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knivesareout · 4 years ago

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remain devious

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Warnings: Smut (18!!!+ ONLY), slight sexism, oral sex (f receiving), mild breath play (under negotiated kink).

A/N: My fic for The SL+ Discord™ Fic Exchange! This goes out to the lovely @soyelfuegoquearde who I was graced with writing a fic for and here’s hoping I delivered. 💖

Read on AO3 here.

Summary: Javier Peña’s mouth was going to get him in trouble one day-- if only he’d put it to good use.

---

There weren’t many people who could go toe-to-toe with Javier Peña. You learned the first day on assignment in Bogotá that you could.

The embassy was a quick walk from the apartment complex they’d set you up in and while they had suggested you drive the standard issue bullet proof Jeep they’d provided, mostly for safety’s sake, it seemed like a waste.

A blonde man, who quickly introduces himself as Steve Murphy, was outside to greet you with a strong handshake and a grin. You almost anticipate him to be rude to you out of the sheer fact you were joining the fight late but he seems grateful, explaining to you the ins and outs of the different sectors in the large building that made up the Embassy: the DEA, the Mil Group, and the CIA-- all housed under one roof with a common goal: taking down Pablo Escobar.

“There’s another one, right? We have another partner?” You ask, turning a corner and almost running into a woman who looked beyond frazzled and you apologize quickly before catching up with Steve.

Steve turns over his shoulder to glance at you, a smirk curled on his lips. “Yeah. Peña’s usually late. You’ll meet him. At some point.”

Peña was two hours late.

You and Steve go through six briefs and four cups of coffee between the two of you in the small office shared among your team before your other partner decides to grace you with his presence. Your desk that was once clean was now a disaster with papers scattered and crumpled across the top and you now had a headache slowly creeping between your eyes.

“Well this just looks fucking sad,” a deep voice sounds from the doorway and you snap your head up to glare at the offending noise.

Steve lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “What’s fuckin’ sad is you showing up two hours late and not even bringing us lunch, Peña.”

So this was him.

“Shut the hell up, Murphy. Who is this?” Javi points to you and looks at Steve, waiting on an answer.

“I’m your new partner.” You stand up and fix him with an icy glare. “And you can ask me if you have any questions, Agent Peña.”

He doesn’t respond and walks back out of the room, mumbling something about coffee.

---

You realize quickly that you and Javier are more similar than you would personally like. Word around the office was that he was a bit of a slut and that was something you knew all too well. Your reputation back home was something comparable, the whispers more annoying than they were degrading. Who cared if you liked to have sex? You were a grown ass woman and it was nobody’s business but your own.

And if you hadn’t learned just from the regular old office gossip, you were quick to learn from having your apartment right next to his. The walls were thin, the calls of ‘Más duro, Javi,’ in the dead of night interrupting your sleep more times than you could count.

Javier would walk into the office refreshed, hours late, while you were there, on time, and in desperate need of caffeine.

It wasn’t worth mentioning; at least not at first. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction that you could hear his sexual escapades and how he was clearly a fantastic lover. There was a bit of jealousy, just on the surface, because it wasn’t you getting laid and you were sure if you asked him to keep quiet, he would be able to tell immediately that you were hard up.

And while yes, he was getting information from his CIs that was helping in the quest to catch Escobar, that didn’t make it any more bearable. In fact, it made him even more insufferable because he felt like he was doing an extension of his job by sleeping with these women.

It all came to a head three months into your stay in Colombia.

Three nights in a row, Javier had brought women, different women, if the tones of their voices were anything to go by, back to his place. You’d gone into work with dark circles under your eyes after the third night and Steve had long since stopped asking what was wrong after you went off on him a month prior.

After you’d snapped at him and took the time to explain why you were in such a foul mood, he had immediately understood and offered to talk to Javier for you. An idea that you quickly dismissed, as it was your problem and yours alone.

Your head was buried under your arms, the bright lights of the office only serving to make your headache worse. There were two empty cups of coffee stacked on your desk that you’d downed immediately after walking in, Steve having left them there as a peace offering of sorts. He could tell after the second day that you needed the extra help and you had shot him a grateful smile when you’d walked in this morning.

“So, I’ve got a lead,” Javier announces walking into the office only 30 minutes late this time.

“Thank fucking god,” you mumble, picking your head off the desk and swiping at your mouth in case there was any drool from dozing off.

Javier’s head whips towards you, his gaze a mixture of anger and curiosity; like he can’t believe you had the nerve to say anything.

The two of you, at best, tolerated each other. Snarky remarks, quick jabs, and blatantly ignoring the other was how the you two communicated and you knew Steve was getting sick of it. It was a surprise that he hadn’t yelled at either of you over the whole thing but you chalked it all up to his angel of a wife, Connie, helping him keep his temper in check.

“The hell is that supposed to mean, Agent?” Not even on a first name basis, it was how the two of you addressed each other.

You shrug, “Just been hearing a lot of information coming from your apartment every night for the last couple of days. It was about time you got something useful.”

Javi goes to speak but Steve cuts him off with a finger and shoots you a pleading stare that says ‘not another word, please’.

You only keep your mouth shut to appease Steve and sigh, tossing your empty cups into the trash and wait for Javier to spill the information he received.

Javier shoots you a nasty glare before going on to explain something about a brothel in Medellín and some of Escobar’s sicarios. There was a meet up of sorts happening tomorrow afternoon, where you were almost guaranteed to catch Velasco and maybe a few others. Javier distinctly chooses not to look at you when he’s explaining, his information relayed directly to Steve. For whatever reason, this is what seems to break the camel’s back and you stand, beyond irritated.

“Agent Peña, if you have an issue with me then I’m going to need you to be very clear about what it is and why. I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve the freeze out you’ve been adamant about since I got here and frankly, it’s insulting,” you start, chest heaving as you try to keep a level head. “I’m on time every day, without fail. I work just as hard, if not harder, than you do in this wild goose chase and to be treated as anything less is sexist. We all went through the same training, the same courses, to be here. I don’t know what it is about me that bothers you so much but I’m going to need you to get the fuck over it and get with the program if we’re going to get anywhere.”

Your outburst seems to catch him off guard, if his open staring at you is anything to go by. Taking your seat again, you nod for him to continue and he does-- this time making sure you’re included.

Things get better after that and while it’s not quite the comradery you have with Steve, it’s better than it was before and you’ll take it.

Javier now treated you with mild respect and that’s all you had wanted to begin with.

---

The week had been long; tiring and full of false leads. You were sleep deprived and overworked. A chase mid-week that had put you all over Bogotá and left you empty handed was still wreaking havoc on your back a couple days later. Case files were taking over your desk and the thought of looking at even one more had you wanting to scream, the low lights of the office once again giving you a headache that no pain medication seemed to help with.

Javier and Steve were starting to pack up to head out while you sat there, eyes starting to blur as you look at your 5th file in the last hour.

“We’re headed to the bar near the apartment. You wanna come?”

Normally you turned down the invitations Steve extended you, knowing Javi’s nicer attitude probably only extended to working hours only, but you were so desperate to have an excuse to leave that you nod quickly, standing up and sliding on your coat.

“Let’s go. Murphy, you’re buying the first round,” you tell him as you pass by out of the office.

You can hear his laugh behind you as you walk through the empty building, hoping you didn’t just make a mistake.

---

They’re not far behind you but you’re already a drink in when they walk through the front door, Steve finding you tucked in a booth in the back corner already with an empty beer bottle on the table while you’re nursing your second.

“I started a tab in your name, Murphy,” you explain with a grin as a waitress comes by and takes their orders.

Steve grimaces but nods, taking it in stride. “Should’ve figured.”

Conversation is light and superficial and you can tell Steve is working to keep things peaceful and on neutral ground. Javi’s mostly one worded answers are almost worse than the snide remarks from before and you have to take measured breaths not to say anything, for your sake and honestly, Steve’s too.

“Can you let me out? I need to piss,” he asks you and you stand up to let him out, sliding back into the booth and taking Steve’s spot so he can just sit down when he comes back.

It’s silent between you and Javier for a moment, the loud noises of the tv and the bar crowd filling the space until he glances over at you with a curious gaze.

“Did you ever wonder?” He asks without context, sipping at his beer.

You’re taken aback by his question, tilting your head as you try to think of what he might possibly be talking about. “Wonder what?”

“All those nights where you could hear me through the walls. Did you ever wonder what I was doing?”

You almost want to laugh at his question. The fact that he’d been holding on to certain parts of your outburst for months has pride blooming in your chest.

“No, not really,” you tell him easily. “It was pretty easy to just make my own assumptions.

“And what did you assume?”

“That either they were faking it for your sake or you’re actually as good as they say around the Embassy.”

Javier smirks behind his beer and nods, licking his lips to chase the beer that dropped.

“Oh, I’m better than they say,” he promises.

“Prove it.”

You swallow thickly, wondering if you’ve just backed yourself into a corner when Steve comes back, launching into some tangent about Noonan and a new policy she’s putting through. His voice goes in one ear and out the other as you try to focus on anything other than the man to your left. You know Javier will make good on his promise when you feel his hand on your thigh, giving it a squeeze and you breathe slowly, turning towards Steve with a smile.

“Yeah, agreed. She’s such a hard ass.”

---

You and Javi burst through your apartment door hours later and you silently thank whatever deity there is that Steve lives upstairs and is already home, your moans loud and carrying throughout the lobby before Javi can shut the door behind you.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the first day I saw you,” he admits, tugging at your shirt and undoing a few buttons in his haste to get you naked. His hands are everywhere once your top is pulled down your arms and you feel like you’re burning, the rough calluses on his fingertips creating a delicious drag across your skin.

It’s almost surprising to hear him say he’s thought about you in any context, let alone this one, but you mask your expression and cry out as his mouth finds your shoulder and bites down, sucking so hard you know you’ll be bruised come morning.

“And what did you think about?” You shoot back, arching your chest against his.

The yellow button down he’s wearing is your current nemesis as you fumble your way across the buttons and finally just yank it open at the neck, buttons scattering across the hardwood floors.

Javier grunts at the motion, moving his mouth down your chest, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and pinching it open until the material falls slack on your chest.

“Thought about how loud I can get you to scream my name,” he mumbles, leaning down to capture your left nipple between his lips while his fingers find the right and start pinching in tandem with the work of his mouth.

It’s been months since anyone has touched you other than yourself.

You’d made a promise to yourself before moving down to Colombia that your job was going to be your first and only priority. Work hadn’t leant itself well to finding randoms to sleep with anyhow, mostly keeping to yourself and the few friends you’d made around the Embassy that you’d grab lunch or coffee with in the very little spare time you did have-- so having Javier’s full attention on you, your body, was intoxicating.

“Is that a challenge?” You manage to get out, weaving a hand through his dark hair and tugging him away from your chest, angling his head to look up at you.

His eyes are blown wide, practically black and his hair is a mess but he’s never looked so fucking hot and you hate it.

Javi doesn’t answer your question, just moves up to slot his mouth against yours.

The kiss is angry. Teeth clashing, lip biting, angry. Even his hands feel angry as he tears off your clothes, leaving you naked before him.

Your chest is heaving as you try and catch your breath once Javier pulls away and you place a hand on his chest, making him take steps backward. “My room is back there,” you nod, pulling him in for another quick kiss and pushing him away.

Javier grabs you around the waist, pressing your naked chest to his own and noses against your ear as you both walk blindly towards your room. “I bet I can get you to scream my name so loud even Murphy’ll hear,” he tells you, dragging his nose up the side of your neck and latching his lips on the lobe of your ear.

His challenge makes you laugh and you roll your eyes before walking into your room and laying down on the mattress, crooking a finger towards him.

“Then fucking prove it.”

Javier’s on you in an instant, pushing your legs apart to settle between them. His mouth nips around your stomach, your thighs. Little love bites that you know will serve as a reminder of what a shit head he is, like he’s claiming his territory.

If they didn’t feel so good you’d push him away and tell him to get on with it but his mouth is so warm that you don’t care. Suddenly, you really don’t care that Javier Peña is the biggest fucking pain in your ass so long as he puts his mouth to good use.

His head moves lower and you can feel his hot breath on your pussy, his fingers sliding between the lips and exposing your heat to the cool air. Once his mouth makes contact with your clit, his name slips from your mouth quietly, “Javier.”

“Louder,” he tells you from between your legs while he drags a finger through your slick.

“Don’t get cocky, you-,” you start to warn him, going to kick him in his side until he slides two thick, longer fingers inside of you without warning and your leg goes straight, your head pushing back into the plush pillow behind you and you cry out his name at the feeling of being stretched.

Nothing is comparable to this feeling, no matter how hard you’ve tried and at that moment, you’d sing Javier’s name if he asked you to so long as he didn’t stop.

“More, please,” you whimper. Your eyes are screwed tight and you clutch the pillow behind you in a death grip.

“What was that?” Javi’s tone is smug and you take a breath, willing yourself to just submit to him.

“Please, Javi. More,” you tell him louder this time, voice strained.

He seems to like the sound of that, a third finger sliding home inside of you and you clench around his digits as he starts a steady pace, thrusting them slow and powerful.

The sounds that fill the air are pure filth. The wetness seeping out of you is coating the inside of your thighs and you’re sure you’re dripping onto the blankets beneath you. Javi’s tongue laps at your clit, bringing it into his mouth and sucking harshly.

That feeling is what brings you over the edge. Your body ascends and crashes in the same second and you take a shuddering breath as your cunt pulses long and hard around Javier’s fingers as you cum. Your whole body is buzzing like a live wire, your toes numb.

“What the fuck,” you groan, chest heaving.

“Never doubt me, Agent,” his tone smug.

“Shut the fuck up, Peña.” You push at his head and he laughs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Javier’s lips trail up your thigh, across your hip and up to your chest where he finally lands on your lips. The kiss is the sweetest it’s been all night and you relish in the languidness of it, the way his tongue sweeps across yours and licks into your mouth like he knows what you want. What you crave.

His cock, hard and rigid, bumps against your hip as he moves and seeks friction, so you slide a hand down his chest to grasp the thickness of him. “Fuck me, Javi,” you whisper as he peppers kisses across your throat and groans when you squeeze him tight. “Prove to me that you’re just as good of a lay as everyone says.”

Your words seem to kick him into gear and he shuffles back away from your touch, leaning back on his legs while he sits between your thighs and takes his cock in hand. His other opens the lips of your pussy and he moves forward just enough to tap the head of his dick against your clit.

“Just fuck me Javi for fucks sake,” you whimper, still sensitive from your previous orgasm and you just want him inside. The teasing was unnecessary but wholly Javier and you curse again when he slowly starts to slide the head of his cock down until it notches against your entrance.

Javier moves slow once he’s fully sheathed inside of you and it’s the best and worst thing to happen to you, you’re sure. The feeling of finally being filled is worth the wait but the way he does it is infuriating because he knows just how good it feels. Javier slides a hand to your shoulder and fixes his dark gaze with your own and it’s over from there.

His pace is like nothing you’ve endured before. The push and pull of Javier’s hips hitting into yours is loud in the otherwise quiet room, the wetness between your thighs now coating his own. He’s sweating as he moves, grunts spilling from his lips, “Fuck your pussy feels so good around me.”

Normally you’d snark out a response but words are hard to form with the way he’s working you over. His cock fits you like a glove, hitting all of the right spots and playing your body like a well tuned instrument. It’s just missing something.

Your hand that was clutching the comforter beside you reaches out to grasp his forearm that’s on your shoulder and you slowly move his hand until it’s cupping your throat. Javier’s pace falters at your movement and he just stares you down, a curious look pointed at you.

You’d overheard at work it was something Javi was into, some water cooler chat you’d walked into only a few weeks prior. One of the CIA girls had been retelling her hook-up story with Javi from months ago to a new hire and they were all eating it up. While you had only passed them by, not managing to hear more details, you still decided to file that information away for later-- a bit surprised that you had something else in common with him after all.

“Two taps if it’s too much,” you tell him, tapping on his arm so he understands and he nods.

Javier’s hand slightly grips your neck, his thumb pressing in on the side and the pressure is delicious and you clench hard around his cock at the feeling.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he groans out, his hips slowly starting to move again until he finds a rhythm.

His hand doesn’t do much more than lightly press against you but it’s enough. It feels safe, warm around your neck and you know Javier would never hurt you, the unexplained trust of having him as your partner translating now to the bedroom.

You both work in tandem, his hips pushing in and you chasing his as he pulls out only to slide back in. It’s probably the best you two have ever worked together and it’s irony at its finest.

Javier tilts your head back, baring the full length of your throat to him, his thumb tracing along your jaw and you cry out once he hits that spot inside of you that makes your limbs go numb in pleasure. He drags your bottom lip down and you suck his thumb between your lips, lightly scraping your teeth around the digit. He abandons your neck then, using his now wet thumb to press against your clit and that feeling coupled with his thrusts sends you over the precipere, your body baring down and clenching tightly around his cock as you cum.

Your whole body is shuddering, your mouth open as you try and find your breath as Javier continues to pound into you in search of his own release. He finds it just a minute after your own, his mouth dropping to your neck as he groans, hips stuttering as he pulses his release inside of you.

Careful not to just collapse on top of you, Javier rolls to the side and lets out a long breath before turning to you, eyes searching.

“If you’re looking for some sort of regret, you’re not gonna find it Peña,” you tell him, reaching over into your nightstand to find your emergency pack of cigarettes. You offer him the pack but he waves you off, swinging his legs off the side of the bed to stand up while you light up.

You watch as Javier moves around your room, slowly dressing himself. Jeans zipped back up and he’s left shirtless, his top somewhere in your living room missing half of its buttons.

“You want a shirt?”

He nods, “Yeah, that’d be good. Forgot you fucking ruined mine.”

Laughing, you stand and move around Javier to reach into your dresser and pull out a plain white shirt that you normally saved for laundry days. You toss it over to him and lean against your dresser, pulling a drag from the cigarette while you watch him tug it on. The shirt is a little too tight around the chest but it looks good on him and you’re almost sad to see him go. Almost.

“So I’ll see you in the office on Monday?” You ask, putting your half smoked cigarette out on the windowsill and leave it there, making your way out into the kitchen. Javier follows and tugs his boots on, shoving his socks into the pockets of his jeans and he nods.

You’re almost glad that Javier is the first person you’ve slept with while you’re here. He’s not expecting anything more than you are and despite the fact that you two work together, you don’t see any issues coming forward about your night together unless he wants to do it again. The prospect is nice and you pour yourself a glass of water, sipping as you watch him turn to leave.

“Yeah, Monday.” He gives you a salute and a wink. “I’ll see ya, Agent.”

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drowningbydegrees · 4 years ago

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This is my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @kat-atomic, who mentioned liking modern AU’s with witcher powers etc. and humor. I hope this delivers! Thank you so much @goodheavensgwen for betaing this! <3 Note: This is largely fluffy and ridiculous, but there’s some canon typical mention of blood and injury.

Read on AO3

There are very few things Jaskier can genuinely say he enjoys about working the night shift at the diner. There’s the 3 a.m. rush of customers when all the bars close who usually tip pretty decently. There’s the fact that Triss, the night manager, doesn’t mind if he spends his downtime writing music when his sidework is done. And there’s the occasional regular Jaskier finds himself enamored with.

Like the one on the sidewalk just outside, for instance, who Jaskier privately suspects is some sort of cryptid. With good reason! He only ever seems to turn up in the quietest part of Jaskier’s shift. He doesn’t look old by any stretch of the imagination, and he doesn’t strike Jaskier as the sort to commit to any sort of high maintenance beauty regimen, all of which is at odds with the silvery white hair that falls just a touch past his shoulders. If the hair weren’t noteworthy enough, his unnaturally gold eyes are haunting, like nothing Jaskier has ever seen. Not that he means to look, mind you, but they’re the kind of thing that sticks with Jaskier long after the man is gone. Appearances aside, there’s something about this particular customer that discourages questions and he always pays with cash, so despite coming in on a somewhat regular basis over the last year and a half - not often enough that Jaskier can work out any sort of pattern, but enough that there’s a table Jaskier has more or less decided is his - Jaskier doesn’t even know his name.

The blood is new though.

“Holy mother of- Are you okay?” Jaskier asks when he looks up and sees the man trudging through the door. Is that a limp? It’s hard to tell if he’s hurt or just exhausted. It seems like maybe hurt because that’s definitely blood matting his hair. Probably. Jaskier vaguely remembers hitting his head on the slide when he was little and it looking a bit like that, anyway. And if that’s blood, it suggests that the substance making the guy’s shirt stick unnaturally to his body is also blood, which kinda tracks with the fact that one of the sleeves is ripped to shreds.

The guy freezes, leaving Jaskier with the distinct impression that he’d hoped to come in unnoticed. As much as Jaskier enjoys listening to his gravelly voice, there’s nothing comforting about the reply. “It’s not mine.”

“Right. Okay. That’s- That’s a completely normal and not concerning thing to say. Also, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit because your arm is… umm. Oh fuck! Your arm. Just, uhh… hang on a sec, okay?” Jaskier rushes off to the kitchen for the diner’s first aid kit, a few bar towels, and, after a hurried explanation to Triss, one of the work uniform button down shirts. First aid isn’t something that was really covered in training, but leaving someone bleeding in the foyer is almost certainly some kind of health code violation. Whatever the case, not wanting his favorite customer to bleed to death in the middle of his shift wins out over entertaining the notion that said customer might possibly be dangerous.

The foyer is empty when Jaskier returns, which admittedly makes more sense than the guy having stayed put. He’s undeniably mysterious, but he doesn’t seem unhinged enough to just wander in here like that without some kind of reason. Jaskier pokes his head into the restroom, assuming the man has gone there and… isn’t wrong. It’s just that he’s also not in a state of dress Jaskier would expect in a public space. The tattered remains of his shirt sit in the sink, and without the fabric to hide it, the gashes at the back of his shoulder, just where it meets his arm, are rather prominent. Oddly, that quells any real concern Jaskier might have had about what events led him here because they look like claw marks rather than anything human. Equally prominent are a really quite alarming number of other scars that litter the man’s back and chest from what Jaskier can see in the mirror.

The man has never struck Jaskier as particularly polite. He speaks very little. He never smiles. He always looks vaguely put upon when Jaskier tries to be nice to him. So it’s strangely endearing to see that, despite Jaskier being pretty sure he communicated he’d be right back, the man still looks sort of surprised to see him. That surprise only grows more visible when he sees the supplies Jaskier is holding. “I thought you might want to get cleaned up.”

The look the man gives him, like he’s expecting some kind of catch, makes Jaskier’s chest ache. Honestly, who does he interact with that getting help when he’s clearly injured is… not the expectation? The guy offers a quiet thanks that is very, very at odds with the whole possible (but probably not) serial killer vibe he’s got going on at the moment when Jaskier sets the supplies on the counter and starts to head back for the door.

“Do you need me to call someone for you… uh, sorry, I don’t actually know your name,” Jaskier finds himself asking, not sure why he can’t bring himself to just leave.

In the mirror the man’s brows crinkle in confusion, or maybe exasperation and he shakes his head. “No.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asks, watching the man awkwardly try to balance a pad against his wounded shoulder and wrap gauze around it without nearly enough hands. “It kinda looks like those might need stitches.”

“I said no.” Definitely exasperation this time, probably at Jaskier, but maybe also at his current predicament. Tape would be better than the roll of gauze, but there isn’t any.

“Right. Okay…” The reasonable thing to do would be to go back to work and just leave the guy to it. It’s not his job. They don’t know each other. The guy’s insistence on not wanting him to call for assistance should probably be suspicious. But, Jaskier has never done the reasonable thing once in his entire life and he doesn’t intend to start now. If he can’t get the guy actual, maybe qualified assistance, he also can’t bring himself to walk away. “Can I help?”

The man shifts in obvious discomfort, but eventually he concedes with a terse nod. He silently holds the pad against his shoulder while Jaskier unrolls the gauze and tries very hard to keep his eyes mostly averted. It’s that or Jaskier is going to end up ogling the guy’s quite frankly gorgeous everything and this really doesn’t seem like the time for that.

“Geralt,” the man says sort of out of the blue as Jaskier winds the gauze around the injury. It startles Jaskier into looking up. “My name.”

“Oh!” Geralt. Jaskier repeats it in his head. It’s nice to finally have a name to go with Geralt’s unfairly pretty face. He’s being rude though, Jaskier realizes, and shakes his head and ties off the bandaging. “I’m Jaskier.”

“I know,” Geralt says softly, like it’s some sort of confession.

Right. Of course. He’s probably introduced himself a dozen times. But customers usually forget his name, so it makes Jaskier smile anyway.

“So… Geralt. I don’t want to pry or anything.” The way Geralt tenses, Jaskier is sorry for opening his mouth. But, contrary to what everyone else in his life seems to think, he is not entirely without a self-preservation instinct. He’s not blind to how weird this whole situation is, even though he’s pretty sure Geralt didn’t actually kill anyone. “Did something happen? You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

“No.”

“Right.” It seems whatever strange set of circumstances made Geralt inclined to talk to him has passed. “Well, that’s illuminating.”

Geralt’s expression scrunches like he’s just bitten into a lemon. “It’s not important.”

Inexplicably, that hurts. Not for his own sake. Geralt has no reason to confide in Jaskier specifically. It’s just that it seems like Geralt’s default assumption that he won’t be trusted, coupled with literally everything else Jaskier has seen tonight, paints a sort of lonely, heartbreaking picture. Or, maybe that’s just Jaskier’s inner poet talking. He’s never entirely certain. All the same, he offers what he hopes is a friendly smile. “Suit yourself, but you should know if you don’t tell me, I’m going to make something up and it will be absolutely ridiculous.”

Geralt’s expression smoothes out into a careful sort of indifference. Jaskier is sort of tempted to linger, but there’s really no excuse, and the longer he stays, the more likely Jaskier is to say something that’s just going to embarrass them both. Reluctantly, he steps away. “Well, I’ll just, you know, leave you to it.”

***

By the time Jaskier comes back out into the dining room, Triss looks like she’d been about thirty seconds away from coming in to check on them herself. As he assures her that it’s not actually as bad as he’d first thought, and no she really doesn’t need to call an ambulance or anything, Jaskier finds himself very, very glad he had been in too much of a rush to share his initial concerns with her or he suspects this conversation would be going very differently.

But Triss lets things be, and Jaskier tries to get back to normal.

It’s very convenient, Jaskier thinks, that Geralt always orders the same thing. In retrospect, that might be because he’s some kind of world champion at avoiding conversation at all costs, but Jaskier assumes he’s just a creature of habit. Probably. Either way, Jaskier puts in an order and pours a cup of coffee, glad for something to busy himself with while he waits.

Much to Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt looks more or less himself when he emerges from the restroom. His hair is wet, probably from rinsing the mess out of it, but with long sleeves covering the gash Jaskier had patched up, only the slight unevenness in his step gives away that anything is wrong at all. That and the heavy sigh he breathes out when he finally sits down in the diner booth. Jaskier has heard that one before and wonders if Geralt makes a habit of coming in here when he’s hurting or if that sigh is just one born of exhaustion.

Geralt’s expression does a funny thing when he sees the coffee mug. It might be surprise, but Jaskier can’t think for the life of him why. “Thank you.”

It’s the same quiet, sort of reluctant tone Geralt had thanked him with earlier, and dear lord is no one ever just kind to him or something? Nevermind that this is literally Jaskier’s job. He wants to ask, but he can’t imagine the question going over well, so Jaskier leans against the side of the bench opposite Geralt and smiles, gesturing at the uniform shirt. “It’s a good look. You might have a real future here.”

By some miracle, that pulls what Jaskier thinks might be a smile from Geralt. It’s a small, subtle thing like Geralt isn’t quite certain how the expression fits on his face, and gone almost immediately, but it was there, if just for a second. “I’ll keep it in mind if I ever need a new line of work.”

“I mean, if my line of work tore up my wardrobe like that, I’d probably have noped out already,” Jaskier jokes.

“Hmm,” Geralt replies, staring resolutely into his coffee mug.

“So, I gotta ask,” Jaskier ventures when a few seconds pass and Geralt doesn’t glare at him for lingering. “Not that I mind, but there are like, a dozen places I’d be more apt to patch myself up than a diner bathroom.”

“Everything else is closed,” Geralt says from behind his mug, amber eyes briefly fluttering shut.

“Of course. That explains… Wait. That doesn’t explain anything. There’s literally a hospital two miles down the road. I’d probably-” Jaskier pauses when Geralt’s eyes crack open again, fixating on him. Something about it makes Jaskier far less certain of what he’s saying, and it comes out with a questioning sort of uptick at the end. “You know, try… there?”

“They don’t tend to be keen on my kind,” Geralt replies gruffly.

Jaskier has no idea what that means. “Uhh… uninsured?”

“A witcher.” Geralt glowers at Jaskier, but he says the word like it’s physically painful, a mouth full of broken glass.

Jaskier has never met a witcher, he’s pretty sure, but he’s heard the stories, same as everyone. Witchers are supposedly nearly as dangerous as the creatures they hunt, more monsters than men and never to be trusted. They’re not quiet and unobtrusive and startled by acts of kindness, surely. So, either Geralt is not what he seems or the stories are bullshit, and given the way this particular witcher looks like he’s braced for a blow, Jaskier is willing to bet it’s the latter.

Jaskier can’t help wanting to understand what kind of life Geralt must live that this is where he ends up in the small hours of the morning, injured and seemingly alone. It makes him privately furious, but somehow he doesn’t think the spectacle will be appreciated, even though it’s on Geralt’s behalf. Maybe especially because it’s on Geralt’s behalf, judging by the efforts the witcher goes to to be unobtrusive. So, Jaskier doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind about how rotten humanity is. Instead, he says the second thing that comes to mind, which is equally unfortunate. “Well, that explains your eyes.”

Geralt’s expression goes stormy, and Jaskier only belatedly realizes he must have taken that as an insult. But about the time Jaskier opens his mouth to explain, Geralt seems to gather that he might have misunderstood. His brows crease as he looks at Jaskier, as if trying to puzzle something out. “What about them?”

“They’re beautiful,” Jaskier blurts out, which, oh that was not what he meant to say at all. Melting through the floor would be great about now. Or maybe disappearing entirely. Really, anything but standing here with Geralt staring at him like he’s grown a second head. Scrambling for an excuse to leave that won’t look like he’s running away - even though he definitely is - Jaskier forces a smile, taking a step backwards. “I’ll just… go get you some more coffee.”

Suddenly discovering his escaped sense of self-preservation, Jaskier doesn’t come back with coffee. His curiosity is tempered by embarrassment, so he stays away until Geralt’s order is up and he has an actual legitimate reason to drift back to the guy’s table. Jaskier does his best to straddle the line between friendly and professional as he sets down the plate. He has every intention of leaving Geralt to eat in peace, so Jaskier startles a little when Geralt speaks up before he can leave. “It was a basilisk.”

“A… like the ‘turn you into stone’ kind of basilisk?” Jaskier turns back and sort of wishes he hadn’t because Geralt looks rather sorry for having said anything.

“That’s just a myth. They don’t do that,” Geralt counters. Jaskier waits for him to expound on that further, but he doesn’t.

Jaskier has never seen a basilisk either, so it seems entirely natural to ask, “Then, what do they do?”

A funny thing happens. To Jaskier’s complete and utter surprise Geralt talks. Not in the teeth pulling miserable way he’s said most everything else, but like it’s a conversation he genuinely doesn’t mind having. Jaskier keeps half an eye on the door, but it’s Monday night, so it’s no great surprise that no one else comes in.

In the absence of other customers to tend to, Jaskier eventually just slides into the seat across from Geralt to listen. It’s not subject matter that Jaskier has ever considered, but it’s interesting if only for how it relates to Geralt. Huffing out a laugh, Jaskier cuts in. “To hear you tell it, people are as stupid and superstitious as they are… unkind. I suppose next thing you’ll be telling me is that vampires don’t actually burn up in the sunlight.”

Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs for definitely not the first time tonight. Honestly, Jaskier is coming to be just a bit fond of it. “They don’t.”

“Wait, really?”

Jaskier is thrilled to discover he doesn’t even have to press for details. Before he knows it, he’s learned more about vampires than he even thought there was to know. Along with fiends, leshens, and what might possibly be the entire list of contracts Geralt has taken in the last month. There’s a consistent thread through all of it that leaves Jaskier warm and maybe a bit embarrassed that he’d ever thought Geralt could be dangerous. “You don’t talk about them like they’re things you kill.”

“I don’t if I can help it. It’s not their fault humans sprawl out into the places they live.” Geralt thumbs at the handle of his coffee mug, staring at the contents that have long since gone cold.

Desperate to drive off the strange sense of melancholy creeping in, Jaskier grasps for some other direction he can steer the conversation. Hastily, he runs through what Geralt has talked about already, and gets a bit stuck on a concerning thought, given how often the witcher is here. “So, are there a lot of monsters around here?”

Crisis averted, Jaskier thinks. Geralt’s shoulders tense across the table, but at least he doesn’t seem sad anymore. “Not really.”

That really just brings more questions than it answers. “Oh, well that’s a relief, I guess. I’d hate to be out hiking and get eaten by a noonwraith or something.”

“Noonwraiths don’t live in forests. Don’t even live, really. They’re...” Geralt makes a face that Jaskier assumes means he’s caught on that it was a joke. That said, Jaskier admires his commitment to finishing anyway. “More like trapped spirits.”

“You’re the expert,” Jaskier says agreeably, not quite managing to stifle the urge to laugh. “So what is it that keeps bringing you here, then? Do witchers have territories or something? Do you live around here? Actually, no. That’s a stupid question. If you lived around here you wouldn’t have wound up here like that…”

He expects the look of annoyance he seems to have gotten very good at drawing from Geralt so far. What he doesn’t expect is the way Geralt’s gaze darts away, looking at pretty much anything but Jaskier. “No.”

“No what?”

“All of it. This is just on the way to a lot of the places I end up,” Geralt clarifies with a heavy sigh. It’s a lie, Jaskier is pretty sure, because this podunk down isn’t really on the way to anywhere, and the rest of Geralt’s answer confirms as much. “... ish.”

“The coffee isn’t that good,” Jaskier teases. He doesn’t get it, but he does like Geralt, no matter how taciturn the witcher might be.

“It’s not.” Geralt tenses where he sits, and Jaskier thinks maybe he ought not to have pressed. As strange as today has been for him, it’s probably been awful for Geralt. Only Geralt doesn’t look upset. If anything, he ducks his head, a bit sheepish, muttering something under his breath.

Jaskier doesn’t even realize he’s leaned in closer until Geralt’s eyes widen just a fraction. “Sorry. I didn’t catch that.”

The way Geralt scowls, not at Jaskier but just in general, he thinks he’s not going to get an answer. He especially doesn’t think he’s going to get this particular answer, and yet Geralt very abruptly surrenders. “I don’t come here for the coffee.”

Oh. Jaskier bows his head to hide the smile that tugs at his lips. Somehow, it’s comforting to think that Geralt, who faces down monsters and seems generally put together is as awkward as he is. So much so that it takes him a second to even realize Geralt is maybe flirting with him. Definitely trying to judging by the vaguely terrified, deer in the headlights expression on the witcher’s face.

“I’m much better off the clock.” Jaskier immediately slaps a hand over his mouth, but it’s far too late. This is the point where Geralt realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. This is the moment where he decides maybe not to come back.

Whatever Jaskier expects, it’s not Geralt’s laughter, a surprised huff that sprawls out into something more concrete. It’s the loveliest sound Jaskier thinks he’s ever heard, and he can’t even bring himself to mind that it’s a little bit at his expense. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Before Jaskier can say anything, flirtatious or otherwise, there’s the familiar chime of someone coming through the door. Not that he needs the door to alert him. The raucous laughter does a good job on its own. That’d be the 3 a.m. crowd.

“I should… get back to work,” Jaskier reluctantly concedes and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t imagine the faintly disappointed look on Geralt’s face.

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs just as Jaskier is about to leave, softly enough he almost misses it. When he turns to look, the witcher’s jaw works for a moment before he says, “Thank you. For all this.”

“Any time,” Jaskier replies, not entirely surprised to find he means it. Even if nothing comes of their newfound camaraderie, maybe he’ll get a song out of it or something.

The 3 a.m. rush keeps him busy after that, and Jaskier only really makes it back to Geralt’s table to refill his coffee and bring him the check. By the time things slow down, Geralt is out the door, which is a good thing, honestly. He’s gotta sleep some time, Jaskier supposes.

Jaskier watches Geralt’s car disappear before he goes to clean up the table. As always, Geralt has left everything neatly stacked (yet another reason he’s Jaskier’s favorite customer). There are a few bills, and it’s only as he’s pocketing them that he notices writing on the receipt Geralt left behind.

A phone number is scrawled across the slip of paper, but it’s the note underneath that makes Jaskier grin as he pockets it for later.

Just in case you run into any noonwraiths in the woods.

(Fic Masterpost)

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #Jaskier #The Witcher #my fic #This was ridiculously fun to write #thewitchersecretsanta

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lyriquette · 4 years ago

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RWBY farming au

Conceived in the Frosen Steel server, a RWBY farming / hydroponics AU. I’ll probably use some of the ideas in this for Rising Snow. Mostly background with scattered pieces of actual fic. - lilac

If people don’t mind this format, I’ll probably post similar world-building AUs in the future.

Featuring: Penny Polendina, Oscar Pine, Whitley Schnee.

Because of the freezing cold and the years of industrialization in Mantle, Mantle/Atlas soil is incredibly poor for growing plants. Most food product is imported from Vale, and in turn Atlas supports Vale in terms of sharing their technology. It's why the two Kingdoms are more modern in appearance than the other two kingdoms, not to mention that they were originally good allies during the Great War.

In this AU, Watts develops his murder machines first and ends up winning whatever contract Atlas was offering. The Penny Project is later realized by Pietro, and Pietro later resigns as he picks up on the increasing militarization in Atlas as if General Ironwood was preparing something big - and he wanted his daughter not to be involved.

Pietro decides to move down to the Crater in Mantle to facilitate that. That way no one would know about Penny. He then creates a small shop to help repair electronics and create prosthetics for the unfortunate. It’s through this change in locale that Penny learns how bad things are down at Mantle.

The main reason is food. Though Atlas and Mantle do have greenhouses, they're only able to supply food for a small amount of people - and it's usually just to the rich who want to eat fresh produce up in Atlas. The rest of the food is imported and thus expensive. In a way, food is a means to keep Mantle underneath Atlas's thumb because if its citizens don't work, they can't eat. If they quit, someone else would gladly take that job just to feed themselves and their family. Thus, a cycle of control is created where people simply can't break free of the poor conditions nor could they really complain, because to them it's happening everywhere.

The SDC is the main actor in that, given their non-essential businesses are everywhere. If they decide to forcibly close down those businesses, many many people would be out of a job and likely die. Whether the government would act or not is a coin flip - the SDC needs Mantle for labor, but Atlas could run effectively without it - they have robots for labor, the rich for funding, and a military arm in the form of Atlas Academy.

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

Most of the Faunus who lived in the Crater did not trust Penny and Pietro at first, but given Pietro's generosity and Penny's kind demeanor, they slowly warm up to them. The White Fang within Atlas is more of a community hub that supports each other because they can't afford to be militant; attacks of SDC buildings end up having extremely bad repercussions on Mantle Faunus which includes unofficial anti-Faunus hiring policies or firings - the whim of the SDC can easily kill a couple thousand of them from that alone.

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

Penny initially started this project, not because she wanted to change the world, but because her father had been getting more sick lately, getting thinner, and starting to get sores in his gums and bleeding more easily. She later on would learn that these were signs of malnutrition - scurvy - things that those living more centrally in Mantle or up in Atlas didn't get but was a problem now because of where they lived. Though buying vitamin supplements did help, it didn't quite replace actual food - and nutrients were often better absorbed and palated in the form of food, especially when it came to the nonessential but still important minerals.

However, she knew that things simply did not grow in Mantle. And the things that did grow were usually hardy weeds turned poisonous due to absorbing heavy metals from the ground. It was all too common to see a desperate man or woman just collapse shaking from eating too many wild weeds because they couldn't eat anything else. Maybe one day, they could plant enough weeds to help improve Mantle's soil quality, but it didn't help her dad now.

She's heard of hydroponics before. It wasn't exactly a secret; however, the science was in its infancy stages. Part of it was because people in the food importing business did not want others to grow cheap, domestic food - greenhouses were already bad enough for them. However, the main reason was that people didn't quite know what made plants succeed in growing and creating produce (farmers were the least likely people to work in permanently cold Solitas) - usually the plants failed to germinate, died drooping (overwatering), or end up growing but don't create produce (never bore fruit). Even though there was limited success, the yield would be extremely poor, and the amount of time and energy could've just be used to create another greenhouse instead.

But this was okay for Penny cause all she really had was time and energy. And it wasn't like she was selling food. She just wanted to grow produce, so her dad could eat healthier.

Her dad supported her efforts by getting the short experiment logs of the initial hydroponics projects at Atlas. And it became clear to Penny that there were many holes in that research with the main factor being that there was not an actual farmer to help with the research. And with the arrogance of Atlasian scientists (Watts being the archetypical example), who would bring a down-to-earth farmer who knew nothing of science and the like? Lacking expertise and knowing that the entirety of Atlas would be of no help, Penny sought the CCT for assistance.

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

Oscar didn't particularly like farming. He wanted to become a Hunter, but his aunt wouldn't let him. Too dangerous, she said. He might end up mixing with the darker elements of Mistral because of it, not to mention the fact he’d be fighting the Grimm on a regular basis. Better to be a farmer in central Mistral with a nice stable income like how his parents and their parents and their parents' parents lived.

Still, he never complained out loud. After going to school in the morning, he helped worked the fields in the afternoon, the same as the other farmhands like his uncle and his cousins. He was living under their roof, and he knew it was hard to provide for a thirteen-year old who was just starting his growth spurt. He probably ate more than his aunt and his baby cousins combined now. And their family generously paid for his living conditions without forcing him into anything he didn't want to do.

As of late, he's been a bit happier with his lot in life. Using the CCT, someone from Solitas had contacted him in regard to farming - about how they wanted to grow things in Mantle and potentially revolutionize the lives of people there. But they couldn't due to the soil being bad. In what way, he didn't particularly know. They discussed the issue with each other through voice-chat, talking about their very different lives and even the possibility of something called hydroponics - honestly, it felt like finding a kindred spirit. And he looked forward to the days he could talk things out with his new friend.

"Hey, wait. Check this out," Oscar said as he checked the CCT forums, "Your thread got replied too."

"Really?" said a bewildered voice on the other line.

"Yeah, a Penny123 is asking about farming in Mantle too. Even mentioned hydroponics."

"...Let's try bringing this Penny in."

"You sure, Whitley?"

"Yeah. As much as I want us to keep the credit, it's not like we're going anywhere right now. Maybe this person will have new ideas."

==========

So a duo became a trio. And Whitley was right. What Penny brought to the table was the scientific expertise. She might not know how hydroponics actually worked, but she did have the means to analyze the soil content (retrofitting some of her sensors for more specialized purposes) and simply put - she was a scientist. On the other hand, Oscar had the farming expertise - he knew what soils worked well with which crop, the habits of each plant he grew, he knew what plants liked more water and which ones preferred less, and what a plant should like when it was growing well.

Whitley was the odd duck in the group. First of all, he wasn't quite doing it for altruism's sake. He was doing it because he disliked his family - and really hated the Schnee Dust Company, seeing that it's responsible for his mother's drinking, his parents' loveless marriage, Winter abandoning the rest of the family for Ironwood and the Hunters/Huntresses, and Weiss's likely plans to abandon ship on him too (he's angry at her for that, but after having Oscar to confide in, it wasn't as bad as being left alone and isolated completely.)

He's also responsible for making sure that his two partners weren't murdered in their sleep. Going this route infringes upon the interests of several major corporations including the SDC and the food import companies. Seeds and food products coming from and going to Solitas were tracked very closely. Penny is also given some chilling news from Whitley: people have tried building greenhouses at the Crater before, and all of them were destroyed without a perpetrator to be found.

The danger was serious enough that Oscar was also planning to move to Solitas to not implicate his aunt and uncle when he and Whitley finally started the project in earnest. With Penny around, Oscar potentially had a place to stay (Oscar also was like "i can do heavy lifting, the dishes, cooking, farming, etc" as part of his self-advertisement).

Even Whitley acknowledges that he himself might not be safe. One wrong move on his part - and well, if his father was able to endure nearly a decade of loveless marriage just to take over the SDC, there's no telling what he'll do when he realizes he's working against his interests.

Penny needs some time to think. She now knows that her tiny project of letting her father eat better is connected to the livelihoods of so many and also brings a lot of danger along with it. Not just to herself but to her father - her dad would also be a target if things go south. With her partners’ agreement (since it's inevitable Pietro would get wind of things since the project will be occurring in his house), Penny talks to her dad about the hydroponics / farming project. He's worried for her but understands what she wants to do - she's filled with purpose now and wants to help the people out. As much as he's scared for her and doesn't want her to do this, he can't help but feel a bit of pride about his daughter growing up. Still, he makes her promise that as soon as things start looking bad, they'll stop. They'll quit and not look back. He asks to speak to the other two, not quite realizing they're a pair of thirteen-year olds, and extracts the same promise for their sake.

------

As plans for moving and gathering soil samples are being made, Pietro starts building Floating Array.

Penny begins dragging several abandoned shipping containers to the "backyard" of their store, saying her dad needed some raw material for experimentation when in reality it's gonna be where the heart of their project is.

Weiss starts getting worried about her younger, now constantly sneaking around and speaking to the scroll in hushed tones. She overhears part of his conversation - about how he'd get in a lot of trouble for a certain course of action (directly smuggling goods in using his authority) - and worries that he's getting bullied.

Oscar tells his family that his friend found him a job working as an engineer's assistance in Solitas, and he'd like to stay there for a year. His place of employment has already paid for the transcontinental ticket.

#rwby #rwby fic #rwby au #penny polendina #whitley schnee #oscar pine #farming au #lilac writes #throws my au at the universe

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elphenfan · 6 years ago

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Deck the Bookshop with Decorations (Good Omens)

Silly title is silly. Merry Christmas (and Happy Holidays), everyone!

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It wasn’t something that he would’ve thought to look for and to be perfectly honest, in the abundance of items – it wasn’t clutter because that word implied that it wasn’t something you desired to have, nor necessarily the items in said clutter, neither of which applied for the bookshop – it took him quite a while to notice.

Or at least, he presumed that it took him a while to notice.

He certainly hadn’t left Crowley alone for long enough that he could put all of it up without Aziraphale noticing at least something.

Then again, he was talking about a demon, and one with the ability to stop time. That said skill hadn’t affected Aziraphale when he’d done it didn’t entail that it couldn’t – or that it hadn’t, come to that. How was Aziraphale to know? It wasn’t as though anyone else had given any indication that they knew that was what had happened once time started up again, after all.

Good grief, what he might have managed to do while he’d suspended –

That…wasn’t a thought to be thought, really, not without falling down a particularly unpleasant rabbit hole and Aziraphale mentally backed away from that so fast he left metaphorical skid marks.

Leaving that whole mess aside, though, it did seem more likely that he had in fact sneaked it in little by little, piece by piece. Probably he’d made a point of doing it like that, just because he could – and because he could grow a little bit bored sometimes now that neither of them had any assignments.

Free time is all very well, and Aziraphale knew that neither of them wanted to go back to how it’d been before, but even the best holiday loses a bit of its lustre when you realise it’s the permanent solution rather than a finite break away from normalcy. Mundanity sets in.

Mostly they’d found ways around it and to be perfectly honest, it seemed like a lot of what Crowley did hadn’t changed from before. He even admitted as much, though he claimed that it was done for his own sake and not anything to do with Hell.

Aziraphale believed him on that and to be fair, he did also help the angel out with various things, to an extent that he wouldn’t have previously. Or perhaps more precisely, that neither of them had dared just in case someone somewhere would sense that something was off. Which was probably putting it very mildly, all things considered.

This, though…

This was not what he would have ever expected of Anthony J. Crowley, a demon who changed his name not once but twice. Three times if you thought about what his name pre-fall might’ve been which Aziraphale studiously did not, as it was none of his business and wouldn’t change a thing about how he felt about his dearest demon.

The point, however, was that for someone like Crowley, who cared about how he presented himself, at least in terms of appearance, to even think about doing this, to be seen carrying these kinds of, well, baubles, really, out in public.

Some of them were small, admittedly, but with those non-existent pockets he had on both his jacket and his trousers, there wasn’t anywhere to hide them, and you wouldn’t catch Crowley dead with a bag or similar.

Of course, there was the possibility that he had a pocket that served as a sort of, what he believed someone had once described to him as a TARDIS – they’d shown him a picture of a police box, of all things, which made no sense – which was apparently bigger on the inside.

That possibility seemed remote, though – and if it did exist, then he would have to ask, as nicely as possible, whether Crowley mightn’t employ that on his bookshop.

But that brought him back to the point; that Crowley, and it could only really be him, had put up not one but several ornaments, baubles and decorations all over the bookshop, from the tiniest little snowflake in wrought silver to quite the conspicuous…was that a tomte? Nisse? Something along those lines, at least, and it wasn’t the only one, either.

In fact, once he began actively to search for them, Aziraphale found scores of them and that wasn’t even hyperbole. They seemed to be absolutely everywhere, all of them hidden yet visible and in quite some ingenious places, too, even if he wasn’t certain he wanted to admit that to Crowley.

For instance, one hung from the top of an eight feet tall Canterbury revolving bookcase while another was wrapped around the leg of one round table he had. A third one he found hidden underneath a hat and scarf on the hat stand that he couldn’t remember who had left it, though a half-formed image of a white-bearded, small man in black swam past in his mind like a brown fish in a muddy pond.

He ought to look into that and bring it back to its owner, really.

The immediate issue, however, was not merely that Crowley had apparently taken it into his head to go around and pick up things to then scatter around the bookshop, for a very odd hunt for Aziraphale to go on – one he didn’t even tell him he’d begun or that he was supposed to do but why else put them up? – but that he had chosen Christmas decorations, of all things.

It made no sense at all.

To have him put anything – the fact that it was in the bookshop was not a mystery as it was where they spent most of their time now, at least the time together, which amounted to the same thing – remotely Christmas related up was…did it even have any equivalent?

Aziraphale certainly couldn’t think of one.

There was another one. Placed carefully, too, across the collection of “Just William” books that Adam had gifted him with when he’d rebuilt the bookshop for him, was a red-and-white paper garland.

He picked it up before he quite knew what he was doing, letting it run between his fingers but carefully, so that none of the links would be damaged.

Was it some sort of prank? Mockery – no, not mockery. He knew Crowley wouldn’t do that. Not to Aziraphale, at least, not like that. If he had any such inclinations, surely, he would’ve done so already, wouldn’t he?

Then again, that applied to whatever this was, too, didn’t it? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been in the bookshop before. He’d even been there on a relatively regular basis, though not anything like what was the case now, of course.

But did that – that didn’t mean he’d actually been doing this for years and he’d just gotten more blatant about it now, did it? Surely, the angel hadn’t been that blind to it. Had he?

No, he did…he did move the books around occasionally, just for a change of scenery or whatever was in vogue for him at the time. And, of course, whenever he couldn’t manage to keep customers out, which was rare, they would have the temerity to remove books from their shelves and not put them back right.

So, he would have noticed if there had suddenly been a nutcracker, a silk bauble or a miniature straw goat in amongst the shelves as he’d tidied up, moved around and set things right. They hadn’t been there.

That meant this, whatever ‘this’ was, had been something that he’d cooked up this year in particular. The first one after the end of the world became a bit more world without end, as it were…at least for the time being, as long as Heaven and Hell wasn’t going to…but best not to think about that, either, really.

They would deal with that when and as it came. Planning for things didn’t seem to be their forte, after all.

It was the first year, the first Christmas after they’d left their respective sides for their own and had allowed themselves – though even Aziraphale could admit, freely if self-consciously, that it had been mainly him who’d done the allowing, as Crowley hadn’t had the same sort of hiccups that he had, not even close – to be as close to each other as they wanted.

So…if this wasn’t some kind of elaborate prank, and possibly even if it was, there would be a reason for it. Well, obviously there was, but one that stretched a bit deeper. Something that the demon wanted to communicate to the angel, a message that he tried to get across, through a gesture rather than words.

He could, of course, just ask Crowley.

It would seem the obvious solution but there was the factor that if he took it the wrong way, or any way at all if it wasn’t intentional, then Crowley was as likely to clam up about the whole thing as he was to explain, depending on how vulnerable he felt. He’d gotten better about it, much better, in fact, but that didn’t translate into him never clamming up.

If Aziraphale was very unlucky, he might actually walk out of the shop and he wouldn’t see him for a few weeks, at the very least, and wouldn’t answer the angel’s calls, either.

That had never been palatable. It wasn’t that they didn’t see each other, because they were used to that, but that he was deliberately being ignored which hurt – and he tried hard not to think about their fight in Victorian times and Crowley’s unresponsiveness when he’d tried to reach out.

The fact that he later discovered it had been because the ginger had gone home to sleep…that didn’t help as much as he thought it would have.

He’d have to figure it out, though, somehow, and do it relatively soon, as it wasn’t long until Christmas, where after it seemed more than likely that he would miracle it all away in one go, if Aziraphale didn’t get it in time and then there would be no evidence that it had ever been there.

Which was more heart-breaking a thought than he could rightly explain.

Besides, if his dearest had decided to do something for him, or something that had some sort of meaning, then the least he could do was try to understand it. Try to work with him, as it were. And honestly, it was rather sweet, even if some of the items were…well…

Over the next few days, he stewed over the problem – while also trying to catch the other in the act of smuggling something in, as he did indeed, now that he was looking for them, find more and more little things scattered all over the entire shop.

Not that he’d confront him about it then and there because catching him off-guard like that rarely if ever yielded good results.

If he was going to confront him about it, ask him what he was doing and why, and it increasingly seemed like he was, since the other ways he’d come up with to solve it ran far too close to the risk of Crowley clamming up in defence, then he was going to do it in an atmosphere that was…good. Gentle and understanding.

Perhaps a bottle of wine between them, or two, really, just some time to relax, then…bring it up. Not casually, that had too much potential to come off wrong, but quietly, perhaps. Make it a compliment first because eclectic though it was, he found that the demon did have quite the knack for knowing where to put each and every ornament he brought.

Not just in terms of them not being immediately visible, either, though that was a definite factor, too, but in what fitted with the feel of the shop and the rest of the decorations. Something which he wouldn’t have expected, if he was being entirely honest, but sent him into rather a cheery mood, even towards would-be, all they would ever be, customers.

But yes, that could…that could work. Hopefully. It was the best solution he could come up with, or at least the one that offered the least opportunities for Crowley to back out, clam up or for Aziraphale himself to make a mess of things, something which seemed equally likely, he was a little ashamed to admit.

He debated with himself whether he ought to invite Crowley over, sort of more officially, as it were. In the end, though, he decided against it; it might not only tip his hand early and put the demon on guard, at the very least, which wasn’t what he wanted at all, it ran the risk of Aziraphale overthinking it all.

Well, more than he already did. Just because you’re aware you’re doing something doesn’t necessarily entail you can stop it.

So, instead, perhaps it was better to get ready for it but let the moment be decided more in the circumstances. Something like that, so long as he managed it before Christmas.

As he set about arranging things for a pleasant evening, well even more pleasant, such as stocking up on good wine from various excellent wine merchants throughout the city, finding an entire larder’s worth of little gourmet items, too good for a Fortnum & Mason hamper and other such little things, he did actually, quite unintendedly, see one ornament get smuggled in.

How he hadn’t spotted all the others, he had no idea. Not if this was how it had been carried in the other times. Though most likely, it was not, and he was just catching the moment Crowley brought it out from wherever he had in fact hidden it.

It was an ornament, of metal, judging by glint – the angel was hidden behind a bookshelf and looked out through a small gap so he couldn’t see all that much – but it wasn’t just that. It was a star, meant to hang from the ceiling and remind people of that one particular star.

Something overtly…pertinent, to Jesus, that…that was a bit more than the rest of it, wasn’t it? Good grief, the goat had its origin in Norse mythology, but there’d been no angels, no nativity scenes, nothing of the sort. Which had made sense to the real-life angel, all things considered, so why would he…?

And as though that wasn’t enough, Crowley, after having a quick look around which made Aziraphale pull back a little so as not to be spotted, seemed to find somewhere good and…not all that hidden. Hanging it, through a quick snap of his fingers, from one of the pillars that held up the gallery was hardly inconspicuous, was it?

On the other hand, would Aziraphale have noticed it if he hadn’t been made aware of the practice? Come to that, would he have spotted it, up there where there was no reason to look, if he hadn’t seen the ginger place it? He rather suspected not.

Curious and more curious.

…Just because he appreciated it books, fiction and non-fiction, immensely did not entail that he had to share the poor grammar of a girl of seven.

He had to admit, though, that the star looked quite beautiful, glinting down at them as Crowley turned and called for Aziraphale, who waited a moment or two, perhaps three, to step out from where he’d been all along, trying to give the impression that he had been further away than he had been.

If Crowley noticed anything, he didn’t say. Instead, the moment he spotted him, he proclaimed that he was there to take Aziraphale to lunch, so would he hurry up already? Well, that and he gave him a grin that could charm the Pope to a dance of the seven veils.

It certainly worked its magic on Aziraphale…though he had to say, his clothes stayed on.

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

He didn’t notice it until it was all over and done with, but the day he ended up asking the question was, in fact, Christmas Eve. Or rather, the day of Christmas Eve.

To be honest, though, he should’ve clocked it before, and rather early on, too. Not so much for the general mass of people on the move that occurred outside his windows, partly because they didn’t change much in numbers regardless of the season and partly because he never took notice of such things.

But the fact that Crowley showed up rather early in the day, when they hadn’t made any actual plans – though they would categorise themselves as a couple now, insofar as they felt human labels needed to apply to them, they did not, in fact, spend all their time together, not just yet – and in a good mood too, rather than the sliding scale of grumpiness he often exhibited during the colder months should’ve been a clue.

Pointing out that if he was cold, he could always just miracle a coat into existence to fit with the rest of the outfit, whatever that might be at the given moment, just earned Aziraphale a raise of eyebrows, possible a slight snort, but no actual explanation or excuse.

That said, there was something incredible endearing about the way the aquiline nose reddened when it was cold and Aziraphale had always secretly relished a chance to see it happen. Perhaps, one day, he would be brave enough to press his own nose to it or even, just possibly, press a kiss to it instead.

Another clue should be the fact that the demon didn’t show up emptyhanded and that what he’d brought was something fit for the occasion, in the sense that it was mulled wine of a German bent, if Aziraphale was any judge, a whole heap of mince pies and a panettone.

It wasn’t a store-bought panettone, either, but one from that little Italian bakery over in…but that couldn’t be right. Aziraphale had been round there two days before, to get hold of just that particular cake, as they really were the best in the whole of England.

They’d been sold out.

The owner had apologised profusely and while Aziraphale had been understanding, that still didn’t bring him a panettone, did it?

Somehow, Crowley had managed to get hold of one, though, and it was probably best not to ask how, lest he wanted to spend time admonishing the other for whatever it turned out to be.

What he did want to ask was why, because it did seem…well, not suspicious but perhaps too coincidental to be true?

There was certainly something in the way Crowley also didn’t just slink over to the nearest piece of furniture meant for sitting in that he then proceeded to treat as some sort of table with himself as the tablecloth, but actually helped to unpack and set up, and not with a miracle, either.

But perhaps he was just in a good mood today. There needn’t to be anything else to it. Even so, Aziraphale would like to know. Not knowing led the way to uncertainty and speculation, at least for the blond.

Each in its own time, though. Perhaps he could ask when he asked about the rest or maybe the time would come later or even sooner. He didn’t know.

For now, he would enjoy this day they’d clearly both intended to spend together, judging by not just the amount of food Crowley had brought but what kinds.

“You’re spoiling me, my dear,” he said, gushing slightly as he opened more boxes, with quite a few different languages spread between them, than what he’d initially thought the other had been carrying.

He really would have to check that jacket for interdimensional pockets. The trousers were a no-go; when he couldn’t even get his hands in, fitting a pocket dimension, aha, in there seemed unlikely.

“Oh, goodness, what are these? Truffles? They look delicious.”

“Caramel balls covered in chocolate, found them in one of those little shops that sell high-end foreign stuff,” Crowley said, shrugging as though it was nothing. “These here are called marzipan potatoes, they’re German. They’re pretty good.”

When he saw Aziraphale’s expression, he said, “Hey, I eat. I enjoy food. I just don’t take every opportunity I can to enjoy it.” He softened his voice and smiled, even if it only lasted for a moment. “Each to their own, though.”

The rest of his expression said a lot, though, and Aziraphale smiled in turn, understanding.

He picked up the Glühwein and poured it out in two glasses, the liquid just the right temperature when it hit the glasses in question, a warmth it’d retain until they’d finished drinking. Once full, he handed one glass to Crowley, who took it and sipped from it immediately.

Aziraphale joined him and had to admit that though it was hardly any great wine in itself, but the addition of spices and such, similar but different from the English mulled wine, made it quite nice, on its own merit. Well, it was festive and appropriate, at least.

“No changing it,” Crowley said, looking at him over the rim of his own glass, his eyebrows suggesting a challenge and a smirk.

“I wouldn’t dream – “

“You would, and you have before. The point of it is not to upgrade it to your liking but to enjoy what’s there. Disregarding their heritage or something.” He took another sip.

“Oh, yes, because you’re terribly concerned about the heritage of – “

“I made sure humanity as a whole still had one, didn’t I?” Crowley interrupted, but without much bite.

Aziraphale smiled, apologetic, moving closer to the other. Not touching him but it was a close enough thing.

“It’s lovely, dear, thank you,” he said, his eyes and smile warm. “Now, I’ve found a few treats of my own that I haven’t had a chance to try out yet, perhaps you’d be kind enough to help me sort through them to find what’s worth keeping.”

Crowley opened his mouth, presumably to protest, but Aziraphale took the opportunity to put one of the things he’d found and had laid out, into it. Thankfully, the ginger didn’t spit it out.

“You’re going to fatten me up,” he accused when his mouth was empty.

Aziraphale wasn’t going to fall for it. “You haven’t changed one bit in six millennia, you’re hardly going to start now.”

“And you don’t think that’s taken an awful lot of work?”

“No, I do not. In fact, I know for certain that it hasn’t because I am in the same position, despite my ‘gluttonous ways’.” He looked down at the assembly of edible luxuries spread out on the round table and sighed. “Oh, bother. I should’ve moved the table to the back before I put the things on it.”

Crowley gave him a look at that, snapped his fingers and then let himself fall backwards onto the sofa. Which was right behind him.

It had been moved into the bookshop itself rather than the other way around, which made sense.

Aziraphale blinked then shook his head and went to join him, though he chose to sit rather than sprawl, pulling the table the last foot over to them.

“Show-off,” he said, fondly.

“For you, angel? Always.”

The grin at that as well as the words did funny things to Aziraphale’s insides. Though honestly, to say that was like saying the sun rose each morning. True but also so everyday that mentioning hardly seemed worth the effort and yet so essential that to live without seemed impossible.

He settled into the sofa, glass still in hand, and listened to Crowley start in on a tall tale of something or other, enjoying their relatively newfound closeness, both physical and metaphorical.

In the pleasantness of it all, he almost forgot what he’d meant to ask. He’d certainly forgot to check for where Crowley might have stashed another ornament or bauble or whatever it was that he’d found to put up that day.

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

By the time he remembered that he meant to ask about it all, that that was at least part of the reason he’d gathered all of this in the first place, he was well on his way to being decidedly drunk.

They’d finished the glühwein, the whole bottle, without any attempts at tampering, and had then moved onto some of the wines Aziraphale had gathered.

He’d also managed to get Crowley to eat at least his fair share, and perhaps a bit more than that, of what they’d consumed so far of the goodies they’d brought. Though the demon couldn’t really gain weight, he hadn’t yet dealt with the amounts consumed and so his belly strained against the confines of his shirt, something which was rather adorable to look at. Not that he’d appreciate being told that, of course.

The angel himself was sitting a bit more sprawled himself now, hands folded over his stomach, looking up at the room around him.

It really was quite the feature, he had to admit. Livened the place up in, in a way, put it in the festive spirit, and was quite elegantly done, all things considered, though that should hardly be surprising, given the look of Crowley’s flat.

Not that he’d have done it himself; it was things to move whenever he wanted to read something, things that could fall and possibly break which would then have to be cleaned up.

Of course, it might be argued that he did have the snuffboxes and other such items, but they weren’t put in front of the books like impromptu guardians, now were they?

He smiled, softly.

“It’s very pretty,” he said, the sentence coming across as very much a non-sequitur to anyone outside his head. Which was everyone. Thankfully. Except…well…

But seeing as he was tipsy – not drunk, decidedly not drunk, he knew the difference perfectly well, thank-you-ever-so-many – it didn’t come as much of a surprise, to neither him nor the equally inebriated Crowley. He seemed as inebriated, anyway.

“Is it?” the ginger asked, not moving a muscle from where he was draped across the piece of furniture, gazing, or more accurately staring, upwards.

“It is,” he insisted, lifting his head, with only a bit of difficulty, to focus on the other, who wasn’t looking back at him. In the circumstances, that might be just as well. “Not what I would have thought about, but I’m glad to have it.”

“That’s good. I mean, really good. I’m glad to hear it, I mean, obviously. That’s…hang on.” Crowley’s head lolled to the side to face Aziraphale. He’d lost his…no, he’d actively taken his sunglasses off shortly after sitting down and yellow eyes tried hard to focus. “What are we talking about?”

Aziraphale blinked a few times, then frowned.

What were they talking about?

…Oh. Yes.

Oh.

“The…the decorations,” Aziraphale said and wished, suddenly, that he was either not inebriated at all or positively sloshed. Either could be arranged, but he had a suspicion that that wouldn’t actually solve the problem. A problem that he had to solve, that he had actively arranged all of this to ask about.

So, he ploughed on, despite his sudden nerves. He turned his gaze away from the other, though, just to be able to do it.

“You’ve done quite the beautiful job of it,” he continued, figuring, hoping, that to continue with the, honest, compliments would be the right way to go about it, “and I’m sorry that it took me so long to notice.”

He expected Crowley to stiffen and thought he felt his demon do just that, despite the distance between them. For a moment, he thought about stopping, about backing out of it before he dug himself into a very unfortunate hole.

But there had to be a reason for it, whether deep or shallow, one that surely, Crowley couldn’t expect Aziraphale to think about – once he discovered it but best not to get into all of that right then – and well…wasn’t it better to get out there and talk about it?

Not necessarily but he shouldn’t dwell on things like.

He reached out and took one of them, a small snow globe, from where it had been hidden between two stacks of books on another table and shook it.

“I just don’t quite…I admit, I don’t quite understand why you decided to hide them like this, though,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on the falling ‘snow’. “Why go to all the trouble of finding such pretty and unique little things, and they really are, and then hide them away? Come to that, I have not figured out why you’ve decided to decorate in the first place.”

If he was going to ask, he might as well ask it all in one go. Have it over with in one fell swoop, as it were.

There was silence from the other end of the sofa, something which didn’t exactly help his nervousness.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

He swallowed as he watched the last flakes fall.

“I mean, it’s not as though it’s something I’ve ever known you to do before, either, though of course you might have in your own flat, I have not seen that. I suppose I’ve just made an assumption, which I know isn’t…but I just can’t figure out why you…and to say that it’s because you’re a demon is true, of course, for a given value of true, but even so, it’s not fair of me to – “

He hadn’t realised he’d begun rambling just a little when a hand reached out and grabbed his knee, then squeezed it gently.

The gesture was small, but it was enough to stop him speaking. Not only that, he looked over at the other.

“That’s what you’re worried about? That’s why you’ve been stealing nervous glances at me all day?” Crowley asked and he sounded neither offended or hurt or anything else that signalled his walls were about to slam up in self-defence. Which was good, obviously, but…

“Well, yes, I – “

“It’s not that difficult to work out.”

Blue eyes flickered down and away. “It is to me, my dear.”

“That’s because you overthink things all the time.”

That made him look back up, a small smile on his lips. “Hullo pot.”

“Touché,” Crowley said, and he was smiling, too.

He was also still touching Aziraphale’s knee and for a couple who had yet to progress to much touching, it felt significant.

“You’re right, though; a demon isn’t supposed to decorate or celebrate. Not even when it’s commercial or secular or even Pagan, which is…but anyway, it’s not like they’re going to check now, is it? I figured that with ‘our side’, I could do it if I wanted to. Which I do. It looks nice.”

He looked out across the room at that and the pleasure in it was plain to see, as was the pride. Aziraphale’s heart swelled further to see his dearest’s happiness.

There were still a few questions that he wanted answers to, though.

“But why do it here and not at your own flat – “

“Who says I haven’t?”

Aziraphale inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Still, that leaves the question of why you kept it hidden from me, and kept them hidden, too.”

“I didn’t keep them that hidden.”

“Hidden enough and you didn’t tell me. Not that you need to get my approval, that’s not what I mean. I just…I supposed I’ve worried you were afraid of what I’d say.”

That made Crowley sit bolt upright and turn fully towards the blond. He let go of the knee but immediately grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pulling it away from the snow globe he still held.

The angel immediately grabbed in turn, squeezing a little.

“No, of course not. I put the first one up and thought you’d spot it immediately. When you didn’t, I…well, I wanted to see how long it took before you did and well, it was…it was fun to hide them.”

Crowley smirked just a little. “You ought to move your things more often, angel.”

“I move them often enough.” To be honest, though, the indignation was a very minor ingredient in the stew of his emotions, dwarfed by the sheer joy and cosiness that surrounded the moment.

Especially seeing as they’d both moved themselves, unintentionally, he was sure, close enough that they were touching, sides pressed lightly against each other.

“Only one more question,” he asked after a little while had passed. “Why Christmas themed decorations? You could’ve picked anything to put up and yet, you picked that which is in season.” He took a breath and got to the crux of that question. “Seeing as it’s holy, I wouldn’t have thought it had your interest, regardless of sides.”

Crowley shrugged but there was warmth in his golden eyes, though also more than a hint of sadness.

“Celebrating the birth of a bright young man who made the mistake of saying people ought to be kind to each other? Don’t see anything wrong with that. Especially not with all the ways humans have added onto it since.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help his smile at that and he squeezed the hand in his, hard. “Next year, though, perhaps you’d allow me to help you put them up?”

The demon blinked, his eyes widening. Then he nodded, several times in rapid succession.

Aziraphale brought the hand he was holding up to his chest, his smile a rival to a small sun. “Then that’s settled.”

“I actually do have one more thing I wanted to put up,” Crowley said, rather quietly, after a while had passed in comfortable, warm, golden silence. “Been saving it, actually, for…but I wasn’t sure whether you’d want it or not, so I didn’t.”

“Did that bother you with the rest of them?” Aziraphale asked. He felt justified in the question but at the same time, he felt a little guilty.

The demon shook his head, seemingly not bothered, at least by the question. “No, but that’s…this is a bit more…” Crowley made a face, fidgeted and coloured ever so slightly all at once, which was more adorable than it had any right to be.

“What is it, dear?”

“Nghk,” was all that Crowley managed to say, his mouth forming noises that might’ve had words in their ancestry in the same way that every European is related to Charlemagne.

Aziraphale took the hand that he wasn’t already holding.

“You can tell me.”

“Yeah, of course I can. I know that, it’s just…”

The angel chose not to prod further, instead waiting for the other to be ready to say it.

Which took a little but eventually, he managed to say it.

Or rather, show it.

He snapped his fingers but there wasn’t immediately anything to show for it.

Then he pointed upwards, to –

Oh.

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah…”

Well, then, no better time for trying out new traditions than Christmas, was there? And the rest of their lives, too, come to it.

And perhaps, just this one, doing it rather than saying it would be quite the good option.

So, gathering his courage, he leaned forward to close the gap between them, kissing Crowley softly on the lips, pouring his heart into it.

Crowley returned it immediately, one hand disentangling itself to instead cup Aziraphale’s jaw.

When they parted, they stared at each other, their eyes shiny but not from alcohol.

Then they went in for another kiss, longer and somehow even sweeter while evening fell outside the window.

When they eventually separated for longer than a moment or two, it was more appropriate to call it morning than evening or even night.

#good omens fic #go fic #Ineffable Husbands #aziraphale/crowley #christmas fluff #post-canon #sweet crowley #sweet aziraphale #confused aziraphale #kissing #christmas decorations #ineffable husbands christmas story #good omens christmas fic

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generallynerdy · 6 years ago

Text

Adore (Theseus X Half-Mermaid!Reader) Part 2

Part 1

Summary: Being half mermaid is a bit of an issue when it comes to communicating with humans. You can grow legs and walk perfectly on land, but only speak Mermish above the water. When a handsome stranger wanders into your place of residence, Newt Scamander’s basement, your inability to speak his language is more than inconvenient.

Key: (Y/N) - your name, (f/c) - favourite colour

Warnings: cursing probably, The Scamander Brothers Are Too Good And Pure, Crimes of Grindelwald? What’s that? (in short, fuck canon)

Word Count: Part 1 - 1909, Part 2 - 2166, Part 3 - 2051

Note: hhhh did u say fluff here i’ll shove it down ur throat

You intrigued Theseus more than he cared to admit. He could barely go a day without thinking of you and the way you insisted on speaking to him, even if the way to do so was inconvenient. He wondered if you were intrigued by him, too. That was nonsense, though. He was just another of the many humans Newt had introduced you to, right? He was nothing special, not at all, and especially not compared to you.

Just knowing you would be there led the head Auror to visit Newt more often. This did not go unnoticed by his little brother, who said nothing for both of their sakes.

The second time Theseus visited, you couldn’t wait to introduce him to the Kelpie. He remained cautiously on the stone walkway, but was brave enough to let his legs hang over the side. The two of you couldn’t talk, but he did a little, since he knew you could understand.

For nearly an hour, you showed him all the Kelpie’s tricks. The Kelpie was slightly uncertain about his presence, even splashing him a few times, though he laughed it off. In fact, he was smiling almost the entire time. Before Newt could wander back around, Theseus was making friends with the water demon, who you convinced to approach the wizard. With a single nuzzle into his hand from the Kelpie, Theseus was sure that the creature wasn’t all that bad.

The next time the Auror came around, Newt was with him. They were relaxing on the stone walkway, Theseus telling his little brother a story from work. Halfway through, you came swimming up and Newt translated for you, telling him that you wanted to hear the story, too.

You had always been curious about human happenings and culture, but Theseus’s story was even more interesting to you. After meeting him, you had asked Newt what his job was. Was he a magizoologist, too? As it turned out, he was some sort of leader in the government, though the concept was hard to grasp. You were intrigued and noted to ask Theseus more about it if you had the chance. Well, there it was.

You and Theseus were so involved that neither of you noticed when Newt slipped away to talk to Queenie, who had also dropped by.

“I think that’s the most I’ve ever seen your brother visit in a month,” she told the wizard with a giggle once she read his mind. “I thought that, too. He really likes her, huh?”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Newt told her with a small smile.

She raised her eyebrows, “Oh, yeah?”

He laughed to himself before telling her. “She called him pretty, even for a human.”

They shared a laugh, though they were careful not to be too loud and draw your attention away. Newt doubted that was possible, seeing as you were listening to his brother intently, having even raised the water levels so you could rest your elbows on the ground. Meanwhile, Theseus gesticulated wildly as he spoke, which only made you more interested. It was quite the sight to behold, a mermaid and a wizard having half a conversation.

It wasn’t long before Theseus was a familiar presence in the basement. Even the creatures started getting attached to him, which you thought was hilarious. The more often he visited, the longer you two spent together. Most of it was spent on land, walking and interacting with creatures as he told you stories. A lot of the time, too, was spent relaxing by that stone walkway, you in the water and Theseus on land.

Much to your delight, the Auror spent so much time around you that he even started picking up some Mermish. He could understand little phrases, mostly conversational things. Newt would even instruct him on some of what you said, though he preferred encouraging Theseus to go underwater and speak to you in perfect English.

For some reason, his brother was nervous to do so. You never picked up on this, but it left Newt distraught. How could the two of you ever get anywhere if Theseus was the only one talking?

In your mind, it was just Theseus becoming comfortable with you. It took time for you to adjust to humans and their way of life, so you thought it must be the same for the wizard. It went something like that, but, honestly, he was just the slightest bit terrified of the emotions he felt when he was around you. He’d never felt so...light-headed? Sick to his stomach? Something like that, though with a more positive connotation. Newt would probably describe it as having Billywigs flying about in his gut, which didn’t sound any more enjoyable.

Days and days went by, with Theseus finding he knew more about you than he believed. You didn’t have to talk for him to understand you. It was in the way you listened, in the way you interacted with everyone and everything around you. The realisation that this was the closest he had ever been to another person, or at least to understanding them, nearly killed him on the spot. You were really something else.

He started to ask you questions -- yes or no, of course. He asked you about your home, about yourself. He did the best he could and that was what counted. Sometimes, if he had a really pressing question, Newt would be called over to translate.

Once when Theseus visited, you could tell it had been a rough day at work. He laid down on the stone walkway and watched you feed the Kelpie. The next time you looked over, his eyes were closed and he was laying on his side, faced toward you. You smiled to yourself and swam until you were right in front of him. Remaining quiet, you tilted your head and observed how stressed he looked.

You wished more than anything that you could sing for him, but he would only hear a nasty bout of screeching. Humans couldn’t hear the true beauty of mermaids’ songs outside of the water.

However, there was a universal form of music. Humming sounded the same in Mermish as it did for humans, since both species used similar body functions to do it.

So, you started to hum a pleasant tune, leaning onto the stone walkway since the waters had been raised earlier for you to talk to Theseus. You leaned onto your arms as you hummed, staring at the odd human who had become your friend. As you continued your little musical piece, you noticed his face loosen, getting suddenly less tense. He even looked...peaceful.

This was another one of those moments when you realised just how pretty he was. You couldn’t help reaching a hand forward to brush a lock of his hair back, not wanting it to tickle his face.

You let your hand rest there for a moment before drawing it back, a little giddier than usual. You didn’t know why you felt that way, so happy after just a second of interaction. You didn’t know what it was about Theseus that gave you these tiny minnows in your stomach. Not literally, obviously, but it felt like that.

Eventually, the exhausted man started to snore lightly, drawing the attention of many creatures. You waved most of them away, telling them to let him sleep. Dougal the Demiguise, however, only left for a few minutes before appearing again with a messily folded blanket. It wasn’t cold in the basement, so the sweet creature put the cloth under Theseus’s head, that way he wouldn’t be too uncomfortable on the stone walkway. You thanked him quietly and he left again, waving as he did.

Newt didn’t return home until late that evening and, when he did arrive, he found both you and Theseus asleep. The Kelpie had kindly supplied you with his back as a place to sleep and, unlike the two of you, was still awake.

The youngest Scamander could hardly believe his eyes, thinking the sight before him was too perfect not to get a picture. So, instead of waking you up, that’s what he did. He took a picture of a half awake Kelpie protecting a slumbering wizard and mermaid. The picture wouldn’t develop for a few hours, so he stored it away in his office.

When Newt returned to the place you were both asleep, he woke his brother and helped his older brother sleepily climb the stairs to go home. Your presence right by Theseus did not go unnoticed by him, even in his exhaustion.

It was a while before Theseus came to visit again. You were almost panicked about it, but Newt reassured you that he was just on assignment from the Ministry. Nearly a week went by when both brothers appeared on the stone walkway, waving you over to them.

You swam over instantly, chattering excitedly at Theseus. He laughed, “Good morning, (Y/N). How are you?”

I missed you! Are you alright?

Newt translated. “She missed you and wants to know if you’re alright.”

“I’m fine, really,” he told you, though you eyed him doubtfully. He smiled in an almost sheepish way, something you swore you had never seen him do. “I actually have something for you.”

He and Newt sat on the ground so they were at the same level as you. From behind his back, Theseus revealed a large conch shell with bright blue and green hues painting the outside. You gaped and he handed it to you carefully, a grin on his expression.

“It's not just a shell,” Theseus said. “Put it up to your ear.”

You tilted your head and raised your eyebrows, but did as he asked. Once it was against your head, you could hear the soft crash of waves. It was nothing special, you thought, until a new sound broke through. The singing of many voices rose above the waves and you instantly recognised the song. It was a Mermish song, but you were hearing it as a human would under the water, how you would hear it on a regular basis.

You gaped at Theseus and Newt, who laughed at your gleeful expression. In your excitement, you flipped under water and rose back up with a laugh.

Thank you! You said, knowing Theseus would understand that little phrase. But then something slipped out of your mouth that you had no control over. Well, everyone had control over their words, but it seemed you had lost yours for a minute. You swam in front of Theseus and said; I adore you!

It wouldn’t be so odd of a thing to say after receiving a gift, at least for humans. The translation of that phrase from Mermish, however, was an odd thing. The phrase you just used was most often used for romantic partners, not friends.

Newt raised his eyebrows and glanced between you and Theseus. Before he could speak a word, you splashed him with water. He smirked and chuckled, raising his hands in defense.

“What -- what was that?” Theseus looked between you two. “What did she say?”

Luckily, Newt was kind enough to pretend he hadn’t heard what you said exactly. “She loves it, Theseus. Really.”

It was true. You did love the gift. But you loved the one who gave it to you even more.

Newt? You asked as soon as his brother was gone.

“Yes?” He glanced up from observing the baby Occamies to answer whatever question you had.

Humans… you flushed. Humans experience love, don’t they?

He gave you a small knowing smile, “Yes, they do. Are you asking for someone specific, or--?”

No! You sputtered, but were clearly a terrible liar. There was a moment of silence before you asked another question. How do I know if a human is in love?

“Well…” Newt had to think about it. “It’s different for every human. Some people show their love in touch, in service, in...gifts.”

Stop it, you said, elbowing his side.

He laughed again before answering you seriously. “You know how Tina and I act different around each other than with everybody else?”

Suddenly, you realised it. Oh! You two are in love! I can tell if they act like you and Tina!

“Something like that to start,” he suggested, “But don’t rely on it. Tina and I are strange.”

Do you think, you grabbed his arm to stop him from walking too far away. Do you think Theseus is in love?

Newt smiled his signature little grin as he tilted his head at you. “With you?” When you nodded sheepishly, he grabbed your hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Yes. Yes, I think he is. And I think you love him, too.”

I think so. You nodded again, looking at your feet.

“Well, I don’t mind,” Newt said cheerfully, your arm linked with his as he started to walk again. “I think the two of you are very sweet.”

Adore Tags: @marsbars101, @abovethyfold

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pelikinesis · 6 years ago

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thoughts on Gintama and Gintoki

just kinda thinking about the general thing about Gintama’s basic plot premise for Gintoki specifically--that he gave up everything he had fighting a world-threatening conflict and his side lost, and nowadays is generally known as an unmotivated slacker, and how smaller-scale injustices he encounters on an annoyingly regular basis drag him out of his apathy and alienation (pun intended) for brief periods, and how over the seasons there’s more of a cumulative effect

but through it all he constantly claims he’s just acting against this current identity of his, mostly because he feels like it. because even though he literally can’t help it to help the downtrodden around him, he still can’t believe in a grander cause like he used to, because whatever part of the brain or soul that makes that kind of more traditional virtuousness and devotion and duty broke a long time ago.

yet in those haphazard, fleeting moments of genuine heroism he can still kind of taste his former life and the aftermath of a war that his former comrades in arms are all responding to in their own ways, and the neat contrasts that come from that.

Katsura is the diehard who fights for a lost cause that the rest of them have given up on, and is seen as both silly and noble for it. Then there’s Takasugi (burn scar guy) who last I watched was just completely nihilistic and causing chaos for its own sake, so he still is seen as powerful but devoid of any goodness, and Sakamoto (afro sunglasses pilot guy) who actually abandoned the war prematurely (seemingly on good terms with everyone else) to pursue his own dreams, and so while he’s in comparison lacking in commitment he has the most to show for it afterwards being the most successful out of all of them and he contributes to good causes.

Gintoki is the slacker, the loser of the bunch. Even more than the others, his personality during and after the war are the most different. He couldn’t cling to his ideals like Katsura even if he tried. He’s too good a man to give into nihilistic destruction like Takasugi. He lacks an alternative, peace time-appropriate ambition like Sakamoto. Gintoki reverts from a fearsome warrior into an unimpressive everyman with no discernable positive future, much like Hasegawa (who is an incredible character in his own right and also mirrors Gintoki in a lot of ways).

And with most anime with Gintama’s general plot elements, it would be one or two encounters and then Gintoki’s warrior soul is fully and more or less permanently reawakened and he goes on to right all the wrongs and destroy the ultimate evil. In Gintama though, there’s an anticlimax (and probably no ultimate evil), where Gintoki more or less pulls off a Big Damn Heroes moment and saves the day, and all his friends remember he’s not completely apathetic, and that he’s actually totally a badass.

But after it’s done, he just goes back to being a total sclub. The adventures he gets sucked into and the characters he meet continue to accumulate and the stakes of things escalate but it’s a very gradual process, and it’s only now with this more recent watch-through (and several months of not watching it but now my brain is bringing it up) that i actually see why.

Gintoki continues to refuse the call of adventure because he’s still healing spiritually from the war. He continues to make exceptions and does more-or-less heroic deeds for those around him and those that come into his personal sphere, because that’s still possible for him. But to get involved in anything more ambitious would be...proactive. And the last time he was proactive, his side lost, and the entire planet suffered.

So Gintoki becomes an oxymoron, a walking contradiction, and when I first watched Gintama I saw him as being willfully ignorant, as being selfish in a short-sighted way. But that’s why Gintoki is so self-conscious about coming off acting like an ally of justice. he doesn’t want anyone to count on him in that way, not again, because the last time it didn’t work out so well.

Maybe Gintoki is effectively short-sighted, and selfish, and all that, but his motivation for being that way is considerably more complex than some tautological moral deficiency. that aversion and reluctance from his past traumatic experiences are so powerful they fundamentally alter not only his behavior and sense of physical and psychological self-preservation, but even impact the way he’s able to consciously understand his own motivation.

And he doesn’t seem actively concerned about this. He just takes things in stride. Probably the biggest reason everyone sees him as an uncaring loser is that he’s more than happy to be living a simpler life for the time being, a cleaner backdrop for him to learn how to find meaning in life, and finding it in his friends and in his community, instead of under a military banner (though this gets played with in the episodes where he has to protect an idol since her fanboys have banners).

not really sure why i’m thinking about this now, of all times (probably because weed), but it’s the case that the first time I watched Gintama, I hadn’t ever really experienced a major failure, or a major loss, so that wasn’t an aspect of the story I was equipped to truly understand.

‘slow burn’ is a term I’ve seen applied to romance genre fanfic, but this might be the first time i realized it could apply to a different genre. I think (and again I’ve only watched like the first 50 episodes) that Gintama is a slow burn redemption story, which is closer to real life than what we usually see, the montage version. I got the impression that Greg from Steven Universe was also getting a slow burn redemption arc as a supporting character, though it’s less redemption and more recovery, perhaps.

there’s more prominent examples of the opposite, slow burn corruption stories as is the case with Breaking Bad, and NBC’s Hannibal. And Justified was more or less a double turn between the main protagonist and antagonist. Or maybe just more accurate to say that the antihero and the antivillain both kind of met up in the middle. and then there’s Naoki Urasawa’s Monster, which is where Dr. Tenma is working towards what he thinks of as redemption by trying to kill Johann, seemingly determined to do it the entire way until the end, but by not killing Johann, that’s what truly completed his redemption narrative.

might have to give at least some of these another watch-through, and most likely going to pick up Gintama again.

#gintama #gintoki

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darby-drabbles · 8 years ago

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I decided I’m gonna have two (2) different band AUs,, the Main Punk AU which is the one is the one we all know and love already,, and PunkBaby AU with Leia. Unless Leia’s there you can feel free to assume any drawing would be from the main au, though of course Most drawings without her would also still be relevant in the baby au. It seemed a little unnecessary and I considered just adding her in normally but Andre’s a lot more,,,,,,,,,,,,,, not great father material here. I MEAn. He’d make it work and would try to be better if he did have a baby, but since I didn’t plan that from the beginning a lot of ideas I’ve already imagined seemed like TOO MUCH, so it was either change things and water him down or,,, probably have an unhappy situation w th babby. He struggles more w his addictions and anger in the punk au which is somethin I always try to keep away from baby Leia but it seems like a part of him in this au. I can’t say it would be gone completely and he’s 100% perfect but he manages it a lot better with the second version of this au. I also think there would’ve been the potential that, uhh, he’d almost resent having her and the responsibilities? HE’d still love her and feel guilty for thinking that but, originally his band is just so important to him, more than anything,, and he’d be scared that having her would affect things too much. With the 2nd version now,,,, his feelings won’t be as intense and he’d be much happier to raise his daughter! There’s still some struggle and adjustments at first but it’ll be fine I promise. :,)

With them separate,, I can have both Andres! Andre who prioritizes his band and Andre who prioritizes his baby. Softer dad punk… Some differences between them would be:

Drug/Alcohol Use - Punk AU Andre uses drugs and drinks a lot more than any other Andre, ahhha oops. But don’t worry! Knowing he has a lil tiny child to take care of, BabyPunk Andre will do the responsible thing and sobers up as best he can! If he dOeS Drink or get high he makes absolutely sure that someone responsible is watching the baby for the whole night.

Family - He’s much more distant with his family in the Punk AU, they rarely speak, but I think in baby version they’d have some contact. It’s still not as strong as in the regular story, and it is mostly for Leia’s sake, but it’s something.

Priorities - Ded Batteryz…. Is His Baby. It’s his most important project and making music is so so important to him and makes him incredibly happy and he doesn’t want anything to stand in the way of that.. So…. What happens when he has an Actual Baby who needs to become his number one priority??? Well since there’s a separate au for it now, we don’t have to worry about it!! Of course music and his band is still incredibly important to him but also he steps back and realizes other things are Also Important and don’t have to affect his other goals,, or that altering things to make room for new priorities is totally okay. (He’s making it work with a band and a baby!!)

Personality - He’s more reckless and can be quicker to anger without worrying about consequences. His low self esteem makes him lash out more in comparisons to other versions of him. (note the punched out mirror in the latest au drawing..) For baby au, he probably manages to get most of his frustrations out or w/e when he’s up on stage. IT’s Fine.

I can’t say all of this is just gone completely from Punk Andre, it’s just,, mellowed out a lot. I definitely think he would still be on drugs and still be very reckless before he finds out he has a daughter, he just manages to be a bit more careful once she’s in his life.

Leia ends up traveling with the band more often than not when they’re touring, which can get a bit tough sometimes, but they’d make it work. Occasionally she does stay with his family during the time, but they still don’t get along great with Andre and so he doesn’t wanna rely on them completely. Pretty much all Andre’s friends are also traveling on tour with him, though. They’re involved with band stuff in one way or another, so they’re gonna be working already. So who watches her when he’s busy on stage!?! Lil kids probably aren’t welcome at all these venues and even so, on the few occasions when she is backstage with someone, it’s busy and hectic and noisy! Staying with Leia is definitely a responsibility that switches up a lot, for sure, and might change on a case by case basis.

I hadn’t drawn them so I probably haven’t talked about it, but, Nicki and Evelyn’s roles in the band AU are Manager and Roadie. ((The more I developed Ev and Andre’s backstory together the more I kinda want her to be more involved in this AU though, tbh??? I wouldn’t really reorganize their band now though so it’s whatever.)) While that’s still true in the 1st au,, I’m sure they can handle some concerts without them if it means someone they know and trust is watching Leia for the night. Nicki probably does the most work with watching Leia overall, but Evelyn’s also a big help with her. Since they also work with the band though they can’t just stay home with her during every dang concert. I think their roles did change a bit so it is the top priority to watch Leia when they don’t have other options, but still. Maybe they alternate babysitting duties? I don’t know. But they probably get some other people to help, too.

OTher bands that Ded Batteryz plays with might help out a bit while Andre’s on stage, too! Nate followin her around backstage when her dad’s singin, Izzy trying to get her to sit still and not wander off while she tunes her guitar.. Mark sits with her and listens to her play on her lil toy drum (She likes to hit stuff to make noise!!!) EVen when it’s not concert time, they’d probably still love to help! If Andre wants a break or is sleeping in ((or sleeping off a hangover)) they’d watch over their favorite tiniest little punk! I bet Minnie and Jax are able to babysit Leia, too sometimes! Not as often, sure, and Andre doesn’t know them As Well but it’s fine on occasion. Jax is more excited to do it, but Minnie wouldn’t really say no either! I think.. They just have a nice lil community helping Andre out and taking care of Leia. :,)

While she’s still young to stick around through it all, every once in a while someone’ll hold Leia at the side of the stage so she can watch her dad perform a few songs! Without havin to worry about rambunctious crowds or her wandering off. She still has her big headphones of course to protect her lil ears. (she falls asleep on whoever’s carrying her sometimes, despite everything going on and the noise, she’s just kinda used to it all!) (And sometimes! If it’s near the end of the set or maybe during a Favorite Song she’ll get up on stage and jump around and yell and stomp and clap with her dad! She does a gr8 job just like Andre)

I wanna talk about the Punk AU A Lot right now in general, but this wound up being Very Leia heavy since that’s a newer thought I haven’t talked about. I wasn’t expecting for this post to ONLY be these two topics but I guess it makes sense,, it needed to be talked about, it’s fine. But I still feel like I haven’t talked about this AU much at all anyway, so,,, please feel free to ask me questions about either the punk or babypunk AU,,,, because I love it so much and will probably make more posts about it soon.

#punk au #baby au #original characters #OC facts #OC Headcanons

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dawnajaynes32 · 8 years ago

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Chasing Down Creativity with Sam Harrison

I remember sitting in Starbucks one Thursday afternoon sipping a grande whatever while writing a post for the In-house Designer Blog. At 5:54 p.m. my iPhone alerted me that I received an invitation to join someone’s LinkedIn network. When I picked up the phone, that someone was Sam Harrison. THE Sam Harrison. The same Sam Harrison who authored Zing!, one of many great books he has written for creatives, as well as being a perennial favorite speaker at the HOW Design Live Conference. I respected Sam’s work so much and had become a real fan long before receiving his invitation. I thought, “How in the world does Sam Harrison know me?”

When I read his kind and encouraging InMail, I felt like all the late nights writing blog posts from my experiences as an in-house manager (in the deepest of corporate trenches) were validated. My mind was blown. It took me almost a full day to figure out how to respond to Sam because I didn’t want to come off like a country bumpkin, even though I lived around a bunch of small towns including Lizard Lick, N.C.

What I like most about Sam is that he doesn’t put on airs. He is a genuinely good guy who immediately sets you at ease, drawing you in with his keen creative insights, unique brand of southern charm, and an accent that could only be dipped in warm molasses. A wildly talented giver, Sam wants all designers to learn how to spot the very best ideas to develop and share while making their careers truly zing throughout the process.

If you’ve got a few minutes, I suggest you kick back, grab a bite, and learn a few things you never knew about Sam Harrison. When you’re finished, register for HOW Design Live in Chicago by midnight tonight/Feb. 1 and get the lowest price for the whole conference—including his session Slay Your Zombies, Slash Your Zigzags, Show Your Zing! Enjoy my chat with author and speaker Sam Harrison.

Ed Roberts: Hey Sam, what’s for lunch?

Sam Harrison: I’m working at home today, so I’ll slap together a quick grilled cheese and arugula sandwich. I learned about this sandwich several years ago from our mutual friend Bryn Mooth and her writes4food blog. Bryn’s version is two kinds of cheeses and arugula—and I also add sliced pickled beets to mine and press it in our George Foreman grill, so it’s like a panini.

Ed: That sounds delicious! I’m having a boring protein shake. LOL! I’ve been wondering… what’s your earliest creative memory?

Sam: My mother had a theater and dancing background, so she made sure her children got heavy doses of creativity. When I was about three years old, she started a class called “Expression” for kids in our neighborhood. I have vivid memories of us in her music room reciting poetry, singing songs, learning dance steps, putting on skits, and writing stories—expressing ourselves in creative ways.

Of course, at the time, we boys would have preferred to be outside playing in the mud, but now I wouldn’t take anything for those memories—and the experience’s creative foundation.

Ed: Was there any opposition to your creative spirit?

Sam: No, as the Expression class demonstrates, our parents encouraged us to be creative. Saying “I’m bored” was pretty much a cardinal sin in our household. My mother would reply, “Great—being bored means you get to invent something to do!” And she would expect me to perk up and get busy being creative—drawing, writing, making up a game, whatever.

That stuck with me. I think for most creative people, boredom becomes a motivator for action. Some people can just lounge around being bored, but I believe creative people abhor that condition and employ their imagination to seek relief.

Ed: You’ve worked in-house and then became an author—why?

Sam: I’ve worked in all arenas of creative communications—freelance, agency, consultant and, as you mentioned, for many years I directed a large in-house creative team for an S&P 500 firm.

Several years ago, I reached that satisfying career point where I could step back from being totally focused on “making a living” and look at ways to offer out what I learned along the way. Some of that is in areas of speaking and coaching, some in areas of teaching and writing, and some in areas of service work.

Ed: Your books and other writings focus mostly on generating ideas and presenting ideas, right?

Sam: Yes, having ideas and expressing ideas are two key elements of a creative life. But from childhood on, forces are often at work to inhibit our creativity. When we’re growing up, the suppressors might be parents or teachers, in adulthood, they may be bosses or clients—or rigid structures, meaningless paperwork, never-ending deadlines or even the morning headlines.

Creativity can’t be taught, but what I try to do is help people overcome creative inhibitors by reminding them of creative resources that already exist inside them—and help them discover or rediscover ways to tap into their well of imagination. After all, you can’t wait for inspiration. You have to chase it down with a rope and net.

That’s why I wrote ZING!, IdeaSpotting as well as speak and coach on creativity-related topics—to help people search out inspiration to keep their creative energy alive and flowing, even when facing deadlines, criticism and doldrums.

Ed: And then you wrote IdeaSelling to help people present their ideas?

Sam: Exactly. When I would give talks or workshops on creativity, people would often come up afterwards to say, “I have lots of ideas, but my boss and clients won’t approve them.” Those comments put me on the additional path of writing and talking about presentation skills and selling techniques for creative people.

It’s useless to be a creative thinker and have great ideas if we’re unable to express those ideas in ways that get them accepted by others.

Ed: What are three things you would recommend designers do to improve their ability to present their work?

Sam: When I coach people on presentation skills, one of the first things I say is be yourself—but be the best version of yourself. Be at the top of your game. Too often people say they want to “be natural,” so they give presentations in the same way they talk to friends in a bar or at a restaurant. And consequently they come across as disorganized, rambling and unprofessional. Rise up—when you present, people want you to be yourself, but they also expect a professional performance.

Next, practice what you’re going to say and how you’re going to say it. For God’s sake, don’t wing it. Top performers in sports, music and other endeavors have a saying: You play like your practice. And that’s also true with presentations. If you want to present effectively, practice effectively. Practice to get it right, and practice not to get it wrong.

And third, when presenting your idea, talk about the “so what” more than the “what.” Rather than “here’s what I’ve got,” veer toward “so what this idea means to you and your customers is…” Don’t try to sell the idea—instead, explain and sell the value that the idea has for decision makers and their customers.

Ed: Since you directed an in-house team during part of your career, how do you suggest in-house managers and their teams keep their motivations and passions alive and well while working in-house?

Sam: This can be an issue wherever we work, but I agree it is often more difficult in-house—maybe because of bureaucracy or maybe because clients are in the same organization and probably in the same building. This close proximity sometimes cramps creativity.

Clearly there are dozens of ways to stay motivated and passionate, but a one-word formula is curiosity. Curiosity is jet fuel for creativity and passion, so it’s important for in-house people to push themselves to be intensely curious about the organization and its products, employees, customers, shareholders, systems, facilities—everything.

John Cage used to say, “I’m trying to become unfamiliar with what I’m doing.” Getting past the familiar to become a beginner again re-inspired him. It’s similar with in-house creatives—it’s easy to become uninspired when surrounded by familiar systems, familiar people, familiar products, familiar customers. Deliberate curiosity can help team members discover ways to become unfamiliar with those surroundings—and rediscover the awe of a beginner.

Encourage curiosity by bringing in people from different areas of the organizations to talk about what they do and how they do it. Send team members out to ask questions to employees or customers, then have them develop talk boards or videos for the team meetings. Go into the marketplace on a regular basis and notice small details. Dig in.

Encourage curiosity in life. Creativity isn’t a 9-to-5 job, so challenge team members to get out and pay acute attention to shops and restaurants, streets and parks, young kids and old people, anything and everything. Seeking outside inspiration is an obvious tactic, but it can be forgotten if in-house creatives are totally focused on their in-house world.

And when one team member gets inspired, urge them to inspire others. As Plato talked about in the Ion, the muse inspires a person, then that person shares their inspiration and a chain is formed.

Ed: Really great insights, Sam! Who are some of your creative heroes and how have they influenced your creative sensibilities, aesthetics and work?

Sam: I have so many and my list keeps growing. Take people like Lin-Manuel Miranda, who was browsing in an airport store, picked up a thick book about Alexander Hamilton and turned it into a blockbuster, hip hop musical.

This morning I was admiring the creativity of two young women, Carly Zakin and Danielle Weisberg, who started The Skimm—a punchy, inviting online news update. It’s really targeted to young urban women, but it’s so well done that I go to it almost every morning.

But let me quickly talk about three creative people I’ve gotten to know from some recent readings: David Plowden, Mariam Rothschild and Louis Agassiz. I see them as creative heroes because all three have helped people learn to see and observe life in inspiring ways.

David Plowden, as you know, is a photographer who uses a large format camera to take incredible black-and-white photos of abandoned buildings, farm machinery, gas stations, freight yards and railroad stations. While Plowden’s subjects are mundane, his photographs are mesmerizing. You’re compelled to stop and really look and study every detail.

Mariam Rothschild was a British natural scientist and author with broad knowledge. For example, one thing she was an expert on was fleas, if you can imagine that. “If you were a flea,” she would tell people, “you could jump to the height of Rockefeller Center about 30,000 times without stopping.” And she would say, “My microscope is my marijuana,” because looking at tiny things gave her such a huge high.

Even though she lived to the ripe old age of 96, Rothschild often said her life could never be long enough, with all there was to see and learn. To me, that’s a creative life at its finest.

And do you know of Louis Agassiz? He was a Harvard biology professor long ago. He was a major creative figure at the time and a friend to other creative giants like Emerson, Thoreau, Longfellow and Hawthorne.

He earns my ballot as a creative leader because of the way he taught his biology students to observe. He would make students stare at a dead fish in a tin pan for days at a time, then have them write and draw about what they saw. “Look at your fish!” was his constant mantra, emphasizing that discoveries are frequently right in front of those who pay attention.

Ed: If you could grab a bite with anyone in our industry alive or dead, who would it be and why?

Sam: My list could fill a banquet hall, but if I could pick dining partners on this particular day, I would invite Ray and Charles Eames. I’m inspired by the Eames’ furniture designs, of course, but also by the ways they sparked creativity in others, with things like Create-It-All Cards and Thinking in Powers of Ten.

And I love the story of the Eames escorting their employees to the circus to teach the value of creative teamwork. They would take employees behind the scenes and tell them to pay close attention to how all circus employees work as a team to make sure the show is creative and exciting. “Don’t let the blood show,” Charles Eames would say, emphasizing that circus performances look effortless, but everybody is actually working together like crazy in the arena and in the background for a creative, professional show.

Ed: Tell me what attendees can expect, and learn, from your “Slay Your Zombies, Slash Your Zigzags, Show your Zing” session at HOW Design Live this coming May?

Sam: It’ll be a fun and inspiring session with lots of tips on ways to zing through work and life with passion, creativity and confidence.

The session will look at how to break out of those zombie slumps where we’re walking dead, void of passion and ideas. We’ll target those mind-boggling zigzags where we stretch ourselves too far in multiple directions and are filled with self-doubt. We’ll touch on a few ways to present with clarity and confidence.

That’s a ton to stuff into 45 minutes, so it’ll be a fast-moving, info-packed session with suggestions that people can start using the minute they walk out of the room.

Ed: This is going to be another one of those can’t miss HOW Design Live Conference sessions. Count me in, Sam!

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