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myherowritings · 3 years

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PART 5. THE INHERENT EROTICISM OF BUTTONING SOMEONE’S CLOTHES

SUMMARY. Todoroki Shouto was a wealthy, young CEO who inherited his father’s enterprise. You were a barista at a local cafe who wouldn’t mind some extra cash. One day, Shouto came in during an early morning shift and tipped you such a large sum of money, you were certain it had to have been an accident. To your surprise and complete pleasure: It was not.

PAIRING. ceo!todoroki shouto x barista!reader

WORD COUNT. 3.0k

GENRE. ceo/barista au, fluff, eventual smut

WARNINGS. sexual tension !! and umm sexual frustration ;p, not explicit but prob rated 16+, just read the title of this chapter BAHAHA

A/N. sorry this is coming a little later than planned ! :( but i hope the dressing room scene can make up for it u.u tysm for reading and for all the feedback! enjoy :3 xx sof

SERIES MASTERLIST

What were you supposed to wear to a shopping date? you asked yourself. Not that today was a date or anything. Though maybe you sort of wished it were…

The Naruhata Charity Gala was in a little over a week and Shouto would be coming over to pick you up in less than one hour and you still sat in your room with nothing but a towel on feeling more and more hopeless.

It was a strange dilemma. He met you in your work apron wearing an unflattering work shirt and work pants. And when you met up over the weekend previously, you never paid too much mind on what you would wear. In fact, you were positive he wouldn’t even care how you looked. So why was it such a big deal to you now?

Probably because of your recent admission of your growing feelings towards him, you thought crossly.

In your defense, it wasn’t like it was your fault! Right? Seeing someone everyday… Wanting to see someone everyday… Texting regularly about the most random things, having the most banal objects you saw throughout the day remind you of something Shouto did or said… With all those occurrences it would’ve been practically impossible to not start crushing on him!

Time passed as you stared at your ceiling blankly. If you kept this up, he was bound to show up in your house and find you half-naked. (Now that you mentioned it, that didn’t sound like the worst idea. But it wasn’t something you’d randomly spring upon someone.)

“Get up, Y/N!” you scolded yourself, rolling off your bed and heading towards your closet.

In the end, you ended up settling for another variation of your usual go-to outfit and called it a day. It happened to be perfect timing since, by the time you finished getting ready, you got a new message on your phone.

Shouto: Parked in front of your place

Shouto: Sorry I’m a little early. You can take your time getting ready :)

Y/N: it’s okay i’m ready now!!

After hitting send, you put your shoes on, gathering your belongings you wanted to bring with you, and headed out the door. Excited to hang out with Shouto again, you walked with a skip in your step down the path until you reached his car.

“Hi!” You waved through his half-opened, tinted window. To no one’s surprise, his car was a sleek black color with dark, tinted windows, and gold details along the sides. If it didn’t look so oddly sexy you would’ve laughed at how cutely dorky he was for matching his car with his credit card. “This is one hot car.”

He turned his head to the side when you entered the passenger’s seat. “Should I turn the AC higher?”

“Huh— Oh!” You stifled a giggle when you processed the pun he made. “You’re funny, Shouto.”

He only looked a little confused. “Thank you.”

The interior of his car was no less—for lack of better term—sexy than the outside. Leather seats, a large screen for the radio and carplay, and the dashboard and side doors lit up a nice blue color.

“Pretty!” you complimented, poking at the colorful light.

“Want to pick a color?”

Your eyes widened. “It can change colors?!”

Shouto nodded.

“Can it be pink?” you asked intently.

“Light pink or hot pink?”

“Light.”

He swiftly obliged and with a hit of a touchscreen button, the interior lighting changed from blue to pastel pink.

“Green!”

It turned green.

“Orange!”

Cue the orange.

“Purple?”

Purple.

Once you were thoroughly satisfied with Shouto showing you the whole color selection (you were almost embarrassed to admit it kept you entertained for a good ten minutes), you settled on a bright turquoise that reminded you of the color of his left eye.

“Ooh, this color! My favorite,” you said simply, giving him a wide smile.

A faint blush dusted his cheeks as he developed a sudden interest in adjusting his rearview mirror. “Hm.”

Shouto drove the rest of the way in a comfortable silence, occasionally asking how your week was outside of work and what type of outfit you wanted to wear so he could have a better idea on where to take you.

“Did you eat?” he suddenly asked when he hit the next stoplight, one hand holding the wheel and the other resting comfortably on the gear shift.

His hands looked nice and slender and soft to the touch. Pretty hands, you thought but shook yourself out of it because you could go down a rabbit hole of examining his hands and going into detail about them.

You remembered the single, measly granola bar you had due to your rush getting ready. “I didn’t really eat yet, no. Did you?”

He shook his head and pulled into a food plaza with lots of stores to choose from. The two of you agreed on a noodle restaurant that apparently had some of the best cold soba (once you learned it was his favorite food, you wanted to be able to have some with him and today was the perfect opportunity to do just that) and promptly headed to the location.

In the shop, a waiter sat the two of you down at a dimly lit booth with the perfect amount of ambience that if someone were to casually look over, they might even mistake this outing as a date.

You grinned at the thought.

“Excited for the soba?” asked Shouto, examining the smile on your face thoughtfully.

That’s not why you were smiling, but it was close enough. “Mhm. And the udon. You can never go wrong with noodles!”

Yes, you got both udon and soba. But in your defense, where else would the fun in life be if not in sugary sweets and carbs?

As the two of you waited for your main dishes, you ate some fish cakes and edamame while talking about the ways in which capitalism could be dismantled. Rather sexy of him, if you did say so yourself.

Before you knew it, you were done with your meal and headed back into his car to go fancy-people shopping. On the remainder of the ride, you asked yourself what color you should pick that would match well with both you and Shouto. After all, nothing said a cute couple who totally liked each other going on a totally real date to a gala like color-coordinated outfits, right?

He parked in front of a street of buildings with a dark glass reaching from ceiling to floor with security guards at the door. Just standing near it made you feel fancy.

“This is a place my sister told me she liked,” he said, leading you to the store front with his hand on the small of your back to guide you. “I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”

You tried your best not to pay too much attention to the warmth you felt both on your back and your stomach from the fuzzy feelings that spread.

“Hello, welcome!” the both of you were greeted as you walked through the doors. The interior of the store was lined with designer dresses, some long, some short, and all incredibly stunning. There were only a few other patrons in the store, but all of them looked so elegant as they tried on their dresses. “It’s so lovely to see you again Mr. Todoroki.”

Shouto nodded subtly. “Hello. This is Y/N, my date to the gala who’ll need your assistance today.”

“Hi!” you chimed in at his cue. “Nice to meet you.”

The worker smiled and made her way over to you. “And you as well. I’m Masuda and I’ll do my best to make sure you leave the store satisfied with your purchase! Did you have a particular style or perhaps color in mind?”

“Umm,” you said sheepishly, looking around the wide variety of clothings and unsure where to start. “I’m not too sure. It’s my first time going to one of these things so maybe something comfortable, but also still...fancy?” You scratched the back of your neck. “Does that even exist?”

“Of course— Just have to find something that feels comfortable to you.” She told you to hold on one moment as she disappear into the rows of fabric.

As Masuda collected some starter dresses for you to try on, a customer walked by with bags of clothes in her hands, her gaze lingering on Shouto, though neither of you paid her much mind.

“In this setting, you look almost fit to be a sugar daddy,” you said jokingly, looking around in awe at the sophisticated yet lavish dresses. “You take all your sugar babies here?”

“Only the ones I really like,” he teased back. His voice was deadpan but there was the telltale hints of a smirk on his face to let you know he was only messing with you.

The door chimed to signal that a customer left and by then Masuda had returned with bundles of fabric draped on her arm. She led you away in a hurry and you hesitantly looked back at Shouto who followed in a safe distance. Seeing your moment of panic, he gave you an encouraging smile that somehow was enough to ease a significant fraction of your nerves. This may be new and confusing territory, but at least he was here to help you through it.

Masuda set a dressing room up for you—it was one of those rooms in the middle of the store with curtains that reached the ceiling and mirrors all around—and placed a bunch of outfits she thought would suit your taste. It reminded you of when a bride would go wedding dress shopping with their family. When you had enough outfits for the first round, she told Shouto to sit down on a leather seat in front of your dressing room while he waited for you to try the different dresses on.

In a way, it felt oddly intimate: Shouto sitting just a few feet in front of you as you undressed, only separated by the veil of a curtain. Would he offer to help button the back of your dress up, fingers brushing against your bare skin? The thought made you feel almost hot inside as you changed out of your street clothes and into the first dress.

Unfortunately for you, this dress had no such difficult buttons to reach.

“How’s it look?” you asked shyly as you emerged from the dressing room.

The dress was pretty and didn’t feel uncomfortable to walk in, but there wasn’t any sort of attachment you felt towards it. In other words, it was simply...meh.

Shouto looked up from his phone to take in the sight of you. He smiled. “You look amazing as always.”

“You think so?” You spun around and curtseyed jokingly and he chuckled. “I don’t think it’s bad, but I’m not sure if it’s the right one.”

“We’ll be here until you find the right one you want, then. Take your time, Y/N.”

His voice was normally on the deeper side, but it sounded even more sensual and gravelly at this very moment. You felt goosebumps on your arms and it wasn’t just because of the sleeveless dress you currently had on.

“T-Thanks, Shouto,” you murmured, turning around and walking back into the changing room to hide the look on your face. You didn’t even know what kind of look you had on your face, but you knew it was one that might give too much away.

It wasn’t fair that he had to be so sweet and caring and thoughtful and handsome and rich… Most guys you met barely fit into one of those criteria, let alone all five. (Sure, the last two weren’t necessary in your opinion, but you couldn’t deny they were a nice bonus.) It was too bad you had no clue how he felt about you.

There were moments where he felt flirty and teasing, like maybe he viewed you in a more-than-friends way. But other times he was so polite and proper and you couldn’t help but wonder if he was just being nice because that’s simply the sort of person he was to everyone.

While you were trying to sort through all your thoughts, you completely forgot to change into a new dress the whole time you were in here.

You saw a shadow at the floor of the curtain before a voice said, “Y/N? Are you okay in there?”

Jumping at the sound, you scurried to put the next dress on, a blue one with almost translucent fabric and a delicate neckline. Judging from the proximity of Shouto’s voice and the shadow of his shoes, he was right next to you as you changed.

“I’m okay!” you managed, hoping you didn’t sound as wobbly as you felt. You held the dress closed at the back, fumbling with the fastens. “I just, ah, needed help buttoning this one up.”

A light ruffle on the curtain then a pause. “Should I...come in and help?”

Your eyes widened, not expecting him to actually offer to button it up like you fantasized earlier. You fully thought he might called the worker to aide you just so he wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable. (Not that he would’ve. At all.)

“I apologize,” he said somewhat tensely after you didn’t respond. “That was indecent of me—”

“No, no!” you said profusely, poking your head out of the curtain while holding the fabric at the front of your dress to your chest. You tilted your chin to meet his gaze with a determined one of your own. “I’d love your help, Shouto.”

With a dusting of pink coloring his cheeks, he nodded and entered your dressing room. “This dress is a nice color on you.” His voice was loud against the silence.

Shouto ran his hand down the length of your spine and then up to unfold the column of buttons on your dress that curved inwards at your movement, his knuckles grazing against your skin like lightning striking water. You jolted at the sudden feeling but he didn’t remove his touch when he felt it.

“Sorry.” His voice was low, almost like a whisper. “Was just getting the buttons out.”

“N-No worries!”

His fingers began working on the bottom-most button at your lower back as he applied a steady pressure on the base of your spine to control the motion. Shouto slowly began his way up, fingertips cold to the touch. But you knew that wasn’t the only reason you felt yourself shiver. As he fastened the dainty buttons with immense concentration (much more concentration than was actually needed to fasten buttons, you were sure), you felt the heat of his breath tickling the back of your neck. You almost couldn’t keep yourself from arching your back in a mixture of anticipation and delight at his constant touch.

When he finished the last button, Shouto let one hand rest on your hip, grasping the fabric between his fingertips to examine its silken texture. Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped back and bumped into his chest, but he was already there to steady you.

With his arm on your waist and your back leaning against his chest, you made eye contact through the mirror in front of you. You weren’t sure if the pounding you felt was from your heart or his or a combination of both.

There was something almost erotic about holding each others’ gaze in the mirror after Shouto just helped you dress, the two of you still not letting the other go despite the task being complete.

“The dress… You look gorgeous,” he said, not taking his eyes off you for one moment.

You nodded slowly. It did look amazing on you. And it was breathable and soft. (Plus, Shouto liked it, which made you happier than you’d care to admit.) “The only downside would be I need help getting into it.”

“We could get ready together so it’s no issue.”

“I’d...also need help getting out of it.”

You held your breath as his eyes darkened, his grip on your waist tightening ever so slightly in a way that made you curve your back before you remembered you were flush against Shouto and he could feel even the most subtle of movements coming from your body. But by the time you stopped yourself, it was too late. He already felt it and you wanted more.

His voice was hoarse. “I could help you with that too.”

Instead of beginning to unbutton the dress like part of you thought he would, he surprised you by spinning you around to face him, your shoulder blades pressed against the cool glass of the mirror and your palms lingering on the muscles of his warm chest. The contrast of the cold glass and Shouto’s body heat left a shiver down your spine.

“And how do you plan to help take off my dress when you can’t even see the buttons?” you said challengingly, a smirk on your face despite knowing full well your body was showcasing just how affected you were by this situation. By Shouto.

He tilted his head to the side in response to your daring tone, hands swiftly finding their way to your back and unbuttoning the top five buttons. It wasn’t enough to completely expose your breasts, but it was enough to loosen the fabric at the neckline in a way that made you gasp.

“Seems doable to me,” he commented.

You tugged him down slightly by the collar of his shirt. “I don’t quite believe you. Maybe you should prove it.”

A guttural noise sounded from the back of his throat as he cupped your jaw and leaned in closer. You inched forward, eager to meet his lips. But before they could touch, a knock came from the wall next to the curtain, causing the two of you to freeze in your spots, bodies pressed against each other in an intimate flush.

“Hello, Y/N?” said Masuda cheerfully, blissfully ignorant about what was about to happen in a public dressing room in the middle of the store. “How are the dresses coming along? Did you like any?”

“Ah, actually…” you trailed off, exchanging frustrated but amused glances with Shouto. “I think we’ll take this one.”

a/n: so...mirror sex/sex in a dressing room as a bonus chapter? u.u why yes of course. i’m one step ahead; did u even have to ask? LMAO and hm i wonder if y/n’s fEeLiNGs~ are reciprocated skfkfkdg ALSO THEY WERE SO CLOSE TO KISSING BUT DIDN’T I CRY hopefully the wait will be worth it ;3

what to expect in the next part:

GALA TIMEEEE

yes y/n finally gets the fancy candy they so desired

we get to see shouto’s sexy penthouse

shouto says eat the rich >:c

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shu-sakamaki · 3 years

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I wanted to share some domestic/gentle Shuu Sakamaki headcanons because the world need softness (and admin like headcanons nobody can stop me Ú-Ù) Those headcanons are when Shuu is in a relationship with his S/O and he is happy

- Shuu loves art, not like "art is for certain people" type of bs, Shuu like all types of art, cinema, paintings, music, dance, everything. And I feel like he have all those apps on his phone that gives him notifications when there is a new exhibit or a new restaurant that just opened and he always check up on it to take his girlfriend somewhere. It's like "hey did you see that there is a two-months exhibit about Ancient Egypt ? We should go see it." or "I saw that a new Indian restaurant opened, do you want to eat Indian food ?" He also like well-done video games with nice storyline and beautiful visuals or indie psychological films. #shuuisaarthoe

- Matching pyjama set matching pyjama set !! This one is inspired from @nutaella-kookie 's blog where she have a "things that Shuu might be into" article and she wrote about pj pants on girls which made think that blondie would love to match pyjamas with you and buy really comfy satin sets for both of you OR buy one pj set and you will wear the top part and he'll wear the pants.

- He also looooooves skincare ! Not necessarily the really long layering skincare routine but the facemasks and the face facecreams with a soft scent, him and you are putting on your sheet masks and taking a bunch of silly pictures together or trying the new snacks that you bought the day before.

- Talking about snacks and food, I'm sure that Shuu cooks really well, (he's like Barbie, he can do everything) even simple meals like pasta he made it taste like something expensive, its like HOW ?? What is he putting in the food ? Also if you're trying to cook something and you fail it's okay, he will probably taste it or eat it anyways or gobble it down just like he ate Kanato's jelly-

- Shuu likes to put on soft music in the morning and wake his girlfriend up with kisses on her neck and cheeks before lifting her up and gently putting her on the couch when she have to wake up to go to work or school. "Love, did you sleep well ? I'm going to make you some coffee..."

- Late nights convo with him are the BOMB, I don't know what yall are talking about, but yall be talking till the sun rises. Also, none of you really says goodnight because you are falling asleep in the middle of a conversation.

- When you have the impulse of adopting an animal, Shuu is not really the type to calm you down, in fact, he may be worse. You can be like "Omg I want a baby goat" and he'll answer by "They're so cute" and both of you are already in a conversation about names then two hours later Shuu come back "Well, maybe it's not a good idea, we live in a flat...we need a house...and a garden, or else the goat won't be happy."

- Watching movies or shows with him is the best thing ever because he can be like "This is stupid" but keep watching to see where it goes (example : he's watching Twilight) or if he's interested he gives the most interesting theories ever and you two can talk for HOURS about what is going to happen next. And if you are watching an episode without him he will appear on the dark little space of the room like "How dare you 🧍🏼‍♂️" and will fake being hurt.

- Shuu is good at imitations, to you moaning when he was having sex with you last night, to the weird man that you saw on the tram.

- Now I know that Shuu is a Sadistic fuck and really cruel and mean, but something about him gives me "gentle giant" type of vibes and I think that he's the dude who regularly gives money to homeless people and humanitarian societies, especially the ones that help starving children.

- On the subject of children, Shuu have the FACE that attracts little kids, like those bright wide eyes are the ones that the babies are looking at in the line during groceries shopping and Shuu is sometimes making silly faces to make them laugh. Or if he sees an alone children who's lost and crying he will slightly look at them, just to check that nothing happens or even ask where are their parents.

- Shuu hates public transport, crowded places where strangers are squeezed together, he hates it with his whole chest. One time a dude was checking you out and smirked and blondie was going mental on the little wagon, you had to calm him down and tell that there are people, when you walked out, Shuu shoulder-checked the dude and was hoping to see him fall on the dirty floor.

- If your legs hurt or you are tired of walking when you are outside, he makes you jump on his back (his arched back yum) or he lift you up in bridal style without a care in the world, yes, even if you are in the middle of the city with dozens of people.

- Shuu is the clingy type and especially when you are outside he want to maintain physical contact so he's holding your hand most of the time and I feel like he has the habits of rubbing your hand with his thumbs or absent-mindedly kissing the back of it and you just look at him like "🥺🥺"

- Also about him clingy in public, he is also the boyfriend who put his head on the top of your head or your shoulder, holding you by the waist or give you soft pecks on the lips by pressing your cheeks together with one hand and kissing you.

- Shuu kinda gives the best advice regarding fashion, I think that he knows a lot about color coordination so he is able to give you the best advice in regards of clothing or makeup that you should pick when you are shopping together.

Now, I probably got carried away so I'm going to stop there and wish everyone to have a wonderful day and to be happy, if you are in a tough situation remember that it will get better I promise, whoever you are, you are deserving of happiness and worthy of love and you are all beauties and I say we should drown Shuu in our gorgeousness. 😃🤗

((This.... *CHEF KISS*. Soft.

#Ask #HC #Admin

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dwellordream · 3 years

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“...First, let’s talk about materials. We can rule out a Steppe Nomad inspiration for any of this right off. The Eurasian Steppe is very large and covers a range of arid climates (that is to say, parts of it are colder, parts of it are warmer), but they all have spinning and weaving technology, by which the supple hairs of woolly animals, or plant fibers like linen, or cotton, or even natural protein fibers like silk can be fashioned into fabric which is more flexible, comfortable, breathable and temperature controlled than the raw leather we see in the show.

...there is a distinct lack here of lots of leather, except in the sort of things that lots of cultures use leather for (boots, fittings, saddles, bags, tents). Instead, clothing is mostly made out of nice, comfortable, breathable textiles, because of course it is. That is not to say, to be clear, that leather or hides or fur were never used – fur especially was used; merely that they were generally used to supplement clothing primarily made out of textile.

...Now Plains Native American clothing does make much greater use of animal skin as a clothing material, but there is an important distinction to be made here. The problem here is with the plasticity of the term ‘leather’ which can technically include a wide range of products, but in practice is understood to mean exactly what the Game of Thrones costume department and literally every piece of official artwork of the Dothraki understand it to mean, which is the product of tanning processes.

I am not an expert, but as far as I can tell, Native American clothing was not made in the same way; animal products were used in a process I have seen described as ‘brain tanning’ (rather than using chemical tannins) and the final product was then smoked. The result – which is often called ‘buckskin’ regardless of the animal source for the hide – is very different from the leather we see in the show.

This is, in terms of material, very clearly not what the ‘vests’ the Dothraki in the show are wearing. Buckskin would also be used to make trousers, as opposed to the “horsehair leggings” of Martin’s wording, which also strike me as deeply improbable. Haircloth – fabric made from horsehair (or camel hair) – is durable, but typically stiff, unsupple and terribly itchy; not something you want in direct contact with your skin (especially not between your rear end and a saddle), unless you just really like skin irritation. It is also a difficult material to get in any kind of significant quantity – and you would need a significant quantity if you intended to make most of your trousers out of it.

...Well that’s for materials, what about patterns? Once again, we can quite easily rule out anything steppe inspired. Again, the Eurasian Steppe is big and has lots of variety, but relatively long robes are generally the norm in terms of dress; where long robes were not worn (see our Scythian above), the common pattern was heavy sleeved garments and trousers with very complete coverage. A common example of the type of long robe-like garments is the Mongolian deel, a long sleeved robe or tunic which provides a lot of protection against the elements. In the case of elites – and Daenerys is, initially, mostly around elites – these could be made of expensive silk or brocade – but poorer versions might be made of wool.

...And there is good reason for these relatively high-coverage garments. Plains or Steppe peoples naturally tend to live on, well, plains and steppes – that is large expanses of semi-arid grasslands. The very nature of that terrain configuration produces fairly extreme seasonal temperature variations (that is, very hot summers and very cold winters) as well as extreme daily temperature variations (that is, hot days and cold nights) because such places are far from large bodies of water and also don’t have tree-cover, both of which serve to moderate rapid temperature changes.

Consequently, as anyone who has lived in a plains state in the USA (or on the Eurasian Steppe, though that is fewer of my readers, but for my brave handful of hits from that part of the world, hello and welcome!) can tell you, you need clothes that can be layered and which can be both warm in the winter and cool in the summer. For us moderns, we mostly do this by owning multiple season-specific wardrobes, but clothing is expensive in pre-modern societies, so multi-purpose garments, or garments that be layered, to turn a warm-weather outfit into a cold-weather outfit are important!

There’s no reason to suppose the Dothraki Sea would be any different: it sits at about the same latitude as King’s Landing so there is little reason to assume it would be warm all-year-round. Parts of the Eurasian Steppe stretch decently far south, sharing a latitude with northern Italy and Spain; nevertheless they do not enjoy the same Mediterranean climate because they don’t have the same exposure to the weather patterns created by the sea. The southern end of the Great Plains stretches down all the way into Texas, but still gets properly cold in the winter with temperatures regularly dipping below freezing in the winter despite the latitude. For a people who are camping and working outside all of the time, warm clothing is going to be a must.

...There is tremendous variety here, but I don’t think any of it could be aptly described simply as “Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings.” Now, if you looked hard enough could you find something that resembled Martin’s leather vests, bare chests and horsehair leggings somewhere in the clothing of Native Americans across two continents? Probably, but among the specific Native peoples that Martin cites as inspiration, it does not seem to be at all common. And if that description was wholly unconnected to anything in the real world, we might well stop there and conclude that, well this is just the ‘dash of pure fantasy’ that Martin was talking about (although as we’ll see, it is going to be quite a bit more than just a dash). But I don’t think we can stop there, because (removing the medallion belts) Martin’s description does adequately describe something that exists in the real world: Halloween costumes purporting to depict Native Americans.

...The vest-and-pants style of Native American Halloween costume seems to be rather rare now, but it was, at least to my memory, much more common in the 1990s, when A Game of Thrones was written (initial publication date of 1996). You can see them, for instance, on many of the background extras in the famous Thanksgiving scene from Addams Family Values (1993) and that vest style was also a part of the outfit for the also-quite-unfortunately-branded YMCA Indian Guides/Indian Princesses program (rebranded as the ‘Adventure Guides’ in 2003 after decades of Native Americans complaining about it) which was also fairly popular in the 1990s.

Now, I am not saying that Martin planned to construct his Dothraki out of Native American stereotypes and bad Halloween costumes. In fact, I am fairly confident he intended nothing of the sort. But in the absence of doing some effective research (and it is going to become increasingly apparent that at least effective research was not done) there was quite possibly nothing else to inform the effort other than what was ‘in the air’ of the popular consciousness. Of course the danger of those often simplistic public stereotypes is that people often do not know that they have them, assuming instead that the vague impression they have is essentially accurate (or at least, close enough for a regular person). And that’s a real problem because it reinforces the popular stereotype, especially given Martin’s reputation for writing more ‘historically grounded’ fiction. And that is a problem because…

The clothing that the Dothraki are described and visually shown wearing is clearly intended to convey things about their society. Returning to our visual comparison above, it is easy to see that the actual clothing of both Eurasian and American ‘horse cultures’ was often bright, highly decorated and generally eye-catching, featuring complex patterns and shapes. It was both nice looking, but also spoke to the humanity of the people that made it and their very human desire to look nice and have nice looking things. By contrast, the clothing of the Dothraki is presented as simple, rugged and unadorned.

...I want to stress this to make the point clear: people in the past liked to look nice! Much of the popular perception of pre-modern clothing assumes lots of dull, drab colors, undecorated or merely adorned with rough pelts, but this is almost entirely a Hollywood construction. The Romans didn’t exclusively dress in white (indeed, the toga candida, the white toga, was an unusually formal thing to wear, like a politician’s suit-with-flag-pin), medieval peasants didn’t wear drab brown (they dressed in bright primary colors mostly), and as I hope the historical pictures for this essay show, both steppe nomads and Plains Native Americans wore nice clothing with lots of patterns, color and decoration. These men next to Khal Drogo are his elite guard of ‘bloodriders,’ the companions of a ruler who wields tremendous power and wealth! And yet they have opted to wear mostly undecorated bland brown leather.

Just to underline this point, think about what a fine set of clothing communicates to an observer (for instance, one of Khal Drogo’s thousands of mounted warrior retainers who are present at this event). Imported goods, like metalwares (which nomads won’t generally be able to make themselves) or fine imported fabrics demonstrate not only trade contacts but also often that the leader has useful ties to foreign leaders (since such things were often gifts or tribute from foreign courts). Garments whose production, due to fine patterns, complex weaves, intricate beading or quillwork, would take many, many hours of production demonstrate that the leader has a lot of subordinate people in their household (in many cases, that would mean women), which both implies the ability to give these people as gifts (either in marriage or because of their non-free status) and also the access to resources (in this case herds of animals) needed to sustain so many people – in short, the sort of leader who can reward faithful warriors richly.

And of course a leader who outfits his closest retainers – his bloodriders, in this case – with such wares (especially expensive foreign metal military equipment) demonstrates both access to military capital and also the ability to reward his trusted lieutenants. In short, the Khal whose person and immediate retainers are decked out in finery looks like backing the winning side, which is a very important thing to assess as one of his warriors. So even if not one of Drogo’s men cares about their personal appearance at all, it is still politically important for them to dress for success.

Which then demands the question, looking at the very fine clothing of historical horse cultures that supposedly provided the inspiration for these Dothraki fellows: Where is the exquisite bead work? The fine quillwork? Where are the carefully made fringes? Where is the silk brocade? Where are the detailed, complex patterns?”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part I: Barbarian Couture.”

#the dothraki #bret devereaux #history #fashion #grrm critical

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whitecrowapothecary · 3 years

Text

Like A Dream

Jaskier has had dreams for as long as he could remember- of monsters and magic and all the things that go bump in the night. He dreams of golden eyes and silver swords and honeyed ballads.

AKA the modern immortal/reincarnation AU no one asked for but I’m writing

Read it on AO3 here!

There’s music around him. Coming from him, his throat warm and honeyed with the lyrics he sings. Not him- the bard, the unknown man who captures his mind at night when he closes his eyes. He- they- are playing for an audience. Jaskier is used to this, the wayward looks, captured attention, but it’s… new. There’s an instrument in his hand he’s never learned to play and lyrics on his lips he’s never written, clothes resplendent of another time, another world, and he drinks it in with abandon. Full, flowing skirts, jackets made of the richest silk brocade in all colors, though all are muted compared to the bright, rich amethyst ensemble he seems to have donned for the performance.

He’s deep into his set, if he should call it that, singing about a fishmongers daughter just to get a laugh out of the crowd when his eyes catch on a small, insignificant detail. Jaskier sings and sways among the royalty around him, but all he can see is gold with flecks of amber, curious cat eyes watching him from the shadows. He takes a step closer, then two, then three until he’s propelling through the crowd, and just as a jaw covered in a neat snow white beard is unearthed from the shadows, a blare sounds, and the image shatters.

He gasps awake, clutching at his chest and trying to quell the shaking of his hands. Sweat sticks his hair to the back of his neck and his forehead in small curls which Jaskier rakes a hand through. On the nightstand, next to the bed, his phone vibrates, clanking softly against the wood until Jaskier scoops it up and hits answer. There are only a handful of people who will actually ring through.

“What, Pris?”

“Ah, woke you up huh? Touchy touchy. You haven’t forgotten about our brunch date, have you?” The voice on the other end is perky, far too awake for Jaskier’s liking right now.

“No, no of course not. You aren’t here yet, are you?” He slips from bed, grimacing and rummaging through his closet for something to wear, phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder.

“Almost, a block away.”

“Shit, okay, let yourself in?” The woman on the other end hums, amused, and Jaskier hangs up. Leave it to him to fail to set an alarm for something like this. He drags his sorry carcass into the bathroom, intent on getting a shower. He feels cold and sticky for all the wrong reasons, and when he looks at himself in the mirror the blue in his eyes is offset by the purple bags underneath. It’s… not an attractive look for himself. The hot water pounds against his back when he hops under the spray and he groans, letting it wash over him. Praying it’ll wash away the dream that seems to cling to him, digging at his bones and refusing to leave.

He’d had the dreams for as long as he could remember- at first they were nothing more than terrors, dreams of hideous, foul smelling creatures with sharp claws. Claws that regularly tore into the soft flesh of his belly, or the tender meat of his thigh, leaving him to wake up screaming and thrashing in bed. His parents, bless them, had tried everything to help, from heavy medication to therapy to a stint in a mental facility, but nothing took the monsters away. Medication only trapped him within his dreams, unable to wake up until he was well and thoroughly taken apart, and therapists only insisted the monsters were representations of some trauma he’d sustained as a child. The stay at the mental facility, well, that was more a break for his parents than thirteen year old Jaskier.

He’d learned to hide them, since then, to hold people at arms length and keep them from seeing what he truly was. The monsters rarely followed him into real life, but on the occasion he saw mention of a kikimore on the news, or a striga cropped up in Germany somewhere, well, it was all too easy to flip the channel and pretend. Now though… it was becoming harder and harder to leave his dreams behind when the sun came up. The dreams had shifted when he was almost eighteen, from monsters hunting and maiming him to something else- instruments and performances and gaudy, awful clothing he had no name for. Days spent walking and walking and walking, sweating under the sun but grinning like it didn’t bother whoever was in his dreams. It was harder still, to pretend that the performer in his dreams didn’t have his hands, his wonderful, skillful fingers, or the voice he’d spent years fine tuning.

He’s knocked from his reverie by the sound of his front door opening and clicking shut and the smell of food drifting in. His stomach growls loudly, protesting it’s current situation, and Jaskier hurries to finish his shower and get dressed. He’s got a towel in hand, scrubbing at his hair when he pads out barefoot and spots the blonde currently tinkering with his tv remote. Her blue eyes are bright, friendly, and she motions to the spread of food currently piled on his coffee table.

“Got you coffee.”

“Thank Melitele.” He makes a beeline for it, not caring the way it burns his tongue as he gulps it down. That draws a laugh from his companion, and he throws himself onto the couch, settling his legs across her lap and tossing his towel onto the chair nearby. He’ll get it later. “You’re a godsend, you know that Priscilla?”

A small smile plays on the woman’s lips, colored by rouge lipstick, and she raises a brow. “I do, but it’s nice to hear. Did you not sleep at all last night, Jaskier?”

“Ah, I’m afraid my muse kept me up, as usual.” He grins at her, reaching out to snag a strawberry from her plate before bending to get at the french toast on the coffee table. It smells absolutely divine, and maybe some food will make him feel more like himself and less like a shell of someone else.

“You really need to learn how to prioritize sleep.” Priscilla says, shaking her head fondly and digging into her eggs. He hums, half paying attention to the news on the screen. It’s nothing new, stocks going up and down, the latest in sports, and something about him, actually. Talking about his newest single that’s put him up in the top ten- Her Sweet Kiss. Jaskier clicks away before they can play the music, drawing a laugh from Priscilla. “You know, you never told me where the song came from.”

“Didn’t I? A whirlwind affair in Europe, during my last tour. She was… incredible, shall I say? Truly someone never forgotten.” He’s bullshitting and Priscilla knows it. The song had come to him, as most do now, in his dreams. Ringing through his ears in a voice so close to his he can feel his throat burning when he wakes up. She doesn’t press though- she knows better than to push Jaskier too far. The glassy, far away look he got when thinking about whatever it was that inspired his songs was sad, old, and lingered on Jaskier’s face the rest of the day. Jaskier focuses on eating now, barely tasting bite after bite and only stopping when his stomach is full. Priscilla does much the same, but she chatters through the melancholy.

Jaskier stops himself on a random show, listening to Priscilla but staring at the screen. It’s something nonsense, talking about old instruments, but his hand stops mid bite, the french toast falling back onto his plate with a wet smack. He stares, wide eyed, at the wide, oval bowl of the instrument and the short, sturdy neck. The strings, there are more than a guitar but not nearly enough- no, his had more. Six pairs, one singular. His?

“-ier? Jaskier, what is it?”

“What is that?” His voice sounds strange, words twisted faintly by an accent he’s never had before, and he sets his plate down as Priscilla looks between him and the tv.

“An instrument? You put on the show.”

“But what kind?” At this Priscilla frowns. She doesn’t seem to know either, and she shrugs reluctantly.

“We could ask Essi, I’m sure she knows more. Why, do you recognize it?”

“No.” He says softly, switching the tv off. He ignores Priscilla’s worried look and goes instead to put on socks and shoes, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on. It’s big, engulfs his frame, but there’s something about it he couldn’t get out of his head when he’d seen it in a thrift shop off of 28th. It’s also entirely too hot outside to need it, but he feels naked without it, and the hood will give him a better chance at remaining hidden. Not that that happens much anymore. Priscilla has the food cleaned up when he steps out of his room, and she swings her keys around her finger, lingering near the door.

“Where are we going today, my famous friend?” Jaskier rolls his eyes, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Anywhere but here. I think I’ll go mad if I hide in bed anymore.”

“That’s the spirit! There’s this new music store on Madison we could check out, and then that little bistro for a late lunch-” Her words fade from his ears as they merge into the crowd outside of his apartment building. He slips on sunglasses, nondescript ones he’d gotten from a random gas station, and prays that today he looks like anyone else. With Priscilla at his side, arm looped through his, no one pays much attention to the couple wandering down the street, chattering away. Jaskier feels a rush of gratitude for his friend, for the unwavering presence she is in his life. He’s not sure how he would have managed his budding fame without her, or handled being recognized everywhere once his face and name and music became more common knowledge.

“You’re the one who wrote the songs.” A rough voice reminds him, teasing.

“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to break into my HOUSE for an autograph!”

“Get better doors. And a guard.” He drowns in those eyes, an endless pool of gold, and he reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair away, a smile stretching his lips wide.

“Why would I need anyone other than you?”

Jaskier stumbles over a crack in the sidewalk, pitching forward, and it’s only Priscilla next to him that keeps him standing. He rights himself, cheeks pink, and laughs despite his heart pounding in his chest.

“Ah, rather clumsy today. I probably should have had more coffee.”

“Or more sleep.” She counters, Jaskier laughing again and nodding in agreement. More sleep is definitely what he needs. A nice, dreamless sleep. Maybe if he gets that, he’ll be able to function like a human being again, instead of walking through the world with half a mind stuck firmly in fiction. The music shop is a quaint, cute little building tucked in a strip of other quaint buildings, and Jaskier ducks into the dim light of the shop. There are rows and rows of cds, vinyls, movies and more, and his eyes track along them all, taking in the sights and colors. There are plenty of instruments on the wall, guitars, basses, a couple of keyboards and a few sets of bongos even. There seems to be little rhyme or reason besides the alphabetical arrangement of the displays, and Jaskier spends his time wandering while Priscilla goes straight for the vinyls.

He’s near the back of the shop, by the counter when he spots an instrument on display behind the glass display. The sight is enough to make him freeze, and he stares at the smooth wood, the graceful curve of the instrument, finding that his fingers have begun to twitch. This can’t be a coincidence.

“Do you play?” A voice breaks through to him, and he has to blink a few times before he can focus on the man standing before him. His dark hair curls rather attractively, falling around his face and framing rather striking hazel eyes. Jaskier’s countenance sours immediately, and he squints suspiciously. It takes the man a moment, but he grins wide when he recognizes Jaskier. “Dandelion! A pleasure to have you here.”

“Valdo. This is your shop?”

“It is indeed, opened it up after my last album.” He’s proud, almost annoyingly so, but Jaskier begrudgingly has to admit the shop is rather nice. His eyes wander back to the instrument behind Valdo, and Valdo raises his brows. “You never said if you played. Would you like to hold it?”

“You’d let me?”

“I’ve seen how you care for your guitar. I’d warn you it’s expensive, but I know you’re good for any damages.” Jaskier snorts as the other man goes to grab the instrument, and his fingers drum against his thighs. “Do you even know what this is?”

“Not a clue.” Jaskier’s hands are reaching for it as soon as Valdo holds it out, and he tucks the strap around his body. The neck settles into his hands, fingers resting on the strings, and a line of tension holding his body razor tight snaps.

“It’s a-” The soft sound of Jaskier plucking out a melody stops Valdo short, and Jaskier closes his eyes to ward off the dizziness.

A fire crackles merrily in front of him as he plays, tinkering away at a tune with his notebook close by. He isn’t sure about the harmony of the piece, the way the notes blend together. There’s something missing, and he can’t figure out what it is. He stops with a heavy sigh, scrubbing at his face and wracking his brain.

“You’re missing the lowest note in the harmony.”

“Pardon?” He looks up, sees the sensual curve of a small smirk on a very ruggedly handsome face, and those eyes, always those eyes staring back. The man comes over, reeking of pine and metal and home, and reaches to softly pluck at one of the strings. The note rings out and Jaskier latches on.

“Try.” The man whispers, and Jaskier does, drawing the note into his harmony and grinning at the fully bodied life it brings.

Jaskier’s head is spinning when he finally opens his eyes again, Valdo staring at him with unabashed surprise. Priscilla is at his side, hand on his elbow to hold him steady, and he glances down at the familiar way in which his hands hold the lute. Because that’s what it is- his favorite instrument, the thing that made him coin and granted him fame and found him a-

Jaskier’s heart cracks in his chest, and his breath punches out of him in one big whoosh. He lifts the lute over his head, pressing it back into Valdo’s hands before turning to bolt out the front door of the shop. He doesn’t know where he’s going, merely that he has to get away, to find somewhere safe. He feels a thousand eyes on him, whispers following his frantic fleeing, and he ducks into an alleyway, hiding behind a trash can and pressing his back to the brick wall. There’s a stitch in his side from his frantic running and his hands won’t stop shaking as he rakes his fingers through his hair. The song rings through him, as fresh as the day it was written, and the lyrics come to him unbidden.

He’s crazy. He’s well and truly crazy, because there’s no way what he’s seeing can be real, but it’s so vividly him, buried so deep in his heart that there’s no way it could be fake either. His breath comes from him faster and faster, and tears blur his vision as he folds his knees up to his chest and rocks. Priscilla finds him that way, huddled in a ball amongst the trash, sobbing and muttering to himself, and she uses the large hood of his jacket to hide his face as she gets him home. Jaskier has calmed enough to get himself up the stairs when they manage to stumble their way back, and his chest aches from the pounding of his heart.

The tremor in his hands hasn’t abated yet, but the mug that’s pressed into his hands doesn’t shake, so he just enjoys the warmth that it brings him. Priscilla seems at a loss for words, but Jaskier knows what she wants to ask. “Just say it, Pris.”

“What happened? You haven’t been yourself all morning- first with the tv, and then the lute in the shop? Jaskier, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“I have dreams.” He says, voice so soft it’s almost lost in the sound of his heartbeat. “And lately, I can’t tell what’s real and what’s not.”

Priscilla reaches out, touching his shoulder lightly, and her face is soft, sad. “They’re just dreams. What you do here, the music you make, that’s what’s real.”

Jaskier nods, but his heart is plummeting in his chest and he doesn’t know why. Priscilla’s words should be a comfort, someone rooted in his reality telling him that his dreams are just that- dreams. The result of an overactive imagination. That’s all they are, all they’ve ever been. Jaskier tries not to let the thought suck him down somewhere he doesn’t want to go, but it’s near impossible to fight the tide rising in him. “They’re just dreams.”

He takes a sip of his lukewarm drink to find that it’s tea- the stuff he usually drinks as a last resort before bed time. It’s never worked before, but Jaskier downs the rest of it and hopes that this time, it will. Priscilla waits until he’s finished to take the cup, and when she comes back she’s holding a very large, very lute shaped object in her hands. Jaskier frowns, confused, but takes it from her anyway, tracing fingers over the lacquered wood. It’s smooth and warm under his touch, and he finds himself picking at the strings just to hear the sound. “Valdo said that it was yours.”

“I didn’t pay him.”

“He knew you’d say that. He said, and I quote ‘I’ve only been holding it for him.’ Whatever that might mean.” Jaskier schools his features into careful indifference, trying not to let his discomfort show. What in the hell does he mean by that? He’s going to have to go back to the shop and talk to him to find out, but he’s not inclined to leave his apartment for the foreseeable future. Priscilla, sensing the mood has gone down, ruffles Jaskier’s hair and gives his shoulders a squeeze. “Take some time, Dandy, get some sleep, then come back.”

Jaskier makes a soft noise in his throat at the silly nickname, but it’s sweet and Jaskier has never told her to stop. He watches her duck out of the apartment with one last look his way, and once the door clicks shut, locking behind her, he grips the lute tighter. He hasn’t ever played formally- has never been trained, and while a guitar is similar, there’s more strings than ever and he expects to fumble.

He doesn’t.

His fingers know what to do even without his brain, and he hums along to the melody from before. Here, in the safety of his apartment, he plays and plays until the song is firmly committed to memory and he’s written down the lyrics to go along with it. A song about the monster of the wood, a cruel, hungry creature with the head of a deer, stalking him in the night.

“You need to listen to me-”

“I’m your barker, for better or worse. How can I bark if I never see anything?”

“You stay alive for a day longer.” His hands shake with anger, chest burning with it, and the man in front of him, golden eyes fierce and animal, glares back just as hotly. They’re nose to nose practically, and his head pounds in time with his heartbeat as his hands come up, shoving the man away and watching in shock as he goes.

“Go then. I’ll be here, tending your fire and watching your horse, as that is all I am good for.” He turns then, but a hand grabs at his arm, turning him around on his heel. He pulls against it, fights to be released, but Geralt’s hand bunches in his shirt above his heart and holds him. “Geralt-”

“For better or worse, Jaskier.” His eyes meet gold, molten and scalding, and he’s speechless at the sincere intensity in Geralt’s gaze. “I would rather it be better.”

“You don’t get to decide that-” Geralt cuts him off with a kiss, lips hard against his own. It’s awkward, a bit painful, but Jaskier tilts his head, pulls back a bit and Geralt responds in kind. He kisses, Jaskier decides, like a man who has been kissed not nearly enough, and he commits himself to fixing that immediately. Geralt’s grip loosens in Jaskier’s shirt, but Jaskier’s hand comes up to bury in snow white locks, keeping him close as his heart rockets into his throat.

The strings of the lute dig painfully into his fingers when he comes to, and he shakes himself, releasing his tight hold and groaning when blood rushes back into the pads of his fingers. He tucks the lute back away in its case, not wanting to look at the flowers painted onto the wood along its wide belly. He tells himself not to touch the lute, to leave it alone so that all this will go away, but the longer he sits on his couch, leg bouncing and tv on some awful movie the more his fingers itch to play.

Instead, he forces himself to get up, to pull out his vacuum and mop and cleaning supplies. He spends the afternoon scrubbing down every inch of the apartment, puts away his laundry, and even tidies up his desk, which is a rather artful disarray of papers. Some, like Priscilla, call it a mess, but Jaskier knows where each piece of paper goes, and he prefers it stays that way. Cleaning can only distract him for so long, and once the smell of lemon cleaner becomes too much he caves, grabbing the lute and ducking out onto his balcony.

The sun is beginning to descend on the city, and he allows it to warm his bones and loosen his muscles as he plays. Each song that comes from him is new and old and entirely his, each rich, resounding note a piece of him. The instrument is no more a stranger to him than his guitar, or his flute, or any of the other instruments he’s picked up and enjoyed along the way. Its weight, the feeling of the double strings pressing under his fingers is home to him, and he plays long after the sun is set. There’s a reckoning, a righteousness within this instrument that calls to the deepest parts of Jaskier’s soul, and he finds himself crying with no real reason as to why.

He cries silently, holding the lute close to him and staring out over the city. Cars rush past his building, far below, and somewhere nearby a dog barks. But it’s all background noise- it’s nothing compared to the harsh intake of his breath or the way that it shudders out of him. When he can’t stand it anymore he retreats back inside, leaving his lute on his dresser before stripping down and crawling into bed. There, buried under blankets and utterly, terribly alone, Jaskier closes his eyes and dreams.

“You’re alive.” A low, rough voice breathes behind him. He turns, but he already knows what will be waiting for him, and he can feel his face lighting up in a grin.

“Geralt! Of course I’m alive, how could the world bear to part with me just yet?” His heart jackrabbits in his chest at the sight of the man before him, clad as always, in dark armor and a stormy, conflicted expression. Well, the expression is new. The armor, not so much. He finds himself smiling for no real reason as to why, but Geralt’s face is open and honest and terrified, and he can’t keep from reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

“There were rumors- about a bard, having been murdered by a beast.”

“As if I could be harmed by a beast with you protecting me.”

“But I wasn’t.” Jaskier takes a step forward, cupping his witcher’s cheek and smiling when Geralt leans into the touch.

The dream dissolves as Jaskier shifts, drifting between consciousness and unconsciousness. The latter wins out, and his body drifts away while his mind slips again.

Blue eyes stare at him through the mirror. It isn’t a great mirror, small and cracked and woven with imperfections, but he won’t need it for long. He only needs to make sure his hair is presentable, his golden doublet unmarred by any stains, and that his smile, when shown just so, is as charming and delightful as always.

“You’re fussing.” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows, his heart knows that voice and the hand that slides over his hip better than anything. He finds himself leaning back against a strong chest, laughing and tipping his head back.

“Some of us care for our appearance before a performance.” An amused hum, and then lips on his neck, gentle and sweet, kissing a trail up toward Jaskier’s waiting lips. He sinks into the kiss, turning as Geralt’s arms come up and around him, careful not to crease Jaskier’s clothes.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Most of the night. You’re free to come, love. I’m sure they’d love to pester the White Wolf himself.”

“Mmm, pester is right.” The warmth in his chest is softer now, with no edges of anger, and he knows what this is. It’s love. Pure and unfettered by doubt.

That same warmth burns in his chest when he jerks up in bed, leaping from under the covers to run into his bathroom. The mirror he has now is perfect- gleaming with the fresh cleaning he’d done just today and showing his reflection without any defects. The same blue eyes stare back, sweeping over the same lips, the same cheekbones and nicely shaped jawbone. The same messy, tousled brown hair as the bard in the dream. As him . Whoever he was- is- is long gone- left behind in another life completely. That isn’t him anymore, it can’t be, but when he thinks, and thinks hard, they’re there. All the memories, the times in between his dreams. The first time he’d seen Geralt, sitting in the back of a tavern refusing to meet anyone’s eyes, to draw any unwanted attention to him. The feeling of his hair, so devoid of color, twisting around his fingers as he washed blood and viscera from them. His friends- Priscilla, in her blue and red ensemble with the poofy shorts, Essi, a near twin to Priscilla, only shorter and plumper. Valdo, his rival, the troubadour who writes songs without any meaning but somehow comes out on top.

Valdo.

Jaskier scrambles for his phone, dropping it twice before finally swiping open the screen. He has his number, more to make sure he never answers than anything, but now, now he needs it more than anything else. He hits dial without letting himself think, holding his phone to his ear and shifting nervously from foot to foot. The line rings and rings, and just as he thinks it'll go to voicemail he hears a soft click.

"Dandelion? It's nearly three in the morning, what could you-"

"I'm not crazy."

"Debatable." Valdo's voice is amused, but when Jaskier doesn't respond he quickly grows serious.

"You said you were keeping the lute for me." His words are rolling in his mouth, voice mangled by an accent that he can't seem to keep away or bring back. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then a long, shuddering sigh.

"I was, Julian. For far, far too long. Meet me at the diner on Broadmoor." The line goes dead and Jaskier is left to get ready, a long, long dead name ringing in his ears.

-*-

There are three diners on Broadmoor. Jaskier curses his luck, but only one seems to have the lights on and so Jaskier heads that way first. He pulls on the door and is hit in the face by the smell of stale coffee and hash browns. He glances around, searching, and spots Valdo in a booth back in the corner. His face is drawn, hair a mess, but he has a cup of coffee waiting For Jaskier when he slides into the cheap plastic booth. Valdo slides the mug toward him and he clasps it in his hands, sniffing lightly. He debates putting sugar or cream in it, but he needs the caffeine too badly right now to care much about the bitter taste. Valdo watches his internal debate with a raised brow, leaning back in the booth and sighing.

“You remember.” Jaskier accuses, wincing at the way his tone sounds. Valdo takes it in stride, tilting his head in a small nod and sipping at his coffee.

“I always have. I didn’t know if you would this time around.”

“This time?” Valdo nods again, and Jaskier is quickly becoming frustrated by the non answers. “Valdo, what the fuck is going on?”

“Reincarnation. You’ve heard of it before, yes?” Jaskier nods, and Valdo continues on. “There are some of us who keep coming back. Not always with memories, not always whole. I seem to have no problem keeping them, but others like Priscilla, or Essi, or-”

“Are they really reincarnations?” Jaskier frowns- how much is it reincarnation if you’re just the same body without knowing if your consciousness is the same?

“I said that, didn’t I?” His glare is enough to set a house on fire, but Valdo doesn’t fold under the pressure, instead waving for menus to be brought over. “For decades I was unsure why. Why us? Nothing seemed to connect us together, just random strangers being brought through life. Until I found out you came along as well.”

“You’re saying that I’m the link?”

“You know us all, have some kind of connection. You are the one constant in each of our lives.”

“But the others, they don’t remember?”

“They never have.” Valdo orders something for the two of them, waving away Jaskier’s protest, and plows forward in his conversation. “You don’t always either. I’ve held that lute for the past two reincarnations, neither of which you retained memories for. But you remember now, or are beginning to.”

“Yes.” Jaskier’s voice is a whisper, and admitting it, saying that it’s real takes a weight off his shoulders he didn’t know he was carrying.

“Tell me how?” It’s phrased as a request, and Jaskier nods, staring at his coffee to try and ward off his tears.

“I was seventeen when my dreams started feeling real- performances or days on the road, nights spent stitching wounds or bandaging cuts. Lately they’ve-”

“Been bleeding into your waking hours. Like when you played in the shop.” Valdo’s interrupting makes irritation flare in the back of his mind, but he tamps it down. He’s only trying to help, and is filling in more details than Jaskier would have gotten on his own. Their food comes then, and Jaskier watches as some kind of breakfast scramble is placed in front of him. It’s heavy with hashbrowns, eggs, bacon and cheese. It looks awful. Jaskier digs in hungrily, groaning at the heavenly taste- shitty overnight diners always have the best food. They eat their food in relative silence, too hungry and tired to care much to continue with something else in front of them.

This all seems fake, too good to be real. Valdo’s instant reassurance of what he’s feeling, what he’s dreaming, it has to be some kind of con, some way to get dirt on him. He expects the other man to laugh any minute, to call him crazy and tell him he needs serious help. He’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming, and it makes him anstier and anstier by the second. It explains so much- the old, old memories he has of a time before electricity, or running water, of nobles and peasants and monsters. Of witchers and sorceresses and bards. There are newer memories too- of him in a diner much like this, sitting across from a man with white hair and shining golden eyes. Of dancing in a club to his own music, standing alongside all the others in a rally, holding a sign protesting the inequality that ruins his life while cameras show his face. Through it all, his companion is there- a silent, steady presence.

“There’s- a man. Who I am desperately in love with, no matter who I am.”

“Your witcher. White hair, cat eyes?” He doesn’t need to nod for Valdo to know the answer, and he grins. “His name is Geralt of Rivia, though Rivia is long gone now.”

“Is he…”

“Alive? Of course. They, unlike us, do not die.”

“They?” He doesn’t even get a chance to let Valdo talk, his vision going blurry and ears ringing.

“C’mere asshole!” Jaskier laughs, darting away from the witcher intent on catching him. It isn’t Geralt- his hair is dark and cropped short, voice smoother, less gravelly. He’s also much, much more expressive.

“Catch me if you can!” His lungs hurt from running and laughing so much, and he squeaks as hands grab the back of his doublet and yank him to a stop. Jaskier squirms as arms wrap around him, and he pouts, letting himself go deadweight. “You aren’t supposed to use your witchery powers, you know.”

“Oops.” He’s let go then, and Jaskier shoves the other man lightly, grinning.

“Ass. Maybe I’ll go find Eskel, at least he follows the rules of the game.”

“Rules are for peasants.”

“Then you should fit right in, Lambert.” He dodges a swat to the back of the head, laughing and disappearing further into the keep.

Valdo is staring at him expectantly when he blinks, the stone walls and cold breeze fading away from his mind. His food is lukewarm in front of him, and he takes a big bite just to avoid having to say anything yet. Valdo is too smug for his own good though, and he sits forward, grinning.

“Jogged your memory, eh?”

“Shut up.” His insufferable grin only grows bigger, and Jaskier wants to smack it off his face or strangle him. Either would work, honestly. “Is there some way to contact him, or any of them?”

“Not unless you’re a government official, or happen to know someone who had a pest problem. But, there is something that might work.”

“What?”

“Your songs. I'm sure you've already written new ones with the lute- release them in an album. If they’re listening, which is near impossible not to with your reputation, they’ll find you .”

“What if they don’t?”

“Then I suppose you’ll have to bed a government agent.” Jaskier scoffs, wrinkling his nose, but Valdo wags his eyebrows and he can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He falls into silence then, staring down at the rest of his food, and his voice is soft when he finally finds the courage to speak.

“Thank you. For keeping it safe.” When he glances up, Valdo’s eyes are bright, shining with relief.

-*-

Jaskier does what he does best- he writes a few songs, then writes a few more, until he’s bursting with music and lyrics and ideas. He gets himself into his studio and doesn’t leave until he’s recorded an entire album, with his lute being the main focus. It brings with it a new, exciting kind of charm that his producers eat right up, a kind of mystical energy that isn’t present in any of Jaskier’s other songs.

It’s also a release- he lets go of the monsters that haunted him, bringing them roaring into his music instead and letting them run wild. His dreams are still plagued by memories, but the more he plays, the more he tries to remember, the easier it gets. Turns out when you stop fighting against a piece of yourself, letting it in is much, much easier. The music videos are his favorite part of the whole process- he crafts one specific to each song, embedding as much of a message as he can in the hopes that one of the witcher’s will see. Will see him and know him, and extend a hand.

He tries to look up the witchers, to see if there’s any kind of way to find them online, but Lambert is too common a name and he has no clue what last name he would use, if any. Eskel’s name yields less results, but still too many for him to narrow down, and he’s left back at square one for them. Geralt’s name? Now that pulls up results.

‘ The witcher, most formally known as Geralt of Rivia, is one of the world’s only practicing monster slayers, and a bit of a recluse. He was last spotted hunting some kind of sea serpent along the mediterranean, and then boarded a plane bound for America.’

‘Geralt of Rivia, White Wolf, was allegedly seen decapitating a local woman at a train station in France. When questioned by police, they were informed that the woman was a bruxa who had been preying on locals. Mr. Rivia was released without further incident.’

That article makes Jaskier laugh, and he prints it out to tack above his desk on his cork board. Leave it to Geralt to scare everyone around him while doing his job. Any article related to Geralt gets its spot on the board, actually and he’s fairly certain he looks like a stalker, but they’re his only glimpse into what Geralt has been up to. It makes the pain easier to handle, knowing he’s just been too busy to seek Jaskier out, and certainly not ignoring the neon signs that are his music. Half of them are Geralt’s exploits, after all, and if he doesn’t recognize them then Jaskier has failed to faithfully recreate them.

But the songs work- somewhat. In a small town somewhere in the midwest, a witcher hears Jaskier’s music, and begins to hunt for his white haired brother.

Jaskier, in the meantime goes about his life, bouncing from interview to interview, one of which he’s in now. The chair is somewhat uncomfortable and the lights are a little too bright, but the woman interviewing him is new, nervous, and he does his best to put her at ease.

“You’re doing great, love. What were you saying?”

The woman blushes, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before asking again. “Your newest album, it pulls away from the bouncier, lighter tone of your second album. Why?”

“Good question. Writing fun music is wonderful, lovely, but I, and I’m sure you’ll be surprised, have my own fears. Monsters that haunt my dreams, who begged to be put into song.”

“So the songs are based on dreams?”

“Now you’re catching on.” Jaskier winks, drawing another giggle from her, and he leans back in his chair, tilting his head. “No one can tell me they don’t dream of dark and twisted things sometimes. Of wanting a knight in shining armor to come save them.”

“That’s an incredible way to put it. Are any of the monsters in your songs real?”

“Oh yes. The leshy, or leshen is a forest spirit that is said to roam the deepest parts of a forest. There are also ghouls, terrible hunchback creatures who stalk battlefields, and basilisks, large winged creatures with iridescent scales and scalding breath.”

He sees his interviewer shudder, and his gaze goes soft, a wistful smile tugging at his lips. “Where did you hear about these monsters?”

“From a friend, years ago.”

"Do you still talk to them?"

Jaskier's eyes find the camera, and it's a terrible cliche to spike the lens, but he does it anyway. "We lost contact a while back. I'm hoping that… through my music, I can find him again."

"Well, I'm sure your fanbase can help!"

"That they can." Jaskier grins, glancing back at the interviewer, and he hears someone yell cut behind them. He stands, shaking her hand and giving her a quick hug. He murmurs a few words of encouragement, and when he ducks into the room they've designated for him he tells his producer to send her something. Flowers or a gift or anything. She handled him like a champ. It's thankfully his last interview of the day, and he grabs his lute, which he brought just in case before ducking out the door. He makes his escape from the building out onto the street with relative ease, slinging his lute across his back to navigate the crowds easier. The amount of times he’s had to refuse security before they learned was more than he could count. He's stopped a few times by fans, asking to take pictures, and he glances at them on his phone once his Twitter dings.

@dandelion stopped and took a picture! Best day ever!

The rest of the post is filled with heart eye emojis and hashtags, but Jaskier stares at the photo. The awful stripes and swirls on his button up are reminiscent of a bowling alley floor, but his jeans are cute and his boots top the whole outfit off. He thought it'd looked cute when he put it on, and is pleased to see that others agree. He looks better in general- the bags under his eyes are all but gone and there's a confidence in the set of his shoulders he hadn't noticed before. Like knowing who he is has completed a puzzle he didn't know he'd lost a piece to.

He tucks his phone back into his pocket as he skips down the steps to the subway, whistling merrily the whole time. The public transportation in the city had to be his favorite thing in the world, aside from jelly donuts and Geralt's eyes. It makes going from place to place a snap, and he doesn't have to constantly tell people he can't drive when they ask where his car is. The train is running a minute behind, as usual, but Jaskier books it down the rest of the stairs and through the turnstile, jogging up just as the doors slide open. People file on quickly, taking their seats, and Jaskier moves to step on when he spots snow white hair.

That in itself isn't unusual- plenty of old people ride the subway, but it's a man who looks no older than his mid thirties. He's dressed in all black, jeans and a heavy sweater, and strapped to his back are twin swords, their pommels shining dully in the fluorescent lights of the train. A duffle bag hangs from one shoulder, nondescript, but a pale, scarred hand hovers over it protectively. Jaskier is aware he's staring, holding up the train, but his feet are rooted firmly in place as his head begins to pound. The man- Geralt- irritated by the lack of movement turns to see what's going on, golden cat eyes cold and hard. The sight sends vertigo crashing through Jaskier so wildly that he feels his knees give out, and his vision blurs as he collapses onto the ground.

-*-

"No, no. He's fine. Don't hold the train for us." A voice, rough and low and heavenly drifts through his consciousness and he groans, burying his face in a warm, nicely toned chest. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him, and he sinks into the embrace without really thinking. When he moves the arms tighten around him, holding him closer, and he finally rouses.

He cracks an eye open to see an officer in front of them, debating with Geralt about getting him medical care, and he groans, sitting up and plastering his best smile on his face.

"Sorry love, my sugar dropped again. Was I out long?" The officer stops when he speaks, and Jaskier tilts his head curiously. "Tell me you didn't call them, you know I don't want the attention."

He looks up at Geralt, false frown on his face, and Geralt shakes his head. "Another passenger. I told them you were fine."

"That I am! I'm very sorry for the confusion, I just got off of a rather long interview and was a bit hungrier than I expected." The officer looks between them, brows furrowed, but tucks his notepad away and nods reluctantly.

"If you're sure you'll be alright."

"Feeling loads better already! Sorry again Officer!" Jaskier watches until the officer leaves the platform, and then shoves his way out of Geralt's arms. Geralt lets him go without a fight, sitting on the bench and watching as Jaskier paces the length of the platform, ranting. He's speaking in a language he knows but doesn't know, but it's better than letting everyone else hear him.

" I dreamt about you for years! Years, and the first thing I do is pass out when I see your goddamn face. Son of a bitch." Jaskier glares accusingly at him, but the corners of Geralt's mouth tug up in a smirk and Jaskier can feel his heart going a mile a minute. " I could have broken my lute, or-or been cut in half by the doors all because you were on the subway you big old insufferable-"

" You dreamt about me." Geralt's voice is soft, fond, and Jaskier loves and hates the way his voice curls around elder speech. " Jask, I didn't know you'd come back."

" Didn't- didn't KNOW? I am, and I am going to brag here, insanely famous, Geralt. Like on the news famous. How in the WORLD did you not know?"

" I don't watch the news."

"Of course you don't- of course I would get the one witcher in the whole wide world who doesn't watch the news ." He's cut back into English at some point, and he stops, fists clenched as Geralt stands up with his palms out. It's something he's seen Geralt do with Roach a thousand times when she's being antsy, and it drives him up the wall. "I am not a horse , Geralt, I am your fucking barker."

"You're acting more like my horse right now." Geralt is close enough now Jaskier can smell the soft cologne he's wearing, and his knees go weak again with the fact that he's actually here.

"You jackass -" Jaskier launches forward, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck and pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Geralt takes it in stride, scooping Jaskier off his feet and spinning with the momentum. He's careful of Jaskier's lute, but his hands are strong and firm as Jaskier is thoroughly crushed to his chest, held so tight that neither of them seem to be breathing. Jaskier doesn't care- his feet are off the ground completely, a fistful of white hair in his hands again and Geralt's lips on his. He has a beard, neat and taken care of, and Jaskier's other hand slips down to cup the side of Geralt's neck, thumb brushing through the coarse fibers.

Geralt is the first to pull away, Jaskier tipping forward blindly to kiss him again, huffing when Geralt smiles and bumps their noses together.

"Train is coming. As much as I've missed this, I'd rather not miss the next one."

"Tell me you aren't leaving me." Jaskier presses their foreheads together, eyes closed to keep any potential tears at bay. “Please.”

“I have to check into my hotel.”

“Geralt of Rivia, if you think for one minute you aren’t coming home to sleep in my bed you’re a fool. Fuck your hotel room.”

“It has a jacuzzi.” Geralt laughs when Jaskier pulls back to glare, and Geralt holds onto Jaskier’s hand, guiding them through the throng of people and onto the train. Geralt motions towards a seat, but Jaskier stays plastered resolutely to his side and just rests his head against Geralt's shoulder. He sways with the movement of the train, but Geralt’s arm is around his hip, holding him steady as the train goes around a curve and slows a bit. He feels more at peace with Geralt next to him than he has in years, and he’s drifted off to sleep when Geralt moves just a bit, dipping down to whisper in his ear. Elder speech brushes against him, trailing down his spine, and his eyelids flutter as he leans in to hear him better.

“What stop do we get off at, Jaskier?”

And oh, if hearing his name from Geralt’s lips isn’t sublime. “Two more.”

“ You were asleep.” Jaskier chuckles softly, turning his head and kissing him lightly.

“ I’ve lived here for years. I know how long I have.” His elder isn’t nearly as pretty or fluid as Geralt’s but he seems to enjoy it all the same, pupils widening at the sound, the sight of Jaskier’s lips moving. He feels like prey being hunted and he loves it. True to his words, two stops later Jaskier is the one to lead them off the train and up the many, many stairs to the street above. His hand never leaves Geralt’s, afraid that if he lets go the man will disappear into the crowd and leave him alone again. His apartment building isn’t far from the station, and he has to pass through three different checkpoints before he’s even flagged into the building. All of the security guards eye Geralt with barely hidden suspicion, but Jaskier is either oblivious or doesn’t care. The hot, possessive kiss that Jaskier pulls Geralt into while waiting for the elevator is answer enough.

Jaskier’s head is spinning again by the time they make it to his door, and he sags against it, panting lightly and trying to get his key in the lock. Geralt’s hand comes up, guiding the key in as he stands just close enough for Jaskier to be intimately aware of every inch of him. Jaskier gasps, shakes against the door and finally manages to shove it open. He hurries into the room, past the kitchen and into the living room. His lute is slung onto the cushions gently just as his knees give out again, and he catches himself on the arm of the couch, Geralt at his side a moment later.

He can’t feel his legs- he really, really can’t feel his legs, and he isn’t sure that it should seem like such a good thing. Geralt is a hard, hot presence between his thighs, and he arches up into Geralt’s touch, whimpering his name. He wants, he wants so desperately and he feels like he could fall apart at any moment, his breaths coming faster and faster as Geralt grins down, at him teeth sharp and glistening and begging to be buried in flesh. He reaches up, brings him down and kisses him, lapping into his mouth just to taste and let a fang scrape against his tongue.

His chest is heaving when he blinks from his memory, and oh, oh he’s embarrassingly, frustratingly hard. How in the hell does he explain something like this? His knees smart from where they’ve hit the floor and he pitches himself forward, out of Geralt’s surprised hands, his palms slapping against the wood of his floor as he pants. It’s better than letting Geralt see him, worked up over nothing. But he doesn’t get the chance to even think of a lie- he hears Geralt’s sharp intake of breath, the soft huff of a stunned laugh. Geralt is on his knees next to him before he can move, lips on his neck and teeth digging just so into the pale, unmarked flesh. Jaskier keens without meaning to, the noise spilling from his lips, and his cheeks flush when Geralt makes a triumphant noise, pulling back and using a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back make him sit back.

“If you say anything smart, Geralt, I will throw you off my balcony.”

“You don’t have to hide from me.” Is all he says instead, and he takes Jaskier’s hands, guiding him to sit on the couch while he takes care of Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier watches, knees pressed to his chest to hide his slowly dwindling erection as Geralt hunts around his apartment, breathing deep and seeming pleased at what he finds. He lingers briefly by the bedroom door, but seems to think better about exploring there just yet. Instead he reaches up, undoing the clasp across his chest and letting his swords slide from his back. He places them on the coffee table and pulls his sweater up and over his head. Jaskier watches it all, eyes wide, and he jumps as the sweater is tossed at him. He catches it with only a minor fumble, pressing it to his face and breathing deep.

He can almost feel the growl that rumbles through Geralt at the sight, and he grins, toothy and bright, sniffing again. It’s easy to lose his train of thought at the sight of Geralt- Modern clothes suit him well, from the cut of his jeans to the way his t-shirt shows off the rather lovely shoulder to hip ratio he has. Practically perfect. What really arouses him, and this shouldn’t ever be admitted out loud, is the amount of weapons Geralt has on him. There are two pistols tucked into sheathes under his arms against his sides, at least two knives tucked into each boot, not to mention the swords he’s already discarded.

“How do you draw the pistols with your sweater on?”

“I don’t.” Geralt’s voice is amused, and he reaches to unbuckle the leather harness, silver rings glittering along his fingers. There are no fingers that are bare of rings, whether they’re smooth, simple bands or ones studded in small spikes. It’s… ridiculously attractive and Jaskier fears for his heart at this rate. The holsters slip off of his shoulders and they too are left on the table with his swords, though he doesn’t go for the daggers in his boots at all. “You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed to.” He breathes out, reaching a hand out as Geralt pads over. His fingers splay against Geralt’s chest as the older man leans down, kissing him slowly, the warm metal of his rings sliding across Jaskier's cheek. Jaskier shivers at the sensation, making a soft noise as he stretches up further to try and get closer. Geralt pulls back too soon, always too soon, and Jaskier groans with disappointment.

“Tell me what happened when we came in.”

“Do we really have to talk about that now?” Geralt leans back, eyes searching his face, and Jaskier sighs dramatically, tugging Geralt to sit next to him on the couch so he can lean against his chest. "I wasn't born with my memories. I had- it feels stupid to repeat this all- I had night terrors as a child."

"Of monsters." Jaskier nods, pressing Geralt's sweater to his face and speaking through the fabric.

"Particularly of me being eaten by them. When I got older, graduated high school, they shifted focus. They showed me, or the bard I thought was haunting my dreams, following you, performing at a banquet, being chased by a farmer's husband. Within the past few months they got worse. They slipped into my daydreams, took them over, until I could hardly go outside without seeing something that would set them off."

"Is that what happened on the platform?" Jaskier shakes his head, sighing.

"I don't know what that was- a reaction to seeing you again, after only seeing you in dreams maybe? All I remember is getting hit by the worst vertigo I've ever felt, and then I was waking up in your arms. This last time- I'm not sure. I really don't want to keep collapsing though, my knees won't be able to take it."

His joke is weak but Geralt chuckles anyway, pressing his nose into Jaskier's hair. "I'll get you kneepads."

"My hero." He feels a rumble go through Geralt's chest and that brings a smile to his face. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Tell me about you, what you've been doing. I, for one, have been struggling with my memories and made it as a musician. But you, last of the witchers, are impossible to find info on."

"How do you know I'm the last?"

"Internet speculation. Don't worm your way out of this." Geralt sighs heavily, shaking his head and muttering to himself before Jaskier turns and plops himself into Geralt's lap so Geralt has to look at him.

"Eskel and Lambert retired a few years ago. Contracts are few and far between."

"What do you do then when you aren't fighting monsters?"

"I… Translate." Jaskier doesn't think he's heard right, and he tilts his head.

"Pardon? Was my very sexy boyfriend about to tell me something even sexier?" Geralt raises a brow at the word boyfriend, but Jaskier can see that he's pleased by the automatic assumption that they're together. Like they were never apart at all.

"I interpret. Mostly for doctors offices or business meetings. I'm occasionally called to the field when researchers need help."

"What languages?" Geralt doesn't say anything, cheeks flushing a faint pink instead. Jaskier grins then, pleased as all get out, and he leans forward, bumping their noses together and watching the way Geralt's pupils open wider at the contact. "What languages, Geralt?"

"There- aren't many I don't know."

"Someone's been busy."

"I had time. And language barriers make hunting harder." Jaskier laughs at the defensive tone to Geralt's voice, leaning their foreheads together and laughing until Geralt kisses him to shut him up. And even then he giggles against Geralt's lips, wiggling when Geralt tickles at his ribs.

"No wonder your elder is good." Geralt huffs out a laugh, shaking his head and leaning back so he can look at Jaskier, gaze sweeping over Jaskier's face slowly.

"My brothers and I are the only ones fluent."

"In the world?"

"There are small elven communities hidden around, but other than that, yes."

"Where are your brothers?"

"Somewhere in the midwest." Geralt says it with a shrug, as if it isn't a big deal. "They move frequently."

"Too used to being on the Path." Jaskier muses, though it's truer than he might realize. “What about you, where do you settle?”

“I don’t.” Jaskier tilts his head, thinking about that. He isn’t sure why Geralt would ever settle down, since he’s the last witcher active apparently. It would make sense for him not to have any place to call home, but the thought bothers him. A lot more than it should.

“You have a home here, if you want it.” He whispers, heart in his throat, and Geralt’s whole demeanor softens. His eyes look more amber in the setting sun coming through his balcony, and Jaskier leans forward, lips brushing Geralt’s at the same time his phone rings. He groans, intent to ignore it, but Geralt’s fingers dip into Jaskier’s back pocket to pull it out. He hits answer, holding the phone up to Jaskier’s ear as he glares.

“Jaskier, who the fuck are you kissing?”

“Hello Priscilla, nice to see you again, I’ve been just dandy since we last saw each other.” Jaskier takes the phone from Geralt, pressing it to his ear on his own.

“Jaskier, Twitter is in an uproar, there are pictures everywhere.”

“Naughty pictures?” Jaskier puts the phone on speaker while he moves over to Twitter, scrolling through the thousands of tags he’s gotten in the past two hours alone. They’re all the same picture, which Jaskier saves immediately, some better quality than others. There’s him in his bowling alley button up, held aloft in Geralt’s arms, kissing him senseless. It’s a rather artistic photo, the contrast between his bright colors and lute and Geralt’s stiff black clothing and threatening swords. “Ah.”

“That’s all you have to say? You haven’t seriously dated anyone since high school and that's what you say?” Priscilla is pissed, rightfully so, and Jaskier winces.

“Look it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you, I just-”

“I asked him not to.” Jaskier can hear the sharp intake of breath over the phone from Priscilla when Geralt talks, and she’s much more pleasant this time when she speaks. Traitor.

“Oh. And you are?”

“Geralt.”

“And where are you from, Geralt? How long have you been dating my best friend?” He sees Geralt’s lips quirk in a smile, and he rolls his eyes, letting Geralt do the talking. At least that way he isn’t getting yelled at.

“Rivia. We’ve been seeing each other for a few years now, I would say.” Jaskier snorts at the lie, except well- it isn’t really a lie. They’ve been together for years and years over entire lifetimes.

“Rivia?” A distant quality overtakes her voice, and Jaskier winces, clapping a hand over his ear as Priscilla squeals. “Jaskier, please tell me you aren’t dating Geralt of Rivia.”

“Uh.” Geralt’s lips twitch upward as he raises a brow at Jaskier’s hesitation, but Priscilla is laughing, wheezing out little breaths, and Jaskier waits for her to calm down before he answers. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, no it’s just unbelievable.”

“Hey!” There’s offense in Jaskier’s tone, and Geralt’s hand rests on his hip, squeezing lightly. Jaskier shudders at the touch, scowling, but his witcher is the picture of innocence. “I guess the cats out of the bag, eh love?”

“Mhm.” Gods Jaskier has missed those little sounds, the answers but not answers.

“You have to say something on Twitter before your fans break the site. And introduce us properly.”

“Right, right. Dinner okay?”

“Only if I get to pick the place.”

“Deal. I’ll call you later, okay?” Priscilla gives an affirmative and hangs up, Jaskier tilting his head at Geralt with his brows raised. “So, Geralt of Rivia, ready to be official with a popstar?”

“Not really. But with you? I’ll manage.” Jaskier rolls his eyes, moving to tuck himself against Geralt’s side. Geralt’s arm snakes around him, hugging him a bit closer as Jaskier raises his phone.

“Say cheese!” He grins wide, waiting until Geralt isn’t glaring to snap the photo. It’s a good one, Geralt’s eyes liquid and warm, the corners of his mouth tilted up in the smallest of smiles. It’s definitely going to be his wallpaper. Jaskier posts it onto Twitter with a simple caption.

My knight in shining armor.

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #modern au #reincarnation au #immortal geralt of rivia #flaskbacks #popstar Jaskier

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shrike-nest · 3 years

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D&D Character Ask Post

In Honor of D&D, Here are 100 Questions answered about my character Alistair. Done from a prompt reposted by @mechmech and @scatterpatter , and also gonna tag my DM @aerial-ace97

What Does He Smell like: Ozone, Sandalwood, Pine

Voice: A light baritone, sometimes slipping into a bit of a lit from his native island (similar to a Scottish brogue/Irish lit)

Motivator: Before he met his group? Power and Adrenaline. Now? Redemption.

Most embarrassing memory: (TW: Animal Death) He doesn’t really remember this as he was terribly drunk at the time, but he and his crew stopped in a city that held goats as a sacred animal. With a terribly “bright” idea, he wondered how far a goat could fly? Because goats fly. Throws the goat off of the third floor of a building. Then proceeds to have a not very respectful Coffin Dance-style funeral for said goat.

How does he react to pain: Lots of swearing and anger.

What does he wear: He wears dragon scale armor that has three deep gouges in it from where he was previously killed. A faded and slightly ragged admiral style coat on top, leather breeches, and give this man some high calf pirate boots. He also always wears a green headband to keep his hair back, and occasionally an eyepatch to hide his demonic eye.

Most positive relationship: In terms of character development, it might be Torvid, as Torvid inspires Alistair to be a better moral person. In terms of wholesomeness? His partner/hopefully soon fiancé, Atwater. Atwater was able to show Alistair that he can have positive love in his life, without having to fight so hard for it.

The weirdest thing he has ever eaten: Corren’s cooking

Sleep: He suffers from nightmares and now more recently night terrors. Because he technically doesn’t need to sleep from effects of his class, he often chooses not to. However, when he does sleep, he sleeps hard, snores lightly, and octopus cuddles anything in his bed.

Favorite food/ kinda food: He actually really loves a dish similar to pao de queijo (Brazillian Cheese Bread).

Most insecure about: His ability of being a leader.

Like to wear: He enjoys fairly tight fitting clothing to prevent too much flapping when he flies or moves around quickly.

How do they react to feelings of guilt: Denial and self doubt

React to betrayal: A very quick and violent anger that chills to a long lasting and cold hatred. He doesn’t forgive easily.

Greatest achievement: After being mutinied against by his former crew, being wanted and supported as a leader for his current adventuring party

Too little sleep: Pretty robotic, but he doesn’t get exhausted anymore or feel any physical effects of not getting sleep due to his class.

What are they like drunk: He’s a very cheerful and boisterous drunk. Makes and laughs at many jokes. Can fall into a melancholy pretty easily though if he thinks on certain thoughts too long. Deflects with humor!

Music likes: 80s hair band music, and 70s-80s rock.

Right or left-handed: Right handed

Fears: He’s claustrophobic, but also has a fear of being vulnerable and getting his heart broken again.

Favorite weather: Sunny Day with a slight chill.

Favorite color: He really likes blue.

Collect anything: Well technically he used to collect gold and other high priced artifacts. He doesn’t really collect anything anymore.

Hot or cold weather: This man controls the weather. He enjoys his thermostat of life to be at a nice 70 degrees F.

Eye color: His natural eye color is an emerald green. His left eye is a demon cat eye, with a gold iris and black sclera.

Race/ ethnicity: He’s a human in the world of Sekrezia, but in IRL, he’s probably northern UK.

Hair color: Ginger/Auburn, with some sun-bleached streaks in it.

Happy where they are currently: … Well his adopted sister and brother just died in the last game so nah. BUT- as kind of a whole, he’s happy to be where he is now as a person compared to how he used to be.

Morning person: Yup. He tends to wake with the sun if he sleeps, and once he’s awake- he’s awake.

Sunrise or sunset: He loves the sunset. It calms and amazes him that he survived another day.

Messy or organized: He’s messy. Kind of an ADHD procrastination kind of messy.

Pet peeves: Disloyalty, undeserved ego trips, other weather veins that mess with his control of the weather,

Objects of significant importance: O’Malley, his halberd. He earned his weapon when he became a captain, and it has saved his life numerous times after.

Least favorite food: After being stuck in a cave for over a year? Anything with mushrooms.

Least favorite color: He’s not a fan of dark reds or browns. Reminds him too much of dried blood. (oooh edgelord)

Least favorite smell: Cauterized Flesh, Rotting Fish

The last time they cried: Last game. But before that? When he found out that Torvid killed his father. Before before that? When Atwater died. Before before before that? When he woke up alone in the desert after the mutiny.

Were they with anyone when they cried: His party. His party and both sides of the war that was going on. And no one.

One time they got injured: He actually died in a fight with a dragon, not with the dragon, but with a bat crony of the dragon.

Scars: He’s got a scar in the shape of a jagged p on his right cheek, a claw scar from when his eye was gouged out, and he also has the marks from the bat crony when he died. Alistair also has lightning scars on his arms that led to minor nerve damage that occurred when he first was learning how to use his magic.

Mental health issues: ADHD, Depression, Anxiety

Bad habits: Lashing out when he doesn’t know how to process his emotions

Why might someone dislike him: … Lemme get the list. So if we ignore the fact that he used to be a feared sky pirate, earning the nickname “Orphaner of the Skies”… he can be a flippant asshole sometimes. He can often forget to stay in touch and update people on important topics. Also, some may dislike him because he insists on being their dad (*cough* CORREN *cough*)

Why might someone love him: Alistair is very loyal to those he trusts and he can often fall into caretaker type tendencies.

Believe in ghosts: Yeah. He’s seen them and fought them. Also dated one.

Anyone they would trust with their life: Mecha, Corren, Tristan, Atwater, Jerry, Mephistopheles, and Torvid.

Romantically interested in anyone: Atwater!

Dating/ Married: He is currently dating Atwater

Like surprises: Not really

Birthday: His weave day is in Summer, Sibelya 13th.

Celebrate their birthday: He used to. Doesn’t really anymore, mostly because he hasn’t had much reason to celebrate or the time.

Family: His parents are dead, but he still has his adopted aunt Imelda. He also views Tristan as his brother, Corren as his little brother, Mecha as his sister. Atwater is his romantic partner, and he is now the step father of Atwater’s child, Crestwell. He also is the adopted father of Liam (deceased) and Liam’s twin sister, Serana.

Close to their family: Yes

MBTI type: ENTP

Zodiac signs: His Sekrezian Sign is Xamatang, The Coming Storm

Hogwarts house: Gryffindor

Alignment; Chaotic Neutral but he’s steadily making his way towards Chaotic Good

Nightmares: Yes. Often about his ex, Ghost. He also has nightmares about losing those he considers family.

View on death: If it happens, it happens. Once someone is at peace, leave them be.

Something they always laugh at: Seeing his group smile and joke around.

When bored, what do they do: Fly, tinker with magic, practice magic, research magic.

Enjoy the outside: Very much so.

Accent: I can’t replicate it, but I imagine it’s somewhere between a Scottish and Irish accent. However it has faded as he hasn’t been home in a very long time.

Upon seeing a slice of chocolate cake, the first reaction: *Poke it*, *Look at it*, *Look around*… *Shrug*, My cake now.

If they knew they were going to die what would they do/ say: He would find his party, if he can- gives them hugs, and hopefully be able to die watching the sunset. “Find what makes you happy and hold on to it. You all deserve to have happiness in your lives.”

Feelings about sex: He likes it. He also has a pretty damn high libido.

Sexuality: Bisexual

Squeamish around blood: Somewhat. It makes him uncomfortable now because he’s scared that he likes the sight of it still.

Anything they find gross: Rotting bodies and decaying bodies.

TV trope: Father Figure, Tragic Backstory, Anti-Hero

Enjoy helping people: Yes, he finds it comforting, like a form of redemption.

Allergies: Minor shellfish allergy

Pet: Does Meph count as a pet? I mean, he usually hangs around Alistair as a cat.

Quick to anger: Depends on the situation, but yes.

How patient is he: Not very. He gets very jittery and anxious easily. He’s getting slightly better at that.

Good at cooking: Somewhat, he tends to overdo it on the spice.

Favorite insult:” It’s cute when you try.”

How do they act when happy: The biggest doofiest smile, and he can’t help but laugh occasionally.

What do they do when they learn about others’ fears: He keeps it secret, but tends to go out of his way to help them through it, or help them avoid their fears.

Trustworthy: If you earn his trust, yes. A million times in return.

Do they try to hide their emotions: If it benefits him? Yes. And he’s damn good at it. But if he feels it’s not necessary to do so, his heart is on his sleeve.

Exercise regularly: Yes. His constitution is ridiculous and so he often finds ways to keep up and improve his stamina and strength even further.

Comfortable with the way they look: Yeah. He can get a lil cocky about it. But this is a man who uses bar soap on his hair.

Features they find attractive on others: Eyes and hands.

Personalities they find attractive: He likes those that can keep up with him intellectually, but also on a wittier level as well. He really views self-confidence as attractive.

Do they like sweet foods: Yes.

Age: He just turned 42.

Tall or short: He’s 6’0”

Glasses or contacts: Nah

Consider herself attractive: Yup

Sense of humor: Sexual humor, dad jokes ftw, but can also throw in some dark and self-deprecating humor nowadays.

What mood are they in most often: Most recently, a sort of determined melancholia. But he used to be very self-assured, confident, and flippant.

What angers them: Child abuse, betrayal, hurting those he cares about.

Outlook on life: “Just keep going. Roll with the punches. Because that sun is going to rise again, and you’re going to get to try again, try something new, find something new.”

What makes them sad or depressed: Thinking of those he has lost, thinking of Ghost, falling into his own insecurities.

Greatest weakness: He often jumps into situations without thinking them through. He tends to be very “leap before he looks”

Greatest strength: His determination and resiliency

Something they regret: Losing contact with his crew and Imelda, not being a better leader in his eyes, his past of piracy, and in some ways- all his deals with Mephistopheles, even the one that granted him his magic.

Biggest accomplishment: Isn’t this the same as greatest achievement?

Favorite memory: Sitting by the campfire with his group and all of them laughing, joking, and smiling with each other. With the good ol occasional ribbing at Corren’s expense.

#D&D #Alistair Stormcrown #Sekrezia #The F.U.C.K.s

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maybeimamuppet · 3 years

Text

the first date

Damian wakes up to two wildly different texts, one from Cady and one from Janis.

Cady’s is about what he can expect from her; if not a touch more nervous.

Little Slice: Good morning Damian!! I’m sure Janis has already told you but she’s taking me on a date tonight and she won’t tell me where we’re going do you have time to come over and maybe help me put together something to wear???? love you!!

And then there’s Janis.

Janjan: dame can u come over today i’m taking caddy out tonight and i’m losing my shit

Oh boy. He’d been absolutely thrilled when they’d finally announced they were dating, but he should’ve known they would never make it easy on him. He decides to go to Cady’s first, Janis will need his support right up until she leaves to go get her.

He texts both of them while he has breakfast and feeds his little french bulldog, Pippa. He learns that Janis is picking Cady up at four to take her to the zoo, so he has a couple hours to kill before he needs to be with either of them. He sends a text to Cady letting her know he’ll be over around one, getting a thumbs up and several heart emojis in response.

True to his word, he knocks on the Heron’s front door at exactly one, greeting Cady’s mom politely before she shoos him up to Cady’s room. She’s sitting at her desk, still in her Lion King pajamas, working on what Damian can only assume is calculus. He taps lightly on the doorframe, wincing a little as she jumps practically out of her chair before snapping her head to look at him. Once she sees it’s him, though, she smiles brightly and rushes up to hug him, as if she had no idea he was coming.

“Damian! You’re here! I totally lost track of time, I was doing math to relax because Janis won’t tell me anything about where we’re going so I don’t know what to wear or how many people are going to be there and I don’t know what to expect so I’m nervous but it’s also my first date with Janis and I’m so excited and-“ She bursts out rapidly. He envies her breath control, sometimes.

“Whoa, little slice. Deep breaths. I’m here to help, she told me what she has planned and it sounds really cute. I think you’ll like it,” Damian says lowly, massaging her arms to help calm her. “There will probably be a fair number of people around, but I don’t think you’ll notice them and they will definitely not notice you. And I’m here to help you pick something to wear that’ll make Janis combust when she sees you. Okay?”

“Okay. Thanks Damian,” she says, resting her chin on his chest and grinning up at him. He gives her another tight squeeze before making his way to her closet.

“Oh, my god. Okay,” He whispers to himself once he opens it. It’s a violent clashing of various flannels and bright pinks, but he spies a few pieces he can probably work with. “I’ve never seen a lot of this stuff before! Most of this is really cute,” He exclaims, pulling out a yellow sundress that it’s definitely still too cold out to wear.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve been meaning to go through and give stuff to Gretchen and Karen that I know I won’t wear. Some of it just isn’t me, and some of the fabrics bug me,” Cady mutters shyly, as if he’d ever judge her for that.

He would never judge her, but he had not taken it into consideration. “Okay, so what kinds of fabrics or textures irritate you?” He asks, flicking through what she has hanging.

“Um, wool or anything scratchy, certain kinds of denim, and most things made of polyester, off the top of my head.” That limits the Plastic side of the closet rather severely.

“What about corduroy?” He asks, spying a green overall dress she bought at the tail end of her time as a Plastic. The color is almost exactly the same as Janis’ favorite jacket, maybe he can coordinate a color scheme. She reaches out to feel it before nodding. “Groovy, now we just need something to go under it.” They’re in the midst of what’s known as “Fool’s Spring”, so it’s just about warm enough outside for her to leave her legs bare. He starts digging through her stuff again, looking for some kind of top to go underneath the dress.

“Did you just say ‘groovy’ in earnest?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.”

“I have some more stuff in my dresser if you want to look at those,” Cady says, decidedly moving on. He puts the discarded garments back on their hangers and closes her closet carefully before moving to root through the drawer she’s pulled open.

“Don’t you judge me, Miss Grool. Let’s see what we have in here,” He says, grinning to himself a little as he pulls out several of Janis’ hoodies. “You guys have only been officially dating for, like, two weeks! How did you already get all these?”

Cady flushes, nearly matching her hair. “She gave me one a long time ago, and it was so comfy I just... never gave it back. And now I borrow them whenever she’s not looking. But only the ones she doesn’t really wear! And I’ll give them back. Eventually.”

Damian laughs at that, knowing full well she won’t give them back until Janis notices they’re gone. “I say go for it, little slice. Payback for her stealing mine since we were little.”

“Aww, you guys must’ve been so cute,” Cady coos, stretching up and pinching one of his cheeks like a grandmother would. “I wanna see pictures soon.”

“You’ll have to fight Jan on that one,” he says, pulling out a black sweater made of the softest fabric he’s ever felt. “Holy shit, this is so nice. Is this one you can handle?”

“Oh yeah, that’s my favorite sweater, I forgot about that. Thanks Dame,” she says, taking it from him gently.

“Okay now go put this on so I can be sure it actually works together,” he demands, clapping his hands and shoving her delicately towards the bathroom. He knows it will, he just wants to see Cady in it.

She shuffles back in a few minutes later and gives a little twirl, holding her hands out to her sides. Damian pretends to take pictures of her like she’s on a runway, and they both start laughing as she goes along with it and starts doing various exaggerated poses.

After a few minutes of shenanigans, he checks the time and realizes he’s been at her place for nearly an hour and a half. Cady is very easy to get lost in conversation with.

“Are you gonna be good if I go now? I have to take Pippa on a walk before dark and run some errands for my mom,” He says, coming up with a little white lie in case Janis doesn’t want Cady to know what he’ll actually be doing.

She nods and comes to hug him goodbye, reaching up to squish his cheeks. He’s exactly a foot taller than her, so she has to reach just a little to get to him, making them both giggle. She gives him one last squeeze, muttering, “Give Pip a snuggle for me?” into his chest before pulling away. He says he absolutely will before wishing her luck and leaving her alone. First job done.

——

Janis’ ten-year-old sister, Juliana, opens the door for him as he steps onto the porch. Their mom must be running errands or something, she doesn’t work Saturdays.

Julie pulls him down to mutter “She’s a mess,” into his ear before running back to the living room with a squeak as Janis calls “I heard that!” from the top of the stairs.

“I’m not a mess,” she murmurs as she reaches him at the bottom, but Damian can tell her anxiety is getting to her.

“Have you taken your meds today?” He whispers into her hair, groaning as she shakes her head. “Janis Olivia, I swear. You gotta take those regularly or they don’t work. Go take them and get something to eat. I’m gonna go pick your outfit.” He pushes her lightly towards the kitchen and thanks the heavens she goes willingly.

Letting himself into her room, he sees the telltale signs of a stressed Janis. Sketchbook open to a random page on her bed, filled with rough sketches of a familiar little redhead. She left her phone blaring music on her nightstand, and he can see faint footprints in the plush carpet from where she’s been pacing.

Damian knows Janis’ closet very well, as she makes him pick her clothes for any important event. He has an outfit in mind already, but he’s a little worried about how Janis will react to part of it. He pulls out the pieces he wants, laying them on her bed gently as she waltzes in. She shuts off the music before turning to look.

“Pants?” She grimaces as soon as she sees what he’s picked. He called it.

“I know, I know, but hear me out. You can still wear your fishnets underneath, they’ll look cool with the rips. And, Cady’s never seen you wear pants before! All you’ve ever worn are your shorts and dresses,” he begs. He knows Cady will love her in this, and it’s in Janis’ comfort zone enough that she’ll still feel confident in it.

“Fine. Turn around, loser.” She grumbles, faking annoyance. He obliges, turning around and covering his eyes until she says he can look. He turns back to face her as she’s pulling her less-decorated green jacket over her black and white checkered crop top, and adjusting where the rips fall on her black mom jeans. “How do I look?” She asks, spinning around like Cady did.

“Bitchin’.” He says, pushing her to her mirror so Janis can see herself. She checks herself out, and Damian can see the grin growing on her face. She really does look great, if he does say so himself.

“Okay, yes, you did a great job, as always. Thank you,” she says as she turns around to hug him. “Now can you help with my hair and makeup?”

———-

Damian pretty much does her typical makeup, just with slightly less around her eyes. After he finishes swiping on her signature dark purple lipstick (and making extra sure to set it enough), they both start talking at the same time.

“Do you think the zoo is too cliché?”

“Can I try something different with your hair?”

“Do whatever you think will look best, Dame. I trust you. But really, is it dumb?”

He grabs her mom’s curling wand and gets to work after putting on a heat protectant. “I don’t think it’s dumb, I think it’s cute. You want to do something she’d like, and she loves animals. Caddy chased that duck around the park for, like, half an hour last week, she’ll love it.”

Janis bursts out laughing at the memory, trying not to move her head to avoid getting a serious burn. “I didn’t think I’d be this nervous. We went out all the time when we were just friends, but like, what if she hates it? What if I’m so awkward she changes her mind and decides she doesn’t want to date me after all? What if I do something dumb and she gets uncomfortable?”

“And what if it’s perfect? Janjan, Caddy’s been pining for you for the better part of a year, and she’s been your best friend for even longer. If she hasn’t run off screaming by now, she’s not going to.” He says comfortingly, shutting off the iron and starting to run a brush through her two-toned hair. “Now hold still, you’re gonna mess it up.”

Janis goes stiff, holding as still as she can. He can tell she’s still very nervous, but she seems to be doing better than earlier, since she didn’t immediately try to contradict everything he just said.

He starts brushing her hair up into a high ponytail, asking “So are you only taking her to the zoo? Or do you have some other scandalous plan for later that you’re not telling me about?” to distract from what he’s doing. It was a valiant attempt that failed miserably, and she shoots him a look in the mirror.

“Um, if she’s not too tired I was gonna take her to that clearing by the pond we found a while ago to watch the stars. She knows all about that stuff,” She murmurs, fiddling with a scrunchie. Regretfully, it is the one Damian needs, so he plucks it delicately from her fingers and gives her the brush to play with instead.

He snaps the scrunchie into place around the ponytail, spraying it lightly with hairspray so the curl holds. He wipes some pretend tears from under his eyes, saying, “My baby girl, all grown up, going on her first date,” with highly exaggerated emotion. Janis laughs, shaking her head and watching her hair bounce around in the mirror.

——-

Julie manages to corral them into playing Mario Kart for a bit, Janis only being able to do one race before she has to go. She grabs her backpack and the large pile of blankets from by the door and puts her boots on, going to kiss both of them on the forehead and remind her sister to feed their cat, Pancakes.

“Get out of the way, Janny, I’m about to win,” Julie whines, kicking her lightly in the shins.

Damian cackles at that, saying “Yeah right, squirt. Have fun, Janjan. Make good choices and send me pictures,” Before also shooing her out of the way. Janis rolls her eyes at them as she locks the front door behind her and texts her mom that she’s going but left Julie with Damian.

——

Janis hears her phone ping as she’s pulling up to Cady’s house. She dries her slightly sweaty hands on her pants before digging for her phone in her bag, grinning as she sees the message.

Cady Girl: Do I need to bring money or anything??? I can’t wait to see you btw, I’m so excited!!!!!

Janis texts her back, telling her all she might need to bring is a blanket and reminding her to wear good shoes since they’ll be walking a lot.

She grabs the flowers and cup she acquired on her drive over and heads up to the door, knocking politely. Cady opens it with a squealed “Janis!” before she’s in her arms, nearly knocking the stuff out of her hands.

Cady clocks them after a few seconds, asking, “Are those for me?” and pointing to the flowers.

Janis pecks her on the cheek in greeting, answering, “No, these are for your mom. Damian said it’d be a good idea. This is for you,” and handing her the venti chai she got from the Starbucks a few blocks out of their neighborhood.

“Aww, Jan, that’s so sweet. Thank you,” Cady coos at her, taking the cup and calling for her parents. “Mom, Daddy, Janis is here! She got you flowers!” Janis flushes bright pink as Mrs. Heron emerges from the kitchen.

“Oh, hello Janis. Thank you, these are lovely,” she says, taking them from her before turning to Cady. “Binti, you know the rules. Home by ten and make good choices.”

“Yes, mom, I will,” Cady says as she hugs her mom goodbye, turning to grab her bag and the blanket she picked out. “Tell dad I said bye. Love you,” she calls as she drags Janis out by the hand and shuts the door loudly behind her. “Sorry about that, she can be so embarrassing sometimes.”

“Nah, don’t be sorry. It’s cute,” Janis says, opening the door to her truck for Cady to be chivalrous. She gets in on the other side and chuckles as Cady sips her tea, cradling the cup as if it’s the most precious thing she’s ever been given.

“You’re wearing pants! And your hair is up!” Cady nearly chokes on her drink as she finally notices, reaching out to tug gently on a curl and watch it spring back into place. “You look so beautiful.”

Janis flushes scarlet again. “Thanks. So do you,” she mutters, grabbing Cady’s hand and kissing her knuckles, feeling the last of her nerves fading into the background.

“So do I get to know where you’re taking me yet?”

“Nope. I want it to be a surprise. Just enjoy the ride, Peanut.” Janis says, reaching for Cady’s hand again as she drives. She takes it and starts playing with her fingers, fiddling with her rings.

“Fine,” Cady pouts. They continue chatting quietly, Janis rubbing her thumb over the back of Cady’s hand. After a while, she goes quiet. Janis looks over to see her asleep, curled up adorably in her seat. Maybe it’ll be a surprise after all. Now she can’t see all the signs saying “ZOO” they keep driving by.

————

Cady still hasn’t woken up by the time Janis has paid for and found a parking space. She goes around to open her door for her, shaking her awake gently.

“Caddy. We’re here, it’s time to wake up.”

“Noooooo,” Cady whines, pawing indignantly at her hand and curling into herself.

“Yeeeees,” Janis laughs. “Come on, this’ll be fun!” She reaches over to click Cady’s seatbelt off, grabbing her hands and hauling her to her feet.

Cady rubs at her eyes blearily, looking around to see where she is. It takes her a second, but once she sees the big lion on the sign nearby it clicks and she jumps into Janis’ arms.

“Jay! We’re at the zoo?!” She squeals into her ear.

Janis laughs as she scoops her up, spinning her around a few times before setting her down again. “Yeah, do you like it?”

“Yes! Come on, let’s go, let’s go let’s go! I wanna go in!” Cady exclaims, bouncing excitedly as she grabs Janis’ hand and goes into a full-tilt run towards the gates.

“Caddy, Jesus, please slow down a little. It’s not even five yet, we have time,” Janis calls.

Cady stops suddenly, turning to look at her. “Oh, sorry. I got carried away,” she says sheepishly. Janis tips her chin up and boops her nose lightly.

“Don’t be sorry, I’m glad you’re excited. Just do it at a speed I can handle,” Janis tells her, breathing a little heavier. Cady grabs her hand again, gentler this time, and starts walking them at a much more reasonable speed towards the gates.

——-

“Where do you wanna go first, Kitkat?” Janis asks, flicking through the map she grabbed once she’d bought their tickets.

“Uhm...” Cady hums pensively. “The aquarium?”

“Sounds great, that’s this way,” Janis answers, pointing down a pathway to their left.

Once they enter the dark building, Cady makes a beeline for the small touch tank, rolling up her sleeves and quickly skimming the rules before sticking a hand in, giggling as a little stingray comes up and brushes against her. Janis comes up behind her, putting her arms around her waist and bending down to rest her chin on her shoulder.

“Do you wanna feel, Jayjay?” Cady asks, holding Janis’ hands with her free one. Janis shakes her head, kissing her jawline gently.

“Nah, I don’t like touching wet things that move. Creeps me out,” she says, prompting a laugh from Cady, who reaches up to pat her cheek with her dry hand.

“We’ll have to go to the petting zoo then, I saw it on the map. Those are just dry things that move,” She teases, turning her head around and kissing Janis’ nose before moving to get some hand sanitizer.

Janis takes her now clean hand and leads them deeper into the building, towards a much, much larger tank that reaches the high ceiling, filled with various tropical fish. Cady goes up to press her face against it, pointing excitedly as a massive shark swims right past her.

Janis stays back for a second, sneaking a quick picture of her, illuminated by the lights in the tank. It gives her auburn hair an almost ethereal glow, making her look like some sort of siren. She puts her phone back into her pocket, deciding to paint the photo later.

Cady turns around to grin at her, gesturing for Janis to come look at the fish. Janis comes up, taking a place next to Cady and admiring the brightly colored fish swimming by. They really are beautiful, but she’s more interested in sneaking glances at her girlfriend’s excited smile.

Cady suddenly throws her arms around her, burrowing into her chest. “Thank you for bringing me here,” she mutters, resting her chin on her chest and smiling up at her. “I love it.”

Janis wraps an arm around her shoulders, brushing Cady’s hair from her forehead with her other hand before leaning down and peppering kisses on all the freckles she can see. She wants to kiss her on the lips, it certainly wouldn’t be their first, but she’s still anxious about doing so in public. Cady squeals at the sensation, smushing her face into her chest again.

“Janis?” she murmurs after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Can we get food?”

Janis laughs, kissing her hair again. “Yes, we can. Let’s go find something.”

——

Once Cady is satisfied with her belly full of pizza, they make their way over to the section of the park with the African animals, which they’re both the most excited about. Janis has to grip her hand firmly to stop her from running off again.

Cady rushes through the gorillas and hyenas, prattling off every fact she knows so quickly Janis can’t really understand what she’s saying, but she nods and enjoys them nonetheless.

Eventually, they find themselves on a tall platform overlooking the giraffe enclosure, and Cady practically starts vibrating with excitement when she sees the sign listing all the feeding times. Janis looks over and sees the next one is in three minutes, wordlessly going to get in line to buy a bucket of lettuce.

Cady barely notices her absence, pressed up against the fence and admiring the tall creatures as they come up to get fed. Janis hands her a bit, laughing as one comes up directly in front of them and promptly begins to lick the railing separating them.

Cady proffers her leaf, laughing as Janis yelps “What the fuck?!” when its long, alien tongue pokes out to grab it.

A zookeeper comes up, informing them that their giraffe’s name is Georgie and politely asking them not to pet him before wandering off to the next group. They take turns feeding him and taking pictures of each other doing so, until Cady sticks her hand in the bucket to get another bit of lettuce and notices they’ve run out. She pouts sadly as they both wave goodbye to Georgie before returning the empty bucket and washing their hands at the small sink on the other side of the platform.

——

They go see the lions next, Janis’ heart giving a painful squeeze as she watches Cady stare longingly through the fence, pressed against it as close as she can be. She loves her life here now, but every once in a while her heart longs for her old friends. She stands there, watching as the gentle breeze ruffles the mane of the one closest to her, and as the new cubs chase each other around. She’ll see her own lions again, someday. She knows it.

Janis snaps another sneaky picture of her, sending it to Damian with a sad face emoji; he responds in kind with several more crying emojis. Cady doesn’t linger for too long, coming up to Janis for a quick hug before they move on.

Janis keeps an arm around Cady’s shoulders, squeezing her gently as they walk toward the elephant and rhino building. She winces at the smell as soon as they enter, but Cady doesn’t seem fussed by it. They walk down the hall to where the large windows are, looking for an opening in the wall of people blocking them.

Janis thinks she’s found an area behind a few people. She can certainly see fine. “Aww, there’s a little baby one. Look, Cads,” she says, pointing.

“Jay, I can’t see anything. There’s people in the way.” It is at this point that Janis suddenly remembers that Cady is 5’3 on a good day, and that she’s a whole seven inches taller than her girlfriend.

“Oh, sorry Peanut,” Janis says sheepishly. “Hold on a second.” She hunches over, gesturing for Cady to climb onto her back. She obliges with a giggle, wrapping her arms around her shoulders and resting her chin on top of Janis’ ponytail as she grabs her thighs to hold her steady. Once she’s sure Cady’s secure, Janis straightens back up.

Now that her eye level is a good foot higher than it used to be, Cady can indeed see the baby elephant Janis was referring to, cooing over it as memories of Kenya come flooding back once again. They walk around a little, listening to the recording of a voice listing facts about the creatures and the area they normally live in, Janis laughing as Cady confirms or debunks everything the robotic voice says.

Cady is still clinging to Janis like a baby monkey as they leave the building, burying her nose in Janis’ apple-scented hair and pressing a few kisses to the top of her head. Janis doesn’t seem to mind, though, adjusting her grip and trying desperately not to think about the amount of bare thigh Cady’s dress is making available for her to hold onto.

“Where next, baby?” She asks, freezing as the pet name slips out of her mouth before she can stop it.

Cady pretends not to notice it for the moment, murmuring, “Erm... penguins?” into her ear softly.

“Did you just pick those because they’re all the way across the park and you want me to carry you more?”

“Maybe,” Cady hums, squishing her cheek against Janis’ warm, flushed one. As Janis starts walking she decides now is probably an okay time to ask about the name. “I’m baby?”

Janis bursts out laughing at that, much to her confusion. “Sorry, that’s an old meme I haven’t shown you yet. I’ll do that later. If you don’t like it I can call you something else. I just thought it fit,” she mutters the end quietly.

“No I love it! Aaron never nicknamed me,” Cady says before remembering mentioning her ex on her first official date with her new girlfriend was potentially not the best move. Stupid with love. “But now I have to come up with more cute things to call you!” She tightens her grip on Janis’ shoulders slightly.

———-

She’s spent the entire walk over to the Antarctica exhibit thinking of something to call Janis. “What about Jellybean? That’s fun,” she asks as Janis gently sets her on her feet again.

“Absolutely not,” Janis squeaks, turning away and pretending to be very interested in an informative plaque to hide how much she’s blushing.

“Aww, you’re all blushy. You’re just as sappy as I am,” Cady teases, poking her arm lightly.

“No I’m not!” Janis insists, gesturing to herself. “Look at me. Look at my boots, look at my hair. I’m tough. I’m a badass. Now let’s go see some fucking adorable penguins.”

Cady bursts into giggles. “Fine, mpenzi, you’re tough as nails. But you’re also going the wrong way,” She calls as Janis is briskly walking away. She freezes for a second before turning around and confidently going the correct way as if that’s what she meant to do all along.

“We are never speaking of this again.”

———-

They find a little bench just across from the exhibit, deciding just to sit and watch them quietly for a while. Janis nearly falls off the bench at one point, laughing hysterically as two of the penguins start fighting over some fish. She laughs even harder as an exhausted keeper comes out to break them up, looking as if it’s not the first time those two have gotten into it today. Cady’s not really paying attention to what’s happening, just grinning as she watches her girlfriend laugh so freely.

Once Janis has recovered, gently wiping tears of laughter from under her eyes, she takes Cady’s hand and pulls them up again. “Okay, you ready for best first date ever part two?”

“There’s more?” Cady asks. “But this was already so fun.” She pouts, wrapping herself in Janis once again.

“Hell yeah there’s more. I have a legal obligation to spoil you now,” Janis grins, leaning down to kiss her forehead gently. “Now come on, we can stop by the gift shop on the way out.”

———

As soon as they walk in, Cady spies a pile of stuffed animals, her eye going specifically to a lion one on top. She runs over to check the price, wincing as she sees that it’s nearly thirty dollars. Janis bought her entrance ticket, and dinner, and let her feed the giraffes, and she didn’t bring any of her own money. She puts it back delicately and makes her way over to where Janis is looking at various keychains.

“Hey, Peanut. Did you find anything?” Janis had definitely noticed her rush over to the stuffed animals, and her dejected frown as she walked over to her.

Cady shakes her head, popping up on her tiptoes to lean her head on Janis’ shoulder. “No, I was just looking. I’ve never been able to find my name on one of these things,” she says, reaching out to flick at one that says Allison. They have her middle name, at least.

“I haven’t either,” Janis says, leaning her head against Cady’s. “At least never spelled correctly. Anyway, do you want to keep looking and see if you find anything? I saw something over there I wanted to grab for Damian,” she lies. The pizza was much cheaper than she had anticipated and her student ID got them

both a discount on their entry fee, so she has a fair bit of money left over. She’s been saving her art prize money, and her mom gave her some to have fun with as well. Time to buy a lion.

She grabs a little bouncy ball for her sister and a pair of sloth socks for Damian. He collects socks, so that’ll make a good enough cover story for now. She snatches the stuffed animal from the pile, rushing up to the counter to buy everything before Cady can see.

She finds her again with both hands in the bin of colorful rocks, sighing at the texture before she removes them again. She jumps lightly as Janis comes up behind her, saying, “Having fun, Kitkat?”

“The texture is satisfying,” she mutters. “Didn’t think you’d find me so fast.”

Janis chuckles, coming up to take her hand. “Are you ready to go?” Cady nods, leading them out the gates and towards Janis’ truck. Janis checks the time once they’ve settled in, finding it to be just before seven thirty. Perfect.

She decides to stop by the Wal-Mart on the way to the clearing to pick up some snacks, Cady still chattering excitedly about how much fun she’s had so far. It must’ve been the tea that put her to sleep last time, now she’s got the most energy Janis has ever seen.

Cady seems a bit confused as they pull into the parking lot, but takes Janis’ hand trustingly regardless. Janis tells her to go pick out a snack she wants, and she nods quickly and darts off. Janis makes a beeline for the chip aisle, immediately grabbing all her favorite kinds before moving on to candy.

In typical Cady form, she comes back carrying only a case of strawberries and two bottles of her favorite sweet tea. “Oh my god, Jan,” she laughs when she sees how many bags Janis is trying to carry. She rushes off once again to grab a cart, returning to Janis and putting her things in it before climbing into the basket herself. Janis raises an eyebrow at her, but ultimately can’t resist the crystal blue puppy eyes blinking pleadingly at her and starts pushing it towards the checkout area with a sarcastic grumble about ‘certain people being too cute for their own damn good’.

———

Janis pulls into the clearing in the woods, telling Cady to close her eyes so she can get everything ready as she cuts the engine.

“Are you gonna murder me now?” Cady jokes as Janis grabs the massive pile of blankets from the backseat and begins making a little nest in the truck bed.

“Yeah,” Janis grunts as she hops up. “Took you out to give you a fun final memory.” It takes her a while, and she swears vigorously as she misses her footing on the way to grab the snacks and nearly falls on her face. She sets all their food up in the middle, and as a finishing touch, puts up Cady’s new stuffie holding up her phone, which is now playing music softly. Not too shabby, but she just hopes her girl likes it.

She goes around to help Cady down, making sure her eyes are still covered as she leads her around to the back before she takes her hands away. “Tah-dah,” she says shyly, but smiles as Cady gasps excitedly.

“Janis! This is incredible! And you bought me that lion,” she squeals, pointing to it. “Thank you!” is all the warning Janis gets before her girlfriend is in her arms, kissing her firmly.

She scrambles to grab her as she suddenly pulls back, saying, “Oh, sorry I didn’t mean- I should’ve asked first,” hastily. Janis sets her down gently before leaning in and pressing their lips together again.

“I appreciate that, but you don’t have to ask anymore, baby. It might take me some time to be comfortable with it in public, but I love your kisses,” She says comfortingly. “Now hop up here and snuggle me.” Cady uses her offered hand as a boost, wriggling up and picking up the stuffed animal to hold it close. Janis follows, getting comfortable in a corner she made extra cushy before gesturing for Cady to come to her.

She obliges, leaning her back against Janis’ chest and resting her head on her shoulder so they can both see the sky. “You don’t have to ask, either,” She murmurs quietly after a few peaceful seconds. “In case you were wondering.”

“Good to know,” Janis says, pulling her tighter against her and wrapping them

both up in another blanket. They watch the sun set in silence, observing the stars getting brighter the lower it gets.

“Which one do you like better?” Janis asks after a long moment.

“Hmm?”

“The sky. Is it better here or in Kenya?”

Cady thinks for a minute. “Uhm, both,” she says softly. “There’s less smog in Africa, obviously, so you can see more. The stars themselves are more distinct and you can see more of them. But everything just stretches on for miles, I could see everything around me, and it always reminded me how alone I was. Here I have you, and Damian, and so many people that I know actually care about me. There’s less sky, but more people to share it with.”

“That’s confusing,” Janis cracks in a ditch attempt to lighten the mood. “What constellations do you know?”

Cady takes her hand gently and uses it to point out what she can see, telling her the scientific names of all the stars she knows and the stories behind all the shapes.

“How do you know all this?” Janis asks after she’s pointed out everything they can see, turning Cady around in her lap to face her.

“My brother taught me when I was little, and then I just kept studying it after that.” Cady surmises, nuzzling into her shoulder and starting to stim with the ends of her hair.

“Your brother?”

“Yeah, he-um. He passed away when I was ten. He was in the military,” Cady says.

“Oh.” Janis says. “I’m sorry. My biological father died when I was four but I still don’t... really know what to say in this kind of situation.” She mumbles, embarrassed.

“Don’t worry about it, darling. It’s awkward for everyone,” Cady comforts.

“Tell me about him,” Janis asks. “If you want to, no pressure.” She adds hastily, relieved as her girlfriend chuckles lightly.

“Okay, um- his name is Rhys. He was the best, he taught me all about science and stuff, and he always made up games with me when our parents were busy with their research. I used to get nightmares a lot when I was little, and he would sneak into my tent to cuddle me back to sleep before I woke anyone else up,” Cady recalls fondly. “I think he was a genius, too. He knew everything. He wanted to be a doctor, actually. We couldn’t afford to pay for all of his schooling, so he joined the army to get help with that when he was eighteen. He was almost at the end of his service when he died, he was twenty. My parents never told me what happened, all they ever told me was that there was an accident and he was never in any pain.”

Janis presses Cady impossibly closer to her, kissing her soft cherry-scented curls. “He sounds wonderful, baby. Sounds a lot like you, actually.” She says, nuzzling their noses together.

“You think? My parents say that a lot, but I never believed them,” Cady mutters softly.

——-

They continue to chat quietly as the sky gets ever darker, talking about everything and nothing all at once. Eventually, they go quiet, and Cady leans up to press their lips together gently. Janis sinks into her, tangling her fingers into curly auburn hair and nipping her bottom lip softly.

In her head, Janis knows that the universe is above them, stretching infinitely into nothing. But in her heart, she knows that there are just as many stars in Cady’s eyes, just as much beauty in her heart. Her whole universe is right here, in her arms.

--------

lol remember when I said this one would be shorter ?? oh well.

hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading!

-ezzy

#cadnis #janis sarkisian #cady heron #damian hubbard #paint by numbers #janis x cady #mean girls #mean girls musical #mean girls broadway

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thelifeofprettycommitteealpha · 3 years

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How to Act Like Massie Block

Steps

We'll start with attitude, by far the most important aspect of being like Massie Block. If you only take one thing from this, remember that you must always show, radiate, and have CONFIDENCE! This means not pointing out your flaws to others, (ex: "My hair is so frizzy today!" or "Is this top cute? 'Cause I'm not sure...") having good posture and always looking straight ahead, (never at the ground) and not ever letting people know when you feel unsure of yourself or your opinions. Never appear to be upset. Don't cry or make comments about how "your life sucks." You must always make it seem as if you have everything together, and that your life is perfect, or else people will never idolize you. Even if you're majorly embarrassed about something, you have to just laugh it off and forget it (don't make it a big deal). You can never show weakness!

Another crucial part of your Massie transformation is looking the part. Massie is gorgeous. She has straight, extremely shiny brunette hair, about shoulder length, sparkling amber eyes, and perfect skin. You don't have to look exactly like this, (always choose the look that works best on you) but you must always appear your best.

Without a fabulous wardrobe, Massie would be nothing. Be a true fashionista and wear expensive clothes from stores/designers like BCBG, Coach, Juicy Couture, Ralph Lauren, Seven For All Mankind, Guess, Lacoste, C&C California, Marc Jacobs, Joie, True Religion, etc. Always dress to impress! Never leave the house in sweats and a T-shirt (unless they're Juicy!). Even if you can't afford uber-expensive clothes, make sure to always look pulled together and stylish, with coordinated accessories and cute shoes. Don't tell anyone where you got your cheaper clothes unless you have a social death wish! A final note on inexpensive clothes: don't ever wear anything that looks cheap. This means don't go for the Wal-Mart or Target look when you can be buying low-priced (and way cuter) clothing from Forever 21 or Wet Seal. Oh, and no too tight/too big tacky clothing please. Wear stuff that fits you and looks good. Not sure? Get a second opinion. Make sure your underwear/bras are cute, too, from stores like Victoria's Secret or underglam.com. Trust me, people do notice in the locker room when you're changing. Never wear the same outfit more than once every two weeks or more: if you double up, people will think that you are thrifty and don't have very many clothes...and we wouldn't want them to think that, would we? No.

Massie is the queen bee. Popular. Worshipped. And how does she do this? By looking fabulous, having the right attitude, and establishing her dominance by using intimidation. Get together a clique of the prettiest and most fashionable girls in the school, 3-4 others. Make sure you are their leader. Your beta (second in command) should be the most loyal. The other girls should also be loyal and reliable; make sure you have at least one nice-ish girl to keep the peace in your clique. If you don't all get along, you will never rule. It's all about unity. This doesn't mean you can't boss them around though--it's what Massie would do! Test the waters by starting off really nice, then gradually getting a bit harsher. If they stick with you, you'll know you have 'em forever. Lighten up a bit if they start to stray. Make sure people are somewhat scared/intimidated by you, so that you know they'll do whatever you want. Be totally snobby to the losers at your school (a.k.a. basically everyone outside your group). Chances are, you'll be so fabulous by then, it will only make them idolize you more.

You must be thin to maintain your social status! This means very little or no fatty/sugary foods like chips, soda, candy, fried chicken, pizza, etc. It's a tough sacrifice to make, but well worth it in the long run! Work out regularly on a treadmill, doing crunches, squats, or playing the specified sports below. Chew sugarless gum. Never be too skinny or develop an eating disorder. Not only will many rumors be circulated about you, but you could even die from it!

Get super shiny hair by using shine shampoo, (such as Citré Shine or Brilliant Brunette Shine-Release) shine serum or spray, (know your limit--don't use too much or your hair will look greasy) and rinsing out your conditioner with cool water (as cold as you can stand it!). Straighten your hair with a good-quality flat iron and consult hair magazines or a hair stylist to find the best cut for your face (but never shorter than shoulder length!).

If you desire brown eyes, (and you don't have 'em) experiment with color contacts.

Achieve your best skin by washing your face morning and night with a good cleanser (Clean & Clear works great) and exfoliating and moisturizing daily. If you have dry skin, wash your face once per day and use more moisturizer; if you have more oily skin, skip the moisturizer. When you're drying your face, remember to pat, not rub, (rubbing pulls the skin and causes wrinkles). If you have bad acne that cannot be fixed by this skincare regimen, see a dermatologist.

Now for make-up...it can do so much for your face, turning you from plain to perfect in a matter of minutes. But be careful not to wear too much--you want to be like Massie, not Nina! Wear an eyeshadow in a natural color like brown, gold, or beige, (or whatever subtle color compliments your eye color) thinly line your eyes with a black or brown eyeliner, add a coat or two of blackish-brown mascara, and conceal all of your blemishes with the right shade and amount of concealer. It's also very important to remember your lip gloss--Massie would never leave home without hers! Buy a variety of different good-smelling flavors and bring them everywhere you go.

Make sure your teeth are bright-white and perfect. If your teeth are crooked, use "Invisiline" rather than getting braces (a lot more attractive!). Whiten your teeth with laser procedures or Crest Whitestrips. Brush at least twice a day with whitening toothpaste, and remember to floss!

Tips

Get a super cute dog (the smaller the better) such as a Chihuahua or a Pug, in black, light brown, or honey color (they're the cutest). You can also get a kitty; they're ah-dorable, too. Tell your pet everything, (yes, you can talk to her about your insecurities!) and love her as your child. Dress her in the cutest fashions, (this works best if you have a dog) and take her on walks in the evening with your Louis Vuitton leash.

Use words like "ah-mazing," "ah-dorable," and "ah-nnoying". Say "ehmagawd!" when you're shocked, surprised, or excited about something. When something is well-known and "ah-bvious" to you, say, "Given!". When you have the same opinion as someone, say, "Ah-greed". When something someone says strikes you as reasonable, say, "Point!" and draw an imaginary "1" with your finger if you desire.

Have the best and biggest room. Go with Massie and have everything be white, no exceptions! Make sure you have a queen-size bed, (you are one, right?) an Apple computer, a giant walk-in closet to store all your ah-mazing clothes, and a leather chaise by your bay window to have long phone conversations and brush your pet before going to bed. Vanilla scented candles are a nice touch, too. Have everyone refer to your room as the "iPad".

Sports are luh-ame unless they are something classy and don't involve getting dirty like Tennis, Horse-back Riding, or Volleyball. And shopping, of course!

Purple is the official color of royalty. Therefore it's your favorite color. Wear it, love it, decorate everything from books and pens to your cell phone with it (purple rhinestones, of course!).

Speaking of cell phones, you need one! It's the perfect way to stay updated on gossip and keep in contact with your friends. Make sure you have a texting plan so that you your clique can silently dish about stuff in class, detention, wherever! Cover it in Swarovski crystals and bring it everywhere you go.

Get together a carpool with your clique. Taking the bus is so ew!

Wear a charm bracelet with charms such as a shoe, Eiffel Tower, dog or cat, (whichever you have) star, and most importantly, a crystal-encrusted crown! Make sure the charm bracelet is gold, and never have any of the charms be silver (tacky much?). Buy it from Tiffany if you have the money.

Always have your fingernails and toenails perfectly manicured! I highly suggest a french tip for fingernails, because it coordinates so well with everything. Have them done at a fancy salon with your clique afterschool or on a weekend for a fun activity.

Throw a fabulous party to increase your popularity. Invite everyone.

You must always be prepared with a witty comeback for if, on some rare occasion, a wannabe insults you. One of my favorite Massie-style ones is, "Did I invite you to my barbecue?...Then why are you all up in my GRILL?" Consult the Clique books for some other great ones, or make some up yourself. Never let anyone get the best of you or think that they have won. Remember that YOU are in charge. YOU make the rules.

It helps to have an AIM account, or MSN, you'll need it to keep in touch with you friends one-on-one!

The magazines Teen Vogue, ElleGirl, and Lucky are your bible. Read them religiously(but not in a creepy way...)

Warnings

Be prepared to receive some backlash from the people that wish they were you. In other words, the jealous people. They may spread some pretty nasty stuff about you, but respond with something positively catty (your beta will help) to show them who's really the boss.

There may be occasions where controversy arises in your clique. Like a power-trip, where a girl in your clique suddenly wants the throne. Start by putting her in her place by telling her off in the hallway (preferably with many people around). If she still doesn't get the hint, kick her out the group and recruit someone new. Chances are, she'll come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. Let her back in after a little while, and ditch the temporary.

Many people will probably think you're a mean person. But they'll still love you, and wish they were just like you (they'll love to hate you). This is inevitable if you want to be on top like Massie. You'll get used to it.

#lifestyle tips #beauty tips

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nazezdha321 · 4 years

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i was tagged by the lovely @justanalto <3

1. what is the color of your hairbrush?

i have a wet brush that’s black and white but i’m pretty convinced it’s not doing any favors to my hair so i think i’m gonna stop using it lmao

2. name a food you never eat

tomatoes. disgusting.

3. are you typical too warm or too cold?

everyone in my house insists i’m just a naturally cold person but i’m not the one who refuses to turn the heat on in the winter so excuse me for bundling up and refusing to leave my bed

4. what were you doing 45 minutes ago?

watching madam secretary lmao

5. what’s your favorite candy bar?

dark chocolate anything

6. have you ever been to professional sports event?

i think i went to a baseball game when i was like nine. i’ve also been to a rodeo.

7. what is the last thing you said out loud?

something about my parents telling me i could stay up as late as i wanted last night so i stayed up all night

8. what is your favorite ice cream?

okay there’s this local company that makes the best fucking chocolate ice cream i have ever eaten but i can’t post it on tumblr for internet safety reasons :(

9. what was the last thing you had to drink?

i don’t think i’ve had anything to drink since my lemonade last night.

10. do you like your wallet?

i don’t hate it? it’s this captain marvel one i got a few years ago. it works well enough for me.

11. what is the last thing you ate?

i had almost an entire box of those cinnamon twisty things from dominoes last night (yes i forgot to eat breakfast again)

12. did you buy any new clothes last weekend?

i don’t think so, but i can’t even remember what happened last weekend.

13. what’s the last sporting event you watched?

probably some football game my dad had on.

14. what is your favorite flavor of popcorn?

extra buttery. give me that heart attack.

15. who is the last person you send text message to?

@aleksandrachaev “noted” last night. no i will not give context >:)

16. ever been camping?

yes. i despise it.

17. do you take vitamins?

do i, or does my mother wish i did?

18. do you regularly attend a place of worship?

nope

19. do you have a tan?

a little bit, from the areas where i got really sunburned over the summer. but i don’t really go outside anymore so

20. do you prefer chinese or pizza?

it depends but probably chinese.

21. do you drink your soda through a straw?

i do not

22. what color socks you usually wear?

black, usually, but i’ve been living in polka dot fluffy socks because it’s fucking freezing in this house

23. do you ever drive above the speed limit?

i haven’t driven anywhere in a while lmao but usually it’s just a couple miles over

24. what terrifies you?

how long you got?

25. look to your left, what do you see?

my red jacket. i wore it yesterday. because it’s fucking freezing.

26. what chore do you hate the most?

we rotate chores in this household and i fucking have to clean the bathrooms this week. it’s generally regarded as the worst chore.

27. what do you think when you hear australian accent?

kangaroos

28. what’s your favorite soda?

dr. pepper

29. do you go in a fast food place or just hit drive through?

it depends?? usually drive thru now because we eat it at home.

30. what’s your favorite number?

3. good things come in threes, bad things come in threes, i am a triplet...

31. who’s the last person you talked to?

either my father or my sister. probably both. we were talking about how late i stayed up last night.

32. favorite meal?

mac n cheese

33. last song you listed to?

from eden by hozier

34. last book you read?

i reread the poet x by elizabeth acevedo again

35. favorite day of the week?

fridays because the mandalorian comes out on fridays lmao

36. can you say alphabet backwards?

sure, gimme a sec

37. how do you like your coffee?

caffeinated. i am going to need caffeine today

38. favorite pair of shoes?

my bright red converse

39. time you normally get up?

6:45am

40. what do you prefer, sunrise or sunset?

sunrise, sunset is overrated but nobody waits around for sunrise so it’s quiet

41. how many blankets on your bed?

too many. i need blankets. because it’s cold

42. describe your kitchen plates.

we have them in four different colors - light blue, orange, red, and navy - and you have to stack them in that exact order when putting away the dishes as a Rule

43. describe your kitchen at the moment.

many things on the counter, white cabinets, a side table with metal chairs that freeze you to death when you sit in them

44. do you have a favorite alcoholic drink?

considering i’m not old enough to drink, i do not

45. do you play cards?

we used to do it as a family! also my grandmother is the Cards queen, whatever game you want to play, she’ll win.

46. what color is your car?

we have a white one and this black truck that is older than i am

47. can you change a tire?

i cannot. should probably learn to do that.

48. your favorite state or province?

colorado always felt the most like home but i’d really like to visit new york

49. favorite job you’ve had?

honestly? i’m not sure if this counts but i used to babysit this little boy and he was always so chaotic and awful to watch but he was really cute and i miss him

tagging anyone who wants to!! yes, you!! and you’re welcome to say i tagged you <3

#tag games #justanalto

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asiaberkeley · 3 years

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Afghan is beautiful

I am a half Afghan woman. An Afghan-European American. An Afghan American.

Admittedly, it took me awhile to offer up this information in the aftermath of 9/11 when Afghanistan became synonymous with terrorism in the eyes of many Americans. Taking pride in my heritage suddenly and painfully became controversial.

People didn’t know about my Afghan-ness though because I had my mother’s surname and not my Pashtun father’s: Hotaki. Also, I didn’t wear any kind of head covering because I was raised Catholic. It was easy to hide and pass for completely White.

My late father, an aspiring doctor and med school student who spoke six languages, left Kabul with his family before the Soviet Invasion of Afghanistan as a child. They were the lucky ones. He spent most of his life in Germany where many Afghans have sought refuge. One of my fondest memories is flying kites with him and my Irish-Swedish-French American mother in the Munich Public Gardens as a child. There was no wind that day and we dragged the kites in dizzy circles…laughing together...just as I imagine him now when he was a boy: kite flying in the streets of Kabul.

Since my father died when I was six, I returned to my mother’s hometown of Boston with her in 1996. I was later left to contemplate what it meant to be Afghan in a place with very few Afghans compared to Virginia, California, and New York. In college, as an Asian Studies major at Wellesley College and later at the University of California, Berkeley, I often corrected people who said that Afghanistan is in the Middle East and not in South-Central Asia. I wondered why it seemed that no one had received much education on this country’s history or people outside of reading the popular Khaled Hosseini novel, The Kite Runner, especially since we have been at war—fighting together with the Afghan forces against the Taliban in the longest war in American history.

Many Americans don’t realize that the attackers on 9/11 were not Afghan. The attackers did seek a hiding and meeting place in Afghanistan, however. But those facts shouldn’t matter. Because it doesn’t matter what ethnicity, race, or nationality someone is if they commit a crime and it doesn’t matter where they were hiding. The guilty party does not represent all people of their background or country just like Hitler does not represent all Germans or all of Germany and El Chapo does not represent Mexico or all Mexicans. Similarly, the latest mass shooter in El Paso doesn’t represent all white American men.

After former President Trump pondered out loud the mere possibility of a concocted plan to kill 10 million Afghans and wipe the country off the face of the earth – presumably through the use of nuclear weapons – I have thought more about what it means to be Afghan American today. And it’s not because of those unimaginably cruel musings which add insult to injury in the homes of all Afghans traumatized by decades of war. Indeed, nearly every person who is not a white man has been made to feel worthless, subhuman and criminal under the rhetoric of the former Trump administration...so Afghans are not alone.

But Afghans were alone in the discussion of their genocide in 2019. I have contemplated my identity even more because not one leader or politician in America of any background spoke out formally against those disturbing statements. (And it doesn’t matter if this was an actual plan of his or just an imaginary scenario dangling in the recesses of his mind.) What does the national silence mean?

After 9/11, Afghan American author of West of Kabul, East of New York and Destiny Disrupted, Tamim Ansary, went viral with an email he sent. In it, he wrote:

“The Taliban and Bin Laden are not Afghanistan. They’re not even the government of Afghanistan. The Taliban are a cult of ignorant psychotics who captured Afghanistan in 1997 and have been holding the country in bondage ever since. Bin Laden is a political criminal with a master plan. When you think Taliban, think Nazis. When you think Bin Laden, think Hitler. And when you think “the people of Afghanistan” think “the Jews in the concentration camps.” It’s not only that the Afghan people had nothing to do with this atrocity, they were the first victims of the perpetrators. They would love for someone to eliminate the Taliban and clear out the rats nest of international thugs holed up in their country. I guarantee it…Some say, if that’s the case, why don’t the Afghans rise up and overthrow the Taliban themselves? The answer is, they’re starved, exhausted, damaged, and incapacitated.”

After 2001, my family warned me that just telling people I was Afghan may offend or anger them because they may have lost a loved one on 9/11 or they may have had a son or daughter deployed to Afghanistan. In middle school, a classmate told me I was from the land of the terrorists after I proudly showed her an autographed book I received from an Afghan British writer, Saira Shah, called "The Storyteller's Daughter." My American cousin, a veteran, was later deployed to Afghanistan and brought back a burqa which I showed to my classmates in high school to teach them about the Taliban’s oppression. Contrary to what they may have assumed, what they saw was not traditional Afghan clothing. Traditional Afghan clothing, banned under the Taliban, is colorful, intricate, deeply hued, bright and beautiful. Google it.

A year has passed since Trump discussed wiping Afghanistan off the face of the earth. After it happened, I regularly checked Twitter and the news to see if any of our nation’s leaders denounced those remarks. I called my Governor, Congresspeople, and many others asking if just one would put out a statement to support Afghans and Afghan Americans against talk of our annihilation. The Governor’s office simply said that he did not put out a statement. I still haven’t found any. However, some Americans did speak out on social media. Thank you.

We have studied the long-lasting horrors of the U.S. nuclear bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in our classrooms. I thought we concluded as a nation that something like that could never happen again. That not a single person in power thought it worth it to speak out against the possibility of the U.S. committing another nuclear genocide bewilders and frightens me. Is it controversial to say out loud that Afghans civilians do not deserve to die en masse? Are Afghans so vilified in our society that it’s a public risk to defend us?

If you still blame the Afghan people for 9/11 even if only on an subconscious level, think again. Many of the Afghan people are suffering in ways you can only imagine in your worst nightmares. They are not responsible and took no part in this. Like the poor souls who were killed in the Twin Towers, Afghans are survivors and casualties of terrorism as well. Afghan women have lost their entire families. They have been abused and pillaged. Men, women, and children have been bombed and maimed. Their history, including the rich Buddhist Silk Road history of Afghanistan, has been destroyed by the Taliban and others.

Discussing our nation's capability to conduct nuclear genocide of an entire people and country is an affront to all humans.

So I suggest to all of our nation’s leaders who have remained tight-lipped in the face of the unspeakable: Take time to learn something you don’t know about Afghanistan. Perhaps that could start with the story of progressive Afghan Queen and feminist Soraya Tarzi who asked, "Do you think, however, that our nation from the outset only needs men to serve it? Women should also take their part as women did in the early years of our nation..." Or it could be about the life and death of iconic Afghan singer Ahmad Zahir. You could learn about the courageous resistance of Afghan women and girls throughout history or visit that Afghan restaurant you were too timid to enter and try a sweet pumpkin kadoo dish.

As the war in Afghanistan, a war based on lies and deceit, may be coming to another tragic end with even graver implications for the women left behind who have fought so hard for equality, maybe it’s finally time to read another book that is not the Kite Runner... and most importantly, time to look deep inside of ourselves and question the possible anger, hate and bias that has developed towards the Afghan people after the catastrophic and traumatizing events of September 11, 2001.

*See the Washington Post’s Afghanistan Papers which deemed that the American military did not know what it was doing there and that the war was based on lies and deceit. Government officials misled the American public about the war. The war has cost the lives of thousands of American soldiers with many more wounded as well as 100,000+ Afghan civilians killed or hurt. Many of the American troops have returned with PTSD. 30% of the Afghan casualties were children.

Sources

https://apnews.com/a2a8d7a4f89ec0515379dc4d4a38b56a

https://www.washingtonpost.com/graphics/2019/investigations/afghanistan-papers/documents-database/

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poloniumicecream · 4 years

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i was tagged by @starryeyedagony and @hashbrownteamcobrakai for this absurdly long list of personal questions <3 no one could possibly need to know this much about me, but let’s go

 1. what is the color of your hairbrush? i just... use my hand.... i keep my hair short, it curls and does its own thing

2. name a food you never eat:  idk i’ll eat what’s offered to me?? i buy what’s easy?? i have no strong food opinions at the moment

3. are you typically too warm or too cold? i have this bird bone body like an ailing victorian child, anything under 70º and i’m freezing

4. what were you doing 45 minutes ago? was trying to be productive but instead found a good link to the blue lick horror house🙏 idk what’s so fascinating about this thing, but i can’t let it go. maybe bc i have nightmares that resemble this space?? anyway i live here now

5. what’s your favorite candy bar? reeses never lets me down

6. have you ever been to a professional sports game?  memories blocked, sports too boring to think about

7. what is the last thing you said out loud? i regret to admit i am reading this out loud as i go

8. what is your favorite ice cream? idk but the worst i ever had was peanut butter

9. what was the last thing you had to drink? some faintly bleachy tap water, delicious

10. do you like your wallet? i use a coin purse to hold cards and cash - it's a pretty recognizable bright colored mass produced one. a while back there was a popular celebrity on the periphery of my friend group (don’t ask pls) and one time at a bar or something i had my "wallet" out and from across the room they locked eyes with me and pulled the Same One out of their pocket. pretty sure it was weed tho. but imagine carrying ur weed in a normal bill-fold wallet. that would have been funnier :/

11. what is the last thing you ate?  lost in the turbine of my memory

12. did you buy any new clothes last weekend? i did not but i just got a new desk lamp, genuinely v excited for that to arrive

13. what’s the last sporting event you watched?  i don't think this question applies to my experiences

14. what is your favorite flavor of popcorn? popcorn smells are compelling but if i eat things that stick in my teeth i'll lose my entire mind. wait this is it, the answer to number 2

15. who is the last person you sent a text message to? close inner circle group chat planning our surprise private island getaway. no but we’re making (safe!) halloween plans

16. ever been camping? not as often as usual this year but yes! see above

17. do you take vitamins?  those gummy ones like fruit snacks

18. do you regularly attend a place of worship?  nah

19. do you have a tan? i'm ghostly

20. do you prefer Chinese or pizza? i'm pickier about pizza. u can't go wrong with chinese

21. do you drink your soda through a straw? no...?

22. what color socks do you usually wear? mostly dark but i have some fluffy pastel ones specifically bc the contrast in my laundry is funny to me

23. do you ever drive above the speed limit? i'm gay i don't drive

24. what terrifies you?  third date kind of question!

25. look to your left, what do you see? dying jade plants and beyond these, a cat's loving gaze

26. what chore do you hate most?  vacuuming. loud

27. what do you think of when you hear an Australian accent?  family

28. what’s your favorite soda?  dr pepper only. i don't really drink soda tho. i was raised by the kind of parents who put fruit juice in seltzer and sold me that lie. i guess it stuck

29. do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? there are so many food questions in this list pls

30. what’s your favorite number?  secret information

31. who’s the last person you talked to?  my father. probably the person i've spoken with out loud the most this year

32. favorite meat? i no longer eat meat

33. last song you listened to? it’s been a war on drugs kind of week

34. last book you read?  i can't read

35. favorite day of the week?  something cool about a thursday, i can't explain it

36. can you say the alphabet backwards?  feeling very interrogated rn

37. how do you like your coffee? however it wants to be. i for real cannot supply food or beverage opinions like this on demand PLS

38. favorite pair of shoes?  generic black leather lace up boots

39. time you normally get up? i'm drawing my shades and peering suspiciously outside through a crack rn

40. what do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? ok when ur out somewhere with no artificial light and it makes the sky more dramatic and cool, either one is good

41. how many blankets are on your bed? not enough, season transitions are rough

42. describe your kitchen plates? ... grandma is that u?

43. describe your kitchen at the moment:  it's clean, it's fine, grandma get out of here

44. do you have a favorite alcoholic drink?  among the friends i drink with, one is a skilled bartender and we let him surprise us with whatever obscure drink he thinks each person should have that night. i would trust him with my life. conversely i just remembered my very best friend is also a bartender but him i wouldn’t let serve me anything except straight from the bottle. hm. what i’m trying to say is, the company i keep is more important to me than what's in the glass. should i also clarify i made these friends before they pursued this work and i’m not, like, frequenting bars to harass the staff? this answer is a mess lol

45. do you play cards?  i don’t have a great attention span for learning or enduring things like that

46. what color is your car?  u know what's funny is how much junk mail i get with car insurance offers. i wonder what color they think the car i've never had is

47. can you change a tire? 100% no and that would not stop me trying. it won’t be my car so i have nothing to lose and all of myself (also nothing) to give

48. your favorite state or province? idk i feel like a stranger everywhere i go except nyc

49. favorite job you’ve had? ok, mr. fbi i think that's enough

😔 i have not kept track of who’s been tagged or done this already, and the links will kill my tags anyway. do u have shit u need help procrastinating on? here, try this

#yes i am avoiding tasks #come join #tag game #...formatting text is my passion🐸

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lunarthedragon · 4 years

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Bards are Knives and Arrows, Not Sunshine and Daises part 2

Hope you enjoy my word vomit!

Read on Ao3: here

Jaskier didn’t have an exact plan for travelling with Geralt of Rivia. He had kind of leapt into this thing feet first, hoping to land safely at the bottom with some new, fantastical experiences under his belt. Every other concern, every other problem or difficulty, was pushed to the side to be dealt with later.

He didn’t necessarily regret it, he had never been more excited in his life, but it certainly didn’t take him long to notice the flaws in his “plan.”

There were so many ways Jaskier was not prepared for such an adventure. His clothes, for one. Bright, colorful outfits best suited for performances and courts didn’t mix well with unbridled nature. Jaskier had already mourned one of his favorite doublets after the sleeve had been torn on a branch while Geralt had just kept moving ahead with Roach, ignoring him.

And don’t even get Jaskier started on the shoes. He kind of expected that one, since his feet had been killing him while just walking around during their first adventure, but Jaskier didn’t really have many options to change into.

It wasn’t that Bards didn’t know how to be prepared, it was that they rarely needed to travel as hard or incessantly as a Witcher. Bards were flashy to distract from their bullshit, they stuck to highly populated areas and parties. They didn’t really DO wilderness.

Not to say Jaskier didn’t have a few things. He did, at least, have a spare change of clothes that he used for stealth. A more modest, comfortable, quiet outfit dyed all black and grey, with shoes – also not fit for hiking but they were silent and didn’t hurt Jaskier’s feet when he had to crouch somewhere, unmoving, for a few hours – and a dark brown cloak.

It was the drabbest thing Jaskier owned and, judging by Geralt’s furrowed brows when Jaskier had put it on the first time, it likely didn’t really look like “him.”

“Yes, yes, make fun of me all you like,” Jaskier had waved Geralt off as the larger man set up a fire, “I despise the look, but at least I can catch food like this, yes?”

“How practical of you,” Geralt rumbles, half to himself, but Jaskier jumps at the chance to hear his new travel companion speak again.

“Contrary to general belief, I am actually capable of thinking ahead sometimes,” Jaskier smiles, hoping to earn a chuckle or snort, but Geralt just stares at him until he sighs and heads off.

Jaskier returns with a few hares for dinner, holding them at a slight distance from his body by their back legs. Geralt gives him an long, unhappy look when Jaskier hurriedly drops off the corpses, wiping off his hands frantically afterwards, but then hums in surprise as he goes about skinning the creatures.

“What? What is it?” Jaskier looks over, concerned he’d done something wrong. He’d hunted the animals like he would have any other day and, while he knew in theory how to prepare a meal after that, he really, really didn’t want to. Was that really such a problem for Geralt?

“You shot them in the eyes. All of them,” the Witcher eventually observes, looking up at Jaskier with a thoughtful and slightly suspicious tilt of his brows.

“Well… yes?” Jaskier’s own brows furrow, confused, laying out his brown cloak so he can sit on it. He didn’t have a bedroll, unfortunately. He’d need to buy one when they next went through a town. “Doesn’t damage the parts of the body we actually want.”

Geralt hums, that deep “hmm” he seems so fond of, and goes back to prepping their food. It makes Jaskier sit up a little straighter, assuming the lack of response is a negative thing.

“What? Did you think I was lying about my capabilities? I’ll have you know—”

“I don’t care,” Geralt cuts him off, focused entirely on skinning the hares, and Jaskier leans back to pout at him, rather insulted.

“Very well. Then, with this moment of peace, perhaps you’d be willing to tell me about some of your previous hunts? Any noteworthy moments? What monster was the most daunting?” Jaskier attempts to move on, but Geralt doesn’t even grunt this time, completely ignoring the Bard. “Okay… Why not tell me about Witcher life? Where do you train? For how long? What weapons can you use?”

Still no answer.

Jaskier’s forced smile drops and he’s back to pouting. Fine then. If Geralt didn’t want to talk then Jaskier could find something else to entertain himself with.

He pulls out his lute, bow and arrows stashed away once more, and begins to pluck at the strings, humming and meandering through a nameless tune.

He ignores Geralt’s glares as the evening goes on.

+++

One of a Bard’s most powerful weapons is their words.

After that it is their connections.

The great thing about being part of a Bardic Society meant connections were readily shared amongst its members. In most major cities, and a few remote villages, there were a few, choice individuals or organizations that a Bard could trust and go to as needed.

Merchants. Blacksmiths. Fences. Gangs. Informants. So on and so forth.

Individual Bards also tended to build up their own connections, too, whenever they went off on their own, like Jaskier was doing. Issue with that, however, was that Jaskier wasn’t really focusing on his Bard work. There weren’t that many connections some unknown minstrel could make, after all…

That wasn’t to say Jaskier hadn’t, though. He’d been travelling for some time before he joined Geralt on his journeys. There were a few people who knew his face on friendly terms. Far more who knew his face on… less than friendly terms.

Only one of those friendly people actually knew he was a Bard, though.

Serafina Gorecki was a blacksmith. When Jaskier had met her, she was still under the tutelage and control of her father, who had regularly attempted to put her down despite her work being far superior.

Long story short, Jaskier had been fleeing from a party-turned-massacre. Technically speaking, he had been the one to set the whole chaos into motion, quietly exchanging some information about a cheating countess, an overzealous alchemist, and a cat. It was a very… strange story, but his buyer, a noble at said party, had seemed pleased by it.

Then proceeded to begin ordering killings and Jaskier had figured it was time he stepped out.

He fled and jumped through the first, dark open window he saw in the city, which just so happened to be the Gorecki Smithy, where Serafina had been up late working.

Ever since, with Serafina covering for Jaskier’s escape and Jaskier purchasing some of her exquisite knives – some of the best knives Jaskier had ever seen outside of Oxenfurt – the two of them had remained in friendly correspondence, leaning on each other when necessary.

Jaskier isn’t expecting to run into her during a pit stop in some no-name village only a month after he’d begun travelling with Geralt.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? The Laughing Fox himself!” Serafina greets Jaskier as he’s looking through a merchant’s meager offerings. He still needs a damn bedroll. Plus significantly better shoes.

Jaskier abandons his search with a smile, greeting the burly woman with a tight hug. Serafina had always been a strong woman, body built like a mountain, and she could likely bench press Jaskier if given the chance.

She could probably bench press Geralt, actually, if he didn’t pull his blades on her…

She’s all grins as they separate, her skin tan from the forge’s fires, soot smeared everywhere, and her short, red hair is messy and spiky. She looks good, finally away from her father, travelling the world to learn more about her trade.

They talk for a while. Serafina tells that she had been passing through this village of no renown and had been commissioned to help fortify some of their houses. Jaskier tells about his journey to the world’s edge and how he now travels with the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia.

“The Butcher of Blaviken?” Serafina questions and Jaskier, despite himself, feels his hackles rise.

“He’s no butcher. He’s a good man. I’ve even written a song for his marvelous deeds.”

“That poor man.”

Jaskier gives the grinning woman a bland look, knowing she was aiming to get a rise out of him and very pointedly not giving it to her.

“You’ll be safe? I can’t imagine you fighting monsters,” Serafina eventually asks as they find themselves walking into the village’s forge where she’s set up temporary shop.

“Oh, I don’t intend to. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Jaskier smiles charmingly.

“You’re a mess is what you are. What are you even wearing? Trudging around the wilderness like a damn peacock.” Serafina is still grinning as she digs around in her things before finding a decent pair of boots that look like they might be Jaskier’s size. They’re definitely too small for Serafina.

“Where’d you get those?” Jaskier asks, but takes the offered boots anyway.

“Assistant a few towns back. Played around with my gear and got his head crushed by one of my war hammers.”

“That’s awful!” Jaskier exclaims, nearly dropping the boots.

Serafina just shrugs. “I mean… the war hammers sold really well afterwards since everybody knew that they worked.”

Jaskier gives the woman a flabbergasted stare. “You’re awful,” he eventually settles on, because as much as he loved to talk, sometimes only a few words were enough to get across his thoughts.

“Yeah, probably,” Serafina shrugs again, then jabs a thumb back at the forge. It is remarkably hot in here and Jaskier wonders how she isn’t melting. “You need some new gear?”

“Do you still give discounts to your favorite minstrel?” Jaskier smirks as he begins taking stock of his weapons and what he might need.

“Oh, is Valdo Marx in town?” Serafina smirks.

At Jaskier’s insulted shriek and his gobsmacked expression, the woman begins to cackle loudly, throwing her head back as Jaskier fumbles for the right words. “That is… LOW! Even for you, Serafina Gorecki! How could you even insinuate—The gall, woman—I mean really!”

Jaskier does get a discount in the end. He gets a few more throwing knives – it never hurts to have spares – his bow is checked, and while Jaskier is perfectly capable of making wooden arrows in a pinch, it is nice to get ahold of some proper, weighted, metal tipped arrows again. His quiver is nearly full with them, and it makes him stop to think.

“’Fina, my dear,” Jaskier hums and Serafina snorts.

“Yes, Jask, my darling?” she replies with an eye roll.

“Have you ever worked with silver before?”

Serafina arches a curious brow as Jaskier rolls one of his new arrows between his fingers, thoughtful. When the two look at each other once more, however, there is an excited spark in both of their eyes and Serafina hardly hesitates to get to work.

When even more arrows sit in Jaskier’s quiver, with silver heads and red fletching instead of Jaskier’s usual blue, and a few, new silver knives sit hidden on his person, the Bard grins at the woman.

“I could write such a ballad about your magnificence, dear Serafina.”

“You could,” the woman nods, “And I could punch you in your face.”

“Well, we shouldn’t always do what we can JUST because we can,” Jaskier hums, not missing a beat, and the two share a few more laughs before Jaskier is slipping away, in search of his travel companion, a skip in his step.

+++

Geralt does not like the minstrel. “Jaskier” is his name and he doesn’t know the meaning of “silence.” Except, clearly he must, if he’s so successful with his hunting, so it’s really an active choice of the musician to talk Geralt’s ear off every chance they get.

It only makes the Witcher dislike him more.

At least, that’s what he keeps telling himself. Jaskier unceremoniously inserted himself into Geralt’s life in the most obnoxious of ways, he fills the silence Geralt once found comfort in, and he gives the Witcher one more thing he has to worry about everywhere he goes.

Humans are fragile and demanding, they shouldn’t be travelling with a Witcher. Geralt attempts to prove that to the minstrel – he pushes them faster than usual, wakes them at ungodly hours, and refuses to allow Jaskier to tag along for any of his contracts – but none of it deters the man. He complains, sure, but he sticks through it stubbornly.

It’s respectable, if remarkably stupid.

Eventually, though, even the minstrel’s stubborn streak will fade and he will leave. He will get over this starry-eyed excitement, see the situation for what it is, and flee as quickly as possible.

It always happens. Jaskier’s response is just more delayed than most.

So, Geralt will wait him out. He won’t be happy about it, having to be so aware of the human and his limitations, even when he’s pushing them, but he has suffered through worse.

“You smell like soot,” the Witcher says when the minstrel rejoins him after returning from his shopping. He doesn’t have a new bedroll, but he’s wearing new boots, Geralt notes. Hopefully that means he’ll stop whining about his feet.

“Ran into an old friend,” Jaskier replies brightly. That seemed to be a theme for the human. He was always bright. “She’s a blacksmith, best on the Continent, and she was kind enough to fashion me with proper arrows and knives. I think I’ll stick with my wooden arrows for hunting, save the metal ones, but it is nice to have them again.”

That was another thing about the minstrel. He wasn’t what Geralt would have expected from a sheltered entertainer. He wasn’t rough or strong – far from it – but he had skill of some sort.

Geralt thinks the bow and arrows might not have raised any questions had it just been them. He didn’t know Jaskier’s past, didn’t care to learn, but there were plenty of humans of many walks of life that used the weapon for hunting or fending off wild animals. And, honestly, the minstrel was clearly a good shot. Every animal he brought back for Geralt to prep was shot in such a way it hardly damaged the meat.

But the KNIVES.

Worrying mothers aside, why would a minstrel need SO MANY knives? All hidden away on his extravagant outfits, tucked away in places that not even Geralt could easily spot unless he was really looking. That wasn’t a normal thing for any human to do, let alone some random, obnoxious performer.

“Oh! She was also kind enough to give me her old assistant’s boots! How nice of her, don’t you think? Yes? Of course,” Jaskier is still talking. He’s begun asking Geralt questions and answering for him, carrying on full conversations with himself now that he’s realizes Geralt has no intention to offer any input. “Poor sod met a fairly untimely end. Crushed by a falling war hammer. Tragic.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, looking skyward and wondering if he could just gag the minstrel. This information vomit was asinine and exhausting.

“Did you want to go and speak to her? I get a discount on account of being her very favorite minstrel and friend – she doesn’t have very many friends, you see – and I’m sure you could get something new and shiny for yourself? A new sword, perhaps? Weapons in general? Anything?”

“I doubt she works in silver,” Geralt grunts, beginning to turn away, prepared to go find out if the inn has any free rooms. Silver was a far more delicate metal than steel, which meant not all blacksmiths worked in it. Geralt doubted some random blacksmith out in ass-knows-where, and apparently a friend of a minstrel, knew the craft—

“Oh, she does,” Jaskier says brightly, and when Geralt looks back he’s slipped out a knife from somewhere around his hip. It has a ring at the end of the handle and he twirls it around on one of his fingers a few times, before catching it and showing it to Geralt.

It is definitely made of silver, Geralt can tell, but he can’t help but find himself momentarily distracted by the ease the minstrel twirls the knife around.

The human was a clutz, tripping over his own feet on the road, yet somehow wielded knives and bows like they were a dancer’s ribbons.

It was… respectable, Geralt supposes.

“I do not need her help,” the Witcher eventually grunts, once again turning towards the inn, and Jaskier scrambles to catch up, grace lost in the blink of an eye.

+++

Geralt doesn’t bring Jaskier on his hunts, no matter how much the minstrel begs, pleads, or whines. Their first “adventure” was a fluke and ended far better than he would have expected. Most hunts were no place for a human and Geralt had put his foot down.

“And how do you expect me to write epic ballads about your accomplishments, then?” Jaskier pouts as he sits, cross-legged, atop a bed in the tiny room they managed to secure in this town’s inn.

“I don’t,” Geralt growls, not looking up from where he was going over his potions. They’d been on the road longer than usual and were both pleased to have a bed to look forward to, even though Jaskier was far more vocal about it.

The town also, apparently, had a kikimora problem. They were near to swampy territory, so Geralt isn’t overly surprised, and he takes the job immediately. He’d been low on coin for some time now and needed the work.

With the contract decided and the room rented, Geralt had informed the minstrel he would, once again, be waiting behind. As usual, Jaskier wasn’t happy.

“Geralt, come on! I promise not to get in the way! I won’t be something else for you to worry about, I swear.”

Except Jaskier would be, no matter how much he promised he wouldn’t be.

“I may even be of help!” Jaskier continues, pulling his pack around into his lap as he begins to dig around in it, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he searches.

“Help…” Geralt repeats slowly, disbelievingly. He looks back at the minstrel with a raised brow, clearly not impressed. It makes Jaskier puff up defensively.

“Yes! Why do you think I had all of these made?” Jaskier snaps, scrambling to pull out his quiver. He pulls out two of his arrows, one with red fletching and the other with blue. “Silver arrows!” Jaskier exclaims, not waiting to allow Geralt to look properly at the metal tips of the arrows. “Steel and silver, just like your swords. Which meeeeeeans…”

Jasskier pauses, looking to Geralt expectantly, like he actually thinks the Witcher has any intention of filling in the blank. When the silence stretches on Jaskier sags, pouting and continuing on his own. “Which means… I can help!”

“You can’t.”

The minstrel splutters at the bluntness of it, eyes widening comically, before waving the two arrows still in his fingers at Geralt. “Yes, I can. I—”

“Majority of monsters I face have skin or fur or scales too thick for arrows to do any kind of damage,” Geralt finally snaps, eyes narrowing as his stare shifts into a proper glare. “You’ll only get in the way.”

Jaskier straightens up in response and Geralt waits to smell the familiar tang of fear in the air, but it never comes and a moment later Jaskier’s face is setting stubbornly.

“Everything has weak spots. Places an arrow can stick. Spots between plating or soft underbellies or, oh I don’t know, the eyes?” Jaskier argues right back. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to be backing down from this one. Not without a fight.

“These aren’t your rabbits or ducks, minstrel. You can’t wait for them to stop moving to possibly catch them where you want,” Geralt growls. Why couldn’t Jaskier just see how ridiculous he was being? Geralt didn’t invite him along and thus didn’t owe him. It was safer and easier on everyone if Jaskier just stayed behind.

“I’m fully aware they will be a moving target, thank you,” Jaskier huffs, insulted and defensive, his chest puffing out. He looked like a child throwing a tantrum. “I am still confident in my abilities to offer assistance. And I need to be able to see your hunts and adventures if I ever want to write any more ballads in your honor! Your recounting abilities leave a lot to be desired… And by ‘a lot’ I mean ‘you don’t tell me anything at all’.”

Geralt glares just a bit harder at the minstrel, his arms moving to cross over his chest. Still, there is no spike of fear from Jaskier, just a matching, annoying glare in return. Geralt might have taken a moment to think about that – that Jaskier was the first human in a very, very long time who wasn’t initially frightened by him, even if it would surely be short-lived – but he is too agitated at the moment to care.

“You’re not coming,” the Witcher eventually rumbles, voice final, and he sees Jaskier’s shoulders droop. The minstrel’s expression is still stubborn and upset, but his body language finally tells Geralt that he’s won.

“Fine, fine. I’ll do what I can to stay safe,” Jaskier grumbles, his head hanging and not looking at Geralt, clearly upset. Geralt doesn’t much care. He’d rather the human upset than in the way or dead.

He finishes prepping his weapons and gear, not taking much longer, before slipping out the inn door without a word. The sun has set and the kikimora will be active now. The moon isn’t full but it is fat enough to light Geralt’s view as he makes his way towards the swamp, ready to finish the contract, get paid, and move on.

+++

It isn’t always normal for the people hiring a Witcher to know exactly what kind of creature is troubling their towns or fields or families. Rumors and old wives’ tales tend to distort what people know about the monsters that roam their world.

The more beastly monsters, however, are usually quite easy to identify, even for a common man, and it’s a nice addition to Geralt’s hunts when he knows more about what he’s walking into ahead of time.

That doesn’t mean he has everything. Which is made abundantly clear the more he trudges through the swamp. He’s weaving carefully through the thin, scraggly trees, potions thrumming through his veins, and tracking kikimora marking along the environment. They seem excessive, but the monster has been an issue for a while now, so he jots it down as extended residence.

Except, the markings and trails are fresh. Gash marks in trees just recently left, all over the place. Hardly an abundance to assume nest activity, but more than there should be.

When it fully sets in that something is very, very wrong the kikimora is already on him. The spidery, ugly thing springs from a deeper section of the waters, flailing its limbs, and Geralt wastes no time getting to work. He hacks away at the limbs, getting rid of them so he can get in closer, when he hears loud, sudden movement behind him.

A second kikimora flings itself at him and he only has a split second to leap to the side, the two monsters crashing into each other and tumbling for a moment. All three of them – Witcher and beasts – right themselves at once, eying each other up, and Geralt realizes just how much of a hassle this is going to be.

Fuck.

He better get paid extra when he brings back two, fucking kikimora heads.

Or, well, if he does come back. He doesn’t get very many hits in after that, having to dance out of every swipe of scythe-tipped limbs. He can’t overwhelm one of them without the other coming in and returning the favor. It’s setting his whole body on edge, the Cat and Tawny Owl potions in his system making his adrenaline spike more than usual and constant dodging around hardly helps him working it out.

If anything, it just makes him more and more frustrated, teeth gritting both in fury and pain as one of the claws manage to swipe a gash across his shoulder. It does, at the very least, put one of the spindly legs close enough for him to slash it nearly clean to the bone. The kikimora makes a high-pitched, screeching call of pain, lurching back, and it gives Geralt an opening to strike its friend, but now the monsters are REALLY angry.

Angry and injured. The only way the monsters could be any more dangerous was if it were mating season.

A poorly timed roll has Geralt just barely ducking under a swinging leg, but unable to dodge when a glob of venomous spit crashes into his back. Geralt bites his tongue to keep from crying out at the burning, almost acidic feel as the venom drips into the wound at his shoulder and touches the back of his neck where armor doesn’t cover.

The venom would kill a human, easily, but for a Witcher it burns like fire and causes his body to react far more violently against his potions. He can almost feel his immune system trying to work overtime, believing the potions to be a disease in need of eradicating. Perhaps not exactly accurate, but it is what it feels like.

He grits his teeth through it, though, and lashes out behind him, lodging his silver blade deep into the approaching kikimora’s shoulder. Close to the neck, but not close enough to kill, and the kikimora screeches far too close to Geralt’s face for comfort. It snaps at him with large teeth, but Geralt manages to keep it far enough at bay.

He’s more worried about the second one, circling behind him, looking to attack him while he’s preoccupied.

Geralt allows it to believe it has the upperhand.

When the second kikimora finally charges, Geralt gives a vicious twist of his sword and, in one motion, tears it free and swings it in a deadly arc, cleaving the charging kikimora’s face in half. It gives an agonizing screech, rearing back, before collapsing to the ground, dead.

Now for the other one, except it has recovered far quicker than planned and one, massive foreleg is swinging out and catching Geralt’s side, sending him flying and landing painfully in the mud. He attempts to roll away from his injured shoulder, but he can only do so much while airborne.

He snarls, furious and hurt and adrenaline still roaring in his ears, but when he reaches for his sword it isn’t in reach.

“Fuck!” Geralt curses aloud, not seeing where his silver blade has been thrown to, but he has little time to fret. The remaining kikimora is already charging, screeching furiously, and Geralt hurries to pull out his steel sword. It’s better than nothing, and while far less effective, he has had to resort to killing some beasts with his steel before.

He readies himself, prepared to dodge or parry, but just as the kikimora is getting closer, a sharp, whistling “fwip” flies by Geralt’s ear and the monster is suddenly skidding to a halt and rearing back, screeching in agony.

Geralt stills, black eyes widening in surprise as he very quickly tries to catalogue what has happened. The kikimora is swiping at its face and screeching, trying to rid itself of something, and then Geralt sees it.

An arrow. An arrow with red fletching. Sticking straight out of where one of the kikimora’s beady little eyes had once been.

Then, as the monster is shaking violently back and forth, another swift “fwip” and suddenly a second arrow is lodging itself in the kikimora’s other eye, blinding it completely.

The sound of something heavy spinning through the air is the only warning Geralt gets just before, with a wet splat, his silver sword lands in the mud in front of him, thrown from somewhere back in the trees.

“Told you I could hit a moving target!” a familiar voice calls and Geralt doesn’t have time to be upset or frustrated. He rushes forward, snatching up his silver blade as he moves, and, using both his own momentum and the monster’s flailing, lobs off the kikimora’s head.

He breathes heavily as, as abruptly as it started, the fight comes to an end and Geralt is left to wait out his potions and battle high. He should wait to allow his adrenaline to die down before he does anything else, he wants to be in control of his responses after all, but he can only wait so long.

“I told you to stay behind!” he finally snaps, chest still heaving as he swings around to glare at the trees where the arrows came from. Except… Geralt pauses, straightening up and tilting his head back and forth. He can see perfectly in the dark, yet somehow…

He can’t see Jaskier. He knows he’s there. He knows where he attacked from. So, how can he not see the annoying minstrel? He can faintly smell him, and even hear a human heartbeat out there, but he can’t pinpoint where.

“I agreed to do everything in my power to stay safe! Not to stay behind!” Jaskier calls back, but Geralt still can’t find his form.

“Staying behind WAS the safest option,” Geralt growls, taking a few steps forward, but still no luck.

“But, how could I be safe of mind, knowing you were out here, without me?” Jaskier singsongs and Geralt can almost hear his smug little smirk. “Besides! I remained out of the way, not for you to worry about, and I was even of assistance, shooting that ugly thing and tossing your sword back.”

There’s a rustle, a swift one, and then very suddenly Geralt has a face full of upside-down Jaskier. The Witcher doesn’t startle, but there is a definite twitch at the very abrupt entrance.

When he looks up he sees one of the low hanging branches on these trees, bent lower with how Jaskier dangles by one knee. The minstrel grins brightly and doesn’t stop, even when Geralt reaches out to grab him, flip him over, and set him on the ground, his branch flying back up once it is free of Jaskier’s weight.

“So!” Jaskier says brightly, not seemingly bothered that he’d just been so easily manhandled by the Witcher as he goes around towards the fallen kikimora. “I will, of course, be coming along on more of your hunts now, correct? I’ve proven my worth?”

Jaskier hesitates, scowling at the kikimora, then gagging at the stench. Still, he reaches down to yank out both of his silver arrows, examining them. One is beyond use, but the second could be recycled, so Jaskier returns it to his quiver.

He’s wearing the only sensible outfit he owns – the one Geralt sees him wear when he goes off to hunt for food – and he has his quiver hung at his hip and bow in hand.

“You’re not coming along,” Geralt says, nearly on instinct, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened.

“Ah, well, you see, the thing is… I am,” Jaskier waves his bow around as he speaks, much like how he flails his hands, using the weapon to articulate his words. “I think you have seen that I am perfectly capable of offering minor backup as needed, staying out of the way, and getting everything I need for my next ballad.”

“No.” Geralt growls, voice rougher and meaner than usual, the potions still coursing through his system, burning more than usual thanks to the kikimora venom.

Jaskier seems unaffected, head swaying back and forth as he walks forward. “Mmmm… yes.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“No.”

“Yessir.”

“No.”

“Listen, if you think I’m going to stop anytime soon, you are sadly mistaken,” Jaskier is finally right in front of the Witcher, smiling at him like he’s won something. “Just accept the inevitable and allow me to take a look at that cut of yours.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt snaps, steering away from Jaskier’s wandering hands. He just needs the current potions to dissipate before he can take Swallow to finish knitting up the wound. The poison from the kikimora would be dealt with once he took the healing potion, too. It was uncomfortable now, but it wasn’t something to worry about.

“Great! So you won’t have any issue with me checking the cut anyway, since it’s sooooo fine,” Jaskier argues right back, looking stubborn again as he steps forward to get a proper look at the wound. “Now let’s see here,” Jaskier mumbles to himself, reaching out, but Geralt swiftly raises his sword to point it at the minstrel in warning.

Jaskier hardly reacts, his brows rising in surprise, before stepping away again and huffing. “You’re dreadfully stubborn, are you aware? And over nothing!” Jaskier grumps, Geralt lowering his blade again. He’d had no intention of actually doing harm to the human, nothing substantial, but the warning seems to have worked fine.

He didn’t need doting over. Especially not from a human musician who would likely only make things worse.

“At least put some alcohol on it or something,” Jaskier groans, eying the wound, and Geralt narrows his eyes at him.

“Alcohol…” he repeats, not sure what that has to do with anything.

“New discovery. Kills germs quite effectively and helps avoid infection! I hear it burns something fierce, though,” Jaskier chirps, smiling brightly, and Geralt stares at him a while longer, trying to understand.

He, the Witcher, who had to regularly keep up with medical advancements, had not known about something like alcohol killing germs… but this random, enigma of a minstrel had? What was going on?

“It won’t get infected,” Geralt eventually grunts, turning away and heading to pick up the second kikimora’s head. He begins tying ropes around it so as to carry it more easily.

“Uh… And, how do you know that? Do Witchers not get infections?” he hears Jaskier question, sounding dubious.

Geralt doesn’t answer immediately, finishing up tying the kikimora head, then standing and heading for the first, hacking off its head and pulling out more rope to do the same to it. “It’s not deep. Swallow will fix it,” he eventually mumbles. Behind him, Jaskier sloshes through the swamp water, heading over to inspect the decapitated kikimora’s body, poking at it with his bow.

“Swallow? What are you swallowing?” he asks and Geralt growls, growing more and more frustrated with every passing question.

“Potion,” he finally snaps, standing and turning to glare something vicious at the minstrel. “It is called a Swallow Potion.”

“Ohhhh,” Jaskier snaps his fingers, not even flinching at the Witcher’s furious gaze, “Swallow as in the bird! I see, I see. And this potion helps heal you? Why haven’t I heard of it before? Why aren’t you taking it now?”

Geralt growls and looks skyward at the dark sky, a few stars twinkling above them, and tries to stamp down the urge to just gag the minstrel. “It is deadly to humans,” he begins slowly, measuring himself to keep his mounting frustrations in check. “It is only slightly toxic to Witchers. I must pace them out.”

When he finally looks back down, his adrenaline-pumped body under enough control he’s certain he won’t strangle the minstrel, he finds said minstrel staring at him in clear shock.

“I’m sorry, did you just say ‘toxic’?” Jaskier questions, hands flapping around, his bow swinging with the motions. Geralt only grunts at him. “You’re drinking toxins?! What the hell?!”

“In controlled doses,” Geralt grunts, not seeing what the issue is.

“Wh-why would you… What… Geralt!” Jaskier makes an even larger, flailing motion with his arms, apparently hoping Geralt will magically understand why he’s so upset. He does not.

“They offer enhancements.”

“OH!” now Jaskier throws both arms outwards, voice rising in indignation. Why was this the thing that finally set the minstrel off? “I guess it’s okay, then! Since they offer enhancements! Seriously, Geralt? Don’t just accept things like that! Has anyone ever attempted to make safer variations? Anyone at all? Have you Witchers ever commissioned some alchemist or something to better these potions of yours so they aren’t – oh, I don’t know – poisoning you?!”

Geralt says nothing in the face of this tirade, just watching Jaskier flail around with an eyebrow arched, waiting for the human to calm down. Did any of this matter? He knew how to measure out his potions as needed, knew what to expect out of them. So, where was the problem?

Finally, Jaskier seems to calm down, but now his free hand is on his hip and the other is pointing his bow in Geralt’s direction. “Listen, you shouldn’t have to settle for these things just… because! The whole… marble-pale and black eyes thing is badass, but you should still take care of yourself more.”

Jaskier then moves to attempt to lift up one of the kikimora heads, probably thinking he can help bringing them back despite how he gags at the smell, but the weight tips him over and he goes tumbling into swamp water. Geralt… Geralt could have caught him – he was close enough and fast enough – but he suddenly felt very glued to his spot.

Somewhere in all the excitement and bickering and frustrations and questions, Geralt had forgotten what he currently looked like. The Cat potion still coursing through his veins, turning said veins and his eyes black as night… He was what mothers warned their children about. He was the monstrous Witcher, sending terror through men of all kinds.

He’d learned, early on, to show this state of being to as few people as possible. It terrified people, made them run, attack, or not pay him. It solidified people’s views that Witchers were no better than the monsters they killed.

And Geralt had forgotten about it.

Somehow, he’d gotten so wrapped up talking to Jaskier, trying to sort out what was so odd about this minstrel, he’d forgotten what he looked like. And Jaskier…

Jaskier hadn’t acted any different than he usually would. Geralt might have forgotten, but the entire time Jaskier had been jabbering to a pale, demon-eyed man like it was nothing. His heartrate hadn’t changed, he’d never jumped, and even when Geralt glared and growled there was never any smell of fear.

And now Jaskier was just dropping that piece of information, that he thought the look was “badass,” like it was nothing. Like they were just sitting in a tavern, eating and drinking, Jaskier babbling about nothing and everything.

Geralt gulps down a lump that forms in his throat, slowly coming back to the present to hear Jaskier loudly and colorfully complaining about the water and mud. The Witcher says nothing as he leans down to pick up both kikimora heads and makes his way back in the direction of town.

By the time he gets there his current potions will have worn off and he’ll have been able to take Swallow and everything will be fine.

Behind him, Jaskier follows, his usually faint, quiet footsteps loud with sloshing water and complaints. Perhaps it is the adrenaline or the night or the daze he’s still under from Jaskier’s comments, but Geralt thinks it wouldn’t be the worst option to allow the minstrel to tag along on a few more hunts in the future.

+++

Jaskier makes it his mission to learn how to make Witcher potions.

Well… more like a side mission, really, but he still approaches it with the same intensity and eagerness as he does his music.

He knows Geralt will never make a move to try and better the potions. The Witcher seems to live on a perpetual “if it isn’t broke, don’t fix it,” mentality, but Jaskier isn’t like that. Things can always be made better.

Especially potions that have pros that only JUST outweigh the cons.

Before Jaskier can begin searching for a method to bettering these potions, however, he must learn how to make them. Problem is, Geralt isn’t sharing. Less of a problem, though, is the Witcher will prep and make the potions right where they’re camping or in their inn room.

It takes time and observation, but Jaskier is good at that, as he memorizes the plants used, how they are prepared, and what the outcome should look and smell like.

The first time Jaskier hands over a Willow Potion for Geralt’s upcoming hunt – which Jaskier is allowed to come along with, now, so long as he dresses sensibly and carries his weapons – the Witcher looks like he’d just been gutted. Which is QUITE the face on Geralt.

“How did…?” but Geralt doesn’t seem to know how to finish.

“Oh, I watched you and memorized how to craft some of your potions,” Jaskier smiles, hands clasped behind his back. “I’ll need to know how if I have any intention of getting these perfected for you.”

Geralt stares at him for a shocked moment, before he’s shaking his head and opening his mouth, likely to deny Jaskier’s services. Jaskier cuts him off before he can.

“In addition, it will surely save you time and effort if you have a second person helping prepare your potions, right? Of course, it will!”

Geralt shakes his head again. “You don’t have t—”

“Well someone does!” Jaskier cuts him off again, and now his hands are on his hips and he’s setting his face into a displeased pout. “Someone needs to look after you, and seeing as you are intent on not doing it for yourself… Well…” He trails off, allowing Geralt to fill in the gaps.

The Witcher’s eyes narrow, suspicious, and Jaskier is growing tired of that look. “And you’re going to?” he asks in disbelief and Jaskier huffs.

“Might as well!” He flaps a hand at Geralt. “Believe it or not, I find myself rather invested in YOUR safety.”

Geralt says nothing to that. Instead, he looks away, scowling, then shoves the Willow Potion into his potions pouch and starts gathering up the remainder of his gear. It leaves Jaskier grinning, which causes Geralt to punch his arm on his way out of the inn.

So, Jaskier occasionally helps prepping potions after that. Geralt won’t teach him anything new, and if Jaskier messes up Geralt won’t tell him how, just throws out the concoction, but it’s something.

Now, all Jaskier needs is to find someone trustworthy and intelligent enough in alchemical practices to help him better these potions. Luckily, he already has a place in mind.

For every Society of Bards, there was a specialty. The Society of Foxes at Oxenfurt specializes in weaponry. The Society of the Mantis in Novigrad specializes in espionage and manipulation. The Society of Eels in Beauclair specializes in “bardic magic,” whatever that means. The Society of Panthers in Vizima specializes in stealth.

And the Society of Spiders in Cintra specializes in poisons. Specifically, they train relentlessly in alchemy of many kinds, but are known particularly for their poisons.

Jaskier didn’t know when he would next be near Cintra, but it would be his next goal for bettering these damn potions. He wasn’t in any, major rush, though.

No, instead he intended to chronicle and memorialize as much of the White Wolf’s heroic exploits for as long as he could. He was going to make people stop sneering and spitting at his Witcher if it was the last thing he did.

#the witcher #the witcher netflix #geralt #geralt of rivia #jaskier #geraskier #BAMF jaskier #Dragon Age Bards #my writing #fanfic

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veronaprincess · 3 years

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Thank you @yibobibo for tagging me!!~ (I loved to read your answers so much! :3)

1. What is the color of your hairbrush? something between red and burgundy

2. Name a food you never eat. oh my the list would be so so long haha but I don’t like a lot of food with vegetables :( (I’M better now than I was as a child though, I swear!)

3. Are you typically too warm or too cold? too warm =/

4. What were you doing 45 minutes ago? I think I was downstairs talking to my dog... and maybe put the rum soaked raisins in the fridge... yeah something like this

5. What’s your favorite candy bar? Kit Kat (ahh I can’t even remember the last time I ate it :( )

6. Have you ever been to a professional sports game? No

7. What is the last thing you said out loud? “I put the raisins in the fridge” to my mom (something like this)

8. What is your favourite ice cream? strawberry~

9. What was the last thing you had to drink? tea

10. Do you like your wallet? yes! it has a nice blue colour and pretty patterns on it~

11. What is the last thing you ate? almond

12. Did you buy any new clothes last weekend? no

13. What’s the last sporting event you watched? my stepdad was watching football (maybe) and I passed by the living room then, so if it counts then football I guess

14. What is your favorite flavor of popcorn? butter

15. Who is the last person you sent a text message to? my friend

16. Ever been camping? No, and no thanks, I watched the camp season (too) of American Horror Story, and now in my story “somehow” I placed all the murders in the forest, so... I guess I would skip it.

17. Do you take vitamins? Yes

18. Do you regularly attend a place of worship? No

19. Do you have a tan? No

20. Do you prefer chinese or pizza? Both, BUT If like I have the chance to choose I’d say chinese.

21. Do you drink your soda through a straw? No, only when you have no choice... like at the cinema or idk

22. What color socks do you usually wear? black with colourful patterns

23. Do you ever drive above the speed limit? No, I can’t drive

24. What terrifies you? well... I have anxiety, so... it’d be a long list too.

25. Look to your left, what do you see? the wall

26. What chore do you hate most? “cleaning” the garden

27. What do you think of when you hear an Australian accent? just that I love different kinds of accents tbh

28. What’s your favorite soda? I don’t really like them tbh

29. Do you go in a fast food place or just hit the drive thru? Go in

30. What’s your favorite number? 7

31. Who’s the last person you talked to? My mom

32. Favorite meat? chicken

33. Last song you listened to? Bright (Julie and the Phantoms OST)

34. Last book you read? I’m reading The Outsider by Stephen King (I LOVE IT OH MY GOD) and before that I read the Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation

35. Favorite day of the week? It depends on my classes haha but usually I like friday and saturday

36. Can you say the alphabet backwards? no

37. How do you like your coffee? milk and a little bit of sweetener.

38. Favorite pair of shoes? my dark gray boots

39. Time you normally get up? Around 7-8 am

40. What do you prefer, sunrise or sunsets? sunset

41. How many blankets on your bed? one

42. Describe your kitchen plates. ehm white?

43. Describe your kitchen at the moment. a mess... and I’m sad because I organised it and cleaned it like a week ago :(

44. Do you have a favorite alcoholic drink? cherry beer, eggnog, mojito and vodka

45. Do you play cards? no

46. What color is your car? I don’t have one

47. Can you change a tire? No

48. Your favorite state or province? ehm... I don’t have one

49. Favorite job you’ve had? I haven’t had too many jobs, I really like the one I have now one which is at a theatre, but it’s like a voluntary work, but I really liked the LGBTQ magazine where I worked for like a year..:)

I’ll tag @criminalgirl @barrackoppama @yilinglaozuhot @wangji-string @antonija89

#tag game

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yukisohmasmokesweed · 5 years

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chapter 84 is the best chapter of fruits basket and you can’t change my mind

chapter 84 is the chapter where we finally get the full story on yuki’s childhood. at this point in the story, yuki is doing better; he was able to admit to himself that he will “open the lid,” but that he doesn’t have to push the issue, and that he loves tohru and feels safe confiding in her. this is relevant to chap 84 because of its framing device: yuki confiding in kakeru. immediately before this yuki gets trapped in a storage closet and knocks over a bucket of paint, causing a flashback that triggers a panic attack. the fact that yuki feels comfortable and validated talking to tohru makes him feel like he can talk to kakeru as well, which is a big step for yuki, who, up until now, has been extremely private.

this is, hands down, my favorite chapter of fruits basket. it is artistically stunning, emotionally poignant, and an unbelievable insight into yuki’s character and the effects that neglect and emotional abuse can have on a person. now join me as i analyze......nearly every single page in this chapter :)

the third page of this chapter indicates something very important: that we are in yuki’s head. not just that the chapter is yuki’s point of view, which was indicated on the first page through narration, but that we are literally seeing from his eyes. the angle of the servant’s hand and the wideshot of akito are both from his sightline. in this chapter we are yuki, without the bias of kyo, akito, or ayame, the lenses we have experienced yuki’s childhood through so far.

fruits basket’s costume design is impeccable in general, but i especially love the choices in this chapter. i love the juxtaposition of akito wearing a kimono against yuki’s western suit. i wouldn’t say fruits basket is a story about east vs west, but i would say it highlights traditional values clashing with modern ones. yuki is going from his mother’s world, a character who we only see wearing western-style clothing and living in a fairly western-style house (for a sohma, anyway) to an uber-traditional setting that, for yuki, becomes a cage. it’s worth noting that the very next time we see yuki, he is wearing a formal kimono.

(akito, shigure, and ritsu are the only characters we see wearing kimono in everyday life. from a functionality standpoint, it’s because kimono are expensive, cumbersome, and in modern japan, very formal. that being said, yuki would have grown up during the lost decade, where showing off signs of wealth was frowned upon. akito seems to be the only one who wears kimono regularly during the height of the lost decade, though japan was still struggling economically into the early 2000s, when the majority of fruits basket takes place)

this little scene is one of my favorite scenes in all of fruits basket. it’s gorgeously drawn, and encapsulates what it meant to be yuki sohma before meeting tohru better than anything else in the manga.

i don’t think it’s a mistake that yuki is wearing western-style clothing here; in the page right before this one, he witnesses some servants speaking distastefully of kyo, and i doubt this is the first time he’s heard someone speak of kyo this way. even as young as he is, i think he knows that talking to kyo is taboo, especially for the rat. yuki has never been accepting of his role in sohma family’s traditions, and speaking to kyo in it of itself is a small act of rebellion. he is stepping out of line in the only ways he knows how.

the fact that kyo is an outsider is not just a metaphor here; he is physically standing outside akito’s room, excluded from the new year’s celebration inside. yuki, who in the pages previous had just had it established to him that he is not wanted by his mother,

his brother,

or the other zodiacs,

thinks maybe, maybe, this other boy who has also been thrown out and rejected by his own family could understand him.

the next page takes us out of yuki’s head for a moment to show us his reaction to kyo’s words. the low angle highlights yuki’s defensive position, shoulders slumped and hands pulled into his chest, versus kyo’s solid stance, feet shoulder width apart and hands balled into fists at his side.

in kyo’s first close-up, he is silent, just another wide-eyed child. but here, he has become the cat, pupils slitted and teeth bared, screaming the exact words yuki does not want to hear. kyo’s humanity is conditional to the other zodiacs, and for kyo, the same goes for yuki.

i am never not impressed by takaya’s ability to show emotion. it reminds me of how those big, fat, overwhelming ghibli tears look the way crying feels; that is what this expression is to me. hands curled protectively over his front, flushed and wide-eyed and at a loss for words—i know exactly what that expression feels like on the inside. it’s so intimate and immediate, and we are instantly pulled out of it by the jarring slap from his mother, a panel with no color grading, backgrounds, or faces.

yuki himself is so shocked by this that we are abruptly pulled out of his point of view, looking at his mother’s angry face through a medium shot, yuki’s own reaction obscured by her jagged dialogue.

i think kyo’s outburst makes yuki desperate; if even the cat can’t accept him, then his own estranged brother must be the only option.

the first shot on this page is from yuki’s sightline, looking up at his tall, bright brother, followed by ayame’s view of a much smaller, shadowed yuki that is partially obscured by his own panel. takaya loves using negative space, and i think it is especially poignant in this panel. the majority of this shot is negative space, the gap between yuki’s hand and ayame’s arm swallowed by the rest of the empty background.

i want to go back a few pages to talk about these panels in conjunction with the ayame page. this is the first we see of ayame in this chapter, and if you put the two pages next to each other, it is as if he is completing the action of looking over his shoulder at yuki, revealing his entire face, and then hiding it again. i also think it’s interesting that shigure is looking at yuki dead in the eyes, looking somewhat bored and somewhat amused. in a previous chapter, though, shigure does say this to ayame:

i do like that shigure seems to be the only one paying attention to what is going on with yuki at this time but also chooses to do nothing about it, instead using it as a jab at ayame.

and then, after yuki’s classmates approach him, there’s a pretty big change in tone; shojo sparkles, the silhouette of children playing against a big, wide sky, sun-dappled buildings and smiling faces. up until now the outside world has been featureless and empty; now it is detailed and nostalgic, and yuki’s face is clear and unobstructed. then:

yuki’s carefully impassive face gets cut off gradually by the panel borders

until we can’t see it at all.

the next three pages proceed the same way, his face obscured by the angle, his hair, or borders.

until, finally, we are allowed to see yuki’s face, after being rejected any form of human kindness or affection from literally any person in his life, fading into the darkness of the sohma estate, trapped inside the proverbial sliding door.

#fruits basket #yuki sohma #fruits basket meta #fruits basket spoilers #takes a huge bong rip #takes a HUGE FUCKIN BONG RIP #meta???

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babyhader · 4 years

Text

Closest I’ve Come to Perfection

Snapshots from Richie and Eddie’s life together Post-It, as told by Eddie’s clothes. Extreme fluff and a little cheeky at times. 2.7k words. Ao3 link in bio.

The suit. The polo. The sweatpants. The shorts. Richie’s t-shirt. +1 more.

The Suit.

The suit comes first. The shoulders are dusted with drops of rain that haven’t yet absorbed, and the dark grey color matches the clouds outside. Eddie would never own an ill-fitted suit, but something about the way he stands on Richie’s doorstep looks like he's drowning in it, about to disappear completely into the fabric. Richie doesn’t have much time to take in the sad sight before Eddie launches at him, throwing his arms around his neck. Richie latches on too, burying his face in the soft curls at nape of Eddie’s neck and guiding them into the living room without letting go.

They sink into the couch tangled together. All the texts and calls and hopeful thoughts finally at peace where they hold onto each other. Richie hates the stiffness of the suit jacket, he doesn’t need another layer separating him from the man he loves. He moves his hands underneath it and feels the warmth radiating from Eddie through his thinner button-up.

“You’re really here, Eds,” Richie breathes in his scent and pulls tighter.

“Yeah, and I’m not going anywhere so you better get used to it.” Eddie quips.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this,” Richie sneaks his hand down to cheekily tap Eddie’s butt. Eddie jumps against him and smacks his arm as he pulls away.

“Maybe I shouldn’t live with you, Trashmouth,” Eddie says, but his cheeks flush and his eyes flutter in a way that tells Richie he loves it.

The room smells like rain and is glowing yellow, light from the amber lamp in the corner and the moonlight filtering through the watery window. Their arms secure around the other and their eyes only inches apart, it seems like their whole lives have led them here. Even the years they forgot about each other, the years they didn’t understand themselves, they were supposed to end up together the whole time.

They both lean in the small distance and meet in a soft kiss. Richie feels like he’s 15 again, like he could cry, like he never wants to stop. They both breath into the kiss and Eddie slips his hand up to cradle Richie’s face, thumbing over the rough stubble. It’s strange and enticing to kiss a man, noticing the hard lines of his face and the strength radiating off of him. Eddie feels stupid for never realizing this is what he really wanted, but then again, he wouldn’t have wanted it if it wasn’t with Richie.

Richie opens his mouth to deepen the kiss and all chill from the storm outside leaves Eddie’s body. He arches up into the taller man and hums in content.

Eddie has suits to hang and toiletries to arrange, but that can all wait.

The Polo

Richie knows that Eddie is a thousand times more put-together than he is. His hair is always in place, he moisturizes, he works out regularly. But he didn’t expect Eddie’s entire wardrobe to be comprised of polo shirts. The first weekend they spend together they go to a movie on Saturday- cue the baby blue polo. The farmer’s market on Sunday- a lovely coral polo. And when they arrive home to spend a whole afternoon lounging around together? The polos stay on.

“Are you comfortable?” asks Richie as they settle in to watch the latest episode of Dateline.

“Perfectly,” Eddie hums from his place tucked under Richie’s arm.

“No,” Richie shifts. “I mean, like your clothes dude. You really want to relax in khakis and a collared shirt?” Eddie swivels his head to give him a look.

“Fuck you, dude. Not all of us wear what could be considered pajamas all fucking day.”

“You love that I’m like a walking blanket, my little Eddiekins,” Richie coos and brings him closer. Eddie struggles to break free but eventually slumps against him.

“If you call me that again I’ll burn all your clothes,” Eddie says with no real bite. Richie smiles and shuts his mouth before pressing play.

The Sweatpants

Eddie hasn’t brought up his affinity towards a more formal wardrobe since their last conversation. He isn’t uncomfortable per se, but he knows it might stem from some unhealthy thoughts. Crisp clothes are clean, clean clothes mean you have your shit together, put-together people like their life.The longer he lives with Richie the more he notices that thinking is flawed. He had a life before, but he never liked it until now.

Richie is so free, open, and sometimes clueless in a way that Eddie finds intoxicating. He will talk to anyone and make them laugh, he’ll suddenly start a game of tag on their nightly walk, he will wear two different shoes to the grocery store and tell everyone about it.

Eddie loves him. They both know that, but Eddie isn't the best at expressing it at certain times. He doesn’t want to keep his walls up around Richie, physically or emotionally. As mad as it makes him to admit that Richie has a point, he agrees his wardrobe is a good, practical place to start opening up to the fullest.

Richie has been at a pitch meeting all day, which probably means it went well and he is bouncing script ideas off other writers. Eddie figures it is the perfect time to head to Target, grab a few new clothing items, and some ingredients for dinner.

---

A soft 80's ballad is drifting through the house when Richie opens the door. He’s high off creative energy and excited to tell Eddie about all of their ideas. The house smells vaguely Italian and his shoulders loosen at the warm atmosphere. Richie can't get over how lucky he is to share his life with someone, and that someone is actually Eddie.

He shuffles to the kitchen and stops dead in his tracks. Eddie is stood by the stove in a haze of steam as he stirs their dinner, which is not an uncommon sight. However, tonight is different because he is clothed in baggy sweatpants that grip his small waist and bunch around his ankles, paired only with a soft grey t-shirt. He looks like the physical embodiment of cuddling and Richie wants to sob.

He closes the space between them and wraps Eddie up from behind.

Eddie giggles, swaying slightly to the music in his arms, “Hi, hope you’re hungry I’m making chicken piccata with pasta.”

Richie responds by pulling the neck of his t-shirt to the side and kissing his neck and collar bone, nipping lightly. “I’m starving,” He says, voice low.

Eddie spins slowly in his grip and walks him away from the stove, back pressed into the island counter.

“If you wait just five minutes the food will be ready,” Eddie says casually, but his eyes tease something else.

“You look like you had a relaxing day,” Richie brings his thumbs up to rub at the fleece-like material.

“You like?” Eddie says twisting his hips around to give more of a view. “I thought I’d take your advice and get something less businessman-casual.”

“My Eds, taking my advice?” Richie acts shocked, “I have to text everyone! It’ll say: you’ll never guess who figured out what comfortable clothes are. Now I have this hot guy walking around in grey sweats and I can see the outline of his perfect di-“

“Hey!” Eddie swats his arm. “Sweatpants aren’t sexual, dumbass. You better not be texting them about my dick.”

“Don’t worry, I only tell Bev about that stuff…but she does probably tell Ben, and then he probably tells everyone else.” Richie gives a bright, apologetic smile and shrug. Eddie just stares at him exasperated.

“Fine, I won’t make them sexual, but I will need you on the couch and ready to cuddle for the rest of the night as soon as we finish eating.”

“Fine,” Eddie pecks his lips and turns around to dish up the food.

The Shorts

They’ve fallen into a wonderfully domestic routine. On weekdays they wake up, Eddie heads out for his morning run while Richie makes breakfast, then they both head off to work with a parting kiss. More times than not, Eddie will get home first in the evening and cook dinner.

Then on weekends, they spend every second together typically in bed or out exploring. It isn’t all easy, two 40-year-old men suddenly living very different lives. One still overcoming neuroses and emotional hang-ups, and the other accepting who he is in the public eye. But they grow together and learn to lean on those close to you.

Richie’s favorite part of growing with Eddie is seeing him come out of his shell. He is no longer just polite to everyone, but welcoming, laid back and easy to laugh. Richie knows his own life is better off by miles with Eddie in it. He’s learned how to communicate what he wants without always be the ‘yes’ man, and that if you stretch in the mornings you don’t have chronic back pain.

So yes, it has been months of growth, and bliss, and learning about the other. Now it’s nearing summer and they will have to turn the air conditioning on soon to ward off the California heat.

Richie is busy chopping onions and peppers for their omelets, intermittently sipping on his coffee, as he waits for Eddie to get back from his run. It's Friday morning and he’d had a slow start, not even getting out of bed until he heard the door shut behind Eddie. It had been a long week for both of them, but Eddie never wavers in his dedication to running. Richie is constantly impressed as he can barely open his eyes that early in the morning.

He hears the door slam shut behind him signaling Eddie’s return. Heavy breathing and snippets of a song come sweeping in from the hallway. Richie knows Eddie is stretching and still listening to his workout playlist. He’d helped Eddie make it, ensuring he was missing the motivation that comes only from early 2000’s rap.

He walks out to let Eddie know breakfast is almost ready, but his feet freeze in the archway. Eddie is wearing shorts, like short-shorts.

His mind flies back to childhood memories and awakenings connected with the shorts. The secret touches and quick wit he'd use as a way to diminish certain thoughts. These ones are different, maroon with black pipping along the edges. It is also different because Eddies thighs are muscular, tight from running and dewy with sweat as Eddie bends to touch his toes. The defined line of muscle runs up and up until it meets the soft curve of his butt. Richie hasn’t seen this much upper thigh since- well, last night when they were naked- but framed by the small piece of clothing is tempting in an entirely different way. They are slightly paler than the rest of his legs and Richie wants to bite them.

“Hey,” Eddie straightens up and extracts an earbud, “breakfast ready?” He smiles.

“Y-yeah,” Richie breathes out. Eddie becoming more comfortable in his own skin may be the best thing that happened to him and the thing that kills him.

Richie’s T-shirt

Richie is ecstatic during the car ride back to their house. He’d been gone on a short tour around a few select locations on the east coast. They both figured two weeks would be nothing, filled with texts and phone sex, they would get through it just fine. That was wrong - it was rough. Richie had always hated empty hotel rooms, but now that he could compare it to sharing a bed with Eddie they were unbearable.

Eddie wasn’t much better off. He had their dog, Atari, to cuddle and accompany him on walks, but he sensed the dog missed Richie just as much as he did. He found himself walking around the house wearing nothing but Richie’s t-shirts. It started as a way to comfort himself, but quickly devolved into horny thoughts or ideas of how Richie would joke about the dumb slogan printed on the front.

That’s how he found himself on Saturday afternoon, sitting on the couch as he waits for Richie. The fan blowing stagnant air around the living room like it’s waiting for things to liven-up too. He’s in an old Pink Floyd band tee. It’s faded black with an inch hole showing through the neck line. It is long enough to cover him to mid-thigh and one side hangs lower since the broad shoulders sit loosely on him.

He hears keys jingle behind the door and immediately gets up to meet Richie. Richie doesn’t hesitate to throw his bag down by the door and smile wide as he opens his arms for Eddie. Eddie jumps into them, pressing kisses across his face, airport germs be damned.

“Next time I’ll come with you- it’s not like I don’t have the vacation days saved up.”

“Please do, baby. I missed you so mu- is that my shirt?” Richie pulls back slightly to look across Eddie’s chest.

“Yeah, it’s comfy and still kinda smelled like you- mmph!” Eddie's last thought muffled as Richie crashes their lips together. He puts his hands on the smaller man’s waist and pushes him backwards until he is crowded against the wall. Richie seems to tower over him, even taller with shoes on while Eddie is stood with bare legs and feet.

Both of Richie’s hands spread across the sides of Eddie’s thighs and slide upwards, bringing the shirt with them. Each inch just reveals more skin and Richie feels his eyes go dark.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath this?” He asks, his voice going soft and dry.

“No, I’m not,” Eddie breaths, innocent eyes locking with Richie’s gaze.

Richie wastes no time and hoists him up. Eddie’s legs wrap around him tightly as they kiss, effortless and eager, on the short walk to their bedroom.

The (new) Suit

It is a deep navy blue, perfectly tailored. Eddie had run his hands over it a million times and loved the silky feeling under his calloused hands. Bev helped him pick it out, telling him blue would pair beautifully with his tan skin, and black would be better suited to Richie’s.

They are both adorned with matching baby pink boutonnieres. Richie’s tie came off sometime between the ceremony and the toasts.

The dance floor is filled with family and friends making fools of themselves. Clumsy limbs are illuminated by fairy lights strung high above their heads and the disco ball spinning from the DJ stand. Richie keeps twirling Eddie unaware of how dizzy he feels. Eddie finally pushes Stan in to be the victim of the next spin, laughing at his unamused look.

His cheeks burn from smiling at everyone around him. He’d gotten the love of his life, after all this time and all the struggle, they’d found each other.

The music changes to a slower tune and he drifts back over to Richie, taking his hand and starting to sway to the gentle rhythm. Richie grips his suit jacket and rests his head against Eddie’s. It is more like a hug than a dance, but they can’t care less, wrapped around each other in their own world.

“Have I told you that you look really amazing tonight?” Richie whispers.

“Yeah, Rich, you told me that like six times already.” Eddie smiles.

“I just need everyone to know how hot my husband is,” Richie rubs his hand over the smooth material covering Eddie’s back, “lookin' like a Men’s Warehouse model in this suit.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Eddie exhales and pauses for a moment, “Do you remember the night I showed up in my old work suit, all wet from the rain?”

“Of course.” Richie perks up at the memory.

“I-I was so scared and excited. I was terrified of loving you but us not being able to fit into each other’s lives. I couldn’t lose you again.”

Richie squeezes him tighter, “Well, you’re in luck because I’m pretty sure we just signed some legally binding documents that make it impossible to lose me.” His voice sounds teasing and close to breaking at the same time.

“I’m just trying to say that it wasn’t much more than a year ago, but I feel so different now. I'm so much happier and comfortable because of you," Eddie closes his eyes and lets his head fall on Richie's shoulder, "I love you so much, I’m going to love you forever.”

“I love you too, Eds. I love you with my whole heart.”

#reddie fic #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #it 2019 #it 2017 #it movie #mine #domestic boyfriends #reddie

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