#and i just came across this wonderful poem

[pen-pain-poetry]

I came across your profile

I came across your profile, and memories came back, from where I had buried them, six feet deep at least.

I came across your profile, memories came back, of how we had met, in the middle of the hallway.

I came across your profile, memories came back, of 6 seasons we spent, in each others life.

I came across your profile, memories came back, of how you made me feel, when you drove us to death.

Memories came back, and I re-experienced everything again, uncomfortable in my own skin, you broke my stability and peace.

Memories come back, just life that night, when I decided to end ties, with monotonous bye.

I am relieved it is all over, to be honest, and i don't know if i have the heart to forgive you because you crossed the lines, that I had set in concrete.

I came across your profile, Memories came back, But i am just so over it, and I want to keep my peace.

©Pen_Pain_Poetry

[androgynealienfemme]

"I was born thirty eight years ago and raised to be a nice Chinese girl. But nice Chinese girls don't grow up to be dykes and rebels. And I turned out to be both.

I grew up on silence. Though I was part of a large extended family, we ate in silence. There was no conversation or laughter, just the sound of soup spoons and chopsticks against rice bowls. I was not encouraged to talk, express emotions, or ask questions. I grew up with a heritage of silence.

I was a girl child, the first born in a traditional Chinese family, raised to be seen but not heard, raised to excel in school but not be curious, raised to be someone's wife but not to be a person of my own. When I was growing up in England, Hong Kong, and San Francisco, I read everything I could get my hands on, but none of the books spoke of my own experience. I started writing when I was eleven years old to fill the silence and to turn the years of rejection into affirmation.

You're probably wondering what the hell any of this h as to do with sex. The answer is- plenty. What I write is shaped by my history and experience as both a Chinese woman and as a lesbian.

Chinese is my first language. But I was fluent only in the words my parents deemed it necessary for me to know. I was certainly not taught the words for breast, cunt, ass, or orgasm. There were no words for sex; therefore, sex did not exist.

I came out as a lesbian when I was twenty-one, but I didn't start writing about sex until almost a decade later. Sure, I wrote love poems, but I never wrote about sex. I was, after all, a nice Chinese girl and we didn't''t talk about things like that. --

I have always loved women passionately. I love the way a femme moves across a dance floor, knowing all eyes are focused on her. I love the hard eye-to-eye look from another butch as she sizes me up as competition- or her next conquest. I love the fluid seduction in a femmes eyes. I love the long line of her neck, her delicate earlobes and soft lips, painted some shade of red or unpainted but deeply flushed from having been kissed long and hard. Many times. I love the curve of her breast, the hardness of her nipples, the softness of her stomach, the fullness of her ass, her legs with a faint covering of hair or long and sleek in black silk stockings. I love the strength of her in her thighs, the firmness of her biceps, the feel of her forearms as she takes me. I love the smell of her heat and the place of pleasure between her legs. I love her ankles and her delicate toes and her soft instep where I run my tongue until my teeth are gripping her Achilles tendon. I love the smell of her, the taste of her, the feel of her, the sight of her. I love women passionately.

--

Some women do not attend my theater or literary events for fear of supporting my sexual politics. I have been accused of recruiting. Never mind that I have a long history of writing, community organizing, and activism. Now I am judged solely for my leather sexuality. It's never been easy being different, but I have always survived. I will continue to speak out, write truths, and make waves. My countryman Mao Zedong wrote, "Dare to struggle, dare to win." I say, dare to write. Dare to be different. And who says nice Chinese girls don't talk about sex?"

"Who Says we Don't Talk About Sex?" Kitty Tsui, The Persistent Desire, (Edited by Joan Nestle) (1992)

[sundrop-writes]

Hi! I love your works! I saw your request are open, so I was wondering if I could ask how would Spencer react to the reader fainting into his arms?

I love this request so much. As a POTSie, this is really close to my heart - and idk if this was your intention or not, but I decided to make it that the reader has POTS.

Requests are OPEN

How would Spencer Reid react to you fainting around him?

Warnings: Reader's gender is not described - reader is gender neutral; the reader's looks are not really described either; the reader faints due to a pre-existing medical condition; the reader is mentioned to have POTS; this is Spencer during his Professor era; the reader is also a Professor at the University that Spencer teaches at; this fic uses Y/N and L/N (as in Last Name); the reader loses consciousness completely and Spencer attends to them to make sure they are okay; some light fluff/romance; I think that's it? Not really proofread. This could be described as hurt/comfort (I found it very comforting to write) - even if you aren't chronically ill, I encourage you to read and enjoy!!!

...

Spencer didn’t really know you.

Since he had started teaching at the university, he had seen you around many times, and a face like yours - someone as gorgeous as you definitely stuck out in his mind. But he had never formally introduced himself. He could have used the excuse that he was busy preparing his lectures, and racing back and forth to the BAU between those lectures. But even if he hadn't spoken to you, he had been admiring you from afar for a long time. 

That was why, when he found a notebook that belonged to you sitting on one of the benches on the quad, he didn’t hesitate to bring it to your office. It needed to be returned to its rightful owner, and that owner was someone he had been secretly admiring for some time now. It was the perfect excuse to introduce himself to you. He thought that sitting on the notebook when he went outside to take his morning coffee break could be considered fate. Especially when he flipped open the cover, looking for some sign of who it belonged to, and he saw your name written on it. 

(Did he also flip through the rest of the pages, seeing the poems you had written, along with some beautiful sketches of birds and stills of flowers, and felt his stomach stir even more, realizing that he was falling for you before even talking to you? Maybe. He would have denied it, though.) 

He knocked on your door late, on his way out for the day, hoping that you were still there, and he was surprised to find the hinge creaking open underneath his fist. 

“Hello?” He called out. “Professor L/N?” 

“Oh, come in!” You called back. 

Spencer walked in and found the room to be a mess of papers - many open file boxes scattered about the room, with papers scattered everywhere in an utter hurricane of paper. 

You were focused on the file box in front of you, a frown knit across your brows as you flipped through them one by one, clearly intently looking for something. 

“I’m sorry.” Spencer apologized. “Is this a bad time?” 

“Oh, uh-” You finally looked up from your searching, and when you locked eyes with Spencer, you were surprised to find a doe-eyed, curly-haired, incredibly attractive man standing in the middle of your messy office. “I’m sorry. I- you’re that FBI guy, right? Reid?” 

You ignored his question in favor of being introduced to him properly - you had heard his name from the mouths of other people; gossip from your colleagues about how a real FBI profiler would be teaching a class about the psychology of serial killers and profiling. 

“Yes.” Spencer nodded. “I’m Doctor Spencer Reid. But you can call me Spencer, if you prefer.” 

“Spencer.” You repeated back, grinning at him. “I’m Professor L/N, as you said. But you can call me Y/N.” 

“Well, Y/N, I just came to return this.” Spencer explained, reaching into his bag and pulling out your notebook. 

Your eyes instantly lit up at the sight of it. 

“Oh my gosh.” You gasped quietly. “Thank you so much.” You took it back, giving him a grateful smile. “I don’t even know where my head is today, I-” 

Spencer gave a small grin as he followed your gaze around the mess you had created in your office. 

“I know this looks chaotic, but…” You looked for an excuse. “A student asked me for a copy of an essay they wrote a few years ago as a reference for their thesis. And I thought I had everything well organized. But - apparently my head is just not on very straight.” 

The forgetfulness, and your inability to go through the files in an efficient way - the lack of focus, it was only compounded by your pre-existing condition. Which was only made worse by the fact that you had forgotten to eat lunch, and it was well past dinner time now. 

“Oh, that’s completely understandable.” Spencer chuckled. “I can help you look through some of these if you want?” 

Your hands were shaking as you grasped the notebook and as Spencer became blurry in your vision - you thought about going to sit down in your office chair for a break after it was too late. 

“Y/N?” 

He became worried when you didn’t respond, when the expression on your face became more distant and he noticed your lips paling from a healthy color. 

In the next moment, you were falling. 

Spencer rushed to catch you, his instincts kicking in - everything in his body screaming that he needed to keep you from hitting the floor, that he needed to keep you safe. One of his hands cradled the back of your head, and the other arm wrapped around the middle of your back - he was surprised by how heavy your body felt when you were purely dead weight, your body entirely limp as you went completely unconscious, your eyes rolling into the back of your head in a scary way. 

He knelt down slowly, taking you down to the floor in the most gentle way possible, not wanting to drop you accidentally and have you hit your head because of his incompetence. The more the seconds ticked on and your eyelids stayed limp, your lips almost purple and your mouth gaped - the more his own heart thumped in his chest with intense fear. 

“Hey, hey, come on.” He continued to cradle your head with one hand, but now that you were mostly resting on the floor, he moved his other arm from your back to gently rub across your cheek - hoping to rouse you back to consciousness. “Come on, stay with me. Y/N. Wake up. Please?” 

He gently tapped your cheek, no where close to slapping you - but hoping to stimulate your nervous system with touch in some way. 

A huge breath of relief sucked through his chest when your eyelids started flickering and your eyes began moving around, clearly searching for something in the room as you regained consciousness. You let out a moan, trying to form words, and Spencer put a gentle hand on your shoulder, trying to calm you. 

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Just relax.” He told you, trying to keep his voice calm - trying not to betray any of the anxiety that he was truly feeling. 

His first instinct was to call an ambulance - obviously you needed medical attention. What had happened to you? What if it was something serious? 

And while he was patting down his pockets for his phone, you let out another moan and lifted one of your limp arms, drawing his attention to the jingle of a medical alert bracelet on your arm. 

He shoved his phone back into his pocket and moved to grab the pendant on the bracelet, reading it carefully. 

Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome 

There was an emergency number listed, but it wasn’t 9-1-1 - Spencer had to guess that it was a family member of yours, or a doctor. So he had to guess that calling an ambulance wasn’t the thing to do. The condition sounded familiar to him - he read medical journals on occasion because he found them to be mentally engaging, and - because of occasions like this; if he could use the information to help someone. 

He remembered that it was a condition in which the autonomic nervous system fails to regulate blood flow, resulting in fainting when too much blood pools in the legs. So elevating the legs can help a person with the condition regain consciousness easier. 

Spencer hated to rest your head on the hardness of the floor, but he rushed to take off his blazer, and folded it up to put it underneath your head as a makeshift pillow, and then he looked around frantically - and the only good thing he could find were the file boxes. He stacked a few of them and brought them closer, and then situated your legs so they were elevated up on top of the boxes, above your prone body. 

He took your hand and held it - again, simply out of instinct. Wanting you to know that he was there with you while you lingered on the edge of consciousness. But with his helpful first aid, it wasn’t long then - only a minute or two - before your eyes blinked open more confidently and you tried to sit up. 

“Hey, take it easy.” Spencer implored, pushing you gently to lay back down. “Just rest for a few minutes, okay?” 

Usually - you would have rushed to become upright again, even if it was against medical advice. But something about Spencer’s presence was gentle and soothing, and you found yourself actually listening to him. 

“Sorry,” You muttered out, the word practically turning into a slur on your lips - your face tingling and numb as the blood slowly migrated back to your head. “I - I didn’t mean to s-scare you.” 

“You did scare me a little bit.” Spencer chuckled. “Hopefully next time I see you, you don’t end up on the floor.” 

“Well, my condition gets b-better when I eat s-salty foods.” You remarked, telling him the truth about the medical advice you had been given, feeling bold to let this roll into a flirty opportunity. “Maybe you could t-take me to dinner-r next time?” 

Spencer grinned down at you, and let out a light laugh. 

“Sounds like a date.” 

...

A/N: I have to say that this was so comforting for me to write. The amount of times in my life that I have fainted and been terrified, or I have been berated by the people around me for ‘faking’ it when I was feeling incredibly ill and barely conscious. If I fainted and I woke up to Spencer holding my hand and treating me so well like this - I would feel so relaxed and comforted. This was so amazing for me to write, and did help to heal a small fraction in the huge lifetime of medical trauma that I have.

Criminal Minds Masterlist

[leighsartworks216]

Prompt for whenever you want it: the reader grew up in a household where she wasn't allowed to be very feminine/like cute things. Her family was adamant that she be tough and that anything remotely feminine or pretty would be wasted on her. So she secretly likes cute and pretty things, but has internalized all the things her family told her so she never let's it show. I would love to see astarion pick up on it and how he would react? I just imagined one day he presents her with a delicate handkerchief with her initials (he embroidered them himself) and I practically bawled my eyes out 😭😭😭

Idk why I really struggled to write this one. I just had a hard time starting it. So I'd write an opening, hate it, leave it for a bit, come back, leave it again. But I finally got it to a point that I am happy with it

Astarion x fem!Tav/Reader

Warnings: vague references to trauma, self-doubt, swearing

Word Count: 1,041

Main Masterlist

Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

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One gets quite good at reading people when that’s all you did for 200 years. Someone would twitch and Astarion could know exactly what they were thinking. Reading you was as easy as opening a book.

Every time you passed a market or merchant, Astarion could see the way your eyes flit longingly over jewelry or dresses. It was always brief. If the vendor noticed, they’d try pitching the item to you; the same old lines: “A beautiful necklace for a beautiful lady!” But you just smiled politely and shook your head, muttering how it wasn’t your style.

It was curious. Throughout your journey so far, he’d noticed other things, too. How you’d save the most beautiful, feminine dresses for your female companions. At first he just thought you wanted to give them something nice, but it was odd when you’d provide them an item much more suited to your strengths than their own. How your eyes would linger a little longer on flowers and lace gloves. But the moment you felt eyes on you, you’d turn away, the distant longing gleam in your eye replaced with a set determination.

He’d even caught you staring at the embroidery on his clothes once or twice.

(“Distracted, are we?”

“I was only wondering what it says. An odd poem for a shirt.”

“Hmph. Clearly it’s meaning is lost on you, darling.”)

So, with 200 years of experience, Astarion came to the only conclusion he could plausibly find. He accounted for your own attire - masculine or purely functional - your steadfast avoidance of anything feminine, the sorrow that visibly washed over you when you came across something particularly beautiful.

You didn’t allow yourself these things, because you couldn’t.

Well, you could, he supposed. But you weren’t. Perhaps, like him, you felt you didn’t deserve it. Or perhaps, like him, it had been ingrained into your very being that you couldn’t have it. Either way, the result was the same.

He wasn’t honestly sure what came over him when he realized. And it had taken him a few days to think about the idea that formulated unbidden, itching at the back of his mind in a way that put the tadpole to shame. But one night, after feeding (on you and a boar), he sat within his tent and got to work. He threaded the eyes of needles with practiced ease, steadily guided it back and forth through the material in his hands, creating elegant shapes. If he was being honest, it was some of his best work.

It took him even longer to gather the nerves to give it to you. You handed out gifts freely - armor, weapons, trinkets, blood. But he’d… well, he’d never really given anyone a gift before. Nothing as genuine as this, certainly. His mind, his own worst enemy aside from Cazador, kept plaguing him with thoughts of how you’d hate it. How you’d take one look at it, struggle through a smile, and tuck it away at the bottom of your bag. And so it remained in his belongings, safely hidden.

And then you just had to go and be so damn good. You just had to stand up to Araj Oblodra when she kept insisting he drink from her. You just had to quietly tell him that he could, if he wanted to, but only if he wanted to. And you just had to respect his choice. He’d never been so overwhelmed with emotion before. Nobody had ever done that for him. His choices didn’t matter, his comfort didn’t matter. But you didn’t even hesitate.

When you sought him out at camp later that night, you even told him he was free. No longer a slave who had to get on his back for mere breadcrumbs. Too many emotions - relief, fear, euphoria, worry, gratefulness - flooded his chest.

He cleared his throat. “There’s actually something I’ve been meaning to give you,” he admits with a nervous chuckle. “Consider it a… thanks, for what you did for me back there.”

He pulled the neat, white handkerchief from his pocket and presented it to you. Red eyes flit over your face, trying to read every little expression that passed, as you stared at the cloth. On the corner, embroidered in the same golden thread as he used on his shirt, were your initials. Immaculate and shiny.

Your mouth opened. Your eyes were wide, your brow furrowed and then raised. You struggled for words. You met his eyes with shock. “A-Are you sure? I mean, this is much too fine for me - I was happy to stand up for you - Not that you needed any help! I mean-”

“Darling,” he hushed. So you did enjoy it, after all. “It’s a gift. Consider it repayment for all the nights you’ve bared your neck for me, if nothing else. A simple exchange.”

A dying sound left your throat with a breath as you looked back down at the handkerchief. With shaky hands, you took it from him. You held it as though it was a religious artifact from the gods, not a folded square of soft silk with lace borders. It had the same smooth feel as running your fingers over the surface of still water. Tears welled at the corner of your eyes as you ran a thumb over the letters.

“I…” You took a shaky breath, looking up at him again through the building water in your eyes. “Thank you. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.”

He smirked, though your blatant joy made his lips twitch into the start of a genuine smile. “You… deserve something nice. Something more than, well,” he gestured vaguely at your worn cotton attire, “this.”

You laughed and brushed away the tears beginning to slip down your cheeks with the back of your hands. “You’re still a bastard.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

“But a nice bastard.”

“Careful, darling.” He leaned forward with an even wider smirk, fangs peeking out as a mischievous twinkle glinted in his eye. “We wouldn’t want word getting out.”

And if he caught sight of that little cloth poking out from a pocket or resting at the top of your bag, well maybe he let himself enjoy that warmth in his chest.

---

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[mare-noctis-studios]

Ambrosia

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Pairing: Astarion x You (gn terms) CW: Blood drinking, Vampirism, Allusions to Sex

Astarion is a True Vampire and decides he is allowed to have the things he wants for eternity

“You look so lovely like this darling. So… obedient. Maybe I should keep you like this. My spawn. Mine for eternity.”

You begin to protest, but the words died unspoken on your lips as a wave of thought washed through you. It wrapped around your brain with a comforting warmth. It was so nice to just give in. Astarion’s eyes glowed in the firelight, warm as the blood that thrums through your heart, and a fond smile graced his lips.

It was an odd feeling. Your brain was still your own, your own thoughts and beliefs, and yet at a simple command the desire to obey overpowers all else.

Your eyes speak the words your lips cannot, and the smile grows wider - revealing pointed fangs stained red.

“You now see why a vampire hardly converts his spawn. The power you have over one, to make them obey to your every whim. Your puppet, to do with as you please” The downturn of his lips betrayed his own memories, the sour taste of panic in your throat as he continued to burn holes with his gaze. You feel the tadpole squirm in your brain, lashing out at the control with its own desire to dominate. Leaning into that feeling you let authority wash over as your minds touched briefly, a gentle caress as you wrapped one of his silver curls around you finger, delight shining deep in his eyes like the glimmer of coin in a well.

“You never needed to prove your torment to me Astarion” you say softly, letting the illithid power battle the vampire domination as you fall to your knees, face upturned to bare your soul. “I trust you.”

A hand reaches out, cold and pale to brush over your cheek, thumb brushing the plump of your lower lip as you graze the pad of his finger.

Something akin to childlike wonder crept across Astarion’s face as he lifted your top lip gently to reveal what would become fangs, sinking slowly to his knees as hands roamed your neck and chest.

“By the Nine Hells, I do not deserve something as good as you” he whispered, pulling the strings of your shirt undone so he could rid you of the fabric. You followed suit, gently pulling the ruffle up so that his bare chest was mere inches away from yours, letting your hands explore the poem carved across his back.

“You may not deserve me,” you breathe, ghosting your lips in featherlight kisses across his jaw, teasing the skin at the hinge as his hands tangle in your hair. “But you have me all the same.”

Astarion pulled back for a moment, studying the slowly drying blood trails from the wound on your neck with keen interest. He brought stained fingers to his nose and sighed, tenderly licking the remnants away.

“I am going to miss this, dear. You as my sole sustenance, the very reason I continue my existence in this realm. You taste exquisite, my love, and it is a shame that such delicacy is to be lost forever.”

You smile at that, tilting your head as you let a playful tone stretch out between your shared minds. “Yes, I will be disappointing my other dinner guests it seems. Maybe I should back out while I can?”

A lance of poisonous anger pierced your mind, but it only made you laugh. Your beautiful, exquisite, possessive partner.

“Not that I offered my neck to anyone.” You let your smile slip into something more sensual, running your hands up his side until they came to rest at his jaw, pulling him forward in a near kiss. “Only you Astarion. It has only every been you.”

Your breath mingles in the moment as you tease his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to indent skin. A promise of what’s to come. His hands tighten in the roots of your hair as he bares his neck with a groan, eyes falling closed as shifts even closer. You take a moment to pull him fully into your lap, guiding long legs around your waist, as desire flares white hot in your veins. Desire to consume, to devour the sinful being at your mercy. Astarion melted slightly in your hold, pressing open mouthed kisses to your temple.

“Feed, my love” he panted, pressing his chest tight to yours as shivers of anticipation overtook him. “Indulge yourself, for we may enjoy these proclivities for an eternity hereafter.”

You smile, nosing gently over the faint puncture marks from Cazador. “An eternity you say?” Anticipation thrums through your heart as you pull Astarion into a searing kiss. “I could think of nothing more delightful” you whisper, teeth grazing gently at the raised scars on his throat. You feel Astarion swallow once, twice, and with one final tug closer you bite.

Iron fills your senses as blood rushes forth, cool like water from a mountain spring, and you crave. Hands tightening in Astarion’s hair you draw his head to the side exposing his neck even more, hungrily drinking from the veritable fountain as blood settled deep and comforting within your body. You feel Astarion’s body shaking in your lap as you register the soft groans of delight coming from the throat under your tongue. Power blooms within you, the tadpole squirming in delight as you feel the tendrils of vampiric touch so familiar from Astarion’s own mind begin to take root, branching out and wrapping themselves around the fibre of your very being. Blood trickles out of your mouth and down your neck but its pales in comparison to the explosion of taste across your tongue.

Never had you thought blood would taste anything other than the metallic tang you had experienced in your own life’s injuries, but here you are. Astarion once described your taste as something akin to a fine wine - razor sharp yet delicate enough for most uses – however fine did not do him justice.

Astarion was exquisite. Cool and full-bodied, he tasted of sweet nectar and crisp air on a winter’s night, and you were an addict. Blood poured down your throat as Astarion strained a moan into your hair, his own excitement settling against your stomach, and you begin the monumental effort of slaking your thirst. Lapping at the wounds until they no longer flowed freely you met him halfway in a passionate kiss, the blood of you both mingling on your tongue in a way that overshadowed any pairing you had tasted before.

Alone, Astarion was exquisite. Together? Not even the finest ambrosia from the gods could hold a candle to the tase of you.

Astarion seemed eager to rid the last vestiges of clothes between you, and you hastily followed – not caring for the blood you two smeared on each other in the process – and soon you found yourself with Astarion’s legs around your waist and your mouth leaving a patina of love-bites across his chest. With every bite you feel your canines sharpening, until every bruise was accompanied by small punctures, each one driving your lover further and further over the edge into ecstasy.

Soon you were collapsing beside him, nose pressed into the open wound at his neck, his hands tracing lines from your own bite wound down to your heart. Even now, mere hours after your conversion, you feel your chest grow still – no longer needing to breathe – and the warmth of the fire more noticeable in your embrace.

“Thank you” you murmur, tongue gently cleaning the dried blood trail.

Astarion made a noise of contented pleasure, letting you continue your ministrations with the languid grace of a sated predator. “You trusted me to let you convert fully” he mused, seemingly to the empty air above your head but you smiled all the same, pressing a final kiss to the bite wound on his neck.

“Of course,” you say simply, propping up on one elbow to look at him fully. “I trusted that your desire for me would outweigh any tyrannical ideas you might have upon gaining a spawn of your own.” Your knowing smile was met with a mildly sheepish look, so you lean down to kiss it away. “Now, as you say, I can enjoy the machinations of your desire for eternity.”

Maybe I will continue this, or similar stories with the other companions as I get inspired. Let me know what you think Thanks for reading! K

If you would like to be added to the Astarion fic tag list please comment a 🩸

[meraki-yao]

I'm here once more to talk about RWRB fan culture difference :D

Okay so the thing is people in China can't access Prime, so they watch a "pirated" version on Bilibili, the closest Chinese platform to YouTube

And on most Chinese video platforms, including Bilibili, there's this thing called "bullet comments", which are comments that float across the screen as the scene is playing, so the audience can comment in real-time (according to my sister: 'it's like a twitch chat but instead of staying in the chatbox as god intended everything flies across the screen like a flock of deranged geese')

And it can be problematic at times, especially when people start an argument with bullet comments, as it is with idol culture-related videos

But for RWRB, for the most part, the bullet comments are civil

Now the fun thing is that you can get genuinely wonderful comments like these:

He was alone on an island, but then he came...

He swims toward the little prince, and since then the lonely island blossoms like spring, a neverending glorious summer.

The freeing wind of Texas breezed past the Atlantic Ocean, awakening the dying rose of the London Castle

"Idealistic" is good, we need "idealistic" works to show people another possibility

Statues tell the stories of a million lives, and they are an ordinary pair among them

But then you also have hilarities like these:

The entire pink circle is literally just feral screaming, 啊="AHHHHHH"

Ha, I put on my earphones

I'm overwhelmed by the gays

Poor security guard (Amy) Hahahahahaha

Alex: These Flowers are really flowery

Henry: OMG These books are so bookish

In moments of awkwardness, everyone will pretend they are really busy

I'm on the streets...What do I do

Wait! Who's the top! (yeah top or bottom is a.. weirdly strict thing in Chinese LGBT culture)

Remember to pull the curtain!!!!

Fuck Me Am I allowed to watch this?

I really like a quote from Bilibili audience's: "AHH???"

So when I watch stuff on Bilibili, I have to watch it twice: once for the actual video, and once for the *chef's kiss bullet comments that are either poems that I copied down onto my notebook or things that make me laugh until I choke

I really want to share more of these comments, but there are like thousands of them and certain things can't be translated into English. Maybe I'll go through it scene by scene and pick out some fun ones that I can translate?

[cindol]

hey I love your account 💗💗

walk with me on this;

poet! english major! geto x sub! fem! reader where he recites her poetry he wrote about her or atleast poems he found akin to her during intercourse.

thank you for listening to my Ted talk!!

Suguru Getou x black fem reader

a/n: I will do you justice with this one anon!

tw— smut, sub fem reader, dom male, poems getou says are from google, poem words are in italics,

Getou had his small book of poems in one hand with his other hands inside you, a soft smile was on his pretty face as he saw the erotic expressions on your face and how your eyes squinted feeling his fingers curl inside. Around the two of you were both you and Getou’s discarded clothing. He didn’t quite know how he got here with his girlfriend muse but it didn’t matter right now, he just needed her. He took a deep loving sigh looking at the letters on the paper.”I make love to her secretly so..” his two fingers inside her upped their pace making her gasp.

“For love, for happiness.. she comes to me” he deepened his fingers inside her making her squeak and clench around his fingers.”as a voluptuous mistress.. I have discovered her artistic breasts.” He dropped his book of poems off across the bed somewhere and dived his head to give her breast soft bites on the nipples making a whimper come out and her back arch.”suguru! s-sensitive on my nipples!” He was listening as he bit and sucked her nipples, he was giving her the best stimulation.”sh sh sh.. patience yes?” He whispers back to her.

He slips his mouth off her tits as he looks down at her and then at the desk near their bed seeing the rubber band on the desk.”you can grab that rubber band for me yes love?” She lazily reached for the rubber band handing it to them making him laugh as he pulled his hair into a bun. “Her perfect waist startled me ever.” His hands placed themself on her waist as he took a hold of her legs and placed them on his naked shoulders making her amused but scolding him.”suguru! Gentle damn!” He chuckled positioning himself between her thighs.”sorry my love, guess I’m not quite aware of my own strengths sometimes hm?” She was about to back sass but gasped instead feeling him enter her slowly.”In between her gorgeous thighs…” he shuddered a little entering her pussy fully. Even with how condescending he was he couldn’t hide his enjoyment between his muse’s brown thighs he was always between, it was like a comfort for him.

He started to softly thrust inside her, mixing his moans with her soft sounding ones.”I have found the eighth wonder!” She whined at him still reciting poetry, she didn’t understand how he could be reciting poems doing something so intimate right now. His pace began to fasten with each time he went in and out. He was bringing both him and his little muse to the peak.”suguru.. can’t! gonna..” from the grunt he made with him swallowing he was felt exactly same as her, it was a unofficial permission to cum with him. Wrapping her legs around his head she came as he exploded with his head lifting and making a needy expression.

As her legs slid down from his shoulder and both of them made heavy breaths going to soft. He ran a hand through his hair looking at her body sprayed on the bed.”she is the epitome of beauty and lust, I don’t know if making love to her is sinful or just!”

[niphredil-14]

hey so how do you think the rottmnt boys would deal with having a published writer s/o. I imagine s/o has made Leo a jupiter jim fanfic which feels way too accurate it could be one of his comic books. Or like left little poems for Donnie lying around to cheer him up and discuss feelings with it or Fantasy short story for Mikey?

Oh, how the writer in me loves this request!! (also, welcome back to my inbox! nice to see you again! c:)

Leonardo:

Ever since Leo had found out that his lover could write, he had been begging them to write fanfiction for him. They had most likely been forced to watch all of the Jupiter Jim and Lou Jitsu movies before they even started dating Leo. But no matter how much he had begged for fanfiction, they had refused. They were just too busy working on the next volume in their series! But little did he know, that in the weeks leading up to his birthday, they had been brainstorming, plotting, drafting, and editing a special story just for him. When they handed him the gift, wrapped meticulously in Jupiter Jim themed wrapping paper, he was so excited! Before even unwrapping it, he knew that he would love it, just based on the look of pure joy and excitement in their eyes. He ripped the paper off, and found a deep blue binder, filled with paper. On the cover was written, "Happy Birthday, Leonardo" in large letters, and below it, in smaller letters, was written, "All my love, Y/N <3" His heart warmed, and he flipped the binder open, and almost squealed in excitement. Jumping over t them, he pulled them into a tight hug. He did not put it down until he finished reading it, and then he would just reread it. After he almost dropped it while on patrol, he asked Donnie to transcribe it and put it on his phone.

Raphael:

He found out early on in the relationship that his partner was a writer, and while he was very impressed with them and their talent, he wasn't much of a reader, so he didn't fully grasp just how amazing they were at first. While Raph could read, it was always hard for him, and he would have to go back and reread paragraphs over and over until they stuck. Out of love and interest in his darling, though, he began to listen to the audiobook versions of their books while he worked out. And he found out that worked for him, and was enjoyable. And though he often found himself wishing that it was their voice reading their stories to him, he knew from their conversations just how awkward they felt reading anything they wrote aloud to people, he knew how much they hated it, how vulnerable it made them feel, so he never asked. How much and often they talked about their work to him varied, though when they did it was usually just them complaining to him about their publishers/editors, or asking for his advice on the plot, or just using him as a fill in for them to perform the rubber duck theory. However, one day, they burst into his room, holding a book, and practically shaking. He had been sat on his bed, and they quickly sat down beside him, with the book pressed close to their chest. Before he could get a word out, they had begun to speak.

"I have a gift for you!" They trilled, they voice high, and sing-songy. A grin had stretched across his face, even wider than it had when they had first entered the room.

"Aw, Babe, you didn't have to get me anything!" He said to them.

"Well, It's not really that kind of gift, so..." They trailed off, and instead opted for just pushing the book into his hands, forcing the knitting needles aside. He looked down at the book, and found their name written below the title. How they had managed to keep the fact that they had published a new book a secret from him was beyond him, and he paused in wonder. "Open it!!" They exclaimed. And so he did, he flipped through the pages until he came to the dedication, and his eyes began to water at what he saw. Typed in a fancy, swirly, italic font was written,

"To my dearest, Raphael, who has given me endless support, love, and inspiration, who's the best muse anyone could ask for, and who's character is better than any I could create, I have written you into these pages so that your essence may be as immortal as my love for you is."

They had all the talent when it came to words, and he was left with only speechlessness as he pulled them into a tight hug, fat tears falling down his face as he buried his beak into their neck, holding them as close as he could.

Donatello:

It had never been a secret that Donnie was incredibly impressive, and taking that fact into consideration, it was no real surprise that anyone, even as talented a writer as his love, would find themselves often speechless in his presence. With their emotions running too high to properly verbalize them in the moment, they would often find themselves writing out how they felt in long paragraphs until they were able to cut down the words into poems, vague and intricate enough to not be fully clear, and yet so powerful as to make someone know exactly the emotion the poet felt while scribbling the words. Donnie had a very clear understanding of their experience with being unable to verbalize just how they felt, as he often experienced the same thing, and resorted to building things as a way to show his love. Which was why he was so moved when he had found their journal. He knew that all of their final drafts were kept on an ever-growing document on their computer, but he never knew just how those drafts came to be final. And yet, there was a pain in his chest as he held the journal, a disorganized mess of thoughts, in his hands, and was able to see their word vomit be carved down into pure art, not unlike a sculptor chipping away at wood or stone, to reveal the heart of their creation. He had known that he was important enough to them for them to gift him some of their poems, but to be able to look at the proof, to be able to hold it, and to touch it, the proof of just how strong the emotions he stirred up within them were, that was a powerful experience. It was as if his brain had completely shut off for the moments that he held their raw thoughts in his grasp, and all he could think of was how impossible it would be to ever completely and successfully express the same level of depth that his emotions had for them. But he knew that he'd be damned if he didn't try. And with that, he placed their journal back down on their desk, and made his way to his lab, already brainstorming.

(I got kinda carried away with Raph's, I'm not sure what came over me lmao. guess i got possessed by some kind of inspiration ahaha)

[ausp-ice]

My entries for the shallows part of the esk marine event! This time with Iso, Auraeum, and VaalbaraCreeps's Professor. 

I have little poems for each entry as well:

Intro: Land and Sea

I bring a friend down to the shore feeling the pull of something more. We gaze upon a box, a coral, a stone, each of them quite far from home.

As we muse upon what we should do A familiar face emerges from the blue: "Iso? My friend, it's good to see you again. Who is that with you? Another friend?"

"Professor," I greet, and I would smile if I could, "Yes, this is Auraeum. A dear friend of mine," I assure. "A pleasure, Professor," Auraeum greets. "Were you too brought here, to where land meets sea?"

"It was not just me, then," Professor muses. "Perhaps the ocean has something to show us." "Then shall we go together?" I suggest. "It would be my pleasure," he answers, and so we begin our quest.

Chapter 1: Reef

The three of us dive into the sea taking the coral towards where it should be. Auraeum carries the coral, bearing it with their mind As Professor leads the way to a reef full of life.

We return the coral to the community from which it came and the ocean seems to murmur, welcome back, friend. But before we go further, something else catches my eye: An anchor, out of place among the algae where it lies.

"This does not belong here," Auraeum says, following my gaze. "Its home is in another place." We decide to take it with us; into Auraeum's grasp it goes As we go further into the ocean's flows.

Chapter 2: Shipwreck

We find a shipwreck, lost to sea and time I explore it, curious about what we would find. Professor is graceful in the water, scouring water-worn nooks, While I poke my head in all sorts of places to look.

"There," Auraeum says, directing our eyes to a place that seemed perfect to settle our prize. But before they could come near to place it there A cleaner shrimp emerged from thin air.

���Or water, perhaps, would be better to say.

Nonetheless, when I gently nudge it aside to make space, and Auraeum settles the anchor in place, Instead of fleeing, it clings to my fur. "Well," I say. "I seem to have a new passenger."

Chapter 3: Symbiosis

I had learned of cleaner shrimp in a different life; how fascinating they were, and such a delight. I ask if we should bring it to others of its kind, and Auraeum says, "Why not? Let us see what we find."

Professor speaks: "I have seen them before." And he says, "I know where to go." We follow again, an adventure in the sea And approach an undersea crag where the shrimp should be.

The shrimp are there, among the rocks, true— But what catches my eye is an eel that comes into view. My passenger seems excited, so I draw close; the shrimp leaps off, and down it floats

Into the waiting jaws of a predator but the one eating is not the eel, but the cleaner. It's amazing to see, this connection across creatures and I wonder if the ocean, today, was our teacher.

A spark alights in the waters, bright and beckons us to return to the above light. "Shall we?" Auraeum asks, and so we go with the shrimp's antennae waving goodbyes below.

[jeanbie]

SHARKBAIT ★ masterlist.

pairing: tolya x reader

warnings: long distance relationships, set after s2 | wc: 6.9k

note: i'm pining over tolya right now. also i know a loooot of fans view tolya as aroace so hopefully this reaches the right audience (and if the show runners or leigh ever confirm this then pls tell me)!!

⏤ Tolya can go months without seeing your face, but he can make out your shape in the darkness of the ship when you steal your visits, fleeing when the sun begins to light up the decks.

Tolya knew what it meant to long, to pine, to wonder and yearn for something you couldn't have. He saw it a thousand times with his poems, between the lines and in each stanza where a romance formed with metaphors and analogies; he saw it in his crew as they busied themselves across an unsteady ocean, searching for purpose and meaning in the vastness of blue and brown. He even saw it in his sister and passing maidens, in his captain and his need to be seen as something more than an amplifier, and he saw it in his own life- with his faith and his resilience, with his own novice works of poetry tucked into journals in his bunk, and in the whispers of silence between the two of you whenever he saw you again, and especially in the stretches of days where he didn't see you at all.

On board the Volkvolny, for what felt like years on end, Tolya had nothing but time to become familiar with what it meant to long. He'd stare out across the expanse of the sea, outlining your body in the clouds as they dipped below the horizon, in the waves rippling under the ship as it sailed away from Os Kervo to Kerch. Sometimes he thought he could make out your shape in the darkness of his bunk, a thin ghostly outline come to haunt him in his sleep, to torment his dreams. Often he woke up to a fading outline of body just to the side of his hammock, remembering that you weren't there, and wouldn't be for some time.

He supposed that he was lucky to be on this ship, with the world at his hands. There were days where he was so caught up in the passion of his work, alongside his never-faltering faith, that he didn't have time to think of you, instead only stumbling into your body through dreams, where you came to him as easily as the sea to the shore. Today hadn't been one of those days, and he feared that the crew on board the Volkvolny knew it too well.

It started off with his last nightmare. Taking steps together on a shoreline that looked like it belonged to a dip of earth in Shu Han, Tolya met you on the sands, his hand slotted into your own as he followed behind you, stepping into your sunken footprints. Tolya had been inches from your mouth before he was ripped away with the sound of horns and laughter, drops of water leaking through the deck overhead. Work was demanding his consciousness, and the image of you remained only on his eyelids as he groaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily. He'd gone about his day relatively normally after that, or about as normally as he could stomach it. Tamar had seen the worst of his mood- she watched him heave himself up the stairs to the deck with a frown deep on his face, an ache at the corner of his lips tugging down. The front he performed of happiness did little to arouse his crewmates, although they joined the spectacle, letting him think he was giving a performance of a lifetime.

For a while, his mood had settled. He'd only counted seeing you in hallucinations maybe three times, but he'd stopped counting after the third, and couldn't be sure if his mind was allowing him to stick with three for the sake of his own sanity. He'd spotted you in the twist of water under the bowsprit, once in the ripple of the sails and again in the clouds. After the third, his mood was so sour that he opted to be silent for the day's voyage. People never thought they'd miss the sound of his poetry until he took his pitiful vows of silence.

Saints, how he missed you. Each time you were gone, Tolya regretted every second of silence between the two of you, every time he passed up the chance to tell you how much he loved you. And each time you were here, back with him in his arms, he couldn't seem to find the words. You weren't part of the crew on voyage with the Volkvolny, although you were never not welcome as far as Sturmhond was concerned. It was just that you preferred being on land, seeking out thrills and leads and injustice, trying to piece together the gaps in your history. Tolya knew that was what held you to the Crows, and what Inej often said was your lifeline away from him. Still, Tolya yearned for the days you were back with him, however short and fleeting. Months could pass at sea and when he saw you again, it would be like no time had passed at all.

Kerch loomed in the distance. From the crow's nest, he was told that through the spyglass, the oblong shapes of Ketterdam ports could be seen, the buildings packed together tightly and the smoke rising in the air, thick and dark like fires were blooming in the streets. It would be about two days of sailing, if the winds kept up, but if they were lucky, they might arrive ahead of schedule. Tolya couldn't count the moments quick enough- two days would be agonising until he saw you again.

"Yeesh. I kinda miss your poetry right now." Tamar crept up from behind Tolya on the hull of the ship. Not far from where Tolya was standing, with his elbows holding his body up on the side of the beams, was Jacob's ladder, hitting the side of the vessel with irritating small clicks.

Tolya glanced at her, a smile naturally falling into place. As foul as his mood might have been, there was always room in his heart for his sister. "That's something I'll never hear you say again."

His sister grinned. "I'm serious! Go on, give me something?"

Tolya replied with quiet laughter, and Tamar did the same. The twins shared their laughter for a moment before finishing in silence, and Tamar stole a glance as her brother cast his gaze to the water, curving like ribbons around the underbelly of the ship.

"Missing her?" she asked softly.

Tolya rolled his eyes, but saying nothing was as good as admitting it. 

"You know," Tamar continued, spinning so her back was pressed against the beams, "you could always just ask her to come with you." She gestured to the prow, "come with us."

"She wouldn't want to do that," Tolya said, shaking his head.

"Oh, so you asked her already?"

"Well— no."

"Then how'd you know?" 

Tolya sighed, twisting his head. He knew that you were as good as a Crow— although not exactly affiliated in whatever Kaz did or did not do, anybody who knew you knew that you did work for Kaz that filled the gap Inej made on the quest to find her brother. Even before that, you'd told Tolya that Kaz occasionally found himself asking for your help with requests that extended outside of his immediate access. You had been of some help to him finding the name of the slaver ships and traders, of which the Volkvolny was sailing back to Kerch to deliver rescued shipment (one lacking Inej's brother in tow, and the slaver who sold them). 

Your place was on land, on high ground. A bird could fly at sea, yes, but he feared you'd grow restless with little purpose on the ship. Everybody had a place and a role—he knew that simply being there for him wouldn't be a good enough reason for you to abandon whatever work you had unfinished on dry land, which is why he'd never asked you to come in the first place.

Tolya turned to face Tamar, eyeing her side-profile as she meticulously assessed the state of the ship. Many crewmates were down below, rifling through Shu poker cards and coins and sharing ghost stories with cups of ale and wine. 

"Have you ever been so scared of losing something good?" he asked suddenly, making Tamar look back at him. 

"All the time," she replied. 

Tolya dared a glance back at the ocean, relieved that he didn't find you there. "Every time I see her again, it's like magic. Bigger and grander than any kind of Saint-like act. She becomes the most important thing in the room." He blinked. "I don't want that feeling to go away."

Tamar tilted her head, as if to say, 'Go on'. There was a comfort in their twinnish bond, but even with that, Tolya struggled to find the words. Writing poetry was easy—every embarrassing thought could be passed off as fictional prose, but in a conversation it wasn't quite as easy to put on a façade. At the best of times, Tolya was as cool as a sea-cucumber, with an easy going air that put people at ease. Just another performance of a lifetime, but he didn't have to pretend sometimes when he was with his sister.

"We're just very different," Tolya said cautiously, almost like he didn't believe it were true as he said it. "I'm worried she might grow too used to me. Might get restless."

"Bored, you mean?" Tamar interrupted. When Tolya said nothing, she threw herself into extended conversation, "Brother, she adores you. That kind of love is special. And if she didn't love you more when you were doing what you do best- as in, meandering around this beast with your poetry and stupid jokes-" He looked at her with a rising smile- "-then you'd be better off for it."

His stomach churned. He didn't want to be better off without you. 

"Besides," Tamar offered her last words of comfort before pushing herself up and away from him, "there are thousands of men and women in the world for her to see each passing day, and yet she still falls into those arms of yours when we arrive in Ketterdam. If she can love you from a hundred miles away, then I think she'll manage loving you and your quirks on the open sea."

There was an insufferable ache in Tolya's chest whenever he thought back to his conversation with Tamar. 

He'd busied himself the next day, throwing himself into heavy work around the ship as it sailed nearer to the coastline. His crewmates were thankful to see him in reasonably good spirits— Sturmhond had been particularly put off by his lack of comedic timing the day before, and had tried to think back to his own experiences with Alina back in Ravka, putting the pieces together in his own time— but they knew it was bought time with Tolya's pleasantries. Tolya wouldn't be at ease until they docked and only then could his mind be put at ease. It was always the days before returning to Ketterdam where Tolya seemed at his darkest, and it had happened enough times that they should all be used to it, but the sight of his downturned face never got any easier to process.

Night ensued, the moon casting a fickle light to the ocean as it lulled to a cool and calm tempo. The winds were kind tonight, not carrying the wind in an angry gust, and the waves were short and fluid. No storms hid behind thick flurries of clouds, and the creatures below whipped their fins and tails in harmony— no trouble would come tonight, he thought, and glad of it.

Tolya lay in his hammock, staring at the wooden boards above his head. Around him, his crew slept in peaceful slumbers, and to the far side of the room he could see the auburn light of Sturmhond's—now Mal, now that the charade was over— little black lamp sheltered next to a book he'd inherited with his title, now reading to fall asleep. Tolya sighed, his gaze back above. 

The glow of light to his left allowed room for your shape to slowly appear, just an outline that got more hazy in his memory as the months went by. He gulped, the lump in his throat hard and sour tasting, and he closed his eyes quickly to throw away the image of you. Yet you remained, imprinted on his eyelids, smiling as he found sleep to take him away into the night.

When he awoke, he could hear the caw of gulls and loud voices beyond the ship, louder than what he knew his crew to be capable of. Tolya stirred for a moment before coming to his senses, his eyes honing in on the same spot he'd last seen you in above his slumbering form. The forecastle was bathed with yellow light, with the sun at an angle pouring down through the hatch to the upper deck, and as he awoke, Tolya could smell the distinct scent of crab hooks and wet moss, the lingering scent of oil and sewage and copper. Strange, he thought.

Balancing on the hammock, Tolya raised himself with his elbow and stole a glance around the forecastle. Two men lay snoring, too drunk the night before, and he noticed a third figure at the foot of his hammock, their back to him but hiding nothing about their identity. His heart lurched, he baulked, and the hammock twisted beneath him with a sudden jolt and his body was sent to the floor with a thud and a grunt.

"Easy, sharkbait."

Tolya's head whipped up quickly, the click in his neck aching. It was you- Y/N, his beloved Y/N, dressed in a blue coat that looked like Mal's. Underneath you wore a dark brown shirt tucked into your trousers—today the attire was more casual, for when you were at work you wore black and black alone. Inej told him it was to blend in with the night, but Tolya reckoned it was also because it flattered you.

You smiled at him warmly, laughing when he didn't move from the floor.

"Come on. Don't tell me after a few months you've forgotten this face?"

Tolya's mouth opened and closed. "What—no! How could I—wait, is that Mal's coat?"

He heard your laugh again as you drew near, pulling his bicep to pick him up off the floor. You were more than capable of pulling his weight, but you still found fun in pretending you couldn't. Tolya rose from the floor, both of his salt-soaked hands gently wrapping around your wrists as he faced you. A smile dawned on his lips as he drank in the image of you; fully fleshed out, solid, real, not a figment of his desperate imagination.

"I saw him up top," you told him. "He looks good as Sturmhond, right? I was almost charmed." You said it with a grin that made Tolya think otherwise, and you shuffled closer towards his torso, the action welcomed as his grip fastened slightly around your arms. 

"Charmed enough to take his clothes?" Tolya asked. He knew that there would never be anything there with Mal—Saints, everybody knew that. Mal was too busy having his own mental quarrels with Alina to entertain the thought of somebody else, and well, you seemed perfectly content being charmed by a different captain below deck, smiling at you with sleep still hanging in his eyes.

"I always did look good in blue," you said.

Tolya hummed. "Yeah."

Falling into a silence, Tolya's eyes flickered across your face, soaking up the sight of you, making a mental note of what had changed while he'd been away. Not much, he found, bar a few scratches across your left cheek flanking down to your chin, and a greenish bruise under your eye. He frowned, moving his hand to ghost his fingers across the painted skin. Meanwhile, you did the same, observing changes in his appearance, concluding every detail: the richer tan across his skin, the stubbly pricks of hair around his jawline and the appearance of a new mark under his right nostril. Drunk on the image of him, you fixed your eyes back on his, surprised to see him already looking.

"What're you doing down here anyway, sharkbait?" you asked. Your voice was lower, quieter and softer, but he knew it had nothing to do with a shift in mood. Instead, you were just simply close enough for him to hear you without strain, close enough to hear you whisper, to hear you breathing. 

Tolya offered a boyish smile. "You know."

"Had a long night?"

"Terribly long."

"What, enjoying someone's company til sunrise?" you teased, entertaining what could be signs of an insecurity in the bilge of your belly. Tolya pretended to ignore it, yet his heart sank nonetheless. 

"Come on, you know me better than that," he laughed, bringing you in closer to him. Tolya nestled his nose against yours, moving it across your face to your cheekbone and closing you in with his arms around your shoulders. He sighed, comfortable. He'd missed this, the way your body felt against his, the way your arms felt around him. Saints, he'd missed this. Tolya took in a breath, his nose above your ear. "I've missed you."

Tolya heard a hum near his sternum, rumbling with a small vibration. It made his body bristle slightly but he warmed to your touch, his arms tightening around you.

"Me too, moi sol ye tselai," you replied, feeling his nose twitch as a smile grew on his face. 

For a moment you stayed like that, entangled in the quiet of the forecastle. Tolya didn't waste a single second of it, not after the torment he'd given himself just hours before. After some time, Tolya felt you wiggling in his arms and he relaxed, opening the distance between you as he leaned back to look at your face. You looked back at him with a smile, head angled up to marvel at him, and Tolya's eyes shifted into crescent moons as he brought his head down to kiss you. 

His one hand cradled the side of your face, the other at the back of your neck, and you made no resists to his advancements. Tolya kissed you deeply, lost in the familiar taste of your lips, sweet like the breakfast you must have ate before coming down here. He felt you kiss him back, the pressures combined, your hands up around his wrists. Your head leaned back slightly, his dominance slightly more assertive, as he captured your lips once, twice, thrice, never allowing a minute of rest.

When he did pull back, he was met with your widened eyes, shining in the light, and you bit down on your bottom lip to try and refrain from a smile. He saw it anyway, kissing you once more in a swift gesture and bringing himself back in what he thought was a commendable act of self restraint.

"I take it we are in Ketterdam," he asked, more of like a statement. It had to be true, since you were here. Unless he was dreaming, which he had a sinking feeling that he could be, perhaps trapped in a powerful lucid dream, some kind of sleep paralysis that had him smooching something akin to a squid on the prow. Unlikely, but not impossible, given his mood these days.

"How else would I be here?" you replied with a gentle laugh. 

He held you by your waist as you turned, observing the forecastle he sometimes called home. Tolya freed his grasp with reluctance, holding your fingers til the last second and he fell forward a few steps trying to grab you back. You moved around the hammocks, ducking under a lamp with a feigned interest in the bunks. Tolya didn't like to use his heartrending on you, but he could hear your hammering heartbeat even without using his talents. He smiled in private, watching you with adoration.

"I arrived here as soon as you docked," you explained, still looking around. Tolya hummed with interest, leaning his weight against a support beam. "I was having breakfast with Nina when Jesper told me that your Volkvolny was coming to the harbour. I finished, paid and came here as fast as I could. You didn't meet me at the deck, but it was so early, I figured you'd be sleeping. I greeted your crew, shook hands with your new captain, hugged Tamar, stole a coat and then came down here." You smiled, spinning back to look at him. Your bravado was complete. "To answer your question—yes. Welcome back to Ketterdam."

Tolya loved when you launched into explanations like this. He had a series of entries in a journal you shared where you'd given full detailed accounts of your adventures, but the ink never did justice to the words as you said them. Tolya's grin widened. 

"Kaz wanted to speak with you, too," you added, stepping back towards him and stretching out your hand. Tolya's stomach churned again when he took it with his own, feeling the small blisters across your skin from all your ropework and midnight affairs as an unofficial Crow. Like his own, actually, littered with chafes and burns from the ropes to the masts, sea salted splits across his hands whenever he got too heavy handed around the deck or in other ports. 

"Let's go up, then."

You led the way, all the way to the stairs where Tolya enjoyed watching you ascend before following. It'd been a minute, he'd take whatever he could to feel like everything was good again. Once he stepped up out of the dappled light of the forecastle, he cringed in the brightness of the sun. It was never very bright in Ketterdam, but anything was brighter than the lamplight below. The harbour was alive with noise and merchants. He never missed the smell of Ketterdam, although he admitted that it was a stench that one really did grow accustomed to, as it were with any foreign harbour.

From the deck, he could see the stretch of sea behind him and back ahead, a small cluster of faces across the way. He knew them all already, each by both name and face, and he stepped towards his sister-in-command with you close in tow. His body shivered when your hands smoothed around his middle to manoeuvre around him and Tolya watched you meet your hip with Inej's. Tolya spared another hungry glance at you and then looked back at Kaz expectantly, as he launched into an explanation on affairs in Ketterdam.

The Volkvolny would stay in Ketterdam just shy of a day, giving Tolya more anxiety than it did comfort. There wouldn't be enough time for him to remind you of how much he missed you, and there was certainly no privacy for him to put it into actions instead of words. But business needed to be swift, that was if they wanted a good chance at catching the ships that both you and Kaz felt could hold the secrets to Inej's brothers' whereabouts. The Crow Club was magnificent, but no place for a love-filled reunion, and he couldn't see either of you feeling particularly romantic in the streets. With the Volkvolny being groomed for their next sail, Tolya resorted to holding you close at all times, with meaningful stares and listening with colourful interest about your life over a table in the club, while Kaz oversaw his business and friends reunited once more. Tolya ate up what he could learn about your life during the three months he was at sea.

You had been working with Kaz to crack down harder on slavery leads, finding nothing much about your own family and little to nothing about anybody else's. Inej had been given a much narrower list of names thanks to your good work on the streets, and Tolya heard from Jesper that you'd been a useful asset to the Crow's, although always declined the hospitality of their affiliation for some reason. Meanwhile Tolya offered what he thought might interest you the most about his time away; battles against rough waves, giant squids and krakens lurching from below, sharks and dolphins scratching the surface of the water with their fins chased by swirling serpents; funny tales from travellers in different ports, a retelling of Mal's first night getting drunk at sea. 

Tolya thought, as you mused and laughed opposite him at the table with your friends and found-family, that you were most beautiful when you were off guard. As he stared at you, he felt his heart tug once more. In just a few hours, there'd be nothing left to look at, just shadows in the dark, voices in the wind mimicked by sirens as they fondled the underbelly of the boat, enticing deaf ears to the water as the crew grumbled and sang over their call. The thought of leaving you made him feel sick.

He briefly thought about what Tamar had said. It was true that Tolya had never asked you to join him at sea, but he was pretty sure he knew what the answer would be. There would always be something keeping you here, keeping you both apart.

"How long this time?" you asked, when you both managed to steal some time alone to walk along the dark streets of Ketterdam. With Rollins in prison and with Kaz taking command of a smidge of the barrel, you figured it would be safe out here. Besides, Tolya was tall enough to tower over even Fjerdans, and that was no easy feat. Anyone dumb enough to pick a fight with a man his size could break a few bones trying, even if you both knew that out of the two of you, you had more practice taking down the big guys.

Tolya dipped his head. "If we're lucky, then a month or so." He paused, thinking, "You said that list you gave to Inej was accurate, right?"

"I think so. Every lead I had took me right back to those three names," you replied. Inej had flinched at the sight of them, meaning your hunch was accurate enough to give Tolya the hope of coming back soon. 

"If the winds are kind, and the journey is good, we can be back before it starts getting cold here," Tolya said, almost like he was making a wish at a well or a plea to a Saint. "Without any luck on our side, it could be longer..."

You frown, looking over at Tolya and tightening your grasp on his hand. "We'll manage."

"I hope so, milaya," Tolya said, kissing the back of your hand. 

Once you both reached a bright streetlight, you turned to face him. "Do you think it will ever end?"

Tolya paused. "What do you mean?"

"As in…this search. Once you find Inej's brother, what comes next?" you ask. You turn away slightly, Tolya's gaze tight on your movements. "Suppose you'll go sailing to wherever next, right? Or…will you stay a while?"

Tolya knew what you were asking, obvious in what you didn't say. There had been countless times where Tolya had imagined himself throwing his life on the Volkvolny away just to be with you, to retire with you to some peaceful town with no worries, nothing at all but peace gifted by Alina tearing down the fold and enough money and shelter to settle down, explore the world, fall deeper in love. But the Volkvolny was his life, his meaning when he didn't fall into his faith. You were his love, his beloved, but neither one could expect the other to give up their identity to be somebody they weren't.

"I'm not sure," Tolya said truthfully. "And yourself? You're so busy with Kaz here, you may well be a Crow by the next time I see you. Your work seems to spring up like fleas."

Your mouth tilted downwards. He was right. Tolya was the love of your life but there would always be the issue of work. Without your demand with the Crows, what were you? Nothing but a shadow skulking around the city, tailing crooks, locating slaves? You supposed you could be more—you'd thought about it a few times, getting up and going with Tolya wherever he asked you to go. But those were dreams, frightening dreams you weren't sure Tolya saw eye to eye with. His voyages felt to you like escapes.

"Well—" Tolya broke through the silence, using his index finger to pick up your head by your chin. When your eyes met, he smiled warmly, kissing you. "Whatever comes next, I'll be there waiting for you."

Tamar stood beside Kaz and Mal as Tolya heaved himself up the ramp and onto the ship. You were close behind, shadowing his steps, cautious about even a step of distance. Tamar sighed loudly, and Kaz looked over at her and followed her gaze.

"What is it?" he asked. Kaz thought he already knew, but it didn't hurt to be sure.

"Oh, a lovers parting," she said dramatically. 

Mal smiled, not quite reaching his eyes. "If they're trying to be subtle about things, they're doing a terrible job."

Kaz observed the couple. Kaz knew you well enough to respect you, perhaps even call you a friend, and he had no obvious qualms with Tolya. He'd never forget his loyalty before Alina tore down the fold, and had no concerns about him being a weakness to who might just be his next Crow. He stared at the back of Inej's head for a second too long as she helped someone heave some shipment to a different compartment of the ship, and then he looked back to Tolya and yourself with a funny feeling twist in his stomach.

"Why grovel?" Kaz asked. "Y/N can leave at any time if she wishes."

Tamar glanced over quickly, as if the news was surprising to her. "She's not working?"

"Her work is done," Kaz said plainly. Tamar and Mal's look of confusion made him twitch with slight annoyance, but he otherwise elaborated on what they didn't know: "I told Y/N to find leads on the slavers. She supplied the list of three and now you will be on your way to locate them. Her task has been completed, and she is free to go."

"Yeesh," Tamar said, "way to make her sound expendable."

"Everybody is."

Kaz looked back at Tolya, holding you in his arms. "I have Nina on a lead already. Until I have something for Y/N to do, she is free to do whatever she pleases." He added as an afterthought, "After all, she's not under my employment."

Hm. Tamar and Mal exchanged a look, but said nothing.

"Will you be here? When we come back?" Tolya asked you. From afar, he could sense his sister's lingering gaze, and he spared a look, alarmed when he saw her, Mal and Kaz watching the pair of you.

"Most likely," you said. You followed his gaze and nodded your head in their direction, Tolya leading you by the waist back to the step-down where Kaz stood at the top, like a bouncer guarding the way. Tolya greeted each one with a glance and a smile before looking back at you.

There wasn't enough time this time around. Tolya's heart wrenched as he looked at you, trying to remember every detail before he had to leave. Their stops in Ketterdam were never very long, but how he longed for a day more by your side, simply one more hour in your company. The thought of leaving you made his throat harden, tears springing behind his eyes. A blink would surely set them free, but he knew the ways to keep them hidden until he was safe in the darkness, not until you came to him in a premonition like a sick joke.

Tamar and Mal—Sturmhond, now he was back on the wood of the ship— gave a look to Kaz in farewell and stepped around the back of you to move further on the deck. Tolya's heart quickened and you watched them go with a rapid look, glancing back at Tolya with twinkling eyes, twinkles he knew were tears and not reflections of light.

"None of that," he said quietly, with a small smile and he reached out to cup your face. Tolya guided you close for a kiss, and a bell rang from somewhere in the harbour and his heart leaped to his throat. He tugged you closer, kissing you harder. Kaz looked away, fixated on Inej but giving you at least the luxury of some privacy. Tolya lost himself in your kiss, his fingertips brushing your hairline and he swore he could taste the salt of your tears between his lips. Tolya pulled away from you slightly, his eyes slightly wide and breath raspy and all of a sudden: "Come with me."

There was a beat of silence.

If other crewmates heard, they didn't give much away. Kaz had torn his eyes from Inej in a painful defeat, with no option but to assess the lovers before him, and truth be told, Tamar and Sturmhond never stopped watching. Tolya didn't allow the silence to kill his courage. If he didn't say it now, he never would.

"I love you," Tolya said. "I love you so much—eya fyela chi, hm? And I know that your heart is here, with the city and the Crows and your life but, Saints, Y/N I see you in my dreams, I see you in the water and the sky and hear you in the ocean breeze. When I close my eyes, I see you in flashes. You have bewitched me, you are in my soul. I love you. Whenever we are apart, it's like a torment." He gulped. He sounded a lot like some of the amateur poetry he wrote when he felt lonely, poetry he sometimes recited to his crew if he got drunk enough. "So, please, please come with me. See the ocean, go across the sea. Be with me, stay with me—come with me."

His eyes searched your face for a sign, something—anything. You blinked, bewildered, holding his hands as they cupped your face.

"But…" you began to shake your head, and his heart sank deeper, "but my work…"

You spared a glance to Kaz. He could act like he hadn't been listening, but it wouldn't do anybody any good. You were almost startled to see him already observing you. 

"I don't need you," Kaz said simply. "I just owe you a debt."

"But, the slaves—"

"You did your job," he repeated. "So you're free to go."

Tolya was just as surprised as you were. He looked at Kaz with round eyes and met yours in a simultaneous turn. He wasn't quite sure what to say about any of it. Was Kaz telling you to go? Was he giving you permission, saying go, leave, or were you now useless to the Crows? Was it only because he had asked? Maybe you didn't want to leave.

"Am I fired?" you asked dumbly.

For a moment, you could have sworn you saw a flicker of a smirk on Kaz's face. "I expect your contract will need renewing upon your arrival. There are many things to do in Ketterdam, just not now. Not for you, at least."

You blinked. Processing his words felt like an eternity—you were free to go. Kaz had made it clear that you'd still have a life on shore when you arrived, if you even left in the first place. Marvelling at the thought, you looked back at Tolya. Travelling the oceans with him; being in his arms each night, getting to know the parts of him reserved to his crew, his faith and his poetry and his talents on the deck, seeing what caused the scars on his hands, what caused the creases in his skin; what he ate and drank, what he wore on different days, how his hair fell in the mornings when it wasn't fastened out of his face. All of that for the taking, and you just had to say the words.

Tolya's face didn't waver, giving nothing away as you said nothing to him. For a while, he thought he knew what you'd say. Tolya, I'm sorry, but I just can't—

"But where would I sleep?"

He hadn't expected that.

Laughter bubbled in his chest. "I think there's room for you in my hammock, if you'd like." He caught your look of doubt and grinned, "Aw, come on. I'm not that big."

"What would I do?"

Slowly but surely, Tolya thought he could sense hope building inside of him. You hadn't yet declined. Your piqued interest gave food for thought as Tolya studied your expressions.

"Well," he said, thinking about it. Actually he'd already thought about it, more than ten times out at sea, twice within the few hours they were in Ketterdam, "you could do anything you wanted. Gaze out at the seas. Play card games—in no time, you'll be a better player than Tamar. You could paint the decks, climb the masts, sit in the nest all day for all I care. I just want you to be with me, for longer than just a few hours." 

Tolya's eyes were almost pleading. You gazed into them. There was no need to think, you already knew what you wanted to say. Chewing the skin of your inner cheek, your eyes flickered to Mal. As Sturmhond, you figured whatever he said went. Tolya followed your gaze and laughed when he spotted the source of your interest.

Mal's eyes flickered, like he'd been alerted back to the present. He looked around innocently, refraining from smiling when he caught the glimmer in Tamar's eyes next to him. 

"Don't look at me," Mal said to you, shrugging his shoulders and raising his hands, "I'm not in charge."

When you next looked at Tolya, you were smiling. From the corner of your eye, Tamar clapped Mal on the shoulder and disappeared into the crew, helping Nadia unload cargo to a different spot below deck. For a second, Mal looked as though he didn't know what to do with himself, until he shuffled further towards the bow, scanning the horizon. Kaz was no longer on the ship when you turned to acknowledge him. You saw the shape of his coat disappear back into the masses in the harbour, and Jesper extended his hat in a farewell and turned to follow. Nina would understand, you hoped, as you were sure she'd still be occupied with freeing her 'hunk of meat'.

"What do you say, lapushka?" Tolya asked. He knew he was cheating by using the Ravkan tongue on you. You'd mentioned it was your mother language only once in passing, and he'd never wasted a second on charming you with it. He ran his hands up and down your arms, arching to look into your eyes with a wide smile on his face. Tolya grinned as he moved with your shyness, a laugh huffing through his lips. "Hm? Will you come with me?"

You laughed, giggled in his arms, as he brought you closer with a kiss under your eye. Squirming, you faked revolt, wrestling out of his grasp. Your smile told him your answer—the rest was roleplay. 

"I know we're going far from home," he said, watching as someone stepped close to pull up the ramp from the harbour. The distinct clink of the anchor filled his ears, departure would be soon and if you wanted to say no, then now was the time. You never did. "But I promise I'll take care of you."

You gazed at him fondly, reaching up to steal a kiss from his lips. He lingered, his face warm in the rising sun. "You can focus on your business, and I'll keep you safe from harm."

Tolya gasped teasingly. "You know the way to a man's heart, I see."

He pulled himself away, with some reluctance, with a grin and shuffled to aid his mates with assembling the ship. Before he could stray too far, you hooked your finger around the strap over his shoulders, used to hold his ensemble of guns and weapons. Tolya looked back as he felt the pull, the adoration in his gaze never faltering.

"Only the hearts of men I love," you told him, and he smiled, bigger and brighter, tilting his head as his eyes folded into Cheshire smiles before he winked, dipping his head back to look at his crew.

You watched him retreat along the deck, his assertion cool and respectful, commanding the attention of the crew as they fell into their formations. Figuring you had time to find your place, you stood rooted where you had been standing this time, casting one final look at the harbour; you bid silent farewell to the streetlights and carts, to the horses snuffling as they loaded merchandise and travellers into the carriages pulled by their strength, to the place you lovingly called home, until a new one found its way to you in the shape of a man named Tolya, who wherever you were together became your new anchor, the new place you fell to for comfort and safety. The man you loved, yours for the taking, for a life stretching past the horizon across that plane of endless sea.

[educationalporpoises]

The Hawk

Buck/Bucky, T

for @avonne-writes for the HBOwardaily Summer Exchange! P.S. -- there's a surprise extra at the end! I was so happy to step in and do this pinch hit for you, I hope you enjoy it!

Gale had taken the opportunity of a rare, sunny Sunday afternoon to walk the mile from their Quonset hut barracks to the airfield and crawl up through the hatch and into the dappled-light body of the B-17 bomber. His B-17 bomber, a matching serial number painted on the side.

This was against the rules. The planes, which had arrived a week ago in the midst of the never-ending rainstorm that perpetuated this aching place, had been thoroughly gawked at by the members of the new 100th Bomb Group, before the senior officers told them their shiny new toys were strictly hands-off. 

Gale was aware of his defiance. He rationalized it by telling himself the problems Bucky would cause (and the havoc he was most likely wreaking on their day off) would outweigh the issue of one officer quietly disobeying orders. 

He took his time to explore the plane. Starting at the tail turret he cataloged every wire and fuselage, trailing his hands along the intricate machinery that would keep him and his boys alive. The plane was warm from the sunlight streaming through the turrets, and it felt like a living thing under his hands. He’d spent countless hours in the simulation boxes, and when he reached the cockpit he found himself settling into the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle, ready for takeoff. 

It was comfortable, wrapped in his flight jacket, the sun warming through the windshield. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Gale Egan had nothing he needed to do. He dozed there, in the pilot’s seat, until he heard rustling outside, and perked up. He’d been caught. 

“Hey, Buck,” A familiar voice said from under the plane. Gale should have known that leaving for too long would cause Bucky to hunt him down. 

“Bucky,” He replied.

“Sorry,” Bucky said, and Gale heard him hoisting himself up through the hatch, “It looks like you were taking a nap.” 

“Don’t bother.”

Gale turned, and slipped between the seats back to the bomb bay. Bucky sat on the floor, leaned up against one wheel with his legs stretched out before him. He had pulled out a book, though Gale didn’t think he’d ever seen him read before. Even the flight manuals, he just seemed to know everything already. It was one of the small paper books the Red Cross handed out, that fit neatly into a pocket, traded amongst the soldiers for anything new to read. 

“C’mere,” Bucky motioned. Gale situated himself up against the wall, opposite Bucky, their legs parallel, Bucky’s ankle brushing his knee. 

“Listen to this: ‘Call down the hawk from the air, let him be hooded or caged,’” He spoke, letting his words fall into a rhythm, “Till the yellow eye has grown mild, for larder and spit are bare… I will not be clapped in a hood. Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist.” 

He finished the poem and grinned up at Gale. “See? It’s about us, about flying.” 

“Sure is. No longer hooded, huh,” Gale said, and slid his knee a little closer. Bucky’s grin widened, and they reached towards each other. “W. B. Yeats. Real poetry, Buck. That’s what will get us flying,” He curled his hands into the lapels of Gale’s jacket. 

Gale’s arms came up across his back, holding him close, “Not this machine we’re in? It’s words that will get us off the ground?” 

Bucky said into his collarbone, “It might as well be poems we’re dropping, not bombs.” He reached a hand up to tug at the cornflower blue scarf, the one he’d got for Gale, and threw it to the ground. 

Gale laughed and pulled Bucky to him, and the book fell to the floor of the fortress, lying in a beam of sunlight. The cover was blank, with “Collected War Poems” embossed on the front. He wondered, briefly, why the government thought it was any good for morale to hand that out, before Bucky started licking his neck, and his attentions wandered elsewhere. 

[st-eve-barnes]

Burn (Modern AU Aemond x Fem Reader/OC)

Summary: It's Christmas Eve and you're stuck in the library with one other visitor: the quiet and mysterious Aemond Targaryen.

Warnings: 18+ for Explicit language and content, mild angst and comfort, some Christmas feels.

Word count: +3700

So my obsession with this man isn't going anywhere soon, I just can't get him out of my head and I had a real craving for some Modern Aemond this week.

Poems used in this fic are from Lang Leav and one of my personal favorites, Pablo Neruda.

(All my fics are also on AO3)

Darkness fell over university campus that December evening. Thick soft snowflakes covered the grounds and the buildings with a peaceful white carpet, just in time for Christmas. Inside the library the only lights were coming from the small reading lamps on the tables and the colorful festive lights from the big tree in the middle of the hallway. 

You sat by one of the tables, tucked away in your warm winter sweater, nose stuck in your books, oblivious to the weather magic outside. There had been a few other people here tonight when you had arrived but by now they had all left, one by one, leaving you alone with the librarian, a young lady who was always more interested in playing games on her phone than in the many enchanting stories in the books surrounding her.

Sometimes you didn’t understand people. 

Your head had been buried in poetry books all week, rereading old favorites and discovering new gems, highlighting sentences that spoke to you, anything to find that spark and become inspired but so far all they left you with was that heartbreaking feeling that you were incapable of feeling anything. 

Your pink marker moved across the page over another favorite : “There are days when the melancholy settles on you like a sudden change in weather. The kind of sadness that is intangible. Like the presence of an ache where you can't pinpoint exactly where it hurts, you just know it does.”

You sighed deeply.

It was Christmas Eve, you could have been with your family, surrounded by your brother’s dumb jokes and your mum’s traditional Christmas roast, drinking too much before unwrapping the presents and then passing out on the couch while some sentimental Christmas movie you’d seen a thousand times played on the old living room tv. No, it wasn’t a big deal or anything, the whole night wasn’t even that special but you had always been a sucker for nostalgia and right now your heart ached for just a little glimpse of home.

Instead you were here and the smell was not one of Christmas turkey but of old books in an old building, a continent away from everyone you knew and loved. You wrapped  your arms around yourself to fight the cold chill running up your spine. 

Focus. You came here to write so why weren’t you writing?

You looked up to see the hands on the big clock ticking away, the page in front of you still as empty as it was 3 hours ago. You stretched your arms up over your head and let out a deep breath.

That’s when you noticed him, seated two tables away from you.

Aemond Targaryen.

You’d seen him around campus before but he was the last person you expected to see here tonight. 

You wondered why you hadn’t noticed him before now because everything about him demanded to be seen. From his long legs covered in black jeans and black leather boots to his long blond hair and pale beautiful face. Tonight he had traded his usual black leather jacket for a black fuzzy sweater, making him look softer than usual. 

And of course the eye patch…you’d heard the rumors around campus but nobody seemed to know exactly what happened except that it had been a violent, tragic accident in which he lost one eye at a very young age.

Aemond was leaning on his elbow and kept his face down, buried deep into his books. Not Literature and Poetry like yours but History and Philosophy. 

His family was one of the richest founding families of the town, everybody knew who they were and who he was. But Aemond wasn’t like the other Targaryens, he never displayed his wealth, he was quiet and usually kept to himself. An outcast almost, everyone knew who he was but nobody seemed to really know him. Every single time you’d seen him around campus he’d been alone. 

Much like yourself.

God, you were getting distracted again. Focus.

You returned your attention back to your books, reminding yourself why you came here tonight. To find that spark, that one little nudge that would kick your writing into gear. The story was right there, in the back of your mind, it just needed to come together and find its way onto the paper.

You leaned forward in your seat, head in your hands and staring down hard at the empty page, willing it to come to life.

You had nothing. 

And the hopelessness set in again. What were you even doing here? Did the world really need another uninspired writer?

You pushed yourself out of your seat. Maybe taking a walk would help clear your mind.

**

Your fingers brushed over the hard covers of the poetry books in the back of the library. It would be closing time soon, there was no point to this anymore. You could read a thousand poems and it still wouldn’t change a damn thing. You had no muse. How could you write a love story when you didn’t even know what love was? How could you write about desire when it was a concept so foreign to you?

You placed the last of the books you borrowed back in its place when a shadow moved behind you, startling you.

When you turned around you found him leaning against the book shelves, arms crossed and a curious look on his face as he watched you. Aemond.

“I apologize, I didn’t meant to frighten you.” His voice was deep yet strangely soft and you realized you had never actually heard him speak before.

“That’s okay, you didn’t."

He gestured to the last remaining book in your hands,”May I?”

“Oh, it’s…”

“Pablo Neruda,” he read, quirking his eyebrow.

“I was just…looking for some inspiration."

He opened the book and started browsing, giving you time to study him without him noticing. His pale long face, full lips and sharp cheekbones, the eye patch you so desperately did not want to focus on but couldn’t help yourself, the blond hair resting on his shoulders. Everything about him was exquisite. His frame strong but thin, his long legs…

“Hmm, I like this one,” his voice pulled you from your thoughts and without looking up at you he started reading the poem:

“While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me, my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running. So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes, and over our heads the gray light unwinds in turning fans. My words rained over you, stroking you. A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body. Until I even believe that you own the universe. I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.”

He looked up to meet your eyes before reading the last sentence, voice dropping even lower as he whispered,”I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

You were frozen in your spot, mesmerized by the raw sensual tone in his words and the way he was looking at you as if he wanted to devour you.

Desire.

That what had been unattainable to you suddenly right here in your grasp, as unexpected as it was undeniable. And he sensed it.

You turned away from him, needing a moment to catch your breath. Aemond didn’t give you one.

Even with your back towards him you could feel his eyes on you, feel him move closer until his hand was on your shoulder. You shivered, no longer from the cold, in fact you were no longer cold at all. He caressed your shoulder gently, then your arm, fingers tracing patterns into your sweater, making you wish you could feel him on your bare skin. When he reached your hand, his fingers brushed against yours…electricity like you’ve never felt.

He waited for your response. You had none, your entire body was burning up and he had barely touched you.

He laced his fingers with yours, thumb circling your skin softly, caressing you as if you were already lovers. His voice a whisper in your ear,”Tell me to stop and I’ll walk away.”

You could feel his warm breath in your neck and you thought you might die if he stopped now. You had never needed anything as much as you needed him.

Your voice was barely even a whisper, but it was all he needed to hear. “Please, stay.”

He pressed his body against yours, his chest to your back, trapping you between the book shelves and him. He grabbed the hem of your sweater with both hands and pulled it up, over your head. 

Then his hand was in your neck, pushing your hair to one side and pulling your top down just enough so he could kiss your shoulder blades. Soft and delicate at first, easing you into it, letting you get used to his lips and his touch. You sighed against him, leaning back against his chest, silently asking for more.

When his lips moved up to your neck his kisses were no longer chaste, he was all tongue and teeth now, needy and wet and you felt so high you were afraid you’d never come down again.

His hands grabbed hold of your waist, keeping you close, lips curling up into a grin when he became aware of his effect on you. He caressed your hips, your stomach, up to your breasts, cupping them softly through your top. You arched into him, starved for every touch.

Neither of you seemed worried about being in a public place where someone might come in at any time and catch you.

But there was no one, there was only him and him was all that mattered. His hands were so warm on your skin, a comforting fire you would gladly get burned by. His lips still on your neck, marking what he claimed as his now.

“Aemond,” you moaned, unable to hold back.

He spun you around to face him and your lips were on his instantly, returning the fire with which he’d kissed you. His teeth grazed your lips while his tongue refused to untangle from yours, kissing you deep and slow and so incredibly passionate. He licked into your mouth as if you were giving him life. 

You wanted his tongue in between your legs. 

Your hands pulled at his fuzzy sweater, desperately needing  to get rid of the layers still separating you two. He took the hint and pulled it over his head, leaving him in just a black t shirt. Your hands roamed over his strong chest and stomach, pulling. More. Closer. God, you needed him so much closer. Your hips involuntary rocked against his and he bit down on his lip, his erection now pressing hard against your inner thigh.

Impatiently he pulled his own shirt over his head, offering you more skin and you eagerly took it, licking his neck and kissing his shoulder while your fingers moved down over his stomach. He hissed when you reached his happy trail and when you started unbuttoning his jeans he quickly grabbed your wrist to stop you.

“Nuh-uh. You first,” he breathed and he pulled your shirt over your head and unclipped your bra.

You had no time to feel self conscious because his mouth was on your breasts right away, sucking at your nipples until your back arched  and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning so loud the librarian would hear you. His fingers started fumbling with the buttons of your pants, pulling them down and letting them drop to the floor. 

The sudden cold made you shiver for a moment but it didn’t last when Aemond’s lips found your ear again,”May I taste you? Please?”

“Yes,” you breathed, biting your lip in anticipation”God, yes."

A smirk on his face when he added in a low whisper,”I want to lick you until you cum on my tongue.”

You couldn’t speak or function when he dropped down on his knees in front of you, his eye looking up into yours and you realized this was the first time you really looked at each other.

Time stopped.

He was so beautiful, the intensity in his stare made you feel all kinds of things you as a writer should be able to describe better but there were no words for him. No words at all for how he made you feel except that for the first time in a really long time you felt. 

Your hand slipped into his hair, caressing his head softly.

He never took his eye off you as he slowly pulled your panties down and started putting soft kisses on your inner thighs. Your leg was pulled up over his shoulder, giving him all the access he needed. 

That first flick of his tongue on your clit sent shivers right down your spine. He drank you in as if you were the best thing he ever tasted, the soft whimpers and moans falling from your lips encouraging him. His hands searched for yours, finding them and lacing your fingers together as he held you, his mouth pushing you closer and closer to your release.

When he suddenly pulled back you whined at the loss. “Don’t stop!”

He smirked up at you,”I’m not going to stop, but you need to be quiet for me or we’ll get kicked out.”

“I’m sorry,” you couldn’t help but giggle.

He squeezed your hands,”Can you be quiet for me, sweet girl?”

You nodded and bit your lip. Aemond held eye contact for a moment and then his mouth was back on your clit. And you could see stars.

You wanted to scream but you didn’t make a single sound when he made you come undone, hands squeezing yours hard, giving you an anchor to hold onto as your entire body started to shake around him.

You weren’t sure how long it lasted but it felt longer than ever before. The next thing you knew Aemond’s mouth was back on yours and you could taste yourself on his tongue. His fingers now exploring your folds, not giving you time to recover, teasing, circling, you were so wet and he revelled in it. That satisfied smirk back on his beautiful kissable lips. And then he slipped two fingers deep inside your walls, stretching you, making you bite your lip again just so you would keep quiet.

He was struggling to open his jeans and get rid of his boxers, “Fuck, I need to be inside you, right now.”

This time he was the one fighting to keep his moans quiet and the desperation looked insanely attractive on him. You couldn’t explain it, this pull he had on you, you barely knew him and you doubted he even knew your name. But none of that mattered, if he didn’t fuck you soon the world would end.

“You want it?” he breathed into your ear and teased your entrance with the head of his cock.

Your legs wrapped around him and he lifted you against the book shelves, pushing in slowly while his lips found yours in a sloppy kiss.

“Tell me if it hurts,” he spoke in between kissing you, his voice as soft as his lips ,”I don’t want to…”

“I want you,” you whispered and to encourage him you moved your hips with his,”I don’t care if it hurts.”

He moaned into your mouth and then grabbed hold of your hips, fucking you slowly but more urgently with every thrust. He was big and he didn’t hold back but you could take it. You would take anything he would give you, you were so lost on him.

“Look at me,” he breathed,”You doing okay?”

You nodded and wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close,”I’m okay.”

His hand moved up to cup your cheek, eye seeking yours and holding eye contact as he started fucking you harder. His forehead pressed against yours. Did he feel it too? This need to be even closer to each other. You whimpered when your orgasm started to build.

“That’s it, my darling, give it all to me, let me take it,” he moaned softly into your mouth,”That’s it, you’re doing so good…so fucking good.”

You were gone after that, not only did you see stars but the entire universe was right there when his hand moved between your legs to find your clit again. His dirty words in your ear pushing you closer and closer to the point of no return. He was as lost as you were, slamming you into that bookshelf and biting down on your shoulder to keep his moans quiet when your walls squeezed him so hard he fell apart.

You couldn’t come down from it, and you didn’t want to. Right here in his arms, with him still buried deep inside you, is where you wanted to stay. 

Aemond’s breath heavy against your skin, hands caressing your face and hair, putting soft kisses on your forehead. You wanted to disappear right there.

***

“Hey? Hello? Sleepy girl? Wake up.”

Your head moved up from the table, confusion on your face when you found the librarian looking right at you, both amused and slightly annoyed.

“What?”

“You dozed off about an hour ago," she pointed out.

“No…I was just…I,” the reality of the situation dawned on you, especially when you noticed Aemond sitting in his seat, still buried deep inside his books, not even looking up. He hadn’t moved, and neither had you. “Oh, no…”

“You’re drooling a little there,” the librarian teased when she noticed you staring at him.

“Oh, god,” you covered your face,”Was I…loud?”

She gave you a little smile,”No, don’t worry about it. I just came to warn you we’re closing in an hour, so anything you still want to get done, now is the time.”

She left you alone and you buried your face into your hands. For a few minutes all you could do was sit there, trying to get the dream and Aemond out of your head and come back to reality. Then you realized you couldn’t, and maybe you shouldn’t, maybe you should just use the gift your imagination had given you.

Your fingers found the keyboard and you started typing. You didn’t stop until the library closed an hour later and you had written 10 pages without even really trying. The characters were there, and their love story…it was dripping with passion, still foreign to you somehow though not so much anymore now. Your lips curled up into a smile at the thought of him. Even though it had been nothing but a dream you could still feel his lips burn on your skin.

While you were gathering your stuff and putting on your coat you’d noticed Aemond had already left. You couldn’t help but feel your heart ache a little. For what could have been, for what he might have meant to you, if only it could have been real. But he would never know, nor would he ever know you or even notice you.

You braced yourself for the cold when you opened the library door and stepped outside but instead of the biting chill of winter you were met with soft small snow flakes falling down on your head while you could hear people sing Christmas carols in the distance. Another involuntary smile curled around your lips and suddenly your eyes were feeling teary. Who knew it would turn out to be a magical Christmas Eve after all?

You should call your mum in the morning, wish them all a merry Christmas and let them know you were doing okay. Not entirely there yet, but okay.

When you continued walking the path away from the library you noticed him. Black leather jacket over that fuzzy sweater, hands deep in his pockets to fight the cold. For a moment you froze, unsure of what to do. Should you approach him or just ignore him? But then you noticed he was already walking straight towards you.

“Hey,” his voice came out a little hesitant, almost shy even,”I…um…I noticed we seem to be the only two people on campus tonight.”

“It would appear so,” you hid in your scarf but looked up to meet his eye and gave him a smile,”Hi.”

“Hi,” he returned your smile with one of his own,“I’m Aemond.”

“Yeah, I…I know who you are,” you confessed,”I’m Y/N.”

Another smile on his lips.“Hello, Y/N. I saw you in there,” he looked back at the library,”Actually I’ve seen you in there a few times but…you always seem so immersed in your books I couldn’t bring myself to disturb you.”

His eye held your gaze.

“You wanted to?” you carefully asked,”Disturb me?”

He smiled shyly again and you thought he never looked more beautiful than he did right now, staring at you with such softness on his face as the snow kept falling down around you both.

“Can I…,” he hesitated, searching for the right words,”Can I buy you a coffee or something? Or a very late Christmas dinner?”

You laughed and his face lit up.

“Yeah, okay,” you nodded,”Both sound very nice actually but…can you do something for me first?”

“Of course. What do you need?”

“Can you pinch me?”

He looked a little confused at your request. Confused but not unwilling to do as you asked. 

He stepped closer to you and carefully reached for your hand, letting his fingers brush against yours ever so gently before lacing them together and giving a soft but firm squeeze.

His touch…electricity like you’ve never felt.

“Like that?” he asked, his voice now just as deep and seductive as you remembered from the dream and you couldn’t look away from him.

“Yeah, exactly like that,” you smiled softly and then bit your lip. Neither of you broke eye contact nor did he let go of your hand as you both started walking.

[eegasleega-will-change-this-l8r]

George & Maria

way too late with this, so i'm really sorry to that anon who asked me about my headcanons for them ages ago... but since it's the anniversary of MOTHER 1, i figured i should finally sit down and do it! :D

So, without further ado, here's my own personal take on George and Maria, the two who started it all...

[As always, this is all my own vision for these characters, it differs a lot from other interpretations and since I'm particularly interested in them I kinda go off the rails with it. Hope it's enjoyable!]

So, things begin with Maria! She was the daughter of a fairly wealthy family, born on the later side of the 1800s in a rural part of Eagleland. She was kind, outgoing, positive to a fault, and well-liked by everyone in the town she lived in. She hosted most of the town's events and celebrations, most often at her family's estate, and no one was excluded.

Also, she was trans. This was something of an open secret, although she never talked about it, and most of the locals considered it impolite to gossip about. But since she'd been in the public eye since she was a child, it wasn't something that went unnoticed.

George was an out-of-towner, who showed up one day and quietly settled in, accompanied by a friend of his (his personal doctor, apparently. This is a weird oc that just kinda came into existence naturally, and he just kept showing up afterward... really need to give him a proper name at some point). He was a quiet person, although he got along well with the people he spoke to. He never spoke of where he'd come from, or why he'd left there. Mostly he preferred to stay indoors and write (he was something of an aspiring poet).

He never really paid much attention to the affairs of Maria's family, but one day he just happened to overhear some passing gossip while in town, and what he heard astounded him. He immediately knew that he had to meet Maria himself.

George had never attended any of Maria's parties, not being one for large social events, but he made sure to attend the next one as soon as he could. It was there that the two finally met. George was immediately captivated by her, and the more he spoke with her, the more he knew he was in love. She loved the way he spoke and looked at the world, and she wanted them to keep talking as long as they could.

The whole party passed, people left, until it was just the two of them. They were still talking and now, privately, George could finally reveal his own secret, too.

George was like Maria in a number of ways. However, he'd struggled far more with his own identity than she had. His family hadn't accepted him, had tried to force him into being someone he couldn't be, and so he left. Besides Maria, the only other person who knew about his secret was his doctor, a close friend of his who he'd always confided in. He'd had little hope he'd ever find anyone else who could understand, but he'd never even considered there might be someone else like him.

By the end of that night, they were already in love. They met more and more after that, never wanting to be without the other's company. He loved the way she sang, she loved to help him with his poems. She loved to tease him and say that he looked just like a penguin. When they went into town together, everyone wondered how this strange, quiet man from out of town had captured Maria's heart so well. Eventually, they were married, and after their daughter Rosie was born, they decided to move to a small, quiet town further away.

Just at the edge of the town of Mother's Day/Podunk, they built a small house on top of a hill (George's doctor came with them of course, as loyal as always. He moved into his own house just a short walk away, at the bottom of the hill). And so they lived there, husband and wife, their daughter growing up, and everything was happy.

When Rosie was about 8, a shadow fell over the town. Things lifted off the ground and flew across the room, animals went wild, and people vanished from their homes without a trace. When the morning came, George and Maria were gone.

Unfortunately, I think I'm gonna have to split this post. There's still plenty of George and Maria's story left to tell, and I think there's too much to get into in just one part. (also i still have some things i wanna work out for giygas...)

In any case, that's the story of how George and Maria met, right before everything goes wrong and the course of history is changed forever! I really love thinking about how many things turn out the way they do because of these two people. Without them, Giygas wouldn't have turned out the way he did, without Giygas, Porky would never have gone down that path, and without Porky...

So I've become super attached to my interpretations of these characters, and I really love giving them a larger spotlight. ^^

Hope this was fun! And happy 35th anniversary to MOTHER 1! :D

[stellarspecter]

I'd Much Rather Be Jorting

@astrangersummer week 1: short shorts

1k, steddie, much talk about jorts

Read on AO3

Steve nearly choked on his own spit when he saw Eddie. It was the first truly sweltering day of the summer, and apparently that meant it was time to break out the shorts. The short shorts. The kind with the ragged edges and pockets hanging out the hems. Steve was almost disappointed they were black and not light wash denim. 

“Where the hell are they selling shorts like that, Munson,” he asked once he’d regained his breath.

“Selling?” Eddie quirked a brow. “Oh, Stevie. Jorts this good aren’t found, they’re made.” He did a little spin to show them off (as if Steve wasn’t already looking too much), finishing with a flourish of his hairy leg.

“Huh?” Steve said faintly. All he could think about was the pale expanse of thigh, visible for the first time, being paraded in front of him.

“You’ve never made jorts?” Eddie asked, the most adorable pout on his face. “Well fuck, babe, we’re gonna have to fix that.”

And Steve couldn’t help it. When Eddie called him that, he was weak to his every whim.

Which is how he found himself sitting at his kitchen table, a pair of jeans and scissors in his hands.

“Step 1 of jorts: choose the jeans,” Eddie instructed across from him. “You want a pair that’s well-worn, so that you’re not wasting too much fabric by cutting them.”

Steve glanced at Eddie’s own selection, which were more holes than denim at this point. “So your whole wardrobe?”

Eddie snorted. “Okay, rich boy, sorry I’ve got style.” He winked, which Steve was not equipped to deal with at the current moment. He cleared his throat and looked back at his soon-to-be-jorted jeans. 

“What’s next?”

“Deciding the length,” Eddie answered. “The holes in mine usually decide for me, but you can do whatever feels right.”

“Yeah, I can tell,” Steve muttered. He stared at the jeans in front of him, wondering how he was supposed to conjure a leg measurement out of nowhere. 

“You don’t like ‘em?” Eddie asked, clearly teasing.

Steve blushed. “I didn’t say that.”

Eddie smirked, satisfied at his reaction. “That looks like a good length.”

Steve looked down to find a line drawn in washable marker on his jeans. Maybe about mid-thigh? Whatever. He’d wear whatever, as long as Eddie said it looked good.

“Okay. So now we cut it?”

“Got it in one,” Eddie confirmed with a smile, and Steve had to focus hard on his scissors to make sure he didn’t accidentally cut himself while he was busy daydreaming about his friend’s lips.

“And there we are! Some brand new jorts to welcome in the summer,” Eddie announced, holding his own up proudly. These ones were regular blue jeans cut to a much more conservative length than the pair he was wearing.

Steve held up his own pair, a bit uncertain that they were going to be any good. He’d only ever bought clothes from a store and thrown them out whenever they got their first tear. Cutting clothes up on purpose felt blasphemous. But, he supposed, Eddie had been doing it for years, and clearly he pulled it off.

“Do I… try them on?” He hazarded.

“Yes, try them on! See how they feel!” Eddie waved him towards the bathroom to change. 

He came out with his new shorts on, tugging awkwardly at the hems. They sat a bit higher than he’d anticipated, but still nowhere near as short as Eddie’s.

“So?” Eddie waited expectantly for his verdict.

Steve shrugged. “They’re okay.”

“Okay?” Eddie exclaimed. “Just okay? Steve, jorts are more than okay, they’re great! They let you partake in the act of creation! That’s the kind of thing people write poetry about!”

“Poems,” Steve repeated flatly. “About jorts. Sure, man.”

Eddie squinted at him, then stepped away from the table and drew himself up to his full height. “The days of spring will surely bring the birds and bees cavorting,” he recited, the sing-song cadence making it clear that this was a poem. “But since I am a gentleman, I’d much rather be jorting. Hempstead Snarlton, 1943.” He paused, clearly expecting Steve to be proud of him for reciting poetry from memory.

Steve leveled him with a look. “You just made that up.”

Eddie squawked. “No I didn’t! It’s a real poem, look it up!”

“The word ‘jorts’ didn’t even exist in 1943!” 

“You don’t know that!”

Steve scoffed. “I can take a pretty good fucking guess.”

“Whatever,” Eddie sulked. “You just don’t think that gentlemen should be jorting.”

Steve blinked in disbelief. “Do you hear yourself when you talk.”

“Do you?” Eddie retorted. “Are you saying we’re not gentlemen? You don’t think I’m a gentleman, Stevie?”

“Why is this the hill you’re dying on?” Steve wondered out loud, baffled that this is the same man that scrambles his brain with just the sight of his legs.

“Because I’m jorting!” Eddie exclaimed.

Steve shook his head in bemusement and put his sunglasses on. “I’m gonna go back outside. Have fun with your… jorting.”

“Oh, I will,” Eddie shot back. “Outside, also.”

“Just can’t stand a single minute without me, can you, Eds?” Steve teased as he slid the back door open and ushered Eddie ahead of him. 

“What can I say, Stevie,” he sighed, “You and me are like gentlemen and jorting: we just belong together, don’t you agree?” He dramatically rested a hand on his chest and gave Steve a simpering look. 

Steve couldn’t ignore the flutter in his heart at hearing him say that they belonged together. Despite his ridiculousness, he couldn’t deny that he was still madly, deeply, head over heels for this man. As he watched him scamper off to wet his feet in the pool, he sighed. 

“Yeah, Eds.” Lovelorn on the deck, he watched his jorts-clad crush send ripples through the water. “I do.”

dividers by @saradika-graphics

title and poem and general inspo from bdg's "how to make jorts" video, because i am, to my core, silly. thanks for reading

[geotjwrs]

Scott Street

Pairings ; Olivia Rodrigo x Male!Reader

Warnings ; angst if you squint

The familiar streets of Los Angeles buzzed with the life of a typical evening, but for Y/N, each step felt heavy with memories. The city had a way of keeping the past alive, and tonight, it was impossible to escape.

As Y/N walked down Scott Street, the old neighborhood where everything started, the memories of Olivia came rushing back. This was where they had shared so many moments, both good and bad. Every corner, every café, every park bench seemed to whisper her name.

It was a crisp evening when Y/N received the text.

"Hey, I'm back in town. Want to meet up?" - Olivia

His heart skipped a beat. It had been years since they last spoke, and though life had moved on, some wounds hadn't quite healed. He typed back a simple, "Sure," and they agreed to meet at a small coffee shop they used to frequent.

Y/N arrived early, the familiar hum of the city surrounding him. The coffee shop was almost empty, a stark contrast to the crowded memories he had of it. He chose a seat by the window, looking out at the street that had once been their world.

A few minutes later, the door chimed, and Olivia walked in. She looked almost the same, yet different—a bit older, a bit more weary, but with the same spark in her eyes. She smiled when she saw him, and it was like no time had passed at all.

"Hey," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. "It's been a while."

"Yeah," Y/N replied, trying to keep his emotions in check. "It has."

They ordered coffee, and for a while, they just sat there, letting the silence speak for them. It was a comfortable silence, filled with unspoken words and shared memories.

"So, how've you been?" Olivia finally asked, her voice soft.

"I've been okay," Y/N replied. "Busy with work, you know. And you? How's everything going with your music?"

"It's been good," Olivia said, her eyes lighting up. "I've been writing a lot. It helps to process everything, you know?"

Y/N nodded, understanding. He had always admired how she could pour her heart into her music. It was one of the things that drew him to her in the first place.

As the night wore on, they talked about their lives, their dreams, and their regrets. They reminisced about the past, the good times and the bad, the moments that defined their relationship.

"Do you ever think about us?" Y/N asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"All the time," Olivia admitted. "I wonder what could have been, if things had been different."

"Yeah," Y/N said, staring into his coffee. "Me too."

There was a long pause, filled with the weight of their shared history.

"Anyway," Olivia said, breaking the silence. "Don't be a stranger, okay?"

Y/N looked up, meeting her gaze. "I won't," he promised.

They left the coffee shop and walked down Scott Street together, just like they used to. The city felt different, yet the same. The streetlights cast a warm glow, and the sound of traffic created a comforting hum.

As they walked, Y/N found himself reminiscing about the past more than he intended. He pointed out the old record store where they spent countless hours browsing vinyl, the park where they had picnics and lazy afternoons under the sun, the bookstore where they often got lost in aisles, finding hidden gems.

"Remember when we found that old poetry book?" Y/N asked, a small smile playing on his lips. "You said it was a sign."

Olivia laughed, a sound that felt both familiar and foreign. "Yeah, I remember. We spent the whole evening reading those poems out loud. It was like the world stopped for us."

"It really did," Y/N agreed, his heart aching with nostalgia.

As they walked back towards the city, the silence between them grew heavier. They reached a small park where they had often spent time together. The playground was empty, and the swings creaked softly in the night breeze.

"Do you remember our first date?" Y/N asked, trying to lighten the mood. "Right here, on these swings."

Olivia smiled wistfully. "You pushed me so high, I thought I was going to fly."

"You were always braver than me," Y/N said, looking at her with admiration.

"And you were the one who kept me grounded," Olivia replied, her voice soft. "We balanced each other."

"But sometimes," Y/N said, his voice breaking, "we were too different. We wanted different things."

"Yeah," Olivia agreed, looking down at her feet. "We grew apart, didn't we?"

"It happens," Y/N said, trying to sound philosophical. "People change. Life changes us."

"Doesn't make it any easier," Olivia said, her eyes glistening. "But I guess it's part of growing up."

They continued walking, and soon the city lights surrounded them again. Olivia looked at Y/N, her expression a mix of sadness and resignation.

"I'm happy you're doing well," she said sincerely. "You deserve all the success in the world."

"Thanks, Olivia," Y/N replied, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm happy for you too. You're amazing."

They reached the point where their paths would diverge, and Olivia turned to face Y/N fully.

"Anyway, don't be a stranger, alright?" she said, echoing her words from earlier.

Y/N nodded, fighting back tears. "I won't. Promise."

They hugged, a lingering embrace that felt like a final goodbye. When they finally pulled away, there was a sense of closure, but also a sense of possibility.

"Take care, Olivia," Y/N said, his voice thick with emotion.

"You too, Y/N," Olivia replied, giving him one last smile before turning and walking away.

Y/N watched her go, feeling a mix of sadness and hope. As he walked back down Scott Street, he realized that while the past would always be a part of him, the future was still unwritten. And maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for new beginnings.

Months later, Y/N was engrossed in his work, putting in long hours and dedicating himself to his career. It was a way to cope, to move forward, to build something meaningful from the remnants of his past.

One day, while taking a rare break, he scrolled through social media and stumbled upon a photo. It was Olivia, smiling brightly, her arm around Louis Partridge. They looked happy, genuinely happy, and it was clear that they had found something special in each other.

Seeing her like that, Y/N felt a pang of something, maybe a bit of sadness, but also a sense of peace. Olivia had moved on, found happiness, and that was something he could be grateful for.

Y/N returned to his work with renewed focus. He poured his heart into his projects, finding realization in his creativity and accomplishments. He knew that the road ahead would be hard, but he was ready to face it head-on.

As he sat in his office late one night, working on a new piece, he paused to reflect on how far he had come. The memories of Olivia were still there, but they no longer held him back. They were a part of him, but they didn't define him.

With a deep breath, Y/N smiled to himself. He had learned to let go, to cherish the past without letting it consume him. And as he looked out at the city lights, he felt a sense of ease.

"Anyway, don't be a stranger," Olivia had said.

He wouldn't be. Life had a way of bringing people back together, in one way or another. And even if they were on different paths now, Y/N knew that their stories were forever intertwined.

He turned back to his work, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. The future was uncertain, but for the first time in a long time, Y/N felt ready to embrace it.

And as he typed the final words of his latest project, he couldn't help but smile. It was the beginning of a new chapter, one that he would write with hope, toughness, and a heart that had learned to heal.

[imasfnek]

Okay, just imagine:

Stargazing after averting the Second coming in season 3. (Or, perhaps, just imagine my poem "Stargazing" (link will be bellow cuz idk how to do anything apparently) but longer and upgraded. I guess.)

Just imagine this:

"Do you stargaze?"

The angel turned his head to face his companion.

"I can't say it's a habit of mine."

They were both laying next to eachother on the ground. It was a cold night. The grass was wet and the only light source were the stars above them.

"Pity."

"Why?"

"Because every time you look at them you're forced to marvel at their beauty, their glory. They're shards of hope scattered across the night sky in a never-ending universe. They're so close and so far apart and yet, they still shine brighter than any smile you'll see. They're far more enjoyable than any earthly pleasure you can possibly think of, so... so simple yet so complex, so mundane yet so bewitching, so... gorgeous. But people hardly even glance at them, let alone appreciate how divine, angelic even, they are."

The angel turned his gaze to the stars again.

"I've never thought of it that way before."

"Yeah. Not a lot of people do."

There was a comfortable silence between the two. Well, comfortable for the demon, anyway. The angel had one particular question on mind - a question that he was afraid to ask because it could cause pain. But, as much as he was afraid, he was curious. And after a while curiosity was the one standing in the battlefield of the angel's mind.

"Did you look at the stars often when I was... away?"

Another pause occured. The angel looked in the demon's direction again. He saw a slight frown on his face and contemplation in his yellow eyes that stayed bright even in the dark around them.

"Yeah." The demon finally answered. "Seeing more you than the constellations. Wishing you would come back. I always wondered if we were maybe watching then at the same time. Thinking the same things."

He almost regretted saying those words. It was terrifying, admiting to these feelings after so long of keeping them to himself. Especially to this particular angel who made him feel that way.

"We were." The angel said after what felt like forever to the demon.

"What?" He turned his head, looking at the angel.

The angel almost swallowed his words out of fear of the consequences. He didn't know what would happen if he continued his statement, and yet there was something thrilling about that. He had nothing to fear but himself. So he continued.

"We were. Watching them at the same time. Thinking the same things. I watched the stars every night thinking of you. Trust me, my dear, I wanted to come back, I just couldn't." He looked at his companion again.

"Yeah I know. Supreme archangel duties and all that." There was a hint of bitterness in the demon's voice.

"Crowley. I needed to stop the Second coming. The Metatron and the others were going to destroy the earth and wipe out the human race. It didn't work out last time and they were very eager to try again. You know this."

"You came to me for help. I remember."

"And I'm forever grateful you offered it."

The demon finally locked eyes with the figure that was now sitting up beside him.

"I'm glad you're back, angel. Even if it was just to save the humans."

"It wasn't. I missed you, dear. I really did. I hope I can stay this time so we can perhaps... be an us. Here. What do you say?"

The demon smiled.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."