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bokettochild · 3 years ago

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The Scarf Fic!!!

Inspired by This post by @sekiumiarashi and written as a gift for @into-the-linkverse

I wanted to write Ravio sharing scarves, but I accidentally found that I like writing Ravio, and more importantly, writing him and Legend like they’re a pair of elderly people, because... just because.

Giving Legend glasses was a choice that I didn’t see coming, but do not regret. I do regret Ravio’s naming scheme, but it was too funny to back out so I kept pushing. I’m not sorry that you all must suffer.

Feel free to read this as being part of my main fic The Ties That Bind, but it can also be separate, just consider the uncle bit as being related to predecessors and stuff.

Enjoy! :)

Mr. Captain Hero Sir wasn’t wearing his scarf.

The one constant Ravio knew he could always count on during the war, was that the captain would be wearing that bright blue scrap of cloth with all the pride in the world, no matter what the circumstances (good grief, one time he’d stumbled upon the man bathing and the scarf had been the only thing that saved them both from embarrassment). But today, he wasn’t.

The heroes had come to stay at Mr. Hero’s house again after a long battle, and Mr. Captain Hero Sir was currently sitting on the couch in the living room, one arm resting across it’s back and his feet propped up on the table. A scowl marred his fine features and his neck was horrifyingly naked.

“Mr. Captain Hero Sir! Where is your scarf?” The words were out of his mouth in a moment as he looked around the captain to make sure it simply hadn’t fallen off or been laid aside (things the captain would never let happen, ever. He’d once been bleeding out and still managed to keep the trailing blue fabric out of the mud.)

“It’s shredded.” The captain sighed, a bitter look in his eyes as he motioned down to the arm hanging from a sling around his neck. “And I’m currently unable to mend it.”

The thought of the captain not having a scarf was so utterly horrible, simply unthinkable, that Ravio didn’t even think about what he was doing, instead bounding over to plonk himself onto the couch and quickly unwind his scarf before rewinding it around the captain’s neck (he had a dozen of these things anyway).

“There! You can’t be without a scarf.”

Mr. Captain Hero Sir smiled fondly, fingers reaching up to gently stroke the fabric. “And you can?”

Ravio shrugged. “I have a dozen of those, keep it, it looks fabulous on you!”

The captain’s eyes sparkled brightly, a familiar cockiness erupting within. “Are you kidding? I make everything look good! Even the Vet’s fashion choices would look fabulous on me!”

Ravio sniggered. He’d heard and seen plenty of the goods from Hytopia, and he wasn’t entirely sure that Mr. Hero even knew what fashion was. But then again, he was just a simple Lolian; for all he knew, things like bomb outfits and heart shaped collars were absolutely acceptable and normal in this world.

“But where is your scarf, Mr. Captain Hero Sir?” He asked after a moment, cocking his head on one side as the man looked at him oddly.

“Don’t you ever get tired of saying that? You can call me Warriors like everyone else you know.”

“I know, Mr. Captain Hero Sir, I don’t mind.”

Mr. Captain Hero Sir blinked. “O-kay.” Shaking his head, he answered. “Legend has it. Since I can’t use my dominant hand, he said he’d stitch it up for me.” The captain hero nodded towards the corner of the room, and Ravio followed his line of sight.

Mr. Hero was perched in that Lolia-awful rocking chair that had been in the house since Nayru knows when. It was a horrid thing in his opinion, old, out of style and absolutely stiff and uncomfortable, and he’d shoved it into the furthest corner of the room ages ago. Mr. Hero loved it though, although he never said why, and he didn’t seem to mind that it was now nearly next to the fireplace all the time, even if he did have to pull it out of the corner to properly rock in it.

Mr. Hero sat with one leg tucked underneath him and the other one hanging down to gently push at the floor, making the big chair rock steadily. Mr. Captain Hero Sir’s scarf lay in his lap and a pair of spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, a needle in his hand as he dutifully labored over the brilliant blue fabric of the famed scarf.

“His eyesight is terrible.” Ravio snickered to the Captain.

“But his hearing is perfect.” Mr. Hero’s voice rang clearly across the room, violet gaze darting up to look at them disapprovingly over the top of his spectacles.

The minute he looked away, merchant and captain shared a grin, only to burst into muffled laughter.

...

Mr. Smithy and Tune are cold.

It’s obvious from the way the two huddle in place at the kitchen table as everyone enjoys the meal that Ravio and Mr. Hero have pulled together (Mr. Hero is hesitant to let even the finest of chefs in his kitchen for some reason, despite having stated that Mr. Champion Hero is a very good cook and better than him (at cooking, life, or heroing, he does not specify)). Tune- Wind has all but attached himself to Sky’s side, using the bigger hero as a heat source as he slurps down his warm stew, and Mr. Smithy has bundled himself against the Mr. Rancher.

It’s only autumn, but both of the smaller heroes act like it’s the start of winter with the way they shiver and rub at their arms.

Mr. Hero’s only response when he asks is to sigh, but when he presses, his pink haired doppelganger eventually explains. “Their Hyrules were never corrupted, so they’re used to warmer weather most of the time, if not always. The mist from the ocean is the worst Wind knows, and heaven only knows if Four could survive a proper freeze.” Mr. Hero shakes his head, wiping the last of the broth from their meal off a plate with his dish-rag. “If they need something, they know to ask.”

But Mr. Hero isn’t really that cold hearted, he’s worrying too if the way his brows furrow and the lines around his mouth deepen is any indication. “I offered blankets, but they don’t want them.”

“Does this happen often?” He muses as he takes the plates from Mr. Hero to dry and put away, and to his displeasure, his housemate nods.

“When we come here or to Sky’s Hyrule, yeah. Usually, Wars will bundle them up in his scarf, or Sky with his sailcloth, even Twilight shares his fur, but...” Mr. Hero’s ears twitch irritably (truly adorable how they do that, although he’ll never say as much). “Sky’s asleep with his cape, the wolf pelt is a bloody mess after that battle, and I haven’t finished mending Wars’ scarf.” The ears flap again. “That thing is so dang complex and Warriors apparently hasn’t the faintest about the proper cloth to use to mend it. He used new material to mend a hole! Brand new material, Ravio! It’s an awful state and I swear if Styla could see it she’d faint dead away!” The vet huffed as he plunged another dish under the sudsy water of the wash tub. “Using new cloth on a worn scarf, it’s like he wants the thing to be ruined...”

Ah yes, Mr. Hero’s rants. There’d be no righting this one until he’d fixed the problem, and considering he’d only been torn away from the scarf that lay peacefully sitting on his rocker in order to make food, it was quite likely that once his kitchen was clean again, he’d be right back to working on it.

Ravio smiled, Mr. Captain Hero Sir would be quite pleased.

His gaze traveled over to where the hero in question was sitting. The captain and Tu- Wind, were talking on the couch, the younger staring nearly longingly at the rocker and the scarf on top of it.

Kid really liked that scarf, huh? If Ravio remembered right, half the time during his adventure with Mr. Captain Hero Sir, he’d constantly seen either Mask or Tune hanging onto it.

Somewhere inside of a bunny head, an idea sparked and green eyes brightened excitedly.

He’d donned a new scarf just before dinner, but it wouldn’t do quite right, so instead, he darted off to his room, much to the displeasure of his dish partner as his rag flew into Mr. Hero’s face and left his housemate spluttering indignantly.

“Ravio! You didn’t finish-”

“One sec!”

Mr. Hero’s grumbles followed him out of the kitchen, but faded as he darted into his room and towards his wardrobe. It was the work of moments to select two of his largest scarfs, and less time than that to dart back out to the living room and wrap one around each of the smaller heroes.

“There! Snug as a kit in a quilt!”

Two small heroes stared down at the black and purple fabric that now draped around their shoulders, smiles brightening their flushed faces as Tune buried his face happily in the fabric with a bright hum.

“Thanks, Ravio!”

“Thank you.” Four’s eyes glimmered warm brown as he sunk into his seat, only the top of his face and his hands visible beneath the striped fabric.

Mr. Captain Hero Sir’s eyes sparkled as the man looked up at him, and Ravio fought the blush that rose in his cheeks as he fiddled with his own scarf (he’d mess with his sleeves, but he’d shed his robe to help do the dishes, and his undershirt wasn’t nearly long enough to fiddle with). “Don’t mention it, it’s-” He chewed his lip for a moment before a smile broke loose, the one Mr. Hero said was cheesy and fake, the one for when he was trying to sell things. “It’s a complimentary gift for exceptional customers and/or guests!”

“We’ve never bought anything from you.” Four deadpanned, eyes glinting with a smile Ravio couldn’t see past all the scarf in the way.

“Yet!” Ravio chirped back, and darted back into the kitchen to help Mr. Hero finish doing the dishes.

...

Mr. Champion keeps rubbing his scars.

The heroes had left for a short spell, traveling off to fight more monsters only to be dumped in the orchard a week or so later (Mr. Hero said it’d been a month and a half for them, but by his time it was a week). And when Ravio said they’d been dumped in the orchard, he meant in the orchard. He’d been busy picking some of the ripened apples before the birds took them all (most of the wild birds knew better, but still, it was the principle of the thing, fresh fruit was rare in Lorule) when a shout and the snapping of branches had sounded all about him.

Ravio had shrieked in surprise, thinking that he was alone only to find (once he’d removed his hood again) that there were nine heroes hanging from various tree branches around him, and Mr. Hero himself was hanging upside down, one foot caught in the branches, as his face dangled inches from Ravio’s own, a scowl darkening it as a string of mumbles escaped his room-mate.

He couldn’t stop himself, he kissed Mr. Hero’s twitching nose.

Mr. Hero shrieked in surprise, jerking in place and effectively loosening himself from the tree, falling all over Ravio in the process. It was worth it, Ravio giggled as he lay on the ground. Mr. Hero was so like the bunnies in Lorule and their noses simply demanded to be kissed.

Laughter and grumbles sounded around them, the heroes pulling themselves down from the trees around them.

Captain Hero Sir Jr. moved with surprising ease, despite his heavy armor, clambering down the tree with the same grace that Mr. Champion did most of the time. Some things never change, he could still see him climbing up onto Mr. Captain Hero Sir’s shoulders in the same manner (only now he rather doubted either of them would attempt to do that anymore, Captain Hero Sir Jr. was much bigger now).

It felt entirely too natural to lead them all up to the house, Mr. Hero trailing at the back with a bushel of apples in his arms. Settling them all down in the kitchen was easy as could be, and he and Mr. Hero worked quickly to set some fresh apple cider to boil before starting on a meal for everyone.

He missed not having them all around, it was going to be awful dull when they all had to go back to their worlds when this adventure was over again.

He was determined to enjoy the moment for that very reason while they all sat about in the living room, sipping apple cider as Mr. Hero had settled down in his blasted rocker, spectacles on his nose and more mending in hand. He never would rest until the light was faded, and Ravio had half a mind to take out his knitting (he was still currently short three scarves) before he decided to simply flop down on the nearest open spot on the couch and just enjoy his cider.

Except, Mr. Champion was sitting in the seat beside him.

The young hero kept rubbing at his scars, eyes distant, and despite the numerous amounts of times that either Mr. Captain Hero Sir or Mr. Rancher tried to move his hands back down to the still full mug he was cradling in his other hand, Mr. Champion (he was younger than Ravio though...would Mr. Be an appropriate title for him?) kept reaching right back up to rub his neck and face.

The scars were enflamed, harsh red and puffy where they peeked out from beneath the collar of his shirt, and it made Ravio wince to even think of how he’d acquired such injuries that would scar so.

He only winced more with every drag of broken nails and rough finger pads over the skin, but Mr. Champion- Wild? He could think of him as Wild right? He was kind of the kid’s uncle in a weird way- didn't seem to even notice that he was doing it. Cornflower blue eyes stared unseeing into the fire, face still and only his hands moving.

Mr. Captain Hero Sir sighed, worry pulling his lovely face into shadows as he grasped Wild’s hands again. “Wild, hey, no more of that, okay? You’re hurting yourself.”

Fingers twitched, but no other movement came from the young Champion until Mr. Captain Hero Sir (wait, was Wild also Captain Hero Sir Jr.? Or was he Champion Hero? Oh fiddlesticks, he wasn’t sure anymore) let go, and then broken nails moved right back up towards swollen flesh.

Ravio shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

Mr. Hero had spaced out before, did it a lot when the sun set or when he was outside, but he never scratched like that. He sang and fiddled with his rings. If Wild Champion Jr. Sir (oh heavens) did something like that, it would be fine, but this was... this was rather unsettling.

Ravio shifted in his seat, curling around his mug as Mr. Captain Hero Sir had to reach out to stop the wild-child's hands from reaching the inflamed wounds (the last scratch had broken skin, and a thin trail of red has appeared).

It was without a thought that he acted, pushing his mug into the captain’s hands and promptly looping his scarf around Wild Champion Hero Captain Jr.’s (oh Lolia help) neck.

Thoughtless fingers nose just as before, but this time, they brushed against soft fabric. Ravio tensed, dearly hoping that his scarf would not be ripped off or simply pushed aside.

To the surprise of all of them, rough fingers brushed over the fabric, paused, and gently stroked its material. The Champion’s face did not move, but slowly, long fingers ran down the fabric, rubbing it between their tips as cornflower blue eyes blinked slowly. In an instant, the young hero’s gaze was lost to sight as the fabric was nuzzled with all the fondness of a cub nuzzling their parent.

“He likes scarves, of course he does.” Mr. Rancher chuckled wearily, a tired smile playing over his features as both he and Mr. Captain Hero Sir sat back (but not before Ravio took his mug back).

“So he does.” Mr. Captain Hero Sir sighed, eyes fond as he watched the hero in question curl up on the couch, face lost in purple fabric and bare toes the only moving part of the kid. The wiggling toes were almost like a dog wagging its tail, but weirder, still, he wasn’t one to judge.

Mr. Captain hero Sir caught his eye. “Thank you, Ravio.”

“Customer loyalty.” He murmured softly into his mug.

He caught the way Mr. Hero and the others stared at him though, and he could only be thankful his hood shaded his face enough to hide his pleased blush.

...

Mr. Rancher needs to wear more color.

It’s like looking at the photos of Mr. Hero from just before he’d come around. Mr. Hero always fussed at him for going through things, but he couldn’t help but laugh at how odd his room-mate looked with black hair and dark clothes. “You dyed it?”

“For safety reasons. How many people have you see in Hyrule with pink hair of all things? It was a dead giveaway!”

“But you’re the hero?”

“A hero whose face was plastered on every wanted poster in Hyrule. Still is in some cases.” Mr. Hero had grumbled, folding the last piece of newly clean washing and throwing a pointed glare in his direction. “Life on the run sucks. I was thirteen and just wanted to be ignored.”

A glance at the dark haired but smiling youngster in the photo and back up to the bitter pink haired hero he knew told him (even if Mr. Hero hadn’t already) how well that wish had been fulfilled.

But seriously, those photos at least showed Mr. Hero with some color. The most Mr. Rancher wore was that horrid sash and obi, and the orange and blue looked simply terrible with his color scheme, something that, when brought up to Mr. Hero, his friend seemed to agree with, stating that ‘he’d never get into Hytopia’s capitol looking like that’.

Ravio had never been to Hytopia, but based on the stories and mannerisms Mr. Hero took on after that adventure, he can only agree.

Originally, he’d hoped he could simply find something among his wares that he could sell to Mr. Rancher, but that proved to only be so effective, after all, when one sells weapons and items, it’s hard finding a normal piece of clothing amidst all the blessed or charmed pieces.

Oh well, he was counting on ending up sharing the rest of his scarves with them all anyway.

It wasn’t any dramatic or particularly touching moment when he walked up and slung a clean scarf around the rancher’s shoulders, but Mr. Rancher, after initially starting, smiled as he touched the sun-warmed material. Of course, that expression quickly faded into one of awe as the hero squeezed the fabric lightly.

Mr. Rancher’s eyes lit up like a dog being given a new toy (Ravio wasn’t stupid, he knew a dog when he saw one) and the man proceeded to continue squeezing and petting the springy fabric with eyes sparkling as if Ravio had just handed him the stars themselves.

He was down to two scarves now, but it was worth it.

...

Mr. Traveler Hero is small.

He is small, and wild, and the clothes he’s wearing are nearly too small. The traveler is a growing child (never mind that he’s still a teenager himself) and he’s out and about in nearly threadbare garments that leave Ravio shivering at the mere thought of wearing.

And this is the other hero who grew up in a corrupted world where the sun doesn’t shine as bright as it should and the winters are always too long.

Ravio doesn’t think twice when he sees the first signs of cold in the young hero. He’s got two scarfs recently made, and he’s only too happy to share.

Purple and black stripes nearly drown the young hero when he walks over and wraps not one, but two of the comfiest scarves he’s ever made around the youngster's neck.

Like Mr. Rancher, nothing is said or done immediately, but Mr. Traveler Hero smile at him shyly, holding up a hand and scampering over to his bag.

The pair of polished stones he’s given don’t make much sense, but he catches sight of Mr. Hero and Captain Hero Sir Jr. Both smiling over at the two through the doorways.

“Thank you.” He murmurs warmly, tucking the rocks in his pocket.

“Thank you.!” Mr. Traveler smiles in return, eyes twinkling in the shade of the room and scarf tails flapping like the four wings of a fairy as he spins around to show them to Mr. Hero.

...

Captain Hero Sir Jr. has nothing comfy to wear.

Once more, the heroes had been whisked away, and once more they’d appeared at the house weeks later, looking exhausted and utterly soaked.

The chill autumn rain might be to blame for that.

Mr. Hero hadn’t even protested that... Wild (he’d just call him Wild, he couldn’t do this title thing this time) had bustled off into the kitchen to warm some tea, and instead promptly collapsing in all his soaked glory onto the couch.

The other heroes followed suit, and Ravio (like a good host) immediately hopped up and fetched some blankets. Mr. Rancher was already stoking the fire, and with a bit of work, Ravio was able to help Mr. Her grasp what was left of his own steaming mug of cider (his hands were quite the state in this bitter weather) before popping off to the kitchen to brew more of the sweet apply goodness to share with the heroes.

Armor and over-clothes had been stripped off, sitting wet and dripping in one corner (Mr. Hero eyes it with distaste, knowing just as Ravio did just what that would be doing to the floor) but neither housekeeper said anything, Mr. Hero nursing his cider and letting its warmth sooth his gnarled fingers, and Ravio puttering about with a kettle and mugs to share with everyone else.

Blankets had been pulled from the shelves and were cast around quaking shoulders as chattering teeth uttered breathy thanks to the purple-robed merchant.

There was nothing like being thanked for good service, and Ravio beamed as he passed between them.

That smile faded however when he noticed Captain Hero Sir Jr.

The man sat in a thin linen shirt and under-armor, looking far from being near the level of comfort that the rest did in their undershirts and pants (or a dress in Mr. Hero’s case).

Come to think of it he’d never seen Captain Hero Sir Jr. dress in any comfortable manner since he’d come along behind Mr. Hero that first time since they’d started this adventure. Did the poor kid- er... Man, not have anything comfortable to wear?

While the heroes slept that night, in the two bedrooms and sprawled across the couch, Ravio kept Mr. Hero comfortable, sitting before the fire with his knitting needles while Mr. Hero repaired yet more damaged clothing (poor mister Chosen Hero’s sailcloth had been damaged somehow).

Usually, one or the other of them would eventually remind the other to go to bed, but both were so wrapped up in their work (Mr. Hero started singing even, that goddess ballad Miss. Princess told hm about) that neither seemed to remember to check the clock, or even to go to bed.

Come morning, Ravio finds that he has fallen asleep wrapped in the tails of the scarf he’d been making, and Mr. Hero has become entangled in his mending, a peaceful smile on his face, worn fabric brushing his cheeks and spectacles teetering precariously on the tip of his nose.

Mr. Chosen Hero is the one who wakes them up, stirring awake with a violent sneeze, but he smiles fondly when he lays eyes on them, opening his arms in an offer of a cuddle if either feels inclined to return to sleep. Neither does, but Ravio appreciates it, and even if Mr. Hero doesn’t say as much (quite the opposite really) he knows his friend does too.

The day is normal, as far as a day with nine heroes in the house can be, and with the rain still pouring, they spend their time cleaning, although Mr. Hero shoos them all away after a time because they’re not doing it the right way (AKA Mr. Hero's very practiced manner of cleaning and organizing). It’s after Mr. Hero had shooed them all into the main room while he organizes the basement (thank goodness, it's an awful mess down there) that the talk starts.

It’s cold out, and most of the heroes have donned the scarves they’ve been gifted over time (Ravio isn’t blushing, he’s not). Smiles shine and laughter rings as they explain to their brothers how they’d some to have them.

“And he just... threw t at me! Not a word, not an explanation, just came up and tossed it over my shoulders.” Mr. Rancher chuckles. “Kinda like how my ma would do when I was a tot, jist wrap it up and ‘round soon as the cold weather came a’creepin’ up.”

The others nod, smiles fond. Ravio beams as he lights the candle set near the masks on the wall.

“I had one too once,” Captain Hero Sir Jr. Muses aloud. “Back in the war, you remember, Wars?”

“Do I ever.” Mr. Captain Hero Sir smirks. “I used to tie you up with that thing when you got too rowdy.”

“You and the general both.” Captain Hero Sir Jr. Chuckles, soft and deep and so different from his nearly witch level cackle that Ravio remembers.

“What ever happened to it?” He asks curiously, blowing out his match and turning to move towards the rest of the group.

Captain Hero Sir Jr. Smiles at him, eyes far older but far more at peace than they used to be. “I outgrew it. It was a child’s scarf, even if it was a bit big at the time. I considered bringing it, but it just doesn’t do much anymore.” A thin smile pulls at his features, almost guilty as he admits “I didn’t take the best care of my clothes as a kid.”

Well, that doesn’t matter over much. Ravio smiles at his young (old) friend, and around him he can hear the others whisper and laugh. They know what’s happening, and Captain Hero Sir Jr. Does too if the twinkle in his eyes is to be believed, so Ravio makes a point of flourishing his gift with all the fuss he can before reverently draping the garment around the tall man’s neck. The eldest hero has to stoop, even from where he’s sitting on the couch, so that Ravio can reach, but it only adds to the mock reverence as Ravio adorns another bare neck with one of his toasty scarves.

“Mind you take care of that one,” He scolds lightly. “I was up all night making it.”

“Yes sir.” Captain hero Sir Jr. responds with a playful smile in his eyes, even if his face is the picture of obedience.

Giggles sound around them, and despite hating it, Ravio takes the only seat left available (he really hates that rocker) and curls up. “You all be quiet now, I’m tired and need a nap.”

“Okay, gramps.” The sailor whispers faintly, a giggle in his tone as titters and chuckles erupt.

Strangely, it doesn't take too long for Ravio to doze off, especially when Mr. Hero settles in beside him and starts to rock the stupid chair, humming lightly as fingers work over another project, the light buzz of activity all around them as Ravio allows himself to be carried into dreamland.

...

Mr. Chosen Hero has caught cold.

He’s not surprised, not with how drenched the others all were day before last, but the Skyloftian is shivering madly, miserably sniffing into handkerchiefs and trying his best to avoid drinking the nasty herbal teas that Mr. Hero claims are good for people. Ravio doesn’t care if Mr. Hero drinks them, but for pities sake, drink black tea if you’re going to drink tea! What sort of decent being are you if you’re just drinking plant water?

“Legend, I’m serious, I don’t-” Mr. Chosen Hero breaks off coughing. “I don’t think tea will-” Another cough, nastier than the last. “I don’t think it will help.”

“Trust me.” Mr. Hero already has a small table pulled up to Mr. Chosen Hero’s side, tea and handkerchiefs both set carefully on top. “Tea’s just what you need. Eucalyptus does wonders for a cold.”

“He’s right.” Mr. Traveler Hero chimes in, gaze warm and sleepy as he sips some of the tea himself. “And it’s got a calming effect.”

Mr. Hero cocks a brow. “What are you, ‘Rule, a koala?”

No one knows what that is, except Mr. Traveler Hero, but it doesn’t seem to matter much, as Mr. Chosen Hero breaks into another coughing fit and bundles a blanket closer around his shoulders, voice hoarse when he speaks. “I wish it’d stop raining. I didn’t even realize-” A cough sounds and is followed by a sniffle. “I didn’t realize the surface got so wet.”

And Ravio sees where this is going, the shivering hero, the gentle atmosphere. He doesn’t bother waiting for Mr. Chosen Hero to sniffle again, he just wraps a scarf around the man’s neck, tucking it in close enough to keep the heat in.

The smile exchanged is silent, and Ravio is thankful that the others aren’t about at present to tease, only Mr. Hero and Mr. Traveler Hero are here with them, and neither says a word as they sip their leaf water.

“I’ll make you some real tea.” He murmurs softly, offering a wink and a gentle pat to the knee before he’s off towards the kitchen.

...

Mr. Hero doesn’t have a scarf.

It was glaringly obvious, as whenever the rest of them appeared at the house, they'd all be wearing their Ravio gifted scarfs proudly, smiles on their faces as the ends trailed or dragged after them (despite that, they were all in perfect condition).

But Mr. Hero didn’t have a scarf.

He was never going to get one either.

They’ve all just returned to the house (it’s been two months since the last visit) and the snow outside it up to Ravio’s waist in places. It took him ages to shovel himself out of the house, but the harvest of apples is in and the bees are well prepared for the winter, and Mr. Hero finally tidied the cellar enough that they have room for food storage aplenty.

Cider and tea are brewed as the heroes gather, fluffy socks and scarves on full display as they sit around the fire.

Mr. Hero is shivering.

Curious glances are thrown at both himself and Mr. Hero as the heroes drink their beverage of choice, concern in their gazes as Legend eventually gets up to pull the most ridiculously bulky quilt in the entire house over his shoulders. He’s all pink in the face and he’s shaking like a leaf, and it’s only because he won’t hold still that Ravio hasn’t attempted to try and help him hold a warm mug enough for his fingers to relax.

Mr. Hero moves like a man thrice his age, if not more, and he creaks worse than the roof does in the wind outside.

“Where’s your scarf, vet?” Mr. Captain Hero Sir murmurs softly, one brow raised as he watches Mr. Hero fumble with the quilts edge.

“My what?”

Glances are exchanged among the others. “Your scarf? The one Ravio gave you?”

“I don’t have a scarf.” Mr. Hero answers, dropping the quilt again with a scowl that makes his nose wiggle.

“But” Cornflower blue dart between himself and his housemate. “Aren’t you two friends? How do you not already have a scarf? Even Time did!”

“It’s a customer service thing.” Mr. Hero murmurs. “I’m already a loyal customer, so he doesn’t waste resources on trying to earn my loyalty. That, and I don’t wear purple.”

He shakes his head, loosening his scarf as the eyes of the others twinkle, but rather than taking it off, he only loosens one end, before wrapping it tightly around his friend’s neck, fluffing up the quilt in both of their laps, and settling a warm mug of cider in Mr. Hero’s hands.

“Nonsense!” he chirps, trying not to be hurt at the obvious surprise on his friend's face, so he muses Mr. Hero’s hair instead. “You have every item I offer except this scarf. Why would you keep buying from me if you get it? I have to keep you from having one until I get something better in, otherwise business will plummet!”

Knowing smiles are exchanged amidst the others, but Mr. Hero just sighs and shakes his head, leaning slightly into Ravio’s side as he sips his cider.

A bitter expression overtakes Mr. Hero’s face. “You forgot the cloves.”

“Oh shoot!”

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #scarf fic #scarf man #ravio #lu warriors #lu wind #lu four #lu wild #lu twilight #lu time #lu sky #lu hyrule #lu legend #scarf #fluffics #I almost forgot Hyrule!#I'm so sorry baby!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years ago

Text

Hue and Cry XVI

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), pain/wounds, mild violence.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: Barnes lashes out in his grief.

Note: So, it’s not over but most of you guessed that :)

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The sun cast a sardonic light on the cold winter morning. The first flakes of snow fell the night before but glistened as they melted away with the unexpected bloom of light on the horizon. The men began digging at dawn for the interment, a pit to be unmarked and unseen. The woman would be buried as any servant was; without any formality or fanfare.

Lord Barnes dressed in black, the sole attendee of the service. He had dragged a priest from the castle chapel to say some ordained words. The men climbed out of the six-foot hole as the cart was led over by two others, the wooden box atop it.

They lifted it, lifted her, and maneuvered it down into the grave with ropes. The holy man recited his verse but the duke did not hear them. He was only torn from his own grief as he heard footsteps on the crisp grass. He looked over as the foreign baron came to stand beside him, his dark eyes ahead of him as the men began to shovel dirt onto the wood. The sound was harsh in the early hour.

“Go,” Barnes growled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Well,” Zemo said, “how is that? After all Werner did for you; for her. I should like a proper farewell.”

“You didn’t know her,” Barnes hissed.

“Oh, I didn’t, but are you so sure that you knew her so well?” Zemo challenged, “you knew what you wanted from her--”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barnes lifted his chin and turned to face his foe, “I will not tell you to leave again.”

“I owe you no obedience, my lord,” he said flaty, “I think you’ve misunderstood that entirely. The ground we stand on is even. I am beholden to you for nothing. Given that it was my physician who saw to her comfort in her last hours, I’d say you--”

His voice was cut off by the hand at his throat. The duke throttled the Baron with his only hand and backed him away from the grave as the dirty continued to rain down. He marched him across the grass as his blue eyes burned with a selfish sort of hurt.

“I am not stupid. I know you came to rile me and you’ve done just that so go! Go before I put you down beside her,” Barnes shoved him away so that he stumbled.

Zemo stood and touched his throat as a rare glimmer of anger flashed across his features. He raised his chin and fixed the fur collar of his cloak. He nodded as he set his jaw and peered past the furious duke.

“She is free now,” Zemo said, “from you most of all.”

The baron turned away and strode from the green. The duke turned and watched the diggers as they kept at their work. A lump lodged in his throat and he lowered his head. He could not deny Zemo’s words, in fact, they sank so deep his heart ached. He knew as all did that her death was bloody on his hands.

🏰

Lord Barnes watched from the window as the line of carriages rolled through the castle gates. He was smug at the Baron’s premature departure but he didn’t truly feel any better than he had the day before. He expected the knock at the door and he was not surprised by who drew him away from the window.

The door opened before he reached it and his sister blustered into the chamber. Rebecca snarled as she came to face him, of the few who could match his own temper. Her nostrils flared and hardened her soft features as she glared at him.

“You’ve ruined it!” she spat, “you’ve ruined it all! He’s gone and it’s all your fault, you dunce!”

“I ruined it? You really think you could have trusted him? I merely saved you time and gold,” Bucky scoffed as he shrugged her off.

“You are so conceited. Don’t you realise we need this alliance? It’s much bigger than your little maid!” She barked, “oh, all this just to fu--”

“No, no! Shut up!” he spun and pointed at her face, “you don’t speak of her. Your or anyone else.”

She reeled and chortled. She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. She licked her lips sourly and shook her head, “Better yet, I will not speak to you again. You have until the end of the day to leave the capital.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m serious,” her brows arched, “Samuel agrees with me. You will go and you will not return. Go back to your castle and be alone and bitter as you always wished.”

Barnes huffed and mirrored her own fury, “fine. I told you, I never wanted to come here.”

“So it is my fault now?” she snipped.

“No, your majesty,” he said dryly, “how could anything ever be your fault?”

“Don’t,” she warned.

“Oh, queen’s are so powerless,” he rebuffed, “how every woman in the realm must pity you.”

“You’re a bastard,” she sneered.

“We both share the same blood, the same flaws,” he slowly walked back to the window, “you will see in the end that I did you a favour. That man cannot be trusted.”

“Oh, do get over yourself, brother,” Rebecca snapped and the slam of the door marked her exit.

Lord Barnes stared down at the wintery grounds then up at the grey sky. It was due time he went home. To be alone. For good this time.

🏰

Flickers of light skimmed beneath your eyelids. Distant memories, dwindling dreams, and unheard words.

The pain came first. The agony down your left arm and hip, the way it rippled through you like a crashing ocean against the shore. The ragged breaths grew to groans as the ground moved beneath you, rattling like your bones and your head. The noise of horses and wooden wheels in the dirt. The smell of leaves and oak. The feeling of life come back to you.

You could not move your left arm, it was bound and even if it was not, you couldn’t have lifted it. Your left leg was in similar shape and your entire body was bound in pain. The confusion laced your mind and kept you from thinking too deeply as you realised you were in a box, the darkness broken only by the thin wisps of light between the hammered boards.

“Hello?” you called, your throat dry and sore. It hurt to speak and your lungs squeezed terribly.

You bent your right arm, your shoulder straining as you did, and hit the lid. It did not budge and you hit it harder. Your uncertain strikes turned to a steady and frantic pounding as the blackness began to suffocate you. You had to get out. You would die in there. Or were you already dead. You realised what you lay in; a coffin, and your stomach dropped like a boulder.

The wheels stopped and the ground stilled. You were on a cart of some sort and footsteps tramped into the dirt and murmurs stirred outside. There was a thump on the lid and suddenly it lurched upward as it was pried off.

Swathes of light flowed in and blinded you. You stilled and stared up as a figure stood above you and another appeared at the other side of the casket.

“Ah, finally,” the accented tone slithered, “I feared the dose was mistaken.”

You blinked until Baron Zemo came clear to you and shielded your eyes as they watered. You gasped as another shattering pain overtook you and gasped at the sheer torment. The other man, thin and tall with lines around his eyes and across his forehead peered down and reached to check the bandages around your left arm.

“She cannot sit in the carriage but we can arrange for her to recline in there, yes, my lord?” he asked as he felt your forehead, “there is no fever. She is past the worst of it.”

“We can arrange it,” Zemo nodded, “do get her a blanket. We really should have done so before we nailed the top on.”

“Yes, my lord,” the tall man hopped down from the cart and returned with a thick fur coverlet. Zemo tucked it gently around you and as he brushed your arm, you cried out.

“I… I should be dead,” you rasped, “how--”

“A trick. On the gods, on fate… on your Lord Barnes,” Zemo smirked, “oh, do not fear, he hasn’t any idea of your miraculous perseverance. Let me assure you he is most miserable to believe you dead.”

“Why?” you asked as the lid of the coffin was moved away and you heard others moving around. The stench of the horses made you shudder and brack back the scene; the clopping hooves, the roaring crowd, the pulsing of your heart, your maddened laughter.

“You know, I never desired anything more from Lord Barnes. What happened between us was an act of war. We were soldiers but he could not see it that way. I am an understanding man but I am not without reason. If he cannot be civil, why then should I?” He said smoothly, “I came to your kingdom to serve my own and I cannot do that with him snapping at my throat, so I will go home.”

“But why--”

“Patience,” he bid as he lifted a gloved hand, “I could not have factored you in if I tried. You are the most unexpected creature. What you did… well, that sent a very clear message to me, one that I heard.” He looked around and clasped his hands together as he leaned his elbows on his knees, ”I will not claim it to be entirely selfless in my deed, in fact the idea of the deceit does more for me than it could ever do for you. To think of Lord Barnes in his misery, that pompous man.”

“What--Where are we going?” you asked weakly as the wariness crept up on you once more.

“The Tower Zemo,” he said plainly, “in my homeland. You should recover there and then we will decide what to do with you.”

“What to--”

“Nothing too nefarious, I assure you. I should like to avoid the depths of Barnes…” he sniffed, “I don’t expect you to trust me, lady, you would be a fool to and you do not seem one to me. Foolishly brave and perhaps obstinate but not a fool.”

“I--how am I to thank you?” you croaked.

“Don’t do that just yet,” Zemo rose as men approached and suddenly the coffin was slid off the cart.

You were carried around the side of a carriage and set down again. The men worked carefully to remove you from inside the casket and you screamed as they did. Zemo spurred them on and apologised for your discomfort as they transferred you to the lid of the coffin placed to stretch between the seats of the carriage.

The tall man draped the fur over you again and checked your splints and the layers of bandage hidden beneath the loose wool gown. He called for some water and helped you drink. Then he was handed a chest and stirred around for a vial.

“This is Werner,” Zemo said as he sat on the empty part of the bench and the carriage door shut, “he did see that you survived and that you died in the eyes of your master.”

“Oh… thank you,” you looked to Werner as he urged you to drink from the vial.

“Just a sip, miss, for the pain,” he bid.

You did as he told you and reclined again with a grumble. He sat opposite Zemo who watched you with a cryptic expression.

“It will be a long journey,” he said, “and likely longer for you. It would be best if you kept calm and did not stress yourself. You are still… fragile.”

“I feel it,” you closed your eyes as fatigue shrouded you.

“You would,” Zemo said, “sleep is best for it, isn’t that so, Werner?”

“Sleep numbs the pain,” Werner assured, “sleep lets the body heal itself.”

“And sees the time through,” Zemo yawned, “besides, what else is there to do?”

Your breath eased along with the pain and slowly you sank back into the void. You let it embrace you as you forgot about the Baron and his odd physician, about the Duke and the life before. You welcomed sleep as you had death and yet, you were relieved to be alive.

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lapinlunaire-games · 3 years ago

Note

❝ …on the bright side, we’ll know we can’t cook next time. ❞ and A lmao I feel like this fits after the ask game

hahaha you are very correct! lol it was unplanned but i'm glad it happened. anyway, here's wonderwall A being a kitchen disaster!

Your partner is compassionate, kind, and brilliant in so many ways. And yet here you are, standing in the middle of a kitchen from hell that, up until a few short hours ago, was pristine.

“Gordon,” you groan, “is that pot of water on fire?”

They drop the tea towel clutched in one hand (you think the intention was to mop up the spilled…syrup(?) spreading over the counter) and swear at the sight of flames erupting from the rim of the large pot on the stove.

The tea towel is snatched up, still dripping viscous, violently pink liquid, and flung through the air in an attempt to beat down the flames. Something jammy (and admirably fragrant, considering the state of the rest of the kitchen) flies past your face; you swerve and narrowly avoid slipping in a large spatter of flour—the powdery skid marks running through it tell you that someone wasn’t so lucky.

A turns to you with the helpless, sheepish look of a small child caught in trouble of their own making. “I, ah, may ha—agh!”

The sizzle of the (thankfully) now-extinguished pot sounds almost like laughter.

A clears their throat and gestures vaguely to the bitter steam rising from the stove. The careful nonchalance of the motion is unfortunately ruined by the pink flush staining their face like cherry juice, making it exponentially more difficult to keep a straight face.

“I had the strongest craving for syllabub,” they offer in way of explanation, fiddling with their fingers as they peer anywhere but the smoking (and it is decidedly smoking, not steaming) pot. “I didn’t want to bother Carlton or Mrs. Bakewell, so I, um….”

“You tried making it and used the same pot for the sherry cream as you did the raspberry curd,” you suggest wryly. From the looks (and smell) of it, there were quite a few more things that went wrong, but sparing A seems the merciful thing to do.

They laugh awkwardly and wipe off a smear of jam from their face with the back of their hand, replacing it with flour. You (unsuccessfully) hide your laughter and fix it for them with a clean tea towel, letting your bare hand rest on their face for a moment afterwards. A’s smile softens, adoration coming into their gaze.

“Tell the lady I’ll atte—oh bloody blue hells!” The distressed shriek of outrage from the kitchen entrance snaps your gaze there immediately, to meet a red-faced Mrs. Bakewell—she flies to the counters, whipping out towels and scrubbing away at the mess.

“I’m terribly sorry,” A begins, only to be cut off by the crack of a rag, produced with much vigour and put to work with twice as much.

“Out!” cries Mrs. Bakewell, “out with you, and let me set my kitchen back to rights!”

And so you walk through the gardens with A, pausing to de-jam their face every so often, until there’s no more raspberry to be kissed off their pale skin.

Their hand brushes yours and you catch them peeking coyly at you from the corner of your eye. The jam is long gone, but a pretty pink glow dusts their cheeks as they grin at you and entwine their fingers with yours, smile dancing sideways at the expression on your face when you realise how sticky their grip is. A is adorable, all aglow against the sunlight and rosebushes, and it sets your heart racing in a way that feels like falling.

They stop suddenly and pull your joined hands to the side, forcing you to duck into the shadow of a particularly large topiary—a quick peck on your lips leaves you tasting sugar with the sound of laughter chiming around you.

A pulls back, eyes glittering like a sunlit sea, and murmurs, “So kind of you to help clean me up, my dear. I think I really ought to return the favour.”

You can’t help but laugh, though it melts into a content hum as A brings your hand to their lips and plants a soft kiss on each fingertip. “I’m sorry you didn’t get your syllabub.”

A presses their cheek into the cradle of your palm and brushes their lips against your inner wrist, looking up at you through dark lashes. “Well….on the bright side, we know we can’t cook next time.”

Your protest that it had nothing to do with you is lost, tossed aside in the sugar of A’s lips landing firmly on your own—and you can’t find it in yourself to complain.

#thank you anon!!#lmfao this is like that gordon ramsay meme #you pick whether your Hushed One goes #'you're an idiot sandwich but you're MY idiot sandwich'#or #'oh dear. oh dear gorgeous'#h&h:a #ask #h&h ask

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reasoncourt · 2 years ago

Audio

And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet Till you're full of rag water, bitters, and blue ruin And you spill out over the side to anyone who'll listen I've seen it all I've seen it all through the yellow windows Of the evening train

#sursh.music

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confused-as-all-hell · 3 years ago

Text

The day did not go gently.

It wept in torrents of rain and lightning, heavy storms sweeping over rooftops, great deluges of clear water flooding the earth. It reached out with hungry hands, fingernails digging into the softened midnight sky, grasping at the stars.

It stole away at any semblance of light, at every last glimpse of warmth. There was no greater cruelty than the day's bitter envy. Men cowered from the sky's wrath.

But Zoya Nazyalensky was a storm in herself, a single long figure sprinting through the mist, chin held high. Her long dark hair clung to her back, and the stupid fucking skirts of her gown tangled around her legs. The ropes of pearl around her throat were askew. A smudge of black kohl ran across her high cheekbones.

A wreck, a ruin, and yet a vision in ivory and gold.

When she angled her face to the stormclouds, she could only be a goddess tasting the sky.

She was a lady, a princess, a queen made for warm fires and gentle kisses; but she was also a woman, and they had their own magic about them.

A little, gasping sob wrenched free of her chest, echoing into the empty, empty, empty air.

Zoya could still see blood on her hands, blood on the floor of her throne room, blood shining like dashed rubies.

A queen must never deign to dine with mercy, her mother had declared stiffly once.

And so when that young man with dark hair and darker eyes knelt before her, a silent plea lingering on his lips, Zoya showed him no mercy. She cut him down before her throne. His heart's blood flowed red as pomegranate seeds, red as a courtier's silky gown, red as the shiny lacquer of her nails.

"My lady," he had whispered, so softly, so sweetly. "My lady, I beg for your kindness."

But Zoya's mother had not raised her to be kind.

So she ran.

The heels of her shoes were uncomfortable, and the laces of her corset were done uncomfortably tight, and her hair was dripping icy water down her dress, and she wanted to fucking cry.

It was cold and miserable and tiring.

It was Zoya staggering into an alley to rid herself of the gaudy gold dress and ivory coat, to rip the pearls from her hair and smear her kohl across her eyelids.

It was lifting her chin and stiffening her spine.

It was sauntering through the streets of her city alone, hair unbound and long legs bare, head held high and gaze blazing.

When a boy with curling aurete hair and pretty green eyes invited her for a drink, it was all she could do not to smile.

He was young and handsome and bright, all dauntless grins and mischievous glances and fingers that were too damn clever. His hands roamed languidly over her hips, the graceful curve of her breasts. They dipped below what remained of her skirts, and she watched the world fracture around her as his fingers moved.

They gently rose to grasp her throat, and at the first brush of his calloused palm, she simply shattered.

Fire and bone and starlight, his mouth trailing down the splay of her legs, her head thrown back against the wall; the boy was kissing her neck, and she was coming undone, and his fingers were still toying at the nape of her neck, and she might have lost her fucking mind.

When she at last slid off him, her legs wavering just so slightly, she was already setting herself to rights.

The boy glanced over at her, and in the dying dregs of night, he could have been a god; the curls of his hair were limned in silver, the lilt of his smile drenched in gold.

Zoya cleared her throat, and reached for the necklaces she had been too furious to patiently unhook. They had been her mother's, ornate and opulent and overwhelming, and even if she held no affection for the previous owner, she had grown to admire the necklaces.

Her fingers closed around bare skin.

The boy was watching her with slight amusement. "Is everything all right?"

Zoya ghosted her fingers across her throat again. Bare, bare, bare. She turned on the boy; in the chamber of her stomach, a serpent of fury reared her proud head.

"What the fuck have you done?" she hissed, one hand at her neck, as if she could wring the necklaces into existence.

The corners of his mouth lifted so slightly. "My darling Zoya, surely a woman such as yourself can piece together the puzzle."

Her name rung through the alley, soft and sweet and seductive.

"After all," the boy, the thief, continued, "how rather unceremonious to be outsmarted by a bastard you fucked for distraction."

She swore.

The thief grinned then, bright and undaunted and beautiful. "They were fetching jewels, I think I'll keep them."

Zoya's temper at last slipped it's leash. She grasped the thief by the collar of his shirt, forced him up against the brick wall; within bare seconds, she had drawn her dagger from its sheath and pressed her own body against his, and then the blade was to his throat and she was kissing him.

His lips parted so trustingly beneath her own, mouth slanting open, head falling back. The touch of his hands was pleading, tugging her close and then closer still. When he swore bitterly against her, she could barely contain her laugh.

She reveled in his soft, breathless whispers, in the quiet lilt of his pleasure, in the hard planes of his body. Her own hands roamed over his frame, dipping into his front pocket, searching for the familiar cold links of her necklaces.

Just as her fingers tightened over what was surely a roughly hewn pendant, the thief pressed a faint kiss to her collarbone, barely the graze of a butterfly's wings.

Zoya's eyes fluttered shut.

This thief, with his bright grins and wicked eyes and sharp tongue, was kissing her with a saint's tenderness. The brush of his lips was her confessional, and she was kneeling at the altar.

But she was the heir to a kingdom, ivory and gold and softest blue.

But he was a thief running her streets ragged, alabaster and bronze and indigo.

But she would have given up her crown for one more touch.

@inejghafasupremacy @thebonecarver@crazywritingbookworm @holding-shan-back-from-murder @saltyfortunes @smol-satan @quintessential-octessence @nightshade3465 @murderbabies @dreaminginvelaris @black-like-my-soul @ratabrasileira @runetherunestone @22herondale @iambecomeyourvillain@story-scribbler @ahecktonoffandomsinoneblog @sankta-nazyalensky @nevada-the-bookwyvern @kazoo-the-demjin @ungodlyravenpuff @jurdan-my-beloved @sankta-chaosqueen @twelve-kinds-of-trouble @22herondale@blackasmysoul @clarys-heosphoros @rorysglimore @dreaminginvelaris @wafflesandschemingfaces @story-scribbler @same-crazy-art-girl34 @theglassphantom @adams-left-hand @blackasmysoul @meg-the-second-greatest @willothewhisper @tiredassbibliophile @saltyfortunes @brekkercookie

#zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lanstov #saved in drafts whoops

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fanfictionfansmiction · 4 years ago

Text

Good Enough

Requested by the lovely @ravenclawprinxcess who asked for a fic about Bolin from Legend of Korra cheering up a sad reader! I really enjoy doing requests so please feel free to send them in :) I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading

Word Count: 1828

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Things felt wrong from the moment you had woken up. The rain drumming down on your ceiling and a bitterness that hung in the air. When you had left your room, you had immediately regretted it. An all too familiar sadness fogged your brain, perhaps it was a good day to stay indoors wrapped up in bed pretending that the world outside was all but a bad dream. That would have been a great remedy if it weren’t for your shift at the noodle bar today. It didn’t even matter that the shift was short you knew it was going to drag by. The silence of the kitchen dragged you even further into you foul mood.

Bolin had just come into the kitchen as your eyes were getting teary from the thought of having to deal with the world today. Unaware of the shift in your mood he came up behind you and wrapped his large arms around your waist placing a gentle kiss on your neck humming contently as he did. Swaying the two of you side to side in the same way he did every morning. You turned around and wrapped your arms around him nuzzling you faces into his neck. At first, he didn’t question it until your breathing began to become ragged and he could feel your tears wetting his shirt. He held you tighter and only planned to let go when you did.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked quietly into your hair. You only shook you head in response. “That’s okay.” He adds soothingly rubbing your back. If it was possible you would have stayed in his arms all day and he would have let you. When you pulled away you saw the wet patch you had left on his clean shirt. Which made you feel even worse.

“Sorry Bolin I’ve ruined your shirt.” You say with a whimper. He shakes his head and then wipes a tear away from your face. More worried about you with your blood shot eyes and splotchy cheeks.

“It’s fine I didn’t really like it anyway. Hey, I don’t think you should go to work today, I’ll swing by and let them know you aren’t feeling up for it. I’ll bring you back some food, and we can spend the entire day in together. Between you and me I’ve been waiting for a duvet day with you for months.” He says with concern.

“Don’t you have team Avatar stuff to do today?” You ask with a sniffle looking away.

“I know they’ll be completely lost without me, but they’ll just have to manage someone more important needs me more today.”

“Not afraid they’ll replace you with Wu.” You say with a small laugh.

“If they do, I’m blaming it on you.” He replies with a joking tone.

Your manager doesn’t ask Bolin too many questions which he’s thankful for. He doesn’t quite know how to tell her what’ wrong with you because he doesn’t think that you know yourself. But he has a plan on how to cheer you up. Placing an order for all you favourite items on the menu where you work, popping into the shop next door to pick up some bath oils and your favourite tea that you had ran out of. It was all coming together; your manager had even told Bolin that you could have the week off. With a bag full of goodies that always cheered you up Bolin intended on making his way back to you immediately but before he could his friends spotted him.

“See I told you he wasn’t dead.” Korra says placing her hands on her hips.

“I didn’t say he was dead I just said we should presume he’s dead and that I would be the perfect replacement.” Wu retorted.

“Did you forget that we were supposed to meet up today?” Mako asks.

“No, I didn’t forget big brother, but something came up and I’m needed elsewhere.” Bolin answers looking at his friends feeling a little guilty that he hadn’t told them he wouldn’t be meeting them today.

“So, your girlfriend is more important than official Avatar business? I would never abandon you like that Korra.” Wu says in a teasing tone.

“Don’t listen to him,” Asami says, “Is everything alright?” she asks.

With a sigh Bolin answers, “I’m not sure to be honest, she’s been really off this past week and I’m really worried about her. I was just at the noodle bar telling her boss she wouldn’t be in.”

“While also ordering everything off the menu?” Korra sarcastically asks him, peeking into the paper bag.

“I just want to make her feel better and eating always makes me feel better.” Bolin shrugs scratching the back of his neck. “I also got her some other stuff I know she likes.” He says pointing out the extra goodies he’d picked up. “But I don’t know what’s wrong, so I don’t know how to fix it.”

Asami sighs looking at her friend before saying, “You can’t fix whatever’s wrong Bolin just be there for her. That’s what Korra does for me when I get down.” She snakes her arm around Korra’s waist which causes them both to blush as they rest their heads together.

“Yeah, Asami was there for me when I was really low, and she didn’t try to fix anything but all I really needed was her there for me.”

Bolin then looked towards his brother and Wu in case either of them had any relationship advice to pass on but they both shrugged. “Neither of us have had a healthy relationship, listen to the ladies.” Wu adds.

“Thank you, I’ll see you soon.” Bolin says making his way back to you.

When he got back to the apartment, you’d made your way back to bed and found yourself crying at the lonely Blue Jay that perked outside your window. Instead of going to you straight away he decided to plate up the food he had ordered as well as he could. He boiled a kettle of water for a pot of tea. He brought all of it into the bedroom on a tray and looked at you with a warm encouraging smile.

“Hey babe, what’re you looking at?” He asks as he set down the tray in front of you.

“That bird is all alone its so sad.” You whine, just then the bird is joined by another one and they fly away together.

“See it’s not all bad.” He says sitting next to you on the bed stroking your hair. You look up at him with puffy eyes and a snotty nose. He pulls a tissue from the tray and blows your nose for you which makes you laugh at the silliness of the action. “I got you your favourite.” He says gesturing to the tray, the sight of it makes your eyes widen.

“Thank you, Bo.” You say kissing his cheek. “You didn’t have to do all this.” You grab the cup of tea and breathe it in deeply, “You got my tea.” Your voice cracks.

“And I’ve a few other things for you but first let’s enjoy the feast.” He stretches out to lay next to you and you cuddle into his chest popping a dumpling into your mouth.

“God, I love you.”

“Are you talking to me or the dumpling?” He asks.

“Would you like the truth or what you want to hear?” You laugh. His worry minimising a little at the sound.

“You were right Wu was looking to replace me.” Bolin tells you.

“He wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Bolin looks down at you and his face softens as he places a kiss on your forehead. You look up and grin at him even though your mouth is full of food and your face still puffy from the tears. He thinks about how much he loves you and for a moment he thinks he’s going to cry but you offer him the last of your favourite dumpling.

“I love you and this dumpling so much.” He says.

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The two of you take a nap after eating that much food. You snuggle into Bolin’s chest and he feels his heart explode. Knowing that after your night of restless sleep you really needed some more sleep. He rubs small circles along you back and you hum contently at the action. Bolin wakes up before you and he just takes you in, the soft rise and fall of your chest. The twitch of your nose and way you mumble to yourself. He really feels like the luckiest person in the world to be laying with you both with bellies full of food, the love that the two of you share in the apartment that you furnished together.

He slips out of the bed to get the second part of his plan to help you feel better and the small whine you let out after he’s gone almost pulls him back to your side. He sees you stretch out your arm and brush along the empty space he left. He goes to run you a bath and adds the fancy bath oils you always stare at when the two of you shop. Bolin get’s a little carried away with the romantic bath idea lighting all the candles he can find the apartment even stealing a rose from bouquet he’d bought you earlier in the week and adds some of the petals to the water. Playing the record you’d been after for weeks. And as he debates leaving you a trail of rose petals to follow, he sees that you’ve been standing in the doorway watching him with a sad smile on your face.

“Do you not like it?” he asks with concern, looking between you and the bath worried that he’s overstepped some sort of boundary.

“I love Bo, but I don’t deserve all this. I don’t deserve you.” You cry dropping your face into your hands. Before you know it, he’s right in front of you holding you face in his warm large hands lifting your face to look at him. An intensity takes over his face and you feel yourself wanting to be pulled closer to him.

“Are you crazy?” He asks in a murmur. Searching your face intensely with his glittering green eyes.

“No, but you’re too good for me.” You answer quietly.

“Why would you ever think that.” He breathes bringing your forehead to rest against his. “You are everything to me. If you ever feel like that again, please tell me. So, I can list all the reasons why you’re wrong.” He kisses you with an urgency he usually reserves. Your hands find your way to his strong back and his stay warming your face.

“You know I love it when you prove me wrong.” You say after you break apart. Both of you left breathless in the flickering light of the candles.

#bolin x you #bolin x reader #bolin x y/n #bolin imagine #Legend of Korra #Legend of Korra reader insert #legend of korra imagine #avatar reader insert #avatar imagine

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latinasmoak · 4 years ago

Text

the sweetest life (and the loving is easy when you’re with me)

tumblr version:

rating: mature

tags: no warnings, mutual pining, lol slow burn? what slow burn?, I don’t know her, not actually unrequited love

Chapter Three: Strawberry Crème Brûlée p. 2

He had been hesitant to try it. Her strawberry creme brulee.

His appetite had yet to make an appearance and the truth was he was dreading her news, dreading to be told what he already knew to be true, that she was taken, and completely out of his reach.

Yet he couldn’t bear to disappoint her, not when she looked at him so eagerly, so expectantly. So he cracked the rose gold crust, the sound a crystal clear snap of sugar that whetted the appetite and reluctantly dipped his spoon in.

That first spoonful was ambrosia on his tongue. His reluctance to eat was never because he was fearful that it would be anything less than perfection, but even now he feels a fool for resisting something as delicious as this. The strawberry creme melted in the mouth, soft as velvet and sublime. The caramelized crust added a slight burnt bitterness needed to temper all the sweetness. One spoonful wasn't enough and Colin soon found himself devouring the entirety of his creme brulee.

He couldn’t explain it, but something about Penelope’s food comforted him. The way he felt when he ate something she created, it was a warmth that reached his very soul. Before, Colin would have brushed the thought away. He would have gone so far as to claim that eating anything delicious would elicit the same feeling. Now he knew the truth, it was Penelope. She infused so much of herself, of her joy, of her love, that her food was enough to make a person feel cherished and taken care of. With every spoonful of the strawberry creme, he was reminded that she made this for him and he felt so lucky.

Then she went and moaned, and Colin felt a punch of lust hit him fast and without mercy. Penelope’s sweet and innocent appreciation of her own creation had set his whole body aflame. He couldn’t help but imagine her making that sound again, only this time with him being the sole reason for the moan. Her breathy sigh as she finished her spoonful of the creme brulee had Colin hardening so fast, he felt dizzy with want. He glared at the dessert, nothing should elicit those sounds from her except for him. He should be on his knees, worshiping her as he drowned himself at the apex of her thighs. It should be him.

But it won't be.

She was already taken. He was too late, and it was agony. Everything he just imagined would be done by someone else. That fucking bastard would be the one on his knees, and his name would be the one she would shout out. The mere thought doused the fire within him faster than ice water. His fury had him gripping onto the counter. His rage directed at the man who had the audacity to come and grab his girl while he was gone. Yet however much he wanted to pummel him, the majority of his rage was inward. He was so wrong, to assume that nothing would change, that she would always be there waiting for him to come home. It wasn’t as if she was his wife, with a ring as proof that he would always come home to her. Of course she would live her life. Of course she would seek her happiness, for companionship, for love.

He was such a fool.

And now he was paying for it.

It wasn’t long before Penelope noticed that something was wrong and Colin thanked heaven and earth that she wasn’t privy to the mess going inside his head. She looked at him so sweetly, with so much concern in her eyes he felt himself go weak. His eyes closed in contentment with the mere brush of her hand on his forehead.

Why did he have to lose her? Why did he have to be so blind?

She questioned him, wanting the answers he didn’t even know how to share, but he didn't hesitate.

Something in him took over and all that came out is the most important question that would guide him in regards to how he should treat Penelope Featherington.

“Are you happy?” he asked, voice ragged with intensity. Colin’s eyes burned with the need to know exactly how she felt.

Whatever Penelope was expecting, it was obvious from her reaction that this was not it. “What?!”

Colin closed his eyes briefly, gritting his teeth as he gathered the bravery necessary for this inquisition. He opened them and this time he used her grip on his hands to his advantage, bringing them up to rest against his chest. He wondered if she could feel how fast his heart was beating for her.

“Are you happy? With him? ”

The snarl that escaped him would have been embarrassing under normal circumstances but Colin was past caring about pretenses. This might be his one and only chance. Surely however long they'd been seeing each other wasn’t enough to build any foundation... right? And could a month or maybe two, really compare with years?

“Colin? You aren’t making any sense! Who are you talking about?”

Penelope gripped his hands tighter and his brow furrowed at the confusion swirling around in her vibrant blue eyes.

“I saw you with him, yesterday. I just wanted to surprise you, Pen.” Colin huffed as he thought about how that turned out.

“It wasn’t my intention to interrupt any moment, and I left pretty quickly…” seeing the hug had been hard enough, Colin didn’t want to imagine how he would have felt if he had stuck around and seen them kiss. “I just want to make sure that you’re happy Penelope. You deserve everything your heart desires.”

Colin was deathly afraid of her answer. Afraid to have to come to grips with the reality that he really had missed his chance. Yet for Penelope he would learn to deal with it. Her happiness mattered more to him than his.

It didn’t take long for Penelope to connect the dots, he obviously had come to the very wrong conclusion that Phillip was her boyfriend. Seeing as he was the only man to have entered her flat in the past few days, present company excluded. Phillip Crane as her boyfriend. A laughable concept, as if anyone could compare to Colin Bridgerton. He was it for her. He’d had a hold on her heart for so long she couldn't even remember the days when he didn't. Even when she had tried to date in the past, it had never gone past the first few dates. Every date had become a game of comparison. Not tall enough, not funny enough, too rude and too arrogant, the list was never ending and it was never fair. It wasn’t fair to the strangers who’s only real flaw was not being the man she was already in love with and it wasn’t fair to her to attempt to date when she hadn’t given up. She hadn’t allowed herself to kill the hope still flickering in her heart.

So she connected the dots, but it absolutely terrified her, to even attempt to understand why the knowledge of her having a boyfriend wrecked him so. Did she dare to infer that he was jealous? And if he was, was it because he felt he could lose a friend? Or something more? She didn’t know what to think, but she couldn’t let him go thinking for another second that she was dating another man. Not even to tease or torment him. Her heart rejected the thought of being tied to somebody else, even if it was only in his mind.

“Colin, there is no him. Not like that. He’s a friend, and I was letting him taste the sweets I was making for his girlfriend.”

Penelope figured it was a matter of time before he would find out the significance of who the girlfriend was, but Penelope was not about to break her vow of secrecy now.

Penelope gripped his hand tighter. She was scared-- so scared that this was about to blow up in her face but he had given her an opening and she was going to take it. Something inside of her urged her to be bold. He’d just said she deserved everything her heart desired and there had never been a greater desire in her heart than him.

Penelope took a deep breath and looked up at him, she tried to feel comfort in the knowledge that she could feel his heart thrumming in his chest. Surely that wasn’t insignificant. Be daring, be bold.

Oh Colin, please don’t break my heart.

“I couldn’t be bothered with a boyfriend…if it wasn’t you Colin.”

A watery chuckle escaped her. Her eyes threatened to well up with tears. There, I said it. There’s no going back now. Her whole body was strung up tight, the words just floating out there and it felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from her chest, now that she no longer had her longest secret hidden. Her anxiety had her spitting out more words to fill the silence.

“It’s always been you, and I’m sorry if this ruins our friendship but I-”

Colin’s lips were on hers before she could even finish her confession and everything else suddenly ceased to matter except for this moment.

Colin Bridgerton was kissing her.

Colin Bridgerton.

Was kissing.

Her.

His hands cupped her face so gently, leaving Penelope dazed. She felt warm, starting in the pit of her belly and spreading, as if his lips on hers were the switch to turning her body alive . She gasped when he nipped at her bottom lip before soothing the sting with his tongue and she moaned when he took that gasp as an invitation to taste her. She allowed herself to taste him back.

It was hard to believe it was real. That moment; it was everything Penelope had ever dreamed of, only better. Because even her imagination wasn’t good enough to imagine the feel of Colin’s slightly chapped lips against hers. She never knew that he would taste faintly of strawberries mixed with something that was uniquely him. She never imagined that he would move his hands from her face down, down, down to her waist. Slowly spreading a trail of fire wherever his fingertips touched. Penelope’s daydreaming was never this vivid, and never this maddening and when he finally moved his mouth to kiss her cheek, before finding the pulse at her throat, Penelope was already a bundle of nerves ready to explode. Her panting breaths the only sign that she was still breathing. Was she dreaming? Colin sucked at her pulse and Penelope’s knees went weak. Not that it mattered, Colin was there to hold her up.

This was better than anything Penelope had ever dreamed of, because it was real.

This was real.

Colin, there is no him.

I couldn’t be bothered with a boyfriend…if it wasn’t you.

It’s always been you.

Each sentence she’d uttered was a bomb bursting into the agonizing fantasy he had begun to build from the moment he walked in on that embrace, and shredding it to pieces. His heart lifted with every second that passed by, the dread that had clung so strongly to his very being, chased away by her declarations. Because that's exactly what they were, Colin wouldn’t pretend otherwise, for some unknown reason, the gods were smiling down at him, despite all his flaws and mistakes, they somehow deemed him worthy enough to be on the receiving end of Penelope Featherington’s love.

He would not waste it. This opportunity, handed to him on a silver platter.

If Penelope deemed him worthy enough to be the champion to carry her heart, he wasn’t going to be the one to let her down.

It was only when she began to mention nonsense about ruining friendships that Colin foolishly realized he had yet to say anything. Words were simply not enough. He had to have her, had to claim her as his.

He couldn’t let her finish, he couldn’t wait a second more. In fact it was rather remarkable that he’d waited this long. He had to taste her now.

So when he held her face in the palms of his hands, and he leaned down to reach her lips, he felt a sense of rightness so strong, he had to smile. His thumbs stroked her cheeks while he teased and licked her soft lips, finally getting the chance to bite at her lower lip the way he had imagined before. She gasped so beautifully and he finally got what he wanted. A taste. She was so sweet, the flavor of strawberry creme she had eaten not that long ago still present. If strawberries weren’t his favorite flavor before, they were now. She was perfect and he felt overwhelmed at the contentment spreading through his entire being. It was at this very moment that he realized that everything he thought he knew about kissing was a lie.What had always been a fun activity, a stepping stone to the next pleasurable act was never so compelling that it felt as if his soul was being branded as hers. He could kiss her forever, and he would still be completely captivated by every little move and sound Penelope made. Every gasp, every moan. It would never be enough, he would always want more.

When the pesky little thing called oxygen was needed for the both of them, Colin was reluctant to stop kissing her, so he moved from her lips to her cheek, a quick brush of his lips before he buried his face in the crook of her neck. He smiled to himself, pleased at how out of breath she was, at how closely pressed her body was to his. He missed hearing her little moans so he went back to sucking at her pulse point, holding onto her tighter as she tilted her head making it more accessible for him to continue. He didn’t know when Penelope had gotten her hands into his hair but all of a sudden he felt a small tug and his head snapped up from the hickey he was leaving behind. His eyes quickly connected with her piercingly blue ones, dilated with pure want.

A dopey smile spread across Colin’s face at the sight.

He’d done that. He had put that look upon her face. He was the reason her lips were swollen, he was the reason she was flushed and panting. Him.

“You are so fucking beautiful Pen.”

Colin leaned his head down so that his forehead could press against hers, simply breathing her in, letting them both calm down.

“You are so beautiful, and you are mine.”

He lifted his head and grabbed her chin with right hand, tilting her head up so that he could stare into her eyes again. He didn’t want a single misunderstanding to occur.

He wouldn’t lie to her, and tell her that he always knew it would be her. He didn’t. A few days ago, this very moment wouldn’t have even crossed his mind, but that was then and this was now.

He was different.

Awake.

Aware.

No pretty lies were needed.

“You, Penelope Featherington, are mine.”

Colin brushed his thumb against her still-swollen lips and grinned, pleased to be making his current declaration..

“And I am yours. All yours.”

Maybe it wasn’t love, but Colin already knew he was falling.

It was terrifying, it was exhilarating and best of all, it was real.

Penelope’s hopeful smile grew and grew, and she laughed, as tears of joy started running down her face.

It was real. It was all real.

|| AO3 ||

#Polin Fics #Polin #Colin Bridgerton #Penelope Featherington #Colin x Penelope #Bridgerton Fics #Bridgerton #fic: the sweetest life #boom now we are all caught up!#we'll see when chapter four is up lmao #ale's fics

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vulturhythm · 5 years ago

Text

until the blue ocean turns green - part one

There’s a man with golden eyes who sits beside Jaskier’s sea sometimes.

His hair is the silver of the seafoam, and it glows in the moonlight, when it isn’t made red with blood.

It’s red with blood quite often.

His eyes are like the coastal wolves’, bright and cunning.

Sometimes they’re black.

He comes to the shoreline now and then, at least once or twice in a moon cycle.

When he comes, he sits on a fallen tree, one that Jaskier remembers being struck by lightning many cycles before. Half of it is charred black, and the rest is saltwater pale, gnarled with age.

He sits on the fallen rock, and he merely… sits. Jaskier watches him from behind a rock far out in the water, watches him watch the waves.

The sea is usually calm, only ever riled by storms. Jaskier suspects that’s part of why he enjoys watching.

The sea isn’t fickle and upset like rivers and streams, and it’s a sight prettier than lakes, Jaskier likes to think.

Not that he’s seen many lakes - it’s hard to get to them. Rivers have a habit of becoming too narrow or shallow before he can reach a lake, so he’s stuck with tales from the gulls.

It’s from the gulls that Jaskier learns more of the man.

He learns that his name is Geralt, and that he rides a horse he calls Roach.

He learns that Geralt kills creatures like him for coin.

Jaskier knows coin - he’s heard travelers on the shore talking about it, sailors above water talking about it… the gulls tell him it’s currency, like the seashells where he comes from.

The gulls tell him that humans love coin, and Jaskier thinks them foolish for it, because the most seashells can buy down below is passage from one sea to the next, only sometimes the harpies and the selkies don’t honor the toll, and they sic a shark on you, and you make it away bleeding and poor, without ever getting where you meant to go, and you’re alive, but you’re missing half a fin off your beautiful, beautiful tail -

Well.

The gulls tell him the man is something called a witcher, and they tell him he’s right - the witcher always looks sad.

- -

Jaskier isn’t sure how many cylces pass with Geralt sitting at his shoreline.

“Months,” the gulls correct him, over and over, but Jaskier tells them, quite flippantly, that the merfolk measure by the moon, and they ruffle their feathers, and squawk at him but give up quickly enough.

Geralt comes to his shore wounded one night.

It’s the scent of blood that draws Jaskier up from the sea floor, away from the counting of his shells (he hopes, perhaps, he can buy his way up the northern river, the one guarded by the meanest of the sirens and the toughest of the sharks, and follow Geralt into the mainland).

He’s made a habit of lingering close to the shore when nightfall draws near, just in case his witcher comes.

Tonight, his witcher is hurt.

Watching from behind his stone, Jaskier feels his heart ache at the sight.

Geralt moves with caution, with obvious care, and he moves with one hand pressed to his side, and in the moonlight, Jaskier sees, quite clearly, the blood on his beautiful hands.

His heart aches.

Geralt remains for hours, staring out at the waves. Jaskier isn’t even sure he knows what his gaze is upon - he looks lost, and he looks sad.

He always looks sad.

Nearly a year passes before the sadness begins to fade.

“He’s in love,” proclaim the gulls, and something within Jaskier snarls. “He’s met a woman.”

Primarily, Jaskire believes them wrong.

The sadness is merely fading - it isn’t gone.

Two cycles later, Jaskier has enough for the northern river toll.

He has enough, and the harpies take the shells he hands them in the seaweed bundle, and he shudders at the sight of their wicked talons and human faces, and he swims past them as they sneer.

The gulls, flying overhead, keep watch.

Harpies aren’t known to honor their word, and the sharks circling down below look awfully hungry.

He makes it less than a ship’s length ahead before he feels the water shift, feels it ripple with the motion of something drawing near - drawing near too fast for him to get away.

He makes it out alive.

Only barely.

His tail is bitten deep, meat exposed, nearly to the bone. The fins along the sides are torn, and the fan at the end, the beautiful fan he’s adored his entire lifetime, is ragged now, ragged and bloody and raw.

Deep blue scales are flaking off his tail and arms, glistening as they drift away.

If his kind could cry, Jaskier’s tears would be blending with his blood in the water.

He bleeds silver, like the unicorns of the land.

Coiled into the side of his stone below the sea, Jaskier watches as it rises to the surface, glistening there in the moonlight. It clouds up and fades away soon, and yet, still he bleeds.

Geralt does not come that night, nor the next.

Still he bleeds.

Jaskier grows weak.

Without food to eat or plants to bind his tail, he bleeds, and he grows weak.

He bleeds, and he grows weak, and his grip on the rock is lost.

The sea fades to black as he drifts upward, toward the moon hanging low in the sky.

His heart aches.

He wakes up numb.

He wakes up numb, with the night air on his skin.

He wakes up numb, and he wakes up with the night air on his skin, and he wakes up with a hand on his chest.

Jaskier's world is foggy when he opens his eyes, but he manages it regardless, and for a moment, he only stares, because that's...

That's a pair of eyes overhead, and they're -

they're yellow.

They're yellow, and they're sad.

"Geralt?" he breathes, and those sad, sad eyes go wide...

... and Jaskier sinks back into darkness, Geralt's voice deep and rough and low and like home in his ears.

"How?"

He wakes up next when the sun is in the sky.

This time, he can feel water lapping against his sides, cool and comforting and familiar.

He breathes in deep, opens his eyes and blinks at the glare of the day.

It takes a moment for the rest of his senses to return.

He's resting in a little tide pool, deep enough to submerge his tail, his lower torso. Another second passes before he realizes he's laid across one of the rocks at the pool's edge, head propped on his folded arms. There's a damp towel laid across his back, lessening the heat of the sun.

Jaskier groans as he tries to move, pushing himself up on his arms to glance around. He knows this tide pool - it's not that far from where he surfaces to observe his witcher at night. Confusion knots his brow when he glances down and sees what appears to be an animal hide laid across the rock, cushioning his slumber.

"Don't move too much."

He jerks in ill-concealed surprise, finally looking up, and -

he goes still.

Geralt is seated nearby, crosslegged on a mostly-flat rock at the outer edge of the tide pool. He's watching him, golden eyes locked with deep blue, and Jaskier cannot breathe.

He can't breathe, because he is beautiful.

"What attacked you?" asks the witcher, and he speaks softly, as though he's trying to keep the merman from shying away from - from him, from the most beautiful thing Jaskier has ever seen.

Jaskier sucks in a breath, feels the gills along his throat tremble, looks past Geralt to where his red mare is standing still in the sand. "Sharks," he replies at last.

Geralt hums, low, and that's that. He moves with a heavy sigh, motioning for Jaskier to look back, down at his tail.

He obeys.

His tail is bound in white cloth, stained murky platinum with his blood. Geralt had taken obvious care, binding the fins along the sides as gently as possible. Jaskier moves cautiously, giving his tail an experimental sway, and he grimaces at the pain, but it lets him look at the fan at the end, resting in the sand.

Still ruined.

"There's nothing I can do," comes Geralt's voice, and he sounds apologetically resigned. Jaskier nods, tries not to let his face fall. "I treated everything with potions, the wounds should heal in time - they'll scar, and I'm afraid the fins might not regrow, but you won't feel the damage. Your, ah... the fan, though..."

Jaskier is having trouble following along, the majority of his attention devoted to the sound of Geralt's voice, rather than the words.

He catches just enough to know that his fan is lost.

Part of him - that vain, bitter part - hurts with the knowledge.

"Thank you," he says at last, his voice just as soft.

Geralt is quiet, but when Jaskier looks back at him, he nods, golden eyes on his tail.

Geralt comes back for him every day for - four, five months?

(Geralt calls them months, like the gulls, and so, finally, Jaskier gave up.)

Jaskier stays in the tide pool for the first bit of that time.

Eventually, Geralt begins to lift him from the stony area, sets him down in the ocean proper, lets him sink below and soak.

He keeps his arms around him the entire time, refusing to let him strain his tail.

When Geralt returns him to the tide pool, he always re-soaks the cloth draped over him, the deer hide laid out beneath him, and offers whatever food he's brought along.

Human food is... intriguing.

Jaskier develops quite the taste for rabbit.

Every couple of days, Geralt changes out the bandages, reapplies the potions he carries hanging off a belt.

It's very nearly maddening, Geralt's touch so gentle and caring on his scales.

Never once does he touch his skin, not with his palms.

Only ever with his arms, strong and torturous around his chest to support him in the shallows.

Jaskier yearns for his touch.

Geralt tells him stories, every day.

At first, it's extremely grudging.

Jaskier coaxes tales of slaying selkiemore and drowners and cockatrice and banshees from his witcher, and for the first couple of weeks, it's an agonizing process.

Geralt doesn't like talking about himself.

When Jaskier reminds him that he's the only source of entertainment available to a virtually bedridden merman, he becomes less reluctant.

A little.

One day, Jaskier asks if he's ever slain merfolk.

Geralt doesn't answer at first. He merely looks at him, and there's sadness in his eyes, just as profound as ever.

He nearly laughs - a low, weary exhale - and turns his head away.

"I won't kill you," is all he says, at last.

Jaskier believes him.

They play games, sometimes.

Well, Jaskier invents the games, and Geralt tolerates them, at best.

They play "count the seagulls" and "hide the seashell" and "braid your hair," only it's difficult to count the gulls when they always fly away in a rush as soon as they get wind of the fun, and there's only so many places to hide the seashell where Jaskier can reach it from his confinement, and Geralt's hair is the only hair long enough to braid, and he takes it with...

With...

Well.

He takes it.

Jaskier sings to him, most of the time.

He sings him the songs of his kind, and he sings him the songs he's heard from the sailors going by above, and he sings him the songs he's learned from the travelers at his shore.

Geralt teaches him some of his own kind - well, the human kind.

Drinking songs, he calls them.

Jaskier decides he loves them.

Geralt tells him about the woman, eventually.

Her name is Yennefer, and Jaskier loathes her immediately.

She's a sorceress - something like the sea witches Jaskier's kind fears.

They met while Geralt was after a djinn - he won't explain why, not even when Jaskier cocks his head to the side and causes Geralt to derail in an attempt to explain. He doesn't even notice that Jaskier is stalling.

One day, Jaskier asks if he loves her.

Geralt doesn't answer, not then.

Two days later, out of nowhere, Jaskier cradled in his arms so he can enjoy the sea, he says, "No. I don't."

Jaskier decides he loves him.

It's a long while before Geralt removes the bandages to reveal healed wounds.

There's raised lines of new flesh where there had once been deep gouges, and Jaskier's scales have grown back a brighter, truer blue, standing out against the deep shade of the rest.

The fins are intact, only the smallest notches in the edges indicating their trauma.

As for the fan, the wide, flowing, beautiful, gossamer, ghostly fan Jaskier had prided himself upon his entire life...

The edges of the bites are healed, no longer raw and sensitive to the sting of the sea, but the bites themselves are still apparent.

His fan is ruined.

Laying there in the tide pool, propped on his elbows to survey his tail, Jaskier wishes he could cry.

He lifts his tail, thwacks it against the water, feels no remorse when he splashes Geralt in the process.

Geralt doesn't seem to care.

Not about the water, at least.

It's as Jaskier's about to hit the surface once more that Geralt reaches for him, props a hand against the backside of his tail, holds him firm and meets his gaze.

Jaskier goes still.

His chest is heaving, fear and shame and pain clogging his throat, and he wishes he could cry, but he can't, and so he doesn't.

He stares back at Geralt, stares back at those wolf-gold eyes, stares at him until he lets his tail go slack. The weight of it is no doubt immense, but Geralt supports it like nothing, lays it down gently in the water and sets his hand on the underside instead.

"I'm sorry," he says aloud, smoothing his hand along his scales, down and down and down until he's tracing along the edges of the fan, of the ruined fan, once Jaskier's pride and joy... he traces the edges, and he watches his own hand, and he says, "I tried to save it."

Jaskier doesn't answer.

He's too busy trying to breathe.

Geralt sets him back in the sea that night, tells him to try swimming close to shore, stick close by, rest if he needs, he'll be back the next day...

Jaskier merely nods.

When Geralt pulls away, his fingertips graze across Jaskier's skin, across the point where scales fade into flesh along the v of his waist.

He shudders.

Geralt goes rigid, and yet he doesn't say a word.

He eases him into the sea, says goodnight, waits on horseback until Jaskier dips below the surface and doesn't rise again to leave.

Jaskier comes back when his scent has worn thin.

He floats there, near the tide pool, until his newfound strength begins to wane.

He falls asleep resting against the stones at the rim of the tide pool, Geralt's scent hanging heavy in the air.

Geralt doesn't come back until nightfall the next day, but he brings food, so Jaskier can't fault him.

His tail isn't powerful enough yet to drive him deep below and back home just yet, and the seaweed and crustaceans near the shore are nowhere near as satisfying.

Geralt sits crosslegged in the sand, watches with attentive eyes as Jaskier ducks and dives and whirls...

... as Jaskier shows off, twists and arches and writhes, lets what's left of his fan splay in the water in the closest thing to a mating dance he's ever fucking done, and he's always winded by the time he surfaces again, and Geralt...

... Geralt doesn't care.

He makes Jaskier come closer, wades out far enough to feel over his tail, over his fins, making sure they aren't strained and raw and split open.

They aren't, but maybe Jaskier plays up his exertion, if for nothing else than to have Geralt carry him back into the tide pool, sit down at the edge and knead into the muscles of his tail until it takes everything within him not to moan aloud.

This continues for another week.

Geralt is always watchful, golden eyes following Jaskier through the water so he doesn't grow weak, and at the end of every night, he carries him to the pool, massages the nonexistent ache from his tail and lets Jaskier sing.

One night, Jaskier asks if he likes his singing.

His witcher looks him in the eyes then, just for a moment, and looks away, the faintest of smiles on his face.

He doesn't answer, but Jaskier gloats regardless.

One night, Geralt comes looking... almost happy.

He tells Jaskier he's found Yennefer again.

(Jaskier didn't realize that she was lost, let alone worthy of finding.)

She's moved on, living in another town, in another kingdom. Geralt had gotten word from a traveling merchant, one he's known for years.

Jaskier should be happy for him.

He knows he should.

He knows this, and yet, when Geralt looks at him more closely, asks him what's wrong, he spits out, "Do you love her?"

Geralt goes still.

He's standing at the very edge of the tide, arms crossed.

Jaskier is floating just far enough out that the sand brushes his chest when he settles lower in the water, close enough to talk to his witcher with ease.

"Do you love her?" he repeats.

Geralt's jaw tightens, and he starts to speak, and when he does, it's a low and frustrated snarl.

"I knew her first."

Jaskier's tail hits the surface of the water with enough force to send a ripple through the current, to send a wave toward the shore, lapping at Geralt's boots.

"Jaskier, you can't leave the water, you know you can't - "

"There has to be a way, you see magic all day long, Geralt - "

"I'm not taking you from your home - "

"I haven't seen my home in months!" he nearly screams, and his voice is raw and wrecked and honest, and it hurts to yell, and it hurts to breathe, and, "I haven't gone back below since I met you, Geralt, you have to know that, you are my home!"

Geralt falls silent then.

Jaskier's voice gives out as he cuts himself off, and he falls quiet, and he waits, and he trembles there in the water, his witcher out of reach.

When Geralt speaks again, it's with his eyes averted, and he sounds...

"No. I don't love her, but I can't love you."

He turns away, and Jaskier starts to protest, to call out, to beg for him to stay - but his throat is dry, and so he says nothing.

He stays there, motionless in the water, and watches as Geralt mounts up on his mare and walks away.

He stays there until the sun is rising in the eastern sky.

He stays there until the daylight wears away at his skin and his head is pounding with the atmospheric heat.

He stays there until he grows weak.

He grows weak, and he turns away, sinks below the surface, dives down, down, down... down until the water is dark and he doesn't know if the shadows just beyond his reach are creatures come to kill or merely rock formations lurking in the void.

His heart aches, and he wishes he could cry.

The gulls tell him Geralt has moved on, farther north.

They tell him he's accompanied by a woman with hair as black as the abyss, a woman who heals his wounds with magic and keeps him warm at night.

Jaskier looks to the ruined fan at the end of his tail, to the fresh and brighter scales that mark Geralt's care.

He looks to the ruined fan, and he doesn't say a word.

The gulls tell him Geralt travels alone now.

They tell him that he left the woman in a kingdom called Cintra, and they tell him he's angry now, angry and just as sorrowful as ever.

Some bitter part of his heart is glad.

They tell him they've lost track of Geralt.

It's been years.

It's been years, and still, Jaskier waits close to the shore.

Geralt's scent has long since worn off the stones where they used to sit together, where they used to talk and laugh and sing and play... where Jaskier fell for the man with wolf-gold eyes and seafoam-pale hair.

His heart aches.

#geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt x dandelion #jaskier x geralt #dandelion x geralt #mermaid au #angst #request #blue waters verse

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razorsadness · 3 years ago

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full of rag water & bitters & blue ruin

bitters is the best thing in the world. it gets me drunk really fast, and it cured my headcold; it tastes like cinnamon & pine trees.

i miss door county more than i thought humanly possible; the people and the places. i think i will live there, one day, in a lonely little house by the rocky shore. i'll sit by the window and type on my old typewriter, go fishing, and at night, i'll drive to leroy's for coffee or to the mink river basin for drinks and social interaction.

it is so cold this summer, i think the weather thinks we live in bloody england or something, always gray and damp and shivery. it seems that we had only a week of summer this year.

there are so many words floating around in my head that it's difficult to grab on to some and get them down.

i'm going to go home and drink more coffee, and then maybe some of my pirate rum. make dinner, and then write some more.

it is a sad and beautiful world.

[journal entry, 8/13/04]

#withagoodcriminalheart #my writing #journal entry #2004 #door county #brb crying forever #was thinking of this cuz i still think about moving to door county #in fact me and p. have been seriously discussing it recently #but there’s part of me that isn’t sure if i can cuz it is so so so haunted for me #anyway i’m writing more about it for that long journal entry i #have been working on #also leroy’s is closed now so that part of this fantasy is out of the question #:(#it is a sad and beautiful world

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shealwaysreads · 4 years ago

Text

Face to the sun: a drarry fanfic

A birthday gift for the lovely @maesterchill - inspired by THIS gorgeousness she created! ❤️

Drarry | 1k | E | summer holiday, EWE, dirty talk, soft and dirty feelings

Read on ao3

Draco blinked awake to bright sunlight glinting through the sheer curtains at the windows. Ridiculous. The hotel clearly didn’t want its clientele sleeping in on their holiday. But his ire settled as he stretched and rolled towards the glass doors leading to the balcony. Harry was out there, a hazy silhouette against a stark blue sky through the gauzy window-dressing, wearing only the green swimming trunks Draco had brought for himself. The sheets smelled of them, of their shared shampoo, and sweat, and sex. So Draco watched Harry and luxuriated in it, lazy and content in the knowledge that when they came back from dinner tonight the bed would be fresh and neat—ready for them to ruin it all over again.

It wasn’t their first holiday together, but whenever Draco took Harry abroad it felt special. An adventure without fear or danger, full of time and space and the excitement of the unknown, and even now Draco still felt like gloating that he was the one who got to show Harry the world in all of its sunlit splendour—to share these trips with him and carve gentler memories into the bedrock of their lives.

When they first got together, Draco found out that Harry had never been out of the country before; it was one of many galling facts that Draco excavated from the dust and stone of Harry’s admissions and silences during those early months of working each other out. During that time, Harry’s childhood had been revealed to be a study in lack, in not-having, in exclusion and isolation. They didn’t talk about it much, usually only when Harry got drunk and maudlin—red wine and cheap Firewhisky, inevitably—and Draco would sit quietly as Harry talked around the subject in circles, uncharacteristically indirect. Thankfully, Draco was adept in the language of avoidance, he could read between the lines. Harry would speak quietly, until he was whispering in the guttering candlelight. And then he would fall silent, and Draco would manoeuvre him out of his chair and up the stairs to their bedroom, and hold him.

Their first holiday had been catastrophic. They had been together for three months—three months of sex that left bruises, that felt like fighting played out with a fresh set of soft spots; of slowly untangling their history from their present (from their tentative thoughts of the future), of learning where their jagged edges met with tenderness, of sitting across a table of tea and toast and bitter-silver curls of smoke and smiles that made something inside of Draco ache and flutter.

Draco had chosen a ridiculously extravagant hotel in the tiny wizarding district of Venice—still wanting to impress, falling back on old habits that didn’t fit quite as well as they used to. It was August, the heat had been stifling, and the crowds spilling from gigantic Muggle cruise ships turned the plazas and tiny alleys into a heaving mass of sweaty flesh and flashing cameras. Draco had had an anxiety attack on the first morning (Harry had sat with him silently for hours when he got him back to their room, a heavy Nox around them, his shoulder steady), Harry had eaten something bad and vomited for the duration of their second night (Draco had stroked his hair away from his clammy forehead, flushed the toilet, conjured cool water for him to sip). Neither of them had been comfortable in the plush hotel suite; Harry simultaneously overawed and uncomfortable, Draco strangely ashamed of the excess he had been raised to expect. They had come back to London three days early.

But they had gotten better at their breaks, just like they had gotten better at everything else. They were both nothing if not determined, in all aspects of their life, and once they had decided that this—that they—were something worth fighting for, Draco had settled into the surety of Harry keeping up with him (keeping him).

The line of Harry’s jaw eventually became a more pressing concern than the residual twinge in Draco’s thighs, so he slipped out of bed and stepped into soft cotton to cover his nakedness. He walked past the crisp boundary of their room’s Cooling Charms, and rolled his shoulders when he was hit with a wall of warmth and light as he stepped into the bright mid-morning sunshine.

There was a breeze off the ocean, brine and ozone. But it was insufficient to offset the heat of the sun, or of Harry’s sweat-shining back as he leaned against the balcony and watched the sea and the sky mingle in blues and greens and the white-kissed curls of waves and clouds. Draco moved closer, watched as Harry cocked his head, listening to Dracos footsteps, as he came to stand behind him quietly. Draco could smell the salt on him—sweat and sea-water—and the dark curls behind Harry’s ears, at his nape, were shining with moisture. Draco wanted to taste them.

Instead, he hooked his chin over Harry’s shoulder. “Morning, nice swim?”

Harry hummed in the affirmative and leaned back—trusting, always so trusting—into Draco’s chest, a satisfied sigh gusting out of him when Draco wrapped him in his arms.

“Nicer if you came down with me later though.”

Draco kissed at his neck, savouring the sting of salt against his mouth, and looked over Harry’s shoulder to where his own pale hands stroked at Harry’s abdomen, darkly tanned already after just a couple of days in the sun. Bastard. All Draco had to show for his lounging on the beach was scattered freckles and the tingle of heat in his bones when he was in bed at night—though maybe, on reflection, that was just Harry being next to him.

“I could be convinced, if we’ve got time,” he murmured against Harry’s skin.

Harry raised his cigarette and inhaled deeply, his back pressing against Draco’s chest as his lungs filled, the faintest crackle of burning embers audible over the breeze. “Didn’t think we had anything planned for today.”

Draco slipped his hands lower, knocking aside Harry’s hand where he’d lazily wedged it in his trunks, and slipped his own fingers under the waistband to replace it. Harry’s exhalation was shuddering and smoky, and the scent of cloves on the air was so like home. Draco breathed it in as he ran his nose along the curve of Harry’s neck and licked delicately at the sweet softness of his earlobe.

“We hadn’t planned anything. But when I woke up and you were gone I may have formulated a small...ambition for the day.” He stroked, feather-light at the cut of Harry’s hip, and hid his smug grin in Harry’s hair at the resulting twitch.

Harry vanished his cigarette with a twist of his fingers and a delicious spark of magic—bright, and deep, and sparkling along Draco’s awareness—and turned in Draco’s arms, with his own smile dimpling at his cheeks. He nudged his hips against Draco’s, and huffed a laugh at the involuntary whine it drew. “Only one ambition for the day? You really are relaxing.”

He was losing ground; the way Harry dragged their bodies together, his hands firm at Draco’s waist, and the arrogant tilt of his head as he watched the rising flush Draco could feel heating his throat all combined with the heady knowledge that here on their balcony they were easily visible by anyone on the beach.

“Just one,” he managed to answer, in a voice that would have sounded steady to anyone but Harry (who knew Draco’s tells better than anyone, now). “I’m a simple man to please, my goals aren’t lofty.”

Harry snorted with laughter, and tucked his face down into Draco’s neck to bite, and suck, and urge him to elaborate with a questioning hum that buzzed against his skin. Safe from knowing green eyes, Draco grinned and tilted his head back to bask in the sunlight and Harry’s mouth. He slid his hands up Harry’s arms—radial, bicep, deltoid all firm and strong and tensile under his fingertips—and settled them at his nape, tangling in those sea-kissed curls to hold him close. Draco had the winning hand, and wanted a firm grip before Harry yielded to it.

“Mmm,” Draco hummed, casual and unaffected. “I woke up and before I even opened my eyes, I thought about the ache you’d left me with.” Harry stiffened against him. “An empty bed and an empty hole.”

“Draco,” Harry groaned against him, his tone of voice as good as a red rag to a bull.

“I can still feel it now,” Draco continued, breathing deeply to maintain his composure when Harry pushed his hands past the low-hanging waist of the joggers (Harry’s, of course—Draco always wore bespoke tailoring, but sometimes only the worn-soft cotton of Harry’s favourite clothes would satisfy him) and groped at his arse, broad palms and strong fingers and just the right side of painful. Draco ducked his head, and whispered into Harry’s ear, deliberately breathy and deep. “I can feel your come, trickling out of me as we speak. I’m wet.” He paused for effect, then dropped his well-crafted bomb. “You probably wouldn’t even need lube to stretch me out right now.”

Harry, action over words as ever, immediately palmed Draco’s cheeks apart and then one blunt fingertip was circling his hole—as wet and slick as promised—then pushing in with intent, only stopping when his knuckle nudged at Draco’s tender rim.

“Fuck.” Harry’s voice was ragged already, and Draco clenched around his finger in victory and helpless response to his touch.

“My plan exactly, Harry.”

❤️ to @tackytigerfic and @bonesliketambourines for keeping me in check!

#drarry #happy birthday maesterchill #hpdm #drarry squad #drarry fanfic #things to read #mine #isobel writes #hp

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