#Never put your fingers inside someone's chasm.

[hoshigray]

Request! Geto never had to worry bc reader basically never interacts with guys. That 3we until he saw her hugging her male coworker and now he has to put her in place if ykiwm😋

𝐚. 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: oh yikesss, possessive sugu incoming, oof. lmao this is lowkey like the one i did for my kinktober, but what the hell

⊹ 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Geto x afab/fem! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - canon divergence; Geto is a jujutsu tech sorcerer - shibari; rope bondage (cross-chest box tie, frogtie) - sex toys; use of a vibrator - fingering (f! receiving) - clitoral play (swiping and pinching) - pleasure denial - mild possessive behavior - pet names (angel, baby, pretty girl, my love, sweetie) - cameo: Gojo - mention of drool/saliva.

⊹ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.3k

“Hahhh…ahhaa, Sug’ruu, I can’t…Mmm!”

“Aww, are you feeling well, my love? You look awful.”

And whose fault would that be?

Geto removes his jacket to put aside one of the chairs of the many desks. He stretches his sides and cracks his neck, releasing a massive sigh after a long inhale. He’s now relaxed that he’s back in his classroom. 

However, he isn’t the only one here. Someone he knows is here with him — waiting for him to return. And Geto’s lips curl into a smile once he looks down to see someone on the cold wooden floor.

You were in nude form, clothes sprawled to the side of you. A long red rope contorts around your body, binding your arms behind your back with your wrists tied together. Your thighs and ankles were restricted together; the red ropes tied the leg together to that of a frog-like position. And a red blindfold covers your line of sight. You were whining and writhing in this bounded position. Why? 

Geto slowly walks around you to take in the view, noticing that the vibrators he placed on your body were still where he had left it. Your nipples had a vibrator taped on to each, and the buzzing noises made Geto’s skin crawl. There was another set of bullet vibrators buzzing down south. Three white wires are connected to a remote lying on the floor, and they seem to be stuffed inside the wet entrance of your chasm. So, five vibrators are teasing your body all at once. What a hell. 

He comes down to your level, bringing you up with a hand to lie on his propped knee, and your breathing so low and hushed. “How are you feeling, angel?” He lifts the blindfold to have you peek at him, noticing your eyes are puffy and wet. Poor thing was crying for him.

“Sugu…” You called him by his nickname, a tool in hopes of getting on his good side. “Can you…please…”

Dark eyebrows raise, “Please what, pretty girl?” He shields your eyes again and slithers his hand down from your chin to your neck, and he loves how your breathing lessens when he approaches your breasts. He pulls off one taped vibrator to free the bud. For a moment before he blows on it, “What do you want from me?”

“Can I—Ohh!” His tongue flicks your nipple; it’s so sensitive and sore! “Can I please…cum…?”

“Ahh, what a dirty girl,” Geto chuckles to you as he kisses your mound, his hand now traveling further down to the three wires on the floor. He gently pulls one, a loud noise of one vibrator bumping into another. “You were doing so well being patient for me. I have one more meeting, baby; why can’t you wait after that?”

Your breathing gets shaky, leaning towards his frame to get through. “Because...Mmmm, I want you to make me feel—Ohh…! Good...”

“Is that right?” More laps around your nipple before he sucks it in. “You want me to make you feel good? Not Satoru?” You gulped at the mention of the other’s name, feeling Geto’s intense, indigo gaze on your face. 

In all honesty, Geto admits he can be a jealous man — especially regarding you, his sweet angel. The reason why you’re in this situation is because your partner saw you hug another man yesterday. Satoru Gojo, the dark-haired man’s best friend of all people! Granted, it was because you were only giving a gift of sweets to the tall sorcerer because he came back from a terrible, dangerous mission with Geto. And the white-haired fool, oblivious to personal space as always, brought you in for a hug as he thanked you for the bag of sweets you handed him. 

Putting his hands on you did make Geto unpleasant, yet this was Gojo we were talking about; the guy acts like personal boundaries don’t apply to him. However, what did upset the man more was you reciprocating the embrace with a cheerful smile — a smile only Geto was to bear witness to. It twinged his heart – cliche, but it did. You toyed with his feelings, and he had to correct you for such behavior. 

The man increases the intensity of the vibrators inside your cunt, and your body jerks unexpectedly. He then slides a finger inside your vagina to play around your walls with the toys, and you have to remind yourself not to scream as his fingertips scrape the velvet texture. “You hurt my feelings, sweetie,” he listens to your whimpers get higher and higher as he increases the speed of his finger. “You know I’m not one for sharing — especially with Satoru.” 

“Hahhh, Sugu’uuu, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ You press your lips together to suppress a moan once Geto takes your nipple back into his mouth, pushing the nub to the roof of his mouth and skimming it with his teeth. A sharp gasp escapes your frame at the addition of another finger inside you, and more tears well up from how much stimulation is happening. “Nmoohh, please, I won’t do it again…”

“You promise?” He whispers into your ear, slowly removing his fingers to increase the intensity of the vibrators inside you. Those same fingers now go to your clit where he swipes in slow circles, and you nearly choke on your spit. “Tell me, who’s my favorite girl?” 

“Mee! I’m y’re favorite…!” Despite the ropes tightening around your ankles and thighs, your lower half still jolts to his touch on your delicate pearl, trying to sway your hips to move with the friction. 

“And who’s your only favorite man in this world?”

“You, Sugu!” Oh, the way you desperately said his nickname was so pathetic to hear — so sweet. He couldn’t stop the sneer from flourishing on his face. “You’re my favorite—Mmmph! Always…”

Good girl. “You wanna come so bad, baby?” His thumb and forefinger rub against your clitoris, evoking cute squeaks to fly out your drooling mouth. You nod hastily; that’s not what he wanted, so he pinches your clit. “Words, pretty girl, words.”

“Yessh, please let me cum, my love…!” Now that’s what he wanted to hear, being all cute and pitiful for him to grant you what you’re craving. And you can feel it coming, your nerves heightened with the climb of your orgasm.

But then, you sense his fingers gone from your clit, the cold air occupying their absence. Instead, he puts the vibrator that once teased your nipple back and rests your figure onto the cold wooden floor once more. Your brows screw together with quivered lips, “No, pleaseee! Don’t leave me again!” You whined.

Too late, he was adorning his jacket and heading out for the sliding door of the classroom. “I’m sorry, angel, but I gotta get to this meeting first. Don’t make too much noise while I’m gone, okay?” God, you pulled his heart the way you helplessly laid there. “Don’t give me that look, my love. I’ll be right back when it’s done.” He steps outside and closes the door behind him, swiftly locking it while checking for his surroundings.

And it was a good thing he did, too. Because right around the corner came his best friend, Gojo, the blindfolded sorcerer, retrieving the raven-headed other. “Yo, there ya are, Suguru! The meeting’s about to start; don’t slack off before Yaga comes for our heads.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” he walks alongside his companion, heading to the other side of the hall. 

“Hmm, by the way, where’s Y/n?” The white-haired man inquires while scratching his ear. “I haven’t seen them since this morning.”

Geto hums to the question, the shrug of his shoulders to seal the deal. “They felt sick all of a sudden, went to go see Shoko to check.”

The taller sorcerer tilts his head with a scoff. “Who said you were a good liar?”

“You’re one to talk.”

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2024 – reblogs and comments are appreciated wholeheartedly ☆ header edit done by me + dividers by @/benkeibear.

[mystra-midnight]

Hi! I just came across your blog, and may I say, it's so professional, clean cut and put together, I am impressed!

If I may, could I request the 'Vanilla Slice'?

For the song, 'Better Love' by Hozier, and Geralt of Rivia for the character?

Honestly, so far, I'm loving your work!!! Thank you for your time! ☺

Babe, you're so incredibly sweet! I tried hard to ensure things were set up cleanly and simply but still super pretty, so I'm so glad you like it!

Thank you so so much for sending in an order, and I hope you enjoy your sweet treat! <3

A storm was blowing in, clouds dark and heavy, mirroring the turmoil inside your heart. You stood at the window, watching as sheets of rain cascaded down and lightning forked across the sky. The air was thick with the scent of the wet earth and something more — something that felt like a change.

Geralt was behind you, seated across the room. You could hear him sharpening his silver sword, the sound of the whetstone against the metal a steady rhythm. His presence was impossible not to notice; it was all around you, filling the room. Normally, it was grounding, but tonight, it was almost. . . oppressive. 

The years spent circling each other, bound by fate but torn apart by your own fears, seemed to be bearing down on you, ready to come crashing down like the storm outside. “Do you ever wonder, Geralt,” you began, your words barely above a whisper, much like an exhale. “If we could have had. . . a different life?”

You heard him pause mid-grind and imagined how he would be as still as stone and where the whetstone would be paused at the centre point of the blade. It didn’t matter that you’d spoken so softly or that the storm was loud enough to drown you out, he heard. And he was silent. Words weren’t his strength, especially concerning matters of emotions.

You didn’t dare look at him. His expression was stern, and his amber eyes traced the lines of your silhouette. He took in the way your hair fell over your shoulders and how your posture always held a fierce grace, even in moments like this one — moments of vulnerability.

“No,” he answered, simple and plain.

You thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.

“What we have. . . it isn’t easy. It never will be,” he said, his voice deep and rough, making you shiver. You heard him place his sword down, yet still could not look. “But it’s ours. What we have is real. And real. . . is enough.”

You closed your eyes and wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting back the emotions that swelled inside you. For all the power you possessed and all your intelligence, love had always been the one thing that eluded your control. Its fragility frightened you, how it came and went so easily. Yet, you had never wanted anything as much as you wanted him.

“I — I don’t know if I can do this forever,” you admitted. At long last, you turned to face him, watching him from across the room as you opened your soul to him. “The fighting. The running. There is always something — someone — between us.”

Geralt rose and crossed the room in that silent, deliberate way of his. And when he stood before you, he was motionless, not yet touching you. The distance felt like a chasm where the air crackled with tension, as though the forces of nature collided in that empty space. 

“The world will always be what it is. Harsh. Unforgiving.” His voice was softer now, somehow more intense than if he was to growl or shout. “I don’t care how many times we get pulled apart. We’ll find our way back to each other.”

You searched his beautiful eyes, looking for some hint of doubt, some sign that he, too, might be wavering. But there was none. His eyes, those sharp, cat-like eyes, held the same steadfastness that you had come to rely on, even when you could hardly trust yourself.

“And if we don’t?” You asked, voice trembling. “What if one day we can’t?”

He finally reached for you, his large hand cupping your cheek, his rough fingers threading into your hair. The way he touched you was tender, but there was a possessiveness to it, too — a quiet insistence that you were his, and he was yours, no matter the cost.

“We will,” he said, simple and plain once again. “There is no better love for me.”

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes as his warmth seeped into your bones. This love you had for him, that he had for you, wasn’t perfect. It was raw, fierce, and often painful. But it was yours. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

—interested in joining? check out the menu and send in your order!

[aceofsages]

Prompt: Jealous Wednesday

written for @hotmesslovesickcrackhead : I'm sure this wasn't what you had in mind when you gave me this prompt, lol, but this is where my mind went

find on ao3

cw: angst, ambiguous ending, fantasizing of torture, references to cannibalism

____

Something festers inside Wednesday—a gaping chasm of roiling emotions that Wednesday, for all means and purposes, should like, but doesn’t. Something green that makes her breath fast, her hands twitch, and it seems to happen every time she sees Enid with Ajax. A rage overcomes her, a boiling wrath, and Wednesday often fears that if she had less control than she does, she would behead all of Ajax’s snakes and feed them to him.

But doing so would mean losing Enid worse than she ever had her.

“Someone’s jealous,” says Barclay as she takes her seat next to Wednesday on the quad fountain.

Wednesday takes her eyes off of where Enid sits on that insipid boy’s lap, giggling with Yoko and Divina, to glare at her. The siren just smirks infuriatingly, lazily weaving water between her fingers.

“Just saying, I know that look. Hell, I used to wear it when you spent time with Xavier.”

Wednesday doesn’t do something as mundane as roll her eyes, but it’s a near thing. “That was your own insecurity, Barclay. There was nothing going on between Xavier and I.”

“Maybe,” she says, shrugging. “But there is something going on between Ajax and Enid.”

Wednesday’s hands clench without her consent and Barclay raises a brow. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”

“Shut up Barclay.”

The thing is, Barclay still had a right to be jealous, however irrational. But Wednesday doesn’t, because there was never anything between her and Enid, there will never be anything, because Enid deserves everything Wednesday can’t give her. She deserves colorful dates and soft kisses, hand holding and public displays of affection. She deserves to be cherished, but with Wednesday she will only have cuts disguised as caresses.

None of this reasoning soothes what she now knows is jealousy.

It gets worse. It gets to a point where Wednesday can’t be trusted to stay in the same room as Enid when she’s with Ajax, can’t be trusted not to gaze at her and wish to break Ajax’s arms and put hers around her instead, can’t be trusted to even open her mouth without spewing something that would undoubtedly be vicious and cutting and absolutely nothing that Enid deserves. The feeling makes Wednesday breathless, makes her worse than she thought she could be and the worse part is she knows she needs to mitigate it before it gets out of her control.

(Addamses love only once, and they love fierce, unyielding. A person can break themselves against its tide, and drown the object of their affections too, and Wednesday will kill herself before she lets that happen to Enid.)

“What is this? I knew you and Bianca were getting close, but not changing your room close!”

“We’re not.”

“Then why?!” Enid steps towards her, crossing the line that Wednesday’s viscerally aware remains no more.

There is no rational why, Wednesday thinks, only you who I can’t have. Only you who I can’t hurt just because I’m jealous.

She’s aware of how much her recent behavior has been hurting Enid—thinks that a clean break is what they need from each other before Wednesday snaps and strips the hide from Ajax’s snakes and proceeds to skin him while electrocuting him. She’d leave Nevermore altogether, but that would mean admitting to her parents, to her Mother, that she has fallen for the same foley every Addams before her has.

“It’s temporary,” she says instead, steadfastly not looking at the only color in her life. “Only until my manuscript is done.”

“What? Is the noise still bothering you? I’ve been putting on my headphones and trying not to giggle when I text!”

That’s the problem.

Look what I’m doing to you, my love, in my green-eyed rage, she doesn’t say. I'm smothering you.

“It’s only temporary, Enid,” she says again, as if doing that would make it reality. She hopes it will, but she knows this curse—has seen mightier Addamses than her fall prey to it. Richie Addams had been the worst of them all. A depraved Addams that fell prey to the curse in the 1800s, he had brutalized his love’s husband with his own bare hands in front of her; done the same to his love, twisted her into something beyond recognition and then eaten her—rumor has it while she was still alive and coherent, that he’d kept her alive to watch him eat her. He had killed himself shortly after.

(It features all too often in her dreams.)

She will not unleash her brutality upon Enid, would turn the knife against herself before she would.

“Oh come on! Just tell me what’s wrong, Wednesday. I thought we were past this!”

Wednesday doesn’t reply; folds the last of her clothes into her trunk and snaps it shut. She goes to move it from her bed but Enid snags her wrist and makes her face her. Wednesday can’t help it—it’s instinct to flick the knife out and press it to her assailant’s wrist. Blood wells up and Enid winces.

(isn’t this a metaphor—isn’t this a forewarning?

enid touches wednesday and gets hurt, seconds after wednesday vows to turn her knife against her own self before it touches enid’s skin.

there’s a lesson here, a horror story in the making.

there’s a lesson here, a love story in the making.)

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have touched you.”

The warmth of Enid’s palm still lingers on Wednesday’s wrist even after she removes it, a handprint printed on Wednesday’s bones. Wednesday stares at Enid’s wrist, at the blood that stains it, at the cut she put there and wonders what it would be like to put her lips to it, to taste her beloved’s essence on her tongue, to deepen the cut till she reaches bone and can leave her own mark on her.

(she has to leave, she has to leave, she has to leave—

it’s getting worse, it’s already gotten worse and it hurts.)

“I have to go,” she says and leaves without a backward glance. If Enid calls after her, Wednesday pretends not to hear.

(Wednesday’s name goes down in history.

Enid’s is written next to her.)

(was it a horror story, they ask.

perhaps, others say. perhaps it was a love story gone wrong; a twisted romeo and juliet, an orpheus and eurydice.

idiots, it was always supposed to be both.)

[emerald-onion]

Ink Gets Rizz Series (Passive Nightmare)

Because I don't want to post this at ao3 yet but I also want to know what people think about it.

TW (Just to be safe): Self-hatred, implied/referenced bullying

The sun dips behind the horizon, spilling saturated orange all over the hill. A chilly wind cheekily presses its cold lips against his cheek before it is off playing with the autumn leaves, trailing the taste of crisp apples after its footsteps.

It is calm. Peaceful. The only sound Nightmare can hear is the soft scratching of graphite against paper and the rustling pages of his book. A moment like this is rare these days, especially when Dream is busy hanging out with all of his brand new friends and the villagers doesn’t take kindly to his presence, and the Guardian of Negativity would hate to break it.

Nightmare knows, however, if he didn’t say anything now, this fleeting courage would skip from his fingers and the words he wants to say will remain stuck inside his throat to be choked down, to be another reminder of all the unspoken things that sometimes make it just a little too hard to drag his heavy body forward.

He takes a deep breath, hoping that it will fill the gaping chasm of uncertainty inside of him, merely waiting for the moment he’ll slip and fall into the jumbled mess of his own thoughts. It helps, somewhat, but not nearly enough.

Still, there’s no dwindling now.

“Hey, Ink,” he glances at his best (and only) friend. The artist is bending in what makes him feel uncomfortable just looking at it but is clearly what they are used to, a tongue pokes out in concentration. “Can I ask you something?”

“Uh-huh,” Ink replies absented-mindly, still focus on the drawing, their pencil flying on the paper with the grace of a skillful dancer. “Whatcha wanna know, Night-Night?”

As always, the nickname never fails to make Nightmare flush, but he pushes away the influx of warmth and presses on. “Why do you take your negative vials?”

Ink pauses. The dancer stills.

“I-I mean, you can pick whatever emotions you want to feel, right?” He hurriedly asks before the sudden silence can chip away at his nerve. “So why do you still decide to feel sad? Or angry? Or- Or fearful?”

Why do you still choose to stay with me? He doesn’t say, but the meaning is there anyway, anxiously tucked behind his words.

Ink puts down the pencil and closes their sketchbook, going uncharacteristically quiet for a very, very long time. Their eyelights shift, from oval to teardrop to crescent before settling on an orange hourglass and a cyan loading circle, an expression which tells Nightmare that they are thinking over their answer very carefully.

“Nightmare,” finally, they say. The Guardian of Negativity instantly straightens up, hanging onto their every word like a sprout trying to catch the rare droplet of sunlight. “What do you call a monster who can’t have negative emotions?”

“H-Huh?” He startles, having not anticipated the question.

“What do you call a monster who won’t feel guilty when they hurt others? Who won’t empathize if someone else is in pain?” Unbothered by his surprise, Ink continues, staring right into Nightmare and even through that. “Can we even call them a monster anymore?”

“I...” He stutters, scrambling to get his thought back on track. Ink is such an airhead that having their full attention has always been enticing baffling. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Exactly.” They brush a finger against their sash, thumbing the green, blue, purple, and red vials. “These emotions, they are mine, they are what make me me. Without them, I’m nothing but a shallow shell, a mere imitation of a monster.”

“But...” Nightmare whispers, ducking his head, the taste of warmth has faded away, replaced by bitterness. Demon! The villagers have screamed. You’re good for nothing! All you can do is bring misfortune! If so many people tell him so, there must be some truth to it, right? “But don’t they make you feel bad?”

“Yes, but isn’t it what being alive means? To fall and shatter and piece ourselves together and get back up again?” The smile on Ink’s face is so very wide, their cheeks flushing a dreamy rainbow. “Isn’t it exciting?”

Nightmare falls silent.

He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know if negative emotions are truly as good as his friend says. He doesn’t know if he can ever love this part, this abused, wretched part of himself.

But if Ink continues to look at him like that, like he is something important, something beautiful, something to be treasured...

Well, maybe he can learn to.

[justinhubbell]

Our Norway Maple

On Weider Street our house was easy enough to locate, as it stood behind one of the largest trees on the block.  The Maple tree towered over the house, at least seventy feet high, and was reliably beautiful year round.  They came today to take it down.

Growing up our Norway Maple wasn’t a tree.  It was a narrow walkway of sheer cliff side over a great chasm.  I made a game of walking on its roots in circles until—inevitably—I’d lose my balance and tumble off.  The game never once lost its luster, and I can remember playing it as vividly last week as I did twenty years ago.  

I love to balance on things.

In the fall our tree would blanket lawns front and back with a shower of leaves.  Its trunk formed a massive hand that was clearly visible depending on the angle you looked at it, with long fingers gently reaching as if to stroke at the sky above.  No serious attempt to scale the tree was ever made, as its bark was too rough, with no lower branches, and no real handholds.  It was simply a monument to our house and home.  It was always like that.  Magic.  In photos and videos it is there.  Looking out a window it was there.  It’s possible our tree had admirers a mile away.  Coopers’ Hawks perched in it.  Squirrels ran up and down it.  Carpenter Ants defended it ferociously.  An unknown total of lives in the millions knew our tree.  

The workman rapped on my front door unceremoniously at 10:30 to let me know he and his crew were here to consume the tree.  Today.  Now.  And could this broken Hyundai be moved, please.  Two days earlier a massive tree finger snapped and fell.  It destroyed my parents car, and came through our front living room window.  I didn’t hear the initial crack, only the sudden explosion of sound and glass that interrupted our quiet morning inside.  As they fire up their machines to cut and eat away at my childhood friend, I can’t bring myself to watch.  The sound of its destruction vibrates through every room of my house regardless.

Before it all happens I take a few photos, the last photos, and I hug the tree and kiss its bark.  What most people don’t know about trees is you can hug them as hard as you’d like.  A tight desperate embrace that might injure loved ones, or a pet, is nothing to a tree.  You can close your eyes and squeeze and lean in.  Trees give everything back.

Over and over I tell myself I can’t watch, I can’t be present for this, but Dad puts a stop to that.  He swings by my place and I’m compelled to join him as he watches the tree come down.  We stand in our front hallway for a spell, and then he leaves me to take photos from the street.  I watch that pumpkin grin streak across his face as he struggles with his camera, and the light.  A neighbor rolls up on him, and moments later they’re enjoying a friendly chat.  No family but cats can join us for the historic event.  I watch from the highest point of our attic.

The work crew bring five large machines, and they make quick work of this being that took one hundred years to grow.  Parts of the plant are fed into a giant wood chipper.  Logs and beams and branches that could be made into things are reduced to tiny splinters exhaled into a covered truck bed.  I am mostly silent, still not believing it.  My heart aches for my beloved to be here next to me.  Someone to hug or hold hands with.  Someone to ease the wrenching of my heart as our beautiful tree is killed for good.  During a brief respite I come to collect debris, sawdust, newly formed buds, and the last leaves our tree will ever produce.  I run them upstairs to put them in a corked ceramic jar that had always been empty until now.

Saturday something in me knew it was “now or never” when it came to selecting wood to keep.  I try to stay conservative but absolutely a large bough of the tree is invited inside to lean against the corner of the room it once smashed into.  I hurt my shoulder in the process, and it’s okay.  Who cares?  I take enough wood for a room accent, a walking stick, a magic wand, another room accent, perhaps a second staff, a natural cross section of a trunk, and a few other odds and ends.  If it was only possible, I’d have left the main trunk of this maple to slowly decay for another hundred years.  A “tiny library” could be cut into the bark.  A treehouse of sorts could lovingly perch atop the remains.  Even only just to enshrine what once was, I’d preserve the skeleton of our Maple.  Dad says that this is impossible, because he signed a contract.  It’d be more expensive to do what I propose.  It already cost four grand to remove this tree.  Outside the tree is methodically cut into bits.  When big pieces crash to the ground it shakes the Earth.  The work crew barely speaks, and when they speak they shout.

It is not all sadness that I feel.  I think of what tree will come next.  I propose a Weeping Cherry, but Dad prefers a Japanese Maple or Ginkgo.  The problem—as he loves pointing out—is that neither breed is spectacular until a solid century of growing takes place.  He confesses a prejudice against weeping cherries.  This makes sense only in that Dad typically objects to the things I love.  A magnolia is his concession, and I suspect everyone will go along with it.  If I have my way at least the flowers will have color, like a Purple Saucer, or a Yellow Lantern.  I’d take a Crape Myrtle or Dogwood too.

Around 12:30 Mom arrives home.  At the time of the accident she busied herself collecting as much debris as she could, telling absolutely everyone that she had oral surgery scheduled for Monday.  Today.  The day our tree comes down.  Coming up the stairs and into the house she presses an ice pack to her jaw, and makes an aggravated show of having been told to relax.  She caws news of her operation in between complaints of doors left open.  I choose to part ways, and smoke weed.  What else can I do?  I can’t decide if it’s sacrilegious to turn away, or worse to watch the entire execution.

Many hundreds of miles away my brother suffers still yet another headache.

With a growling stomach I fix a bowl of greens.  I pop an edible.  I smoke and watch videos as our Maple is torn down.  There are times I feel totally pathetic, and other times I’m relieved.  The cannabis dulls pain and allows me to take in other things.  I actually do get lost in the videos.  I’m able to pass my time peacefully, rather than in anxious pacing grief.  I check in on Mom, and she says she’s doing fine.  I think about lighting candles and saying our goodbyes with greater intention.  It’s a blur, and then the work crew leaves.  The street is silent again.  I make my way up the stairs and let out a gasp when I see it.  The tree remains.  There is a stump.  I had believed the entire plant would be removed, and somehow a stump.

The thing is I could cry.  I considered this Maple family.  I always knew its day would eventually come, but never dared imagine it.  There was no discussion of this.  No rumors or hushed questions.  Two days in a broken state, and gone on the third. 

I don’t cry.  The sadness has only just moved past my navel, it is nowhere near my eyes.  I am stoned now.  I move back to the window and it really is gone.

I turn back to writing, and then take a shower.  The act of having seen the stump is enough to send me running into hot water.  I undress and look out the skylight for the first time without our Maple.  It is bright.  I bathe.  I am joined by Meaninglessness and Purposelessness.  I summon the courage to dress myself to go outside.  To see our Maple.  I step out in a knit gray dress and tights, with bright blue flip flops.  My hair is wet from the shower.  My mustache is significant.  I stand near the stump and take off my shoes.  I step onto the exposed roots and make a circle like I always did around the tree.  The sadness shoots straight up to my heart and I quickly hop off.  

I make my way across the street and take in the new view of Home Without Maple.  My sadness rises up to my neck.  I can feel it tugging beneath my palate.  Neighbors come to take photos.  To look in amazement at what has taken place.  They speak of how—just the other day—there was once a giant tree here.  I stumble over to my Family Shrine and thank my Mother for having left behind a pile of twigs.  To anyone else they are only just twigs.  The leaves are still yet about to erupt from buds that grow like yellow green flowers.  I pick a bouquet of them, and place them in a raku fired vessel my Beloved made in her youth.  I will keep them for as long as I can.

Alex comes home and I open my arms for a hug, but she billows past to use the bathroom.  We make our way back outside later and embrace over the stump left behind.  Mom joins us.  I’m still in my flip flops.  It is a hollow icy emptiness that I feel inside.  I am still processing, still not believing.  I rake my thoughts for the silver linings and find enough to keep from sobbing.

There is a new tree coming.  Nobody was hurt.  A loss like this marks the beginning of a new chapter, and this time I am writing it.  Every part of our Maple I foraged will be kept and loved as the original tree was.  The broken pieces will become Earth again, and the Earth may yet grow more Norway Maples.  That our tree is physically gone does not make it absent.  I can feel its bark still on my hands.  I retain the memories of looking up to see mornings, noons, and evenings filtering through its leaves.  Even though it is not there, it is right there.

And always will be, for me.  That is until the new tree outgrows it.

If such a thing is possible.

[arsnovacadenza]

Kicho's BD 2022 fic

If you were to pick an animal that suits you best, what would it be?

"A falcon," you proudly say. "The peregrine falcon, to be exact. I want to have a bird-eye's view of everything, and strike with precision. A wrong move means death, and that means I need to be certain in my calculations."

You smirk, gun hanging on the left side of your hip. You believe yourself to be deadly, a man putting his worth into every strike you make.

Ah, a bird of prey. A man with ambitions, I see. You are destined for great things.

"You're too kind," your lips draw into a tight line. But the spark is still there, in your eyes.

And a perfectionist. You aim to be no less than perfect. To you, a wrong move could kill . Every miscalculated fall spelling your end. And you walk on a tightrope every single minute, balancing the world on your shoulders as if it won't crush you—

"Enough," you snap. "That doesn't mean anything."

Cautious, as I predicted. Your expression hardens.

.

Where are you? Where would you likely find yourself?

"A hangar," you close your eyes. There are sounds, laughter. Companions pouring over a blueprint and putting together a marvel They believe it will go far, and so do you. 

Even if it fails, it won't disappoint you. You're not alone after all.

With comrades like them, you can do great together. No longer are you a lone wolf, thought to be cold by others who never know you, never bother to ask, to try. 

What is a wild bird doing in a hangar? You frown again. A hangar is reserved for planes and helicopters. For man-made machinery crafted and controlled by men. Planes are meant to be steered by pilots -other people. But not birds.

Your destiny is not your own making, then.

At this point, you can feel the fury threatening boil, a paralyzing realization. Even after leaving the den of vipers, where "you'" were a product of manufacture, a shadow of something else by design. You are not your own person; you are—

You thought it amusing: mimicking somebody else's voice and using it to your advantage. The skill gives you an edge. It grants you some power, some leverage. But now—

Your heart is screaming to escape your chest, bones struggling to tear away from skin. A porcelain face meant to be the double of something better—

—of a prototype that's just as disposable.

"Ridiculous," you growl. "I did it for me. For my survival. And this is where I stand, alone. For my own sake,"

To be a villain in someone else's story. You shake your head, trying not to envision him and the inevitable divide that followed.

What comrades? What shared dream? A chasm appears and grows wider with every step you take. You convince yourself that this is the path you tread —that the hatred you let loose and fuel is a favor for the world that made you bitter.

Shall we proceed? 

.

If your world is described with a single season, what would it be? What sort of weather would you face when you step outside, in that world of your making?

“Sunny,” you answer. You are getting tired, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Sunny with some light wind. Or maybe a chance of clouds. I don’t know,”

It’s best to be prepared for anything life throws your way. Rain or shine, your wings will continue to beat. 

Always considering the worst. The voice laughs, not exactly mocking but stirring you all the same. Can you see the wind? Could you tell the wind was even there? Is it not your mind that wishes it to be so?

And if it’s real, wouldn’t you just stay inside your cozy hangar?

“Lies!” you shout. “It’s exactly because I don’t know that I need to prepare! At worst, I can tackle even a storm head-on. I know I can!” You narrow your eyes, your beating heart thundering against its aching cage.

One more thing. It said, Why conceal the doubts you have by saying it’s sunny? Underneath that placid face, those cold, firm hands….

You are afraid.

You fear for every grain of sand that passes through your fingers. Every second grows heavier than the coat of lead you wear around your shoulders. You seize and devour your prey, never quite settling the hunger. A stomach hardened in knots, a body bending to the point of near-breakdown trying to resist fate, and reaching for an ending even you don’t think can survive.

Self-sabotaging desires that poison the heart. Your mind is your body’s parasite.

"No!” You scream. “This is what I’ve learned, all my life! That the world is wretched, that nothing goes my way! In the end, warmth is an illusion. The world has been cruel and always will be!”

Nothing I do matters is what you’d cry out as you sob. But tears are a sign of weakness. That, you’ve learned well.

“To live this life with nothing but kindness and thinking that the world will return your compassion is kind. That’s preposterous! I’ll never be caught in that foolishness!” You insist.

Love. The voice echoes. The one 'weakness' you possess in abundance.

Brimming with love, thirsting to be loved in return. Indeed, the world is cruel. You could’ve been frigid and unfeeling as the steel of your blade, and yet. 

You’d gladly pour your entire heart into one person and one person, alone. 

“And what if that’s what I desire?” You challenge the voice. “I am only human. The one desire I have,"

That's where you contradict yourself, again. The voice chuckled without malice. How can you be human if you crave perfection?

Your eyes widen, like the young boy that you had been in that cold, vast estate.

To fill that someone to the brim with love until it makes your heart burst, it continued. It doesn't matter to you whether or not they will reciprocate.

For happiness has never been something you can grasp in hand.

"I have loved," you say, tears threatening to well up in the corner of your eyes."I have loved, and it wasn't enough. To save—" you choke.

The abyss lifts.

.

"...I guess more than one person has wished for a loved one to be safe and sound," she says. "Perhaps these were all people who were reborn as golden butterflies because of their love for someone."

Reborn, "I guess…." You trail off, butterflies bathed in gold dancing above the reeds.

"See! It's not all bad!" She beams, her radiance more blinding than the distant sun. "When the rain stops, the folktale does come to life. It's such a lovely story,"

You nod, closing your eyes.

[mantyse]

KICK NAMES AND TAKE ASS,

rules,

this is a low - medium activity blog for gotg's mantis written by day (she/her, 23, chinese). this blog and my take on the character is based solely on the mcu version of the character as well as my own headcanons. i have not read any of the mrvl comics so i'm genuinely clueless on anything that happens outside of what's been established in all the movies. i do not write smut. i will also be highly selective with who i choose to follow. i have multiple blogs, and mantis is still pretty new to me as of now, so for the moment this blog will be considered low priority (at least until i can get properly situated). *** post gotg vol. 3 mantis changes her name and now goes by mavis.

links,

headcanons. memes/prompts.

story,

the first thing you remember about ego is wrapping your small finger around his larger one and feeling such a sharp disappointment that it takes your breath away. it tastes sour in your mouth and leaves an unpleasant imprint behind your eyes. you chase it away with something you think is sweet, something leftover from fuzzy memories of someone who might've been your mother. ego looks down at you then, disappointment dissipating into something else, a spark of interest.

you don't really understand loneliness until master brings the first child back. she's a small thing, little and pink and terrified. you reach out to touch and the fear leaves you shaking, blinking away tears. ego says calm. you put your hand on her head and you say calm. three days later and you can feel his frustration leaking through again, as if it's coming up through the soil. pollee reaches for your hand and you see it so clearly, the yawning chasm that is her loneliness, and you recognise it as the same hole that's been growing inside you. pollee shows you family and love and fear and sadness. all you can give her is a brief moment of peace, before ego takes her away.

sometimes you wander down into the caverns and don't come out for days. you talk to what remains of pollee and tell her how you hope one day ego will find what he's looking for. you crawl into little spaces and sit there and wonder if you wish hard enough, if anything will change. nothing does. and then varex arrives. a little older than any of the other kids had been, and so much angrier too. you touch them and learn of rage, of fury, but compassion too. varex speaks of their home planet with such longing it makes you yearn too. we can make it out, the two of us, they promise. but ego is all you have ever known, is all you will ever know, and ego is so much more powerful than two kids who don't know much of anything yet. in the caverns you place varex's head next to pollee's, and you spend two whole days bent over what's left of them, crying. no one had to teach you grief. no one had to teach you guilt.

there is hope in your master's eyes, bright and sparkling, after long years of disappointment and frustration. and you are scared. you are terrified. you meet peter. he is nothing like ego, not really, but none of his other children had ever been either. you always find it a relief. you think of varex, of the countless children who'd never once thought to give up, when drax stands behind you and says he believes. you shut your eyes and you think of a future that is all ego, only ego. you say, sleep.

the guardians bring you into the fold as if there's no question about it. they teach you about family, about the kind of anger that's tinged with fondness, the kind of love that's laced with exasperation. you don't get to have this family for long, before gamora is ripped from you, before you disappear in a cloud of dust.

time goes on. you come back, you rebuild, you wander around space trying to help those who need it. but there's this... itch. something that keeps bothering you whenever there's any quiet, whenever you're alone with your thoughts. you wonder if you've ever made a single choice in your life.

the universe will not give you opportunities, so you make your own. rocket is alive. so gloriously, wonderfully alive. they all are. you leave your family knowing you can come back, knowing you have much more than just a brother to rely on.

you travel the planets. you pick up new names and drop them just as fast. you meet people, you help people, maybe sometimes you even trouble them. there is an entire world of possibilities out there, an entire galaxy to explore. you're not wasting a single second.

[rosehearrt]

He is perfectly capable of scoring most of his papers as long as the tests were theories, but the truth is Jade is as disinterested in the human’s definition of academics as much every other non-human student present. 

He pushes himself to study for the subjects that he at least found mildly amusing, but some of them were far too pointless even for his taste. Why would they need to study P.E.? He’s never had use for legs his entire life until the very moment Azul dragged him onto land. The need to learn the name of every bone and muscles on legs seemed ridiculous when it’s forgettable once they graduate and return to the Coral Sea. 

His eyes fall upon the marked papers Vargas has just distributed back to them, gaze lingering over the large two-digit numbers circled in red. He barely passed, but at least he did. It was the bare minimum that he could hoped for. 

Next to him, he catches sight of Riddle’s score. While eels were generally born with terrible eyesight it wasn’t too difficult to catch of glimpse of a blurry and smudged three-figure number. Well... it isn’t like Riddle’s perfect scores were a secret to the campus. He can’t say that he’s surprised. 

“I see you’ve once again managed to secure a full mark, Riddle. You have my congratulations.” 

Another day, another returned test. Another perfect score…despite gym being his worst subject. He had to work hard on the writing tests and flying evaluations to make up for his slow running times, just as he had to push himself hard when it came to fitness tests ( though he didn’t do terribly on those ). Certainly, Riddle was a boy prodigal by nature, his brain an endless chasm of knowledge and capabilities that had always exceeded his peers, but that didn’t mean he didn’t still have to put in plenty of time and effort towards studying in order to gain and maintain this information.

Though these days, admittedly, seeing that perfect score, holding the paper in his hands…it didn’t feel as fulfilling as it used to, before…everything. But had it ever? Sometimes he questioned whether he’d only fooled himself into thinking certain things because they were what he’d been told to think. That maybe fulfillment didn’t come from being the top student in his grade, or getting the best marks. He was unsure…but nowadays, he certainly felt the emptiness that lingered inside of him ( not unlike a gaping wound ) more strongly than he ever had before.

Without realizing it, his fingers had tightened, crumpling the paper slightly as he fell awash with some strong melancholy…it was only the sound of Jade’s voice that eventually broke the spell. He blinked, looked down at his paper, loosened his grip, and finally turned to the eel at his side. Mother would undoubtedly be aghast over the idea anyone would look at his score. She’d say it was rude.

Riddle didn’t really mind. Especially not with Jade, who he’d come to find over time was surprisingly sincere whenever he deemed fit to hand out praise. 

“…Thank you.”

A small sigh. After a moment of thought, he held out his hand expectantly, his gaze fixed on Jade’s paper. He wasn’t looking closely enough to see anything, only to make his desires clear. Once it was placed in his hand, permission given, only then did he take in the score. It…wasn’t great. Passing, but barely. Which was a surprise.

“…Jade, what is this…?” 

He furrowed his brow, confused.

“You’re far more intelligent than a good portion of our higher-scoring classmates. I know that. Why does your test not reflect it?”

To someone like Riddle, who’d lived a life only for the sake of academics, it didn’t make sense. To be that smart, but to choose not to use it in certain areas of life for whatever reason, it was strange. Of course he’d voice that as well - Riddle had never been the type who was able to keep his mouth shut.

“Is it the material…? I suppose we do all have subjects we’re less strong in…it can be difficult to devote extra time to studying when doing business with Azul, tending to your club, and fulfilling your duties as vice…”

Riddle himself hardly slept, and at times he found himself studying at unspeakable hours, but he couldn’t simply suggest something like that. Even he knew it wasn’t ideal behavior. Which left a single viable solution if he wanted to be sure to give Jade sound advice that could better his outcomes in future exams definitively.

“…But. This can be remedied. If you should like, I can look through my schedule - we could study together. A study partner to give mock exams and provide support can prove extremely helpful to those struggling to find the time for it on their own. Actually, I wouldn’t be opposed to having another to assist me with my flash cards either…it would likely prove to be far less dull than doing it on my own…”

[lordsheol]

   So, important news first: I have lost two fingers.

[clarissalance]

A sneak peck on the corner of your lips

Pairing: Xingqiu x G/N!reader, Chongyun, mention of Xiangling and Liyue trio

Warning: a peck, hugging, reader and Xingqiu are the same age 

Word count: 3943

Summary: You are going on a ghost-hunting trip with Chongyun and Xingqiu to Mingyun village.

A/N: Last time I said I’m going to write shorter fic, well, my fingers accidentally slip and tada, here it is. I feel like this Xingqiu is a little bit too shy compare to the game but I want to make him blush (or any character in general). This one takes me quite a long time to write but I hope you all enjoy it. Maybe I should write Venti next, I totally forgot his birthday until my feed was flooded with his fanart. I’m sorry Bartobas ;-;   Anyhow, please shower Xingqiu with a lot of love!! He’s the reason why I can pass abyss floor 11. 

Picture credit: Pinterest. ( I really don’t know the author of this picture. If you find the source, please comment so I can add. Thank you (❁´◡`❁) ) 

Hanging out with the Liyuen trio has always been an adventure full of thrill and excitement. Usually, there would be someone who ends up with all troubles and mischiefs the other two sets up. Chongyun is our center, holding a strike 10 times in a row, while Xiangling sometimes gets bombed by them, but it’s nothing compared to our popsicle boy. Xingqiu, you have never heard of him getting into any troubles, but he has been the famous one in the town for plotting pranks and tricks. The victim is Chongyun, and he’s somehow still very oblivious, despite many times falling into the holes.

Maybe the boy is just too naïve and trusting for his own good. 

“ Xiangling is not coming today. ”  Xingqiu announces, successful getting your attention and Chongyun’s.  “She’s busy with the restaurant, so today, there will be only three of us.” Letting out a commital sound, you return your focus back onto the unfinished charm on your hand, fingers skillfully waving through the strings. 

“ Guess we’re off to Mingyun then.” Chongyun stands up abruptly from his seat, the sound of clothes rustling together. “I got a reliable intel this time about a ghost there.” 

Glance up from the unfinished charm, you shoot a questioning look to Xingqiu, to which he sends you a wink and a charming smile. The source of ‘reliable intel’ Chongyun is telling you here definitely comes from Xingqiu. Somehow, the boy has managed to stay away from the Chongyun’s suspicion list, even after those obvious unrealistic intel disguise as pranks. You wonder how has he manage to deceive the poor exorcist this time. 

“Chongyun, there are only hilichurls in Mingyun village. No one is there.” You state the obvious. How can he fall for this so many times? The light blue hair boy turns at you and tilts his head in confusion, waiting for you to anticipate more details. He is really dense, isn’t he? 

“ So, how did you get intel about a spirit at the place if there is no one lives there?” Letting out a huff, you fold your arm, feet tapping impatiently.  

“ Someone sends me the request this morning.” He pulls out a white envelope in his pocket and hands it to you, smiling a bit enthusiastically. The envelope has no trace that indicates sender, yet the exorcist assures you it’s a reliable source. You have no idea what his standard of ‘reliable' is anymore. 

Inside the envelope is an expensive-looking card, the curving and neat writing dances on the piece. Bringing the paper closer, you can faintly make out the scent of floral perfume mingles with the fresh wooden smell of crisp paper. “By the look, this looks more like a love letter than a request of exorcism to me. You’re sure it’s not from one of the maidens?” A little further away, you can hear the sound of someone choking on breath and a muffled laugh. Chongyun then mutters something about no one would send him a love letter anyway. Oh, so he doesn’t know then. Did this boy live under a rock or something? 

This is too well-crafted for a mere prank. Did Xingqiu handwriting improve this much over the past month? Eyeing the blue boy suspiciously, you carefully watch his interaction with the young exorcist while reading the content. 

This letter is pretty legit, but you’re still very suspicious of a certain someone over there who meticulously crafts this. If you ask, will he answer truthfully or skit around the subject again? 

Putting the card back into the envelop and return them to Chongyun, you finally raise your hand in defeat. Coming with them might be a better solution, in case the exorcist condition gets out of control, you can help Xingqiu carry him back.  

“Fine, let’s see the spirit ourselves then.” You stand up, hand dusting your clothes. “ If we’re lucky enough, we might be able to see the adepti on the mountain before catching the ghost.” Shrugging, you beam brightly at the shoulder-shaking Xingqiu and the scratching-head Chongyun. You can already guess what will happen in the village after so many times witnessing Xingqiu’s prank. Is this what we called… experiences? 

---

Mingyun village is located on a mountain and surrounded by many dried up ores mines, which result in people leaving their homes and moves to the Chasm and Harbor. As your group slowly trek to the written address, you notice an unusually high activity of hilichurls. It’s common for them to move to an abandoned village but isn’t this a little too much? From broken bridge connect the Guili Plain, there are many groups clustering, wandering among themselves. Even Chongyun tries to avoid them, not jumping on their head as usual. 

Imagine fighting this many hilichurls, you don’t think your group can make it back to the harbour in one piece. Padding quietly, you walk faster toward Xingqiu, hoping to stick close to him. At least if fighting is bounded to happen, he can protect you. The young master still keeps his unfazed face, following Chongyun while eyes glued on his book. You remember he already finished reading this book?   

“ Psstt.” You whisper. “ Are you sure we’re heading the right way? That direction is crowded with monsters.” From here, they can barely see the beast but you can sense an abundant amount over there. 

“ It’s this way. It’s marked on the map.” Chongyun answers, eyestrain on a piece of paper, which results in his misstep and tripping. Behind, Xingqiu looks up and worriedly calls out to be careful. You trust Chongyun map-reading skill, but right now, you’re very concerned about his navigation. How can he navigating if he does not even look at the road? 

As the scorching sun blazing down the heat, big droplets of sweat dripping down your forehead, and your shirt starts to stick on your skin. Ah, you forgot summer has arrived. The path is sun-drenched, not a single shade can be found. The sweltering heat in this village is almost unbearable, despite the area is borderline with Dragonspine. How can not a single breeze from Dragonspine drift to this area? 

As you lazily following the group, your mind starts going into vacation mode. You imagine staying under the shade, enjoy the cool breeze and munching ice cream. The village is quite close to Yaoguang Shoal, maybe you can convince the guys to head down there after they finish their task. In this weather, dipping your feet in the cold water while enjoying popsicles are the best. Stealing some from Chongyun might not be that bad. 

Next to you, the Chongyun and Xingqiu are not affected as much as you, maybe because they carry visions? You wonder how their visions help them to cool down? 

“ Xingqiu.”  You call, hand fanning your face. The boy looks up from his book, humming, unfazed by the boiling weather. Is he not feeling hot at all? Under all of those long sleeve shirt? 

“Can we hold hand?”

As soon as the question leaves your mouth, some things don’t feel right. Did you phrase it, a little bit weird? 

The cerulean-haired boy chokes on his saliva, eyes widen in surprise, almost drop his precious rare novel. You think you definitely phrase it wrong. 

“ Are you okay?” Chongyun turns back abruptly after noticing the coughing sound, his blue eyes filled with worries.

Xingqiu shakes his head and waves his hand, motioning the exorcist to turns back to his map. After a few second of heaving, he finally returns back to normal, shooting you stinky eyes and put his book away. It’s not your fault that he chokes on his own saliva. He chokes it by himself. 

“Why would you want… to hold my hand?” Xingqiu questions, cringing at his cracking voice. 

“Don’t you feel hot under this weather?” You point your finger at the sky, bright rays hitting your face. Xingqiu nods in confusion, still not understand how your request related to this question. 

“If we hold hand, maybe you can share with me some of your coolness.” 

Xingqiu stares owlishly at you, and you elaborate more on how the pyro transfers heat through physical touch, and maybe, hydro has a similar mechanism. 

As you explain, you notice how his shoulders shaking, while his face remains perfectly calm, except for the betraying light curve on his mouth. Is he trying to contain his smile? 

Finally, Xingqiu folds in half and blurts out in laughter, tears forming at the corner of his eyes. In between his howling, the boy breathlessly explains how you misunderstand the elements and visions aren't used for this situation.   

Potato, potato, you don’t believe the mischievous vision-holder over there has never tried using his vision for different purposes other than fighting.  

Your face burns up, you’re not sure if it’s because of the burning sun, or the embarrassment caused by the hydro user over there. Pouting, you turn away from him, stomping toward Chongyun direction instead.  

Hmph, if Xingqiu isn’t going to help you to cool down, then you’d have to ask the exorcist. Somehow, you already know the man is going to hesitate because it might disturb his congenital condition. Well, you’re just going to bribe him with two or three popsicles when you are coming back to the harbour. Nothing a little money can’t fix. And maybe a lot of persuasions too.

As soon as you make your mind, you rush toward Chongyun, calling out for the cryo user. The exorcist is a distance away from you both, and he doesn’t turn back even when you call out for him. Does this mean he didn’t hear the conversation between you and Xingqiu? 

   Casually skipping toward Chongyun, you call for him again-

“Chongyun, can I... ” before, suddenly hands from behind wrap around your neck, pull you into a wall of meat. You wince at the hard collision with the chest, sensation of callous fingers on your shoulder bring your longing desired: Coolness. Surprised by the sudden touch, you shoot your eyes wide open and crane your neck behind, immediately meet with a sly amber orb. 

What is he doing?

Followed by your call, Chongyun curiously turns back and his gentle light blue eyes unwavering. He doesn’t seem to be surprised at this scene. 

Does Xingqiu always this touchy? 

The young exorcist raises his brows at you but behind, Xingqiu waves his hand dismissive, successfully driving the young boy away, even before you can form your word. 

You see the exorcist shrugs and turns his attention back on the piece of paper, heading deeper into the abandoned village, distance between the cryo users and you two starts to grow.

You gawk shockingly into his small figure starts to get smaller, mouth gapes open slightly. 

Did Chongyun just leave you behind? What kind of cold-heart friend is he? He definitely saw you are being held back by Xingqiu, right? 

Behind, you hear Xingqiu mumbles something about Chongyun being ‘unbelievable’, ‘workaholic’ and ‘careless friend’. Shouldn’t you be the one who says that?   

All of a sudden, you realize your back touching his chest, his hands wrap around you from behind. From here, you can smell the faint vanilla and a mix of woody, musk scent. 

He reminds you of old books, the feeling of immersing yourself in a dusty library. 

Blood rushing to your face, and the first thing that comes to your mind is to escape from his hold. The hydro user somehow able to read your mind, his grip tightens, holding you close. 

In an intimate position, with you both fall in silence, your senses suddenly heighten. Even separated by layers of clothes, you can still feel the heat from Xingqiu. The rapid beat of your heart thumping in your rib cage, the coolness from his palm seeping slowly into your skin. 

Somehow his touch doesn’t cool you but heating you up more, your body slowly burns up like a furnace. “ C-can you let me go ?” You stutter, squirming helplessly inside the young hydro user, avoiding his teasing gaze.  

“ You asked me to touch you, so I comply with my liege's request.” 

“ I didn't ask you to touch me.” You quip back at the shameless hydro user, body twisting weakly inside his hold, the sound of clothes rustling. How come you both learn martial arts, yet your strength is nothing compared to him?  

“ This is not holding a hand.” You point out at his long arms wrap just under your neck, sulky. “ And stop hugging me. It’s burning in here.” 

Xingqiu gives you a grin, amber orbs shoot you a questioning gaze. Well, it’s not true. His long-sleeved are rolled up, exposing the long slender arms, now is pressing on the thin layer of fabric, resonating with coolness. It feels like hydro is running under the vein of his arm. His fingers wrap on your shoulder, constantly transferring the calming sensation of flowing water. 

 “Isn’t this position more efficient than holding hand?” The hydro lazily rests his face on your shoulder, smirking devilishly. You have to admit this is much cooler than holding a hand, but this is too intimate. Flustered by his alluring gaze, you turn your head away, feet start moving toward the exorcist direction. 

“W-we sh-ould catching up with Chongyun, he’s quite far away.” Stammering like a mess, you point your finger at the general direction where the exorcist was heading, the image of a light blue boy is getting smaller, slowly mending into the heat under the scorching furnace resting on your head. A chuckle is followed, but Xingqiu doesn’t say anything else, hands still wrap loosely around you, trailing steps after you. 

You are too naïve to think that walking fast will break his hold. The young master of Feiyun Commerce Guild has proved your effort is futile. He effortlessly adjusts to your pace even when you purposefully try to quicken your step or stop abruptly. He doesn’t faze by your antic, instead, leaning close to your ear and blow hot air into your ears teasingly, knowing well how flustered you are. 

From here, you can see Chongyun still having his eyes glued on the piece of paper, still not noticing his companions drift far behind him. Indeed he is careless, maybe you two should keep a close distance to protect him. 

“ Are you getting cooler?” Xingqiu suddenly leans close, his face just a few inches away from yours. 

You hold your breath in silence, heart almost drops at his close proximation. Can he not scare you like that? “ It's getting cooler.” As much as you tempted to elbow the hydro user away, you know how hot it will be without having his arms wrap around you, so you easily give in. 

The two of you keep a decent pace while the boy wraps his hand around you, clinging like a koala. Look around, you realize this place is mostly dry trees somehow manage to root in the barren soil, broken wagons and holed baskets lying around in this place. Luckily, this area has much fewer hilichurls compares to the entrance of the village. Look like they’re also trying to find a shade in this weather. This place is closed to Dragonspine, and you still have no idea how the land doesn’t receive a single cool breeze from the frosted city.  

“Why did you pull me back earlier?” Hesitantly, you ask him. 

Xingqiu let out a confusing sound, not registering your question. Should you elaborate some more?     

  “When I was calling out to Chongyun.” You quickly add, trying to keep your voice steady and casual.  

“ Oh, that.” He hums, his arms tighten around you. Why did he even hold you closer than before? You didn’t try to pry off his hug, why all of a sudden? 

“ Because…  you were… about to ask Chongyun to h-hold your hand right?” Freeze at his words, you twist your neck, curious at the face he is making right now. It’s rare for him to sound this uncertain about something. As a second son of the Guild Manager of one of the biggest trading guild in Liyue, the young man has been trained to speak with perfection. Every word coming from this young man is carefully formulated and spoken with utmost confidence. 

 As you face him, the young man furrows his brows, amber eyes fill with hesitant and worried. Why is he acting like this? A sudden wave of guilt washing your stomach, uneasiness slowly sinks deep into your skin. 

You… are not supposed to call out for Chongyun?

 “ B-but you laugh at me when I explain about the coolness exchange?” Tilting your head in confusion, you can’t help to not follow the hydro user thoughts. He refused you first, wasn't he? It should be normal for you to find Chongyun instead. The exorcist will probably agree to anything as long as he can help. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if I go to find Chongyun instead?” 

“And holding hand with Chongyun? Archon, no!” Your skin jumps as Xingqiu raises his voice, and you have no idea what tickles him. Why fuzzing over something so trivial like this? 

“ We always hold hands. There’s nothing wrong with it.” You can’t help to shoot back. “ You also hold his hand too.” 

“N-no, our holding hand is different.” He can weakly defend, trying to rack his brain out to think of a time when they hold hands. He gives up soon afterwards. “Besides, you shouldn’t be holding hands with anyone.” 

“ For your information, this is much more scandalous than holding hand.” You meekly point out, finger poking on his arm bares smooth skin. Twist back, you lean in closer, eyes crinkle into the shape of crescent moons. “And what’s wrong with us kids holding hand?”   

  Xingqiu can’t help but let out a defeated sigh, face drops down your shoulder and sulky buries his face in the crook of your neck.  His hot breaths tickle the sensitive skin, cerulean locks brushing your cheek. Under his breath, you can barely make out his muffle word, saying something about don’t understand. 

You slowly trek toward Chongyun’s direction, humming along with familiar tunes. Sudden changes from Chongyun and Xingqiu have no longer made you felt lonely or sadden. Boys at this age are unusual. They aren’t being closed with you as before, no longer inching close to you or hugging you from behind. They are more cautious when being close with you, more mindful when your fingers accidentally graze their.  

If you ask them directly, will they answer you why they're acting like a married woman, always jumping every time you innate skinship?   

You have a feeling they probably won't answer that. 

“ /N… Y/N! ”

Abruptly, you raise your head, forehead almost hitting with Xingqiu’s. Your face is a breath away from his, so close that you can see his long lashes fluttering like a butterfly, shying away from the captivating eyes. His porcelain skin is smooth and flawless, a sudden urge tells you to caress it. A blush slowly creeping up his cheek, and finally, the hydro user shies away, staring at the road.   

Xingqiu clears his throat. “ I was talking to you. You were spacing out again?” You can only offer him a sheepish smile. 

“ S-sorry, I was thinking about something.” 

Xingqiu looks up and stares at your face intently like he is trying to make his way into your maze-like mind. You shift away from his fierce gaze, but the hydro user is faster. His fingers easily catch your face, your cheeks fit perfectly into his cool smooth palm. Xingqiu lets out an amusing chuckle, fingers squishing your cheek playfully like a stress-reliever. 

You feel like he has you wrapped around his little finger, literally. 

“I don’t know what you were thinking, but whatever it is, it’s incorrect.” Despite the mean fingers toying your cheek, his voice is awfully soft and reassuring. Is he trying to comfort you? Carefully, you gloss your eyes over to his direction, observing the mischievous feature on his face slowly melts into a soft and mellow. 

Before you can enjoy the rare gentle side of his, the amber eyes slowly gleam with playfulness, and he leans closer, only stops when your face is just a breath away. His hot breath fanning on your cheek, tickling. He is so close to you, so close that if you tilt your head, our lips will meet. 

“ A moment ago, I said that you shouldn’t let any male hold your hand right?” His voice drops low, golden orb flickers like a torch. What is he planning again?  You carefully nod. 

He isn’t going to… bite you right? 

“ You see, holding hand...” The young man chuckles slyly, the arm was wrapped around your neck makes the way down and nudges into your hand, fingers interlocking. " can easily drifting to this." You turn back fully to face him, the other hand still glazes your cheek. 

“ They can easily slip their arm around you into a hug…” Slowly, the coolness in your palm slips away and snakes around your shoulder.  “Then, they can…” Xingqiu’s grip on your cheek slowly relaxes, fingers slowly inch down on your neck. 

Take a big gulp of saliva, you can only widen your eyes, nervously follow at the tracing fingers of his. His long digits don’t stop after wandering around your neck, they slowly creep up, follow your jaw, and then cup on your cheek. The cooling sensation you craved a moment ago now feels like frost nipping on your skin. Heart thumping loudly in the rib cage, you unconsciously hold your breath, waiting for his next move.    

In the comfortable silence, his thump delicately brushes your cheek, caressing the sensitive skin. You notice his touch is loving and delicate, it makes you want to snuggle your face into his palm, enjoying this lasting moment. 

“…then what?” You open your mouth impatiently, voice light and mushy. 

A light pinkish blush quickly dusts on his cheek, you feel the man in front of you tenses up, but he remains his eye contact with you, refuses to avoid your gaze. His lips quiver but nothing coming out. Is he… hesitating?  Finally, you hear him mumbles something quietly.   

…you

“ What ?” You cock your brows and inch closer, eyes training on his plump lip. They remain still. 

Feeling an intense gaze on your head, you feel a light squeeze on your cheek so you curiously tilt your chin up, just to see Xingqiu leans down and presses a light peck at the corner of your mouth.

His plump lips brush yours like a feather, almost non-touching. It’s soft and plush, but the moment only lasts for a few second. Abruptly, the coolness on your cheek leaves hastily, follows by his sleeveless arm around your shoulder. 

As soon as you realize what just happened, the young master of Feiyun Commerce Guild has already dashed away, leaving a burning tomato behind. You shyly lower your head, face heats up profusely.  Fingers slowly draw up to your lip, you recall the feeling of his lip touching yours. 

You feel like you can combust right here and right now.   

Unknownst to you, if you look in his direction, you might have spotted a pair of red ears and his inelegant falling on his butt.   

[fangirleaconmigo]

Eskel is wounded in a hunt, and no one in the three towns he passes on his way back to Kaer Morhen will give him aid.

Geralt has a bit of a breakdown about it.

This is Eskel x Geralt hurt/comfort fic. You can also read it as x Lambert, but that isn't explicitly defined, as this focuses on Geralt mostly. But they obviously all love each other.

About 2500 words. Rated Teen I guess? Not explicit. Now beta’ed and posted on AO3.

------

Rage pressed out from Geralt’s chest cavity, like bony fingers clawing an escape. Freezing wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He growled in frustration and shook his head to clear his vision. He brought the sledgehammer down on the last remnants of the shed. It cracked and threw splinters into the furious wind.

A throat made a scraping sound behind Geralt. He jerked in surprise, and whipped around, eyes still wild.

“Hate to interrupt, but he’s asking for you.”

Lambert looked comfortable, as though he had been leaning against the tree for an age. Geralt dropped the hammer.

“Oh.” He looked around the wreckage of the perfectly good structure that he had spent a week building. The scrapes on his knuckles and the rips in his trousers told the story of his outburst, if the ruined shed hadn’t done so. “Fuck. How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough.”

Geralt pushed his hair out of his face with fingers that were unsteady and still unsure of why they no longer gripped the handle of a hammer. Then he rubbed his eyes.

“Take a breath, big guy,” said Lambert.

Geralt’s body instinctively obeyed, and his chest expanded as he pulled in a deep breath. What he had done was setting in. “Why didn’t you stop me, then?”

Geralt knew it wasn’t Lambert’s job to stop him from having mental breakdowns, but he felt defensive. He had given himself one brief moment of self indulgence, and all of this rage had just roared into being. The thought that he didn’t actually know what was inside the yawning chasm of his own heart was terrifying.

It was also embarrassing.

“We all need to let it out sometimes.” Lambert shrugged.

Geralt began to realize how cold he was, and therefore how freezing cold Lambert must be.

“Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“Ah,” Lambert said easily, dismissing him out of hand. “It’s a relief to see someone else in this family admit to how fucked up it all is.”

Lambert did look relieved. There was recognition in his face. Kinship. Geralt felt a twinge of guilt. How lonely he must feel sometimes.

“How do you handle this? How do you get rid of it? It feels like shit.”

Lambert pressed the inside of his cheek with his tongue as he considered the question. “Being an asshole helps sometimes. Revenge is good. But don’t take my word for it, I’m not the model of fitting witcher behavior.” The last three words were said in a mimicry of Vesemir’s voice. He held both hands up in a sarcastic surrender.

Geralt thought for a moment. Lambert allowed the silence to stretch out between them.

“I know the new cleric down in Ard Carraigh has been working people up, turning them against us. It’s made everything worse,” said Geralt. The gut wrenching image of Eskel bleeding, gasping, and cradling his split open wound as town after town turned him away, blazed to life again in his mind’s eye. He clenched both fists. “It didn’t have to be that way. If only one of those motherfuckers, if only one of them had helped him...he almost...he almost died.” Geralt spat the final word and when he did, he could feel hot tears prickling his eyes.

“I know,” said Lambert. “Believe me I know. But he wants to see you, and you can’t go in there like this. Breathe.”

Geralt nodded and breathed again.

“How’s this?” offered Lambert, “If you don’t come to your senses by the time the snow melts, I promise I’ll help you come up with a really good way to fuck with that self righteous piece of shit in Ard Carraigh.”

Geralt laughed airily. “Yeah, alright.” He put his hands on his hips and waited for his thudding heart to settle.

Lambert’s eyes lit up with glee. “Really?”

Geralt nodded. “Really.”

“Alright. Now come on.” Lambert began walking towards the keep, and beckoned for him to keep pace.

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

Geralt washed his hands and cleaned his cuts. Then he changed into fresh clothes and let himself into Eskel’s room with the soft creak of a door.

Eskel lay in bed with his eyes closed. It was a large bed, piled with just about every spare quilt they had been able to find. A neat bandage was wrapped around Eskel’s stomach. Vesemir had done it as Geralt cursed himself for his shaking hands. Eskel was a shade more pale than his usual warm brown. He looked drained, of blood and of energy. The lines of his face were slack, and his hands rested with fingers laced across his chest.

The sight of him provoked a tangle of emotions in Geralt. The usual feeling gripped him of course...the one he felt whenever he saw Eskel’s familiar face...the full lips that melted him to a large helpless puddle whenever they smiled or kissed him....the round, solid shoulders that were the best place on the continent to lay your head. That bit wasn’t a mystery. It was just love. That was the most natural thing in the world for Geralt to feel for Eskel.

But the soft pink suggestion of blood beneath the white cloth kindled a very different feeling. That was the rage. Still there. There were probably not enough structures on the continent for him to destroy to sate it. Also, the slight puffiness in Eskel’s skin surrounding the bandage implied a nascent infection they would have to continue to fight off. That provoked a feeling of powerlessness that threatened to shatter him from the inside out. It intertwined with the desperation to kiss his soft stomach...to make it better somehow.

But he couldn’t make it better. He couldn’t heal him. He couldn’t protect him. He couldn’t do anything at all but be angry and fucking useless. Impotent, helpless, and fucking useless.

What good was it? He thought. What good was love, if no matter the degree of its ferocity, it would never be enough to protect the ones you loved?

For a moment he truly glimpsed the reality of his powerlessness, paired with the vulnerability of Eskel’s flesh. His body. His heart. It could just stop beating, and there would be nothing Geralt could do to help it. The breath sucked from his body, and he swayed, dizzy on his feet.

Eskel opened his eyes, and as he focused on Geralt, he blinked at the look of anguish on his face.

“Hey, wolf. Hey. I’m good. I’m here. C’mere.” He tried to lift an arm to beckon him to bed, but he winced.

His voice was soft and gentle, as though Geralt were the wounded one. That broke the spell of despair gripping him, and he rushed to Eskel’s side. He sat down gingerly next to him on the bed. Eskel leaned his head into Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt situated himself so he could wrap his arms around Eskel’s shoulders, and he dropped a kiss onto the top of his head.

Eskel made a noise of contentment. They sat there for a short moment, breathing together in the quiet room.

“Hey,” said Eskel. He looked up, concerned.

“What?” Geralt asked.

“Hey!” Eskel sat up and unwound Geralt’s arms from his shoulders. He squeezed Geralt’s hands in his. “You’re trembling. What’s going on? What are these scrapes from? Are you hurt?”

Geralt snorted and gently pulled his hands back, tucking them at his side. He was too much of a mess to hide his little breakdown. He would have to explain just a bit. “No. You’re the one that’s hurt. I’m fine. Just. You know. I hate...I hate seeing you hurt.”

Eskel tilted his head. “I said I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

Eskel looked at him quizzically, and dug Geralt's hands back from his sides and clasped them again. He swept his thumb gently below his injured knuckles.

“This is our job, Geralt. Our life. We’ve been doing it for almost eighty years.”

Geralt swallowed. It was true. He felt ridiculous, of course. And defensive. Like he needed to explain himself.

“I know. I know.” He thought of why this was different. But it really wasn’t. Factually, this was just another hunt. Another instance of humans treating them like garbage. He shouldn’t care anymore. And yet? “And most of the time,” he pressed ahead, “I don’t notice. Wounds. Dressings. Combat. The sun rises, the sun sets. It is what it is. I tell myself that all the time. Why worry about something you can’t change?”

Eskel touched a stray bit of Geralt’s hair and tucked it behind his ear. “Then what? What was different about this one?”

He sounded so gentle. He was always so gentle. Geralt couldn’t bear it sometimes.

“Nothing,” he choked out. “There was nothing different about it. It’s just that sometimes...” he leaned back against the bedframe and looked at the ceiling. He just couldn’t look at Eskel right now. “Sometimes I look at you,” he continued haltingly, “and I see the bruises. I see the wounds.”

“You don’t usually see them?” Eskel was teasing him lightly, trying to make him smile.

“Not really. They’re just things to fix. Things to bandage. Things to watch disappear and then on to the next hunt.” He was silent for a good long stretch. Eskel didn’t fill it. He just brushed the palms of his hand and waited. “But then. Every once in a while, I see them for what they are. They are things and people who hurt you. Who stood there, and fucking hurt you. Who saw you as a thing to hurt. And I want to burn down the whole world.”

He pretended that he didn't notice the tear the slid down his cheek.

He finally looked at Eskel, who was sitting up now and watching him intently, with a complicated look on his face.

“Geralt. I’m fine.”

Geralt looked away again, dragging his arm across his face to dry it. “But you almost weren’t.” His voice insisted on breaking, against his will. He cleared his throat. “You could have died. And why? Because no one in three towns would help you? People who you’ve helped countless times??” He felt the thudding rage threaten to swell again like the first ripples of a tsunami.

“Geralt,” Eskel touched his chin. Geralt turned, and was rewarded with a soft look and a kiss. “I don’t have your pretty face, wolf. Even if I weren’t a witcher, they would react the way they do.”

Geralt knew it was true. Eskel’s looming size. His voice. The way his eyes seemed to glow. The scars. All things he loved. But not everyone else did. He clenched his fists. “Idiots.”

Eskel loosened his fingers and clasped them again. “It’s been ages since I got the scars. I’m used to it.”

“Yeah well. You shouldn’t have to be,” hissed Geralt. “Sometimes,” he remembered Lambert’s voice telling him to breathe, so he did. Eskel watched him with concern and something else. Affection. That was it. “Sometimes," Geralt tried again. “I just want you to have the gentle life that you deserve.”

And there it was. As sensible, as strong as Geralt tried to be...as he was, sometimes he was like a little child stamping about how unfair the world was. How he wished it were different. Ridiculous. Fucking stupid.

He waited for Eskel to tell him again that he was fine. To be practical, like he always was. To tell him that it was better than what a lot of people got. That most of the time, he liked being a witcher. That he was good at it. Eskel was like that. Even. Solid. Where Lambert wanted to punch destiny in its smug face, and Geralt hid from the spiteful bitch, Eskel just rode it. Like a ship on a wave. Sometimes he and Lambert resented his ability to do that.

But Eskel didn’t do any of that. He looked at Geralt, and his expression was so raw that Geralt was taken aback. And he was taken back. That was a look he hadn’t seen in many years. It wiped about seventy years away from Eskel’s face. Geralt was transported to this same room. But instead of a large bed, there were two bunkbeds. And instead of two grizzled witchers, there were two small, hopeful, frightened boys, who loved without wariness. Without skepticism. Without doubts.

Eskel pulled his hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle softly, in turn.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice husky.

Geralt shook his head. “Ah, for what? Me being angry doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t help you heal faster.”

“You don’t know that. It might.”

Eskel patted the blanket covering him. “Crawl in with me wolf. We’ll huddle together until it passes.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth twitched into the hint of a smile despite himself. It was what Eskel used to say when Geralt had nightmares and he would stand stupidly around Eskel’s bed, hoping to be invited in. Geralt had always made up some excuse to accept his kindness. Something that wouldn’t be interpreted as weakness.

“Alright, but only because I want to keep you safe.”

Eskel grinned his lopsided, perfect grin. “I feel safer already.” That was what he used to say. Even as a child he knew how to respond to Geralt. How to handle his pride and his need to be the hero.

Geralt slid under the covers, still fully clothed. He laid his head on Eskel’s shoulder and gingerly draped his arm across his chest, avoiding his injury. With his free hand, Eskel turned his chin to face him.

They kissed, slow and unhurried. Geralt barely pressed against his lips, his fingers ghosting Eskel’s cheek. They could have kissed for a minute, or an hour, or a day. Geralt lost track of time, love settling in his chest and chasing away the rage and the fear. He could also hear Eskel’s pulse growing more steady. He could see that some color had already returned to his cheeks.

Maybe he wasn’t so useless after all.

Then, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” Eskel called.

Lambert swung open the door and stood there with a shit eating grin. “Did Geralt tell you we’re gonna go down to Ard Carraigh and really stick it to some piece of shit priest? We’re gonna work out how to make him really suffer.”

Eskel raised his eyebrows and turned to Geralt.

Geralt shrugged. “I’m not saying I won’t.”

Lambert laughed and took stock of the two of them. “Look at you. Two bugs snug in a rug.”

“Come on,” said Eskel. “You too.” He patted the bed on the other side of him. Lambert’s grin stretched wider and he clambered in, pressing up against Eskel, warming himself with relish. He reminded Geralt of a blissed out lizard sunning himself on a rock. Eskel managed to turn enough to plant a kiss on Lambert’s cheek.

Lambert made that noise he always made when he loved something but didn’t want to admit it. It was like a combination of a snort and a laugh.

And when Vesemir came into the room in the morning to check Eskel’s dressing, he found them all asleep side by side.

He chuckled and watched them for a moment as they drooled and snored against one other.

The remaining Kaer Morhen wolves, together.

It was as it should be, how it always was, and how it would ever be.

They needed each other, after all.

[tripleaxeldiaz]

elmosolyodni for the wordstuck prompts 💕

elmosolyodni: to slowly break out into a genuine smile when being overcome with emotions, like love or utter happiness.

read on ao3

As much as he wanted it to be, as much as he wanted it for himself, Eddie’s never been great at romance. 

His proposal to Shannon was more like a suggestion, a stuttering statement that tumbled out of him when she showed him the positive test six months after their first date. And he didn’t give it much thought again — didn’t have time to think about it — until a couple months into his tour, when his team was swapping stories about wives and husbands over dinner and someone asked, “So Diaz, how’d you pop the question?”

The fact that he didn’t have a story to tell stung more than he thought it would.

He tried to make it up to her — bought her flowers when he was home, took her out for their anniversary every year, but between parenthood and redeployment and the growing chasm between them when he came back the second time, any notion of romance felt harder and harder to hold onto. And when she left, amid the panic and shame and anger, there was also a sadness, a resignation that the romance he’d quietly craved just wasn’t meant for him. He had bills to pay, a kid to take care of, a life to rebuild. Sweeping gestures from him or for him no longer seemed important.

That all changed when he met Buck, as most things in his life did.

Even before they started dating, Eddie wanted to do things for Buck. He wanted to buy him the shirt in the window display that reminded him of his eyes, wanted to make sure that they always had his weird Icelandic yogurt in the fridge for when he stayed over, wanted to wrap him up when he got that broken look on his face and remind him that he is loved by everyone and especially by Eddie. It was a physical need, one he felt in his gut every time, but he’d shut that part of himself off so firmly that all he could do was hope it didn’t linger too long. Buck needed a friend, and he’d be damned if he did anything stupid enough to ruin what they already had, what they’d already built.

It took a bullet ripping through his abdomen to make him realize what a terrible idea that had been.

But a year later wounds are healed, PT is long done, and he wakes up next to Buck every morning feeling happier than he has in almost a decade. He gets to buy the shirt for him, stock up on yogurt, and press himself into Buck’s space until his eyes get their spark back. He can fantasize about the house they’ll buy or the dogs they’ll adopt once Chris moves out.

He can see a titanium ring in the display case of the jewelry store at the mall and perfectly imagine what it would look like on Buck’s finger.

And he can make it all the way to his truck after buying it before the panic starts to set it.

He doesn’t register driving to Maddie and Chim’s until he’s frantically knocking on the door, hoping he heard Buck right and that Maddie’s off today taking care of a sick Jee-yun. The door flies open, and he sees Maddie’s face go from pissed to surprised to confused as she zeros in on the velvet box held limply in his hand.

“Uh, Eddie, that’s really sweet, but there are a lot of reasons why this would never work.”

His laugh is borderline hysterical as he gently pushes into the apartment. “It’s for Buck, but I— we haven’t really— I don’t even know if—” He doesn’t realize he’s pacing until Maddie takes his elbow and steers him to the couch, hands him a glass of water, and pushes him to sit.

“Breathe. Drink,” she says, and he does as his mind keeps spinning. She sets the empty glass on the coffee table and sits in the armchair across from him. “Okay. You want to propose. That’s a good thing, right?”

“Of course.” It’s the best thing, at the very top of a list of things he thought were untoppable.

“Have you guys talked about getting married?”

It wasn’t so much a conversation as a shift in language — one day the phrase “if we get married” changed to “when we get married” and neither of them thought twice about it because it felt so right.

“Sort of,” he settles on.

“And you’re sure he’d say yes?”

“Yes.” There’s few things in life he’s ever been so sure of, no matter what his earlier panic was making him think.

“So what’s the problem?”

He slumps back on the couch, hands running through his hair. “I don’t know how to do it.”

Maddie squints at him. “Eddie, it’s a pretty hard thing to mess up. And you’ve already been married, so don’t you have some practice?”

“That was different,” he says. “Shannon was already pregnant, it was more like a to-do list item than anything else. I didn’t even get her a ring until a couple months later.”

“Well you’re already a step ahead there, so that’s good.”

He sighs, pulling the ring box out of his pocket again and opening it. The thin line of silver running through the black glints in the sunlight, and he can still picture Buck wearing it so clearly, he’s just not sure how it gets there. All he knows is this aching need he can feel in his chest to make sure that however he does it, it’s enough — more than enough — that Buck knows exactly how deep his love runs, exactly how desperately Eddie needs him in his life and by his side.

Maddie moves to sit next to him and takes the box, and Eddie falls back into the cushions again. “I just want it to be perfect for him,” he says quietly. “Romantic. All the stuff people dream about when they think about getting engaged. But I have no idea how to do that.”

Maddie studies the ring for a minute before shutting the box, pressing it into his hand until he looks her in the eye. Her gaze is steady, piercing, and very (scarily) reminiscent of her brother’s. “You are asking him to marry you. It’s already perfect.” The reassurance helps, and it’s easy to smile back at her when she squeezes his hand. 

“But,” she says, reaching for a pen and notebook on the coffee table, “a little romance never killed anyone, so let’s make some lists and figure out what you do and don’t want to do.”

Lists sound good. Eddie can work with lists.

“Rule number one,” she says, already scribbling, “no sporting events. Nothing kills the mood faster than seeing your face on a Jumbotron…”

~~~~~~~~~~

In the end, none of the lists really matter.

Because two weeks later, they’re sitting on the back patio after dinner, night air cool and lit up around them by the lights Chris insisted on hanging for his last backyard sleepover. Buck’s going on about a patient who tried to insist he could do CPR on himself, and Eddie’s hypnotized by his enthusiasm, the expressiveness of his hands and the joyful blush on his cheeks. He says something that makes both of them laugh, bubbling through the quiet of the neighborhood, and Eddie knows, immediately and with every part of him.

He has to ask Buck now. It’s not the candlelit dinner and walk on the beach he’d decided on with Maddie, nor is it even close to as big and bold as anything else they’d come up with. But none of that matters now because his skin is buzzing and his heart is pounding and he doesn’t want the ring burning in his pocket a minute longer — he wants to swear himself to Buck right here, in this moment that is extraordinarily ordinary and perfectly them. This is a story he wants to tell people over and over, to their family and friends and anyone else who will listen.

The universe must still be trying to make up for the hell it put him through last year, because the playlist coming through their portable speaker changes to something softer, romantic, and Eddie takes his chance before he talks himself out of it.

“Dance with me,” he says, standing and offering his hand to Buck. 

“I’m sorry, are my stories boring?” Buck laughs as he takes his hand, folding into Eddie’s space like he’s always meant to be there, arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him close.

“Never,” Eddie says, and he pauses, because the one thing he and Maddie didn’t talk about was what he actually wanted to say to Buck when he asked. And now that he’s here with very little preparation, the huge, all-encompassing feelings he has for Buck refuse to be wrangled into a few measly sentences. None of the words he can think of feel big enough to capture how deeply his love runs, and he can feel his skin start buzzing for a much more unpleasant reason.

Hands squeeze his waist, zoning him back in and focusing him on Buck, on the crease between his eyebrows and the worry around his mouth. “Everything okay?” he asks, because he always knows when Eddie gets lost in himself, sometimes even before Eddie figures it out. 

Buck knows him better than he knows himself. He doesn’t need big, poetic monologues for Buck to understand what’s going on inside his head.

The buzzing changes again, fueling his determination as he slips his hand into his pocket. “I love you. So much it’s almost scary. But I’m more scared of spending the rest of my life without you,” he holds the ring up between them, “so will you marry me?”

Buck freezes, stopping them both from swaying with the music. Eddie watches his eyes flit between the ring and Eddie and back again, holding his breath as he waits for an answer. Finally, Buck’s eyes lock on Eddie and stay there, a soft smile growing and growing until it’s so incandescently bright that Eddie’s afraid he might have to look away or risk losing his vision.

And then, just as quickly, Buck drops his hands from Eddie’s waist and runs back into the house.

Eddie honestly isn’t sure what to make of this, the only thought running through his head being what the fuck just happened here. But then Buck’s running back outside, still smiling and not-so-secretly holding something behind his back, and now it’s Eddie’s turn to glow.

“You’re joking,” he says quietly, cheeks already hurting from a smile that feels permanent and eyes feeling a little wet.

Buck shakes his head, his eyes shining too as he holds up the velvet box. “Bought it like a month ago when Chris and I went to buy him a new backpack, I had to bribe him with a new video game to keep him quiet. I haven’t even gotten a chance to tell Maddie yet.”

Eddie wouldn’t be surprised if the sheer amount of joy coursing through his veins was making him float a couple inches off the ground. “Is that a yes then?” he asks.

Buck’s laugh is loud and sharp, and Eddie can’t think of a more perfect sound. He takes the ring out and tosses the box aside, holding it up next to the one in Eddie’s hand. “Only if you’ll marry me too.”

It’s a flurry, then, of rings on fingers and breathless kisses and whispers of I love you, I love you so much. The whirlwind settles and they start swaying to the music again, holding each other even closer, and Eddie revels in the new weight on his hand that ties them together. He feels light and loved, completely enveloped in this romance that he’s finally able to give fully and receive just as well. 

Buck takes his hand and places a kiss just below his ring, and Eddie knows this is just the beginning. They have a lifetime of love and happiness ahead of them, and Eddie finally feels like he deserves it.

[besanii]

Hi!!! 😃 93 for the prompt thing, please!

#93 - “You’ve hurt me again and again, but I can’t stop coming back to you.”

He arrives at a little town north of Pingzhou in the middle of winter. Snow blankets the ground like carpet, thick and soft, tracking the footsteps of the townspeople in nonsensical patterns crisscrossed over it's surface.

It's not a place he had ever expected Wei Wuxian to choose to settle, recalling how bitterly he had complained about Gusu winters and its ceaseless snow; it seems his understanding of Wei Wuxian is even poorer than he had believed it to be. The thought unsettles him more than he’d prefer to admit.

No one he asks seems to have heard of the name Wei Wuxian, or Wei Ying, but when he describes his appearance, the innkeeper’s daughter exclaims: “You must be talking about Yue-gongzi!”

“Yue-gongzi?” The name is unfamiliar, but the girl nods insistently.

"Yue-gongzi is an artist!" she tells him, eyes shining with excitement. "He paints the prettiest pictures! Look!"

She thrusts a piece of paper under his nose despite her parents' protestations, waving it eagerly until Lan Wangji takes it from her. It's a fine rendering of two butterflies in blue and yellow, hovering above a magnificent red peony in full bloom. He recognises the brushwork instantly, the bold strokes and soft lines, so masterfully executed. He would know this work anywhere.

"Where does this Yue-gongzi live?" he asks.

--

He's thinner, Lan Wangji notices with a familiar pang of guilt as they stare at each other across the threshold, frozen.

His cheekbones are more prominent now, with none of the boyish charm and flush of health he'd had when they first met. His lips are paler, thinned, pressed together so tightly they may well fuse together; there are dark shadows under his eyes. He looks haunted, sickly—so frail, wrapped in a white, fur-lined cloak that almost dwarfs him in size.

"Wei Ying…" His name falls from Lan Wangji's lips in a hoarse whisper.

The sound jars Wei Wuxian out of his frozen stupor; his fingers tighten around the door until his knuckles turn white.

"What are you doing here?" he asks. His voice is quiet; Lan Wangji is taken aback by the frostiness of his tone.

"I…" he hesitates. "I've been looking for you."

For a long moment, Wei Wuxian looks at him in silence, as if assessing the truthfulness of his words. But Lan Wangji does not lie, would never lie—not to Wei Wuxian. Not even when he should have, when it would have saved them both. And Wei Wuxian knows it too, because he sighs and averts his gaze.

"Zhanshen-daren found me," he says without humour. "What business has Zhanshen-daren lowering himself to grace my humble home with his presence?"

The bitter mockery in his words slices through Lan Wangji's heart like a knife, colder than even the ice that gathers on the furs of his cloak. It is more than he deserves.

"Are you…" He swallows, clenches his fist. "Have you been well?"

A muscle tightens in Wei Wuxian's jaw.

"As well as can be expected," he replies stiffly. "Thank you Zhanshen-daren for his concern."

An awkward silence falls between them, putting Lan Wangji at a loss. Wei Wuxian had always been the one to fill the silences in the past, chattering and laughing about anything and everything that came to mind, undeterred by the lack of response. He had always had a way about him that bridged gaps between people. Lan Wangji doesn't know how to fill silences. He doesn't know how to bridge the chasm between them.

He opens his mouth, and closes it again. After a few more times, Wei Wuxian sighs heavily and moves to close the door. Sharp panic rises in his throat and Lan Wangji takes a step forward, only catching himself when Wei Wuxian freezes.

“May I...” He sucks in a breath and tries again. “May I come in?”

For a moment, he’s afraid Wei Wuxian would refuse. He would be well within his rights to as well. But Wei Wuxian only gives him a glare full of wary mistrust and reluctantly steps aside to allow him entry.

The cottage is simple and rustic, but sturdy nonetheless; all the furniture looks to be handmade, from the small table near the window to the simple bedframe barely visible behind the cloth partition. It’s a far cry from what Lan Wangji is used to, but it is clean, well-kept and spacious. He stands in the middle of the room and takes it all in, unsure of himself now that he is here.

“I live but a simple life,” Wei Wuxian tells him. “I’m afraid I have very little to offer that would meet Zhanshen-daren’s standards. If Zhanshen-daren is looking for somewhere where lodge, I would suggest the inn back in town.”

A clear dismissal. But Lan Wangji has never been one to give up that easily. He turns back to Wei Wuxian lingering in the doorway.

“Have you been here this whole time?” he asks. Wei Wuxian shrugs.

“More or less.” He stares at a spot on the wall over Lan Wangji’s right shoulder rather than meeting his eyes. “As long as you don’t cause trouble, and help out every now and then, the people here are happy to let you be.”

He coughs into his fist, thin and raspy. Wen Qing had warned him that Wei Wuxian would likely be severely weakened; the Seal was forged by the Demon God, imbued with the essence of his demonic energy—no matter how strong he is, Wei Wuxian is only a yao. Such high levels of exposure to that much demonic energy would have burned him up from the inside had his golden core not been as powerful as it were.

The very thought sends a chill down Lan Wangji’s spine. He reaches for Wei Wuxian’s wrist to check his pulse without thinking, only for it to be jerked away; he looks up to see Wei Wuxian staring at him, wide-eyed and fearful.

Wei Ying. Afraid.

Afraid of him.

“Zhanshen-daren please restrain yourself,” Wei Wuxian says stiffly, expression shuttering closed. Lan Wangji curls his outstretched hand into a fist and brings it back to his side.

“My apologies.” He opens his mouth to continue, but Wei Wuxian is already turning away, moving further into the cottage with his back resolutely facing him. “Wei Ying, I—”

He breaks off, suddenly at a loss for words. He’d thought of a thousand different scenarios that could possibly occur should he ever find Wei Wuxian again; he’d had a plan for every single one. He’d ask for forgiveness for his actions, for his misjudgment, for his naivete and foolishness, explain that they’d been mislead by Jin Guangyao, that he had believed in Wei Wuxian’s innocence all along—but all of it sounds flimsy and inconsequential now that he’s here. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. Wei Wuxian inhales, hands freezing over the shelf by the window on the other side of the room. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t—didn’t protect you. I should have spoken out, done more—”

“You did what you had to,” Wei Wuxian corrects him. His hands curl into fists. “I don’t blame you for it. You have responsibilities to your sect, to your identity as the God of War in eradicating the likes of us.” He exhales, bows his head. “We were destined to be on opposing sides, you and I. And I should have told you who I was—what I am—much sooner. Before either of us got in too deep.”

“No.” The denial comes swiftly, harsher than he’d intended, as he crosses the room in three long strides to stand behind Wei Wuxian. “You did what you had to,” he continues in a gentler voice. “You had to protect your clan. I don’t blame you for it. I never should have. I should have—”

I should have believed you, hangs between them.

Wei Wuxian shakes his head.

“You had no reason to,” he reminds him gently. “I gave you no reason to. I made that choice myself.”

Lan Wangji reaches out a trembling hand to rest on his shoulder, only for Wei Wuxian to slip away at the last moment, ducking past him towards the area partitioned off as sleeping quarters. Once again putting distance between them.

“You should go.” The dismissal cuts through the air like an arrow, straight into Lan Wangji’s chest. “It won’t be good for someone to see you here.”

“No, please!” He stumbles forward a step towards him before he catches himself, hands balled tightly into fists by his side. “Please don’t send me away, Wei Ying. Wen Qing says you are not well. I-I want to help you. Please.”

A shudder runs through the line of Wei Wuxian’s shoulders; he hunches over, hands coming up to pull his cloak tighter about him as if to ward off the chill. Lan Wangji watches him, desperately hoping that the sincerity of his of plea is heard and understood. That he would once again be able to stand by Wei Wuxian’s side and protect him, as he should have from the beginning.

The laughter that follows is soft, rueful, and it hurts Lan Wangji more than if he had thrust Bichen through his own heart.

“Lan Wangji, ah, Lan Wangji,” Wei Wuxian sighs. He half-turns, tilts his head to look back at Lan Wangji sadly. “You’ve hurt me again and again, but I can’t stop coming back to you. What grievous misdeeds have I wrought upon you in my past life that I must continue to atone for it in this one?”

He turns away again.

“It would be best for Zhanshen-daren to leave now.”

--

Translations

Zhanshen-daren (战神大人) - My Lord, the God of War

--

Notes

The Demon God is a mo (魔) demon, an evil spirit, whereas Wei Wuxian is a yao (妖) demon, a spirit formed from a non-human living creature (in this case, a vermilion bird). Yao are not necessarily evil, but they tend to be portrayed as thus in the majority of folklore—in the original drama, one of the main responsibilities of the righteous sects is to eradicate yao to prevent them from hurting humans.

The “yue” Wei Wuxian uses is 乐 from 音乐 (yinyue, music), which can also be read as le (pleasure, enjoyment, happy/cheerful)

--

buy me a ko-fi!

--

previous parts here

[rosalineandrosemary]

he reached for the sun, and the sun took his hand.

Ao3

There are benches both inside and outside of their school, even without counting the cafeteria, but they’re all encompassed by the hustle and bustle of their school. And so, when Marinette starts walking away from the school after the lunch bells ring, Felix follows like a moth to a flame. She walks past her house, waving at her maman through the windows of the bakery, and he waves too, stiffly. Her maman smiles at them, and points to the display cases to ask if they want anything. Marinette shakes her head and raises the bag she’s holding, to which Mme. Cheng nods, and they keep walking.

Marinette stops them at one of the benches in the park, and sits down in the shade. He sits down without prompting, and Marinette beams at him, a smile that could challenge the sun. He freezes and looks away, trying to hide the warmth growing in his cheeks, and pulls his lunch out of his bag. 

“Did you hear what Lila was saying in class today? Talking about her latest trips to far off places but all the images she showed you can find online with five minutes of searching. Like, it’s nice to sit by you during class, but sometimes I wish I could still sit by Alya in the seat we earned, you know?” 

He hummed in agreement, perfectly content to let her talk while he ate his lunch, but she instead let the statement hang in the air before pulling out her own lunch. 

The silence was companionable, broken only by remnants of conversation from other small student groups and the laughter of some of the playing children. Around halfway through their allotted lunch time, Marinette puts away her containers with a content noise and a full body wiggle before pulling her sketchbook from the confines of her backpack. “Do you mind if I sketch? I have a couple ideas for some outfits that I really want to get down!”

“Feel free.”

“Thanks, Fe!” She smiles again and he’s lost in it, left staring even after she’s turned away. It’s as if her smile is burned into his eyes, an entoptic phenomenon that steals his breath from his lungs. By the time he pries his eyes away, Marinette is already immersed in her designs, her tongue poking out from between her lips. He reaches into his bag to pull out his book, but none of the words stick in his mind, eyes trailing back to stare at Marinette’s quiet joy. 

Eventually he gives up, placing his book back in his bag and sitting there, staring into his own personal sun, sitting right next to him. The ice in his chest is melting into a pooling ocean and it feels like he’s about to overflow with it, surface tension being the only thing keeping his feelings from spilling out and he can’t bear to stare at her for any longer. 

He tears his eyes away, trying to turn the water back into ice, to freeze the feelings back in his chest and keep it contained, but there’s too much water and too many feelings and even if he can turn some of them into icebergs it doesn’t change the amount of water and finally everything comes spilling out. 

“It hurts to look at you sometimes, Marinette.” His words, soft as they may be, break the silence between them. She turns to look at him, endlessly blue eyes piercing into his skin, eyebrows furrowing with worry, an expression he’s seen time and time again: when he gets too close to akuma fights, when the bags under his eyes are darker and he forgoes his usual coffee order for something with more caffeine, or when she’s worrying about other people and he gets to watch the all-consuming flames of her care. 

“Felix?” Her voice is soft and confused, and it takes everything within him to not turn to look at her, to not let the words freeze on his tongue, to not shove everything he’s feeling back underneath his infamous “ice prince” persona that she so carefully took apart. 

He watches her out of his periphery, continuing to stare ahead and try to figure out how to melt the ice in his chest that he had tried so hard to freeze. He can’t take this back now. He can’t leave her with just that phrase, not with the twists and turns and dark corners all throughout her brain. “You’re incandescent, a sun of your own volition, and I fear that I am forever just going to be orbiting you at a distance.” He tightens his grip around the strap of his bag, white knuckled and shaking softly, before releasing it and stretching out his fingers. Felix sees her move, place her hands down on the bench, moving to get up, to stare him in the eyes. Her mouth is opening, an indignant cry of his name on her lips, and he feels like he’s going to burn from the inside out. 

“Please,” he croaks, voice unsteady. “Please, let me finish, Marinette.” His tone is worrying her even further, and so are his words. It’s written plain on her face, a book she never chose to lock. Her emotions are her strength and it’s awe-inspiring to see from inside his several layers of ice, carefully frozen to keep everything locked inside. She continues to melt it with ease, leaving him scrambling, but he needs to tell her.

 “Try as I might, I can’t keep this in any longer. I feel as though I am bursting at the seams, combusting. You melted the walls and pillars of ice I formed for years, nosing your way into every nook and cranny of my being, and I believe I have fallen for you.” Marinette lets out a soft gasp and he turns away, lacing his fingers around the strap of his bag once again. 

He can’t bear to see the look on her face when she rejects him. Disgust? Horror? Her quiet kind of upset, where her eyes fill with tears and she tries to stifle it, to push away her own feelings over and over again? 

He keeps talking, a desperate bid to keep himself away from the truth for as long as he can. “I apologize for the hastiness of my confession, and I hope I didn’t upset you too much. I’m sorry if I did, I truly had no intention to, but I understand if you reject me and I’d even understand if you never wished to see me again, I just wished to--”

“Felix.” Her voice stops him in his tracks, body tensing. “Felix, do you mind if I touch you?” Her voice is soft and her words kind but he flinches regardless, giving a jerky nod. He didn’t expect her to want to touch him, not after he ruined their friendship, but he tensed further as he thought of all the power contained in her body and prepared for backlash. He knew, intrinsically, that someone as kind as Marinette could never hurt someone maliciously, but that knowledge fell into the chasm of fear in his chest, and all he could hope was that she would choose to spare him, even a little. 

One of her hands enters his line of sight and he flinches, closing his eyes, before her warm hand is placed softly on his cheek, slowly turning his head to face in her direction. “Felix, I could never be upset with you for that.” Her tone is impossibly tender, her hand is still cupping his cheek, and he exhales slowly before opening his eyes. 

There are tears dripping down her cheeks, rolling down to the beaming smile stretched across her lips, and she raises her other hand to hold his face like he’s something precious. “I adore you, did you know that?” She smiles even brighter, looking him in the eyes before continuing. 

“Each pen has a specific place in your pencil case, and you change which pen you use each school period. You take your coffee with cream and sugar even though you say it’s black when anyone asks. You pretend you’re made of ice because it’s everything you’ve known, but you still care even if it’s not in your best interests. Everything about you is something to love, and I do. And you’re here. Despite everything, you’re here, not orbiting some foreign sun or wasting away in a cavern of ice. You’re right here, with me, and I am holding your face in my hands and you are beautiful.” She’s still crying, tears catching the sunlight, and she presses her forehead to his but it’s just warm. Nothing burns and she is so close and she’s not a sun, she’s simply Marinette, and he loves her more than anything he’s ever known. 

“Thank you, Marinette.” Those words, choked out his throat, try to compact everything he’s feeling into one simple statement. The love, the awe, the feeling of reaching something he never thought he would be able to reach, the pure joy filling in every gap where fear laid just moments before, like the sun rising over Paris. But instead of being that sun, Marinette is here and she is right in front of him and she is watching the sky turn pink and the darkness retreat and it may be noon but he thinks this is the prettiest sunrise he has ever seen. 

“There’s nothing to thank me for, Felix.” He smiles at her, leaning against one of her hands, placing his own on top of hers. He feels ridiculous holding his own face but she brightens impossibly more and there is blush flaring on his cheeks and he tries to look away but she’s still right there.

“Well then, how about saying I love you instead?” He tries to put confidence in his voice, but he is putty in her hands and she can tell, her smile turning from something big and beaming to something small but so fond it almost makes his chest ache. 

“I love you too, Felix.” And she locks eyes with him and looks down and he tries to nod but forgets that she’s that close and bumps heads with her instead. 

Marinette laughs and it’s joyful and he just stares at her and hopes that she can see the fondness building in his chest when he looks at her. She stops laughing and her cheeks flush to a pink color that he thinks could be his favorite color. Every part of her is his favorite color. The blue color of her hair in the light, the blue color of her eyes, the color of the faint freckles on her cheeks and the pink of her blush and he’s staring again, he knows he is, but she just smiles and places her forehead back against his. 

“Can I kiss you?” She whispers it, like they’re in their own little world, and he presses forward and kisses her first. Her lips are soft and she tastes like a fruit flavor he can’t quite recall, not with her hands on his face and her lips on his.

There aren’t fireworks, or sparks. There’s no burning or fire or hurting. There’s just him and there’s Marinette and a feeling of home and rightness like everything he’s ever wanted. 

He breaks away first, offers another whispered “I love you” against her lips before she pulls away too, far enough away that he can actually see things beyond her eyes and her cheeks and her hair. 

She moves one of her hands and he lifts his so she can take it back, and she puts on a mock-serious face that can’t hide the joy in her eyes. 

“If you ever talk about yourself that way again I’m going to fight you.” She waggles one finger at him, lips curling to conceal her laughter, and he raises his eyebrows even as he melts further into her remaining hand.

“You’re going to fight me?” 

“Yes! With love and affection and pets.” He doesn't get a chance to ask what she means by pets before her nails are scratching through his hair, and he wished he could deny the way that his eyes flutter shut at the feeling.

“You make a formidable opponent, my dear.” She giggles, moving to scratch behind his ear before the alarm goes off, telling them that they have to make their way back to school if they don’t want to be late.

She reaches her hand out to him and he takes it, lacing his fingers between hers. 

[sunsetcurvecuddles]

assuming you're still doing the prompts and i need more of this in my life so

touch starved willie ft willex?

hiii i'm So Sorry How Long This Took but have exactly what the doctor ordered <3

i've been bruised by your light | 1.6k | willex + willie&julie&the phantoms | G

--

Usually, arriving at the studio is the strangest mix between utter, overwhelming chaos, and finally feeling like he can exhale. On one hand, Willie’s arrival is greeted by a blended cacophony of tuning instruments and varying amp volumes, interrupted by cheers when someone notices his presence. The song crash-lands as Reggie yells in delight, Willie!, and Julie twirls around, lights up, almost trips on her microphone cord.

Luke complains about stopping halfway through the song, but with this huge goofy grin on his face, the kind that proves to Willie that Luke actually isn’t mad in the slightest because two moments later he unceremoniously dumps his guitar on the couch to bound over to Willie, hands outstretched, palms up. (The way Luke Patterson acts, you’d think no one had ever hurt him before.)

Finally, once the others have stopped bounding around like puppies with guests, Alex will navigate his way out from behind his drum set. His bright, nervous smile will make whatever Willie risks by coming to visit utterly worth it.

And, well. If the memory of the way they all tackle-hug him, right there on the Molina’s driveway, keeps Willie going on the days when he doesn’t think he can stand it any more, all the sneaking around and the glancing over his shoulder and the cold sweats when Caleb looks at him a moment too long -- then that’s unrelated, probably. If the only way he can hold himself together is by taking a moment, late at night in his own room, to close his eyes and envision these moments, with arms around him and chatter above him and elbows in his ribs and he doesn’t even care, where he’s surrounded by friends and their excitement and love, where his body feels real and the ache that seems to haunt his chest temporarily abates -- that’s his own business.

Today, though, when Willie arrives at the studio, he’s primarily met with an eerie silence. He knows the silence itself contains nothing ominous, and that his own afterlife experiences has left him predisposed to dread, but still. He can’t help the prickling down the back of his neck when he appears outside the studio to no sound at all. Immediately, his brain begins producing worst case scenarios: Caleb found out. Caleb found out and has taken them all as punishment. Someone scarier than Caleb got there first.

He pushes these thoughts aside, and takes stock of his surroundings. He can’t see any signs of a struggle, not that a ghost-struggle would leave many signs. The door is propped mostly closed, but it opens easily when he pushes against it. So he opens it with one hand, the other curling into the hem of his sweater.

The sight that greets him floods him with relief, like warm water dumped over his head, like surfacing out of a pool when he’s held his breath too long. At the same time, it fills him with a longing that strangles him all over again.

It looks something like this: Julie and Reggie are cuddled up on the couch, in a tangle of limbs so tightly intertwined it’s impossible to tell where one vocalist begins and another bassist ends. Reggie’s hair is all messy, like he never lets it be when he’s awake, and he’s drooling slightly. Julie’s still in her exercise gear, so Willie guesses she had dance in last period at school or she just got back from working out with Flynn. Regardless, her clothes have sweat-stains and her cheek, pressed to Reggie’s arm, is all squished up so he can hardly see her face. Luke is plastered on top of the pile, spread across them like a weird impractical blanket, snoring.

And at the end of the couch, bearing the not-inconsequential weight of three pairs of legs across his lap, Alex sits, head tilted against the back of the couch. Always the lightest sleeper of the group, though, Willie has barely drawn a breath in the studio before Alex is squirming, rubbing one hand across his eyes and sitting up, blinking against the light spilling in from the open door. He looks unfairly adorable, and on top of the relief, it makes something in Willie’s chest both soar and ache.

“Willie?”

Alex whispers, but his voice seems to echo in the space. It’s a great practice room, Willie thinks, with these kinds of acoustics. The others don’t stir; Luke carries on snoring just as steadily as before, and Julie doesn’t move. Reggie’s nose twitches, but maybe it would have regardless.

“Hey, hotdog,” says Willie.

Right away, Alex asks, “Are you okay?” even though he’s still waking up and even though, to Willie’s own ears, he sounded level and casual and fine.

Willie takes stock of the shaking in his fingertips, the deep pond of hurt in his chest that seems to spring up from inside him whenever he isn’t distracted, the cold sweat of relief down the back of his neck. Thinks that these things should have ended when his life did. “Yeah, man” he answers. “Just didn’t know where you guys were, couldn’t hear the, y’know--” He makes a little high-hat noise with his mouth, just to see Alex’s nose scrunch up in response, “--from outside, so I thought you might be… somewhere else.”

Alex tilts his head, looks at Willie through slightly narrowed eyes. Then says, “Are you cold?”

Shit. Willie drops his hand from where he was rubbing the inside of his elbow, because he hadn’t even noticed himself doing it in the first place. “A little, I guess.”

Alex reaches for him, before looking down at the legs still stacked high over his body, and frowns, in such a comically put-out way that Willie stifles the urge to laugh. His body hums, the relief and the shakes easing off but the ache, the whirlpool chasm inside him opening up deeper. Usually that feeling is gone, once he’s here with Alex, with all of them. Once they’ve all rushed up to greet him, once he’s been knocked flat by their overenthusiastic hellos, like he’s just entered a puppy daycare.

“Here,” Alex says, shuffling down the couch a bit so that there’s slightly more room on his lap. “If you can sit on the arm?”

Willie gets the idea. The arm of the couch looks pretty sturdy, despite its age, and technically Willie is a ghost, so he’s not sure if he weighs anything at all to a piece of furniture. So he sits, sideways along the arm of the couch, and Alex wraps an arm around Willie’s waist, fingers curling into Willie’s hip.

All at once, the feeling, the one that’s usually gone, starts to ebb and fade, like it’s washing away. Willie caves to the instinct to tuck himself closer, presses along Alex’s side until they’re connected from shoulder to knee, and tries not to let the desperation for it show, tries not to crumble apart altogether.

“How long do you have?” Alex asks, voice barely a murmur into Willie’s hair just above his ear. Willie sighs out a longer breath than he meant to.

“Not -- not that long,” he manages.

“How long?” Alex checks again, his thumb swiping up and down Willie’s side rhythmically in a way that lulls Willie under, makes him rest his cheek on Alex’s shoulder before he can even think about it.

“Like, an hour?” Willie lets his eyes close as Alex runs a hand through his hair, not even flinching when Alex’s fingers get stuck a little at the back of his neck and he has to tease out some tangles to continue. “Maybe a little more, but not a lot more.”

Alex presses his face into Willie’s hair. He maybe kisses the side of Willie’s head, but Willie might have imagined it. Luke wriggles a little in his sleep, and it doesn’t burst the bubble Willie had created in his head, more expands it, opens it up just a little more so that instead of it just being Willie-and-Alex inside of his ball of safety, it’s Willie-and-Alex-and-Julie-Luke-Reggie.

“Okay,” says Alex easily. Then, softer, “I’m really happy to see you.”

“You too,” Willie whispers back. He’s turning to goo, he can feel it, as Alex rubs the hand from his waist up and down his back, while the other continues to gently detangle Willie’s hair. He feels… dopey, almost, exhausted from the huge rush of feelings and then the series of reliefs, one after another. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Wanna actually see you, not sleep.”

“Please relax,” Alex murmurs. “I’ll wake you up before you need to go. I’m just glad you’re here with us.”

Alex feels like a blanket, Willie thinks blearily. Or not like a blanket, but the feeling of being with Alex is like the feeling of being under a wonderful blanket. On the inside of Willie’s chest, they feel the same.

Soon enough he’ll have to go back to the club. Prepare for the show that night, make small talk with the other staff, pretend to Caleb like today is any other day. Before he knows it he’ll be in his own bed, lying staring at the ceiling, reliving this moment, trying to grasp every sensation, every phantom touch. Will even try to remember how it sounded when Luke snored, the way that Julie’s toes kept poking him under the arm, how Reggie keeps whispering gibberish under his breath in his dreams, because all of them sound safe and like home.

For now, though, it’s real and all around him. For now, the ache in his chest subsides, and Alex’s hands are gentle and careful, and Alex’s body is warm wherever they touch.

All Willie can do is savour the feeling, so he can remember it better when it’s gone. Until next time he can sneak away to a rehearsal.

[aminiatureworld]

A Little Rest II

Characters: Xiao, Zhongli, gn!reader

Word Count: 2,104 

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: Sometimes life is just unbearably tiring. And a comforting shoulder can be the perfect substitute pillow. In which the reader falls asleep on their partner.

Author’s Note: Second part!!! I realize the first didn’t get a ton of traction, unfortunately, but hopefully, this’ll still be welcomed. I realize since most of these are basically pseudo fics, would you guys prefer it to be bullet-pointed or paragraphed? I’m just wondering if one format is easier or more pleasant to read than the other. 

Also, adepti’s rules and personal needs are kinda nebulous to me so I sort of made them up myself. Watches also weren’t a thing until the 1800s, and specifically didn’t really become a thing in China until the mid-20th century. But this is fantasy so I do what I want.

Xiao

You loved Xiao more than you could say. Every little moment spent with him made your heart flutter, every habit of his that you’d noticed, every little way he revealed his soul to you.

It seemed so improbable to you sometimes, than an adeptus, someone so very disconnected from the world of humans, should choose to love you. Although Xiao would never let you think you were any lesser than him, would never let his nature put you down, you were still somewhat in awe of the whole setup, and little reminders of his adepti status often brought you back to when you two had first begun to fall in love, when Xiao had explained that he didn’t quite understand the human way of life.

And one of those things that he didn’t understand appeared to be the concept of sleep itself.

It wasn’t that Xiao didn’t know what sleep was. Nor was he unable to sleep, he once told you. Theoretically he could sit down and take a nap much like any normal human. It was more that he didn’t need to sleep, and didn’t see the need to do something that took up so much time and left one so vulnerable.

Not that he didn’t pay attention to your needs; he wasn’t about to disrupt your sleep schedule on purpose, in fact you often joked that Xiao cared more about your rest than you did. It was only that, after spending so many years simply not thinking about things like sleep, it became hard for him to suddenly remember that he had a partner who needed said sleep every day. And a day was oh so short in Xiao’s mind.

It was a beautiful evening at the Wangshu Inn. The air was warm without being stifling and a breeze blew, light and cool. You were on the roof with Xiao, the place that had become your normal meeting spot. For as much as Xiao adored you with every fiber of his soul, he was still an adeptus, and his comfort level around most humans was that of an anxious cat – always ready to bolt.

Besides, the roof of the Inn was such a lovely place to relax. You gazed at Xiao’s profile as he looked up at the stars, noticing the way that the wind ruffled his hair slightly, the way his posture seemed so relaxed, so comfortable. One of his hands was clasping yours, fingers linked together, his palm nice and warm; the other pointed out constellations to you, each bearing a story, some which had long been forgotten by the residents of Liyue.

It wasn’t often that Xiao was so talkative, so open. Although he still barely mentioned his past – keeping that part of himself shut away with only the occasional crack through which you might learn of his sorrows – he’d become much more willing to disclose his everyday thoughts to you, as well as share stories that he knew. The latter was something you always loved to listen to, not just because the stories he told were always interesting and so full of life, but also because they gave you the sense of knowing him better, something that always made you happy.

Unfortunately, tonight was one night where, though you were more than happy to listen to Xiao talk about the stars, you were kind of dying of fatigue. A headache slipped in and out of your consciousness, and you found it more and more difficult to concentrate on Xiao’s words, finding they were all melting together into some semi-coherent monologue.

Your fatigue must’ve been very apparent, for when Xiao glanced over at you his whole demeanor changed; the carefree look on his face was gone, replaced with one of slight confusion and definitive worry. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” You shook your head. “Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Then you should rest.” Xiao squeezed your hand slightly before moving to stand up. However, as tired as you were, you cared more about spending time with him, and weren’t about to cut said time short.

“Wait!” You exclaimed, causing Xiao to pause, looking at you in a puzzled way. You smiled, slightly sheepish, but pressed forward. “I’ll be fine. If you don’t mind though, may I, uh, may I lay my head on your shoulder.” You gazed up at him, but inside you were struck with the urge to suddenly look away. Xiao was still a bit reticent with affection, not that it bothered you. He’d told you that he was simply unused to it, not averse to it. You weren’t about to pressure him into anything though, no matter the cause, and thus you waited for his response, hoping your expression conveyed that it’d be perfectly fine if he declined.

Your worries proved to be without ground however, for Xiao’s expression grew only fonder. Lying back down he gestured towards you. You gladly scooted closer to him, laying your head on his shoulder, hand once more in his. “You were saying about the boar constellation.” You murmured.

Xiao smiled, kissing the top of your head, before once more going on speaking about the stars. You smiled too, allowing his stories to carry you off to sleep, your head already swirling with half formed dreams about creatures who walked among the stars.

Xiao listened to your breathing even out, still talking a little after it seemed you’d dozed off, making sure that the sudden stop of his voice didn’t wake you up.

Gazing down at your peaceful face he pondered for a moment how much his life had changed so quickly. Even a month ago the idea that he would become friends with a human seemed impossible, much less that he would fall in love with one.

When he’d first met you it was as if something that had been frozen inside him for a long time began to thaw. He was terrified at first, terrified of you, terrified of himself, terrified of the unknown that loomed before him like a vast chasm. It had taken every ounce of courage to hold your hand at first, and every ounce of courage for every step after that.

But he would do it again if he had to, for being with you was the best part of his long, often cruel life. And he would do anything to protect you, anything to make sure you were comfortable and happy and healthy.

“Goodnight.” He spoke softly. Up above the stars kept silent vigil along with him. Tomorrow would be a bright new day, but for now he was simply going to enjoy the moment he’d been given with you.

 Zhongli

For someone who’d lived thousands of years, you’d think Zhongli would remember that tea had to be decaffeinated sometimes.

Not that you could really blame him for forgetting. After all it’s not like he needed to pay attention to whether or not his tea was caffeinated. To one of the Seven sleep was something more akin to a perk than a necessity. Sure, it was nice to sleep. But it’s not like Zhongli was going to feel regret if he accidentally downed five cups of tea right before midnight and spent the rest of night starting at the ceiling, wondering where he went wrong.

Unfortunately, you were definitively not a god, and did, in fact, need sleep. So, when you found yourself staring out the window at 5 am, having long come to the conclusion that sleep was just not going to happen, the emotion going through your mind was something more akin to: “Oh. Fuck.”

This turned into an “Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me” when you saw the list of your daily commissions. Yeah, someone had to go to Jueyun Karst and Qingyun Peak to collect Cor Lapis, and considering your relationship with Zhongli and the adepti it should’ve been unsurprising that you were going to be the one to do it. But your sleep addled brain was having a difficult time processing things logically, and all you saw when you looked at the list Katheryne gave you was the fact that today was going to hurt.

Your prediction turned out to be only too true. No adepti came to ask why you were mining outside their front doors – honestly what would you even respond to something like that – but the amount of treasure hunters that ran into you began to feel less like a likely coincidence, considering the location, and more like a targeted attack. Thankfully there was nothing you couldn’t handle, but by the end of your expedition you were more than ready to go home and take a nap.

Hurrying through the rest of your day, barely responding to the people you interacted with, by the time you’d finally finished up with your adventuring duties you felt like the most irritated person on the planet.

Arriving home, throwing your pack haphazardly onto the floor you almost tripped and fell flat on your face in your hurry to get to the bedroom. Not bothering to take off your adventuring gear you threw yourself onto the bed and quickly found yourself lost in long overdue sleep.

Zhongli glanced at his watch, frowning as he saw the lateness of the hour. The sun was already beginning to set, and though he’d walked as fast as possible, he still found himself feeling vaguely guilty about being so late. You two hadn’t spoken much in the morning, you’d seemed a bit restless and hurried out right after breakfast, so Zhongli was anxious to spend as much time with you after work as possible.

“Darling?” He called out, walking into the home you two shared. He glanced around uncertainly, surprised that you hadn’t greeted him at the door. The sight of your pack sprawled about the hallway only made him more confused, and vaguely alarmed, and he hurried down the hall, checking each room to see if you were there.

His worry immediately faded upon seeing you, curled up above the covers, evidently fast asleep. Unsure as to whether or not to wake you up he instead headed towards the kitchen, thinking you might like something when you got up.

You woke up in the dark, something that surprised you. You’d been out for a long time. Seeing that the door had been opened you shuffled down the hall, still a bit groggy from the extended nap you’d just taken.

Zhongli smiled as you entered the kitchen. “Did you have a good nap my darling?” He asked, kissing you on the forehead. You nodded sleepily, propping yourself up by your elbows on the counter. Zhongli chuckled. “Here, something to warm you up.”

Yours eyes widened as the cup of tea was placed in front of you. For a moment there was silence, then you glanced back at him.

“Zhongli?”

“Yes?”

“Uhm, is this tea, well, does it by any chance have caffeine in it?”

The look on Zhongli’s face was enough to make you burst into giggles. Perplexion melted into realization, which evidently caused some sort of embarrassment, for the former god blushed a bright shade of red before bringing his hand to cover his mouth.

“Ah, I see. That’s why you were so tired this morning.”

“It’s alright.” You finally replied, the initial fit of giggles having passed. “I know that you don’t have to think about these sorts of things normally. Only me making the same mistake two times in a row would be a bit hilarious, wouldn’t you think” You placed a kiss on Zhongli’s cheek, finally causing him to calm down a bit.

“I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry. Next time I promise to pay more attention.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, fatigue coming back after the initial burst of energy. Leaning into Zhongli’s neck you sighed slightly.

“Still tired?” Zhongli asked, voice soft and caring.

“Yeah, a bit.” You admitted. Zhongli nodded, before scooping you up.

Carrying you over to the couch you both settled in a bit. Zhongli began humming a sort of lullaby, and you smiled despite yourself. “You’re too good for me.” You mumbled.

“Nonsense.” Came Zhongli’s reply, just as full of love and affection. “You’re too good for me. And I won’t hear otherwise.”

“If you say so.” You replied, too tired to really fire back, already drifting off.

“I do. It’s only the truth.” And with that he began to hum again. As you fell asleep one last thought lingered in your mind.

If such contentment comes from staying up too late, then I’d be glad to do it again.