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samstree · 3 years

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Hug a Witcher Day (1/3)

Jaskier writes a new song ‘Hug a Witcher Day.’ It gains insane popularity and Geralt finds himself hugged by random strangers on one day every year. He just wishes a particular bard would hug him too.

By one person’s popular demand, I present to you a touch-starved Geralt, a cheeky Jaskier and a lot of pining.

fluff, hand holding, sharing clothes, yearning, 3k, rated G

read on AO3

It is the most ordinary morning.

The wind is picking up after last night’s rain, a common occurrence in the fall, bringing nice moisture in the air all the way from the sea. The last of the heat washed away to reveal crisp blue sky, stretching all the way to meet the mountain range.

It’s an ordinary morning, except everyone is staring at Geralt.

The inn is not busy this early in the morning, but a few patrons have risen for the first meal of the day. As the witcher sits down at a table, the atmosphere changes instantly. The conversation hushes and eyes start turning in his direction. Some are even giggling with their friends upon seeing him.

Although, there’s no malice, no fear, or disdain.

Only amusement.

It won’t be the first time that a crowd finds a witcher to be a curious sight. Although it is unusual for a town of this scale to have never seen one of them before.

So Geralt pays no mind. He only wants to finish his porridge in peace. His stomach has been rumbling since he missed dinner last night. The hunt took way longer than he anticipated, and by the time he returned, the inn had long since stopped serving. Although the maid—a young girl no more than sixteen—promised to give him an extra portion at breakfast.

Even she’s staring too.

The girl takes a look at Geralt’s finished bowl and hurries to fetch another from the kitchen. She carries the porridge and an extra loaf of rye bread to his table with a smile that gradually lights up her whole face.

Geralt nods as she puts them down, confused at the good mood of this whole establishment.

His confusion grows when she doesn’t leave. Instead, the girl lingers a moment, as if working up her courage, before bending down to circle her arms around Geralt.

He has to fight every instinct in his body to stay still and let her hug him. Her arms are squeezing gently, not the too-tight kink. Her curled locks are all over his face. When she pulls back, her round cheeks are flushed like a beet, the grin now carrying a hint of embarrassment.

“Why—”

“Thank you, master witcher!” she exclaims chirpily.

“What for?” he frowns.

“For getting rid of the fiend, of course!” She’s almost taking offense at the question. “Right before today, no less.”

“What’s so special about today?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. Do you not know?”

Well…no. The passage of time registers too vaguely when he’s traveling alone from one town to another. The contract last night was no different from the last five.

Geralt doesn’t want to think about how monotonous the path is without a companion, or he’ll have to admit to himself that he’s missing the bard and his ridiculous songs and too-loud playing. He won’t do it, even in the safety of his own mind.

Still, her answer doesn’t explain anything.

“The day before Saovine!” she must be seeing his silence as an encouragement to continue. “It’s Hug a Witcher Day!”

Geralt drops the spoon into the porridge. Biting back a curse in a child’s company, he fumbles to fish it out.

“Hug a—what?”

“It’s how the song goes! Hug a witcher and thank him for the work he’s done. All the monster-killing in the past year!” Her smile turns to a tiny frown. “And you, sir, just killed that fiend for us last night. As the lyrics say, it’s only right that I hug you!”

“It was…my job. And why does it have to be Saovine?”

“It’s the day before Saovine, sir. It’s the last holiday before witchers rest for the winter. It’s only right to thank them now.” she proclaims proudly. “Have you really not heard ‘Hug a Witcher’?”

Should he have? Before asking the next question, Geralt has an inkling that he already knows the answer.

“Whose song is it?”

“Who else? Your bard of course. Master Jaskier the bard!”

The words your bard somehow lands on a soft spot in Geralt’s chest.

Although Jaskier hasn’t traveled with him for months. Geralt doesn’t pay attention to the bard’s new hits because they will eventually reach his ears anyway. Jaskier can never pass an opportunity to serenade him with every new composition when they are alone by a campfire, looking for the witcher’s personal reviews no matter how well-received by the public they appear to be.

“Hmm.” Geralt calculates the distance between where he is and Oxenfurt. This ‘Hug a Witcher’ song, in fact, is spreading faster than any of Jaskier’s famous ballads.

A hug can’t be worse than being tossed coins, right?

It keeps happening for the rest of the day.

First, it’s the stable hand. Geralt is just trying to load his pack onto Roach when the young lad comes in. He doesn’t try to hug Geralt, only giving him a polite nod.

“Thank you. For your work, sir,” the lad says, before helping Geralt saddle the mare. “Like the song says, eh? Thank a witcher so no monster will plague you in the coming year.”

And then, it’s a few small children. A flock of them suddenly come out of nowhere and just… cling to his legs.

“Thank you master wiiiiitcheeeeer!” They shout in unison and drag the last few syllables longer and longer. And then the group disperses just as quickly as they gathered, giggling and running off to an alley.

All except one.

The smallest one stays at his feet, looking up and staring at him.

“Hug!” the boy stretches out his short arms.

Geralt blinks.

The boy stares, eyes wide and expectant.

So Geralt has no choice but to bend down and let the boy wrap those short arms around his neck.

“You’re welc—"

It’s over in a second and the child is rejoining his friends, who are now peaking their heads out of the corner of the alley. Excited squeals erupt among them.

Geralt feels the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

When he gets to the market, a few shop owners are smiling so brightly and offering discounts. Roach gets a horseshoe and an apple for free within the first hour. The silversmith shouts out thanks before jogging up to him and pulls him in for a bear hug.

“Hug a witcher for luck,” she says.

“No, it’s for good harvests!” an old man corrects her.

They keep coming.

But everyone has a different reason and it makes Geralt wonder how many versions Jaskier has for this one song. Or, he dreads to think, how long it is.

“Hug a witcher and death will avoid your door.”

“Hug a witcher for a merciful winter.”

“Hug a witcher for good rain!”

“Thank you, master witcher.”

“Thanks, sir, for your service!”

“Geralt! You need to control your bard!”

Lambert growls as he slams into the heavy wooden door of Kaer Morhen keep, stamping his foot to shake off the snow.

Turning another page of the book, Geralt refuses to look at his younger brother when he’s in a grouchy mood.

“What did he do?” he asks nonchalantly.

“You know—" Lambert grits his teeth. “—what he did.”

The youngest wolf sits down, crowding Geralt’s space, his cloak still wet from the storm outside. Geralt raises an eyebrow but stays on the book. He is not going to make it easier for his brother.

After seconds of silence, Lambert finally gives in. “His song!”

“You can’t possibly be mad about Hug a Witcher.” Eskel walks in and also sits at the table, the sewing kit and a ripped shirt in hand. “It’s a good one.”

“I’m a witcher! They saw me and tried to hug me!”

“So?”

Like Geralt, Eskel only fuels the youngest wolf’s exasperation. He even starts to thread the needle, completely unfazed.

“So?” Lambert pulls off his cloak and the water splashes all over Geralt’s book. “For a whole day, people tried to touch me. A whole day, Geralt! All thanks to your bard and his blasted song! I couldn’t even get out of town without those folks jumping on me.”

“And? I don’t know about you, but I appreciate some showing of gratitude. Thank your bard for me, will you?” Eskel nudges at Geralt.

“Hmm.”

“I don’t care,” Lambert continues, pointing a finger at Geralt. “Tell the bard to stop this nonsense, or I will stop him myself and he won’t be as pretty afterwards.”

Geralt finally dogears the page and faces his brother’s tantrum. He wonders if the crease between his eyebrows is tight enough to crack a walnut—it might be fun to try one day. “Or you can just not let them,” he deadpans.

“What?”

“You are a witcher, the best one among us—according to yourself.” Geralt tilts his head, squinting. “Are you telling me you couldn’t fend off some villagers who were only trying to give you a squeeze?”

Lambert’s face stills, his index finger hanging in the air. In front of Geralt’s unblinking eyes, his face turns redder and redder.

“Urgh,” with an annoyed wave, Lambert storms off the same way he stormed in, all the while muttering all kinds of colorful curses.

Geralt purses his lips as to not let out a too-obviously laugh, but at the corner of his eyes, he notices Eskel shaking his head in amusement.

“All jokes aside, I liked the song.”

Geralt shrugs.

“Jaskier knows how to make them go around.”

“No, I like the day that came with the song. Just about a decade ago, people barely thanked us for a job well done, but now? Lambert is a prick, but I don’t mind having a pat on the back after spending a whole year on the path. Don’t you think?”

“Hmm.” He shrugs again.

Eskel has put down his needlework and is observing him intently. Both of his brothers are so weird about this, Geralt reckons, but on opposite sides of weird. Maybe that’ll be the bard’s review when they meet in the spring.

“Maybe you are indifferent because your bard already knows to appreciate you, wolf. Being your barker and all. Was he thrilled to see the rest of the world catch on?”

Geralt frowns while opening the book again, not sure where this is going.

“Jaskier wasn’t with me during Saovine.”

“No?” Eskel is moving into his space too. Urgh, the two of them. “You bard got the whole continent to hug you, but he wasn’t there to give you one himself?”

“No.”

A sudden surge of irritation rises, but Geralt isn’t sure why. All he wants to do is read the damn book without his brothers nagging him about how terrible or how amazing this ridiculous day is.

“Hmm.” Eskel mirrors his hum. Every time the older witcher does this is because he’s trying to figure out something, and Geralt has no intention of finding out.

“I’ll read elsewhere.” With a loud snap of the book, Geralt leaves the room in a few quick strides.

He has a feeling that this lousy mood might stick with him for a while yet. At least until he can leave Eskel’s inexplicable prodding and Lambert’s grumpy ass behind.

“I know you don’t like the touchy mushy stuff, Geralt. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know they would actually hug you all day long!”

Jaskier looks so contrite that his hands are reined in from his full-body gestures, and that’s how Geralt knows the guilt is genuine. His fingers are fidgeting with the hemline of his winter doublet and his hands, exposed in the chill, are turning red.

It’s still quite early in the spring, since Geralt has come to find the bard in Oxenfurt as soon as the ground thawed. A cold spell is hitting the town pretty hard, although Jaskier is sure that it’ll be the last one before green returns to this town.

It doesn’t help that snow has been steadily falling and melting at the same time during their stroll around campus. The bard shivers a little.

“It’s fine,” Geralt says, taking off his own scarf and wrapping it around Jaskier’s neck.

“It is not! Once again, I have been so focused on my professional achievements and forgotten about the impact those songs have on you. All of you.”

Jaskier helps Geralt adjust the scarf so it covers all of his neck and the lower half of his face. It’s made of the warmest yarn Vesemir keeps at Kaer Morhen, but the plain color is a stark contrast against the delicate design of the bard’s fur-lined doublet. In comparison, Geralt’s scarf looks too coarse to be there, but Jaskier seems content enough to bury his face into the material, letting out a soft sigh.

His hands still look cold, so Geralt removes his gloves as well.

“Eskel likes it. The song and the day.”

Those words seem to lighten Jaskier’s mood. His eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“Really? He likes Hug a Witcher day?”

“Mm-hmm.”

The bard flexes his stiff hands before sliding into the leather gloves. They fit surprisingly well with Jaskier’s long fingers, only a bit loose on the wrists, so Geralt makes sure to fasten the cords. He then holds both Jaskier’s hands between his palms, just to warm them up a little.

Can’t let a lutenist complain about frostbite on his fingers.

“Says it’s nice to be appreciated for all the hard work he’s done. The hugs aren’t bad either,” Geralt explains. “Eskel never minded them anyway.”

“And you?” Despite his slight apprehension, Jaskier’s eyes are filled with careful hope. “Do you mind them?”

With a final squeeze, Geralt lets go.

“I told you it’s fine.”

“You don’t have to say it to make me feel better, my dear. I know how you don’t like people touching you,” the bard says, reaching out to brush off some snowflakes on Geralt’s shoulder with a gloved hand.

Geralt frowns, looks down to Jaskier’s casual touch on his shoulder, and then back to his concerned blue eyes.

Why on earth does Jaskier think he hates touches? The bard himself touches him all the time, at least in the past couple of years. Not at the beginning though, when they were barely friends and Geralt told him to fuck off all the time and not to feed Roach treats and—

And when Geralt punched him in the gut just to drive him away.

He’s seen Jaskier hug so many people, countless flings, long-term lovers, his parents, cousins, even other bards. He’s seen Jaskier hug Essi just this morning while being teased by her relentlessly about something Geralt didn’t understand. Must have been an inside joke.

But never him.

Jaskier never hugs him.

The realization sinks Geralt’s heart somehow. The cold wind suddenly cuts a lot more brutally on his bare neck and hands.

He doesn’t mind a little nip when Jaskier is the more sensitive one, being human and all. But at this moment, with the bard all bundled up in a soft doublet with those feathery puffs on his shoulders, he looks like he can give great hugs.

Jaskier looks so…huggable.

Geralt wonders what it would be like to take Jaskier in his arms and squish him over those thick, airy clothes. He wonders if he can bury his nose into his scarf—now it would smell like a mixture of Jaskier’s floral scent and the wood ash that always lingers around Geralt’s person. He would pull away to see Jaskier’s cheeks painted pink in the cold air and snow melting on his long lashes—

“You are just saying it, aren’t you? I have deeply offended you.” Jaskier interrupts those wandering thoughts because he has taken the silence as anger. His expression can only be described as crestfallen. “I’m sorry. Please don’t be too mad. I cannot lose my best friend. I simply cannot take it, Geralt! I will die of a broken heart!”

The plea is so dramatic that Geralt lets out a chuckle.

“Will you relax?” he pats Jaskier on his puffy sleeve. “I’m not mad, little poet. It truly is fine. Some children hugging me on the leg is not the end of the world.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Somehow, Geralt knows that if Jaskier decides to also give him a hug that day, it won’t be the worst thing either. Hug a witcher to thank him, it’s the bard’s own words. He’s protected Jaskier from angry spouses so many times it will definitely warrant a hug, right?

“Good, then.” Jaskier lowers his face into the scarf again, pretending to hide from a draft, but Geralt can see the faint smile around the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad your brothers also enjoyed my contribution to what will become the next official holiday.”

“Oh no, that’s just Eskel. You should avoid Lambert this year.” Geralt grimaces. “Maybe the next few years too.”

Jaskier is taken aback but recovers quickly.

“Well, I’ve got you to protect me from his wrath, my friend who’s not angry with me.” The smile, this time, is genuine and brightens up Jaskier’s whole being. His arms stretch out in a pose once more. “Where shall we go when spring comes? You know, when it really comes.”

Jaskier grimaces at the sky as if judging it for the untimely harsh weather blocking their way.

“Hmm.”

Geralt is in no hurry to determine the where of their journey this year, but the when of it…

A sudden ache in his chest tells him that maybe he should stick with Jaskier until Saovine.

Or at least the day before.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

#geraskier fic #geraskier #my writing #touch-starved geralt #soft jaskier #soft geralt #mutual pining #emotional hurt/comfort #but in later chapters #geralt x jaskier

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quoth-the-sparrow · 5 years

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Shot To The Heart (And You’re To Blame)

A Sanders Sides Fanfiction

Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit, guns and shooting (Though this is a laser tag game, but still) If I need to add anything, please let me know

Pairings: Prinxiety, Loceit

Description: The boys play laser tag and two of them decide to take a risk

Word Count: 1,321

You can also find the story here on ao3

Virgil let out a sigh as Patton parked the car. “Aw, come on kiddo, cheer up! This’ll be fun! A good bonding experience. Plus Logan and Roman are gonna meet us here too!” Patton looked over to see his best friend scowling.

“Ugh, just great, Princey is gonna be here? Well at least I’ll get to shoot him,” Virgil grumbled as he unbuckled and got out of the car. Patton followed suit and laughed.

“That’s the spirit, sorta! Let’s go inside, maybe they’re already here.”

Virgil reluctantly followed. Curse his inability to tell Patton no. He didn’t exactly love the idea of playing laser tag, but honestly any chance to one-up that gorgeous yet insufferable narcissist and he’d take it. A thought crossed his mind and he hurried to catch up.

“Hey Pat, is Dee coming too?”

Patton was already at the door at that point, holding it open. “Yeah, they’re right here!” He gestured inside to where Roman, Logan and Dee were standing by the counter, chatting about something or other.

Virgil’s gaze lingered on Roman despite himself. He was in dark jeans and that red and white jacket of his. He looked incredible, and Virgil couldn’t deny it. Anything Roman wore made him look incredible. “Seriously, someone that annoying has no right looking as good as he does.”

Almost as if he heard his thoughts, Roman turned to see Virgil staring. He grinned, striking a dramatic, elegant pose. Virgil rolled his eyes when Roman winked. “Like what you see, Hot Topic?”

Virgil glared, hoping the dim lighting in the building would hide his blush. He drew himself up to his full height (which was only a couple inches taller than Roman but still), smirked, and quipped “Aw, Princey, you think I’m hot.”

Roman sputtered in indignation, but Virgil ignored this, choosing to go over to Dmitri instead. The shorter boy was adjusting the trans pride pin on his shirt. “Hey Dee. So Patton roped you guys into this too, huh?” Dmitri gave him a warm smile and hugged him.

“Yeah, but once I heard Logan was coming too, it didn’t take much else to convince me.” Dmitri gazed longingly at Logan and sighed. Logan remained blissfully unaware of this as he talked to Patton about some book he’d read, gesturing excitedly with his hands.

Virgil let out a low chuckle. “He’s still clueless as ever I see.”

Dmitri pouted, then raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at a spot somewhere behind Virgil. “Not nearly as clueless as you are, V.”

Virgil turned to see where Dee was looking at and saw Roman paying the person at the counter and shrugging off his jacket. He scowled again, steadfastly trying not to check Roman out. “Very funny, Dee. Don’t start that again; there’s no way we like each other.”

“Whatever you say. I still think I’m right, though.” Virgil sighed and gave Dmitri a playful shove.

“Come on you guys, we’re about to start! The first round is a short free-for-all, I think.” Patton said as he beckoned everyone to follow him. They were given vests and plastic guns. The employee assisting them was reciting all the rules in a monotonous voice.

Roman moved to stand right next to Virgil, nudging him. “Get ready to be absolutely destroyed, Emo Nightmare.”

“In your dreams, Princey.”

A bell sounded, and everyone rushed inside. Virgil found a good hiding spot and waited, sneaking shots at other players. He could hear Patton giggling, and then Roman called, “Where are you hiding, Doctor Gloom? Come out and face me!”

Virgil smirked as he peeked out to shoot at a girl passing by and was pleased to see her vest light up red.

“You gotta come find me, Princey!” Virgil spotted Roman and shot, but Roman dodged it. He let out a curse and sprinted to another spot before Roman could find him. He looked out and saw Roman dart around a corner.

Virgil smirked and followed him, careful to stay out of sight of the other players.

***

Dmitri ran up the stairs, preferring to take a higher vantage point. He glimpsed Patton being chased by another player, laughing. Virgil and Roman were taking shots at one another, no surprise there. Logan, however, was nowhere to be found. Just as he was about to take aim at another player, his vest lit up red.

“Damn it!” Dmitri turned, prepared to shoot the culprit back. He saw Logan running away, only stopping to shoot other players.

“Did you seriously just shoot me, Logan? I thought we were friends!” he called out, not really expecting a response. Logan turned, running backwards and grinning as he adjusted his glasses.

“That is the point of this game, is it not?” Logan called back, making Dmitri laugh.

“Alright, nerd, you wanna play like that, huh?” Dmitri made his way to where he’d seen Logan run off to, taking shots at other players along the way. It took him a bit but he finally saw Logan’s hiding spot.

“Perfect opportunity for an ambush.”

***

This was it. Time to show Roman up, see how he liked losing for a change. Another, more unexpected thought crossed his mind: “What if I did something else besides shoot him? What if Dee’s right and he does like me?” Virgil took a deep breath and glanced at the timer on the wall. Ten seconds left in this round. “Now or never, Sanders.”

Virgil snuck up behind Roman and grabbed him, shoving him against the wall. The other boy gasped in surprise but didn’t manage to say anything before Virgil kissed him. Roman, for his part, was so shocked by this turn of events that he dropped his gun. Virgil broke off the kiss, smirked at Roman’s stunned expression, shot him just a second before the buzzer sounded, and walked away.

***

Dmitri took a deep breath before moving to stand right in front of Logan. He was aiming at another person but lowered his plastic gun before he could shoot. “Dee, what are you-” he started to say, but was interrupted by Dmitri grabbing his tie and tugging him down so he could kiss him. Logan’s eyes widened in surprise, gun slipping out of his hand and clattering to the floor. Dmitri pulled away and shot Logan in the chest, his vest lighting up red as the buzzer sounded. Before Logan could say or do anything, Dmitri winked at him then walked away.

***

Virgil’s heart was pounding in his chest. He didn’t get too far away from Roman before he heard a voice call out “You fiend, get back here!” Virgil turned to see Roman running up to him.

“How dare you kiss me then walk away!” Roman seemed genuinely offended, and Virgil flinched inwardly.

“Listen, Princey, I’m sorry, it won’t happen again,” Virgil said, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets.

It was Roman’s turn to smirk as he settled his hands on Virgil’s hips, pulling him close. “What makes you think I don’t want it to happen again?”

Virgil blushed fiercely, wrapping his arms around Roman’s shoulders. “Oh? If that’s the case, you gotta buy me dinner first.”

Roman laughed. “Hey, you kissed me first, shouldn’t you be the one buying me dinner?” The two walked out of the laser tag room holding hands, much to Patton’s delight.

***

Dmitri made it down the stairs and out of the room to see Patton flapping his hands excitedly. Virgil and Roman were laughing, hands intertwined. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Logan turning his gun and vest in at the counter.

“Hey, Lo.” Logan turned to face him, his face tinged with pink.

“Dmitri, I… wow.” Logan seemed nervous as he adjusted his tie. “I didn’t, um, what I mean to say is, will you go on a date with me tomorrow evening?”

Dee smiled and wrapped an arm around Logan’s waist. “I thought you’d never ask.”

A/N: I hope you all enjoyed this story! Reblogs are greatly appreciated. Tell me what you think! If you’d like to be added to (or removed from) my taglist, please let me know by sending me an ask. You can find me on ao3 at Storytelling_Sparrow. Thank you so much for your continued support!

Taglist: @theresneverenoughfandoms @galaxywitchwolf13 @magicallygrimmwiccan @daring-elm @creativity-killed-thekitten @007ardra @princeyssash @demigodnamedathena @khadij-al-kubra @im-shooting-straight @sawyer-saucee @gayzelley @it-me-the-phi @elfarmyenby @sparkedawg @ironwoman359 @today-only-happens-once @areyousirius-noheisdead @madly-handsome @milomeepit @princelogical @silversmith-91 @xxladystarlightxx @poisonedapples @romanamongthestars @ab-artist @ninjago2020 @anuninspiredpoet @justanormalfoot @gemini-the-kitsune-rp @urielthealienboio @queer-guineapig @aizawaisnotstraight

#sparrow writes #sanders sides fanfiction #prinxiety #loceit #roman sanders #virgil sanders #logan sanders #ts deceit #deceit sanders #sympathetic deceit #patton sanders #laser tag #fluff #reblogs are appreciated #let me know what you think

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the-writhing-mist · 5 years

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HV Serial Obidiah Part 1

Word Count: 1723 Themes: 18+, medieval, dark fantasy, demon/edritch being x human, general sexual content, D/s, relatively vanilla, m/m, trans character, trans male

General Info: This is a side story not continuous with the main plot revolving around a character named Obidiah. It’s rather loose in form, please excuse the unpolished writing.

home——navigation——next

He wore a blue coat of generous size and color and a hat topped with a wispy plumed feather. Under the hat was coarse, greying hair tied that he had tied back at his shoulders. Long strands hung loose, falling over his face, a curtain to hide the marks of his lies as he leaned forward to answer a customer’s question.

This potion will soothe the nerves.

An ointment to make rashes disappear.

Willow bark. Incense. A miracle powder. Dragon’s blood and copper spoons.

A sigil. A talisman. An ancient prayer.

Teas and glass beads and symbols of the evil eye.

Two distinct lines were carved besides his mouth, once cherubic dimples, now like a cut in marble. They twitched as he spoke, as he told stories and weaved fantastic tales of his wares. His face was otherwise remarkably smooth.

He was set up in the markets of the sister city to the famed capital of Vivencia known as Cordalys. It was a bustling town by the coast, north from James’ native Martom. The sun was setting, casting Cordalys in tones of fire and honey, the shadows from the stone buildings and the passersby fingering over the cobblestone roads and reaching back up walls.

James stopped at the booth. He wore his armor and braids in his dark hair, with red marks in his skin and stubble on his face. His master and familiar in the form of a black saw-wing swallow landed not far away, keeping a watchful eye over her servant.

The glint of the armor caught the eye of the merchant, who leaned forward and asked, “Good ser. Now, aren’t you a strapping figure. Have you heard of silver mugwort? One of the seven herbs of fortune cited by Saint Obras, protection from disease and demonic influence alike. Good for righteous men such as you.”

A smile cracked on James’ lips, knowing he was nothing righteous nor a stranger to the influence of demons. From the shadows, he heard the demons’ voice in his head, “Curious.”

As the merchant in the large blue coat pulled out some of the aforementioned herb, James returned her thought, saying aloud, “Is there truth to it?”

The leaves had a gleam to them, caught by the fading rays.

The demon responded via their link, “No. It is an unpleasant smell, that is all.”

But the merchant responded, “Of course! It was used by the venerable Obras himself when beset by the terrible fiends of the demon known as Siv!”

“That is a lie. Xiv never encountered Obras,” said the demon.

James gave the merchant an apologetic smile, looking to the other items set out on the table.

But the act did not go unnoticed, as the man moved on to the necklaces, small pieces of glass bound in small pieces of leather, “Oh, I see you are a man of much wisdom. These carry the very symbol of Saint Obras that rests deep in the woods of Yorl: his eyes! They channel the essence of his sainthood and his protection wherever the wearer may go! Do you know the story of Saint Obras the demonslayer?”

“I’ve been to Yorl,” James said, smiling to himself over the fact that his master made her home in Yorl.

“Ah! I can see you are much traveled, good ser. Surely, you, above anyone here, know that danger lurks around every bend. It would be bereft of me to let you leave without some extra protection. Especially for such a striking and handsome figure as you are, ser.”

“He’s not lying there, at least,” the demon said.

James scowled, silently conveying his thoughts back, “Are you calling me handsome?”

“No,” it said plainly. “But it is a genuine sentiment from our friend.”

James took a moment to take a closer look at the man. His skin was like butterscotch, hair cold by comparison to its warmth, and his almond eyes gleamed from under dark and distinctive eyebrows. “What is your name, my friend?” James asked.

“Ah,” it seemed to catch him off-guard. His dimples twitched to give him a smile, showing two pearly incisors only slightly crooked. “Obidiah, good ser. My friends call me Obie!”

“Where are you from, Obidiah?” he asked.

Obie leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table, “Oh, everywhere! Here and there, there and here! Are you from these parts, good ser?”

“James,” the demon chided. “I recommend caution.”

“You said yourself,” he thought back, letting a smile cross his lips. “The sentiment was genuine.”

“I fear you have become reckless as of late,” it said in return. “Do not forget that he sells protections against beings such as I.”

“I was born in Martom,” James said, picking up one of the charms.

“Martom? Oh, Martom! Good, good! I’ve been there once or twice myself. Lovely little fief. Oh. You know,” he said, his voice dropping as he leaned forward, the thin red-dyed linen spread over the table pulling as he did. “I’ll soon be heading south myself. You wouldn’t happen to be able to put in a good word with the local lords, would you?”

“Probably not,” James said, holding the charm up to the light. The eye was painted on a piece of glass with a heavy black paint. “I have been away for many years.”

“Ah, a traveler of the same cut as mine own, I see,” Obie said with a fox-like grin. “Hmm. I’m sure your discerning eye has crossed many wonders. Perhaps, I can interest you in a viewing of my more,” he paused to give a glance in either direction, “select wares. Imported from the east. If you’d like to come by after the evening service.”

“I believe I may have been mistaken,” said the demon.

“Mistaken? You?” thought James in response.

“Do not get cocky, James. I simply meant he may not be as entirely antagonistic as I first assumed. It is the nature of his trade to convince even himself, after all,” she said.

The small, black bird looming on a tent post took flight, circling around them in the air.

James set down the talisman back on the table, leaning into the table and looking Obie directly in the eyes. They were soft, brown eyes, obscured by a fan of brittle hair. With a slight tilt of his head, James lent him a suggestive smirk.

The merchant seemed taken aback by the gesture, his tone breaking as he said, “If you want, that is. I have. Um.”

“James,” the demon chided. “Your game is clear, yet you have not said a word to clear it with me.”

“Well? Master? Do you dissuade me from my efforts?” he thought to the demon.

“Just know that for this man, it is not such a simple effort.”

“But do you permit it, Master?”

“Very well,” the demon said in response. “I may have some interest as well.”

“I think I would very much like to see your collection,” James said.

Obie looked down, the blush on his face barely visible from behind his hair. “Yes, of course,” his voice picked back up. “Are you planning to attend service?”

James smirked. “No. I’m a stranger to the parish here.”

“Ah. You—? Ah. Understandable. It seems. Very well, ser. Um. I,” Obie stuttered. A rush of blood had clouded his mind to be so pointedly under the gaze of the knight. He caught himself, though he had momentarily forgotten where he was, and looked back over the items laid out on the table. “I will. I will soon be—hum—I must collect my things.”

“Where should I meet you?” James asked.

“Ah,” said the merchant, still looking over his things though he had need to quickly collect his thoughts. “Down the old silversmith’s street. There is an old house by the outskirts. The old woman, Weirol, lives there and I am a guest of hers. The bulk of my things remain with her.”

“How generous of her.”

“Yes. Yes, she is a kind woman. And,” he said, looking back up at the knight, then again over the charms and glass bottles lined up before him. “A generous customer. But we can discuss that later. We. Can discuss things later? We’ll discuss things later?”

The knight gave him a knowing smile, charmed by how bashful the man had shown himself to be. “Sounds good to me.”

“Well,” Obie said, tapping on the table with his fingers, fully intent on finishing a thought.

But James cut in, saying, “See you then.”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” he said.

As he walked away, the small black bird landed on his shoulder and he heard in his head, “You are certainly pleased with yourself, James.”

“It was not so long ago it was beyond me to pursue such things without fear of reprisal. Do you blame me for the fact that through your graces I am now free?” he thought back to her with a smile.

“I do not. After all, such was the terms of our agreement. However, I have need to make sure you know your place in that agreement at a later occasion.”

“I'll be looking forward to it.”

“Such a perverse thing you are, James.”

He looked to the small black bird and let out a heavy sigh. “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“Such is a plain and obvious fact,” it said in response. “But do not get ahead of yourself.”

On the other end of the market, Obie put his face in his hands. “God. What am I going to do?” he muttered through his fingers.

The old cobbler with the stand next to him gave a cackling laugh, “Seems he saw right through you, Obie.”

“Oh, shut up, Staldwell,” Obie hissed into his palms.

“That armor, though,” the old man said with a whistle, coming up to Obidiah and leaning against the table. His hair was sparse, with dirt lining his pores, and he was dressed only aged, sweat-stained linens. “Bet he’d make a right pretty husband. Maybe it’s time ye took up the life God set out for ye.”

“Staldwell,” Obie said with a groan, pulling his nose up from his fingers. “Am I really that obvious?”

The old man just shrugged, saying, “Sure he has a pretty coin to part with too.”

Obie let out a sigh, looking back over his collection.

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#m/m #m/m fantasy #dark fantasy #trans character #writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #original writing #overall story is smut #serial obidiah #SHarvester #Ser James of Martom #potion seller obi

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