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dapandapod · 4 years

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A soft plucking of heartstrings

So here I am, 2.30 in the morning, just finished a promptchallange from the fantastic @sleepingreader! It may have gotten a little longer and a little softer than I intended, but please enjoy! Here it is on Ao3!

Also, here is my challangers writings and I can’t tell you enough how amazing i find it!

Soft plucking of strings. Spots of candlelight give the tavern a soft and homey feel. The patrons sit with rapt attention listening to the bard on stage with the cornflower blue eyes.

His eyes are closed, his voice dancing with the notes from the lute, weaving a tale of longing, heartache and lust. Every eye is fixed on him where he sits on the stage, no one can miss the raw emotion making itself known through music. Jaskier is lost. Lost deeply in his memories, in his feelings, in the words falling from his tongue and the soft vibration of the instrument in his arms. He loves this song, but it leaves a bittersweet taste. Especially when Geralt is around, as he is tonight, knowing what the price was. Everything is alright now, but the memory is still there. The pain, that hollow space carved out still makes itself known every now and then. The last tones ring out and Jaskier takes a breath before he opens his eyes and lets them roam over his audience. As soon as his eyes are on them they break into applause, almost as if they were waiting for him to return. He makes a sweeping bow and leaves the stage to sit down with his witcher. His witcher, yes. Geralt came to him after the disaster of a dragonhunt. It took them awhile to find their way with each other again and if Jaskier is perfectly honest he prefers what they have now. It’s fragile and honest and something entirely new for his whitehaired friend. Their friendship has blossomed into actual friendship now, not the push and pull of wills they had before. Now they see each other, and listen like they didn’t do before.

As soon as Jaskier sits down he gets showered in coins and ale. The patrons share their coins and their stories with him, what his song reminds them of, their own heartache, longing and lust. Geralt says nothing, just sips the ale pushed into his hand. The night is young and he is asked to sing another set, so he does. And when they finally retire for the night Jaskier finds his coin purse heavier than it’s been for a long, long time. He counts them out in their shared room, Geralt claiming the bed closer to the door and undresses. It’s entirely unfair of him to expect Jaskier not to sneak a peek as he takes off his shirt. Jaskier absolutely sneaks a peek, because expecting anything else of him would be plain stupid. And of course Geralt notices him staring. “What?” He asks over his shoulder and yup, time to kickstart the brain. “I have decided we stay another night.” Jaskier says, gathering the coins and putting them in the leather purse. “Why would we do that?” Geralt asks as he unlaces his trousers and yes, that's just unfair all over again to expect Jaskier to be able to hold a conversation with this view in front of him. Geralt pulls them down and Jaskier has to look away because Jaskier is many things but he is not cruel to himself. There is only so much he can take. Jaskier is also very good at lying to himself so he watches from the reflection of the small window instead. “Because today I have earned us more than we have gotten in months and it is time I give myself a- uh. Give us a treat. In the morn we shall go shopping!” Geralt snorts and lays down on the mattress. Jaskier swiftly undresses too, but takes a long time to fall asleep. He is mapping out all the stands he wants to visit and the sweets he wants to taste. And wants Geralt to taste! And with that image floating through his mind his eyes close and he drifts off.

When morning comes, Jaskier is almost bouncing with enthusiasm. It’s been a while since he dared spend coin as he will today and still expect to have some left for later. Geralt is slow out the door so he impatiently grabs him by the wrist and drags him along. If he had looked back at the witcher he would see a small smile curve and his finger flex, but he does not look and so it remains a secret. The first stall they visit has, surprise, knives. Geralt stops and admires the handiwork as Jaskier studies the rings next to them. The silver work is expertly done, but not what they had in mind. So Jaskier draws him to the next stand. And the next. They find a woman selling plums, the first of the season. She recognizes him from the tavern, and when they buy a handful of her plums she puts in two apples for them as well. Jaskier gives her the brightest smile and a squeeze of her hand. They find a stall with hair jewelry. Small beads to put into braids, hairclasps, ribbons and leatherstrips worked with fine details. Jaskier sends Geralt to find… something, anything that makes him go away as Jaskier buys two small beads of carved bone with intricate patterns and one of those worked leather straps. He adds a silver comb adorned with swallows for Ciri and folds it all into a piece of cloth. When Geralt returns he already stands two stalls over, a thick man with a thin mustache selling strings and flutes and for some reason, hats made of straw. They didn’t mean to, but a young girl on the street next to a barber shop grabs ahold of them as they pass. “Good sirs, are you not weary from your travels? If you follow me inside my father can offer the best trim of beard and hair this side of the river!” Geralt gives Jaskier a one-over and firmly nods. The bard needs some taking care of, he seems to decide, and they both walk out of there an hour later with hair newly washed and oiled up. Jaskier will never say it out loud, but he longs for the stubble to return to his witcher's face. The girl sees them outside and gives them a satisfied smirk. “Did I not say so, good sirs, that he is the best?” They nod their agreement and hand her one of the apples they were given. When they make it back out to the market Geralt stops by a big stand with tacks and blankets and brushes and many other things Jaskier is not very familiar with, but feels like they are meant for horses. Geralt picks out new reins from soft leather and grease to keep them smooth. He finds a big brush with long strands that looks the perfect amount of firm and soft, if Jaskier is any judge at all. And new saddlebags and, of course, a big bag of treats. Geralt opens his own money pouch to pay but Jaskier smacks his hands away and enjoys the feeling of giving. He likes that feeling, and all the gods know Geralt has seen too little of that in his life. “Jaskier, this is going to sound odd.” Geralt says after a good 30 minutes of ogling at a blacksmith stall. “But can I have the leather pouch for a moment, and can you go look at the bookstore?” Jaskier can only give a crooked smile and oblige, small butterflies making pirouettes in his stomach. And after a while Geralt comes to him, carrying a long wooden casing. Jaskier squints at him suspiciously, but Geralt simply can’t play fair and the smile he shoots him makes Jaskier lose his nerve and look away. It is a frightening thing, looking at someone you treasure so much without a hope of ever being treasured the same way back. To see them smile towards you as if they actually might. Jaskier buys a new notebook, Geralt a pair of new leather gloves. They buy a few jars of cherries and other sweets, and by then the sun is hanging low on the sky. The money pouch is very much lighter but not empty, just as he planned. Geralt walks them out on the fields, past farmers and cows and a cat on a fence, blinking at them with big eyes. Jasker simply cannot walk past the cat, her big eyes and pink nose and tail that is curling, even though cats' tails normally don’t curl. He bends down to pat her, and Geralt stays back. “Oh no, you big oaf, you come here right now and pet this cat.” Jaskier demands of him, but Geralt stays. “Cats don’t like me.” He mutters, and looks away when the cat leans against Jaskier’s legs, purring loudly. The bard reaches for his friend, grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer. “This one doesn’t mind, do you my girl?” Jaskier croons at the cat, and she blinks up at him and then at Geralt. She doesn’t hiss, she doesn’t bite, she just purrs and waits. “I uh.. I never touched a cat before.” Geralt admits, at loss at what to do. So Jaskier drags him over and places his hand over his. Together they stroke the cat on the back. Geralt's skin is rough and warm under Jaskiers fingers, and the uncertainty radiates from his friend in waves. Jaskier is only a man, and he is a man with a day filled with treats, so he allows himself another one. With his thumb he strokes Geralt's hand before he releases it and sits back a little. He looks at the cat and then back to this big man, this witcher, this old grumpy lump of muscles he calls his friend and his… everything. He studies the way Geralt's mouth is slightly open in awe, and how the cat blinks at him and how he instinctively blinks back. How his finger lingers on the soft fur, how carefully he scratches behind her ear and under her chin. And then the cat wanders off, leaving them there to look after her. They look at her go, and then they keep walking to where Geralt was leading them.

As it turns out, Geralt was aiming for the riverside. They sit down a bit away from the water's edge by a big tree. The grass is tall and tickles his ankles where his trousers ride up. They sit close together and their shoulders bump every now and then. They listen to the water and to the birds as the day slowly settles into night around them. And then Geralt picks up the wooden casing and puts it in Jaskier’s lap. “I know it’s your money but I saw you looking at it and…” Geralt opens the casing and inside lies a beautiful rapier, inlaid with dandelions along the hilt and the handguard. Jaskiers mouth opens and closes and he reaches out a hand to softly touch the cool metal. “Geralt.” He breathes. “Geralt.” He looks up, looks down, his eyes stinging a little. “You shouldn’t have” He says when words finally return to him. He did admire it when they stood there, and he did miss the weight of a rapier in his hand at times while on the path. “In a way, I didn’t. You did. And I wanted you to have it and you have spent so much on me today so it was time you spent some on yourself.” Geralt says to him, and Jaskier can’t remember the last time his friend used so many words and for the simple reason to… to what, really? He looks up at Geralt, mouth working to find the right words but he can’t. “Thank you.” The smile Geralt gives him could buy the moon. It's soft and warm and only for him. And Geralt picks up one of the jars of sweets and opens it. He picks up a small cherry and holds it to Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier looks at it, and then into Geralt's eyes. He is watching intently and this doesn’t feel like something friends do anymore. But he opens his mouth and takes the cherry, Geralt's fingers brushing against his lips. A small tingling sensation rushes through him, and down his spine and out to his toes. They are still looking at each other, eyes locked, all smiles gone. And as the sun slowly sets, Jaskier leans forward, leans into Geralt's space. Their noses touch when the last rays of sunshine filter through the treetops. Their breaths mingle, eyes fluttering shut and then they share a soft kiss. Barely a brushing of lips. Jaskier leans over the wooden box, pusing it down on the grass to get onto his knees. Geralt's hand curve around his neck and the tingling explodes to fireworks under his skin. They press their lips together again, a taste of sweet cherries and sunshine and birdsong. They kiss again and again. Jaskier will treat himself more often in the future, he thinks as Geralt's arms snake around him to hold him close. Kisses that taste like cherry and pearls to braid into witcher's hair and apples and plums and sunshine. And when the morning comes he makes sure to give Roach a treat too. And when they make their way out on the path again, that pain, that hollow inside him is filled with feelings and hopes he never allowed himself before. As a treat.

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sockablock · 5 years

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Once upon a time, @inkedinserendipity tagged me in a post by @superssonica asking what would happen if Caleb got a bit too used to the Polymorph spell.

Seren, you monster, this one goes out to you:

- - -

Beau disappears into the clouds below the branches, trailed—then outpaced—by a second crack of thunder.

After a moment, the massive boughs sway. A few leaves tremble, then fall still.

Caduceus takes a seat in the newly-sprung grass. Yasha joins, sheepish at his side.

“My wings were not made for flying,” she mumbles. “I think I will just stay on the ground.”

Nott tugs on Caleb’s sleeve. “I kind of want to go,” she says. “Do you have a way to get us up?”

He follows her gaze. He considers the tree. He mulls over a mental list of spells, then rummages around in his pouch for silken string.

The tiny cocoon gleams silver in the light.

He gives Nott a smile.

“Ja, sure. Hop on.”

—

Caleb is flying.

He’s never flown before, only seen and heard through Frumpkin’s eyes, back on the safety and security of the ground. But for a person, for a human, for the child of a farmer and a soldier, long ago, he’d like to think that he’s not doing a bad job.

The skies seem to tug at something deep within his soul, something feral and instinctive, something finally freed, something soaring, something lifting, something wild—alive.

In this euphoria, he tucks his wings close, driven on by a craving he’d never felt before.

He spins into a barrel-roll, diving through the clouds, Nott on his back, screaming—maybe it’s a cheer—all he really knows is the rush of the wind, the thrill of the ether, the endless expanse.

It is beautiful, so high in the clouds.

His mind lets go. There’s no need for control.

It is empty. It is peaceful.

Serene.

—

Later on, he turns back into the same bird to ferry Beauregard up to the nest. He lingers in the form a bit longer than needed.

It’s to save spell slots. You never know.

—

They arrive in Bazzoxan well after dusk and fall into the first and only bunks they can find. Jester and Caduceus look well enough tapped, and Fjord still occasionally plucks gravel from his chest. Yasha and Beau are as unfazed as ever, but this is as much of a habit as an act. Nott is fretting somewhere in the background, still searching desperately for her flask.

As far as evenings go, this one is fairly standard. It has been nearly a year since the Mighty Nein assembled, and all of these bustling midnight sounds are just a part of the familiar nightly song.

But when the lamplight fades, Caleb cannot sleep. He lies there, unmoving, eyes open in the dark.

He cannot stop thinking about what he’d done that morning. He cannot forget the way that it had felt.

Of course, he cannot forget anything. He’s never been able to, never known how.

But for that a minute, for that hour, for that daydream in the breeze, it had been so wonderfully easy.

—

He changes a few more times during the trip. Once towards the tomb, once within, once to dive past narrow, winding stairs. He mostly sticks to eagles—he knows them, they’re safe, and a part of him fears the uncertainty of other shapes.

He remembers the story that Jester had told about becoming a moth. She hadn’t been able to control her mind. She hadn’t been able to focus her thoughts. He remembers being a giant ape, and knowing nothing but the adrenaline and the bloody haze.

To a wizard, to a scholar, to a son of the fields who’d crawled his way up through sheer brains alone, this is something that rips at his core. It is horrifying. He must avoid it at all costs.

Still, though, he wonders, at dusk, by the campfire, as he stares alone into the flames:

What would it feel like? How far could he go?

His fingers brush a tiny cocoon. It glimmers faint and gold in the light.

—

They go home. To a home, anyways. They report to the Queen and her stance does not change, but Caleb’s convinced that there’s a new nod of care, maybe fondness, for their motley crew. They have continued to serve the Dynasty well. They have continued to help the Krynn win the war.

And gods, if the reports can be believed, the Krynn are winning this war.

She allows him to see the Vollstrecker.

Caleb’s soul is still rattled when finally, he leaves.

—

He goes to bed alone that night, alone in his room on the first floor of their house.

His mind is a well of isolation and regret, of a churning desire for a wish he’ll never have, of plans and ruminations, more distant by the hour, of dreams, calculations, memories long and past, all flooding, all filling, overflowing, overmuch, much, much too much—

He drags his fingers down the sides of his head, sweat dripping from the tangle of his hair.

He needs air. Breathe. He needs air.

Below the silence of the ever-present moon, his footsteps creak against a polished floor. His palm brushes the smooth wooden banister, and then he reaches the stairs to the roof.

He opens the door.

He inhales, below the tree.

The little globes of daylight are dormant at this hour, still and cold beneath the stars.

Caleb looks up into the branches across the sky. Their tree is not nearly as large, as enormous, but still, it is familiar all the same. It makes him think...it makes him remember...

"But not a bird if it’s night,” he murmurs. “Something else, something...”

Ah, yes.

He reaches into his little leather pouch. He pulls out another silk cocoon.

He’ll have to pick up more, soon. But that is a problem for another time.

Polymorph trips off the curve of his tongue like a dream he’s dreamt a thousand times before.

And then he is nothing but a tiny, squeaking bat, a single lone heartbeat aflutter in the night.

—

The spell lasts an hour.

—

If you cast it once.

—

That next morning, Caduceus makes breakfast. Caleb trudges down the stairs.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Beau asks, as he pulls up a chair and collapses against the table. “Did you sleep bad? You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Beauregard,” he mutters, and pulls a mug of...of something, to his face. “Your razor-like honesty is always appreciated.”

“Alright, fuck me for asking,” she scowls, and turns around to harass Fjord instead.

Nott, seated across the table, is feeding something to Yeza. It is amazing, the change he brings to her.

Caleb’s gaze drifts away. He focuses on a faint spiral in the wood, a little point of difference in a world of smooth grain.

After a while, he is aware of someone calling his name. He jerks up, just in time to see a fried egg slide onto his plate.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Caduceus asks kindly. “You, ah, I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you seem a bit tired, today.”

Caleb gives him a weak smile. “Ja, I stayed up last night. Working on...working on magic,” he adds.

Technically, it is not a lie.

However, Caduceus is hard to talk around. His eyes give a flicker, and though he doesn’t argue, it certainly doesn’t seem like he is fully convinced.

Still, he gives a nod. He moves on to feed the others.

Caleb feels guilty, and he isn’t sure why.

Then again, he muses, stabbing at his plate, there’s a lot for him to be guilty for.

He sinks just a bit lower in his chair.

—

They decide, unanimously, that despite the uncertainty, they desperately need a break before heading to the north. Another week wouldn’t be too bad, adds Jester, so one more week of downtime is had. Almost immediately afterwards, Beau grabs Fjord to train in the cellar, saying something about—I can’t let Dairon down. Nott and Yeza disappear to the lab, to steal every moment they can before they part ways. Jester and Caduceus opt for some therapeutic shopping, leaving Caleb by himself, alone with his own devices.

Three months ago, that wouldn’t have been so bad.

He drifts around for a bit, idly doing tasks, re-sorting the library and polishing the windows, making his bed and then stopping to make the others’. He even takes a whole hour to scrub their tub, draining out the water and rolling up his sleeves, getting down on both knees and working the basin with a towel.

It is noon by the time he is finished. There are still seven more hours until sundown.

There are still one hundred and fifty-one until their week-long vacation ends.

Caleb sits down at the edge of the pool. His fingers run aimless across the soapy rag as he tries desperately to think of more to do.

He even briefly debates seeing Essek.

After a little while, he stands up.

It is pointless. Nothing is as good.

—

“—and we’ve got a deal on clay, too. Great for Earthquakes, Feeble Mind, Shaping Stone, if that’s something you’re interested in. Only 10 silver for a—no?”

“No, no,” Caleb says quickly, carefully pouring the silk threads into his pouch. “Thank you, but I am well-stocked in that...regard. Er...thank you, madam.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” says the goblin, waving her hand and watching him go. “Come back soon, you know where to find me!”

Caleb does.

And he is sure that he will.

—

He deliberates only a few minutes more as he stands atop the stone wall along their tower. It is dark in Rhosana, that is the problem, otherwise a bird would be the obvious choice. Then he thinks harder, and laughs at his own foolishness, and smashes the silver cocoon in his hands.

His wings spread wide, don’t make a sound.

His eyes, large, yellow, seeing all, drink in the energy and movement of a city that he—for now—does not entirely understand.

—

He comes home that night feeling mildly rumpled, somewhat wind-swept, all his spells spent. Still he agrees, as he collapses at the dinner table, that was a long afternoon well-spent. Caduceus is cooking again, of course he is, though Nott is assisting and Jester offers advice.

The food is amazing, once it is complete. Though he eats much, much much more than he usually would, a fact that a number of his friends pick up on.

“Did you and Essek bone or something?” Beau asks. “Dude, chill out, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Jester snickers as Fjord thumps him on the back, giving him a sympathetic hand.

“I did not,” Caleb says, affronted, and coughs one more time just for good measure. “I can assure you, we did nothing of the sort.”

“So what did you do?” Caduceus asks. His eyes, usually so dazed and relaxed, have focused onto Caleb with an uncomfortable accuracy. Damn the priest, Caleb thinks. What is this? A confession?

“We just reviewed dunamantic basics,” he murmurs, well aware of how it sounds to Jester. “I do not have any spell slots left, but I can certainly show you at a later time.”

“Firing blanks now?” Beau asks with false sympathy. “He must have really worked you hard.”

Caleb groans, and deliberately turns so that he cannot see her. Even Nott is grinning at him widely, seemingly pleased at the idea of...well, of whatever they think that he is doing.

He wonders, idly, as the conversation shifts to other inane topics, if this is because she is gently, in her own way, trying to let him go.

After all, she has Yeza now. She has a son she needs to go home to. She has a mission she needs to accomplish.

Caleb is supposed to have one too. But at some point during the months that have passed, he is trying less and less to think about it.

He has a feeling he knows why, but that does not make it any better.

—

That evening, his mind churns again. But he is exhausted, and depleted of his spells. He has to force himself to rest, even a short nap will do. He lies there in bed, undreaming, for hours, until he is finally dormant long enough to tap into his old training and conjure up a burst of magic.

It is just enough for one final spell. Time to make it count.

He closes his eyes.

He curls up against the mattress, and imagines what it would like to be Frumpkin.

—

There is no sunlight in this city, which means no morning gleam through the windows, but the distant hum of activity in the house, the far-off clamor of voices and life, signals to Caleb that the day has now begun.

And Frumpkin is there. Asleep against the covers, but stirs when Caleb starts to shift.

Very quickly, he is up and locking eyes with his wizard, draping across his lap and purring up a storm.

The sleep-muddled curve of Caleb’s mouth forms a smile. He runs his fingers across Frumpkin’s scalp, gently strokes his thumb against his cat’s fur.

“Dir auch einen guten morgen,” he murmurs. “I thought you were out enjoying yourself in the city.”

Frumpkin mrows in response and rolls over onto his back.

There is a moment, and then suddenly, Caleb frowns.

“Was? What are you talking about? Do not be silly, everything is fine.”

He absently scritches the fur on Frumpkin’s chest. But now his rhythm is a little unsteady.

“I am not sure what you mean,” he adds, after another pause for silence.

Frumpkin purrs. He opens one eye and peers at Caleb.

“I am not,” Caleb says.

Frumpkin turns over. Caleb scowls.

“I do not see why this is any of your business. And even if I was doing for that reason, it is not a harmful habit. I am just taking advantage of the skills I have learned. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Frumpkin stares until Caleb can no longer stand it. Brow furrowed, he plucks his cat from his lap and drops him onto the bed.

He says:

“I need some time alone. Do not bother me.”

—

Frumpkin is a familiar, bound by an eldritch pact. He cannot allow his master to come to harm, and he cannot disobey Caleb’s commands.

He cannot disobey Caleb’s commands. He cannot allow his master to come to harm.

Frumpkin is a familiar, and they had made a pact.

Then again, Frumpkin is also fey.

And fey do not take “no” for an answer.

—

“Gods above,” Beau grumbles, leaping to the side, “hey, jeez, calm down, already. What’s gotten into you?”

Frumpkin sits back on his haunches and yowls purposely at her knees. His tail lashes through the air impatiently.

Beau scratches the top of her head.

“Are you trying to tell me something? What’s wrong?”

She can swear that the feline is rolling his eyes. She crouches down and frowns at him.

“Is...oh, shit, is it Caleb? Where is he? Is he alright?”

—

The spell that Jester and Caduceus had woven into the ribbons of daylight on their tree illuminates the top of the tower for a few hours every day.

It is the closest thing that Rhosana has to sun, to a good and honest warmth. Caleb had decided, just minutes ago, to utilize this to its fullest potential.

He is content, here. He is basking, and at peace.

And then, just at the edge of his hearing, there is a faint disturbance.

“—what, that? Are you sure?”

The voice is familiar. Right now, Caleb can’t seem to remember whose it is, but he is vaguely irritated. It had been so quiet before, it had been so calm—

“You have to be really sure. I’m not gonna kill a random lizard.”

His little reptilian heartbeat leaps. He can sense a shadow looming over him now, all his instincts scream to run—

“Alright, alright, calm down, I’m doin’ it—”

—his muscles bunch, he gets ready to jump—

And a hand descends from the heavens above, the edge colliding with Caleb’s spine, there’s one second of awful, horrible pain, of a bright-yellow smudge staining the rocks, and then he is growing, aching, stretching, tumbling onto two legs, not four, glaring up in a light too bright and snarling at the unmoving face of Beau.

Now the physical is secondary. His mind is back, and it is angry.

“Arschgesicht! I had forty-two minutes on that spell!”

Beau doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even respond. Instead, in true Cobalt Soul fashion, she stares him down with such a gaze that for but a second, Caleb almost feels sheepish.

Then the furry bubbles right back to the surface.

“Why did you do that?” he demands. “Beauregard, why would you interrupt me?”

“Uh, what exactly did I interrupt?” Her eyebrows are raised, her chin turned up. “Caleb, what the fuck were you doing?”

“I was—I—magic!” he shouts. He gestures wildly to the smooth stones. “I was just practicing my spells! You know you are not supposed to interfere!”

He feels something dull at the back of his skull. It is like a pressure, though rapidly fading, and as he whirls around towards the source, he just sees the tip of a ginger tail vanishing down the tower stairs.

He almost shouts. He does not, but almost. He begins to storm off towards the door, his foot falls once, hard, into the grass, but then comes a grip like iron against his wrist.

Beauregard always says that her hands are her weapons. Even Caleb, in this state, remembers this well.

“Good gods,” she says, eyebrows rising further. “Dude, seriously, what’s up with you? Why’re you pissed? You can cast it again, can’t you?”

“Yes, Beauregard,” he manages, “yes, of course, of course I can. But that is not the point, here. The point is that Frumpkin disobeyed what I said, and, and coerced you to come here. I know you are innocent here, but he—”

“Wow.”

Caleb pauses.

“‘Wow’ what?”

Beau lets go of his wrist. She takes a step back, crosses her arms, looks him over with the sudden terrible stare of understanding. “Damn, dude, I came up here because I thought you were in trouble. That something was attacking you, or something’. But I guess trouble comes in different forms, huh?”

Caleb frowns. “What do you mean?”

She points at the rocks, where he had been resting. “Sometimes it’s a lizard. I’m guessing sometimes it’s a bird? A giant one, with eagle-wings?”

His eyes narrow. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Yeah, well, I barely do either, but Frumpkin seems to think there’s something wrong. With you, I mean. And I guess with your spells.”

“There is nothing wrong with me. And there is no reason for you to think that.”

She leans in.

“You and your cat are telepathically linked.”

“And? What of it?”

“If there was something goin’ on in your head, don’t you think he would have noticed?”

“He is overreacting,” Caleb huffs, “there is nothing—”

“Come on, man, this is Frumpkin. He cares about you, he’s just worried. And honestly, based on the way you’re acting, I’m starting to worry too.”

Caleb stops.

He goes still.

His gaze falls to the ground.

“Ja, well,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you should not bother.”

To his amazement, Beau rolls her eyes.

“Aw, come on,” she says, stepping forward. “Don’t play that face with me, alright?” She prods him in the chest. “Alright, spill. What’s up? Are you still pissed about that Scourger that got caught?”

Caleb sighs. “No, no, that is not it. It is…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It is just...other things. You know.”

“I don’t.”

He inhales. Then he sags, finally defeated.

“Ja. Ja, I suppose that is true.”

He watches her cross her arms.

“I won’t know unless you tell me,” she says. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He feels the last of the rage drain away. His stares intently at the dirt.

“It is...I believe it is everything. Everything that has been happening. Everything that has happened.”

He falls quiet.

“I think it may be too much.”

Beau gives him a very level stare.

Eventually, she gestures to the stones. Warm under the glow of light made by a friend.

“Alright,” she says. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

They both sit. It is quiet, for a moment. And then, Caleb sighs one last time, and speaks:

“We are in a very strange place. And we are trying to...we are trying to do some very big things. Things that...as every day goes by, seem more and more impossible to accomplish.”

Beau leans against the bark of the tree.

“Yeah, I…feel you there.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow.

“What did your mentor say, by the way? How much does she know about...about the things we have done?”

Beau meets his gaze, eyes blank and cool.

“Oh, no. We’re doing your problems now. We can talk about all that later.”

Despite everything, this makes Caleb laugh. It’s nothing more than a faint chuckle, but Beau smiles back, gives him a nod.

“C’mon,” she says. “Go on. Keep going.”

Caleb tilts his head up to the boughs of the gnarled tree.

“I am...well, I am not sure. Not really. I do not think I have been, for a long time. And…seeing that V—that Scourger, it made me realize that…that for all of my memory, all my knowledge, for all the things I had swimming in my head, I realize now that I did not really have to think. I just...really, I just had to believe. I had to obey what my Lehrer—teacher, said. Really, I was not expected to think. And everything, for all its complications, everything was so, so simple.”

He glances down at the ground. Tufts of grass lay silent below his feet.

“Today, my friend, today they are not. We are...we are trying to do very big things. And we are trying to help many people. And I think that is good. Really, I do. And I think it has given me...in some ways, a...a goal. Something that seems a bit more feasible, anyway.”

“More realistic then bending reality.”

He gives a faint smile.

“Ja, you could put it that way. But, ah...but as you can likely see, that goal has gotten slightly more...complicated. And trying to stay on the right path...even finding that path itself, is not a straightforward process. It requires thought. It requires so much thought. And now, after everything, after all we have seen and tried to do, I believe...I am sure...that I am just tired of thinking.”

Beau nods sagely as his voice trails away.

“Okay,” she shrugs. “Then you should just stop.”

Caleb blinks.

“Jus—what?”

Beau sighs. “I…I dunno, man. I think, honestly, I think that’s all you need. To stop thinking about all that shit. Not—” she adds hastily, “—not in the way that you’re doing with the lizards. Not like that. But just...I dunno. When you’re being you.”

“But when I am me, I cannot do that,” Caleb says. “I have a perfect memory, Beauregard. There is nothing I can forget.”

“Oh, wow, look at you. Wow. I’m so impressed.”

“Beauregard—”

She grins and raises her hands. “Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist. But, uh...yeah. I guess that makes sense. That...that sounds pretty rough, dude. If I had a record of my greatest failures playing all the time in my head, I think I’d go pretty crazy too.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow.

“Now I am confused,” he says. “Is this conversation supposed to help me?”

Beau throws her arms into the air.

“Hell, I dunno,” she says. “I’m not the feelings expert, or whatever. I’ve just seen people do this kind of shit before. You’re supposed to talk things out, right? That’s supposed to...I dunno, fix things, or something?”

“Is it?” Caleb asks, incredulous. “Who told you that?”

She scratches the back of her neck. “Uh...I dunno. Probably Caduceus.”

“That seems like something that he would say.”

They fall silent for a few moments after that, drinking in the sunlight and the distant city sounds.

Then Beau says:

“I wasn’t lying, though. I don’t really know what it’s like to feel like you. I can’t imagine having a brain like yours. But...but I do kind of know what you’re going through.” He glances over, and she nods. “Yeah. I do. I think...I think it’s a pretty common thing. Maybe not in such perfect detail, but...it can be hard to stop thinking about all the times you’ve fucked up. And it can be even harder when you know that, uh...when it feels like the fate of a hundred thousand souls rests on every stupid decision that you make.”

“We have made many stupid decisions, eh?”

“God, you’re telling me?” Beau groans. The back of her head rests against the tree. “I’m amazed Dairon didn’t kill me. And honestly, I’m amazed all of us are still alive. But...I mean...I guess that’s just it, right? We’re still alive. We’re still here. And, most important, we’re still truckin’.”

She tilts one eye towards Caleb.

“We’re still here, and we’re still trying to figure it out. As shitty as it is, sometimes. As much as...as much as it hurts. And as tired as we get. We haven’t given up, and we’re still alive. Seriously, think about it in math. The odds are definitely that we should’ve died by now.”

He can’t help but snort. “Ja, absolut.”

“But we aren’t,” Beau shrugs. “And as shitty as that is, as much as it hurts, as fuckin’ terrible as it can sometimes be...that means we still have a chance. To do...whatever it is that we’re supposed to do. Or not supposed to do. And I always get pissed when people tell that I’m lucky for it, or whatever, but...I dunno. Maybe we are. And maybe it’s rotten luck for the world that it’s us, but...here we are. All of us, here we are. And...and we’ve got each other. And I won’t pretend to know what I’m doing, and I definitely don’t know...not really, how to help, but, uh. I’m here for you. Okay? Whatever...whatever you need. As long as it’s not bullshit—" she raises an eyebrow, Caleb chuckles.

“—but yeah. Seriously. I’m here. And I’ll always listen, whenever I can.”

She leans back against the bark. She closes her eyes and gives a nod.

“I mean that,” she says. “I really do.”

Caleb feels the sunlight glow against his skin, feels the warmth of its whisper brushing across his face. And there’s another light too, maybe brighter, maybe warmer, coming from either side of his form—it’s the gentle sigh of a shoulder pressed against his own, and the curling, purring softness, of a cat beneath his hands.

He glances down at Frumpkin. Then he turns to look at Beau.

Here we are. All of us, here we are.

Very, very slowly, he closes his eyes.

And it isn’t the cure. Not by a long shot.

But certainly, it’s a start.

#critical role #critfic #fic #fanfic #critrole #caleb widogast #beauregard #the mighty nein #long post #SUCH A LONG POST #SORRY IF THE BREAK FAILS #jay writes #jay tagged #seren you monster i did this for you #text #drabble #thank ya thank ya thank ya for reading!!!

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osmiumamygdala · 5 years

Text

Dandelion

Colossus X @boneeating--baastard 's oc, SFW, fluff, Petey being a mother hen, as always.

I used some Russian in this (please do correct me if you see anything wrong so I can fix it!) So some translations:

Lapochka= darling/dear

Milyy= sweet/cute

volzlyublennyy= beloved

A-one, a-two, a-one two three four!

The heel of Balea's sneakers squeak upon hitting the floor, but their tempo remains impeccable as always. Their fingers dance across the strings of their axe, the pluck-pluck-pluck shooting through the guitar's body and causing their chest to hum.

They aren't performing with their band right now-- no, this is all them, all alone, practicing in the empty art studio of the X-Mansion. Even so, they can imagine-- no, hear, hear as though it were right there-- the rest of the band, playing in synchrony, filling this small room with loud, delicious sound rather than the semi-awkward twang of them, solitary, with their guitar.

Yes, instead of this dark, cramped room, lined wall to wall with easels, paintings, sculptures, and paper mache, there is the steady beat of the drums, the thrill of the bass, the scream of a second guitar. Old, amateurly-made masks that line the wall opposite to them are screaming fans, faces drawn open in cheer. A poster to their left featuring a chameleon grasping a branch bids them "hang in there!" And so, they do.

They've been "hanging in there" all day. All week. All their life, really. Between University, general anxiety, and the normal daily grind-- which is to say, the abnormal shit-storm their life has become since squeezing themself into a superhero uniform-- they really can't seem to catch a break.

Music is a whole different ballpark. Can it be hard work? Yes. But the satisfaction they know they'll feel the second they play the rep right just once, godammit, will be worth it all. They've been working so hard already. The minutes have blurred together into one gross, energy drink infused nightmare. Their fingertips are numb, and they're pretty certain their throat has been torn up so wretchedly that lemon juice won't help it now.

One more rep. Just one more rep.

Piotr finds them at a quarter to midnight. He hears them before he sees them; their voice casting down the empty hallway and echoing back. He stops and listens before trying anything. One part of him feels bad for doing it. After all, he wouldn't want anyone sneaking up on him and stealing peeks at his unfinished artwork without his say. But he can't help himself; hearing his dearest's music in the air is a cause for pause, and so he stops in front of the door, hand hovering above the doorknob, and sighs happily as their melody ebbs and flows and weaves throughout the air.

They're doing a cover of a song right now. He's never been up-to-date with music (he's a little old school, and he'll be the first to admit it. He spends his time listening to classical piano and Neil Diamond), but he thinks he knows this one. It sounds like...oh, what was it called...Creep? By...Radiohead!

Their voice wavers out on the last "I don't belong here," and they let out a nasty sounding cough. He ducks his head down to peer into the slim, rectangular window on the door. He sees them. Balea. That sweet, steadfast, optimistic soul that managed to capture his heart and all of him with it. Their back is facing towards him, their shoulders are sagged as they lean forward, perched on a stool (poor posture, he thinks. We should have a word about that), they're still wearing that same flannel from way earlier in the day (sweat-soaked. Poor thing must be exhausted) and he sees them take a swig of--

Monster. At midnight? Oh no.

They start plucking at the guitar strings again, this time starting up an Insidious original, but he doesn't allow himself to be distracted.

He swings the door upon gently, right as the opening verse begins.

"Balea," He says.

They startle, kicking some empty energy drink cans that were in front of them and nearly dropping their guitar.

"Are you aware of the time?"

"Jesus, big guy! You about gave me a heart attack!" Balea says, their voice raspy. They nervously push their glasses up the bridge of their nose.

Piotr picks one of the energy drink cans--Rockstar--off the ground, wiggles it, and grins, amused. "You mean, before these do?"

"Hah. Hah." Balea laughs humorlessly.

"Balea, my dandelion. Time?"

Balea blanks. "Err…uh...eight, right?"

"Lapochka," he says, sadly and softly, "is midnight.”

They look at the floor, stunned. "Oh."

"How long have you been playing?"

Balea scrubs at their eyes for a moment. "Ah, uh, four hours I think?"

He tsks and walks farther into the room until he's standing right in front of them. He kneels down, places their guitar lightly on the ground, takes their small hands, and rubs his large thumb over one of their bandaged fingers.

"You need sleep," he says gently.

"I need," Balea says, with a hint of annoyance, "to get better. I keep messing up this one song. Just the one! I HAVE to get it before I sleep tonight! I've almost got it!"

Piotr chuckles and moves his right hand to their left cheek. He smiles as he scans over their face, which is pulled into a scowl at the moment. Regardless of the expression, he finds them to be gorgeous, handsome, stunning-- any combination of words he can find to explain the joy he feels upon seeing them.

Even here, in this dark room, and even sleep-deprived and sweaty and peppered with Spiderman band-aids as they are, he sees a piece of art. No person could ever hope to capture their beauty in ink, he thinks, and neither in clay or stone, nor paint or pixels. They are ethereal to him.

Which is why seeing the bags under their eyes and smelling the caffeine on their breath makes his heart clench.

"Please dandelion, you've been working so hard already. You need some rest."

Balea thinks it over for a minute, biting their lip in thought and gazing up into his eyes. "Why do you call me that?" They ask. "Dandelion?"

"I call you "Dandelion" because-" he pauses to plant a kiss to one of their bandaged fingers "-you are like dandelion!"

They frown. "I'm like a weed?"

Piotr is taken aback. He hadn't been expecting that. "Weed is...is just concept people came up with because they are annoyed when plants grow where they don't want them." He laughs at that internally; he was a farmer, and he's dealt with his fair share of 'weeds'. His point still stands, he thinks, because even those 'weeds' can be breathtaking, in his mind.

"You are like dandelion because you are so bright." He says. "And determined. And brave."

"How are dandelions or me brave or determined?" They ask incredulously.

"You stand apart from everything else," he explains. "Like dandelion. Bright and bold. When you perform I...I feel so proud of you. Seeing you, on stage, surrounded by so many people? I could never! But you, you stand there, head held high, and take it in, like flower taking water from soil!

And dandelions grow wherever they can. Even through concrete! You do, too! Whatever life throws at you, you fight through it, and if someone tries to pick you off, well, you just pop right back up, as hopeful as ever!"

Balea grins at that. They are one tough cookie! Many an enemy has learned about their quick regeneration too late.

"I remember the first time I saw you," he says. Balea fidgets in place. They don't really like to remember that day very much. They hadn’t really been themself that day. Not quite. "Before pulling you from the rubble, I thought 'there is no way anything could have survived this'. And then I found you, and pulled you free, and it was like seeing a flower raise its head on the first day of spring. Bright, brave, determined, bold--" he places a round of kisses on their hands "--beautiful."

Balea finds themself shivering under all the affection. "Shuddup, you're making me blush!"

Piotr grins and places a kiss on their cheek. "Milyy."

They giggle before being overcome by a large yawn.

"Sleepy little flower," Piotr comments. "See? Time for bed."

"Noooo," Balea moans. "Just had a Monster. My skeleton is VIBRATING."

"If I had my way," Piotr says sternly, "I would lock all Monsters in a safe and drop them in a bottomless pit."

Balea opens their mouth in mock horror. "That would KILL ME babe! I would die! How EVIL! And here I was thinking the X-Men were the good guys!"

"It is a necessary evil," Piotr says solemnly.

Balea harrumphs and folds their arms.

Piotr's face is beginning to hurt from smiling so much at his beloved, and that fact only makes him smile more. They look so cute when they pout.

"If you come to bed, volzlyublennyy, I will massage all your pain away. I know you get, ah...achy back after practicing too long."

"Just a massage?" Balea asks, wiggling their eyebrows.

Piotr deadpans. "It's midnight. I am tired, love. And you look half awake as is."

Balea shrugs. "Eh, worth a shot."

They bend over to pick up their guitar, placing it neatly in its case. At the same time, Piotr sets to work gathering up all the cans and tossing them in a bin by the door.

Balea stands up, almost falling over themself due to their tired, cramped legs and sudden light-headedness.

"Babe," they say. "Did you see that cool magic trick? I just, like, hopped dimensions."

"No," he says firmly. "You had too much monster and too little movement in four hours."

"Shhhh, no, babe. I've unlocked a secondary mutation!"

He sighs good-humoredly and watches for a moment as Balea attempts to put on their guitar case. Their joints keep popping as they get used to movement again, and they wobble back and forth on their heels unsteadily. Piotr intervenes quickly and takes the case from their hands, slinging it around his own shoulders.

"Honey, wh--" before Balea can finish their question, they are scooped up in a pair of big, strong arms.

That sends them into a fit of laughter. "Babe, babe!" They squeak breathlessly. "You aren't gonna carry me to the room, are you?"

"That is the plan, yes," Piotr says, hugging them close.

"What if someone sees us?" They ask, suddenly timid at the thought of anyone catching them like that.

"Everyone else went to bed at a reasonable hour, love." Piotr scolds, pinching their cheek.

Balea blows a raspberry at him. "Midnight is reasonable for me! I'm a busybody and a night owl, okay!?"

Piotr chuckles and walks out of the art studio, making sure to lock the door behind him (which, he realizes, is difficult when your arms are full of your giggling, squirming lover).

As he makes his way back to their room, he watches the drowsy face of his dearest. He finds it endearing, how they fight to stay awake just so they can have that promised massage and spend more time with him. He hums a little song to himself. Something rock, the title of which is lost to him. All is good

#xmen #fanfiction #fanfic #colossus #colossus x oc #Piotr Rasputin #piotr rasputin x oc #fluff #balea parez #i'm tagging them #because i'll definitely write more for them later

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bellatrixobsessed1 · 7 years

Text

Of Farms, Fairs, and Fame (Part 3)

Azula chewed the tip of her pen and let out an exasperated sigh. Each and every lyric she put on paper sounded too sappy or too cliche. And if it didn’t sound like that it sounded just plain stupid or overdone. She groaned and buried her face in her hands, her long nails digging somewhat forcefully into her hair line. She promised Sokka she’d have a song for him tomrrow and she wasn’t one to back out of her promises. Perhaps she could dig up an older song. She frowned to herself. All of her old lyrics were just as awful, if not, more so.

I should have burned those years ago. She thought to herself, think mostly of one particular song that she wrote upon catching Zuko and Mai making out in the chicken coop. She cringed--at both the memory and the terrible song it inspired.

The siblings promised not to speak of it again. After all, Azula refused to be associated with that musical disaster and Zuko and Mai were content to forget that they tried making out in a chicken coop. Who makes out in a chicken coop anyways? Azula wondered.

She looked back down at the black sheet in front of her and groaned. No wonder she wasn’t getting anywhere with this whole musical career thing.

Perhaps she should just take a break. Azula, pushed out her chair stood up and stretched. She wandered over to the window and climbed onto the roof. Just one more thing that her father would yell at her for if he caught her doing it. At least this time she knew he only yelled because he cared. But she’d been sitting on the roof for years and she never even came close to falling, so she didn’t quite understand what the big deal was.

A soft breeze fluttered her hair and sundress. Azula frowned, the days of sundresses were nearly over--really they should have been over months ago, but they were having a pretty warm autumn so far. She gazed up at the mid-afternoon sun. It warmly touched her skin and cast a warm golden haze over the rolling green of her backyard. She decided to take it in whilst she could, after all the grass would be dead soon. Azula’s eyes wandered to the shadows cast by the sun; trees and barns among other things. And the swing set she and Zuko used to use all the time. The pair still used it on occasions when they had things that they wanted to talk through.

Maybe she would invite Sokka over to her place this time. They could sit on those swings as she played her guitar. Sokka hadn’t been to visit since they were kids of ten. “Such a long time.” She murdered to herself. From somewhere in the yard came the call of a sparrow, answered moments later by it’s mate. Azula closed her eyes, taking in the smell of hay, honeysuckle, and hot, dry, grass. The kind of grass that one can normally only get on a smoldering summer afternoon.

With one last glance over the rolling fields, Azula slipped back into her bedroom, opting to leave the window open for the breeze to flutter her curtains.

That’s what she’d write her song about. The wind in the curtains and the sun on the hills. And nothing but--no deeper meaning, no metaphors, just the feeling of a weirdly warm autumn afternoon. She picked up her pencil and began to jot a few things down, mostly of the images and feelings she wanted to touch on. Just so she wouldn’t forget them. Heaven knew that the song would come out rushed if she tried to squeeze all of her ideas in without putting them in order first. She made a separate note to remind her to make a song of this sort for the other three seasons.

This truly would be a good place to start; nothing deep nor sappy. Nothing that she poured her soul or secrets into. Not that Azula ever considered releasing a song that got too personal. She sent Sokka a quick text before getting to work.

.oOo.

Sokka was in the garden when he got her text.

“I think this un’s jus’ perfect.” Katara plucked a ripe tomato. “Ma said the tomatas would be good this season.” She picked a smaller one, wiped it on her shirt, and took a bite. “They taste great too.” She held it out to Sokka.

“I’m the meat ‘n sarcasm guy, not the veggies ‘n satire man.”

Katara rolled her eyes, “it wouldn’t kill ya ta eat yer vegetables once ‘n a while, Sokka.”

Sokka shrugged. “I dunno, I might jus’ be ‘lergic to ‘em.”

“If you’s allergic to vegetables then ya wouldn’t be a good farmer now would ya?”

“Fair point.” He replied. “But I don’ have time for eatin’ veggies. Tell ma I’m goin’ ta Azula’s.”

Katara puffed up her cheeks and fixed her face with a pout. “Yer always hangin’ out wit her. Wad’ ‘bout Aang ‘n Toph?”

“I reckon I hang out wit them more. ‘N sides, I’m wit ya more ‘n anyone else.” He ruffled her hair.

“I don’ care Sokka!” Katara protested.

“Jus’ cos she bullied ya a few times in middle school. She ain’t done it since.”

“She ain’t apologize fer it either.” Katara pointed out.

“She ain’t never ‘pologize ta no one. That’s jus’ who she is.” Sokka recalled all of those times she’d landed him on his ass during their childhood play fights. He still didn’t get even one sorry. But then again, neither did she.

Sokka parked his truck in Azula’s driveway and wandered into the backyard. Azula sat, accented by a halo from the setting sun, upon the right swing. Her guitar propped against the swing’s frame. Upon noticing him approach, Azula greeted him with a wave. He couldn’t make out the expression on her silhouetted face.

“It’s been a while since you’ve come ‘round here.” Azula noted. “The bench is new, uncle han’ made it for us.”

“It’s nice, yer lucky yer uncle can make neat things fer ya.”

“Well come on, take a seat.” Azula pushed the swing over to him and as he sat, picked up her guitar. She plucked at each string, making sure that they were in perfect tune and began to sing.

Her eyes never seemed to leave the strings as her fingers glided gracefully over them. She looked serene, more so than Sokka had seen her in a while. After a few more cords came her voice; soft, light and with a honey like quality. Dream-like, if he dared say. She looked up and smiled at him as she played the guitar solo. And then came those soothing vocals. If sound could be visualized her voice would gold like the sun behind her; warm and vibrant, Joyful in a mellow way. With one final strum, she set her guitar back upon the swing’s frame. “Course that’s just the first version, might get to changin’ it later.”

“Why would you change it!? It’s perfect.”

“Not nearly.” Azula muttered. “Yer the first person I sang to, ya know? ‘Cept for ZuZu and father.”

“Ya haven’t even sang ta TyLee?” Sokka asked.

“Nope, not yet.”

“Why not?” Sokka questioned.

Azula shrugged. “Jus’ cos. Sometimes I don’t think I can come up with anythin’ worth singin’ for other folks yet.”

“Well, I liked it. There ain’t many good songs ‘bout fall.” Sokka replied, watching as a grasshopper flung itself over Azula’s foot and onto a nearby flower.

“You should write a song about a grasshopper.”

“Now why’d I ever do somethin’ like that?” Azula asked.

“Jus’ tryin’ a help.” Sokka shrugged.

“Eh, you jus’ shut up ‘n listen, will ya?” She smirked. At least now she knew that one person enjoyed her music.

#azula #sokka #sokkla #au #fanfiction

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