i'm writing a jam time travel fic, would anyone be interested enough for me to post on ao3?
the basic plot is Tim takes his life after the events of the series and wakes up at the beginning of s3, around when Jay is trying to track him down, and eventually (after having a break down obviously) tries to fix everything that happened. i've been really inspired by Rosswood and the implications of multiple universes so I might incorporate that to an extent but it might make it too complicated. here's a snippet, lmk what you think!
There was something about Sam that drew him in before they even physically met. A connection he’d felt that only grew stronger the more time they spent together. It was a feeling he’d never experienced before, and one that he somehow knew was a once in a lifetime occurrence. He loved Sam. He knew that much. How deep that love for him ran? He wasn’t sure he was ready to unpack that.
So when these between-scene dancing events Jacob always inevitably started would come about, the first person he would seek out would always be Sam. And always, Sam would be in some far off corner, smiling and laughing with the group, but never joining in. Jacob would call to him sometimes. Wave him over to participate in the fun. But Sam would just smile and shake his head. Find himself busied with something else so that Jacob knew he really wasn’t interested in joining.
Jacob can’t really explain why without sounding insane and irrational, but it hurt him that Sam never wanted to be a part of this on-set family routine that Jacob had gotten everyone so accustomed to. He didn’t want Sam refusing to participate to mean so much to him. But against his own wishes, it did. He found that all he wanted was to be close to Sam. And maybe for Sam to want to be close to him.
…….full fic is linked below
I hope you read and enjoy, and as always. Let me know your thoughts!
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
I CAN’T BELIEVE I GOT IT DONE!!!!!~
Please if you have not already, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE read HDNMF before you read this fic, otherwise, you might be very confused
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Marble Hornets, Slender Man Mythos
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jay Merrick/Timothy "Tim" Wright | Masky
Characters: Jay Merrick, Timothy "Tim" Wright | Masky, Original Female Character(s)
Additional Tags: sequel fic, Original Characters - Freeform, Heavy on the Original Characters, Dialogue Heavy, Survivor Guilt, Established Relationship, Post-Marble Hornets (Web Series), Jam, Jam MH, mh jam, Dissociation, Recalling trauma, self blame, Hurt/Comfort, Beta Read, for once lol
Series: Part 2 of After Benedict Hall- Jay Lives AU
Summary:
It's been a few months since Jay and Tim started dating. It's been 6 months since Jay was found in that hospital room. They are moving on, healing. When someone from Tim's past re-enters his life, for better or worse.
Sam does not have kind words for a certain witcher.
1k, also on AO3
“I think,” Sam says, placing Jaskier’s hand gently on his knee, palm up for easier access to the scar, “I wouldn’t like this friend of yours very much.”
“Well, Geralt is an acquired taste.” The cool touch of salve soothes the tingling in the tips of Jaskier’s finger. He adds, “for most people anyway. It takes a while to warm up to his grunts and hums, but you’ll see he’s quite good underneath all the coarseness—”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
Sam cuts off, to Jaskier’s surprise, but his voice is gentle. Of course, the baker is always gentle no matter who he’s talking to, and he’s also applying a minty salve on Jaskier’s old wound carefully and blowing on it from time to time.
But there’s also something else in his voice, stiff and distant, which makes Jaskier pause.
“Sam, darling,” Jaskier turns his hand to grab the one cradling his, the burning sensation in his fingers now eased. “Look at me.”
Beautiful brown eyes lift to meet Jaskier’s, the warmth in them ever-present, but the hint of anger is unmistakable.
Hmm. That is a first.
“Let’s not talk about him anymore,” Sam says, holding Jaskier’s hand up and placing a kiss on his wrist. “It ruins the mood.”
“You are cross with me.” Jaskier frowns, not understanding how he could have provoked the kind-hearted baker. “Do I talk about Geralt too much? I can stop if you don’t like it. Although I’ve made telling his story my whole career and the habit is just a bit hard to break.”
“Jaskier.” Sam’s eyes go wide, taken aback. “It’s not you I’m angry at. It’s him.”
Jaskier blinks. “You’ve never even met him.”
His blood runs cold at the idea that Sam might be like everyone else, ready to throw stones at witchers despite everything, despite Jaskier. No, not Sam too. He won’t be able to recover if—
“I don’t need to meet him to know he’s a terrible friend.” A sad smile stretches across the baker’s face, and Jaskier finds those warm, strong hands he loves so much at his side, caressing the exposed skin under his untucked chemise. “You went away with him and came back hurt. You can’t even play the lute and your clothes are all ripped. You’ve—” Sam bites his lips, anguished, cupping the sharp line of Jaskier’s jaw. “—You’ve gotten thin, and I—I’m angry at the witcher for returning you like this.”
Oh.
Jaskier catches Sam’s hand, ready to defend Geralt by instinct. “It wasn’t his fault. It was the mage, and prison, and the mountains. He tried—”
“I think I hate him,” Sam says with finality.
Jaskier can only shake his head. “You don’t mean that. You don’t hate anyone. Even when you do you forgive them because you are you.”
Because Sam has a heart too big for his own good. Jaskier wouldn’t know what to do if he was the reason that those brown eyes darkened with hatred. He wouldn’t know if he’s worth it either.
“Hurting you is not something I can forgive.”
The silence that follows is unexpected. Jaskier tries to open his mouth several times but no words come out. In the end, he realizes his defeat—a bard is thoroughly rendered wordless by a baker.
“Well then,” Jaskier sucks in a breath, a pool of warmth gathering in his stomach. “What will you do if you ever see Geralt, my bravest defender and most generous lover?”
Sam does not back down. “I will certainly give him a piece of my mind! He should count himself lucky to have you at his side. If I had the honor of traveling with you for twenty years, I’d…”
Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “You’d…?”
“I’d treat you right,” Sam answers. “I don’t care if he’s a witcher, or can fight monsters taller than our bell tower. I’d fight him if this happens again.” He looks down at Jaskier’s fingers. “And if I lose, I lose.”
Somehow, Jaskier doubts that. Despite his gentle personality and soft appearances, Sam is incredibly strong in the arms. Jaskier has enjoyed watching him carry sacks of flour and flexing those muscles on many sunny afternoons. The image of him shoving Geralt in the chest—and very possibly succeeding in toppling the witcher over—makes Jaskier let out a choked laugh.
“I’ll introduce you one day, just so I can watch you kick Geralt’s ass, perhaps.”
“I mean it, Jaskier. No one should be so careless with you on my watch!”
“I have every faith in you, my sweet, sweet Sam.” Jaskier winks. “Now speaking of, it is true that I’ve not had a decent bread roll in months. Will you heat up some cinnamon buns for me?”
Just like that, all the warmth in Sam’s eyes returns, those brown eyes reminding Jaskier of the caramel melting in the oven. “Better. I’ll make fresh ones.”
“And lemon cakes?”
Sam nods. “And lemon cakes, with extra honey. I’ll make the fruit tea you like, just to complete the set.”
Jaskier clasps his hands together, letting out a squeal. “You truly know how to pamper your bard, my dearest. Have I told you how much I love your profession? Seriously, it was the most excellent career choice one can make at the age of thirteen if you ask me! Oh, how will I ever repay you?”
“Just…” Sam smiles softly, brushing away the hair at Jaskier’s temple and placing another kiss there, his beard tickling a bit. “Be careful. With him, with your heart.”
With you too.
Jaskier wants to add, but all he can manage is a simple promise. “I will.”
Sam seems satisfied at that, despite the light worry still at the corners of his lips.
Hunger takes over and Jaskier reluctantly lets go of Sam, resisting the urge to sneak into the kitchen and nibble on whatever he can find and distracting his baker with more kisses.
No, he can’t do that. The cakes will be ready much later and he’ll end up with flour all over his hair. He needs to be strong.
Two minutes later, Jaskier decides, maybe he’s not a strong man after all.
So this is a thing I’ve been putting up on the homestuck gang discord. I decided to play with the “oviparous trolls” au thing. As you do. As usual, I have no idea of what I’m doing, and there’s a lot of worldbuilding.
_________________________
He's fussing (he is not fussing this is his first clutch okay) with the temperature controls of the incubator. Four eggs was a reasonable sized first clutch and they were all on the small end. (But perfectly acceptable Zahhak!) Karkat snapped pictures of the speckled eggs and sent them to their genetors with his usual message of "red and blue slurry still does not make purple grubs." In honor of some of the most idiotic questions he'd been asked by someone supposedly not a subadult. (Zahhak was lucky his matesprit put up with him.)
After egg coddling was breakfast and waiting for his attendant to arrive with his schedule. (And check his work. Fucking up temps for a clutch could alter their projected caste or render them nonviable.) Karkat was hoping Kanaya was going to be bringing him good news from the medics; he's been on rest for what feels like forever and wants to get back to his work out. He checks the news feeds and catches up to social media. He also does a lot of shit talking at various internet hate friends. He's doing some online shopping when Kanaya turns up. He's about to offer her a muffin and some coffee but...
"Kanaya are you okay?" She did not look okay. "The Cavern Matre called me into her office," Kanaya says in a numb little voice. "Something terrible has happened."
Karkat felt a little thrill of panic at that. "Did something happen to my genitors?" He asked. “Zahhak doesn't message too often but usually I'm exchanging stupid smilies and emojis with Megido by now."
Kanaya shook her head. "No this is something else. Worse."
"Worse?" Karkat asks. Kanaya nods. "The other attendants are speaking to their genetrices," she says.
"The Matres felt this would be better than simply announcing this during assembly."
"Announce what Kanaya?" Karkat asks.
Kanaya takes a breath. "Despite the strictest security measures we've discovered there's been trafficking of a genetrix bloodline."
"Holy shitfuck." It was easy to see why it hadn't been announced during assembly there would have been a fucking riot. "How?" Cavern security by necessity was tight for the very purpose of preventing kidnappings. Genetrices were trained to fight or take more extreme measures if taken. The punishments for attempting a kidnapping were gruesome.
"We don't have all the details yet. The Church hasn't been very forthcoming."
"Of course. Mother Grub forbid they give a full report to the ones it's relevant to." Kanaya gives him a look of reproof. Or tries to. Karkat's pretty good at staring her down.
"I'm sure we'll know more soon. There could be a reason behind the with held information."
Karkat did not agree but also didn't want to argue. The reproductive and attending castes relative independance was hard won. It was also fragile. He knew that in the early days of his castes creation there had been total chaos until the early prototypes, led by the Signless had proven it was more trouble than it was worth for the highbloods to try to keep their own little pet genetrix. The idea of an entire bloodline having been stolen was an immense blow. ( And horrifying purely from a stance of compassion. ) After breakfast Kanaya checked on the eggs temperature and the development of the embryos.
She checks his notations and makes a few of her own. Karkat tries not to fidget too much. They go to assembly next. Karkat takes his sickles. Out in the corridor are other adult genetrices and their attendants, all armed. The mood is too tense for the usual greetings and shit talking. Everyone heads into the assembly hall.
The Matre of the Cavern, flanked by the Matres of Medical, Education, Support, Assessment, and Genetics were on the stage. As a group they bowed. "By now you've been informed of the crime," the Matre of the Cavern says. "We still don't have the details. What we do know is that since our Cavern is closest the genetrices will be brought here."
There was a flurry of questions, but the Matre of the Cavern signaled for quiet and the Matre of Assessment stepped up. "The line has three living members. A third molt adult, a gravid adolescent and a two sweep old child. We don't yet know if there were others that were sold elsewhere or culled."
"What's going to happen with the traffickers?" one of the older genetrices asks in a hard voice.
The Matre blinks. "They're ours of course. As always."
"Clowns," the genetrix points out as if this alone was an argument. (It probably was. Fasces' most frequent genitors were a kismesis pair who were deacons in cult of the twin messiahs.)
The Matre's mouth twitches like she's trying not to laugh. "I don't think convincing them to turn over the criminals or what's left will be a problem," she says.
More questions were asked about the situation and plans for the bloodline. Most of them were deflected, though Support indicated plans for housing and integration if possible were being discussed. Karkat knew he wasn't the only one to shudder at the "if possible."
Assembly turned to other subjects such as the graduation of the most recent brood from the trials, the up coming Ascension for the next brood, and the Fete of the Last. (Karkat was on the decoration and planning committee for his sector of the Cavern.) There was also an announcement that due to the discovered theft, the Caverns had called off the Lottery and all genitors who hadn't taken vows were being asked to leave early. No one was especially happy about this.
After assembly was a doctor appointment where Karkat was approved for "light exercise." The doctor from long experience with her patient told him that extended sets with his sickles did not constitute light exercise. Twenty minutes a day, with a three minute increase over the next twelve weeks. "This is a monumental load of feculence in the backed up sewers of stupid bullshit I have to deal with," Karkat griped.
"I don't caaare," Zheydh almost sings. "This is what you get for over exerting yourself while gravid! You fainted and probably traumatized the class you were teaching Vantas. Then you wouldn't take my advice because quote 'you're not the one whose a waddling troll turducken.' Now I get to have my revenge."
"I hate you so much," Karkat says. "Shut up Kanaya."
"I didn't say anything," Kanaya says, amused.
"I can hear your I told you so," Karkat says, giving his attendant a glower.
"I doubt you're developing telepathy Karkat," Kanaya says teasingly.
After the doctor appointment Karkat teaches his Lit class and goes to lunch. Then he attends a section meeting where the main topics are morning assembly and the next environmental failure drill. (They were past due for a bolide emergency procedure. There was also strong argument for an actual raid drill.)
The meeting ran over, but he didn't get into very much trouble with his supervisor in the creche over it. The wigglers however were very sad he was late and manipulated extra story time out of him. After creche was dinner, which he shared with Kanaya.
The next few days were much the same except for an underlying simmer of anger for the traffickers. They still hadn't found out how it had happened, still weren't sure if the clowns were going to turn them over. Assembly was generally full of shouting that the Matres couldn't quite mediate.
The clown ship finally docks in the Cavern bay. It's surprisingly small and sleek and for a Church ship. (The cult had its own shipyards and from what he'd heard their ships tended to be much bigger than standard Imperial ship classes.) It's painted with multicolored eyes and wings that spiral from bow to stern, and it's maybe a quarter the size of a cathedral ship. The ship is disturbingly named Dance of the Angel.
Karkat is very very surprised when the Cavern Matre sends him a message that he's been asked to come with her to the ship and meet with the Grand Highblood. "What the fuck?" Karkat asks. He waves his shelltop at Kanaya. "What is this? Am I reading this right?"
"I...it would seem so," Kanaya says. "The Grand Highblood wants to meet you."
“Why?" Kanaya gives him a look as if he's being deliberately obtuse. "Perhaps for some reason he feels is related to your Ancestor?" she suggests.
Karkat stares blankly back. "My Ancestor and nine caegars can get me a vaguely historically accurate romance novel."
"Karkat," Kanaya says. "I don't know whether you're being prickly about your Ancestor or you really believe that."
"It can be both!" Karkat says. "It's not like I have any special rank or responsibilities. Isn't it even in his will? 'If I should have a Descendant or if such should still exist in the future generations, put no burdens on him he doesn't take up.' I mean I'm pretty sure there was a whole thing about it."
Kanaya smiles at Karkat. "Maybe that's something you could bring up with him.
Karkat snorts. "Right I'm sure that's going to go over well," he says. There's a certain amount of fussing and preparation before Karkat is judged presentable for his meeting. Despite Kanaya's best efforts, he's never had much in the way of formal attire. There are some festival clothes, casual clothes, clothes for socializing or meeting with his genitors. But nothing really formal.
Kanaya ends up putting him into his favorite black velvet divided skirt, bright red long sleeved tunic, and a darker red robe with a wide black fabric belt. Also included were low leather boots, and a veiled hat. His only jewelry are some steel rings, and an ear cuff. He arms himself with his electric dart device (concealed) and his sickle (very much not concealed). Kanaya of course, is already dressed and perfectly made up. Her colors are the traditional jade green and black, though with accents of genetrix bright red. She has no obvious weapons, but Karkat knows she's carrying.
"Ready?" she asks. Karkat nods, and they both head out the door. They're met at the ship by the Matre of the Caverns, and a huge indigo, obviously a Church deacon.
"Karkat," the Matre says by way of greeting. "And Kanaya."
"Matre," Karkat and Kanaya chorus, and give a salute. They give another salute to the deacon.
"All y'all follow me," the deacon says, and heads up gangway of the ship.
The Matre heads up first behind the deacon, followed by Karkat, with Kanaya taking up the rear. The inside of the ship is decorated much the way the exterior is. Eyes and feathered wings and spirals in rainbow hues. There are more indigo crewmen, who step aside as they pass. Karkat can hear conversation, and music, many voices singing.
The deacon leads them down several passages, and into something between an office and a sitting block. There are low chairs and multicolored cushions everywhere, and a small dais where the Grand Highblood is sitting on more cushions in front of a low desk with books and readers scattered everywhere, along with a high end computing device. He's huge, and his paint is strangely simple. Flat, blank white, which seems to mean something to the Matre, because she gasps.
The three of them start to bow, but the Grand Highblood waves. "Sit yourselves down," the Grand Highblood says. When they've done so, (with some hesitation) he continues with, "Let me give you the full debrief," he says. "My word to your ears. There were rumors of undocumented crew and false papers. It was the legislacerators game at first, thinking it was stolen eggs or stolen grubs and wigglers, subadults. But it turned to something more heinous. A high barrister brother was bribed with a genetrix, and being not an idiot called on the church. We took over and rooted them out."
"You found only three?" The Matre of the Cavern asked. It was an oddly blunt question.
“That's on me," the Grand Highblood says. "The traffickers killed most of them, trying to destroy evidence, like they thought we wouldn't wring the truth from them. There was just the oldest of the line, the one the oldest locked himself in a bitty room with, and the wiggler given to the barrister."
As he speaks, there's movement by the Grand Highblood's lap, behind the table. What seemed like another pile of colorful cloth turns out to be a troll. An adult genetrix, with white hair wearing what looks like second hand Church motley. He's long limbed, and skinny instead of the usual blocky build of most genetrices, and if he were standing, would be almost as tall as the Grand Highblood. He blinks sleepily at them. "Sup."
There is a look of unmistakable fondness on the Grand Highblood's face. "You went and fell asleep on me again, thinking I'm a relaxation platform."
"No, I'm being sultry as fuck," the genetrix says.
"More like a underfed purrbeast," the Grand Highblood says. "We're at the Cavern. These are all to being your kin." The gentrix's eyes flick from the Matre, to Kanaya and Karkat. "I'm Matre Markstar, the Matre of this Cavern," the Matre says. "This is Kanaya Maryam, and Karkat Vantas, how should we call you?" "
Dhuvid Straid," the genetrix says.
"We're still in pursuit of some of the traffickers, who went on with a whole cloning lab and canisters of frozen tissue, but the most of them we'll be handing them over," the Grand Highblood says. "All mostly in one piece."
The Cavern Matre bows where she sits. "We thank you for rescuing our charges."
The Grand Highblood's mouth tilts in a slanted smile that reveals the curves of his fangs. "All I did was do my duty toward the children of the Mother, didn't I?" he casts a glance toward Karkat, deep indigo-purple eyes have a certain gleam to them. "Clever motherfucker, your Ancestor," he says to Karkat. "We the last children of the mother have a duty to each other and the future He was all sneaky talking about the castes outside of his newly formed one. You have his miraculous way with words? You've been quiet enough."
"With all respect, Highblood, if you want an argument with my Ancestor, you should hire a necromancer," Karkat says in a flat tone. The Grand Highblood laughs quietly. "It's the Descendant I wanted a word with," he says. "I promised Dhuvid his kin would be safe and together, and I won't turn them over to anyone who'd keep them apart or harm them."
Matre Markstar looks momentarily offended by that,but she recovers. "Sir, are you implying you want Teacher Vantas to mentor or take custody of the genetrice line?"
"Sister, I want him to have the care of Dhuvid's little brothers," the Grand Highbllood. "As I promised him." A beat. "There being a matter of serendipity between us, such that I would take over his care."
"Frail and wilting flower, that's me." Dhuvid says. "I need the gentlest and sweetest pale pity."
"You speak more true than you know, rattle bones," the Grand Highblood says, amused. "With your permit I'd get to doing that, jade sister. My Descendant's taking over the hunt for the traffickers and all Church duties so I settle Dhuvid in."
"Accommodations may be arranged, Highblood," Markstar says. "I will have the Imperial suite prepared for you."
"I'll be put up with Dhuvid by wherever Vantas is," the Grand Highblood says.
"The genetrice apartments are separate from the genitor and admittance suites," Markstar says. "Genitors generally do not go there, for obvious reasons." "Quadrants and the genitors that take vows do," the Grand Highblood points out. "I want to see where you'll be mewing up my diamond, and see all how you'll be treating him and his kin. I'll take whatever vows the genitors that don't leave do."
"That would mean you don't leave," Karkat blurts over whatever probably more polite version of "what the fuck," Markstar was about to voice. "It is not actually like Servitors of the Genetrices down in the genetrice apartments," Karkat says, naming a series of porn videos that everyone has been warned about. (Since genitors often got weird ideas, especially the older high caste trolls still around from the last Mothergrub's broods.) "The imperial suiteblock is supposed to be all fancy and shit, according to your station. Dhuvid and his line are probably going to be in the infirmary getting checked over before anyone gets moved anywhere, anyway."
"You think I don't know what I'm asking for?" The Grand Highblood asks, voice hard."I'll stay by him, where ever he's put up."
"Enduring great privations and all that shit," Dhuvid says. He's leaning up against the Highblood's side, and despite the bland tone, there's a certain amount of tension in his shoulders. "Boss, explain me a thing, what's this argument about?" a beat. "You said it was goinng to be safe here."
"So I did," Grand Highblood says. "And it is, there's just these little particulars."
HEY! MARBLE HORNETS FANS IN 2023! SPECIFICALLY JAM FANS!! Y’ALL DEPRIVED OF LONG FICS?!?!?!
YOU WANT THE SLOWEST BURN OF ALL TIME THAT BARELY HAS ANY PAYOFF RIGHT NOW!?!!?
I GOTCHU!!!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/44764555
This is the most I‘ve written ever.
Because I need our dear Sam to compliment Jaskier’s singing with a superior pie analogy, ~800 words.
(prev: this one by @valdomarx, another by @julek, this one by me, another by @kueble, and this one by @a-kind-of-merry-war)
Also, we have a collection open on ao3 for anyone to join the party: a legend in the baking
“The name is Sam,” the baker says, drowning in the blue of the singer’s eyes, “pleased to meet you, Master Bard.”
“Jaskier.”
He takes Sam’s hand, palm warm and soft, the calluses at his fingertips meeting the barker’s. Sam didn’t know a musician’s hand can be equally strong.
“I come to this tavern every night,” Sam says, not quite letting so, and Jaskier seems just as reluctant, “and you always sing that song.”
“About the butcher, yes.” Jaskier agrees, his smile bright with performance.
But there’s something underneath it.
“About heartbreak.” The brightness splinters, just a little, so Sam adds quickly, “it takes one, I suppose.”
“Hmm,” Jaskier hums curiously. “Allow me to buy you a drink, dear Sam? A bard always seeks inspiring stories, and you look like you are full of them.”
The wink Jaskier sends Sam is a coy thing. Heat rises on Sam’s cheeks. Gods, does flirting come so naturally for all bards?
“Oh, no drink for me.” Sam smiles shyly, ducking his head for a brief moment to hide the blush. “Need to get up early in the morning for the shop. I own a bakery at the end of the street, you see. My ma said this to me when she passed down the business, that feeding people is a blessing. The only downside is the night life.”
“And yet, you are here every night.”
There’s something about Jaskier’s smile that draws Sam in. Perhaps it’s the warmth that comes with it, the interest which cannot be hidden. Or, perhaps, it is the hint of pain that shines through at the end of each set.
The bard puts away his lute carefully before acquiring an ale for himself and a mint tea for Sam. It’s his favorite—his shop always has it ready for customers who love to pair it with biscuits. The din of the tavern fades as they sit down closely, their knees touching under the table.
“So, Sam the baker.” Jaskier raises an eyebrow, his hands fidgeting with a silver ring. “Am I remiss to say that you might be a fan of my singing?”
“Might be a fan?” That would be an understatement, but suddenly all the compliments Sam has rehearsed in his kitchen leave his mind. He opens his mouth and splutters. “M…more than, Jaskier. Your singing is like—it’s like…”
Sam trails off, his face burning in such proximity of the poet, so he says the first thing that comes to mind.
“It’s like pie! The sweetest kind!” The way Jaskier’s eyes light up is encouragement enough for Sam to go on. “My grandma had this recipe back in her day. It’s not even complicated, just apple and cinnamon and other spices you can find ‘round the season. But the richness of it… The sugary filling warms you, the tartness too. I had it all the time until she passes away. My ma tried to make it later and I did too, but it was never like that.”
“It was about her.” Understanding gleams in cornflower blue eyes. “The time spent with her.”
“It’s about the memories, isn’t it?” Sam echoes. “Your songs too. They are about memories, the people you miss just like I miss her still. All art is like this, really—not that I’d call bread and butter art. Crafts, then. It takes something personal to make it right, something precious in your heart.”
The poet’s eyes are obscured in the shadow of his long hair, but the intensity of his gaze burns into Sam’s very being. Like the apple pie, indeed. Jaskier’s presence coats Sam’s tongue with all the sweetness that he longs for. Like a man possessed, he reaches out to tuck the hair away from Jaskier’s eyes.
The poet lets him.
“You are full of surprises, Sam,” Jaskier says, voice dropping deep. His head turns, just to the right angle for Sam to cup his chin in his palm. The stubbles at Jaskier’s jaw tickle a little, and they stay there for a moment longer.
Just when Sam means to say something else—mostly likely something dumb, like comparing Jaskier’s eyes to blueberries—someone calls the bard from the other end of the tavern.
Jaskier sits back, darting his eyes to that man and letting Sam’s hand fall away. He clears his throat. “Apologies, my attention is needed elsewhere.”
“Your set is over.” Sam frowns, his heart sinking a little.
The bard only smiles. It’s a different one from the one he puts on stage, relaxed, a little crooked, real. “Songs or bread, you are right in that art comes from a precious place, but it’s not the only precious thing in this world. If you are willing…” he takes Sam’s hand—hand that is rough from soaking in water and dry flour all day—and places a tiny kiss on each. “Come back tomorrow.
“I will,” Sam answers reverently.
And there are many more things he’s willing to promise Jaskier, but they’ll need to wait until tomorrow.
I keep two tag lists for smut-inclusive content and no smut content these days. Please feel free to tell me which one you prefer, or adding and removing in general.
