middaeg | [closed] august catch-all!

Entry tags:

[closed] august catch-all!

Who: Diarmuid & Zelda, Diarmuid & Berserker
When: Throughout August.
Where: Around the city
What: Reluctant modelling during Lúnasa, failing to drink unexpected emotions away, and other good shit.
Warnings: N/A!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[As a woman wearing a scarlet ruff applies flakes of gold paint to his cheeks, leaving his love spot conspicuously uncovered, and instructs him on which way to turn at the end of the runway, Diarmuid has to wonder how exactly this happened. He doesn’t remember ever agreeing to taking part in a show but, at some point in between accosted on his way back from the Coven and now, the words must have left his mouth. Or, more likely, whatever he did say was duly noted and ignored like it so often tends to be.

Ah, well. It can’t hurt, can it? The designer had looked so grateful to see him that he felt a little guilty for thinking about walking out; he’s never been one to turn away a lady in distress. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly. And, if nothing else, being tugged this way and that and buckled and laced and primped into place takes his mind off of more complex personal matters.

That doesn’t make it any less of a pleasant surprise when his mysterious partner-in-modelling is escorted into the booth to meet him. Diarmuid glances up from where he's been attempting to coax his curl- the one that's normally so adamant about hanging directly over his face- back forward to find himself face to face with a familiar blonde woman. So, that explains what they meant by a fairytale aesthetic; judging by the matching clothes and gold accents, they’re clearly being cast as the prince and damsel in the narrative of this seamstress’ collection. She even has a small crown balanced atop her veil.]

Ah, so they got you too. [Diarmuid gives her a smile along with an abbreviated version of his normal bow as he rises to meet her.] Though I fear you carry it better than I do. You look beautiful, Lady Zelda.

Edited 2019-08-04 18:10 (UTC)

[Lúnasa made for an... interesting festival, partly because of its similarities to one he knows from home but mostly because he ostensibly had someone to spend it with. Not that he did; for the majority of it, he was been rushed off his feet dealing with the double curveball the mirrors threw at him in the form of Fionn and the Lady of Shadows herself. So, it's a little after it draws to a close- and the dust has settled- that he invites Berserker out. As absurd as it is, as much as he knows that he's a man with little inclination towards being romanced, Diarmuid can't help it.

By the time the two of them meet at the harbour, the sun's mostly dipped out of sight, turning the sky over the ocean the deepest ochre in the last few seconds before it fades completely. Most of the dock workers are starting to pack up and those that remain are clocking into shifts at the warehouses or watches for unexpected vessels, leaving the two of them more or less alone. It's not that surprising, really; as clear as the sky promises to be tonight, the leftovers of that cold spell are still in the air alongside that crisp, salty tang.

There he is.

As Diarmuid turns to greet his Bonded, breaking into a smile warm enough to cut through the chilliest of coastal breezes, the studs in his newly pierced ears glint. They're still a little sore- God knows why he let Giorno do it- but at least they're even? They're the last thing on his mind right now, though. The bottle in his bag is hefty but the keys in his pocket seem heavier somehow. It cost him a little coin and a day's work to get them- here's hoping that it was worth it.]

I'm sorry, it's a little windy. [He laughs softly, head to the side so that he can look the other Servant over.] I like your wings more than when we first met. They suit you.

Edited 2019-08-08 20:17 (UTC)

[ It's hard not to feel a sense of trepidation about this meeting. This is completely unfamiliar territory for Berserker and knowing what the festival entails, it will continue to be unfamiliar. It's so rare for him to be confronted with anything that puts him off of his normal decisive nature.

That unease doesn't let up as he approaches Diarmuid, but it's not necessarily a bad feeling. Like most everything else he's experienced, it's simply new and that newness makes him uncomfortable. If it's for his Bonded's happiness, though, he's willing to try, at least.

Berserker spreads his wings out for just a moment, the leathery skin shining red in the moonlight. ]

They're more of a nuisance than anything right now.

[ As he looks the witch over, a faint smile crosses his lips. ]

Were you feeling left out? [ A gentle jab with no bite to it at all. He has an idea once they heal, but he'll hold onto that thought for now. ] You didn't want to meet me just to compliment my wings, did you?

[It earns him a nudge and another chuckle but it's clear that there's no sign that he feels at all hurt by it.]

Perhaps- and a little jealous too. I've always wondered what it's like to fly.

[Alas, it seems the witches here don't ride brooms like they do in stories- it looks like he'll have to make do with living vicariously through Berserker. Teasing aside, they really are fascinating- and lovely- in their own immense, powerful kind of way and he spends a few moments more admiring them and the way they catch the light.]

Flattery ill suits the both of us. [Diarmuid shakes his head.] Come on, I have something planned.

[With that, he turns and begins to pick his way through the cobblestoned streets, pausing occasionally to turn back to the dragon as he talks. All around them, magitech lights are flickering to life as the less advanced gaslamps are lit.]

... have you met my old lord yet? Fionn Mac Cumhaill? He arrived alongside your master.

[he has no idea what an awkward topic this is welp]

I haven't tried to fly yet. [ A sort of unfortunate admission. There hasn't been much opportunity and he's unsure about actually flying. ] ...If you're curious, I could always take you on a flight.

[ There's a thought...But by all means, it's practical -- he should get used to his new abilities and the kind of advantages they afford him. Being able to carry someone with him while flying is something he's never done before and gives him an advantage when fighting alongside allies.

Pushing those thoughts aside for now, he follows after Diarmuid. His expression sours for a moment. ]

... Yes, I have. You've met my Master, haven't you?

[ Something is telling him that... ]

[Really, Diarmuid should be more concerned by the fact that, not two seconds prior to his offer, Berserker confessed that he hadn't even attempted to fly yet but he's really not.]

Ah, like wearing weighted armour to train? [He grins.] Try not to drop me, though. Heights are a touch more of an issue than they used to be for me.

[Still, that smile falters just a little at his reaction; that look says everything that Berserker apparently chose not to out of- uncharacteristic but very much appreciated- courtesy. The Lancer makes a soft humming sound.]

He's a man of great honour but... I understand that he can be a challenge sometimes. Lord Fionn has his own quirks and foibles but you get used to them with time- he means nothing by it.

[~~Making excuses for him already. Oh well.~~ As for Scáthach...]

That I have- and I [was a little awestruck and she walked all over me] enjoyed her company.

[Berserker might notice that they seem to be getting further and further from the heart of the Harbour District. Though they started amidst a buzz of taverns and winding down markets, the path Diarmuid leads them down winds along the backstreets, drawing closer to the docks themselves. They also seem to be on a bit of an upward slant. Strange.]

I promise I won't drop you. Or I'll catch you before you hit the ground.

[ Where is Diarmuid taking him...? It's hard to focus on the conversation at hand right now, his mind wandering to all the places he could be leading him right now. It takes a few moments for him to turn his attention back to what the Lancer said. ]

He's an idiot. [ Ouch. ] ...I'm tolerating his behavior, though.

[ Which says a lot; it's been very trying for him to not throttle Fionn for saying stupid things. He even gave him useful information and didn't just flee when he realized Fionn wasn't going to leave him alone. ]

... I've been trying to keep what we have away from her. [ It's a very, very complicated and delicate situation. ] But if you didn't mind her company, that's...a good start.

[ Things would change when she realized their relationship. He's content to delay the inevitable as long as possible, though. Caster won't tell her and hopefully neither will anyone else that knows. Things have gotten infinitely more complicated in a very short amount of time. ]

[Well... it's not the worst thing he could have said about Fionn and Diarmuid does genuinely seem grateful for his patience. He even pauses to reach out and clap a hand to his arm.]

It means a lot to me to hear you say that. My thanks.

[He's not entertaining any fantasies quite as absurd as imagining they could potentially be friends but knowing that he might at least call him an ally one day is enough. After everything that's happened so far, the last thing anyone needs- particularly Berserker, looking at that still nibbled-looking ear- is more in-fighting.]

I understand. I didn't mention us at all but... [A pause.] If there's a problem, we'll deal with it.

[Their relationship is a strange contradiction: strong and beating with dizzying intensity but made fragile by uncertainty. Fragile enough that he was wary of even calling Berserker out tonight. Regardless, it's an obstacle they'll have to navigate in some way or another- it's hardly the first time he's had to fight for a lover.

Finally, as the buildings open up onto a wide panoramic of the coast, Diarmuid's pace begins to slow. A little way ahead of them sits the harbour's lighthouse, its beacon piercing through the settling veil of darkness across the waters.]

Here we are. [First, he produces the key. Next, a bottle of fine whiskey.] I made a few arrangements with the keeper- we've got the place to ourselves until midnight and there should be clear skies all night. I know it's not much of a surprise but I... I suppose I wanted to spend some time together. Just us.

[ He almost says "don't thank me", but stops himself. Ghosts from their past can be a problem to talk about later...Even if they're currently a part of their present. It's fine. There are other, less stressful things at hand right now.

Berserker hadn't been out this far and the view actually gives him pause. The sharp smell of seawater, the chill on the breeze...Faint reminders of home. ]

... It's a nice surprise. [ Time alone together was precious when they both lived with others. It was isolated out here and they could truly be alone. ] It'll be nice to be alone with you for a little while.

[ And, you know, the idea of drinking right now is welcome. Things have not been easy lately -- this would be a welcome reprieve. He takes Diarmuid's hand in his own, deciding to take the lead on something for once in his life. ]

[This month has been trying for everyone, it seems. As Diarmuid struggles with the altogether cruel combination of magic use being looked down upon on festival days and the sudden desire to do just that, the build-up in his body becomes downright unbearable far quicker than he could have ever anticipated. Lúnasa is over now, the need to obey social graces abated, but the sensation remains and it hits him like a freight train the second he steps into the apartment this particular evening.

It hasn't escaped his attention that, with the Full Moons, Waver's own instincts seem to be in the midst of a rebellion of their own. Time to do kill two birds with one stone.

Saying that, he has no idea how to go about it; as the Lancer heads to Waver's room, tugging off his tie and leaving it hanging on the handle of his own door, he seems almost tentative. By that same note, regardless of whether the door is open or not, he'll still stop to knock.]

Waver? I'm sorry to interrupt but...

["Can I hold your hand for a while?"; "Would it be a problem if I just lay down next to you for a while?"

Hm.]

I've overestimated my resistance to magical build-up and left things a little late. Are you free to- can we...? [Gods, it sounds like he's soliciting. He shakes his head and tries again.] We should reaffirm our Bond.

Edited 2019-08-10 08:41 (UTC)

[ Waver hasn't been participating in many of the festivities. All of it is foreign to him, seems awkward and too intimate a festival in many ways. Already, he spends much of his time either at work or in his room, and nothing about what's been happening lately has changed that.

He'll look up from his book at the knock, calling out for Diarmuid to come on in when Waver recognizes his voice. For now, Waver remains stretched out on his stomach atop his bed, knees bent and feet up, gaze curiously lifting toward the doorway. ]

Diarmuid...? Are you all right?

[ With the closer proximity, Waver can feel the pent-up energy in Diarmuid's magic like the unpleasant buildup of static electricity, a distant hum of a current waiting to lash out.

Shit.

The book snaps shut. Waver twists around, moving to sit up. ]

Close the door.

[ He scoots over, lips pursed. Pats the bed beside him without quite meeting Diarmuid's eyes. ]

Sit.

[There's relief in Diarmuid's smile now, buoyed by that familiar pleasant shiver as their bond allows the slightest taste of magic to slip through the contact. He holds onto him firmly, lacing his fingers through the dragon's without fear of his claws as he leads him up to the lighthouse, refusing to let go even as opens the door. The bottle goes back in his bag for the time being.]

Mmmm. I meant what I said before- I enjoy being with you. [He laughs, a little teasing now.] Goodness knows why, you brute, but I do.

[Is it possible to make "brute" sound fond? Because he somehow manages it.

The base of the lighthouse is largely taken up by the beginnings of a spiral staircase and a small engine room, presumably where the energy for the magitech-run light is generated or maintained judging by the mechanical hum reverberating around the room. As he heads up the stairs, the narrow space forces him to relinquish Berserker's hand.]

[ Though he's teasing, Berserker still wonders why Diarmuid enjoys his company at all. It's something he thinks about often -- while he doesn't understand it and likely never will, he still appreciates it. It's not a time to dwell on somewhat depressing thoughts, though, it's time to enjoy the company of his Bonded. ]

I can tell. If you didn't, you wouldn't let me keep coming over unannounced nor would you let me sleep in your bed.

[ As they ascend the staircase, he glances back over his shoulder at the Lancer. He's forced to keep his wings tucked in as close to his body as he can, lest he scrape the wall. All these new parts have proven to be nothing but a nuisance.

Once at the top, he steps aside to wait for Diarmuid. ]

You go through a lot of trouble for me, you know that?

[Those new appendages might hinder Berserker's ascension but taking the rear gives Diarmuid a good excuse to stare at them. The tail is impressive but he finds himself transfixed by those wings. The way the leather shifts from pitch to a crimson sheen, the delicacy of the membranes contrasted against the power of the muscles that must move them... he might not have attempted flight yet but there's no doubt in his mind that they could carry him far.]

Do I? [He's not being glib; there's a genuine note of surprise in his voice.] I think I go through exactly the right amount of trouble for someone I've sworn myself to.

[Truthfully, that perspective isn't one that he's given a great deal of thought to. Diarmuid can't argue with his point but his own efforts seem equal to Berserker's; in the allowances the Alter makes for him; the undeniable strain of opening up and trusting him; the wave of unwanted emotions that came with their bond. It's a mutual sacrifice. Besides, even if he has given more, it doesn't strike him as particularly strange. He does it for Cú and because he wants to.

In the end, he can only come to one conclusion.]

I like doing it. [He hesitates.] Does it make you suspicious?

[In the pivoting light of the beacon where it breaks through the cracks in the floorboards overhead, his eyes are bright with concern rather than accusation.

Is this how he's been made to think? Or how he's been forced to in order to survive?]

Edited 2019-08-11 19:26 (UTC)

[ That's the question, wasn't it? Is that why he's so unsure of the way Diarmuid treats him -- suspicion? He has no reason to question his motives, but he, too, can come to no other conclusion than that. It actually bothers him for once -- to think he's suspicious of the motives of the man bonded to him.

Berserker remains silent for a moment as he thinks of how to delicately answer this. ]

... I guess so. [ He frowns. ] I never know what to think when someone is kind to me or goes out of their way for me. I wonder if they're afraid of me and act the way they do to stay on my good side. [ His very small good side. Mercy isn't his strong suit. ] Or they want my power for their own gain...I worry you're doing it out of fear. Or some other ulterior motive.

[ He grabs for Diarmuid's hand, expression unreadable. It's not quite concern, but he's obviously troubled by his own feelings as well as the idea he worried his Bonded. ]

I'll stop questioning it, though. [ He closes the distance between them, his other hand coming to gently cup the Lancer's cheek. ] Your word is enough for me...You've never lied to me before.

[ A kiss, surprisingly gentle and tender, is placed upon the other man's lips. An apology, perhaps, for questioning him. ]

[Maybe it's simply that Diarmuid's thoughts are too much of a disorganised mess for him to focus but it's actually difficult to read Waver's expression as he heads into the bedroom. He feels a fool for leaving it so late, of course, but that's his mistake to bear and he's already resolved to take whatever dressing down the young mage might subject him to on the chin.

So, he does as he's told and obediently sits on the bed beside him, at first with an almost comedic tentativeness but gradually relaxing as the proximity alone begins to calm his mind. All they need is contact, correct? Then this shouldn't be too awkward- it's not as though they haven't done as much before.]

... my apologies for not acting sooner. [He glances over, expression sober.] And for neglecting my own responsibilities to you.

[ On the one hand, it's a bit awkward, and Waver's always been a little shy about physical closeness even though he clearly finds comfort in it. But on the other hand-- it's instinct, and they both need it. It's just the two of them, and Diarmuid already looks so vulnerable and castigated all on his own.

The tension of the magic surrounding him makes Waver's room feel less cozy and more crowded all at once, like the air itself is settling with new solidity around them. He takes a deep breath.

Slowly, Waver reaches for Diarmuid's hand on the bed between them, placing his fingers over it with the same sort of almost ridiculous tentativeness. They're both terrible at this. ]

Then you understand. Apology accepted.

[ Right now, there's no point in scolding him more. It's clear that Diarmuid's berated himself over it enough, and the last thing either of them needs is an overwhelming surge of negative emotion when Diarmuid feels so close to snapping, and the Moons are waxing fuller by the day. It isn't a problem for Waver yet, but-- well, he can't say he hates the feeling of being close to his Bonded right now either, even when he's in full charge of his faculties ~~for now~~.

Waver looks up seriously, gently squeezing Diarmuid's hand. ]

How can I help?

["Whatever you're doing right now but more."

Not much of an answer when Waver is simply sitting next to him and holding his hand but it's exactly what he needs. As their hands meet, he can already feel the steady pulse of their Bond, stronger for the contact and soothing. In spite of himself, he edges closer and moves forward so that he can rest his forehead against his. Diarmuid closes his eyes, taking a moment to enjoy the shiver of magic and the soft, cool feeling of Waver's hair against his skin.

A long, relieved sigh- and then he opens his eyes once more and glances down.]

... tell me if this is too much.

[By this point, it's fairly obvious that his hesitation is more out of an awareness of Waver's boundaries than his own. The sudden urge to put his arm around him goes ignored for now but he rests his free hand on the bed behind them so that he can lean closer. It's almost an embrace. Almost.]

[ Waver doesn't move back. The hesitation in his movements echoes Diarmuid's, like he isn't sure if this is what either of them really want. His partner's tentativeness leaves Waver feeling equally uncertain, worrying he's not doing the right thing. ]

I'm the one who asked what you need, [ he reminds softly, just above a whisper; it's loud enough between them with Diarmuid's face so close. ]

You didn't answer my question.

[ His skin is warm, almost as warm as Waver's -- whose basal temperature has risen by a couple degrees since his changes began. With Diarmuid's face so close, it's difficult to focus his eyes on him or know where to look. Waver lets his gaze drop to his chest, eyes not-quite shut.

His own heartbeat is already going embarrassingly fast, but when Diarmuid shifts in what seems to be an invitation to lean closer, Waver follows tentatively. ]

So, er... How did it get this bad?

[ Is talking making it less awkward? More awkward? Damn. ]

[As Diarmuid listens, any attempts at keeping the ache in his chest from showing across his face fail. Such a twisted, exhausting life this man has led. That of someone who shouldn't exist, a shadow to some and a tool to others, a wish born from the Grail's blackened depths. With so many faces, most of them imposed, how can trust ever be anything but a fragile and fleeting alliance based on power?

The witch had sworn himself away from anything or anyone tainted by that catalyst of destruction but that's not what he sees when he looks at Berserker. There's hope.]

... I...

[Whatever he had planned to say is lost as the gap between them closes. It's unbecoming of a Knight to tremble and yet, as Berserker reaffirms his faith in him both in words and in that kiss, he feels his entire body weaken. Those small acts of gentleness, of self-restraint and openness that would have seemed impossible before hold a weight all of their own; it's a privilege to receive them.]

You said it yourself. I lie beside you without fear- and those nights have been some of the most peaceful I've had. [It's unabashed romanticism, straight out of a chivalric romance, but, as Diarmuid speaks, he looks completely sincere.] My heart is resolved. Go raibh maith agat.

[The light completes another rotation. With another, shorter kiss, Diarmuid takes the last two steps in one stride and edges around Berserker to get to the door to the lookout.]

[ If it were anyone else, he might find those words trite and even irritating. It's different when it's Diarmuid, though; the sincerity written across his face is enough for him. He manages a brief, fond smile, then simply shrugs. ]

You don't need to thank me.

[ There's more he wants to say than that, but such things are better left unsaid right now. What he wants to say has been shown in the way he treats the witch and the vulnerability he allows him to see. There's no need for words of gratitude when their meaning is already known.

He follows after Diarmuid and through the door. The crisp, cool air strikes him first as he places his hands on the railing. It's a clear night, the view unobstructed by clouds. Berserker's not one for sentiment, but even someone like him can appreciate this. He lingers in silence, just watching the horizon for a few moments. It's the closest he's felt to being at peace in a long time. ]

I'm sorry, that was a little much, wasn't it? [A little embarrassed, he laughs.] I appreciate you indulging me- I've never truly gotten to court someone like this before.

[After all, his past relationships were usually brief and there was no time for such things when-

Ah, it doesn't matter. As the cool night air ruffles his hair, all thoughts outside of the darkening skyline and the company seem to drift away on the breeze. Diarmuid spends a few moments just drinking it in. Far below, the sea rolls against the rocks and cliffsides in a gentle, rhythmic hushing that reminds him more of home with every passing moment.

Diarmuid casts him a wistful look, head to the side.]

... you travelled so much further than I ever did. What was it like? Sailing so far north, that is.

[ Courting someone...That's really what Diarmuid is doing, isn't it? No one has ever tried to seriously court him before and for good reason: someone so broken and violent is not someone you generally want to keep around for long. ]

You're enjoying yourself and you're doing it for my sake...If I didn't indulge you, that would be a little cruel, don't you think?

[ As if cruelty isn't what Berserker excels at. It's only for those who deserve it, though. His cruelty is never without purpose and it's rarely directed at those who don't deserve it. Diarmuid definitely didn't deserve it right now, certainly not on this night.

He doesn't turn his head, but turns his gaze to the witch for a moment. Though he is an impossibility that could never exist, the memories of the true Cú Chulainn are within him and they are a part of him. Memories of events so long ago are fresh in his mind. In a time before he lost himself and the joy of just being alive, that's where those memories lay. A sharp, nearly painful pang of sorrow strikes him. He can only stand in silence for the moment. ]

It was like nothing else...I cared, then. It was somewhere I'd never traveled before and I was so eager to see what awaited me. Eager for what fights I could get into and how far I could spread my legend. To be so far away from home...

[ He looks back out to the water before them. ]

...This feels like home, doesn't it?

[ Now who was getting sentimental? ]

Edited 2019-08-13 22:39 (UTC)

[Such piercing vulnerability. Diarmuid feels it seize his chest and work its way through their Bond, leaving him temporarily breathless. Even without its magical influence, though, Berserker's words carve a deep impression upon him. It almost feels like the last funereal speech, spoken in frank but painful memory of a man long since dead.

No- he won't let it be so. He can't.]

I don't think that wonder has abandoned you completely, Cú.

[This feels like home, doesn't it?

Home.

He misses it. He misses the endless sea of green grass and the ancient ground on which it grew. Rainstorms in autumn and knee-deep snow in winter. The seas, grey and frothing with brisk coastal winds, and the cries of fallow deer in the woods. Some nights, he wakes up and expects to find himself lying beneath a tree, gazing at the wonderfully fickle sky of his homeland.

Without looking away from the view, Diarmuid reaches out and puts a hand over Berserker's where it rests on the railing.]

... it does. [His voice is soft. Intimate, almost.] It's grand, isn't it?

Edited 2019-08-13 22:51 (UTC)

[ Diarmuid's words surprise him. What does he see in him...? Why can't he see what he sees? All he can see is the corruption of the Grail and the influence of Medb's selfish wish. What good does the Lancer see and how can he see it? Berserker doesn't understand. His brow furrows in confusion for just a moment, but the feeling passes. While he can't see what he sees, the important part is that he sees something in him...That's what should matter, isn't it? ]

If you say so...I don't know what you see that I don't, but I'll believe you.

[ He draws his attention to less melancholy things. There is a certain sadness about being so far from home and yet finding what looks like a piece of home, though it doesn't bother Berserker too much. Nowhere is ever truly home to a thing that shouldn't exist, but this is the closest a place has ever felt to his homeland. A certain nostalgia strikes him -- for better times when he wasn't a broken shell of a man. ]

We'll never be able to return to that time and place, but this is good enough. [ A pause as he tries to think of a way to say this that isn't horribly sentimental. ] This place feels more like home than Chaldea, than...anywhere else. Your presence helps.

[ An attempt to make it less sentimental was made and ultimately failed. Oh well. ]

Edited (now I'm just changing icons SORRY) 2019-08-13 23:16 (UTC)

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 3

[closed] august catch-all!

its called FASHION mom | closed to zelda

closed to berserker

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

closed to waver

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject