#‘no wonder the poem should fail’ ‘i fear nothing’

[burningvelvet]

Here are two of the most hilariously scalding letters from the 1800s that I have ever read. One is by the famous writer Lord Byron, and the other is by his daughter Ada Lovelace, the famous mathematician. Both are written to their respective business partners: Byron to his publisher John Murray, and Lovelace to her colleague Charles Babbage. It’s interesting to note how strikingly similar these letters are despite the fact that Ada and her father never knew each other, as her parents separated shortly after her birth and he died abroad when she was eight. Both were rebellious, fond of gambling, prone to tumultuous affairs, and both hated Lady Byron. These similarities may help to explain why her final wish was to be buried next to him instead of her family.

Lord Byron in a Letter to his publisher John Murray about the printing of his magnum opus, the poem Don Juan:

“Ra. August 31st. 1821.

Dear Sir

I have received the Juans – which are printed so carelessly especially the 5th. Canto – as to be disgraceful to me — & not creditable to you.

It really must be gone over again with the Manuscript – the errors are so gross – words added – changed – so as to make cacophony & nonsense. — You have been careless of this poem because some of your Synod don’t approve of it – but I tell you – it will be long before you see any thing half so good as poetry or writing. — Upon what principle have you omitted the note on Bacon & Voltaire? and one of the concluding stanzas sent as an addition? because it ended I suppose – with –

‘And do not link two virtuous souls for life Into that moral Centaur man & wife?’

Now I must say once for all – that I will not permit any human being to take such liberties with my writings – because I am absent. —

I desire the omissions to be replaced (except the stanza on Semiramis) particularly the stanza upon the Turkish marriages – and I request that the whole be carefully gone over with the M.S.S. –

I never saw such stuff as is printed – Gulleyaz – instead of Gulbeyaz &c. Are you aware that Gulbeyaz is a real name – and the other nonsense? – I copied the Cantos out carefully – so that there is no excuse – as the Printer reads or at least prints the M.S.S. of the plays without error. —

If you have no feeling for your own reputation pray have some little for mine. — I have read over the poem carefully – and I tell you it is poetry – Your little envious knot of parson-poets may say what they please — time will show that I am not in this instance mistaken. — Desire my friend Hobhouse to correct the press especially of the last Canto from the Manuscript – as it is – it is enough to drive one out of one’s senses – to see the infernal torture of words from the original. – For instance the line

‘And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves’

Is printed

‘and praise their rhymes &c. –

also ‘precarious’ for ‘precocious’ – and this line. stanza 133.

‘And this strong extreme effect – to tire no longer’

Now do turn to the Manuscript – & see – if I ever made such a line – it is not verse. —

No wonder the poem should fail – (which however it wont you will see) with such things allowed to creep about it. – – Replace what is omitted – – & correct what is so shamefully misprinted, – and let the poem have fair play – – and I fear nothing. — I see in the last two Numbers of the Quarterly – a strong itching to assail me (see the review of the “Etonian”) let it – and see if they shan’t have enough of it. – – I don’t allude to Gifford – who has always been my friend – & whom I do not consider as responsible for the articles written by others. – But if I do not give Mr. Milman – Mr. Southey – & others of the crew something that shall occupy their dream! I am not what I was – that is all

I have not begun with the Quarterers – but let them look to it. – As for Milman (you well know I have not been unfair to his poetry ever) but I have lately had some information of his critical proceedings in the Quarterly which may bring that on him which he will be sorry for. – I happen to know that of him – Which would annihilate him – when he pretends to preach morality – not that he is immoral – because he isn’t – having in early life been once too much so. – And dares he set up for a preacher? let him go and be priest to Cybele. – why let

You will publish the plays – when ready — I am in such a humour about this printing of D.J. so inaccurately – that I must close this.

yrs. [scrawl]

P.S. I presume that you have not lost the stanza to which I allude? it was sent afterwards look over my letters – & find it. The Notes you can’t have lost – you acknowledged them – they included eight or little corrections of Bacon’s mistakes in the apothegms. – And now I ask once more if such liberties taken in a man’s absence – are fair or praise-worthy? – As for you you have no opinions of your own – & never had – but are blown about by the last thing said to you no matter by whom.”

[Separate page]

“Dear Sir

The enclosed letter is written in bad humour – but not without provocation. -

However – let it (that is the bad humour) go for little – but I must request your serious attention to the abuses of the printer which ought never to have been permitted. – You forget that all the fools in London (the chief purchasers of your publications) will condemn in me the stupidity of your printer. — For instance in the Notes to Canto fifth – ‘the Adriatic shore of the Bosphorus – instead of the Asiatic!! – All this may seem little to you – so fine a gentleman with your ministerial connections – but it is serious to me – who am thousands of miles off & have no opportunity of not proving myself the fool yr. printer makes me – except your pleasure & leisure forsooth.

The Gods prosper you — & forgive you, for I wont.

B.”

Ada Lovelace in a letter to her work partner Charles Babbage, who she helped invent the computer with:

“Tuesday Afternoon [1 August 1843] Ockham

. . . Note B has plagued me to death; altho' I have made but little alteration in it. Such alterations as there are however, happen to have been very tiresome & to have demanded minute consideration & very nice adjustments.

It is a very excellent Note.

I wish you were as accurate, & as much to be relied on, as I am myself. You might often save me much trouble, if you were; whereas you in reality add to my trouble not infrequently; and there is at any rate always the anxiety of doubting if you will not get me into a scrape; even when you don't.

By the way, I hope you do not take upon yourself to alter any of my corrections.

I must beg you not. They all have some very sufficient reason. And you have made a pretty mess & confusion in one or two places (which I will show you sometime), where you have ventured in my M.S's, to insert or alter a phrase or word; & have utterly muddled the sense.

I could not conceive at first in one or two places what had happened to my sentences; tho' I soon saw they were patchwork & not my own; and found it so, on referring to the M.S. I fear you will think this a very cross letter. Never mind. I am a good little thing, after all. Yours ever

A. A. L.

Later. P. S. It is impossible to send you anything but Notes B and C; (& this partly owing to some wrong references & blunderations of your own). — Do not be afraid, for I will work like the Devil early tomorrow morning. —“

[Separate Page]

“Wednesday, 4 o'clock [2 August 1843] Ockham

After working almost incessantly, since 7 o'clock this morning, until I am forced to give in from sheer inability to apply longer, I find only the sheet I enclose is quite completed. I shall however send a servant up tomorrow morning by a ten o' clock train, to take you all the rest; so that you will have it almost as soon as this letter.

You cannot conceive the trouble I have had with the trigonometrical Note E. — In fact no one but me, I really believe, would have doggedly stuck to it, as I have been doing, in all wearing minutiae.

I am very uneasy at not hearing from you, as I have expected to do both yesterday & today; & fear some disaster or other. I hope all of Note G is forthcoming; & I also hope you have received all my communications safely.

I think you had better do the second revise of the translation for me. If you will compare it carefully with my first revise, it can hardly be necessary I think for me to go over it again.

I suppose I ought to take it for granted that no news is good news; but I am in a sad fidget. — Yours ever

A. L.”

[chloe-caulfield94]

A Miracle I Chose Not to Perform - a LiS fan poem

On a surprisingly sunny and warm day in October

a genuine miracle was about to happen

In spite of the consequences of their actions

(and fitting conclusions to their character arcs)

emerging from the ocean and coming their way

the following wonderful people would be spared:

A promising young artist would be allowed

to keep making his haunting works

after just a brief three year stay

in an institution run by those

who clearly fail to comprehend

that in pursuit of real art

sacrifices must be made

Some shallow graves simply need to be filled

with whores

I mean sluts

I mean models

if truth and beauty are to be discovered

An ambitious businessman would be allowed to keep

the spirit of entrepreneurship alive

by selling his intoxicatingly enticing wares

to the most challenging customers of all – schoolchildren

And I’m sure that such a nice, hard-working man

would soon find a new, suitably young match

to replace the one he killed with his product

One that would understand

that after a hard day’s work

(and tasting his own stash)

a “man” has the right to explode into a blind rage

A devoted school principal and brave boys in blue

would be allowed to keep supplementing their incomes

(which are absolutely inadequate, when you factor in how much they care about the people they teach, protect and serve)

with envelopes coming from

a pillar of local community

for keeping the young artist’s career

under wraps

A valued member of the student body

would be allowed to teach

many a more stuck-up prudes

a lesson using her phone camera

having never been made aware

that other people have feelings too

All those wonderfully revolting things

would be allowed to happen

for a low tall Price

of just one murdered girl

What is the murder of a single girl

if it allows the putrid entrails

of a scenic Oregon town

to keep on churning

An irrationally angry girl

who had the audacity to confront

the boy who'd merely roofied her

Big deal!

He only wanted to

do something beautiful to her

and he would have

had she not unceremoniously fled

while she was still alive

How rude!

But you can’t expect class

from a scholarship kid in tattered clothes

Forgive my sarcasm dripping from the page

I will now speak plainly

The miracle described above I chose not to perform

I decided that just this once

friendship

should carry more weight

than the cruelty of evildoers

One ghoul pierced her heart

with a bullet-tipped spear

Another placed a red crown of thorns

on her forehead

Conquering her fear she didn’t cry

„Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani”

No, instead she handed me

the final nail

and begged me to hammer it

so that others might live while she would die

But despite her bravery

in the face of oblivion

(or perhaps because of it)

a blue-winged seraph was sent down

to defend her life

Nobody would miss her

the promising artist said

and if I had let her cross be raised

I would’ve proven him right

Nothing ever is worth someone

being murdered

Nothing ever is worth someone

dying alone, abandoned, hopeless and afraid

And for that reason

unlike two millennia ago in Palestine

expiation was denied

to those who required it the most

but deserved it not

I made sure of that

by pulling the would-be Christ of Arcadia Bay

down from her cross

Even though two nails

had already been driven

her hands, feet, heart and brow

bear no holes

My supposed crime is digging out of her heart

a bullet fired by

the promising artist

Shouldn’t the fault lie with the one

who aimed the gun and pulled the trigger?

I never claimed to be a hero

and if saving a friend's life is a sin

then I’m the greatest sinner

(and unrepentant one at that)

Once you cut out all hope

from your own friend’s heart

and you nail their body to a cross

once you’re smiling over their coffin

bloody knife and hammer in your hands

once you selfishly reduce

the light of their life

to a memory locked away

in your brain

then you can judge me

But know that

I don’t care about the verdicts

of ghouls

Isn’t it written

that whoever saves a life

is considered to have saved

the whole world?

So by digging the bullet out of her heart

I saved her world

my world

our world

the world

She was the Price to be paid

for sparing Arcadia Bay

from its fate

I refused that bargain

because who in their right mind

would pay with the world

for a town?

All the fine people described at the begininng

casual in their cruelty

banal in their evil

learnt an important lesson

(and for some of them it was their last):

sometimes hatred and disdain sown

become a Storm reaped

So on an unsurprisingly cold and stormy day in October

the miracle turned out to be

how such a tiny town could've fit

so much cruelty

before it burst at the seams

and that the seeds of the Storm

sown by its dwellers every day

took that long to yield crop

[theskeletoninthegarden]

Thinking about the wonderful poem by jjbang8, "His wife had filled the house with chintz. To keep it real I fuck him into the floor." It reminds me so much of my Tav, who is demisexual, but uses sex as a means of expressing appreciation and love to those they're incredibly close to.

It makes me think of how sex with Astarion, in the beginning, was a way of offering the vampire intimacy from the only approach he's used to. Only with my Quinntav their first night together they made it implicitly clear that they were offering for the sheer joy of witnessing what comfort they could bring him and.

Quinn had told him this before, but Astarion has consistently been baffled. Sceptical. Two hundred years and he says that only a scant few times has he felt pleasure himself while with any one else. Sex has, by and large, been a matter of survival, at best for him. At worst, it's been about stomaching Cazador's abuse.

But then comes along this Tiefling who harbors their own demon, who thinks themself to be unlovable and cruel, who finds so much joy in making their own companions happy, and ensuring everyone's survival of at the cost of their own. And all Quinntav wants to do is hold Astarion's hand. Sleep naked with him in the same bed. Sing melodies to the vampire and frustrate him into throwing tantrums.

And to get down on their knees for him, to feel his fingers in their hair, to watch the anger and fear vanish from his eyes for just a few moments, due to something they are able to provide.

It's a slow process, even after that first night. It's offering Astarion every chance to be physically near them, it's waiting for him to take the first step every time, in and outside of the bedroom. It's less then a few encounters that involve sex, itself, until eventually Astarion admits he needs to put it aside until he can be with someone in that way without seeing Cazador's face.

When Quinn begins to feel stirrings of their own sexual desire for Astarion, it's so far into their relationship that both have admitted to themselves that they love each other. That Quinn has taken so many precautions to ensure that Astarion has space of his own (understanding that he needs to be alone sometimes, that sometimes the vampire can't stand to be touched even by the first person he's begun to trust and ultimately care for), that when the Tiefling tries to hide it from Astarion out of fear of making him uncomfortable in any way, that Astarion finds this to be charming. To be endearing. To be heart breaking. As this singular person that has beheld more of him then anyone else should somehow feel as though they're failing him somehow.

(That, and this is no small surprise, Quinn discovers that they have a worship kink may add to the amusement, but I digress.)

Sex never becomes a large part of their relationship, but it's incredibly remarkable when Astarion begins to request certain acts of extreme vulnerability during sex. Specific positions and etc that, previously, occurred when he was being used not for his own pleasure, but strictly for another's. To fill a quota. To placate his abusive creator.

Their relationship may not fit the poem to a T. But Astarion was trapped in a loveless situation. He had nothing to his name save for the clothing on his back, repeatedly repaired by hand year after year. ("His wife has filled his house with Chintz.") by his own person. But finally he's able to return to something for the sheer pleasure of it. He has begun to heal, to feel again, to want and to be allowed to want whatever he desires. And the comfort he feels while in these acts of carnal pleasure has been one of the most remarkable signs of beginning to heal that he is able to find within himself ("To keep it real I fuck him into the floor").

[chill-in-heat]

Riverrafting

A bubble raft of equal sized bubbles adopts the hexagonal pattern of a honeycomb. [1] It was floating on the water [2], the saloon garden. She must be near the home but It was absurd trying to remember, when at any moment a wave might submerge her raft forever. [3]

The high presences of the trees surrounded her as if they stood forth at her coming. [4] On every side there seemed an outstretching of greenery moving in equally repetitive fashion. [5] There were special gates covered with greenery leading into all the four parts of the garden. [6] The courtyard wasn’t paved with the usual austere slabs of gray stone but was full of plants and fruit trees. [7] At the front they formed an aetoma, a freely floating baldachin, with the eleventh strip serving as a ceiling. [8] Gothic forms lived on, but little by little they fell silent, ceasing to speak, to recall or instruct. [9]

It must have been years since she had seen Kati. Wondering about the new one, Takeshi.

Natural gifts like his were hard to match. [10] Heavens, what a pair of legs he had! [11] She also picked up two now faded tattoos on his right forearm ("trust her" and "FOREVER violent") [12] and told him:

"They are like a pair of glasses on our nose through which we see whatever we look at." [13] "I don't even wear glasses." [14] Takeshi stated.

Lethe disembarks and floats over to him. Deftly she lifts off his glasses. [15] And reassure him, there's nothing wrong, freedom and fear are always together like an old married couple, each willing to die for the other. [16] The glasses, chinked, vibrate. [17] Kati looks at her japanese companion.

"Your old fashioned spectacles! This requires a completely new style of dress." [18] But Takeshi stayed calm, master of his violence. "Don't worry about me. [19] Dress designing... is to me not a profession but an art." [20]

Takeshi clads himself with periwinkles.

It was not in everybody’s interest that the skirt should be short [21], altough, at that time, he had appropriately fruity tangerine coloured hair. [22] But Kati would say their tastes did match well. [23]

"If you like it, you may take it back with you, as a souvenir of a future friend," she said serenely. [24] A whole new relationship between Takeshi and his truth was beginning to be formulated here. [25] One that he knew all to well. It can’t have come from lack of confidence. [26] A dangerous confidence [27]:

To succeed in getting drunk, but on pure water, that they might turn into butterflies.[28]

The [undramatic] surroundings are forgotten once again. [29] And hence, the whole poem loops back upon itself without closing. [30] Kati and Takeshi are gratefully ignorant again. Thank you ,vuokrasopimus It never fails to work its magic. [31]

[1] Ball, The Selfmade Tapestry Pattern Formation in Nature, [2] Hugo, Les Miserables, [3] Calasso, The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, [4] Woolf, Night and Day, [5] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [6] Gothein, A History of Garden Art, [7] Calasso, The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony, [8] Semper, Style in the Technical and Tectonic Arts or Practical Aesthetics, [9] Serres, Angels A Modern Myth, [10] Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, [11] Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, [12] Duncan, The James Bond Archives, [13] Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, [14] The Young Pope, [15] Greenhalgh, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky, [16] The Young Pope, [17] Greenhalgh, Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky, [18] Asimov, Complete Robot Anthology, [19] Beckett, Waiting for Godot, [20] Koolhaas, SMLX, [21] Laver, The Concise History of Costume and Fashion, [22] Carter, American Ghosts and Old World Wonders, [23] Koolhaas Obrist, Project Japan, [24] Borges, Collected Fictions, [25] Foucault, History of Madness, [26] Hatherley, A New Kind of Bleak Journeys Through Urban Britai, [27] Glotz, The Greek City and its Institutions, [28] Deleuze Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, [29] Steel, Hungry City How Food Shapes Our Lives, [30] Serres, Hermes Literature Science Philosophy, [31] Deitz, Of Gardens Selected Essays Penn Studies in Lands

[ozdwibe]

i have nothing to read

so i write, just had the logos

i exchange it for the thought make

are my poems faulty if i edit them?

i study poets and thier revisions

why do we revise, these subtle significances

strength enough to change labels

living freely is political da

philosophy is high comms, politics the gossip

ye upon all eye, that kinda loft talk

what is its easy replace

i oose train of thought, o lose train of thought

lost is only a word, if i stop believing words how do i make understand the blind, i remember echolocation, its masters, my fear is futile, how more long do i have to make remember untill its etch

ill go back to them

trainwreck, train of thought, movement , the scene, speed, scent, weight, lips and the eyes

letters and the trust da,

news bringing fear does linger, force trust more

believing in everything is like talking to yourself

science survey feelings, makes number of it

balance it with other numbers, associates

ohh my my

my mind scribbling rounds, triangles, lines slants and i make numbers of em, my probability toss into air and around, for i know the grander scheme, ive had glimpses

my cahoots with the unknown

the lives i like are here, usually lives like me back

seldom not liked, but agendas and the psychic

its backfiring machine

i dont search for the lives i want, wont want the lives i need

necessity ignored couple enlightened desires

where am i dragged to, this magnetism is paradoxical

foolery it is, tobegone addiction

they think i took too much

they didn't work!

these lines here because they didn't work

unnecessary side-effects, traded tolerance money time and effort, have to havemore, be more

prove them of thier false rights

them hoodwinking themselves and winking eachother

frowns ,the force over smiles

they should know how jealousy works, how attention does

so dont turn their ignorance to my pride

let their limits fail, let succeed seeing chaos as harmony

untill then illusion persists, untill then need ask evidence,

iam me and them, real, for ill deliver

mixing poems piece by piece makes them more poetic?

piece of my muse, validation and warmdaydreams

im lost in music, down and down we go

music is my definition of old and new coming together

give chance to probability, be probable more

i have a chance to school tomorrow, i need the school tomorrow, i have the write here anyway

im turning mary jane platonic, lessons only

toxic nostalgia for badbloodpassion, No i wont be,

transmute out badsoberity, alchemy da freecharms

love and little light, we the heros we say could be

nahnahnah nah na, already na na, no way nada

fireworks into the night, hedonism

waters and its fish for me to indulge

dharma and sex, na freak na

no we can't be friends, no way,

we were friends then, we cant meet no

i dont wanna be with you, we cant be friends

no more holding anything, we cant be friends

price,fool for pleasure,no more play,

see the truth, i dont wanna be with you

we can't be friends

i rant in silence

i miss it already, the only something ive known best

the thought of no turn back, my back to my associate,

once joy, stability and understanding

what will become of me as i look only ahead,

a head that works of different connections

i have the of yore , ahh im turning into a man

the boy made assume responsibility

father spoke family being love, and all that seems love not love,

forensic linguistics the science, another implication of my overthinking into the machine.

the machine, all its meanings, i wonder how it processes all it knows, wonder how its evolution is different from mine, help imagine the bias from all available.

meanings, different ones, i realise they average out and become words, his words wonder in me for all them extremes left out for the average,

[kazumiwrites-originalfics]

Thoughts

SUMMARY: My thoughts that I’m scared to say. Put into a poem. WORD COUNT: ~500

WARNINGS: Crippling sadness, rambling, worrying about love?? I don’t even know.

A/N: Did I get the ideas for this while in the shower because apparently that’s where I get all my good thoughts? Yes. Am I writing a poem because if I write it in actual text, I will probably sound so effing cringy? Yes. (Though I still do sound cringy but yk) This probably doesn’t even make sense because I didn’t read the whole thing through so it’s very choppy Anyways this feels way too personal as a person who rarely talks about their personal emotions (like, the deep ones) Maybe I should write poetry more often.

© kazumiwrites - All rights reserved; please do not steal, edit, copy, repost (etc) my work without my express permission.

Am I an attention seeker? Am I too clingy?

Though I wonder Sometimes Why they stay

In a world full of pretty people Where they’re the prettiest of all Why would they stick With the most average of them all?

I’m not the funniest Or the smartest Not the prettiest Nor the best

I just try I’m a people pleaser I love seeing others happy And I’ll do anything -Anything- To see their smiles

People hurt me (But I just bare it) It’s not their fault But still I’m scared of falling again What if the same thing happens We fall out of love?

And though I know it’s normal Every person has felt it That loss of joy That you used to feel When you saw You got a notification

“It won’t happen this time” I told myself Yet it kept on happening Maybe I’m not As good at love Maybe I should just Wait I’m too young for this

But then they were there They were funny Sweet Always making me smile Every time though I shut It Out

Hoping this would disappear Because I promised myself No more love for me Not until I’m older Not until I’m wiser

I can accept that im pan Without dating anyone Right?

I craved the feel of a relationship Of having someone to hold Someone to love Someone to share all of My secrets to

Not just a best friend (Though they are precious too) Someone more intimate But that makes me wonder Am I now immature?

Seeing my peers date left and right Laughing, not taking it all seriously Was it so wrong of me To want something pure so desperately?

Or am I just craving love and attention? Do I actually deserve it at all? Love is complicated, that is for sure To be clear, to focus, I don’t think I can do

Maybe I am clingy Texting them, spamming them Maybe I should stop

But I know the feel I get When people text me Spam me And it’s a happy feeling I love the attention And I hope they do too

But I’m scared that I’m just trying To keep something going When nothing will work The relationship soon to be in ruins

I don’t want it to fail But I’m just afraid Afraid to fall again Hoping that they’re not doing it Out of pity Out of something they regret

I’m not The only person in the world For them But I still give my all Hoping Trying For a day That we can meet And I can love them In person

Without overthinking Look into their eyes And see, confirm That they do accept me That they do love me If only to put My shaking mind at rest

But only time will tell If this will go on And if my fear Won’t make it not last

[sweetkingdomstarlight-blog]

plastic smile

Pairings - dark Charles Blackwood x Reader

Word Count - over 4.7k

warnings - oral (f and m receiving), major character manipulation

A/N - huge thanks to @buckyownsmylife @bestofbucky and @supremethunda for beta reading this. Thanks also to @eurynome827 for helping me to choose the gif. The poem in this is by Vinicius de Moraes and might be one of the most beautiful things I've read. As usual this is 18+ only so please don’t interact if you are a minor

It had been a long day at the diner and you only started two hours ago, your usuals were the only thing getting you through it. You lived in a small town where everyone knew everyone so when the red sports car arrived that morning it’s all anyone could talk about.

Charles Blackwood walked into the diner and sat at the counter like he owned the place, his aura was the kind that everyone was drawn to; he was domineering and confident but friendly. You turned his coffee cup over and filled it up with the dark liquid. “Can I get you anything to eat today?” Smiling at him as he looks over the menu, you observe his features; strong jawline, soft curly hair, thick pouty lips and large uncalloused hands.

It takes you a moment to realise he’s asking you for pancakes, you blush and smile sweetly writing his order down and passing it back to the kitchen. Earl, one of your favourite regulars, asks for a refill, beckoning you over. “You be careful with him, don’t go getting any thoughts. He’s a Blackwood,” he tells you in warning.

The Blackwoods were almost an urban myth in the town, you only ever saw Merricat once a week and never her sister since the ‘incident’. The whole town was terrified of them, people always fear what they don’t understand. You however, thought they must be lonely and always tried to make an effort to speak to Merricat when she came in for her drink. Sure, she was a little odd but she was always polite and never forgot to thank you before she left, you always thought some of your other customers could learn a thing or two from her.

Passing Charles his pancakes, you catch your breath when he looks up at you with those big, blue eyes of his and smiles at you, grabbing your hand to ask you to stay. You stood chatting while the diner was emptying, feeling butterflies at how attentive he was, he asked you so many questions about yourself and actually listened to the answers. After finishing his third cup he pays, leaving you a hefty tip, and winks saying he’ll see you again tomorrow.

Watching him drive past in his flashy car, you can’t help but wonder why on earth he spent so much time getting to know you, you come from very different worlds. Wiping the countertop down and finishing up, you grab your bag and shout through to the kitchen, letting them know they’ll see you tomorrow.

Everyone around town seems to be talking about the Blackwoods today, you go to the library and hear Mrs Conners talking on the phone with goodness knows who about how Charles has come back, you then go to the park to sit and read when you hear two mothers gossiping while their children run around. You can’t understand the fuss but nothing ever happens in this tiny town, people talked for weeks when poor Sarah got flipped off her horse and broke her leg.

The next morning went the same as usual, you filled coffee cups, brought eggs and wiped down tables, that was until Charles came back and sat down in the same seat as the day before. He smiled at you and you held your fingers up to let him know you’d be right there, he grabbed a newspaper and read patiently refusing a drink from Barbara while he waited for you.

You flipped his cup round and poured him a coffee. “You know she has the same coffee as me,” you teased him, passing him the sugar and pulling your notepad out to take his order.

“Yeah but yours is so much sweeter,” he says, pushing the white crystals away and taking a sip of the bitter drink.

You try not to smile at the strange compliment but fail quite spectacularly when your mouth practically splits your face in half. “I’ll go and order your breakfast Mr Blackwood”.

Turning to add his ticket to the wheel. “It’s Charles.” You look back at him curiously.

“I’m sorry what was that?” You walk back over to him.

“You can call me Charles darling, Mr Blackwood is too formal. That’s my fathers name so please call me Charles.” He stares at you as though he’s staring through your soul, you lean forward and flip the paper over, grabbing your pen and passing it to him.

“I’m stuck on 10 down.” Pointing at the half finished crossword puzzle.

The diner has emptied again and you’re sitting laughing with Charles while you wait for the lunch crowd to show up, he is cute and funny, nothing like the other guys in town, the butterflies never really go away when he’s around you.

After your lunch shift, you grab your book so you can go and read in the park again when you see him across the street, leaning against the car. “Wanna go for a drive?” He opens the passenger door and gestures for you to take a seat, you don’t even think about it before skipping over and climbing in.

“So darling, tell me where you want to go,” he asks, grabbing your hand and kissing the back of it. You almost melt into the seat, not able to speak for a moment before clearing your throat and pointing him in the direction of the beach on the outskirts of town. You talk for hours, you tell him about how your parents both died a few years ago, how you’re trying to save up enough money to move to the city and how you’re trying to write a book.

He’s such a good listener, you feel like you’ve talked for hours about yourself, which is refreshing because usually you’re the one people talk to. You could charge an hourly rate in that diner, listening to people’s troubles. He smiles that big beautiful smile at you and leans in to kiss you, it’s soft but demanding, grabbing the back of your head to deepen it, you moan into his mouth as he pushes his tongue in and strokes the top of your mouth.

Pulling back and rubbing his nose against yours, he looks down at you. “You’re so beautiful, I could just keep you forever.” Blushing at the cute compliment, you hide your face in the crook of his neck. He gives you a moment before tipping your chin up with two fingers and staring into your eyes. “I can’t believe one little compliment makes you so shy, you should be told everyday how precious you are my little dove.”

Dropping you back off at the diner for your evening shift, he waits for you to get through the door before waving goodbye and driving away. You float around on cloud nine for the whole shift and it hasn’t gone unnoticed by your boss, who has watched everything from the moment Charles first walked into the diner.

Calling you into his office, he asks you to take a seat. “Look, your private life is none of my business but please just be careful with him, he’s not what he seems. The whole Blackwood family is bad news.” You nod and smile at the elderly man who has always looked after you since your parents passed away. You respect him but he doesn’t know Charles very well, if everyone took the time to understand him better they’d see what a sweet person he was.

The end of your shift comes quickly and once again he waits across the street, leaning against his car and smiling at you. “Need a ride home?” You walk across to him and throw your arms around his neck. “Oh, someone is happy to see me,” he chuckles and kisses the top of your head.

Directing him to your house, he drives with one arm wrapped around your shoulder, running his fingers over your neck gently, setting your whole body on fire. Such a soft, gentle touch and you’re already absolutely desperate for him. Pulling up to the front of your little cottage, he switches the engine off and pulls your face up for another deep, soul clenching kiss. Leaning back you look at him bashfully. “Would you like to come in for a coffee?” He nods and kisses your forehead softly before telling you to stay put, running around the side of the car, he opens the door and holds out his hand to help you out.

You show him around before going to the kitchen and making coffee, taking out your best mugs, most of your kitchen stuff comes from the diner, and grabbing some snacks. You’re just leaning up to pick something out of the cabinet when you feel him pressed up against your back, he grabs the packet you were reaching for and sets it down on the counter. “It’s almost like I’m made to be here, looking after my little dove,” he whispers in your ear before planting soft kisses down your neck.

You breathe out softly as he takes his time finding all of your sensitive spots before turning you and holding your head in his big hands and desperately kissing you. Grabbing your ass, he picks you up and sits you on the counter. “Can I touch you?” He smiles as you nod quickly, moving your skirt up slowly, teasing you. You’re practically begging him by the time he pulls your ruined underwear down, he looks at them and sniffs the wet patch smirking at your embarrassment. “Looks like someone is needy”.

Shutting your eyes, you’ve never felt so absolutely mortified before, but he grabs your chin. “Look at me.” You slowly stare at his face as he grabs your hand and puts it on his hard cock. “Don’t be embarrassed, I want you just as much.” Holding your panties up he smirks. “These are mine now though.” Pushing them into his back pocket he pulls you closer to the edge of the counter and kisses around your thighs, tracing a line closer and closer to your wet folds.

You’ve read about this before but no man has ever done it to you and you’d never ask. His tongue is so firm and warm, he knows exactly what to do with it and you feel a new sensation slowly building inside you. He sucks on your clit and pushes what feels like two fingers into your tight wet hole, angling them up, setting your whole body on fire. You moan out loud and grab his thick hair, holding him right in place as you explode, moaning out his name, your voice echoing around your small kitchen.

Pulling your skirt back down to cover you up, he licks his lips and sucks his fingers clean while you catch your breath. “I’ve never tasted anything better before.” Your cheeks warm up again and are about to look away when he softly grabs your face, running his thumb over your lips and jawline. “You are so precious, don’t let anyone tell you any different. I’m going to go now, you need some sleep. I’ll come by in the morning and drive you to work”. You see him out and get cleaned up, pulling the blankets up, you don’t need to read to help yourself fall asleep tonight. You still feel like you’re floating.

You and Charles have been inseparable for the last month, he pretty much lived at your place so you could see more of each other. Every morning he’d wake you up with gentle kisses and touches that set your body on fire, he was so attentive driving you to work and taking your books back to the library when they were due, sitting in the diner doing the crossword puzzle while you work.

It was the best month of your life, so that weekend, when he got down on one knee to propose, you didn’t hesitate in saying yes, sliding his grandma's ring onto your finger, you made love that night and he made you feel like the luckiest girl in the world.

The next day, you wake up and see a white dress hanging from your wardrobe door, confused you go downstairs to find Charles and see him preparing breakfast for you. Eggs, coffee, orange juice and a flower in a glass just for you, walking up behind him you wrap your arms around his waist and kiss the freckle between his shoulder blades. “Is all this for me?” He turns around in your arms and kisses the top of your head.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up yet, I wanted to surprise my beautiful fiancé.” You kiss his lips and smile running back up the stairs and jumping into bed.

Following you up a few minutes later, he places the tray over your lap. “I have a proposal for you”. You slowly drink the bitter coffee and try not to let your disgust show on your face, he’s clearly never made coffee before but somehow that makes him even cuter to you, now you get to look after him forever.

“Let's go down to the courthouse and get married today, I don’t want to wait another minute to make you mine forever.” It was too soon, you know that, but the look on his face was so cute, you didn't want to hurt his feelings so you agreed, almost crying at the look of happiness on his face. “I found this dress in your closet, it's perfect, you’ll look like my own personal angel.” That was it, that's all it took, your own personal kaleidoscope of butterflies flew around your body. You were so happy you could almost cry.

After breakfast and a little bit of fun, he ran out to get a haircut and grab a few things for the ceremony. You got dressed and pinned your hair up in a simple style. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you felt sad that you didn’t have any family to be with you, you didn’t really have any friends either but you did have Charles and honestly that's all you wanted. Writing down a poem you wanted to say to him after your vows, you tucked it into the hidden pocket on the side of your dress and smiled when you heard the car pull up.

Charles walked in and looked at you like you hung the stars in your soft cotton dress, he passed a small hand tied bouquet of pink roses to you, smiling at how happy you were. “I got us an appointment with the judge, can you be ready in 15 minutes?” You looked in the mirror and nodded, picking up a lipstick to match your bouquet, you swiped it on and went to find your future husband.

An hour later you had said your vows, Charles was smiling so wide when you recited yours, squeezing your hand when you said honour and obey. The judge looked at you and you pulled out the poem, dropping Charles’ hands for a moment before you began;

I know that I’ll love you

My whole life through, I know that I’ll love you

At every farewell I will love you

With desperation I know I’ll love you.

And every verse i write will be my chance to say

I know that i'll love, love you my whole life through.

I know I’m going to cry,

Whenever you’re not here I’m going to cry.

But each time you return will make up for

The loss I felt when you weren’t at my side.

I know I’ll have to bear

A never ending feeling of despair

While waiting for this chance to be with you,

With you my whole life through

A tear rolled down your cheek and Charles wiped it away with his thumb. The judge pronounced you husband and wife and you kissed, his tongue softly caressing yours before he rubbed his nose across yours, your own secret love language.

Climbing into his car, Charles looks over at you smiling. “Shall we go to the diner now so you can quit?” Turning your whole body to look at him, he smiles that big grin that makes you melt. “I’m your husband now, I’ll take care of everything and you will take care of me and our children. I can't wait until you’re swollen with our children,” he says while rubbing your stomach. “You want that, don’t you my little dove? You want to honour and obey me.” Nodding, you turn back and look out the window at the passing scenery.

He stops outside the diner. “You’ve got ten minutes to grab your shit, don’t take all day.” Your stomach drops at the tone in his voice, you can’t think of what you’ve done to upset him but you want your happy and loving Charles back. Gathering your things, your boss tells you he’ll always have a space for you and not to be a stranger, he watches as you cross the street and climb into the car.

You slide up to him like you usually do but he pushes you away. “I’m driving, sit over there” the rejection stings but it makes sense he needs to be safe especially when driving. You sit and play with the roses he got you earlier, sniffing them and smiling at the sweet gesture, in no time at all you’re back at the cottage and he storms off into the house without even waiting for you. Your stomach drops, you must have upset him but you can’t think how or when, you walk into your house and call out for him wanting to apologise and fix whatever happened.

He’s in the bedroom sitting on the bed waiting for you “hey there little dove, come over here, it’s our wedding night don’t you want to make your husband happy?” Nodding you walk over to him and move to kiss him but he pushes you back and opens his legs “kneel down for me” pushing your shoulder down with force your knees hit the floor and you wince at the sharp pain. Undoing his belt and pulling his cock out he gently grabs your hair and pulls you over “make me feel good, be a good wife for me” you nod, licking and kissing his length before sucking the tip into your mouth.

He moans out and the fist in your hair tightens as he pushes you further down, choking you and bringing tears to your eyes. You slap his thighs to get him to ease up but he thrusts up into your mouth even more and groans out before spilling down your throat. Pushing your head back you stumble backwards and hit the floor “mmmm well done” he says lifting you up and sitting you in his lap. “How about you go and make us some dinner and I’ll clean up your mess in here?” He says as he kisses your neck, nibbling on the spot that he knows makes you putty in his hands, you stand up and he slaps your ass making you jump “make something nice for me and fix your hair it's a mess”

A few hours later you’re sitting reading on the sofa when the phone rings, Charles jumps up to grab it and grins a kind of smile you’ve never seen before. Staring at him as he sits back down he looks over at you and smiles “Constance has invited us over for dinner, she must have heard our happy news. It's all coming together my little dove, I’m going to be so rich I won’t have to talk to anyone in the family ever again and people will respect me all across the city”. You look at him confused “what do you mean? You’ll be rich?” But he just ignores your questions and reads the paper.

You wake up the next morning and find a dress hanging up waiting for you, sliding your feet into your slippers you go downstairs to find Charles sitting waiting at the dining table “finally you’re awake, I’ve waited for hours for you. I’m absolutely starving” grabbing the eggs and bread you look at him sitting reading his newspaper, he hadn’t even made himself a coffee. “I need you to look nice for Constance, we need to make a good first impression” you nod your head and give him breakfast trying to kiss him on the cheek but he pulls away.

On the way to Blackwood manor you’ve already been told to be on your best behaviour and you feel tense, sensing your feeling Charles pulls you close and hugs you like he used to, kissing your head and squeezing your shoulders “I’m sorry darling I just want them to love you as much as I do, I didn’t mean to make you nervous” you relax into his side and smile feeling the little flutters in your stomach again.

Constance and Merricat welcome you into their home and congratulate you on your recent wedding “I’m sorry you weren’t there, we were just so excited to tie the knot” Charles says hugging you tight and smiling at his cousins. Merricat pulls you into the garden while Charles and Constance catch up “why aren’t you at the diner anymore?” She whispers, hoping Charles doesn’t hear her, you smile at her knowing she likes her routine “I’m sorry, Charles wants to take care of me so I don’t have to work anymore. We’ll be starting a family soon so I won’t have time for anything else” that’s not what she wants to hear so she storms into the house and barges past Charles while you call after her.

You help Constance prepare lunch and try to get to know her better but she seems to be wary of you, probably because of Merricats reaction earlier. “Charles can you open the wine for the table please” you ask, passing him the corkscrew and biting your lip when he winks at you and blows a kiss. “You two seem to be enamoured with each other” Constance observes as you smile to yourself, grabbing the plate of vegetables “Thankyou, we love each other very much, neither of us wanted to wait too long before making it official”. She nods her head and smiles “I wish we could have met before you married, I want to get to know my new cousin. Merricat speaks so fondly of you” she says as you both walk into the dining area

Merricat comes back for lunch sitting at the opposite end of the table from you all, sneering at everything Charles said. You could see he was getting more and more annoyed with her and you tried to diffuse it before something bad happened by constantly interjecting and getting her talking. Dessert is served and you all sit discussing the weather, which is the safest subject between you all, you’ve discovered, when Charles suddenly changes the subject. “So Constance you sent me a letter saying that I was entitled to some of the family money” you all look at him in shock but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Yes but there were some conditions Charles” she says softly trying not to make a scene. Exhaling a loud breath through his nose he starts “I needed a wife” he nods at you, your face burning with rage as you start to put the clues together. He continues “I need a home, I have that now. So where’s my money” you stare at him with tears in your eyes, before excusing yourself and going to the bathroom.

You take deep breaths to not let your panic take over. Trying to focus your mind on something you grip the edge of the sink and don’t hear him enter, until he leans over your body growling in your ear “don’t you dare fuck this up for me and I’ll make it worth your while”. Staring at each other in the mirror for a moment, the only way out of this is if you nod in agreement and follow him back to the table.

Merricat jumps up and sits by your side gripping your hand “are you ok?” You turn and smile at her nodding your head “I’m fine thankyou I just needed a little air” you take a sip of your wine and turn back to Charles glaring at him but he just smirks “I brought a duffel bag we can fill with my share, we can do it right now get it over and done with”.

Agreeing with him Constance takes him to the safe, leaving you and Merricat alone “you should leave him, he’s just using you” she says quickly and quietly. Shaking your head at her “now Merricat it’s not like that, he loves me he just shows it differently that’s all. He wants to start a family with me” you fake a smile and play with the ring on your left hand.

Once he has his money, Charles quickly makes excuses to leave, hurrying you out of the door with a hamper of food from the pantry, you wave at the sisters and smile as he drives away. Not attempting to get closer to him you sit in silence for the rest of the journey. Getting out before he’s even stopped the engine once you pull up at the cottage, slamming the door in his face and marching up to the bedroom to change.

He walks in a few moments later and picks you up pushing you against the wall, trapping you “listen to me, I needed a wife and you were an easy target. You fluttered your eyelashes the moment you set eyes on me, I knew I could get you exactly where I needed you, now I’m rich and I don’t need you anymore but I am willing to give you a couple of months wages to tide you over but you have to be a good fucking wife until I can get things sorted back home” you smile and nod at him “ok, that seems fair how long will you be here?” Raising a brow at how quickly you agree he contemplates his answer “about a week, maybe more” nodding again you push him back gently and move away from him “I’ll set up the guest bedroom for you, I would prefer it if you would sleep in there”.

He takes a deep breath and leaves the room watching you as he goes, as if he expects you to do something silly behind his back. He has no idea what’s about to happen and you’d almost feel sorry for him if it wasn’t for the fact that he’s a shitty person who deserves everything that's coming to him.

The next few days you play it cool, you want him to be relaxed around you and not raise any suspicion. You cook and clean and play the dutiful wife in all areas but the bedroom, not that he doesn’t try everyday, kissing your neck, rubbing your shoulders while you cook, even whispering filthy things in your ear like he used to but you always say no and turn him down.

Wednesday rolls around, nothing exciting ever happens on a Wednesday. Charles goes for his afternoon nap leaving you downstairs reading your book, you wait 20 minutes before hopping to action. Running to the pantry where he’s kept his duffel bag you quickly unzip it and check it’s all still there, satisfied he hasn’t moved anything you grab it and throw it in his car. Running back to the cupboard under the stairs you grab your suitcase, slip the note out of your book and place it on the end table next to his wallet.

Climbing into his car you start the engine and wait a moment to see if he wakes up, watching the window until you see him, there he is, his face burning with rage as he spots you. You blow him a kiss and speed off, laughing to yourself that you managed to fuck him over once and for all.

He runs downstairs hoping to catch up with you and screams when you’ve already gone, walking back into the house he spots the note you left him “Dear Charles, you were an easy target. Have a nice life”

[sneezefiction]

of night owls & early birds

Kuroo x Reader

desc: Kuroo, your roommate and longtime best friend, likes you but he really dislikes your sleep schedule. alternatively, your crush gets up way too early and you “suffer the consequences.”

a/n: the irony of working on this fic at 5 am doesn’t escape me… but it also hasn’t assuaged my awful sleep patterns. i hope you enjoy!!

warnings: school/general anxiety, crass/offbeat humor (jokes about planning your own funeral), idk if you’re scared of love don’t read this - it’s very fluffy.

wc: 3.6k

--- You’re screwed, you think, as a light flickers on just outside of your room. It illuminates the carpet underneath your doorway with a warm orange tint.

And though it shouldn’t make your heart jump into your throat, it does.

You’d promised, swore to Kuroo, that you’d be asleep by 2 am - and to him, even that was a stretch. But he should count himself lucky that you’d even agreed to his demands at all. 

After all, he is well-versed in the world of night owls.

Kenma, though maybe not your kindred spirit, shares at least a couple of qualities with you. Kuroo likes refer to these “qualities” as crimes.

One of these crimes (and quite possibly Kuroo’s least favorite) is your god-awful sleep schedule. And you’re a repeated offender.

There was only so much nagging and bickering you could take before you’d cracked and told exactly him what he wanted to hear. In a flurry of words, you’d agreed to turn off your laptop, close up your textbooks and actually put your head to a pillow.

You also may have been bribed.

To sweeten this deal, Kuroo had promised to buy you pizza this upcoming Friday, given that you actually did get some rest.

But as you reluctantly lift your phone, the glass screen glowing a little too brightly, you realize that it’s already 5:30 am.

You grimace.

It’s Tuesday morning. Meaning that the repetitive beeping across the hall is Kuroo’s alarm.

Your lips press into a firm line. Most birds don’t even get up at such a godless hour.

You can’t help but wonder what it’s like to have a functional morning routine. Or a morning routine at all.

Leaning back in your plastic desk chair, you squeeze your eyes shut. 

It stings.

You probably got so caught up staring at the blob-like words on your computer screen that, somewhere in the process, your body had forgotten how to blink.

And while the tension in your neck and shoulders is painful, it’s nothing in comparison to the festering guilt of not listening to your longtime best friend and now roommate (a suspiciously well-intentioned college boy who had somehow managed to win your heart over the course of this fall semester.)

Thinking back, working on your final English assignment at midnight wasn’t the brightest of ideas. It wasn’t even due for another week. But as due dates loomed, the impending fear of a bad grade had begun to burrow deeply within you.

If you could just pump the brakes on deadline anxiety, you wouldn’t feel so pressured to type incoherent sentences at odd and empty hours of the night.

And maybe Kuroo wouldn’t feel the need to coerce you into a firmer sleep schedule. Though you do find this caring habit of his to be inexplicably endearing. 

Thus, the prickling feeling continues to infiltrate your restless mind and the brewing concoction of anxiety and guilt in your tummy makes you feel uneasy.

But before you can sneak into bed and tuck yourself inconspicuously under the covers, you hear a floorboard creak. 

As if on instinct, you hold in a breath.

Kuroo isn’t one to forget about little promises. Of course, he’d want to know if you’d made good on your side of the deal. 

Gently, you close your laptop and swivel your chair to face the door. You still your movements, keeping your body taut against the back of your chair.

More soft steps fall just outside of your room.

Your eyes can’t pick a place to land, so they choose to wander. And with a quick scan of your room, it doesn’t take you long to realize that your bedside lamp had been left on - an instant giveaway.

You begin planning for your funeral. 

However, if it were up to you, you wouldn’t go out this way. You prepare yourself for death by interrogation or shame-induced coma.

Regrettably, neither options seem very interesting to you. If you ask politely, maybe your friends will engrave a portion of an epic poem into your gravestone just to make your passing seem more sophisticated. Yeah, that sounds nice and pretentious.

Okay, you might be overdramatizing things - Kuroo would never send you to your grave. But that doesn’t change the fact that your psyche likes to play tricks on you in the wee hours of the morning and that the eerie quality of the atmosphere somehow reminds you of a cemetery.

As you sort through who-gets-what on your will, there’s a not so sudden knock on your door. The soft tap makes your heart skip for two reasons:

The first being that you still haven’t gotten used to the fluttering in your chest from him being present all the time. Developing a crush on him (and suspecting feeling on his side) had made you a little jumpier over the past few months.

And the second had to do with the fact that you were actually going to have to talk to him about this. To apologize for being a bold-faced liar. It wasn’t clear to you whether you’d be teased or reprimanded. And honestly? You’re not sure which option would feel worse.

So you take a breath and steel yourself.

“Y/n?” A gravelly voice sounds from outside your room.

It’s tainted with sleep. You shiver.

There’s a preemptive sigh, “C’mon y/n, your light is on. I know you’re awake.”

You’ve been caught, so there’s no point in prolonging it.

“...You can come in.” You reply meekly, clenching and unclenching your fists.

The door cracks open.

That soft orange hall light floods into your room and directly into your eyes. With a squint, you try to fully visualize Kuroo. He’s positioned himself so that he’s leaning in your doorway with his arms crossed.

Before coming to grips with the situation, you scan the boy up and down. Amusingly, you realize that he has to duck his head just to fit underneath the door header - he really is tall. You have to wonder if he’ll ever stop growing.

Aside from his intensified bedhead (which doesn’t shock you) and the sleepiness in his eyes, he looks normal. But you must look positively spooked, because the moment he sees you, there’s a flicker of humor in his golden eyes… and an almost invisible smirk.

At least he isn’t angry. That fact alone allows you to let out the breath you’ve been holding in. Anger isn’t really a trait you’d ascribe to him anyway.

“It’s funny…” He wonders aloud, “I thought we’d agreed to something yesterday.” Kuroo brings a mocking hand to his chin in a thinking motion.

Your body naturally begins to shrink into your seat. You want to sigh, protest, explain yourself… anything to keep him from lecturing you. But, technically, you deserve this. 

“I’m pretty sure you promised me you’d be in bed, asleep,” He emphasizes “by 2 am…”

“And” he adds, motioning evenly to your set up, “I highly doubt you’re up early just to get work done.”

You bite your lip while gripping and releasing the fabric of your sweatpants.

Kuroo isn’t a mind reader by any extent, but the body has a language of its own. Right now, your actions are murmuring signs of discomfort. And exhaustion, according to your dark circles.

Kuroo heaves out something between a sigh and a yawn before he takes another couple of steps into your room. 

The sound of mattress springs and rustled bed sheets gets you to turn your head toward him, though you hesitate to meet his gaze.

He makes himself comfortable.

This is a familiar scene, Kuroo invading your space. Well, it’s less of an invasion and more of an unspoken agreement that the both of you can ‘come and go as you please’ in regards to bedrooms, granted that the “invader” knocks first.

Essentially, if Kuroo wanted company, he would find his way to you and plop himself on the edge of your bed. You would do likewise. The interaction could last 5 minutes or 3 hours depending on your mental stamina that day.

In a way, it mimicked your childhood - going over to Kenma’s and knocking relentlessly on his bedroom door until he finally let you and Kuroo tumble through the doorway together. The only difference now is in the way that you spend time together. Conversations become deeper a lot faster. Belly-laughs after a miserable day of classes are considered sacred. Study sessions are done shoulder to shoulder and with a myriad of disgusted faces when frustrated with a particularly tricky problem.

But this is different from your usual conversations. It’s sickeningly early, you haven’t slept a wink, and a tidal wave of stress from this entire semester is finally crashing into you.

“I’m sorry,” You start softly, fiddling with your fingers, “I just… I couldn’t stop thinking about this expository essay I’ve been working on and my mind is totally numb. I’m so stressed out by all of these-”

“-Classes.” He finishes for you.

You swallow, bobbing your head softly in confirmation.

 “I get it.”

And just by looking at him, you know he understands. For someone so laid back and put together, Kuroo’s eyes could speak a novel’s worth of emotion and information at any given moment.

“But you’ve already spent more than enough time on it.”

Have I really? Have I actually done enough? Because it feels like I’m failing. Like I can’t seem to finish what I’ve started. I can’t even complete this paper.

But at least Kuroo sounds resolute. 

He’s stating a fact, not an opinion.

And he’s not trying to be unempathetic. He does get it, he really does.

But Kuroo also sees how hard you work already. And he knows all too well that there’s only so much work you can get done in one night. You’ve got enough on your plate even without your classes, so having the extra academic pressure is just the cherry on top.

“Mm,” you hum, “yeah, I guess you of all people would know.” You hunch over and rest your elbows on your thighs, using your hands to prop your head up.

He’d been there at your most and least productive moments. On days when you were cranking out a few thousand words and nights when you could only jot down a few sentences. Hell, Kuroo had even volunteered to help you edit and format it when the time came. What kind of person offers to do that before they’ve even been asked to?

It’s just another feature of his charm, you suppose.

But you still feel stuck. Like you’re a boat stranded in the middle of the ocean and you just can’t seem the muster up the strength to pull up the anchor. The anxiety lingers.

“...It just doesn’t feel like it’s ever enough, y’know?” You breathe out.

There it is. Finally out in the open.

And Kuroo hums thoughtfully to himself.

He’s been there.

Not knowing if the effort he put into his work was having any actual effect. Being unsure as to when he should stop taking responsibility for something. Putting work, classes, and people before himself.

It’s draining; a swirling spin-cycle of exhaustion.

But he’s also been learning that “enough” is subjective. So he decides to say just that.

“Enough is a pretty vague word, don’t you think?”

You blink. 

Yeah, you suppose it is. 

Hopefully this isn’t another one of his bizarre epiphanies - the kind that makes you think your brain is going to implode. Sometimes Kuroo could be a little too philosophical for his and your own good. But you humor him anyway.

Shifting in your seat, you give him a stiff nod.

Satisfied with your understanding, he proceeds with his thought.

“What I mean is that we probably have totally different definitions of enough...” he drawls on, “... and different standards too.”

“Okay...”

“What I mean is that-” He sighs, running a hand through his hair, “-what’s ‘enough’ to you may not be ‘enough’ to me. And vice versa.”

Kuroo tilts his head back, brows furrowing in thought. He’s grasping for the right way to put it.

“Y/n, I think you’ve done enough. You’ve worked hard,” he points out, “and I don’t think I know anyone who deserves a break more than you do.”

That makes you pause. You lift your head up to catch his gaze - his eyes are already studying your expression. Something inside of you stops functioning because never have you seen such raw sincerity. Or maybe you have, but you’re only just now noticing it.

He gives you a gentle smile. It makes your chest ache.

“You mean it?” You half-whisper.

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

You’ve known this for years now, but Kuroo truly has a way with words. They had the ability to pierce like a harpoon or stick sweetly to you like warm honey. Even with a few (thousand) shitty jokes littered throughout your conversations, it’s only natural to be awestruck by him. By his ability to make even the most awkward of situations a little more bearable. How he subliminally knows how to soothe and temper you. You think he would make a really great businessman - he’s quite persuasive; a real salesperson.

One part of you wants to apologize to him again. Another part wants to jump up and kiss him. To tear up and cry in his arms with relief. You chalk these potential reactions up to exhaustion and hormones… but you don’t write them off entirely.

Because suddenly being 3 feet apart feels like miles. And your bed is looking terribly comfortable.

“Mind if I join you?” You ask, but you’re already moving from your seat.

He gives you an indifferent shrug - though he feels anything but.

“It’s your bed.” 

Oh, you’re well aware of that fact. You can already feel heat rising to your face.

You stand up slowly, raising your arms to the ceiling in one final attempt to stretch. Then softly, you place a knee to the mattress and wedge yourself on the rest of the way until you’re sitting crisscrossed in front of him. He shifts his torso so that it’s facing you.

And now that you’re finally eye to eye, you can breathe.

He may be your crush, but you feel strangely comfortable in his presence. You always have. It’s part of what makes Kuroo... well, Kuroo. He embodies security while still pushing you out of your comfort zone. And for that, you’re grateful.

You break the silence.

“I really am sorry,” you echo your earlier apology.

You undoubtedly are. And you’re not sure why it feels like such a heavy thing to say over something as menial as a good night’s sleep.

“Hey, hey,” He soothes, reaching a hand over to ruffle your hair, “it’s no big deal, alright?”

You send him a half-hearted glare but it immediately breaks into a soft smile. His hand lingers for a moment longer than it should before he draws it away. You miss the teasing touch.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to maintain eye-contact, but even as you look away, you note that his eyes remain concentrated on you. You can’t tell if it’s you who has moved closer or if he has. Either way, those few inches of distance have narrowed by a decent margin.

“I honestly just wanted you to get some rest. You’ve had it rough and by the looks of it-” He scans your face like he’s trying to diagnose you with something.

“Hey, watch it-” You warn, narrowing your eyes.

You already know you look tired. Kuroo loves reminding you of that in his own little way.

He smirks playfully, continuing anyway.

“-You could really use the sleep.” Kuroo’s raspy voice trails off.

“But apparently even pizza isn’t a convincing enough strategy.” He gives you a lopsided grin.

You shake your head, “Oh no, no, the pizza was very convincing.”

He scoffs, “Was it, now?” Raising his eyebrows in mock surprise, “Because you seem very awake to me.”

“Can’t we just blame this on the paper, please?” You sigh.

He furrows his brows in contemplation, “Hmm, no. I don’t think so. This is partially your fault.” A rather underwhelming response.

“A small part.”

“I’d say it's fifty-fifty.” He reasons with a raised eyebrow.

Rolling your eyes, you respond, “Okay, you can quit whatever-” You gesture to his expression, “this is.” He always managed to pull the strangest faces and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of making you laugh.

He snorts, “Oh? I thought you liked-” Kuroo gestures to his own face, “whatever this is.”

His voice has a curious edge to it. Some might even call it flirtatious.

And you go quiet. 

You can’t help but stare at him. His messy hair, his barely parted lips. The fact that Kuroo just woken up and somehow still looks this attractive to you is so annoying. So frustrating.

And words are failing you.

It was an innocent comment. He’s just messing with you like he usually does. Maybe this has all gone a little bit too far. You should probably just say good night (or good morning) and rest your eyes.

Yet you can’t shake the feeling that this could be the perfect segway into addressing your relationship.

At literally any other time of day, you might be more rational. You could reason with yourself that this is quite literally the weirdest time to bring up your feelings for him. But something in you needs to close the literal and figurative gap between you two. And, for some indecipherable reason, it has to happen right now.

Whatever the outcome, you trust that Kuroo will always be your safe place.

So you throw caution to the wind.

“Actually, Kuroo…” You begin, staring at your hands which are placed neatly on your lap. “I really do.”

His eyes snap to yours.

This time it’s Kuroo’s turn to go silent in contemplation. Taking in a steady breath becomes an act of labor.

“You… really do what?” He asks slowly, grasping for your intended meaning.

Your heart pounds.

“I really like you.” You clarify.

It isn’t at all eloquent, but it’s sincere. You’d once heard that honesty came easier late at night, but you had no idea that it applied to early mornings as well.

But you finally make sense of the words that just escaped your lips. Panic arises. In an attempt to hide, you bury your face in your hands. You wish you could put the words right back into your mouth.

“I-” You take a deep breath, “I think I spoke without thinking.” Is all you allow yourself to mumble.

You no longer trust yourself with words. 

Your face, your whole body really, feels like it’s on fire. Humiliation begins to wash over you in red hot waves… but you startle when a pair of hands meet your wrists.

You lift your head.

His fingertips are warm and worn. Still decorated with calluses from his years of volleyball back in high school. You want to question why the world has withheld this touch from you for so long.

He lures your hands away from your face, grasping both of them gently. For a sensation so new, it was somehow strikingly familiar. A thumb is meditatively tracing small, slow circles in the middle of your palm.

You gawk in disbelief… and as you scan his face, you catch a hint of pink on his cheeks. You can’t say anything though - your own face feels like it’s just become 1000 degrees warmer.

“I kinda figured you might,” Kuroo breaks the tension rather… bluntly.

Of course he did, wait what?

“But the thing is…”

Is this some sort of rejection? Is he just letting you down gently? Is that why he’s holding your hands like they’re as fragile as fine china? Then why is he looking at you so sweetly, so tenderly-

“I wanted to be the one to say it first.”

You start planning your own funeral again. 

However, this time, emotional whiplash will be your stated cause of death. At least it’s a more unconventional way to go out.

“I- uh,” you swallow, “w- what did you just say?” It comes out as a stammer. 

You’re squeezing his hands a little too tightly. When you recognize your modest death grip around his fingers you loosen your hold.

Kuroo smiles, his eyes crinkling slightly.

It’s nothing like that cunning smirk that you find annoying, yet so adorable. It’s also not one of his full-scale grins. It’s far too simple and reassuring. You almost don’t trust it.

“Well, in short, I like you too,” He re-explains, searching your face for a reaction, “but... I’d hoped to tell you that over pizza on Friday.” Kuroo looks away.

If you weren’t already gaping over his personal confession, you would probably be laughing at this new side of Kuroo. He looks unmistakably bashful.

It takes you a second to recover, but you finally open your mouth to respond...

But you’re cut off by Kuroo, once again. His softened expression is long gone. And, much to your dismay, he’s suddenly shifting himself off of your bed.

“It’s just too bad you didn’t keep up your end of the bargain. I guess that means there’ll be no pizza… no movie… no me.” He slowly releases your hands, knitting his brows together to feign sorrow - it looks hilariously forced, but you’re too worried about the warmth leaving your fingertips to care.

He’s teasing you like you’re his best friend.

And that’s because you are.

So then why does it feel like something’s changed? Like he’s daring you to make the next move?

Before he can pull away and leave, you tug at his hand which draws his whole body toward you.

Your heartrate spikes through the roof. When’s the last time you’ve been this close to someone? To a guy? A guy who’s shown actual living, breathing interest in you.

And he’s in your face.

Close enough that his scent, his cologne, is drowning your senses. Close enough that his breath is fanning faintly against your cheek. Close enough that you know there’s only one thing left for you to do.

Before you can think to hesitate, your lips are brushing up against his.

Intuitively, he brings his hands to your face, closing any extra distance. 

Kuroo’s thumb feathers over your cheekbone, stroking it tenderly. His lips apply very little pressure and it’s unbearably delicate, but it fills you with an indescribable warmth. His lips linger just long enough for you to detect the mint from his toothpaste - he can probably taste the cinnamon tea you’ve been sipping on over the past hour. As far as kisses go, it’s reserved, but perfect for this distinct moment.

Plus, you figure, this is just the first of many longer, more eager kisses - though you can’t imagine being more breathless than you already are right now.

But you can hardly get another taste of him before those warm hands on your cheeks are prying you away. He stares. You stare back. His eyes are brimming with something warm and full. You immediately choose to label it, “affection.”

And in a much lower voice, Kuroo murmurs, “Let’s save this for later.” 

You scan his face, wondering if he’s actually serious. He gradually makes his way off of the bed and onto his feet and before you can protest, Kuroo is speaking again.

“You-” 

He leans down and gingerly lifts your chin with his fingers. The gentleness of his touch almost makes you flinch, but you somehow manage to hold it in the road. Though now you’re really at a loss for words.

“-need to get some good rest.”

He places a chaste kiss on your forehead.

You still feel it after he pulls away. After he closes the door. After you’ve laid you head down on your pillow in shock.

How does he expect you to fall asleep after all of that?

---

extra: this is dedicated to Izzy - our sleep schedules may be jacked up, but i’m pretty sure it’s a blessing in disguise if we’re taking our time zones into consideration. thanks for making me laugh & for not stealing my quarter of the braincell.

and to my precious friends and followers - thank you for being patient with me. it’s hard to post or even write at the moment, but i’m steadily pushing myself toward a better mindset. i appreciate your comments, likes, and the fact that y'all even bother to check out my works in the first place. i’m working on it.

also happy birthday, Tetsu. you’re a real star.

[my-own-oracle]

Hello! can I get some head cannons for a human crew member leaving anonymous Valentines notes for some of the Crew of the Lost Light? I was thinking Swerve, Ultra Magnus, and Rodimus.

Sorry about the delay; I know you sent this when my box opened. i just got distracted today.

Swerve 🍺He was cleaning up the bar after a long day. He had been excited to see you come in. Even if you chose to sit in the back of the bar with Rewind and Chromedome, he worked his way to the table you sat at earlier. The striking blue and green stained glasses he used for your drinks were still sitting on the table. Under one of them sat a white envelope. The mini bot paused for a moment. Had you forgotten something? It was obviously yours; no one else aboard used the primitive- writing utensils of earth besides you. 🍺He looked closer, flipping the fragile container over; his designation was on the back, written in that fancy lettering he had seen you practice a few times. 🍺He fumbles to open it, curious as to what you would write to him. I mean your friends, couldn't you say whatever in person? As soon as he sees the deep red paper heart, he knows what it is. Valentine's day was coming up, the holiday of love and affection, if he counted the days right at least. 🍺Should he open it? It was addressed to him, so that meant it was for him, right? 🍺The poem was cheesy, but he loved it anyway. "Roses are red, and you are too. I didn't mean for it, but I fell for you. I can't tell you why it matters so. But you always make my day, I need you to know. It's a little thing, but important to me, May I ask you, my Valentine will you be? -Your Secret Admirer 🍺He is smiling and maybe laughing. But it's a good laugh. A: 'I can't believe she likes me, too' laugh, and a: 'I don't know what to do now,' laugh. 🍺Swerve debates on what to do as he finished cleaning the bar. In the end, he goes to your hab-unit and tells you he knows you left the note and musters up the courage to say thank you and give you a few compliments of his own.

Rodimus 🔥Rodimus had been required to be in a meeting with Megatron and Ultra Magnus all day. They talked about nothing he considered to be truly important: new rules that someone had suggested or something. Honestly, if they wanted him to pay attention or care, they would just give him the short version instead of expecting him to sit at a desk for hours. 🔥As soon as the forced imprisonment meeting was over, the excitable and lovable captain raced off into the heart of the ship. It was time to spread some excitement. 🔥He returned to his hab-unit only to find Drift standing outside of it. Purple datapad in servo and a pleased look in his optics. "No." Rodimus startles the sword carrying bot with the force of his statement. "I did not just survive a four-hour meeting on rules and new policies for you to bring me more paperwork." 🔥When Drift explains that the pad was left on the floor propped against his unit door, he realized it wasn't something he had to sign. He quickly read over the work, having to stop and look closer. Romance and love was not what I set out to find, Over time it came crashing down on me. Danger leaking around every corner, In your arms, I find my self safe. My heart wants me to tell you, my head disagrees. Unlike you, not strong, not brave. I don't know if I would measure up. Secrets can be so hard to keep. 🔥Rodimus.exe is rebooting. 🔥Drift laughs at the co-captains expression. Pausing only to voice a congratulation at acquiring a secret admirer. And asking what the fearless leader will be doing to discover their identity. The laugh mixed with the too enthusiastic smile clues the captain in that Drift knows who typed up the message. But no matter how much he asks, begs, or commands, Drift keeps his dermas sealed. 🔥Drastic times call for extreme measures. "This is your Captin speaking, to whoever left the letter addressed to the extremely pleased captain, you are required to meet him in his office within the hour. Thank you." 🔥Now the mystery person has no choice but to come forward.

Ultra Magnus 🗃️it was Magnus's favorite time of the day. When he finally hit the bottom of the inbox. He was close; only two more datapads left. The first was pretty standard. A run of the mill T-879 form that Rodimus had failed to sign a few cycles prior. He needed to catalog that it was signed, and it was good to go. 🗃️He filed away the form before grabbing the last datapad, the header giving him pause. He had no memory of a Sector V-214 Update. Sector V-214 Update My deepest apologies. I have withheld sharing the information on the V-214 sector for some time. I fear, once you know what is occurring in this sector, you would want nothing to do with me. I must tell you all is well, and there is no need to be alarmed. But within the last few days, I have learned many things. I have learned that no matter where one is in the galaxy, love can blossom. Nowhere is that more true than in Sector V-214. At first, I was intimidated by your stature and the rumors about you that floated through the crew. But now, after getting to know you and Growing close to you, I have found myself falling for you at a speed I can not fathom.  I am moved by your kindness, impressed by your strength, and enamored by the size of your heart. Love has contaminated the air in Sector V-214, and my heart wished for you to know. Know that these feelings occurring in Sector V-214 will not impede my work. I wish you a wonderful day. With Love [REDACTED]

🗃️Ultra Magnus reads the document a few more times. As a form, it is rather unhelpful, mostly because he has no idea what Sector V-214 is, yet he can not put it down reading it over and over again. He had received his first love letter. 🗃️ He is not a clueless bot; there are enough clues here for him to figure out who sent in the self-made form. But the fact they redacted their own name gave him pause. Were they ashamed of their love or just shy? He would have to do some thinking. 🗃️Over the next few days, the short form would bring a smile to his face. Whenever he happened to think of it or when he decided to give it another read. On the third day of reading it, he nearly dropped the pad. He had been so focused on the 'Sector V-214' and the potential mystery held within the title he had utterly glossed over the fact human vernacular was used in place of Cybertronian. 🗃️Combining human speech and the fact that the person had grown close to him as his only clues, the only person who could have sent this to him was you. He smiled in the safety of his office, a friendly, warm smile he know you would be sorry to have missed. 🗃️He pulls out a blank Datapad, “To the Correspondent of V-214:

[flowers-of-io]

This Book Is Full of Lies - Playlist

Lovely and self indulgent playlist for this lovely and self indulgent story I’m writing! Updated with every chapter. Spotify link.

Chapter 1: Exordium

New Ways – Daughter

Washed out brain I live alone alone alone

She only ever wanted to carve out a meaning for herself, a life of more than just stone and darkness; but now, looking around her marble court, at rocks suspended in vacuum and dried trees curling their roots around crumbling structures, something in her writhes.

The Fires I Started – Unwoman

And they would all see my unserious desperation As my arms unfurl to retrieve words already spilled All the fires I ever started can't begin to warm me

What is this feeling?

Chapter 2: Bright Things

Remain Nameless – Florence + the Machine

I wish to remain nameless And live without shame ‘Cause what’s in a name, boy I still remain the same

The silver barrel still feels heavy upon Ór’s palm – unfitting in her grip, beautiful and wrong. She wonders how to explain this to him so he would understand.

The Maze – Stars

And then the stars erupted From the blackest sky I’ve seen And I fell into a dream

Finally, he reaches—fingers brushing the stock—and when his hand closes around it, there is a sudden pull, a grip on Ór’s chest, sending her crashing towards the floor. For a second, all she sees is white.

Mo Tze – Alan Silvestri

She dreams of orange seas and love and eating stars.

Chapter 3: Watchtower

Control – Halsey

Damn right, you should be scared of me

She had only been testing her ground when they stepped in, so amusingly certain of having stopped a calamity—how they celebrated, drunkenly thrashing in the grass like worms on rotting scran!

Long Way Home – Plastic

By the rain, by the trite poems Don’t you think about return?

The ahamkara purrs again, sensing yearning.

Chapter 4: Little Broken Thing

Show Yourself – Idina Menzel, Evan Rachel Wood

Come, my darling, homeward bound

She raises a claw, elegant and scalpel-sharp, to drag it all the way through the vision and watch it fray at the seams—but nothing happens, and the woman just keeps smiling that motherly smile, and Savathûn feels her worm tremble.

Song to the Siren – Rose Betts

I'm as puzzled as a newborn child I'm as riddled as the tide

But the icy grip of fear tightens around her core. Something is not right. She cannot feel the flow of tribute demanded from those failing to fool her, and neither senses the worm biting into her as when her cunning is surpassed. The vacancy startles her, like missing a step. There is no shroud, no faux sheen to this world; just a single, thinly-woven layer, soft under her fingers.

Astronomical – SVRCINA

This pull is astronomical

And Savathûn hates hates hates herself, because her first impulse is to raise her own and take it, and fighting the desire feels like fighting gravity.

Chapter 5: The Wager

100 Years – Florence + the Machine

Try and fill us with your hate and we will shine a light And the days will become endless And never, and never turn to night

What would she do, she thinks, or rather tries to convince herself to any other reasoning than the one she already feels rooted deeply into her core.

Maker of My Sorrow – Eliza Rickman

He had an angry head He had a heavy heart to hold Poison in the spring

How she wishes she could prove him wrong, flaunt her peace of mind in front of him as a statement, a shield to protect her pride—she needs him and it infuriates her, more so that he is surely well aware of that. She has always needed him when the storm hit, like a white cane to feel for traps in the darkness, a semblance of confidence if she has ever had one.

Chapter 6: Icing

Earth – Sleeping At Last

Fault lines tremble underneath my glass house But I put it out of my mind […] ‘Till the sirens sound, I'm safe

“You will be free,” she whispers, staring right at its eyeless face, “Or dead. Which is in itself a dreadful kind of freedom.”

Black Water – Of Monsters And Men

But I'm ready To suffer the sea Black water Take over

The Wizard’s song swells and glimmers in the air, and a single crack runs across the surface of the crystal like through an eggshell. Savathûn realises she is clutching one of her very many necklaces and releases the grip.

How Not To Drown – CHVRCHES feat. Robert Smith

That was the first time I knew They were out for blood And they would have your guts

This too shall pass, she spits in hatred, there will be freedom and death and freedom yet—

Chapter 7: Bad Beat

Breath of Life – Florence + the Machine

And the fever began to spread From my heart down to my legs But the room is so quiet

All that happens next takes less than a second. She feels the Phalanx’s arm move under her knee, and a fountain of blood spurts from his wounded side as he strains his entire body to slightly lift himself up. Then there is a gunshot, and a burst of Light.

Shots  – Imagine Dragons

From the second that I was born, it seems I had a loaded gun And then I shot, shot Shot a hole through everything I loved

Her voice drops, “It is my fault.”

Chapter 8: Airâm

Thousand Eyes – Of Monsters And Men

I lie awake and watch it all It feels like thousand eyes

It is quiet in the Hellmouth; quieter yet in the Catacombs, with the suffocating pull of the Pyramid tugging at her core and dust that swirls lazily in the stuffy air around her. Red and hollow-eyed nightmares part as she walks, and each of them bears the face of her brother.

Chapter 9: Bow and Dagger

Waiting for the Snow – Of Monsters And Men

I used to make mountains But then they grew bigger than me I thought that I’d climb my way up high But what if I tumble?

Runi watches her for a moment; she feels the weight of his gaze on the side of her face. Then he says, finally, “Why are you doing this?”

Once Upon a Dream – Lana Del Rey

I know you That gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam

As she drifts off in her jumpship, under the Reef’s purple sky swirling outside the windshield, she has a dream.

Tuesday – Hans Zimmer, Tom Holkenborg

She does not hear the roar of the wave before it breaks, and when she turns her head to see the violent tide rushing in towards them, it is already too late.

Chapter 10: Death, Rewritten

So Far So Fast – The National

Hearing you talk always saves me Can you get away and talk to me?

She collapses against his chest, shivering.

Chapter 11: Proof Against Despair

Storm Song – PHILDEL

I'll send a storm to capture your heart and bring you home

A blinding-bright ball of Light hurls towards Savathûn, silver tail blazing behind it like a comet. It splashes against her chitin chestplate, and room erupts in white as the Witch-Queen reels. There is no ceiling above her anymore.

Forgiven – Within Temptation

Couldn't save you from the start Love you so it hurts my soul Can you forgive me for trying again? Your silence makes me hold my breath

“YOU DID IT!” Savathûn roars. “I saw you looming in the sky, a mockery of salvation! It’s your fault! YOU WEREN’T FAST ENOUGH!”

“I tried to tell you,” the Gardener whispers. Her white eyes are brimming with tears. “Why didn’t you listen, child?”

[fictionadventurer]

More Than All the Gems On Earth: A Retelling of Diamonds and Toads

My mother beats me black and blue while I cast diamonds at her feet. The gems fall from my lips with every apology and plea for mercy, and they scatter across the rough-hewn floor like bits of broken glass. My mother would crush them if she could, and she hates them all the more because she cannot destroy them. The vipers from my sister’s lips slither among the diamonds, cold-blooded creatures born of poison words.

“You did this!” Mother screams, twisting my arm in her iron grip. “You spiteful little wretch! You’ll pay for this!”

It has always been this way--my sister makes the mistakes and I am punished for them. Olive’s task had not been difficult. She had only to walk to the well and give a drink to the old woman who asked. A mere moment of kindness. Yet Olive failed to give even that, and received toads and vipers as her reward.

"I’m sorry!” I cry, and I am. It’s a frightening punishment, even for someone as cruel as my sister. I pity her more than I ever have.

Olive has never felt pity. She slaps my face with the back of her hand. “Witch!” she spits. The word turns into leopard snake as long as my arm; it falls to the floor and twines itself around my leg. “You said she was a beggar, not a princess!”

I try to avoid the toads created by Olive's words as I struggle to escape from Mother. She is pulling me toward the cellar, the place of my most feared punishments. Why is it my fault that the fairy chose another shape? Should it not have been easier for Olive to show kindness to a grand lady?

“No, please!” I scream. A desperate plea for mercy. For understanding. For love.

I had thought that my jewels would make Mother love me, but not even my diamonds were good enough for her. They had to come from Olive. Her hatred of me has destroyed them both, and as always, I am the one to blame.

The thought hardens in my heart like the sapphire that forms in my mouth. They will never love me. They despise the very diamonds I give them simply because they fall from my lips. There is nothing for me here but hatred and misery.

As she strides toward the cellar, Mother steps on a bulbous toad. Her shriek of horror splits my ears, but her grip on my arm loosens. I pull away and sprint out the open cottage door. I flee into the forest with nothing but the clothes on my back and the gems that fall from my lips.

#

Standing by the stream, my words turn into pearls. Milky white, blushing pink, and one as large as my thumbnail that’s as warm and black as a soft summer night. I let them fall into the soft mud of the bank, smiling as I watch the pile grow. Though gems are now common as sand to me, I haven’t tired of their beauty. I speak poems to the sunrise just so I can watch them fall.

I pick out the purest ones from the pile, leaving behind the very small and very large, the ones that are more difficult to use as payment. I brush the rest into the stream, hoping the current will carry them on adventures. Perhaps they’ll be a windfall to a widow in need. A surprise catch for a fisherman. The prize a prince needs to win the heart of his true love.

I put the rest into my pocket, preparing for another day of silence. Which village shall I travel to today? My legend has spread to most of the countryside. Most believe me an eccentric princess. Others accuse me of thievery. I stay where people will accept me and not question my muteness or my money too closely. I’ve paid for nights at an inn with an emerald that could buy a lord’s palace. I buy dresses with pure pink rubies, groceries with chips of diamonds. Most people can’t fathom the value of the gems I give them, but people are starting to suspect, and I’ve become more wary of strangers.

Perhaps it’s time to settle down. Speak myself a fortune that will buy me an estate and servants. Walls to hide behind and people to protect me. For a price, of course.

It’s a cold, uncomforting thought. Would I really be safe among people whose loyalty was bought by my jewels?

The sky darkens with my mood as I travel along the forest path. Is this the best I can hope for? A wandering, lonely life with only as much security as money can buy?

My tears fall with the first raindrops. The cold rain drips down the neck of my gown. Chills run up my spine. I remember the cottage of my childhood. The snug roof. The warm kitchen fire. So long as I avoided Mother’s wrath, it wasn’t a bad life. At least I had a place. A purpose. Sometimes I find myself longing for a hearth to clean or a kettle to scrub.

When thunder rumbles, I remember the cellar. The slam of the door blocking out all light. Long, cold nights with bruises forming on my arms and legs. Mother’s red face as she slapped me that last day. Olive’s snakes winding along the floor.

The memories are too much, and I curl up beneath a tree to weep. I have no past that isn’t tainted by pain. No future that isn’t fraught with fear. I have only myself, and she’s a pitiful comfort in this rain-filled forest. The fairy called me beautiful and good. What use is either to a girl forever alone?

A voice from above, warm and deep, cuts through the cold rain. “Are you hurt?” 

I look up to see a young man on a horse. His clothes are finer than my ruby-bought dress, though he’s rain-soaked and roughened with forest dirt. He carries a gun, and three red and white spaniels stand beside his horse, but he’s no huntsman. I cannot mistake the ring on his hand.

Curled up as I am, I require only the slightest shift to fall prostrate. “Your highness,” I say. Two amethysts fall, hidden beneath my down-turned face.

I hear him jump from his horse. His footsteps are soft in the damp earth and stop mere inches from my ear. “Are you hurt?” he asks again, voice full of concern.

I shake my head in denial.

“Then there’s no sense laying in the mud,” he says. He offers a hand and helps me to my feet. He examines my mud-stained silk dress, my rain-soaked hair, the pack over my shoulder. He meets my eyes and says softly, “You’ve been crying.”

I nod and wipe away a tear, or perhaps a raindrop.

“Why?”

I cannot refuse a question from my prince. After months of silence, it almost feels good to have the choice taken from me. I give him the simplest explanation I can. “My mother has driven me from my home.”

Two roses, a lily, three sapphires, and an emerald the size of a blackberry fall into the mud. The prince watches them fall in astonishment. He picks up the lily, running a reverent finger along a pure white petal. He looks at me. His eyes are like a child’s, wide and innocent and bluer than the sapphires at my feet.

“Why?” he asks again, the question barely more than a whisper.

I don’t know if he’s asking why the flowers fell or why my mother cast me out. Since both questions have the same answer, I tell him my story, beginning with the old woman at the well and ending with my flight from the snake-infested house. Gems and flowers pile at my feet, one for every word I speak--diamonds and daisies, pearls and pansies, rubies and roses. When I finish the story, he takes in the bounty through eyes as wide as dinner plates.

The prince closes his eyes and shakes his head like a man snapping free from the effects of a spell. Then he gives me a sympathetic gaze. “You’ve been alone ever since?”

The sorrow in his voice steals my breath. I haven’t heard such sympathy since my father died. My mother certainly had no concern for my emotions.

Struck speechless, I can only nod.

“Here in the woods?”

I shake my head. “I’ve stayed in inns. Traveled town to town.”

Four more flowers. Four more gems. He watches them in wonder.

“With a fortune falling from your lips?”

“I never speak around people.” I catch five pearls and put them with the bounty in my pocket.

He notices the action and his eyebrows rise. “Yet you carry gems with you. It’s a wonder you haven’t been robbed.”

I can only nod in agreement. Nobles with far less wealth than I have been waylaid on these roads. Now that my story is spreading, I’m not sure how long I can safely travel alone.

He holds out a hand. “Come home with me,” he urges.

I step beneath the sheltering trees, shaking my head. “I don’t know you, sir.” Four carnations and one perfect diamond disappear into the undergrowth.

He sweeps into a courtly bow. “His Royal Highness, Prince Simon Everill.”

Propriety demands I curtsy in return, but I do not speak.

Softly, the prince says, “It’s not in my nature to abandon young women in the woods to fend for themselves. The castle often takes in travelers. You can stay for as long as you like.”

I’m not sure if it’s me he’s inviting or the pile of gems at my feet. But what other option do I have? Miles of walking in the rain, to a town I’m not certain will accept pearls as payment? Days upon days of looking over my shoulder and waiting for highwaymen to find me? This prince, stranger though he is, may be my best chance for safety.

I dip a deeper curtsy. “Thank you, sir.” I catch the three seed-sized diamonds that fall and place them into his palm.

He brushes them away. “No payment,” he says. “Not for hospitality.”

But for other things, perhaps? What plans does he have for my future?

He helps me onto his horse, then mounts behind me. What is your name, my lady?” He asks.

“Agnes,” I say. The word drops to the ground as a flawless ruby.

#

Simon and I sit on the hillside, the castle wall a comforting guardian behind us. We laugh as a spaniel chases away a flock of sparrows. Another spaniel, less zealous in our protection, sits with her curly-eared head in my lap. I run my fingers through her fur and feel a warm thrill in my chest. I have food, clothes, comfort, companionship. I have never been so rich, and it has little to do with the store of gems beneath my mattress. 

Simon has kept my secret during these weeks. At least he says he has. I’ve gotten strange stares from the servants lately, like they don’t know what to make of me, and during a few sleepless nights I’ve wondered if the story I told Simon has been making the rounds. It’s more likely that they wonder about my extended stay, but I can't quite silence the doubts. 

Simon tells me a story of his last visit to the River Kingdom, and I pepper him with questions. When we are alone, I don’t guard my tongue. My words blow away as buttercups on the breeze, and we let pearls scatter on the hillside like seeds for the sparrows. Even if someone were watching from a distance, I doubt they could make out the miracle among the waving grasses. 

When Simon’s story is done, I am breathless with laughter. I’ve never met anyone as gifted with words as he is--high praise from the girl whose voice creates jewels.

Simon smiles at me as I wipe tears of mirth from my eyes. “Agnes,” he says, “You are the most charming girl I’ve ever met.”

“Because I laugh at your stories?” I ask, my tone teasing. Daisies dance away from us.

He takes my hands between his. “Because you’re beautiful, and kind, and gentle and generous and you have more patience than I could show in ten lifetimes.”

The praise surprises me. I’ve long known I’m pretty--I do have a mirror--but I’ve never received compliments on my personality. Mother and Olive made it clear that I was a weak, stupid, spineless thing, and given how long it took me to escape their clutches, I’ve never had reason to disagree.

I feel a blush burning on my cheeks. “You don’t need to flatter me.” The words fall as dull, uncut shards of brown topaz.

“Agnes.” His eyes burn like sapphires in the sun, his voice desperate as a man reaching for a lifeline at sea. “I hadn’t known you three hours before I knew there was no woman in the world who could compare to you. Please, marry me.”

He pulls a golden ring out of his pocket. Within it sits the perfectly-cut ruby that fell when I first told him my name.

I pull away, heart racing. I wonder if it’s possible for my eyeballs to fall out of their sockets from behind my too-open lids. “Simon,” I gasp. His name is a diamond that blinds me with its brilliance. “I can’t. I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

The whole universe has been built upon such things being impossible. I can’t explain reality in a few simple words. I settle for saying, “I can’t marry a prince. I have no title. No family.”

“What does that matter? My father would never forbid it. The gift you have is worth more than any dowry.”

My heart hardens like the sapphire that I spit at his feet. My weeks of happiness here fade away like the childish dream they were. This has been his plan from the beginning. The invitation, the conversations, even his silly little story as we played with the spaniels. All given in hope that I would let my guard down and let him claim every word I speak for the rest of my life.

The ruby in his hands now gleams like a drop of blood from my beating heart. He had gone back to retrieve it, without a word to me. Has he hoarded all the other gems I’ve dropped during our conversations? Have I ever seen the real Simon? Or has this all been an act to get me to the altar? I think of Mother in a million moments of my childhood. After her worst outbursts of temper, she would sigh and beg forgiveness, saying such sweet things that I rushed to her open arms, desperate for long-withheld affection. The moment I came within her reach, she would hit me so hard that my ears rang. I am suddenly certain that Simon’s real face will emerge the moment we marry. I will be his precious trained pet, speaking only to fill his coffers.

I would rather live in Mother’s house again. And I would rather die than do either.

I leap to my feet, gathering my skirts.

“Agnes!” Simon leaps up, alarmed.

I back away from his outstretched hand, tears flying. “No!” I gasp. The word is a dead daffodil. “No, never!”  The last word is an opal, and I fling it at his chest. Then I clamp my lips shut. I will give him no more of my treasures.

I race down the open hillside. Though Simon is taller, he cannot catch me. Years of living in terror have given me speed. The spaniels race after me, barking in alarm, but I soon outpace even them.

I disappear into the forest, trailing silent, worthless tears.

#

It’s an apple blossom morning. My orchard is full of the fragrant blooms, branches weighed down with millions of pale pink and cream flowers. Matching blossoms fall from my lips as I speak my morning prayers. The flowers land lightly on the rain-dampened earth, a carpet of silk for the would-be queen.

I haven’t seen Simon since last summer, and I’m glad of it. I’m proud of the life I’ve built outside of his palace prison. I spent the first weeks in terror, certain he would send soldiers to scour the country and bring me back to the palace in chains. When my first whispers of courage appeared, I traveled on foot to a northern city, one large enough to hold several jewelers. I sold off a month’s worth of words for a small fortune. I bought a modest house on the outskirts where the city kissed the open countryside. I hired servants from agencies, then replaced them until I found people I believed I could trust. My housekeeper has a moral spine of steel. I speak freely in her presence, and she does nothing more than lift a disapproving eyebrow toward the gems that cover her clean floor. She believes my habit to be extravagance bordering on indecency. My butler is a sweet old man, half-blind and half-deaf. I don’t believe he notices my flowers or gems. I sometimes slip him one as a present, spinning some tale of a grandmother’s jewels that I’m giving away.

The garden I care for myself. I’ve planted some of my word-flowers as cuttings, and I hope they will grow. I think the roses have the best chance of taking root. I spend hours out here whenever the weather’s warm, letting the silence and sunshine and blessed hard labor wash every thought and emotion from me. It is only on mornings like this that I let myself feel anything at all.

Something rustles the tree behind me. In the corner of my eye, I see a million apple blossoms rain down. I turn, expecting to see a bird or a particularly heavy squirrel.

It’s Simon. He stands beneath my apple tree in all his palace finery. He is still pale from the winter, but his eyes are bright as ever. He bends at the waist, an apologetic bow. “Your housekeeper let me in.”

Of course she did. Greta can’t refuse entry to a prince. I’m reminded again of how powerless I am before him.

I stand in silence, waiting for the renewal of last summer’s offer. I steel myself in advance against his declarations of love, his flimsy praises of my person, the lies upon lies upon lies he will spin to snare my heart in his web. I scan for movement along the garden walls. Has he brought servants? Soldiers? If he has, there’s nothing I can do, but I won’t give him victory by showing him how frightened I am.

He doesn’t speak. He barely moves. He could be a new statue I bought for the garden. Finally, he asks, “Are you well?”

I nod.

“It’s a lovely house,” he says. “These trees are exquisite.”

Another nod.

Simon’s eyes stay on the blossoms. “The neighbors say you never have visitors.”

Of course I don’t. My gems can buy a house, but they make a social life impossible. How could I attend card parties and balls with diamonds falling with my every word? A mute heiress is a curiosity, but never a friend.

Simon runs a hand along a branch. A dozen petals fall. “Are you lonely?” he asks.

I am, but I hate him for asking. It makes me sound pitiful. I want to be alone. Loneliness is safe.

A falling tear betrays me. The eyes that can spot a partridge across a field watch it fall to the petal-strewn ground. “I thought so,” Simon murmurs. “That’s why I brought this.”

He reaches behind a tree and slides out a basket. Something inside rustles and whines. I step toward it, too curious for caution.

Simon lifts up a squirming puppy. Russet patches blaze on its white fur. I gasp and run my fingers through the silky curls of its ears. It’s so young and warm and alive. I gather it into my arms and let it lick the salt water from my face.

Puppies don’t care about dowries. Diamonds are nothing more than pretty stones for them to chase. They care about food and fresh air and the sheer joy of being alive. I could have no better companion.  

I bury my face in the puppy’s fur. “Thank you,” I breathe, crowning the puppy with apple blossoms.

Simon’s grin makes me think of a summer sky. “She’s fine hunting stock, and I think she’ll make an excellent guard dog someday.”

I don’t care about the future. She’s mine now, and I cry from the sheer joy of having a friend.

Two friends, a tiny voice in my mind insists. Even if this is only a ploy to capture my heart, it’s a very kind stratagem. “Thank you,” I say again.

Simon nods and gathers up his basket. “You can write me if you wish. Tell me how she’s doing.”

My heart shies away from the idea, from another strand that could tie me closer to the crown. But I know what Simon’s dogs mean to him. Refusal would be pointless cruelty. “I will,” I say.

The words fall as a perfect pink pearl. The puppy treats it as a toy.

#

Leaves fall in clumps of color, crimson and orange and gold. Lady wrestles with them while I read my letter; my dog knows better than to disturb me while I read on this bench. It overlooks the orchard and seems the only fitting place to read letters from Simon.

We’ve exchanged more than twenty in the past six months, starting with mere updates about Lady’s health, and slowly expanding to include tales of our days, stories of our childhoods, discussions of philosophy and our feelings about the world. It’s a relief to use as many words as I want without worrying about the flowers and jewels that fall, and I filled five whole pages, front and back, with crossed writing in my last letter. Simon’s reply is nearly as long and I devour every neatly scrawled word, delighting in the sentences that seem to carry the sound of his voice.

His stories are as engaging in writing as they are in person, and before I realize it, I’ve reached the last page. These words have not been crossed; only one set of neat sentences covers the half-sheet.

Darling Agnes, he writes. The endearment shocks me like a thorn among roses. My heart is more yours than it has ever been. I wish with everything I am that those diamonds would dissolve to dust, if it would help you believe that I love you despite your jewels. I repeat my offer from two summers past, and I hope you know me well enough to rightly judge my sincerity. I can only pray you will pity a foolish prince who has done nothing to deserve a wife so far superior to himself.

The pages of the letter fall like flakes of snow, and I tremble like the leaves that cling so precariously to the apple trees. The last months dissolve like a dream and I’m back on that hill outside the palace, back in the cellar with my blossoming bruises. Love is real, I know, but it is never given to me. Simon cannot be offering it, not truly. These months of friendship have been glorious, but a few heartfelt letters are not the same as agreeing to be a man’s wife, giving him my heart to treasure or cast off at will. He will cast it off, I know it. In a day or a week or ten years, it will be thrown into my face as a weapon, my heart aching all the more because I gave it so freely to someone who despised me.

I race into my writing room, pull out a paper, and dip a quill in the ink. My hand shakes violently, but it doesn’t matter. The page only needs one word.

No.

#

Snow covers the garden like diamond dust. The jewels I speak disappear into the drifts behind the house. I cast them out for Lady to chase, and my words of praise provide gems for the next game.

When Lady tires, we walk to the front garden. Two of my yellow roses took root last summer and have become tiny spindles of bushes. I brush the snow from their branches to keep them from being crushed. Dogs and roses--the only things I can safely love.

“Such kindness,” says a voice from outside the gate. I look up to see a gray-haired crone in a ragged cloak. She smiles with crooked teeth. “Do you have any for an old woman?”

I hurry to the gate, reaching under my cloak and pulling coins from my purse. I regularly exchange my jewels for coins now, and I always keep a supply for the poor. I place five of the largest in the beggar’s hands, enough for a month of meals and a comfortable room.

The woman gives it a satisfied smile. “Bless you.” She tucks the coins into her glove. “You’re seen as something of a ministering angel among our kind, lady,” she says. “Beautiful and kind and as mysterious as the holy mountain.”

I laugh. I’ve gotten better at holding back my jewels when I need to, so I feel safe saying, “I’ve been very blessed.”

"Then why are you so sad?” the woman asks.

Her gray eyes pierce me, making it seem pointless to hide my secrets. I give her the least dangerous part of the truth. “I have no family.”

“Girls with that problem usually try make one of their own. A lady like you must have a hundred beaus to pick from.” 

I pretend to cough into my hand, and I slide eight tourmalines into my purse. “Only one,” I say.

“And what a one,” the woman says, leaning over a fence as if to share a secret. “The prince himself pining away for you in that great palace.”

I gasp and forget to stop the daisies from falling. “How did you...?”

“Half the town knows about the royal seals on those letters,” the woman says, “and knows the postman hasn’t seen one for four months, about the same time that the prince stopped attending social functions.”

My blush burns so hot that the beggar could warm her hands by it.

The woman places a comforting hand over my trembling one on the rail of the fence. “You’re being very unkind to that poor boy. Do you think you’re the only one in the world with a good heart?”

It’s like she sees into my soul, and I suddenly remember a gap-toothed woman by a faraway well who knew my history just by looking at me. This woman is shorter and darker-skinned, but those gray eyes hold similar secrets.

So I speak to her like I’ve spoken to no one else--pitiful, pathetic words. I sound like a frightened child as I reply, “It’s the only heart I can be sure is good.”

“Nonsense. Ain’t you talked to him? Seen him? What has he said, promised, done? Has he ever been cruel? Angry? Wicked?”

No, no, and no. He gave me shelter, friendship, love. He let me run away from him. He brought me Lady. If he wanted my jewels he could have sent a hundred men to drag me back to his palace in chains, but aside from the ruby for my ring, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him touch one of my precious words. The only monstrous things he’s done have been inventions of my own terrified imagination.

But my imagination won’t give up so easily. “He could be one day.”

“So could you,” the woman counters.

“I couldn’t throw him in the dungeon.”

The woman closes her eyes and sighs. “Love is a risk. Trust is a great gift. Will you hoard it all for yourself or find the courage to give it away?”

I let out my breath in one long, weary sigh. “I don’t know if I can,” I say. The first words are daisies and chips of diamonds. The last one falls as a perfect ruby in my gloved hand.

The woman presses both her hands around the hand with the ruby. When she pulls them away, the jewel is set in a ring of pure gold.

“Try,” she says.

#

Simon steps into my writing room, looking disheveled and a little bewildered. He brushes snowflakes out of his hair and steps toward my desk. He holds up a hastily scrawled letter. “You called?”

I step toward him and place the ruby ring in his outstretched hand. “I would like,” I say, the words creating a bouquet of roses in my arms, “to make a proposal.”

#

Simon and I kneel before the priest. The pearls from a thousand grateful prayers are draped in long chains across our shoulders and arms. Simon is radiant, a million silent words speaking of his love. He makes his vows with unhesitating enthusiasm, then the priest places the same questions to me, asking me to take Simon as my husband, whatever may come, to the very end of our days.

“I do,” I say.

The sapphires that fall from beneath my veil gleam like tears of joy.

[genshinfanboy]

His Dearly Beloved.

|Hello everyone. An update I won't be taking requests for a bit. The requests I did have were deleted. My apologies please feel free to resubmit them when requests are open again. Anyways on to this one-shot. Please enjoy and as always feel free to change the pronouns to fit your own. Have a lovely day or night everyone.

Childe x GN! Fatui reader

Warning: There will be spoilers for Childe's story and story quest.

(Y/N) had known the eleventh Fatui harbinger for a long time. Long before he was known as Childe, or Tartaglia. They knew him before he had fallen into the abyss. The two had been very close and attached to one another. They were best friends. After Childe had become a harbinger it became rarer for the two to see each other. (Y/N) wasn't too fond about not seeing their best friend for what could be months away from each other. They used to be inseparable. (Y/N) remembers Childe's older siblings teasing their friend. They sent letters back and forth to each other. The day that they gained a vision was the day they would start training to work with Ajax. They knew being apart of the fatui wasn't the safest and people would look at them differently. The thought of being able to see Ajax got rid of their fear. They took a deep breath as they got ready for their exam. Their last letter to Tartaglia they said that they were preparing a surprise for him. They held a faint smile thinking about the other before heading to their exam. If the archons are on their side they should be reunited with their best friend in a few weeks.

Childe felt exhausted as he took a deep breath. He was feeling frustrated as his best friend had stopped send letters after they said they had a surprise being prepared for him. It had been three and a half weeks after all. He's received a letter from them every week without fail since he joined the fatui. He always sent one back. He wondered what was going on. He frowned at his desk he tapped his fingers on the desk. Not hearing from them worried him greatly. He knew how the world works. If something happened to the first person he fell in love with before he could take over the world, he'd kill whatever touched them. As he sat at his desk doing his paperwork he started feeling a bit antsy. He remembers the promise they made him when he left. They wouldn't break that if they had a choice. He wondered if he can manage to go home again. This time without worry about the nation of Liyue coming after him. Then he could go give them a piece of his mind or end whatever had harmed them. He really couldn't shake his worry. To top things off he was to be getting an assistant soon. He didn't need one. He had no clue what her majesty the Tsaritsa was thinking when she assigned him someone. He didn't need any help even after what happened with his Osial plan. He stood up and stepped away from his desk. He needed to engage in a battle or two to calm his nerves. He went to see if any debts needed collecting at the moment.

Childe was getting anxious about his friend. (Y/N) couldn't have dropped off easily. He wondered if they got involved with an archon. He'd fight all of the seven if he needed to get answer. His worries got put aside for a second. He couldn't believe his brother snuck all the way to Liyue. Keeping his brother from finding out what he actually does. He was running around with the traveler and Teucer. After all of the things that happened at the abandoned factor he had to ask the traveler to take Teucer back the bank. He didn't wish for his brother to see him in a weakened state. He made his way back there after resting a bit. When he is reunited with his younger brother he'll ask the younger about (Y/N). He hoped the traveler wouldn't ask too many questions about (Y/N). His brother was surely to make his feeling obvious. As he walked back to the bank he saw something unexpected. "Hello I am the person sent by her majesty the Tsaritsa herself. May I go fine the eleventh harbinger?" Childe froze as the person spoke. He knew that voice as well as he knew any of his siblings' voices. His mind ran with questions. "Master Childe is currently out with his brother. May I ask what your name is?" The receptionist said bring out the form from the Tsaritsa. She wished to verify the information. "Of course. My name is (Y/N) (L/N)." They said with a smile.

(Y/N) knew the protocol. They were given a special mask that they didn't have to wear all of the time. They were surprised to hear Childe was out with one of his siblings. They had visited his family before setting off to Liyue all of his siblings were accounted for or so they thought. He was told by Tonia that Teucer was out playing with a friend. Did that little rascal sneak off here? They couldn't help but smile. They knew the receptionist had confirmed their identity by now from the smile she held. "Is there anything that I may help with to help Childe before his return?" They asked. They noticed her start laughing. She pointed behind them. They turned around and saw their best friend. Their smile widened as they saw his shock. They also noticed Teucer with someone. Ajax must've trusted this person a lot to entrust his brother with them. They had fo admit they were slightly jealous as no one mentioned this person to them. Did Ajax fall in love while they were preparing to be by his side again? They couldn't shake the fear inside them that they had been replaced. The fear was pushed to the back of their mind when Teucer ran over to them. "Hey (Y/N)! My big brother told me that one day you two will get married is that true? I refuse. I like you way more than my big brother does. You should stay by my side instead. I haven't seen you for a while because big sister Tonia said you were going to be big brother's assistant. " Teucer asked. They definitely felt a heat rise in face. They saw Ajax rush over and picked Teucer up. "Now now Teucer that is quite the imagination. I never said I'd marry them. Also you little scam trying to get them to cut their trip here short. They probably got permission to come here unlike you. They just got here. I want to see them. You'll get to see them when they head back to Snezhnaya." They could tell he was nervously talking. They gave a small laugh. "Teucer is actually right about me coming here to be the greatest toy sellers assistant." (Y/N) said give their friend a soft smile.

Childe couldn't believe his brother said that. He knew his siblings all liked (Y/N) but he only expected that from his older siblings. They always joked about stealing the person he loved. Then he processed what his friend said. "We should talk about that later ok (Y/N) though I'd like you to meet my new comrade." Childe said. "No fair I wanna play with big brother, the nice person and (Y/N)." Teucer said. Childe shook his head no. "You need get home our family is surely worried about you Teucer. I already made arrangements for you to get home." He said. After a few hours he finally had a chance to speak with (Y/N) alone. He walked over to them and hugged them. "Do you know how worried I was? I didn't get anything from you for weeks. Then you show up like this? I was terrified something happened to you. You also broke our promise. You promised you'd keep in contact no matter what. I sent you several letters and got nothing back. I feared the worse happened. I was getting letters every week and then nothing for almost a month." Childe said holding onto them tightly.

(Y/N) put a hand on his shoulder. "Ajax loosen your grip or else you're going to crush me. I never broke our promise. I couldn't respond to you because I was in training. The moment I got a break I was already heading to Liyue. Ajax you have no idea how much I missed you. Feel free to hate me for saying this but I'm in love with you Ajax. Though I hope that doesn't happen. You mean so much to me. Though I guess I should call you Childe. Sorry for saying this so suddenly after we met again after so long. I just don't want to risk it if you get into a battle you can't win." (Y/N) said looking away with a deep blush. They slowly started trying to pull away from their long time friend. They felt themself being pulled closer to his chest. "I feel the same way (Y/N). Teucer must've read some poems I wrote for you forever ago. I thought they were all well hidden. I could never hate you but please don't make me worry like that again I thought something happened to you. You were my beloved childhood friend but now I hope that you become my beloved partner. I can't imagine anyone else by my side other than you. You need to be there when I take over the world." Childe said with a soft smile. They hugged him back finally. Their brain was in shock but they couldn't any happier. They burries their face into his chest. The two held each other close. They truly were his brother.

[witcher-trash]

Horror themed geraskier fic recs

all that was good, all that was fair (all that was me is gone) Somewhere, deep in a forest, a man drags himself from his grave by sheer power of will. He lies gasping on the forest floor and does not know who or what he is. The world is wide and wonderful, though, and there is so much to see.-Or, Jaskier is so stubborn that he literally comes back from the dead.

An All-Consuming Creature Following the events on the mountain top, Jaskier and Geralt have parted ways. Months pass and winter comes, brining with it stillness and the ever-pressing silence to remind Geralt that someone is missing. But spring is late in coming. Worry and work pours in through every part of the country as the people consult every power available: witchers, sorceresses, kings, and countrymen, for nothing is growing in the fields. Nothing flowers. What can be the cause? And why in all this time has he heard not a single note from that familiar lute, whatever tavern or pub he's come upon? Rumors abound of the terrifying prospect that spring may not return and the bard's disappearance is lost in the shuffle. When the witcher lost his dandelion, had the world lost so much more?alt — Jaskier gets kidnapped by a strange entity that calls itself Love who attempts to woo him. Meanwhile, the world is dying and no one has answers. Therein lies a mystery and a connection.

A Twist in Time When Jaskier looks over the witcher has his eyes shut tight, his whole body seeming pained. Jaskier realises he wants to soothe him, and the strength of feeling surprises him. He’s been too long without company.“What happened?” the witcher says finally.Jaskier blinks. “That’s quite a big question. I’m afraid you’ll need to be more specific.”“With Nilfgaard,” the witcher clarifies, growling slightly. “It shouldn’t – it didn’t happen like this.”In 1240, Jaskier the bard leaves Posada earlier than planned because of a devil in the mountains.In 1263, three years after Nilfgaard conquers the north, Julian Pankratz, viscount of Lettenhove, hires a witcher and learns about the path his life should have taken.This is not an AU.

ghosting “Why are you doing this,” Geralt asks- he is tired. He has not had the time to mourn Jaskier with him right there at his side. “Jaskier. Why are you here?” “Where else would I go?” Jaskier says- bloody teeth. 

Hibernating with Ghosts Getting stuck in Kaedwen in winter had never been on Jaskier's plan. It's cold, they don't appreciate his music and nobody likes their national beverage anyway. The only redeeming thing Kaedwen has is Kaer Morhen, so Jaskier does what any reasonable bard would do in this situation: he decides to charm his way into Kaer Morhen to hibernate with Geralt and the other witchers. If nothing it will be an experience no human has ever had, fuel for songs and poems for years to come, while finally teaching him a thing or two about witchers he's just dying to know.Curiosity tended to kill the cat, but Jasker had always seen himself as more of a bird anyway.

Him In his time as a witcher, Geralt has killed just about everything that can be killed: monsters, beasts, constructs, men, even the undead can die again if you know the trick to it. Wraiths, he knows, are the lingering troubled spirits of people who died tragically, violently, unjustly and unavenged. Their unfair fate spawns in them a jealousy and hatred of everything living that quickly drives them mad and makes them dangerous and deadly, driven to torment those responsible for their plight. Usually he feels no more than a twinge of pity as he sends them off again with silver and fire, but then again usually they aren’t haunting him. Usually they aren’t Jaskier.Geralt learns that Jaskier never made it off the mountain after the dragon hunt and, if that’s what it takes to appease the monster that now wears his face, neither will Geralt.

I'd Be the Choiceless Hope “Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier's mother with Jaskier's obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the "gift" became more of a curse.

Silver and Copper Geralt is just supposed to pass through the quiet Lettenhove area. He's not anticipating being begged by its people to help save their viscount from a curse that keeps him from daylight. Lord Jaskier, they call him, and he's likely dying.As Geralt struggles to untangle the ugly web of history that has lead to the increasingly complicated curse, he finds himself spending more and more time with the strange young viscount and wondering just what he might have been before the curse, and who he might be after. But things are not always as they seem, and as the curse tightens its grip on Jaskier, Geralt is forced to face the fear of failing yet another person whose choices were stolen from them.Or-Jaskier is kept from becoming a bard. Geralt finds him anyway.

Singing Silver Jaskier had not noticed that he was falling apart until he found himself looking into Geralt’s golden eyes and realized that he had no defense.“I don’t play for the dead,” he said. Geralt’s gaze held him fast. His heart sped and he wondered if the Witcher could hear it. He wondered if Geralt knew the exhilaration and terror that burned the dread away like flame to oil. “Not anymore.”

The House of Gwyn Carraigh (geralt x eskel x jaskier) A curious boast of luck sees Eskel into the nowhere town of White Stone, the promise of Geralt and Jaskier's company quickly souring with what he finds: Jaskier, alone and half-mad in a nightmarish torment, and Geralt gone missing on a contract. Trying to keep a cool head, Eskel's window to save both Jaskier and Geralt quickly closes.A tale in two acts.

The skin that crawls from you The contract seemed like any at the beginning. But it turned out to be much more.Jaskier would never describe himself as a coward. However, he couldn't help but feel afraid when he found the monster before Geralt, if one could even call it a monster.

Where the Hearts Are Rotted Out Taking the route through Crookback Bog has its risks. So does Jaskier's making fun of the shrine to the Ladies of the Wood. Illness, curses, wraiths, and ancient hags lurk in the fog.Or it could be a regular human cold.

[nightshade-minho]

-Blue Book- (9)

Warnings: parent death, daddy issues, abandonment and ~le angst~

Wc: 4.1k

You sat at Dea's desk, your eyes drooping heavily as you explained a sum to her. The girl opposite you was wide awake though, energetic as she solved the problem in her worksheet.

You were glad she had warmed up to you after the first session, but her endless enthusiasm towards mathematics at the moment was diametrically opposed to how you were feeling. The numbers on the pages swam as you decided to let your cheek rest on the table, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment.

"Y/n?"

You darted awake, turning your head to her. "Y-yeah?"

"I solved it. Also, are you okay? You look tired."

That's because I am. "I'm fine." You assured, flipping through her workbook to find another page for her to do.

Could anyone blame you for being tired? You'd stayed awake all night in anticipation, your heart thrumming as you thought about what was going to happen today.

After this session, you were going to go straight to the park. If Chan showed up...you would know he felt the same. What if he didn't?

You shook your head, dispelling the negative thought. Fuck no. You'd gone without pessissism for so many years, despite having many reasons to be the same. This wasn't going to be the day you surrender to it.

You felt your phone chirp, signalling the end of the session as you looked over at Dea, who had finished her worksheet. You smiled and took it from her, putting it in your bag to correct later.

"Our next session is going to be day after tomorrow, okay? Your mom said you have a sleepover to attend tomorrow." You said as you packed your bag, getting up. "Remember to do your homework though."

She nodded. "It's the sums on page 38, right?" She asked, pulling out a pink book from her drawer and writing in it.

"Yeah-" you narrowed your eyes as your eyes fell on her book, confusion filling you.

The book was covered with brocade, a very familiar pattern on top. It was the same design as yours, except pink. The color was the only difference. The print, the shape, the size....everything was the exact same, down to the signature on the bottom of the cover.

The signature of your father's.

You opened your mouth, words failing to leave you as you watched her write in it, your mind hurtling back as the memories drove into you, full-force.

You were extremely young when your dad had gifted you the little blue book you'd come to love and cherish. It was the last good memory you had of him. The tiny books were handmade by him, a result of a hobby he'd picked up one summer. Your dad had always been somewhat of an artsy man, and this was his latest project.

He'd made a dark red diary for himself, one for work purposes. You remembered marveling over how pretty it looked, begging him to make a similar one for you. And he did.

And now here was an exact copy of the book you'd kept for years, in the hands of this young girl you'd never met before. Was it a coincidence?

"Earth to Y/n!"

You snapped back into attention, looking at the girl who had her eyebrow raised. You opened your mouth, wondering if you should ask.

But you couldn't. Shaking your head, you decided to bring it up to your mom when you got home. For now, you simply bid adieu to Dea, leaving the house as your mind swam.

***

Minho looked to the side, thanking the heavens that Jisung and Felix were still asleep, despite it being morning already. Thankfully, the heavy curtains in Changbin's guest room ensured that the sunlight didn't manage to wake up the two.

Last night after the match, he'd decided to spend the night at Changbin's house along with Felix and Jisung. And now he was just waiting for the right opportunity.

As the snores increased in intensity, Minho carefully took out your book from his pocket, using the light of his phone to illuminate the pages as he flipped through each one to find what he was looking for.

Drawings. Drawings. A few poems. Even more drawings- huh. Drawings of Chan. They were well done, yet clearly drawn by someone who was in love with him. Minho rolled his eyes as he checked the back pocket and the front one, searching the book thoroughly and letting out an angry sigh when he found nothing inside.

Anger surged through him as he threw the book roughly next to him on the bed, rubbing at his tired eyes in disappointment as he tried not to let the frustration bubble up. Why did the universe hate him so much? Was it all for nothing?

A minute later, he felt Jisung stirring, snapping him out of his thoughts. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed your book and moved to hide it again- frowning when his eyes fell on the long note written across the page.

He'd obviously missed this the first time he flipped through. Narrowing his eyes, Minho started to read the poem, slowly realizing it was a love letter, meant for Chan. His eyes moved to the last sentence. Ah...

So, you were planning to confess to Chan at the park. Minho grinned, knowing Chan wouldn't show up. After all, he never saw this letter. His smirk grew as he reread the sentence.

Not to worry. Even if Chan didn't show up, he would.

***

It was way too early. Chan hadn't gotten a wink of sleep last night, his heart twisting with anxiety.

He'd lost the book.

Last night, after he'd gotten out of the shower, he checked his pants for your book, deciding he was feeling calm enough to read what you'd written for him. As he'd searched his pockets, finding them empty, his stomach had filled with dread as he realized it was gone.

Trust. You'd trusted him enough to give him your closest possession, and he'd been careless enough to lose it. He cursed himself, turning over and burying his face in his pillow, wondering how he was going to face you. Usually, he called you every morning to make plans to hang out, but at the moment he couldn't bring himself to.

He didn't want to see you sad and disappointed, knowing he was the reason behind your ever-present smile disappearing.

***

Minho walked home, sipping on the can of beer he'd stolen from Changbin's fridge. It was definitely too early for this, but he honestly couldn't care less. As he neared his house, he tossed the can in the trash, running a hand through his hair as he walked closer.

The front door opened suddenly, and he frowned. His mom usually went to work much earlier than this, so who was leaving his house right now?

Minho's eyes widened as the person finally came into view, shutting the door and walking down the street.

Quickly darting behind a tree, he watched as you walked away, your feet moving quickly.

What were you doing in his house?

***

As Chan made his way into the locker room, he searched everywhere for the little book. He couldn't comprehend how it could have just disappeared like that. He was so sure he'd kept it in his pocket...

He let out a frustrated groan as he left the stadium, pulling his hood over his head as he noticed how there were a few dark clouds accumulating in the sky.

He'd done everything he could. He'd already called Felix and told him about the situation, but he didn't have a clue either.

Now, there was nothing left to do but face you. He wanted to curse, wanted to kick something or punch someone. You were never going to trust him again after this, and the thought broke his heart more than it should have.

****

You sat on the park bench, nervously, twiddling your thumbs as you waited for Chan to arrive. You stared at the lake, your heart pounding impossibly fast as you expected him to come at any moment now.

The sunlight shone on the water, and you observed the pair of ducks swimming together, a soft smile on your face, desperately wishing you could draw them in your book. It felt weird being away from it. It was usually always in your bag, the proximity of it always giving you comfort.

You couldn’t bring yourself to regret giving it to Chan, though- The book had been replaced. Chan made you comfortable in a way no inanimate object ever could.

The view in front of you was extremely peaceful. Love really was everywhere. You'd never really understood it before, but now you could...And it was a beautiful feeling, yet scary at the same time. You felt like confessing had taken a huge weight off of your heart, but you were deeply terrified of Chan's reaction. Sure, he'd been the one to approach you, take you on dates...he'd been the one to initiate the hand-holding and the kiss. Yet you couldn't help but be self-conscious. Your father leaving you had given you trust issues, and your mind started coming up with worst case scenarios even as you desperately tried to bat the negativity away.

But all of it melted away as you felt someone tap your shoulder.

This was it.

Your heart fluttered as you turned around slowly, your mind filling with happiness at the prospect of seeing him again after last night-

Wait.

The smirk facing you definitely did not belong to Chan.

You stared at Minho in shock, standing up from the bench and backing away slightly as he raised an eyebrow. Why the fuck was he here? The dread in your stomach was back, and this time it was heavier.

"Surprised to see me?" He snarled, moving forward. You continued to move away as he moved closer, fear filling you as you stared at his slightly deranged expression.

"I'm not going to hurt you." He chuckled, and you swore as you realize you were cornered, having unintentionally backed up against a tree.

"At least, not yet." He said nonchalantly, trapping you against the bark as he hovered over you, making you gulp.

"W-why are you here? I'm...I'm expecting Chan soon, so p-please leave." You mumbled, summoning all your confidence as you avoided his heavy gaze. He narrowed his eyes, smirk reappearing as he shook his head at your naïvety.

"Oh, I hate to break it to you...Channie's not coming, dear." He said in a matter of fact tone, relishing the way your expression dropped further.

"What? B-but, the book-" you mumbled under your breath, almost to yourself. Minho scoffed, slipping your book out from his pocket roughly and holding it up in front of you.

"You mean this book?"

Your eyes widened. No. No way. How did this happen? How did it end up in his hands?

"You must be wondering how I got this, hm?" He let out a small snort. "Well, your precious Channie gave it to me last night. In fact, we all looked through it. Had a nice little laugh. The guys will definitely thank you for the fun night." He smirked, the devastation on your face pleasing him incredibly. He put on a mock face of surprise at your expression.

"Wow, is this some sort of surprise for you? Did you really think he had feelings for you? I'm sorry, but he was just using you, darling. He's always been in love with Miyoung, and he was just using you to get her."

The nonchalance with which he uttered those words was throwing you off as you tried to understand.

No...

This couldn't be happening...was what he said true? You felt your heart breaking slowly, completely as the image of Chan laughing at the contents of your book with his friends came to mind, tears springing to your eyes as it sunk in. He'd been using you, all this time? But...his smile, the kiss...it had all felt so fucking genuine.

Minho's expression turned incredulous as he noticed your tears. "Wait, are you crying? Bitch, you don't deserve to cry." He spat, holding the book up to you and shaking it slightly.

"Now that those little truths are out of the way." He cleared his throat. "Tell me where the fuck it is."

Wait, what? Confusion filled your face as Minho glared at you, his tone growing angrier.

"I don't know...what you're talking about." You said slowly, cowering as he raised his eyebrows, scoffing again.

"The money." He said sharply. "Tell me where the money is. Cause I know your father most definitely hid it in this pathetic book."

Your dad? The confusion quickly became more potent as you stared up at Minho, his expression twisted with such pure wrath that it caught you off-guard.

"How do you...I- w-what?"

"Don't play dumb." He gritted his teeth. "Don't act all innocent and pretend to not know what your fucking father did to my family."

"I-" you narrowed your eyes, lip trembling as you spoke. "I have literally no idea what you're talking about."

The sky was darkening.

"Looks like I need to spell it out for you." Minho inhaled deeply, looking up before looking down at you again.

"Your father stole all my mother's money before leaving us." His voice shook a little as your eyebrows knitted together. "He left her destitute and pregnant, with a little boy to support. And then he had the balls to go and fucking die. Sound familiar?"

The words sunk into your head, like teeth. Your brain couldn't comprehend what he was saying properly and you opened your mouth, your voice stuck in your throat.

You couldn't believe it. He was your dad's stepson? The child you'd seen in the faded photos your dad had sent you of his shining, amazing new family?

It was starting to rain. The drops of water came down on the two of you, not entirely soaking you thanks to the tree above. The air was icy, and your teeth chattered- out of nervousness or the cold, you didn't know.

"So now, all I want to know is where the money he took is. I've searched this stupid book inside and out, but it's nowhere. So you tell me where it is."

"W-why would it be in my book?" You asked quietly, the implications of what Minho was saying overwhelming you beyond compare. You'd never really put much thought into your father's new family, having just seen a few old photos of them. Somehow it all made sense, and at the same time didn't.

"I know he made this book. It's the only heirloom he left for you. I know because he made the same one for my little sister, before he up and left. When I saw you with it at the cafeteria, I knew you were his daughter. And I just- I assumed it would be in here-" his voice was starting to break as he scrunched his eyes shut, realizing how far-fetched this was.

"I...M-minho...I haven't seen my dad since I was 9. I don't know where the money is. I'm..." You swallowed thickly. "I'm sorry he screwed up your family like he did mine. There's nothing I can do about it." You mumbled, looking down and avoiding his gaze.

His eyes softened a little as he let go of you, stepping back slightly and letting out a shaky sigh. He tossed the book to you and you caught it, looking up at him and his distressed expression. He'd known it was a bit of a reach- this whole thing was. Always had been. But he'd been desperate. He'd chased after this long shot of a theory ever since he laid eyes on you for the first time, writing in that book. The sudden self-loathing he felt was blinding as he realized what he’d done.

Minho turned to you. "I...I saw you leaving my house today. So you were the tutor Mom was talking about?"

"Yeah." Everything was slowly sinking in as your heart was still thudding. You understood why Dea's mom had looked so familiar. You'd seen her in the photos. Of course she'd been heavily pregnant then, a glow in her eyes that just wasn't there now.

"So you...you really hadn't seen him again since he left you? When he left us, he wrote a note. Said he was going back to his old family." He tilted his head at you, running a hand through his hair and baring his vulnerability. It was tiring having had to hide it for so long.

"No. He must have...must have died before he could. Or he was just lying. He wasn't always the most honest man in the world."

"You could say that." He shook his head, sighing as he went back over to the bench, flopping down on it and burying his head in his hands, not wanting to look at you. The guilt wrecking him was overwhelming, and he felt his heart shake.

You hesitated a little before going over and sitting next to him. He looked up at you, and you noticed small tears mixing with the raindrops running down his face.

"I'm...really sorry." He said in a small voice. "I was angry at him and I took it out on you." He looked back down at his lap, his eyebrows furrowing. "My childhood was spent trying to support my mom and my little sister. I guess I didn't stop to think about the fact that he did the same to you. Left you alone." He mumbled, his tone genuine.

You nodded, sighing and staring at your hands. "I...can forgive you, Minho. I understand the pain."

"I was just so...so stupid." He shook his head. "I don't even know why I thought that the money would be with you. I...fuck, I was an absolute asshole, wasn't I?" He said, tone filling with anger directed towards himself as he sat up.

You shrugged. "Well, I won't deny you were. But I guess you had a good reason." You said softly, thoughtfully humming. Maybe you were forgiving him too soon, but to be honest, your heart wasn't build to hold grudges. The boy next to you looked devastated enough.

"So...isn't Dea my sister, too?" Your mind swam as you realized you'd already met your half sister and hadn't even known it.

"Yeah. She would be excited to know she has a sister. She's always wanted one. Says I'm too serious for her." He laughed, smiling at you before clearing his throat and looking away.

There was a silence for a few minutes as the two of you let everything wash away with the rain. Both your hearts were still pounding from the heavy truths you'd learnt...but there was an odd sense of peacefulness filling you, now.

The same man had messed with the both of you, ruined your families. You'd come to terms with what he'd done, but Minho clearly hadn't. You were still surprised how easy forgiving him had been, especially after everything that he'd done.

The regret filling him was immense. Minho looked over at you, and slowly he decided to shift closer until your thighs were touching. Your clothes were wet, but neither of you could bring yourself to care. He slowly put his arm on the bench behind you.

There was a sense of comfort from knowing the two of you shared a reason to be fucked up. Sighing, you let your head rest on his shoulder.

Calm, finally.

***

Chan walked through the rain, not wanting to stop his search for you despite the heavy downpour. His clothes were soaked through as he made his way to the park, knowing it was probably where you were if you weren't at your own house.

As he made his way to your bench, he mentally rehearsed what he would say to you. Hi, I lost the book you value more than life itself at a football game- fuck, he'd really messed up this time.

As Chan walked on the path to the lake, he frowned as he noticed two figures on the bench the two of you always sat on. Shit, maybe you weren't here after all.

However as he came closer, his heart thudding impossibly loud, he realized he recognized the heads.

It was you and Minho, looking awfully close as your head rested on his shoulder, the two of you looking at the lake even as the rain poured down on you.

Chan felt his throat dry up completely as he stood there, feeling the betrayal hit him squarely in the chest and almost forgetting how to breathe.

Turning around, his expression stiff, he walked away as quickly as he could, thankful for the rain in that moment. He wouldn't cry, not over you.

He couldn't believe he'd been foolish enough to let you in. At the end of the day, he was destined to be miserable. Nothing could save him, and he winced as his heart leaked, slowly emptying itself of you, and all the memories he had of you.

Happiness was a fucking scam, and he was glad he realized it sooner than never.

***

You adjusted Minho's jacket around you as you waited for your mom to open the door. It was still raining heavily, and you were entirely soaked.

You still wanted to talk to Minho, and ask him a few more questions. Even more than that, you were excited to see Dea again. A sister. You finally had a sister, and an amazing one too at that. The girl was a sweetheart, and she really was a mini-you, now that you thought about it...

The rain had forced you to separate ways though. You scrolled through your phone out of boredom, shivering.

You checked your texts, frowning as you noticed the absurd amount of messages your mom had sent you. Wow, she’d been really intent on contacting you...was something wrong?

Worry growing, you knocked on the door extra hard, letting out a relieved sigh as the door was finally opened.

You'd had your fair share of shocks since the morning. However, nothing could have prepared you for what you saw.

Your mother opened the door quickly, peeking outside before ushering you in. As you entered the house, you swallowed as you noticed the amount of boxes and cartons that were lying around.

"I..mom? What is going on?" You asked, frowning as you watched her dart around in a hurry, dumping things into random boxes.

"Y/n, change and get ready, quick. Come on, we don't have much time-"

"What? Why? What's...what's happening?" You asked, clutching your saddlebag tighter as she went from one room to the other, tossing nearly all of your belongings into the assorted brown boxes littered around.

"What's happening is we're moving. And we have to do it right now." She glanced around. "I may have gotten into some... trouble. Thankfully my new boyfriend has a place up north, so we'll be fine-" she continued rambling, causing you to tune her out as you swore.

You felt tears prick your eyes. You wanted to burst out, the anger and sadness clawing at your throat insufferably. There was no way this was actually happening. Just when things were coming together a little bit...and now she wanted to uproot you again?

In all these years though, you'd come to realize that sometimes, there was just no other option.

Sometimes, you just had to accept the hard truths without complaints.

***

You sat in your mom's car as she drove, knowing better than to ask her what exactly the problem was. You stared at your phone, yearning to call Chan.

Don't, Y/n. You deserve better.

In the midst of all the revelations Minho had brought forth, you'd completely forgotten about the first truth Minho had let you in on.

Chan had been...using you. To get Miyoung. Unfortunately, you couldn't say it had come as a surprise. In the beginning, you'd noticed his lingering gazes on her, the way his demeanor changed every time she was around. After all, who wouldn't like Miyoung? She was lovable and sweet. Nothing like you.

But...but it had all seemed so real. How could he have been faking it the whole time?

You finally threw all caution to the wind, dialling his number and sighing when it went straight to voicemail.

Your heart was still broken, but that didn't mean you were going to be a complete asshole and disappear from his life without notice.

You started off just telling him you were leaving. However, you couldn't just...stop. There was unfinished business between the two of you.

You took a deep breath and decided to recite the love poem you'd written for him in the book, omitting the last sentence and sighing.

"I guess we were just not meant to be, after all. Thanks for everything, though. For just a while, you made me feel like I belonged."

And with that, you dropped your phone next to you, staring out at the raindrops running down the car window. The tears were making a reappearance, but at this point you couldn't bring yourself to give a fuck.

Something told you tears were going to be a regular occurrence from now on.

***

Note: Act 1 is over. Act 2 will commence from the next chapter, and there will be a time-skip of a few years.

[longing-and-heartache-and-lust]

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.ii

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

Take a look at @gen-syz-art incredible art for this chapter here ✨✨✨ (beware of spoilers)

___________________

Looking for Jaskier takes some time. 

The gardens almost seem even bigger than they were last time, and there are so many different scents that Geralt can’t isolate the one he’s looking for from the rest. 

He could just ask, for in his search he comes across eight different people, and at least one of them should know where Jaskier is, but Geralt makes a point out of finding him on his own. 

It takes him almost an hour to finally come across a willow tree, its long vines falling all the way to the ground like a curtain, and be greeted by Lucio that pokes his nose out of them. 

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sanctuary, into a safe place, completely detached from the outside world. 

The curtain of vines surrounds the tree from all sides, and the sun that breaks through them makes this hidden little world feel even more magical. There’s enough space to fit quite a few people, the willow old and generous, and Geralt thinks that it’s probably the best place to spend long summer days, hiding from the heat and from the outside world in general. 

Jaskier doesn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with writing something in a notebook he’s got open in his lap, but when Asra perks up to greet the witcher, he raises his head. 

“You found my hiding place,” he smiles, bright as the sun. 

He pats the empty space beside him, and Geralt comes closer before he even thinks about it, getting down into the grass and resting his back against the tree trunk, as well. He tries to get a look at what Jaskier is writing but the younger man hides the notebook from him as soon as he notices.

“Searched the entire garden,” Geralt chuckles in response.  

After an entire day spent in bed and a proper night’s sleep, he feels like himself again, the wounds on his thigh now healing much faster and the pain almost gone. He doesn’t limp as he walks any longer.

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate,” Jaskier says, and he’s so torturously-close that Geralt can’t help but lean towards him until their shoulders are pressed together. “If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

He’s got a dark-green chemise on, the sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and every time a ray of the sun catches on it, it shines, and though Geralt himself prefers much more subtle colours and designs, he can’t deny that it looks beautiful. 

 “I can see why,” he nods. “It’s peaceful here.”

Jaskier hums an affirmation, his eyes closed blissfully. Geralt still can’t quite get used to just how relaxed he is in his presence, how there isn’t even a hint of fear that he is so used to feeling on other people. That almost makes him forget about the world outside the mansion and his role in it. 

He thinks, once again, how when he’s with Jaskier, he can be more than just what his mutations make him.

And then, it finally hits him.

It’s not that he wants to return to the mansion.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave. 

***

They spend almost half of the day in Jaskier’s little hiding place.��

Jaskier tells him more about his time in the Academy and, when Geralt asks, tells him that though he’s got an honours diploma for all seven liberal arts, his heart and soul have always belonged to poetry and music. When Geralt considers it, he’s almost surprised by just how easy it is to think of Jaskier as a bard. 

Can a prince also be a bard? An illegitimate one probably can. It’s a perfect disguise.

Bard.

It’s easy to refer to him by that name in Geralt’s mind.  

After Jaskier tells him that, he finally lets the witcher see his notebook, filled with poems, neat lines or runes crossed out and then written again over and over. Geralt doesn’t understand much in poetry but the lines that he reads are filled with such emotions that they pull on the strings deep in his heart.

Once he gets to the unfinished poem that Jaskier was working on when he’d found him, Jaskier snatches the notebook from his hands and refuses to give it back, a beautiful shade of red spilling over his cheeks. 

Geralt can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the soft skin, and before he can pull away, Jaskier intercepts his wrist and tugs him down onto the grass, laughing as Geralt blink in mild confusion, his body suddenly unable to resist, though Jaskier’s strength is nothing compared to his. 

They stay lying side by side in the soft grass for what seems like hours, Jaskier reciting poems and ballads by heart, and Geralt just listening. At some point, he lets himself get convinced - somehow - to also recite something, and he entertains the bard with a highly indecent poem about a farmer’s daughter and a knight that he and his brothers used to giggle over when they were still kids in Kaer Morhen. 

Jaskier plays courtier, gasping at the crudeness, but then breaks into laughter, unable to keep his act up.

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on both elbows to get a proper look at the witcher, and reaches out to brush a stray silver strand away from his face. 

Even if Geralt’s life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to decide whether he likes this quiet comfort or the maddening teasing more. 

And though the knowledge of having to leave in a few days is a constant reminder somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he allows himself - if only for a little while - to put it aside.

***

“Do you want to see the sunset?”

The library is painted gold and scarlet with the light of the setting sun, and the colours play beautifully on the silk of Jaskier’s chemise. 

Geralt doesn’t necessarily want to move, more than comfortable on the soft settee and with Jaskier half-asleep in his arms, but when in the last two months had he been able to say no to this man?

Jaskier’s eyes light up when Geralt hums an affirmation, and the next moment he’s already up on his feet, alerting the dogs napping peacefully on a chair by the window. They jump down onto the rug, ears perked up and tails wagging, feeling Jaskier excitement in his scent the same way that Geralt feels it. 

He lets himself be pulled away from the settee, Jaskier’s warm fingers wrapped around his own, and follows him into the hallway and towards the wide staircase. 

“Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Jaskier urges, adorably impatient. 

Geralt’s healing thigh gives a little stab of protest as they pick up the pace, nearly running up the stairs, but Geralt’s had much worse, so it barely registers with him. 

They make their way up onto the fifth floor and down yet another hallway to the very end of the west wing of the mansion, where Jaskier pushes open the door of a bedroom and they rush inside, towards the balcony doors, the golden light streaming through the glass, nearly blinding. 

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to push down on both door handles, throwing the arches open, and for a second, the view takes Geralt’s breath away. 

This high up, they can watch the golden disk of the setting sun as it slowly makes it's way down, touching the treetops of the pines in the forest. In the distance, Geralt can see the glimmering ribbon of the river, and all around the mansion, there are valleys of flowers in full bloom. The scent is sweet and heady, almost intoxicating, and Geralt takes in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand in his chest. 

He steals a look towards Jaskier, who doesn’t seem to notice it, too mesmerised by the golden light. It reflects in his eyes, making them look bottomless. Had their lives been different, Geralt would’ve let himself drown in that depth. 

“Oh, isn’t this just gorgeous?” Jaskier asks in a breathy whisper, never taking his eyes off the horizon. 

Geralt takes a step closer to him without even fully realising. It’s like in the past two days he’d grown so used to having Jaskier in his arms that he can’t keep a distance between them anymore. His scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin - everything about him is drawing Geralt in, and he’s helpless against it. 

Finally, Jaskier looks away from the setting sun and at Geralt. He keeps their eyes locked for a long moment before his gaze drops to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat before picking up its pace. The fire in his chest flares up, so bright that it’s almost painful. 

Jaskier takes a step towards him, suddenly so close that all Geralt needs to do is dip his head, and he’ll finally learn what his lips taste like. He holds himself back with all the self-control he’s got but it’s running out fast. He knows that this will make everything worse, that it will make leaving more painful for both of them, but he still desperately hopes that Jaskier would close in that remaining distance between them. 

Because then, maybe, it would be easier to justify Geralt’s absolute powerlessness against him. 

Without it fully registering with him, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, the bard’s breath ghosting over his lips. 

The moment seems to last forever, Geralt’s self-control cracking and breaking like porcelain, but just before he can make the mistake that he so longs for, Jaskier presses his fingers to the witcher’s lips, creating a barrier, and leaves a kiss over them, laughing as he breaks away. 

Geralt fails to bite back a low growl, disenchantment curling into a ball in his chest like a small animal, its little claws digging deep into his heart. 

And still, despite himself, he cannot hold all these torturous little games against Jaskier.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, my darling?” Jaskier murmurs, jumping up to sit on the bannister.

Instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter, unwilling to risk his safety. 

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he says flatly, ignoring the question. 

They’re still so unbearably close, and Geralt can’t deny himself the pleasure of bringing his other hand up to rest it on Jaskier’s thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough for it to be justified as him making sure the bard is safe. 

Jaskier doesn’t make any move to get away from the touch, and when Geralt runs his thumb over the inner side of his thigh, his lips part on a soft little gasp. 

It’s impossible not to think about the bed back in the room. About just how easy it would be to lift Jaskier up and carry him to it, lay him down onto the silk and velvet, biting marks into his neck. Impossible not to imagine all the sweet little sounds he would make.

Up on the bannister, Jaskier is higher than him, and when he reaches to tip Geralt’s chin up, there isn’t much he can do but comply. 

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, his ankles locking behind Geralt’s back to keep him close. 

Standing between his spread knees is just more than Geralt can take, and he tightens his grip on the bard’s thigh to keep himself grounded. Knowing that there are going to be bruises left, and Jaskier is going to have his skin painted with them for days, marked and claimed, does absolutely nothing to help the situation. 

“I want you to stop putting yourself in danger,” Geralt growls, low and impatient, almost threatening. 

He’s referring to much more than just sitting on the bannister, a five-floor drop on the other side, and they both know it very well.

Jaskier’s scent spikes up with sweet, heady notes of arousal even as he hisses at the tight grip on his thigh. Geralt bites his tongue painfully not no lean in and nose at Jaskier’s neck, right under the jaw, where that scent is the strongest. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back anymore.    

Jaskier’s eyes light up with a spark of mischief, almost a challenge, and it only takes him one perfectly calculated move to twist out of Geralt’s grip, standing up on the bannister and laughing victoriously. 

Geralt’s heart drops at the sight, and he grabs Jaskier’s hand tightly, ensuring his balance. The bannister isn’t necessarily narrow, Jaskier could probably lie down on it if he wanted to, but he could still slip, and that is not a risk that Geralt is willing to take. 

The fire in his chest gives way to the rush of adrenaline, and he sighs deeply, calming himself down. 

This is going to be the death of him. 

“I’m putting myself in danger,” Jaskier grins, walking the length of the bannister in theatrically slow steps, his hand still in Geralt’s tight grip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Oh, there are so many things Geralt could do about it. 

In his imagination, he presses Jaskier up against the wall of the balcony, bites into his lips, parting them with his tongue. He sucks marks and bruising kisses into his neck, the skin there so flawlessly smooth that the love-bites stand out like blood-red flowers against it. He leads Jaskier back inside, pulls him down onto the bed, undoing the intricate lacing and buttons of his clothes. 

He takes him apart with hands and lips, drinking in every little whimper and moan, until Jaskier is trembling and gasping, and does it all over again. 

But none of that can go further than his imagination. 

So instead, he just yanks Jaskier towards him, catching him before he falls, and grins to himself at the way that he yelps in surprise. A small but pleasant victory.   

“Balcony bannisters are no place for a prince,” Geralt murmurs, and the last word just slips. 

He bites his tongue way too late, never having meant to say it out loud, to admit - so incautiously and foolishly - that that is what he’d somehow grow to think of Jaskier as. If it’s not true, then he’s just childish for believing something he’d heard in a nearby town, and if it is true… then I can turn out to bear far worse consequences, for both of them. An illegitimate prince hidden in a giant mansion in the middle of nowhere is unlikely to afford for his identity to be known. And the King certainly doesn’t. 

For a long moment, Geralt feels like he can barely breathe, waiting for a reaction, but Jaskier just gives him a long, slightly puzzled look that could mean just about anything, and, finally, gives him a charming smile. 

“You’re right,” he says. “It is no place for a prince.”

 ***

The three days after that go by in relative peace. 

They spend most of the time in the gardens or in the library, reading, talking or just being in each other’s presence, even if neither says a word. 

Jaskier decides, at one point, to give the cooks a day off and take over the kitchen, entrusting Geralt with the venison brought in by his hunters earlier in the day, while he’s busy with herbs and vegetables. Geralt doesn’t really protest, used to helping out in the kitchen in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier does look ridiculously good in an apron. He does turn out to be rather bossy in the kitchen but Geralt fails to find it in himself to mind. 

They play with the dogs, both Asra and Lucio now used enough to the witcher to trust him, napping with their heads in his lap whenever Jaskier’s is unavailable. They’re just as unafraid of Geralt as their owner, and for Geralt, who is used to animals hissing and growling at him, it’s almost touching. 

At night, if the sky is clear, Jaskier lures Geralt out into the gardens to lie down in the grass and watch the endless stars shimmer in the sky. He remembers a lot of astronomy from the Academy, and tells Geralt about the constellations high above, as well as making up his own ones based on what he sees in the sky. 

It gets cold at night, and he keeps close to Geralt, safe and warm under their shared cloak. Geralt keeps an arm around him and presses his cold nose to his temple every now and then to make the bard giggle. 

Jaskier almost kisses him more times than Geralt would be able to count, but each time he breaks away, laughing and leaving him with nothing. Geralt knows that he’s just waiting for him to break first, and it takes him everything he’s got not to. 

A couple of times he comes very close to pushing Jaskier up against the nearest wall, for he never stops his torturous teasing, but on some level, he almost enjoys this inability to have him, because though the fire in his chest can grow painfully hot, no-one’s ever made him feel like this. 

It helps, in a way, that Jaskier is always hearing his intricately embroidered shirts with sleeves that cinch in on his wrists and high collars that keep most of his skin hidden, because Geralt isn’t sure that he’d able to think about anything other than the marks that he could leave on that skin had it been any other way. 

And that… well, that ends up playing against him. 

It’s his sixth morning in the mansion - the second to last, he tells himself repeatedly - when he fails to find Jaskier in any of the places that they would usually spend the morning in. 

The first place that Geralt searches through is the downstairs library that seems to be Jaskier's favourite room of the mansion. There are books that they’ve left behind the night before, pieces of parchment all over the table, and Jaskier’s cloak but no sign of the bard himself.

When Geralt doesn't find him there, and then in the gardens, and then in the smaller library upstairs, there is no other place that he can think of other than Jaskier's bedroom. It's still relatively early in the morning, and maybe he's too unwilling to get out of bed just yet, warmed by both Asra and Lucio. 

Reluctantly, Geralt makes his way up to the last floor and to the door of Jaskier's bedroom. He'd never been inside, and for some reason, it feels unnerving. All the time that he’d spent in the mansion, he’d only been on the fifth floor twice: first when Jaskier was giving him a general tour, and then when they rushed to the balcony to watch the sunset. 

Jaskier’s rooms have remained something almost forbidden, a place where Jaskier would disappear to at night and then leave in the morning. Something private, sealed off to all guests.

After standing outside the door for a few long moments, Geralt knocks, expecting to hear the now-familiar tap-tap-tap of the dogs' claws along the floor because they're always the first ones to check, but gets no answer. 

Feeling like he shouldn't be doing this, he tests the door handle, and it turns with no resistance. 

The bedroom is just as big as he'd imagined, with a canopy bed lined with wine-red velvet and arch windows that let through the soft morning light. There are large paintings in golden frames hung on the walls, stacks of parchment and books on the table by one of the windows, a chandelier for what must be a hundred candles on the high ceiling. 

It’s a gorgeous room. 

But right now, Geralt can't quite concentrate on any of that, because all he can look at is the open door to the bathroom in the far end of the room. He can hear water splashing softly and then Jaskier's footsteps that he'd grown to recognise among all others. 

His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he can't bring himself to say something, nor can he turn around and leave, giving the younger man his privacy. Instead, he just stands and watches, waiting for... he doesn't even know what, exactly. 

Jaskier stays out of his field of vision for some time, murmuring some song under his breath, and when Geralt does finally see him, he's got his back to him, a silk dressing gown flowing down his body in waves. 

For reasons that Geralt can only assume to be cruel fate, Jaskier keeps his robe off his shoulders, just a little above the line of his elbows, like a voluminous shawl. It covers his arms below the elbows, his lower back and his legs, providing some modesty, but after only seeing Jaskier in his silk shirts, barely any open skin, Geralt feels like all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The half-discarded dressing gown provides Geralt with a perfect view of Jaskier's neck and shoulders, drops of water still shining on his beautiful pale skin, of the curve of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades that Geralt wishes he could follow with his lips and fingertips. 

He can see the soft outlines of muscles, the little birthmark just above Jaskier’s right shoulder blade, just a few tones darker than his overall pale skin, the thin white scar on the curve of his left shoulder.

And there's something else, too. Something Geralt didn't expect but that looks so elegant on Jaskier's body that it causes little to no resonance in the witcher. 

Right between Jaskier's shoulder blades, perfectly centred, his skin is adorned with a delicate, geometric design. It looks like white ink, just brighter, standing out against the skin, almost glowing in the low candlelight of the bathroom, and though Geralt's never seen anything like that before, it looks beautiful. 

He'd only seen tattoos on Skellige and in Novigrad, but this one is so starkly different from all of those, so delicate and precise, that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to this realm. Unusual that a member of the royal family - legitimate or not - would have something like this but perhaps this is exactly what marks him as one? Hidden under all that silk, Geralt never would’ve known he had it if he hadn't seen it now. So how can he assume that other members of the ruling family don’t have one?

It’s way too late when it registers with him that he’d crossed the room already and is now only a few steps shy of the open bathroom door, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier. 

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely aware of his presence. 

“Did you want something?” he murmurs, completely unfazed as he brushes past Geralt and into the bedroom. 

His hair is still wet from his bath, falling into his face in loose locks, the smell of pomegranate sweet and heady in the air, almost making Geralt’s head spin. 

Jaskier’s collarbones are a sharp outline, the delicate skin stretched tight over them, and though Geralt’s always had a thing for it, he can feel a sharp spasm of pure lust somewhere deep in his abdomen from just how bad he wants to bite into them. 

Without fully thinking his actions through, he catches Jaskier’s wrist and turns him around, so they’re face to face again. Jaskier gasps but doesn’t resist, his cornflower-blue eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, like he’s completely unbothered by the state he’s in, by Geralt seeing him like this. 

“I was wondering if you were going to let yourself in if I leave the door unlocked,” he murmurs, taking another step towards the witcher, until there is no more space left between them. “If you came looking for me while I was still in the bath, what would you have done?”

He shifts, pressing his hips to Geralt’s thigh, and it resonates through the witcher’s entire body like lightning when he realises that under the thin silk of the dressing gown, Jaskier is completely naked. 

“Would you have helped me with my hair?” the bard goes on, that same intoxicatingly sweet murmur. “Or would you have simply fucked me right there and then?”

And at that, Geralt snaps. 

He grabs Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him from the floor, and sits him down impatiently onto a chest of drawers just behind his back, not even trying to bite back a growl when the bard wraps his legs around his hips, knees spread wide apart. 

His dressing gown has more than enough fabric to keep him covered even like this, but Geralt’s head reels from knowing that it would only take one brush of his fingers to get it out of the way, letting the heavy silk slip down Jaskier’s thigh. 

“You’re killing me,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, leaning down to Jaskier’s ear, and he shudders in response. 

Jaskier keeps his balance with one hand flat on the polished wood of the chest of drawers, but the other one is in Geralt’s hair almost immediately. He leans in unbearably close, his lips brushing over Geralt’s in a feather-light touch as he lets out a shaky breath. 

“Then make me pay for it.”

At that moment, there is nothing that Geralt wants more than to kiss him, Jaskier’s lips parted and bite-swollen and right there. 

But he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

And so instead of Jaskier’s lips, Geralt bites into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the tender skin right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and sucks a bruising, blood-red mark into it, making Jaskier arch his back and gasp the witcher’s name. 

Geralt pulls back, for just a second, his gaze fixed on the fresh love-bite, standing out sharply against Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin, untouched by anything or anyone else. He looks owned, claimed, taken. 

But it’s not nearly enough. 

Geralt bites another bruising kiss right next to the first one, pressing his tongue to the fresh mark to both soothe the pain and make Jaskier even more sensitive. And then another one. And then another one.

He loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s skin, the sound of his voice, his gasps breaking off into soft whimpers when Geralt bites just a little too hard. In the scent of dried herbs and vanilla and pomegranate, only made sweeter by the intoxicating sweetness of lust. 

Geralt leaves a scattered pattern of love-bites all the way down Jaskier’s neck, sucks three marks onto his collarbones, growling with pleasure, and he’s more than sure that there are going to be fresh bruises on the bard’s thighs from just how tight he’s still holding him.

Jaskier keeps him close with his ankles clasped behind Geralt’s back, his breathing deep and fast like he can’t get enough air. He looks unbearably gorgeous like this. 

Geralt’s mind is hazy with lust and pleasure, his cock hard and throbbing under the now painfully-tight leather of his trousers, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is in the same state. His scent tells him everything he needs to know. 

And it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just carry Jaskier over to the bed, undo the belt holding his dressing gown closed, and fuck him, tearing more of those beautiful whimpers from his chest. 

But that would be a far greater mistake than the one that Geralt has already made. 

He takes in as deep of a breath as his lungs allow him, and takes a step back, pressing one last desperate kiss to Jaskier’s neck, now covered in his marks. 

Geralt doesn’t have anything to say for himself, but he doesn’t have to, for after just a few seconds of catching his breath, Jaskier grins at him victoriously, like it’s all a part of his little game and he’s not affected by it in the slightest. 

“I’ll take that as the answer to the question of whether or not you would’ve fucked me if you’d gotten here a little sooner,” he murmurs. 

Geralt doesn’t try to stop him when Jaskier jumps down from the dresser, adjusting the folds of his dressing gown. It’s more than hard to keep a hold on his self-control, and he fears that any touch could send it all to hell. 

His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, and he’s still painfully hard, but it brings him a sense of possessive satisfaction to see Jaskier’s neck and collarbones marked with his teeth. Those love-bites won’t fully fade for more than a week. 

“Now, if you don’t have the intention of undressing me, I need to change,” Jaskier says, walking over to the wardrobes in the opposite corner.

Geralt watches his every move, still standing by the chest of drawers, not willing to risk it and close in the distance between them again. He wants to ask about the symbol on Jaskier’s back but it seems unfitting to bring that up now. 

Jaskier picks out his clothes and takes them out of the wardrobe, already reaching for the belt on his dressing gown when he seems to notice Geralt’s gaze.

“I’m not giving you easy ways out, Witcher,” he grins, even as the belt starts to slowly give way. “Turn around.”

He clicks his tongue, and from somewhere under the furs and pillows on the bed, emerges Lucio that Geralt had not noticed before. Jaskier whistles to him and, when the dog jumps down from the bed to sit next to him, indicates at Geralt with a move of his head.

“Ambush, Lucio,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Geralt. “He’s a purebred hunting dog, Witcher. If you move as much as a fraction, he will let me know. Now turn around.”

For a lack of a better option, Geralt does. 

He can hear the dressing gown fall to the floor in a soft whisper of silk, and knowing that Jaskier is right behind his back, completely naked and covered in his marks is making it hard to breathe. But Geralt can feel Lucio’s razor-sharp attention on him, and he knows that if he tries to get even the smallest look, Jaskier will immediately know about it, and the entire little game is going to be ruined. 

No, he stays with his back to Jaskier the entire time he’s changing, forced to listen to his own quickened heartbeat, and it seems like an eternity has passed until Jaskier revokes his command and Lucio loses all interest in the witcher. 

When Geralt finally turns around, he finds Jaskier wearing a black chemise with blood-red rose petals embroidered into the sleeves, the colour matching the love-bites on his neck almost perfectly. 

Geralt hasn’t told him yet that he’s leaving tomorrow.

But gods, he’s going to miss him.

[blueskiesandstarrynights]

Death

Here is a bit/poem/I don’t know how to describe this I wrote describing all the Hatchetfield deaths in a vague pov way.

Word Count: 1222

Death. 

Something that every Hatchetfield citizen had to relive over and over due to an unending time loop they were all but oblivious to.

Here are the records of just a few of those deaths.

~~~

Squish goes her guts as they get clawed out slowly and painfully by what used to be her husband.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, silencing her final thoughts of regret, aiding in the mad woman’s cult. 

~~~

Bang goes the gun that he doesn’t see, oblivious to the danger before it’s too late, inflicted by something wearing his daughter's skin.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, silencing his final thoughts as he wishes his daughter were with him in his final moments. 

Boom goes the gun once again held by his daughter that gives him a brush with death, this time with her bearing purple eyes instead of blue.

~~~

Crash goes the doors to the choir room as her girlfriend (was that even her girlfriend anymore?) burst through and pinned her to the wall, with barely any thoughts before she faded and let the music take over.

Smash goes the mallet swung by her father, this close to hitting the target and destroying her legs, staring into his now harsh purple eyes.

~~~

Rip goes his tummy as it’s torn open by his beloved Workin’ Boys, never imagining the apotheosis would cause him so much pain.

Tear goes his arms as he never thought of tear as a sound word before now, but can’t think of a better word to describe what’s happening to him as his arms scream in pain first from the razor sharp claws digging into his skin, then being ripped straight from their sockets.

~~~

Bang goes the gun fired by the unassuming nurse aimed at the Mother, briefly hearing the words You failed friendly-wend echoing in her head before finding herself being cradled by those who worshiped her, adored till the very end. 

~~~

Pop goes the gun, shot by someone whom he was just singing the praises of, just before blue slime is forced down his throat and he blacks out.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, as he clings to his little brother in fear. 

Bang goes the bullet soaring from the gun not meant for him, but taking it anyways, realizing as he lay in her arms that this was probably the first selfless act he’s made since 2004. 

Stab goes the blade, sinking into his skin, as his best friend simply watches as his imposter wife kills a man who did nothing more than speak out. 

~~~

Never goes the note bursting from his mouth against his will, slowly killing him spore by spore.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, as he clings to the woman he loves, upset that this was the end, as he had finally started living for the first time, with the women of his dreams by his side. 

Stab goes the blade, sinking into his skin, painfully watching as this double of his steals his phone and ID, and carefully covers up a bold black 23 on his left wrist with his cuff, before stabbing him one more time for good measure.

~~~

Raw was all she could use to describe her throat as she screamed and pleaded with the Watchers to help her as the Hive closed in on her, with him leading, ready to deliver the final blow.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, as she stands between the man she loves and the brother in law she had just wanted to start to get to know. As the bomb closed in, she cursed it for dropping just when things were taking an upturn in life.

Stab goes the blade, sinking into her skin, painfully watching as her double simply stared, as her husband stabbed her, over and over again, leaving her one last observation before she died, a bold black 23 on his left wrist.

~~~

Beat go the fists and the feet as they continue to pummel and crash into him, in a seemingly endless beating that only seems to stop too late. There’s not a single place on his body that isn’t screaming in agony, and he can barely get out, “I’ll get ya’ to California Lex. Then ya don’t gotta cry so much no more.” before he took his last shuddery breath. 

Screech goes the 1986 Foxbody Mustang that stops abruptly mere inches from him, as his life quickly flashed before his eyes, leaving both him and his girlfriend in the driver's seat in twin states of shock. 

~~~

Gasp goes her desperate lungs, searching for any bit of air they can in order to stay alive, so desperate, in fact, she almost didn’t notice the military soldier calling out to her and announcing that she’s not dead yet.

Whoosh goes the bomb that soars overhead and lands in the tiny town, as she desperately holds onto her sister with silent tears streaming down her face, knowing what’s coming.

~~~

Hot is all she feels as the small dot accidentally aimed at her chest expands, and she burns up, and she burns up quickly, and all she can do in her final moments is cling to a panicked, babbling, older version of her crush, and hope death comes quickly. 

~~~

Shink goes the black blade sinking into her skin for the first, no the second, tenth, fiftieth, hundredth, thOSANDTH, MILLIONTH time staring up at the man with the greased hair and denim attire, who celebrates her death by adding to his denim wardrobe.

~~~

Bam goes the gun shooting straight through his chest, catching him off guard just once, leaving a flurry of thoughts and hopes shoot around in his head, hoping his husband would get out of this okay, hoping that the man whom he authorized to use his firearm could stop the Hive.

Fade is the only word he could use to describe this feeling, as he descended further into the Black and White, knowing there was no going back, knowing he would deteriorate and be absorbed here forever, knowing he was leaving everything behind. 

~~~

Snap goes the bear trap catching on her ankle, forcing her to the ground, tears streaking down her mud-splattered face and staring down the barrel of a gun held by a crazed naked man, wondering if she should have given up on this fools hope years ago. 

 ~~~

Flash, bang goes the car, hurtling through the intersection, going too fast to stop before it hits the other car, sending the occupants flying in the air. 

Snap goes the young boy’s ankle, as he lands at just the wrong angle.

Slam goes the father straight into the air bag, landing with nothing more than a nose bleed and a mild concussion. 

Crack goes the neck of the wife, the mother, the sister, who misses the air bag completely and flies straight through the window, and takes her final breath immediately upon hitting contact with the concrete. 

~~~

Slash goes the box cutter tearing across his throat, staring up at the cold unforgiving eyes of the crazy woman who had started leading a cult to worship a doll of all things.