I would really love more of platonic König with the gardener and the others fuming.
I'll YELL WHEN I WANT TO
In all seriousness, I don't mind writing platonic. I'm assuming it's 100% platonic König and semi-interested 141. This is been in my inbox for a while - hope you're still around.
On the days, Gaz lingers around the property, you've realized that the lumbering giant with claws doesn't come near the edge of the forest. He's been hanging around more since the group warned you.
You wonder if it's something to do with the type of creatures they are as you pluck one of the ripened berries from its vine. Your little blackberry bush has been one of König's favorites as of late.
Gaz is stretched out on a picnic blanket he pulled from then air after shedding his usual outfits to bathe in the sun. He's shameless in the way he displays his body.
It makes you roll your eyes when he attempted to get you to strip off your gardening outfit and join him in the sun.
"Does he not like you?" You finally ask the lingering question.
"The big guy?" Gaz lifts his sunglasses, a small grin on his lips. "Miss him?"
Your lips tug downward into a frown. "That's not an answer."
"That's not one either." He counters, dropping his sunglasses back down. "I'll tell you if you give me a blackberry."
Your eyes fall to the biggest berry you've plucked and something in the back of your mind is telling you not to. It isn't yours to give.
"No, you'll tell me for nothing." Your voice is firm as you level your eyes on him, brows furrowing.
The smile he had drops, you swear you see a snarl for half a second. "That's not how this works."
"How what works? I said you could sunbathe on the lawn. You either answer my question or leave." You square your shoulders, trying to portray confidence as you speak.
"You think you can order me around? I'm inside now - you invited me." He shifts, clearly ready to do challenge you further.
The sun had been beaming down on you moments ago. A chill goes up your spine and you turn to see the lumbering giant's maw dripping with something that isn't berry juice.
"You called?" He croaks, deeper than you've ever heard his normally high-pitched voice.
You didn't hear the branches breaking, the alligator-like bellows warning of his return or even the bushes make way for him. Your hand lifts up the blackberry to him, speech lost for the moment.
He lowers his head, tongue curling around the berry before it tosses it into his mouth. The juice drips down his chin and onto your palm.
You turn back to look at Gaz - he's fully dressed now, standing on his feet with a grimace. "You're supposed to be busy."
"The harvest is ready." König bellows, low in his throat.
Gaz's eyes land on you once more woth that slighted look before he plasters his smile on his face, "I'll see you next time, gardener."
ITS ME THE ENTHUSIASTIC FAE GAZ ANON FROM BEFORE AND OH MY GOOOOOODS YOU KEEP OUTDOING YOURSELF WITH IT OMFG.
Could you imagine a childhood best friend trope with Kyle who all of the sudden starts insisting he goes by the nickname Gaz, but Gaz was actually a fae changeling who took the place of your real childhood best friend Kyle when you were kids??????
Anyway fae gaz has a complete chokehold on me yours SPECIFICALLY is so chefs kiss
my darling !!!! i am so, so sorry that this took me so long to get into but i absolutely adore this and love you and wanna smooch you all over your face ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡
the best friend trope is something that drives me absolutely wild!!!!
like you’ve known him forever. he’s your best friend despite the distance, despite growing up to be two completely different people. but he’s yours in a way no one else is and you can’t imagine your life without him.
when he told you he enlisted in the army and told you he'd be leaving soon, he held you for an hour straight as you cried, not wanting him to go — to leave you — but he pressed a kiss to your head and told you he'll write, that he'll always be there no matter what.
the day he left, he gave you a sealed letter, telling you not to read it until he'd left, pressing a kiss to your cheek.
it took you a week to read it.
slowly, he starts acting stranger. you figure that’s just military stuff. it worries you, but he’s still your kyle, no matter what.
the first time he comes home, you go out to a bar to celebrate. he drinks whiskey now and you wrinkle your nose, but indulge him.
when you call him kyle, he corrects you, insisting you call him gaz.
“but… you’ve always been kyle," you say, a pout pulling on your lips.
“not anymore, love.”
it makes something ache in your chest but... if it makes him happy, that’s all that matters.
each time you see him — when you can, that is — he starts turning into someone you don't think you recognize anymore.
his smile turns sharper, more predatory. eyes glinting almost unnaturally in the light, an edge to them you’ve never seen before.
when he finally has a long leave from the army, he brings you to the flat of one of his army mates for a get together that turns into a party the darker it gets.
it's hot and you feel a bit uncomfortable since you don't know anyone but him.
you just want him. you find him, as he hands you a candy he says he took from the pantry.
“gaz,” you admonish him, the nickname foreign on your tongue. but he says it's his friend's flat so... that's okay, right?
he presses the candy into your mouth, thumb pushing into your tongue, holding your jaw to make sure you chew and swallow.
“show me,” he says, when you finished.
you roll your eyes and stick out your tongue. he nods in satisfaction, motioning you with his head to follow him outside, where he leans against the wall and lights a cigarette — another habit you'd never think he'd get into.
“will you ever let me call you kyle again?” you ask softly as the flame burns, orange and white and red and all-consuming.
he snaps his zippo shut, cocking an eyebrow as he looks to you. “who’s kyle?”
♡ ♡ ♡ thank you for loving my fae!gaz and for coming to keep me company. i hope to hear from you again !!! ♡
fae!gaz who kisses you at midnight, fireworks glittering in your eyes as you look to him like he’s even thing you could ever want. he’s so soft and gentle with you, cradling your face and drawing his thumb over your cheek.
he shares his drink with you — special, with you in mind.
the rest of the evening is spent in his arms, his gentle fingers drifting over your exposed skin, soft kisses pressed to your forehead, your cheeks, right at the edge of your jaw.
as you tip your head back to finish the glass, he presses a kiss to the side of your throat, right over your pulse.
fae!gaz whom you meet in a quaint little coffee shop that’s off the main road, tucked away. it’s small and cozy on the inside, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, dim lighting, plants lining every available free space. you like the quiet, and the pastries, and the ability to feel as if you’re suspended in time for a while.
you see him one day, and you’re surprised because you’ve never seen him before, and you’ve taken note of all the regulars — being one yourself.
he already knows your name when the barista calls it out. he wants it willingly, though. he doesn’t have to wait long, thankfully. you settle into your familiar chair and pull out a half-read, well-worn book. he comes over to introduce himself.
he doesn’t give you his name, but you more than happily say yours. you like the way his eyes sparkle, the way your name sounds on his tongue.
you start to see him more often, and your heart always skips a beat when he looks to you and a soft smile graces his lips. you swear he doesn’t smile like that at anyone else. you start sitting together in that little coffee shop, comfortable silence as you read and he writes or draws or does the daily crossword. other times, he’ll ask you about your book and you help him on the puzzles.
you don’t think he actually needs your help, but you’re not about to stop.
the shop likes to have an assortment of pastries; changing with the season or holiday or whenever they think of something new to try. you share yours with him, even though he protests every time.
he starts getting the pastries before you arrive. he knows what you like, knows what you’d like to try. it’s a bit curious, but cute.
one day the pastry tastes a little off. he doesn’t seem to mind, but you know something isn’t right. gaz looks concerned and he tells you not to worry, he has something back at his that’ll make you feel better. time feels far, far different after that.
"Why don't we just wipe her and try again?" Gaz asks, already on his feet and moving towards you with an efficiency you haven't seen in years. You try not to be intimidated by the threat. Price wouldn't let anything happen to you, at least you don’t think he would. You trust him, and he must trust Gaz or he wouldn't have brought him. So you’re doing your best to trust Gaz as well.
"Not a good-" Price's words are cut short by Gaz's fingers pressing against your forehead with a soft tap before you can even think to swat his hand away. Price shoots to his feet almost as quickly as you feel the pierce of wild magic sliding through your brain. A jagged knife pushing home between the hemispheres of your brain, snapping synapses and tearing tissue. Your eyes go wide as agony sweeps over you.
"Price?" You don't know what you mean to say after that, or even what your intentions with it were in the first place. The sharp block of fae magic sits menacingly between your thoughts, pushing out everything else with increasingly painful precision. When you look at Price for help you taste blood, feel tears spill down your cheeks. Price's face contorts into something akin to panic as he reaches for you.
The two fae are snapped from your home, your wards identifying and expelling the threats as you stumble to your feet. You can't make your eyes focus on anything but the bright crimson blood that coats your fingertips as you draw them away from your lips. Your nose is bleeding.
Price pounds on the door, yelling for you. You do your best to ignore it and drag yourself to your kitchen, hands shaking and breaths shallow as you open your apothecary cabinet. You grab- no you- you can't remember what you're supposed to grab in this situation. The pain is starting to make it hard to think, and your vision won't clear enough to read the scrawled labels on the bottles in front of you.
"Let me in Sweetheart," Price calls through your door, "please let me in," his voice sounds as desperate as the bang of his fist against the wood, "I can fix this, please."
You can fix this too. You're sure you know how to fix this. You just cant- you can't recall it. You grip your head with a whine, dig your fingers against your hairline as pain shoots against the back of your eye. You need a proxy. You need something to take this pain so you can think about how to get the twisting knife out of your skull.
You try to open the large drawer in the middle of the cabinet and find it stuck. You jiggle the handle to try and coax it open, tugging blindly at the drawer. There’s poppets in there, raw materials, you’re sure- you’re sure if- fuck you’re not-
You press your shaking hands to your eyes, clawing at your head to try and release some of the pressure. It feels like your skull is about to explode. You try not to scream in pained frustration. Everything is too much. Too bright and searing. You’re losing parts of your brain as quickly as you can remember them. You feel like a cup being poured out, the profound loss of yourself a threatening undercurrent to the pain.
You need this -whatever it is- out of you. You try to remember your spells, your magic, the things your mother and grandmother have drilled into you since you were small. You don’t have time to think (couldn’t hope to anyway) you can only rely on the instinct that’s been nurtured in you.
You are raw unfiltered magic, built on generations of magical blood. It courses through your veins like a guiding compass and forces you forward, self preservation and adrenaline carrying you when your feet don't want to. The pounding. The pounding on the door. It's like a never ending drum beat, tattooing itself over your eardrums. There's someone very insistent at your door. A proxy, your ancestors whisper to you.
You rip the door open, grab the face of the man banging on it, and press. Press all the pain out of your body and into him, push the knife out of your skull and drive it as deep as you can into him until it doesn't hurt anymore, until you don't feel anything anymore. And he lets you. Whoever he is, he lets you pour the invading magic into him, his hand tight around your wrist as you do, holding you steady. He catches you around your waist when the adrenaline leaves you in a rush, and your legs can't support you anymore, holds you tight to his chest and murmurs soft kindnesses to you. You're not sure why when you've surely given him every painful reason to spit and curse at you.
"It's alright Sugar, it's- Christ what took you so long, I thought-" He presses his lips to your forehead, wiping away the last of whatever invading force was putting you through hell.
“Price I-” There’s another person here, you flinch away from his voice.
“Save it, you didn’t know.” Price, that’s a familiar name, cuts him off. Price crouches, adjusts his hold on you and slips an arm under your knees to lift you. “Witches are a rare breed,” He grunts, bouncing you a little in his hold to coax you to hang on, “and even if we didn’t mix like oil and water this one’s warded to hell and back.”
“Generational,” You mumble, trying to deepen your breathing, eyes squeezed shut against the sunlight.
“You comin’ back to me already, Sweetheart?” Price murmurs, there’s something rumbly and comforting in his chest. It makes you feel safe and held. You hum, not sure what he’s talking about. He smells good, cool like the winter breeze, after the horrible burning it’s a nice change. Price is mumbling something to himself, the rumbling starting to peter off as he does. That’s alright, it’s done its job leading you towards sleep. You’re jostled back to wakefulness with a few purposeful bounces. “You want me to put you to bed?” He asks softly, you think that’s a funny question considering he’s already trying to put you to sleep.
“Please.”
“Atta girl,” You feel when he passes through the threshold into your home. The wards raised and poised to attack the magic that had threatened their owner. You wish they wouldn’t bother you when you’re so worn out. That seems to work well enough for them to settle, humming in annoyance as Price carries you through the little archway separating the bedrooms from the main room of the house.
You’re set on a soft surface, your bed you think, and Price’s hands leave you to let you cuddle into your pillows. You open your eyes as he pulls the curtains over your window. The dim light makes you feel soft and selfish, reaching a hand toward him as he turns. He catches your fingers with his own, crouching to meet your eyes. He kisses the tips of your fingers, your knuckles, he looks… regretful. His brows are drawn and his smile doesn’t reach the soft look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” You wonder how many people have heard him say that, something soft and warm settles between your ribs. You pull at his grip, push your cheek against his rough palm. He lets out a pained noise and draws back, “I can’t, Gaz and I-”
“S’okay,” You sigh and close your eyes again, pulling a pillow under your aching head, you’re starting to feel a little more yourself, “I’ll be here.”
“I know,” His fingers brush your hair from your face, “I’ll be back.”
You smile when his fingers don’t leave, tracing your features lightly, reverently, “I know.”
Tbh, Gaz could look like he’s about to rip out my jugular and I’d still be falling over myself. Can you blame a guy? He’s so hot but in the endearing way. The “I could probably bring you home to meet my mom if you don’t rip out my throat first,” kind of way.
He's so sweet and charming! How could you not love Gaz when he's so endearingly hot and looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky?
Fae Gaz must have been having a fucking ball in the 1880s. All the misery and want to get away from this terrible life. Hunter faes were just scooping these guys up.
You've hit one of my special interests, the Victorian era, congrats.
It's easy to be a weaver when everyone is desperate. Medicine is heroic because nothing works. Literature is all escapism and desire. People are miserable and fulfilled in equal measure. Life is uncomfortable, but indulgent. Sugar has recently become mainstream, fashion is elegant and elaborate, people are less trustful of fairy tales...
Gaz has a little shop where he sells goods, well, where he sells services. Sort of an apothecary, sort of a devil's bargain. The industrial age makes it hard to wander between mushroom rings, but the city makes a buffet look bare. Shop life is fairly boring, it's a lot of waiting, but it's better than hitting a molly bar or a gentleman's club. Besides that he gets bored when he has too many of the same sort of customer.
Why does everyone want to leave their wife anyway? Pathetic.
At least with a shop he gets a variety of wants to sink his hooks into. Cures for maladies, passing out changelings, running away from a marriage(good for them, Gaz thinks, making one less whiner at the club), wanting money or recognition, it's all so pedestrian. It's all so easy. Sometimes he just passes people off to Soap to see if he can do anything interesting with them.
Price keeps coming around to check on him, to check on his offer. It's bad for business having him and Ghost hanging around the shop. Or, well, actually watching Price deal with people is sort of intoxicating. There's something so elegant in the sinister way he works, the way his voice drops low and his victims seem to melt for him. It almost works on Gaz too. When Price leans against the shop counter and asks if he's still happy playing shop --they both know he isn't-- Gaz almost caves to the smoke Price swirls around the room.
"Aren't you tired of waiting for someone to walk through the door? Thought you were smart enough not to like easy." Price's eyes stare through him, asking questions he already knows the answer to. Anyone else and Gaz might think they were trying to be rude. No, Price is saying it to be sure Gaz has heard his unhappiness out loud.
"Easy keeps you fed." Gaz drums his fingers against the counter.
"Not in any way that matters," Price tells him. Gaz lets out a breath, shaking his head. He thinks about Soap's artists, shorter lived each time. Still, as much as he may hate them there are rules.
"Do you always stick your nose where it doesn't belong?" Gaz asks, unwilling to come up short in this exchange. That's probably the same attitude that got him here in the first place.
"Only when I think it's worth the effort," Price's smile is confident, he raises a hand and Ghost disappears somewhere. The shop is silent, save for Price's low voice. "You're not doing yourself any favors with this web, you know that as well as I do. At some point the gloves have to come off, and when they do you might find that your rules are more flexible than you'd thought."
"This is why people hate creditors," Gaz tells him quietly, it's a joke, just to see the amused shine in Price's eyes.
"And why you'll make a damn good one." Price holds out a small card, "You do your job right, and no one knows you were ever there. Doesn't that sound like more fun than waiting for a trap to spring?"
Gaz hums, taking the card and examining it. It's blank. Price tugs at a small tether now strung between them. He hadn't even thought- No it was something else, some warp of perception that Price had about him. Trustworthy, Gaz thinks, there's no threat behind his words. "When you want a drink you'll know where to find me," Price doesn't sound smug, doesn't sound like he's won anything, he's friendly, "Don't keep me waiting too long."
"I won't." And it's strange, but he means it. When Price nods, accepting his promise, Gaz feels something lock in, like a switch being flipped. This might actually be fun.
