#which in itself frustrates me because I used to love reading books

[navybrat817]

Bucky needs to pay attention to me. 😤

I feel you, nonnie. 😂

Running on Empty

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You had a long day and need Bucky to give you some attention.

Word Count: Almost 1.3k

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. receiving), established relationship, dirty talk, humor, sassy reader, inner monologue, slight feels (it's me, lovelies), Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Work left me in a mood, so apologies for this. 😂❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You huffed as you took a seat on the couch and wondered why you bothered getting out of bed today. Contrary to popular belief, Mondays weren’t always the worst. Naturally, the universe decided it would be fun to give you problem after problem today at work in retaliation for having a positive attitude. How you managed to get anything done outside of putting out so many fires, you had no idea.

And Bucky?

Your beefy, gorgeous specimen of a boyfriend had time to sit, relax, and reread his copy of The Hobbit for the umpteenth time. Manspreading in his chair like he didn’t have a care in the world. Not that you wanted him to have a bad day, too. God knows he deserved rest and relaxation.

But why was he reading instead of fucking the obvious frustration out of you?

“You’re staring at me,” he said, turning a page without looking up from his book. “Which I would say it’s creepy, but we both know you like looking at me.”

True.

You bit your lip as you unashamedly checked him out, wishing he’d lift his gaze so you could see the blue of his eyes. It was an impressive feat that his prosthetic arm matched his right arm in terms of the muscular form and structure, the fabric of his shirt stretching to accommodate his torso. It didn’t matter if he decided to hold you down with his flesh or metal hand, he loved to remind you of his strength as he pounded your desperate pussy, stretching your walls and driving into you so deep that you swore you saw the gates of heaven.

Maybe that was why you thought Bucky looked like Jesus when he was in Wakanda.

“Yeah, I am staring,” you replied, tapping a finger on your thigh when he hummed. “Because I’m trying to figure out why you’re reading instead of eating my pussy.”

Bucky waited a beat before he picked up the bookmark beside him, carefully slotting it between the pages before he shut it and gave you his full attention. “You mind repeating that?” He asked, his voice gruff as he tucked some of his hair behind his ear. He wore it down today, but kept a hair tie around his right wrist.

Perfect for him to pull it back when he went down on you.

He smirked and scratched his scruffy chin when you narrowed your eyes. You craved the burn it left behind when he rubbed his face against your most sensitive area. He knew that.

“You want me to spell it out for you, Bucko? Fine,” you said, leaning back on the cushions as you spread your legs and planted your feet on the couch. Your hands formed a perfect V by your mound, which might as well have been a neon fucking sign since you ditched your under minutes ago, as he tried to hold back a groan. “See this? I have a perfectly good pussy right here and it isn’t going to eat or fuck itself.”

Bucky ran his tongue along his bottom lip before he inhaled. The beautiful bastard was actually sniffing out your arousal. You almost wished you could go back in time and let the scientists know that the serum they created helped super soldiers use their heightened senses to get their dicks wet.

Not that you were complaining since Bucky eyed you like he wanted to devour you whole.

“I’m sorry, baby. Didn’t realize eating or fucking your pussy was on my ‘To Do’ list today,” he said, purposely running a large hand over his crotch.

Fucking tease with his fucking massive hand and cock.

You pouted when he didn’t make a move to get up. “I am your ‘To Do’ list. I’m your girlfriend and I want you to do me because I had a long day,” you huffed, dipping your hand between your spread legs before you batted your eyes at him. “You haven’t fucked me in ages. It isn’t fair.”

Your beautiful man snarled at that, making you shiver as you teased yourself. You didn’t dip a finger in, but you did spread your growing wetness around as he watched. “I fucked you last night,” he reminded you.

“It feels like ages,” you corrected yourself. Thanks to him, you experienced what all-consuming desire felt like and you didn’t like going long without him having you. He couldn’t fault you for that, even if he did thoroughly wear you out the night before. “I’m so empty, Bucky, and I have this tight, wet hole for you to fill up. It’s all yours if you want it.”

His nostrils flared as he finally pushed himself up, his fingers flexing as you kept rubbing yourself with a sweet smile. “It’s my pussy,” he rasped, palming himself again as he stood in front of you. “And since she’s so needy that I can’t even finish a chapter of my book, stop touching her and let me get to work.”

Like you don't have a needy cock, big boy.

The growl in his voice brought a moan out of you, but you didn’t stop touching yourself. “Unless you mark it,” you began, looking him dead in the eye as you brought a glistening finger to your lips and traced along them like a gloss. “It isn’t yours.”

You managed not to smirk triumphantly when he took the hair tie from his wrist and pulled his luscious hair back. “She knows she’s mine. Bratty pussy just wants some attention,” he said as he dropped to his knees and leaned in to nose at your slit. “But I don't mind leaving my mark again.”

“Did you just call my pussy a brat?” You questioned, the last word coming out as a strangled moan when Bucky darted his tongue out, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you still.

“No, I called my pussy a brat. Good thing I know how to tame her,” he said, winking up at you when you looked down. The playful look in his eyes made your heart swell. He was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at him. “Kisses are a good way to start before I pump her full.”

“A very good start,” you smiled, clenching in anticipation.

“And she loves my kisses,” he replied before dragging his mouth along your folds. The sensation that shot through you almost had your thighs clamping around his head, but it wasn’t possible with the hold he had on you. “I gotta say though. She's a messy little thing. Gets my mouth so wet.”

“Bucky,” you whimpered, tugging some of his hair free as he gently wrapped his mouth around your clit.

He hummed and lightly sucked on it before he pulled away, making you whine in protest when the sparks of pleasure fizzled out. “Speaking of kisses, I almost forgot.”

You gave him a small smile when he leaned up to tenderly kiss your mouth, letting him swallow down your moan as you opened up for him. It ended far too soon for your liking, making you loop a finger around his dog tags to pull him back to your lips. “Love you, Bucky,” you whispered.

On the days you practically ran on empty, you appreciated having someone like him by your side.

“Love you, too, baby,” he whispered back, his gaze soft as he slid back down your body. “Now hold on and let me make you and my pussy forget all about that long day.”

You knew he’d ask later if you were okay, but for now you’d let him shut your brain off and make you feel boneless.

And maybe you'd offer to warm his cock later as a thank you while he caught up on reading.

We all deserve that, right? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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[fettuccinealfred0]

Til Death Do Us Part | Part 4

Series Masterlist

Astarion x f!reader, Arranged Marriage AU

Word Count: 7.6k

(CW: general vampirism, very light descriptions of injury)

Summary:

Astarion’s cold hand reaches out to catch your own as you move to drop it back to your side and he presses your palm against his cheek. His skin is like silk and you can hardly stop yourself from softly running your thumb over his beautiful cheekbone.

He leans in closer, lips just a breath away from yours. You hope he will lean down and kiss you. That he will wrap you in his arms and never let you go. You close your eyes and tilt your head up in anticipation.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway.

Read on ao3 here

“What are you reading?” Astarion asks, flopping himself onto the settee next to you.

You lift the book up so he can see the cover. Bram Stroker’s Dracula. “I’m doing research on vampires.”

“Very funny,” Astarion says with a sour face. It makes you giggle as you turn back to your book.

Astarion watches you for a moment before he lets out a frustrated huff that you know is meant to draw your attention back to him.

“Why are you spending all your time surrounded by dusty old books when you could ask me, a real vampire?” He does a self-important flourish with his hand that causes you to snort out another laugh.

It seems too harsh to say ‘because I still don’t know if I can trust a word that comes out of your mouth.’ And really, you do mostly trust him now. You just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something bigger going on around here. 

You see Astarion whispering with Shadowheart and Gale in dark corners. You see the weird visitors- the giant, friendly woman, the stern looking warrior-woman, and the man with two different colored eyes- that Astarion always immediately rushes into his study. You had tried listening at the door the last time they came, but you still couldn’t hear anything.

Astarion couldn’t necessarily be called paranoid because, yeah, you were listening at the door. But to be fair, his actions were definitely suspicious. And what were you supposed to do- not try to solve this puzzle which had so wonderfully presented itself to you?

“Come, little flower, ask me anything. I promise there’s plenty of juicy details that are far too scandalous for your books to mention,” Astarion lightly pulls your attention back to him when he notices you chewing on your lip as you think. 

He’s hooked you there and he knows it- you never could resist the opportunity to indulge your curiosity. You curl up your feet so Astarion can settle more comfortably next to you and he slings his arm over the back of the settee. Perhaps you imagined it, but you could swear you caught his eyes darting down to your bare calf when you shifted, before you could adjust your skirts to cover yourself. 

“What happens if you come into contact with garlic?” 

“Aside from bad breath?” Astarion wrinkles his nose. “It’s not deadly or anything, it just reeks. No sane vampire would ever go near the stuff.”

“What about silver?”

“A very pretty metal, though I’m partial to gold,” He answers, gesturing down to his waistcoat, which is made of a shimmery golden silk with swirling floral patterns. Your husband never was one for minimalism. 

“What about running water?” You ask, practically having to rip your eyes away from his waistcoat. For under his waistcoat, lay his chest. And the idea of that lovely expanse of alabaster skin had quickly become an image which plagued you in the dark of night. 

“Should I be growing concerned about this line of questioning? You seem to only want to know about things that can harm me. I thought your questions would be much more fun.”

You smirk at him. “Please. If I wanted to hurt you, I already would have.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all, you feisty little devil,” Astarion says with a wicked grin. His red eyes flicker dangerously, like fire. “As for running water- I do love a bath. Though, it would be all the more delightful if you decided to join me. I could make it… very worth your while.”

His eyes rake over you and you struggle in vain to ignore the familiar flames of heat licking at your cheeks. You can’t decide if the cause is embarrassment or arousal, or both. 

“Do you remember what color your eyes were?” You ask, figuring you’ve teased him enough with your initial questions.. Astarion looks genuinely shocked for a moment before his forehead creases a bit. “You know, I’m not sure I do. It’s been so long.”

“How long?” you ask cautiously, like you’re approaching a wild animal. You expect him to skitter away at this line of questioning. Astarion doesn’t like deeply personal questions. He likes wordplay and teasing and, occasionally, dropping the odd fact about himself if you listened closely enough. 

“A couple hundred years,” he answers. It breaks your heart to hear that. To know he’s spent so long like this. He couldn’t have been older than his thirties when he was turned, which means he had been a vampire many lifetimes longer than he was alive. Does he even remember what it was like?

“I think they were gray. Or maybe green?” Astarion is still thinking, lost in his own little world. He sits for another moment. “Whatever. You have to admit that the red suits me, doesn’t it, darling?”

He shoots you a wink, said red eyes glinting playfully. You almost have whiplash from how quickly he was able to fall back into his flirtatious performance. By now, you have spent enough time with Astarion to know this act is what he reverts back to when he wants to reestablish control in a conversation, when he wants to stop himself from settling into uncomfortable emotions.

“Your eyes were blue,” you tell him and he looks at you warily. “I ran across the portrait of your family one day. You looked so much like your mother.”

You don’t tell him of all the hours you had spent studying the painting, turning the image over and over in your mind trying to figure out how this piece fit into the puzzle.

“Why would you tell me that?” 

And to your surprise, he’s angry at your words. You note this reaction in your mind- that bringing up his past will warrant anger and leave you without any useful information.

“So you could reclaim a part of yourself that was either stolen from you or that you forgot,” you say softly. Astarion’s eyebrows bunch together and he looks deep in thought. It’s making the room too heavy, his thoughts seem too dark. 

“How were you turned?” You ask, trying to distract him while also trying to get more of your questions answered. 

When he speaks, his tone seems too measured, too rehearsed. “Someone is turned when a vampire drains them dry and buries their body. It’s a rite of passage to dig yourself out of your grave. Of course, the body has to be buried almost immediately or the ritual won’t work and the person will just be dead. It’s a… delicate balance.”

He technically did answer your question, but the story of his turning is noticeably missing.

“Have you ever turned someone?” 

“No, I didn’t have that ability for a long time. And now, I don’t really care to.” He’s trying to feign nonchalance, but you see the way his fist is clenched so tightly in his lap that his nails are digging painfully into his palms. He’s hiding something. 

“But you’re a vampire?” Your own brow furrows in confusion, because it doesn’t make sense that he would be a vampire but not be able to turn someone.

“Am I?” Astarion asks sarcastically, examining his skin. “I hadn’t noticed. Thank you for that astute observation.”

You nudge him with your foot. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, but it’s just so fun to tease you, pet. I simply can’t resist.” 

He’s trying to get himself out of this line of questioning by baiting you with teasing. But the way he’s still holding his shoulders so tightly, you know there’s still valuable information to be gained.

“So, you’re not a ‘real’ vampire?” you ask again, trying to coax him back on track.

“Now I am.” Astarion takes a deep breath in and out. “For a long time, I was just a vampire spawn.”

“How’s that any different?” You had read a bit about vampires and vampire spawn while doing your vampire research in the library, but the accounts were so varied that it was hard to discern what was true or false. From what you could gather, a vampire spawn serves a vampire lord. And it is rather strange that Astarion doesn’t seem to have any running around the manor.

Astarion is still quiet, so you rephrase the question. “What’s the story behind how you were turned, then?”

“I’m not going to answer that,” Astarion finally snaps, shooting you a glare.

“You said I could ask you anything.” You remind him, sure to keep your tone calm and measured.

“I said you could ask, I didn’t say that I would answer,” he says through gritted teeth. He’s so tense, jaw tight and shoulders nearly up to his ears.

You pout and he softens a bit, lowering his arm from the back of the settee to graze his fingertips gently over the back of your hand.

“There are some stories that only serve to harm when they are told, little flower,” he says quietly and the pained look on his face sends a twinge to your heart that makes you drop the subject entirely.

In moments like this, you must remind yourself that his beauty is a shield- a defense mechanism meant to amplify his pain and provoke a response from you. Even though you are aware of this, the way Astarion looks when he’s in pain has you nearly falling to your knees and begging forgiveness for ever daring to hurt him..

“What happens if you drink the blood of someone who’s drunk?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood after the heavy turn. 

You know he’ll welcome a silly question like that. And the radiant smile that lights up Astarion’s face is worth dropping your real line of question. You could ask another time. Right now, you would do just about anything to keep him smiling like this in front of you.

“Darling, I thought you’d never ask! You can get drunk from them, but you have to drink a lot and the effects fade far too quickly. I much prefer wine for a quick buzz.”

“Makes sense with that cellar I found downstairs,” you tease. Though, cellar was a bit of an understatement. Grand network of caverns filled with more wine than you could ever conceive of existing was a more apt description.

“Darling, you should know by now that I collect and cherish the things I enjoy,” Astarion says in a deep, husky voice, eyes looking up at you sinfully from underneath his pale lashes. 

The image of him cherishing you fills your mind and sets your face aflame. It would be so easy for his hand to reach out, to tilt your chin up and present your face to his. All he would have to do is lean over, just a little bit closer, and his pretty pink lips would press against yours. They would be soft and cool against your burning skin. 

No. Stay focused. This was the time for getting some much needed answers out of Astarion, not the time for silly romantic fantasies.

“Do you like being a vampire?” you ask after clearing your throat. You take great care to keep your voice as calm as possible, afraid you might again be leading Astarion into tumultuous waters.

Astarion takes a moment before he speaks and you can watch his thoughts play out on his face. The slight frown when he first processes your question, the way his eyes dart around the room as if he will think up some witty response to distract you, the gentle furrow in his brow as he tries to think of a genuine response. 

“I honestly don’t know how to answer that.” He’s trying hard to keep his own voice measured and controlled when he speaks. “It’s… complicated. I certainly don’t regret being turned. Not anymore, at least.”

Not anymore. So, he did regret being turned at some point. But why? What horrors has he witnessed that were so unspeakable? Was his turning really that traumatic?

Perhaps he had been in a war? You had read many stories that portrayed war as the worst of what humanity could do to one another. But no, that’s ridiculous. Astarion is nobility, he practiced law. And Astarion isn’t the type to involve himself in other’s petty squabbles, anyway.

But the faraway, pained look in Astarion’s eye has you thinking that whatever he had suffered must have been akin to the worst of war. 

“Would you ever want to be a vampire?” He surprises you by turning the question back on you. You curl your arms around your knees, pulling them closer to your chest. Your reaction isn’t an immediate no, which surprises you a bit. 

“I don’t know. Depends on the circumstances, I think,” you tell him.

What you really mean is that it depends on if eternity would look like this. If eternity would involve reading in the gardens or Astarion and you sitting next to each other on a settee and talking. Those might be terms you could agree to. 

“I think I would really miss the sunlight,” you give Astarion a sad smile. 

No sunlight means no gardens during the day, no talking strolls in the forest, no swimming in a river and sunbathing on a rock to dry yourself off. The life of a vampire is cold and dark and lonely. Only, maybe it wouldn’t be quite so lonely for you?

“A small price to pay for eternal life,” Astarion says with what you have come to understand is his hollow performance voice. Meant to dazzle an audience and distract people from the fact that his real feelings contradict what he is saying. 

You watch him carefully as he settles deeper into the couch, crossing his arms over his chest and attempting to tamper whatever melancholy had been brewing inside him. 

“Come on then, darling, read to me,” he says, giving you a wicked grin, “I can tell you what they got wrong in your little book.”

You read aloud and Astarion chimes in with little quips like ‘that’s not right,’ and ‘what do you think about me taking two more brides like this Dracula fellow, pet?’ and ‘good gods, just skip over the parts about Renfield, he’s a disgusting, pathetic character.’ 

But as you continue to read, Astarion slowly lets his head rest against the back of the couch and his eyes grow heavy before they eventually fall closed. The frequency of his interruptions slows until he’s just giving little hums of acknowledgement when you read something especially shocking or profound. 

When you make it over two pages without a single interruption, you pause to look over at him. His deep, even breaths lead you to think he might have fallen asleep. With a smile, you turn back to the book and keep reading, perfectly content to never let this moment end, even if the number of remaining pages was starting to dwindle. 

—---------

The longer you spent around Astarion, the more you realize that he did occasionally sprinkle the truth into his words- for even the best charlatans use truth to make their facades seem more real. Astarion wasn’t unique in that regard.

As such, you were determined to find the flakes of truth in Astarion’s story, determined to piece together the puzzle of the man you called your husband. It would be your most challenging and most rewarding prize yet. 

So, you study him. You watch and you learn every tiny expression on his face. Astarion might be a masterful performer, but there were involuntary reactions even he could not control- a slight furrow of the brow, an inhale, a twitch at the corner of his mouth. And sometimes, there were flashes of something in his eyes- joy, wonder, terror, despair- so quick that a lesser trained eye might have missed them completely. 

You notice these details because they are important to your cause. And yet, they stick around in your head for hours, repeating like some terribly wonderful time loop. 

And you find yourself craving his company. You tell yourself that it’s not because you particularly enjoy his presence, but because every interaction gives you more information, gets you one step closer to discovering the truth beneath the mask. And yes, he was beautiful and wonderful to look at, but you only gazed upon him so often because you were collecting valuable data. 

Though… it was remarkable how he seemingly had no bad angles. How the candlelight bent to his whim, following him around and dancing against his skin. 

And gods damn him, Astarion can be funny, when he wants to be. He’s well-read and full of little tales and salacious secrets about the other nobles and their ancestors. In another life, you would have thought the gods crafted him especially for you- your perfect conversation partner.

Although Astarion will never love you, never desire you in the way that you secretly know you will always want him, you think he has come to find some enjoyment in your companionship, too. Some of his smiles seem a bit too real, some of his laughs a little too wild to be rehearsed. You imagine he regards you as a sort of… pet. Or, if you really dare to dream, perhaps a friend.  

You must constantly remind yourself that his flirtations are empty, practiced phrases that are meant to disarm you. They do not show you he cares for you or that he wants you. You try to ignore that deep, viscous part of you that calls out to him, that wants him to think of you fondly, that hopes that you are driving him as mad with your presence as he drives you. 

Over the past month, you’ve become semi-nocturnal. You find Astarion is much more active once the sun has gone down and the later you stay awake, the more time you get to spend with him. It’s unsettling how naturally your life seems to shift to accommodate him. 

When you do make your way out to the garden in the late afternoons, Halsin happily congratulates you in his friendly, over-the-top way on the state of your marriage and how you and Astarion have managed to grow together despite your initial difficulties. You know he means it sincerely, but the words leave you a stuttering, embarrassed mess. You didn’t think you were being so obvious about your growing… affection for Astarion. 

So, you start reading in the library more often than the garden, now that the air has started to turn crisp in the autumn nights. 

Or at least, you’ve convinced yourself that’s the reason why and not because you secretly hope that Astarion will come join you.

And he does join you, some days. He’ll stride in with a book or some papers and take up residence on the couch across from you. On the really good days, he’ll sit on the couch beside you and ask you to read aloud and you get to lean against him while you read to him.

Tonight, he decided to accompany you to the library after dinner. He’s sitting in a chair across from your favorite settee and he’s only wearing a flowing white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. You keep sneaking peeks up at him, mesmerized by the blue veins in his arms and how the lean muscles move when he turns a page. You’re trying really hard to be subtle- only letting yourself glance up for a moment every couple of minutes. 

But, gods, it’s so difficult to focus on the words in front of you with that expanse of skin teasing you. 

“You haven’t turned a page in a very long time, darling,” Astarion says without even looking up from his own book. 

“And how attentive are you to your own reading if you’ve been listening for me to turn the page?” You shoot back.

“Oh, I’ve been finished for ages. I just couldn’t stand to leave you.” He gives you that devilish, tantalizing grin where one corner of his mouth curves up more than the other. It sends your heart fluttering like a hummingbird in your chest.  

“Well,” you sigh, shutting your book and attempting to act casual, as if your formerly self-declared enemy hadn’t just caught you gawking at his forearms. “I suppose I’m not going to get any more of this finished tonight.”

“I apologize, I know my presence is entirely too distracting,” Astarion says, and the arrogant look on his face makes you roll your eyes. He’s not wrong, but he'd be entirely too pleased with himself the rest of the evening if you admitted it out loud. 

“Yes, how does anyone get anything done with you around?” you say sarcastically instead.

“I haven’t the faintest idea how,” Astarion lets out a suffering sigh, as if his beauty is too much for the world to handle (it is). You can’t let yourself think about it too long or you’ll devolve in idle fantasies about what it might feel like to trace those beautiful veins in his arms all the way up to his chest.

You snap your book shut, “Want to join me on a walk around the gardens?” 

You need to get out of here, where the stifling air and Astarion’s flowy white shirt are clouding your mind. But you don’t want this night to end yet. Not just yet. In truth, you gladly and greedily take as much time as Astarion’s willing to give you.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be in the world.” 

He says it with that easy, flirtatious tone and you know he probably doesn’t really mean it. But that deep part of you that feeds on Astarion’s praise still preens. 

The cool air is refreshing when you step outside and your head finally begins to clear. Astarion holds his arm out for you and you let your fingers brush against the skin of his forearm as you tuck yourself into his side. 

When you turn to look at him, he’s practically luminescent. The moonlight was made for him, bouncing off his white curls and casting a gentle glow over his pale skin. As the moon reflected the sun’s light, Astarion seemed to reflect the moon’s. You were simply lucky to bask in his presence.

Arm in arm, you wander through the garden, pointing out your favorite flowers to Astarion and checking in on the blooms. It’s reached that part of autumn where some perennials have started to sleep, ready to reawaken in the spring. The sunflowers, always one of your favorites, are drooping for the night, waiting to chase after the sun again tomorrow, and you frown a bit when you see them. 

“It’s a shame you never get to see the gardens during the day. The colors, the blooming flowers. It’s truly one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever seen in my life,” you say, as you and Astarion move into the rose garden. Everything new you find out about vampirism makes it sound like an isolating, dreary existence. You make a mental note that Astarion could use some cut flowers in his study every now and then, though it feels like a poor substitute for the splendor of the full gardens. 

Because it is your mission to study Astarion, you don’t miss the fleeting, pained look that passes over his face, the look he always gets when you dig a bit too close to a truth he’d rather keep buried. 

You used to push him on these, but you quickly found that got you nowhere. No, Astarion responded far better to a gentle touch rather than provocation and name calling. You were coming to realize that he would tell you in time, in his own way. And you had started to find that you didn’t mind waiting for answers if it kept you in his company that much longer.

And oh, how rewarding those answers were when he gifted them to you in the dark of the night, offering up little pieces of himself like Tara delivering you a dead mouse. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be prattling on- '' you try to backtrack, to apologize for the sadness that you have caused to enter his eyes. 

You sometimes wonder what his eyes would look like if they were still blue- would they be pale blue like soft ocean waves or rich and deep like the blue flowers in the garden? 

With his red eyes in front of you, his sadness is akin to pain, all blood and gore and unspoken horrors. No, you decide, if Astarion had blue eyes they must look like dark rain clouds when he is sad. For if Astarion weeped, would the heavens themselves not cry for him?

“Nonsense,” Astarion cuts you off and you’re acutely aware of how your husband has been studying you just as intently as you were watching him. Admittedly, the two of you were remarkably similar underneath it all. All sharp teeth and claws masking scared and fragile hearts. 

He gives your hand a little squeeze where it rests on his forearm. “It’s wonderful to see the world through your eyes.”

He says it so casually, like he hasn’t caused your knees to buckle and your soul to leave your body. Occasionally, he slips in sentiments like that, with no regard for your poor heart. You’re dangerously close to having hope that he actually means them. 

But no, you remind yourself. There was no way Astarion’s words could be trusted. He said things, he did things to get a reaction out of you because he grew bored and because he knew how badly you wanted him, how badly everyone wanted him. There was no reason to hope. He had entertained you at the ball because he was hungry, he had married you to tie up loose ends, and he spent time with you now because he had very little other company up here in his lonely manor. 

You do not mean as much to him as he does to you. 

You distract yourself from that thought spiral by talking, amazed at how easy and willing you are to offer up information to him now, “I used to have a book with flowers drawn in it as a little girl that I would stare at all day. There were so many that I’d never thought I’d get to see in real life, until I came here. And there were some flowers that I didn’t even know existed until I saw them here for the first time. These gardens are everything I could have ever dreamed of.”

Astarion gives you a smile that lights up his whole face and he seems so proud, like the whole purpose of his life is to make you happy. Your heart sings again and you shush her immediately. 

Astarion’s beauty was not something you would ever grow used to. And in the lighting tonight, his profile sent a cold shock through your body. You had never felt so alive. You had never yearned for death more. 

“My mother used to love the gardens here. She used to always try to get me to help her plant things. I wish…” He trails off, reaching out to stroke a delicate rose petal with his fingers. “Well, I wish I would have appreciated that more when I was younger. You never realize as a child how precious those memories will one day become.”

“And I wish you could have seen it then,” he says, letting out a wistful sigh. “You would have loved it. The gardens were even grander and more vast than what they are now. When I returned, they were in such disrepair that it pained me to look at them for ages. I hired Halsin to help restore them and he did a wonderful job, of course, but it’s just…”

He continues to stare at the flower he holds in his hand, unable to find the words to finish his sentence.

“Not the same?” you complete the thought for him and he nods.

And although his words fill you with a deep sadness, you rejoice for a moment. Astarion offers up information about himself so rarely that his words tonight are practically a feast. You tuck away that little piece of his backstory in your mind to analyze later. Though, as usual, he leaves you with more questions than answers. 

Where had he returned from? Where was it that he had spent most of his vampiric life? And you still don’t know the circumstances of how he was turned into a vampire or how that plays into creating the man standing before you.

You let your fingers rub in circles against his forearm as you think.

Astarion’s rests his hand over yours. “Your hands are cold, little flower. And we both know a pretty thing like you blooms better in the daytime. I think it’s time to get you back inside.”

You try to protest but a yawn escapes you and Astarion gives you a knowing look that forces you to roll your eyes and allow him to start guiding you back toward the manor. His footsteps are slow, as if he’s trying to prolong your time together.

“Thank you, Astarion,” you say quietly, when you reach your room. 

Facing him, the low, flowing neckline on his shirt has the lines of his collarbone perfectly in your sight and you’re scared you won’t be able to resist reaching out and touching them if you have to look at that for much longer. 

Astarion seems unable to resist touching you, either, and his hand reaches out to tug on the chain of your necklace which holds your wedding ring. It must have snaked its way out from under the collar of your dress at some point during the night. He rolls the gold band between his fingers, his expression unreadable. 

“You’re wearing your ring,” Astarion states the obvious, his voice low and husky with some emotion you can’t decipher. 

“Yes,” you whisper. It’s not embarrassing, per say, but it does feel a bit like Astarion has broken his way past your ribcage and is staring directly at your beating heart.

“When did you start doing that?”

He tilts his head and one, single white curl dislodges itself from his meticulously styled hair. You watch it fall gently, like a feather floating through the air. 

“About a week after…” you trail off. It was still weird to admit it out loud. About a week after you were married. It had been a couple months since that day and everything after has felt like a feverish dream. 

You can’t focus when Astarion is looking at you like this- eyes all warm and rich and red like the fading embers of a fire. And the loose curl that caresses the skin of his ear is just taunting you so sweetly. Your hand moves almost of its own accord, reaching out to brush it back into place and ghosting over the shell of Astarion’s ear. You catch his slight shiver. 

Astarion’s cold hand reaches out to catch your own as you move to drop it back to your side and he presses your palm against his cheek. His skin is like silk and you can hardly stop yourself from softly running your thumb over his beautiful cheekbone.

He leans in closer, lips just a breath away from yours. You hope he will lean down and kiss you. That he will wrap you in his arms and never let you go. You close your eyes and tilt your head up in anticipation.

Instead, you feel him pull away, your hand dropping limply back to your side. It stings your heart.

“Sleep well, wife,” Astarion says, before he’s turning on his heel and walking swiftly down the hallway. 

Wife.

He called you that so rarely and combined with the rosemary and bergamot lingering in the air after him, you feel a bit dizzy.

Oh, it’s the first time he’s called you that without a hint of teasing or sarcasm. No, tonight he said it almost with reverence- as if you were a gift to him. He had said it like a true husband might. That silly sense of hope thrums again in your veins. 

But hope for what? That this marriage built on deception and hatred might turn itself around into something based in love? You chastise yourself for feeding into girlish fantasies. You needed to stop reading so many romance books. 

No, you were just relieved that Astarion and you had managed to grow into something that could be considered a friendship. That he respected you enough to give you back the control that so many husbands wielded viciously over their wives. You were content since you were safe, and never pressured into uncomfortable circumstances, and spent your days doing whatever you wished.

You did not really want Astarion to kiss you. 

It is the baser, lonely part of you that wants him to kiss you, that wants to hold him, that cries out for his touch. You would want to kiss anyone after taking a midnight stroll in a romantic garden. Astarion just happened to make it especially confusing by being the most beautiful man in the world. 

And yet, you still yearn for his attention, you long for his smiles like a flower chases after the sun. And was his smile not capable of rivaling the sun? The pure joy, the pure energy surging beneath the surface. 

No, when Astarion smiled, the sun itself bowed her head in surrender to his beauty. 

—------------------

Gale might have been right, though you were loath to admit it. 

You really did have a hard time sitting still for your portrait. It was only a couple hours each day in the afternoon, but all the sitting and doing nothing felt like torture. You could have done it if you had been allowed a book, but the stupid artist needed to be able to see your stupid face.

On the second afternoon, Astarion wanders in, inspecting the painting critically, eyes narrowed and a hand held up to his chin as he scrutinizes it. 

“The shade of her eyes is all wrong,” he finally says with a displeased frown. 

“I’m sorry, my lord, the painting isn’t finished yet.” The artist attempts to defend himself but you can tell he quickly sets to work correcting the ‘mistake.’

Astarion comes in the next day, and the next, and the next and just watches over the artist’s shoulder. The poor man is sweating so bad he’s creating a small puddle on the floor. It’s rather amusing. You have to refrain from laughing the whole time.

The man can’t seem to be able to paint a single detail without Astarion critiquing his choices and giving corrections. It’s a flurry of ‘see how her mouth moves up in the corner when she smiles,’ and ‘no, look again at how the candlelight moves against her skin,’ and ‘her hair doesn’t curl around her face like that, you’ve made her look like a poodle.’

You’ve come to think that Gale was wrong and perhaps Astarion is the worst kind of fine art snob who believes they could do everything better than the actual artists. And granted, he probably could- Astarion was also the annoying type of person who was preternaturally gifted at everything they tried.

When Astarion finally deigns the painting satisfactory after many, many days of nit-picking, you’re allowed to see the final product. It truly is a marvelous piece. You are sure you have never looked more beautiful- not even at the ball where you met Astarion or on your wedding night. No, in this painting, you can only be described as ethereal, a small scrap of the heavens that created Astarion.

It feels as if you are seeing yourself anew, through the eyes of someone who loves you. 

“I expect nothing less than perfection when it comes to you, my love,” Astarion says, a gentle hand on your waist as he stands behind you and keenly observes your reaction.

But the painting is not what has pulled the air from your lungs. 

My Love. 

That's new. In your time as a married woman, you had grown accustomed to the endearments that Astarion loved to dole out and had deciphered his uses for each. He seemed to have a personal vendetta against calling you by your name.

Darling was for emphasis and dramatic effect. Dearest was a bit sarcastic and typically saved for use around others. Pet was for when he really wanted to be a condescending asshole or a teasing little shit. 

Little flower was perhaps the closest thing to a real endearment that Astarion had in his vocabulary, saved for the soft moments when the mood between the two of you could perhaps be considered friendly. 

But my love was unprecedented, uncharted territory. 

And with the way Astarion is looking at you, with eyes so open that his soul is practically bleeding out of them, you wonder if for the first time he actually means what he is saying. That maybe some part of his heart does hold affection for you. It seems impossible. 

He spends the rest of the evening peppering darlings and my dears in nearly every sentence, like he’s overcompensating for the slip up earlier.

Your portrait is hung next to his in the gallery. And you do have to admit that the two of you look wonderful together. 

—----------------------

You don’t like when Astarion leaves on trips. Especially since he never wants to take you with him. Apparently, you had annoyed Astarion so much about the issue that he now resorted to not even telling you when he was going to leave. 

Instead, you awoke one afternoon to Shadowheart informing you that he was away on business for the next few days. You’re fairly certain he’s lying- that whatever he’s out doing involved those maps and papers you found on his desk when you had broken into his study.

You’re a bit peeved that he didn’t even bother to leave you a goodbye note but mostly, you want him to come back. 

You know he will arrive home with a flourish and an extravagant gift. His last trips had awarded you with a lovely new silk dress, a newly released book, and a tiara, of all things. Out of the three, the book was the only item that was really useful and you had spent a few nights reading it to Astarion while his head rested in your lap. Though, you did wear the dress and tiara to dinner after you had received each and the pleased mood it put Astarion in was worth dressing up for no reason.

This time, Astarion has been gone for two days and you feel as if you are going to lose your mind with how desperately you need him to come back.

You’re pacing the length of the drawing room, working your lip between your teeth and focusing on how you want Astarion back so you can yell at him for leaving without telling you and not because you miss the little grins he gives you when you see him in the hallway. Or the way he’s started tracing patterns on the inside of your palm when you sit together after you read. Or how he sometimes stares at you with such awe you feel as though he is looking at your very soul.

You do not miss Astarion. It just… feels wrong when he isn’t around. 

You’re still pacing and deeply rationalizing how much you definitely do not miss him when you hear the front door open. Your body begins moving before your brain could even register what you were doing.

The sight before you is a nightmare. Astarion’s arm is wrapped around a woman’s shoulder and she’s supporting most of his weight as she drags him through the door. You recognize her instantly due to her imposing frame. You had seen her around the manor from time to time when she would visit for those secret meetings that she, and the mean-looking woman, and two-color eyed man had with Astarion. 

She had always been kind to you when you had seen her around, always quick to offer up a smile. But not now. Her forehead is creased deeply with worry and you faintly register her yelling for help over the ringing in your ears. 

Astarion looks bad, which is a word you never thought could be used to describe him. His skin is already so pale, but now, he looks nearly white and there’s blood splattered across his face. His free hand is clutching at his side in a way that implies he’s been badly wounded.

You’re frozen in fear. What could you possibly do to help?

Shadowheart, who must have been on her way to bring you tea as you paced, immediately shoves the tray onto the first surface she can find. 

“What happened?” Her voice is grim and she’s rushing forward, helping to support Astarion’s weight on the other side. He lets out a pitiful groan of pain as they settle him on a couch. 

“Got ambushed on the way back. Too many of them, we couldn’t fight them off,” the tall woman answers.

But her explanation seems… off. Astarion’s carriage is grand, sure, and robbers like to target the wealthy, especially in the dead of night. But you had a hard time believing this woman would be incapable of fighting off a couple street thugs. An attack that would warrant this level of injury seems much more organized.

No. Something else is going on. What sort of business was Astarion tangled up in?

Shadowheart is a blur as she bustles around, collecting herbs, cloth bandages, and a needle and thread. You never knew she was a healer. Was everyone around here keeping secrets from you? 

And you’re just standing there, uselessly, incapable of doing anything other than watch as your own heart bleeds out in front of you. 

Your feet do manage to carry you to Astarion’s side and you try to stay out of Shadowheart’s way as she works, but all you want right now is to pull him into your arms and soothe the pain on his face. 

“Astarion?” you call his name, your shaky hand reaching out to move a stray curl away from his face. It looks all wrong- his white hair drenched with red blood. His eyes crack open and a dreamy smile spreads across his face when he sees you. 

“Come to grace your dying husband with a kiss, sweet wife?” Astarion’s eyes are hazy, but you can still detect a teasing sparkle in them. You’re relieved for a moment, because his condition surely can’t be that bad if he’s still managing to tease you. 

You let out a laugh. “Leave it to you to be flirting on your deathbed.”

Shadowheart’s worried voice breaks you out of your momentary comfort. “He needs blood, desperately.”

“We need to get someone from the village,” you say, making a motion to get up and go call for someone, but Astarion’s hand is wrapping gently around your wrist. His grip is worryingly loose and you can tell it’s all the strength he’s able to muster right now. 

“Not enough time,” Shadowheart shakes her head. Her voice is fraught with anxiety and it sends a needle of ice through you. Shadowheart didn’t scare easily. “He needs blood now.”

“Can you?” you ask and she shakes her head again.

“My blood’s no good and neither is Karlach’s,” Shadowheart nods her chin up at the tall woman.

“Is there anyone here who can give him blood?” You cry out. Someone had to be able to help- Gale, Halsin, another servant. 

“Just you.”

When you look down at Astarion, there’s a cold hand squeezing at your heart and you realize that you don’t have a choice. You grab the dagger that’s strapped to Astarion’s belt- which, why did he have a dagger if he was going on a normal business trip? You glide the sharp edge along your palm, ignoring the sting of pain as you cut it open. 

His eyes are closed as you squeeze your palm shut to help the blood pool and drip onto his lips. Almost immediately, his eyes are shooting open and he’s dragging your palm to his mouth. 

It’s obscene to watch him- he lets out a groan as his soft tongue swirls and sucks against your skin. In another time, in another circumstance, there would be that familiar desire pooling deep within you as you watched him.

Suddenly, the idea of Astarion drinking anyone else’s blood ever again fills you with a jealousy so deep that you’re scared of what you might do if you get your hands on that unlucky soul.

A bit of color returns to his face and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of your wrist, seemingly as thanks. Later that night, as you sit at his bedside as he recovers, you’ll be pressing your own lips to the same spot, as if that silly act could imitate the feel of his lips against your own.

Astarion’s eyes are still hazy and unfocused as he purrs, “Delicious, of course. I can only think of one other way I could devour you that would be better than that.”

The fact that he loses consciousness immediately after saying that probably has the opposite effect than he intended. You’ll have to tease him about that after he wakes up. And he will wake up. Because you can’t bear with the thought of a life without him.

---------------

Notes:

Okay, I fully recognize that Dracula didn't come out until 1897 and I did say this was a regency AU, but we are simply ignoring inconvenient facts for the sake of a bad joke. Sorry, I get make to the rules around here!

This chapter was so much fun to write because I'm a slut for yearning but I can't even describe how excited I am to share chapter 5 next week!!!!!! It's a doozy! We finally get a peak into Astarion's smooth little brain and well… I did promise eventual smut. I hope you all know how much I appreciate everyone who reads this little story and I hope everyone is having as much fun with this as I am!

As always, thanks to AliensNSuch on ao3 for beta-reading! She is my live studio audience cheering in the comments of the absurdly long google doc where I keep this fic and, for that, I love her.

Taglist: @idkbrodontaskme @ayselluna @maruichio @fanfic-share

Just let me know in the comments or by shooting me a message if you would like to be added/removed from the taglist!

#astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #x reader #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #til death do us part

[fuckyeahgoodomensfanfic]

Good Omens Fic Rec: Oh, Maker

"The humans are strange and graceful as they explore the garden, explore themselves, explore each other. The trouble is, the humans stare back, which makes him uncomfortable; there’s nothing particularly interesting about him. And, though he rarely admits it to himself, the humans make him lonely; he has no Other to explore." Or: how many times can you take a bath with your best friend before you kiss him?

Length: 57,034 words

AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥

Best for: Mostly Safe in Public, At Home, Angst, Romance, Slow Burn

Triggers: None/ Religious Trauma themes

Read it here, fic by voluptatiscausa

*Minor Spoilers* I've had this fic bookmarked for months, I love this author and all the stories of theirs I've read. But my ADHD often has me piling on more without diving into what I already have saved. So, when I was about to begin the author's latest fic, I paused. I realized I needed to prioritize this story first, and appreciate it fully. And now, I want you to do the same!

This is a pre season 2 "through the ages" story, visiting some of the historical settings we're familiar with and adding new ones as well. We watch as the weight of the world hangs on Aziraphale and Crowley’s shoulders. The impossibility of alleviating human suffering, the pain of being abandoned by their Creator, their Mother, and the lingering desperation for her approval. So when they've burnt out, they turn to each other. They comfort each other with warm intimacy through baths, manicures, brushing each other's hair, each taking care of the other and showing us how holy love can be. It's gorgeous and heartbreaking all at once. Their love is so true, even if they have trouble believing they're worthy of being loved and desired. “It’s because love can’t be earned, sweetheart. It’s given.”

The beauty of fanfic is that it can exceed the canon. This is not just in character; to me it's more in character than the canon itself. The book and show are comedies; they don't have time to dive this deeply into their characters' motivations and histories. And, of course, that's not a bad thing, especially since it brought us all here. But when I read something like this, something that brings a real depth and understanding to the characters, I'm amazed. This isn’t the only fic I’ve felt this way about, but it’s a prime example of that feeling. It’s just that, when I read a story that specifically focuses on their entire 6,000 years together and all the history they’ve gone through, I get frustrated that those moments are played for laughs in the book/show. The Flood, the Crucifixion, the Spanish Inquisition all throw away lines that don’t stop to dive into the wealth of story that’s possible there. I get why it doesn’t linger, I do, but fic narratives are so much more interesting to me than what the canon alone can provide.

This is a deeply moving and powerful story. Full of musings on shame, desire, religious trauma, and the beauty of the world we live in. Life is a terrible and wonderful thing. While this is mostly safe for public, I really suggest making this an at home read. It's a bit heavier, something you want to be in the right headspace for, and it features very rich prose. Never dense or hard to follow, but very beautiful, and you'll want to give it your full attention. I realize I may have made this seem like full angst, but it’s not! There's some wonderful loving fluffy moments to be found as well. Be sure to check out the other works that belong in this series! They are devastatingly good as well. Pair with some fruit for the full effect!

Read it here, fic by voluptatiscausa

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #good omens fanfic #fanfic rec #aziracrow #good omens fic rec #aziraphale x crowley #Oh Maker #voluptatiscausa #mostly safe in public #at home #slow burn #canon timeline #pre s2 #canon divergence #through the ages #angst #romance #hurt comfort #religious trauma #heavy topics #three flames

[burgeoning-ambition]

Finally a first language laddering post! In the near future I hope to start posting updates to my personal studying, maybe accompanied by study materials for others to use if I have the time! But first, I wanted to post an introduction.

Transcript of the images below the cut!

Language Laddering!

An Overview

I recently made a post asking about interest in me posting my personal Japanese -> Korean language laddering study journey and resources. And a lot of people seemed interested! Let's start off with an introduction to language laddering itself, since people may not have heard of it, or may not recognize this name for it! For my own personal stuff, I hope to post updates to my studies along with some resources as regularly as I can manage!

What is Language Laddering?

Language laddering, as I'm using the term, is a method of language study in which you use one target language (TL1) to learn a second target language (TL2). Basically, you cut your native language out of the equation and study in a target language!

How I Ladder

There are several methods you can use that I'd say count as language laddering, but I'm only going to go super in-depth into the methods I personally use!

If you study this way and have a specific method you love that I didn't mention, please mention it in a comment or reblog! I'd love to hear more methods.

Reading Japanese textbooks for Korean

Getting access to resources in Japanese is definitely harder because of international shipping, but I'm able to find store listings that offer sample pages! I've been using these until I can get the money to actually buy them.

In the meantime as I wait to get fully Japanese texts, I use the speaking pen from Learn Korean With BTS, haha- the speaking pen reads the book in four languages, and Japanese is one of them! So I just listen to it like an audiobook instead of reading the English!

Using apps and websites made by and for Japanese learners

While my Japanese dictionaries and apps are all in English, my Korean dictionaries and apps are all in Japanese!

I use an online Japanese-Korean dictionary on my phone, and when I practice grammar and other concepts in Korean, I use Japanese websites for Korean learners.

Recently, I've been using the site ハングルの森 to review basic grammar. I've been getting a pretty strong hold on Japanese grammar terms, too, which is exciting for more fully laddering!

Laddering languages in the way I choose to can be a very fun way to learn a new language and study one you've already been working on, but it doesn't work for everyone!

People who enjoy learning grammar and reading about how language works may enjoy it because they can learn grammar the way it's taught in their target language rather than how it's taught in their native language! This can be exciting, it's interesting to see how different languages teach concepts and learning grammar terms in a TL can open grammar-related doors! If you're a linguistics nerd like me, grammar-related doors are super exciting.

However, if you struggle a lot with understanding language instruction, and classroom language learning is really difficult for you, then it may only make things harder to try and use your TL's classroom language learning material for a new TL.

And that's okay! Not every learning method is for everyone. Learning through immersion may be easier and less frustrating if you struggle with classroom learning!

And guess what?

You can still ladder languages when doing immersion learning! Watching something in your new TL with subtitles for your stronger TL is one good way you can combine immersion learning with laddering!

I hope to post more about language laddering, although it will probably be pretty catered to my own personal study! People can feel free to send asks about anything specific they'd like to know! (Although I certainly am not an expert, so I can't answer everything)

Also, I know this post was SUPER text heavy, so thank you for making it to the end! I hope it wasn't too droning to read ^-^ Good luck with language laddering if you decide to try it!

#original post #language laddering #language learning #japanese #korean #langblr #study methods #studyblr #studying #japanese language #korean language

[maries-gallery]

Hello! I can’t believe the rude anon the other day!! :( some people are so rude!! But the weekend event is exciting! if you’re still taking requests, would you write quality time with Leonardo? I feel like quality time with him would be so relaxing! Painting or reading together, or one of the other million things Leo can do! Even just napping together would be so nice and chill. Thank you for hosting events like these! They’re always so fun <3

love languages weekend event

Hi anon! Thanks for the sweet thought <3 Am fine though so no worries, it takes more than that to bring me down!

Honestly I was so excited to see an ikevamp request for this event because it's been a hot minute since I last wrote anything for this :,) So when I saw both Theo and Leo stand in my inbox I was so happy to deliver!

Leonardo is indeed huge on quality time! And thank you so much for sending in a request <3

genre: fluff

warnings: none

As a pure blooded vampire, Leonardo is aware of how precious time is. Not to him, he has plenty of it. But human life is fleeting, in comparison to the thousand years he’s lived and still has ahead of him. So every tick of his wrist watch reminds him of how little time he has with you. Of how little time he has with you in the grand scheme of things. 

A big part of him tries to forget about this, the idea of a life without you, something he cannot fathom, something he does not want to imagine. For the moment he does his heart plummets down to his stomach and his lungs press to his throat. 

And he knows that dwelling on this wouldn’t do either of you any good. For there is no use in wishing time could stop when time has no other master but itself. 

So Leonardo settles for enjoying every day, every hour, every minute and every second he gets to spend by your side. 

It does not matter what you are doing, as long as he is by your side, as long as he can see your smile and hear your voice, his world lives through your eyes. 

Sometimes you just sit together in his room or in the library, book in hand and Lumière on your lap, Leonardo’s head resting on your shoulder as you read to him. He doesn’t care about the genre, anything suits him as long as you are the one reading. 

“A fairy tale book, Cara Mia?” He says, inspecting the title and summary of the book you had just retrieved from one of the many shelves in Comte’s mansion’s library. 

“Yes, I often read this book as a kid!” You beam at him, a bright smile that fills his chest with warmth. 

“Okay then, let us begin.” 

And the two of you sit together, Leonardo’s attention swinging between the expressions on your features and the story. 

Sometimes it is him teaching you one of his many skills. Varying from painting, to chess, to repairing things to fabricking new things out of scratch. 

“Gosh I can’t do this!” Your hands fall at your side, shoulders sagging as you stare disapprovingly at the broken watch in front of you. 

Leonardo allows himself a chuckle, gently looping his arms around you from behind and scooping the broken mechanism in his hands, “Now, now, now. No need to get frustrated, Cara. Look.” 

And he doesn’t care how much time it takes for you to understand or get the hang of it, simply happy to share his knowledge with you and watch you acquire new skills by his side. 

“See? Was it worth giving me that pout?” 

Leonardo is all for partaking in your hobbies too, whatever they may be. Even if he is not good at it. If just for a sight of your smile. 

“Santo Cielo, what have I done to deserve such a beautiful smile?”

And sometimes it is just him following you into the streets of Paris to run errands when his time table allows it, which is pretty often. The two of you aren’t doing anything special per se, simply enjoying one another’s presence as you do what you have to do and carry on with your day. 

“Let me carry this for you, Cara Mia.” Leonardo’s hands cover your own as he fetches the bag from your hands, “Now where do we need to go next?” 

taglist: @aquagirl1978 @randonauticrap @poisonpeche (our daddy is back baby)

send me a text or ask if you'd like to be added &lt;3

#ikemen vampire #ikemen vampire fluff #ikemen vampire fanfic #ikemen vampire fanfiction #ikemen vampire leonardo #ikevamp #ikevamp fluff #ikevamp fanfic #ikevamp fanfiction #ikevamp leonardo #ikemen series #ikemen cybird #ikemen fanfic #ikemen leonardo

[soracities]

God I had such a wonderful literature teacher in high school. It pains me to admit that I spent most of his classes either sleeping or daydreaming about death and other equally depressing subjects. I remember thinking even then, I used to like books. Why can't I get myself through this readings why are all of these poems so lifeless to me? And like the rest of my classmates I just googled the Spanish equivalent for SparkNotes for all the readings and got a 10 in every exam. Now I find myself seeking out those same poems and sonnets and books and wishing I could turn back in time to actually listen to this passionate guy who had been all over Europe and knew 5 languages and lived so much and was so specific about which translation to get for every poem and have strong opinions about 10 other translations. I just want to grab my past self and shake them hard and scream "WAKE UP!!!!!! This thing you're ignoring right now will be the only spark of hope and joy you will find in your 20s please it's can save your life NOW if you manage to open your eyes and ears for a little bit"

Now I'm getting a degree in english, and I'm an auxiliary teacher at a primary school and it really feels a bit depressing to know that sometimes not even a great, passionate and talented teacher can make someone with an underlying interest in the subject actually pay attention and enjoy a high school class. Or maybe I was just an idiot and it's a me problem. Or maybe literature is meant to pass you by the first time around and make you go and get it out of your own will at your own time.

I think there's definitely something to be said for finding the right literature at the right time, absolutely--but I also think the fact that you still remember this teacher and the incredible passion and attentiveness he brought to those classes, that you are holding this recognition close to you now, even if you weren't able to give it the attention you wish you had at the time, counts for something, too 💕 in spite of everything something of his teaching still remained with you, even if it's being appreciated after the fact, and I think that, for most teachers, that impact alone means a great deal! Maybe you didn't appreciate the class itself, but you are appreciating the poems and those outlive every classroom and what greater influence is there than that? (And sometimes it's not even the subject itself that remains with you, but the actual teacher. I had an incredible English teacher also, but I know the impact she left on some of my friends had little to do with the poems and plays and everything to do with who she was as a person, and this is, I think, one of the most important things that come from a marvellous teacher)

I don't think you were an idiot at all--I think that whatever you were going through at the time must have been so immense, and as frustrating as it is to look back and wish you could have managed things differently, I think it's so important to allow yourself some grace for the fact that who you are now, looking back, and who you were then, are two different people--some circumstances, I think, are beyond a pupil and a teacher's control but we do the best we can with what we have, and what you have now, and what you had back then, probably look very, very different. Have you ever considered reaching out to your former literature teacher? Writing a letter or an email to let him now what you feel about his classes now, being older, and what this recognition means to you?

I think it's amazing that you are where you are now, with the passion you have now, and also with the awareness, even if you couldn't appreciate it at that time, of what a passionate teacher can bring because it will help make you a more attentive and better teacher as a result. I think teaching is one of those vocations you need to love with your entire being and if you can bring that love and that attentiveness with you to the best of your ability at any given time, then this counts for something, even if not immediately in the classroom itself 💕

#i wish you the best with your teaching and the rest your degree anon!!! #i think also sometimes the impact of certain classes and teachers are things you dont always realise until much later. and i dont think tha #is necessarily a flaw on your part #i think its just the way of things as you get older and gain new perspectives and are able to put your past experiences into a more detaile #framework and understand it more fully. and even if appreciation and gratitude come late they are still things you can use in your life as #you move forward from this point on and allow them to inform your future interactions <3 #ask #anonymous

[fromtheseventhhell]

I will say that it’s not surprising for book Sansa fans to dislike GRRM’s writing because he doesn’t write her coherently at all, and treats her as more of a camera than anything. Not to mention he pairs her with too many much older men (I hate Sansa’s ships but GRRM clearly write Sansan as romantic). I’ve always thought that GRRM’s writing for Sansa’s chapters is some of his weakest. He doesn’t know how to handle this character. But her fans can’t admit that because then they would be admitting that the parts they love from the books is all the headcanons they made up instead of just being like “yeah I made up someone more interesting and complex because the book is weak and shallow in this area”. That’s why Sansa fans actively get offended when people bring up canon moments and canon quotes from her arc that go against the delusional metas they’ve read.

I have to agree, although for me the issue is with Sansa's characterization itself rather than the quality of writing in her chapters. I think George has done a great job with writing the plot surrounding her and she offers an interesting perspective on things, similar to how we get Catelyn's POV on Robb's war. The issue is that George expanded her role but he doesn't seem to have a solid idea of what he wants to do with her character. She hasn't become more active with her increased story presence. She does have moments that influence the plot but most of those aren't intentional and come in the form of her revealing information to the wrong person (i.e. telling Cersei of Ned's plans and Dontos of the Tyrells'). She hasn't learned or grown as much as her "peers" have and a lot of her chapters do have her used as a "camera" to show what's going on with non-POV characters. I think her character gets overshadowed by the plots she's involved in. George uses her to introduce and hide the plotting of others which is interesting to read, but it also leaves Sansa in a position where she just isn't meant to grow and learn like other characters. If we knew about, say, Littlefinger's true intentions from the very beginning then things wouldn't be as interesting.

To me, her strongest characterization was in AGOT, which makes sense because her role in that book is the one George created her for. She got to be directly contrasted with Arya and overall, I think her relationships with other characters are where we've seen her grow the most. I hate how George has written her relationships with all of these older men, but I do think her relationships with them (platonic) are an interesting showcase of her character. With Sandor and Tyrion, for example, we see Sansa confronting her shallow ideas of beauty and knighthood. With Littlefinger, he uses her as a pawn and manipulates her, but he's also teaching her and potentially handing her the tools of his own undoing. The issue is that a lot of people don't look at how she's actually written and assign her growth she doesn't have. I can understand the urge and I genuinely believe that if Sansa had the same level of growth as others, she would be one of the best characters in the books. She will undoubtedly continue to grow in the last two books but for where the fandom wants her to be, George would need to give her four books worth of development in a few chapters which seems...unlikely.

I do agree that there's an issue with her stans getting angry when confronted with the book content. I've had people get upset with me for simply mentioning that Sansa was a part of LF's plot to poison SW. Her stans want her to simultaneously be the smartest character in the books while also being the purest, most naive character in existence. If you "insult" her intelligence then you're misogynistic but saying that she knows something that she was basically outright told is also bad. A really frustrating attitude that comes from her stans being unhappy with how she's actually written in the books. I think a lot of it comes from people wanting her book plot to line up with the show, but there's just no way that's happening. The sooner her stans come to terms with that and learn to like how she's actually written, the better.

#ask #anon #asoiaf #why people want her to have her show characterization is beyond me...she shows more intelligence in book 1 than she does in season 8 #they basically took away everything that made her Sansa and just turned her into generic /smart emotionless female character/ #Sansa /courtesy is a Lady's armor/ Stark would never so openly show her disdain towards Dany her whole thing is charm and grace💀 #anti sansa stans #I don't feel like I said anything to get mad at but just in case

[very-grownup]

Book 85, 2023

In my second year of university, all I took was English courses, because a full course load of nothing but reading seemed like a good idea after a stressful, somewhat traumatic first year. It was a long time ago and over the course of my time at uni I read a lot, only some of it multiple versions of Beowulf, and doodled my way through hundreds of hours of lectures, but some things have stuck with me.

I think a lot about my short story (later science fiction) professor and his frustration with the colloquialising and simplification of the word 'awesome', how it had become synonymous with 'impressive' and 'cool', stripped of the nuance where it is something so impressive it frightens you. 'Awesome' is a regular part of my casual vocabulary and language evolves, but I feel for Professor Matheson; sometimes the word you need is the awesome with the deeper connotation, and it's frustrating to think a reader is going to miss the nuance of the word because of the way it's popularly used.

Which brings us to Rebecca Chambers' "A Psalm for the Wild-Built"; every word I want to use to describe it feels like it's been muddled or neutered by a combination of internet hot take discourse and marketing speak. I've settled on 'gentle', which isn't the same as 'cozy' or 'soft', 'safe' or 'unproblematic'. Gentle is mint tea, warm, hydrating, a caffeine-free invigorating that's also relaxing, but it can still burn your tongue. It's a loving cat resting in your lap, soft paws massaging your thighs with pressure that can turn to pain and blood. Gentle feels good, comforting, but there's a choice, a restraint; the capacity to hurt is still there.

A distant future, another planet, an age of robotics leading to sentient artificial intelligence, and not a conflict of man versus machine but the quiet aftermath of an agreement between humans and robots, a separation of their societies, a pact of no contact, and humans moving forward to create a post-robot society, striving always to exist fully but conscientiously.

A young monk sets off on a vague pilgrimage in response to a vague inner malaise and becomes the first human being to encounter a robot since the robots vanished into the greater wilderness. They talk and continue the pilgrimage together.

That's it.

It's a novella, not a novel, a bite-sized road tale, and Chambers builds a world with rising and falling technological ages and environmental awareness, shifting human philosophies and ways of life to support this bite with the structural soundness and visibility of a spiderweb. It manages to be a very far flung future piece of science fiction, acknowledging the mistakes and damage of human society, while envisioning something better, and also acknowledging that this is an ongoing process. There's no goalpost for a 'good' version of humanity, there's just humanity, constantly evolving and growing and learning about the world and itself and changing in response to that; that involves hard truths and hope in equal measure.

It's a smart, thoughtful, sincere book, charming and funny and cathartic. It's not a reading experience that coddles you, but it refreshes you like walking in a downpour.

If you've ever felt lost in life or lost in the woods, "A Psalm for the Wild-Built" is the book about robots you need.

#2023 books #science fiction #becky chambers #a psalm for the wild built #i will choke you with metaphors

[jasper-book-stash]

Okay...regarding Witchcraft For Everyone by Sam Wise...

Well, firstly, if you're the author...I'm sorry, you probably shouldn't look at this post, I'm not fond of this book.

This was a deeply frustrating book. I have so many margin-scribbled notes expressing my frustration as I read it.

The most frustrating parts for me was in the editing and formatting: The inconsistency in the capitalization, formatting, and spelling of chapter titles, paired with the lack of page numbers and a non-existent table of contents, drove me absolutely bonkers.

So many chapters have bold claims with nothing backing them up within the text, which could have been fixed by citations and sources to back them up. And the author does do this in some places - citing specific books or podcasts or people under specific chapters within the text itself.

There are claims that many witches do or don't do something with seemingly no realization that one's experiences aren't universal, along with bold claims in subjects that the author themself claims they know nothing about.

There are also several separate instances of the author putting essential oils into water (sometimes bath water) without proper dilution. And I'm not just biased because of my anti-essential oil stance! My coworker, who uses essential oils herself, backed me up on this being a bad move!

And can someone please, for the love of whatever, tell me how we came to this organization of chapters?

Honestly, this is a 5/10 book. It's not the worst beginner book I've read, but it's far from the first I'd recommend to a beginner.

I just...wish it was a little better.

#jasper post #books #authors #review #witchcraft for everyone #sam wise

[skyfallscotland]

Hiii me again! I, too, have questions for the ask game 🍓🦋🥤

🥤 ⇢ recommend an author or fanfic you love

I feel like it's redundant to keep saying the same ones, but *whispers* storm in the quiet @justallihere and Political Gain @sarahwyland

But also, in terms of underrated, I just read a little series by Ramzes called The Unseen One, furthering the Sloane/Bodhi agenda (🙏🏼 the lord’s work) and I've also enjoyed The Princess Gambit by JuliLyng so far as well, which is Xaden/OC. Not sure if they have tumblr, but if they're here, hi! 👋🏼

🍓 ⇢ how did you get into writing fanfiction? 

So I've always been a reader/writer, since as far back as I can remember (maybe three years old?), I'm pretty sure with the knowledge I have now that I'm hyperlexic.

I'm old enough to have been around for dial-up internet, but when I was a preteen, we got broadband (showing my age). This is to say, don't judge my parents too harshly because internet safety was not a thing back then, but...

I found fanfiction because back then, a lot of people either used livejournal or hosted their own sites, so a lot of fansites, had fanfiction. So while looking at Buffy fansites, I stumbled across Buffy fanfiction and realised I could actually read stories!!! so many stories!! where Buffy and Spike got together earlier or things didn't end tragically for them. So yeah, at 11 I was reading very explicit Spuffy smut on the internet 🫢 I had a system set up where I would play The Sims all day or do school project powerpoints, except I was really reading fanfic and I would flick between screens whenever my parents entered the room.

My mum now has KU and reads dark romance every day, so I guess she comes by it honestly (and yes, I did mean it that way around, I was here first!) 😂

Anyway, when I was 12 I started publishing my first few fanfics on ffnet - Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean, and a Harry Potter/X-Men Crossover. Each originally written on paper, they were all ridiculously bad, but the latter had people interested enough despite the writing, which encouraged me to try again later down the line with The Vampire Diaries and Jurassic World. I hadn't written for almost ten years and had never finished anything much until last year, by chance, I decided to finally get back into reading actual books and picked up ACOTAR. I finished the series within a week and I was left like?? That's it????

The archive had such a small number of works, I couldn't believe it, so I decided to write my own. I wrote Fury and Siren over the course of three months. I wasn't game to post anything in case I didn't finish it, because I'd never finished anything before. I also put off starting this little book I'd bought 'Fourth Wing' by three months, because I knew I'd be sucked in and would lose the hyperfixation I had, so I forced myself to finish Siren first. And now you all know my life story lol omg I'm so embarrassing to myself 🫠

TLDR: internet

🦋 ⇢ share something that has been on your heart and mind lately 

Honestly, this is kind of angsty, but this last week I’ve thought a lot about male-dominated fandom spaces and how we’re not welcome in them. We, meaning everyone who isn’t a straight, cis, white male. The Formula 1 community on here seems a little better, probably because it’s female-led, but everywhere else I can’t even look at the comments.

To be honest, I’m tired of being told I don’t belong, or that my opinion means nothing because I’m female. I grew up in a motorsport family, my earliest memories are at racetracks, but men on the internet would have you believe I’m only interested because of what the drivers look like. It’s just…tiring. Those fandom spaces have become a no-go zone for me now, because it just isn’t worth it. We live in a time where no matter what you say someone will attack you which is sad in itself, but it’s so much worse when you’re a woman commenting on a “man’s sport”, not to mention endlessly frustrating because they’re too stupid to tell the difference between equity and equality.

🦋 On a larger note, Palestine. I don’t think more than that needs saying. It hurts my heart.

[bright-eyed]

My fav professor said something today about a colleague who was admonishing someone for having a syllabus with only primary texts (which means there were only books and poems, but no theory or analysis by academics of those works). It’s common knowledge in academia that in an upper level class the readings will include theory. They said, “theory is just the way literature is taught.”

We were talking about this in the context of this part in Italo Calvino’s “Why Read the Classics?”:

“The reading of a classic ought to give us a surprise or two vis-à-vis the notion that we had of it. For this reason I can never sufficiently highly recommend the direct reading of the text itself, leaving aside the critical biography, commentaries, and interpretations as much as possible. Schools and universities ought to help us to understand that no book that talks about a book says more than the book in question, but instead they do their level best to make us think the opposite. There is a very widespread topsyturviness of values whereby the introduction, critical apparatus, and bibliography are used as a smoke screen to hide what the text has to say, and, indeed, can say only if left to speak for itself without intermediaries who claim to know more than the text does.”

It got me thinking about how much people who aren’t already in love with literature seem to all hate it, and with a fervor that seems to get stronger every year. It feels like this is partly why people hate it. This prioritizing of theory over primary sources basically implies that the views and experiences of an individual reader aren’t important, or are wrong. It’s like the thoughts of readers don’t matter. We read theory like it contains the “correct” interpretation of a text, but there’s always going to be something about reading that is entirely beyond the reach of objectivity or criticism. Inevitably our deep personal experiences are ignored or contradicted enough that we grow to hate reading for the shame and frustration it represents. We start feeling like we’re “bad” at reading or like we could never “get” classic literature. We never got good grades on our essays. Our own thoughts didn’t match what the theorist wrote, so we hide and feel stupid. No wonder people hate reading…

The relationship between the reader and the text is an important part of literary studies, and the nature of reading is always being debated, but when it comes to dealing with regular, everyday readers and their own interpretations, it’s like we cease to give a shit because they’re “just” readers. It’s so dumb. What we think matters! You don’t have to be a professor to understand literature because reading is about having a sort of relationship with a text that only you can have, and whatever you get from it is unique and precious. Everything else is secondary.

#kennapost

[nicistrying]

Sunday 11th Feb

Snoozed all my alarms and didn't wake up til 9am today and initially I was disappointed but I remembered my sister called at like 11pm to say my dad had been rushed to hospital and I was on the phone until after midnight. I didn't go to bed til 1am so really 9 was probably about the right time to get up. Went out for another rainy walk with Maggie and felt a little bit better. We saw lots of deer and a couple of foxes playing in the woods 🥹 Got home and did some chores, then dragged myself out for a run knowing it would cheer me up. I was only planning to run the 3km or so down to the river and back but I managed a good pace and wanted to try to get a 5K under 32 mins which I can never seem to beat. Which is frustrating in itself but let's not unpack that now lol. I run purely for pleasure and endorphins and I'm not about to ruin something I love so much by being too hard on myself. Anyway because I didn't plan to run that far bc I fslt so gross, I had to improvise a loop at the end to get up to 5K but we live on a really fucking long steep hill and I ended up running up it like 3 times so my pace sucked. If I'd stayed down on the flat by the river I might have managed it but never mind. I got it in 32:20 which is slightly better than usual and it's still an achievement that I ran further than I had planned.

Did 3 sets of KB squats, KB lunges, grasshoppers and plié squats when I got home to feel strong and in control bc my running form was terrible. Stretched with support from Coach Maggie, ran a hot bath in the meantime and had a soak at 2pm with a protein shake and all my nice bubble bath and body scrub and moisturiser from Christmas. I smell like candy floss and I love it 🍭

Had lunch and just chilled for an hour watching tv, feeling too full and heavy. Went back out for another little walk before it got dark to stretch the legs and get us both some fresh air (Matt is working today). Called my dad while I was out and finally got an answer after his wife keeps hanging up on me. He was okay, just said he was exhausted understandably, and that the doctors still have no idea what's wrong with him. So we are no further forward ☹️

And now snuggled up reading my book. Mac & cheese for dinner soon and Matt will be home in a couple of hours. Happy Sunday ❤️

#fitblr #health blog #personal #fitness blog #health #fitness #workout #sunday #run #5K #nike run club #this is 6 weeks in a row probably the most consistent i've been with running in the past 5 years #proud of myself #leg day #strong #Maggie #personal fitblr #family #self care

[lettersfromverabookreview]

Book Review: Piranesi

Hi! This is my first review of a book ive read recently, and i want to remind anyone that reads this that i want to do this as a hobby!! No edits, nothing, just whatever my brain wanted to spit out when thinking about the book!!!

First, I do want to say that this book blew my mind in ways that I do not believe appear as literal as written. Now it may be my understanding of this book in itself, the time of my life in which i was going through to understand it the way I did, or maybe that I understood what the writer meant to do.

Books like these I would not present it as either difficult to understand or to read, but I would say to not take this book (even when it could be a day reading) for granted and to read it with time and patience.

Piranesi, for me, is a great and interesting book that is about trauma, and dealing with it. Now, the book in itself is not directly about this, we begin first in a house, a house with multiple infinite rooms (the author herself said that she based this book on stories by Jorge Luis Borges, an amazing Argentinian author that I recommend as well, that talks about magical realism. I wouldn't say that this book is about magical realism because magical realism has a big history in Latin America, and even though it may be intertwined with the creation of this book, it would be simply incorrect to put it into this category.) and a main character ready to explore each and every one of those rooms. As the curious person that I am, I would have been able to love and read each description of the room that that house contains, and I´m more than happy with the number of descriptions that there are, which is not an opinion I´ve heard a lot either in Goodreads or in my group of friends.

Piranesi, the main character, which I´m not even sure if I should call Piranesi since he doesn't think that is his name (He simply calls himself “your friend” which I think is the best introduction to the innocent character we read about the whole book), is an innocent, goodhearted, curious person that ended up mysteriously in this house. Yes, I have to admit that I have gotten frustrated with this character, but thankfully his actions are not without reason, and I think that that is one of the reasons why it's so helpful to read this book from his point of view, his immense trust with the Other, how he tries to even speak with the birds and even !!! talks with !!! the bodies of !!! the people that were there before him !! You pity him before you even have the chance to hate him.

Now, I do realize that if another person who has read Piranesi may read this review and be like “Hey, you didn't talk about the statues, the birds, the messages” and yes, you would be right, but 1. my focus on the review of this book is not put on this because I was still not as enthralled as I became later on when this topic seemed the most important to me in the book and 2. I am not the best at deciphering secret messages in statues. But surely, if you ever want to read it and give it your own meaning, please do!! share it with me if you want, I would love to read all of the different opinions!!

Now, arriving at the main point ( in which I think I will have to warn about heavy spoilers) why do I think this book is mainly about trauma and going through it?

Well, I do have some main points that refer to the answer, but in a general sense, I did feel that way overall throughout the whole book. What happens after disaster? After the whole world has collapsed around us? After the reality that we thought was truly changed, and not only changed, but we were forced to change because of it? Are we still ourselves at the end of the path? Or are we some kind of Theseus ship, with all parts of us replaced, new and used?

Piranesi begins as a child would enter a new world, recollecting information as presented, never put to doubt, sort of a blank slate in this world, we are as lost as he seems, even in his comfortable way of living and knowing the closest rooms to him, there are some paths that he knows he has not gone to, some that he is aware he is afraid of going back again, he is from the moment that we meet him, like a vulnerable crab that has changed shell and is in its most delicate state, we see him longing for connection in a world that answers in its own, inexplicable way. He is always looking for an answer, for a message, but we are never sure what does that mean. This reminds me very well of the reconstruction of the self after a traumatic event, of course, in this case, his forgetfulness was the product of the “magic” of the house, but wouldn't it make sense if Piranesi, our friend, appeared to be so shocked, so unprepared for such change that his brain would choose block those memories? Because when he believes that his prison, the House, is his home, something to trust, to sleep in peace, to fish, to run around, he is able to continue on.

Now, continuing on the sense of the Magic of the House being the one that controls the memories of Piranesi, wouldn't it be Piranesi´s mind the actual House? Many memories, thoughts, messages, and people that circle our mind, we are not always aware or in control of which memories will rise to the surface, which ones will be forgotten, and how will we remember someone, a memory, in the future. The House is Kind, the book says, the House in its infinity is ultimately kind, and is this not a reflection of Piranesi, the man talking to the birds, pitying the stranger, believing the best of all the people around him, and many many things more? Even when the Other is about to shoot Piranesi, he wishes the Other would go back to the boat. He is the House, and his connection to the House, mysterious as everyone´s connection to our selves is, is also his connection to the world. Once the Other is washed up with the water of the House (and even though Piranesi did not want the Other to die, as it happens in a lot of traumatic events, when we do not think the person that did us wrong actually did us wrong) he is free to go to the Real World, which yeah, is uncomfortable, is not the House, it's not his home, but when are we ever comfortable when moving on?

Lastly, at the end of the book, Piranesi does not reflect himself with this Piranesi persona (the first person we met, living in the house) nor with the person that he was before Piranesi, Matthew Rose Sorensen, he is someone new, containing yes Piranesi and Matthew, but not one nor the other. After the tides of life have washed us over and over again, could we have the same kindness we had before?

Thanks for reading! Before I finish this post, I do want to leave this very interesting reddit post that I saw while writing this, that has a very similar pov from what i was thinking! and many others.

Anyways, Happy Reading!

#book review #piranesi #susanna clarke #fantasy #mystery #books #booklr

[thetypedwriter]

Greywaren Book Review

Greywaren Book Review by Maggie Stiefvater

This book is a fantastic disappointment. 

Of course, the book is good. Of course the writing is absolutely phenomenal. It’s Maggie Stiefvater. Even when I’ve questioned her plot or character development, I have never once questioned her writing. 

She is a wizard with words. Her writing floats off the page and lives rent-free in my head for months. The way she concocts her stories fills me with delight and awe. 

That was never in question. 

The biggest question I had going into Greywaren was: will I get what I want?

The answer is no. 

I think it’s mostly safe to say that a majority of readers saw the Dreamer trilogy as Ronan’s own triage of books. It was pitched that way to us as an audience and the way the books were presented was that it would be about the Brothers Lynch. 

This is a lie. 

Perhaps, Call Down the Hawk could be described as such, the first book in the trilogy, but every book since has fallen further and further away from the original premise. 

The second installment, Mister Impossible, was almost entirely about Declan. And now the final book, Greywaren, I would argue, is about Hennessy and Carmen Farooq-Lane. 

Now. I like Hennessy. I like Farooq-Lane. They’re great characters. 

However, they are not the Brothers Lynch. 

I don’t understand why authors do this. They promise things and entice readers with certain characters, plot points, and relationships, and then don’t deliver. 

I’m sure Maggie has her reasons for writing the trilogy this way, and I’m not pretending to know what they are or that I understand the intricacies of her writing process or the publishing world, but I am just so frustrated that she wrote the trilogy this way. 

Ronan, the so-called main character, is hardly in Greywaren at all, and half of the time when he does have his own chapters, he is either asleep, dreaming, or not taking part in reality. The amount of exasperation I have that Maggie made this choice is overwhelming to me as a reader. 

In the original The Raven Cycle books, Ronan and Adam were my favorites. They were many people’s favorites, including, it seems, Maggie herself. Which is why she set out on a quest to tell Ronan’s own story.

 Except what started as Ronan’s narrative quickly devolved into a tale featuring so many other characters that Ronan’s part became so diluted that it is barely there at all. 

Once again, I love Maggie’s characters. Jordan, Hennessy, Farooq-Lane, etc, they’re all wonderful. If Maggie had them as side characters in the Dreamer trilogy and then set out to write a spin-off series featuring them, I would not be mad. I would be super excited and pumped to read such a cool installment. 

But that’s not what I wanted, what I anticipated, or what I got. 

Instead, the final book about Ronan Lynch and his brothers is really about unrelated side characters who somehow took center stage despite everyone wanting the opposite. 

Irksome doesn’t even scratch the surface of it. 

Greywaren itself is…fine. As I said above, Maggie’s writing is undeniably beautiful. I will say, though, the plot gets convoluted and hard to follow and the ending feels rushed and shallow. 

This book essentially picks up after Mister Impossible, in which Ronan is asleep, along with many other dreamers or dreamt people who need sweetmetals. 

Declan is trying to save everyone, Matthew goes through a rebellious stage, Hennessy is creating, and Farooq-Lane is trying to stop her brother, Nathan, from starting the apocalypse. 

Honestly, when I think about it, this book simultaneously has so much going on and nothing going on at the same time. The overarching plot could be described as: Nathan is bringing on the apocalypse and people try to stop him as well as reawaken their sleeping friends. That’s it. That’s the plot. 

However, it takes 300+ pages to get to the end, which then rushes through really essential reunions and revelations, because there are so many characters we have to switch POV’s between. 

Additionally, there’s a lot of abstract things happening that don’t really contribute to the plot, even if they're interesting to read about. 

Overall, this means you could read 100 pages and have a very minimal amount of progress because everyone is taking one small step instead of having one character (Ronan) taking many. 

Jordan is hardly in this book, and Matthew, whom I anticipated seeing a lot of, is very cruelly shafted by having a sparse amount of chapters and a character arc that feels vague and incomplete.

 After running away towards the beginning of the book, no real headway comes from it and then in the end, bam! Matthew returns to the Barns like nothing happened. 

We don’t see the conversation between Matthew and Declan, we don’t see the reunion between Matthew and Ronan, and we certainly don’t get a scene with all three brothers, which, if you remember, is what this whole trilogy was supposed to be about. 

In the same vein, Adam and Ronan, the couple everyone was most excited to see and read about, had a few paltry scenes in this whole trilogy combined. There are more scenes with Farooq-Lane and Liliana than there are with arguably, the main couple. 

The injustice of this vexes me beyond words. 

Even in this book, at the very end, the reunion between Adam and Ronan that we waded through 300 pages to see, is brief and from someone else’s POV. 

What on earth? Really? This is the reunion we waited years for and we didn’t even get to experience it though Ronan’s own eyes. 

As I write this, I realize that I feel cheated and shafted. 

At this same time, I don’t know how fair it is to feel that way. It’s not my book or my characters, so who am I to demand anything of Maggie? I understand this. 

On the other hand, this was a book pitched to us and advertised as a series about the Brother’s Lynch. I would very much argue that by book three especially, this is completely unfounded and untrue. 

Did I still like the book? Yes, of course I did. However, I just wanted more. I wanted what was promised at the beginning. I wanted less abstract and confusing chapters and more chapters with essential characters actually talking, meeting, and growing. 

I wanted resolution, development, and conclusions. 

Instead, I got a muddled, albeit gorgeously written story, where all the characters felt full with potential, but never truly reached a point of promise. 

Like I said at the beginning, this book was both fantastic and a disappointment in so many ways, a fantastic disappointment that will always leave me wanting more. 

Recommendation: Read it. However, you’re not going to get the development or scenes that you want. Beware of this. Use fanfiction to fill in the gap that this trilogy wasn’t able to deliver on. 

Score: 6/10

#greywaren spoilers #greywaren #maggie stiefvater #The Raven Boys #the raven cycle #pynch #ronan lynch #ronan trilogy #Adam Parrish #dreamer trilogy #6/10 #book blog #books #book review #Book Recommendations #book rec #YA Book Review #book recs #popular fiction #Popular Books #top books #favorite books

[cristalmystery]

What's your favourite part about playing music (DUDE YOU PLAY THE VIOLIN THAY IS SO COOL GOGUISSHSKWKNEKFFODKD I LOVE VIOLIN SO MUCU 😭😭😭 EVERYTIME I HEAR STRINGS IN A SONG I LOSE MY SHITTJDKSODKFKFKDKD)

(also guitar player buddies pog:D I love playing the guitar sobs)

ALSO SPEAKING OF VIOLIN DO YOU KNOW WHO ANDREW BIRD IS

https://spotify.link/4hjuyaIGxIb

RAHSHS

Oh gosh, there’s so much I love I can’t narrow it down to just one thing, so I’ve made a top 3. (This is going to be long, btw.)

1. Inner peace. Idk how to explain it, but when I sit down just me, my guitar and one of my old books full of songs I can sight read back to front it’s like the rest of the world disappears. I don’t really need to think about playing the music, and I don’t get frustrated because I know the songs, but I still need to focus enough so my thoughts don’t drift. It’s just me and my music in that moment. Nothing else. That’s my happy place. Especially in summer when I can go and sit in the garden in the sun. I play music just for me and just for the joy of learning it. I don’t really like playing for other people or showing off because then I’m no longer playing for me and my perfectionism kicks in hard, which makes it a lot harder to still enjoy the music.

2. Playing with other musicians! I joined our music school’s string orchestra this year and I’ve been having a blast. It made me realise how much I had missed by guitar ensemble. Such a big part of being a teen was that one hour a week I spent in guitar ensemble with my friends (none of us liked the teacher and we were little shits about it, but we did get shit done). I also think that’s how you learn the most/fastest. A. Because you have a bunch of other people how can help/teach you. B. Because you have to learn in order to keep up, you have to match that same level to play along.

It’s also fun because the stress of having to preform falls away. Everyone is too focused on their own thing to notice your mistakes and the audience tends to not hear or notice the mistakes because it’s really hard to tell that they are there without either knowing the song already or having the sheet music in front of you. So I like playing in a group because I can convince myself to not put too much pressure on it.

Oh, and jam sessions with friends are always fun. I tend to have one once every 3-4 months. Sometimes it’s playing songs we already know or tried. Sometimes it’s just “hey what if we did this song?” And then everyone looks up the chords and we try it a few times. Seeing the music come together is always fun. I end up going home with a sore throat from singing my lungs out every time.

3. This one’s not really about playing it, but sharing music. Going “Hey, I learned to play this song, what do you think?” or “hey i wrote this. Any thoughts?” or talking about new musicians you discovered and making your friends listen. And listening to the stuff your friends write! I have a friend who composed classical music and orchestral shit and I love getting little private concerts!

VIOLIN IS SO COOL! It’s also hell to learn. It’s like playing a video game with endless boss battles. You constantly have to work your way up to the fight so you can get past that hurdle only to be immediately hit with the next skill issue. I’m struggling so hard with the third position. Not even with the position itself, just with switching between first and third and back. I miss my frets!!! I miss being able to see/feel where my notes are instead of having to know them all by muscle memory! And don’t get me started on the bow. Violin is like 80% bow control/management and it’s funfair! I do really love playing the violin. It’s so much fun once you get the hang of a piece.

YOU PLAY THE GUITAR TOO!?! GUITAR BUDDIES, HELL YEAH!

Oh I didn’t, but I’m looking him up right now.

#the askers #icyfox17 #music #Phoenix I know you read these #I still need to get a copy of Victorian Dance Party on my phone because it’s a crime I can’t listen to it when it’s stuck in my head

[frozen-fountain]

For the book recs asks: 1, 5, 18, 23, 54, 71

A book that is close to your heart

Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Kimmerer. I read it about three years ago now and find myself thinking of it when I'm feeling at a crossroads and weighing up consequential decisions.

5. Something in fiction that reads like poetry

Not to be a stuck record but just... anything by Angela Carter. Not only for the beauty of her language and the images it creates in your mind but because, as florid and maximalist as her writing can be, it's all constructed to support layers of symbolism and deep wells of meaningful connotation. It's economical purple prose.

18. Your least favorite book ever

The most recent contender is probably Nothing But Blackened Teeth by Cassandra Khaw, which on the surface contains a lot of things I should love but completely failed in execution. Everyone knows that I love me some ornate, orchidaceous prose, so you know it's serious when even I am inwardly curling up into a ball of secondhand embarrassment at the excess on the page. Lady, you cannot drop "chiaroscuro" into your narration more than once without a damned good reason, and there's also some really cringy lampshading of cliched illogical things horror protagonists do that read less like an attempt to deconstruct these things in a meaningful way, and more like "So that just happened" humour to cover up the laziness of running the characters through these motions. Worst of all, there's no real subtext to add substance to the scares. There's some stuff in there about mental illness, about toxic and stagnant friendships, about marriage customs in feudal Japan versus contemporary America and what they do to women, but it failed to add up to anything enlightening or compelling. I loved the location, but that's about it.

A popular choice for this question, I think, but I'd throw in Hanya Yanagihara's A Little Life, too. Not because of the subject matter, or because of the ending, but because it's using these terrible experiences to cover itself in the trappings of a literary great while being, at least in my estimation, incredibly pulpy and borderline exploitative in its execution. I also did not at all see the beautiful, poetic prose that some people did and actually found the language really flat throughout, and found myself especially frustrated at the author's habit of over-explaining the characters' motivations and psychology instead of demonstrating them through action and dialogue - it read like a therapist's notes in many places, which doesn't work for fiction that's so centered on inner experience. But I do also see how and why this book could deeply move and become important to someone, and it frustrates me a bit that a lot of criticism of it seems to focus on anachronisms and lack of realism instead of asking why these devices were employed. But it's very Not For Me and places high on this list because my inability to DNF anything meant it took a long time to slog through.

I feel bad for saying so much more about books I hated than the ones I loved, but in the case of the latter I really am hoping anyone who reads these answers will check them out for themselves. I feel like my "Stay away!" needs a bit more qualification.

23. A book that is currently on your TBR

When I'm finished with Earthsea, I want to reread To the Lighthouse. It's been calling me and I was only twenty the first time I went through it, so I'm interested to see how it hits with all these experiences under my belt and after such dramatic changes in perspective as I've accumulated. For spoopy month I have Bitter Orange by Claire Fuller, Sisters by Daisy Johnson, and The Vegetarian by Han Kang lined up, and I'm really excited for all of those.

54. A book with the best opening line

It's pretty hard to beat "It was the day my grandmother exploded" (The Crow Road by Iain Banks).

71. Your favourite LGBTQ+ fiction

To just about everyone I would rec The Passion of New Eve by Angela Carter, which is gorgeously written gender fuckery; The Luminous Dead by Caitlin Starling, which is really effective sci-fi horror with a complicated sapphic slow burn at its centre; and Giovanni's Room by James Baldwin, because what more could I say? With a much bigger pinch of salt I would add Maria McCann's As Meat Loves Salt to that list, because not everybody wants to be in the head of a violent and possessive rapist for several hundred pages, but it's a descent into the abyss that will stay with me for as long as I live.

#garth-greensleeves #thanks dear!