˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ desc; case closed. pining, yearning. small moments that fit in.
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ pairing; multi
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ mlist; !!!!!
is an intimate partner to be with. in the sense that, skin is always touching in some way or another. hands on hips, hands on waist, fingers digging into skin because how dare the world be so cruel to not allow closer contact than skin to skin? how dare the world, in all its intricacies, how could it be so cruel as to keep teeth and tongue from devouring the spirit?
-
argenti. gepard. blade. jing yuan.
breaths shared, head tipped back and throat bared. lips and teeth and tongue, biting and sucking and licking indents over every open space, trying to leave a permanent brand of the current moment, because isn’t that what yearning is?
-
gallagher. boothill. black swan. feixiao. jing yuan.
flesh bunching under warm palms, sweat and spit smeared over smooth skin. fingers dragging down the spine and pressing in- because that place, right there, is home. that place just under the skin, between bone and flesh and braided with the nervous system.
-
sunday. phainon. dan feng. jing yuan.
chest pressed to chest, pulse rocketing into orbit. a voice, words mumbled into skin and causing an almost immediate calm. “i’ve got you. i’ve got you. i’ve got you. i’ve got you.”
-
mydei. robin. dan heng. luocha. jing yuan.
arm curled around neck, hand in hair and locked in place. entirely still, yet impossibly rigid. another breath shared, and then suddenly, movement. “you deserve this. let me take care of you.”
-
kafka. seele. jing yuan.
hazy light through the windows, moon reflecting faintly in the dark and bouncing off of every surface. skin to skin, hands dragging over every surface and freezing, remembering everything in their wake.
-
anaxa. acheron. aglaea. jingliu. jing yuan.
eyes connected, locked in place and hand gripping the other’s face tightly like an anchor. a wave of sleepiness, calmness settling in and it feels like the eye of the storm. “you’re so beautiful.”
-
welt. aventurine. jing yuan.
notes; writing this down so i can finally be released from my hormones. tldr; if i can’t enjoy my love life because it’s messy, ill at least write about snippets of it and hope to GOD the messiness leaves me be :’-) (and no,, im TOTALLY not jing yuan biased at all,, totally,,,)
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ desc; how does it feel to hold a hand, one that fits as if it were meant to do so with your own? (pt 2)
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ pairing; dan feng : ruan mei : sampo : kafka : mr reca : robin : boothill : yukong : blade ➜ x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ mlist; !!!!! // pt 1; !!!!!
what with how busy she is, topaz deciding to seek you out, even for such a gesture as to hold your hand is something to cherish. she’s got this habit of leaving you little trinkets each time when she leaves- a coin from a world she’d recently visited, a little brooch to pin onto the collar of your shirt, one time it was even a heart shaped rock. maybe it’s her way of spoiling you in her long periods of absence, maybe she just likes giving you things; maybe it’s even both. when she can give herself the reward of your touch, it grounds her- she makes a home for herself as close to you as possible, breaths mingling together and pinkies entertained. it’s never quite close enough, but, she supposes this will make do.
dan feng prides himself- on almost everything, really, that’s sort of his thing; who can really blame him at the enormity of pride he feels whenever he gets to touch you? of devotion? he thinks of you often, of your touch and the affect it has on him, distracting him at strange moments of the day from his duties as high elder.. it’s not really your fault he’s got such a one track mind, is it? perhaps it is why when he holds your hand, it’s particularly hard to get him to let go of it- he doesn’t even do it consciously all of the time, thumb pressing into that little spot on your wrist that reflexively opens your palm and allows him to indulge within his greed. yes, this is quite nice.
to have ruan mei hold your hand is always going to bring something new- a new element of feeling, a time to experiment one more thing, one final thing because she’s certain there is always more to know- about you, especially. she will let her mind run wild if you do not ground her, if you do not keep her company when everything but her own ideas (and you, always you) become white noise. her hands are calloused in places one might not expect- all leftover remnants from trial and error, failing and proceeding. to keep her busy mind focussed she’ll often put her focus onto your hands, tugging at fingers and eyes squinted to follow the map of veins under skin; after all, there is always more to know about you.
sampo is often a man of far too many words, too much eloquence and embellishment of fact that he brandishes like a battering ram. this is who he is, as a person existing in space. it’s no surprise when his touches are grandiose, when he grasps you by the hand and twirls you into him not once letting go. it is important to note, that whilst superfluous, he is no less genuine for the fact of his words and actions.
kafka can sometimes (often) be a bit of a wildcard- her hands are not always smooth under her gloves, nails not always so manicured to perfection like she typically prefers. being an infamous criminal, sometimes her hands are scarred- whenever she absolutely has to get physical instead of attacking from a distance; but most of the time, her hands are flawless and warm, largely unblemished due to the gloves she wears. she likes it best when she can feel you skin to skin, fingers brushing over your pulse and laughing whenever she can do something to make it jump- that’s how she tells herself she’s alive. she’s alive when your pulse thumps steadily in your wrist, when she can trace over an old scar on your palm, when she can feel warmth instead of the metal of her gun.
robin is always one to lean into her softness when it comes to you- you, you, you. her voice crooning in your ear, just as lovely as any of her performances but ever more intimate in nature- words less sugar sweet and saccharine and instead more like molasses, coating the inside of your mouth and dripping through the cracks of your body. hands holding yours are similar and just as cloying; how can she really resist herself when she craves your stability? your place in her life is immovable, no matter where she goes that is always something that will remain.
it is easy sometimes, to forget that boothill has overcome so much; one might perhaps think that the touch of his hands, metallic and lacking even artificial warmth might contribute to this- that is, however, not the case. though your hands may forever bare the chill of metal, the unshakable promise of an almost utilitarian gentleness can always be felt. you will never be pinched or zapped or prodded by circuitry, or joints in the metal plates of his hands. instead, you will find them cradled around your own, a suit of armour protecting skin, and veins, and blood, and bone because he’ll be damned if he cannot keep a small piece of himself gentler just for one moment, just to feel the phantom sensation of your skin on his.
holding hands with yukong is, ironically enough, like taking flight. though she’d not allowed herself such a thing for many years now, who is she to not spoil herself by being in your presence? yukong is a woman who knows what she wants- she’s every bit happy to be so close to you, to curl her fingers through yours and allow herself to to feel triumphant; much like she used to when manoeuvring through the skies as a pilot, eyes staring forwards and adoring the horizon, at home and content to never stray too far.
notes; i applied for a job- unfortunately did not make it :’) however, i figured i’d try & write something to feel better! i thought id try & sneak in a few more personal favourites on this one, as well as a character for a friend c:
himeko is the needle on your compass, the northern star in the sky and holds you steady- your anchor to warmth, your hearth and your home. the times that you manage to hold them, her hands are warm to the touch, usually second-hand from the coffee she always seems to have on hand; she always smells like coffee, too, rich and a little bit fruity. it lingers on her skin like ichor, soft and warm like the feeling of home- she is home, always. when she holds your hand she is caking you home, cradling one or both between her own, keeping your warmth entwined with hers because that’s just how it is. how it will stay.
firefly’s hands are familiar- not because they’re the same hands that cradle you often, but familiar in the way that makes your soul settle, stretched out lazily like a house cat under your skin. to hold her hand is to return to yourself, it is to envy the way the sky wraps itself around the sun and the moon and envy for that same closeness. it is the familiarity of matter, of what you are and will be coalescing, a bone deep ache that is soothed.
now, if you’d like to hold his hand- you’ve got to get gepard out of his gloves, first. whilst they keep his hands- big, strong, calloused hands- warm and safe during the day, they’re unfortunately not made with the idea of far sweeter things in mind. time and duty permitting, he’ll shuck them off like they burn him as soon as you, so dear to him, come into his view. holding his hand is to be encompassed, to feel the graze of his thumb over your knuckles and hand it brought up to his mouth; his cheeks are red, from the cold and you, always you. he needs, desperately, to be gentle enough, to covey all that he can’t when he is off doing his duty. you, the balm to the frigid cold.
jing yuan is a man of many people’s fascinations- yet, how amusing to you, that he seems so fascinated by simply holding your hands. ever the charmer, kissing your wrists and knuckles and palms and whispering into your skin- he is quiet afterwards, plays with your fingers and traces manicured nails over your skin. his hand, holding yours, is an endless stretch of time condensed into seconds; fleeting and effervescent, timeless and unshakeable. the press of the pads of his fingers mimic his devotion that sweetens on your tongue like honey, the weight of his palms against yours like the thudding weight of another heartbeat, intertwined together with yours. thumpthump. thump. thumpthump. thump.
perhaps, feixiao has a tendency to be a little rough around the edges- only sometimes. her hands reflect her well, especially so when you can snag them within your own; her anxiety, her anger, her mirth, her exhaustion. you alone cradle her in your hands, the cyclonic emotion that pours out of her like waves lapping at the shore. you stand, with her, cradling each other, in the eye of the storm. she is a cyclone, a constant ebb and flow that gives and takes and shelters you within herself. often, this is the case when she squeezes your hands- strength and love and loyalty and shelter.
perhaps one thing to note, is that argenti is usually never not holding your hand. or linking pinkies. or offering you his arm to hold. or somehow, in someway, near enough to feel him pressing some piece of himself to some part of you. he’s sweet, bottled sunshine that spills out of his body and burns itself into your being with its light- holding his hand is like holding the sun. holding it, cupped between your hands, reflecting its brilliance into your skin and shining its light through your body; it bounces off of your ribs and bursts out of your eyes, buries itself into your lungs and lodges so deeply it will never return completely to the sky. holding his hand is mundane, domestic, and an everyday occurrence; yet his brilliance will always be a live wire, buried in your chest and tethering you close.
holding hands with aventurine is always going to be just a little bit different each time- not because he pulls some kind of trick or because he’s unpredictable or anything of the sort. he, quite simply, just hasn’t yet found a completely sound way to honour the feeling of your hand in his. he draws from within himself to count his own luck, tracing over a freckle on the inside of your wrist. the stars bursting behind his eyelids grow ever in number when he finds a new pattern to trace over your fingers, a new way to touch the skin over your knuckles and configure a mind map every time. this, this feeling is something not even he will gamble
ever one for order, sunday is as expected, meticulous in the care he ensures in such a simple act. it is an act that is cyclical, a routine cultivated between the two of you out of careful consideration for the other; a tentative melody when your fingers brush, quickly meeting a crescendo when palms greedily press together to seek assurance. it is harmonious, yet there is a quiet strength- comforting in its presence, always known to be and never, ever taken for granted.
mydei who is ever the warrior, ever the one to weather the storm has hands like one would expect; there lay thin scars from youth, split knuckles and well worn callouses over his hands that speak of his character. these are hands that know violence. these are hands that are hard and strong and unwavering. and yet.. to hold his hand is to cradle his hardness, it is to bolster his strength like kindling to a fire or gasoline and a match. it is to let him pull you into his ribcage and make a home for you of his own skeleton, it is to be his blood and muscle and his heart. because what is a warrior without a worthy cause, a worthy reason to be strong?
to be graced by aglaea, to merely gaze upon her visage is already a beauty to be consumed of- to get closer, to feel the softness of her hands and the croon of her voice is an implosion. often, holding her hands leads to conversations that leave you levitating- knowledge shared between two lovers, whispers on the wind and sweet as morning dew. sometimes the knowledge is monotonous, or spellbinding or even a tad ridiculous; yet it always sears itself into your skin, embeds like hooks and has you strung up like a puppet on strings. to hold her hand is to languish in her beauty, in her passion and her drive you simply be who she is.
notes; sigh.. i got back into hsr again (i want mydei & anaxa & thank GOD i have a guaranteed character) and i wanted to post something! idk if half of these are coherent or for any of the characters fully, but like, it’s something :’) i took inspo from this i did for ff16 a while ago^ i can do more characters if they’re wanted in terms of hsr, just let me know!
your shining autumn (blue green, colours flashing)
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; nanami drabble because i miss him
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairing; nanami -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist
the warmth of the sun is penetrating. a warm morning that transitions the day smoothly into a balmy afternoon, an ache soothed by the chill of the breeze. all in all, the day is as it usually is- perfectly pleasant.
the warmth of the room seeps into your bones, stretching through one body and into another, two lovers curled up together and bathed by sunlight. it crawls into the space, sugary sweet and clinging to scattered dust particles reflected in beams of light.
“oh- sorry, do you want me to move off your arm?”
the echoing voice is quiet, a melody playing in a minor key that cuts through the sun and the warmth, drawing all attention in the room to a sharp focus.
“it’s okay,” the lovers move in tandem, connected by sunlight and warmth and each other, “just- turn over, or hold my hand instead?”
laughter briefly echos when both come close to toppling from their perch on the couch, resting place disturbed, only to again be settled like falling leaves- as easy a transition as the changing of seasons.
“did you know, that you have very nice hands?”
a murmur of agreement, voice joining its partner and bathing both lovers in the silence that follows. a thumb skips over the crease of a palm, tracing calluses and old scars, nothing untouched or unseen. to be loved is to be seen.
“this one is your lifeline- did you know that? no? hm.. it’s a long one.”
“it’s just a line on my hand.”
“a very important line that means you’re stuck with me for a very long time, dear.”
tired eyes glint and a slow smile stretches wide, laugh catching on the amusement caused by such a statement.
‘a long time, hm?’
“..are you listening to me? i was saying that i managed to get a good deal on those flights to malaysia, and here you are spacing out on me!”
a hand carding through honey coloured hair, twisting through strands usually combed back; contained, controlled, neatly into a box for later on. it settles, pulled like a magnet to the body against his front, the warmth.
he is a flower in the care of a cautious gardener, and in turn he blooms, radiant like the spring.
“my apologies dear, tell me more?”
but when the springtime ends, do not all brilliant blooms begin to wilt?
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; it is officially october 2024 and, wow, getting broken up with is so not fun! however, apparently being sad makes me finally get inspo to write, that’s indeed interesting! anyways, this is rusty, but i miss nanami and writing so this is what we all get c:
the scent of flowers (still in bloom from morning shower)
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; what is youth, really, except for a simple memory?
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; geto -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist
the sun in the sky is a falsehood. it flashes by in flickers of light, memories of a day fulfilled and the settling of dancing stars that bid it goodnight as it hovers on the horizon. the fading light of a golden celestial body reflects as it fades beyond the horizon, illuminating two figures stood in a cluster of citrus trees in full bloom.
a hand against your cheek, its thumb trailing behind to press against your jaw, “stay still.”
the hand— his hand, the hand that is warm. the hand that is soft in its every touch, at least with you. that same hand that is so strong and safe— reaches back ever so slightly, cupping your cheek to nudge your head to the side.
he hums, in that same little way he does after a good night’s rest; in the way he does when a meal tastes particularly good.
suguru is happy. sated. content.
his other hand rustles into a nearby tree— citrus, by the smell alone, you think it might be an orange tree— for a few moments, until there’s an abrupt snap that separates the choral serenade of the cicadas and wind, to the introduced sounds of his breathing and yours. it’s peaceful.
you feel that same hand moments later, smelling of fresh grass and citrus, warm and gentle. he tucks the sprig of orange blossom behind your ear, that same humming still sounding from his direction.
he pokes his fingers at your cheek, laughter flowing to interrupt the steady hum of his voice when your face scrunches and you automatically turn your head, “see? wasn’t that worth it?”
he looks pretty, ethereal in the way that only he can be. wispy strands of hair that fall out of his bun on one side of his face, brushing at the swell of his cheek when he cracks a grin.
pretty.
“did you check to see if this one had any bugs on the stem this time?” your voice echos towards him, cuts through the air in a pleasant way that makes him think of a shooting star, such brilliance that remains ever ephemeral, yet never looses its impact. his lips curl up into a smile.
he shrugs his shoulders, too innocent look on his face as his hand seeks to find its way back against your cheek again, “that wasn’t my fault, remember. do you not want me to tuck flowers behind your ears anymore?”
another smile from you, one that returns his, as it always had, “not any that have ants on them- hey! don’t laugh!”
the sun on the horizon, warm and golden, drifts lower on the horizon, until it dips so low that it simply disappears.
“—want this tree? it won’t fruit for a few years yet.” the voice interrupts, silent soliloquy ended in favour of focussing on something that isn’t the false sky of memories that continue their barrage.
your eyes snap up to the cashier, someone younger— as you had been, when it was a familiarity for suguru to tuck fruit blossoms behind your ears and cradle your heart in his hands— who appears confused, when you don’t respond to the question.
“oh- sorry, yes. it’s fine- i’ve wanted a tree for a while, and i’m finally at a point where i can have one.” a smile on your face, quick, only the flash of something sincere.
the cashier smiles again and says something else, proceeding to organise with you over payment and if you’re really sure you want this one and not a more mature tree- again, you answer the same. the cashier— hair long enough to tie up into a bun, with wisps of hair that fall out on one side to hug the shape of their face; perhaps the real reason the memory had hit in the first place— is polite, though still confused on your vacancy in the conversation.
as you find yourself leaving the store, accompanied with your cart carrying the small citrus tree already flowering little white blossom, the sky is real, blue; most of all, it is mocking you.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; this!! was not planned but happened anyways. not proofread we die like- well,, practically jjk’s whole cast. i think of fruit & springtime when i think of suguru because of a character study i read abt him one time so mayb that’s what’s influencing this jus a smidge.
if i could hold you for a minute (i would do it again)
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; this is me coping with jjk 236
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; gojo -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist
familiarity breeds contempt- or, it would, if the familiarity wasn’t the only thing keeping the contempt away. an ugly shadow, something disfigured and maimed; grief. the apartment is clean, routine still carefully in place, even on a day that feels impossible- days that feel impossible are common, but this one makes all the other impossible days seem ridiculous.
inside this clean space are things out of place- a ‘World’s Best Teacher’ mug sat on the coffee table. an empty packet of strawberry flavoured chewing gum, metallic wrapper crunched and discarded to the side. a broken pair of circular sunglasses rest on the edge of the table, well loved and well worn.
“—said not to, but i just couldn’t resist! so i bought another bag of the frozen berries and I’ll just make room in the freezer!” the voicemail ends, a lilt to the end tone of the voice and a laugh that sounds more like a cackle. the phone in hand beeps, then asks to replay or delete the message.
fingers tap at the screen, pressing a number to play the message again. every movement is mechanical, familiarity bleeding like an open wound, the space staying exactly the same, unchanging. a temporary salve over a gaping wound, stitched together by barbed wire and sealed over with duct tape.
a body sat on a couch, accompanied by the imprint of another; still. just a body, moving through familiar motions or things that had been, but no longer are. the voicemail starts over again.
“hi baby! you didn’t pick up before, so i thought i’d do you the honour of hearing my voice like this instead- isn’t that great? i’m out at the moment—”
and eventually, it ends again too, leaving only silence.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; i feel like i had my kidney cut out with a rusty spork. when did i get so fond of him im actually ill. how do i tell my teachers that i can’t pay attention to the class because i’m grieving over a fictional character. this was very self indulgent & i wanted to do something but i have such low energy rn :’) tldr; gege, when i catch you gege.
the collapse of something old transformed anew seems to be, perhaps, the only single constant humanity is able to grasp. this alone permits growth, but also hinders the potential survivability of knowledge; especially when the collapse has come from such thing as war.
this is why as a scholar in such times as these, especially one from the lands beyond, haste is an all too important preserve for a former nation turned into another.
it is also why when you arrive on the distant shores of valisthea on the continent of ash, many an attempt is made to speak to as varied a people as possible- soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, scholars, lords, ladies and farmers; a picture begins to form.
but, with all of your attempts at speaking to someone new, one name is bought up consecutively- barnabas tharmr. he is the man who lead many of the battles against veldermarke. he is the one they say is the dominant of an eikon people are calling odin. he is the man who renamed the land his; waloed. most, if not all, are calling to name him as king. he is also the man who until a week ago, has given you so, so much trouble to find and speak to him about your research. damn him.
you arm yourself with both tomes and shortsword to finally meet the man- varied accounts of a person’s character make the need for preparation feel all the more important, after all.
upon entering the new capital of stonhyrr, erected on the remains of an old nation, you recall an account that gives you pause. ‘stubborn and cantankerous! far too young for a position such as king!’
though this had come from a fellow scholar over a few pints of ale, this is a point of view you’d like to take with a grain of salt; after all, this scholar had some rather strange views about your own hometown in the lands beyond, views you knew to be entirely untrue.
nearing the finally agreed upon meeting place, you continue forwards through a more populated street, fingers flexing over a tome pressed to your left hip upon recalling another description of the man- it is swatted away much quicker, a crooning voice curling around your ears much like it had a week prior across the bar top; you don’t need to know what his hands felt like, nor the intensity of his eyes to judge what sort of information he could give you for your research, thank you very much.
a short call of your name is what distracts you completely from your thoughts, eyes now directed to a young man dressed in a strange combination of armour and finery; strange, because he wears a single leg guard, a chest plate and one vambrace on his arm baring the crest of what you know to be odin. the man is also broad, very easy on the eyes and walking your way- perhaps that account from a week prior might actually have some merit after all.
“i take it you are the scholar? apologies, it seems i’ve been a hard man for you to pin down.” eyes cut across your face from under a dark fringe, shortly followed by an amused quirk of his mouth at the tome under your arm, along with the contradiction of the short sword at your hip.
i’d not make it hard for you to pin me down.
the thought that follows across your own mind is short, unsaid and quickly dismissed by the clearing of your throat to rid it from your mind; you decide instead to speak to him like you’re supposed to for your research.
“all is well; it seems then, that you’ve been expecting me long before i was expecting to see you. i suppose i should expect as much from the man i’ve heard is to be king.”
a smile widens his mouth, hand coming up to rub at the side of his neck before he turns and beckons you to follow after him- his footsteps sound strange, with only the one leg guard and all, but you follow nonetheless. “ah, that. i- do not know how that has come to be, but, i shan’t reject it.”
you shake your head, footsteps following in quick succession with his and arms occasionally bumping against each other- his side profile is rather lovely, from the glances you take at him on the short duration of the walk back to a building of some sort. “then ser, i suppose i should keep myself in good standing with you, if you are to be the king. i am after all, just a feeble scholar.”
“a feeble scholar? aye, i can see that plainly from that.. dagger at your hip. what research have you sought me for? i have heard little of your works, though i hear you come from the lands beyond. why come to- this place?” his sentence ends when he turns to face you, taking steps backwards and beckoning you over to a table by the wall; this is where you were supposed to meet, after all, at this bar crowded with men with swords that greet him with a call of his name and ale already on its way over to the table.
you make your way over to him and sit down, watching him; he’s already looking at you. he has sharp eyes, made sharper still by the tilt of his head and his position now directly across from you. with this sharpness comes the softest familiarity, binding you into your seat and prying open your mouth.
oh. this is.. for research purposes. strictly.
oh.
..maybe not.
————————
you do not expect the man who stumbles into the rest- if you had to guess, you’d say he’s one of cid’s.. though, it’s strange for the man himself not to be here; he’s.. close with martha, after all.
but, you’re not complaining at all about this particular man making an appearance- you don’t see many travellers with a face like that in a place like this. with your gaze directed at him, you’re able to observe a few things as he makes his approach.
the first thing you notice is his face- youthful, yet hardened. he has the mark of a bearer branded onto his cheek, too; it does nothing to detract from such a pretty face, but it makes a part of yourself ache at the reality such a simple thing brings forward.
the next is when he’s right in front of the counter, broad shoulders taking up your view and head ducked down in an awkward half shrug; the hilt of the sword strapped to his back knocks into his head at the gesture, to which you smother a laugh. awkward, but still sure of himself. it works for him.
“ah, is martha here?”
his voice is not quite what you’d expected- less brash, a familiar lilt and weight of the words on his tongue that marks him as a local. this is strange, since you know all of the locals and you’re almost certain you’ve never layed eyes on him before in your life.
you clear your throat, putting down the glass that you’d previously been holding onto the counter, weighing up your words before you speak. “i’m here in her place for a few days, i’m afraid. are you- are you one of cid’s?”
his expression pulls into something strange as you speak, scrutinising over the little scar on the back of your hand shaped like a star. it is a momento from childhood, from falling on a metal picket when you’d been messing around with a boy who came to your village sometimes; you think he must have been the son of one of the lords in the capital. his eyes soon skitter back up to your face, eyes blinking too rapidly to be entirely nonchalant.
suspicious.
“yes- ah, clive. i.. there’s a note, cid told me to give it to martha. could you..” he pats down his pockets, soon withdrawing a crumpled bit of paper and thrusting his hand over the counter towards you. he looks, to put it kindly, rather bloody awkward. you take the paper, knowing better than to look, pocketing it quickly in your own apron.
you tell him your name in return, amused at this character who’s stumbled in on your shift; maybe i should ask to cover for martha more often.
“so, clive.. i haven’t seen you in before, i don’t think. i’m taking it that you’ve only recently been uh- acquainted with cid. he’s a bloody idiot, that man, you watch yourself and that lovely face of yours.”
he does that thing where his eyes blink rapidly again, looking much like he’s unsure how to answer you- or, more likely to answer what part of your statement.
“i will- thanks. i’ll be passing back through in a few days. will you still be working then?”
something in his face stops your immediate response- he’s staring at the scar on your hand again, so much so that it starts to feel like a brand. there’s a weight he carries in the steel of his eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders, for just a moment it presses down on you too.
the pressure rises into a crescendo, an old melody baring a familiar pattern just out of your grasp- i know you. maybe.
another look over his face stops the snag of your thoughts, bringing the moment back into focus with the fresh batch of regulars that stroll in through the front door. “i will be- come find me whenever you can, yeah?”
————————
you live in your own bubble, in a little cottage contained within the bounds of the land you’d inherited from an aunt on your father’s side; when you’d found out, it was a loss you did not mourn. in life the woman was an old bat- she’d certainly left you much better off dead than she had when she was alive.
you can hear her now, screeching something or other about fixing your posture and listening more to your tutors and probably something else too, you’re sure. all you can remember of the woman is hazy, great greagor you’re glad for it.
you know you shouldn’t be stuck in your thoughts like this, but you miss your little bubble. you miss it dearly with it so far from your grasp, sitting against the back wall of a dingy bar on the outskirts of ran’dellah and watching the assortment of people pour inside this place.
the last title does not taste right- it does not fit correctly on the woman who had strolled through the entrance of the bar, yet, it is the only word that comes to mind aside from a sort of white noise buzzing in your ears.
she is all hard edges of jagged glass; stiff shoulders and a spine made of iron, sword strapped to her hip and covered entirely in a sleek black armour of some kind. if your eyes pause at the sway of her hips and lock onto the curve of her waist, that’s entirely business of your own.
the way she moves through the bar is smoother than you’d expected, almost feline in a way that makes your hair stand on end. you can tell enough from your observations and you pride yourself on your survival instincts, which are telling you to leave the bar.
it’s when you tip your head back to down the last of your ale that you loose sight of the woman- perhaps that had been your first mistake. your second though, is not hearing her sit down across from you until her leg brushes yours under the table.
“you are not good at being discreet, you know?”
it takes much more effort than you’d like to admit to not fall out of your seat; people weren’t supposed to move that quiet.. at least, they didn’t the few measly times you’d been at court- all clicking heels against polished floors and frumpy greetings to hide mountains of ugly disdain.
the woman who you’re presuming is some kind of mercenary or sell-sword has a strange accent- almost waloeder in origin, but not quite. so, you look up, knowing within yourself that this is probably a bad idea. probably.
definitely a bad idea.
“how do you know i was aiming for anything in such a realm? don’t make daft assumptions.” it takes a lot to get any words out, being close to such a pretty woman- it brings back memories from youth, of laughter and hushed whispers and fingers locked together under the table.
the smile that curves her face feels more like a scar on your own skin- sharp, jagged, and oozing something that makes your hindbrain claw its way to the surface. her leg bumps yours again under the table, one ankle crossed lightly over your own as she leans partially over the tabletop, “it’s not daft when you seem like such a lamb- pretty and soft, you are. you’ve no calluses on your hands, no armour to coat you. you’d not have jumped so far out of your own skin when i sat down, if you weren’t attempting to be discreet.”
there’s a leftover mirth in her eyes as she takes a swig of her own ale, the un-added ‘and failing’ remaining needlessly unsaid.
reflexively you cross your arms, hands tucked into the crooks of yours elbows and staring at the smug woman over the table- perhaps you’d need to be more sneaky, being here, for the reasons you’re so far from home. “i detest the notion that you seem so smug to think you’ve read me- you’re none too discreet about what you are. soldier, mercenary, bloody fighter of some kind.”
she seems to be amused, if the quirk of her mouth is anything to go by- it’s unfair, really, for any one person to hold your attention like she does at such a minute gesture. the gold of her eyes contradicts her sharpness and melts over you like molasses, like the warmth of summer, golden and familiar.
“i am what i need to be. i think perhaps you might envy me, little bird in your gilded cage. tell me, how prettily would you sing for me?”
there is a flutter at her words- low in your belly that seeps through your body, warmth swallowing you whole as it lets her dig her claws and hook in under your skin. your spine prickles, your ears burn, a reflexive swallow represses any possible expression you could make.
there is a familiarity in her mirth, in the cant of conversation she steers in her own favour; the attitude that contradicts the sharpness of her gaze, the gold that melts over you like honey, sunlight peaking through foliage.
“i- i do not even know your name!”
the sputter seems to melt her amusement slightly, sharp edge gone a moment as she reaches over the table, fingertip dragging over your crossed arms and unravelling you from your tightly wound coil. “i suppose not- benedikta. now, will you give me your answer? i want your name in return.”
oh, this feeling. what is this you’ve found somewhere far from home? from the cottage that had burnt down and the courtiers that tittered behind their hands?
why now? how inconvenient.
notes; so, tldr; this was supposed to be done in december/january. obvi that didn’t happen!!! but!! it’s something (less character too because i got carried away- but, i can do others of the main cast if it’s something people want) so i’m happy it’s posted ^-^ in regards to barnabas; his part is set when he’s young and just establishing waloed, so it might not be the characterisation you would immediately expect (since it’s pre ykyk) && in case you couldn’t tell, i indulged a little bit too much with certain things, haha!! oh well :’)
hold me (i wish that we were laying in the same sheets)
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; to love is to hope, to hope is to hold, to hold is to be secure- until it isn’t.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; barnabas tharmr -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist
sweet air on a spring morning. sweet like dew on blades of grass and honeysuckle blossoms birthing into bloom. not like powdered sugar, not like perfume or incense, not like slathered honey dripping onto your tongue.
sweet air on a spring morning and cold cotton sheets that swathe generously over naked skin, an arm stretched out over an expanse to trace an empty hand and reaching fingers to a place no longer occupied. of course, why would it not be unoccupied? no one lays there to leave an indentation in the sheets, there is no reason to anymore. pointless.
the reaching fingers drag the empty space, adoring in their caress, arcing back to the body of their owner to curl against a chest. the fingers tap against the chest of the body, pressing against skin, hard enough to meet the resistance of muscle and bone, to feel the staccato rhythm underneath.
a sigh. cotton sheets ruffled. body awakened.
feet press to the cold ground without much protest, scuffing quietly against the floor. the careful machinations of the hopelessly ardent hands lift the body encasing the soul that remembers all, feet sliding over wood until a sudden stop is made at the mirror on the far side of the room.
tired eyes are reflected back through the mirror, lips curled into a frown and face appearing puffy. hands, ones that are practiced in their art, poke and prod at the face until the articulated smile sticks.
a knock on the door. a sharp tap followed by a pause, then three more sharp taps. familiarity breeds contempt for the memory of this. the head that appears when the door twists open is out of focus from the mirror; good.
“are you ready?” speaks the voice from the body in the doorway, achingly familiar.
you cast me aside, says the soul in a hateful whisper. i am cast, far out to sea, sinking within the froth of the waves you have created. the soul consumes itself in its grief, in turmoil as the face slides more into focus.
“give me a few moments, won’t you?” answers the voice from the body, swallowing the cries of the soul, letting itself be consumed. “close the door.”
the face becomes clearer in the mirror, just barely, darkness of the room creating pleasant shadows. hand pushed against the smoothness of the door, the person by it is clear now, frowning, seemingly something to say on the tip of the tongue. say it already. eyes clash in the mirror and then shatter apart. the visitor is silent.
“could you not find a better time than this?” asks the voice, level in volume but not its intent. stagnation permeates the air, carried across the space, cutting through the particles between them and being consumed into ears that are reluctant to listen.
footsteps approach. a hand brushes against a shoulder of another. silence.
the articulated smile flares and muscles tense, stretched thin like rubber bands, preparing to snap back to their fixed state; away from the visitor. the visitor speaks again in reply, “now is best.”
another sigh, the soul gasps for breath in the crushing waves stirred by the open wound the heart bares; only because it suits you. the body contracts, moving away from the visitor once more, one final time.
“Your cause has cost us everything, I am lost to you. I stay, because you’ve buried me in responsibility here I can’t shake.”
sour air on an autumn evening. twilight reflecting on fallen carpets of leaves left to rot and nurture new life, the contemptuous finality of changes made. like footsteps leaving an occupied room with the soul of the body left behind. like the merciful end of familiarity caused contempt hidden within the changing of seasons.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; okay so,, i wrote this originally to b able to b read with multiple ppl, original plan was to write something able to be read for clive, barnabas, dion, benedikta & cid,, haha whoopsies it ended up being barnabas solo :’) this is really about nothing, but references past conflict- honestly that’s all i had in mind, i apologise incredibly if it doesn’t make much sense<3 on a final note!! i start a diploma soon (yay!) so activity will be diminished (i plan to finish asks before then, iv jus been swamped irl i am v sorry to reqs sent in & so far unanswered)
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; something happens and you are different, then, i watch you walk away from me. why are you different now?
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; clive rosfield : cidolfus telamon : dion lesage : barnabas tharmr -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist ; p2
the morning is light, sweet like the scent of fresh rain and flowing with simple melodies- no string quartet to detail his failure to depollute himself, no staccato to lead into the cacophony of his mind; no whistle of brass instruments, not an off key scrape to even disturb him. clive can simply exist, watered down and trickling into a slow stream of consciousness instead of the typical roar of a torrent in his mind- no, the morning is sweet, as he thinks that it always should be. the pollution of noise comes in the late afternoon. the string quartet starts when you take your first step away from him, then the staccato follows the slump of his shoulders and the shaking of your head; whistling brass and off key scrapes come when you turn, walking away. the evening is dark.
dusty air fills his lungs, a strange comfort. the same cup has been sat at his desk for a week now, imprint of a lipstick stain left as the sole curse of his lack of focus. cid is a busy man, he is a stubborn man, yet he is cursed to stare at the imprint of your mouth on a week old dank metal cup. your lips, wrapped around the edge of it, choking and sputtering on a laugh as he appreciates you- the lamplight reflected in your eyes, the crookedness of some of your teeth, the curl of your lips and the crease in your brow. resplendent. he brings his own cup to his mouth, drinking in a swill of his drink until his mind hazes, even slightly when he remembers that damned lipstick stain, is all you’d left.
dion kisses you, just to kiss you- sweetness on the tip of his tongue, touch simple but perfect as he cradles your face in his hands. dion kisses you, just to kiss you and pulls away, hands sweetly placed against your cheeks and watching your eyes. watching your eyes, your eyes are wet like crushed autumn leaves on the pavement and he can feel his heart weep as he feels the seasons change; all while he watches your eyes. his hands drop from your face, now holding yours- he pulls the parts of you that are conjoined to his chest, where you both end and begin in an infinite moment; please, please don’t let me watch the seasons change again. then, the seasons stop changing all at once, you drop his hands and he knows winter will not leave him.
hearts beat, breaths mingle, fingers twist. stubble on smooth skin, dry lips to wet lips, palms of hands cradling cheeks. barnabas remembers all of this well as he finds himself at the top of the hill he’d found, watching the whisps of a memory take a tumble through strands of green. the whisps collect to form into solidity, a swirling vortex until they connect, phantom smile curling until it collapses and the image is destabilised. he finds himself then focussing on reality, on the whisps of green and the real figure further ahead; walking away, leaving. a kiss to the forehead, unsteady feet, hands wiping at wet cheeks. how can this really be for the best.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; so, hi! it’s been like a week haha. this, may possibly be, the product of an angst shot i read & it had a song which i realised was by an artist i don’t mind this one OTHER song to- tldr; the up theme song was also in the mix and oh GOF MAN
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; to share in a gentle passion, the press of skin to skin in the most authentic way one knows how.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; clive rosfield : cidolfus telamon : dion lesage : jill warrick -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist : p1
kissing clive is like a bonfire in the cooler months. the smoke, his eyes, follow you from a distance and you feel it more intensely the closer you move to him, to a warm body and warmer hands. the bonfire, clive, is warming you when your bodies are close, radiating all that is important in such a moment. kissing clive is kissing a reverent man; a man who’s body is a balmy summer, who’s lips caress your lips with every press and drag. ask him, for his warmth and he will be happy to give it to you, like a child seeing the stars for the first time.
cid’s kiss is, well, electrifying. his mouth is always seeking yours- your acceptance, your adoration, your lips. he leads many people for his cause, his beliefs, what he knows to his core is right; in the same way he leads his admiration for you, for your lips and the peaceful haze they give his mind that oftentimes wanders too far. he kisses you to enforce this, to enforce that you are with him; present, tangent, physical under his hands that wander to any part of you they can hold.
dion kisses you like you hold his beating, bleeding, uncovered heart between your hands- his heart that he has ripped from the gilded cage of his ribs and presented to you; and you do hold his heart, always. he kisses you like he wants to live by the rules of that same heart, to act on those whims, always. his hand presses over your heart, pulse in his fingertips matching its rhythm, completely at the mercy of the adrenaline running through his body; stood standing, holding you, kissing you.. because kissing you is the biggest assurance he has.
lips pressed to lips, hands held and fingers laced together with her heart as airy and candy floss- this is how jill feels every time, every kiss, every taste of you she gets. a reprieve to the cold that wraps around her bones like puppet strings, a soothing pressure to her mind and soul. perhaps it is shiva’s affect or perhaps it is just her, but jill’s hands are colder than most- soothing when placed against your face to cool you off, or that in which she touches your skin to surprise you during a kiss, offering her laughter as due payment for your surprise.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; perhaps i’m just,,, slightly maybe (read: very) hyperfixated on ff16 at the moment :]
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | desc; to share in a gentle passion, the press of skin to skin in the most authentic way one knows how.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | pairings; barnabas tharmr : benedikta harman : joshua rosfield : hugo kupka -> x gn!reader
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | mlist : p2
kissing barnabas is like the waging of a battle. the beginning comes as the aftermath of careful planning, the cunning wit of a man all too familiar with the realities that can come from the crusades he commits to feel your lips on his. his lips are warm, dry but not chapped, at first a press of skin to skin- lips to lips, testing the waters. his hands follow his lips pressing to yours, calloused thumbs pressing and dragging over the apples of your cheeks and over your jaw. he spends his time breathing you in like the brine of the ocean air- present, yet alert to you. always you.
when joshua indulges himself in kissing you, he is always mindful, always aware, always present. his lips somehow always taste like berries, perhaps it is because of his hunger for the sweet fruit- or maybe perhaps it is because of the salve he once bought on his travels when they began to chap terribly one winter.. perhaps it is simply a combination of both. kissing him is a reprieve, a slow lull like the setting of the sun on the horizon, plush of his lips to yours and tongue tracing the seam of your mouth tentatively, as always, he tastes like berries.
benedikta’s kisses are always just a bit different from their predecessors. some are teasing and so fleeting they are simply brushes of her mouth- to yours, to your cheeks, to the tip of your nose, to your jaw; anywhere she can reach in the moment. other times the press of her mouth is incessant, coated in sticky product and leaving smears around your mouth- the direction of her tongue dragging over your bottom lip, the way she prefers to direct such a like a puppeteer would. sometimes, in quieter moments, her kisses are slow- languid, not fleeting nor incessant, lips warm and hands seeking only to cradle your face close as hearts beat together in seperate ribcages.
when he so deigns to, hugo kisses you like he is a man starved for air- like your lips against his is a sensation he cannot live without, that your lips are a need and not a want. he needs your pretty lips, puckered and puffed out as his hand squishes at your cheeks and he tips his head back in laughter, other hand resting on your waist where he has you splayed out over his lap. his kisses are like he is starved, like you are his oasis, plentiful in the bounty that is his to claim and the happiness it grants him upon stealing a kiss from your mouth.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; i’m so totally very most definitely not biased at all for anyone, totally. (it’s barnabas, he gives me cuteness aggression.) i hav a pt 2 w everyone else leftover, it should b posted over next few days :]
holding hands with clive is a bit awkward- the first few times, especially. your hands will bump together, fingers half mangled and mashed together; the first few times are those for trying. his hands are warm, always. warm from the heat of the fire they produce, warm from his own nerves that heat his palms and make his skin perspire, warm from nervous tendencies where he wrings his hands together or against his clothes; they are warm, but earnest, as is clive himself, to be held just as earnestly.
when holding hands with benedikta, beware; she is always thinking on ways to pull you in closer. scheming away, thinking of an advantage to seek out further contact with the skin of her beloved. her hands are calloused along her palms from long years of swordplay, though they are long from loosing their softness. typically she prefers to link just a few fingers together- perhaps just pinkies- and progress her way to pressing your palms together, arms knocking together if walking and body creeping closer if simply sat or layed together.
joshua’s hands are softer than one might expect; perhaps even after so many years, certain self care habits are engrained, perhaps it’s his preference in not using a blade perhaps it’s just something so.. joshua, that it just is. his fingers are long and slender, like one might picture of a pianist, slight calluses formed on his thumb and the heel of his palm juxtapose the other parts of his hands. holding hands with joshua is like a new spring- a rebirth for your emotions and his, life anew, peace, every time you hold his hand. the feeling of home.
as much of a titan of a man hugo is, his hands are surprising in their dexterity. large fingers and even larger hands work tirelessly, work until his hands are practically dust so that they may curl around your fingers and your hands. all he wants is their reciprocal touch, their wandering over his- simply holding, admiring the security each lover brings to the other through simple touches. and he does, really does try, to convey the cadence of his admiration through the touch of his hands to your own- caressing your palms, rough fingers dragging over knuckles and lips ghosting over fingertips.. sometimes simple adoration is all he needs.
the feeling of his hands is a conundrum- dion’s hands both provide shelter in their adoration and cause calamity in their overwhelming sweetness. worn but well cared for, his hands are those of a warrior, blemished yet soft and dexterous while while still remaining strong. his thumb is somehow always dragging over your palm- slowly and in small circles when calm, backwards and forwards over your knuckles when sad, gripped a smidge too tight in anxious moments.. his hands, ones that will always seek to cradle, will always seek your hands out.
though his hands are clumsy and calloused, barnabas will never reject the offer to hold your hand. call him greedy, he’s perfectly fine with the acceptance of such a title, just please keep your hands pressed into his. let him feel your fingers tracing the backs of his palms, the dull thrum of your pulse in your fingertips and the one more steady at the junction of your wrist. let him sink into his subconscious, let him feel you, feel how real you are and how steady your presence is in front of him. please stay close to him, let him have this.
upon first thought, holding hands with jill would not ever lack sincerity- she has such honesty that she wears like a suit of armour, such sincerity that breaks through the crack of every falsehood that ever has been, is or will be. holding jill’s hand is like the first night sleeping on clean linen, like the reprieve of being rebuilt with cool air after standing outside in the summer heat to melt, like dandelion fuzz in the wind or the satisfaction one feels upon returning home after a long trip away. holding hands with jill is kisses to knuckles in quiet moments and whispered confessions in moments of twilight wakefulness.
scars, burns and other marks in every shape and size may litter the skin of his hands and arms- his entire body really- but cid’s hands, mighty as they are and have ever been, will always be tender upon the first contact with yours. the faded and fresh scars on his hands, from scrap ups as a younger man and years of continuous use of a blade make his skin rough and raised, not at all smooth but with its own story to tell. each scar, each burn and old battle wound is worn with pride- he will tell you the story of each and ever one (no matter how silly some may be, believe me some are), with an arm around your waist and one hand holding yours, mapping out the stories of the marks on his skin.
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗ | notes; first post done weeeeee!! :D (mayb i’m jus thirsty for content that this was my first one too) i might do more of this same thing for dif fandoms depending on how i feel
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ desc; pining, yearning. small moments that fit in. the dc version of this
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ pairing; multi
˗ˋˏ ✰ ˎˊ˗ mlist; !!!!!
quiet moments stolen away, not in dark corners but instead between the busier moments of the everyday. the ticking of the clock and the sands of time do not stop, they can never stop; but what is time if not an unstoppable force? what are stolen moments- spent aching, liquified, transcending- if not the companion immovable object?
moments spent breathing in the same air between exhales, skin slick under tender touches; being loved quietly, intimately, faithfully in those stolen and oh so precious moments. it is divine intervention and sacrilege, blood and gold and nourishment.
it is, simply, quiet stolen moments that amount to everything.
-
bruce wayne. diana prince (absolute univ specifically imo, but could find generally). donna troy. talia al ghul. jason todd. harvey dent (god i love that man). jean paul valley. wally west. clark kent. richard grayson. tim drake.
eyes that follow you, that linger and pierce through any amount of space; an intensity that rolls over you like a crashing wave, then drags you out to see with briny fingers hooked into your flesh. a heavy presence, one that demands to be felt. eyes that burn, that pool molten metal and encase your heart and mind and body.
eyes that convey words unsaid, touches that ghost over your consciousness and burrow into your flesh with a parasitic intensity; feeding on the aftermath of your own want, your own need and yearning.
you will know, will always know the feeling of those eyes.
-
richard grayson (hear me out on this one please). bruce wayne (i THOROUGHLY subscribe to this). kate kane. harvey dent. barbara gordon (this seems right?). koriand’r. kyle rayner (cause he’s an artist.. idk fits???). selina kyle.
hands that are gentle when they touch you. hands that are used to being forceful- that are used to hurt and take and inflict injury and suffering- falling gently upon your skin, every touch a caress like hands upon fine spun silk.
the hight of reverence, of being cherished because to them love is gentle when everything else is not; they love deeply, a bottomless well that ever overflows. do not mistake this softness for the weight it holds, or its endurance; heavy is the mind of the poet who pens the sonnet of a slaughter.
-
damian wayne (esp w the direction he’s in as a doctor, now). diana prince (let me cook please i beg). cassandra cain (!!!!!!). roy harper. donna troy. richard grayson.
notes; hi! still trying to maybe get into the swing of things but, this is going to b a scheduled post idk how that’s gonna go gang :’) neways!! as we speak, i am currently unemployed & binging movies i have been too burnt out and employed to even attempt to watch the past three years & also further building up my music playlists >:3 job market is ahh ts starting to feel like a humiliation ritual
HAII ASTRA ☆ !! idk if u still remember me, but my main acc is @luneariaa <33 !! 💗💗💗 missed you dearly, that became a reblog acc rn 😭😭
aria aria aria aria OH MY GOD I MISSED YOU ): of course i remember you, i remember you very fondly and oh my god it’s so so good to hear from you <3 life ✨✨ got to me and is still getting ✨✨ to me, i genuinely burnt out the ahh for the ability to even look at tumblr 😭 it’s so good to see you again, genuinely 🩶😸
titsay
blakekathryn
jbbartram-illu
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
annaxmalina
germansingergirl
romaincrisis
2087
stormborns