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fishandships · 11 months

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Salve

Universe: Identity V (Time of Reunion/Ashes of Memory) Summary: The Naturalist shares a salve for The Prospector's scars that unexpectedly also proves to be a balm for his soul. Word count: 1362

A follow up to Campbell + soup, in which the ship actually starts to get a little shippy 6v6 bc i can eternally only sum up the attention span to write the “interesting” parts lmao

—

For the umpteenth time that day Norton had to stop himself from scratching at his scar. It always worsened in the winter, when his skin was dry. It was maddening, impossible to ignore, but of course scratching it only made his parched skin bloody. So he cursed under his breath and balled his fingers into a fist, a combination of behaviors that earned him an anxious glance from The Naturalist, who was seated nearby with a book. “What’s wrong?”

Norton was learning that The Naturalist was a flighty, nervous individual, as jumpy as a deer. He made a conscious effort to unclench both his fist and his jaw. “Just this damn scar. It gets so itchy in the winter.”

The Naturalist’s shoulders dropped as they became less tense. A sympathetic look came over them. “Ah. Do you have anything to put on it?”

He stared at them. “Like what?”

The Naturalist closed their book and stood. “I have a salve that might help.”

More curious than hopeful, Norton followed them to their room, where they began digging through a green travel chest. From it they produced a small, flat, circular container. When they opened it, a pleasant floral scent drifted from within. “What’s in it?” Norton asked.

“Oil of lavender, helichrysum, and rosehips to rejuvenate the skin cells, as well as a little beeswax for bonding,” they explained.

He appreciated that they included the purpose of the ingredients in their description. When they offered him the jar for examination, he took a sniff of the floral aroma. “What’s heely…whatever you said?”

“Another flowering herb. It’s related to sunflowers. The heli part of the name comes from the Greek word for ‘sun’...” The Naturalist blinked as if catching themself. “Sorry. Habit from work.”

The way they turned a bit pink and lowered their gaze made something odd happen in Norton’s chest. “I don’t mind,” he found himself saying, despite having little care for flowers. “That’s interesting.”

He must not have sounded very convincing, as they looked somewhat doubtful. Rather than press the matter, he asked, “How do I use it?”

“You just apply it to the skin. You’ll want to massage it a little for it to really do its work.”

“So rub it in.” That sounded easy enough.

“No, no, no,” they said quickly. “You don’t want to rub it too much or it will just evaporate before absorbing into the skin. And you have to be careful when it’s so close to your eye. Here, may I-?”

Without really thinking about what they were asking, he replied, “Sure.”

The Naturalist scooped a bit of the salve onto their first two fingers, scooted in close to him, and with a feather-light touch applied it to his cheek. Norton froze still as a statue. The salve was pleasantly cool and immediately soothing on its own, but as their gentle fingers began moving in small circles to work the mixture into his skin, a kind of calm came over him that he hadn’t felt in a long time. The last time anyone had touched him so gently had been his mother when he was just a boy with a scraped knee that she cleaned and bandaged and kissed better. Still, this was different, more deliberate somehow. The persistent circling of their fingertips was almost hypnotic.

As they worked, their face so close to his, Norton could see a scar in their right eyebrow that he’d never noticed before, cutting down from their forehead towards the bridge of their nose. He wondered how they had obtained such a mark. Perhaps that was why they owned scar salve. “Where did you get this stuff?” he asked.

“I make it,” they replied, their voice quiet and distant in their concentration.

They scooped a bit more salve and focused their ministrations on his temple. His bangs were in the way; when Rosario brushed them up off his brow they just fell forward again, so Norton held his bangs back with one hand. The scent combined with their soothing touch relaxed him immensely. His eyes wandered over their features now, partly out of curiosity to see if there was anything else he hadn’t noticed. The Naturalist was oblivious to his staring, so focused were they on their work, their brow furrowed slightly in concentration. Norton had to admit, they were handsome in a boyish way. They had long eyelashes and a smattering of freckles left over from the summer fading on their cheeks and nose. Their lips were shaped like a bow, the kind with a curve in the middle, but soft and plush as a pillow. Norton wondered if they’d ever been kissed. It was hard to imagine they hadn’t. He wagered they tasted like the aromatic tea they were so fond of drinking. It would surely be a pleasant experience to spend some time slowly savoring them and feeling them relax and melt in his arms…

“What are you doing?” The Naturalist demanded, bracing a hand suddenly against his shoulder.

It was only then he realized he had apparently started to lean forward, focused as he was on those tantalizing lips. Now the spell was broken, and Norton blinked several times to clear his head. “Oh, sorry, uh…that stuff smells good, it’s really relaxing.”

This excuse had the intended result of disarming them. “Good. How does it feel?”

Now that he was paying attention again, he realized that not only was the itchiness gone, but his skin felt pleasantly supple and fresh, better than if he’d just washed. “It doesn’t itch anymore,” he marveled. “It feels so much better.”

The Naturalist looked pleased. “Excellent, I’m glad to hear that. Here.” They closed the little tin and pressed it into his palm. “You should keep it in case it starts acting up again.”

He examined the little jar in his hand, thinking. Their gentle massaging had been so pleasant that he wanted to feel it again. Glancing up at them, he quirked his brow. “If it does, I might need you to give me another demonstration on how to use it.”

To his delight, their features took on a charming shade of scarlet. “I—…it’s very straightforward, I’m certain you won’t have any trouble. As I said, just don’t rub it too hard and don’t get any in your eye.”

He tossed and caught the jar deftly a few times. “I just don’t think I can do it like you can. It felt real nice.”

They turned their blushing face away with a scowl. “…it makes you smell a lot nicer, too,” they muttered, and he didn’t think they meant it as an insult.

“There you go,” he said decisively. “It’s a win-win. I get more massages, and you don’t have to put up with my stink.”

“You’re insufferable,” they said, still scowling and blushing.

“If you don’t want me around, you should quit giving me free stuff.” Norton continued grinning and tossing the jar, enjoying watching them squirm.

The Naturalist glanced at him from the corner of their eye. “Is that all there is to it?” they asked softly.

Was he imagining it, or did they sound just a little disappointed? He stopped playing with the jar. “Well, the other thing you’ve got going against you is that your company, as frigid as it can be, is still better than anyone else in this place.”

“Well,” they stammered, “I suppose I’ll have to learn to tolerate you, then.”

His grin broadened. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Get out of my quarters,” The Naturalist demanded with absolutely no real force in their tone at all.

Norton waggled the jar at them. “You didn’t tell me how often I need to use this.”

He held their gaze this time to ensure they caught his meaning. From the way their eyes widened in surprise as their blush returned, he reckoned they had. “…whenever you feel discomfort,” they said quietly. “If you would like assistance, you know where to find me.”

Their sincerity touched him. His smile softened. “I might make you regret that,” he said half-ruefully.

A mischievous glint flashed in The Naturalist’s eyes. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

#identity v #idv #norton campbell #idv prospector #prospector idv #the naturalist #rosario killick #oc/canon #otp: magnetic attraction #my writing

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normal-with-adhd-is-a-joke · 3 years

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I can call myself a chef for throwing three cans of stuff at each other and making it turn out ok and no one can stop me.

#I made soop #chick peas + canned tomatoes + canned chicken broth = soup I guess #I also never look up what herbs to use I just sniff them and if they smell good I put them in #I think I used a bay leaf basil mustard (the plant not the condiment) paprika and black pepper #also add garlic to everything it makes it good

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jawllines · 3 years

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miss jaws !!!! pretty pls could you soon give us that witchrry catch up you promised us ???? 💟☹️

OH YES! IM SORRY HERE YOU GO

“I do not like this form, human! Change me back at once!”

When Y/N said she wanted to try the spell that could give a familiar a human body for a little while, she really had not expected it to go over like this.

How she did imagine it was something cute and simple. She and Harry having nothing to do on a Saturday night bored out of their whits and looking for some mild entertainment. Y/N would remember that she’d seen this spell flipping through one of the books that her Nan sent her in the mail, she’d tell him they should try it, and Harry would agree, of course, because who didn’t want to see an animal as a human? It would be fun, they would get to see what Thumper and Oat would be like as something other than furry little mammals, and then they would change them back and that would be that.

However, when you’re a witch, things rarely go as planned or even think about being as easy. Maybe it was Y/N’s fault (it definitely was), but she had sort of jumped the gun on waiting for a Saturday night that she and Harry were both bored. Instead, on a Thursday night when Harry is supposed to come over after doing some business at one of the bars here, Y/N thought she should just go ahead and make the concoction now. That’s all it was -- some special herbs and mixes that the familiar would consume. She thought it would be easy to just make it, set up somewhere high that Thumper and Oat (who she watched while Harry was working) wouldn’t be able to reach it, and then surprise Harry with the fact that she had made it once he got back.

But of course, just as soon as she’s turned her back to get the lid for the bowl she’d made it in, she turns around to see Thumper with his face buried in the mix, “Hey!” She cried out, but it was already much too late; Thumper’s little nose twitched as it was covered in the pink substance, and there is a flash of light so blinding that Y/N has to close her eyes. When she opens them. . .well, she made the potion correctly. In the place of her grumpy little bunny there is a grumpy looking guy with his arms crossed and his brows furrowed. He had hair as white as Thumper’s fur, very dark colored eyes, and stark naked.

Y/N squealed, covering her eyes but before she could she saw him cover his ears, “Loud! Stop that!”

“I’m sorry,” she rushed to say, a little quieter, “Cover your -- cover your bits!”

“My what?” He sounded irritated, Y/N could only huff -- even if she hadn’t witnessed it happening, there would be no doubt in her mind that this attitude was coming from her bunny.

“The dangly thing between your legs,” she urges, “Cover it!”

There is a disgruntled sigh, “You are so rude! Why am I human? I want to be a bunny again!”

Y/N peeked her eyes open a little to make sure he had something over him, and she sees he’d settled with his hand, “Well if you would have just waited instead of sticking your nose in something that wasn’t yours, I could have explained what it was before you went and eat it! You’re such a naughty bunny.”

“I am not! You are a naughty witch. Who wants to be human anyway?” He plucked Oat up when had come around to sniff the bowl, “Don’t eat this Oat, it tastes like oranges, limes, and lemons all wrapped into one.”

Squinting, Y/N is about to scold him for being mean when the sound of a throat clearing drags their attention away from glaring at each other. He looks confused, his head tilted and his mouth had fallen open just slightly, “Who is the naked guy?” He inquired casually and said naked guy, turns his nose up at him.

“I am Thumper, can’t you see?” He sneered.

“Thumper, be nice!”

Harry hums low, “I could have sworn Thumper was about 60 centimeters tall and also a rabbit.”

“I made that -- the potion thingy, to give the familiar a human form, remember? And I was going to cover it and wait until you got home so that we could try it but someone immediately went over and started eating it!” Y/N looked back over to Thumper who is still scowling, and this is around the time he would usually stomp his foot then hop away to a different room. Seeing as he can’t hop, he stomps his foot and storms out of the room instead, still clutching Oat to his chest.

When they were out of the room, Y/N turned to face Harry with a deep pout on her mouth. He chuckled warmly, opening his arms for her, and she crosses the room to him quickly. She buries her face in his neck (he smelled like cold air and pine needles) and melts into the hug, “You’re silly, d’ya know that?” He rubbed up and down her back in large circles, “You know Thumper never minds his business when you make something that looks edible. And can I be honest? I really didn’t expect him to look. . .”

“Cute?” Y/N fills in for him, and Harry hums in agreement, “Yeah, I always imagined him as a grumpy old sod in his 70s, so you can say I’m also a little shocked.”

He laughs again, only this time he slipped away from her, looping his fingers around her wrist, “C’mon,” he murmured, “Let’s go see what they’re up to before he burns the flat down out of spite.”

. . .

As always, for some reason or another, Thumper takes better to Harry despite literally being Y/N’s familiar. He eventually calms down but only because Harry offered him the whole bag of carrot chips in the fridge, and asks him what he would like to watch on TV. When he choose animal planet, both Y/N and Harry hold back a snicker so they wouldn’t piss him off all over again. And despite not being happy about it, he does put on the boxers Harry gives him.

And like always, while Y/N and Harry are snuggled together on the couch watching the telly and waiting out for Thumper to relax enough to stop grumbling and grousing about how much this form stinks. He was always grumpy for a time but then relaxed after a while and usually crawled his way into Y/N or Harry’s lap to sleep. They figured he would alter it some since now he was about 160lbs at 6ft, but Thumper was not one to conform to anything with others in mind. If he wanted in a lap, he was getting in a lap, which is how Harry and Y/N both ended up with him stretched out across their thighs with his head resting on the couch pillow.

It was odd, but objectively, weirder things had happened.

He told them Oat didn’t want to be a human and kept her cuddled against him so he could “protect her from you rotten humans” and they both allowed it to happen, so she was snuggled up too. It was just a big cuddle pile, much how they usually are only with more human legs and arms than usual. Ultimately, he did calm down enough that they could pick his brain a little bit, and learn more about him than what was usually permitted between he and Y/N’s thought transference. Even then, at his calmest, it was like pulling teeth to get much of anything out of him.

“How long have you been around?”

“A very long time.”

“Well, yeah, but in years --”

“Many years.”

Y/N sighed, and Harry would squeeze her shoulder, chewing hard on his lip to stop himself from giggling, “Alright,” she continued, “Where were you born?”

“Earth.”

“Thumper,” Harry plucked Oat up from where she’d been sitting on his shoulder, “Oat wants to know too, she said! You wouldn’t keep her from knowing, would you?”

Thumper, whose eyes had been closed (they were completely black, which was a little startling to say the least, but nobody brings it up), blinks one of them open and peeks over at Oat who is looking at him with her head tilted. With a small huff, he readjusted himself, closing his eyes once more, “I have been around for 980 years,” he answered, and a small smile twitches at his mouth when they both gasp, “I was born in the Netherlands, and my first owner called me Finn. I hate this name, but she was not a witch and often fed me many good plants from her garden, so I suffered through it.”

Under the guise of Oat wanting to know, Thumper tells them plenty about himself, and it becomes quite clear why he was such a grumpy guy. He’d been around for years upon years and constantly switched owners, more often than not because they did something to upset him. Sometimes they would forget about him, sometimes they would step on his paw, other times they would call him mean names, and the worst of it -- they would punish him for nibbling on things. “I always wait for you to do something to upset me, but you have done nothing yet.”

“Shouldn’t you give me the benefit of the doubt at this point?” She patted at his full belly and he swatted her hand, “You did come to my doorstep didn’t you? S’not even like I stole you from the woods.”

“I smelled fresh fruit and plants, how was I to know I’d find a gardening witch? The imprinting was unintentional!”

Y/N pouted, Harry tugged her closer to him though and traced looping patterns into her arm, “You know he loves you,” Harry tells her, then takes a turn to poke at Thumper’s belly -- he swats him away too which makes Y/N feel a little better, “Oat tells me all the time how much nice stuff he says about you. He even comforts you when you’re sad! I think this grumpy stuff is all an act.”

Thumper’s brows furrow but he does not deny it, instead, he crosses his arms and turns his face away.

She smiles.

He eventually changes back after five hours and it was while they all had fallen asleep. One moment there was a very heavy presence with their arms circled around Y/N’s waist, with their head on her belly -- the next there’s a furry little body sat in her lap. He curled up in a tighter ball and snuggled nearer -- he didn’t even nip her when she pulled him up to sleep in her arms. Y/N maneuvers them both, and in doing so stirs Harry, who accommodates her. Her back to his chest, his arm flopped over her body, Thumper in her arms, and Oat sleeping at the top of Harry’s head.

Y/N wonders how she ever got to sleep without being like this.

#BLURBS

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dracoladon · 3 years

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Hello lovely! What about est relationship + borrowing clothes? Maybe Draco wearing Harry’s shirts or jumpers? Could be as fluffy or smutty (or both) as you want 💗 - sitp

thank u liv for this lovely prompt. fair warning: buckle your seatbelts for the not one but two sets of parentheses within another set of parentheses.

i was tragically torn between soft and smutty in this one. we’ve ended up with kind of both and kind of neither — enjoy 😔

explicit(ish), 1389 words

The first time, Draco takes Harry’s jumper. It’s his, his favourite, knitted by Molly and given to him when he was twenty years old. It’s blue, and has a whale on the front in a deep navy tincture (the noughties were when Molly entered her experimental phase — instead of letters, everyone's Christmas sweater bore some kind of (no offence, Molly, but utterly random) image. Ginny’s had a platypus on it, Percy’s had yew branches up the sleeves, and Ron’s, an impressively detailed Muggle toaster (??) across the chest.)

Whatever. Logic aside, Harry loves his jumper, and he loves his whale, who Ron dubbed Herbert towards the befuddled, tipsy end of the night. (“Herb for short,” he said, and then collapsed into his eggnog.) He loves that Molly chose it for him, the Warming charms entwined in the wool that feel like her fierce, protective magic against his skin, and the way it’s become loose and pliant with age.

Unfortunately for Harry (and Herb), Draco likes the jumper too. Likes it so much that he sees fit to employ every Slytherin-y wile in his arsenal to try and steal it.

“I don’t understand why you covet poor Herb, Draco,” Harry says, when he goes looking for the jumper and finds it missing from it’s drawer again. “I would have thought him nowhere near sophisticated enough for your tastes.”

Draco sniffs and rolls onto his stomach. “I’m sure I haven’t a clue what you’re on about,” he says, and manages to sound lofty even with his face half buried in a pillow.

* * *

The second time, Harry takes Draco’s tie. It’s a silvery grey one that’s the same colour as his eyes, a custom made gift from Pansy for his last birthday.

And Potter, the cheeky fuck, has stolen it. A looter, ruthlessly purloined it in an unscrupulous heist, that he’s probably been planning ever since they first started dating, or is it why he even pursued Draco in the first place(?!), just to whisk it away from everything it knows, and—

“That’s quite enough,” Harry says. “And I didn’t take your tie.”

Draco slams his hand down on the kitchen bench. “Lies! Fraudulence!—”

“—I took ransom. You’ll get your tie back when you return my son.”

Well. Well! Draco pretends to dust lint from his sleeve. He says, cooly, “Herbert prefers my company, anyway.”

“He does not.”

* * *

The third time, Draco takes Harry’s Muggle jeans.

And he’s a ferrety little ferret faced liar, because he’s complained about the jeans in question since the first time he saw them.

“How did you get the knees so dirty?” Draco said. He looked the picture of aristocratic disdain with his nose all crinkled up like that. “Have you been sucking cock al fresco?”

“We’re coming back to that,” Harry had said (and they did), and then shut Draco up with a nice, long snog when he started on the rips and the faded denim and the fit-so-tragically-loose-I-can’t-even-see-your-arse.

And now Draco is wearing them, slung low on his hips as he shrugs off his coat.

“You fuck,” Harry says, partially because those are his and Draco is an insufferable hypocrite, and partially (mostly) because the jeans are so big around Draco’s waist that Harry can see the cuspated jut of his hip bones and the little silver ring in his navel.

Draco looks down, all feigned innocence. He says, “Don’t you think they suit me?”

Harry mutters, “I’ll suit you in a bloody minute,” and pulls him by the wrist towards the men’s, where he sucks him off so hard and fast that Draco bites the crook of his elbow till it bleeds.

* * *

The fourth time, Harry takes Draco’s slippers. And Draco’s feet are cold.

“Those are mine. Mine,” Draco tells Herbert, looking down at his chest as he shuffles around his cold flat in the thickest socks he could find.

He knows he’s not exactly a sentient being, but Draco would like to think Herbert looks sympathetic all the same.

The rugs on his tiled floors are for purposes more aesthetic than comfort — it’s bloody cold in the mornings, and without Harry to tangle his legs around or order to the kitchen so he doesn’t have to brave it himself, he needs. His. Slippers.

The thing about it that’s most troubling, really, is that, was Draco less of an idiot (Pansy’s words) who had just chosen floorboards for his flat and not mosaic tile (because he lives in Britain and not fucking Madrid, so on,) he probably wouldn’t mind that Harry has pilfered from him yet again.

Harry’s stopped asking for his jumper back. Or rather, extorting Draco until it’s returned. And Draco’s content in leaving his tie wound around the wrought iron posts of Harry’s bed, and Harry thinks his jeans look better on Draco than they ever did on him.

It’s hideous, really, because Draco has never even liked sharing (Draco does not share, in fact), but somehow he’s ended up with a wardrobe that’s more Harry’s than it is his, and the black trousers that flatter his arse so brilliantly are gone, and so is the faded Quidditch jersey he only wears when he’s ill. And he doesn’t even mind, because he knows when he goes to Harry’s flat he’ll find it all stuffed into the antique dressing table drawers taken from Sirius’ room at Grimmauld Place, smelling like Harry and his warm, sapid laundry soap.

Draco says to Herbert, “This is your fault.”

* * *

This time, Draco takes Harry’s dressing gown. He’s wearing it when he emerges from the bathroom, water still sluicing off the delicate ridge of his nose, off his hair and down his back because he never dries himself properly. (I have sensitive skin. I’ll break out in hives. Harry knows it’s just an excuse to lounge naked on the couch while he “air dries”, but whatever.)

“You’re dripping all over the carpet,” Harry says, leaning on his palms against the door frame of his bedroom.

Draco says, looking around at him, “Ah. My sweet. I was just coming to fetch you.”

“Why?”

“I’ve drawn us a bath,” says Draco.

Harry had planned on making some tea and watching Come Dine With Me, perhaps Floo calling Ron and Hermione to see how the renovations on their flat are coming along. But Draco is all wet and warm and glossy, and smelling like the expensive bubbles he refuses to bathe without.

Harry lets Draco lead him to the bathroom, where the floor is wet with his footprints and the air is thick with perfume and soft, cradling breeze from the cracked open window.

“This is my dressing gown,” Harry says, stepping closer so he can slide it from Draco’s slight shoulders.

Draco reaches for Harry’s flies. “And these are my knickers, you troll,” he says, and hooks his thumbs into the waistband.

Once both disrobed (Harry’s shirt flung over the counter, the pilfered dressing gown puddled on the floor, both of them hard and flushing) they step into the bath. Draco likes the water scalding despite his dainty skin, but he must know Harry prefers not to be boiled alive because it’s just sultry, just warm.

Gold fretted shadows slide over Draco’s face as they settle, legs tangled at the knees, Harry tracing shapes around the delicate knob of Draco’s ankle.

Harry feels elastic in the water, melting with pale, gauzy limbs draped all over him.

“C’mere,” Draco says. “I want to wash your hair.”

When Harry hands him a bottle, he says, “Not with that utter swill. Mine.”

Draco means his shampoo, but Harry knows he means him a little bit, too.

A soft, pleasurable thrill runs through him. Harry loves the smell of Draco’s shampoo. He thinks it smells like wide open spaces, like walking over the crest of a hill. He also thinks it smells a bit like spices, like star anise and cinnamon, and lemon zest and sage. The scent on the bottle reads Cedar, which, okay. Fine.

Draco uncaps it, squeezes a pearlescent puddle into his palm. He sets himself on Harry’s lap, and takes his cock slowly, sweetly, chest to chest, with his fingers twisted in Harry’s hair.

Harry rocks him in the water, his head bowed into Draco’s collar bones as he laves and rinses, soft and soft and slow.

* * *

most important things in my life (in ascending order)

friends

family

harry being hot for Draco in low slung trousers

draco having a belly button ring that is exposed in said trousers

#my writing #answered #sitp #prompts #drarry

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jesslockwood · 3 years

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rakes | chapter one

pairing: regency!Harrison Osterfield x regency!reader

words: 2.3k ish

warnings: bridgerton s1 spoilers, swearing I think? little bit of smut

a/n: im so excited for this series. Like I'm obsessed with Bridgerton and have been reading the books so this is my take at a story like this :)

series masterlist

Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers

We have finally bestowed ourselves upon a new season's rush, which has every eligible lady hoping to have a suitor or a few lined up by the first night, at least enough to keep the vicious mama’s off their backs, and the many of suitors looking for a wife to bear their next of kin. Now that the diamond of the last season is formally wed, I ask dear reader, who else shall we look to for this season’s most eligible? Perhaps we should be looking to someone new in town, who has arrived as the formal company to the Duke, and now may I say Duchess of Hastings. It is said to have seen the late Earl of Beaumont’s daughter’s arrival. It is said she is an old family friend of the young duke’s late mother. She has apparently come all the way from France, and may I say reader, after her first tragic entrance into society we can only hope things go well, or you'll hear about it from myself. She carries on the last lineage to the family, as her estranged aunt had bore no children. It is said, however, the new Earl of Beaumont is no other than the bastard child of Lady Y/n’s uncle. Let us all hope the venom that was brought onto that family has not reached the young and upcoming Lady Y/n, nor the Earl of Beaumont.

However, dear reader, the recent Viscount Featherington has mysteriously passed, leaving his wife, Lady Feathrington, and three daughters, to fend the ton. Perhaps once they are presented this year, they shall have better luck at becoming the season’s most eligible as they will need that luck for our most eligible suitor.

As of note, reader, our most eligible suitor since the duke is now officially out of the game, I turn your eyes upon the new Viscount Holland. Since the passing of the Lord’s father, he is now the most worthy of the title of most eligible. With not only his charming looks, but he is also said to be. He now has the duty of finding a wife to carry on the Holland name. All I can say for sure is he is the one to look for at a soiree and without acting quick, perhaps Lady Y/n will catch the eye of the most eligible suitor now.

It is heard also dear reader the most infamous rake of the ton, Son of the late Viscount Osterfield, Lord Osterfield is to be back in town. Maybe he will be looking to catch the eye of some ladies of the ton, but beware dear reader, Lady’s and Mama’s as his reputation upholds itself, and may not change anytime soon.

“Thomas! Have you read this yet?!”

Patrick Holland, the youngest of the four Holland Brothers comes yelling, almost rushing into the Viscount’s study like a paperboy.

The Eldest of the four looks at the boy’s hand, to only read one gossip paper title.

“Paddy, I do not read rubbish such as Lady Whistledown.” Thomas sighs trying to get his late father’s affairs in order.

Dominic had only left the name of his successor as Tom, and no instructions of how to do anything other than making sure everything was in order. Although he was in such luck to not have sisters such as his friend, Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, and having to deal with finding worthy matches for them, he still had to keep his brothers in line, such as not mucking up a lady’s virtue, or getting caught in any sort of scandal for Lady Whistledown to sniff out like a bloodhound.

“But Tom! She writes about you!” Paddy mentions in haste.

“What is all this yelling about!?” Harold Holland, the eldest of the twin brothers slips into the study along with said twin brother, Samuel Holland

“Harry, Sam, Tell Tom to read the recent Lady Whistledown! She mentions the Earl of Beaumont’s daughter and Tom-“

“Really? Give it here!” Harry snatches the paper out of his hands, before reading it with Sam over his shoulder.

After reading it the room fell silent for a minute. The three youngest deep in thought.

“Isn’t Lady Y/n the only one to be debuted and be out of a season before its end?” Sam asks “It’s never been heard of but apparently she never got any proposals-“

“Do you think Osterfield will try and sweep her off her feet? He did write two days ago of his late arrival into the season.” Harry mentions.

“Yeah but not before he tries to get under her skirt Harry-“ Sam gently shoves his twin.

“What If she’s ugly? Sam? Harry? What will he do then?” Paddy quips back.

“You of the lot could try and get with her then!” Harry says and shoves Sam back. Soon enough the whole room is filled with lighthearted arguing from the brothers.

“ENOUGH!” Thomas yells over them rubbing his temples. “That is enough.”

They all mumble apologies.

Tom sighs, “I’m sorry myself. Father just left a lot for me, and you three need not get into trouble. Especially with the Lady with her popularity, and even more, not Lady Whistledown… Now let me see what the pompous lady wrote about me.”

“I cannot bear to leave you two, all to find a man to keep my family line going. How frivolous -”

“Oh come on Y/n! You do wish to lie to me when I know finding company of a husband is all you dreamed of since you were a girl.”

“Yes well Simon, if I only could make a wife as lovely as yours, then I would be worthwhile to have a husband and some children of my own such as your family.” You smile down in Daphne’s arms, where their son lies, “Yet you know how much I do despise not traveling the world, as far away from my aunt’s claws as possible.”

“Ah yes, your Aunt Beast-rice- I mean Beatrice.”

“Simon! Not funny! If she heard you from here she’d kill you with just one look at her beastly form!” you joke back.

After the laughter calms down you bid your goodbyes.

“I mustn’t keep the queen waiting, nor your gracious family Hosting me Daphne. I thank you dearly again for letting me stay after, well,-”

“It is no problem at all. Now make Haste, as I know my siblings and Mama have many questions for you already. Especially Eloise! She is excited to know about your travels!”

“And I shall answer them all! Goodbye, your Graces!”

“And to you, Lady Y/n!” Daphne replies.

Stepping up into your carriage you nod towards your old friend and wave to his wife, before settling into your seat for the journey ahead.

You had never in a million years thought Simon of all people would get married, nor that you, well, necessarily wouldn’t want to. After all that had happened in the past three years, your parents passing, and all the scandal and sabotage your family went through, well it seemed impossible for yourself to ever be back in London.

It had to be your duty now more than ever to find a husband so that the witch of your aunt couldn’t grasp her vicious claws and try to ruin you as well. After what your uncle did, it would be sacrilegious to do so, so the only fate for you was finding a worthy match to keep you in the comfort of knowing your family was safe.

Love was not on the table anymore, at least it is what you thought. Your parents had a rare love, and in one season, you knew you couldn’t find it that easily, as your fate was more like a business transaction rather than a place for finding the one for you.

At least you had faith in the new Earl to help you find a match. The two of you had been friends as children, of the ripe age of you at four and him at seven, the two of you had been inseparable, almost like you were siblings. As you got older, you were convinced that no matter his bloodline, you were his sister. Your father had instilled that family bond in the two of you. Even the staff would say “Y/n and William are an inseparable pair of siblings”.

That is until the actual wicked man, Willam’s father tried to get him to claim his rightful place as the next real Earl since he was your uncle's bastard child, and there were no other “strong options”. The man even tried to find a way to get himself to be the Earl of Beaumont years before. He had brought this upon William’s seventeenth birthday, interrupting the whole party after not seeing any of the family for six years. Uncle Hugh had never come after marrying his new wife, Aunt Beatrice.

You had never met the new woman your uncle married at that point, you could only remember your Aunt Anne Mysteriously passing suddenly before your uncle Hugh had married the beast. At the age of eight, you were convinced she had some sort of spell on your uncle, as you found weird herbs in her chambers when they got married. Your Mother brushed it off when you tattled and told you it was probably just to make some rouge or something with it. You were still convinced she was bewitching everyone.

When William refused to take ownership of the title, uncle Hugh was livid. Then he decided to take matters into his own hands.

You brush off the chills in your spine even thinking about your debut into society. It was the most wretched night of your life.

“We are here Lady Y/n.”

You shake off the memories, coming back into reality, stepping out into the inn Simon suggested you stay in, instead of riding in the night.

It was quaint and small, it was nice for a place like this, though you had stayed in worse places in your travels.

You stepped out of your carriage and headed into the inn.

You couldn’t sleep. It was two days before your debut back into society and you kept waking up sweating with nightmares, or hearing the pounding and a woman and a man yelling- or something of the sorts- through the walls. You had the urge almost to go knock on their door to tell them that they were being too loud, yet you didn’t.

How on earth were you supposed to get up at an unholy hour to ride half of the day only to be swept up into the chaos of being introduced back into society the moment you were to arrive. You had to get many dresses, shoes, rouge, and hair accessories, and plenty more to just begin your day. All with pushing past everything of what you even began to feel about it all.

Your parents were not going to be there. Never to see any of the firsts of you getting betrothed, or wedding to your betrothed, having children, or even possibly, by chance, the love you would share in your life. Your world had come crashing down when they died, so how could you possibly build it again without them there?

Harrison Osterfield was taking a promenade in this lady’s well- I think you’ll get the picture. As she laid on the bed moaning as he thrust into her, the bed in the inn halfway toward his home was shaking and banging on the paper-thin walls with his powerful movements. He was a known regular at the inn and in England, he was known as one of the most infamous rakes in town. Being so of his reputation, he kept it to a high standard. She was a performer of some sort- that he could not remember- traveling back with him on his journey for pleasure purposes. He had just finished round three, of intercourse, after a few rounds of, well other such naughty yet delightful actions that took place.

“AH!” she moaned orgasming, Katie? Was it? Or was it Kitty?. Harrison couldn’t remember or even care to.

He kept thrusting a few times more until he pulled out and came into a handkerchief.

After being all intercourse-d out she sleepily rolled over her naked form, grabbing her things. She knew this is where her stop was ending with him and was going back to her room, to travel with her relative who was also in the business the next day.

“Thanks for the ride m’lord.” she mocked slightly after getting dressed in her nightgown heading to her room, “until next time”

Harrison just smirked back.

Laying back onto the covers after the smell of sex, he thought how his stepfather James, had warned him of his current status of rakishness hindering him from finding a bride.

He’d prove he could woo any woman, and make her fall so deeply in love with him that she would want to marry him. And that was his plan this season. Last season’s diamond of the first water was married in a whirlwind, so he assumed he could do it quicker and get a new reputation among the ton, by marrying her.

Then at least his sister Charlotte wouldn’t be doomed when she was introduced to society in the next few years, that she could marry whomever her heart desired. And at least, he could help her from changing his reputation, by marrying. His rakish days of course would be over, but at least he could change their minds on the Osterfield Family.

@spideyspeaches @greenorangevioletgrass @take-me-to-ny

#harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield fanfic #harrison osterfield smut #harrison osterfield x reader #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfic #tom holland #tom holland smut #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #anthony bridgerton #harry holland #sam holland #zendaya coleman #zendaya #jacob batalon

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gusu-emilu · 3 years

Text

raven sun (Ch. 2/4)

for @mdzsbingo prompts “rarepair, mission, hostile, paranoia” (cont.)

Ship: Jiang Cheng / Wen Ning

Summary: Wen Ning becomes possessed by a vengeful spirit. Unfortunately, Jiang Cheng is the closest target.

Rated M, contains nonsexual but dubconny dom/sub elements in later chapters

When A-Yuan and the juniors were in need, Wen Ning had frozen. Had been useless. Had required help instead of offering it.

What if they hadn’t been able to fend for themselves?

He doesn’t want to imagine it.

Read on AO3 or on Tumblr below

Wen Ning’s first thought is that he must be possessed.

Resentful energy churns inside him, responding to something. But he doesn’t know whether it’s the figurine spirit reaching inside his mind, or just his imagination.

All he knows is that Jiang Wanyin is shaking him, that voices are calling, that he needs to protect A-Yuan.

It all presses in on him, crushing him, even as the world spirals into the distance.

He tries to use calming breaths to steady himself, the way Jiejie had taught him to, but it doesn’t ground him the way it used to when he was alive.

Vaguely, he thinks to open a satchel of strong-smelling herbs to shock himself into clarity, but he won’t sense the aroma well enough with his deadened senses…

White fog spreads.

The ground fades away.

Rain.

Lightning flashes. Chenqing sings. Voices scream.

Bones shatter under his fingers—

Something is wrong with the melody.

He plunges his hand through a golden peony.

Stains it red.

Never meant to kill him—

The crimson silk fades, replaced by candles and curtains.

Blood weeps from his palm as he holds back a saber’s blade.

He is a blade, comes Jiejie’s voice.

A very precious blade…

A bell chiming.

Slowly, Wen Ning’s sense of sight returns.

He’s kneeling on the ground, head spinning. He looks up to see Jin Ling, who abruptly stops ringing the clarity bell.

Jin Ling breaks into a grin. “Finally!”

“J-Jin—” Wen Ning stutters out.

“You’re okay!” Lan Jingyi exclaims, his grin even wider than Jin Ling’s.

“We were so scared,” Ouyang Zizhen says.

A lighter set of bells jingle. Something wet slides across Wen Ning’s face, and suddenly half of his vision is obstructed by something gray and fluffy.

“Fairy, stop that! He just woke up!” Jin Ling grabs the dog by the scruff of her neck and tugs her away.

Wen Ning thinks he might be shaking. Someone wraps their hands under his arms and helps him to his feet. They push in on the sides of his arms, squeezing him, providing comforting pressure that helps him center his awareness.

He glances over his shoulder to see who is hugging him, and finds A-Yuan smiling, a hint of concern in his eyes. At the sight of his nephew unharmed, the tension inside Wen Ning relaxes, relief washing over him.

“It’s okay. Everyone’s safe,” A-Yuan says. “We’ve suppressed the spirit.”

Wen Ning nods, not quite able to speak.

“How do you feel?” A-Yuan asks.

“…I…I’m okay…”

Jin Ling crosses his arms. “You better be! Could you have taken any longer to wake up? I was ringing that bell for ages.” But the joy in his eyes belies his sharp words.

“Yeah, please don’t do that again, Wen-qianbei,” Lan Jingyi says. “Jin Ling almost cried.”

“I did not!”

“If it makes you feel any better, I almost cried too,” Ouyang Zizhen says to Jin Ling.

Wen Ning senses his hand clenched around something cold and hard, unable to let go. He stares down at the object as he pries his fingers off one by one, surprised to realize it’s the empty sheath of Jiang Wanyin’s sword.

Dazed, he gives a raspy laugh, somehow finding all of this absurd. “What happened?”

As soon as he asks, anxiety takes root in his stomach again. He’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

What had he done? Had he put anyone in danger?

“I think you…froze,” A-Yuan says. “By the time we finished suppressing the spirit and came over, you’d completely lost consciousness. It took a while to wake you up.”

“That’s all?”

A-Yuan nods.

It doesn’t give Wen Ning much reassurance. Guilt twists inside him, guilt at having frozen when the juniors needed protection.

He raises the silver-violet scabbard in his hand. “How did I get…” Jiang Wanyin’s sword.

A pang of worry grips him.

Where is he?

“You—” A-Yuan starts to say.

He’s cut off by Jiang Wanyin’s stentorian voice. “Doesn’t matter. I’d like it back now that you’ve stopped daydreaming.”

Jiang Wanyin is off to the side and scowling, arms crossed, leaning against a tree to support his injured leg. Jin Ling takes the scabbard from Wen Ning and hurries it over to him. He sheathes the sword in one clean motion, then turns his face away from the group as Jin Ling returns.

A feeling of foreboding sinks in Wen Ning’s chest, but seeing how calm the juniors are, he tries to let go of it. “How did you suppress the spirit? I’m…I’m sorry that I wasn’t able to—”

“Don’t apologize!” Ouyang Zizhen says.

Lan Jingyi nods emphatically. “Yeah, that was one of the coolest night hunts ever, and we did everything ourselves!”

“You mean…Jiang-zonghzu didn’t—”

“No, we handled it all,” A-Yuan explains. “We figured out that we could use our outer robes and an entire wad of Spirit-Replenishing Talismans to trick the spirit into sensing an unshielded body to possess. Once the spirit left the figurine and attempted to possess the decoy, a guqin melody was able to immobilize it.”

Grinning, Lan Jingyi holds up a wriggling Spirit-Trapping Pouch. “It’s in here. It’s very unhappy.”

Wen Ning swells with pride. “Great job! That was a clever strategy.”

“We easily outsmarted that spirit on our own.” Jin Ling lifts his chin. “I don’t know what these three were calling for help for.”

“Oh really?” Jiang Wanyin cuts in. “Then why were you calling the loudest out of anyone? Next time, if you don’t need help, don’t act so desperate for it.”

I was worried about you, Wen Ning hears beneath Jiang Wanyin’s words, and is unsettled to discover he can read him so easily.

“Jiujiu—”

“Be quiet!” Jiang Wanyin snaps.

Jin Ling scoffs and turns away.

Jiang Wanyin sighs, pinching his temples. “I’m glad you’re all safe. But, if you don’t mind the interruption to the Ghost General’s welcome back party, we still have a lot to discuss.”

Frowning, he locks eyes with Wen Ning, his gaze oddly intense. A few uncomfortable moments pass before Wen Ning looks away, which makes him feel like he’s lost some kind of contest.

They all gather around Jiang Wanyin to straighten out the remaining logistics of the night hunt. Namely, how to appease the figurine’s spirit so it’s no longer a threat. As usual, Wen Ning and Jiang Wanyin let the juniors do most of the talking, giving them the freedom to work through the options themselves.

Despite how happy Wen Ning is for the junior’s success in capturing the spirit, shame and guilt creep around him like thorny vines, cutting into him.

When A-Yuan and the juniors were in need, he had frozen. Had been useless. Had required help instead of offering it.

What if they hadn’t been able to fend for themselves?

He doesn’t want to imagine it.

More lingering questions float through his mind—why did he wake up holding Sandu’s sheath, for one thing—but he tries to lay them to rest for now, focusing on the juniors’ conversation.

“We could pay respects to the family that used to live in the farmhouse,” A-Yuan suggests. “Maybe if we ensure that their graves are attended to, it will lessen the spirit’s anger.”

Jin Ling shakes his head. “It’s worth a try, but that won’t solve the actual problem. The figurine gained its resentful spirit by watching the family turn against each other and murder each other.”

“Hm...that’s true,” A-Yuan replies. “A peaceful burial won’t erase the anguish the spirit had witnessed before the family died.”

A few moments of silence pass as the juniors think.

“What if we show the spirit a family that gets along well? Lan Jingyi says.

Jiang Wanyin narrows his eyes at him.

“You mean…” Ouyang Zizhen strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Show it that not all families end in betrayal and carnage? Let it see that there are ways to live in harmony, even when disagreements arise?”

“Yeah, I guess so!”

“That’s ridiculous,” Jin Ling says. “What, should we put on a skit for the spirit? Have Wei Wuxian come raise the family’s corpses and force them to act out a reconciliation?”

Something primal inside Wen Ning reacts to the word “force,” causing his shoulders to tense.

“Don’t speak nonsense,” Jiang Wanyin snaps. “This is serious.”

Jin Ling sniffs. “Wei Wuxian probably could help us—”

“I thought you wanted to do this yourself.”

“—just not with a method so stupid,” Jin Ling mutters the rest under his breath.

The juniors continue discussing how to appease the spirit, although their conversation is more subdued. Wen Ning pays careful attention, considering their suggestions quietly to himself. But he can’t keep his mind from wandering.

He also finds himself stealing glances at Jiang Wanyin, wondering what he might be thinking.

Jiang Wanyin always tenses whenever one of the juniors mentions Wei Wuxian. And if Jin Ling mentions Wei Wuxian, his discomfort is even more noticeable.

It’s no secret that Jin Ling spends a lot of time with Wei Wuxian—night hunting with him, hosting him in Jinlintai, visiting him in Cloud Recesses. Wen Ning has heard the stories firsthand from Wei Wuxian, who speaks so much about Jin Ling that Wen Ning can vividly picture moments he hadn’t even been present for: the time Jin Ling shot an arrow across the full length of a Lanling garden, or laughed so hard he snorted hot soymilk out his nose, or got teary-eyed while cooking lotus pork rib soup with Wei Wuxian.

Sometimes he catches the tail end of a conversation between Jin Ling and his uncle, some remark implying that Jin Ling has been trying to get his uncle to talk to Wei Wuxian.

But despite Wei Wuxian’s closeness to Jin Ling, he and Jiang Wanyin are still barely on speaking terms.

But this matter is beyond Wen Ning’s concern. What matters to him most is Wei Wuxian’s happiness, however he chooses to seek it.

Although…Wei Wuxian does have a habit of sabotaging his own happiness.

Wei Wuxian has hinted that he misses his shidi. But Wen Ning doesn’t know whether the man he misses is the Jiang Wanyin of the past or present.

Sometimes he wonders how much he’s responsible for their fallout.

There are times he regrets revealing the truth to Jiang Wanyin.

Regrets allowing the core transfer to happen at all.

He takes a breath and centers himself. He has endured losses of his own. However much he questions himself, however much he wants to undo the past—there is only so much he can control.

Wen Ning’s undeath has been a continual parley with control, a fraught dance of his emotions and resentful energy. He has learned that control is never a simple thing.

He wishes it were.

He tunes back in to the juniors’ conversation and tries to piece together what he’d missed. It seems that the question of how to appease the spirit is still unresolved, and now they are discussing where to keep the spirit.

“We can take it to Cloud Recesses and find a way to appease it there,” A-Yuan says.

“We could.” Ouyang Zizhen shrugs and glances at Jin Ling. “The outskirts of Lanling are closer, though.”

“We are in Yunmeng Jiang territory,” Jiang Wanyin says flatly.

The juniors all look over at him.

“There’s no need to discuss where to house the spirit. I will take it to Lotus Pier for the night.” When a ripple of disappointment runs through the group, he adds, “For safe-keeping. You can still finish your work with it in the morning.” He nods toward the wreckage of the farmhouse, which is still smoking from the explosion. “The ruins reek of resentment. There’s a lot to clean up in the meantime. You should start now.”

After the juniors exchange glances, Lan Jingyi hands the Spirit-Trapping Pouch to Jiang Wanyin before heading back to the wreckage with Ouyang Zizhen.

Jin Ling and A-Yuan hang behind.

“I’m fine,” Wen Ning says to A-Yuan. “I’ll come over in a moment.”

Reluctantly, A-Yuan nods and follows Jingyi.

Jin Ling approaches his uncle, gesturing down at the curse wound on his leg. “Are you able to fly back to Lotus Pier?”

“Of course.”

Wen Ning quietly doubts that. But he walks away slowly to give them space.

“But your leg—”

“I said ‘yes.’”

“Why do you always—"

“Respect your elders!” Jiang Wanyin snaps.

Jin Ling huffs. “Fine! Whatever!”

Wen Ning looks back at them. Jin Ling starts to leave, but Jiang Wanyin puts his hand on his shoulder and stops him. They stay like that for a few moments, Jin Ling staring moodily at the ground, Jiang Wanyin shifting his jaw, his expression conflicted but surprisingly soft.

Wen Ning picks up his pace, heading toward A-Yuan at the wreckage.

“…You did a good job,” Jiang Wanyin says quietly, voice fading as Wen Ning moves farther away. “I could hear everything while you and the others were suppressing the spirit. You’re acting more and more like a leader on these night hunts.”

Jin Ling mumbles something, flustered.

“That is, when you aren’t spouting nonsense and making a fuss. You’re lucky that Lan Sizhui sticks around you. He has a lot more sense than you.”

“Hey!—”

“Now get to work.” Jiang Wanyin’s voice is gruff, but Wen Ning thinks he can hear a smile in it.

His face slightly pink, Jin Ling runs past Wen Ning, with Fairy trotting along behind him.

Wen Ning still doesn’t harbor the friendliest feelings toward Jiang Wanyin. Especially not after their unpleasant conversation about possession earlier.

And yet, sometimes…he doesn’t seem that bad.

But in the end, that isn’t what matters. What matters is that Jiang Wanyin is still injured, and Wen Ning has both medical skills and unanswered questions.

He turns around.

* * *

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this chapter, come visit me on AO3!

#mdzsnet #theuntameddaily #mdzsbingo #mxtxnet #jiang cheng #me posting fic 3 times in 4 days?? who am i #wen ning #chengning #ningcheng #mdzs #cql #the untamed #emilu fics #emilu creations

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multiplefandomsblog · 3 years

Note

your roommate hcs are so cute, can i request for naib, demi, tracy, andrew, kurt, patricia, and victor?

:0 holy crap yes! I’m so glad you enjoyed the roommate hcs!! Me and the other mods hope you enjoy these! Thank you for requesting :))

(i added melly because why not? lmao hope you don’t mind.)

Part 1!

Naib Subedar

This man deadass didn’t know you were living with him

Even when people told him about it, he wasn’t rlly paying attention and didn’t rlly care

Your stuff in his room? He thought it was his or someone just broke into his room and left it there

When he saw you on the toilet however, he just freaked out.

“Why the hell are you shitting in my room!?” “Your room? I’ve been living here for 2 months!”

Once he found out you lived with him, he made sure you knew what was his and what was yours

also, since he’s very protective of his things-- you being one of them-- he would totally get jealous if he caught you tallking to someone that wasn’t him.

he would probably give you the silent treatment and act like a pissy baby

He hates it when you touch his stuff

especially his photos, the photos were special to him because they were of him and his army friends.

You’d sometimes catch him looking at the photos with a longing in his eyes, it was highkey sad.

having you live with him meant lots and lots of training

he made sure you were always prepared for matches and that you don’t get downed early

when you got downed early however, He would scold you but he would still rescue you anyways because he’s soft

“You’re such an idiot, you’d better do better next time! Or else I’ll kick your ass.”

one time he got cocky while kiting because you were watching him

he forgot to turn on his elbow pads and face palmed into the wall.

“...You saw nothing.” He turned around, a bit woozy from hitting his head on a wall. He flipped the hunter off before stumbling wooshing away

When you first get to know naib, he’d probably come off as intimidating and menacing

but once you get to know him--the real him--, you start to understand that even though he may be tough on you, its because he wants you to be the best

he has good intentions

During matches he’d let you handle yourself and made sure you didn’t rely on him too much

One time you needed to shower but you ran out of your shampoo so you used his.

When he questioned you, you simply responded “What? You don’t need it anyways, you’re bald!”

He didn’t rescue you the next round.

should’ve seen that coming

though he forgives you when you braid his luscious long existent hair for him

Kurt Frank

The amount of times you almost stepped on this man is astronomical.

he would constantly be in his tiny form because he would lose a lot of his things

his tiny form helped him find his things easily

Though when you first moved in with him, you had no idea what his ability was

so when you first saw a tiny version of your roommate you thought he was just a weird doll

until you heard him say a tiny, “Hey can you move your ginORMOUS foot? You’re stepping on my book.”

You fucking screeched and took off your shoe to try and kill him

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH”

After he explained to you about his ability you calmed down a bit and spared this tiny man but only this time!

Frank loves books, he probably filled your shared rooms with stacks on stacks of books

You’d often see him tiny, waving at you while you’re decoding

Once you overhead Kurt arguing with First Officer over who was the rightful owner of some sort of treasure map

They fought for days,

kurt would constantly complain about it to you

turns out it was just a game on the back of a Cereal box.

sorry this is short like kurt

Tracy Reznik

Would be a little awkward at first, but the awkwardness slowly fades away when you both make bad jokes

she gives me childhood best friend vibes

Has her doll sitting in the corner of your shared room room, it’s lifeless eyes scare the living shit out of you in the dark you try not to make eye contact, afraid it’ll curse you or smth

if she was mad at you she would move the bot in a way that looked like it was flipping you off you off in your direction before you went to bed.

Always making little robot things that are super fun to play with

Loves sharing her things. Has no problem with it

you wanna wear her clothes? sure

you want to wear her underwear? evEN BETTER-

Pulling all nighters, trying to get her machines to work like how she wanted it to work.

Would live off of kraft Mac n cheese and junk food in the modern day

Pretty hyper, chugs pink monster energy drinks while pulling all nighters, also, in the modern day

would probably be a bruh girl

Her room is a mess, covered with blueprints and scrap metal

her room is practically a safety hazard

Sometimes she dresses her doll up a bit, putting wigs or her old clothes on it (which scares you half to death)

Once she made her doll dress up like her

and you almost went up to it to ask what it wanted for dinner.

Has a photo of her and her dad

You never wanted to bring it up, worried it might make her upset :(

Sometimes she’d feel really guilty about being downed in the first 30 seconds

please comfort her, she feels super bad

She always relies on you to rescue her

She gets really happy and thankful when you body block for her but she still gets a bit concerned when you do it randomly

“i wasn’t even kiting-” “Protecc the mecc.”

Demi Bourbon

Always out at the bar

Smells like alcohol constantly

tipsy 24/7

she’s never 100% sober

You have to hold her hair out of her face when she comes back to your shared room to hurl

Likes bringing back hard vodka or weird flavoured alcohols back for you guys to get wasted try together

Room is bit cluttered, but she doesn’t have much in her room since she’s always out in bars or matches

Usually latches onto you like a parasite when she’s drunk.

it gets a bit awkward when her face is a bit close to yours,

“Are we about to kiss right now-? BLeurghgrhgherrgh.”“...*audible sigh*”

You’d go to her expecting her to heal you like a normal person but no

instead she shoves dovlin down your throat

She likes to do your makeup, and always adds a matching beauty mark

unless you don’t wear makeup, then she’d ask you to do hers

always loves how she looks afterwards

more than sometimes demi would get into bar fights,

so you know she’s about to throw hands when she starts takes off her earrings-

10/10 would fight for you <3

She’s gives me cool wine aunt vibes

Probably a lesbian too (check out our Demi smut fic ;))

Or bi, idk

Just straightn’t

She’s really good at hyping you up, especially when you’re taking shots

“CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG-”

Andrew Kreiss

Would be very shy at first, opens up a little when you get to know him

Totally a night owl, can’t sleep at night from all the guilt and “what if’”s

if you see this baby awake at night, hug him, he really needs it

You’ve never seen the other side of his face

How does he see with hair in his eyes?

He’s albino, which is super dope

Sometime you fear he’s thinking about burying you

You always see him thwacking Luca with his shovel

Barely talks

Room is moderate

He doesn’t want you to find out too much about him

He may seem bland, but he loves sweet food

You’d bake him cookies and other sweets

He’d act as if he’s not embarrassed and brush it off

“Are you blushing?”“No, I-I’m sunburnt.” “On your face?” “....I stare into the hot red sun sometimes because it eases me.”

to keep his lie going, every time he catches you staring at him he would fry his eye balls by staring into the sun until you left

partially the reason why he can’t see well

When he’s not looking, you stare at him while he’s eating the stuff you made because he looks so happy :’)

One time you found him down in the dumps so you made him a cup of coffee, and when you handed it to him you said-

“Depresso espresso?”

*sniff* ”..are you oka-” “IM NOT CRYING, YOU ARE”

he actually cried

it was such a nice gesture(?), that he started ugly crying

You’d ask him if he wanted hugs during matches when you see him get stressed

He’d be flushed and kinda confused

hug... him? why tho lmao

he’d definitely agree tho, to be fair, with some hesitation

if y’all ever cuddled in bed, i feel like he’d be a little spoon

poor boy needs the comfort, he wouldn’t mind if you wanted to be little spoon tho

he just wants to be close to you

Victor Grantz

You love playing with his dog, Wick

Super nice and polite, but a little guarded

The type to be too afraid to call people out when they do something wrong but would totally trash them in his head

You write him little letters everyday and leave them on his bed to make him happy :))

He’d a be a little spoon

Wick would always join you guys while cuddling

Kisses would be soft and gentle

Usually sends you the first letter in matches

Loves to cuddle

He bb 🥰

You always get him a birthday present AND a Christmas present

You also get a gift for Wick

He loves giving you surprise hugs

Likes to read with you while cuddling

Literally a cinnamon roll

Once he was eating a cinnamon roll

And you whispered

“C a n n i b a l i s m .”

He was very confused

and kind of scared- were you going to eat him?

Patricia Dorval

Room always smells like herbs

She could literally smoke weed and you’d think it’s some magical healing herb

it magically makes you feel better

Always there to stun the hunter when you’re ballooned

The mature one

Her room is organized, with boxes labeling what herbs and magic stuff that are in them

You were cooking dinner for the day and you accidentally used one of her fancy herbs in your soup

She didn’t realize until she tried the soup

She wasn’t mad just disappointed

She lectured you on how you shouldn’t touch her stuff or use it for cooking

Gotta admit tho, the soup was pretty good

she acts like the mom everyone wishes they had

totally the type to be like, “dude we should think this through.” before doing something risky

and then five seconds later, “cowABUNGA MY DUDES”

one time she caught kreacher leaving the mens washroom without washing his hands

seeing as she was the mother of this manor, she had to protect her children from diseases

so she yeeted her monkey skull at kreachers head, cleanly knocking him out

and everybody cheered.

Melly Plinius

When you heard melly was going to be your roomie, you couldn’t have been more excited.

you finally had a victim for the many insect pick up lines!

So you decided to make some good first impressions by waiting for her in your room.

so when she arrived to your room and greeted you, you happily greeted her back, and slipped in the pick up line.

“Hello, my name is Melly. I believe I will be your ro-?”“Yeah nice to meet you too, say, what do bees make?”

She kinda thought you were a bit rude so much for first impressions

“...Erm, honey?” she replied hesitantly

“YES DEAR?”

... okay maybe you weren’t thaaaat bad.

after that she kind of developed a teensy crush on you

so it was hard living with you because of her crush, since she was constantly flustered

you loved her reactions, she constantly got red.

it was funny watching her try to keep her cool and fail.

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crystalas · 3 years

Text

Starting to see

More of Demon Bull Divorce AU, this is set before Hindsight and Medical Muddles.

Warning: mentions of physical abuse.

Starting to See

It had been over two weeks since Red Son had shown up to pay back his father’s debt for helping them with the whole Lunar New Year event, which Pigsy was immediately suspicious about. He may be a modern demon but even he knew that if you had a dept you paid it yourself you didn’t send your kid to do it for you especially when you are demon royalty. He wasn’t giving Red Son a chance to try anything, despite MK and Mei’s arguments in the demon boy’s defence.

If Red Son wants to work off this debt, then Pigsy wasn’t going to let free labour go by so he quickly set the fire demon to work and surprisingly he didn’t resist or mind. He was currently cleaning out Pigsy’s tricky stove, all he had wanted was for him to fix it so he didn’t need to kick it every time he wanted it on. Red Son went above and beyond and had not only fixed it but was giving it a thorough cleaning and check-up, which is why he was currently trying to reach around the back of said stove to check the pipes. Red Son had taken off his jacket to avoid getting it stained with oil, grease and whatever else might have found its way at the back of the oven, as he stretched his shirt travelled up and that’s when Pigsy saw it.

“That’s one heck of bruise Red!” he whistled when he saw the markings peeking out. Red Son jolted back up as if he had been hit by an electric shock and pulled his shirt down.

“Do you mind?!” he snapped. “It’s bad enough having you stare at me the entire time now you’re ogling me?!”

“Heck yeah I’m keeping an eye on you demon boy, don’t want you planting a bomb or something in my kitchen when I’m not looking!”

“This stove was so broken give it a few weeks and it would have blown up on its own!” Red Son growled they stared at each other for a second before Red Son tugged his shirt down a second time before getting back to work. Pigsy watched him for a little while before giving a hefty sigh and walked over to the other side of the kitchen and pulled out a large basket that had a first aid symbol on it. Most kitchen had a small box for any small cuts and burns one might get while cooking, Pigsy’s was designed for wounds one might get fighting monsters and demons so it was far more extensive.

“Want me to fix you up?” Pigsy asked.

“Excuse me?” Red Son retorted “I do not need your pity!”

“Last I checked you’re here on your father’s wishes, I don’t want you going back and him seeing that and assuming we had anything to do with it!” Pigsy explained as he rummaged through the box but stopped and looked at Red Son “You didn’t get that from us, right?” Red Son shook his head before he carried on going through the basket. “At the very least he would be insulted that we didn’t at least tend to your injuries…” he pulled out a jar labelled ‘healing balm’.

Red Son grumbled under his breath as he tried to fight that logic and stood up, Pigsy gestured to a stool and the fire demon sat down with a thump with his arms crossed. Pigsy pointed at his top and with a reluctant sigh and took off his shirt, Pigsy resisted the urge to whistle or remark even further. He first thought the bruise ran along the base of his spine but it travelled up his back and along his side, it was a big ugly bruise of several shades.

Red Son flinched a bit when Pigsy started to apply the healing balm.

“So how did it happen?” Pigsy asked.

Now if Pigsy could claim a super power he could say his was a super sense of smell which should be obvious as to why, it was a brilliant boon in his industry as he could tell which herbs and spices have the best flavour for a dish and the freshness of his ingredients with a single sniff. Tang had remarked that it made food shopping with him an absolute pain in the ass but he didn’t have a world-famous dish for nothing. However, this also meant he could smell other things too.

Like fear.

And Red Son was suddenly reeking of the stuff, but what worried Pigsy more than that was the fact that Red Son still had his what Mei called ‘resting bitch face’ but he also noted that the fire demon had yet to answer.

“Well?”

“I fell out of my chair” he said casually as if Pigsy had asked him what he had for tea last night.

You fell out of a chair? Pigsy thought to himself. At what speed? Mach two?

Pigsy was brought back to the horrible memory of being in a similar situation with MK when he first came into his life. Sitting there trying to figure out why MK had burn marks that looked to be from cigarette butts on his arms but MK would swear up and down that they were ‘nothing to worry about’.

“When did it happen?” Pigsy carried on.

“About a week ago so they are on the mend, give them a few days it’ll be gone” Red Son replied and Pigsy knew that was a freaking lie. Demons healed fast; he should know he was one! This must have happened yesterday the day before at the most. Once again, the ease of which these excuses and cover ups came worried Pigsy.

“It’s nothing to concern yourself Pig man, I was just careless” Red Son stated, Pigsy finished applying the balm and started to put it back where he had gotten it from. Red Son watched him from the corner of his eye and gripped his hands to stop them from shaking.

Red Son wasn’t lying he had been careless. He should have known better than to be out of his room while his parents argued for what felt like the hundredth time that week, he had given up trying to mediate or stop them as it seemed that his mere presence made it worse.

It was his fault they were fighting after all. It would be best if he stayed out of it for now.

He had been in the family study, he figured if he was out of the way then he couldn’t be a bother to anyone right? Red Son had found a new recipe book and was looking through for new stuff to try with his father when Demon Bull King wanted to relax or spend time with him.

He had been careless, he could have known better to be out in the open with a recipe book of all things, the very topic which seem to start these fights. He should have listened out for the door, the click of heels…

It had happened so fast, before he could even register what was going on he found himself caught in a hurricane gale that pushed him out of his chair and flying into a nearby bookcase sending the shelves and books crashing down on top of him.

He hadn’t been lying he DID fall out of his chair…

He gave a wince as he tried to clamber out and saw his mother standing there glaring at him with utter distain before glancing over to the desk he had been at, she picked up the recipe book with her finger and thumb as if it was a disgusting rag and threw it into a nearby bin with such force the bin skidded away a few feet.

“You better tidy up that mess you’ve made before your father sees it!” she declared coldly before walking away.

Red Son was glad he had come up with this plan, if anyone asked, he had the Debt to explain his reason for being there. He could stay out of the house for as long as possible and sneak back in before either parent noted his absence.

Not like they even noticed he was gone most days.

And it was nice to have people to talk to, Noodle Boy and Dragon Horse girl would chat to him about all sorts of stuff that intrigued him. Noodle Boy would show off his art and Dragon Horse girl her motorbike which got Red Son demanding the schematics. Mr Tang would talk to him about history and he was very interested on what Red Son had to say about demon culture. When there was a quiet moment in the noodle store they would just hang out and chill…

He felt a pang of guilt, he shouldn’t feel more at home with his enemies than his family. He shouldn’t feel like he had to hide from his own mother for his never-ending failures and mistakes, but here he was cowering under the pretence of an honour bound agreement because of the dumpster fire he had started at home. He should have never suggested the BBQ stand, he should have never even suggested such a peaceful means to get by.

He should have never come back…

“Hey Red!” Pigsy stated causing Red Son to pull out of the mental spiral he was in. “You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for your aid” he put his shirt back on, the ache of his injuries seeping away under the warmth of the balm. “I’ll get back to work now.”

As he returned to fixing and cleaning the oven, Pigsy watched him with growing concern on his face.

“Hey just so you know, if you ever had any more problem with ya know… “chairs” just let me know ok?” Pigsy offered and he could see Red Son stiffen slightly before he relaxed again and turned to face him.

“…thanks” he mumbled quietly.

#monkie kid red son #red son #monkie kid pigsy

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amishfruit · 3 years

Text

Lady Of The Lake, Chapter One: Wade

pairings: fakir/ahiru, background mytho/rue

word count: 7048

on ao3

A young woman comes out of the lake one day mid summer, walking into town completely nude, long ginger hair falling in waves over her petite frame. Her wide blue eyes blink naively back at the stunned people milling about. It doesn’t take long for someone to provide her with a blanket to cover herself with and later clothes once they’ve gotten somewhere safe to dress.

Once the initial shock wears off a bit, the woman observes the space she has been welcomed into. She sits on a bed dressed with a soft purple duvet and a pleasant assortment of pillows. It is simple but elegant, the walls were left mostly bare, but the sweet collection of knick knacks more than made up for it. The clothes she's wearing now were given to her off a rack by the bed, where a modest number of dresses hung. She finally turns to the friend who had invited her into their room and attempts to speak, at first nothing but a strangled call comes out but after clearing her throat she begins again. “Thank you.” she meets eyes with them earnestly, “for helping a stranger.”

The person across from her flushes lightly, seated on a stool in front of a small vanity.

Tucking a strand of their long black hair that had fallen out of a lovely ribbon behind their ear, they answer. “You’re very welcome, though I don't think we are truly strangers anymore.” Their voice is gentle and light, but there is a playful glint in their grey eyes and the woman of the lake realizes she is being teased.

Her cheeks heat, but she knows it is not malicious. “You're right, we aren't strangers.” She huffs a small laugh, “though i do not know your name, i am..” her face falls momentarily as she struggles to remember, but it comes to her in time. “Ahiru. my name is Ahiru.”

Her new friend smiles beautifully in response, rosy lips contrasting against their pale unmarred skin. “A lovely name, I am Raetsel.” A pause, “..forgive me if this is rude, but why, or, how did you walk out of the lake today? Where do you come from? Also, are you alright?” it all comes out in one breath and Raetsel gnaws on her lip anxiously once she finishes.

Ahiru smiles a small, sad smile, blue eyes seeming to dim. “I don't remember..I cannot answer even one of your questions, Raetsel. I only know my name.”

Raetsel leans forward delicately, concerned. “You don't need to answer me Ahiru, i'm sorry to have upset you.” She grasps ahirus hand in hers and gives an encouraging squeeze.

This seems to warm Ahiru who lifts their joined hands and leans forward to embrace her new friend. “I think I am alright.”

-----

The sun was just at its highest when she had risen from the lake and after a very eventful few hours of awareness, she finds herself quite hungry and tired. Raetsal hears her stomach growl and laughs, leading her to the kitchen and informing her that it is time for supper. Upon entering, Ahiru wakes up a bit in response to the wonderful smell coming from the stove. She follows and sits next to Raetsel at the table, there is an extra setting next to her. Before she can ask, the smell gets closer and stronger and she can't suppress a delighted sound as her nose chases the scent. Opening her eyes after a particularly deep sniff she is met with the sight of a tall, handsome stranger. Their skin is a deep olive shade and it compliments their dark green hair beautifully. Like Raetsel, a few locks of shorter hair fall out of a low ponytail that reaches down to the middle of their back, the ribbon tying their hair in place is simple and not as decorative as Raetsel’s, but it has its own charm. Their face is stoic, thick eyebrows resting low over their sharp green eyes. They turn to the side a bit and Ahiru admires their strong profile, a strong nose is the most noticeable feature from this angle, long and curved down with a high bridge that flows into sharp brow bones. Their jaw is square and defined, but their neck and shoulders are more lithe than she expects. There is clear strength in their arms but they maintain a lean figure that holds a surprising level of grace.

They turn to ahiru with a quizzical expression, lips twisting before they decide to speak. “I take it you are the lady from the lake?” Their voice is rich and low, quiet but stern.

She nods slowly, “yes, i am Ahiru. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”

The stranger sets a plate of food in front of Raetsel, and then another in front of her giving a noncommittal grunt. “Mm. I’m Fakir, am I correct in assuming Raetsel has already introduced herself?”

Ahiru smiles, “yes, she has been very kind to me.”

Fakir looks at Raetsel, searching for something in her face that he seems to find. He nods to himself, sitting down next to Ahiru. “I hope the food is acceptable to you.”

She grins, “it smells delightful, I have no doubts I will enjoy it.”

He flushes a bit at this, fidgeting with the rolled up sleeves of his white linen button up.

Raetsel laughs lightly, “Please excuse my brother dear Ahiru, he is not accustomed to company.” She leans closer to Ahiru and continues in a conspiratorial tone, “Especially not company as kind and lovely as yourself.” She ends it with a wink, laughing as fakir chokes slightly on his food and flushes red.

Ahiru, for her part, is just as embarrassed and is very sure her face has turned the same color as her hair. Rather than trying to respond, she stuffs a bite of the meal into her mouth, quickly forgetting her own embarrassment as she tastes things she has never tasted before. “Oh!’ She exclaims after swallowing, “this is so good!”

Raetsel hums her agreement, “Fakir is a talented cook, most of his ingredients come from the garden out back as many of them are not commonly used in this town.”

Fakir seems to be pointedly ignoring the conversation, focusing on his plate and pretending not to notice how his ears are burning.

Ahiru turns to him, “where did you learn to cook like this?” She asks earnestly.

He seems surprised at being directly addressed but he swallows and clears his throat, looking to Raetsel for help but eventually realizing he cannot avoid the question. “I taught myself.” he meets her eyes and looks away quickly.

Raetsel, satisfied that she has tortured him enough for one night, fills in the blanks. “Fakir came here as a very young boy from a place far away, there are spices and herbs from his home that aren’t commonly used here and when my mother took him in she provided him with many books about his culture, though the food is what turned out to be most important to him.” She smiles at her adoptive brother, who’s embarrassment seems to have faded if only slightly. “He has been cooking for our family ever since.”

Ahiru is very impressed, taking a moment to look at Fakir with appreciation. He pointedly ignores her stare and lets his bangs fall forward to shield his eyes.

They finish the rest of their meal with minimal conversation, both of the women respecting Fakirs clear desire for the topic to be dropped. When every plate has been cleared, Ahiru offers to clean them up. Raetsel quirks a brow at her and asks if she has ever actually washed a dish before.

Ahiru rubs the back of her neck, “well I.. don’t remember if I have.” Fakir seems surprised at her response and she avoids eye contact with both of them, “but it can’t be that hard! I remembered that they needed to be cleaned, right? I’m sure I can figure it out!” She is so passionate that Raetsel chooses not to question her further, but she does accompany the tiny woman into their kitchen and watches over her as she carefully cleans and dries each dish. Fakir joins them in the kitchen, quietly putting away ingredients and tools that he had used to cook their meal, when he is done he bids them both farewell and retreats to his room.

“I hope he hasn’t put you off.” Raetsel comments, showing Ahiru where she can hang the dish rag.

Ahiru shakes her head, “not at all! The food was so delicious, he is very skilled.”

Raetsel is amused, “you didn’t find him rude?”

Confused, Ahiru tilts her head to the side. “Why would i? He fed me.. that was very kind.”

Raetsel smiles, “you have a very open heart, many of the townspeople have issues with him. He's just a bit too blunt..” she puffs out a breath, “sometimes they misunderstand him, and he gets frustrated.”

Ahiru nods sadly, “I would too.”

Raetsel seems surprised at this answer at first, before settling into a very pleased disposition. “You are really something new Ahiru.”

The aforementioned lady blushes softly and straightens up. “T-thank you Raetsal.” She ducks her head in a miniature bow.

“Come dear, I’ll show you your room.”

————

Once she gets settled and bids goodnight to her host, Ahiru takes a moment to breathe. Slow, in and out. Feeling a bit overwhelmed with, well everything that had happened in the day, she wishes to braid her hair, dress down and sleep. In the room Raetsel provided to her there is a vanity, and on top ribbons and a wide tooth comb. Ahiru smiles at the thoughtful touch and carefully undresses, mindful of her steps so that she does not damage Raetsels’ lovely dress. She hangs it on a hook by the door, removing her socks and leaving her chemise on, remembering the earlier incident and cringing at herself. Next, she sits on the vanity stool and takes the comb carefully, starting at the ends of her long hair and working her way up slowly. Once all the tangles are gone she separates it into three sections and plaits in a simple pattern. She hums as she does this, a tune she knows and loves, something comforting. At the end of her hair, she ties a thick satin ribbon into a bow and tucks herself into the comfortable twin bed.

She is on the lake, dancing mournfully by herself. In the distance, she sees a royal couple performing a grand pas de deux. They only have eyes for each other, and she dearly loves them both. Her steps don’t falter with her sorrow, she only dances more freely, allowing her tears to fall as she lifts herself up into the air. The foggy air grows dark and eventually she realizes she’s alone, the prince and princess are gone and everything is quiet except for the sound of her own crying as she falls into the lake.

She wakes with a start, the grief in her chest real and heavy, cheeks wet. Deep breaths in, and out. Again, until she feels ready to open her eyes. The sun is rising, shining soft light on her face and the pain from her dream eases slightly. She sits up, donning her socks once more and making her way to the window and leans on the sill, observing the small flock of birds on a neighboring roof. Soon Ahiru is able to put the nightmare out of her mind, and the sun gets higher so she dresses once again, at first struggling to fasten things by herself but figuring it out through trial and error. Her braid is a mess from tossing and turning, so she sets to combing her hair out once more and choosing to do two braids today, parts it all down the middle. Her fingers are quick and nimble and she picks a set of wide gray ribbons to match her dress. Once she is ready, she makes her way back into the kitchen, hoping she hasn’t woken up too early.

At the stove once again, Fakir doesn’t notice her right away, continuing to add ingredients and muttering quietly to himself on occasion.

Ahiru chooses to sit down rather than interrupt, leaning on her palm and watching him as he works. His shoulders are wide but she can see how narrow his waist is, emphasized by the plain apron he wears. Fortunately, she catches herself as her gaze wanders lower and her eyes snap back up to his hands. They are large and clearly strong, but he handles everything he holds so gently. Ahiru wonders if she would ever want to see the strength in those hands used rather than controlled, and she cannot decide. Lost in thought, and busy staring a hole into fakir, she doesn’t see Raetsel come in.

“Oh ahiru! You look lovely this morning!”

She doesn’t react quick enough and is caught when fakir turns around quickly, eyes wide and mouth opened in a surprised little ‘o’. they both flush and break eye contact, electing to ignore Raetsel’s amused smirk.

“Smells good Fakir, something special for our visitor?” Raetsel continues teasingly.

He shoots her a sharp glare but it lacks it’s usual spark when his face is still bright red. “It’s just bread, Raetsel.” His tone is measured but it’s clear he’s irritated.

Ahiru finds the exchange remarkably cute and tilts her head to the side in wonder as she observes the siblings.

“We should get you your own clothes and shoes.” Raetsel says to her, looking at the ill-fitting dress she’d loaned ahiru. “I don't mind sharing, but they’re much more comfortable in the right size. When we are done eating I know someone who can help.”

Ahiru is hesitantly excited about this, swinging her feet a bit under the table.

Fakir comes with the food soon after, setting each plate on the table.

“Woah.” Ahiru states quietly, when Fakir had said bread earlier, she hadn’t expected french toast. Upon tasting, she notices something floral and a bit of spice and sweet honey. She can’t identify all the flavors but she loves it all and happily digs in.

Raetsel watches her in amusement for a moment and then turns to Fakir who also watches Ahiru eat with an unreadable expression. He is focusing more on their guest than he is his own breakfast and she stifles a laugh as he misses his own mouth.

Ahiru seems to realize she has all but ignored the two others at the table and slows down, swallowing and wiping her face with a napkin. “This is very good fakir.” She looks down as she says it, a bit embarrassed by her own actions.

Raetsel agrees, “delightful as usual.”

Fakir thanks them quietly, looking at his plate with the same unreadable expression and eating slowly. The two women finish eating before him, but Ahiru still insists on cleaning the dishes that he isn’t eating off of. He almost smiles at her, but the urge to confuses him and he is easily distracted.

“Are you coming with us?” Ahiru asks when he brings his own plate to the sink, wide eyes boring into his skull.

Fakir falters, looking at Raetsel who simply shrugs. “Uh.. I don't know if I would really be of any help.” He hopes his reasoning is enough to appease her.

Ahiru furrows her eyebrows, “why not?”

“He’s avoiding his fan club.” Raetsel chimes in, amused by the exchange and how easily their guest catches her brother off guard.

Ahiru does not know what this means, imagining a group of people gathering together to discuss fans or perhaps dance with them as she remembers doing many times. She notes the remembrance to herself before speaking, “was there a disagreement? If you’re in a club with them, you should be friends right?”

Fakir looks at her incredulously, “I'm not in the club.”

“Well then, what’s the problem?” She asks innocently.

Raetsal chooses not to help clarify, retrieving her boots from the front door and sitting at the table to lace them, leaving the two alone.

“It’s- well,” he shoots her a quizzical glare, “are you teasing me?”

Ahiru is thoroughly confused, “what?! No!! Why would you think that?”

Fakir can tell she’s being truthful, “it's not really a club Ahiru, Raetsel was joking.”

She sticks out her lip in a small pout, “why?”

He sighs in defeat, “you’ll understand once we get there.”

Raetsel returns to them, “so you’re coming?” She sounds surprised and more than a little impressed.

“Yay!” Ahiru claps her dainty hands together cheerfully.

Fakir nods, still unsure of how she had convinced him.

—

The summer weather allows them to leave the house quickly, not needing to don cloaks or extra layers, and they walk a short while to the stables.

Raetsel turns to Ahiru, noting the nervous glances she shoots towards the horses they pass. “Have you ever ridden?”

Ahiru’s face is pale and she wrings her hands in front of herself. “No.”

Fakir turns from where he is retrieving their steeds. “No? Or you don’t know?”

She laughs a bit at this. “Definite no. I think I would remember a creature of this size.”

Raetsel notes that Ahiru is a whole head shorter than herself, and Fakir towers over

her in a way that would intimidate anyone else, but it doesn’t seem to bother the bright little flame of a woman. “You should ride with Fakir then, he can keep you safe.”

Fakir looks at her, opening his mouth to argue but he snaps his jaw shut once he sees that Ahiru looks less afraid. He waits for Raetsel to mount her own horse before swinging himself up onto his. They both look at Ahiru who is once again starting to look a bit sickly.

“You’ll be fine.” Fakir reassures, “you were watching me and Raetsel right?”

She nods, spark returning to her eyes and mouth set in a hard line of determination. She steps into the stirrup that Fakir has left empty for her and attempts to swing herself up onto the horse's back like her two companions. At first she thinks she has succeeded, but her leg doesn’t go all the way up and she begins to slide backwards towards the ground. Fakir grabs her ankle, then uses his other hand to guide her by the waist until she is settled in front of him. Her head is still spinning from the near fall and it takes her a moment to find her words again.

“Thank you.” She breathes, overwhelmed by the feeling of his hand still on her waist.

He moves his hand as if he’s been burned and thanks everything that she can’t see his face. “Dont mention it.” he responds gruffly, avoiding Raetsel and using the reins to steer their ride forward.

Raetsel follows them close behind, looking up at the bright sky and wondering what good deed she did for the universe to think her worthy of this newfound entertainment.

They ride mostly in silence, except for Ahiru’s occasional exclamations of delight or awe as they pass under trees and through town. She is constantly turning her head in an attempt to take everything in.

It isn’t a very long journey, and soon they come to a quaint little shop with mannequins dressed in a variety of fabrics displayed in the large front windows.

Raetsel is the first to dismount, smoothing her skirts down as Fakir follows her and offers a hand to Ahiru.

Once the three of them are safely on the ground, Fakir guides their horses to a small grazing area where they will wait obediently until the shopping is complete.

Raetsel leads them into the shop, Ahiru close behind her and Fakir bringing up the tail end. A bell rings as they open the door and a head of blonde hair pops up from behind a counter.

“Welcome in- oh! Raetsel! Let me grab Pike.” Before they can respond, the shopkeeper is running to the back, pigtails bouncing as she moves.

Fakir finds a bench in a corner and sits down, hoping the racks of fabric and garments are enough to hide him.

The shopkeeper returns with her coworker, “has Lilie helped you at all yet?” She asks, tying her shoulder length violet tinted hair into a high ponytail.

“Hmph.” Lilie pouts, “I thought you’d want to do the consultation together.” She lowers her voice so only the three women can hear her, “plus, the handsome Fakir has graced us with his presence.”

Pike rolls her eyes, “you are so dramatic.” She scolds, though it doesn’t have much bite when she is craning her neck to peek at the man hiding in the corner.

Raetsel clears her throat politely, “My new friend could use your expertise.”

The two shopkeepers turn to Ahiru at last, looking her up and down before turning to each other.

“Do we have enough yellow left?” Pike asks Lilie, ushering Ahiru to a section of the room where the floor is cleared and producing a measuring tape from thin air.

Lilie hums, moving towards a rack against the wall and sifting through the materials until she finds a sunny yellow linen. “Yes! And perhaps a blue?” She suggests, stacking a soft blue cotton atop the yellow draped over her arm.

“Oh yes, that will compliment her eyes nicely.” Pike addresses Ahiru directly for the first time, “how many dresses are you looking for today?”

Ahiru looks helplessly towards Raetsel, letting Pike move her arms as she takes her measurements.

“We are starting her wardrobe today, so however many items you both think she will need.” Raetsal answers, earning a surprised look from Lilie.

“What happened to the rest of your clothes?” The blonde asks, pausing in her search for fabrics.

“I don't have any.” Ahiru answers simply.

“Long story.” Raetsel adds.

The two accept this answer easily, “Well then, we should send you home with something today. Lilie?”

Lilie looks over, setting the chosen materials on a large cutting table. “A premade garment for now?”

Pike nods, “just try to find the smallest things you can and we can alter it to fit her properly.”

Raetsel interjects, “she will also need shoes, mine are too large for her. Do you think you have something that would work?”

“Oh i’m sure we do,” Lilie answers, returning with an armful of dresses and blouses. “Shoes are over by Fakir.”

He starts at the mention of his name, looking at his surroundings and finding the shelves stocked with shoeboxes.

Pike measures her feet and calls out the length, instructing Fakir on where to find the correct size of boots.

He carries them to Ahiru once he has found them, bringing a few different options and setting them down next to her before awkwardly standing off to the side.

“Alright, you can try those on Ahiru. We’ll be right back.” Pike says before disappearing into the back of the store with Lilie.

“Do you need help?” Raetsel asks, showing Ahiru where she can sit to unlace her borrowed boots.

“No, thank you, I think I'm alright.” She smiles gratefully at her and sets to work, slipping her feet into one of the pairs Fakir brought her. She carefully tries on each pair but ends up settling on the first, made of dark brown leather with a slight heel and strong black cord lacing them securely.

Lilie returns and writes down the price on a pad of paper tucked into her dress pocket, setting it aside and guiding Ahiru to a fitting room. She helps Ahiru undo the fastenings on her loaned dress, hanging it carefully and instructing her to keep the chemise on before darting out and returning with Pike, both women are carrying armfuls of clothing and Pike has a pincushion strapped to her wrist. They help her into a simple white blouse, pinning where it needs to be taken in. The remaining garments are tried on in the same fashion and Ahiru watches them work. Before she knows it, they are done, helping her back into Raetsel’s loaned dress once more and walking her back to her companions, assuring her that they will return momentarily and asking her to wait while they stitch the adjustments into place. Ahiru seats herself on a bench next to Fakir and Raetsel follows the two shopkeepers to assist them and discuss the items they will be making for pickup at a later date.

“So..that’s the fanclub?” Ahiru guesses.

Fakir looks uncomfortable, “that’s just what Raetsel calls them.”

She giggles, “did you hear what they called you when we walked in?”

He shakes his head, too afraid to ask.

“The handsome Fakir.” Ahiru tells him, stifling another giggle. “Is that your title?” She teases.

He shoots her an irritated glance, “you know that it’s not.”

She shrugs, an impish grin stuck on her face. “It could be.” she states it as if it is a fact and doesn’t seem to catch what she is implying.

Fakir stammers, embarrassed. “W-wha-“ clearing his throat and looking out the window to hide his blush, he scolds her. “You can’t just say things like that!”

She sticks her tongue out at him, “why not? They said it first!”

He shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “They shouldn’t be saying it either.” He groans, wishing he had stayed home.

“Hm. whatever, I still don’t get why it’s such a big deal.” Ahiru bumps her shoulder against his, “are they your friends?”

“I barely know them.” He answers honestly, “they’re the best seamstresses in town so I’ve been a customer but Raetsel is the one that comes here most often.” He looks at her for a second before continuing, “I usually avoid them.”

Ahiru hums, “I think I understand why.” She acknowledges, “they’re a bit like a whirlwind aren’t they?”

He snorts out a laugh, “don't tell them that, they’ll never let it go.”

She nods. “Yeah, that doesn’t really surprise me.”

They fall into a comfortable silence and fakir studies her when she isn’t looking, trying to understand the mystery of this little lake lady.

It doesn't take long for Raetsal to return with a large package wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine tied in a bow. “That’s it for today, we will return at the end of the week for the rest of it.”

Ahiru moves forward and takes the package despite Raetsel’s protests, “wow! That was so fast!”

Raetsal winks, “6 hands work faster than 2!”

Fakir takes the package from Ahiru while she’s distracted and holds it where she can’t reach when she tries to take it back. “You’ve paid already?” he nervously glances around the store as he says it.

Raetsal laughs. “Yes Fakir, don't worry. Those two are busy in the back, we’re done.”

He relaxes a bit and they make their way out again, Fakir holding the door for both of the women.

Ahiru skips forward, looking down at her new shoes and admiring how comfortable they are. When she looks up again Fakir and Raetsel have already mounted their horses, the package safely secured to the back of Fakir’s saddle.

“Do you need help? Or would you like to try again on your own?” He asks, looking down at her with his brow furrowed in concern.

Ahiru answers by sticking a boot in the stirrup and once again trying to lift herself up. This time she gets closer to her goal, but Fakir still has to catch her when her leg doesn’t properly hold her up.

“Good try!” Raetsal encourages from behind them, smiling as Fakir adjusts their friend with gentle hands before taking up the reins.

They ride home with minimal conversation, the two siblings focused on steering their horses in the right direction and Ahiru distracted by the people out on the streets, going about their days.

When they are home again, Fakir helps her down and retrieves her parcel, leaving no room for her to argue as he carries it inside.

She follows him, Raetsel not far behind. He stops outside the door of her room, waiting for Raetsel to open the door before carefully setting the package on her bed and excusing himself politely.

Raetsel helps her unpack and hang her new clothing, she picks out a new chemise for Ahiru and shows her to a room down the hall where she can bathe. After making sure she knows how to fill the tub, she too excuses herself with the promise that they will see one another at lunch.

—

Once she has dried herself and wrung most of the water from her hair, Ahiru dons the fresh chemise and pads up the hall to her room. The new clothes hang neatly and she has trouble choosing when given so many options but eventually she settles on a short sleeved, collared blouse made from a lovely cream colored cotton and a simple, tea length yellow linen skirt. Plain white socks cover her feet and the boots are left by the door for when she needs them. She sits at the vanity to comb her hair, leaving it down to dry but tying a yellow ribbon under her hair and around the top of her head to keep it from getting in her face. She smiles at her reflection, the clothes fit perfectly and she can finally see herself now that she isn’t drowning in fabric.

She retrieves Raetsel’s loaned dress and chemise and carries them out to the room she was first brought in to. She knocks gently, and when there is no response, she cracks the door open.

“What are you doing?”

She jumps, turning to find Fakir glowering at her. “I-well I was trying to find Raetsel!”

His face softens, “she’s the door at the end of the hall, moron, this is my room.”

Ahiru flushes, indignant, she bites back “I’m not a moron! How was I supposed to know that! I've only been to her room once and it was a really hectic day!”

Fakir puts a hand on her head, “I know, I was teasing. Could you move out of the way?”

She settles down, embarrassed. “Yeah, sorry.” She shuffles off down the hall and he watches her go, shaking his head and entering his room.

Raetsel, having heard the exchange, opens her door before Ahiru can reach it and gives her a kind smile. “You can just set those in the laundry basket over here.”

Ahiru follows her instruction and smiles at her gratefully, “Thank you Raetsel.”

“Anything for you Ahiru, now, would you like to see what’s for lunch?”

Confused, Ahiru tilts her head, “didn't Fakir just go to his room?”

Raetsel nods, “He’s probably referring to one of his cookbooks.”

“He doesn’t keep them in the kitchen?” Ahiru asks, following Raetsel back out into the hall.

“It’s easier to keep them in good condition away from the steam and mess of food.” Fakir answers from his doorway, “Plus, I don't always need them.” He closes his door and leads the way to the kitchen, resuming his work.

Raetsel and Ahiru seat themselves in the same spots as always, chatting and watching Fakir cook. Raetsel asks how she likes her new clothing and Ahiru gushes her thanks and talks about her favorite things.

Fakir comes with plates of food soon after and seats himself next to her.

Ahiru claps in excitement, tucking her long hair towards her back before digging in.

Raetsel eats more politely, complimenting Fakirs choice of ingredients and asking him questions about the recipe.

Ahiru barely pays attention to them, so focused on enjoying her meal that she doesn't notice when the conversation turns to her.

“Ahiru?” Raetsel prods gently.

she starts slightly in response, looking up and finding them both turned to her. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

Raetsel smiles, “Do you know what you want to do here? I work at Ebine’s bakery for part of the week and Fakir writes for our local paper. Pike and Lilie offered to teach you how to cut fabric but you are free to choose what you like.”

Ahiru blinks, “I’m...staying?”

Fakir answers this time, rolling his eyes. “Of course you are, where else would you go stupid?”

Raetsel swats his shoulder, “Oh be nice to her Fakir.” Turning back to Ahiru, “Yes, you are welcome to stay with us as long as you wish dear.”

Ahiru grins, “Thank you! I like it so much here, I’m so happy!” She looks down at her hands, “As for what i want to do.. I’m not really sure yet. Pike and Lilie are very nice but I don’t know if I could really be of any help to them.”

Fakir nods, “You don’t have to decide yet. You haven’t even seen your other options so take your time and don’t feel bad about it.”

Raetsel agrees with him, “I'm sure you will be good at whatever you choose, with passion like yours you can do anything.”

Ahiru flushes and curls into herself, hair falling forward to hide her face.

Fakir watches in horror as a lock of her hair begins to flop into her plate, instinctively he tucks the hair back into place. Once he realizes what he’s done he can feel the steam coming out of his ears, “Y-you should probably tie your hair up when you eat.”

Raetsal barely stifles her laugh, shoving a bite of food into her mouth to keep herself quiet.

Ahiru stares at Fakir, mouth open and cheeks pink. It takes a few more blinks before she twists her knee length hair up and up and up, using the yellow ribbon to loosely tie it into place, it’s the best imitation of a bun she can do with the current materials.

Clearing his throat and drinking water in an effort to cool the flush on his skin, Fakir continues eating as if nothing happened and the two women soon follow his lead.

Ahiru is grateful for the diversion, feeling more shy than usual and needing the silence. She is also easily distracted by how much she loves this food and each bite brings her farther away from the embarrassment.

Soon, the meal is over and they separate, Ahiru washing the dishes without supervision as Raetsel has deemed her able. Fakir puts away anything left over in the kitchen and excuses himself to his room.

When the dishes are cleaned, dried and put away, Ahiru wonders what she’s meant to do, yesterday and this morning there was no time for boredom. Now she feels like she should be doing something and without noticing she has begun to dance, the kitchen floor not ideal for ballet but accommodating her nonetheless. There is no music, but the early afternoon sun shining through the windows above the sink highlights her more beautifully than any spotlight. When she finally realizes what she’s doing, she is in the middle of simple barre exercises. Her muscles ache in relief, as if they have been waiting for her to use them. She smiles, closing her eyes and tilting her head up towards the sun, letting muscle memory take over.

Fakir carries his notebook under one arm and holds his inkwell and quill in his hands. He is headed to the kitchen for a glass of water, but stops when he sees her. Not wanting to interrupt, he sits at the table, partially hidden by the open doorway that connects the two rooms. His things are set down carefully and quietly, and then he turns his attention back to the ballerina in his kitchen.

She moves through her relevés with the ease and joy of someone who lives to dance.

Chin in palm, Fakir watches her. The light flickering over her face moves with her and he is entranced. Warm ups finished, Ahiru moves into a choreography as if it’s second nature. His heart aches in his chest when he realizes it is meant to be a pas de deux, her body struggles to support itself and he longs to take the weight for her.

She continues, oblivious of her audience, dancing to the song only she can hear and baring her emotions with every movement.

When the steps come to a close and her head is bowed in an ending curtsy, Fakir panics, realizing that soon she will open her eyes and he will have to explain why he’s been creepily watching without saying a word. Cringing, he braces himself and opens his notebook, hoping to at least look busy when she catches him.

She lets out a small startled noise when she opens her eyes, coming back into her mind after letting her body take over. She sees Fakir sitting at the table and despite the open notebook, she knows that he has not written a word for she would have heard the scratch of his quill. She flushes prettily, sneaking out of the kitchen while he’s still looking down and all but running to her room.

She leans against the inside of her closed door, putting her head in her hands and trying to calm herself down. She hadn’t planned on dancing and she definitely did not expect an audience, no matter how politely he pretended not to be watching she knew he had seen at least some of her dance and she hopes that she danced well. Most of the remaining afternoon is spent like this, trying to distract herself by thinking over the job offer from Pike and Lilie, but mind wandering back to the kitchen and her dream from the night before. There is a mix of confusing emotions swirling in her chest and she unties the ribbon holding her makeshift bun in place, running her hands through her own hair in a calming fashion. The dream had felt so real and coupled with some of the memories that had come back to her, she has a feeling it was something that had really happened. Brows furrowing as she thinks, she tries desperately to recall the events of her dream but most of what she can remember is emotions and steps of a dance. There is a flash of black curls and red lips kissing a pale figure with hair like the feathers of a swan, but this imagery brings a panging sorrow and the tears rising in her eyes warn her not to push this memory back into her conscious mind. Wiping her cheeks where they have gotten wet, she takes Fakir’s advice and sets to braiding her hair into a crown. It doesn't take her very long, and soon Raetsel is knocking on her door to alert her that supper will be ready soon. Ahiru thanks her and says she will be there in a moment, needing some time to collect herself and finish tying the braids in place around her head.

When she finally comes to the dining table, Fakir and Raetsel are already seated and a plate is waiting in her usual spot. She squeezes by Fakir, who avoids her eyes and looks at his plate with pink dusting the bridge of his nose. Once she is settled, the three begin to eat, they are all tired from the eventful day and conversation is light.

It is a quick meal and Raetsel is the first to bid them goodnight, letting Ahiru know that she will be gone for work by the time they wake and making sure Ahiru does not need anything before she excuses herself.

Ahiru pokes at her remaining food listlessly, wishing she could enjoy it the way she wants to but emotions ruining her appetite. Sighing, she carries the dishes to the sink and begins scrubbing, not even noticing when Fakir follows behind her.

“Ahiru?” Fakir asks quietly, “I hope I didn’t upset you earlier.”

This breaks her reverie and she looks at him, confused. “What? No! Why would I be upset?”

Fakir seems doubtful. “Well you’re obviously upset about something.”

She puffs her cheeks out. “No, i just…” brows furrowed she admits defeat, “Okay yeah you’re right I am. But I promise it has nothing to do with you!” She says the last part earnestly and Fakir is momentarily stunned by the shine of her eyes.

“Do you.. want to talk about it?” He says it awkwardly, as if the idea is foreign to him.

Her eyes dim, “I don’t think I was very happy before I came here.”

He seems surprised at her answer, “Was the lake not good to you?”

This makes her puff a tiny, sad laugh, “The lake may be where I came from, but it wasn’t where I lived before.”

Fakir looks at her concerned, “You don't remember very much, do you?”

She shakes her head, “Most of it is just feelings, there’s something there definitely but trying to recall more than just blurs hurts.”

He feels deeply sorry for her, “It sounds like.. well sometimes our brains try to protect us by blocking some things out.”

She tilts her head to the side, “You think it could be that?”

He nods slowly “There are many written accounts of this experience, if you’d like, I can help you research more about it tomorrow?” He says the last bit as a question, unsure if she really wants to open herself up to possible pain.

She smiles gratefully, it is smaller than her usual grin but still makes his heart skip, “Thank you Fakir, I would like that very much.”

Flushing at her sincerity, he looks away. “D-dont mention it.” He dries the dishes that she is finished washing and together they finish the chore faster than either could on their own. When the dishes are put away and the kitchen is clean, Fakir walks her to her room and bids her goodnight with the promise of a library trip the next day. Ahiru is so exhausted she barely manages to take her hair down and remove her blouse and skirt before crawling into bed and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

#princess tutu #ptutu #fakiru #fakir x duck #princess tutu fanfiction #princess tutu fanart #ahiru arima #princess tutu fakir #fairy tale inspired

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clotpolesonly · 3 years

Text

Labor Of Love (Unpaid Position)

for @teenwolflegacy’s day 5 prompt of “hijinks o’clock”, have some puppy pack + Stiles shenanigans!! this concept has been in my head ever since 5A when Stiles dragged Liam out to sniffer Theo for him, lmao.

(also on AO3)

“Liam!”

Hayden and Mason shared a look as Liam nearly knocked over the folding card table they sat around in his haste to answer the call.

Liam made it to the door to Stiles’ office without further incident. He needn’t have bothered. As soon as he got there, Stiles blew past him into the main room, his nose buried in a file he had clearly liberated from his father’s desk. Hayden gave it three hours before the Sheriff was banging down their door to get it back and read his son the riot act. She made a mental note to be here. And to make popcorn.

“Liam!” Stiles yelled again. When he turned around to find Liam directly behind him, the file went flying.

Liam caught it and offered it back to him without comment. Mason busied himself with reshuffling the cards to hide his laugh. Hayden didn’t bother to hide hers.

Once he had given Hayden a thorough stink-eye, Stiles waved the file in Liam’s direction and said, “I need you to go out to the MacGilvary house. Sniff around, see what you can find out. Look for anything out of the ordinary, but especially any weird, herb-y smells. Sage, anise, camphor, stuff like that.”

Liam nodded slowly. “Okay. But isn’t that still an active crime scene?”

Stiles was already engrossed in his file again while he groped blindly around their tiny makeshift kitchen for sustenance. “Yeah,” he said, “so go around the back. Make sure nobody sees you ‘cause I can’t afford to bail you out. Also, check for trapdoors and, like, secret basements or rooms hidden behind bookcases. The daughter has friends over all the time, so if the parents were doing evil witchy shit, they’ve gotta be doing it somewhere nobody can wander into.”

“Herb smells and trapdoors,” Liam parroted. “Got it.”

Muffin and coffee acquired, Stiles disappeared back into his office with a hasty “Text me every half hour with your findings, and don’t leave anything out this time!” thrown over his shoulder.

Hayden barely had time to open her mouth before he stuck his head back in.

“Oh, and Mason—did you finish that research on glyphs? I need it for the Orlovs case, ASAP.”

The door snapped shut behind him before Mason could answer that he’d already emailed it to him. He’d figure it out soon enough. Liam groaned and slumped into his abandoned chair. Eyebrows raised and mouth closed, Mason dealt out the next hand of gin rummy.

Hayden kicked Liam’s chair. “You know, you don’t actually have to do everything he tells you to.”

The shitty folding chair creaked as Liam hoisted himself upright to say, “He’s the boss.”

Mason snorted. “You say that like he’s paying us.”

“The coffee is free,” Liam offered up weakly, eyeing the coffee machine like it might explode at any minute, which wasn’t an unfounded fear. There may have been an incident a few weeks ago that would’ve been much worse had he been less supernaturally durable.

Her skepticism must’ve shown on her face because Liam rolled his eyes.

“The agency’s just getting off the ground!” he said. “He can barely afford the rent on this place as it is, much less three employees. But once he gets a few more customers on the hook, things will turn around.”

Hayden laid down a five card run. “Your optimism is cute.”

“It’s good experience, at least,” Mason said with a shrug. “Stiles has access to books and resources I could never get my hands on otherwise. No idea how he gets them. Not sure I want to know because it’s probably less than legal. But writing normal research essays in a library is gonna be a cake walk after this!”

Liam gestured at him enthusiastically. “See? Experience! Colleges love experience.”

“Oh yeah,” Hayden drawled. “Good luck putting ‘designated crime scene sniffer for a fledgling supernatural detective agency’ on your college applications. I’m sure the admissions board will eat that up with a spoon.”

Mason made a face at his cards. “It might take some diplomatic phrasing.” He put down a row of fours.

“Look,” Hayden said. “I’m just saying, Stiles can be kind of an overbearing asshole when he gets caught up in a mystery. He’s a hell of a PI, and a great guy underneath it all, but that doesn’t mean you have to ask how high when he tells you to jump. It wouldn’t kill him to do his own legwork sometimes.”

Liam tossed down his hand. “Well, if you’re so fed up, then why are you still here?”

Stiles’ office door crashed open again, banging against the wall. Stiles had his jacket half on, a file stuffed in his mouth, and a printed photo in the hand not struggling to find his other sleeve. He was making urgent noises that turned into words as soon as his mouth was unoccupied again.

“Shilikuny!” He nearly fell over trying to get his left shoe the rest of the way onto his foot. It did nothing to slow him down. “Liam smelled chlorine—at the Orlov’s place! Chlorine and sulfur: weird combo, didn’t make sense. Hoofprints in the yard, though!” He paused in his frenzy to point at Mason. “Russian protection glyphs on the house. That’s the ticket!”

His clothing situation finally sorted out in full, Stiles yanked open the front door and grabbed his keys off the hook.

“I think it’s living at the water treatment plant where Mr. Orlov works but I gotta verify. Hayden, you’re with me. Might have to fight a fire-breathing Russian water demon.”

Hayden grinned around sharp teeth, already out of her seat. At the door, she glanced back to see Liam looking smug, eyebrows raised. She just laughed.

“Hey, we might be overworked and underpaid,” she said, “but we’re never bored.”

Stiles laid on the horn, waving at her impatiently from the jeep. Hayden detoured to grab the portable fire extinguisher from beneath the sink, just in case. When Hayden joined him, they traded eager smiles, already thrumming with adrenaline. As Stiles floored it toward the water treatment plant, Hayden laughed again.

It might not make it onto her CV, and it certainly didn’t help pay the rent, but it sure as hell was fun.

#twlbittenbetasweek #Hayden Romero #Liam Dunbar #Mason Hewitt #Stiles Stilinski #Teen Wolf #fics by me

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savebatsfromscratch · 3 years

Text

WHUMPTOBER DAY 20 - Flames Burning Cold

Prompt: Trunk / trapped under water / solitary confinement

Also on Ao3 under my same username!!

Flametail drowning. (Cannon rewrite that I did mostly in art class.)

I got some of the specifics wrong, I haven't read this scene in months, I am not going to fix it.

Yeah I think this is going to be the last Warriors fanfic for now. (Maybe ever, but never say never am I right gamers??)

Anyway, hope you like it!

Tws: Drowning, Animal Death

Words: 1,784

“Flametail!” Called Dawnpelt, skidding across the frozen surface of the lake, “Come play with us!”

Flametail felt his tail tip twitch, he had a lot of work to do, a lot of very important work to do, but as he watched the cats slide across the ice, yowling in joy, he felt a strong itch to join them. He knew it wasn’t a good idea, he had many herbs to sort, and even more to gather, and the other Shadowclan medicine cat was too sick to do that work right now. But he had to admit that he yearned for a break, even just a short one.

‘No!’ He thought, ‘It’s the middle of Leaf-bare. My clan needs me to be working right now, I can’t be playing like a kit just out of camp!’ But even as the logical side of him shouted to keep his paws firmly on the bank, he felt himself slowly padding forward.

At the edge of the water he leaned down to sniff the ice, slightly surprised to find that it had no special scent, just the traces of the cats who were playing on it, a touch of water, and the faint stench of fish. (Okay, it certainly smelled like something, but that something was not anything new, and that was what surprised him.)

Feeling reassured that the ice wasn’t hiding any sort of monster beneath, (A fox, maybe even a badger.) he stepped onto it. There was a soft creaking sound, and he froze, flashes of his recent dreams shooting through him for a second. (A loud crack as the ground split under him, plunging him into a darkness so great it swallowed up his breath and froze right through his pelt.) But nothing further happened and he was free to continue on, giving his chest fur a few embarrassed licks, knowing that the cats already playing had seen him jump.

But, as he actually started walking on the ice, that’s when he realised something. No no, not something bad, but something fun. Specifically, why there was already a medium sized patrol sliding across the frozen surface. It was slippery! ‘Of course,’ he mused to himself, purring as he slipped and slid over to his sister, ‘I already knew that ice was slippery, I’ve fallen on it multiple times, but I didn’t realise that it could be fun!”

“Hey Flametail!” Dawnpelt called, sliding on her haunches toward him in a weak attempt to slow down, “Thought you’d never join in!”

“Well I do have a lot of work to do,” He admitted, watching his sister as she jumped to her paws again, spinning in a happy circle to face him again, “But I guess I deserve a break.”

“Yeah you do!” Called Tigerheart, sliding past them a bit slower than Dawnpelt had, “You’ve been working nonstop for the past moon! Of course you should get to play.”

“Well I don’t know about the past moon,” Flametail meowed awkwardly, pelt heating up in embarrassment as his brother validated his choice, “But thanks for the assumption.”

“Are you kidding me?” Laughed Dawnpelt, playful scooping up a dusting of snow and tossing it at him, “You’ve been working for longer than a moon, what with Leaf-bare and all. You’ve hardly spoken to either of us!”

Flametail looked down, embarrassed, had he really been so busy with his medicine cat duties that he had neglected his siblings? That wasn’t very nice of him. (Even if the clan desperately needed more herbs and treatments right now.)

“But we don’t mind!” Tigerheart meowed hurriedly, apparently having noticed how the gentle teasing had been taken seriously, “Really, we’re just glad you’re here now!”

Flametail looked up, searching for the truth of the matter, and was reassured when he saw Dawnpelt nodding vigorously, her ears flopping slightly with the strength of her resolve to comfort him.

“Then let's play.” He said finally, fur lighting with a touch of excitement as he remembered how fun it had been to slide around just a minute before.

“Yes!” Dawnpelt yowled, pointing her nose to the sky in triumph. (Tigerheart quickly followed with a celebratory spin.) “Let’s go!”

On her go, Flametail braced himself before jumping forward. He flicked his tail to signal Tigerheart not to crash into him and shot across the ice, paws slipping and sliding as he picked up speed. Starclan this was fun! He yowled joyfully as he slid, paws digging into the ice below to stop himself. No wonder there were so many cats out here! This was wonderful.

He spun and shot back the other way, pads just cold enough to encourage him to play more. (No matter how kit-like his playing was.) He passed Tigerheart and Dawnpelt, paws burning from the cold as he teased them for being slow. He passed Olivenose and Pinepaw, dancing around the latter the way a kit would with its mother’s legs. This was so fun!

He closed his eyes and took in the scents of the lake. Now that he was in the center, the regular smells of the forest were more dampened. ...But he didn’t really think it was a bad thing. No, it was certainly a fun new discovery, and it made him wonder what else he would have to tell his mentor upon going back to camp. Encouraged, he opened his jaws and took in more scents, getting a nice breath of air, rich with many scents and flavors of curiosity. A hint of Thunderclan, a touch or Wind, and the aggressively soft reek of Riverclan to the side. How interesting!

Next, he looked from side to side, not paying attention as the ice creaked under him. It wasn’t a big deal, it had been doing that this whole time. He gazed across the frozen lake, watching as a cat emerged from the Thunderclan treeline and began to sniff around the shore. ‘How interesting,’ he thought, ‘I wonder what they’re doing.’

He put a paw forward, hoping to get a closer look. (While not intruding on anyone elses territory of course!”

He put a second paw forward...

CRACK!

. . .

He twitched his ear. Had he heard that right?

CRACK-!

Oh no. His dream! He had been so happy playing, that he had neglected the message in his dream! Yowling in fear, he watched the ice break around him as if some starclan cat had set their paw down too hard. No! Not now! He thought, paws clawing at nothing as he slipped under the ice, instantly shocked by the coldness of the water.

Not now! There’s still so much I have to do!

He kicked his legs, struggling to swim as muffled shrieks of horror reached him. If he could only get to the surface… He gave one big kick.

But instead of fresh air filling his lungs, he felt his head bump on something. For a moment, he was confused, he had made it to the surface, why wasn’t he out of the water yet. But then he realised… of course! The ice! Horror filled him as flashes of his dream filled his mind. It hadn’t been about Shadowclan drowning, it had been about him!

He frantically pushed at the ice, even though he knew that he had no chance against the unforgiving sheet of cold. His breath was running out, if he didn’t get out soon, he was going to have to meet Starclan. ‘I’m not ready!’ He internally shrieked, claws scraping uselessly against his frozen prison, ‘Please I’m not ready!’

It was so cold. So cold.

Why had he gone on the ice? He had known it was dangerous, he had known this was a bad idea. But he had let his desires take hold of him, sending him flying over the surface and eventually slipping into the great maw of darkness that lay below.

What was that?

He squinted his eyes, body too weak to fight the current anymore as he slowly sank. Is that a Starclan cat? Am I already dead?

No… Jayfeather!

He felt a surge of energy take him again as he recognised his fellow medicine cat, swimming stringy towards him as if he were of Riverclan. But further surprising still, as Flametail began to struggle up for the other cat, was how Jayfeather seemed to be able to see him. Of course, he had always known that his blindness didn’t make him any less capable, but there were certain activities that seemed to require sight more than smell. (Saving somecat from drowning was one of those activities.)

He felt sharp teeth grip his scruff and all his energy left him. It hurt so bad. (His sight was beginning to go.) Jayfeather dragged him up tailength, straining to pull them both though the current with only his memory to guide them to safety. (And though this was impressive, Flametail doubted that it would be enough. He was truly beginning to go now.)

“Jayfeather!” an angry voice meowed, as clearly as if it had been spoken on land.

‘Where did that come from? Are we both dead?’ Flametail distantly wondered, light blinking out of his eyes as he searched the murky water, coming up empty pawed until the mysterious voice spoke again.

And what a grim fit it was. His eyes were wide and unseeing, yet something about them made Flametail feel like he was being watched. His body was lanky and hairless, as well as nearly pure white. (In fact, it seemed to glow in the dark lake, but not in the way Flametail had ever seen a Starclan cat glow. No, he was not shimmering with stardust, but instead shining like the moon, unseeing but still noticing all. Even in his half dead state, Flametail did not feel comfortable in the gaze of such a cat.)

The strange cat’s tail bent at awkward angles as he lashed it though the water, “It’s not your time yet!” he hissed, bulging eyes wide and hairless body shivering slightly in the freezing water, “You are still needed!”

And as Jayfeather’s swimming faltered slightly, Flametail wondered what this cat could have possibly meant by that. ‘You are still needed?’ With what? Saving more stupid Shadowclan cats?

But he didn’t get the moment to ask because Jayfeather suddenly let go of him, and the sudden shock of realization was enough to tell him why. It wasn’t Jayfeather's time to go, but as he sank through the darkened waves, he suddenly knew it was his. It was his time to go. (Even if he refused to believe it.

No.

No!

No! It’s not my time either! Please take me with yo-

A single star joined the daytime sky.

#whumptober2021 #no.20 Trunk / trapped under water / solitary confinement #fanfic #warrior cats #jayfeather #flametail #dawnpelt #tigerheart #No Beta We Die Like My Happiness Reading This Part of Power of Three #actual post #my art #writing #tw: drowning #drowning #tw: animal death #animal death

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mallowstep · 3 years

Note

Dark AU (A Shadowclan Consensus!)

Blackfoot: *stares at Twanypaw.*

Twanypaw: *stares back.*

Blackfoot: *waves his tail around the area, before slowly emphasizing Bonehill with said tail* "Y-you...actually CHOSE THIS?!?"

Twanypaw: "Well, at the time it looked like a great opportunity...."

Boulder: *to Russetfur.* "That idiot apprentice has NO idea what she's just shoved her head into."

Russetfur: *sniffs at a trout.* "Like we do? At least Brokenstar was understandable in his madness, we--err, Blackfoot and I, anyway--grew up with him. Tigerstar? That's an entirely different set of morals and thunderclanness madness we're in now. Do you see him hitting on Mistyfoot and acting all matesy with her? I think he has a leader monilith....on Bluestar," *she whispered, still sniffing the trout.*

Boulder: "A leader monolith?"

Russetfur: "Yeah. Ya'know, where you have this huge crush on your leader, but you also want to murder them. It's more common then you think."

Stonefur: *who they're supposed to be guarding, eyes Russetfur.* "No, no it's not." *looks hopefully at Stormpaw.* "Not even in Thunderclan, right Stormpaw?"

Stormpaw: "Well...from what my dad says, no, but he also says Tigerstar was always a little off..."

Russetfur: "Mousedung! I'm taking a concensus." *she turns to Blackfoot, leaving Boulder to guard Stonefur and Stormpaw.* "BLACKFOOT, I'M TAKING A CONCENSUS!"

Blackfoot, far too use to such things, looks at Russetfur: "What about?"

Russetfur: "About Leader Monithism." *she meowed, before yowling loudly.*

Leopardstar: *blinks at these two Shadowclan warriors calling a clan meeting at Bonehill.* "Tigerstar, Wha---"

Tigerstar: "Blackfoot what is the meaning of this?" *he growled, fur fluffed up.*

Blackfoot: "Russetfur is calling a consensus."

Tigerstar: *huffs, fur laying flat and sits down.*

Leopardstar: "???"

Tigerstar: "It's a Shadowclan thing. They wouldn't let me become leader without keeping their traditions. Warriors get to call one consensus every moon, they don't stack, and they must be completely tallied and finished before the next one is called. It's...something." *he finished, remembering the last consensus on whether or not the sky was blue, or that there was enough water somewhere that made it blue. He shivered at the memory.* "I hope this one isn't as long."

Russetfur: *eyes the gathered cats, then speaks.* "Leader Monolith, they're a thing yes or no?"

Blackfoot, and the rest of Shadowclan: "Well, yeah. It's happened."

Riverclan: "What...??"

Leopardstar: *looks at Tigerstar.*

Tigerstar: "What..."

Twanypaw: o.o

Russetfur: "Y'all might have a different word for it. It's where you have a crush on your leader but also want to kill them. It's happened millions of times."

Leopardstar and Riverclan: "No, it's not a thing...sounds like Shadowclan issue."

Twanypaw: "I think I missed that lesson in Thunderclan..."

Tigerstar: "Twany, it's not a thing in Thunderclan...stuff like that just happens in Shadowclan, " *he soothed, seemingly forgetting what clan he was leader of for a few minutes.*

Russetfur: "What? How is this not a thing?"

Mudfur: "Because no other clan has had it's leader's assassinated as often as Shadowclan and--"

Leopardstar: *puts tail over Mudfur's mouth.* "I don't know. It must be just clan differences-like how riverclan likes to swim, Shadowclan likes to...uh...."

Mosspelt: " Assassinate?"

Mudfur: "Eat my herb supply?" *he asked, eyeing Boulder.*

Shadepelt: "Sniff fish like it's poison?"

Blackfoot: "That sounds reasonable...and you never know, Shadepelt, there could be a highly hallucinogenic fish."

Shadepelt: "What."

Leopardstar: "What."

Tigerstar: "I should have taken over Windclan..." *he meowed, Solemnly, as debating broke out between Shadowclan and Riverclan before he spoke.* "Enough! As Shadowclan leader, It is my duty to--

Oakfur: "Bullshit, Blackfoot! I bet these so called poison fish exist in this 'huge place filled with water that turns the sky blue too'?!?"

Blackfoot: *looks affronted.* "They might!"

Shadowclan: *starts to argue.*

Runningnose: *huffs at Tigerstar before yowling.*"Everyone, you know the rules of Consensus! No bringing up past Consensuses, no fighting, you are only allowed to use your big cat words. Oakfur, you broke the sacred Consensus rules, you're on tick duty for a moon. Blackfoot, we don't want to hear about Boulder's huge place of water anymore, we all know he saw it because he was high. Stop defending him, and stop treading over a dead mouse, both of you. As medicine cat, I declare this Consensus a tie, and concede that half the clans have Leader Monoliths and half do not. Thus Windclan must be the other clan that does."

Shadepelt: "Never thought Thunderclan would be the sanest enemy clan..."

Mosspelt: "Me either, but here we are...."

Russetfur: *jumps down and returns to Bolder, only to look around.* "What happened to my fish?"

Stormpaw: *burps suspiciously.*

Boulder: "I buried it so it'd grow a fish tree," *he lied, purring like he'd just won a battle single pawwed.* "We'll have a fish-tree!"

Twanypaw: o.o

Tigerstar: "Really, how hard could it have been to take over Windclan? Deadfoot's only got three legs...."

oh my god okay first.

congrats because -- you Nailed the tigerstar and mistyfoot vibe and it just made me 🥰

anyway.

yess there's so much to love here. "Well, at the time it looked like a great opportunity...."fkjl; kjl;sfdk;l tawnypaw my beloved

shadowclan preparing for consensus. tigerstar strugglign to adapt to shadowclan's way of life. it's a small thing but like -- i dunno. there's Something to comedy that speaks to a broader story i don't know how to explain but it gets to me.

a;kdf;ak and "deadfoot's only got three legs" yeah but he only needs three to kick ur ass.

anyway all of this was good. i laughed really, really hard. you nailed so many dynamics but thru comedy and i just -- it's very Quality

#dark au #ask #anon #mine #i dunno there's #such skill in story telling thru comedy #leafstar's home is one of my fav fics #because it makes me die laughing #but there's also #like #good character stuff going on #i dunno #it's good it's good

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.XI

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

Allow me to present to you one of the longest chapters of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with my favourite @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

______________________________

The journey takes him a little over three weeks.

He moves slower this time, despite the worry and anticipation mixed into one somewhere deep in his chest urging him forward. He needs time to think.

To really think about everything.

He needs to reflect on the time they’ve spent together because that way - and only that way - will he know what to say when he comes back. He knows he needs to apologise for leaving like that, for making them both so confused with his words and actions, but he also needs to know what he’s going to say after that.

Is he going to ask if they can start over? Pick up from where they’ve stopped the last time? Take a few steps back?

It’s hard to tell what he wants, let alone how it’s going to be.

If Jaskier doesn’t accept his apologies and tells him to go away, will he do as he’s told or will he stay, unwilling to give up that easily? If he cannot fix what he’d broken, if he’d hurt Jaskier too much, what will he do?

Eskel sounded very convincing, telling him that Jaskier won’t turn him away at the gates, but now that Eskel wasn’t here, it was harder to believe. And though he’d promised to keep Geralt company if Jaskier does tell him to go away, Geralt doesn’t know what he’ll do if that really happens. It hurts so much as it is, he can barely imagine what he’s going to do if he doesn’t get the chance to fix it.

Eskel was right, Geralt had never been in love before.

He never even thought that that’s what that feeling in his chest is, but after Eskel said that it’s love and he thought about it, he realised soon enough that he was right.

As terrifying as it was to admit, but he was hopelessly in love.

What other explanation was there to the fire burning in his chest? To just how much it made him feel when Jaskier was close, when Geralt held him in his arms and pressed those soft, half-hearted kisses into his hair?

He’d thought it was just lust, at first.

Jaskier was driving him insane with all his little games, always close enough to kiss but never closing in that distance; always teasing and provoking only to break away just before Geralt could snap, laughing with the power he’s got over the witcher.

Geralt wanted to pin him to the nearest wall, kiss that grin off his lips, strip his bard - his prince - of all that silk and see just what kind of sweet little sound he could get him to make. Learn what his body feels like against Geralt’s own, the taste of his flawless skin.

But almost from the start, he knew he wanted more than just that. And in that last week they’ve spent together, he realised just how much more.

He wanted to have Jaskier in his arms as he fell asleep every night and then woke up in the morning. He wanted to steal kisses from him during the day for no real reason other than to feel his lips on his own, and stay in bed until night falls again, having postponed all responsibilities in favour of simply being together.

He wanted to see that bright smile on Jaskier’s lips and know that he’s the reason for it, and be his comfort if something upsets him.

It was unlike him at all, Geralt knew that, but there was little he could do about his heart. He used to think that he had control over it, just like over every other part of his body, but forcing his heart to stay calm on a hunt turned out to be very different to trying to force it to do the same thing when it came to Jaskier.

It was a lost cause.

He fell hard and fast, without even realising, and now he had to fix what he’d done while trying to run from it.

It was overwhelming at first, but slowly, as he sorted through all his feelings and emotions, it became easier to put into words. The pain was still there, and he doubted it would go away unless Jaskier forgives him for leaving the way he did, but now there was also hope.

Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could get both their hearts to heal.

***

When there are only a few more days left between him and the mansion, Geralt gets nervous again.

Falling asleep at night gets harder than it should be, and he stays up for hours, playing out dialogues in his head, trying to find the right words to say when he sees Jaskier again.

His scent still bears a hint of his scent from those nights that they’ve spent looking at the stars, both covered with it, and Geralt keeps it close to him at night, so that when he does finally fall asleep, he has the scent of dried herbs and vanilla somewhere deep in his lungs.

When he reaches the now-familiar little town, he decides to stay for the night even though the sun had just started to set. He needs some proper rest before closing in that remaining distance.

Geralt leaves Roach in the stables, making sure that she will receive the best possible care after a long journey, and makes his way to the same inn that he’d stayed at both previous times. The innkeeper recognises him instantly, but Geralt is not really in the mood to talk. It’s been a long couple of months.

He rents a room on the upper floor, where it’s quiet, though he’s not entirely ready to meet that silence.

Dinner doesn’t seem appealing, the nerves almost making Geralt feel nauseous, so he chooses to just order himself a bath, instead. With any luck, it will relax him enough for him to fall asleep before dawn.

***

The last two hours between the town and the mansion feel like an eternity.

A couple of times Geralt has to stop Roach to breathe through the waves of cold fear, but he knows that there is little he can do to really keep it at bay. It’s strange, because he can barely even remember what it's like, being this nervous, but then again, hunting werewolves and wraiths is not the same as trying to piece a broken heart back together.

When they do finally reach the mansion, Geralt stops a quarter-mile away from the gates to give himself just a little more time.

“It’s going to be alright,” he reassures Roach, patting her neck, but really, he’s telling that to himself. “You’ll see.”

The mare flicks an ear at him, unimpressed, but once he bribes her with a sugar cube, she bumps her head into his shoulder affectionately. It does make him feel a little better.

Geralt lets go of the reins, knowing that Roach will follow him regardless, and takes in a deep breath, walking up to the gates.

It’s unusually quiet, the gardens seemingly completely empty, and for a second, Geralt feels like his heart stops beating completely, that familiar cold fear washing over him. Is it too late? Has he really hurt Jaskier so much that he’d left the mansion?

Forcing his breathing to stay even, he brings his hand up to push on one of the arches of the gates. They open without resistance, letting him through. Before taking another step, Geralt stops and listens, all his senses heightened, and, after a few endless seconds, sighs in relief, picking up the faint sounds of voices and movement from somewhere deeper in the garden.

At first, he wants to go to the front door, assuming that Jaskier would be in the library, but something deep inside him says that that’s not the right place, that he should look in the gardens.

“You found my hiding place.”

“Searched the entire garden.”

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate. If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

The willow tree, Geralt thinks, His hiding place.

Walking through the gardens on his own feels wrong, almost like he’s no more than an intruder, but he just cannot wait for someone to come up to him and offer company. He needs to find Jaskier before that feeling of uncertainty seeps deep enough into his bones for him not to go through with it.

The willow is hidden deep in the gardens, and it takes Geralt some time to find the right path but eventually, he hears Asra and Lucio somewhere ahead, and that is all the conduit he needs to find his way. The dogs are always somewhere close to their owner.

Geralt knows that they can smell him long before they see him, and still, both dogs perk up when he gets into their field of vision. On some level, he expects them to run up to him and sniff at his armour, like they did all the times before, as if reassuring him that he’s still welcome here, but both Asra and Lucio stay put, only their nostrils flaring. They step from one leg to the other, like they want to come closer, but their ears stay pressed to their heads in hesitation.

They can’t trust him anymore, because he’d hurt Jaskier.

It feels like another stab into his chest, but Geralt knows that it’s fair, that it’s what he deserves after leaving like that.

“I need to see him,” he says softly as he comes closer and the dogs block his way.

They don’t growl or act aggressive in any other way, but Geralt knows that they’re going to protect Jaskier no matter what.

“I want to talk,” he says, raising his hands as if to indicate that he’s unarmed, that he’s not going to hurt the bard again. “I cannot leave this as it is.”

He doesn’t know if it’s the tone of his voice or the words themselves but whatever it is, both Asra and Lucio stay in their place as he brushes past them and moves the long vines of the willow to the side, stepping inside with no breath in his lungs.

His heart feels like it rips apart when he sees Jaskier.

He’s in the same spot as he’d been in the last time, an open book in his lap, heavily annotated in his delicate handwriting. Instead of the forest-green silk, though, he’s wearing a chemise of dark silver, the sleeves a waterfall of silk down his arms. It’s almost a steel shade, same as the autumn sky above, and for some reason, it resonates through Geralt in another wave of pain.

Jaskier notices him out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t raise his head.

“Whatever it is, Arthur, I’ll deal with it later,” he says, and Geralt could swear that his voice sounds so tired that it’s like even talking in itself is hard for him. “If there’s someone at the gates, tell them I’m not accepting visitors.”

Geralt stays in place, his heart beating hard and fast, and a few moments later, Jaskier finally raises his head. His eyes widen, shoulders going tense.

“Geralt?”

There’s an edge of a tremble to his voice, and Geralt wants to throw himself onto the grass next to him, pull Jaskier into his arms and hold him until he’s safe and warm again. But he stays where he is, unsure if he’s allowed as much as a touch.

Jaskier’s breathing gets heavier, and he snaps his fingers once- twice- three times, never taking his eyes off Geralt, before looking down and his trembling hands, something like disbelief slithering through the blue of his eyes.

“Is it really you?” he asks, getting up to his feet, holding onto the tree trunk with one hand.

Finally, Geralt takes a step closer, barely even realising.

“It’s me.”

And then, before he knows it, Jaskier closes in the distance between them in four fast steps, and throws his arms around the witcher’s neck, pulling him into a desperate, painfully-hard embrace, clinging onto his shoulders with shaking fingers.

Geralt doesn’t care if he’s breathing anymore.

He pulls Jaskier closer, wrapping his arms around his back, and holds him so tight that he’s scared there are going to be bruises. He buries his nose into the bard’s soft hair, breathing him in, and presses a long, desperate kiss to his temple, hot tears stinging his eyes.

“I’m so sorry--” he whispers, never letting go. “I’m so sorry, Jask.”

Jaskier shakes his head, tightening his grip even more, and Geralt can feel the salty scent of his tears. He doesn’t let go, just slips one of his hands into Jaskier’s hair, running his fingers through the strands in soft, comforting caresses.

“All that I’ve said about Toussaint and not coming back to Redania was a lie,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see Jaskier’s face.

He tries to hide, eyes wet and reddened with tears, but Geralt tips his chin up, gently wiping the wet lines from his cheeks. He desperately wants to kiss him, cover Jaskier’s parted lips with his own, but he knows that he cannot. Now is not the time.

“I never wanted to leave,” he says, brushing Jaskier’s chestnut hair out of his face. “But I was getting so confused, so overwhelmed by what I wanted and what I thought was right, that I felt like I’d make too many mistakes if I stayed.”

Jaskier sniffles, but his eyes remain crystal-clear, filled with that very same hurt, never letting Geralt forget about that knife in his chest.

“And what mistakes would those have been?” Jaskier asks, taking a step away from the witcher.

Geralt doesn’t let him go.

“I always hurt everyone that gets too close,” he says after a moment, avoiding Jaskier’s eyes. “I never mean to do it, and yet it keeps happening, no matter how hard I try to avoid it. It’s like Destiny itself takes people away from me. So eventually, I just learned to push everyone away before I hurt them. But with you… I thought I was choosing the lesser evil, Jask. Thought I was protecting you.”

Jaskier lets himself be guided back into Geralt’s arms and rests his head on the witcher’s shoulder, closing his eyes with a sigh.

“We both know that’s not the only reason,” he says quietly.

Somehow, he sees right through Geralt, and had it been anyone else, Geralt would’ve hated it, but it’s Jaskier. He’s already got his heart, what could Geralt possibly hide from him now?

“It scared me,” he admits, crumbling into pieces when Jaskier slowly brings both his arms up to wrap them around his shoulders again. “Everything that was happening between us, I didn’t know what to do with myself. No one has ever looked at me the way you do.”

Jaskier pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, and this time Geralt holds himself back from looking away. Something in his face changes, softens.

“No one?” he echoes.

Geralt shakes his head and leans into the touch when Jaskier cups the sharp of his jaw with his hand, gently brushing his thumb over Geralt’s cheek.

“There aren’t many people that see witcher for something more than what the mutations make us.”

“Oh, darling--” Jaskier breathes, brushing a stray strand of hair away from Geralt’s face and letting his fingers linger on his skin.

Geralt covers his hand with his own and brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the bard’s palm.

“That doesn’t justify me,” he says, and his heart is beating so fast that it almost hurts. “I should never have left like that, should never have lied to you just because I thought we’d both be better off that way.”

Jaskier parts his lips to say something, but Geralt doesn’t let him. If he’d already started, he needs to say everything before he runs out of courage to do it.

“I didn’t think I’d be able to come back, both because I thought that I’d never be able to make all of this work, and because I was sure that you won’t want me anymore after I hurt you the way I did,” he says. “I wanted to, I desperately fucking wanted to, but I was sure that you’d turn me away right at the gates. It was my brother that had convinced me to give it one more try. To at least apologise.”

All the remaining ice in Jaskier’s eyes cracks and melts away, bringing back the cornflower-blue that Geralt had grown to love so much.

“You hurt me,” Jaskier nods, never taking his hand away from Geralt’s. “But I still want you here. It’s been more than two months, and every day I was hoping that you’ll come back. I always knew that those words about Toussaint were a lie.”

Without looking, he finds Geralt’s other hand and brings it up to his chest, pressing his palm to it. His heart is beating hard and fast, like a bird trapped in a cage.

“You broke my heart, Geralt,” he says, and the knife in the witcher’s chest twists. “And it’s going to take time for it to heal. But I want you here with me.”

That is everything Geralt could ever ask for. A chance to fix what he’d broken, to find a way to make this all work. It’s going to take time, he knows, but that is something that he can give them both. Winters in this part of Redania are long and cold, and it’s not long now until the first snow starts falling. And if Jaskier allows him, he will stay with him through all those months.

“Let’s go inside,” Jaskier says after a few moments. “It’s getting cold.”

Geralt nods and hums something affirmative, but doesn’t let go, still holding Jaskier in his arms. He’s not sure when he’ll be able to let go, either, because after all those weeks spent apart, he feels like he needs Jaskier’s warmth more than anything else.

Jaskier sighs, but Geralt can hear his smile behind it.

They stay like that for a long while more after that, and none of them care to count how long exactly.

***

Despite the lingering thrum of guilt in his veins, it feels nice to be back in the mansion.

After Geralt settles back into his room - it’s strange just how familiar it feels now - and gets out of his armour, he finds Jaskier in the library, warming up by the fireplace. Asra and Lucio are sleeping next to him, pressed to his sides like two blankets of white fur.

There’s nothing that Geralt wants more than to wrap his arms around Jaskier again, hold him like that until he falls asleep, and then through the entire night, but he can feel the distance between them. It’s not just time that Jaskier needs to heal. It’s also space.

So Geralt chooses one of the chairs, instead, unable to take his eyes off the bard while he’s not looking.

It’s not uncomfortable, this silence between them, but it will take time for things to go back to the way they were. And for now, Geralt is just happy that he’s here, that the knife he’d carried around in his chest for the last ten weeks had finally been pulled out, and the wound can start to close.

When Jaskier turns to him, his eyes are tired but bright.

“It was lonely without you,” he smiles, and Geralt realises with a new intensity just how far gone he is for him. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Geralt wants to say that he’d missed him, too, but he’s so not used to expressing his feelings like that, that he can’t bring himself to. The words are right there, on the tip of his tongue, but it’s just too hard to actually say them.

There is, however, something that he needs to ask.

“If you knew that I was lying, why haven't you stopped me?”

Jaskier looks at him for one endlessly long moment, like he’s searching for something in his eyes, and then sighs, casting his gaze downwards. He plucks at the edge of the blanket thrown over his knees in hesitation before finally meeting Geralt’s eyes again.

“Because that would’ve been the single most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he says, and the pain in his eyes knocks all air out of Geralt’s lungs.

“What are you--”

“I’m cursed, Geralt.”

The words hang in the air heavily as Geralt’s mind goes into overdrive.

It can’t be true. He would’ve felt magic, his medallion would’ve reacted to it. Unless it’s a complicated, masterful curse that doesn’t depend on something fueling it. But those are so hard to come by that Geralt usually doesn’t even consider them a possibility.

He doesn’t know how long the silence lasts before he finally echoes:

“Cursed?”

Jaskier still avoids looking him in the eye, his fingers running through the soft fur on Lucio’s neck absentmindedly. Geralt doesn’t press it, just holds out his hand for Jaskier to take it if he wants. The bard gives him a little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but doesn’t move. Geralt tries not to think about the stab of pain he feels in his chest at that.

“I suppose I knew that I’d have to tell you someday,” Jaskier sighs, brushing his hair out of his face and turning to look into the fire. “Just not this soon.”

“You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier says, cutting him off with powerless frustration in his voice. “No, if you’re going to stay, if we’re going to do this, you need to know. You deserve to know.”

Geralt wants to say that Jaskier shouldn’t upset himself further, that it’s been an emotional day as it is, but then he recalls Eskel’s words about letting him decide for himself and stays quiet.

After a little while, Jaskier takes in a deep breath and turns to face him again.

“I graduated from the Oxenfurt Academy when I was eighteen. And I had all these plans for my future, all these great visions of elegance and sophistication, of being surrounded by art and riches,” he makes a wide gesture with his arm, indicating to the room around them. “Of all of this. This is what I've been promised and it was what I did all of that for, really. I’ve always loved the idea of living like this.”

Geralt bites his tongue and doesn’t ask him about his family. He’s not ready to learn if he’s actually a prince. Though even if he’s not, Geralt feels like in his mind, he’ll always be one.

“And so when I finally graduated - with honours, may I add - that was all that I really wanted. I couldn’t wait to get a proper taste of all that,” Jaskier goes on, chuckling humorlessly. “But there was this one girl in the Academy that fell in love with me during the last year - Estie. We weren’t even on the same course but twice a week, we had history and geography classes together. I’ve always been kind to her, I suppose, but I wasn’t interested in romance. Had my fun here and there, tried new things, but all of that was mostly limited to a night or two.”

He’s still not really looking at Geralt but the witcher never takes his eyes off him.

“I tried my best not to hurt her when saying that I’m not interested in a relationship, and explained that for a couple of years I wanted to taste the court life, and she seemed to take it pretty well until a few days later someone caught in an alleyway by the docks in Oxenfurt and pushed me through a portal.”

“Nothing I hate more than fucking portals,” Geralt murmurs, hoping to make the bard smile just a little, and thankfully, he does.

“Absolutely horrible, yes,” Jaskier laughs, and Geralt feels like that sound alone could heal all his wounds. “Luckily, I’ve only had to experience it once. But that was what led me here, to this mansion. Estie was nowhere to be seen but there was a mage that had opened the portal and was waiting for me. I had more questions than I could even put into words but I wasn’t really the one doing the talking back then.”

Geralt can feel the change in his scent, a sharp edge of heartache to it, and he has to grip the armrests of the chair tighter not to reach out for him.

Asra and Lucio seem to feel it, too, waking up from their sleep and raising their heads to poke their wet noses at Jaskier’s cheeks and lick him, making the bard laugh over the lump in his throat and bat them away.

“She told me that if I wanted art and riches, I could have them,” he says, shrugging sharply with one shoulder. “All I needed was to snap my fingers, move my wrist, really. I didn’t believe her, of course, but I still tried, just to prove her wrong.”

Jaskier darts a quick glance at Geralt and moves his wrist with effortless grace. Geralt’s medallion hums against his chest, and a second later, there is an open book in Jaskier’s hand, magic still coming off it in waves.

Geralt blinks at him, parting his lips to say something - anything - but failing to form his thoughts into words. How could he have missed it?

“As you can guess, it was me that had been proven wrong then. And my fingers were still numb with magic when the mage told me that now that I can create all the art and riches that I want by just thinking about them, I have time to think about “what truly matters”. She said that I can change this mansion in any way I can think of, making it bigger or smaller, changing the walls, the rooms, the gardens, and I can fill it with all the wealth of Redania but until I have something that will truly make me happy, I will step outside the gates.”

Jaskier flips through the book in his hand, and though he keeps his eyes on the pages, Geralt can still see the way they glisten with tears.

“I didn’t believe that, either, of course,” Jaskier laughs nervously. “As soon as she disappeared in a portal, I was out the door. But once I pushed open the gates and took one step beyond them, I couldn’t move. It’s like there is a wall that no one can see but that’s impossible to get through.”

Geralt doesn’t need to be a witcher to feel his distress. It’s not just in his scent, it’s in his shoulders, in his uneven breathing, in the wet lines on his cheeks. The air itself seems to hum with tension, and as Jaskier sniffles, wiping at his cheek stubbornly, Geralt can hear something glass shatter in the hallway.

If he controls the entire estate with his magic, it’s going to be sensitive to his emotions.

But magic that strong… Geralt had only seen it a few times in his life.

“Jask--” he calls softly, getting up from his armchair because he cannot bear the distance between them.

He doesn’t know what he can say. There are so many thoughts racing through his mind that it feels impossible to stop on any single one. He comes closer, getting down onto the floor beside Jaskier and, to his surprise and immeasurable relief, the bard presses himself to his chest in search of comfort.

Geralt wraps his arms around him, pulls him closer, slowly rocking from side to side, and presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head, closing his eyes.

“It took me quite some time to figure out that it was Estie that paid the mage to do all this,” Jaskier says after a while spent in silence. “No one else had much reason to go this far and pay such money, because I doubt that getting a mage to cast such an elaborate curse is cheap. And she was the only one that knew those exact words - art and riches. It couldn’t have been anyone but her.”

Geralt can feel his hands tighten into fists where they’re wrapped around Jaskier. He’d always fucking hated people that can’t get over being rejected and turn to someone more powerful for revenge, be it simple street thugs or mages.

“How long has it been?” he asks carefully.

Jaskier chuckles nervously, and Geralt holds him even closer, like he’s trying to protect him.

“Seven years.”

Seven years. The words feel like a slap to the face, and their echo rings in Geralt’s ears.

Seven years. That’s more than a quarter of Jaskier’s life.

“I’ve tried everything you can think of,” Jaskier says before Geralt has the chance to respond. “Created and then destroyed just about every single thing that my imagination could come up with. And nothing has ever worked. You saw the mark on my back. That’s the seal of the curse.”

The mark on his back.

Geralt thought about it a few times after he saw it but he never thought of as much as a possibility of it being what Jaskier says it is. He’d seen curses marked with seals before but they mostly looked like scars, burned deep into the skin, and not delicate designs that look more like an adornment than anything else.

Without thinking, Geralt runs his hand over Jaskier’s back, and his fingers tingle with magic when he passes over the mark between Jaskier’s shoulder blades.

The bard shivers in his arms.

“Don’t do that,” he breathes, but presses himself closer to the witcher. “It’s sensitive.”

Oh, Geralt could do a lot of things with that information. But not now.

He obediently takes his hand away, resting in on the small of Jaskier’s back, instead, and just holds him, waiting patiently until the bard finally gives in and lets his stubborn resistance down, hiding his face in the curve of Geralt’s shoulder and letting his tears flow down his cheeks. They smell of salt and heartache, and Geralt’s heart rips apart in his chest, but he doesn’t make any move to let go, giving Jaskier the time and the safety he needs.

“The mark will disappear when the curse is broken,” he says, sniffling and clinging onto Geralt’s shoulders, his entire body leaning into the touch. “Only then will I be able to step outside the gates. But as long as I have it on me, I’m trapped here. And that is why asking you to stay would’ve been the most selfish thing I’ve ever done in my life. I don’t want to tie you to this place, as well.”

Geralt's chest gets painfully tight, and his heart is beating so hard that he feels like it’s going to break through his ribs.

He was so fucking wrong about everything.

“I’m sorry I left you here alone,” he whispers, turning his head to press a kiss to Jaskier’s temple and fighting back tears of his own. “I should’ve been more thoughtful.”

Jaskier shakes his head, slowly calming down.

“You didn’t know.”

There isn’t much more than Geralt could say. His mind is still racing, same as his heart, and where Jaskier’s chest is pressed to his own, he can feel the bard’s heartbeat, too - hard and fast.

Geralt holds him, giving them both time that they need to think it all over, and murmurs comforting little things into Jaskier’s ear every time that he sniffles or sobs, soaking the fabric of Geralt’s worn black shirt with his tears.

He lets him cry, wishing only that he could take all that pain from him, and he doesn’t know if it’s minutes or hours that pass before Jaskier’s tears finally start to dry, and his breathing evens out, safe for quiet little sniffles.

He doesn’t care how long it’s been.

His body goes numb from being in one position for too long, but none of that matters.

Slowly, he pulls back just enough to get a look at Jaskier. Even with his eyes red and swollen with tears, he’s the most beautiful man Geralt’s even seen.

“We will find a way to break it,” Geralt says, voice barely above a whisper. “I promise.”

He cups Jaskier’s face with both hands, gently wiping away the tears, and leans in to touch his lips to his forehead in a soft, chaste kiss.

“Do you believe me?”

He breaks away to look at Jaskier again, and this time, the bard holds his gaze. His impossibly-blue eyes search for something in Geralt’s for a long, silent moment, until finally, he sighs without his breath hitching and nods.

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Geralt’s. “I do.”

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivial #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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