#a poem in front of me im at a loss for words other than 'this is nice :)' <-- did not get it

[lordsardine]

.

[illfoandillfie]

Easy As A-B-C

Pairing: Professor!Gwilym Lee x Reader

Summery:  Professor Lee is getting sick of marking papers, you offer an alternative. One where he doesn't need to think at all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+), unprotected sex, bimbofication (without hypnosis), oral sex (m and f receiving), hand job, light dom/sub dynamic, dom!reader, sub!Gwil, overstimulation, maybe a little bit of hair pulling

Words: 4,537

A/N: This was massively massively inspired by my love @dracoladon​ and her Drarry fic Lucid (seriously, go read it because she’s a much better writer than me and also sex dumb Draco is hhhhhhh). Reading it made me want to write more himbo fics but without all the hypnosis stuff thats in my Future Management series. Then I got talking to @peachydeacon​ about himbo!Rog which led to talking about himbo!Gwil and this fic is the result of our discussion lmao. It was also partly inspired by a post on a porn blog that popped up on my dash but I can’t link to that because tumblrs dumb. 

Also, it is a professor gwil fic but set after reader has graduated so it’s all above board lmao

Blurb Advent: Day 24

Taglist:  @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama​ @deakyclicks​ @jennyggggrrr​ @drowseoftaylor​ @hannafuckingsucks​ @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming​ @queenmylovely​ @ilovequeenmorethanyou​ @johndeaconshands​ @borhapbois​ @stardust-galaxies​ @cherries-n-rocknroll​ @rogersslave​ @scorpiogemini 

Gwilym looked unreasonably hot while he was grading papers, his brow knitted, wearing a look of serious concentration made all the more noticeable by the reading glasses sliding down his nose. His loose tie and the undone top buttons of his business shirt lent him a casually dishevelled air, and that wasn’t even mentioning the way he absentmindedly twisted his pen between his fingers as he read and reread sentences he was struggling to understand, occasionally pausing to underline something or write a note in the margins. It all painted a very sexy image, the kind of serious sexy only a professor could achieve, though this sexiness was nowhere near new. You’d found his manner oddly arousing even when he’d been your professor. Of course, that had been a few years ago and well before you’d had your chance encounter in the local second hand bookstore that led you to ask him out. He’d stuttered out something about never having even thought of you as more than his student and “really I feel almost as if I’ll get in trouble for the conversation as soon as I get back to campus.” But the awkwardness soon changed when you confessed to having had a minor crush on him back in the day and having since hoped to run into him. He seemed more open to the idea of dinner with you after that and, if you were being honest, more cocky too, but cocky in a decidedly dignified and charming way. Anyway, one thing led to another and now here you were somewhere close to a year and half later and you were struggling not to stare at Gwil as he graded papers and looked professor-ally disarrayed and hot.

You knew it was something to do with the Romantic era poets that the students had to write about because he’d read a question out to you earlier to get your opinion of if it was confusingly worded. “No, I don’t think so,” “Then why in god’s name do none of my students get it?” he looked about ready to hit his head against the desk until he passed out but he returned to the topmost paper with a sigh and ruffled hair from where he’d run his hand through it. That’s when you’d started trying not to stare. A tall order when all you could think about was dragging Gwil to the bedroom and ravishing him enough to make him forget all about John Keats and poetry and the English language itself. Not that that was exactly hard. No, Gwilym had a tendency to get a little dazed and confused when you really gave it to him. Sex drunk you’d decided to call it. A transformation that you quite delighted in witnessing and causing. Gwil was sharp as a tack usually, always ready with some obscure fact or quote from literature. It was part of what made him such a good teacher, his memory for all things bookish, as well as his approachable (if a little stern) demeanour and his determination to get the best from his students. But it wasn’t hard to shut down his brain, cloud his memory and entirely befuddle him. One time you’d snuck into the bathroom at the restaurant you’d gone to for dinner and poor Gwilym had become so spaced out he’d spilt half a glass of wine in his lap and then walked into the glass door as you left, even with you leading him by the hand. You supposed that what they said about great power and responsibility was true. All the same, it was a fun power to wield and you knew that, with the right sort of attention, you could have Gwilym babbling incomprehensible gibberish with no memory of what a poem even was, which was surely something he’d appreciate right about now.

You blinked yourself from your reverie as, finally, Gwil set his glasses aside and rose from his seat, groaning as he stretched out the stiffness in his back. He rolled his neck back and forth, your eyes following, before letting his shoulders drop and moving to sit next to you on the couch. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t read another word about Byron or I’ll loose it.” He sighed, draping an arm around your shoulders and leaning into your neck. “Byron? I remember that assignment. Everyone hated you for it,” His breath was warm against your skin as he spoke, sending a tingle down your spine, “Well if this year’s lot is anything to go by, the feeling was probably mutual,” “Mmm, I remember one girl saying she was going to shove her copy of Don Juan up your arse if she didn’t pass,” He lifted his head again and laughed, “And yet my rectum remains Byron fee and no other injuries befell me, so either I taught you enough to get by or you were all a bunch of cowards,” “Bit of both probably. And why would this year’s be any different, huh?” “I don’t know, you haven’t read any of their attempts at cohesive analysis. Some of them are just throwing out terms like allusion and anapestic and personification all willy-nilly, clearly without properly understanding them. ” “I think you’re being too harsh on them. They’re first years after all and it’s not always easy to understand all that poncy poetical bullshit. Plus, you know it all already so of course everyone else seems stupid to you,” “Maybe,” he conceded, though it seemed to take some effort. “Honestly, someone should put you in their position, see how well you go with it,” “Yeah? And who would do something like that?” Gwilym laughed as you shifted to straddle his lap, accepting the kiss you offered, “You?” “Maybe I will. Spell personification for me,” “You know it’s not high school English, right. We don’t do pop quizzes on spelling and grammar.” “I know you don’t, but this is my subject and I’m testing spelling. Besides,” you let your hand drop between you, brushing lightly over the front of his pants, “I promise it’ll be fun.” Gwil gave a half-hearted eye roll, “P-E-R-S-O-N-I-F-I-C-A-T-I-O-N, personification. D’you want me to use it in a sentence too?” You knew he’d get it right. Gwil always had been good at spelling off the top of his head which you supposed was a side effect of all his reading and the years devoted to the written word. But it was still a little annoying. Mostly because he was being a bit of a tool about the whole thing, but it didn’t help that you’d grown quite wet thinking about how you’d like to have him, like to turn him into the fucked out airhead you’d seen before. You shook your head and tutted at him as if he got it wrong. “No, that’s definitely it. I’ve just read it about a hundred times, I know I’m right. P-E-R-S-O-N-I-F-I-C-A-T-I-O-N,” he spelt it faster that time, trying to prove that you were wrong. “Try allusion for me,” “A-L-L-U-S-I-O-N,” Right again. You sighed as if you were disappointed. Gwilym raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “What about caesura?” “C-E-A-S-U-R-A,” The mistake was an easy one to make, two letters flipped around the wrong way, and you could tell he knew it was wrong as soon as he’d said it. He was surprised when you leant forward to kiss him again, cupping his jaw with one hand as you dropped the other and slowly pulled down the zip on his work pants. “But I fucked up,” he said softly, eyes still closed as you pulled away a few centimetres. You just smiled as you thought of a new word, “Anapestic,” It was another word Gwil had mentioned as seeing in his student’s essays so you knew it would be fresh in his mind and he proved as much when he spelt it, “A-N-A-P-E-S-T-I-C,” He was right of course, so you tutted and pulled your hand away from his crotch, grabbing his chin with your other and forcing him to look at you, “You can do better than that.” His features shifted at the sudden loss of contact, the look of concentration returned once more. If anything, your much closer proximity to the expression made him seem all the more hot but you resisted the urge to give in and drag him to the bedroom, curious if he’d catch onto your little game now and, equally so, to see if he’d play along, “Try Onomatopoeia.” A longer word gave him more chances to get things wrong but would his pride and his brain allow that? Apparently so. “O-N-O-M-” Gwil paused and thought for a second, his eyes narrowed as his looked at you, “O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-I-A,” the last three letters were said with such deliberate diction that you knew he’d figured it out. “Good boy,” you said, letting your hands slip inside his undone pants to massage his dick. His hips jolted at the contact and he let his hands fall to your arse, squeezing. “What about, dactyl?” His reply was instant, unthinking, and totally correct, “D-A-C-T-Y-L,” You clicked your tongue condescendingly as you once again removed your hands from him. “Fuck,” “Well that’s what happens when you get things wrong, honey, and such an easy one too,” “I didn’t get it wro- fine, give me another,” You smiled, unable to hide how delighted you were that he was interested in following your rules, even if it was just his competitive streak rearing its head to show that he could out smart you, “Assonance,” Gwilym spelt the word slowly and carefully, making sure to only say one ‘s’ and to leave off the ‘e’. And you made sure to reward him for it, shuffling backwards on his lap so you could shimmy his pants down his thighs and wrap your hand around his cock. He raised an eyebrow at you but otherwise made no comment as he leant back in his seat to enjoy the attention. “Romanticism,” Once again Gwilym was careful with his spelling, intentionally replacing the ‘c’ with a double ‘s’ but that was the kind of behaviour you wanted to encourage so you kept stroking him off, twisting your wrist, dragging your thumb over his flushed tip. It must have felt good with the way he was sighing, shifting his shoulders as if to move his whole body closer to yours. “So clever baby, what about,” you paused, dredging up memories of poetry analysis and the words you used to have burned into your brain but which you’d not had much use for recently, “Enjambment” “Ummm, E-N,” Gwil hummed as you leant over him and let a trail of spit drip onto his cock, using your hand to spread it over his length, “Enjamb-ment, uh, E-N-J-A- no E, no A, M-E-N-T,” You leant into his ear and spoke softly, “That’s right, being so good for me, so clever. What should I do next though? Ride you? Or maybe suck you off? Or just keep doing this?” “Uh,” Gwilym shook his head a little as if to clear it, “mouth? Please?” “Of course, baby. If you can spell dissonance for me.” You were quietly confident that he’d get the spelling wrong, already noticing the first sign of his impending brainlessness, extra filler words where he’d normally not need them. It was funny though, usually he wouldn’t reach that stage until he was much closer to nutting. “D-I-S” he rushed through the first three letters and then stopped, biting his lip, “T-um, A-N-E-N-C-E.” You were sure the errors in that word were less intentional than the previous few and, as promised, slipped off his lap and settled yourself between his legs, pulling his pants off so he could spread them wider for you. You held eye contact as you let your tongue trail along the underside of his cock, tracing along a vein, though you couldn’t help but smile as he groaned above you. “Can you spell Decasyllable for me?” you asked before closing your lips around the head of his cock. “What? Oh, um, D-E-C-K- fuck,” he broke off as you swirled your tongue around his tip. “Fuck’s not a letter, baby,” you sank down on him again, bobbing a little lower. “I know, um, Deck-syllable, D-E-C-K-A-S-Y-B-L-E, I think. Is that right?” In answer you hummed and took him a little deeper, pushing his shirt up towards his chest. Gwilym took the hint and pulled it off before he grabbed your hair, leaning his head against the back of the couch. For a moment you just focused on sucking him off, listening to his shallow breathing and whiny groans. But you weren’t finished with your game yet.

“Epigraph?” you asked before bobbing down on him again, pushing yourself to take him deeper still. Gwilym remained silent as you gagged and pulled back from him again to breath freely. “Well?” “What did you say?” “Epigraph. Can you spell that?” He nodded as you resumed your bobbing, his hand grabbing at your hair, “E-P-P-E-G-R-A-F-F.” You hummed around him and his hips bucked up, pushing him further down your throat for a second. “No, don’t stop,” he whined under his breath as once again you let him fall from between your lips. “Sorry baby,” you wrapped your hand around his base and switched back to jerking him off, “you’re so hard though and I know you want to earn your orgasm like a good boy,” Gwilym nodded. “Okay, so spell meter,” “M- oh, I don’t know,” “You do know, baby, you just gotta try. Meter,” He scrunched his face up in thought, “M-E-E-T-R,” “See, I said you knew it, and you did it so well!” Gwilym gave you a dopey smile, looking proud at your praise, “I did?” His mouth dropped open with the movement of your hand. “Of course baby! You got it completely right because you’re so clever. What about sonnet, do you think you can do that one for me?” He nodded enthusiastically, “S-N-E-T,” “Very good! Okay, three more and I’ll let you cum,” “Okay!” “Okay, what about,” you thought for a moment, watching your hand pumping over his shaft as you trailed your fingernails lightly over his thigh, “Spell rhyme,” “Ummm,” Gwilym bit his lip in thought, soft grunting noises rising in his throat in time with your strokes. “It’s a bit of a tricky one,” “Yeah.” “And it’s hard to concentrate isn’t it?” “Mmhmm, so hard to con-ten-tate,” he thought for a little longer as you slowed your hand, “rrr- R-I-M,” “So clever baby! Okay canto,” “Oh! Ummm,” Gwilym pouted and whined as you unexpectedly drew the tip of your tongue around his head, “I don’ know,” “No?” He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed. “Okay what about, poem?” Gwilym seemed to have reached the last dregs of his knowledge, grunting in frustration as he shook his head again.” “You sure you don’t know?” He bucked his hips up into your hand as he shook his head again. “Alright, I’ll give you an easy one then. Spell your name for me, spell Gwilym,” Gwil’s eyes lit up at the suggestion but his face quickly slipped into a frown again, the expression getting more pronounced with every passing second he didn’t say anything. He sought out your face, his eyes brimming with frustrated tears, “I don’t…” his fists balled up as he looked to you for help. “You don’t remember?” He shook his head once more, a tear shaking loose and rolling down his cheek, “you said it was easy.” “It’s okay if you don’t know,” “Really?” he sniffled. “Of course it’s okay. You’re not supposed to know things.” “I’m not?” “Awww, of course not baby. That’s why I’m here, to know things, and you’re just here to make me happy.” Gwilym sighed and leaned back against the couch, smiling again. “Do you want to give it a try for me?” “Umm,” he whined as you slowed your strokes “It would make me very happy,” “Okay, umm…G? L? ummmm, M?” “You’re so clever, baby!” Gwilym giggled proudly and grinned at you as you adjusted your grip on his cock. “You’re my good, smart boy, aren’t you baby?” “Mmhmm,” he bucked his hips towards you as you took him into your mouth again. “Feels go-od,” he mumbled, almost panting with how close he was. You dragged the hand that rested on his thigh up to cup his balls as you sucked on his tip until he moaned and came, spilling his seed over your tongue.

You kept working your hand along his length, even after you’d pulled your mouth from him. “Was that a good orgasm baby? Did it make you feel good?” He nodded, pouting a little as you kept wanking him, “good oggsam,” It took all your effort not to laugh at that, biting on the inside of your cheek to keep from letting so much as a chuckle slip. Very few things delighted you as much as when Gwil forgot how to talk properly. “You know,” you said as you finally let his cock free, “sometimes when people have orgasms they feel euphoric. Do you feel euphoric?” “Mmhmm, you-porik.” “Clever boy. Do you want to help me feel euphoric?” “How?” “With your mouth,” “Oh! Okay!” You braced yourself against his knees as you stood, leaning forward to give Gwil a small kiss on the lips. He closed his eyes and smiled up at you contentedly as you shimmied out of your own clothes, dropping them all to the floor. “You going to let me lie down?” you asked, tapping Gwil on the shoulder. He looked around confusedly for a moment before his eyes settled on you, growing wider as he realised how naked you were. Without warning he surged forward, his hands grabbing your arse as he nuzzled his face in the valley between your breasts. If it were up to Gwil he would have stayed there all day but you had need for him elsewhere so you yanked his head back by his hair, earning a small noise of displeasure. “Don’t complain, baby. You want to make me feel euphoric, right?” “Mmhmm,” he hummed earnestly. “And how do you think you could do that?” “I don’t know,” “Maybe, cunnilingus?” “cun-un-un-un-gus,” “Exactly,” you directed his gaze down to your pussy, failing to hide your amused grin. But he was too far gone to notice, happily slipping to his knees in front of you. Telling him to wait for a second, you climbed onto the couch and spread your legs, beckoning him between them once you were comfortable.

He hadn’t been able to say the word but that didn’t mean he wasn’t skilled at the act. A string of soft hums and throaty sounds rose to your lips as he licked your cunt, the scratchy sensation of his beard only amplifying the soft, wet, warmth of his tongue.   “Can you, oh, can you spell poem for me baby?” Gwilym hummed and then started naming letters, his mouth still pressed against your cunt as if he didn’t realise he couldn’t talk and suck at the same time. You didn’t bother to stop him when he said too many letters or correct him when all of them were wrong. You just let his breath wash over you, his tongue flicking against your clit with each new letter, eliciting longer moans and sighs from you. “Fuck Gwil,” you panted, “keep going,” “Keep going,” he repeated, his voice muffled as he dragged his tongue all the way down your slit and then back up again, making you whine. You jolted when he reached your clit again and pressed against his head, keeping him close to you, your other hand trailing up your chest to tweak your nipples and knead your breasts. Occasionally you’d give him an instruction – “faster please,” or “do that again,” or “fuck Gwil, right there,” – and he’d repeat the words back to you, softened and often a little slurred together or mispronounced, before doing as he was asked, drawing you closer to release. He was pleased whenever another groan or mewl slipped from your lips, responding to them with sounds of his own as if he were savouring a particularly delicious meal. It seemed he’d taken what you’d said about making you happy to heart, though some of his whines might have had more to do with his cock, hard again and straining to be touched as his attention remained focused on you. “I’m c-lose ba-by,” you grunted as Gwilym pressed his mouth to your lower lips, as if to give you a soft chaste kiss, only to begin shaking his head side to side, rubbing his face against your cunt. “loase,” he muttered to himself, trailing his tongue back up to your clit, making you grind your hips up into him. It was impossible to keep your mouth shut in the face of such a feeling, wantonly moaning as you felt your orgasm bubbling to the surface. Gwilym hummed against you in response to a particularly loud moan which managed to be your undoing, your knees trying to clamp shut around his head as he continued to suck at your clit.

When you calmed enough to let go of his hair and loosen your thighs from around his ears, Gwilym looked up at you. His face was shiny and wet but he seemed to have regained some of his usual awareness. His eyes weren’t quite as vacant and his smile less dopey than it had been. “Feel good?” he asked, sounding almost normal except for a slight lightness in his tone. “Very good baby,” you leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips, tasting yourself as he opened his mouth and accepted your tongue. Slowly you dropped your hand between you, finding his cock again, not quite done with your brainless toy. He grunted against your lips and bucked into your hand as you stopped his return to sense. “Isn’t this fun?” you said softly as you pulled back, holding Gwil by the chin to stop him from trying to follow. “Yeah, fun,” a smile slowly tugging at his lips, “what is?” “Not needing to think, baby,” “Oh! Yes,” he laughed. “You’re too pretty to have a brain anyway, aren’t you? Much better off letting it leak out of your head,” “Mmhmm, much,” “And do you know what good, dumb boys get?” “No?” “They get fucked. Would you like that?” “Yes yes yes,” “Alright, lie back for me,” you chuckled, giving his cock a final stroke. Gwilym settled on the carpet on his back, grinning as you straddled his lap. Silently he held out his hand, all but two of his fingers folded against his palm. “No, I don’t need your fingers sweetie,” you said, giving the tips of his two fingers a light kiss, “as dextrous as they are and as much as I enjoy them, I think I’m okay skipping straight to your cock,” He nodded, letting you place his hand down on the floor again. You watched his face as you slowly sank down onto him, once again the picture of cunt drunk bliss with glazed eyes and his lip between his teeth. He smiled as you leaned down to kiss him, rolling your hips against his slowly. As you tongues entwined again, Gwilym framed your waist with his hands, slowly dragging them up your sides and onto your chest. He cupped each of your breasts in one of his palms, squeezing softly as you rocked forward and back. “Better than Byron isn’t this?” you asked, pushing yourself up a bit, but not so far you couldn’t kiss him again. “Wha’s Byron?” You laughed, “Y’know I think this might be the dumbest I’ve seen you. Can’t believe all it took was a rigged spelling test. He obviously didn’t understand, staring blankly back at you.

What he did understand was that you were moving further away from him and he whined as you pushed yourself to sit higher again, bracing your hands on his chest as you used your knees to raise and lower yourself. It still wasn’t enough though so you shifted again before too long, placing a hand behind you to grab Gwil’s leg. You leant back on it changing the angle of Gwilym’s cock, and felt his hands drop from your chest, no longer able to reach as easily. They came to rest on your leg, his fingertips digging into your skin as you rode him, keening as you felt the start of your orgasm building in the pit of your stomach. “Fuck Gwil, fill me so well, feels so good,” “My dex-ik-tus cock?” You couldn’t help but laugh, taken by surprise at his misunderstanding and mispronunciation of dextrous, but you nodded in agreement too, repeating your sentiments about how good it felt. “Wanna make me feel even better?” “How?” You sat forward again and reached for his hand, pulling it to your clit. Gwilym took the hint, messily rubbing as you bounced on his cock, but his whines and moans only grew as you rode him. “You’re close?” “Mmhmm,” You were on the verge of asking if he could hold it when he came with a groan, pulsing inside you. But you didn’t stop. “I’m close too, baby, so I’m gonna keep fucking you, okay?” He nodded, eyes fixed on you. “Good boy.” You panted, grabbing his wrist to hold his hand at your clit and adjusting your rhythm. Each time you sank back down onto him you did it harder, slamming his cock into you as deep as you could manage, groaning with each one. Your orgasm was frustratingly close but Gwilym was becoming steadily more sensitive as his subsided, wincing more with each of your thrusts. The winces turned to whimpers which turned to whines as you whispered that you were so close. “Almost baby, almost,” “Please. Hur’s,” “Nearly, just. One. More,” you threw your head back with a moan as you finally found your release, Gwil whining when you pulsed around him, a fresh tear running from the corner of his eye onto the carpet as he squirmed under you.

“Sorry, baby,” you said softly as you carefully dismounted him. He hummed as you kissed him again, leaving an extra kiss against the tip of his nose. “Did so well, such a good boy for me,” “Yeah?” “Mmhmm, so good,” He gave you a slightly watery smile and let you pull him into a cuddle, sighing contentedly when you brushed your fingers through his hair. You stayed like that for a while, knowing that later you’d regret lying on the floor for so long but unable to find the energy to move or the willpower to tell Gwilym you had to let him go. He gradually lost the fucked out expression, becoming more aware of his surroundings and more capable of clear speech. “How are you feeling?” you asked when you realised he’d blinked away the last of his sex drunk vacancy. “Better than before. Little tired but much more relaxed and very satisfied. And, before you ask, yes that’s satisfied and yes I can spell it if you want,” “I believe you.”

[diamondcamefromhell]

Pit Stop

fem!reader x jaskier [friend thing, not romance]

A/N: HIIIIII so i drank a bit today and this creation came to be, tried to edit all the mistakes, but there may still be some. i just wrote it from my heart, not really focusing on it being great to read, allowing it flow through me so it may be an aboslute mess and i might delete it when i wake up, but enjoy it while its here [even if it may stay forver]

Warnings: none!

Summary: [written in third person again] Y/N is a orphan who grew up in Kaer Morhen, and her basically-big-brother Geralt comes to visit with Jaskier and the two of them have a heart to heart

Word count: 2.592

as always, any feedback is appreciated, but on this one, pls keep in mind that i didnt write it entirely sober and its late and im sad lmao, but criticism is good and needed for every writer, so feel free to leave it even on this [or anonymously on my ask page] 

all the love <3

She lifted her sword just in time to block Geralt, parrying back with her other hand, hitting him with her other blade. The witcher grunted, pushing her with his swords, making her stumble back, a smile still on her face. She turned the weapons in her hands, both in a attack position now, as Geralt also smiled, gripping his sword tighter.

Y/N was able to duel-wield as well as you could possibly do it, it never occurred to her that she could fight with only one sword. In her mind, it truly seemed like a waste of opportunities, and she didn’t plan on contributing to it. While still young, she could stand her ground against Geralt, which was impressive on itself.

And Jaskier knew it. In his head, his friend witcher was the strongest-baddest-unbeatable Geralt, but now, in Kaer Morhen, his buddy was struggling holding back against this girls attacks.

“Well done.” Witcher spoke, lowering his sword. He hated to admit it, but he was running out of breath, and Y/N seemed to radiate endless energy. The girl laughed, straightening up.

“Thanks, Gee.” Geralt grunted at the nickname, smile still painting across his face.

The girl took a deep breath, looking up at the mountains that surrounded her home. She was an orphan, left in the woods. One of the witchers found her, and tried to get someone to take the baby in, but times were tough and Y/N was just an extra mouth to feed. She was taken here, to Kaer Morhen, at first it was planned to be short-term.

But she grew up with the boys, eventually picking her name herself. She never underwent the procedure to fully become a witcher, but she was a better fighter than some. She earned her nickname, the great Shewolf, who was as vicious and as strong as one. Someone who would die for her family.

Jaskier has heard about her from Geralt and some other witchers they’ve met on the road, but the bard knew the girl rarely left her home. Being abandoned by her parents, she took all the boys under her wing, providing some love and care to them during their strict training regimen.

Now, as wind played with her hair, Jaskier had to stop himself from breaking into a song. She was beautiful, in this mountain view, she truly looked like a she-wolf – majestic, wild and free. The girl felt the stare, glancing at the bard, offering him a smile.

“Jaskier and I,” Geralt spoke, getting her attention back on himself, “got you a gift.”

“Did you?” Her eyebrows rose as she glanced between the men.

“Something very special.” Witcher said. He never would admit it, but Y/N has grown to be like a little sister to him – he wanted to give her the world.

But all he could offer now, was two new swords. Light weight enough to make her duel-wielding possible and even faster than it was now. It was long, and sharp. The special thing about it was that one side of the blade was silver, the other steel. It was also enchanted with runes, so it would catch enemies on fire, at random.

They were beautiful, black handles and with a tree design on the blade itself. But for Y/N, that didn’t matter. It was the gesture itself; she knew how expensive weapons are. And not even that, finding a good blacksmith was nearly impossible these days. The trouble they must’ve gone through almost brought a tear to her eye.

She dropped her old swords, taking the new ones. They felt perfect in her hands.

“I am at a loss for words.” Geralt smirked.

“A thank you will do.” She fixed her gaze on the witcher, trying to swallow down the tears.

“Thank you. Truly.” She turned her eyes to the bard, who rose to his feet, coming closer to Y/N. “Jaskier, thank you too.”

“I didn’t do that much.” He muttered.

“You have never been to Kaer Morhen, have you?” Jaskier shook his head, and an idea came to the womans head. “Let me show you around. As a thank you. If not for a sword, then for keeping my big old Gee company.”

“Don’t you want to test your new swords?” Geralt asked before Jaskier could agree to the offer. Y/N shoulders dropped as she gazed into the horizon.

“We’ll have time for it tomorrow.” She finally decided, glancing at the witcher. “You seem tired. Are you getting old, Geralt?”

“Tired of you, little one.” He smirked, putting his sword in his scabbard. “But okay. I need to catch up with Master-“

“With Vesemir about Cirilla, yeah.” Y/N interrupted, remembering that they weren’t here to visit her – not exactly. Of course, it added to the trip, but their main goal was to talk to Vesemir about Cirilla and how she’s okay. Nothing in particular that Y/N found interesting, but she knew how important it was to Geralt. “Go and surprise that old bastard. He will be happy to hear the news.”

Bard watched his friend grin and turn around, going into the massive castle. The pair stood there in silence at first, and Jaskier began to worry that his lady friend would feel uncomfortable with just the two of them; but she was gazing at the sky. The mountains loomed over them, guarding this place, keeping it safe. It provided an impressive view, too.

“It’s beautiful.” Bard broke the silence, as the girl smiled.

“There is something so peaceful about this view.” A sad shadow loomed over her face. “But once all of the witcher disappear… this place will be abandoned. Hidden in these hills, deep in the woods.”

“But the Witchers won’t disappear.” Jaskier argued, although he knew that the population of withcers was dropping, as no new boys have been trained in years. He didn’t know why, and he was too afraid to ask. Bard was smarted than that, and knew not to open old wounds.

“Everything disappears, Jaskier.” Y/N glanced at her old swords on the ground, as they reflected the light. “But I am glad you find this place beautiful.”

“Precisely.” He muttered, as his head was working overtime trying to come up with something to comfort the girls troubled heart.

“Maybe you’ll write poems about it. That way, we will live on forever.” Girl spoke, turning around, waving the bard to follow her.

Which he did, with no hesitation. The sun was shining on them, but the weather wasn’t really that warm. Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself, watching Y/N in front, with her armour, that seemed to be too light to protect from the hold breeze that was picking up. But the girl didn’t mind, stepping to the training grounds.

They were now surrounded by dummies, most of which haven’t been touched in months. Her heart felt heavy, but she hoped one day soon new boys would come and train here. She would pray, but she didn’t believe in any gods.

“Training grounds, not used in… awhile.” She cleared her throat, sheathing her swords behind her back. She crossed her arms over, looking back at the bard, who was examining the dummies.

“These look new.” He pointed out and Y/N laughed.

“They got destroyed all the time. We would make new ones pretty much everyday, so they are new, yet to be destroyed.” She explained something in her heart lifting. It was as if there was new boy to train; even if the man in front of her was too old for this.

Though older, his eyes reminder her of that of a kid. So much joy shined in them, she almost allowed herself be fooled that he had lived an easy life. Traveling with a witcher was nothing easy at all, especially Geralt. While Y/N got to know his more affectionate side, sometimes he would hurt even her. he never meant to, but his comments would be daggers at heart.

And this man, was a bard, she also remembered, her eyes grazing the lute hanging by his side. Not a fighter, not trained. He could probably barely hold a weapon or protect himself, and with the contracts and helping citizens, she was sure this man has seen more than he lets on.

Maybe more than her.

But there were no shadows in his blue eyes, as he brushed his hair back, smiling at the girl, who was in deep thought, staring right at him. Her eyes pierced Jaskier, as he wondered what was going on in her head.

“A coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier decided to try and pry, figure out what world she was lost in.

“You have travelled with Gee for awhile now, but you don’t seem to be troubled by it.” Bard shrugs, his shoulders relaxing; he didn’t even realize that he has gotten nervous.

“He protects me.” Her gaze drifts ahead, as she sits down by the dummy. A shadow of sadness looms over her again, and Jaskier sits down too, their legs now touching.

“I wish someone would protect me.” Jaskier furrows his brows, staring at his hands.

“But you can protect yourself.” He speaks, as Y/N sighs. That was not what she meant, but the bard carried on. “You literally can hold you ground against Geralt. The Geralt.”

“That’s not the point, Jaskier.” She rests her head on the dummy behind her, staring at the mountains. Sometimes she feels like they are about to fall on her, swallowing her whole. “I still want to be protected. Someone to take care of me, too.”

“What about Vesemir?” She knows he is genuinely trying to help, but the mountains still double up in size as she feels small. She would feel like this when she was a child, isolated and alone. A sigh escapes her lips again, resting between them like a ravine.

“I meant more of a friend.” She finally clarified, after the silence began to grow uncomfortable. Jaskier stared at the ground between them, as if that ravine was actually there.

“I can be your friend.” She nodded. She already felt like they were friends.

“You and Geralt both are my friends. But…” Jaskier watched as her face changed, becoming more and more puzzled. He wanted to help her find the right words, express what she means exactly. Maybe that would lessen the pain in her eyes.

“I get it, I think.” He decided to try and put some clarity into her clear thought volcano. “We, and I bet some other friends, we come and go. But most of the time, you’re alone. And I bet you feel trapped, surrounded by these mountains and woods. No escape, as even the horizon isn’t clear.”

“Exactly!” She shouted, involuntary. “Everyone tells me I’m a shewolf, I can protect myself and thrive alone, and that’s correct. But I still want to have a pack.”

“Why don’t you join us then?” Jaskier offers and the girl closes her eyes. She wants to go, but what if someone comes here, some small boy, scared and alone. Ripped from their mothers crying hands. She has to be there for them, if it were to happen.

“I’m needed her.” Jaskier sighs, a sour taste growing in his mouth. He didn’t like the thoughts that filled his head, the words that were urging to escape.

“Ghosts don’t need to be cared for, Y/N.” His tone was soft, as if he was talking to a child. He even dared to reach out and place his hand on hers, which she didn’t shake off. “If anything, they need to be let go off. Laid to rest.”

“But if someone new comes-“ Jaskier squeezed her hand, making the girl stop mid-sentence. Their eyes met.

“If someone comes, Vesemir will find us. You can’t find a pack if you stay in this cage.” His words made sense, and she knew it.

But she didn’t want to listen. Her eyes gazed away from the boy, back to the mountains, who began casting shadows on the pair. Wolves howled in the woods and the breeze picked up again. She didn’t feel cold, but Jaskier shivered a little.

“I should show you inside.” She tried to avert the conversation, but the bard wasn’t having it. She rose to her feet, but he remained on the ground.

“The view from the top of the mountains must be amazing.” He said, gazing there. He did wonder if you could even reach it; these trained professionals probably could, but he, a simple bard, would probably slip and fall to his death. He shivered at the thought of that.

“You see endless fields and forests. But it is nice.” Y/N agreed, crossing her arms.

“So you see the opportunities the world has to offer.” He eventually decided, standing up. “Then this isn’t a trap – is a pit stop, before you go to see all that the sun touches.”

“Sure, poet.” She grinned, but his words settled in her heart. “Let’s get inside.”

So the tour continued, as they drifted from painful topics to more easy ones. Jasier showcased some songs, which she thoroughly enjoyed, and Y/N shared some fun stories from a better time.

But evening came, and something went wrong. Geralt ushered them to leave. The sun had set, and the only light was a few torches surrounding the group. Withcer didn’t seem worried, just in a hurry. Jaskier had his lute over his shoulder, saddened to be leaving so soon.

Y/N was painfully looking at her friends, wondering when she will see them again.

“We will visit soon. Ciri just needs me, I know it.” Geralt grunted, petting Roach. He was eager to get on the road.

“It’s okay. I’m glad I got to see you again, Gee.” Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t fool the boys. They exchanged worried looks.

After hugs exchanged, she watched them leave – Geralt on Roach, Jaskier on a horse he borrowed from Vesemir. Y/N looked up once more, mountains blocking her view, but the bards words crept in, waking something inside her.

She whistled her horse, urging it to a gallop to catch up with her friend. Surprise painted their faces when they saw her, and both men stopped in their tracks.

“You said you’d visit soon.” She explained, slowing her horse to a canter, going ahead of them. “I can leave Kaer Morhen for a little bit. And these gifted swords need testing too.”

“You’re coming with us?” Jaskier couldn’t hide the joy in his voice, but he didn’t care. In the dark he and Geralt could barely tell that the girl rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go, boys!” She rushed to a gallop again.

They caught up to her in a heartbeat. They raced through the mountains, until they reached one of the peaks.

The fields in front of them offered endless possibilities. In this moonlight, shewolf took a deep breathe, and she knew, that for the first time in ages, she was breathing freedom. One last glance at her home, the castle glistening in the light grey light of the night was inviting.

But she knew she would always find a home here.

She could always come and rest, until she was ready to venture again. Now, she needed to go and find her pack.

y/N didn’t know, that Jaskier and Geralt both thought they just added a new member to their pack. They accepted her, racing in the night, to the rest of their pack, towards Ciri and Yen. Rushing into the unknown, leaving the pit stop behind.

[imaginariumpod]

Bright Star : The visualisation of tenderness

This movie is one that I constantly revisit, the beauty and softness of it is something I want to carry with me. The soft colors, the delicateness of the moments that we see, and yet a story that moves hearts. This is the sort of stories I want to be able to tell and this is why I really wanted to write about this film.

I am just going to preface this article by saying that BRIGHT STAR (2009) directed by Jane Campion is one of my all time favorite movies and that I am going to be extremely biased in this article. Now, that this is out of the way, let’s move on to the article. Bright Star is a movie about the love story between John Keats and Fanny Brawne. But ultimately, it is a story about yearning, poetry and loss, at its core, it’s a story about love. Every shot of this movie encapsulates the tenderness and kindness which drives the story and Jane Campion’s directing. This movie is a highly romanticized version of John Keats’ life that centers Fanny and John’s romantic relationship and not necessarily on Keats’ career as a future legendary poet. The angle she chose to tell this story is a very soft and kind one, that is very empathetic toward both its main characters.

I’m going to start by placing the movie in its cultural context as well as in the cinematic industry that was prevailing in 2009 and still is today. Jane Campion is one of my favorite female directors and one I would qualify as an Auteur. Unfortunately, the cinema industry being as it is, I feel like so few women have the standing in the industry as artists that a lot of men have. Not to turn this into an interlude on the inherent inequality of the cinema world at large, but it’s easy to think of male directors that have a certain aesthetic and a recognizable way of making their movies. I’m thinking of Wes Anderson, Martin Scorsese, Quentin Tarantino, Guillermo Del Toro etc etc. For better or for worse, those cineasts are known for a certain style of works that is attributed to them . Female cineasts who get to be artists for more mainstream are very few in between, Jane Campion is one of them, but I could also name Anna Biller, Agnès Varda and Greta Gerwig. Women work at all scales of the industry and yet it feels their work is not valued enough for varied reasons. The industry doesn’t want to take A Risk (™) on a  female cineast the way they do with male movie makers. The industry still has so much progress to do when it comes to centering stories made by people that aren’t straight cis white men, the films being produced for a mainstream audience are still majorly directed, produced and written by white men. You only have to see the recent award shows where the best directors nominees were all white men, despite women and people of color  presenting amazing work constantly. Representation is important in what you see in the movies, non-white actors and stories featuring marginalized people, but what is also truly important as well, and I feel isn’t talked as much in the broader discourse about this subject, is how it’s important to have diversity behind the camera as well, whether it’s the director, writer, producer, crew, etc. I think we can safely say that progress was indeed made since 2009, but a female filmmaker being celebrated is still so rare to this day that i feel it’s important to remark on.

Jane Campion was still a celebrated filmmaker, despite having taken a hiatus from the film industry, and Bright Star (2009) did very well. The movie received many awards and nominations in such prestigious institutions such as Cannes or the British Independant Film Awards. Campion describes the film as more intimate than the previous ones she had made  and in this regard, she is right. The way the film is shot and directed brings you closer to the characters and the story. The intimacy and the tenderness is almost overwhelming at times, she uses shots that are both very close and very near to give you a close sense of nearness and intimacy and to convey the emotions the characters are feeling, but also Campion uses a lot of very ethereal and shot. Hands brushing, butterflies flying around while one is lying on the grass,  make  this movie a literal visualization of soft romantic yearning.  

One of the most important things to me in this movie,  is how kind the narrative is toward Fanny Brawne. History hasn’t been kind to her, especially when we know that historians in general (ad im talking precisely white male cis straight historians who have been the ones to mainly write our History) have created the narrative that she was a despicable person, that she was a frivolous woman who didn't deserve to be in the vicinity of their favorite poet, simply on account of her being a woman who was more interested in clothes than rhymes and verses. and maybe she was, but on all accounts, John Keats was terribly in love with her, and she was equally in love with him. I  just want to preface this by saying I would die for keats, I adoooore his poems and his writing and I have his complete works on my bedside table at this very moment.. I feel like its a very special kind of misogyny (or a very mundane one, now that I think about it) where the simple feminine presence of Fanny brawne near John Keats somehow tarnished him. The fact that she loved feminine things was a flaw that she needed to overcome for most male historians, they thought her futile and shallow, simply for the fact that she was a woman who was interested in clothes and delicate pretty things.

But more than that, she was also a skilled seamstress, she made her own clothing and was delightfully creative and hardworking, and the way Campion frames the craft of Fanny in the movie shows how valuable she thinks this skill is. Garment making is a really complex craft that requires skill and time and hardwork and to this day still isn’t valued the way it should be. So it should be no surprise that history, mostly written by male white cis historians, remembers Fanny Brawne as a vapid shallow woman who only cares about clothes. We can see that the character of Charles Brown, who will later be introduced as one close friend of Keats, is a bit of a placeholder for this sort of perspective. He constantly tries to thwart Keats and Brawne’s budding romantic relationship because he doesn’t think Keats should bother with such frivolous affairs. The movie is incredibly kind and tender in the way it showcases how craft, any craft, whether it be sewing or writing poetry, is work and a labour of love, and does not diminish the value of either to the advantage of the other.

John Keats is ofc a central part of this story. Ben Whishaw succeeds perfectly in bringing the tragic poet to life. Whishaw is perfect to play a poet who is about to die of consumption, he’s just very tragic that way. His delivery is perfect and he is the perfect casting for John Keats. (If you have the time, this reading of La belle dame sans mercI by Ben Whishaw is so delicate, beautiful and legit brings tears to my eyes )  I’m sure most of you know the story of Keats, but it’s still very tragic to think about : a  poor and unsuccessful poet who died incredibly young and who never got to truly see how impactful his art would be in the future.  Keats is still remembered today, but he never got the chance to enjoy the success his poetry had, years after his death. He never got to marry the woman he wanted to marry because he didn’t have the means to do it. He created beauty from his words and then died alone in Italy at just 25 years old. It never truly hit me before this year, when I did my annual rewatch of the movie, how young Keats truly was, being now 24 years old at the time of writing this article, it truly was a life that has been cut too short.

The directing of Jane Campion is very deliberate, and i think there’s a vision to this movie that is incredibly powerful and obvious. The movie’s pace is very slow, but I think sometimes we need media that just takes the time to slow down and to just enjoy the scene enfolding in front of us. I’m thinking about some scenes where you can only see Keats sitting on a chair outside. He is writing. The wind is moving through the leaves, the birds are singing in the distance, and Keats is writing. A lot of people would say that the scene is useless when it comes to moving the plot forward, and I guess i would agree, strictly speaking, that it doesn’t do much in terms of moving the plot forward, but it does set the atmosphere wonderfully. You can feel the calmness and the ethereal feeling of Keats’ poetry. Campion scatters moments like these throughout the movie, where she takes the time to slow down and get lost in the moment. It’s something that i particularly adore in media, as life constantly feels like it’s getting away from me, it reminds me to slow down and take the time to breathe.

The delicate colors of the cinematography are another aspect that I think really brings such a soft and tender dimension to the movie. The director of photography for this specific movie is Greig Fraser who also did the cinematography for such movies as Rogue One, Vice, as well Batman film starring Robert Pattinson but we aren’t talking about that atm. The colors that have been used throughout the film are very soft and soothing. Soft pinks and soft greens, as well as deep rich hues of blues and browns. There’s a haziness to this movie that very much feels like being thrown into a poem.

This wouldn't be an article written by me if there wasn't any mention of the costume design. The costume design in this movie is being taken care of by Janet Patterson, who had worked previously on other Campion’s movies (Portrait of a Lady, The Piano). The work she does here is marvelous. She manages to create such a beautiful wardrobe for each of the characters. From the colorful dresses of Fanny Brawne to the outfits of the last extra, everything is carefully thought of, and the attention to detail really stands out when you look at the clothing, from the historical research to how well the costumes fit within the realm of the BRIGHT STAR cinematic universe. John Keats’ outfits, in particular, were particularly delightful, he,s always clad in deep blues and clothes that seem worn and comfortable. Something about these darker blues just seem so melancholic compared to the rest of the costumes, especially in contrast with Fanny Brawne’s brighter dresses.

The last thing I will touch upon is the tenderness of the story in itself, despite how sadly it ends. The love story between John Keats and Fanny Brawne unfolds slowly, and then all at once. Despite all of what they go through, the love and the care they give each other is tremendous. And the times they have to be apart, you feel the yearning and longing for the other as if enveloping the scene. Having to wait for another letter, having to acknowledge that they can’t be together is heartbreaking, especially as Keats is desperately trying to do right by Fanny. They want to get married, but Keats is an unsuccessful poet who is in debt, and Fanny is from an upper middle class family and won’t be allowed to marry beneath her rank. I feel like it’s such a mundane story and yet, it feels world shattering to them, especially the last moments they share when Keats becomes ill and he has to leave for Italy to rest and try to get better, but they both know that it’s probably the last time they’ll see each other breaks me. The tenderness in each movement and each conversation they had was tinged by the heavy weight of saying goodbye one last time.

And then. The letter arrives. With the news of Keats’ death. And his fiancée cuts her hair, dons a black dress. And mourns him.

[emybain]

After the Battle

hey @rubys-finger-cymbals im your secret santa for the gift exchange!!! ive never written an osby/tuckva-centered fic before so I hope I did okay with this one:) I had so much fun delving into ruby’s mind, and hopefully this wont be the last time I write these two beans! I hope you have a merry Christmas if you celebrate it, and if not, I hope you have a wonderful day!!

THIS FIC CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR SUPERNOVA!!! 

    It seemed like an eternity had passed in the amount of time Ruby spent searching for her friends. If it weren’t for Max, she wouldn’t have been there in the first place. He convinced her to sneak him out of her home, as her mom put the two of them on house arrest, and take him to the scene of the battle. For someone so young, he was a pretty persuasive kid when he needed to be. Now, after witnessing the near destruction of Gatlon and it’s unexpected reconstruction, she knew bringing Max was the right thing to do. However, she had dozens of questions in her head about what the heck just happened. Gatlon was saved, Ace Anarchy was finally killed, and silence...silence, and then out of nowhere, a powerful energy sweeping out from the cathedral and over Gatlon, bringing with it a beautiful light. At first, she was frozen in awe, until she felt familiar aches from her arm, chest, and stomach where she had been stabbed all those years ago. After being neutralized at the arena, her mom patched up her wounds, which had grown more painful than when she was a prodigy. Peeking underneath the bandages confirmed her giddy, although confused, suspicions. The murmurs and gasps and screams of joy further confirmed that she wasn’t just hallucinating; those who had been neutralized were prodigies again. 

    Ruby shoved through the mass of people gathered at the cathedral, only barely paying recognition to the gathering media stations and helicopters to the battle scene. There were three people on her mind, one more than the others perhaps. Her heart began to sink, tears springing to her eyes, at a possibility that she refused to be true. But then her eyes laid on Captain Chromium and the Dread Warden, embracing tightly. Nearby stood four figures, three of them that Ruby knew. A grin broke out on her face as she ran towards them, calling out their names. 

    Oscar was the first to turn, eyes widening at the sight of her. That dopey, relaxed grin that Ruby adored played at his lips. She all but hurled herself into his arms, burying her face into his neck. She felt his hold on her tighten, tugging her closer to him. Pulling back just slightly to look at him, she could tell he was exhausted but elated to see her. The tension in her shoulders relaxed upon seeing that other than a few scratches here and there, he was mostly unharmed. 

    “I was getting worried when I couldn’t find you,” she murmured, bringing her hand to rest on his cheek. “You’re a big, dumb, stupid idiot for doing that to me.”

    Oscar leaned into her touch. “Didn’t I promise I’d come back to you? We still haven’t gone on a first date, after all, and me dying would’ve been a bit awkward for timing.”

    Ruby rolled her eyes, and was pulling him in for a kiss when a throat cleared. She opened her eyes and glanced over Oscar’s shoulder at Danna.

    “We’re alive too, by the way,” she teased, gesturing to Adrian and herself. Ruby broke out into another smile and planted a kiss on Oscar’s cheek before her racing heart could decide for her otherwise. 

    She parted from him and hugged her other two friends, gripping them tightly. The fourth person she had seen earlier stood awkwardly off to the side behind Adrian, and Ruby gasped when she recognized who it was. But...why was Nova dressed like...like…

    “Nova’s Nightmare?” She frowned up at Adrian, then Danna, then Oscar. Clearly, she had missed a lot more than she had originally thought. “But...but what about Cronin’s granddaughter?”

    “It was a cover up to get me out of prison,” Nova explained, taking a hesitant step forward. Ruby stepped back, mouth agape. If Nova was an Anarchist, then why was she still alive? And here with Ruby’s friends? “Ruby, I-”

    “You betrayed us,” Ruby snapped, causing Nova to flinch. “You manipulated us and tricked us and...and-and…” her mouth struggled to find the right words, her body suddenly filled with anger, “you neutralized innocent people! Among dozens of other things,” she added. 

    “She’s on our side again, Ruby.” Adrian reached for Nova, who tentatively allowed him to pull her beside him. Ruby’s frown deepened at the protective way his hand rested on her arm. “Listen, it’s been a long night, and we’re all tired. We’ll explain more tomorrow, okay?”

    Ruby shook her head firmly. “No. I don’t trust her, not after everything she’s done to us, to Gatlon. And I frankly don’t understand why any of you would trust her, either.”

    Oscar wrapped an arm around hers. “She helped us kill her uncle, Ruby, as well as other Anarchists. I didn’t want to trust her at first, either, but I think she’s genuinely sorry for everything.”

    Nova coughed into her arm. “Right here, you know.” Her gaze shifted to Ruby, and her eyes softened, almost making Ruby’s frown lighten up. “I don’t blame you for not trusting me, Ruby, and I understand if you never want to speak to me again.” She glanced over the others quickly. “That goes for the rest of you. I’ve been blinded for most of my life, and because of that, I’ve been following the wrong cause.” She shook her head. “I thought I was doing the right thing, but it turns out I was just lied to my entire life and-” her voice broke, and she dropped her head to the ground, releasing a slow sigh. She raised it back up again, and at the sight of unshed tears in her eyes, Ruby’s frown disappeared this time. “I’m sorry, really. If I could turn back time and fix all my mistakes, starting ten years ago, I would.”

    Although she didn’t want to forgive Nova just yet, Ruby nodded.  Her apology would do for now, and in all honesty, Ruby had a feeling there was more to the story that she hadn’t heard yet. Deep down, even when she had previously believed Nova to be an Anarchist when the other girl was arrested, Ruby knew that she had a good heart. Too many instances had occurred where Nova had proven that, and Ruby couldn’t forget about them. There were still questions dancing at the tip of her tongue, but judging from the worn state of her friends, they would have to come later. 

_______

    Adrian and Nova had left to check on Max, who, according to Adrian, was more spent than the rest of them but resting. Danna had also left to speak with some other Renegades, leaving Ruby alone with Oscar. 

    They sat in front of the cathedral in the dirt, joined at the hip. She leaned against him, playing with his fingers that rested in her hand. They didn’t speak for a while, just letting everything sink in and settle before saying anything. Ruby didn’t want to talk about the fighting or the events of the night, not yet anyway. Not until her questions were ready to be answered. Oscar, apparently, didn’t either. 

    “I had a plan, you know,” he spoke up, turning his head slightly to look down at Ruby. 

    Ruby hummed, lacing their fingers together and letting their joined hands fall into her lap. “What do you mean?”

    “To ask you out.” A small blush formed on his cheeks; Ruby would’ve teased him about it had she not felt her own heat up. “Called it Operation Crown Jewels.”

    Ruby scrunched her nose in disgust. “Ew, seriously? What the hell, Oscar?”

    He threw his free hand up in exaggeration. “Because, you know, your gift and your name and all. Crown Jewels.”   

    Okay, she had to admit that the thought was sweet. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, heart thrumming at the way his thumb traced a pattern over the back of her hand in response. “And what was this plan?”

    Oscar dropped his eyes to the ground briefly before returning them to Ruby, his expression sheepish. “Well, it was many things, really. Poems, speeches, grand declarations of love…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “But nothing was ever good enough. It had to be perfect.”

    Ruby snuggled closer to him, reaching her free hand up to push back one of his curls. She thought back to the arena and how he fiercely defended her after she lost her gift. And their kiss…

    “It was perfect, planned or not.” A teasing smile appeared on her lips. “Although, I wish you would’ve made a move sooner, dummy.”

    “Hey!” Oscar nudged her shoulder playfully, causing a laugh to escape her mouth. She pushed him back, their hands separating from one another. But the chill that went through her body at the loss of his warmth was brief, for he wrapped her up into his arms once more. This time, though, she was practically in his lap, his arms draped loosely around her waist; she had to twist her whole body toward him to be comfortable. Their laughs slowly disintegrated, their smiles falling shortly behind. 

    Oscar placed a hand under her ear, fingers curling around the hair at the nape of her neck. Ruby’s heart pounded in her chest. In her mind, she chided herself on this sudden burst of nerves. It was just Oscar. Her friend. Her best friend. 

    “I’ve had a crush on you since I first saw you at the trials.” Ruby’s lips parted a little at that; while she had been crushing on him as well, it hadn’t been as long as that. Her crush had only surfaced about a year and a half ago, confusing and terrifying and wonderful and painful all at once. “And since then, I’ve been a sucker for girls with white and black hair. Oh, and also the color red.”

    Ruby blushed furiously, wanting to look away in embarrassment but forcing herself to keep her focus trained on his eyes. “Oscar, I-”

    “You’re the most amazing girl I know, Ruby,” he interrupted softly. “You’re also the girl of my dreams, which is why I’ve been terrified to do this.”

    Ruby scrunched up her nose when he didn’t continue. “Terrified to do what?”

    Oscar inhaled slowly, then exhaled. His gaze shifted to the ground, then back up to her. “Ruby Tucker, will you be my girlfriend?”

    The world around her shrunk to just her and Oscar. No longer were they resting on a battlefield, surrounded by Renegades and the media. It was just the two of them and the overflow of happiness expanding in Ruby’s chest. She beamed at Oscar, laughing wildly before leaning forward and smushing her lips against his. 

    He hummed in surprise, but quickly reciprocated the kiss with enthusiasm. Her hands were just starting to wound their way around his neck, her fingers itching to dig themselves into his crazy curls, when he pulled back suddenly. Her lips, not expecting that, chased after his. 

    “Wait wait wait.” He held up a hand between them, a goofy sparkle in his eyes. “Is that a yes.”

    Ruby groaned loudly, fingers wrapping around strands of hair as she pulled him back to her. She had waited a year and a half for this, and didn’t want to waste a single moment. “If I say yes will you go back to kissing me?” While she was fully teasing him, like he had teased her, her answer wasn’t completely a joke. 

    His hand dropped to her waist. “Mhm.”

    “Then yes.” She peppered light kisses around his face, from his nose to his cheeks to his eyebrows, then to his lips. “A thousand times yes, Oscar Silva.”

    When they kissed again, Ruby shivered. Very quickly, the kiss deepened, possibly more than it should considering they were in public and surrounded by dozens of people. But Ruby didn’t care, not one bit.

    The only thing she cared about at the moment was right there in front of her.

[gplewis]

a few failed beginnings

Why one writes: to unload one’s neuroses without having to explain what every little thing means. it’s a place to talk without being analyzed; perhaps there’s no skin in the game or it’s post-skin somehow; it’s a vortex with comfy clothes

Luckily I’ll never be as obsessed about the perfection of these pages than I was when I was desperate for progress in those critical formative years of 26, 27, 28, 29 and 30. Yes, I’m a bit self-righteous about my age and experience now. I am a new narrator. 

“Once written, the text becomes fixed.” —Ismail Kadare https://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/1105/ismail-kadare-the-art-of-fiction-no-153-ismail-kadare

thank God I failed at fame

-

I’m an enthusiastic innovator OK with failure; I like the brotherhood of the workday, I make a job a way to satisfaction and participation in the economy a form of play and spirituality; money is value and time is a fresh canvas to blow into and try to be heard by the system in the language it speaks; yes, systems and analytics need their preachers. It’s fun to know what to do and stay focused on the people.

I still want to play piano, sing, play tennis and soccer and baseball, have the choice always to turn to reading or listening (Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff)

—

the book is a record of the person I was, and I feel pride in the young person who was able to write it all down https://theparisreview.org/interviews/6312/henri-cole-the-art-of-poetry-no-98-henri-cole ^ him at 40

another Saturday morning washed up on the shore of the in-between, another new before

comets fly days hum making a song

since women I adored have gone away; it’s OK, I emigrate like a bird to the blinking cursor, Notes track where and how I grew up,

http://www.narrativemagazine.com/issues/poems-week-2011-2012/poem-week/dress-rehearsal-apocalypse-tomas-q-morin like Lazarus he rose from the darkest beds taking the splinter where he broke and carved castles from jagged beds he took time to make

-

My language of obviousness has hollowed out like a hole in a tree and is filling with water; the structure of the Notes is irrelevant in ways - I am not going to publish a memoir about my life experience from 25 to 30; it's good that I have it and I'm proud of the young man who wrote it but I can't see my enthusiasm ever matching up to the action of suggesting someone else read what I have written

writing was a way out of the hell of not knowing myself or what to do

it’s a record of thrashing you’re reading now; thanks

But why throw your Notes at them when you can be nice instead? It’s not like I’m far away. If you ask me for my number I’ll give it to you and we’ll text. We can relate.

—

a tweetstorm I read that mattered https://twitter.com/jonst0kes/status/890970472774602752

life is work. also, love.

ivy climbing around poles, flowers popping out of tractor grates, nature fighting through and against and amid human insistence on place and stillness - nature exerting that time is fluid, everything is burning, things don't remain unbroken; time rusts all

The thing about the moment is it isn't going anywhere; we're gonna be here for the rest of our lives “what I was doing” is never rare; I need not hunt for anecdote https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2018/feb/17/elena-ferrante-im-tired-of-fiction-i-no-longer-see-a-reason-to-go-hunting-for-anecdotes

I have the record of what I was; so much data of two years ago and I edit it; I clean it up, make the trail from birth to hear traversable but we have to live today, bear the burden of survival every hour eat hydrate meditate pray the verbs that keep us together the best thing to do is to be something—use your body, use your day, use your manner of speaking to get a life that’s worth being seen and thought about—so far so good: connive your way to a safe career that finances your creative, spiritual efforts like typing thoughts, reading articles, playing piano, singing, having weekends, taking pictures; of course don’t be a public figure; twentysomethings who haven’t done therapy are going to stay up all day and night clutching their image on screen; you have an ambivalence that is rare and valuable but you have no patience for impressing any media elite

so write and grow to make the truth bearable hit notes well: sing, play, write, message, talk with a backdrop of defensible business career and healthy habits (diet, exercise, water, sleep) live into the years when you know how to write fiction because you have a fuller sense of the human condition - you know no one can save you; you know a profound solitude, a caring, nurturing, generative, restorative relationship with yourself alone at night, in the morning, over lunchtime, standing at a red light—that’s where the joy is

-

looking forward to seeing her was nice

a man typing to make himself feel better about his losses

Andante - walking pace Allegro ma non troppo - fast but without tripping

-

fuck literary elites: no one has a monopoly on what is nice to read, how solitude and disappointment draws eyes down and hearts open, seeking a like-minded soul with whom to bond, whose brave existence can make you feel seen, can give you reason to go on yet another day

one media source is insignificant because everything else is just as available

-

take my lovely worm out of the bag show you what I wrote

[years of sitting with the blinking cursor]

-

drugs, love, money, art, death, freedom, time, social media, banality and justice are all still of interest; they're the only things left to do once you’ve won career

Vanity, fear, desire, competition

thinking, feeling, living my life with access to a keyboard and the endless internet occupying this political and personal moment in time as my body accelerates toward certain demise

-

typing, my voice is all I’m left with here at the edge of late capitalism, Saturday, overcast a plane flies overhead

I have no plans except and love shall stomp a new era

a rainforest glistening with possibilities a house on the coast, working from home so many lives I could explain which could be self-sustaining I have many two-year stints left to luxuriate in

and words will fill the pages of my days because a keyboard is where my soul is home

the people I love are out there people who love are out there

we all want the same thing: a safe home, a supportive community, education, time to pursue our curiosity, to contribute meaningfully

I know who I am now

I’m here for the collapse of capitalism

I’m ready for a role in the world as it and I will be

I fear no fate

I love life, I trust life, I am a fucking miracle

I think people will get what they deserve Good people find each other and

Bad people get found out.

the lame crown-pieces at the tops of traditional hierarchies who don’t do anything difficult or admirable are gonna come crashing down

systems of government based on blockchain technology, i.e. transparency

get the rich people at the top out of power—distribute wealth down for education, health care, housing, food, infrastructure, community projects

why is this money sitting in bank accounts? 2017 is the light shone on all dark corners of American reality and the 99% are not going quietly to their desk jobs

millennials are killing everything wasteful and actually think about consequences and interconnectivity

I was made for the future I am just as opinionated and demanding as I was at 26 at the height of burning intensity

Now I've gotten therapy and found a safe career and I'm 100% logged on

and we know that connection is the electric pursuit so

edit something in public and realize it doesn’t need to be there!

working on your front door is good work to do because everyone walks through

06. Connection is the electric pursuit reread and skimmed 10/10 10:11am (21 pages)

As my aging MacBook circles the drain, I wonder: have I overestimated my computing needs? https://motherboard.vice.com/en_us/article/wj9bdm/i-tried-to-replace-my-laptop-with-my-phone-and-a-dollar20-bluetooth-keyboard how much footprint do I really need? I will have to learn how little I have to control (as far as images stored and available and my habits well-worn, i.e. I know the click and search path to getting any particular image I can remember - always honing my library - perhaps that’s the fate of man who’s transcended hourly rate and execution for others’ profit-making schemes

https://www.technologyreview.com/s/511276/free-speech-in-the-era-of-its-technological-amplification/

late nights engaged in conversations on Usenet https://medium.com/s/trustissues/the-messy-fourth-estate-a42c1586b657

to be imaginatively drawn into the sticky world of some nearby human being’s home life https://www.technologyreview.com/s/410623/i-just-called-to-say-i-love-you/

The numbers keep getting worse: the true energy costs of AI, connected devices, and cryptocurrency https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2017/dec/11/tsunami-of-data-could-consume-fifth-global-electricity-by-2025 written by a beautiful woman ripe with life https://genius.com/Talib-kweli-joy-lyrics

The numbers keep getting worse: a memoir of a civilization before its collapse

tsunami of data will consume all Human Resources https://twitter.com/katecrawford/status/1046766828939341824?s=21 giving to the void of send, to the possibly seen the atomization of my desire to be real that’s what will take up electricity for the rest of days

our endless desire for connection is what kills us in the end!
 OR we become part of the worldwide effort to save humanity in heroic fashion by therapy for everyone, a collective Kumbaya, a come-to-Jesus moment where we actually come to [have?] a savior and worship, love and people are loved and adored instead of fear and money but we love images and the devices that serve we are comfortable holding an abstraction of the world in our hands and we can operate our piece in it and yes, then we sit down to dinner and realize our body is just the container of our situation...our body is an emissary of the struggle for survival and love we are in this year this month

The craving for that single stranger-filled neighborhood would not stop with the telegraph. Over the next hundred years, radio, television, and even the telephone all dramatically increased the number of daily interactions people have with information. https://medium.com/@Marinaccio/the-telegraph-changed-how-you-spend-your-time-9a691d860e11