#it's about the lovestruck looks by firelight

[telleroftime]

King of the Koopas ||| Bowser x Reader

Headcanons

———————————————

Some fluffy headcanons for Bowser inspired by his character model in the new Super Mario movie. (Because I paid a bit too much attention to him when I first watched it).

Pairing: Bowser x Gender Neutral ! Reader

Relationship: Romantic

Tone: Fluff

Warnings: Spoilers for the movie if you count description of Bowser's character model as a spoiler. There's nothing beyond that.

Bowser Masterlist

A/N: I may have one group project and one coursework due this week, alongside a seminar on Monday and an exam on Tuesday - buuuut my love for Bowser prevails.

———————————————

Bowser has multiple small scars all over his body - from his legs to his arms - all from his previous battles and any other accidents he's been in. Notably, there are a couple of small marks near the right edge of his jaw. They're mostly unnoticeable, however there is a pale shine when they catch the light, especially firelight and any hot glow emanating from the falling streams of lava.

Bowser had forgotten about them. To him, they are just one of the many cuts and bruises he's gained from fighting. They're just insignificant parts of his body. Not only that, he wouldn't see them often unless he was to look into a reflective surface, which realistically he wouldn't do that commonly unless he needs to boost his confidence and pep talk himself.

But, once you notice, you won't forget.

He wouldn't know how to react when you kiss him there.

At first, he wouldn't assume much of it. A kiss is a kiss and he will take anything he can get from you with how touch-starved he is. From your gentle caresses to your undivided attention. He'd revel in the way you tilt and angel his face, and will get all flustered and smitten and every other love related word.

However, even through his heart-eyes, he would take note of you kissing that one spot if you chose to make it a habit. It would take a while, but he would pick up on it and he'd eventually ask why you choose to kiss that spot every time, only to be surprised when he finds out it's all because he has scars there.

He would completely melt if you were to kiss any other scar on his body, especially any on his arms where he can see you.

Tough-guy who? Not Bowser. Not when he's with you.

And there would be no poker-face. He's bad enough at masking his emotions as is. If you were to look up at his face, you would see him grinning like a lovestruck teenager.

Oh, and speaking of shiny and reflective things: his scales reflect light. A lot.

The ombre of green scales on his shoulders have an almost iridescent sheen to them. They reflect the environment very well, glowing golden in the firelight and purple in the night sky. Some of the scales are glossier than others, and there's a pattern of mismatched reflectiveness.

And sometimes the scales look like scattered stars around his body.

Because of their position, it would be another aspect of himself Bowser doesn't really pay attention to. Not only are they just like any other scales to him, and he has plenty of those, but he wouldn't pay much attention to the appearance of his shoulders and neck. I doubt it would even be something his eyes flicker to when looking at himself in the mirror.

Which is why you mentioning them would throw him completely off course.

His eyes would be wide, and he'd do his best to look at the scales on his shoulders, angling his head to see what you see. He wouldn't understand why you find them so interesting, and would be too stunned to fully take in your explanations if you chose to compliment him.

You find his scales fascinating? But they're just scales... And you say they shine like stars? But diamonds can do the same thing...

He wouldn't understand at first, until he realises you like them because they're beautiful in your eyes and they're a part of him.

And then cue the tail wagging, because he would be the giddiest Koopa in his entire kingdom.

And another thing - if him lacking a pokerface wasn't obvious enough - his eyes glow with his emotions. Though it's mainly visible with ones of wrath and anger, they do glow. And there are stages to it. They go from his normal crimson coloured eyes and carefully climb up levels of brightness. They become a copper orange and increase in saturation to mimic the tones of molten rock.

It's almost like he takes the phrase 'seeing red' literally.

It's that glow that lets you know whether your attempts to calm him down work. If you coo at him, gently stroking and patting his arms to place him back in reality, you'd know of its effectiveness almost immediately. If it works, that dangerous glow would sizzle out, and he'd look at you with the most endearing eyes, completely forgetting what made him so angry.

There'd still be smoke puffing out of his nose, but the absence of the glow would tell you that he sees you, and that he's in control of himself.

If your attempts to calm him down don't work, you'd know to give him some space and wait patiently for him to calm himself down. He would, eventually, and he'd come straight to you.

It's also what lets you know if something you said upset him. Not like he'd ever direct his anger at you, though. It's always good to know.

———————————————

Bowser Masterlist

[shimmershae]

So.  It’s officially November and I wanted to try to write a little something every day in an effort to drag myself out of what feels like the eternal hell of writer’s block.  But.  All I have to offer you today, lovelies, is a Caryl dream I had last night.  Which, my write up of said dream is technically writing, yes?

LOL.  

Anyway.  A little setup to said dream to help you understand my mindset going into it.  

A post popped up in my Twitter TL.  One by ImPrettyDrifty about Carol and the necklace she wears in tribute to Sophia and it sparked my imagination.  

It's not like I haven't noticed the necklace before and I blame it on Melissa's collarbones in the pics JB chose honestly, lol, but suddenly I was consumed with the need for the tension between Carol and Daryl to finally boil over.  Maybe they don’t kiss right away.  Maybe personal space just vanishes between them in tiny increments as Daryl starts finally using his fucking words and his fingers find that little hair tie.  But he’s just fixated with it as he tells Carol once and for all why it's not like that.  Not like that at all (as his fingers leave that hair tie to touch her chin and, and, and). 

So of course.  Of course, I dreamed about them, yes?  I mean, it was inevitable right?  

Placing said dream underneath a cut before this post gets out of hand long.  

So there was a cabin (I know, I know, fuck cabins, we don't have the best of histories with them, lol) and there was the golden glow of firelight and it flickered like dancing fireflies.  And there were two bodies entwined on a bed that looked ridiculously clean, cozy, and cloud-soft for a bed in the ZA.  And the picture was gauzy and dreamlike but gradually a pair of broad shoulders came into clearer focus and the pair of legs they were nestled between.  Now, before you call me out on my dream being explicit, it wasn't (damn, lol--but things were sure as hell implied).

My brain pumped the brakes, gave me the finger, and was like, nope.  Not so fast, lol.

It did, however, present me with the picture of Carol's head thrown back on a pillow, her silver hair haloed around her and a smile starting to curl her parted lips.

Think that scene in Consumed on that DV center couch, only with her S11 hair.  

So she's understandably a little breathless and both of them positively glitter with a fine sheen of sweat, and while our girl is still coming down from the throes of bliss, she gazes down at Daryl with that same lovestruck look she gave him while she was stroking his hair by firelight (under the guise of giving him a haircut).  And he's just comfy AF, resting there on her belly, teasing her cute little belly button with fingers that, well, you know.  And he's giving her that same smoldering look we saw during that haircut and during the S11 premiere episode when these two honestly could have melted everybody's clothes off.

Carol reaches for the hand that's made her quiver in all sorts of delicious ways and they just hold hands for a few minutes and bit by bit, Daryl's intense look doesn't lose its intensity but somehow it softens if that makes sense?  And he kisses the back of their joined hands and shifts, blanketing her body with his and again his shoulders were on display, this time with the tattoos as his muscles rippled.  He melts like a boneless kitten when Carol releases his hand to tunnel her fingers in his hair and that's when his eyes start to get shiny with tears.  He's leaning into her touch and his hand comes up to touch the tiny bead of her necklace, and a long, lingering look passes between them (that speaks of regret and loss and what ifs) and Carol shushes him before he can say he's sorry with a kiss that's as much as an affectionate kitten nuzzle as a brush of lips (I blame that New Best Friends hug for this part, lmao).  And that's when they started to melt into each other and the picture of them started to fade into something of a shimmer of light and I woke up and I felt both bereft and grateful.  

Bereft because FUCK AMC AND EVERYONE ASSOCIATED WITH THEM FOR NOT GIVING US ONE TENTH OF ANYTHING THIS GOOD.  Grateful because sometimes I love my brain, lol.  Sometimes?  It actually comes through for me when times are, well, shitty.  

Anyway.  Like I said.  Not really FF, but it kind of, sort of counts.  At any rate, I hope it made you feel something.  Bereft or grateful, either one works.  Although, damn being bereft and damn AMC.  But I digress.  

[sebsketchs]

The fireflies and lightmoths are out, dancing through the air.... when he gets close enough, Zuko turns towards him, and the smile he breaks into makes Sokka feel light-headed. "Sokka,"....he spins around, taking in his work while Sokka drinks him in. Every movement, the way light catches on different parts of him. It's like he's glowing from the inside out, like he's moving in slow motion, and all Sokka can do is stare. “Do you like it?” Zuko asks, eyes shining in the firelight.

Sokka thinks he might love it.

-Wooing the Water Tribe by lenaballena on ao3

this fic is beautiful and heartfelt and absolutely hilarious, everyone should read it and i couldn’t get this scene out of my head so i just. had to sketch it.

[justasimplesinner]

Christmas fluff with Jonathan Crane

this is a bday present to the one and only @froppydeloppy i hope you’ll enjoy it darl! i tried to make it extra fluffy, but - because i’m a dumb bitch - there’s a sprinkle of angst. with happy ending tho!

***

          Stressful - that's the only way to describe what was going on right now. Everyone was in a rush, some buying late Christmas presents, some just panicking over every little imperfection in their perfect little world. Streets were filled with busy crowds, bright lights and loud noise consisting of but not limited to shouts, cars honking and children screaming bloody murder in the best of ways. It could get overwhelming sometimes, this whole Christmas frenzy going on all around the world. But in your home? It was calm. 

Supper was almost ready, batches of cookies laid out on the coffee table along with a bottle of wine, and the smell of hot cocoa filled the room. The fireplace was burning, some of the decorations you put days back shining with the firelight and dim but colorful light coming from your little tree. It wasn't big or fancy or bright-colored enough to cause an epilepsy attack, but it was lovely and perfect as it was - especially since you decorated it with him. 

Jonathan was currently sitting in the armchair he claimed as his, long legs stretched out, book in hand, in an oversized turtleneck sweater and you'd lie if you said it wasn't the best view. The way light reflected in his glasses and the gentle glow that got caught on his sharp cheekbones, boney, slender fingers unconsciously caressing the edge of his thick volume - that habit more often than not led to hundreds of little papercuts littering his skin, a quiet, muttered "shit!" as he put the "wounded" digit up to his lips to ease the pain.

It was the little things about him that always brought a smile to your face - or any things, really, as long as they were about him.

– How much longer do you plan to stare at me? – he drawled from his spot, a small smile clear in his voice, as your own grin got that little bit wider at hearing his nasally voice.

– As long as it takes for you to finally pay attention to me. – you mused playfully, resting your chin on your hand. You never ceased your staring. He never got back to his book. 

Instead, he carefully placed an old receipt he used as a bookmark between the pages, and with utter gentleness closed it shut then put it down on the pile next to him. Half of his lanky body leaned out of the armchair as he copied your position and looked you in the eyes with that smirk you'd never get enough of.

– Your dinner is going to burn. – amusement laced his words as his eyes bore into your own. His gaze was always intense, always calculating but never cold - not to you, at least. You liked to believe that the way he looked at you was with love, but with him, it was hard to tell. It has, after all, been almost three years and he still had trouble saying it out loud.

But you knew he cared, and he cared deeply. Deep enough to sit here with you, today, and let you pamper him for once. Deep enough to be comfortable with you, let himself relax and stop being paranoid for once in his life.

– It's your dinner too, jackass. You promised you'd stay for once. – you chuckled, scrunching your nose up at him before kissing the bridge of his own and getting up. You really had to check on that dinner - it'd be a shame if all the hard work you put in would be wasted just because you couldn't stop staring at the wanted criminal you were currently harboring in your house.

– And I intend to keep it. – it was unlike him to spill out reassurances so quickly and so honestly, but that didn't mean you didn't appreciate it. You were surprisied, yes, but ever grateful as well. The Christmas spirit was getting even to the biggest of grumps, it seemed.

– You better. I can't eat everything by myself and I made pumpkin pie for you. – you threatened jokingly, heading to the kitchen and it was a damn shame you didn't see the lovestruck smile on his face. But he only smiled like that when you weren't looking, after all.

          Taking out the meat from the oven, and putting a finishing touch on everything went smoothly and it didn't take long before every dish was placed on the table, cutlery got laid out and glasses were full of wine. You were just taking off your apron in the kitchen, about to join Jonathan and finally eat the goodies you made but his lanky frame blocking the doorway stopped you in your tracks.

God, he was so tall he had to lean down to even get through the door.

– What is it? – you asked, coming up to him, but he never stepped back from you like he usually did, didn't even budge and his eyes never strayed away from your own, that piercing gaze looking right into your soul. And once he deemed you near enough, you watched him straighten and if you weren't so close his forhead would be obscured by the doorframe.

It reminded you of the way he used to hit his head on the top of it the first few times he came over to your place. And it was only when you chuckled and slightly leaned your head back that you understood what he seemingly wanted to tell you without using a single word.

There was a mistletoe just above you. Funny, you didn't remember putting it there.

– You absolute sap. – you laughed, shaking your head as his smirk only grew in size and he leaned down, a little awkwardly since he insisted on keeping his hands in his pockets, to just a little above your eye level.

– Maybe I'm a hopeless romantic at heart, hm? – you almost snorted right in his face. Both of you knew he hated Romanticism and the mere idea of romance all together. Of course, what you two had definitely wasn't platonic, and you did love each other in a romantic sense (you hoped), but that didn't change anything.

– More like romantically hopeless. – and with that, you cupped his cheeks and pressed your lips to his, feeling him sigh into the kiss. Your noses bumped and he almost lost his balance but it was perfect nonetheless. 

Too bad you didn't have time for that since the food was getting cold.

          The dinner was pleasant. It didn't really feel special at all, but that's what made it even more perfect - Jonathan wasn't here, with you, because it was the right thing to do (pha! as if he cared about what was right or wrong), but because he wanted to be here. He wasn't here to celebrate anything, he was here for you and for you only and that in itself was the best Christmas gift you could ever wish for.

And speaking of gifts...

– This is way too big for me to be comfortable with it. – he complained, taking the carefully wrapped box from under the tree. You insisted on having the presents there - it was a tradition, one Jon probably never practiced, not even as a child. It might not bring him as much joy as it would to a six year old, but you wanted this to be the best Christmas in his miserable life.

– Oh, it's just the packaging. Stop complaining. – you laughed, rolling your eyes and sitting down on the floor next to where he was kneeling. After giving you a funny look, he sat down on the carpet as well, partly crossing his long legs so as not to kick the tree over.

That'd be a story to tell, for sure.

– If this is over twenty dollars, I'm not accepting it. – he warned, sending you a serious look but you only shook your head, pushing at his arm.

– Just open it, dammit! – you wanted to get this over with, because - despite everything - you were still nervous he wouldn't like it. Maybe it was too obvious? Maybe he already had it? Maybe he'd think you half-assed the whole thing? Good lord, it was stressful. Especially watching those spindly, skilled fingers carefully unwrapping the thing, almost teasingly slow. You didn't put it besides him to make you more nervous on purpose.

After all, you were scared. Scared of what he'd think. And that's what usually gets him going.

You almost swore his hands shook when he was lifting the lid of the box, as if he was expecting something to blow up in his face. Ah yes, the paranoia...

– A scarf. – he muttered and boy, wasn't it a careful observation on his part! You laughed quietly, heartbeat slowing a little. Of course it was a scarf, what else? But it was only a part of the present, too. He was in for a surprise.

– Well, I got tired from hearing your larynx screaming for help because you walk around with your neck bare. – you said with a wide smile, and it'd be a lie to say you weren't delighted to see him beaming back at you – C'mon, take it out! – you rushed and it was then that he froze as he tried to take it out and felt something... hard beneath it.

– For God's sake, there's more? I only got you one thing! – he whined loudly like a baby, and you just huffed, snuggling up closer to him to carefully watch his reaction as he got to the second part of your present.

– What can I say? I like to spoil. – you mused with a smile, cheek pressed to his shoulder but that only made him get more defensive.

– I'm not some child to be spoiled.

Well, from your point, he certainly looked like one.

With a nudge, you encouraged him to lift up the scarf and see what's under. And good lord when he ceased all movement along with his breathing, you had to admit you were kind of worried. Did you fuck up? Or did you take his breath away?

You watched his hands reluctantly reach inside the box and pull out that old Edgar Allan Poe tomme you had to hunt on the market. It was awfully hard to get your hands on the vintage collector's version with practically all his poems inside, and manage to restore it so it wasn't falling apart, but it was all worth that look of wonder on his face just now.

You didn't fuck up. You definitely didn't fuck up.

– It's... hardcover. – was all he muttered and you almost burst out laughing. Christ, that man was an absolute dork. Your dork.

– And collector's edition, too! I thought you'd like to have this on your shelf. – you gloated a little, puffing your chest with pride but were immediately stopped in your tracks when his lips suddenly landed on yours, pushing with force as his fingers clutched the book in his hands. 

Oh yes, that scavenging hunt was definitely worth it.

You cupped his cheeks gently, thumbs trailing over those razor sharp cheekbones as you kissed back and at the same time it felt like eternity and like it was way too soon when he pulled back from you.

– Thank you. – you felt that mutter against your lips before he leaned back all the way, eyes dragging back to his gift. Why were you even doubting yourself? You knew he'd love it. Once you took the time to get to know him properly, it wasn't that hard to know what he enjoyed most and what least.

– I'm afraid I can't live up to that with what I got you. – ah, there he went with all his self-doubt as if you didn't cherish everything he ever gave you.

– We'll see. – you said with a smirk, jumping under the tree to pull out your own gift. You weren't nearly as gentle while opening it - it wasn't often that Jonathan got you gifts and you were excited beyond imagination to see what he came up with.

          You really didn't want to admit it, but he was kind of right. You didn't know why you felt almost... disappointed when you opened the little box. But it was fine. It was practical and very well thought-out. Very useful during any emergencies.

It just... Well, he gave you the same thing almost every month and you thought... God, you were ungrateful, weren't you?

– For the latest batch? – you asked for confirmation, holding the syringe with that almost neon-y, bright blue liquid in your hands, not once tearing your eyes away from it. He cared for you and that's why he got you this - because no matter how much he enjoyed causing terror, he never wanted to harm you and wanted you to be safe.

So it was perfect. Yes, absolutely perfect.

– Mhmm. – he purred in confirmation and if you weren't so absorbed in your own thoughts, maybe you'd hear him shuffle carefully to sit behind you. And maybe he wouldn't have to press his lips to the back of your head for you to notice his hand that was holding something right in front of your face.

– There's also this, but that's just an addition. – he said nonchalantly and then your eyes landed on the necklace tangled around his fingers, pure silver crow skull dangling in front of your nose with the smallest, but most shining of gems ingrained in the middle of it's little forhead.

– Oh-... my god?! It's beautiful, Jonathan! – you part squealed, part laughed in utter joy as your hands came up to the pendant, gentle as ever as you cupped it in your palm and he let the chain slowly slither into your other hand.

And he must've picked up on that well-hidden relief, too, since he laughed in your ear, nuzzling your temple as he said:

– I know I'm a bastard, but not that much of a bastard.

With that stunt he pulled, you weren't entirely sure.

��� Thank you. – you breathed, discarding that comment aside and leaning back into him, feeling his heartbeat pounding. Oh, so he was nervous too, huh? Served him well for tricking you like this.

– No, thank you. – he muttered, and it felt so... heavy coming from him that you had to turn your head around on his shoulder to look him in the eye. You immediately knew what he meant.

– You don't have to thank me for spending time with you. I love it, and I love you, Jon. – it was almost sad, seeing him averting his eyes right after you said that. You'd never get him used to hearing it, to knowing that there was actually someone out there that could love him like you did. It got tiring, sometimes - that constant doubt, the trust issues, and especially that paranoia of his, but it was a part of him and you loved it as much as the rest.

You just hoped some day he could accept it, too. And maybe, just maybe... say it back for once.

–  I know, I know, it's just... – he decided to ramble instead, and you let him – I've never really had a "nice" christmas. Of course, there was this one time Harley insisted on a "rogues get-together", and I even partly enjoyed that evening, not counting in Nigma's blabbering and Joker's... being himself, but... it's different with you. I don't mean that in the bad way. It's... I like it.

It's not like you cried a little and like he clung onto you for dear life while he was saying it all. It's not like you both stayed tangled like that on the floor long enough for your asses to hurt. No, of course not. 

          You were almost asleep, lulled by his slow, steady breathing and his heartbeat under your ear as his arm pressed you to his side while he read his newest volume, when he pressed his face into your hair, nuzzling a little.

– I love you too, you know that, right? 

Well... now you did.

Last thing you remembered was hearing his quiet chuckle when you squeezed him tight like a vice before falling asleep in his arms.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

WIP Wednesday

Have I got a treat for this Wednesday! That’s right, I have not one, but two WIPs that I wish to share! So, here we go!

Thank you for the tag @noire-pandora!

This first one is from my rewrite for ‘Emerald Eyes Amidst Golden Vows’. Get ready for long ass descriptions because prologues. 

As his indifference towards his own thoughts began to rise, his eyes narrowed to watch the rising sun once more, the fiery orb beginning to bathe the emerald leaves in amber gold--tiny shadows dancing along the surfaces like marionettes. Another tiny snarl escaped his lips as that two toned ballroom of emerald and gold made him think of a far more irritating thing; his eyes. His irises held two definitive colors instead of just simple highlights or flecks. It was as if they didn’t know what color they wished to be, and so they shifted back and forth like liquid in a glass depending on his mood or lighting. 

Sometimes, it would be a pale yellow, the emerald a mere ring around the edges, if firelight hit them just right. Other times, they would be the deepest of jade, the gold within practically nonexistent unless one really searched within darkened depths, and only fools got that close to him. Normally, they just appeared iridescent like small jewels, but he didn’t feel pride in that. It was yet just another thing that people feared about him, and once again, he was accustomed to it. Sometimes he, too, was unnerved by the ebbing of gold within the emerald when he looked into a looking glass, but most times, he felt anger towards them. He felt anger most of the time, but it was the worst when thinking about what he resembled. 

His eyes reminded him of his father’s eyes, those depths having been mossy and dark at all times with pride and ambition. While the hue wasn’t exactly the same, the color of green alone made him sick to his stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been able to look at himself in the mirror without smashing the crystalline glass with a fist. It wasn’t just the eyes that made his rage flare; it was everything about his face. 

The way his cheekbones were angled sharply to make his face appear pointed and predatory. The way his nose was more sharp and prominent rather than sloped like other elves. The way his lips were always down turned in a scowl, upturned in a snarl, or flat with indifference--even a small smirk, which were rare, looked like a sneer. The sight of faded green vallaslin that covered his entire face which were supposed to have hidden those features--the ink mocking him with looping vines and flowered flicks. The more complex design of Sylaise accentuated every abnormal aspect of his face and eyes. It was all disgusting. It was all infuriating. Oh, how he wished it was not just the glass he had shattered into a million fragments, but rather his face, or his father. 

Sadly, he would never obtain the latter as the coward had fled when he had turned twenty years old after five years of abysmal torture that made him appear as he did--hair bleached white, body scarred and mutilated, mind frayed and tormented, and his features deep set with all that agony he hid with expert ease since the vallaslin had not done the job he wished it to do. He had to endure all of that silently because of ignorance and assumptions. Just as he had had to endure for five years silently because of his own fear and decisions.

Five years of bleeding wounds that ached beyond belief because of jagged knives tearing back pale flesh to delve into the muscle underneath--searching and searching and searching for something he had long given up trying to figure out. Five years of nearly puking his internal organs out when the scent of magic or heavy amounts of blood invaded his nostrils--the scars along his body ringed with burn marks from half assed magical healing and lyrium being infused into his veins which indelibly caused an acute sensitivity to the raw essence, which was dangerously foreign to one not possessing magical talent. Five years of nightmares that felt more real than the world around him--their echoes sounding like the screams he had to hold within his lungs lest more magic and tearing of skin be inflicted for his disobedience. It had seemingly ended, but those five years were merely the beginning. For now, he was twenty-four and no better off than when the abuse had started.

***

And this is from a one shot with Estoria called ‘Flowering Magic’. It’s just a little introduction piece to help flesh her out, but here’s a tiny excerpt!

You look like a wilted flower dying for sunlight. Do you want to wither away into dust, or do you want thorns to keep callous hands at bay?

Those words uttered so gruffly, but so caringly had been the moment Estoria knew her nightmare had been over, that she had awakened from the deepest slumber in her young life to blossoming warmth and blinding hope shaded in grey and shaped with rounded ears instead of pointed. She had not just awoken from the fear and abandonment that had gripped her for twelves years. She had not just made a choice from those startling words that a child should never have understood, but yet she had.

She had bloomed--blossomed into a rose, whose petals were soft and velvety in texture to fool those who believed they could pick it for its outward beauty, but whose stem was laden with thorns that would prick those grasping hands without hesitation for their vain intentions. And so, she had reached out to the warm sun with a trembling leaf, and had been met with an incandescent ray that knew how to pluck a rose of thorns from the dying grown it was rooted in.

She had been plucked from the clutches of poverty stricken death. She had been nurtured with stern guidance and a mercenary’s code. She had grown thorns so sharp and graceful that none dared to try and pick the sun’s rose lest they bleed and burn. She had allowed her petals to unfurl unabashedly as a child sprout turned into a womanly bloom of raven hair, bright rose gold eyes, and a strong, graceful figure that many a fool mistook for fragility because of its more delicate aspects. She had found a vase in which to live in, surrounded by the sun and all its clouds. 

Estoria had found a family. A strange one, to be sure, but still a family.

A family that replaced the one she had never known. A family...that had been taken just as quickly as it was given.

***

It would seem my block is mainly with dialogue. I’ve been having trouble writing interactions, so maybe I should listen to some banter lines to help? Hmm..

Tagging: @oxygenforthewicked @lunar-shards @dreadfutures @cartadwarfwithaheartofgold @seduceme-lovestruck-thearcana @another-rogue-trevelyan and anyone else who wishes to jump in! (no pressure and always let me know if the tags are undesired OR if you wished to be tagged! X3)

[toss-a-coin-to-your-stan-account]

your hair looks just like starlight

Words: 3287

Summary: Jaskier finds out about what gave Geralt his unique hair and eyes, and he takes it upon himself to point out the beauty he finds in those things in hopes that, despite the excruciating processes they came from, his White Wolf may find beauty in them too.

A/N: The title is inspired by a line from “Howl’s Moving Castle”. I imagined Jaskier telling Geralt his hair looks like starlight and... this happened.

[TW for mentions of child abuse (i.e. Witcher Trials/Mutations)]

After Jaskier became Geralt’s travel companion, it wasn’t long before he learned about his Witcher’s mutations, and what he went through to become... well, a Witcher; the absolutely agonizing process he underwent as a child to become what he was.

No, who he was.

Not a what.

A who.

That’s who he was to Jaskier. Not a monster, or a beast, or an animal, or anything one would refer to using the word what, but a person. His person.

And Jaskier was horrified to know how much pain his person went through.

He had no idea some of the things he loved so much about Geralt - his white hair, so astoundingly beautiful when it wasn’t covered in the blood and/or guts of monsters, and his yellow eyes, kept in a steely gaze most of the time, but soft when he let them be - were products of what Jaskier couldn’t think of as any less than torture. Of course, he still loved those things about his Witcher - if gazing at his hair and eyes became punishable by death, he’d finalize his last will and testament posthaste - but knowing what he’d gone through to have them, the horrors he was subjected to… it still didn’t sit right with the bard.

So, he did what any other lovestruck bard would do; he resolved to find the most lovely ways to describe those characteristics, and express them to his Witcher as best he could. He may not have been able to reverse all the horrible things Geralt went through, but he could point out the beauty in the features that came from them.

(Keep reading below or on AO3)

The first time he did this was during a night under the stars. Geralt slayed a monster, as Geralts do, and now, he and Jaskier were on their way back to some unimportant town to collect their coin (and hope that Geralt’s contractor wouldn’t underpay him). Roach was too tired, poor girl, to get to the nearest inn, so the White Wolf and the relentless lark resolved to make camp in a small clearing in the woods.

It was a peaceful night, and thankfully, it wasn’t one that Geralt was going to spend covered in monster guts. The only gruesome… evidence that his target was destroyed lay splattered across his Witcher armor, and such was a problem that was easily resolved by removing it and cleaning off the substance.

“You know,” Jaskier proposed, “I could always make quick work of removing your armor, if you just say the word.”

“No.”

“Well, that’s not exactly the word I was looking for.” Jaskier resigned with a shivering sigh. As peaceful as this night was, the drizzling rain made it a little chilly.

“If you want to make quick work of something, you could make quick work of getting some firewood.” Geralt retorted in that gruff, just-above-a-growl voice of his as his gaze - and his focus - never strayed from his armor.

"Well, I could ." Jaskier took his lute off his back and held it in a playing position as he leaned against a tree. “Buuut I’d hate to get sap on my hands, not to mention that your valiant act of Witchery heroism back there left me with quite a bit of inspiration for my next ballad,” he swept his hand out in front of his face as if to visualize the song itself, “yes, “The White Wolf Versus the… the… the Whatever That Monster Was”, so I should probably just get to work on that.”

“It can wait, Jaskier.” Geralt rolled his eyes. Despite the darkness of the night, this was still noticeable thanks to the moonlight. “Unless you want me to make quick work of your lute instead. Should make good enough firewood.”

Jaskier gasped at his incredulous threat (that the Witcher would never actually carry out) and went to gather firewood.

Geralt had a fire going in minutes. Warmth spread around the little camp, and the flame set a soft glow onto everything around it, like Roach lazily chewing on some grass, Jaskier strumming on his not-used-as-firewood lute as he mumbled lyrics-to-be under his breath, and the Witcher himself cleaning and sharpening his swords.

Sitting with his back up against a tree, Jaskier was in the middle of trying to compose the refrain of his ballad-in-progress when he stopped and looked across the camp, laying his eyes on Geralt. He didn’t return the lark’s gaze, apparently unaware of it as he struck one of his swords with a whetstone, but that didn’t stop the ever-so-enamored bard from from staring; Jaskier could barely take his eyes off his hair, especially how the firelight cast an impossibly golden glow on the impossibly white locks. A few of those locks hung loose from the Witcher’s hair tie that held the sides of his hair back, and they instead fell around his face.

“Your hair looks just like starlight.”

Geralt lifted his head and looked in Jaskier’s direction, and the buttercup could tell by his slightly widened eyes and raised eyebrows that he was surprised by the statement. With a painful tug in his chest, Jaskier began to wonder if that was the first time that anyone ever directly complimented Geralt on his hair.

The sentence fell from Jaskier’s lips without Jaskier himself putting much thought into it. The little thought that went into what he said was only this; My Witcher may have gone through hell, and his white hair may be but one of the many things he has to show for it, but damn it if I’m not going to tell him it’s beautiful.

“...Very forward tonight, hm?”

“It’s true!” Jaskier blurted again, “I… I…” He glanced at the cloudless, starry sky for a moment. “I look up at the stars, and as lovely as they are, their light is nothing compared to what I see in your hair. It’s like someone just-”

He reached into the air, grasped at something intangible...

“-took light straight from the stars-”

… pulled his closed hand back down…

“-made it a thousand times lovelier than it already was-”

… and opened it in Geralt’s direction, as if to sprinkle something at him.

“-and put it on your scalp!”

As he said this, watching Geralt’s eyebrow go from a surprised raise to a confused furrow, Jaskier realized this was far less charismatic than the stuff of his songs. That was alright. He’d gladly trade charisma for authenticity; he’d gladly sound like an idiot and be completely, unfabricatingly honest than try to work his feelings into a lyric for the sake of charisma. He was sure that he probably sounded idiotic to Geralt either way, so he might as well sound like an idiot because of something completely from the heart, unhindered by the need for meter or rhyme.

After a moment of stunned silence, Geralt looked back to his sword with a classic hum.

“It’s getting late, Jaskier. You should get to sleep before you start rambling about anything weirder than you already are.”

Yep. Just as Jaskier thought; he sounded like an idiot.

The second time Jaskier pointed out the beauty in what came of Geralt’s mutations was a few days later, and, in very similar fashion to the first one, after he fulfilled a contract. This time, Jaskier stayed at their camp with Roach while his Witcher took care of a… well, he couldn’t quite remember. Bruxa? Kikimora? Wyvern? Whatever it was, he was more than happy to stay behind with Roach when Geralt told him to. The bard saw him swallow down one of his… well, witchery potions before he went out of sight, so he figured that one of two things would happen.

One, Geralt would come back to camp all pale, veiny, and with those pitch black eyes. Sexy.

Two, Geralt would wait until the potion ran its course before coming back to camp, eyes as yellow as usual. Exquisite.

Jaskier, sitting against a sleeping Roach’s belly, didn’t quite have a preference. Black as night, yellow as daylight; as long as Geralt came back in one relatively-uninjured piece, the bard would be content.

As expected, the Witcher came back unharmed. Exhausted in every sense of the word, but unharmed. He huffed as his head hung low, a fitting accompaniment to his sagging shoulders. His hair tie must’ve come loose during his fight with whatever monster he fought, forever lost to the abyss of Geralt’s Fallen Hair Accessories as the mane it was meant to hold back fell all around his face.

“Geralt! You’re back!” Jaskier made no effort whatsoever to keep his joy out of his voice; he wanted his Witcher to know that he was happy to see him return from a hunt. “That beast was no match for a mighty Witcher, eh?”

“Too easy. A waste of a damn potion.” Geralt sighed, lifted his head a bit, and eyed Jaskier with perfectly yellow, non-potioned eyes. Internally, the bard sighed in relief; he had no objections to seeing Geralt while he underwent the effects of his potions, but he also knew how they weren’t the most… comfortable for his Witcher, so he was glad to know that whatever potion Geralt chugged had probably worn off.

“‘S worn off, hasn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Geralt sat on his bedroll. Jaskier was fluent enough in Geralt’s hums to know that was a yes.

“Ah, right. Good. I figured.” he noted with a few nods. “Your eyes are back to normal. All… sunshiney-like.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier again, this time with exasperation. Jaskier didn’t blame him; that wasn’t exactly one of his best-worded compliments.

“Well, they are. They’re like…” The poet looked up at the sky as if to find something better to compare Geralt’s eyes to - as if it were hiding among the stars.

His own eyes lit up when he finally thought of one.

“...Tea! Yes. Lemon tea… with honey!” he smiled to himself. “Ah, that was-”

A loud snore cut him off. Jaskier took his gaze off the night sky and put it on Geralt, who now lay sideways on his bedroll, sound asleep. He must have laid down and passed out for the night, the bard realized with a resigned sigh.

“-That was my favorite drink, back… back in Lettenhove.”

He was going to say “back home”, but he stopped himself. It may have been where he grew up, but his home wasn’t Lettenhove. No, his home lay a few feet away from him, white hair in tangles over his face, yellow eyes shielded by lids that wouldn’t open until morning, and far too exhausted by his fight to take off his armor before he fell asleep.

Jaskier sighed again before he went to his own bedroll and fell asleep for the night.

The topic of Jaskier’s bizarre compliments didn’t make it’s return until the next night, after he and Geralt returned to the town whose monster he slayed. Thankfully, the mayor was rather appreciative of the Witcher’s work - in no small part due to Jaskier’s help in changing his reputation through a certain coin-tossing ballad - and paid him in full. Both Geralt and Jaskier had grown tired of unceasing nights spent in clearings (and Roach was more than content to spend a night in a nice stable) so Geralt spent some of his newly-acquired earnings almost immediately on a room in the town’s inn.

Of course, there was only one bed, but such was rarely a problem for the Witcher and his songbird. The latter snuggled into it almost immediately - promptly after taking off his shoes and doublet, of course - while the former sat in a nearby chair about six feet away and cleaned off his swords. This would’ve been all fine and well, had it not been for the fact that Geralt had already cleaned off his swords first thing that morning; they were squeaky clean!

Jaskier sighed.

“Those look pretty clean to me, you know.” he remarked, using one arm to support himself as he lay on his stomach. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look like you’re trying to distract yourself from something.”

“You don’t know better.” the Witcher grumbled as he kept cleaning his already clean swords.

“So you are?”

Geralt finally looked up from his swords to meet Jaskier’s gaze. It was a mystery to the Witcher as to how he did it, but somehow, Jaskier saw through Geralt’s horseshit like it was a perfectly clean window.

“Not to say your mysterious, edgy brooding isn’t part of your charm, but…” The bard repositioned himself so his head was resting on his hand, the rest of his body lying along its side. “Talk to me, Geralt.”

The Witcher sighed.

“What’s with all the strange shit you’ve been saying the past few days?” Before Jaskier had the chance to play dumb, he elaborated. “The stuff about my hair, and my eyes. All that about starlight, and sunshine, and…” He looked down as if one particular part of his memory was foggy. “...Tea?”

“Come on, Jaskier. You didn’t start saying this shit until…"

Jaskier sighed. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to explain his reasoning to Geralt; in an ideal situation, he would have believed in all the lovely things Jaskier tried to say to him, rather than be confused. Indeed, in a perfect world, Geralt would’ve seen himself the way Jaskier saw him; beautiful.

His eyes widened a fraction as his jaw slackened almost unnoticeably. Before he even said the rest of his sentence, he knew why Jaskier started doing this.

But that didn’t stop the bard from finishing his sentence.

“...Until after I found out about the Trial.” He sat up and swallowed, despite his dry throat. “And your other mutations… and… and the hell you were put through.”

As Geralt’s brow furrowed and he tilted his head, Jaskier started to feel like the idiot he obviously must’ve sounded like. As the Witcher approached him, he shrunk in on himself.

“I - Geralt, you went through something no child should ever have to endure. I know there’s not much I can do to reverse that, or… or make that pain go away, but - but those things that came from them - your eyes, your hair… I still think they’re beautiful, even if they came from something terrible, so I… I thought…”

Jaskier hung his head. This was stupid. All of it. He never should’ve just started blurting idiotic things out of nowhere.

“...What about my voice?”

Jaskier lifted his head back up and looked at Geralt, brows furrowed in confusion. The aforementioned Witcher had his arms crossed as he looked down at the bard, and it wasn’t exactly clear whether or not he wanted a real answer.

“Oh, I… I thought your voice was just like that on it’s own.”

Geralt shooks his head.

“Potion.”

Jaskier looked back down for a moment. Geralt was almost sure he'd have nothing good to say about his voice, until…

"It's soothing."

He was stunned.

“...What?”

“It’s soothing.” Jaskier repeated, “I know you probably expect something more poetic at this point, but… it’s soothing. Whenever you start talking to Roach, or try to warn me about certain monsters so I don’t get my ass handed to me, it… I don’t know, it’s relaxing. Sometimes…” he huffed through his nose at the absurdity of what he was about to say, “...it even helps me fall asleep.”

Jaskier started to fidget - drumming the fingers of one hand against the other, rubbing his fingers together, wrapping them around one another, all normal fidgety things - as he let his awkward but nonetheless heartfelt words hang in the air, staring down at Geralt’s feet until he saw them move as he bent down. The bard was confused about the Witcher’s reason for this, and that confusion grew when Geralt took his hands, held them in his own and stood back up.

“I like your hands.”

Now, as he looked up at his Witcher, arms relaxed as he let him hold his hands, it was Jaskier’s turn to be stunned. He knew how difficult it was for Geralt to express himself at all, let alone about something he liked. The sentence was blunt and simple, and from anyone else, it probably would’ve been nonchalant. But from Geralt, it was like he just recited the most tender, heartfelt poem Jaskier ever heard.

“They’re soft. Gentle. These callouses…” He ran his thumb across Jaskier’s fingertips. “They show how much love you put into your music. Why you waste your talent and passion on me is something I’ll never know.”

“I don’t waste anything, love.” Jaskier retorted with a soft smile. “I know there will always be people who see you as a monster, and that no amount of ballads will make the whole world see you the way I do, as much as I want it to.”

Geralt cast his gaze elsewhere. Jaskier gripped his Witcher’s hands just a little tighter in reassurance, as if it were an attempt to physically send his love into the Witcher through his fingertips.

“...Still, that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try, does it? It got us here, didn’t it?” He tilted his head a few times as he glanced around the room. “A steady amount of contracts, more people treating you decently than not, and… a half-lovely room at an inn.”

Geralt nodded a barely noticeable nod, but Jaskier could tell there was more that needed to be said; more he needed his Witcher to know.

“You’re good, Geralt. You’ve spent so long saving the lives of ungrateful, desperate humans, even though so many of them turn right back around and spit at your feet. They may say you’re a monster, but you have more humanity in one finger than most of them have in their entire bodies."

“So,” he continued, “I don’t expect to easily change how you see yourself with a few bizarre compliments, but trust me when I say there’s no way I’d rather spend my life than with you…”

He pulled one of his hands away, only to reach up to Geralt’s face.

“Running my fingers through your hair…”

He brushed a few loose locks of lightning white hair behind Geralt’s ear.

“Gazing into those eyes of yours…”

He slowly dragged his knuckle down the side of Geralt’s face, from his temple down to his jaw, until he dragged it down his neck.

“...and listening to your voice.”

Jaskier could tell by the look in Geralt’s eye that he would be blushing right now if he could. The ever-so-romantic lark put his hand back in his.

“If you ever came to see in yourself what I see in you, you’d never doubt your beauty, my wolf.” The lark tilted his head, staring dreamily into those yellow eyes. “I know that day may not come for a very long time, so I can only hope you’ll trust me when I say that there’s nothing else I’d rather do with my hands…”

Jaskier repositioned his hands so his fingers were interlocked with Geralt’s, fitting perfectly in the gaps between his love's fingers.

“...Than this.”

They stayed like that for a moment, eyes as yellow as sunshine staring into eyes as blue as the ocean. It wasn’t long until Jaskier noticed how heavy those yellow eyes were.

“You’re exhausted, Dear Heart. I can tell.” Jaskier interrupted himself with a yawn, pulling one of his hands away to cover his mouth as he began to feel his own eyelids droop. “I think it’s high time you stop pretending to clean your swords and help me get our coin’s worth out of this…” He gestured to the mattress underneath him. “... luxurious bed for the night, hm?”

That’s exactly what Geralt did.

[parts-of-spop]

College AU in which Adora was adopted, separating them but years later they meet again at university and start to fall in love... again

Catra is not a fan of the beach.

The sand, whether dry or wet, always buries deep in her fur and finds it’s way into her ears and it’s beyond frustrating.

She definitely doesn’t like the sea. It’s loud and salty and wet.

And yet, despite every bone in her body wanting to be anywhere else, she’s at the beach in the late afternoon and thus missing out on the only good thing about the beach which is sun.

And the reason is that one girl that always always always pulls her back in; the one girl who she is powerless against and who has absolutely no idea of just how weak she makes her, how easy it is to fall back into a rhythm that was lost nearly a decade ago...

Adora.

She spots her easily enough beside the campfire they’ve set up with her two weird friends – not that Catra can judge weird friends if she’s being honest- who seem to be alternating between making a rather pitiful looking sandcastle and throwing handfuls of wet slop into each other’s laps.

Catra rolls her eyes, sighs heavily up at the darkening sky as she adjusts the strap of her guitar case and wonders if maybe she should turn around and just bike home.

Just as she’s made up her mind, turning on her heel with her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her jacket, she hears Her and her entire body stiffens.

“Catra!”

Damn it.

She looks back and Adora, dorky dumb jock Adora, is looking at her and there’s suddenly a weird shame curling in her because she know that Adora knows that she was mere seconds from leaving.

Her brow is furrowed slightly and there’s the distinct darkening of disappointment in her eyes.

It feels bad.

It makes her hesitate.

Her claws curl into the sand.

Then she takes a deep breath, throws on her signature smirk and strides closer with her best swagger, valiantly ignoring the way that Adora brightens.

“Hey, Adora~” She drawls once she’s close enough before dropping down onto the log beside her and her friend- are they friends? They are right? They’ve been hanging out for months...?- leans across and bumps her shoulder into hers.

“You came,” Adora says, voice a bit too soft, a bit too open and a bit too sweet.

Catra’s sure she can taste sugar and her tongue rolls around her mouth.

She doesn’t hear an implied ‘and you nearly left’ that she probably deserves and her toes dig into soft sand as she realises that Adora’s just glad she’s there.

Not a lot of people are very happy to have her around.

Catra glances towards where the dynamic dweeb duo have rolled off towards the surf, cackling as they kick water at each other.

“Well… it’d be cruel to leave you with those two,” She says dryly and she doesn’t bother hiding her delight as Adora gasps in outrage.

“Catra!”

She looks back at Adora’s adorably righteous face and smirks before nudging her with an elbow.

“You’re so easy, Adora,” She teases and she half expects her to do that flustered arguing thing she reverts to when she’s thrown off kilter but instead, she just rolls her eyes and her smile is nothing but amused.

She’s catching onto Catra again.

She’s figuring her out, is learning what makes her tick…

They’re different to how they were as kids but Adora doesn’t rise to the bait because she knows that she won’t win and whilst she’s stubborn as anything, she’s smart enough to pick her battles.

“Jerk,” She mutters instead, headbutting her arm and Catra sniggers before sliding her guitar strap off her shoulder.

“So, you wanted to know if I was any good, right?” She quips and when she looks back a minute later with her old worn guitar in her hands, Adora’s eyes are bright and she looks away quickly, heat creeping up her neck as she pretends to tune the strings.

“Let me guess, you play classic rock?” Adora asks and the playful tone relaxes her enough to have her looking back with a raised brow.

“Obviously. What’s the point if there isn’t obnoxiously badass guitar solos?”

And Adora so clearly tries not to laugh.

She fails miserably.

A spluttering laugh escapes her and the next second she’s giggling into her hands and Catra looks back to the campfire, takes a subtle breath to calm the sudden pounding of her heart and it’s…

It’s okay.

She can manage this...

She’s picking a lazy tune now, half listening to Glimmer and Bow giving very precise instructions on how to make The Most Perfect S’more Ever.

Apparently Adora, for how well cared for she was, didn’t get out too much after she was adopted.

Catra nearly snorts to herself.

What kinda asshole doesn’t teach their kid how to make s’mores?

Then Catra remembers that there’s worse things that a guardian can do and she reflexively rubs the inside of her wrist against her guitar before focussing on plucking out a melody.

It wasn’t easy to learn to play, mostly because she didn’t used to have enough control over her claws in order to stop them grating over the strings and, in fact, snapping them.

She went through a lot of strings by playing when she was angry.

Her mom never minded.

And Catra smiles faintly at the thought of her, the one who always buys her new strings, who never shouts no matter how frustrated Catra makes her, who hums the songs that inspired her to play and who takes better care of her than she feels she deserves.

Her mother in all but blood… who really likes Adora.

Catra blinks and nearly tuts at herself.

It always comes back to Adora.

Always, always, always-

Adora bursts into laughter and Catra looks over and sees Bow’s face twisted into abject horror, his eyes locked onto the marshmallow that Catra is pretty certain shouldn’t be on fire and shouldn’t also be steadily melting it’s way into the sand.

Glimmer’s cackling at him, patting his shoulder in consolation and Catra’s about to throw a lazy jibe at him but her eyes are drawn back to Adora as her shoulders shake from the force of her laughter and…

Her breath catches.

Firelight reflects in her bright blue eyes and dances across her face, lighting up her beaming smile and it’s like looking at the sun.

And Catra isn’t sure why the sight knocks the wind out of her because Adora doesn’t look any different than usual. She’s wearing her ridiculous jock jacket and her blonde hair is tied up just the same as always and her jeans are worn to almost splitting and she’s just… Adora.

She’s just Adora and she’s laughing and a sudden realisation hits Catra hard.

She’s beautiful.

And watching Adora’s face flush with mirth, Catra forgets to breathe again as another thought follows close after the first.

I love her.

The thought might be more disturbing if it wasn’t so familiar.

She thinks it often lately. She lets herself taste the words in her mind so they don’t twist up in her gut and make her defensive. They’re comfortable in their familiarity now.

Except it’s never felt like this.

It almost hurts.

It hits so hard that for a moment she can only compare it to being punched in the chest and then there’s an ache and it creeps in, settles deep in her bones and she’s no fool, she knows exactly what it is.

Longing.

A sudden, overwhelming longing because Adora’s laugh sounds like the kind of music that keeps nightmares away and her smile is pure, brilliant sunshine and her happiness is blinding.

Man… Man, she longs for it, for Her.

And she doesn’t tear her eyes away, doesn’t force herself to stop before she falls too deep. Maybe because it would be a lie to say she already hasn’t or maybe it’s because she feels a bit like she’s been struck by lightning and every cell in her body is frozen in a weirdly blissful kind of shock.

She just watches her laugh.

I love her.

She barely notices Bow and Glimmer scrambling to the ocean to wash their hands but she does notice how Adora’s laughter trails off, watching them go and merely licking her fingers clean before wiping the remnants of marshmallow off on her jeans.

Gross.

Then Adora looks over to her and Catra hasn’t half the brain to pretend she wasn’t staring and she wonders if Adora will ask, will tease her, will poke and prod until she either cracks or storms away and God she hopes not.

She doesn’t know what she’d do if somehow her own defensiveness ruined this.

But Adora doesn’t do that.

Adora meets her gaze, blue eyes warm and steady and almost unbearably soft.

I love her.

“Hey, Catra...” Adora says in a whisper and in that moment, there is nobody else in the world but them and maybe Catra isn’t a religious person but it sure feels a lot like heaven.

A smile curls on her face, the small secret one that she reserves just for Her and when she sees warm blue eyes flicker to her lips, a weight shifts off her shoulders and the breathing gets easier.

Adora is beautiful.

So beautiful in the way she exists in the world; shining like a star, soft as the moon’s glow and warm as the sun.

So beautiful in the way that she’s looking at Catra now like she’s feeling just the same about her.

Like she’s the stars, moon and sun and nothing could interest her more.

“Adora...” She breathes and maybe it’s a bit more of a wistful sigh than anything but she can’t feel embarrassed with those eyes on her, so gentle and tender and tracing her face as if committing her to memory.

And because Adora is honest in everything she does, there’s little hesitation when she speaks.

“I love you,” She says, hugging her own knees to her chest like the damned most adorable dweeb ever.

Catra gazes back, smiling helplessly and she’s certain she’s the picture of a complete lovestruck loser but she’s never cared less.

“Then why are you sitting so far away?” She quips and Adora beams yet again before immediately shifting closer, pressing into Catra’s side, all warm and soft and smiling.

Catra’s tail curls it’s way around her waist and when Adora’s face presses into her cheek close enough for her to feel her smile, she takes a deep breath and turns her head to brush her lips to hers.

“Love you too, you dork,” She whispers and she revels in Adora’s giggle and then a hand is against her cheek and she is the one to close the gap to kiss her, soft over the laughter still dancing over her lips and her giddiness is a wonder in itself.

Catra grins against her mouth, tasting marshmallow and chocolate on her own lips.

“Stop laughing and let me kiss you properly,” She chides playfully and Adora only laughs harder, ducking her head to bury it in Catra’s shoulder before her arms wrap around her and Adora’s hugging her tightly and well… it’s nice.

So nice in a way that nothing else could ever compare.

Catra squeezes her back, breathes in the sweet apple scent of Adora’s shampoo and presses as far into her as she can as relentless purrs start rumbling in her chest.

Then soft fingers find the base of her ear and yeah…

It has to be heaven.

[flutiebear]

Look At Me (~800 words)

Hey @claranon. I wrote you something. *mua-ha-ha*

Jade can't take Hendrik anywhere, and it isn't just because of his imposing glare or his night-black armor; his compulsive chivalry and near-constant declamations about duty; and it's certainly not because of the lovestruck sighs he elicits from every taproom in Erdrea. Mostly it's because, when confronted with a dancing girl, Hendrik does not know where to look.

"Hendrik, for Yggdrasil's sake," she hisses in his ear, "you are the only man in this bar with his eyes on the ground."

He shakes his head ever so slightly. "Please tell me when she is finished."

"You're impossible." Jade rolls her eyes. "Look up."

He tilts his chin to the ceiling.

Jade glares at him, not that he can see it. "You know what I meant."

"Perhaps. But I prefer this vantage. Look at those antique rafters. Are they Arborian?"

"Hendrik."

With a sigh, he brings his chin back to its normal position. However, he still does not look in the dancing girl's direction, instead turning his gaze toward Jade.

"Princess," he says, his enunciation alone a reminder of the distance between them, that to him she is a title first and not a name, "I beg of you, do not ask this of me."

Jade's belly flutters when Hendrik says the word beg. "And why not?"

"It would be inappropriate for me to engage in such—indelicacies while in your company."

"Oh Henny-Wenny," she says, the top of her flagon hiding her smile, "a look is not an engagement."

Hendrik inhales sharply, every muscle tensing at once.

"Wh—no—I—er—that's not what I meant," he finishes eventually.

The furtive way his gaze casts about the bar, like a hare seeking the underbrush, stirs something deep inside Jade. It opens a door she thought she had long ago closed and locked and thrown away the key.

Now that the door is open, she finds that she wants to see where it leads.

"What if I were dressed the same as she?" The firelight in the hearth catches in her eyes and gives them a reddish glint. "Where would you cast your gaze then?"

His cheeks redden. "But you are a princess."

"And once I was a dancing girl." When his mouth drops open, she fights the urge to lean over and close it for him. "Don't look so shocked, Henny. On our travels Rab and I had took all manner of employment to make ends meet. Maybe," she smirks, baring the tips of her teeth, "you and your men even watched my show once or twice."

"Certainly not," he answers at once.

"Fair," she concedes. "It is difficult to imagine you willingly in a taproom and awake past eight o' clock."

"Not at all. I socialize with my comrades-in-arms, when occasion calls for it. But, princess," his eyes briefly meet hers before once again darting away, "I am certain I would have remembered you."

Jade gnaws on her lower lip. She has the sudden, brief urge to toss Hendrik to the floor, right here, in front of all these people; to tower over this massive, recalcitrant man and force him to look up at her and nowhere else. "You didn't answer my question," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "If I were a dancing girl, would you look at me?"

His fingers clench around the flagon. "I would be honor-bound to divert my gaze."

Trust Hendrik to purposely misunderstand the meaning of a hypothetical. "And," she leans closer to him, so close she can smell the soap in his hair and the sword oil on his clothes, "what if I commanded you to look at me?"

At the moment, he is doing precisely the opposite, his attention captivated by an invisible speck on the table. "Then I would do so."

"What if," the curve of Jade's smile is small and vicious, "I commanded you to watch me dance?"

He visibly swallows, but does not answer.

"Sir Knight?"

"Then," his voice is rough, "Then I must obey what my lady commands."

"Must you now," says Jade, and it is not a question, but a lick of the lips, a shiver down the spine. "I wonder if I could give you an order that you would not obey."

Finally Hendrik meets her eyes. He is grim-faced, stoic. Full of resolve. It's the same expression he wears whenever he is facing down a dragon or particularly fearsome demon. Being the object of that gaze unfurls something in Jade's belly. Between her legs.

"I would," he does not look away, "obey any order my lady commands."

Lifting her chin, Jade stares at him down her nose. A thousand impertinent orders race through her mind, like kiss me, or take me upstairs, or get on your knees, but the best one by far is, "Then dance with me."

His eyes boggle, his iron resolve broken. "W-what?"

Jade stands.

"Dance with me, Hendrik." She holds out her hand. "That's an order."

[pegaeae]

His flirtations, his wooing, seem to be getting him nowhere. No amount of honeyed words or lingering gazes or brief touches gets her to look at him without that barely masked irritation. He’s never met a woman he couldn’t flirt into his bed, though, and her apparent disinterest only makes the game more exciting.

She’s not the prettiest of women--he’s had lovelier, seen far lovelier--with her angular face and sullen mouth. Her eyes are large and dark, liquid and thickly lashed enough that they resemble halla eyes--wide and frightened, like prey. Her hair is stark black and bone straight from filth, no volume to it whatsoever, hanging lankly around her shoulders. She’s distinctly unimpressive--something he thought when he first saw her walk directly into his ambush.

His opinion had changed, of course, once he found himself with a blade at his kidney and another at his throat, the ghostlike, unimpressive warden behind him before he, a trained master assassin, even noticed.

And when she had accepted, however begrudgingly, his offer of loyalty--that was when he decided this unimpressive, ugly little Warden was someone he wanted to tumble.

It’s not that she’s frigid. She speaks warmly to her Grey Warden companion, Alistair, and to the witch, Morrigan. In fact, Zevran sees the way Alistair tracks their dear Warden with puppy eyes, completely lovestruck. Mahariel seems as unaffected by Al’s tender fumblings as she is by Zevran’s flirtations and come-hither eyes. He wonders if perhaps the Warden is interested in women--but that doesn’t seem to be it, either, with the way she shrugs off Leliana’s warm advances.

He sidles up to where she is sitting in front of the fire, dropping down next to her with fluid, catlike grace. She hardly spares him a glance, continuing what she’s doing: mending a well-worn, forest green tunic. She doesn’t have any thread that matches and there’s a long line of off-grey where she’s stitching up a tear on one of the sides.

Even by firelight, he can tell the fabric and make of the garment is superior. The ultra-fine woven cloth does not even snag on Mahariel’s calluses, and the fabric where the tunic was cut did not even fray, making it exceedingly easy to stitch back together.

“Is that Dalish make?” Zevran asks in his easy way. He knows it is, but the point of the question is to get unimpressive little Lyna to talk to him.

She pauses in her mending and he notices her needle does not reflect the firelight. Bone, then. A surprisingly crude tool to use to repair such a fine garment.

Not to mention he’s never even seen her wear this tunic. She’s constantly in the charcoal gray and and blue Warden uniform except for when she’s washing or mending that--and then she’s in a shapeless tunic and a pair of hemmed trousers that look like she probably got them as hand-me-downs from Leliana.

(and she never wore shoes.) 

“It is,” she says in response, voice low. Zevran’s mouth curls upwards, catlike, satisfied that she would speak to him tonight.

If there is one thing about the drab little Warden that was not completely unremarkable, it is her voice. Lyrical and surpriginly low for a woman of her size, it sends shivers up his back. He wants to much to hear her moan his name when he finally tumbles her.

“Have you had it all along? I’ve never seen you wear anything Dalish.”

She ties off her thread and bites it free, shaking out the garment and folding it before she responds.

“I  know you’re not here to ask questions about my clothes, Zevran. What do you want?”

“Is it so hard to believe I simply wish to make small talk with a lovely woman such as yourself?” Zevran puts a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

Mahariel gives him a flat look from behind her tangle of limp hair, heavy brows furrowing. Nothing can make those big, glistening halla eyes of hers any smaller, though, and the effect ought to have been humorous. Somehow it is intimidating instead; perhaps it has to do with the blade Zevran finds pressed against his belly as soon as he tries to slide closer to her.

“Message received, my Warden,” he lifts his hands up and she removes her blade, smoothly sheathing it. “May I ask though–who was it who taught you to move like that? I thought the Dalish did not kill anything but brigands and animals.”

“You thought wrong,” she says. “If you put your hands anywhere near me again, I will remove them from your wrists.”

[falsecantus-blog]

📱

Send 📱 for five texts my muse didn’t send yours, and one that they did | Accepting!

[TEXT] I can’tget you off my mind again. I feel like some lovestruck kit, and I don’t knowwhat to do. What have you done to me? [/DELETED]

[TEXT] yousonofabitch my arm is never going to go back inthe right spot after that training session I am going to kick your sorry assfrom here to the next fucking universe in our next match yougoddamn slippery bastard [the rest is unintelligible text made up ofcombinations of letters, symbols, and the odd emoji.] [/DELETED]

[TEXT] If we had kits, what kind of fur would they have? Your furis so pretty when it’s wet, and mine is velvet-y, so I think it would be theprettiest kit in the universe—OF COURSE I’M NOT DRUNK GIVE ME ANOTHER—Koje, Iknow my own limits, don’t you dare take my Comm, you—[VOICE FUNCTION DEACTIVATED][DELETED]

[TEXT] Ithink we’re both a little broken. Sometimes I want to approach you about it,but I’m afraid you’ll pull away and disappear like he did. I couldn’t handle itif you did too. [/DELETED]

[TEXT] I want to take you to my homeplanet and let you see our rivers. I can only imagine what youwould look like in the water with only the firelight playing off your body. Youwould be mesmerizing. [/DELETED]

[TEXT] I miss dancing with you. Would you careto have another sometime soon? [/SENT]