#at least it's given me the chance to flex my poetry muscles

[pressedinthepages]

Redamancy

Latin. verb. the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.

Fandom: The Witcher

Pairing: Lambert x Reader

Word Count: 1623

Rating: T

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24937177

Masterlist

a/n: Reader Request: By chance can you do a Lambert oneshot of him trying to court the reader?

Tags: @whitewolfandthefox​ ​ @havenoffandoms​ @mishafaye ( Add yourself to my taglist here! )

Warnings: nothing outside of the ordinary swearing, this is fluff at it’s finest. also, this is my first time writing lambert, so let me know what you do/don’t like!

Lambert tries his best to woo you, relying on old traditions to hold your heart.

    You huffed, trying and failing to blow the stray strand of hair out of your eyes. You’d been bent over the counter for upwards of an hour, mixing and kneading wares for the next week. The sweet dough is soft under your fingers, stretching as you dig and pull at the mixture. The dough sticks to your hands and you know that flour dusts across your cheeks like a bizarre set of freckles. You hum lightly as you work, letting yourself be lulled into a peaceful mindlessness. 

    You look up for a moment, stretching the muscles in your shoulders and down your back. Your workbench is nestled along the back wall of your home, a small window just above overlooking the sprawling valley of flowers in the distance. While your little cottage is your slice of paradise, you can’t help thinking that it feels so empty, especially when he’s gone.

    You shake your head and return to your hunched position as you push and punch into the dough. Your mind has always had a penchant for wandering, but you’re determined to focus and get your breads finished before the night is over. Just as you’re about to slice the large batch into smaller portions for baking, you sense something in the room behind you.

    Before you can turn around, though, a large body leans against your back and a hand cups your arse. “Damn, that bread looks almost as delicious as you,” the man growls into your ear before nipping at your shoulder.

    You feel your heart rate settle as you turn to face the familiar voice. Lambert keeps his hands on you as you spin, glancing along your hips as a smug smile dances across his lips. 

    “Lambert,” you chide teasingly, “you know how I hate surprises.”

    His golden eyes glint in the late afternoon sun, mirthful and full of a joy that he keeps reserved just for you. Lambert had followed the scent of sweet baked goods one afternoon last summer, and ever since he had found you up to your elbows in batter, he hasn’t been able to stay away for long. 

    “Ah, I know, love, but when I saw you bent over that table, I just couldn’t help myself…” he leans and whispers into your ear, capturing some of the soft flesh of your neck lightly between his teeth. You sink into his embrace, careful to rest your elbows on his arms so as to not cover him in dough and flour. 

    “I’m glad you’re back, I miss you so when you leave,” you murmur into his neck as you plant gentle kisses along his skin. 

    “Mhm, there’s truly no place I’d rather be,” he kisses along your jaw before meeting your lips, something sweet and delicate barely suppressing the insatiable hunger in his embrace. 

    Regrettably, you pull back, apologetically meeting his confused gaze. “Let me wash this off, then we can continue.” You place a knuckle under his chin as you turn out of his grasp with a cheeky grin. 

    You step outside, Lambert following behind as you stride towards the well in your yard. Before you can reach for the handle, the Witcher hoists the pail from the depths below. You can’t help but watch appreciatively as his muscles swell under his shirt, flexing and shifting with immeasurable strength. 

    As he bends to place the bucket on the ground you rush behind him, planting your hand on his arse and squeezing, Lambert startling back upright at the sensation.

    “Just returning the favor, dear,” you smirk, pulling your hand back to see a perfect outline of flour in its place on the dark fabric. Lambert chuckles darkly, trying to decide if it was dark enough out to just take you right here in the yard without your neighbors seeing. 

    Deciding otherwise, he moves to your side as you dip your hands into the pail. The cool water is refreshing in the warm afternoon, invigorating waves of energy soaring through your skin. You hurriedly wash away the evidence of your craft, water splashing out of the bucket as you scrub.

    Satisfied, you stand once more and take Lambert’s hand, threading your fingers through his. Both of you have hands calloused from years of work and hardship, but for very different reasons. Under your fingers, you can feel his heart thrumming under the skin. A witcher’s heartbeat is always slow, true, but whenever you touch Lambert, hold him close with tender gestures and low words only for him, you can feel it beat just the slightest amount quicker. 

    You pull him back inside, letting him go once you get past the door so that you may cover the dough. Ah, you think to yourself, so much for getting it all finished tonight. 

    When you turn back around, Lambert is...kneeling?

    “Darling, what the fuck are you doing?” You giggle, reaching out to pull him to stand. He shakes his head, staying where he is on the floor.

    “First of all, watch your fucking language.” You laugh heartily, and Lambert does as well. You relish these moments, when the great supposedly impenetrable walls that encase his heart crack and crumble. His laugh is...unique, more of an aggressive bark than what would normally be considered a sound of joy. You know better though, the sound warming your soul as Lambert clears his throat and composes himself, looking up at you with his striking eyes the color of the richest sunset.

    “Ahem,” he starts, and you raise your eyebrows as you hold back a smirk. “I want to be honest with you; I truly have no idea what the hell I am doing.” 

    Your chest shakes with your laughter, but you hold it in, pursing your lips as you huff through your nose.

    “Now, I had the bard help me with this bit, ‘cause I want to get it right and he’s poncy enough to know the proper method of this.” He reaches into his jerkin, pulling a neatly folded slip of parchment into his hand. He holds it aloft in front of him, his free hand flying out in a grand sweeping motion.

    “‘Dearest beloved, I yearn to dedicate an entire volume of poetry to the enrapturing visage of your beauty, but alas I am no poet. So I shall sing your praises in the form of this letter, of which I will read aloud for the world to hear.’”

    You can’t help but smile a bit at his antics, not sure if Jaskier actually gave him proper advice or was just fucking with him. Either way, you felt tears begin to prick at the corners of your eyes at the sweetness of the gesture.

    “‘The moment I first stumbled into your life, the sky had only just opened enough for the great glory of the sun to shine onto the petals of flowers left dewy from the dawn fog.’” Lambert’s eyes never left the page as he read, and a slight blush crept up his neck as he continued along. He never was one for grand declarations, but you’re sure that you’ll remember this moment for the rest of your life.

    “‘...and that is why, dearest of hearts, I desperately plead for you to take my heart as yours, carry it with you wherever you may go, and grant me the honor of holding your heart as mine.’”

    At the final word, Lambert returns his gaze back to you, nervous and vulnerable in a way that you’ve never seen in him. You close the distance between the two of you and sink to your knees, meeting him at eye level. 

    Wordlessly, you snake your hand to the back of his head and pull him to you, placing a gentle kiss to his lips. His hands wrap around your waist as he pulls you flush against him, swiftly deepening the kiss as he licks into your mouth. He steals your breath with every movement, his hands desperately grasping onto any part of you they can. You moan into his mouth and move your hands down his chest, moving to undo the laces keeping his jerkin closed.

    As you begin to untie them, Lambert pulls back with another sharp bark of laughter. “I suppose I can take that as a yes?” 

    You undo the knot and slide the armor from his shoulders, letting it pool on the ground as his hands move to the delicate buttons on your shirt. 

    “Oh, my love, you truly didn’t have to do all of that, my heart has been yours since I caught you smiling at me from across the market, before you really let me see you smile,” you murmur against his neck pulling at any bit of fabric you can reach to try and remove it from his body.

    “Mm, well, you deserve so much more than I can offer, so I figured that I should at least try to court you properly.” Lambert’s voice is low, shame tinging the edges of his words. 

    You move to face him, taking his face in your hands and gently stroking the long scar that runs down his cheek. “You listen here, I don’t give a shit what I do or don’t deserve, what matters is what I want, and what I want is you, only you, my Lambert.”

    You move forward to kiss him sweetly once more, pulling him to stand with you. Suddenly, you feel him bend, and the next thing you know you’re in the air, Lambert carrying you in his arms to your bed. You laugh into his lips, resolving to never let go of the sealed up, hardened heart that has begun to melt and turn soft that you have been given.

#lambert x reader #fluff #courting fic #reader request #mishafaye #soft!lambert #he deserves it #prickly bastard #ahhhhh #so fluffy #i was kinda nervous for this one #cause i havent written lambert before #but im pretty happy with how it came out

[lesdemonium]

I’d Be the Choiceless Hope Chapter 10

Ship: Geraskier Word count: 29146 (total) Chapter: 10/16 Summary:  

“Such a nice, beautiful sound,” the fae crooned. “If only he were this way always.”

Julian’s mother stood up. She claimed she was prepared to stop the fae, to protect her baby, but in Julian’s darkest moments he doubted this part of the story. His mother loved him, of that he had no doubt, but she had been young and weary, and even years later, she couldn’t quite get the twinge of exhaustion out of her eyes when she recalled Julian’s infancy. Even if she had been keen on protecting him, the fae was too close, too fast, too set on his plan.

“A gift, for the new mother,” the fae continued. He leaned a hand in to stroke Julian’s cheek. “I give you the gift of obedience.”

As a baby, Jaskier was visited by a fae, who gifted Jaskier’s mother with Jaskier’s obedience. As Jaskier grew older, the “gift” became more of a curse.

Additional tags: AngstAngst with a Happy EndingHeavy AngstUnrequited LoveNot Actually Unrequited LoveAlternate Universe - Canon DivergenceCanon EraNot Canon CompliantCursed Jaskier | DandelionAlternate Universe - Ella Enchanted FusionCurse of ObedienceRape/Non-con ElementsImplied/Referenced Rape/Non-conJaskier | Dandelion Whump

read on ao3 - read chapter 1 on ao3

read chapter 1 on tumblr

They stole away early in the morning, before the sun even crested over the horizon. It was so early, the estate was quiet. Even the cooks hadn’t yet risen to prepare breakfast.

Geralt and Jaskier moved silently through the house, lest they wake anyone, and even Roach seemed to understand the need for stealth, as she let them lead her away without so much as a sniff. They didn’t speak, and hardly even breathed, until they were safely hidden beneath the canopy of the forest.

“What are we meant to be looking for?” Jaskier asked, and though he knew they were at least a mile away from the estate, he still kept his voice low. The sun was just beginning to shine light, its rays scattered by the branches and leaves around them.

“Signs of fae activity. My medallion will vibrate when we’re near, and we’ll see… flowers. Mushrooms. Things will be growing just a bit too uniformly to be an accident.” Geralt shrugged, and he stopped at a low-hanging branch. “We will need to go deeper. We’ll leave Roach here.”

Jaskier nodded. He could still see the faint outline of Lettenhove’s walls on the horizon, but they were far enough that there was no chance of anyone stumbling upon the mare. She would be safe, and have plenty to munch on as she waited. Jaskier rubbed a hand over her neck and she snorted dismissively at him.

As they searched, Geralt would bark out instructions every so often.

“You’ll need to be polite, but you don’t want to thank them for anything, or they’ll take that as a sign you are now in their debt,” he said, and Jaskier nodded.

“If they offer you anything, you won’t want to accept it. Not food, drink, clothes, or anything else.” Jaskier hummed in return.

“They like music, and bards especially. They might ask you to play for them. It’s a trick. They’ll use it to trap you.”

It was comforting, really. Jaskier had no idea what to expect, and it was a relief that Geralt did. It seemed to bring Geralt some comfort as well, being able to pass on information to Jaskier. Jaskier could see the tense lines of Geralt’s shoulders, the way his muscles were flexing needlessly and his jaw was working. Geralt was nervous.

Jaskier pressed a hand to Geralt’s back, between his shoulder blades. Geralt looked at Jaskier curiously, but Jaskier only smiled back at him. He kept his hand there, though, until he felt the tension ease, just a little, from Geralt’s muscles.

They kept looking. It took hours of carefully combing through the trees until finally, finally , Geralt’s medallion began to vibrate. The sun was high in the sky and Jaskier was beginning to feel hunger, but he pushed the feeling away in favor of scouring the ground for signs of fae activity.

“Geralt, what about that?” Jaskier asked.

He pointed at the line of flowers and mushrooms, a few meters ahead of them. The wildflowers were beautiful, all purples and blues and pinks and so much green, interrupted here and there with little sprouts of white mushrooms. The flowers were in clumps, some dragging out as wide as a meter, but every clump ended abruptly in a line poised between two large, thick-trunked trees. The line was too straight, too clean to be an accident.

Jaskier turned his attention to Geralt, and looked at his medallion pointedly. Jaskier could just barely see it vibrating. Geralt nodded, and wrapped a hand around his medallion. The witcher took a step forward, but before Jaskier could follow, he threw out a hand to stop him.

“Jaskier, I don’t think this is a--”

“How do I get through, Geralt?” Jaskier asked. He touched Geralt’s arm, lightly pushing it down, and stared at him beseechingly. “I have to do this.”

Geralt hesitated, searching Jaskier’s face for any sort of crack, but Jaskier knew there was nothing there but steely resolve. He had to do this. Geralt nodded, then took Jaskier’s hand, lacing their fingers together and stepping toward the flowers.

“Geralt, no, you can’t--”

“I will not let you face this alone, Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted. His tone was decided, final, and he didn’t bother looking at Jaskier before he led them to the flowers. He stopped just before the line, and took a deep breath. “We should just need to walk through, and we’ll be in the Feywild. Are you certain you want to do this?”

Jaskier didn’t answer him, there wasn’t any point. Instead he took a step forward, taking Geralt with him.

It happened so suddenly, Jaskier couldn’t even note the moment they passed through the plane. It only felt like taking a step forward, but suddenly his surroundings were different. The trees were larger, blocking out all sun, and their leaves and vines tendrilled down around him. The floor was littered with bright, impossibly bright flowers, many of colors Jaskier couldn’t name, and was sure he had never seen before. There was a living quality to everything around him, in a way that the forest on their own plane did not possess.

Before them was an enormous, grand archway. Thin branches wove together to form the frame, and green, blue, and purple leaves clung all along the arch and hung down. Jaskier longed to touch it all. He felt the immense need to spread this grove’s beauty to his fingers, because his eyes alone could not take it.

He didn’t. Instead, he led them through the archway, and into the court, toward the music he heard in the distance.

The court itself was… unfathomable. Jaskier tried to keep his eyes forward, to focus on the fae in the center of the large, open grove--the queen?--but it was hard not to notice the beautiful, otherworldly creatures around him. Each one was a varying degree of human-like, but each one was ethereal.

All sound stopped as Jaskier and Geralt stepped through the archway into the grove. Even Jaskier, who flourished under attention, found himself resisting the urge to shrink back into himself. He felt the weight of hundreds of eyes and his steps stuttered, but he and Geralt continued on until they were before the queen.

She sat on a majestic throne of vines and bark, and though it had been carved into a seat, Jaskier was sure even her throne was as alive as anything else here. She looked inhuman--with large ears extending past her shoulders to a point, and long, swooping horns before a crown of flowers and leaves. Her face was pointed, from her chin, to her nose, to the edges of her eyes, a sharp elegance that should have made her look cruel or monstrous, but instead made her look striking and imposing and beautiful. Interest burned in the deep, deep green of her eyes, and Jaskier understood, immediately, how anyone could fall under her spell. If Jaskier wasn’t so clear on his goal, and his hand held so tightly by his witcher, Jaskier was certain he would have fallen, too.

“It is not often we get a human or a witcher here of their own volition, much less both at once,” the queen mused.

Jaskier fell into a sweeping bow, though he did not let go of Geralt’s hand. A half-breath later, he felt Geralt bend as well. When he rose, he put on his most charming smile.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance,” Jaskier said. “Your court is beautiful; I am but a humble bard, and even with my skill in poetry, I do not believe I could capture the true nature of its beauty. Or yours, for that matter.”

The queen smiled, seemingly satisfied, and she raised a hand to her face. Her pointed fingers, almost talon-like, scraped gracefully along her cheek. “I am Ignea, Queen of this court. You,” she pointed a finger at Jaskier, “want something. What is it?”

Jaskier bowed his head again, if only to buy time to consider his words. “I am looking for a fae named Lazuli.”

The fae around them murmured amongst themselves, and Ignea’s eyebrows rose high on her face.

“What could you want with Lazuli?” she asked.

“Lazuli has given me a gift. I wish to return it.”

The murmuring around them grew louder. Geralt’s hand squeezed Jaskier’s, maybe in warning, but Jaskier did not tear his eyes away from the queen. Not until she held up a hand, silencing the chattering around them, and tilted her head pointedly to her right.

From the shadows stepped another fae. One Jaskier had seen so many times in his dreams, he was half convinced he was dreaming now . His features were just as pointed as his queen’s, but while her skin was in hues of gold and browns, Lazuli was painted with blues and greens. What little light there was reflected off his face in a way that seemed almost metallic. There were no whites to his eyes, only a deep, deep black.

“Lazuli,” Jaskier said. He had intended to say so much more. He had a speech planned and everything, all the things he would want to say if he ever came face to face with the fae. As he looked upon Lazuli, though, his voice failed. All he could do was stare as the fae came closer.

“I remember you,” Lazuli said. His voice was deep, musical, a rumbling baritone that cut through the silence like a song. “You wailed so loud, I could hardly think. All hours of the night and day. You ran your mother ragged.”

Jaskier swallowed, the muscles in his jaw working hard to clench his teeth at the mention of Jaskier’s mother. “You made me obedient,” Jaskier answered.

Lazuli nodded. “Your mother begged me to take you. I only wanted you to stop, but she wanted you gone.”

Jaskier shook his head. “No, that’s not--she told me--she said she tried to stop you. That you made me obedient so you wouldn't hear me anymore.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears. Had his mother tried to give him to the fae?

“Humans lie,” Lazuli snarled, and the other fae in the court voiced their displeasure, snarling incoherently at Jaskier. Jaskier glanced around at them, but the angry cacophony didn’t seem directed at him so much, as humans in general.

Queen Ignea held up her hand again, and silence overtook the grove once more.

“She brought you to the forest, placed you in a faery circle. She begged for someone to come, to take you, and I came. I don’t take infants, particularly not ones who cry as you did,” Lazuli said.

Lazuli’s words made Jaskier feel hollow. Still, he focused on Lazuli’s inky black eyes, his face betraying no emotion.

“Obedience was a compromise.”

“She lied to me,” Jaskier breathed.

Lazuli’s smile was cruel. “You lie as she does.”

Jaskier blinked, but there was no point in arguing with the fae. He was right. How else had he survived this long, but by lying at every chance he could? How many half-truths had he told to avoid his curse? Jaskier built himself a home of deception and misdirection.

“My mother is dead,” he said instead.

“And now you are here to have her wishes undone.”

Lazuli was amused. His lips stayed quirked in that cruel smile, and a glimmer of humor shone in his dark eyes. Jaskier nodded.

“I do not take back my gifts, human. Why should I make an exception for you?” Lazuli asked.

“My life is not my own. At best, I am an accidental captive of other humans who would have me serve them. At worst, I am enslaved to their whims. My mother has trapped me with her lies and her cruelty. I wish to be free, for the first time in my life, to be my own person. I ask that you do not punish me for my actions as an infant, or the lies of my mother. Were we not both victims to her?” Jaskier asked, and though his hands shook, his voice was steady.

Something softened in Lazuli’s face.

“Humans lie,” Lazuli repeated, and though he pointed an accusing finger at Jaskier, this time he did not snarl. The court did not murmur in agreement. In fact, the grove seemed still around him. “You lie as she did.”

“She gave me no choice. Lying and tricks are all I have.”

Lazuli seemed to consider this. He stepped closer to Jaskier, and Jaskier did not move under his scrutiny. Lazuli circled him first, then circled Geralt. Geralt was just as stiff as Jaskier, and his grip remained firm on Jaskier’s hand. Lazuli stopped in front of Geralt, examining the witcher’s face as his head tilted to the side, and Geralt met his eye. Lazuli’s face broke into a wide, toothy grin.

“This one is yours,” Lazuli said, his face flicking back to Jaskier. “And still you lie.”

Jaskier’s mouth went dry. He tried, in vain, to rewet his lips, to speak, but Lazuli cut him off with a hand as soon as Jaskier’s mouth finally opened to speak.

“You will break the gift yourself.” Jaskier wanted to argue, but Lazuli’s hand was still raised. He had studied all he could of Seelie Court rules, and none of them implied that interruption was untoward, but Jaskier wasn’t willing to take a chance on that. “Tell your truths, and you will never be compelled to again.”

Jaskier’s mouth opened again, and he wanted to press more, to ask Lazuli what truths he meant , but Lazuli turned on his heel and disappeared back into the grove. The stillness ended around them, and once again Jaskier could hear the chattering of the court’s fae.

Ignea stood and strode toward them, and Jaskier could still clearly read the interest on her face. Her fingers reached out and the talon-like ends trailed across Jaskier’s cheek. They were not sharp, Jaskier was surprised to find.

“You have a beautiful face, and I suspect a beautiful voice. I would have you grace my court with your music,” Queen Ignea said, and Jaskier’s blood ran cold.

“You flatter him,” Geralt interrupted. Ignea’s eyes cut to the witcher curiously, clearly delighted that he was finally speaking. “Has he not been put through enough? He has been entertainment enough for the humans; do not ask it of him for your court.”

Ignea’s lips quirked in a small smile and she turned her attention to Geralt, though her fingers trailed down his chest rather than his face. “I see. He is yours, as well, mighty Witcher.” She tapped a finger against Geralt’s chest, just over his slowly beating heart, then drew away, back to her throne. Ignea sat herself upon it and flicked her fingers dismissively. “You may leave the way you came, before I am tempted to keep you both.”

Jaskier was glad for Geralt’s steady presence beside him, leading him out of the court and through the crossroads again. He moved as if he was in a trance, just barely managing to keep one foot in front of the other. The journey back felt longer, as if they had to traverse miles before finding the exit, and perhaps they had. Or, perhaps, it was simply an illusion sent to confuse Jaskier and allow the queen to keep him.

Still, at Geralt’s lead, they found themselves back in their own plane, stepping over the wildflowers at the entrance to the crossroads. It was dark now, though Jaskier still was unsure how long they had spent in the Feywild. Had it been minutes, or hours? It didn’t seem to matter, but Jaskier still found himself unsettled.

Geralt led them far away from the crossroads in silence. They returned to where they had tied up Roach, and Geralt led them farther still, until Jaskier could no longer see the walls of Lettenhove in the distance, and Geralt could no longer feel the thrum of magical, fae activity. The moon was high in the sky before they finally made camp, and Geralt barely had their bedrolls laid out before Jaskier was collapsing onto one.

Their camp was set up solely by Geralt as Jaskier curled his arms around his legs and stared. When Geralt joined Jaskier, Jaskier pressed his face into Geralt’s chest and let out a shuddering breath. He went boneless against his witcher, and Geralt lowered them both to the ground. Only once Geralt’s arms were safely wrapped around Jaskier’s body did Jaskier finally allow himself to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

read chapter 11

#geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #gerlion #geraskier fanfiction #geraskier fanfic #my writing

[thelionshoarde]

obizanayuki photo!au

continued from here

“I just --” Shirayuki gasped for breath, her fingers suddenly slick enough on her camera that she nearly dropped it, relieved when the weight caught against the leather strap around her neck. “A moment! Take, uh, five?”

Obi stretched his arms up behind his head with an overly pronounced pout. His eyes glittered at her, but Shirayuki barely noticed; not when the pose pulled the swell of his biceps into stark, agonizing relief, the line of his trim, muscled torso devastating like this. God, how was he real.

“Fiiiiiiiine,” he said.

It didn’t count as running away if Shirayuki kept her gait to a power-walk, right?

Flustered, she threw herself at her assistant for the day, a bored thirty-something wearing sunglasses in-doors. Hangover, probably, which Shirayuki would feel kinder about if he hadn’t still managed to give her floral-patterned dress a scathing once-over even through the tinted shades.

“What is going on here?” she hissed, words tumbling quickly. “I thought -- Zen! Zen was supposed to be my model today!”

They were on location, an abandoned warehouse that let in light through broken planks and shattered glass. Shirayuki liked how cold the concrete looked, how the soft light filtering through made the whole environment look hazy and lost by time, and she had been eager about this -- a chance to prove herself to Izana, whose regard toward her so far made their locale look warm and welcoming by comparison.

But Zen had not shown up. Instead it had been Obi, striding in to where Shirayuki had blocked out a space before anyone had even noticed him. “I like what you’ve done with the place,” he’d said, and Shirayuki, startled and confused, had looked over just in time to watch him shrug his shirt off.

“What,” she had gasped. “Who are --”

“I’m Obi,” he had winked, flinging his shirt to the side and rolling his neck. “You’re Shirayuki, right? The boss sent me. I’m your model today.”

“My -- my model?”

“Yes,” Obi enunciated, and despite the cruel cast of his smile he had been breathtaking, the slender beams of light glittering across his shoulder, his chest, catching on the curve of his thigh through worn, ripped jeans. He was a picture, all right: scarred and feral and terrifyingly handsome.

And then he had threatened to take off his pants.

Jesus, what was wrong with him?! Shirayuki rocked up onto her toes, trying not to bounce with nerves as her assistant let his sunglasses slide down his nose just enough to peer blearily at their surprise model. “Huh,” he said, and slid them back up.

Shirayuki lasted half a minute before she demanded, “What does that mean?”

“That’s Obi,” her assistant said with a shrug -- she thought his name was Greg or Ted; if he hadn’t been so into his act of suffering Shirayuki would have heard him when he’d introduced himself. “Izana’s personal assistant.”

“His -- his personal --”

Greg -- or Ted -- let his head tip over the back of his folding chair, nearly knocking over the bag with Shirayuki’s lenses as he stretched out his legs. “Yep,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “Used to model, but he was terrible. Everyone hated him. Eventually he just sort of -- stopped, and started working for Izana instead, running errands and things, I guess. Hmm, wonder what you did to piss the boss off this much. You just started working for Clarines, what? A month ago?”

“I --”

“Forgive me if I can’t be bothered,” Ted smiled. “You won’t be here long enough to complain.”

And, just like that, Shirayuki’s assistant fell asleep. What an ass, she thought, fuming, because it was easier to think about Ted -- or Greg -- being a terrible human being than it was to consider the brutal reality: that Izana had sent her a model meant to make her fail.

He really did want to chase her out -- and for what? For being friends with Zen?

Outrageous. Childish. Damned annoying.

Turning on her heel, Shirayuki’s skirts flared out around her thighs. She didn’t know if Izana simply thought her so weak, or if he had some marginal scruples after all, but at least he hadn’t outright fired her for no reason. Yes, maybe he had set her up to fail, but Shirayuki was a photographer. Give her a camera and she still had a chance.

“Obi,” she said, gaze darting around the warehouse quickly. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you. Sorry about being so, uh, surprised earlier?”

“Mm,” the model said, turning toward her with lazy grace. An eyebrow -- unbelievably fine; no wonder he had started as a model, he had a look to him -- arched mockingly at her. “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure.”

Shirayuki grit her teeth.

“Do you have any triggers?”

“...What?”

At least he wasn’t looking at her like she was a silly toy given by Izana to amuse him. Shirayuki liked the way his face looked like this, confusion clouding his brow, mouth softening but still dangerous. Her fingers twitched toward her camera, but she let it lay inert, dangling from her neck.

“Is there anything I should know about you?” she asked. “Before we get started. Anything I could do that might upset you? Cause you discomfort?”

“That’s not --” Obi was handsome when he was amused, too, the tense line of his shoulders easing a little as he looped his thumbs through his belt loops. He was standing with his weight forward on one foot, the other bent gently at the knee with just the toe of his scuffed boot dragging against the concrete floor.

Honestly, Shirayuki wasn’t certain if he was posing on purpose, but it looked good enough to be centerfold on a magazine, damn it.

He said, “If you want to make it in this field you can’t care what the model thinks. This isn’t college.”

Shirayuki managed to keep from rolling her eyes, but just barely. The college crack wasn’t new; with her small stature and young looks and her bright, cheerful clothes, she knew what she looked like. It didn’t change the fact that she was good at what she did, and that she deserved to be here, working at Clarines.

“I care,” she said, staring him stubbornly in the eyes. “I won’t ask you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with. It won’t matter to me -- I’ll still get the perfect shot.”

“Oh,” Obi breathed, eyebrows rising and a grin stretching across his face. “Will you, now?”

“Yes.” Stooping, Shirayuki reached for his discarded shirt. “Would you like to put this back on?”

That, apparently, was nearly a step too far. All at once Obi’s face went blank; Shirayuki kept her gaze carefully on his, strange and sharp and not at all sweet for all that his irises were the color of honey. Maybe it had been rude to suggest he might be uncomfortable showing off his scars? That he wouldn’t want to have them photographed? Shirayuki didn’t know. She only wanted to give him the option.

“Nah,” he drawled, “I’m fine like this, thanks.”

“All right,” she said, ignoring the way his body had seized up, all tight lines and rigid wariness. She tossed the shirt at him. “Originally I had planned on leaving Zen fully dressed, but this works, too. No triggers, then?”

“None,” Obi snapped.

Nodding sharply, Shirayuki circled him, finally giving in and scooping up her camera. She brought it up to hover near her chin, running her eyes over Obi. He was just as breathtaking as he had been before, mind-bogglingly handsome and an utter surprise. But this was a test. And Shirayuki had always been good at tests.

Obi twisted his shirt in his hands, narrowing his gaze at her. “What are you smiling at?”

click

“Oh, nothing,” she said, peeking up over the top of her camera. He looked disgruntled that she had taken a shot of him so suddenly, the shirt pulled taut between his hands, his biceps flexed. He looked away with a scowl, and Shirayuki took another three shots in quick succession, liking the line of his neck and the tilt of his hips.

“No,” she said, when he made to turn with her. “Stay where you are.”

The line of his tensed back was poetry, really, but Greg -- or Ted -- was in her shot. “Assistant,” she called. “I need you to move, please!” Another two paces to the right and she could angle it so that it was just Obi, his head half turned towards his shoulder, as though he couldn’t help tracking her. The sweep of his lashes fluttered against his cheek, jaw tight.

click

“Greg,” she snapped. “Move.”

At her suddenly strident tone, the assistant startled awake. “My name is Fred.”

“Sorry, Fred,” she lied. “But I am working here, and you are in the way. Please move the chair, your person, and anything else well out of the way.”

“What’s the point?” Obi muttered while Fred begrudgingly did as he was told. “None of these shots are going to be any good. They never are.”

Shirayuki circled back around to his front, camera bobbing down to her chin as she watched the fall of light across Obi’s chest, the way it caught against his forehead and made his eyes look even more mysterious, draped with a shadow. “Nonsense,” she said, and couldn’t help the way her voice sounded distracted. She brought her camera back up, peering at the screen and getting chills at the way he looked, the raw feeling in the twist of his mouth, the predatory way he held himself.

“You’re beautiful, Obi.”

#obizanayuki #photo!au #my fic #ans #superhappybubbleslove #i promise there is going to be izana #he is in the part directly after this but i didn't like how it was going #so i figured i'd post this first haha #also i have another one months later in the works #where they're all together #i dunno all my knowledge of this shit comes from when i used to watch antm #and a brief stint of black and white film photography in college #my writing

[thestoryweneededtowrite]

Javid Titanic AU - Part 29

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28

Sitting in a lifeboat watching an entire ship get swallowed up by the ocean had to be the worst thing Sarah had ever witnessed. She couldn’t think about anything but what would be happening inside. Furniture turned upside down, cargo and food tossed around, plates falling off tables and shelves. Shattered glass, twisted metal. And the people. God, she couldn’t get them out of her head. There was no way everyone had made it out. The men who had been working in the boilers at the time, what had become of them? Had they all been swept away?

And where was Davey?

The last she’d seen of him, he’d been heading down into the bowels of the ship. What if he’d never made it out? He and Jack could have gotten lost or trapped, could have died long ago. But she had to believe that wasn’t true. Still, where did that leave things? Was he one of those voices in the water? Was he in another boat?

She tried to pick his voice out from the cries of desperation she could hear from where the ship once was. The darkness was blinding and she couldn’t make out bodies, but she knew they were out there. The cacophony of torment proved it so. It was chilling and she wanted it to end, but she knew that when it did it would be because hypothermia had claimed hundreds of lives. And, more likely than not, her little brother would be among them.

Davey was a good kid. Despite all the bad things Esther had to say about him, he was the best brother she could have asked for. She’d always known he was going to turn out different, somehow, not that she’d ever have guessed from a young age that he’d end up liking to lie with men. But he’d always had his head in a book. It had taught him his quick wit and fiery backtalk that he silenced more often than not in front of their parents but let loose when he wasn’t in the presence of adults. And he was sweet and patient and kind. He deserved to be happy.

When she’d started to realise he’d never end up with a woman, she’d been conflicted. All her life she’s been taught man and wife, man and wife, man and wife, but if that wasn’t what Davey wanted then why should it be forced on him. She’d teased it out of him one day, that he found men attractive. He’d been watching the gardener out of the window, his muscles flexing as he trimmed the hedging, and she couldn’t deny the look of intrigue and longing in his eyes. He was only 15 then and he’d denied he was even looking until, two days later, he’d snuck into her room when the entire household was asleep, sat down on the edge of her bed and whispered ‘I was looking’ so quietly she was barely sure he’d said it.

It was easy to be supportive when she saw how much it was hurting him. The last thing she wanted was for one of her little brothers to be in pain, so she’d been the voice of reason. She’d been the one to hold him when he cried over being unable to make the feelings stop. Every time it would get mentioned by their parents or their rabbi, she’d watch for the subtle signs that Davey had heard. His hands would close into fists, digging his nails into his palms, and he’d gnaw at his bottom lip like it was between that and letting tears fall. Throughout it all she’d told him that he wasn’t damned and he wasn’t bad, he was just different - and there was nothing wrong with that. He’d been starting to believe it, too.

She’d given him a book of poetry for his eighteenth birthday. He’d taken the green binding, tracing the shallow embossing on the cover with intrigue. Whilst it was perfectly normal for Sarah to gift him a book, the manner with which she’d handed it over, covertly and with a teasing wink, had him on guard. Opening it to a random page to work out what it was, Davey had skimmed a few lines, trying to work out what he was holding. As soon as it dawned on him that Leaves of Grass was not, in fact, a book about plant life, he’d turned instantly scarlet, snapping it shut and hugging it tightly to his chest. Sarah had just laughed and waved away his stuttered thank you. He’d kept the book under his mattress, as far as she was aware, terrified their parents would find it and take it away.

When he’d confessed to her that he’d been talking to Albert DaSilva and there had been some touches between them, some brushing of fingertips and exchanging of coy smiles, she’d been happy for him. He’d explained that he wasn’t necessarily interested in Albert, but he wanted to try something just to see what is was like, she’d supported him. And then after he’d been caught, she’d consoled him.

Before they’d left for Titanic, he’d handed her back the book of poetry with shaking hands. He couldn’t take it with him, but he hadn’t wanted to leave it behind in his room in case Esther found it and destroyed it. Sarah had taken in carefully and hidden it in her own room, promising to give it back to him one day. Only now she might never get the chance.

She tried to boil down all those memories and apply them to one voice from the hundreds she could hear, but she just couldn’t do it. Davey wasn’t a tally, wasn’t just another shout in the darkness.

Sat in one of two lifeboats secured together so they wouldn’t drift apart, Sarah looked around at the people around her and scowled. Even in the dim light from the waning lamps, she could see everyone was ignoring what was happening only a few hundred yards away. Esther was looking down, mumbling prayers and trying to tune everything else out, and most of the other women aboard were following suit. Only Medda was looking out towards the voices, pain in her eyes.

“We have to go back!” Sarah shouted, her voice cutting through the funeral silence.

One of the stewards who had been assigned to row their boat scrambled to his feet. “Are you crazy, Miss? They’ll swamp the boats and we’ll all drown,” he protested, gaining a few mumbles of agreement from the other women in the boat, including Esther.

Feeling sick at the way humans could treat each other, Sarah climbed up shakily to face her fellow survivors. She surveyed each of them one by one, taking in the looks of fear and fatigue. It was a horrific night, she understood that, and they’d managed to escape the majority of the danger. It wasn’t difficult to see why voluntarily heading back into the storm was an unpopular suggestion. But those were people out there screaming, and at least half the women in the lifeboat had to know their husbands might be among them. “How can you sit here and listen to them die,” Sarah accused bitterly, ignoring her mother’s hissed requested for her to sit back down.

“Better them than me,” the steward shrugged, and Sarah was suddenly seething.

This man had done nothing to deserve a place on a boat. She thought of Davey, who had barely gotten to live yet, and of the man who had made her brother smile so much. Surely they were worth more than the spineless man stood before her. She thought of her father, so often overshadowed by their mother but a decent man when he had the courage to be. They’d talked once, about Davey, and Mayer had admitted to her that he thought Esther’s punishment was too severe. He didn’t deserve to die either.

“No,” Sarah spat. “The only reason you’re here is sheer luck. You’re not special.”

“Sarah!” Esther shrieked, pulling on her skirts to try to get her to retake her seat and button her lip.

“Mama, David could be-” she tried to reason, but was only interrupted.

“If David was with that… boy of his then they were probably so many decks down that he’s likely at the bottom of the ocean by now,” she said coldly, whispering as she always did when the matter of Davey’s sexuality had to be spoken aloud.

“You don’t know that,” Sarah tried to reason. “He could be one of those voices.” We could be listening to him die.

“Maybe it’s better this way,” Esther sighed, looking out towards where the Titanic once was.

Sarah just gawped, horrified. She turned to her mother with gritted teeth and scowled. This was the final straw. She’d put up with horrible things Esther had said about Davey for too long, making excuses to herself about ingrained upbringing, always saying that eventually Davey would be able to get away from it all. But now he might not have an eventually.

“My brother, your son, is the best man I’ve ever known, regardless of where he spends his nights. And yet you’d let him die.” She could barely get the words out, hating how foul they tasted.

There was silence on the lifeboat for a long moment as those who were unsure what was going on realised what exactly Sarah and Esther were talking about. Amidst some uncomfortable muttering, Medda rose to her feet to stand beside Sarah.

“Miss Jacobs is right. More than half the seats on these lifeboats are empty and there are folks we could be saving. Everyone over here into this boat. We’re going back,” she declared, leaving no room for discussion.

Murmurs started to spread around the other women – maybe they should be returning for their men in the water? No one talked about how it had been so long that the cries for help were beginning to fade away.

“Shut up,” the steward growled, clearing concerned his privileged position on a lifeboat was about to be swept from under him.

“No you shut up, or your luck isn’t going to continue,” Sarah shot back with a glare.

Mumbling angrily to himself, the man sat down. He could clearly see that he was going to get overruled.

Under Medda and Sarah’s instructions, they started to move everyone from one lifeboat into the spare seats in the other so they could send one back to where the ship had gone down. The cries got fainter and fainter if they did, but they persevered. If they could save even one life, Sarah reasoned, it would all be worth it. At last, the boats were untied and two stewards set off in an almost empty lifeboat, laden with extra coats and blankets, back towards what was left of the Titanic.

“They’ll bring him back, if he’s out there,” Medda said, putting her arm around Sarah and pulling her in for a hug. “He is. I know he is,” Sarah decided firmly. She was sure of it.

#newsies #newsies fanfiction #Javid #Jack Kelly #davey jacobs #Jack/David #Titanic AU #we're getting close to the end now folks #man I never thought I would get this far #Isn't sarah great #sarah jacobs #medda larkin