#wayfarer fic

[galadae]

wrote something for @wayfarer-week! prompt #1, view

rating: G words: 433 characters: Brienne Varyn, Talsin summary: While her father meets with Cenric, Bri escapes her room. notes: Elene and Lewin are Bri’s half siblings, Talsin is the kids' caretaker. ao3 link

The sea wind rustles Brienne’s hair, tossing it into her face. She wrinkles her nose, freshly pink with sunburn. A half-eaten fishcake, purchased with crowns she'd “borrowed” from her half-sister, sits in her hand as she slouches on the dock. Elene won’t miss them, Brienne thinks. She has so many and she never counts.

Father had another of his stuffy meetings. He was still angry at her—He’d ordered her to stay in her room until further notice. So, she’d slipped out the window.

It wasn’t the first time. She’d fallen on her face on her earliest attempts but she was a practiced expert now, even with her bad ankle. She knew when to jump, which tiles to avoid, which cracks in the stone were deep enough to hold.

It was easy for her to hide here now. She could fit between rough barrels and crates stacked on the docks. It stunk of fish and seaweed. But it smelled like freedom too, on days like this.

She looks out at the view, feeling the breeze on her skin. The wind carries the cries of seabirds with it. They circle together, seeking fish in the shallows. White, wispy clouds glide over the horizon. Ships pass, some distant as specks, others close enough to hear the shouts of the crew. Sunlight glitters off the water, sparkling like Lewin’s newfound magic.

Brienne wrinkles her nose at the thought. Father had been so excited to see his youngest’s abilities. Then he'd ordered Lewin’s bedroom moved across the house, far away from her. I hope they let me see him soon. It’s been four days. She wishes she had wings like those birds so she could fly over to his window.

Brienne freezes at the sound of footsteps on the dock. Light, short, quick steps. Closer, closer. They sound familiar—she shrinks against the barrels. Her heart pounds.

“There you are.”

Brienne looks up. Her caretaker peers down at her. If the smell bothers them, they don’t show it.

“Talsin. I promise I was coming back,” Brienne whispers. “Don’t tell them.”

They smile, shading their eyes from the glare of the sun. “I won’t,” they say. “But they’ll be asking for you, soon. We need to go.”

“Me? Why? What could they want?”

“Your father wants you to meet someone.” They offer their hand. “Let’s head back. We need to get you cleaned up.”

Brienne sighs and takes their hand. So much for freedom. But Father’s never asked for her in a meeting before. Curiosity stirs her thoughts as she follows Talsin up the road. Maybe he’s finally decided I’m important.

#wayfarer week #wayfarer fic #oc: brienne varyn #hannah words #this ended up angstier than i planned oops aksdjhfad

[redwayfarers]

Wayfarer Week: View

Fandom: Wayfarer IF Ship: N/A Characters: Cassander Inteus (OC), Thesor Sereno (OC) Words: 697 Rating: Gen Woohoo leggo!!!! This is the first prompt for @wayfarer-week, featuring my two elven kids! Non-spoilery and generally fluffy. <3 Read on AO3

The day after my graduation, the sun’s bright and early. It always is, it’s the sun, it’s what it does, but this particular sunrise feels special. It shines on the snow-laden mountains of Artanis, on the Spire’s imposing walls, on the edges of my bed and the handles of my drawers. It greets me with a ray to the face as well. I wave back.

It’s stupid, I know, I’m a big boy, but I’m feeling a little drunk on joy right now and I can wave at the sun all I want. See if I care.

Suddenly, there’s a knock on my door. It’s a familiar rap now, three short, quick sounds that let me know who is on the other side. “Come in,” I yell from my position by the window and take a sip of my morning tea. “Thesor?”

“Good morning, Wayfarer Inteus,” he says in Vestran. It sounds so lovely on his tongue. Vestran always sounds lovely - it’s a rather melodic language, which makes our songs famously good - but paired with his gentle voice, it reminds me of a memory I never really had. Varyn tried relating to me in that way years ago, but it always brought an acidic taste to my tongue. We’ve since limited our conversations to Arathian, she and I. 

“I’m still getting used to that,” I reply, also in Vestran. “It doesn’t really feel.. It feels like a dream I’ll wake up from every second now, but I’m not. I can touch it with my fingers. Wayfarer Inteus.” I tilt my head slightly and watch him. “Did you know there’s never been a Wayfarer in our line?” 

“That’s hardly surprising,” he comments, standing beside me. There’s a strange look in his eyes, something pure, something gentle, but powerful, something that looks an awful lot like pride. I grip my cup to not squirm beneath his gaze. “The Vestran aristocracy isn’t exactly friendly to Wayfarers.” 

“And here I thought they were lining up to make out with us in the hallways,” I say. “Silly little me, however could I think that.” 

He snorts. In daylight, his hair blends with the paleness of his skin, save for the fiery brightness of his eyes. His broken nose gives his face quite a profile, half-turned to me. “They may not be lining up to share our affections, but you can now say you’re the first Wayfarer of the Inteus line.” 

“Are you? Of yours, I mean. Are you the first Wayfarer of your line?” 

He considers for a moment and shakes his head serenely. “I’m not a Samaras anymore, remember? Dayna Sereno means more to me than House Samaras ever will. If I wish to continue anyone’s legacy, it will be theirs.” 

I blink. Do I wish to continue Sero’s? Or do I wish to fly against my mother’s window like a particularly annoying bug, a sore spot in the shiny, sparkly family history that spans ages and centuries? I sometimes envy the clarity with which he speaks of these things. I wish I had it all neatly figured out. 

I resist the urge to kick my feet. The guy’s ancient, my parents’ age, of course he has shit figured out. He’s had decades to do it. I’m a glorified toddler, in elven terms. A kicking, screaming newborn. 

“Cass?” 

“Sorry, I was just thinking.” I drink the last of my tea and place it on the window sill. “So yeah, I’m a Wayfarer now. Like you, old man. I’ll get to be an ancient one and we can now safely hunt monsters together because Sero won’t bite your head off if I appear with a few gashes.” 

“Please try not to get gashes if you can. It’s not good for your health.” 

I whip my head towards him so fast I almost crick my neck. His face is straight. “Amazing observations you have there, Thesor,” I shake my head. He smiles. 

“I’ll ask you if it’s good for your health when we’re hunting beasts together and you have a cut or two,” he promises. 

“I’m holding you to it,” I whisper. 

We stay there, watching the sunrise, for a little while more.

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #inspo birb has come to town #wayfarer mc #wayfarer fic #wayfarer week #my writing #cassander inteus #thesor sereno #fluff #hehehe its STARTING

[scionshtola]

for @wayfarer-week prompt 1: View

characters: Mirren Sero, Amali Sero words: 384 rating: G summary: five years after she was first brought to the Spire, Mirren thinks about what it means to her now notes: how many times can I write about Mir thinking about her life as a Wayfarer? as many times as I want 😌

Mirren followed Sero along the familiar path, one the two of them had tread together more times than she could count. Her steps slowed as they crested the hill and the barbed towers of the Spire came into view.

She paused at the top. The citadel loomed ahead of her, no less menacing in appearance than it had been when she’d first seen it nearly five years ago, a fortress blotting out the stars in the sky. And yet the sight inspired no trepidation in her anymore, only a comforting sense of familiarity, tinged with relief.

Mirren had never understood many of the sailors she’d grown up with—those of them who loved the sea, but spoke with immense relief of the idea of returning home. The stark white walls of the Briadis villa were nothing but a cage to her, a place for her parents to hide her away until the next time their fleet departed.

But each time she crested this hill, each time the towers rose high over her head in the distance, she thought she finally understood how those sailors felt. The open black iron gate, once seemingly a maw waiting to devour her whole, was a welcome sight on the horizon. The wall that wrapped around the citadel not a means of keeping her out of the way, but of keeping her safe. The towers a place for her to drag Aeran along as she explored, not full of rooms she wasn’t allowed in out of fear her touch alone would break things.

“Mirren!” Sero called from up ahead. She could make out the familiar grin on their face, their tone teasing. “You had best hurry. I can’t promise there will be any supper left for you if you arrive much longer after me.”

“I’m giving you a head start,” she yelled back with a grin. “You aren’t as quick on your feet as you used to be.”

“Oh? Need I remind you just how many times I knocked you on your ass this morning, Briadis? I think it was around six.”

“Not more than three!” But Sero had already turned around, leaving her behind with a wave of their hand.

Mirren shook her head with a laugh, tightened the straps on her pack, and set off toward home.

#i think this is a bit meh but. idk. the thoughts are important to me even if i cannot get them to come out the way i want #so im sharing ksadjhafdjk #oc: mirren sero #wayfarer fic #kels writes

[coldshrugs]

wildflowers

featuring: ephyra metaxas & her loves, past, present, and future word count: 650 note: short glances into effie's romantic history. a prompt fill for wayfarer's anniversary prompt: heartbreak

Ephyra has never felt like this before.

Never felt the sparkling warmth of another person's attention on her as she undresses in their arms.

Amal, strong and kind and steadier than she is, whispers his affection against her skin, things he's told her for weeks, and she believes him. Gods, does she believe him.

On the white shores of Covera, they entwine their lives for a while. It's a childish, clumsy knot and they call it love. It is love, intense and raw, and trying so hard to last forever. It doesn't last. It can't.

He leaves to be with family in Naro, and she's still got a contract in Tol Covere. They promise to write, but promises are fumbled as easily as first love.

---

Serapi touches Ephyra with sure hands, kisses her with a terrifying resolution. Calls her "Phy" in a voice sweet as spun sugar. And oh, she knows this feeling.

Or perhaps it's more accurate to say she's stood in the shadow of whatever this is, because with Serapi, it is more.

Serapi is a beauty from a farming village outside Noctia, and she is strong and steady, too. She finds Ephyra at her lowest point; a lonely wanderer searching for her family, if any remain. Serapi, lonely in her own way, could be her family too.

For a long time, Ephyra stays with her. They spend days tending the shop owned by Sera's ailing mother, evenings dancing in the local tavern, and nights tangled in each other. Has she ever felt anything so great? Will she feel it again, and does it matter?

They fall in love anyway.

She weighs one loss against the other, her search for wayfarers or the beginnings of a life in this Arsenian valley, and the decision breaks her heart. Serapi offers so much, but she can't give her closure. Ephyra has to leave, and Serapi, like cinnamon and honey, is stuck between her teeth. A sweetness she will never forget.

---

Loving Aeran is as heavy as Rona's rain. It's not just him, but his pain, and the pain they share.

This time is not like the others.

Ephyra can measure her life by Aeran's presence. Two scared kids freezing their asses off in the back of a wooden cart. Two old friends in a sad, sobbing heap in the middle of the desert. What will his next demarcation be?

It's different, it's arduous, almost like an obligation. Who will love him if not her? Who will carry what he can't? And he doesn't have to tell her he feels it too. They don't talk about it, but she knows.

There are times Aeran can almost admit it, when the smile she remembers parts his gloom like a sunbeam, but he shies away. He might run if she presses too hard.

Ephyra hopes for more, one day. Mostly she hopes her friend will come back.

---

The ring remains in her pocket, a curious little trinket she can't bring herself to sell. Ephyra's hand floats to it out of habit these days, toying with it absently, trying not to think about brown eyes crinkled with laughter, or that long smirk begging to release a playful barb, or hands far more gentle than they have any right being.

You don't know them, she scolds herself. They could be awful. They have the power to hurt you.

But here it comes again. Something warm and familiar, but new, blooming in her chest like a thatch of wildflowers.

She sighs into a drink, forcing herself to stop tracing the emerald with her thumb.

Ephyra closes her eyes and there's Amal's ever-present smile behind violet lips, Serapi's green eyes in the evening sunlight, Aeran and the life they once shared, and she makes herself an unlikely promise: if she sees Veyer again, and if they let her, she'll give in to the feeling and see where it goes.

#azia writes #wayfarer fic #ephyra metaxas #ephyra/aeran #ephyra/veyer #this is A Lot but i've been having many thoughts about her past relationships #and how they influence how she feels about her present options #anyway here i need to get back in the habit of writing more so take this

[astraphone]

it’s time we had some leave; oya

a @wayfarer-exchange treat for @sunshinemage and their delightful Oya Cenric! 

Oya is tired of Rona.

Oya is tired in general, really, but Rona is the easiest culprit to blame. The dreary, rainy swamp sets a dull backdrop to difficult days spent trying to make ends meet.

It’s miles better than the alternative, of course. Oya would take Rona with Aeran over all the luxuries in the world alone. Still, there are days when the weight of everything Oya is grappling with catches up with her, even with her best friend by her side.

Today is one such day. They’re short on this month’s rent, with no upcoming job promising funds to make it up and nowhere to go if they get kicked out. Oleander has given them until the end of the week to pay up, leaving Oya and Aeran to scramble to find a job that they can complete on such short notice.

Oya should be out getting a head start to the day. But they woke early this morning with an anxious dread settled deep in their gut, and they know themself well enough to know that it won’t easily go away on its own. So they dress quietly in the dark and make their way towards Rona’s docks, where they find a spot to sit and watch as the sky slowly turns lighter.

It’s certainly not the best sunrise Oya has ever seen; the colors are dampened as the clouds promise morning rain. But it’s something, at least. There’s an abandoned rope lying on the ground near where Oya is sitting, and as she watches the sunrise she takes it and begins working it into a knot she’s known since childhood. When she finishes, she undoes it and starts another, and knot by knot her breath comes a little more steadily.

“There you are.” The methodical rhythm she’s fallen into is interrupted as Aeran’s familiar presence settles down at her side. She doesn’t bother asking how he found her; she’s fairly certain Aeran could find her anywhere.

“I… needed a break,” she says by way of explanation.

Aeran grimaces sympathetically. “It’s been a shit week, hasn’t it?” Off of Oya’s nod, he nudges her conspiratorially. “I did find a lead on a potential job. Figured we could check it out this morning.”

Good news, finally. Oya feels some of the tension in her shoulders relax, and she smiles tentatively at Aeran. “That’s somewhere to start. Can we stay here a few more minutes, though?”

The sun is almost fully above the horizon, their latest knot is almost complete, and Oya would like to treasure one moment of peace before delving back into the world. There’s a moment where they think Aeran is going to say no, and they’ll accept it—they’ll give in to his restless energy and his constant need to keep moving, because he’s Aeran and there is very little that they won’t do for him. But instead Aeran shrugs and stretches, making himself comfortable next to them.  

“Sure. What are you tying?”

Oya moves the rope so that Aeran can see the intricate knot, and he lets out an appreciative whistle.

“Can you show me how?”

Oya grins. “I don’t know, it’s a complicated one. Think you can keep up?”

Aeran crosses his arms in mock indignation. “Well, now you have to teach me.”

A light rain begins to fall as they linger by the docks, but as they sit together, Aeran’s hands brushing Oya’s as he follows the patterns she makes, Oya can’t help but think that the morning feels a little brighter.

#wayfarer exchange #wayfarer fic #wayfarer if #oya cenric #cleo writes #i hope you enjoy! #ever since you mentioned oya tying knots as a calming thing it's been living rent free in my brain #and i wanted to work it into something

[friedkactus]

30 not so micro fics

Inventory

Swear I’ll actually make micro fics at some point instead of word vomiting all over the place. lol

Lilicae and Aeran shenanigans in Rona.

“I know I was gone for a little more than a second but this reaction seems like overkill?” Aeran quips as he takes in the scene laid before him, standing in the threshold of his and Lily’s shared apartment.

Whether or not Lily actually heard him is anyone’s guess, as his words do not seem to deter her in the slightest as she continues her brutal dismantling of their ramshackle temporary home. Not that there was much to dismantle to begin with, but if it could be moved she moved it. Their lumpy pillows were haphazardly strewn across the floor boards along with their bedrolls, even some of the floor boards themselves had been pulled up.

“I’ve lost it,” she mutters as she upends her pack onto the floor, although Aeran isn’t sure if that’s meant to be a response to him or for herself.

“I can see that,” he responds, the door closing with a creaking thud behind him.

His lighthearted jab has the desired effect as she finally stops her ruthless assault against their apartment long enough to shoot him a less than impressed look over her shoulder.

“Alright,” he puts his hands up in mock surrender, “what is it this time and where did you last see it?” 

Lily scoffs, hand indignantly placed on her hip, “I do not do this that often.”

“Mmhm, so where and what?” 

Lily narrows her eyes, “My hairpin,” her face falls as she refocuses her attention back to the source of her impromptu sacking of their apartment. Aeran nods, understanding clicking into place, usually she misplaces her pendant or Sero’s letter, but he should’ve figured only her mother’s hairpin could have gotten her this worked up. 

He can see her eyeing his own pack, itching to leave no stone unturned in her search, so before she has the chance he grabs her arm grounding her back into the conversation, “Where was it last?”

Lily inhales sharply, whipping around to toss her pack back against the wall, when a glint catches Aeran's eye. He has to work at hiding the smile that’s threatening to spill across his face at the absurdity of his newfound—incredibly Lily-like— discovery.

“I was writing down some clues to better help myself think, I don’t know, I took it out of my hair,”

she continues obliviously. “I set it down for just a second. Then, you said you were going to the apothecary—Aeran, it’s not funny.”

Crap. He tries to school his expression into something more neutral, but he can hardly help himself at this point, “No, I know. Ignore me, I’m listening.”

“If you’re not going to help—“

“No, I’m pretty sure I know where it is but I need you to finish to be sure.” 

Lily narrows her eyes incredulously but indulges him anyway,“I turned to tell you goodbye and then when I turned back it was gone.” She finishes with a huff. 

“No.”

Lily raises a brow at that, “No?” she parrots back, stunned at his response. She expected a lot of responses but that, however, was not one of them.

“No.” he repeats once more, no longer hiding his amusement (not that he did well earlier).

“Well this has been a lovely waste of a conversation,” she responds tersely, patience running thin as Aeran finally relents. One of the perks of knowing someone so long, you know precisely when you’ve run out of rope.

As she goes to stomp off Aeran places a soothing hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, you took it out of your hair,” he begins a bit too smugly for Lily’s liking. Her fuming is interrupted at her sudden awareness of his proximity as he leans in close enough for her brain to short and her breath to catch. 

For a moment, she forgets what they're doing, she then feels a slight tug, dark turquoise hair framing her vision, as Aeran pulls back without missing a beat, “and then you picked it up and put it back in ‘So you wouldn’t lose it’.” He quotes with a smug look on his face.

Lily feels her face burn for a slew of reasons and all she can think to posit from the mush that is her mind at that moment is a very soft barely audible, “Oh.”

#wayfarer if #wayfarer fic #winniewrites #oc: lilicae fairen #ch: aeran kellis #gonna keep squirreling these away over here #am i rusty or just very green who knows but im having fun while my ipad charges

[roguelioness]

(your mouth is poison) your mouth is wine

Fandom: Wayfarer Pairing: (implied) Zayah Medrash/Aeran Kellis Rating: T (angst) Words: 1555 (read on AO3)

It is either very late, or very early. The Dareia is silent, save for those chosen few who are vital to its running. Zayah tosses and turns in her cot, shifting to face the wall, then the door, then gives up and sprawls onto her back, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The soft whisper of breath coming from the hammock tells her that Aeran is asleep. She glances in his direction, observing his face. Elf eyes are useful, especially when she has to make do with the little light that drifts in through the window.

His face is relaxed, no stress on his mouth, no clench to his jaw. His forehead is smooth and unwrinkled, and he looks so peaceful it pulls a pang to her heart. It will not always be this way, she knows - soon the sun will rise and he will leave whatever dream has him so at ease.

And then they will dance whatever strange dance they’ve been doing since she first woke aboard the ship, disoriented and dazed, and goaded the confession from him.

She sighs softly, feeling that ribbon of… something… twist unpleasantly in her stomach. Her gaze darts to him again, lingering on the slight part to his lips, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Everything had shifted that day, changed in a way she can’t figure out; their comfortable, easy camaraderie has given way to…

Whatever this is.

And she hates it.

But she loves him.

(does he love her?)

Gods, she’s such a mess.

Stifling the hysterical chuckle before it can form, she quietly slides her feet over the cot’s edge onto the floor. The wood is smooth and cool beneath her soles. Pulling her messy waves into a haphazard bun, she softly tiptoes out of the room, making sure to close the door with as little noise as she can manage.

The deck is abandoned, a small mercy. The last thing she wants is other people intruding on her misery. The brisk sea air plays with the loose tendrils that have slipped their enclosure like cats with a string of yarn, batting it this way and that. The tang of salt is heavy; usually that familiar scent would lift her mood, but at the moment it adds to her melancholy. Gripping the railing, she stares out into the vast expanse of ink. It’s so dark with the moon hidden away she cannot make out the horizon; the only distinction between sea and sky is the generous pinpricks of light sprinkled above her head. The various scattered thoughts she releases to the tide; the bigger ones she resolutely sets aside until she finds some means to deal with them. There’s certainly no point in worrying about Velantis while they’re floating in the middle of the ocean.

Finally, the source of her insomnia worms its way to the forefront of her thoughts. What is broken in you, it croons to her in a voice that comes from the void, that you can only be loved in secret? 

Zayah’s grip tightens, her knuckles protesting with the strain, and is reminded of her mother. How much Tanithe had laughed with Hyrum and Adonyah; how freely, how generously, how openly she’d loved them. She remembers Hyrum playing with their mother on the beach, Baltsar taking Adonyah to the fair, all while she watched from the window of her room. Can’t I come, little Zayah had asked, I promise I’ll be good.

I promise I’ll be good.

I’ll be good, I promise.

It didn’t matter how many times she said it. How many ways she said it.  

It was never enough.

She was never enough.

She stares unseeingly at the bejewelled sky as her mind takes her back to the day she’d left with Cenric. Don’t send me away, mama. Please! I’ll do better. Even now, she can still feel the silk of her mother’s dress on her palm, smell the rose of her perfume. Let go of me, Zayah, Tanithe would disentangle herself from her needy, greedy (but was it so wrong to want affection?) child, removing the desperate hold one chubby finger at a time. You’re hurting me. 

(didn’t her mother see she was hurting too? or did she just not care?)

I’m sorry, mama. I love you.

Her mother had been silent. 

They had an audience, after all.

You are a dirty little secret, the voice mocks. Deserving only to be hidden away.

The chuckle that had started to form earlier now comes out, loud and bitter, and the coil of barbed self-doubt roiling within her chest also pushes angry tears to her eyes.

Maybe there was something wrong with her. Maybe that’s why Aeran…

For over a decade she’d tamped down her feelings for him, shoved them ruthlessly into a box and hid it away in that small piece of her heart that still held hope. Years of moving from village to village, through seas and cities, finding the exact shade of his hair in ripe wheat fields and his eyes in the cloudless skies. Nights spend under threadbare sheets in a cot that barely fit her and yet felt too big, too wrong. Minutes upon hours of the past two years convincing herself that there could be nothing more between them than the friendship forged as children.

And then.

I was thinking I didn’t want the person I’m in love with to die!

She swipes angrily at her cheeks with the back of her hand, incensed at the stray tear that had escaped. For that half a minute, everything had been beautifully, brilliantly bright, and then–

Nothing. He acts as though it had never happened. Pretends as though the words had never left his lips.

Is he ashamed of me, she wonders. Whispers her worries to the wind. Is he embarrassed of his feelings for me? Am I so terrible that he despises himself for loving me?

What did I do to deserve this?

How do I fix it?

“Zee?” Aeran’s voice, low and concerned, drifts towards her. She turns her head to find him standing by the stairs that lead to the lower decks. She says nothing, only stares at him. His curly tresses are sleep-tousled, and the breeze keeps pushing a stray lock into his eyes. He brushes it away impatiently, his eyes never leaving hers. The worry on his face is unbearable; it scalds her, sears her – it slowly strips at the armor of her composure until she fears she will be laid bare beneath that cobalt gaze.

She's not going to cry. She's not going to make a fool of herself in front of him. Zayah exhales and returns her focus to the water. “I’m sorry I woke you,” she murmurs. 

“You didn’t.” It’s a testament to how well she knows him that she can hear the sound of his unshod feet over the sussurration of the wind and the sloshing of water against the ship. He comes to stand next to her, the few scant inches between them not enough to dissipate the heat of his body before it touches her skin. “I thought I heard someone talking…” he trails off, then clears his throat. “Are you okay?”

She draws in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. “Yeah,” she lies.

Aeran drapes his forearms over the railing, and follows her line of sight. “It’s a pretty night,” he offers, and it comes out as awkwardly as every other thing he’s said over the past week.

“Yeah.”

He lapses into silence again. The air between them fills with bulky, unwieldy tension, unspoken thoughts and unexpressed emotions filling the crevices of the contained expanse between their bodies.

Finally, Aeran sighs and places a hand over hers. His palm and fingers are calloused, his skin so warm, and when she splays her fingers his slot neatly in the gaps.

As though they belong there. 

His lips part, as though he’s going to say something; instead, he presses them together tightly and shakes his head before flashing her a wan, abstract smile “Come on Zee,” he urges quietly. “Let’s go back to bed.”

It’s embarrassing the way her heart flips over at that. 

Her fingers tighten around his for the briefest of moments - she doesn’t want to let go. She wants to stay here and hold his hand and demand the answers she’s due. When she turns to face him, it’s at the tip of her tongue: do you really love me or was that just a lie?

Blue eyes blink at her, their edges creased. His forehead wears furrows. Something uncertain and hesitant and fearful lurks in his gaze.

Her demand dies a quick, painless death.

What if he says he does not love you, that voice taunts, what if he leaves you because you pushed him too much? Your bones are not hollow enough to bear the weight of his absence.

Her fingers twitch against his before she draws her hand back to herself. “Yeah,” she says. Her smile fits strangely on her mouth. There’s something corroding her ribs. “Let’s go.” 

So what if her heart is breaking? At least she has him by her side. It's enough for her. 

It is.

It is.

The lie stings her flesh as she makes her way back to their cabin.

#wayfarer #wayfarer fanfic #aeran kellis/wayfarer #aeran kellis/zayah medrash #wayfarer fic #roguelioness writes

[thevikingwoman]

OC thirty microfic challenge - prompts here, inspired by @ghostwise and everyone on the wayfarer discord. Will try to do 10 for each MC, we will see. 

Fandom: Wayfarer | Words: 344 | read on ao3

Vy Shard | Pre-Game  rating: teen, swearing

First Meeting

“Not so fast, kid.”

The dwarf grabs Vy’s arm, hard and heavy. They knew it was a chance, trying to get his purse. He looks like a warrior and not some soft merchant, but the coin purse looked so heavy. Enough to make Nare happy for several days.

Vy lets go of it.

It’s a good trick, and usually people scramble to pick up their belongings, long enough that they can slip away into the maze of the city.

The dwarf doesn’t let go.

Instead, he just scoops his money up with his other hand, his one eye not leaving Vy. They squirm, but they can’t get away. Fuck. He’s going to tell the guard, and they’d be put in jail, and Nare will never take them back, no one else has a crest like them and they’d be followed and they can’t go back and they’ll be sleeping on the street and –

“Where are your parents? Family?”

“What?”

“Do you have parents or a family member,” the dwarf says. He doesn’t sound angry. “I’d like to talk to them.”

Vy shakes their head.

“I’ve got no one.”

Nare and Rith had found them wandering the street, hungry and crying. Vy barely remembers and very little from before that. A warm hand. A lullaby. Nare had taken them into her little gang of ragtag kids, but they’re not family. They’re only there as long as they can deliver what she asks.

“I’ll take you to get a warm meal, if you don’t run when I let go. I want to talk to you.”

“Why the fuck should I believe you?”

“What’s the worst that can happen? If I wanted to hand you over to the city guard, I could just drag you along.”

Vy shrugs and shuffles their feet. It might be true. The dwarf lets go.

“Come along then.” He starts walking, and Vy falls in step with him. If they’re lucky they’ll at least get a meal. “I’m Rindan Cenric, and I’m a Wayfarer. I think we have much to talk about.”

#writing about vy #wayfarer fanfic #wayfarer fic #origin stuff #viking writes #published 8/5/2022 #vy shard

[dirty-bear-rick-sanchez]

Alien

Edit to the edit: Now with art from the wonderful @geetimesthree! Thank you so much for this! Please check out the rest of their art as well, it’s amazing!

Edit: copy and pasting from Google Docs fucks up the format so some lines were missing. Please excuse my shitty replacements lol.

This is a Birdrick fic I’ve been sitting on for a while because it got out of my control and I couldn’t figure out what direction I wanted to go with it. It’s set in the early Flesh Curtains days and draws a lot of inspiration from Becky Chambers’ Wayfarers series (which I would 100% recommend). It was originally intended to be a series of moments where Rick and Birdperson realise just how alien the other really is to them (with undertones of Birdrick) but it kind of mutated into something more. However, I’ve been so stuck with what do with it that I haven’t really touched it, so I’ve decided to post what I’ve got so far. There are inklings of a plot/potential future stuff developing but I can’t promise that anything more will come of it so this may end up being a oneshot. Anyway, let’s get on with it!

Summary: Birdperson looks close enough to human that Rick sometimes forgets he’s not only a member of another species, but one from an entirely different evolutionary timeline. Other times, however, the difference is undeniable. ~6.8k words

Warnings: ableism (both internalised and from others, including mentions of forced institutionalisation, mainly towards the end), both Rick and BP having derogatory inner thoughts, eating insects (why is this something that’s been a warning for multiple fics of mine lmao)

Birdperson looks close enough to human that Rick sometimes forgets he’s not only a member of another species, but one from an entirely different evolutionary timeline. Other times, however, the difference is undeniable.

One such time is when he offers to make Birdperson a coffee one morning shortly after the Flesh Curtains move in together.

“H-how do you take it? Milk, sugar?” he asks.

Birdperson looks at Rick in puzzlement. “Milk?” 

“Uh, yeah, you know. It comes from mammary glands?”

“Is that not what mammals feed to their young?”

Rick blinks. “Well, I mean, yeah, originally, but most people have it in their coffee or cereal or, or whatever, even adults.”

Birdperson considers this for a minute. “Might I ask how you acquired human milk so far away from Earth?”

“What? No, this isn’t human milk. I-I don’t have breastmilk in my coffee!”

“So it’s artificial?” Birdperson asks with an air of relief.

“No, it’s real! It’s from shloopy-shlops.”

Birdperson looks vaguely sickened. “You consume the milk of other species?”

“Uh, yeah. You didn’t think it was from a human, did you?”

“Are you not disturbed by this? It must be a big change from what you’re used to on Earth.”

“Nah, this stuff is pretty similar to cows’ milk.”

“Cows?”

“Yeah, they’re-they’re a big herbivorous mammal we have on Earth. We use ‘em for their meat and milk.”

“Even on Earth you eat the mammary fluids of other animals?” Birdperson’s expression of disgust deepens.

“Uh, yeah?”

Birdperson takes a moment to steady himself. “Forgive me. I do not mean to judge your species, but this concept is sickening to me.”

Rick grins. “Now you know how I feel about eating bugs.”

Birdperson smiles, very subtly, but Rick catches it. 

“So, no milk?” Rick asks.

For the first time since meeting Birdperson, Rick hears him actually laugh aloud. It’s more of a sharp exhale than anything else, but it sparks a giddy feeling in his chest all the same.

“No, I think I will go without it for now.”

———————————————————————

Rick sits at home, alone and bored. An hour or so earlier, Squanchy had retired to his room with explicit instructions not to disturb him for the next few hours and Birdperson had left to buy groceries. Birdperson had invited Rick along, but Rick had waved the offer off, not interested in braving the sensory overload of the markets on that particular day. However, he has since started to regret this choice, as Birdperson has been gone for some time, and Rick’s not making the mistake of interrupting Squanchy during his ‘me time’ again. As much as he hates to admit it, Rick struggles with being alone.

He gets up and paces restlessly over to the window. He tells himself he’s not going to sit and wait like a dog, but he can’t stop himself from looking outside anyway. 

Pathetic. he scolds himself. You couldn’t bear to be alone, that’s why you moved in here. You want to tell yourself you’re still out hunting, but really you just can’t cope on your own, can you? I hope they get sick of you and leave, and then you’ll have to get back to actually looking for your daughter’s killer. Have you forgotten about that, you piece of shit? 

His train of thought grinds to a halt as he catches sight of Birdperson approaching the apartment building, paper bags in his arms. Rick jumps at the opportunity to escape his thoughts and rushes out of the apartment and down the stairs.

He opens the front door to see Birdperson fumbling for his keys. The other man looks up in surprise.

“Hey, Pers.” Rick grins, leaning against the doorframe. “I saw you coming, thought you-you might want some help.” he holds his hands out and Birdperson passes him a bag. It’s heavier than he made it look and Rick struggles with it for a second. Birdperson raises an eyebrow - or rather, his equivalent of an eyebrow.

“Can you manage?” he asks.

“Yeah!” Rick insists, trying not to let on how heavy the bag actually is. His brain doesn’t help matters, distracting him with thoughts of how strong Birdperson must be and ideas of what else he could use that strength for.

“If you insist.” Birdperson replies in a tone that shows he’s not convinced. “Thank you.”

The two make their way back up to the apartment, Rick finding himself talking far too much about any inane topic he can think of. Thankfully, Birdperson doesn’t seem to mind.

“By the way, whatever you do, don’t go in Squanchy’s room until you’re sure it’s fine. Trust me.” Rick advises him. Birdperson nods seriously in response, knowing all too well what Rick means.

They tumble into the apartment and Rick dumps the bag on the kitchen table, spilling its contents everywhere. He spots a packet of cookies and tears it open, cramming one into his mouth. Among the groceries, he notices a container of bright-coloured red and orange fruit labelled with an unfamiliar script.

“Hey, Pers, what’re these?” he asks through a mouthful of food.

“It is a fruit from my homeworld. Cubba-sah.”

Rick attempts to repeat the word back to Birdperson, who nods at him and takes one.

“Would you like one? They’re sweet.” he offers.

“Lemme just check real quick.” 

Rick fishes around in a drawer and pulls out a device of his own making to check if the fruit is suitable for human consumption. While more widespread species enjoy the safety of relatively common knowledge when it comes to what alien foods they can and can’t eat, humans are not so lucky. After all, very few of them have ever made it off Earth, and fewer still have met aliens, much less tried their foods. As such, Rick has to take his own measures to work out what is and isn’t safe for him.

He scans the fruit and the screen lights up green with the message ‘No known toxins’. Shrugging, he takes a fruit and pops it into his mouth.

A second later, Rick is aware of nothing except burning. A stinging sensation starts in his tongue and rises throughout his face, setting his skin ablaze as it goes. The pain is vaguely familiar to his unconscious mind and he grabs at the fridge, chugging down milk in hopes of relieving the sensation. 

“Hot.” he gasps. His eyes and nose are streaming, blurring his vision. Through the tears, he can make out Birdperson’s form moving towards him.

“Rick, are you alright? Do you require assistance?” he asks urgently.

Rick shakes his head and takes another swig of the milk, wiping at his eyes.

“No, it’s fine, it’s just… Jesus, why didn’t you tell me it was spicy?”

Birdperson blinks. “I was not aware that you would perceive it as such. Are you entirely sure that you are not having an adverse reaction?”

Rick nods. “Yeah, because this makes it better.” he replies, raising the milk carton. “Fuck, it’s like eating my abuela’s cooking.”

Birdperson suddenly starts. “Ah.”

“What?”

“I… have just remembered something.” he seems uncharacteristically downtrodden. “On my home planet, there is a species of rodent we call sqoo rah lub. They are pests that invade supplies of grain and the like. To deter them, we use an extract of this fruit. It contains a compound that they find unpleasant, but that is harmless and undetectable to us. I believe the term for it in common is ‘capsaicin’.”

Rick chuckles. “Ah, that would explain it. So these,” he gestures to the fruit, “are basically peppers?”

“I am unfamiliar with this term.”

“Hang on.” Rick rummages through the cupboards until he finds a seasoning that’s roughly the alien equivalent of chilli powder. “Try this.”

He sprinkles some on Birdperson’s outstretched fingers. Birdperson raises them to his mouth and flicks out his tongue to lick the powder from them. Rick has to fight to keep his thoughts from wandering off into less appropriate areas. Birdperson smacks his lips.

“It is… very dry.”

“But not spicy? Or hot?”

“No, just a slightly sweet-tasting powder. You mean, to you, this causes pain?”

“Ah, pain’s a strong word. It’s kind of just like… a burn.”

Birdperson still does not look convinced.

“I have seen you use this on your own food before. Why do you own and consume something that causes a burning sensation for you?”

Rick shrugs. “It’s nice. Gives it a kick. A-and hey, like I said, I grew up on Abuela’s cooking, this is nothing in comparison.”

“I am afraid I still do not understand.”

“Oh man, if we ever visit Earth you totally have to try a ghost pepper.”

When Squanchy emerges from his solo session, Rick hounds him to try one of the cubba-sah. Squanchy sniffs it and instantly recoils with an expression that reminds Rick of a domestic cat.

“No way am I squanchin’ that! It smells like that stuff you put on your food!” he exclaims to Rick, backing away.

“I wonder if it is only mammals that experience this as spicy, or whether it is only my people who do not.” Birdperson ponders.

“See, you eating this I can understand because you don’t feel the burn, but him,” Squanchy points at Rick, “I just don’t get! How can you enjoy that pain?”

Rick grins. “It’s not painful, it’s just a nice kick.”

They continue to squabble playfully and, for the first time in a long time, Rick allows himself to relax into the happiness, rather than waiting for it to be snatched away.

———————————————————————

Living in what can only be described - in rather generous terms - as ‘a shithole’, Rick has long since become accustomed to pests. Slugs, some sort of small rodent, and, most recently, ants have all invaded their apartment and subsequently faded into just another part of the background noise. Therefore, it doesn’t come as a surprise to him to walk into the kitchen one morning to a colony of the insects on the floor.

What does catch him off guard, however, is the sight of Birdperson lying amongst them, wings spread out and lowered so that they’re touching the floor. Rick’s half-asleep brain takes a few moments to clock his bandmate at all, but once it does, it goes into overdrive, thinking his friend has passed out or worse. Before Rick can spiral too far, however, Birdperson tilts his head up to look at Rick.

“Good morning, Rick Sanchez.” he greets, using Rick’s full name in a way that never fails to make Rick melt a little inside.

“Uh… BP? What’re you doing?” Rick asks, his voice still rough with sleep.

“I am getting rid of parasites.” Birdperson responds simply, matter-of-fact as ever.

“…how?”

“It is a natural remedy used on my home planet. A compound produced by these ants helps to kill harmful microorganisms that reside in my feathers.”

“So this is… normal, in your culture?”

“In a sense, yes. Usually, I would use what my people call ‘kubba rub-oo’ - loosely translated, it would mean…” he trails off as he mentally translates the words “...‘feather-cleanse’ - but I have been unable to find anything suitable on this planet. The natural method is slightly old-fashioned, but effective.”

Rick stares blankly for a few seconds before accepting this information. “Cool. You want coffee?”

“Indeed.”

Rick brews coffee for the two of them, serving Birdperson’s with no milk - god knows they’d already been through that fiasco - and two sugars, just as he likes it. Birdperson remains on the floor as they drink their coffee in companionable silence. 

Rick averts his eyes and decides not to comment when he sees Birdperson begin to pick ants from his feathers and pop them into his mouth. In a best case scenario, this could be an effective pest-control solution, but he’d rather not think about it too much. He sets the half-empty coffee mug on the table, unable to stomach the rest.

Birdperson doesn’t see Rick for the next few days, but assumes that the scientist has simply got himself wrapped up in a project. Since the Flesh Curtains are still struggling to book gigs, Rick’s absence doesn’t have a negative impact on the band, and it’s not unusual for Rick to disappear for days at a time, so Birdperson decides not to worry unless the other man doesn’t return soon. 

That evening, Birdperson walks into his room to find a bottle of unidentified deep red liquid and a note on his bedside table. The handwriting is familiar to him from lyric writing sessions and blueprints scattered haphazardly around the apartment. He picks up the note and begins to read.

BP,

I looked some stuff up and the main ingredient of kubba rub-oo is formic acid, with some stabilisers and then scents added in. That’s what this is. I know you like grenaberry so that’s what the scent is. Hope it works.

-R

Birdperson sets down the note and smiles. He picks up the bottle and sees a spray lid, then tilts it to confirm the liquid’s water-like viscosity. Both of these match his expectations, and he trusts his friend’s abilities, so he extends a wing and cautiously gives it a single spritz. The smell is sweet, but with a distinct and familiar sour undercurrent. Satisfied, Birdperson sprays the rest of his wing, then the other, followed by his head-feathers. The liquid feels cool and pleasant on his feathers, and he lets it soak in for a few minutes before padding to the shower to rinse it off.

The steam amplifies the scents and Birdperson’s breath catches for a second as he’s hit with a pang of homesickness. At first, he’s confused at his own emotions - after all, the reason he left his home world in the first place was that he always felt like an outcast there - but quickly finds the feeling replaced with gratitude at Rick’s gesture. His friend has taken the time to listen to him, learn about his culture, and try to recreate part of it as a present for him.

Birdperson spends the rest of the shower bobbing between bittersweet memories and a newfound depth of affection for his bandmate. He flutters his wings to let the water flow through his feathers and wash away the oil. 

Once he switches the water off, he stands with his wings outstretched for a few minutes, letting them dry. While he might use a towel for the rest of his body, feathers are always better to air dry.

As he exits the shower, he catches a glimpse of his outline in the steamed-up mirror and freezes. Something isn’t quite right about his appearance, and he can’t work out what until he shifts his weight slightly and sees a flash of dark pink at the edge of the mirror. Turning to look at his wings in disbelief, he realises Rick’s attempt at kubba rub-oo has dyed them. He wipes the condensation from the mirror to inspect his reflection more closely and finds that his head-feathers have also been discoloured. Being darker, the grenaberry hasn’t quite managed to turn them the same deep pink as his wings, but the colour difference is definitely noticeable. He even thinks his skin might be slightly pinker than usual.

Birdperson wraps a towel around his waist and exits the bathroom in pursuit of the living room, where he can hear Squanchy laughing as Rick protests.

“Oh, man, Rick, didn’t anyone ever tell you ‘don’t squanch too much or it’ll turn your palms red’?” Squanchy guffaws. “What were you even doing?”

“Sh-shut up! It was an experiment!”

As Birdperson rounds the corner, both Rick and Squanchy’s gazes turn to him simultaneously. The three stare at each other in silence for a moment before Squanchy cracks up. He chokes out what Birdperson assumes to be some sort of joke at his expense, but his laughter is so strong it renders his speech unintelligible.

Birdperson looks at Rick, expecting him to also be cackling, only to find the man staring at him intently, his cheeks pink in a way Birdperson doesn’t think has anything to do with the kubba rub-oo. 

“Rick Sanchez?” he asks, and this seems to snap Rick out of his reverie.

“O-oh, hey, Pers.” Rick chuckles guiltily. “I see you found my… present.”

Birdperson nods. “Indeed.”

Rick raises his hands up as if in surrender, showing their red staining. “Sorry. I, uh, I guess I didn’t realise grenaberry would stain.”

“Rick Sanchez, you went out of your way to learn about and recreate something from my homeworld on my behalf. This was extremely kind of you.” he ignores Rick pretending to vomit at this and places a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Rick freezes and looks away, his cheeks once again pink. “I-it was nothing. I couldn’t let you roll around on the floor with the ants, could I? A-anyway, I fucked it up.”

“I am very grateful.”

Rick mumbles something inaudible in response, still not making eye contact.

The three sit in each other’s company for a while, Squanchy chiming in regularly with yet another joke until eventually all of them are laughing about it.

After a while, Birdperson realises he should probably get dressed and excuses himself to his room. As he walks away, he hears Squanchy make a final comment to Rick that he doesn’t understand.

“Dude, you’ve got it bad.”

As it turns out, the staining on Birdperson’s wings lasts for quite a while. So long, in fact, that the Flesh Curtains have somehow managed to get themselves a gig before it starts to show any sign of fading.

“Man, Pers, at this rate you’re gonna be like that on the stage.” Rick teases him a few days before the show, lightly hitting Birdperson’s arm with the back of his hand. Birdperson has noticed a marked increase in Rick’s physical affection towards him lately.

“Don’t worry, I hear some people find it really hot!” Squanchy bursts out and Rick scowls at him. Birdperson is mildly confused by the interaction but brushes it off as Squanchy teasing him.

“Perhaps we should match.” Birdperson suggests, only half-joking.

“What, you think I should dye my hair?” Rick asks.

“I think it would suit you.”

Birdperson reaches out and fingers a lock of Rick’s hair, attempting to return the physical affection. Rick’s face turns red, as he’s seen it do before. Although blushing is a behaviour that’s present in his own species, he doesn’t want to assume that it means the same thing in humans, or indeed that it’s the same phenomenon at all. However, he can tell that Rick is embarrassed by it, so he enjoys trying to fluster him. Birdperson wouldn’t want to genuinely upset Rick, but he takes pleasure in teasing his friends, just as they do to each other. This sort of behaviour is not present in his culture, at least not as a means of expressing affection, but Birdperson finds that he likes it. Even though his homesickness seems to be returning more and more often these days, he finds himself continuously discovering new things that make him decide leaving was worth it. 

Rick agrees to dye his hair surprisingly readily, although no amount of cajoling can convince Squanchy to colour even a small part of his fur, insisting that it’s the key to attracting partners. He pops an unidentified pill and situates himself on the sofa in front of some sort of porn while Rick and Birdperson retire to the bathroom.

Since his initial attempt at kubba rub-oo, Rick has made another sample, this time using a flower he claims to be remarkably similar to the vanilla orchid of Earth for scent instead. Although Birdperson has begun using this one, he has kept hold of the original as well, and he brings it out now in lieu of hair dye.

“Rick Sanchez, before we begin, are you certain that this is not harmful to your species?”

“Yeah, BP, it’s fine, trust me.”

Rick pulls his shirt off over his head and Birdperson finds himself regarding his friend’s bare chest with interest. He’s used to the hair on Rick’s head, since it’s similar to his own feathers, and used to the fur covering the whole of Squanchy’s body, but he always forgets that humans have hair on other parts of their bodies as well. Similarly, he finds nipples extremely intriguing - while he appears to have them, they’re actually little more than markings on his chest, some sort of evolutionary leftover, giving him an illusion of humanity. The idea of these markings being something more - something with a function, something that’s an erogenous zone - excites him in a way he’s not sure he wants to admit to, even to himself.

Rick leans his head forward over the sink and Birdperson sprays the liquid into his hair, admiring the way the deep red drops of liquid stand out against light blue strands.

“How long d’you think I should leave this in for?” Rick asks, his voice slightly reverberating as he speaks into the sink.

“I only left it for a few minutes. I am not sure if that will be sufficient for you or not.”

The floor of the shower is still stained red, and Birdperson wonders if they should’ve done this in there instead of giving the landlord something else to charge them for when they move out, but the sink is easier, and it’s too late to change their plans now.

After a few minutes, the two decide they’ve waited long enough and Birdperson switches on the tap, cupping his hands and pouring the water over Rick’s head to help him rinse the oil from his hair.

“Shampoo.” he hears Rick mumble from underneath his mass of wet hair, and passes the bottle into Rick’s outstretched hand. Mammals, he’s found, can generally all use the same sort of product to clean their hair, although when he tried it on a small area of his own feathers, it didn’t wash out properly, leaving clumps. 

Rick lathers his head and Birdperson waits for him to finish before helping him wash it out. They repeat the process until the water running from Rick’s hair is clear.

Rick straightens up and flicks his hair back out of his face, before shaking his head and getting water everywhere, including on Birdperson. He grins at Birdperson cheekily, and Birdperson can’t help but find it charming. He passes Rick the towel quickly, hoping that the human won’t see his smile. He’s found that, although most species seem to struggle to read his emotions, Rick is unnervingly good at it, which Birdperson finds relieving and irritating in equal measure.

Rick roughly towels his hair dry, then flicks it out of his eyes so he can look at it in the mirror. It’s turned out more purple than pink, with some darker reddish streaks in places, but Rick grins anyway and Birdperson feels warmth rise in his stomach.

“I was right.” Birdperson murmurs.

“About what?” Rick asks.

“It does suit you.”

Rick’s face reddens once again and he fumbles with the towel, bringing it back up to his face in order to dry his hair. Birdperson frowns.

“Forgive me, Rick Sanchez, have I made you uncomfortable? I did not intend to.”

Rick freezes with the towel in front of his face for a few seconds before slowly lowering it.

“No, Pers, i-it’s fine. D-don’t worry about it.” Rick doesn’t seem to be telling the truth, but Birdperson doesn’t want to pry and risk making things worse. He stretches a wing out and holds it next to Rick’s head to compare the shades.

“We match now.” he says simply, and Rick grins at him. Birdperson feels his body relax as most of the tension rushes out, although a lingering worry remains. He never fit in on his home planet, didn’t understand social norms or have any friends there. While befriending aliens gives him a fair amount of leeway when it comes to social mishaps, he still feels the familiar fear of rejection sitting uncomfortably in the pit of his stomach. Rick and Squanchy are the closest friends he’s ever had, and while Squanchy is fairly straightforward and easygoing, he’s all too aware of Rick’s mercurial nature, as well as the suffering that comes with being his enemy.

Besides, Birdperson feels an unusual attachment to Rick, in a way that’s markedly different to his friendship with Squanchy. Part of him knows exactly what it is, but he’s not quite ready to put a name to the feeling. His culture regards naming as a form of cage and, while he might agree with Rick’s perspective on that particular idea for the most part, he’s all too aware of the tendency labelling things has to make them far too real. Names are powerful things, and giving one to this feeling will tie him down in a way that he’s not prepared to commit to yet.

On the morning of the gig, Birdperson walks into the kitchen and is hit by an overwhelming chemical smell. His first thought is that there’s some sort of gas leak, either in their building or nearby. When he sees Rick sitting calmly at the table, he tries to still his panicked thoughts. Rick turns around to face him with a grin.

“Hey Pers! What do you think?” Rick stretches out a hand for Birdperson to inspect. His claws - nails, Birdperson corrects himself - are black and shiny, and he can see a bottle containing a liquid of similar appearance on the table.

“What is this?” Birdperson asks.

“Nail polish. You-you never heard of it?”

“My species does not have nails.” 

Rick rolls his eyes in mock exasperation. “You don’t paint your claws? Or-or talons, or whatever?”

Birdperson shakes his head. “No. What is the purpose?”

“It’s like makeup. Or like dyeing your hair.” he gestures to his hair and Birdperson’s wings.

“A form of self-expression?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Birdperson sits at the table and picks up the bottle, inspecting it.

“You wanna do the other hand?” Rick holds out his left hand, and Birdperson sees that the nails there are still plain.

“I… do not know how.”

“It’s easy! Just grab the brush and smear some on.” Rick pulls the cap off to reveal a brush, then hands it to Birdperson and stretches his hand out again. Hesitantly, Birdperson takes Rick’s hand in his own. He’s not sure if this is acceptable and glances up at Rick’s face to check. The other man is blushing faintly, but looks expectant. Birdperson adjusts his grip so that he’s only holding one of Rick’s fingers and begins daubing nail polish onto the nail. He’s not sure how much is required, so he puts on one coat and then looks over at Rick’s other hand to see if the two are close enough.

“Is… this acceptable?” he asks.

“Yeah! It’s great!”

Birdperson feels reassured and paints the remaining nails, starting to relax into the simple domesticity of the moment and the exciting yet grounding feeling of touch. Once he’s done, he pulls back uncertainly.

“What now?” he asks.

“Now, we wait for it to dry.”

Birdperson gets up and washes his hands, just to be safe. After all, this is an unfamiliar substance, and he doesn’t want to take any unnecessary risks. Once they’re dry, he opens the fridge and pulls out a tub of grenaberries, holding them up to Rick and finding himself rewarded with a laugh.

As he sits down and begins eating, Rick leans back his head and opens his mouth. Birdperson stares for a second and then smirks.

“Are you a youngling?” he teases.

“Come on, Pers, I can’t eat when my nails are still wet. Feed me!”

“My people feed our young by regurgitating partially-digested food into their mouths. Is that what you wish for me to do?”

Rick kicks him playfully under the table. Birdperson takes a berry and holds it out just in front of Rick’s mouth in jest. Rick responds by leaning forwards and wrapping his lips around Birdperson’s fingers to eat the berry, pulling back with a shit-eating grin on his face as he chews. For once, Birdperson is the one who’s flustered. Now he understands how he must make Rick feel with his teasing.

“You are a cub rah bah, Rick Sanchez.” he admonishes. He’s fairly sure Rick doesn’t know what that means, but the other man cackles anyway, making Birdperson’s heart flutter in his chest.

Once again, Rick holds his mouth open expectantly and Birdperson feeds him another berry, then eats one himself. They continue in this manner for a while, until Birdperson is sure that the substance on Rick’s nails must have dried by now, but he finds himself putting another berry into Rick’s mouth regardless. 

The gig goes reasonably well - for them, anyway - and they’re in high spirits as they walk backstage. Squanchy almost immediately makes off in search of a woman he claims to have been ‘giving him the look’ for the duration of the show, leaving Rick and Birdperson alone together.

Rick begins his typical excited post-gig breakdown, listing their successes and complimenting Birdperson’s performance while his hands bounce in front of his chest and his fingers dance. Birdperson suspects that this might not be a behaviour that’s typical for humans based on the way he’s seen Rick react when he catches himself doing it, with the kind of shame that only comes from having an intrinsic part of yourself suppressed. Birdperson, always an outcast on his home planet, understands this feeling intensely, and so tries not to draw attention to Rick’s behaviour, even though he finds it adorable.  

“A-and, you know, we looked great while we were doing it!” Rick concludes in that half-joking, half-cocky way of his, indicating their dyed hair and feathers.

High on post-performance euphoria, Birdperson is filled with an uncharacteristic boldness and steps forward into Rick’s personal space, gently taking a lock of hair between his fingers.

“Yes, you did.”

Rick’s face turns redder than Birdperson has ever seen. Birdperson revels in the feeling of soft hair and their closeness to each other. He can see Rick staring at his lips and, without even meaning to, finds himself leaning in.

Apparently Rick feels the same way because the next minute they’re kissing, Rick’s lips surprisingly soft against his. Birdperson can taste the bitterness of the beer Rick had drunk before the show, smell the lingering hint of grenaberry on his hair.

When they pull back, both of them are breathing heavily. Birdperson is overwhelmed by a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Judging by Rick’s face, he appears to be experiencing a similar set of emotions.

“Rick.” Birdperson begins, but before he can put his thoughts into words, he’s interrupted by the sudden appearance of a stranger. 

They both jolt backwards from each other, caught in the act. Fortunately, the stranger doesn’t seem to notice. Xe’s a member of the predominant species on this planet, a scaly six-legged reptile, with a hard grey shell-like structure on xyr back, coming up to just below Birdperson’s waist.

“Hey, I’m Taub, best agent this side of Messier 31. I’ve got clients touring across all six major systems in this quadrant, and I think you guys showed some real promise tonight. If you sign with me, I’ll get you gigs all across the galaxy. So, how about it? You boys looking for an agent?”

Rick and Birdperson glance at each other conspiratorially, their kiss forgotten.

With Taub, the Flesh Curtains finally have a steady set of gigs for the first time in their existence. More than that, they have an actual tour. Taub has just sent across the list of locations and all three band members are sitting around the table, poring over it with interest.

“Oh, man, just listen to some of these places. Alpha-Betrium, Venzenulon-9, not to mention all of our home planets!” Rick exclaims. 

“You know, I wasn’t too sure about Taub at first, but xe’s really out-squanched xyrself with this.” Squanchy comments.

“And that’s not all! Check it out, boys!” Rick tears open a package to reveal black fabric. “T-shirts, motherfuckers!”

“Ooh yeah, gimme!” Squanchy reaches for it excitedly, checking out the illustration of the three of them on the front, then the list of tour locations on the back. 

While their drummer is preoccupied, Rick turns to Birdperson.

“Whaddya think, Pers. P-pretty cool, right?” he asks, and Birdperson can detect a hint of nervousness in his smile. Things have been slightly awkward between the two of them since their kiss, but they’ve been busy with the band now that things are moving forward, meaning that neither of them have brought it up. Birdperson wants to, but he keeps worrying that he’s reading too much into things or misinterpreting yet another cultural difference.

“Extremely cool.” he replies, placing his hand on Rick’s in what he hopes is a reassuring way. The other man blushes and pulls his hand back, and Birdperson is more confused than ever. He opens his mouth to apologise but Rick catches his eye and gives a subtle shake of his head.

“Don’t.” he mouths, his eyes flicking to Squanchy, who’s still distracted by the shirt, rubbing it against his face with an orgasmic expression. Birdperson doesn’t understand the situation, but the instructions are clear enough, so he drops it, not wanting to make things worse.

Rick paces up and down the floor of their rented tour ship, trying and failing to avoid thinking about a number of things. 

Firstly, things have been awkward between him and Birdperson ever since they kissed backstage, and while he knows he’s not helping matters, he can’t bring himself to say anything to Birdperson and risk having his heart broken or making things even more awkward, especially not while they’re on their way to their first gig of the tour, on his own home planet no less.

That brings him to the second issue. He hasn’t been back to Earth since before he met Birdperson and Squanchy, and he can’t deny the anxiety that sparks in the pit of his stomach at the thought of returning, despite knowing that their performance won’t bring them anywhere near his house. Rick’s hands alternately flap and curl into fists at his sides in response, and right there is his third issue.

He’s known his entire life that he’s not like most other people, and not just in the sense that he’s smarter than them. More specifically, he’s not like other humans, a fact that neither his parents nor his classmates had ever let him forget growing up. In response, he had used his incredible intellect and pattern-recognition skills to learn how to fit in around others. It had worked so well that he had adopted the mask almost full-time, only dropping it around a very select few people, all of whom are now dead. 

However, since most aliens have never met a human, let alone have any idea of how they’re supposed to behave, he’s fallen out of the habit of hiding his oddities lately. He’s had enough interspecies culture shock just with the other members of the Flesh Curtains, let alone aliens who are gobsmacked by behaviours such as blinking and laughing, that he’s long since decided to just do whatever the fuck he wants. However, it turns out that, like a too-tight shoe, once you take the mask off, it’s very hard to put back on. Although he’s not planning on spending too much time around other humans, he’s still nervous at the thought of being very openly weird in front of them. 

“Rick?” a voice from behind him breaks his spiral of anxiety and he snaps his hands guiltily to his sides as he turns to face Birdperson. Birdperson only recently seems to have realised he doesn’t need to use Rick’s full name every time, and Rick finds it almost unbearably intimate.

“Are you alright?” Birdperson asks.

“Y-yeah, I’m fine!” Rick knows instantly that Birdperson doesn’t believe him. While with anyone else he would double down on the lie, something about this man in particular manages to break through his defences. “Pers? C-can I… tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“I, um… I’m not like other humans. There’s, there’s something… wrong with me. I don’t know what it is, but I could get by, especially once I left Earth and nobody knew if I was acting normal for a human or not, but you’re about to meet other humans for the first time and…” Rick trails off, not sure if he’s trying to hold back from admitting too much or building himself up to say it. Either way, the truth slips out. “I’m worried about what you’ll think of me once you realise how weird I am.”

Rick keeps his eyes fixed on the ground, fighting tears he wasn’t expecting. This is something he’s never told another person except Diane, and he wasn’t prepared for the emotions it’s stirring up.

“Rick.” Birdperson places a hand on his shoulder. “On my planet, I am also, as you might say, a weirdo. Until I met Squanchy, I had never had a friend. He told me there is a word for it in common, ‘autistic’.”

At first, Rick had found himself feeling relieved and connected to Birdperson, but hearing that final word makes something in him snap.

“I’m not fucking autistic.” he hears himself growl, his heart pounding in fear as he thinks of a cousin he had been told his whole life had died as a baby until one fateful argument with his dad had revealed that she had been sent away to an asylum for ‘the severely disturbed’, the place his dad had told Rick he should’ve been sent to. Rick feels a hot, sick rage bubbling up his throat, his body trembling with adrenaline.

“Rick.” Birdperson’s calm and concerned voice snaps him back to reality. 

“I’m not autistic.” Rick repeats, his voice shaking.

“Forgive me. I do not know what this means on Earth. I had not heard of this word until I left my planet. I merely wished to reassure you that I will not think you weird, no matter how different you are to other humans.”

A sob forces its way from Rick’s mouth, and he can’t believe he’s crying in front of Birdperson, but he can’t help himself. He feels Birdperson wrap his arms around him and clings to him tightly, sobbing against the other man’s bare chest. 

“It is OK, Rick. I am here. I will not leave.” Birdperson reassures him.

Rick fights to calm himself and steady his breathing. Eventually, he manages to stop crying, quickly wiping tears and snot from his face. He can’t bring himself to look at Birdperson.

“Come.” Birdperson instructs, gently but firmly, guiding Rick with an arm around his shoulders. Rick allows himself to be led to a bed, wrapping the blankets around his entire body like a cocoon. 

“Rick… I am sorry that I have upset you. It was not my intention.”

Rick sniffles and shakes his head. “I-it’s not your fault, Pers.” he mumbles. “It just… that word brought up some bad memories for me, that’s all.”

He feels Birdperson rest a hand on his arm and continues. “On Earth, people like me - like us - if people find out that’s what we are, they… they get sent away.”

“Sent away… from Earth?”

“No, just to another place on Earth. A… a bad place. If I hadn’t been smart, that’s where they would’ve sent me, too.”

“Are you in danger of this if we return to Earth?” Birdperson asks in concern.

Rick shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. They wouldn’t do that to me now. They couldn’t, even if they tried. But it happened to… to my cousin. I didn’t find out until I was older. My dad told me about it. He said it’s what should’ve happened to me.” 

Rick feels Birdperson squeeze his arm.

“My father was not supportive of me being different, either. I always felt as if I had to prove myself to him, but he was never happy with me, no matter what I did. I knew I was a source of shame to him.”

Rick lets out a humourless laugh and leans to rest his head against Birdperson’s shoulder. “Sounds like we both had shitty dads.”

“Indeed.” 

Birdperson wraps both an arm and a wing around Rick and rests his chin on Rick’s head. Even through his distress, Rick feels a rush of warmth in his abdomen at the gesture. 

“Do not worry, Rick. Even if anybody tried to harm you, I would not let them.”

Rick’s never felt so protected, and that’s the moment when he knows that his feelings for Birdperson are far beyond just a simple crush. He swears to himself that he won’t lose Birdperson, even if it means they’ll never be more than friends. Now, more so than ever, he resolves not to bring up the kiss in fear that it might jeopardise their relationship.

#rick and morty #rick and morty fanfic #rnm #rnm fanfic #birdrick #rick sanchez #birdperson #squanchy #flesh curtains #flesh curtains rick #the flesh curtains #autistic rick #autistic rick sanchez #autistic birdperson #my writing #my fic #side note if anyone wants to know more about the wayfarers series or the specific bird facts/behaviours i referenced in this fic please lmk #i would love to infodump lol #sorry didn’t realise the format fucked up #also disclaimer that i know there are plenty of cultures where it’s normal to eat bugs #this is just what i thought rick’s view would be #also this is very influenced by the comics (specifically rnm presents: the flesh curtains and rnm presents: birdperson) #like bp being an outcast on his homeworld

[flowr24602]

Drew this many moons ago. Agdhsjska i forgot about them silly me.

It's Prompto Argentum (Poor Wayfaring Stranger) and Prompto Leonis (Palindrome).

#prompto argentum #ffxv #flowr24602 art ffxv #cor leonis #ffxv fic #poor wayfaring stranger #love these two prompto fics!

[galadae]

wayfarer microfic challenge pt 3

Finally finished a few more of these! Prompts from here.

part 1 | part 2

Formal wear or event 305 words

“Aeran, this is serious. Varyn said–” 

“No one will care how we look, Brienne.” Aeran leans against a couch, picking at his nails. “We’re not the important ones.” 

“Yes they will! These people are rich and bored! That’s all they care about.” 

He laughs. “Well, too bad for them.” He’s put on the uniform Varyn provided, just like hers, but he’s still a mess. Everything is half buttoned and rumpled. His hair is somehow more tousled than usual. Brienne glares at him. This is the first time Varyn has brought them on a diplomatic training mission. She told them to get ready while she talked to someone. Brienne can’t remember the name. Someone important. Oh gods, why can’t she remember? 

“Aeran if you mess this up for us, I swear–” 

“You’ll what?”

Brienne huffs. “I don’t know, push you down the stairs while all the prissy nobles are watching. Can you at least button your jacket?”

Aeran groans in annoyance. “No. It’s too warm in this stupid room. When is Varyn coming back? I-“ 

The door opens. Varyn stands above them, a picture of grace and confidence. Her russet hair is impeccable. “They’re almost ready for us.” She looks them both over. “Are you ready? 

Brienne takes a deep breath and smooths her jacket down. “Yes.” 

Varyn nods. “Good. Remember, follow my lead. Don’t worry about talking to anyone. I want you to observe, listen, and tell me anything important you hear at the end of the night.” She smiles. “Let’s go. Kellis, button your jacket, please.” 

Aeran mutters under his breath. Brienne covers her mouth, stifling a snicker.

“Shut up, Bri.” 

“What? I said nothing.” 

Aeran elbows her in the ribs. 

“Hey!”

“I thought you two were ready?” Varyn calls from the hallway. 

“Coming!” Brienne rushes after her, leaving Aeran to close the door behind them. 

First light 313 words

The dim grey light of another Rona dawn filters through the shutters. Rain falls in a gentle murmur on the rooftops.

Brienne’s eyes flutter open. She groans. A steady ache pulses in her left ankle. After yesterday’s tumble from the alleyway roof, it’ll take a few days to recover. She rolls onto her back with her hands under her head, careful not to bump into Aeran. They have 4 days left on this contract, and still no leads. Maybe today they’ll find something.

Aeran mumbles and turns to face her, but doesn't wake. His head rests on his arm, his hair is flopped over it. He looks so different asleep. Brienne smiles. Without his furrowed brows and stress lines, he's almost nothing like the intimidating figure he is when awake.

He’s so tired, all the time. They both are. She sighs. We'll get out of here soon, she tells herself. We have to. She closes her eyes, imagining they're anywhere but here. That they can sleep in without worrying about mercenaries breathing down their necks. Enjoy life for once. Maybe, when things calm down, I can tell him how I feel, and then–

She looks over at him again, her eyes moving between his eyelashes, his mop of curls, the small cut on his lip, the light stubble on his jaw. She wants to reach out and cup his cheek. Gently press her forehead to his. Wrap her arms around his waist, kiss him softly, slowly, till they forget how tired they are. Make him smile. Pull him flush against her. Run one hand down his back, feel his breathless laugh against her mouth as she kisses him again, his hands in her hair—

Brienne sits up. The room is suffocating. A walk sounds good. Fresh air. Her ankle will be fine. She needs to get out of this room and stop thinking.

First meeting 292 words

Today is a new day, with a new contract, and contacts to meet. Brienne makes her way down the streets of Vestra, dodging merchant carts and busy pedestrians. She can hear birds from the clothing lines high above the hubbub. The smells of fresh bread and spiced meat drift through the air behind her. The sunlight beats down. For once Brienne wishes she had time to enjoy the warmth, but there's work to be done. She squints at her scribbled directions on her notes. “Should be here,” she mutters, turning towards a large metal door. The knocker is heavy as she lifts it. 

The door opens. “Do you have an appointment?” Brienne looks down at the petite melusine in front of her. Chin length, wispy black hair frames her heart-shaped face. Yellow eyes stare up at her, impatient. “Well?” 

“I’m here about a contract,” Brienne says, tapping her pendant. “I’m a Wayfarer.” 

The melusine’s eyes brighten. “Oh! Perfect. No appointment needed, come right in.” She gestures behind her and Brienne slips inside. The door closes with a soft thud. 

“Well, Wayfarer, what’s your name? I need to know who we’re working with.” 

“Brienne Varyn.” She pockets her notes. “And you?” 

“I’m not the important one here,” the melusine laughs. “I’ll take you to Morac. He’s the one you really want to talk to.” 

“Sure,” Brienne says. “But tell me your name anyways. Morac had to be a busy man. No use bothering him if you can help me.” 

The melusine lowers her eyes. “I suppose you’re right.” When she smiles and looks up again, Brienne can’t help but notice how pretty she is. “My name’s Myrrha Toranis.” 

“Myrrha. Nice to meet you.” Brienne grins. “I’m sure we’re going to work well together.” 

#wayfarer fic #hannah words #fic #oc: brienne varyn #aeran kellis #couldn't sleep but at least i wrote three of these last night aksdjfhdas #thanks brain

[redwayfarers]

one of those days

Fandom: Wayfarer IF Ship: Cassmel (Cassander x Melchior) Characters: Cassander Inteus (OC), Melchior Larkspur Words: 1084 Rating: Gen Summary: Cassander has a bad mental health day. Fortunately, he doesn't have to face it alone. Read on AO3

The day drags like nobody’s fucking business. It’s real fun having nothing to do with your time, you know - the half open book stares at me in accusation from the table, half done weave shakes its threads in disappointment. I told myself I’d finish it today, but when I woke up I found that my hands just refused to do it and would’ve rather broken the whole thing apart than finish it. The book could’ve easily met the same fate if I didn’t have enough wherewithal to just step back and declare myself useless for the day. 

But cooking needs to be done. It’s not a question of want as much as it is a question of need, after all. We all need to eat. If you don’t eat you starve. And since I don’t particularly like starving, I managed to drag myself to the kitchen and listen to the chop chop of the knife. There are downsides, though, as there usually are. Chop chop is so routine that I could do it blind, so the part of my head that’s not focused on making sure I don’t cut my own fingers off is free to wonder.

And gods do I wonder. I’ve since stopped keeping track of what about, but that’s where I am now.

Theokleia came to mind at some point, unbidden. Maybe after the brief sighting of my face in the window. Maybe after the errant curl of hair fell in my eyes and I had to move it away. She wouldn’t cook, obviously. She has people to cook for her. She has fancy makeup and hairpins and decorative battle knives on her walls. And maybe she’s laughing now, having a grand old time, drinking at a party and whispering in another rich asshole’s ear. 

Maybe Aiantes listens too. Does she keep the hairpin he gifted her decades ago, before my very eyes, when all I got was a stern look to shut the fuck up? Maybe she wears it across the hall, and maybe he smiles when he sees it shining in the magic lights. Maybe he even removes it later in the privacy of their bedroom. 

Maybe I don’t really wanna think about my parents fucking, exactly. Brain, stop being weird.

“You’re murdering that poor eggplant,” Melchior says out of nowhere. “What has it done to you?” 

I turn around and set the knife down. “My parents have sex. In general. In Vestra, too. I know the exact bedroom. Big bed, fancy ass curtains. Roses on the sheets. The mwah mwah sounds. All the good stuff.” 

“Your… parents?” Melchior blinks. “Cassander, you have three siblings. It’s highly likely that they do have sex. Assuming nothing’s taking the place of that poor vegetable.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s a really simple thing, too. And my parents are doing it.” 

“And here it’s where you lose me,” he says slowly. He has two big books of accounts in his hands and he looks so disheveled it makes me want to mess his hair up even more. “What do…” He sighs. “It’s been that kind of day, no?” 

I laugh weakly. “Yeah. My brain's all weird. One thing led to another and here I am, mentally in my parents’ bedroom. Where I wasn’t normally allowed when I was a kid, too, even in non-fucking circumstances.” I look at my feet and wiggle my toes. “I am… I just..” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice is kind and gentle and it hits like cold water in a parched throat. He puts the books down and walks over, takes my hand in his and the world feels less loathsome all of a sudden. 

“I don’t want to be angry anymore.” There it is. I’m getting better at figuring these things out. What a strange idea, actually understanding what’s behind all the weirdness in my head on a given day. “Don’t think there’s much to talk about. I just– I don’t want to think about my mother. But she comes unbidden sometimes, she’s a fucking weed of a person like that, and I get all– like this. Gods, I’m so shit at saying things.” 

“I understand you perfectly well, if that has any merit,” he offers. “You’re not half as bad at saying things as you think you are.”

“You don’t count,” I say. It feels as though a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders, though. “You’re just trying to make me feel better by saying that. It doesn’t count.” 

“Is it working, though?” He smiles softly. I bury my head in his shoulder. 

“I hate you so much,” I whisper against the fabric of his shirt. He’s still holding my hand. “But seriously now. Were you.. Did you have any plans for.. This exact moment?” 

“I was just about to get myself a cup of tea,” he says and kisses the side of my head. His hair tickles my ear. “Do you want me to prevent any more vegetable murder?” 

“That’d be great. We gotta eat something and I’m the big bad vegetable murderer, as we both know.” 

“Really scary, yes,” he laughs softly. I don’t reply, but I make no movement whatsoever, soaking up the warmth and the ease of his presence. He seems content to stay like this for the time being, oblivious to the life of a whole company of actors around us, and his free hand rests loosely on my waist. “I’m proud of you, though,” he adds after a while. “You were able to identify what was distressing you and asked for help.” 

Any joke I might’ve had to those words dies on my tongue, heavy and sordid and venomous. He’s just saying things because I’m obviously not doing good for the most part, but a part of me wants to believe him. I want to be worthy of his pride but I’m not sure if I really am. “Didn’t solve shit, Mel,” I say instead, because that’s easier. Because it comes faster and more naturally. Because it shelters from this oppressive feeling that I might not be such a fuck-up after all. “I’m still as angry as I was before. Being able to say my mother’s a bitch doesn’t change shit.”

“It’s better than it was before,” he hums. “But let us cut those vegetables.” His voice turns small and private and easy. “Honestly, between the two of us, being responsible is very boring sometimes.”

And the world really does feel less loathsome for a while. 

#wayfarer #wayfarer if #inspo birb has come to town #wayfarer mc #cassander inteus #melchior larkspur #cassander x melchior #wayfarer fic #is this self-indulgent? yes #but do i wanna work on my short story? no #so this is what i do #also long time no cass fic #think we need some #a palette cleanser if you will #my writing

[scionshtola]

Nights Like This

a gift for @gncrezan for the @wayfarer-exchange 😊 featuring their Wayfarer Rhys Aviv & Aeran Kellis word count: 2564 summary: Rhys and Aeran wrap up a difficult contract in eastern Arsenia, and take a little break at the market.

Outside a tavern in eastern Arsenia, Rhys leaned against a wall and tried to shake his dour mood, which hung over him like a cloud. The sun was setting in the distance, but the pink and orange sky served only to remind him just how long his day had been. He was tired and hungry, and his injured shoulder grew more and more stiff the longer he stood there.

The only distraction he had was the market. It was centered in the large courtyard at the end of the block and had spilled over into the surrounding streets. He heard vendors calling out the price of their wares over the din of the bustling crowd, and every so often the breeze carried the tantalizing smell of spices and frying meat that made his stomach grumble. He glanced at the tavern door, wondering if he could sneak away and use his remaining meager funds to grab something to eat before Aeran emerged to find him missing.

Inside the tavern, Aeran was dealing with their most recent employer, a human wine merchant who had hired them to deal with a pack of tetraghasts that were plaguing one of the routes into the town. Apparently, the crocodile-like creatures that lived near the river had discovered an affinity for his wine. It had finally become cheaper to pay him and Aeran to deal with them than to let his cart drivers fend for themselves.

He was an arrogant, pompous man who did not care for Wayfarers or, judging by how long Aeran had been inside, for holding up his end of the deal. Rhys had suspected the man might try to weasel his way out of paying them what they were due, though the job was hardly well-paying to begin with.

“I am not certain it takes two of you,” he’d said. “There are only three, after all. And their venom is not very strong, most of the time.”

But it wasn’t as if they could afford to be selective about their contracts these days. He was just grateful that Aeran had offered to deal with the man alone, though he suspected the offer was at least partly motivated by guilt—Rhys had stepped between him and an ambush by a fourth tetraghast. He’d saved Aeran and given him time and space to shoot the thing, but the impact had definitely sprained his shoulder. Aeran had hovered the entire trek back to the tavern, and then suggested that only one of them needed to suffer the horrible man’s presence.

“I won’t be long,” he’d said, cutting Rhys a smile and a quick, worried glance to his shoulder. “All he has to do is pay us.”

That was a quarter of an hour ago. Rhys glanced at the door again. Maybe he should check on him…

A shriek of laughter distracted him. A pair of giggling Aeda teens walked past him, heading away from the market, heads bent close together as they shared some kind of pastry shaped like a flower between them.

“We need to find a good spot for the firelights,” one of them said, tipping their head back to accommodate a rather large piece of the dessert.

“The sun hasn’t even set yet!” the other protested. In a hushed voice, she added, “And don’t talk about it so loud. It’s not sanctioned.”

“Everyone knows it’s happening, Nori. You can’t keep a firelight show secret.” Rhys could not see their face, but he was certain they were rolling their eyes. “And I don’t care. We are not letting Kiernan have the best view again. She still hasn’t shut up about the perfect view she had last summer.”

Their arguing voices faded as they headed down the street. The sugary scent of their pastry lingered behind them, making his mouth water. Just as he was once again considering leaving Aeran in search of something to eat, the tavern doors swung open. Aeran stepped out, mouth set in a grim line, but he broke into a smile when Rhys waved at him.

“Thought I was going to have to save you again,” Rhys said, pushing away from the wall.

In lieu of an answer, Aeran tossed a pouch at him. He caught it easily enough, the crowns inside clinking as he hefted the pouch in his palm. The weight of it surprised him—this was definitely more than the man had promised to pay them.

“Guess I didn’t have to worry about you after all,” Rhys said, and Aeran grinned at him.

“I don’t know what you mean. He was very amenable. Once I told him about your shoulder he even offered to pay extra for damages.”

Rhys scoffed. “Right. How did you manage that?”

“Do you really have such little faith in our employer?” Aeran teased. “A man with only the utmost respect for the Wayfarer Order and their craft? Who would never try to cheat us out of what we were due?”

When Rhys only raised his eyebrows, Aeran shrugged. “He was much more agreeable when I reminded him what exactly Wayfarers are trained to do. I don’t think he’ll be recommending us to his friends, though.”

Rhys shrugged. It wasn’t a huge loss for them—they had planned on leaving soon anyway, and the man’s friends were probably as weaselly as he was. At least Aeran had gotten them a bonus as a parting gift.

“Thanks for handling that,” Rhys said. He really was grateful he hadn’t had to talk to the man himself.

“Don’t worry about it,” Aeran replied. The corners of his mouth turned down into a slight frown as he glanced at Rhys’s shoulder for the hundredth time that day. “Besides, I think I owe you.”

Rhys gripped Aeran by the shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Yes,” he said, with a serious nod. “You do.”

Aeran’s eyes widened in surprise, but Rhys quirked his mouth into a small smile, letting him in on the joke. Aeran fought back a smile. “Yeah, yeah. It’s not like I’ve never saved you before, you know.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Rhys released him, turning his back on him and starting down the street toward the market. He tossed the pouch of crowns over his shoulder without looking back to see if Aeran would catch it. “Dinner is on you.”

***

Rhys had heard about the markets in eastern Arsenia before—snatches of conversation here and there in Nesactium about the size of them, tales from other Wayfarers about the extravagance. Stepping into the crowd, he had to admit this market certainly lived up to the stories.

The sun had set by now, and orbs of soft yellow light floated above the market, casting a warm glow over the street below. In his muddied trousers and boots, Varaniel hanging at his side, he stood out in the sea of people dressed in their finest serithans. Aeran didn’t blend in much better, though everyone seemed too caught up in their own business to spare a glance their way. Above the noise, he caught the faint sound of music.

He didn’t know where to look first. Vendors were set up in every direction, calling out their prices or shaking their heads at haggling customers. There were bins piled high with fruits and vegetables, crates of fish and meats hanging from hooks, bottles and casks of rich wine. Some sold bundles of herbs and had baskets full of spices to choose from, and others had recently baked bread, still warm thanks to the baker’s magic. The owners of various stalls were cooking up their own food, the mouthwatering smells nearly overwhelming him.

And it wasn’t just food. As they wound their way through the crowd, they came across merchants selling handmade and intricately painted pottery; a stand full of delicate blown glass of all colors, light refracting through the pieces and casting colorful shadows; a weaver selling brightly colored baskets and shawls; a bookseller standing behind a table stacked with books, the table dipping precariously in the middle under the weight.

He stopped at the last stand, giving himself a moment to breathe amid the chaos of the crowd. He picked up the closest book and flipped through the pages. It appeared to be a collection of maps of Rhesania, comparing the changes in the lands and artistic styling of the maps over time. He wondered how much it cost—this would be a good book to bring home for Cenric’s collection.

Rhys started to ask the seller for the price, when his mind caught up to his actions. The sudden grief was a blow to the chest, knocking the breath right out of him, an ache spreading through him that was deeper and sharper than the twinge in his shoulder. He dropped the book as if it had burned him and clenched his fingers into a fist, trying to calm himself.

For just one moment, he had forgotten there was no home to which he could return. No collection of books to which he could add. And as certain as he felt that Cenric was alive, he had no idea when he would see him again. A familiar regret bloomed inside him, one he was still trying to learn to live with—he’d never told Cenric just how much he had meant to him. Had never asked to take his last name, even though he’d wanted to. He could only hope that his mentor knew without him saying, and for the chance to tell him himself one day.

He took a deep breath, steeling himself, before stepping away from the table to search for Aeran. His height gave him something of an advantage, as did Aeran’s, and it wasn’t long before he caught sight of a familiar head of sandy brown curls making his way toward him.

Rhys met him in the middle. Aeran smiled warmly at him and pushed something warm, wrapped in paper, into his hand.

“I found dinner. Smells good, doesn’t it?”

It smelled better than good. The combination of spices emanating from the package made his mouth water, and the pang of hunger in his stomach grew sharper. He could not wait to have something warm in his empty stomach after the day they’d had.

Aeran’s smile grew wider, and he turned on his heel to lead them out of the market. Rhys followed, weaving through the crowd on quick, light feet, eager to find somewhere to sit and eat. They emerged on the far side of the courtyard from where they had entered. Not far from here, the landscape sloped gently downward for a way, until it met the shore of the Azure Sea.

Only a few other people had made their way here. They stopped halfway down the slope, where the light from the market just reached them, and dropped their packs and weapons so they could sit comfortably in the grass.

Rhys opened the package and found a wrap of flatbread overflowing with meat and vegetables. Flavors flooded his mouth when he took a bite, and he closed his eyes to savor the taste. He didn’t know when he’d last eaten something so good, so freshly made. As hungry as he was, he wanted to make it last.

Beside him, Aeran snorted. Rhys, mildly embarrassed to be caught savoring the food, elbowed him in the ribs, forgetting that Aeran was on the side of his injured shoulder. He winced, and the smile slid off Aeran’s face, quickly replaced with worry.

“Stop sending me such guilty looks,” Rhys cut in before he could say anything. He raised his flatbread, shaking it between them, and smiled so Aeran would know he truly wasn’t mad. “We’re even now.”

Aeran’s expression wavered, before a small, fond smile broke through. “Whatever you say, Rye.”

They enjoyed the rest of their meal in a companionable silence, the only sounds the distant murmur of the crowd behind them and the gentle crash of waves on the shore. When they’d finished, Rhys said, “I heard there’s going to be a firelight show tonight. Want to stay for it?”

“Firelights? They really go all out for these things,” Aeran said. He shrugged, and tossed a smile Rhys’s way. “Sure, why not?”

The reminder of the teens that had passed him earlier sparked an idea in his mind. He left Aeran on the hill for a moment, and made his way back to the market. The crowd had grown smaller in their absence but there were still quite a few people there, and it took him several minutes to find what he was looking for. When he returned to his seat beside Aeran, he held up the flower-shaped pastry between them to share.

They took turns pulling pieces from the dessert, honey leaving their fingertips sticky. Each piece practically melted in Rhys’s mouth, and when he glanced at Aeran, he wore an expression of pure delight that almost made Rhys smile.

Honey dripped down the paper and onto Rhys’s wrist. He wiped it away, his fingers brushing over the sun tattooed there. Warmth and grief swirled together inside his chest when he looked at it, a bittersweet ache that he knew well. He’d gotten the tattoo with his friends, as a reminder of the first time he had ever seen the Spire, and they’d gotten ones to match. He missed them—his friends, Cenric, the familiarity of his home at the Spire. He dreamed of going back one day, of rebuilding the Order, of reuniting with those he missed. Of remaking a home for them all.

He had never shared any of this with Aeran, who staunchly avoided talking about anything to do with the Spire or the Wayfarer Order. He’d never told Rhys what happened the night the Spire fell, never told him about what he was doing in the years before they reunited in Karth. He hardly ever even talked about Varyn. Who knew what he might say if he knew what Rhys dreamed of doing?

He glanced at Aeran, who was wiping the honey off of his fingers in the grass. Above them, the first round of firelights had started, lighting up the sky with bursts of color. Aeran leaned back on his hands and caught Rhys’s gaze, grinning widely, eyes lit up in amusement.

Rhys had lost so much five years ago, but he still had a friend—a good friend, who he had found again after years apart. Who he laughed with over ridiculous employers and joked with about debts neither of them cared about. Who he traveled town to town with, taking care of each other and watching each other’s back.

He mirrored Aeran’s pose, leaning back on his hands to watch the show. A pleasant rush of fondness and affection passed through him, and he casually bumped his shoulder against Aeran’s, light enough that it didn’t hurt.

He missed the Order. He missed his friends, and his mentor, and his home. He would dream of having those things again one day, and maybe he would get them. But there was still Aeran, and there were still nights like this—the two of them,  shoulder to shoulder, sharing a dessert on the beach while firelights burst over their heads. Their friendship could outlast everything they’ve been through and all the secrets between them. And he was nothing but grateful for that.

#wayfarer exchange #wayfarer fic #ahhhh i hope u like it!! i had a lot of fun writing for rhys!! #i want to know all about his friends now too ajsdfgh #kels writes

[coldshrugs]

First meeting Part of a series about Wayfarer Ephyra Metaxas Year 1231. Age 12. prompt taken from this post.

Ephyra waits by the archway, her small hand clinging to the heavy silk curtain, keeping it from billowing in the salty, coastal breeze. A curious scene plays out before her; her parents are speaking to a man on the terrace.

He is dwarven, and unlike any visitor she’s seen grace the sprawling Metaxas estate. Everything about him is rough and worn, lacking the brilliant luster common among the Vodenian nobility that can be seen posturing throughout the villa. Most notably, his face is scarred and one eye is covered by a leather patch.

He looks tired, like maybe he’s had this conversation too many times.

Her parents, Castellanus Maron and Lady Silvya Metaxas, speak to the dwarf in clipped, hushed tones. She’s usually sent to her room alone (or worse, with a begrudging caretaker) when they host guests while everyone else enjoys an evening of dining and entertainment.

Today, the opposite has happened–she's been allowed to stay and see the visitor. Why?

Ephyra is lost in her observation, clutching the rippling silk, when three sets of eyes snap in her direction.

“Ephyra,” her mother calls (too sweet, too cheery to be directed at her), beckoning languidly in her direction. “Come, darling, we have a guest.”

Darling?

The word feels about as awkward as this dwarf looks standing in a Vestran Great House. “Darling” is for Hydeia, Ilione, and Alyta. Ephyra has always been “child.”

Hesitantly, she crosses the terrace. Her shoes click gently against the stone, the sound almost drowned in the roar of the ocean below, and the silk whips softly against her calves when she releases it. She positions herself politely in front of her parents, just out of arm’s reach to ensure no accidental touches, and faces the curious dwarf. He looks at her strangely.

Etiquette demands an introduction, but she doesn't know his title and her parents don't spare it. She sweeps into a bow anyway. “Good afternoon… sir. I’m Lady Ephyra Metaxas.”

The strange look remains as he studies her through narrowed eyes. He offers a small smile–the first smile anyone's given her in recent memory–and holds out an ungloved hand. Tentatively, she clasps it, shocked by the coarseness of his skin, but she doesn’t pull away. Her eyes prickle but she's well-practiced at holding back tears.

There's nothing scary about this man.

“Lady Ephyra–” he gives her hand a firm shake– “I’m Wayfarer Rindan Cenric.”

#azia writes #ephyra metaxas #wayfarer fic #this was meant to be a showcase of FIVE OR SIX MICRO PROMPTS #but i couldn't shut up so it's just it's own thing now #i will almost certainly not be finishing the list of prompts but it's a fun exercise !! #i really wanted to get the sense of physical and emotional distance between effie and her family #and how A HINT of kindness just ruins her

[astraphone]

give in to what i can’t disguise; cassander

y’all know the drill: a @wayfarer-exchange treat! this time it’s for @ladamebrunette and her wonderful wayfarer Cassander Inteus. 

It’s been less than a week since Cassander woke up on the Dareia after almost dying in Rona, and the man is testing Aeran’s patience like no one else can. (Aeran would much rather skim past the almost dying part, but true to form, he can’t forget. He can hardly close his eyes without seeing Cassander unmoving on the Count’s villa floor, as if he needed more fodder for nightmares.) He’s clearly still in pain, should very obviously be resting, and today he’s insisting on sparring.

“I can’t get out of practice now,” he’d insisted when Aeran had voiced his concerns. “Imagine arriving in Velantis only to discover, in front of a legion of guild mages, that I’ve gone so long without any sort of exertion that I’ve completely forgotten how to fight. Humiliating.” 

“Who cares what they think?” Aeran had asked, and Cassander had shrugged. 

“Certainly not me, but I do have a reputation to uphold, you know.” 

So here they are, despite Aeran’s better judgment, sparring on the deck of the ship. Aeran has been taking it as slow as he can without letting Cassander realize--he’ll never hear the end of it if he does--but Cassander’s injuries are clearly far more prevalent than he’s been pretending. He’s already out of breath and visibly struggling to stay on his feet.

“Let’s break,” Aeran calls, but Cassander’s expression is one of exhausted determination. 

“No.” He advances on Aeran with renewed vigor, which lasts until he stumbles on the approach and goes sprawling towards the deck. 

Aeran, who had been expecting something like this, catches him easily, and lowers them both down together.

“Let’s break,” Aeran says again, more insistently, and this time Cassander doesn’t argue. 

“Fuck me,” he says instead with a grimace, and Aeran sighs as he watches him attempt to scramble up into a sitting position. 

“You’re hurt, Cassander. You’re not doing yourself any favors by not fucking resting.”

“I’m not doing myself any favors by wasting away below deck, either.” 

“It’s been a week,” Aeran says with all the patience he can muster. “You aren’t wasting away, you’re recovering. You’re allowed to stop sometimes, you know that?” 

“Am I?” Cassander mutters. 

“You are,” Aeran says firmly. “This whole situation is fucking terrible. I get it. But you’re just going to hurt yourself again, and I--” He stumbles over his words, but he forces himself to press onwards. “I can’t watch that. Please don’t make me.” 

Something softens in Cassander’s frustrated gaze at that, and instead of continuing to try to get up, he leans back against Aeran’s chest. “I guess I can wait a few more days.” 

“Thank you.” 

Cassander shrugs, and this time when he looks up at Aeran there’s an absolute shit-eating grin on his face. “It’s not all bad, though. There are worse people’s arms to collapse into.” 

Aeran feels his face turn bright red as Cassander laughs. “I--you--shut up.” 

He loves him. It’s a relatively new realization, and it sends a shiver down Aeran’s spine every time he thinks it. Gods be fucking damned, he loves this ridiculous man. Cassander will be safe, Aeran promises himself. He will do whatever it takes to make it so. 

#wayfarer fic #wayfarer exchange #cleo writes #cassander inteus #i love cass so very much #thanks for letting me borrow him nero!

[friedkactus]

30 micro fics challenge

Fighting.

Words. An incredibly underutilized form of violence if you asked Lily. 

You're more mercenary than Wayfarer.

You can inflict so much more damage when wielded correctly, more than you could ever incite with any weapon—magic or otherwise.

Finding you was a mistake.

Cuts and bruises? Given enough time those heal, if you’re lucky they rarely even leave a trace. Words worm their way into you like poison, dig far further than something as shallow as skin deep making a home above your heart—the better to weigh you down. They strike with a precision a dagger could only ever dream of.

You need me more than I need you.

Especially when they come from someone you love, because that’s when they seem the most true.

Anger.

Lily doesn’t know what set her off. 

Maybe it was the fact that the man was breaking their agreement despite a job well done. Or the way he tried to push through Lily and Aeran. 

“Magianis,” he had spat, as if the taste of the word itself was foul. Lesser. “You’re as useful to the world as coin is to a corpse. Empty, magic-less bastards.”

This was hardly the first time some asshole had decided to make their own prejudice her problem, and it certainly wouldn't be the last—hell, she’s even heard worse from her own family—she knew this.

And yet she can’t help but feel satisfaction at the sickening crunch of his nose beneath her fist. 

Anger courses through her, white hot and familiar, boiling over with ease. She’d taken too much shit for far too long today. She repeats the action, once, twice, three more times. Aeran’s warning is distant in her ear, his presence is the only thing pulling her punches in the slightest. 

Her anger is far from satiated, but she settles for taking what’s owed as she cuts the bag of coins from the man’s belt.  “If you ever want coin to have use for you again, I suggest you stay down.”

#wayfarer fic #winniewrites #wayfarer if #oc: lilicae fairen