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dapandapod · 4 years

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A story of Catnip and Witchers

On Ao3 Here!

Not sure what happened, but I had so much fun! I have no idea how tagging works, and I don’t know if they want to be tagged, but thank you so much for the prompt, I needed it! <3

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There are many things that Jaskier is good at. He is very good at singing, he is a terrific lute player and poet. Depending on the amount of wine he consumed he might even give philosophy a new go.

It is fun and all, but what he is the very best at is storytelling.

Now, to get yourself a good story you can either use your imagination (which is safe) or you can go out in the world (less safe), or, in Jaskiers case, find and desperately cling to a witcher (very unsafe).

The latter is not a common practice and more often than not closely connected to death. Somehow Jaskier managed not only to stay alive but to befriend said Witcher. And honestly, there might be something more going on there.

They don’t talk about it, they don’t talk to others about it, but there is this little spark whenever they are close. Which is another thing, because they usually are. Somewhere along the way Jaskier realized that he might even be in love with his witcher.

A good story is usually kicked off with a drink, a bet, a contract, a pair of beautiful eyes.

This story is kicked off with baking.

It is a cold afternoon at Kaer Morhen, frost decorating all windows and even indoors the air has a bit of a bite in it. Jaskier was invited to stay with Geralt this winter, which is new. Pleasant, but unexpected.

It was supposed to be pleasant in any way, but it is so bloody cold in this keep that Jaskier has started wearing his cloak at all times. Sometimes he wears Geralt's cloak too, just because.

He soon learned upon arriving that the keep is mostly destroyed and therefore there are somewhat limited livingquarters in use. It doesn’t really matter, Jaskier and Geralt are used to sharing anyway. And it is so cold.

The other witchers staying at the keep, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir, are a funny lot. Jaskier have only been here for two weeks, but he is starting to compare it to living with cats. Rude, antisocial and with a very specific kind of humour. It gives Geralt's behaviour some very needed context. It’s cute, really.

This afternoon Jaskier took it upon himself to do some baking. It is another thing he is very good at, and there is this new spice mix that he would like to try.

The kitchen is steaming hot now from the ovens burning. His fingers are sticky from kneading the dough, and he is sweating just a little bit. When he brushes a lock of hair out of his face some of the dough on his hands sticks to his forehead.

It is a messy process. Jaskier is not used to this kind of kitchen (really, it’s ancient) and when he finally gets the buns in the oven there is a lot of cleaning up to do. Which is something Jaskier is bad at.

The actual story begins when Jaskier actually gets to serve said buns at dinnertime. They are eating in a study with a big fireplace, cozy with a thick rug and big bookshelves. Jaskiers lute rests against the wall next to a big plush chair that he claimed for himself since he arrived. Lambert sips wine from a goblet, smiling at the snarking around him. Jaskier chatters away as usual, with Eskel and at Geralt.

It is nice, the witchers are relaxed and appreciative of his baking. It feels great. Jaskier leaves for the kitchen for a moment (one can not simply have a nice time with an empty goblet) and when he returns there is something wrong.

To begin with, Lambert is sitting on the floor. Kneeling, in front Jaskiers lute, head cocked. Like he is listening to something he can almost hear.

Confused, Jaskier looks at the others around the table for answers. There are none to be had. If anything, Jaskier gets more confused.

Eskel has taken at least three buns and is pressing it to his face, looking incredibly happy. He hugs them to himself, humming, stroking them and getting flour on his cheek and arm.

Vesemir looks up to see Jaskier, and gets the biggest smile. Jaskier never, ever in these two weeks saw Vesemir smile, not like that.

The older man gets up, stretching his arms out wide.

“My boy!” He exclaims, and hugs a stunned Jaskier. “Our little bard, I'm so glad you are back!”

“I uh, thank you?” Jaskier is perplexed, not sure if he should hug back. What the hell is going on? He settles on patting Vesemir awkwardly on the back, seeking help from Geralt.

And freezes.

Geralt is staring at him, intently. Unblinking, unmoving.

Jaskiers heart starts pounding. Geralt has that effect on him. It’s that spark again, crackling under his skin.

“Aaw, Vesemir, I want a hug! Hug me!” Jasker hears Eskel complain, and is finally let go.

“Of course Eskel, my little rascal!” Vesemir booms, and goes to put his arms around Eskels shoulder, buns and all.

Jaskier can’t look away. Not even when he can hear the telltale sounds of strings being plucked on his beloved lute. It doesn’t matter. Let Lambert have his fun. Are all four of them drunk? He never took any of the men present for lightweights, he’s seen how much it takes for Geralt to get sloshed.

Speaking of, Geralt still hasn't stopped staring at Jaskier. It’s like he’s never seen him before. Jaskier can feel a blush spreading, warmth spilling over his cheeks and ears, down his neck. Eskel and Vesemir still seem to cuddle with the buns, and something suspiciously like purring is coming from Eskel.

Geralt gets on his feet, and Jaskier swallows. He has no idea what to do, his heart is beating like crazy. Geralt walks up to him, still not breaking eye contact and takes the goblet out of his hands. He puts it on the closest surface, which seems to be a bookshelf, and then takes Jaskiers hand again.

It crackles, it burns, it makes his breath catch in his throat.

Geralt pushes past Jaskier, dragging him behind as he walks back out through the doors. As soon as the doors close behind them he crowds Jaskier against a wall.

There is barely a hint of amber in those eyes staring at him, pupils blown wide. Wait.

“What’s wrong with them?” Jaskier asks, voice all kind of breathy. Geralt lifts Jaskiers hand to his face, and presses his nose to his wrist.

“I think it’s that catnip you used in the bread.” Geralt replies, and takes a deep breath. It is almost like he’s smelling him.

“It’s not supposed to make humans react like that, though.” Jaskier protests weakly.

“We are not humans.” Geralt says, lips against the thin skin over Jaskiers wrist, and then seeking upwards over his palm and fingers. Breathing in deeply, eyes half closed.

“Our mutations make us react to the weirdest things.” Geralt adds, almost as an afterthought.

Through the door they can hear Lamberts playing, and he is singing now. He has a rather nice voice actually.

Jaskier is not sure what to do, what to say. If this is only the spice talking, he is not sure he wants this. Jaskiers heart is a tender thing.

“Is this your reaction to it?” He must ask, but he dreads the answer.

“No.” Geralt smiles, and it’s a wonderful expression. “My mutagens made sure I have a high tolerance. Bullshit, really. It’s so expensive to get drunk.”

Jaskiers mouth is dry, and despite the cold air around them he is burning. Geralt rarely talks this much, so he is definitely somewhat affected. His breath against Jaskiers hand gives him shivers down his spine. It takes all he has to not just cup Geralt's face, to not tread his fingers through his hair.

Geralt seems to read the question on Jaskiers face, and he really seems to be in a mood to talk.

“Apparently catnip gives me shitty impulse control though.” Geralt leans into Jaskiers hand, almost nuzzling it. It is really, really hard to breath. Under Jaskiers fingers, he can feel Geralt's warm skin, his stubble. Rough fingers almost twining with his own. It is a harsh contrast, burning skin and cold stone against his back.

Geralt's eyes are back on him and a small sound escapes him.

”I can smell it on you.” Geralt says. ”On your hand and on your breath.” He leans in, putting a big hand under Jaskiers chin and tips it up. His nose is touching Jaskier, just under his lower lip. He can’t help but part them a fraction.

”I just want to lick it off.” He whispers, and Jaskier full on shudders. It is a true wonder his knees haven't given out yet. Geralt drags his lips slowly over Jaskiers chin, pressing his body closer.

They are not kissing, not really. Jaskier really wants to lean in, but even more he wants Geralt to do it. To take that step.

He looks at Geralt through his eyelashes.

“Please.” He whispers.

Geralt crushes Jaskier against the wall, both on his hands now on his cheeks, his neck, his hair. The kiss is hot, messy, everything Jaskier needs.

There is a crash inside the study, like a chair falling over.

”I CAN HEAR COLOURS!!” Eskel shouts.

”It's the lute and Lamberts yowling you imbecill!” Vesemir shouts back.

Jaskier can’t help the small chuckle escaping him.

”Maybe we should go to our room?” He suggests. Geralt all but carries him there.

The day after is the punchline of this good story.

(The finish already happened three times during the night. But that part is for him alone.)

It turns out that Catnip not only makes witchers go haywire for a few hours. It gives them the worst hangover. Jaskier comes down the next morning, he feels the need to check on the poor souls he accidently drugged. Geralt is right behind him, in case they got mad about it.

It was not necessary. It was, however, amazing. On a pile on the floor Lambert and Eskel lie tangled up. They seem to have built a fort with the things in the room, and somehow they managed to get Jaskier lute up on the chandelier.

Vesemir sits on the plush chair like it's a throne, fast asleep. He hopes. He looks a little dead.

Geralt steps in, looks around and gets a devilish grin on his face. He takes a big book and slams it down on the table.

Three groans of protests erupt around them, and all three grab their heads as the pain sets in.

Now, the art of storytelling is how you tell the story. And to whom. Jaskier will never tell it within earshot of any witchers, just in case. Messing with men brought up by the school of the wolf and then compare them to kittens is perhaps not the best way to stay alive. Especially not when you are the bard who drugged them.

But then again, a good story is rarely safe.

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bazzybelle · 4 years

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Carry On Countdown - Day Twenty-Seven

Notes: So I am giddy with excitement about writing this fic! It’s a snippet for an AU historical fiction (my personal favourite literary genre) that I’ve started working on. I have a basic outline drawn up, I have plots and tropes and quotes I want to use (I’ve even started making a playlist for it… because I’m THAT much of a dork), and those who I talk to on the regular know that I have not shut up about it. I’ve always loved The Renaissance in Florence, especially during the time of Lorenzo The Magnificent. My first university degree was History and Italian Culture, and the BULK of my classes involved the Florentine Renaissance (Neeeeeeeeerd). Ok! I won’t bore you all with details now, wait for my AU fic! Title and beginning quote are taken from the Neo-Platonist philosopher Marsilio Ficino.

Thank you to @carryonsimoncarryonbaz for your beta-work, and for sharing/encouraging my nerdiness for this topic, I look forward to discussing this story with you, as well as Plato’s philosophy! xD

Gonna tag also @fight-surrender, @f-ing-ruthless-baz and @giishu for being my never ending support board and for putting up with my non-stop photos of notes from my tiny tiny notebook.

Finally tagging @sbazzing... You wanted to be tagged in this.. here ya go! :)

Day 27 Prompt: Time Travel

Title: Love is a Dream of Beauty

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Artists in each of the Arts seek after and care for nothing but Love.

February 20th, 1490

BAZ

“Signore Pitch!”

I look up from the text I’m analyzing to see one of Lorenzo’s (yes, Lorenzo de’ Medici… Il Magnifico to most, but to me, he’s always been Lorenzo) assistants rushing towards me. He is one of the younger ones, I believe. What was his name?

Paolo?

Francesco?

Marco!

I put down the book I have been reading (Livy’s Ab Urbe Condita Libri - History of Rome - I’m working on translations for Book 9) and look at the nervous young man. I do not understand why the servants and assistants fear me. I suppose it is my dark and broody nature that unsettles them. Or maybe the fact that I have little to no patience for the courtly life and the politics that go along with it.

“Yes, Marco? How can I help you?” I gaze down at the young man. Maybe it’s my cold eyes that are constantly glaring and the way I always sneer when I’m annoyed that frightens the younger workers.

“Gran… Gran Maestro de’ Medici would like a word with you.” I take in a sharp breath and nod at the young man. If Lorenzo wants to speak with me, it is for one of two reasons; either I have done something that displeases him (unlikely), or he wants something of me. A request from Lorenzo de’ Medici is not a request one simply ignores (though, Lorenzo has a soft spot for me, so I can get away with more than others).

“Is it urgent?” I raise an eyebrow at Marco, which only increases his nervousness. Honestly! Why does he have to be so apprehensive? It’s not like I am going to bite him or anything! Marco looks to the floor, not wanting to meet my eyes.

“He said to call for you immediately, Signore Pitch.”

I sigh deeply and offer him a curt nod. “Very well. I shall be with him shortly.” I turn back to my book. I want to finish this last page before going to meet Lorenzo. I look up briefly to notice that Marco is still standing nervously in front of me. I roll my eyes at him and point to the door. “You may leave.”

Marco stumbles out of my room. I shake my head and continue with my translations. It is my unofficial job at the Academy, to translate these texts from Greek to Latin as well as the local vernacular. I am not fond of the vernacular, but there are still groups within the city that hold onto the linguistic belief set forth by the great poet, Dante. My peers may look down on those who choose to practice the vernacular, but Angelo Poliziano (my teacher, mentor, dearest friend) insists that I keep an open mind to the shifts and changes that come with learning the language.

Satisfied with the quality of my translations, I close the books and stretch my back. I do not know how long I had been sitting at that table before Marco came to fetch me. Maybe I will go for a brief ride through the countryside to clear my head, once my meeting with Lorenzo is through.

As I make my way through the corridors and halls of the villa, my mind begins to wander (this often happens, Marsilio Ficino calls it the philosopher’s curse) and I think about the young assistant. I should have expected the uncomfortable interaction based on how he addressed me alone.

I am known by many names in this court. Signore Pitch is one, but I find that to be dreadfully formal. I am not a master, nor am I nobility (well… not anymore). Amongst my peers and the scholars at the Academy, as well as the members of Lorenzo’s court, I am referred to as Tyrannus (which is probably worse than Signore Pitch, but these Florentines do love their classical history). My closest friends (of which I can count on one hand) refer to me as Basil or Baz, which is frankly what I prefer. It was what my mother and father called me before they died.

There is also what enemies of the Medici like to refer to me as: The Displaced Prince. I would find it rather insulting, if I wasn’t so amused by it. They are not wrong in calling me that, except I was never really a prince. My family was a noble one, but we fell from grace many years ago. Actually, I may be the last member of my family remaining. I suppose that’s why Lorenzo has kept me around all these years. I have been around the court of Lorenzo de’ Medici long enough to understand how the politics work around here. I am of noble blood and eligible for a political match that could work in Lorenzo’s favour, and continue on for his son, Piero. It’s truly a shame that I have no interest in political matches.

Or marriage for that matter.

I reach Lorenzo’s quarters. I knock on the door and wait patiently to be received. Lorenzo doesn’t typically spend much time here at his villa in Careggi. Most of his time is spent in the city itself, at his central palazzo. He has been here for a couple of days, and I wonder if he had come all this way in order to speak to me in person. Lorenzo de’ Medici never does anything without an ulterior motive.

The door opens and I am ushered inside, where I find Lorenzo sitting at his desk, pen in hand, and a focused look on his face. He looks up to see me and his face brightens.

“Tyrannus! How are you, my dear boy!”

I enter the room and lightly bow my head. Lorenzo isn’t an official ruler of Florence, but as the head of the Medici family, it is a simple gesture of courtesy. “Good afternoon, Gran Maestro de’ Medici.” I address him by his official title, again as a sign of respect. I am many things, ill-mannered is not one of them. Lorenzo raises an eyebrow at me and shakes his head.

“Tyrannus, you have been a member of my household for nearly 15 years, I think at this point, you may call me Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo stares knowingly at me. I return the gaze with a raised eyebrow of my own before we both begin to laugh. Lorenzo rises from his seat and comes to greet me. He grabs my shoulders and pulls me into a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. He pulls back to get a good look at me and smiles brightly.

“Ahhhh… It’s good to see you! We do not see you very often anymore. I imagine Angelo has been working you to near death!” I laugh light-heartedly and shake my head.

“Not at all, Lorenzo. I rather enjoy the work, to be honest. It does me good to leaf through the books that once belonged to my family. To hold the pieces that are left of their legacy.”

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always wanted to spend time amongst my family’s books. I was a very precocious child, always asking questions and wanting to absorb as much knowledge as I could. When I first arrived in Florence, all I wanted to do was spend time in the library. When Giuliano was still around, he would remind me to have fun and to allow myself to have a childhood… Despite that, most of my life was spent amidst the company of older, learned men.

Lorenzo claps my shoulder and gives it a tiny shake. “Always so somber aren’t you? Your family’s legacy is not dead. You are still around.” He looks into my eyes. Brown eyes, contrasting to my grey.

I sigh at him and start to step away from his grasp. “Only because the Divine has willed it so.”

“You truly have been spending far too much time with the philosophers!” Lorenzo gives me another hearty laugh. “I do need to take a visit to The Academy. It has been far too long since I’ve taken part in one of Marsilio’s symposia.” I detect a hint of melancholic nostalgia in Lorenzo’s voice. Ficino would tell me of the time where Lorenzo was more carefree and would spend days within the Academy, debating the nature of Plato and his ideas on Love. Those were the days before his duties to his family and Florence began to weigh heavily on him.

A small laugh escapes through my nose.“They do become rather heated. I could hear them shouting from my study the last time.”

“As every great debate ought to be!” Lorenzo leads me towards his desk, but does not sit down just yet. “Now, Tyrannus. There was a reason I asked to see you.” I nod knowingly and smirk at him.

“You would not be Il Magnifico if there wasn’t an ulterior motive to everything you do.”

Lorenzo laughs heartily. Few people are allowed to see him like this. I am one of the lucky few, for he has known me since I was a child.

And, I remind him of his brother… Giuliano. If circumstances were different, it would be Giuliano giving me this talk, as opposed to Lorenzo. He picks up a small weight from his desk and begins to run it through his hands.

“Tyrannus, you will be celebrating your birthday soon, will you not?” He points to me as he asks me the question. I nod my head in response.

“Yes, Lorenzo. On the 24th, I shall be turning 20 years old.”

Lorenzo stares off wistfully. “Ahh… To be young with a future full of promise. Do not take these days for granted. Soon enough, you will be cursing the ways your body fails you.” He frowns towards his legs. Lorenzo’s family is plagued with gout. His father died as a result of his gout, and he started showing signs much later in his life. Lorenzo has not been as lucky. He clears his throat and continues.

“But I digress. Now, when I decided to take you in as a ward of the Medici family, I told myself I would treat you as if you were one of my own children. I believe I have done a decent job of that.”

I nod and smile at him. “You have. I would have never had the opportunities to read from my family’s ancient texts had your family not taken me in.”

“Correct. Now, it is my duty as your guardian to ensure that a beneficial match is made for you.”

I frown and take a step back. “A… match?” I decide to try and play ignorant. I had a feeling that this discussion was coming. Still, it was not something I was interested in. Besides, I may be Lorenzo’s ward, but I am hardly a member of the Medici family.

“Of course! It is only proper that we find a suitable match for you!” Lorenzo places the weight back down on the desk and begins to shuffle a few of the papers lying about.

“Lorenzo… I do not think anyone would want to be wedded to a Displaced Prince.” I purposely use the slanderous name against me in order to make a point. It may be a name given to insult me, and it does not really bother me. But it is a name based in small truths. I have no lands, no titles, no stability. Lorenzo’s face darkens and addresses me in an aggrieved voice.

“Let me tell you something Tyrannus. Do not allow the words of bitter men to leave a lasting impact on your soul. Now I will make it my duty to see that a proper marriage alliance is secured for you.”

I appreciate the concern, I truly do. But marriage is not a future I see for myself. “Lorenzo. What if I did not want that? I am perfectly content to remain amongst my family’s books in the Academy,” I respond solemnly. My wish is that he drop the subject, but Lorenzo de’ Medici does not work that way.

“Nonsense Tyrannus. You are the sole remaining member of a family that has been around since the time of Constantine the Great! It is your duty to ensure your line does not die.” He waves his arms extravagantly. It is very difficult work not to roll my eyes at him. Men like Lorenzo put far too much emphasis on the past. Yes, it is important to know our past, but too much focus on it causes one to lose sense of the future. I come from an ancient family, it is true, but that family is gone now.

“Lorenzo, I have made peace with my family line dying with me since I was a child. I have my family’s books; I have their legacy and I intend on keeping it alive through their words.” I speak in a soft, somber voice. I almost plead with him to understand my position on the matter.

Lorenzo grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eyes once more. “Will you at least let me try? For your parents…”

My back stiffens and I very nearly glare at him. He knows I cannot say no when my parents are concerned. I sigh in resignation and furrow my brows. I see that I will not win this argument with him, so I offer a compromise; a deal with him.

“What if I gave you until the end of this year? Until the Epiphany celebration; to find me a suitable match? One that I approve of as well.” I emphasize that I shall have the final say (if there is any say at all).

Lorenzo regards me with an astounded look. “You truly have become a part of this family, Tyrannus! Only a Medici would offer up a deal like that.”

I nod towards him and shrug my shoulders. “I did learn from the best. Shall we shake on it?” I offer my hand and Lorenzo takes it willingly.

“Until the Epiphany celebration I shall do whatever it takes to get you married.”

“I don’t doubt that. Would that be all, Lorenzo?” I am ready to get out of this meeting. I really do need some time outside of this building in order to process everything that has just occured. Maybe a ride to one of the neighbouring villages will do me some good.

Lorenzo puts a halt to my plans almost immediately. “Not quite. I had a feeling I would win you over today, so I requested that Signore Botticelli paint a miniature portrait of you. He is already expecting you.”

I try to not groan out loud. Sandro Botticelli is one of the city’s finest painters. At the same time, he is one of the most arrogant men in existence. He has painted every member of Lorenzo’s family, and has never once done so without a complaint. He had been gone from the city for quite some time (The Vatican requested his talents for their holy Basilica). I suppose now that he’s back, Lorenzo has already begun with the commissions. I shake my head at him; the impossible man.

“You truly are one of a kind, Lorenzo.”

“That’s why they call me Il Magnifico. Now go on. You may take one of the horses into town.” Lorenzo walks back to his chair. He settles in and waves me away. I bow my head at him and exit the room.

“Thank you, gran Maestro.”

I make my way to the stables, stopping by my rooms to put on some warm outer clothes. I could walk to the city, but it really is much faster to go by horse and with the sun making its way into midday, I should make my way to Botticelli’s workshop as quickly as possible, before the day begins to darken.

I mount my favourite horse, a chocolate mare I’ve called Minerva, and start to ride towards Florence. As I pass the hills and small houses that dot the trail, I think about how the events of my life have brought me here to this moment.

I come from a long line of nobility from the lost empire of Byzantium, on my mother’s side. She, as well as her family were forced to flee the city of Constantinople when she was a young girl. My grandfather, having impeccable foresight, knew the war against the Ottoman Turks was lost. So he had arranged for all of the ancient books and texts from my family’s libraries to be moved to Florence, to the libraries of Cosimo de’ Medici (Lorenzo’s grandfather). My family was offered sanctuary within the court, but my grandfather had other obligations to attend to. My mother was betrothed to my father, a nobleman from England, so my family settled there. It was where I was born and where I spent the first five years of my life.

But because turbulence and bad luck seem to follow my family like a dark cloud, it wasn’t long before we were destroyed once again. England, at the time, was in the middle of a dynastic war between two royal families; The Yorks and the Lancasters. My father was a Lancastrian and while that worked to his benefit for the longest time, my mother, sharing the same aptitude for forethought as her father, knew that our time in the sun would not last. She had written to several powerful houses in Italy (The Sforza, the Argonese, the de’ Medici, and the Este), and offered them everything we had left if they would take me in, should it be necessary. Out of those families, only Giuliano de’ Medici responded.

I remember the last night I saw my mother and father as if it were yesterday. I still have dreams about it. I remember being asleep in my chambers, when my mother swept inside, bright ruby-red dress flowing around her. She roused me from my sleep and scooped me up into her arms. I could not understand what was happening at the time. She rushed me through the kitchens, where a small band of trusted servants were waiting for us. With tears in her eyes, she held onto me, running her fingers through my dark hair. I remember her smoothing the strands from my face as she reminded me to remain strong and to never forget the lineage I was born into, even in the darkest of nights. The last thing she told me was that I was the very best of both her and my father and that she would always be with me. With a final kiss on my head and a caress of my cheek, she was gone, ruby skirts flowing behind her. I remember crying out to her, begging her to come back. None of it mattered, for we were soon off, galloping on horses as we rode into the night.

My mother had managed to obtain passage for myself and my governess aboard a ship headed to one of the ports controlled by the Florentines. I don’t remember much of the journey to Florence. I think my mind has decided to block those memories from me. All the better, for I wish to never think of them. I do remember docking at one of the ports and my governess quietly ushering me into a small inn, where a tall, handsome man with flowing dark hair and kind brown eyes was waiting for us: Giuliano de’ Medici.

Giuliano was the younger, more care-free brother of Lorenzo. He was, by all accounts, the heart and soul of the Medici family, and it was because of his gentle heart that I found my way into the Palazzo Medici. That day, he took me aside and explained to me that he would be taking care of me from now on. When I asked about my parents, he was kind, yet truthful. He explained that it was almost certain that my parents did not survive the attack. I remember being determined not to cry in front of this stranger, but the thought of my mother was too much for me. A strong, reassuring hand on my shoulder was all it took to let loose the floodgates. As he continued to pat my back, Giuliano explained that we would wait for word from England in case he was wrong, but that I should prepare myself for the worst. He did not sugar-coat the reality of my situation, and I suppose it was because of his honesty that I learned to quickly trust him.

For the next three years, Giuliano looked after me, and treated me as if I was his own son. It took some time for my walls to come down, but eventually I saw him as a father figure in my life. I was beginning to get a true sense of having a family again… when…

But I don’t think about that… About the blood and the knives. I don’t think about the Easter mass that would once again break apart any family and hope I dared to have.

I don’t think about any of that. Instead I make my way to Botticelli’s studio, where the impatient maestro is already waiting for me. I tie up my horse and proceed to knock on the door. The door opens in a rush. Before me stands Sandro Botticelli, all impertinence and self-importance.

“Tyrannus! Glad you could make it!” Botticelli gently grabs my sleeve and pulls me into the workshop. I stand tall and watch him with a disinterested look on my face.

“Signore Botticelli. Always a pleasure.” Botticelli rolls his eyes at my formal address and already begins to scurry about around the workshop. He calls out to me over his shoulder.

“Tyrannus, while I do appreciate the formal greeting, please call me Sandro.”

I shake my head and raise my hands in consternation. “Does no one around here appreciate formality? Fine… Sandro.”

Sandro places a stool in front of a window, where a little soft light has managed to come through. “I see you have finally given in to Lorenzo’s demands.”

“You know how it is. Whatever Lorenzo de’ Medici wants, Lorenzo de’ Medici gets. I would like to get this sitting done as soon as possible.” My continued icy tone is really unnecessary, but I have already had a long day and I find it difficult to mask my disdain.

“Yes yes, Tyrannus! We all know you have important work to do at the Academy! Tell Signore Poliziano that if he’s got a problem, he can take it up with Il Magnifico!” Sandro waves a hand dismissively towards me and then roughly points to the small stool. I roll my eyes and settle into place. Sandro starts to walk away and yells out towards the back rooms.

“Simon! Where are you, boy?! We are waiting for you!”

I straighten up and roll my shoulders back in surprise. I was not expecting this. I start to get up from the chair when Sandro places his hand on my shoulder, settling me back down. “Wait. I was under the impression that you-”

Sandro casts a dark glare at me and I settle back down. It is clear that he is beyond fed up with my attitude. “Please, I do not have the patience nor the time to paint yet another member of the gran maestro’s household. No, your miniature portrait will be handled by my young assistant. Simon!” He barks out once more, abrasively.

I adjust a crease in my shirt and tuck some of my raven-black hair behind my ear. I look up and my breath becomes caught in my throat.

A broad-shouldered, tawny-skinned young man rushes from the back rooms, carrying what seems to be half of Sandro’s art supplies in his hands. Canvases, boards, charcoal, and paints (why would he need paints right away). I quickly turn my head from him so as to conceal the blush creeping onto my cheeks (clearly I am embarrassed for this young man… nothing more…).

A loud crash makes me turn my head back. I notice a head full of long bronze curls before me, surrounded by scattered charcoal, paints, and brushes on the floor. He looks up at me, blue eyes sparkling and a deep red blush creeping across his face.

Damn it all…

“Apologies… Signore…” He starts to stammer at me. I lift a hand at him and narrow my eyes. I can feel my heart quicken as I begin to think about the many ways I can continue to make him blush. I shake the impure thoughts from my mind and conceal myself behind the mask of indifference I wear around court.

My impervious, cold mask. I need it now than ever. Because a blue-eyed, bronze-haired disaster has just crashed into me and I do not need disasters in my already unstable life.

So, time to scare away another rosy-cheeked young man.

“Pitch.” I reply, with acid in my voice. I turn to Sandro, who looks as if he is just about ready to murder the boy, and drawl out sarcastically, “I must say Sandro, you certainly know how to pick them. I was wondering why I had never seen this apprentice before. I suppose I have my answer.”

I look back to the young man, Simon, who has collected himself and is now wearing a look that could strike me dead. I laugh scornfully at him, which only angers him further.

Perfect.

“I think this one will prove to be more of a handful than you can handle. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be getting back to the Academy.” I lift myself from the stool and stroll towards the door. It takes every fibre of my being not to run out of that building as fast as I can. But I have been practiced in the art of nonchalance, so I make it to the door, when Sandro calls out to me.

“Tyrannus!”

I look back to Sandro and his unfortunate assistant. I give them both a mocking sneer and a graceful wave of my hand. “Apologies, Signore Botticelli. I know you are a very busy man. We can try again tomorrow, perhaps.”

I exit the workshop and take a minute to gather my thoughts. The poor boy will probably be getting a tongue lashing from Botticelli. I want to feel sorry for him, but I cannot allow myself to feel anything for him. I untie Minerva and begin to ride out of the city.

As I gallop away from the city, my thoughts start to become more and more cloudy. I try to focus on the translations I need to finish, or on the discussion that Lorenzo and I had earlier today. I even try to think about the many arguments between my Academy peers. But no matter how I try, I keep coming back to one thought and one image.

Of a boy with blue eyes, bronze curls, and a brightly flushed face.

Misfortune and misery seem to follow me around like a dark cloud. And the Divine seems to have played a cruel joke on me. Because after one look into those ordinary blue eyes and I now think I understand the inspiration behind Dante and Petrach’s poetry. I want to read Plato once more and determine if these feelings inside of me count as his version of Love.

How can it be? It is not possible. I pull on Minerva’s reins and hop off. I bend down and start to gasp for air.

It is not allowed…

I take several deep breaths and push my budding feelings down. As deep as they can go. I push them further than the pain of losing my mother, of losing my name. Of losing Giuliano. I shall not permit these feelings to ever come out again. I cannot go back to see Signore Botticelli and that boy!

Simon…

I hope that my cold, intimidating personality is enough to keep him as far away from me as possible. I hope that I have sufficiently scared him away. I hope I never have to look at those ordinary blue eyes again.

Any other path is not an option.

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reddeaddamnation · 6 years

Text

Imagine an assassin's creed game set in Bulgaria

{Fuck it imma write this anyway lol just a fantasy/drabble/fanmade}

11 August 1877, mt. Shipka

7 500 good men, willing to die for their freedom, their country. Waving the Samar flag high, they stood at the top of mount Shipka against 27 000 Ottoman Soldiers, wielding 37 cannons in full battle readiness, against the Bulgarian forces of general Stoletov, wielding just 27 cannons. At first one would think that this was a battle lost before it even began. Or at least that was what the Ottoman pashá Suleyman thought.

"500 years of slavery and butchery we have endured. If luck is on our side, this ends today."

August 10 1877, Eagle's nest

Orlin "the Hawk" Sokolov watched the large Ottoman units with a blank expression, yet his deep sky blue eyes held determination. He had hopes that this battle will end the cruelty his people endured for five centuries. "What are you thinking?" The Russian general asked him. The Hawk turned to look at him. He was tall, with broad shoulders, strong arms and long legs like any "voevóda" would look like. His shoulder length black hair swayed as the wind blew through it. He had a deep look in his eyes, as if he was always thinking about something and that made him look older than he actually was. His skin tone was pale at birth, but due to the years of living in the open, the sun had made it darker. His high cheekbones were highlited by short black sideburns, going down his jawline. The other voevoda men used to make fun of him because he couldn't grow a decent beard but Sokolov honestly didn't even bother because he wasn't one to grow a long beard anyway, saying it would only get in his way. "There is time to grow a beard like yours, voevódo, but that will be when I am old and hunched over." he would always reply after which he and his men would laugh. And what a laugh Sokolov had. His thin lips stretched in a hearty smile as his deep laugh echoed through the woods which he called Home, which all of them called home.

"I sent my men to mount Shipka." He finally answered the general in his deep voice, his hands on the hilts of his swords, tucked in the red belt which covered his waist, bearing the assassin's creed symbol. On either side of him were two more daggers and four guns. On the back of his belt were his gunpowder and bullets, which were hidden because of his long white cape. Beneath the cape, he wore a short leather vest over a white shirt, made of rough material, which had traditional Bulgarian embroidery on the end of the sleeves and around the collar. He wore pants made of the same material as his shirt, loose around his thighs so his movements are easier and leather boots.

Sokolov commanded a company of 600 men. Once he was a "haydutin" - seeked only riches and plundered village after village, leaving only blood and fire behind himself.

He changed when he became an assassin. It was at his sister's wedding when a small battalion of Ottomans attacked their village. Sokolov thought they were after him, because of his crimes against them. "I'm here!" He yelled at the man he remembered as Mustafa pashá "Its me you're after so leave them alone!" But Mustafa had just laughed at him. "You don't know anything, boy."

The village was slaughtered and burned to the ground. His father's last words were "Go to Gyurevo, find Hristo Botev. He is there in hiding right now.". The man Orlin had to find was a poet-revolutionary, who also lead a secret life in the Assassin's creed. He became his mentor, explained that Mustafa pashá was a Templar, who took the opportunity to attack and kill Orlin's family, who were assassins, for some Piece of Eden, which they were hiding.

After his training, Orlin returned to Bulgaria to find Mustafa pashá and kill him and his accomplices. Now he was part of the Russian-Turkish war.

"I must go fight along side them." Orelov continued "Suleyman is cruel and his men are merciless." He turned around and started to walk away with a heavy step, pulling up his hood over his eyes "I hope general Fyodor Radetzky got your telegram on time, or else this will become a very...tricky situation."

August 11 1877, mt. Shipka

The battle really seemed long since lost. The Bulgarian forces had run out of provisions. Gunpowder was scarce and water was even scarcer. The Ottomans kept watch of the nearest river, which they relied on for water. The men were losing hope. The injured were more than one could count. Suleyman seemed pleased.

The lack of gunpowder forced the Bulgarians to rely on other methods for ranged attacks. They threw rocks down at them. Even the injured men didn't stop fighting along side their brothers. The situation seemed so hopeless that the men started throwing the corpses down at their enemy. Nobody had ever seen an event so bloody, yet so glorious. "Even the dead were fighting alongside the living."

"Orlin! What news?" General Stoletov asked the minute he saw the familliar face of Orlin Sokolov. "We expect reinforcements from Radetzky. What is the situation here?" Orlin said looking over the injured and dying men. "Not very well, as you can see. We are holding off as much as we can. But... The men are losing hope."

Orlin patted Stoletov on the shoulder "One should never lose hope." He scoffed and before anyone could stop him, he ran straight towards the cacaphonia going on somewhere down the cliff. Everyone stared in awe as he swiftly avoided the bullets and cannonfires, as if he was invincible. He unsheathed his swords and swiftly dodged the attacks of the Ottomans, slashing through anyone in sight.

Parrying and ducking under the swords, swiftly dodging and cutting his enemies, he brought the hope in the hearts of his fellow countrymen. They mobilized themselves and wasted no time in reloading the cannons with whatever they had left. Sokolov pulled out two of his own guns and shot two soldiers, who were running at him. His other two guns were used on shooters who he noticed were pointing their guns at him. The cannonballs from the top of the cliff fell almost several meters away from, eliminating any threat around the Hawk.

The coast was cleared for a few moments and Sokolov's eyes landed on Suleyman. The two shared piercing glares for a few moments, before the Hawk continued to fight off enemies. With loud cheers, his own men joined in the fight to help him.

Orlin Sokolov didn't realize how much time had passed until a man from the top of the cliff screamed at the top of his lungs "The Russians! Help has arrived! Reinforcements!" Orlin looked at the pashá again and smirked as his expression turned to one of pure panic when he saw the Russian flag being waved. That was an opportunity for the Bulgarian to run at him, dropping his swords. He used a rock as a ramp and jumped behind the pashá, knocking him off his horse and sending them both tumbling to the ground. By the time they hit it, Orlin's hidden blade was buried deep into Suleyman's throat. When he pulled it out, Orlin noticed the Templar necklace around the man's neck. He scoffed and ripped it off, throwing it into the dust.

#assassin's creed #assassin's crees fanfic #history #assassin's creed imagine #fanmade #fanfic #bulgaria #bulgarian history

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imaginebeatles · 7 years

Text

Poetry Nights | Chapter 1: In which an art student meets a poet

Pairing: John/Paul

Rating: PG-13

Set in: Modern AU

Summary: 21-year-old Paul McCartney, who has recovered from a breakdown due to stress and his mother’s unexpected death, has recently moved to London where he now rents a cheap flat with his friend George. Having needed to give up his medicine studies, he has decided to start over and go to art college instead where he meets the rude and troublesome John Lennon, a young poet, who, much to Paul’s dismay, also happens to be his neighbour.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Beatles and this is fictional. I do not make money off this.

Author’s note: First part of my entry for the McLennon Big Bang! It’s kind of late, but well... it’s here. Before anyone’s going to ask, I’ll be posting A&O every Monday as well, so don’t worry. There is no fixed schedule for this one. I’ll just post a chapter whenever it’s finished. I’m probably not going to be able to finish this on time (there will be seven chapter), but we’ll deal with that when we come it. Also, look at this gorgeous moodboard @fabpaul made for this fic!

Author’s note 2: It’s been a while since I lasted posted something, and I’m really nervous about this. I hope you guys are going to like this. Like I said, there are going to be 7 chapter in total. Please let me know what you think! You can also read it on AO3.

Although he had not initially intended to spend his first weeks as an art student at the library, it was where he most often found himself after his classes and during his free mornings and afternoons. Because the semester had only just started, the library was practically empty most of the time, save for the occasional over-enthusiastic, over-ambitious student who was already cramming for tests that were still weeks if not months away, and writing essays about topics that had not even been properly discussed yet in class, sitting with their noses buried in books with such flimsy paper, that it looked like it would tear if handled in any way but with the utmost care. There was something “uncool about spending all your days at the university library, making time-tables, revising notes, studying texts, writing essays, and cramming for exams, that made most people want to stay away from such places as much as possible, not wanting to be considered “one of those people”. Paul would have done the same, that is, if he had cared at all about what was and was not considered “cool”, which obviously he didn’t. Not one bit. At all.

Truth be told, he enjoyed the library. It was quiet, peaceful, filled up to the ceiling with books containing fascinating information about curious topics and ideas he did not yet know about, there was free Wi-Fi, plenty of spots to plug in your phone or computer when needed, and, most importantly, no one to bother you by asking annoying questions or playing Guitar Hero at an ungodly volume, while stuffing their face full with potato crisps and diet coke, wearing nothing but a pair of plain, light blue boxers that looked suspiciously similar to a pair you owned yourself and would burn the next time you saw them. On the second floor they had opened a coffee corner where you could grab a cup of tea, coffee, or hot chocolate, along with some (cheap!) sandwiches, cookies, and other snacks (they even had vegan options), of which Paul took full advantage. They had also put down a couple of old battered couches for people to sit on, and honestly Paul could not imagine why anyone would want to spend their days anywhere else, except when they did have normal roommates with at least a sense of common decency.

At the moment he was sitting at a table on the third floor, rearranging his time-schedule in order to fit in his morning classes as well as his first assignments and regular homework, while still leaving him time to go on a forty-minute run every morning through the park that was not even five minutes away from the flat he and George shared. He had his new MacBook Air – a present from his father – open in front of him and had his wireless earphones – sadly not a present, but an expensive impulse buy he had yet to regret – planted firmly in his ears in the hope to block out all the outside noise as he listened to The Kinks singing Strangers directly into his ear, a memento from his and George’s first traditional movie night that would happen every Friday evening for the coming three years that they would be living together. They had watched The Darjeeling Limited, the perfect combination of comedy and drama with a nice aesthetic and good music, and just weird enough to be highly enjoyable and intriguing. It had been George’s pick, which meant Paul was allowed to choose the next one, which just had to be The Dead Poets Society – he was already looking forward to it – after which he was going to make George watch The Graduate because he hadn’t seen it and that, in Paul’s eyes, was a cultural sin if there ever was one.

A couple of rapid taps on his arm alerted him of his neighbour, who was sitting opposite him, drinking tea and stealing some of his veggie crisps as she revised her class notes on the fundamentals of dramatic text. She was a great girl, really. Stunning, with fair skin, long copper hair that cascaded down over her narrow shoulders – a shade that matched the colour of her painted lips – and kind blue eyes that shone brightly beneath her fringe that was bordering on the edge of being too long. But she was clever and funny too, with a mouth that was fouler than what he had initially expected, and a confidence that would have made Paul believe she was a professor rather than a first-year student, if it wasn’t for the fact that she was far too young to be one, being not yet nineteen. She was a great friend.

“I’m going out for a smoke and get myself another cup of tea. D’you want anything?” she asked as she stood up from her seat, fumbling around in her bag in search for her phone, cigarettes and lighter, and cursing at herself when she couldn’t find the latter. Paul, realising he had been staring, declined and offered her his own lighter, which he took from the pocket of his denim jacket.

“Thanks. I’ll be right back. Mind my bag, yeah?” She didn’t wait for Paul to nod or reply, and turned around and started heading towards the stairs, her heels clacking rhythmically on the synthetic floor as she went. Sighing, Paul reached for his own phone and checked his messages. Apart from a text from George asking him if he could swing by the store for some milk before he went home – they had run out again – there was nothing. It wasn’t so much that he was expecting something, but he had hoped to see at least one message from Dot, not having heard from her for a few days. The number of messages that normally went between them had started to decrease more and more over the last couple of weeks, especially since he had moved to London for his studies, which would usually warrant more messages. The thing was, though, that he wasn’t sure if he truly missed her. George said they needed some time to work it out, but lately he was feeling less and less certain of that, which made him feel even worse for not talking to her more often like he should.

Putting away his phone, he turned back to his time schedule and made some minor changes to is as he finished his tea, before he decided to do some reading for the following week, hoping that if he could get most of it done today, he would have the weekend off to relax and do something fun. George wanted to go out and live the student life like it was supposed to be lived according to every single movie in existence; so, naturally, Paul hadn’t been able to say no to that, being in the mood for getting drunk and enjoying the tantalising sight of hot boys and girls in sexy, tight outfits, even if he could not touch. Some harmless flirting was always fun.

He had barely gotten through the first two sections, however, or the peace and quiet that surrounded him was rudely broken by some loud shouts and laughter, which he could hear even through the music that was still blasting in his ears. Annoyed, he took out his earphones and glanced up to see a skinny lad – a little older than himself, but shorter and more fragile-looking – being slammed into a wall, laughing loudly as he struggled to hold onto a stack of papers he was holding in his arms. Some of the papers slipped from his grip anyway, despite the boy’s best efforts, and landed scattered on the floor. He shouted something at where he had emerged from, and knelt down to pick up the papers again as he wiped some tears from his eyes, which were covered by a pair of tinted sunglasses.

Not long after a second guy appeared from that same direction. He was taller and tough-looking, wearing a pair of tight black jeans, the ends of which he had flipped over once, a green plaid shirt with a leather jacket – faux leather, Paul hoped – and brown boots. He had a pair of glasses on his nose that reminded Paul of those Buddy Holly used to wear, and his brown hair had been styled into a tousled quiff, both of which, under any other circumstance but this one, he would have found incredibly attractive. He was laughing loudly as well and pushed at the smaller lad’s shoulder, causing him to lose his balance and fall down again, the paper slipping from his fingers once more.

Rolling his eyes at them, he turned up the volume on his computer and went back to work, but found it had become increasingly more difficult to concentrate on the words he was supposed to be reading, the sentences being too long and containing too many complex words, that he found his thoughts drifting away and his eyes towards the two men who were still causing trouble on the other side of the room. He considered telling them to be quiet, but decided not to, knowing these types of guys from when he had still been a teenager in Liverpool, where he had had to deal with guys like this on a regular basis in school. They thought they were too cool for anything and better than everyone else, and there was nothing you could say or do that would not end with either you running away or being punched in the eye. Being bisexual hadn’t much helped in school either, and he preferred to stay away from them now, not wanting a repeat of last time.

The curious thing was, though, that rather than being disruptive for the sake of being disruptive, these guys did seem to be doing something, namely bothering people and handing them those papers the lad with the sunglasses was holding in his arms, most of which were rather creased at this point, but neither of them seemed to care. They also laid some of the sheets on empty tables and in stacks between books on the bookshelves, which made Paul curious to know what they said. The two guys, on the other hand, did not seem to take any note of him, so Paul kept to watching them silently, hoping they would not spot him. Especially the taller guy, who had a pair of thighs that made it extremely difficult not to stare at him. He shouldn’t. He had a girlfriend.

“Chocolate cookies were twenty percent off, so I got you one as well,” a voice suddenly spoke next to him, making him jump in his seat and quickly look away from the two guys who were bothering a couple of girls a few tables away from him, and glanced up, only to be hit in the face by said chocolate cookie that had been thrown his way.

“Thanks…” he muttered in reply, half annoyed, half grateful, “you could’ve just given it to me, though, Jane, but injuring me works fine too, I guess.”

“Don’t be such a baby and accept the free food, will you,” she replied and sat back down on the chair opposite him. She smirked when Paul did as she had said without another word and began to eagerly take it out of the packaging; he harboured a deep love for anything chocolate that was too strong to be denied.

“Jane?” he asked after a few seconds, pausing from munching on his chocolate cookie, “do you know those guys?” He pointed at the two men who were still talking to the same two girls, one of whom looked intrigued, while her friend had turned away to try to read her book again. She couldn’t, however, as the taller lad with the quiff was now poking her book, while the other chuckled, but tried to get him to stop. Jane groaned in annoyance as she caught sight of them.

“You know them?”

She moaned, but nodded. “You get to know them soon enough. They’re kind of hard to ignore. Well, John is. Stuart – the one with the sunglasses – he isn’t that bad, really. He’s quite sweet when you catch him alone, artistically talented too, and his girlfriend, Astrid her name is, is a nice enough girl, but when he’s with John…” She shook her head and turned to glance over her shoulder to look at them. “I don’t even know what they’re doing here! Probably just trying to cause trouble again as always – John! Leave them girls alone!” She shouted that last directly at the two men, who looked up in confusion before a flicker of recognition flashed across the taller guy’s – John, Paul now knew – face and a grin spread across his lips.

“Miss Asher! My beautiful water nymph! What are you in the library for? Classes have barely even started yet!” he cried out, in a tone that was a little too melodramatic to be truly funny, but Paul could not help the grin that involuntarily appeared on his own lips. The guy jumped off from the table he had been sitting on and nudged his friend to tell him to follow him, that same mischievous grin still on his lips.

“Don’t bother with the niceties, Lennon. They won’t work, as you well know. And some of us do actually work hard, in case you didn’t know. Which begs the question what you are doing here,” Jane called back at him, as she watched them come over.

“Ah! That’s where you are mistaken, my dear. I value my studies highly. Just not in Nerd Central,” John replied with a charming wink when he was close enough and turned to look at Paul, who was watching him with interest, wondering where Jane would know a guy like him from. He did not appear to be anyone whom Jane or her friends would be acquaintances with. And what was this “water nymph” business? “But never mind that,” John continued after a brief moment of silence, “who is this handsome guy you’ve brought along, eh? New boyfriend?”

“I’m Paul. And we’re just good friends,” he quickly brought in before Jane could answer for him. He really was handsome, though, with almond-shaped eyes that shone darkly from under his thick-rimmed glasses, a strong jaw, and an aquiline nose. His hair, Paul now saw, was more auburn than brown and had a reddish shine to it as the light hit it, making it hard for him to look away.

“Good. I’m John. This is Stu,” he nodded at his friend and paused for a moment as he took a second to look his new acquaintance up and down, as if unsure how to place him. “You look familiar. Those eyes… they’re quite distinct.”

“Impossible. I just moved here a few weeks ago. I’m a first year.”

“You don’t look like a first year. Couldn’t you find the door or something?” John said with a jeering laugh, but Paul wasn’t so easily intimidated and cocked his head at him as he leaned back in his chair, trying to assert some dominance, which made the other’s eyes flash dangerously.

“Studied medicine before this, actually,” he explained calmly, “back in Liverpool. I quit during my first year, took a gap year afterwards, and now here I am.”

“Why? Subject too hard for you, pretty boy?”

“No. I found out that if I became a doctor, I’d be bound by oath to help stupid pricks like yourself as well, and thought I’d do more good for this world if I didn’t.”

“Oh, kitty’s got claws, doesn’t she?” John crooned and Paul started at his words, feeling a flush creep up to his cheeks, which he fought to repress. Before he could come up with a good comeback, however, Jane had mingled between them again.

“Do you want anything, Lennon? If not you might as well just leave,” she said, and John tutted at her in disapproval, but kept his eyes firmly onto Paul’s, looking at him with a gaze so intense, it made Paul squirm in his seat. He refused, however, to look away.

“Don’t worry, Miss Asher. We don’t plan on staying. Me and Stu here were simply giving out some flyers to advertise our monthly poetry night. You two want to come?” As he said this, reached for the stack of papers in his friend’s arms and laid two of them down on the table for them. Curious, Paul took one, while Jane ignored hers.

“You already know my answer, Lennon,” she said and John nodded with another one of his dramatic sighs.

“And it will not be the same without you, my dear, as you well know. How about you then, Doctor Big Eyes?” he asked, turning once more to Paul, who had been reading the flyer.

“You’re a poet?” he asked instead of answering, ignoring the uncreative insult. John nodded as he bowed to him.

“John Winston Lennon, your most humble and ingenious juggler of words, at your service,” he said in a not-so-humble tone of voice. Paul ignored him and looked back at the flyer in his hand. Although the design was rather cliché, with a vintage mic on the front and a red theatre curtain in the background and the usual cursive font, it looked pretty well-made. At the bottom of the flyer he could see John’s and Stuart’s names in bold cursive letters, as well as two others he had never heard of.

“You don’t look like a poet,” he remarked, throwing the man’s own words back at him, as he glanced up at him and awaited his reaction. Sure enough, his lips twitched in annoyance and his hands bawled up into fists, but he failed to look truly intimidating.

“Well? Are you coming or not?” John asked through gritted teeth, clearly ticked off by his talking back at him. “It’s this coming Thursday evening from 8 till 11 at the café next door to here. You can either listen or perform your own stuff, if you even have any. There’s cheap booze as well.”

Paul shrugged as he offered him his flyer back. “Couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said as if that explained everything, and turned back to his book which still lay open in front of him, hoping the guy would leave. It was probably for the best the guy proved to be a total dick, though it would have been nice to meet a hot guy who didn’t act like a jerk of once. He supposed George was right, his taste in men was despicable, and he shouldn’t make that same mistake again. To his luck, John did as he had hoped and snatched the flyer from his hand, before turning around to leave, grabbing his friend by his wrist to drag him with him.

“Think it over sometime, Paul. Maybe you’ll change your mind. See you around, Miss Asher,” John grumbled bitterly and with that, the two men left, heading straight towards the stairs, which they hurriedly descended.

“Is he always like that?” Paul asked once he was certain the two men were out of earshot, keeping his eyes on them for a second longer, before he turned to Jane who was looking at him thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised.

“No,” she said after a moment of consideration, “normally he’s worse.”

The troublesome poet remained on his mind for the rest of the afternoon, despite Paul’s best efforts to forget about him and do his reading like he was supposed to. The thought of him even followed him into the supermarket and onto the bus home, leaving him restless. He didn’t know why but for some reason he was doomed to only find guys attractive who were total assholes, and John Lennon was one of them, it seemed. He was terribly good-looking, and Paul could always appreciate a guy who wrote poetry or did anything artistic like that – he wrote songs himself, which he considered a type of poetry in itself, so it would have been great to have someone with whom he could share that passion – but, of course, the guy had to be an utter douchebag. It was a curse and terribly unfair.

As he mulled over his tragic fate in his mind, he climbed up the stairs to the fourth floor where his and George’s flat was situated, the lift being out of order again, as it always seemed to be. The shopping bag felt heavy in his hand, having bought not only the requested milk (two cartons, mind you), but also some frozen veggies, a couple of bagels, and two bottles of apple cider, as well as a package of jelly beans for George, having figured he might as well, and he felt a great sense of relief once he finally reached the right floor. Taking his keys out of his schoolbag, he momentarily put both bags down and opened the door to his flat, where he was greeted by the unpleasant smell of old pizza and beer, as well as some loud and obscene curses, which told Paul the gaming tournament hadn’t yet ended. Sighing, he heaved the bags inside and kicked the door shut before making his way into the living room where his suspicions were confirmed as he saw George and his friend Ringo sit on the edge of the couch, playing Mario Cart. At least now they were dressed, which Paul considered a blessing. Ringo appeared to be winning, having a smug and relaxed grin on his face, his bright blue eyes twinkling in delight, while George only cursed at the screen and called out various colourful profanities as he once again drove over a banana peel.

“I see you guys are having fun,” Paul muttered as he put his schoolbag down on the floor and reached into the shopping bag to get out the jelly beans which he threw into his friend’s lap, who cried out in joy.

“Jelly Beans! Thanks, Paul! You’re the best- Oh fuck!” Hastily, he turned back to the race, where he had just knocked into a wall, causing Ringo to burst out laughing as he easily manoeuvred past the last of the obstacles and crossed the finish line first, much to George’s frustration, who looked like he was about ready to throw his controller out of the window.

“I hate you!” he grumbled at Ringo, and punched him in the stomach in revenge, causing the poor man to double over, though he kept on laughing, seeming okay.

“Rematch? I’ll even let you pick the track,” Ringo suggested, and George narrowed his eyes at him, but gave in anyway and ripped the package of jelly beans open. He muttered something about needing something extra to help him along, and stuffed a couple into his mouth.

“Don’t eat too many, Geo! I’ll be making dinner soon! Richie, you’re having dinner with us, right?” Paul warned as he began to kick off his shoes while checking his phone for any messages from Dot, but when George grumbled something inaudible back, he knew it was already too late.

“Don’t worry, Paul. I don’t think you can overeat when your stomach has been replaced by a black hole,” Ringo said, laughing, which he quickly regretted when George hit him again. He, once again, doubled over again and gripped his stomach, while George continued to munch on his jelly beans. “I was going to let you win, you git, but now you can go fuck yourself for all I care. I’ll come help you later, Paul. First, I need to ride George off the fucking Rainbow Road.”

“What?! You said I could choose! I suck at Rainbow Road!”

“Exactly,” he concluded and with that he selected said track, just to spite him. Paul chuckled at their bickering, and, shaking his head, grabbed the groceries and started to make his way to the kitchen to prepare dinner. He was in the need for some good food, which at the moment meant some simple pasta with tomato sauce, because it was easy and quick to make and not too expensive, which were the three crucial ingredients of good food when you were a poor student living away from home, who spend way too much money on other things, such as clothes and pretty editions of books and LPs. Besides, pasta was simply delicious and no one could tell him otherwise.

Once he had put the groceries away, washed his hands and got some water boiling for the pasta – a mixture of penne and fusilli because they didn’t have enough of one kind – Ringo, who had once again been victorious, judging by the angry shouts coming from the living room, came into the kitchen to help. Paul made him cut up the onions, tomatoes and other veggies, while he himself made the sauce and grated some cheese to go on top. They had almost finished when George came in, a couple of jelly beans stuffed in his mouth and a piece of paper in his hand.

“Macca? What’s this?” he asked, waving it around above his head to catch his attention. Paul frowned when his eyes landed on the flyer, recognising it immediately.

“How did you get that?”

“It was sticking out of your bag. I’ve heard about these poetry nights. They’re pretty good, or so they say. Are you going?”

“No. Some asshole gave me one, which I handed back, damn him! He must have secretly put it in my bag when I didn’t notice. Ugh!” Paul took the flyer from his friend, which he crumpled up and unceremoniously threw into the bin.

“But I thought you liked pretentious shit like this. You know, listening to snobby, edgy, emo kids reciting their amateur existentialist poetry and all that. If you don’t have anyone to bring along…” George offered, staring at his friend, as if unable to belief he would say ‘no’ to anything like this.

“It’s not always like that, George. There’s some stuff that’s really good! And it’d be fun to go, but not if it means running into that guy again. You wouldn’t say this if you had been there, you know. The guy was a real asshole and I already told him I wouldn’t come, so who knows what he’d think or say when I’d show up anyway! He’s bound to be there…”

“Who cares!”

“Well, I’m not going to let him have that satisfaction!”

“You’re seriously going to let this guy ruin a fun evening for you? That doesn’t sound like you. So what if he’s there?! You don’t have to talk to him, do you? And if he does start bothering you, just tell him to stuff it! Besides, it’d be good for you to do something fun and relaxing and go out for once. Even Dr Collins told you so, remember?”

“I don’t need some shrink to tell me when I should and shouldn’t be having fun, Geo. Besides, Dot and I always meet on skype Thursday evening, so I couldn’t go even if I wanted to. Let’s just forget about it, okay. Dinner is ready,” Paul concluded and with that the conversation had ended. The three of them all got their food and George made sure to grab them all something to drink, before they headed back into the living room and took a seat on the couch. Ringo let George pick something for them all to watch, which Paul supposed was reconciliation for having beaten him so often at Mario Kart and whatever other games they had played that day, and soon they were watching telly and having their dinner while George and Ringo spoke about all sorts of things, such as George’s new super-hot girlfriend, Pattie.

Paul mostly kept out of the conversation and sat quietly on the other side of the couch, staring at his food as he ate, not feeling in the mood for any social interaction all of a sudden, which happened from time to time. The telly was loud, but he ignored it, and thought about Dot. What was she doing? Why wasn’t she texting him? Did she still look as pretty as she had done when she had wished him goodbye at the train station? Was she happy? Was she waiting for a message as well? Should he text her? Or was she busy with other things? Did she have someone else? Shaking the thought of her from his mind, he instead forced himself to talk to his friends, needing the distraction.

“Hey, Geo? Did you manage to talk to our neighbour yet?” he asked once George and Ringo stopped talking for a moment. He couldn’t have chosen a better topic, for as soon as the word ‘neighbour’ passed his lips, George sat up and went off into a tantrum, that made Paul grin in amusement.

“No! The bastard has been out all day! Or he won’t open up, which would make it even worse! Like, I’m starting to doubt there’s even anyone living there, to be honest. Who is out that many times a day?! It’s ridiculous! But of course, for some reason he does manage to find the time to steal from us! Fucking bastard,” he grumbled, and angrily pricked some pasta onto his fork to get some of that frustration out of his system, which made Paul feel somewhat relieved their neighbour wasn’t home right now with his friend being in a mood like this.

“Wait someone has been stealing for you guys?” Ringo asked, eyes wide in surprise. Paul opened his mouth to explain, but before he could, George had thrown down his fork and was already talking at a speed that made it hard for the other two of follow what he was talking about.

“Yes! Someone has been stealing our internet. I am certain of it, because our connection has been incredibly slow lately and when I looked at the device list of our router, I saw some unknown device on it – dirty name, of course. Me and Paul have been asking people about it for over a week now, and we still haven’t found the guy! The only person left is our neighbour, but he never seems to be home, which I think is highly suspicious!”

“He is like a ghost. All we hear is music coming through the walls at ungodly hours. A bang or two is usually enough to get him to shut up, though, but he never answers the door. George sees that as an admittance of guilt,” Paul brought in with some intense nodding on George’s part. Ringo, however, didn’t seem to impressed by the serious crime that was being committed right under their noses.

“So? Just change your password,” he suggested and Paul grinned at him as he shook his head.

“We’ve tried that.”

“Multiple times,” George added, “it’s like he can read my mind or something!”

“Well? Who is your neighbour?” Ringo asked and both Paul and George shrugged.

“We’ve never seen him. According to the neighbours it’s a guy, but they’ve never spoken to him. Descriptions don’t go much further than that. They’ve only even seen him in the dark when he comes home.”

“We might need to call the landlord if he hasn’t been seen by the end of the week. Before something starts to smell, you know,” Paul suggested and George agreed with a voice that sounded a little too excited about the prospect, while Ringo only chuckled, muttering something about them having wild imaginations, which Paul couldn’t deny.

#mclennon big bang #mclnbb #fanfiction #beatles fanfiction #BEATLES SLASH #mclennon fanfiction #McLennon #johnxpaul #john #paul #au #pg-13 #Poetry Nights

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