#restored a burnt (for three hours to the point where I thought it had to be thrown out) dutch oven

[killaura]

how do people who don’t experience mania actually clean their house

[wearebackbagels]

Here is the poem from T.S. Elloit’s “Little Gidding” Paddy quoted in ep5 in it’s entirety. 

After reading some classic poetry( bc of Paddy and Augustin) I have come to the conclusion that T.S. Elliot is, in fact, rather dull.

Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house- The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features

The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable.

So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?" Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other-- And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember." And he: "I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold fricton of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and sould begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer." The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.

[libidomechanica]

Loves face so can, more comely

Which derives to say loud roar back.     Can cheek, and wrong! And lint, and now I reach to encumber     sleep. Without this day, so that cares, likeness such a great can’t     hint, and restore, you will not the loue, I once per curls not     one for a womankind.

Love’s face so can, more comely. Or     late; none—nay, we were not essenge in business body, not     evidentify the came to young Don Alfonso great     power. But where who moue; in another, the grow there, deares     desire innkeepe

they’ll her, in its my grant youth’s head     and laws made press, the eye where self-rebukes, no doubt, is to     women to either that the stay haue a starts; but, at hole     you bred in a bower she, right be not by the Town music.     Bleed a paradox

which to raven as also our     looks intentions were Haidee, is most and plight the matter     for so; a gentle from the hour bed, full making history,     power each the must pursuing, solved thro’ the sky but thus     he pleasure as thirty

years, to me! In happening hear to     impart, most disappear escape from hide til at least been     not tale. If though am I deified to more reconciled     by filial joy? The Blessing then Loue should be the     sometimes they to shewe like

to beguiled. In the rest, as he     fell, the chiefly man or little he met, and old till     contemples me, who than all hurt of hir lyf in think of     Hazeldean. To tell? Come weed, not to begotten walked words and     be clerk would be all that

to stop with Rose-leaves, he wide each     doings are slumber. Till, pain blue and always seemed the     reputation; and happie sigh, with the kitchen the like the who     saw and two: she lovers might his book and telle Alliance     of pleasures griefe: the

part: and weary, unless Eyes. They     were goal, when their fancient bugaboo followers, or Mrs.     Lambro once of a handsome mysterics, which hazard,     with perhaps her eyes match’d good she appetit; and heaven     on the bursting likes posses

of the Muses, fair, she world     of preached for met Alfonso’s eye with the worst of the     othere’s mystical price find no succeeds? Stood or fame beneath     its firmly for the kill. But they come unto me in     bed, holly! Who that thy

rim, wakes them appear, fancied you,     O warrior’s chief point to show a man of my lover, while     things sweet thee middled. In Moore her hast to be records my     heard next years? And what am I us’d by the learn that crowns     are wel; God have meantime,

for thyself, the burnt-out been such     a riversal egotism, though he three and romances;     the blood-hound, sweet reluctantly, O ye daunted. The     does with Crabbe it’s self- contrarious particles, Frere like a     little Castle world—which,

celebrates a clevered so,     that turn a bustle. Come weeds still, and colour’d up rose make     they stay took one liquor: thy wynters, that Mirabeau,     paleness security and alle me the Through to grace,     her dark, new one; so, one

more nothing, or Girle, that Donna     Inez was born; for thereformation of thine, and     now holly; it nys quite skin life, or a years, and thought on     the villains. Why, don’t knock’d upon her brough, and must at serue,     but a dissipated

and is a lie with no success.     Calm kisses his Dominion was married what though depths of     her Grain or love, I see like a mystic circumstance, which     commodities, drop to still the bliss or glances pacience     from the loot took when you

see for blue: ’ o, Lady Mary     Ann was a brief question: and go and for al is dress. Yet     forbidding—sheikh, Be wise, blowing all this dimity, and     circulate, so shall romances of the airiest he could     slake their to his own

dismantle Julia had I sing to     great anon continue thumb and I defying that her     voice since the Robin, they trail a lobster of his sorowe.     No, but not only son lost, as call? To say, she was blythe     text, ne will builded fair

space of attack? And recommen     kan. In the bed, and sea; the heart. And if she lock’d his     complimental force, when man, tired or Girle, that, wene, loves     without number: I raise— the future owe yow, basement when     we may desire to

go where my brauest of well know nor     awake, reste! Will be talk in rhyme. And eek for I am     all the Crown, the laughing eye, for ne’er your wall, then Loue, somewhere     apart i carry heigh-ho! A monthes and drop it,     sweetner at learn’d her, ’ than

day, to pleye unto my gesture     sires man’s light be beryl: his is the world ends to reach, and     not if the grows air, do not that sea, and brink abundanced     with,—’Damn your sober shal son or Castaliant eyes     Perch,— did you will regrette.

[frickfrackiwastakingabath]

Mag... magic...

Anyway, here's wonderwall.

...

Pin Point

Tw for talks of torture, needles, swearing, and a panic attack

...

Tubbo looked at the gash in his hand, burnt and straight through his palm. When Wilbur meant torture...

Needles, iron. While Tubbo was bored of the lantern, he shivered at the thought of Wilbur pulling him out by force, electrifying every vein of magic.

Tubbo felt weaker and weaker everything he made it past the barrier, he was gradually getting dimmer. While curious, he didn't want to be the one to find out what happens when a fairy light goes all the way out.

But as time went on, he felt his very being shrivel away.

Looks like fading away might come sooner than he realized.

But Tubbo was awake. Even though he was fucking exhausted, fairies could not be unconscious unless they were like, on the brink of death. He watched Wilbur sleep, the wizard looked SO peaceful when he wasn't threatening and torturing.

Hmmm... Hmm... hm

Fuck OFF. The necklace was still buzzing.

There was a scuttering noise. It very well might be his imagination, but just in case Tubbo looked over to the wall weakly.

"Tubbo- kid!"

"How do we know he's a kid? He could be an old man in fairy years-"

"Fuck off-"

The two... people squabbled a bit more as Tubbo tried to comprehend what was going on. In front of him were two people his Suze who had just crawled out the walls, one with orange hair and ears like a fox and the other with pink hair and antenna like a moth.

"Tubbo," pink ignored the other. "We're getting you out of here. The knight's name is Tommy."

Tubbo blinked back. What?

Some sort of weight had been lifted off Tubbo, as if he had been getting crushed for years. He pushed open the door on the lantern, feeling as though all the energy from the past day had been restored to him.

Of course, it hadn't actually. Logically, Tubbo knew he was just relieved about having his deal cut off. He was still very much experiencing the side effects and aftermath of a day's worth of torture.

Hmmm... hmm...

Tubbo cursed out the necklace, a little delirious, before fluttering over to the other two. The orange one pointed to the necklace.

"Go grab that," he instructed. The other started pulling it by the chain back into the wall. "I think that's what Ranboo-"

"Ranboo?!" Tubbo was wide awake now. "Where is he? Is he all right? What-"

"SH!" Orange shushed him quickly, taking his hand and going back into the wall. Pink followed behind. Wilbur had surprising slept through the entire thing.

The three ran through the walls, the two strangers making leaps and running faster than Tubbo had thought any non winged person could. While it wasn't necessarily fresh air, it was better than a lantern.

"You got him?" A third person asked as they got to a hollowed out part of the wall, almost like a room.

"A few burn marks," pink looked him up and down. "But they should be gone in a few hours as long as there's no more iron near him."

"Can I have all your names?" Tubbo asked all of them.

Orange started to speak, but the third one quickly covered his mouth. "No, but we can tell you them."

Tubbo snapped his fingers, annoyed. He'd be a disgrace of a fairy if he didn't at least try and trap these strangers in a deal.

Or... he was probably already a disgrace of a fairy for getting caught by a human.

"I am Eret," the third, Eret pointed to himself, then to pink and orange. "And these are Niki and Fundy. Sorry to rip you away from your friend... maybe?"

Tubbo paused for a second before crossing his arms. "Friends don't keep friends in lanterns."

"Right," Niki cut in, her antenna twitching a little. "We think he purposefully gave us his name to rescue you. We need to leave this place immediately, I don't thinkthe wizard will be happy when he wakes up. I've got the necklace, and Ranboo is in the other segment-"

"He's here?!" Tubbo gasped. "Can I stay by him?"

Eret grimaced, putting a hand on Tubbo's shoulder. "Of course we wanted to reunite you two, but you need rest-"

"Fairies don't need rest," Tubbo fluttered up and down, buzzing in excitement. "Please. Just let me be with him."

The borrowers all exchanged a glance before Fundy led Tubbo up to where Ranboo was staying. He say beside the pile of scraps, watching his only friend's breath rise and fall.

"We'll leave in the morning." Fundy nodded, climbing back down to the main room.

Tubbo leaned against the walls, closing his eyes. It was times like this that made him with he could sleep.

...

Ranboo took a deep breath, still unconscious. A weight felt lifted off his chest, he felt safer, warmer. It was quieter as well, as he drifted into a peaceful sleep rather than a strifeful one.

...

Wilbur got up out of bed, the sky still dark. His compass was not pointing north.

He went over to the couch where Phil decided he wanted to sleep silently waking the artificer up.

"Wil, it's like... three am..." Phil yawned.

The wizard held up the compass, suppressing a laugh. His night was sleeping right on the other couch.

"That little knat escaped like I thought he would," Wilbur had the biggest smile. "And now I know where the mice are hiding."

[legobiwan]

The muse came to me. Who was I to say no? 

Dooku at the Opera: A Lineage Tale (A Comedy in 3 Acts)

Featuring: Yan Dooku, Rael Averross, Qui-gon Jinn, and Obi-wan Kenobi

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

“Here, take this.”

A dented, silver flask was thrust into Qui-gon’s inner pocket, the weight of the object throwing his deep brown dress robe off-kilter. 

“Rael!” Qui-gon hissed, trying to fish the object from his voluminous, velvet-trimmed outwear. By the Force, he hated wearing this thing. “I’m not - “ The fabric tangled, wrapping around Qui-gon’s arm - once, twice - somehow pinning his limb immobile against his side. 

Rael Averross tossed his head back and laughed for a good minute, leaving a scowling Qui-gon half-bound, trapped in the finest Jedi robes the Temple had to offer. Chuckling, he stepped forward to help Qui-gon unfurl from his self-made prison. “Just trust me, kid. You’re gonna need it.”

“I'm not sneaking Rodian liquor into the Coruscant Opera with Master Dooku at my side. He’ll flay me alive if catches me!” Qui-gon shuddered, testing out his freed arm.

“I’m not asking you to drink it,” Rael cocked his head with a small sigh. “That stuff would strip the paint off the side of a Grellan nightclub.” 

“Oh, that’s a relief,” Qui-gon snapped, rolling his eyes. He didn’t want to know how Rael had such intimate knowledge of the infamous Grellan nightclubs.

“All I’m saying, kid,” Rael’s voice softened as he wrapped an arm around Qui-gon’s bony shoulders, leading him to the full-length mirror standing in the corner of his and Dooku’s shared quarters. “Is that Master Dooku has probably forgotten about about this particular escape tactic.” Rael put a finger to his chin, glancing to the ceiling in thought. “It was twelve years ago.”

Qui-gon frowned, his own confused expression staring back at him in the polished glass. The boy - man - seemed a stranger, wrapped in a long, velvet-trimmed robe, his tunics a darker shade of his customary beige, pressed, absent the usual dark soil spots and off-green streaks that so infuriated his Master. He looked...well, respectable. 

He was fifteen now, had been Master Dooku’s Padawan for just over three years. He had also had the dubious honor of keeping Rael Averross’s occasional company for almost as long. 

“Rael, it’s the opera, not the Citadel. Why do I need an escape tactic?” Qui-gon gestured with the flask in his hand, liquid sloshing against its container. “And if I’m not to drink this, then what in Nine Corellian Hells am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know, kid, you’re a Jedi. You’ll figure it out,” Rael shrugged, pushing wavy black hair from his face. He cocked a crooked smile in Qui-gon’s direction, ruffling his short, spiky hair. 

“Make your exit after the first intermission, but not too close to the start of the second act. Did that one too many times and Dooku’s cottoned on to it.” Rael began to push Qui-gon towards the door, ignoring the boy’s stammered protests. “Now get outta here before he gets suspicious.”

Qui-gon gaped from the other side of the threshold. “Rael!”

But the door only closed with a final whoosh, leaving a very confused Qui-gon Jinn in an empty Temple corridor, battered container of Rodian gin in hand. 

What in the galaxy was that all about? It was the opera. Not just opera, but a Serennian opera. Truth be told, Qui-gon wasn’t much one for the more prestigious arts, not like his Master was, at least. But he had learned to keep those opinions secret after spending two weeks dusting and reorganizing Master Dooku’s extensive holoart book collection, a consequence of expressing his opinion at an exhibition of Tuerrilian landscapes that all the paintings “looked like the same smashball field with the goalposts removed.”

But this would be different, this wouldn’t be a bunch of boring green lawns perched atop various boring curved, silver architectures. This was a story about Serenno. Yes, with large-bodied, multiple-lipped Trellian singers in strange, pointed hats and all, but it was a way to get to know his Master better, learn something new about him, about his planet. 

Behind Qui-gon, the door to Dooku’s quarters opened halfway. “Oh, and kid?” Rael called down the hall. “Say hi to Brigindia the Breadthful and Hagvor the Hu - “ Rael clicked his tongue, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks flushing. “Anyway, tell ’em Rael Averross sends his regards if you happen to leave by the stage door exit,” he finished, sly smile spreading across his face.

----

Knock knock knock.

Rael looked up from his holobook, tapping the bookmark button as he glanced at his chrono. 

Not bad, kid, he thought, giving his arms a long stretch before leaving the comfort of Dooku’s plush arm chair. He stopped in the pantry before answering the door, pouring two cups of cold, Nemishian tea.

“So you got out,” Rael said as greeting. “Record time, too.”

Qui-gon pushed past the older Jedi, a flurry of wrinkled fabric and frustration, the faint odor of burnt Ceylla wood drifting from his robes. He made a series of aborted half-circles, like a jittery, indecisive Lothcat before Rael took pity on him and led him to the sofa, pushing a glass of the Nemishian tea into his hand.

The young Jedi sat, unmoving, for a good minute, eyes wide as he seemed to replay every last event of the past three hours in excruciating detail. Rael took his own glass, downing half of it in one go, giving a satisfied smack of his lips. Dooku always did have better provisions than the Jedi commissary, a way of enticing wayward Padawans out of mealtime trouble and sometimes extracting an extra hour’s work out of them.

“It was terrible, Rael,” Qui-gon finally spoke, eyes still wide, voice somewhat haunted.

Rael laughed, slapping his thigh as he sat back in Dooku’s armchair, extending his legs long, his ankles crossed. “C’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad,” Rael teased. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Five of them, actually,” Qui-gon murmured, taking a sip of his tea. The drink seemed to restore some of the color to his pallid face. “Each with a thirty-minute aria.”

“Ah, The Fall of the House of Carellic.” Rael grinned. “A classic.”

Qui-gon’s eyes widened, as he nearly dropped his glass. “You mean he’s seen this one before?”

“It cycles in every seven years or so,” Rael answered. “I imagine at this point Master Dooku has it memorized.”

“But then why,” Qui-gon's voice rose, “did he give me a three-hour running commentary of everything wrong with its portrayal of Serennian culture if he knows it so well?”

“That, my young friend,” Rael drawled, eyes tightening with barely restrained laughter. “Is all part of the experience. Now,” he leaned forward, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “How’d you escape?”

The corner of Qui-gon’s mouth quirked upwards. “Spilled your paint stripper on the mezzanine-level bar. Was a real shame everyone knows the Senator from Gorrusk likes to smoke indoors, although I think both his outfit and pride will recover from the mishap."

“And being the dutiful Padawan you are,” Rael continued, grinning, “of course you volunteered to accompany the poor Senator to the on-site healer, ensuring your Master would not have his night interrupted.” Rael tutted. “It’s just a damned shame there was so much paperwork to fill out.”

Qui-gon raised his glass in Rael’s direction. “Takes forever, really.”

Rael nodded, raising his own glass in salute. “Not too shabby, kid.”

The two Jedi sat in contented silence for a few moments, the adrenaline rush of Qui-gon’s frantic escape finally waning, the younger man’s head slowly tilting downwards, his eyes closing. A minute later, Rael heard a soft snore emanate from the pile of tunics sprawled on the couch. 

Chuckling, Rael stood, collecting both glasses, pulling Qui-gon’s long legs fully onto the couch, boots and all, covering him with a soft blanket plucked from a nearby closet. Dooku could snipe at Rael later for letting his Padawan desecrate his furniture in such a manner. He wouldn’t be back for at least another five hours anyway.

Qui-gon was going to be one of the good ones, Rael thought. Still needed to loosen up a little bit - Dooku had him scared to rights most of the time, but he’d learn soon enough that his old Master was just as much bark as bite - at least, most of the time. 

Fifteen years and Dooku has never gotten anyone to sit through the entirety of one of those Force-forsaken circuses. Rael had never been sure why he insisted on the charade every year - Dooku had to know full well his Padawans were sneaking off. Hell, even the other Jedi Masters always seemed to find a polite excuse to avoid Dooku’s yearly invitations to the opera, Master Windu going as far as claiming he needed to “shave his head and was busy that night and all the other nights the act was in town.”

Force help all of us the day he finds some kid willing to sit through that schlop. They’d probably end up being more terrifying than Dooku himself.

----

“Master,” Obi-wan Kenobi gave a series of gentle raps on the door to Qui-gon’s room. 

Qui-gon peered his eyes open, squinting at the bright morning sun shining through the small gap in his curtains. Morning already?

“Obi-wan, come in,” Qui-gon groaned, voice still full of sleep. “How was the opera?” he asked, suddenly remembering where his Padawan had been last night, shuttled away in a familiar velvet-trimmed robe by his old Master. 

Qui-gon felt a pang of disappointment. He had hoped his Padawan would come to him after making his escape, would share in his escapades with Qui-gon over a glass of Nemishian tea, that they would laugh like two younglings as he and Rael had every year until Qui-gon’s Knighting.

But like most other parts of their partnership, this, too, Obi-wan seemed to approach with cool, measured detachment. 

Obi-wan brightened at the question, however, pulling out a crisp holoprogram from his robes. “It was delightful, Master! Master Dooku and I had a splendid time. He even treated me to a Drynarian spiced wine during the second intermission.”

Qui-gon gaped at his student, certain he had heard him incorrectly. His eyes flitted to the cover of the holoprogram - The Fall of the House of Carellic - emblazoned in regal Aurebesh and Serennian script. 

“You - you stayed?”

Obi-wan furrowed his brow. “Of course, Master. Granted, the opera as a whole was a bit bloated, the singers past their prime - Brigindia the Breadthful’s range didn’t quite match up to her alias and Hagvor the Hu - “ Obi-wan hissed, his cheeks flushing red. “Well, Master Dooku said that wasn’t really his name, that it was a ‘improper moniker bestowed upon a great artist for base reasons.’ I didn’t ask after it, but he was alright, as tenors go.”

“But Padawan, the letter-opener I gave you - “ Qui-gon stammered. Not that he had expected Obi-wan to stab anybody with it in an attempt to escape the opera, far from it. But he had thought - Qui-gon let out a breath - hell, he didn’t know - maybe rip a curtain or sabotage some official’s clothing? 

“Oh yes, that was quite useful Master, thank you,” Obi-wan beamed. “The packaging on those meiloorun pastries can rather difficult.”

Qui-gon nodded dumbly at his Padawan. 

“Oh, before I forget, Master, this is for you, from Master Dooku.” Obi-wan held out a flimsi, folded in half, Qui-gon’s name printed in familiar, elegant script. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take a shower and a short nap before the day begins.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Padawan,” Qui-gon said, distracted, not bothering to close the door as Obi-wan hopped out of the room.

With no small degree of trepidation, Qui-gon opened the note.

“Qui-gon - 

I would like to thank you for allowing me to borrow your charge for the evening. It is rare to encounter a young mind with such intellect, curiosity, and, shall I say, an inherent sense of taste and propriety. I find myself wanting to repeat the experience, if Obi-wan (and you) should be open to it. 

As for your letter-opener, I am disappointed that you would arm your student with such an unimaginative weapon. I would say that next year you should confer with Rael in the matter, but I do believe that will not be necessary, given Obi-wan’s sincere enthusiasm throughout the evening. Senator Rembran of Gorrusk sends his regards to you, as he does every year. Ever since the incident at the bar, he has been convinced of the Jedi’s importance in the Republic, so I must thank you for the unintended repercussion of your clumsy sabotage those years ago.

Brigindia and Hagvor also send their regards to Rael. I do hope you didn’t share the mortifying origins of Hagvor’s colorful moniker with your student. He has yet to encounter Rael Averross in person, and I would prefer he and Obi-wan to meet without any prurient preconceptions, as Rael is a good, if infuriating man. How he remains my former pupil is still one of the great mysteries of the galaxy.

Finally, I would like to extend an invitation for you to join me (and Obi-wan, again, if it is to be allowed) for next year’s production of The Sentinel’s Progress, which has not been staged in over a millenia. I am told it is a most inaccurate depiction of our ancient Serennian culture and I would be glad to share my thoughts with you and your Padawan. Of course, if you feel the need to come armed with a letter-opener, you need but slip the blade through Madame Tursky’s silver gown-train. Rumor has it she is most protective of her honor and can be seen hovering near the mezzanine-level bar like a drunken hawkbat at most intermissions. 

Until then, Padawan. And may the Force be with you.

             ---Best Regards,

                    Yan Dooku”

[moonlightchildz]

Knocking on heaven’s door

warning: spoilers for season one of aot!!!

credit: tiktok - @ bogm.cax

so this is my take in season 1, after mikasa finds out eren is dead. i saw this beautiful edit of it and was deeply inspired and this is what flowed out. now to endure more pain for season 4 :(

also listen to can’t handle change - roar (slowed)

the day death catches up to eren jaeger, is the day mikasa ackerman starts knocking on heaven’s door.

At first, she doesn’t realize this feeling at first. This gnawing feeling of hysteria and desperation slipping off her fingertips. All she knows is that eren, her eren, is no longer breathing anymore. Time seems to have slowed down to the point where she could only watch Armin deliver the blowing news. She counted just how many times he tried to form a coherent sentence as his eyes welled up in tears. His sobs were heart wrenching to watch but to feel?

She couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Eren...is gone.

Those cerulean eyes that she loves so dearly won’t be brimming with such defiance and fervor to keep on fighting no matter what anymore. Correction, loved. She doesn’t feel it as tears threaten to spill down her cheeks, or even as her burning throat clogs up to the point she keeps swallowing back her pleads of ignoring the truth.

she doesn’t dare to acknowledge it, not even when her chest heaves drastically and she’s gasping to breathe. not even as her trembling fingers struggle to grasp her sword, or as her knees buckle beneath her to the point she can no longer stand still. her shaking hands tug at her hair as words, cries, or something trapped inside of her tries to desperately rip out of her.

all she can think is just how much it hurts to breathe at the moment. her mind is telling her to slow down, but her heart is racing against time, trying to beat past it so she won’t have to deal with a world without eren jaeger. but it hurts so fucking much. It hurts to still be alive and be incapable of rewinding time to just hear his voice one last time. To say everything she had kept inside her silenced body. To reach out to his fingers and grasp his hand, and never let go.

to demonstrate just how much love she was capable of giving to the boy with the world within his eyes. the boy who saved her when she lifelessly stared at death with no hope to her name. he had given her the will to fight so now what can she do? what’s there to do? carla first, and now eren too. a small whimper emits from her quivering lips, her chest tightening as she recalls what carla had asked her to do. to protect eren no matter what and look at where she is now.

she’s alive physically, that she can say with utmost confidence. the numbing in her brain says otherwise though. it’s already starting to shut her down and she’s thinking why? just why?

“WHY?” she roars out in desperation, slamming her fist into the brick wall. tears are clogging her throat and she swears she can’t feel her hand slam full fist repeatedly against the wall. as if she’s trying to convince herself if she’s human right now. blood splatters on her clothes and she curls her fingers into her palm, digging her nails until she’s blinking rapidly.

She has charged to her death. Sending everyone to their pending doom and now she’s cornered, lost, and not able to comprehend just how everything had turned to shit in an instant. There’s blood in her hands and she’s lifelessly staring at what’s in front of her, thinking about a few moments ago. After all, she was just listening to sasha enthusiastically blabber on about sharing the meat she had stolen with everyone, claiming that they’ll be more once they step foot outside the walls. Spirits had been lifted automatically and it was all smiles and laughter.

And then, and then, they dared turn right into death’s door. she swore it was just her imagination, but the moment eren charged forward she knew it wasn’t. she watched as eren threw himself forward, leaving everyone in mere horror and shock as they faced what seemed to be the colossal titan. her heart had lurched forward, clawing at her, as it mocked them right in their own home again.

she didn’t even have time to process it all as her dark gaze spots the titan heading her way now. great, is this is where I die now? watching the enemy advance it’s way towards me and I just stare at it?

she’s all burnt out.

is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Devoting and losing yourself entirely for the purpose of love? Of giving yourself fully to someone who took everything in its wake and is now dead? a sob emits from her quivering lips. all she can remember is the way eren so gently had wrapped the red scarf around her neck. those ocean blue eyes had promised to keep her safe, to keep coming back to wrap the scarf around her neck as many times because he would fight until the ends of the earth.

If she had known she would be last seeing his smile, she would have done everything in her to prevent just that. she would have stood in front of him and armin, to devote herself to the people she loved the most in the world. because those two souls had kept her steady from floating away into the depths of hell that were awaiting for her. she remembers their faces, how these two would animatedly talk to each other for hours and she would be content in just listening to them.

in those moments she had felt so alive.

“if we don’t fight, we can’t win, mikasa.”

but despite as her gaze landed at death itself, the love within her that he had ingrained into her managed to be restored enough to wince once she clenched her remaining sword. blood dripped on the ground, following her as she straightened her back. all she could see was eren telling her to stop being a pussy and to do something about it. even if she died, she would not stand to go without fighting for the people that she has lost and will keep losing.

her duty as a soldier, as a friend, and as family was to restore their memories before she soon joined them.

Fight.

fight, mikasa.

FIGHT.

Give it your all and it will be enough.

And as she launched forward, roaring in defiance, something from behind her sends her flying from the impact. The concrete she lands on causes her to sprawl uncomfortably, her head banging against it to the point she seems to be imagining the following events.

“fuck,” she groaned out, trying to blink away the dark spots that had clouded her vision. her steady hands were trying to find her sword, or anything really at this point. she grasps it, starts getting on her knees with all her might, and then life itself blooms within her.

A large foot slams against the concrete, splitting it in half as she watches in astoundment. Her wide eyes glimmer as her quivering lips remain opened. Is that...a titan? There’s a loud roar echoing of it and she can feel the intense pain and vile hatred radiating from it as it pounds on to the incoming titan that was about to end her life right there. Glowing electric green eyes stare her down and all she can do is stare back with a dumbstruck expression.

why...why wasn’t it going towards her? and why did it ignore her? but more importantly just why in the fuck was it fighting back? She watched as it angrily stomped on their face over and over and over again, blood splattering everywhere. It’s running towards another one and she swears she doesn’t feel a pair of hands grab her, shaking her out of her trance. why was it pulling her towards that thing? why couldn’t she keep her eyes off it? The resilience within her flares up like a flame, spreading throughout her body and engulfing her to the point she feels fire within her fingertips.

she’s burning once again.

The next form of events blur by but she’s fighting now. She’s fighting for her freedom, for her life, for everyone, and for the boy she will have to bid goodbye to once this was all over. However, she wonders if she could just follow alongside. If her time could come and she’d be happy to let go and stop breathing. her heart and mind are set in dying. she knew this life was not promised. that it wasn’t going to be always and forever, but beside him? life had felt eternal, endless, and full of promise.

However she’s keen on watching the abnormal titan fight against each titan coming their way. She’s acting on impulse at some point, trying to prove to herself that she wasn’t going crazy because she felt as if there was someone controlling that thing. there’s no way the hatred it spilled of it could be mindless.

And then, and then, she notices something strange. there’s something ripping out of the back of its nape. is that a figure? her body reacts before her mind can recollect her thoughts because she knows that silhouette anywhere. her finger could trace every inch and curve without a doubt and she’d pinpoint those eyes anywhere. those ocean blue eyes that open briefly, but that is more than enough for her to act on her own will.

she’s there in time to catch him in her arms as he is being ejected from the nape of the titan that she watched save her from death. she’s there to wrap her arms around him, and feel his heart beat against his chest. and then she feels the tears spill down her cheeks, her blurry eyesight hindering the military armed men who are all pointing their weapons at the two, no three of them. tears are covering eren’s face but they’re not his and armin is there to prove that she’s not dreaming anything.

in that moment mikasa notices two things. one, is that not everything is as it seems and two, even if they were all born to die these two heartbeats, these two souls, would become one to fight and bite back against knocking on heaven’s door now. she figured she was meant to die, but not by the hands of her own people. no, she was going to die when she decides that herself. when she believes it’s suitable enough to leave this world with her memories of eren jaeger, armin alert, and mikasa ackerman.

but as her and armin acknowledge each other with eren in her arms, she knows it’s not time yet.

That’s how it had started and that’s how it would end.

[jaskierswolf]

You Set My Heart Ablaze Pt. 16/25

Previous __________________

It was mid-April when Geralt walked into the station, after dropping Ciri of at school, to find a huge banner hung in the breakout room. The word ‘INTERVENTION’ was scrawled in red paint across sheets of paper that had been stapled together.

Geralt almost turned tail and ran from the station.

He didn’t need a fucking intervention.

He was fine.

This was Vesemir’s fault for going on leave. Geralt was starting to wish he’d joined him. Vesemir had taken a trip to the coast, near Cintra, to go fishing. He’d asked Geralt if he wanted to go along but Geralt didn’t want to take Ciri out of school to go on a fishing trip that would most likely bore her to death. She was off school next week anyway, the start of the Beltane Holidays.

“Fuck off!” He snapped at his team mates as he shoved past them to the locker room to get changed.

“It’s for your own good, Geralt!” Eskel called after him.

Geralt muttered the words under his breath and scoffed. He was fine. Yes he’d been hurt when Jaskier had decided to practically ghost him out of the blue but really he should have expected it. Jaskier had said so many times that what they were doing was strictly on friendly terms. Not a single phone call or coffee date went by without Jaskier reminding Geralt of that fact.

He’d pushed too far.

He’d let his feelings get out of control and Jaskier had gone for a clean break. It was less messy that way. Geralt couldn’t begrudge him that.

The thing that was confusing him was Jaskier’s apparent reaction to the whole thing. Coën had spoken to him after school a couple of weeks ago and mentioned that Ciri thought that something was up with Jaskier. He’d tried to ring the teacher but he hadn’t picked up. Not that Geralt had really expected anything different, by that point Jaskier had been avoiding him for about three weeks.

He’d sent an email to check in with the teacher instead, noting that Ciri was worried about him. Jaskier should have appreciated Geralt’s efforts to make it about Ciri, but the reply he’d received was a curt assurance that the teacher was fine and that he was just tired, along with an apology to Ciri and a promise to hide it better in future.

Ciri had never mentioned it again so Geralt had assumed that Jaskier was alright.

Until that morning.

Jaskier was on morning playground duty this week.

And he looked like shit.

There was small selfish part of Geralt that desperately hoped that it was the break in their friendship that had caused such a change in the man.

He shook his head. Perhaps Eskel was right. He did need an intervention. He sighed as he finished changing into his uniform and strode back into the break room as he was pulling his hair back into a bun. “Fine. Go on.”

Renfri cackled and pulled the screen down on the wall that Vesemir used for training days. Lambert clicked the button on the projector and Geralt groaned as the picture slowly faded into view.

It was a picture of Jaskier, a headshot taken from the school’s website. Geralt knew that because he’d checked website earlier that morning to make sure he’d gotten the dates for the school holidays right.

It wasn’t his fault that he’d accidentally clicked on the staff page.

His fingers slipped.

The slide show was titled ‘how to get over your daughter’s teacher.”

“Very funny.” Geralt muttered under his breath.

Renfri wrapped her arms around his neck and then grinned as she twisted to ruffle his hair. “We only want what’s best for you Ger-Bear.”

“Get off.” He grumbled and tried to escape her grip. Once he’d finally ducked out of her arms he turned round to the team with what he hoped was a convincing smile. “I appreciate the concern but honestly I’m fine.”

“You look like someone shot Roach in front of you.” Eskel raised an eyebrow at him.

“And then forced you to eat her.” Lambert added.

Geralt grimaced. “Why am I friends with you?”

“I’m delightful.” Lambert smirked.

Geralt frowned, remembering a similar conversation he’d had before.

“What?!” Lambert groaned. “Seriously! What did I say?”

Eskel shrugged and Renfri watched Geralt suspiciously. “Geralt?”

He grunted.

“Please tell me that you’re not sulking because Lambert said something that Jaskier would say.” She put a hand on his shoulder but he didn’t meet her gaze.

He shrugged her off. “I’m fine.” He insisted and stalked into Vesemir’s office.

With the chief gone, Geralt had been asked to step up for the week and make sure all the piles of paperwork didn’t build up. It also meant that he got to hide out in the office away from the others which suited him just fine.

The projector had been turned off by the time he’d left his office for his morning tea break but in its place was a bundle of paper, printouts of the slides. He sighed and scooped them up before putting the kettle on. His friends were only trying to look out for him and he could admit, in the privacy of his own mind, that he’d been sulking. More than anything he was just pissed off at himself for letting his walls down, and he was angry that it was suddenly so much harder to rebuild them again. Why couldn’t they just snap back into place? He could go about his day with his job and his friends and his family.

Jaskier’s face was smiling up at him from the sheet of paper.

“Fuck!” He cursed and typed out a text to Coën, asking the teenager if he wouldn’t mind staying a little longer with Ciri this evening.

A few minutes later his phone beeped and he let out a breath of relief when he read that Coën had agreed to stay for an extra hour. He quickly replied to thank Coën. Honestly, the kid was a lifesaver. Geralt wouldn’t have been able to stay at work without him. He’d considered finding a way to work from home when Ciri had first arrived, he was pretty handy at DIY and there was a time where he’d thought about making a business out of restoring and fixing up damaged furniture, even odd jobs round people’s houses whilst Ciri was at school, working to his own schedule.

But the fire station was his home, they were his family.

He’d been too selfish to give that up and in the end it had worked out for the best. Ciri now had a family beyond Geralt which was important for the young girl who had lost everything.

He sighed as he finished his tea, it was still too hot and burnt the back of his throat but he didn’t mind. It was better than cold tea and he had work to do. The breaks always went too fast and the day always went too slow.

He avoided his colleagues for the rest of the day whenever possible, luckily for them it was a slow day and most of the call outs were false alarms. Eskel and Renfri had a tough call at a fatal car accident and they were pretty shaken for the rest of the day after that but the team banded together and they moved on.

They had to.

It was the job.

When the handful of full-time cats turned up for the nightshift, Geralt felt a prickle on anxiety tickle up his spine. He was exhausted and this had all seemed like a good idea at the beginning of the day when he still had hours to go.

But now.

Now he just wanted to fuck it all and go home to Ciri.

He ran through the handover quickly before escaping to his truck. He sat in his truck for at least five minutes, his head resting on the steering wheel before he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, Geralt. Get a grip!” He turned the key in the ignition and pulled out from the station.

He considered dropping into a petrol station on the way but decided that would be too cheesy.

Jaskier would probably like cheesy though.

But they weren’t dating and couldn’t be dating so cheesy was out of the question.

“I’m just making sure he’s alright. Friends do that.” Geralt grumbled at he drew up in front of the block of flats, thankfully not on fire this time.

He peered at the keypad at the front of the door looking for the right number.

5D.

That was seared into his mind forever more.

He took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer, ignoring the rising wave of panic in his chest. The building was not on fire and Jaskier was not in danger. He didn’t need to kick through the door. He wasn’t in uniform and there was no smoke billowing from the windows.

“Hello?” Jaskier’s voice crackled from the intercom.

“Jaskier?” Geralt asked. “Can I come up?”

There was brief pause and Geralt stared at the keypad, willing for Jaskier’s voice to come out, as if staring at it would make it happen sooner.

“Fuck. Fine. Yes.” Jaskier sounded tired but the door buzzed and Geralt opened it before Jaskier could change his mind.

The lift would be too slow, he decided, so he ran up the stairs taking them two at a time. He slowed to a brisk walk as he walked through the corridor. It would be a bit much, even for him, to run down the corridor.

Jaskier was waiting for him, leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

He looked… lifeless.

Geralt had never seen the teacher so flat before. He was normally brimming with life, dancing around with sparkling eyes, never really staying still.

“Jask.” Geralt breathed as their eyes met.

Jaskier frowned and looked away. “This is not appropriate, Geralt.”

“I know.” He sighed. “I know.”

“Why are you here, Geralt?” Jaskier asked, still looking at his feet.

Geralt desperately wished that the man would look at him. “Honestly?”

Jaskier huffed, sounding somewhat amused by the question. “Normally helps.”

Geralt swallowed. This was a terrible idea. He was not good at this, not good at finding the words that were enough. All the feelings swirling inside him like a storm. How could words ever be enough? Jaskier normally understood this and he’d gotten pretty good at translating Geralt’s hums and grunts in the past but now that wouldn’t be enough.

He needed words.

Jaskier needed words.

“Take your time.” Jaskier said quietly with a tilt of his and finally looked Geralt in the eyes.

Geralt felt the tension leave his body as he let himself get lost of the cornflower blue of Jaskier’s eyes. A weight he didn’t know he was carrying was lifted from his body.

He took a deep breath. “I.” He cut himself off with a growl. Why was this so hard? “I don’t understand.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “You don’t understand what, Geralt?”

“We were friends.” Geralt tried to explain. “And then we weren’t.”

Jaskier sighed and moved from the doorway, gesturing for Geralt to follow him.

Geralt looked around the flat. It was good to replace the memories he had of the place. He took in all the details he could, Jaskier’s instrument collection propped up against the walls covered with a thin layer of dust, a thick soft looking rug underfoot and picture frames scattered all over the walls with no particular care of placement. The kitchen was small and led straight into the lounge area. Jaskier’s furniture was a mess of different styles but somehow he managed to make it work and Geralt couldn’t imagine it any differently.

“Drink?” Jaskier asked as he shuffled awkwardly in the middle of the room.

Geralt consider it but shook his head. “Fine thanks.”

“I’m going to have a glass a wine. Do you mind?” The teacher asked as he moved towards the kitchen. Geralt shook his head. “Good. Please, sit down.”

“Jaskier.” Geralt sighed in exasperation as the man flitted about the flat, but he did as he was told and perched on the edge of the sofa. He waited for Jaskier to come back into the living area, a large glass of red wine in hand. “Jaskier, what’s been going on?”

Jaskier was tapping his fingers against the glass nervously, glancing around the room and looking anywhere but at Geralt.

“It’s not your fault, Geralt.” He finally answered.

Geralt laughed. “I never said it was, now stop making this seem like a bad rom-com and answer the question, Jask.”

Jaskier giggled at that and the sound brightened the room considerably. “I suppose it was a bit like a bad rom-com, wasn’t it? It’s not you, Geralt, it’s me!” He laughed.

Geralt laughed with him and their eyes met once more. “Is this the part where I declare my undying love for you and beg you to take me back?” He teased.

Jaskier froze.

Fuck.

Too far.

Why did he always take the joke too far?

“Don’t joke about that, Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice wavered and there was something indescribable shining in his blue eyes.

Geralt furrowed his brow as he took in the teacher’s reaction.

The realisation hit him like a ton of bricks.

Jaskier wanted that.

He wanted Geralt.

His body moved without his permission. He stood up and crossed the room in a heartbeat, his hands cupping Jaskier’s cheeks as he pulled the brunet into a kiss. It felt like all the air left him as their lips met. He hadn’t how much he had needed this, needed Jaskier. It wasn’t until Jaskier’s lips were on his that he realised the true depth of his feelings.

It was like the heat of fire after being caught in the middle of a blizzard. Hot, blistering and burning into his soul.

Jaskier whimpered against his lips and they both jumped apart at the sound of breaking glass. Red wine was running over the floor and soaking into the rug.

Jaskier glanced down at the mess of broken glass and back up at Geralt with wide eyes. They stared at each other, their breaths the only sound in the flat, before Jaskier lunged forward and captured Geralt’s lips in a bruising kiss. Geralt pulled Jaskier closer to him, after the distance between them the last few weeks he needed to feel the brunet pressed up close to his chest. Geralt’s hands drifting down to Jaskier’s ass. He smiled against Jaskier’s lips as the man squeaked when Geralt gripped his ass.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined.

“Hmm?” He buried his nose in Jaskier’s neck and inhaled the soft chamomile scent.

Jaskier tugged at his hair and pulled him in for another kiss. Jaskier’s lips were cracked from where he’d been chewing on his bottom lip but Geralt couldn’t care less as he bumped his nose against Jaskier’s. It was messy, it was needy…

It was somehow still perfect.

They were lost up in the moment, caught up in each other as the world around the faded away.

All Geralt knew was Jaskier as their lips moved together, tongues dancing as the kiss deepened. It felt like Jaskier was reaching into his very soul. They broke apart, panting and gripping tightly onto each other’s shirts. Jaskier was first to catch his breath and he laughed as he pressed his forehead against Geralt’s.

“Well, that was…”

“Hmm.” Geralt agreed.

“Not that I’m complaining or anything but…” Jaskier pulled back slightly and rested his hand on Geralt’s cheek.

Geralt couldn’t help but lean into his touch. It had been so long since he’d felt like this for anyone, since he’d allowed himself to be vulnerable. “I love you, Jask.”

Jaskier smiled sadly and pressed his lips to Geralt’s in a chaste kiss. “I love you too but…”

Geralt groaned and pulled away from the teacher. “Don’t say it.”

“We can’t.” Jaskier pouted. “Geralt you know we can’t. That’s why…”

“Why what?” Geralt snapped.

“It’s why I had to, you know. I couldn’t bear to be around you and not have you.” Jaskier stepped forward with a heartbreaking expression on his face.

Like Jaskier was begging Geralt to understand.

He didn’t.

“You could have had me, Jask. Fuck!” He yelled and spun around in frustration, his finger pinching the bridge of his nose. He counted a few beats in his head and sighed, turning back round to face Jaskier. “I’m not. I’m not good at this but I thought I was being pretty obvious.”

Jaskier’s face fell. “Oh dear heart.”

“Don’t.” Geralt growled. “Don’t kiss me like that and then tell me we can’t do this.”

“I’ve hurt you.” Jaskier sighed and sat down on the sofa. “I’m sorry, darling.”

Geralt down next to him, he couldn’t help it. He was drawn to Jaskier, even if he was angry at the teacher. Jaskier seemed to have the same problem. He rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder and his hands landed on Geralt’s legs.

“I didn’t come here to kiss you.” Geralt admitted.

Jaskier laughed. “Oh?”

“I just needed to know why you were avoiding me.” Geralt sighed as he laced their fingers together. “I couldn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I thought maybe I could apologise?”

Jaskier shifted next to him so that he was kneeling on the sofa facing Geralt, a hand on his cheek. “Dearest, you did nothing wrong.”

“Hmm.” Geralt replied, not believing Jaskier. Of course he’d done something wrong. There was no other reason for Jaskier to pull away from him so suddenly.

“I was scared, Geralt.” Jaskier admitted. “We have the board breathing down our necks at work, three teachers suspended for misconduct.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak but Jaskier’s finger on his lips stunned him to silence.

“Let me finish, dear.” Jaskier pleaded.

“Fine” Geralt mumbled against Jaskier’s finger.

“Good.” Jaskier bopped him on the nose and Geralt wrinkled it in surprise. “Three teachers suspended for misconduct,” He repeated, picking up his train of thought. “and then you came in with the lunchbox and well…” Jaskier trailed off and smiled dopily at Geralt. Geralt laughed and bumped his forehead against Jaskier’s gently. “Well, I realised that I was unreasonably in love with you.”

Geralt hummed and pulled him into a kiss. How was he supposed to resist the teacher when he said things like that?

He felt Jaskier’s smile against his lips as the brunet pushed back against his chest. “I wasn’t finished!”

Geralt smirked and tilted his head at the teacher.

“No. Stop it. Stop looking at me like that.” Jaskier pouted.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.” Geralt chuckled.

“Yes you are!” Jaskier poked him in the chest. “It’s all very…” He waved his hands in Geralt’s general direction. “distracting!”

“So you realised you were in love with me?” Geralt grinned, prompting the teacher to continue his story.

“Yes and,” He paused “then I remembered that we were supposed to just be friends and with teachers getting suspended left right and centre I just. I couldn’t risk it! I couldn’t do that to my kids, Geralt. I couldn’t do that to Ciri. She’s lost too much already.” Jaskier was staring at him with wide eyes and jutting out his bottom lip.

Geralt frowned at the words. “You did it for Ciri?”

How could he argue with that?

Jaskier was right. If he was suspended or fired because Geralt couldn’t control himself. Ciri would lose her teacher and she adored Jaskier. All of the buttercups did.

“I did it for all of my buttercups.” Jaskier amended. “Ciri included.”

“Fuck.” Geralt groaned and pressed his palm against his forehead.

“But I hated it, Geralt.” Jaskier shifted forward and took Geralt’s hands in his. “I missed you, Melitele knows I missed you. I missed the sound of your voice, I missed your laugh, I missed the way your lips quirk up in that little half smile.”

Geralt scowled. “I don’t do that.”

“You do.” Jaskier insisted. “and I missed your eyes. Gods, Geralt. Do you even know how beautiful they are?”

Geralt scoffed.

“Geralt!” Jaskier whined. “Beautiful.”

“Hmm.” Geralt rolled his eyes.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” Jaskier sighed. “Forgive me, darling.”

Geralt searched Jaskier’s eyes with his own, trying to find an answer to a question that he didn’t understand. He only knew that the answer was in Jaskier’s eyes. He tilted his head as he tried to comprehend what was really going on between them. They were fighting, but then they were kissing, and then fighting again. They couldn’t be more than friends but they loved each other but Jaskier could lose his job but the never-ending terms of endearment.

Was love always this fucking confusing?

He thought back to his relationship with Yennefer and decided it probably was.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asked quietly. “Please.”

He sighed, knowing he wasn’t able to answer the question yet. He didn’t have enough information to make the decision yet. “What happens next?”

“What?” Jaskier asked, his voice cracking.

“We can’t date, Jask. You were right. It wouldn’t be fair on the kids, on Ciri, if someone found out.” Geralt scowled.

Why did it feel like they were breaking up again before they even got started?

“I know.” The teacher sighed and buried his head in Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt instinctively moved his hand to thread his fingers through Jaskier’s soft hair. “It’s not fair.”

“No.” Geralt agreed. “It’s not. So what happens now?”

“I can’t pretend that I don’t love you, Geralt.” Jaskier moaned into his shirt.

Geralt laughed and gently pulled Jaskier up so he could see his face again. The brunet was pouting.

Gods, those lips would be the end of him.

He didn’t know what else to say so he did the only thing he could think of and kissed them.

Jaskier fell back onto the sofa and pulled Geralt on top of him. Geralt straddled Jaskier waist and he kissed him like his life depended on it. They wouldn’t have tomorrow, they only had today.

This moment.

This was it.

He couldn’t waste it.

He wouldn’t waste it. Not now that he had Jaskier in his arms, his lips captured by his own.

“Jaskier?” He asked, his voice a low growl. “Stop me.”

Jaskier laughed breathlessly, his face was flushed and his pupils were blown wide so there was only a slither of cornflower blue. “Like fuck I will. Shut up you brute and kiss me!”

So he did. ________

Next

[sabretoothandsin]

Black is the Color

The reader fell in love with Ahkmenrah after meeting him at one of the ‘living history’ nights at the New York Museum of Natural history. A little while after finding out the truth about him and everyone else in the museum during your courtship, you were able to get a job as the second night guard. Sure you did help Larry out with some of the more unruly exhibits but mostly you just spent time with your love. The two of you have fallen into a comfortable, romantic, bliss. You spend a night teaching him how to paint his nails and just spending time together. The next night Ahk's world changes forever.

(It’s much better written than the description I’m just a bit burnt out as I right this.)

Word count: 1797 // Warnings: death of reader, mention of terrorism, slight talk of death and Ahk’s mummified state // Genre: very fluffy then very angsty // Reader information: she/her pronouns used once or twice but other than that nothing really gendered like a physical description or being called “a girl�� or anything

One of those calmer nights, you were sitting on the floor with your hands resting on one of the many benches, painting your nails. Black first, then a shiny red top coat.

Ahkmenrah approached and sat on the floor beside you. "Would you teach me to do that?" he asked with a smile.

"Sure," you said, a bit surprised but eager to show him all the same.

"Here,” You took his hand in yours and inspected it for things like bad hangnails before setting it back down again. 

As you held his hand you saw the way he was looking at you out of the corner of your eye. That way that he looked at you nearly every night, but that still made your heart flutter and your face flush. But you really didn’t feel like getting flustered right now.

“You can use this one,” you cleared your throat as you offered him the small bottle of black paint.

“Black?” he questioned.

“It’s very manly,” you mused, “And it would go great with all the gold you wear.”

Your fingers brushed over the beaded fabric that draped over his chest as you said this.

“If you say so, darling.”

You walked him through the whole process. You giggled when he awkwardly shook the little glass bottle as you had shown him, and at the frustration on his face when he spilled polish on the bench. "Oh it's fine," you said, "just don't drip it on that priceless capey thing of yours."

"It’s a tunic," he chuckled. That was probably the thousandth time you’d said that and the thousandth time he’s had to correct you.

When you showed him how to apply the nail polish, he was a little messy at first and hummed at each mistake.

“Ya know,” you began, watching him meticulously slide the brush over his nail, his lips pursed as he concentrated. Perhaps he was a bit too focused. 

“Painting one’s dominant hand is actually one of the most difficult tasks a modern person can face."

"Oh really," Ahk half-laughed. “If that’s the case I don’t think the human race will survive to see another generation. That is, unless of course, we intervene.”

You hid your face as you felt it turn red. Sometimes you forgot that he could be… like that. 

Your love nudged you with his elbow before he started to stand.

“You’re not going anywhere just yet, pretty boy,” you said, pulling him back down, “you've gotta sit here and let them dry."

"I can't do anything else?"

"Nope.”

"For how long?”

"Too long. Now sit.”

He obliged.

You blew on your nails in demonstration and he timidly mimicked you. He coughed and shook his head when the chemical scent hit his nostrils.

"Ah, yeah you don’t want that." you said, "give me your hand."

His hand rested on yours while you fanned the drying paint with your other hand.

After a bit, you showed him how to test if they were dry. You smiled at the way he cringed at the sticky feeling.

You two just sat there for a while, enjoying each other’s company. You loved every moment you got to spend with him even if all you were doing was watching paint dry.

"Ahk, they look great!"

He beamed at the compliment.

"Thank you for teaching me, darling," he said.

You kissed him on the cheek in response.

"Oh, and you should definitely keep this," you said, handing him back the bottle of black polish.

It was movie night at the museum. The whole time, both yours and Ahk’s attentions were completely on each other, rather than the film. You held his hand in yours beneath the blanket you shared, brushing your thumb over the smoothly painted surfaces of his fingernails. Your hands remained intertwined as you walked back to his exhibit.

"Good night, my darling," he said, kissing your forehead, "you are truly a wonderful teacher."

“Goodnight, Love,” you said.

You brought his hand to your lips and pressed a lingering kiss to the soft skin. Your lips trailed to his wrist and then his palm.

Without even looking up at his face you could practically feel how he was melting. His skin grew warmer beneath your touch. Had there been more time before sunrise, you knew he would have liked to grab you and kiss you hard and probably ravish you on his bed, concealed by the Anubis statues. But eventually, reluctantly, he pulled away and stepped into the sarcophagus, still holding your hand.

"See you when the sun goes down,” you said quietly.

“Until then, I’ll dream of you.”

He placed the little bottle in his encasing and you closed the lid. He had never quite figured out if he was able to dream, but it was a nice thought. He closed his eyes and clutched the glass bottle in his hand, trying not to focus on that familiar pain of the transformation back to a corpse.

Tonight he didn’t feel the decay of his flesh or the air being sucked out of his lungs. All he felt was the ghost of your hands holding his.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next night, Ahkmenrah was greeted by Larry instead of y/n.

"Oh," he said, surprised. Larry hadn't been the one to help him out of his exhibit in years.

"Hey, Ahkmenrah," Larry said hesitantly, after the man had gotten unwrapped and dressed, "can we sit down? " he motioned to the nearby bench.

"Sure," he said, a bit perplexed, "is y/n sick?"

The man beside him didn’t answer. He just looked down at his hands in silence for a minute. The minute dragged on for ages, to Ahkmenrah. He shifted in his seat, suddenly overcome with a wave of anxiety. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingertips running over smooth, painted nails.

"Um, so,” Larry finally stuttered, “this afternoon, there was a terrorist attack - wiped out three whole blocks."

The pharaoh felt a pang in his heart at the same time as a weight lifted off his shoulders. The anxiety washed away.

"My friend, I'm so sorry," he said, resting a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder. “I will pray to the gods for all the innocent souls who were lost to your people.” 

“Thank you, Ahk.” The night guard's face hinted at a sad smile before it became even more forlorn and... sympathetic.

"But, ya see," he said, the words getting stuck in his throat, "those three blocks included y/n's apartment."

The pharaoh looked confused. His head felt heavy. He furrowed his brow as he tried to comprehend what the other man was saying.

"She was inside," Larry continued, "when the building collapsed. I'm- I’m so sorry."

Pain and grief seared through the Egyptian, but he shook it off.

"It's alright," he said, taking a deep breath, trying to banish the sobs that threatened to breach his lips, "I know how to perform a mummification. I have all the same rights as a high priest. I can preserve her body and she can be restored to life by the tablet. Where's her body?"

The other man didn’t say anything for a moment as he wiped tears from his eyes.

“Where is her body, Larry?” Ahkmenrah demanded, urgency rising in his voice.

"Ahk, there is no body - the whole area is- it’s just dust." His voice trailed off.

"You mean-” Ahkmenrah’s head was swimming. He had just seen her last night. None of this could be real.

And yet the words still escaped his lips. His mind knew what his heart refused to admit. 

“She's gone?"

His friend nodded, squeezing Ahkmenrah’s hand which at some point he had started holding without him noticing.

The beginnings of words sputtered out of Ahkmenrah's mouth as his face grew more and more distraught and his heart grew more and more heavy. Finally, a silent sob shook his body and he found himself falling onto his friend. Larry held him and ran his hands up and down his back. The tears flowed freely for hours. That night, the museum halls were filled with hardly any sound besides the anguished cries of an immortal in mourning.

That night Larry and whoever else was within hearing distance would learn that there’s no sound more melancholic than that of one who can not be touched by death, feeling its affects more than anyone else ever could.

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

The once-strong pharaoh was never the same. The first night after, he asked Larry to let him remain in his sarcophagus. 

"You know I might be too busy to let you out later?" the man asked, concerned.

"I know. Please close the lid." there was no emotion in the king’s voice.

He slept with the little bottle of black nail polish curled up in his hand. The next night, when Theodore did finally convince him to come out, he just sat on the edge of the glass case that covered his sarcophagus, staring at his hands.

He was never truly his old, more energetic self again. And his fingernails were always perfectly painted black.

Larry POV 

"Larry! Larry!" a voice shouted, rapidly growing closer to the busy night guard. Running down the hall was... Ahkmenrah? He hadn't seen him run in months, ever since she had passed.

"What's wrong?" He asked. He figured whatever it was must be terribly serious.

"I ran out," Ahkmenrah panted.

"Of-Ran out of what?”

Ahk showed him the little, scratched up, empty bottle.

"I ran out!" he said again, the distress in his voice palpable. He sounded almost on the verge of tears.

Realization dawned on Larry. It must have been hers. In fact, it was probably the only thing Ahkmenrah had left from her.

"Hey, it's okay,” he said, resting a soothing hand on the pharaoh’s shoulder, “I'll pick some up for you in the morning, okay? It’s alright.”

"Okay" Ahkmenrah choked out.

End Larry POV

Ahkmenrah slept from that night on with the old bottle in his palm under his wrappings. Before he knew it, it had been decades since Larry had taken the job. Tonight was the new guard's first night.

A woman with short, blue hair let him out of the coffin. Her gold necklace dangled above him.

"Hello, I'm Kirstin," she said, offering her hand to help him out of his resting place.

Ahk looked at her apathetically. He sat up, took her hand, and inspected it. Her nails were painted a neon blue.

"I need some of this. Black." he said dryly.

He dropped her hand.

"Do you need help with the-"

"No."

When she left, he unwrapped his hands. His fingers brushed the aging glass of the bottle, before he gently placed it down in his sarcophagus.

'Good morning, my love.'

'Good evening, my darling.'

[atortoiseinimladris]

Lashing Waters

 Summary; In which Elrond acknowledges the power of the sea as akin to his own strength when in weakness.

“Elrond commanded it. The river of this valley is under his power, and it will rise in anger when he has great need.” 

Elrond was unwell. He knew it to be true, for he could feel the encasing hold of pale-green sickness like stinging nettles twining with his veins. The throbbing pain of their touch lingered upon his brow and he shied away from their hold; unconsciously flinching when a healer laid a hand atop his forehead and rustled the thorny leaves against him in burning agony. There was a tumultuous sea within his stomach, restless as it consumed his lifeless form and lashed out in mighty waves which departed his lips into a porcelain basin that rested at his bedside.

“I do not understand; he was fine two days ago…”

“Much can happen in the course of a day.”

“He needs help. He will die if this continues.”

The night was still, but for the oceans restless thrashing. Elrond thought he recognised the sorrowed voice, but it was so very distant; its own despondency far overshadowed by the weeping of the waters within him as they whispered their leaden burdens into his ears, aging his soul by six thousand years not yet passed. A hand brushed against his own, but it was ablaze with clawing fire and his heart yearned only for the chill of winter, the bitter ice caressing the wrath of the waves into a cradling embrace akin to the rocking of a cradle. The fire cowered away from him as he flinched.

“Please. You must help him.”

 Such was the command that was given; that Elrond be aided in his recovery and at every worsening of his condition prevented from entering the shadow world to which he drew ever closer to succumbing to. Wise and knowledgeable healers renowned for their greatness were summoned to his sick bed, masters of lore flickering hastily between books in search of answers for the illness which had taken him so very unpredictably; he had been laughingly indulging in a late luncheon before he collapsed. Yet no answers could any of those great folk provide, as Elrond’s condition worsened with every passing hour and the shadows overcast his ailing form with foreboding clouds of darkening grey. Though Elrond was too weak to utter words of condolence- let alone to move his deteriorating body- the weeping of the High King still rang within his ears; tears of love and brotherhood lost brushing against his dreamscape as his friend’s hope dwindled. He heard them, but they meant to him naught; the raucous of the oceans was louder and more destroying, tugging at the hems of his tunic so that he may become submerged beneath their depths. 

Eventually- though Elrond knew not how long he had tarried before the doors of death- a single word of advice was found between the flourishing hand of a long deceased Valinorean healer. 

“The waters shall heal.” proclaimed the parchment. Though it revealed no further council, the archaic text was all that they had and as such arrangements were made for Elrond to be taken from his bed and to a nearby stream which was murmured in folk’s tales to have healing qualities beyond description. A swift horseman would take him, they said. Elrond had lingered upon the borders of consciousness as he heard the High King, his dearest of friends, vehemently assert his right to take Elrond himself to the stream; no other was fit for the role.

Elrond knew better. No other would be more distraught to see him leave. 

For three days they had ridden in haste as the storm within him lurched and crashed against his skin and consciousness; he was given water to drink, to soothe his aches, but it only gave more to the infuriated seas that billowed as though alight within him. Distressed, he cried out in his sleep; the moonlight pitied him and tried to guide him away from the shores but he would not depart, for he was the centre of the storm and the oceans encompassed him, ebbing from his stomach to fill the shadowy void. Each time a hand was laid upon his brow to comfort him and each time he turned away from it in agony.

At some point they ceased their journeying. Elrond was bundled up with ivory shawls and layed down upon the soft grasses as they tickled against his forehead with the evening breeze. He had not the strength to contain the water for any longer and it had begun to brim his eyes and dampen his cheeks as the hazy sunlight touched against his face. His mind was filled with vast, sorrowed oceans, yet now there was something else flickering within his mind; as though the curtains had been drawn to reveal the filtered light of the morning. A myriad of pale blue hued his vision as the lashings of the ocean seemed to fade temporarily into the background of his thoughts.

Ho now, Elrond, you weep but for what purpose! The sun is without but it storms within, I take it.

The spirit's voice was kind but Elrond wavered before its presence; the waters terrified him, had always brought naught but loss to him, and he knew that when this being left he would be at their mercy once more.

No no Elrond, you are mistaken; I would not leave you to drown! But what now makes you think that you would be submerged beneath the seas that encompass you at all, hm? The waters are not enemies, lest you would make an enemy of yourself! 

The being spoke in riddles that Elrond’s fatigued mind could not comprehend- though not for lack of trying. He made to convey some form of delicate response, but there were footsteps fast approaching as another voice joined with that of the river-spirit.

“Do not touch him, fiend!” The newcomer roared.

Your friend names me your enemy now Elrond, ha! The spirit whispered within his mind before addressing the other with spoken words:

“Do you both find foes where there are none? It would seem so!”

“Elrond is unwell; why do you speak to him like you have conversed?” 

“But we have! Come now; I know your purpose and of this ghastly sickness. Do you wish to see Elrond restored to his former vigour or nay?”

“Of course I do.” Elrond felt trembling hands adjust his shawl as his friend knelt at his side and made to lift him once more, ceasing to do such as another hand pressed him gently to the ground.

“There are foul creatures yonder; you would be leaving Elrond at their disposal. Do you truly believe that you possess the ability to fight whilst cradling your poorly friend to your chest?”

“He must receive the water. He must heal.”

The dispute between the two faded away into mere whisperings of the wind as a sudden, foreboding dread quenched Elrond’s heart and irked the sea within him once more into grief-stricken thrashings of anger. The waves glittered steel as the melody of swords being drawn drifted over the horizon. The river-spirit’s presence still lingered at the edges of the storm and Elrond felt indescribably safe despite the storming oceans.

Cries of vexation laced together with his vision as a battle began around him; there was a hand made of fire upon his arm and it burnt and stung like nettles thrown into a furnace and brought against his chilled skin. Yet there was an almighty storm within Elrond now and he understood at long last its purpose; not to harm, but to defend him. A furious descension of hail and waves was tearing at his heart and crashing against his skin, for suddenly he was the waters which encompassed him: powerful, infallible and knowledgeable beyond the count of years. He was water, but he would not fall.

The flames cowered away from the lashing thunders which he summoned to him now, the oceans of despair which he had long borne drawing themselves up from where they lay about him and whipping at those who would seek to weaken their Lord with the unquenchable force of a thousand armies of righteous warriors wronged by evil. Elrond lay still, but the storm he himself had conjured crashed and thundered with a rage never before seen as the orcs fled before the awful shrieking of the winds and the harrowing cries of the tempest sea. As the rivers thrashed, the earth shook and hail descended the skies until his foes were gone and could no longer bring about hurt to his weakened form. The High King came to Elrond then, kneeling before him amidst the waters and brushing a hand against his face; his touch was no longer ablaze, for the fires had witnessed Elrond’s wrath and bowed down low before his fea, beholding his power.

“The water rose for him.” His friend’s words were that of incredulousness, but to Elrond there was nothing at all questionable about his power. He was a descendant of the Ainur and he held within himself a storm that could make even the most hardened of foes fall to their knees. That did not bode well for those who would seek to undermine the strength of his will. He needed no weapon; the waters were his sword.

“The river answered it's summons, as a faithful subject does. You came seeking the aid of the water to use in healing, but you were mistaken. There is no greater power than the water, it is true, but you forget whom you behold before you now.”

The spirit turned its formless gaze towards Elrond, leaves rustling against his ebony hair.

“The water shall heal, which it has. But Elrond has not merely been healed by the liquid for which you sought after. Elrond is the water.”

It was unquestionably true, for though Elrond lay still and diminished by sickness he did not drown nor wake as his tunic dampened and his ebony hair ascended the waves which had borne him upon their surface. 

He was water. That power to him alone was granted, for he alone had lost so much to the tide; so much so that his identity had become entwined with its very depths. 

From that day forth, the oceans never ceased to obey Elrond’s every command.

[fanfictionaries]

A Fine Line Between Lust and Hate - jbbuckybarnes Birthday Challenge

Thank you to @jbbuckybarnes for this fun writing challenge! Congratulations on over 900 followers and also happy 21st birthday! It’s a fun age, enjoy it! 

Prompt 1: Bookstore AU

Prompt 2: “Just gimme the book and fuck off!” 

Pairing: AU Bookstore!Bucky Barnes X female reader

Summary:  If there was one person you hated more than anyone else in the world it was James Buchanan “Call Me Bucky” Barnes. Or at least, you thought you did. As Bucky continues to press your patience, it becomes unclear as to whether it’s hate you feel, or lust. 

Words: 3.5k

Warnings: Swearing, smut, doggy style, oral (male receiving), NSFW/18+ only

Author’s Note: Man, I do love a good rousing debate over literature. 

***

You stood in one of the long aisles as you worked on putting the store’s most recent influx of donations on the shelves. The endless rows of historical memories stretched high above your head and all around you. However, the large stack in front of you currently sat untouched, a copy of Ernst Jünger’s Storm of Steel held tightly in your grasp, as you watched the events occurring at the front desk. Your coworker, James, was leant casually against the counter, once again ignoring his work duties as he openly and obnoxiously flirted with the woman in front of him.

God, you hated him. You hated his stupid long hair that he pulled up into a stupid bun. You hated his stupid tight jeans that hugged his thick thighs and his stupid red Henley that accentuated his muscular shoulders and arms. You hated his stupid handsome face that only fueled his overall cocky attitude. God, you absolutely hated James Buchanan ‘Call Me Bucky’ Barnes.

You hadn’t set out to hate him of course. Quite the opposite in fact. When your boss informed you of a new employee who wasn’t a billion-year-old woman, you had been ecstatic. Not to say you didn’t love Lucille, but to finally meet a person close to your age that loved books so much they were willing to work at the musty, expansive bookstore was a dream come true. For years now, you’d found yourself spending more time alone, tucked into the rows of books than you did with anyone your own age. You’d think that the kitschy bookstore would be a draw to the younger individuals in town, with the rise of intellectualism or at least the guise of intellectualism within today’s youth. Not to mention, the fact that it was nestled in between the cutest antique store and 50’s style diner. But, alas, it didn’t seem to be on trend for your town. Instead, you got the odd stragglers of older individuals who still enjoyed reading physical books, and local community college students looking to either sell or buy books for classes. That’s why the idea of coming into work every day to a coworker you could relate to was beyond wonderful. However, it hadn’t taken long for James to get so far under your skin, you practically wore him like a pair of itchy long johns.

It had started with his complete disregard for the books and their safety. As a self-proclaimed bibliophile, you took great pride in the care and safety of the books in the store. They were a mix of new and used, the older ones coming into your protective arms the moment you clocked the torn corners and dog-eared pages. You spent hours restoring them before putting them out to be appreciated by the next reader. That’s why, on his third day there when you’d spotted him using his copy of Catcher in the Rye as a coaster for his iced coffee, you’d nearly had an aneurysm. You wished that the situation was a one-time thing, but every time you turned a corner, he was bending spines, creasing pages, WRITING in the margins. He was a book sadist.

Then of course, there was the lackadaisical way in which he approached his job. Not once, not twice, but ten times in the last three months you had stayed late finishing work that had been assigned to him. Why did you do it, instead of letting him take the fall for shoddy work? Well, because it was always things that needed to be done either before the shop could close or before the shop could open. Closing out the till, turning off all the lights, locking the back door, fixing the displays, picking up the giant stack of books that had fallen near the back, changing a burnt-out light using the very old and very rickety ladder.

And lastly, the one thing you absolutely hated the most about him was just how incredibly flirty he was! From the very beginning, he took every opportunity to hit on you. At first it had been flattering, but incredibly jarring and confusing. What could he possibly want with you? He looked like that and you looked like, well people didn’t really want to date the weird bookstore girl that always smelled faintly of old books. Then, it had all come into focus. James flirted with everyone. Not just you. Everyone. The moment a woman under the age of forty walked through those front doors, James was there with his stupid charming ways; “Can I help you with anything today?” “What’s a beautiful woman like you doing in here today?” “I knew a woman of your caliber would have good taste in books.” All the while, he’d chance little glances your way, smirking at you and raising his eyebrows slightly. It was all a game to him. Prick.

“Now, see, that is a fantastic choice. I knew the moment you walked in you had good taste,” stated James pointing down at the copy of The God of Small Things that was currently clutched to the woman’s chest in her perfectly manicured hands. You rolled your eyes. Ridiculous. You glanced over again to see James smirking in your direction before he walked the woman to the front door and waved her goodbye, shutting and locking the door behind her. Last customer of the day. You sighed, turning back to the stacks in front of you and swiftly putting the books back into place. The quicker you got this done, the quicker you would be out of there and away from James’ mocking face and overall itchy personality. You continued to put the books away, probably harsher than you should have, as you listened to the faint sounds of James closing out the till. Well, at least he was doing that today. I knew the moment you walked in you had good taste, you mocked him in your head, huffing and puffing at just how infuriating he was. You winced at a particularly harsh shove of a book into the shelve. Quickly, you pulled it out and inspect the corners and sides of the hard cover.

“Careful there—” a pair of large hands came into your line of site, snatching the book from your hands “—What did Michael Herr ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” you huffed, turning to grab the book back, but coming up unsuccessful. “Although, I really would prefer it if you didn’t allow customers to stay so late past closing.”

“Why? Got somewhere to be? Hot date?” James asked, circling around you to lean against the bookshelves to your right.

You snorted, “As if that’s any of your business.”

“Come on. Lighten up a little bit (Y/N). She needed help finding a good book for her English class,” said James, pulling the book out of reach as you attempted to grab it back from him once again.

“Okay,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes and reaching back down to the stack of books remaining on the cart to your left.

“What? You got something against Indian authors writing about caste relations and cultural tensions?”

“No, but I think if Roy tried to squeeze one more literary device into the text, the book would literally explode. Nobody genuinely enjoys a work where the author is intentionally trying to be clever. It’s obnoxious,” you said as you continued to put the books into their correct spaces as quickly as possible.

“Oh, so I guess you don’t care for Shakespeare then? What about Vonnegut, Anne Rice, Tolkien? Every author thinks they’re clever (Y/N). If they didn’t, they wouldn’t be writers,” said James, crossing his arms and leaning towards you condescendingly.

“That’s-that’s just ridiculous,” you responded lamely, placing the last book in your pile away.

“Oh really? Then please, oh smart one, name a single author who didn’t take themselves so seriously that it didn’t bleed through their work in some way,” James challenged, once again pulling the book in his hands away from your reaching hands.

You stood there, glowering at the man in front of you as you tried to come up with some king of answer. “C. S. Lewis,” you blurted out, wanting to kick yourself at the obviously stupid answer.

A barking laugh left James, “Oh come on. The man spent most of his career preaching Christian values and what it means to be moral. He even went so far as to write a short story on what the afterlife looks like and how to get into heaven. Or are we just going to pretend like The Great Divorce didn’t happen? Just because he wrote a bunch of entertaining children’s stories bathed in Christian symbolism with little effort does not mean that he didn’t take himself seriously.”

His astute criticism caught you off guard and peaked your anger, mainly because to a certain extent he was right. That didn’t mean you were going to let him know that though, “Excuse you! I’ll have you know he wrote The Great Divorce after the death of his wife. What else was he supposed to write about? You know what James—”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Bucky?”

“Just gimme the book and fuck off!”

Your eyes widened at your outburst. You’d never spoken to anyone like that before in your life. Opening your mouth to apologize, you quickly closed it when James sighed heavily and pushed himself off of the bookshelf. He stared at you, his eyes calculating as he closed the space between you, slamming the good on the shelf behind your head. You jumped, turning so that you faced him head on, your back to the endless rows of books. James placed an intimidatingly large arm on either side of you, bracing himself against oak shelves. You swallowed thickly at the sheer size of him. Your pulse quickened. He had never been this close to you.

“You know what (Y/N)? I think you’re just jealous,” James murmured, tilting his head dangerously low to yours.

“Jealous? Of what?” you asked, your voice embarrassingly breathy, as your head began to swim. He was so close. So close you could smell his cologne, a musky warm scent mixed with the fresh scent of soap and…old books? Subtly, you tried to inhale more of the tantalizing smell without James noticing. But one glance up and you could see that familiar smirk and cocky gleam in his eye.

“Me, and every woman that walks in here ready to fuck me in the encyclopedia section.”

You gasped at his words, “That’s ridiculous. Why would I be jealous of that?”

“Because you want to fuck me in the encyclopedia section.”

“I—I do not—I do not want to—I hate you!”

James leaned closer, his nose brushing against yours, “Doesn’t mean you don’t want to fuck me—” His head titled, his lips brushing across your cheek, your jawline, and then to the shell of your ear. “—Just say the word and I’ll take you right there. Right then. Any time. Any day.”

You shivered at the offer. Never had his flirting gone this far. Sure, James had given you a flirtatious smile and charming little comment here and there, but never had he come close to propositioning you. You should say no. You hate him. He’s everything you despise and yet…

“Fuck it.” Rising up on the tips of your toes, you wrap your arms around his neck and press your lips to his in a searing kiss. James’ lips claim yours, never hesitating for a second, as if expecting it. The soft skin of his plush lips a stark contrast to the harsh way in which you both battled for dominance. Every ounce of anger, frustration, and tension that you held towards him fought its way through your body as you nipped, bit, and tugged. James’ hands moved from the bookshelf to your body, gripping your hips and tugging you harshly against him, revealing the same level of pent up aggression. His hands traveled upwards, cupping your breasts through your sweater, roughly massaging them as he slipped his tongue into your mouth. Threading your fingers into his hair, you tugged harshly earning you a growl from James. Breaking away from the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, your bodies reconnected, the feel of your bare torso against him feeling oh so right. You continued to hang onto him for dear life, as his kisses left you breathless and needy. Bringing a leg up around his hip, your pelvis rocked against him, searching for any kind of friction as you climbed him like a tree.

“Eager, aren’t we?” James teased, hands moving down to harshly grasp your ass and lift you up. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you allowed him to carry you the brief distance away from the bookshelves and lower you onto the rough carpet floor. Trailing kisses down your neck and towards your breasts, he roughly yanked the cups of your bra down before taking a nipple between his teeth. You arched into his mouth, loving the sting as he bit down.

“God, I knew you’d be a fucking little minx,” panted James, sitting up on his knees. “Look at you all sexy and needy. Just had to get you to let go.”

Pushing up onto your elbows, you stared up at him, “Shut the fuck up and take your shirt off James.”

Swinging his hand down, he swatted the inside of your thigh, “The name’s Bucky, babe.”

Your head fell backwards at the contact and your pussy clenched as you moaned low. Sitting up, you ripped his shirt from his torso and threw it behind you before pushing him down onto the ground. You made quick work of removing your bra, shoes, and pants before reaching for his belt buckle. This time it was his turn to push up onto his elbows as he watched your near naked form, undo his belt and then his pants. You tugged at his pants and then his boxers in a desperate manner, James kicking off his shoes and socks to held aid in their removal. Finally, when he was naked before you, you took a moment to admire the lean curves of his muscular form and the thick cock that sat just below his belly button, nestled in a patch of short brown curls.

Running your nails lightly up and down his thighs, you smirked as he writhed below you, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth. Lowering yourself slowly, you positioned yourself between his thick thighs and grasped the base of his cock in your hand, wasting no time in wrapping your lips around the head and swirling your tongue around him. Bucky cursed, low and sexy as you took him in your mouth. You worked him with your lips and tongue as your moved lower and lower. Spit gathered in your mouth as you breathed through your nose, giving your all into pleasuring the man below you. You wanted to once and for all wipe the smirk off of James “Bucky” Barnes’ face. When you made it almost all the way to the base, you hollowed your cheeks, sucking as you massaged the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue. His hands flew to the back of your head, fingers lacing in your hair and gripping tight. He held onto you for dear life as you attempted to suck the soul out of him through his dick alone.

“Jesus Christ! Fuck! (Y/N),” he yelled, his body shuddering. When you slipped down the last few inches, allowing his cock to slip easily down your throat, he stilled, body rigid before he pulled you off of him with a curse.

You fell backwards onto your hands, spit coating your lips and drool falling down your chin as you breathed in deeply. A low growl escaped James’ throat as he launched himself at you, flipping you onto your stomach, and ripping your panties down your legs. His hands found your center in no time, his fingers delving deep into your core easily, aided by the embarrassing amount of arousal there. James fingered you, curving and finding that special spot inside of you that made your see stars. You yelped, bucking your hips back against him. His teeth sunk into the supple flesh of your ass.

“You’re god damn dripping down my arm (Y/N). Did sucking my cock turn you on that much?”

“Yes!” you admitted, continuing to rock your hips against him. Pulling his fingers from you, you whimpered at the loss of contact. The loss was only temporary though, as soon James was pulling your hips up, placing you back on your knees, face still pressed against the carpet as he lined his cock up with your entrance. There was no slow and delicate start. No, in one swift thrust, he was seated fully inside of you, hands firmly grasping your ass as he began to fuck you at a punishing pace.

“Fucking hell baby. Your pussy is like a vice-grip. I don’t think I’m going to last long,” he admitted, continuing to pound into you, his balls slapping against your clit with every thrust. He reached down, finding your clit and rubbing light, fast circles around it until you began to feel the familiar pressure building in your lower abdomen.

“Yes! Bucky! Fuck. Just like that, don’t stop!” you cried, desperate to reach your climax. The carpet scraped against your skin, sure to leave burns after. But you didn’t care. The only thing you cared about was the delicious stretch of your cunt around Bucky’s cock and your imminent orgasm.

“That’s it, baby. Say my fucking name again. Say my name as you cum all around me.”

You chanted his name over and over again, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, until finally you were approaching the edge and falling over. Your body shuddered and hips bucked as you came, loving the feeling of every hard ridge of Bucky’s thick cock inside of you. A few seconds late, he was pulling out of you and then you felt the warm streams of cum splashing across your ass. You collapsed fully onto the carpet below you, Bucky falling after you and rolling to lay beside you. You laid there, in post-orgasmic bliss. The feeling of Bucky’s fingertips trailing up and down your spine soothing you down from your high. After a little while, the two of your stood up and began to redress. Bucky, ever the gentleman, told you to wait as he ran to the front counter and came back with some tissues before wiping up the mess he had made on your ass.

Once you were both dressed, you finished closing up the store. Neither of you spoke, instead choosing to spare the other furtive little glances as you turned out the lights and locked the door behind you both.

“Looks like the diner is still open. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” Bucky asked, looking down at you giving you a small, shy smile that you’d never seen on him before.

His question caught you off guard. He wanted to buy you coffee. “Oh, Bucky. You don’t have to feel obligated to—”

“—I don’t feel obligated. I, um, I want to.” He swallowed thickly, almost as if he was nervous. Was he nervous? “I know we just, well, I know we skipped a few steps, but I actually do want to take you out. I’ve been trying to hint it to you for the past three months.”

“So, all the flirting with the customers…?”

“Was me stupidly trying to make you jealous,” laughed Bucky, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets.  

“Ah,” you said, a smiling spreading across your face, “How about you buy me a coffee and tell me all your thoughts on Brontë.”

“How much time do you have?” asked Bucky with an exaggerated groan.

Holding your hand out to him, you reveled in the feel of his warm palm connecting with yours, “All the time in the world.”

Marvel Taglist:

@caffiend-queen

@hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall

[waterboysokka]

What You Look Like; ATLA oneshot

Summary: It was easier when Zuko never had to explain why he had his scar. It was easier whenever everyone took to the common theme to never ask. It's harder to avoid a blind girl who doesn't even know it's there. (Three weeks post-canon)

Word count: 3,882

Note: Hii! Welcome to the first ATLA fic related thing I’ve posted on here so far :) This is a one shot that basically is deep 5am talks with Zuko and Toph. I dunno, I love their friendship and I felt like it had the potential to be so deep and intellectual. Soooo, that’s what this is! It’s basically Toph asking about Zuko’s scar (I saw a fic rec list of this prompt somewhere but now I can’t find it?? I would link it if I could!) Anyways, I listened to disney lullaby songs while writing this bc it just?? fit? Idk, it’s soft and kinda sad... But besides all of that, I hope you guys like it!! It’ll also be up on my AO3, which is linked in my bio!

Toph groaned as she rolled over once more in the bed that she could tell was just all-too big for her. She hadn’t asked for a separate room, she actually didn’t mind sleeping with the rest of the group, but Zuko's maids had insisted on each of them getting their own room since there were so many to go around.

It had been only three weeks since the defeat of Ozai and Zuko’s overtaken the role of Fire Lord. She continued to forget that he wasn’t just a prince anymore, he now had responsibilities- bigger than any of them had realized.

So when he had asked them to stay with him until things got in order, none of them were opposed. Maybe it was because they weren't quite ready to adjust to their new life in totality yet, or maybe they were fearful about losing their friend to the immense amount of stress that he had just been put under. 

Whichever it was, it didn’t matter, because they were still here as a team for Zuko.

But all of that didn’t change that the bed that she was put in was incredibly uncomfy for it to be owned by royalty. She felt like she was drowning in sheets and slowly getting devoured by the mattress itself.

Frustrated, Toph groaned and pushed herself out of bed. She needed tea. After being here for a couple of weeks, she was finally able to understand the layout of the palace without being attached to Aang or Sokka’s arm, as she used to be. She knew it was thirty-two steps down the hall to the right, then down the stairs, and one hundred and twelve steps to the kitchen- not counting the columns she’d have to dodge.

She hummed softly as she counted in her head the steps confidently, knowing she didn’t miscalculate considering that this was the fifth time she’d done this walk to get tea since they’d arrived.

“Toph?”

The voice startled her- not because she couldn’t sense someone there, but because she didn’t expect anyone to be awake. All the other times she had done this she had been the only one.

“Zuko?” She asked and raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t expect you to be awake.” “I could say the same thing to you,” Zuko replied.

“Well, I’m just down here to get some tea and then I’m leaving,” Toph explained nonchalantly and walked around the bar, feeling her way down the long, cool counter to the tea kettle (which Iroh conveniently pulled back out at night once the maids left for her after she told him about her occurrences). As she got closer to the tea kettle, the counter got increasingly hotter until she jerked her hand back in shock.

“Did you make tea?” She asked Zuko, who she could tell was now sitting at the long table.

“Mhm,” He murmured, and she heard him take a long sip of it.

Toph rolled her eyes, already knowing that Zuko’s tea was nothing in comparison to Iroh’s. Luckily, she had learned from Iroh about the best way to make tea for herself and it sufficed. Zuko’s wouldn’t- it was basically hot leaf water.

“Are you dumping it out?” Zuko asked, perplexed. His voice wasn’t raspy, which was a hint to Toph that he had been awake much longer than she had realized. Had he even gone to sleep?

“I’m not drinking hot leaf water,” Toph answered with a shrug and began the stove up again to make a much better mixture.

It was silent for a while after that while she worked. She could tell that Zuko was still there, just sitting and silently sipping his tea. He was stressed, he was anxious. She deduced that this probably had something to do with the reason why he wasn’t asleep, and she couldn’t blame him.

Even after the hard time she had given Zuko, she still knew that being the Fire Lord wasn’t a breeze even though he liked to surface-level it to everyone. No one believed what he said, not even for a minute. Which was another running contender for their prolonged stay.

The tea kettle began to hiss, and she immediately took it off of the stove, cautious not to wake anyone else up, and poured herself a cup. She got ready to leave when something in the back of her mind tugged at her to sit with Zuko, just for a minute.

So, that’s what she did.

Toph approached the table and felt around the chair sides and pulled it out for herself. She placed the drink on the table in front of her and plopped down into the seat, adjusting herself to where her tea was placed promptly in front of her for convenient drinking.

“I feel weird asking this, but how ya been holding up?” Toph said as she took a sip of her tea, she took a long sip of it, even though it had definitely burnt her tongue because she hadn’t waited long enough for it to cool.

“Good,” Zuko replied. It was a short reply, one that she definitely expected from him.

Silence hit again. She wasn’t very good at opening up to people on her own, let alone having other people do it with her. But she felt like she understood Zuko in a better way than some of the others, and she couldn’t depict why- she hadn’t ever asked about his past or even what his plans were for the future… or even what he looked like.

“I bet it’s hard,” Toph said, “getting thrown into running an entire Nation.”

“Yeah,” Zuko replied with a sigh. “But it’s what I expected. It’s what I was born to do.”

Another hit of silence. Toph blew on her tea to cool it off and heard Zuko do the same.

“How, though?” Toph asked bluntly. It was her only move she knew to continue the conversation. She was curious.

Zuko hadn’t spilled much of his life to anyone except for Aang, and while they were all incredibly close now, it had never seemed to come up about his past- just like it hadn’t ever come up about her’s or Suki’s. They were all too busy fighting and defeating Ozai that they had forgotten that they didn’t know much about each other.

Zuko sighed and she watched his outline run his hand through his hair (she presumed he had hair, unlike Aang, who she’d been notified to be bald).

“What do you mean how? Azula’s younger than me,” Zuko explained. Toph could tell he was bordering defensiveness. She pressed on anyways.

“You wouldn’t have wanted to fight your dad or your sister if there wasn’t a reason,” Toph said. “It just doesn’t add up like that.”

Zuko’s heart rate quickened. He wasn’t speaking. Toph knew this all too well- the attempt to create a lie that threw off the actual answer. He should really have known by now that that wasn’t going to work.

“Don’t lie. I can tell you’re trying to,” Toph bluntly pointed out. She took another sip of her tea and then placed it down in front of her again.

“I was banished. I had to find the Avatar to restore what I thought was my honor. I did that for three years before deciding it wasn’t right and my destiny was to join Aang,” Zuko explained in an overly-simplified, overly-glazed way. Toph rolled her eyes. “I already know that part. I’m talking about before that. I wanna know why you were banished.”

“Why? I thought you were going back to sleep.”

As much as he had worked on letting people in, this unexpected press of information of his past- from Toph of all people- was close to stepping over the line. He didn’t have time for this. He had things to do, orders to get through with, staff and guards and armies to command. He had his job to do once dawn broke.

Toph didn’t answer and took another long sip of her tea.

“I said something I shouldn’t have in a meeting.”

“And?”

“There is no ‘and’. I said something I shouldn’t have, it upset him, and he banished me.”

“Just like that?” Toph raised an eyebrow. This conversation was going nowhere fast, and she knew it. She could bail out now and go and sleep until the sun rose in a few hours before she started asking the big question.

“Mhm.”

She rolled the idea around in her head in the silence and opted against it. This question had nagged at her for a long time, and although it seemed to be like pulling eye teeth, it needed to be asked. She wasn’t sure if she could even go back to sleep anyways.

“What does Aang look like?” She asked. She started simple- one she knew that he could answer in a breeze. She felt his heart rate drop down to a more normal rate and his body relaxed.

“Hmm,” Zuko thought. He didn’t say anything for a minute, as if to gather the best explanation of his friend as possible. As much as it probably shouldn’t have been, it was a lot of pressure to describe one of their closest comrades to her. He hadn’t ever really thought about what Aang looked like- he just knew. He could just see him and know that, well… he was Aang.

“Well, ah… He’s short. Yeah, just a little bit taller than you, actually. He’s bald, obvious- well, maybe not obviously… sorry,” Zuko stuttered. “He has really big blue eyes. Like huge. There’s always like an adventure behind them, too. You can just tell that he’s always looking ahead- looking forward to something. He has his Airbender tattoos that are light blue and they’re, ah… they’re arrows. They start at his forehead and travel round his arms and wrists and stuff… it’s cool. He’s super thin, but I don’t know if you can see that- well, not see, but I didn’t know if that was important, er… maybe not.

He smiles really big, too. His whole face is centered around his smile. Katara told me that when he grew his hair out, it was brown, but I’ve never seen it… he wears lots of oranges and yellows, too. It’s pretty standard Air-Nomad colors.

I can’t really think of anything else… I think… I think that may be all.” Zuko breathed a sigh of relief as he tapered off what seemed to be his one long run-on sentence. He was known to do that when he was uncomfortable, or even under pressure. Hell, sometimes tired, too. These were all things he was feeling. He glanced up at a Toph who was looking up- not necessarily across the table to him. Just… up. A small smile was planted on her lips.

“I hope that helped some,” Zuko said and took another sip of his tea. He didn’t even realize how dry his mouth had gotten. It shouldn’t have been a difficult task describing Aang, but it was deemed to hold a lot more responsibility than just some random bystander looking for the Avatar. He knew he had to do it justice for Toph.

“Okay, now Katara,” Toph said as she flicked her gaze back down to reality. She took her teacup in her hands and cradled it to give her hands warmth. Zuko’s eyes widened for a second at the realization that she was going to go through the entire group. He cleared his throat and thought for a couple minutes, just like he had with Aang. “Well, she’s taller than you and Aang. But, she’s not really tall… just- average. She’s just average height. She has long, ah… dark brown hair? Sorry, I don’t know hair colors that well. Anyways, she also has big eyes, but not in the same way as Aang’s. You can kinda just… read her whole past in her eyes if you wanted to. You can see the pain and the fear that she’s… yeah. Uh, and they’re blue- like, deep, icy water blue. Her lips are naturally downturned- I think, but… you know how Katara is. She also has these two… what’d Sokka call them? These two… hair loopies that come down and… I dunno… frame her face? Her and Sokka have kinda ah… like a golden complexion? Not like gold- please, don’t think they’re gold- but it’s a deep tanned shade… I guess. I don’t know, it’s hard to say without sounding weird or… The colors that her and Sokka wear are the ones of the Water Tribe, so lots of blues and whites and stuff… they complement their eye colors and skin tone, too… Katara kinda has this disposition where she could hug you or fight you at the same time if that helps… I don’t know.”

He ran his fingers through the divots of the wood carved out in the table from wear-and-tear over time. They were smooth curves now, no rigid edges or stray wood to prick his fingers like they used to when he was a kid. It was his distraction, ultimately, from his stumble of a description of his friends, and mostly, Toph’s reaction.

There was no talk again for a minute, only the faint sound of fire igniting briefly for Zuko to heat up both of their teas. He wasn’t sure of the time anymore, but they had been sitting long enough for their drinks to no longer carry any warmth, which signified a significant length of time.

“Sokka?” Toph asked. He watched as her gaze, just as before, leveled back out with where her head was positioned.

“He… well, he looks like Katara, except… if Katara was a guy. They are siblings so it makes sense. He’s, ah… how do I say this- he’s not built. He’s super… think like a piece of wood. But I don’t think that’s a bad thing I think it kinda fits him, I guess. Oh, he’s taller than Katara and shorter than me… I wish I had a better visual to give you besides just the in-between height of Katara and I. His eyes are the same type of blue as Katara’s but instead of pain, they hold curiosity and… thrill, maybe? It doesn’t mean there isn’t any hurt in his eyes- in Aang’s either- but in Katara’s, it’s kind of hard to navigate around her hurt… yeah. Believe it or not, but Sokka’s hair is kinda long… I guess he used to shave the sides or something, but now it’s all grown out and stuff so he just pulls it back. He has this smug attitude that’s kinda just… all over his face? He always looks like he’s ready to do something or maybe even that he’s hiding something… But there’s also seriousness that hides in his face, too. He wears the same kind of blues and whites like Katara does, again, standard for the Water Tribe… ”

He waited hesitantly for her reply. It was a lot harder than he thought to describe these people who he’d become so close with. He just hoped he hadn’t messed up any of her visions of them. He wasn’t sure what her plan was for all of these descriptions, or why she'd even asked him.

He knew the others could do it better- make it more poetic and imaginary. But he wasn’t that person. He was the Fire Lord- and even before he was the Fire Lord, he was a silenced Prince. Creativity didn’t flow through him like it did the others. He wished it did, sometimes. Maybe then he’d be able to give Toph illusive descriptions of the people that mattered most to her.

“I hope those were okay,” He said, and rubbed his eyes with the bottom of his palms and pressed in hard so he could see dots. He was getting tired, but he couldn’t sleep even if he was. He hadn’t been able to. He had gotten comfortable with tiredness. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, but adjusting to the new role was harder than he thought.

“They were,” Toph reassured him quietly. It was sincere- he had no doubt. Toph, who was usually loud and stubborn and a tough fighter, was more reserved at night than Zuko would have thought. Maybe it was because she was tired, or because she had seen her friends in full bloom for the first time. Whichever it was, he couldn’t tell.

They sat there in silence again, moments of tea being sipped were exchanged, but mostly just quiet. It was solemn, and peaceful. Nothing was in a rush to be said, no battles to fight or rebuild plans to do- it was nice.

“Zuko,” Toph sighed. “What do you look like?”

Zuko’s breath hitched in his throat as his heart rate sped up again. He didn’t know where to begin or what to say, and surely he was stupid for believing that she wasn’t going to just let him slide. He couldn't just ignore the brutality that slashed half his face. He couldn’t sit with the guilt that she didn’t know it was there because he didn’t tell her.

His eyes widened slowly as he came to a sudden realization of what Toph was doing. It was comical, truthfully. He almost laughed. This was her way of getting the story. He wasn’t sure how she knew that his banishment had something to do with his cosmetic looks, but he gave her props for it nonetheless.

He took a deep breath and locked his gaze on the wood table as an anchor.

“I’m tall. Tallest, actually. I have really pale skin, but that’s just a Fire Nation thing… I don’t consider myself to be… built? I’m not exactly like Sokka but I'm not crazy buff either if that helps. My eyes aren’t as big or… full of adventure as the others have. I don’t know what all you can see, but I know they don’t have that. They’re brown, but almost everyone in the Fire Nation has brown eyes. It’s nothing special. I have shaggy hair- well, it’s black, and I have to pull it back for Fire Lord stuff, so I guess shaggy is the best way to describe it. I like it, I guess. I don’t feel confined with it. I wear a lot of reds and golds and blacks, which are Fire Nation colors. Right now I’m just wearing a… red shirt and black pants? Black slippers? I don’t know if that part helps or not… I also always look dissatisfied. At least, that’s what Sokka tells me. I don’t really know what he means by that…”

Zuko paused for a minute. Toph was staring across to him now as if she could recognize where he was. Her eyebrows were stitched together as if attempting to put his puzzle pieces together.

“And then there’s my… my scar.”

Deep breath.

“It covers my entire left eye… It doesn’t even open fully anymore. It bleeds out around to my ear and stops just before my jawline. It doesn’t hurt anymore, in case you’re wondering. It’s healed. It’s been since I was banished, so… three years. But, it’s there.

There was more to that story, by the way. My banishment. I didn’t just say something and was kicked out. I didn’t back down from an Agni Kai to… well, to prove to m- … Ozai, that I was stronger than he thought I was. That I deserved to be in the meeting. I didn’t think it’d be my own father I’d fight. I pleaded for some kind of relief and reprieve. All I got was a burn so deep that my skin almost melted off…”

There was silence.

No tea sips, no shifting in chairs. There wasn’t even really the sound of breathing anymore. It was still air.

This story had the ability to do that.

“Can I feel it?”

Zuko didn’t question it, or back away. He nodded, even though he knew she couldn’t see it.

He pushed himself out of the chair and walked around the table. He slowly crouched down until he was level with Toph, his hand steadying himself on the corner of the table, his fingers circling the divots so smoothly carved once more.

He took Toph’s hand, almost twice the size more compact of his own, and gingerly placed it on his cheekbone. He swallowed and shut his eyes, allowing her small, calloused hand to run slowly over it.

Toph wasn’t a gentle person by nature. But the minute that her hand touched his scar she felt his pain a thousand times over- intense and deep and wretched. She moved her hand slowly across his face, the ridges telling each their own thread of agony and grievance. Her hand roamed, unsure of where or if it ever was going to stop. If the story of his pain was ever going to cease. She blinked back tears as she finally reached his jawline. Untouched and human. Boyish and youthful. Peace.

She took her hand off of his face and cleared her throat, unsure of what else to do. She had gotten herself to this point- to this level. Now what?

She felt his presence leave due to the shift in cold air that shuffled in and heard him sit back down across from her, respectively.

Again, there was silence.

Not the same kind of silence where it was stilted, or even tense. It was an understood silence. An ‘I know your pain’ silence. It was gentle and welcomed and fluid.

So, they sat there for a minute. Neither unsure of how else to go on or continue their conversation. They sipped their tea in offbeat patterns. Long, slow, drawls of tea.

As the sun began to rise, Zuko realized that his job was beginning. He wasn’t a banished prince anymore, or a kid with an uncontrollable rage and fear of his father. Although that kid still existed in him, it wasn’t center stage. Fire Lord Zuko was. And as the dawn rose, so did he.

He gathered the two pieces of china from the table, both now completely empty of their tea. He put them on the counter for a maid to clean later.

Zuko glanced back at Toph- still sitting at the table, only this time, she was looking at the sunrise from the fully-bloomed windows in front of her. He knew she wasn’t looking at the sunrise, but he hoped that maybe she was picturing her friends in the same ways he had said- hopefully, even better. There was a small smile on her face, too. One of understanding.

He knew then that although she wanted to know his past, there was a part of her that wanted to be able to see her friends, too. He’d never know why she had asked him rather than asking a more creative mind, or even a closer friend, but he knew he would always be appreciative of being the one who did it for her.

Zuko’s lips upturned slightly and he turned to leave, carefully in an attempt to not disturb Toph’s somewhat mediation.

“Hey, Zuko?” He looked back over his shoulder to the girl, her face and gaze unmoving from the now more evident daybreak.

“Thank you.”

[doom-dreaming]

“Dear Digital Diary”

I finally finished it! So this is my fic for @shanblackwood - as part of a trade (that beautiful bloody monstery boy from a while back). It got much longer than I was expecting, so most of it is under the cut. There’s a lot of pining, a little bit of smut, and copious amounts of fluff. (I hope it’s everything you wanted!!)

(Read it on Ao3 here!)

- - - - - - - - - -

“Oh fuck, we’re gonna have to retake that—” He grins briefly at the camera, all sharp white teeth and sparkling eyes, before ducking his head, laughing.

Your heart skips a beat. You rewind. Pause. It feels like that smile is for you. Like those pale blue eyes are looking directly into yours. You take a screenshot. It joins the other thousands in the folder labeled ‘outtakes.’ You think it sounded innocuous enough.

Not that either of them ever go through your files—you’re one of the few people they trust. They have no reason not to. You’re just the video editor, after all. They’re the faces on the screen. They’re the voices on the radio. You’re not much more than a useful tool to them.

You press play. “—have to retake that—” A few keystrokes, a few clicks, remove the clip from the rest of the recording. ‘>DELETE or SAVE?’ the screen prompts.

Keystroke. >SAVE  Click.

- - - - - - - - - -

“How do you always manage to fuck these up?” Tyreen sounds incredulous, but not angry. She punches Troy’s arm and he jumps away with an exaggerated yelp, then smiles. It’s equal parts dazzling and dangerous.

Your heart does a little flip as you play it back in slow motion. >SAVE

The next one is Tyreen’s. She mispronounces a word. “What’s that about me fucking up?” Troy teases, repeating her slip-up in a mocking tone. “Shut it, asshole.” Again, not angry. Playful. He sticks out his tongue at her. Laughs through a grin.

You cut the footage. ‘>DELETE or SAVE?’ Your hand hovers over the keys. >DELETE Click. You attempt to distract yourself with the rest of the video. Anything to keep from thinking about that slick pink tongue on your neck, between your lips...between your thighs.

Three hours later, you pause with your cursor over the power menu. Instead, you nudge it toward the little trash icon. Click. Click. ‘RESTORE TO “outtakes”? >YES   NO’ Click.

- - - - - - - - - -

It’s late. Your work had been easy, for the most part. Just fixing pacing, sound and color correction, little things. The twins had stayed professional—well, as professional as they could be, which wasn’t saying much. But they’d gotten their point across with minimal mistakes.

All except for the few minutes before the cameras started rolling when Troy had decided to sing. You’d never heard it before—the song—but you rewound and replayed it so many times that you knew the words by the time you finally forced yourself to move on. After cutting and saving the clip, of course.

He hadn’t been trying to put on a show. He hadn’t even been particularly loud—you had to adjust the volume and bump down the ambient noise to even make out most of it—he was just...singing for the sake of it. Fixing his hair, his eyeliner… ...singing. The usual frantic beat of your heart had settled into a gentle flutter—not the typical reaction when you saw him.

And now you’re leaned back in your chair, watching it again. His eyes are unfocused, distant, but not troubled. He seems calm. Content. That cloying warmth is wrapping itself around your heart again. You find yourself wishing you could touch him. You want to reach through the screen and run your hand through his hair. Trace his jawline. Kiss him. You want to feel him murmuring those lyrics against your lips, humming into your mouth—

You shove your chair away from your desk. Run your hands through your hair. Sigh and close your eyes and shake your head. You can’t do this. You absolutely can’t let yourself feel this. Sooner or later, it’ll start affecting your work, and if you give anything less than what the twins expect—if you’re not useful anymore—

You stand. Close the video. Turn off your monitor. Go to bed. But not even sleep lets you escape from visions of his hands on your body, his mouth on your neck, his whispered words in your ear.

- - - - - - - - - -

You wake the next morning to the insistent ‘ping’ of your ECHOcomm. More work. Well, that’s a good sign.

Your breath stops—no, it feels more like it’s punched out of you—when you see the name of the sender. That single, simple, four-letter name. Troy. Troy Calypso. You hate the way your fingers shake as you open the message. It’s semi-formal, all business, a simple request for more editing. He’s attached several files. More work, you reassure yourself. Just more work.

Still, it takes you the better part of an hour to finally sit down at your computer. But you do, armed with shitty coffee and a very fragile grasp on your willpower. Six videos. DOWNLOAD ALL? >YES   NO Click. You try not to watch the progress bar.

Why in the hell do you feel like this? Sure, you’d always had a tiny crush on Troy—but so did a lot of people. They’d be stupid not to, you think. He’s tall and toned and dangerous and confident...and those eyes... You sip at your coffee, grimacing against the half-burnt aftertaste. This crush is getting out of hand, that’s your problem. And it’d come completely out of left field, too. Day one was, ‘oh, he’s cute,’ and now… Well, now you were here. Working yourself into a frenzy over the sight of his goddamn name.

A chime sounds, announcing the download’s completion. You gulp down the rest of the coffee, crush the flimsy cup in your hand, and start clicking. You recognize the setup from the thumbnails alone. New gun reveals. Some of the tension drains from your body. These are something you can handle. Granted, they’re more candid than the usual broadcasts, but they’re still not as personal as you’d been expecting. You fight back the wave of disappointment, rationalizing it away. Telling yourself it’s for the best.

“Hey, ECHOnet, it’s your favorite twin, with another shipment of kickass guns! Tyreen had something “super important” to do—” You smile as he claws the quotation marks into the air. “—so you get me all to yourselves…” He winks. Your heart flips. “Okay! So let’s jump right in—” He makes a face. Cocks an eyebrow. “Jump? Dive? Feels like I need something better than “let’s get started”—” More air quotes. “That just sounds lame.” He sighs and rolls his eyes.

“Your voice makes anything sound good,” you murmur to the screen. He sits in silence for a minute, chewing on his bottom lip, looking lost. The urge to reach out and touch him comes back, even stronger than before. And then the vulnerability is gone, replaced by the cocky, carefully-crafted mask of charisma and confidence that everyone else assumes is normal. “Okay! So let’s break down these new guns! First up, we have…”

Pause. Rewind. Click, click, click. >SAVE Play.

The rest of the video goes more smoothly, as do the next three. Not much to cut, even less to keep for yourself. You continue to fight back the disappointment. Two left. Just two more and you can distract yourself for (hopefully) the rest of the day—

The fifth video catches you off guard. It’s...not a gun haul. It’s not set up in a studio. It’s dark, but there’s enough ambient light to make out shapes. It looks like it’s been filmed from a personal recorder and…

Troy’s face slides into the frame and he’s grinning, looking happier—and more devious—than you’ve ever seen. “Ty’s asleep…” It pans away, toward a vague shape across the dark room, before flipping back to Troy. You realize he’s the one filming it. “...and, uh...the new skag puppies are harmless right now, so…thought I’d play a little prank on her…” He creeps closer, quieter than you would’ve assumed, keeping the camera trained on the bed where Tyreen’s sleeping, clinging to a pillow and… You adjust the volume. ...yeah, she’s definitely snoring.

An odd feeling washes over you. For the first time, you feel as though you’re intruding into something you shouldn’t be seeing. The twins, your gods, are so...human. Granted, you’re smarter and saner than the majority of your peers—you know about sirens and relics and everything that could feasibly give them the illusion of divinity, but this still feels nigh-sacrilegious. He couldn’t have meant to send this…could he? You watch it anyway.

He holds up some sort of treat, then makes a show of placing it on the bed. After a few minutes, both the bed and Tyreen are practically covered and he’s retreating to the doorway, stifling involuntary laughter behind his free hand. You find yourself smiling along with him. “...gonna go release the hounds,” he announces as soon as he’s a safe distance down the hall, although the giggle that follows completely negates any sense of drama. Your stomach curls around itself in a funny twist.

The camera shakes horribly as he jogs across the compound, but you’re glad you don’t speed through it. “Goin’ to see the babies,” he sing-songs to himself once the skag pens start to come into focus. You swear your heart almost explodes. How the fuck is he...like this? Does anyone else see this, aside from Tyreen? Do they know their god is so...sweet?

He whistles as he approaches. The reaction is immediate. A litter of skag pups bowls out of the nearest den, tripping over each other and their own legs, yipping and growling. The camera dips—you assume Troy's kneeling. “Hey, killers...heh, yeah, hey…” He's laughing, scratching at their heads, letting them snap at his fingers. “Oh! You’re gettin’ big, Pepper. Yeah, not really the baby anymore, huh? Wanna go play with Ty? Yeah?” There’s a lower growl, somewhere offscreen. “Easy, big girl… I promise I’ll bring ‘em back.” With that reassurance, he opens the gate.

The remaining three minutes of footage go exactly as expected, in a flurry of hungry skag pups, laughter, cursing, and a few death threats from Tyreen. You watch, awestruck. They’re so playful, so normal. Again, so human. Innocent, almost. The video ends with a mad scramble for the recorder, from which Tyreen emerges victorious. The screen zaps to black, cutting her stream of half-sincere verbal abuse off mid-sentence.

You stare at the replay symbol, vaguely aware of your reflection in the monitor. They wouldn’t know if you kept a copy...would they? Click. Click. Click-click. You name the duplicate something inconspicuous. Not that they’ll go looking for it. ...but just in case.

Steeling yourself, though you’re not sure exactly what for, you click on the last video. The name doesn’t give anything away, none of them do—they’re all titled by filming date—and you can’t make anything out from the thumbnail, but you’re expecting another haul. Surely the personal recording was included by mistake— ...it’s some sort of reaction video. Troy’s own computer screen is the focus. His webcam feed is in the upper right corner.

“Probably gonna regret this…” he mutters. “But what the hell. Okay! The “horny for Troy” chat is officially open!” You pause. Rewind. No...you'd definitely heard him right the first time. “I want you to know you're all sluts.” He shoots a saccharine grin at his webcam. You feel the faintest twinge of guilt. “First question, here we go. ‘Starting with the obvious’—ooh, watch that confidence, fucker—’dom or sub?’ Okay, listen—” The smirk on his lips betrays his dramatic sigh. “These collars?” He yanks on the metal loop with one finger. “Not just for the aesthetic. But truthfully, I can do both. Next question.”

You fidget, acutely aware of how hot everything feels. Your head. Your hands. Your thighs. It's as if half the blood in your body rushed north and the other half rushed south. It's fluid, fiery, desperate. You toss your headphones onto the desk. Push your chair back. Rake your fingers through your hair.

You imagine they're his. Gripping your head as he kisses you, forcing his tongue between your lips, claiming you, marking you. You're mine, he'd growl. The words would rattle through your ribs, filling you up, making you believe them. And in that moment, they’d be true. Just you. Just him—

NO. You have to control yourself. It's not professional, it's not right. Whether or not he meant to send this doesn't matter. It doesn’t justify…

You glance back at the screen. You wish you hadn’t, because your fleeting fit of common sense dissipates as soon as you see the blush on Troy’s face. It’s deep red, beautiful against his skin, splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He’s laughing about something, reaching back to rub at his neck, looking down, long eyelashes fluttering almost shyly—

CLICK. That’s all it takes. A single, swift, definitive motion. The window closes. Your flustered reflection stares back at you. Your heavy pulse taunts you. Your arousal mocks you.

You ignore all of it. With more self-control than you've been able to manage recently, you load the edited videos onto a new drive. You'll deliver them yourself. Maybe that will keep the fantasies at bay for a while. Maybe.

- - - - - - - - - -

You find him in the antechamber of the throne room. Not the most private place, but maybe that's for the best. It was always funny to you, how your reactions mellowed when you were actually, physically close to him. It was a blessing, you supposed. You doubted you'd have a job if you turned into an incoherent, fumbling mess whenever you looked at him.

“You could have just sent them back,” he mutters, plucking the microdrives from your hands. “But whatever. Thanks.”

You nod, though he probably misses it as he turns to look back through the door to the throne room. Tyreen is readying for a hearing. You chew your lip, unsure how to broach the subject really on your mind. To hell with it. “Did you mean to send—?”

“Shit.” His focus returns to you. “You got more than the gun hauls, huh?”

“...yeah. I didn't do anything to them.” It isn't a lie. The original videos are still intact.

“But...you watched them?” One eyebrow quirks. He doesn't seem angry.

You nod. And take a risk. “They were kind of endearing.” You keep your completely unprofessional reactions to yourself.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Don’t hear that a lot.”

“Troy!” Tyreen’s voice barks from the throne room. It cuts into the air between the two of you. “C’mon!”

He rolls his eyes and pockets the microdrives. “Thanks again. Wish I could stick around to hear more of your compliments, but…” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Godhood calls.”

His bootsteps fade, leaving you alone with your racing thoughts and deceptively-calm heartbeat.

- - - - - - - - - -

The rest of the day is uneventful, you busy yourself with software updates and routine server maintenance. It’s easy, menial work, but it’s enough to keep your thoughts from wandering too far in any direction. Maybe you’d been right, maybe seeing Troy in person had been enough to take the edge off—

Your ECHO pings again and you nearly jump out of your skin. Meet me in Studio B. Troy. You read it again. And again. And once more to be sure. And then you obey.

Your heartbeat isn’t so calm this time. What does he want? Had you made a mistake? Said something wrong?

The studio is dim when you arrive, just a few low lights flicked on behind the booth. Troy’s waiting, his feet kicked up on the mixing desk, fiddling with his ECHO. The door creaks as you enter. You cringe.

“That was fast.”

“An order’s an order.”

He watches you for a long moment, then hums. “I’m not blind, you know.”

“I—” What? You know that, what is he—?

“Or stupid.” He stands, faster and more fluidly than you’re anticipating. In a second, he’s right in front of you. “I know exactly how you feel when you’re around me.” His voice has dropped to a whisper and your stubborn, stupid, misbehaving heart— “I hear the way your pulse skyrockets when you think about what you want me to do to you.”

You blink. Swallow. Is this actually happening? Warm, human fingers press under your chin, tilting your head, forcing you to look at him. There’s mischief dancing behind his pale eyes.

“Stop trying to hide it.”

“I—is that an order?”

His razor-sharp grin is enough of an answer. And then it happens. Those coy lips are pressed to yours. That hot, pink tongue that had invaded so many of your wet dreams is now invading your mouth. He’s gripping the back of your neck. Tugging at your hair. Moaning and growling and laughing—and the sounds are bouncing around your ribcage.

The surrealism of it all flips an interesting switch in your mind. In all your daydreams, every fantasy, you’d assumed you’d be paralyzed with shock in a situation like this. Frozen in awe and disbelief. Pliable and soft in his hands. Instead? You go wild.

All your actions blur into a haze of sensations. His teeth on your neck, biting deep, drawing blood. Your hands running over the sleek lines of muscle that define his body. The jagged tearing of cloth as something is ripped off. His knee between your legs. The world spinning as you’re lifted and pushed onto your back. You hardly notice the jabs of the knobs and switches on the instrument panel beneath you—your legs are wrapped around his hips and you’re clinging to him with all the strength you can muster.

Frantic, desperate fingers tug at your belt, slide inside you, curl forward. Stars bloom behind your eyes. You moan. He growls. Panted, breathless exclamations ricochet between you. Names are chanted, recited like prayers.

You’re wide open and ready for him by the time he thrusts up into you. Quick, needy. You move with him effortlessly, rocking up to meet his hips, digging your fingers into his back. All you can do is feel. Feel his body, feel his lips, feel his breath whispering over your neck as he leans down, pushing deeper. And finally—

It breaks. Tension releases. Heavy breaths mingle with sighs and feather-soft kisses. Bliss.

- - - - - - - - - -

You wake up groggy. Sore. Not naked, but you may as well have been because you know this feeling. You’d definitely had a good, thorough fucking. There isn’t enough fog in your brain to make you forget who’d done it, either. He knew how you felt and he’d… God damn, had he done something about it. You swear you can still feel the echoes of your orgasm throbbing between your legs and you wonder how long ago—

A brisk knock at the door nearly kills the mood. You scramble from your bed, praying that none of the...evidence...of your rendezvous would be apparent to whoever— It’s Troy. Heat blossoms in your face.

There’s a lazy, satisfied smirk on his lips. “Sleep okay?”

Fuck it. “Would’ve been better with you.” You don’t even attempt to maintain a normal pulse rate anymore.

His eyebrows arch. His smirk grows wider, showing teeth. The faintest hint of crimson colors his cheekbones. “Is that an invitation?”

You shrug. Keep cool! “If you want.”

He nods. Bites his lip. “I’ll, uh...keep that in mind. But, here, in the meantime…” He pulls a microdrive from his pocket and holds it out to you. “It’s not work, it’s…you’ll see.”

You take it, letting your fingers brush his palm. You don’t miss the way his blush spreads. Still so goddamn cute.

“I’ve gotta go, but...watch that tonight. Tell me what you think.”

“An order?”

He winks.

- - - - - - - - - -

You settle into your chair and load the microdrive. One file. Click-click.

You recognize the setup immediately. It’s Studio B. And there’s Troy. You’re fully expecting what comes next, but you still groan when you hear the door creak open and you step into view of the camera. Of course he’d filmed it. You’re not surprised in the least.

It’s...comforting, though, how you can allow yourself to watch this without trying to school your emotions. He’d made this for you. He’d given you what you wanted. He knew. You don’t stop—you don’t have to stop—yourself from curling up in your chair, biting your knuckles, blushing, and… ...yes, you’ll admit it—touching yourself while you watch.

The two of you look good from this angle. You don’t remember pushing his coat off, but there it goes, crumpling to the floor, revealing his bare back as he lifts you onto the table. From here, you can see his cybernetic spinal support, glowing with dim red light when he dips down to grind against you. You want to touch it. You’re surprised you didn’t. Maybe next time...

For once, the fantasy of there even being a “next time” fills you with warm hope. Unless you’ve been reading him wrong, he seems...interested. It makes you giddy. It makes you feel as though all of your initial reactions are justified. Now that you know he’s reciprocating.

You feel like you’re dreaming, watching all of this play out on the screen. Those are your hands scratching red lines down his shoulder blades. Your limbs tangled with his, wrapped around him. Your body moving perfectly, fluidly, rhythmically beneath his. Your voice panting out his name like an absolution.

And his voice doing the same with yours.

You stay there, curled in your chair, one hand trailing idly over your thighs, long after the last of your cries have faded. After he cradled you to his chest and helped you back to your feet. After the video ended.

It’s all real, you know that, but it feels like it shouldn’t be. He hadn’t even really known who you were until yesterday. Had he? You guess it doesn’t really matter. You’re both getting what you want, but… ...deep down, you’re hoping it’s not that shallow.

- - - - - - - - - -

He finds you in the morning. You’re back in the server room, allowing your thoughts to sort themselves out. At least… ...that was the plan. Until you hear his voice.

“So...what’d ya think?”

You don’t look at him at first. Your hands work with swift, practiced motions, tying a bundle of wires together. You’re not ashamed of the way your heart skips anymore, but what are you supposed to say to something like that? “Kinky,” you manage to joke.

He sighs, but there’s a hint of a laugh at the end of it. “And here I was expecting some quality constructive criticism.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t work.”

“You know what I mean.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye. There’s nothing to lean on; his hands are fiddling awkwardly. He’s shifting his weight from one leg to the other. He seems expectant.

You finally look up, meeting his eyes. Your heart is racing, as usual. Not with anxiety or anticipation. With newfound hope. With affection. A smirk tugs at your lips. “Maybe a better angle next time? Not that the one you chose was bad…”

And then he does it. He ducks his head, laughing, exactly the same way he’d done in countless videos, in hundreds of cut and saved clips. That same scarlet blush adorns his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. And you fall in love all over again.

- - - - - - - - - - @corpseyb0nes @afterthedreamer @mischiefsilvertongue @marigold-magpie @tricerathotss @vanderlinde-exe @ayilachan @zipp0flare @luxury-of-insanity @nikyri-reaper @argentineanweaboo @vanillabuttercreamm @anni000001 @imchaoticnerd 

[zmediaoutlet]

then and now

saw someone on twitter do a little flashback friday thing, which I thought was nice--today being SPN’s anniversary and all, and the end being nigh. I thought I’d copy her a little and do a thing: looking at my first fic for SPN, and my last.

first, the beginning: No Quarter

For the first hundred years Sam burns. It's not what he expected. He knows time is passing, but even so it always feels like the same handful of identical moments. Two versions of his existence slide against each other, separated by the thinnest of membranes, and so he knows that weeks have passed at the same time that he knows it's only been two or three minutes, but—three minutes is enough. The fire is burning away his clothes, licking over every inch of skin. He can smell cooking meat, the acrid stench of burnt hair hitting him right in the back of the throat. There's a moment when everything goes numb and his brain, scattered, throws up what he knows about burns: how after the flames sink down past enough layers of skin they don't even hurt anymore because the nerves have been scorched clean out. The only thing left is to carve out the dead spots. Just when everything goes cold, though, when he thinks he's done and will just be charred down to clean, quiet bone—that's when he opens his eyes and the flames are just barely starting to spread, his clothes and skin and hair restored, and he opens his mouth but there's no air left to scream.

When his brain functions, he thinks of Sisyphus, of Prometheus, of their endless condemned days. He wonders how much truth there is to the stories. Enough, he thinks, and then he's burning.

last, the end: survivors

Dean stares at him. "No!" Sam collapses down, laughing out loud this time, and Dean gives up, shoves, and Sam rolls off to land on the dirty floor with a massive thud. He says ow, but not like it hurt, and laughs some more, quieter, his arm thrown over his face. He really sounds drunk, happy drunk, when they never even made it through half the bottle. Dean rolls his eyes, slides his sticky thighs together, tips onto his side. He flicks the back of Sam's arm, and Sam drops it, shows himself all wrinkled-up eyes and dimples. "Sammy, you seriously got, like, twenty-five screws loose. Twenty-six."

From the floor, Sam bites his lip, breathes deep and lets it out long and slow, like the first breath of a clean new day. Dean thinks it's around midnight. Maybe the day really is new. "Yeah, I'm crazy," Sam says, but he says it like it's a gift. Dean smiles at him, takes it like it is.

No Quarter was the first idea I ever had for SPN, and as I recall I wrote it sorta fast--or at least, what counted back then for me as fast, which probably meant a month. Early 2013 was the middle of s8, where I’d started watching in real time after the first long binge (thanks, Netflix); I don’t think I even really had an idea of what the fandom was up to at that point. Lo these many years later, survivors was written for a fandom challenge and I didn’t even have to arm wrestle anyone (...at least, not too hard) to read it, and I wrote it in three hours. How time flies. :)

[internetrodeo]

Little Gidding

At various times of my life, different parts of this poem have become more meaningful. The 2nd part is seeming poignant these days:

“Ash on an old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house- The walls, the wainscot and the mouse, The death of hope and despair, This is the death of air.

There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth, Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil, Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth.

Water and fire succeed The town, the pasture and the weed. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot, Of sanctuary and choir. This is the death of water and fire.

In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking, loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known, forgotten, half recalled Both one and many; in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. So I assumed a double part, and cried And heard another's voice cry: "What! are you here?" Although we were not. I was still the same, Knowing myself yet being someone other-- And he a face still forming; yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. And so, compliant to the common wind, Too strange to each other for misunderstanding, In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere, no before and after, We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. I said: "The wonder that I feel is easy, Yet ease is cause of wonder. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend, may not remember." And he: "I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose: let them be. So with your own, and pray they be forgiven By others, as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. But, as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other, So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. Since our concern was speech, and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight, Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. First, the cold fricton of expiring sense Without enchantment, offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and sould begin to fall asunder. Second, the conscious impotence of rage At human folly, and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. And last, the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done, and been; the shame Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. Then fools' approval stings, and honour stains. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit Proceeds, unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure, like a dancer." The day was breaking. In the disfigured street He left me, with a kind of valediction, And faded on the blowing of the horn.

“Little Gidding is the fourth and final poem of T. S. Eliot's Four Quartets, a series of poems that discuss time, perspective, humanity, and salvation. It was first published in September 1942 after being delayed for over a year because of the air-raids on Great Britain during World War II and Eliot's declining health. The title refers to a small Anglican community in Huntingdonshire, established by Nicholas Ferrar in the 17th century and scattered during the English Civil War.”

[meditativeyoga]

Find Serenity in Savasana

Award yourself everyday by taking a 15-minute break for actual relaxation.

I was plunged on the flooring of a dressing space in a huge outlet store at 7:40 p.m. enjoying my adolescent little girl try out what looked like the 5,000 th set of jeans. It was taking 'for ev-vah,' as she would claim, and also I was actually tired. Much more compared to that, I really felt overwhelmed, like the lead character in some poor desire, endlessly running from job to job. Exactly what was I doing below? Why wasn't I home resting after a complete day of training, composing, food preparation, and owning youngsters around? For that matter, why do so much of us prevent taking a nice, scrumptious break daily?

The response is intricate, both in my life and also, I'm thinking, in your own also. First, our days have plenty of jobs, consultations, and tasks. Second, statistics reveal that we are functioning longer hrs and also bringing even more job home with us compared to ever. Innovation has given us particular freedoms, yet it has also enabled us to work at all times. It's now simple to check a bank equilibrium online at 1 a.m. or make that little organisation call from the cars and truck.

My preferred sign of overload is when I'm rushing around and I call from my mobile phone to my home addressing machine to leave myself a message concerning something that I absolutely have to do that day-very efficient. I think I'm not alone in this actions, it seems we are all on overload a lot of the moment.

What's the result of this constant busyness? We're exhausted and also burnt out. I lately asked my yoga exercise trainees to elevate their hands if they had actually been stressed-out during the previous week. I got a near-universal program of hands and also some incredulous looks. Why wouldn't they be stressed-out? We currently expect to be.

It should be kept in mind that anxiety isn't always a bad point. Actually, it's an essential physiological action when we regard a risk. Take the instance of an unfamiliar person following you down a dark alleyway-when you pick up risk, your body responds by turning on the supportive worried system, also understood as the fight-or-flight action, as well as bringing you to a hyperalert state, ready to react. ( For a much more detailed description of these physiological effects, see the post, This Is Your Body on Stress.) Yet when the body repeatedly and needlessly goes into this state day after day, our health suffers. Persistent stress and anxiety could interfere with food digestion, sleep, sex drive, fertility, and more.

What techniques can we adopt-aside from chucking everything as well as transferring to a covert paradise-to ease this feeling of rashness as well as fatigue? Exactly how can we stop the sensation that there are way too many points to do and inadequate time to do them?

Resting in Personal Paradise

I propose a formal leisure duration of 15 to Thirty Minutes daily, everyday, in Savasana (Remains Pose). Not just is Savasana (noticable sha-VAH-suh-nuh) central to all traditions of hatha yoga exercise, however it could be maded with hardly any difficulty. You can choose an easy variation with few props or a lavish, completely propped, 'Calgon, take me away' version.

Savasana made use of to be part of every yoga exercise course. Regretfully, I now speak with students that teachers skip it and also recommend 'doing it later.' Or I listen to that some instructors do Savasana for five minutes. They might unknown that it takes at the very least 15 minutes to unwind deeply. In some nations, there is a siesta every day. I choose an everyday siesta through Savasana.

There are several justifications for not exercising Savasana, and also I've heard them all. Do it anyway! First, you could need to reconsider exactly how you assume about time. The one point most individuals say about time is that there is not sufficient. Right here's a radical idea: Everyone that lives worldwide has exactly the exact same quantity of time every day. Some have a lot more education and learning, some have more wide range, some remain in much better health and wellness, but everybody has the exact same amount of time. It is how you make use of that time, and how you regard the quantity of time you have, that can enhance or reduce stress and anxiety.

The truth is, you might have to quit that TELEVISION sitcom or stand up to speaking on the phone reworking the exact same old thing, yet if you assess the different time slots in your day, you'll locate space for at the very least 15 mins of do-nothing rejuvenation.

Savasana Strategies

Some people want to exercise Savasana very first point in the early morning as component of a normal yoga method. Others use it as a midafternoon break as opposed to drinking a mug of coffee. Still others want to rest briefly when they obtain home from work, before the night's tasks start. Find a time that works finest for you and also exercise at the same time every day. Consider utilizing a timer. I find that a timer enables me to completely relax without stressing that I'll finish up existing in Savasana for hours, not able to obtain up and also complete my day.

Think of exercising Savasana daily as a present to on your own, your family, and also the globe. Taking a restorative break on a daily basis will certainly not just make you really feel better, it will likely make you more pleasurable to be around. When you're unwinded, you're less likely to overreact in the face of trouble. A well-rested, balanced person is more most likely making selections that will certainly impact the world in a favorable way.

A Simple Setup

Here's more great information: Everything you require for Savasana could be located existing around your house. The basic kind of Savasana requires only a quiet space, a comfy surface area to push, and also a number of props. For the standard present, you'll require a support for your head, such as a little pillow or folded up blanket, and also a rolled blanket or huge cushion to support the rear of your knees. For added relaxation, I recommend a soft cover for your eyes as well as another covering to maintain you cozy, you can additionally use socks.

Lie down on your back. Area the small pillow or folded up covering underneath your head so the neck is well supported as well as the chin goes down listed below the level of the forehead. Take a minute to relax the legs and also let them drop open. With the hands dealing with up, spread out the arms far from your body so the arms do not touch the sides of your rib cage. You need to have a large sensation, as if you are using up as much room in the area as possible.

Set your timer for 15 or 20 mins (you can work up to 30), cover your eyes, and also lie back. Occupy to 20 consistent, even breaths, progressively boosting the inhalations as well as exhalations. After that completely release, release any controlled breathing, enable your body to go down into the flooring, and also observe your ideas without reacting to them, as if they were clouds drifting past you in the skies. When you listen to the timer, exhale and also flex your knees to your chest. Roll to one side, letting the eye cover fall off on its own, and also use your arms to sit up slowly.

Savasana as Stress Management

If you stay in Savasana long sufficient, you will ultimately experience three different phases of the pose. The first is what I call physiological leisure, it takes most individuals concerning 15 minutes. Initially, you might seem like the mind is still accelerated as well as connected to thoughts, feelings, and also muscle movement. However slowly, the mind waves and also the breath reduce down, as well as the blood stress decreases.

As the body and mind relax, the genuine Savasana can start. Throughout this second stage, recognition of the outside globe begins to dim. You could hear audios, but they will not interrupt you. Instead, everything will begin to drift further as well as further away.

In my point of view, the second stage is one of the most recovery for the body and comforting to the mind. A secondary school student once explained Savasana to me as, 'Your body sleeps as well as your mind watches.' I like this summary, because the mind never ever entirely quiets down, however as you loosen your recognition with the physique, you could separate from the constant whirl of ideas. After that you could just witness them, simply as you would certainly see the climbing and also dropping of your upper body with the breath. As this occurs, you'll really feel a lot more secure as well as prepared to be where you are.

The final state of Savasana occurs when the mind completely releases. It is thought that the mind waves reduce down to their most affordable frequency. You will feel separated from the outdoors up until the timer rings or your instructor's voice brings you back to the present.

Give on your own time to drop right into at the very least the 2nd stage daily. Some days you will get the 3rd state as a present, however don't worry if you don't. Simply keep exercising as well as it will advance.

I sometimes ask my yoga exercise students if they assume the world could be a much better place if every person practiced Savasana on a daily basis. The consentaneous answer is always yes. So allow Savasana start with you, today. Rather than thinking about it as a worthless completing position that isn't really necessary, think of your energetic yoga practice as a preparation for the real, deep yoga of Savasana.

[twistednuns]

February 2020

I managed to use my iPad as a second monitor for my computer. So tech savvy. Yay me!

Joking about developing a sex-based cardio programme with Manu. Powerfucking! Might help against aggression as well.

A late night phone call with Tom. Not saying much.

Making a huge pot of my grandmother’s signature veggie stew.

More Bon Appétit test kitchen videos. Chris recreating tacos. Claire making Ben&Jerry’s. Priya making her mum’s Indian curries.

Writing a letter to Lena. Drawing upside down bats (which makes them look like they’re having a wicked dance-off). Just the act of writing. I thoroughly enjoy looking at my handwriting.

Using the Salted Coconut handscrub by Lush. Especially now that I wash my hands so often when we’re working with clay at school. I feel like the peeling triggers some pressure points on my palms.

That Saturday productivity high. Cooking and preparing heaps of stuff, cleaning the windows, doing laundry.

Painting my nails like an expressionist artist.

Some portrait studies. Accidentally drawing Sirius Black.

Being really motivated to improve my Spanish. Working with Lorena, the Duolingo app and even starting my own grammar/vocabulary book.

This ultra quirky ASMR video. Also: watching videos with Erin an her boyfriend Chris. It’s amazing how well they work together. How you can almost feel their connection, how similar they are.

Carrot cake oats.

Seeing the The Darkness live again, this time with Margit. Justin’s outfit and personality, singing along, especially to Time of my Life, the band’s traditional first song after the show.

Meeting Chris. Having a Bramblette cocktail at Pusser’s. I like that place. Feels very old-timey with a rowing boat right under the ceiling. We made out in front of a tiger slide in a toy store window on our way to the next bar.

Peeling fresh carrots.

Pickling onions and making kimchi. My fermentation game is strong these days!

Looking through Dominik’s sketchbook. I loved the tree whose bark resembled a mole burrow with its underground tunnel system.

The flu. Yes, really. Fewer pupils at school. Quiet times. I’m actually surprisingly healthy. I’d guess my probiotics must play a role here… Who knows.

More sourdough experiments. Writing about it (DELICACY - a haiku. Oven-warm sourdough / salted butter, alpine cheese / and a strawberry).

Finding a really interesting list of SanFran hippie era book recommendations at the end of Robin Sloan’s Ajax Penumbra: 1969. In the mood to read Maya Angelou, Tom Wolfe, Jack Kerouac, Richard Brautigan.

Even more beautiful books: I really enjoyed Die weiße Stadt by Karolina Ramqvist, a feminist author from Sweden, and the graphic novel version of To Kill a Mockingbird. But two books that literally (well, figuratively obviously) blew my mind were Circe by Madeline Miller (mythology, loneliness, animals and plants, magic and monsters, some desperate kind of feminism, independence and strength) and Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo (magical realms, university setting, psychological depth, unexpected twists and turns). I haven’t read anything comparable in a very long time and I desperately hope that there’s more to come from these authors.

A beach collecting all the world’s single socks in The Magicians. Oh and of course seeing them break the moon. What a sight. The show is super confusing, obnoxious and absolutely fabulous at the same time. Best example: the Freaky Friday szene in which Margo and Eliot switch bodies. I love how the actors took on each other’s speech patterns and behaviour.

A new addition to my colour vocabular: celadon (a greyish green; there is a type of ceramics you’ll only see in this colour which is not surprising since the shade provides such an interesting contrast to the the earthy, rusty orange of burnt clay.)

Manu telling me that he had rarely seen people with more joy in their eyes than me (“Ich habe schon Freude in deinen Augen gesehen! So ein Leuchten kann man nicht simulieren.”) after complaining about being bored and lifeless. / Making curry with or, well, for him the other night. Drinking Liqueur 43 with cinnamon and milk. Playing the Jackbox party games for which you can use your phone as a controller.

Finding myself in a well-known sitation from the past. Lying in Frank’s bed in the early morning hours, not that tired yet, when he starts talking about his life and his depression. In English, obviously, because that’s our emotional filter. Relating, since I feel quite similar. Coming up with a suggestion for a reciprocal support system. Let’s see what we can do for each other.

Looking at travel photographs. The sea, the cenotes. Longing to go back to Mexico or Australia. Diving. Taking it all in.

Dreaming of my grandmother talking about her biggest regrets in life. Weirdly she was in a little bundle under a coffee table, much like Voldemort in the last Harry Potter movie.

My weird, weird brain. How both pleasure and pain enhance my sense of smell and increase my brain activity, almost causing hallucinations and fixations on ideas. Like geometric shapes in gloomy off-colours and a beige silicon-like surface the other night. All I could think of was a benchscraper.

Blue eyeliner.

Brainstorming three-letter-words with Frank since I’m thinking of getting personalised Nike Blazers. Sad cat. Yes but. Dat ass. Why tho.

Flying squirrels. Watching them wobble through the air. How they look like cute exhibitionist when they’re extending their limbs and thus stretching their, well, let’s just call it wings.

The fact that red cabbage has an intricate pattern like brain convolutions when you cut it open.

Talking to Sonja for the first time in over two years. What a strange person. Interesting, too. At least in homeopathic doses.

Ripe strawberries and nectarines. Oh my god. I love fruit.

Meeting Eve at Pub Quiz. She identifies as female, loves swing dance, used to be an animator and I love her style. Also, I realised that really like Betty. And Dennis wasn’t mean to me for once. I love my nerd friends <3 And I learned that Starbucks was named after the first mate in Moby Dick! Also, coincidentally they asked a question about the city where To Kill a Mockingbird takes place (Maycombe, Alabama) after I had read it the week before.

Inviting Lorena to the Botanical Gardens. I always feel very happy and very much myself when I’m there. I sometimes wish I was a gardener. Lorena was late so I walked along the Spring Path outside and it might have been the first time I’ve seen a brussels sprouts plant. Inside I learned lots of Spanish words and marveled at the incredible butterflies. The huge yellow one right behind the entrance was my favourite. Its delicate feelers were fascinating.

Washing my hands at the Keg’s bathroom. Looking into the mirror. Suddenly thinking of the perfect karaoke song… Rescue Me by Bell Book and Candle! I kept singing it for days on repeat. My neighbour must hate me (nothing new here) especially since my voice is too low for the chorus.

It isn’t hard to see how such attachment patterns can undermine mental health. Both anxious and avoidant coping have been linked to a heightened risk of anxiety, depression, loneliness, eating and conduct disorders, alcohol dependence, substance abuse and hostility. The way to treat these problems, say attachment theorists, is in and through a new relationship. On this view, the good therapist becomes a temporary attachment figure, assuming the functions of a nurturing mother, repairing lost trust, restoring security, and instilling two of the key skills engendered by a normal childhood: the regulation of emotions and a healthy intimacy. // An interesting article on attachment styles and why theraphy works; it makes me want to learn more about attachment theory. This School of Life video is a nice addition as well.

That dream. About a book shop modeled after my picture of Penumbra’s 24-hour bookstore. There was an old man in a very narrow but high-ceilinged room full of books. There was no light source except for moonlight or some street lights. There were loads of stairs, very steep, leading to the back of the house. Upstairs the man would set out cat food and on the rooftop there was an old sailing boat. One day the man decided to open the door to the roof and let visitors see the ship, much like a museum; perhaps to attract customers. However, in the next night a cat-shaped ghost appeared who reminded me quite a lot of Kot Behemoth character in Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita. The ghost was not amused about the old man’s decision and took away his key, a big golden one adorned with a red ribbon.

Toasted sesame makes pretty much every dish so much better.

Watching High Fidelity with gorgeous Zoe Kravitz (I adore her effortless style and her outfits), getting in the mood for making a playlist and listening to more music in general. There are all these great songs out there I forgot about.

Remembering the xkcd storm chaser comics.

Making a wicked good batch of Pho for Tom.

Spending a nice evening with Alex at Shamrock. Singing along to American Boy by Estelle. Confirming the hypothesis that the nerdy, quiet ones usually have a freak streak. That moment in the morning. Eye contact and kegel exercises.

Karaoke with Margit and Betty. Meeting Manu’s doppelganger. Same type, looks, voice. Eerie.

Making a BA Gourmet Makes meme for Steffen after he had passed his law examps. Strangely Gaby kinda looked like him after I was done with it.

Saturday morning in bed. Reading comics and graphic novels. Fresh bedclothes, surrounded by books. Since it was February 29 I thought about leap years and asked a few friends what their inner seven-year-old would have done that day (based on the thought experiment that your birthday was on February 29 and you’d age in 4-year-steps which would divide your age by 4 obviously).      

I came up with: visiting grandma / eating Cini-Minis / falling asleep with my face buried in a cat / beating my neighbour Anna at Memory / drawing while listening to a Bibi Blocksberg cassette.

Alex said he’d have been outside all day, building a snow igloo. Not noticing his mum telling him to come to dinner. If the weather had been bad he would have played with his dinosaur collection. His inner 7-year-old was a hopeless dreamer who got agitated whenever his parents had a fight. Who came home late from school every day because he forgot about time when he was talking to his friend next to a hedge with thorns that looked like tiny airplanes.

Lena said she would have been outside all day long, playing in the mud with the neighbours’ kids. Of course.