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lu-undy · 4 years ago

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Chapter 80 - SBT

Here it is!

“You can’t drive back, can you?”

“Non, I cannot. It would be a disaster. I haven’t been as drunk as this in years…!”

Lucien and Mundy were on the street in front of the pub where they had spent a wonderful evening.

“So we gotta walk, eh?”

“Oui, I guess so - ooh! Be careful!” Lucien helped his lover stand and walk straight.

They clung to each other and started walking back home on foot.

“What about your bike?”

“It will come back home on its own.”

“You shittin’ me?”

“Non…” Lucien chuckled. ��I am not shitting you.”

Mundy laughed.

“What?”

“So weird to hear you say that…”

“Well, I do tend to select my vocabulary with care, oui. I think that now, it is part of my charm.”

Mundy looked at Lucien. The Frenchman had an arm across his shoulders while Mundy held on to his waist.

“Pfff, even drunk, you speak like a king…”

“Am I not yours?”

Mundy chuckled, he looked around in the streets and didn’t see anyone around. He grabbed his lover’s jaw and kissed him then and there, sloppy and awkward. They both stopped walking to appreciate the moment. Lucien was hanging from his lover's neck like a teenage girl having her first kiss.

“Mh-? Mundy…” Lucien laughed. “Your kisses are even worse when you are drunk.” Lucien started walking and his lover followed, still clinging to him so that both could walk reasonably straight.

“Oi! You sayin’ my kisses are shit?”

“I wasn’t the one to say that.”

“Never heard anyone complain before, eh.”

“I am not anyone.”

“Course not, you fancy little snob.”

“Maybe, but you have a weakness for this fancy snob. Besides, I am not little.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Non, you are just tall.”

“Oh I'm too tall, now?”

“I did not say that.”

“Yeah, you did!”

“When?!”

“Right now!”

“Mundy, I never said you were too tall, I just said you were tall!”

“Bah, whatever! Same difference!”

They both chuckled and caught their breath. They looked left and right, trusting each other to keep their balance and walked under the street lamps, showering them in yellow, periodically.

“So…” Mundy started.

“Oui?”

“Sing us something.”

“Now?”

“Yeah, something I know too, and I can sing along.”

“Mundy, we are walking in the street, completely drunk!”

“Exactly! What’s a better moment than this to just sing?”

“Mon Dieu…” Lucien sighed.

“Alright then, I’ll sing somethin’, but don’t complain if you don’t like it, cause I won’t change it!”

“Fine! Show us your skills!”

Mundy cleared his throat and took a deep breath to fill his lungs with air.

“Je l’ai trouvée devant ma porte, un jour que je rentrais chez moi…!

[I found her at my door, one evening, as I was coming back home…!]

Partout elle me fait escorte, elle est revenue, la voilà!”

[Everywhere she follows me, she has come back, here she is!]

Lucien smiled. Despite Mundy's accent and his drunkenness, he recognised the song. Of course, he did. It was the first one he had sung here, in Australia: La Solitude. He joined in Mundy's singing.

"La renifleuse des amours mortes

[She can smell dead loves]

Elle m'a suivie, pas à pas"

[She followed me, step after step]

"Elle nous fait le coeur à pleurer

[She makes us such that our hearts will cry]

Elle nous fait des matins blêmes

[She gives us pale mornings]

Et de longues nuits désolées

[And long, sad nights]

La garce ! Elle nous ferait même

[The bitch! She even makes]

L'hiver au plein coeur de l'été

[Winter come in the middle of summer]

They both sang their lungs out in the dark of the night, using the street lamps as their spotlights in the improvised stage that was the pavement. One was singing in drunk but perfect French, while the other reproduced the sounds he had heard on the cassette on loop…

"Your voice is atrocious…!" Lucien put his hands on his ears and leaned on his lover.

"Oi…! I'm singin' in a language I can't even speak, eh! Have some respect!"

"For what? Even the pronunciation you are butchering!" Lucien giggled as Mundy held him close.

"You're just jealous cause I sing so much better than you."

"What?! You aren't even respecting the tempo!"

"Whatever!"

Soon they arrived at the front door.

"You have your key?" Mundy asked while Lucien patted his pockets.

"Of course I do, don't you?"

"Bah, I dunno…"

Lucien giggled and took the key out of his pockets. He struggled to align it with the lock, and Mundy didn't help.

"Mundy, hold on… Stop it… I can hardly see straight already…!"

The Aussie was hugging his lover from behind and nuzzling in his neck, peppering kisses on his jaw.

"There we go-oh!"

Lucien eventually managed to push the door open and enter but Mundy pushed him in and slammed the door shut with his foot. He took Lucien's jacket off of him and threw it away while pushing wet kisses against his lips, his cheeks and his chin.

"Mon Dieu…"

They breathed louder and Lucien shuddered when Mundy's canines connected with his neck. He could feel their pointy sharpness pushing the skin there.

"M-Mundy!"

The Aussie pushed Lucien's back against the wall and it hit it with a thud. The house was dark and none of them wanted to switch a light on. They were busy. Busy, and cosy. Mundy was pushing Lucien harder and harder against the wall. First, it was only with his mouth, but now, his entire chest and abdomen was crushing the Frenchman.

"You're so bloody sweet…"

Lucien raised his head and rolled his eyes in bliss, offering more of his neck for Mundy to play with. The Aussie laced his fingers between Lucien and pinned his hands against the walls. He put a leg between the Frenchman's.

"O-oh… H-hold on, let us go to the bedroom…"

"Alright, c'mere!" Mundy pulled back and put his hands on Lucien's backside. The Frenchman smiled but felt Mundy's hands continue to slide to his thighs from behind.

"What are you-? Wow!"

The Aussie pulled Lucien off the ground and carried him in his arms. One of them was below Lucien's behind and the other, laced around his back. The Frenchman wrapped his legs around Mundy's waist and held on to him dearly while he walked to the bedroom.

"There, bedroom, ya happy now?"

Lucien looked his lover in the eye and smirked.

"Not yet…"

"Right then, guess I need to fix that." Mundy pushed his lover against the wall again and dived to his lips, holding his cheeks in his hands, sliding his fingers through Lucien's long silver hair.

The kisses grew heated, hungry even. Lucien's fingers were clawing on Mundy's sides, trying to dive deep in his skin through his clothes.

There was no time to waste. Buttons flew as shirts were flung wide open. The cold air of the night bit their skin and the hairs along their body slowly stood up. Goosebumps shot along their spines.

"Oh mon Dieu…" Lucien hardly managed to speak between two kisses, two twists of his tongue around Mundy's. He started to try and roll his hips against Mundy's. A reflex, nothing he could control, drunk as he was.

"Bugger…" Mundy spun around and both tumbled and fell on the bed. Lucien ended up on top of him. They finished stripping off of their clothes, not knowing which way was up, down, left or right. Their mouths connected and disconnected with each other's, or their skins. God only knew if they were lying the right way around on the bed.

Mundy grabbed his lover's jaw, pulling it down to him, and their tongues met before their lips did. Lucien's hair drowned them both, it kept them warm, their cheeks were past pink as their legs were sliding along each other's.

"Oh, Lu'-!" Mundy screwed his eyes shut and took a handful of Lucien's hair as he felt his beard scratch his cheek and slowly sink to his neck. The Aussie raised his eager hips to meet Lucien's and when they made contact, the Frenchman bit his lover's shoulder while the latter growled. The sting of Lucien's fangs was nothing but pleasure, especially when he let his tongue gently - if messily - lap the skin that had just been bruised.

"Gosh… Lu'..."

Lucien continued going down. Mundy's chest. Oui. His messy dark brown hair couldn't hide the pink skin standing and beckoning the Frenchman. He made his way to it and didn't wait before circling it with his tongue, lap lasciviously around and pull earnest moans out of Mundy. Soon, his entire mouth was playing with Mundy's nipples and the poor Aussie grabbed whatever could bring him comfort.

"Oui…"

Lucien felt the powerful fingers on his backside, kneading the skin there possessively. He rolled his eyes and continued his journey down, licking Mundy's stomach and biting his hip.

"Oof-! God, how d'you know I'm sensitive there?"

Lucien raised his eyes to Mundy.

"I didn't. But now, I do." He gave Mundy's right side all the attention it craved. Kisses, licks and soft bites. They all made the Aussie sing and his hips roll into nothing.

"C'mere, I need you."

"I am not finished."

"Doesn't matter."

Lucien raised a confused eyebrow but Mundy pulled him to his lips way too strongly for him to resist. When he kissed him, they both melted on each other.

"Need you more."

"How do you want me?"

"Turn around." Mundy answered but seeing that Lucien started to lie on the bed, he stopped him. "No, not like that."

"How?"

"On all four."

Lucien obeyed, ending up on all four with Mundy looking up at him.

"Now, turn…" Mundy pushed Lucien's arms to his right and grabbed his legs. "Yeah, like that."

Lucien was speechless. He was still on all four, above Mundy, but this time, the Aussie's head was between his knees.

"C'mere… Mh…" Mundy pulled Lucien's hips down.

"Oh-!" Lucien's eyes rolled up on their own when he felt Mundy's lips around his masculinity. "M-Mundy… Gently, please…"

Mundy let the warmth and softness of his mouth and cheeks do the work for him. Lucien laid down and stuck his tongue out.

"Gosh… Yeah, just like that, ooh…"

His fingers were firmly wrapped around Mundy's eagerness while his mouth kissed and his tongue lapped.

Both savoured each other lazily. Wet sounds and moans rose in the air.

"Y'know…"

Lucien's eyebrows jumped. He didn't expect Mundy to start a conversation in the middle of… that.

"I uh… I love ya."

Lucien smiled through his licks.

"I love ya and - oh, yeah, that's nice - I feel like sometimes… I don't even need to put any effort in. It's just… It's just natural. I love you and you love me, like it's easy, like the sky's blue or - orh, yeah - or the sun's bright. Lovin' you, it's… It's normal - aah! Oof, that felt real nice…"

Lucien sucked again and Mundy's toes curled up. He ended up treating Lucien's member with the same care and love as Lucien was providing his.

"I understand what you mean, Mundy. More than this, I feel the same - ah, oui…" He gave a lick and a kiss below Mundy's begging for more and the Aussie's hips jolted gently. "I live this life with you like a free man. A free man who is living his best life. I wouldn't change a thing in the world - aha… Mundy… Oui…"

Lucien laid his head on Mundy's upper thigh but couldn't resume his speech. Mundy was giving some love to what was below his masculinity and Lucien had a bit of a weakness for it.

"Oui… oh…" He moved his hips, giving him a good angle to have an easier access, encouraging Mundy to spend more time there. Lucien opened his legs a bit more. Mundy continued to suck, lick and kiss down until Lucien had to sit up. "Ah-! Please… Gently…"

"Or what, hm?" Mundy gave a furtive lick at Lucien's vulnerable entrance and the Frenchman's hips jumped on their own.

"O-or I might now last long…!"

"Your problem, not mine." Mundy answered in a growl and Lucien splayed his hands flat on the Aussie's stomach. It was less lean than his own, as Mundy's love for beer showed. But it wasn't much and Lucien had a weakness for its softness. Mundy kept on savouring, taking his time and playing Lucien like a delicate instrument. The song of the Frenchman's pleasure filled the air and with his tongue, Mundy controlled the pitch, the rhythm and the melody. "Listen to you sing, eh…? You got a beautiful voice."

"Ah-!"

Mundy pulled Lucien to sit better and the Aussie had his fun. He loved it and now that he thought about it, never had he enjoyed being on the giving end that much.

But why? What pleasure was he getting out of pleasuring Lucien?

Pride. As simple and vicious as that: pride. He was immensely proud of making Lucien sing in octaves unheard of before. He revelled in making the arrogant man above him melt into a puddle of moans, liquid tremors and weakness. And it had its effect on his own body. Mundy could feel his masculine end more needy than ever, throbbing in rhythm with Lucien's song.

"M-Mundy… Hah…"

Mundy pulled Lucien to lie on him in his arms. The Frenchman was breathing heavily. He was out of breath. Why? He hadn't run, he hadn't tried to flee or escape this new life like he did the previous one. Non, he was out of breath because Mundy had taken it away with his mountains of affection and love.

Mundy cupped his face and pulled him such that they rested their foreheads against each other's. He started to kiss him and Lucien's eyebrows arched up. It wasn't heated, it wasn't hungry at all. It was mellow, passionate, gentle and slow. Good God, where did Mundy learn how to kiss like that…? It was almost too romantic for him. He brushed Lucien's lips with his own, guiding them slowly while he brushed his long hair with his open fingers. His thumb came down to brush Lucien's upper cheek, above his short beard lovingly.

Oh.

Mundy felt it. His thumb had brushed a drop of water on Lucien's cheek. A tear. He wrapped an arm around him and stroked his entire back to support him, but he didn't break the kiss. No, to Lucien's surprise, he slowed down even more. Mundy pushed his lips against Lucien's and stayed there. They exchanged their breaths. They remained in the total silence and darkness of their almost empty bedroom. They didn't need anything but each other.

"Lu'...?" Mundy whispered. "Lu', I love you." He gave his lips a chaste kiss. "I love you, gorgeous."

Lucien frowned and more tears streamed in silence. He reciprocated the kiss and surprised Mundy with how eager he was. Through his tears and without a word, he was telling Mundy's lips all those things that words cannot possibly express, because those things are too big, too strong to fit in a string of letters.

And they were back at it, Lucien rolling his hips against Mundy and both realised they were more than in the mood for more. Lucien's mouth slid in kisses to his lover's ear and he whispered.

"I want you, Mundy."

"So do I…"

"Oh-!"

Mundy had slid a hand down and was stroking both their wanting for more in his fist.

"How do you want me, luv'?"

Lucien's eyes snapped wide. He didn't expect Mundy to…?

"A-Are you sure?" The Frenchman asked. "You can… If you want…"

"No. Tonight, you take me."

Lucien bit his lip and rolled his eyes as he pushed his hips into Mundy's fist.

"Stay as you are." He eventually answered. Lucien went to the edge of the bed and let his arm fall to the floor, his hand groping at the floor below the bed. Suddenly, he located the bottle he needed. He fished it out from beneath the bed and in a fluid movement, he opened it and coated his fingers generously. Lucien went back on top of his lover and bit his neck.

"Oh-! God, yeah… Nnh… Please, slowly…!"

"Ssh…" Lucien whispered. "Close your eyes, mon amour."

Mundy obeyed and felt Lucien's fingers massaging his intimate entrance. The slow, circular movement of the Frenchman's index finger was delightful and Mundy opened his thighs for more. That's when Lucien decided to kiss Mundy and lead it the French way. The Aussie melted in a low groan and he frowned at first, surprised by the intrusion and the unknown sensation.

"Calme-toi, mon chéri… Relax et laisse-toi faire. Je te promets que ça va te faire du bien…"

[Calm down, my darling… Relax and let yourself go. I promise you will feel good…]

Mundy's breath wasn't that of a calm man so Lucien switched to English.

"Relax, Mundy… Take a deep breath."

A smile slowly appeared on the Aussie's face.

"Luv'...?"

"Oui, mon loup?"

[Yes, my wolf?]

"Say it again…"

"Say what? Take a deep breath?"

Mundy's smile widened with his eyes still closed and he breathed slower.

"Gimme your hand, please."

Lucien obeyed and Mundy held his hand on his chest, dearly.

"What is it, Mundy?"

"Take a deep breath… I think I fell in love with your eyes when you said that to me for the first time." The Aussie answered. "D'you remember? You said that in the hangar with the beasts, the first time we went there. You said that at Duchemin's party, when I felt overwhelmed by the people there… Oh… Each time you say that to me, it's like a magic spell, everything around me disappears and - ah - I see only you… Your gorgeous eyes… You manage to calm me down with only one sentence and yer eyes… Y-you're amazin', luv'..." Mundy's voice broke and Lucien dived against his chest to hug him. He tightened his grip on Mundy's hand.

"Ssh… I'm here for you… I am here for you, mon amour."

[My love.]

"Please, Lu'..."

"Oui?"

"Please…?" Mundy couldn't even ask the question fully. But he didn't need to. Lucien understood on his own. He removed his fingers and gently positioned himself.

"Are you ready?" He whispered in Mundy's ear.

"Yeah."

And Mundy felt it. It was extremely slow and Lucien didn't leave his lips for the whole duration of it.

"L-Lu', I-I'm sorry…"

Lucien stopped and Mundy wrapped his arms around him. He started crying. The Frenchman's eyebrows jumped and he slowly tried to withdraw from his lover, but Mundy held him back.

"No… Please..." He whispered between two sobs.

"Are you sure?"

"I need you, bloody hell!"

Lucien obeyed without flinching and sheathed himself slowly back in.

"More, please - Aargh…!"

"Mundy, if it hurts, we shouldn't-"

"It doesn't hurt!" He cut him. "I… Please!" He grabbed Lucien's backside and pulled.

"Orh!"

That was it. They were one. Their lips were devoted to each other's.

Mundy exhaled in a long, lovestruck sigh. His entire body melted. He slowly wrapped his legs around Lucien's waist.

"What is it, mon amour? I can feel something is different."

Mundy's breath broke out and he sobbed again.

"It's just that… Oh, bugger, listen to me… Pathetic…"

"Non, please… Tell me."

"I've always dreamt of… Y'know… Finding someone I could trust this much, finding someone I could try this with… I mean… It might sound ridiculous but…"

"Please, non, it doesn't…" Lucien continued to whisper while holding his lover dearly.

"I… I love you… I just… Turns out I've never loved people like I love you now. Please Lu'?"

"Oui?"

"Please never leave me." Mundy screwed his eyes shut.

"I will never leave you."

"You left me once and it was too hard."

"I won't leave you, ever."

"You left me once and I thought I'd never make it."

"I will stay with you."

"You left me once and I needed you, everyday."

"I am staying at your side, forever."

Mundy slid a hand behind Lucien's head and pulled him to himself. He put his lips next to his ear.

"Please, take me."

Lucien's hips started moving and Mundy's moans rose in the air. The Aussie had wanted it forever. He had always been in a position of giving, which is comfortable because as such, he knew he was leading things the way he wanted. But now, he trusted Lucien to have his way with him. He knew he was safe enough to let go of his pride, let go of his fears and face them. The truth was that Mundy had always been terrified of receiving, because he couldn't escape if things went in a direction he didn't want. He had no control, no power.

And yet. As Lucien made love to him, he realised he needed neither control, nor power. He needed to feel supported, to feel that if even he himself wasn't in control of his life, even if he let Life unhinge her jaw with her impressive fangs in front of him, Lucien would be there to shield him, to protect him, to comfort him. Lucien would bear the burdens of his life with him. Lucien would take his problems and help him face them. Lucien would willingly step in, between life and Mundy, to save him.

"Gosh…"

Lucien's hips rolled not to satisfy a craving, or an impulse. They slowly rolled to give love as much as to make it. He was giving his hips, his masculinity, his nudity and his time not only because it felt good, but because it was a sacrifice. He trusted his most intimate and fragile parts in Mundy's body. There was no other place where they would be safe, no.

He didn't pick up the pace and it might have lasted for hours. Who knew? Both were slowly sobering up, sweating away the alcohol and the effort that they hid through the dark shadows of the night. They were both past exhausted and did not care for completion. They needed to feel they were one, they needed to feel each other.

The kisses resumed. Mundy brushed Lucien's hair away from his face and nipped at his beard on his cheek before taking his upper lip between his own. He kissed not like a hunter, but like a prey, abandoning himself to the one man it wasn't shameful to show weakness to, the one man who wouldn't mock him for it, the one man who would support him, pull him up and carry him if he showed any signs of weakening.

Being the hopeless romantic he was, Lucien yielded to Mundy's wordless declaration of love, almost a declaration of submission, of surrendering.

"I'm yours."

Lucien wasn't sure he had heard the words but Mundy was sure to have said them. He spelt them with his tongue against Lucien's, his tears formed the words on his rough cheeks that hadn't blushed half as much as since he had met Lucien.

"You are mine."

"I'm yours."

"I am yours."

"You're mine?"

"I am yours."

"You're mine… I'm yours."

"I love you."

"You're everythin'."

"The sun I wake up to, the moon I fall asleep to, the air I need to breathe and the water I need to live."

"I'm-?"

"Oui, you are all these. All these are you."

Mundy pulled Lucien's lips to his and while the Frenchman smiled, the Aussie's tears rolled along his temples.

"Thank you, Lu'..."

"Sshh."

Lucien stopped rolling his hips and lay on top of Mundy. They were stuck to each other, in the middle of the bed, their clothes scattered in the room as if they had burst from their skins. Two bodies now one.

"Take a deep breath." Lucien whispered with a smile and Mundy nodded silently. His lips pursed up in a smile and he kissed his lover.

On the cheek.

#tf2 sniper #tf2 spy #sniperspy #SBT

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king-finnigan · 5 years ago

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(I’m So) Human - Chapter 1

Summary: From the moment Jaskier lays eyes on the white-haired stranger in Posada, he's mesmerized. The man is a mystery he can't wait to solve, and for twenty-two years he finds himself by his side, trying to find out who Geralt of Rivia really, truly is. Eventually, he gives the Witcher his heart, hoping that, maybe, this time, it won't get broken.

A/n: I suck at summaries tbh, the fic is basically just Jaskier pining, set to the lyrics of Human by Dodie (which is an amazing song by the way). As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don’t hesitate to leave a like and a comment if you feel like it!

You can also read this on AO3! M A S T E R L I S T

The first time he sees the white-haired stranger in the corner of the tavern, he’s mesmerized. Absentmindedly, he picks a cup of ale or wine or whatever from a passing tray, the woman holding it invisible to him as he keeps his eyes trained on the man.

“Love the way you just sit in the corner and brood.” Great one, Jaskier. The stranger stays quiet, piquing the Bard’s interest even more. It’s always the silent ones that have the most to tell.

More silence. Suit yourself then, I’m not giving up. “No one else here has hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except” he moves until he’s in the man’s line of sight “for you.”

He sits down, and notices the yellow eyes, rolling in annoyance. A reaction. Good. The golden irises make a beautiful contrast with the white of the hair and the black of the armour. Like dandelions sprouting from snow, surrounded by rocks, unaware that spring has not yet started. I’ll have to remember that for my next song.

He cocks his head, as he sees the two swords lying next to the stranger, and he can practically taste the lyrics and notes of his next ballad on his tongue. This man will have so many stories to tell.

It is then that he realizes it’s not just a man he’s sitting in front of, but a Witcher. And not just any Witcher, either. One he’s heard a thing or two about, as a matter of fact. Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.

He licks his lips, a nervous tick he used to be chastised for when he was young. “Oh, fun.”

I wanna pick you up and scoop you out.

He follows Geralt out of the tavern, along the path to Dol Blathanna, where the elves used to live. Sure, he gets punched in his stomach by the Witcher, but when has he ever let a minor setback stop him, really? I’ll take that over getting pelted with food, any day.

The Witcher doesn’t answer any of his inquiries, though, only granting him a disinterested ‘Hmm’ once or twice. Still, there are other ways to get a story.

Jaskier sighs, as his feet start to hurt and the blistering sun hurts the back of his neck. He almost – almost starts to regret the decision to follow the Witcher around, but he figures doing so will already make a better song than anything he’s written for the past few months.

And maybe, just maybe, if he can get some more information about the Witcher’s past adventures, somehow, or about the monsters he’s fought, Jaskier can finally start earning some money from his music. Like everyone in my life has said I wouldn’t.

I want the secrets your secrets haven’t found.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a few hours since he’s met Geralt, and he’s full of inspiration and ideas and music as they walk back to Posada. He’s strumming his new instrument, and he silently apologizes to his old, now broken lute, but gods what a beauty this one is.

Jaskier’s ribcage hurts when he breathes too deeply, and he’s got a headache from the stone projectile that the Silvan hit him with, but he’s singing his ideas out to the quiet mountains around him – and to the one on the horse behind him.

“Where’s your newfound respect?” Jaskier looks back when he hears the gravelly voice, still not really used to the sound of it. He can’t help but notice the way the light reflects on the Witcher’s hair, the way his yellow eyes complement the sun above them beautifully. He shakes the thoughts away, shrugs.

“Respect doesn’t make history.” Because that’s what he needs to do – make history. He’s low on money, on supplies, on self-confidence, and the way he’s been pelted with food and insults every day for the past week tells him he’s not going to get the coin he so desperately needs unless he writes the best song anyone on the Continent has ever written, and spreads it around as quickly as possible. This is that song.

Not only that, but he’s seen the way people look at Geralt, he knows how low on coin the Witcher is. They both need the fame and the money.

The perfect symbiotic relationship. The Bard sings the praises of the Witcher, who, in turn, provides him with new song material. If only Geralt would realize that.

And maybe, just maybe, Jaskier would find the friend he’s been missing all his life. Someone who believes in him the way his family never has. He turns back around, and starts walking again, singing the foundations of his new song to the empty mountains around them.

A few heartbeats pass, and he can’t help but smile as he hears the clopping of Roach’s hooves behind him again.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

That evening, they’re sitting in a tavern again, a little ways outside Posada, in a corner, as Geralt seems to prefer. I should remember that.

The Witcher is counting his coin, and Jaskier pretends not to see how little there is, as he’s scribbling his new song in his notebook. Geralt orders two more ales with money he doesn’t really have, and Jaskier doesn’t protest.

They sit in comfortable silence, only interrupted once in a while by a stray comment from the Bard or a question that doesn’t get answered. Please just talk to me. He doesn’t mind the lack of response that much, though, as he’s already glad Geralt hasn’t told him to fuck off yet, or straight-up left. Thank the gods he’s still here with me.

He looks at the way the candlelight dances across the Witcher’s skin, old scars casting long shadows over his face. Jaskier tried asking about them earlier, but Geralt had just frowned, and the Bard had sensed that he didn’t want to talk about them. So he hasn’t asked again.

Yellow eyes meet his and he looks away, gazing around the room as he takes a sip of stale ale, eyes returning to the Witcher once he senses Geralt isn’t looking at him anymore.

He feels warm, fuzzy, and he frowns at the pint. It’s only his second, and he usually doesn’t get drunk this fast. He looks back at Geralt, and the fuzzy feeling increases. He hopes the Witcher won’t leave without him tomorrow. Don’t hope too much, Jaskier.

Yet, he doesn’t want this feeling he gets every time he looks at Geralt to go away. Not just yet, anyway.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been a month since he’s met the Witcher, and they’re in the woods, halfway between two towns, both of the villages too far away to reach before midnight. It’s okay, though. Jaskier’s used to sleeping outside by now.

He lays his bedroll down as Geralt lights the fire, the heat barely managing to chase away the chill of the early autumn night. Jaskier smiles as he remembers the time he tried to build a fire, two weeks ago. Geralt had barely managed to stop him from burning down the entire forest, and the Witcher had told him he’s never ever allowed to make a fire again.

Geralt now sits down heavily on a log, his hands fumbling with the straps of his armour, eyes weary and annoyed. Gods, I’m tired of seeing him struggle every night.

Jaskier rushes over, nimble fingers undoing the straps and knots quite easily. Geralt scoffs, his hand coming up to push the Bard’s away. “I can take off my armour perfectly fine by myself, thanks.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes, standing upright and putting his hands on his hips. “I know that, dear Witcher, but you take forever to do it. So, let me help, and we’ll be able to eat three hours earlier than if you were to do it by yourself. I’m starving.”

Geralt looks at him for a moment, yellow eyes calculating, flickering in the light of the fire. Finally, after a staring contest that leaves Jaskier weak at the knees, the Witcher looks at the ground. “Hmm.”

The Bard takes that as permission, and bends forward again, undoing the straps, ignoring the way his fingers itch to reach his hand up and touch Geralt’s skin, to brush over the old scars and the shadows the light of the flames cast.

He glances up, and sees the Witcher’s gaze on him, a strange look in the golden eyes. Jaskier cocks his head, letting go of the armour and placing his hands on his knees as he lifts up his eyebrows. “What?”

Geralt looks back at the fire, the weird glint in his eyes suddenly gone, face even. “Nothing.”

Jaskier frowns, but continues his work after a moment or two, in a silence that isn’t entirely comfortable.

Will you share your soul with me?

“Come on, Geralt, surely you have some interesting stories to tell me.” Jaskier has his notebook in his lap, pencil ready to write down any sparse detail the Witcher might give him.

Geralt shrugs. “It’s monster hunting, Jaskier, it’s not as interesting as everyone thinks.” He smirks at the annoyed look Jaskier gives him. Oh, you bastard, you just love aggravating me, don’t you?

Geralt continues: “You get the contract, you find the monster, you kill it, you get money sometimes. That’s all there is to it.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically, and rolls his eyes, making a show of putting the pencil and the notebook away. “Really, Geralt, if you won’t tell me anything, then I’ll just have to follow you around some more.”

He sneaks a look at the Witcher, and sees him frown. He waits a few seconds, insecure, hands fidgeting a little, and relief washes over him as Geralt doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to fuck off or go away.

Instead, the Witcher shrugs and stands up, spreading his bedroll on the ground near the fire, back turned to Jaskier. “You should sleep, it’s getting late.”

The Bard hesitates. “Right, right. I’ll uh… yeah.” He lays down on the other side of the fire, hands tucked beneath his head. He looks at Geralt’s back, the slow rise and fall of the broad side with every deep breath of the Witcher, lulling him to sleep, as he tries to imagine a story for each and every one of the Witcher’s scars.

Unzip your skin and let me have a see.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been half a year since he’s met the Witcher, and they arrive at an inn, where the innkeeper informs them there is only one room left, the town unusually busy with the upcoming Spring Festival. Geralt shrugs and takes it, walking away as the other man tries to say something, his voice dying in his throat as Jaskier looks at him apologetically.

As they walk up the stairs, the Bard eyes the bar that covers the entirety of the ground floor, trying to calculate if there are enough people there to make a performance worth his time. Some rich-looking men walk in, and he decides in favour of making some coin tonight.

He follows Geralt through the hall to their shared room. This isn’t the first time they’ve slept in the same room, since they always seem low on coin, and inns are an expensive luxury. Neither of them considers it a problem. This time, however, it’s a bit different. There’s only one bed. Oh no.

He opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. His mind is blank and, for once, he can’t find his words. Geralt doesn’t seem fazed, though, and starts taking his armour off. He looks at Jaskier. “Are you going to help me or are you just going to keep staring at me?”

I could stare at you for the rest of my life, Witcher. He sputters, and drops his stuff in the corner unceremoniously, rushing over to Geralt to help him with the straps that are harder to reach. The silence lasts for a minute or two, until Jaskier finally remembers how to speak. “Uh… Geralt.”

The Witcher looks at him in annoyance. “What?”

Jaskier swallows thickly, glancing around the room, keeping his eyes trained on anything but Geralt. “There’s only one bed.”

Silence. He finally looks up at the Witcher, who frowns at him. “And?”

The Bard notices that his fumbling fingers are slightly shaking, and he lowers his hands, balling them by his sides. Keep it together, Jaskier. “Who’s going to sleep on the floor?”

Geralt snorts, looking at him incredulously, as if he’s just asked the most stupid question in the world. He looks at me like that a lot. The Witcher shakes his head slightly. “No one is.”

“Oh.” Jaskier nods, hands coming up again to continue their work. “Okay.”

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

He comes back from his performance later that night, setting his lute down in the corner, dunking a bag full of coin next to it, the clinking of metal loud in the quiet room as it hits the wood. But oh so satisfying.

Geralt is already fast asleep, and Jaskier pulls of his doublet as silently as possible, changing into his night clothes quickly. The only light in the room comes from the fireplace, and he pokes at the low flames for a moment, pushing them back to life. He turns around, startling as he meets golden eyes.

He winces. “Sorry for waking you up.”

Geralt lays back down, pulling the sheets closer as Jaskier slips into the bed. It’s big enough for the both of them but his heart still flutters at the close proximity to Geralt’s bare back, the light of the fire dancing across the muscles. “It’s fine, Jaskier, go to sleep”

The Bard doesn’t close his eyes, though, and he simply watches as Geralt’s breath deepens again. He resists the urge to stretch his fingers out, to cross the four-inch gap between them into unchartered territory. Surely, Geralt wouldn’t appreciate it if he did.

So he watches, unable to close his eyes, shivering slightly as he realizes the Witcher’s hogging all the blankets. You beautiful, annoying bastard.

He takes in every small freckle, every old scar on Geralt’s back, the flames in the hearth slowly dimming as the hours progress, making themselves at home in his heart instead.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been ten years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sighs as he throws his arms up in exasperation. “It’s a Siren, Geralt! That would make for an amazing song, why won’t you let me come along?”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “Because you would take out your earplugs to hear the Siren’s song, and you would die. That’s why.” He cuts off Jaskier’s rebuttal. “Don’t tell me you weren’t already planning on doing that, I know you.”

Jaskier steps in front of the Witcher as he makes a move to walk out of their shared room at the inn. “Well, if you know that’ll happen, then does it really matter if I do it? You’ll know to hold me back!”

Geralt sighs and pushes the Bard aside. “It does matter because I don’t want to have to rescue you while I’m fighting a Siren. I’ll need to put all my focus into not dying myself, so I won’t be able to keep you safe as well.”

The Witcher opens the door, only for it to be pushed shut again by Jaskier. The Bard ignores the way Geralt snarls at him, determined to come along. “I’ll be fine, Geralt. I’m sure the Siren’s song won’t even be that alluring. I mean, you’ve heard it before, you haven’t died yet.”

Geralt groans a little, and takes the front of Jaskier’s doublet in his hand, pushing the Bard against the wall. Jaskier tries to ignore how close they are, how he only has to move forward an inch to bridge the gap between them, how he’s fantasised about being in this position so many times. Stop it, Jaskier.

Geralt sneers at him, his breath fanning over the Bard’s skin, setting fire to his soul. “I didn’t die because I’m a Witcher, and you’re not. End of discussion.” And with that, he’s gone in the blink of an eye, the door slamming behind him, leaving Jaskier alone in the room.

I’m so human.

He startles as Geralt throws his bag down next to him, sitting down heavily as he orders a drink from the barmaid. Jaskier can immediately tell something went wrong. There’s fire in the golden eyes, and the Witcher looks like absolute hell, white hair drenched in salty water, his clothes torn in several places, deep, barely healed wounds visible on his skin.

“So, how’d it go?” The Bard pushes a plate of food he had already ordered toward Geralt, and the Witcher shoves it away, brow creased and angry. Something definitely went wrong.

“Like shit.” He downs his ale in one go, slamming it back down on the table. He seems determined to leave it at that, probably hoping Jaskier will stop asking questions. He should know better by now.

“How come? Did something happen?” He gets no response, and worry flares up in his chest. He ignores the way Geralt’s hand clenches on the table, how a muscle pulls in his jaw. “Geralt, what happened? Talk to me.” His hand fidgets with the hem of his shirt, and he starts to ramble, nervousness in the pit of his stomach. “I mean, please do tell me, you didn’t even let me come along to listen to the Siren’s song and-“

He flinches as the Witcher slams his fist on the table, a hush falling over the crowded room, picking up again after a few seconds.

“That’s exactly what happened,” Geralt hisses, “some idiots almost got themselves and me almost killed because they were so desperate to hear the Siren’s song.” He points his finger at Jaskier, accusing. “They were just as stupid as you, and you’re very lucky I didn’t let you come along or you would’ve died.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, before Geralt stands up abruptly, his hands flat on the table. “Next time I tell you you’re not allowed to follow me, you. Fucking. Listen. Understand?”

Jaskier nods shakily, and the Witcher turns around, stomping upstairs, leaving Jaskier alone at the table.

We’re just human.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he finds him fishing in a town called Rinde. He looks tired, and Jaskier can’t help but feel concern for the mania the Witcher seems to exude. The dark circles under the golden eyes are deep, and his movement jagged, forced, as if he has too much energy yet none at the same time. And let’s not forget the stupidity of the idea of asking a djinn for a nap.

He’s surprised when Geralt tells him he can’t sleep, a million different ways to help him get some rest crossing his mind, ranging from ‘let’s get a hammer’ to ‘I’ll wash your hair and sing you to sleep’. Still, he doesn’t say anything of the sorts, instead opting to focus on the recent heartbreak he went through. You will manage, but I’m not sure I will if you tell me to go.

That’s when Geralt insults his singing, and betrayal and confusion courses through his veins. This is somehow worse than you telling me to leave. He stutters, hands shaky as he points his finger at the Witcher. “You need a nap!”

His brain short-circuits again, when Geralt finds the amphora. “What’s that?”

The next few minutes are a blur, everything happening all at once, and in the end he’s left gasping on the forest floor, blood leaking from his mouth. He reaches back, trying to find Geralt, trying to find his anchor in this world, and feels a warm hand on his shoulder, calming him down.

Lean for me and I’ll fall back.

Geralt helps him on Roach, climbing on the mare behind Jaskier, strong arms around him, holding onto the reigns. He spurs the horse on, and they ride to the town, in search of the elven doctor. Jaskier gasps and wheezes, more and more strength leaving him with every ragged breath, with every drop of blood falling from his lips.

He leans back a bit, finding comfort in Geralt’s broad chest, the arms tightening around him slightly. His mind wanders, as the trees become a blur around him, to his most recent heartbreak.

He could’ve – should’ve known the Countess would leave him. They hadn’t exactly had the most stable of relationships. Still, it hurts. Being rejected over and over again always does. Usually, he’s gone by the morning, before he has the chance to develop something deeper than infatuation, before the other person can break his heart.

The only exception had been the Countess, and look where that got him. Back into misery, back into insecurity and hurt.

Back into Geralt’s life. The only other person he has exposed his heart to, and the only person who hasn’t crushed it. Something flutters in his chest, and he writes it off to the blood he’s coughing up again, before leaning back into Geralt’s chest.

You’ll fit so nicely, you’ll keep me intact.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been sixteen years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never seen the Geralt act so unbelievably stupid.

“Are you perhaps short of a marble?” He walks sideways as he tries to keep up with Geralt, who’s stalking back to the house Jaskier just escaped from. On his way to save that terrifying Witch, for some reason. Great, typical Geralt. Fucking idiot.

Chireadan, the elven doctor, grabs Geralt’s arm, earning a pointed glare from the Witcher. “You have to go in there, don’t you? I recognize the look, I know how you feel.” Look? What look?

“You’re making me uncomfortable.” Same here. Geralt tears his arm away from the doctor’s loose grip, and starts walking towards the house again.

Jaskier has to run to catch up with him. “Do not tell me this is actually the moment you’ve decided to care about someone other than yourself.” He stands in front of Geralt, and the Witcher finally stops.

Geralt looks at him, cocking his head, something Jaskier can’t quite identify in his yellow eyes. “She saved your life, Jaskier, I can’t let her die.” With that, he pushes past the Bard, back into the house.

Jaskier sighs, and considers following Geralt for a moment, but ultimately decides against it. Really, what good can he do against such powerful magic? His shoulders sag, and he tries to push back the uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Surely, Geralt will be fine, he’s faced worse threats before.

He’ll let the Witcher handle it, he decides. It’s best for him to stay outside, to make sure that no one, not even he, gets in Geralt’s way.

The building collapses behind him.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend.

Geralt is alive, and Jaskier can’t take his eyes off him, only looking away when the Witcher meets his gaze. They’re sitting in a tavern in Rinde, and the room around them is noisy. A lively crowd, but Jaskier doesn’t feel like performing tonight. He doesn’t want to leave Geralt’s side for even a second, scared the Witcher might disappear if he looks away, back to the Witch, or dead after all.

At some point Geralt grows annoyed at Jaskier’s quietness and staring. “Djinn got your tongue?” He laughs at his own stupid joke as he takes a sip of ale, and the Bard blinks, trying to clear his mind.

“No, sorry. Just… a lot happened today, is all.” He looks down at his lukewarm pint, his stomach recoiling at the smell of it, mixed with the scent of sweat that rolls off the people around him in waves.

Geralt stands up. “Well, I’m going to sleep.” He walks to the stairs, to their shared room. Jaskier follows fifteen minutes later, trying and failing to compose himself before going upstairs.

Geralt is already fast asleep, somehow, when Jaskier gets there. He changes into his night clothes, but sits on his bed the rest of the night, looking at Geralt’s sleeping form. The Witcher’s usually so crass face is serene, and Jaskier wonders what he’s dreaming about. Wonders if he’s there, too.

He’s afraid to look away, to fall asleep, scared Geralt might not be there when he wakes up. All those times I’ve watched him sleep, and I never once asked him if Witchers dream.

Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he sits down slowly, carefully next to Geralt on the rock at the edge of the cliff.

He knows Geralt is hurting, he knows he blames himself for what happened to Borch, Téa and Véa. He knows he can’t say anything to make it right, but he tries anyway. “You did your best. There’s nothing else you could’ve done.”

It’s silent for a few moments, and the whistling of the wind reminds him of Oxenfurt, of the familiar beaches and the open sea. I think Geralt would love the ocean. He licks his lips, a nervous habit he still hasn’t lost after all these years. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow? That is, if you give me another chance to prove myself a worthy travel companion.”

Geralt smiles a little, half a chuckle leaving his mouth and Jaskier considers that a victory. “We could head to the coast. Get away for a while.” Please say yes, please say yes.

Silence. His mouth decides to run off without him. “Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” Great one, Jaskier, remind him of it again.

It’s quiet for another moment, and he decides to continue: “Life is too short.” Too short to spend another day without you. “Do what pleases you, while you can.” His voice has trailed off into a whisper, the words too loud to say them at a normal volume.

Finally, Geralt speaks. “Working on your next song?” I’d never write a song about your pain.

“No, just…” he hesitates, unsure of what to say, “just trying to figure out what pleases me.” A lie. He already knows.

I want to give you your grin.

They sit there for a while, watching the sky turn a million different shades of pink, orange, purple, and, eventually, dark blue as the sun sets. Geralt hasn’t rejected his idea to go to the coast, but hasn’t said yes either, and Jaskier is on edge.

Still, the Witcher hasn’t told him to fuck off, either, and hasn’t left. He’s just sitting there, looking at the view, face peaceful and serene, for once. Jaskier can’t stop himself from stealing glances of Geralt’s profile, admiring the way the sunlight dances across his skin, makes the white hair almost glow. He looks like an angel.

Suddenly, Geralt stands up, taking a deep sigh. He claps his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder as he turns, making his way to… oh.

Disappointment and hurt rears up in the Bard’s chest, as he sees Geralt enter Yennefer’s tent. Maybe he just wants to talk.

He waits for what seems to be an eternity, confusion, hurt, and anger in the pit of his stomach. The sun is fully gone now, and cold creeps into his bones. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from the Witch’s tent.

“Oi!” A voice calls out from twenty yards away. He looks over, seeing one of the dwarves. “What’re you doin’ out there on yer own, Bard? Come sit with us.”

Jaskier smiles lightly, stealing one last glance of the tent before making his way over to the fire, trying to fight the tears forming in his eyes.

So tell me you can’t bear a room that I’m not in.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he’s never felt more lonely.

He’s sitting by the fire, no more than embers in ashes, as the dwarves snore around him. His bedroll is soft underneath him, but he can’t bring himself to lay down and go to sleep.

His eyes hurt from being kept open too long, and he has to remind himself to blink, to chase the fuzziness in his vision away. He rubs his shoulders a bit, fingers freezing and stiff against his doublet, cold creeping into his bones.

He sighs, unable to keep his eyes off Yennefer’s tent. Geralt still hasn’t emerged from it, and Jaskier can only imagine what they’re doing in there. He suppresses a spike of jealousy that carves against his insides.

That should be me. He shakes his head to drive the thought away. Geralt clearly doesn’t feel the same way about him. He hasn’t taken up on Jaskier’s offer to go to the coast, and he went to Yennefer’s tent immediately afterwards. Besides, Geralt is his own person, he can do as he pleases.

His heart stops for a second at the thought. Do as he pleases. Oh.

Jaskier’s driven Geralt straight into the arms of the Witch.

He fights to hold back the tears spilling from his eyes, and rubs his arms some more, half in search of warmth, half in search of comfort. He keeps staring at the tent, hoping, foolishly, that Geralt will emerge from it before the dawn, and return to Jaskier once more.

Paint me in trust, I’ll be your best friend. Call me the one, this night just can’t end.

҉ ҉ ҉

It’s been twenty-two years since he’s met the Witcher, and he wakes up alone.

He looks around, startling as he sees the sun already high in the sky. The fire has completely died out, and everyone else, including the dwarves, are gone. Yennefer’s tent has disappeared.

He grabs his stuff, jogging along the path, calling out for everyone and anyone. He’s hungry, and still half-asleep, but determined to find out where the others are, and – most importantly – why they left him behind.

Though, he can kind of figure out why himself. He’s not part of the dwarves’ company, and Geralt and Yennefer were clearly too busy doing… whatever to wake him. And hasn’t the Witcher always said that Jaskier is no use in a fight? Why wake him up when he’s so useless, right?

He finds the dwarves near the entrance to the cave at the top of the mountain, seemingly unable to move. Clearly one of Yennefer’s spells, the bitch.

He finds Borch, Téa and Véa at the cave, and nearly has a heart attack.

He finds Geralt and Yennefer, thick as thieves, there as well. The fight is clearly long over, and anger courses through his veins when he finds out what he’s missed. A golden dragon, an epic battle, magic. The makings of the most amazing song ever.

Though, he feels no desire to write about it, as he looks at Yennefer, Geralt, and Borch, talking. A Sorceress, a Witcher, a Dragon.

I’m so human.

He watches, as they talk, waiting patiently until he can go to Geralt. Maybe he’ll accept my offer to go to the coast, this time.

He looks up, as Yennefer barrels past him, tears in her eyes, anger on her features. Good riddance. They shoot each other a dirty look before she leaves.

He sighs, fidgeting with the edge of his fingernail as Geralt and Borch talk some more. Obviously, they have great and important matters to discuss that they think Jaskier too lowly for, as they don’t even spare him as much as a look.

He’s hurting, but he tries to ignore it. Maybe once they’re on the road again, and have left all this nonsense behind them, things will start to feel normal again. He misses the Witcher he knew, the one who actually made jokes, the one who let him wash his hair until it was white again, the one who didn’t constantly seem to think about Yennefer, or was more occupied with her than with his best friend of twenty-two bloody years.

Borch leaves, finally, and Jaskier can see a flash of hurt and anger on Geralt’s face. He knows the feeling all too well, and stands up. Yesterday, he was able to soften the Witcher’s pain, talking to him, distracting him, lightening the mood overall. So maybe today he can, too. And then, they’ll be on the road again. Everything will be normal.

And neither of them will be hurting so much.

We’re just human.

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” Oh.

#the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #geraskier #gerlion #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #I'm so human #mine #chapter 1

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abstractmomenta · 1 year ago

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tags ⇴ 2 / ?

abt ⇴ sometimes there's a thought like you know what you're doing but it comes to naught when i look back through it !

aes ⇴ the sky set to burst ! the gold and the rust !

body ⇴ i'd move so fast that i'd outpace the dawn !

cloth ⇴ allow the ground to find its brutal way to me !

hc ⇴ sometimes it returns like rain that you slept through !

mus ⇴ this life lived mostly underground knowing neither sight nor sound !

ship ⇴ but i can see that all along love it was you all the way down !

song ⇴ a butchered tongue still singing here above the ground !

vis ⇴ your reflection can't offer a word to the bliss of not knowing yourself with all mirroring gone from the world !

want ⇴ you may never know your fortune until the distance is shown between what is lost forever and what can still be known !

#abt ⇴ sometimes there's a thought like you know what you're doing but it comes to naught when i look back through it !#aes ⇴ the sky set to burst ! the gold and the rust !#body ⇴ i'd move so fast that i'd outpace the dawn !#cloth ⇴ allow the ground to find its brutal way to me !#hc ⇴ sometimes it returns like rain that you slept through !#mus ⇴ this life lived mostly underground knowing neither sight nor sound !#ship ⇴ but i can see that all along love it was you all the way down !#song ⇴ a butchered tongue still singing here above the ground !#vis ⇴ your reflection can't offer a word to the bliss of not knowing yourself with all mirroring gone from the world !#want ⇴ you may never know your fortune until the distance is shown between what is lost forever and what can still be known !

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writing-of-a-british-bitch · 5 years ago

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A Night At The Opera- Chapter 1

Fandom: Queen/Borhap

Specified gender: Female

Pairing: Brian May x reader/ John Deacon x reader

TW: one of the bandmates is a dickhead.

Genre: Horror ig?? ( based on phantom Of the opera)

Series: A Night At The Opera

Requests: CLOSED

Masterlist

A/N: Ugh I had to repost this twice bc tumblr is a dick. Anyway, I hope you guys like the first chapter of my (Not so scary) Halloween series!

For as long as the theatre had been running, there’d always been rumours running around of a being living beneath its foundations, causing all the seeming accidents that took place on the operas most successful nights. A light falling on stage.Musical instruments shattered to pieces. Actors and actresses, singers and drummers too sick to take part in the performance, with two circular marks on their neck. Phantom hiding in the shadows, speaking to no one, never to be seen. But to Freddie Mercury, that only added excitement to the already beautiful place he was to perform at later.

“Come on darlings! We’ll be late!” Freddie called into his shared apartment, adjusting his hair for the thousandth time in the mirror, quickly turning side to side to check his outfit. He just HAD to look his best. In the mirror, the singer saw his two friends emerge from Deaky’s bedroom, and he smiled mischievously at their messed hair, swollen lips and dishevelled clothes.

“Sorry, Fred, we got busy,” (Y/N) giggled, glancing over at her partner in crime, before swiftly trying to fix his clothes so he looked at least a TINY bit presentable to his audience later. Freddie couldn’t help but smile at his friends. He and (Y/N) had been friends for as long as his family had been staying in London. She helped him through college, despite having no knowledge of what he studied. And when Queen was formed, she took place in the role of the roadie and the techie. They were so close, she was more than a friend. She was a sister.

“I can see that, dears. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. Now, come on! (Y/N), love, do you have the equipment we need tonight?” Freddie asked with a chuckle, beginning to pick up a few bits he’d need later that evening, including his camera. If he was going to this theatre, he was taking pictures, ghost or not.

“Of course, I do. It’s by the door behind you, you oblivious mule,” She walked up to him and playfully nudged his shoulder as she passed, grabbing the equipment from next to the door. Most of the bigger stuff stayed in Roger’s van but a few things had to be kept inside, as not to be lost in the mess of that van. Deaky laughed heartily, sparing a glance in the mirror to fix his hair.

“I thought you were meant to know her, Freddie! She’s always prepared,” Deaky pressed a kiss to his girlfriend’s cheek as he brushed past her to pull the door open, holding it for her as she began to lug the equipment towards the elevator down to the ground floor of the apartment complex. Freddie shook his head, tongue between his teeth as he smiled and followed his friends out, making sure to grab (Y/N)’s purse, which had been abandoned on the counter, before shutting the door behind him and locking it.

“Are you sure you couldn’t get anywhere grander, Fred?” Roger questioned his friend, giving him a raised eyebrow as he helped their roadie and friend carry some of their tech into the back door of the theatre, eyeing the expensive-looking decor. Deaky brought his bass and the guitarists amp.

“How much did this place cost us, Fred?” Deaky pushed, worry lacing his voice, knowing how tight budgets were then, anxiously looking at all the glitz and glamour this theatre had. And they were only backstage, so God only knew what the main stage and the crowd looked like. (Y/N) placed Deaky’s amp down and some of the cables onto a table nearby, watching and Deaky, Roger and Freddie placed everything they were holding down beside your stuff.

“Don’t you worry about it, darling. I know someone, got us a few weeks here to perform, and dears, we have sold out most days! We’ll be stars before the week is out!” Freddie brushed the pair off, delight and excitement lacing his throat. Roger and Deaky exchanged nervous looks. What if this didn’t work out?

“Ugh! Where has that guitarist gotten to now? He said he’d be here by now!” It wasn’t uncommon for Adam to be late for rehearsal, or sometimes even shows. But this was important. This could be the launch of Queen “I need to test his amp!”

(Y/N) had been pacing for the last few hours, running around to prepare everything for their show, grabbing water so the boys would have something to drink after the show and during Adam’s painful guitar solos. She poured beer onto some of Rogers drums, fixed lighting, adjusted Freddie’s mic, fixed an issue with Deaky’s amp and even cleaned the backstage. She hadn’t stopped moving since they’d walked in and with Adam late, her stress was climbing.

“(Y/N), lovely, you need to take a breather. You’re going to burn yourself out. Take a break, please. I’ll try to call Adam, just calm down,” Deaky took her hand, pressing his lips to the back of it and gently leading her to one of the couches. He kissed her forehead, running a loving hand across her cheek.

“But, Deaky-”

“No, my darling. Can’t have you too stressed before the show has even started. Stay here, or I’ll make Freddie come back here,” Deaky threatened with a cheeky smile and the girl couldn’t help but give him a tiny smirk and nodded. The long-haired brunette stood up after connecting his lips to your cheek once more and ran out, going to find the closest phone. (Y/N) instantly started tapping her feet, blowing her cheeks out in boredom. It was a strange feeling -to not do anything when she’s normally always moving. A guitar lay in the corner of the room. One of Adam’s. The one he hated- said it never made the right sound. But she didn’t think he could ever make the right sound. One of the reasons Queen hadn’t properly taken off anywhere. But they were desperate. Slowly, the woman stood up and picked the guitar up, strumming it, only to cringe at how out of tune the instrument was. Her fingers twisting the tuning keys, listening until it was perfectly in tune. When she sat back down with the guitar, she realised how long it had been since she last played; (Y/N) had been taking private lessons, but when she agreed to become Queen’s first roadie, she found that she had no time to attend those lessons before. Adam had attempted to teach her once or twice but he wasn’t the best guitarist, let alone a good teacher so eventually, she just forgot about it. Until now, it seemed. Placing her fingers on the fretboard, she picked up one of the coins from the table and began to strum Jailhouse Rock. It was a bit slower than the original song, and some of the notes were wrong, but considering how long it had been since she’d played, she was rather proud of herself. Quietly, and without realising it, her voice joined into the tune, a little off the pitch due to how soft she’d sang it. As she reached the last cord, (Y/N) felt a shiver run up her spine, the hairs on her arm and neck stood on end. She looked around, no longer feeling like she was alone.

“Hello?” She called out, placing the guitar next to her and standing up again, looking around.

“Your playing is rusty, but it has potential,” The new voice made (Y/N) jump and she span around instantly, noticing a woman approaching her.

“I don’t think it matters, to be honest- I’m just a roadie,” She chuckled in response, awkwardly shoving her hands into her jean pockets. This new woman had her hair pinned back in a 50’s style hairdo, a black dress hiding her body. She had lines all across her face, signifying her years of age and she kept her hands folded neatly behind her back as she got even closer.

“That doesn’t matter. He’ll like you,” The woman stated, grabbing (Y/N)’s chin and turning it side to side. A small smile rose on her face, as she examined the now uncomfortable roadie.

“Okay, who are you talking about? Who ARE you?” (Y/N) asked, pulling her face away from her sharply, narrowing her eyes slightly. She knew this woman probably worked here but now she was confused as to why she was grabbing her face. Who would like her? What was she talking about?

“My name is Lucille. I’m the manager here. Do you know that this place used to be an opera?” Lucille asked, taking a small step back from (Y/N). Her smile was still there but it seemed darker.

“No. I just moved some of the stuff and connected everything. Guess Freddie’s getting his wish- we are spending a night at the opera,” (Y/N) answered, attempting to joke to break the tense atmosphere.

“Listen for his singing. You would be foolish to ignore it,” Lucille simply said before walking backwards for a few steps, turning to the door and leaving. (Y/N) was left alone in the backroom, wondering what the hell had just happened.

“Are we all ready for a soundcheck, darlings?” Freddie asked, tilting his head to look at the three men behind him, all of which nodded, then looking to the roadie, sat on the edge of the stage, ready to run around to fix something that had gone wrong.

“Ready, Freddie!” (Y/N) gave him two thumbs up, glancing up at all the lights above their heads and the wooden walkways that helped reach them. She’d have so much fun playing with them later. However, for a split second, she swore she saw something move, but it moved so fast, it really could have just been her imagination. Her eyebrows furrowed but she focused her eyes back on the band in front of her, watching as Roger counted them in and they began playing a song Freddie had written recently called Liar. It sounded amazing. Well. Almost. Adam’s off-tune playing threw the entire song on a side angle. (Y/N) winced at a particularly sour note. She had taught yourself this song as soon as Freddie presented it to her, so hearing the relatively easy into being butchered by the guitarist was painful to her. As the band continued to make their way through the setlist, (Y/N) wrote down what needed to be fixed and quirked, in order of its importance and th amount of time it would take. There was still a few hours before the show, but she wanted to make sure she finished the most important stuff first. Just as she looked back down at her notes, however, a light came tumbling from the ceiling and landed right in front of Adam, making him jump back and crash into Roger’s drum set. Thankfully, the drums weren’t damaged or knocked over, but Roger fell off his stool, making a loud crash. Instantly, all the music came to a sudden halt and (Y/N) ran over to Roger and Adam, panicked and worried. Roger groaned as Deaky ran over, helping the drummer sit up.

“Mother fucker, shit!” Roger grumbled, squinting in pain when he brushed his hand against the back of his head. Freddie was inspecting Adam for any injuries and (Y/N) just looked up at the ceiling, back to the scaffolding where the lights were stationed.

“Fucking bitch is trying to kill me! Hey, (Y/N), you didn’t check the FUCKING lights!” Adam began screeching, louder and louder each time Freddie attempted to shush him or defend the girl.

“That- That light isn’t ours. One of the theatre’s…” She muttered, looking back to the men “Sorry, I’ll go check what happened,” (Y/N) stood up but when she started heading towards the door that leads to the stairs, a hand grabbed her own. She turned around, looking back to find Deaky, a light sheen of sweat on his forehead from performing, worry ablaze in his eyes.

“No, love, it’s not safe up there, we can cope without one light,” He reasoned softly, bringing her hand to his mouth and kissing it. (Y/N) gave him a loving smile before shaking her head.

“We can’t have another one falling during the show. What if another light falls and hits one of you, this time? I’ll be right back, I promise,” Slowly, she pulled her hand out of his grip, giggling as he kept contact until her arm slid right out. A teasing kiss was blown in his direction before Deaky’s lover was gone, up the stairs and into the scaffolding. The wood between the lights was rickety, but strangely stable, as was the rope ‘handrail’. Something up here was freaking her out, an odd feeling rising through her. As if she was being watched by someone… or something. No. That was ridiculous. (Y/N) quickly brushed the thought away as she checked every light until she reached the place where the light had fallen. As she took a closer look at it, however, she noticed that nothing was wrong with the stand it was in. It looked quite new and looked almost as if...as if someone had detached it themselves. Footsteps sounded from behind her. (Y/N) shot a look over a shoulder. Nothing. Maybe she was just mad. Or tired. She was working herself to the bone recently. But she needed to look into that light. Did they tend to fall off? Were the stands not very good? Surely no one would try to kill or injure anyone on stage. Right? She was tired. That’s all. She was just tired. When she went to bed, she’d feel a lot better. Yes, that’s right. Though she’d started to convince herself otherwise, she couldn’t deny the tall figure standing at the end of the walkway. And the way he looked at her like she was a juicy steak. Or the way he pulled her closer without even moving. The arguing of the band beneath her died down and all she could hear was his quiet voice singing, luring her in. She hadn’t even realised that she was slowly getting closer to his extended hand. His lower face was hidden by a black surgical mask and his dark eyes were fixed on her with intense security. Never moving off her. A small smile slid to his lips when (Y/N) got close enough to grab his hand. Her rough hands gripped onto the smooth leather of his gloves.

But just as this stranger went to lead her off, his eyes narrowed and he took off, releasing her hand. (Y/N) stumbled back in a haze. What had just happened? She nearly fell off the wooden walkway when two arms wrapped around her waist. Clumsily, the roadie turned around, fingers gripping the ropes. Lucille stood behind her, watching the girl with careful eyes.

“I’ve seen him take interest quickly, but never that fast. You must be careful. Go, I will fix this, you go back to your friends,” (Y/N) scanned the older woman's face, confusion embedded deep in her eyes. What was going on at this weird opera house? “Now.”

Without another word, Lucille brushed past her, disappearing into a doorway, that she swiftly locked behind her.

When (Y/N) rejoined the group below, they were all looking at her in concern, noticing the distant look in her eyes and the way she looked to be in a daze. However, one person who refused to be sympathetic was Adam.“So, what happened?” Adam demanded, finally taking the strap of his guitar off and carefully placing the guitar down. She couldn’t stop herself from looking up into the darkened scaffolding, goosebumps rising on her skin.

“N-nothing. It was just a faulty stand. I checked the others too. There won’t be any casualties tonight,” She attempted to joke but she couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that seemed to follow her and seep through her skin. Adam raised his nose at her before waltzing off, despite being in the middle of soundcheck. Looks like they’d have to go without one. Deaky made his way over to (Y/N), gently, intertwining their fingers when he got close enough. His lips pressed against her temple, seeing the spooked look in her eyes.

“Are you okay, love? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Deaky always got too worried over people. He was very motherly and domestic in that way. Roger could bang his elbow on something and Deaky would fuss about it for days. Or Freddie could have a voice crack and Deaky would insist on him having a break and drinking tea, even going out of his way to make sure Freddie didn’t even talk. He was the same with (Y/N), almost always worse.

“I’m just scared that another light is going to fall and someone’s going to get hurt,” She lied smoothly. Well, it wasn’t an entire lie. She was concerned that another light would fall. But if it fell, she was almost sure it wouldn’t be an accident. (Y/N) was entirely convinced that that tall stranger had something to do with the first light. Deaky chuckled, though admittedly, he was slightly fearful too. He gave his girlfriends hand a firm squeeze and kissed it quickly.

“Everything will be fine. I promise.”

TAGS: OPEN

Tags (for this series):

Tags: @writingfortoomanyfandoms @metaphorical-love-for-a-car@queens-n-roses @freaky-dcaky@yourealegendfred@fierce-bab@dusthas-beenbitten @bensroger@strangeandwonderfulconcepts@babebenhardy@benhardyjones @silvver-rose @psychosupernatural

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tacitwhisky · 5 years ago

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Jon of the Kingsguard, pt 11

Jon x Sansa - AU where Jon goes to Kingslanding instead of the Wall, there’s no war, and he becomes a knight of the kingsguard even as Joffrey marries Sansa.

AO3 Link

---

The sky is a dark and weeping wound of red sunset and black smoke when Jon descends on King Robert’s Hammer.

Alone among the fleet that had sailed forth from Kingslanding it stands untouched by flame, a great plow of oak and timber among a field of charred and smoking hulks. Not a single arrow greets Jon as he alights on its deck though, Lannister soldiers throwing down their swords. A few take the knee. All have seen the fire that has consumed the ships around them, are half deaf from the blast of flame, any loyalty to their king consumed in the inferno around them.

And too they feel the shadow of Drogon’s wings overhead as Danaerys circles the ship in lazy spirals.

Jon jumps down from Viserion, gritting his teeth to keep his legs from giving out beneath him. He cannot show weakness now no matter he wishes he could sink to his knees and close his eyes and never open them. He knows what he would see: the flash and plume of dragon flame, the numb furnace heat of it against his face, the taste of Dracarys on his tongue. Better one battle than a hundred, Jon tells himself. Ruthlessly, he shoves down the rising tide of sick threatening to choke him. Better one slaughter than a war of them.

“I thought never to see you again, Snow.” A voice rings across the deck. Jaime Lannister, white armor tarred with grey ash carried by the wind, pushes his way through the crowd of soldiers. There is a sword in his hand, naked steel bloody under the red sky, and a hard smile on his lips. His eyes glitter as his gaze moves over the vast serpentine white shadow that is Viserion. “And now the bastard traitor returns with a dragon.”

Once Jaime’s words would’ve stung Jon, but the blast of dragon flame is still behind his eyes, the dull singing heat of it against his skin. “Where is he?” He asks in a soft voice that nonetheless rings across the hall. “Where is Joffrey?”

“Why? Have you come to beg his forgiveness?” Jaime offers Jon a mocking smile. “I’ve killed one dragon before, you know. I can kill another.”

“You killed a mad old man. This one breathes flame. Where is he, Lannister?”

“Your king, you mean?” Jaime shrugs. “We Kingsguard swear an oath, you know. And some of us stand by that oath.”

“As you did with Aerys? Is Joffrey any better a king than he? I know you have no love for him.” Jon clenches his jaw, teeth aching as though biting stone. “He won’t be harmed. Not by my hand, and not by Daenerys. You have my oath on it.”

“What good is a bastard’s oath?” Jaime weighs the sword in his hand. “I always knew we would meet on the field of battle one day, Snow.” His eyes glitter as he looks over Viserion. “Will you face me without that beast of yours? Sword against sword? Kingsguard brother against kingsguard brother?”

“I was never your brother. Move aside, Jaime. Live to see Cersei again.”

“And what will my sweet sister say when I return to her? What will she say when I tell her I let her son be roasted alive by some bastard and his dragon whore from the east? Will she thank me for it, do you think? Open her legs and urge me inside her?” Jaime’s smile is hard, eyes flat and dead. “No, bastard. I think not. Your sister may love you for slaying her child, but mine will not.”

Above Drogon circles and below waves lap against the hall of the ship, gently rocking it. Jaime looks behind him, westward over the waves to Kingslanding. “Will you face me sword to sword, bastard?”

Once Jon would’ve drawn his sword in answer, met Jaime’s steel with his own like a knight in a song, once when he had nothing but honor to live for. When he was nothing but a bastard boy who desperately wished to be more, when he would’ve given anything he had to have the taint washed from his name. Before he had anything else.

Before Sansa.

Jaime whirls and springs across the deck, and Jon answers with a word, the sound of his voice lost to the roar of fire as Viserion opens his jaws and looses a blast of flame.

---

Afterwards the crew drag Joffrey up to the deck, stripped of his sword and gold armor and bound hand and foot. His eyes go round as he catches sight of the smoking body on the deck before Jon. “I’ll have your head for this, bastard,” he spits, “you and your whore sister both.”

Jon looks coldly down at Joffrey as the Lannister sailors dump him onto the deck before him. Stripped of his crown and throne he looks nothing like a king. Years of anger shoved down again and again fill Jon as he looks at Joffrey, bubble up like mud between cobbles, every bruise that has ever bloomed across Sansa’s skin before his eyes, and the sudden unfairness of what Joffrey has taken from her rips Jon’s breath away, the laughing and smiling girl he’d crushed beneath his heel for no other reason than because he could.

Behind Jon Viserion hisses, the sound slitting his skin. The urge to loose flame pulses through Jon’s veins, a drumbeat in his blood. He can taste the sulphur on his tongue; the sweet blister of flame it would be so easy for Viserion to loose on the pink golden haired thing writhing before him, to breathe in and relish the taste of charred meat, to-

Come back to me. The words are soft as silk, soft as Sansa’s voice, soft as the brush of her fingers across his cheek. Come back to me, Jon.

It would be right to end Joffrey here and now, watch him dance and scream as flame consumes him. It would be right. It would be just. But it would mean war. It would mean Jon could never come back.

“I am the rightful king,” Joffrey is babbling, flecks of spit flying from his lips. “Touch a hair on my head and all the realm will rise against your dragon whore. Her dragons will be nothing before the thousands my grandfather raises. He will drown her in swords, will slaughter her eunuchs and butcher her dragons and sew her whore head to-”

“Do not fear, your grace.” Jon interrupts, voice an icy blade that cuts through Joffrey’s babbling. “Danaerys does not mean to take your head. In her wisdom she’s ordered me to take you to the Wall and allow you to take the Black.”

“And why would I do that, bastard?” Joffrey laughs, high and sneering. “And how will we reach it? A hundred thousand Lannister swords lie between here and the Wall. They will free me long before we reach it.”

“A thousand or a hundred thousand swords,” Jon says in a voice cold enough to blister skin, striding forward and yanking Joffrey to his feet, “make no difference beneath dragon wing.”

Joffrey struggles, trying to slam his shoulder into Jon, but the move is panicked and clumsy and Jon answers by driving his elbow into the side of Joffrey’s head, a savage pleasure coursing through him at the crack of bone on bone.

Not one of the Lannister sailors move to stop Jon as he drags a weakly struggling Joffrey back across the deck to Viserion. It makes Jon’s skin crawl to even touch him, but he heaves Joffrey atop Viserion and lashes him to the horn of the saddle like. He jumps up behind him and belts himself into the saddle before kicking his heels and urging Viserion up into the sky.

Wind whistles by Jon’s ears as Viserion gains height, the deck of the ship pulling away swiftly and dizzyingly until it’s nearly lost among the smoking hulls scattering the water around it. Jon joins Danaerys slow banking circle. The wind whipping by makes it impossible to speak, but they trade a nod between them. Danaerys breaks her circle and Drogon’s wings beat the air as she pushes him west towards Kingslanding.

Come back to me, whispers the wind. But he can’t. Not yet. And so instead of following Danaerys, Jon turns Viserion north.

---

Over rocky coasts of crashing waves and smooth black sand Viserion flies, his wings eating the miles beneath them, covering in days the distance that should take weeks. The first day Joffrey struggles until his wrists are raw and bloody from struggling at the ropes around them, spitting and screaming curses and threats at Jon, but when Jon does not answer and his voice turns hoarse he stops struggling.

All day Jon spends in the saddle, face numb and stinging from wind, alone but for Joffrey and Viserion and the small ant-sized figures that sometimes scatter below when they catch sight of Viserion’s white wings. They keep to the coast, soaring above Gulltown and the Vale and the Fingers. Each day the air is chiller than the day before, and each day the land beneath Jon returns to the one he left so long ago like peeling paint from a wall, snow blanketing the ground in white and trees turning to tall pines and broad leafed oaks. North they fly; north over White Harbor and the Dreadfort and Last Hearth, north over villages and abandoned holdfasts and still blue lakes until far in the distance Jon catches sight of the glittering white ice of the Wall.

The sun is setting as Viserion alights on the ground before Castle Black, snow hissing and melting beneath his talons. Jon’s boots keep away the worst of the slush as he jumps down from Viserion and frees Joffrey, pulling the prince unceremoniously from the saddle. Joffrey staggers and stumbles, and Jon pushes him to his knees, clamps a hand on his shoulder to keep him from rising.

And then, facing Castle Black with Joffrey on his knees and Viserion at his back, Jon waits.

Three black clad figures are what Castle Black eventually spit out. As they cross the snow swept ground Jon picks out the differences between them: one is fat and round and with a maester’s chain around his neck, another a knight before the black if his haughty bearing is any sign, and last the tall figure of Benjen Stark.

The three brothers of the Night’s Watch stop before Jon, the fat one’s eyes wide and round as he stares at Viserion above Jon, the dragon’s neck curving serpentine as he studies the three men with his gold eyes. Benjen tears his eyes from Viserion. “Jon?” He says warily, studying Jon’s face as if he does not quite believe it. “How…?”

“A long story.” Jon pushes Joffrey forward into the snow. “I’ve brought you a new recruit.”

“I’ll never speak the words, bastard,” Joffrey spits, legs trembling as he pushed himself to his feet. “You can’t force me. I’m the king.”

“You will. You will take the black, because if you do not, I will wash you in dragon flame.” It is easy after so long in the saddle and days without true sleep for Jon to unfocus his eyes and see through Viserion’s. The dragon’s pale neck curves like a snake as it loops to fix Joffrey with its golden gaze. “And you will take the black because you are a coward, Joffrey. You always have been. We both know that. So choose: dragonflame or Wall, fire or ice.”

Joffrey’s mouth gapes like a fish on land, working soundlessly. He licks his lips and glances at the Wall, then blanches when his eyes flit to Viserion. “I won’t.”

“You will.” Jon’s voice is cold despite the taste of sulfur on his tongue, the searing heat screaming to be loosed. “Or you won’t, and I will finally hear you scream for all you’ve done. Choose flame and I will gladly watch you dance as your skin blackens and blisters and bursts for what you did to Sansa.”

Joffrey’s mouth continues to work soundlessly and Jon jerks his chin at Benjen and the other Night’s Watch men. “You should take his grace back to Castle Black before he wets himself, I think.”

#my fic #jon of the kingsguard #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsa #jonsafic #jonsa fic #jon x sansa #actually jonsa

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moiraineswife · 7 years ago

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Family Lies - The Locket Part 2 - A Mollymauk Fic

Part 2 of The Locket series! Thank you to @9thlevelcounterspell for holding my hand and pompoms through this endeavour to cobble something together.

Click here for Part 1!

Title: Chapter 2: The Locket

Fic Summary: Molly has no memories of his past before he woke up at the side of the road, half-dead, and was taken in by the carnival that became his family.The only connection he has to who he was before is a locket given to him by Yasha.

Now travelling with his new, strange group, he begins to understand who he was before, and is forced to face the ghosts that emerge from the locket he opened with unthinking curiosity.

Mollymauk backstory/character study/exploration of the new team dynamic. Something in here for everyone. And shit loads of angst. Because I'm me.

Chapter Summary: The new family that's blossoming around Molly starts to discuss their old family. Mostly team fluff and bonding, with a little bit of backstory speculation thrown in because why not?

Teaser: It didn’t take them long to get onto the subject of their families. It was inevitable, really.

They were six, occasionally seven, whenever Yasha drifted back to join them, travellers in a wagon with a single horse which was, miraculously, still alive. There were only so many times they could listen to jester half-shriek, half-sing, without a single hit note anywhere to be found, the same sailor’s songs Fjord had taught her before the desperation to avoid yet another rendition of it drove them all into small talk.

Link: AO3

It didn’t take them long to get onto the subject of their families.

It was inevitable, really. They were six, occasionally seven, whenever Yasha drifted back to join them, travellers in a wagon with a single horse which was, miraculously, still alive. There were only so many times they could listen to jester half-shriek, half-sing, without a single hit note anywhere to be found, the same sailor’s songs Fjord had taught her before the desperation to avoid yet another rendition of it drove them all into small talk.

Molly was taking his turn lounging in the back of the wagon with Jester, his head resting idly in her lap, allowing her to comb her fingers through it and braid it. This inevitably meant it getting knotted so badly Beau had offered to cut it off with a dagger to salvage it, but he had managed to untangle it all so far.

Fjord started it, turning to Beau as Jester began humming a very familiar tune that struck fear into the hearts of all those around her, and said with an air of thinly concealed desperation, “So, this vacation you’re on right now. Your folks okay with it, are they?”

She narrowed her eyes at him in that way she did. Molly lazily turned his head to get a better view- only to have Jester give him a good idea what it felt like to be the horse as she yanked on his hair like reins, “Stay still,” she huffed at him, “You’re making it more difficult to create my masterpiece.”

Choosing to pass over the ominous use of the word ‘masterpiece�� he instead fished another few mint leaves out of the pouch at his belt and began chewing them.

He had found a small clump of fresh mint the other day and had eagerly picked it. Over the course of their travels he had managed to persuade most of the others to try some.

Fjord had shrugged noncommittally, claiming not to be offended by it, but also not really sure why anyone would bother chewing it.

Beau had glowered at him as though he’d offered her freshly picked hemlock instead and refused to put it anywhere near her mouth.

Jester had liked it so much she requested more. Which she had promptly sprinkled all over the top of one of her doughnuts in order to make it ‘mint flavoured.’ She was a strange soul, but Molly wasn’t one to judge.

Caleb, apparently already used to the practice, had taken some without needing to be urged and thanked him for it.

He had also helped coax Nott into trying some. The leaves had remained in her mouth for all of twenty seconds before she spat them out and scrubbed at her tongue with her fingers, looking disgusted.

“Yeah, they were cool with it,” Beau said, shrugging, “No big deal.”

Molly, recognising the tone by now, absently riffled through the deck of cards that were rarely out of his hands, and threw one at her like a glaive. Happily, her attention was focused on Fjord, and so it hit her in the side of the head. She snatched at it before it fell and whirled on him, torn between staring down at it.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, brandishing it at him.

Above him, Jester cried eagerly, “Oh me! Let me see it! I will reveal the secret message it conceals!”

Abandoning the ‘masterpiece’ of Molly’s hair, she crawled to the edge of the wagon and took the card from Beau. She stared down at it for almost a full minute then burst out laughing, with such a loud shriek that the horse snorted, lashing its tail, startled by the sudden noise. Caleb quieted it with a gentle touch to the neck while Jester rolled around the bottom of the wagon, clutching her stomach.

“What?” Beau demanded, glaring at Molly who just offered her a soft smile, and hastily pulled his legs up against his chest to avoid the retaliatory whack from her staff.

Controlling herself with difficulty, Jester sat up again, holding the card before her as though she was about to bless someone with it, she announced, “It means that you’re lying.”

Molly plucked the card from Jester’s fingers and deftly slotted it back into the deck as Beau fumed, “I am not.”

“Oh but you are,” Molly said, grinning at her upside down from where Jester had yanked his head by the horns back into her lap so she could continue playing with her hair, “You’re lying through your teeth, and you’re doing a very poor job of it, I must say.”

“My parents don’t care that I’ve gone on this trip!” she burst out, as though increasing her volume would make them less likely to see through her bullshit.

“Mm, that’s closer, but still not quite the truth, is it?” Molly said, smiling at her.

“You better shut your mouth so I can’t see those teeth of yours any more or I swear I’ll knock them down your throat, ”Beau snarled at him, starting forward before being restrained by Fjord’s gentle hand on her shoulder.

In response, Molly bared his fangs at her. She growled.

“What are you trying to say, Mollymauk?” Caleb asked, frowning slightly at him from where he was up front walking the horse.

Nott was currently sitting on its back, occasionally accepting the flowers Caleb passed to her from the side of the road. The first time she had tried this the horse had nearly bolted and left them alone in the wilderness. But by now, as with so many other things, the poor beast seemed just resigned to its fate. Molly was fairly certain it was counting down the days to Winter’s Crest with eagerness. Though he doubted Jester would ever actually let him butcher and eat it.

“You come from money, yes?” He shot at Beau. It was a rhetorical question, but she grunted vaguely in a way that meant ‘yes’. “Girls like you that come from money like that aren’t generally allowed to wander the countryside wherever they will. Maybe your parents truly don’t care, I know I certainly wouldn’t-“ she made a rude hand gesture towards him, and he responded with one of his own, “But my guess is they have no idea you’re taking this little tour of the world.”

Beau flushed red at that and Molly smirked, popping another mint leaf into his mouth and feeling satisfied.

“Uh, what about siblings?” Caleb interjected as Beau clenched her fists tightly and glared in Molly’s direction. It was a very obvious attempt at defusing the situation, but it was curiously difficult to deny the awkward wizard anything. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“What about them?” Beau muttered, looking away from Molly.

“Well, do you have any? Don’t they miss you being away from home for so long?” Caleb asked.

Molly cracked an eye open to peer at Beau. She had gone curiously quiet, as though all the rage and fight that had been blazing through her only a moment before was gone. “Got a sister. Younger,” she grunted, finally, “I miss her but she-“ She broke off, then shrugged, “She’s cool. It doesn’t bother her, she just wants me to be happy and all that sappy shit...” she trailed off, scuffing her toe against the ground.

This time, Molly judged, she wasn’t lying. She was still hiding something from them but...This time he had no desire press her.

“So, what about you?” Beau demanded, turning to Fjord with an almost alarmingly rapid rise in the volume of her voice as she very pointedly shifted the focus to the half-orc.

Fjord sighed, “I’ve got siblings. One brother, he’s a few years younger than me, and six sisters, some older, some younger, I’m kind of in the middle.”

Nott made a small choking noise from her perch atop the unfortunate horse. “Your parents had eight children?” She squawked, looking horrified at the very idea.

“Yup,” Fjord said, shrugging his shoulders, “It wasn’t that bad. Two of my sisters ended up as captains, and I ended up getting my first job on one of their ships before I worked my way up.”

“Hold on,” Beau interjected, goggling at Fjord, “You said your sisters were captains?”

“Sure,” Fjord replied easily. He frowned down at Beau as she continued to goggle at him, as though he’d announced his sisters each had three heads and twelve arms. “You know,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially to Beau, “It’s only really humans that bother about that shit. Half-orcs, not so much.”

“Tieflings don’t either!” Jester chimed in.

“In my experience, tieflings can take or leave gender as they see fit,” Molly supplied mildly, “It’s definitely a human thing.”

Jester nodded her agreement. “Definitely.”

“Definitely,” Nott agreed, surprising them all by chipping in to the conversation.

“Humans have many things other races do not,” Caleb added, “And a lot of them are very stupid and unnecessary.”

Molly smiled over at the wizard, “Excellently put,” he said, with the smile he gave the wizard whenever he wanted to see him blush.

“Don’t tease him,” Jester chided him in Infernal, lightly slapping his shoulder.

Molly’s grin broadened, “I wasn’t teasing, my dear, I was being honest.” he replied in the same language, “But he does turn a delightful red colour when you get him flustered, don’t you think?”

“Well you shouldn’t fluster him,” she said, “It’s not nice.”

He snorted at the irony of that, but decided not to comment on it.

Caleb, still slightly pink, turned to Fjord, cleared his throat and said, “So you’re father was a sailor, too. What about your mother?”

Fjord smiled at that, “She was a blacksmith,” he informed them all. Even Jester looked up in interest at this. Apparently it hadn’t yet come up in her travels with the half-orc. “Yup, that’s how she and my father met, see. He was also trained to protect the ships, as well as sail them. He went to her for weapons when they stopped in Port Damali one day. Said he fell in love the moment he set eyes on her.”

Jester ‘awwww’d’ loudly at this, while Beau mimed vomiting into the grass at the side of the road, making Molly snort in amusement.

“Was she very beautiful?” Jester asked excitedly, apparently not noticing either Molly or Beau’s reaction to this.

“Still is,” Fjord said with a soft smile.

Jester’s grin turned positively wicked and she leaned out of the wagon slightly to say, eyebrows waggling suggestively, “Maybe that’s where you get your good looks, hm?”

Fjord promptly blushed at that, which only made Jester look more pleased.

“You shouldn’t fluster people, it’s not nice,” Molly said in Infernal, imitating Jester’s voice.

She tugged on one of his horns irritably and he smirked some more, so she did it again. Then she peered up at Fjord and said, still in Infernal, “He turns a very amusing colour too, though.”

“That he does,” Molly replied, lazily casting another glance in Fjord’s direction.

He raised his tail and Jester slapped hers against it, both of them smiling.

“I still haven’t gotten used to that,” Nott said, eyeing Molly’s tail as he flicked it idly from side to side.

“That we have tails?” Jester asked, cocking her head and frowning.

Nott nodded.

“Ah, but there are so many uses for them,” Molly said, lightly smacking Fjord’s ass as he moved around the cart to walk beside Caleb. He flushed again and Jester grinned.

Nott giggled, looking eager, “What else?” she asked, eyes shining with interest.

Molly smiled and shifted slightly, dangling his tail over the side of the wagon and knocking on it to get Frumpkin’s attention. Caleb’s familiar, now restored to cat form much to the wizard’s delight, trotted over and immediately began batting at the tip of Molly’s tail as he jerked it out of reach.

Nott laughed even harder, leaning around the edge of the horse to watch.

“Careful,” Caleb warned, though he too was smiling, “His claws are sharp.”

He wasn’t wrong. Molly was just a little too slow and Frumpkin’s claws tore through the delicate skin. With a soft hiss of pain he tugged it back up into the cart.

“Sorry,” Caleb said, frowning apologetically as Frumpkin continued to look around for the source of his entertainment.

“Not at all, I was asking for it,” Molly replied mildly, smiling.

“I’m the cleric!” Jester shrieked, “Let me see it! I will tend to your wounds.”

“I really don’t think it needs-“ Molly began, but Jester had already seized his tail and yanked it up to her eyes to inspect it.

“Poor tail,” she said, prodding at the thin slashes. She pressed a soft kiss to it and then released him, “All better,” she announced.

“All better indeed,” he agreed, leaning forwards and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, “Thank you, sweetling.”

Jester beamed at him.

“What about you, Jester?” Nott asked, who had now turned right around on the horse’s back, facing the two of them in the cart.

Molly returned his head to Jester’s lap and allowed her to keep playing with his hair as Beau said, “Yeah. You got twelve siblings stashed up in Nicodranas somewhere?”

Jester laughed at that, “Definitely not,” she replied, “I am an only child,” she announced, smiling, apparently satisfied by this.

“Figures,” Fjord muttered under his breath.

“What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, glowering at the tall half-orc, hands planted on her hips.

“You’re just a very singular individual, darling, couldn’t picture it any other way,” he replied, smoothly.

Jester considered this for a long moment, a faint crease between her brows. Then she beamed and settled herself back down in the wagon, looking rather pleased and proud. “Quite right,” she nodded.

“Your father isn’t at home though, is he?” Molly said, craning his head back in her lap to squint up at her, “The first day we met I remember you asking me about him,” he spread the cards in a fan and waved them under her nose to underline his point.

“I did ask you!” she said, looking excited he remembered. “The truth is I have never met him, or-“ she broke off, frowning slightly, “I did when I was very, very small, my mother said But I don’t remember, so it doesn’t count.”

“Reasonable,” Molly agreed.

“He left my mother when I was very young. But she wouldn’t tell me why. Or where he went. Or what he was like.”

“So what?” Beau said incredulously, snorting, “You figured you’d just traipse up and down all of Wildemount until you found out for yourself?”

“Yes,” Jester said, composedly.

“Oh,” Beau said, apparently taken aback by this matter-of-fact reply, “Well...Good luck with that,” she finally managed to get out, obviously at a complete loss for how to respond to Jester.

Molly had noticed that a lot of people seemed to have that reaction to her. And what was more, she seemed to like it.

“Thank you, Beau,” Jester said, composedly.

“So, what’s your mother like?” Fjord asked conversationally.

“She’s a wonderful woman,” Jester said, nodding sagely, “A blue tiefling, just like me, and very, very beautiful. The most beautiful woman in all the world.”

“You can’t technically say that, though,” Caleb said, frowning, “Because you haven’t seen every woman in the world to know that-“ He caught the ‘stop talking now’ look that Fjord was giving him and broke off, but too late.

“No!” Jester declared, “She is the most beautiful woman in all the world. Lots and lots of people say it. People come from all over the world to see her and be kissed by her.”

“Be kissed by her?” Nott repeated, eyes wide.

Jester nodded, “Yes. She was blessed by the Traveler, you see, to be so beautiful that people will come from far and wide to see her. And she’s magical, too. If you’re kissed by her, you’re destined to meet your soulmate.”

Everyone took a long moment to digest this but really, Molly thought, given the way Jester was, that story could have been a lot more shocking.

“So, if they’re destined to meet their soulmate from a kiss...What wondrous thing happens if they sleep with her, then?” he asked her in Infernal, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Me,” Jester replied primly.

He choked on his mint leaves.

Jester patted him on the back, grinning. Then she turned her attention to Nott, “What about you, Nott?” she trilled.

The little goblin girl gave a small shudder. “Oh, my family were dreadful. Definitely not magical at all,” she said, shaking her head so hard her large ears flapped emphatically. “And I certainly don’t want to find them on this trip.”

“You ran away from them, then?” Fjord asked, the big man’s voice surprisingly gentle.

Nott nodded firmly. “Oh yes. But I...I may have...Taken a few things before I left.”

“A few things?” Fjord repeated, “What kinds of things?”

“Gold things,” Nott said, wringing her hands in her lap as though expecting them to be angry with her. “Lots of gold things.” She paused a moment, then amended, “Actually all of them.”

“All of them?” Molly repeated, eyebrows raised as he peered upside down at Nott.

She nodded and then confessed in a rush, “I stole all of the gold that my clan king had before I ran away.”

A long moment of silence followed this pronouncement. Then both Beau and Molly burst out laughing at the same moment.

“Good for you, kid,” Beau said, smiling and giving Nott a gentle tap on the shoulder with the end of her staff.

Nott smiled around at them all rather sheepishly, but looked pleased with herself all the same.

“Caleb,” she said, turning to the wizard walking along absently beside the horse, for once actually paying attention to the conversation and not one of his many books. “Do you want to share anything?”

Caleb looked around at everyone watching him, cleared his throat and said, “You have been my only family for a little while, now,” to Nott who smiled a little sadly and patted him on the shoulder. “My mother still lives in Zemni,” he admitted, “But I haven’t seen her in some time. She’s a bookmaker.”

“You continue to find new and amusing ways of shocking me each and every day that we travel together, Caleb,” Molly said, sardonically.

“What about your father?” Fjord asked, the group as a whole ignoring Molly’s comment.

“My father died when I was a teenager,” Caleb admitted, not looking too sorry about this. “He was not a very nice man, and he did not like magic. After he died, my mother took care of me, and found books so that I could study some more. When I was ready, she encouraged me to leave and travel, learn more.”

“Any siblings?” Beau asked.

“I had a sister,” Caleb said, very quietly, “But she...She died. She, she was always rather frail and she grew ill one Winter. She did not get better.”

Nott gently patted Caleb’s arm and he smiled, squeezing her hand in answer.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Fjord said quietly.

“It was a very long time ago,” Caleb replied, mechanically.

Molly frowned slightly. There was something...Off about his story. Not by much, but Molly had gotten very good at reading people during his time at the carnival. It had been essential to picking the correct marks with his tarot readings, and responding properly to their reactions.

He didn’t have time to question the wizard, however, because a moment later Jester flicked one of his horns to get his attention and he looked up at her instead.

“I haven’t forgotten about you, Mollymauk,” she sang, prodding him in the side with the tip of her finger, making him squirm away from her. Perhaps the biggest mistake he had ever made in his life was letting Jester see how damned ticklish he was.

“There are a lot of things about me that are hard to forget, sweetheart,” Molly said with a lazy grin, “You’ll have to be more specific.” he said, more focused on batting her evilly wiggling fingers away from him than on the conversation.

“Your family,” she said, blinking down at him, “Everyone else has said things, but not you.”

“Well that’s simple,” he said with an easy smile, “You’ve already met my family.”

Jester frowned down at him, her nose scrunching rather adorably as she did so, “No we haven’t. I would definitely have noticed if we had ran into a flock of lavender coloured tieflings in fancy coats,” she plucked at the silk coat he was sprawled in.

Molly just smiled up at her, “You did meet them. Orna, and Toya, and Gustav. Have you forgotten already? It wasn’t that long ago, surely. Too many doughnuts, I think, they’re rotting your brain.”

“My brain is not rotten,” Jester declared, “It’s the most unrotten thing in the world!”

“Quite right,” Molly agreed, patting her hand.

“But they weren’t your family family,” Jester said, “They weren’t tieflings.”

“Your powers of perception never fail to astound me,” Molly replied. Jester jabbed him irritably with the tip of her tail. “You’re right, they weren’t tieflings, but they were my family,” he said, hoping that would be enough to stop the flood of questions that were causing an uncomfortable prickle of cold dread to slide down his spine. “All of them. And Yasha, of course.”

“But what about your family family,” Jester persisted, “The other lavender tieflings of the world, you know. We want to hear all about them!”

He tensed slightly, drawing his head out of her lap and sitting up, spine stiff, at the same time Beau said, “Yeah, c’mon Tealeaf, everyone else shared. Take your turn.”

“I bet your mother was really, really pretty,” Jester continued to prattle, seemingly oblivious to the fact that this was the last thing he wanted to discuss.

“Leave it, Jester,” he said, his voice quiet and strained, but he wasn’t sure that she heard.

“Did she have tattoos as well? Or is that more a ‘you’ thing? Oh! Did she make your cloak for you?” she continued.

The rest of the group had fallen a little more quiet now, perhaps sensing the tension that seemed particularly tight around his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, making it painful to breathe, crushing his heart.

“Stop it,” Molly whispered, staring straight ahead, that cold dread that had been snaking its way up his spine snapping taut like a whip, stinging at his raw nerves.

He clenched his hands in his lap to stop the trembling, but it didn’t do any good.

“What about siblings, then?” Jester persisted, head cocked to one side, voice now alive with curiosity, “A little sister, maybe? You would be a good older brother, I think, you-“

“Shut up!” he barked, silencing her at last as he turned on her, red eyes flashing, fangs instinctively bared. “How about you mind your own damned business for once in your life,” he snapped at her.

Jester’s eyes had gone wide, her mouth slightly open. She didn’t say anything, but she stared at him as though he was her once beloved pet suddenly turned savage.

There was a tight lump in his throat and he could already feel the guilt creeping into him, smothering the flare of anger that he was still struggling to place.

All the same, he shoved himself out of the wagon, unable to take the stares of the others, shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, “I’m going to walk awhile. Someone else can take a turn.”

Without another word he sped up to walk ahead of their little convoy. The wagon didn’t move fast, with their sad, solitary horse to pull it, and it didn’t take much effort to get clear ahead of them, out of range of their whispered comments about his behaviour, their prying eyes, and above all, the hurt on Jester’s face.

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

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redknight3996 · 4 years ago

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26: Rapture

For an angel, a devil must be made. To contrast, to compare, to seduce.

A more...playful presence, to allow things to progress as they should, as they must, as things could be, as things would be, should things go wrong.

The cultists were derived from a number of places, from a number of people. It’s so tricky to find a cult exactly right, exactly militant, exactly cruel, so many were drawn from many sources, to find the right types, to separate the callous wheat from the insecure chaff, to recruit those who sought power and violence and not merely a sense of belonging. Who valued power over others, and therefore would work well as a set of supposed devil worshippers.

They’re not really, of course; their faith is a constructed thing, put together to bring out the best out of the worst, to make the world collapse in raving lunacy and zealots burning people at the stake. There were so many ideas, so many thoughts, of breaking wheels and wooden horses and iron maidens. Of men named Stake and Lynch and Creek and Wick and Dice and Retch.

Sing a song of flesh and bone in the garden of gore, let your voice join the chorus. Adulate, undulate, invigorate, blessing! The red robes silk and stain against skin stitched shut. Masks of crows and cows and cats and rats set them apart from the goated skull worn on a ringleader’s rot.

Butcher and Baker watch the circus tent, bemused by the weird folk who have taken up residence. The songs call to the dead, to the red, to joyous meat. Six by six, they hexagon the ring, chatting and calling and chanting and bringing forward the performance of a life.

Lion-faced, lipped, with claws under the coat, the cloak, calling a manticore or perhaps a lamassu, though no bulls are present, for Minos had better judgments to call, and the man with stakes in his skin and his bones and jabbing in deep to every joint has a roar he must allow as the echo of elephantine trumpets give rise to the center circle.

Bring down the bats on the deadened skulls, crack them open and let the brains flow like yolk. Crack the shell to be born, coalesce the flesh, scream and wail as you tear from the womb, the tomb, the earthen body of what mothers there might be while the fathers gather and commit acidic baptism.

The ring is the basin and the slurry the child. As any parent should, they give of their own bodies, their own breasts, their own teeth to chew the food and their own fingers to gnaw on in turn as the pile begins to teethe. Coalesce, conglomerate, shift and sift and slug together, forming to an animal bereft of a shell but do not worry, because it will come soon.

You are not present, because you are not present, because the tent is needed for the operation, and the doctor is here. His hands are washed, his gloves are sterile, and a mask fits over his noseless face and his smiling mouth of crooked teeth. Splotches cover his skin, discolored rashes and rakes and bruises and boils, and yet he is capable, still capable, they couldn’t take that from him, and he guides the composition, for this isn’t quite a birth, so much as an apotheosis.

Not yet though. Tehom swirls and seethes and splits and combines, layering onward and onward under a membrane that is film, not flesh, and the stalks poking out spear-like points, like stakes, and the first father feeds himself to the teeth so the shell may form and so to does the second and the third and onward, because a chrysalis is needed for a queen.

There is weeping and pride and joy, a calling of great things from the gathered cultists. Six for Golgotha, to let her eyes and ears and nose and tongue and heart and intestines form, to sink inside and become truth, as the doctor claps, nodding, the process proceeding as needed.

Wood through the body, rope around the neck. Execution, slow and steady, to brace as bones and wiring, to give, to succeed, to gasp at last and know the breaking of teeth and necks.

Crick and crack and soft sounds, lit flames, babbling streams, water, fire, needed things. To be wet and warm, to fill with blood, to know the world rains sometimes, but homes have hearths.

A chance, a cut, a splitting, a rut, a stream of vomit and bile and sickness, necessary disgust and fear. Worries, anxieties, but joys, and avoidance. Care, careful, don’t be careless. A cauldron overturned where the boiling of bones and brains takes place inside, where the soup readies itself in a mix of stock and broth and loose hairs.

Crack the shell, break the iron, let the beast inside skitter out. Calling them Rapture is what was declared, what was advised, and the doctor welcomes such a thing. A given name is important, though whether they choose to keep it or not is up to the child, though to call this being a child is inaccurate at best. They are far past the larval stage.

A butterfly is a good contrast to a moth, wouldn’t you agree? It’s not quite right, a little too fleshy, but the warmth of autumn in its orange and yellow carries well. Wings patterned with faces drip and drool and weep even as their body bristles with enjoyment, anticipation, and a long tongue pushing down to drink from the slurry as the shell mulches. Laughter and sobs and screams and screams and retching, the symphony of emotion pulses as the rot spreads across the ground from the long, red legs stabbing into the ground.

One nose is not enough, not nearly, so a mass of antennas, of tendrils, of drooping hairs, of semi-solid horns taste the air above eclipse eyes, colors shifting as attention is diverted hither and thither and singing curiosity to all able to hear.

Butcher and Baker wisely decide to take their leaves from the wailing carnival, uninterested in interacting with that nonsense. The ground cracks, and buildings begin to sink.

Brilliant, sunburst wings spread as the big top erupts and meat and mulch shower the carnival. Dawning eyes take in the brilliance of the greater sun overhead, and condemns it for its audacious nature. How dare it shine brighter?

If you ask, Rapture will take you out of the park. They will, they promise. And they hold true to the promise. You’ll just need to sink into their flesh and join as one, another face in the chorus.

They would leave immediately, aiming to spread gospel and decry the vainglorious star, but a howl catches their attention, and they drift down instead, to talk with the interesting gentleman in the forest, whose empty eyes show none of the eagerness he so deeply feels.

Sing the praises of flesh and gore in a world losing its meaning. Feast merrily and bring your children forth, for the earth ruined belongs to them.

Sing the dirge of law and lust, for those impure things are left to drown in a slurry of our making. Adulthood flies on wings of fantasy as childish mundanity, reality, is doomed to drought.

Sing a song for the ending days, and hold it true to your heart. Let go, and pick a better sun.

#31 day horror park #horror #halloween #sanguine park #my writing

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queenofcats17 · 7 years ago

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by @magicalmonsterhero

I feel like the BATIM fandom needs more lighthearted stuff–either funny and/or heartwarming–so here are a couple of ideas: -“Can you explain the plot again? I’m still not getting it.” -The studio monsters playing Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, or something similar. -One of the staff introducing the Toons to one of their favorite bands/musicians.

I’ll do one for each of these. I’m rather excited, honestly.

“Can you explain the plot again? I’m still not getting it.”

Joey sighed heavily, running a hand over his face as he tried to keep his composure.

“Wally, I’ve been explaining this plot to you for the last hour.” He said, keeping his voice as calm and even as he possibly could. “At least some of it has to be getting through to you.” They’d just gotten the script from the studio for the Bendy horror movie and Joey had decided Wally would make a good Bendy understudy, given how long and thin his limbs naturally were.

“Nope. Not a thing.” Wally said, scratching his head under his cap. Joey’s smile grew forced as he leaned on his desk, praying to whatever god would still accept him that this torture would be over soon.

“Why don’t we have Henry try to explain it?” Joey said, clapping his hands together. “Because I am this close to sacrificing you to the elder gods.”

“Your fingers are almost touching.”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, right, Henry it is.” Wally jumped up and scrambled out of the room. As soon as he was through the door, he burst out into giggles. He quickly made his way down to the music department, where most everyone was gathered.

“How long did he last?” Sammy asked, grinning.

“About an hour.” Wally swept off his cap and bowed. “Kneel before my terrible power,” Sammy muttered something rude and handed Susie a twenty dollar bill.

“I thought you wouldn’t be happy about being annoying,” Alice said, looking up from her lines.

“Hey! He lasted longer than Sammy said he would!” Wally immediately straightened.

“You still only managed to stall him for an hour.” Bendy slapped Wally’s back. “Did he pull out the elder gods threat or what?”

“…..He might’ve.”

Sammy couldn’t help but snicker. “You must’ve really annoyed him. He doesn’t pull out that threat for just anyone.”

“You’re all terrible.” Wally scowled.

“What’s this?” Everyone turned around slowly to see Joey smiling in the doorway. They all froze at the chilling smile on Joey’s face. This was bad.

“Were you having a better pool as to how long I could tolerate Wally’s annoying behaviour?” Joey asked, tilting his head to the side.

“It was Sammy’s idea!” Wally blurted out.

“What?! You were the one who suggested it!”

“Was not!”

“Yes, you were!”

“You’re aaaaaalll in trouble.” Joey’s smile widened. “I hope you know that. It’s overtime for all of you.” The studio workers collectively groaned.

“Got any twos?”

“Go fish.”

Sammy grumbled and picked his cards. He and Norman had been playing Go Fish for the last hour or so, and it was honestly getting a bit boring.

“Got any queens?” Norman’s voice crackled through his speakers.

“Dammit.” Sammy handed over two queens.

“I win!” Norman slammed his cards down on the ground, a look of triumph appearing in his lens. Sammy threw his cards down and cursed.

“What are you losers doing?” Alice asked, leaning on the doorframe. She’d gotten a bit bored toying with the Butcher Gang, so she’d decided to come find the boys and see what they were doing. As usual, they were fighting.

“Playing Go Fish,” Norman said. “I’ve won every time.”

“He’s cheating!” Sammy sprung to his feet. “No one can win every time!”

“You wanna fight, Lawrence?” Norman got to his feet, towering menacingly above the inky form of the former music director.

Sammy cracked his nonexistent knuckles. “Let’s go.”

“Okay, how about instead of fighting like neanderthals we play a game?” Alice pursed her lips.

“What kind of game?” Sammy asked slowly.

Alice smiled dangerously. “Never Have I Ever.”

“This is just an excuse for you to ask personal questions, isn’t it?” Norman asked dryly.

“Maaaaybe~” Alice twirled her hair with one finger innocently. There was a moment of silence as the two men considered the suggestion.

“Fuck it. I’m in.” Sammy said.

And so, ten minutes later, Norman, Sammy, Boris, Bendy, and a few Searchers were huddled in a circle as Alice explained the rules.

“So, we’ll put our hands up, and we put a finger down every time someone says something you’ve done,” Alice said. “I’ll start. Never have I ever snuck off at work to masturbate.” Quite a few fingers went down. Alice smirked at Sammy and Norman, both of whom looked completely unphased.

“Oh, really boys?” She asked, wiggling her eyebrows. “How naughty of you.”

“Really? In my studio?” Bendy almost whined.

“There’s no shame in it,” Norman said. “But if you’re really going to hold it over us, never have I ever snuck off to have sex in the broom closet.”

“My broom closet!” Boris said, his voice shifting to Wally’s. “I had to walk in on you two at least a million times!”

“The broom closet?!” Bendy’s Joey was very clearly showing as he tried not to panic and/or disapprove.

“Norman put his finger down too!” Alice pointed at the projectionist, trying to get the attention off of her and Sammy. Sammy had his face buried in his hands, sighing heavily. It had happened once or twice at most.

“You remember the days my wife visited, don’t you?” Norman was almost smirking. “What did you think we were doing when we were away from you all?”

“Eeeew!” One of the searchers said, sticking out their tongue.

“It’s like thinking about your parents having sex!” Another squealed.

“Always good to see you’re both still in love,” Boris said, smiling his big goofy smile.

“Is there anywhere in my studio you all haven’t sullied with your bodily fluids?” Bendy moaned, running his hands over his face. The room got very quiet, which only made Bendy groan even louder.

““Whatcha listening to?” Norman didn’t look up from tinkering with the projector. He already knew was talking to him. He’d put the radio on while he was working, and Queen had just happened to come on. It was one of Norman’s favourite bands. They were a strange group, but he’d be damned if he didn’t love their music and admire the Hell out of Freddy Mercury.

“It’s a band called Queen, Bendy.” The projectionist replied.

“Queen?” Bendy tilted his head to the side. “That’s a weird name.”

“It’s a weird band.” Norman shrugged a little bit.

“Okay?” Bendy frowned and sat down to listen as Norman tinkered. After a little while, the little demon was tapping his toes and singing along. Bohemian Rhapsody was just one of those songs. Maybe supernatural in nature.

“I’ve never heard that song before but I knew all the words!” Bendy gasped when Bohemian Rhapsody finished playing.

“It’s one of those songs, I guess,” Norman said. “Although, I always wondered if Freddy Mercury was a siren.”

“Sirens are real?!”

“Well, you’re real, so it’s always possible.”

“I gotta tell Joey!” Bendy sprung to his feet, ready to run and find Joey. He stopped though. “Hey, Norman?”

“Yes, Bendy?”

“Think I could get a few vinyls of these guys?” Bendy asked with a lopsided grin.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Norman gave him a small smile. “Now run along.”

“Yesssir!”

#bendy and the ink machine #fanfiction #submission #joey drew #wally franks #susie campbell #alice angel #sammy lawrence #norman polk #bendy the dancing demon

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