#i CANNOT stop listening to old souls and life at last PLEASE i love both these songs so so so much | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oonajaeadira · 4 years ago

Text

If You Will Let My Heaven Touch Your Stars (Ezra x f!reader)

Rating: Mature.

Pairing: Ezra (Prospect film) x f!reader

Warnings: FLUFFY SMUT. INSPIRED BY THIS. Non-explicit oral (m and f receiving). Formatting may be strange in certain Tumblr themes due to paragraph spacing with the poetry.

A/N: Okay, y’all. I was looking for another reason to write some Ezra. I got inspired by this naughty confessional post and felt the need to rise to the challenge, but make it a bit soft. You know I’m allergic to writing physical doings without some emotional yearnings. So it has come to this. And I’m not sorry.

Summary: Ezra runs his mouth over some poetry. You run your mouth over some Ezra.

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

MASTERLIST

_______________________________

You know that sigh. It will be shortly followed by a gravelly, dissatisfied “hm.”

“Hm.”

Next will come the impatient flipping of pages as Ezra learns that the book he’s chosen from the stack he got in trade on the Pug is…”less than literary and more than malignant.”

“What’cha reading, Ez.” The main node on the electropulse generator blew during the last harvest and you’ve been doing your best to repair it for the better part of the scaling period. Better to keep eyes on the electrics than let them wander over to his bedroll where he’s stripped to his skivvies, propped up against a crate, reading.

The rotation of Ranakh-4 is almost sixty hours, and in the north hemisphere there’s always light. Should be perfect for prospectors to take shifts and get things done, but instead, it creates a scaling period--a good fifteen-hour window of intense heat and sunlight that’s too dangerous to be exposed to for long, causing lots of nasty side effects. Including skin scaling. Hence the name. So during that period you and Ezra hide in the cooled tent, sleeping, polishing gems, maintaining equipment, wasting time, and generally trying not to annoy each other too much.

That’s a joke between you. In the years you’ve known him, Ez has yet to get under your skin. Ezra’s usually up for a game of dice or five-stand during scaling period, and if you’ve got gear to clean or inventory to count, he’s good for a story. Or ten.

But after the third rotation he stopped playing games of chance with you and his stories got gradually less... crusty. He still had a lot to say, but he stuck mostly to mining anecdotes, weaving around salacious details and editing himself in the moment.

And you’re pretty sure you know why.

This isn’t the first posting you’ve had with Ezra.

There was the assignment on Phintreas. The job on TG-19. The second assignment on Phintreas--that one it was just the two of you. Just like this one.

There was a moment near the end of that run when you took a break from digging to stretch, arching your back in the dappled sunlight and pulling your arms up and back toward the thick foliage tops. There were singing insectoid creatures on Phintreas and you’d dropped your wrists to your head to listen to their song a little, closing your eyes and hearing in their hum the chords of a song you used to love.

It was just a few seconds, the warm air on your bare shoulders, the long thin trees--actually large grass--rising and swaying above. A pleasant stretch in your lower back. But there was something off. Your ears were full of insect song but there was something missing.

The sound of Ezra’s digging had stopped.

You turned to find him taking a break, leaning on his shovel, jumpsuit open and pulled down to a knot at his waist like yours. Dirt-streaked arms and undershirt, looking at you, staring with sad eyes, the long slopes of his mustache running into his patchy beard making him look like he was pouting more than he was. Probably. Totally lost in thought, his eyes slid down your torso. When he woke to the fact that you caught him using you as a backdrop for reverie, he didn’t even have the balls to be embarrassed. Just realigned his focus on his shovel and went back to digging, the veins straining out on his big hands.

“You okay, Ez?”

“As well as one can be, sweetheart. I feel we’re close. It is a fine day full of wonderments.”

You’d thought about that look in the days afterward. Didn’t really know what it meant for you. Until the final sleep cycle on that grass planet, the wind traveling through the fields making the grasses sing hollow and low in the night.

“What’cha reading, Ez?” You’d come to learn that it was a magic question, one that not only got you an explanation, but perhaps a chapter or two in his baritone twang.

And that night, as you packed your final bag, he swung the spine around to read out, “Papas Cordel, Love Verses.”

He didn’t ask you if you wanted to hear any. He just started to read.

Softly. Slowly. The words were innocuous on their own but their combination was sinful, his voice melting at the back of your brain, lifting the fine hairs of your neck, slithering down your spine before making an orbit to press upon your core and vibrate there.

He never said goodnight. Just read you a few poems full of worship and yearning in that sonorous voice of his, then rolled over and went to sleep. It left you in a panic, trying to control your breathing, in full understanding of what that look from a few days ago had really meant.

And for the duration of your next couple of jobs you spent some time in regret, wishing you’d decoded your feelings sooner or that he’d made his own clearer. You’d vowed that if you ever had the chance to go back and live that night again you wouldn’t hesitate to….what? To do what? You never got that far. Didn’t matter. Time doesn’t go backwards. After a while, it was easy enough to convince yourself that you’d just read too much into it, that you didn’t really feel anything and neither did Ez. He had just been tired and staring into space that day. And he’d just been aesthetically moved by the song of the grasses in the night wind. It was a trick of the light, and the more you rationalized it, the further the memory slipped into the realm of silly fantasy.

So when this assignment came, you’d had time enough to leave the fantasy behind and met Ezra as you always had--as a friend and a damn talented prospector you were happy to dig with. The man always got his haul and getting paired with him always meant profit.

It only took one scaling period to make you realize you were lying to yourself.

Scaling period means getting somewhere shaded and cooled and making yourself as comfortable as possible. Which means stripping down to essentials. All those dice games trying not to look at Ezra’s broad, bared chest, looking up from a hand of cards to find his eyes quickly darting away from you…. By the third rotation you’d noticed that neither of you could make eye contact with the other anymore and after that, Ezra generally spent his downtime during scaling periods laying on his bedroll in his skivvs, reading one of the dozen books he’d scavenged back on the station.

You weren’t sure if you were flattered or embarrassed or even injured that he wouldn’t move on whatever he was tense about. But, ultimately, this arrangement was easier.

Or so you lied to yourself.

A “what’cha reading, Ez” got you a few chapters of an old time-travel adventure or a philosophical treatise on the life of some forgotten pioneer while you mended a garment or recounted the supply of viable drill bits or tried to fix the damn faulty electropulse generator for the millionth time. Something rollicking and full of resonance to keep your ears busy and your mind distracted while you focused your eyes on anything but Ezra’s bronze skin and sable eyes and full lips and big hands and thick thighs and--

This time he clicks his tongue and runs a hand through his hair, humming a high note in a kind of frustrated laugh. “I won’t devastate your ears on this one, sweetheart. Not much of interest here but some poor soul ruttin’ and scraping for talent that eludes them. How this found its way into a thing to be bought and sold I will never understand.”

And yet, he keeps reading. Silently.

After a few minutes and another wire successfully cleaned and reconnected, you repeat yourself, taunting him.

“What’cha reading, Ez.”

“Mm.” He just flips through a few more pages, refusing to answer.

“Hey.” You chuckle into your work. “What’cha reading.”

You hear a huge intake of breath before a hold and a forced release.

“Wow,” you laugh. “Fine. Don’t waste breath on it. Just tell me which one it is so I can avoid it later.”

“Love and other Stars by Aeon Aido Raja.”

“I see. What’s it about?”

“Sadly, it is about a poet who cannot seem to make the match between words and sentiment; a volume of supposed amorous verse.”

“Amorous verse,” your hands stop working on their own. “Love...poetry?” There’s a sudden flashback to the sound of hollow reeds and soothing verses in the night. The words are a program in your brain, overwriting your inhibition and professionalism, pushing you to a deeply-coded goal to calm the flutter in your chest.

“So it claims. Although I fear it lacks full understanding of both--” His voice cuts out as he realizes you’ve stood and you’re moving toward him and his wide eyes lock to yours as you sit beside him on the bedroll. “Now what has gotten into you, sweetheart?”

You know exactly what’s gotten into you. The triggered wish of returning to that night, the built-up tension of dancing around each other in your underwear, trying to deny what’s going on, watching him purposefully respect you when you know he feels something, when he knows you do too--

What was it you were going to do if you had a chance to go back to that last night on the grass planet? Time to find out.

“Read to me.”

Ezra hesitates, unsure. “This?”

“Read it.”

His eyes flick down to follow the quick fold of your lips as you wet them with your tongue, unconsciously mimicking you, before fumbling his gaze back to the book and, with a regretful sigh, begins.

“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--

“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

When he looks for your reaction, you’re not sure if he’s pleading with you for permission to stop or continue.

Shit. He’s right. It isn’t great. But you’re here now, you’re going to make the most of it.

“That’s not...so bad.” And then you find out what you would have done that night--or at least how you’d start--by showing him your raised palm, lowering it slowly toward him. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” Your hand travels down through the air, just to the inch above his skivvs, waiting a moment in the aura of radiated heat there, before settling lightly over him. He never says no, never takes his eyes from yours, the only reaction coming from a small lift in his chest, the corner of his mouth curling just a fraction, and the fabric beneath your hand quickly becoming the only thing there to qualify as soft.

“Sweetheart, what you’re beginning here--”

“The only words I want from you are that poem. I want to hear you read. You stop, I stop.”

The heat hangs heavy between you, burns beneath your hand. And with a huffed exhale, Ezra starts again.

“I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--

“Walking through the light of a moon in decline-- Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

Supporting him from underneath, you’ve begun running your thumb up and down him, and his breath hitches, bringing him to a stop. So you stop.

“You stop, I stop, Ez.”

“Believe me, gentle one, I do not wish the impediment of your affections--”

“Then don’t stop.”

In a beautiful panic, Ezra looks back to the poem. “You sure you want this one?”

You nod. “I don’t care how good it is. That’s the poem I want. Keep going. I've always liked your voice. I know you can make it pretty.”

He stares at the page a moment, and you push him--literally--gasping into a start.

“If ever I could tell you When my heaven touched your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”

You stop palming him when he stops to breathe, and it’s only when you trace his waistband with your fingertips that he swallows and continues, willing you to keep going--

“Waking in the night to the aching void of your embrace-- Can you forgive me if I plead your name? If I summon you to my body from wherever you are?”

Whether it’s the want in his voice or just getting further into the words, the poem is already getting better. His eyebrows begin to push together and arch, as you stretch the top of his underwear down, wrapping your hand around him. His words start riding the occasional groan which just resonate with you more and you rock yourself against the bedroll in time with your gentle, yearning pulls--

“You hold me adroitly With accurate proximity To keep your breath and my breath Two founts and one pool. To swim a in star-reflective stream of our holy recreation--”

He’s doing so well, the words wandering out deep and breathy, so beautifully controlled...until you lower your mouth to him.

Then there’s a strangled staccato grunt as he adjusts, takes a couple of quick breaths and continues--

“But your body is a.....wildfire Your lips a destruction And I give my everything over to your….cleansing devastation.”

Oh, his struggle is glorious. You can feel him trying not to buck, needing to blow out a breath between pursed lips here and there to concentrate on the print. He reads with intent, leaning into context and feeling, making a gift to you of every word.

“I have yearned for you to find me worthy of a spark An ignition... The rebirth of your combustible attentions.”

He pauses again to breathe, and while you allow him a small reprieve, he’s stopped a little too long and you abruptly halt. When you pull back to look up in reprimand, he gives you a soft smile through his panting, shaking his head in wonder. You know he’ll have plenty of praises when this is over, but he doesn’t seem to want to break the spell to say them now. When you return his little smile, he looks back to the page and continues, prompting you to return to your own administrations.

“How you draw from me each sweet effusion-- Every secret vein untapped-- Now yours in expert execution, Now open to your burning maw.”

He pushes through the poetry rather than into you, allowing you to hear him and match him. Your body begins to counter-react as you feel him brimming, turning on more need in you than you’ve felt in a while, and you show him just how well he’s doing by doing well by him.

There’s a shift in his voice as more breath enters in and nonverbal noises begin to punctuate the words; a shift in his body as his fingers tangle in your hair and grip tightly, suggesting a final rhythm--

“But within the fire An aperture of...divine precipitation Where those of us who live untouched Can go to drown To die To howl…..! To see the blessed face of eternity Or the….busting open….of a thousand….wretched….stars-- You-call-me-to-sinful-prayer You-invoke-my-abject-soul I find myself in debt…!...and thrall…!... to your superior…!...divinity--”

When he stops reading this round, you show mercy as he pounds his fist into the bedroll and makes his own additions to the poem, exclamations made up of your name and curses and calls to higher powers. You can only expect a man to expel from himself wondrously one method at a time, and Ezra’s earned his reward so beautifully.

Damn his opinion. The poem was perfect. You chose correctly. Either that, or Ez’s tongue really can spin any old refuse into gold.

But the book is still held high, and as you lift from him and guide him through his aftershocks with your hand, he breathes heavy though the final verse--

“This is how I love you from afar With agony and forlorn words While you hover forever in my purview A shaft of dazzling incandescence Shining down from your sun/star Through the glass of my desire Starts and restarts an everlasting blaze”

Then, setting the book reverently on the bedroll, he takes your face in his hands, dragging his thumbs across your lips, no longer needing the page for the last lines.

“If ever I could tell you And if you will let my heaven touch your stars If ever I could tell you Beloved--”

Ezra’s kiss is achingly grateful. He tries to put into one kiss the loving equivalent of everything you’ve just done for him.

When he pulls back, he gives you the tiniest rough shake, a punctuation of his playful consternation. “Mmm,” he grunts. “While I am glad to know you find my recitals pleasing, you’re about to find out that my talent for oral ministrations do not stop at mere recitation.” With a miner’s strong arms he flips you over him onto the bedroll, making short work of your underwear and pinning your legs around his shoulders in a matter of seconds. “Now, I will not be so cruel as to make you put words to my reciprocation, unless you’d like to fill the silence to direct me to your will. Or say what you please. I will not be able to add to the conversation as I will be otherwise occupied.”

You don’t know if it’s years of running his mouth or wagging his tongue or yapping his jaw, but he’s well practiced in using allllll the muscles therein to help finish what poetry couldn’t quite accomplish.

At one point you think of surprising him and trying your own hand at reading while being entertained. But when you fumble for the book, it opens to the same poem.

But not the same poem.

The opening lines are there: “I have never told you When your lips found my own I have never told you My dearest--Walking through the light of a moon in decline--Can you blame me if I steal your kiss? If I call you to my side before it collides with the ground?”

And that’s it.

That’s where it ends. The whole published poem--a mere seven lines.

Oh, Kevva. That’s...that means….

Damn, Ezra. The mouth on you.

The book drops to the bedroll.

And you break into pieces as his heaven masterfully consumes your stars.

________________

TAGLIST: you can always request to be on the taglist for this or any of my work. If you’d like to be on taglists for upcoming fic, please sign up here –> TAGLIST

Taglist: @melobee @extraterrestrialdork @14mcmd1122 @grogusmum @cannedsoupsucks

#soft ezra #soft!ezra #ezra prospect #ezra prospect x reader #ezra prospect x you #fluffy smut #pedro pascal #ezra prospect smut

526 notes · View notes

douxie-casperan · 3 years ago

Text

Rise of the Titans and the assassination Hisirdoux Casperan’s character development

I’ve been ranting so much since Wednesday morning that I finally condensed by thoughts of WHY this one subject keeps setting me off namely the utterly diabolical way they handled Douxie and Archie’s relationship in Rise of the Titans and how it wasn’t just enough to hit him with the nerf bat.

Please note I’m at the point where I literally cannot tell the difference between Aaron headcanons, Teny headcanons and my own they are all mixed together in the blender that does funky things. I also apologise for typo/weird wording it’s half 1 in the morning and I’d rather sleep than edit.

If asked to sum up Hisirdoux Casperan there are certainly several things that come to mind:

Sees the value in people as a whole and will find do anything if there is a chance of help someone out

Prefers tactics that disable/banish rather than kill an enemy yet willing and able to pull the trigger if circumstances become forced

While not academically inclined he is very capable of thinking on his feet and outside the box calling back to his time on the streets where a split-second decision making is the difference between being caught and not

Terrible at planning he’ll be in there figuring it out as he goes along which is what makes the previous point so vital to literally how he goes through life

A natural charmer that would let him talk his way out of trouble 9/10 providing a perfect cover for his distrustful nature and reluctance to be touched by random people

Very down to earth, humble and never one to brag unless outright sassing someone

Will bang out some hot tunes at the drop of a hat, his love of music has never wavered once since he caught the bug despite instrument hopping ironically becoming a jack of all trades much like his magic style

The earliest memories he can recall are him as a young boy lost in the woods where he was for an unknown amount of time before his soon to be familiar finds him amongst the roots covered in dirt and drying tears, there is nothing before that. Unbeknownst to him is the colour of his magic matches the blue of a lost mother’s eyes and the song that haunts his nightmares as much as fire could well be hers though there is no way to be sure. From that moment on Archibald, shortened to Archie, would become his entire world and their friendship only becoming closer during the years they prowled Camelot together trying to keep themselves in one piece until the fateful day Douxie tricks the wrong person leading him straight into the path of the famous wizard Merlin Ambrosius.

It's no real secret that Merlin is a very closed off person who keeps his emotions as well guarded as his secrets, prefers the style of negative reinforcement over positive encouragement and is a very strict perfectionist in his. At this point in his life he can be very easily described as a disaster that is genuinely doing his best with every little mistake held of his head and his future self when brought back to that time period is belittled by Lancelot (Errand boy) and Arthur (Boy) too meaning it’s hardly a wonder his confidence was very fragile revelling in the times where he could do things without being told off for it. With Morgana largely ignoring him too (Though personally I like to think as he got older she’d occasionally take an interest until the blistering arguments with their master started to talk over daily life) a certain disguised dragon would have remained a lifeline and give that physical affection he craved much like being told he’d done well never seemed able to earn.

With Killahead he’d lose that home and family he made leaving just the two of them behind struggling to figure out their place in the world that had abandoned them.

There wouldn’t have been the words for it back then but the way he had been treated prior was outright abusive instilling very bad habits into Douxie yet by irony he was always willing to give people the benefit of the doubt and help those in trouble without thinking earning a reputation as the Shepard of Fire. He refused to become like him seeking to be better, perhaps not as a wizard (Even though he was learning new charms and spells along the way) but certainly as a person. Despite everything he suffers through or witnesses in the intervening years, the loss of friends and kindling of far newer ones he never loses his good heart

That said is it any wonder that after rightfully sassing Merlin for resurfacing, ignoring his existence despite being in the same town and only visiting him to run a finding errand that all the confidence he’d managed to build completely from scratch after Camelot wavered causing him to fall back solely into trying impressing his old Master who was acting like his humble apprentice must have coasted the past few centuries who himself fell back into old habits of belittling? It’s only when Merlin started to truly listen and acknowledge that this was not the same Moppet he once knew after Excalibur was fixed that their relationship finally started to become more like equals. After the defeat of Janus the changeling that broke into the castle he touched Douxie’s shoulder with a genuine smile and for a second he simply didn’t know what to do because the old man never did this before his brain kicked into gear and realised he’d finally earned that one thing he’d been so desperate for his entire life: That in Merlin’s eyes he could be more than a failure who only caused problems for the closest thing to a father figure he’d ever had, never solved them.

A staff will be earned, history would be set back on trap by banishing Morgana tag teaming with Archie because they know one another inside and out, as promised he’d get the kids back to the present but soon after things would go badly wrong. They’d lose Jim and because of his very nature he’d make a gamble to try and get him back because that life is worth trying for just for in a moment of surprising selflessness Merlin would be sacrificed to save him. The only constant in his life apart from Archie would apologise, openly express pride and how the greatest thing he’d ever done was saving this orphan, call him son for the first and final time before turning into ash in his arms. There would be no time to grieve for things will barrel into the crescendo of Douxie sacrificing his own life to buy everyone time to escape because if they did that everything he’d ever done would be worth it with one last whispered goodbye.

(Zoe sees him fall, so does Archie – His heart would break if he was conscious just like theirs does when his body crumples into the ground)

On the very fringes of the Light Realm he is gifted one more conversation with Merlin in a truly heart-breaking sequence (THANKS TENY) where they can just talk without any fear of consequence or politics and just be completely honest. Douxie is allowed to stand equal to Merlin, to have the hug he’d needed since he was a child and be allowed to simply let go of every pretense and cry his heart out because this can never happen again. He’s allowed to say goodbye to both his master and Morgana who had both shaped so very much of his life but like the painting he’d always remained firmly in the long shadows of until that moment.

When Hisirdoux Casperan finally leaves Wizards if we just accidently deliberately put the shawarma back in along with checking in with Zoe before departure, it is with having learned to live during his wandering years but this is the point of true freedom because he can finally escape into his own light with Archie by his side to keep Nari out of the hands of those that would see the world harmed. It won’t be easy but it feels possible somehow even with the knowledge everything is simply running on borrowed time.

Then Rise of the Titans happens.

At first everything is genuinely fine! No more running, they engineer a solution shut the Order’s magic down to make them a lot less dangerous and potentially at least incapacitate them until they can come up with a longer-term solution but all the best laid plans and all that. Douxie’s quick thinking stops the train from crushing any of the people below and it’s a very him style move to switch places with Nari to stall for time because for some reason the plot disabled Claire from portaling her or any of the threatened people/heroes to safety. He openly sasses the Order despite knowing the consequences will be bad for him because once again he’s managed to trick them, buy time that at the other end isn’t even slightly utilised until he’s forced back into his own body in excruciating pain. Archie immediately mobs him with comfort just as he has done every single time the wizard is distressed or collapsed with exhaustion without thinking because that is what their bond is like, incredibly close and far more than the Soul Bond mark that connects them together. They’re very alike in that regard, you have to earn the right to touch while equally knowing exactly what form the other needs the most in that precise moment in a way very few others could.

Bar the moment of figuring out that an illusion is in place to hide where the Order is opening the Genesis Seals and the brief insistence on reconnecting with Nari somehow Douxie manages to forget everything that makes him who he is after this point choosing to stand in the background being very no thoughts head empty or can only use the most basic spells of his youthful days not the seasoned master wizard he should be. Nomura is treated like an innocent slip rather than an outright death he did absolutely nothing to prevent (Not to mention the stupid daytime thing) nor seems to care particularly about afterwards yet with Nari’s he’s allowed to openly grieve in a gorgeously animated visual showing how he’d failed to keep her safe despite everything. He did nothing to help here either mind despite allowing himself to be tortured in the same piece of media to keep her safe, just watched another loss happen right in front of his eyes in his conga long line of them.

Then there’s Archie, oh god then there was Archie.

The dragon who even here he’d been shown to have an incredibly close bond with him decides you know what sod that tell him goodbye I’m going to make a joke about having a kingdom now dad and me are trapped in here forever. Douxie on his part looked sad for all of three seconds saying that he hoped he’s happy like it's a pet that wandered out into the world one day and never came back instead of a lifelong companion that has been there for as long as he can remember. He was now completely alone in the world since Zoe was also written out entirely and because every bit of his background had been forgotten about it somehow meant nothing. This wasn’t “I know you miss him, I know you need to grieve but you are running out of time” moment like things had been with Charlie, this was “cool shapeshifting dragon cat is now stuck in a plot hole that’s a shame” with zero pay off or any of the genuine reaction that should have been there or hell even trying to Ohana him back that very second because it never should have happened in the first place. Then even this wasn’t enough somehow, they managed to de-power Douxie even further into uselessness bar the (Admittedly nifty!) sticky feet stunt, the one who fought Skrael and Bellroc to a stalemate was shunted aside with barely a thought and his head would somehow get even emptier.

The one person who knew the danger of time magic the most stood by and said nothing.

The one person who would suffer the most by a reset because the lynchpin to his issues would be asleep if you got it wrong and should have drilled it into Jim’s head the best time to aim for stood by and said nothing.

The one person who had just suffered the loss of his familiar, best friend and only family along with the almost sister like Nari stood by and said nothing.

Then to add further insult to injury the caption when Douxie and Archie is shown says Some go their entire lives living an existence of quiet desperation because every drop of his character growth, his ability to finally start addressing his trauma instilled back in the 12th century, the staff he longed for was instead openly mocked by going “Aww he got his cat friend back how nice!” Everything he’d rightfully earned and had now would be unable to progress until certain criteria are met because it hinges entirely on the Trollhunter going to Merlin’s tomb and there’s only so much your support network of two (One if she’s written out) can do, the root of the majority of his issues all stem from one man.

And this folks is why I’ve been going on multiple rants about Douxie in particular, everyone was hit with the out of character bat to some degree in this film but when they came for him they didn’t just stop after they took his legs out because they wanted him to suffer from something he’s never had any control over to begin with all over again. Abuse survivors deserve better, these characters deserve better and we as viewers deserve far far better writing than we were forced to endure.

#Ooc - Behind the curtains #Rise of the Titans #Rise of the Titans spoilers #RotT Spoilers #RoT spoilers #Wizards #Tales of Arcadia #ToAWizards #Hisirdoux Casperan #Douxie Casperan

193 notes · View notes

starshipsofstarlord · 4 years ago

Note

Could I request a Jaskier x female reader where the reader is a princess who during daylight, is condemned to be a bear, after being cursed by an evil sorcerer At night she become a human again. Which the curse can only be broken by a man (who would be Jaskier) who pledges his heart solely to the reader (something like true love’s kiss). Please and thank you!!!

Bruin

jaskier x reader

masterlist

Warnings; mentions of witcher killing, mentions of death and angst, curses, nudity, some fluff, implied smut

“G-Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice shivered, as he saw a great mountain of brunette fur, wading through the long grass, heavy breathing exhibiting from its wet snout. “There’s a bear!”

“If you’re that scared, try to speak quieter.” The Witcher’s speech remained monotone, as he continued walking, leaving the bard to catch up with his hardy footsteps. “We need to leave before nightfall, that is when the true monster is unleashed from the bruin vessel.”

“You kill monsters, we’ll be fine.” The bard waved off, though he was terrified, and Geralt was all but convinced with his dismissal. “We will, won’t we Geralt?”

“It’s bad luck to remain out here at night, it’s an old wives tale, however, no one survives the night out here. Not after the disappearance of the princess of Arafell.” Jaskier remembered that tale, he had even seen the princess at a banquet once when they were both young in age.

Neither of them had the opportunity to converse with one another that evening, it was the night she had ran away. and he certainly had regretted never asking her dance. Before that though, they had often strode through the gardens hand in hand, conversing on the beauty of the petals that veiled around the stems, and she, unlike most people, listened to his descriptive forms of poetry. Back then, he had been shy, and not to mention, she was of sought after royal blood. That evening was the last that anyone from the kingdom had ever been seen, after the slumber of eternity wept over their souls. One thing he severely remembered though, was that she loved dandelions.

The princess had ran away, leaving the king and queen in search of someone that could find her, and thus they hired a private sorcerer to complete their wishes. But instead of seeking out the lost girl, the old man took the gold and the lives of old, wallowing the land in distress that clambered into a delving of madness.

A shout bellowed from the bear, and Jaskier found him to “How long will it be til we reach the borders?”

“The bad luck will loom over us Jaskier, we will not make it out of here in the span of the next countless hours. There will be a moon in the sky, but perhaps we’ll be able to seek out cover in the old guard’s tower.”

“Where are we Geralt?” The brown haired poet feared to be met with the answer “What makes you think that we’ll survive the night?!”

“This is what remains of Arafell.” Stated the white haired hunter, as he continued to plod through the thick foliage beneath his dark boots. He stepped on the dull green life form, not encouraged to pursue any further into the depths as he heard the destination that they were travelling through.

“Arafell, great.” Huffed the irritating bard, clutching his lute as he spoke the haunting name. “There’s no need to be afraid, when you’re in the land of torn bodies, because the witcher is by your side. He’ll slash and dice, protect the mice, from the darkness that falls from above. The people are dead, I am filled with dread, in the land of Ar-afellll.”

“Stop singing.” Whenever there was any fault present in their adventures together, Jaskier had a tendency, wallowing similar like a pie without filling to sing. It shrouded Geralt with epitomised frustration, his betrothed follower sure knew how to pull his strings, it was as though he were a moral lute, a practice run of socialisation for the noble’s son.

“Sorry.” Apologised the traveller, with a shrug encompassed by a spark of coldness affecting his posture. There was a breeze, filled with the pinching of icicles in the air, and it clawed through his clothes, clashing with the meat blanketed warmth of his bones. “It’s just- we’re in bloody Arafell, or what remains of it, and you are so calm. Have you maybe perhaps forgotten what happened here?!”

“No. I was here when it queen Ara and her kingdom fell. And that bear has lurked every inch of these demolished castle lands searching for scraps, and if you cannot tell, it is almost night fall, and she has come up sufficiently short of anything, for all these decades.”

The listener frowned, bears did not live so long. It was a curious prospect, it remained loyal to these grounds, although it was empty. There had to be a reason why, a pattern that supposed why it, or she as Geralt had divulged, remained to lurk in the midst of the overgrown forestry. And then another thought (yes, Jaskier had the ability to do that despite what his protective travel mate may have wondered), hit him, like a bolt of lightning.

“Um, Geralt, where is the bear?” He gulped, hearing the rustling of the thick foliage metres behind them. The moon scourged the sky with its global presence, inducing another shot of ambient fear through Jaskier’s veins. “It was-“

“Shut up a moment.” It was almost impossible half the time to silence Jaskier, but this time, he actually obliged the command. Geralt drew his sword, the one that glistened a predominate silver and was made from the compound, clutching the handle in his vice and skilled grip, as his feet took him closer to the imposter that was imbedded within the weeds.

“Oh.” Jaskier covered his eyes, he couldn’t look as Geralt pointed the weapon at the beasts throat; a whimper escaped it as Geralt took a step back, alerting his companion. “Kill it Geralt, it’s a bear, it’s going to kill us.”

“It was a bear.” Geralt elaborated as he watched the beast transform and lose its course coat of brown fur, turning into a less monstrous beast. It was only a girl, with unruly and wild hair that was matted in all directions, her face contorted into fear. “Of whom are you, my lady?”

“A witcher.” It trailed from her lips as a whisper, her tone alerting Jaskier that it indeed was not a bear, rather it was a woman, laid on the forest ground, in nothing but her own layers of skin. His eyes widened for a moment, until he earned an elbow in the rib from his friend for his long and convicted ogling. “I have only heard legends but...

“You speak english?” Jaskier wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, hinting at his subsequent misunderstanding of the situation. “but you were a bear?!” This was all growing more confusion with each passing second, there were too many angles of the world.

“I’m cursed.” It was an easy consequence to admit, for the lady of the worlds already lived through them. “Each day, I am forced to pad about in the brute body of a bruin, a sorcerer brought by darkness himself to this dimension damned me to this abomination, his name was-“

“Lament.” From hearing that name, the woman on the ground was taken aback as the women, trying to prevail some decency, attempted to cover her breasts with her arms, as she crossed her legs over one another. “Your parents sent me to find you, lady. I came up empty handed in my search for you, there was no trail that I managed to find, nothing that would point in your direction. And that night, as I returned with short of nothing of any news of your whereabouts, Lament was there.”

“He killed them all, didn’t he. My family?” The answer didn’t require any verification from Geralt, the solemn, yet usual expression on the Witcher’s face was all the confirmation that she needed. “Of course he did, he’s a poisonous shadow, when he finds something he wants, he takes away its home, so that it can’t run back to the hearth whence it came from. I regret every running away from home...”

“Wait a moment.” This was all beginning to add up in some mind boggling way. Jaskier flitted his gaze aside for a moment as Geralt pulled a fine blanket from his luggage, knowingly seeing the movement out of the corner of his curious eye that she was pulling the material that conducted warmth over her shoulders, and across her sachet of flaunted skin.

"Shut up Jaskier." Instantaneously stated the bard, whom had returned his cerulean gaze back upon the y/h/c woman, depositing a composition of interest to her form.

"You're the princess of Arafell, aren't you. Y/n, it's you, isn't it?" Y/n's expression was one of shock; how did this man know of her identity? She understood how the witcher did, though with considering he was condemned with the duty of finding her. The brunette man was slightly familiar, and so he revealed why that was. “it’s Julian.” Jaskier held his hand to his chest, almost hurt that you didn’t recognise him, but it had been years, so many, none of which had been kind to you. “My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Dandelion!” The reprised title spun from y/n's tongue, remembering the nickname that she had given the now gentleman all those years ago, when he was nothing more than a persisting boy that made her flash an unashamed laughter in the midst of poised quality showrooms of noble gatherings. "I remember you." She dwelled on the fact, if she weren't clothed in only a shrill and frayed blanket that was pebbled with small dots of soil, from where it had been laid on the ground, y/n surely would have jumped up and spun her arms around his 'sexy goose' neck.

"You've got to be kidding me, it is just my luck that the pair of you know each other." Geralt crossed his arms, shaking his sleek silver head, being deprived of attention as he spoke. "Is there any way to get yourself out to get you out of this prospected curse of turning into a bear, y/n?"

"To be betrothed to a man, confirmed with a kiss resonating true love, though, nobody with any sense would put themselves in that position for me, there is no wealth to my name anymore, nor is there relevance with my heritage, for there is nothing that remains, as you have confirmed for me. This man must certainly be one of a kind, for he has to pledge his loyalty solely to me, forbidding himself from ever being with another woman again."

The mention of a lack of sense reminded Geralt of one man in particular, and he was stood right beside him. But it couldn't have been Jaskier, of all people, and- Geralt found himself overcome with dread as the bard stepped forward, crunching his shoed feet into the withered grass, closer to the rediscovered princess.

"I have waited my whole life to see you again." Oh god, here he went, Geralt thought. "When we were younger, I was infatuated with you, and here we are, united again in a union. If my betrothal means nothing then you will remain in this shrine of gloom, but to me, it would mean everything to me."

"Y/N come on, have some sense, it-" There was lack of reason for Geralt to continue speaking, as y/n sprung up, the blanket flowing down from her shoulders, baring her body cold to the crisp air, as her hands clasped both sides of Jaskier's face, and pressed her lips to his.

The witcher cringed, turning away as the pair practically ate the other's face, like starved animals that had been distanced for many years, which in their case was true. "Do you know if the curse is broken, is there any indicator if so?"

A hum fell from y/n's mouth as Jaskier's hand traced the curve of her spine, causing Geralt to scoff. That was the only response he earned, and to a high stake, it disgusted him. "I think I'm just gonna let you two have some time to yourselves, I guess we will see in the morning if you're being mawled by a bear you flippant."

And thus he walked away, leaving the two to pursue their primitive instincts, under the blessed moon, and on the routed curfew on the dark and dead land of Arafell.

#jaskier imagine #jaskier x reader #jaskier x you #jaskier fluff #jaskier fic #jaskier oneshot #jaskier x y/n #jaskier imagines #jaskier one shot #jaskier fanfiction #Jaskier reader insert #the witcher x you #The witcher jaskier x reader #the witcher x reader #joey batey x you #joey batey x reader #the witcher fluff

236 notes · View notes

alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years ago

Text

romeo must die

this one-shot is based on the song Romeo Must Die by Gabrielle Aplin, I highly recommend listening to it! shout out to @eugeniaslongsword for introducing me to it :) i even borrowed some lyrics from it haha. it is also inspired by the entire playlist I made, "being treated badly by someone doesn't make you love them more"

content warnings: past toxic/unhealthy relationship, the uncomfy 6-year age gap between Alastair and Charles

Masterlist | Read on AO3

"Alastair, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"

Alastair looked up from what he was working on. He was in the library of the Institute, along with Cordelia, Thomas, James, Matthew, and Christopher. They were searching for any clue as to how Lucie had done what she’d done or what Tatiana and Belial were planning. Alastair wasn't entirely sure how he got roped into the ordeal, but it seemed as though Thomas suggested him as an extra set of eyes, and Cordelia latched onto the idea.

"No," he said curtly, returning to his reading.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm quite busy at the moment." Alastair spoke under his breath, not wanting to draw the others' attention. How many times had Charles barked the same words at him, swatting him away, hacking away at paperwork or planning his next step in his career? The words sat bittersweet in his chest.

"Surely you could spare a few moments."

"I certainly could. But I do not wish to." Charles had a way of getting into his head and twisting his words and his feelings. It was not an experience he wished to revisit. It was better here, with an audience. It had also been easier in the infirmary, knowing that he held all of the power. His father had made him feel the same way, he thought bitterly. He understood now that what he'd done at school was not only to protect himself from the bullies. He wanted to reclaim the power stolen from him by his father; he wanted for once in his life to hold power himself. He hadn't yet come to the realization that holding that kind of power did nothing but harm. It was of no use, anyways, because it didn't matter how much he perfected his tongue and his wit on the other students at the Academy, he was never able to use it when it counted. Not with Elias, and not with Charles.

"It's fine if you need to take a few minutes, Alastair,” Cordelia said gently. All of the eyes in the room had come to rest on the two of them. Now he wished he’d spoken louder.

“It’s alright, Charles was just leaving.”

He had hoped that Charles would give up and leave knowing that everyone was watching him, but he was determined. He grabbed Alastair’s arm. “It’ll just be-”

Alastair stood, but pulled his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

In a flicker, Alastair saw it: the anxiety began to set in. Charles began to realize that he would not be able to play his usual tricks. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I believe I was quite clear when I told you I don’t wish to speak with you. You’re the one who can’t let this go.”

“Must you act so childish?”

He rolled his eyes. “Must you always call me childish for thinking for myself instead of catering to your every whim?”

“I don’t understand. You said we were fine.”

Alastair sighed. Perhaps for a moment, he thought that was true. For just a second, he thought there was a world where he and Charles could be friends. But Alastair had decided that he would no longer call people who hurt him his friends. “Yes, well, I lied. I wanted to let you down gently, but it’s clear to me now that it must be spelled out for you. How shall I put this? You and I are past our dancing days, Charles.”

“But-” He stammered, searching for words. “What happened with Grace Blackthorn wasn’t my fault.”

“Maybe not. But what of Miss Bridgestock? Am I to pretend that what happened with Miss Blackthorn was not the same as what happened two years earlier?”

“You told me many times that you took no issue with that, that you understood.”

“I understood what you told me, which we both know was never the full truth. I was a sixteen year old desperate for your affections, and the fact that you truly believe I never had any issue with your arrangement is proof that you never genuinely cared about me or listened to my thoughts. I told you in the infirmary that this wasn’t your fault because I thought it’d ease the pain, but I lied. And I don’t have time to sit here and watch you cry over it.”

Alastair wished that watching Charles become flustered would have been more enjoyable. Instead, all he wanted was for this to end. “You- you’re different than when we met. You’ve changed. You’re cruel and callous, I don’t understand how I could not see how heartless you were until now. You are everything that everyone claims you to be. How am I to even know what the truth is when it comes from your lips?”

There was a time when those words would have cut deeply into him, eating at his every insecurity, but Charles mistakenly assumed that Alastair was the same person he was last July, with the same insecurities. “When we met, I was fourteen years old. I’ve grown up, and it is time for you to do the same. It’s been six months, Charles. You need to stop writing me. If that makes me heartless, I don’t care. And if you wish to know the truth, the truth is that the moment you leave here, if I never see your face again, it still will not be long enough.”

Charles stared at him for a long while, unable to find a proper retort. In the end, it was Matthew who stepped in. “Charles, I believe it’s time for you to go.”

He obliged, finally turning to leave the library. As he began to walk away, however, Alastair knew that he was not finished. His heart beat a little bit faster at the thought of such a confession, and faster again when he realized who would hear it, but there was no piece of parting with Charles that he wished to regret.

“Wait,” he said. Charles froze and turned to look at him. “I know it’s unlikely that you have it in the cold depths of your soul to care, but let the record show that I would have given you everything. I would have given you my life, all of the love and trust that I had to give, and then I would have given more. And you gave me nothing. So the next time you’re pondering my heartlessness, you ought to wonder what that means for you.”

Finally satisfied, Alastair did not wait for Charles to turn and leave again to return to his seat and pick his reading back up. He waited for a moment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him. He stood once more, opening his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. Instead, he walked out of the library in silence.

Finding the nearest balcony, he attempted to steady his breath.

“Are you alright?” He heard from behind him. Thomas. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He shook his head. “I just needed some air.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Alastair sighed. He backed up against the window and slid down to the floor of the balcony. “I know- I know that everyone sort of knew already, but… by the Angel, I feel so pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Thomas told him, sitting down beside him.

“You were right, of course you were. I was so… taken with him, back in Paris. I couldn’t see him for what he was. I was so naive, so foolish. I just- After everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve been through, how did I not realize-”

Thomas put his hand on Alastair’s knee. “You wanted to see the best in him. After everything you’d seen and been through, you wanted to believe that there were still good and honest people in the world. And there are. I’m sorry that he was not one of them, but that does not make you foolish or pathetic. It makes you… kind.”

“I bet you’d never imagined describing me as such before.”

“It seems you’re full of surprises,” Thomas teased. “But that’s not true. I always saw the kindness in you, even back at school, when you did everything to keep it hidden.”

“As you can see, my ‘kindness’ has never gotten me very far.”

“You were out of practice. Following me on my reckless nighttime patrols, that was kind. More than kind. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, for risking your life to protect mine.”

“I didn’t do it for gratitude.”

“And yet I owe you mine nonetheless.”

“I can’t go back in there, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can tolerate you and your friends hating me just fine. But if any of your friends give me even an ounce of pity- well, we’ll see just where the limits of my kindness lie, won’t we?”

Thomas stood up, offering Alastair his hand. “Pity comes from those who cannot even begin to understand what you’ve experienced. For what it’s worth, I don’t think my friends will pity you. But if they do, you can ignore them. For Lucie.”

Alastair sighed and allowed Thomas to pull him to his feet. “Fine. Let’s get back to reading.”

“Speaking of reading, do you have the entirety of Shakespeare’s canon memorized, or only the lines you believe may pop up in conversation?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘For you and I are past our dancing days,’ it’s Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it? It’s the only one of his works that I got through.”

Alastair froze. “You haven’t read Hamlet?”

“I tried.”

“Othello? King Lear? Macbeth? Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

He shook his head.

“That’s impossible. And James is friends with you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wait until my sister finds out you haven’t read Hamlet,” he warned, starting towards the library with urgency in his step.

“Wait, don’t- I just don’t like Shakespeare! What’s so wrong with that?” Thomas’ attempts at reasoning were futile, however, a welcome distraction from all of their recent sorrows finally taking hold.

Thanks for reading!! This was self indulgent af lol. I'm not to sure whether some people only wanted to be tagged in my social media AU, so if that's the case I'm sorry & please tell me!: @stxr-thxif @chaos-and-starlight @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @thecodexsays @fortheloveofthecarstairs @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @shadowrunner2000 @thewarthatsavedmylife @fair-childd @icouldnotask @shadowhunting-hooligans @melanielocke @clarys-heosphoros @kiwichaeng @lightwoodsimp @thecrimsonsorceresss @theenchanteddreamer @adams-left-hand @yozinha-z @ipromiseiwillwrite @skirtsandsweaters @goodoldfashionednerd

#alastair carstairs #charles fairchild #if you're a charles apologist just block me #thomas lightwood #thomastair #tlh #the last hours #cw toxic relationship #coi spoilers #fanfiction #fanfic

108 notes · View notes

sirthisisa-wendys · 3 years ago

Note

AHH no se si se puede seguir, peroooo, sigo. Obviamente esto tiene como intencion que Geto tenga una oportunidad de ser feliz. Y me imaginaba tambien que ella en un sueño se despidiera de el para siempre y le diera todo lo que es como simbolo de su amor. Dramatismo total, te adoroooo, si quieres cambiar algo queda a tu criterio, besos :3

Translations of original request: Super apologies for making the request in Spanish. So, there is a Kate Bush song that I adore "Running up that hill", it talks about a deal with a supreme being, since I read JJK's manga along with this song I can't help but imagine a scenario where the reader realizes that the family that I built with Suguru is dying for an ideal that not even they can properly digest and cannot do anything about it and sacrifices their body and soul for the man they love. AHH I don't know if it can be continued, but, I continue. Obviously, this is intended to give Geto a chance to be happy. And I also imagined that in a dream she said goodbye to him forever and gave him everything that he is as a symbol of her love. Total drama, I adore you, if you want to change something, it's up to you, kisses: 3

One Last Breath: Geto Suguru x Fem!Reader

wc: 1k

tw: so much angst.

masterlist

a/n: changed the time period and setting to make it even more dramatic, because that's just how I roll! Thanks for requesting, love.

You're kneeling at the prayer bench in the small sanctuary, stained glass windows casting colored light upon your face as you pray fervently, lips moving but no sound coming out.

The images of various gods dance upon the floors and create moving pictures of their creations, their love, their sacrifice. And you are stuck in the same boat as these beings, but only because the man you love put you there. "Please." You finish your prayer with that final word. "Please." The bench creaks sordidly as you stand, clutching the elbow rest tightly.

The children would be waking soon, and if you weren't home by then, you would be in trouble. Suguru couldn't be trusted alone with them anymore; it's now a matter of life or death with him. And you're fine with it being between the two of you, but when it came to the girls...

You scrub your thoughts with a shake of the head, feet quickly walking the space between the little chapel and your home. The chill of the mid-winter creeps into your bones, and you regret the lack of something to warm your shoulders, but before you can mourn the numbness in your tendons, you reach the door of your abode. When you push it open, three pairs of eyes meet yours, all huddled around the fire for warmth.

"Sorry," you whisper, shutting the door quickly. "I--"

"My love," Suguru rises from his perch, bringing his little notebook with him. "I've been thinking..." He begins his rambling about his solutions to the problem, his solutions to the continued issue of overwhelming cursed energy, his solution to make the world a safer place for you and your children.

The two girls sitting by the fire look up at you, fear in their eyes as he recounts every detail of his plan, praying you would stop their father from the self-sabotaging path he trod; stop their savior from sacrificing himself on the pyre of destruction.

"What do you think?" Geto pants, finishing his rambling. You notice the thin sheen of sweat building on his brow and your concern mounts.

"I..." The girls press their lips together in tandem, hoping you wouldn't say another word. "I think..."

Please.

"I think--" A gust of wind blows down the chimney, distracting Suguru from your thoughts and startling the children as embers dance across the cobblestones. He drops his notebook to attend to the flames, and you quickly snatch up the book, shoving it into your armpit, hiding it from view.

"I'll go get a few logs," you offer, and Suguru grunts, pushing the chairs a little further away from the fire as the girls sit in them, like the kind and protective father that he truly is. You weasel past the door and into the chilly air, walking towards the back of the house and toward the woodpile Suguru carefully maintained. You pick up two logs and then a third, dropping the notebook into the space made, and covering it up with another log on top of the pile. With the thing hidden, you heft the logs in your arms and walk back into the house, handing them to Suguru and watching as he places them into the fire one by one.

"I should start breakfast," he whispers, and you both work around each other, providing what you can for the little family you've made.

_____________________________________________________________

Your fingers tremble as you carry the book to the fire, the pages crinkling as soon as you place it in the flames. The book ignites with a burst of angry fire, snapping and melting as you watch, praying the destruction of this tome would render your family safe.

But you know in your heart it would never be enough.

That fact is solidified in your mind when the door bursts open, and one man strides into the room, his blue eyes snapping to your figure standing at the fireplace.

"Oh, god," you breathe, tears pricking at your eyes. "No."

"Where is he?" Gojo wonders, standing in the open doorway and letting the snow drift into your home. "I have orders--"

"Suguru!" you shout, hands extended as you charge at the man in the doorway. "Get the girls and go!" Footfalls echo behind you and you feel the presence of the second strongest man in all of Jujutsu sorcery stare at the scene before him.

You, with all of your waning cursed energy, can barely hold the man back. But for some reason, he lets you touch him as he stares at his long-lost friend with sadness.

"You have a family," Gojo breathes, and Geto grabs your arm, trying to shove you away from Satoru. "You have children. Why?"

"Why not?" Suguru answers, staring his friend down. "Why not want a better life for my loved ones?"

"You won't get it this way," Satoru chastises. Mimiko and Nanako shrink in the doorway of their rooms, and you realize your only option to buy them time is inside of you. You have one last wild card, one last way to save your family, but you hadn't considered using it until now.

"Suguru," you bite out. "You need to leave."

"He's only leaving with me," Gojo answers for him, blue eyes still focused on his old friend. "There's no way you escape this."

"Listen to me," you beg the raven-haired man. "You need to get the girls and go."

"What about you?"

"I'll catch up." You both know you won't, but as the stripe on your chest begins to bleed, you raise your hands into a fighting position. "Just run as far and as fast as you can."

_____________________________________________________________

The fight is over before it's really even started. You lay against the brick of the fireplace, blood draining from your mouth in a pool beneath your head.

"Did I... at least... buy them... some time?" you choke out, blood splattering on the sleeve of the man who is propping you up against the wall.

"Enough time," he mutters, swiping at your chin with a rag from the table. "Might have even saved them if Su gives this whole thing up." You exhale shakily, closing your eyes slowly then reopening them. The sapphire eyes are the last thing you see before you drift off into the Between, your final breath spent with one last prayer:

"Please."

#geto suguru x reader #getou suguru #getou x reader #jujutsu kaisen getou #jujutsu kaisen geto #getou suguru x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen

59 notes · View notes

seventfics · 5 years ago

Note

Love your writing. Prompt: Jaskier has abandonment issues, which he tries and fails to hide. Angsty shenanigans ensue

[Thank you! ��️ I normally don’t do prompt requests but this is right up my alley of emotional suffering, so,]—x

So it’s true that Jaskier has everything anyone could ever want in life. He was born into comfort, held status and name, and had the fortune of education, though that last one was beaten into him mercilessly because he was not an easy child. He had it all—

He still has it all, if he wants it. Nothing stops him from returning to teach in Oxenfurt. No one will deny him his family title, of properties or inheritance. On the contrary, he’s earned even more renown by his lyrics and poetry and Continental ballads, his name known to every court and tavern. People flock to him for his tales of the White Wolf—and that too is part of his renown, for he turned the Butcher into a hero at no cost of his own but a few sore throats after eveningfuls of encores—

They invite him for festivals, banquets, courtly affairs. They propose to him, bed him, threaten him out of towns for having bed the wrong person. He is famous. He is the bard Jaskier. And when his fame and his charm are no longer a novelty, people are quick to move on.

In Lettenhove, in his early years, there was a tutor who praised him for his sharp musical ear. The old man spent many hours of the day showing him the value of the arts, something that left an imprint in his very soul. Not a year later, his parents sent him to temple school to learn his letters. He never saw the old tutor again—

In Oxenfurt, there was a girl who loved him for his voice. She was beautiful and sweet, her laughter like winter bells. By Summer’s end, she found a painter who worshipped at her feet like a dutiful priest at the altar of the gods. He doesn’t remember her name—

There were many like that girl since, and every time, he learned to accommodate a little better to keep them longer, to no avail—

In Posada, there was a witcher who huffed and groused at his company, and yet allowed him to come along on his journey. He was kind in a guarded way, a way familiar to Jaskier—the echoes of someone who has given himself up many times, only to suffer loss and rejection. Heartbreak hangs about him like a cape. And it takes Jaskier some time but he accommodates, learning the witcher’s limits, his preferences, what’s a jest and what’s a jab at old wounds—

“What’s this, you’re going to hunt the drowners now?”

The witcher is packing his bags neatly by the door. He offers a brief nod. “It’s early. They’ll be sluggish.”

“Give me a moment, I’ll come with.”

He’s given a strange look that says nothing of the sort will be happening. “No you’re not, bard. You’ll get yourself killed.”

Jaskier takes the threat of life in stride. “I’ll hang back, I swear, who wouldn’t want to see the great White Wolf in action!”

Sometimes the witcher huffs, indulging him. Other times, dreadful times, he orders him to stay put. So Jaskier waits in taverns, sitting on his hands. It’s the hardest thing for him to do. To wait. He does not sing, not while his gut twists and his fingers flutter nervously on wood. He simply waits and thinks about all the reasons why his company is but a burden on coin and travel, the witcher so used to traveling alone.

And every time Geralt comes barreling through the front door wet with gore, his mind and his chest empty of all aches.

“Oh thank the gods, you’re—still in one piece,” he says, because shouting you’re back, you’re alive, you didn’t die and leave me behind is far too much of a weight to throw on Geralt’s shoulders, he knows.

Geralt merely grunts, shaking off some of the grime. “Of course I am.”

It’s like that. The witcher leaves on a hunt, and on the times Jaskier cannot follow, he waits. Geralt always comes back—if not for him, then at least for the reward. It’s at the end of every crossway where they part face to face, never knowing if they’ll meet again.

And Jaskier continues his own journey, in search not of home, but its opposite. Of a place that will forever change to the years and the seasons and never bore him. Never bore of him. No one should know him any more than he is allowed to know another, except—

Except the witcher Geralt of Rivia who he meets again and again. Knowing him more with every meeting—

—A noise in the forest, distant, and Geralt gets up with his swords from camp.

Jaskier just fumbles, “You’re not just going to leave me here twiddling my thumbs in the dark, are you?”

“I’ll be right back, bard. I have to check—”

—A shared room on low coin, and never a problem between them. Jaskier stirs awake to the bed moving.

“Sum’thing up? Y’have to go?” He tries to mumble through a dry mouth. Geralt nudges his head down.

“No, I just need to eat. You keep sleeping, Jaskier—”

—A storm, and they’re both holed in a damp cave. Geralt looks ready to throw himself out in the rain and hunt for the Kikimore queen anyway.

“Geralt, please don’t leave in—in this storm.”

Geralt does listen, perhaps because he sounds a bit more shaken than usual. They’ve already gone low on provisions because the rain soaked through their bags. They need the coin. And it would have been fine, if Jaskier hadn’t insisted they go through this town—

Foolishly, dangerously, he becomes attached. Years go by. A decade. Two. There is no one else Jaskier knows more in his life. Geralt’s mannerisms, his expressions, his disquiet. He knows them all in the silence across a campfire, and he hopes he is known in return.

He hoped at the banquet in Cintra, barely whispering of a need that he dared not tell anyone else.

He hoped in the chaos of Rinde, of the djinn and the witch, begging for the witcher to choose him first.

And he hoped in the mountains of King Niedamir.

And his hope is not enough.

Jaskier knows to bear smiles and jokes for the right crowds, and he knows how to be serious in certain company. He learned to accommodate a little better to keep people longer, of course, to no avail. Even with Geralt��

He should never have grown complacent, believing that things would be different this once. He became attached—beyond attached, beyond need, beyond affection—

“I'll go get the rest of the story from the others,” Jaskier says in parting on that mountain, because if he makes light of it, then it will sluice off his frame like water, undamaging. He can pick himself up to keep searching for that place—of that someone that will never bore of him, that will never forget him and throw him aside.

Despite his efforts, there’s a chasm in his chest. A breathlessness like a wound that doesn’t want to heal. And he lingers at the foot of the mountain when he sees Roach nibbling on dry grass, tethered by the inn’s poor stable poles.

He doesn’t know how long he stays with her, petting her coat. She indulges him, preferring his company over the stablehand’s. There’s a joke there somewhere, about her being as obstinate as her rider, but he can’t bear to say it. Can’t bear to speak through the stone lodged in his throat—

And he shouldn’t be with her, not if he wants to avoid the witcher who so clearly and plainly told him to take off for good. But Roach is sweet. For once, she doesn’t bite his wrists. Instead she nickers, snuffling his dusty doublet. Maybe she’s learned to accommodate for heartbreak too, as it seems to follow where Geralt goes, whether caused by his hand or brought upon him—

“Jaskier.”

He freezes in place. He cannot turn. To see his blazing expression would be too much—

“Sorry. I won’t be staying. I’m just,” his voice fades as it starts to shake. How can he explain why he’s touching the witcher’s mare, for the simple comfort that she offers in not shying away from his touch?

“Jaskier.”

It is a demand for him to turn. He recognizes it in Geralt’s voice. Jaskier clenches his hands on Roach’s mane—

Refusing doesn’t work, as the witcher takes his shoulder to pull him back—

There are no fixed smiles left in him. No jest, no shrug. He hurts too deeply to put forth the effort. He is the bard Jaskier, but in front of Geralt of Rivia, he’s just alone. He has everything anyone could ever want in life, and not a lick of it matters with no one to stay for him, no one to call a friend—

But Geralt is not angry. He doesn’t quite look like anything except intense, keeping his wide yellow eyes on Jaskier’s own as he grips his shoulder tight.

“Let me go,” Jaskier says because he cannot take being seen so deeply, so closely, and not being wanted—

“No.” Geralt’s grip turns painful. “You—don’t want me to.”

Something breaks in him at the words—the truth in them—and it burns in his eyes and it burns his throat—and burns to tears shed pressed to black leather, his hands scrambling at the hard surface of Geralt’s armor.

He doesn’t want to be let go. Geralt holds him to his chest and he feels like stone cracking under pressure. Like gravel being crushed—

“I was angry,” the witcher says, swallowing against Jaskier’s ear, “I didn’t mean it,” tucking his face into Jaskier’s hair, “I don’t want you to go.”

And maybe it’s cruel or greedy but he wants for Geralt to ache like he does. To feel terror at being left behind. At it being Jaskier who walked away—hurting, choked by his own surging feelings—from the mountain first, by his offense—

Another part is relieved. Because Geralt does know him, after everything, after Jaskier’s efforts to know the witcher. He knows him well to strike where it hurts the most. He knew where to tear into with harsh words—

And that by doing so he went too far and tore into Jaskier’s heart too—

There are no apologies, but there are amends. There is a wavering conversation and one more stay at the inn.

At the crossroads they’ll part again, but not with goodbye. Not with tears or screams or hidden fears. They’ll meet again, like they always have. Better than they always have—

Because this time, and every time since, they part with a promise to see each other again.

#reply #geralt x jaskier #geraskier #abandonment (:#prompt #did i go full into post ep6 fix-it? y eh #1k

1K notes · View notes

asgardianhusband · 4 years ago

Text

“Tell Her, that I Love her.”

Natasha romanoff x Reader [Genderneutral]

!!!TW:Angst,Death!!!

A/N: Since this is my First official Story that i posted i thought that it shouldn't be a too long one. I hope you enjoy it!

Summary: It's the Endgame Scene but instead of Clint, It's you. You and Natasha have been together before infinity war and have a 5 Year old Daughter named Katie that you Two adopted.

_________________________________________

As You and Natasha went to get the Soul Stone, You expected A lot but not what was About to Happen. You were shaking while you Listened to What the Guardian told You two, Natasha grabbed your Hand and gave it a soft squeeze. “We can't do this! I cannot loose you now, Tash!” You said while looking at Her, She looked to the ground and tried to avoid looking back into your eyes. “We have to get this stone, it's the only way for us to get everyone back! We can't fail, Think about Katie.” Her voice was calm even if her eyes filled up with Tears, You thought back to the moment after You went home when the Snap happened.

--Flashback--

Natasha and You were upset, everything went the wrong way but you two were glad that you still had eachother. “Hey, where is our Little Princess?" You asked exited when entering the living room but there was no one, You looked around the House before you went to Your kids Bedroom. “Princess? Are in here? Your mom and I are home again.” you spoke softly before you Stood there in shook, on the floor before you was your child but not in a state you'd wished for. “Y/N? Did you find her?” She walked into the room and immediately knew what happened, you both stood there for minutes but it felt like Hours. “Katie, My Baby." She let out a Soft but shaky Sigh before hugging you from behind, You still couldn't believe that your Daughter was gone, It felt like a part of your Heart was missing. After You managed to get yourself together, you grabbed an urn and Carefully placed the ashes inside. You and Natasha placed the Urn on a shelf next to Your Daughters Favorite Plushie, You both Buried yourself in your Work after a Week.

--Flashback end--

Your Eyes filled with Tears that were already running down Your Face when you placed one hand on Natasha's cheek,Lifting her Face so she would look you in the eyes again. “moya lyubov', Please Look at me.” She slowly looked back into your eyes, She knew that it would Hurt you both to see the other one Crying but She couldn't just ignore her feelings. “If this is Our only Chance to get Katie back, then I'm ready to do Whatever it takes.” You said while kissing her on the Forehead, you slowly let go of her Hand to go to the edge. “No, no! I'll not let you Die! You sacrificed your Life for mine When we Met and I'm not willing to let Katie grow up without you!” She said while pulling you away from the Edge, You couldn't remember the Day when you two met but She always told you That you saved her and it almost cost your Life. “And i won't let her grow up without her Mother!” you said as She looked at you One last time “moy Mir, i won't argue with you. This is My Chance to prove myself, My chance to save you and Our Daughter and i won't let you take it from me. Remember that I love you okay?” You shook your head “you can't do this to me!Please!” She kissed you One last time before She poked you with one of the small Arrows that she kept for Bruce, you fell down on your knees. She Stood at the Edge and smiled at you “Tell Her,that I Love Her.” Your vision got very blurry but you still tried to crawl towards her and grab her Hand But it was already to Late. She let herself fall down and before you knew it,you passed out. When you woke up, You had the Hope for it to only be a Dream. But as you looked into your Hand, you realized that it was all real and you just lost The Love of your Life.

--Time skip--

After the Big Fight when everyone came back and Defeated Thanos, You were on your way Home. Nothing could've stopped you to Immediately getting Home when you get the chance to, You were nervous but also still Trying to get yourself together. You opened the Door, Immediately Hear the sound of Your Daughters voice “You're Home!” She ran up to you and hugged your waist, You couldn't believe it but she was really Here. You picked her up and Hugged her as tight as it was possible without hurting her, kissing her Forehead and stroking her cheek with one Hand. “I will never let you alone, ever again.” you said in a soft tone, She leaned her head against your Chest. “When is Mommy Coming Back?” she asked worried, your eyes started to tear up again but you tried to keep it together. “I'm afraid, she won't come back for awhile Princess.” You stroke her head while carefully pacing around the living room “But remember She loves you And will always do just like i will always love you.” She looked up and smiled while wiping away a tear with her pullover, after that she gave you a Kiss on the Cheek and told you not to worry because; “Mommy and I love you too.”....

[Notes: moya lyubov' = My Love , moy Mir = My life {Russian} ]

103 notes · View notes

aslitheryprinx · 3 years ago

Note

These are from song titles, but I think these are poggers (I hope, at least)

* And there was life inside "it"

* Can it really be called "Cinderella" ?

* Love inside an empty box

* World is full of wonders (Or "Full of wonders!!!!")

* Near

* Angel's clover

Don't worry anon, they are most definitely poggers! (Both of my current ao3 published works have names based on song lyrics, so that really fits my vibe haha.)

There are so many good prompts here! I couldn't help but write like.... A lot lmao.

CW: dehumanization, themes of child abuse, themes of death. Be safe!

____

And there was life inside "it"

They called it RNB-00. It was the first in a generation of experimental life production using DNA from one of the most volatile creatures in the worlds: endermen. There were no endermen hybrids. The children could not survive, and the birth was volatile, tearing the parents and anyone near them apart with the violent magic.

They would perform the experiment anyways.

An unfinished human embryo, carefully extracted from someone who would be written in the paperwork as a volunteer. An enderpearl, freshly taken from a creature they didn't consider "human" enough to need even dubious content. DNA, taken directly from the brain of the enderman.

They spliced together the three ingredients, cheering when the chimera of enderman and embryo inside its tubes showed signs of life.

But some things are not meant to be done.

Nature is not meant to be tampered with.

The experiment turned south quickly. The specimen convulsed in its tube, growing at a rapid rate. Vibrant purple magic lashed out, dancing through the lab with a vengeance. There were the cries of a newborn mixed with the shrieks of an enderman- then, an explosion.

RNB-00 fell to the ground, the magic pulsing from it too bright to be looked at by the naked eye. A second explosion rocked the lab, this time all-encompassing and final. The building turned to ash and dust and settled around a new crater.

There would never be a RNB-01.

A shape rose from the center of the crater. It was a child from one angle, maybe two or three, with pure white hair, scarred cheeks, and a red eye.

From the other angle, it was a monster. Something not quite enderman or human. Jet black hair, and velvety black fur covered the left half of it. It's eye glowed an unnatural green, not the color of humans or endermen.

It toddled slowly away from the epicenter of the explosion, no memory of what had happened. As it walked, it noticed a mark, a brand, on it's right arm: RNB-00. The child stared, and blinked at the word.

And he named himself Ranboo.

Can it really be called "Cinderella"?

When Tubbo was young, he saw Cinderella, once. Even with how young he was, the story resonated with him. He wished all his stepfather did was give him chores, but he knew exactly how it felt to be unloved, unwanted, forced to stay on the sidelines. He just hoped his fairy godmother would come soon.

When he was a little older, he looked back on the story of Cinderella with nothing but bitterness. He was old enough now that he knew fairy tales didn't happen. There was no "fairy godmother" coming to save him; there never had been, there never would be. All he had was himself and his shitty situation. He wanted to forget the story that had given him such a bittersweet lie, but it was burned into his memory.

As he reached his teens, the anger turned into weariness. It wasn't Cinderella's fault his stepfather was a piece of shit. It wasn't the character's fault that she had help to break free while he didn't. And how miserable he was wasn't Tubbo's fault either, no matter how much his stepfather screamed it.

When he was 16, feeling ancient yet younger than he had ever been, he stopped comparing himself to Cinderella. Cinderella hadn't stood over her stepparent's body with a bat. Cinderella hadn't called the police on herself, showing them what she'd done and then the reason why, covering his skin beneath his clothes. Cinderella had been freed, but she hadn't paid such a heavy price for that freedom.

Tubbo had. Tubbo was far from a Cinderella story.

Love inside an empty box

Tommy's love was dangerous. He learned that at a very young age. Love for him wasn't just a feeling, it was a physical thing, at least to his eyes. He could feel every last drop of care, of love gathering around him like a storm. And just like a storm, when the feeling touched down, it was deadly. People, animals, anything that was touched by the love he couldn't stop feeling crumbled under the weight of something that shouldn't exist.

Tommy couldn't stop himself from caring. But he could stop himself from hurting. Hurting others, at least. Tommy commissioned a solution from a witch with a terrible reputation for cruelty, but a renowned skill with magical crafting. It cost him everything he owned, and some of who he was, but he walked away with an empty box made to hold what he couldn't afford to keep.

For years after that, every time he felt love building up in his chest- his care for friends, the people he considered family, even for strangers- he tore it off of himself and flung it into the box. Over time, the box grew full, bursting at the seams with his love. He learned to discard all but the most precious feelings, keeping those in his overstuffed box that weighed nothing and locking them inside.

But no lock lasts forever. Nothing lasts an eternity.

Tommy was alone with nothing but his thoughts, his box, and the ghost of a brother who was only really that in the privacy of his mind. He let his eyes shut, the box held loosely in one hand. The ghost, not knowing the consequences, touched the box.

And the seams of magic holding it together shattered and the love Tommy had stored away broke free, as powerful and terrible as a hurricane.

If it had been Wilbur, the man would've died as surely as he had when a blade was thrust through his heart. But this was Ghostbur, and you cannot kill what is already dead.

Still, such power has consequences. All the love in the box, far too powerful to be contained for long, spilled over, pouring over and around the ghost and the boy.

Yes, such power has consequences. The boy with too much love and his brother that never was would face those consequences together.

(world is) full of wonders

Wilbur is a simple musician. He travels alone, playing an ode to all of the world around him. He sings to the trees, the sky, the river, the sun, anything he pleases.

Though he knows it's silly, he can't help but imagine they sing back. He tries to match the harmony he hears in his mind, tries to play along with the symphony of nature. He can never keep up, but likes to imagine the world is fond of his efforts.

But even musicians can stumble into trouble. Too caught up in the ballad he played to the tune of the wind, he didn't hear the rattle of bones, the drawing of a bow. He heard only the twang as an arrow released before it pierced through his skull and everything went black.

But Wilbur wasn't gone. He didn't cease to exist, like he always assumed. He felt the cool caress of the void, the gentle brush of the universe against his mind and he gasped. Clearer than he'd ever heard it, he heard the song of the world, in perfect harmony and tune. This time, it sang along to him, to the pulsing of his soul.

Wilbur had no body, but if he did he would weep. He had no lungs, no mouth, no voice, but his soul took up the melody he longed to sing anyways. He sang with the universe until the song became more and more impossible to replicate and he could only listen in awe.

He woke up painlessly, laying on a gentle green field. His guitar was by his side, and his sweater was cleaner than it had ever been. He knew instinctually that he was not in the world he'd came from. This was a new world, a universe untouched, a new song to add his voice to.

Near

It hit him, one day, as he absently peeled a potato over the sink. That he didn't remember if he'd ever touched another person.

Techno had froze for a moment. It was quite the revelation to have out of nowhere. He dismissed it a moment later, memories of how he and Phil would bump shoulders as they walked and talked fresh in his mind.

But all too soon his thoughts turned back to the uncomfortable topic. Sure he'd touched Phil before, but that was through layers of armor and clothing. Had he ever had skin to skin contact with another person? Anything, as simple as a handshake? Hell, even something during battle would count.

He came up empty, and it was driving him crazy.

He didn't need to touch people. He didn't. Having someone he cared about liked close to him was good enough. He didn't need physical contact to reassure him. He never had, not even as a child.

Though that may have had something to do with the chorus of voices he'd had in his head that had kept him on the brink of insanity for most of his childhood. His voices were always there, always with him, so what need did he have for another person's company?

Except he did like company, Phil's especially. And he had it, plenty of it, more than he could ever possibly need. So why did he suddenly feel so off balance?

He asked Phil about it next time he saw his friend. He kept it casual. It wasn't a big deal, he didn't need to worry Phil by letting how much this had bothered him show.

"Hey, Phil, have we ever touched?" He asked. Phil gave him a weird look, then bumped his shoulder.

"Like that?" He asked, unimpressed. "Mate, maybe you should check your own memory before you call me old man again."

"Nah," Techno dismissed, "I meant like... skin to skin. Like a handshake or something."

This actually gave Phil pause. He thought for a moment, then laughed.

"I guess we haven't. Weird. Why?"

"I... Don't think I've ever touched anyone like that," Techno said. He tried to keep his voice steady, but his heart was pounding as he poured out his weakness in front of Phil.

The other man was silent for a long time. Techno could practically hear the shouts of ever??? running through his mind.

Suddenly Phil turned towards him, pulling off a glove.

"Handshake?" He offered with a smile, something sad beyond the amusement in his eyes. Techno rolled his eyes, but he hesitated taking his glove off. Slowly reaching out, as if Phil's hand was a snake that might strike at any sudden movements, he placed his hand in Phil's.

The sensation was like a fire roaring to life on his hand. It didn't hurt, not like a real fire, but it somehow burned. He froze, his brain having trouble processing the bizarre feeling. It was overwhelming, and the best thing he'd ever felt, and yet it was almost a relief when Phil gently pulled his hand away.

"We'll take it slow, alright mate?" He said, nudging Techno with an elbow. The piglin's brain began to work again and he snorted, pulling the glove on again and falling back into step.

"Of course. We can't overwork your old man brain," Techno said dryly, earning him a sharper nudge. He grinned, the amusement softening to fondness as Phil walked just a little closer, letting their arms stay pressed together as they went.

It was strange how you didn't notice you were missing something until you had it. Bare contact was a little too overwhelming right now. So he was right. For now, this was enough. Having his best friend near him was all he needed.

Angel's Clover

There is a special plant that only grows in the land of celestials. An ethereal clover that sprouts from the weary souls that come to rest on the soils of heaven. The souls and the clover flourish in time with one another, tended to by the celestials that walk the lands. It is only a rumor, in the eyes of mortals, but one who walks among them knows it to be true. He is the Angel of Death, and his presence can never touch the sacred halls of the celestial lands, lest they wither and die.

But souls do not always complete the journey, to find their final rest above. Some souls are too broken, too hurt to reach the peace of the celestial lands. It is the duty of the Angel of Death to guide the souls, and it is his duty to heal them so that they may be guided.

In the land of the mortals, there is one place where the clover grows. It is in the humble garden of a plain looking man, who wears a large hat to block his eyes from the sun, and keeps his unearthly wings folded beneath his cloak.

In his garden, the Angel of Death nurtures the precious remnants of life.

#dsmp #dsmp au #prinx fake title game #ranboo #tommy #techno #tubbo #wilbur #phil #aslitheryanswers

19 notes · View notes

i-did-not-mean-to · 3 years ago

Text

Next part of the weird Thorin-story that comes to me while I swim

Dear friends…Here I am again with another part of a story I had not planned to write and that has taken on a life of its own…

I love you, don’t hate me…

(Warning: this is less formal and a lot more…ridiculous than the last parts)

(It is “in-universe”, but barely, because I have no idea of the universe per se…)

She took the bowls to the river to rinse them in the cold waters that glittered and glimmered in the dimming light; the way the last sun of the day reflected in the ever-changing blue hues reminded her of the man she was travelling with.

It came as a very small surprise to her that her old nan had been mostly right about the dwarves, and she was more inclined to believe her post-mortem, now that she had seen a dwarf lord, no a future king, with her own eyes.

She harboured not the inkling of a doubt in her mind that he would indeed be king one day; there was something so noble in his demeanour and deportment that she found it easy enough to have faith in him. He was clearly born to lead, just as she had been born to serve.

A pang of pain washed over her heart like the cold water submerged her numb hands; she wished she could tell her grandmother about the magical creature she had come upon in the woods. How nan would have loved to hear about a man whose eyes held all the mystery of endless tunnels and the deep longing of the open sea at the same time; she would have laughed and nodded her fragile, little head, saying that kneeling was easy to those who will stand up for you as a protector rather than as an executioner.

“You shall find your master one day.” Old nan used to exclaim every time her young granddaughter had been particularly wilful or disobedient, running wild in the forest or toying around with the ingredients the old woman had collected during long hours.

She had loved her nan, but she had not believed that anyone would ever manage to curb her spirit and bind it to their will. “There are things between heaven and earth, child, that you cannot even fathom. Creatures of great strength, beings of profound wisdom, and lives full of beauty and suffering; one day, you’ll find your place in the grand design and you shall bow to its magnitude.”

At this moment, her nan’s words revealed their true and full meaning. She had believed that walking to the chapel every day would be her life’s work, but she had been wrong. All her life, she had but been waiting for the quest to begin. A quest for truth and for freedom.

His cloak was still around her shoulders and she regretted having to take it off to slip back into her own, sinfully rumpled, clothes. Checking if he was looking at her, she lifted his garment to her face and inhaled.

It smelled of woodsmoke, pine needles and of something darker that she could not identify, for she had not known any man before. Not like that. She had not smelled their skin and thought about pressing her lips against theirs; she had spent her youth with an old woman and her adulthood alone.

“Woman, there are hills in the distance. Can we reach them before night falls?” He called out to her and she dropped the garment, feeling caught and embarrassed.

“No, but we should reach them soon after. Why?” She responded, returning to where he stood, both feet firmly planted on a rocky outcrop cutting through the grass like a blade.

“We could spend the night in one of the caves in the rocks.” He cocked one eyebrow as if that had been a very obvious thing to consider.

Approaching the point where he stood, already holding on to her cart, she hesitated.

“We cannot.” Her feet stopped moving entirely as they bumped against the edge of the rock.

“I have never gone beyond this point. This is where the wilderness starts.” She whispered, pulling a small, needle-like dagger from her pocket and planting it forcefully in her forearm. While her blood dripped onto the grass, she said a quiet prayer.

“What are you doing?” He asked, interested and slightly alarmed to see her bleed onto the floor.

“My blood is bound to this earth, Master Dwarf, I want the ground to remember me and to bring me home if ever I lose my way.” She sighed before adding with a tremor in her voice: “Many have not come back after stepping past this stone. This is where the world of fire and mystery starts.”

He looked at her with calm interest. “We are getting ever closer to where my kin lives.” He declared, an unspoken question in his eyes. “Aye.” She nodded, forcing herself to smile.

“Are you afeared?” – “Aye.” She repeated, but with a heaving sigh, she lifted her foot onto the ledge. His hand closed around her elbow as he pulled her up and took his cloak from her cold, trembling hands. “You may turn back now; I won’t resent you.”

She laughed in a low, rumbling voice. “I cannot turn back, Master Thorin, I have pledged my service to you. Your story is part of my blood now, inscribed forever in this earth you might never tread upon again. Maybe, it always has. Maybe, old nan knew what would happen long before I was born.”

He had to admire her blind faith. She seemed so brave in her belief that all that happened was meant to be. Closing his hand around the shells buried in his pocket, he decided to believe her.

“Why can we not take refuge in the caves?” He then asked as they made their way through the rougher terrain. Sometimes, he had to steady her as she tottered and stumbled because she could not see the small boulders jutting out of the ground like gravestones; she never complained or pulled away from him and the smile she wore in the semi-penumbra was full of faith and affection.

“You cannot breach the integrity of the rock and delve into it without being given permission. It is rude and bad manners lead to bad accidents.” She shrugged.

“Another teaching of old nan?” He commented without irony or ill-will. “Everything beyond that rock”, she pointed to the ledge they had just passed, “is alive. We are now in the realm of the old souls where the trees have voices and the stones are stubborn. Listen, Master Dwarf.” She murmured and he was surprised, again, at the simplicity with which she accepted these things.

Indeed, he could feel the rock underneath the thin layer of greenery thrum with anticipation; it had been a long time since last someone had come this way.

“The stone bears you no ill will, woman.” He heard himself say in a low, gentle voice. Her tread was so light that it felt like a caress to the neglected ground; or, maybe, it was the inherent reverence she seemed to hold for everything around her that swayed the unmoving to support her insecure, flailing steps as well as they could.

“I give thanks to its gracious acceptance then.” She smiled, kneeling on the ground immediately and pressing both her hands to it in silent prayer.

This, he thought, was why she had survived. She had believed herself out of the reach of what she called “magic wilderness”, but he was almost certain that every element surrounding her had conspired to keep her safe.

“I have a sister.” Why did he tell her those things? “Oh, really? Is she beautiful?” She looked up.

“No, she’s a terrible…yes, she’s…She’s my sister. I guess she’s alright. Others find her beautiful.” He laughed and her smile broadened while the ground hummed in agreement with the joy they were spreading.

“She has those two terrible boys. I wonder…Would you teach them?” He was not usually this open, protecting his family and their secrets with fierce jealousy, but a part of him wanted her warm light of affection and respect to shine on his kin as much as on himself.

“Teach them what? What could a simple maiden like me teach princes?” She scoffed.

Maiden? Had she really told him that? She could have died of embarrassment.

Thankfully, he did not pick up on it, instead pinching the bridge of his impressive nose and groaning: “Respect…and how to swim.”

“Love shines brighter than respect, Master Thorin, but it doesn’t cancel it out. I’ve respected nan a great deal, but I loved her more. You are their uncle first and their king second, I’m afraid.” She smiled and he was struck by the truth in her words. It had been a silly remark, only half-serious, but her earnest tone chased away all teasing in his voice as he agreed with her.

“Keep that gorgeous head over the waterline and you’ll be fine.” She then picked up on the second part of his sentence seamlessly with a cheeky wink. “That much, I had figured out.”

They neared the looming rock now, pocked with caves and alcoves, and her steps slowed.

“Trust me, we are quite welcome.” He reassured her when he saw her hesitate; her hand slid very willingly into his own as he led her up a narrow ledge, leaving the cart at the foot of the small rise.

“I’ve told you so much about my sorry, lonesome life. Tell me more about yours if you please.” She asked as they entered a spacious cave. “We are on our way to rejoin my kin in Ered Luin.” He started, his face growing hard and unforgiving for a second in the light of the small fire he was coaxing to life. “One day, I shall reclaim Erebor though.”

She gasped. Another childhood story seemed to bleed from her befuddled mind into the real world surrounding her. “The lonely mountain…is real?” She asked, her breath bated.

“Of course it is real. What do you mean? What do you know about it?” He looked up sharply.

She had poured over every map in the small library of her town, she had even asked for express permission to enter the one in the richer, more sophisticated neighbouring town and she had questioned every travelling merchant she had encountered, but nobody had ever seen that fabled mountain. Many had even scoffed and laughed at her, shooing her away like an unruly child with too many questions and not enough common sense.

“Oh no, you were telling me a story, Master Dwarf.” She shook her head, undecided if she should tell him about a family secret; after all, since she had met him, many things she had imagined being mere fiction and a dash of conjecture had turned out to be completely true. Maybe, he would know more about those things and old mysteries would finally be resolved.

“As I said, I shall reclaim Erebor and lead my people home…after the bane is dead.”

“Which bane?” She cradled her head in her hands, elbows resting on her drawn-up knees and listened to him talk. He had a deep and melodic voice, the voice of century-old pride and eternity-spanning strength, and she liked the way it soothed the gnawing fear inside of her guts.

The sound of his voice was a presence in itself, reassuring and as solid as the creature it spilled forth from; it conveyed confidence and inspired trust. It was the voice of a king, booming in alarm and lulling in peaceful narration.

“The dragon, Smaug.” He uttered with disdain and barely held-back anger. “A dragon? Really?” She shook her head, dazed beyond words; dragons were even less likely to exist than dwarves.

“Yes, really. What other creatures do you not believe in?” He seemed partially impatient and partially amused; when his face split into a dazzling grin though, she realised that he was mostly entertained by her apparent naïveté.

“Are there really creatures made of pure light who can talk to trees and float over the ground?”

“His name is Thranduil and he’s a pain in the ass. Excuse the language, he’s a treacherous, disloyal coward, but yes, he is fair. As in…he shines with a cold, hard light. He rides an elk and some say that his soul can travel in the form of a white cow…or deer…or something stupid like that.” Thorin grumbled, heat flushing his face upon thinking of that distasteful creature he was describing. She laughed, she threw her head back and laughed heartily, her laughter echoing deep within the lonely stones encasing them. “Amazing!” She wheezed, clapping her hands and, had he hated Thranduil just a smidgen less, he would have been tempted to take her to the dark woods that cursed king lived in just to see her marvel at him.

That leaf-muncher riding other grass-eating dumb beasts did not deserve her starry-eyed wonder, even though, Thorin didn’t doubt that for one instant, the king of dark trees would have loved that.

She would also enjoy the forest, at least the way it had once been; she would love the different berries and herbs one could find galore in the shade of the trees that did indeed whisper of their dark secrets.

“Oh, I hope you won’t be disheartened by the long walk. There’s so many people I want you to meet: my darned nephews, my fiery sister…Ori, he sure loves a good story. If you start telling him your stories, he’ll follow you around like a puppy.” Thorin rumbled and she was struck by the love in his voice. These people sounded interesting and she couldn’t wait to meet them.

He inspected the fading burns and muttered: “Óin will want the recipe for this salve. If you manage to charm the old boy, and I’m sure you will, he might trade some of his own tinctures and potions with you.”

“Oh, I’d love to share my recipes with him. I’m sure there’s a dire need for it…with furnaces and dragons and such things.” She exclaimed, completely disregarding the gravity of the subject.

“Do you think they’d want to meet me though? I am just a human and far from the best of them.” Suddenly, she was overcome by a sense of dread and insecurity. She had never left her valley and the surrounding area; she would strike them as a silly girl who knew nothing of the world they had been born and raised in.

“You’re charming and you bring skills and knowledge we’d greatly profit from…but yes, we’re a private people and there will be dwarves who will not take to you kindly. I shall do my best to protect you.” He would not lie to her and she was thankful for his candid words.

“I have been poor and outcast all my life, I am not afraid of being shunned. I am used to a life in the shadows surrounding the bright lights.” She gave him a warm smile that was meant to be reassuring; she did not want him to trouble himself on her behalf.

“There will be none of that under my rule.” He sounded definitive, clearly, the last word was spoken on the matter and she dared not contradict him.

“Will you tell me of your prophecy?” His voice was soft now, enchanting, coaxing, seductive.

“Will you tell me of your mountain?” She shot back in the same melting tone.

“Tell me what you know of it first.” He challenged her and she blew up her cheeks in an effort to remember the exact words, handed down from generation to generation in her family. From daughter to daughter, words spoken in kitchens over steaming cups of herbal brew and at bedsides when the fire burned low.

“When my nan’s mother was but a babe in arms, or was it her grandmother, I don’t recall…either way, a traveller came to them.” She rolled her eyes, adding in a narrator-tone “Travellers coming seems to be a theme in our family history”.

“So, a traveller came and told them a great treasure had been received in the Lonely Mountain.”

“The Arkenstone.” Thorin exploded, shocked and outraged, apparently, she had touched upon another one of his well-guarded and jealously kept secrets.

“No, it didn’t sound like it was a stone. It was said that – after desolation and ruin, after being lost and found, upon returning home through the fire to lead his people – he, whoever he is, will be the “spring”.”

She paused, rubbing her index along her lower lip slowly to focus her mind.

“Go on…” He encouraged her. “I do not know if “spring” is meant in the sense of the season of rebirth or of the source of something good…or even as the coil that will catapult the world into the future, but he shall be the “spring”.”

She shrugged. “It’s been, oh so many years, and no doubt, the story has been tweaked beyond recognition or sense, but there it is. We’ve only ever heard of that place once: as the crib of a miracle.”

She shivered in the flickering light of the dying embers and when he took her hand, it was icy cold. “It’s a real place…I was born there, but we had to leave when the dragon came. It has vast halls, once filled with laughter and light, and…a treasure.” He tried to hold up his end of the bargain.

“You said that twice.” She teased. “What?” He frowned.

“You said that you have lived there and then you said there was a treasure. I understood you the first time.” She grinned when a treacherous blush stole into his cheeks. He was a warrior and a leader, he was not used to shameless flattery from females and he did not know how to react.

“I meant an actual treasure. Gold and gems.” He stammered, lost for words.

“I meant an actual treasure too, silver and marble.” She smiled, waving aside his embarrassment.

“Did you believe in that prophecy?” He then asked, to change the subject.

“Oh, Master Dwarf, human lives are short, but we believe in cycles. We are born, we live, we die, but everything and everyone comes back somehow. What has been lost, will be found. What has left, might well return. Nan used to say when one is at a loss, one should go back to where it ended, because chances are, that’s exactly where it will start again.”

Giving his hand a slight squeeze, she whispered: “You will face your dragon again, you will see your home again, you will have the chance to walk the same path backwards and find new solutions to old problems. This is not the end, it is but another beginning.”

She looked like an old, wise woman herself now, despite the youth of her face and the softness of her body, for her eyes seemed timeless. How many cycles had those eyes and the knowledge within them seen?

“Where is old nan now?” He asked. “Buried under the chapel where you found me. Where I found you.” Her smile was unfathomable and deep, as if the world held no secrets for her anymore, and he was in awe of her once again.

“You are cold.” He said in a hushed voice when she shivered again. He remembered how she had plunged into the cold water for his dinner and suspected that she had never really dried.

“I am fine.” She crept a little closer to the dying fire. “I don’t want to leave you here to fetch more wood.” He murmured as if to himself and she was quick to promise that she was completely comfortable the way she was. She had known cold and darkness before and she was not afraid of it.

“Will you teach my nephews to swim then?” He prompted her again, just to see her warm smile. She thought them children, but to her, they would look like full-grown men already.

“I could not bear to see such beautiful hair turned into this.” She pointed at the matted, tangled mass of her own hair hanging in a wild nest from her head.

“Their hair is pitiful either way. You might want to brush, should I give you privacy?” He offered, turning around and handing her a comb.

She wondered where he had taken it from, but she suspected that he brushed his own luscious locks obsessively every time her head was turned away, because there was no way his hair looked like this on its own.

He could hear the comb dragging through her hair and the sweet smell of fresh water filled the air, a note of citrus and wild flowers dancing on the waves the scent conjured up, and he had to grit his teeth to keep himself from turning around.

“You know you can watch me brush my hair? I don’t make a secret out of it.” She laughed after a moment and he did not need more coaxing or inviting than that; he spun around immediately, his eyes riveted on her slow movements.

She felt slightly awkward with him staring at her as if she was about to undress in a slow, salacious way; more than ever, she was convinced that he brushed his hair in secret in a kind of semi-erotic ritual. His hair was of course also something that was quite bewitching.

She didn’t question the fact that she seemingly found everything about him enchanting, literally from the top of his head down to the sturdy boots he was pulling off now.

“Don’t do that, you’ll get cold feet.” She warned, mainly because her own felt frozen stiff by now, but he just gave a rumbling chuckle that seemed to be echoed by the walls.

“I am…not.” He laughed, rubbing his thumb over her cold, frail hand slowly to show her that he was much better than her at keeping his body temperature stable.

“So…have you always been a herb witch?” He asked, not letting go of her hand. For some reason, he just couldn’t bear when she fell into silence. He was so full of questions; old nan had never told her that dwarves were such nosy creatures.

“What? I am not. I am a potter by trade. I started making the vessels for my nan’s tinctures, but when…after the plague, there was no need for vases and plates and so I made money how I could.” I needed to eat, she thought, and my nan’s knowledge of the world around her saved my life.

“A potter?” He sounded taken aback. “Yes, Master Thorin, I make fragile things to be used just like you make durable, strong things to be used. We are what we make, it seems.”

He cocked one eyebrow: “You don’t strike me as particularly fragile.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter anyway, we learn a trade and we work in it, but ultimately, we must come back to our blood and the responsibility we have towards it, don’t we?”

He nodded slowly. One of her hands felt warm now, encased as it was in his huge paw, while the other one was still numb with cold.

For one moment, she debated if this was the moment to be prideful, but then she just extracted her hand from his, shoving it into the gap between her tunic and her skin.

He looked positively hurt by her action.

“I am sorry.” He mumbled. “Why? For what?” She asked as she extended her other hand to him; he just stared at it in confusion. “Could you warm this one up as well, please, Master Dwarf?”

It was mortifying having to ask, but he seemed puzzled. “Oh, I thought I had crossed a line by holding your hand for so long…I…you snatched it away to tuck it away in a safe place…kind of…wiping it…I don’t know.” He confessed.

She didn’t know if she should laugh or frown at that kind of stupidity. “You are very warm.” She simply said, sighing with relief when he took her other hand and rubbed it slowly.

“You are clearly not.” He replied, his strong hands closing around hers up to the wrist. She felt like crawling into him and staying there.

Had nan known about this as well? Had she known that a dwarf lord was like a furnace, radiating light and heat in to the confined space she was huddled up in? The almost dead fire before her seemed a ridiculous, puny thing compared to him.

The hand in her tunic was growing cold again and she proceeded to another sneaky switch, which made him chuckle under his breath. “Scoot in closer?” He offered.

It was inappropriate. He was a king-to-be, he was a creature she had not believed existed in the first place, he was wholly too virile and intimidating, but when he extended his arm she pressed against his ribs with fervent eagerness.

“You’re frozen…and your clothes are wet. How are they wet?” He exclaimed as his arm settled around her shoulders. She had thrown them too carelessly onto the bank and they had soaked up some water, she thought, but she would not tell him about her own stupidity for fear of making him worry more than she was worthy of.

“Enough is enough. I’ll go get some new wood and fetch some dry clothes from the cart. You get out of these rags.” He rumbled, but when he tried to get up, she slung her arm around his waist in a fit of childish petulance.

“I’ll be back soon.” He draped his own cloak around her. “No, you’ll be cold. Take it.” She cried out, extending his garment to him. “Stone and metal hold heat better than mud.” He smiled gently and exited the cavern.

His sudden absence turned the cave into a grave and she scrambled out of her wet clothes with frantic urgency, spreading them on the rocks at the back of the grotto.

“Oh stone, let me hear those heavy footfalls so I know I’m not alone.” She begged, lying down on the floor, his cloak underneath her skin and half-draped across her shivering body.

He found nothing but his own clothes and, in his haste to get back to her, he grabbed a tunic of his and hurried up to the cave again.

She was lying on the floor and for a second, he thought that she might have fainted or worse, but when she sat up, a smile of welcome blossomed on her face that made his heart wince.

His cloak had slipped and he realised that she was back in her chemise, her naked body clearly fathomable under the thin layer of fabric. “I could only find my own tunic, I am, again, so sorry.” He mumbled, walking over to her slowly. She did not flinch or move back; her whole body seemed to lean towards his approaching silhouette instead.

While he threw some twigs onto the fire, begging it to flare into life again for her sake, he couldn’t help observing the way her breasts lifted and sank as she shrugged into his tunic, sighing in an expression of pleasure that was cruelly uncalled-for in her present state of hypothermia.

“Tell me more about your kin, Master Dwarf. Tell me about the people I shall meet so I shall know them when I see them.” She begged, extending her arms to make him sit down by her side.

“Are you still cold?” He asked, alarmed, as he settled next to her. She slipped back under his arm like a child, feeling frail and shivering, but sighing contentedly.

“I shall be warm in a minute. Look at the fire, Master Dwarf, what beautiful things we could fashion if we had the tools and the time.” She murmured, fatigue making her voice grow slow and melting, like honey dripping onto his senses.

He was aware of her slowly heating up flesh and her tiny hand resting innocently on his thigh as she was snuggled against him the way his nephews had when they had been but tiny little things. Only, he had never felt the fire pass from the hearth in front of him into his bloodstream when his nephews had sought solace or protection under his wing. He had not wondered about the way he might feel or smell when they had been this close to his body.

“I think that you’ll like Balin. I really do. He’s kind and smart; he’ll love the stories about your nan. Ah, you’ll get to meet Dwalin as well, he’s…probably my best friend. He’s solid, but he’s…there’s a reason he’s my best friend. We’re…less courteous than we should be.” Thorin started to honour her wish. “You’re lovely, stop it.” She mumbled hazily.

He thought about her words and about the mussel shells he still kept in his pocket. She was right, if he had the tools and the time, he would make something beautiful for her; she deserved something frivolous and gorgeous for all the help and devoted service she had offered him.

His eyes fell on her feet that were extended away from him and he was aghast to see them take a blueish hue. She was not falling asleep; she was succumbing to the surrounding cold still.

“Close in, oh stone, protect her.” He whispered, but the rock around him seemed to mock his words. “Close in, oh son of stone, son of ore, protect her.” Voices thrummed through the unmoving walls, and so he did.

Gathering her up like a bundle of empty clothes, he pulled her into his lap, leaning back against the stone wall and held her there.

Looking down, he saw the naked expanse of her legs which made him feel like an idiot for not having thought of that before. With one hand, he bent her legs at the knee and tucked them safely into the hollow he had created by spreading his own.

She lay flush against him now, he could feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own and, when he pulled his cloak over her gently, his hand brushed the smooth skin of her unclothed thigh.

Just a hand-breadth higher he would have brushed against other parts, secret parts, that were much like his dinner: firmly closed now, but if heated just right, revealing a glittering pearl.

This was a very inopportune thought to have, he berated himself, as his body heated up against his will, making her press against him with ever more fervour.

A maiden, she had used that word, and despite being clearly of age, he wondered if she had meant that in the most allusive and perversely seductive of senses.

When had that plague ravaged her village? When had old nan died? How long had she been alone?

It didn’t matter. She would not consider sacrificing that most precious of prizes to one such as him…She had not denied him anything this far, he remembered, not her time, not her care, not her boundless courage.

Not this though, he curbed his own fanciful imagination, never this. He would not ask anything of her, not before he could show himself worthy of all the things she had given up for his benefit this far.

Her hand snaked up and came to rest just above his heart. “Lovely.” She repeated in a low, mumbling voice.

And, as she was warm and clearly asleep now, he permitted himself the tiny, tortureous indulgence of pressing his lips for one brief moment against her head, resting against his shoulder as if it belonged there. Maybe…it did.

#richard armitage #thorin oakenshield #fanfiction #ao3 #a bit of crack #Thranduil is named #softcore smut #hints #thorin is an idiot #women have feet

10 notes · View notes

fallin-4-ya · 4 years ago

Photo

The Follies and Vices of You

cedric diggory x reader- part v of series

based off the novel and film ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by Jane Austen

summary: Being the beloved sister of the incredibly wealthy Mr. Potter, you felt no need to rush into marriage. But one day, when you come to meet a new acquaintance, the proud Mr. Diggory, your views of love and follies change.

warnings: none! (gif is not mine, credit to owner!)

part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v

‘Maybe it’s that I find it hard to forgive the follies and vices of others, or their offenses against me. My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.’ -Jane Austen

The snow melted and flowers began growing, winter gone and the world welcoming spring with open arms. The earth turned ever so slowly and the cold months of the year began to pass, while the months of summertime approached slowly.

You thought often about the words crossed between you and Mr. Diggory and reread his letter hundreds of times. You replayed every emotion in your memory and found solace in his warm eyes, unable to remove him from your thoughts. The feeling of guilt, anger and love resided deep with you, for you couldn’t tell which thought to be corresponding to him.

Miss Ginny, however may have been right about two things in her letter sent to you in the New Year. You had received a proposal form not only Mr. Diggory, but from Mr. Malfoy as well which you declined almost instantly. While the other being she would be home before the flowers bloomed, which excited you greatly.

You told no soul about the proposal or the letter sent from Mr. Diggory, not even Miss Ginny; for to remember the memories of the conversation was far too painful. You had not seen Mr. Diggory since, you were told he was to go back home for the summer months.

One morning at breakfast, your brother turned to you, ‘Y/N, I am to go across country with Mr. Ron Weasley next week for some business.’ You hummed softy, ‘How would you like to join us? I think some fresh air will do you good.’

You looked up at Harry with sweet eyes, ‘Oh Harry! Of course, how exciting that sounds! What a wonderful distraction from life this will be, as what are men compared to rocks and mountains!’

The following week you rode up country in the carriage with Harry and Mr. Ron Weasley. The trip was splendid so far, as you passed the blossoming trees and blooming flowers. It felt as the world was at peace. You turned your attention to your brother,

‘Harry, where are we anyway?’

‘Derbyshire, I believe.’

‘Harry,’ Interjected Mr. Weasley, ‘Is that not the home of Mr. Diggory?’

‘Yes, Ron, I do believe it is!’ replied your brother, ‘Shall we pay our old friend a visit?’

‘Oh lets not!’ you quickly spurred out, ‘He um- Well he’s so rich. I do prefer not to.’

‘And what are we my dear sister!’ Harry shakes his head in amusement, ‘Nonsense, we shall go see our business partner. I thought you would love to meet an old acquaintance, Y/N.’

With that you slumped down into your seat, dreading the visitation of Mr. Diggory.

When you all had finally arrived to his estate you could not help but to smile to yourself, because it was more beautiful than you could ever imagine. You graciously made you way up the grand staircase up to the front doors. The doors opened and you were met face to face with Mr. Diggory, a meeting you had thought so long about. His eyes were still warm and you saw a smile that you hadn’t quite seen there before

‘Mr. Diggory.’ You bowed at his, returning the smile.

‘Miss Y/N, what a most pleasant surprise!’ He took your hand, greeting you properly. He then turned you your brother and Mr. Weasley, welcoming them to his home.

Soon you all sat in his parlor, conversation coming easily; all the while Mr. Diggory turned to you. ’Miss Y/N, would you do me the honor of perhaps playing the pianoforte. It’s been such a long while since music was played in my home.’

You nodded and walked up to the pianoforte, then began playing it graciously. The men once again became absorbed in conversation as you went into your own little world with your playing. It felt like hours had passed as you played; however, you were brought out of your piano trace with a presence stood above you. Without looking up or stopping your fingers you said,

‘You mean to frighten me, Mr. Diggory, coming in all your state to listen to me. But I shan’t be alarmed even if your family does play so well.’

He laughed, ‘Oh, Miss Potter, I know well that I cannot frighten you even if I were to wish it.’

You looked into his brown eyes, as if you were seeing their richness for the very first time. You saw the man behind the wall, a man ruined by tragedy and grief; a man numbed by the betrayal of friends and the loss of a most beloved sister. for how tragic life can be, as you knew that all too well. And perhaps Mr. Diggory was right, just because one has pride, we have no right to be prejudice towards the; especially when one’s character is severely misunderstood.

You stood quickly identifying your feelings, becoming very uneasy. You apologized and walked out of the room; for what you felt, you could not bear.

For the rest of the trip you pondered over your likeness of Mr. Diggory. You spend your nights lying awake solely thinking about him, he danced in your mind as a distance memory, something that was always just out of reach. And returning home did not fix your heartbreak, but rather made it worse. The feelings which you felt were buried very deep within your insides, for you could not handle the recollection of the emptiness you felt without him.

Month passed, and seasons changed. The end of summer came quickly. Your restlessness came to no avail, spending most nights walking the grounds of the estate. There your thoughts could not disturb you.

One night walking, you saw dawn soon approaching; but there was something else also steadily approaching you.

Mr. Diggory.

He headed onwards staright towards you, both of you dressed only in night clothes. Mr. Diggory came to you steadily with shaky hands.

‘Mr. Diggory! How- why?’

‘I could not sleep, Miss. Y/N. I think only of you and knew I had to come see you again, only to ask one more time.’

He paused looking at you, exhaling deeply. You nodded and gazed into his loving eyes.

‘Miss. Y/N, if your feelings have remined the same since last winter, please tell me so at once. My affections towards you have not changed, but one word from you will silence me forever. However, if your feelings have changed,’ he paused slowly, ‘I wish to tell you that you have bewitched me body and soul and I love- I love you. And I never wish to be parted from you from this day forth.’

‘It’s always been you, Mr. Diggory.’ You stared longingly at him, ‘For I cannot express the moment it stared; but that once I realized, I was only in the middle and far too deep to turn back. So, if you will take me as I am, I am yours.’

He took your hands in his, drawing them in slowly and planting a kiss onto each knuckle. Stars in his eyes and angels in yours, it was like this moment had been envisioned a hundred times in your head but never had the courage of playing itself out. Now, instead of dancing alone in his memories, you danced in each other’s, together.

For the first time you felt like you were home, and you loved him, and he loved you. And after all, how much more could you ask for.

(authors note: Ahh! its finally here! the last chapter of this series, but not to worry there will be an epilogue! if you came this far, thank you so much, i really enjoyed writing this series and I hope you enjoyed reading it! much love <333)

tag list: @freddieweasleyswife @truly-insatiable @annasdani @mullthingsoverinthehotwater

#Harry Potter #harry potter fanfiction #cedric diggory #cedric diggory x reader #cedric diggory x you #Ron Weasley #ginny weasley #Draco Malfoy #draco malfoy x reader #pride and predujice #jane austen #sirius black

56 notes · View notes

sailingintothenight · 5 years ago

Text

“HAPPY.” T.H. Imagine.

Tom meets a little angel and you, her mom.

A/N: After reading some stories about single mom x Tom that were totally adorable, I wanted to write my own story that ended up being longer than expected. I hope you like it, please give it a try. Thank you! (And If you have time, listen to Kim Taeyeon and her song Happy :)

With a long sigh, Tom closes the door to the room and falls to the floor, because the pain on his shoulders is as heavy as the whole world.

The melon-colored walls and wooden flooring gives the hospice a warm touch, but the air in his lungs is cold when Tom takes a deep breath that comes in, trying to find spaces to fill in his soul and empty body. There is no one around him, no paparazzi, no interviewers, no fans screaming his name, no excitement of being a movie star who shines for his talent and charm. His heart beats fast against his chest, like an animal that hit the cage's bars that keeps him prisoner: it is fierce because he is afraid, and he feels as if he were falling into a spiral of madness in complete solitude. His hands tremble because the self-control slips from them like the sand between his fingers, fingers that he uses to brush his somewhat long and wavy hair, pulling on the ends because the pain is a reminder that he is still alive.

"Why are you so sad?"

The world lets him hear a voice that seems covered in cotton candy, as sweet as the 4-year-old (soon to be 5) girl in front of him. Tom blinks, confused, watching the infant's small face and the way her eyes look back at him until it finds his sad soul. Her eyes are dark blue like the calm waters of the sea, blue like the summer sky, alive and full of curiosity behind her long lashes: two hidden treasures that were a gift from her father. But the color of those eyes contrasts beautifully with her chocolate brown hair that falls past her shoulders and her white jacket with bunny ears hanging behind, while a melody is heard from the headphones hanging around her neck, a feminine voice that sings in another language, but whose voice is of a warm color that even Tom can perceive.

"Hello there, angel." Tom smiles feigning courage, and stops being a defeated body on the ground to change his posture and squat to be at the (emotional) level of a girl. "What are you doing here alone? Where is your mum?"

Marley smiles sideways, the corner of her lip curling up as her right eyebrow sinks in with the depth of her thoughts: she's skeptical, because she knows something is wrong with him.

“My mom says that if you smile very, very big, you will feel happy immediately. It is a psych... psychological fact.” Marley struggles to say that word, because she is still 4 years old and her bag of words, as she calls it, is still limited.

Tom smiles slightly, not with happiness because something is pressing on his chest still, but because he’s amazed at the intelligence of a little girl who wasn’t older than 5 years old. And suddenly, a tiny, positive feeling runs through him with a super speed and leaves him as fast as it came, but Tom discovers what it is right away and clings to it with firm hands while his eyes, that are like chocolate, shine with the curiosity of a small child, too.

"Oh yeah? Your mommy must be very smart then.”

Marley shrugs casually.

"She reads a lot." She says it as a fact, and her clasped hands in front of her make her look like someone bigger's action, or so Tom thinks, taking in every detail of her without realizing it. "Would you help me with something? I can't reach the vending machine and I want a yogurt.”

"Oh, sure." He replies, still a little surprised by a baby's choice of words, and soon as he gets up, he feels ashamed of himself as he remembers that vocabulary seemed like a difficult word for him. "I'm Tom by the way. What is your name, angel?”

"Marley. Marley Rose."

Marley smiles at him, throwing her head back so that she can look him in the eye, because Tom is taller than she is. Tom can't help but smile, and can't help but feel the tickle in his left hand as Marley catches his to guide him - which gives him a warm feeling. She leads the way down the hallway that is quiet so late at night, towards the empty living room and to the gigantic machine that is challenging for her and her short stature.

"Marley, where's your mum?" Tom asks again, because although he’s a good person, he can't help but feel concerned about seeing a little girl alone.

Standing next to him, Marley looks at him and the light from the machine makes the corner of her face shine.

"She is with my Grandma. She gave me this dollar to buy something downstairs, but the machine doesn't have chocolate yogurt!”

"No way!" Tom says, speaking a little louder, making a slightly high-pitched voice to imitate her: and it makes her laugh a sweet tune, like the sound that keeps coming out of her headphones. "Let me help you get your yogurt."

Tom takes the bill from her small hand and inserts it into the machine, he presses the number indicated on the screen, and then the machine pushes the yogurt bottle towards the opening at the bottom.

"You did it. Thanks, Tom!" Marley presses herself against his body in a quick hug before reaching her prize, happy.

Tom smiles; he cannot help it when he sees her open her bottle, because she is so sweet, so innocent, and because something is recomposed inside him by feeling the pure aura of a girl who seems to hide in her words, the wisdom of a much older person.

"Come on, angel. Let's go to find your mum."

Marley nods, the bottle still against her lips as her small hand reaches for Tom's, and again, she guides him down the hall to the gray-door elevators on the other side of that floor. But the questions that Tom has in his head disappear the instant those metal doors open under the sound of a ding, announcing the encounter with a person on the other side, a young woman who looks at him under the seconds that seems eternal to him, as if the world had stopped in his favor only to make that moment last more than a few seconds.

"Mommy!"

Marley's voice is even sweeter because she recognizes her mom, the being who gave her life and, who loved her, more than anything in the world. Tom watches you get out of the elevator and it's then that new questions appear in his blank mind, questions that, while are quite obvious, are quite difficult to assimilate.

"Marley Rose Daniels, you had me worried." But you sigh in relief, because your fears leave your body the moment you see her again. At that very moment, it is when you realize who is the young man who is holding your daughter's hand, because you know that he has been walking those hallways for a while, but that is a story for later. "Hi, thanks for taking care of her, please don't think I'm a bad mother."

"No, I could never-" Tom says, and then, he realizes he's speechless: because you look so young, so pretty too, and right there, Tom understand why Marley got such a sweet face. "Don't worry about it."

"That's good. Thanks." You say, slightly embarrassed, and your gaze that falls to the ground meets your daughter's eyes. "You pinky promised me that you wouldn't go away too far, Marley."

"But mommy, there was no chocolate yogurt downstairs." And at that moment, Marley lets go of Tom's hand, her head held high as she approaches you because she is not afraid of you, nor the reprimand that never comes, and instead, her hand takes yours and she looks at you with her warm gaze and her eyes with the color that some considered cold. “Sorry.”

"Stop obsessing over that yogurt."

"Never!" Marley pretends to be upset and frowns, taking a firm stance that makes you chuckle, and that makes Tom chuckle, too, because that interaction between you and her makes him happy when he realizes that you two are only joking, as if you were best friends. "Mommy, this is Tom, Tom, she is my mommy."

And you chuckle again, because, although your name is not mommy, it makes you feel proud to be called that way.

"I'm her mommy, but my name is (y/n)... Daniels." You extend your hand towards him, and a tickle runs down his hand before taking yours.

"Tom Holland."

"I know." You smile, rocking his hand in yours, because his hand is still closed, still intertwined with yours.

"You know? Oh.” Tom chuckle shyly because the movie star title still makes him blush, and is a thought that prevents his brain from noticing that his hand is still taking yours while his heart is still wrapped in the warmth of your fingers tips. "Oh, sorry."

"Don't worry about it." You smile, giving him his past words as you clear your throat, so that your next words don't tremble under your shyness. "Well... I think it's time to go home."

"Yeah." Marley and Tom respond: he, in a whisper coming from between his lips before he can stop it.

You chucke, but pretend not to hear it as you press the button on the wall, the metal doors opening instantly under the usual sound. With Marley's hand in yours, you walk in with Tom behind you, taking his place inside the little spot next to her, but when you try to push the button to the basement parking lot and he, the button to the first floor, your hands meet inches away from touching again, bringing nervous laughter.

"Sorry." You both say at the same time, and the timing makes you giggle again.

But with the floors selected, the doors close and your chest clenches painfully, as if the closed doors cut off the air that you can still breathe.

"Don't be scared, mommy." Marley says sweetly, but her hand on yours gives you courage.

"Thanks, baby." And when you look up, Tom is too slow to take his eyes off of you, and they reflect the question you can easily see in his tender gaze. "I'm scared of elevators."

"It's okay." Tom smiles, as if he wants to give you courage, too. "We'll be out in a sec–"

But his words are cut off like the lights that suddenly go out when the elevator stops abruptly, giving way to the emergency lights that only project their light on your most absurd fear after seeing so many accidents on television. Your throat closes painfully, as the air becomes hotter than normal, and for a second, you stay where you are, your hand holding your daughter's as Tom approaches the wall to press the emergency button.

"It must be because of the rain." He says, in an attempt to keep you calm. "Don't panic, the lights will come back in a moment."

"I hope so." You whisper, suddenly weak, fearful.

"Don't be scared, mommy." Marley hugs you, and her small hands cling to the side of your body, like the heat that she shares with you as the courage she gives you to keep you calm. "But can we sit down? I'm tired."

"I'm so sorry, honey, you should be asleep by now." You say and take the bottle of her hand, sitting on the floor and placing yourself in a comfortable position so that she can sleep on top of you.

"Tom, come, sit next to us." She says, and Tom smiles, and although he feels shy, he sits next to you against the cold ground. Protected by her mom's heat, Marley smiles, her head resting at your chest height, and she hides her eyes behind her eyelids that close with the fatigue that her small body can no longer bear.

"She's beautiful." Tom whispers after a few seconds later, and his gaze stays fixed on yours so you can see that he's serious, and that he's somehow, he’s talking about her inner beauty, too. "She's really smart too."

"Thank you." You whisper back, maintaining somehow, the pleasant silence. "I do my best to raise her, I really do, but sometimes I feel like she raises me."

Tom smiles.

"She told me that smiling makes you happy, that it was a psychological fact. I didn't know that such a little girl could pronounce that word. I can't even say vocabulary.”

You chuckle.

“She is 4 years old but talks like a woman sometimes. And when she talks to my best friend on the phone, I swear they can talk for hours. I think it was not a good idea to teach her what Kpop was, because they both don't stop talking about it. Sophia even bought her an Ipod.”

"Oh yeah, I totally understand you..." Tom says, feeling a strange joy at noticing that you have one thing in common. "Danielle, my mate's girlfriend is crazy about kpop too.”

"Yes, I know..." You sigh, relieved to be accompanied in the dark situation. “It looks like we will be here for a while so... Yogurt?"

Your outstretched hand holding the bottle makes him see you're serious, and Tom smiles unable to refuse the gesture, so he takes it, his fingers brushing yours along the way, giving it an electrifying feeling.

"Wow..." He says after drinking a little. “I get why Marley is so obsessed with this. This is really good!"

You smile, and something inside you breaks: setting aside the pain, maybe it wasn't a bad idea to have moved to London.

#tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfic #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland x you #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x oc #tom holland x single mom #tom holland fic #tom holland fluff #tom holland one shot #tom holland x original character #tom holland fanfiction

464 notes · View notes

jaskiersvalley · 5 years ago

Note

You are the one who got me hooked on Eskel/Lambert and now I can't stop writing them together how did you do this to me, shipping by osmosis

Yes! Welcome to this small ship (a whole 46 stories on AO3). But our numbers are slowly growing. And I will also point you in the direction of @ohnomybreadsticks for some quality content, especially when slipping Cahir into the mix too (canon? What’s that?). To celebrate your joining of this ship, I have a really still idea to bestow upon you.

Arriving in a town with the promise of a contract, only to find another witcher had already been by was always annoying. Even worse when the locals had chased said witcher from their midst without payment and rushed into hurriedly packing his things. At least the locals let Geralt and Jaskier pay for a room as long as they moved on from the village the next day. They even gave them the same room that had been sullied by the previous witcher. For some reason, Geralt had stiffened upon entering the room, as if met by a familiar scent but he refused to elaborate so Jaskier shrugged. If it was important, he would find out. The next moment, his attention was taken up by a leaf of parchment poking out from under the bed. Curiosity piqued, he grabbed it in a rush even though he knew Geralt wouldn’t have gone near it anyway.

“-makes things bearable. I do hope he’s okay. While I keep an ear out for whispers of him and know I cannot walk my Path and his at the same time, I worry. Winter cannot come soon enough. Even if I can’t hold him like I’d want to, I can at least make sure he can take it easy and actually enjoy being alive for a change. I’d do so much more-”

It was too intimate, probably an entry from a journal that was falling apart. Jaskier’s hear squeezed at the idea of a witcher who was so obviously in love with someone that sounded like another witcher. Maybe he needed a bit of help in romancing the love of his life. Jaskier knew what it was like, to love a witcher and not be loved in return. Maybe he could help spare someone this miserable fate.

Finding a charmed bird was quite difficult and cost a good chunk of coin but Jaskier deemed it a worthy sacrifice. The pigeon would track the intended recipient of a letter and could be used as a way to communicate over long distances.

Dear Witcher,

I am but a humble bard who happened upon a page of your journal. Your plight sings to my heart as we both seem to love someone who walks the Path and we can but quiver in our boots and hope they return to our side after each separation. While return they do, our beloveds don’t seem to realise that we would bestow upon them more than our care as friends. May I offer you solace and friendship through these letters, as one fool in love with a witcher to another.

Jaskier tied that, along with the page he had found, along with a feather from one of his hats to the pigeon. It went its way and Jaskier could only hope his offer was taken for what it was, a genuine, heartfelt companion for the broken hearted.

It took two weeks for the pigeon to return, a fresh piece of parchment tied to its leg.

Bard,

This is a most unexpected letter, I didn’t even realise I lost a page from my journal. It’s almost full now and seen more than its fair share of battles. Thank you for returning it. As for the matter of its content, I would love to say it’s none of your business and never speak of it again. Yet, despite my best caution, I am intrigued to find another who claims to love a witcher. If you’re struggling for his affections, may I suggest you feed him? While my wolf is fiercely independent, he does always look so touched and bashful when presented with little delicacies he wouldn’t have treated himself to otherwise.

Best of luck on your quest to win a fortified heart, Witcher

It was a most exciting development, not once did the mysterious witcher tell Jaskier to stop contacting him, or even dishearten him. Instead, Jaskier had been given a hint on how to woo Geralt. New tactic in mind, Jaskier set about buying sweet cakes and pastries whenever he could and presenting them to Geralt. At first, it was met with offended bafflement but, slowly, over time, Jaskier could see the hopeful glances. Even better was when, out of the blue, Jaskier was presented with a blueberry tart - his absolute favourite.

Dear Witcher,

Thank you for your help. My own wolf has mellowed and seems appreciative, if confused, by the sudden treats. He even returned the gesture. Something I’ve found he likes is his hair being played with. Mustn’t call it brushing or styling! But a quiet night by a fire, fingers carding through his hair definitely help him relax. It’s such a beautiful sight, so much power and raw strength tamed by nothing more than gentle touch. Maybe, when you next see your wolf, he might enjoy an evening with his head in your lap too.

Tell me more about your wolf though, what’s he like? I know I suffer when I cannot sing about the heroic deeds and virtues of my wolf. As a bard, thankfully i have an outlet so my heart doesn’t burst with love. But I wonder who you have that will listen to your adorations.

May your Path lead you to your wolf’s heart. Bard

Letters went back and forth between this witcher and Jaskier. Any questions about the witcher himself were ignored or not quite answered and Jaskier could appreciate that. He did learn a lot though, this witcher was kind, he was much like Geralt in that he wouldn’t take payment if there was true suffering without the means to fund the services of a witcher. There were also a few self-deprecating comments which led Jaskier to believe that the man he was exchanging letters with was shy, probably quite a gentle soul that was hardened by decades of life as a witcher.

There was one time Jaskier fretted over his pen pal. A letter had arrived, it had splatters of blood and was written with by a shaking hand. Short and to the point, so much so that Jaskier could have wept.

Bard - treasure your wolf and hold him close at night. They’re getting colder and longer. When he’s hurt, sing him a lullaby of old and even when it looks hopeless, you can be his guiding light. Remind him he’s never alone while he’s got you. Don’t let him waste your beset years together just because he’s a fool who cannot see all you have to offer.

That night, Jaskier pulled his bedroll closer and was surprised when Geralt easily allowed him to press close. Jaskier held his wolf not just for himself but for the mystery witcher who was likely injured and alone somewhere out there in the big wide world.

The exchange of letters continued. Jaskier learned about the witcher’s wolf, that he was dedicated to the Path even though he cursed it and the life he had before that too. It really sounded like whoever this sad wolf was, he had led a life of anger and disappointment. No wonder he couldn’t let in this other witcher and accept the love shown, he probably had no frame of reference for what love looked like or how to deal with it.

My dearest Witcher,

Winter draws closer and I have been invited to accompany my wolf to his home. There, I will get to meet his family which is rather nerve-wracking. I’ve heard a few stories of his brothers and while I hope they will find me to their liking, I still worry. Maybe I will use your suggestions in moderation and bring them treats as well as be a quiet but steady presence, should they need a confidant.

I do hope your winter goes well and you are able to hold your wolf in your strong arms at long last. Be honest with him. If he is as cautious with his heart as you say, and as kind under all his snark and bluster, I should hope that he will either accept all the love you have to offer with a bit of huffing. Or he will be gentle but clear in his boundaries of what his heart can and cannot offer.

Keep in touch over this winter, I have grown fond of you and your thoughtful words. Bard

Trekking up to Kaer Morhen, Jaskier didn’t think he’d get a pigeon until stashed away in the keep. Winter was cold and harsh, it made him worry for his pigeon. Or rather, their pigeon because Jaskier had noted at the bird always came back so cared for, once or twice it even had the remnants of a flower collar around its throat. Sometimes it had been given a nice bath, the soft perfume still gently wafting from its wings.

Jaskier had no idea what to expect of Kaer Morhen. It was large, ominous and cold. Drafts whipped through it and made fires flicker. Introductions were made, Jaskier nodded at Vesemir, Eskel and Lambert. He didn’t miss the way Geralt looked between the two younger witchers. Obviously there was something going on there that was unusual but Jaskier didn’t know them well enough to probe.

Bard,

I’m safely back at the my winter home, surrounded by family and more. I say more because one of my brothers has brought a bard back with him. They reek of each other and it’s almost disgusting how in love they seem. The bard himself is so young. A bright ray of sunshine in this dreary old place. I don’t think these halls had ever echoed with song before. It’s annoying on some level but at the same time, his cheer and seemingly open adoration of all things witcher is disarming. Somehow, I get the feeling you would like him. If I can find out more about him, I might try and send him your way. Makes me wonder what it is about bards and witchers but now there are two pairs at least on this continent. Maybe I should shuck my swords and take up a lute if I want to keep my own wolf happy.

Stay safe and warm, hold your wolf close on these cold nights. Witcher P.S. I took your advice and laid my heart bare. I no longer sleep in my room and have never been happier.

Upon reading the letter, Jaskier squealed in delight. His witcher friend had a wolf to hold and love. Even if their Paths took opposing directions, they now both had someone for return to, to fight for.

My dearest Witcher,

Your letter was the best news. I am so pleased you and your wolf have found solace in each other. Long may your love last and may you keep each other safe. And please, do let me know of this other bard. I would love to meet him. As long as it isn’t that talentless hack, Vadlo Marx, imitating me once more. If it is, please do the world and your witcher brother a favour and snap his neck. Everyone will thank you for it in the long term, trust me.

I’ve only managed to fall in love with my wolf’s family. They’re a quiet, reserved bunch but absolutely endearing. And let me tell you about the love between two of them. I don’t think I’ve seen a love more true or pure. There’s so much I want to ask them about how they found peace with each other, how they manage out in the world without each other when on the Path. If I glean anything useful, I will be sure to pass it onto you and it might help ease your burdens when a new season rolls around.

Have a happy winter, Bard

Carefully, Jaskier fixed the letter to the pigeon and opened the window. However, the cold must have frightened it because it took off towards the door, flying through the keep with Jaskier running after it, yelling. They ended up in the kitchen where Eskel was lounging against the counter while Lambert kneaded some bread.

“Oh hello,” Eskel cooed at the pigeon and held a hand out for it to land. Grinning, he plucked the letter off with practised ease. “You came back a lot quicker than expected. Less than a day.”

Which was when Jaskier burst into the kitchen, huffing and puffing, glaring at the pigeon. He scooped the bird up from Eskel’s palm with a stern glare. “You are a little brat. Now look what you’ve done, lost my letter too. What are we going to do with you?”

Only listening with half an ear as Eskel read his letter, he paused and looked up at Jaskier in surprise.

“Bard?”

Realisation made Jaskier drop the pigeon. “Witcher? Which can only mean-” he turned to look at Lambert, “-wolf?”

“Which makes Geralt...” Eskel trailed off and let out a gruff huff as Jaskier launched himself at him in a hug.

“I am so happy for you!” Jaskier laughed brightly and Eskel could only return the hug, a smile of his own slowly blossoming across his face.

#geraskier #eskel/lambert #geralt of rivia #jaskier #eskel #lambert #tldr: jaskier and eskel become accidental pen pals

358 notes · View notes