cough hack wheeze who wants a teeny tiny fantasy au snippet with uhhhh laughingstock Tension. it's like... half a scene! unedited & out of context As Is Tradition
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“Nothin’ much. I think I’ll poke around nearby towns, shake down some travelers - see what falls into my paws.”
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Barn,” Howdy says. He sweeps aggressively, spreading dirt more than gathering it into the usual neat piles. “Who knows if those ne'er-do-wells are still roaming around the woods - if you and Ed couldn’t take them, what makes you think you could alone? Or- or! What if you stumble across those cultists? I hate to think of you stuck in an ambush with no help coming, knowing fully well that-”
A large paw slips the broom out of his grip and sets it to the side, and Howdy stammers to a stop as Barnaby crowds him against the bar with a soft, “Howdy.”
Howdy swallows hard, bracketed on each side by strong blue arms. The look Barnaby fixes him with dries up his well of words and bristles his fuzz. Howdy’s heart hammers against his ribs. He can feel Barnaby’s body heat, and it’s lighting his blood on fire.
“I’m not gonna be reckless, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Barnaby says. He barely needs to speak louder than a whisper for Howdy to hear him loud and clear. He smells like sweet smoke. “The other day was a one time deal, cross my heart. But, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll take someone with me. I’m sure Jules is itchin’ to get outta town.”
“What would really make me feel better is if you stay,” Howdy blurts, just barely reining in the with me. He tenses, knowing that he’s toeing a dangerous line. One wrong word, and he’ll make the unspoken spoken - but the stress drains out of him as Barn’s eyes go soft. Perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. Of course there’s no reason to worry, not about this, not with him. There never has been.
“You know I can’t do that,” Barnaby murmurs. “Not yet.”
Howdy doesn’t need to say that he knows. Not for the first time and with any luck, not for the last, it clicks in his mind that they’re on the same page - he doesn’t need to be a telepath to understand the thoughts behind Barnaby’s dark eyes.
Barnaby says it anyway. “I gotta get him back. I can’t… there’s no room for anythin’ else right now.”
Howdy sighs through his nose and slumps against the counter digging into the small of his back. He nods and adjusts the lapels of Barnaby’s vest. His fingers ghost over soft blue, and Barnaby doesn’t flinch at the contact. If anything, he leans the barest millimeter into it. His gaze burns into Howdy’s, even if they aren’t meeting at the moment, but it isn’t a bad feeling. Quite the opposite, actually.
“Well,” Howdy says in a low voice, “if you find a good lead, send for the rest of us. I’ll be there as fast as my four legs can scamper.”
Barnaby smirks. “Even if you need to take a boat?”
“Even so, Barn.”
The smirk slides into something that isn’t a frown, but isn’t a smile. It’s too soft for a grimace, but too intense for simple recognition. Barnaby seems to sway forward, and Howdy is sorely tempted to meet him halfway.
But Barnaby’s claw taps the counter, and he pulls away before anyone’s mind can be made up. Howdy’s hands slip from his lapels, brushing against fur as they fall and knuckles skimming over the smooth, fresh scar cutting across Barnaby’s belly.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Barnaby says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He squeezes Howdy’s shoulder and then his back is turned, and he’s leaving. All Howdy can do is watch.
And call out after him, “Your table will be open and waiting for you.”
Barnaby pauses in the doorway and looks over his shoulder at Howdy, and his grin is so full of affection that Howdy may just burst.
“With a free pint?” he asks.
“Hey now, don’t push your luck pal.”
Barnaby bursts out laughing, and Howdy can hear it even after the door thuds closed.
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happy new yuri everybody
this might be the sappiest thing ive ever written but idc the girlies deserve it. cheesy lovestruck joycetoria smoochies snippet to ring in the new year ok bye
The ground rises up to meet Victoria halfway, an embrace that still knocks the wind out of her. Someone somewhere laughs, and she isn‘t sure whether they‘re laughing with or at her, but when she goes to open her mouth to ask, she almost projectile-vomits all over the pavement instead. But only almost.
„Vicky,“ Joyce says, drunk enough, too, that it sounds more like a giggle than a word, and Victoria giggles too, carefree and high pitched like a teenager.
Vicky, she echoes under her breath, Vicky Vicky Vicky, only for her. Only for Joyce and her golden curls sticking in every direction, the lipstick smudged into her beard from the many times she‘s pressed her mouth to Victoria's skin already that evening. Lipstick on her teeth, too, and smeared all over Vicky‘s shoulders, pink like spring flowers. A mixture of cheese and alcohol and all those comforting Joyce smells that Victoria could drink.
Fuck, Vicky thinks, I love you so much, and she‘s drunk enough she doesn‘t notice that she‘s said it out loud until Joyce‘s strong freckled arms are dragging her up, saying I know. And she doesn‘t say it back, the love thing, but she doesn‘t have to—it‘s in the way she‘s holding Vicky and doesn‘t let go even when the risk of falling again has passed, the comforting squeeze of her shoulder, the way she‘s gently guiding her away from the crowd, a throng of people pouring out of Paddy‘s doors.
It seems like the New Year should still be hours away, and yet there’s so much anticipation in the air, it can’t be long now. When Victoria checks her watch, the numbers blur in front of her eyes, but before she can ask for the time, the crowd picks up the count and answers her question. 10 seconds to the new year, coming way too soon all of a sudden but somehow with less dread than she‘s used to.
9 seconds, 8, Joyce burying her face in the crook of Victoria‘s shoulder, where her jacket has almost slipped off. Still not letting go of her, and Victoria is glad for it, legs still wobbling in her highest pair of heels.
7, 6, 5, 4, the scratch of Joyce’s beard against Victoria‘s cheek, the earthy smell of dirt in her hair. This is what happiness feels like; the teeth of someone you love right on your jugular. Torn stockings and a scrape on her elbow and make up that must be melting off her face by now, and Victoria can‘t find it in herself to care.
3, 2, 1.
Victoria giggles as Joyce kisses her, once, square on the lips. Their teeth knock together as high above them the sky lights up in color, sparks shooting through the night. Behind them the crowd cheers, and even if Victoria knows it‘s not them they‘re cheering for, it still feels like it should be.
„Happy New Year,“ Joyce says, lips smudged with red, and Victoria‘s heart seems like it could burst into a million little pieces, explode like the fireworks soaring high over their heads.
„Happy New Year,“ she says, too, giving Joyce‘s small warm hand a squeeze. Barely a second in and she‘s already happier than she‘d ever dreamed she could be.
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