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artificialqueens · 3 years

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Ever in Your Favor, Chapter Six (Rosnali) - Athena2

Summary: We find out what happened to Rosé, and the Games continue.

A/N: Thank you so much for the incredible feedback on chapter five!! It made me so happy to see and I’m so glad how people enjoyed it. I’d really appreciate hearing your thoughts on this chapter as well!

Denali chokes back her scream as Rosé collapses, not wanting to give away their position. All the teams have targets on their back now, the danger even higher. And Rosé is motionless on the ground.

“Rosé, wake up. Please wake up.” She shakes her shoulder, mind running through a hundred possibilities. It can’t be because of the rain, or Denali would be affected too. Probably not poison either; they’ve been eating the same things. Whatever it is, she needs Rosé awake. Denali taps her cheek, dimly registering that Rosé shouldn’t be this warm. Her green eyes slowly blink open, and Denali loses herself in them for a second.

“What…happened?”

“I think you fainted. Or…” Denali trails off when she smells smoke. Thick gray clouds of it blot the sky, and where there’s smoke, there’s… “Fire. Oh, shit. Fire.”

A tower of flames writhes toward them, licking at the trees and filling the air with the scent of burnt pine. The fire is too large to be natural–figures the Gamemakers didn’t even wait five minutes after their announcement to unleash something.

Denali scrambles for their stuff, tugging Rosé’s arm. “We gotta go, we gotta go now.”

Rosé winces as she staggers to her feet.

“Can you run on that leg?” Denali asks.

“Do we have another option?”

It’s a fair point, and the flames are close enough to feel their heat. She puts her head down and runs, Rosé trailing behind her. They need to find shelter, somewhere safe enough for Rosé to rest. They’re not far from the mountain, and there has to be a cave or crevice they can hide in. They just have to get up there.

They sprint across a valley with the fire just feet behind them, and the only good thing is that it protects them from other tributes–no one can attack them with a wall of fire in the way. They trudge through weeds and gnarled roots on the mountain passes, Denali wordlessly catching Rosé when she stumbles, beating out the dying fire. A slit opens between two rocks, so small Denali’s trained eyes hardly see it. It’s big enough inside for both of them, and Denali’s shoulders loosen slightly. They should be safe for a few days, probably more if she disguises the entrance better. There’s even a stream nearby.

Rosé collapses against the wall with a gasp. Her face is ghostly pale and twisted in pain, her body drenched in sweat as she trembles.

The pain probably made her faint, but Denali thinks of how hot she was, and her heart sinks with what she doesn’t want to acknowledge. Their first aid kit didn’t have antibiotics, or a needle and thread—the Gamemakers wouldn’t make things that easy—so Denali had just rinsed the wound and wrapped it tight. Maybe it wasn’t enough.

Denali kneels beside her cautiously. “I need to look at your leg.”

“No.” Rosé clamps her hands over the wound with a wince. Denali isn’t sure if Rosé doesn’t want to admit that something’s wrong, or if she’s afraid of getting medical help from Denali. Denali isn’t a doctor by any means, and part of her wants to leave Rosé alone, pretend everything is fine, but she can’t.

“Rosé, you fainted.”

“Only a little,“ Rosé mumbles. "It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

There’s a hint of fear in her voice, and Denali softens. “I just need to check it, okay? I’ll go slow. And I used to hunt, remember? I’ve seen dead animals a lot worse than your leg.”

“Denali Foxx, did you just compare me to a dead animal?” Rosé asks in mock outrage. Her hands ease off her leg, Denali’s humor relaxing her like she hoped it would.

“Well, let’s hope we can avoid the dead part,” Denali says. “The animal part was spot-on, though.” She carefully moves Rosé’s pants down, grateful for her undershorts because Rosé’s bare skin is not something Denali can handle right now. She unwinds the bandage, her stomach churning once the wound is uncovered, red and inflamed and oozing at the edges. Denali knows, and the red lines streaking up Rosé’s thigh confirm it.

Blood poisoning.

“Oh,” Rosé says quietly. “Fuck.”

—

“Okay, don’t panic.”

“Pretty sure you’re the one panicking,” Rosé says. She sits against the cave wall, slowly getting her breath back while Denali paces.

Denali stops, wringing her hands together. “I saw leaves that draw out infection by the stream. I’m gonna get them. Stay here.”

“Not like I can go anywhere.” Her leg is throbbing, and moving will only make things worse.

Denali grimaces and heads out, desperate for a purpose, for something to help. Rosé knows the leaves aren’t enough to fix her infection; she needs real medicine from the Capitol. She has no idea what it would cost a sponsor to send it, because that kind of medicine isn’t a possibility in District 12, where the default prescription is drink some whiskey and sleep it off. If something’s really wrong, you usually don’t make it.

Denali rushes back in with a bundle of green leaves, crushing them up and making a paste with water. It’s not enough, but it can’t hurt, and Rosé won’t upset Denali when she’s trying so badly to help.

Denali’s movements are frantic, nothing like the measured motions for stringing her bow, and she almost drops the paste.

“Hey,” Rosé says. “Let me put it on. Your hands are shaking.”

“Yeah, because I care about you, you idiot.”

Rosé would make a snappy comment, but she sees how much Denali is shaking, how her eyes are wide in genuine fear. Denali really cares about her, and Rosé has a rush of affection for her.

Rosé gently takes the mixture from Denali. “I’ll do it, okay?”

Denali laughs bitterly. “You’re the one who’s–”

Rosé cuts her off before she can say how bad things are. “I’m gonna be fine, okay? This isn’t how I’m going out. I’m not going out at all, but if I do, I’m going out fighting, with my sword in my hand.”

Denali nods shakily.

“I’ve got some of the steadiest hands in the district,” Rosé continues, hoping to soothe Denali’s fear. “Cake-decorating hands, baby.” It slips out before she can stop it, and any worries are stopped by the fact that she should be saying this, should sell their romance for the camera. But none of this conversation has been for that; every part of it was real for Rosé; her need to soothe Denali, take away her fears, her insistence on making it through this. Denali must know it’s real too, because she’s smiling now, and she actually laughs, Rosé’s heart lightening at the sound.

“Too bad you can’t pipe icing at the tributes,” Denali snorts.

“Laugh all you want. I guarantee I could take someone out with a piping bag,” Rosé says. Her own laugh is strangled by muttered curses as the paste stings on her wound, but swearing is all she’ll allow herself. She won’t whimper like a baby in front of the Capitol, and she won’t add to Denali’s worry.

“What was it like, working at the bakery?” Denali asks, throwing her a line, a distraction, and Rosé takes it.

“It was…it was fun, really. My dad did the cakes, my mom did the breads. Me and Jan and Lagoona helped.” She rolls her eyes and smiles. “We mostly just played and tried not to get in trouble. When we were a little older, we’d make the cookies together, and my dad started showing me how to decorate cakes when I was ten. I still remember the first one I did that was good enough to sell. White icing with little pink and yellow roses. He let me put it in the window and everything.”

Rosé tries not to think of those days, of how happy and carefree they were, because it only makes the fact that days like that are now hard to come by hurt that much worse. But maybe it’s okay to tug memories over her like a blanket. She remembers running around the kitchen playing tag with her sisters, their father shaking his head fondly. She remembers the smell of yeast, watching her mother knead the bread over and over, mesmerized by the rhythms. She remembers the squishy piping bag in her hand, her father guiding her along, how he always said what a good job she did.

On her good days, when she leaves the house, she goes right to the bakery, soaking in the sweetness as golden and warm as the pastries her father makes. If she’s really up for it, she’ll even grab a bag and decorate a cake, the world fading away as she makes flowers out of butter and sugar.

“That’s really nice.” Denali smiles as she hands Rosé the bandages from the first aid kit.

“Yeah.” Rosé winds it around her leg, grateful to have the wound hidden again. It’s fine. She’s fine. She just has to outlast it until she and Denali are the only ones left. They can still win. “We should have a victory cake after we win.”

Denali leans in with the medical tape, her touch gentle as she tapes the bandage in place. She’s so close that their foreheads almost touch, and Rosé stares at Denali’s focused brown eyes, all the air knocked out of her lungs.

“Thanks,” she manages.

“No problem.” Denali smiles. “And I’m holding you to that victory cake.”

—

Denali tries, as hours blur into days. She tries to stay hopeful, to not let Rosé see how worried she is. Denali shouldn’t even be this upset, this stressed; Rosé is the one with her leg cut open and an infection burning through her, yet she’s calm and Denali can’t sleep because she’s afraid something might happen to Rosé while she does. She knows the odds, knows how bad things are, but she tries to ignore it. She tells herself it’s natural to worry about her teammate, but she hasn’t been this worried about someone since her father died and her mom couldn’t get out of bed. She hasn’t been this close to anyone since then either, but being thrown into the arena like this, trusting each other to survive, has brought them closer than Denali could have imagined. She’s grown to really like being around Rosé, hearing her laughter, watching her eyes soften when she tells stories about the bakery. She doesn’t want to lose her.

Losing Rosé would put Denali at worse odds, anyone can see that. But Denali doesn’t see her as just an ally anymore, and losing her would be losing a friend. A friend who’s been with her through the arena, who understands feelings Denali can’t even put into words. She won’t lose her. She can’t lose her. If anyone is stubborn enough to outlast an infection, it’s Rosé, and Denali lets the thought give her hope.

“How are you feeling?” Denali asks when Rosé wakes up.

“Fine.”

Denali touches her forehead gently, Rosé’s breath hitching at the touch. “You’re still pretty warm. I found some painkillers in the first aid kit. Nothing major, but they can’t hurt.”

Rosé nods, accepting the pills with some water. She becomes a bit more herself when they kick in, her eyes losing the shadows of pain and lightening up. Denali hopefully offers her breakfast, but Rosé shakes her head.

“Not hungry.”

Denali winces. It’s not a good sign.

“Not an option. If we’re gonna win, you need to eat.” Denali digs through their bags again, offering Rosé dried meat and apples like she didn’t refuse them five seconds ago. They need something light, something easy on her stomach. “If we had soup, do you think you could eat that?”

“Probably, but do you think soup is just gonna drop out of the sky–”

Something clangs at the mouth of the cave, and Denali finds a silver canister attached to the parachute. She unscrews the top and smells savory broth and vegetables. Clearly someone agrees that Rosé needs to eat, and she thanks their mystery sponsor.

Rosé snorts. “I’ll be damned.”

—

Soup keeps arriving, and Rosé keeps fighting. She does her best to eat, to keep her composure so Denali doesn’t worry. Denali’s only getting snatches of sleep, every second focused on Rosé, and Rosé doesn’t want to give her too much cause to worry.

Aside from the dull pain and the fever clinging to her like fire, it’s not so bad in the cave. It’s like their own little world, far away from the arena’s dangers. Just her and Denali, together like at the Training Center. Denali peeks her head out each night to hear the anthem and see if anyone’s died. So far, just the man from District 9. There’s still five tributes left, and Rosé knows something has to draw them together eventually. They both hate sitting here, being helpless, wanting so badly to go out and end things, but they can’t. Rosé can’t even sit up without getting so dizzy she almost loses whatever’s in her stomach. It’s her fault they’re stuck here, and she burns with guilt that she might cost them the win with her stupid infected leg. If someone would send the medicine, she could manage. Her leg would still hurt, sure, but she could power through long enough to get her and Denali home. Why hasn’t anyone sent it yet? She’s grateful for the soup, but surely someone in the Capitol can afford the medicine, and surely they would have sent it by now. What are they waiting for?

Maybe because Rosé is just laying on the cave floor like a baby, and they want to see her do something that’s worth the money they’d spend. Proof she’s worth dipping into their pockets. Deep down, she thinks they want more of the love story, more reason to watch them. Would kissing Denali be enough? Announcing her love? It’s terrible to do that to Denali, though, terrible to use her to stay alive. We’d be using each other, Denali said ruefully, but this feels like too much.

So Rosé talks instead.

She talks about the bakery, about the time Jan tried her own cake recipe and the thing was burnt outside and raw inside, or the time Rosé and Lagoona kept flicking flour at each other until they looked like ghosts. Denali laughs and laughs, and Rosé is grateful she’s let these stories out, grateful to share them with someone besides her sisters. She can’t remember the last time she talked this much, and even if it exhausts her, she keeps going. Because if she’s talking, Denali knows she’s okay.

“What was it like? Learning the woods stuff from your dad,” Rosé asks, hoping Denali doesn’t notice how her words slur.

Denali grabs a piece of cloth she’d cut from the sleeping bag, dips it in water, and rests it on Rosé’s forehead. She gets water from the stream each morning, and though it’s barely cool anymore, it’s heaven against Rosé’s hot skin, and she sighs in relief.

“It was…quiet,” Denali says finally. “Peaceful. He was always in the mines, so it was the only time I got to be with him, really. He didn’t talk much, but he was there, and it was enough. He would show me all the flowers and plants and tell me these rhymes about what was safe to eat. And he showed me how to use his bow. It was bigger than me the first time we practiced.” Denali smiles, and Rosé does too, heart warming at the image of a tiny Denali holding up a bow twice her size. “It felt so right in my hands,” Denali continues. “He drew targets on the trees until I got them all, and then he’d have me aim for certain leaves. Everything I can do with my bow is from him.”

“He taught you well.”

“Yeah. I–sometimes I wish he could’ve seen how good I got with it. I wish he could’ve seen me win,” Denali says sadly.

“He’d be proud of you. I know it,” Rosé says, touched that Denali trusts her this much, that she’s shown this part of her.

There’s a lightness in her eyes Rosé doesn’t think she’s seen since Denali was a kid–the kind of lightness Denali was rarely without as a kid. It was why Rosé had sneaked cookies in her bag years ago, trying anything to ease the sadness. And being with Denali now, closer than they were as kids, closer than Rosé has been with anyone besides her family, makes her ache to do it again. To be there for Denali’s pain and sadness, and do her best to lighten the load. To maybe let Denali do the same for her. Because all this–spending time with Denali, being on her team–feels so right. They’re the perfect team, and they’re both going to win, and go home. And if–when–they do, Rosé won’t lose Denali again.

When she first got home after her Victory Tour, she spent most days in her room, tired yet fighting sleep because of what she might see, the excitement of her return crushed by the weight of what she had to do for it. She was cold to her sisters when they tried to help, cold to Denali when she tried talking to her. She isn’t proud of it, and while she fixed things with her sisters, she never formally did with Denali–she just let them drift, though she forced herself to work extra hard when she mentored Denali. Surviving the Games could have reunited them, but Rosé let it push them further apart, because it was something she didn’t want to share with anyone–especially not someone she cared about. But she’s sharing it with Denali now, and she’s grateful to. And when they go home, she won’t let them drift. She’ll work to keep Denali in her life, to go outside more, to appreciate what she has.

“Do you want more soup?” Denali asks, once more desperate to help.

“No.”

“Just a little more?” Denali pleads. “Please? For me?“

Denali’s eyes are too much for Rosé. “Anything for you,” she says, and even in the cave, she can see Denali blush. She eats three more spoonfuls, then turns to Denali. “Can you do something for me now?”

“Anything.”

“Get some sleep, Denali. Please. I’ll be okay, I swear,” she says before Denali can protest. “You need to rest.”

“But–”

“I have my sword. I’ll wake you if anything happens. I’ll be fine for a few hours.” Rosé fixes the sternest look she can muster, and Denali finally gives in.

“Don’t let me sleep too long,” she says, slipping into the sleeping bag. Her breaths even out in minutes, and it tugs at Rosé’s chest how much Denali is exhausting herself to look after her. The stress of the arena slowly leaves Denali’s face in her sleep, and she could be nine again, curled up in her sleeping bag for a sleepover with Jan. The determined kid who used to protect other kids from the class bully and beat the older boys in races during recess. The determined woman who’s been there for her since the reaping, who didn’t give up on her and helped her fight again. Who makes her want to live again.

Rosé grips her sword tightly as she watches Denali sleep, and when Denali lets out a little sigh, it occurs to Rosé that if she were to confess her love, it might not be a complete lie.

—

Hours after Denali wakes up, things take a turn for the worse. Rosé is too weak to feed herself, and turns her head away when Denali offers her soup. Her skin is so hot she instantly dries out the cloth Denali puts on her forehead. She slips in and out of consciousness, her sleep full of whimpers for her sisters, and Denali vows not to mention it to her.

“I’m sorry,” Rosé croaks. Her eyes are closed, and Denali isn’t sure she’s fully awake.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Denali says, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

“Your mom’s…necklace,” Rosé says. “We nev-never went back.”

Right. They were supposed to go back that morning, but the announcement came, and Rosé collapsed, and then the fire arrived. Denali had forgotten about it in the chaos.

“It’s not your fault,” Denali says quietly. “That fire came, remember? We couldn’t have gone back anyway.” She bites her lip. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You got hurt saving me, if I–”

“Don’t,” Rosé says. “Not your fault.” She wheezes, the talking taking too much out of her. “Maybe you should go on without me.”

“Not a chance in hell,” she growls so fiercely that Rosé doesn’t even attempt to argue.

Rosé grunts as she reaches for her jacket, and her shaky fingers unclasp the lion pin and offer it to Denali.

Denali’s heart sinks. “Rosé, I can’t take this, it’s your sister’s.”

“I promised Jan I would bring it back to her. Denali, if I can’t make it, I need you to make it. I need you to bring this home to her,” Rosé says seriously.

Rosé would never give away the pin–the promise–unless she was really worried about being unable to keep it, and Denali blinks back tears of helplessness.

“No–no. Don’t think that, Rosé. You’ll bring it to her yourself,” Denali says. She can’t even consider bringing this pin to Jan, can’t even consider that Rosé won’t be with her. The past weeks with Rosé have only left Denali certain that she never wants to be apart from her again.

“Just in case. Promise?”

Denali knows Rosé won’t take no for an answer, and she doesn’t want to upset her. “I promise.”

“Good.” She sleeps again, and the pin sits like lead in Denali’s pocket.

—

By night, Rosé’s forehead burns Denali’s hand. Denali helplessly watches her toss and turn, like she’s trying to get the heat off her. God, Denali was so stupid. She seriously kidded herself that Rosé would magically get better. Rosé’s held out longer than most, but blood poisoning isn’t something you get better from–not without serious medicine.

Denali’s no stranger to pain or misery or suffering–her own or someone else’s. But she watches Rosé sweat and shiver and she can’t bear it. Rosé used to give them piggyback rides even when they were too big, hiding the backache with a smile. When Jan forgot her homework, Rosé ran home and back, handing Jan the work just as the bell rang. When an older boy kept bothering Lagoona, Rosé threw herself between them, firmly standing her ground until he left her alone. She was a hero to her sisters, to Denali, though now Denali knows Rosé isn’t so much a hero as a woman who’s made mistakes and is just trying to survive. Rosé should be home with her family, piping beautiful roses on cakes. Not thousands of miles away, suffering on this hard cave floor. It hurts Denali to even look at her. It should be Denali trembling with fever and pain. Would be Denali if Rosé hadn’t taken that hit for her. This is all Denali’s fault. How could she spend so long preparing for a fight and be too slow when the attack finally came? All the dreams of them going back home, of inviting Rosé over for breakfast, of taking her on walks in the woods, are slipping through Denali’s hands.

No. She’s not losing Rosé. She turns the lion pin over in her hand. What had Rosé called it in her interview? A symbol of love and home, Denali recalls, and more tears sting in her eyes. This is the one of the most important things in the world to Rosé, and she gave it to Denali, wanted to give her this piece of love and home. She trusts Denali to bring it home if she can’t. She trusts Denali, period, when she hasn’t trusted anyone in years. And Denali trusts her. Trusts her in the arena, trusts her in this cave, trusts her to talk about her family with. Rosé isn’t going home without this pin, and Denali isn’t going home without Rosé. There has to be a way to get the medicine. What if she–

Rosé coughs, her brow furrowing in pain.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Denali says quietly, for Rosé’s benefit as much as her own.

Rosé stills, opening glassy eyes. “Jan?” she asks hoarsely, and Denali’s stomach drops. The fever is high enough to mess with her brain—what if it’s too late even if she can get the medicine?

Denali hesitates, heart in pieces, wondering if she should play along or tell the truth. If she plays along, Rosé might get upset after realizing she’s lying. But denying it might upset her even more, and Denali can’t hurt her.

“Yeah, it’s me. It’s Jan,” Denali says. She strokes Rosé’s hair and hums the lullaby Rosé hummed to Finn, and it’s not quite right, but it soothes her anyway.

For a few minutes at least, and then she stubbornly opens her eyes.

“You’re not Jan,” Rosé says, and before Denali can wonder if she’s mad, she smiles. “You’re Denali.”

Denali blushes. “Yeah, I am.”

Rosé looks at her in wonder, a shy smile on her face. “Denali, I need to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“I love you.”

Blood roars in Denali’s ears, her heart racing. What the hell is Rosé doing? She must still be delirious, she doesn’t know what she’s saying–

“I’ve loved you for a while,” Rosé continues, her eyes clearing a little, her voice sincere. “And you’re so special to me that I want you to know. I want everyone to know.”

And then Denali understands. Rosé has mustered up one last plan to get the medicine. A love declaration on live television. If this can’t get a sponsor’s sympathy, nothing can, and Denali has to play along. This is the game, it’s what they agreed to, so why does it feel so real, like at the interview? Why does part of Denali want it to be real? It’s just a game, she tells herself.

“I…I know, Rosie. I know you love me.” Why can’t she say I love you back? Rosé’s damn life is on the line, but the words won’t come out. But maybe she doesn’t need words. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” Rosé breathes.

Denali holds her breath as she leans down to meet her lips. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t imagine this before. She was eleven when she realized she wanted to kiss girls, and so what if her fantasy kissing partner had red hair and green eyes? It was just her imagination. Nothing real. And Denali doesn’t know if it’s real now, but she’s doing it.

Rosé’s lips are fiery, but soft and delicate. Denali knows this has to be believable, so she runs one hand along Rosé’s arm, the other stroking her sweaty hair. If Denali’s heart was racing before, it’s running a sprint as the kiss deepens, and she feels more alive than she has since the fight in the clearing. It’s been so long since she’s kissed anyone, touched them so tenderly, and she wants to do it again and again. But she shouldn’t enjoy it this much, because it’s just a game, right?

Right?

She doesn’t have time to think, because a clanging at the cave mouth announces the arrival of their saving grace.

—

Denali tears the lid off the container. Inside, there’s a syringe, a needle and thread, bandages, and painkillers. Denali grabs the syringe, whispers an apology to Rosé, and sticks it into her arm.

Rosé, falls asleep seconds later, exhausted from the talking and the kiss. Denali isn’t sure if that’s good or bad. She assumes the medicine is a fast-acting Capitol creation, since she only needs one syringe. But how fast? Minutes? Hours? She doesn’t know how much longer they can hide here before the Gamemakers force them out.

Denali sighs. She might as well stitch the wound properly while Rosé is asleep. For the first time in the cave, her sleep is peaceful, and Denali feels a rush of gratitude. The lines of infection are already fading, and she stitches the wound with new hope, tinged with anger. All that work, all that suffering, for one little syringe. How could the Capitol have something that practically works miracles and make it so hard to get?

“Rosé McCorkell, you better wake up soon,” Denali says. “Because if you die on me after all this, I swear I’ll bring you back just to yell at you! I–I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life! I’ll–”

“‘M pretty sure I’d be haunting you, since I’m the dead one.” A wide grin crosses Rosé’s face as her eyes ease open.

“Rosie, you’re–”

“I’m okay. I feel like shit, but I’m okay.”

Relief slams into Denali, filling the cave with joy, and she cups Rosé’s cheek gently, feeling that she’s alive and okay. Denali isn’t going to lose her.

“Thank you, Denali,” Rosé whispers, and Denali knows how much she means it.

“We look out for each other, remember?”

Rosé nods as Denali helps her sit up. They eat the last of their food, making a plan to wash up at the stream, find food and water, and re-enter the arena.

Five tributes. That’s all that’s between them and the train home.

“One more thing.” Denali carefully re-pins the lion on Rosé’s jacket, ignoring how the touch reminds her of the kiss–just a game, just a game. She’ll have to deal with the kiss at some point, but not now. “Let’s go. We’ve got a game to win.”

#rpdr fanfiction #s13 #denali foxx #rosé #rosnali #lesbian au #hunger games au #angst #hurt/comfort #ever in your favor #athena2 #tw blood #tw injury #concrit welcome

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bills-pokedex · 3 years

Note

This isn't an ask, just checking up on you to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Lanette worries a lot about you.

I know, anonymous, and it’s very sweet. At the risk of sharing a bit too much personal information, I just hope that I’m reciprocating well enough.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. I understand fully that there’s no wrong way to reciprocate, and anyway, relationships of all sorts are different for every circumstance and for every person. But the point is...

Well. I suppose the point is I worry about her too.

Anyway, to answer your question, I am indeed taking care of myself. In fact, that folds into why you haven’t quite heard a lot from me lately, other than the difficulty in typing one-handed for about half of last month. It’s not that I’m busy. In fact, if anything, I’ve started incorporating breaks into my schedule, which apparently has been quite a shock to the Institute. They’ve sent me emails to make sure I’m still alive and human, simply because I’m neither fifteen days ahead of schedule on my current projects nor working fifteen hours a day for six days a week. It’s odd, really—just realizing how much time you’ve spent at work when you have someone urging you to take tea and eat a proper meal and even sleep every day.

In short, yes, I’m fine. But thank you for checking on me, of course.

[Lanette can smell something burning.

It’s not wires. It’s not electricity. It’s not even wood, which sometimes happens when Bill’s playing with dragonfire again. No, it’s something else. Something ... familiar.

She pokes her head out of her room. Or, well, it’s not really her room as much as it is their room; since they made things serious, she’s been living at the Sea Cottage and sharing a bed with her partner. But that’s not important because it’s nine in the morning, Bill let her oversleep, and something is burning in the Sea Cottage.

And then the fire alarm goes off. Lanette rushes to the kitchen where she knows Bill’s kept the only fire alarm in the entire damned building outside of the lab, but she doesn’t have time to do anything because Foxglove is already on it, hovering right beside the alarm while frantically waving a tea towel in its general direction. Bill, meanwhile, is in front of the stove, covering one of the burners with a lid while staring fervently at Foxglove—probably issuing silent commands that the kadabra is frantically obeying.

“Um.”

And just like that, the tension between the trainer and his pokémon is broken, giving way to a wild look from Bill. He’s a growlithe caught in the act of setting the curtains ablaze, and he knows this is not proper behavior.

“Lanette!” he cries. Then, clearing his throat, he forces a smile. “Ah ... good morning?”

“Good morning to you,” she says. “There’s a fan above the stove. Reach up and press the button.”

Bill looks up at the console on the hood above him. “Oh. Of course.”

He follows her instructions, and the roar of the vent fan swallows the beeping of the fire alarm. Lanette puts her hands into the pockets of her linen pajama pants, then looks up at Foxglove.

“Twist it open, then remove the batteries,” she says.

Foxglove jumps to it, as if he was actually waiting for that instruction. And he probably was. Lanette doesn’t say anything to this, instead walking past him to Bill’s side. By the time she reaches the stove, the fire alarm is finally off. There was smoke, but there’s no fire—or at least, there shouldn’t be one, now that Bill’s suffocated the absolute crap out of it. She peers down at the stove to see a half-empty sauce pot full of scalded ... milk? She inhales and catches the scent.

Ah. Not cow milk. Coconut milk. And chocolate, it looks like. What’s left in the pan has separated into a slurry of curds, clumped-up cocoa powder, and thin water. Some of the concoction has dribbled down the side of the pan, and this tells her everything she needs to know, even before she gently nudges Bill’s hands off the pot lid and sees the burned remnants of hot chocolate forming a half-ring around the glass-top burner.

“I’d only taken my eyes off of it for a second!” Bill exclaimed, his words rushing into each other.

She gives him a reassuring but sympathetic smile but takes the handle of the pot and gives it a swirl. Badly curdled. Looks like it’s beyond repair, not that this would help the fact that half of it is all over the stovetop.

“It happens to the best of us,” she says. “Milk curdles and boils over, no matter what kind you use. Some do it faster than others.”

She takes the pot to the sink and empties it, then rinses it out and returns it to the stove—the other front burner this time.

“Wanna try again?” she asks.

Bill snaps out of his daze. He’d been looking at the burner while Lanette was working, as if debating something in his head. And noticing this expression, Lanette slides the lid back over the ring.

“You’ll ... want to let it cool for a bit,” she says. “Anyway, grab more coconut milk.”

He does so, and he’s back at her side in less than a second, silently nudging her out of the way of the pot as he fiddles with the cans.

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” he says. First can pops open, and in it goes.

“I probably should be up anyway,” she says. “It’s never good to sleep until noon.”

He doesn’t say anything to this. Instead, he reaches for the mess on the counter next to the stove and measures out cocoa powder. All the while, he continues as if she hadn’t said anything. “Honestly, I was hoping this would be a surprise. You’d just walked in on, well, part one.”

“Part one?”

“Yes. Cocoa. I’ve seen you make it, so I thought I could. The rest, however...”

She winces a little and gives him an uncertain look. “What was the rest?”

Bill clears his throat again, then mumbles something Lanette is almost certain is “French toast,” but she can’t be too certain.

“You had no idea how to make it, did you?” she asks.

“I have a recipe.”

“A recipe?”

A pause.

“No,” Bill admits. “I do not know how to make French toast.”

Lanette’s uncertain look cracks into one of gentle sympathy. She clears off the pot lid and starts cleaning up the burner next to her partner. She’ll need it, she realizes.

“I appreciate the effort,” she says slowly, “but I have to ask...”

“Yes?” Bill’s watching the pot like a pidgeot this time. Steady. Unwavering. Dedicated to seeing this through, one way or another.

“Why?” Lanette asks.

Bill smiles sheepishly, though he doesn’t take his eyes off the pot. “It’s ... ah. Well. Today is special, so I thought—”

“Special?”

“It’s-it’s Valentine’s Day,” Bill replies bluntly.

“Ah.”

Lanette retrieves a pot from a cabinet, followed by a bowl. There’s a small collection of items—packaged bread, eggs, coconut milk, cinnamon, sugar, vanilla—that’s materialized on a blank spot of the cabinet; Foxglove curls up in the corner after what he believes to be a job well done. Lanette mentally thanks him, then cracks an egg into the bowl.

“Don’t Johtonian men usually treat their significant others on White Day?” she asks.

“‘Men’ is a complicated word,” Bill replies.

She nearly points out that he’s dodging the question, but she doesn’t. She just snorts and finishes cracking eggs.

“But, ah. The truth is...” Bill punctuates his half-thought by stirring the hot cocoa.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you.”

Lanette mixes the toast batter in silence. She doesn’t mean to go quiet. It just sort of ... happens. Mostly because she’s confused. But she also knows that whatever he’s trying to say, it’s hard for him.

Because, well. Bill’s like that. He’s always been like that. He’s so good about addressing the whole concept of emotions and about paying attention to other people’s, but when it comes time for him to talk about his own? He just sort of ... clams up.

Lanette knows why, of course. She’s the only person who knows why, she’s pretty sure. Bill doesn’t trust easily—not generally speaking, and certainly not when it comes to this. It’ll take work for him to untangle that mess, and ... well, she can’t quite say she’s helping him work on that so much as realizing there’s a mess at all. But ... even small progress is progress.

“For what?” she asks. Quietly, of course. She doesn’t want to scare him off.

“For—” Bill stops. Catches himself. Tries again. “Well, for everything.”

Lanette gives him another reassuring smile and nods to the pot. “It’s probably done.”

Oil in the pan. Heat. First slice on. It’ll take time, like all things. Luckily, not as much time as fixing whatever’s going on with Bill, but still. He pours the cocoa and goes to set the mugs on the table, and it’s here that Lanette notices most of the pokémon have been cleared out.

“Did you recall everyone?” she asks.

“Of course I did,” he replies. “Do you have any idea what Primrose would do if she got her hands on this stuff?”

Lanette does, and it wouldn’t be a pretty sight. But still...

“Lanette?”

She freezes. There’s something to his voice.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he says.

She tenses again. She flicks through everything she knows about Bill. See, he’s really about patterns, if you just look hard enough. As chaotic as he might be in the lab, if you’ve been with him long enough, you can sort of predict what he’ll say next because all of his idiosyncrasies follow this rhythm—one that Lanette has spent a good portion of her life studying and understanding.

So she knows where this is heading.

“Bill,” she says. “If you’re about to ask me if I’m happy here, the answer is I am. I know I have a lab in Hoenn. We’ll figure out what to do with that soon.” She hears him breathe in and cuts him off again. “And I know it’s been weeks since you’ve gotten your cast off and since we came back from Crown Tundra, so now’s a good time, but ... I don’t know. There’s a lot to do to sort things out there—and I know you’ll be okay with helping, not to mention you might have to in order to help me figure out how to run Hoenn’s system remotely, but—”

“Lanette.”

“The point is that yes, I’m serious when I say I want to be here, okay? I’m serious when I say I want to stay here, not because I’m worried about whether or not those flygon genes will mess you up because apparently they won’t, but instead bec—”

“Lanette.”

“Bill, I’m trying to—”

She suddenly realizes he’s directly behind her, and she realizes this because a tail winds around her waist, and wings fold over her. He’s mostly human, but apparently, he felt he needed this many limbs to ease what she now realizes was ... probably a little more insistent and frantic than she’d intended. Where did that even come from? She relaxes in his arms.

“I know,” he says. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

Lanette runs through all the possibilities. Which one did she overlook? “Then ... what did you want to talk about?” She pauses. “You’re not about to propose, are you?”

“What? No.”

He rests his head on her shoulder. “I ... I love you. That’s what this is about.”

Lanette pauses. Bill admitting his feelings? Not mincing words? Not framing it as “I care deeply about you”? This. This is new.

“I love you too,” she replies. She doesn’t know what else to say. She leans against him and closes her eyes, and they stand there for a moment until Bill lifts his head.

“Is it supposed to be that dark?” he asks.

Lanette snaps her eyes and looks down at the pan and immediately reaches for the pot lid.

“Um,” she squeaks. “No. No, it’s not.”]

#asks #powerverse #about the author #about the editor #{Happy Valentine's Day everyone!}#Anonymous

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gascon-en-exil · 3 years

Note

What are New Orleans' boulangeries made of? Cant be as French as the ones in France? Unless.. France cuisine is a winner

We don’t call them boulangeries. I mean, there is a bakery Uptown called La Boulangerie, but it’s only about twenty years old at most and seems to be one of several recent attempts at bringing back traditional French fare into New Orleans cuisine. There are a number of other local bakeries that specialize in French and/or Italian pastries, but again that’s more of a recent thing. The culinary tradition of Louisiana developed organically over a period of three centuries, with French cuisine as its largest but not sole cornerstone...and as the French language was effectively banned from common use here for a period of nearly a century (from Reconstruction up through the late 1960s) its continued use in referring to food can be rather subtle.

This city does have a handful of notable bread products though:

French bread

This is just a baguette under a different name. It is served before a meal with butter or (less commonly) olive oil or as a side with the main dish, where it is considered socially acceptable to use to mop up the excess roux/sauce on your place. Aside from that though it’s pretty much never eaten on its own. It’s used as the bread for the sandwiches known as poboys -

- considered analogous to what the rest of the US calls subway sandwiches only with the different type of bread and usually filled with either roast beef (the traditional Great Depression-era fare of laborers, and also the source of the name) or fried seafood like shrimp, oysters, or catfish. They aren’t quite what I’d call street fare, more of a lunch food, but many casual restaurants specialize in poboys. There’s also seafood baked into bread, like this crawfish bread

along with onions, garlic, and other seasonings. I guess you could say it’s like seafood pizza - although actual seafood pizza is also a thing in some restaurants. Fun fact: I was once in the company of a number of middle-aged Italian men from New York, and when I told them that shrimp was one of my favorite pizza toppings they looked at me like I’d killed their mothers. Apparently in traditional Italian - or New York Italian, maybe? - cuisine mixing seafood and dairy is a serious culinary faux pas.

Beignets

Beignet is the French word for “doughnut,” and these sourdough pastries are indeed described sometimes in Louisiana as French doughnuts although I don’t particularly care for that - they more resemble sopapillas or funnel cake, and if a piece of media ever derisively refers to “fried dough” in connection with New Orleans this is what they’re talking about. There are eateries, most famously Café du Monde, that serve almost exclusively beignets and coffee. It’s primarily a breakfast food*...and for the record it is possible to order them with less sugar, which I almost always do. It’s not about being healthy for me though; that powdered sugar can make a huge mess.

*Or a “it’s 3 AM and the booze and/or drugs are starting to wear off and I need to eat something now and it’s either beignets or the standard American greasy spoon place that is also conveniently open all night specifically to cater to the recently inebriated”. Sometimes New Orleans cuisine is like that.

Bread pudding

Bread pudding is not exclusive to Louisiana by any means, but as a dessert it’s a popular local pick and does follow from the French tradition of making use of stale bread, i.e. pain perdu, lit. “lost bread” and what the English-speaking world otherwise refers to as French toast. In New Orleans it’s often served with a whiskey, rum, or caramel sauce or else with ice cream.

King cake/Galette des Rois

Served exclusively during Carnival, at least by every bakery I’m aware of (although I’m sure there are bakeries outside Louisiana that sell knockoffs year round), king cakes are a popular tradition of the season absolutely loaded with Catholic symbolism. Every Catholic culture that celebrates Carnival has its own traditions, and those of Louisiana are heavily although not exclusively French in origin. New Orleans king cakes are always circular, made with heavy amounts of cinnamon and either dusted with sugar or covered in icing, with the more famous bakeries being associated with different styles (as one might expect for a pastry you can only get for about two months out of every year). You can get them either like the one above or with a variety of fruit fillings for added flavor.

The sugar or icing is colored purple, green, and gold - the colors of Carnival, which also have religious significance - and following from the medieval tradition of hiding a coin in the cake New Orleans bakeries insert a plastic baby like the one shown to represent the infant Christ (on the Catholic liturgical calendar, Carnival falls roughly into the time commemorating Christ’s life from His Nativity to reaching adulthood and beginning His ministry). However, while getting the coin used to represent good luck for the coming year getting the baby in Louisiana is the opposite; in settings like schools and offices it’s tradition for one person to buy a king cake each week of Carnival for everyone to share, and whoever gets the baby has to buy the cake the following week. I have two theories for this reversal - that it’s either a reflection of the stingy haute bourgeoisie values of Créole culture or else that it’s a characteristically morbid nod to how it would be possible to get the piece with the baby without knowing it and then choke on it and die, which anyone here would consider to be a hilarious way to go (doubly so since the baby represents Christ) - but bear in mind that I have no real evidence to support either of those.

Doberge cake

This one is not French in origin, but rather an adaptation of a Hungarian dessert with mild French influences from Alsace-Lorraine made of alternating layers of cake and dessert pudding as well as buttercream. The traditional version is half lemon cake and half chocolate cake, but variations exist. Ownership of this recipe has changed hands several times, and since its introduction in the 1930s doberge cake has always been exclusively associated with one particular bakery or another.

Baked Alaska

Another dessert invented in New Orleans, by the restaurant Antoine’s which is the oldest extant restaurant in the city (and possibly the US?) dating back to 1840. It’s ice cream and sponge cake topped with a browned meringue, and while there’s debate over the source of its name it seems to mostly be a play on the dish’s combination of hot and cold elements. Apparently in France this is known as an omelette à la norvégienne (”Norwegian omelette”) which I think is an even funnier name.

Hmm, am I forgetting anything? Probably. As I said when someone showed me that clip from The Simpsons where a character eats his way through New Orleans dishes for close to two solid minutes, this city’s culinary tradition is so vast and storied that even people like me who’ve lived here their whole lives would be hard-pressed to name every single thing that’s been invented or made popular in this city - or in Louisiana more broadly, for that matter. It’s not like eating (or drinking) in France, but then it’s not like eating anywhere else in the US either which we consider a point of pride.

#Louisiana Francophones #New Orleans Francophones #New Orleans cuisine #Louisiana cuisine

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aelaer · 3 years

Text

Re: Blood in Your Veins

Hey so uh.

As anyone who’s been following me for a while knows, I started the serial “The Blood In Your Veins” about this time last year (it used to be ‘my veins’ but retitled it on its move to AO3 because execution of prompt had changed a bit over writing). It’s a prompt that I couldn’t stop thinking about and just dabbled in slowly to see where it went. Then 2020 fully hit and my writing came to almost a complete stop until about October, which is when I began again on Illuminating the Shadows, which was finished and posted in December.

Anyway, I’ve been poking and prodding fairly continuously at The Blood in Your Veins. The first four parts that I posted originally here on tumblr are now all on AO3, and once part 5′s up I’ll link it here and link everyone who wanted alerts to the updates then so they can see the new part. Then all future parts will be linked here as well.

(Cut because why the *hell* did I write this much about this?)

I’ve been slow in posting because I, against better judgement but why not, decided to post it as a WIP. But that means I keep on making edits to older parts because I think of something new that should be addressed earlier in the story. Like uh, when I was writing part 9, I realized I needed to go back to part 5 and add an addendum. When I was writing part 12, I realized I totally forgot a part that I ended up adding in part 8, because I needed it for a future connection. This happens all the time in my writing and makes posting WIPs almost dangerous because my thinking is rarely linear if the story takes place over a course of more than a couple days. Thus the very slow posting.

So this silly little prompt thing that I was just prodding and poking at to see where it went? The farking doc passed 50k words tonight. Yup.

Granted, like 10k of that is probably outlining, personal notes, and A/Ns filled to the brim with meta, medical science, fake science, and technical/computer engineering because I love talking about it and giving people info to access easily for their own knowledge. I figure I can’t be the only one who finds this stuff super fascinating and fanfic makes it unique in that it’s not a book where the research is irrelevant, you can show off all the interesting stuff right here and talk about it with people! I love that about fanfic, so much. Sometimes the A/Ns are just as interesting as the story in some stories.

So it’s gonna be a bit slow for however long, but I finished 11 parts (with 10 betaed), have the 12th largely written out (though I’m not 100% sure about it yet so I want to poke at it more), and parts uh, 13 to 17ish outlined. But considering I was like “yeah this is 8 parts at most” like, at the beginning of this, that number is bound to change because characters keep saying things and doing things (including the supporting OCs, who are demanding to be fully fleshed out within the bounds of supporting character roles).

And yeah, this is just a ramble of what I’ve been mostly doing as I haven’t been super active on tumblr this month as this has consumed most of my free time. I haven’t read a lot of works either, and once this is completed I hope to remedy that, before I go into my next two big projects (which were meant to be what I was working on *now*, but then this took over and what will you do. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to complete three novel-length fics in the course of the year, but I’ll see what I can do. I really want to tell these stories).

Uh, this was really long. Sorry, I’m super verbose and don’t know how to be like, succinct. My old boss, two bosses ago now, used to quote Twain about brevity being a sign of wit, but if it is, call me 100% unwitty because I like to ramble. And then I always feel a little bit guilty for writing *so much* about my bullshit, so I feel like if you read this far, you 100% deserve to read a preview of an upcoming section. Especially since you pressed the Read More button! So here you go, thanks for reading my rambles. This is a section from the longest part so far, part 8. It’s a long little bit!

---

"How high's the toxicity now?" Tony asked as he stepped off the scale.

"Yesterday's blood sample came back at 0.45 milligrams per kilogram of your weight," Stephen replied. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

Tony offered his arm for the blood draw. "And if 3 milligrams is the magic number for fatality, that'd put my current blood toxicity at 15%."

Stephen inserted the needle at the crook of Tony's elbow and watched the tube fill up. "That's not quite how it works."

"It makes sense to me."

"That's still not how it works." He removed the needle and capped the tube, and as he put everything away, explained, "Saying that your blood toxicity is at 15% implies that you're talking about the whole volume of blood in your body. You're probably at about 5,500 milliliters with your weight, and with the density of blood equaling about 1.06 grams per milliliter, it is like you're saying—"

"That 874.5 grams of my blood is toxic, yeah, yeah, I know," Tony interrupted. By now he was setting up the table for their breakfast.

"I was getting there."

"You were going too slow," he shot back easily. Stephen gave the engineer a look at the comment, but Tony ignored it. "Yeah, I know it's not my whole body's blood volume. Obviously. But putting a percentage on how long until I reach the point that I'm dead makes sense to me. I'm not measuring the whole volume of my blood, I'm measuring how much more can I handle until I'm dead."

Stephen shot him a frown. "It doesn't make sense to call it 'blood toxicity' then."

"Maybe not to you, but it does to me. And I'd design such a measuring tool for me."

The statement caught him off guard. "Design?" He finished packing up the kit and joined Tony at the table.

"Well, if I wasn't stuck in here, I'd design something to automatically read a blood sample, like how glucose meters read blood sugar levels. Wouldn't be hard to engineer something like that. And I'd have it give me the amount of toxicity as a percentage relating to how far along it was until the amount was lethal. Sure, I could memorize the numbers, but the percentage would be more concrete in my head."

Stephen smeared butter over a piece of bread as he listened. He shook his head at the end of Tony's explanation. "Wouldn't work for the consumer market; there's too much room for interpretation as to what the percentage means."

Tony huffed. "Well, like I said, it'd be for me. Not the consumer market."

His brow furrowed. "You're telling me that you can make a blood test as simple as the one used for testing blood sugar levels for something as rare as palladium poisoning?"

He narrowed his eyes. "... yes…"

"You can make it portable like the glucose meters?"

"Yeah, of course."

"And affordable to most hospitals?"

Tony looked up in thought. "I don't usually factor in the costs of materials and manufacturing in personal projects, and others do the number crunching to see if my ideas are viable for production in company projects. If they aren't, but I really want them to be, I'll tinker a bit more, sure."

Stephen couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Do you realize the amount of money you could save for both hospitals and patients across the country with such technology? Specialized blood tests—like for many metal poisonings, for instance—aren't offered at every hospital. It may not be available even in every state. Those types of lab results can take weeks to get back to a doctor and the patient. And you're saying that you can not only potentially create this type of technology, but that you may be able to make it affordable if you really want them to be?"

"Well yeah, sure. I've done it a few times with other things. I could probably do that with a blood meter thing. I doubt the tech's that complicated."

His mouth was partially hanging open, Stephen realized this, but he couldn't bother at the moment. He was flabbergasted. The first thought that came to mind went to his mouth, unfiltered. "And you spent the last two decades building weapons."

"Don't." The word was sharp and filled with an overabundance of emotion.

Stephen fell silent. He crossed a boundary he had yet to see before now, and he was not so callous as to push against it. Instead he turned to his meal and focused on eating. He avoided looking at the other man.

A couple minutes later, Tony spoke again. It was low, pensive. Thoughtful. "There was a good reason I shut down weapons manufacturing after I got back from Afghanistan, you know. If the department ever comes back, it will be with major restrictions and modifications. Likely more defensive than offensive. More shields, less missiles. But in the meantime I've been restructuring. Expanded in commercial aerospace and industry. We entered the energy market properly. Consumer products is coming soon—end of the year, probably." A pause. "Don't see why we can't look into medical tech, either. Certainly wouldn't hurt to try."

He could only nod and say, "It certainly wouldn't."

#my writing #my wips #fic snippet #stephen strange #tony stark #also why do my fics spiral out of control like this #i mean really

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trillian-anders · 4 years

Text

grilled cheese

pairing: chef!bucky x plus!reader

warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, a little self-depreciation. mostly fluff.

word count: 2746

Description: chef!au; you can tell a good chef by how he makes his grilled cheese.

for @captainscanadian;; the cbc 1k writing challenge

just a taste masterlist

“May I have the… king burger and a side of the Parmesan truffle fries please?” This food truck was your favorite in the city, it just so happened to be parked right outside of your job, and definitely served up some spicy creole flavors. It had gumbo and jambalaya by the cup, a burger that shouldn’t work as an ode to kings bread but it did and fresh beignets straight from the fryer if you had a sweet tooth.

“Would you like something to drink?” The men who worked it were just a plus, the two of them both terribly handsome, the one currently taking your order was smooth. Impossibly smooth. The gap in his front teeth was incredibly endearing, but the wedding band on his finger and the sweet tone he usually used with you led to you believe his marriage was a happy one.

“We’ve got the Big Shot Pineapple back in,” A sweaty bottle placed on the ledge, “I know that’s your favorite.” And you did love some pineapple soda, but you’d been trying to eat healthier, and ignoring the fact that you were ordering a burger and fries you fought yourself for a moment on whether or not this soda would be too much.

“Stop pressuring her, Sam.” The man behind him joked, “She’ll get the soda if she wants it.” A smirk on his lips. Your heart skipped a beat. It was no secret to your coworker behind you, Nat, that you had a crush on Bucky Barnes. His strong jaw and bright blue eyes, that tight bun on the back of his head and his fucking biceps. Those strong arms that were wrapped in colorful tattoos. You’d sat near the food truck every Friday since it’d started parking here two months ago and watched him work.

The kind smile he’d give people, the funny remarks as he cooked their food. The sweat dripping down his face as he lifted the lid off the pot of jambalaya to spoon out a portion. You’d drool over whatever you’d ordered that day watching him work.

“You should ask him out,” Nat popped a fry into her mouth. “He likes you.” You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the cheap pineapple soda that was just so fucking good.

“He’s nice to me because I tip well,” You wiped your fingers on a napkin, watching him powder beignets and hand them to a sweet little boy, icing sugar still on his fingers. You sighed, looking down at your burger. “Maybe once I lose some weight.” The burger was half eaten as you stare at it with despair. You had been doing so well today, but the sign on the side of the truck said they were only making it the week of Mardi Gras so they wouldn’t have it next week so you HAD TO get it.

It was a very good reason.

“What’s wrong with you right now?” The red headed goddess asked, being someone who hadn’t been a pound overweight her entire life. You rolled your eyes, “No seriously, you’re the same person whether you’re overweight or not. And I can tell when someone likes you and he likes you.”

“I know I’m the same person,” You took another sip of soda, “I’m just….” How do you say it? “Guys have to be into my body type, I guess. I can’t just go out and approach anyone for a date.” You popped a fry in your mouth, “They have to like fat girls.”

“I hate when you say that.” Nat shook her head.

“Say what?” You licked the parmesan truffle flavoring off your finger.

“Fat.” You laughed, rolling your eyes.

“Doesn’t mean I’m ugly.” You took a glance over at the subject of the conversation, Sam must have said something funny to him because he was laughing. That head thrown back, grab your belly laugh. Fuck he was so hot. His eyes met yours across the pavilion. And he winked. He fucking winked.

“Just go ask him.” Nat stole another fry. “He always gives you extra fries, he practically pays for your lunch,” There was always something they ‘forgot’ to charge you for after they swiped your card.

“No big deal.” Sam would say, he would elbow his buddy, “It’s on the house.” It happened more often than would be normal.

“I’m just saying, instead of thirsting over him, at least go give him your number.” Maybe next week. This week you’d spilled some juice from your burger all over your blouse.

“Next week.” You agreed, “New week I’ll give him my number.”

You’d been on track with your diet all week, the salads, protein smoothies, healthy snacks. That way, you reasoned, on Friday when the ‘Connect Nola’ food truck parked on the pavillion you’d be able to treat yourself with something good.

And something better than good.

He was wearing a black t-shirt today, his hair in a high bun on his head, strands framing his face. A clear plastic poked out of the back of his shirt on what looked like fresh ink he’d gotten since last time you’d seen him. The special was a boneless fried chicken breast and red pepper jam on a biscuit.

“That’s what you should get.” Bucky said from his place over the flat top. Two fryers working hard next to him. “It’s my recipe, so it’s good.”

“As opposed to mine?” Sam smacked his friend, scooting himself around him to pluck the pineapple soda from the cooler. Bucky laughed.

“I’ve got some fried green tomatoes for you too if you want them.” He winked. Your mouth watered.

“You’re going to kill me.” You sighed, “Of course I want them.” Bucky smirked,

“Good cause they’re almost done.” He was stirring some kind of sauce in a metal bowl that after he placed the four thick slices of fried tomato in the paper container he poured over top. The two paper containers were placed on the counter, pineapple soda sweating next to them. You pulled out your card, flipping it between your fingers when Bucky stepped in front of Sam to hand you your food.

“How much do I owe you?” Your voice was breathy, heart racing at the sight of him so close. He leaned over the side, crossing his arms on the counter.

“Dinner, tonight maybe?” A charming smile, almost bashful. Your heart skipped a beat.

“I was going to ask you out.” You laughed. His smile widened.

“Well now you don’t have to… so?” His number had already been scribbled on the take out container next to him. “I’ll see you later.” Nat elbowed you to respond.

“Yeah… yes!” You took the warm containers from him, his fingers brushing yours. “Yes, later. Okay.” You bumped into Nat as you stepped backwards. “Bye.”

He smirked in response, “Bye.”

“I have nothing to wear.” You groaned over the phone. Nat laughed from the other side,

“What about that black dress with the flowers?” The one you’d bought from the flea market in the summer. “Wear that.”

The doorbell rang and your heart dropped. “Fuck, he’s here. Hold on.” You quickly shifted through your closet finding the dress she was talking about. “Just a minute!” You called to the man behind the door. “I’m so fucking disorganized.” You said to your friend on the phone, “Where are those heels?”

“The black ones with the thick strap? They’re under your bed. You kicked them off when we got back from brunch last week. I’m sure.” She was right. The dress was soon slipped over your head, heels buckled. “Use protection, be safe, and if you need anything call me.” Your face flushed with the thought.

“Hey,” You panted, opening the door. Bucky stood on the other side, nice slacks and a dark blue button down. “Sorry, I was just…” You gestured behind yourself, catching your breath.

“It’s okay,” He laughed, “I uhh…” He raised a brown paper bag he’d been holding. “I figured I’d cook you dinner, if that’s okay?” So you put on the shoes for nothing, he laughed, “I’m sorry, but yeah, you put on the shoes for nothing.”

“Shit,” You covered your face with your hand, not realizing you’d said it out loud, “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” Bucky lowered the bag, “Can I come in?” You stepped to the side,

“Of course, I’m sorry.” Being an adult you’ve taken a lot of time perfecting your living space enough that you didn’t need to go out if you didn’t want to. You were fairly proud of your home, the apartment you’d spent the last couple years in slowly collecting items to finally make it yours. From the soft velvety throw down to the little knick knacks that didn’t make it too minimalistic.

“You’ve got a really nice place here,” He put the bag down on the kitchen counter, he pulled out a bottle of wine and what looked like the ingredients to, “Grilled cheese,” He shrugged sheepishly, “You can always tell a good chef by his grilled cheese. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” You dug through the silverware drawer, pulling out the wine key. “I love grilled cheese.” Two stemless glasses joined you on the counter as you poured the red wine, Bucky opening two different cabinets before finding your pans.

“We’ve got to get you better pans than this.” He joked, waving your cheap Walmart nonstick pan in the air.

“That pan does exactly what I need it to do,” You laughed, “Sit and gather dust.” He rolled his eyes, quickly rinsing the pan out and drying it. You took a sip of your wine as he started.

“Have you always wanted to be a chef?” You asked, stealing a piece of cheese off the cutting board. It was a sharp cheese, tangy on your tongue. He cut another slice. Three different cheeses he had for this sandwich. Along with sun dried tomatoes and a slab of uncut bacon.

“My Ma was a really good cook,” He begins, “When I was a kid I would always be in the kitchen with her, cooking and baking.” A thick bar of chocolate, eggs and other baking ingredients had been set off to the side for later. A dessert he was going to make that he said would be a surprise.

“Cooking has always been love for me. It’s a good way to bring people together and a good way to show someone you love them.” His fingers stopped slicing the cheese, looking up at you through his lashes he backtracks, “Not that I love you, not that I don’t care about you because I care about you, but I don’t love you, but not like—“

“I get it.” You laughed, taking another sip of wine, the red in his cheeks in a full flush. He took a steady sip of wine,

“Have you always wanted to work for Stark?” The cheese was set aside, the thick crust bread sliced, he lay the slab of bacon on the cutting board, working your knife that he’d very expertly sharpened, down the slab, cutting thick slices.

“Not always,” You mused, “I kind of just fell into this job. My roommate from college, Natasha, had done an internship there during our last year and I originally wanted to go to graduate school, but I haven’t quite decided if I wanted to stick with my major or not, so she helped me get a job just doing clerical work and overtime I’ve just worked my way up a bit. Now I run my own department. So I guess I’m not going anywhere.” He nodded, laying the thick pieces of bacon on a baking sheet, the oven already preheated.

“What did you want to do?” He asked, placing the bacon in the oven. You sighed,

“It’s dumb,” He turned to you with an incredulous look,

“Try me.” He started making a batter for the dessert.

“I wanted to be a writer.” You shrugged, “Like books.” You gestured to the small library you’d collected for yourself. Stacks of books in your living room next to the shelves of books on your walls. “I have drafts of things, but nothing serious.”

“You should pursue that.” He poured batter into two medium size ramekins he’d brought himself, tapping the bottom against the counter. “You seem like you’d be an amazing writer.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Not good enough.” To tell the truth you’d sent out a couple chapters to some publishers and had nothing but rejection letters, you’d all but given up on it.

He told you more about his family, his sisters, how his parents were still very much in love. “Sam and I with our buddy Steve had all enlisted at the same time.” He flipped the grilled cheese revealing a perfectly crisped brown bread. “Steve decided to have a military career so he’s working in DC right now, Sam and I decided to own our own restaurant, right now we’re going the food truck thing until we have enough to buy our spot in the city, then hopefully we will have the truck and the home store.”

The grilled cheese was fragrant, the three cheeses melted together on a spread of the sun dried tomatoes, thick cut bacon in between. He took his chefs knife and cut the sandwiches down the middle, plating them with ease. “This is so fucking good.” You moaned, the first bite, the crunch, the cheese, the tang from the tomatoes, the bacon perfectly cooked and melty in the middle. Bucky smirked at you from across the table, finishing off his first half.

“I’m honestly surprised you asked me out.” You popped a piece of crust that had fallen onto the side of the plate. Bucky looked at you confused.

“Why do you say that?” Fuck it was the wine, making you feel a little shitty. You were a little drunk to be fair.

“You’re just…. You.” You gestured towards him, “So fit and handsome and like… I don’t know.” Bucky shook his head.

“You’re gorgeous,” He scoffed, “You’re literally the whole reason we even started coming to the pavilion every week. I don’t want to hear that shit.” You sat back in your chair watching him take another sip of his wine, stunned. “Guys really fuck me up because someone probably treated you like you needed to be a certain way to be loved and it’s just not true. I’m attracted to you, you’re kind and funny and smart.” He wiped his fingers on his napkin, “Doesn’t matter to me either way.” Your weight. Didn’t matter. “I like you.”

His eyes were intense and sent a shiver down your spine. “I’m sorry.” You said quietly, “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t.” His hand gently grasped yours, pulling it up to his lips. “I just wanted you to know I like you, no matter what.” Okay. Okay. He leaned in, shifting in his chair to lay an arm over the back of yours, taking the hand he held and placing it on his cheek he softly pressed his lips to yours.

Your lips parted and met again. And again. And the timer went off on the counter. His phone shrill and loud letting you know dessert was done. “Hold please.” He whispered against your lips. You felt cold when he removed himself from you, puttering around in the kitchen you heard the stove being turned off and he returned a moment later. “Careful they’re hot.” Two perfect chocolate molten cakes, icing sugar and white chocolate sauce drizzled on top.

“Thank you for tonight.” The two of you stood in front of your open door, his shoes had been slipped back on, hair no longer in a messy bun it hung loose around his shoulders. You were sure it had been your fingers that had worked it loose, but you couldn’t be sure.

The hot and intense make-out session you’d just had on your couch, tongues mixing and tasting of chocolate. Heavy breaths and soft moans melding together, and just the appropriate amount of wandering hands.

“No,” He said, twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers, “Thank you.” A breath away he pressed his lips to yours again, slowly. Savoring it. “Breakfast tomorrow?” He breathed, resting his forehead against yours in your doorway. You grinned, running a hand down his arm,

“Same place?” He grinned before taking your lips once more,

“It’s a date.”

taglist// @bookish-shristi @saturnki @jennmurawski13 @geeksareunique @the-soulofdevil @tinmunky @captainscanadian @albinotigerpython

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #sam wilson #chef!au #plus!reader #the falcon and the winter soldier #captain america #the winter soldier #falcon #cbc1kwc

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

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Also saw you're doing requests so yay!!. Any chance of jercy bakery au? Love your work sm hope you have a great day ☺☺

My Darling Anon how dare you make me fall more in love with Jercy???????? I squealed when i saw this and then promptly started writing even though i should be studying for my (ironically) Greek Mythology test.

i hope you love it because if i fail at least i know it’ll be worth it :) Also this was honestly supposed to be a quick drabble and it somehow ended up as 1,5K+ words so??? #isanyonesurprisedthough

Masterlist

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason Grace smiled as the birds beside his head chirped and then swiped his phone to cut off the amusing sound. His fiery friend, and co-worker thought it was hilarious to steal his phone and change his alarm tone every few weeks. Usually it was something inane and silly like a cartoon laugh track or just a repeating “It’s time to get up BakerBoi” that gets increasingly louder. He had arrived to work with a scowl on his face only to see the shit-eating grin of Leo Valdez waiting at the door.

Now Jason stumbles out of bed, letting his limbs loosen as he pads softly to the bathroom, feeling cool tile and a winter breeze on his exposed skin. He loves mornings like this, when the world isn’t quite awake, and the sky hasn’t decided what colour it wants to be for the day. He knows in is baker’s bones that it’ll be cold and rainy, but he has time for a morning jog before the world starts crying.

“Good morning boss,” A bright eyed, fidgeting Leo greets as he steps into the bakery.

Jason had been there at seven thirty, pulling down the café chairs and cleaning the counters. He already had a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies and about three different types of muffins in the oven. The bread was waiting for the busy hands of Leo and Hazel who somehow always seemed to make heavenly fluffed, soft rolls and the deliciously crusty baguettes. Hazel jokes that it’s the New Orleans blood that flows through her veins. They’re all half inclined to agree.

“Morning Valdez, I like the alarm this week.” He tosses a grin over his shoulder before going back to his icing ritual. Mix, taste, mix, ice.

“I figured you would old man. Even though i much prefer my ASMR food audio from last week. What’s the specialty today?”

“We need to get beignets out and the pain au chocolats before the breakfast crowd. Also the fruit stuffed pastry twists and the honey bread have to be prepped before we open so we can bring them out hot in time for the brunch crowd. Specialty today is a new thing I’ve been working on. Blue blondie doughnuts with Oreo cream filling and sugar glaze.”

“Gods boss, you tryna give people heart failure?”

“Just trying to insert some sweetness into the world,” He winked.

Before Leo could give an undoubted snarky reply a bubbly head of dark brown curls and glittering eyes popped around the door.

“Goooood morning everyone,”

Jason couldn’t help the smile that graced his face at her cheeriness, “Hello Miss Levesque, glad to see a prettier face around here,”

Leo made a strangled noise of indignation from the other side of the kitchen but didn’t get the chance to voice his offense before the last member of their little group walked in.

“Ah there you are Miss McLean, I do wonder how you arrive with Hazel and still manage to get in after her.”

She gave him an exasperated look, “I have to say goodbye to my girlfriend before I come in Boss. You’re the one who banned couple calls in the bakery.”

“Well maybe if we didn’t have to hear you and Annabeth explicitly planning your night’s activities I wouldn’t have had to do that.”

Piper just rolled her eyes and went to grab her apron and a cloth to wipe down the tables.

"Everyone ready?" He asked, from the door of the kitchen an hour later.

"Ready for the storm boss," They all yelled back, as they did each morning.

"Then let's roll like thunder," He grinned, flinging the doors to Ambrosia Bakery open.

"Oh thank the heavens, I could smell the goodness from here and it was a struggle to keep the drool in," One Reyna Avila Ramirez Arellano breathed in deep.

"Good morning my favourite customer," Leo smirked from behind the counter.

"Jason tell your bread boy to stand down before I make him,"

"Is that an invitation?" Dark eyebrows wiggled in amusement.

"That is a threat," She growled.

"Well mark me down as scared and h—"

"Valdez I swear if you finish that sentence I'm putting you on wash-up duty for the next week."

A faint "you got it boss" followed Jason into the kitchen, where he allowed himself to smile. It was an ongoing amusement that Leo flirted with Reyna and in return she came up with increasingly terrifying threats.

"Jason, your sister is here to see you" Hazel said, gently shoving him out the way so she could take over rolling the pastry.

"Get the doughnuts ready for the fryer I'll be back soon, thank you!"

He maneuvered around a blushing Leo who had icing on his nose and a suspicious lipstick stain on his cheek, finally making his way to the confectioners stand.

"What's up loser?" He said by way of greeting.

"Hey you're only allowed to call me that if you come baring nice things." Thalia Grace frowned.

"I am nice things," He pouted.

"Not even on your best day." She snorted, "I want to know if you're coming to the gala this weekend. I need a date to steal extra bread-sticks for me."

"Why can't I just make you bread-sticks and we can sit in your lounge and watch bad reality TV?" He groaned

"Because I have to show face or the sponsors aren't going to sponsor. Besides you need a night out. You're gonna start smelling like bread if you don't take a break."

"It's insulting that you think I wouldn't want to smell like breadsticks."

She laughed at, that ruffling his hair, "Just be ready by seven. You better be wearing a suit."

And with that his sister had grabbed her daily croissant and cappuccino and vanished into the drizzling day.

Before he could make it back to his safe haven beside the ovens and marbled counter-tops a flash of black hair caught his eye.

Turning around he couldn't contain the grin that tugged at his lips; standing by the counter already staring intently at the newest creation was Jason's favourite customer.

"Hello Percy Jackson,"

"Jason," A dazzling smile revealed pearl white teeth and the tiniest dimple on a cheek the color of rich toffee.

"I see you've already found Neptune's Tridoughnut,"

A bright laugh escaped a wickedly beautiful mouth, "Oh I love that. How'd you come up with that one?"

Jason smiled softly, debating whether to tell the owner of the 5-Oceans Conservation Company that he was the muse behind all of his latest creations, hence the variations of green and blue.

Instead, as he did every time Percy asked, he lied, "My sister went to an opening ceremony for a new exhibit at the Education center all about Mythology so I thought I’d offer my services and well, they were a hit."

Piper who was walking past at that exact moment coughed something that sounded suspiciously like "Liar" but with a pointed glare she disappeared behind the counter.

"That sounds great. Guess I'll have to recruit you for all my functions," He winked, a small smirk playing at his lips.

Jason cursed his pale cheeks and hoped the blush he now sported wasn't too noticeable, "What can I get you besides a specialty doughnut?"

"Can I get one banana and walnut muffin, a dozen chic chips, and I'm gonna go see mom this afternoon so maybe a couple of caramel pastry twists and some blueberry muffins?"

"Sure. I guess Estelle is off her carrot cake faze?" He laughed, remembering how Percy had to stop at the bakery twice a week to grab carrot and pecan mini cakes just for his little sister.

"Ugh she's onto wanting fruit in absolutely everything now so my mom has been frantically buying boxes of peaches, strawberries and apples to cut up and send with her for lunch at school." Green eyes rolled in fake annoyance.

"Well if she likes fruit things maybe she should try the raspberry and orange pastry twists?" He pointed to a display stand piled with various pastries coloured by blackberry jam, apricot pieces, kiwi slices and mango syrup.

"I could kiss you right now!" Percy exclaimed rushing towards the display, unaware that the baker was frozen to the spot.

I could kiss you, could kiss you, kiss you, kiss...

Jason's brain had short-circuited, his neurons too busy having a dance party with his hormones to process the world.

I could kiss you.

A lazy, unconscious smile took over his face as he stood there in the middle of his bakery, arms slack, head lolled, and eyes crinkled.

"Jason?" A faraway voice called.

"Jason? Hello?"

And suddenly a hand was waving in front of his vision trying to get his attention.

He pulled himself out of his reverie, blinking back into existence, "Right yes the pastries"

"Didn’t get enough sleep last night?" Percy teased, slugging him softly in the shoulder.

He snorted at the implication, "Unfortunately I'm a bit of a grandfather. Sleep early, rise early."

"Oh guess you like morning activities then,"

He sputtered, head snapping up to stare into twinkling eyes, "N-no, I just meant—"

"I'm kidding Mr BakerMan," That brilliant, bright laugh again, "I know you're a homebody. Your sister likes to tell me how boring you are."

He huffed at that, "We'll see if she gets her pear tarts this weekend."

"Speaking of this weekend," A sly grin played at Percy's mouth, "Are you coming to the gala?"

"Yea," He sighed, "Thalia says she needs me to steal bread-sticks ."

Sea green eyes widened before Percy burst out laughing. In a matter of moments tears were streaming down his face.

If Jason wasn't so smitten with that gorgeous smile and those mischievous eyes he may have been inclined to laugh too. But Percy Jackson was a vision he half believed only his dreams could conjure.

When the laughter had mostly seized Percy wiped his eyes and managed to gasp, "That sounds exactly like something Thalia would ask. When we worked on the marine life project together she always stole the mints from every CEO’s office because she said they had enough money to buy a mint factory, they could afford to replace a single bowl."

"Yep, her life goal is to end capitalism. I swear if it wasn't for Annabeth, Thalia would be walking into office buildings with a sack like some reverse Santa Claus where she steals the office supplies and fruit bowls."

"Well I can't wait to see you stuffing your pockets with bread-sticks on Saturday so I guess I'll see you then," He gave another dazzling smile.

"Yea, and say hello to little Estelle for me. Tell me how she likes the pastries."

"Don't worry I'm sure I'll be back soon with a long list of request."

"Can't wait." He grinned.

Percy chuckled, "Me neither, see you Friday." And then he was gone.

Oh gods, Jason thought, how am I ever gonna survive Percy in a suit?

***

Spoiler alert past-Jason: you didn't.

#Okay but i lowkey love baker jason and big boss percy #Thank you Anon #this ask was too cute #PJSSG asks #she speaks #jercy fic #baby fanfic #baby fanfic series #jercy fanfic #percy jackson #jason grace #jason #grace #percy #jackson #PJO #HOO

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ironbullsmissingeye · 3 years

Text

4. Decorating Gingerbread Houses

A Christmas fic for- @noire-pandora

Shokrakar and Elluin stood in the kitchens, their gingerbread houses had been baked and assembled by the cooks but that was it, they’d left the pair some stuff to decorate with, icing, powdered sugar, candy canes, and so much more. The kitchens were still warm from the ovens and the scent of ginger filled the air, it made Shokrakar’s stomach growl loudly, he hadn’t had his lunch yet, but he had been snacking on bread rolls so he should be able to ignore to gurgling from his belly for a while, especially since he would soon be eating a whole gingerbread house.

“So, Shok, any ideas on how you’re gonna decorate your house?” Elluin asked him as she began to look over the decorating tools.

“Nah,” Shokrakar shrugged. “Just gonna go with the flow, why...have you planned something?”

“Uh-huh!” Elluin pulled out her drawing book and opened it to the page she was looking for. She lifted the book to show Shokrakar her drawing over her gingerbread house, decorated exactly how she wanted it. “Candy cane windows and doors! I can use the powdered sugar to create snow!”

Shokrakar looked at the drawing with a small smile. “That’s real pretty, I like the trees made from icing.” Shokrakar looked down at his house, maybe he should have planned something. Oh well, it was too late now, and he couldn’t draw anyway, he’d just start and see how it goes.

Elluin smiled with a nod and placed her book to one side, away from all the sugar and sweet treats, she didn’t need it getting sticky. “Thanks for inviting me to do this,” She spoke softly as she began to break the candy canes into small pieces. “I don’t get a lot of time to myself these days, especially not to do something fun.”

“Well...if I was doing this alone, I’d just eat everything and not even bother decorating so...you’re keeping me in check really.” Shokrakar was joking...mostly. “Plus...I enjoy your company.” Shokrakar picked up icing and began randomly placing it onto his house, there was no thought behind it, he was simply doing what his brain would allow.

“I enjoy your company too, it’s nice to spend time with someone who isn’t trying to get me to plan a war, or make an alliance, or asking me to marry them for power.” Elluin chuckled a little, her house’s decorating was more structured, following her drawing exactly.

“Give it time, I might still ask you to marry me.” Shorakar teased, he winked at Elluin, which looked more like a blink because of his eyepatch. His hands had become white from the sugar, that was until he wiped them on his shirt, leaving long streaky hand marks on it. “Do that many people really ask you to marry them?”

“Oh yes, you’d be surprised, I got six proposals just last week.” Elluin used a cloth to wipe her hands, although some of the sugar had slipped from the table and onto her trousers and shoes, but she didn’t seem to mind too much, they were just clothes after all.

“Damn...does Solas mind?”

Elluin shrugged. “It’s never come up, we’re usually discussing something else and I don’t want to ruin the mood with “Hey, some guy from Orlais thinks I’d be a good match for his Chevalier son.” You know?”

Shokrakar nodded with a grunt, grumbling under his breath about how much he disliked Orlesians, it was no secret after all, he was actually quite vocal about it, even to Orlesians he bumped into in Skyhold. Most found it amusing, Josephine found it a headache, but Shokrakar was sure she was laughing deep down.

A few hours passed, Shokrakar and Elluin chatted whilst they worked, sharing stories of their adventures and their thoughts on the other members of the Inquisition. Elluin’s house was beautiful, almost perfect, like something out of a storybook. Shokrakar’s was less so but it just screamed Shokrakar, rough around the edges, but with some structure and stability. The two stood back to admire their work.

“Not bad.” Shokrakar said proudly, placing his hands on his hips. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you to make a house as good as mine sometime, we can’t all be perfect..” He grinned playfully

Elluin giggled and gave him a playful jab to the ribs. “I’ll hold you to that, my friend.”

#christmas #christmas fic #my fics #shokrakar adaar #elluin lavellan

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jenroses · 3 years

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idk how to translate today’s recipes into “someone else can make them” because my recipes are sometimes very serendipitous and convenience based.

like I salted a turkey with smoked salt last night and put it in the fridge and then told my husband to stick it in the oven at noon at 250 and he did and when I got up I bumped it up to 300 for a while and cooked bacon and squash and lupin on the next shelf down, by turns, and then dumped some of the bacon grease on the skin (not much, just, a little, and tossed the bacon in the turkey pan and then when it was about an hour from when I wanted to eat I checked the temp and it was 139 between the breast and the thigh and so I jacked up the oven temperature and took out the squash and lupin and hit it at 450 for half an hour and while it was doing that I nuked a bunch of riced cauliflower with some bacon grease and chicken stock and let me tell you the stinky is not pleasant in the microwave.

Then I turned the turkey around and gave it 15 more minutes, and made cranberry sauce at some point with cranberries, allulose and monkfruit/erythritol plus orange zest and vanilla and my GOD is that the distilled essence of Holiday. When the turkey came out, I took some of the juices and put them in the blender with the cauliflower and put a couple of spoons of “stuffing master” (everything but the croutons and fruit) in with it along with some of the bacon from the turkey pan and pureed the heck out of it and while I’d planned on it being a potato sub, it ended up being exactly the consistency of gravy? And tasted like gravy? And I’d been sort of mourning gravy because I don’t know how to do it without carbs and my blood sugar has been all over the place even not eating carbs....

Anyway. So the cauliflower turned into gravy, and so my final plate included turkey, butternut squash with cauli gravy, herby ground lupin with stuffing fixings and cauli gravy, decadent cranberry sauce and dad’s green beans with slivered almonds and garlic and you know what?

My blood sugar stayed flat all day. On Thanksgiving.

And I didn’t feel deprived or hungry at all.

Everything tasted good and “like it’s supposed to.”

and fuck if I know if anyone else could replicate it from that.

Also, how do people make dry turkey? Because I’m not sure I ever have? I’ve eaten dry turkey, but I tend to hit it with a lot of heat for a little while and cook it for a long time at low heat and/or/vice/versa, and I don’t fuck around with basting.

(I feel like there are two temperatures for cooking meat: Low and very high. Low you do to get the temp up on a big piece of meat, high you do to capitalize on the maillard reaction for flavor. I cook prime rib in a similar way. Duck gets 20 minutes at 450 and then *waves hand* a while at 250-300 and then 450 for some more time, and this is always informed by how late I start it and when I want to eat.)

Here’s my dad’s recipe for “stuffing master”, which he adds to just about anything depending on allergies:

Stuffing master mix is breakfast sausage, diced celery, chopped parsley, toasted walnuts, ground sage, ground celery seed. [plus, if desired, some combination of apples, dried cranberries. He’s used raisins in the past but switched to dried cranberries at some point. The nuts are optional but a nice texture. This is one of the only situations I actually like walnuts very much.]

Brown the sausage, then add water to just cover the sausage and cook down, leaving some water in the pan. [the water both helps regulate the cooking temperature in the pan and helps deglaze the sausage drippings and keeps them from burning.]

Remove the sausage and chop into 1/2 inch slices. [this is important because the juices from the sausage will help leak out and flavor the turkey drippings, which get used for gravy later.]

Sauté the celery and parsley in the sausage pan until the celery is softened. [this gives the sausage fond a chance to help flavor the parsley and celery. also less dishes, bonus.]

Toast the walnuts on the stove top in a dry pan, flipping often. [important to do this separately in a dry pan. it’s a texture thing.]

Combine the sausage, celery, parsley and walnuts.

Sprinkle on some sage and celery seed to taste. Voila.

At this point, if my guests are tolerant of carbs, I usually add in a chopped apple and a handful of dried cranberries.

This then becomes the base for whatever starch you care to add (bread cubes, bread crumbs, rice, wild rice, etc.) and whatever liquid works for you (we use chicken broth, although we sometimes make a turkey broth the day before if we are roasting 2 turkeys.)

[amount of said starch is going to be very much by feel, as will the liquid. In my case I used about 2/3 of a cup of part garlic herb lupin and part regular plain lupin, at a 1:4 ratio with chicken stock, mixed with a cup or two worth of stuffing master. 2 spoons of stuffing master flavored the gravy/puree.]

Our socially distant Thanksgiving was fine. My kid was chattering with his cousin on speaker phone, which meant there was a background bustle from both households cooking, but we weren’t actually getting in each other’s way. We ate at our own pace, and then did a zoom call with the whole family (all my children! My niece! My sister! My parents! All at once in six windows!) that was just about the right amount of socializing, and then we went off and did our own thing. It was less stressful and painful than if we’d shlepped over there for it.

We swapped sides and ingredients a few times, on the porch, remote no-contact drops like some goddamn spy movie, so I got some of Dad’s stuffing master, hubby got regular stuffing from Dad, Dad got oyster dressing from hubby, Hubby got gravy, I got green beans from them, we sent squash and turkey to my eldest, my eldest got gravy and a pie from their grandparents.

Lupin is something you don’t see much in the US, but it’s like mostly protein, fiber and fat, tiny amount of carb, and the taste is good, though I’m still on the fence about the texture. It cooks kind of like couscous? But tastes closer to lentils? It’s a legume, and a reasonable side dish, and super compatible with my need to keep net carbs down and fiber/protein/fat up. (If I don’t eat carbs I don’t have to use much insulin, and since my metformin has been recalled, it’s the only way I can keep things stable. My A1C last month was 5.5, so I think I’m managing. Steroid-induced diabetes is a bitch.)

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stressedspidergirlsfandomblog · 4 years

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Content Warnings: Heavy discussions around consent. Implications Geralt isn’t really clear on what all enthusiastic consent is. (no, Dandelion and Yennefer are not part of this problem in this fic, ever, at any point.)

When Yennefer and Dandelion return, Geralt wakes and Ciri slips free of his embrace. She helps them unsaddle their horses and picket them alongside Kelpie and Roach. Yennefer watches as Geralt gets up stiffly, and her violet eyes look around the small copse. The fire is well fed, perhaps a larger blaze than he might normally build. The rock hadn’t been there before, and two sets of clothing are laid out on it. They don’t quite fit, sleeves and legs dangling off the edges and parts overlapping. They look mostly dry. His hair has that look it gets when he hasn’t brushed it out after it gets wet. Ciri looks a little bedraggled, too, but considerably more chipper.

“No, don’t touch that,” she reminds the bard as he settles with a wicker basket by the fire. “That’s not for you, not all of it. The sweet buns are for Geralt.” She can’t help but smile when her lover perks up considerably at her words. “They might still be warm, provided he hasn’t let all the heat out rummaging around in there. I found two.”

He descends hastily upon the wicker basket, ignoring the bard’s attempts to slap his hands away as he pulls two small rounds of bread coated in cinnamon and sugar from the handkerchief wrapping up all the baked goods. Hungry, he holds back from devouring the treat, forcing himself to savor them. It’s rare to even find breads made like this.

Ciri giggles at the picture he makes, both hands full, eyes closed in bliss as he eats the rolls.

“Leave him be,” Yennefer tells her, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Get something to eat. Did you both fall into the stream training?” she asks.

“No, I suggested the cold water would be good for his leg, it was bothering him. I then told him I’d dump him in for his own good. So he dumped me in, instead.”

“And decided to come in after you?”

“Well, he dumped us both.”

Dandelion allows her to dig through the basket as she pleases, smiling at her. “I’ve eaten, take what you want. Some of this is for tomorrow, though, so try not to eat it all, or let Geralt. We have other things for dinner.” He sets the basket down and sits at Geralt’s side, gently rubbing his back. Initially, Geralt moves one of the pastries closer to his chest, expecting some kind of attempt to take them, before he opens his eyes and realizes Dandelion just wants to be near him. He leans in contentedly, carefully licking his fingers clean of any lingering sugar before starting the second bun.

“You can be such a simple creature,” Dandelion teases him, kissing his cheek. “A warm place to sleep, a full belly, and you’re easily pleased.”

“Not all of us can demand everything, whether we have need of it or not,” Geralt tells him, tearing himself away from the confection long enough to form a rational thought. It’s been years since he’s eaten one of these, and he’d determined he wasn’t going to waste any of the time eating one with unpleasantness such as thinking.

Yennefer settles next to him on his other side. She can tell from how he’s moving he’s warm enough, but all the same she sees no reason not to be close to him. Ciri had helped herself to a few jam tarts and a doughnut before sitting across the fire from them to eat. She gently tips Geralt’s chin up and over so he’s looking at her and she smiles at him. “You’ve got sugar on your face,” she tells him. Before he can reach up to brush it off, she teasingly licks his cheek and laughs when she catches his thought about mutations and blushing. “I’ve almost got it all,” she tells him, kissing his other cheek, and then finally his lips. He tastes of cinnamon.

“We should get the tents pitched,” Dandelion says when the witcher and sorceress pull apart. “At least, the tents people can sleep in,” he smiles widely.

“As if you haven’t pitched your own,” Yennefer sniffs delicately.

“Ciri, help us set up the camp,” Geralt tells her, getting up with a soft groan. He’s glad he has his cloak on because it hides exactly what Dandelion had been mocking him for. Not that the affliction lasts long. He’s tired, and the prospect of dealing with the tentpoles doesn’t much appeal to him.

In short order both tents are up, bedrolls are inside, and Geralt resists the urge to crawl into his. They haven’t eaten dinner yet, the sun isn’t even properly setting. It’s too early to be this worn out. Yennefer is warming cider over the fire and he sniffs appreciatively. Clove, cardamom, maybe, definitely allspice, and the warm smell of apples. The hot drink goes down easily when she passes him a cup and he settles next to her again, leaning into her.

“I’m tired, Yen,” he tells her.

“We’re all tired, Geralt,” she informs him dryly.

“No, not like that,” he protests sleepily.

“Then take a nap, I don’t see what good telling me is supposed to do.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” he adds grumpily, not sure why she isn’t more alarmed. He doesn’t need as much sleep as a normal man. He’s used to living rough on the road. There’s no reason for this.

“Perhaps you’ve been making stupid choices that prevent you from getting enough rest. Such as dunking yourself in an icy stream after spending fuck knows how much time training with Ciri?”

He snorts in irritation and hands her the now-empty cup back before moving to sit with Dandelion in hopes of finding a more sympathetic ear. The bard is happy to stroke his hair and allow him to curl up close. Ciri had chosen to work on her wrist exercises again after making sure the camp was properly ready. Geralt falls asleep under Dandelion’s sympathetic ministrations and dozes pleasantly until the bard wakes him for dinner.

Ciri had taken over cooking since Yennefer preferred not to. Unaided she’d caught some more fresh fish and had added them to a small pot with water and fresh vegetables and seasoning over the fire. It’s not much of a stew, being far too thick, but the pot wasn’t big enough to hold more water, and what mattered was the food was hot, cooked the whole way through, and had some flavor to it. Dandelion helps ladle out portions of the food and Geralt kisses Ciri’s forehead in thanks. They sit together as they eat, blowing on the food to cool it in companionable silence.

Dandelion takes empty bowls from them when they’re done, amused to find both the witcher and his cub licking out the insides after having licked the spoons clean. He’ll rinse them in the river and scour them out with sand before returning them. “Did you not get enough, I think there’s a bit more,” he teases.

“I’m alright,” Geralt says. Unless there really is more and Ciri doesn’t want it. He looks at her and she shakes her head. He gets up to investigate. When no one else wants the leftovers in the pot he recovers his spoon from the bard and takes the pot to sit back down and finish it off. He shivers involuntarily when Dandelion runs a hand lightly down his spine. It feels good and he leans into it. Amused, the bard tenses his hand a little, lightly scratching up and down his witcher’s back. When Geralt finishes eating Dandelion takes the small pot and heads to the stream to wash their dishes.

“I am going to take Ciri to feel out some ley lines,” Yennefer tells Geralt idly. “We’ll try and stay within earshot of you, so you don’t get too concerned. They’re close. But I doubt we’ll be able to hear you if you’re the one making the noise. If the camp is attacked-” she passes him a small vial -” throw this onto the fire. It’ll send up a flare that will warn us. We will not come for you and Dandelion,” she tells him quietly. Ciri isn’t listening, busy cleaning her sword. “I will take her somewhere safe, and I expect you to do the same.”

“I know,” he tells her quietly, taking the vial. It’s what they had talked about months ago, when they were still searching for the girl. Split up and run. Keep Ciri away from Nilfgaard at all costs. Geralt was ready to die for it. Dandelion had said he would prefer not to, but would die for her, too. Yennefer had survived many unpleasant things and felt she would survive more. What she could not survive would be the loss of her daughter. She did not truly believe anyone could kill Geralt anyway and was far less worried about losing him in a fight. If he knew Ciri was safe he would go to ground and take the bard with him. They would be fine. She would create a kestrel and find him again, and they would reunite.

Geralt presses a kiss to her cheek and she turns her face to kiss him properly. She knows he would take her right there by the fire if not for Ciri just a few feet away. When she’s left the fire with their daughter, she hopes he’ll take advantage of that time to fool around with the bard. He could use the release. She lightly runs a hand up the inside of his leg, and he shivers.

“Yen.”

“Yes?” she asks him cheekily, kissing under his jaw. “You’ll be alone soon enough. And you’ll hear when we’re coming back,” she reminds him. She lightly draws circles higher and higher up the inside of his thigh and he makes a soft wheezing sound in protest. “Think of me while you touch yourself,” she tells him quietly, and kisses his cheek before standing up. With her normal human ears she can hear Dandelion approaching and feels it’s safe to take Ciri with her. “Ciri, come along. We might be able to get some of your magic back. Or at least see if you can still have visions. Something to help us keep ahead of the armies.”

“Coming.”

“Bring the sword, you never know.”

“Yes, Yennefer.”

She gives Geralt a look that makes his shirt feel too small and he leans forward to hide his arousal. His head snaps around when Dandelion walks out of the treeline and steps on a twig.

“Easy,” the bard holds his hands up to show all he’s armed with is their dinner dishes. Which he then lays out by the fire so they’ll dry and be ready to repack as quickly as possible. “Happy to see me?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Geralt rolls his eyes in response but leans in closer to the bard. He has a quick internal debate with himself about the best methods for all of this. If they go into the tent and are surprised, he might not get the vial into the fire. If they take too long and Yennefer and Ciri head back, they will lose valuable time scrambling into the tent. He doesn’t hear anyone around them, and as Yennefer promised he can still barely hear her and Ciri. When his awareness of them doesn’t grow fainter, he has a feeling they’ve stopped moving. “They won’t be back for a bit,” he shrugs.

“Oh, I see. So, we have limited time, is what you’re telling me,” Dandelion smiles and slips between Geralt’s legs to press their hips together and kiss him soundly.

“We won’t have much time to clean up after, either,” Geralt tells him with a hint of concern.

“Handkerchiefs should help us with that.” The bard has already worked the laces of Geralt’s pants open, “Any other concerns I should address before we start?”

“That’s all I can think of, currently,” Geralt points out, already struggling to tear his focus away from the bard’s fingers down the front of his pants. “Tent, let’s go in the tent,” he protests, feeling his hips shudder forward of their own volition.

“Hurry up and carry me then, I’ve got you how I like you,” Dandelion teases him, kissing up the side of his neck. Geralt groans in irritation and does as Dandelion tells him, dragging the other man up by his knees. His legs shake as he walks because he can barely concentrate.

“Don’t make me drop you,” he whispers, almost embarrassed.

“In this case, if you did, I wouldn’t be able to be angry. I’d just have to make sure I did whatever I’d done, again, rather a lot of times, but when you were seated or lying down.”

They make it into the tent without much incident, Geralt working Dandelion’s shirt halfway up his chest out of his way and then dragging his pants off. They move against each other for a little while, needing the physicality of it, needing to be able to kiss and touch each other without letting up.

“I’m afraid this will be somewhat dismally short,” Dandelion murmurs against Geralt’s skin as the witcher rubs their bodies against each other. “If you don’t slow down.”

“That was the point,” Geralt offers, and lets out a little gasp when the bard reaches between them to touch far lower than he had been. “I don’t know when they’re coming back,” he reminds the other man.

“Right then,” Dandelion agrees easily enough. They’d been wanting each other for quite some time. He wouldn’t complain. They’d have time again. He knows what Geralt likes and knows what will tip him over the edge as quickly as possible. He quickly puts one hand in the witcher’s hair to gently grip it, and to occasionally do his best to run his fingers through it before gripping Geralt by the back of the neck and pulling his face in closer. He’s already so near the edge it doesn’t take much more than a kiss at the hollow of his throat to send him falling.

Geralt doesn’t need much longer before pleasure swamps him, running up his spine and making his muscles weak. “Fuck,” he comments as he flops down beside his lover. Normally he would have had no issue dropping himself down onto Dandelion directly, heedless of the mess. He’s somewhat sure he can hear Yennefer and Ciri’s voices getting a bit louder, and he doesn’t have time to clean himself up and change clothes.

“Don’t go out just yet,” Dandelion catches him by the wrist when he starts to shift to get up. The bard mops himself up quickly and discards the fabric to the side of their bedrolls. He’ll get to it in the morning. He grabs another square of fabric and dampens it with water from the canteen he likes to keep by him at all times and hooks Geralt under the knee. “This will be a bit cold, still,” he apologizes and wipes sweat from Geralt’s face and neck, their skin warming the water on the fabric before he quickly passes it over Geralt’s groin.

Almost embarrassed when he twitches at the touch, half wishing they could go again. The bard was right, that had been short. But he had needed it. Badly. He presses his lips to Dandelion’s in thanks.

“Go’n, get out there and straighten out your hair some. You can say I retired early if you want.”

“It’s too early to sleep,” Geralt protests.

“Yennefer will know exactly what happened no matter what we do, but Ciri doesn’t need to. I’ll work on my music in here.”

“With no lights? Are you…do you not want to be out here with me when they come back?”

“No, no, love, that’s not it. I’m a bigger mess than you, that’s all. It’ll take me longer to clean up.” He’s done his best to wipe their mess out of the hair covering his torso, but he’s not sure he’ll have gotten it all out. Not without a bath. “Here, if you can get to the water and back before they do, rinse out the old kerchiefs and bring them back for me, alright?”

Geralt nods and grabs them up, fixing his breeches one handed as he exits the tent. He doesn’t sense anything. No jingle of tack, no horses, no footsteps other than those of the women. Relieved, he hurries to the water, rinses the handkerchiefs as quickly as possible, squeezes them out, and rushes back to the tent.

Dandelion manages to make himself presentable in time, and they’re both barely settled by the fire by the time Ciri and Yennefer walk back into the light of the flames. Geralt, feeling very much like he had as a boy when he’d narrowly escaped punishment, tries not to laugh. The stress of it makes his shoulders shake anyway, and he rubs at his face. Dandelion notices him starting to lose his composure and starts laughing, which sets Geralt off, too.

“What’s so funny?” Ciri asks, looking over her clothes and touching her hair.

“Nothing to do with us,” Yennefer assures her, hiding a smile. “Just enjoy them being silly. It’s hard enough to find time for small joys.” She kisses the top of Ciri’s head and hugs her tightly for a moment. “Get ready to rest, we’ve had a long day.”

Ciri goes into the tent first, unsurprised to see Yennefer go over to Geralt. She’ll say goodnight to him before she goes to sleep.

Geralt glances up at the sorceress with a smile, the laughter having wound down to the occasional burst of chuckles. She sits at his side for a few moments, stroking a lock of hair back from his face. He kisses her cheek and nuzzles her, seeking a few moments of closeness with her. While she would have liked to have had a few hurried moments in a tent with him, too, she doesn’t begrudge them any. He seems better. The grueling pace and constant fear had worn them all down.

“I love you,” he tells her simply, meeting her eyes. She smiles, and says it back without hesitation. She watches as Dandelion gets up to give them a few moments, shifting around some of their things.

She kisses Geralt gently, just to be close, just to touch, just for a little, just to have him to herself for a few moments. He tangles his fingers in her hair, deeply content. His little family is safe, and with him. He isn’t alone. Yennefer breaks away first, gently smoothing his hair one last time. “I need to rest,” she tells him, kissing his cheek.

He nods, an ache in his chest. The weather is cooling and he works to bank the fire as Dandelion does a final check of the campsite before crawling into their tent. Geralt looks around the small clearing, listening for anything other than the usual wildlife sounds. He hears nothing. Smells nothing other than the usual things.

With nothing else to do, he makes one last round past the horses to affectionately give Roach a good scratch under her jaw and along her cheek before crawling into the tent. Dandelion has moved things around so it will be easy for Geralt to join him, and the witcher smiles fondly in appreciation.

They break camp first thing in the morning, eating the leftover pastries for breakfast. After a few hours of riding Geralt gets noticeably tenser, and he dismounts and hands his reins to Yennefer before disappearing into the brush.

“Bad food?” Dandelion asks in concern.

“No, he thinks he’s noticed something.” She cranes her neck to look around her mount, there’s plenty of hoofprints all over, but it’s a well-traveled road. Rickety cart tracks, footprints, hoofprints, even what might very well be dog prints, too. “You forget he can’t really get sick from what he eats or drinks. Not that he’d eat spoiled food, he can smell it long before it’s fully turned.” He had on several occasions turned his nose up to different types of seafood that should have been relatively fresh. He had not been wrong to do so, as others had found out. Yennefer had learned after the first time to reject the same things he did. Unless she just happened to know it was a food he preferred not to eat.

Geralt comes back to them silently, holding out a few things in his hands to Yennefer. She looks them over and nods. Dandelion cranes to look, annoyed he isn’t being included.

“What’s that?” Ciri asks, also protesting being ignored.

“Signs of soldiers,” Yennefer explains. “Be quiet so we can think.”

“We’ll need to split up,” Geralt says in a hoarse voice. It feels like he’s having his heart ripped in two. “You’ll have to take her.”

“No, Geralt, she should stay with you.”

“No, you can portal her out of danger if it becomes necessary. I can lay a false trail better, and I have less aura to trace. The bard and I can play stupid. They know you trained her and oversaw her in the Temple. As far as they know I’ve never been near her. Not really. Not until the Tower fell.”

“Geralt.”

“I know.”

“I hate this.”

“And I don’t?”

Yennefer leans into kiss him soundly for a few moments, and he hugs her to him tightly. “I love you,” she reminds him.

“I love you, too,” he tells her, throat squeezing. He kisses her again before stepping over to Ciri, watching Kelpie from the corner of his eye in case she tries to bite him. He lightly grips her ankle in the stirrup, finding he has no words for her.

“What is happening?” she asks him. “I couldn’t hear everything; did you say split up?” her voice rises in pitch to almost a scream. He frowns, as if this isn’t hard enough without some sort of awful emotional display.

“Do as Yennefer says the minute she says it. Like we taught you in the Keep, don’t shame me,” he tells her, and hates himself. This isn’t the way to do this. He steps back from Kelpie, allowing her to dismount. He hugs her tightly to him, kissing the side of her head and feeling tears soak into his shirt. “We’ll be together soon. Yennefer and I have it worked out. I know how to find her. And you.” He can barely force another word out, but he knows it’s important. “People linked by destiny will always find each other,” he promises.

“I love you, Geralt. Find me soon.”

“I will. I promise,” he reassures her, kissing the top of her head.

“Mount up, Ciri,” Yennefer says after a few moments of looking around, her horse fractious under her, sensing her mood. “We have to go.”

Ciri chokes back a sob and Geralt cups her cheek. “Control, Ciri. It’s all about control. Weep when it’s safe. Go now, we’ll hide your trail.” He looks back at Dandelion. “Unless you’d prefer to go with them?” he asks, half realizing no one had asked the bard what he’d like.

“No, someone should stay with you in case you’re injured. And I know to run like a frightened rabbit at the first sign of a fight. Don’t worry on my account. I’ll be fine.” He smiles when Ciri gives him a hug and kisses her cheek before watching her mount back up on her horse. “Be safe, Ciri.”

“I will,” she says firmly, drying her eyes. There’s no reason to cry at all, they’ll be fine and reunited as soon as possible. She will do Geralt proud.

Split up from Ciri and Yennefer, he and Dandelion have done their best to leave a false trail for Nilfgaard. They’ve managed to escape all the soldiers trailing them, for all that Geralt had acquired a new scar or two thanks to Nilfgaard’s finest. They’re a day away from their rendezvous point, and Geralt is chafing at the delay.

Dandelion curls up at his side, huddling close. It’s chilly even with the fire. He presses kisses over Geralt’s cheek and neck, trying to distract him from his worries. “Yennefer is a very capable murderer, Geralt. She’ll keep Ciri safe.”

“I lost her the last time we split up. We should never have done it again,” he says uneasily, shifting to try and get comfortable, pulling away from Dandelion’s affections. He doesn’t deserve comfort until he knows his… until he knows she’s safe. He can’t focus on anything other than worrying about his cub right now. And how vile he is that he let Yennefer take her again, knowing the risks. He’s missing half his heart.

“Geralt, we can’t travel anymore tonight, the horses are exhausted.” He teases the laces on the witcher’s clothes. “And you need to rest some, too, so you don’t fall off Roach tomorrow.”

“Hmm,” Geralt turns away, effectively shutting down the troubadour’s attempts to distract him. He tugs the laces tight on his shirt again, unsure how sex is going to help him rest. Not that he feels like pointing that out to the insouciant bard.

“I thought,” Dandelion says softly, pulling away, “that things might be different now. I’m sorry, Geralt.” He does his best to mask the hurt in his voice. It’s not exactly easy. He’s wanted Geralt for years, and he’d thought months ago when they started their journey to find Ciri that it had changed everything.

He twists back to look at the bard, who is absolutely miserable. “Hmm?” He’s speechless. Things are very different now. He knows where Ciri is, or he did. He’s had her with him, he has Yennefer too, more than ever it feels. And he has Dandelion in new ways. He loves the way the bard kisses him, and the way he and Yennefer work together in bed.

“I thought when Yennefer… I thought perhaps you… but I see now it was for her wasn’t it? I’m sorry then. I wouldn’t have been part of it.”

“What are you talking about?” Geralt asks, sitting up. He faces the bard, head tilted slightly and brow crinkled in concern.

“We’ve been closer, but I see it’s only when Yennefer is around. I’m sorry I took it as something you wanted on your own. I don’t force my affections on people.”

“That’s all you’ve done,” Geralt counters. “But I’ve never minded.” He glances at the bard, breathing deeply. “I … there’s no reason for anything right now.”

“What?” Dandelion stares at him, his scent picking up hints of anger.

“I don’t know what you want from me, right now. But I don’t think I can give it.”

“I think you know exactly what I want, and you’re not making much sense. Not that I think I want it anymore.”

With a shake of his head to clear it, he knows he’s just making a mess of things. “You know I’m just a simple Witcher, no good with words. Let me… let me try and explain. But grant me some patience. I don’t make my living writing words and feelings. And it’s not as if I have feelings, as you know.”

The bard snorts. “Fine, I will grant you some patience. But only because…because I…” ‘Because I love you.’ He looks down at his hands, frustrated. Geralt has to have some feelings. Otherwise he wouldn’t get annoyed so easily. Nor would he love so obviously and so deeply. “I think it’s time you stopped pretending you don’t feel, Geralt.”

“The mutations change us, bard,” he says, because he has to believe it somewhat. Otherwise why does he do the things he does? Why does he deny himself what he wants so badly all the time, if he feels just like any other human? And if he feels like a human does, why do other humans hate him so much? No, he must be different, he must be ‘other.’ He’s a mutation, and a freak, and unluckily enough he’d survived the trials. Or luckily. Some days he really isn’t sure. Not that he thinks he’d undo any of it. If he was human he would have died long before Dandelion walked the continent, Ciri, too. And he never would have met Yennefer.

Perhaps if he’d been left to live a normal life, he would have found a simple love, and a simple job, and raised children with his wife. He would have died after a normal lifespan, and his only scars would have been given to him by his trade.

“I know that they do, they make you stronger, your eyes are like cats’ eyes, I see that. The stress of it bleached the hair on your head,” Dandelion points out. “Although not the rest of your hair, I’ve always wondered why that was.”

Geralt simply shrugs, he’s never contemplated why it’s only the hair on his scalp that changed. No one’s ever much said anything about his hair either way unless it’s been filthy. And usually even then, no one cares other than to be mocking or callous. Disgusting witcher, covered in guts and filth, good thing he isn’t human so he doesn’t mind. Vile creature that he is, no human would tolerate that, no matter the payout. “I’m not human, anymore, Dandelion.”

“Oh, absolute bullshit, Geralt. You get hurt, you bleed, you hunger, you eat, you lust, you fuck, you tire, you sleep, just like any other human.”

“Or monster.”

“You care for Ciri like she was from your own flesh and blood.”

“She’s my responsibility.”

“And you love her.”

Geralt just stares at him, helpless. To deny loving Ciri feels like it would be worse than drowning, and he’s told Yennefer he loves her. How hard can it be to admit to loving another person? He’s admitted to having friends and feeling friendship. Openly, and more than once. But can he truly feel love? Was Istredd wrong all those years ago? “Dandelion…” His voice breaks, “Why are you asking me these things?”

“Because I love you!” the bard snaps, hating that he’s hurt Geralt. He’s never backed down before, and he doesn’t intend to start now. They’re either together even without Yennefer, or they aren’t together at all. He rubs at his eyes brusquely, irritated that he’s getting upset at all.

“Dandelion, I… You’re my best friend,” he says pitifully. “Of course… I…” Why can he say it to Yennefer, and no one else? Is it because of Istredd, Geralt wonders, sick to his stomach? Just leftover feelings that don’t truly exist anymore, can he tell Yennefer because it would hurt her less if Istredd was right? It would poison all he has with Dandelion, good and bad. He tries to force out words, throat and jaw working, but no sound coming out. “I don’t know, I don’t know what I feel or don’t feel, I don’t know what’s real or what’s been taken from me, I,” his jaw clenches and his throat squeezes. All he can do is hold out a hand in supplication to the bard.

Dandelion looks at him and sees the genuine pain in the witcher’s eyes. He takes Geralt’s hand without hesitation, holding it and feeling it tremble.

“I don’t know what to say to you that’s true, instead of just what I would like to be true. I should hate myself forever if I lied to you or betrayed you.”

“Hate is a feeling Geralt. Like, wanting, all of those are feelings. Tell me what you think you feel right now, for me, and I won’t hold it against you if later it isn’t true anymore.”

Geralt’s lip trembles, and he clenches his jaw again, before opening his mouth and then shutting it with a grimace. “Dandelion,” he whispers miserably. “I… I would die for you, I would take any injuries, I would do whatever it took to keep you safe.” He licks his lip, trying to find the words, because it seems inadequate to just say ‘I love you’ after all that. But what else is there to be said? What else does the bard want to hear but: “I love you,” he finally forces out. Nothing else will come, and nothing else makes any sense to say. Some part of him hates that he might just be saying it to keep the bard close. His life would be dimmer without the troubadour at his side. Quieter, and far less friendly. His throat works for a few more seconds, and he thinks he might be sick. Witchers don’t have feelings. Witchers aren’t made for anything other than killing monsters until they slow down and die. They aren’t made to love. “If this is what you want,” he mumbles, and starts unlacing his pants.

“What? No, I mean, I have, but not right now, not like this. Geralt, stop it.”

The witcher’s hands freeze on the laces, and he stares at the bard in confusion. “Isn’t that why we’re having this conversation in the first place? If I’d known turning you down would upset you so much, I wouldn’t have.”

“What, Geralt, no,” Dandelion splutters. “If you didn’t want to do it, then you shouldn’t have done, we don’t have to now, either.”

“It’s fine,” Geralt hasn’t started working on his clothes again, but he’s not sure what to do. “If it’s what will please you, then I’ll do it.”

“Oh, oh no, absolutely not!” Dandelion tells him, eyes rounding in horror.

“I -you said you wanted, I don’t understand.”

“You? Can you hear yourself?! Can you bloody well -Geralt! I-I-it’s not about me it’s about us! If you don’t, do you have any idea? Does Yennefer know-I just, what!?” The bard backs up some, his heart breaking in a thousand different ways. “Did you, earlier, did you want that at all?”

Geralt looks at him across the fire, expression inscrutable. “Yennefer’s never asked me to do anything I didn’t want to. Or was unwilling to.”

“Did you or did you not want to be with both of us, that time by the fire?”

“I did,” Geralt says slowly. “Yennefer knew before I did, but I did.”

“And the time a bit ago now, in the tents? You were aroused before I even got back did she…did she tell you, did she…was it her idea?”

“She suggested something, but I wasn’t unwilling. I enjoy being with you.” Geralt tilts his head in confusion. Why would any of this be upsetting? “Frankly, she suggested something slightly different than what happened.” She had recommended he touch himself.

“I think I might be sick,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face and rumpling his hair. “Oh gods, Geralt.”

“What’s wrong, bard?” Geralt drops his hands, and when he tries to get closer to Dandelion, it hurts him to see the other man move back.

“Are you even capable of understanding?” He asks in horror. “Oh, Melitele’s hoary tits, Geralt, oh, this is horrid.”

“I don’t-did you not want me?” he asks, confused. “I thought, you were mad at me, because I didn’t want to fuck. What… what just happened?”

“I love you, Geralt. I do. This isn’t about that, this is me coming to understand that all the times you don’t say anything, you aren’t saying yes, you’re probably saying no, and people aren’t hearing you. I’m not hearing you. I’m learning you are even more horrible at expressing yourself than I previously thought. So, right this minute, no, I don’t want you. Not like that. I very much wish you could understand, for your own sake, why that’s so horrible. That you don’t… you don’t speak up, do you? You could have hated it, you could have hated having me inside you and you wouldn’t have said anything because you think that’s what you have to do?”

“It didn’t matter, you weren’t hurting me. I liked it, I wanted you.”

“That’s, see half of that is fine. I would never hurt you on purpose, especially not during sex. And then, it did matter. It did matter very much. I’m relieved to know you wanted me and enjoyed the experience! How many people Geralt? How many people have you slept with who made you do things you didn’t want to?”

When the witcher won’t meet his gaze, Dandelion tries not to vomit.

“How many people have you had sex with that you didn’t want to?” He can’t believe he’s asking; no answer would make him happy. “Gods, Geralt. Is it usually a transaction for you? Just do something because humans do it? Or -”

“Do you ask all your whores this, too?”

“What? Geralt, you’re not a prosti- have you had sex for money?”

“Not money,” Geralt shrugs uncomfortably. He’s done things, plenty of things he did not want to do if it meant saving a life. He had said yes, the transaction was done. “It’s an exchange, everyone gets what they want.”

“No! No, they do not! Even whores have limits! They’re allowed to say no, or their madame or master should be out to stop you if you go too far! There’s limits! Do you even know yours? Do you even truly know what you want? Would you say it? Would you tell me to stop if I was making you uncomfortable?”

“You’re making me uncomfortable, and I’d like you to stop,” Geralt tells him weakly.

“Not about this, if I had my cock in you, would you say anything, or would you just grit your teeth and bear it?!”

“You’re crying,” Geralt tells him, decidedly confused.

“I suppose that I am, but that doesn’t answer my question, my love.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, not on purpose. So, if it was an accident, I’ll heal. Why bother? It’s just easier to let you take your pleasure.”

“I’m going to vomit, don’t touch me,” the bard wards him off. “Sweet Melitele, I could have… Does… Does Yennefer know you’re like this?”

“She reads minds, Dandelion. She can’t help it, especially when we’re…close.”

“So, she stops if something bothers you without you ever having to say anything?”

“She’s never even started to do anything that bothered me,” he shrugs. She’s picked some uncomfortable places to do the deed, but it had caused him no harm and worse things had happened to him. Thank Melitele they’d finally broken that damned unicorn.

“She’s never had to see this firsthand, has she? She has no idea what you’re willing to do?”

“She knows. When I first met her, I offered myself to her, for however long she wanted in whatever capacity. To save you.”

“Oh god, what happened?”

“We just talked,” Geralt shrugged. “Rare to have that, I thought perhaps I’d sold myself into a lifetime of slavery. And then when she said one night, I wasn’t sure what…just conversation. Was all she wanted.” Then of course, she had sent him to do her dirty work under the influence of a spell.

“You, I can’t sleep with you knowing that you can’t say ‘no’.”

“I say ‘no’ all the time, you just don’t listen.”

“Okay, I admit some of that’s wrong of me, but it’s not about sexual things, Geralt. That’s very different. You know that. Your first kill was a rapist, you told me. You were drunk, so perhaps you fudged the details, but you told me. I’ve seen you kill thirteen men, by yourself, for busying themselves with a farm girl no one else would have tried to help. You have to know it’s wrong or it wouldn’t bother-oh. Oh I see. Oh, oh I’m going to be sick.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” Geralt says helplessly.

“It’s not, oh it’s not like that, love, it’s not,” Dandelion promises. “You won’t make the connection and if I do it, you’ll just get mad. But I promise, I will try and listen better when you say ‘no’. For any reason. I’m so sorry.”

“It, no one much listens but Ciri. It doesn’t seem to much matter.”

“Oh, but it should. We’ve done wrong, there. Oh Geralt, I’m sorry. I will try and listen better, I will try and do better. I can’t promise to not push these conversations with you, they have to be had. But in other ways, I can do better in other ways, I promise.”

“I forgive you.”

“Oh, don’t say that, you have no idea what I’m even sorry for. Not really. When you understand, say it when you understand and it’ll mean something.”

“I wish you weren’t odd right now,” Geralt tells him uneasily.

“I’m always odd, Geralt, it’s part of my charm. I should very much like to hug you even though you won’t understand why.”

“You’ve never really asked before,” Geralt shrugs.

“And I see that was wrong, I had no idea… may I? I don’t know if it will comfort or reassure you, but I’d like it to.”

“I don’t…yes, of course you can, I don’t need comfort, I…” he gives up and holds out his arms. The bard sits next to him and enfolds him in a hug. He had no idea Dandelion could make himself so large. He only ever seems to do that on stage when he performs. This is some other kind of magic. He lets the bard snuffle and hiccup a little, knowing the other man is fighting back tears. It terrifies him. “I’d rather you just fucked me than go through this again.”

“Oh gods, you’ve missed the point entirely, I don’t know how to get you to… you’re so dense,” Dandelion tells him crossly. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“And really mean it. With all your heart.”

“Are you going to make fun of me?” the Witcher asks nervously.

“No. I am completely serious.”

“Then I promise.”

“You will not have sex with me unless you absolutely want to. Not you think I want it so you do, but on your own terms. And if something isn’t pleasurable for you, doesn’t feel right, you’ll say something. Promise me.”

“I promise.” Geralt feels utterly bewildered.

“Mean it, Geralt. Like nothing you’ve promised before.”

“I do. I will…. I don’t understand. But I promise. Can you please stop with this? You’re upsetting me. And yourself.”

“For now. For now, I’ll put it aside.” He kisses the side of Geralt’s head tenderly, deeply concerned about him. How many times, he wonders? How many? The bard holds the witcher for a while, stroking his hair more to soothe himself, at this point. Geralt’s only in distress because Dandelion is.

Dandelion kneels between Geralt’s legs, his back to the fire. He can see the witcher’s pupils are huge, taking in all the light they can. It’s never once bothered him to see those eyes reflect the light in the dark. In fact it’s usually a comfort to know Geralt is close, watching for him in the shadows, protecting him from the monsters. He gently presses a kiss to Geralt’s lips, and then his forehead. Geralt leans in and presses his forehead to Dandelion’s. The witcher gently thumbs the last of the tears off the bard’s face.

Neither one of them is sure what changes, but in spite of the chill, they’re pulling at each other’s clothes, kissing hard and fast. The bard groans and hums as the witcher divests him of his pants before dragging him onto his lap. They move against each other, messy and artlessly, seeking closeness just as much as each other.

“Are you sure you want to do this? Really do this? You’re not just doing this because of earlier?”

Geralt pulls away slightly, “You put the idea in my head. And… I want more,” he whispers, unsure if that’s okay. “You’ve…” he feels oddly embarrassed. He’s never cared much about these kinds of things before. It doesn’t seem shameful, so much as fragile. If he talks about it too obviously it will be gone. “I want you,” he tries to explain.

“You have me, Geralt,” Dandelion assures him, too blinded by lust to really catch his meaning. It’s good that Geralt seems to want it of his own accord. Not that he can be too sure, but Geralt did start it, and is pursuing it. Dandelion isn’t pushing anything. So, he continues to relax into it.

“Please,” he croaks, not sure how to even ask. He’s never wanted to have sex with a man before, and as such isn’t sure how to explain what he wants.

“Ah,” the bard catches on after a few more rounds of soft kissing. “Of course,” he kisses his witcher’s collarbone. “Just hold still until I tell you,” he half asks half tells Geralt. He waits until the other man nods, meeting his eyes in the dim glow of the fire. “Give me two seconds,” he promises, and hops up to grab something from his saddle bags.

When he returns with a small vial, he pops the cork and pours some of the contents into his palm. He strokes the witcher gently for a few moments, “you do want me,” he mumbles, almost surprised. It hardly took any effort on his part to ensure the other man was ready, too.

Geralt nips at his neck lightly in response, half annoyed, half amused. “Why else have I been kissing you like this or rutting with you in the dirt?”

“Is that what we’re calling it? Rutting?” Dandelion asks idly, easing himself down slowly.

“No,” Geralt closes his eyes. “It’s much more isn’t it?” he asks tentatively.

“I should say so,” Dandelion says tightly, the back of his thighs resting on the top of Geralt’s. “Don’t even twitch yet,” he threatens, wagging a finger in Geralt’s face.

The witcher’s only response is to catch his hand and kiss his palm. He doesn’t take orders from anyone. However, he can be patient. And so he waits until the bard starts to move slowly on his own. He whines softly, low down in his throat, kissing Dandelion’s neck and chest. Carefully, he leans back, bracing his palms on the ground to give them both a little more stability. The bard uses Geralt’s shoulders and sometimes his chest for balance. When he can, he leans in and they kiss as though if they stopped, they’d cease to breathe.

They find their balance, the bard constantly mumbling sweet nothings to Geralt between kisses. Unsure of what to do with all the compliments, Geralt hardly responds. Not that he thinks he could have focused long enough to come up with a coherent answer. As it is, he’s having enough trouble breathing, and he groans realizing their time like this is coming to an end, for now at least.

“Dandelion,” he moans softly, trying to warn him he won’t hold out much longer.

“I’m right there with you, Geralt,” Dandelion promises, breathing raggedly.

“Stay with me,” the witcher whispers, fingertips digging into the earth.

“As long as you want,” Dandelion agrees, head tipped back. His eyes close and he tangles a hand into Geralt’s hair, bringing their foreheads together gently. Geralt’s back arches slightly and he moans again, the hand on the bard’s hip squeezing almost hard enough to bruise.

Spent, he remembers their first time together, and stays where he is, knowing that after, right after, Geralt likes to stay close. He wraps his legs around the witcher’s waist, settling in more comfortably. He allows Geralt to nuzzle and kiss him, basking in the affection. He lets his hands run over the witcher’s chest and arms, up over his shoulders, and smooths the sex touseled hair back from Geralt’s face. “I love the way you look in the firelight,” he admits, forgetting how uncomfortable that comment will make the witcher. “The red and orange across your skin, bright against the shadows, it’s such a beautiful combination.”

Geralt looks away, but doesn’t push the bard from his lap, either. Instead, he rests his head on Dandelion’s shoulder, doing his best to just ignore it. He wants to say, ‘don’t ruin this, just let it be.’ But then the bard’s indignation and urge to fight would kick in and he would ruin it. And he’d be an unpleasant travelling companion for the next day, to boot.

They sit like that for a while, until the chill and discomfort starts to overcome them. With minimal commentary they clean up and set their bedding together to curl in for the night. All of that work proves to be a waste of time when the bard notices the witcher is enjoying being close to him under the blankets. They take their time the second round, exploring each other’s bodies and enjoying each other far more.

Geralt sighs, looking around them after, the sky is the grey of pre-dawn, “I thought you wanted me to rest.” Not that he’s complaining. His tone is amused, not annoyed.

“Well I had to distract you; we both know you weren’t going to do any sleeping anyway. As it is, we can start breaking camp soon and be on our way. That should please you, should it not?” He arches an eyebrow.

He sits up with a huff, and tugs the bard over to him, right up against his body, ignoring the way the bard’s breathing catches in excitement. While Geralt is fairly sure he could stand to go again, Dandelion’s right and they should break camp soon. “I think you know plenty of what pleases me,” he agrees. Perhaps they can just be close, and kiss for a bit. Until the sky is a little lighter. The horses don’t like moving about when it’s too dark. Skittish useless creatures at times.

“Oh, I am far too sore for another round,” the bard protests.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Of course not, but still there’s only so much pounding a mortal can take,” he smiles.

“I don’t think I would like another round, either,” Geralt points out, and Dandelion strokes him gently beneath the blankets as if checking to see if he’s telling the truth.

“Ah, so you’d just like me to kiss you? I suppose, if I must,” he laughs.

Geralt pulls back just a bit. “You mustn’t do much of anything,” he shrugs. “At least not with me.”

With a nod, he realizes he cannot tease the witcher this way. Not anymore. “Geralt, I enjoy kissing you, and we have a bit before the sun is fully up. Do you truly think I would turn you down?”

He looks away, and shrugs before looking back. “You mightn’t be in the mood,” he suggests.

“Provided there is no reason I can’t, I think I would always be in the mood,” Dandelion smiles. On some level, it comforts him to know Geralt understands the idea of wanting something, and not forcing it on another person. He just doesn’t understand it in context of himself. Which is less comforting.

Geralt gives him a faint smile back, barely visible in the firelight. He can see the fire burning down to coals, but the sun is just creating the horizon. He looks over the bard’s shoulder, and his pupils shrink in the light of the sun. He’d pulled away for a moment, to watch the witcher breathe in the sunrise, watches his pupils shrink and the gold fill his eyes. The sun catches them and the bard loses his breath. “You’re beautiful.”

Geralt jerks away, eyes wide in confusion. “And you’re drunk,” he counters roughly, pupils slitted against the dawn light.

“Geralt, we’ve been on the road all night, like we have for the past two nights, and not a drop of alcohol between us for over a week. We just fucked, twice no less, and you know full well I’ve had nought to drink in days. What’s wrong with you?”

“Then you rolled in some herbal plant,” he pulls away further, grabbing up his clothes up from the ground. He stands and begins dressing, pulling up his breeches and buttoning them. Looking for his shirt he sees it in a bush a few feet away and hopes the bard will have recovered his senses by the time they’re dressed. Beautiful.

“Geralt, I’m serious,” Dandelion says in a soft voice. He hasn’t made a move to get dressed, sitting naked on their bedroll. He’s so confused. He’d said a great many complimentary things during sex and the Witcher hadn’t protested once. “Geralt… Come over here please.”

Something in Dandelion’s voice gives the Witcher pause and he turns to look at the bard. He still sits there one hand out slightly before he drops it, not willing to beg anymore.

With a groan Geralt walks back to the bedroll, handing the poet his shirt. “Did you drink bad water?” He asks more sympathetically. There’s got to be some reason for this new idiocy.

“Geralt, why do you think so many women want to fuck you? The novelty of it and nothing else?” He can’t believe they’ve gone backwards on this so quickly. How does this happen? “You aren’t a monster!”

Thankful that the mutations prevent him from blushing, he presses his palm against the other man’s forehead. “You don’t seem to be sick. Get dressed. We’ll catch up to Yen and Ciri soon if we hurry.”

“Geralt, I’m not moving until you sit down and face me and take this seriously.”

“Then I’ll leave you behind.”

“So be it.”

Growling in frustration he presses Dandelions shirt against his chest. “I could make you dress and tie you to the saddle.”

“You wouldn’t. It would be less work just to talk to me. You’re usually quite practical.”

“Fine,” Geralt snaps, dropping to the bedroll and facing the bard. Their knees touch and he leans in. “Fine. You are not inebriated or otherwise ill.” He knows that. He’s known that the whole time he just can’t make himself believe that.

Dandelion reaches out and cups Geralt’s face with his palms. “Your eyes catch the light like they’re holding the sun itself.” He smooths the witcher’s hair back from his forehead gently, tracing fine scars over his skin and into his scalp. “These don’t disfigure you, they’re hardly visible. You’ve got good cheekbones, and a jawline worthy of any hero in any story,” his fingers moving over the planes of Geralt’s face along with his words. “When it’s clean, your hair is quite lovely, too,” he adds dryly. “I’m surprised to admit I like it especially in contrast to Yennefer’s. It’s a bit like the night sky if I might wax poetical. Your hair looks like the stars when it’s against hers.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, uncomfortable with being teased and starts to pull away, only to stop when the bard grips his chin hard.

“There is nothing truly unusual about your appearance other than your eyes. Regardless of how you feel about yourself, plenty of men have white or grey hair. It does no harm to their looks.”

“Dandelion, I’m a mutant. These looks are because I’m an abomination. The sharpness of my teeth, my face, the fact the sinews show up against my skin even when I’m eating well, I’m always pale. It’s obvious when you see me I’m not fully human. It’s not just my hair and eyes, my whole body has changed.” It had been excruciating. Everything had burned, he had felt broken and raw, and had wished it hadn’t happened. Now, he’s used to it. Used to his heightened senses, used to his new appearance, used to the way people stare at him and stink of fear. “I’m a mutant, nothing you say changes that or undoes it.”

“I’ve heard what Yennefer says when you call yourself that. I’m going to tell her you were at it again.” He keeps Geralt’s chin in his hand and kisses him gently. He ignores the witcher’s obvious discomfort as he kisses his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, eyelids, and forehead. “There is nothing ugly about you, other than your negative attitude,” Dandelion informs him, kissing him on the forehead again. “And while sometimes I enjoy your wit, I do not have any intention to tolerate any stupidity from you. We both know you’re not a simpleton. Even when you pretend to be simply because people assume you are. I know you’ve read books, and studied. Even if some of it was just to impress that she-devil of yours.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to do about anything Dandelion is saying. So he just waits patiently for it to stop. When it looks like the bard is winding up for another speech that will make him even more uncomfortable, he decides to put a stop to more speechifying. In a single swift movement, he leans forward and presses his mouth over the poet’s, pushing him flat back onto the bedroll.

“Geralt!” Dandelion protests, pushing him back. The Witcher pulls away in consternation. “You do not get to fuck your way into winning an argument!”

“Then why did you stay naked?”

“To convince you of my sincerity and openness and to help charm you into agreeing with me, of course!”

“I think your cock agrees with me,” Geralt says dryly, still working to change the subject and get himself out of the conversation.

Dandelion slaps the bedding in irritation. “I don’t see how my cock wanting you would prove me wrong!” It takes him a few seconds of blustering to find his point. “I find you attractive, and you fucking me senseless will not change my mind Geralt!” Rising up on his knees to tap the Witcher on the chest, “however at this point you have clearly set us both up for a good fuck, and now that you’re going to tell me we have to press on to catch up to Ciri and Yennefer and don’t have time to pause-”

This time he lets the Witcher silence him with kisses and lets the witcher push him flat. This time he works the buttons loose and pushes the witcher’s pants down over his hips.

After the Witcher had fucked him senseless, for the third time in less than a day, he looks at him. “I don’t retract any of my earlier arguments. I just want you to know.”

“Then can you shut up about it so we can go catch up to the others?”

“I’m still telling Yennefer.”

“She’ll laugh at you.” Geralt does up his pants and starts gathering up their things as Dandelion dresses.

#gerlion #geraskefer #yenralt #yenneralt #the witcher #my fic #smut #fluff

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wildroseofarran · 3 years

Text

Plans for the Future || Captain Issott

Leslie: Leslie dropped another shell in his pocket. Quite a handful after an hour of strolling the beach. Calves and feet hidden behind perfect white sand. His nose was tender but ignored. Another shell gently cleaned and inspected.

Every offense to Regina Lawson was replayed. It was the little things. Forgetting to eat, dismissive of his own meditation. Irritability from his circumstances causing less than pleasant passes. A sharp look. A sigh. A forced smile. Pebbles became mountains. The man he was, was still the man walking the beach.

'The old me is gone,' people say in these situations. A ridiculous notion. People could improve, worsen, but they were the sum of their parts. He could smile now, sober, with the same kind intentions he was raised by, but Gina would forever carry every part of his sum.

Another shell for his pocket. Better to wait today.

Tristan: "You're gonna have me working like a dog, you know that?"

"Blame the mother-in-law for talking them into five courses!" Gina shook her head and handed Tristan a large bag.

Tristan took it and willed his stomach not to growl at the scent wafting from it. "Oh, I do. Gonna charge her out the ass."

Gina laughed. "So am I. Go on and eat that before it gets cold. I'll email you the purchase order."

"'Kay, thanks. See you soon."

Tristan emerged from the inn and immediately scanned the beach for Leslie, feeling decidedly cheerful despite the long hours of work in his future.

He was going to buy Les so many presents.

Leslie: Leslie was but a blond and blue speck in the distance. Rolled up jeans, shoeless, and nearly shirtless. His blue flannel mostly unbuttoned and arguing with the wind. Certainly not suitable for a luncheon. On purpose, of course, to better drive home how unsuitable he was to be there.

Tristan: Not just any speck; that was his speck. And maybe it was the romantic in him, but Tristan swore his eyes went right to Leslie with almost magical speed and accuracy.

He made his way over, stopping only once to pick up a piece of sea glass.

"Hey, sunshine," he called when Leslie was in earshot.

Leslie: A smile to mimic his namesake was given in greeting.

"I've found you a bounty!" he called. Turned to close the distance between them. Various cockle and murex on offer. More coquina than necessary.

Tristan: God, that smile was a beautiful punch to the gut.

"Look at you!" Leslie was greeted with a kiss the second he was close enough. "My fish tanks are gonna look so good."

Leslie: "How did it go?" he asked. Pocketed his findings and began setting himself to rights.

Tristan: “Got the gig and also a king’s ransom of work. Five course meal for one hundred and fifty people.”

Leslie: "All seafood? Really?" Color him impressed.

Tristan: “Only three of them, unless they decide to put fish in the dessert and the salad.”

Leslie: "Shrimp in a salad is delicious, I'll have you know. Scallops are better." Seafood dessert? The idea put a cringe on his face.

"A customer once tried to convince me shrimp and white chocolate go together."

Tristan: Tristan made a face of pure disgust. "Ew, no. It was a tourist, wasn't it?"

Leslie: "One of the first when I started with Myrtle."

Tristan: He shook his head. "That's some nonsense only someone who didn't grow up eating seafood would like."

Leslie: "I can't say I've heard worse."

Tristan: "I don't think anyone has, honestly." Taste couldn't get much worse than mixing seafood and white chocolate.

He held up the bag. "Hungry, sugar pie?"

Leslie: Leslie looked from the bag to Tristan. "Did you actually eat lunch or ...?"

Tristan: "Nope, got us lunch to go. Baked cod, salad, and some bread."

Leslie: "Tristie." He could just manage to sound disappointed. Baked cod sounded absolutely delicious.

Tristan: "Hey, it still counts as a lunch meeting if lunch is involved in some way. Besides, this way I get to eat with you."

Leslie: That sigh through his nose was of utter disapproval. He would have to make himself scarce next time.

"Where do you want to eat?"

Tristan: A kiss to the cheek was offered in apology. Leslie didn't have to say a word; that sigh said it for him.

"Anywhere you want, sweetheart. I can grab the blanket I've got in my truck and we can have a picnic or we could go home or to the square. The town is your oyster."

Leslie: He felt the kiss for its worth. His mind was made up, but this was no hill to die on.

"Somewhere with good light. I have something to show you on my phone. Preferably a laptop. Home, then?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. "Home it is. Your place or mine?"

Leslie: "Yours is closer. Mine is what I want to talk about."

Tristan: “Oh yeah? Well now I’m intrigued,” said Tristan, holding his free hand out to Leslie.

Leslie: The offer was taken and brought to his lips. A few playful bites to follow.

Tristan: He chuckled and tugged Leslie closer to kiss him.

"I better get you fed before you start eating me."

Leslie: "You'll taste like seafood, too. When was the last time you had a land mammal?"

Tristan: "Couple days ago. I was craving a hotdog like you wouldn't believe."

Leslie: "That's not mammal. That's an abomination."

Tristan: "It's beef! The proper hot dog way!"

Leslie: "There's enough sodium to kill a horse - that it's probably made of anyway."

Tristan: “Come on now, don’t ruin hotdogs. They are good wholesome junk food made of cows and not horses.”

Leslie: "Keep telling yourself that, love."

Tristan: "I will." Have another kiss. "All right, baby, let's go home."

Leslie: "I'll drive." Announced while climbing into the driver's seat.

Tristan: “Ain’t gotta tell me twice,” said Tristan, sliding into the passenger’s seat and handing over the keys.

“You know what we need? A hammock.”

Leslie: "Where are we gonna buy one out here?"

Tristan: “That I don’t know. Think Home Depot sells them?”

Leslie: "Are we going to Home Depot?"

Tristan: “Nah, not today. But it’s been on my mind. The weather we’ve been having makes me wanna nap outside with you.”

Leslie: "We'll have to look into it, then."

Tristan: “Hell yeah.”

Tristan spent the ride home sharing more of the details of his meeting with Leslie. It was the biggest contract he’d gotten in a while; enough to put some money where it was needed and have some leftover for a decent bonus.

Leslie: Talk of money with Tristan. Little slaps of reality. Not entirely sure of his decisions. A lingering ailment of his past.

"How many investors do you have?"

Tristan: "Just the one. I've had a few really great years, the Adrianna is in beautiful shape. Business is good."

Leslie: "Would you be uncomfortable with my contributing?"

Tristan: He smiled. "You wanna invest in my fishing business?"

Leslie: "I do, but I don't want any say in what you do."

Tristan: "What percentage would you like?"

Leslie: "This is so much easier on Robinhood."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "You don't want a percentage? Can I tempt you with a small token at the end of my fiscal year?"

Leslie: Leslie put his best effort into a sober tone. One difficult to do in Tristan's presence. Not unlike their first night together. "I don't want you to feel like I have something over you, in the future."

Tristan: "Les, come on. I know that's not who you are. If I thought for a second that you were offering for any reason other than genuinely helping me, I wouldn't accept. And I know you wouldn't offer for any other reason."

Leslie: Softly he sighed. "How about we... we touch base on the subject again after what I have to tell you when we're home."

Tristan: "Okay, baby, that's fine. Kinda making me a little nervous." Was Leslie about to tell him some heavy life-altering thing? Had something awful happened?

Leslie: Tristan's tone told him to take his hand and give a mighty squeeze. "Get out of your head. It's not like that."

Tristan: He squeezed back. "You sure? I'm getting a capital 's' Serious feeling."

Leslie: "You think I'd be holding your hand right now if I planned something like that?"

Tristan: “I don’t know.” He smiled. “You could be about to tell me my face turned blue and ugly in the middle of the night and you’re trying to soften the blow.”

Leslie: "I know I tease, but you should know me better than that. I'd tell you your face is blue immediately," he grinned.

Tristan: “Awww, thank you, babydoll.” He brought Leslie’s hand to his lips. “Did you know I love you?”

Leslie: "No fucking idea! Holy shit, really?"

Tristan: “Really really. Crazy, I know.”

Leslie: "I know there is a balance, and things will happen the way they are meant to, and Fate only has one eye, but I'm still stumped at the two of us."

Tristan: “At how it took us so long and how we managed to end up here?”

Leslie: "Mhm."

Tristan: “Well, things slow down when you’ve only got one eye that you have to share with your sisters.”

Leslie: "Could also just say we're idiots."

Tristan: “Yeah, that too,” he chuckled.

Leslie: Leslie pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. Keys tossed between hands as he stared out the window.

Tristan: "Talk to me about what's going on in that head, doll."

Leslie: "Your nervousness has rubbed off on me."

Tristan: "Sorry about that. Mama always said I emoted a lot."

Leslie: "You emote all you want."

Tristan: Tristan leaned over and kissed Leslie's cheek. "Come on, let's have some lunch."

Leslie: "Right." Tristan was helped inside. Locking the truck with the fob before shutting the front door and tossing the keys on the nearest table.

"Where's your laptop?"

Tristan: He set the food down in the kitchen and set about gathering bowls and forks.

"It iiiiiis.....on the bed. Should be charged and ready to go."

Leslie: He returned with the laptop and a lack of shirt. The results of his beach stroll apparent on his shoulders and chest.

"Alright. I'll pull up what I wanted to talk about. I want your honesty. That's all I want."

Tristan: "If honesty is what you want, then I'm here to give it to you." He started plating their meal. "Lay it on me."

Leslie: Pictures were downloaded from his email and minimized. Leslie leaned back in his seat and itched at his burn.

"A lot of love went into my house, but," deep breath, "I'm...thinking about tearing it down and expanding. But the thing is...I..."

Tristan: Tristan walked over, gesturing with a bowl. "Hey, hey, hey, leave that sunburn alone. I'll slather it in aloe here in a bit."

He leaned in to look at the laptop, only to lean back out in surprise. Not any negative surprise either. "You wanna expand? That's great!" He gestured again. "What's that hesitation for? Don't know how big you wanna go?"

Leslie: A song Tristan had sung before. Funny, he couldn't recall Oliver getting similar treatment. Another sign he should have noticed.

"It'll be healed by tomorrow." He could invest a conscious effort, but he simply didn't want to.

"No. Not that. Clive's had some blueprints in mind the moment he saw my place. It's just deciding between them. But...these weren't drawn with anyone else in mind. I don't...know...what kind of future I'm going to have and how many people should be included."

Tristan: That didn’t mean Leslie couldn’t be comfortable until then, but there were bigger fish to fry at the moment.

Very significant and important fish.

Tristan took a seat beside Leslie and reached for one of his hands. “And you want to know if now that we’re here, they should be revisited, right?”

Leslie: Tristan could have one of his hands. The other to fidget beneath the table.

"We've only just started. I don't want you to feel pressured into anything about the house, or why I want this. But the thing is... It feels wrong to move forward without your input. If why I want this, if any of it is too much, I won't - I won't guilt you into being with me. I won't do anything like that. I promise. We have to have the same vision and I don't know if we have the same vision. I'm just... verbal diarrhea right now. Sorry! You know that Charles - my friend you met with the locked chest, that Charles - runs a school for gifted children. Gifted like... me, kind of gifted. But not me. They call themselves mutants. There are these two girls. Ruby and Ester. They... They don't have family..."

Tristan: A soft smile played at Tristan's lips as he listened. He didn't mind the wave of words and thoughts; he wanted to know, wanted to understand, wanted to have the full picture in front of him. He liked to think he and Leslie were open books for each other, and that made conversations like this matter all the more.

"We have only just started, but when you think about it, we also haven't. Yeah it took us a while to get to this exact spot, but we've been with each other for years. I don't know, maybe it's me being a romantic or me being idealistic, but I've let my mind go to that place. To the wedding bells and the house and the kids running around. Not to say I want the bells right the hell now, I would never push that on you or pressure you.

"But I've always been able to see us take those kinds of big steps." He kissed Leslie's knuckles. "The way I grew up made me wanna have kids. My mom made me wanna have kids. For me it was never an if, it was always a when, and I'd like that when to be with you. It feels right that it's you. Right and good.

"Tell me about Ruby and Ester."

Leslie: "It does sound romantic. I love romance, I do, but I also know... this house... " Leslie waved his free hand. "This didn't happen in a day. I remember all the times you went on and on about projects. Here I'm talking about a new house. Children."

Swallowing, determined to push the conversation as Tristan encouraged.

"They're made of rubies and diamonds. They're hungry for knowledge. Not just about what I can do, but everything. Just touching on a subject they don't know, they dive into it. Ruby especially. She's fiercely protective. Ester is nurturing. They've been through so much. I'm... I'm scared. I've wanted to be a father for years, but I don't know how to - where to begin this."

Tristan: Now that took Tristan aback. Not the children themselves, no, it wasn't that.

"Rubies and diamonds? Actual rubies and diamonds that people make jewelry with? And they call that a mutation?" He gave a breathless chuckle and shook his head. "That's so much more. That's something bordering on ethereal and...divine. Two protective and nurturing little girls should know nothing but nurturing and protection.

"And I can't think of anyone better suited for that than you. No one knows how to be a parent until they are one. Mama says she became a parent the day she decided to keep me. I think that once you make that choice, that's it. You're a parent."

Leslie: "Charles is... apprehensive of their learning witchcraft. I tried to explain that a good education is better than delving into something way over their head because they have no one. We all were raised with guidance. If a witch is determined to go down that road, they will, no matter the cleared path in front of them, but -"

Leslie closed his eyes. Well aware of how he must look. His usual confidence, impressive even by his perspective, had receded like a tide.

"The end of the day, they have to want me to be their father. By the time the house is done, they might not. I might just be a novelty to them. And Charles... Charles could say no. He has the final say. I can state my case, but I'm not going to fight him. And also, none of this is going to happen if you don't want it to."

Tristan: "I don't know your friend Charles all that well, but it...surprises me that he can have two kids in his care made of precious stones and be apprehensive of witchcraft. From what you've told me, it's not even something--I don't know, unnatural? that they'd be diving into. It's in them already, in everyone."

While Leslie's eyes were closed, Tristan leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. It was hard to miss that shaky confidence, and even harder to miss the reason.

"Leslie Issott, you could never be just a novelty to anybody. Not to me, not to those kids, not to anyone. I am in this with you. I want this with you. If Charles says no, it'll be to both of us, after we've made our case."

Leslie: That was precisely the point Leslie wanted to make for anyone interested in the craft. And Tristan just said it. Just accepted it. Damn near rendered his witch speechless. Only finding his voice after the press of lips to his skin.

"Y-Yeah. Exactly." Eyes slowly opened. "Are you sure? Tristie, I want you to be sure you mean what you say."

Tristan: Leslie would see a brilliantly smiling Tristan looking back at him. “There is nothing in my life I’ve been more sure of than you. I want to build a home and a family with you.”

Leslie: A deep breath later, Leslie nodded. Something felt off, but he couldn't put his finger on what. This was what he wanted to hear, but something felt missing. What that was, he couldn't see. Beyond a fog and just out of reach.

But he would smile anyway. "Want me to show you the blueprints?"

Tristan: Tristan kissed his witch's cheeks. This was only the first of many conversations they would probably end up having on the subject, he was certain. And that was exactly the way it should be. One conversation simply wasn't enough when you were talking about your future together with someone.

"Show them to me while we eat. Our stomachs and your blood sugar are going to start complaining at us here in a bit."

Leslie: "You mean my blood sugar," he smirked.

Tristan: “That’s what I said, you beautiful man.” Have more kisses to your face. “What do you want to drink?”

Leslie: "Thought you said our," he laughed as he was kissed. "Just water. I think I had the last of the tea."

Tristan: That laugh would never not be absolute music to his ears. It made him want to shower Leslie with more kisses and affection but he'd save that for later.

For now he got both of them some water and settled in to look at blueprints.

"All right, sweetheart, show me your vision."

Leslie: Sometimes all those affectionate names could be overwhelming. He knew they came from a place of honesty. The look in Tristan's eyes, it was impossible to think otherwise. But still, sometimes, he caught himself wondering if this was Callum's work. Leading a man on and dropping him. Those dropped pieces were delicate. He really did not like that druid.

But the witch just smiled, pulling up blueprints for two designs his father had drawn. A larger A-frame than his current model, and something a little more contemporary for the area. Larger ceilings versus a more intimate feel.

Tristan: Tristan took a bite of his salad and took a good look at the design, unaware of Leslie's thoughts and worries. Had he known them, he would've done his best to lay them to rest. The last thing he wanted was for his slew of nicknames to seem like they came from a place of overcompensation or some sort of residual issue. They came purely from fondness.

"I really like all the windows and that it's still an A frame. The upstairs, too. All that storage space."

Leslie: "I could flip a coin and live in either. I'm partial, but no one can beat these designs. I want a large kitchen. Maybe culinary lessons in the future. Private chef will only go so far in this town. So, classes."

Tristan: "I really like the porch on the one with the bigger kitchen, and the part that's screened in."

Tristan smiled. "You'd make a great cooking teacher, and private chef, and caterer. You could do it all."

Leslie: "But which kitchen, which house would best give me that?"

Tristan: “The bigger one that’s not an A frame, I think.”

Leslie: "Can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “Maybe I’m biased because I live somewhere with a screened patio/porch area and I really like it, but yeah. I totally can. And look at that huge deck. You could grow so many magic plants on that deck. And I can get us some Adirondack chairs and we can sit out there in the evenings.”

Leslie: "I'll give it some more thought, but I'll let you know what I choose." Leslie stared at the screen for some time. "But..."

Tristan: “Honestly, whichever you choose will be amazing. They’re both great designs.”

Tristan turned back to Leslie. “...But?” he prompted softly.

Leslie: "Is this supposed to be only my decision? Do you want to live with me? See my craft day in and out? It's more than just herbs and playing with pixies."

Tristan: “I don’t know, yes, and yes.” He set his plate aside. “Part of me thinks that since you bought this house, your opinion holds more weight than mine. I do want to live with you. I want to wake up to you and fall asleep with you and see your magic and learn more about it and about you through it. I want to understand it all, not just the herbs and playing with pixies.

“Do you want to live with me?”

Leslie: "But that would mean," Leslie looked around Tristan's home. "That would mean the end of this, wouldn't it? I feel like one of Peter Pan's lost boys. Asking us to live together means growing up in a way I don't know if I'm ready for."

The laptop was closed.

"I want to live with you. But I think, first, I need to... do some things."

Tristan: Tristan mimicked Leslie and looked around at his furniture and trinkets. “This being my house? It is definitely a grown-up thing to do, moving in with your boyfriend, but it’s not an end. Well, it’s an end to living alone but it’s also a beginning.”

Still, he nodded. “You do what you have to, Les. We’re not on a deadline, there’s no rush. But if it would help, maybe we could do a trial run?”

Leslie: "A trial run, as in, my being here?"

Tristan: “Yeah, or my being at your house. Why don’t we live together for a couple weeks, see how we feel?”

Leslie: Leslie took a breath. "What would you say to, a counteroffer?"

Tristan: “Lay it on me.”

Leslie: "While the house is built, I live with you?"

Tristan: He smiled. “Works for me. Work for you?”

Leslie: "The house with the largest kitchen, can you see yourself there?"

Tristan: “I’m already in it putting our chairs on the deck and hanging up those cool backyard string lights like you see in magazines.”

Leslie: "All of your shells, your fish?"

Tristan: “How you do feel about living with fish, shells, nautical antiques, and the occasional rehabilitated hermit crab?”

Leslie: "As well as I hope you'll feel with spell books, dried herbs, and a record player."

Tristan: "I feel pretty good about spell books, herbs, and a record player. Got a ton of records from my mama we can play."

Leslie: His smile bloomed. "Will you have me for however long it takes?"

Tristan: "However long and then some."

Leslie: Leslie brought himself to his feet and into Tristan's arms. "I'll start putting things in storage, then."

Tristan: He was immediately embraced and kissed on his forehead.

“Let me know any way I can help. And also the best place for Opal’s cage.”

Leslie: "Maybe out there?" Tristan's face was held in both hands, given several kisses across the forehead and down the nose.

Tristan: Tristan smiled and closed his eyes, basking in the affection. “Out in the patio? She can have the fish as roommates.”

Leslie: "She might try n'eat the fish. We gotta find a way to keep her out."

Tristan: “The tank out there has a top that goes to it, just have to put it on. And the one by the stairs is covered all the time so the fish should be safe.”

Leslie: "I know I'm gorgeous and irresistible and fun at parties, but do you really, really want me day in and day out for what could be a year?"

Tristan: Tristan nodded. “You sure are and I definitely do. I want you in my bed all the time, to fall asleep to you and wake up to you.”

Leslie: Sounds better than a proposal. "I'm whelmed just the right amount right now. Kiss me?"

Tristan: “The perfect amount of whelmed, huh?” Tristan leaned in to kiss those beautiful lips. “I’m glad.”

Leslie: "Just right. Suffocating in happiness. Up to my ears in elation," he grinned.

Tristan: He laughed and kissed all over Leslie's face. "I'm even more glad. Hell, I'm friggin' delighted." One more kiss for good measure.

"Eat your food. Gotta nourish that beautiful body."

Leslie: "But what if I'd rather ravish your body?"

Tristan: "Far be it from me to stop you, but your blood sugar definitely will."

Leslie: "Thirty minutes? I'll survive thirty long luxurious minutes with you."

Tristan: "Okay, thirty minutes. I'm setting a timer though, to keep us both honest."

Leslie: "Timed sex? Sounds sterile."

A knowing smile his only tell, before lifting Tristan into his arms.

"How about that? Hmm?" To hell with a bedroom. The nearest cushioned surface would do.

Tristan: "I'd rather sterile than--oop!" A rather squeaky sound of surprise escaped Tristan as he was scooped up and carried to the couch, followed by an equally surprised laugh.

"You got me! Whatcha gonna do with me, oh mighty sexy witch?"

Leslie: There was something satisfying to carrying the man determined to haul him this where and that for the past months. He would be placed on the couch with a little more care than his lift. A witch between his legs, on his knees. Hands on either side.

"Do you mind if I do whatever I want?"

Tristan: Satisfying for them both. Tristan hummed and stretched as luxuriously as a cat, looking up at Leslie with a soft, adoring smile.

"I don't mind one bit. I'm all yours to do with whatever you will."

Leslie: "Whatever I will?" Tristan's shirt was slowly lifted, revealing a stomach worth kissing. "Are you sure?"

Tristan: He nodded. “I’m sure, baby. I trust you.”

Leslie: Please protect this beautiful body and mind and spirit, whispered against his skin. His prayer was safe and mysterious in Portuguese. His little secret. Kisses roamed from one side to the other. Buttons slowly undone for further blessed exploration.

Tristan: Tristan looked curiously at Leslie, wondering what language he was speaking but loath to interrupt. He could always ask later.

At the moment he was content to be loved on and explored, to let one of his hands play with Leslie's hair.

And if Leslie wanted to slide his jeans down, well Tristan would oblige that, too.

Leslie: He was going to enjoy every stage of undress. Socks, jeans, underwear, all pooled to his side and forgotten. The last was done sacredly, sliding hands underneath Tristan's shirt, slow in their climb over his ribs and encouraging the lift of his arms to do away with the final bit of barrier.

Tristan: He hardly needed any encouragement at all. He happily stretched his arms above his head so Leslie could finish undressing him, all the while growing more and more curious about what his boyfriend planned to do with his naked sailor.

"Want me to take my hair down?" Tristan whispered. It seemed like the right thing to do.

Leslie: "Absolutely down," he smiled. "Do you want me naked?"

Tristan: Tristan reached around to take the various ties out of his hair. "Every hour god sends, baby doll."

Leslie: His hands were taken, brought to the hem of Leslie's shirt. His smile unshakeable.

Tristan: "I get to do it?" Tristan sat up, smile matching Leslie's as he did away with his shirt. "Lucky me."

Leslie: "Luck does many things. Maybe luck brought me to a little fishing town."

But enough of that. Tristan's hands were returned to himself. Just a moment of tease. Keep those hands to yourself while I kiss your swollen needy body.

Tristan: "Maybe it did. And if it did, I'm grateful for it every single day."

Any protest Tristan had at being stopped in the middle of undressing Leslie died on his lips as those kisses touched his skin.

Tristan reached for him, suddenly needy for those kisses everywhere.

Leslie: A gentle protesting noise answered Tristan's wanting touch. He turned his head to find the wandering hand, kissed his palm. "Keep your hands to yourself, Tristie."

Tristan: “Aw, but you’re so pretty and half naked and touchable.”

Leslie: "Tell me more." While I kiss where you want most.

His warm tongue traced the shape, down the length to nuzzle his scrotum.

Tristan: "You're--mmmmm....." Tristan's back arched off the couch in pure pleasure, eyes closing of their own accord as sensation washed over him. He could swear he felt all the blood in his body rushing through his veins to pool between his legs and harden him nearly to the point of ache. It was pure hell not being able to reach for him.

Leslie was perfect, is what he was, and as soon as some of the blood rushed back to Tristan's head, he'd make sure to tell him that.

Leslie: Saying more than words could manage. He took him and swallowed, popped him from his mouth and went again. Down to his scrotum and back for more. This was deliberate sweet torment. An appetizer.

"Lube, baby?"

Tristan: Tristan's back arched again as a ragged moan was torn from somewhere in his chest. Maybe from his soul. He couldn't quite tell when his brain was leaking out his ears. All he knew was that the heat between his legs was spreading throughout his body and making that needy ache better and making it worse all at once.

"Uh...um...." He gestured toward where he thought the bathroom was. "Cabinet."

Leslie: "I want you ready for me by the time I get back." Back on his feet, shedding the last of his clothes for Tristan's viewing pleasure. Slowly and deliberate as his tongue. His briefs were tossed onto Tristan's lap before strolling to the bathroom.

Tristan: Leslie's departure was met with a mighty groan of protest, which was easily soothed as his witch finished getting naked. Viewing pleasure didn't even begin to cover it; it was pure torture of the best kind.

"M'ready for you now," he called after Leslie, tossing the briefs aside and stretching luxuriously. Everything was throbbing and begging for relief. "Come back, baby doll. I miss youuuuuu..."

Leslie: Leslie would be heard laughing from the bathroom. A quick swish of Listerine and a bottle of lube later he returned to straddle Tristan's lap, offering minty lips as he slicked two fingers for prep.

"Are you allowed to say you miss me? Dunno if you should."

Tristan: Tristan greeted Leslie with a slow grin, pulling him in for a kiss the second he was within reach. "Aw, come on. I'm already not allowed to touch you. Have mercy on a poor weak sailor."

Leslie: "Hmm." Lubrication was warmed in his hand, stroked over Tristan's tumescent cock.

"We need more condoms." Not for any other reason than textural pleasure. "Ready for me?"

Tristan: It felt like his whole body breathed a sigh of relief at Leslie's touch, even if it was short-lived. His shaft damn near twitched in a silent plea for more.

"I'm ready," he said with a vigorous nod. They could get condoms later. It was still afternoon right? Was he saying all this out loud? He couldn't tell with his blood roaring in his ears.

Leslie: The air left his lungs as he sank into Tristan's lap. That familiar wave of heat ascending to his chest, leaving a void preventing another breath. His first intake of breath was against Tristan's lips. Holding his face in both hands as he moaned with relief.

Tristan: Tormented relief. That's exactly how it felt being inside Leslie, how it felt having him exactly where he wanted him. He had to take a deep breath while he let himself adjust to the wet heat, tiny panting moans spilling from his lips. No matter how slowly his witch got into position, it was always a shock to his system in the best possible way. Had to be the magic.

"Les...Les...."

Leslie: Fingers pushed into Tristan's luxurious hair. Squeezed and made a bun with the tangles of his fists. Rather than bounce, he rolled himself forward and back, grunting softly cheek-to-cheek.

"Fuck me, Tristie. Touch me now."

Tristan: Tristan's hands were on Leslie before he could finish his sentence. They swept over his witch's body from shoulders to perfect ass and back again, all while his hips began a rolling rhythm of their own.

His lips would be just as busy, lavishing every bit of Leslie they could reach with affection. You'd think Tristan had gone weeks without touching and kissing him instead of a few minutes.

Leslie: Leslie leaned forward, giving Tristan ample freedom to thrust himself upwards at a rhythm worthy enough to jostle his senses. He clung to his head and offered his mouth, his tongue, and his desperate noises to their kiss.

Tristan: Calling his movements a rhythm was perhaps a bit too generous, but what Tristan lacked in finesse he made up for in enthusiasm.

There would be other occasions for savoring, for lingering, for teasing. On this moment on this occasion, all Tristan wanted was more of those gorgeous, needy little noises. Leslie was the center of the universe and the only thing that mattered was bringing him to orgasm; Tristan didn't have the presence of mind for anything else.

Leslie: This was a desperate cling, and he could feel the beginning stages of sweat. He had to let go of that hair and help himself, but he couldn't. Not yet. Just a few more rolls of his hips. One more rise to the very edge and down to the hilt and his sanity.

"Can you jerk me off?" Finally releasing Tristan's hair, he leaned himself back in his living seat. Both hands squeezed Tristan's knees as he braced himself.

Tristan: Leslie didn't have to ask. Tristan was already taking his witch in his hand, lovingly stroking Leslie's cock while his hips continued their desperate pace.

"That feel good, sweetheart? You're so fucking beautiful."

Leslie: A series of expletives escaped his chest. Not with or against his will. His mind too far north to care about fuck filling the room over and over again as he writhed, spilling hot white over his stomach and both their thighs.

And there it was. That post-orgasm laughter tightening his muscles. Head thrown back as he clung his hands to Tristan's knees.

"Cum for me, baby."

Tristan: The word fuck had never sounded better or more poetic.

Tristan gave a rumbling purr in approval, dragging Leslie down to take his lips again. He wanted the flavor of him making his head swim as he gave those final few thrusts and spilled inside him.

Leslie: Leslie shivered in Tristan's arms. Hugged around his neck and nuzzled into his hair. His thighs and cock were spent. Leaning dying weight into his lover's chest.

"I don't... even... remember what we were doing."

Tristan: Having Leslie lean his weight against him was what Tristan lived for. He loved it.

"Um..." He chuckled breathlessly and kissed Leslie's hair. "No fuckin' idea. I smell food though."

Leslie: "I want to eat everything in the house, but I'm so tired," he laughed.

Tristan: "You need to eat everything in the house. Blood sugar."

Leslie: "Five more minutes," he pleaded to those lips.

Tristan: "Three," Tristan countered with a teeny tiny kiss.

Leslie: "We won't know," he purred, eyes closing.

Tristan: "Mmm, you're right. Guess that means you better eat now," he said a grin.

Leslie: "Three minutes." It's already been one.

#Plans for the Future chapter #leslieeissott #tristanseger

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fanficsandfluff · 4 years

Text

Emotions Get the Better (13)

Okay okay. Artistic liberties so I’m pushing back the order of movie events to make room for some fluff. Y’all know I can’t write this long without a substantial amount of fluff.

Also, it’s really fluffy

Like probably too fluffy

Enjoy!

~~~~

You woke up feeling well-rested enough. As you blinked your eyes open against the blazing morning sun, you knew there was a weird dream poking at your brain, and you were trying to remember. Something to do with Arthur in his clown getup, but you couldn’t remember what happened exactly. Oh well.

You slung yourself out of bed and stood by the window, ogling because you hadn’t seen this much sun in Gotham in months. It was truly a sight to behold. You looked down at the streets below, seeing the day’s 9 to 5 workers bustling back and forth in large crowds. And you raised your eyebrows when you saw multiple clown masks among those average folk. Another protest? Oh right, Thomas Wayne was having a press conference somewhere nearby today in one of the official buildings.

This clown thing ramped up very quickly. You never liked clowns, then you see one on the street, then you get to know him, and now anti-1% clowns are running around Gotham asking for justice.

You didn’t have much planned today since you didn’t have work. Your theater was preparing for the gala that was coming up later that week, so they needed time to fix the place up. You knew you wanted to bake cookies at some point and you had to pick up refills on your prescriptions, but that was pretty much it.

You got dressed and felt refreshed when the nipper air hit your skin the minute you stepped outside. Seasons were changing, and you were grateful for it.

You walked the long walk to your pharmacy and pushed the door open, hearing the entry bell tinkle. You walked to the back of the store and put your name in, then stepped aside to wait for them to give you your refills.

And who would sidle up beside you from the pain medication isle but Arthur. You were nudged gently by said man standing very close beside you, so you looked up and smiled wide, “Hi!” you greeted him, probably a bit too enthusiastically.

Arthur smiled back at you, “Hi. What’re you doing here?” he did his best to act innocently, as if he didn’t already know you came to this pharmacy for prescription drugs.

You hadn’t had to confront him yet about your own bodily malfunctions, and it made you feel ashamed. So, you wound up not answering him right away, clearing your throat.

“Oh, just picking up some stuff. What about you?”

“Same. I’m getting the last of my, um, prescriptions.”

“Why the last?”

“They’ve stopped funding my social service program.”

You frowned, taken aback by the news, “Oh.... Arthur, I’m sorry.”

Arthur shrugged, “What can you do? No one feels for the little guy anymore.”

The pharmacist called Arthur’s name and he walked up to the counter. You stood there, feeling increasingly bad about his situation. Every single thing just seemed to go wrong for this poor man. And it wasn’t fair at all.

Arthur stepped aside after he received his pretty hefty back of prescriptions, and you were next, taking yours and putting them away into your purse.

“You busy today?” you asked.

Arthur seemed to think about it, “Um, no. But... But I promised my mother I’d make us dinner tonight.”

You smiled at that, “That’s sweet. Well, I was going to do some baking today. Cookies, mostly. You wanna come over and help? Afterwards, you can bring some home to your mom.”

Arthur’s face seemed to loosen at this request and his lips curved into a smile. He nodded, “Sure, I’d like that.”

“Great. Come, I gotta pick up some ingredients,” you didn’t know what possessed you, but you slid your hand comfortably into Arthur’s and tugged him along with you to the exit. It felt good to be more physical with him. And Arthur didn’t seem to mind at all, smiling goofily, looking down at your intertwined hands.

You walked down the street with your hand in his, asking about how his mom was doing, if he was looking for another job.

That’s when Arthur asked, “Do you have family?” which sounded like an odd question to you. Did you seem like that much of a loner?

“Yeah. None of them live in Gotham though. My mom lives out east more, in the nicer suburbs. And my dad lives in Chicago with his girlfriend. And I have two brothers, one older and one younger.”

Arthur seemed to stare at you a little differently while you were giving the brief rundown of your family and their whereabouts. Was it an incomprehension? Or jealousy? You couldn’t quite place his reaction when you looked up at him, but turned into the grocery store when you reached it, letting go of his hand finally and holding the door for him, “After you.”

Arthur appeared to have moved on and he nodded his head in thanks to you and stepped inside.

You always loved the smell of the fresh baking bread in grocery stores. But money was getting tighter since you weren’t working as frequently, so you resisted the urge to pick up a fresh loaf of bread. You purchased all of your required ingredients and headed to your home.

“Alright, I’m so ready to get these cookies baking,” you said once you entered your apartment. You set the grocery bag down on the kitchen countertop, and Arthur followed by putting his down, as well. You threw off your coat and kicked off your shoes, tying your hair up as a final step.

“Do you bake?”

“No, not really.”

“Your mom never made anything for you or showed you how to bake something?”

Arthur shook his head, “She wasn’t really a cook.”

You nodded, “Alright, not everyone’s good at it. My mom was an awful cook growing up. I swear she was trying to poison my brothers and me sometimes.”

Arthur chuckled at the joke.

“This’ll be fun. If you and your mom like these cookies, maybe you can bake them yourself for her at some point.”

Arthur nodded, liking the idea.

You pulled out your measuring cups, bowls, and stirring tools needed to create the dough for the sugar cookies you wanted to bake.

You told him to measure out 3 cups of flour as you went into the adjacent living room and flipped through your records to put on some music. You found one of the rock and roll records your dad gifted you a few years back and stuck the needle into it.

“Okay, let’s do this,” you beamed when you walked back into the kitchen, clapping your hands together, “So whenever you’re baking cookies, it’s important to keep the dry ingredients separate from the wet ingredients.”

And you went on, explaining to Arthur step by step what to do and why. He seemed eager to learn and was nodding at everything you told him.

“This is the part that always makes my hand hurt afterward, it requires a lot of manpower. So go for it,” you chuckled and instructed Arthur to slowly mix in the dry ingredients into the wet ingredients bowl.

You watched his face mostly as he worked, seeing the determined jut in his brow. You saw him whisking up the flour a bit too fast, so it puffed up everywhere, sprinkling over your countertop and on him.

“Sorry! I--”

“Ihit’s okay!” you giggled and stepped closer to him. You hooked an arm underneath his and started rolling up his sleeve for him, “Baking’s messy, that’s supposed to happen.”

Arthur seemed distracted by you rolling up his sleeves, but he resumed his mixing, slower this time. You smiled at him and when you took a step back, you realized just how much sexier Arthur looked with rolled-up sleeves. It added to his usual button-up shirt and sweater combo. You leaned closer to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek before you went to the other end of the kitchen in search of a rolling pin.

Arthur blushed hard and his head turned towards you when you administered the kiss. You were so easy to touch him and hug him and kiss him. Was he supposed to be the same towards you? Was he not reciprocating enough? Worry quickly encompassed Arthur’s mind seconds after feeling on cloud nine. That’s just what he did.

You grabbed your large rolling pin and sauntered back over to Arthur, seeing he was finishing up the dough. You tapped the rolling pin on his ass teasingly, asking, “How’s it going?”

Arthur jolted at the touch, making you laugh. He eyed you, “I dunno, you tell me.”

You peered into his bowl and asked for the spoon from him. He handed it over and you started to finish kneading until it was perfect dough consistency, “Tada. You just made your first sugar cookie dough,” and you gave him a round of applause.

Arthur smiled, “That wasn’t so bad.”

“I know. Now, we gotta let this set up in the fridge for like twenty minutes to a half hour,” you bunched up the dough into a ball and wrapped it up in saran wrap, sticking it into the fridge carefully.

You scraped your finger on the side of the bowl that used to contain the dough and licked it off, “Try some. Cookie dough is the most delicious thing on the planet.”

And Arthur followed your lead, tasting the granules of sugar and the slight saltiness and the smoothness. It was pretty tasty.

“Mmmm,” you moaned in happiness when you swiped the last of the dough from the bowl, “I’m excited for these.”

“Where’d you learn to cook?” Arthur inquired.

“I dunno. My dad was always the chef of the family, but he left when I was relatively young. I’m mostly self-taught. I went away to college so I had to fend for myself, and I didn’t have the money to eat out every day. So I learned to cook.”

You started putting dishes into the sink and soaking them. You offered, “And hey, if you ever wanna cook something at your own home, I can give you a few recipes. Oh, I have this one for grilled cheese,” you groaned in pleasure, “Oh, it’s fucking amazing.”

Arthur chortled, “I lihike that you’re so passionate about food.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure I look like I’m passionate about food,” you giggled, giving yourself a jab at your own weight. Nothing awful, just throwing it out there.

“You’re beautiful,” Arthur said sweetly, genuinely. Anytime he did those sudden extreme compliments, you flushed red. You just couldn’t help it. This time was no different. You didn’t really show any reaction when he said that, just ducking your burning face as you started washing dishes you wouldn’t be using anymore. Arthur leaned in close to your ear and he whispered, “You’re beautiful,” and that made you giggle bashfully.

“Ahalright, I get it. Thank you,” you turned your head and made eye contact. It seemed Arthur was waiting for you to look his way, being in such close proximity, and he kissed you on the lips. You kissed back for that brief moment and then smiled wide at him afterward.

When you finished the dishes, you offered Arthur some tea. He accepted and you boiled water for the two of you so you could have tea in the meantime while waiting for the cookie dough to set up. You were telling Arthur about how nervous you were to be working the gala at Wayne Hall in two days. You heard they were planning a massive strike outside, and you didn’t know how much longer these protests would be ‘peaceful.’ But you really wanted to watch Modern Times with a live orchestra, so you said you’d suck it up.

“Alright, time for the fun part,” you announced after a half hour had flown by, after you and Arthur had drank your tea.

Arthur went with you back into the kitchen and observed you, standing close by. You stuck your hands into the flour bag and sprinkled some all over the cutting board, “Just throw the dough on there, please,” you requested.

Arthur did as he was told, plopping it onto the floured surface, “See, you do this so the dough doesn’t stick anywhere and get all messy,” you always seemed to have an itch on your face whenever your hands were indisposed, so you quickly swiped the back of your hand over your nose, getting a streak of flour there. Then you started working the dough into a slightly more malleable form.

“You have some...” Arthur touched his own nose while looking at you, grinning.

“What?”

Arthur reached forward and flicked the flour off with his finger.

“Oho, thanks,” you smiled and got more flour onto your hands patting it onto the top of the dough before you swiftly reached up and pinched Arthur’s nose briefly, getting it coated with flour, as well. You laughed.

“Why?” was all Arthur said, clearly good-humored.

You kept giggling and shrugged, “I dunno, your nose is big.”

“My nose is big?” he reacted more outlandishly than you thought he would, making you laugh more.

“Yeahahah.”

“I don’t think it’s that big,” he defended, wiping the flour from his nose.

You were busy rolling out the dough when you added, “Well, I think it works out. You gotta have a big nose to fit that red clown nose onto it,” and you laughed at your own joke more, even if it didn’t make any sense, “Oh my god, you should do your clown makeup with all cooking ingredients one day. Lihihike, like... flour for your face-- or whipped cream! You can just stick your face into whipped cream or something-- H-Hey! Arthur!” you were cut off when Arthur had come near you and started to pinch at your side. It was clearly meant to tickle.

“You’re so funny,” Arthur said honestly, “Especially when it’s at my expense,” he teased and continued to prod and squeeze. You tried to keep your hands on the rolling pin but that was failing fast.

“Arthur, wahahait!” you started to sink down onto the kitchen floor. Arthur took pity and he chuckled, stopping and pulling you to your feet instead.

“Dohon’t do that again,” you warned him, shooting him a look, but you were smiling so he knew you weren’t actually mad at him.

“Okay,” Arthur conceded easily and then added, “I’ll just do it again when you start talking about putting ketchup all over my lips next.”

That made you snort and you patted the dough once more, “Finished,” you reached across Arthur and grabbed the cookie cutter, “Press this all over the dough. It’ll make us nice round cookies,” you went and got the baking tray while Arthur was tasked with cookie cutting.

Pretty soon, all the cookies were cut and laid out on trays. Then you slid them into the oven.

“Nice,” you said, feeling proud of your work together. There was a moment of silence, of peacefulness, and you really enjoyed it.

You scratched your nose again with not totally clean hands, not even looking at Arthur when you said, “Maybe blueberry jam for the eye makeup...”

And that was it.

You squeaked and ran out of the kitchen when you saw Arthur immediately come towards you, with a clear mischievous intention. It was a futile effort; maybe because you weren’t fast enough, or maybe because you actually wanted to get caught. But Arthur had wrapped both arms around your waist, snagged you, and lifted you up as he plopped you onto the couch. My god was this man strong. You were already giggling by the time he straddled you.

“Arthur, no no no no, wahait, I’m sorry--- WAIT!” you shrieked when he started to tickle your belly and sides with those stupid long, nimble fingers of his.

“You never told me you were ticklish,” was what Arthur decided to say.

“N-Never came up!” you started cackling when he went for pinching your ribs.

Arthur was swooning at the sight of you below him, red-faced, squirming, practically crying with laughter.

“Nohohot fair! This isn’t FAIR!” you yipped and arched your back when he experimentally squeezed at your hip bone.

Arthur’s fingers were working of their own accord by this point, as his eyes were trained on your lovely face. Your hands would occasionally come down to swat at his attacking ones, but mostly they were clung to your chest. And Arthur felt such pride in the fact that he was eliciting this musical laughter from you, no other reason.

Finally, he relented. His hand didn’t move from its place at your side but it had stopped tickling. You panted and coughed, letting your residual giggles die down. You felt his hand flinch, and you shot yours to it, “Noho more,” you breathed, gripping Arthur’s hand in your own.

Arthur was past the point of smiling at you. He was staring at you with those big eyes of his and you finally wiped the tears in your eyes away enough to see him. He looked beautiful. You saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed and his eyes flickered to your lips.

You leaned up to give him permission and he was on you in an instant, kissing you so tenderly. You lifted one hand up and rested it on Arthur’s waist, and your other hand was touching his jaw.

Everything was beautiful about this day. It started with the weather. Then the coincidence of running into Arthur, his free schedule, and your desire to be with him all lined up. Cookie baking turned into a one-sided tickle fight. And now here was this beautiful, beautiful man, inside and out, kissing your lips and your jawline and your neck on your couch, flour and sugar still making both of your hands sticky and your mouths taste sweet. You had both of your hands now cradling the back of Arthur’s neck, lightly tracing the base of his neck with your nails. Your lips were close to his ear, and you could hear him breathing. You pressed a few tiny kisses along his cheek. Then Arthur spoke.

“I can smell the cookies.”

And a smile bloomed on your face.

#arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #reader insert #joker #joker x reader #arthur fleck x y/n #joker x y/n #arthur fleck x you #joker x you #fluff #romance #relationship #tickling #ticklish!reader #baking cookies #domestic

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nerianasims · 3 years

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Billboards #1 1963

Under the cut.

Steve Lawrence – “Go Away Little Girl” -- January 12, 1963

"Little girl" didn't mean "little girl" in songs of the era. She could be 49 for all we know. And yet, having to constantly remind onesself of that does not make for a pleasant listening experience. Nothing about it is a pleasant listening experience. Okay, he's drawn to someone he shouldn't be and doesn't know if he can resist. That's a common enough human experience. But he's so smarmy about it. And musically, it's light and boring lounge schmaltz.

The Rooftop Singers – “Walk Right In” -- January 26, 1963

It's okay. It's catchy. I can believe the singers are living breathing people, and not automatons, which is saying a lot for folk-pop of the era. There's some nice acoustic guitar work. I just can't get over the feeling this was originally either about drugs or sex work and has been sanitized. It's fine though. Which is a major improvement over the offensively bad "Michael" two years back.

Paul & Paula – “Hey Paula” -- February 9, 1963

They want to get married as soon as possible because they just can't wait. Why is not said -- this song is Wonder Bread -- but it's obviously because of sex. Also they're singing to each other's stage names, Paul and Paula. "Hey Paula" and "Hey Paul." Getting married very young because you can't handle not having sex any more is a really bad idea. Anyway, it's hard for me to think about the lyrics much because the music is so bland I think it killed some brain cells.

The Four Seasons – “Walk Like A Man” -- March 2, 1963

Can't sleep, Frankie Valli will get me. That falsetto. Dear lord. Anyway, his girlfriend has been spreading lies about him and he's gonna "walk like a man" to get away from her. I'd run like a woman to get away from his voice.

Ruby & The Romantics – “Our Day Will Come” -- March 23, 1963

Now here's a wonderful voice. Ruby Nash has a rich, beautiful contralto, and she puts a lot of joy into it. She's telling someone not to be upset about waiting, because "our day will come" and they'll be able to live happily ever after together. The bossa nova arrangement is nice, but this is all about Nash's voice. Quite good.

The Chiffons – “He’s So Fine” -- March 30, 1963

The narrator is in love with a shy guy whom she's having problems getting close to, but she's determined. "Sooner or later/ I hope it's not later." A nice bouncy girl group song. Also George Harrison ripped the melody off for a much worse song years later.

Little Peggy March – “I Will Follow Him” -- April 27, 1963

In high school, one of my friends and I made up words to this song that went "I hate him/ I hate him/ I hate him" and etc. So uh. This song. As-is, I find it annoying. It's a good jumping off point for you and your friends when you're deeply pissed off at some guys, though.

Jimmy Soul’s “If You Wanna Be Happy” -- May 18, 1963

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, don't marry a pretty woman, marry an ugly woman who can cook. This song makes me laugh. It's dated and problematique. Whatever, I find it amusing.

Lesley Gore – “It’s My Party” -- June 1, 1963

Johnny and Judy are colossal jackasses. They timed starting to go steady at Johnny's girlfriend's party, sheesh. It's all rather unlikely. Considering she's going through something that would be both heartbreaking and horribly embarrassing, Lesley Gore doesn't sound too terribly broken up about it, even if she is supposed to be crying. It's still a good song.

Kyu Sakamoto – “Sukiyaki” (originally "Ue O Muite Aruko") -- June 15, 1963

Kyu Sakamoto had a wonderful voice for pop songs or light tenor roles on Broadway, and he used it well. This is a bittersweet song in Japanese about looking up when you walk after your heart is broken so no one sees your tears -- after your protest movement against U.S. interference in your country fails. Hm. We tend to underestimate how much people in the past knew, and it is entirely possible this song became a hit partly in solidarity with that protest movement. Or maybe because people happened to hear it on TV because of the movement. Or maybe just because it's a pretty song, sung beautifully.

The Essex – “Easier Said Than Done” -- July 6, 1963

The narrator's friends are saying she should tell a guy she's into him, but she can't seem to do it. It's a buoyant little song, but nothing more than that.

Jan And Dean – “Surf City” -- July 20, 1963

This song is explicitly not for me. "Two girls for every boy" sounds no fun at all. And they keep singing it in falsetto. As for the sound, it's an early 60s surf song. Yawn.

The Tymes – “So Much In Love” -- August 3, 1963

The narrator and his fiancee are so much in love, and his backup singers are snapping and woo-wooing to support him in the background. It's nice, and kind of a big nothing at the same time. There's something very assembly line about it.

Little Stevie Wonder – “Fingertips (Pt. II)” -- August 10, 1963

Stevie Wonder was 13 at the time. Which means I don't like this song. He's just too young. Also it's live and sort of all over the place, though it's mostly harmonica. I'll be much happier to hear Stevie Wonder when he's back a few years from now.

The Angels – “My Boyfriend’s Back” -- August 31, 1963

I consider this song close to perfection. It's musically fun and taunting, and the taunting is serious. "Look out now, cuz he's comin' after you." This piece of shit who's been spreading rumors about and sexually harassing the narrator is about to eat dirt. Oh yeah, I love it.

Bobby Vinton – “Blue Velvet” -- September 21, 1963

Apparently David Lynch named a movie for this? I avoid David Lynch like the plague, so that doesn't influence my hearing of the song. The narrator and the woman in blue velvet were in love, but then she "left." It's melancholy enough that I feel she may have died, not just left. Pretty, sad, but that's about it.

Jimmy Gilmer And The Fireballs – “Sugar Shack” -- October 12, 1963

The titular "sugar shack" is supposedly a coffeehouse. I have my doubts. They had to bury implications under a lot of layers in 1963. Or maybe I'm just trying to make the song more interesting, imagining the narrator wants to marry a sex worker and not a waitress. The song is bouncy and bubbly and dull.

Nino Tempo & April Stevens -- "Deep Purple" -- November 16, 1963

I find this song very unpleasant due to Nino Tempo's singing. There's something about it that grates on me, the woo-woo's especially. This is about dreaming an old -- possibly dead -- lover is coming back to you. And it's sure cheery and peppy. Also there's a spoken word section that's not good at all. I do not like this rendition of this song one bit.

Dale & Grace – “I’m Leaving It Up To You” -- November 23, 1963

No Ray Charles this year? I'm in desperate need here. Sigh. Grace's voice is high and nasal and I have nothing to say about Dale. The idea of the song is that they're leaving it up to the other person in the relationship whether to keep going. The lyrics are nothing special, but they're fine. The music is boring except that Grace's voice is like nails on a chalkboard. I don't know how much more stuff like this I can take.

The Singing Nun – “Dominique” -- December 7, 1963

Well, it's different. It’s French. Jeanne-Paule Marie Deckers, the Singing Nun, wrote this cheery song about the founder of her order. He chose poverty and only talked about God, you know the drill. I don't connect with it, and I also have nothing negative to say about it. It's a refreshing song.

BEST OF 1963: My Boyfriend's Back and Sukiyaki in a tie WORST OF 1963: Nino Tempo & April Stevens' rendition of Deep Purple, though there were many contenders

#billboard number ones

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tisfan · 5 years

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Tentacle-tober Prompt #13

In the Kitchen

A/n - I enlisted @27dragons help for a little snippet that takes place after Arms Deal

for @monobuu

Bucky -- or, Official Consort to the King -- was an octomer. Except he hadn’t always been one. And now that his memories were back, there were things he wanted to show to his mate.

“Let me check and see if they’re gone,” Bucky said. “I’m faster than you on land.”

Which was definitely true; Tony could get around on land, a little, but it usually involved hauling his extremely heavy tail around and crawling. So, he could do it, but it took a while.

Once, a lifetime ago, Bucky had carried him.

“Stay out of sight,” Tony warned him. “And safe.”

more below the cut

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky said. He flexed his arm. “Look how scary I am. Any groundwalker sees me, they’ll run away and tell stories about how they were almost killed by a sea monster.”

“Better not to let them see you.” Tony could probably be forgiven his overabundance of caution; he’d once been captured by groundwalkers.

“Ideally,” Bucky said. He slithered onto the sand, listening, looking. He blended in with the ground, looking like nothing more than an oversized clot of seaweed. He’d picked the spot well, mostly surrounded by dunes so he and Tony wouldn’t show up flat against the firelight. The beach fire that the humans had left -- they were camping inland some, away from the tide and they wouldn’t be back until morning -- was all but coals now, but Bucky knew the trick of it. He nudged some of their firewood into it, blew on it, and when it was burning nicely, he clambered back to the beach.

“We’re clear,” Bucky said. “There’s no one awake for miles. And they left some of their supplies.”

Bucky deftly unwound the bag from Tony’s shoulders, checked on their own supplies. Several fresh-killed fish and a dozen or so crabs were in the bag. A feast from the sea.

Tony let Bucky take the bag and swam into the shallow water of the shore, and then pulled himself up onto the sand. “What did they leave?” he asked. Cautious though he was, he was fascinated by the groundwalkers’ inventions.

“A pot,” Bucky said, holding it up, which would be good to cook in, although not at home in Tony’s palace. “Oil, even better.” He showed it to Tony, who promptly stuck his finger in it, then licked it, which almost made Bucky laugh too loud at the expression. “It doesn’t taste good yet. You have to cook it. And… coffee.”

“What’s coffee?” Tony peered into the little bag. “It smells weird.”

“Like bubblers, but.. More. It’s a little bitter, and I couldn’t find any sugar. They don’t leave all their stuff where I can get to it, unfortunately.” Bucky took out one of his obsidian knives and started cutting the fish and crabs into bite sized chunks, pouring a generous swirl of oil in there with it. Fried fish. Tony would never know how much better it could be with herbs and wine -- actually. “Look around, see if there are any bottles, or skins, in with this stuff. Sometimes they leave that behind if it’s mostly empty.”

“Okay.” Tony started poking into cracks and crevices. “Here’s a bottle!” He held it up to examine it in the moonlight. “Pretty. Can we take it?”

“Sure,” Bucky said. He sniffed at the contents. “Rum. It’ll do.” He added that to the pot, poked it with a smooth stick. “I don’t really think they’re going to come demand it back or anything.”

Bucky sniffed at the pot. It didn’t matter if things were undercooked. His new metabolism and Tony’s stomach could handle raw food.

Tony hauled himself closer to the fire, bending low to look at the way the flames danced over the wood and the iron of the pot. “Is it magic?”

“Nope, it’s just fire,” Bucky said. “This-- this is what makes humans, well… human. They can control fire. From there, everything else is easy.”

Tony hummed thoughtfully. He reached out toward the fire’s warmth, and quickly drew his hand back. “Can mers control the fire?” he wondered.

“I don’t see why not, except that water puts it out,” Bucky said. “Not very useful, back home.”

“I know about that,” Tony said. “I’ve seen ships burn. To the water, and then they just sink.”

“Most human weapons are based on fire and powder,” Bucky said. “Even knives and swords are made in fire.”

“Metal,” Tony agreed. “The water puts that fire out, too. Just slower.”

“This is glass--” Bucky held up the now-empty bottle. “Sand, heated over fire until it melts, and then shaped as the maker wants. Everything humans do, they do because they found fire. What we need, if it comes to a war, is not fire, but a way to control the water.”

Tony cocked his head, considering it. “Like magic that creates whirlpools and waterspouts.”

“Or technology. Science, they call it. Learning the way of things, and how to apply it.”

Tony nodded. “If I form a council to investigate, will you help? Tell us about the groundwalker’s ways, the ways they would try to hurt us, so we can stop them?”

“We can do that,” Bucky said. “I just want to protect you, that’s all.” He gave the seafood another stir, sniffed. “This is probably done.” He had two polished shells, good sized, that they could use for plates. “Here, wait for it to cool a little, and then taste it.”

Tony took the shell and looked at the cooked food, sniffed at it curiously. He poked at it cautiously with one finger, then picked up a morsel and ate it.

“Oh, my god,” Bucky said around a mouthful of pan-seared tuna. “Forgot how good cookin’ is.”

“It’s different,” Tony said. He poked through his dish and found another piece, a bit of crab. “It just kind of falls apart. And it tastes really different, too.” He sampled the crab. “I like it.”

“Humans have weak stomachs, so they cook their food to get all the dangerous stuff out of it,” Bucky said. “And this-- this is special.” He pulled out the last bit of his stash. “Bread.” He checked the other pot, water was nearly boiling and he dumped the cheesecloth of coffee into it. “It’s grasses, milled up into powder, and then formed into a gluey sort of dough with water, and baked.”

“What’s baked?” Tony took the chunk of bread Bucky handed him and sniffed.

“A style of cooking, inside a heated rock, instead of exposed to direct flame. I’d have to show you an oven for you to really understand it.” Despite that, he started sketching out the idea. “Like a cave, here, for the bread to go in, and the fire is underneath, so you can control exactly how warm it is.”

“Oh.” Tony took a bite of the bread and chewed thoughtfully. “This is good, too. Not as good as seaweed rolls. But good.”

“Another reason that humans-- do what they do. Bread takes a while to go bad, so we can’t eat it anymore. So they can just carry food with them, wherever they’re going. Long sea voyages, marching troops across the field to other nations.” Bucky lounged back against the logs that the humans had moved there. “But, you know-- I want you to know somethin’ Tony.”

Tony looked up from where he was poking at his meal again. “What’s that?”

“This… all of this, these wonders that the land-dwellers have. I want you to know, I don’t regret my choices,” Bucky said. “I want to share my world with you, but, I’d rather live in your world with you, than live without you in this one.”

Tony’s eyes rounded, and Bucky suddenly found several of his arms occupied with his mate. “I love you, too.”

#tentacletober prompts #winteriron #arms deal AU #cooking #fluff

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excelxiors · 5 years

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one final burden; boreo; 3.6k

so i wrote another one

tw// talks of suicide and drug use and sex stuff

After the dust settled, I went to Antwerp. The painting was no longer mine, but it was safe, back where it should have been all of those painful years. Ridding myself of that burden meant that maybe, finally, I could move on. Put that chapter of my life behind me and heal. The reward money meant I could right the many wrongs I had committed over the years; compensate all of the people I had scammed by buying back all of the changeling antiques I had sold as originals. I’m not a saint, but I felt bad about the things I had done and the people I had hurt. The prospect of going back to New York right away scared me, though I knew I would have to do it eventually. I would have to go back, face Hobie and Kitsey and Mrs. Barbour. Apologize. Make things right. Boris, though, had talked me into going with him to Antwerp, at least for a little while. Actually, he had begged me to do so, crying “Potter, please! You cannot go back to New York and disappear for another 10 years!” I wasn’t in any rush to get back to New York (courtesy of my aversion to being confronted with my mistakes by the people I cared about), and just a few days earlier I was certain I’d lost Boris (courtesy of his gunshot wound and my poor mental state), so I agreed to go.

Getting to Antwerp from Amsterdam was around an hour and a half ride by train. I packed my things, including my blood stained clothes and the suicide notes I had written, and met Boris at the train station in the late afternoon. He had considerably less stuff than me: a perk of living everywhere and nowhere, having houses around the world but no real home. His shoulder was still heavily bandaged and his arm in a sling, but when he saw me he outstretched his non-injured arm and wrapped me in a hug. “Potter, I am so glad you are coming. You will love Antwerp,” he said. He looked relieved that I was there in front of him. I wondered if he could see it on my face, how much I had wanted to be dead in those past few days. How close I had been to being gone forever. Maybe that was why he had asked me to come with him; because he was scared for me. It wouldn’t have been the first time. As kids, he had stayed by my side constantly, afraid of the things I would do if he wasn’t there, and afraid of the things I did when I was drunk or high. Laying in the street begging to be dead, jumping from the roof into the pool, and trying to drink more than what would have been safe, though we were so young that none of it was very safe at all.

The train ride went by relatively quickly. Nobody knew who we were, nobody was looking for us anymore, and we enjoyed each others company in a silence that was unusual for us. Seeing that Boris was safe and sitting next to me alive and almost completely unharmed gave me one of the biggest senses of relief I had felt in over a decade, comparable only to knowing the painting was safe and that the burden of it’s whereabouts wasn’t on me anymore. I don’t know what possessed me to do so, but the impulse to grab Boris’s hand was so strong that I couldn’t resist. His unharmed left arm pressed against my right, and I wrapped my fingers around his hand, squeezing tight. Boris was here, next to me. He was alive and he was okay and I could feel his pulse through my fingers. His heart was still beating. He gave me a funny look, as I was very rarely the one to initiate any sort of physical contact, especially in public. I had always been so afraid of what people would think if they saw me and Boris together, but not now. I was so sure I had lost him that any reminder he was still alive came as a warm welcome. He grasped my fingers back tightly, and we sat like that, hand in hand, until we got to Antwerp and had to let go of each other.

Boris took me to his apartment, a small but well furnished one bedroom in the heart of the city. Antwerp was beautiful, all old buildings and muted colors on the backdrop of a beautiful blue sky. He saw me staring at the architecture, making fun of me for my love of “old shit”, as he called it. I couldn’t deny that it was true. But better than any architecture or antiques or “old shit” was finally being able to drop my bags, take off my shoes, and relax. To sit down on Boris’ couch and not have to worry about any of the things that had plagued me for nearly half of my life. “You want food?” Boris asked, standing in front of his fridge.

“I’m good.” I laid down on the couch, curling up against the back, my face away from Boris and the rest of the room.

“When was last time you ate? I worry about you, Potter.”

“Uhh, yesterday I think?” I wasn’t sure. It definitely hadn’t been any time today, but maybe it hadn’t been yesterday either. The thought of eating made me nauseous after having nearly puked myself to death just a few days before. “I’m okay, though. Not hungry.”

“Please just eat something small. Bread and sugar? Like old times?” This had made me smile a bit. Back in Las Vegas, we ate bread with sugar nearly every day. Boris never had much else at his house, and this meal born of desperation made me think of him in the many years we spent apart. I sometimes made it when I felt particularly bad, thinking of Boris as I cried.

“Okay. Just one piece, though. I’m really not hungry, Boris.” He made it quickly, pulling a piece of sliced bread out of a bag, covering it with butter (something we didn’t do as children), and then sprinkling white sugar over the top.

“Here, Potter. Las Vegas, Nevada delicacy,” he smiled. His new teeth were startlingly white and straight, such a contrast to the crooked yellow I remembered from my childhood. I accepted the plate from him, hoping that the food wouldn’t make me puke. It didn’t. After a bite, I realized how hungry I actually was, wolfing down the sweet bread and asking Boris for another, which he quickly made.

“Thanks.” It felt weird to be thanking Boris for food. We were here in his place, not his dad’s, but it still felt like we were kids again, desperate and hungry: making bread with sugar and messing around with one another. “Where should I put my things?”

“Just put them in the bedroom.” He gestured to the bedroom door, and then to the door off to the side. “And this is bathroom, if you need to shower or anything like that.”

“Alright. Thank you.” It was all pretty shocking to me, Boris having some semblance of a life that was put together. I knew he was involved in shady business and I knew about his addictions: heroin, mostly, but also booze and cocaine and just about anything he could get his hands on. He had always been able to function surprisingly well intoxicated and high out of his mind, but the fact that he had made a life for himself while keeping up his habits was almost impressive.

I put my things down in Boris’ bedroom, which was relatively empty other than a dresser, a queen sized bed, and a side table, though all of the pieces of furniture were quite nice. I took Boris up on his offer to shower, stripping out of my Amsterdam clothes, standing under the hot water until it ran cool, and then changing into something more comfortable. When I walked back into the bedroom Boris was there, sprawled out on his bed over the blankets. “Are you feeling better?” he asked.

“Not really.” I hadn’t been feeling particularly great those past few days, what with killing a man, thinking Boris was gone, and wishing I was gone myself.

“Come, Potter.” He patted the bed next to where he was laying, and I sat down there. It was so strange to be next to him in a bed again, like we were kids. As kids our beds were much smaller, but we were smaller too. Now, as adults, the queen sized bed felt about the same. I was close enough to Boris to smell him, all cologne and cigarette smoke. “Tell me,” he whispered, “what is wrong.” I laid down, so my face was on the same level as his, and closed my eyes.

“I killed that man, Boris. And then I went back to the hotel, and you didn’t come for days, and I though you were dead. I though they had gotten you somehow or that when you were shot it was worse than I thought or-” Boris reached his good hand out, and touched my face. I was rambling, getting worked up. And he had noticed, stroking my face until my breathing calmed down, though I wasn’t finished, meaning the rambling would undoubtedly come back. “You didn’t come for days and I thought they were coming to get me. That they were going to kill me too. And it was all so unbearable. I was writing notes and-”

“No,” he interrupted. He sounded heartbroken, like I had just given him the worst possible news I could have given him.

“I thought you were dead, Boris,” was the only explanation I could give. “I wrote to Pippa and Hobie and Mrs. Barbour and Kitsey but the only person I could think about was you. I chugged vodka and whiskey and the rest of the little bottles in the hotel fridge, and I was going to take pills, but you showed up.” I was crying now, and Boris’ good arm was draped around my neck, stroking the skin behind my ear. “I was puking, bad. The whole bathroom smelled like bile and alcohol and I was cursing myself for not taking the pills earlier, but then you showed up and I thanked God I hadn’t. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, Boris.”

“I am so sorry, Potter. I should have found a way to contact you. Call you, tell you I was okay. Get to you sooner.” He seemed distressed at the idea that I had been waiting for him.

“None of it was your fault and you don’t need to apologize. You’re here now.” Laying in bed with Boris after so long stirred feelings within me that I hadn’t thought about in years. I knew now that they were feelings of love. Attraction. As a kid, the idea had disgusted me. It was wrong and unnatural and I’d play off all of the nearly sexual encounters we had as horny teenagers just fooling around. It never felt like fooling around to me, and I don’t think it did to Boris either, but we never talked about it. I was too afraid and he never brought it up, so we didn’t.

“Will you be alright if I take shower, Potter? I will be quick.”

“Yeah, don’t worry. Go ahead.” I laid in Boris’ bed, the smell of him on the pillows and blankets, and thought about Kitsey, of all people. Beautiful, rich, smart Kitsey, who I didn’t love. It wasn’t because of anything she had done, not really. She had cheated on me with Tom Cable, which hurt, but it didn’t make me love her any less than I already did. I had never loved her at all. If I couldn’t love a girl like Kitsey, who could I love? Not Pippa, certainly. She wasn’t as beautiful as Kitsey, though I had always found her unusual looks charming. She didn’t have Kitsey’s money or intelligence, and had been badly stunted by the accident. I thought for so many years that I loved her. I didn’t. She had told me time and time again that we were bad for one another, and I had ignored her. She reminded me of that day and of my mother and of everything I had before, but it wasn’t love. It was an obsession, and realizing that she had moved on and I hadn’t was difficult, because it left me with nobody. There were no women I loved. No women I saw on the streets that I found attractive or wanted to sleep with, not in the ways other men I knew did. The only person I ever thought about was Boris. My body squished next to Boris’ in bed when we were kids, Boris’ hands on me all of those nights, Boris’ lips on mine before I left for New York.

Boris came back into his bedroom wearing boxers and a t-shirt, his dark curls dripping wet. “Okay, Potter?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Scoot over, then.” He motioned for me to move, and I made space in the bed for him to lie down next to me. We had shared a bed so many times that it shouldn’t have been weird, but the last time I had laid next to Boris I was 15. At the time, I hadn’t been truthful with myself about how I felt.

“Boris, I need to tell you something.” It came out fast, before I could stop myself. I just wanted to get this one final burden off of my chest. It was my last big secret, and once it was out in the world I thought maybe, just maybe, I would be free.

“Yes?” With just a t-shirt on, I could see all of Boris’ arms. They looked thin and weak, covered in track marks from years of serious and repeated drug use.

“I love you.”

“I know this, Potter. I love you too.” He smiled at me, showing his perfect new teeth.

“No, Boris.” I didn’t know how to say it. I had never said it before, not to anyone. Not even Hobie, who would have understood everything I was going through. “I’m gay.”

“You were always big homo, Potter. I know this already.”

“I’m sorry. I love you and I always wanted you to love me back but you’re not gay and I can’t expect you to be something you’re not it’s just-”

“You are stupid, Potter. I like women, yes, but I like you too. Always liked you. Don’t like to label but bisexual, yes? That is the word?”

I was dumbfounded, so I replied only with “Yeah, that’s the word.”

“You are surprised?” He seemed surprised that I was surprised. He was smiling, and his hand was on my face, his thumb rubbing over my cheekbone.

“Yeah,” I breathed out. I was so relieved that I started to cry. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you crying? I thought you would be happy, Potter.” He was being coy, I could tell. Joking around with me.

This made me laugh. “I am happy. It’s just all so much. I never thought I’d say it, I was always too afraid.”

“I will ask you something, and you need to answer me honestly,” Boris said.

“Okay, yeah. Anything.”

“What teenage boy sucks another teenage boy’s dick if he is straight?”

“You, I thought!” I realized then how stupid it all sounded. Once, maybe, but Boris and I had given each other handjobs on many occasions and he had sucked my dick more than once back in Vegas. “I was ashamed, and I thought you were too. You never said anything, and you always talked about girls. You and Kotku, god! It was Kotku this and Kotku that!”

“She was fun sex, yes. But not love, Potter. You were love.” He kissed me then, pulling my face close with his good hand, as his other arm laid at his side in its sling. It wasn’t like the kisses of our youth, quick and desperate and shameful. It was slow and passionate, his mouth warm against mine. I wasn’t ashamed of my desire for Boris anymore, at least not in private, and I kissed him like it was the only thing in the world that mattered. Maybe it was. A couple of times my teeth knocked into his and we laughed, pulling each other closer.

He started to bite my lower lip and he must have heard me gasp because, lips still against mine, he whispered “You good?”

“Yeah,” I moaned. “It’s good.” He moved down to my neck, sucking the skin there. My face was in his hair now, and I grabbed the dark, wet curls to ground myself. It felt like a dream, being here with Boris as he sucked bruises into my neck and then kissed the tender skin. He was almost completely on top of me, kissing and sucking bruises down my neck and chest. My hands were on the sheets, in his hair, around his neck, anywhere I could grab to remind myself that this was real. That Boris had his warm mouth on me and that he loved me too, enough to want to do all of this.

I felt him, then. He was hard, his boner pressing through his boxers and against my leg. He was grinding against me, and I could hear his breaths growing heavier. “Let me,” I said, my hands on the waistband of his boxers, waiting for him to say yes.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I want to.”

“Okay.” He smiled, and continued to kiss me. My neck, my mouth, my jaw. I slipped my hand into his boxers, and he gasped at the touch. I had never done this before, not to anyone else, but I put my hands around his dick and began to jerk him off in the same way I had done to myself hundreds of times before. Within a few minutes, he was breathing hard. He was close, and with a few more strokes he came into my hand. I didn’t know what to do, so I licked most of it off of my hand, wiping the rest on my pants. “That was so good, Theo. Thank you.” He never called me Theo. “Want me to take care of yours?”

“Yeah, Borya. Please.”

“Borya, huh?” He grinned as he pulled my pants down, exposing my hard and almost painful erection. He wrapped his mouth around my dick, bobbing his head up and down, licking the tip, and using his good hand to jerk me off a bit. After an embarrassingly short amount of time, I came into his mouth. He must have swallowed it, because he kissed me shortly afterwards and it was gone, only a bit of a bitter taste remaining.

We laid together for a while, kissing each other and coming down from our orgasms. I was afraid I would wake up and that Boris would be gone, but that didn’t happen. He was still next to me, breathing and alive and beautiful. He was real. “Boris, I love you.”

“I love you too, Potter.”

“Do you think maybe you could come to New York with me? Leave your business behind, get clean? We have the reward money now, we could do it. We would never need to work again. Come home with me, Boris.” I didn’t know if any of it was realistic, but I had dreamed about it for years. Boris coming to live with me in New York, saying with me and Hobie before we bought our own place. Both of us getting better, turning our lives around.

“Not yet, I don’t think. I am in it all too deep.”

“Soon?” I asked. I was desperate. I wanted him so badly, and knowing he wanted me too made it even worse. We could have each other, but not if we were an ocean apart.

“Perhaps, yes.” He was looking past me, at the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know who I am without all of this, Potter. Coming off heroin? It is terrifying. The withdrawals and the detox? I am afraid.” He seemed ashamed. Boris was fearless, but this was one thing he was afraid of.

“You’re the strongest person I know, Boris. We can find a place that specializes in this sort of stuff, and I’d be with you the whole time. We could be happy together.” I lifted his arm, looking at the mass of track marks, and kissed them. “I worry about you every day, Boris. That every time I see you might be the last. I don’t want to lose you.” I grabbed onto him, kissing his lips and then his cheeks, which salty tears had begun to stream down.

“Soon, Potter. Go back home, make everything right, and I will follow. It won’t be like last time, I promise. I will come, and we will be happy. Just give me a little bit of time. A few weeks at the most.”

“I can stay, Boris. I’ll wait for you to sort everything out and we can go back together. Please. I don’t want to leave you. Not now.”

He took a minute to think, his eyes locked with mine. “Okay. We will go soon, I promise. To New York. To our life together.”

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#the goldfinch #theo decker #boris pavlikovsky #boreo #fanfic

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