#hm. i should watch fringe again.

[incendiorum]

inter mundos's inspiration re: the whole teleporting thing came from a series called f.ringe - specifically the season 2 episode 'jacksonville' where it's revealed that while objects can be sent to the parallel universe that exists, something must come back from said parallel universe to make it 'even.' this is specifically shown as really bad in this episode because an entire building from the parallel universe teleports into the main universe and they have to act very quickly to figure out which building from the main universe is going to suddenly disappear to make it an even exchange. this is done in a couple of ways, one of them being calculating the sizes of every building in the area to find one that's approximately the same size and then evacuating it. which I hope sounds kind of familiar, because that's some of the same logic inter mundos runs on. it finds a building approximately its size, schloops it out of reality for a bit, and replaces it. when it's time to leave it sucks the original building back into its place and vanishes. io specifically has applied a bit of logic to this, and troubleshot a lot of things over the years. inter mundos not only targets buildings its size, but also abandoned/empty ones. inter mundos is also a little freaky to be in once it settles because it attaches itself to whatever grid it needs. water, power, etc. which means things in the walls... move. it can also settle itself in empty areas, too, but if io is working in a city for a bit then it's easiest to replace a building with their own.

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 7: Confrontation

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Hello, everyone! AGAIN! Because this was originally a single chapter, I didn’t want to leave it on the cliffhanger I did with Chapter 6. Therefore, ya get a two-for-one deal today! YAY! Just got some edits to do of the remaining three chaps and then this instalment SHOULD be done and dusted. Thank you to my slap daddy @ewanmitchellcrumbs​ and my boo @randomdragonfires​ for graciously allowing me to yeet this at them in group chat!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Whenever something in his life goes wrong, the solution can be found in a brothel.

It is a precept that has ruled Daemon from the moment he had first seen a whore’s tits at the impressionable age of thirteen, Viserys having finally capitulated to setting him on the path to manhood. He’d found it between the thighs of a buxom redhead, or so he had thought. Now, he’s not so sure. Nonetheless, he finds himself retreating to familiarity of fragrant burning oils and musk, of moans and sighs and the allure of gleaming flesh at times of struggle. It is where he had buried his vexation and frustration over his brother’s repeated refusals to take him seriously, where he had mourned the loss of his nephew, where he had spent the past ten years fucking away the anger and the guilt and the weight of everything he was.

It is where he has gone now, in the wake of that awful, senseless altercation with the lord of the Reach after he had dared to—Hm. Don’t think of it. He’s not looking forward to the scolding his brother will give him when he returns.

Or, it occurs to him, what will come to light as a result of my actions.

That might be the very worst part of the whole affair. When the king goes hunting for a reason that his wayward brother would strike down a member of the nobility, he knows the event alone will not satisfy as a full account of what took place. For why would Daemon Targaryen come to blows over mere implication? And, for that matter, why would Daemon Targaryen be present at Lord Tyrell’s meeting with the princess at all? From there, the web comes unbound, and he is discovered.

Fuck’s sake. This is not how he intended to broach the subject with Viserys.

The familiar sounds of breathy moans and slapping flesh fill the room as he sits upon the chaise, surveying the wares and nursing his fifth goblet of wine. He is pleasantly relaxed from the drink and the heady scent of fucking, the thrum of arousal warming his veins and pooling in his belly. It is not enough to coax a rise from him, but the ever-present stimulation is its own form of satisfaction. While his current associate—one of those on the fringes of his usual circle, an eager lad named Desmond or Desward or some such appellation—blathers on, Daemon idly casts his eyes around the room, taking in the abundance of unclothed forms, the roaming of hands and bouncing of breasts, the open-mouthed groaning of the whores as they earn their keep on their knees, against the wall, over the chair.

“… Which one do you like best, my prince?”

He snaps back to attention at the direct inquiry from his companion. Desmond jerks his chin toward the figures in various stages of undress, cheap jewels glittering under the light of the chandelier.

A much nicer establishment this time around, Daemon muses. He doesn’t voice this aloud, however. “Hm. That one, perhaps.”

He lets his eyes linger on the taller whore, appreciating the dusky glow of her hair as it spirals ink-dark from her crown. She twists her body winningly upon realising he is watching her, biting her lip and tossing her head back to display the elegant line of her neck. She’s not to his tastes, but that is precisely her appeal.

“Thought you would’ve gone with that pale-haired girl there,” Desward says, pointing out the smaller, white-haired waif prancing about with her gown peeled down to her waist, modest tits springing with each lively step.

Daemon swallows. She reminds him of you. No. He doesn’t want to think of you, not after the way you had looked at him. “Explain,” he says coldly.

This man hadn’t been present for those occasions in which his little entanglement with Rhaenyra had come up. So how has he come to that conclusion on his own?

Desmond’s expression twists apprehensively. “I just… everyone knows of your taste for silver-haired maidens, milord.”

Everyone does, do they? He’s not surprised to hear the rumours circling of his predilection for maidens, but the distinction here is new. There’d never been enough common stock with Valyrian features in Westeros for such preference to be made public beyond the closer of his old associates, and talk of the misconduct that had gotten him banished was never all that widespread, or so he has since learned. He can only think of one who might have reignited speculation. Fucking Dargood.

Later, he thinks, striding toward the object of his interest. I’ll deal with him later.

His irritation boils his blood just enough to incite a twitch of intrigue from his cock as he casts his eye over her critically. She’s a pleasing enough shape, though the hair is too fine and the mouth too small. Good enough.

“I hope I am to your liking, my prince,” she murmurs, pushing her shoulders back so that her form is bared a little more easily to his regard.

He grunts, eyeing the finely groomed mound that conceals his eve’s prize, and he cannot help but extend his hand to cup the plumpness of her, to trace a digit through silken petals to toy with the bud at the apex.

Either she’s had a customer already or she’s had her fun before venturing down, he mulls, rubbing the sticky wetness from her soft, swollen entrance between thumb and finger. The give is not the same as it would have been from grease alone. Ah—a whore worthy of the name.

Daemon allows her to grab him by the wrist and lead him through the room, through a darkened corridor and into an empty chamber. ‘Tis one of several, he observes, and quite finely furnished for an establishment of ill-repute. Of course, they are visiting the Street of Silk this time. The standards are far higher than that dilapidated hovel in Flea Bottom.

He pushes the girl away when she makes for the buttons of his jacket.

“I’m not intending to linger, pet,” he says, leading her hand down to the laces of his breeches. She nods, smirking impishly as she works at the fastenings. When they come loose, he presses her back onto the bed, reaching into his pants to withdraw his cock.

“My prince!” She is already spreading her legs like a little slut, fingers plucking hedonistically at her nipples. He leers, fondling the soft warmth of her exposed cunt. She is primed and ready for him, a consummate professional in her art.

He wishes the sight stirred him more.

“Call me ‘Uncle’.” He damns his weakness even as he crawls on top of her and shoves her legs further apart, notching his cock at her entrance.

He’d not had this fucking obsession before you—back when he’d thought himself enamoured with your sister, it had been enough to simply eke out his lusts on the nearest hole available, quick and rough and barely memorable. How you have unmanned him! How pathetic he has become. How woeful it is that he cannot endure something so instinctive, so primordial as mating without the thought of you to help him along.

The girl blinks; smiles. “Uncle! Oh, Uncle,” she breathes, the inflection all wrong, sounding nothing like you.

He plunges harshly into her, the glide hot and wet and too easy. It is nothing like taking your maidenhead would feel like, nothing like the tight resistance of a nervous virgin. He closes his eyes and pounds into the whore below him. This time, it is different. He is in control, he knows he is picturing you and he lets himself, permits the mirage of you to fill his mind’s eye and imagines the way your eyes might widen with mingling trust and hesitation as he breaches you.

“Uncle, my prince, fuck—”

He slaps a hand over her mouth, irritated by the disruption of his fantasy. You would never say such a thing in the midst of your deflowering, he is sure of it. When the whore’s voice is stifled, pitchy whimpers emanating from under his palm, he can almost convince himself it is you, can almost lose himself in the slip of cunt and glide of skin.

Daemon moans your name again—the game is up and it’s not long before he’s either exiled or given you, so what is the point in pretence—and suckles dark bruises down her throat, imagining it is the pale skin of your beguiling flesh. When he opens his eyes to stare into yours, he is confronted with the dull green of the whore’s.

What am I doing? What am I doing? Usually, the shame and aggravation sinks in once the firestorm of ecstasy has burnt itself out. It is just his luck that it strikes mid-coupling now.

“Fuck.” He begins to soften despite his hips driving a determined rhythm, desperate to keep the illusion alive just a little longer. It is not to be. “Fuck.”

He pulls out of the whore, sitting back on his haunches. He cannot go through with it. He cannot slink away, bury himself in a whore and pretend as though it’s you, not when he could be trying to win the real thing. He cannot disgrace you by fucking another and wishing it was your face he sees. It would have been preferable had the revelation come sooner—or later. He does not enjoy exposing his weakness before peasant stock.

He sighs; wipes his hand over his eyes; tucks himself back into his breeches, knotting the laces once more.

“My prince?” she asks, legs splayed and cunt raw and red from his vigorous pace.

He smiles wryly down at her, thumbing three silvers into her hand.

“My apologies, pet,” he says, pulling himself off the bed and heading to the door. “I’ve got somewhere to be.”

When Viserys had summoned him after his night in the brothel so long ago, he’d known immediately what it was about.

Foolish of him, really, to have said what he did. “The heir for a day.” To be fair, he’d not meant it as a mockery of Viserys’s pain or Aemma’s suffering, of Rhaenyra’s grief or your confusion. For all the commons had jibed of his anger and resentment, the Rogue Prince forced down the line of succession by a mere newborn, he had never truly felt umbrage toward his own nephew. How could he? He remembers cradling that boy in his arms, still numb with the shock of his cousin’s death, his brother nowhere to be seen. He remembers those gasping wheezes of his, tiny lips tinged purple with the effort of drawing air into lungs that did not wish to rise. Baelon had passed on in only a few hours, taking with him the realm’s hope for another heir. Someone other than him.

The king’s vitriol was understandable, if unjustified; in a rare display of restraint, Daemon had allowed the man to rail at him over the perceived slight, all too aware of who had been whispering in his ear. It was clear that Otto Hightower had gleaned the details from one of those nearby on the night of his unfortunate blunder, and had used the information to strip him of his standing.

He should have known better than to trust those he used to surround himself with. He should have learned by now.

Daemon returns to the keep as the hour of the ghosts sets in, the dim illumination of the torches bracketing the walls casting an eerie reminiscence upon his path. He’s faced Viserys’s wrath one too many times, those occasions blurring together so that he is several iterations of himself simultaneously.

Daemon the soldier. Daemon the drunkard. Daemon the outcast. He walks in the shadow of his former selves.

It is not long before he is confronted by the silent, scowling form of the Lord Commander. He holds his arms up, palms out, a clear signal of surrender.

“I assume my brother wishes to see me?” he asks, only to be provided a brief nod in return.

A man of few words, he notes to himself. ‘Tis welcome to see that some things don’t change.

He is honestly surprised that he isn’t dragged into the Great Hall again—it is already a significant departure from the previous two events that had gotten him exiled. There is less substantiation and more happenstance in these circumstances, he supposes. Well, with the exception of his assault on Tyrell. There is no denying that occurred. But not even Viserys would take a flowery fuck like him at his word, and he is sure to have untruths aplenty to impart.

Instead, he is escorted into the small council chamber, where Viserys sits alone at the head of the table, staring pensively at the wood grain. He barely acknowledges Ser Harrold’s pronouncement. Abruptly, he sits up, takes in the view of his brother and his Lord Commander, and clenches his teeth.

“You may leave us, Ser Harrold,” he says, eyes fixed upon Daemon.

He steels himself. This time, he has nothing to be ashamed of—except for his conduct with Tyrell, and maybe the whore, perhaps both… At least this time he isn’t being accused of lechery.

“I had thought you tempered by the years away.” The king’s grip is white-knuckled upon the arm of his seat. “And yet I learn today a most curious thing: the assault of a noble lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and accusations leveraged by that very same lord against my beloved daughter’s reputation. He claims her to be entangled in an affair with another. Who could have done such a thing, I asked? Who other than Lord Flea Bottom himself—my very own brother?”

Never mind, then. By the end of his oration, his words sound more like the sibilant hiss of a snake than the utterances of a man.

“Brother—”

“You will be silent, wretch!” Viserys snaps, smacking his palm down on the table. His pockmarked face has flushed ugly red, apoplectic with thinly veiled fury. “How could you do this? Ruining Rhaenyra wasn’t enough for you, is that it? You had to go and spoil my second child, my beloved girl, for your own selfish amusement?”

“I have done nothing, Viserys!”

“I am your king!” He pushes himself from his chair by his hand and stalks over to stand before Daemon. He is limping again as he is wont to do these days. “You will address me as ‘Your Grace’!”

“Your Grace.” Daemon bows his head slightly in deference. He cannot afford to anger the man further. “While I’ll confess to the abuse levied upon Lord Tyrell, I cannot admit to something I didn’t do. I haven’t touched her—”

“Oh, you haven’t?” Viserys laughs, but it is a repugnant, mocking sound. His features are firmly arranged into an expression of revulsion. “So Ser Criston’s reports of your—indecent behaviour are falsities, is that correct?”

“Cole?” Daemon asks incredulously. “The man hates me, Viserys. Why the fuck are you listening to him?”

His brother makes a noise of outrage.

“Very well.” A cruel gleam lingers in his eyes. “And what is this I hear of you—you—cavorting about with whores, encouraging them to playact as my daughter so that you may seek your pleasure?”

Daemon’s stomach sinks. Oh, fuck.

Viserys continues. “Your man from the City Watch—Dargood—had little issue telling the tale. What say you to that?” A great many things, brother, and none of them for your ears. The king sneers. “I have half a mind to cut your cock from you and remedy your wickedness once and for all!”

“What would you have me do? Lie? I’ll admit to fucking whores and pretending they were her. Tell me you’ve never let your desires rule your bedsport!” Daemon lets out a derisive scoff. “But I’ll not stand here and be accused of undue conduct when I’ve been nothing short of chivalrous in your daughter’s company.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? Lech!” Viserys leans back against the table. When next he speaks, his voice is heavy with distaste. “Begone from this city, Daemon. You have outstayed your welcome once again.”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

Incredulity. Daemon supposes it is fair. He’d never resisted exile before.

“No,” he repeats firmly. “Save for the business with Tyrell, I’ve done nothing wrong. You have no grounds to banish me.”

“No grounds? No grounds?” The king’s pitch is rising. “Attention! Flattery! Gifts! It is a game I know well! A game you’ve played with my first child, and now my second!”

“I am not after ruining her reputation, Your Grace,” Daemon insists. His brother huffs and spins away, pacing before him. “I would have her as my wife.”

Viserys pauses. “Are you in jest?” He looks almost as though he is torn between laughter and tears. “How do you think you’ll go about getting my throne from her? Do you plan on slaying Rhaenyra and her sons to get your crown?”

It is an abhorrent thought. Daemon cannot believe his brother would think so lowly of him. Briefly, he mourns the bond he once had with him, a bond that has frayed and corrupted under the weight of the Seven Kingdoms.

“It’s not about the Iron Throne, Viserys!” He alters his approach, beseeching his brother and urgently pressing his case. “I am the best match for her, and you know it. A Targaryen prince, a warrior, a dragonrider. There is none other who would compare, none other who could give her a just union such as I, least of all that idiot Tyrell—”

“What of Lord Jason Lannister? I would have her wed into Casterly Rock, far away from your grasping ambition!” Viserys’s gaze is considering, now. No longer is he beholden to the blind rage that had gripped him only moments before. “As for your lofty claim… it is Alicent’s wish that I announce the girl’s betrothal to Aegon, who is also a Targaryen prince and a dragonrider. Why should I not heed her instead?”

He's tempted to laugh, but doing so would only incite further ire. No matter the cost, Daemon will not concede to a green boy who seems more satisfied in acting like a child than behaving like a man. 

“The boy is awful to her, Your Grace. She dislikes him. And the Lannister cunt? A simpleton. She’d be wasted on a fool like him, and you know it.”

His brother tips his head in acknowledgement and exhales frustratedly, leaning against the small council table. Much of the fight has left him.

“You are right… But how can I allow this?” Viserys whispers. He is bowed over the table, slumped and defeated. “How could you do this to her? To me?”

“What have I done?” Daemon draws closer. “I’ve spoken with her, taken walks with her, given her gifts. It is nothing more than that. I doubt she ever saw it as more than an uncle taking interest in his niece, until today. I swear this to you upon anything you wish to name.”

The king chuckles, though it carries no joy. “Such sincerity, Daemon. It is most unlike you.”

“I want her as my wife,” he says again, pleading. “Not for the sake of the throne, or to harm you, or any other reason save this—I want her.”

“I cannot…” is the response, muted and distressed. Viserys glances up at him. “You would destroy her.”

He is upset, resigned, but no longer alight with infuriation. Daemon leans against the table next to his brother.

“I would make her happy. Happier than any other. She could stay in the capital with her family. She could ride that great beast of hers whenever she likes. She could study to her heart’s content, at home where she belongs. Only I can give her all those things, and you know it. I am what she needs.”

Viserys does not reply—only stares at him with something foreign and inscrutable.

He makes his final bid. “Long have I been your staunchest supporter. Did I not wage a war in the Stepstones in defence of your kingdom? I have never asked for anything in return, except this: long ago, you promised that you’d annul my marriage so that I might find a bride of my own choosing. Years, I asked. Years, you denied me. And now… I am free.”

Daemon’s voice rings out in the stillness, the echo lending gravity to his words. He stares unflinchingly at his brother. “Give the girl to me to wife. You owe me this.”

The king is silent, unmoving. It is clear he has nothing left to say. And thus, Daemon has no reason to remain.

He bows and knocks on the door to be let out of the room. Passing through the walkway of the small council chambers as it opens, he leaves the king to his deliberations and hopes that his efforts will pay off.

“For all your degeneracy,” Daemon sneers, “you’re not one to be so loose with secrets.”

The air is chilled with the deep dark of night, the blackness so thick it is almost choking. He doesn’t enjoy the necessity of returning to the scene of his transgressions, but his wayward friend is easy to discover in the depths of the city.

Below him, Dargood pants and splutters, winded after being struck in the gut and dragged from his stool in a cheap, nameless drinking house. Daemon had lugged him rather briskly by the neck to the narrow alleyway beside the tavern, the amber luminosity pooling from the rickety window providing just enough light for him to make out the man’s face.

Dargood coughs. “Times change. A man’s got to do what he must to make coin in this city.”

“City Watch not paying you enough?” Daemon observes him as his eyes begin to droop shut, no doubt a combination of the drink and the knock to the skull as he’d been pulled out the door. He kicks him in the side for good measure, relishing in the yelp emitted when the leather makes contact with vulnerable flesh. “What a shame. Whoever could blame you for selling slanders to the king, then?”

His former ally scrambles to his knees, swaying unsteadily against the stone. “It’s not like that. And ‘slander’ only counts when it’s not true.”

He has a point, Daemon’s mind cannot help but acknowledge.

Dargood babbles on, heedless of the aggravation rising in the figure above him. “I didn’t mention anything outside what I heard and saw—”

“Oh, fuck off!” Daemon clouts him across the temple once more. He collides with the wall with a subdued thump, punctuated by further groaning. “Your father’s a lord. You don’t need the money.”

“Because it’d be so easy for me to beg that man for compassion.” Dargood spits the words out as though they taste foul on his tongue.

Ah, yes—he’d quite forgotten. A lesser son from a lesser house would hardly have recourse to cast himself upon the fires of mercy after amassing a reputation as dissolute as the man’s before him. Whoring, gambling, brawling, and there’d even been some more unsavoury rumours about his involvement in some scheme exploiting the poorest orphans of the city. He’d not cared to ask then, but perhaps he should have. He does not recognise the being before him.

Scum, he realises. He’s scum.

Daemon steps back, assessing the beaten creature that he had once called friend. He sighs. “Go home, Dargood,” he says finally. “Leave this city, or you’ll be made to.”

Before he can turn and walk away, the man lurches to his feet, grappling along the rock behind him. His bloodshot eyes zero in on his target. “So that’s it, then?” he asks, irate cadence marred by the slur in his speech. “You’ll just throw me aside when you feel like it? After all these years, prince.”

A brief flicker of displeasure stirs Daemon’s temper. “Yes—your prince. You sold out your prince for some fucking coin.”

Come to think of it… Wasn’t he making his little remarks before word reached my brother?

The memory has his hands locked tight around the man’s throat before his mind can become fully cognisant of his actions. “In fact”—his fingers squeeze harder—“you sold out your prince for status. Didn’t even need the money to spread your tales, did you?”

“Let—let go!” Dargood chokes, making no attempt to release himself from Daemon’s hold. He ought to be capable of such a feat. His training was thorough enough.

Pathetic. He’s not worth the bother.

Daemon loosens his grasp, surveying the vermin that had been his proudest investiture, a shining example of what the City Watch could achieve with discipline and decisiveness as its fundamental tenets. Now, he is no more than rabble, one among thousands of crooks, delinquents and filth polluting his ancestor’s crowning glory.

“Hm. You disappoint me.” With a final glower of disdain, he adds, “Expect a visit from your Lord Commander when day breaks. I think you’ll find your tenure with the Watch is at an end.”

With that, Daemon revolves on his heel and stalks away, far from Flea Bottom, from these havens of vice lining the streets, and from the poison that had fuelled his life in past years. He has no need for such a meaningless existence now. There is something better and brighter to look forward to.

“My prince! Daemon!”

He ignores Dargood’s supplications even as they grow louder, leaving him behind—where he belongs.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/42100623/chapters/106069425

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[weighty-ghosts]

‘Perpetual Force’ (wolfstar)

Perpetual Force, by weightyghosts

‘Sirius finds the hidden meaning of a hidden moon, and Remus finds the light to his darkness.’

Rating: teen

Word count: 2000

Pairing: Remus x Sirius

Published: April 1, 2021

Warnings: swearing, nightmares

 https://archiveofourown.org/works/30393084 

      The sound of a terrified gasp and muffled sob abruptly awoke Sirius in the middle of the night. He leapt out of bed, the stone floor freezing on his bare feet, as James and Peter popped their sleepy heads out of their drapes.

“What’s going on?” Peter rubbed his eyes, his voice gruff.

“Is some- someone dead or injured?” James asked around a large yawn.

Sirius ignored them as he rushed across the dark room to the bed opposite his. He drew aside the curtain, only enough for him to lean his upper body in, and saw Remus sitting up with his back against the headboard, one hand clutching at his sweaty hair, trying to calm his rapid breathing.

“Rem?” Sirius asked softly, “Are you alright?” He reached out to place a comforting hand on Remus’ shoulder, but Remus jerked away and scrambled to the other side of the bed.

“It’s nothing,” he choked out as he stood up and dashed away, “I’m fine. I’m sorry for waking you up.”

Sirius straightened and walked around the bed, as Remus firmly shut the bathroom door behind him. He hovered in the middle of the room, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before glancing back at Peter, who gave Sirius a shrug before disappearing behind his curtains.

“Go on,” James encouraged, then made a shooing motion with his hand when Sirius didn’t reply.

“What?” Sirius grumbled.

“We both know you’re going in there after him.”

“He’s upset, Prongs.”

“Yes, and I’m sure deep down he wants you to comfort him-”

“You mean someone. He wants someone to comfort him.”

“No, I very much mean you,” James insisted with a smirk that Sirius didn’t trust. “Just go, Pads. See- see you in the morning,” he yawned again and disappeared.

Sirius bounced on the balls of his feet, trying to figure out why James’ words left him feeling like he was missing something right in front of him, but he thought of Remus and decided to sort that out later.

He crept over to the bathroom and opened the door slowly. Cool air hit him and he turned to the window that had been thrown open. Remus was sitting on the sill, hugging his legs, moonlight the only thing illuminating his body. It was enough for Sirius to see that he was shivering.  

Remus sighed at the sound of Sirius shutting the door behind him, and pushed aside the fringe sticking to his damp forehead. “I’m fine, Sirius. You don’t need to check on me.”

“Oh, good,” Sirius retorted as he came closer, “I was actually hoping you’d check on me. See, I had a nasty nightmare and now I’m all shaky and sweaty and panicky and not accepting comfort from anyone.”

He sat across from the werewolf on the sill they had magically enlarged so that two people could sit comfortably, and three squished together, for smoking purposes.

Remus narrowed his eyes at him, then looked away. “Trust me, it’s nothing. Just a stupid dream.”

“Doesn’t seem stupid, Moony.”

Sirius almost missed Remus’ minute flinch at the nickname. “Another one about the wolf?” He guessed.

“No,” he murmured, “I mean, yes, sort of. But this was new.”

“Tell me,” Sirius replied softly, aching with the desire to take away Remus’ pain.

Remus studied his face for a moment, likely assessing how awake Sirius was and how far he would keep pushing Remus until he inevitably gave in. He huffed in defeat, then took a deep, wavering breath, and rested his chin on his knees as he spoke.

“We were in the forest,” he started in a low voice. “I could feel the moon rising and knew I was only a few minutes away from turning. You three were there- as Padfoot, Prongs and Wormtail, I mean, and something felt...off. Padfoot was pacing, and whining a bit. You looked up at the sky, and when I did too, I realized... I couldn’t see the moon.”

Sirius frowned, but said nothing, as he watched Remus’ eyes flick over to the near-full moon stamped in the sky outside.

“I felt this sense of dread; I knew that this was bad-”

“How did you know?” Sirius interrupted.

“It’s a dream, Sirius. I don’t know how, but I just knew; if I didn’t find the moon, something bad would happen.”

“Alright, sorry, keep going.”

“We were pretty deep in the forest where the trees are thicker, so I started running in the direction of the castle, hoping to see the sky unobstructed as the trees thinned. All I could hear was this ringing in my ears and my heart beating faster and faster. My body was aching and starting to shake, you know how it does just before.” Remus glanced up, and Sirius hummed in acknowledgment.

“I made it to a large clearing,” Remus continued, “And I looked up at where I knew the moon should be...but the sky was empty. You’d think I’d be fucking happy, but I panicked. I ran around in circles, tried to climb trees, tried to find the bloody moon. And I couldn’t. I eventually collapsed; the wolf couldn’t get free and it was punishing me. It was the worst pain...”

“Fuck, Rem...”

“I couldn’t find the moon, Pads.” Remus put a hand over his face as he laughed without humour, the sound catching in his throat.

Sirius slid forward and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he promised, “You’re okay, it wasn’t real. You won’t have to go through that kind of pain, alright?”

Remus shook his head back and forth, then sniffed loudly as he met Sirius’ eyes.

“I don’t think it was the pain that freaked me out so much.”

“What, then?” Sirius asked, sliding his hand down to hold onto Remus’ wrist when he hesitated. He tilted his head to tell Remus to keep going.

“I just don’t understand why I reacted like that… Why wasn’t I fucking ecstatic not to see the moon? All I want is for the moon to go away.”

“That’s just unreasonable, Remus, the tides would be all out of whack,” Sirius joked.

The corner of Remus’ mouth twitched up into a smile, but it didn’t last.

“I don’t get it, Pads,” he said dejectedly.

Sirius shrugged. “I think it makes sense.”  

Remus stared at him like he’d just said he prefers coffee over tea, or something else equally abhorrent.

“You know,” Sirius reflected, “The day before I went on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, I actually told my parents I didn’t want to go.”

“Why? Because they said you had to?”

“Maybe a little,” he chuckled. Remus knew him well enough to know that he would have refused his favourite ice cream just because his parents told him to eat it. “But no, I think it was more...fear. I was afraid.”

Remus tilted his head in a thoroughly adorable way. “Why would you be afraid of coming to Hogwarts? Didn’t you want a break from your parents?”

“I did,” he confirmed, “I wanted to get away from them. But it’s the most common fear in the world, isn’t it? Being afraid of the unknown? I was scared at home too, but at least I knew what to expect. I knew how my parents would react to anything I said or did. Coming here... I had no idea. What if I didn’t get sorted into Slytherin? Or worse, what if I did... What if my roommates hated me-”

“Not possible.”

“Yes it was! I know you didn’t like me at first.”

“You were a bit of a prick,” Remus conceded.

“I was a proper arse,” Sirius smirked unapologetically, drawing a small laugh from Remus. “It’s the unknown, Moony,” he continued more seriously, “As much as you hate what you go through every month, it’s been the one constant in your life for as long as you can remember. You know what to expect from it. There’s a lot changing in the world around us, and we only have a few months left of school; I think we’re all feeling the weight of it. It’s okay to be worried. But we’ll get through it, yeah?”

Remus didn’t reply, simply gazed at Sirius for a long while, before nodding thoughtfully. He turned his head to look out at the night sky, and Sirius was able to watch the moonlight on his beautiful face; the shadows under his eyes, his long lashes, the slope of his nose, the corners of his mouth still turned down in sadness.

Remus had long since stopped being angry at the moon, stopped glaring at it whenever it deigned to blemish the sky. He looked at it now in a somber resignation; how someone would observe the grave of a loved one long since passed.

Sirius realized he was still holding onto Remus, and quickly found it difficult to remember what he wanted to say.

When he did, he whispered, “Moony?”  

“Hm?”

“If you ever can’t find the moon, you can come find me.”

“What?” Remus turned to look at him. “Sirius-”

“No, listen,” he cut in, suddenly desperate to make Remus understand, “I know I’ve broken your trust before, but it will never happen again. I’ll always be there for you.”

Sirius slid his fingers from Remus’ wrist to his hand, holding it tight, as Remus’ eyes flicked across his face. “I’ll always be there,” Sirius urged, “The moon is the perpetual force in your life pulling you into the dark? Then I’ll be the perpetual force pulling you into the light.”

Remus just stared back at him, his eyes wide and glittering, his mouth open. Sirius waited for him to say something, but he didn’t.

Instead, he tugged Sirius’ hand, pulling him close as Remus leaned forward. Sirius’ mind froze like he’d been stupefied, but he managed to realize what was happening a second before it did, and he felt Remus’ lips press against his, gently, yet firmly.

Remus pulled back slightly, waiting for Sirius’ reaction.

“Did- did you just kiss me?” Sirius asked stupidly.

“Erm, yes?”

“Did you... mean to do that?”

“Yes?”

Remus bit his lip, and Sirius’ eyes were drawn to the mouth that had just been on his. There was a bead of saliva on Remus’ top lip. His hand felt warm and tingly from where they touched, though, really, it was nothing compared to the raging fire building inside him.

“Did you...want to do it again?”

“Yes,” Remus exhaled, his face lighting up with a grin that Sirius immediately surged forward to capture. Remus’ lips tasted like tea and honey and peppermint, and Sirius could tell he was quickly becoming addicted to it.

“Thank you,” Remus whispered after a divine moment.

“For kissing you?”

“For following me in here and comforting me.”

“I thought you were comforting me?”

“Ah is that what I’m doing?” Remus smirked. His face softened and he ran his thumb along Sirius’ palm. “You were wrong though, you know.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sirius dismissed. “About what?”

“You said the moon has been the only constant in my life for as long as I can remember. But that’s not true.”

He looked deep into Sirius’ eyes, and Sirius felt his heart stutter at the adoration in them. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, Pads. My love for you has been a constant in my life too.”

“Oh,” Sirius breathed. The words felt like sunlight washing over him, and he took a second to let the warmth seep into his bones. “Moony…” He brought a hand up to cup Remus’ cheek and tilted his face as their lips fit together, hoping to convey every feeling that was lost on his tongue into his touches.

“Me too, Moons,” he professed in between kisses, “As long as I can remember.”

The rest of the night was spent in each other's arms, as were the next nights for a long, long while.

*

[whirlybirbs]

✶  ———  MENDING  ;   d.d.

summary: something has unsettled din. you set to find out what. affections brew.   * set post!chapter 11. contains spoilers! *

pairing: din djarin x gender nuetral!reader

word count: 1.8k of pure pining ‘n’ identity crises !

a/n: it’s another notes app fic, baby! the gif above is from this set by the lovely @thewaythisis​! anyways, din can plow me like a field of wheat under the harvest moon whew (panting spongebob meme)

something is bothering him.

it would be a lie to say that din djarin was quiet soul — plainly put, he wasn’t.

he was, if anything, a purposeful and succinct soul who knew how to measure the weight of words when they were spoken. with all the little bell-like tinkers that came from his every step — beskar on beskar — quiet was not a fitting adjective to match that of din djarin. no. he was strong. sturdy. a chant of mando’a in the afternoon sun. intimidating.

something is definitely bothering him.

the ship is a wreck — you’re sure that alone is enough to strike a sore nerve with the mandalorian piloting the vessel. so, as he plots course for the little planet on the edge of nowhere that the striking bo-katan spoke of, you make work on what you can. reinforcing some structural plating, running diagnostics on the fuel-lining that runs beneath the floor plates, and welding the paneling the mon calamari engineer installed to cover the gaping hole in the side of the ship occupies you for a long while.

just the bright flicker of flame and your thoughts.

din hasn’t uttered a word since entering the ship.

you hope, at the very least, he’s taken the time to eat something away from your prying eyes.

the welding torch is hot in your gloved hands when you hear footsteps coming down the ladder into the swaying belly of the razor crest. you knew it was the wing equilibrium counter-weights the moment you took off. not much you can do about it from the inside.

the good news is that the rocking put the child right to sleep.

you pull your goggles down and watch as din djarin carefully carries the little woolen bundle to the hanging hammock within the small cot compartment. he’s exceedingly gentle, incredibly careful. once the child is inside, din dims the lights and closes the door.

you work your gloves off.

he sighs.

again, you can’t help but be struck with worry. the sort that nibbles on your heartstrings just enough to wring a flinch out of you.

“have you eaten?” he asks. his voice is even, almost cold.

you shake your head.

his helmet glints in the overhead light as he juts his chin to the cockpit; wordlessly, you stand and follow — swallows whole by his bulky shadow that looms over you as you hike yourself up the ladder.

din has done some mending of his own, it seems. the netting and twine that was keeping the dash steady had been removed. you can see the tedious, small welding marks from his own tool kit along the seams. you make a mental note to go over it later. in the corner, there’s a pile of the mess.

you land into the passenger’s seat with a huff.

the tube of protein paste that din offers you from his stash beneath the razor crest’s controls has you frowning. but, it’s bantha flavored. better than nothing. if you close your eyes, you can almost imagine it being a piece of steak.

almost.

if a steak was cold, pureed, and poured into a jerky-shaped tube.

din is quiet when swings in his chair, turning to nearly face you. he stretches, straightening his back out, then he crosses his arms. his boots plant themselves on the floor. his stance is wide. his posture is sagging.

you swallow your meal.

“did you eat?” your voice feels small.

din nods.

hm.

“... are you hurt?”

more silence. finally, he shakes his head. you know it’s a lie — the last forty-eight hours have left you both with your fair share of lacerations and deep-tissue bruising. beneath the armor, you can only imagine the sort of bruises he’s gotten.

“... tired?”

“this checklist you’re doing,” he rasps out, head lulling to the side as he looks up at the ceiling, “you should be doing it on yourself.”

you scoff into your meal paste.

“maybe.”

a grunt.

silence follows the exchange for a few minutes. it’s once you’ve managed to choke down the entirety of the bantha-flavored mush that you speak again. it’s not courage the drives the question, but concern.

“be honest, din,” you breathe, “are you alright?”

his helmet turns, t-visor glaring at you in the dim light of the cabin. you can see his fingers, gloved and tucked neatly against his biceps, twitch. he inhales deeply. the beskar glimmers with the light of stars that pass by beyond the cockpit window.

he’s rather a sight to behold.

“no.”

you’re startled back to the moment.

when you speak, your voice is soft. the sort of soft that’s begun to erode din’s usual beskar-grade composure. he’s begun to waver, begun to hesitate around you. he finds he can’t help it. he’d grown quite fond of you and your innate ability to give a shit. you’re not asking because you want to get paid, because you expect something of him. no, you’re asking because it matters to you.

he’s finally starting to understand that after cycles and cycles of time spent trying to find the child’s true place in this mess of a galaxy. you’ve been traveling with him since before nevarro — before... before the covert’s split.

before he started to feel so alone.

and confused.

and angry.

so angry.

how many moments has he denied himself because of this armor? how much kindness, how much care? how many friendships has he ignored for the sake of the creed? how many loves have come and gone, as fickle as stardust? what has he missed?

... has he truly even missed anything? that is the way.

he is all sorts of swirling bitterness now, mouth pulled into a firm line beneath the lip of his helmet. to see those others — true mandalorians, ones with clan-names, with lineage-graced armor, who speak the tongue and have touched the soil of the place he has never called home, but always idolized — reveal their faces...

he’s one of them...

children of the watch...

din’s foot taps.

you lean forward.

“din...?”

“the others,” he speaks suddenly, almost in a bark, “called my clan a coven of zealots. fringe radicalists. they showed me their faces and —”

a ragged sigh.

suddenly, you’re beginning to understand.

he’s frustrated.

“i’ve lived my life under a strict code,” din continues, helmet tilted up the ceiling. he’s tracing the bolts with his dark eyes, “one that has given me a purpose, a family, a home. but i can’t help but begin to question the cost.”

you’re listening. you’re pulling your knees up, arms cradling them close. your expression is soft.

“i thought...” then, he lets out a gritted huff of frustration, “i — i never considered my practices to be radical. i thought they were as every mandalorian lived.”

your words are soft. “... in all fairness, your people are living in a diaspora, din. the empire scattered you all to the far corners of the galaxy. it wasn’t as if you were seeing your kin every weekend."

din grunts.

you roll the hem of your tunic between your fingers.

“why is this bothering you?”

“i’ve spent my entire life in armor.”

you frown. din’s head turns and you feel a sad look pull your brows together. you hadn’t... well. his mood is beginning to make a lot of sense now. the frustration, the quiet. all of it.

“i’ve never felt the sea breeze on my face,” he continues, “or... or the kiss of another person. all because i lived my life by the creed i was raised upon. and i was told upon breaking that creed, i’d no longer have a purpose. dar’manda.”

“dar’manda?” the language is harsh on your tongue.

“to... to lose your heritage. to not be mandalorian. the covert believed that bearing your face to another outside of marriage was grounds for ex-communication from the clan. exile.”

“well,” you say after a long moment, crossing your legs and perching on the chair, “that explains the lack the kissing. certainly wasn’t the most important thing on the docket, was it?”

that manages to worm a laugh out of din. the sort that rattles his shoulders and makes his armor swell. he ducks his chin. the sound is still warm as it crackles through his vocalizer.

“interesting point of focus.”

“shut up,” you shirk, “you brought it up.”

“... do you blame me?”

you grow quiet at that but shake your head. your chin finds your hand.

“no,” you say softly, “i don’t. i’m sorry.”

“don’t be.”

“what will you do?”

din straightens a bit at that.

there’s only kindness in your eyes.

“it doesn’t matter now,” din says curtly, as if it’s the easiest answer in the world, “the child is my priority. keep you both safe is my priority.”

slowly, you amble up. your hand finds his pauldron, pressing gently into the fabric between his neck and shoulder oh-so-gently. you mind the affection blooming at his words; you’re careful with how you approach it, just as he is. as if a reflex, his hand snatches up to grip yours tightly.

you welcome it.

you squeeze the cold leather of his gloved hand.

“it does matter,” is uttered out like a sigh; din can’t look up at you. he’s sure his entire chest will burst, “you can’t bear the weight of the world on your shoulders, din.”

“i can manage.”

“let me help.”

a scoff. suddenly his hold tightens. his thumb, ever-so-carefully, ghosts the knuckle of your hand. 

“you do enough.”

it’s your turn to snort.

“i’m practically freeloading, din —”

“no,” he barks, sitting up a bit straighter. now his visor tilts up, and you swear if you looked hard enough, you could see the slope of a nose, the curve of a lip. maybe, if he tilted his head, you could see his jaw — a ghost of a beard, a flash of a throat. he is human. it’s moments like these that remind you, “no, you’re important. you care.”

“— and i eat all your food —”

“you care about me and you care about the child and it matters more than you realize.”

his tone is so final, you feel as if it’s struck an ending note. as if the conversation has ended. that the welling of emotion behind his words is not to be questioned, not to be considered. in the last few cycles, moments like these have become more frequent but still cherished. as rare as they are, they never fail to make you feel like there’s star-shine in your veins. he isn’t one for grandiose confessions. but... this feel special.

his words leave your lips parted, mouth agape. 

and then, in the tiny cockpit, hand in hand with din djarin, all you can muster is a flustered:

“you know, if that helmet wasn’t in the way i would have kissed you cycles ago.”

now, he’s embarassed. it has him laughing — but quiet and shy and all sorts of meak that make the brute of a man seem boyish. his voice is crackled alive with a new-found comfort. he is better now, more like himself and more.

“don’t feed the indentity crisis.”

[starlightments]

                                     PREVIEW: part one

    The Galra, a hostile nation of magic-wielders, have finally been banished from the kingdom’s borders. The war is over, once and for all. The Crown City is more determined than ever to re-establish peace to its people when a mysterious boy is discovered in the outlands. Keith is taken under the wing of the Royal Guard, where he is to be groomed for knighthood, but his inherent and untamed magical abilities have branded him a threat, alienating him from the only family he’s ever known — until he meets Lance, a rambunctious young prince in search of a playmate.     But as the boys grow older and feelings grow stronger, their days of childhood whimsy evolve into a deeply unshakeable bond; one that is soon tested by rumors of a Galra counterattack and perhaps even a state-mandated betrothal to assuage political tension. Now, with both hearts and lives on the line, the two lovers find themselves at a complicated crossroads: duty or desire?  

Language: English  |  Rating: TBD  |  Art Credit: here  

FANDOM: Voltron: Legendary Defender

GENRE: Royal AU, childhood friends-to-lovers

PAIRING(S): Keith/Lance

                                                     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  A flash of light comes blazing through the half-parted curtains, followed by a violent clap of thunder that rattles the floorboards and, consequently, startles the young prince awake.

  Lance sits up with a gasp, clutching at the elaborately embroidered duvet, keeping it tucked under his chin for protection. The bedroom goes pitch black again, save for the bluish glow of a star-shaped nightlight in the corner, but the storm continues to rage outside. He can hear rain beating behind his window and the blustery sway of tree branches as they scrape up against the glass like fingernails.

  “Marco,” Lance whispers into the darkness. His brother remains fast asleep, snoring softly, on the other side of the room. “Marco.”

  Still no response. Lance spends a moment rooting around under the covers for his raggedy stuffed lion, then squeezes it close to his chest as he scuttles over to his brother’s bed and shakes him urgently by the shoulder.

  “Go away,” Marco grumbles into his pillow.

  “But the noises!” insists Lance. “What if it’s a—”

  “It’s not a monster, it’s just a storm. Quit being such a baby.”  

  Lance puffs up at that, bottom lip jutting out with defiance. He’s fully prepared to remind his brother that he turned seven last month — and is, therefore, no longer a baby by any means, thank you very much — when another loud noise cries out in the dead of night; except this time it’s unlike the rumbling thunder and howling winds. It’s a mighty whoosh of the front doors being flung open downstairs. Wet footsteps slapping against the marbled foyer. Low, angry-sounding voices.

  “Marco,” says Lance, shaking him again. “I mean it, I think there’s something—”

  “Cut it out, Lance,” Marco says, and then swats at the younger boy’s hand with an agitated grunt before rolling away to face the wall.

  But the noises persist. If anything, they’re only getting louder, more conspicuous, and Lance’s curiosity is not so easily brushed aside. So, bracing himself, with his trusty lion in tow, he pads across the room and pokes his tiny head through the door.

  Across from him, Lance’s older sister is doing the exact same thing, peering furtively down the dimly-lit corridor in a satin nightgown, her hair done up in curlers.  

  “Ronnie—”

  “Shh!” she hisses at him, a finger pressed to her lips in warning. “It’s Papa.”

  Lance’s mouth parts into a bewildered little ‘o’ shape as Veronica proceeds to slink out of her room and toward the staircase. At the opposite end of the hall, he spots Coran, the royal family advisor, where he appears to have dozed off in the middle of watch duty again, slumped over in a chair, his big orange mustache wiggling with every exhale, and so Lance decides to tiptoe after his sister.  

  The Citadel’s east wing is a winding labyrinth of passageways and gilded alcoves, but the further they creep into its bowels, the clearer the commotion becomes. One of the many chamber doors has been left slightly ajar, a strip of lamplight pouring out from the gap, along with their father’s voice, hushed and stern.

  “—What on earth were you thinking, Takashi?”  

  They both scamper up to the door, peeking inside. It’s a thin opening, just barely enough space to make out glimpses of shifting bodies: their father paces around a large wooden conference table, his brow drawn tight, while Shiro, in contrast, stands perfectly still like the soldier he was born to be. There’s a small boy hovering at his side in tattered clothes, similar to Lance in size, and his face is obscured by a curtain of damp fringe.  

  “I found him in the outlands, alone, with nowhere to go and no way to survive,” Shiro answers firmly. “That’s what I was thinking, your Majesty.”

  “You should know better,” the king fires back. “After everything that’s happened, you, of all people, should know better than to invite danger into this household.”

  “He’s not dangerous,” says Shiro. “He’s a child.”  

  “No, he’s Galra.”

  At that, Veronica inhales a sharp breath, then immediately clamps a hand over her mouth. Lance is startled, too, but only because he knows he should be. Only because he’s heard grown-ups murmur that word when they think no one is listening, like it’s something terrible and blasphemous. This boy right here looks like neither of those things.  

  Through the crack, Lance can see Shiro lift his arm; the mechanical one. “And so am I, now,” he states. “The very magic that this kingdom fears, the very magic that’s now a part of me, is what saved my life.”    

  A pause. “That’s different,” the king growls. “It was our only option.”  

  “Well, pardon me, your Majesty, but then what is his only option?” argues Shiro, pointing at the boy. “Death?”  

  “Death,” Lance echoes, scandalized, his grip on his stuffed lion tightening. He reaches for his sister’s ruffled sleeve and tugs. “Ronnie, did you hear that, he just said—”

  “Lance,” she shushes, “be quiet or they’ll hear—”  

  The sudden halting of footsteps lets them know they’ve been caught. But before either of them can think to run, the chamber doors are being swung open wide and their father’s long shadow is looming from above. His expression, however, has been transformed into one that Lance recognizes; gentle and warm.

  “Aha,” he chuckles. “I thought I heard some little mice scurrying around these halls.” Swiftly, the king scoops Lance up into his arm and takes Veronica’s hand with the other. “Back to bed, you two. What would your mother have to say if she knew you were up this late, hm?”

  Shiro, in the background, says, “Your Majesty, I—”

  “We will finish this discussion in the morning, Captain Shirogane,” the king replies tersely. He doesn’t even turn halfway to meet the other man’s eyes. “Right now, I have a family to take care of.”

  “Yes,” mutters Shiro, nodding. “Understood.”

  As Lance clings to his father, peering curiously over the top of his shoulder, he discovers that the strange Galra boy is staring at him with the darkest, saddest eyes that Lance has ever seen in his life. It makes Lance’s skin tickle, being looked at like that.

  So, he waves.  

  The boy freezes in place for a moment, but eventually waves back, looking a bit ashamed, as if he’s not sure whether he should be doing it. When he does, though, Lance notices that the skin of the boy’s palm is covered in black calluses, almost charred straight through to the bone.

  It’s the last thing Lance sees — and the only thing he’ll think about, later, tucked away in bed — before his father rounds the corner and carries him out of sight.

[sorry-i-ship-drarry]

Hi, i really like your drabbles!

Will you please write something where Harry and Draco are flatmates and friends and one day they were hanging out watching a movie and laughing and having fun and out of the blue Harry says Can i kiss you and then they kiss and Harry gets emotional because he is overwhelmed and draco falls for him more. ❤

Thank you 😊

40. Just keep swimming

I will be combining this request with next of my prompt - Patting others back. Hope you like this and thank you so much | after a bad day at work, as a friend, Harry tries to cheer Draco up by a movie night | fluff | domestic |

Fan art taken down because of confidentiality.

Credits - @upthehillart

" Draco is that you ?" Harry called out as he turned off the stove, walking out to see who walked into the flat.

" yeah " he sighs.

" ooh, that sounds terrible. Bad day at work huh ?" Harry asked as he took off the apron and threw it in the kitchen

" the most terrible day ever. It was all a mess, this new potioneer just fucked up each and every single of the potion claiming he was disturbed because of some family problem and I couldn't even yell at him because of that, then midway the potion making for st. Mungo's, my assistant fainted, basically spilling all of the potion we had been brewing for a week and above all my boss yelled at me for something I didn't even do and i- just can't . I'm done with the day " Draco looked he could almost cry.

" oh dear. That's bad " Harry sympathetically said as he walked upto Draco and gave him a friendly hug.

" i know the perfect remedy to fix your day " Harry suggested

" please, anything " Draco sighed taking off his coat and hanging it next to the door.

" go take a shower then, you stink of something really awful, like rotten pumpkin juice-"

" must be one of the potions " Draco rolled his eyes

" okay nevermind. Go. Take a shower. Food is done and I'll take care of the rest, yeah ?" Harry asked as he walked behind Draco and pushed him forward to walk to the bathroom.

" you're a great friend Harry " Draco sighed.

" I know I am. Now go " Harry patted Draco's back almost reaching the bathroom.

" whenever you're done " and with that Harry walked back into the kitchen, sighing to himself. This was again a lost chance.

" great friend " Harry scoffed to himself, disappointed. Shaking his head, he set his priorities to fixing his flatmate / best friend's mood right.

Done everything perfectly right, Harry chose the movie to watch, set the lightings to low, pizza on table, red wine for the mood and fluffy Blankets and of course pillows.

And woof.

" how could I forget you, snuffles " Harry scratched the dogs neck playfully " you're the perfect mood twister, now aren't you, aren't you "

" he definitely is " Draco walked in still looking tired..

" Jesus, even Voldemort would look better than you right now, not to mention without a nose "

" ha ha ha, very funny potter " Draco rolled his eyes and plopped onto the couch. Snuffles joining him on the sofa.

" I can't believe this dog. I gave him a name, I was the one who bought him, I take him to the vets, for walks, and even buy his favourite food and yet he loves you more than me " Harry whined as he plopped next to Draco watching him kiss the top of dogs head.

" well harry I am sort of irresistible" Draco smirked

" sod off malfoy " Harry rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the amusing joke.

" so what are we watching ?" He finally asked as snuffles got more comfortable into his lap.

" finding Nemo" Harry replied

" perfect " Draco relaxed further into the couch and harry turned on the movie.

" you don't wanna talk about it though ?" Harry asked

" This is much better. I'd rather not boil my blood by reciting again how shit my day was. Thanks for this by the way, you always know what to do " Draco gave Harry a smile , crossing his legs over the sofa, sitting more comfortably.

Passing the pizza, the wine, not to forget the spaghetti Harry made, Draco was full and was more comfortably invested into the movie, while harry was more invested in peaking glances at Draco watching the movie.

" can I lay on your lap ?" Draco suddenly asked.

With his heart beating a little louder and suddenly very much awareness of tongue in his mouth and the socks in his feets, he whispered a " yes "

And Draco got comfortable in Harry's lap, snuffles falling asleep through the movie over Draco's torso.

" i love this turtles dude part, They're much more cooler than anyone we know and the way they just say dude, gosh, coolest thing ever "

" aren't they ?" Harry chuckled as he lightly untangled Draco's soft hair with his calloused fingers

"okay tell me, if I had to one character from this movie who would I be ?" Draco asked suddenly looking up at from his lap.

" hm, that's a tricky one " Harry pouted thinking about the answer for a minute or two " i think you're the Nigel, the pelican "

" hey " Draco swatted Harry on his chest laughing " I don't have a big mouth "

" are you sure ? Have you seen yourself when you eat the brownies your mom sends " Harry laughed softly

Draco gasped " they're really good, okay. You don't underestimate them. You should try them by the way "

" well my dearest darling friend, I'd try if you'd leave me some, big mouth Nigel " Harry laughed but was immediately attacked by a pillow at his face.

" you're mean. I just had a terrible day " despite that fact, he couldn't resist laughing with Harry.

"oh sod off. You're not going to get my pity " Harry scoffed, still grinning at Draco, adjusting his spectacles.

" you're really an asshole " Draco rolled his eyes, glimpsing at the motioning movie.

" and yet you keep me around. You're the one who have Stockholm syndrome " Harry covered his face, and as anticipated he was smacked by a pillow in the face "ouch -"

" what, did I hit you too hard ?" Draco rose a few inches immediately

Harry's expression changed from being fake injured to snickering.

" I can't believe you -"

" always works " Harry laughed

" you- I can't believe you use that trick " Draco rolled off his eyes collapsing back into his lap

" and yet you fall for it everytime " Harry chuckled

" you know what, one of these days you're actually going to be hurt and I won't give a damn about you" Draco fake sneered at him

" oh is that so ?" Harry cooed in a baby voice, softly pinching Draco's cheek

" Harry- don't- "

" aww, you're angry " Harry continued in the baby voice

" don't- I said stop. Stop with the voice, it's annoying " draco desperately tried to swat Harry's hands away from his face, but he couldn't possibly entirely deny that he didn't like it.

" aww, Little pelican is angry " Harry pouted

" hey- I'm not little- you idiot " Draco smacked Harry with a pillow again, repeatedly almost sitting up in that process and getting through Harry defenseless ways of trying to protect himself from it, and breaking into a fit of laughter.

" okay- okay stop " Harry cackled

" say I'm not a pellican -"

" but you're the one who asked "

" well you could've said I'm a Nemo or Marlin. He's cute"

" oh yeah, you probably are, little and desperately trying to prove yourself "

" okay- that - was -rude " Draco smacked him at every word until Harry grabbed hold of the pillow and threw it across the room, immediately tickling Draco.

"Merlins fuck- gah- stop- agh " and he took the fall to the ground gracefully, taking Harry down with him.

Harry looked at Draco only for a brief from top before they both started laughing to death. The movie only served as a mere background noise to their laughs and their bodies almost pressed against each other.

" you had to take me down with you " Harry calmed down only a little staring down at Draco

" I never take the fall alone Harry, you knew that about me when you first became friends with me " Draco grinned. Harry shook his head at the slight truth in the absurdity. He looked down at Draco, laying there defenseless with the sweetest grin over his face, his fringes casually very perfectly sprawled over his forehead, his eyes shining with the dim light and the happiness that had Found a way into him. It was impossible to look at draco underneath him and not feel lovestruck.

" you know what, you're definitely a dory " Draco chuckled

" oh I am now " Harry widened his eyes in fun surprise

" oh yes, completely imbecile "

" not to forget you've forgotten almost everyone of my boyfriend's name everytime we meet. You would call them anything but their na-"

" Can I kiss you ?" The words were out before he could've rolled his tounge to stop.

Draco looked at him in complete shock which didn't help Harry currently at all. His eyebrows shot up through his fringes in extreme shock of the sudden question. The bowl of chips next to his hands crashed onto the ground and suddenly the shark from finding Nemo seemed much smaller..

" you- you want-"

" never mind. It was just a stupid question. It was- a - just pure curiousity. It doesn't matter. We sho- should just finish the movie and lets just pretend I never asked -"

" yes-"

" this- wait what ?"

" I said yes, I'd like that " Draco's lips curled into a little smile.

Shocked but with a good surprise Harry returned the smile and with consent leaned down to kiss draco softly over the lips. They could hear the soft noises from the TV but harry was clearly more focused on Draco's hands going up his back and the softness of lips pressed against his, the tenderness in the kiss and the lopsided smile Draco had held. Draco was no stranger to that as well, he too was focused on Harry's hands going under his shirt, not in a furious way but a soft gesture to find more intimacy and for someone who looked they would kiss roughly, Harry worked his lips like it was a master plan he had always been working on if ever given the opportunity to enunciate. They were lost for seconds, minutes, hours maybe but it felt like forever to share that brisk intimate kiss. Neither of them had even realised they were out of breath until they had started heaving and only the other one noticed and stopped kissing at once.

Harry smiled down at Draco, until the sudden realisation hit him that they were still on the ground.

" wanna get back on the sofa or is floor too comfortable for you my majesty "

" you'll never change, will you ?" Draco shook his head as he took Harry's hand and got back up on the sofa and landing in his lap once again but this time his eyes were Only focused on Harry. Who strangely enough was looking blankly at the TV with-

" Harry, are you crying ?" Draco rose up a little bit

" uh, no. The movie-"

" we just kissed and you care about the movie-"

" no, it's not like that-"

" seems like it-"

" oh calm down you idiot. I just- I got a wee bit emotional" Harry sighed

" why ?"

" because I finally kissed you. Do you even realize how much courage it took to even ask you that. I'm overwhelmed that you Returned-"

" your feelings ? Harry, I cannot express you enough how much I like you. All the past relationships- I understand not a good point here but listen- they never worked because they're not you. I've always liked you Harry, well pretty much always "

" really ?"

" of course. I'd been pining on you for ages. It's good to know you finally feel the same "

" I- I've been pining for long too. I mean I may have never told you but-"

" you stalked me in 6th year all year long and desperately tried to cross paths with me every chance you got in 8th year. Yeah, I bet even snuffles knows about that "

" oh "

Draco smiled softly, cupping harry's face " hey, I like you and you're worth it. You were always worth the wait, even if you still want to wait. My feelings would probably never change for you Harry. It's pretty darn hard to run away from you " Draco shrugged

" well-"

" I like you harry, I do " Draco reassured again knowing Harry was feeling overwhelmed and insecure.

" I like you too Draco " Harry finally gave Draco a smile before leaning down to kiss him again, with a small smile curving at the corner of his lips.

And when they broke off, Harry and Draco once again became invested into the movie, the difference being, they both couldn't wait for more tomorrow's to come and Draco couldn't help but fall deeper for Harry.

But then maybe, Harry was his dory If Draco was a marlin or even if he was Nemo, Harry would make sure to go above and beyond just for him and that was enough to keep Draco swimming in his love for him.

Requests open

Day - 39- cuddle me in | Day 41- quidditch field victories

[goodlucktai]

What about some hurt/comfort for Natsume & Natori? (Not slash tho)

Natori doesn't seem like he has anyone in his life to take care of him except his shikigami :(

x

"You need to sleep," Hiiragi says. Her tone is unchanging, an unhurried monotone, but somehow it manages to carry a thread of concern.

Shuuichi waves her off, sifting through papers. "In a minute. I just have to finish this."

A group of exorcists in over their heads sent these reports earlier today. Yesterday, now, Shuuichi amends inwardly with a bleary glance at the clock in the kitchen, which reads an inappropriately cheerful 6:07 AM. And they'll arrive to collect them, along with Shuuichi's notes, in just a few hours.

"They are presumptuous," Hiiragi says, "to assume you had this time to spare them, and on such short notice. You're busy."

"Not with anything that matters," Shuuichi laughs. It comes out not sounding like a laugh at all. Hiiragi tips her head incrementally to the side, no doubt staring at him behind her mask.

"Your work does matter."

"This work does," Shuuichi says, laying a hand on the papers scattered across the desk. "The other stuff-- "

"The 'stuff' that pays your bills," Hiiragi says. "The 'stuff' that keeps you fed, and gives you reason to leave your house and interact with people who won't make you think about ghosts."

It's Shuuichi's turn to stare. "I didn't realize you were such a firm believer in my acting career."

"I don't understand it," she says frankly. "But you enjoy it. It may not be.... 'vanquishing evil,'" she goes on, quoting the report the exorcists sent as if it's something slimy she's peeling off her shoe, "but that doesn't mean it doesn't matter."

It might be the lack of sleep talking, but Shuuichi feels strangely touched. He has to swallow before he can reply, something that happens rarely, if at all.

"I'll make sure to sign an autograph for you," he teases, grinning. "But only after I've finished this."

"Hm," Hiiragi says. She doesn't call him an idiot, at least. A few minutes after that she leaves from the living room window, ostensibly to patrol the neighborhood.

Shuuichi will just finish his notes, and then set an alarm for-- he checks the clock again, and winces-- and hour and a half. He'll get that much sleep, at least. He's worked with less.

At some point, the front door opens. That's odd. Only a few people have a key to his apartment, and none of them who do live anywhere near here. His shiki certainly don't use the door.

A familiar voice says, "Hi, Natori-san."

Shuuichi lifts his head, so fast his vision swims. There's Natsume, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the sitting room, hands full with a cardboard drink tray and a brown paper bag bearing the distinctive golden arches. He looks decidedly windblown, as if he flew the whole way here. He probably did.

His brow is wrinkled, mouth tucked into a frown. It's the way Shuuichi imagines Hiiragi's face looks behind her mask at least ninety-percent of the time.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Shuuichi says, pushing himself upright. He has to lean on the desk to get there. Natsume clocks it with a flick of his eyes but doesn't comment. "Don't you have school today?" Shuuichi goes on, desperately trying to remember what day it is. Friday, right?

"No school," Natsume says, putting the drinks and the bag on the counter. "Teacher's institute."

"Are you in trouble?" Shuuichi asks carefully.

"I have to be in trouble to come visit you?"

Natsume wanders into the sitting room and sets his messenger bag and his ugly cat down on the sofa. He actually points a stern finger at the cat in clear warning that it needs to behave itself, as if it isn't actually a giant monster capable of leveling buildings should it so choose. Something about that manages to be hilarious, where it isn't slightly horrifying.

Shuuichi smiles a bit. This weird kid means the world to him.

"Did you bring me breakfast?" he asks lightly. "I hope that's coffee."

Natsume is so receptive to any manner of kindness, even after the life he's lived, that he smiles back like a knee-jerk reaction. It still feels like an accomplishment when he does.

"Tea," he corrects. "And some egg sandwiches. The sausage ones are for sensei. Can you eat with me, or-- if you're too busy-- "

"I can take a break," Shuuichi says, and slings his arm around Natsume's shoulders, steering him back into the kitchen. "Let's talk about what dragged you all the way out here in the early hours of the morning, shall we? Does your mother know where you are?"

"Of course she does," Natsume insists. "She even sent some leftovers with me. I put them in the fridge already."

Shuuichi is in a vulnerable state, and that just about undoes him. He clears his throat and takes a big, scalding gulp of tea instead of saying or doing anything embarrassing. "Tell her I said thank you," he manages.

"Or you could just call her," Natsume points out dryly.

"Or I could just call her," Shuuichi agrees.

In his defense, Shuuichi truly didn’t stand a chance. The combination of heavy food and a hot drink… the pale fingers of dawn creeping through the shades at the kitchen window… the steady back-and-forth of comfortable, friendly conversation… no one asking anything of him, expecting anything from him, except his company…

He dozes off in his chair at the counter, face buried in his folded arms. He feels someone draw a blanket around his shoulders, their cold fingers lingering protectively near his nape, and Hiiragi’s voice says, “Thank you. He’s very stupid.”

“No he isn’t,” Natsume replies loyally. “Well, not all the time.”

It’s ridiculous how well Shuuichi sleeps after that.

He wakes up a solid ten hours later, the blanket slipping to the floor. The TV is on in the next room. Hiiragi is perched on the counter beside him. Her mask somehow manages to appear both smug and judgemental without actually changing at all.

“Sleep well?” she asks with no inflection.

“What-- time is it?” Shuuichi asks blearily, looking around for the clock.

“A little after four,” Hiiragi says. “Those exorcists have come and gone.”

“What?”

“They didn’t come inside. Natsume dealt with them at the door.”

“Sorry, Natori-san,” Natsume pipes up in the doorway. He shuffles a bit, self-conscious until Hiiragi seems to catch his eye. Then he lifts his chin a little and says, “You seemed tired, so I handled it. Hiiragi and Sasago both said it was okay.”

Betrayal, Shuuichi thinks, glaring hard at Hiiragi. She gazes serenely back, entirely unmoved. He’s firing her.

“Natsume, I appreciate it,” because there’s very little in this life that Natsume could do that Shuuichi wouldn’t back him up on, “but don’t talk to strangers. Even though they’re exorcists, that doesn’t automatically make them trustworthy.”

“I don’t trust most exorcists,” Natsume says plainly. “You’re one of, like, two exceptions.”

And there’s a lot to unpack there, but for some reason the first thing Shuuichi thinks of to ask is, “One of two? Who’s the other one?”

After a beat, in which Natsume looks as though he doesn’t want to answer, he admits, “Hakozaki-san.”

“Hak-- the recluse with the dragon shiki? The owner of that mansion we watched burn?” Shuuichi laughs, unable to help himself. It unwinds tension in his body he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Natsume, you never even met him!”

“I still liked him!” Natsume says hotly, embarrassed. “He was friends with yokai!”

“And I’m sure if he’d had the chance to know you, he would have spirited you away as his son and heir within two business days.” Shuuichi chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Lucky for me he didn’t have the chance, I suppose.”

Natsume huffs, but he still climbs into the seat next to Shuuichi. After a beat, Nyanko-sensei hops up into his lap.

“I might have gotten you in trouble with those exorcists,” the boy admits. “I told them to do their own homework from now on. That if they kept taking advantage of your kindness, you wouldn’t help them anymore.” He glances at Shuuichi sidelong from beneath his fringe, and adds, “They got mad, so I sicced sensei on them. I, um, think they thought he was my shiki. I also think they thought I’m from your clan. I couldn’t tell ‘cause they were all, um-- screaming, at the same time.”

And-- okay. There is a right and a wrong way to react to this, clearly. A teenage boy using his terrifying yokai friend to menace people within Shuuichi’s network? Not good! Very bad, even!

But Shuuichi has to lean forward against the counter, face buried in his hands, because he’s absolutely howling with laughter. Natsume is stammering, trying to explain himself, but he doesn’t say sorry. He isn’t sorry for sticking up for Shuuichi. He showed up at Shuuichi’s apartment at seven AM with McDonald’s on his day off from school, and chased a bunch of exorcists out of the building, because his friend needed a break and that’s just the kind of person Natsume is.

The kind of person who deserves something fancy for dinner tonight, Shuuichi decides, and he’s still smiling as he reaches for his phone.

Hiiragi places it neatly in his hand.

“I don’t want your autograph,” she says. She doesn't call him an idiot out loud, but she's probably thinking it.

Hell, he’ll order something fancy for her, too.

[witcher-and-his-bard-archive]

Alone With You

winter prompts day 5 ❄️ nighttime snow

thank you to @petrificustotaluss​ for the stunning banner 😍

It's been a long day and now that everyone has settled in to sleep, Geralt can sit and think without interruption. He's glad to have Jaskier with him, still shocked that he managed to get the words out to ask him to come, but glad that he did. But being happy about it and knowing it was the right decision are two different things and Geralt is struggling with the latter.

They had arrived late after a rough trip and Jaskier had been exhausted, yet he had still made the rounds, introducing himself and chatting to the others, telling them how pleased he was to meet them. Then he met Eskel and things were... different. He's never seen Eskel's eyes light up like that before, and the intense focus Jaskier had on him was a little overwhelming, even as a spectator. Geralt hasn't been the target of that intensity for a long time, but he remembers it well.

He had removed himself from the situation after that, not wanting to intrude on their conversation - and he wouldn't have been able to help but listen in. He couldn't be mad about it, really, if there was something there. All he's ever wanted for Eskel is happiness and with Jaskier, he's learning still that he'd rather be alone and watch Jaskier flit off with every second person he meets than to see him lonely. It doesn't stop the thought from hurting, but it does make him feel a little better about it.

Eventually, Jaskier had returned to his side, but they hadn't had time to do much but walk around a little before turning in.

Jaskier has his own room and Geralt hadn't realized how much he had come to rely on Jaskier's breathing to settle him at night. It's fine though. Even if he has to wake up early, being well-rested is optional at the keep (unless he's heading into the mines with Eskel). So tonight, when he couldn't sleep, he'd gotten up and headed out into the courtyard to think.

It's dark, but Geralt's eyes adjust quickly enough and he finds himself keeping to the upper levels, looking out over the valley. It had been a long, hard journey up, harder than usual, and Jaskier hadn't complained once. Geralt smiles to himself, remembering the bright-eyed boy he'd picked up in Posada who had immediately complained about wearing the wrong boots. A lot has changed since then.

He's leaning against the wall when he hears footsteps crunching in the snow behind him. When he looks back, he's surprised to find Jaskier smiling up at him as he climbs the stairs.

"What are you doing out here?" Geralt asks. "You'll freeze."

"Guess you'll just have to keep me warm then, hm?" Jaskier ducks under his arm and presses himself against Geralt's chest, looking over the wall. "It really is stunning, isn't it? I mean, I guess you've seen it too many times and it's just normal to you now, but it's incredible."

Geralt pauses, waiting for something more, but Jaskier falls surprisingly silent. He tips his head, resting it against Geralt's shoulder and he sighs softly.

"Thank you," he whispers, "for bringing me here. I know it couldn't have been easy for you to bring a stranger home."

"You're not a stranger," Geralt blurts and as soon as he does, he regrets the words, but Jaskier will just ask anyway, so he clarifies, "they all know about you. The songs."

"Right," Jaskier hums, "the songs."

"You and Eskel seemed to get along well." Geralt spares a glance when Jaskier doesn't respond immediately and finds him red in the face. He should have known.

"It's fine," he says at the exact same time Jaskier says, "it's not what you think."

Geralt looks down at him and Jaskier squirms, out of his spot, leaning against the wall so he can face Geralt.

"Geralt, you weren't worried about it, were you?"

"No," he says too quickly. Jaskier huffs a quiet laugh and ducks his head.

"Oh my darling, you have nothing to be jealous of-"

"I'm not," Geralt insists, but Jaskier takes a step forward and looks up at him with those big, right eyes. Geralt can't even look at him.

"Promise me you won't get mad," Jaskier says, "Eskel was just saying how glad he is that I'm here... because you're always so sad over the winter."

"He- Eskel-" Geralt stammers and he can feel his own face burns.

"I thought you were happy coming up here to see your brothers?"

"I am," Geralt says and when he meets Jaskier's eyes, he realizes that's not going to be enough. "I miss you," he admits, staring firmly at the ground, "when I'm up here and you're away in Oxenfurt."

"Oh!" Jaskier gasps and it takes a moment for Geralt to realize Jaskier's attention has been redirected. He's not sure whether he should be relieved or offended, but then he looks up.

There's snow falling lightly around them, and Jaskier is enthralled by it. He's beautiful in his fascination, soft flakes landing his hair, and Geralt wants to keep this moment forever.

"I've never seen the snow like this," Jaskier breathes, "On the coast, it's so wet and heavy- it doesn't stick like this. It's beautiful."

When he looks out again, the valley is shrouded in a veil of white, the flakes falling too quickly and densely now to see much past the edges of the keep. It truly is beautiful, he thinks. Maybe Jaskier is right and he takes the views for granted or maybe it's just his presence that makes Geralt's romantic side come out. He doesn't think too much about that.

"Do you think about me?" Jaskier asks abruptly, "when you're tucked away up here for months? I think about you in Oxenfurt. What you're doing, whether you're safe up here, who keeps you company." He doesn't look like he expects a response, but Geralt tells him anyway.

"I do. Think about you." He reaches out, flicking a particularly large snowflake from Jaskier's fringe. "Almost every day. It's too quiet up here without you."

"Oh. Why didn't you ask me to come sooner."

"I... didn't think you'd want to. Didn't want you to say no."

"I would never say no to you, my darling. Not in a million years." Geralt offers up a half-smile, but he doesn't believe him. Evidently, Jaskier realizes this and closes the remaining distance between them.

"Listen," he says, "you're a grump and a grouch and you can pretend all you like, but I know you're soft under all this Witcher nonsense. I know you're sad when Ciri winters with Yen and I know you pretend to be this lone wolf, but really, you crave affection - even if you won't let me give it to you. But I'm here now and there's only so far you can go with the valley being snowed in as we speak.

"Geralt," he whispers, "I know you don't share my feelings, but don't pretend like you're oblivious. Stupid doesn't suit you."

"Your what-?" Geralt's mind reelings, afraid that he's misunderstood, but Jaskier is standing there before him looking so soft and sincere that he doesn't know how he could have.

"Geralt, what did I just-" he doesn't get to finish his sentence because Geralt acts before he can think too much about it. He runs his thumb over Jaskier's bottom lip, effectively silencing him, and for a moment he can't do anything but stare at him.

Jaskier's fingers slip around his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and he slips up into Geralt's space, bumping their noses together. He hesitates only for a second before pushing forward and kissing him softly. Geralt's mind shuts down for a moment as he tries to register Jaskier's mouth against his own, but then he's kissing him back, arms slipping around Jaskier's waist like they belong there.

Jaskier lets out a little moan as Geralt deepens the kiss and he slips his arms around his neck, holding him close. It does something to him that he's not expecting and Geralt moves automatically, lifting Jaskier onto the wall and pressing in between his thighs.

He's wanted this for so long that he doesn't think and it's not until Jaskier pulls away to breathe that he realizes what he's doing.

"Sorry-" he starts, tugging backward, but Jaskier hauls him back.

"Don't you dare," he breathes, wrapping his legs around him and pulling him into another kiss.

Geralt lets himself be drawn in, wondering how the hell he managed to read things so wrong for so long. But as the snow continues to fall around them and Jaskier pulls him impossibly closer, he decides that it doesn't really matter anymore.

[writinglizards]

Can I be Close to You?

Summary: Geralt's been dealing with Hanahaki for a while. Jaskier comes down with it, too. 

OR, what happens when you're in love with your best friend and your best friend (apparently) falls for another?

This one is for @witcher-and-his-bard both because she’s had a blah day and because this whole fic is her fault anyway. Hope you enjoy it, darling!

Read on Ao3

Witchers don't love. They may feel more emotions than they let on, may be fond of people and places and animals, but they don't love. Not like humans do. Hanahaki isn't something witchers get.

Except Geralt is, once again, proving to be a very stunning exception to every witcher rule.

It doesn't happen all at once. A cough here, a shortness of breath there. It starts after the fiasco with the djinn, when Geralt realized he really would do anything for his bard. As he parts with Jaskier in the fall and treks up the mountain pass to Kaer Morhen, he knows something is off, but what, he doesn't know.

He spends a long winter mostly normally. There's training and chores and long nights playing gwent. He still feels a little breathless, sometimes, but it's not getting worse, so he doesn't really think about it.

He coughs up the first petal on his way down the mountain that spring. It's delicate and butter yellow and just like that, everything slots into place. Hanahaki. Buttercups. Fuck.

---------------------

Hanahaki is a slow death, everyone knows. How beautiful, to love so deeply, so completely that it consumes you. How tragic, for that love to be unspoken, unreturned. The poets, the romantics, love Hanahaki. It's the physical embodiment of that which they wish to put into words.

Geralt thinks it's fucking annoying.

For the few years following that first petal, it's...almost okay. He coughs, sometimes. His chest hurts, sometimes. He can't quite catch his breath, sometimes. But it's all rather rare. Jaskier hardly even notices, even when he's discreetly coughing petals into his fist. It hurts. It's fine.

Gradually, the coughing becomes normal. The petals get more common. It's no longer a single petal, but multiple ones. Partial blooms. Whole buds. He may be able to conceal the little buttercups still, but he won't be able to hide the illness from Jaskier much longer.

His chest hurts near constantly, the spring he comes down the mountain and knows Jaskier will find out. He'd been unable to keep it from Eskel this year and the look he'd given Geralt had been...painful. Upsetting.

Tell him, he'd said, don't make me lose another brother, Geralt. We can't do this without you.

They'll have to, eventually. There's no way Jaskier could ever love him, not like this, not like Geralt loves him--this fragile, delicate thing in his chest, slowly being consumed by flowers. Geralt wouldn't ask that of him, anyway, to love a monster.

---------------------

They meet up on the path at a no-name village at the base of the Blue Mountains, like always. He's nervous this year--he doesn't want to see the look on Jaskier's face when he finds out, doesn't want the pity he's sure will be there in his gaze. Just thinking about it makes his chest hurt, fills him with a flutter of panic.

Jaskier's already got a room at the inn, as he usually does when he beats Geralt to the little village. Geralt knows because as he'd come in, the innkeep had tipped his head towards the stairs with a smile and Geralt had thanked him, ordered their dinner, and ascended the stairs with a curling warmth in his chest. The minute he smells Jaskier's blood on the air, that warmth turns to ice.

"Jaskier?" He's already pushing the door open and marching in, muscles tight with tension. He's not sure what he's expecting, but finding Jaskier bent over a bowl, vomiting tiny white flowers, hands shaking, isn't it.

Conscious thought clatters to a stop even as he steps forward, slips a gauntleted hand into Jaskier's hair to hold the fringe out of his eyes as he heaves, tears running down his cheeks. He hears his own voice as if from under water shushing and soothing, free hand rubbing gently at Jaskier's back.

When the fit seems to have passed, Jaskier shoves the bowl of bloody flowers away, leans heavily against Geralt's chest, breathing ragged. Geralt wants to ask so many questions. Instead, he waits, holds him upright, lets his breathing calm, lets him wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Ask," Jaskier rasps, not moving.

"Hm?"

"You want to ask, ask." He sounds so, so tired. Geralt wants to bundle him up in his cloak, take him back up the pass to Kaer Morhen, tuck him into his bed. There are so many reasons why he can't do that, but gods does he want to.

"How long?" Hanahaki's a slow disease. For Jaskier to be hacking up whole little buds, tiny unfurled flowers? This is advanced.

The smile Jaskier gives is sharp and painful. His teeth are bloody. "Six months," he says. And that's...that's too fast. It would have started just before the harvest festival and...fuck. Jaskier had been a little too pale, a little too quiet, hadn't he? Had Geralt really missed this?

"Jaskier--"

"I know," he cuts off, finally pushing out of Geralt's hold, crossing the room to the water pitcher. "I know. It's--I've always been one to fall hard, you know?" He does. "And by the time I realized, well--" he shrugs.

He watches as Jaskier rinses his mouth out, spits the now pink water into the ruined bowl, overly casual, and realizes...he can't do this.

"Who is it?" he asks, because he is not about to watch the man he loves die. Everyone loves Jaskier. Whoever this is the bard is pining for? They'll love him back. He's sure of it. They'd be a fool not to.

Jaskier stiffens. "I'm not--Geralt," he sighs hard, doesn't turn around. "Geralt, I'm not going to tell them. It's--it would upset them. It's fine."

"No," he grinds out, "it's not fine." He presses up into Jaskier's space, spins him with a hand on his shoulder. "I refuse to watch you die, Jaskier."

The look he gives him is painful in its hopelessness. It doesn't belong on his face, makes Geralt's chest tight. He can feel the tickle of a cough in response, thinks about how poorly timed a coughing fit would be right now and suppresses it, only just. "Geralt," Jaskier says, voice patient and still a little raw, "They won't love me back. Telling them would only hurt both of us. It's...I'd be okay. Dying for them."

"You shouldn't have to," he says, voice gravel rough.

"It is what it is, Geralt," he sighs, "I just--I just want us to have a normal year, okay? Just a normal year." Geralt hears what he isn't saying. I won't make it to the next one.

---------------------

Despite his reservations, Geralt lets Jaskier talk him into setting out on the path. A normal year, despite the fact nothing about this is normal.

Those differences make themselves known long before the end of the first day. Geralt quickly realizes that Jaskier's lung capacity has been greatly diminished--he struggles to keep up with Roach at even the most relaxed pace, needs frequent and long breaks. Geralt's tempted to offer Jaskier his spot on Roach's back but he has a feeling the offer will be ill-received. A normal year would not involve Geralt catering to Jaskier's wants or needs.

Instead, Geralt deliberately slows their pace, takes frequent breaks, and doesn't point out Jaskier's wheezing or the exhausted way he collapses at the end of the day, even though watching him push himself like this is painful. As if to add insult to injury, he isn't singing, either. He still carries his lute, but it's clear his lungs are too burdened to accomplish even the most gentle of singing. It's...upsetting. And Geralt can see how it weighs on him.

The only silver lining is that Jaskier's so fatigued he doesn't catch on that Geralt's not quite well, either. He's frequently passed out cold when Geralt has his worst fits first thing in the morning, buttercups coming up in clusters, stems and leaves attached. And if his voice is a rougher, a little lower, a little more torn up? Jaskier doesn't seem to notice.

It takes them almost three times as long to reach the next town as it should and it's making Geralt jittery. There's no contract posted, but Jaskier looks bad and Geralt's worried. His own chest is overly tight, his own breathing much shallower than normal, but it doesn't matter when Jaskier looks ready to faint on the spot, too pale, too quiet. He spends the last of his coin from the previous fall on a room and a meal and hopes a day's worth of rest will be enough.

---------------------

"Geralt? Do you have a contract?" Jaskier asks the next morning from where he's curled up in the single bed, groggy and hardly awake.

"No."

"Uh, okay...?" Jaskier yawns, which devolves into a coughing fit. Geralt's head snaps up from where he's sitting with his steel sword balanced on his knees, partially meditating. He's about to cross the room and do...something when Jaskier holds up a hand in placation. Geralt stills, watches with a sick feeling in his chest as Jaskier coughs and coughs and coughs. It subsides only when he spits out another fistful of tiny jasmine flowers into his hand, collapsing back on the bed.

"Okay?" Geralt asks, can hear the tightness in his own voice.

"Mm-hm," Jaskier groans, sounding anything but.

Geralt takes a deep, steadying breath in preparation to start the argument again--who is it, Jaskier? Let me help you--but Jaskier starts talking again before he can.

"Why'd you let me sleep in if there's no contract?" He sounds like he's been gargling with rocks. Geralt watches as he thrusts the balled-up fist of flowers over the edge of the bed, lets the bloody, torn things drift to the floor. They look the way Geralt feels--ruined, discarded. His own chest aches.

"You need the rest," he says. Jaskier tenses. Geralt knows it's the wrong thing to say but it's the truth.

"I don't need you to baby me, Geralt. You've never cared before."

That's not true, he thinks but doesn't say. He cares so, so much.

"Jaskier--"

"No," he cuts Geralt off, pushing up onto an elbow to level him with a look that cuts like a knife, "you don't get to do this to me. I choose this, Geralt."

"I--"

"This is where I want to be. On the Path." The with you goes unsaid, but Geralt can feel it hang in the air, the shape of it. He sucks in a breath that catches in his throat, throws him into a coughing fit.

"Geralt?" The worry in Jaskier's voice, the sudden tone shift, is painful. He wants to reassure him, but he's choking on buttercups and blood, stems and leaves. He hears him rise from the bed, stumble over beside him. Gently, Jaskier shifts his sword out of the way, sets it aside. He runs his hand down Geralt's back in a soothing gesture. "Geralt, what's--?" He spits the first of the flowers, still hacking. Jaskier goes very, very still. The hand on his back slows before balling into the fabric, grip tight.

"Ask," Geralt rasps between coughs, an echo of Jaskier's own words a few weeks prior.

"How long." His voice is hauntingly devoid of emotion. Geralt coughs again, chest aching as he brings up another bloody bouquet. He pants through it, gasping for air.

"Since the djinn," he breathes out weakly. Jaskier makes an awful noise.

"Oh, that's--" he cuts himself off, makes that same strangled little sound in the back of his throat again. "That's a long time," he says finally. He thinks Jaskier sounds strange, but his head is spinning from the lack of oxygen and it's hard to tell.

He doesn't respond, just focuses on calming his breathing. He doesn't want another coughing fit if he can help it. The back of his neck feels hot and he knows he's flushed with both exertion and embarrassment.

"I didn't know witchers could get Hanahaki," he says, voice still a little off.

"We don't," Geralt answers. His throat feels on fire, his chest hurts like he's been thrown around by a leshen.

"You do," Jaskier says slowly, "apparently."

"Hm."

It's silent for too long. Geralt finds himself staring blindly at the bloody little buttercups. This is it. Jaskier has to know.

The bunched fist in the back of his shirt eases, carefully. Too carefully. Geralt feels the strain in it. "We need to go see Yennefer," Jaskier says. His voice is also too careful. Carefully controlled, like it usually is when he's performing. Or putting on an act.

"Okay," Geralt agrees. He knows what Jaskier must be thinking--mages can cure Hanahaki, sometimes. It's...painful. Awful. Not something most people want. It's ripping a part of yourself away, the part that loves. Geralt's terrified of it, but he'll do it, if that's what Jaskier wants from him. He knows Jaskier must hate the idea of Geralt being in love with him, especially now that he's in love with another, no way to return it. Geralt's often been ashamed of feeling too much, but this is...worse.

"She'll fix this," Jaskier says, and Geralt can smell the salty tang of unshed tears in the air, "she'll fix this."

---------------------

They spend the rest of the day at the inn. Geralt knows Jaskier's upset, but at what exactly, it's hard to say. He’ll hardly look at Geralt for more than the briefest glances and keeps himself well outside of casual touching distance, which is strange for the normally tactile bard. He's either upset Geralt kept this secret from him, or he's upset Geralt's in love with him. Probably both.

Despite the distance he seems to be forcing between them, he bullies Geralt into bed beside him for the second night, doesn't let him meditate or sleep on the floor as he'd planned.

"Geralt, I know mornings with this are worse when you sleep on the floor. Sleep on the fucking bed."

"What happened to 'don't baby me'?"

"Fuck you, witcher. Get your ass on the bed. And don't hog all the sheets."

They settle, finally. Geralt lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to be hyperaware of Jaskier, curled on his side, back to him.

He dozes off, eventually, to the quiet wheeze of Jaskier's breath, a bubble of anxiety in his chest.

---------------------

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to find the bed beside him empty and cold, the tremble of suppressed sobs and the salty tang of tears on the air. He lays very, very still.

"--'s not fucking fair," Jaskier gasps, sucking in a harsh breath that turns into a hiccupping little sob. "Fuck."

Geralt listens to the hitched breathing that turns into a round of coughs, the wet, hacking sound of little snow-white flowers leaving Jaskier's lips. The way he tries to muffle the sobs, the coughs, with a hand over his mouth. Geralt feels cold. He hates that he's done this to Jaskier, made him this upset. He wishes he could take it back, keep this awful, painful love to himself. Jaskier shouldn't suffer because he can't return what Geralt feels.

After the third coughing fit in the last fifteen minutes, Geralt gives up the pretense of sleep and rouses, rises from the bed.

"'m sorry," Jaskier croaks when Geralt rubs his back, pours him a glass of water from the pitcher. It hurts that Jaskier thinks he needs to apologize. This isn't his fault, after all.

"Back to bed. We've still got a few hours." Jaskier follows, quiet and subdued. He's exhausted, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks still wet.

They settle, that sliver of space between them as always. Geralt's just starting to drift when--

"Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Um--" he trails off. Geralt cracks his eyes open, tips his head to look at Jaskier. He looks miserable. Tired. "--nevermind."

"What do you need, Jask?" he asks, quiet.

"Hold me?" he whispers, eyes fixed firmly on the edge of the sheet. Geralt's heart clenches. "I know it's not fair to ask that of you, but--"

"Come here," Geralt says, voice rough. Jaskier shuffles over, awkward. Geralt curls his arm around Jaskier's back, tugs him over so his head rests on Geralt's chest, ear pressed just above his too-slow heartbeat. He settles his hand on the curve of Jaskier’s hip, tries not to enjoy holding him too much--it’s about comfort, not Geralt.

They're still and quiet for a beat. "Thank you," Jaskier mumbles, voice thick with something Geralt can't name. "I know it's not--just. Thank you."

"Shh. Sleep."

They do.

---------------------

They leave the inn bright and early, after only a single round of awful coughing on Geralt's part. Jaskier's stiff and rigid, watching him hack up the flowers, and Geralt hates that Jaskier knows. This was so much easier to bear when there was still a ghost of a chance he returned Geralt's affections. Now--

"So how are we going to find her?" Jaskier asks, during one of the numerous breaks early in the morning.

"We're not," he says. Jaskier opens his mouth to protest, brow pinched in unhappiness. Geralt speaks again before he can get the words out, "We're going to see Triss. She'll know how to find Yen."

"Oh," he deflates. "Don't you, I don't know," he gestures vaguely, "have some magic way of getting ahold of her?"

"A xenovox?" He asks. Jaskier makes a 'whatever' kind of noise that makes Geralt's lips twitch in the ghost of a smile. "No. Triss does, though."

"Ah." He doesn't looks happy, per se, but-- "Okay."

---------------------

"Yes, I can get ahold of her for you," Triss says when they track her down. She's still in Temeria, still serving the king. "Or at least, I can leave her a message. She doesn't much care for answering, usually," she laughs.

"Hm." That sounds like Yen.

"Tell her it's urgent," Jaskier pipes up, expression pinched.

"Is there anything I can do? If it's urgent, I mean."

Triss might actually be the better option, Geralt thinks, if he wants this love torn out of him. She's a healer; he knows first hand she has quite the skill. He could--

"No," Jaskier's already shaking his head, "we appreciate your offer, Triss, darling, but it's got to be Yennefer." His voice is strained. He coughs, a tiny thing he suppresses with difficulty. Geralt can hear him holding his breath to stave off the fit.

"Yes," he agrees slowly. He's...not sure why Jaskier's so insistent on it being Yennefer. They don't even like each other, and he's always liked Triss well enough. "Sorry, Triss."

She corners him before they leave. "He's not well." She'd obviously taken notice of the coughing.

"I know."

"I can--" she winces, gestures vaguely. She's offering to tear it out, the love. He knew she'd be the better bet.

"You can ask him, Triss, but I don't think he wants that. He told me he was...okay. Dying for them."

She makes a strangled noise. "Geralt--"

"We're not talking about it."

She's quiet for a long time. "At least take this." She shoves a bottle of something dried at him, "it won't fix anything long term, but it will help. Mix it with some tea." He takes the little bottle, tucks it into his things.

"Thank you, Triss."

---------------------

Geralt's still trying to figure out where to go from here when Yen tracks them down at an inn they've been staying at a few weeks later. He's just finished an easy drowner hunt and they're planning to pack in the morning. The dried herbs from Triss have helped, but they're not a miracle cure. And Jaskier refuses to take them unless Geralt does too.

"Now what about this is urgent?" she asks, stepping out of the crowd to settle at their table beside Jaskier without invitation. The bard splutters, choking on his ale. It sends him into a coughing fit. His hand flashes out across the table and Geralt reaches back automatically, lets him grip him hard as he shakes his way through the hacking. Yen watches silently, eyes wide.

"Shh," Geralt soothes, slips up from his seat to crouch beside Jaskier when he doesn't recover quickly enough, hands still linked. They're starting to draw attention, so Geralt uses his bulk to shield Jaskier from the scrutiny of the room, "it's okay, Jask." Geralt doesn't breathe easy until Jaskier spits up the little fistful of bloody jasmines, panting.

"Oh," Yen says, voice strange.

"'M not--" Jaskier breaks off, clears his throat, grimacing. He flexes his grip around Geralt's hand once before letting go, "It's not about me."

"It should be," she says. Her gaze cuts over to Geralt, the look in her eyes hostile and reprimanding.

"No, Yennefer--" he starts, gaze jumping fast between her and Geralt, "can I talk to you? Alone?" Geralt startles, tries not to show it. Yen glances up at him where he's still standing.

"Go, Geralt. Your bard and I need to have a talk."

"Hm," Jaskier won't look at him, "I'll go check on Roach."

---------------------

He takes his time brushing her down for the second time that day and forces his mind quiet, focuses on getting her hair all laying the same direction. He's...not trying to listen for the swirl of their conversation in the mix from the tavern. It just...kind of happens.

"Jaskier--"

"He knows and he doesn't feel the same, Yennefer. It's...fine."

"He's an idiot, bard. Did you--"

"No, doesn't matter."

"Then why--"

"He's in love with you."

Geralt's focus breaks when his breath catches and dissolves into another coughing fit. The buttercups are painful little reminders, bright and beautiful, even splattered in blood. He gathers them up, tucks them into his pouch for a lack of anything else to do with them. Jaskier thinks he's in love with Yen? Why--

"Geralt," Yen hums, appearing as if summoned by his thought (she very well might be).

"Yen." He turns to face her, leans his weight against the door of Roach's stall. He's still a little short of breath, knows he looks a sight.

She sighs, long-suffering. "I'm only going to ask you this once--why do you think your bard wanted me here?"

He's...not sure what game they're playing here. "He's...unhappy. With me." Her expression pinches and he can tell she's hanging on to her patience with him by a thread.

"Why?"

"Because--" he sucks in a deep breath, hates that he has to say this out loud, "--because I'm in love with him, and he's in love with another," he finishes quietly.

She makes an awful noise, patience snapping, "And how do I factor into that, Geralt?" She's pissed, but Geralt's not sure who at, honestly.

"He wants the Hanahaki gone...doesn't he?" He can't help make the statement a question. Yen looks like she's going to strangle someone (maybe him).

"You're both fucking idiots," she seethes, "and I would normally refuse to have anything to do with this but I promised your fucking bard, so--" she gestures viciously behind her, "lead the way to your room, witcher."

Geralt does, feeling like he's missing something.

---------------------

When they make it up to the room they're renting for the night, Jaskier is there, looking drawn and highly uncomfortable.

"Yen, I told you I didn't need to be here," he mutters. He won't meet either of their gazes.

"No," she says, voice firm, "you do. Now, Geralt," she turns on her heel to face him, "the only way to get rid of Hanahaki--no, don't interrupt me, we're not doing that--the only way to get rid of Hanahaki is to confess your love to the person the flowers are for." He shifts his weight, gaze jumping to Jaskier whose eyes are still downturned, before settling back on Yen. "Who are your flowers for, Geralt?"

He feels breathless, like he might be about to have a coughing fit again. "I'm--"

"I told you they're for you, Yennefer. Don't make him say it. Please."

"Jaskier, I told you to be quiet," she snaps, "who are they for Geralt?" Her gaze never leaves his, a sharp, angry challenge.

"They're not for you," he tells her. It's obviously not quite what she wants to hear, from the way her scowl deepens.

"You're fucking impossible," she tells him, the same time Jaskier makes a harsh little yelping sound. Geralt's gaze snaps to him.

"Geralt, you can't--" he's scrambling up, crossing the room, "you have to tell her, Geralt, or you'll die. Don't make me watch that." The scent of his worry, his panic, is heavy on the air, sour milk and fruit gone rotten. "She'll love you back, Geralt. It's okay."

His chest hurts. It's only partly from the coughing. "Jaskier--"

"Geralt, where are they? Your little flowers?" Reluctantly, he pulls the little handful of buttercups from his pouch, not sure where she's taking this. "Jaskier, they're buttercups," she says, tone harsh. He just makes a painful little noise.

"I know," he says, voice strained, “It’s hardly fair, is it?” His tone is light but obviously forced. Yennefer sighs, changes tactics.

"Jaskier, who are your flowers for?" She asks, gentle. He makes another little noise.

"Yennefer--"

"Did he tell you what he thought you wanted? Why you wanted him to see me?" She doesn't wait for an answer, "he thought you wanted his Hanahaki gone, Jaskier. Ripped out. He was going to let me do that."

"What? Geralt, I wouldn't--why would I--?" There are tears brimming in his eyes, "I'd never ask that of you, Geralt. Why would you think I would?"

"Why do you think I love Yen?" he asks in return. Yen makes a disgusted sound.

"This is enough. Figure yourselves out; I'm leaving. Don't have Triss call me again unless it's a real emergency." In the next breath, she's stepped through a portal. Gone.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's quiet question draws his attention back. He looks-- "Geralt, who is it?"

"Who else would it be?" he finds himself saying, "They're buttercups, Jaskier."

"I thought--" there are tears rolling down his cheeks, "I thought it was so cruel. For destiny to give you buttercups."

"I'm sorry," Geralt murmurs, reaches up to brush the tears away, "I know you don't--"

"You idiot," Jaskier laughs, a wet sound, "mine are for you, too."

Geralt feels the tightness in his chest fade, like heat leeching away in the cold. He hadn't realized how oppressive the blooms had become until they were gone.

He doesn't know what to do with Jaskier looking at him so full of love and relief. It's overwhelming and he can't help himself--he pulls him in for a kiss, slow and gentle, arms around his waist. Jaskier's fingers slip up into his hair, tilt his head to a more satisfactory angle. They only break when their lungs begin to burn, and then it isn't to go very far. Jaskier presses lingering kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Geralt shivers.

"I'd always known you'd kill me, darling," he breathes. Geralt slips his arms a little more securely around his waist, presses a palm flat to the small of his back, kisses down his throat to the open vee of his doublet and the ties of his chemise, temptingly on display.

"'M sorry it took me so long," he says, voice low. Jaskier presses closer in his embrace, winds his arms around his neck. "I was so afraid--"

"I know," Jaskier cuts him off gently, tugs him up for another kiss, slow and unhurried. "I know." When they pull away, Jaskier cups his face in his hands, rubs his thumbs across the arch of his cheekbones, "I was terrified too, love. What a pair we make, hm?"

Geralt hums in response. Jaskier laughs.

"Love you too, darling." He says it light and teasing, but the flowers, the look in his eyes, belie how much he means it.

Geralt swallows hard. "You too," he says, voice rough. He clears his throat, tries again, "I love you too, Jaskier." It comes out a little stilted, but the look on Jaskier's face--

He tugs Geralt down into another kiss. "You're entirely too sweet," he murmurs against his lips. And well. Maybe it's not so bad, loving Jaskier when that love's returned. He presses him backward towards the bed, listens to the delighted burst of laughter Jaskier makes as the back of his knees hit the mattress and he collapses backward, dragging Geralt down with him.

No, it's not so bad at all.

[ifishouldvanish]

Me??? Cross-posting fic to tunglr weeks after the fact??? It's more likely than you think.

---

Zagreus had been content to admire Death from afar. Death, with his golden eyes. Death, watching the River Styx with his arms folded over his chest, big and strong from hauling that scythe around. Death with his long, flowing silver hair.

They'd been close once, of course. Playdates as children under Nyx's supervision. But Thanatos was Death, and Death had responsibilities. And Zagreus, well… he was the prince. God of Nothing.

They scarcely saw each other at all anymore, and on the rare occasion they crossed paths in the halls, they did so with no more than a curt nod of acknowledgement.

Which was fine. Because it would make things much more awkward if Zagreus had to endure friendly conversation with him on the regular.

Things being the fact that Thanatos had grown rather nicely into his godhood and become, quite frankly, extremely hot.

But now he'd crossed a line.

He'd cut his hair.

Those long, silken locks Zagreus' fingers had been aching to comb through. Gone, replaced with shaved sides and some fringe that hardly grazed his jawline.

And so, it was with great indignation that Zagreus made his way down the West Hall and to the balcony.

"Hey…" he leaned against the balustrade with nonchalance. "Thanatos."

"Prince Zagreus," Death acknowledged with another one of his curt nods. "How may I be of service to you?"

"...Ha," Zagreus chuckled awkwardly. "Oh, nothing… just wanted to er, say hi."

Thanatos raised a brow.

"I… see you uh, cut your hair."

"I did," he answered, betraying nothing.

"Interesting, interesting…" Zagreus nodded. "Interesting choice."

Thanatos narrowed his eyes at him.

"Not sure I would have made that choice, but…"

"It was getting in the way," he asserted in that deep voice of his.

"Right, right…" Zagreus was still nodding.

Thanatos' jaw clenched. "...Is there a problem? Prince Zagreus?"

"No, no! No problem!" he put his hands up defensively. "Just ah… don't worry, alright? The thing about hair, is ah… you can always grow it back."

Thanatos tilted his head at him, his expression blank and unreadable. "And why would I want to do that?"

"Um… because… it… you…" Zagreus hesitated. "It looked better when it was long?"

"Hm," was all Thanatos said, but his gaze had changed into something intense.

Zagreus swallowed. "Anyway… Father has been positively thrilled with your performance of late. Again. So…" he began his retreat, edging away from the balustrade, "keep up the good–"

"Perhaps, if you had any duties beyond cavorting about in the House, you might understand the need to consider the practicality of a haircut over the aesthetics of it. Prince."

Well, that stung.

"Heh. Well… to each their own, I suppose," he chuckled weakly. "Oh, wait, what–? Did you hear that?"

Those golden eyes darted around in confusion. "...Hear what?"

"I think I hear Achilles calling for me," Zagreus lied, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. "Funny that, huh? That the Greatest of the Greeks should keep his hair long without any problems? Anyway, gotta go. Nice talking to you, Than. Good chat."

[hawksugarbaby]

Todoroki x reader- Fix you with gold

Angst + Villain reader Au

Quirk: kintsugi- you can manipulate strings of gold hardening it as soon as you need to you can also remelt it.

Crimson lights flooded the bare brick room as you watched from the corner waiting for your dear hero to wake up. Shoto todoroki. You had been well acquainted a few years back. When you haven't been coined as (y/n) (y/ln) the UA traitor but now, well not so much for obvious reasons.

Thankfully, the boy you had once loved more than anything was chained up against a chair with his head hanging low avoiding the glare of the red filter. No no this isn't your boring old yandere simulator storyline. You had no intentions of killing everyone who looked at your dear peppermint boy, you had no of killing him because you loved him that was just absolutely ridiculous... no, you were killing him because he was a hero. But was he really?

Your chair screeched as you pulled it along behind you appearing from your corner and sitting yourself down drinking a lovely tea from a beautiful porcelain cup... well, beauty is subjective. "Good morning shoto" you greeted, your cheery attitude slipping between your grit teeth. Yes, today would be a good day "lovely day, isn't it? For a little chit chat hm?" silence. Once again your response was silence "oh come on my little hero I know you're not dead. Yet" it was a fun game you two had. You would talk, he would not, but all your conversations were rather one-sided and you decided chess was more fun with 2 people. Today was going to be the day you broke him once again.

"Shoto, are you interested in what would happen to you if you keep up this silly game of silence?" you asked and finished off the tea spinning the handle around your index finger. You stood up and launched the cup against the wall fragmenting into small pieces that rained down like drops of blood, he winced knowing that the cup was expensive and not easily found. rich boys and their pottery. "I wonder how easily you shatter compared to a teacup. Shall we find out?"

You put your finger on his chin and forced his head up to look at you. His mismatched eyes bore into you with sadness "I used to love you" he whispered. You let go of him and maniacal laugh erupted from inside you which bounced off the walls into his ears "Shoto you still love me. You want me to change my ways and go back to the way I was, maybe join you as your sidekick hm?" he looked at you his eyes wide with the kindling of hope "WELL NEWSFLASH HERO I never was that girl. I was a lie, a book wrote and edited to suit you" you watched as the hope dwindled away the kindles blowing out in the icy wind of your words you leaned down to his ear and whispered "everything you saw in me was an illusion. I could never be a hero, do you know why? Because heroes aren't real"

you stood back up stretching your arms behind your back a Cheshire smile graced your face. "you still have so much time to join me sho, no ones coming to find you, dearest" you sat back down on your chair leaning forward on your hand "you're a villain (y/n) there isn't a way in hell you could convince me to come to your side" you bit the inside of your cheek and pushed yourself off the chair and walking up to him, your face barely inches apart. You kicked his chair over, flicking a butterfly knife out holding it close to his neck "NO. I'M THE GOOD GUY HERE I-IM THE GOOD ONE. YOUR NO HERO I'M CLOSER TO A HERO THAN YOU'LL EVER BE" you spat while he struggled on his back like a helpless tortoise. You were in the right of course you were. Heroes aren't real anymore just read the news the hierarchy was crumbling and the ones who were at the top had the furthest to fall.

No one needs saviours anymore. "Your insane (y/n) your sick please just let me help you" you hated it when they told you that "SHUT UP. I'M NOT I'M NOT I'M NOT. I'M NORMAL. YOU'RE THE SICK ONE YOU KNOW WHY" you pushed the knife up drawing pinpricks of blood that trickled to the floor slowly "because you crave to feed a hunger you cannot satisfy. You want to save as many people as possible, lock up all the villains yes?" he couldn't look away from the intense expression that hadn't left your face since he told you you were a villain "what happens when you lock up the villains hm? When you run out of people to save? Who runs wild through the city then? You pump out heroes every day leaving less and less for you and between you and me it looks like your going to run out of us soon" you pulled the knife back and todoroki released the breath stored up. Now he looked at it, you weren't wrong? What would happen when the villains disappeared. The heroes that were supposed to make people feel safe no matter what had struck fear into the hearts of every civilian in the world, no one dared to steal, to murder, to light their fires across the country for them to trace back to a warehouse in the middle of the wood?

No, he couldn't be thinking about that. He was a hero through and through you wouldn't change his mind with a petty butterfly knife. You scoffed at his pathetic state squirming under you and stood up pulling his chair back up along with you "you're still so handsome shoto, it really would be the biggest shame to ruin you" you sighed remembering a time when you truly wanted to be with him no matter what. But your ideologies just weren't compatible. "Do you know what happens when you mix bleach and rubbing alcohol?" you pulled a bottle of anti-septic out of your pocket and slipped a white cloth down from your sleeve to your hand "no answer? Or are you being ignorant again" he pursed his lips keeping his words sealed in the front of his mouth "fine. Let me show you." you poured the anti-septic on the cloth and walked up to the gorgeous boy in front of you stooping down "last chance my love" he looked at the wall and you groaned in annoyance. You forced the cloth in front of his mouth and nose and smiled sweetly "you make chloroform"

Day 2

Well, it turns out yesterday wasn't the day. But he was getting close you could feel it, you would take a slightly softer approach today there was another name for this, manipulation. "Morning shoto, are you feeling chatty today?" he looked up from his chair quickly when you entered. Despite what others thought, you weren't completely heartless, you would bring him food and water, and for a hostage, it was pretty good food. Maybe it was the remnants of your love that made you treat him differently. You unlocked his chains and passed him his plate. He knew there was no chance of escape, he had tried and failed a hundred times, he couldn't use his quirk in this room, and you were waiting around every corner when he tried to run.

"You know what I really don't understand shoto?" you wandered around the ruby room admiring the walls that kept him inside "when I first met you you said you despised your father and you would go against him in every way possible" he ceased eating at the mention of his father his appetite suddenly lost in the crowd of emotions "so why even become a hero. Why did you not run off? be the opposite of what he ever told you to be?" you were getting there you could feel it ripping through the air. He was lost, and confused? Who did he want to be? Certainly not anything like his father? Why did he ever want to be a hero? To save children who had to bear what he bore, why should he care for them if no hero ever cared for him "as I see it your father is worse than ever is he not? He lost Touya, he can't find you, he's wearing fuyumi and natsuo away desperate to have his perfect creation. Wouldn't now be the best time to join me sho" the plate hit the floor splitting apart just like his own sanity. Here we go. This would be so fun.

You sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him and picked up the pieces of the broken plate stacking them in your hand "you've heard of kintsugi I assume?" of course he had he grew up with everything, he nodded hesitantly his dual coloured fringe hanging in front of his eye as he leaned over watching you intently. You started laying the pieces of the plate out like a jigsaw fitting them together perfectly "if you just took my offer sho..." you started pushing the pieces together and lines of gold brushed over the old cracks, you lifted up the plate and put it on his lap "I could fix you up with gold" you whispered he gulped and traced his finger over the gold that welded the plate making it better than before. "We could get to know each other again. Love each other REALLY love each other shoto please I'm begging you" you really hated playing the broken lover card especially to someone you truly did love, and of course, you wanted to know him all over again but the begging really was a chore you had to fake so much emotion.

"I-i missed you (y/n) I really did I want you to come back to me the way you were before. Don't do this please" he begged. He knew this was it. He couldn't hang on any longer he had missed you for so long he couldn't stand being away from you again and ... you were right! Why should he strive to be a hero when none had ever cared for him when he was almost dead, beaten up by his own father who had the audacity to call himself a hero. He was nothing more than the creature to be puppeteered by Viktor Frankenstein. "THIS IS ME. can't you see that shoto this is who I am? The way I was before was fictional I tailored for you" you brushed your hand across his scarred cheek and brushed his hair out of his face "but you could know me, you could love me like this, couldn't you. You just need to join my side."

he looked at you, taking in your details for the first time in 4 years. You're (e/c) orbs didn't even try to attempt hiding the craziness behind them, the way your grin had a sadistic twist that could make any god coil in fear, your (h/l) (h/c) that was matted and bloody, the way the red light mimicked the bloodlust radiating off of you, yet he could still find comfort in it. "I want to know you," he said in his low monotone voice. The breaking point. You were his breaking point. "Let's get to know each other then hm?"

[inb4belphienaps]

crying over spilt milk

warnings: none word count: 2285

“Truth be told, I’ve been having these dreams. Dreams almost of another life, a past life perhaps. One that I’d lived and seen and breathed through at some distant point in time.”

I read over my words, holding the letter in my hands.

“They are, by far, the most intricate and detailed dreams I’ve ever had. Usually, I don’t remember them. But these…these feel too real, too specific, too thought out to be anything except something akin to memories of a bygone era.”

I recall a few of them with some difficulty. That was always how dreams worked, like trying to grab mist with your bare hands and having nothing tangible left as evidence.

“Shall I confess?

They have now become a source of entertainment for me, having increasingly rooted themselves in my mind, to the extent that I find myself looking forward to (for lack of better phrasing) the ‘next installment’.

It’s bizarre, I’ll admit. How eager I am to get to sleep as soon as the clock shifts from afternoon to evening, when the hour hand turns to six and I wonder if I’ll see him again…”

.

.

.

as you slowly float back up to the surface, the first sound that hits you is the singing of birds. their bright and cheerful chirps filter in with a hint of irony. though they're pleasant, quietened by the curtains hanging over the windows, it means that it's still rather early.

there's a chill in the air and you turn over under your duvet, tucking your feet in further towards your knees, eager to keep the warmth on your skin. and yet, you open your eyes, not needing to blink any sleep from them. oddly enough, you're more awake than you'd thought. whatever dream you'd been having is far from your mind as you bask in the scattered sunlight dancing on your walls.

such serenity ignites a type of mild excitement in you. and with that in mind, you will yourself to get out of bed.

you draw back the curtains and glance outside, looking out at the landscape, where the sun is shyly peeking over the hill. dawn is only just breaking and as you open a window, a gust of wind greets you, sending a rush of floral scents your way.

you can place notes of rose and lavender, and maybe honeysuckle too. the scenery is beautiful, and you lean against the ledge to admire it. clear skies and waves of green, dotted here and there with reds and pinks and yellows. there's a calmness to the color and vibrancy. something you hadn't stopped to feel in a long time.

it stays in the background. while you pour yourself some tea and sit down for breakfast, and when you turn on the radio to the crooning of some ballad you can't quite place. and even as you set about doing the laundry, humming every now and then to a tune only you seem to know.

the basket you use is one you've weaved yourself (in an attempt to be impassioned by a new hobby). it's small and sturdy and it does the job. you wonder whether it'll last you, hoping that if it breaks, it'll at least do you the favor of waiting until it's empty.

though it doesn't take long, you're startled to see the sun in the sky as you step onto the gravel path, basket in hand. it seems to stare down at you and wink as clouds roll overhead, creating capering shadows on the field as you start hanging the wet quilts one by one.

a couple of bees follow you around as you go about your business. and when you stand still to breathe in the smell of freshly washed linen and admire the warm glow cast on those sheets by the light, a butterfly flutters past.

it brings with it the distant ring of a bicycle bell. you look to the east where a man in uniform comes riding up the hill and the smile on your face could bring shame to the flowers lying near your feet.

"good morning", he says, slowing and stopping a foot or two away from you. he tilts his cap and you note the way in which his fringe barely covers his right eye.

"good morning", you reply. "it must be exhausting having to make that trip every day."

he laughs. it's sweet.

"i don't really mind."

in his hand he carries a metal basket and neatly arranged inside are six glass bottles full of milk.

"how many would you like today?", he asks, and you have the urge to tell him you'll take everything he has to offer. but of course, you don't say this aloud.

"just the one, please."

as he picks up one of the bottles to give to you, you swallow your spit and gesture towards your house. the shadows continue to dance above it, making it seem fluid despite its usual rigidity.

"can i get you something to drink? a coffee, perhaps?"

he appears taken aback, eyes widening a fraction before he smiles, and you feel your heart leap into your throat.

"i'd like that very much. a coffee sounds great."

you momentarily freeze, having expected him to refuse your offer. and then you're taking the bottle of milk and your basket back inside as he follows after you. you turn back to him as he enters and the sheets you'd hung flail slightly behind him, almost like a set of wings.

"cream and sugar?"

"um, no. but could i trouble you for some ice?"

an iced americano, you think. placing your basket on the floor and leaving your bottle on the kitchen counter, you busy yourself with preparing his beverage.

"my name is belphegor, by the way. i think you should at least know who it is that's been delivering you your milk."

you pause, having taken a mug out of the cupboard, and meet his gaze. his tone sounds a little indignant. were you simply being sensitive?

"it's a pleasure to officially meet you, belphegor."

the both of you exchange a shared laugh (the sudden bit of formality is embarrassing). he's the first to look away, breaking the eye contact that has goosebumps erupt on your skin. hm, perhaps you were overthinking things. only, the problem is that you're not sure you have any ice in the fridge.

"were you listening to music?"

"yes- oh", you say, confused at the static that greets you. "the program must've finished."

he glances at the radio and then at you. in your bid to locate the instant coffee you have, you don't notice.

through a strange coincidence, you find it sitting pretty on the top-most shelf of the pantry. you frown, wondering if you'd placed it there by mistake.

belphegor is about to open his mouth to speak again when he sees you reach upwards, fingers brushing across the jar mere centimeters out of your grasp. you're on your toes, leaning forward, barely balancing as you try your hardest to take it.

the man remains silent, watching you with a detached type of curiosity.

darn shelves, you think, as you stretch as far as you're physically able. still, the glass slips from between your fingers and you resort to stepping on a sack of flour. right as you grab it, the corner of the sack slides out from underneath your foot and you gasp, knowing all too well how this was going to end.

but there's a hand on your shoulder and a solid chest against your back, and a pleasant voice in your ear that suggests otherwise.

"so much trouble for a coffee."

his breath tickles the nape of your neck and you twist around to thank him, unprepared for the amused expression painting his face. from here, you can see every freckle, every eyelash, and every stray hair left untamed by his cap.

"you okay?", he asks, too close and quiet. too intimate that you forget yourself for a second.

"i'm...i'm fine."

those furrowed brows of his make you think twice and you place a hand to his chest, marveling in its warmth. you can feel his heart beat. it's steady, unfazed by whatever silly accident had happened just now.

"thanks", you mutter, swiftly removing yourself from his arms (firm and inviting). "i'll uhh...i'll make your iced americano, shall i?"

he doesn't say anything as you take a spoon and measure out the ground powder. and the silence lingers as you bring a pot of water to the boil. your thoughts, however, are that much louder, that much more pronounced. you were never one to invite strangers into your home. why was he such an exception?

"you can stop staring."

belphegor chuckles and you hate the fact that you can't ignore it. his laughter, it twinkles, and it has you looking at him all over again.

"i was keeping an eye out for you. in case you decide to make a habit of falling while i'm here."

you scoff, opening the fridge door to remove the ice tray. six cubes blink up at you and you ease three out, popping them into his mug in rapid succession. it's a tad violent and some of the coffee sloshes out onto the counter.

"thank you for your concern. but it's really not necessary."

he walks towards you, and you remain fixed on his bowtie, hoping to avoid being trapped by his alluring purple irises.

"if you say so."

and he takes a sip. and you find a cloth to wipe the spilt coffee with.

"it tastes good", he says. "maybe i should ask you to make me one every morning."

"tough luck", you reply, glancing at him as you clean. "i'm afraid this is the last of my hospitality."

besides, you didn't have it in you to continue acting an utter fool around him. something about his self-assuredness serves as the antithesis to your nervous energy, fueling it further to the point that you're doubtful about whether he'll return tomorrow.

"is that any way to talk to your knight in shining armor?"

oh. nevermind. that question makes you want to slap the handsome smirk off his face.

you give one last swipe of the counter, as if to stand your ground, and straighten up. yet it only leads to disaster.

the lonesome bottle of milk that you'd put atop it, comes crashing down onto the tiles, spraying its contents along every surface and scattering glass shards in its wake. the knot in your stomach tightens and you refuse to acknowledge the man who hasn't budged an inch.

he clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

"what am i going to do with you?"

as you stoop down to gather the glass, he mirrors you.

"i can-"

"it'll be faster with the two of us."

apparently, it's your turn to watch him. you slow your movements as you focus on his hands, how meticulously they pick up each broken shard and how conflicted you feel about him doing as such. in your daze, the edge of a particularly sharp fragment digs into your thumb and you flinch.

"fuck-"

he reacts before you do, tossing the glass he's holding into the bin and taking your hand in his to help you remove the fragment.

"this might sting", he mutters. that was the last thing on your mind. did this man have no sense of personal space?

the fragment is tossed out with the rest of what used to be the bottle and you're about to reluctantly thank him for a second time until he's bringing your thumb up to his mouth.

"wh- what are you doing?"

he suckles gently on the cut, putting a stop to the bleeding, and you're rendered speechless. when he speaks, all you can think about is his lips.

"can't you be more careful?"

"not with you here, no", you say, finally admitting to the reality that was beginning to suffocate you. you can't pay attention to anything other than him.

"figured it out, have you?"

"figured what out...?", you ask, leaning in as his voice drops to a whisper.

"you have a crush on me."

you stare, perplexed, and you tear your eyes away from his mouth to look at him. there's a secret lingering in his facade. of words unspoken and confessions kept hidden. what does he know?

"prove it", you mumble, perfectly aware of how ridiculous a demand that was.

except he obliges, closing the gap between the both of you and meeting your lips with his own. they're soft and as you snake your hands around his neck, his cap comes loose, falling to join the mess on the floor.

neither of you care to address it and he pulls you back up, hugging you to his front and wrapping his arms around you. it's intoxicating. bitterness lingers on his tongue and there's the faint taste of cigarettes. but you're kissing him like someone starved. or perhaps someone parched.

sparks fly beneath your eyelids and rouge caresses your cheeks. (or was it the ghost of his palm against them?)

there's a need, an intensity to the way he grips you and the way clenches his jaw when you tug at his hair. you match him blow for blow, digging your nails into his shoulder and moaning softly into the kiss.

when you part and rest your forehead against his, you're not the only one who's out of breath.

"belphie", you whisper and the look on his face is a mystery in itself – surprise and longing, haphazardly hidden behind a mask of indifference.

"thank god i brought another five bottles with me, huh?"

[daintyduck99]

For the soft prompts 43 + lalex?

Alex steels himself as Luke’s shoulders slump. If Julie and Reggie told him no—

“Yo, ‘Lex!”

He does not squeak when Luke’s hands land on his hips. Alex just—he wasn’t ready!

He’ll never be ready for Luke Patterson.

All of Alex’s defenses crumble as Luke clings to him. He likes to dismantle Alex’s walls with his bare hands. They snake under Alex’s sweatshirt, tracing patterns on his lower back. Luke bites his lip, gazing at Alex through his fringe, not quite pulling out the puppy-dog eyes. Not yet.

“You’ll come with me, won’t you? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience!”

“Something tells me Green Day will have other concerts,” Alex mutters, “ones that don’t take place in the middle of a school day.” Luke shakes his head.

“I mean, yeah, of course there will be others. But they won’t be this one! With seats like these! I worked my ass off to get these tickets, I might never get the chance to be close to them again. And I really, really want to share the experience with someone special. Please, ‘Lex?”

Alex sighs, running his thumb over Luke’s armband. He glances at the couch. Reggie mouths SAY YES, and Julie shakes her head, looping her arm around Reggie and distracting him with cuddles. She giggles as he pouts, and Alex rolls his eyes. So much for her moral support.

“I already said no—”

Luke hits him head-on with the puppy-dog eyes, amber and gleaming with unbridled pleas.

“And I asked you first because I really want you there! Reg would come, but Julie reminded him that he has to make up that history test. You don’t have any tests to make up! Your grades can survive a single absence. Let loose a little!”

Alex squeezes his eyes shut, but the sincerity he saw in Luke’s is already seared in his mind.

“I’ve never met a more stubborn person in my life.”

Luke hums, trailing his fingers up Alex’s spine as he leans up so that his lips brush the shell of Alex’s ear. “You like it.”

“Do I?” Alex murmurs, smiling to take the sting out of his words. An answering grin plasters itself to his cheek, and Alex’s breath catches.

“Yeah,” Luke says confidently, tugging Alex closer, “I think you do.”

“Oh my god, say yes already!” Reggie blurts, startling them apart. “Or just kiss! The suspense is killing me!”

Luke huffs. “Like we didn’t watch you two dance around one another for months!”

“Hm.” Julie kisses Reggie’s pout away, cradling his bright red cheek. “He has a point, babe.”

Alex wraps his hand around Luke’s wrist, spinning him back around. “He should never interrupt us like that again, but I’m with Reg, here. Maybe I’ll say yes if you kiss me.”

“Now who’s the stubborn one?” Luke teases, playfully rubbing their noses together.

“Yeah, I know.” Alex tilts his head, ghosting his lips over Luke’s. “But you like it.”

[thebiasrekkers]

Call You Mine [MYG]

Plot: "I never regretted the day that I called you mine..." 

A Min Yoongi/Agust D one-shot. 

That's it. That's the summary. I have nothing else to say. 

Happy Birthday Min Yoongi!

Rating: PG // SFW

Genre: fluff | romance | idol romance | one-shot

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Female Reader

Warnings: None

Links: FAQ || BTS Masterlist || Admin E’s AO3 || [ REQUESTS ARE OPEN ]

Word Count: 1,912

AN: Wee. It’s late. I’m late. I’m always late. Who’s surprised? Not me. Happy Birthday Lil Meow Meow! All reblogs, critiques/reviews, comments and affection are accepted! Happy reading!

© thebiasrekkers (Admin E). All rights reserved. Reposting/modifying our work is prohibited. Translations are not allowed. Plagiarism/stealing is not tolerated by any means. Legal action will be taken in instances of theft.

"Who are you?"

"Hm? What do you mean?"

"Your breathing shifted just now."

A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. That was how he always responded when you asked him that. Was it because you knew him so well? Or were you just anxious? Maybe it was a mixture of both. Either way, it was something you didn't want to admit aloud.

Not to yourself. Not to him.

"Does it matter?" he asked. 

Of course it mattered! 

You didn't respond, determined to get your answer first.

He flashed you a mischievous grin, a bit of his silver fringe falling along the bridge of his nose. "Why don't you guess?"

You felt your lips pulling into a pout, mustering what patience you had to not smack his bare chest with all the strength you could manage this late in the night. Even in the low light, he must have seen the disapproving look you were giving him. Lifting one hand up, he lightly poked your forehead and you whined at being teased. You knew he did this to get a rise out of you. He also knew how important it was for him to give you an answer.

It bothered you how much he always dragged his feet on this matter. The more logical side always reminded you to have patience. This was his own personal game that he liked to play with you. Sometimes he would win. Sometimes you did. 

No one was really keeping score anymore.

You didn't want to guess. You didn't feel like playing this game tonight. To showcase your intent, you roughly pulled from his side and flipped over on the bed to turn your back to him. This must have surprised him because he didn't start laughing at your reaction. In fact, the bed was absolutely still - your breaths barely audible in the dark.

Warmth touched the flare of your hip as he placed his hand there. You tried not to relish in his touch, but it was difficult. After everything you'd gone through to get to this moment, it was only self-inflicted pain to ignore him. Part of you knew to stand your ground. The other part was willing to give in to his advances.

Because you loved him so much. Because you loved all of him…so much.

“Hey,” he called softly, reaching over your stomach and pulling you close to his body, “remember when we first met? At that bar in that one town?”

You bit back a scoff. Like you could forget. He never made it easy for you to, even if you wanted to. 

You kept silent, not wanting to cater to his need to hear your voice. To hear how, even now, you found yourself in an endless loop of falling in love with him each and every single day. To him, you were a lifeline for survival. To you, he was the reason you pushed through your tiresome work week.

The bar was crowded that night. It was an average Friday evening. You were out with friends, hitting the town and it was the third bar on the stop of your group’s infamous “bar hops”. Nothing was special about that night. It was just the end of another long work week for you. Another end of being a faceless number down a long hall of cramped cubicles and endless phone calls. A moment’s reprieve from jittering printers and raucous fax machines.

Two days of escape from being a nameless paper pusher in a seemingly endless cycle of meaningless.

He walked through the doors with his entourage - exuding purpose and power. They were celebrating another successful performance and chatter about said performance was the first thing you heard as they burst through the door. You watched him go straight up to the bar and buy it out, saying everyone’s drinks for the rest of the night were on him.

You envied his smile. You envied his “can do” attitude that dripped from every square inch of his body.

But it was his freedom that made you jealous the most.

You weren’t wearing anything particularly fancy that night. A pair of acid washed jeans stuffed in combat boots, a loose sweatshirt that hung off one shoulder. Hell, even your hair was in a messy up-do. After all, you weren’t looking for an easy score that night. Your plans to get laid were the furthest thing from your mind.

Yet there was no mistaking the way he zeroed in on you. Out of all the patrons in the bar, you were the one he decided to nail his focus to. You were the one who somehow managed to get his attention.

So, what should have been a night of blissfully getting toasted with your friends turned into something much different.

Feeling his lips against the nape of your neck, you felt your breath hitch slightly as his mouth moved to speak. “I asked you what you were doing for the rest of your life.”

You couldn’t stop the laugh that burst from your chest, causing you to curl up into a ball as you covered your mouth. It was one of the most absurd questions you’d ever been asked. Who even asked something like that in this day and age? What you were doing tomorrow? Sure. What you were doing next weekend? Of course.

The rest of your life, however, held a different weight altogether.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing tonight,” came your amused reply as you lowered your hands from your face. You still refused to look at him. “That’s what I said.”

The memories were flooding in quickly. His looks. The low dulcet sound of his voice. Even the cute little lisp he had when he spoke excitedly about something. His hair was a different color back then; jet black with an undercut. 

Everything changed in that one conversation. 

Despite his big spending at the bar, you knew he wasn’t well off. Not yet. But he had big dreams. He had drive. Money didn’t grow on trees and his dream would yield fruit if it prospered. Music, however, was such a shaky basket to throw all of your eggs into. But his passion and determination made you believe that he was telling the truth; that nothing would stop him from succeeding. He was determined and there was a small part of you that wished for his success. Somebody needed to grow wings and fly.

But the conversation didn’t take long to reverse back to you. On to your current occupation and your overall distaste with how things were going in your own life. It was a dead end road. You knew this. Somewhere along the way, you even accepted it. Some people were paper pushers and others were the stars that people could admire from afar. You had no place in that world. Your meager complaints and tiny goals could hardly hold a candle to the strength of his burning ambition.

That’s what you believed in the beginning.

You should’ve known better. 

After his friends and yours all got together to finish the bar hop for the night, your groups eventually wound up near the outskirts of town at a park. The drinking, laughter and flirting continued. He was never far from your side and neither were you from his. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, his hand found its way into yours, holding it close. Your lips touched soon after and it was a magical moment.

That was the beginning of the end for  you.

Days rolled into weeks. Weeks into months. You looked forward to the weekends not to escape the dreary worklife you found yourself trapped in, but to see his performances in underground venues and fringe shows. The energy he exuded from the stage was intoxicating and the cheers from the crowd as he pumped them up was contagious. It only took a few shows and you were screaming and hopping around like an idiot like the rest of them.

Afterward, your groups would meet again to drink and celebrate in the success of the show. It wasn’t embarrassing for you all to run through the streets, screaming and shouting as the thrill of the night cloaked you from head to toe. Bottles of beers in your hands, you ran through crowds and stumbled down stairs in hopes of catching the last train home. You both cuddled in a drunken haze together as everyone talked all over one another - wrapped up in their own conversations.

It was only then that it became apparent that the person you were slowly falling for had two personas. One for the stage and one for when it was just the two of you. Sometimes they bled into one another. Sometimes they were kept far apart from each other.

Agust D and Min Yoongi.

As his success continued to build, your anxiety mounted - worrying about where your place was in his life. More months passed and the venues started to change. You knew there was a chance you wouldn’t be able to go to a performance because it was in the middle of the work week. Or maybe it was too far for you to travel. You couldn’t risk taking off of work for something “trivial” like a concert performance. That’s what your managers would say. They would belittle you for inconveniencing the rest of your co-workers. 

You had an image to maintain.

When he showed up on stage with silver hair, you knew that it was time. Agust D was rising to a level of stardom you wouldn’t be able to compete with. Fans cheered and remained loyal. Fans who were willing to drop any plans they had to hit the road and support their idol. They’d been around far longer than you had; had been cheering for him during a time when you didn’t even know he existed. 

It was the life he’d chosen; one you knew was going to take wing.

How were you supposed to stay close beside him? How were you going to continue to nurture this thing that existed between you both?

Feeling his arms wrap around your bare stomach, he pulled you even closer. You could feel his heartbeat slowly bumping against your shoulder blades. Yoongi pressed a kiss behind your ear, one of your weak spots, before allowing his tongue to glide along the curve of your jaw. You resisted the urge to moan at how he made you feel, both in that moment and every moment before now.

“I never regretted the day that I called you mine…”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, blurring your vision. Part of you wanted to curse him for his words. For his way with words. But that was how he always was. On the stage or off, it didn’t matter. It was his answer for any worry that threatened to smother you into a dark pit of no return.

Slowly, you turned in his arms. Yoongi’s eyes peered at you, his brows furrowing with concern despite the smirk playing on his lips. 

“Do you know the answer?”

That was the answer to your question. It was always going to be the answer.

Lifting your arms up, you wrapped them around his neck and leaned in, your lips barely touching his. “You’re Min Yoongi…” This time, you could feel your own smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “...and you’re mine.”

[mendedwings]

7KPP Week ~Festival~

Next up for @fyeah7kpp week is a flashback for my first and main girl Jei

---

Jeiana surveyed her appearance in the mirror one last time, fisgeting with the wide, decorative sash of her hanfu. Her outfit was a compromise--fancier than she would have chosen, simpler than the one her mother wanted. Jei had reminded her this was a festival, essentially an outdoor party, and whatever standard of decorum she wanted to hold, ease of movement needed to be a heavily weighted factor.

She tugged one lock of her brown hair free from the creative updo, twisting it around her finger for some curl as she let it hang against her face. There. Everyone always said how well her hair complemented her eyes.

“Jeiana, are you ready to go?” Mother paused in the doorway, waiting for her answer.

“Mm-hm, just checking one last time.” Jei turned to present herself for approval. 

Mother smiled. “Very lovely. The blue goes with your hair so well.” She smoothed back the loose curl and kissed Jei’s forehead. “Your father is waiting.”

“Then let’s go,” Jei said with aa grin. Even if the dress wasn’t her first choice, this would still be fun. She was eager to attend, as she was every year.

Mother headed down to their waiting carriage and Jei freed the curl again as she followed.

---

Any decorum or restraint Jei maintain at her mother’s behest vanished within seconds of reaching the festival grounds and spotting Jiya. The two girls whisked away from their parents with promises to stick together and mind their manners.

“Where shall we go first?” Jiya asked, linking her arm through Jei and sweeping the other hand toward the array of colorfully-canopied stalls.

Jei laughed, her stomach rumbling as a familiar aroma caught her senses, and turned Jiya slightly to the left. “You should know me well enough to guess the answer to that.”

“Hmm, I suppose I do.” Jiya winked and they stepped in tandem toward the counter selling food. It was not a long wait before they departed with purses a few coins lighter and fried, sugary dough twists in hand. Still warm, Jei noted as she bit into hers with a delighted groan. Jiya laughed at the sugar smearing her face, but was in much the same state after her first bite. They ate as they walked, admiring street performers, marveling at the light arrangements--new every year, perusing the wares of the artisans and craftsfolk given permits to set up along the fringes.

It was almost an accident rejoining their parents. Traditionally, they did sit together for the main performance ceremony. But neither Jei nor Jiya had been looking for them specifically; they just happened to find each other on the girls’ second--or was it third?--circuit of the festival. Jei didn’t protest when her parents insisted it was time to find their seats, to ensure they were good ones. Her face hurt from smiling, her stomach was full of sweets, and she and Jiya sported matching woven-silver bracelets. She was content to settle in with her parents as they watched the dancers file onstage, prepared to enjoy this as the end to a very good day.

[lostbetweenvampiresandmusic]

Hello hello! I had a rather cute request of an encounter between David and a clumsy girl with a tendency to run into things due to her "puppy fringe bangs" covering her eyes? Perhaps she's teased by the local surf nazis due to it?

'Not again...' she sighed as she felt a thick metal pole hit her hip. Stumbling forward, trying to keep herself standing - all the while trying to keep her hair out of her face so she could at least see where she was going.

"Crap!"

She bumped into two people, who turned at her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Watch out, bi-"

"Sorry! I- well, I stumbled, i-"

"I- I- i- what? To stupid to form any coherent sentences?"

She looked at the two of them, a sense of fear filling her. This was not good. She recognised them as Surf Nazi's, the leader Greg, and his friend Tommy.

"Look, she's getting scared!" Tommy chuckled, as Greg stepped closer.

"Maybe we should teach her a lesson, hm? Teach her how to use her fucking eyes."

"N-no you- you don't have to, it won't happen again, I promise!"

"Oh I think we will-" Greg stepped even closer, grabbing the collar of her jacket.

"Will what?"

A cold voice sounded from behind them, making the surfnazis look up.

"Stay out of this," Tommy spat, but everyone knew he was scared.

"She's with me," only now did she turn around, surprised to see the leader of the Lost Boys standing there.

"I am?"

"Yes."

With some angry glares the surf nazi's left, leaving the girl behind with David. He smiled kindly at her, which surprised her a bit.

"I'm Emma."

"David."

"So..." the two of them walked down the boardwalk, Emma still trying to keep her hair out of her eyes, "Not to be rude, but why did you help me?"

"No reason. Just felt like it."

"I somehow don't believe that."

David chuckled, lightning a cigarette. "Where's the fun in telling you?"

"Well, it would make me less curious and thus less annoyi-"

"Careful -" David pulled Emma towards him, preventing her from walking into a lantern.

"Thanks."

"Also," David stopped, looking at her, "I don't think you're annoying."

"Oh, good."

"Want to grab some food?"

"Will you tell me why you helped me?"

"We'll see," David grinned, leading her towards a restaurant.