Here I Go Again, Vandalizing My Poor Old Copy Of Good Omens Lol

Here I go again, vandalizing my poor old copy of Good Omens lol

My brother wanted me to lend it to him so he could read it, I think he’s gonna have a heart attack when he sees all the shit i did in there 😂

let me write for you!

I’ve been very shy until now, just a ghost flitting around Tumblr, but I would love to write fic for people! The only problem is, I’ve been so shy on here up until now that I have no one to send me writing prompts. So please! If there’s anything you want to read, I would be more than happy to scratch that itch for you. I’ve tagged my major fandoms, and I’d be happy to write for all of them!

Love Languages: Week Two

A little ficlet for @arthureamesmonth week two! Prompts: “You know you love me” and Love Languages.

Day 1: Receiving Gifts

“You know you love me,”

Arthur was frozen bent over his desk, fingers still on the keyboard, “Mr. Eames, what exactly about this situation is supposed to endear you to me?”

“I brought you waffles! You’re American, you love waffles!”

Arthur spun around in his chair to focus fully on the other man for the first time in their conversation. “Let’s run through the day’s events, shall we? I wake up, I shower,” at this Eames smirked lecherously, “I get a large, hot cup of coffee, I come into work, you spill that hot coffee all over me, you grope me while pretending to help me dry off, I work for five hours straight, and now you’ve brought me waffles. Waffles which are currently dripping syrup onto my paperwork.”

“Well it’s your fault for having paperwork in the first place, pet! I’m just conditioning you to give it up,” He leaned against the desk casually, sending even more paperwork drifting to the floor. “To save the trees, as it were.”

“Did it not occur to you to bring me another cup of coffee?”

Eames lit up, Arthur was frustrated to see, like he was somehow taking Arthur’s rebuke as encouragement, “Well I have now. Thank you for the tip! I’ll go and fetch you a cup of coffee.”

Arthur screwed his face up briefly in some combination of confusion and disgust, eyes squinted and lips slightly curled, and snagged Eames by the hem of his pastel monstrosity of a shirt. “What, no, get back here.”

Eames stopped promptly at the tug and grinned, “Well if you insist darling, I could never refuse you.”

“I mean, why would you do that? I don’t need coffee,” this was a lie, he always needed coffee, “I need you to do your job.”

“Why am I doing this? What do you mean why am I doing this? Isn’t it obvious that I’m wooing you?”

“Wooing me.”

Eames swept his arms in an all encompassing gesture to the warehouse around them, as if asking it to bear witness, “Like the fair maiden you are!”

“Good fucking lord.”

“Yes I am rather good, aren’t I, but I beg you not to take my name in vain,”

Arthur spun back around to his work, decisively plunking the waffles on the floor—not in the trash, Eames took note, “Go back to your desk, Mr. Eames.”

Eames stuffed his hands in his pockets and started backing away slowly, “Alright, alright. So your love language isn’t gifts. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Arthur glanced over his shoulder, startled and genuinely perplexed, “What? You know what, nevermind. Not important. Aren’t you scheduled to paint Ms. Chapman’s nails in 45 minutes?”

Eames checked his watch, “Ah, yes, look at the time,” and that was that.

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reblogging because I lost this once and never again

“destiel, but every time they come back to each other africa by toto starts playing” (x)

Reblogging bc I NEVER want to lose this

x

Honest Hands to Welcome You Home

Being alive is a lonely endeavor, and Witchers live for a very long time. Sometimes, though. Sometimes fate is kind, and the loneliness eases, just for a bit. Sometimes the harsh reality of the path is dampened, chased away, and the aching muscles, joints, and scars are soothed by gentle hands. Geralt has been fortunate, has managed to steal more of these moments than most Witchers.

Renfri’s hands were strong, hard earned calluses and firm grip holding together his edges when they gripped his arms, his back, his heavy shoulders. Underneath that strength, though, was soft skin and delicate bone structure. After all, in some long-dead life she was royalty. The blood, her blood, streaming down her arms and dripping off of those same fingers, featured frequently in his nightmares. Nothing had quite managed to make him feel like a monster, not his scars, his hair, his eyes, like the weight of that death.

Yennefer’s hands were larger than Renfri’s, but more elegant by far. She was competent, she was smart, she was powerful. She was effortlessly beautiful, and no part of her body could ever be caught bearing any strain. It was a statement. The world was at her feet, and she didn’t have a single callus. Those hands could gentle him into a peaceful sleep like they were made to. It was effortless, like the rest of her. Geralt loved her with a kind of idol worship. He wanted it with a desperation fitting a soldier crying out to his goddess on the battlefield, lifeblood dripping steady and drowning to the earth below.

Jaskier’s hands were different from anything he had experienced before. They were ink stained and calloused from lute strings and hard travel. They were soft, groomed, and well cared for. His hands were his livelihood. There was pride in their power, their talent, their muscle memory. They were honest, above all, honest, and they loved him in a way he didn’t understand.

They were busy hands, plucking and scribbling and gesturing and always reaching, reaching for his arm, his hand, his cheek. Geralt had never been reached for before. No one had ever needed him like he needed them. No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a need. It was a want. A pure enjoyment in his presence. The way his face would light up when they met after long winters apart. The way he would lean into Geralt’s space when telling a story, catching every drop of his reaction. Jaskier’s hands didn’t just hold his edges together, didn’t just gentle him to sleep, they shared with him. They shared food and comfort and firm, unflinching touch.

It was fitting. It was fitting because the two of them shared their lives, their years with each other, and they always came back. Jaskier never made Geralt stretch for him, never held himself out of reach. He was there and he was happy and he was his best friend.

It was those same hands that pulled oil through his hair in the bath. He picked through knots and monster filth and volunteered himself eagerly for the job every time. Geralt was used to it, used to it, what holy thing did he do to gain this privilege of being used to it, to him, and melted under his touch as soon as Jaskier’s fingers slid through his snow white roots. Geralt allowed himself to wash slowly, allowed himself to warm the water again and again, allowed himself to bask in the touch and the comfort and the companionship of this ritual.

Jaskier washed his hair twice, braided it for the pleasure of the activity, then unbraided it again. Geralt liked to keep his hair loose when he could. Jasker knew. When Jaskier was done he moved away and sat against the side of the bath. It couldn’t have been particularly comfortable, sitting on the rough, wooden slats of the floor, especially knowing the bed was just on the other side of the room, but he lingered. He sang to himself softly, or maybe he was singing for Geralt, something soft and young and intimate.

All at once Geralt was struck by the beauty of this man. The flickering light of the candles played across his shoulders and neck, turning his chestnut hair a glowing gold. Geralt reached out to touch, because he was allowed, and how could he not. He took up a lock of that chestnut gold hair, so soft and well kept, and held it between his fingers, gently rubbing his thumb back and forth over the miracle of it. Reveling in the touch, in the quiet wonder of this togetherness.

Jaskier, for his part, never faltered in his song, but after a moment tilted his head into the touch. “I hear you,” it said, “I feel you, and I’m here.”

Geralt was rumbling before he had fully decided to, “Come, bard. Bed.”

Jaskier opened his eyes lazily, and tilted his head further into the touch of Geralt’s fingers, peering up at his face with an easy smile. “Alright, dear heart, if you’re ready.”

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