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on-a-lucky-tide · 3 years

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Hearth and Home

A/N: Some time ago I was reading articles on Reddit about men - young and old - who were bursting into tears when their partners treated them with tenderness. Simple things like washing their hair, or making them a candelit dinner. I immediately thought of Jaskier and Eskel. So... Jaskier has been causing a few headaches for his lovely witcher, and decides to treat him to a little bit of pampering. Eskel Is Not Prepared.

Jaskier had everything laid out. Two tall candles flickered in the centre of the small table in the middle of the room, with folded silk napkins by the plates and two trenchers of softer bread rolls covered beside each plate. Food would be brought up when he called for it, and the water would still be scorching hot for when his wolf returned. This was the least he could do; he’d got into a fight in the previous town over an alleged affair, and Eskel had accompanied him to a bardic competition as protection without protest. His Witcher deserved some downtime.

He moved across to the wide laundry basin and sprinkled in some of the subtly scented salts he’d acquired in town that day, watching them fizzle over the surface as they dissolved. Next, he smoothed a palm over the soft robe he’d paid three nights’ worth of tips for. It was made of a soft, fleecy material he’d never encountered; it’d feel absolutely divine against his wolf’s rough, weather-beaten skin. The soaps, the cloths and brushes, the comb and oils. Everything was ready. There was just one vital ingredient missing: the wolf.

He’d popped out briefly to collect his reward money for a wraith killing; a woodsman who’d crossed the wrong competitor and found himself tossed to the bottom of a ravine. His spirit haunted his old chopping grounds, murdering his fellow villagers with abandon. Just enough time for Jaskier to set everything out as he’d planned—a week’s worth of planning, after a month’s worth of saving, ferreting away of items and money—and then sit on the foot of the paillasse, hands clasped between his thighs.

The rain had started half an hour ago, the temperature dropping as the sky darkened, and Jaskier found himself gazing expectantly at the window as if he’d see a pair of golden eyes flash in the darkness.

Heavy boots stomped up the stairs, metal buckles and leather belts rattling, and then the door swung open. As expected, Eskel looked tired. His broad shoulders were hunched, dark circles beneath his eyes, with the filth of his labours still clinging to his skin and clothes. It was early autumn; he had to work harder, for longer, than he did at any other point in the year. No one cared that he was losing weight, that he ached or that he was feeling particularly low. No one but Jaskier.

Eskel shrugged out of his sword belts and then paused with them dangling in his hand as he stared at the table. “Jaskier, what—?”

“Just a little something, here, let me help. You must be frozen, we’ll get you in the bath,” Jaskier hopped up from the straw-stuffed pallaise and crossed the small gap between them. Deft hands worked through the buttons and ties of Eskel’s armour—so wonderfully intricate and flamboyant—before he dropped down to unbuckle his boots and sweep away his trousers when he stepped out of them.

Eskel was a god in human form. Kreve himself would be jealous of that barrelled chest with its dense, dark hair, the wide thighs and large hands. Even his scars—a reminder of Eskel’s survival, not his weakness—were like accenting brush strokes on his tanned skin. Jaskier ran paler fingers gently down Eskel’s forearm, tracing the knots and ridges of his scars, rough under his touch. He looked up into those tired eyes, obscured by shaggy tendrils of dark hair, and smiled. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

There was a definite flush. A widening of the feline-esque pupils to swallow the golden ichor of his iris. Eskel wasn’t used to being complimented. They’d been travelling together for nearly a month now; they met just outside Tretogor while Jaskier was between missions for Redanian Intelligence. It felt only natural to strike up a friendship with a lonely Witcher sitting in the darkened corner of a public house; he seemed to have a habit of befriending the quiet, uncertain ones after all.

Eskel allowed himself to be led across the room and stepped over the lip of the tub. The water lapped over exhausted, quaking limbs and Eskel let out a quiet groan of pleasure as cold, aching muscles began to thaw. When he reached to pick up the soap, Jaskier batted his hand away gently. “No. Just lean back. Would you like some wine?”

“Some wine—?” Eskel had, thus far, only parroted back Jaskier’s questions like an imbecile—or so he felt—and swallowed audibly when Jaskier indicated one of the fine bottles on the nightstand. “If, uh—yeah, please. Jaskier, you—I can wash myself.”

“I know, but I think you deserve a little pampering,” Jaskier left the side of the tub only long enough to pour two steins of wine, and then returned to Eskel’s side. “I hear it’s a pleasant vintage. A good year. If that scoundrel of an innkeeper lied to me, I’d like you to hold him down while I drown him with it.” He smiled around the rim of the cup at his lips as Eskel chuckled. After only a sip, Jaskier rolled up the sleeves of his chemise and set to work. Eskel’s hair was a mess; long, unkempt, knotted and saturated with mud and rainwater. The oils helped smooth out the tangles, and Jaskier guided Eskel forward to pour a full jug of water over his head before lathering the soap.

It was then that he caught the glimmer of confusion in Eskel’s usually placid expression. He didn’t question—didn’t push—only smiled gently as he began to massage agile fingers across the wolf’s scalp. There was a moment of uncertain tension in broad shoulders as Eskel navigated the unknown territory of such tenderness. He’d adjusted slowly to Jaskier’s tactile nature; the casual touches to his hands, the pats on the shoulder, the thumb that had brushed gore from his cheek. The Witcher sighed; more like a steadying breath than anything, but it was a start. Jaskier circled his thumbs down Eskel’s neck as his fingers swept behind his ears.

The rain battered the thin panes of glass in the windows, Eskel savoured the fruity notes of the wine in his hand and Jaskier washed him tenderly. He paused every now and then to kiss Eskel’s face, the lobe of his ear, the slant of his jaw; simple, chaste affection that made the Witcher flush and a small, earnest smile flicker across his full lips. Once his hair was rinsed, Jaskier washed Eskel’s shoulders and chest, running the cloth down to the surface of the water before retracing his lines to his arms. The tender caresses down to Eskel’s hands earned a quiet grunt, like a bitten off groan, and Jaskier glanced up. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine, ‘m—,” Eskel cleared his throat, shifted in the water, and gazed down at Jaskier’s hands. It was like he wanted to ask for the attention to continue, but wasn’t sure what order the words should come out in, or if he was allowed to make demands. It didn’t matter. Jaskier continued, tapping the edge of the bath in a non-verbal request for Eskel’s foot. From this angle he could gaze into the Witcher’s eyes. Or try to. His brow was furrowed with uncertainty, his gaze averted, and one large hand pawed intermittently at the scars on his face. Nervous. When Jaskier pushed his thumbs into the sole of his foot though, Eskel sank into the bath water, head falling back with a dull thud. “Fuck.”

The wine forgotten, Eskel stared at the ceiling and tried not to look too closely at the reasons behind the knot building in his throat. Jaskier worked over his ankle to his calf, before swapping over to his other foot. Limber fingers that coaxed such beautiful music from the strings of a lute threatened to stroke far deeper notes from Eskel’s chest. The pressure alternated between soft caresses and a firmer touch that teased out the soreness left over from months of graft. It was completely innocuous. Jaskier wasn’t seeking a reaction; he seemed happy to swirl soap through the dark hair on Eskel’s limbs and chest, with a faint smile the whole time. He was finding pleasure in this simple act.

Before he stood up to give Eskel a chance to soak in peace, Jaskier leaned over and placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. Soft lips brushed over the mottled, sensitive rake marks on Eskel’s face and that knot he’d been so worried about began to unfurl into a foreign pressure behind his eyes. Once he was left to his own devices, Eskel felt a quiver pass through his jaw and finish at his lower lip; he swamped it with one large hand and tried to occupy himself with washing beneath his arms and between his legs as he heard Jaskier call down the stairs for food.

Eskel stood and glanced around in search of a towel when Jaskier bustled back into the room. “Oh, here, a towel,” he grabbed a stretch of grey fabric from the pallaise and spread his arms. “Nice and soft.” Jaskier helped Eskel dry off, smoothing his hands in wide circles over his broad chest and back, pausing only occasionally to steal a cheeky kiss on warm skin; his shoulder, his neck, upper back. Eskel glanced at him bashfully, and was so distracted by Jaskier’s mischievous affection that he startled when there was a heavy knock at the door. “That’s for you. I used the measurements for your gambeson,”—Jaskier pointed towards the bed—“so, it’ll fit your chest. Let me get the food.”

With the towel still wrapped around his waist, Eskel scooped the robe up in his hands and felt the texture between finger and thumb. He didn’t recognise the material—something exotic, expensive—and he felt that pressure in the back of his eyes again. It was something he hadn’t felt for a long time. He wasn’t… sure what it meant. There was a twist in his throat too, and a tightness in his chest.

“Don’t you like it?” Jaskier asked, the heavy bowls of meat-heavy soup thunking on the table.

“Oh, no, I—it—hmm,” Eskel cleared his throat and quickly pulled the robe around his shoulders. The sensation against his skin was what he’d always imagined clouds to feel like; it whispered gently across every scar, sent tingles skittering down his spine and he couldn’t help but run his hands up his arms, soft material wrinkling beneath his palms.

“Oh, good, it fits,” Jaskier smiled brightly, admiring the flare of Eskel’s chest still exposed by the open v of the folded collar. “Does it—does it feel nice?”

“Yes, it—,” Eskel didn’t understand why he kept having to clear his throat, but there it was again, “it’s… I really like it.” It was red. His colour. As he sat down opposite Jaskier and the smell of the stew made his stomach growl, Eskel felt his lower lip quiver. He rolled it between his teeth and clenched his fists on the edge of the table, and—

“Eskel?” Jaskier looked up from his food, brow knitted together in concern.

“Yeah, I—umm, I’m fine,” he swallowed quickly several times; his nose blocked up, and then the edges of his eyes were stinging. The legs of Jaskier’s chair scraped across the rough hewn floorboards, and his arms wrapped around Eskel’s head.

“Hey, no, you’re not, beloved,” Jaskier whispered, pressing Eskel’s face into the soft linen of his chemise. The dampness of Eskel’s tears soaked through to his skin and the Witcher’s big hands gripped at his waist. “There, there. Have I done something to upset you? Did the contract go awry?”

“N—no,” Eskel pulled away, embarrassed. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes and sniffed. “Sorry, I… uh, this doesn’t usually happen. I… just, I’ve never—no one’s ever done something like this, and… I’d always imagined that this is what it would be like if...” He shook his head, irritated at his own foolishness.

“Tell me,” Jaskier petted Eskel’s dark hair from his face, cupping his jaw to guide his face back round.

“I always imagined that if I were human, there’d be someone at home, waiting for me, when I got in from work—farming, maybe, blacksmith, or lumberjack, I’ve thought of it all—and…” Eskel lifted a tentative hand, those calloused fingertips brushing over the back of Jaskier’s palm. “...there’d be food, and a bath, and we’d talk. They’d tell me everything that had happened in the village while I was away, and I’d listen just because I loved the sound of their voice. After, we’d… uh—.” Eskel flushed pink to his ears. Those that said Witchers didn’t blush had never seen one warm and comfortable.

“You’d what?”

“I’d… we’d, uh, we’d kiss.” Just a whisper. Like he was asking for an unholy act.

“Hm,” Jaskier smiled, his thumb brushing gently over Eskel’s lower lip. “Now, I may not be some handsome farmer’s daughter, with a buxom chest and a demure smile, but may I offer to fill her stead for this evening?”

Eskel’s amber eyes flickered, his skin alight beneath Jaskier’s luxurious touch. Even though it was just a fantasy, Eskel craved it. For just a single night, he could pretend he was a normal man, with a loving partner, in a home he’d built with his own hands. “I’d like that.”

Jaskier stroked the backs of his fingers down the bumps and valleys of Eskel’s face as he leaned forward. When their lips touched, Eskel felt the breath leave his chest, and the worries of the world receded. As Jaskier’s tongue swept into his mouth and Eskel pushed up to meet him, a small glimmer of hope kindled in his heart; perhaps, one day, his dream could become a reality.

#rawrkinwrites #Jaskel #Fluff #Tenderness #Baths #Nice Things #Jaskier #Eskel #Eskel Has Dreams #Simple Dreams #Home #Hearth #Love

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jaskiersvalley · 4 years

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Hey, I just went through your entire blog in two days only and I wanna say, your writing is astounding! I haven't had a chance to watch the show yet as I can't afford Netflix right now, but you're fics were a truly fine introduction to the fandom Much love and keep being awesome! ~M

It’s you!!! I watched you blast through my blog with likes and reblogs and was absolutely in awe of you. Thank you so much for being such an avid reader and supporter. You single-handedly made me smile so much. And because words of thanks never feel like enough, I give the only thing I can, a ficlet of gratitude!

Education at Kaer Morhen involved a lot of things. Different weapons, physical fitness, hunting, foraging, identifying poisons by scent, even sewing to mend clothes. However, there were a lot of things it didn’t involve. Things that a witcher couldn’t possibly need. Music was definitely one of those things, Jaskier mused because Geralt obviously had zero appreciation of the art. But other things too which were less about being cultured and more about basic skills.

There were moments where Jaskier suspected things but didn’t want to believe them, Put them down to Geralt being Geralt. He obviously preferred information first hand, always seeking out the alderman or asking locals where to find the poster of the contract. Sometimes Jaskier just watched Geralt in front of a board like it was the world’s greatest word search. At times, he’d skip over a contract and Jaskier couldn’t figure out why. But pointing it out usually had Geralt frowning at the piece of parchment and huff out something about it not striking his fancy (as if witchers could ever pick and choose amongst contracts) or it not being valuable enough (as if that had ever stopped Geralt before - the man seemed to thrive on helping the poor). A pattern emerged after a while though and Jaskier didn’t want to think about the implications. The contracts Geralt skipped over didn’t contain the words ‘contract’, ‘monster’, or ‘witcher’. Which led to some alarming implications.

It wasn’t something Jaskier could delicately raise, lead Geralt to realising he knew and wanted to help. Also, Jaskier couldn’t very well corner the man and accuse him of being unable to read. Because if he was wrong, Geralt’s allegedly nonexistent emotions would be very hurt. So, Jaskier did the simplest thing he could. Whenever Geralt went to look at a village noticeboard, he tagged along and pointed at random papers, reading them out loud. Once or twice he fudged up words but Geralt never seemed to realise that the advert Jaskier was pointing at was for a laundry service rather than for a tailoring service he was describing.

“Why are you pointing out such useless adverts?” Geralt snapped.

“Just thought you’d be interested.” Jaskier shrugged and plucked the contract Geralt was looking for from the board. “Here. This is the one you want.” It didn’t have any of the key words Geralt tended to look for. There was no thanks thrown his way and Geralt stomped off, the parchment clutched in a tighter grip than usual.

It went on like that, each time Jaskier got more and more certain he was right, Geralt couldn’t read.

“What do you think of this one?” Jaskier plucked a random advert and pushed it into Geralt’s hand who stared at it with contempt. It was advertising a littler of puppies from a good guard dog lineage.

“What about it?” Vague, carefully eyeing the advert but not acknowledging any of it. Jaskier’s heart broke a little. Given how often he had shoved the necessary contract into Geralt’s hand, it was obvious Geralt was trying to figure out whether it was a contract or not. The price in the corner suggested it wasn’t but the poor couldn’t always pay in coin. Sometimes other goods or services were written down which he would negotiate verbally.

“You’re not tempted?” It was cruel but Jaskier had enough of the song and dance.

“For so little?” Geralt scoffed, hedging his bets on Jaskier not screwing him over by putting something other than a contract in his hands all of a sudden.

Ever so gently, Jaskier took the advert and pinned it back up to try and hide the sound of his heart breaking. “You’re right. I don’t think there’s much for us in the village. Come on.”

They turned away but Jaskier saw Geralt turn back, a small frown on his face as he looked at the advert Jaskier had put back, clearly not understanding. Returning to their room at the inn, Jaskier knew he had to end the farce. He pulled a book from his bag and passed it to Geralt who stared at it, more disgusted by it than any kind of head or guts he’s waded through on a hunt.

“What’s this?”

“A book.”

“I know that. But why are you handing it to me?” Geralt set it to the side, not even glancing at it.

“Given we’ve got a bit of downtime, you’ve tended to your swords last night, I thought you might fancy a bit of a change. Does the title not intrigue you?”

A gruff “no” had Jaskier’s eyebrow raising as he sat down on the bed with a small smile. “You mean, a monster compendium is not something of interest?” He had picked it up a little while ago, intent on learning more about Geralt’s potential enemies, even if the book didn’t have all the facts correct, it was a good starting place. “Or maybe you’d want to go through it with me and correct the mistakes?”

Watching Geralt try and find a way out of it was painful. He frowned, frowned harder and ended up growling in his throat, turning away from the book with a moody “no”.

“I could teach you,” Jaskier offered quietly. “If you’d like to read.”

Silence stretched and Geralt’s back was stiff obviously coiled tight and ready to either fight or flee. “Since when has a witcher ever read a monster to death?” That sounded far too much like something Geralt had learned from someone else and all Jaskier could think of was a young Geralt being denied the chance to learn to read over and over again with such cruel and mocking words. However, it wasn’t a no.

Moving quietly, Jaskier grabbed the book and settled on the bed with enough room next to him for Geralt to join if he so wished. Cracking the book open, he began to read out loud. It took a minute but Geralt eventually joined him, looking angry and disinterested but Jaskier knew better. He was scared, terrified even, of being mocked, of being found wanting. Not breaking his reading, Jaskier adjusted his grip on the book so he could pull his finger under the words as he read them, letting Geralt follow.

They spent a few days like that, Jaskier reading aloud and Geralt watching, listening to how the words sounded compared to how they looked. Jaskier even picked up a few other books, much simpler, suited for children really. He swapped out to one of those books as they sat in a clearing in a forest, away from everyone and everything. Shoulder to shoulder, Jaskier got Geralt to haltingly grit out the sentence “the cat lost his hat”. It was perhaps the proudest Jaskier had ever been and the small, satisfied look on Geralt’s face was worth it.

Months down the line, when Geralt was able to sit next to Jaskier and read aloud from the book of monsters and laugh together about the inaccuracies, there was a soft lull. In fact, Geralt looked nervous as he pushed to book into Jaskier’s hands.

“I’ve got something for you.” Eager, Jaskier sat up, smile wide. He was expecting a kiss, maybe some oil for his lute or, if Geralt was feeling especially romantic, some jewellery. “It’s something I’ve been working on in secret.”

Reaching into his pack, Geralt pulled out a bit of parchment folded in half. On the front of it was a crudely drawn heart, obviously done by someone who wasn’t artistically inclined. It was shoved gruffly into Jaskier’s hands and he opened up what was a handmade card.

To Jaskier,

Thahk Thank yuo.

I lov yuo.

Geratt Geralt.

It was, without a doubt, the most precious thing Jaskier had ever been gifted, spelling mistakes and all. Because while he had gotten Geralt reading, it never even occurred to him that writing would be another skill to teach. All the education at Oxenfurt was something Jaskier had taken for granted until now. With Geralt by his side, he realised it was a gift, one that he was delighted to share with his beloved.

#geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #illiterate geralt #tldr: geralt can't read and jaskier puts his education to good use

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love-fireflysong · 3 years

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Hey hey hey! Trope #3 is in the bag baby! Nothing exciting to note about this one, except that poor @jesus-hotsauce-christmas-cake guessed the number while hoping for some more chrashley. And instead she landed on one of the Tale of Phantasia prompts (I’m so sorry, oops!)

For anyone that would like to read it on ao3, here ya go: What are Rivals if not Friends in Disguise and for the rest, the fic is under the cut.

What are Rivals if not Friends in Disguise

Trope: Rivals Fandom: Tales of Phantasia Characters: Chester Burklight, Cress Albane Words: 2036 Rating: General Author’s Notes: Let’s do a ToP story to mix things up a little! Just a little of Chester and Cress growing up together and trying to one up each other like all the time. Ah friendship rivals, what would we do without them.

For as long as Chester could remember, Cress had been his best friend. The two of them would run together, play together, train together, and fight together. Most of their friendship was based on trying to one up each other honestly, trying to prove who ran the fastest or was strongest. And for a long time Chester had thought that that would be his life, trying to prove that he was better than Cress.

And then Chester’s parents died and his life as he once knew it had spiralled out of his control.

One day he was a simple ten year old boy whose only mission in life was to play with his best friend and tease his sister, and the next he was an orphan with a five year old sister to take care of, a house that now seemed unbearably empty, and the bow in his right hand that was the only reminder he had of his mother. Gone were the days of carefree play, now when he woke up it was make breakfast, wake Ami, clean the house, go shopping, make lunch, fumble his way through trying to patch up a hole in his shirt, wash the blood from the shirt when he inevitably stabbed himself, make supper, clean up the house, and tuck Ami into bed, before falling asleep himself.

Not that the other villagers hadn't tried to help out of course. Cress's mother Maria came over as often as she could to teach him how to sew and bandaged his fingers every time he screwed up. Gloria from across town would usually drop off some leftover stew or the extra bread she had made by accident. Whenever he stopped in to buy groceries from Goalie, Findley always seemed to have a sale going on that let Chester buy far more than he should have with the ten gold he had been able to scrape up from doing odd jobs around Toltus. And anytime he had to go and wash the clothes in the stream that cuts through town, Ruth almost always materialized next to him with her own family's laundry to do and help him out. They tried to make it seem like it was always chance that they needed his help with some trivalty, but Chester knew better: they pitied him and thought he couldn't do it, that he wasn't strong enough to take care of the only family he had left.

But it was fine. The only thing that mattered was trying to give Ami some semblance of a normal life, even if he almost always managed to burn supper just a little bit and tended to miss sweeping the corners of the room. He tried, and he knew that the others thought they were helping so he swallowed his pride and accepted the help anyways. If it made Ami smile then it was worth it in the end in his point of view.

The worst thing about all this though was he couldn't hang out with Cress anymore. Not that Cress had a whole lot of free time either now. Since his tenth birthday, training with the sword had only ramped up and now all his time seemed to be spent running through drill after drill, and strengthening his body so he could do more and more physically demanding artes. And everytime he came by to show Chester the newest move he could now accomplish, Chester burned with jealousy and hated that though the two of them had once been on even playing fields with almost everything, he was quickly falling behind.

And so, one night months later, Chester found himself grabbing his mother's bow from where it had been gathering dust against the wall by his parents bed and sneaking out into the area behind the house. Earlier on in the evening he had set up some targets facing the stream, and with the heavy and familiar—yet almost forgotten—weight of the quiver on his back, Chester took his stance that his mother had drilled into him over and over again all those years ago. He tried to pull back the string on the bow and was horrified to find that it was almost impossible. Had he really lost so much strength in so little time? Taking a deep breath and centering his weight, Chester tried again and while this time he was able to pull it back a bit further, it was still not nearly enough to successfully shoot an arrow five feet, much less the twenty he needed to hit the target.

Terrified that he had really fallen behind that much, Chester stole into his house, and careful not to wake Ami, uncovered the bow that he had been using months ago, the one that his father had helped him build for his eighth birthday. And a couple of quick test pulls from the safety of his room revealed to his utter relief that while he wasn't able to draw it back with quite as much ease as he used to, it was still about to pull it back fully. His mother's bow had just been too big for him, he had to get stronger first before he could use that one. And he would, he promised that he would get strong enough to not only draw that bow to its full potential, but protect Ami as well.

The first night of his training was terrible though. While the first shot he takes does fly from the bow, it lands much too short from the target. The second he overcompensates with power and it flies wide and lands into the river with a soft plop. The third and fourth and all the ones after that are all the same. While some started to land closer and closer to the targets he had placed, none of them actually hit the targets in question. It isn't until he moves the target much, much closer that he's able to finally land one; the accomplishment fills him with as much relief as it does horror. He can't believe he fell so far in such little time. Nonetheless, he continues his practice and when he finally does go to bed that night with the moon high in the night sky, it's with his arms and shoulders burning from the overexertion and he revels in it.

He can't control the fact that he has no family other than his sister anymore, and he can't control that he has been forced to grow up in so little time. But this, this he can control. He can control the flight the arrow takes through the sky and so he will.

From then on, his days are spent much the same as they were since he lost his mother and father, but now he takes time to oil and polish his mother's bow so it will be ready for him to use one day. And on the days he has the time, he will spend it with Cress in the dojo, training his body to its full potential. He races with Cress every chance he can get now, whether it is to the well or to Goalie to the forest's edge. They have challenges over who can carry the most logs or the most water. Over who can do the most push-ups. Find out who the strongest and fastest of them is. And sure, he tends to lose more often than not now, but whether Cress realizes it or not, Chester refuses to fall behind again.

The first time he tried to go out hunting again with the others was a challenge. Not because the hunt itself was hard or dangerous, but because he's worried about leaving Ami all alone for the entire day. She's only seven now after all, still far too young to be left home alone. And yet, she shoves him out the village walls, cheeks adorably puffed out in anger and hands on her hips when tells him not to come home without food. He worries the entire time, but his aim is true and manages to fell a small boar that the others let him keep as a trophy for his first kill in far, far too long. It's a feeling he missed, the thrill of the hunt and hunting with his best friend alike, and when he arrives back home it's to the house even more spotless than when he’d left that morning and stew bubbling happily away on the stove. He later finds out that a couple of other women, Maria and Gloria included, had come over when Ami had begged and pleaded that they show her how to cook and clean properly so that Chester doesn't have to all the time. And while he certainly does continue to take a majority role in keeping the house, knowing that Ami will be safe and can easily take care of herself while he's gone is a load off his back.

The promise of a hot meal when he gets back certainly helps as well.

Over the next few years, Chester learns many things through his rivalry/friendship with Cress. He's definitely the faster of them for one—even when Cress isn't wearing his sword or armour—but Cress has the stamina. Chester will tire out the quicker of them when traveling long distances, while Cress will just happily continue ahead for another few hours without realizing that he had tired out a long time ago. Chester also finds a humorous rivalry with Cress for Ami's affections, but he's pretty sure that that one is a little more one-sided considering that Cress isn't even aware of the huge crush that his best friend's little sister has on him.

It is the day after his fifteenth birthday though that Chester stands in front of the bow that was once his mother's. Gingerly he picks up the smoothly polished wood, gleaming in the sun coming through the window, and restrings it with the care and reverence that he feels this bow deserves. And taking a deep breath, he gives a couple of test pulls and finds that the wood bends easily in his hands, much easier then when he had first tried pulling it nearly five years ago. Pleased with that much at least, Chester ruffles the top of Ami's head as he leaves the house, letting her know that he's going to be spending the day hunting in the nearby forest with Cress and to try not to burn down the house while he's gone. She sticks her tongue out at him, but reminds him to be safe and try to be home for supper that evening.

When he meets Cress at the edge of the village, Cress notices the new and much larger bow on his back with upturned eyebrows but says nothing about it, instead starting to stretch his limbs for the race that they both know is coming. Chester stops by him and with a shared grin, the two of them get ready with a runner's stance before racing each other to the forest as fast as they can. Unsurprisingly to both of them, Chester pulls ahead quickly but starts to flag after a few minutes giving Cress a chance to catch up with his slower but more steady pace.

It only takes them another ten or so minutes to reach the forest, which Cress reaches first by pulling out a burst of speed he had saved away at the very tail end of the race. Chester joins him only a few seconds later, and the two of them are gasping for air as Chester throws his arm over Cress's shoulder congratulating him on his win, but letting him know that he'll get the next one. Cress only laughs, and accepts the water pouch that Chester holds out, taking the victor's swig before handing it back so Chester can do the same. Once they manage to catch their breaths, the two of them ready their weapons and stalk into the forest for prey.

The first shot that Chester makes with his mother's bow flies straight and true, and further then he could have ever possibly imagined.

#my writing #pride month prompt challenge #tales of phantasia #Chester Burklight #Cress Albane #this one feels a little awkward to me but i tried #hopefully the next one comes out better!

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asimawv · 4 years

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I write and conceptualize story to music, so I’ve compiled a playlist of 30 Darkest Dungeon-specific songs that I listen to when writing (and subsequently re-writing) in no particular order, which I hope will help you set the vibe too. :+)

Names in bold are links for easy listening - tons of Hozier and Of Monsters and Men up ahead, five minute warning.

1. ‘Fire and the Flood’ - Vance Joy

If you listen to nothing else on this list, listen to this one - it’s the kind of song that’s made for movies about yearning. Folk influences, choruses of trumpets and vocal harmony, and instruments that are layered for a rich, resonant sound. This is the song I imagine Dismas and Reynauld horse-racing through a crowded outdoors market in the hamlet to, and the song I listened to nonstop freshman year when I first started writing The Myth of Sisyphus.

You're the fire and the flood And I'll always feel you in my blood Everything is fine When your hand is resting next to mine Next to mine You're the fire and the flood

The chorus is built around biblical allusions to the fire (the burning bush signifying first contact) and the flood (destruction of the first world), the beginning and end. Every line is similarly evocative of Darkest Dungeon in their simplicity (“I’ve been getting used to waking up with you,” etc.)

2. ‘Soldier, Poet, King’ - The Oh Hellos

By the title alone you can guess who this is for. Even the Guild quote for the Leper approaches these three things as the defining parts of his character (specifically it’s “a ruined man, a warrior, and a poet.”) This song coincidentally has an old world influence to it, with a Medieval Renaissance style from a guitar playing a lute-adjacent melody.

There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh Lord Smeared with oil like David's boy, oh lei oh lai oh Lord

To be smeared with oil is to be anointed by a prophet and thus chosen by god himself to be king, just as David was and his boy after him (presumably Solomon). There’s something strangely wistful about the imagery, which is just how I like my songs about bygone kings.

3. ‘Exit Hymn’ - Bear Attack!

This song is about the end of the world in a version where everyone simply stands together in silence watching, rather than having the masses swarming in panic.

Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters. Lovely shapes to the world descending, Brothers and sisters Mute.

It defies Lovecraftian horror, which is based on the premise that “common human laws and interests and emotions have no validity or significance in the vast cosmos-at-large” - it flies in the face of existential nihilism and the despair that it should bring us. That’s why I like this song for deaths in the end-boss fight; it also has a special place for other death-related ideas, like full-party wipes - entire teams of people vanishing into the dungeons, gone insane, holding hands while the darkness surrounds them.

It’s a bare song which has a sanctity to it, mostly just piano and rain and human voices. Just what you would hear at the end of the world.

More under the cut:

4. ‘Pursuit of Glory’ - Jhameel

This song is laid-back. It doesn’t have the Homeric intensity that some of the other songs here do - it’s a guy with a guitar and vocal harmony. By god is it a great piece of writing though (all of Jhameel’s older songs have that quality to them), and all of it is evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

So many eyes set on the path to glory Too many ties, friendship is for the lonely Can't still my heart, my tongue has tasted folly Thirsty for art, hungry for power and money

This is a song for everyone in the barracks, especially the ‘laundry list’ of people and their approaches to the pursuit of glory.

5. ‘Good Old Days’ - Macklemore (feat. Kesha)

This fucker put a Macklemore song in here. I did, yeah. It’s not even the only song with Kesha in it here (I’m sorry.)

It’s a sentimental pop song, and I am sentimental to a fault. This is Darkest Dungeon AMV material, and I always mishear one of the lines as “we were underground, loaded mercs in that 12-passenger van” so it’s here.

We've come so far, I guess I'm proud And I ain't worried about the wrinkles around my smile I've got some scars, I've been around I've felt some pain, I've seen some things, but I'm here now Those good old days

6. ‘Past Lives‘ - Kesha

Here it is, the other Kesha song - this was introduced to me by a good friend, also in a Darkest Dungeon context. There’s just something about the lovers spanning time trope and finding each other in one life to the next that is irresistible (for the obvious reason in the context of Darkest Dungeon.) It’s a soft song, totally out of place in Kesha’s typical discography, and has a line about losing someone to the crusades, so... you know.

There's just somethin' about you I know Started centuries ago though You see your kiss is like a lost ghost Only I would know But I, I keep on falling for you Time after time Time after time

7. ‘Viva la Vida’ - Coldplay

You cannot fight this. You know that this is the song for King Baldwin IV of Jerusalem, you know it is. Did you know the official name of this genre of music is “Baroque pop”? Yes, that means more songs like this exist. You will live with this information now.

Don’t fight it. Just let it wash over you.

I hear Jerusalem bells are ringing Roman Cavalry choirs are singing Be my mirror, my sword and shield My missionaries in a foreign field For some reason I can't explain Once you go there was never, never an honest word And that was when I ruled the world

Mirror, sword, and shield, the three other members of his party, his missionaries in a foreign field. Thinking emoji. I typed that out so I wouldn’t have a repeat of the crab emoji incident.

8. ‘The Boxer’ - Jerry Douglas (feat. Mumford & Sons, Paul Simon)

Partly inspired by the Bible, Simon & Garfunkle’s ‘The Boxer’ is a folk rock song about poverty, loneliness, and homesickness. It’s written and sung in a style that’s strongly reminiscent of older times, and the final verse about its eponymous boxer is particularly powerful:

In the clearing stands a boxer And a fighter by his trade And he carries the reminders Of ev'ry glove that laid him down Or cut him till he cried out In his anger and his shame "I am leaving, I am leaving" But the fighter still remains

This is what I use for Dismas’ life leading into organized crime and his foolish abandonment of stable job prospects in a half-baked bid for fame, as well as being punched down over and over again but with nowhere else to go. That last part is widely applicable across the cast.

9. ‘I Will Wait’ - Mumford & Sons

I am but a simple man. I see 'folk rock' and add it to my Darkest Dungeon playlist. This song I use for Reynauld - it has that sort of “salt of the earth,” somewhat biblical humility in its choice of words and style.

Raise my hands Paint my spirit gold And bow my head Keep my heart slow

10. ‘Little Lion Man’ - Mumford & Sons

Have we not beaten this song to death yet? Can you blame us? This is the people’s song. We reserve it for all of our favorite fuck-up characters, as primal as Saturn devouring his son. We love this song. Jesus.

Tremble for yourself, my man, You know that you have seen this all before Tremble little lion man, You'll never settle any of your scores Your grace is wasted in your face, Your boldness stands alone among the wreck Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck

The line about learning from your mother in particular is why I think of this song for Dismas’ introspection, but I also associate it with the Hellion.

11. ’From Eden’ - Hozier

There’s too much Hozier in my playlists. There is so much of it, and it’s all important to me, says the hoarder. There’s something about profoundly intimate folk music that I love, and god put folk, R&B, blues, and alt rock into a Vitamix for 45 seconds to make Hozier.

Honey you're familiar like my mirror years ago Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword Innocence died screaming, honey ask me I should know I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door

‘From Eden’ is, according to Hozier, about idolizing someone from a distance, written from the perspective of the devil “looking longingly at something he desires - for everything that he does not have.” I associate this song with the Grave Robber for its playfully nihilistic tone - Audrey does say something to the effect of being left for dead by high society and the affectionate bordering condescending address is on-brand.

12. ‘Cherry Wine’ - Hozier

‘Cherry Wine’ is unabashedly about domestic violence, and its sincerity is heartbreaking, the sanctification of the blood spilled in the name of keeping her.

The way she tells me I'm hers and she is mine Open hand or closed fist would be fine The blood is rare and sweet as cherry wine.

This song is strongly tied to the Vestal for me.

13. ‘Work Song’ - Hozier

A song about unconditional love - heaven and hell were just words, indeed.

When my time comes around Lay me gently in the cold dark earth No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

I think of this song for both Dismas and the Abomination - it’s a song about love transcending spiritual and even physical need, complete devotion, but something about it is also not quite right. It’s morbid and excessive, self-pitying, and almost ugly in its sincerity.

14. ‘Sunlight’ - Hozier

The strong gospel influence with the choruses, church organ, religious fervor - I think it makes a great song for traveling scenes and church/altar scenes.

I had been lost to you, sunlight Flew like a moth to you, sunlight oh sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight Oh, your love is sunlight (sunlight, sunlight) But it is sunlight

15. ‘Arsonist’s Lullabye’ - Hozier

The gospel this time is paired with electric rock instrumentation. Something about the lamentation is unapologetic and matter-of-fact in its disturbing inclinations - this is Paracelsus’ song. Arguably representative of Bounty Hunter and Flagellant as well.

Now that I think about it, it’s great for Abomination as well. Damn.

All you have is your fire And the place you need to reach Don't you ever tame your demons But always keep 'em on a leash

16. ‘We Sink’ - Of Monsters and Men

Of Monsters and Men are closer to the indie rock/pop spectrum with influences of folk, with much less biblical influence and more folklore-inspired lyrics. They make for great trailer and action songs.

We are the sleepers, we bite our tongues We set the fire and we let it burn Through the dreamers, we hear the hum They say come on, come on, let's go So come on, come on, let's go

In Lovecraft’s Cthulu mythos, dreams are how the Old Ones commune with humans on the earth’s surface while they slumber in the ocean depths (Cthulhu fhtagn meaning “Cthulhu is dreaming”); I like to think of the ‘sleepers’ as the heroes being tasked to “set the fire” and the ‘dreamers’ being the Heir and Ancestor driven by some unseen force to unearth the antediluvian underground.

17. ‘I Of The Storm’ - Of Monsters and Men

Very somber song, overwhelmingly piano and snare drum and vocals. Also a great death scene song, or for introspection around the campfire, or played to reveal a major event.

If I could face them If I could make amends With all my shadows I'd bow my head And welcome them

18. ‘King and Lionheart’ - Of Monsters and Men

My favorite OMAM song - it’s clearly written about two children, kind of reminiscent of ‘Where the Wild Things Are’ in its fantastical nature, and very upbeat about the end of the world.

His crown lit up the way as we moved slowly Pass the wondering eyes of the ones that were left behind Though far away, though far away, though far away We're still the same, we're still the same, we're still the same

This part is reminiscent of the Leper’s journey, but the mentions of taking over a town, howling ghosts, the end of the world, a black sea and creatures lurking below, etc. are all evocative of Darkest Dungeon.

19. ‘Little Talks’ - Of Monsters and Men

Also very upbeat for its subject matter - according to OMAM, it’s a narrative of a woman speaking with the ghost of her dead husband, or going insane and believing that she’s speaking with her dead husband.

Some days I don't know if I am wrong or right Your mind is playing tricks on you, my dear 'Cause though the truth may vary This ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

The call-and-respond style of the song is haunting. I like this song for expeditions and afflicted heroes.

20. ‘Wolves Without Teeth’ - Of Monsters and Men

Suitable for both Occultist and Abomination, being consumed by an unseen and otherworldly force that inhabits them - well, maybe just rarely seen, in the Abomination’s case. Special mention to OMAM’s ‘Human,’ same conceptual backing but more raw.

You hover like a hummingbird Haunt me in my sleep You're sailing from another world Sinking in my sea, oh You're feeding on my energy I'm letting go of it He wants it

21. ‘Desierto’ (Original Motion Picture Score) - Woodkid

This is a full album, because all of it is dark orchestral cinema music described as ‘unsettling,’ with the sole exception of ‘Land of All,’ which has vocals to it. I reserve this album for writing fight scenes and for particularly unsettling events because it’s tense and wordless. I read Junji Ito to this soundtrack too, it’s insanely high-strung and discordant.

22. ‘Iron’ - Woodkid

‘Iron’ qualifies as Baroque pop - you might recognize this as the Assassin’s Creed: Revelations song. The large-scale, cinematic style of it and thematic lyrics make it great for writing about dramatic encounters or brigands.

This deadly burst of snow is burning my hands I'm frozen to the bones, I am A million miles from home, I'm walking away I can't recall your eyes, your face

23. ‘Never Let You Down’ - Woodkid (feat. LYKKE LI)

Another somber song, orchestral with some industrial noise in the mix - another great introspection song, or one for a scene with some hard decisions to be made.

Will you come along cause I'm about to leave this town In my eyes, a waterfall, all I can hear, a siren call Could you be waiting by the shore, oh I could drown without you Will you be holding out the line when I fall?

24. ‘Run Boy Run’ - Woodkid

Church bells, fast percussion, strong orchestral presence. For chase scenes, obviously, but great for fast-paced sneaking scenes as well. Also has a strong quasi-Medieval fantasy setting style to it.

Tomorrow is another day And you won't have to hide away You'll be a man, boy! But for now it's time to run, it's time to run!

25. ‘I Love You’ - Woodkid

Don’t let the scream effects and aggressive percussion at the beginning deter you (it kind of took me by surprise the first few times too) - it soon fades into more of the church bells and melodic string accompaniment.

Oh yeah, unrequited love song? It’s free (mental) real estate, baby.

Is there anything I could do Just to get some attention from you? In the waves, I've lost every trace of you Where are you?

26. ‘Vagabonds’ - Grizfolk

A rare departure from folk! Grizfolk is alt rock/indie pop. Stylistically it doesn’t match the feeling of Darkest Dungeon, but lyrically it’s almost 1:1 to arrival in the hamlet and the subsequent expeditions. Good song for writing about recruits bonding.

Oh this careless ground, guessing this is home now Oh in no man's land, at least we're still standing And we're all just fighting, some of us will not return And there's no redemption in trying to find your way out

27. ‘Everybody Wants To Rule The World’ - Lorde

Great trailer fuel, if you’ve seen the AC: Unity E3 trailer with this song - I listen to an extended version when writing fights in the Guild, especially one where two heroes are beefing. It’s got a primal kind of thing going on. I also associate this song with the Arbalest - lyrically, it fits her backstory like a glove.

Welcome to your life There's no turning back Even while we sleep We will find you

Acting on your best behavior Turn your back on mother nature

28. ‘Torches’ - X Ambassadors

More alt rock/indie pop - kind of a rallying song for dark expeditions, hopeful but still somber in nature - some gospel elements. X Ambassadors’ more popular ‘Renegades’ is also a fun tavern song.

Come on, carry your flame Carry it higher Leave it in the darkness Carry your torches

29. ‘Passing Afternoon’ - Iron & Wine

This is a song I use for reconciliation or domestic scenes - Dismas with Junia in the garden, for example. It’s soft and kind of meandering, and features vintage piano - you know, the piano you heard in the basement of your church turned community center as a child.

There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon Summer warmed the open window of her honeymoon And she chose a yard to burn but the ground remembers her Wooden spoons, her children stir her Bougainvillea blooms

30. ‘Some Nights’ - Fun.

You know this song, your mom knows this song, everyone knows this song from like, middle school. Thought it’d be fun to end this list on an uplifting and very popular song. This is the song that a Disney adaptation of Darkest Dungeon would use in the Training Montage™ - from the point of view of Reynauld. It hits all of the points - being their commander rather than their equal, his stern and antisocial zealotry with no true ideology behind it, the ghost of his wife.

Verse 2, starting with “Well, that is it, guys, that is all / Five minutes in and I'm bored again” is where I see it transitioning to Dismas.

Well, some nights, I wish that this all would end 'Cause I could use some friends for a change And some nights, I'm scared you'll forget me again Some nights, I always win (I always win) But I still wake up, I still see your ghost Oh Lord, I'm still not sure what I stand for, oh What do I stand for? What do I stand for? Most nights, I don't know

_____

Well that’s all from me! Feel free to leave your own recommendations in the replies, and I’d love to know what you think about my personal picks. :+)

#darkest dungeon #playlist #song reccomendations #fic: the myth of sisyphus #give me that hozier baby

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afterhoursfic · 4 years

Note

Jaskier is desperate to have sex with Geralt. One day he's masturbating to the idea and sees an item of Geralt's and just wants to feel closer to him so mouths at it while he climaxes. Then uses so many of Geralt's items to fuck, to plug and so many other ways, maybe he even dares to get off while sitting on roach when Geralt is out. Geralt can smell all this so waits until Jaskier is humping his clothes and then shows himself and jaskier is embarrassed but continues because Geralt wants him to

Hope you like it anon!

Ever since he had first laid eyes on Geralt in Posada he had wanted him. He was weak for big, burly men who could choke him between their ridiculously muscled thighs, so sue him, but he had gotten nowhere closer to getting into the witcher’s pants as he had done that first done.

Despite suffering through long, sweaty hikes all day, rubbing blood and viscera and other disgusting bits from both of their clothes and not to mention the threat to his life, still, Geralt refused to look at him as anything other than annoyance. His own desire had only grown over time and definitely had nothing to do with the very sizeable cock he had seen hang between the witcher’s thighs and gods if he didn’t dream of choking on it, feeling it split it open as Geralt just took and took from him until he was a boneless mess, just a sleeve to warm Geralt’s cock until the witcher had used all of their famed stamina.

It was almost embarrassing how frequently he got off to the thought of Geralt, every night he let out a muffled cry into his fist as he coated his hand in his come after imagining just all the way Geralt could use him, what he could do to him using all that strength and muscle until finally he sank his cock into him.

That’s how he found himself now, laying in their shared bed in an inn, cock in hand, already red and dripping in precome at the thought of Geralt walking in and seeing him like this, needy and desperate with the witcher’s name already on his lips so that Geralt was helpless but to get his cock in him, all whilst said witcher was out ghoul hunting.

It was like an itch under his skin, the need to be pinned down and thoroughly fucked into the mattress so he couldn’t think straight, wouldn’t be able to walk straight the next day, but as time passed his fist was slowly becoming not enough for him anymore, no matter how many fantasies he spun in his mind. He craved more, craved Geralt’s touch, his smell, anything.

Frustrated that he was getting nowhere, his cock still as achingly hard as it has been all night and no matter what he does with his hands nothing helps, he lets out a sigh and stretches out on the bed in an effort to clear his head.

That’s when one of his hands catch on a bit of cloth, Geralt’s shirt he realized, torn half to shreds and faded almost to grey through use, he remembers the witcher saying he was going to take it to get it mended, because that was easier than buying a new shirt apparently, but he can’t help but draw the fabric closer.

Geralt had been wearing it that day and had replaced it just before he left so as not to damage it further. He doesn’t know why but he can’t help but draw the shirt nearer, looking at it for a long moment and feeling inexplicitly drawn to it until he’s bringing it up to his face.

The first smell of the shirt has him grimace just a bit, it smells of sweat and horse, leather and smoke and a whole host of other things found in nature, but which all come together to make something distinctly Geralt about, and he’s quickly groaning into the shirt, his other hand finding his way to his cock as he begins to jerk off again.

There’s something distinct and real about having the smell of Geralt around him, almost as if the witcher could be there with him, imagining his lute calloused hand as Geralt’s sword calloused one, and when he opens his mouth to let out a groan his tongue meets the shirt. The taste is worse than the smell, but he can’t help but groan louder, his cock twitching as his senses are overwhelmed and he can’t help but suck the fabric a little more, to almost taste what Geralt’s skin would be like if he were to lick him from chest to navel and it’s that thought that has him coming with a muffled shout.

Once he finally managed to get his breathing under control from what had probably been one of the most intense orgasms in years he had the fleeting thought that he still had Geralt’s shirt in his mouth, which now had a large wet spot of his saliva staining it. A million thoughts flitted through his head, all of Geralt in varying states of anger at him using, and likely further ruining, his shirt and he quickly pulled it away to better inspect it.

To his own mortification, there were some spots where his come had landed, whilst he didn’t regret his actions leading to one of his better masturbation sessions he couldn’t help but curse as he saw the white staining the black shirt, unmistakable to him and even more so to a witcher with enhanced senses.

He didn’t even think before he brought the cloth back to his mouth, sucking out his come and leaving more of his saliva soaking the shirt, and much to his dismay he felt himself getting hard again, the taste of the two of them together was somewhat addicting but he didn’t want to ruin all his effort by coming on the shirt again so simply got up and chucked it in the bath he’d used earlier before wringing it dry and hanging it by the fire.

When Geralt got back later that evening he spent a moment looking around the room as if trying to see what had gone wrong in his absence, and where he was sat on the bed idly strumming his lute, he could swear he saw his nostrils flare as if smelling the room, and he couldn’t help the feeling that Geralt somehow knew what he’d done, especially when he went over to the shirt still by the fire and shoved it into his bag, and yet Geralt said nothing.

The logical side of him reasoned that the Geralt he knew definitely would have said something if he suspected anything, maybe he was just tired? Either way, he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth and carried on with his strumming as Geralt washed up and then collapsed beside him on the bed.

***

It carried on like that for the next few weeks. He took on the responsibility of doing their laundry at the riverside, which earned him an odd look from Geralt the first time he asked, but ultimately handed his clothes over. The next ten minutes were spent in a state of debauchery, Geralt’s clothes littered around him and often he had a pair of the witcher’s pants over his face just to smell the sweat and musk that had collected over the last couple of weeks, even taste it, before he came over Geralt’s still dirty laundry.

He’d make a concerted effort to first lick his come clean, some part of his mind telling him it was more conspicuous that way, that there was less of a chance Geralt would know before he washed the clothes in the river with a heavy dose of his soaps and oils. When he returned, there was a glint of something he couldn’t name in Geralt’s eye and he could swear a smirk tilting his lips as he took back his clothes, but he chose not to dwell on it and instead packed his clothes back into his bag.

It wasn’t just limited to Geralt’s clothes though. A couple of times when they were camping in the woods and Geralt had left for a hunt, he would sit on Roach’s saddle, left in the grass so the horse could graze for the night, and a couple of times over the night would ride said saddle, his precome slicking the leather to offer a nice glide for his cock which soon had him coming over the saddle horn whilst Roach nickered in the background.

When Geralt was on smaller hunts he’d leave his bags behind and would take up the chance to lay on his bedroll, the rope Geralt used for his trophies around his neck and tightened with one of his fists whilst his other hand would try and finger himself, nowhere close to the thick cock he wished was pushing into him, but he was so desperate for anything that a few strokes against his prostate had him coming with a shout.

On one notable occasion when Geralt had come stumbling in, drowsy and tired from a long hunt and about ready to collapse from how drained overcoming his potions were, he took it upon himself to clean Geralt’s things. There were some empty potion bottles he cleaned, but not before he came over them with his face buried into the witcher’s back, the smell of sweat and something inherently Geralt flooding his sense, not to mention the slight thrill at the thought that when Geralt next took a potion he might even be able to taste his come, to know what he did and finally do something.

That night he also cleaned Geralt’s swords and when the witcher finally rolled over managed to extract the knife tucked in at his waist, warm from Geralt’s body heat and he took one look at the leather hilt before he was divesting himself of his pants, hastily pushing two fingers into himself before slicking up the hilt and pushing that into his hole with a bitten-off moan.

There were a few awkward angles of the hint hat made it just a tad uncomfortable, but it was the closest thing to a cock he’d had in him since he started traveling with Geralt, and knowing it was the witcher’s as well, having Geralt snoring softly beside him, he couldn’t help but lean in to press his face into the other man’s neck and just lick at the hollow of his throat, to taste the dried sweat there and feel the heat of Geralt’s skin against him as he came clenched around the hilt of the witcher’s knife, face buried into his pillow to muffle his shout.

***

It was another week later when things came to a head. So far, apart from the occasional glance whenever he got back from a contract or returned from doing laundry, Geralt gave no indication that anything was different, that he knew what he had been doing. Namely humping and fucking himself with a variety of Geralt’s things and coming over them before cleaning in an effort to cover his tracks.

He thought he was getting away with it. It was the closest he felt to Geralt, intimate almost using his things in such a way and it did ease something tight in his chest every time he used one of Geralt’s things to get himself off, but it also made the desperate clawing need for more, to have Geralt bend him over the nearest surface and ride his ass through the night worse. But that was just something he had to get over himself.

At least that’s what he thought as he took their week’s load of laundry down to the river, several months ago he would have pawned this job off on Geralt, not wanting to deal with the ice-cold water and the incessant scrubbing, so he supposed it was a bit suspicious that he practically jumped at every chance to do it now, but he ignored Geralt’s questioning gaze and left a little too quickly towards the river, eager to bury himself in the shirt he’d seen Geralt sweat through as he trained with his sword two days ago.

That was how Geralt found him, face buried in the witchers shirt, mouthing at it even as he humped the rest of the witcher’s clothing, dick staining them with precome as he let out small moans into the fabric, always searching and desperate for more until he heard the low rumble of his name.

Immediately he was sat up, face already turning red trying to think of an explanation, eye wide as if staring down the end of a hunters arrow, waiting on who would make the first move as he watched Geralt stand a few paces away, hands balled into fists at his side and even from where he was laying he could see the witcher’s nostrils flare.

Before he could stutter out an apology, an excuse, anything really, Geralt interrupted, voice low and deeper than he’d ever heard it, rough almost as Geralt told him to keep going. His hips gave a stuttering thrust into the witcher’s clothing almost on instinct and when he got a pleased hum from Geralt did so again and again until he was frantically fucking the witcher's clothing.

When Geralt told him to mouth at his shirt like the filthy slut he was he didn’t hesitate to put his face into the fabric again with a broken moan, eyes boring into the witcher’s as he let out small broken whines the closer he got to his release and he spotted the hard line of Geralt’s cock through his leather pants. Gods he wanted, but it seemed Geralt was content to stand there and watch him debase himself by getting off on nothing more than the old, stale smell of the witcher through his clothing.

It shouldn’t have been as hot as it was but with gold eyes focused on him, Geralt now having reached a hand down to stroke his cock through his pants he was now having to fight not to come too soon, especially at the thought of licking the come from the inside of Geralt’s pants once he came too.

In the end, it was Geralt’s rambling that did him in, about how the witcher had smelled everything right from the start, could smell the come staining his clothes, his potions, armor and weapons, even Roach, and how half the time he was always half-hard, fighting the urge to push his face into the dirt of the road or the nearest tree to fuck him right there, and it was with that he was coming with a cry of Geralt’s name, muffled only a little by the shirt still half in his mouth.

He collapsed back onto the ground, eyes never leaving Geralt as the witcher approached him and fisted a rough hand in his hair to lift him until he managed to bring his knees under him to kneel up, and suddenly he was met with the sight of Geralt’s cock, tip flushed red and dripping precome as the witcher held it in front of him like a treat.

He went to lean forward, to suckle at the head and get a taste of the witcher’s cock, to feel the warm, hard heat of him push deeper into his throat until he was choking on it, to lick at the slit of his cock to taste his pre until finally, Geralt would come over his tongue, but the witcher had other ideas.

The hand in his hair held him back and Geralt tutted, almost disapproving that of his wet, willing mouth on his cock, but then Geralt’s telling him what a needy bitch he is, how he’s got to earn his cock first and all he can do is groan, his mouth open and tongue peeking out as the witcher starts stroking his cock.

Again he began to ramble on everything he wanted to do, how he had even come on his lute a few weeks ago and he hadn’t noticed and he felt his cock twitch at the fact, too soon for him to come again but he would definitely lick every inch of the instrument later just to get another taste of Geralt before suddenly thick ropes of come were painting his face, the witcher purposefully missing his tongue and it was only when he let out a pitiful whimper that Geralt pushed his mouth onto the head of his cock.

He felt his body shudder and let out an unbidden moan as he felt the hot come pool on his tongue, quickly swallowing it before licking at the head in an effort to coax more out, managing to get a few more dribbles which he eagerly lapped up before Geralt pulled him away and made a show of rubbing his thumb across his face, smearing his come into his skin, marking him as he had been marking Geralt’s things, and fuck if that didn’t make his cock twitch again, but they would have plenty of time for that later, now he really had to do the laundry.

#come marking #scent kink

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dangerouscommiesubversive · 4 years

Note

Don/Gai, a kiss that Don gets brave enough to initiate?

Cute, anon! If Don’s getting brave then I think he’d be firm about it.

“You don’t need to help me,” Don says. “I can get the laundry done just fine by myself, I’ve been doing it for ages.”

Gai shrugs. “I like helping, though! I mean.” He pauses. “Unless you don’t want help.”

Don stares at the crestfallen look on his face. “Well...the space isn’t very large. Please try to stay out of my elbow room while I’m folding.”

“I won’t be in the way, I promise.”

Surprisingly, he isn’t in the way, and he does fold quickly and efficiently. He gets too flustered by Luka and Ahim’s underthings to do anything with them, but then, it took Don a long time before he got over that himself. He also talks a lot, which is annoying for the first couple of minutes and then nice after that as Don realizes how much time he usually spends alone. How much time they both must have spent alone.

Laundry takes a while, because Ahim’s clothes in particular require a lot of care, but eventually they’re down to just linens and it’s shocking, how nice it is to have someone to hold the other end of each sheet and blanket for him as he folds it. They haven’t looked so neat in a long time. Some of that is having help, and some of it is probably just Gai being Gai, frowning as he makes sure the corners all line up perfectly.

At the last blanket--one of Joe’s, Don can always recognize Joe’s blankets because the nap on them starts to wear thin once you’ve had to scrub sword oil off them more than once--they get another neat fold, and their hands meet as they straighten the corners, and Gai looks at him. It’s a funny look, sort of a nervous one, like maybe he’s waiting for something, or hoping for something. Don’s not always great at figuring out what exactly people are trying to say to him, but this definitely looks like anticipation.

And he’s just right there and he’s so goddamn cute and if this all goes terribly there’s this convenient blanket that Don can hide under. So Don kisses him--a little harder than he’d intended, really, because he’s rushing it, but Gai doesn’t seem to mind.

When they stop kissing Don says, still in a rush, “This isn’t connected directly to the laundry, you know, I just. Like you.”

Gai turns bright red and hides his face in the blanket, making what Don figures out after a moment is a sort of delighted keening noise. They’ll have to refold that blanket later, but for the moment it doesn’t seem very important.

#ikari gai #don dogoier #gokaiger #fanfiction #anonamouse

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pilot-boi · 4 years

Text

Five Injuries Hidden: Chapter One

A little look into the extents that Jaune would go for his team, his friends, his family. Did he maybe go a little too far at times? Maybe. Is it really necessary for him to get medical attention and actually heal his injuries? Probably. Will he ever stop gladly throwing himself on top of the wire to protect even one of them? Definitely not.

Maybe he should actually let them help him when he goes too far and gets hurt in their stead. But for that to happen, they’d have to know about the hits that he keeps taking for them, which they don’t and never will. And what they don’t know won’t kill them.

But… It might kill him if he isn’t careful.

((I keep forgetting Aura is a thing, so don’t mind me giving him injuries that he shouldn't really be able to get. Set vaguely between V5 and V6.))

Oscar

Jaune’s never had a baby brother before, so he can be forgiven for being just a little bit more protective than he really needs to be, right?

AO3 LINK

It was pouring

Not an innocent little sprinkle either, oh no. It was a torrential downpour.

The water kept getting in his hair and washing it down into his face. Who needs eyesight anyway? That wasn’t necessary, right?

And to think, he had been having such a nice day, too.

A wild shout snapped Jaune out of his thoughts, and he snapped up his sword to block the clumsy swipe of the Ursa’s paw, the resounding clang leaving a faint ringing in his ears. A grin made its way onto the soaked knight’s face as he batted the offending limb away with his shield and slashed across with his blade to decapitate it.

Whipping his head around, Jaune quickly scanned the impromptu battle field for his friends. His family. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Yang’s joked in the back of his head about counting heads like a teacher on a field trip, but he paid it no mind.

Relief swept through him as he saw that they all had their battles well in hand. Yang and Nora even seemed to be making a game out of it, shouting out the number of kills to each, both trying to one up the other. Their partners were taking it more seriously, but Jaune could see Blake smiling in amusement and hear the laugh tinging Ren’s words.

Ruby and Weiss were dashing around each other, working like a perfectly oiled machine. Glyphs would appear for Ruby to run on, perfectly timed for her to take out a truly obscene amount of Grimm with one strike. As he watched, he even saw Oscar take out a Beowulf singlehanded.

Jaune couldn’t help the swell of pride in his chest.

Shaking his sopping wet out of his eyes -in vain, apparently, as it simply slid right back after he swept it away for the millionth time- a movement in the trees caught his eye by complete chance. Red glowing eyes and feathers flickered from branch to branch.

Whipping his head around, Jaune zeroed in on a hidden Nevermore. It must have been drawn by the strife of the combat. With a screech it launched itself from the trees and reared back its wings to launch its feathers like throwing daggers.

Aiming directly at Oscar. Oscar, who still had trouble remembering to keep his Aura up. His brother. His baby brother.

Everything seemed to slow as his mind’s eye worked out just what he was seeing. He quietly pushed away the rage that bubbled up, and sought the cool planning mindset that had saved him and his friends time and again. Jaune would have time for anger later -because how dare that monster even think of laying a feather on Oscar Pine- because he had more immediate problems.

For one, and most immediately, that he would not be able to warn Oscar in time. No, the stupid bird was already locked and loaded onto Oscar, and by the time he warned him, there could be a feather a foot long skewered through his chest.

So, that brought his options down to only one. One acceptable solution. If that arrow was going to hit anyone, it was going to be him.

As he came to that conclusion, everything rushed back into full motion.

The Nevermore loosed its feathers like a hailstorm.

Oscar heard the noise and turned to see what was flying towards him.

Their friends yelled out in warning. Weiss threw up a wall a moment too late. Ruby jumped into a cloud of petals.

And Jaune slammed Oscar -his little brother, dammit stupid bird would pay for that- out of the way, his momentum carrying them both mostly out of the path of the barrage. Mostly.

Jaune was never so happy to have a soaking wet red sash tied around his middle than at that moment. It hid injuries quite well.

Hiding a grimace of pain as something just short of agony raced across his lower ribs, Jaune quickly checked over Oscar for injuries. His Aura flared up in his hands, liquid light pouring down into any possible imaginary injuries the boy could have. “Are you okay?! It didn’t get you, did it?”

Oscar shook himself out of his shocked stupor, blinking dazedly. “N-no. I’m fine. Thanks Jaune.”

Jaune breathed a sigh of relief, shoulders slumping, before they raised back up rigidly and his shield spiraled back out to cover them both. “Wait, what about the Nevermore?!”

Ren laid a calming hand on Jaune’s shoulder. “Not to worry. Ruby and Weiss are taking care of it. Are you alright, Jaune?”

A sharp sting lanced across his ribs. Couldn’t spare Aura for an injury he didn’t know the extent of. What if he needed to heal someone? “Yeah, sure, I’m fine! Do you think you could check over Oscar to make sure that it really missed him?”

Ren tilted his head to one side in confusion and crouched down beside them both. “I saw you using your Semblance, but it you’re sure-”

“Guys, I’m fine! Not even bruised anymore thanks to you,” Oscar reassured him.

“You got him to the ground before the others even took off after the rest of the Grimm,” Ren reminded Jaune, ignoring the knight’s skeptical expression. “You did well, Jaune.”

“My ‘good enough’ almost wasn’t good enough.” Jaune slumped tiredly, resisting the urge to sling his arm across his torso to cover the angry welt he could feel. “I’m just relieved I saw it in time.”

Oscar punched him lightly in the arm, and then shook out his fingers from punching his metal armor. Jaune didn’t even notice the hit, but he noticed the reprimand. “Come on, stop that. Please! You saved me, you made it. I’m right here, on the ground, safe and sound.”

“Yeah, what he said!” Ruby called as she waded through the semi-dense brush, the tell tale smoke of dead Grimm dripping and seeping off the scythe leaning on her shoulder.

Good. The thing was dead. Jaune tried not to feel so satisfied about that.

Nora bounced out from behind her and slung an arm across Jaune’s shoulders, unknowingly aggravating Jaune’s side. “C’mon fearless leader, cheer up! Everything turned out a-okay. Now, what do ya say we all finish up here and go get something to eat, huh?”

Jaune heartily agreed, and soon they were all back in Mistral proper. Qrow, slung across the couch with one arm covering his eyes, grumbled when their troop stomped inside covered in mud and shouting to each other.

Excusing himself with the plea of exhaustion, Jaune snagged the first-aid kit from the kitchen and sequestered himself into his and Oscar’s shared room. And with a wince, he finally took in the extent of the damage.

The less said about the torturous removing of his armor and soaked through clothing, the better.

A long, angry red mark was gouged across his side, right under his rib cage, and a dark, grim looking bruise covered from just above the severe laceration all the way down to the top of his hip.

He stared at it for several long seconds, debating whether to heal it or not. Who knows what they’d be doing over the next couple days. Could he afford to leave it? Or could he afford to siphon off precious Aura to heal himself, when he might need it for the others?

After far too long, he settled on cleaning it out first and figuring it out later.

Biting back the few curse words he knew, mostly from Yang, he quickly balled up the cleanest, least muddy piece of his shirt before biting down on it, effectively blocking any yelps that would be sure to somehow slip past the firm barrier he had paced against them.

Taking a deep breath in through his nose, his side protesting fiercely, and gathering up all his courage, Jaune tore open a sterile package and applied the large antiseptic patch found within.

The world whited out.

Suddenly, in some part of his brain that was untouched by overwhelming agony, he was very, very glad that he had taken the precautions to stop anyone from seeing or hearing him. Locking the door behind him had been an afterthought born from years of sibling life, but now he was so very glad that he took the second to do so.

After all, he couldn’t have someone walking in on him feeling like he was dying, now could he?

He used to like rainy days.

Somehow pulling himself back together out of the sheer force of will, he finished cleaning out the gash. He channeled a sliver of Aura into the injury and watched as it stitched himself up into a barely healed slash, still surrounded by bruising. Just enough to stop the bleeding.

Taking a moment to center himself, he spit his shirt out of his mouth and finished up by wrapping a loop of gauze around his middle and over the still extremely tender wound.

Finished. Now he could die in peace. Didn’t they say that death was eternal rest? Yeah. He could go for an eternal nap right about now.

Sadly, that wasn’t in the cards for Jaune at the moment. Briefly mourning the fact that he couldn’t stay seated on his bedroom floor with stray medical supplies strewn about forever, Jaune mentally shook himself off and begrudgingly started cleaning up any evidence of this little escapade.

His dirty shirt got tossed right into the laundry, along with the bloody soaked and slightly-more-tattered sash. Hopefully nobody would notice the extra holes in the latter.

That done, and knowing that Oscar at the very least would undoubtedly be coming by soon, Jaune quickly pulled a new shirt over his head to hide the remaining evidence, i.e. his injury.

It was quick for him, but really he walked slowly with shuffling steps, as his side strongly rebelled against the thought of doing anything fast other than sleeping. So he shucked off his soaking wet jeans, tossed them into the pile with his shirt and sash, tugged on a pair of sweatpants, and collapsed painfully into his bed.

No training tonight. Sorry, Pyrrha, but he didn’t think he’d manage to wake up to his alarm no matter how loud he set it. And setting it loud enough to wake the others was a no-go. Jaune felt so exhausted that he doubted even his nightmares would be enough to wake him.

Don’t get him wrong, Jaune didn’t regret what he did. He never would. You could scour his soul for eternity, and you would never find even a slightest shade of remorse for doing what he had done to save Oscar, the little brother he’d never had.

This result was the optimal one. That’s what he did, he crunched the numbers. And the numbers would always come to this result, without question. Jaune would gladly relive this entire horrible, muddy, rainy day a million times if it meant that Oscar would come out of it uninjured.

In fact, he would willingly do this for any of his friends, his family, the family he’d found and made and cobbled together. This family that was a little damaged and cracked, but that had dragged him out of the darkest time in his life without a second thought and without asking for anything in return.

A debt that Jaune could never begin to repay. Not that he’d ever stop trying. He hadn’t been grateful enough when they’d been doing it, so he was doubly grateful for them sticking with it and not giving up on him like he’d so dearly wanted them to.

So he’d do anything for them. Anything at all. With absolutely no hesitation at all. If any of their lives were on the line, there were really no numbers to be crunched. This decision was a no-brainer.

Hands down, no questions asked.

#rwby #jaune arc #oscar pine #lie ren #nora valkyrie #ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #weiss schnee #qrow branwen #mine #mistral au #my writing #five injuries hidden #chapter 1

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mommymooze · 3 years

Text

Group Wolf?

Felix is assigned a battalion

warning: foul language, fighting, war stuff, disgruntled swordsman

“No.”

Felix stands, adamant as an impenetrable fortress. He is a lone wolf. He works alone. He is not a babysitter.

The Professor is not one to be refused. They argue for quite some time. Felix refuses to back down. He fights tooth and nail, cursing and gnashing his teeth. At the moment he suddenly finds himself heading to the training grounds to meet his new Battalion leader.

He opens the door to find a corpulent figure dressed in leather and ringed armor loosely fastened over a green sleeveless tunic, heavy belt with a sword hanging to the left, black shorts and worn knee high leather boots standing back to the door, putting the last bits together of a training dummy. The figure stands about five and a half foot tall and looks to be 4’ wide at the shoulders, owing to arms and legs as thick as logs, dark hair everywhere. A long dark brown ponytail swishes left and right at the back of her head like a horse tail chasing flies. Tanned skin marked with scars far and wide having spent too much time outdoors and in battle shows beads of sweat associated with hard work. Byleth calls out and the figure turns ‘round. “Kat! This is Felix.”

Kat drops the hammer and throws her right mitt up, grabbing the Professor’s tiny and delicate right hand in a merc’s handshake while slapping the much smaller woman on her right shoulder, knocking her a bit off balance. “Lassie! It’s good ta see ya!” the matronly figure laughs.

Felix’s face looks like a fish out of water, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. This is a woman? The crone looks older than Manuela, probably close to 40 and has more facial hair than all the male students added together. Her cheeks have a dusting of thin dark hairs, she definitely has a mustache and a very thin beard on her neck. Her muscles put Raphael to shame.

Kat sets her eyes on the young male student. “Felix, eh? We’re goin’ to teach ya how to cooperate. How to work a team.“ She scowls at him, in return he gives the woman a disgusted look.

“Heard yer a lone wolf. Sometimes that works for a man, but yer gonna need ta figure out how ta play well with others. That’s where I come in.” She smirks, dark eyes piercing him like swords. “We’re gonna be joined at the hip for a while lad, so get used ta seeing my smiling face.“ She grins widely, offering her hand to the disgruntled swordsman for shaking. When he makes no effort to move, she grabs his right with her left and forces his hand to meet hers, shaking the hand and the rest of him heartily. Felix jerks his limb down, bringing his hand to a fist at his side while mumbling “disgusting” under his breath.

Kat looks at Byleth who is rolling her eyes. The small mountain of a woman smiles widely and gives a little wink. “Go on now with ya, we’re gonna introduce ourselves right properly here.”

Byleth snickers, leaving the training grounds. Kat follows her to the door, bars it from the inside, and turns back to the young noble. “Let’s see how well ya kin fight.” Marching to the stand of wooden training swords, she tosses one at Felix. His jaw is set, arms crossed, as he stands and frowns. Refusing to look her in the eye, he lets the sword bounce off of his chest and clatter to the ground.

---> x <---

Felix fights until he can’t hold a sword. If he doesn’t fight, he gets the crap beat out of him. When he fights, the swords or fists hit him less often. He’s battered, bruised, and can’t think of one spot on his body that doesn’t hurt. Still, she makes him fight. Still, she makes him move. Again. Pick up the sword, strike or be struck. Again. He can’t remember if 4 or 6 hours have passed. Suddenly the constant barrage stops. His eyes glaze over, his breathing is weak. He begins to collapse as she catches him and hefts him onto her shoulder, carrying him to his room like an old rug. She sets him down at the door, and he balances himself, then tries to slide in so he can slam the door in her face. A huge shoulder easily keeps the door blocked open. He grabs fresh clothes and she takes him to the baths. While he undresses, she runs the water and prepares the bath with soaps and oils. He is too tired to move. She finishes stripping him down and gently lowers him into the tub. Sinking in the water, that is the last thing he recalls of that day.

Felix wakens with a shock. He had slept. When was the last time he just slept? He can’t remember. There was not one nightmare. He hasn’t been that tired in a long time. He then recalls …her. He sits up, too quickly, his head spins, he winces as the pain causes him to fall back on the bed. He sighs heavily. Trying again, he rolls to his side, carefully placing his feet on the floor, sits up, cognizant of Kat’s eyes piercing into him.

“You’re staring. Get dressed, we have a busy day.” She turns around, looks back down at her notepad and jots a few more notes. She doesn’t look behind her as he makes a flurry of offensive gestures directed at the back of her head.

“You’re rude and stubborn. You’re also a big boy, you can dress yourself eh?”

Felix grunts, getting out of bed, to find everything neat, clean. His boots are polished and ready at the bed, soiled clothes set in the laundry, fresh clothes laid out. He grabs them with an exaggerated motion that painfully reminds him he is still sore from yesterday. He gingerly gets dressed. With every bit of strength he has left, which isn’t much, he storms for the door and heads out. Blasting down the hall, down the stairs, he heads toward the classrooms. A large arm wraps around his shoulders and he’s now heading to the dining hall. If his feet try to take him in the wrong direction, a hand in the back of his shirt lifts him from the ground and points him in the proper direction. Felix smolders angrily.

Brows furrowed, jaw set, the fuming male gets in line with his shadow queueing next. Grabbing a plate of eggs, bread & butter, and cheese, he slumps at a table. The behemoth sits next to him, placing an apple and a glass of milk next to his plate and a folded vellum with some powder. He raises an eyebrow, staring at the unwelcome additions.

“Yer a growing boy. Drink yer milk. Not an option. The other is to knock the pain down a notch or two.” A nod at his tray, she takes a bite of her eggs, waving at him to eat.

He glares at her. He should leave. Recalling the events of last night, he knows she will hold him down and pour the milk down his throat like she did the healing potions. He doesn’t need everyone staring at him here. Maybe he is a bit hungry. He eats quickly, starts to get up, hears a grunt, meets her eye and sits back down. When she finishes her meal, they clear the table and head to his first class. She leaves his side once he passes through the doors to the classroom.

“Who is your girlfriend?” Sylvain taunts the indigo haired man. The redhead is rewarded with a swift kick to an ankle that makes him yowl. He did learn a few new spots to inflict quick pain yesterday, may as well put them to use.

Class proceeds uneventfully. He manages to give several evil looks to the professor. At the bell, he knows ‘she’ waits for him at the door. There is only one exit to the room. Damn. He stomps out, she falls in with him as they head to the dining hall again. She leads him toward a table full of mercenaries. She slows to advise him, “These are my boys. You’ll greet ‘em properly. Noble or commoner, courtesy is free and expected.” The table of young men looking to be 16-30 years old boisterously greet the pair. Handshakes and introductions are exchanged, with Kat only having to give Felix one or two nods of encouragement. Plates of food are already there for the two that have just joined. One of the guys approaches Felix and puts a small jar on the table in front of him. “Name’s Roy. Heard ya like spicy foods. Enjoy.”

Felix’s eyes get a bit wide. “Uh, thanks” he mumbles. He opens the jar, the reddish brown powder smells like some kind of peppers, making his nose tingle. He sprinkles some on his stew. The teen observes the others as he eats.

The conversation around the table settles to a low roar. He wants to be anywhere but here. They are all talking to him. He feels exhausted answering their millions of questions about nonsense, favorite foods, worst foods, did you ever eat this or that, ever been to one place or another, what weapons have you used. Felix gives short answers to every question an elbow in his side inspiring him to comply. He gives a side eye glance at the beastly thing sitting next to him. He can feel her nod whenever he’s said enough to satisfy her. Why the hell does he have to know these people? Don’t you just point, they go, and that’s it? Giving orders, that is what commanding is about. He shakes his head. This is a waste of time.

Lunch is complete. The table is cleared by the battalion. They stand and look at Felix and Kat. She stands, informing the group as to their plans. “We got a bit of a chore before we can let ya go, come on.” The bear of a woman gets up and heads out towards the front gate. The company falls in behind the pair. Heading outside, they walk along the walls surrounding the campus. Following a well-worn path along the exterior walls where patrols monitor the grounds at night, they see a large uprooted tree. When it fell, the roots lifted a large mound of earth and created a hole in the stone wall surrounding the monastery making quite a mess. This breach in defenses needs to be addressed quickly.

Kat hauls herself up on one of the stones that have fallen from the wall. There must be 15 that fell loose, they are huge. Whole stones are at least 2 foot tall, three foot long and a foot or more thick, laying akimbo on the ground.

Kat directs her words at Felix. “A battalion is an amazing show of what teamwork can do ta get things done. One man, if he’s lucky, kin lift a stone. A team of ‘em can move mountains. You need communication, clear and to the point. Resolving conflicts. Problem solving, decision making, persuasion and influencing skills, rapport, reliability and recognition. No prob, eh Felix? Since I’m in a good mood, I’m gonna start ya off.”

She addresses the battalion. “We need the stones moved and stacked here.” Kat walks to a spot, shoves a stick in the ground that is about 20 foot from the wall and to the right of the toppled stones.”

“We gotta fill the hole left by the fallen tree. That’ll keep patrols from falling and breaking somethin’ when they’re policing the walls at night. If there’s time, we need to get the fallen tree away from the wall so there’s room to maneuver.”

Felix is hauled up onto the rock as Kat jumps down. “You get to tell us what to do and how to do it.” She folds her arms across her chest and stares straight into his eyes.

The young man stands there dumbfounded. What the hell does all of this have to do with fighting? Why is he even here? He wants to jump down and run. His mouth is getting drier by the second and his fists begin to shake.

A merc with sandy brown hair sticking out of a flat cap tips his head up. “Oy. We’re all here mate. We can help, just ask. We’re a team ya know.” Nods and grunts of agreement surround him.

“Who has done this before?” Felix hears his voice croak. He calls out to the 2 that answered to give their account of how the job was completed. He starts to catch his breath. He asks the group again, any other suggestions? One of the men suggests keeping people that are really short together and really tall together, makes for better lifting. Felix feels his hands relax, he nods. His glance flits to her. She is bowing her head and nodding.

“Those are great ideas. Useful information. Uh. Anything else?” he coughs.

One man raises a shovel, the end of Felix’s mouth curls up a bit. “What tools do we got here?” A count of shovels and axes is provided as well as a smaller wagon and some ropes in the inventory.

Felix starts dividing them into teams. He gets the best axe users separated from the best with shovels and the best in heavy lifting. He begins sending them out. “Axe users, clear up the area the stones are to go to. Make a clear path. Knock those roots off then start on lower branches.”

Felix stands at the stones. Lifters are in 2 teams of 4, 2 front 2 rear. “You 4, carefully move the top stone, let me know if anything shifts.” They are able to get the stone free from the pile and a couple feet away, but it’s difficult to make any distance. Felix calls a couple axe users over. He has the front 2 lift, they can get an axe handle under the stone and with 2 more in the center lifting using the ax handle to support the weight in the center of the stone, and allowing those two to stand farther out so they’re not arms and legs all over each other. On the count of 3 they lift, and the small team readily moves the stone to the destinated clearing that is now ready. Felix grins, then catches a look on Kat’s face, she’s mouthing “thank you.”

“Great job men. Well done. Take a minute to breathe, get the next team ready.” Felix awkwardly says. He heads back to begin again. When they’ve cleared the immediate area, the first team is ready to start on the next block.

Felix orders the shoveling workers to begin to fill the hole closest to where the stones lay, making it easier to access the rest of the fallen wall and make better stepping ground.

Felix sets the axe wielders working on the high point of the root ball of the prone tree. They work together and plan to knock the roots off and dirt, lessening the weight at the base of the tree and freeing more dirt for fill.

The academy student runs between units, helping lift here, steadying there, helping stomp a shovel in the ground, making sure the teams keep clear of each other, are aware of their surroundings. He thanks them with a slap on a shoulder a nod, a word. He stops a stone lift in progress, hearing something shift. The group stands back as a stone that was still wedged between others 10 feet up the wall, falls to the ground where they had been standing. Worried smiles and grateful thanks are shared for a moment, then work resumes.

Kat begins sorting the broken stones while the larger ones are moved by teams. She tossed smaller chunks in holes as fill, carrying the ones that could be reused to the end of the neatly stacked rescued wall blocks.

“Hey Felix!” hollers a merc with a scar cutting through the left side of his face, he’s Vaughn, right? “We’re done with the stones.”

“Great job,” Felix remembers to say on his own, no reminder needed.

The swordsman eyes the tree. It is very thick at the base, but as it had grown, branches grew out on the side away from the wall. He discusses with the axe wielders the best place to cut the trunk base from the rest of the treetop, what branches have to go so the remaining trunk can be rolled over to give the needed room for patrol runs. Those that are not chopping are dragging away the freed branches to make room to work and keep the path clear. The huge stump is ready in no time. All hands together, they roll it far from the wall. The ground behind is nearly flat except for where they run out of earth to fill the hole. They drive some branches in the ground about 3 or 4 feet tall making a fence around the pitfall to prevent any injuries.

Kat holds her hand out and Felix grabs it, accidentally feeling a smile on his cheek that he has to fight back down to a more neutral position. Kat whoops heartily and the battalion joins in with thanks, waves, slaps on the back, and claps on shoulders, as each is recognized for their work.

“Tank, finish the clean up, gotta get our student back ta class” The battalion leader says as she gives him a firm hug and ruffles what little black hair he had on his head. Major tasks are accomplished in a short time. Not unlike a mountain being moved.

The two walk alongside each other toward the gate leading back into the Monastery. “If I was yer teacher, I’d give ya a B+. I thought you were gonna stand up on that rock and turn to stone yourself for a minute there. I kin tell you’re not much on communication. Talking and listening. Lemme try to tell ya in a way you can connect it. Say you’re fighting another sword slinger. He’s coming at ya. You’re watching his style, how he’s holdin’ himself. How he moves is talkin’ to ya. He’s telling ya how he’s coming, where he plans to hit. Yer anticipating what he’s gonna do. Then he feints, dodges, pulls back and whips it to a backhand twist. You react, you change yer plans, tell yer body to adjust so yer eyes shift, hand takes a different grip, feet move to shift your weight to counter and set your attack. You’ve been waving that sword so long you don’t think about that any longer, you just react.

“Your battalion is another weapon. One you haven’t used before. Gotta learn how to wield it. Think of it as a man and his sword. To get them to move, ya talk to em. Figure out how best to work em, how hard to push, keeping it in balance. Use em to protect ya from danger, take out enemies. Mold ‘em into the tools that are gonna get the job done. When you’ve worked with ‘em long enough, they know what ya want, anticipate it.”

They have arrived back to just outside the classroom. She slings an arm around him in a half hug. “Ya done okay boy. Come meet us in the dining hall after class.”

Felix walks in, catching the professor’s eye with a smug look on his face as he gives a fist pump. Byleth’s head tips back and her eyes go a bit wider.

After class, he meets his battalion in the dining hall. His plate is already there. He checks with Tank, “Cleanup go okay?” The merc gives a nod and thumbs up with one hand as he is holding a turkey leg to his mouth with the other. The swordsman can’t help himself and asks several of the men in the battalion if they want to spar. A few guys accept the invite, but tonight they are drinking. They invite him to town to join them, and he will soon, just not today.

Once the student finishes his vegetables, Kat lets him head to the training grounds. She brings one of the mercs with her to find him sparring with Dimitri. Once the students have finished their rounds, Kat pulls Dimitri over, and Roy heads to Felix.

“Hey blondie, lemme show ya a few tricks to take down the porcupine over there.” She says slapping the prince on the shoulder.

“What? Who the hell’s side are you on anyway?” Felix snaps angrily.

“Whadda ya mean what? Yer gonna learn how to counter it, I’m keeping ya on yer toes boy.”

Roy grabs a training sword. He’s a bit taller than Felix, with short brown hair and brown eyes. They square off. Roy goes in for the first attack. He’s nowhere near as smooth as Felix, but he’s got a lot of strength behind his hits. “Do your worst, and I’ll pay ya back.”

The indigo haired student does not hold back. Roy and Felix go at each other for nearly an hour. Felix has the finesse, but Roy has guts and determination. Roy finally yields with a sword at his throat.

Standing up, the prickly victor bends over and grabs his gut. “You kicked the crap out of me. Damn.” He laughs.

Roy has caught his breath. “Use all that ya got, there ain’t no rules when you’re fighting for your life.”

Kat hands out a couple vulneraries. Dimitri excuses himself as he has other duties to attend to. He doesn’t escape without getting a handshake, a thanks for the workout, and a pinch on his cheek. “See ya, cutie pie.” Kat grins.

The student helps his former opponent off the ground. They shake hands and share thanks. The merc heads out, going to town to join the group for drinks. He shakes his head as he gets no takers.

Kat invades Felix’s space, taking control his life for well over two weeks. Every day they have a new project to complete, every day he sits next to a different member of his battalion and every day he spars with someone else. Sometimes they teach him new techniques, sometimes he is teaching them. He knows all of their names, where they are from, what are their talents. His entire free days are spent with them.

Kat guides him, pushes him to work on building the team, getting them all together in the same mindset. Stressing the need to be able to rely on each other. It always goes both ways. Felix is instructed on persuasion and influencing. One cannot simply order someone to do things differently, you have to explain the why and how it benefits them, generally and directly. After meals she pulls him aside to discuss rapport building and listening. Everything is based on communication.

After sparring she marks battlefields in the dirt of the training grounds, pointing out scenarios for the best use of the battalions, and when not to use them. What tactics give advantages. Gambits, useful for them as well as for you, can give you time to observe the battlefield and adjust your strategies. All the time she is touching Felix. Patting him on the back, on the head, messing up his hair punching his shoulder. He notices one day that he doesn’t flinch at it any longer. He expects it, and he would never tell another soul, but he looks forward to it.

Felix really learns how to listen. Not only to what they say to him, but what is said to Kat, how it is done. The group relies on her to keep them together. Some of the guys even call her mom or ma. She’s not their mother, but takes care of them like one. He even asks her why she lets them do it. She explains that this is her family and wouldn’t have it any other way. She loves them all, and they belong to her and she would do anything for them, they would do the same for her. Life’s too short to be holed up in a room or being off by yourself all the time.

The day has come. Felix and his battalion are ready for battle. Demonic beasts have been spotted outside the monastery walls and he goes out with the Professor and the Blue Lions to defeat them. Kat puts an arm around the swordsman, telling him he’s ready to do this. They run out to the woods to battle.

Before he would have run straight out to the beast himself, taking it on alone if he had to, but today is different. He has his battalion that he is responsible for, an extension of himself, a weapon at his disposal to be used properly and not ignored. He sends them forth in a gambit at the beast, sending the monster into mass confusion. As his team gathers back, preparing for another attack, he strikes the beast on his own. He is shocked at the cheers and encouragement coming from Kat and his men. It is inspiring and reassuring. A couple rounds later he sends them in again for another gambit. This gives him the opportunity to survey the remainder of the battle area. He and his men strike the beast a final time and it falls. He’s already leading them further down field to take on a knight with his own battalion surrounding him. Felix calls out to individual members of his group, getting the placement of his fighters best matched against the enemies. Their movements together work smoothly, the swordsman is reaping the benefits of working together with these fighters for weeks, knowing their abilities and weaknesses like his own. They plow through the battlefield as one, bringing down the enemies quickly.

When the battle is over, Felix is congratulating the team, handshakes, slaps on the back, everyone rewarding each other with reaffirming touches and positive energy. Kat has the biggest grin on her face as she hugs him until he almost can’t breathe.

“Yeah, you can be a lone wolf, but there is nothing quite as awesome as running with the pack.”

Felix puts his arm around her in a half hug. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re right.”

#fe3h #feth #Fire Emblem Three Houses #felix hugo fraldarius #fe16

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riviae · 4 years

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so this is long & rambly but i’ve been working on this for awhile now.... anyway, starts out very introspective!regis-y but becomes geralt/regis fluff real quick lol. hope y’all enjoy:

Before crossing paths with a witcher who proved himself to be a man worth following into the very jaws of death, the seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis.

He knew the cycle of things--life and death, warmth and cold, planting and harvesting--but he was an outsider to these things just as everything else on the Continent. Time passed. Wars were fought. Blood was shed. Empires rose and fell. All the while, Regis remained, burdened by an immortal life lived alone. To take part in humanity, to love it to some extent, but disappear into the shadows when a curious eye took interest in him. When a hand reached out--something that rarely occurred, unless holding a sword, pitchfork, or torch--he knew it was time to pack up and leave, lest he get too attached.

Self-preservation, for higher vampires, was confined to the affairs of the heart and the mind--their bodies were not in danger of ruin, but memories and emotions were often ruinous for his kind.

Yet, whatever contentment he could find as a bystander to the world’s happenings and goings was dashed the moment he met Geralt. All those years ago, Regis had fled from Dillingen to his home in Fen Carn, a cottage in the midst of an elven cemetery, in an attempt at avoiding the ever-encroaching war.

And in perhaps the same cosmically infinitesimal chances of the Conjunction of Spheres occurring, Regis’ entire life changed at the sight of milk-white hair and amber cat-like eyes. He stepped out of his hiding spot, brushed away the stray leaves that clung to his clothes, and faced his destiny with a reserved, tight-lipped smile.

He’s a witcher, Regis thought, the wolf medallion at the man’s sternum sparking a tiny flame of uneasiness in the vampire’s gut. Then, a more logical thought followed: I’ve always wanted to meet a witcher under amicable circumstances and now, here one is, practically at my doorstep. What luck!

As his journey with Geralt and the hansa continued, as they traveled and fought, bled and healed, wintered in a land akin to a fairytale, Regis had a startling realization. Something had thawed inside him and he was fairly certain it was the stirrings of love. Like a change in season, like the subtle shift from winter to spring, where one wakes in the morning and sees that all the snow has seemingly melted in the night, unaware of the slowly melting ice with each sunny day until it was completely gone, so Regis was caught unaware by what he felt for the hansa--by what he felt for Geralt in particular.

Just how far would he go for these humans? How much would he sacrifice for these flickering beacons of light, here one moment, gone in the next? It was the ghost of himself--the monster he once was--that would have asked these questions. But the Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzeiff-Godefroy of the present loved his friends even more for their fragility, their tenacity in the face of a world that seemed at the ready to send them into an early grave. Love, he decided, staring at the smiling faces of the hansa at their breakfast table in Beauclair Palace, was a good enough reason to die for--and a good enough reason to live for, when he was on the cusp of nothingness. When any other sentient being would have longed for death in the throes of agony, Regis held on. For them.

Memories spilled from his head at the first touch of magic-touched flames, nails clawing helplessly at the air. Fear burned him alive, ate away at his flesh until nothing but a pillar of ash remained. It was a pain worse than anything he had felt before--worse than anything he could have ever fathomed. He was neither alive nor dead, but something grotesquely stuck in the middle, unable to pass on to the comforting abyss of oblivion.

Between the coldness of fear and not-death, between the pain of a body futilely attempting to regenerate from nothing, Regis did find some respite. He dreamed. And dreamed. And dreamed. He was transported to memories of the past, and while some were happier than others, even the painful recollections felt better than the aching emptiness that threatened to swallow his consciousness whole.

Angouleme’s encouraging laughter whenever he used one of her... unique phrases. A warning pinch from Milva when he veered too far off topic, followed by an apologetic, but brief pat of his hand. A comfortable silence between himself and Cahir as they stayed up to guard the group during the night, sharing a small tincture of mandrake hooch to pass the time. Dandelion’s rapt attention to Regis’ stories, one time so transfixed that he caught his sleeve on fire as they all sat around the campfire and didn’t even notice. Geralt telling him about Ciri, voice warm, eyes crinkled in a rare unguarded expression of fondness.

He thought back on his journal entries, the once severe, cerebral scrawl now sprinkled with mentions of the hansa.

Angouleme somehow stole a dozen baguettes from the last tavern we stopped at and took only a quarter of one for herself before distributing the rest to the unfortunate people living in the slums of the city--and I never would have noticed (her prowess as a bandit is not something to be dismissive of, regardless of her youth) if she hadn’t also tried to search through my satchel while I “slept” in the hopes of finding olive oil to spread over her bread. For a child raised by cruelty, her morals are far better than mine when I was her age--or, rather, when I was developmentally at her age. Well, better in certain respects. She’s been quite a menace to the echelon of Toussaint...

Milva means to show me how to hunt like humans do, meaning that I must learn how to be an archer. I don’t have much skill with human weapons--for nothing is as deadly as a pair of claws or teeth built to pierce and bleed flesh--but I will try my best all the same. Perhaps after this we can continue our reading lessons. For as much as she bemoans academics and learning for the sake of learning (as in things not readily helpful in her everyday survival), she is a naturally charming and brilliant pupil. Her “common sense,” as Angouleme often calls it, has kept us from harm plenty of times--which is why her ability as a student doesn’t surprise me. Now, if only she would stop climbing up a tree whenever our lessons start to bore her...

Cahir, to my surprise, has taken on the role of doing the laundry for the group. Granted, we all have very few vestments to spare, but what clothes we do have that can reasonably benefit from a soak, Cahir takes and washes in the lake. Which, while I appreciate the sentiment immensely, I still found myself mildly panicked when I went to dress in the morning and my trousers were nowhere to be found. The man is quite young, probably no more than twenty-two years, but he has an old soul, as the saying goes. I would not be surprised if he finally grows sick of war, having grown up in an Empire where bloodshed is the status quo, and decides to make his living as a fisherman or farmer after we reunite Geralt with his ward. I sincerely hope that he gets the chance.

Dandelion, ever the poet, has shown me his latest ballad. And imagine my surprise when I realized it was about me despite my immense caution on writing anything regarding higher vampires at all. It’s incredibly vapid--a shame, since he is quite the wordsmith when not preoccupied by romantic affairs--but I admit, if it were published, it would become popular within a week. He took the story of my youth and twisted it into something nearly unrecognizable, save for the titular character being named Rex. A two-crown romance with the nominative case of my name attached... perhaps this is a caution to everyone: never make friends with a writer if you value your privacy.

Geralt dozed off beside me with his head on my shoulder. Now, him sleeping close to me is not all that uncommon--we spent many nights as a company huddled around a dwindling campfire together. What was uncommon was that he sought me out--practically barged into my room--to take his late afternoon nap... all the while I remained as still as a statue, attempting to process the sudden show of affection. Toussaint had softened Geralt in a way, so much in fact, that he apparently saw no harm in falling asleep next to a higher vampire, his swords still leaning in the corner of his room. I don’t think I’ll ever tire of his unusual straightforwardness. Where others might embellish their words, dress them up (or down) to suit their agenda, Geralt forgoes words entirely, instead letting his actions speak with a refreshing honesty. I heard the “I trust you, Regis,” as clear as day.

He thought back to all the times were his cowardice had kept him from voicing his feelings and it paralleled to his past, as if he were the same blood-abusing fiend of his youth. Centuries had passed and glimpses of the same shy, timid vampire who drank blood to be accepted, to make friends, only to lose himself in addiction, still rose to the surface. Blood was no longer a problem, but the fear of otherness, of being ostracized by those he cared about, still tempered his actions. And he was absolutely tired of it.

It was then that Regis made a vow to himself: If I live, If I become whole again, I will tell him the truth. He got his chance almost a decade later, when he was as whole as anyone could be after regenerating from nothing but dust and a drop of blood.

After Dettlaff was placated, no longer a danger to himself or others, Regis visited Geralt at Corvo Bianco. It was summer then, a season that saw him at the witcher’s door just as the last of the rows of sunflowers turned towards the sunlight in the midday heat.

He knocked on the front door, politeness dictating his actions. A disheveled witcher opened the door, familiar cat-eyes widening marginally at the sight of Regis, as close to a slack-jaw moment of surprise as anyone were bound to get from Geralt.

“Expecting someone else?” Regis teased, clutching the strap of his satchel as he crossed the threshold into Geralt’s home. He gave a cursory glance about the homestead--it had been decorated fairly well since the last time he visited to drop off the mutagenerator. In fact, the interior was downright cozy, a far cry from what he imagined a witcher keep to look like.

No matter what Geralt says, his years spent on the Path have influenced him. Only someone who expects to wake in the morning would bother to decorate their home--or to have a home at all.

The witcher shook his head, long, tangled locks spilling over his shoulders as he scratched tiredly at his beard. “Wasn’t expecting anyone. Thought if it was you though that you’d let yourself in.”

Regis held his tongue, wanting nothing more than to sit Geralt down and trim his beard. He knew from their time with the hansa that the witcher preferred to be clean-shaven, but hated trimming it himself. The vampire pushed the thought aside. “While I could have simply misted through your window, I didn’t wish to give you a fright.”

“How considerate,” Geralt said, voice rough but teasing. “You chose to wake me instead of letting yourself in.”

“I assumed you’d be awake. I didn’t realize that respectable vineyard owners slept in until noon.”

Geralt rolled his eyes at the well-natured jab before walking to his room, leaving the door open behind him. Regis remained in the foyer, focusing his attention on the rather impressive collection of witcher armor that Geralt had acquired. Yet, his supernatural hearing made it impossible not to eavesdrop to some extent; he heard the rustling of fabric and the soft thud of an article of clothing hitting the wooden floor.

“Hey, Regis,” Geralt drawled.

“Yes?” he replied a beat too quickly, turning towards the open door.

“...Gonna get in here? Or do I need to invite you into every room?”

Scrambling somewhat, the vampire entered just as Geralt tugged a clean white linen shirt over himself. At meeting the witcher’s gaze, the man gave a wide grin. “You came at a good time. I’ve actually got something for you. But close your eyes first.”

“Geralt, what are you--”

“Shh. Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”

A brief flash of fond irritation flickered in Regis’ expression as he gave a long sigh, but obeyed, shutting his eyes. He listened to the tempo of Geralt’s heart-rate, the usual slow and steady rhythm having quickened by a few beats. Ah, so he’s excited, Regis mused. Even witcher mutations couldn’t rob him of the biochemistry of his sympathetic nervous system. Then, a sour thought: I hope this isn’t the last time I get to witness such a jovial mood.

The sound of his heartbeat grew stronger as the man approached, some sort of fabric draped in his arms, if the rustling earlier was any indication. Gently, Geralt placed the mystery item in Regis’ arms and backed away, the old floorboards creaking under his weight.

“Happy birthday, Regis.”

The vampire opened his eyes to see Geralt smiling warmly at him. Peering down, he couldn’t stop the look of absolute surprise upon his features, mouth agape.

“This is...” Regis trailed, fingers running delicately over the soft fabric, briefly pausing to rub his thumb against the black fur which lined the inside.

“It’s not the exact cloak, given what happened at Stygga Castle,” Geralt paused, briefly wincing at the horrid memory, “But I thought you’d appreciate a new one.”

Regis opened his mouth and then immediately closed it, unable to find the words to express how much the gift meant to him. You remembered... years passed and you still remembered.

“I know you can’t feel heat or cold like humans do, but...” he shrugged, a hint of sheepishness in his posture, a hand rising up to rub at the back of his neck. “It’s been weird not seeing you with one. You never took that damn thing off so I thought it must have meant something to you.”

“Geralt,” Regis finally replied once he found his voice again. It was the only warning he gave before the vampire laid the cloak on the bed and moved to seize the witcher in a tight embrace.

Geralt looped his arms around Regis’ back in return, chuckling. He made no attempt at ending the embrace even as the time spent pressed together stretched on. “So... guessing you liked the gift, huh?” he finally asked, leaning into the gentle swaying of their bodies.

When Regis spoke, it was barely past a whisper, but Geralt heard him all the same. “Thank you. Thank you for listening to me--for knowing me. Thank you, above all else, for being my friend.”

“I think I should be thanking you. All I got you was a cloak--but you helped bring Ciri home. Almost gave up your life. Can’t imagine that... risking your immortality for someone like me.”

“Geralt,” Regis started, pulling away to stare the witcher in the eyes, expression serious, “You are exactly the kind of person that inspires sacrifice. You have a noble heart and, despite your best attempts at proving otherwise, it is a heart full of compassion for others. I know you would have done the same if our roles had been reversed.”

The witcher was silent then. When he finally managed a response, he did so while clasping Regis’ shoulder. It was something the vampire had noticed ever since meeting Geralt again--the man was more tactile than he’d been before his regeneration. As if he was making sure that Regis was real. Alive. Of flesh and bone. Not something that would crumble at his touch or slip through his fingers like a ghostly apparition.

“I don’t know if I deserve your kind words, Regis. i haven’t always been... noble. There are things I haven’t told you about. Things that pertain to you.” At this, Geralt’s grip on his shoulder faltered and he pulled away suddenly, as if he were expecting to be hurt. “Truth is, I’ve been keeping a secret.”

Regis blinked in surprise, a retort resting on the tip of his tongue, but he paused. He noticed, for the first time, that Geralt did look genuinely nervous. Geralt had never looked nervous in his presence--at least not because of Regis. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth all the same.

The vampire took a step forward. If Geralt was also planning to tell him a long-kept secret, then he wanted to tell his own confession first. While he still had the courage to do so. “I too have kept something from you, Geralt. I hope we can still remain as close as we were after this... revelation, if you will. But I understand if you’d prefer some time away from me afterwards.”

“I doubt there’s anything you could say that would make me want you to keep your distance, Regis. Not after Stygga.”

Regis gave an attempt at a half-hearted chuckle. “Hearing you say that really warms my heart--especially the certainty in your voice--but I’m afraid that what I need to say will change the course of our relationship, for better or worse. You see, Geralt, I’m... quite fond of you.”

“I’m fond of you as well...” Geralt replied, confusion twisting his features. “Is that really your big secret?”

“Oh, for the love of--” Regis cut himself off, reaching instead with one hand to encircle Geralt’s wrist while the other cupped Geralt’s cheek. “I love you, you stubborn witcher. I’ve loved you for awhile now, really. Even before Stygga. You’re incredibly easy to fall in love with, though I see now that you’re completely oblivious to this trait.”

Regis’ hold was gentle, light--something Geralt could easily pull away from if he wished to. But he didn’t. Staring into his own reflection within the coal black of the vampire’s eyes, Geralt closed the gap between them, answering Regis’ confession with his own: a kiss.

Between kisses, Geralt paused, huffing out a short breath. “...You know, I’m feeling like a fool for not telling you that I loved you sooner, Regis.”

“Likewise. Which is not something I feel all that often.”

At this, they both laughed before resting their foreheads against each other. It had been a long road to this--to love--but it was well-earned. Later, Regis’ cloak found a home within a closet in Corvo Bianco. Though the weather in Toussaint was rarely cold enough to warrant a fur-lined cloak, Regis wore it as often as he could, but Geralt left an empty hanger in the closet all the same--just in case.

Seasons hadn’t meant much to Regis... but now, watching the morning sunlight from the bedroom window pool against the witcher’s back, he felt a tug of warmth at the first touch of Fall, at the chance of donning his cloak and the memory of the day it was gifted to him. He didn’t want to replace the painful memories, the memories of those he loved but lost, but he also knew that somewhere, surely, Milva, Cahir, and Angouleme were smiling down at them. And that was a sense of peace with his past that he wouldn’t trade for the world.

#geralt of rivia #emiel regis #tfw ur both in love but too oblivious to pick up the cues from the other person #& also take almost an entire decade to confess to each other #i swear they're both really smart intuitive ppl but put them together & it's like they have one brain cell #regis: i like you #geralt: oh i like you too. we're friends so that makes sense #regis: .....oh my god #geralt doesn't realize how easy he is to love & that's just sad™#this is basically really sad hansa thoughts that evolve into fluff w/ geralt/regis bc i have two settings & that's angst & pure happiness #so uhh yeah it really be like that sometimes #apologies for the emotional whiplash lmao #edit: i forgot the geralt/regis tag on this post alskdjfsfds #geralt/regis

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heroes-writing · 5 years

Note

Can I have some headcanons of yours on what the main cast smells like ? Sorry if that's quite an odd question, but i wanna hear your take on it :D ty !

No problem! I might be missing a few characters, but I wanted to write for as many as possible ^^

Word Count: 990

Saitama: When he’s not outdoing the occasional hero work, I think he smells nice. Like soap!~ Tobe specific it’s probably a mix of clean laundry, with maybe the scent ofrubber from his red gloves and boots after wearing them for a long time. He’salways getting his clothes dirty, on hero duty and off, so Saitama is prettyavid about keeping his hero gear and himself squeaky clean!~

Genos: If you’ve ever beenin an oily garage where cars and machinery are constantly being worked on? Ithink Genos smells like that. Especially when he’s come straight from anotherupgrade at Kuseno’s lab. Since he goes through different arms/bodies, he relieson his clothing and his hair to give off any other scents. And after a fighthis body generates a lot of heat, so if you can imagine the smell of clothingbeing ironed that would lingers around him too.

Sonic/Flashy Flash: Asninjas, they should be undetectable. From a young age they were probably bothtaught to be discreet in every way.

However, Sonic wouldprobably smell like a fancy deodorant, perhaps unable or unwilling to abide bythe old rules that would hold him back. I think he would smell like grass andsmoke too, for when he trains in the wilderness. Then even those scents wouldbe washed away by the waterfalls he often meditates under.

Flashy Flash meanwhilewould have that clean skin smell too, and little else. The only other thingsthat can stick would perhaps be strong tea on his breath, or the oil that heuses to clean his sword.

King: King might have thatsweaty smell around him, since he often gets nervous and finds himself in lifeor death situations. He also plays games A LOT so his hands will probably carrythat weird combo of controller plastic, sweat, and anything he’s been munchingon as a snack lol. Come to think of it, you could probably detect the smell ofhis home? When you spend a lot of time in a certain space everything you cookand how you clean sticks to the place, so it would probably stick to King.

Bang: I think he wouldsmell like a traditional Japanese meal? Like the smell you get when you openthe lid of the rice cooker and the steam rushes out. That along with whateverelse he cooks for himself. Maybe some fish, vegetables, and miso soup! I seehim as the type to be diligent about cooking, cleaning, and training every dayaround the same times. So along with food, he would smell a little fusty, ifonly from cleaning the floors of his dojo with an old oiled cloth.

Mumen Rider: Would smell likeall the materials he uses for his hero outfit! The slightly sweaty scent youget from wearing a helmet for a long time. Leather, hard plastic, and metalfrom his gloves, his chest armor, and his bike. He’s so consistent with hispatrols, he wouldn’t be the type to wear strong cologne, but a fresh deodorant.Even when he’s not fully healed, he tries his best to take care of the streets,so he doesn’t have time for much else.

Fubuki: When she was younger,she probably didn’t care much for perfume or floral scents. But now as theleader of the Blizzard group, she strict with her professional appearance andbeauty. Fubuki takes relentless care of herself, and most likely receives freecosmetic items for her work. Perfume, lotions, lip sticks—Because of this, herscent is often complex and vivid with various products melding together.

Tatsumaki: When she fliesaround at every second of the day, I think she can unintentionally become alittle wind chapped. I think she could potentially smell like some kind oflotion? She also seems the type to wear a citrusy face mask for a while beforeshe goes to bed. She doesn’t give herself many days off, so she doesn’t pamperherself like her sister. She does drink milk though (to grow taller lol), so ifyou’re keen you could maybe detect a hint of it on her breath.

Garou: Welll, in realitythe way Garou smells can’t be all too pleasant. He lives in a shack, he fightsALL the time, and when he starts his hero hunting in earnest, he’s oftenwounded and in the process of healing. He probably smells feral tbh,like fresh bandages, dust from broken concrete and hard falls into the dirt. Heprobably does manage to clean himself, through maybe public bath houses andsuch. So, he only gets standard soaps and hair products. He is NOT the type forcologne. ^^;

Amai Mask: He IS the type for cologne. Companies probablyhave to fight tooth and nail to get him to do ad campaigns and commercials fortheir brands, but I’m sure he has a favorite that he’s willing to supportcandidly. Perhaps even name dropping it during interviews while lookingpointedly into the camera…It’s probably extremely expensive, but smellsdelicious, and manly. The most perfect cologne you could ever imagine, but heis probably saturated with it, it might get overbearing.

Zombieman:He smells like smoke. Like his brand of cigarettes and gun smoke. You can likenthe latter to the scent of fireworks. It’s strong and may make somecringe, but when he takes off his heavy coat and comes home from a long day, he’llsmell like laundry and of something that’s hard to place. Maybe like pine or achemical—something astringent and sharp? He is a genetic experiment after all,so he might smell a little off to someone with a good nose.

#opm #one punch man #opmheadcanons #opm headcanons #saitama #zombieman #amai mask #tatsumaki #fubuki #bang #mumen rider #king #sonic #genos #flashy flash #Anonymous

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on-a-lucky-tide · 3 years

Text

Lambert’s Not-So-Mysterious Vial of Oil

A/N: Lambert discovers that Aiden has been using spit--fucking spit--along with a laundry list of other disgusting alternatives for sex (tallow, yeah, that was on offer too). He whips up his own lube using a centuries old recipe and they go to town.

Despite his deeply ingrained pessimism, Lambert had always hoped that his first time with Aiden would be heralded by a choir of fucking angels. There’d be heavenly light, and soft blankets, and wet kisses, and just… yeah, good shit. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite pan out that way. Lambert laid that at Guxart’s door and a serious lack of sex education at the Dyn Marv caravan.

To be fair to the bloke, he was trying to herd Cats (hurr-hurr) with nothing more than the fragile lure of clan loyalty, and the promise of somewhere they could sleep and eat without the fear of arrest or murder. The latter was sometimes difficult to promise given the Cats’ penchant for violence and disorder.

As a result of this grievous oversight, Lambert’s first passionate experience with Aiden was swiftly curtailed. They’d made it across the room—belts, clothes, buckles, knives left haphazardly in their wake—and Aiden’s mouth attached itself to the side of Lambert’s neck.

Now was the moment—now, after all the build-up—all that time eyeing Aiden’s cock when they bathed—those clever hands that twirled a sword like a baton—his lips, thick, and full, and cheeky—fuck, fuck, yes!

He must have been hollering it at the ceiling because Aiden chuckled against his chest through affectionate nuzzles, elbows bracketing Lambert’s sides as he worked his way down. The path of his kisses reached their inevitable destination, and Lambert arched into the wet heat that enveloped his aching prick with an enthusiastic slurp. He petted tousled brown hair, thighs flopping open in a wanton spread as Aiden nosed lower, lapping, sucking, kissing, and—

“Ah, easy,” Lambert winced as wetted fingers probed gently at his ass. “Need some slick for that.”

Aiden looked up; brows knitted in confusion. “Slick?” With his lower lip between his teeth, his eyes widened a fraction. “You can do that?”

“What?” The first alarm bell rang through Lambert’s skull like a funeral chime. Apt, since this was the death knell for his libido that evening. “You know, grease, oil, to ease the way.” Lambert pushed up to his elbows and looked down the slope of his chest. “You got any? Figured you did since you suggested tonight.”

“Uh. Oh, you mean… like? For inside? You want something more than spit.” Aiden completely missed Lambert’s appalled stare, glancing instead towards his bags. He licked his lips as he tried to rally his cock drunk brain to take stock of his current inventory. “I’ve got some insectoid oil left over, and then there was some tallow I harvested from—.”

The bile rose in the back of Lambert’s throat, and his cock softened in empathy with his backside. He managed to wrestle his stomach under control before he stopped Aiden’s list of increasingly more horrific substitutes for a proper slick with a palm over his mouth. Fucking tallow. “Woah, alright, no.” Lambert grabbed Aiden by the back of his head, urging him up until their chests were level. “Look. I’m not letting you go to town on me with spit or fuckin’ insectoid oil. I’ll sort somethin’ for tomorrow.”

Aiden looked both disappointed and confused. There was a lot to discuss here, but Lambert had neither the patience nor the eloquence to do it that night. Instead, he nudged Aiden over onto his back and curled against his side. They exchanged lazy kisses, Aiden nibbling at Lambert’s lower lip before lapping gently over the scars on the right side of his face, and they both relaxed into an easy stupor. Their arousal ebbed away, and they fell asleep in their haphazard tangle of limbs.

It didn’t take long for Lambert to source what he needed the following day. He visited an apothecary and paid them a few orens to use their equipment because lubricant was the kind of thing you couldn’t make with a small burner and a few chipped flasks. The apothecary’s assistant hovered nearby, squinting at him in distrust until he barked for some ingredients and threw more coins on the work surface. They had a stock of red seaweed, and Lambert boiled it down to its slippery, gelatinous state—carrageenan—before setting to work on refining himself a lubricant that met his exacting standards.

Geralt had told him once that the bard shoved chamomile up his backside sometimes, which hurt Lambert on a fucking spiritual level. “Too thin for extended use. How long until it starts to burn, Geralt? Or does Jaskier have the endowment of a sewing needle?” Now he was thinking about sewing needles in that general area, and everything pinched together in distaste. Fuck you, Snowball.

The only essential oil he ever added was a few clove oil drops because it assisted with the relaxing part. Within a few hours, Lambert had made several large bottles full and sealed each with a cork before leaving. He felt rather smug as he strolled down the promenade towards their chosen inn, the glass jangling noisily inside his bag.

Aiden was busy tidying up a contract, so Lambert treated himself to a bath and a drink. He leaned back in the scorching water and closed his eyes, his elbows resting on the edges of the tub. He spread his thighs as far as they’d go in the confined space and yearned. He could imagine what it would feel like to have Aiden between them again, hips rolling with the same elegance they did in combat, his chest and brow sheened in sweat, and—

His hand dropped beneath the surface and stroked gently down the shaft of his stiffened prick, teasing himself harder with lazy tugs. His fingers wandered a little lower, palm cupping his balls as he caressed down his taint, skin soft and supple in the heat of the water. With his eyes closed, it could be Aiden touching him again, worshipping kisses, words whispered into his skin between soft groans of pleasure. The noise was his now, though—a deep, longing whine of frustration as he circled his hole with the pad of his finger.

If Lambert were to take an inventory of his personal strengths, it would be a fairly extensive list; a manuscript of positive traits. In fact, he’d offered to write them down for the bard so that his songs could hold some truth, but anyway, he digressed—patience would not be on that list. He was a here-and-now type of man, which meant he was currently here and hornier than a leshen in spring, so now he was going to pre-prep himself for the inevitable arrival of his… partner.

He towelled off quickly, snatched one of the bottles from his bag and sprawled himself out on the pallaise. They’d decided to lay their cloaks over the top because there were some suspect stains, so when Lambert finally rested his head down, he was swamped by Aiden’s scent. He grinned drunkenly at the ceiling as it washed away the harsh smell of lye and fuller’s earth from his bath (because, while Lambert was more than willing to splash out on a good fuck, he would not pay the exorbitant prices for the hard soaps offered by merchants at the market).

Once he’d doused a hand with a liberal amount, he placed the bottle to one side and spread his legs as far as they’d go. After years of self-service, Lambert knew he could bring himself off in a handful of minutes, but that wasn’t the point. He tugged, and pressed, and teased, until his skin flushed red and his vision was hazy, his mouth lolling open permanently as he keened and moaned.

The heat of his own body opened effortlessly for the press of his fingers, and he nibbled on his lower lip as he conjured Aiden’s face in his mind’s eye. Wrecked with pleasure, lips were swollen from kisses, brown hair tousled, stuck to his forehead with sweat, forest green eyes blown so wide that Lambert could drown in them.

It was easy to get lost in a fantasy he’d built so flawlessly over the years of knowing Aiden, buried three fingers deep with his legs bent high over his chest, but he was still listening. Ears perked for the tell-tale drum of Aiden’s gait down the hallway. When it finally arrived, Lambert made the snap decision to continue. He pressed his fingers in as deep as he could reach as the second key rattled into the lock, and smirked at the sharp suck of breath as Aiden stepped into the room.

“Bert,” Aiden whispered, quickly closing the door behind him. Lambert didn’t bother to lift his head at the scurry of movement around the room—boots thumped, clothes rustled, belts clattered. The bed dipped as Aiden climbed on at his side, and then those eyes, wide and glittering, appeared above. “You look…” The words escaped him, which was quite something considering how easily they usually fell from that pretty mouth.

“Like?”

“Yeah,” Aiden vanished, and this time Lambert tilted his head to follow his progress. He wiggled down the bed and knelt between Lambert’s legs, fingers tickling over raised ankles and tense calves. “Does this -? I mean, I’ve never had a man, uh - I didn’t know men self-lubricate when they’ve found the one.”

Lambert couldn’t quite contain the incredulous guffaw before it broke from his chest, and Aiden looked… well, offended. It was both the most adorable and stupidest fuckin thing Lambert had ever heard in his entire six decades. “Aiden,” he breathed, teeth flashed in a broad smile as he withdrew his fingers, “they don’t. You—you’re telling me Guxart never had The Talk.”

Because Vesemir had and Lambert repressed it as one of the most traumatising moments of his life. It’d been so fucking open and honest, and none of it felt right coming from the old man. He’d double-checked with Eskel on a few things, who had far too much anecdotal experience.

“Not really,” Aiden rubbed the back of his head. “I wasn’t… you know, I’m not… they left me out of a lot of things.”

“Alright, alright,” Lambert dropped onto his elbows, legs falling to wrap around Aiden’s waist and urge him closer. “The shittiness of your School aside, what about the other part? The one?”

Aiden flushed red to the very tips of his ears. “It’s just, I thought… I mean, you’re the only person who, I’m…”

“Enchanter curse you with the jitters?”

“Ahh, fuck you, I just walked in, and you were all spread open. How am I meant to recover from that?”

“Fair,” Lambert lounged onto his back again, taking Aiden by the biceps, “wanna’ continue where we left off?” His lover was hard. Lambert could feel the heat of his prick against the soft skin of his cleft, and he wanted nothing more than to have it throbbing inside him.

“So, I can just -? You don’t want me to spit?”

“If you spit on me, I will knock you clean out. Just fuck me, idiot.”

“Okay, alright,” Aiden smirked, more confident now they were back on more familiar parlance. He reached down between them and gripped his prick, carefully guiding the head to Lambert’s hole. He gasped as he sank inside, arms shaking in an effort to hold himself steady. “Fuck, you’re so—loose. Oh my—.”

Lambert pulled a face somewhere between consternation and bliss. It probably qualified as a scowl. “You callin’ me a slut?”

“N—no, I mean it… ahh,” Aiden’s back arched as Lambert’s body rippled playfully around him, and he didn’t talk until their balls rested together and Lambert clenched around the root of his shaft. “It doesn’t… hurt. It doesn’t feel rough, and… oh, fuck, Bert. Feels so good.”

“Slick,” Lambert breathed in mock awe, lifting his hands to flutter his fingers in a grand, sweeping gesture. Well, as grand as he could be with Aiden buried in his ass. “Welcome, grasshopper, to the world of half-decent sex.”

“Oh, shut up,” Aiden growled, but Lambert caught the flash of a broad grin before his face vanished. The kisses were just as deep and hungry as he’d imagined, branding Lambert’s skin with passionate devotion as those hips began to move. All Lambert could do was grip onto broad shoulders ashine with sweat, and bind his ankles tightly at the small of Aiden’s back, body weak with desperate bliss.

Lambert wanted him closer, deeper; every time Aiden pulled out Lambert arched from the bed, rumbling pleas for more. The drag of Aiden’s prick, the perfect precision of his angle and rhythm, made Lambert’s entire body light up with pleasure. His eyes misted, he writhed, and bucked, and clawed, trying to stay anchored so that he could contribute in some way, but it was hopeless. Aiden dragged him under, and Lambert was lost on a tide of his making. It was as Aiden moved above him—inside him—their bodies in perfect rhythm with each other, that Lambert fully understood what people meant when they distinguished between fucking and... whatever the hell this was meant to be. He'd fucked a lot. It helped with the monotonous boredom and general bullshitery of being a witcher. But this? He'd never had this. Never felt like he was becoming one with someone else, that their hearts were in step, that he could get lost in their pleasure as well as his own.

He couldn't keep his mouth off Aiden's skin; he panted into kisses and sucked marks on his throat and shoulders, desperate to taste him. Every groan and growl that rumbled free from Aiden's chest sent licks of pleasure up Lambert's spine that complemented the pulse of his building orgasm. Aiden fisted Lambert's hair, forcing his head back, and laced his jaw and neck with biting kisses. When Aiden reached the soft line of skin at the very edge of Lambert's coarse beard, he stopped. His hips slowed to a deeper grind as he mouthed at Lambert's neck, tongue laving over the hammering pulse beneath soft skin, before he whispered a soft, adoring, "Bert."

Lambert came hard, cock flicking beneath the sensuous grind of Aiden’s stomach and coating their downy hair with pearls of milky white. He keened as Aiden continued chasing his peak, body shaking with oversensitivity, nails biting into hard muscle in search of purchase. Excited by Lambert's desperation, Aiden growled and pushed up on his hands, moving faster, making full use of the slick, loose hole still clenching at him. Lambert could only sprawl helplessly, wrecked and sweaty, and clearly, his wanton display was enough for Aiden; his hips stuttered, uncoordinated and erratic until he pressed deeply with a low groan. Lambert felt his cock pulse, bucked up into it with a filthy snarl; fuck, to be full of Aiden after all this time. It was better than he'd ever fantasised. He could feel it, wet and sticky, as Aiden pulled back, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

They flopped onto the bed, sweaty and spent; Lambert nipped at Aiden’s jaw, receiving lazy tickles and pinches in response. The room hummed with their contentment as they basked in the echoes of their high, fingers intertwined on the damp fabric of their cloaks. The cot was narrow, with barely enough room for one broad witcher, let alone two, so they folded together, ignoring the stickiness favouring intimacy.

The temperature cooled. Lambert’s skin prickled with drying sweat and other less pleasant leftovers, the heady euphoria of having someone’s spend fill you up lost in the cold reality of gross crustiness. He dragged himself from the mattress long enough to rinse off in the cold water, too lazy to conjure an igni to take the edge off the chill.

The reliable witcher refractory period—the only positive bit of the mutagens in their bloodstream—came up trumps, and when Lambert turned back, Aiden was propped up on an elbow with a hand wrapped around his hard cock. His thumb teased through the precum already leaking from his slit, those big eyes were expectant and ravenous again, and Lambert flicked his chin at the bottle of oil on the nightstand. “Alright, but you’re doing your own prep this time. Nothin’ worse than a lazy top.”

“Pillow princess,” Aiden chirped, flopping over onto his front; Lambert was sure to slap his backside before he fell back onto the bed. “How much do I need?”

“As much as you want,” Lambert murmured, starfishing his limbs out. If he was going to be the victim of such slander, then he might as well make the most of it, “I made four bottles.”

“Huh, greedy and presumptuous.”

“Yes.”

Aiden grinned, bounced up onto his knees, and then proceeded to pour the entire fucking bottle over them. He dribbled it over Lambert’s crotch, his balls, his thighs, and then doused his own body in the rest. His honey coloured skin glistened in the silvery light of the moon slanting through the thin window panes, and Lambert’s lower lip rolled between his teeth once more. “Not bad,” he breathed, hard cock twitching against his stomach.

“Right?” Aiden flexed; arms bulging, chest twitching, and Lambert whistled in appreciation. “Gonna’ give it to you so good, baby wolf.”

“Uh-huh,” Lambert flopped his legs open, “c’mon then.”

At this point, Aiden discovered the concept of ‘too much of a good thing’. As he pounced on Lambert, intent on wrapping him up in a passionate kiss and grinding their bodies together in search of glorious friction, he lost traction.

Lambert tried to grab him, arms wrapping his chest, but his body was so slick he slipped right through. Like an eel squirming through the fingers of an inexperienced fisherman. All of Aiden’s witcher training came to precisely nought as he fell from the narrow bed, limbs flailing, eyes wide. His ass hit the floor and he yelped—half in shock, half in pain. His backside was a damn sight less bruised than his pride.

Lambert wheezed with laughter, eyes watering, chest breathless. He rolled onto his front and propped his chin on the heel of his hand. “I thought cats landed on their feet.”

“I’ve already used up all nine of my lives,” Aiden threw back and then started to chuckle as he climbed to his feet. “Alright, so, uh… that happened.”

“Yeah. Gonna’ call you Aiden the Eel,” Lambert grinned, grabbed Aiden’s wrist and pulled him back onto the bed. It was precarious at first, greased limbs slipping erratically as they readjusted, and Lambert decided to perch on top as the least well-lubricated. “Ever frotted with lube?”

“Pre’ count?”

“Ha, no.” Lambert straddled Aiden’s hips and braced his hands either side of his shoulders. “Prepare to be educated.”

“Yes, sir.”

It was hot—Aiden was beautiful, his eyes glittering with bewildered pleasure—but it was also too funny to keep up any pace because Lambert’s oil didn’t lose its slipperiness after just a few thrusts. They were no longer chasing a peak but languished in breathless delight and a contented ache. Lambert slipped several times and knocked his head on the wall twice, but as long as Aiden was smiling, laughing, he’d deal with all the squelches, accidental knees in the bollocks and bumps on the head without complaint.

They fumbled, and kissed, and writhed until their muscles were sore and their eyes heavy. By the end, Lambert could barely convince Aiden to leave the bed to clean off and replace the sopping cloaks with their bedrolls.

“Four bottles, you say,” Aiden murmured sleepily, curling close to Lambert’s chest once they were settled.

“Yeah. Four bottles.”

“Might just about cover it.”

Lambert was pretty sure Aiden meant sex. He hoped he meant sex. He wouldn’t put it past Aiden to organise a slip-and-slide competition down the streets of Beauclair. Before he could ask, a soft snore rose from the slumbering Cat at his side.

Credits to @lookoutrogue, @stardustlupin and @akilah12902 for fielding this idiocy with me. As usual, the Continent Cake Shop is the source. Also, check out the post originally by @/bounce-a-coin-off-your-witcher callin’ us all out for our mysterious vial of oil. The other option was grated yams with agar - maybe in Gemmeria?

#rawrkinwrites #Lambert #Aiden #Lambden #Aiden x Lambert #this could've been my WIPs #but the idea wouldn't leave #so here you go #smut #lubricant #Lambert x Aiden

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methoxyethane · 5 years

Text

Princess For A Day

This was stupid. Everything about this was stupid. Why did he ever listen to Lance? About anything, in their whole lives, ever? Everything this man said was ridiculous. Keith didn’t even know if he’d won or lost their bet, considering the bizarre rules they’d set for the competition.

Keith and Hunk’s team had one but only by two points. And that meant, but the rules they had agreed upon, Lance had to spend an entire day doing whatever Keith said with no complaints… but Keith had to be wearing a dress the entire time, no matter what.

Yep. Keith had won but not by enough, and so now he got to be princess for a day. Even got a fancy red dress and matching jewels Allura picked out just for him. And the… the heels. He was wearing little ruby slippers. Because he was a princess.

“Oh my god,” Lance laughed, eyeing Keith up down and all around in his silken attire. “You look amazing, this was either the best idea I’ve ever had or the absolute worst! Either way I cannot wait.”

Keith’s glare could have melted steel. “Hold still so I can kick you.”

Lance darted a quick glance down to Keith’s heels, barely visible under the hem of his poofy red Altean Royal Prom Dress. “Uh. Is that a figure of speech, or a literal order?”

Keith blinked, having not actually considered that. “Literal,” he decided, hiking up his skirts with one hand to give himself room for a good wind-up.

He didn’t kick Lance very hard, because that would be meaner than it would be funny; just one good high-heeled jab to hear the sound of his yelp. Oh yeah, Keith decided with a wicked smirk as Lance hopped and clutched at his now-painful shin. He might just have fun today after all.

The thing was, Keith had never had siblings or playmates, so the idea of winning a bet and gaining a slave for a day was something that had never come up during his otherwise eventful childhood. So…. he didn’t know what to do with his own personal Lance For A Day. He knew theoretically he was supposed to be mean, but uh… Yeah. The first thing he ordered Lance to do beside that kicking thing was just to help Keith do his laundry. Exciting, right?

Okay, so Keith sucked. But what was he gonna do here, order Lance to make out with him? Yeah it sounded fun for a while but ultimately how awkward would that get the next day when he couldn’t order Lance to kiss him anymore? Weird, is what it would be. Weird and terrible and stupid. Keith was gonna stick to laundry.

“You’re boring me,” Lance declared after an hour, knotting off and dropping to the floor the leather jacket he had been sewing fixed. Sewing unprompted, might Keith mention - he had only asked if Lance knew how to get that motor oil stain out of the sleeve and Lance had magic’d up a needle and thread to fix a tear in the inner lining all of his own. “This is so BORING, you don’t know how to play princess at all! My sisters are way better at this game than you, I can’t believe how boring this is.”

Playing princess? Was this a bet Lance had a tendency to make and then lose OFTEN? Shouldn’t that dumb bastard have known better by now? Or had he just figured there was no way Keith could ever be as mean with it as his teenage sisters - okay yeah never mind hearing that Keith was pretty sure it was the answer, actually.

“Why,” Keith asked, flipping his voluminous skirts around him on the bed to better settle into some kind of comfortable position. “If you had won the bet, what kind of shit were you gonna order me to do?”

Lance hummed, eyes pointed up to the ceiling as he considered the question. “You know, normal stuff? Make you eat gross space food and follow me around carrying my things for my like a valet. I had this whole list made up of ways to embarrass you, but now I know how boring you are when you’re Royalty they just seem mean and petty. You took the fun out of being petty with your bore-ass, Keith.”

Boring? Did Lance want Keith to be mean and humiliate him, then? Well, no, probably not, but Keith could see how this would be a disappointment on Lance’s end. He couldn’t even make a good story out of it for later, with Keith going easy on him like this.

Oh, and wasn’t that a sad thought. What good was today if they couldn’t t least make a fun story out of it? Alright, then. Keith could do this. Today, Keith would be The Princess. Not for Lance, and not for himself, but for Shiro and Allura when they came back from that diplomatic conference they were stuck in for two days and got to hear every moronic detail of what he and Lance were gonna get up to.

“Fine,” Keith practically spat, voice sharp with determination. “But remember you asked for it. I was gonna go easy on you today, Lance.”

Lance’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Probably realizing what a stupid thing he had just done by provoking Keith, judging by the look on his face.

“I order…” Keith started instinctively, before realizing he had no idea what to make Lance do. Shit, humiliating, mean, princess, he was the Princess… The first thought that came to mind was to make Lance kiss his shoe, that seemed really princess-like, but. Yeah that was also weird as hell, and probably too humiliating for both of them and not just Lance. Quick, it’s been too long since you started, say something!

“I order you to kiss my hand, peasant.” Keith settled on, holding out his wrist in an intentionally limp and pompous gesture. Fortunately, Lance’s reaction was a burst of confused laughter, one eyebrow raised indulgently as he leaned forward and took Keith’s maidenly hand in his own.

He pressed his lips against the worn knuckle of Keith’s left hand, blue eyes boring straight up into Keith’s. “As you wish, my Princess.”

Keith felt his face heat up in the blush instantly.

Oh, fuck. He was gonna have to watch what he said today, or it was Keith who was going to end up with ten embarrassing stories about him before tomorrow, and not Lance.

<3<3

Opting to play it safe, the next order Keith had was more for himself than anything else. He wanted to work off some stress and in his opinion Lance never spent enough time on the training deck, so this seemed like two birds with one stone.

Granted, he’d never tried running around with a sword while wearing a dress, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the impediment. He’d figure something out, after all.

So he set the droids on a co-op training mission, low level since Keith was in a ball gown and Lance didn’t practice as much as Keith did. They still made a good team even for all they argued, and once Keith got used to the limitations of his skirt and Lance got properly warmed up they kind of started kicking ass.

And maybe this was a little indulgent for another reason, as well. See now, Lance was a handsome young man as far as Keith was concerned, and as it happened Lance happened to look even more handsome when he was serious. He got this specific look in his eye in battle, this sharp Sniper’s Glare when something had his complete focus that was just… unf. Keith was a fan. And here side by side in a co-op battle? He had all the time in the world between sword strokes to appreciate the sight.

He also noticed of course that today Lance was staring at him an awful lot as well, but. It was hard not to be distracted by the swishing of his wine-red skirts while he jump-kicked android’s heads off. It was a pretty flashy sight.

When the battle wrapped up and they were both tired and sore, they broke for showers. It felt nice to get out of that awful dress and under the hot water for a few minutes, not even realizing how heavy the huge gown was until he’d gotten it off.

And then he was done showering and had to put it back on again, which, crap. At least this time there was someone nearby to ask for help with his zipper. His shoulder was too sore to reach all the way back there by himself right now.

“Lance,” he called over to the next room, where he knew the blue paladin was getting dressed himself. Come over here and help me with this dress.”

He didn’t realize that by giving him an order Lance would show up immediately, coming over only half-dressed and holding his own clothes to put on on the way. Which meant Keith got to see him in just his jeans, padding over on bare feet and slinging his shirt on as he walked over with an open expression. “What’s up?”

Keith showed him his back, moving his hair aside out of instinct even though it wasn’t long enough to impede the low-jacked zipper of his dress. Lance paused when he got up to Keith, one hand hovering in the air above the zipper as he hesitated.

“Lance?” he called back curiously over his shoulder, holding up the two halves of the top of his dress. “Zip me up.”

When Lance fingers touched the zipper at the bottom of Keith’s back was about the time Keith realized how very naked he felt without the dress all the way on. Like literally, Lance was literally staring down at Keith’s naked back, and he felt his face and neck heat up in a flush that only got worse when he realized there was no way Lance couldn’t see it.

Lance’s fingers brushed against the skin of his back as he grabbed the zipper, and Keith unconsciously held his breath as Lance gently tugged it up to close his dress with a quiet rustle of fabric shifting. “Gotcha,” Lance said in a voice so soft it was nearly a whisper. “All, uh… All dressed.”

“Thanks.” Embarrassed, Keith let himself rub at his sore left shoulder, not sure what to say next.

Lance decided for him, asking “Does that hurt?” And reaching out to poke at the muscle Keith had been trying to loosen.

“Mm-hm,” Keith confirmed with an absent nod, still not having turned around to face Lance until he was sure his face had cooled down.

Lance made a considering type of sound behind him, a long hum that changed pitch about three times as it dragged on. “Okay,” Lance eventually said with finality, and Keith turned around to look just in time to see him grin. “I have an idea. Since you have no idea how to be a princess, I shall take it upon myself to treat you like one.”

Keith blinked. “Huh?”

“Just for today,” Lance said, “I’m gonna pamper you like you’ve never been pampered before. Spoil you like no one has ever spoiled your sad butt in your life. Probably literally, there’s no way those hands have seen a manicure before.”

“Manicure?” Keith asked dubiously as Lance led him out of the locker rooms with one hand on his bare shoulder. “How does cutting my nails count as spoiling me?”

“Oh honey,” Lance sighed pitifully, shaking his head. “You have no idea what’s coming.”

#klance #abandoned fic #princess keith

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friendshipcampaign · 5 years

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Session Recap 6/30/19: Stormcrows and Swords

When the party all awoke that morning, there were messages waiting for them from the Gatekeepers in the Infinite Library.

Kriv, who had asked about the Three of Eyes and the DPL, received a message from Hubris that read:

theyre a nasty piece of work. most demon cultists are seeking power or influence, even if theyve decided the best way to accomplish that is bloody destruction. but the three of eyes seek nothing less than the total domination of the abyss over the prime material plane and everything it touches. they dont worship one of the lords. they worship the abyss itself. weve always been able to stop them because theyre inherently unstable semicolon the most revered members are those so fluent in abyssal that they have experienced the third dark letter, enabling them to hear the whispers of the abyss unfiltered. But no mortal mind or body can withstand that for long, so theyre more likely to go out in a blaze of demonic glory than to hatch any real longterm plans. lucky for us exclamation point. keep your eyes open.

heard from a and p that youre in veritas. the cult is most likely trying to take advantage of the instability from the breach to open a new portal. theyd need some powerful demons for that, or an alkilith that hastens the formation of abyssal breaches. well be watching for problems in the area, but theres enough residual abyssal energy that its hard to get a clear picture. re the goddess, ill do some digging. im familiar with the symbolism but not whether the deity has been identified.

re the dpl. weve met them. they like alembic. they dont like me at all exclamation point. better to avoid them unless theres an emergency.

best, hubris

Erwyn had asked Alembic and Palava about their experiences in Veritas the months prior and also received a message back, reading:

dear erwyn,

we are always happy to help how we can. the breach in veritas was to an uncatalogued layer of the abyss. so, on the one hand, we can only tell you what we saw, but on the other hand what we saw is as much as anyone knows.

the creature that came through was vast and amorphous, not really an ooze but something like a huge, growing slab of purplish muscle. it gave off a poison that made anyone exposed to it laugh uncontrollably. if theres any of that still around remember that it is a poison, not a magical effect, so be smarter than me and invest in a mask.

the weird thing about this creature, and the one that makes it particularly dangerous to the prime material plane, is that it could grow more demons. At first we thought there were reinforcements coming through the portal, but they kept showing up even after alembic closed the breach, and then we found some that were halfformed, embedded in strange growths in its body. those new demons always grew in circles around a clear pod where it held some person or animal it had trapped, and it seemed to be using its captives as some kind of inspiration. the demons it grew from them were a similar size and shape. its possible it needed living captives. when we broke the clear pods the people inside were all right as long as there was healing on hand, so we saved a dozen or so humanoids and a dog.

now, we did our level best to wipe it out for good. couldnt see hide nor hair of it when we were done, and the demonology prevention league was planning on keeping watch on the area in case it found a way to come back. at this point were most concerned about some cultist locating the layer and summoning themselves an endless supply of demons so were all trying to keep the details under wraps. i wouldnt be unduly worried, but do keep your eyes out and let us know if you find anything stranger than expected.

be careful and stay in touch,

alembic and palava

And finally, Ditto, who had asked a more complex question, received back:

i will look exclamation point. nothing that is immediately accessible but thats what research is for exclamation point exclamation point exclamation point.

cheerio,

hubris

To start out their investigations for the day, the group followed Tiktik to the place they had seen the demon disappear inside the previous night. The building was on Needle Row, where the tailors’ and cloth merchants’ shops were, but was itself a boarded-up warehouse. There was a shop next to it, however, which the group decided to check out to see if they could notice anything odd. They entered on the pretense that Amaranth needed her coat repaired a bit and Voski suggested checking out the “finer” wares along the walls -- though it took Erwyn a second to catch on to her actual meaning and she had to steer him gently inside.

The tailor who owned the place was a half-orc with two assistants, a halfling and a goblin. He became very engaged talking to Amaranth about her coat repair. Voski also took the opportunity to scout out some nice prints, for inspiration. With the tailor occupied, Erwyn approached the wall nearest the warehouse on the other side and cast Detect Magic -- but it set off one of his Wild Magic surges, causing a swarm of dusky blue butterflies with silver eyes to manifest inside the store.

The goblin assistant muttered under her breath and Kriv apologized, recognizing the word for “adventurer.”

Some of the party and the shop workers both attempted to shoo the butterflies out the door. After a minute though, they all vanished. While Erwyn was mortified, he stayed silent, hoping to still glean some information from his spell. He managed to detect both faint Abjuration and Divination spells from the other side of the wall, as well as a magical effect on one of the tailor’s needles.

Once she noted Erwyn had finished his investigation, Amaranth swiftly told the tailor they were late for a thing and had to run, taking her coat with her. The party all shuffled outside and Erwyn explained what he had noticed.

The party next headed to the address Amaranth had been given by the orc woman she’d spoken to at the bar the night before, hoping to get a glimpse of the Obsidian Shard drop point. It seemed to be a laundry, which was in line with the instructions Amaranth had been given about dropping off something needing mending to contact them. She also noted a beggar’s mark that signified the place as off-limits for thieves, and an unfamiliar narrow diamond shape drawn in black. Unable to spot any unusual activity in the area at this time, the party moved along.

As they headed towards the office of the private investigator Squall had hired previously, it became clear they were entering the poorer part of town. The building itself was very run-down, with a big sign out front that read “Eckjeth Investigations” and an oil lamp visible inside. Eckjeth poked her head out to greet them. She was a half-elf with pointy face and twitchy ears, whose hair was braided in a faux-elven style that had clearly been done about three days ago. She let them inside and revealed an office with cases of showy books covered in dust, and boxes packed full of tinctures that were shoved to the sides in an attempt to make them less obvious.

She invited the party to sit, but most of them refrained. Amaranth pulled a chair over and turned it around, sitting on it backwards. Ditto sat on the desk. Before getting into the conversation, Eckjeth poured herself a drink and added one of the tinctures to it, looking genuinely relieved as she did so. She asked what they were here for and seemed annoyed when they said they were looking for Quest, snapping that missing persons cases were a lesson in futility in Veritas right now. She admitted that when she’d gone to the Stormcrows they couldn’t confirm that Quest was dead, since Eckjeth didn’t know her personally, but it seemed clear that this was her assumption.

Interestingly, the case seemed to be less on Eckjeth’s mind than other things. She looked to be extremely stressed and tired. When the group asked about this she admitted her desire to get out of the city, since it seemed like there was nothing the common people of the city could do about the Abyssal influences lingering since the incursion. Voski then asked her about the tincture she’d put in her drink and Eckjeth stiffened -- it seemed she had a sort of love-hate relationship with the things.

Eckjeth told the group that the tinctures had been brought to the city by a wealthy philanthropist named Karin Mordechai, who would come to the city sometimes and do spontaneous demonstrations, professing their virtues and how they could keep the public safe from the effects of the breach. Eckjeth said she was based somewhere east of Veritas, so while she rented a place in the city during her visits she wasn’t around often, and would sometimes teleport in thanks to a wizard in her employ. Apparently Karin was also planning on attending the upcoming Guildhall Gala, though she had managed to receive special dispensation privileges from the guilds so that people selling the tinctures didn’t need memberships to operate.

When asked what the tinctures were made out of, Eckjeth informed the party they were made outside of the city, since Veritas was too “unstable,” out of materials straight from the elemental planes. Kriv asked if she had been feeling alright and if he could cast a spell to check up on her and she agreed. When he cast Detect Poison and Disease, he picked up on something similar to what he’d detected on Clarity the other night. Eckjeth tried to pitch the tinctures to them and Erwyn tentatively bought one of them, hoping to investigate it later. Eckjeth also gave the party her investigation notes, which started out more organized and grew increasingly more scrawled.

The detective also let them know about a member of the lamplighter’s guild, Deveron Wick, who had been at the guildhouse the night of Quest’s disappearance and said he had seen her briefly, but had offered no additional information. Additionally, she shared her notes on the outfit Quest had last worn as well as the blades she’d had on her -- a sort of “rescue” enchanted sword that was anxious around others, called Stív, and two fae daggers, one affiliated with fire and the other with ice, that could be used to find each other. Kriv offered Eckjeth a few gold as a tip for the information, subtly using Lay on Hands to heal a bit her as he handed them over.

Deciding to talk to the Stormcrows next, the party headed to the temporary temple to the Raven Queen set up near the exclusion zone. When they arrived, one of the raven-masked clerics was talking to a member of the city watch outside, saying they hadn’t been expecting difficulties today. An acolyte greeted them inside, but Erwyn and Voski both noted a lock on the door leading to the morgue that had apparently been blasted open, and what seemed to be signs of some kind of magical altercation.

When Voski inquired about what had happened, the acolyte explained that there had been an incident -- though they assured the group it hadn’t involved necromancy. They quickly switched subjects to ask the group what they were here for, and Amaranth asked if they could confirm whether or not Quest was still alive. When she said she was asking as a friend, the acolyte lead them to a back chamber. Sitting inside was a kenku with magpie plumage, who also wore a leather raven mask and a small, black leather crown. Her mask reached over her beak and seemed to have buckles that could close it shut. The acolyte introduced her as Susurrus, the Crowned Crow.

After Amaranth described Quest, the crowned cleric lit a bowl of incense in front of her and breathed in the smoke before raising her head, waiting for a moment, extremely still. She then lowered it and turned to the acolyte who had brought them in, signing a message. The acolyte informed the party that she said no one of Quest’s description had passed through the Astral Plane yet. They clarified that this wasn’t a sure sign she was among the living, but still meant it was likely.

As they left the chamber, Ditto asked more about what had happened in the morgue. The acolyte, apparently too unnerved by the events to remain secretive a second time, answered her in a hushed whisper. They said a group of individuals had used Feign Death to disguise themselves as corpses to get into the morgue, then escaped with three bodies that the clerics had been told to keep safe using Gentle Repose so that the Watch could return to cast Speak With Dead and complete an interrogation. The watch and DPL were apparently both very upset about the situation.

“I hope you find your friend,” the acolyte told them in parting.

“Thank you. I hope you find your bodies!” Ditto replied.

Noting that the argument outside had increased in fervor, Ditto tucked herself behind Voski and started trying to cast a spell under her breath. Voski nudged her before she could finish and slightly shook her head, causing her to cease the casting. As the group started to head away there was further commotion as several DPL agents arrived on the scene. The party high-tailed it away.

As they passed the Obsidian Shard drop point again, Voski cast a Locate Object to see if there were any Three of Eyes pendants in the building. While there, Voski and Amaranth both noted a little spider-like construct scurrying along the street with a scroll held in a sling. When it was pointed out to the others, Erwyn wanted to follow it, but some of the others were hesitant. Voski suggested Tiktik trail it instead. Ditto was hesitant to ask them to follow a potentially dangerous stranger again so soon, but the familiar was willing and went after it. As Tiktik headed off, Ditto also tried casting Detect Thoughts to see if the spider-construct had any. It didn’t.

The party then headed to the home of Winstanus Albach, the customer who’d last bought a sword from Quest. Outside, a flying sword was attempting to cut the grass on the lawn -- though it was only broadly successful. Voski waved at it and it paused to wave back. When they knocked on the door, a number of interesting bumps and clattering noises followed from inside. Then an elderly human man with a huge mustache answered the door, holding a number of leashes which each had a flying sword at the end, and scolded several of the more active ones by name for being rude to company.

When the party explained they were here to speak with him, Winstanus invited them all in, explaining he would put the swords in his “gladiary” -- a word he devised by combining the Celestial “Gladius” and the Common “aviary” -- for their safety. He then lead them to a nice sitting room, which was finely furnished but clearly had many sewn- and patched-up gashes. He offered them all biscuits on plates with little paintings of swords on them, and seemed sad to hear that Quest was still missing. Apparently he was a go-to for her when she had flying swords with slight behavioral issues, as he was an avid collector and didn’t mind their quirks. He was doubly concerned for her well-being because he also had arrangements with her to help find his swords good homes when he passed on.

The last sword he had purchased from her was from the Faewilds -- a long, leaf-shaped mithril one with vine patterns on the blade and metal and crystal flowers on the hilt that struggled a little on its leash as he fetched it. Apparently it had once been a part of an entire flock, but the swords were let go and Quest, who specialized in fae artifacts, had found it running feral. He also said it emitted faint sunlight at all times, and he hadn’t yet thought of a proper name for it. Erwyn asked if he could handle the sword, curious, and Winstanus warned him to watch his fingers, though also noted that as he was an elf the fae blade might receive him a little more kindly. Erwyn carefully examined the sword and noted a Sylvan inscription on it that read, “I and my sisters guard the third court.”

Ditto asked Winstanus if anyone had bothered him recently looking for information on swords. He said a blacksmith named Filigree Black had stopped by before the Abyssal incursion happened, interested in learning about historical smithing techniques, but that was all. In the meantime, Amaranth tried petting a little geriatric dagger floating near her, but accidentally bonked it into the table. It scurried fearfully behind Winstanus. She apologetically held out one of her own daggers for it to investigate.

Winstanus then told the group about the Veritas Amateur Historians Society, which he was a member of, though he mentioned it hadn’t had regular meetings for a while. He gave them the name of the organizer, a dragonborn named Lomik Turnuroth, who was the head of staff at the Zisisvoyni mansion uptown. He also mentioned that both Squall and Eckjeth had stopped by to speak with him about Quest, as well as some of the Watch, though their investigation had seemed half-hearted.

Towards the end of their visit, Amaranth told Winstanus that she’d bought her own sword from Quest, and he congratulated her on the purchase. He delightedly talked swords with her for a bit, and the shy dagger from earlier finally grew interested in her and wandered over, now less afraid.

#session recap

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illyrian-tattoos · 5 years

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A Court of Spies and Shadows Part 1

Disclaimer: This is my story, also seen on Wattpad under SJM_addict . These characters belong to Sarah J. Maas’ A Court of Thorns and Roses series.

Azriel was darkness. He was born of shadow and this dungeon room was where he belonged. With his shadows, darkness and demons, his old friends.

He was a bastard-born nobody to the rest of his camp, and if he never saw them again, it would be too soon.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

My half-brothers walked in with wicked grins on their faces. It had been almost ten years since I had seen them, before the night encased me. None of them had changed, it hadn't been long enough for them to change, but certainly I had.

Shadows still encased me as the light streamed into the now bright cell. It sounds stupid, but I've never heard my brothers' names.

The younger one gaped at me a bit, that even with the door open and light steaming in, shadows still incased me, "Shadowsinger," he gasped.

"But that's not why we came," the eldest one added, "no, our tutor was lecturing us on fae healing, and we thought to ourselves, 'who better to help us with this little experiment than the bastard living in our manor?'" He mocked, a wicked grin appearing on his face.

Fear, true and slimy leeched into my veins as my brothers took a step closer and I saw a bucket of some kind of oil and a torch.

My eldest brother lunged forward with the speed if an Illryan-in-training. My shadows told me, whispered in my ear of how fierce he looked in the ring, in the skies. A part of me yearned for that, the training and flying, but my common sense reminded me that it was this people, this breed that thought bastards were to be hidden away.

My eldest brother pinned me down, pulling the leather strap from his hair and tying my wrists, taking his belt and my other brother's belt to strap me to my bed as my younger brother poured the oil, kerosine it seemed, all over my hands and fingers.

As I struggled to loosen their grip, escape as fast as I could, my eldest brother stuffed my bed sheets in my mouth and dug his knee into my back, yanking and contorting my body so I could barely breathe even as I saw the torch close in on my hands.

The boys only held me while they burned for a minute or two. Even through the locked door, servants must have heard my screaming and seen my brothers flee the scene. As they untied me, one of the servants asked my name. I couldn't remember the last time my name had been used, and only remembered that the name had significance to my mother. I said a quick prayer to the cauldron, begging for forgiveness, then replied, "Az-Azriel."

My father and his wife met me at the front doors to the mansion. "You are no longer welcome here. You make sinning too tempting to our sons," my step mother said coldly.

"You will be sent to an Illyrian camp on the other side of the Steppes, you are to never return. You may one day have the ability to add honour to your family name by dying in a war, or battle. You only serve as a shameful reminder of a truly weak young Illyrian here, and we can no longer bare the reminder." My father clarified.

Disownment may have hurt, but I could barely tell over the pain in my bloody, blistered hands. The doors closed behind me, but even my shadows couldn't darken the light that I experienced when I walked out of the camp.

•••••••••••••••••••••••

The camp master, Lord Devlon, both hated and loved me.

He hated me because I was an untrained bastard from the other side of the Steppes. He loved me, because that bastard was a shadowsinger, a nobody. He could use me however he pleased because I had no real power.

When I began my training with the other boys, I was very far behind. These two boys, Cassian and Rhysand beat me to oblivion but it still didn't hurt as much as my hands.

Rhysand was the High Lord's son. Son of an Illyrian female and the most powerful male in all of the Night Court, yet Rhysand's abilities were far stronger than his father's. Cassian was the bastard son of a laundry maid and an unknown male, one his mother either couldn't or wouldn't remember.

Between the two of them, they were the two strongest and most hated trainees in the camp, bastards and half-breeds should not be able to destroy the camp with a thought. Rhysand could literally mist everyone here, and not like the water, with half a thought, a crowd could turn into blood mist and nothing else, maybe shards of shrapnel if they had enough Illyrian steel on them.

The next week, I was heading to my tent when Rhysand and Cassian approached. Those two lived in a proper house with Rhysand's mother so neither of them had to deal with the cold nights on the ground. I had no idea what they would be doing in this part of the camp, they could fight me anywhere, I was an eleven-year-old Illyrian who couldn't hold a sword. Lord Devlon had promised death to anyone who tried to kill the camp shadowsinger, so I knew they wouldn't kill me, but they could beat me up pretty bad.

"You live here?" Rhysand asked, looking around.

"No." I replied, hating to admit any more weakness than I already did.

"Well? Let's see your tent then, kick your ass into gear or I will." Cassian snapped, looking around impatiently. "I hate this place," he muttered, "

I led the two boys solemnly to my tent. I attempted to master my emotions, Rhysand was daemati, if he wanted, he could cut into my mind and read everything: the fear, the shame, and the anger. Every disgusting and envious thought about their freedom, their power, their fighting and flying skills had to be pushed back, they had to think that I wasn't afraid of a bruising, no true warrior would be, and I needed to seem strong, like the worst part of me being here was that I was an eleven-year old who couldn't get off the ground, I wasn't a female. It was not socially acceptable for me to be weak. Even if I was, I had to at least pretend that I was strong and independent, Lord Devlon only allowed me to stay because I was a shadowsinger, if I showed even one crack in the shield, my ability wouldn't matter, the embarrassment would outweigh the benefit, and I'd be thrown in a far worse camp.

I blinked. We stood in front of my "tent", tarp strung between two tall bushes. Cassian walked around the space, investigating the small fur I used as a blanket, the small lake and nearby mountains.

"This'll work fine." He mumbled to Rhysand, "He got lucky."

"What are you saying? You can't just walk into my space and make your own rules!"

"Oh, quit wining. You have a choice, you can either shut up and listen to us teach, or enjoy a good beating. You're lucky, your 'tent' is close to a perfect place to practice flying and training. We won't be seen in public with you until you can actually do normal Illyrian stuff."

"What my articulate companion is trying to say, is that we are here to offer you our help. We can secretly teach you to fly and fight like us, so you can stand a chance against anyone in the ring. Cassian is the best fighting Illyrian-in-training in the whole camp, and you would be an idiot not to take the offer." Rhysand added with a smirk.

"Why would you do that? Neither of you can benefit from training with me. Cassian could probably beat the camp lord if he had the chance and you sure as hell aren't far behind in sparring, not even putting into consideration that you could mist half the camp and you're still growing." I asked Rhysand skeptically.

"Kindness. And time to learn more about your own powers, maybe we can help you practice those too. Shadowsingers are just as rare as daemati. You're lucky if two are born in a thousand years. The rarity that a daemati and shadowsinger are in the same camp and are the same age is a sign from the mother I think."

That made my heart stumble a beat. Was he being truthful? Was I really that rare? I'd been locked in that room my entire life, I'd never met my biological mother, but I'd assumed that it was a genetic trait. Rhysand was certainly far more educated than I, he could easily be telling the truth, and really, why would he bother asking if it wasn't? He could break into my mind and control me for the rest of my life if that was what he wanted without even batting an eye. But Cassian, why him? "And Cassian? What does he get out of this?"

"Cassian," Cassian replied through his teeth, "doesn't like being talked for. I happen to know how to speak for myself."

"Sure," Rhysand purred, "but are you as good at it as me?" His voice was honeyed, soft—

Cassian's hard face began so soften. "Rhys— get out of our heads."

With a jolt, I realized Rhys' own face had changed, he looked ashy, haunted. Cassian's eyes looked far away for a moment then went clear again. His face changed too, I saw a flash of disgust and pity before it was wiped out completely by rage.

"Who are they." Cassian spoke with a rage that I had never seen from him during practice, or ever, honestly. "Your brothers. Give me their names. What are your parents' names, are those monsters dead for what they did. Tell. Me. Everything."

"What?" I barked in surprise, turning on Rhysand, "What did you do, what did you see? How dare you rifle through my private thoughts and memories like a bandit in the night! Tell me what you stole."

"What I stole?" Rhysand snapped, seeming to remember where he was and taking a step towards me, "I stole nothing. What I saw was three boys, gasoline and a torch and your hands. The pain, the fear of not knowing if they would ever stop or get bored and leave you in the fire to die without seeing the sun, that thing that your shadows could never go directly through. The confusion of how three boys you barely knew were able to hurt you so badly, so mercilessly, that you weren't sure you'd survive until adulthood. That is what I saw."

I just blinked. I'd assumed everyone knew where I came from and why I wasn't there anymore. Apparently not, if the looks the other two were giving me were any indication. I couldn't think, so I merely mumbled "Cassian is daemati too?"

"No." Cassian answered with what I knew was pure Illyrian intensity. "When he wants, Rhys can project what he's seen in one mind to another. Now tell me who they are. The brothers— I didn't feel any names attached, what are they? What are the names of your parents?"

"I don't know my half-brothers' names," I admitted sheepishly, "I was put in that cell before they were born. Shortly after my father married, so I was likely a year old, not likely to remember any of their names. All I know is that my father is a camp lord from how the servants that brought me food and emptied the chamber pots spoke of him."

"It's not Devlon," Rhysand replied sarcastically, "so that only leaves what— twenty other lords who probably each sired at least one bastard. Do you remember what he looked like?"

"Black-brown hair, hazel eyes, tubby for an Illyrian, Cassian's height..."

"So a fat version of me and every other Illyrian, not including Rhys the bastard half breed."

Rhysand certainly didn't seem happy with the nickname, but he didn't bother addressing it as he replied, "It would seem so."

I addressed Rhys, "why don't you just take a stroll through my brain and see him for yourself?"

Rhys was already almost completely lost in thought by the time he answered. "I would have to go through every memory in your mind to find one solid picture of him. Plus, Cassian isn't what I would call a fan of those particular abilities."

Indeed, Cassian's face was pale, as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Why? Have you not been friends long enough for him to be used to it? Or is the great warrior-in-training not so fearless as the others whisper?" I sneered.

"None of your damned business." Cassian snarled.

His tone made me balk, clearly there was something that I didn't need to involve myself in. Yet.

"I'll do it." I clarified, "I accept your offer to help me train. Flying or fighting first?"

Rhys seemed lost in thought until he spoke up, "Flying. The longer you wait, the harder it will be to learn. We need to start soon, or you won't be able to fly all the way to Ramiel."

Right. The blood rite. I really would need them to train me if I planned on surviving that insane week of blood, violence, and hunger. These Illyrian 'traditions' were a load of bullshit. In Illyria, the only traditions were outlets for brutality. The moment I was strong enough, I'd be flying fast and far away from these backwards people. Rhysand's mother had gotten out, admittedly through marriage to a High Lord, but she was eighteen, I was already eleven and my training had only just begun. When I was strong enough, I would use my abilities to disappear, I might even go as far as another court, I didn't know anything about them next to that the Night Court was the only court in Prythian than didn't allow for human slaves, not that the Illyrians wanted humans around.

The single thing the Illyrians admired about their High Lord was his disgust that fully capable fae and faeries would be so lazy that they wouldn't even winnow to their destination, but they would send their slave to run miles to grab a book that could have been attained in minutes but took days.

I realized that I had been lost in thought for so long that Cassian had picked up leaves and stones and had begun throwing them at Rhys, who was actually misting them. I had only heard of the power, never seen it, especially not this close. The rumours were wrong, the boys who spent every waking moment planning Cassian and Rhysand's demise always said that if they were to kill him, they would wear iron armour and walk right up, punching their Illyrian blade into the prick's gut. It didn't take an extra thought for Rhysand to turn a stone to little more than shards on the ground.

These two were serious targets. On one hand, they were the only ones who showed a semblance of kindness to me. On the other, they could simply think that they would train me and I would be in debt to them. I didn't even know if they wanted to align themselves with me, or if they simply wanted to get back at the others who thought that as pure bred Illyrians, they owned the camp.

Cassian stalked up to me with a lazy smirk. "Let's get started."

#a court of mist and fury #a court of spies and shadow #sarah j maas #my work #part 1 #fanfic #spinoff #azriel #azriel pov

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