#this turned halfway into poetry at the end but its the only way i could put it that made like. sense to me. its about Feeling and loving and

[haunted-xander]

Shadowbringers is about learning how to live.

Your enemy is stasis- everything and everyone is stagnant, they wait and wait for something to happen, but don't do anything to make it so (because the ones who tried before failed, because they don't know what to do/how to do it). People don't change, they don't try, not really. The crystarium is doing well, it's independent and sustainable, but it doesn't have the reach or power to do much outside of Lakeland. The Exarch is more-or-less confined to the city (because of the tower, because he's waiting for you), so even if he had power elsewhere, he'd be limited with how much he, personally, can do.

Eulemore is filled with mindless indulgence, there's no hardships or labour or anything but luxury for the free citizens, and the bonded only have to worry about fulfilling the task(s) they were brought for. The outside world doesn't matter, hard work doesn't matter, personal fulfillment beyond indulgence doesn't matter, everything exist solely in the moment. The people out in Kholusia have pretty much given up, they stay close to the city in the hopes that this time they will be picked, this time they will be saved. They wait and wait and do nothing but wait. The ones who try to live on are dying out or eventually give up and join the rest in waiting.

Ahm Areang, Rak'tika, even Il Mheg are all just waiting for something, anything to happen. They go day to day, surviving simply because it's all they can. Nothing changes.

Until, of course, you should up. You, who causes a ripple of change simply by existing, who can move the immovable by sheer will. You showed them that things can change, that things can, and will happen, if they just try. You show them that they can make things better, that there is an option besides waiting for a slow death, if they'd just grab fate by the neck and tell it "No. We are doing this my way".

And they do. They rally up together and do what they thought impossible. Not all their efforts succeed(not immediately), but they tried. They tried, they failed, and they got up and tried again and again until it did work. They take the chances, not knowing how it'll turn out (because it's not about whether it fails or succeeds, it's about having tried).

They learn how to try, little by little, and every step they learn what it means to really live.

Endwalker is about learning how to love life.

Your enemy is nihilism- the idea that nothing matters, that there is no real joy to be found that isn't snuffed out by misery. A concept that denounces greys in favor of a black-and-white view where black is all encompassing. Everywhere you go, people are doing what they can to survive, but refuses (or maybe are afraid to, or maybe never knew they could) try to actually save themselves. The Forum plans for escape, to leave their homeworld behind and take whatever they can afford. They will live on, but they won't be saved, no one is saved(and even with escape they aren't safe, Despair is everywhere and She will not stop until all has become Nothing).

The Loporrits love Etheirys, but in the way Winter loves Spring. They know about it, they are so close to it, but they are distant. They're strangers, they've never met. It's love, and it's pure and true, but it's also just love. It's surface-level(because the surface is all they had). Their love is pure but it's instinctual. Programmed. They love because they don't know how to not love. They want to save it's people, save us, but they don't know what it really means to save, so they create refuge instead(because that's what She told them to, because this is how love works for them).

The people of Garlemald are terrified, they are victims of extreme indoctrination, the (deserved) push-back their army got proved them "right"(that we are savage beasts to fear, that they are but prey in the maws of rabid dogs). They want to be build-up again, but what's left for them now? The world hates them(and it's all their fault, the ones who see past the propaganda know this, but who will listen to them?) and they are dying. It's so cold and the fuel is running out. They won't accept help, because they've been filled with the idea that there is no such thing as pure kindness from "savages"(and they are too prideful to question it, to break apart from the illusion that they are surperior, because they're terrified to face the truth).

The sky screams, the earth wheeps and the foundation of existence is overtaken by Despair, misery is around every corner and who knows what will happen now? Where do we go? What do we do? We live and live but for what?

What's the point of it all?

That's the question, and the answer is everything. We live because there is joy to be found. Because there is beauty in the world. Because there are stars in the sky. Because flowers bloom in spring. Because cats purr. Because waves crash against the shore. Because of every single little thing we can see, hear or feel. Because we love and are loved. Because there are things to do and discover. Because why not?

And you tell them this, by letting them see that there is more to life than the little they have seen. The Forum has closed it's eyes to anything but it's own kith and kin, everything outside of Old Sharlayan is irrelevant(non-intervention, always non-intervention) and it takes the entire world coming and telling them "We are here. We are alive, and we will make tomorrow happen." for them to realize they have slowly been killing themselves and what they stand for(you pride yourself on knowledge, but where is your wisdom? What do you truly know of things outside your own bubble? You do not know that which is lived because you refuse to aknowledge anything but the written word).

The Loporrits see Etheirys itself, they experience it's corners and valleys and learn what love can really be. They want to save it, truly save it, because they love and this time it's informed, it's personal(I love you, I love you, and I want you to know I love your loves too).

In Garlemald everything is slow, unsteady and complicated, but it's changing. They're changing. With every person who accepts help the illusion of supremacy and "purity" melts away just a bit, and the wall standing between them and us breaks a little(it will never vanish completely, years upon years of oppression and subjugation and conquest don't disappear like that, but it's a start).

Shadobringers is about learning how to live, but Endwalker is about learning how to love life.

#FINALLY I FOUND A WAY TO PUT IT TO WORDS #its like. shb is about trying and trying again and again regardless of how it turns out- #because life is a game of dice were any and all sides are possible #but you have to throw it. because if you dont you wont get anything- be it good or bad #and thats not living #and ew is like. doing things not because you have to but because you *want* to #you throw the dice because you want *that* side(s). because you want something (to happen/to exist/to love) #living is trying and loving is wanting. you cant love without life and you cant live without love. not really #i think moreso than any other expacs that shb & ew enhance each other when viewed together (in a broad sense- in a collective) #this turned halfway into poetry at the end but its the only way i could put it that made like. sense to me. its about Feeling and loving and #living and everything all at once #tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow #final fantasy #final fantasy 14 #final fantasy xiv #ff14 #ffxiv #shadowbringers #endwalker #xander rambles #going insane. my brain is melting and being build up again and again and again

[mycharusahal2211-blog]

Every Last Word: Book Review

Samantha McAllister, a junior at her high school, is considered to be just like her popular friends- glamorous and 'normal'. But she isn't. Samantha (or Sam, as she likes to be called) does not consider herself normal because of the secret she hides. For as long as she has known them, Sam has kept her purely obsessional Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD)- which consumer all her thoughts, all the time- from her friends because they would surely not understand her situation. 

So, when Caroline, her new closest friend, introduces her to a secret poetry group at their school called "Poet's Corner"- where she can freely express herself and learns how to stand up for herself, she's all in!

Little does she know that Caroline meant it when she said that it would turn her world upside down..

Every Last Word by Tamara Ireland Stone has definitely been a riveting read for me! It had moments that seemed distinctly young adult-like, but it also had other times when the writing was so meaningful, insightful, and perceptive that it seemed to go beyond the typical teenage and high school clichés (that give YA its bad rep) it includes in its plot. 

I've read almost 80 novels about teens or high school, according to my reading journal for this year- considering that's only one of the genres I've read, that's a significant number! This is why I can state with certainty that it's a rare day indeed that I come across a young adult novel in this genre with an overly emotional storyline and even more overly sentimental dialogues. Seriously there were a few quotes from the characters in the book that I found to be really appealing as a reader: “You look around at the people in your life, one by one, choosing to hold on to the ones who make you stronger and better, and letting go of the ones who don't.” and “I didn’t go there looking for you. I went looking for me. But now, here you are, and somehow, in finding you, I think I’ve found myself.”

The book focuses on the protagonist Samantha's life and the challenges she faces with her OCD, all while connecting it to everyday problems faced as a teenager involving friendships and relationships- considering this is the age group Tamara aims to appeal to. This book offered excellent explanations of the issues covered and offered me a genuine understanding of what it's like to have such little control over your thoughts as someone who knows nothing about this condition. Although, I do think that more instances of her sickness should have been mentioned; halfway through the book, her disorder was barely portrayed and got buried under the teenage issues presented. Her condition was rarely mentioned halfway through the novel and was overshadowed by the teenage troubles that were discussed. This could have been better, because there were moments when I almost forgot that Sam had OCD!  (So, if OCD-related storyline was your preferred theme, I'd recommend reading Teresa Toten's The Unlikely Hero of Room 13B). Personally, I can't help but dwell on a flaw I notice while reading something, no matter how tiny. For example, it bothered me that Sam had kept her OCD a secret from her closest friends for more than ten years, despite the fact that she spends all of her time with them; in some cases, OCD-related behavioural symptoms are difficult to conceal, such as Sam's obsession with the number three, which causes her to scratch the back of her neck three times among other behaviours. Again, I have to mention that I am no expert in this field and so, I'm not aware if this is true for all cases! 

Additionally, I commend the author for the novel's ingenious use of a flashback that Sam didn't particularly want to be reminded of. It presents Samantha and the roles that individuals play in her life with regard to OCD in a way that proves a point- the book will have you interested until the very end.

A major plot- twist occurs after around 4/5th of the book, which I truly loved as someone who adores nothing more than a protagonist experiencing a life-changing 'AHA' moment! I can't talk about this directly since I don't want to give the plot away, but I had a tiny quibble with the narrative surprise because it didn't particularly have to do with Sam's purely- obsessional OCD. But I should also point out that the book's later sections, which revealed how Sam was dealing were quite emotional (yes, I cried!) and helped readers develop a connection with it. 

I understand that some people who may be struggling with this mental illness would find the portrayal in this book to be unrealistic, and I can see how different readers might be split on their perspectives of some of the topics given. I will say, I feel that it was handled better in this book than in others I have read in the past- I think Tamara Ireland Stone did a wonderful job of expressing this important subject to the readers in a lovely way.

Without a doubt, I'd recommend this book to any teen who is interested in the topics it explores, as well as to any interested adult. There’s something really special and unique to this story that defies the boundaries of age gaps and will have me remembering it for months to come!

#book review

[pineforphantompain]

2023 Drama Year in Review

For me, this was a pretty good year (drama watching wise). I don't watch a lot these days, but I'm really working on finishing things and not feeling like I have to watch everything, or the most popular shows. I'm sure I missed some good ones this year (and I'll always accept recs), but at least I no longer start too many only to leave them all on-hold.

Movies first:

The Houseguest of My Mother (2007) Rating: 6.5/10

(J) Pale Moon (2014) Rating: 7.0/10

Hero (2022) Rating: 8.0/10

Office (2015) Rating: 6.5/10

Dream (2023) I just watched this for the cast, but it turned out to be rather entertaining too. Not something I’d likely revisit, though. Rating: 7.5/10

The Legendary Courtesan Hwang Jin Yi (2007) Kind of disappointed by this one. I do think that I would prefer a drama version of this story though so I still intend to watch that eventually. Rating: 7.0/10

A Girl at My Door (2014) Rating: 6.5/10

Poetry (2010) Best of the year. Rating: 8.5/10

Don’t Cry, Mommy (2012) This one just fell flat for me. As a film it is quite weak, but it is obvious that entertainment and artistic value were not the priority, it was mostly just about pointing to an issue and it did exactly that. Rating: 5.5/10

Now onto dramas, beginning with the two carry-overs from last year

Money Heist Part 2 (2022) 2/6 eps previously watched Rating: 7.5/10

Green Mothers’ Club (2022) 5/16 eps previously watched Rating: 7.5/10

The Good Bad Mother (2023) 14/14 eps watched Rating: 8.5/10

Race (2023) 12/12 watched Yes, it was boring, but I liked it. The ending was kind of a mess though. Rating: 8.5/10

Lies Hidden in My Garden (2023) 8/8 watched Ending was underwhelming, but I like Kim Tae Hee and this is exactly the kind of drama I will always be interested in watching. Rating: 8.0/10

Bitch x Rich (2023) Style over substance. Watchable, but unremarkable. Rating: 7.5/10

Lady Durian (2023) 16/16 watched I only got about halfway through when it was airing, but I returned and managed to finish (on New Year’s Eve). I found it mostly fun to watch. Not a fan of the ending at all and I doubt it’s one that will stick with me forever, but it was a reasonably enjoyable viewing experience and I’m glad I pushed through to complete this one last drama for the year. Rating: 7.5/10

And now for older dramas I watched this year

Kaibutsu (2013) (Drama Special) 1/1 watched For something that is so obviously supposed to be thought provoking I have absolutely no thoughts about it. I don’t have any significant enough complaints to give a low rating, but I do not care. Rating: 7.0/10

Hana Kimi Remake (2011) 4/11 previously watched Hana Kimi is always good. No surprise it's my favourite watch of the year. Some aspects were even better than the 2007 version. Unfortunately Sano is so bland here and the romance so uncompelling it drags down an otherwise great viewing experience. (Oguri Shun is the only Sano I actually enjoy watching - this one is a just a beige wall wet blanket of a man giving blank stares and then sometimes randomly yelling). I will almost certainly watch again, but probably skip through some scenes. Overall I’d say this is on par with the Taiwanese version. Rating: 8.5/10

Little Mom Scandal 2 (2008) 8/8 watched I started this many years ago (so long ago that I hadn’t tracked progress in mdl yet) and thought I had watched about half of the second part. Finally returned to make sure I’d finished it this year. I could have done without the icky romanticized age-gap romance and it did lose its way a little toward the end. Overall, I did like a lot about it and it is pretty Age of Youth-esque in some ways. Rating: 8.0/10

And lastly, the one drama I started and haven’t finished yet

Flower Boy Ramen Shop (2011) 8/16 watched Sometimes you just need a little early 2010s tvn romcom. I do intend to pick it back up when I’m in that mood again. There is too much toilet talk for my taste and the romance is… yikes (as expected), but it is very entertaining.

2023 goals review: ✅

5/5 dramas watched at least

1+ from this year

1/1 jdrama

1/1 drama completed from the backlog

3+/3 movies

The lesson here is that I should stick to easy non-specific goals and so my 2024 plans are:

Watch 3 movies

Watch 5 dramas again including at least:

1 new drama

1 pre-2010 drama

2 from on-hold

#me actually posting a wrap up in early january? shocking #drama year in review #2023 drama watching #asian dramas #kdrama #my thoughts

[lovelybarnes]

restless- b. barnes

pairings: bucky barnes x reader, mentions of natasha romanoff, sam wilson, and steve rogers warnings: mentions of nightmares and clingy bucky but it’s mostly fluff about: bucky can’t sleep without y/n a/n: i was going to post this yesterday but i fell asleep :| my computer was literally open and nearly dead when i woke up lmao

today marks one week that you’ve been gone, and with it, the official shortest amount of sleep that bucky has gotten in a week. he supposes it’s sightly pathetic that he can’t sleep well- or, really, at all- without you, but you continuously tell him you chase his nightmares away for him, and without you there to make them disappear, where else will they go but deep into the crevices of his mind, where they’ll hide long enough for him to let his guard down and lull himself to sleep, only to wake up with the ugly memories of things he hoped he’d forgotten. he’s constantly told that his attachment to you is overbearing- not by you, though. never by you- because it must be, with how much he clings to your side, always touching some part of you so that he’s sure that, yes, you’re there. not a dream or an illusion, although you’re good enough to be one.

he misses every part of you; your fingers and the way they run through his hair, trace his features with such tenderness he nearly believes he is what you see, your voice and its ability to transform the most mundane words into the greatest poetry, sing soft songs into his skin until he’s fallen asleep, your eyes and how they examine him in the best way possible, glowing when they meet his.

he longs for you, but he can only imagine your smile, the bitter reminder that you’re probably showing it to some psychopath for the mission you’re on. he hates steve every time the memory is evoked, the panic that comes with your being used as bait for some of the most screwed up villains in the world only returning stronger. he’s tempted to go get you himself, uncaring if he screws up the mission because at least he’ll have you.

stark will call him pathetic, then go to bed with the love of his life, so bucky prefers keeping his thoughts about you to himself, much like he’d like to keep you. you’ve told him you can handle yourself, and bucky never doubts it, having been victim to the using of your skills when he first encountered you as the winter soldier. you kicked his ass then, and you kick any and all ass now.

it doesn’t help his sleeping schedule, though your calls do. he swears you’re an angel because there’s no way a normal human could glow like that through a screen, but you always laugh off his words and simply tell him to turn his brightness down. however, you haven’t taught him that yet, so he greets you with the same sentence every time. his smile is always brighter after your calls, the dark bruises under his eyes reduced as if he got a full night’s rest. it’s your effect on him, and as much as everyone teases you both for it, they appreciate it.

you’re due to come back in a week or two, but bucky is unsure he can wait that long, and judging from your chirpier-than-usual voice in your latest interaction, you’ve finished early, like you always do. he likes to imagine it’s because of him, behind the deprecating voice that screams at him why would it be? (the answer is that you love him and hate every second you’re away from him)

sam scoffs when he overhears him telling that to steve, sitting down next to bucky, “man, there is no way you can tell that from a phone call. even if you could, i know she’s good, but to shave two weeks off mission time? natasha hasn’t even been able to do that.” a proud smile grows on bucky’s face without his permission as he shrugs, “she’s that good,” he brags, choosing to ignore the fake gag sam sends his way.

you frown when he tells you what he thinks on your call a few hours later, lips puckering into a small pout, “how did you know? i wanted it to be a surprise!” you ask through a crackled voice. so much for state of the art technology, bucky thinks, but is glad nonetheless to hear your voice. “i know you too well, doll. you’re really coming back today?”

you nod excitedly, biting your bottom lip. “mhm! i missed you and my bed too much to stay here a moment longer. villains are such pervs,” you complain, nose scrunching. bucky’s jaw sets when he hears your words, immediately thinking the worst. “but, i’m coming back today, so it’s fine. what do you want to do when i get back?”

bucky shrugs, “be with you,” he answers simply, making you laugh. “other than that, dummy. we could watch a movie, have a little date night to make up for the one i missed while i was gone.” bucky grins at this, remembering his plans for that night. “okay,” he agrees, “we’ll watch one of those movies on my list. although sam put some weird ones.”

you concur through chuckles that pass through the phone, reminding him how much you love him. he swears an oath to never let you go again and bites back a yawn that you see right through. “you’re sleeping the moment i get back,” you instruct, and bucky nods with your words, even when the sole idea of your being within arm’s reach is obviously too enticing to pass up for sleep. “whatever you want, doll. as long as you’re here.” he replies, thinking about spending the night pressing kisses to your hair and checking for any injuries you may have withheld from him.

the sentence is dishonest and you both know it, but you leave it at that, missing him too much and sure he’ll rest with how exhausted he must be. you say goodbye without the actual words, only giving a blown kiss and a “see you later.”

bucky spends the rest of the hours without you thinking of you, skimming through the words written in the little blue notebook you got him to replace his old one. that one sits on his dresser, the disuse proven by the layer of dust that covers it. the names he spent hours agonizing over, tracing his fingers over the indents made by the pen, are hidden by its cover. they never fade from his mind, though. only half of the pages of the one you gave him are blank now, and the ones that aren’t are bright and white, inviting him to drop his pen on the lines and jot whatever reference he didn’t understand but wants to. he eyes the names of the movies and shows, some accompanied by quotes that refer to them. “new girl: nick miller,” he reads, remembering how one of your friends said he was the avenger version of the character. “friends: ‘joey doesn’t share food,” sam told him that one when he didn’t let him have any of his chips. he looks at clueless, recalling the way all of his teammates stare at scott whenever the movie comes up. there are a couple pages like this, some of them recommendations and others titles he kept hearing. tonight, he decides on starting a new show, but he leaves the actual show up to you to decide.

you arrive a couple hours later, when stars have littered the darkness that bled through the sky. it’s all very rom-com-filmesque, the way you light up when you see his face- even through how tired you clearly are- and how you jump into his arms, ignoring the ache in your muscles because the way his arms wrap around you seems to make it disappear. he gathers you in his arms and kisses everywhere on your face, treasuring your laugh and the feeling of your lips pressing to his shoulder when you hug him again.

even when you pull away, he doesn’t let go of your hand, flesh fingers tracing small circles into your skin. you don’t complain, even when steve shoves papers in front of you and asks you to sign them with a sheepish look. sam comes by and teases bucky lightheartedly, hounding bucky to let you have both your hands. you chuckle at his request and squeeze bucky’s fingers, kissing the back of his hand, “oh, no, he better not,” you half-joke. he smiles, red tinting his cheeks as he gently draws you closer.

you don’t feel like driving at the moment, and you need to water your plants, completely sure that wanda forgot to do it, so you end up going to your room, even though you spend most of your time at his own room or your apartment outside the compound. you can tell how little the room has been used by the spotless counters and floors, furniture clean of any of the knickknacks you usually leave. you only sleep here when bucky leaves for long missions, his absence is overly blatant when he’s gone, and your plants keep you from feeling too alone.

you usher bucky inside, tugging open your drawers to search for something for him to wear. you grin at the soft fabric under the pads of your fingertips, recalling the memory of stealing them from bucky’s closet to soak in his scent when you couldn’t have the real thing. the considerable use has washed away all traces of him, and you decide that needs to be fixed, picking out clothing for him.

you change into one of his old shirts and make tea while he changes, smiling when you feel his arms wrapping around your waist and kissing your jaw. “what do you want to watch tonight?” he asks, and you contemplate it while you pour your drinks, shoveling spoons of sugar into each one to make it as sweet as possible- his favorite. “new girl, i think you’ll like it,” you reply after a moment.

he unravels his arms from around you, taking the mugs from the counter and following you to your room after you peck his cheek in thanks. “okay, i want to see what this nick miller is all about,” bucky says, making you laugh softly. “c’mon,” he urges, opening his arms for you after setting the cups down. you cuddle up to his side after you grab your computer, setting up netflix and choosing the show.

halfway through the first episode, bucky feels the fatigue hit him like a ton of bricks, hours of missed sleep catching up to him now that he’s finally relaxed and comfortable. keeping his eyes open is a job all on its own, and the sweet smell of your hair combined with the way your fingers move on his chest, softly writing letters and drawing shapes, is too much to resist.

you barely notice when he shuts his eyes, the evening of his breathing alerting you he’s succumbed to his tiredness. you stop the video and quietly shut your laptop, placing it on the bedside table while moving as little as possible. he feels you shift through your efforts, pulling you closer in his sleep. you chase away his nightmares like you always do, letting him sleep his first full night since you left.

he wakes up rejuvenated and embarrassed, sputtering out embarrassed apologies that you shush with kind reassurances and tender kisses. he’s reminded of how wonderful you are when you turn, arms extending to reach into your bag and carrying out a small stuffed animal that you say reminded you of him.

#bucky barnes #natasha romanoff #sam wilson #steve and bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader fluff #fluffy bucky barnes #fluffy bucky x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #you x bucky barnes #reader x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #y/n x bucky barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #marvel #avengers #avengers x reader #avenger!reader #fluff

[critrolesideblog]

Caleb Widogast pushed his hair out of his face for the ei--nineteenth time in about as many minutes. Caleb and Essek were reading for pleasure this evening, with the aid of Comprehend Languages: Caleb the collected poems of Erdan Niemi, a famous Drow bard, and Essek, Die Waldhexe und andere Zemnische Volksmärchen. They were seated at opposite ends of one of the sofas in the tower salon, their legs in the middle not quite touching. But some time into Essek's reading, the repeated scrape of sweater against paper edge and rustle of hand in hair became too much for him to ignore.

It was a long time coming really. Essek recalled that it had been Veth who had braided back Caleb's hair for him, when they were in Aeor last. Since there was no Veth to braid it this time around, Caleb had fallen into the habit of roughly tying it back in a ponytail or bun, with varying degrees of success, depending on the amount of effort he put into it, which, lately, was middling, and tonight, none at all. There were times when the mess was charming: when Caleb shuffled into the dining room in the morning, stray locks framing his face; when he ran his hand through his hair in excitement at a new discovery; when some friendly wind caused wayward strands to brush just so against his lips. At the moment, though... Essek took a large sip of his wine and set the glass gently back on the table. "Caleb?"

"Hmm?"

Despite the response, Essek knew better than to continue right away. Caleb's head tilted up toward him slowly, but his eyes lingered on the page a moment longer. When blue finally met lilac, Essek took a  deep breath breath. "May I... braid your hair for you?"

Caleb blinked once, twice, three times, before his eyebrow and lips quirked up with a humor that was a little too insightful. "Well, if it’s bothering you..."

Essek gave a huff of laughter at being caught, before pressing his hands together in front of his lips, arranging his features into a semblance of solemnity. "It is driving me insane." Caleb laughed, as Essek hoped he would.

"I apologize if I have driven you to distraction," he replied, in a voice that sounded not remotely contrite. Essek averted his eyes and took another small sip of wine to provide an alibi for the warmth in his cheeks. "Please, by all means." Caleb pulled free the tie holding his hair in place, and with a small shake of his head, the copper strands fell down around his face and shoulders.

Essek gathered his composure, clearing his throat slightly. "Excellent -- ah, Liesl?" He said quickly, turning to the tortoiseshell cat relaxing in front of the fireplace. She opened one amber eye in response.

Liesl was Essek's right-hand cat. She had been standoffish at first, it was true, but it seemed Essek's years in politics were not wasted in the ruins of Aeor. "Liesl, would you please have Jaakko fetch me some additional hair ties and a comb?" Liesl, without raising her head from her paws, turned her gaze to the cat in question, all black and slender, whose interpretation of cleaning apparently included batting a piece of crumpled paper around the legs of a desk with incredible enthusiasm. At some unseen signal, he turned his attention to Liesl, and after a series of tail twitches, trotted off into  a nearby cat door. She turned her gaze back to Essek. "Thank you, Liesl. That will be all." She chirped at him in response and returned to her nap.

Caleb's eyes were back on his book now, but Essek did not recall anything in Niemi's works amusing enough to justify the grin on Caleb's face, which Essek now had an excuse to give due consideration. He did not think the braids that Verin favored in their youth would suite him particularly well, and they were a bit elaborate for a night in, besides. Perhaps just a variation on the Gwardanian-style braid Veth employed.

Jaakko returned in no time, the items required laid out neatly on a tray held aloft by his long tail, and, with one last small sip of wine, Essek rose from the sofa and moved to stand behind Caleb. He took a deep breath as he picked up the amber comb from the tray. There was no cause, he told himself sternly, for his heart to be racing as it was, which was, of course, a lie. He raised the comb above the copper strands. "I am going to begin now?"

"Ja, danke."

Whether the thanks was for the impending braid or the warning, Essek was not sure, but he drew the edge of the comb gently back along the scalp, carefully delineating a section of hair at the top of Caleb's head. He tied the sides and back out of the way, and if his face warmed at the brush of fingertips on neck, there was no one able to see it. He gathered up the hair closest to Caleb's face and divided it in thirds, before weaving the right third over the center and then left over center. He repeated the process, carefully gathering more strands in on the sides as he went. He was about halfway through with the braid, when Caleb leaned to the left without warning, nearly pulling the locks from his grasp.

"Pysy paikallasi!" Essek hissed, decades-old habit causing the words to spill from his lips in Undercommon, but it did not matter. Comprehend Languages was still in effect. "Mitä sinä teet?"

"I want some wine," Caleb explained, extending his arm to the side to demonstrate that the glass was just out reach.

"Did Veth allow you to move around when she braided your hair?"

"She never complained."

"Then she spoiled you terribly."

"Will you hand me the wine?"

"No," he replied sternly, gathering the strands into one hand, careful not to mix them up, and then leaning over and passing the goblet to its owner.

"You are a riot, Herr Thelyss," Caleb said dryly, but Essek caught a glimpse of a grin as he straightened.

"I am glad you think so. I have been thinking of taking my comedy show on the road when we are done here."

"You should ask Veth if she has any material you can use. Will there be a Mighty Nein discount on tickets?"

"Please, if anything, I should charge you all extra for the honor of heckling me."

Caleb gave a mock gasp. "The Nein? Heckle you? We would never."

"Ha! Tell me another one!"

Caleb's shoulders shook with quiet laughter.

Essek stopped gathering new hair into the top braid, braiding the remaining length of the locks together, and tying them off. He then shifted to the left and began the process again with a section starting at Caleb's left temple. From this vantage point, he could spy the gilded edges and precise black script of the book in Caleb hands (and what hands they were! Capable, as he knew, of both great destruction and healing. And, perhaps, from this vantage, he could also glimpse the stately sweep of his cheekbones, the curve of his nose, the strength of his jaw, but who was to say.).

"How are you enjoying the poetry so far?" He asked, affixing his eyes firmly to the task in front of him. He had not known whether Caleb enjoyed poetry, when he gifted it to him. He had doubted, though, that Caleb had much opportunity to avail himself of Kryn literature during his time in Rosohna, and Caleb had seemed delighted, even touched, by the gift. He did not seem to be making quick progress through the text, however.

"Very much so," Caleb replied after taking a sip of wine. "I imagine I am sometimes missing some nuance or cultural context -- Comprehend Languages is a bit of a blunt instrument -- but I am enjoying it even more than I thought I would. You almost made it sound dry in your description, when you gave it to me."

"Ah, no, not dry. Only, all young Drow are forced to read his works as part of our schooling, and it colors our enjoyment of it somewhat."

"I see."

"Do you have a favorite passage so far?"

Caleb did not respond right away. "Yes..." He admitted, at last, and added, "It is from the Courtship of Lael."

Essek nearly lost his grip on the braid as he fumbled the strands mid-crossing. He had forgotten the Courtship was so early in the text. "Oh?" He asked, hoping it came across as polite interest.

"Would you like to hear it?" Caleb's voice had a softer, deeper hue than usual.

"If you like."

There was quiet for a moment.

Caleb did not turn to the page -- he did not need to. He merely cleared his throat lightly, and began:

"My lover's skin is a field of stars. What bliss to wander among the heavens! Let me approach as a pilgrim from the dark. Let me worship on my knees before the holy light. Let no beacon go without a prayer from my lips."

Every opalescent freckle on Essek's skin was now a flame. He swallowed hard. "That--that was, ah ... evocative."

"Ja, I thought so too." Caleb chuckled.

Essek tied off the left braid and moved around to the opposite side. They passed the time in quiet, as Essek's dexterous hands, having found their rhythm, made quick work on the braid on the right. And if he had a new awareness of the freckles that made fiery constellations along the slope of Caleb's neck, he gave no indication.

"You know it is a good thing you are braiding my hair up, with us going deeper into the Genesis Ward tomorrow." Caleb said at last, as Essek gathered the braids and the loose strands left over in the back up into a neat ponytail, tying it off with Caleb's original tie. There was more than a little mischief in his voice. "I should hate for Devexian to see me for the first time in months with my hair a mess."

"You are a riot, Caleb Widogast," Essek drawled.

"I'm glad you think so."

.

.

.

----

Notes: Pysy paikallasi! Mitä sinä teet? -  Stay still! What are you doing?

#some fluff for your Sunday evening #this was originally going to involve more reflections on Essek's childhood #but Caleb had other ideas #Caleb: I'm gonna read him my actual favorite passage from this book. Me: you don't have to. Caleb: No I'm gonna #Shadowgast #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #shoutout to neverlain for fixing my Finnish! #my writing tag

[rebrandedbard]

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

-

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

-

Send me a drabble prompt!

#my fic #drabbles #witcher #the witcher #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #lambert #you know the drill I don't beta #delighted to use this silly butler image again #my blog comes with lore #once more I ask you to enjoy your meal

[yanderenightmare]

ooh I wanna see ua bakugo frustrate with his affection over this clueless moron, kinda like shoto, like he gives her like a flower and she's just like wuut .__.

yandere ! BAKUGO KATSUKI

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

This is so cute, I can’t. Don’t know if this is what you wanted hahahaha, but I have a weak spot for like Luna Lovegood girls, like Alice in Wonderland derpy pigtailed pastel Melanie Martinez lookin’ cupcakes. And made this still in the UA au... hope that’s ok!

goodiebag WARNINGS: slight yandere, slight dubcon theme, profanity, anxiety, hallucinations, stalking

SCARY LOVE

He felt like such a stalker, like a wolf hiding in the grass, just a disgusting waste of a human being standing and ogling her from the safe distance, far enough away that she wouldn’t care to look up, but just close enough to see the color in her eyes from where she was planted in the shade under the campus willow-tree.

Why was she so fucking cute?

Her locks knotted up into two big messy buns, big splendid pastel bows tying them both into place, one blue, the other pink, matching puffy scrunchies decorating both her wrists. Cute. Small wisps of light flowing hair falling in front of her face, tickling her nose, making it scrunch like a how bunny would every now and again. Cute. White ruffled socks reaching halfway up her leg. Cute. Her knees baring pastel-colored band-aids and small scrapes and purple bruises, in the same state her elbows were. Cute. Nimble fingers handling the book that seemed so out-of-place in its size where it weighed down heavily in her lap. She looked like such a fucking fairytale. A soft-tinted cotton-candy daydream. 

Ready to have his bloody hands fuck up everything.

Bloody hell. What the fuck is he doing?

He can’t just stand there like some lovesick freak and do nothing, simply waiting for the school-bell to sound off its alarm, making her jump up like a little bunny popping up from its rabbit-hole where she’ll struggle with carrying that ridiculous book and sit down in class only to daydream about going back outside, but not before she’ll walk past him, allowing him to smell that sweet perfume that always has his heart clenching furiously in his chest and his cock growing warm and heavy in his pants.

What is wrong with him?

He can’t be thinking of her like that. This sweet precious little flower sitting so quietly with no wish to bother anyone, so soft and sweet he bet she’d cry if she so much as stepped on an ant. He wondered if she was a crier, if she’d be this adorable little crybaby ball of sobs and wet moans beneath him. He wondered what types of sound she’d make if he shoved his cock inside her. If she’d squeal and gasp and hiccup at his size, if she’d mewl, if she’d whimper, if she’d scream.

Fuck.

He needed to calm the fuck down.

To think he would never have met her if he hadn’t been forced to sign up to that stupid side-course. To think he was so mad that he didn’t make the cut for the class about war-theory and was forced to take philosophy with a bunch of air-headed freaks instead. To think he almost didn’t meet her. To think- fuck, he’s even starting to sound like one of them fucking philosophy-ditzes.

To be or not to be, or to drool over the girl sitting beneath the willow-tree.

Maybe that’s what he should submit next time they have one of those moronic poetry sessions. Perhaps then she would look at him with interest, with surprise and even praise, maybe even reverence, mirroring the look he gives her when she stands on the podium reciting her swirling words and artful descriptions, looking as though she’s entirely in her own world, dreaming, not just speaking but preaching, preaching to him about gods he’s never heard of yet somehow always believed in.

He used to believe gods drank blood and could only be celebrated through pain, that they made creatures like him, crafted him from dragon bones and fire and everything sharp and deadly, crafting him from war for war to become war itself, to find purpose in conquering, to find worth in glory. But now… looking at this creature, this creature who celebrates life and not death through laughter and daydreams and love far away from pain, he knows he’s had it all wrong.

He’s no good with words. He never has been. Except when insulting people, then he turns into a fucking lyric. What she can do is a gift. Either that, or she’s simply just insane. Either way, he doesn’t really care. She’s still soft, a tender type of madness, sweet and small and would look so good with a couple of love-bites to crash that display of milk and cream and cotton, so fucking brilliant with his handprint marking her ass… and he’s doing it again.

Fuck.

None of that will happen if he doesn’t grow a pair and go talk to her. But he can’t just talk to her. He has nothing to say. Or he has plenty to say, but nothing she could hear. He needed to find the most straightforward approach, however… while it needed to be unmistakable or lest she misunderstand, it couldn’t be aggressive. That would frighten her and he couldn’t risk spooking her away. He couldn’t risk ruining everything. It was apparent she didn’t think too much of him except that he was an angry looking boy in her Friday-classes, he needed to prove he too could be… sweet… or at least something akin to it.

He was wrong in thinking that anything would make her look up from her book. Even as he stood a mere meter away from her, she didn’t look up, completely lost and submerged in her own world as she always was. Only when he cleared his throat did she finally lift her gaze, eyes fluttering from traveling the pages and blinked softly to look up at him.

Cute.

He forgot to say anything, with a hand reached out, fisting the air, knuckles whitening in his grip, where inside the seemingly furious hand was something to contrast his otherwise deadly red stare.

The look of puzzlement on her face was insurmountable. Her small hands giving no indication to receive whatever he was offering.

“Is this a threat?” Came her soft voice, shaking him out of the faze he’d slipped into, though quickly plunging him into another one, this time not so much anticipation but confusion.

“What? No!” The both of them simply looked at each other for a moment. Bakugo’s hand still protruding out towards her, the thing in his hand no more tempting to accept than before to the girl who was still planted, making no action to get up from her spot.

“I don’t understand…” She admitted, wondering if he perhaps wanted her seat in the shade, but wasn’t given the time to ask the question as he decided to clear things up.

“It’s a flower.”

She could see that. It was a flower ripped from its root, an otherwise healthy flower before being suffocated in Bakugo’s death-grip.

“It’s a dead flower…” She corrected, a hint of sorrow on her features and he knew he was already failing in his pursuit, wanting to make things right before they could derail even more.

“It’s pretty... like you.” That came out as even more an ominous threat he realized, indicating she’d end up like the proven pretty dead flower in his chokehold.

“Are you sure this isn’t a threat?” The fact that she felt the need to ask him not only once but twice told him all he needed to know of her thoughts regarding him. She obviously thought he was a deranged explosive beast from the Hero-course.

“Goddamn it, no, I…” He frustrated, finding it hard to arrange the words, finding it hard to even find the words. “You… You’re so… You-” She was oblivious to how much he was struggling it seemed, as her personality suddenly shifted and she jumped up, book thrown to her side rather recklessly, skirt with ruffles and all bouncy with the same vigor as her tits.

“Oh!” She exclaimed, clapping her hands together, eyes wide with such bright light Bakugo almost felt blinded by, it even managing to frightened him a bit. “Thank you, that’s very good to know! I’d be terrified if I was anyone but me!” His brows lifted in dawning realization, feeling safer by being calmed by the reminder of how he was talking to a ditz, a complete mental-case… though… a mental-case who’d managed to dance her way and get lost in his heart. “Pardon me for being so blunt, but I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t ask.” Preparing him for her question, she leant in just a bit more, looking at him intently. “Are you yourself today, Bakugo?”

As absurd as the question was to him, when it rolled off her tongue it nearly seemed like the most casual of things to ask someone, as though she was requesting his thoughts on the weather. And though it was the epitome of peculiar, the more he thought about it, the more he realized how appropriate the question was, because he were, in fact, not at all feeling like himself.

“… No.”

She gave a contemplative look and a hum. “Then you must be Baku-gone…” He couldn’t hold back the snort that followed her statement, again being reminded of what a complete klutz she was, something so far away from his cynical view of the world and something far more relaxing than what his fears had managed to conjure of her rejection. It seemed so ridiculous now, that he’d thought she would run away or scream, never having let himself imagine her in what he knew was her true nature, light-hearted and incapable of doing any harm, at least not on purpose. “Wow, you really must be, huh?” She continued, fishing him out of his curt chuckling. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you laugh. Come to think of it… I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you smile.” She mused, admiring the small pleasantness stretched upon his face.

But then his brows furrowed, the happiness seeping from his features and leaving them contorted with annoyance, much to her dismay, regretting her choice of words. “I smile.” He argued, looking at her as though demanding she explain herself.

She cocked her head to the side, eyeing him, scrunching her brows and biting her lip for a second or two as though she were in deep thought, not wanting to upset him any further, though not wanting to speak without candidness. “No… you… bare teeth… like a wolf eager to catch its prey.” His ears retracted, features taken aback by her observation, finding he couldn’t quite say otherwise, though he’d never viewed it that way, but again, the more he thought about it, the more all her strange words made sense as he found them to be true. Silly of him to think his wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing approach could fool her, silly of him to think he could fool himself into believing she’d ever consider going out with someone so… predatory.

Though, minds are easily swayed, he reminded himself of. Her opinion of him wasn’t set in stone after all. “Does it scare you?” He finally asked, finding that was the only thing he was actually curious about. Though… perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing if she did fear him just a bit, because god knows how terrified he is of her and how she makes him feel as though he’s bleeding or falling or stripped of everything, cut by the knees and naked and so very needy to have her just look at him.

“I would say no, but I cannot lie.” His heart sunk upon hearing her admit it, disappointed, not sure if it was in her or in him.

She’s scared… Of course, she is scared! Who wouldn’t be? Dumb of him to think anything else.

“But, that’s rather the point isn’t it? To scare people?” She took a step forward, eyes bright and hopeful, hating to think she’d upset him.

“Not you.” It was barely above a whisper, words simply cast out there, and it left the girl looking perplexed, curious and even guilt-stricken or ashamed.

“Well… I shouldn’t fear things I know too little about… that would be silly…” She felt the urge to touch him, wanting him to truly hear her words, wanting to enforce them by touch, yet as her hands reached out to take his all so brazenly her eyes fell upon the flower again. She didn’t really have any wish to touch something dead, it always being such a cold and empty feeling running like ice through her veins, yet she reached out to receive the flower anyway, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “So, if not my fear, what is it this Bakugone wishes of me then?” She slipped on a tender smile, genuine and perfect, her soft fingertips brushing against his.

“I…” He was so focused on how she was touching him, the pressure, the elegance, the perfection, so focused he forgot the words again, so focused on her soft fingertips, her warmth, her pastel-manicured nails, he didn’t realize how the movement had stilled.

“You want to eat my heart.”

Her voice made him look up from where they were conjoined, crimson orbs dragged slowly to meet the oddity of her voice no less her words, yet as he looked, he continued to search because he found no eyes looking back at him, only whites, wide gleaming glowing void whites staring at him.

“You want to rip open my ribcage and feast.” Shaken and confused his brows twisted as he yet again tried to find her eyes. “You want to see me burst and bloom for you.” He hadn’t tried pulling his hand away, not really wanting to either, but he realized he perhaps wouldn’t be able to even if he’d wanted with how hard she was now digging her once soft fingers into his wrist. “You want to cripple me. You want to hear my deathbed confession. You want to lick the sin from my expression.” Her brows were the ones to crinkle now as she inhaled a shuddering breath, her hand shaking as she held onto him, seemingly as though her life depended on it. “You want and you’ve been wanting for so long. You want and want, there’s no end to what you want.” Her voice was now frantic, sporadic, hitched and frightened. “You want more and more and more and more and more-” She shook so much she lost her footing and tripped, staggering back and hitting the dirt with a sharp thud, knocking her out of whatever trance she’d slipped into, no more words coming thundering from her lips except for a cute little exclamation of oof, fluffy skirt puffed out around her like a jellyfish.

“What the fuck!” He shouted once she let go, flower falling to the floor, dropped in the midst of his shock and confusion as to what had happened, yet also feeling embarrassed with how she’d seemed to have caught him red-handed, and shaken with how much she knew, disturbed with how it all had been phrased, yet concerned, concerned because he knew he’d failed, he’d scared her so much she nearly melted, but somehow even more concerned with how she’d hit the ground. “I’m-” She looked up at him and he was left dumbstruck with how wide her eyes were and how full they now seemed with the return of her irises and pupils. No longer looking like wax, but like great gems or galaxies he couldn’t help but fall prey to, especially with how glossy they were, shining and glimmering and wet, wet with tears.

“No wonder you feel gone.” She suddenly mumbled, or it wasn’t exactly a mumble, but in contrast to whatever voice she spoke in before it surely seemed subdued. “Someone’s run off with your heart!” She clumsily got back to her feet, gripping his shoulders, nearly making him stagger back and fall with just how intense and vivid her actions were thrown at him. “You’re in love!” She squealed, nearly screaming it at him, before reeling herself back in, probably only now realizing how she’d attacked the boy. “Excuse me, I mean pardon, I mean I’m terribly sorry if I frightened you.” She backed away, fingers playing with each other as she tumbled through her sentence. “It’s my quirk you see. It has a habit of living its own life. I didn’t mean to spout out your desires like that, it was a total invasion of your privacy and completely rude and unethical on my side. I really am so sorry. Would you forgive me?”

Wasn’t he the one who should be apologizing to her?

He remained stunned and confused and growing even more so by the second as she spoke. “Perhaps I could make it up to you? Perhaps I can help you in your quest to retrieve your heart? Who is the thief?”

And there it was.

She was so overwhelmed she didn’t even pick up who the emotions were for.

Silly thing.

This made him ease up. He hadn’t spoiled everything yet. In fact, she seemed even more enthusiastic now than before, even more eager to talk to him and help him even. “Is it that green-haired boy? What was his name again? Something with D or M, I can’t for the life of me remember! Or perhaps it’s the floaty one? You know, the one with the big brown eyes. No! I know who it is, it’s the one with the shark teeth, and the spikey red hair-” She rambled, and even though some of her suggestions revolted him, he couldn’t bring himself to stop her when she was so… so bouncy with thrill, so cute with how her tits squeezed together in her top and jumped for him with every word that fell from those lushes pink lips that would feel so good to bite into and feel on his neck and down his chest and-

“You can help me.” He suddenly blurted, whipping her from her rambling.

“Really?!” Big eyes, filled with such expectancy and acceptance of whatever he was about to request even without a shred of knowing what. “How?” It was as though it were her life wish to help, that denying him would mean death or something even worse in her eyes.

“By making it up to me.”

His grin returned, the one that lacked… not exactly happiness, because there was still a certain glee to it, a certain enjoyment, yet lacking altruism and was instead left looking greedy and gluttonous and as though he was made up of… teeth, and only teeth, and too many teeth, and that those teeth were too sharp.

“Oh.” She seemed drained of her vigorous passion, like a light snuffed out, swallowing thickly. And though she knew it all to be in her head, knew it all to be but a figment of her fears, she still took a step back as though she’d seen something that worried her, and was quickly followed by what had worried her as Bakugo paralleled her backtracking, leaving her no further away from his hungry open-mouthed smirk.

“Kiss me.” She realized she’d backed all the way into the tree, her back meeting the hard trunk seemed to shake her from her vision as the biting image submerged and left her with a quite normal-looking Bakugo towering over her, no longer Bakugone or just a toothy grin, and she was left deciding whether it was any better or maybe even worse than what she had been picturing.

Yet, she had no time to think as Bakugo’s hand raised to cup her cheek, where in the seconds it took for him to do so, she needed to prepare herself for all his obsessive lovesick thoughts she knew would yet again flood her mind, only now she wouldn’t shake from them, and what more, now she knew who they were about. Poor thing had taken Bakugo’s heart without knowing, without knowing to prepare for Bakugo’s blood-stained scarred hand to reach into her chest and hold her own terror-wide heart in a chokehold as he too took it for himself. Without knowing how to protect herself from his many sharp teeth that would steal and eat to satiate what livid hungry fire, what desperate thirst she’d awoken inside his heart, to relieve the pain of it all, to finally breath again, to find safety, to find belonging, to find life. And she had no way of preparing for it, no way of protecting herself from it, no way of hiding from Bakugo’s sharp teeth… but when his hand, his calloused sandpaper-textured palm handled her cheek she was met with a new image, a soft-tinted mellow yet dramatic rhapsodic fire, one that she rather cherished than feared, one that she felt like chasing, one that seemed like it was calling her.

Bakugo leaned in slowly, as though asking for permission, receiving no complaints, just a set of large eyes staring at him. Her hands, feeling as though their fingertips had plunged deep into the bark of the tree behind her, ripped loose to touch him, feeling the simmering plethora of brutally violent passions swimming beneath them as they hovered on top of his skin. Tasting it on her tongue as he captured her soft lips with his own stiff ones. She could taste the hunger, the teeth, the longing, the pain, the fire, the waiting and time he’d suffered in the darkness all alone, she could taste the war, but more… she could taste the fear, the fear of losing or not having at all, and at the very tip of her tongue, stronger than anything else, she caught it, the flavor crystalized like sugar… hope… love.

Support me at KO-FI if you feel like it<3

#bakugo #bakugou #katsukibakugou #bakugou katsuki #Katsuki Bakugō #yandere bakugo katsuki #katsuki #yandere katsuki #katsuki bakugo imagine #katsuki bnha #bakugou imagine #bnha bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #yandere #yandere bakugou #yandere bnha #yandere bakugo #yandere boku no hero academia #yandere mha

[nanagoswife]

Noticing You, Noticing Me

Chapter Eight

Summary: More soft moments between reader and Obi-Wan as they enjoy being back together

W/C: 3.5k

Warnings: Not smut, but there is some intimacy? Not really though? Idk😅

- - -

Apparently, everyone knew about Obi-Wan’s arrival except for you. Anakin and Padmé were just the ones who participated.

As you walked through the halls, basically clinging to his arm, he laid his free hand on top of one of yours as he told you.

“I had also been talking with Anakin these last months, albeit, not as often as I was with you.” He paused to smile at you, gently squeezing your hand. “When I found out of my plans to come here, I wanted to find a way to surprise you. Then, Anakin came to mind.”

“Let me guess. You asked Anakin, then Anakin asked Padmé, and then Anakin told you what she had said.”

Obi-Wan smirked. “Sometimes I forget how well you know your brother.”

A small sense of pride filled you with that.

“But yes, that’s what happened. Of course I had first written to your parents about a few things. They were more than happy to hear that I could make my way over after so long. I think it was something about how their daughter was quite taken with me.”

He looked down at you with that cheeky smile once again. You shook your head and giggled as you lightly pushed him, only sending him slightly off balance.

His laugh filled the halls as he regained his steady pace.

“I do believe that she is quite taken with the prince of Coruscant. The princess couldn’t be happier.”

Obi-Wan’s crystal blue eyes stared into yours while he smiled. Slowly, he brought the two of you to a stop in front of one of the windows. The light of the sun reflected perfectly in his eyes.

When he turned to face you, both of your hands ended up in his one. Although you loved the feeling, you took one hand away to bring it to his cheek. A small giggle bubbled its way out of you at the feel of his beard as he leaned into your touch. The well trimmed hairs were scratchy but in the most delightful way.

Your eyes couldn’t leave his even if you wanted to. The sight of him like this held all of your attention as you slowly dragged your hand down to rest on his chest.

The fact that both of you were leaning in went hardly noticed. It felt so natural that you paid no mind to it. It was only as you were that few centimeters away from the other’s lips that you realized, but you didn’t pull away. No, this was something the two of you had come so close to once before, yet it now had a different meaning. This was more deserved than before.

You were so close until footsteps could be heard from the other end of the hall. Obi-Wan huffed out a sigh of annoyance but didn’t make any movement to pull away from your proximity.

“We really need to find a more private place,” he whispered, causing you to chuckle,

“If I remember correctly, not even that worked, Obi.”

All he did was groan and roll his eyes as his shoulders slumped. “You unfortunately make a good point, my dear.”

You chuckled before the person arrived in your area. When you turned to greet them, it was Varlo. Maybe it was your eyes just playing tricks on you, but he seemed absolutely miserable. More than he had been in the last two months, anyways. Apparently not having the popularity that he used to have was weighing on him more than you had thought.

“Good afternoon, Varlo,” Obi-Wan greeted with a bow from just behind you. As he did, you saw that a small piece of his hair fell out of place. He did nothing to put it back, though, as he stood up.

“Prince Kenobi,” he greeted briskly with a stiff bow.

He seemed rigid in his greeting. Had something gone wrong in a dispute? You weren’t super into the politics of your kingdom as he was, so you didn’t know what possibly could make him like this.

Varlo’s jaw seemed tense, like he was clenching it.

“Is everything alright?” you asked, breaking him out of his thoughts. You could feel Obi-Wan shift uncomfortably behind you. Whatever was going on with Varlo was unsettling him just like it was for you.

“Hm? Oh, yes, I apologize. Just something occupying my mind. Anyways, I really came here to find you to tell you that our parents are putting together a small feast in honour of your arrival, Prince Kenobi.”

“Please, call me Obi-Wan. And thank you. I’ll be sure to thank them later although it’s highly unnecessary.”

“Oh but it is,” you cut in, flashing him a smile.

Obi-Wan chuckled. “Alright, alright. If you say so.”

“I’ll leave you two be. But, Y/N, I should mention that mom is putting this together. So, be prepared,” Varlo said with a playful smile.

You knew exactly what he meant. Whenever your mother would go into planning mode, she always made it the best. If it weren’t for the fact that Obi-Wan had told them before arriving, you would’ve assumed they only had a day's notice. In that case, it would be more toned down. Knowing that she had known well in advance, well, it would be extravagant.

Both you and Obi-Wan said your goodbyes to your brother before he turned away.

“Well, what shall we do until dinner?” Obi-Wan asked when your brother was far enough down the hall. Before you answered, you brushed those few strands of hair back into place.

“Have you unpacked yet?” You turned to look at him, seeing him shake his head no. “Why don’t we do that, then.”

His smile grew even more before offering you his elbow. “Sounds like a plan.”

-

At first, Obi-Wan felt a slight bit awkward. The last time he had a girl in his room, that wasn’t his mother, was Satine. Nothing had happened between them other than simple conversations.

With you, he was a little nervous. He wanted a life with you. Unlike with Satine, he felt like he could see himself with you for the rest of his life. Every part of him was drawn to you in a way that he had never felt in his life.

As the time went on though with you helping him where you could, it felt just as natural as everything else. Obi-Wan could feel himself relax more and more as the time passed.

By the time he had finished, you were sitting at the foot of the bed. Despite his insistence, you refused to make yourself more comfortable further up the bed. Instead you stayed where you were, intently listening to his ramblings. Some were stories from your time apart, others were just simply him muttering his thoughts.

Nothing changed though. You sat and listened, occasionally chiming in at certain details.

Once Obi-Wan was done, he sat beside you. It didn’t take long to find your hand so that he could intertwine his fingers with yours.

“So,” he started, “did that take all the time we had or is there still time?”

You giggled as you leaned against his shoulder. “I’m sure we have some time. Besides, who says we can’t be fashionably late?”

Obi-Wan raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in curiosity. “Is there something your brilliant mind is working up?”

He watched as your cheeks flushed as you smiled coyly.

“Not really. But I did have an idea for after dinner.”

“And what might that be?”

You looked up at him, your cheeks burning an even darker shade than before. You opened your mouth to talk, but closed it before looking away again. It confused him.

“Darling?”

“Never mind,” you said quietly.

“If you think I would say no to whatever your plan is, I’m sure you’re wrong,” he said encouragingly. His free hand came up and turned your face towards him with his index. “What is it?”

When you stumbled over your words, he let his fingers trail along your jawline before cupping your cheek. It was a gesture to comfort you in your doubt, and it seemed to work. He could feel as the tension in your shoulders eased. Even the grip you had on his hand relaxed.

“I- I was thinking maybe… we could come back here after. Together,” you said. Quickly, you continue before he could react, “Not to do anything like, you know. Just to… sleep. And I was wondering if we could read that poetry book that we never finished that night because it was so beautiful and-”

Obi-Wan gently hushed you with a soft call of your name before you’d go into an endless ramble. “Yes,” he said in a breath. “Yes to all of it. Whatever you wish.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

He felt you relax further against him. Almost on instinct, he wrapped an arm around you to pull you closer, pressing a kiss against your temple.

“Now, shall we head down to the feast your mother has put together?”

Chuckling, you lightly pushed off of Obi-Wan to sit up. “Are you sure you’re ready? She never goes halfway with these sorts of things.”

“Always.”

-

“Ok, so I may have underestimated what Queen Breha had planned,” Obi-Wan said with a sheepish chuckle.

What your mother had planned had even surprised you. All of the servants had been dressed in their best. The dining table was set to feed three times the amount of your group. The seven of you hardly made a dent in it all.

When it came to decorations, you would’ve thought that you would’ve been serving every king and queen there was. Yes, you were a part of a royal family, but you had never dined in such a fancy setup. You had thought your normal setup was over the top, but you were dead wrong.

Even Obi-Wan had seemed overwhelmed by it all. The enthusiastic call from your brother had distracted both you and Obi-Wan from your surroundings.

Apparently, despite actually arriving in time, the two of you were the last to arrive. Everyone else greeted you enthusiastically when you sat down after Obi-Wan pulled out your chair.

Varlo didn’t though. Like he was earlier, he had seemed preoccupied. That kept up during the whole meal. You didn’t pay much mind to it as your parents, Anakin, and Padmé all started a conversation lasting the whole meal.

Once you were all stuffed to the brim, Varlo had left. He said that he had something to attend to, yet he wouldn’t say what.

For the rest of you, the conversations continued as the servants all cleared the table without incident. Even if there were, it wouldn’t be a huge deal. Most of them you knew quite well, and so did your mother. They were all good people who strove to do their best in their role. You always smiled whenever you heard how happy they really were.

“Even I underestimated what she would do,” you replied, squeezing his hand gently as you walked down the hall to the sitting room that contained the poetry book.

Normally, your arm would be linked with his, but you didn’t feel like being that formal. You guessed he felt that same as he reciprocated the action without any protest. If he had said anything about it, you were sure that it would only be about how his thoughts were going down the same path as yours.

When you had gotten to the room you needed, you told Obi-Wan to wait as you quickly ran in to grab the poetry book. After you did, you resumed your hand holding all the way to your room first to change and grab some things.

You had disappeared behind your changing screen as he observed your room. There wasn’t much in your room. A few books on the shelf beside your desk, the satchel which held all of his letters that sat on the floor still next to your desk, your bed, and your changing screen.

Everything was going well until you were unable to undo the back of your dress. No matter how hard you tried, each attempt was met by failure.

There was no other choice other than to ask Obi-Wan to help.

Stepping out from behind the screen, you saw him looking out of your window. He had one arm across his chest while his other elbow rested against it as he stroked his beard. It looked as if he was lost in thought only to briefly smile to himself.

“Obi,” you called out. You hated to break his train of thought, but the longer this took, the longer it would be until you could get on with the night’s plan.

He turned towards you, looking slightly confused when you were still in the same lavender dress as before.

“I can’t get it undone, and I… I was wondering if you could help,” you said as you looked at the floor. It felt strange asking this of him. At the same time, it thrilled you. Nervousness took over in the end.

Obi-Wan walked over to you, taking your hands in his. He gently squeezed them in a silent question asking you to look at him. “Only if you want me to.”

You nodded. With a comforting smile, he led you back behind your screen. Turning around for him, his hands worked on the ties at your back. Each lace up your back slowly loosened as he made his way up, letting his fingers graze against your back.

As he made his way up, you couldn’t stop the shiver that went through you as his hand ghosted the bare part of your back. When he was done, he placed his hands on your shoulders, finger slightly under the material of the dress.

The sensation was one you had never felt before as his hands began trailing outwards, bringing the fabric with it. A part of you wanted him to continue, but you knew it was better when he had paused his gentle caresses.

“I’m sorry. I- I’ll let you get changed.”

“It’s alright, Obi,” you said as you turned to face him. “And thank you.”

With a shy smile, he went back to the main area of your room. A part of you wished you could’ve continued, but now wasn’t the time for that. Hell, you hadn’t even kissed yet.

Either way, you pushed it aside as you finished getting ready. Your sleep gown was much more comfortable than your dress. You wondered what Obi-Wan would think of the light blue gown that flowed more and was far less constricting.

-

When you walked out after changing, Obi-Wan’s breath hitched for what felt like the hundredth time today. He knew night gowns were nothing special, but you just looked so… beautiful.

The simpleness of it caught his eye immediately. Yes, you looked amazing in all of your day gowns, but this was just a new level he didn’t know was possible.

He must’ve muttered something about it because your cheeks turned flushed as you took on a demure stance.

Finally gaining some sense, he cleared his throat before speaking, “Shall we continue the evening?”

You nodded, walking over to him before taking his hand to make your way to his room. Although it was no secret that the two of you were together, you had to make sure you weren’t seen. People would most likely assume that something other than what you truly were doing would be happening.

The only people that were told were Anakin and Padmé. They had told you that they would make sure that no one saw either of you. Specifically in the morning. The plan was that Anakin would make sure the hall was clear as Padmé would come get you and escort you to your room. Of everyone, they knew that Obi-Wan wouldn’t take advantage of you. Plus, with your friend knowing of the night you and Obi-Wan had first read this book, she was quick to believe your true plans.

Thankfully, the hall was clear all the way to his room.

Obi-Wan had removed his jacket rather quickly, exposing his white tunic that lay underneath. There was a small area where his chest was slightly exposed, revealing hairs there that matched the colour of his beard.

A small part of you wanted to have the kind of courage that he did and unlace the top of his tunic for him, to feel some of the skin on his chest. That courage wasn’t there. Not a single part of you could muster up the ability to ask, but you didn’t need to. Obi-Wan had caught the way you were looking at him.

Taking a few steps to close the distance between you, he took your hands in his.

“It’s alright,” he said, placing one of your hands on his chest near the ties. “You can if you want. You don’t have to.”

His voice was quiet and soothing. That courage you thought you would never have? It was there now, slowly crawling out as he encouraged you.

Along with his comforting words, you moved your fingers to where the lace laid. With a shakiness, you brought your other hand up to help undo the knot. Before you could start untying it, he placed his hand on top of yours, squeezing gently for comfort.

“Relax,” he whispered. “You don’t have to do this. Stop whenever you like.”

As he took his hand off of the two of yours, the final bit of courage filled you. Slowly, you untied the lace, loosening it until even more of his chest was exposed.

For a moment, you let your fingers graze over the exposed skin and hair. The golden curls on his chest made you smile as you briefly rubbed his chest.

This time, you gained even more confidence as you then let your hands glide down to his torso. Something in you wanted to see more, to feel more, but you weren’t sure if it was the best decision.

When your hands reached his waist, you stopped. Looking back into his eyes, nothing but warmth and sureness radiated from them.

“Go ahead. Like I said earlier, anything for you.”

You let out a shaky breath, gaining even more reassurance from Obi-Wan as you looked in his eyes. So, you let your hands clench the material of his shirt, pulling it up until he lifted his arms, letting the shirt fall to the ground.

You let your eyes explore the surface of his skin, noting every scar until you reached out to trace them all. He told you how many were from training, others from a battle years ago when a random group who wanted to dethrone his father attacked.

-

He worked hard to keep his breathing controlled as your hands explored the surface of his skin. Despite this, Obi-Wan knew that if you felt over his heart that you would be able to feel it racing.

As you traced over his scars, he couldn’t help but let his eyes fall closed. The thoughts that began to run through his mind were becoming intrusive. He didn’t want to rush into anything with you, though. What he didn’t want to do was scare you off and that meant having to keep this all under control.

Plus, he didn’t want to wreck your reputation. Something like this could ruin you, and that’s not what he wanted. You were doing so much good for your people. If they thought any less of you than they do now, he wouldn’t know how he would live with himself.

Instead, he closed his eyes so that he could quell the feeling of desire he felt for you. It was working too, until you reached his shoulders, trailing towards his collar bone.

Nothing could keep his breathing from picking up. The closer you came to his collarbone, the more he felt his want for you. But he wouldn’t let it happen. Not unless you wanted to, and you already had said that you wanted this to be purely just an innocent night. Just reading and sleeping.

So, he shifted slightly, taking a sharp intake of breath as your hand traced his collarbone.

-

This exploration lasted a few minutes as you looked over his freckles that were scattered across his shoulders. Obi-Wan took a deep breath as you traced his collar bone, shifting slightly.

“I-I’m sorry,” you said, pausing your exploration. “Did I go too far?”

“What? No, of course not,” he said quickly to reassure you. “No, it’s just… maybe we should read now.”

Nodding, you went over to the bed. Obi-Wan joined you not long after.

After getting settled under the sheets, the two of you went into a familiar position like the night in front of the fireplace. Only this time, you didn’t stay awake long, falling asleep against Obi-Wan’s bare chest.

Everything, his warmth, the sound of his voice, the comfort of the bed, it all made you drowsy. Obi-Wan noticed and encouraged you, “Go to sleep, my dear. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

- - -

@stardancerluv @where-fantasy-meets-reality @jaydenwoo @madmax2003 @mackycat11 @generousrunawaydonut @imabeautifulbutterfly @animalgirl05 @blondekel77 @thereluctantherosrose @cosmicsierra @badbatch-simp24

#obi wan x you #obi wan imagine #obi wan kenobi imagine #obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan fanfiction #obi wan x reader #obi wan star wars #obi wan fic #obi wan #obi wan kenobi #obi wan fluff #obi wan kenobi x you #obi wan x y/n #obi wan au #obi wan and anakin #obi wan and padme #obi wan series #princess!reader #prince!obi #prince!obiwan #royal au #king!guigon #king!bail organa #queen breha #anakin skywalker #padme amidala #varlo

[helnjk]

I Never Planned On You - C.W.

Charlie Weasley x reader

This is part of my showtunes fic list based on the song I Never Planned On You from the musical Newsies 💗 also i am SUCH a simp for Charlie it’s crazy 

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: when the twins bring their best friend to the burrow for christmas, charlie can’t keep his eyes off of her. 

Warnings: very brief mentions of death (minor character) & the war, injuries from dragons (?), mentions of food & alcohol consumption

- 

I’ve got no use for moonlight, or sappy poetry

Girls are nice, once or twice,

Til I find someone new

The pub was unusually packed, Charlie noticed.

As he scanned around the crowded room, his friends idly chatted around him. This was their usual routine, every Friday they would clock out of work and make their way here for a round of drinks and some fish and chips. 

He hadn’t noticed until she was directly in front of him, but one of the girls he saw around the reserve had made their way over. 

“Hello Charlie,” She drawled, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder, “It’s so nice to run into you here.” 

Despite the freezing temperature and the fact that everyone else was dressed comfortably, having come straight from work, the girl was wearing barely anything. Not that it mattered what any bird wore, as long as they felt confident in it and in themselves. But, as she bent down to be eye to eye with him, her breasts practically spilled over from her too tight top. 

It was obvious what she was trying to do. 

His friends watched with amused glints in their eyes, already knowing how this interaction would go. Her appearance was not out of the ordinary. Despite each incident involving a different bird, they had seen this kind of thing happen quite often when they went out with Charlie. 

“Erm, hello,” He muttered, trying not to make eye contact, “Louise right?” 

Her attempt at a sultry conversation was shattered as she replied, “It’s Leanne.” 

“Right.” 

Sensing that he was not at all interested in whatever was going on, Leanne huffed and turned on her heel. She angrily strode across the room, making as much noise and ruckus as possible, just to get a reaction out of the redhead, but her attempts were futile. 

Mark, one of Charlie’s friends, let out a low whistle as the girl left hearing distance, “That one was rather presumptuous, don’t you think mate?” 

Charlie let out a soft chuckle, “I don’t understand why they all think they can pull the same move and expect me to react any differently.”

“They’re all hoping to be the lucky one that the Charlie Weasley falls for, or some other crap like that,” He winked, taking a swig of his beer. 

“Reckon that won’t happen for a long time yet, mate.” The redhead replied. 

“You never know, Charlie boy!” 

He merely shook his head and took a sip of his drink. Dating wasn’t really on his mind anyway. 

Love at first sight’s for suckers

At least it used to be

The crack of apparition sounded through the pale morning light. 

Charlie landed steadily on his feet as he appeared on the top of a hill, just on the outskirts of Ottery St. Catchpole. Nothing had really changed since the last time he visited, the same silhouettes of different houses littered the landscape, the same sleepy neighbors about to begin their day. The familiarity of it all blazed in his heart like a warm fire at the end of a cold day, comforting and all consuming. 

The Burrow stood proud and tall in the horizon, and he couldn’t help the smile that graced his lips. He was home. It was the Christmas holidays, the war had ended, and he was home.  

He took his time, trudging up through the blanket of snow surrounding the house. Smoke rose from the chimney signalling that his mum was already puttering about in the kitchen, preparing breakfast for the army of people no doubt housed under her roof. 

“Mum!” He yelled as soon as he crossed the threshold, “Mum, I’m home!” 

As he banished the remaining snow on his boots with a wave of his wand, Molly Weasley came bustling out the kitchen door. Apron adorning her waist and a smidge of flour flecked on her fiery hair, she grinned and opened her arms. 

“Charlie,” She said as he bent down to wrap his arms around her in an embrace, “Oh love, it’s so good to see you!” 

“You too, mum.” He smiled at her, “Anyone else here yet?” 

From eldest to youngest, she listed off the plans of each of her children and where they were to spend the holidays. Everyone would be ‘round on Christmas and Boxing day, but the only ones spending the night that day, Christmas Eve, were the twins, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny. The younger ones of the bunch had arrived the day prior, but were still asleep from what she knew. 

Charlie nodded his head before he was sent away to unpack his things in his old room. His mum had kept it just as he left it, even though it had been many years since he moved to Romania. She said something about not being bothered to think of anything to turn it in to, but he knew that she kept it for nostalgia’s sake. 

As he made his way back down the stairs, the commotion at the front of the house caught his attention. Fred and George had arrived, noisily announcing their appearance, taking off coats and scarves and calling out to their mum. However, Charlie could also just barely see the outline of a third person behind them. 

She was nearly a head shorter than the twins, but when she came into view, he felt the air get knocked out of him. The light streaming in from the open door behind her seemed to glow in a halo around her, her eyes lighting up at whatever the twins had said and a laugh falling from her lips. 

She was the most beautiful girl he had ever laid his eyes on. 

The twins took notice of Charlie’s presence, as he was paused halfway down the stairs, and called out to him. 

“Oi, Charlie!” George called, making his way to his older brother, “Nice to see you, mate! How’ve you been?” 

“Good-erm, good yeah.” He managed to stutter out, head still spinning at the sight of the beautiful girl, “What have you lot been up to, then? Who’ve you brought over?” 

“This is Y/N,” Fred said, motioning to his best friend. 

At the introduction, she smiled brightly and held out her hand for Charlie to shake, “I work with the twins at the shop, nice to meet you.” 

Charlie spotted Fred and George roll their eyes playfully. 

“Oh come off it,” Fred nudged her before turning to his older brother, “We’ve been mates with this one since Hogwarts. She was usually the one getting us in trouble, though.” 

“Oi!” She laughed, “Don’t make me sound like the bad influence, I was a perfectly good student.”

As Charlie watched their interaction, he had flashes of a little girl always in step with the twins and causing mischief in the halls of Hogwarts during his last few years there. Back then, she had only been a child, bright eyed and inquisitive, but now she had grown into a woman, confident and sure. 

“Nice to meet you,” He murmured as their eyes locked, “The more the merrier around here.” 

He might have been imagining things, but he swore he could see the faint beginnings of a blush creeping onto Y/N’s cheeks. 

The ruckus made from the twins & Y/N’s entrance was enough to wake the rest of the inhabitants of the household. It seemed like the Christmas celebrations had begun early as they all clambered into the slightly too small kitchen table and had a meal together. 

For the rest of the day, Molly had them all helping out in preparation for the real celebratory meal the next day. Charlie hadn’t had the time to strike up a conversation with Y/N and instead settled with (not so) subtle glances her way. 

Once or twice, one of the twins would catch onto his game and send him knowing looks. He paid them no mind, though, being used to their antics. 

“So Charlie,” Fred began, as the family was settling in around the living room after dinner, “Y/N, huh?” 

The pair of them leant against the wall in the corner of the room, away from any prying eyes or ears.

“Shove off, mate.” He replied with a slight shake of his head and his lips barely twitching into a smile. 

The younger brother rolled his eyes playfully, “It’s alright. Georgie and I have been fending off boys for years with our Y/N. She’s quite fit, but no guy’s been good enough for her in our eyes, or in hers I reckon.” 

“Don’t you go playing the protective best friend on me now, I haven’t even done anything!” Charlie playfully shoved his shoulder against his brother’s. 

“Nah, I’d never. Just wanted to tell you that she’s never been romantically involved with anyone.” 

“Well, that makes the two of us then.” 

-

The Burrow was uncharacteristically silent as Charlie crept down the staircase. It was definitely past midnight, but he hadn’t been able to fall asleep, tossing and turning from the moment his head met the pillow. 

He paused for a moment as he reached the bottom, not expecting to see light filtering through the open kitchen door at this time of night. His heart only picked up its pace as he noticed that it was Y/N who was sat by the counter, nursing a cup of tea in her hands and staring out the window. 

“Care for any company?” He asked, leaning against the doorframe. 

He noticed her body jump slightly at the noise, but when she turned to face him, the smile she sent in his direction could light up any room, “I’ve just heard from a certain redhead that around here, the more the merrier.”

“Fred tell you that?” 

Her laugh was a sound he knew he would never tire of hearing, “And I see cheekiness runs in the family as well.” 

“Nah,” Charlie shrugged, taking the seat across from her, “It’s our good looks that you should be watching out for.” 

He flicked his wand and the kettle began to boil once more as a mug floated its way towards the counter. The pair of them had settled into a peaceful silence, taking in the comforting atmosphere of the winter night. 

It was Charlie who finally broke the silence, “So, how’s it been working with the twins at the shop? They drive you mad yet?” 

She gave him a knowing smile, “When you’ve spent nearly seven years in close quarters with them, you tend to get used to it. Plus it’s good to have steady company, especially when it comes in the form of Fred and George.” 

“What about your family? How’re they spending the holidays then?” 

The moment the question escaped Charlie’s lips, he knew he had made a mistake. The light in Y/N’s eyes seemed to dim and her grip on the mug in front of her seemed to tighten.

“Oh I’m sorry, you don’t have to–” He began.

“No it’s alright,” She assured him, “My parents died in the war. I was going to spend the holidays alone, but the twins refused to even entertain the thought.” 

“Well, I’m glad they brought you along this year.” He sent her a timid smile. 

“Me too.” 

But I never planned on someone like you

Christmas comes and goes in a flurry of cable knit sweaters and too much food. Y/N and Charlie found themselves tucked away in a corner or out in the snowy landscape taking a walk together more often than not. A quiet conversation at the dead of night did wonders for their budding friendship. 

It was as if they were magnets now, drawn to each other in a way that couldn’t be explained. 

Sooner than he’d like, Charlie found himself in one of the Ministry offices, hand tightly gripped onto a portkey. 

As he settled back into his daily routine at the dragon reserve, his mind often wandered to Y/N. The way her eyes lit up when she saw the snow fall, how her smile bloomed at any of the twins’ (albeit not so funny) jokes, the little crinkle in her nose when she had a particular thought in mind. 

“Look out, mate!” 

He only had a second to react as he saw one of the younger Welsh Greens open its mouth and shoot flames in his direction. Charlie had been so distracted by his thoughts that despite his best effort and his exceptional flying skills, he still felt flames lick his skin and singe his clothes. 

Full of adrenaline, he managed to land his broom properly before rolling onto the grass and performing the protocol for accidents such as these. Mark reached him quickly, as the rest of the team he was with went to settle the dragon down. A quick aguamenti charm at the still burning areas of Charlie’s clothes got rid of the remaining flames, but he still suffered a few burns and scrapes. 

“You alright, mate?” Mark asked, helping the redhead get to his feet, “I think we’ve still got to get you to the infirmary for those burns.” 

“Nothing I haven’t gone through before.” He smiled, wincing slightly as his clothes rubbed against the new burns on his skin. 

-

As it was protocol for the reserve to inform next of kin of serious injuries, Molly Weasley received an owl detailing the accident and the procedures done to make sure that Charlie was well taken care of. 

When she received it, she just so happened to have Y/N over for some tea. As the matriarch of the Weasley family couldn’t help but be drawn to children who had lost their parents in unfortunate circumstances, she made it a point to have her over every once in a while. 

“Charlie’s hurt?” Y/N asked, concern leaking into her voice. She had peered over Molly’s shoulder to see what could be so urgently delivered from Romania. 

Molly tried to hide her smile as she noticed how much Y/N cared for her son. She wasn’t the only one who took note of how quickly they were drawn to each other over the holidays, and she was thrilled at the thought of Charlie finding someone to love. 

Of course, she knew it wasn’t love just yet.

“Got a few burns from one of their younger dragons, it says,” Molly clarified, “He’s confined in their infirmary until further notice. Usually we’re allowed to visit them when we get a notice like this, but I don’t think I’d have the time to go this week… And I don’t want to bother Arthur, he’s been so busy these days with the Ministry as well.” 

Having been around Molly for much of her Hogwarts years, Y/N knew exactly what she was doing. But she couldn’t deny the flutters in her stomach when she realized that the person she looked up to as basically her second mother was trying to push her into the arms of her second eldest son.

“Molly,” She began, already set to turn down the offer. 

Mrs. Weasley was quick to the chase, however, “Oh I hope he wouldn’t feel too bad, being injured and not having anyone come to visit him.”

A small chuckle escaped Y/N’s lips as she shook her head, “I’m sure he’s got friends over at the reserve.”

“Oh Y/N, but I know he’d love to have you over!” She protested, “And I know the twins would let you go and visit him as well. I would be truly grateful if someone from the family could visit him and come home with news.” 

Y/N’s resolve faltered as she noticed that Molly had said she was family. The Weasleys had been practically her second family the moment the twins took her under their wing, but hearing the family matriarch say it so casually moved something in her heart. 

“Oh alright.” Y/N smiled, “I’ve never been to Romania, might as well go and see what all the fuss is about.” 

-

The infirmary wasn’t new to Charlie. 

Working with dragons was a little more high risk than his mother would’ve liked, but his love for magical creatures overrode whatever concerns she might have had. It helped that everyone working in the place was a top notch healer and got him patched up in no time. 

Still, he found himself on bedrest for at least the next few days as he waited for the various balms and soothing creams applied to his skin to work. 

Just as he began to feel a little stifled and antsy, a knock on the door rang and the familiar head of one of his healers popped in, “Looks like you’ve got a visitor, mate.”

Charlie furrowed his brows, “But, my mum said she couldn’t come ‘round and visit–” 

“Sorry to disappoint, love.” 

The sound of her voice was enough to fill his heart with immeasurable joy. In that moment, he forgot all about the uncomfortable sting of his burns and the itch he had to get out of the ward and onto the field again.

“Y/N?” He asked, as she stepped into the room, looking as radiant as when he first met her, “What’re you doing here?” 

“Molly said that you were injured,” She shrugged, nonchalant, “Just thought I’d keep you company while you recovered.” 

“You came all the way to Romania just so that I wouldn’t be bored out of my mind?” 

“Well when you say it like that, it sounds like I went through loads of trouble! I just got the next portkey out of Britain.” 

Despite all appearances, the two of them bantered with each other with rapidly beating hearts. Charlie couldn’t believe that his own mum had sent the bird he was pining after to visit him in the infirmary. Y/N couldn’t believe that she had actually gone through with the plan and was going to be around the boy who caught her eye. 

As soon as she took a seat next to his bed, though, their conversation flowed from where it left off. No awkwardness or uncomfortable pauses, just the two of them chatting as if they were still back in the Burrow, nursing warm mugs of tea and watching snow fall outside the window. 

Y/N had to avert her eyes when the healer came back to redress his bandages, not because she was embarrassed to see him practically naked in front of her, but because seeing the burns nearly made her gasp out loud. She knew that he was a dragon tamer, but she hadn’t known the severity of what accidents on the job looked like. 

Of course, he noticed and once the healer had left them again he said, “I’m alright, love. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be all patched up in no time!” 

“Yeah,” She nodded, “I just wasn’t expecting that.” 

Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand in hers. The both of them looked at their intertwined hands atop the stark white bed sheets. His skin was calloused and rough, she noted, but tender and gentle too. It was evident that he enjoyed what he did and he did it with a lot of care. 

“Tell you what,” He stage-whispered, finally meeting her eyes, “I know what’ll help me feel better.” 

“Oh yeah? What?” She raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to him and playing along.

“For you to go on a date with me once I get out of here.” 

“You are something else, Weasley.” Her eyes glimmered as she shook her head, and Charlie felt his heart hammering in his chest, “If you weren’t injured, I would’ve shoved you off this bed.” 

“You didn’t give me an answer, Y/L/N.” He replied, hoping that he didn’t come off as too eager, but still squeezing her hand to show that he was serious.

“Of course I will, you silly man!” She rolled her eyes, but pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. 

She relished in the way that simple gesture brought a rosy pink tinge to his skin. 

#kai's showtunes fics #charlie weasley #charlie weasley fanfiction #charlie weasley imagines #charlie weasley imagine #charlie weasley fics #charlie weasley fic #charlie weasley x reader #charlie weasley x y/n #hp fanfiction #tw injury #tw mention of death #tw food #tw food mention #tw alcohol #tw alcohol mention

[lambden]

Here’s some belated Geraskier fic that I finally get to post, as last week’s flash fic challenge has wrapped up! This was originally published anonymously; kudos to those of you who guessed that I was the author. Head to the collection to see the picture prompt that inspired this, as well as view the other works. I've been having a great time participating in fandom events like this; I promise there's more on the way!!! (Read on AO3)

Up To Date

prompt: "You were so hot that when you asked if I was the blind date you were looking for, I lied and said yes. But then your actual date comes up to introduce themselves and I'm so embarrassed."

G, 2.3K words, modern AU, Geralt/Jaskier

It shouldn’t be this difficult to find inspiration. He never used to struggle like this in high school, finding his muse in everyone and everything. Even his mundane trip on the city bus to and from school would give Jaskier hundreds of ideas, for poems too personal to publish or lyrics too deep for his band to use. Back then he had thought he lacked discipline and experience, so the clear choice had been to take his interest in poetry one step further and go to university.

The problem, as he’s now discovering halfway through his second year, is that he maybe hates university. He loves it, of course; he loves the praise from his professors and peers, he loves learning about the history of literature and art. He even loves the academic rivalries that wax and wane every term, and the competitions that ignite a mean streak in him he didn’t know he had.

But his assignments are of worse quality than anything he’s ever written before, and try as he might, they aren’t getting any better. Putting words on the page just to meet a count is impossible for a poet, not when the space and thoughts and images are all supposed to be cohesive. Poems used to flow from him so freely he hadn’t been able to keep track and now his well of motivation has just about run dry.

That’s what led him here, for the third time this week. His creative dysfunction has forced him into the day-to-day habits of an elderly man who spends his days reading in public gardens. It hasn’t helped so far, but maybe this third time will be the charm. Jaskier finds his favorite place: right by the koi pond, next to a strange art installation with ivy crawling along it. He sits at the base of the giant question mark, dropping his backpack onto the bench beside him.

“This better fucking work,” mutters Jaskier to himself and the koi, opening today’s book to a random poem. He refuses to let his mind wander at first, gluing his eyes to the page and reading with intense intent. The first poem he sees is about love.

Groaning, Jaskier flips the page. The next poem is also about love.

The third poem is about war, and Jaskier thinks that might be alright, until he realizes what this long-dead poet is trying to tell him, which is that war is also about love. Because it is, of course, but also of course it is. Jaskier scowls deeply and flips through the book to a random page, hoping to find something to spark inspiration that won’t just make him feel hopeless and single and hopelessly single.

Before Jaskier can get through the title, someone speaks to him, startling him so badly he jumps. “Are you Yennefer’s friend?”

Jaskier scrambles to catch the book by its cover and nearly drops it. He hadn’t even heard anyone approach. “Sorry?”

The stranger audibly sighs, as if Jaskier has inconvenienced him terribly. With all the force of someone announcing their presence at their own death row, he grits out, “I’m here for a blind date she set up. With you.” Jaskier looks up at the man and sees him wearing a blank expression, pointing at the question mark in front of the bench. “By the thing.”

“Oh,” Jaskier says, still looking at the man. It takes a second for the words to sink in because the stranger is perhaps the most handsome person Jaskier has ever seen. He could write a thousand poems and still fail to capture his beauty. He has golden eyes, for one, and a sharply chiseled face. Even grimacing like this, his jaw is set in the loveliest way, and his stern brow is framed by platinum white hair, half-tied up. He’s wearing a fairly gloomy outfit for a blind date, but maybe he told whoever Yennefer is that he would be dressed in black. Regardless, he’s making it work.

The gorgeous stranger is still waiting for an answer, scowl worsening as Jaskier tries to make his decision about how the fuck to handle this. Really, there’s no decision at all— he just impulsively takes the leap. All his best ideas come when he’s stumbling forward blind anyway. “Yes,” he finally says, jumping to his feet. “Yes, um, I’m sorry, you caught me off-guard. I’m Jaskier.”

“Geralt.” They’re of a similar height, but Geralt is so much wider. Jaskier wants to climb him like ivy on a question mark. “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s fine! I got here a while ago. You know, can’t be too early!” Jaskier has never been early for anything in his life. He sits down again and shoves his books into his bag as quickly as he can. Geralt shifts his weight back and forth between his feet before awkwardly sitting on the bench next to Jaskier, looking out at the garden. “I’ve never done this kind of thing before,” he admits, which is true. His usual lies and schemes are much less chaotic.

Geralt doesn’t reply to that, leaving Jaskier to privately wonder about his dating life. He stares at the plants, giving the impression that he might be hideously nervous. Jaskier has no idea why someone like Geralt would be nervous about anything but it’s an awkward situation, to say the least. Right as Jaskier’s about to suggest they get out of here before Geralt’s real date shows up, the man asks, “What were you reading?”

“I was studying, sort of,” Jaskier says. “I’m a student.” Then abruptly he wonders how much Geralt knows about who he’s supposed to be, and he swallows, pulse racing.

Glancing over, Geralt’s yellow eyes meet his. There’s no obvious doubt there, just a curiosity. “What’s your major?”

“Poetry,” Jaskier grins as their conversation starts to pick up something resembling a rhythm. “What about you, are you in school?”

“No,” says Geralt, cutting his dreams of a normal date conversation short. “Are you any good? At writing poetry?”

What a weirdo. Jaskier’s heart thrums. “I’d like to think so!” This, at least, is something he knows how to talk about. Except, of course, it isn’t really the truth. “Well… recently, I’ve been in a bit of a creative rut. Just waiting for the right burst of inspiration to come along.” Perhaps this blind date that he’s stolen will suffice, but he doesn’t say that. “This place is great for that, actually. I mean, it hasn’t worked yet, but I’m sure any day those fish will sing for me.”

Geralt blinks. Jaskier feels a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. He tries a different tactic, crossing his ankles and asking politely, “Are you a reader? What kind of things do you enjoy?”

“Nonfiction,” Geralt answers, slightly stilted. His gaze drifts over to the plants once more. “Not biographies, more like… encyclopedias and field journals. I like field journals.”

“Alright,” Jaskier says, shrinking into himself. This is going terribly. “I’ll have to go bribe some scientists for their field journals, then.” The corner of Geralt’s lip twitches, and Jaskier’s stomach flips. Gorgeous and weird and maybe, although he’s trying his best to hide it behind seven layers of nerves, maybe a little amused by Jaskier. Jaskier is going to fuck him right here in the garden. “Do you take journals of your own for work?”

A rather roundabout way of asking ‘what the fuck is it that you do’ but somehow, it lands. “I’m a… researcher,” Geralt mumbles. How very vague. “But I don’t publish my findings very often.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Do you work… for a company?”

“No.”

“Right. So you’re just keeping all your findings to yourself for no good reason at all.”

“No.”

“Then it sounds like you’re a pretty terrible researcher, actually.”

Geralt’s eyes flash as he turns to glare at Jaskier. “What?”

“Well, if you don’t share what you’ve found with anyone—”

“My… colleagues—”

“Aha! So you have colleagues!” Jaskier pokes Geralt’s side. “You aren’t just holed up in some depressing storage unit with months and months of research just for you.”

Once more, Geralt half-smirks. Not even half— more like a one-fifth smirk. “Years,” he admits.

“Years…” Jaskier tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re perhaps a significant number of years older than me?”

“I had the same thought when I saw you sitting here,” Geralt mumbles.

Jaskier snorts. “Seems like something Yennefer should have warned us about, perhaps. I would ask you directly how old you are, but I’m fairly certain that the only response I will get is a very gruff no.”

“No,” says Geralt, nearly smiling.

Making a show of pouting, Jaskier folds his arms over his chest. “Is that your favorite word?”

“No.” Geralt breaks into laughter as he repeats himself, and his whole face lights up with it. Jaskier laughs too, delighted by how joyous Geralt looks. He’s even more beautiful when he’s happy like this, and Jaskier wants very badly for this not to be their last date. “If I tell you my favorite word, you’re bound to judge me for it, as a poet.”

“As a poet, I swear not to mock you,” Jaskier raises his hand to cover his heart, barely restraining himself from grinning.

But before Geralt can share whatever it is, someone else approaches their bench. A second stranger— a woman about his height with short brown hair, wearing a pretty blouse. Jaskier notices her much more quickly than he’d noticed Geralt, and he makes the connection instantly. This can’t possibly end well.

“Oh, Yen wasn’t kidding,” says the stranger, eyeing Geralt. “You are very distinctive!”

Geralt stares back at her, slack-jawed for a moment. “What?”

“I’m Renfri,” Geralt’s date introduces herself. Jaskier wishes the earth would open up and swallow him whole, especially when she glances over at him. Her gaze slides back to Geralt, as does Jaskier’s, and yeah, he is very fucking distinctive with that white hair and those yellow eyes. Damn. “My friend Yennefer set us up for a blind date…?”

As Jaskier contemplates throwing himself into the koi pond, Geralt twists to stare at him. Jaskier can only imagine how mortified he must look right now; his face burns as both Renfri and Geralt look his way. Perhaps Renfri will figure it out before Geralt says anything; she looks like a smart woman.

But Geralt just gets up, dusting himself off and shaking his head. “No,” he tells Renfri, which would almost be funny if it weren’t the weirdest thing Jaskier has ever seen anyone do. Then Geralt leaves, turning to walk away from both of them, leaving Jaskier and Renfri alone together in the garden. Renfri frowns, watching him go with obvious increasing confusion. Jaskier also jumps to his feet, equally confused but determined not to lose sight of Geralt.

He chases the man— and it does feel like a chase, Geralt must be fucking speed-walking away— and finally tracks him down well outside the garden. Geralt is thundering down a set of stairs leading to a parking lot and he doesn’t stop at the sound of Jaskier careening towards him. Only when Jaskier desperately calls his name does he finally stop, slowing until he reaches the bottom landing and then standing there, still.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier calls down the stairs, breathless. He begins to descend them but Geralt doesn’t turn around. “Fuck, you’re fast! Shit. I’m sorry, Geralt.”

Without looking his way, Geralt complains, so quietly that Jaskier nearly misses it, “Yennefer is going to kill me.”

“I would have fucked off,” Jaskier says quickly, hurrying down the rest of the steps until he gets to the bottom. Geralt still doesn’t look at him so Jaskier slides none-too-gracefully into his space, demanding his attention. He’s hardly red in the face or anything, but he looks embarrassed. Jaskier crumbles. “I’m sorry. I— seriously, I don’t care, I would have fucked off. I should’ve left, I should’ve— You should go back there, she’s beautiful!”

Geralt’s nostrils flare but he doesn’t look away. “Why did you lie,” he demands, flat.

“Well,” Jaskier deflates. “Um. You’re beautiful.”

“Hmm.”

“I really am sorry,” he offers.

Geralt, still watching him closely, says, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“What do you want me to do?” Jaskier throws his hands in the air, breaking away from Geralt’s stare— in the greenhouse, surrounded by bright lights and open, manmade nature, it had been easy to sit under the weight of Geralt’s eyes on him. Down here, at the end of a staircase and the entrance to a dark garage, chest still heaving, it feels too intimate. He puts some distance between them, sighing. “You want me to go back there and explain the whole situation to poor Renfri?”

When Jaskier finally turns around again, Geralt’s gaze hasn’t left him. “I want you to come have dinner with me instead,” he says, slowly but purposefully.

“Oh,” breathes Jaskier. “That’s— well, if you want that.”

“I already made a reservation for two. My name’s on the list.” Geralt is fidgeting with the end of his sleeve at first but when he approaches Jaskier he drops it, striding forward without hesitating. “Table for Geralt and one young brunet friend of Yennefer’s.”

Jaskier chokes on his own surprised laugh. “I don’t actually know Yennefer,” he needlessly explains.

“She’s going to hate you,” says Geralt, half-smirking, and then he adds, “Well, she’ll hate both of us now.”

They get to the restaurant twenty minutes late, Geralt’s hair mussed up and lips a bitten red and Jaskier wearing his backpack and a shit-eating grin. The host sees them and immediately tells them their table has been cancelled, and they end up getting terrible two-dollar slices from a hole-in-the-wall pizza place. They eat on the way back to Geralt’s car and then he drives Jaskier back to campus, kissing him soundly in the door to his apartment until Priscilla comes home and yells at Jaskier to get a room. As they squabble Geralt apologizes, polite and nervous, and kisses Jaskier’s cheek and tells him it was nice to meet him.

Jaskier goes inside and spends the next thirteen hours writing the best poetry he will ever write.

#my writing #geraskier fic #geraskier #flash fic challenge #events

[monstersandmaw]

Male drider x female reader - Part Three (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Sorry for the huge delay on posting this - I was prepping to drive halfway up the country last week, and then when we got here my mother in law fell and badly broke her arm at the shoulder, and had to go to the local hospital, with surgery scheduled for Monday, so it’s been... busy...

Here’s part three of cranky spooder, with part four (final, long, and nsfw) scheduled for next Wednesday so that even if there’s more drama up here in the Lakes, you’ll still get your story.

This one is shorter, but I still hope you enjoy it. The fact that he's a widower is brought up, and the fire in which his wife and unborn eggs died is also mentioned, but briefly, and in no real detail. Hope you enjoy getting to know him a little better, and we find out his name in this one too.

On Monday morning, you pushed the door open with no small degree of trepidation, but found it deserted. Your task for that morning would take you up the wooden and brass ladders into the upper reaches of the library shelves, up and down, up and down. It was exhausting, but you welcomed the exertion after days of standing over piles of books and noting down titles.

On your fifth trip down, arms laden with books, you heard your name spoken from below, but as you looked down, your foot slipped, and the books rained down to the ground.

With a shout, you scrabbled for the ladder rung but missed, and found yourself falling through the void behind you. There were easily fifteen feet between you and the hard floor, but before you could even process what was really happening, something cushioned your back and you bounced softly, swaying perhaps four feet off the ground.

Looking around, you found that you were lying in a hammock of white webbing, slung hastily from a shelf nearby and gripped in the front talons of a drider’s two front legs.

Carefully, he lowered it to the ground and held out his hand to you. Shaking, you stepped from the webbing, too surprised to notice that it wasn’t sticky, and let him lead you back to the table. “Are you alright?” he asked.

You nodded, adrenaline still flooding through you.

“I thought I wasn’t going to catch you for a second there.”

“Thank you,” you managed. “That would have been a nasty fall…”

“I shouldn’t have distracted you like that. It was thoughtless of me.”

Looking up at him as he cringed away slightly, you found yourself asking, “What’s your name?”

“My name? Why?”

You shrugged. “Everyone calls you ‘the master’, but you’re not my master. I don’t work here.”

“Yes you do,” he said, glancing at the table groaning with books for reshelving.

“Only for another four months,” you said. “I mean… I’m not part of your staff. I don't know what to call you.”

He swallowed thickly and half turned from you, showing you his profile. He had a slightly hooked nose and a sharp chin, and his dark, glowering brows didn’t lend any softness to his already angular and gaunt face. “Gilvas,” he said, so softly you nearly missed it. “My name is Gilvas.”

“Well, Gilvas,” you said with a faint chuckle, “I think we’ve got to find a way to stop scaring the living shit out of each other whenever we meet… Unless you want to keep shaking me from the stacks like an apple from a tree…”

He stepped back then and blinked softly. The tiniest smile graced his lips and he stared at you. “Perhaps we should,” he said. Taking another few steps back, his legs moving like silent mechanical levers in an inventor’s toy, he swallowed again and sighed. “What are you working on today?”

Your gaze dropped to the scattered books and you picked one up and held it out to him. “See for yourself.”

He reached falteringly for the book and missed, eyelids fluttering. “Like I care anyway,” he said, turning and leaving.

“Wait,” you called. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”

At that, he halted again. “Excuse me?”

“I forgot…” you admitted. “I forgot that…”

“That what?”  he snarled, rounding on you and rearing up again, though only slightly this time. His pendulous body acted as a counterweight and he hung there like a nightmare between the shelves. “That I can’t see you in this light? That catching you was a literal shot in the dark? That I can’t read the title of a book this close to my face?” He brandished the tome before flinging it roughly into the depths behind you.

“Yes,” you said breathlessly.

Your admission must have taken the wind out of him because he sagged, returning his lethally-clawed spider legs to the ground again and turning away, resting his weight on the shelf with a hand as he did so. “I shouldn't have lost my temper,” he said quietly, and then left.

Chance meetings with him after that seemed to occur more regularly, though none matched that one for drama, to your relief. Finally, on one rainy afternoon as you stood by the window taking a break, he approached you. His hair was tied back off his face that day, revealing its gaunt angles and bruised-looking shadows. He was clearly a wreck of his former self, but you thought you could see the ghost of who he had been.

“You’ve finished the first four sections,” he stated.

You turned from the rainy view and nodded. “Yeah. It’s still a lifetime’s work to fix all this, you know? I’m just grouping it by category. If you want a detailed catalogue of everything that’s in here, you need to hire someone permanently.”

He nodded. “I’m aware. Though frankly, I can’t see the point. When I die, the whole estate will be broken up anyway.”

The bluntness of his words took you by surprise and you paced over to him. He wavered, as if on the point of stepping back into the safety of the shadows, but he remained where he was. He had the body of a black widow spider, you had come to realise, with the black carapace marked with the hourglass of red. The red streak in his hair highlighted it, and the colour was picked up again in his inhuman, garnet-red eyes and in the swirling, watercolour birthmark across the right side of his face and neck.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

“Why not?” he scoffed. “It’s the truth. I have no heirs.”

“Gilvas…” you began, but you stopped. It wasn’t your place. In the months you’d been here, all the two of you had discussed was poetry and shared the odd comment on whatever your current topic was.

With a long inhale, he said, “Tell me about yourself?”

“What about me?” you laughed. “I’m an archivist, my best friend is an orc, I’ve lived in Starfall Springs all my life, save for going to the university at Old Trollbridge, and —”

“What college?”

“At Trollbridge?” you asked. “Lady Francis.” Lady Francis of the Barbed Arrow, to give it its full title, but no one called it that.

He smiled. “I was at Calnehouse.”

Something softened in him then as he trailed his elegant, if bony, fingertips along the edge of the table.

“Met my wife there.”

Your heart leapt. This was the first time he’d ever mentioned her - or anything personal really. “What did she study?” you asked in a whisper.

“Foreign languages,” he said, voice catching. “She was brilliant.”

“You must have loved her very much…” you offered, your words feeling empty and inadequate.

Meekly, he nodded. “She would have liked you.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.”

With a shy smile, you ventured, “May I ask why?”

He twitched his head in a ‘follow me’ gesture, and you walked by his side to the back of the library. A panel stood between two wide bookshelves, and he pressed a rosette amid the ornate carving. With a click, it sprang free from the wall, and he ducked through it with barely a whisper of room on each side of his body, leaving you to follow after. As the door closed behind you, the corridor was plunged into complete darkness.

You gasped and shot a hand out for the wall.

“This way. It’s not far,” Gilvas murmured, and a moment later, a shaft of light pierced through the absolute blackness and the pair of you emerged at the other end in an unfamiliar part of the house.

“Where are we?” you asked as you watched him squeeze through and step down into a slightly lower passage. He turned and, to your surprise, offered you his hand.

You took it and found his skin cool, almost cold, and his grip strong despite the slight tremble to his fingers. He steadied you and then let go, allowing you to look around. Portraits hung all down the corridor and you stared from one to the other of them. Most seemed to be of driders, although you picked out a tiefling in one, and what appeared to be a human in another.

Finally, your eyes lighted on a striking likeness of a young, female drider with pure white hair and lavender skin. “Is that…?”

Silently, he nodded and blinked slowly.

You crossed to her and stared up at the modestly sized painting. The drider was laughing, caught on the moment of turning to look out at the viewer, hair swirling. You thought of all the life and vivaciousness he’d missed out on since holing himself up in here after her death. “She’s beautiful,” you choked. “I’m so sorry you lost her.”

“There was a fire,” he said. “Took out the whole east wing. Gutted it. I… I couldn’t reach them.”

“Them?” you blurted unthinkingly.

“She was… She was with…”

A chill plunged through you as you remembered what Naril had told you, and you turned from the painting. “Stop,” you hissed. “You don't have to relive that. I’m sorry.”

He blinked down at you, face achingly sad. “I’m glad you came here, you know?”

“I thought I was just a nuisance, reorganising all your books and getting in the way…”

He managed a weak, wonky smile and shook his head. “This place has been the same for too long.”

With a quick glance back over your shoulder at the laughing drider, you asked, “How… Low long?”

“Nine years,” he said. “She died in our last year of university. In the spring.”

“And you’ve lived here alone all this time?”

“I’m not alone,” he said, turning and looking pointedly down the length of the corridor.

Frowning, you turned and found Chiara standing at the far end, gawping at the pair of you. “My lord?” the harpy croaked, looking stunned to find you there. “Is…?” she looked from you to him again. “Is everything alright?”

His lip twitched fractionally, and he nodded. “I was just…” he sighed. “Never mind. I should let you get back to work. I promise not to shake you from the rafters again.”

“Only if you promise to catch me,” you grinned as he opened up the passageway for you.

He faltered. And then nodded. “Deal.”

Final Part --->

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I really hope you folks enjoyed this one! Don’t forget to let me know if you did enjoy it by leaving a like and/or reblogging it!

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#drider #exophilia #monster boyfriend #drider x reader #drider boyfriend #male monster x female reader #male drider x female reader #male drider #male monster #female reader #spider monster #cranky spooder

[fishmongeringstudies]

five: the ballad of the goose-girl

once upon a time there was a goose who wanted to become a man. or there was a man who wanted to become a goose. or there were both, or there were none, or there were many of the same spell. once upon a time there were ten thousand geese and they wanted to go south. why? because it was too cold up here, they said. too far from the equator. too lonely.

one of the geese was called jorge. jorge had been assigned the role of miserable family caretaker with an inferiority complex from birth but a brief spell of rebellion in their teenage years led to their official disengagement from the role and subsequently, the adopting of a new one. jorge was a philosopher. their favorite philosopher was kant. they had never read any kant because geese can't read.

dimitri could read. dimitri was a goose but there was, how do you put it, something a little off about her. sometimes dimitri woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, her blankets kicked to the other end of the room, babbling about microeconomics and the supply-demand curve for cross-continental flying gear. dimitri was in a mad, one-sided love that consumed her body and soul, but this wasn't that bad in the broader scheme of things because this gave jorge, who couldn't read, something to do.

sometimes dimitri would read jorge poetry. dimitri had memorized every book of poetry in the main branch of the national library when she made a stopover there in her youth and could now be called upon to recite almost any poem from memory, as long as she didn't hate the poet. for example, dimitri hated sylvia plath. no matter how much jorge begged and pleaded with her as they flew over the skyscrapers of new york, the masses of writhing trees and open fields dotted with cows and sheep and death, she would not change her mind. 'please,' jorge would say while they stopped to rest on the fender of some college student's beat-up honda civic. 'read me a poem. any poem.' 'you mean,' dimitri would say, taking a drag from her cigarette. 'read me a plath poem.' 'that's not what i said,' jorge would respond defensively, because jorge was the kind of goose that assumes the world is out to get them no matter what and sticks their head in the gift-horse's mouth and then screams down its gullet for five minutes. finally, dimitri would laugh. 'that's what you mean.' then the conversation would end.

one day dimitri and jorge got separated from the flock. this was not unprecedented, as dimitri had been lagging behind for a few days now and jorge, being her designated attendant, had stayed with her. but it was just as frightening for jorge as it had been the first time, fifteen years ago when dimitri had pitched out of the sky halfway across philadelphia like an anvil and jorge had found her sprawled on the fender of some sad person's fucked-up lamborghini, looking like an angel in a bad insurance advertisement. it was always the fenders. dimitri had a thing for fenders.

dimitri also had a thing for letting her long, healthy history of communication problems fuck up her relationships with other geese, a habit she had picked up in her youth alongside smoking, lying, and reciting poetry. she was doing all three of the latter as they circled around the deserted shopping complex a fifth time, the sun a blurry white spot a few feet beneath their heads. 'did you know,' said dimitri, a cigarette clamped in her beak.

'no, i don't know,' said jorge.

'asshole. i haven't started speaking yet.'

jorge observed the setting sun with a detached kind of panic. 'yes you have.' they brushed something out of their eye with their wing. the smoke from dimitri's cigarette kept getting into their eyes. it was making it hard to concentrate on not being sad. 'you said 'did you know.''

'that's not the important part.'

'then what is the important part?'

'the important part is-'

south meant many things to many creatures. depending on who you asked and what time of the day it was when you did, you might get anything ranging from 'the southern tip of malaysia' to 'nineteen-seventy-five'. right now, in this particular snapshot of time, south meant the following things. for jorge, it meant freedom. for dimitri, it meant-

'-is that every shopping mall is a little haunted.'

jorge was unimpressed. most things were haunted to some degree or another. it was a very old world and the people that lived in it were all very broken, but that didn't stop the broken things from wanting to hang around, even after their ribs had cracked open and their lungs were smeared with soot. they told dimitri as much.

dimitri cleared her throat, which was hard to do while lying and smoking and flying in a circle around a deserted haunted shopping complex but otherwise feasible for a geese as competent as her. she turned to look at jorge, the trickle of her gaze sliding over their white, wind-tossed body like a cool hand over a flame.

'what i'm saying is let's spend the night there.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose named dimitri who was in a mad, requited love that consumed her body and soul. her partner was a poet, of course, because all geese want to fall in love with a poet, but here's the catch. jie ting never told dimitri which poems were about her. dimitri spent years trying to coax the confessions out of her, making her breakfasts in bed, bringing home cute little mice with their tails tied up in butterfly knots, kissing the spot where her wing met the curve of her body with the kind of reverence worshipers reserve for the day they meet their creator, but jie ting was stubborn and beautiful and kind and dimitri could never bring herself to do the truly horrible thing, to walk into her study and crack open the journals she kept those intimacies in. in spite of this, well, this thing between them, they were happy. they puttered around making cups and plates out of wet clay. they told stories about their cousins who had gotten lost in rain forests in the amazon and streets in taipei. every year they made the long journey down south, and then flew back up in the spring. and then jie ting died, and then there was no one left to coax anything out of.

the doctors said there was nothing dimitri could have done for her. for every million perfectly preventable deaths there are two to three freak accidents, faultless failures, broken vessels. and for every broken body on the pavement, trampled by cars bigger than the both of them combined, there was a broken heart.

dimitri closed up their old haunt in the woods. she broke all the mugs and gave all the bones back to their grieving micey relatives, who were horrified, and then angry, and then sad. then she flew all the way down to singapore and learned every poem in every poetry book they had in the national library, a looming glass building in the heart of the business district, and dragged her battered body all the way back up north, through miles and miles of snow-kissed nothing, and then jorge returned home in the spring with the rest of the good ones, the ones who weren't fucked in the head, who still had hope to speak of.

she can teach me poetry, thought jorge.

they definitely went to a liberal arts college, thought dimitri.

neither of these things are true. but neither are the stories that led them to each other. a lie canceled out a lie and after the dust had settled and dimitri had recovered from the ghost of death on her shoulder, they found each other standing right where they had started out, on opposite ends of the same crooked street.

;

the perfume store smelled like sixteen layers of hell distilled into a single bottle of wine that had been left to ferment for a few millennia and then smashed in a pool of vomit but it was the only place that wasn't so overgrown with vines that jorge could clear out a place for dimitri to lie down. they did so with an efficiency that startled even themselves, brushing dust and old receipts aside with one wing and spritzing the whole place clean with the other. dimitri was then coerced into the little sacred spot, though she was deeply reluctant and jorge was deeply embarrassed about the whole thing. desperate times call for desperate measures. when there are two geese and one perfume store and nineteen shades of bergamot and lavender, one learns to quieten their demons.

the funny thing about geese is that they are about sixty-percent neck and forty-percent everything else and yet a goose lying sideways occupies two hundred percent of the previous amount because geese are conceited like that. dimitri took up more than enough space on the shelf in the perfume store from hell, but with a little maneuvering she was able to make enough space to pull jorge down beside her. the funny thing about geese is they have very big egos, and very small dreams.

'imagine i am your mother,' said dimitri, waving one wing idly in the dark. 'singing you a lullaby as you drift off, packing your lunchbox for school, turning out the light in your bedroom.'

jorge's eye twitched. 'huh? i will not,' they said. 'that's disgusting.'

'oh. you think i'm disgusting?'

'no, that's not what i mean-'

'-but that's what you said.'

'-i said the idea of you as my mother is disgusting.' jorge hid their face in their feathers but their beak was too long and stuck out in a highly noticeable manner, therefore ruining the effect altogether. they grumbled to themselves, then spent a few minutes contemplating the fifteen feet of nothing that lay before them. a field of snow, ash, or flowers. darkness could be whatever you wanted it to be. that was part of the appeal of closing your eyes.

'hey,' they said.

'mm?'

'why won't you recite a plath poem?'

the sound of something soft against the wall. dimitri was brushing the flat of her wing along the wall behind her, over the faded labels and the peeling tiffany blue paint. 'because i can't.'

'but you know them, don't you,' jorge pressed.

'i do.'

'then?'

'how old are you this year, jorge?'

'old enough to read depressing poetry.'

'but not old enough to have fallen in love.' she withdrew her wing from the wall. it came away caked in dust and old memories. rich, gold-kissed families with kids in little bow-ties, babies forgotten in well-lit dressing rooms, the occasional stabbing. 'am i wrong?'

jorge bristled behind her. 'what does love have to do with this?'

'because,' dimitri mused, and jorge felt every sound that she made in their chest, where the heart was working furiously to keep blood circulating without end. 'all poems are love poems.'

'you know,' said jorge.

'i don't know.'

'good. you shouldn't.' jorge curled themselves tighter, so the two hundred percent became a hundred and ninety-five. 'i'm going to sleep. good night.'

;

once upon a time there was a goose who would do anything for her lover and then that lover died. once upon a time there was a goose who was really good at literary analysis, so good she could have taught at harvard if she hadn't wanted to be closer to her lover, who worked in non-profit and spent most of her time abroad, and then her lover died. once upon a time there was a goose. and she knew a lot of poetry. it was the last thing she did for jie ting, with the gray-dusted coat and the heather eyes. do geese have heather eyes? fuck it. this one did.

once upon a time there was a goose who really wanted to go to a liberal arts college, but their dad gambled all their savings away on a business venture which went bust moments before the big cash-out and so the college fund became a college black hole, a college financial aid form which procured miserably few sympathies from the financial aid office, a college nothing. this goose was really quite smart, though they couldn't prove it to save their life. but the other goose knew. the other goose wasn't as smart. she'd just had more money. and worse luck.

this isn't a love story. in this story there are no love stories because in some languages every story is a love story, and if everything is something then there is really nothing, no takeaway at the end of the parable, no shard of glass in the sand. imagine you're walking along the coastline in a white dress made from diamonds and you step on that shard of glass. there goes your foot. what will you do? the world is ending.

in the morning dimitri wakes up first. she touches jorge's forehead with the tip of one wing, then the flat of it, then the side. there's a bar of sunlight coming in through a gap in the moth-bitten blinds and it falls across jorge's face in rivulets of gold-leaf, liquid wonder. she watches them sleep for a few minutes, their chest rising and falling and trembling with all that infallible youth, with the faithless determination of someone whose body has grown older but whose soul has stayed as faultless, as clueless, as divine. if god were a goose it would be jorge. says who? says dimitri, who has god's number saved on her phone.

once, a few months ago, she wrote a poem. this she read out to jorge, while they were flying over the rooftops of san diego, each word falling out of her mouth like stars, like things she should have really kept to herself and in the safety of untouchable darkness and yet jorge was looking at her. she was reading this poem and jorge was looking at her and it wasn't the kind of look you gave someone you found by the side of the road, someone who had helped you with your college apps and tied your tie on prom night. it was the kind of look you gave an angel you wanted to pin to the sheets.

'is this poem about someone?' asked jorge, who was for all their cluelessness and cruelty, quite terribly perceptive when one wanted them least to be.

panicking, dimitry dropped her cigarette. she shook her head. 'no.' she shook her head again, for emphasis.

once, dimitri had a fit of coughs so bad she passed out right there in the lobby of that high school. the doctors said it was her lungs. her friends said it was the cigarettes. jie ting, who was long dead by then, said it was the heartbreak. put it back together, said the ghost of her dead lover. you can put yourself back together. maybe i don't want to, dimitri said, a sheaf of papers falling out of the pocket of her coat.

once, she didn't go south. she went up north in search of forgiveness, and when jorge arrived in the spring, they were as lovely as she remembered them being while she had gotten nowhere. still stuck in place, spinning in slow circles, watching god die on a white-gold stage. still mourning.

'i'll write you a poem,' jorge said the other day. 'to thank you.' for being the first person. for being the first person ever.

'don't bother,' she told them.

'i'll do it anyway.'

'i won't read it.'

'you will.'

once there was a goose and another goose and they were all lovely and sad with long, elegant necks and hard, sharp beaks for cracking things open but all they ever did was crack themselves open, like if you hurt yourself enough times you could make the world give you back what it had taken away. but that's not how it works. you know this. you know this, don't you? dimitri? dimitri?

dimitri's still in that old perfume store. she's leaning closer and closer to sleeping beauty, with the lanky limbs and the merry-go-round smile, and she's whispering something, though she'll never tell you what and you'll never get the chance to ask, she's breathing like the air's made of glass. sea-glass. have you ever seen the ocean? she'll take you one day. your name is jorge and you're asleep. you're being kissed on the mouth by a very beautiful person. she's going to die.

but all living things die eventually, you counter. you don't get it. you are missing the point.

that's fine. miss the point. keep sleeping. the moon pulls away from you the way some people pull knives out of bodies, like she can feel every inch of distance she puts between yourselves in her chest, where the heart is working furiously to keep life alive. she pulls away and it hurts her, you know. did you know? you can fall in love twice. you can fuck yourself up twice. there's always room in the cupboard for more ceramic mugs. she made you one. she'll never give it to you. you never asked.

that's your first kiss. and your second, and your third, and as you grow older the kisses will meld together into this looming memory of touch, sensation, heat, softness, girls, girls, girl. girl with the cigarette between her teeth. girl with the sharpshooter eyes, the gunmetal laugh. girl walking you home, girl flying you across the starless city, girl singing you a lullaby when you're eighteen and the world hates people like you who give life everything you've got and have the audacity to think it'll listen.

girl walking out of the perfume store. girl stepping into the half-light. girl leaving you behind.

or maybe it's the other way around. this way you will be able to catch up to the rest of the flock, this way you will make it to the other side of the world before winter gets its hands around your ankles. she's giving you an opportunity. take it. i said take it.

south means a lot of things depending on who you ask. for jorge, it's freedom, new skies, sunsets drenched in whiskey. for jorge it's the second best thing about being alive. for dimitri, it's death.

once upon a time there was a goose and their name was jorge. once upon a time there was a goose and her name was dimitri. in another version of this story they meet each other before the accident and the hospitals and the house in the woods, the financial crash, the long, cruel winter. in another version they kiss with their eyes open, their hearts unspooling around the confession, the truth, the sacred thing that lets people be happy with each other. in another version of this story jorge says read me a poem and dimitri says i'll read you something sweeter, and then she reads them a love poem.

in this one, one goose dies, and the other keeps flying.

A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals - Surely they travel The world forever, I shall not entirely Sit emptied of beauties, the gift Of your small breath, the drenched grass Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies. Their flesh bears no relation. Cold folds of ego, the calla, And the tiger, embellishing itself - Spots, and a spread of hot petals. The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness. So your gestures flake off - Warm and human, then their pink light Bleeding and peeling Through the black amnesias of heaven. Why am I given These lamps, these planets Falling like blessings, like flakes Six sided, white On my eyes, my lips, my hair Touching and melting. Nowhere.

05.25.21

#poem at the end is night dances by sylvia plath #did you know geese. grab their neck. this is a mistake you can always count on

[officerjennie]

For the smut prompts: There are too many options I love, so either Kisame/Itachi or Geralt/Eskel and your choice of 21, 46, or 103. Thank you for opening prompts! I love your work!

Gonna try 21 (changing who gives and receives) and Geskel for this one - please forgive if it’s not that good ^^; I’m still shaky on Geralt and have no experience with Eskel yet at all. But! Can’t succeed if ya don’t try! and mediocrity isn’t a sin anyway.

(thank you so much for including a Witcher option T^T)

(I headcanon Eskel as ace in this :3 boi has a libido but no sexual attraction)

---

He was halfway into getting pounded rather beautifully into the dingy mattress when Eskel noticed there was something off. Not ‘off’ as in ‘bad’ but something was tickling the back of his mind, managing to worm its way towards the front just enough for him to notice it past the sounds of insect songs coming in from the open window, the way Geralt’s heartbeat raced behind him, the sound of his own breaths echoing so loud they were near deafening.

Something was just a touch off.

Eskel shifted his weight onto just one of his forearms, pushing himself up enough to look over his shoulder. The sight that greeted him was as beautiful as it had been the first time he’d seen it, and the second, and even into the dozens: Geralt was simply a sight to behold. Silver-white hair shinning in the moonlight like some work of poetry, the muscles in his stomach contracting as he rolled his hips in a steady rhythm, his lips parted and eyes half mast.

But the rhythm was slower than usual, and his expression was different.

He had been accused before of reading too far into things, but there was something...curious about the way Geralt was looking at him then. Geralt was usually very present when they fucked but right now his eyes were almost glazed over, focused entirely on where they were connected, his cheeks splashed with color that was a bit too pink to be just from exertion. 

And that blush was honestly too much for him to ignore.

Eskel wiggled just enough to get Geralt’s attention, watching those bright eyes snap up to look at him and sharpen as they did. With a little effort (and a groan), he pulled himself away from Geralt, rolling onto his back and reaching out to tug the other wolf into his arms.

“Is something on your mind?”

He earned a sharp nip to his shoulder that he really felt like he didn’t deserve, Geralt immediately slumping into him, their cocks trapped between them and for now left rather painfully hard and forgotten. Eskel chuckled fondly as he held Geralt close, soothing one hand down his back and the fingers of the other through his hair as the younger man pouted against him.

If he’d learned anything through their years, both growing up together and off-and-on travels and finally their years together, it was that Geralt would open up when he was ready. No sooner and no later. Trying to pry it out of him would just ruin the mood, and if Eskel were honest, despite how his skin singed from stimulation and how his cock leaked, he didn’t really care if Geralt didn’t stop pouting anytime soon.

Sex had never really meant ‘reaching an end’ to him anyway. If he got to hold Geralt tight and kiss the top of his head until Geralt melted into him and fell asleep, well, he wasn’t missing out on anything if he got to have that.

But the way Geralt was unable to keep his hips still, ever so slightly rutting against him, seeking out some sort of friction - it told Eskel that Geralt wouldn’t be keeping quiet for long. Either he would open up, or he’d kiss it firmly from Eskel’s mind.

Geralt huffed, the breath sussing out against Eskel’s skin. He squirmed a little in his arms, sticking his nose as far into the crook of Eskel’s neck as it would go, and then huffed again. And when he finally peeled his face away from where it was firmly pressed into Eskel his face had turned even redder, a frown pulling his lips down but not an upset one. No, it looked much like the kind he donned when he was thinking.

He slid his hand down from his hair to cup Geralt’s cheek, then to caress his chin, the rough pad of his thumb running gently over Geralt’s bottom lip. It made the younger wolf’s eyes flutter shut in a way that had Eskel’s heart skipping - how vulnerable they could be with each other, how gentle and how soft despite the way the world had worn on the both of them.

This, he would trade for nothing.

“What’s it like?”

Eskel blinked at him, not really certain what he meant. While he waited for Geralt to continue, Geralt shifted enough to bring his own hand up in a mirror of Eskel’s, running the back of his fingers against Eskel’s scarred cheek and lips.

“What’s it like to...be in your position? When we have sex?”

Geralt’s brow furrowed in such genuine curiosity and Eskel had to take a steading breath - this man would be the death of him someday. No one person should hold so much of his heart so fully, and yet he knew it was far far too late to change that.

So vulnerable and trusting, and only with him. What did he ever do to deserve this?

“We can switch, if you’d like?” He pushed some of Geralt’s bangs away from his face, then caught his hand to kiss. “Might take a while, I won’t do it without prepping you proper first.”

Geralt nodded, and leaned up to kiss him - first his scar, tender and feather light, and then his full lips, heated and hungry. And as they once again coiled around each other, Eskel patting around the tousled sheets and blankets, he hoped they had enough oil left to fulfill his love’s curiosity.

#geskel #eskel #geralt #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #lemony #crosspost later #theintellectualweeb #asks

[abarbaricyalp]

Hi! If you're still taking propmpts. SamBucky, sequel to Push All My Buttons. Established Relationship: Sam comes back home to Bucky after Riley gets shot down during a mission and is a complete mess. Bucky comforts him to his best ability.

Friend. Friend. Friend. Why.

This is a sequel to Push All My Buttons. You don't necessarily need to read it to read this. This one is certainly not the same kind of fic.

CW: Severe suicidal ideation, discussions of grief, loss, and trauma, discussions of suicide

Link in the reblog

Excelsior

Bucky had nine months with Sam and Riley before they shipped out with the wings. He and Sam had been sleeping together for that entire time minus three days and they’d been dating for about two weeks less than that. As Riley had always said, ‘When you know, you know. Even if all you know is that they’re an irritating little shit.’ Which is what he thought both Sam and Bucky were, especially together.

It had been a really good nine months.

They shipped out late afternoon on a Saturday and that was a very bad month.

Bucky wasn’t military and Rhodes had left with the project and taken on his duties again elsewhere. Stark, in his own haze of being left alone, did not fill Bucky in on any developments with the wings, if he was even asking Rhodes.

The only thing Bucky got was the occasional phone call or text, in which Sam could barely talk about anything to do with the wings. Well, those and the program Bucky had on his computer. It was just the monitoring datastream for the jetpacks, essentially a condensed readout of what showed up on the wristlets. BPI and vitals of the wearers, elevation, fuel reserves, GPS, temperatures, difficult to decipher radar readings.

Bucky kept up with the readings religiously. He slept in his office space more often than not and scrolled through the information every morning when he did leave. So he was there at 6PM when the reading came screeching in. It was nearly a year to the day that they’d shipped out. It was a Friday. Bucky was actually packing up to go home and shower for once.

The program lost its mind the same way the wristlets would be. EXO-7 Suit 2 had lost all BPI and dropped elevation until… It hit the ground and went off line.

Bucky was pretty sure he passed out because he opened his eyes and he was on the ground, staring up at the fluorescents. There was almost no way to know for sure which pilot was in which suit. Suit 2, the Redwing suit, was usually Riley’s, but there was nothing to say that Sam hadn’t grabbed it that night. It would be about 2.30 in the morning over there. Mission like that could’ve been last minute. Could’ve taken them right out of bed. They could’ve grabbed whatever was closest. And Sam and Riley shared everything down to toothbrushes.

Bucky could comb through the data from the minutes previous. Try to rationalize out the BPI readings and find patterns, but the point of it being Sam and Riley was that they were similar pilots. Their build, their resting heart rate, the way they jumped into action. It was like watching twins move. Their readings weren’t different enough to prove anything, even if Bucky could make his arms and hands work enough to scroll back.

The other suit was still online. It dove halfway down before stopping as the radar lit up with projectiles. Again and again, like a bird dashing into traffic for another’s dead body, Falcon tried to get down to Redwing against enemy fire.

Bucky snatched his computer from its dock and raced to the elevator. His hands were shaking so badly he hit a few numbers below. The elevator went up to 88 and Bucky jabbed the door close button over and over. 89. 90. 91.

Bucky burst out on floor 92, tried not to think about the fact that just looking at elevator buttons had made him start crying, and ran towards Stark’s workstation.

“Call Rhodes!” he shouted and didn’t give a shit about the tears in his voice. “Call Colonel Rhodes right now.”

Stark sprawled upright, having apparently been asleep, and reached for his phone before narrowing his bleary eyes at Bucky.

“Barnes? What’s going on?” he asked.

Bucky set the computer down on a mess of other electronics. “One of...one of… Fuck!” A sob ripped its way out of his throat and he angrily swiped the heel of his hand across his eyes. “One of the suits went down. Someone...someone…”

“Shit,” Stark said and grabbed the phone again. He scrolled through the data reports and flinched which made Bucky snatch the computer back to look at what he was seeing. It was the radar report for Redwing. A large, explosive projectile had been launched into radar zone just before the suit fell. Bucky dropped the laptop and it landed lid first in a box of papers but didn’t shut so he still saw the WARNING WARNING WARN--

“Rhodey,” Stark said. “Rhodey, what’s going on on that end? No, I said I’d stay out of it if-- I don’t care. I’ve got-- Rhodey don’t you--” He fell silent but Bucky could hear Rhodes speaking on the other end. Stark kept shooting glances at Bucky and flinching like he didn’t have control of his body. “Alright. Thank you. That wasn’t so hard. Yeah. Yeah. No, I won’t tell anyone. No, not even Barnes,” he said. “Yes, especially not Barnes.”

He hung up and then looked at Bucky. “I’m not telling you this. It wasn’t Sam.”

Bucky fell back to the ground, catching himself on his knees this time. His arms were too heavy to pick up and the tears were falling even faster now that he knew Sam was okay. Because if Sam was okay that meant that Riley… That meant that Riley… That meant that Riley was wearing the Redwing suit.

Bucky curled into himself on the floor and screamed until his throat went sore. Stark, bless him, did not try to comfort him. He fell forward enough to press his forehead to the tile and shouted again, banged his fists on the floor and then buried them in his hair instead.

He did not go home.

Stark gave Bucky a cot to keep in his office. Bucky learned to live on it while he stared at the computer screen. That night, Sam had given up on getting to the ground and had to retreat. The suit was taken off and it had been quiet since. That did not stop Bucky from staring at it. One night, it pinged a reading--something like 3 PM their time--and Bucky watched the jetpack get taken up into the air. Higher and higher and higher and higher. Higher than he’d ever meant for them to go. High enough that he started to worry for whoever was wearing it. They were running out of oxygen. It better not have been Sam.

Then the wings retracted and the suit plummeted. Bucky nearly knocked his computer over jumping up. There was nothing in the vital readings to suggest the pilot had lost consciousness or suffered any medical episode. They were just falling. And it wasn’t a mechanical malfunction. The wings had been pulled in.

The pilot was letting themselves fall.

It better not be Sam.

Bucky was really going to watch another one die. He was going to see Sam k*** himself.

The pilot opened their wings ten feet before impact and soared back up, looping around one and then landing heavily on the ground.

The wings came back off.

Sam did it four more times, once each night, before the wings came off and stayed off.

That’s when the GPS started to move.

Two days later, Bucky was at an airport.

It had been slightly more than a week since Riley died. Riley died. Riley died. The words were wrong in Bucky’s head. His tongue rejected them without even trying to say it.

Here’s what Bucky knew about Riley. He knew Sam and Riley had known each other since their first tour. He knew that they took their education leave at the same time, went to the same school, and lived together for the three years it took them to get a degree. He knew Riley knew Sam better than Bucky did. He knew Sam had a sister who loved Riley like another brother. He knew Riley loved Sam like his own brother and Sam loved him back.

He knew that in the nine months he and Sam had been dating, he’d really only give himself six, maybe seven of those because Riley got the rest of the time and half time for the months Bucky did claim. He knew Sam called Riley before he called Bucky when he was upset. He knew Riley was such a good fucking guy and so important to Sam that that didn’t even make Bucky jealous.

He knew that Riley didn’t like coffee unless it had been turned into a sweet drink and had whipped cream on it. He knew Riley was from the middle of nowhere and sometimes talked like an obnoxious parody of a cowboy when he was tired or drunk and definitely when he was both. He knew he was a baker. He knew he liked poetry. He kept books in his army bag.

But even if he didn’t know that and nine months worth of other things, the only thing he needed to know was that Sam loved Riley more than he loved breath in his lungs or wings on his back. He loved Riley to the point of giving up concert tickets because Riley got sick and couldn’t go. He loved Riley enough to listen to bad country music in the car. He loved Riley more than he loved sex, if the number of nights he cut out on dates or netflix and chill to pull Riley out of a bad decision was anything to go by.

Sam loved Riley, Riley loved Sam, and Bucky loved Sam so Bucky loved Riley.

And Riley was dead.

Bucky had paced a hole in the floor waiting on Sam. His flight had been delayed three times already and they were two hours past the first arrival time. Energy and despair and hurt thrummed through his body and Bucky couldn’t dispel it no matter how hard he tried. He’d tried to use the gym at the tower. He’d tried to run it off. He’d tried to eat. Tried to not eat. Tried to sleep. Tried to not sleep.

Okay, that one he didn’t need to try to do. He just didn’t sleep.

It remained, locked around his heart and his head.

Sam was coming back on his own. They apparently hadn’t been stationed with a real unit, so there was no one else to send home. Even if they had been with a real unit, Sam was the only one who needed bereavement. So there was no sea of camo or cropped hair to alert Bucky that Sam was coming.

One second he was alone in his grief, the next second Sam was stepping off the elevator. They met halfway across the floor. Bucky was surprised there wasn’t a noise as they crashed together, arms coming around bodies, faces pressed to shoulders, tears escaping again. Sam wasn't in his fatigues or civvies. There was nothing distinctly airforce about him, so they were just two men losing it in each other’s arms and no one knew the depth of it.

Bucky thought about apologizing but there was nothing to apologize for. There were no words to do so anyway. So he just held onto Sam, one hand coming to the back of his head to hold him close. Sam sobbed once, twice, and then collected himself.

Bucky had no idea how long they stood like that. He could’ve stayed for days longer. The hole in his heart was still very much so there. But the luggage turnstile next to them had turned on and off four times and Bucky really wanted to get home and cry in private.

“Baby, let’s go,” he murmured softly, kissing Sam’s chin and then his cheek. “Let’s get you home.”

“I-I-I need to get to our storage unit. I need to-to sort his things,” Sam hiccuped without lifting his head.

“Later. Not right now. You’re coming home with me, alright?”

Sam nodded and wiped his eyes on Bucky’s shoulder. He lifted his head and actually looked at Bucky for the first time all afternoon.

“Hey,” Bucky breathed, brushing his thumb over Sam’s cheek to catch other tears.

Sam held his wrist and kissed his palm. “Hey.” He leaned down to kiss Bucky, tentative at first and then Bucky remembered that he’d thought it was Sam who’d gone down in Redwing for three minutes. He’d watched Sam free fall hundreds of meters to the sand below over and over. He’d almost lost him so many times. And Bucky crashed into him all over again and Sam pushed back. New tears fell, mingling together against their noses and lips and pressed cheeks.

“I can’t lose you,” Sam breathed into Bucky’s mouth. “Not you too.”

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again,” Bucky said.

Sam’s mouth slid off of his, anguish on his face again. His forehead leaned against Bucky’s temple. “He’s gone, Buck. I couldn’t even look for…”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and saw Falcon dashing through enemy fire. “I know, Sam. I know. You tried.”

“Not hard enough. I saw it on the radar before he did. I was going to call out but I…I didn’t, Buck. I didn’t say anything.”

Bucky had nothing to say to that so he wrapped Sam in his arms again. “Let’s go home, Sam. There’s nothing else we can do here. Just breathe for me. Come on.”

Bucky grabbed Sam’s bag and lead him out of the terminal.

Sam slept on the floor, which was fine by Bucky. Something about how beds were too soft. After a week on a cot, Bucky might’ve thought the same thing. So he shoved his coffee table out of the way and threw all the pillows he owned on the floor and laid down several blankets and they slept on the floor.

Sam barely spoke the next day.

He went through the motions of washing dishes after Bucky made breakfast. It was just cereal, so there was little to clean up. He turned on the TV and let it play a documentary about the oceans. It played all day. Over and over. Bucky was pretty certain he could ask Sam anything about it and Sam wouldn’t be able to answer. He ate barely half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch. He read a book of poetry on the floor all afternoon. He ate dinner and Bucky washed the plates.

The second day was much the same, but then Sam was agitated. He flipped through shows and got mad when he couldn’t figure out what to watch. He slammed doors when he left rooms. He threw the pillows and blankets on the couch when he lost his phone, which he hadn’t been answering at all anyway. Bucky had left it plugged in on the arm of the couch. They skipped dinner that night and sat on the couch with the TV off and Sam laid in Bucky’s lap and cried again. They fell asleep like that.

The third day, Sam got up and made breakfast. It was cereal again. Bucky put on music. Sam washed the clothes in his bag. Handed Bucky a beautiful leather bracelet he’d picked up when they’d first landed overseas. Gave him another box and managed to say, “For the birthday he missed,” before he dashed to the bathroom and got sick. Bucky left the box on a bookshelf and went to Sam’s side, rubbing his back and massaging his neck. The gift was a jean and sheepswool jacket. They skipped dinner again.

The fourth day, they sat on the floor, staring at the bare couch. Bucky got tired of counting how many buttons had gone missing, so he said, “You have to talk about it.”

Sam choked but didn’t run for the bathroom. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sam, you can’t keep it bottled up. Listen, after I got back from…”

“You wanna talk about things we should talk about: how’d you lose your arm, Bucky?”

“This isn’t about me. And I was just about to tell you that when I got back from my mission, I had to do a shit ton of therapy. And I hated it. And it took me a really long time to start being honest, but once I did, it helped me recover more than getting a new arm did.”

“How’d you lose your arm?”

“I saw him go down. I saw all the readings.”

“That’s not the same thing. I watched my best friend…” Sam gagged again and brought his hands up to his mouth. Tears filled his eyes and Bucky was sure it was a combination of getting sick and being upset. “I watched him die. I don’t know why I even thought I could find a body. I could… Fucking pieces if I’d gotten to the ground. That would’ve been it.” Bucky flinched and Sam zeroed in on it. “That what you wanted to hear, Barnes? Is that what I needed to say to heal myself? My best friend is dead. Maybe his body could be cold before you ask me to fix myself.”

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. “That’s not what I was saying, Sam. Don’t attack me. I’m on your side.”

Sam stood suddenly, swayed on his feet, then found his balance. “I’m going to shower. Please just...give me time to myself right now.”

Bucky dropped his head to the couch.

The fifth day, they were both called into Stark Tower by Rhodes.

It was too early, Bucky thought, to ask Sam to do more debrief. It was too early to ask him to face the world. Bucky had laid on his sister’s couch for two weeks before he could so much as answer the door when he got back.

Sam was in a mood again. Actually, the mood hadn’t ever lessened from the afternoon before. It was back to the silent treatment and if Bucky did push him to say something, he’d be cruel and biting, over descriptive and intentionally mean. Nothing at all like Sam. Or maybe, just like him. This was, after all, Sam at his lowest. How was Bucky to know what that looked like? The only man who could’ve told him was dead.

Bucky had called ahead and had two of the strongest, plainest black coffees waiting in the lobby of Stark Tower for him and Sam. Anything that wouldn’t smell like Riley. They got into the elevator alone and Bucky passed Sam one of the coffees. The doors closed and before Sam could reach over and choose floor 92, Bucky selected 2 - 91.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asked. It could’ve been a snarl if the day hadn’t already been so long. If they hadn’t already argued about Bucky wearing the jacket Riley had given him. If Sam hadn’t knocked a glass off the coffee table and shattered it on accident then cut his fingers picking up shards. If Bucky hadn’t slept in his bed like a normal person.

“We have to talk,” Bucky said.

“I don’t...fucking want to talk,” Sam said, trying to double click the floors like something said would unhighlight them. It didn’t. The doors opened on the second floor.

The doors shut. “I saw what you did the days after Riley died.”

“Don’t fucking say that,” Sam snapped, like he hadn’t told Bucky this morning about the blood that had been on his suit when he landed.

“I saw you free fall. Over and over. I watched that, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw steeled and he stared at his reflection in the stainless steel siding. “I free fall all the time. It’s one of the things we learn how to do.”

“Not like that, Wilson. You went into the fucking atmosphere. There’s no telling what the wings would have done at the speeds you were clocking.”

Sam’s mouth remained a straight line.

“You could’ve died,” Bucky said to get it out there.

“Good,” Sam said, ripping off the bandaid.

The doors opened on the fifth floor. “Don’t,” they both said to the woman who tried to step in.

“I’m still here,” Bucky said.

“I know. And I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I felt that way. I’m sorry I still feel that way. I can’t make myself stop.”

Bucky swallowed hard and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Sam...I tried too, alright? You don’t… I haven’t told you the whole story about my discharge and I will one day. This isn’t the day for that. But my story isn’t clean. Not even close. And I tried it too. I thought that’d be a lot simpler than the bullshit I was about to go through. I thought it’d be a justice for the people involved in my story.”

Sam looked at Bucky sharply, eyes red, tears wet on his cheeks.

“It wouldn’t’ve been. So I need you to tell me what’s going on and how we can fix this.”

Slowly, the fight seeped out of Sam’s shoulders. Common ground at last. A shock to his system. A bitter, bitter win for Bucky for the time being. Sam sank down and stared at his coffee cup. “I’ve known Riley for over a decade. More than anyone else in my life who ain’t blood.”

Bucky sat beside him. The elevator stopped on three floors.

“I’ve known him for a third of my life. The first serious third. I think I grew up more with him than anyone I went to school with. I’ve never had to do this on my own. He was always right next to me. I haven’t made a decision without asking him since I decided to sign up.”

“So, poor track record of making your own decisions,” Bucky joked softly.

“I was going to let myself do it,” Sam whispered then. “I wasn’t going to pull the wings back out.” Bucky’s heart went cold and still in his chest before roaring back to life. “I’m sorry you could see the readings. I didn’t know that.”

“I’m not upset I saw it. I’m upset that you felt the need to do it.”

Sam looked over at him. “Sure, but let me ask, what stopped you from following through?”

Bucky stomach twisted painfully. It was his turn to get nauseous. “I didn’t want my sister to find me. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

Sam nodded. “If I know you might be watching those readings, I won’t be able to do it again.”

Bucky nodded and brought the coffee to his lips. It scorched his mouth and throat and he didn’t taste it all but the point wasn’t the taste. The doors opened on the seventeenth floor.

“We’re going up,” Sam said in a quiet voice.

The doors closed.

“He was my friend too,” Bucky said, voice raw. “You can talk to me about him.”

“I know that. I’m just not in the sharing mood right now.”

The doors opened. Closed. Opened. Closed. Opened. Closed.

“I fell off a train,” Bucky said. “I told you my SpecOps mission was in the mountains. I was knocked out of a moving train going around the side of a mountain and I… I’m not really sure how it happened. I might’ve reached out for the cliff face. I might’ve just hit it on the way down. I didn’t have my arm when I woke up on the ground.”

“Well, shit, maybe a bear ate it while you were out.”

“Nah, the doctors said it was too smooth. It was ripped off all at once.”

Sam flinched and then closed his eyes.

“I actually had a little bit left. I dunno, half of my upper arm, maybe. It was removed later. So, I guess it wasn’t that smooth and pretty. You know what I remember most?”

Sam hummed without lifting his head.

“I remember the jacket I was wearing. We’d been undercover when we were called into action. I was wearing a beautiful jacket that I’d picked up somewhere when the mission was still an adventure and not a nightmare. And I remember laying in the snow, looking at all that blood and my missing arm and being upset that my jacket had been ruined.”

Sam snorted and then lost the battle against sobs again. He set the coffee aside and moved over to hug Bucky, crying into his shoulder. Bucky wrapped his arms around Sam and kissed his hair. “We’re gonna get through this, Sam. You’ve just gotta trust me to hold you up. And you’ve gotta trust me to be on your side. I’m not gonna say shit to make you follow the rules or whatever. I’m gonna say shit that helped me, rules be damned.”

“I miss him so much. It’s only been five days. How am I supposed to go seventy more years without him? I’ve called his number a hundred times already and no one ever picks up.”

Bucky rubbed Sam’s back and nodded. “I know, baby. C’mere.” He pulled Sam more into his lap. Sam clutched at his shirt with trembling fingers “I’m gonna be right here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I feel so fucking alone.”

“You’re not, Sam. I’m right here. I’m with you.”

Sam pressed his face further against Bucky’s neck and Bucky felt his tears, cool and heartbreaking. He didn’t have words. He just kept rubbing his hands over Sam’s back, kissing his temple and his hair and saying, “I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.” Hoping Sam would hear him through his grief and believe it.

He held him for forty more floors and they cried together. The elevator continued ever upwards. They pushed forward ever onwards.

“I’m right here,” Bucky said as the doors opened on floor 92. Sam nodded against his shoulder and slowly stood up.

Upwards and onwards.

#sambucky #sambucky fanfic #sambucky fanfiction #sam wilson #bucky barnes #the falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon #winter soldier #captain america #writing #i answer things

[rosereview]

Top 12 Books of 2020

In this crazy year of 2020 I only read 32 books, but that doesn’t mean that I still don’t have too many good five star books that I want to share. But because I’m pretending that this is a top ten list with two honourable mentions, I had to narrow it down to only my top twelve. So let's get started.

12. Catharsis: Pain by Rowan Dugray

To start off, I wanted to mention this really amazing collection of poetry that I picked up. It’s not very well known but it is really well done. Since I’m not the biggest fan of poetry, I usually stray away or get very nervous going into a poetry novel, but this one was a nice surprise. I didn’t let myself dwell on the fact that I don’t always understand the intended meaning of the poems, and instead let myself take my own meaning from the words. In the end I felt like I really had gone through a process of catharsis and released a lot of built up tensions and emotions. A great read.

11. Vow of Thieves by Mary E. Pearson

This book is the second book in the Dance of Thieves duology and it was a treat to get back into the Remnant Chronicles world. It had been a while since I had read the first book so it took a bit for the character relationships and names to come back to me, but after they did this book was a great conclusion. I loved all of the big plot twists and the way that the story went, and couldn't have asked for a more well done novel.

10. Illuminae by Amie Kaufman & Jay Kristoff

This book was a surprise hit which I had been putting off for a while, so I was happy when I finally got to it. The way that the novel is written and presented intimidated me a bit, but I was surprised with how easy it was to read after I got into it. But the biggest surprise, which made for a wild experience, was that the book had a big plot line of a deadly virus. It was kind of scary cause it hit so close to home, but also made it relevant and somehow better. It was a great example of how reading a book at a perfect time in your life enhances so many things about it and that was definitely this one for me. So if you’re into sci-fi books, check this one out.

9. Ace of Shades by Amanda Foody

Next was my first experience reading a Amanda Foody novel although I’ve wanted to read her stuff for a while, and I was not disappointed. This book has some similarities with Caraval, where both have sort of game elements, although this one goes more in the direction of gangs and crime bosses which I loved. The whole book was very well done and fast paced where I just wanted to keep reading until I got to the point that I just couldn’t put it down at the end. Highly highly recommend it, and I can’t wait to get into the next one sometime this year.

8. A Crystal of Time by Soman Chainani

Again this is one that I had been putting off because I hadn’t read the other ones in the series for a while, but when I finally committed to picking this one up I was shocked with how much I enjoyed it. I thought that the book before this one in the School for Good and Evil series kind of repeated a lot of plot points from the previous three books, but this one took a whole different turn. It was nice to see the familiar characters again, but I felt that some of the newer characters were also just as intriguing and kept me wanting more. Now I’m just hoping I don’t take another crazy long time to pick up the last book, especially since it’s already out.

7. The Lost Book of the White by Cassandra Clare & Wesley Chu

No surprise that this book is on my list since it’s a Cassandra Clare novel, and it’s also filled full of Magnus and Alec. This one was super light hearted and fun and was a nice break from the rest of the world. All of Cassandra Clare’s books are just comforting and it feels like I’m coming home every time I get into one. There’s humor, friendship, romance, demons, and shadowhunters… What else could you ask for?

6. The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo by Taylor Jenkins Reid

Finally we’re halfway and boy are we getting to the goodies! This is the second book I’ve read by Taylor Jenkins Reid and it matched and exceeded all of my expectations. I didn’t think anything of hers could top Daisy Jones and the Six, but this one did. I’m not saying that Daisy Jones isn’t amazing, but Evelyn Hugo is just a whole different type of moment. I don’t even know how to explain it. All I can say is if you love old hollywood stories with all of the drama and show biz it brings, then you will fall in love with this novel.

5. Beartown by Fredrik Backman

This book was my first Fredrik Backman read that I finished all the way back in January, so exactly a year ago, but I have to say that it is still stuck in my head. I frequently still think about this book and the story, and I badly want to read all of Fredrik Backman’s novels. His writing style is so unique and the way he fits every part of this story together is incredible. It’s actually the work of a genius! Beartown is all about a hockey town and the dark places it can go when too much pressure is put on young teenage boys. 

4. Anxious People by Fredrik Backman

Unlike Beartown, this is a recent read for me, and I have a feeling it will stay in my head like Beartown but in a totally different way. It is written in Fredrik Backman’s same style that Beartown was written in, although it goes back and forth between timelines, which made it to be a wild ride. There were so many plot twists in this novel that I was jumping up and down in every chapter. It was crazy! I loved how this one shows the natural ways that life can suck which made it so relatable and probably why it beat Beartown in the end, even though I didn’t think any other Fredrik Backman book could. 

3. I Would Leave Me If I Could by Halsey

Now in the top three we have my three favourite creators in the world!! First here we have Halsey, who I hadn’t expected to publish a book, but I’m more than happy that she did. Halsey, being a woman of many many many talents, did not disappoint in this beautiful poetry collection. Again, I’m not the biggest fan of poetry, but Halsey has made me rethink that. I think because I’ve been such a big fan for a while now, her poetry was that much more special for me. So many of her poems are where my favourite lyrics to her songs originated, so to see the way and form that they were first born was very personal. There’s nothing more to say than I just love it.

2. Chain of Gold by Cassandra Clare

Well since I wrote a whole long review about how much I love this book, it’s not surprising to see that it’s almost first on the list. This book was one of the best books I’ve ever read, and it is agonizing to have to wait for the next one. If you want a more concrete reason for why I love this book so much, then you can read my review for it which is on my post list. Besides that, I guess I just have to say that I love this book so much and everyone should read it and all of Cassandra Clare’s novels.

1. House of Earth and Blood by Sarah J. Maas

And now we have finally come to my favourite book of 2020, House of Earth and Blood. Sarah. J Maas is my second favourite author of all time, beaten only by Cassandra Clare, but at first I have to say that I was worried about this book. It wasn’t purely about the Fae or had a connection with the Throne of Glass or ACOTOR series. For those reasons I wasn’t sure I was going to fall in love with it as much. Oh how wrong I was. This book is an absolute masterpiece. There isn’t much more to say. It is filled with grief, romance, but has a very prominent theme of friendship at its core that was what really hit me hard. Everything about this book was amazing and every character was amazingly developed and interesting. I could not put it down and even though it was supremely long, I was never bored. Not one page. It was just incredible. If you are over 18 and like fantasy novels, read this book. You will be doing yourself a favour. 

And that concludes my list of favourite books in 2020! I hope some of these spark your interest and become your favourites in the future.

Until next time!

~Rose Reviews

#sarahjmaas #cassandraclare #house of earth and blood #crescent city #chain of gold #the last hours #Halsey #i would leave me if i could #Fredrik Backman #anxious people #Beartown #The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo #taylor jenkins reid #the lost book of the white #The Eldest Curses #wesley chu #a crystal of time #the school for good and evil #soman chainani #Ace of Shades #amanda foody #illuminae #the illuminae files #amie kaufman #jay kristoff #vow of thieves #mary e pearson #remnant chronicles #catharsis #rowan dugray

[xaphrin]

A Dragon’s Hoard

I just really wanted to have more of Raven’s perspective. This chapter isn’t quite finished yet, but it’s halfway there. So it’s also kind of a sneak-peek.

- - -

Raven woke up to the sound of a pencil scratching on heavy paper, barely interrupting the gentle breeze that rocked the silver leaves of the birch tree she was lying under.The mid-morning air felt surprisingly cool for the season, but they had already climbed so far this morning, so the altitude was likely playing a part. They would return to her den before nightfall, which was better than she hoped. Staying human for this long allowed her many advantages, but speed and efficient travel was certainly not one of them. 

She lifted her arms above her head and stretched, feeling the wound along her back tug sharply with the movement. Wincing, Raven set her arms back down and assessed the pain she was feeling. It wasn’t as bad as it had been the first night she dragged Damian into her den. In fact, it was healing far faster than she had anticipated, and it wouldn’t be much longer before she was completely healed.

Which only meant one more thing - their inevitable rematch.

Her heart sank at that thought. All those weeks ago, she had been so sure of herself and her decision to keep him. Damian was simply a curiosity, a passing fancy that she could easily destroy once she was well enough to transform again. She thought she could keep her hands to herself, and keep her eyes from wandering - he was only human, after all. Not a powerful sorcerer, or sharp-witted fae, or a strong changeling, like the others who had tried to court her. But… she was wrong. So very, very wrong. 

Raven tried to ignore the subtle burn of their mating that simmered just under her skin. The mark she would bear until her dying breath. Which, given the circumstances, would be very soon. 

With a soft sigh, she finally opened her eyes, looking up at the lace patterns of the leaves above her, sunlight filtering down onto her naked skin. She glanced around at the weather-worn, moss-covered stones of the ruins around her - a testament to the old gods that this world had forgotten. She imagined her mother walking these stone floors, singing her prayers, innocent and unaware of the horrors Arellla would be subjected to. And, for once in all of Raven’s life, the ruins of the temple felt… peaceful. Before, when she had visited, they seemed haunting, like whispers of ghosts meant to pin her to her past. But now…

She couldn’t stop a small smile from tugging at her lips as she thought about the pleasures Damian had given her here. His mouth was a gift, and one she fully intended on enjoying at every possible moment. He banished those ghosts from her past, and drowned her in the rich headiness of the present. Raven moved to sit up, pushing at her hair. 

“Lay back down, I’m not finished yet.”  

Her eyes fluttered, and Raven turned to see Damian watching her from under his too-thick lashes. He was perched on the edge of what would have been an altar three hundred years ago, a leather bound book in one hand, and an old, charcoal pencil in another. Well. He was full of surprises and mysteries, wasn’t he? She watched him for just a moment before laying back down on the wool blanket, looking up at the sky. A soft flush worked its way down her neck, and she swallowed. 

It was one thing to be seen like this by Damian and trapped in his memories, but it felt different to have it be recorded on paper. She shifted her hips, feeling warmth flood just below her navel. There was something exciting about it - about being viewed as something worthy of art. It excited her. She clenched her thighs without thinking, and Damian clicked his tongue at the movement. 

“I’m not done yet.” He paused and glanced up at her for a moment before returning to the sketch in his hand. “Don’t even think about touching yourself.”

It was a command, and one she desperately wanted to defy, but she also knew if she played along, he’d reward her later. Raven felt a smirk pull at her lips, trying to decide what was more intriguing to her - his punishment or reward?

She wet her lips and sighed. “How long was I asleep?”

“Barely half an hour.” The sound of his charcoal on the paper filled the space between them. “I didn’t know your constitution was so weak, dragon.” There was a hint of a smile in his voice, but Raven didn’t dare look at him, or he might view it as a weakness. Damian hummed and returned to the sketch. “Passing out after I devoured you seems like something an innocent virgin would do, not a wanton dragon who reads filthy pastoral poetry. I was simply enjoying something sweet after our lunch.” 

She snorted, her mind suddenly filled with the memories of his mouth buried between her thighs. He hadn’t stopped when she came, his tongue and fingers relentless, and brought her to the highest heavens at least two more times. Her body had been weak with pleasure, her energy drained, of course she was going to fall asleep. She needed time to gather her wits after what he’d done to her. What she wanted him to do again. 

Raven’s legs clenched again and she rubbed her ankles together. “Your tastes seem insatiable.”

“And yet you continue to give into them.” He chuckled and glanced at her, the shadows in his verdant eyes darkening with something akin to a warning. “I would be careful, dragon. If you give too much, I might mistake it as though you are falling in love with me.”

“Never.” Lies. She knew where her heart stood already, and she had accepted her fate. 

“You are my possession, knight.” 

Hardly. She was clearly possessed by him, and she would give him the world if he asked her. 

“I intend on using you until I see fit.”

She could give herself to him freely until there was nothing left. 

“Mm…” He rubbed his thumb along the paper, creating a soft shadow somewhere on her form. He glanced at her before turning the page to a fresh one. “Spread your legs, dragon.” 

Carefully, she did, knowing he could see every inch of her from where he sat. 

“Touch yourself.”

Raven barely contained the soft, needy sigh that danced on her lips. She never looked away from him as her hands slid between her legs. She was wet, and willing, and eager. Her hips shifted and she took time to explore herself, sliding her fingers up and down her, barely dipping inside, before circling her clit. With a soft gasp, she closed her eyes and rubbed her clit with slow, hard circles, feeling electricity snap up and down her spine. She heard Damian move off the edge of the altar, the heavy sound of his boots coming closer. 

He knelt down next to her and hummed in her ear, the vibration alone nearly making her orgasm. His teeth caught her earlobe for just a moment before he released her, sitting back to watch. “I want to draw that look of pleasure when you come.” 

Which, given the current state of her, would be very soon. Raven’s teeth sunk into her lower lip and she let go of a strained cry as her hips shifted restlessly. She brought her other hand down and speared two fingers inside herself, the added friction making it feel like she was losing her mind. Next to her she could hear Damian’s heavy breathing and frantic sketching, as if he was afraid he might lose her in the moment. She could hear his heavy breathing and smell the scent of his own lust in the air. Her back arched and she thrust her fingers deep inside herself, hearing his pencil pause for just a moment before he continued to try and finish the picture. 

She groaned and shifted again. “My knight.”

“I’m recording the moment.” His voice was low, strained, as if this was his own brand of delicious torture. His charcoal was a blur, and his eyes flicked between her and the page in front of him. “If you fall - so be it, dragon.”

Raven didn’t need another command, and her head tipped back as she felt her body start to soar. She let go of a cry that echoed the thunder of the night before, and felt her muscles clench on her fingers, pulling her deeper. Everything felt heavy and still, and she let herself lose her breath and her mind for a few blissful seconds before falling back down to the rough, wool blanket beneath her. 

“Put it away.”

He lifted an eyebrow, as if surprised that she dared to give him an order. 

Raven reached over and plucked the sketch book from his hand, smirking. She slid her hand up the front of his breeches, finding his erection heavy and thick. It would feel wonderful was he was buried inside her. Her lashes fluttered and she let go of a low sigh, stroking him through the thick fabric. She had just come, but she was ready again - ready for him to drown her in something hotter than dragonfire. “Put it away and put your cock inside me, Jewel of my Hoard.”

He groaned and Raven knew she won this battle. Her hand pressed harder against his erection, her pace increasing as her other hand flicked open the catches on his belt. Damian growled and pushed her back onto the blanket, crawling over her, but not removing a single item of clothing. The scabbard of his sword slid up the outside of her leg, and the sensation of metal and leather over her skin seemed to drive her wild. Her fingers moved to the catch on his cloak, desperate to remove it.

Damian pulled her hands off him, trailing his fingertips over her shoulders, over her chest, between her breasts, and ended circling her navel. His smile turned malicious, and he dipped his thumb in between her thighs, simply pressing it against her clit. It was torture when Raven wanted friction between them.

He leaned back and stood up, adjusting his clothes and ignoring the blatant erection ragin between his thighs. “Maybe I’ll let you suffer a little longer.” 

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving Raven smoldering as she lay on the moss-covered stone of the temple ruins. A small smirk pulled at her lips and she closed her eyes, letting the burn of need fuel her seemingly endless desire for later. Although she was going to die by his hand in the next few months, there was no doubting that he would make their time together… interesting. 

#damirae #demonbirds #adult nonsense ahead #dragon shifter au #xaphrin's birthday queue 2020