#fall foliage tour

[seasonalwonderment]

“Autumn Fog” ~ Photography by Christy Hibsch on Flickr

[1lifeinspired]

Woodstock Inn & Resort - Map & Menu

[light-n-darko]

Oh yeah, I went on the Stephen King tour last month and it was easily one of the best experiences I’ve had, also made me wanna move to Maine ngl

[caffeinatedkris]

Wall art on canvas, horizontal or vertical position, in small, medium, large, and extra large sizes

[vhstown]

hobie green

— hobie brown x gn!reader

summary: You never knew punks could be into gardening — or into you.

word count: 2.9k

warnings: mentions of underage drinking, brief mentions of politics, fluff, not very edited

a/n: based on a silly headcanon me and @qiuweyballs came up with. 99% identical to my tag team fic arrest me i love friends to lovers (just lovers in my drafts prommie)

There were a lot of things you didn't expect about your friend Hobie. The first thing was that he was Spider-Man (but you kind of figured after all those patch-up sessions at your place.) Second, was that he lived on a boat — not the most outrageous thing; somewhat non-conformist, somewhat Hobie-like — he wasn't the only boater in Camden. The third thing you didn't expect, however, was that this “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and whatever other label he'd projected, would have so many… plants.

“You're lookin’ at me funny.”

The “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist and now plant dad in question sat with his feet propped up against one of the many windows of his canal boat, an unassuming eyebrow raised.

“…Nah, don't worry about it,” you muttered, shifting awkwardly on your feet as you tried not to knock anything over, taking in the overflowing greenery of the room.

There was pretty much every plant you could think of: regular household plants under the windows, a tomato stalk in the corner, small cacti in odd places — he even had a pretty well-maintained chilli plant, bathing more gloriously in a patch of sunlight than you ever could. The boat felt more like a disorganised plant shop than a home, if it weren't for the rowdy radical posters and punk collages peeking in-between. Maybe these plants were as much like your friend as all the anarchy-themed decoration he’d made himself — or Hobie had just stolen a boat with a lot of plants in it.

Squeezing past some more foliage, you sat beside Hobie on his tiny canvas couch. He gave you a glance of acknowledgement before reaching for his guitar, setting it between his kicked-up legs as you tried to get more comfortable. The red coating of the instrument had almost entirely peeled off, instead covered by loud stickers and scratchy writing. You weren’t sure what any of it really meant, or why his guitar wasn’t tuned in the first place (it never seemed to be when you two were hanging out) — but right now, you were wondering why he was being so quiet. The silence was nice, though, so you didn’t let yourself think of anything else to ask.

Swaying gently from time to time, the canal boat hummed with the splashing of water and faint strumming of Hobie’s guitar. These quiet, almost tranquil moments were unexpected for someone as spontaneous as Hobie, but they were also welcome, you decided. The world was falling apart, but it was nice to be away from that in the middle of a canal with your best friend — even with his many plants.

You felt a tug behind your back, realising Hobie was trying to get something. Mumbling a quick sorry, you moved to let him get the thing you were sitting on. It was a pink jumper — much too small to be his. After carefully draping it over the backrest, he cracked a smile at you.

“Gotta give that to Gwendy,” he told himself, nails tapping on the back of the guitar neck.

Gwendy (Gwen? Wendy?) was a friend he'd made recently, and you’d never seen a trace of her despite the fact that they supposedly lived together. That was until now; the sweater looked nice, soft, high-quality — nothing like anything you could afford here. Maybe she was well-off. How old even was she? Did Gwendy like plants too?

“Yeah? Is she your roommate?” you inquired, leaning forward to look at him. “Boatmate?”

“You sayin’ this isn’t a room?” Hobie set his guitar against the wall as if the conversation was suddenly more important.

“More like a garden.”

He tilted his head to the side at your response, finally meeting your eyes with his own glinting with amusement.

“You want a tour, then? Private — totally elitist.”

“Have you got more plants or something?”

He crossed his arms at you. “You’re actin’ like it’s a problem.”

It wasn’t a problem, per se, you just couldn’t imagine living with so many plants. Maybe it was his superhuman reflexes that kept him from slipping and smashing his face into a plant pot; you almost tripped on some dead roots earlier.

“Nah nah, it’s not. You got uh… free oxygen.” Clearly there wasn’t enough oxygen going to your brain at that moment if that's the only thing you could come up with. You held back a sigh; you’d never be as fast as Hobie. He just snickered.

“They privatise oxygen too?” Not his most clever quip, you thought.

“Maybe. Is that why you have so many plants? To breathe better?”

Hobie gave you a frown. If you didn't know better, you might've felt bad. “You don’t want the tour?”

“Go on,” you beckoned, dryly.

“Get up, then.”

“Can’t be bothered.” The sofa creaked as you leaned back on it, folding your arms as if you were going to sleep. If it was still quiet, maybe you could’ve actually fallen asleep to the gentle rocking motion of the boat.

“You come over to have a snooze?” he teased, leaning over until you pushed him away — one of his usual ways of driving you mad; you wouldn’t have it. “Want to be my boatmate too?”

“Wouldn’t mind.” The words came out by themselves, but you figured they might be true.

“Gwendy’s only here sometimes — you could.”

“I’d miss my place,” you objected, feeling slightly uncertain at the idea now. It was probably better if that weird feeling in your chest whenever you saw Hobie wasn’t a constant in your life anyway.

“Your place is only good for the pub down the road.” Maybe so — you two certainly weren’t good for the pub, though. All you did was shrug in response.

Hobie tapped his foot for a moment, appearing to muse about something. Before you knew it, he slid his hand between your back and the sofa and you were suddenly your feet in one swift motion.

“Hey—” The floor creaked as he started walking you out to the front of the boat, arm slung around your shoulder. You sighed reluctantly at him, but his grin just widened.

“You starting the tour from here?” Despite the cool wind now rushing past the two of you, your tone came out less energetic than you’d like.

Your heart dropped for a moment as Hobie let go of you, suddenly jumping up backwards onto the barriers. He crouched easily on the edge as you let out a small breath of relief. Even if there was no chance he’d fall into the water, you’d never get used to that.

“Nah, no tour,” he replied, hands on his knees as he looked down at you with squinted eyes. “I ain't no elitist.”

The lingering fear in your chest from Hobie’s stunt died down, and the way the late-day sun was hitting his face replaced it with that weird swishing sensation you could never get used to.

Honey-gold sunlight reflected off of his skin, his face shimmering where there were angles and glowing softly where there weren’t. His eyes glistened like copper, your own face in the reflection like the rich people on coins as you searched for any trace of amusement in his expression. You couldn’t find anything; he was just looking at you. The swishing became more like a crashing tide, your chest growing tighter. Maybe you should’ve feigned interest in the plants when you could.

“…Okay,” you managed, after realising that you’d been staring for a while. Tearing your eyes away from the tall, glistening silhouette of your best friend who was sitting like the figurehead of a sailing ship, you looked back into the boat house before another little plant caught your attention. It was the only plant sitting outside — a young rosemary with a paper tag attached to it.

You squatted down to look at it, figuring that Hobie had nothing to say right now. Taking the tag in your hands, you read “Helen”, written in lovely cursive writing.

“Helen… you name your plants?” It was too nice to be Hobie’s handwriting, but you decided to joke a bit anyway.

“Yeah,” he answered, deadpan, and you tried not to let him catch your eyeroll. “Some lady comin’ through Regent’s gave it to me.”

“People give you plants?”

“All the time, actually.”

Huh… It made enough sense. You did see your fair share of plants in other boats; maybe people wanted to give Spider-Man a thanks or something, or just get rid of some plants they get lying around. You recalled aloe plant you saw earlier, having almost slipped on the pile of dead roots beside it — interesting to gift a rotting plant. It looked like it needed a lot of care; you wondered who could get an aloe to that point.

Deciding to sit by the much nicer rosemary plant with your back against the doors, you caught the faint aroma of the leaves. If Hobie already had vegetable plants, he’d probably make good use out of this one once it got a little more mature. Maybe as a seasoning, or make it into an oil somehow, or just leave it as decoration. There was a lot you could do, you realised, and having plants was starting to look just a little cool. Everything Hobie did was cool — as much as you didn’t like to admit it.

“…What’s up with you?”

Hobie’s voice caught you off guard. You looked back to see that the figurehead was now sitting opposite you on the floor of the little outdoor cockpit, hands loose between his bent knees.

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t just tell like that, could he? Nothing was different… until recently. Until you realised you had that feeling.

“You're quiet,” he stated, though his tone wasn't all that serious. “Y’don’t come over, or come see old Hobie.”

“Old Hobie,” you repeated, half of a laugh coming out of your mouth. “Like Old Tom?”

Tom was the bar owner of the pub you frequented — if your antics could be considered “frequenting”. The two of you were probably the reason why he was “Old” Tom.

“Need to see that geezer,” Hobie mused, leaning back against the wood with a creak.

“A lot of people you’ve gotta see.” It came out far too sardonic, and you held your breath like you’d just placed a bet.

Hobie stuck his bottom lip out, lip ring catching the light. “Like you.”

The sun had faded by now, but that feeling hadn’t, you realised.

“I'm right here,” you replied.

“I brought you.”

“It’s not like I knew which out of the hundred boats was yours. Half of them’ve got plants anyway.”

“You do now.”

“I guess.”

Stretching a little, you shifted to sit more like Hobie, leg brushing against the rosemary leaves for a moment. Hobie cracked his knuckles in the meantime, and you realised you hadn’t really seen him in a while. It wasn’t all your fault, he just kept disappearing. Maybe you should stop waiting for him to come to you all the time.

“I’ll see you again before you have to go to the care home, Old Hobie,” you muttered, getting a snicker out of him.

“They’ll never get me in one of those.”

“You don’t wanna be an elder punk?”

“Not in them institutions — I’ll bail you out as well.”

You never imagined the thought of growing old with someone would go in this direction. Well, it was Hobie.

“I appreciate it, Old Hobie” you replied, though not too enthusiastically. Hobie smirked.

“Come pub with me, then. Don’t need ID if I’m retired.” Despite your best efforts, you smiled just a little.

It wasn’t like you gave Tom ID anyway, but you found it amusing regardless. Maybe it was the idea of being like those old people at the pub: loud, obnoxious, opiniated… Nothing much would change, actually.

“Don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“How come?” Hobie leaning forward on his knees, as if to taunt you. “Scared you’ll get pissed like last time?”

“I did not get pissed!” you retorted, face aching with an incriminating smile. Your stomach churned with the memory of that night — or lack thereof.

“Had to actually peel you off me. My Spider Powers didn’t even help.”

You groaned and laughed at the same time, trying to ease the embarrassment by putting a hand on the plant pot; it was cool, and you felt a chip near the rim.

“Don’t lie.”

“Never did.”

“Fine, yeah.” It sounded like a bit like an admission to a crime; maybe getting that drunk was a crime. “Don’t wanna get pissed like last time.”

Hobie’s smirk faded a bit, before he let out a sigh — those were rare for him, you thought.

“Seriously though, we gotta go again sometime — it’s on you, yeah?”

You frowned at that, but it got no reaction out of him. “You’re the worst.”

“Like I don’t know.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” You weren’t exactly sure what you meant by that, but Hobie didn’t seem to question it.

Maybe he did actually know what was going on with you, even if you never tried to make a move. It was possible — the observant prick. A prick with a green thumb and looked like he’d been kissed by the sun itself and that you couldn't get out of your head.

If he did know, you wished he'd say something, at least.

Your hand lingered on the pot, and the paper tag found its way into your hands again.

“Helen,” you stated, glimpsing at the nice handwriting.

“You gonna call it that now?”

“Got a better name?”

“Yours,” he replied, too easily.

You weren’t sure what a rosemary plant was like, but it sounded enough like a compliment. Did rosemary have a meaning? Hobie wasn’t thinking that deep, of course. Not about things like labels, no matter how many you had for him.

“Am I like a rosemary?”

“Dunno. If you were a plant, I’d keep you though.”

That made you laugh, albeit awkwardly.

“…What are you on about?” you muttered, shaking your head. “Random… You keep like, any plant anyway.”

“I keep the ones I like.”

“Your boat's a greenhouse. Maybe you just like every plant.”

“Maybe I just like you.”

A jolt of pain ran in your mouth, eyes almost squeezing shut — you’d bit your tongue. Hobie was silent, so you couldn’t be.

“Maybe,” you murmured through gritted teeth.

“Maybe,” he repeated, with his usual unbothered amusement that drove your feelings back into hiding. Hobie Brown — “hero”, non-conformist, punk, anarchist — your best friend.

You’d get over it, you told yourself — not for the first time.

Now with a weird attachment to the plant, you tried to seem interested in the tag again — you could say it’d… grown on you. Would he make a joke like that? You wanted to crumple the tag. It looked too nice to do that, so you turned it around to look at the back instead.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship, love.”

A dry laugh escaped your mouth; even this plant was mocking you. Maybe it felt sorry.

“What’s got you laughin’?” You almost forgot about Hobie; that would’ve been nice. No, you’d get over it soon.

“You better name this plant after me,” you joked, more so to yourself, and in a very much self-pitying way even though he wouldn’t get it. As Hobie’s gaze trailed to the tag, that feeling in your chest threatened you, so you ripped it off before he could see it.

Thwip! Mistake. In a second, the tag was in Hobie’s hand. His face was unreadable as he looked at the back, no longer gold with sunlight.

“Yeah,” he mused, folding over the edge with his nail as his eyes met yours. You tried not to bite your tongue again.

“Yeah…?” You couldn't even give him an awkward laugh.

He held up the tag to show you the folded bit. There was a single word, the rest cut off — “love.”

“Your name fits pretty well.”

Your mouth was so dry, not even a cactus could live in it.

“I’d rather you not be a plant, by the way,” he continued, despite how lost you must’ve looked. “Be yourself, at the pub, tomorrow — opening time. Dress how you want.”

No words were coming out of your mouth. Hobie didn’t need you to say anything, though.

“It’s on me.”

You couldn't leave him hanging. You also couldn’t shy away forever, not when it was right in front of your face. Not when he'd just asked you out.

”…Like a date?”

“Better than a date.”

A smile formed on your lips. After that feeling had been buried under the soil for so long, it was starting to blossom, like the little blue flowers on a rosemary bush.

“Okay,” you replied, winning something that was neither a grin nor a smirk from him — a smile, warm like sunlight, and just like yours.

“Okay.” Hobie chucked the tag back to you, the edge still folded over as you took it in your hand.

“ROSEMARY — remembrance, friendship,”

“love.”

“I’ll let you keep it, if you want.”

Your smile turned into a grin as you brushed your fingertips over the leaves. “I’ll think about it.”

Spice, oil, decoration — this plant had one more use: getting you a date.

Maybe you liked plants more than you originally thought.

🕸️🔭🎸

thank you for reading !! honestly the friends to lovers thing was so not planned i just wrote this for fun (intended to be a drabble / imagine but it turned into this) less friends more lovers in the future hopefully?

thank you again to my friend chewy ^^ tom is actually his chr + the aloe plant detail

reblogs & feedback are super appreciated <3 catch the rest of my atsv stuff here!

[shu-porang-porang]

The Cabin

Pairs: Lee Minho (Lee Know) / Han Jisung

Rating: Explicit

Theme: Smut, 18+ NO MINORS.

Warnings: fingering, anal

Word count: 1.4 k

“Are you feeling better jagiya?”

Minho asked an abnormally low-energy Jisung backstage. He already knew the answer, if anything the concert had made Jisung even more exhausted, mentally and physically. Jisung didn’t say anything, just looked up at Minho with a tired smile plastered on his face and slightly nodded. Jisung didn’t have the heart to lie to Minho, even if it was so obvious that it didn’t even count as a lie. So at times like this, he just stayed silent, letting Minho decide for his own what Jisung meant by his little gestures.

Minho gently patted him on the back, telling him little nothings about how it’s over and they can get some rest now. More silence from Jisung, all he did was a feeble attempt at holding Minho’s other hand but he decided against it as soon as their fingers touched, he couldn’t deal with any jokes about how they were like an old married couple and stuff from other members right now. He preferred to remain invisible and unnoticed.

Minho got the hint. He rushed around to gather their belongings and told others they were taking off. Chan arranged for a company car to drive them. In the backseat of the car Jisung felt a bit safer, so he melted into Minho’s arms, his head on Minho’s shoulder, sniffing his scent and letting out sighs of relief. Minho was fighting every fiber in his existence not to kiss his purring kitty right then and there. His priority was to get Jisung somewhere nice and fill his belly with something delicious, his own desires could wait until Jisung’s in the mood too.

The ride seemed impossibly long to Jisung, he lifted his head from Minho’s shoulder and took a look at the streets for the first time since they got into the car. He couldn’t understand where they were going. The streets weren’t near their dorm, or their houses, or their favorite restaurants, they were almost at the edge of the city. For a moment he panicked thinking they were being kidnapped but a glance at Minho’s composed face was enough to ensure him all was fine.

“Hyung? Where are we going?” he asked in a voice just a bit above a whisper.

Minho flashed him a warm smile “To my cabin.”

Minho had purchased a cabin on the outskirts of the city a few months back, it needed some reconstruction so no one’s ever been there, not even Jisung.

“But isn’t it under construction?”

“No baby. The construction is over, it’s furnished and all. We just need to buy some groceries and we’ll be fine.”

They got out of the car at a convenience store and Minho dismissed the driver. They bought more than they could eat, it was enough for Jisung’s glance to fall over a snack, it would get immediately added to the cart. Minho carried two heavy shopping bags as he guided Jisung through the area. The cabin was only 10 minutes away from the store but surprisingly secluded. Lavish shrubbery all around it, hiding it from sight from afar. Jisung gasped as a lake came into his view, sprawled before the cabin, and the dense foliage on its other side gave way to the woods. The dim lights of the twilight didn’t make the scenery any less magnificent.

They finally arrived at the cabin. Well, a cabin is an understatement. It was a two-story building, tastefully designed and furnished. The living room and the kitchen were on the first floor, and two cozy bedrooms on the second one. Minho pointed out that the patio furniture is in the garage and he’ll get them out if Jisung wants to sit on the front porch. Jisung just nodded, gleefully following Minho inside. At this point, he didn’t even remember his miserable state about two hours ago. Minho put the grocery bags on the countertop and took Jisung for a quick tour around the house. Jisung’s mood was already elevated and they’d done nothing but take a long ride and buy food. When the tour was over, Minho told him to relax while he cooked sth for dinner.

“I think I’ll take a shower.” Jisung said, looking in the direction of the bathroom.

“That’s great sweetie, I’ll bring you a towel, I have clean clothes here you can wear. They might be a bit oversized but they’ll have to do till we get some of yours here.”

“I love wearing your clothes, you know.” Jisung said almost shyly.

Minho smiled and gave him a soft peck on the forehead, he didn’t want to force anything on Jisung. He needed to make sure Jisung was feeling like himself and was up for bolder acts of affection.

“I’ll be downstairs then, call me if you need anything.”

Jisung stepped to the bathroom and just sat on the edge of the bathtub for several minutes staring at the white tiles, lost in his thoughts again. A knock on the door brought him back to reality.

“Come in.” he answered.

Minho opened the door with a towel in his hand, shocked to find Jisung like that.

“Jagiya, what is wrong?” Minho asked with worry written all over his face.

Jisung held his hand out for Minho to hold and pulled him closer.

“Minnie, can we shower together? I don’t wanna be left alone by myself.” Jisung pleaded.

Minho put the towel aside and cupped Jisung’s face, leaning in to kiss his pout away.

“sure we can baby.”

Minho turned the tap on and waited for the glass shower room to fill up with some steam to make sure it was going to be warm and cozy. He slowly rid Jisung of his clothes, kissing every new patch of skin he undressed. He then quickly took his own clothes off and joined Jisung in the shower.

What a delight to Jisung’s eyes! He considered himself truly lucky to be the only person who could see Minho in all his naked glory. His greedy hands ran up and down Minho’s firm muscles and Minho chuckled at his boyfriend’s sudden enthusiasm. Jisung wrapped his arms around Minho’s neck and reached for his lips, rubbing their crotches together in the process. Minho could no longer hold back. He accepted Jisung’s invitation and feasted on his lips.

Jisung’s moans started echoing in the shower as Minho’s hand wrapped around both of their members. After a few pumps, Minho let go of their semi-hard members. He didn’t want it all to end so quickly, he wanted to tease his lover a bit more. Jisung let out a whine in protest but was immediately silenced by Minho’s hungry lips.

After turning Jisung’s brain into mush by only kissing him, Minho pulled away and grabbed the body wash. He poured some on his hand and started lathering Jisung up. Jisung followed suit. He was still trying to get some friction on his member but Minho was now standing behind him and was massaging his back. His hands carefully travelled south and Jisung felt his heart beating faster as Minho’s fingers brushed over his entrance. He was purposefully missing it, just slightly hovering above or around it while groping his ass cheeks.

Jisung decided he’d had enough and pushed his hips back against Minho’s crotch. Minho smirked knowing the power he had over his needy boyfriend. He slowly entered a lathered finger in and moved it around looking for the sweet spot. Jisung’s mouth fell open and his head rolled back on Minho’s shoulder as Minho kept abusing the sensitive bundle of nerves with his finger.

“Minnie please… I want you..” Jisung begged.

“don’t you think it’s a bit uncomfortable here?” Minho teased, kissing the side of Jisung’s neck.

“I… don’t care” Jisung whined, determined to get fucked there.

Thankfully Minho had thought of such mischiefs in here while reconstructing the building and the shower was big enough to push Jisung against its wall with his ass sticking out for Minho to fuck. Minho didn’t hesitate to add a second and a third finger, quickly loosening up the muscles. He took his time to slowly enter jisung, holding jisung’s impatient hips in place with both hands. When he was balls deep inside, he reached a hand to stroke the younger boy in rhyme with his thrusts.

Neither of them lasted long. Jisung’s seeds splattered across the shower wall and Minho painted Jisung’s walls with his. He slowly pulled out, watching his juices drip down Jisung’s thighs and get washed away. Jisung’s hole was still hungry for more, clenching and unclenching around nothing. Too bad they were starving by then. So, they quickly finished their shower to go and get something into their growling stomachs.

[northofneverland]

The first time Tsukishima sees you is through his camera’s lens. You’re perched on a park bench, wrapped snugly in a chunky wool knit scarf, sipping on a cup of coffee as you leaf through an art book on your lap. From his camera, time seems suspended, with you at the centre of the photograph, the rest of the park goers blurring together until they blend into a swath of muted colours and nothing more. As his fingers hover over the button to capture this singular moment, of what he deems is perfection, your eyes find his lens and the shutter flashes.

📸 📸 📸

The second time Tsukishima photographs you, his photography class is on a walking tour around campus with the goal of capturing beauty in mundane activities. His camera finds you first, your figure centred, once again, perfectly in the middle of his display. A strong gust of wind awakens the fallen leaves scattered on the cobblestone path you’re both walking on. In a whirlwind of autumn, the foliage dances around you, and you throw your head back laughing, looking up at the sky with a look of wonder and bliss. Without thinking twice, he takes the picture. The LCD screen doesn’t do the moment justice, he thinks, but as he zooms in on your face, a shaky sigh leaves his lips as he notices the minor details that make you so captivating. While his peers are focused on their walk, he falls to the back of the crowd and fastens the cap on top of his lens. He doesn’t need his camera for the rest of the class; he already has the perfect photo. As you walk past him, brushing the remaining leaves out of your hair, his eyes can’t help but follow your figure till you’re far out of sight. And for the second time in his life, he finds himself thinking maybe he’s found a hobby worth pursuing. 

📸 📸 📸

The third time Tsukishima runs into you, he gets your number. He’s sitting in a cafe, uploading and editing the photos he’s taken this month for his class’ monthly update. He adjusts his headphones so that they only fully cover one ear before he leans back in his chair, closing his eyes as he rolls out his stiff neck. 

“Holy shit, is that me?”. Immediately his eyes snap open at the sound of your voice, and he’s greeted by the sight of you leaning over his shoulder as you try to get a better look at his computer screen.

“So what if it is?” he replies, coming off a little harsher than he intended, but you don’t seem to notice as you move closer into his space. Your face is close, too close, to his as you press against his shoulder. The smell of your strawberry perfume floods his senses, and, suddenly, he’s nervous. Suddenly his heart is hammering harder in his chest. Suddenly he can’t think of any snide or sarcastic remarks.

“I look beautiful” you whisper, your fingers reaching out, hovering over his screen.

“Everyone does when there are filters”. He wants to kick himself for being so rude, but a part of him hopes that you can keep up with his snide remarks. You do look beautiful, he’d be the first to admit, gorgeous even, and that’s why he’s been stuck editing this photo of you.

“Yeah, I guess, but you haven’t put any on”, you smirk as you point to the title of the image, campus_muse_original_image (duplicate before editing).psd. You pull a napkin from the dispenser before fishing in your jacket pocket for a pen. Uncapping it with your teeth, you write down ten digits before signing off as ‘campus muse’. 

“When you’re done editing the photo, I’d love to have a copy of it”. Your speech is muffled as you try to put the cap back on your pen.

You’re nothing like he expected you to be; you’re everything he’s told himself he’d never like, too touchy, too loud, too excited, too… beautiful. But as you settle into a nearby table and start to work on your laptop, he can’t help but look up at you once in a while. Maybe if you were more like him it would work out, he thinks to himself as he stares at the napkin before crumpling it up.

Three days later, he finds himself punching your phone number as he attaches the photo of you to his text. His phone buzzes immediately after sending the message before buzzing a few minutes later. 

Campus Muse: Thank You!!! Campus Muse: I must be perfect in your eyes, or you must be the world's worst photo editor because you didn’t change anything. Campus Muse: Also, until you tell me your name, you’re going to be called Campus Creeper on my phone. 

Tsukishima can’t help but scoff at the last message before replying with his name. You’ll text back and forth for a week, at most, he figures, before you both forget about each other, but for the moment, he lets himself enjoy this, enjoy you.

📸 📸 📸

The first photo of the two of you as friends is actually a strip of four black and white photos taken in a cramped photo booth. He was wrong about you only texting for a week, you were insistent and he, well, he was entertained. And within those conversations, he began to realize that you had a lot in common and a few mutuals, specifically two loud family friends, whom he was well acquainted with from a summer training camp a few years back. Soon those texts evolved into lunches, which evolved into dinners, which evolved into late-night phone calls, and after a month, he feels like he knows everything about you and is addicted to knowing more. Which is why, he’s not as prickly when you drag him into a photo booth at the campus carnival with Kuroo and Bokuto. Tsukishima watches the three of you situate yourself in the small space, yelling out different suggestions of poses to strike before each flash goes off. It’s chaotic and reminiscent of his ‘adventures’ in high school but he can’t help but smirk at how much fun you’re having. As he looks over the freshly printed photo strip, he realizes two things immediately. First, he needs to teach Kuroo and Bokuto how to pose as their bodies are blurry in all four photos. Second, and more importantly, he needs to be better at hiding his expressions around you, because the way he looks at you, he learns, is not how friends look at one another.   

📸 📸 📸

There’s only one picture to mark your first anniversary as a couple, and it’s a picture of you. The date of your one-year together lands on the day of a highly anticipated volleyball match, and instead of letting him call in sick, you insist that the two of you celebrate after his victory. Which is why he finds you, sitting on his bed with a makeup brush in one hand and a hand mirror in the other as he emerges from his bathroom in his competition jersey. He watches silently as you puff your cheeks, painting a little green frog on the right and the number 17 on the left. And while he hates the tacky green and yellow hue of his team’s colours, they don’t look so bad on you. The letters of his last name seem to fit perfectly on your back, he muses for a second, before shaking the thought from his head. Those are ones he can indulge in later in the night, in private, after the game; your presence is already going to be a big enough distraction and he doesn’t want to lose. Not today, not in front of you. 

“Take a picture” you tease as you catch him staring from the corner of the mirror “it will last longer”. He can’t help but roll his eyes at your comment, but he pulls out his phone and takes the photo, flicking your forehead lightly, after he gets his shot.

“If you get paint on my jersey, you better wash it”.

That night, as you sleep soundly next to him on his bed, he traces his name across the width of your shoulders. He was right, he thinks as he pulls up the photo he took earlier, setting it as his phone’s home screen, it does fit perfectly.

📸 📸 📸

Tsukishima’s 10,367th photo of you is the one that convinces him to put in the effort of figuring out the steps of setting up a gallery show. It’s a close-up photo of your face from when he took you to watch the fireworks from the roof of your shared apartment building. The photo perfectly captures your childlike wonder, your eyes sparking as they mirror the kaleidoscopic designs in the sky. It’s a stunning photo. One of his bests he’d argue, as he looks at the image projected on the mini screen. But for him, this image is an awakening. No, it’s a confirmation. It is at this moment he realizes he wants to spend his whole life showing you how he sees you. Instead of enjoying the night with his head tilted up towards the sky, watching the symphony of colours like everyone else on the roof, his gaze is on you as he mentally begins to sort through the shots of you he wants to feature in his gallery.   

📸 📸 📸

The most recent photo, and the last-minute addition to the exhibition, is one he took this morning. It’s arguably his most daring one yet. For once, you’re not the focal point in it, but it ties the exhibit nicely and he hopes he’s making the right choice of adding it in. Straightening the frame one last time, he heads back to the entrance where you’re waiting for him, glancing one last time at this picture, at the end of the long corridor of photos. Even though it's technically not of you, his heart can’t help but flutter a little as he walks away from it. 

📸 📸 📸

If you were to ask Tsukishima how he was feeling about his upcoming photography exhibit his workplace is featuring, he’d say he’s feeling indifferent at best. To be completely honest, he’s scared shitless and everyone, except you,  knows this. But he made a promise to you when you started dating, that if he were to contribute to an exhibit, in any capacity, he’d give you a private tour of it the night before it opened. He made that comment in passing, tangled in sheets as you were drifting off to bed, never thinking you’d hold him to it. Then again, he never thought you’d stick around after all these years. To him, you were his muse. But what was he to you expect for the tall, grumpy boyfriend who could get things off of tall shelves? You’re here with him, he reassures himself, as you clutch his left arm and he leads you to the first photo of the exhibit. You’re with him, you have been for six years and you love him; he repeats this mantra twice over and his mind settles. His right-hand palms the small box he’s kept in his pocket for luck despite everyone insisting he won’t need it. 

📸 📸 📸

You meander through the quiet gallery with your boyfriend in tow, giggling and laughing at the hundreds of memories frozen in time for you to reminisce on. Most of the photos are ones that you’ve seen before or ones that you remember him taking, and Tsukishima’s heart swells seeing you so happy, seeing you so happy because of him. His pace slows as you walk ahead, to the end of the gallery, and your eyes catch a glimpse of a photo you’ve never seen before. Knowing what captures your attention, Tsukishima hangs back, giving you your own space, and watches you analyze the photo. It’s one that has consumed his entire being since taking it yesterday; it's one that can change everything. He blinks and the image is still ingrained in his mind. You’re in the background of the photo, back facing his camera as you’re washing the leftover dishes in the kitchen sink. In the center of the frame, in razor-sharp clarity, are his index finger and thumb holding up a dainty diamond ring.

📸 📸 📸

“So, what do you think?” he asks, weaving his arm around the shape of you as he comes up from behind.

“About the gallery? Not bad, but you could have picked a better subject.” Half-heartedly, you elbow his side but he barely budges, scoffing at your weak attempt at humour and show of strength as you both appreciate the art in front of you.

“And what about this photo?” he urges, his voice tinged with annoyance, as he nods to the frame. 

“What about it?”

“What about it” he imitates, his voice octaves higher than your own.

“You know I’m not good with words, are you going to make me ask?” he grumbles, reaching into his right pocket. The velvet box feels heavy in his hand and he wants to know that you’ll say yes. He’s had this box for almost six months and each time he believes he’s ready, he backs out last minute. Tonight, despite the voice in his head that says to prepare for the worst, he feels ready- well, as ready as he’s ever been. As he opens his mouth, the box halfway out of his pocket, you interrupt him.

“Well, if you’re not going to, I will”. Your fingers grip the film canister that has found a home in your purse for the last six months. Taking his large left hand in yours, you drop the small container into his open palm, the cylidrical box rattling softly before it settles in his grasp. A second later, a small black box is shoved lightly against your chest. As your fingers wrap around it, your boyfriend looks away, his lips slightly pursed and his brows knotted as a pink flush blooms on his cheeks. 

“I’ve, I’ve had this for a while, but I think it would look better on your finger” he stammers, as he opens the canister, shaking out the band you had picked out for him with Tadashi, admiring it for a few moments before sliding it onto his left hand. 

“Ar…ar…aren’t you gonna put yours on?”. You haven’t moved, the black box still unopened in your firmly clasped hands. Tears are welling in your eyes, as your gaze shifts between the empty film canister and his left hand.  I’ve messed up, he worries, pulse racing as his fingers begin to nervously thumb the new gold band that feels so right on his finger. This isn’t how you wanted him to propose, it’s too cheesy, too flashy, too unromantic, too harsh, too…

“Kei” you whisper, cupping his cheek before smoothening your thumb over his wrinkled brows, “it’s perfect, you’re perfect. I just want you to put it on me”. 

And he does, in between kisses and whispers of your name, against the backdrop of all his memories of you.

A/N: First of all I don't usually ever think about Tsukki but I couldn't shake this idea out of my head. In my mind, University Tsukki is still snarky and cold, but it's muted in comparison to who he was at the beginning of high school. I do think he still has a lot of moments of self-doubt and these doubts extend past the volleyball court. Maybe I've got him all wrong and maybe this isn't how you see him but nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed this. Second of all, I'm so tired of reading this over and I know I missed a few editing things but please just ignore them. It's hard to edit your own work especially when you've read the same few pages over and over again. psssst. @kagejima (as you requested, here's your tag)

[kydrogendragon]

Dec 23 - Twinkling Lights

(Ao3 Link) (Masterpost Link)

The greenhouse is warm inside. It makes sense, given that the plants inside of here require more heat and humidity than the current climate outside can provide. Hob had suggested visiting the greenhouse lights before they closed down for the season. It was after Christmas and the new year was just days away. Because of that, it was significantly less busy and crowded than it would have been if they had gone the week before.

“First impressions - what do you think?” Hob asks to his left, staring at him with a hesitant expression. Morpheus looked around, his eyes trailing across the various exotic plants and greenery, all wrapped and spun with various lights and ornaments. The lights twinkled, the rainbow of colors softly glowing against the green and purple leaves. It truly was a breath-taking sight. Morpheus couldn’t help but be reminded by dreams he had wove for children back when he was Dream.

He gives Hob’s hand a gentle squeeze and turns to look into his warm brown eyes. “It looks magnificent.” Hob smiles, the warmth of the sun shining over Morpheus’s face at it’s sight.

“Good. I thought you might enjoy this.” He pulls them forward along the path. “C’mon. They decorated one of their large trees further in. It’s supposed to be the highlight of the tour.”

“Should we not save such a treat for the end?” Morpheus rebuts with a sly smile.

“Touche.” Hob looks around their immediate sphere and nods to the first grouping of plants. “Well then, my dear. Shall we take the scenic route?”

“Gladly.”

They weave their way through the expansive greenhouse. In truth, it was closer to a zoo, but just for foliage. Or an expansive indoor garden. There were multiple plaques littered across the pre-planned paths, all describing the different types of plants that could be found in the small section in front of it. Morpheus enjoyed reading the details on each one. From the scientific names to the preferred climate to the uses of each plant, he read each one, taking their teachings to heart.

Hob pointed out some that he’d seen on his various journeys to foreign lands in his long life. He promised Morpheus that he’d show him the world one day. And when humanity figured out how to make space travel a constant, he’d take him out among the stars as well.

Morpheus, with his long life as an Endless, has, in theory, seen all of this before. But the human mind was only meant to hold so many memories in it at one time, so many of the details have been lost. But the idea of experiencing the wonders of the Waking world again, with Hob at his side, no less, was a thrilling one. It fills his heart with a joy he is beginning to learn comes whenever he is with Hob. It is a feeling he would not trade for anything.

They continue their journey through different times and regions, different climates and soils, until they finally weave their way to the center of the greenhouse. This dome is the largest of all the others and for good reason. Various trees, taller than those that fit within the other modules they had visited before, are nestled in groups that hug close to the dirt walkways. Each tree is strung with lights, the soft warm glow giving the entire place a sense of otherworldly grace. The moment they cross the threshold, Morpheus gasps at the beauty.

There is a photographer station in front of the large tree in the center. A small line extends out of people waiting for their turn. A vine covered arch, also strung with lights, rests in the background. Looking up at Hob, Morpheus asks, “Could we take a photo together?”

Hob looks down at him, the glimmering lights dancing in his eyes and the soft golden glow highlighting the curves of his face with such beauty that Morpheus can feel himself falling in love with his man all over again. Hob cups his cheek and smiles. “Of course we can, duck.”

And so the pair make their way into the line. There are only a few parties ahead of them, mostly other couples, but there are a few families present as well. Hob releases Morpheus’s hand so he can wrap it around his shoulders, pulling him into his side. Morpheus relaxes into the familiar position.

“Successful date then?” Hob mummers into his inky black hair.

They move forward as the next group is called forward. “Yes. Very successful, I would say.”

The photograph gets hung on the fridge right beside the Polaroids Hob took of Morpheus on Christmas morning, the terrible printed out selfie from their skiing adventure and their night out at the opera from much earlier on. I’m going to need to buy a new photo book, he thinks to himself as he stands back from the fridge. New book for his new life with his best friend, his boyfriend, his old Stranger. He turns around to gaze lovingly at the sight of his boyfriend curled up on their couch, a plethora of blankets piled on top of his form as he pecks away at the keys on his laptop.

“Hey!” He calls out. Morpheus’s head lifts, not unlike a meerkat hearing an unexpected noise. “I love you.”

Morpheus huffs, but can’t hide the smile nor the blush on his cheeks. “I love you as well.”

[bumblepony]

Okay, it's getting colder here and I need warm thoughts. I demand you share with me three Tommy/Maria autumnal headcanons.

(I demand politely with hat in hand). xx

Oh this is a lovely one and strangely enough one I've thought about. I'm actually going to give you six as a bonus. Three Canon verse HC and Three no apocalypse verse HC.

No Apocalypse Verse

1. Tommy is a huge apple cider fan—all things apple cider, the drink, the donuts, the scent. If it's fall, it's apple cider. Maria is a Pumpkin Spice girl. Fall is all things PS all the time. There are wars in the T/M household on what is better. Tommy once spent a week on the couch when he changed out all the candles in the house to apple-scented candles when Maria wasn't looking. Maria once had to buy Tommy two jugs of apple cider when she changed his Starbucks order to a PSL on the app instead of an apple cider macchiato as a joke.

2. They love fall foliage tours. They've been up to the Adirondack every year to take the train ride that goes through the mountains. They are major leaf peepers, and it drives Joel crazy because every year, they try to get him and Tess to go. Joel could care less about the turning of the leaves, and Tess could care less too, honestly, but she loves to fuck with Joel, so she'll set them up to go just to drive him crazy.

3. Once they have their first son Mateo, who just so happens to have been born in the fall, (which was not in any way orchestrated by Maria keeping meticulous track of her cycles so she could make sure when the best moment for conception would be) they do a photoshoot of him in a pumpkin each year. Then, when they have their daughter Tilly (also born in the fall, hmmm, Tommy's starting to ask questions), the tradition continues. By the time little Solana is born also in the fall (okay Maria this is gettin' ridiculous darlin' how did I not notice you were doin' this.) It's a whole thing: baby, toddler, and kid in a pumpkin. It's getting harder and harder to find big enough pumpkins. When the kids are all grown up, they get together to do a joke photoshoot of a reenactment of their first group photo as kids for Tommy and Maria's anniversary gift. Tommy laughs so hard he snots whiskey out of his nose. Maria laughs too but she also gets Teary-Eyed at seeing all her babies so grown up. It goes on the living room wall in a place of honor and never comes down.

Canon Verse

1. Maria is the one doing all the fall activities in Jackson, she loves it, it's one of her favorite times of year. When Tommy comes along he wholeheartedly throws himself in as well. It's actually how they end up falling in love. One late night while Tommy is helping her get the sting lights up for the fall dance, he turns them on and she looks so beautiful in the glowing bulbs that he can't help but tell her and then fate is set.

2. Tommy hates Halloween, always has. Part of it could be the time he snuck down to watch the Halloween movie from the stairs when he was 8 years old, and his big brother, at 13, was watching the movie with his then-friend Shawna, who he very much wanted to be his girlfriend in hopes that she would cuddle close to him during the jump scares. She did, and they were blissfully together for a whole week; Joel even got his first French kiss from it. But all Tommy got was nightmares about Micheal Meyers trying to break into his house on Halloween to kill him and his family. So yeah, Tommy doesn't like Halloween. But every year, he sucks it up and puts on the brave Uncle Tommy face and the goofiest of costumes to make first Sarah happy and then Ellie 20 years later. Because that's what good uncles do. Maria knows, though, and she does everything she can to try and make the holiday as stress-free as she can for him. They have no decorations inside the house, and what they do have outside is the bare minimum, and it's all silly, not scary.

3. Tommy and Maria still love the fall foliage. Their favorite thing to do is to sit outside on their porch in Jackson, Tommy siping his hot apple cider and Maria siping her PS coffee that she makes herself, and they watch the seasons change. Both of them are secretly happy that their little community ended up in a part of the US that has the change of the seasons. On beautiful fall days, Tommy likes to take Maria outside of Jackson into the woods with all the leaves, and they pile them up and dance in them. Ellie lets them borrow her walkmen so they can each put one headphone in one ear each and listen to the music as they sway together.

[missmungoe]

Hey there, hope you’re enjoying your time in Japan! I just got here myself and am touring Kyoto, admiring the spectacular foliage and magnificent temples. I wanted to ask, which parts of Japan have been your favourites, and will we get to see Shanks/Makino or maybe even our secondary couples like Mihawk/Hancock in Wano? Fall is such an underrated season and for some reason feels even more romantic than the usual spring and summer settings.

Oh, we just missed each other!! Kyoto is so beautiful, it might just be my favourite city in the world. Last time I was in Japan was during the summer, but having seen it in the fall, it's without a doubt my favourite season. As for my favourite places, aside from Kyoto, onsen hopping in Kurokawa was probably the highlight of this trip for me, what an absolutely breathtaking place:

And I actually have a few ideas in the works for a Shanks x Makino fic set in Wano! The first is a follow-up to Ithaca that I've had planned since I first posted it, where Makino's alliance of erstwhile Warlords go undercover in Wano during the canon events, and which would include both Mihawk and Hancock (and Buggy); and the second is a Shanks x Makino historical romance AU set in Wano that I've been plotting for a while now ;)

[visit-new-york]

Bow Bridge - Central Park

Bow Bridge remains an enduring symbol of Central Park's beauty and tranquility. Its combination of architectural elegance, natural surroundings, and cultural significance make it a beloved destination within this iconic urban park, offering a peaceful retreat and a romantic atmosphere in the heart of Manhattan.

Weddings and Proposals: Bow Bridge is a popular spot for weddings and marriage proposals. Many couples choose this picturesque location to exchange vows or ask for their partner's hand in marriage due to its romantic ambiance and stunning views. It's not uncommon to witness a wedding ceremony or proposal while visiting the bridge.

Historical Significance: Bow Bridge, like many features in Central Park, has historical significance. It is part of the original design of Central Park by Frederick Law Olmsted and Calvert Vaux, two influential landscape architects. Their vision for the park was to create a place of respite and natural beauty within the bustling city, and Bow Bridge exemplifies this vision.

Artistic Inspiration: Artists and painters have long been drawn to Bow Bridge as a subject for their work. The bridge's intricate ironwork and its reflection in the tranquil waters of The Lake provide ample artistic inspiration.

Boating on The Lake: The Lake beneath Bow Bridge is a popular spot for rowboating during the spring and summer months. Visitors can rent rowboats and enjoy a relaxing ride on the calm waters, taking in the views of the bridge and surrounding greenery.

Autumn Foliage: During the fall, Bow Bridge is surrounded by a brilliant display of autumn foliage. The vibrant colors of the changing leaves make it a must-visit spot for leaf peepers, photographers, and anyone who appreciates the beauty of the season.

Accessibility: Bow Bridge is wheelchair accessible, making it a welcoming destination for visitors of all abilities. The park's pathways and nearby amenities are designed to accommodate a wide range of visitors.

Restoration Efforts: Over the years, Bow Bridge has undergone restoration and maintenance to ensure its structural integrity and preserve its historical charm. The efforts of the Central Park Conservancy have played a crucial role in this ongoing preservation work.

Music and Performances: The area around Bow Bridge occasionally hosts outdoor music performances and cultural events, providing a delightful backdrop for live entertainment in a natural setting.

Filming Location: Bow Bridge has been featured in numerous films and television shows. Its romantic and picturesque setting has made it a popular choice for filmmakers seeking an idyllic backdrop for their scenes. You might recognize it from movies like "Manhattan," "Keeping the Faith," and "Enchanted."

Wildlife Viewing: The area around Bow Bridge is a great spot for birdwatching and wildlife observation. Central Park is home to a variety of bird species, including waterfowl that can often be seen on The Lake.

Spring Cherry Blossoms: In the spring, the cherry trees near Bow Bridge burst into bloom, creating a stunning display of pink and white blossoms. This seasonal spectacle is a draw for visitors who come to admire the beauty of the cherry blossoms.

Architectural Details: While at Bow Bridge, take a closer look at its intricate ironwork and decorative elements. The bridge's design includes ornate railings, lampposts, and Gothic-style arches, adding to its architectural charm.

Central Park Sightseeing: Bow Bridge is often included as a point of interest on guided tours of Central Park. These tours provide visitors with insights into the park's history, design, and the significance of its various landmarks, including the bridge.

Romantic Atmosphere: Bow Bridge's romantic ambiance is particularly pronounced during early mornings and at sunset. The soft, warm light at these times adds to the bridge's allure, making it a popular spot for couples and photographers.

Adjacent Attractions: Nearby, you'll find other attractions like the Central Park Boathouse, which offers dining with a view of The Lake, and the Central Park Conservatory Garden, a beautifully landscaped formal garden that's perfect for a leisurely stroll.

Accessibility: Central Park has made efforts to ensure that its pathways and bridges, including Bow Bridge, are accessible to people with disabilities. This commitment to accessibility allows a wide range of visitors to enjoy the park's beauty.

In conclusion, Bow Bridge in Central Park continues to be a cherished and timeless destination, known for its architectural beauty, scenic surroundings, and romantic allure. Whether you're seeking a tranquil escape, a place for photography, or a romantic setting, Bow Bridge offers a captivating experience in the heart of Manhattan's urban landscape.

[boundinparchment]

Dream a Little Dream of Me - XXXVI

Celestia has a cruel sense of humor. He’s always known this, ever since his days as a student. But a soulmate? Really? Dottore/Female Reader Soulmate AU. Lore speculation, interpretations, etc. AO3

At this hour, the moon was high, cresting over the edges of the tree that sheltered the port, bright and full.  You could just see it through the foliage when you looked up, pausing before you crossed the bridge outside of the hotel.  Over the edge, the docks and cranes came into view, and beyond them, the vast sea.  

The air was sticky.  It was worse this far south, so close to the sea, and the breeze didn’t so much relieve the humidity as it did remind you of it every time it kissed your cheeks and bare arms.  

You saw the ship due to set out tomorrow morning, ready to be loaded with cargo and your colleagues.  

But not you, not now.

There was no point in boarding a ship to continue on a tour you could not participate in.  

A flood of tears threatened to choke you, the neck of your cello tight in your hand.  Your faithful partner, broken beyond repair, never to tremble beneath your touch again.

All that awaited aboard that ship was another nation and more performances, more lies that the nation of Fontaine was not struggling.  There was no pollution, no poverty, no sickness, no deicide. Your patron had been right back when you gave your notice but anything had been better than being a songbird.  And it was propaganda with people who didn’t think twice about numbing their soulmate bond, who had both feet firmly planted in reality, sure of their existence and their purpose.  

You’d once been sure, too.

“Don’t tell me you used your instrument as a weapon.”

That familiar timber had such a cold edge to it, steel in a winter storm, as metal tapped wood in a rhythm you could recognize anywhere.

You turned, grip on the broken cello neck tightening in hopes to control the tremble through your limbs.  

For a moment, you were thrown back into the House of Daena.  Sharp boots, white coat, ornamentation that seemed impractical for lab work but denoted power no one dared question.  Beak-like mask, an earring with an ethereal glow.  His arms were crossed and a slight frown tugged at his lips, as though inconvenienced by the mere idea of running into you.

The hotel was full of Fatui.

Of course.

After all, Zandik had said Omega was working with the Akademiya and what you saw of the lab reinforced that even further.  What had the Segment said?  A man-made god?  

Fontaine had its faults, certainly, but they never dared try to throw off the yoke of Celestia so blatantly.

It stood to reason, then, that any public appearance of the Harbinger would be the Segment.

Your legs carried you across the distance, fury gripping you as you shoved the broken cello neck into the Segment’s throat above his harness ring. 

“Was this your doing?” you growled.

 Through the wood, you could feel the vibration of his amused chuckle.  Sharp teeth gleamed at you.

“You hate me almost as much as he hates himself.  I am impressed.”

You pushed the wood further into the Segment’s neck, reminding yourself that as much as the resistance felt flesh-like, that he was far from human.

“You’ve given me every reason.”

“I haven’t, actually.  I’m not the one who destroyed your precious instrument.  But I am going to be the one to ensure that everything falls back into place.”

No , you think, you won’t be.

You closed your eyes, the port before you disappearing for a moment as the Cryo-encased flower came to mind instead.  A dream you’d wanted for so long, finally becoming reality, the tangibility of limbs brushing, air between you heavy with both humidity and potential.  For a moment, red eyes widened as your vision went black, and hands traced every single callous in an attempt to memorize your very existence.

“You’ve done more than enough,” you said, jaw tight.

Omega drew in a deep breath, more for effect than need you realized, and let out an impatient huff through his nose.

“The experiment was intended to understand if Zandik’s soulmate extended beyond himself.  Beyond the Prime origin point of us all.  You weren’t supposed to lose the ability to dream.”

The Segment sounded apologetic, guilty even.  A fiery knot tugged at your gut.  He felt guilty over that but nothing else?

“I deserve far more than Zandik does,” Omega drawled.  “And therefore I was the most qualified candidate for the experiment.  That you ended up in Sumeru when I did, when larger plans were falling into place was, truthfully, unexpected.  I couldn’t let the opportunity go to waste.”

“Fuck you.”

You pushed him away with the cello neck, reveling in the irritated mark and small dents you left in his skin.  Omega reached a hand up and rubbed the spot, mouth pulled into a grin that didn’t need words to accompany it.

“Both of you go right for the jugular.  Perhaps you are soulmates after all.”

“He…”

“Self-hatred is a powerful thing, Noor 'eini.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Omega cracked his neck before he took one step, and then another, further away from the hotel doors to circle the perimeter.  To circle you .

“Your precious Zandik fractured himself twenty-four times.  Eleven of them are deceased.  I am the sole survivor of his later adult years.  The closest to his present self.  One does not segment their memories and their very being without wanting to be rid of said memories.  After all, we are the culmination of our experiences, our loved ones, universes unto ourselves.  You should see the hatred Zandik gives me for playing with you.  It’s as much inward as it is outward.  You may not see it but that’s because he thinks he’s hidden it, buried like the machinery he so adores.”

You stepped back when Omega bent a little, his face close to yours.  He cocked his head, locks of hair falling softly to frame his face as the earring pressed against his neck a little.

“Haven’t you ever wondered about the wind in the dreams?”

The wind?

Your face contorted in confusion and you no longer cared if the Segment could read you like a book.  You tried to recall the dreams that felt so far away now, cloudy and intangible.  The first dream after you met in person, you swore you heard multiple voices as the wind howled through mountains and trees, like voices of an audience.  And the leaves, in that final dream as you stroked his head in your lap and listened to him explain the Ruin Golem’s inner workings.  

Leaves didn’t whisper.

Not like that.

“I know what must be done,” Omega whispered, his words ghosting over your nose, your cheeks.  “When the time comes, you too must play your part.”

“I’m not humoring this anymore.”

You turned, adjusting your grip on your belongings as you strode away, determined to put as much distance between you and the Segment as possible.  Your anger was no longer a pot boiling over but instead a dulled blade, having carved off the edge of your grief for the briefest of moments.  By now, you knew better than to trust the Segment at his word, to consider anything longer than necessary.

With the idea in your mind though, the memories were more crisp than what the others, you could only conclude meant they were true moments between you.  That was something, you supposed.

But what were you meant to do with that information?  What good did that do when you…

You had no plan.

No job.  No instrument.

Nothing.

You trekked down spiral after spiral, the stone underfoot comforting in its steadiness.  One foot in front of the other.  

Life was, in a way, like sight-reading.  You knew there were notes ahead of where you were, waiting to be played, but you couldn’t get to them until you focused on the immediate ones.

Leaving without any kind of connection to your soulmate, especially given his position, was dangerous, stupid even.  All it would take was being at the wrong place at the wrong time with the right person.  The Doctor would be none the wiser until it was too late and all the worse because you had no means to contact him.  Not in a way that protected either of you and potentially revealed everything.  You survived on that connection, thrived on it, and then to not have it…

Did that even make you soulmates anymore?

What were you to one another, now, if you could not…

You closed your eyes, the port before you disappearing for a moment as the Cryo flower came to mind again.  A promise, a willingness to fix, but what if there was nothing to fix?   If this was what was destined, in the end?

There must be more, you thought to yourself.  More to the world than passively traveling, being subject to the whims of those around you.  More to working tirelessly on compositions that would never see the light of day or be played by anyone other than yourself.  It was clear to you that the world moved on in your short absence but where did that leave you?

A question for another time when you finally saw him again.  By quitting, you’d made up your mind on some things already.  That sense of relief didn’t extend far, though, and at the idea of what came next, your chest squeezed uncomfortably.  

You continued further into the harbor, dipping underneath a large root and behind the tavern, and out towards the wooden piers to the lighthouse.  Sumeru had no proper beach, at least not out this way, but the shoals would suffice for now.  It was enough to be away from the cacophony of the hotel and the tavern, far from Omega, alone with your thoughts and the rhythmic splash of the tide.  

You’d always felt an odd connection to the ocean and its beaches despite being a Geo user and mostly kept from the coast for most of your formative years.  The reliable rocking of waves and the sheer natural force had been something of an inspiration, a comfort, when all else failed.

There was, however, already someone here.  You paused on the edge of the pier, tense from both Omega’s prodding and your own anxiety, blinking once as though it would clear your vision.

You had been under the impression that you wouldn’t see him properly until the morning you were set to depart.

Once again, Zandik’s coat was absent, but so was his cravat.  The collar of his shirt was open, exposing the full column of his neck and a teasing view of his collarbone.  The harness only served to draw your eye precisely where it pressed against his bare skin before it dipped over his shirt to wrap around him.  His sleeves, too, were carefully folded up to his elbows, exposing well-defined muscle.  Leather gloves still covered his hands, his mask still obscuring his face, barriers between him and the world.

It was still cloyingly humid and you could see that even he wasn’t immune to the weather here.  But part of you couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, he was trying to help you visually differentiate between himself and Omega.  Attempting to be the Zandik you knew only in a separate world, dreams away from reality.

You had spent an eternity tracing a collarbone that wasn’t his but your fingers twitched nonetheless, a yearning that came from deep within your bones for late night conversations that held no pretense.  Such moments were stolen from you and as you watched him approach, you let your eyes roam over the shadows that dipped across his arms and the reflection of light on the ring of his harness.  You used to admire him in dreams, when you could; now, you told yourself,you deserved to, and you were determined to not have everything tainted by a shadow of himself.

A shadow that he was, no doubt, keeping an eye on from a distance.

“And here I thought you’d be asleep,” Zandik quipped.  “I might have little use for it but that doesn’t mean…”

His masked face fell to your hand and the broken cello neck.  You saw his shoulders rise and then slowly fall with a breath, one hand reaching up for his mask as the other extended towards you in silent request.  

“Omega stole whatever quip you want to say,” you muttered.  “There’s no fixing it.”

The tears that once felt as if they would flood you were far out of reach now.  Stolen from you just as much as your instrument, as your memories were.  Crying felt like a waste of energy.

Zandik turned the neck over in his hands.  You knew all of the scratches by heart that were glinting in the moonlight, the pegbox still shiny with polish.  

Without ceremony, you cast your bag aside and removed your footwear and accompanying garments to stand calf-deep in the water.  The tide was barely cooler than the air and you sat down, feet in the water, playing with the sand between your toes. 

“Why must I continue to pay a price that I cannot, Zandik?” you asked.  “Is this normal?”

His red eyes were too occupied with the wood in his hands, now held at eye-level and examined like a spyglass.  

“Some pairs endure more trials and tribulations than others, based on the research I’ve done over the years.  How did this happen?  The break is clean, with little signs of stress fractures.”

“Something about the matra looking for…capsules?  I wasn’t really listening, truthfully.”

You shifted your feet in the wet sand.  

If you were less skeptical, less aware of the world, you would have thought it the truth right from the start.  And maybe it was.   By now, however, you knew that some things were, in fact, exactly what they seemed.  Others may have had damaged instruments but somehow, you doubted theirs were as broken.  

An old friend, gone.

“I am tired of everything I own being taken away from me.  My life played with as though it were a toy.  Just when I think I’m carving my own path…”

You tore your gaze away from the glowing harbor and the cleaved tree, Zandik’s attention no longer on the hand-carved peg board but on you.  His lips parted and his tongue brushed his lower lip, as if to speak, before he seemed to think better of it.  He was usually so free with his thoughts, especially on this; he hardly, if ever, hesitated to correct you.

“I can take whatever it is you want to say, Zandik.”

He’d spent many dreams over the years explaining his view of the world, of the Archons and Celestia’s usurpation.  This exact situation is what he would tear apart to demonstrate just how wrong it was for a higher being to exist.  If mortals supposedly had something of free will but the Gods always intervened, be it with a Vision or a soulmate or both, then how was that true free will?  So many thought they were making their own way but in reality, one was only following the path that the stars laid out for them.

But fate, he speculated, could be changed.  The stars were not, in fact, the true stars at all.

Such conversations were so far away, though, that they couldn’t easily come to mind other than vague recollections.  

“The words on my tongue aren’t comforting,” he finally replied.  “You are mourning an old friend.  My thoughts can wait.”

You swallowed as he brought his attention back to the pegs, fingers loosening and tightening the knobs, before he handed it back to you.  

Everyone else assumed you would be fine, that you could pick up right where you left off (yourself included).  Ever since you’d awakened, despite your outbursts, he’d given you the grace to not be okay.  In hindsight, he’d always done that after both of you learned how far boundaries could be pushed until the other shut the conversation down.  The conversations from days earlier came to mind.  If he deemed something not conducive, not helpful , then he would not waste his energy nor time on it. 

 That had to count for something.

“I once stood on a beach one morning after a particularly…bad evening,” you said.  “I couldn’t sit, which means I couldn’t practice, couldn’t play.  I made a promise to myself…what I can only assume the Geo Archon took to be a contract,  to let no one ever stand between me and what I wanted out of life.  No one would hold me back, abuse me, keep me from what I deserved .  I should have included myself in that promise.”

You brushed your hand over your Vision before you held the broken cello neck between your hands and wrung it like a wet cloth.  When you caught Zandik’s eyes flick towards you when you turned your head slightly in his direction, you continued.

“I believe that was one memory untouched,” he said, his hands falling slightly to direct his attention onto you.  “You’d received something from the orchestra?”

“My planning paid off and I’d made a decision without hesitation to leave everything behind.  You were right.  That night in the performance hall.  I have been holding myself back.”

He didn’t speak, instead raising an eyebrow but not daring to revel in hearing you profess that he was correct.  Not yet, at any rate.

“I’ve been complacent, holding myself back for the sake of a group that does not see me as I see myself.  The Segment did that too in the dreams; I never made progress on my compositions, I played but it was as though I did it out of habit, not desire…everything that happened in those dreams was, I’ve come to realize, not a fabrication on his part, but an exaggeration of it.  I thought it was him but I’ve been doing it to myself.”

Omega’s words from earlier echoed in your mind.  If Zandik’s own problems made their way into your shared dreamspace, why wouldn’t yours have been accessible, ripe for the picking?

“The second I saw my cello shattered in its case, I didn’t even have to think about quitting.  I have no plan beyond that.   Without a way to contact you, we are forced to use methods that would be discovered at any time.  Why not just…bypass them entirely and try—”

Zandik’s expression darkened and he turned in full to face you.  

“Do you understand the gravity of such a consideration?”

“You didn’t let me finish.”

“I don’t need to.  Snezhnaya is not Fontaine.  That you know and can learn how to navigate social structures is one matter that never gave me cause for concern.  But it is a nation that is governed by a house of wolves, by an Archon who holds no love for her people and who believes that only those who survive the worst are worthy of such blessing.”

He’s thought this through, you realized.  He’d already entertained this very idea, hadn’t he? Realistically, not only did it make sense to keep what he considered to be a vulnerability close to him, she could learn from him.

Your lack of combat abilities was a sore spot and one he was eager to correct himself.  You both used the same weapon, after all.

Soulmate bonds didn’t have to be romantic, either, you told yourself, a well of panic and thrill rising as your thoughts wandered to his exposed neck and collarbone, the teasing promise of muscle beneath his shirt.  You weren’t sure how to even consider such notions, not now, not after Omega.  

And the world had already moved on without you.  You had just been another body in a chair, who played well and composed exceptional pieces.  

Remaining with him was the only viable option you could think of.

And if he’d already played with all of these possibilities, he knew that as well.

He was testing you, then; he wanted to know if you had been as thorough as he was.

“I have nothing left, Zandik.  Perhaps this idea is just following that stupid adage of ‘Don’t put your eggs in one basket’ but I literally only have one basket.  Am I supposed to go about the rest of my existence knowing that, if we don’t try now, we may never get this chance again?”

“This decision shouldn’t be made in a state of emotional anguish, no matter how correct your decision is.” 

He punctuated the sentence with your name and it stilled you, your legs suddenly no longer swayed by the tide but instead anchored in the sand.  

“We are discussing a choice that cannot be taken back.  You cannot allow your heart to lead you on such matters.  It is how, in the attempt to avoid the truth, one comes face to face with the inevitable.”

“What is that truth?”

“That the world demands a price from us all and that price is nothing but conflict and suffering.  You know nothing of the true nature of the world and the world in which I inhabit.”

Have I not paid my dues? You wanted to cry out.

“Then tell me about it!  You’re the one who has kept the truth from me and I must pull every kernel of information like a dentist pulling teeth, Zandik.  Do you really think you’re protecting me?!  Do you think that not telling me about your Segments and who you are saved me, after what I’ve seen and endured?!”

Your volume scared a nearby crab that scuttled away into the sand, eager to be away from you both. Your soulmate’s boots pierced the tide to stand next to you, his expression as much of a mask as the accessory he held in his hand.

“When a stranger from the far north came to me in the deep reaches of the desert, I too reached a similar point,” Zandik murmured.  “Driven out of my home, out of the Akademiya, I tried to help those suffering from a disease that has been around for centuries, a remnant of a King’s destructive decision.  And even then, despite the progress of my patients, my methods were questionable, unethical for even the strongest of stomachs.  Results didn’t matter if the patients suffered for them.”

Zandik shuffled his mask to his right hand as his left reached up to take your chin between his thumb and forefinger.  His eyes were narrow as they watched you, as he spoke, as his words ghosted over your lips.

“I, too, had nothing left and everything to gain.  I was promised resources, access to machinery and equipment without anyone holding me back to arbitrary rules that stifled progress.  In exchange for my position, I was given the burden of the truth of this world.  Or rather, it was confirmed for me.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip before he let go of your chin to brush stray hair out of your face.  His middle finger lingered on your ear.

“All of my research and hypotheses and speculation…all of it was true .  But I had suffered greatly to get there.  As must we all, in the end, to get what we want.  Choosing to come with me will not be the end of anything, if that is what you expect.”

Zandik pulled away from you, as though he’d touched something painful, his arm falling limply to his side as he turned his head away from you.  

How odd.  Only days ago, he seemed almost eager to solve this connection between you, to correct whatever his Segment had done.  Wouldn’t he want you with him?  Surely that would make everything more manageable?

Or was this part of the self-hatred that Omega brought up, you wondered.  Not that you wanted to put stock in the Segment’s words, of course.  But he was, in part, Zandik.  A grain of truth was still a truth.

You gazed up at the moon as its light kissed the rustling leaves and soaring branches of Port Ormos’ shelter, the water shimmering with a rippled reflection of the land, an imperfect mirror.  Warm light glowed in the distance, like fireflies resting.  Water lapped at your skin, warm and forgiving, every pull of the tide only serving to root you further in place.

Unconsciously, you reached out a hand and took his free one, his fingers curling around yours almost instinctively.

“Who said I wanted anything to end, Zandik?”

His brow twitched and a flicker of doubt crossed his face as he looked at you; he was not a man who believed in anything until he saw it with his own eyes.

You squeezed his hand slightly.

It was not until you’d turned back to look upon Port Ormos one more time that you felt fingers squeeze yours back once, just once, at the same time as your heart skipped a beat.

[chic-a-gigot]

La Mode illustrée, no. 14, 6 avril 1902, Paris. Chapeaux de printemps et d'été. Modèles de Mme Colombin, rue de La Tour-d'Auvergne, 41. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

No. 1. — Toquet en laize de paille loutre et linon. Ce chapeau, entièrement drapé de laize, est garni sur le côté d'un bouquet de cassis et roses thé, surmonté d'une aigrette de linon.

No. 1. — Toquet in width of otter straw and lawn. This hat, entirely draped in width, is garnished on the side with a bouquet of blackcurrants and tea roses, surmounted by a lawn aigrette.

—

No. 2. — Toquet couleur sable. La passe toute plissée est brodée, sur tulle, de jolis motifs de paille; le fond, en feuillage velouté, se relève de côté par deux jolies têtes de plumes bleu-turquoise, une draperie de taffetas sable et bleu-turquoise orne le dessous du chapeau et tombe en un pan sur les cheveux.

No. 2. — Sand colored cap. The pleated pass is embroidered on tulle with pretty straw motifs; the background, in velvety foliage, is raised on the side by two pretty blue-turquoise feather heads, a drapery of sand and blue-turquoise taffeta adorns the underside of the hat and falls in a flap over the hair.

—

No. 3. — Chapeau rond, dont le bord, tout en roses de différents tons, est voilé d'une dentelle pailletée de jais; un bouquet de roses avec cabochon en perles fines relève légèrement le côté de la passe qui est recouverte de tulle plissé noir; le fond, en paille rose, se détache sous un nœud de velours noir avec cabochon de perles fines au milieu.

No. 3. — Round hat, the brim of which, all in roses of different shades, is veiled with jet spangled lace; a bouquet of roses with a cabochon of fine pearls slightly enhances the side of the pass which is covered with black pleated tulle; the background, in pink straw, stands out under a black velvet bow with a cabochon of fine pearls in the middle.

—

No. 4. — Chapeau tout en paille ombrée violine. La passe de ce chapeau, garnie d'une guipure crème (genre ancien), est traversée de deux barrettes de velours noir, se terminant sur le fond, fixées par un motif doré; un bouquet de chardons et roses nuancées garnit le côté relevé du chapeau.

No. 4. — Hat all in shaded purple straw. The pass of this hat, trimmed with a cream guipure (old style), is crossed by two bars of black velvet, ending on the bottom, fixed by a golden pattern; a bouquet of nuanced thistles and roses adorns the raised side of the hat.

[moss-bride]

The ambassador x fem reader

Short oneshot

It was a great yawning light that pushed her into a void of cold and black. She couldn't hear the chatter of the other college students on the field trip or the metallic clinging of cameras and phones, gone was the stone path under her sandals and the cool brush of black grass touched her toes sending shivers up hrr spine. She crossed her arms, the dress her friend had lended to wear did little in the way of warmth. 

This isn't the museum path. There were towering branchless trees and nothing but distant rumbling of cheers.

The plants are dead and foreign, skimming past knowledge of classes where she studied the native foliage and she doesn't recognize them.

She calls out her friend's name. The professor put them in a buddy system, she'll lose points for straying out the museum path. "This isn't funny. Come out now." Wood crunches under foot.

"You can't keep wandering off." There is no response. If she took today as an opportunity for another tour….

"We're going to fail the mark if he sees us seperated." She can't afford to have a strike against her this year. 

Her voice, high and sweet, doesn't respond and she stops searching after a long moment. The sky is an odd yellow, striking her as strange since it was midday just a moment ago. 

Sunset and it's already so cold. Likely her friend snuck away and is drinking at a nearby pub with strangers that are buying her all the tequila she wants, laughing at the fact she managed to elude her. 

From the distance chattering sounded through the trees, the rest of the group , she ran towards them with relief making a smile light up her face.

Coming to a clearing she waved at the figures closing in. Eager to put this day behind and return to the hostel room. But as they drew closer a horrifying fact made itself clear. They looked nothing like college students or anyone she'd recognize. Decked to the nines in jewelry and dresses 

They came wearing masks and she seems to have so rudely interrupted their party. 

She tries asking them questions but only gets garbled replies. She follows after with little choice. And after a moment she realizes they lead her to a ball. Melting candle wax and red rose petals, glittering dresses and singing of white nights, perfumes of incense, alabaster stone.

The cloth flesh coils around her. When she enters they look up and cheer for her to join. 

She hesitates. Taking slow steps, her sneakers were replaced by lace heels. Streetwear and lanyard ID substituted by a white gown gleaming silver and gold and sleeves threaded with pearls to match

She gasps at finding herself in front of an audience. She had wandered into a royal audience chamber.

"I need to get back home." she pleads.

In her short time wandering the palace walls she managed to enrapture the attention of an important figure.

Disdain and amusement. They lean on their knuckle, resting on their seat. Like watching the riders of a carousel from the sidelines. When humans wander in they usually die quickly or are transformed. 

She jumps on the upside down stairs to see if they would fall. But her feet land, rooted by a strange gravity.

The ambassador lets her explore their bash. This one captures them. A male guest stumbles and falls down cowering in drugged stupor, they observe the human woman running to his side to help him up. Getting nothing but a burp in thanks but she only smiles as the citizen stumbles off.

They enjoy the sight of their smile.

The ambassador gives her a room in the highest tower. A stab at the yellow sky. It's beautiful and fully furnished with a lone single window offering a view on the city. An important room. Far too much for a magic-less intruder like her. 

She learned from servants the name of this place. Alagadda. 

Ten days since she had last seen her home. An eon since she had seen the faces of her family and friends. Her heart aches. 

Gowns, silk, fur, instead of cotton. It's still too early to say she's gotten used to this place.

Each evening she sits with the king, the four lords and the ambassador 

Odious questions and threatens her. But she remained unresponsive. The only reason he hasn't erupted and sent her to the dungeons is because of the ambassador.

There was this terrible opening of their chest laid bloody and bare for a simmering emotion they had not felt in eons. For the first time they wander the tower of their fractured city with a new viewpoint. Remembering all the times they stalked others through this building with malicious intent.

Now they are here with a chest full of….affection.

They see her window as they stand below the tower. Brushing flakes of gold out of her hair with the brush they had gifted her a week ago.

It wasn't until they felt a hand on their shoulder did they realize that they'd taken steps towards her.

It's the Red lord. They stand together for a moment, voyuers to her nightly routine, then he clears his throat. "If I could offer you some advice on the winning of a mortal heart?"

He takes their silence as acquiescence. "Human women love material gifts. You are on the right track by giving her the main tower but jewelry and clothes will have her panties dropping in no time."

Why do they keep Rubedo around? They take the nugget of crude guidance (not that they needed help) and apply it to the next meeting.

She's the star of the evening, they flock around her and laugh at her jokes, hanging on to every word. When she exits a party for the rest of the night they look towards the curtain willing for her to return.

They love her. Far different from the interest of passing entertainment or love of themselves, the way they felt for her rumbles the nonexistent pit of their stomach.

Life thrived through each motion she made, sincere and solid. People could trust the slow smile and wide eyes. 

So when she asked so sweetly to leave they couldn't help but delay. They won't let her escape.

Instead the ambassador offers her things that would appeal to her human senses. Jewels for every day of the month. "As pretty as your smile."

Hugging her to their chest. The hand cups her cheek and presses their face against hers. There is no mouth to kiss or nose to nustle against. Just the gaping imprint of where those features would be.

They are close and cold as a corpse when her hands reach their waist and shoulder. 

They present her with a crown of rubies. Placing it on her head. "As bright as my yearning." they whisper in her ear.

Gloves of fine diamonds that come to her elbows and black pearl earrings.

Food that she loves with the taste of joyful childhood. Tasting of the impossible. Concepts in bites of cookies, laughter in slices.

They have the three high lords bow at her arrival. Seated above the bound king. At their side.

Trumpets sound as soon as she descends into a party.  She wants to run from the masks that watch her. Foreign and far from the warmth of humanity. But the ambassador is there. Holding her tight. "As loud as my love for you." They say. Spinning her across the ballroom floor.

They tell her that her human origins are beneath her. Throw away the past and relish the eternal now of their all-encompassing love. Forget her family and friends. School and work. Dance with them under the light of candlelit chandeliers. The stage calls for her to sit next to the director. 

[celestemagnoliathewriter]

Merlin's Merry Marriages

A story written for @hinnyfest for 6 Nov. Prompt: "You are speaking about my future wife/husband. Be more respectful".

Story - Read on AO3 here. Many thanks to @turanga4, @hinnyfied, and the fine folks at @thethreebroomsticksficfest for fun and inspiration.

Full story below:

The day after their engagement announcement was published in The Daily Prophet, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley received no less than 37 letters from wedding venues across the country, inviting them to tour their properties for what had been heralded as the “wedding of the century.”

Harry snorted at the pronouncement – it was only 2002, two years into the 21st century. He was perfectly happy with a Burrow wedding, which he’d always felt was his home away from home, but Ginny had other ideas.

Thus began a great search for the wedding venue that would witness the nuptials of Harry James Potter and Ginevra Molly Weasley.

They began at Merlin’s Mansion, a sprawling property with gardens to rival Queen Mary’s. Merlin’s Mansion was advertised as the “premier, luxury option for the finest in magical society.” Harry was immediately against the idea of being married there; their tour guide and possible event planner, one Pansy Parkinson, greeted them with the same familiar, pug-faced sneer Harry had almost forgotten. She haughtily explained that if the Potter-Weasley wedding were to take place there, it would be the first wedding of a “different” nature to be celebrated at Merlin’s Mansion.

“What does that mean?” Ginny asked, tightening her grip on Harry’s arm.

“Oh, you know,” Pansy said, smirking. “Merlin’s Mansion serves only the worthiest of magical society…your fiancé’s fame makes up for his…deficiencies.”

“Deficiencies?” Ginny screeched, stomping her foot angrily. “Excuse me?”

“Gin—” Harry began, but Ginny shook him off.

“You are speaking about my future husband,” she spat. “Be more respectful!”

Pansy’s eyes widened, feigning shock. She began a half-hearted apology, but Ginny cut her off.

“You and Merlin’s twats can shove it up your arses. We’re not interested.” Ginny took Harry’s hand and dragged him back to the front door, stomping angrily through the gardens, uncaring that they were trampling over prized plants.

“Wait!” a voice called from behind them. “Come back! Mr Potter! Miss Weasley!”

Harry tugged Ginny back. The tall, lanky figure of another one of his old classmates, Theodore Nott, was coming towards them.

“Wait!” he shouted. “Don’t go!”

“We’re not interested,” Ginny said flatly. “Merlin’s Massive Moron in there ruined it for us.”

“We have Morgana’s Manor,” Nott said, wheezing. “It’s smaller…cozier.”

“If you wanted our wedding, you wouldn’t have treated us this way,” Ginny said, her eyes blazing with the radiance of the setting sun. “It’s not about size, it’s about integrity.” She eyed Harry, who felt slightly uncomfortable at the mention of size, but without brooking any further input from the staff of Merlin’s Mansion or Morgana’s Manor, they set off for their next destination.

Camelot’s Corner was located on a generous plot of land in Bedfordshire. There were no extensive gardens or posh landscaping; what had once been an old Muggle farmhouse atop a hill had become a popular wizarding location for special occasions. According to their letter, Camelot’s Corner prided themselves on being the “reasonably priced option for the budget-conscious witch or wizard.”

Harry and Ginny were pleased with the location. With plenty of trees, the fall foliage would provide a lovely backdrop for their wedding pictures. Camelot’s Corner was large enough to host the dozens of guests they wanted to invite, but not as huge or ostentatious as Merlin’s Mansion.

Everything was going perfectly well, until they tried the food. Ginny didn’t seem to mind the dry roast or the flavorless potatoes. She didn’t seem to notice the lackluster mushy peas or even the inexplicably rubbery Yorkshire pudding. She winced slightly at the treacle tart, but Harry was outright offended at the offering.

“We are not having our wedding here,” he grumbled, spitting out a bite of tasteless, gritty treacle tart. “I’m not eating this.”

“But it’s pretty here,” Ginny countered, eyeing the trees longingly. “Mum could help with—”

“I’d rather be eating Kreacher’s maggoty Christmas present than this rubbish.”

Harry stood from the table, offended that anyone could ruin treacle tart so spectacularly, and walked out of the house at Camelot’s Corner, where he cast Aguamenti and let the water pour into his mouth directly from his wand tip.

“Really, Harry?” Ginny asked, with a hand on her hip.

“I did not die twice and come back to life for bad treacle tart,” he grunted, feeling his stomach convulse with what he was sure would become a mighty, painful bowel movement.

They took a quick break to relieve themselves and returned to their search early in the afternoon.

The next venue, Madam Rosmerta’s new, high-end wizarding restaurant in Diagon Alley, The Painted Porlock, looked quite promising. The food was outstanding, but the restaurant was small, and even with magical expansions, it would be too tight a fit for the Potter-Weasley wedding. The Weasleys alone would take up half the space.

The Galloping Gargoyle came next. It was right on the edge between Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley, which wasn’t entirely a problem, except for the cart outside the restaurant that sold the skulls of the game slaughtered for supper.

Neither Harry nor Ginny fancied the idea of being gifted with the skull of their dinner, a “perk” of booking their wedding at The Galloping Gargoyle, and so they politely declined before moving onto the next location.

As they moved through the list of venues, their options became worse.

A surprising amount of people had written to Harry and Ginny, offering their homes as wedding venues. While many were welcoming and kind, it became clear that their hosts either wanted an autograph from Harry (which he denied, unless children were asking for it) or from Ginny (which she always agreed to, but signed as Goonie Wazlib).

Near sunset, they approached Priamus’ Pigpen, a locale near Cambridge. Above the  pigpen was a sign that read: “You’re here to get married,” with the image of a pig in a bride’s dress on one side of it and a matching, tuxedo-clad groom pig on the other side. Below the sign, in rougher writing, read: “Name your wedding pig for only 10 Galleons!”

“Too bad Pigwidgeon’s already been taken,” Harry said wryly, watching Ginny roll her eyes.

“These are prize pigs,” the proprietor, a man called Harold, said in an accent that reminded Harry of Hagrid. “The lot o’ them. Ter die for.”

“And we get to choose our own?” Ginny asked. “That’s very important to us, that we get to choose our dinner.”

“’O course! Come here,” Harold said. He brought Harry and Ginny around to the other side of the pen, where many piglets were oinking and squealing loudly in the spring mud.

“They were born las’ month,” he continued proudly, gesturing at the piglets. “By October they’ll be fattened up real good an’ they’ll be ready. Yeh can pick one out if yeh like.”

Ginny’s eyes flew open. Harry stood next to her, holding her hand, mildly uncomfortable at the thought of choosing his dinner six months in advance.

“Harry, we can save one,” Ginny said quietly. “Want a pet—”

“Sir,” Harry said politely, “what else comes with the wedding package?”

Harold tucked his hand into his pocket and pulled out a grimy, bready blob. “One free sandwich. Just one!”

“I…” Harry stared blankly at the proprietor.

“Till death do yeh part,” Harold said wistfully. “'S a tradition in our family tha' when a couple gets married, they share a sandwich. I made this one today an' I'll save it fer your wedding day.”

“That sandwich is our,” Ginny shook her head lightly, “wedding sandwich?”

“Beautiful, innit? Bacon smoked jus’ this week!” Harold beckoned for Harry and Ginny to follow him into the kitchen, but the smells emanating from it were overwhelming.

“On second thought,” Harry said abruptly, “I’ve just remembered I’m Jewish. Can’t have any of this, I’m afraid.”

“Jewish?” Harold asked, surprised. “Is tha’ the one that likes cows?”

“Love them,” Harry replied, his lips and jaw twitching as he tried to keep his expression neutral. “If I could be an Animagus, I’d be a cow.”

Ginny leaned against him, shaking from laughter. They slowly extracted themselves from Priamus’ Pigpen, managing not to take a piglet home, and returned to their home to prepare for the last wedding venue.

“This one’s only accessible by broom,” Ginny said, pulling out the last letter. “Merlin’s Merry Marriages, for the couple on the go.”

“Fly-through weddings,” Harry read aloud. “Satisfaction guaranteed. Broomsticks not included.”

Ginny shrugged and grabbed her Firebolt, a gift from Harry upon becoming a Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies. Harry grabbed his, and the two went flying together towards Scotland.

They reached the Grampian Mountains, where the pamphlet directed them, until they saw the ring of blue light, indicating they were near.

“They do weddings on the spot!” Ginny called from her broom. “After today, I reckon—”

“Get married now?” Harry grinned at her, watching her flaming red hair fly behind her as they flew through the mountains. He would never know what he did to win Ginny’s heart, but he felt like the luckiest man in the world, thinking he might just be married tonight.

A figure emerged near the blue flames, dressed in resplendent purple robes, reminding Harry of Dumbledore. The long, white beard nearly made his heart jump in his throat, but it couldn’t be—

“Good evening and welcome to Merlin’s Merry Marria—”

“Luna?!” Ginny sputtered. “Is that you?”

“Oh, hello,” Luna said, pulling the fake beard down her chin. “Are you here to get married?”

“Luna, what are you doing here?” Harry asked, close enough that he could see her familiar, wide eyes and radish earrings.

“I’m here to help you get married, of course.” Luna pulled the fake beard over her chin and tapped her wand on her eyebrows, making them thick and white to match the beard.

“But Luna,” Ginny said, regaining her composure, “why? Why are you doing this?”

“Well, you see, people want to get married and I can marry them.” Luna spoke so matter-of-factly that Harry struggled to find anything intelligent to say.

“For an extra Galleon, I shall tell you of all my sordid, illegal marriages of ages past.”

Ginny dug into her pocket and gave Luna a Galleon, commenting, “We might not get married here, but will you tell us the tales?”

Luna beamed underneath the fake beard and began telling the tales of lovestruck vampires, fairy-werewolf romances, and even a troll who had fallen in love with a giant. Not a word she said was believable, Harry thought; however, Luna told the fantastical tales with a passion unlike any other.

“Are you ready to be married now?” Luna asked. “I always had you down to be married in the forest.”

Harry glanced sideways at Ginny. The only forest he knew of was the Forbidden Forest, and considering his history with the place, he thought that getting married among centaurs, Acromantulas, or even the old Ford Anglia was not in his best interest.

“You know what I just thought of, Harry,” Ginny said slowly. “That story about the poetic troll and fairy artist reminded me – what if we got married where your parents did?”

“Godric’s Hollow, you mean?”

Ginny nodded enthusiastically. “Then the Burrow for dinner?”

Harry felt his lips curl into a smile.  “I think coming here is just what we needed,” he said, turning to Luna. “Thank you.”

“Another happy couple,” Luna said, beaming brilliantly, as she rained down a shower of sparks over Harry and Ginny. “Merlin’s Merry Marriages wishes you a lifetime free of wrackspurts!”

Harry and Ginny flew back to their home in happy spirits. They’d investigate Godric’s Hollow the following morning, but Harry had a good feeling about it. They’d be married in his first home, and celebrate in what he considered his second home after Hogwarts. Though they wouldn’t choose their own pig – much less name it – at least Harry knew he’d have the feast of a lifetime from his future mother-in-law.

He couldn’t wait.

[autumnalsunrises]

✨Give me the strength get through next week ✨

✨ yearly doctor's appointment ✨

🎃 two Halloween parties 🎃

🎃Fall foliage tour🎃

🎃I have to get my class work done both for lecturing and the certificate program 🎃

✨ugh✨