#if we lose the tether altogether..

[nicollekidman]

the way this shadow and bone news isn’t good for anyone other than nikolai fans fjfndnfnfnfn

[peachsayshi]

Pre the “love you” first HCs, can you do a flirting hc of how the jjk boys would woo their crush before falling in love? ♥️

˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ how did they woo you before falling in love? (feat. gojo, geto, nanami)

minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags:  fluff; only soft things

notes: anon, I am so excited to write this request for you! if anyone wants to read the previous hc's you can find them here & here. I'm just writing this out for the characters that I already wore about.

˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ Gojo

In the beginning, courting you was simple. Satoru would go all out by treating you to fancy dinner dates. He constantly surprised you with little gifts of flowers, chocolates, and jewelry. Throwing money as a way to earn your affection was easy, and he didn't have to think about making any effort when his feelings came wrapped up in a pretty bow.

In between the many text messages and phone calls, Satoru would spend any free moment he had with you, but he could tell that you were responding to his gestures with a forced smile. You've only been dating for a short while but you were suddenly unimpressed by everything he had to offer. The spark in your eyes started to fizzle and he knew that you might be reconsidering this relationship altogether.

He understands that he isn't the easiest man to love - he can't exactly commit himself to you, and he's usually inaccessible because of his duties as a sorcerer. There's nothing about Gojo's world that accommodates another person, but he moved mountains to make it happen.

"How about we stay in tonight?" he asked one evening, his arms circling your waist and his blue eyes taking in your shocked expression reflecting from the mirror.

"But...I'm already dressed..." you replied with confusion, looking at your outfit that you thoughtfully put together with disappointment.

"Trust me, I have a better idea..."

You were sitting on a stool, resting your elbows on the kitchen island while watching with intrigue as your lover, who is one of the wealthiest men in the country, struggle to cook a decent meal for you.

The apron barely fit Satoru's long torso, and his clothes were stained with oil and sauce. He spent a majority of the time complaining about why things weren't working correctly but you were smiling throughout the whole experience. By the end, your cheeks were killing you from how much you were laughing. Satoru made it across the finish line with his hair tousled and his cheeks red. The counters were a complete mess, and you even bit back a teasing comment about how terrible his plating looked.

Despite the chaos that he ensued, the food tasted absolutely delicious. You swallowed every bite as you stared at him with nothing but tender eyes. The vibrant smile plastered across his face wasn't his smug satisfaction for accomplishing this task but relief that the fading spark as blooming into a warm flame.

He wasn't going to lose you.

He made gentle love to you that night, listening to every breath and swallowing your pretty moans. He used the moment as opportunity to reconnect with your body, and in many ways, tether himself back to your heart.

Satoru Gojo earned your love. He fought hard to keep it by showing you that he was worth all the trouble.

Geto

Suguru's dates were a simple combination of getting together and talking. These intimate conversations strengthened your relationship, until there was nothing that you couldn't discuss. Suguru cracked open his skull, and you were met with a beautiful mind full of complex thoughts and emotions. He fascinated you in every way possible and wasn't afraid to express his real feelings.

He constantly reassured you that his heart was yours.

Even though you knew Suguru from the inside out at this point, there was still a level of mystery that surrounded him which kept things interesting. The man was the most spontaneous person you knew and that made him unpredictable. You learned over time that he never liked making solid plans, and approached dating you on what he was feeling rather than seeing it as something obligatory.

Your first trip together was planned out one afternoon in your bedroom. Suguru was just scrolling through his phone when he saw a small air bnb in the countryside that he liked. You kept every token from that weekend trip together. You visited a hot spring, hiked through beautiful nature pathways, and found the tiniest little restaurants that served the most delicious meals.

Your last night together was spent with the two of you snuggling in one another's arms while making love in between. He was keeping you close to his chest, his delicate fingers trailing your spine as he stared out the window watching a strip of warm color slice through the twilight sky.

"I don't want to leave," he whispered - his voice a little hoarse and exhausted from the long night.

You nuzzled into him, your leg tightening over his thigh as your hand finds his and you interlace your fingers.

"Maybe...maybe, we can stay one more night..." you sigh, feeling his thumb stroke the back of your hand lovingly.

You don't see the tick on his lip or the cheeky smile that follows soon after. He kisses the top of your head as he relaxes into the mattress.

"We've both got work tomorrow..."

"True, but I'm sure we can think of something..."

His chest vibrates when he chuckles and he releases a long exhale as he shifts his position. He turns to his side, curling his strong arm over your body and hugs you close to his torso. He's quite aware of how happy he is as he watches you fall asleep in his arms, and all he can think about is how he would gladly go to bed with you beside him every single night.

Suguru's courtship felt like an intimate waltz; from the moment he held your gaze, he lured you into a rhythmic dance that only ended on one note. The longer you swayed to the tune of his music, the more you realized that falling in love with a man like him was inevitable.

Nanami

Nanami's courtship of you reminded you an endangered love - one that was dwindling in such a fast paced culture. He approached dating you with a level of patience and in doing so, he wooed you in a way that left butterflies in your stomach and tingles up your spine.

Nanami wasn't shy about expressing his interest towards you and he was a gentleman in how he handled romancing you. He preferred taking you out on intimate dates - like cozy dinners, visits to museums or art galleries, and walks to the park. He had a keen interest in getting to know y ou, and was conscious about his behavior for the sake of your comfort.

Over time, you watched his personality unravel before your eyes. He had a way of making you laugh with his witty humor, and you soon learned that he was far more laid back than what he presented himself to be. His intelligence made for really interesting conversations, and he always spoke to you with the utmost respect. He had a way of making you feel protected and his restraint worked out in his favor because you felt safe enough to gamble your heart with him.

Then there was the other side to Nanami, the part of him that would appear on occasion with every teasing touch and flirtatious comment that left your cheeks scorching with heat. His eyes would darken with lust when he transitioned from the gentleman to charmer. Nanami's strong attention to detail had him reading your body language in a way that no man ever could. He took his time to figure out how to kiss you, to touch you, to fuck you and make love to you.

"Can I ask you a question?" you asked him the morning after you slept together for the first time.

He shifted his gaze away from his laptop and looked at you leaning against the wall. You were dressed in his white t-shirt, wearing nothing underneath except your underwear. Your fingers were clenched around the mug of tea that he gave you, and he quirked his brow at your sudden nervous demeanor.

"Anything you want."

You shifted your weight from one foot to the next. "It might be a stupid question..."

At this point your lover stood up from his seat. He walked over to you, placing both hands on your waist and giving you a light squeeze. He brought his lips down to your cheek where he planted a soft kiss, before casually asking, "what's on your mind?"

He finds it adorable when you question if this means that you're both committed to one another and Nanami doesn't even hide his gut wrenching smile when he gives you a sincere confirmation.

"I don't know about you," he teases, "but there has been no one else for me since we met."

"There has been no one else for me either!" you insist, "I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page before I go around and start calling you my boyfriend..."

"Boyfriend, huh?"

His tone is playful, but it's the way his voice deepens with that question that made your heart skip a beat.

"I mean, what else am I supposed to call you?"

His expression softens, and he's thankful that you can't see the thoughts running through his mind at that very moment.

"You can call me whatever you want, my love..." he replied with a kiss to your temple, knowing full well that he was working his way towards achieving a prospective title that would suit him better considering he was already picturing you as his wife.

[spectrechosts]

Necrosis - Chapter 3

More questions without answers, and one that maybe shouldn't have been asked.

Full Series

The six of them watched a lone zombie flail miserably in their direction, caught on a low-hanging tree branch and left behind by the mindless horde.

"Well?" Lagakh said, gesturing at it. "Go… detect magic."

"Um, no?" Lunaeris scoffed. "It'll bite me or scratch me or… something. Cut off its limbs first."

"Right, cuttin' his limbs off." Grunted Hrok as he hefted his axe.

"Please don't cut it's limbs off. This poor corpse has been desecrated enough." Said Sophia.

"Seconded. Sorry love." Agreed Kallixenia.

"Right, not cuttin' his limbs off."

"Okay, well, I don't want to get chomped, so…" Lunaeris shrugged.

Ryse silently drew her bow, and before anyone could ask what she was doing sank an arrow into both of the zombie's knees. She walked up to it as it collapsed and shot another two into its elbows, pinning it to the ground and severely limiting its movement.

"Good enough?" She asked.

Lunaeris grimaced. "I suppose. Let's see…"

She got to work examining the zombie, giving its head a wide berth.

"Okay, remember that this isn't my area of expertise." She said, poking at it with her faintly glowing staff. "But as far as I can tell it's just your bog standard raise zombie spell underneath the modifications. Well, the one modification. I don't see anything aside from what I assume is the recursive casting, no long range command, nothing. It's just a regular zombie."

"And the impossible recursive aspect?" Sophia said, crooking an eyebrow.

"Incomprehensible. An awful tangle of triggers, timers- I'm fairly certain attempting to cast this would instantly kill me, it would drain so much mana so quickly. I don't even think it's looking for bodies before it tries to raise them, it's just casting at nothing every few seconds. I'd have to see the original spell to be sure, which altogether brings us to the next point."

Lunaeris gestured in the direction they has been heading.

"It's tethered way off over there, drawing mana from something. They didn't even try to hide it." She said, frowning.

"What does that mean?" Lagakh asked.

"I don't know yet. Nothing good."

"A trap?"

"Maybe. I don't know, it-" Lunaeris furrowed her brow as she stepped away from the zombie. "It feels unfinished."

"What's it going to do when it's finished?" Sophia asked.

"I don't know."

"How close is it to being finished?" Asked Lagakh.

"I don't know!"

"What can-"

"She doesn't know." Rumbled the paladin, protective. "I suggest we keep moving, find the answers to all your questions at the other end of that tether."

"Ugh. Lagakh grunted, getting back on her horse. "Nothing's ever fucking simple, is it? Can't just be an impossible disaster, has to be one that's going to get worse."

"Oh, it might not. Maybe it's a really nice spell that's built on making unlimited zombies forever." Ryse said, leaping onto her own steed and stretching her arms above her head. "Wouldn't that be something?"

"Oh, sure." Sophia grumbled. "Maybe once the wizard has ransacked enough graves, all the zombies will do a fun little dance."

"See, that's the spirit."

~

The journey was unsettlingly uneventful, the nature of the horde leaving its trail devoid of life as it swept everything it encountered into its mass.

Still, as they set up camp after the day's travel, Lagakh assigned the night's watch. Getting complacent got you killed, better to lose some sleep over nothing than to lose your life. She would take second shift with the wizard, and Ryse and the paladin would take first. She settled in for a short rest, and fell asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes.

She awoke to Ryse batting at her shoulder.

"Shift change." She said, and Lagakh grunted and sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She donned her armor almost on autopilot, going through the motions with half-lidded eyes until she finally grabbed her sword and trudged out to the campfire, where Ryse was splayed out waiting.

"Alright, I'm up, you can wake the wizard and sleep." She yawned, and Ryse just rolled over and looked at her quizzically.

"I just got up? Lunaeris wanted to switch shifts, you're with me."

Lagakh exhaled slowly through her nose, and tossed a log on the dwindling fire.

"You know, I just may have put the two of them of separate watches for a reason." She said.

"You don't want to stay up with me?" Ryse asked coyly.

"I don't want to get ambushed because the married couple can't keep their eyes off eachother."

"Oh, please. The paladin? You're more likely to slack off." Ryse said, getting off the ground in a graceful cartwheel that saw her flop back down directly in Lagakh's lap. "Besides, we're alive, aren't we?"

Lagakh made a noncommittal grunt.

"You worry too much!" Ryse chided, stretching. Lagakh stole a glimpse of her exposed midriff before looking away as the cat continued. "All business all the time, it's like you never left the army. Learn to live a little, boss! Have some fun! Like me!"

Oh, were it that simple.

Lagakh would love to have fun, preferably with Ryse, but it was… difficult to know how serious the cat was, about anything she said or did. Everything was couched in layers of irony and deception.

Lagakh wasn't used to this level of confusion when dating. Back home these things were very simple, if you liked someone you killed a large boar and loudly offered to feast upon it with them and that was it.

She had the feeling Ryse would… not appreciate that.

"Ryse?" She asked, and the feline flicked her eyes to her with an interested mrrp? "Can we… talk plainly, with eachother, about something?"

Oh gods, she felt pathetic.

Ryse sat up, giving her her full attention. "Sure." She said, blinking slowly.

"It's just…"

Oh gods.

"I, I know that you, joke around, a lot, about things-"

She was sweating, and Ryse just watched her flounder through her words.

"It, uh, I like you, quite a lot, and you act sometimes as if you like me too and I was just wondering if you were serious about that or if it was just another one of those things you do to mess with people."

Nailed it.

Ryse's eyes widened, and she just stared at her silently, her expression unreadable. Seconds ticked by, and Lagakh's blood ran cold.

"I-"

"I should watch from a different vantage point, we'll cover more area." Ryse mumbled, and Lagakh felt like she could die.

"No, listen, forget it forget I said anything-" She sputtered, as Ryse swiftly darted into the shadows, her black fur melding seamlessly into cover of night.

"Gahh. Fuck." Lagakh swore, burying her face in her hands.

[zetexa]

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[spaceprincessleia]

When I think about Morgan Elsbeth, what I struggle with most aren't the gaps in her story; I can connect most of them either with logic, or use my imagination to fill them. It's not the few parts that I consider inconsistency in her writing either.

It's the fact that she never finds closure.

She never finds a way to adequately deal with the trauma of losing her family/clan. I always imagine her being fine, even happy for a while, when she gets her education and becomes an engineer (or something along those lines).

But as soon as she faces a challenge, a struggle involving other people, her path is like a tether pulling her back, making her avoidant and run, making her react defensively and take things personally.

See the villagers on Corvus: Yes, they do approach her with a lot of blame and frustration. But instead of deducting the emotions to analyze the problem – a problem that is more technical in nature, and that at least in my interpretation of the character she would be able to solve –, and to find a solution, she walks away from the situation.

In my opinion, Morgan prefers choices that don't force her to face herself and resolve her emotions from way, way back when the massacre on Dathomir happened. She keeps them locked up, just like herself literally, by hiding behind the thick walls of her residence and shutting out the villagers altogether. Now, she's only surrounded by a few people whom she can demand things from, but not vice versa.

Maybe the New Republic showing up could have been a turning point, had they approached the situation smarter; maybe there was the slimmest of chances for that when Ahsoka showed up, too (who did give her a choice).

But it didn't happen. We saw on Ahsoka what happened instead. Morgan never redeems herself in any way, no one gives her redemption (anymore), and we don't see anyone canonically left with a kind memory or thought of her.

My constant struggle here is: Do I want a story like that when it's just a story, and you could easily resolve it in a more satisfying way? Or is the fact that there's no closure what's so interesting to me? I believe the answer is both.

[riversofmars]

Prompt: Helen keeps trying to explain something to Liv, but she really isn’t getting it - possibly just to annoy her? 😂 Helen either gets really frustrated or just gives up because she decides it’s not worth the hassle.

Thank you! 😊

That was an excellent prompt that I had FAR too much fun with! Hope you enjoy it!!

Lost Cause (Rating: T, sort of)

"Okay, explain it again?" Liv pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to organise her thoughts and Helen took a deep breath, trying her best not to lose her waning patience altogether.

"Which part?" She asked, as calmly as she could possibly manage under the circumstances.

"The bit I didn't get,” the med-tech threw her hands in the air in frustration and her girlfriend gave an annoyed groan.

"Did you get any of it?" She countered more flippantly than she usually would have and of course, Liv took offence.

"These things are out of my time!” She retorted defensively. “Let's see how you fare next time I try to explain astro-navigation to you!"

"You already did that and I grasped it just fine,” Helen quipped back and it only enraged the med-tech more.

"Well, something else then, starship flight manual, whatever,” she snapped and the linguist’s annoyance won out.

"I can literally fly the TARDIS," she shot back and Liv groaned.

"Yeah, well, you're very clever," she huffed, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"So are you which is why I don't understand why you're not getting it," Helen countered, running her hands through her hair. "It's literally just a recipe!"

They were standing in the kitchen in 107 Bakerstreet, eyeing the results of Liv’s latest misadventure. The pan was smoking ominously, there was the smell of burning in the air and looking at it, Helen couldn’t quite tell if it was casserole or catfood.

Liv took a deep breath, pulling herself to full height to launch her defence.

“Listen. I did everything exactly like you said, followed your instructions to the letter, and it didn’t work!” She argued her case and gestured at the pan.

“Then you must have done something wrong,” Helen answered flatly.

“I didn’t!” Liv exclaimed.

“Then why didn’t it work?” The linguist challenged, leaning over the pan and wrinkling her nose in disgust.

“That’s what I’m asking you,” her girlfriend seemed to be reaching the end of her tether and admittedly, so was Helen.

“Oh my God, Liv, we’re going in circles,” she buried her face in her hands and took a deep breath. She loved her girlfriend, she really really did but good God she could be a handful. “What actually happened to the soup?” She asked, regaining her composure. For the sake of their relationship, she would try to stay positive.

“It burned,” Liv dead-panned.

“Well that’s not something you can-” the linguist took another deep breath and decided to - once again - start with the basics and take nothing for granted. “Did you stir it?”

“Yes,” the med-tech nodded.

“Sufficiently?”

“What is ‘sufficiently’ in that context?” Liv immediately jumped to a justification. “The recipe didn’t say how to stir it!”

“Well you just- you stir soup, Liv. It’s not rocket science,” Helen threw her hands up in the air. She was good and ready to give up.

“Rocket science I can do!” Her girlfriend countered. “You know I once built a transtemporal transmitter from things I stole from the science museum.”

“Of course you did,” the linguist sighed, beyond caring at this point.

“I actually did!” Liv was offended and Helen just held up her hands in surrender.

“Right.”

Silence fell for a moment and the med-tech turned her attention back to the pan.

“Something must be wrong with the recipe!” She deduced in a eureka moment and her girlfriend was inches away from hitting her head against a hard surface.

“Can we just accept that you’re no good in the kitchen?” She asked, hoping to put an end to their joint torture.

“There is nothing I’m not good at!” Liv countered. “Besides, I can make tea!” And that was what did it for Helen. She lost her patience

“Barely!” She exclaimed. “It’s either too watery, too milky or not hot enough!”

“You never complained about the tea I made before?!” The med-tech gaped as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“Because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings!” Helen shot back and as they stared each other down, they found they had reached an impasse.

“Doctor, does my tea taste off?” Liv turned around to the Doctor and her girlfriend did the same:

“Doctor, can you tell her to just accept that she can’t cook and move on?”

“I am not getting involved in this,” the Time Lord shook his head to himself. He didn’t look up from the newspaper. “Never pick a side in a lover’s tiff. Learned that the hard way with Bonnie and Clyde.

”Are you comparing us to criminals now?” Liv scowled at him and he got up, gathering the newspaper together.

“Also never give them a new target. See you later!” And he left the kitchen without further ado. 

Silence fell.

“This was much easier when we had the food machine in the TARDIS,” Liv sighed, defeated, and set about moving the pan of burned soup to the sink.

”You know you could just let me cook…” Helen offered with a small smile.

“Well, what if I wanted to woo you with a home-cooked meal and candle light dinner?” The med-tech offered in a small voice, disappointment painted all over her face. It was enough to melt her girlfriend’s heart.

“What if you woo me by doing the dishes after?” The linguist suggested and Liv smiled.

“That I can probably manage,” she agreed and watched as Helen took inventory of the cupboards and fridge to see what she had to work with. They would probably be alright for scrambled eggs, beans and toast. She grabbed the eggs and a pan and returned to the hob. “Maybe I’ll just watch really closely what you’re doing so I can learn,” Liv hummed and followed her to the stove. As Helen sat the pan down, the med-tech grabbed her hips from behind and pushed herself close to her. She pressed a kiss to the side of her neck and snaked one hand below the hem of her blouse.

“If by that you mean distract me near an open flame…” the linguist chuckled, steadying herself against the kitchen side, and Liv took advantage of her inaction by tracing her lips a little lower to the crook of her neck.

“I thought you were good at cooking?” She teased, brushing her fingers higher and Helen had long since stopped thinking about what she was meant to be doing. She gasped when her girlfriend found her way inside her bra.  “Or maybe, neither one of us cooks,” the med-tech mumbled, toying with the waistband of her trousers with the other hand. “We order take-away, take advantage of the Doctor’s absence and find other uses for the kitchen?”

“Excellent suggestion,” Helen agreed breathlessly and turned to meet her in a heated kiss.

“See? I am clever,” Liv grinned against her lips, as she pushed her up against the kitchen side and undid her trousers. “And I am going to be some use in the kitchen.”

[tmarshconnors]

 Age of Screens

In the vast landscape of the internet, where every keystroke leaves a trace and every click builds a profile, the notion of privacy feels like a distant memory. Our digital footprints, once imprinted, seem etched in stone, subject to scrutiny by algorithms and unseen eyes. We navigate this virtual realm with a sense of caution, aware that our online actions are forever archived, waiting to be dissected and analyzed.

Yet, amidst this digital labyrinth, another phenomenon unfolds—one where our obsession with screens threatens to eclipse the very essence of human connection. In the pursuit of virtual validation, we find ourselves tethered to our devices, oblivious to the world unfolding around us.

Consider the scene of a typical outing with loved ones. Amidst the laughter and shared moments, there lurks a silent intruder: the smartphone. As conversations ebb and flow, so too does our attention, drawn inexorably towards the glowing screens in our palms. It's a paradox of modernity—we seek connection through technology, only to find ourselves distanced from the present moment.

I recently found myself pondering this paradox during a date with my girlfriend. As we engaged in animated conversation, I couldn't help but notice the sea of faces around us, each illuminated by the soft glow of their phones. It was a sobering realization—that in our quest for digital connection, we risk losing touch with the tangible world and the people who inhabit it.

The irony is palpable. In an age defined by connectivity, we find ourselves increasingly disconnected from one another. The very tools designed to bring us closer together often serve as barriers, insulating us from the richness of human interaction.

But why? What drives this insatiable urge to immerse ourselves in the digital realm at the expense of real-world connections? Perhaps it's the allure of instant gratification, the dopamine hit of a new notification, or the illusion of productivity perpetuated by endless scrolling. Whatever the reason, the consequences are profound—a gradual erosion of empathy, understanding, and genuine human connection.

So, where do we go from here? How do we reclaim our humanity in a world dominated by screens and algorithms? The solution lies not in eschewing technology altogether but in cultivating a mindful approach to its usage. It requires us to embrace moments of digital detox, to consciously disengage from the virtual noise and reacquaint ourselves with the beauty of the present moment.

Moreover, it necessitates a reevaluation of our priorities—a recognition that true fulfillment stems not from likes or retweets but from meaningful relationships and authentic connections. It's about fostering a culture of presence, where the simple act of being together transcends the confines of pixels and screens.

As I pen these thoughts, I am reminded of the profound potential of the human spirit—to adapt, to evolve, and to forge genuine connections in the face of technological encroachment. The path ahead may be fraught with challenges, but it is also brimming with opportunity—the opportunity to reclaim our humanity, one conversation, one moment of presence at a time.

[goldenclarice]

in the running mill of hearsay and idle chatter, the one’s on the other tether of a tale don’t think much of winning or losing, but they spend enough time with causality – from the lands beyond the wall and the coast of cape wrath, moments like these may well be the lynchpin of the world, every moment built around cultivating the weak spot, the break in the plate, each searching for the flaw, the poor weld, the hook, line, and sinker.

clarice's face takes on a look as if seizing up a weapon, for sabitha's words protrude like swords and lances that warn any warmth and lightheartedness away. she settles on the truth, then, that sabitha frey is looking for the one who plays games.

clarice has hoops aplenty for jumping through, words to bandy till the flagons dry with the last drops of arbor reds – perhaps it would be easier if she did. it is the inclination of humans to play in some regard, and perhaps this would bring comfort. as she is now, a creature of the present in every way that matters, she is glaringly reminded about lord dalton and his string of bastards, all heathens and despots alike, and how they have taken every small measure and made it another of their conquests. but there are machinations worse yet, and there is not a soul or far-star in this moment that has not heard of the betrothal negotiations between a prince of the realm and the lesser twin of one of the greyjoy bastards. clarice had spit twice-over when she'd heard the half of it, looking unto her sweet sister leila with resounding despair at being disregarded altogether as a future princess of the realm. how could it not be so when the reach, as well, was disregarded – summoned to the capital only to be left aground. forsaken.

it would seem that cravens and adders also marauded from the boneway and prince's pass and into the capital. unbowed, unbent, unbroken they had decreed from their black stallions, their bannermen flying their coat of arms at the princess of dorne's great arrival. all the while her dead husband's broken body had been given to death's handmaidens and laid into an early grave. lady sabitha seeks to provoke her with japes and mockery, but this is not a meager inquisition, nothing fair-weather about it— clarice had borne these indignities to lay out and count on every doubtful look cast upon her by her household and bannermen, leaving only her rage and anguished misery.

"the crown and house tyrell have always come together to grow, create value, exchange value and serve one another well." she counters tactfully, but there is no denying the acrid taste on her tongue, least of all when her companion spurs her shame further. "there is much talk these days, yes, but perhaps your question is best suited for ser tyland lannister. i'm sure he is one to say that the realm, in due time, will see why squidlings and bottomfeeder fish are meant to stay by the sea, for it is the lion that reigns foremost on land. such is the natural order." clarice chuckles facetiously, then, the sound of a low chime passed through by sluggish wind. "we are women, yes, but we are mothers above all. the Mother Above is more fearsome than the Warrior when her children are harmed. she has cast her eyes upon the land of her children and will spare none from the scales of judgement."

clarice receives sabitha's hospitality with the hollow interest of a drink of water, something to hold between her hands in gratitude but ultimately set aside for something of more masterful craft, like sweet and dry arbor reds. such finely crafted items only existed within the seat of knowledge and culture of the realm, while the riverlands were a land with no sign of devotion to anything but nature and a people who were set to flee under the shit-dipped arrows of the crannogmen. how presumptuous, then, for sabitha to think herself the world and the sonder she does not see — what's another riverlander among the fisherfolk of the blackwater rush, another water beetle under the boot of the red keep? clarice's mouth widens in an insolent laugh. "i thank you, as does the rest of my house, for your invitation. i know how important hospitality is for your people. though i suppose if i need word to travel fast, you will be the liveried messenger? if word of how you run your household rings true."

𑁍┊⟩» Sabitha's delicate skirts trailed behind Lady Tyrell as the both walked. She made her best efforts to look as regal and dignified as Clarice. After practicing for weeks, Sabitha was feeling more comfortable walking in the high heels, the soft sound of her steps echoing across the hallway.

As Lady Clarice turned around, Sabitha doubted herself only a few seconds before looking back at her. A sudden realization inside her mind. « The game is more fun with two players. Don't you think, my Lady? »

—Is not favor with the Queen what you are looking for? Aren't you furious the small council now has an ironborn as Master of Ships? We both heard the rumors, the Red Kraken managed to arrange a betrothal for one of his daughters, aren't you curious how he did it? Although, we are simply women. Who are we to care about such things? —Sabitha let a soft smile on her lips, her words tinted on sarcasm. She hoped it'd be enough to get Lady Clarice's attention.

She was sure it was a provocation, but Sabitha wouldn't stand as her homeland was being tarnish.

—On the Riverlands we are taught to fight the weather with grace. —Sabitha half joked. Was it truly the Riverlands without the humidity, moisture and fogginess? Sabitha had her trusty pair of boots fully covered in mud, but her dresses were always clean and neat. A perfected skill after years of wandering on the most unstable ground possible.— Archery and hawking may not be the most refined hobbies, but they are amusing. Isn't that why we assemble in the first place? The Riverlands are a place of old traditions. I'm think you'll find it stimulating... if you learn about it. You are always welcome if you choose to visit the Twins. Our castle is your home and we are well connected in case you ever need some word to travel fast.

[anatay004]

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ɢʀᴇʏ | ᴊᴀᴄᴀᴇʀʏꜱ ᴠᴇʟᴀʀʏᴏɴ (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ꜰᴏᴜʀ)

After heated arguments and tensions, feelings are finally revealed, but things can only go downhill when certain words aren’t chosen correctly and misinterpretations happen.

Part 5:

warnings: Targaryen incest.

Note: I just wanted to clarify that in this piece of fiction Jacaerys is not a minor. Despite the confusion with his age throughout the show, in this story he is over 18 and so is the reader. The reader is supposed to be a little older, actually, since she’s Rhaenyra’s true sister.

Also, thanks @thesithdiaries for the help!

ꜱʜᴇ ʟᴏɴɢᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴡ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ʜɪᴍ.

ᴀ ᴄʜᴀɪʀ.

ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ.

YOU WERE NOWHERE to be found.

After the heated argument with Jacaerys, the sun eventually settled over the bleak castle, but you were merely a ghost amongst the walls. Your handmaiden was growing anxious, she searched for you inside your chamber, she searched for you in the corridors, she searched for you in the darkest corners of the building, but there was no sight of you.

So, when her throat finally clogged with guilt, she hurried to inform Rhaenyra.

"Are you certain she's not here?" Rhaenyra questioned, her voice strangled with a hint of sheer shock and guilt altogether.

Your handmaiden nodded. "I am, your grace. I searched for her everywhere."

After hearing the news from Rhaenyra, Jacaerys was swift to deliver the command to search for you, he wanted every guard in the castle to explore the island even if the looming sky over their heads was threatening to pour down.

But then, as the night stole over the day and the clouds finally tore, Daemon broke to him the news. "Her dragon is not in the dragonpit."

His heart stopped.

"There's a fucking storm on the way," Jacaerys shouted, but his voice was muffled by the sheer blasts that ripped through the sky. "It's not safe, she is going to get hurt if she's still flying."

"We need to get inside, Jace," Daemon pushed forward, dropping a hand onto his shoulder to beckon him inside. "I'm sure she's alright, she's a fine rider, and you know it."

Jacacerys shrugged his touch away. "I'm going to look for her, Vermax is faster."

"Jace, listen to me – "

"– I will not lose her." Jacaerys declared, a hint of finality wrapped around his words as he spoke. His heart was hammering against his chest, he was on the brink of faltering at that moment – he was fucking scared.

What if you were hurt?

What if you never came back?

The questions burrowed deep beneath his chest until there was a hollow that ricocheted his fear. God, was he an idiot for making you run away.

He hated himself for mishandling his feelings. For not tethering what his heart felt to you, for not being able to act on them to dissipate the ridiculous hatred you both shared.

God, was he stupid.

But as the thoughts pestered his head and he made to walk towards the dragonpit, an enormous shadow fell upon him and he stopped when the deafening cry of your dragon roared in his eardrums. He exhaled a clouded breath as relief washed over him at the sight of your dragon landing and you on the sidesaddle.

"It's the princess!" The guards shouted as you began to climb down the dragon.

Jacaerys ran towards you, but the moment his figure stumbled into your line of vision, your dragon slithered and made to growl at him.

"It's okay, Baelor," You shouted amidst pouring rain, stretching your arm out to reach for your dragon's face to place a gentle touch. "He's rotten, he'll only make you sick if you eat him."

In another situation, Jacaerys would've felt indignant – even offended, but given the circumstances, he shut his mouth tight as he unbuttoned his coat to hold it over your head.

"What the hell were you thinking?" He demanded, trailing behind your frame as you made your way toward the castle with heavy steps. "You could've gotten yourself killed!"

"Good!" You shouted, trying to brush away the rain from your eyes with the back of your hand. "I'm sure that would have made you the happiest man alive!"

"Stop that – "

" – Why? I'm sure Baela would have taken my place without a heartbeat – " You spat, but the words froze on the tip of your tongue when he latched his hand onto your wrist and turned you around to face him. He was drenched, his hair was plastered over his forehead, and bits of rain clung onto his eyelashes stubbornly, but you still detected the hue that blazed his irises.

He shook his head. "She could never."

Your eyebrows knitted together. "Admit it."

A wry laugh escaped his mouth. "I could never fucking replace you. Can you not see?"

A chill kissed down your spine, you tried to coherent an answer, but the searing look in his eyes quenched down and soften. "What?"

"Please, tell me you're not fucking blind." He breathed out, a hint of pled echoed in his words as you watched with utter confusion.

"I – "

" – Get inside the fucking castle! Do you both want to die from a disease? Figure your shit inside." Daemon interjected, and just like that, the tension dissipated and you rushed inside the castle without a word.

And he watched with saddened eyes.

__________________________

"Do know how worried I was?"

After drying and changing into a clean nightgown, you leaned back in one of your room's chairs, rubbing your temples in distress. Rhaenyra was berating you, explaining the wrong behind your impulsive actions, but you did not care a bit about her lecture.

Instead, you shut your eyes. "Can we continue with this lesson tomorrow, please?"

After throwing you a look, Rhaenyra eventually nodded and closed the distance between you and her with a kiss on your head. "You're incorrigible, you know that?"

You stifled a smile. "I've been told."

"We'll talk in the morning, you look rather terrible. You should rest well, sister." Rhaenyra teased, dismissing the blank expression on your face before wishing you a goodnight's sleep.

After dismissing your handmaiden and offering her an apology for the distress you had caused her, you were left alone in your chamber. You were exhausted, the drowsiness in your head made it hard for you to wallow in peace, and yet – you thought about him.

The feelings that retaliated in the pit of your stomach were hard to elucidate.

You hated him for making you feel like shit. For toying with your demure, for shooting words to kill and cornering you out of the castle.

God, did you hate him.

And yet, after tasting the tang of freedom, you turned Baelor back to Dragonstone.

Because while you could one-up Jacaerys and get under his skin, you could still make him come back to you. And, belatedly, you realized he could do the same exact thing to you.

But why?

You reeled over the question for an hour and fumbled with the strands of your hair, braiding and undoing it for the sake of keeping yourself busy. You wouldn't elucidate the matter, you ran around the same enigma without a hint of relief as you held back a breath.

What did Jacaerys mean?

When did he say you couldn't be that blind?

And he couldn't replace you?

But yet he called you a whore.

"This is stupid." You eventually whispered, pinching the bridge of your nose before deciding to climb back to your feet. Hugging your arms, you walked out of your chamber and fugitively made to walk down a few stairs as the coldness seeped into your skin.

When you were finally outside his chamber, you hesitantly raised your arm and knocked, only to falter on your spot when the door parted. Jacaerys looked terrible, the moonlit corridor uncovered the dark circles under his eyes, his nose was puffy, and his face marred with evident sickness that made worry surge through you.

"What happened to you?" You whispered, stepping inside to slide an arm behind his back and steady his body. He leaned tiredly against you, dropping an arm behind your neck as you maneuvered him back to his bed.

"I think it was the rain and the cold." He mumbled, but his voice was a rough timbre that caught you off guard. You eased him down onto his pillow, watching as his body collapsed almost immediately at the faint gesture.

"I'm going to call a healer," You rushed, trying to stifle the panic that was slipping out your mouth, but he reached for your hand to stop you.

"Please, don't," He hoarsely mumbled, tracing patterns over your hand with the pad of his thumb as he watched you with feverish eyes.

"Jace," You breathed out, unable to hide the panic that was breaking through your face. His gaze softened, however, as the nickname subconsciously ripped past your lips.

"You've never called me that before." He sluggishly pointed out.

You blinked, belatedly realizing he was right. "I-I'm sure I have done it before."

He shook his head. "I would have remembered. The bitter name sounds dulcet in the sound of your voice, like honey and summer altogether. I could never forget that."

You tried to convince yourself he was mumbling incoherences, that he was under the influence of a searing fever that was making him speak. So, you tried to ignore the faint heat that burned your cheeks. "You're speaking nonsense."

"I swear I am not," He swiftly replied, looking back at you with pure-lit irises that made you hold back your breath. "I swear I love the sound of your voice, when it wraps around vowels and turns them mellifluent, it makes me hopeful."

"I – "

" – Why can't you see it?" He questioned, his eyebrows knitted in utter confusion as you tilted your head. "I live in the shadow of your vagueness, picking up the bits of warmth you leave behind with every step you take. And yet, you dare not to look my way."

You swallowed.

He wasn't speaking nonsense.

He was throwing confessions.

"You never mentioned this before," You argued, climbing onto the bed. He looked up tiredly, trying to coherent an answer as you leaned closer to place the back of your hand against his forehead. "You're burning..."

"I'll go away in a minute," He whispered and leaned into your palm when it slide down to curve against his warm cheek. "Just stay."

You inhaled softly, brushing his skin with the pad of your fingers. He seemed so vulnerable, so different from the person you encountered just a few hours ago. His usual nonchalant facade shattered before you – he seemed kind and loving, and for a second, you believed it.

"You're so deceiving." You admitted.

He almost chuckled. "You're the one to talk."

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words clogged in your throat when he fisted a piece of your nightgown and tugged it to make you lean closer. Your breath stilled, his face was merely an inch from touching your skin.

He only looked back at you, ignoring the evident surprise that flitted across your face when he eventually shifted his head so that his lips could brush against yours. The kiss was fleeting, but it captured the warmth of denial, the clashing of two feelings, and the heat of desire that you so often tried to quench down.

"Don't ever leave," He suddenly pled, searching for your gaze when the kiss broke and you instinctively leaned back. "I'm begging you.”

Caught off guard, you whispered. "I won't."

"I apologize for the things I said about you earlier. They were horrible and untrue, and I  – " He paused, swallowing hard as your eyebrows knitted together in thought. " – Sometimes, I don't know how to handle the feelings I have for you. They're deceiving and I don't know how to control them, I really fucking don't."

The air rushed out of your lungs.

After years and years of troubling encounters and unknowing feelings, you finally realized what years of hatred failed to make you look.

He had feelings for you.

And so did you.

"I – "

"– Tomorrow you'll be my wife, anyway." He sluggishly whispered, blearily blinking in fatigue as he leaned down. "We will have all the time in the world to figure it out. Just you and I."

You smiled and draped the sheets over his body without a word. It was peculiar, the feeling that grew on your chest as he lulled himself to sleep, talking about you and him in lucid whispers. You wondered, how long had he felt that way?

But then, as you held his hand, something wounding unconsciously slipped out of his mouth. It was low, but it had strained your ears and you stilled at his sudden words. "A whore for a wife, such a silly thought I had. But can you blame me? All my life I've seen men surround you like dogs, and I've never seen you once complain about it. How could I not?"

Suddenly, as if his touch had suddenly torched your skin, you flinched away. He was half-asleep, but his words were lucid and complete, and you tried to swallow the knot that clogged your throat.

I'm so fucking stupid, you thought.

Wiping the tear that had raced down your face, you climbed back to your feet and furiously walked out the door without another word.

He could never love you.

Not like you wanted, anyway.

So, you called a healer and then made your way to your chamber with disappointment again.

[westmoor]

the hart

(«- the fox. «- the hare)

(3.6k, shifter!jaskier, geraskier. some angst, some anxiety, some whump and violence - and healing.)

Destiny had favoured him, or so he’d thought.

Jaskier had been a different creature then. For the creature he is now, the world has little mercy.

Whatever courage youth had given him, darting down secret alleys on daring quests in the streets of Oxenfurt, skittering past the guards of his childhood estate to chase whatever whims the night presented, it’s all gone now.

Driven out by the dying light of day, vacant darkness with its tendrils crawling closer, growing longer, lean and frail. Grasping until they find him, take and remake him, warping his body to this shape he doesn’t recognize. And at last, plunging his world into one of twisting nightmares, undulating breaths hot and heaving through the grass, and the shadowed beasts stalking, searching, as the last remnants of his fortitude slips away under his feet.

Silence, he thinks, is the only mercy spared for creatures like him.

Beyond the concert of the dawn chorus, the lyric of a nightingale at dusk, the mourning of wolves calling their distant brethren as the season grows colder, there’s another world of sound. Imperceptible to all but those that live in frequent danger, that hold their breath and press their bellies to the ground in fields and meadows, straining their ears for a sign to flee.

Sudden fluttering of wagtails and startled sparrows. Squirrels hoarsely chattering above. Watchful rabbits drumming in the thicket, ordering their children underground.

He tries to wield it, to wrap himself in it. If he stays in this voiceless creature long enough, breathes quietly enough, perhaps the savagery that trails the luscious scent of prey in his tracks will go on by, and forget about him altogether.

Perhaps if he is good enough, hides deep enough - perhaps he can forget, too. Forget about foxes and hares and men with infections in their hearts, about whichever sickness has taken hold in him.

Or perhaps his luck runs out, like it so often does for those whose lives are favoured more by chance than destiny. Then, well, that is just a different sort of silence.

But for Jaskier, when chance fails him and he finds himself outwitted and caught in the jaws of that ultimate mercy, silence doesn’t come.

Instead, what finds him is a threadbare cloak, a smouldering campfire, a red mare, and the steady hands of a witcher.

--

They make it back to the little clearing he had run from, Jaskier’s cloth-wound body bundled in Geralt’s arm like something precious.

As shock begins to lose its grip on his mind, peeling back the layer of numbness he’s been afforded, the pain comes seeping back. With every step and jostle, something rattles in his chest. His joints move, but they move wrong.

He doesn’t know if bones this brittle are made to heal, or if this is just a body built for breaking. The icy wet that trickles through his coat is almost a distraction.

It hurts so much. It should hurt more.

He doesn’t even have a voice to whimper in.

It’s not until he’s lowered gently to the ground that he realises where they are, recognizes the low-hanging branches and the saddlebags piled haphazardly where he’d last seen Geralt standing. Recognizes too the wave that now, his panic bled out into the musty leaves somewhere on the forest floor behind them, feels more like shame. Thought battles instinct in his frayed mind and he knows he cannot run, but he cannot stay, and -

And had he been an excess burden in Geralt’s life before, then now, surely -

For eyes as wide as his, meant to discern between friend and foe at a league, any feature this close might as well be cruel. The details of his face are unclear as Geralt leans over him.

But he does know movement. Feels the fingertip that strokes the divot in his forehead. Geralt speaks, but the tone is clearer than the words, and it isn’t harsh. While passing over dirtied fur, easing down his ears, the other hand moves into the space between them and makes a sign.

Just like that, Jaskier’s world grows small again.

Slowly, the phantoms crouching at his vision’s edge recede, forced back beyond the shadows of the trees, kept at bay by scant firelight. Mighty trunks stand sentinel, barring their return.

Gone is the endless sky and the swift death that soars there. Gone too are the open fields and the dangers that prowl them, pointed snouts pressed to the ground, wetting their tongues at the scent of his injury.

He only knows what moves within this temporary refuge - tonight in the forest, tomorrow in the field - and the rounded silhouettes of those that could, but would not harm him.

There is no grand reckoning. No speech or lofty monologue, no words to twist or tones to ring false. Geralt doesn’t beg for forgiveness, makes no excuses, but he talks - low and smooth, for as long as Jaskier is awake to hear it.

The words will have faded from memory by dawn, but their essence remains - the solemn promise made that night, heard by none but the tall pines, a red mare, and himself. The one wrapped around him like a cloak, applied in layers of soothing honeyed balm over claw marks and wounds before it is spoken into existence: That no new hurt will find him here.

It’s a tedious process, but Geralt is right: his body does heal. Though the first week or so is spent under a dim fog brought by his witcher’s hand, it requires a restraint he never knew he had to hold out until his flesh starts to knit together.

Once his bones grow strong enough not to snap under the pressure as they twist in their fastenings, he finds the gap between one form and the other, and wills it open.

The transformation, though not always voluntary, had always come easy. This does not. It feels like fitting an old key, like forcing a lock that’s threatening to rust shut, throwing his weight against it in the hopes that the bar gives before the hinge.

He takes his first breath in the ribcage of a man like one saved from drowning. It burns and strains, and he is dizzy with the sudden height - but relief floods him like a tidal pool, and drowns out every other sensation.

When he looks up, Geralt is there, holding his clothes and lute, the things he’d left behind when they became too much to carry.

That becomes a pattern.

I am healed, he tells himself, and tells himself until he believes it, once his shoulder bends and deep breaths come painlessly. He believes it when he sings the songs of great grey beasts and their mountain brothers, terrible monsters and greater heroes, piecing together their stories bit by bit.

I will be healed, he decides, and tries to forget the songs about moorhens’ clucking and black little paws through the dew. Putting those pieces together not because they fit, but because they must, and tries to lose the ones left over.

But more often than not, Geralt is there and he picks them up, one by one, and hands them back in all the right order.

“You weren’t a hare when we met,” Geralt states one evening, in a moment of relative quiet - as quiet as their evenings are, one tuning his lute and the other sharpening the hunting knife he’d just tried to give Jaskier a lesson in wielding.

As if conjured by the mention of its name, Jaskier’s heart sets to beating. Although many unsaid things had become topics of conversation lately, neither had tried putting words to that. He suppresses the nervous shudder that crawls along his neck.

“I’m not a hare now either,” he says, and though it’s phrased in jest, it’s a reminder more than anything else: That he is not prey, and he will not run.

Geralt dismisses it with a grunt, and Jaskier knows that wasn’t what he had meant. There was a question in that statement, one of the dozens he himself had pondered over years, though he’s not sure which one exactly. Luckily, they all have the same answer.

“I don’t know,” he says, and the pressure at the back of his throat and how the words in his head refuse to conform into sentences tells him whatever comes next will be a ramble. While he’s never had trouble speaking frankly, honesty is harder. !I don’t know when or why or… how. Not how it started, even. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t - or when I didn’t - whatever I am.”

He’s aware that he’s stopped playing. Looking at his hands still poised over the strings, he wills the stream to slow, and tries to find solid ground to stand on. Geralt, bless him, gives him time.

“I believe it changed, though,” he continues once the whirling pool in his stomach has settled, when he’s less at risk of going under. “When we were in Rinde - perhaps later? I felt as though I’d come apart. Like a music box shattered on the floor and put back together, looking just like it had before, but the melody not playing the same.”

“In Rinde,” Geralt repeats, frown deepening with something akin to guilt. “Do you think the djinn, or Yen…?”

Jaskier has thought about it. Still thinks about it, when it all comes seeping through a bedroom window, when the sweet beckoning of the wind outside becomes curses. When it raps at the glass and taunts him for hiding his face in borrowed blankets or warm skin of a stranger, laughing at his cowardice. He remembers going out of tune, dissonant thrumming at his core at the disturbance of foreign magic.

“Yes,” he says.

But he also remembers Geralt’s gaze falling on another, losing the weight of it and coming unmoored. A beautiful sorceress, soft arms wrapped around rough, hushed voices ringing in unison. Seasons shifting and roads turning under his feet as he followed that to which he had tethered his dreams and aspirations. He remembers the scent of smoke and hunt and howl, and laying claim to a home, to a heart that wasn’t offered.

“But I think it was me, too,” he finishes. “I think the djinn - or Yennefer - or something may have pulled my pegs loose, so to speak. But the shape I took, that was mine.”

He’s always found it curious - if sometimes unfortunate - how words not intended to be spoken aloud but come by their own volition often seem to manifest more strongly than those initially planned. How much harder they are to ignore.

Curious, too, how a thing once named becomes tangible and must, at least in concept, adhere to the rules and limitations of the real world. How it can be touched and held, put away and taken out, turned over until it stops hurting.

The nights grow long in the wilderness, and the passing of summer shortens the days. And while he is no longer driven to bolt from his skin in fits that feel like madness, the whispers of the dark still tinge the air he breathes with the sweetness of rock-rose and blackberry. There are nights when it becomes inevitable, when he knows before the sun has set that the carefully balanced scales of temptation and trepidation will tip, and he will spend the hours of darkness trapped within this animal that cannot sing.

But even then, there is respite.

An index finger easing the tension of his furred head, careful strokes to coax his ears from their rigid stance, from turning at any sound real or imagined. Palms coming settling over his temples, roughened fingertips on bare skin, providing solid walls against all that feels too vast to comprehend, and reducing his world to just what can be held between two hands.

If the drumming of rabbits is his signal of peril, the signal of peace becomes the rhythm of a slow and steady heart, beating faithfully in the chest just beneath his ear.

It’s there, in the secluded space between their bodies where he draws circles to match the caresses over the small of his back, that he finds the courage to unearth the fragments of what he once was, mismatched bones and unmoored thoughts and instincts all he has been unable to lose, and starts to mold them back together into something recognizable.

As the thing that has sprouted and grown lush from the ruins of what was between them matures and turns vibrant, so do the leaves.

Autumn brings abundance the likes of which he has barely known. Roadsides overflow with wildberries to rival the richest vineyards of Toussaint. Cider sweet as honey pours in every tavern in their way, pressed apples picked from branches hung so low to the ground they must've sighed with relief at the loss of their burden.

Yet no sun-warmed apple cider shines as golden, nor has any Toussaint wine rendered him as drunk as his lover’s eyes or lips on his. At his side, in his arms, Jaskier finds the hollow indentations of a former self still vacant, still waiting. And the corresponding edges, worn smooth like river rocks over time, fall into place with such ease he wonders how they ever came apart at all.

There, safe under Geralt’s gentle touch, the wild may call all it wants.

--

Another forest’s edge, another contract, another waning moon.

Jaskier stokes the fire, tending to the warding light, wondering idly whether flames ignited by a Witcher’s sign hold more power than those lit by mere mortals. He likes to think they do. If he leans into it, he can easily convince himself of Geralt’s grounding presence remaining long after his footsteps are lost in the undergrowth. Behind him, Roach grazes in a patch of clovers, her calm tempering even the most skittish of his natures.

It is still, stiller than it has been for a while. The slight gale that picked up at the setting sun has dwindled to a breeze. He thought about unpacking his lute near an hour ago, but wouldn’t risk disturbing the sanctity of the evening, its melody would feel too far out of place in the arrangement of grasshoppers and midnight warblers.

Even to his human senses, animals of bush and green play in concert - from the whip of a falcon’s wings to the complaints of adolescent woodgrouse reluctant to leave their natal clutch - unknowingly orchestrated, and all of them distant. None, no matter their place in nature's hierarchy, dare test their mettle against the ever-present sense of death and danger that shrouds the dwelling of a witcher.

They stir and fuss, some waking while others settle down to sleep, until they don’t.

Jaskier’s buried instincts know it before his waking mind does, the urgent shift in pace and tune, discordant notes of prey’s first warning.

He listens intently.

It must be large, or voracious, or both. Seldom does a simple beast inspire such disquiet, word of its advances sending ripples of caution to every ear that knows to harken.

Be quick, they say, or be quiet.

Though he can’t make out the movements of the thing itself, the tell-tale cries and rattles of other creatures point its path. A bird takes wing, then another, each one closer and all too close to their camp.

Roach stands frozen, nostrils flared. He thinks he can hear it now. Smell the stench of its breath if he tries, make out its shape in there amongst the trees, moving with far too much stealth for anything that size. Too large for a cat, too quiet for a bear.

It closes in, so near now that a crouch, a leap, might take it into their midst.

Jaskier holds his breath. There is nothing else to do. Not as a fox, or a hare, or a man. Nothing to do but wait.

Whether real or supplied by imagination, he hears it scuff at the ground, draw a deep lungful of scent down into its massive body. And then it moves - away, back into the woods.

For a moment, he welcomes the silence, rushing elation that fortune has yet to claim his debts. But realization doesn’t follow far behind.

No wild thing would come upon a witcher by accident. None could miss the scent of one, and none should come so close to it before changing their mind, unless...

The lone hunter, whatever its goals, has picked a fresher trail: Geralt’s.

It’s ill-advised. More so, it’s stupid. The knife feels foreign in his hand.

He’s not such a fool that he thinks he can fight it, or that the blade or his ability to wield it would make any difference at all. But he must do something, needs to try. If only he can warn Geralt, call out in time and let him know before the beast can pounce…

But it moves fast, and his eyes are slaves to the light, inadequate under the ceiling of leaves and branches. Soon, he hardly knows if he follows it at all.

Every fiber of his being wills against abandoning this last shred of defense, but he knows he has no choice, not if he is to make it.

The knife lands with a thump, the soft ground cushioning its fall. For the first time in a long time, by his own volition, Jaskier shuts his eyes and folds his frame in on itself, opening them to a world tall and vast and all too sharp.

Speed is on his side. This is a body made for running, and run it does. By whatever force his kind is blessed, by fate or chance or both, nothing stands in his way. Though moments wasted on doubt comes at a price, and though he covers ground thrice as fast, he can’t gain it all back.

His vision is wide. The white of Geralt’s head, back turned as he brings his weight down to end the last of the ghouls, lights it like a beacon.

And the ragged shape, hulking even where it’s coiled to spring, attention locked to Geralt’s undefended back with an intensity that swears violence. Canine eyes do not glow, but in that moment, in his world of ash and shadow, Jaskier swears the werewolf’s eyes shine red.

And a hare’s cry, no matter his haste, no matter how shrill, holds no power to them.

He sees everything at once.

Glints of teeth under snarling lips as it jumps. The flash of the witcher’s blade as it swings too high, going clear of the werewolf’s head.

Its jaws lock at his side, tearing through armour and sinew into muscle, grating against bone. Jaskier has never heard a sound like this. Not from man, or from beast. Not from Geralt. It's sheer anguish turned vocal.

Something in him breaks, then.

Like an old joint, once healed wrong and calcified, cracking open to swing freely. It hurts at first. The snap, burning white-hot and blinding. And then: Euphoria.

His body regresses to the confines of a man, and beyond. The change is too fast to feel, too fast to track.

A new form, new instincts bursting through before he knows how to tame them. Fear gives way to fury. By the time he knows he is moving, he has already moved.

It takes no thought at all to lower his head. To align his skull and spine. Leap from his spot.

The impact ought to hurt, but it doesn’t. There’s an audible crack as something breaks, but not from him. Neither is the inhuman yowl that follows, sound reverberating through the forest.

The smell of blood fills his lungs. He doesn’t balk at it.

His face runs warm, runs wet. Twisting to free himself of frantic limbs and mottled fur, he shakes his antlers to strike again. This time, he finds the wolf yielding, limping back just shy of his sharpened crown. When it flees, he thinks to follow, to make up for every night and every hour spent in terror, driven underground by lesser beasts than this.

But Geralt’s scream still echoes in him, the sound of it a weight he cannot bear, couldn’t move under had he tried.

In the moment it takes to hesitate, doubt rears its head. Face awash and prongs painted red with the blood of another living thing, he feels about as far from the self he has learned to accept as one can come. To anyone else, he must look monstrous.

But when he turns, Geralt isn’t looking at him with disgust. Not with scorn, either. Or pity, or any other thing Jaskier had thought he’d face if he spoke the truth of his nature all those years ago.

Geralt raises the arm at his uninjured side. Had Jaskier been smaller, and softer, he would’ve slipped under it, curled up in the hollow at his witcher’s throat and stayed there, felt his heart beat and his chest rise until morning came to see them hale.

Instead, Geralt steadies himself with a hand on his neck and draws close. Giving more of his balance Jaskier than perhaps he means to, but no more than Jaskier can hold, his breaths so deep they might as well be sobs.

There are words to be had. Answers to be found. Leagues to walk, and promises to keep.

Soon enough, winter winds will sweep down across the continent, summons ringing from empty halls in far northern mountains, and they will answer.

But for now, Jaskier is home.

For now, the witcher leans his forehead against that of his hart - or fox, or hare, or bard - knowing that neither will follow that path alone.

At the edge of the woods and throughout the field beyond, rabbits cease their drumming, and the first few songbirds wake to herald the dawn.

--

Sorry for showing up half-assed four months late?

Tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire @stinastar​ @elliestormfound​ @justjess94​ @fontegagrilledcheese​ @dani-dandelino​ @honeysuckletook​ @underwaterattribute @ahhhhhhdonna @biitumen @cinary @saphiramalbec @lilbanili @sulkyshengshou @blooodymoon @dapandapod @kuripon @samstree

@tsukuyomi-selene and @herostag asked to be tagged for this one in particular, I think?

[amescastaignede]

Amélie studied Gideon as she carefully lowered herself onto the chair, her expression guarded yet betrayed by the crease of worry etched between her brows. She'd never been good at this — confrontation. In fact, just as she had done, she tended to shy away or avoid the topic altogether. Unfortunately, it was what she was best at. And the longer she avoided him, the anticipation of this confrontation. Well, she couldn't run away from this. Then came the moment when she needed to explain herself. Words still eluded her, trapped somewhere in the turmoil of her mind that ran a thousand miles an hour at the best of times, and yet, here she sat. Wordless. No thoughts. Just worry, etching itself into her veins.

"It's, well, I mean — it's not about the party," she begins, voice barely above a whisper, hesitant and stuttered. "It's about what you said, or rather, y'know, what you didn't say."

Telling someone 'We need to talk' when he'd been so far away had sent her mind into a frenzy. She hadn't been able to stop that sickness that curdled in her stomach. Her mind was her own personal enemy and while she understood what he was saying to her right now, well, to be honest, she wasn't sure she was ready to know what that talk was about. Nervously, she tugged at the fraying edges of her sweater. Two months and she was already here.

She feels the weight of his confusion, the searching look in his eyes as he tries to unravel the puzzle she'd left for him. But the truth felt like an anchor dragging her down, tethering her to the vulnerability she'd buried deep within herself. Everyone leaves had been her motto since Mathias. But that wasn't exactly fair to place that label upon Gideon.

"I — I'm not very good at this," she barely mumbled, her voice gaining strength as she struggled to articulate the storm of feelings that had surged within her. "It was...well, your texts. While you were gone. I didn't want to say anything while you were away and honestly," Amélie was a stuttering mess, falling over her own words as her nerves got the best of her. "Telling someone that you...you need to have a talk after how you...god... after I mentioned Leyla."

She couldn't ask him. She couldn't say it out loud.

"I'm sorry I worried you, but you scared me. It might s-seem like something small but..." She was losing her train, her confidence. "I don't know, god. I just don't,"

LOCATION — Amélie's home, London. DATE — August 7th, 2023 (flashback). STARTER — Closed for @amescastaignede

Of the three nights he spent in Dubai for Adri's birthday, Amélie had left him on read for two. Amidst the social squabbles, the stress from Ayda's party, texts from Leyla and Cassandra, and way too much whiskey — he'd failed to make the connection between the topic they'd touched on last, and the point at which Amélie had shut down the conversation. He'd reread the texts on the flight back, but the seemingly unpardonable offense still eluded him, and so he'd wasted very little time in seeking her out upon his return. Thankfully, she lets him in.

But it guts him to think there was even a possibility that she wouldn't. His girlfriend of barely two months and already they're on the rocks. His mind travels to his ex, the way it inevitably does when those old doubts creep in...

... Katherine would have a field day.

It further sours his mood as he waits for Amélie to return to the living room, eyes tracking her movements as she perches warily on the edge of the couch.

"Right then. Forgive me if I don't beat around the bush." Gideon begins, steeling his nerves and reaching for a cautious approach despite the tension flooding the room.

"How did I manage to offend you so greatly when we last spoke that you ignored my every attempt to contact you thereafter? You'd just attended a party that turned into a riot later that night — didn't you think I was worried about you?"

[heartkade]

RANBOO/WILBUR THEORY

So when a character loses all canon lives on the DSMP, they'll usually split into a soul which can feel emotions and the mind which can't. Ranboo's soul is trapped in limbo, and if he experiences too many strong negative emotions there in this broken state without the mind he starts fading away.

His rational mind is a ghost able to walk around in the real world and is trying to get himself reconnected before it's too late, but doesn't know how and is forced to move around limitations. He seems to be mostly tethered to the mansion and his own house where Michael is. He can talk to his other half through a book.

That also means this is the same thing that happened to c!Wilbur. Except the opposite, Wilbur's rational mind was trapped in limbo while his feeling soul could walk the living world. Ghostbur also couldn't handle strong negative emotions without the mind there, to the point he'd just forget about them. That's also why when Wilbur was revived, he hasn't felt alive! The two only traded places. He was bitter about Ghostbur and has been treating him like a different person when he's not, which explains why they can't communicate like Ranboo is able to. Wilbur's mind is refusing to reconnect. But he is starting to open up to that feeling side again, just a little bit, beginning to apologize to people. It may not be too late.

I feel like the way to reconnect the parts isn't through revival. If someone uses the revive book on Ranboo the soul and mind will just trade places in limbo as we've seen. That's why my theory is, maybe the two halves need to learn to understand each other or just merge on their own. Ranboo's mind has not shunned his feeling half altogether, he still cares and wants to be whole again, so there's a lot of hope for him

Honestly I'm just glad we finally have some explanations for limbo and how the ghosts work! ;;;

[entrophe-blog]

Bird

My great-grandfather, Buckle, started a fundamentalist Christian church in his living room, in Georgia with my great-grandmother, Betty. In the same home, they would raise three genera- tions on homegrown food and a sweet disposition. Sweet, but like a Vidalia onion cake.

In this same living room my sister and I would practice ballet and perform the nativity in costume. when we spent summers with Grandmother and Daddy-Buck, we learned how to sew seeds, fry okra, catch crawdads, and pull Betty out of the creek when she fell in from time to time. Betty was beautiful and complex– she had fierce religious convictions and an even stronger dependence on prescriptions. She read to us stories like Amelia Bedilia and subjected us to hours of televange- lists like Binny Hin. We were trained ballerinas and spirit-filled demon hunters by the age of ten. We were steeped in believing that life was everlasting if your name was written in the Lamb’s book of Life, but that the devil’s army lurks to possess the unguarded soul with everlasting Death.

“And the devil that deceived them was cast into the lake of fire and brimstone, where the beast and the false prophet are, and shall be tormented day and night forever and ever. Then Death and Hades were cast into the lake of fire. This is the second death.” Revelation 20

[The fear of death is a powerful instinct and persuader. What a comfort to eliminate it altogether; and live believing life is eternal.. albeit warred over by good and evil. And you could be saved! But you have to follow the rules. And if not, so death will be eternal suffering in lakes of fire.]

My exodus to Massachusetts felt like a great escape for many reasons. At the time, I wanted to run as far as I could. I had just lost my partner to suicide three months prior. Sep- tember 28th, 2016. He was 22. He suffered through addiction, and a similar familial dynamic in which prayer and god's word were the only medicine offered supportively. The time following Connor's death, I could not stand the physical sensation of being awake; my body was not digest- ing food, and I was hallucinating and self-medicating heavily. Every place, every road, and every familiar face was a reminder of this unimaginable pain I did not know how to swallow. So I ran. “If I have to be here on this planet, I have to do what I want to do. I’m going to make my own dreams. I have nothing to lose but myself.” I remember sobbing into my mom's shoulder as I left; afraid of giving up on my own life and angry that I had to go on hurting.

_____

January 2017 11am

Mascara on the sleeve of an oversized sweater

Grey blues wallowing in hibernation weather

Breakfast smells across white walls in sunlight

Turning pages of memories of my last life

Mascara on the sleeve of an oversized sweater

Swollen lips utter ‘lean on me, it's gonna get better

_____

April 2017 6am

When there is a natural disaster does the earth feel sorrow or guilt? Does she understand that this force and purging is a mechanism of her ever-perfecting nature? When we sit and cry with her to let our bodies feel and imagine why, with everything, does she feel that too?

_____

May 2017 2pm

Rip through the machinery of your fragile brittle mind

_____

June, 2017 11:30am (Connor’s birthday week)

When I feel joy I become joy potent and permeating

I peel my eyes to see its play present in my sorrow

And now when I feel joy, I also feel my sorrow

My sorrow looks for joy And my joy looks for sorrow

Now tethered to each other and tied into a loop

Try to close a book backward

_____

July, 2017 10am

Will you feel the pain of your actions forever as I will?

You now without body to feel from, do you sense now the gravity which pulls

_____

August, 2017 11:30am (Mom’s birthday weekend)

My body is precious

It has held my love between bodies and held beloved bodies that are not bodies anymore

If I can honor my body because of what it has held, I can also honor my body for holding me

If I can honor my body for what it has experienced, I can honor all bodies for the vast unknown of what they have experienced

_____

October 2018 9am (we fell in love in October)

[love letter to myself]

You are especially breathtaking in the morning

When you’ve been well hydrated, with warm cheeks.

Jello morning sliding around in the kitchen in woolen socks, Twisting winding spiraling your limbs around yourself Dizzy drifting dance and dreamed you spilt

your beans into a cozy nest to share

A pumpkin promenade of bare bones busy with repair

_____

January 2019 9 am

I became a sun when the void was too dark for me to see you

_____

July, 2019 8:30 am

The Wind saw itself and the word was Bird

_____

September 28th, 2022 4am

It has been 6 years. 6. I think of Connor every day. I feel strange about it as if healing over time would change the frequency that I remember scenes of our relationship. It is scary to forget things. Denial and anger subside and like all who grieve I will cry, whenever I feel like it. But more than that now, I laugh or smile which is better. I will find glimpses of him in the quiet of tall trees, remembering his particular way of being surrounded by them and how he enjoyed feeling so small. the smell of French press coffee, the days that I sleep past 8am. and the importance of doing absolutely nothing at all. I think of Connor when I have to be brave, and sometimes I can laugh remembering how fast he drove or the other ways he could be dangerously brave. I re- member the softness with which he listened and played and his adamance that messy was okay. “If I separated myself from you I would turn entirely to thorn” - Rumi

In my grieving, the inner process of shock, abandon, accept, and assimilate, snags and snares and just might trigger-play memories back like a reverse-draw-four-days-in-the-abyss. My subconscious reaches for something to comfort and soothe a spiraling spiral. A dream will come to help untangle the unseen and unspoken. The sun hits my skin again and tears kiss my pores, it’s nice to see you, yourself, again in the sun, remembering to drink and eat and move and hum.

[orangegreet]

No Minor Miracles

This is a completed story - pending only an epilogue at this point. Reposted to Tumblr from AO3.

Summary:

“Hello Aleksander.” He closed his eyes at the sound of her whispered greeting. Could she have picked any other night? Any other than this one? “Why do you haunt me when I feel at my weakest to defend myself?” He asked. “You are always droll when we meet. First I am your demon and now I am your ghost.”

_____________

Captured by Grisha slavers and ultimately shipwrecked between West Ravka and Kerch, Alina is orphaned and stranded on the other side of the Fold.

In secret, the Sun Summoner is raised and trained thousands of miles outside of Os Alta and the reach of the Black General.

Ambition leads her to seek out the infamous Shadow Summoner in her twenties—only, he isn’t what she expected.

Yet still, she leaves Os Alta broken-hearted and unsure and both Alina and Aleksander resolve to stick to their own sides of the world for some years after.

—Until a weary night on the war front pushes the Black General to reach out to his old enemy.

What follows is an ongoing struggle for power, information, dominance and, ultimately, each other.

But with two such Saints involved, surely miracles will abound.

Chapter 1 | A Night on the Warfront

He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut as four of his soldiers continued their debate. The map spread out before them was littered with crude markings. A dirty shell casing sat near the edge of the Fold, the scale of it far out of proportion considering it was reported to be a small camp with no more than five tents.

“The West is closing in. They have some kind of advantage. Otherwise they would not drift so close to the Fold.”

“What do you propose we do about it? You can hardly expect us to sneak through the Fold on our end and catch them off guard.”

“I’m not convinced it is the West at all—our scouts themselves weren’t sure.”

“You don’t expect Shu Han to set up so far North in enemy territory.”

“I’m not saying that, I’m saying we don't know that it's army at all. Could be refugees seeking the protection being so close to the Fold can provide for all we know. We’ve seen it before.”

The General reached for the decanter, eyes bleary with lack of sleep. He refilled his glass. The soldiers continued to debate.

“You’ve seen it before? And when was that?” Ivan stared down the Inferni.

The young man stuttered, eyes shifting cautiously to the General who paused with his glass aloft.

“R-Rumors maybe but…years back we had intel of refugees camping near the Fold at the behest of the Sun Summoner.”

The General made no outward sign of recognition. He took another drink and placed his glass back on the table.

The neatly coiled rope at the center of his very being seemed to writhe. His heart picked up pace and he shot a covert warning glare at Ivan to keep his mouth shut. The Heartrender glared back, averting his gaze to the Inferni once more.

Internally he reached for the tether, intending to coil it back up and press it down again but he found once he touched it, he could not bring himself to let it go. Blame it on many late nights, war weariness and something else he refused to acknowledge in the presence of subordinates.

The tether gave a dull throb in his grasp.

The General forced himself to speak and quell the tension building in the tent.

“Rumors perhaps. We won’t know until it is too late. We must assume it is the West attempting the next step in secession. Prepare a skiff. I want the strike unit outfitted with the shielding cloaks. We send the skiff through on one side of the camp while our team traverses the Fold on foot on the other.”

He felt her presence in his chest first as the embers present stoked to a fiery glow. The General continued to stare at the map with a hardened glint in his eyes and ignored her apparition; his hand squeezed the tumbler.

“While the camp is preoccupied with the skiff, the strike team will take them out from behind. No prisoners.”

“And if they are refugees, sir?”

The General lifted his eyes to her. Her raised eyebrows expectant on her otherwise impassive face.

“No prisoners.”

She cocked her head at him but stayed quiet, surveying his whole being. Plotting his features for the signs of weakness, he was sure.

“You have your orders. You are dismissed.”

“But-sir which soldiers should we send on the skiff—“ The Inferni began.

“Ivan.” The General didn’t have to complete his request.

The Heartrender escorted the young Inferni out.

The General looked at her and then back at the decanter, determined to pull his features together though he felt his control slipping.

This, of course, was evidenced by her very presence.

“I feel I should offer you a drink. Though I am not sure if you could taste it.”

“It would be a warm gesture though. I wouldn’t decline to try.” She stepped closer to him and he struggled to keep the tension from his posture, his breath from hitching at the sound of her voice. How long had it been again?

He allowed himself the time to take her in. A decade had passed without seeing her. She looked older in some vague sense. Mostly in her eyes. He could tell by her gaze that she was severely less innocent than a decade ago.

Her posture too. She held herself with grace and dignity, the insecurity of youth long since fallen away.

“You’re looking well.” He said.

She blushed without a hint of modesty and he felt the warmth emanating from one of them. He couldn’t be sure who.

“I could say the same of you. Your hair has grown long. You look like a warrior.”

Her hands were clasped in front of her. Not reaching toward the dark locks that hung past his shoulders, half of it pulled back and tied with leather.

“I have been a warrior more often than not during my lifetime. I’m pleased to hear I look the part.”

She smirked at him and reached for his hand, bringing the glass to her lips for a sip.

“Can you taste it?”

She shook her head with a demure smile.

He took the glass away, musing out loud, “I thought not. This connection is beyond anything which has been studied but I do recall I could never see something unless you touched it.”

He put a hand on the map and watched her as she swiftly took in the details proffered on the table and then glanced back at him. Her eyes betrayed nothing.

“You did used to visit me more often than you do now. Though perhaps those visits were simply part of your own research efforts.”

When he didn’t respond for a few moments she continued, “I wondered if you had forgotten about me altogether.”

His chest bobbed a little higher under his breath as he studied her but eventually he decided how best to play this new hand.

“I do not consider myself forgetful in any regard, Miss Starkova.”

The liquid swirled in his glass as he caught her momentary bristle at the moniker. No doubt many years have passed since she was addressed as such.

He hummed, amused at her ruffled feather and resolved to push his luck, dipping his finger in the glass and looking up at her. “Now you mention, I do wonder…”

He lifted his finger to her lips and she scolded him with her eyes but allowed her tongue to brush over his skin. When her eyes drifted shut he couldn’t stop the backs of his fingers trailing over her cheek.

“Some things don’t change, do they? You favor the same casks of wine pilfered from the cellar of a Tsar.” She tutted and he smiled at her.

The first real smile she had seen him give in over a decade. Her insides pulsed.

“Then you are not forgetful, either.” He said in lament. He turned away from her.

She sighed. “This is tiring, please can we speak normally? Some time has passed since I last received your call. Did you mean for me to come to you tonight?”

He huffed a breath. “A compelling question for us both, I think. I wish I knew.”

When her eyes turned wary, she stepped away from him and he almost shouted at her. “No. Not—not yet. Just stay.”

The wariness turned to concern and she studied his features without reticence.

“What has happened? Tell me.”

“Nothing has happened. Nothing. It’s just—“ His hand raised to stroke her cheek again and he adored the way she leaned into it. Had she ever done that for him before? He could not remember. Not forgetful, indeed.

“Rumors.” He murmured. “Rumors reach me always of your life. Rumors of your death, of your sainthood and of your miracles. Tonight I—I wished for a miracle.”

Smiling sweetly, she cupped his face in her hands and stepped to him.

“My dear Aleksander,” Her eyes searched his for a moment. “The only miracle tonight lies in the possibility of two enemies who allow themselves to meet as friends. It would take two saints to pull that off. I am but one saint and cannot tell you the outcome. How strong is your desire for this miracle?”

His jaw clenched. He was so tired. Tired of wanting. Tired of losing. Tired of feeling like he was trailing behind. Forever out of step with her when he simply desired to be at her side.

His hand wrapped around the juncture of her shoulder and neck and he shook her. “You are no saint. You are a demon. My own personal demon sent from below to torture me on this plane. That must be it. I have yet to die and pay my dues and my sins have grown too great.”

Many late nights had led to this. Many years of keeping the door to her firmly shut led to this.

Time had passed differently for him in this after. Before her were calmer centuries poised in a position of patience and waiting. Since he had known her, known of her existence really, this frenetic energy was sparked inside of him that he could not shake. Time was centered acutely on constant anticipation. Anticipation of meeting her, experiencing her power. Then, once he knew her, heard her speak, felt her touch, mingled his power with hers-everything inside was reignited. His greed, desire, lust, rage, justice, truth, hope. It was chaos and tumult and agony contained inside an ancient man who was not ready for it.

Centuries of emotions being quelled and dulled and hammered flat into nothing before her existence. The last decade spent attempting, fruitlessly, to grow back that callous.

A moment of weakness and he reforged his connection to her. The meager protection he hoarded around himself the past few years fell away like an autumn leaf and now he was nothing more than a naked limb in the winter snow, completely exposed before her. Begging for her warmth.

It was enraging.

Her hand covered his on her neck and she squeezed it but did not attempt to remove him. She looked at him with such sadness that he felt it ache inside himself. Although it could have been his own sadness. There really was no way to tell in the moment.

“I know your sins, Aleksander and I am not here for absolution. I am here because you called to me and I wanted to answer.” His hand dropped away from her. The emotions which were so clear on his face a moment before grew opaque to her.

She swallowed, “I know your sins. And I have missed you.”

A ripple across his eyes and then nothing. He pushed down his insides.

A stoicism formed in his demeanor and it was with complete control that he let out his next sentence. “I hate you. For leaving me, I hate you.”

She drew herself up into a more formal posture with a deep breath.

“You wanted to mold me in your image. But it did not take and I would not let it continue. It has been better this way, I think. I would have hated you had I stayed.”

He scoffed. “You would have gotten over it, given enough time.”

She smiled at him, formality breaking with the warmth in her eyes. “Just as I believe you will, my oldest friend. My eternal friend.”

He blinked and his eyes gathered tears. She pretended not to notice, scared to spook him.

“Why did you leave?”

“You know the answer already. I’ve just told you.”

“Would it have been so bad to stay?” The emotion was seeping into his voice now and she stepped toward him with caution.

“I could not bear to hate you. It is better this way. We are both better, stronger. Worthy.”

Her eyes don’t lose their warmth but he felt the accusation the same. He would have sacrificed every ounce of his goodness, sanity and patience to keep her under his will. He would have sacrificed her for it.

“Are we?” He asked quietly. They both knew what he was asking.

She stroked his cheek and he nuzzled it.

“What you have in patience, I have in hope.” His eyes closed.

“Why do you stay away from me, Alina? Even now? I am well enough tortured. Surely your task must be done.”

Another sigh. “It is not so simple when it comes to you and me. You are my Inevitable. We will have an eternity together in my future and yours. It is only natural I want some time to live in autonomy before we begin. You were granted centuries to yourself, you recall.”

“Centuries of waiting, solnyshka. Centuries alone.”

She said nothing but continued to touch his cheek, his jaw, her eyes taking in every minute detail of his face. He called her there. She did not know when he would again.

“Will you make me wait more centuries for you?”

She hummed in amusement.

“Would you wait that long for me?”

If you ask.

He wanted to say it but he had given her so much of himself already. Greed smothered over his burgeoning embarrassment. She would leave soon enough and his desires wouldn’t be tamped down neatly anymore.

Possessive and greedy. That was how she knew him.

He wanted to possess her the way she seemed to possess him. Her ownership over him felt effortless to him and he half hated her for it. He gripped her hips dragging her flush to him.

Her breath startled and fanned over his face. He paused for only a moment and then pulled her mouth to his.

His lips sliding over hers in a heightened sense of torture. Could she taste him? If not she could surely taste his blatant desire. Completely exposed and on display for her to see.

He wrenched his mouth off hers, hand clasped to the back of her neck.

“Have you taken other lovers?”

The words were hissed through clinched teeth and his hand fisted into the fabric around her hips, holding her close.

Her eyes flashed into his and then down to his mouth where she pressed a kiss. Sweet as gentling an agitated animal. She pressed another and lingered.

Far from being quieted, he panted into her mouth, fisting a hand to her hair in a rush and crushing his mouth to hers.

The moan from her throat drifted into his mouth and he swallowed it up, lifting her onto the table and plunging them into what felt like the most familiar fantasy or memory or deja vu for them both.

Everything was different. Nothing had changed.

He tangled his tongue with hers, a reluctant groan escaping from his own throat.

She knew she should stop it. It would be harder to keep going without him if she let herself have too much.

Gradually their heat seemed to lower into a simmer and they both sighed into it. His hand stroked her thigh and his other held her jaw tenderly.

He pulled her into a languid kiss, holding her face as he pulled away.

“General—“ she started as he slowly parted the fabric wrapped around her waist. He eyed her with a dark silent look as he went to his knees.

“Would you have me kneel to you, Sol Koroleva?”

She smirked at him, weaving a hand into his dark locks and pulling him forward. His answering smile was glorious to her eyes. Victorious and tender at the same time and she relished it as he devoured her center.

“Aleksander.” Her voice was weak and he shook his head, clutching her harder. Hands gripped her thighs and secured them tight over his shoulders and he groaned into her further. His tongue relentless in pursuit of her pleasure. Driving her higher and harder than she knew was possible.

A torrent of pleasure with him and she briefly mourned what she realized was now over. There would be no other lovers. Not for her anyway.

The vibrating tether in her chest was a living thing now. Where it previously lay dormant, it now pulsed. Untamed and unleashed and rooting into her body at multiple weak spots. The palms of her hands, the soles of her feet, the nape of her neck, the base of her spine. Her gut. Her chest.

It was everywhere and she was lighting up from within with the magnitude of its power.

The strength and bond of their somehow ancient connection. Ancient in the way it stretched behind them in time but also in the way it surged forward into the coming years. Into their Inevitable future.

If she wondered whether the effect was the same for him, it didn’t take long to recognize the surrounding shadows pouring from him as he lost himself in her. She whimpered at his alternating ferocity and gentleness before remembering.

Her responsibilities. Her promise to herself.

“Sasha.” There it was. Firm and accompanied with a tightening of her hand in his hair, tugging him away.

When his gaze flicked up to meet hers she almost gasped at the feral look of him. Shiny mouthed, panting. Knuckles white where they pressed her thighs to his shoulders. Eyebrows bunched in irritation at her interruption.

Her rabid, wild Shadow Summoner pulled from his meal before he was sated.

“We can’t.” Her voice was strained. Irritation deepened into defiance across his features.

“Another lover, is it?” He spat the words out.

Her eyes squeezed shut and she felt the wetness in them gathering and shook her head.

“There is no one else. There will be no one else.” The grip on his hair gentled as she smoothed the back of his head and he lost a centimeter of rigidity from his posture.

“Then why.”

“It’s too soon.” The words were stifled. More wanted to follow but she would not let it and he grunted in frustration.

“We can’t.” She repeated to herself.

His face drifted back toward her shining folds, his eyes locked on hers as he brushed a careful tongue over her core. She whimpered again, hand twisting his locks and she meant to pull him away.

“No, Alina. You can.” His heated breath fanned over her and she shivered, “Just you. For tonight.”

She looked dismayed but it melted when he bestowed another long, slow lick to her center.

“Please.” The word came from his lips and it shocked both of them. Her hands stroked over his ears and met in his hair and when he leaned in again she did not stop him.

He was wonderfully cruel in his own brand of torture. His touch purposefully delicate and calculated. He worked her up toward the edge before redirecting his attentions until she calmed.

“Sasha.” The cry was wrenched from her mouth as she tried to snap her thighs shut around his face. To force the attention she was desperately craving thanks to him. He persevered in keeping them open. Leveraging her pleasure for his purposes.

“Promise me.” He demanded between a soft caress of his tongue, tone at odds with the motion.

“Promise what?” It was a struggle to keep her eyes open as her head wanted to tilt back.

“You will come back to me.”

“You already know that I will.”

He pressed a finger into her, then another.

“Promise it. Promise you will be mine. Only mine.”

She keened and clutched his wrist in encouragement.

“And will you be mine, General? Will the Darkling belong only to the Sun Summoner?”

His fingers curled and he licked his lips, watching her take her pleasure.

“I will give myself to you alone, Alina.” His fingers curled again and she shuddered feeling so close to something so big.

“Then I promise to be yours. As much as you are mine. I will take everything you have to give, and everything you try to hide away will be mine. All of it will be mine, Sasha.”

He grunted, swallowing against her and sucking. She screamed out as she finally finished. Wave after wave of pulsing euphoria spreading over her and through her and from her chest and into the very root of her being.

The lapping continued and he kept his eyes fixed on her for the minutes following as she trembled and shuddered under his attention.

Bestowing a few lingering kisses to her thighs and smearing the moisture across them, he carefully removed her legs from his shoulders and got to his feet. When he was planted firmly between her legs, he took hold of her face again.

His forehead leaned against hers. She reached for him this time and kissed him hungrily. To her surprise, he broke away, breathing in through his nose in a deep way. His chest brushed her with each breath.

“I’m trying to prove to you I can be sweet and you are making it very difficult.”

Her answering smile was radiant.

He kissed it.

“Tell me where you are.” The demanding tone was back and she chuckled.

“I’m here. With you.” Fingers stroked his chest. His hand covered hers and he pressed it into himself and growled.

“I forgot how much you infuriate me.”

“I underestimated how enjoyable it would be still.”

His nostrils flared but his chest warmed at her mirth.

She pinched a strand of his hair between her fingers, still grinning, “We’ve brought about your miracle, after all. It is very satisfying to be this holy. Do you not agree?”

He had no words, only kisses which he placed on her cheeks, her ears, a nip to her jaw, a pull on her neck.

“Aleksander,” it was whispered. He sensed her imminent departure and kissed her again with increasing desperation. She met him with equal fervor, both unable to get close enough to satisfy the ending. When his face was buried into her neck and she clutched his body to her, she made a last attempt to secure his soul.

“In light of our miracle, can I make a request?” He nodded against her shoulder, a tender kiss placed over her pulse. “Sometimes you should take some prisoners. Please.”

Her eyes raked over his features, some kind of affection or devotion shared in their last looks. With them it seemed one posture easily slipped into the other. The lives of Saints, he supposed.

Then she was gone.

[sprawa-przybyszewskiej]

Gnostic inspirations in Przybyszewska’s works

At the highest point of her intellectual life, Stanisława Przybyszewska spent over 12 hours each day simply on writing her own works, continously, and with maniacal care, educating herself on absolutely everything (she was constantly looking for fields in which she might be a natural genius) and she rarely did anything else at all, which included things like earning a wage or sweeping her own floors. The effect of such existence was of course that she was severely depressed, but also thoroughly educated. It means that traces of whatever matter from history or philosophy can be spotted in her works, are most likely intentional and put there exactly with the hopes of showing her erudice.

One of such matters was gnosticism. Gnosticism is a set of beliefs which put emphasis on obtaining liberation from this life through gnosis (knowledge) and cast aside all that is not of the mind – so not only the flesh, but also the spirit. Without going into details of some specific gnostic rite it is simpler to say that gnostics value gnosis higher than any of their base beliefs and teachings (in Europe gnostics are mostly mentioned in relation to early christianity, Cathars are an example of this). Then the contrast one can find within religion (for example sin and liberation from it) is replaced with earthly illusion and gnosis, which frees one from the illusion and guarantees a higher level of life, of sorts (in gnostic beliefs, our presence on Earth is not linear, leading from birth, through life and death to afterlife, but resembles more of a ladder, with each rung leading closer to obtaining total knowledge, and simultenously losing all that tethers one to earthly illusions.

In literature, strong contrasts are a good indication we can look into it to spot gnostic inspirations or at the very least make a strong case they could be there, even if unintentional. In Przybyszewska's case, however,  they are all the more probable, for I vaguely recall she was well aware of the presence of these beliefs and everything she wrote on the nature of genius points in the same direction, too. She held these beliefs in her own, private set of core values, and there isn't any better place for her to show them to us but through her works. She presented us with an utopian vision of mental progress in her plays, while in her prose works, she focused on the darker side of the same things.

The axis of conflict in gnosticism is between the mind and the spirit. Robespierre is without a doubt a man of the mind much more so than of the spirit, and all the important figures surrouding him are more on the spiritual side of things (with Camille being the most prominent in this regard). Maxime has achieved the gnosis, the crown that will burn [his] brains right through.Before it happens, though, he is elevated onto another plane of understanding, a place where no other person can reach him, or even understand him:

Danton, of course, is lying.

(There is, sadly, no French translation of Thermidor; on another note, it took me this long to realize the French decided to change the person's tag from Camille to Desmoulines, which is suprising in the best sense of the word).

Robspierre is clearly constructed to be a genius, standing above everybody else and thus bearing greater responsibility, something which demands of him more than it does of others.  Madness which he suspects within himself at the end  is only a threat because it potentially leads to commiting mistakes, and a mistake is an unforgivable offence when it is committed by the one who ought to know better. Mistakes by a hand of another – for example Camille – are a different story altogether, for the majority of people not only don't achieve gnosis, but even cannot achieve it, their mental state isn't developed enough for them to grasp at the higher concepts. I think this is one of the reasons why Saint-Just's words: It is not madness, it's despair, are actually calming Robespierre down. Despair is simply a sign of being weary, something to be expected.

Maxime's knowledge and better judgement of everything is of course still a curse, leading to his death. In gnosticism, death isn't meant in a macabre sense, since it leads to yet another, higher rung of the metaphorical ladder we're standing on, but the gnosis obtained beforehand makes a death a good one instead of a waste. When Robespierre is going through his moment of despair at the end of The Danton Case, he betrays the gnosis he has in favour of admiting that the future will turn out differently than what could be expected: his death won't be a natural progression, but a failure, his depaire sets him back into the crowd of the sad, grey mass of the people who are not – like him – predestined to understand more.

From the linguistic point of view, I find it interesting that in the original and in the French version, he is using somewhat esoteric language (the future is under the sign of Danton – to my eyes, it is a clear refereance to the Zodiac signs, something which is supposed to predestine our futures, and which is also esoteric and ritualistic; given all the hints that she was abused by her satanist father, it makes a really sad, hopeless final note on the grand scheme of things for the humanity, that we, as humans, are incapable of running away from the brute forces which will continue to rule us simply because the world is built like this – not to mention the inability to change the future or even just the fate of one's life is a staple of gnostic beliefs).

No matter what he says about it, the inability to escape from one's fate is something which we rarely associate with Robespierre, because – as much as Przybyszewska makes it clear, thet he is a genius and thus everything he does he is not only allowed to do, but must do it for the greater good – he seems a bit like a self-made man, perhaps because we see him all the time in situations which are hard and difficult, but not impossible. A much more tragic situtation of the lack of escape from his own poor choices is being presented to us through Camille.

Camille has had a chance to be continously tethered to Maxime, securing for himself relevant safety in the public life, and calmess or even happiness in his private one. Yet he breaks with Robespierre over and over again, starting even before the plot of the play. Maxime reaches out to him against his better judgement, and Camille – also against his better judgement – decides to stay loyal to Danton. He is as if glued to his leader, even though he sees him clearly for what he is. Camille is an apotheosis of a spiritual being, someone ruled by impulses, perhaps even with the best of intentions, but whose mind will never achieve gnosis, the clear vision of what is right and true. When Robespierre argues with the Committee by demanding they leave Danton (and Camille by proxy) alone, he plots against Maxime in his newspaper; when Robespierre goes to him under the cover of night, he doesn't want to see him and then throws him out; when Robespierre tries to either break him free from the prison or at the very least console him by admitting his love (I never actually knew what was his plan here), he follows the advice of his bad influences and doesn't admit him. It's as if a strange force kept him by Danton's side, and I don't think it was any normal feeling (of shame or guilt) keeping him away from Maxime. In The Last Nights of Ventose he makes it quite clear being a stronger person's lap dog would never bring him shame, but honour, thus I don't think he'd have any problem with returning to Robespierre after a long while of abuse and slander.

The relationship Camille has with Danton is another aspect of gnosticism, namely its duality. Danton is a stand-in for Maxime, which doesn't work because Danton is anti-Robespierre, his negative double (much like in some gnostic beliefs world was created and being conducted by two gods, one good and one evil). It is unclear whether Camille had any real, true potential to serve "good" Robespierre, but  even if he didn't, if his friableness kept him from serving a greater purpose (which I don't know if I believe, in The Last Nights of Ventose we are presented with a very different portrayal of Camille, one who could achieve something much greater than he did if only he was by Robespierre's side at all times), serving the "evil" Danton couldn't possibly have a good outcome.

He even does return to Robespierre, for a short while, steered by emotions rather than anything else. But in this dualistic, gnostic reality, emotions have little to do, they aren't worth very much. What's more, if we focus solely on Camille, we have to admit that – as in every story, revolving around a single character – a person is in a way stuck in time. He can go about in the space his life takes, but time is more like a deity, untouchable and something you cannot pact with. For Camille, it doesn't matter how many times and at what point in time (before their fallout, during the crisis or at the last hour) Maxime asks him to break with Danton and go back to him, because time and predestined fate hold all the power of what is happening, while individuals hold none (and the aforementioned last statement of Robespierre explains right away that it is so even for the "great" individuals, who in other aspects are being held to different standards, but against time and fate they are just as powerless).

I like to think, though, that Przybyszewska has left a small postern for Camille to achieve gnosis or its more humane equivalent by drawing a symbolic parallel between two scenes, which are only made significat by their possible relating to each other, but mean next to nothing on heir own:

In the first scene, the key could have been a completely incidental choice of words/tools, after all it's a logical conclusion of the scene. There is, however, a more symbolic reading of it, as a key is of course a symbol, and a pretty easy one at that. If Camille gave Robespierre the key himself, this could be read as an end to their relationship, Camille returning the power  that Maxime holds over him to Maxime's own hands. But since we only see Lucille relay the key, and we know that Lucille is also capable of influencing her husband and directing his steps (even if she says she can't; Robespierre's words, seeing as he's the genius here, are the final judgement of this), this could mean she is giving her portion of power to Maxime, whom she trusts to save her husband. And Maxime uses this one more time, when he tries to visit Camille in prison. That he fails miserably is against Camille's wishes, because Camille even in his demise only succumbs to wishes of others.

But we know he regrets this step mightily and we know it precisely because he dreams (or rather has a nightmare) about the very key he was supposed to convey to Robespierre earlier. He regrets the desire to give Maxime his power back, he regrets that by doing so in any way, shape or form he has finally given up his life. Choosing a beautiful death over an ugly, humiliating life only sounded good in his head, but in truth, he is beyond terrified and would love nothing more but to Maxime to come in again and if not save him, then at the very least – forgive him. But for that, they'd have to meet again, and he couldn't throw Maxime out. I also don't understand why both the English and French translation added the word "effortlessly" when describing his last moment with Robespierre, because make no mistake, it is very much an unnecessary addition, going against everything that he has been portrayed like so far. Their last conversation is just as much a tragic one for Camille as it is for Maxime.

Przybyszewska took great pains to paint Camille in front of our eyes as someone so weak that we find him as more of a comic relief than anything else, but in reality he is just a differing portrayal of powerlessness when faced with fate. Camille is not a comical character, but a tragic one, he is just the same as Robespierre, his other half: they both believe in their own agency, they both believe they are the ones making choices and pushing their lives forward, but it is not a coincidence that they both end up in he very same place, in a span of mere weeks.

This post would not have been born if it weren't for @patricidefan​.

[shhh-no-ones-home]

another one down Helmut Zemo x reader x Bucky Barnes

+++++++++ Mostly Zemo but ends with Bucky, if you read it you'll see what I mean lol

Song: control freak by doll skin

tag list: @cynic-spirit +++++++++

The safe house was a beautiful sight to behold. It was minimalist but very lavish, something that absolutely screamed Helmut Zemo. From the colors used in the paintings on the walls to the furnishings placed ever so carefully around the large room. Even for just a safe house, not a intended, livable, home; everything seemed so meticulous and thought out.

"Do you like it?"

The baron inquired, motioning his hand for me to sit on the plush couch. I of course would be lying if I said I didn't. It was much nicer than any place I'd ever had the pleasure of staying, apart from maybe the compound but even that didn't have the same spark that this did. I couldn't help but gawk at the grand estate he'd lead us to stay in.

"It is nice, that's for sure."

I confessed, trying not boost his ego but catching the smug look on his face as he watched me sit. Another thing I'd noticed about him. Every move I made since I'd met them in Madripoor seemed to catch his eye, and then some. Not only did he carry himself with stature, he made sure he was always one step ahead, knowing you better than you knew yourself. Part of me wondered if he knew I found him attractive. The other part wanted me to stop thinking about it.

"I've seen better."

Bucky said slyly, pouring himself a drink. His whole body looked tense, angry even, like he was trying with every fiber in his being not to kill the man standing in front of me. And who knew, maybe he was.

"Sure you have."

I barely caught as Zemo mumbled under his breath. I glanced between the two of them. Bucky was staring daggers through the baron and his jaw was visibly tightening.

"What's the point of all this stuff anyways if it just sits around doing nothing?"

Buck grumbled, clearly annoyed. Similar to me Sam just sat and watched the little quarrel at hand.

"Usually it would not just be sitting around. But in case you forgot I've been a little busy elsewhere."

Zemo was stepping further and further away from me, seemingly challenging Bucky with every step he made.

"Back in my day you only needed one place to call home."

Bucky stepped closer. They were almost chest to chest.

"Back in your day-"

"This is not a pissing contest boys."

I interrupted, Sam sending me a look as I stood and walked to them. I looked between them both. Bucky was all but seething; and I'm sure it didn't help that Zemo looked as cool as ever, barely worked up or even irritated.

"I don't care what the two of you have to do to get through this but it had better happen sooner rather than later, because if I have to listen to you two bicker like an old married couple for five more minutes I am absolutely going to lose it. And I don't think any of us want that."

It came out a little more stern than I had intended but they knew exactly what I meant. My powers sort of permitted that, but of the three of them Bucky was the only one who'd ever seen it happen. Not to mention the only one who'd ever been able to come near me enough to calm me down.

"How about we all just get something to eat and go to our respective rooms for the night. Not another word nor topic need be talked about."

The suggestion didn't go unnoticed as Bucky side eyed me, looking to Sam sat at the table watching this play out in silence.

"I think that's the best idea you've had all day."

°°°°°°°°°

After dinner we were shown to different rooms upstairs. It was all just as elegant as the rest of the house but the thing I was most excited about was the large bed taking up the majority of the space I was in. The only thing that would've made it more perfect was if Bucky could manage to sneak his way in here and fall asleep in my arms like he did back home. Not that we were a thing, but we found comfort in each other, so often times he spent the night at my place. After the first couple times we realized how stupid it was to not stay in the same bed together and here recently that had become the new norm. That is until he left to take care of the Karli situation.

It didn't matter though, because we were back together again. Well, sort of. But even here I felt betrayed by my own body. Usually I thought solely about Bucky. He was my person whether I wanted to admit it or not, even if we'd never gone on a proper date or called it what it really was. But despite that, and despite myself, I was yearning. And I felt guilty about it because now I was doing something that felt worthy of guilt. I shouldn't be thinking about the baron the way I was that's for sure. God I needed to go to bed, to shower, to do anything that made me stop thinking about it. But then there was a knock at the door. My brows knitted together in confusion as I opened it, just the person I didn't want to see.

"I wanted to come make sure you were comfortable with your accommodations."

Helmut said, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood tall and stoic in front of me.

"Yes, thank you."

He nodded once, turning his body away from me like he was preparing to leave.

"Is there anything I could get for you before you turn in for the night?"

He asked and it hit me, the shame of wanting him to come in.

"Actually, would you mind showing me how the shower works, I would hate to accidently break it."

I let out a nervous laugh, one he rivaled with a toothy grin as I let him into my room.

"It would be my pleasure."

He sang, following me slowly to the bathroom. Once there he sat at the edge of the tub and looked up at me, a small smile now playing on his lips.

"You know, you seem to be a complicated little thing."

I drew my brows.

"How so?"

He shrugged, reaching over and turning the faucet on the right.

"Hot here, cold here, shower plug."

He instructed before turning it back off and standing up. I watched as he walked back out into the room and before he could leave I caught his arm.

"Wait."

I said quickly. I needed something answered.

"Please tell me what you mean. I've heard about you and I need to know why it's me that escapes you."

I confessed almost desperately.

"Of the heroes you are the one with the least information, no background, no comprised list of powers, and no track record. Apart from James' apparent desire to please you, you don't have a tether to anything or anyone. I admire that about you."

God the blood should not be rushing to the places that it is. he spoke so smoothly it was like my brain stopped working. But despite that, there was one thing that caught my attention.

"You think Bucky aims to please me?"

I asked almost embarrassed and he smirked at me.

"There are much better pleasures in this world than the ones he is offering you."

He said lowly, stepping closer and closing the gap between us. It took me a moment to realize but I'd been holding my breath as his gaze bore into my own.

"And what pleasures are those?"

It was quiet and reserved, and maybe a bit testing, though unintentional. The look he gave me following my statement told me everything I needed to know, but if I had any questions about it they were answered when he leaned down and kissed me gently. There was a pause at first, from both of us like he was waiting for me to pull away, but I didn't. When he realized that though he stepped closer, if that was even possible; one hand on my hip and the other placed gently at my jaw as he now kissed me with purpose.

Once again my brain stopped altogether and I couldn't focus on anything but him. My hands tailed slowly up his arms, one making its way into his hair and tugging lightly. The hum that escaped him made me smile before he pulled away. His eyes were darker now, a hunger behind them as he stared down at me.

"Pleasures you could never even imagine."

He recited, trailing his finger tips across my jaw. We were still in very close proximity and as I thought for a second to kiss him again it was like I was brought back to reality, pushing him away and covering my mouth with my hand.

"No."

I said, muffled, unbelieving myself and what I'd just done.

"I can't do this, not to him."

It came out a little more broken than i'd intended but then again that's kind of how it felt. He looked down, nodding once as he resumed the position I'd met him in, hands clasped behind his back.

"You have a commitment to him. I understand."

He said in a soft tone. I felt bad again but this time I couldn't quite tell why. It was like I was letting him down but he was right. I did have a commitment to Bucky, to be there for him like he was for me.

"He's the only one who understands me."

I croaked out, trying to find any other answers behind the barons eyes that I was right to feel the way I did.

"That could change."

He said matter-of-factly and suddenly the feeling in my gut changed.

"Maybe I don't want it to."

I snapped back, brows drawn in frustration that he would be so bold to suggest I pick him over Buck. I stepped to him, finger in his face as he walked backwards into the door.

"at the end of the day you'll be back behind bars. He has been nothing but amazing to me since we met, a true gentleman and a friend. That's not going to change just because you come along with your stupid fancy house and antique cars. He cares about me, and I him."

The rage behind my eyes must have told him all he needed to know after that, his hands in the air as he finally looked different than his usual cool self. I had to admit though that it was probably my powers coming through, when I got worked up or angry they had a tendency of showing up. But one thing we didn't need was me crushing him or his house into the ground. I shook the thought as I opened the door, motioning for him to leave. He stood in the doorway for a second though.

"It wouldn't matter anyway y/n, like you said, he cares about you."

When he looked to the side with a knowing glance my face dropped, watching in horror as he nodded.

"James."

He said, walking off and leaving me to my devices as Bucky came into view.

"So you don't mind that I don't have a fancy house and antique cars?"

I laughed out, a sound somewhere between angry and unbelieving, reaching for his hand and squeezing it lightly.

"Do you love me?"

I asked. There was a pause and I almost got worried, but the genuine smile that spread across his features tore that feeling away very quickly. He nodded before pulling me flush to him.

"I do."

He said and all my worries melted away. i couldnt believe id been so stupid.

"Do you?"

He asked, making me blush as I nodded back, snaking my arms around his neck.

"So frickin much."

"thats good, cause i was worried id lost you there for a second."

he confessed and i just closed my eyes, feeling him press his forehead to mine.

"you could never lose me."

i breathed against him, his lips ghosting over my own.

"promise?"

i bit my lip for only a second before crashing them into his, holding the back of his head in my hand as he held me tightly to him. when we pulled away i looked between his eyes, almost getting lost in them. i nodded slowly as he stared back down at me waiting for an answer.

"i promise."