the family responsible for mining the raw materials used in the town’s industry—all four of them share the work among them every morning, and return home around noon. They typically go mining in Hero’s Hollow, but there was currently a party of adventurers in there and working around adventurers is inconvenient. The resources aren’t nearly as rich in the caves under Moonbreaker Mountain, but it’s something at least.

Crystal asked me where I was headed, and I told her Meltwater Loch. I was going to see if I could find any slime shells, whose secretions help with ailments of the blood. Angus, half joking, told me to be careful out there, that there’s a pack of cù-sìth (magical hounds) that like to hunt in the loch. I laughed and told him cù-sìth aren’t real. Neither he nor Crystal responded to this.

I asked them how they deal with the threats in Hero’s Hollow—it is a dungeon, after all. Angus said dungeons aren’t as bad as everyone makes them out to be. Most of the inhabitants are perfectly reasonable, so long as you know how to interact with them. That’s not a perspective I’d ever encountered before. I wonder if it’s worth further consideration.

At this point, their daughter told me to catch (the first thing she’d said) and tossed me a glass vial. Reckless of her—I’m visibly not athletic—but miraculously I actually caught it before it shattered on the ground. I held it up to the light, not believing what I was seeing. At my questioning look, she confirmed it was vampire venom. She said she found it that morning, and after learning I was a witch she figured I’d have more use for it than she would. I told her I would certainly find one and tucked it carefully into my satchel next to the leaves.

We sat and I chatted with the parents a bit longer before I had to be on my way.

────⊱⁜⊰────

Meltwater Loch was more beautiful than I’d anticipated. I don’t know why I expected it to be more of a swamp. My predecessor’s notes specified that there was a bog somewhere around as well—I suppose I just thought the loch would be part of it.

I wandered along the edge for a bit, combing the crystalline waters for any small mollusks that could be what I sought. After about fifteen minutes of this, I heard a single bark echo out from the trees behind me.

No fucking way.

I froze, listening intently, racking my brain for all I could remember of the myths surrounding the cù-sìth: huge dogs, the size of a small cow; solitary hunters; shaggy green coats…

Then, I remembered the most chilling part. When hunting, the cù-sìth barks thrice, and only thrice. And if it’s prey hasn’t reached safety by the third…

A second bark rang out over the loch.

Frantically, I scanned my surroundings for anything that could help me. The only cover I could see was the trees behind me, and that was where the barking was.

Looking down at the water, I spotted a patch of what looked like seaweed, with just the very tops poking out of the water. I knew that plant. As loath as I was to get my clothing wet, it seemed I didn’t have a choice.

Quickly, I waded into the water and hunkered down until only the top half of my head was poking out over the surface. I held my satchel above my head to keep it dry, and that combined with the surrounding weeds obscured me almost entirely.

Just as I thought, the air within the patch smelled especially clean. This was a species called gas weed, known for expelling excessive amounts of oxygen. Hopefully it would dilute my scent enough.

I waited there for around ten minutes, and no third bark rang out. With a sigh of relief, I stood.

Wading back out of the loch, I stepped on what felt like a particularly rough stone. Looking down, I found it was a slime shell. At least I’d be able to get back to the cottage and change, I thought as I reached down and snagged it.

────⊱⁜⊰────

The quickest route back led me directly through the village. I tried to keep my head down, embarrassed at my unkempt state, certain everyone was staring at me. If I could just get back to the cottage, then I could change and maybe bathe and feel alright again.

That’s when someone called out to me.

I debated just ignoring him but no, I’d been instructed to be sociable. So, I turned and walked towards the voice.

It came from one of two men sitting at a wicker table outside the bakery. He introduced himself as Evander Bankhead—Aidan’s husband and co-owner of the bakery. His friend was Gowan Leckie, the local blacksmith.

Evander said he just wanted to thank me for taking care of his husband, and asked how he was doing. I said I’d been out gathering reagents, but I doubted he could have gotten into too much trouble at the cottage. Evander chuckled and said he wouldn’t put it past Aidan to fabricate a bind for himself all on his own.

He made small talk and I’ll admit I was a bit checked out. I was cold and uncomfortable and tired and not too focused on first impressions. At the end of it he thanked me again and insisted I take some bread and a songberry, as a tangible expression of his gratitude.

It’s only just occurred to me that songberries are used in potions meant to improve mood. I wonder if that was intentional.

────⊱⁜⊰────

When I got back to the cottage, here is what I did:

First, I built a little fire in the fireplace.

Then, I filled the small cauldron with water and dropped the hiker’s helper leaves in and set the whole thing over the fire.

I let it boil until the pigmentation of the leaves had leached into the water and the whole thing was a dark green color. Then, I took it off the heat.

Next, I convinced the slime shell to open up just a bit so its slime could drop into the mixture (I must remember to return the mollusk itself to its natural habitat next time I’m there—I’ve left it in a small pool near the river for the time being).

Finally, I briskly stirred the whole thing until it turned a royal blue color, which I supposed meant it was ready.

It was at this point that I realized I didn’t have any cups or bottles or any kitchenware, for that matter. What an oversight.

I went outside to find Aidan, and I located him (copper implement still stuck to his thumb) examining what at first appeared to be a large pile of rocks. As I got closer, I realized with a sense of both pride and uncanny surprise that it was in fact the stone golem, having made its way here from the mountain, and now sitting inactive in the middle of the cottage’s backyard. Maybe there actually was something to this ‘listen to your gut’ business.

Aidan asked me if the golem was mine and I said I didn’t think it was yet, that it needed repairs and I wasn’t sure how to go about that. He recommended that I speak to his friend Gowan (who I realized I’d already met—he had been the one sitting with Evander), and I said I just might do that.

I asked him where I might find a cup and he produced a wooden one from the satchel at his side. He said my predecessor always made her patients bring their own.

Well, that solved the immediate problem I supposed, though I made a mental note to see if I could find some kitchen implements of my own in town.

As I carefully poured the potion from my cauldron into his cup, Aidan asked me what it was called. At my questioning noise, he told me my predecessor always named her concoctions—the easier to tell them apart. Thinking back on it, I realized Edith had done the same thing. I suppose it just never occurred to me.

On impulse, I told Aidan it would be called Bankhead’s Brew, after him. He seemed flattered.

As soon as he took a sip, the copper alembic fell with a thunk into the grass. That was as strong proof of its efficacy as any.

Aidan thanked me, paid me 20 silver, told me again to get Gowan to look at the golem (and I told him again to seek medical attention for the screw embedded in his thumb), and went on his way.

And just like that, I had treated my very first patient.

I immediately set out for the river to collect water for a bath.

⇦●〇●⇨

#writing #writers on tumblr #writeblr #original writing #fantasy #apothecaria #entry #amwriting #creative writing #fiction #rpg #roleplaying game #high rannoc #writeblr community #writers #writblr

4 notes · View notes

thewhumperinwhite · 4 years ago

Text

ATTD: The Demon in Atychia Town

Previous: Intro 1 // Intro 2 // Intro 3

This is long but I couldn’t find a very natural place to split it, so. It’s staying one piece.

Pray for Jasper everyone lmao

@whumpitywhumpwhump @favwhumpstuff

TW for: starvation/aftermath of starvation; alcohol use/drunkenness; people are threatened and shot at with a crossbow; nonhuman whumpee with captivity and wing whump; dehumanization and “it” language for a sapient, nonhuman creature. Also Will is doing some wild, like, masking here and I’m not sure how to warn for that exactly.

----

The boy called Will, apparently skeleton and little else, weighed only very slightly more than Jasper’s pack, and carrying him would have been no burden at all if not for the desperate litany of apologies he muttered directly into Jasper’s ear for the entire journey back to town.

Then Jasper saw what was sitting in the center of Atychia Town. It had not been there when he had left, and it shouldn’t have been there now.

He dropped the boy onto his unsteady feet then and there, beside the wellhouse, barely waiting to see that the boy stayed upright, because there was no room for anything in his head other than this: to go to the only building in town likely to have people in it at this hour, and find out who among them had chained up a demon in the town square.

----

There was a stain on the thickly-varnished wood of the table in the front righthand corner of the Sheep’s Eye Inn and Tavern. It was dark red, and enough like wine for plausible deniability, and it did not seem to be coming out, no matter how hard Lia scrubbed at it.

Jasper Run, the Magician, could have magicked it out easily enough, Lia thought, scrubbing savagely. If he was interested in using his magic for anything useful. Not that she would have asked him to start with scrubbing her tables. You could do all sorts of things with magic, in minutes, that would take the people of Atychia months and years to do otherwise. Deepen wells, for instance. Trick crops into growing thicker and healthier. Make rain.

Alright, Lia thought, her hands drawing into fists around her cleaning rag. That last was maybe better left to a Sorcerer than a Magician. But still. He hadn’t even fixed the temple roof, and any third-rate conjurer could do that.

Harsh, ugly laughter erupted from the big table in the center of the bar area, where her employer and his horrible friends were drinking themselves into a violent stupor. Lia’s shoulders tightened and she scrubbed at the stain even harder, because what she wanted to do was break things, and that might make her finally lose her job.

“Oy, Lass! Another round for my boys, here!” Old Meyr called in a heavily slurred voice.

Lia tried to remind herself why she wanted to keep this job so bad, anyway.

Straightening, Lia plastered on a smile that felt two sizes too tight and went over to see what the idiots wanted.

“I wonder what the reward will be, when we get down to Archae,” the youngest of Meyr’s little friends was saying excitedly, leaned across the table with a hazy grin on his face and a mostly-empty bottle clutched in his fist.

“If we get down to Archae,” the oldest of the group said dourly, earning a pout from his junior. “We’ve a long ways to go yet, lad, and I wouldn’t take a week in the Waste lightly—not with a monster like that in tow.”

Lia, eavesdropping a little now, shuddered at the thought of that, and inadvertently caught her employer’s eye. He was too deep in his cups to notice she’d been listening, so that was alright—though to be honest, part of her wanted him to shout at her, so she would have an excuse to shout back. “Ah, there y’are, lass,” he hiccupped, giving her an off-kilter grin. “More’a the same, for us all!” He waved his empty mug at her, and did not seem to notice her answering scowl.

“Sir,” she agreed shortly, and stalked back to the bar to get more ale.

The youngest man—at least six years Lia’s junior—gave her a wide, intoxicated leer when she came back with the drinks. “G’mornin’, Missy Lia!” he said, a little to loudly. Lia twitched very slightly. She had no idea what this boy’s name might be, but she did know this gutless pip had no business calling her “Missy.” She decided to leave his ale for last. He did not notice. He giggled at her, instead, though it turned into a hiccup at the end. “Did you see what we found in the—oof!”

Lia wondered if she was supposed to pretend she hadn’t seen the elbow that the oldest man had planted in the younger one’s ribs.

“Thanks for the service, Barmaid Lia,” the old man said, his voice polite and also definitely a dismissal. This time, Lia thought any sober man would probably have seen her answering twitch. “We hope you’ll excuse the boy,” he went on, sending his junior a furious look. “When Young Kalen opens his mouth, all his guts fall out. He didn’t say nothin’ as ought to concern you, Missy.”

Lia set the old man’s drink down in front of him, and happened to tread hard on his foot under the table in the process. He loud squawk the old man made startled another member of the party—by far the largest, though more about the middle than the muscles—out of an impromptu nap on the edge of the table. Old Meyr leaned forward, squinting at her, as though to decide whether she ought to be disciplined.

“How clumsy of me,” Lia said sweetly. Meyr hiccuped. So her employer’s terrible tolerance seemed to save her job again, for better or worse.

Lia rolled her shoulders, and reminded herself that it was more or less this or starving, in Atychia Town.

Still. If any member of this party called her Barmaid again—honestly. It was bad enough when Jasper Run did it, but at least he had a nice—

It was as Lia was finishing this thought that the front door flew open and Jasper Run stormed through it.

----

The door to the Sheep’s Eye was lighter than he remembered, and slammed very loudly against a poorly-placed booth with a loud crack that sounded like it might be permanent.

Jasper found that he did not much care.

Old Meyr, who owned the inn—not, Jasper thought furiously, that he actually had any hand in running the place, these days, that was all Lia, and it should have been her place really—was seated at the center table, a beer clutched at the end of one spindly arm, and the other waving vaguely in the air. From the door, all Jasper could see was his bent, spidery back, and the old man didn’t turn, not at Jasper’s not-very-subtle entrance, and not at the sound of his boots pounding on the floor, either.

“Magician,” Will Price said in a faint, wispy voice from behind him, and held out his thin hand, awkwardly; like he wanted to tug at Jasper’s sleeve, but was afraid to actually touch him. Probably that bore further examination, but for now it also made him very easy to ignore.

“I would like to know,” Jasper said in a thunderous voice, “what exactly is going on in the Square today.”

Atychia was barely a town, and its residents called the dusty cobblestone rectancle between the Sheep’s Eye and the wellhouse the Town Square with a hint of despairing irony. On an ordinary day the Square held occasional stalls run by especially intrepid or lost merchants, some lines of drying laundry, and very little else.

Today, there was a cage in the middle of the square.

It was hard to keep anything clean so close to the Waste. The interior of the cage was so clotted with dust, blood, hair, and feathers that it had been difficult to say, at first, what was huddled in the center of that vast construction of wire and wood. At first, Jasper had assumed the cage contained some sort of criminal, awaiting trial—it seemed a bit barbaric, to keep a man exposed to the wind and dust like that for any length of time, but Atychia was that sort of town. That was before he saw the wings, however.

After he saw the wings, Jasper hadn’t thought of anything at all.

Old Meyr, confronted with a very angry Magician of nearly twice his height and muscle mass, turned in his seat and blinked owlishly. “Eh?”

“The. Square,” Jasper said slowly, through his teeth.

Old Meyr blinked twice more, and then he raised himself up to his full spindly height and said haughtily, “’Tain’t none o�� yer thrice-damned business, Conjurer.”

It was remarkable how easy it was to pull the old man out of his chair.

His scarred palm wrapped around the back of the old man’s skinny neck, Jasper half-dragged the protesting Innkeeper toward the door, the red haze of anger quite thick enough to block out the utterly baffled look on Lia the Barmaid’s face and the uncomfortable (feverish) confusion on Will Price’s.

“Wha—Jasper?” Lia squeaked, hurrying to follow him.

“M-Magician—hey—!” Will Price wheezed, stumbling after her.

Jasper ignored them, and ignored Old Meyr too until he had dragged him out the door and into the square, and then he dropped the old man on his feet in front of the hulking iron frame.

Inside the cage, the demon shifted. A few blood-clotted feathers lifted in the breeze. Jasper caught one, and had time enough to glare at it and see that it seemed to be made of amber and sapphires before it turned to ash in his hands.

Jasper peered into the darkness within the cage, and a pair of golden eyes peered back for a moment. Then the demon threw her great tattered wings over her head, a mess of blood and fire-colored curls.

“What the hell have you done, old man?” Jasper croaked. The sight of the demon’s feather had knocked a good part of the anger out of him. He had been furious. He was now starting to be very slightly afraid.

Staring at the shape in the cage through an almost literal fog of alcohol, the old man swayed slightly, and then turned to glare petulantly up at Jasper.

“It’s mine,” he said, his voice slurred and also a touch defensive. “I found it.”

Jasper, unable to believe what he was hearing, stared at the old man. Old Meyr inched slowly back, away from the cage.

“Bullshit you did,” Jasper said flatly.

He started toward the cage door, Runes in hand, and then the sound of wood scraping against metal pulled him up short. The oldest—and, at the moment, soberest—member of Old Meyr’s party stood in the Inn’s doorway, an elderly but operational crossbow tucked against his broad right shoulder.

“I’d step away from yon caged birdie, an I were you, young Conjurer,” the old man said. His voice was measured, if a touch reluctant, and his fingers looked firm enough on the cross’s trigger. Though he was older than Meyr by ten summers easily, and might have seen seventy summers, he was much less twig-shaped than the Innkeeper, and closer to Jasper’s height, too. Jasper glared at him.

“Furl’n!” Meyr crowed, though the slur in his voice meant the actual pronunciation of his comrad’s name was anyone’s guess. “Bloody good timing, brother. Cap’tal!”

Jasper chose to ignore this. “’Caged birdie,’” he repeated savagely. “Have you idiots got any idea what it is you’ve caught, here?” He gestured wildly at the demon, who shivered, wing feathers rippling.

“’Course we have!” Meyr protested, affronted, and pulled a sheet of parchment from down the front of his grayed tunic.

“Meyr—” Furlan—Furlen? Furlyn?—growled warningly, but Jasper had already snatched the paper out of Meyr’s spindly fingers and held it easily out of the little man’s limited reach.

The emperor, the parchment proclaimed in large, elegant type—and Jasper was surprised to see ink this far into the Waste, let alone print—offers a generous reward for the successful capture of a flying devil carrying the pictured plumage.

Below this someone had painted a delicate wing-feather in shades of iridescent blue and gold, and an address had been noted, in Archae City, miles away across the Waste.

Jasper stared at the parchment. It could have been duplicated by magic, but not in color, on such high quality paper, that would have cost a fortune. No one near Atychia had that kind of money, or access to such specifically skilled labor.

“Well—now you see, young Conjurer,” Furlan-Furlen-Furlyn gumbled, shooting a glare towards Old Meyr, who didn’t seem to notice. “We’ll be takin’ yon birdie down t’Archae with us, when we go. Ye’ll understand—” and here he adjusted his grip on the cross-bow, so it was trained on the center of Jasper’s chest, and set his jaw a bit more firmly—“if we take unkindly to any meddling from you, sir.”

Jasper glanced back at the cage’s wrought-iron lock, and then forward at the crossbow’s iron-tipped bolt. His Runes were beginning to feel warm in his hand, though that may have been his own anger making heat rise in his blood.

It’d be tight, on the optimistic end. But if he could move fast enough—

“Really, boys,” Lia snapped, stepping between Jasper and the old man in a flurry of skirts and apron strings. “Really, now. You ought both to be ashamed of yourselves.”

Jasper blinked. The old man, in the doorway, seemed to do the same.

“Furlen Challis,” Lia scolded, raising a finger in the old man’s direction like an affronted schoolmistress. “You are on the doorstep of the Sheep’s Eye, sir, which puts you on an Inn’s property with a weapon drawn.” Tossing her heavy dark curls, Lia crossed her arms. “The Sheep’s Eye is no quester’s bar, for you to brawl in. Your manners appall me, Sai Challis.”

Furlen Challis’s crossbow lowered slightly, and he scrubbed at the back of his neck like a guilty schoolboy, averting his eyes.

“Eh—that’s so,” he allowed, sounding embarrassed. “Sorry for it, Barmaid, Marm.”

Lia twitched, and Jasper was afflicted with a bizarre desire to laugh, at least until she spun on her heel to land on him instead, dark eyes flashing with offended propriety.

“As for yourself, Jasper Run,” Lia said haughtily, crossing her arms, “I will not have you barging into my Inn—” It was fortunate, probably, that Old Meyr had lapsed into staring dreamily up at the sky and was apparently too engrossed to hear her call the Sheep’s Eye hers—“and dragging people about without so much as a hullo to the staff or an order placed.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. Jasper had to resist the urge to fidget.

“Well,” he tried, clearing his throat. “I wasn’t exactly—that is—”

Ignoring him, Lia clapped her hands once to show that the matter was closed. “Right,” she said, her voice businesslike and pointedly looking at neither Jasper nor Furlen. “I believe we will all of us want a calming drink, then—which we will all of us pay for, like the respectable patrons we are. Yes?” she prompted Jasper, eyebrows raised.

“Eh—aye,” Jasper agreed reluctantly, glaring at Furlen over her shoulder.

“Yes?” Lia repeated, turning to include Furlen in the address.

“Sure enough, Barmaid Lia,” the old man mumbled, and shuffled back into the Sheep’s Eye, clearly happy to retreat.

Jasper watched the old man go, but didn’t move to follow as Old Meyr raised a hand toward his departing compatriot and tripped unsteadily after him with a slurred, “Hold up—Furl’n—how ‘bout a drink—?"

Lia gave Jasper a long look, half guilt and half warning, before she turned and followed her employer back into the Inn, shaking her head.

Jasper looked back at the cage’s lock—heavy wrought iron. Too think to crack easily, and firmly Magic-repellent. He filed this information away for consideration. Now that his anger had settled down to a steady boil in his gut, he remembered (hearing a dead man’s voice in his head, there had to be one of us left) that he had been trying not to draw attention to himself.

For a moment, the demon caught Jasper’s eye, and she looked at him with deep distrust. Her left wing hung at an odd angle from the shoulder joint.

Feeling disgust bubble up in the back of his throat—for Old Meyr and Furlen Challis and himself perhaps most of all—Jasper turned his back on her.

He was about to push open the Inn’s door—and he definitely had put a crack in it, for which he was not sorry—when he saw a vague flash of blonde hair out of the corner of his eye.

Jasper looked down. The boy Will, leaning against the front wall of the Inn, blinked back at him.

“Sorry, boy,” Jasper said. “Did you sit down, or fall?”

He offered the boy a hand up. The boy didn’t take it. He was looking at the cage.

With a little effort, Jasper didn’t follow his gaze. “You want a drink? I surely wouldn’t give you alcohol, but they must have something like water behind the bar. I can—”

“I think,” the boy said slowly, “I am a little confused.”

Jasper blinked at the boy, and then up at the cage, and laughed once, leaning against the wall next to him. “Crythian,” he said bitterly. “I nearly forgot. Have you ever even seen a demon before?”

The boy shook his head. “Never,” he said softly. “I thought—it is a little different than I expected.”

Jasper laughed harshly. The boy winced. “Well, here you are, Mr. Price. A fine specimen of demonkind. And of the way we treat them, too. And if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to go now, and get drunk.”

----

When Jasper left him to stalk back into the bar, the boy pulled himself very carefully to his feet, using the outside wall of the Inn for support when he felt his knees were about to buckle.

The cage was big enough to fill almost the whole square. It was a rough frame of stout wood, on huge, thick wooden wheels, with a tangle of loose iron mesh for the sides. Whether from nerves or from fever, the boy could feel his heart pounding in his temples, so hard it seemed the creature in the cage must surely hear it, but he still took a careful barefoot step closer to the cage, leaning forward to see the light filter through in bars and shimmer on the dirty golden feathers within.

He was just growing brave enough to reach out towards the bars when the mass of blood and feathers suddenly lunged up towards him with a cry like a thousand furious crows, and clung to the bars with long-nailed hands and feet, suspended like a giant fire-colored bat and ignoring the sizzle of iron against its flesh.

The boy fell back and landed hard on the ground, too startled even to cry out.

(Inside the Inn, Magician and Barmaid paused in their discussion to cast nervous looks towards the door. Most of Meyr’s party were too drunk to pay the sudden noise much mind, though Furlen Challis did cast a suspicious glance in Jasper Run’s direction.)

“Murderous traitor!” the demon was screeching, reaching a slim arm through the bars to claw at the boy’s face, just out of its reach. “I will see that the Council has bathed in your blood!”

Staring at the split and bloody tips of the demon’s claws, the boy’s brain stopped working so completely that what fell out of his mouth was a blurted, “You—you speak Crythian?”

At the sound of his words, spoken hesitantly in his own tongue, the demon stopped her furious scrabbling at the bars. In the slanted light, he could just see a pair of burnished-gold eyes with narrow, slit pupils examining him closely. After a moment, the demon withdrew her arm.

“…you’re not him,” she said blankly, in perfect Crythian.

The boy blinked once. And then he went shivered badly, cold under the heat of his fever, because of course he knew exactly who she had mistaken him for.

“No,” he said carefully. “I’m Will Price.”

With a loud exhale, the demon retreated back from the cage’s bars. “I care not who you are, dirt-creature,” it said flatly. Now that it was not roaring at him, he could see its form properly. It was shaped like a woman, with matted hair the color of sunset and skin the color of glowing-hot metal. It—she?—looked little older than he was himself, though that meant little, for a demon.

…he had been taught that it meant little, at least.

There was a long silence. The boy, staring into the dark and dirty cage, worried at his lower lip. The demon, flicking distrustful eyes at the boy’s face, pulled her tattered wings closer about herself.

“I confess,” the boy said softly, after a time. “I was not taught your kind could—speak so well.”

“Nor I that yours could be so thin and frail,” the demon snapped, teeth bared. Its teeth were flat and even. No fangs at all.

“Why is it that these men have caged you?” he asked slowly. An idea was starting to form in his head.

The demon leaned forward to look long and hard at his face again, as though trying to gauge his intent in asking. “How shall I know that?” she said coldly. “Does a man like you need a reason to hurt a creature such as me?”

Lips parted, the boy turned those words over in his head for a long minute.

“You are not what I was expecting,” he said quietly, more to himself than to her.

“And you are less even than I had come to expect,” the demon countered, sounding tired. “Though you come bearing a tool for killing, and that is no surprise,” she went on, eyes flicking down to the sword hanging at his hip.

Startled, the boy blinked, then looked down, laying his hand on the glass orb at the sword’s hilt. “I do, don’t I,” he said softly. And then, because of the fever pounding in his head or the thought of his father’s words (they are beasts and worse than beasts) or the Magician’s (and of the way we treat them, too), he made a decision all at once.

“Chorus,” the boy said softly. “Will you help me cause a commotion?”

The demon drew back, startled, when the boy’s long-sword began quite suddenly to laugh.

----

Lia was still staring at Jasper in slack jawed disbelief when the door slid quietly open to admit a small yellow-haired shape, and then closed politely behind him.

Lia had almost flatly refused to believe it when the Magician claimed to have found an injured, teen-aged Crythian wandering alone in the Waste, and now she could only stare, from the seat she had taken across from Jasper, at this thin white ghost of a boy, now pausing inside the door to get his bearings. Lia would give him sixteen summers, at a guess, surely no more than that, and from his sunken hollow cheekbones and narrow bony wrists she would guess he had not even in a week, or slept in half again as long.

“That boy was traveling alone in the Waste?” she hissed at Jasper. “I don’t believe it.”

Jasper shrugged. “I wouldn’t either, yet there he stands, and quite alone, you’ll find.” A shadow crossed his face as he said those last few words, but it was gone against before Lia could really wonder what it meant.

Lia had ten immediate follow-up questions, but then the boy seemed to spot Jasper, and picked his careful—barefoot?—way across the bar to the booth she and the Magician were sharing. “Magician Run,” he said softly, in very good Galdrean, “I wonder if—oh.” At the sight of Lia, he pulled up short.

“Young Master Pryce,” Jasper said, waving a hand between boy and waitress. “May I introduce Miss Lia Taplin, finest Barmaid in Atychia Town.”

Lia opened her mouth to say that this was damning with faint praise if ever she had heard it, but then the boy smiled at her, and she forgot what she was saying.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Taplin,” the boy said, and bowed over her outstretched hand, his free hand over his heard. His eyes were bright blue, ringed with thick brown lashes, and his smile was white and straight and perfect, and he was older than she’d thought—nineteen summers, surely, or twenty even. For a moment she was certain he would press a kiss to the back of her hand, and almost as certain she would let him.

Lia took a moment to recover, and thus didn’t notice Jasper Run start and stare at the boy like he had grown a second head.

“Uh,” Lia said stupidly, feeling herself flush deeply. “Yes. It’s very nice to meet you—Sai Price.”

“Please,” the boy said, in a voice that was slightly scratchy on the surface and velvet underneath, “just Will is fine. I was thinking—ah—” He staggered very slightly, and went even paler, which Lia would have thought impossible. “Perhaps I should sit down,” he said delicately, turning his dazzling smile on Jasper, who scooted over to make room, with an odd look on his face. “I am thinking,” the boy said in his strange sweet voice, “that while I am very grateful for your hospitality, I should be going on my way, now.”

“Going?” Lia said blankly. “Where?”

The boy blinked once, smile never faltering, then opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by Furlen Challis approaching from the center table.

“Here, Magician,” Furlen said, scrubbing at the back of his neck, “Sorry for the… misunderstanding, eh? We’ll be on our way now, and no need for hard feelings between us.”

Will stiffened slightly in his seat.

Jasper openly glared at Furlen, but was in the process of forcing it painfully into a smile when the entire Inn suddenly shook with a roar of snapping wood and breaking metal. Jasper dropped the glass she had been holding. Lia jumped automatically out of the booth. Meyr’s party froze in the act of getting groggily to their feet. Furlen spun towards the door, hand leaping to the crossbow slung over his shoulder. Will Price stared down at the table.

The next minute was a mad rush of bodies towards the door, frantic to see what had made such a terrible sound in the square. Lia blinked, and was alone in the Inn with Jasper Run, who was trapped in his seat by Will Price, who hadn’t moved.

“I wonder, Miss Taplin,” Will Price said politely, “if your Inn might have a back door.”

Jasper attempted to stand up, but Will continued to be firmly in the way. Jasper stared at him, beginning to get the feeling that one of them had made a horrible mistake.

“It’s only,” Will went on, still smiling at Lia, just as if there was not beginning to be a very loud and alarming commotion outside, “that I’m thinking it might be a good idea for me to leave soon and I shouldn’t want to attract to much attention to myself, being a stranger here—”

And here he was cut off by Furlen Challis howling “MAGICIAN!” at the top of his voice. Lia and Jasper both jumped badly. Will Price, tellingly, did not.

“In fact,” he said calmly instead, still not getting to his feet, (Oh, Jasper thought, oh, he can’t stand, can he, oh, wonderful--) “I think it would be prudent to leave immediately, Miss Taplin.”

Lia gaped at him. Jasper watched her wind up to shout, but the boy’s unassailably polite smile seemed to defeat her in some way, and she pointed wordlessly behind the bar, instead.

“Thank you, Lady,” Will said, his voice warm velvet, and then visibly concentrated all his strength into getting to his feet, supporting himself against the table with arms that trembled slightly at the elbows. The effort drained his face past white and into gray. Jasper, whose head was spinning, made no move to steady him.

“Hold on,” Jasper said, “what have you—”

He was cut off by the sharp sound of a crossbow bold embedding itself deeply into the wood immediately above his head. Lia made a sound of wordless protest and was ignored by all parties.

“Not a muscle, Magician,” Furlen Challis growled, clearly out of breath and already reloading the crossbow. Will Price let out a faint huff of hysterical laughter and continued wading toward the bar with his full weight supported on the tables. Jasper scrambled to his feet.

“Hold on,” Jasper protested, “I haven’t done anything this—”

Furlen fired again and Jasper stumbled backwards, just flicking his Runes from his sleeve in time to catch the bolt in a thin sheet of ice summoned from his spilled drink. As the ice smashed at his feet and soaked the toes of his boots he just had time to think But I’m not even drunk yet before he processed that Furlen was legitimately trying to shoot him and yanked Lia to her feet, grabbing his cloak and satchel from the booth with a muttered expletive.

“Why are people shooting inside my inn?” Lia yelled, and Jasper shook his head, ushering her toward the back door.

“Truly, actually not my fault this time,” Jasper said again, towing her along by her sleeve. Furlen roared something behind him about losing gold that he could worry about parsing when no one was shooting at him. Jasper hesitated for a second and then planted a hand in the small of Will Price’s back and shoved him forward. “Fuck, you too, come on—”

Lia’s face softened immediately and she put a supporting arm around Will’s shoulders; Jasper filed Will’s immediate wince away for later analysis to give himself time to spin and spark Furlen’s next incoming crossbow bolt into a burst of flame that sent a harmless but very hot ball of ashes against Jasper’s chest with a faint smack. Jasper swore and slapped the embers out before they could set the wool smoking, and then spun his thumb around his Runes again and cut his free hand sharply through the air in front of him. The Inn began to fill rapidly with smoke.

“What are you doing?” Lia wailed.

“Och, aye, don’t mind me, just trying to make sure no one gets shot,” Jasper snapped over the sound of Furlen’s curses from the direction of the front door. The back door was just visible through the thickening air, and Jasper half-vaulted the bar to yank it open and usher Lia through, towing Will with her. The boy was getting even paler, which was almost impressive and also not what Jasper was going to worry about now.

“What have you done?” Jasper barked, slamming the door behind them and smacking a hand against it; with an effort of concentration he coaxed the long-dead wood of the surrounding wall to grow creakingly in around the doorjamb, which might hold the door against the men currently shouting inside the in for a few minutes, anyway.

Will shrugged Lia’s arm off immediately and attempted to steady himself, without much success. “Either the right thing, or the wrong one,” he said, in a slightly dreamy voice. Jasper’s hand smacked against his own forehead and grabbed a handful of hair of its own accord.

“That doesn’t mean anyth—”

He was cut off by a sudden rush of heat that threatened to throw him against the side of the Inn. Lia flattened herself against the wall, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

The demon from the square landed in front of Will Price in a rush of feathers and smoke.

Her great wings settled around her. The left straightened from its bent angle in a series of stomach-churning cracks and then raised and lowered hard, sending another rush of heat against the Inn, Jasper threw an arm over his face to shield his eyes.

Will Price stared at the demon, swaying slightly, though he didn’t look more than mildly surprised. The sparks dancing along the edges of her great wings reflected in his fever-glassed eyes.

Just when Jasper was certain the Firebird was about to lunge forward and tear the boy to pieces, she jerked a taloned hand to her own feathered throat and pulled free a single plume the color of flame.

“Do not waste this,” she said in a burning voice, holding the feather in front of the boy. His face blank with surprise, Will Price reached out hesitantly to take hold of it.

The force with which she rocketed up into the sky sent Jasper stumbling back and he stared after her, ears ringing.

“What in three hells have you done?” he croaked again, watching the great bird’s sparking wings with an awed heat in his chest. The wood of the Inn smoldered behind him but Lia seemed frozen with near-religious terror and hadn’t noticed.

Will was staring down at the feather in his hand, red at the shaft and burning flame-blue toward the tip.

“I haven’t the faintest idea,” he said, and smiled.

There was a very loud wooshing sound from the front of the building. Jasper grabbed a handful of Will’s shirts. “Fine—I’ll deal with you later. We’ve got to go.”

#whump #original whump #all those that dance #nonhuman whumpee #monster whumpee #wing whump #threatened #angry mob #i'm not sure... how to tag this honestly #fantasy whump #feverish #i... might post more of this todayyyy because i have problems disorder #anyway. Jasper Has Bitten Off More Than He Can Chew Maybe #genuinely what else should i tag this with. i do not know

8 notes · View notes

atomicwedgienerd · 5 years ago

Text

The Grease

Eddy had that kind of hair that made people jealous. It was thick, wavy, and he never seemed to have to do anything to it. He woke up in the morning, ran his fingers through his hair, and just went about the day. His messy bedhead always looked intentional but it was nothing more than good genes and the luck of the draw, and that was the way Eddy liked it. He viewed his hair as the perfect extension of his personality: carefree, wild, and completely untamed. And despite the fact that he put very little effort into things, Eddy always came out on top. He had coasted his way through high school, charmed his way through college, and now he had half-assed his way to a position as an art director for one of the west coast’s premiere surfboard companies. The work was easy, and it left him plenty of time every day for surfing. Eddy had it made.

One day on his way back from the beach, Eddy caught a passing glimpse of himself in a shop window. He could see that his mane was getting unruly, even for himself. All that saltwater was good for volume but damn could it do a number on split ends. Even a guy like Eddy knew you had to do some upkeep. As he continued on his way home, he noticed a barbershop he hadn’t seen before: Berger and Sons. From the striped pole out front to the subway tile lining the walls, this place looked like one of the classic shops you’d see if you googled “1950s barbershop.” Eddy had seen a few of these retro throwback barbershops open in different spots over the city but they had always seemed a little too traditional for a guy like him. Regardless, Eddy had a meeting the next week with a client and figured it couldn’t hurt to have a little touch up on his flowing locks. Plus, if he did it now, it wouldn’t look like he had gotten all dolled up for the meeting. Looking like he didn’t care was alllllll part of Eddy’s allure.

A bell tinkled as he entered the shop and Eddy immediately noticed the smell. A sweet but nearly antiseptic odor hit his nose, reminding him of his grandfather right after he had shaved. Yep, this place was definitely old school. The barber waved him over and patted the seat, inviting Eddy to sit down.

“Welcome to Berger and Sons,” he said. “Let me guess, you want a headshave?” Before Eddy could even react, the barber had burst out laughing. “Just a little light barber humor!”

“Very light,” Eddy deadpanned. “I’m not looking for anything too crazy. Just wanna get these split ends cleaned up.”

“Ah, an easy enough task,” said the barber as he threw the cape over Eddy’s body and began spritzing his hair with a mist.

“So is it just you?” asked Eddy, looking around at the otherwise empty barbershop. “I thought the sign said Berger and Sons.”

“Well, I’m Nestor Berger,” he explained. “So that part’s accurate. Don’t actually have any sons but I figured the name would convey the sort of traditional barbershop experience I try to offer. You see, in these modern times, there’s a lot of people who don’t really appreciate the…” The barber’s voice started to trail off. The scent from the mist he had sprayed in Eddy’s hair was so powerful--so sweet and intoxicating--that Eddy had started to zone out. He felt warm, he felt comfortable, and he felt relaxed. The shop drifted away from him and suddenly he felt someone tapping him on his shoulder.

“Sir? Sir!” said the barber until Eddy snapped back. “What do you think?” Eddy’s eyes came back in focus and he saw his reflection in the mirror and gasped. The barber had ruined his hair. Where his flowing bedhead had been was now a heavily slicked, extremely greasy, and overly combed hairstyle the likes of which one would see on someone from the 1950s.

“I just asked for the split ends cleaned up!” Eddy bellowed.

“And that’s really all I did!” smiled the barber. “Ok, I may have taken a little bit off here and there but there’s still length.” The barber showed Eddy the back of the hairstyle in a handheld mirror where the sides and top had been slicked back into a greasy tail. “I just figured I would give you a more dapper appearance. This is a homemade hair grease you know. You can only get it here.”

“Well I didn’t ask for it,” Eddy said as he threw off the cape and stood up to leave. “No wonder your shop is so empty! Maybe try listening to your customers!”

“A barber has to do what he knows is right for each customer,” the barber grinned. “Trust me, you’ll be back!”

“The fuck I will,” Eddy said as he stormed out the shop.

He was furious! He stopped to gawk at himself in a parked car’s side view mirror. This nerdy retro haircut was the opposite of everything Eddy was about! It was rigid, traditional, and just plain uncool. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket. It was his buddies asking him out for a night of drinks. “Sure,” he texted back. “Just let me go home and wash my hair real quick.”

Eddy had never washed his hair that intensely in his life. He shampooed it twice, conditioned it thrice! He even blow dried it. He put a little salt spray in it and when he felt it looked the right level of mussed, he got dressed and headed out to meet his buddies.

---

Lee, Kirk and Drew were at the bar doing shots when Eddy walked in. He waved at them and they gave him an odd glance and ignored him, before Lee did a double take and started cackling. “Eddy! Over here!” Eddy jogged over to join his pals.

“We saved a shot for you,” Drew said, laughing. “So uh, what’s going on here? Trying out a new look?”

“Well I washed my hair,” Eddy said, “but I wouldn’t say it’s a new…” He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar. Eddy’s hair was back in the heavily greased, retro sidepart he had when he stormed out of the barbershop. It looked just as fresh as when he snapped out of his weird daze and saw it for the first time. He touched it in horror and as he pulled his hand away from his hair, his fingers came back with a thick sheen of greasy, oily product that overwhelmed him with that same scent he remembered from the barber shop. His eyes went blank for a moment before he snapped back to reality.

“It’s.. nice,” Kirk said with a wry smile as he handed his buddy the shot of whiskey. “Just very different.” Eddy took the shot and paused. What was going on? He had washed his hair… hadn’t he? He did have to admit though: the haircut did look sort of nifty. Nifty? Where did that word even pop into his head?

He laughed and threw back his head, downing the shot. It burned terribly, like he had never tasted alcohol before and he began coughing and sputtering as the shot came back up and sprayed on his friends. They erupted in laughter at him.

“Maybe you should get a glass of milk instead,” Lee said. Eddy protested--although it did sound kind of nice. But no, he was a grown man. He could drink a beer! But even that didn’t seem very nice.

“You know what guys? I’m not feeling super nifty.” There was that damn word again. “I think I’m going to go home and get some rest.”

“Come on, man! It’s still early!” Kirk shouted.

“No no,” said Drew. “Let the man get his rest. Hope you feel niftier tomorrow.” Eddy blushed. His face felt on fire. His friends were mocking him! He stormed out the door as he could hear his friends burst into laughter.

“Gosh darnit!” Eddy blurted as he marched down the street. He had intended to use stronger language but it just didn’t come out that way. How strange. When he got home, he decided to put on some football to calm his nerves but stopped on a channel showing old episodes of Leave It To Beaver. He couldn’t help himself. He had to watch.

By 10pm, he was already fast asleep.

------

Eddy’s alarm went off at 6 in the morning. He shot to attention and was shocked when he saw the time. He hadn’t been up at 6 in the morning in years, and yet, his phone had it listed as an alarm that went off every day.

He went to go brush his teeth and was shocked to see his hair still stuck in that crisp, greasy and exceptionally conservative side part. He hopped in the shower and scrubbed and shampooed and when he finally got out, his hair was a sopping, stringy mess. Thank goodness. The grease was finally out, and, just to be safe, Eddy decided to let it air dry. After all, he had plans to go surfing with the boys later, provided they weren’t going to be too mean to him after last night.

Eddy actually felt intimidated by that, which was ridiculous. He had always been the leader and now he felt concerned about what the other guys would think! It was just one rough night; they would forget it soon enough. After all, Eddy was the best surfer among them and he would re-assert himself at the top of the food chain. He gave himself a smile in the mirror as a familiar scent began to wash over him: the same scent from the barber shop.

Suddenly, Eddy’s phone rang and he found himself dazed in a strange location. He didn’t quite know where he was. He answered the phone.

“Bro where the fuck are you?” he heard Kirk say, the sound of waves crashing coming through the phone. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

Where the fuck was he? Eddy looked around and realized he was in some sort of convention hall. Tables and tables stretched in all directions, each of them covered in protective lucite boxes containing… stamps!? He saw the banner: West Coast Philatelist Convention.

“I’m at a philately convention,” he said.

“A what, bro?”

“Stamps,” Eddy said. “It’s a stamp collector. It’s a convention for stamp collectors.” The sound of unmistakable laughter arose from the other side of the phone.

“He’s at a stamp collecting convention!” he heard Kirk say to the others whose laughter quickly echoed from the receiver. “Well, uh, I hate to interrupt that exciting occurrence but you gonna join us at the beach?”

“Of course,” said Eddy. “I just wanted to stop in here and uh…. Look I’ll be there soon, ok!?” He quickly hung up in shame. He started heading for the door when he caught his reflection in a piece of lucite and gasped.

The hair had come back. Greasier than before. He touched it and his hand came away with a thick coating of sticky wet hair product. His hair was practically dripping. Then, Eddy caught the rest of his reflection. He was dressed in a pair of grey dress slacks and a white button down shirt. Tucked. In.

Something was wrong. Eddy would never wear this. He looked like a little dork! He had to get home, but first, he was going to stop at that barber shop and get some answers! He headed for the door but then he caught a glimpse of some fascinating stamps.

“Oooh those are actually pretty neato!” he said aloud. He couldn’t believe he was saying that… or thinking it. But he when he got close to the table, he was dazzled by how cool the stamps were. A vintage series commemorating Star Trek! They were so awesome! He couldn’t help himself. He pulled out his wallet and hesitated.

What was he doing? This wasn’t him. But these stamps were really neato completo. What the heck? Life is short. He plunked down his credit card and bought a few, as well as a book to store them in.

“You’re gonna need to fill that up, sonny!” smiled the vendor. Eddy couldn’t help himself. He desperately wanted to leave and meet up with his buddies but he couldn’t help himself from examining other tables, buying more vintage stamps, and striking up conversations with other philatelists. Before he knew it, the convention was closing and it was time to go. His phone had dozens of missed calls and texts from the boys wondering where he was. Something very strange was going on indeed.

As he headed back to his apartment with his new stamp book full of old stamps, he spotted a vintage store with a display in the window. The mannequin was dressed in a way that should have made Eddy recoil. It was dressed in a short sleeved white button down with a thin black bowtie. The black flat front slacks came up to its belly button and were cinched with a thin brown belt. On its feet, vintage white crew socks hung in furls as they went into the shiny black penny loafers. This was the outfit of an unmistakable nerd, a relic of a bygone era representing a sort of clean cut, goody two shoes attitude that had always revolted Eddy. But for a brief moment, he saw his reflection where the mannequin’s head was, his face and slicked up hair on the outfit. It almost seemed right, but he shook his head and snapped out of it.

In a panic, Eddy headed back to his hip apartment and slammed the door. He turned on the TV and tried to relax but couldn’t. Eventually, he flipped to an old episode of Leave It To Beaver and found himself mesmerized. Everyone was so polite and clean cut and old-fashioned. By 9pm, he was asleep.

Before Eddy knew it, it was already 6pm Sunday evening. He had no idea where the time had gone but when he looked around his apartment, he began to get dizzy. Everything looked… different. That’s when memories came flooding back.

He saw himself at 6am, waking up nice and early, and calling a company to come take his furniture away. Then a flash and he was at the antique store flashing his credit card around and buying all kinds of retro furniture. Another flash and he was at the vintage store loading up a cart with dorky looking clothes. And another flash and he was back at the apartment, showing movers where to place all his many purchases.

Another flash and he was back in the present, standing in his apartment which he no longer recognized. The entire thing looked like it was a set from Leave It To Beaver. His flat screen TV had been replaced with an old woodpaneled TV from the 50s with an antenna on it. His workout equipment replaced with a chess table and two chairs. His slick leather couch was gone and in its place was a floral patterned retro sofa. Everything about his apartment looked old fashioned and drab. All of his records had been replaced as an LP of Bert Kaempfaert’s greatest hits played over the hifi. He ran to his room and gasped. His waterbed had been replaced with a single twin mattress, the bland gray sheets tucked and folded with military precision. Then, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly fainted.

He was wearing a pair of shiny red Converses with white socks and cuffed, deep blue, highwaisted straight legged jeans. His shirt, an orange and green plaid number, was tucked into and fastened in place with a cheap brown belt. In the pocket of the shirt, a pristine white pocket protector sat overloaded with pens and pencils and tools. A dorky white undershirt poked out from under the button down. On top of all that, he had a bright red cardigan with white piping and a big letter B like he was in school or something. He was dressed like he was president of the chess club 1955! And of course, on top of his head, sat an exceedingly greasy slicked haircut that was now nearly jet black. He touched it in horror as his fingers came away thick with the grease.

The grease! This had all started with the grease and that barber shop and that awful barber! He would have answers to what was going on. He could help Eddy undo whatever was happening. Eddy would go and find him and get this all sorted out. But not dressed like this! He tore through his closet and found most of his clothes had been replaced. That would be a pain to fix. But in the top, in a corner he must have missed earlier, he found some sweatpants and an old tank top. He didn’t look as cool as he had hoped, but it was better than the Leave It To Beaver nerd look he had been sporting earlier.

Eddy ran out onto the street and started hurrying to the barber shop. As he waited at an intersection, he saw himself in a window and gasped. Somehow, he was back in that outfit! The cardigan, the dorky shirt, the highwaisted jeans! Something strange was going on. The grease was changing him, affecting his perception. He had to get to the bottom of this.

A few more blocks and he found himself across the street from Berger and Sons Barbershop. The lights were on so Eddy knew he could get some answers. But the light wouldn’t change. Eddy waited and waited but it didn’t change. There was no traffic. He could just jaywalk across the street. But try as he might, he couldn’t get himself to do it. A little voice in his head kept telling him that it was against the rules. Since when had that mattered? Eddy never followed any rules! But he simply HAD to all of a sudden. His rebellious nature was defeated and he could not cross the street without the light changing.

It didn’t. Something was stopping it from happening and Eddy couldn’t cross. Defeated, he returned home, fiddled with his TV antenna, and fell asleep watching more Leave It To Beaver.

--------

“Eddy, can I have a word with you in my office?” he heard his boss saying. Eddy blinked and found himself in the conference room of his office, his coworkers staring at him with a smattering of cheeky smirks and barely restrained laughter. He recognized the clients he had a meeting with on Monday but… was it already Monday? He looked down and groaned. He saw it: the outfit from the mannequin. The dorky bowtie, the short white sleeved shirt, the flat fronted highwaisted pants, the slouchy white socks, and of course the super shiny penny loafers. He turned around and saw his presentation: just a big white posterboard that said “Surfboarding: It’s Neato Completo.” All the work he had done for months was gone and this was what he showed up to the meeting with? All his passion for surfboarding and this was the best he had? But when he thought about it, he could barely even remember himself surfing. All he could think about was how much he wanted to get home, look at his stamp collection, and maybe read up on some chess maneuvers. What was happening to him?

Needless to say, Eddy’s meeting with his boss was short. They offered him a month of severance and told him to pack up his stuff and leave. They couldn’t have a square like him working at a surfboarding company. He looked at all the beach memorabilia at his desk and just threw it in the trashcan. It didn’t seem like his anymore anyways.

As he walked back home, he could feel everyone staring at him, giggling at his outfit, looking at his big greasy haircut. He felt dejected and embarrassed and could barely see where he was going. He just looked at the ground and shuffled his penny loafers. When he finally looked up, he saw where he was and he wasn’t surprised. Berger and Sons Barbershop.

The bell tinkled as he entered the shop. Mr. Berger looked up and smiled.

“I knew you’d be back. How are you feeling about the haircut?”

Eddy sighed. “I hate it. Well I hated it, but I can’t make it go away and every day I just feel like it suits me more and more. I don’t know what’s happening!”

“That’s the power of a good grease,” said Mr. Berger. “Once you go slick, you just have to stick!”

“Gee whiz,” said Eddy. “I guess so. I just feel so different now.”

“Would you like me to wash it out? You can go back to the way you were. Or…”

“Or?” asked Eddy.

“Or I can apply one more coating and make it permanent. One more coating of pomade and you’ll be a good retro nerdy boy forever. The choice is yours.”

Eddy sighed a breath of relief. The nightmare was finally over. He was ready to make his choice. And then the strong smell overwhelmed him.

“I’d like to stay this way forever!” Inside, Eddy was screaming. That wasn’t what he wanted at all but the grease was making him say it. The grease was making him sit in the chair. The grease was taking his will to fight. The grease made him sit politely and smile as Mr. Berger took a huge scoop of hair product and began working it into Eddy’s jet black hair. When he was finally done, Mr. Berger spun Eddy around and said, “What do you think?”

Eddy looked at himself in the mirror… and couldn’t see anything. It was a blur.

“Oh of course,” said Mr. Berger. “You’ll be needing these now.” He pulled out a pair of clunky black rimmed glasses with thick lenses and placed them on Eddy’s nose before fastening them in place with a tight elastic strap. The world came into focus and Eddy saw himself in the mirror.

The hair was even neater, even more retro, and even greasier looking than before. The thick black glasses just complimented the hair perfectly. When Eddy reached up to touch his hair, it felt nearly plastic. It didn’t budge at all. This truly was the haircut he was stuck with.

“Gee whiz, it looks neato completo Sir!” he said with a goofy grin plastered on his face.

“You don’t have to call me Sir,” Mr. Berger smiled. He handed Eddy his wallet back and opened it to the ID holder. Eddy’s license had been replaced with a new one. The picture showed Eddy in his thick glasses and greased up hair and where his name should be it read “Edward Berger.”

“Berger and Sons Barber,” Mr. Berger smiled. “I just knew you had potential.”

“Golly thanks for the swell haircut, Dad!” Eddy--or was it Edward--said with a grin.

“Say, son, I know you got fired from your job and I was thinking… isn’t it time you joined the family business?”

-----

From that day forward, Edward Berger spent every day in the barbershop learning the craft. His nights were spent in his dorky apartment studying chess maneuvers, listening to lounge music, and watching Leave It To Beaver. He was in bed by 9pm every night and awake by 5am every day. He wore a tie and pocket protector every day to the barber shop and even on most weekends. Whenever he was on the street, people would point and laugh at him but Edward Berger never felt ashamed. He knew it was better to be a clean cut retro goody two shoes than the hip rebel he had used to be. Besides, nobody had a spiffier haircut than he did.

Finally, the day came when Mr. Berger thought Edward was ready to ply his trade on clients of his own.

“I sent out a few invitations for free haircuts to get you some people to try your greasing skills on.”

The bell jingled and three men walked into the shop. Edward pushed up his thick glasses and ran a hand over his thick plasticene haircut. The men seemed almost familiar but he couldn’t remember why. They signed in and Edward picked up the sign in sheet.

“Well hello and greetings fellas and welcome to Berger and Sons Barbers. So nice to meet you…” He glanced down at the sign in sheet. “Lee, Drew, and Kirk. Now which one of you is up first?”

The three men laughed at this absolute retro nerdy joke before them. Little did they know, they’d be just like him soon enough.

If you liked this story, why not join us in the nerdification discord? Surely someone has a magic hair grease that will turn you into a retro goody two shoes nerd!

#nerdification #haircut #slickedhair #nerdtf #jocktonerd #transformation #retrofetish

250 notes · View notes

ducktales-wco-oo · 3 years ago

Text

[MarkFalcon] 29. for sex on a table/counter/desk

- ✩ { @aflockoffeathers } ✩

{ ☆ } It’s been a long and arduous road to get here. Full of teasing, misunderstandings, embarrassments, an argument or two stemmed from good intentions albeit clumsy execution... and frankly, Mark hadn’t expected to ever ACTUALLY get to this point. Yeah, he might have joked about it once or twice... or thrice.... but in terms of getting frisky in the office, it was pretty clear that Falcon was mostly determined to stick firmly to his ‘no clapping cheeks at work’ rule. Something Mark could admire, in a general sense, but also couldn’t help but see as yet another challenge unwittingly dangled in front of him by the stern male.

Not that Mark has been successful with ALL of these challenges... Although he’s made far more headway than most would expect. Looks like this is yet another to add to the list, even if Mark still is trying to figure out how the heck they managed to get to THIS point.

Breathing heavily, mind races quicker than his heart; blood pumping with a rush throughout his entire body, making his dick throb impatiently and his fluffed plumage feel hot to the touch. Sweat already lightly dampening his form— the parrot’s clothes having been unnecessarily discarded, tossed aside whilst Falcon remained with a rumpled suit, nix the pants: tie undone and shirt unbuttoned, but still far more clothed than his current conquest —Mark angles his neck to better expose it to the bird of prey, gasping at the sensation of a hooked beak sifting through silver feathers and biting down on the sweet flesh beneath.

Grasping at Falcon’s back, knuckles pale from the force of his grip, hips squirm with clear desperation as he feels the other’s member rubbing against his entrance, making no move to actually slip within. Trembling with exasperation at the large length simply teasing, tip tauntingly brushing against his pucker before shaft slides against him as if in a roundabout way to jack-off, part of Mark wonders if he’ll be forced to live in this limbo forever. Balancing the line between being marked and touched and clearly WANTED by Falcon.... yet constantly yearning for the feeling of the other man actually TAKING him.

As fun as this is, Mark has never been a patient person.

❝ F-Falc.... ❞ Mark whines, hips arching in needy grind against his boyfriend, hoping that stirring some friction of his own will spur the other onward. ❝ C’mooooon... Would ya just- hghngngnnn.... do it already? ❞ Breath hitching as a rush of pleasure shoots through him, like a tease of what could come, eyes squeeze shut and feathers ruffle with a wave of a shiver, ❝ D-Do ME already... ❞ Blinking his eyes open, pleading gaze is aimed at the larger male, hoping that he can use some of that ‘I’m just a little guy, look at how cute I am’ energy to break down the other’s resolve. At any rate, it’s worth a shot.

❝ We both know you wanna. ❞ He claims, allowing a trill to hint his words and giving his silvery plumage an instinctive fluff. ❝ So just- y’know... Turn me over already. Bend me over this desk and let’s recreate literally every office dirty-flick... ❞ It’s a cliche, but hey- things are a cliche for a reason. And this reason is that- getting fucked over his desk is HOT. { ☆ }

#ducktales-wco-oo #⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ɪ ɢᴏ; ɪ'ᴍ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ʀᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʀᴘᴇᴛ ❞ ¦ 「 Mark IC 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ɪꜰ ɪ ᴅɪᴇ; ᴛᴜʀɴ ᴍʏ ᴛᴡᴇᴇᴛꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ❞ ◌ ᴍᴀɪɴ ¦ 「 Mark 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ꜱᴜɪᴛ ɢᴀᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ❞ ¦ 「 Falcon 」#aflockoffeathers #♡ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ʜᴀꜱʜᴛᴀɢ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ɪᴛ; ʜᴀꜱʜᴛᴀɢ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ ❞ ¦ 「 Mark and Falcon 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡꜱ ꜰᴏʀ ꜱᴜʀᴇ ❞ ¦ 「 Answer 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ꜱᴡᴏᴏᴘꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ❞ ¦ 「 Queue 」#⭒ ˙ ˖ ✧ — ˗ˏˋ ❝ ᴅɪᴄᴋᴛᴀʟᴇꜱ-ᴡᴄᴏ-ᴏᴏ ❞ ¦ 「 NSFW-Lemon 」#(*wheezes in having Mark suffer when he's finally gonna get the Office Cliche lol*)

1 note · View note

fabelyn · 5 years ago

Text

Heaven Official’s Blessing: Why Read

“By the Heaven Official’s Blessing, No Paths are Bound!”

Official Summary:

Eight hundred years ago, Xie Lian was the Crown Prince of the Xian Le kingdom. He was loved by his citizens and was considered the darling of the world. He ascended to the Heavens at a young age; however, due to unfortunate circumstances, was quickly banished back to the mortal realm. Years later, he ascends again–only to be banished again a few minutes after his ascension.Now, eight hundred years later, Xie Lian ascends to the Heavens for the third time as the laughing stock among all three realms. On his first task as a god thrice ascended, he meets a mysterious demon who rules the ghosts and terrifies the Heavens, yet, unbeknownst to Xie Lian, this demon king has been paying attention to him for a very, very long time.

Some noteworthy comments:

Main couple is MalexMale, no explicit content, fully translated (244 chapters), by the same author as Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation. Major themes: fate, human nature, limits of goodness and tragic consequences of one’s actions.

My add-on commentary to the summary:

It’s not really a BL romance with a side of plot, but plot with a side of romance which happens to be BL (will get back to that later). It’s set in a world where outstanding individuals with outstanding deeds can ascend and become Gods (aka “Heaven Officials”). MC was the pampered crown prince of a rich nation, and ascended early. However, tragedy after tragedy strikes: war breaks out, famine, plague. MC fails to protect his kingdom and for his attitude is banished...twice. His closest friends abandon him, his subjects turn from worship to hatred of him, his parents kill themselves. From pampered prince, MC becomes a forgotten nobody, begging for scraps and a joke to all in Heaven.

After 800 years (yes 800, MC gains immortality after first ascension) roaming the mortal realm in this situation, he finally ascends once more, now humble and self-deprecating. Between his desire to help and need to repay debts, he takes on heavenly tasks in the mortal realm (banish malignant spirits, solve mysterious deaths etc). Each new tasks seems darker than the last, and he slowly unravels unexpected secrets from the Heavens. Surprisingly, during his journey he is joined by a demon king, known to be ruthless and so powerful even the Heavens fear him, yet this king seems to want nothing more than to aid MC...

While the official summary does not manage to showcase this as well as the summary of GDC did, this story can get dark. It changes from very lighthearted (people fainting from MC’s bad cooking) to very tragic (the torture and deaths already mentioned). It has a lot of lore as the MC deals with not only other gods, but evil spirits and mortals.

One outstanding thing from this work is that it gives depth and limelight to many of its side characters, and all plotpoints are neatly tied in the end. the length of it (244 chapters) helps give the plot enough time to go great details and depth through its mini arcs that all culminate to quite the grand finale.

If the plot of the author’s most famous work (GDC) had a focus on misunderstandings and prejudice, this plot is about fate and human nature: how goodness can fail, as well as how experiences may or may not change people. It’s an Epic spanning Gods, Demons, Kingdoms, and over thousands of years of history.

(For those who have read Discworld, it's fun to note that the Gods/Heaven Officials here follow a similar system: belief is power. How many believers a god has can impact their wealth, power and even the gender they appear as. And lack of followers may even lead to death.)

On the romance:

As said before, I see this as a plot with a side of romance that happens to be BL. This because while everything around MC goes through drama and tragedy and angst, the romance...does not. The romance is not the plot, that is to say, the plot itself is not about MC and his love interest navigating their love for each other; fighting then finally ending together. On the contrary; it is MC and love interest navigating plot that has nothing to do with their feelings, while MC slowly becomes enamored. However, it’s not possible to say that the plot would go on without the romance, as their love and working together is integral to overcoming many huddles.

In this sense, if you want to go read drama about romance, watch as two people fight, clash, misunderstand and slowly accept their feelings... this isn’t quite it, Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation would be better. The romance is always there, but as a wholesome, sweet and mellow counterpoint to the suffering and darkness the plot metes out constantly (oh yes: the bizarre severity of angst MC goes through is not just pure coincidence). There will be no love triangles, no relationship-breaking misunderstandings etc. You may roll your eyes at MC being a little slow to figure feelings out, you might groan slightly at a silly misunderstanding, but neither actually harms their dynamic. I loved it, as it felt like a refreshing change from the usual BL romance and certainly a very needed levity all the bad luck haunting MC. Plus, my favorite couples are those that actually click without needing to insult and fight a lot.

Do note, and I fear I may be spoiling a bit here, it’s not that there isn’t angst and tragedy surrounding the romance, but that it is, in a way, “over”. You can only understanding by reading. You will hurt over the romance, yet already be relieved of that pain by the time the plot hands it to you.

Personalities:

MC: in the present is a calm, self deprecating man. Humble but with a heart of gold, willing to sacrifice himself for others. 800 years ago, he had a golden heart but was impulsive, prideful. You will read the plot wringing those characteristics out of him, stab by stab through flashbacks. Also, MC has extreme bad luck. Dice he throws will always roll ones, but if he needs it to roll ones, they roll sixes. Lighting strikes where he goes, no shack he lives in lasts a month...

Love interest (hereon typed as “LI” for short). I fear giving too much away, but do feel who the love interest is is very clear early on so: If LI was the MC, he’d be a Gary Stu, but as the love interest he is so fun. Very powerful, very knowledgeable, very rich, very skilled. Demons bow to him, the heavens fear him, mortals even worship him. However, he cares for nothing, has no interest in helping anyone, is sarcastic and acerbic and ruthless. Except for with MC, which he treats on a golden platter, never harms even a strand of hair and will literally give everything to him (MC causes havoc in is domain then burns his armory down and LI doesn’t even frown)

Side characters: there’s quite a few, so despite there being noteworthy mentions I’d rather not make this longer. Let’s just say plot explores, using side characters, misogyny, prejudice, corruption, trauma, complicated morals, unfairness of fate, revenge etc

In fairness, some personal cons of this:

I dislike usage of too much capslock to demonstrate shouting, this does that. For people who are not used to eastern style writing, this might be a little different. It feels better than GDC, but there is a propensity for narration to explain things that might not feel good for some. And naturally, tons and tons of flashbacks as you start off at MC’s 3rd ascension but will eventually read in detail how his 1st and 2nd went, along with the banishments.

TL;DR: GO READ.

Completed translations are up at novelupdates

An anime will be coming out this year (2020)

A manhua adaptation is ongoing

#heaven official's blessing #tian guan ci fu #hob #mo xiang tong xiu #mxtx #Reccomendations

29 notes · View notes

actually-good-rwbyaus-moved · 6 years ago

Note

I already apologize for this angst. AU where Yangs underlying suicidal tendencies are adressed by someone (maybe Blake?). Cause seriously there are LOTS of them like how she still felt she should die for a mistake she did when she was 4! I consider this AU good as it is preventing of Bad consequences and could have some good character Development. Maybe in Atlas there was a Situation where Blake realized it? I mean... try to convince me Yang ISNT somewhat suicidal.

So uh. This is way more than you wanted but I took your last sentence as a challenge. Under a cut for length and TW.

TW for suicidal ideation!

*cracks knuckles* you want me to convince you? Here we fuckn go pal.

So, as someone who is suicidal (not like. Actively. But ya boy just does not want to exist most days), Yang does not read as suicidal. Y’know who does though?

Miss Weiss “My Aura is extremely low and I’m going to fling myself into this exploding geyser to take out an enemy” Schnee. Miss Weiss “Velvet has just been taken out by a mech and I’m going to run into that fight with low Aura and no guarantee of my semblance working” Schnee. Miss Weiss “Constantly throws herself at the enemy with low/no Aura and almost dies” Schnee. Weiss is super bad at taking care of herself during a fight.

Or even Blake who’s Semblance requires her to stand in the way of someone’s weapon before she can leave a clone and get out of the way. We see her stare down Adam thrice with low Aura as he stabs, slices, and shoots at her. If Blake had been just a second slower with her Semblance her head would be gone. She would have been shot in the face. Or she would have been stabbed again. When she’s fighting Roman she literally had to wait for his weapon to be right there before getting the fuck outta the way or else the Dust she used wouldn’t have worked. Blake, who was ready to lay down and die first because she is arguably the most depressed out of the team? Blake, who literally set her house on fire to draw a crowd so she could make a political speech. Blake disregards her safety so much that it is actually worrying to me. Her entire fighting style is about letting her enemy get as close as possible and then getting away with only a second to spare. Her entire fight with the Leifong, for instance. There was no trying to draw it in closer, nah she just used her own clones and Sun’s and Sun himself to launch herself at the damn thing. She stood above Adam and called his name, and yeah she had people behind her to help, but Adam is super fast as we’ve seen. In Volume 1 when she went down to the docks with Sun to see what the hell Torchwick was up to and then she launched herself into the fight? Blake do you not remember you ran away from a high ranking person in the White Fang and he’s probably not super happy about it???? She literally grabbed Roman, a full grown adult, and threatened his life without blinking even though. He’s an adult? And obviously has enough sway over these White Fang goons to have them doing as he says? Blake you are one teenager I love you but what are you doing.

Or what about Ruby? Our first look at Ruby in the Red trailer is her facing down a whole pack of Beowolves. She’s so desperate to prove herself in the first few seasons that she constantly threw herself into fights with things much bigger than her. Strange woman sneaking into the CC tower? Let me go fight her myself without calling for backup. Pyrrha is going up to fight Cinder, who just killed Professor Ozpin, alone? I’m gonna run up there and help even though she just killed Ozpin and there’s also a giant fucking Wyvern up there. When Qrow is up against Tyrian and Ruby is fully aware that Tyrian is there to kidnap her, she still joins the fight. Even though Tyrian is pretty evenly matched with Qrow. Hell, within the last 3 episodes of Volume 6 alone Ruby constantly rushed a giant mech with a giant cannon that shot missiles and Dust, jumped in an airship to try and shoot up the missile part of the canon, jumped into the barrel of the canon to shoot at the Dust in it, and then got up close and personal with a Leviathan with fire-breathing abilities with no guarantee of her Silver Eyes working. Ruby is big into running into high risk situations with no help or guarantee of winning. Ruby, while a beautiful strategist, is horrible at actually going ‘hey maybe I shouldn’t do this thing that may almost definitely end in my death’.

I can make such a big case for Weiss and Blake and Ruby being suicidal, but the only times I can see an argument for Yang is like. Twice? Thrice? And even then, given the actual context of the situations, those don’t hold water.

Yang said she should have died that day. This is true. Had Qrow not gotten to them in time, she and Ruby would have died. Yang should have died that day because she got stuck in Grimm infested woods with her baby sister and no way to get help. Qrow just happened to be able to stop it. Sure the wording is weird, but it doesn’t prove she’s suicidal.

Yang threw herself at Adam in V3 without thinking it through. Yang had also been through a very, very stressful 24 hours. She’s accused of attacking an opponent on live T.V., her friend is then killed on live television, Grimm are filling her school along with White Fang, her little sister is missing, and now she’s staring at a man who has just stabbed her partner. She didn’t have any time to come up with a different way of fighting Adam, she needed to act then.

Yang going up against Neo in Volume 2 could also be a point to make. Except that Neo doesn’t look like that strong of an opponent and Yang thought she could take her. In all honesty a better matchup there would have been Weiss and Neo, but they had no way of knowing the Lieutenant would be in the next car. (Oh hey, another point for Weiss’ suicidal tendencies. Weiss immediately tells Blake to ‘go on ahead’ upon being faced with the Lieutenant, even though he’s a huge guy with a goddamn chainsaw.)

Yang is huge on strategy, she’s not the type to just run into a fight. She fights smart. Look at her fight in her trailer! Sure you could say she’s insane for going up against an entire club full of people with guns, but she obviously had a strategy in place. Shake ‘em up by hitting the floor first, use brute force to take out the waves, dodge the attack from the DJ. When the Twins come out, Yang figures out how to incapacitate them as well and even changes up her style against Melanie when she realizes her punch-oriented style wouldn’t work super well against Melanie’s kicks. Yang doesn’t like high-risk situations, she greatly prefers when she has a high chance of winning it (which is why she’s good in a team. Going up against something high risk on your own is dangerous. Going up against something high risk with a team? Greatly heightens the possibility of winning).

It’s just. Yang isn’t suicidal. She doesn’t have suicidal tendencies. While Blake literally laid down to die Yang was still fighting against it. Yang isn’t interested in dying yet, she’s gonna fight against it for as long as possible. One of our last quotes from Blake this season was literally “A Huntress fights to the bitter end,” and you picked Yang to be the suicidal one in team RWBY? You looked at RWBY who has 3 out of 4 members who have run headfirst into situations they had little chance of winning or getting out of and went ‘Yes. Yang, the most cautious one, is definitely the one with underlying suicidal tendencies’??? If anything we need Yang having a talk with the rest of her team about their suicidal tendencies.

-🍒

#meta #character analysis #suicide tw #yang xiao long #ruby rose #weiss schnee #blake belladonna

29 notes · View notes

bie-lovers · 6 years ago

Text

In-Between Time and Time

Rating: Gen

Word count: 1.1k

Summary: And he loves him.

a/n: What better way than to start 2k19 as the sappy idiot that I am? Happy New Year!

[Read on AO3]

Dan loves him. He loves him so fucking much.

He loves him even though there’s still half an hour until midnight and Phil is sound asleep on their couch already.

He loves him even though Phil’s hair is all over the place, the poor imitation of a quiff dangling down over his forehead, more reminiscent of the fringe than the quiff, actually.

He loves him even though Phil’s mouth hangs open and he’s definitely drooling on Dan’s sad pimp blanket.

He loves him and it almost hurts him sometimes, how much he feels for this dorky guy, hurts him in that spot behind his ribs where his heart sits, every single beat being for him since a windy day back in October.

Ten years ago.

In ten months it’ll be ten years ago they met in person. Ten years ago Dan stepped out onto the platform at Manchester Piccadilly, eyes scanning every face until catching on a black fringe, birdnest to be fair, Dan chuckles, and he’s never looked back since.

Ten years ago Dan ran up to Phil before stopping dead in his tracks, staring, just staring, staring, staring.

It’s kind of funny now, looking back, the way Dan held his breath as if Phil would reject him, decide that Dan wasn’t what he wanted, because Phil’s told him countless times, again and again, that he was so nervous he’d tripped thrice and walked into angry people twice before laying eyes on Dan and falling once. Dan had punched him for that joke, in the shoulder, before wrapping his arms around him because holy shit, Dan loves him. Bad jokes and all.

It’s ten years ago Dan’s heart put down roots and bound itself to this boy, man now, half sitting, half lying on the couch, their couch, in their shared home.

Sometimes, the reality of it all takes Dan’s breath away.

Sometimes, the reality of it all makes his stomach squeeze and lungs constrict because he’s hit with the realisation that this is it. It’s scary and it’s big, realising he stumbled upon the rest of his life at the tender age of 18 and sometimes, in the dark of night and dark of his mind, it feels too scary, too big.

But in the light of day, Dan will roll over in bed and find Phil drooling on his pillow, snores filling the silence, and he doesn’t care how scary or how big it feels, because he found this guy, who snores, who’s stubborn, who gets under his skin and can annoy him like no other, and he doesn’t ever want to lose that.

Dan loves him and the fear of losing him is all-consuming, it’s gnawing and asphyxiating.

The lengths he’ll go to scare him sometimes, his willingness to give himself up completely for another person. If Phil asked, Dan would cut out his heart and hand it over to him, no fucking questions asked.

He’d move to America, to Australia or fuck it, even Antarctica, live with the penguins, if Phil wanted it, because Dan’s ties to this earth isn’t a flat in London or Manchester, it’s the snoring dumbass lying on the couch beside him.

Ten years ago on a windy October day at Manchester Piccadilly, Phil wrapped his arms around Dan, effectively severing the strings keeping his feet on the ground and when Phil’s lips finally met his, Dan realised gravity wasn’t the force binding him to Earth, Phil was.

Is.

How could he ever survive losing that?

And maybe that’s what love is, the fear of losing someone, but then, it’s also so much more. At least, Dan feels like it’s so much more.

It’s the inside jokes, the banter, their friends yelling about them cheating when they win another round of Taboo, it’s the quiet moments shared between them. It’s existing together and continuing to choose to exist together, Dan thinks.

He’s not the sappy type, neither of them are, really. They don’t share I love yous every day, or very often at all. Instead, they poke each other, annoy each other, shove and push and slap, they make each other laugh like it’s their sole purpose in life. Dan calls him idiot and twat and spork and Phil does it too, when Dan manages to really get under his skin.

But Dan feels it. He feels the I love yous in every single beat of his heart, feels it colour his black soul.

He feels it strongly and sometimes it’s a ferocious kind of love, sometimes it’s soft and mellow, but God, he feels it every time Phil smiles, every time Phil touches him, every time Phil sneaks into his thoughts. He feels it hot and burning when Phil takes him in his hand and makes him feel so good. And he feels it seething and desperate when Phil is angry with him.

Sometimes, he just feels it.

When Phil is sitting on the couch, playing video games and swearing like the internet wouldn’t believe, Dan the only witness to the filth flying out over Phil’s lips, he feels it well up in him, like a damn tidal wave, flooding his whole goddamn bloodstream.

When he’s fallen into the hole inside his mind, trapped and cold and lonely, and Phil jumps into the ugliness with him, with Dan, smiling like he would do it again and again and again for eternity if that could alleviate the pain from Dan, he feels it surge through him like oxygen.

Or when Phil has fallen asleep before midnight on New Years Eve, drooling and snoring, Dan feels it settle in his chest, clenching around his heart in painful, blissful waves as he watches him on the couch, sprawling porcelain skin dotted with nameless constellations.

And he knows Phil feels the same.

He’s insecure about many things, everything, except that.

Even when Phil doesn’t speak to him, when he ignores him or sends him frustrated glares, Dan knows he feels the same.

A sigh spills from Phil’s lips, the soft sound swirling in the lethargic silence and then he grunts and moves under the blanket.

The position he ends up contorting his body into looks awkward, uncomfortable, and Dan wakes him up, hand on his shoulder, “Phil, you slug, don’t sleep into the New Year,” because he knows Phil will grumble about his sore neck in the morning.

As the clock ticks midnight and the fireworks explode the sky in colours, Dan says, “I love you.”

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #fluff #new year #my phanfic #my post

32 notes · View notes

thegreatgrahamellingham · 6 years ago

Text

Old Wounds

The return walk had not been as troublesome as he had imagined.

Yes, he was forced to move with a cane. His left knee held nothing but contempt for him at all hours of the day and night. Indeed, pain had become a quite constant companion since that woman had taken it upon herself to maim him. Although, he did consider himself quite lucky all things considered. Were it not for that woman’s *sister* he would have lost the leg entirely.

Such relics of the near-past idled in his mind as he strode through Ironforge. The Entourage’s performance had been a resounding success, by all accounts. A strongly stocked audience, ample participation, and more than a few after-show curtsies, greetings, pictures and otherwise. It brought something of a smile to the director’s face. While he was not one to relish the laurels of accomplishment at the time -- in private? He allowed himself the indulgence.

On the way back to their luxurious -- albeit shared -- room in the great dwarven city, Graham passed a great many peddlers. One woman was particularly vocal regarding her fresh breads, even at the late hour, although what did the count of bells really mean in an underground city? He would have to inform Merrick of the affair, a good point to stop for their shopping before they were back on the road. Fresh bread could ease the irritation of transit.

Amongst the many stalls, marketwares, and other craftsdwarves of the festival and city, he actually came to a halt at a tiny tent. There was nothing remarkable about the vestibule, indeed all that indicated it amongst the various sales-slinging dwarves, humans, and more dwarves, was a little mechanical squirrel which sat on the front ‘counter’.

As he approached, the gear-operated pet chirped at him. It scurried quickly, briefly running in place as it ran into the tent to -- presumably -- acquire the proprietor. A smile fought itself to Graham’s face, curling back his moustache from the effort.

Within a few moments, a gnome came out, sloppily throwing back the flap of the tent. There was a haze to his eyes, and he coughed a few times before fixing his enormous quiff of pink hair. With one tiny finger he tapped the ‘counter’ and looked up -- way up -- at Graham, “Mmm .. ? Hmmph -- hmm. Hmmm. What are you interested in, tallsie?”

That particular noun produced a quirk of the eyebrow from the director, and he bowed a bit at the waist to get closer to the gnomish man. “Wine, women, song -- but I imagine you do sell some sort of wares in particular? I doubt it is wine, I hope it is not women, and you don’t look like a songbird to me. What is your stock in trade?”

The gnome replied with a little shuffle of his hips, and a proud stick of his thumb, “Your condescending tallsie tone is not necessary, sir! -- I am Wogbin Wigglethimble, and I sell the best engineered neckties and kerchiefs this side of -- of … of anywhere! Anywhere at all! Name it! Name a place, I’ll trounce their tailored accessories.”

The boldness of the gnome intrigued him, and Graham tapped his cane to the busy, evening market stone. The nearby hawkers seemed to finally give up at hollering at him -- his taste in tailoring always did bring salesman running. With a deep bow, accentuated by his free hand tucking to his stomach, he spoke clearly, “By your measure, I don’t think I need to name a competitor. Please, Mr. Wigglethimble, I should like to see your wares, if you would allow it.”

The humility of his tone seemed to confuse the gnomish tailor, who peered at him for a long moment to ensure the honesty of the sentiment. Satisfied eventually, the pink-haired artisan left, returning soon enough with case after case of tailoring accessories. They were all wooden, velvet lined, pinned inside with cravats -- neckties -- handkerchiefs -- braces -- buttons -- cuffs -- woven cufflinks -- intricately beaded brooches and badges -- men’s undergarments -- women’s undergarments -- undershirts … the list went on.

Then came the deliberation. The evening passed on deeper as Graham talked shop, as it were, with the gnomish tailor. Indeed, after an hour or more of conversation they became rather friendly with one another. As it turned out, sharing an interest -- particularly one so near and dear to Graham, and in this case Wogbin, as fine tailoring -- made for easy camaraderie.

By the end of thing, Graham had exchanged his contact information with the pink-haired Mr. Wigglethimble for future commissions -- he had hopes of a full set of undergarments fitted for use beneath Miss Hadley’s leotards -- and purchased a handkerchief, a necktie, and a new cravat for himself. As many as he had, he still found the thirsting urge for more. Pretentious? Perhaps, but he found a greater sprightliness in his step after.

Of course, in his travels back to the Entourage’s shared room, he paused at one -- well, perhaps two or three -- public houses to indulge in the local liquor. While he had positively no care for ale, stout, or other fermented low-alcohol malts, he did quite enjoy the spice of dwarven whisky. Never so fine a flavor as rum, especially from Kul’Tiras herself, but it would warm a belly in winter faster than a steady hearth. Once -- twice -- thrice, he slaked his thirst. By the end of it he was walking with a jolly sense, and a numb knee. Happy.

“Merrick -- Merrick!”

Graham burst into the troupe’s room, waltzing past the now-empty tavern below. The hour was quite late, and there were few to no patrons left eating dinner nor sipping their final drinks at the bar.

The man in question, Merrick, was still up. Poor foreman of the troupe that he was, he had remained awake in his busy-body nature. Cataloging equipment, labeling trunks, and otherwise attending to all the back-state duties that allowed for their performances to ever happen in the first place.

“Merrick, Merrick please -- come here, come here,” Graham offered in resplendence. He seemed wholly alight with joy -- quite a far cry from his usual dichotomy between reserved stoicism, and over-exaggerated showmanship.

“Wh’you all chipper on, Graham? Show wen’ well, did it? It did?” There was an easy, pleasant hope in the foreman’s voice.

“Of course, of course!” The director exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his cane. The other hand was busy cradling a wooden box about the length of a sword case.

“-- What y’got there? Gift from’n fan, or such? Bobbin does get a few a’ those, neh. Had t’start storin’ some of them with all th’mail flowin’ up into y’estate. Help me remind her t’actually open all those, I keep remindin’ her and she -- “

“-- Merrick! Please, please we can discuss that later! Here .. here -- Take this.”

Merrick peered at the director, confused as he was passed the wooden case, “What? What’n I do with this then -- you want it labelled fer’ the tram too?”

“NO! Nooo -- Merrick, open it. Open. Op-en.” The words began to slur out of Graham’s mouth, and he leaned against his cane quite heavily, a smile staining his features.

Obliging the request, Merrick unlatched the box. Within were pinned the items of which had been purchased from the tailor, all carefully folded and laid out in presentation.

“Wha -- what is … “

“Oh -- oh! Sorry, there’e -- there’re all in there, aren’t they? No no, here .. “ Graham spoke as he reached out, stumbling somewhat to put a hand into the case. He gently unpinned a necktie -- a well woven, masterfully colored affair which would run handsome with any shirt so willing to bear it, “This -- this is for you, for you, my friend.”

A little lick of emotion tucked up against Merrick’s eyes, and he smiled, nodding. “Oo -- ohh, well .. thank you, Graham. I duv’ not have cause to wear such a nice’un, but -- thank you.”

“I want you with us on stage more .. more -- Merrick. You do so much, you .. you work -so- hard for this all to -- “ Graham paused in his slurring to wave at the mess of equipment around them. Hoops, kerosene, goblin hydro-tanks for fire suppression, carefully cased aerial silks, costumes.

“-- all this to happen. You’re the rock! Our rock -- my .. “ All of the sudden, tears began to fight past the blinking of the director’s eyes. He pressed a fist to Merrick’s chest, thumping it there a few times before he could find the will to look up at him.

“I’m -- I’m sorry, Merrick. I’m sorry -- I’m sorry, I haven’t been -- I’m -not- … I’ve never been as good as you are, not … really -- and you deserve -- I just … “

Immediately, Merrick brought him in, holding him in a hug which let the case clatter to the floor. Little shushing sounds like the foreman’s fat lips, cradling the other man as he continued to cry.

The two men stood there for some minutes, before the sobbing grew too intense. Merrick knew this state well. It was far from the first time he had seen Graham fall into melancholy, into guilt, into shame. He simply picked up the elegantly dressed, well manicured malady of a man and carried him into his bed. All the while, his shirt grew more and more stained with salt water.

“I didn’t know -- I didn’t know, Murr -- Merrick, I was still .. “

“I know, I know, Graham. Y’didn’t know. It was my own problem -- is my own.”

“No! NO! It shouldn’t -- you were there for me when Huh -- Huh -- Harry … “

“That’s what we do, Graham -- Graham, please -- I promise. I promise it’s okay, neh? Y’always help me when th’nightmares run up, y’know that.”

“.. I … “

“Y’do -- Y’do. Promise.”

“.. I’m so sorry, Merrick … “

“I know, Graham, I know.”

#Tirasian Entourage #RP

7 notes · View notes

magistralucis · 7 years ago

Text

Trinitas [2017 EDM Secret Santa]

“My place is with you, always.”

(This is my @edm-secret-santa gift for @finex09! Merry Christmas, dearest. You asked for Seb/Kav or the Justice pair as part of your preferences; howsbout a generous helping of both pairings baked in fluff flavoured fluff with a sprinkling of extra fluff on top y/n?)

There is in Paris a street called Boulevard Saint-Germain, lit up with silvery blues and bright shimmering golds late into the night as yet another Christmas dawns upon this high city. Not much is open at this hour – if business still needs doing, the Champs-Élysées is nearby for that purpose, its parallel glory laid out just across the Seine – but the street lies fresh-faced and cheery for all those who wish to walk along it. Never mind that most would prefer the home and hearth tonight. Some things in life are best appreciated at the fringes of it, ideally with a partner in crime at hand.

Sebastian Akchoté is undergoing one such experience tonight. His new scarf is snug around his throat and his cheeks are pink. He exhales white smoke into the air with one breath and inhales the grey of nicotine with the other. He is not alone. No one walks the streets for the streets during the daytime hours. In the chaotic bustle of daily life, it is easy to miss the structural beauty of this city, where avenues broaden into leisurely stretches and narrow winding paths lead to small-time pleasures. But the shops and bars are closed now, the street itself is there for the taking; for Christmas its whole length has been decorated thrice over, lamp-posts wound with speckles of golden light and themed artwork dotted along the pavement. There is no rush here, no demand, only decorations and the serene glimmer of the Seine ahead to excite the heart and for the eye to be delighted at.

"Isn't it beautiful," he murmurs. His companion reacts with surprise, unspoken but with his head visibly tilting in wonder. Sebastian is seldom this straightforward about anything. "you reckon this makes up for the family somewhat, Vinco?"

Vincent Belorgey barks out a laugh, the first in a good long while. Sebastian grins back and they hurry on their way. Call it an improvisation, what they decided to do tonight. Vincent was originally planning to host his entire family for Christmas, disappearing for up to a week as he likes to do in order to eat and drink and be merry, but his plans have fallen through spectacularly this year. His brother's away in a different country altogether, held up by checks and delays. His sister apparently has a 'headcold' of such extent that their mother has gone to look after her for the holidays, and of course all of them live away from Paris. Vincent hasn't had the news long enough to work out a way to be with any of them, so he'll have to do without, a fact that struck him hard: "For all my numerous faults, I'm a family man, and especially so for the holidays!" He'd lamented, several times, while his friend puffed nonchalantly away at his cigarette in the background. "They all know that. All that food in the fridge, what the hell am I going to do with it?"

"Can't it wait until the New Year?"

"Some of it, yes, but the other stuff's – ugh – themed," Vincent wrung his hands briefly, but then straightened up again, keeping precarious balance between concerned and overblown. "but forget the food, I wouldn't be this worried if I could make my way to somebody."

Sebastian tapped away the ash. "Any news from your brother?"

"He's fine. In a hotel the last time I checked. Comped. Everyone's all right, I just don't remember the last time we were apart."

Sebastian finds that hard to believe. He has no such tale to tell, as the twenty-fifth of December is not as meaningful to him as it might be for others; Christmas takes place then if he's in France, but if he doesn't want to make a fuss about it, he's got another coming up on the seventh of January. His plane tickets are booked for the New Year, anyway, that means more to him than either of those Christmases put together. This year he decided to pass on most of the festivities because he was – ‘get this’ – working, more interested in echoes and melodies and birdlike sips of muscatel wine than anybody else. Anybody else, but Vincent.

Not that he means anything deep by it. Probably not. Vincent's a friend. No reason Sebastian can't spare a few hours to keep him company. He provided initial sympathy while Vincent mourned his situation and didn't shoot it down when he proposed they go for a midnight walk. At first he was unsure, but two hours in, this is shaping up to be the most relaxed Christmas he's ever known. Yes, they have no destination, and the weather might be so cold that his phone battery straight up died on him. But Vincent lent him his phone to keep, he's good company, and he just likes it when the older man smiles and sweeps back his silver windmussed hair as if to restore order into his world. It's better if Sebastian's the only one who can see it, and even more so if he's the one to inspire such gestures. Vincent's gladness has come to correlate directly with Sebastian's level of satisfaction with life.

"What time is it, Seb?"

"Eleven forty-three. Do you think we might run across someone we know?"

It's not that far-fetched a question. Vincent considers it seriously. "I doubt it. Even if we did, it'd have to be later, wouldn't it?" His phone chimes; a new email. Sebastian takes a peek first and snickers out loud. "Providing no one else's plans fell apart, I can't think of what they'd be – you're laughing. I never see you laugh. What is it?"

Sebastian holds out Vincent's phone, not to hand over, but only to look. "Here. Check this out."

"Eh?"

He's not even trying to hold back his smirk. "It's the adopted son."

A flash of sheer terror and confusion passes over Vincent's face before he gets it. "Oh, what does he want," he grumbles, but it's in high spirits; he's more chastising Sebastian for the reference, and playfully at that. "he and Louis went abroad for the holidays, no? What are they doing sending emails at this hour?"

"Well-wishes. Are you complaining?"

"Hell no. What does he say?"

Sebastian scrolls down. (His breath catches in his throat, registering that Gesaffelstein has worked his name into the email header as well as Vincent's, but he doesn't mention this fact.) "... It's not just the two of them, but the whole Bromance crew, he says. According to him, they're just glad they planned ahead to make plenty of time for themselves. ("Clever," Vincent nods, looking oddly envious.) They're all at a party now. There's a photo. Louis seems drunk. I don't know where Mike's undershirt has gone, and I doubt he knows, either. There's a cat. Hell. That's right. A cat. No word on whose it is. Merry Christmas and a most wonderful New Year to you, he says."

"Beautiful. What colour is the cat?"

"Mackerel tabby."

Vincent is delighted. He leans over to peer at the photo, smiling down at the happy pair and the cat that looks very much like his own. "He's a rascal, that Mike; really, both of them are. But I'm glad someone's remembered me at this hour. Where are they now exactly, did he mention the place?"

They're walking past a particularly well-lit sculpture. Sebastian shields the phone screen with a hand. "Bernkastel-Kues."

"Gesundheit. Where?"

"I just said." Vincent offers a cheeky grin. If Sebastian is in any way charmed, he's still too deadpan to let on. "He must be living it up there, Germany's lovely in winter."

Then, without warning: the warm touch of Vincent's hand upon his, followed by the linking of their fingers. Sebastian looks up and comes face to face with a knowing smile. "Shall we go together next year?" Vincent offers softly, tracing his thumb over Sebastian's own.

Oh.

Sebastian thinks his pulse skipped a beat.

This is not a new subject between them. They're very close. Sebastian's as aloof as they come, but he has always accepted the other's open affections with an attitude beyond simply putting up with him. Vincent's hugged him – he's kissed him – they've been teased endlessly (but always kindly) for their closeness all those years they've known one another. It's no coincidence that Gesaffelstein guessed, and rightly at that, that he and Vincent would be spending Christmas together. Why, it was only last month that Vincent himself suggested that maybe they could give it a try – nothing official, just to see where it might go, he said – and though Sebastian hasn't dwelt on the question since, he never actually said no to Vincent at the time. It just dawns on him then that all he'd offered was a shrug and a faintly thoughtful look; maybe this is the reminder. That is, if he didn't outright hurt Vincent back then and just never realized it until now.

The thought makes him anxious and deflective. "I thought you were a family man when it comes to the holidays."

"I am."

"Is there a leap of logic I needs must make here, Vincent?"

"I'd like us to go together, not that we have to go full speed ahead."

The chime of the bells of Notre-Dame echo across the river. Sebastian realizes that midnight's upon them, and is suddenly mortified down to the tips of his toes; it's officially Christmas and they're spending those precious first few minutes on this. He didn't want to argue – he wanted to give Vincent his well-wishes, and maybe affection then if he wanted- "If... if you're playing games, I'm not interested."

"And not because I'm older, just a friend, or a man?"

Sebastian splutters in shock, but there's no real retort to be made. "Oh, Seb," the older man laughs quietly, squeezing his hand once before he lets go. "I assure you I'm not playing games, but I'm not demanding that you let me sweep you off your feet, either. I should be thanking you twice over for spending time with me tonight; you didn't have to, but you did. And," he leans down, gentle-voiced amidst the last of the bells, brown eyes soothing blue. "I want you to know that you do more than enough for me, Sebastian, as you already are. Friend or brother, or more than that, you're family. You are that and dearly precious to me before anything else we might become."

"..."

"I would never trade that for a shadow of smoke."

I like you too much, is the conclusion that hangs suspended between them, but Vincent does not voice it out loud. He knows Sebastian is not one for excess emotion, not ones he has to wade through in public anyway; Vincent must consider a thanks appropriate, a little flirting acceptable, but that anything else needs pulling back. "Jardin du Luxembourg isn't far from here, it must be a pretty sight right now," he says, and offers his arm, beaming. "Monsieur."

Sebastian takes him up on it. He's warm, scented sweet, a gentleman for his best friend only. Along the way he shyly leans his head against Vincent's arm.

He seems to understand.

-----

There is in hell a place called Maleborge, made of stone the colour of iron like the circle that encloses it. Or so it's said, anyway, within the play of someone else's imagination - exactly the kind that should not be running wild in Gaspard Augé's mind as he stands at the back of this church. The theology brought up this chain of thought, his current situation led him to pursue it; Gaspard's not so much concerned with the thought of frauds and thieves and simoniacs as he can foresee something he might need to do in the near future. He sneaks a glance next to him. Xavier's eyes are closed, lips moving faintly with the hymn. His eyelids are damp and ghastly pale and there's no question that he finds the hymn comforting because it's familiar, because he need not work hard to follow it, because he's too unwell to do much else.

Né si stancò d'avermi a sé distretto. So Virgil to Dante. As he would Xavier.

How could he possibly not oblige this man, is the question.

Gaspard recalls the process through which they ended up here. For the past several years their families have gotten together for the holidays. But this year, Xavier has fallen sick with a cold, and will not be better for Christmas; he requested a quiet couple of days, and Gaspard decided to follow suit, despite the other's protests that it was his God-given right to go and celebrate with his family. "Not even for dinner and presents?" He'd asked through a fit of coughing. "Gaspard, I'll be asleep. It really is fine. Just bring me all of mine to open when I'm better."

"And that's where the catch is, trying to drag the entire pile with me onto the Métro," Gaspard replied dryly, but tucked Xavier in with care all the same. "my place is with you, always. Get some sleep. I'll wake you closer to evening."

"Nnh."

He didn't say anything more, just rolled over with his back facing Gaspard. His response was to ruffle his hair, concerned. Xavier's always been a good sleeper, especially in response to stress. And upon his waking, his guilt has worked as a moving force upon him. Despite his illness, and despite Gaspard's protests, Xavier insisted that they attend midnight Mass; it's tradition for both of them, starting at eleven at the Saint-Sulpice, and wild horses couldn't stop Xavier when he really has his mind set on something.

So Gaspard wrapped him up extra tight and off they went. Halfway to the church Xavier stopped against a wall, his eyes glazed with fever, and pressed his forehead against frozen brick. Even in present time he stands bent over, too much heat and weight upon his head; the twinge Gaspard feels in his heart is that of the old present, Xavier's pain wounding him now as clearly as it did back then.

"Xavier. Xavier, are you all right?"

Ah, yes. He can see him all over again, panting out a breath, eyes bright and cheeks far too pink for Gaspard's comfort. "I'm fine," he'd said, and he'd say it now if Gaspard nudged him and asked. "go, I'm more than strong enough."

Repeat question. How could he possibly not oblige this man?

"Go in the peace of Christ, thanks be to God!"

And then it's all over. The whole thing hasn't taken longer than an hour. The good thing about Mass as a tradition is that there are no surprises. Not too far in the distance, their Lady of Paris rings her bells, and the congregation buzzes with their requisite Joyeux Noëls. Xavier lingers as the others file out; Gaspard squeezes his arm as if to affirm that he was, indeed, more than strong enough. A shadow of a smile crosses Xavier's mouth like he's pleased. Together they wait, and they are the last people to leave, with Xavier leaning with catlike bliss against the first blast of icy Christmas air.

"Ahhh," he exclaims, and breathes in so deeply it looks like it'd hurt. When he regards Gaspard, however, he's bright-eyed in the good way. "do you know something, my dear fellow, I'm glad we went; I feel ready for the New Year already, like I'm done proving myself for this one. What do you want to do now?"

Good for him. Gaspard decides not to mention that this is the most anxious Christmas he's ever had; he's happy if his friend is. "I was about to ask you the same," he says quietly, fastening the last button on the other's coat. Xavier blinks at him, unsure whether to brush him off or accept. "is there something else you'd like to do, or would you like to go home?"

Xavier shakes his head. Gaspard doesn't protest, but places the back of his hand against the other's forehead, feeling for himself what the other was unable to voice all along: Xavier's just too warm for comfort. Forget soup and radiators and blankets. He's reached the stage where he needs to cool his body, and this weather's perfect for the purpose, no matter how he might answer for it later. In the absence of a destination he takes Xavier off the beaten path and proposes that they walk around the Saint-Sulpice, long enough to let the crowd clear, and this suggestion is accepted.

Before they go, though, he'd like to add his own blessings to the holiday. He doesn't have an excuse, aside from that he's relieved the other man's all right, and that Xavier isn't the only one who can be strong and bold. It's not new. He'll understand. "Wait," he calls, and beckons Xavier back towards the entrance; before any inquiry can be thrown in his direction, he dips his finger in the stoup again and crosses Xavier in his stead. "I feel like you could do with a second round," he explains as Xavier stares at him; a drop of holy water lingers on his forehead, beaded delicately against his dark hair, and Gaspard gives into the temptation to kiss it. "get better soon."

He wonders what Xavier's more confused about, the kiss or the gesture or his demeanour. "What doctrine call you this?"

"I don't. It's a blessing. For Christmas." Gaspard rolls his eyes playfully but leads him down the steps, his touch delicate against Xavier's gloved fingertips nevertheless. "There's a prayer that went with it, too. Would you like to hear it? - Our Father in Heaven, O you who are there, hallowed be thy name; visible in candlelight, going over where the river goes, bless us and this city both and please make my friend well. Amen."

Xavier gives him a deadpan look. "Happy Birthday."

Gaspard splutters in mock outrage. "Mec! Really?"

It's always been this way between them, one of them blurting out honest sentiments and the other deflecting. Thanks be to God that Xavier didn't react like this to his actual confession, some five weeks ago; even then, they were always so close anyway that being official hasn't made much of a difference. (They kiss and hold hands more often, yes, but they've had no more intimate or serious or revelatory considerations than what they were already sharing before.) So they've still got things to iron out, clearly, appropriate reactions to sincere good wishes most of all. Little do they know that two of their friends are having a similarly heart-racing time of things, less than ten minutes away. Unlike them, Xavier bails Gaspard out straight away, resting his warm cheek against the latter's shoulder as soon as they're at the bottom of the stairs. He doesn't say anything, but lingers there as they walk, eyelids half shut and dreamy with pleasure.

Later, he will trace the scales on Gaspard's arm, and whisper his thanks as he sleeps. But this is the moment Gaspard assumes it, and the weight on his heart lifts immediately in response; gratitude is always appreciated, yes, but it need not be verbal. Not when two people know each other as well as they do.

"... Gaspard?"

"Mm?"

Xavier raises his hand to where the Saint-Sulpice's Christmas tree stands. "Look over there... right at the top."

He doesn't quite get what he's talking about at first. But upon Xavier's insistence, he soon understands to look past the top of the tree. What he sees makes him smile: doves have settled in each crevice for the night, and from the way the lighting's set up, the golden star of the tree sits at the same level as a pair of snow-white doves tucked up soft and warm against each other. "Show-offs," Xavier mumbles affectionately. "I wonder if they know they're being watched."

The breeze is a gentle one. He catches a hint of Xavier's scent, warm and smoky with the faintest tang of salt.

"You know, Gaspard? ... They mate for life."

Gaspard leans down wordlessly to kiss the top of his head. Their hands have crossed the distance between them and have folded, one over the other, like a pair of wings settling after flight.

Xavier's eyes drift shut. He is too tired to talk much, but keeps pace with Gaspard without too much difficulty. Regardless of whether the pigeons know they're being watched, he knows he and Gaspard ought to be. "I wish they could have seen us tonight," he says, his voice nearly inaudible. "... they should have seen us tonight. I'm sorry I'm so ill."

Ah.

There it is, the heart of the matter, the one Gaspard set aside in case Xavier felt too guilty about it. Their families are still under the impression that they're just friends. Neither would have been surprised to know they were official, but they were planning to make quite the announcement of it tonight. This is why Xavier was so anxious to do something together, even with his illness, so that someone would see them and notice how loving they were. There's a pang in his heart but he presses it back, thinking instead of what he foresaw in the church; he looks down at Xavier and bends his knees, gesturing towards his back.

"May I?"

So Virgil to Dante. It is time to do what he must.

Xavier puts up no resistance. He settles himself against Gaspard's back and slumps contentedly against him as he stands. He's even lighter than the usual, not having had much of an appetite since his cold. "Please still like me?" He murmurs against the other's hair, nuzzling quietly into the birdsnest warmth, and Gaspard hums in response.

The water torture of his heels emptying them both down that Parisian street, evacuated as the channels of their hearts.

This will be one memory.

-----

There is in Paris a cafe called Les Deux Magots, host to Sartre and Beauvoir and countless discussions of prominence in prior decades. Like everything else it's closed for the night, but it is here Vincent and Sebastian pause to contemplate where they must turn; they could have turned left at any of the dozen splits in the road they've come, but they came here because this is the landmark they both recognize. "Hold on," Vincent calls, and quickly crosses the road to check the Mass timetable at the Église de Saint Germain des Prés. He comes back, shaking his head. "last one started at ten thirty, they're all gone now. A pity, even we used to go sometimes."

By this time, Sebastian has had the time to think over all that Vincent has said: Germany, being part of Vincent's family (whatever that means), where their friendship stands. He's not confident he's come to a conclusion, but he can comment on it. "You're a honest man, Vinco," Sebastian says, and Vincent turns around, eyebrows raised at the switch back to his nickname. "but it's seldom you give away so much of it. I was a little blindsided, I think."

Vincent offers a crooked grin. "Merry Christmas. Enjoy it while it lasts."

"Thank you. I, um. You know I'm going away on the thirtieth," the older man nods, a little more puzzled as to where this is going. "my maternal family, in Belgrade – I'm more for the New Year, really, and next Christmas is a long time away for Germany's sake – if you... if you wanted-"

"Mon Dieu, what are you guys doing here?"

Vincent whips around at the voice. What he sees makes him whoop for joy and run right across the road, again. Sebastian only wishes he could curse the heavens but hasn't the strength, not after seeing Xavier heaved upon Gaspard's back; now that's something he never imagined he would see. "Never mind us, what are you doing here?" Vincent's asking in the meantime, while Sebastian cautiously waits for the lights to change before crossing. "Are you coming back from somewhere?"

"Mass at the Saint-Sulpice," Gaspard answers in Xavier's stead. (‘Saint-Sulpice, why didn’t I think of that!’ Vincent exclaims, though he grins at the sight of Xavier trying to clamber down with as much dignity as possible.) He pauses to let him down proper, smiling as his partner throws his arms around Vincent, and then Sebastian too when he arrives. "Xavier's not feeling too well, so we opted to have a quiet Christmas, the two of us."

"Oh, excellent. Don't give it to me or Seb."

"Puh-lease. I'm not that ill. It's not because we didn't want to see anybody!" Xavier's perked up in the presence of familiar people. Sebastian shifts awkwardly on his feet, suddenly unsure what to do in the company of extroverts; but Vincent comes to his rescue again, resuming his place next to him to affirm them as a pair. This is very much Xavier's own language, too, as they find out when he looks at them up and down with a slow wicked grin. "... I'll be. Gramps got a bit lonely for Christmas, huh?"

Vincent's not shaken in the slightest. "Hardly. I'm never lonesome with family around, such is life." He squeezes Sebastian's hand. "And considering you ended up seeing us, I guess now's about the right time to extend that definition. You two lovebirds want to come along and tackle a fridgeful of pheasant with us? Compete for the wishbone, maybe?"

And this is how he and Sebastian never make it down to the Jardin du Luxembourg that night. But the trade-off is better; Vincent has made the one offer neither Xavier nor Gaspard can refuse, considering that they only woke up for Mass and haven't eaten in a number of hours. "Hell yeah, Vinco, lead the way," Xavier exclaims. "and do wish me and Gaspard good luck, if anything – it's been five weeks!"

So they all have a destination now, and they'll all be fed. Xavier hops back into Gaspard's arms, presenting a laughing and faintly damp weight from his fever starting to break. At least part of his illness has to do with the lack of food, and what better cure is there for a cold other than good rest and food and cheer? Vincent gains company and Xavier and Gaspard receives recognition. It’s not quite gift-giving, but maybe it’s better. And as for Sebastian, who has the most important and yet the least concrete desire of all, his initial deflated feeling is not made to last for long. When they're nearly back to his apartment, Vincent gives Gaspard the keys, and tells them to go ahead and set up something comfortable for Xavier to rest on. This he does with gratitude, which lets the older man turn back to Sebastian so he can give him the full attention he deserves. "I've made you wait because I was weighing up what my responsibilities were," he says. "and – you know something?"

"... Ah?"

Vincent smiles. "I confess I've never been to Serbia before."

He loves to travel, but has always lamented that he never got to do much of it in his youth. He's sometimes been ashamed of the fact, unwilling to be open about it to others. Sebastian gets it straight away. It's his turn to be the guide now, as Vincent has been for him. And unlike how he is with almost any other responsibility that falls onto his lap, he doesn't hesitate this time.

"I would like that," Sebastian whispers, and links their fingers together. "I'd like that a lot."

#edm secret santa #finex09 #fanfiction #sebinsky #justice slash #just kiss #bromance #trinitas #long post #:DDDD #i had so much fun with this one! I hope you enjoy it <3333333

37 notes · View notes

astrofireworks · 7 years ago

Text

house of cards: a night circus binu au (iii)

part i | part ii | part iii

As it turns out, Bin does not get to leave to visit Rocky for another three weeks.

He knows he should be grateful that he’s busy – the Magician just adopted two more students, both boys pulled from an orphanage three towns over, and they need all the help adapting to their new environment as they can get.

They’re curious about everything, as five year olds are, and Bin keeps them entertained with small tricks like turning leaves into hats and back again. When they marvel at him and beg to know his secret, he leans in with a conspiratorial whisper, “You’ll learn, if you behave.”

He creates sounds that dance around them, stoppers smells in bottles to take them to places they’ve never been to before, levitates them until they giggle and ask to be let down. He charms the planet mobile he has shifted into their room to sparkle and to rotate, tucks them into bed, shepherds them around the house when they have lessons.

He tries to recreate the atmosphere the Magician’s old students used to create for him when he was younger; he has had a good childhood in this home, and he wants these boys to have the same.

Sometimes, right after he tucks them into bed and flicks the lights off, he pauses, standing outside their door with his hand unconsciously rubbing his scar. He wonders if they too, will have challenges set upon them.

Eunwoo sits cross-legged on the floor of a room that might have once been considered neat.

The top of the carriage has been pushed open and half the room is lit in a pink-orange sunset. What used to be pale blue walls are now covered in symbols, taken from languages around the world – there are phonetic symbols, Chinese and Japanese characters, Egyptian hieroglyphs, alchemy ciphers covering nearly every available surface. Some are the size of plates; some are smaller than the nail on Eunwoo’s pinkie, and they are nearly all linked together by neat, silver lines, a network of ideograms that, in the dying sunlight, seems to shimmer.

There is a bunk bed, hidden from the main area by a translucent white curtain, pushed against the back wall of the train carriage, once home to Sanha before he moved out of Eunwoo’s carriage into one of the acrobats’. Eunwoo uses it now as storage for some of his books – there are volumes and volumes of leather bound books, carefully labelled along the spine with silver characters.

There are yet more books scattered around Eunwoo, flipped open to reveal tidy notes and diagrams. He sits in the middle of them all, eyes flitting between books and laptop and inert paper animals lined up on the coffee table in front of him.

He’s this close to completing the project – it’s been nearly a month since the tree was sent, and Zuho’s help in troubleshooting his magic has sped up the process tremendously. He has all the symbols for each animal listed out in a spreadsheet; all he has left to do is the actual origami and bring them to life.

Which proves harder than he thought.

Frustrated, he runs his fingers through his hair. He’s been watching instructional YouTube videos since he woke up, but he still can’t make sense of the last step in the dragon origami video. It’s ridiculous, how all his training has been centred around learning magic and how his challenges have focused on his use of spells and sigils and things; they were all meant to prepare him for this, but somehow, he has never learnt how to fold a stupid piece of paper.

There is a knock on the door. Eunwoo looks up, and waits. If it’s urgent, they’d knock again; if it’s MJ, he’d hammer until Eunwoo let him in.

A series of knocks follows. Eunwoo sighs, and waves a hand over the mess around him to make space. He loops the resulting length of blue silk around his belt and raises his voice.

“Come in, you loser!”

“Who are you calling a loser?” MJ huffs, kicking the door closed behind him. Eunwoo laughs and stretches; he’s been sitting on the floor for too long.

MJ heads straight past Eunwoo for his sofa, and flops face-first into it.

Eunwoo stands up to turn the electric kettle on – an MJ face-down on his sofa requires either tea or patience, and Eunwoo is already reaching for his tea leaves.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m so single.”

Eunwoo sighs and knocks a spoonful of leaves into his pot. He waves a hand and a soft ballad starts playing from a speaker buried somewhere on top of his fridge.

“Sanha’s been spending more and more time with that acrobat boy –”

“Yeah, well, he lives with him –”

“And I’ve been left all alone,” MJ continues as if he hasn’t heard Eunwoo. “All I want is someone to spend time with me.”

Eunwoo reaches overhead to pull mugs out of the cupboard. “I’m spending time with you.”

MJ snorts. “I want someone with whom I can listen to soft ballads! I want someone who will sing those soft ballads to me! What song is this – Day6, am I right? – I want someone who would make me, if I lost them, hundred percent relate to lyrics of said soft ballads.”

Eunwoo waits until the kettle beeps before lifting it up and draining the water into the pot. “You saying you wouldn’t miss me if I were gone?”

“I want someone to cuddle me! You know I’m big on physical affection; I need hugs and kisses to survive and you, Cha Eunwoo, would never.”

Eunwoo swirls the tea pot once, twice, thrice, then tips the tea into both mugs. “I would, I’m big on physical affection. It’s only because you’re too short.”

“I want someone my height! Or shorter! Who would hug and kiss me without whining about my height!”

Eunwoo sets the mugs down on the coffee table and takes a seat on the floor. “I know I’m an illusionist, but you do realise a fantasy-boyfriend will disappear the moment I stop –”

“Shut up, I’m not asking for a fantasy boyfriend, I want a real one –”

“Go out and get one then –”

“Sanha says he’s supposed to appear soon –”

“Yeah, but Sanha also said whatever he reads changes depending on whatever we do. You just going to sit here and wait until he walks into your life? What if he comes in only two years later?”

MJ just harrumphs and sits up to grab his mug. He takes a sip and grimaces. Smacking his lips, he waves his hand and Eunwoo’s cupboard flies open. “No sugar?”

“Nobody adds sugar to barley tea, MJ –”

MJ grumbles under his breath, taking another swallow of tea. Then he sits up and, squinting at the door, sweeps his hand in the general direction of the cupboard. Another mug flies out from Eunwoo’s cupboard and just misses MJ’s hand, instead crash-landing into the sofa.

“Oops,” MJ mumbles as Eunwoo shoots him a glare. He shrugs. His area of magic never required fine motor control anyway. He sets the mug down on the coffee table and shifts off the sofa onto the floor, and almost instantly, the door rattles and Sanha barges in and flings himself onto Eunwoo’s sofa.

Eunwoo sighs. So much for working on the challenge when he has to babysit the both of them. He gently floats the tea pot over to the coffee table and tips some tea into Sanha’s mug.

A loud, muffled string of words emit from Sanha.

Eunwoo pats him on the back absently and shifts the mug towards him. MJ squints at where the boy is sprawled out on his sofa.

“You think Rocky what?”

Eunwoo blinks. How MJ heard that, Eunwoo will never know. He turns to Sanha. “What’s up with your roommate?”

“I think he’s magic,” Sanha finally turns face-up, arm flopping off the sofa.

“You think he’s magic,” Eunwoo echoes flatly. Another one.

He stands up and heads to the bottom bunk to pull out a notebook, and flips to the acrobat section.

Park Minhyuk, 1999. Acrobat section, employed two months ago. Eunwoo remembers Jun from the acrobatics tent talking about him – apparently he did some magic routine involving dangling from the ceiling with only a ribbon around his waist. Now Eunwoo wonders if it was actually magic.

“– turned around and saw him, still asleep, levitating a good metre off the bed!”

Eunwoo wanders back to where the two are sat, notebook in hand. That makes a good six of them with magic that Eunwoo knows of. He wonders if Rocky’s magic is learnt or practiced or natural.

“Did you say anything? Or did you just leave?” MJ asks.

“Ran straight here,” Sanha answers, picking at his pyjamas.

“Have you read him?” Eunwoo interrupts. Could Rocky be his opponent? It would have been easy for his opponent to place the tree where he did if he were part of the circus.

Sanha looks up, almost offended. “I wouldn’t, he hasn’t given me his permission. From what he’s told me, though, he grew up in what seemed like a boys’ home. Then whoever he was studying under recommended him into the circus and he moved straight in here.”

“What kind of boys’ home recommends people into the circus?”

“A magic one, apparently,” Eunwoo remarks dryly.

He wonders if there are more boys, magic honed to perfection, from this home. He wonders if they, too, were taught with books and lectures or if they were coached through practice and lessons. He wonders if they were born with magic then cast aside and picked up by a home, like Sanha and MJ, or if they were born into the home, then cast aside and picked up by a magic user who saw their potential to learn magic, like himself.

He wonders how he measures up to them.

Bin sits quietly on a chair outside the Magician’s room, short legs swinging and toes nearly brushing the floor. He isn’t sure who the man in the Magician’s room is, but he wants to meet Bin, and so meet him Bin must.

The hallway is dark; the Magician’s floor of the house has always been dark, as far as Bin remembers, even though it’s on the top floor of the house. Bin rubs his toe at a spot on the floor – there is a clear spot where his toe has rubbed it and a layer of dust on his shoe. He frowns and focuses his gaze. Two seconds later, his shoe is clean and slightly shimmering gold and Bin leans back, satisfied.

The door swings open and he hears the Magician’s deep voice call out for him. He swings himself off the chair and walks in.

“This is Moonbin,” the Magician says, placing his hands on Bin’s shoulders.

The man standing across the room is double Bin’s height, and he has his arms crossed. He has an eyebrow raised and is staring at Bin hard enough to make him squirm.

“You can show him what you learnt last week, Binnie.”

Bin blinks, worried. “But you said not to show them to anyone –”

“He’s not just anyone, Binnie. Go on.”

Slowly, Bin raises his hand, palm side up. His eyes squint in concentration; he curls his chubby hand up into a fist, and when he opens it again, a crushed peony sits in his palm. A blink later, it is a rose. Another blink, and it is a wisp of gold smoke, trailing up into the air.

He watches as the man’s eyes widen slightly before he composes himself again. “A gold user? Where did you find him?”

“Bought him.”

Bin fidgets. The Magician always tells him alone, in private, with sad eyes and warm hands, that he never means it when he talks to other people about Bin like that, like he’s a product, and he always reminds Bin that he and Rocky and Jinjin are his sons no matter where they’re from; but it comes as a small uncomfortable reminder every time, like a pebble stuck in the very front of his shoe.

“He’s going to be better than you one day,” the man says, peering at Bin.

The Magician’s hands tighten on Bin’s shoulders, his own shoulders straightening with pride. “I am aware, yes.”

“I have a silver user,” the man says after a pause.

“You want them to compete.” The Magician returns flatly. He is not surprised; at last they have arrived at the purpose of the man’s visit.

“Indeed. So we can finally settle it; if practical lessons or theoretical lessons are better.”

“I believe the scales are already tipped in my favour. Your student lost the last one.”

Bin sees the man’s fingertips glow a deep red as he takes a deep breath to control himself. “One of my favourite students too,” the man says.

“And this silver user, you’re willing to lose him?”

“Oh, I won’t lose him. This little one right here, on the other hand…”

Bin shrinks back into the warmth of the Magician. He isn’t entirely sure what they’re talking about, but there is a barely controlled anger beneath the surface of the man’s eyes, a warning sign that Bin knows almost too well.

The Magician’s hands come up to stroke Bin’s hair, a soft weight. “He’s talented and he will be well prepared for this challenge, don’t you worry.”

The man scowls.

“If you’re so confident,” the man says, “Bind him.” He pulls a charm from his pocket and tosses it to the Magician.

The Magician stares at the charm, two interlocking triangles glinting innocently in the light of his room. Two equal shapes, inseparable and intertwined, inextricable.

Life-binding.

He does not need to accept this challenge; there is no need to bring any more of his students into this fight between himself and the man. Already he has seen a few students lost in his haste to prove that he is right, students that he still sees, smiling and laughing around the dinner table, when he closes his eyes.

Bin looks up at him, where he is still contemplating the charm in his hand. Bin’s eyes are large and questioning, almost like a cat’s, and his gaze is nervous and slightly frightened. The Magician knows he should not bring Bin into this, with his pudgy cheeks and his sweet voice, his bright laugh and fierce loyalty.

Most of the students who return successfully from their bound challenges are living their lives normally, he knows. They are stronger for it, they know what magic there is in the world and they know how to use it to their advantage. But the last student he bound into a challenge came back a shell of who he was, almost as if he lost a part of himself along with his opponent; he does not want to risk any more of his children ending up the same way. Yet…

He looks up, “If Bin wins, we end this.”

The man returns, nearly instantly, “Deal.”

He waves a hand, and the charm flies out of the Magician’s hand. The man catches it, and kneels down in front of Bin.

Bin shrinks away from him slightly, from this strange man and his velvet red eyes, but the weight of the Magician’s hands on his shoulders keep him where he is. They watch as the man threads the charm onto a silver chain and slides it around Bin’s neck.

The charm is cool against his chest, and Bin wonders for a moment what it means, why this necklace is put on him with such seriousness, why the tension in the room is not melting away.

But the man starts muttering under his breath and in the second it takes for Bin to realise that the charm is warming up, it starts glowing white hot, and Bin cries out in pain. His hands come up to tear the chain from his neck, but his fingers grasp at nothing – the chain, charm and all, has disappeared, leaving only two interlocking triangles on Bin’s chest.

Bin turns to the Magician, tears in his eyes, but the Magician is staring at the man, jaw set.

The man starts, “If you would like to bind my student –”

“No.”

The man raises his eyebrow.

“I trust that you will do it sufficiently,” the Magician says, turning away. One of his hands remains on Bin’s shoulders, the other hand is shrouded in white light.

A flash, and the Magician tosses an exact replica of the charm back at the man. It is gold.

Fitting, the man thinks, satisfied. He pockets the charm and turns to leave. “You get first move; I’m feeling generous today. Whenever you’re ready.”

The Magician stands in silence. His eyes watch the man start to dissolve, and he only looks away when he is certain there is no more trace of magic in the room other than his and Bin’s.

He kneels down in front of Bin, and brushes the hair off of Bin’s forehead.

“It hurt,” Bin whines softly.

“I know, and it wasn’t very polite,” the Magician says. His eyes are soft and sad, and Bin feels a pang in his chest, as ice-cold as the charm was burning hot. He places a pudgy palm on the Magician’s cheek, and he sees the Magician’s eyes glint with tears.

Somewhere in the distance a bell rings for dinner, and the Magician straightens up. “You should go for dinner. I won’t be joining you boys tonight.”

Bin blinks, and nods. He knows when he is being dismissed.

He is halfway out the door when the Magician calls out to him again. Bin turns back to see the Magician sitting behind his desk once more, hands folded in a steeple to cover his face. “You’ll start training with me daily instead of four times a week, Binnie. I’ll let you boys know your new schedules.”

Bin nods again. He is out of the room and is near the staircase when he hears the Magician whisper, quiet but loud as day, “I’m sorry, Bin.”

Bin doesn’t register what the Magician says until later that night, laying in his bed with a snoring Rocky sprawled out next to him and Jinjin in a bed across his own. He looks up at the ceiling at the planet mobile one of the Magician’s old students crafted for him, his hand laying across the new scar on his chest, and wonders why the Magician would be sorry.

i swear there will be actual binu soon ajsdlfhaskjdf

#astro #astro fic #astro fanfic #vivi shoots #night circus au #ayo bitches i'm back #this has been in my drafts for more than a week lmao i'm just going to throw it up here

33 notes · View notes