#i wish i was joking about my paper length...it's not intentional..

[astranva]

Falling Duet

Word Count: 2.4k

Category: Fluff but it’s so 🥺

Warning: Nothing

Request: harry dating singer!reader: he has to perform at some awards and he invites her to sing with him but no one else knows? love your writing🤧❤

Summary: You and Harry sing an unreleased version of Falling at an award show.

The lyrics used are of “Falling (other POV)” by THE cutie, Ally Naso 🤍

// masterlist //

**reposted bc tumblr is messing up the tags & nobody can view it. sigh.

..

It all started when a friend of yours had recorded you singing in your school’s bathroom during senior year.

7 years ago, you wouldn’t have believed it if somebody told you that you would be a 13-time Grammy nominated artist, as well as having 6 of that very award sitting on your shelf at your childhood home – one for Best Artist, and one for Album of the year.

You would have laughed even.

But it wasn’t a joke nor was it a dream you wished to never wake up from; it was as real as life could be.

You were successful in the industry and if any of your fans were asked, they would say that it was because of your immense talent and unproblematic, empathetic, kind character.

It was one of the many reasons why so many people on the internet had shipped you with a certain English man, him having been only 20 when you went viral and got signed.

A year into the industry, it was one day when you remember your Twitter notifications going crazy;

“HARRY STYLES JUST SAID HE LOVES YOUR MUSIC AND THINKS YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL”

“omg pls tell us you watched 1d’s interview with jimmy kimmel”

“IT’S FINALLY HAPPENING! CAN YOU PLEASE BE TOGETHER ALREADY???”

Looking back at that memory, you remember how you were a shaking and overwhelmed mess as you had clicked on the link everybody was sending you.

The video had begun with the audience cheering as the camera was on Jimmy and the 5 men near him.

And there he sat; in a black suit with a white shirt underneath, medium-length hair looking like he had run his fingers through many times, his hands clasped as he looked at Jimmy.

“Who’s most likely to let a woman split the band?” Jimmy had asked.

They had looked at each other, not answering for a moment before Niall chimed in with a laugh as he pointed at Harry, “Harry would let his celebrity crush do that.”

Harry rolled his eyes jokingly as his bandmates agreed and laughed, slapping his hands against his thighs in feigned annoyance.

“Who is that? Who’s your celebrity crush?”

“Just this talented person.” He had tried to smile his way through the question, but no one was having it.

“You know Y/N Y/L/N? She’s an amazing singer,” Louis told Jimmy.

“Y/N!” Jimmy beamed, “We had her on the show two weeks ago.”

“Yeah, he watched that.” Liam had gestured towards Harry.

Hiding his face in his hands for a moment, the audience cheered as his friends continued to laugh.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Jimmy asked Harry in a teasing manner.

Having had decided to get it over with, Harry nodded as he clasped his hands together again, “She’s very talented and beautiful.”

“Lovie, can you help me with the necklace? My nails are still drying.”

You looked up from your place on the couch, sitting in your long dress looking so beautiful that Harry had lost track of time of getting into his own suit because he was too busy giving you a photoshoot on his phone.

Standing up, you reached and clasped his necklace for him, dusting his shoulders to signal that you were done.

Turning, you were met with your boyfriend of 4 years beaming at you before he leaned to press his lips against yours.

“You look so good.” You smiled up at him, “So beautiful.”

“Have to try to catch up with how you look tonight,” he replied with a wide smile, “Nervous?”

“Not really.” You admitted.

Amusingly and completely and utterly in love, Harry tilted his head slightly, “Any reason why you’re not? You usually hate those.”

It was true. You didn’t really like award shows because of how tiresome all the process was; hair, makeup, dressing up, walking only to pause every second, the repeated questions you have been answering for years, how more judgmental the world was on nights like these.

But it was always when Harry was able to be by your side that you liked the night, and the tall man knew it, but he had always loved hearing you say it.

To feed his ego, you wrapped your arms around his neck, “Because you’ll be there.”

“Music to my ears.” He joked, shaking his head slightly.

“Just feeding that already overfed ego of yours, baby.”

“Excuse you.” He pecked your lips, “Let me add food for Evie then we can leave.”

“I’ll do it, don’t mess up your nails.” You patted his chest before moving away to attend to your cat.

The fans and reporters all had anticipated the moment of yours and boyfriend’s arrival, and the both of you knew it.

You were fairly private with your relationship. While everyone knew you were together, the both of you didn’t always post about one another but when you did, it went viral – something you and Harry, shamelessly, enjoyed.

It was why during moments like this, everyone was eager. Reporters were hungry for content, all having different intentions, but you spend enough time in the industry and you sort of begin knowing what to say and how to say it.

Harry was scheduled to perform, something everyone knew of, but it was the fact that you were joining him not on the red carpet, but on stage that they didn’t.

Getting out of the car together, the screams and flashing lights were then doubled.

Harry closed the door behind you with a polite smile to the security standing. Bending a little, he adjusted your dress’s short train for you as you looked back at it before you looked up at him.

As if they weren’t snapping pictures like crazy yet, you reached and fixed Harry’s hair at the front, his eyes looking up with a smile as you did so.

“Thanks, love.”

With that, Harry placed his arm around your waist as you walked to the first spot on the red carpet.

“When was the last time we appeared together? They’re going mad.” You whispered, looking at Harry as he smiled to the cameras.

He chuckled, looking at you, “I think we deprive them too much.”

“Let’s give them enough content to last a year.”

Nobody but the both of you knew what you meant, and it was why the flashing lights and camera shutter sounds were then tripled the moment Harry’s lips were on yours in a soft kiss.

“Can we sign stuff?” You asked a woman standing on the sides, “Can we see the fans?”

When she nodded at you, you and Harry ignored posing for a few minutes to converse and meet fans.

“I love you and Harry so much!” One fan said shakily as you signed a paper for him.

“Thank yo- Hey! I saw you in Amsterdam last year, right?” You grinned.

And that was another thing not only your fans loved about you, but Harry, too.

You were no stranger to connections. You were no stranger to making people feel seen and treating them in a way that no fan expected to be treated – a friend, and you remember friends.

“Harry, do you think Y/N will win Songwriter of the Year?” A fan asked.

Harry shrugged with a smile, “I hope so but we all know she is anyway.” He waved his hand with a joking manner, making the closest fans laugh.

“What about you? Do you think you’ll win Artist of the Year?”

“I don’t know,” he smiled, “There are so many amazing artists. I wish them all the best.”

“He’s a humble man,” you teased, patting his shoulder, “We all know he is anyway.”

You were confused as they, Harry included, laughed in shock. “What?”

“He literally has just said the same thing about you.”

You laughed, looking at Harry, “Shut up, no way!”

“The both of you have been doing that for years.” One fan commented with a grin, “It’s adorable. It’s like telepathy or something.”

“Oh yeah, we are telepathic,” Harry nodded, “It gets a little scary sometimes.”

“Heeey!” You laughed, “It’s actually helpful. One of us would be just walking at home and we’d look at each other and know that the other just means something like “feed Evie” or “take out the trash””

“This is so cute!”

“Harry, what are you performing tonight?”

“You’ll find out in a bit.” He pointed.

Shortly, you and Harry had to take more pictures and do interviews before you were escorted inside.

It was the little moments that fans also lived for; how Harry held your hand as you sat so discreetly, how the both of you chatted and giggled among one another and those around you, how Harry fist-bumped the air the moment your name was called to receive your award of Songwriter of the Year before kissing you. It was how they knew this was real – how love wasn’t something you only listen people sing about or write novels for.

It was in how Harry’s eyes didn’t move from you as you gave your speech, a wide smile on his face and eyes resembling twinkling stars for crying out loud.

It was in how you ended your speech with: “This is to the man who has inspired and pushed me forward to write every single day. I love you.”

It was in how you looked more nervous than Harry himself when his category was called before you were the first to get out of your seat with a happy “yes!” once they announced that he won.

It was in how Harry cupped your face that moment to kiss you before walking to receive his award.

It was in how you remained standing, those behind you only smiling instead of being annoyed, with your hands clutched together against your heart, tearful eyes, and the brightest smile in the room.

“You’re going to tell me this is cheesy,” Harry chuckled slightly, giving a shrug as he looked at you, “But I wouldn’t be standing here, holding this, if it weren’t for you. I love you, too.”

But then Harry was about to perform and you weren’t in your seat.

The award show had decided to make a skit of it, the host being Miley had held her microphone as she stood in the empty isle beside yours and Harry’s empty seats.

“We know Harry Styles is performing in minutes,” she said, looking at the camera with a playful smile, “But where is Y/N Y/L/N? We know, we know,” she nodded, “Probably backstage for some extra good luck but-” people laughed, causing Miley to pause and chuckle, “But seriously, guys. There’s a show and it must go on.”

“It’s going on.” Harry said from backstage into his mic before the stage went dark.

It wasn’t until piano tunes sounded that the arena grew dim, a spotlight on the piano at the center of the stage where you sat, your fingers gentle against the keys as you played the beginning notes of Falling.

“I'm in my bed,

And you're not here

And there's no one to blame

But the drink in my wandering hands.” Harry sang as he came on stage, holding the mic in his hand before taking a seat beside you.

Everyone had expected him to sing the next verse, but it wasn’t his voice that they then heard.

“I'm in my bed

Instead of yours

Cried to sleep turned off all of lights and locked all of the doors.” You sang, eyes on the piano keys.

“Forget what I said

It's not what I meant

And I can't take it back

I can't unpack the baggage you left.” His eyes were on you, body turned slightly towards you as he felt like the both of you were in your living room in front of your white piano.

“I replay what you said

Don’t know if it’s true

Left with two broken hearts and there’s nothing that we could undo.” You sang, closing your eyes as you got ready for the chorus.

“What am I now? What am I now?

What if I'm someone I don't want around?

I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling.”

“What am I now? What am I now?

Don’t want to cry ‘cause I can’t stand the sound

I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling.”

The both of you sang together, your voice being softer and quieter than Harry’s.

“What if I'm down?

What if I'm out?

What if I'm someone you won't talk about?

I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling.”

“What if I'm down? What if I'm out?

What if you’re someone I can’t live without?

I'm falling again, I'm falling again, I'm falling.”

It was a version nobody had heard before, and it was why everyone was quiet, the only sound coming from you, Harry, and your lone instrument.

It was something you had written together following a rough patch of your relationship, and everyone knew that it was more personal with the way the both of you sang.

When his eyes weren’t closed, Harry sang as he looked at you, and he knew that performing this song meant more to the both of you than anyone could imagine. One look at your face and Harry knew you were reliving the night of when the both of you had written this; eyes a little red from crying, bodies hot, Harry wearing a hoodie of yours while you sat in your underwear with his purple fluffy robe on.

“Can I do this alone without ever needing you again?”

“And I get the feeling that you'll never need me again.”

You both sang the bridge together, yours being shorter than Harry’s note as you carried a softer tone, closing your eyes as you played the piano, feeling your throat close up before gulping.

He knew.

It was why the final chorus was sung softer and quieter, Harry’s forehead resting against your temple for a moment as the both of you sang.

“I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling.” Harry finished, putting his mic down as he stared at you with a small smile, watching you in your element as you played.

Managing to look at him as you played single soft notes, you sang, “I’m falling again, I’m falling again, I’m falling.”

You played the end single notes, looking at Harry with tearful eyes and a bashful smile.

It was like you were unaware to the erupted cheer and round of applause, you threw your arms around Harry, feeling his arms wrap around you instantly.

Crying from the overwhelming emotions, you were thankful your mascara was waterproof. You called it.

“I love you,” Harry whispered in your ear, “I love you so much.”

[comfortwriting]

The Little Things - B.W

Masterlist, Writing Prompt Masterlist, Requesting Rules

Bill Weasley x Fem Reader

Requested/About: After the Wizarding war and the death of his younger brother, Bill Weasley focuses on the little things in life and realises that life is too short to waste it; the death of his brother gives him the confidence and courage he needs to confess his love to Y/N. 

Warnings: Mention of death, blood, swearing, mention of weight loss.

"I miss you Bill" you sighed down the phone "Are you sure you can't make it?"

Bill held the strange muggle device in his hand, both guilt and fear consuming him "Yeah" he replied, "But I will next time, I promise."

You knew this was a lie, and although it hurt, you couldn't stay mad at him - Bill had every right to shield away from the world, question everyone's intentions, and stay closer than ever to his family, but you knew that over time, it would only make things worse.

When you first heard the news of Fred's death, like many others, you were gobsmacked. The tragedy of his death changed everything - especially the man you loved most. Bill could no longer see the world in colour, he hated to smile, he couldn't laugh, looking at George felt worse than any injury he had suffered at work. He felt alone, broken, guilty, and worst of all, he didn't feel like himself anymore.

He lost motivation and passion for his job and couldn't bring himself to leave his house, even talking on the phone sometimes became too much for him, and your letters piled up on his windowsill, all read and crumpled, his replies screwed up into parchment balls scattered across the floor.

"Look after yourself, Bill." you said softly "Goodnight."

"Goodnight Y/N."

Bill felt relieved to finally come off the phone, but the crippling loneliness had hit him like a curse. Hanging up the phone and placing it back on the stand, his mother Molly, watched him, studying his scarred face.

"She cares for your dear, please don't push her away," Molly called out softly, approaching her firstborn and stroking his long hair which was pushed back into a messy ponytail, his dangling fang earring started to swing.

Bill nodded, too ashamed to look his mum in the eye "I know" he replied "Everything is just so different."

The familiar tears pooled into Molly's kind eyes, her lips trembled, the sight of Fred's dead body flashing back before her eyes. "It's strange not having him here, it's too quiet, but don't blame yourself" she cried "He died with a smile on his face."

Bill shook his head, tears of his own ran down his hot cheeks "I'm his big brother" he cried "It was my job to protect him, I can't lose anyone else."

Molly held her son close, crying and shaking her head "You aren't to blame, Bill, please don't let this take over your life, Fred wouldn't like it, none of us do."

"But I'm - I'm terrified."

"I know you are dear, but death is part of life, you can't let death stop you from living your life to its fullest." Molly sighed as Bill pulled away from the hug.

"I'm trying, I really am, mum."

Bill walked away and went upstairs into his bedroom, photographs his brother Charlie sent him of Dragons flying and breathing fire didn't evoke a smile or happy memory, instead he wanted to rip them off the walls and curse himself for not being by his little brother's side on the night he died. Bill felt useless, a waste of space, he felt as if he was the worst wizard in the world, he kicked the parchment balls across the floor and fell onto his knees, crying, talking to Fred who couldn't hear him or respond.

After your last phone call, you went days, weeks, and months without hearing from Bill. Your phone didn't ring, your owl didn't bring any letters with his handwriting on, and from what you heard, he had been fired from his job. You rang every day, but as time passed, you rang once a week, then once a month, then not at all. You stopped writing to him, you felt like you had made him worse like you had scared him off so badly that he felt too pressured to talk to him, but your gradual absence only made Bill feel worse, he felt as if he pushed you away, doing what his mother told him not to.

Maybe Bill wanted and needed a fresh start, away from you and away from everyone, perhaps he took a break and went to Romania to visit Charlie who took his mind off things with work. Part of you wanted to storm over to him, bang down the door and take him under your wing whether he liked it or not, but the bigger part of you felt like leaving him alone was the right thing to do.

Reaching your parchment and dipping your quill into your ink pot, you began to write to Molly, if you weren't able to care for Bill, you still wanted to watch over him from a distance, something Fred did when he wasn't comforting his twin, George, who didn't know he was there.

Molly,

I miss you, I miss everyone, I miss Bill.

I've tried reaching out to him but I don't think he wants to talk, I want to help, to comfort him, and do anything I can to bring a smile on his face, but I think he would rather be alone - and that's okay, I respect his wishes, but I just need to know how he's doing.

I can't tell you how strange this all is, I can imagine you can't put this all into words either, I am so so sorry for your loss, Freddie... Fred was the funniest person I've ever met and he always made me feel better, even if I wasn't in the mood for his pranks or jokes.

I want to be here not just for Bill, but for all of you. I want you to know that you can write to me, even ring me if you need anything (Arthur isn't the best with the telephone, but Bill has somehow mastered it, but I can understand your disapproval so writing back is fine) I miss you, I miss The Burrow too, spending my school holidays under your roof were the best times of my life and it's one of the worst things about being a grown-up.

Please let me know if you need anything or if there is anything I can do, please send everyone my love, I can't imagine what you're all going through.

Nothing but love,

Best Wishes,

Y/N.

Wiping the tears from your eyes, you folded up the parchment and placed it into the envelope, pausing before you sealed it with wax. Looking over on your right and focusing on the photograph in the picture frame of you and Bill posing as Head Girl and Head Boy, with big smiles on your faces and your badges sparkling against the flashing of the camera. This was the only picture you had of you and Bill, and although you got comfort watching that moment in time replay over and over, it made you feel sore inside, causing you to wince.

Picking up the picture frame and holding it in your hands, you removed the back of it and pulled out the picture, putting it inside of the envelope. Setting the frame back down, you finally sealed the envelope and watched the hot dripping wax mould into shape, cool down and dry. You picked up the envelope and walked downstairs, meeting your owl by the window in your front room.

"Please post this for me," you said softly "It's very important and precious."

Your large fluffy owl tilted its head before taking the letter in its mouth and flying out of the window as you opened it, watching them fly away in the distance, you couldn't stop yourself from reminiscing about Bill and the memories you made together as teens - little did you know, whilst Bill curled up on his bedroom floor, he too was thinking exactly the same thing.

"Bill!" You grinned, running over to him and hugging him, admiring his hair "Your hair has grown so fast! I love it!"

Bill smiled "I'm glad you like it, mum can't wait to see the day I chop it all off."

You ruffled his soft, shoulder-length hair and looked at his new timetable "oh nice!" you chirped "looks I don't have Herbology on my own after all!"

Molly opened the envelope and read your letter, covering her mouth to keep her cries silent, your kind words taking weight off her chest and placing a caring arm around her shoulders. She picked up the photograph and tears pricked at her eyes, the sight of Bill so happy brought her the comfort she so desperately needed.

"You need a bloody hair cut!" Molly freaked upon her son's arrival at the station.

Bill groaned out in frustration and rolled his eyes "No I don't, mum! I like it long!"

You smirked and burst out into laughter, Molly greeted you and pulled you in for a hug, making her husband Arthur pick up your trunk. Bill's younger twin brothers stared at you, smirking, muttering to one another.

"What do you think about his hair, Y/N?" Molly asked you, hoping you would be on her side "I think if it ends up any longer Hogwarts will be sending me letters!"

You pursed your lips and couldn't stop yourself from breaking out into a grin "I quite like it."

Bill smiled at you "See! The girls love it!"

You rolled your eyes and elbowed Bill in the arm playfully.

Hearing a crash in Arthur's shed, Molly quickly lept on her feet, rushing to see what the commotion was all about and to tell off her husband for his muggle tool and plug collection, leaving behind the letter and photograph on the dinner table.

"Oh go on Y/N, give me the answers, we've been studying for hours now!" Bill begged, glaring at his now crumpled O.W.L styled mock paper.

Bill's cheeky smile and puppy eyes made you cave in faster than you liked to admit.

"Fine, here are the answers."  You passed him your test papers, knowing fully well that he would be in big trouble tomorrow.

Bill walked down the stairs, tempted to pick up the telephone and ring you, but his eyes landed on the letter and photograph before the telephone. He stared at the photo, the memory as clear as day in his head.

"You'll never guess what!" You squealed.

"I've got some news!" Bill beamed, both of you speaking at the same time.

"You go first!" you encouraged him, excited to hear his news and tell him you had been made Head Girl.

"Guess who became Head Boy!" He grinned, pulling out his badge and handing it to you "Mum and Dad are going to be so bloody proud!"

You couldn't believe it, your best friend and you were head of the school - together, this HAD to be nothing more than a coincidence, it HAD to.

"Oh Bill" you grinned "that's wonderful - but -"

"But what?!"

"But this is all so strange."

"What?" His face dropped "Please don't make this about my hair, mum's sent me enough letters this term-"

"It's not about your hair you idiot!" You laughed "This is strange because I've been made Head Girl." You pulled out your badge, presenting it to Bill whilst it sat in the palm of your hand.

"No way."

"Yes, way!"

Bill couldn't sleep that night, he read the letter over and over in his head and watched the two of you posing in his mind. He rubbed his eyes so hard he could see tiny stars, opening his eyes he walked over to the mirror and stared at himself, he couldn't recognise himself anymore. His hair was straggly and hadn't been brushed in months, his facial hair was stubbly and rough, the bags under his eyes were dull and heavy, and his face had become more sunken in.

His mum was right, he couldn't stop living, he shouldn't push everyone away and shut himself off from everyone around him, he needed to keep going, no matter how hard things got, he had to keep pushing, further and further, he needed to get himself back on track.

Leaving his bedroom, Bill challenged the many steps and went into the bathroom, taking a long, warm bath. He scrubbed his skin, washed his face and hair and got out, staring at himself again in the mirror, he shaved off his ginger prickly stubble and grabbed a hairbrush. Detangling his hair and brushing it after neglecting it for so long, he picked up the scissors and slowly started to chop off his split ends and adding layers. He trimmed his eyebrows and stared at himself in the mirror, by morning he was going to get his job back, he was going to tell you how he felt, if he were to ever lose you, he would rather have a relationship beforehand, rather than settling with 'what could have been'.

Bill walked out of his room, as fresh as a daisy, in his suit, he picked up his briefcase, shocking the rest of his family, most of all his mum.

"You were right mum." Bill admitted, "I'm going to get my job back, and I'm going to see Y/N."

Y/N,

Thank you ever so much for writing to me, dear, your words have lifted me up tonight and the photo you have sent me is something I will treasure.

I know you aren't a child anymore, and I know you're an adult, but you will never be too old to stay under Arthurs and I's roof. We could do with some company, a good catch up, anything to keep our mind busy.

This home - this house - is so awfully quiet since Fred

her quill trailed off  

left, the occasional door will slam and Arthur keeps wreaking havoc in his shed but the absence of Fred's laughter and his footsteps pounding up and down the stairs are so terribly missed.

Bill isn't doing so good, Charlie is doing the best out of all of us.. and George, poor George. Please do pop round for a cuppa or just for a chat, even if Bill won't come out to chat I'm sure everyone else will be so happy to see you.

Don't be a stranger, Y/N.

Love,

Molly Weasley.

Drinking your cup of tea and staring out your kitchen window, watching the birds sing and search for food in the back garden, you heard a knock at the door, finishing off your brew and placing your floral cup in the sink, you walked over to the door and opened it, lost for words at who was waiting for you.

A slimmer and more gaunt Bill stood on your doorstep, a bouquet of roses in his hand, his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail and his suit looking elegant. You were heartbroken to see how Fred's death had taken hold of him physically, and you were more heartbroken knowing what he was going through mentally. For him to be stood on your doorstep, making an effort, truly was above and beyond anything you expected, and you were so proud of him.

"Bill!" You pulled him into a tight embrace, wrapping your arms around him and nuzzling your face into his neck "I can't believe you're here, I, I've missed you so much!"

Bill held you in his arms, soaking up your scent and the touch of your soft skin, the tiny pieces of his heart slowly piecing back together. He pulled away and handed you the flowers "These are for you"

Accepting the roses, you invited Bill inside and put the kettle on, making tea for the both of you, he sat himself down on the sofa, going through everything he wanted to say, feeling nervous and hoping that you would understand and feel the same.

You placed your cups on your coffee table, sitting down next to him, looking back at the gorgeous new roses sitting up proudly in their vase. Bill stared at you, studying your face as you studied the roses.

"Y/N, there's something I need to tell you."

You turned back around and looked into his eyes, your heart went weak and started to thump, your mind running faster than you could keep up with, you were jumping to conclusions and didn't know what to think.

"Okay" you replied nervously "What is it?"

"I'm in love with you" Bill confessed, "I always have been, and nothing really made sense until I read your letter to mum and looked at the photograph of us you sent her."

Your racing thoughts finally slowed down, you were catching up with them.

"Fred had his life stolen from him, he was young, he had years ahead of him - now nothing. I don't want to lose you, I don't want to disappear before we've even had a chance to get started."

You nodded your head slowly and placed your hand on top of his in support, and providing him with comfort.

"I don't want to lose you either, Bill."

Taglist: @alwaysnforeverfangirl @horrorxweasley @amourtentiaa @inglourious-imagines @reeophidian @sebby-staan @a-castle-of--glass

[classic80sand90smovieloves2]

Meeting and Dating Thackery Binx

(My alright gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(I wasn’t entirely sure how I would work this one out but I think I came up with a pretty cute concept)

- When you first met Thackery, you certainly weren’t thinking of him as a future boyfriend. You’d just moved to Salem, something you; a baby witch, were particularly excited about.

- It was a night like any other, but you’d decided that tonight would be the night that you’d perform your first ritual. So you went down to the Sanderson house late at night, sneaking inside though it wasn’t like anyone really cared what happened to the place.

- Thackery took immediate notice of you, watching from behind a few corners as you walked around and examined the place. He figured you were just a stupid teenager; albeit a very pretty one, and would leave any moment. That was when you settled down on the floor and opened your bag, lighting a few candles before getting all your things situated.

- You closed your eyes, beginning your chant as you held your hands out. The room around you was dead silent as you focused on what you were doing, willing your ritual to work. That was when you nearly had a heart attack as Thackery lunged onto your back.

- You scrambled to stand, gasping for breath and nearly knocking over the flames you’d lit as you searched the area, laughing breathlessly once you saw the black cat a little ways away from you. You cursed at him half heartedly, pressing a hand to your beating heart as you crouched down to his level.

“Are you my familiar? Huh?” You whispered sweetly. He watched you intently but didn’t move, letting you reach out slowly and scratch behind his ears.

- You looked around the room, sighing softly as you leaned over and blew out your candles, gathering your things to leave. So much for tonight being the night.

- Perhaps nothing happened that night but you would try again. You kept returning to the place, sometimes bringing your things, sometimes just bringing food for the cat that was always there. After a while, the mangy feline began to follow you around even outside of the house, always showing up as you went outside or arriving at your window mewling to be let in.

- It was a few weeks after you first encountered the cat that you’d come to realize just who you’d encountered. You’d had a rough day and just wanted to get away for a while, so you’d went back to the Sanderson house, knowing no one else would bother you there. Well, no one but your furry friend.

“So we meet again.” you smiled, watching as the familiar feline stalked towards you and nuzzles into your outstretched hand.

“I should give you a name, shouldn’t I? I can’t just keep calling you kitty. If you’re my familiar then you need a sophisticated name. Are you my familiar? ...Or are you Thackery Binx.” You’d joked, remembering the tale of the boy and the witches.

“So glad you’ve finally realized.” Your mouth nearly dropped to the floor.

- Well now that the secret was out, Thackery explained everything and enlisted your help in trying to turn him back into a human, and potentially to get rid of the Sanderson sisters for good. And so, you began your search for the solution to his century old problem.

- It took a while but you thought that you finallly figured it out, so you brought him into your room, set everything up, and began the process. The candles were lit, the herbs were placed down, the runes were written, and... nothing happened.

- You were dissapointed upon opening your eyes and seeing nothing but the usual black cat sitting before you. But then, the candles blew out and you were plunged into darkness.

- You gasped, looking around wildly as though you’d be able to see anything in the dark. You were just about to get up and turn on the light when all of a sudden, the candles were lit once more. You blinked a couple times as your eyes adjusted to the light ...and there he was.

Okay, so why the fuck is he hot. “Wow. You’re like handsome. I mean you’re a boy and you’re like seventeen. I mean you’re not old, you’re ...you’re you...again.

- The boy smiled, glancing down at his hands and then the rest of his body in awe before he surged forward and wrapped his arms around you, bringing you into a tight hug.

“You’re brilliant, y/n! Absolutely brilliant!”

- Well, time would reveal that you weren’t as brilliant as you or him thought. Yes, technically you did turn him human again, but only in certain places and only while you were alone.

- For instance: your property; where he was turned human again, the Sanderson house; where he was turned into a cat, and the graveyard; where he should have been all this time. Anywhere else and he was just a wittle puddytat.

- But Thackery was more than grateful. He’d been a cat for so long that being human for any length of time felt like a miracle. And now that he was partially human, he felt that he could finally try to do something about his growing feelings for you.

- Over time, the two of you grew closer and your will they, won’t they relationship began. He came so close to confessing to you; more than once, but you were always somehow interrupted or you said something that threw him off.

- Then, after nearly half a year of him falling more and more in love with you everyday; he finally confessed his feelings to you.

- You arrived home one day, only to find a piece of paper folded neatly on your pillow. You opened it and found a long letter detailing everything he loved about you and telling you exactly how he felt. Believe me, you’ll never read anything more romantic in your life.

- Like a rational person who was just told how much their crush likes them in the most beautiful way possible, you ran off to find him. You had a good idea as to where he was hiding out: the Sanderson house.

- Once you got there, you burst through the doors, prompting him to stand up nervously, awaiting your reaction. He was just about to try and say something before you strode over to him and pulled him into a kiss. After he got over the initial shock, he smiled and kissed back, pulling you closer as his hands found your waist.

- Alright, so maybe he’s just an ...indoor boyfriend, but you love him all the same and he loves you with all his heart.

- Pda? He’s a cat in public so it’s a bit hard to do, but you can pet him, hold him in your arms or kiss his fuzzy little head; people will just think he’s your pet.

- Nose kisses. They’re perfect for cat Thackery and normal Thackery, and for you at any given time.

- Soft, gentle kisses.

- Innocent and sweet touches. Sometimes he just touches you for the sake of touching you, there’s no real reason behind it besides the fact that he never wants you forget how nice you feel.

- He was a Puritan so; while he definitely has a bit more modern ideas from living through the years, he most likely has a few prudish beliefs that you may need to pull out of him.

- Like making out: something you had to persuade him into trying but something he is very glad that you showed him.

- Playfully chasing each other in your backyard or around the house. It’s very fun to tease him and then run off as he happily gives chase.

- He likes to pick you up at random; spinning around with you in his arms and swinging you softly.

- He tends to just use your name rather than nicknames or pet names, but when he does use them they’re old fashioned. Things like: dearest, beloved, and darling.

- Cheek kisses.

- Handholding, Hand kisses, playing with your hands, anything having to do with hands just please let him touch your hands like the repressed Puritan that he is.

- He’s touch starved and you can pry that from my cold dead hands. He’s been alone for centuries, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s forgotten how good it feels to be touched.

- Any kind of cuddling is fine by him, as long as he can wrap his arms tight around you. Most of the time, you wind up laying on top of him, head on his chest with his hands tangling through your hair. He’s very good at putting you to sleep like that.

- Waking up to soft kisses or him jolting awake in a cold sweat, calling your name and squeezing you tightly once he sees that you’re still there.

- Comforting him when he thinks about his sister and the life he had to leave behind.

- Getting to hear stories about the world throughout the years. Ever wondered what it was like in the 1800s? Well he’s lived through them, just ask him.

- He’s completely adamant about taking care of you when you get sick. He rushes over to you the instant you seem slightly under the weather, forcing a hand onto your forehead, and asking you a million questions. He’ll refuse to leave your side until you’re completely well again.

- He cannot stand seeing you cry; it tears him apart every time you get misty eyed. He’d do anything to make you feel better, asking if this or that would help or trying to get to the bottom of what's making you so upset.

- Compliments said in such a sincere and serious tone that they make you flustered and unsure of what to say. So, the best kinds of compliments. 

- Buying him some new and different clothes. 

- Want to give him a bath, you temptress? You want to see him in the nude, you meddling seductress? Hmmm? Perhaps he’ll allow it, just this once. 

- God, do you know how flustered he’d get when you have to get changed in front of him? He’d be trying his best to look away and give you privacy yet fighting the urge to peek at you, red in the face and stiff in his place. 

- He really wishes that he could help you with your homework and things of that nature but …what the fuck is calculus and what monster created it. 

- If you place a hand on his face or rub his shoulders, he’ll close his eyes and literally purr in delight. 

- Playing with his hair. He used to let Emily braid and/or tie it for him so it always gives him this melancholic feeling of joy whenever you do it.

- Can you please feed him something. Please, just give him a sandwich. He’s been eating mice all these years; he deserves some good food.

- Your family is definitely going to wonder why the cat is so attached to you. They’ll probably make jokes every time he hops on (only) your lap or completely walks past them to get to you.

- He’s slightly clingy; there’s only so much time when he can be human and hold you like a real man so he never wants to waste a moment when you’re together.

- Ever just want to be greeted with complete enthusiasm when you get home? As and you shall receive! He’ll lunge at you the instant you get step inside; if you have to leave him at home, or pull you into a kiss the moment the door shuts behind the two of you.   

- He loves when you sit on his lap but in that innocent old fashioned lovers sort of way. He usually pulls you onto his thigh whenever you’re sitting and talking, resting his chin on your shoulder while he listens intently. 

- Most of your dates are going to take place inside your house. You can’t exactly go many places besides your home, unless you want to go on a date with a cat. 

- Dates usually consist of just sitting together and talking, watching movies, reading books; things like that. 

- Candlelit hang outs at the Sanderson house. You’re never disturb and don’t have to worry about your parents or anyone else hearing you talk to him. 

- He’s determined to improve his storytelling skills just because you look so adorable hanging on the edge of your seat while listening to the folktales and old town gossip that he knows. 

- You’re definitely going to be roped into the Halloween adventure. He’ll literally just show up on your doorstep with Max, Dani and Allison, and you’ll just think to yourself “dammit new kid”. 

- Sarcasm and passive aggressive comments. They never actually hurt your feelings but they may make you send him a dirty look.

- You get back at him by calling him an adorable little kitty cat and just overall treating him like a pet. It’s very satisfying to see him get all broody as you ruffle his hair and babytalk him. 

- Having to lay down the law. 

“Thackery, you just killed a mouse like thirty minutes ago. I’m not kissing you.”

- He’s incredibly protective of you. After losing Emily and facing the Sanderson sisters, how couldn’t he be?

- Jealousy? He’s had to watch guys hit on you while being in the form of a cat; unable to deter them or prevent them from even approaching you in the first place. Of course he’s gotten jealous before. He does make sure to get his revenge on/chase people away though, jumping on or swiping at people on more than a few occasions.

- He’s definitely tried to get the scoop on your virginity and ex boyfriends by talking about the candle. Like “well maybe you could light the candle and we can just defeat them. Unless~”

- He can get a bit snappy at times so you’ve certainly had some arguments though he rarely stays mad for very long. Usually, he’ll apologize right after and try to use his words instead of just getting upset with you, like he’ll say snap and then say “I’m sorry but x”. 

- He’s a bit paranoid about not saying he loves you enough so he tries to say it as much as he can. He doesn’t want you to ever think that he doesn’t, especially if something happens to either of you.

- The future is certainly not set in stone but you’re hoping to stay by each other’s sides for a long time. Either way, he promises to always be with you. 

[jamiemackenziefraser]

All That Was Fair

Chapter 23: Wings of a Flutterby

Summary: “Jamie had always considered the presence of a flutterby to be a blessing.”

Read on AO3

Read chp 23 on tumblr below the cut

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A/n: After seeing a very cute thread on twitter about how Jamie canonically calls butterflies "flutterbys," I had to make the addition to this chapter because it was too soft to pass up. So, inspired by @Sassenach7471, thanks for reminding me of this sweetness!

Chapter 23: Wings of a Flutterby

***

Claire lay on her stomach in front of Jamie in the middle of the living room floor, her arms folded underneath her head as she lazed. Jamie, for his part, sat cross-legged behind her, completely and utterly enamored. 

The dress she was wearing had a large open back, covered only by tiny straps, which left her beautiful, translucent wings exposed. Jamie’s fingers were delicately tracing the edge of them where they lay flat on her back. They were so incredibly soft, so delicate, that Jamie could only bring himself to give them the barest hint of a touch. But he was entranced. 

He’s always been told never to touch the wings of a flutterby for fear of damaging them, so when Claire had given him permission to touch hers (after he'd gaped open-mouthed at her in that dress), it felt so deliciously forbidden. Even though he’d never exactly touched a flutterby’s wings before, he’d felt them flap against his skin as the flutterby hovered around him, the flitting sensation of softness before it was gone, out of reach. Claire’s wings felt much the same as he’d imagine a flutterby’s would if he could touch them in this way, only Claire kept hers still and on display for him to pay due reverence. 

Jamie had always seen the presence of a flutterby as a blessing— if they were near him, it was because of their choice, not his. He remembered as a kid being out in his mother’s garden, sitting as still as possible in hopes that one might land on him in passing. 

Claire was much the same. An ethereal creature that somehow had landed on his life, had chosen him… him… over anything else, giving herself fully and utterly without hesitation. 

Growing more bold, he trailed a finger down across one of the silvery veins that stretched across her wing. Claire gave a little shudder, making Jamie pause, but it was followed immediately by a contented sigh. 

“How does it feel?” Jamie asked as he continued to wander the surface of her wing with gentle exploratory touches. 

“Hmmn… nice,” Claire hummed. 

Jamie spared a glance up at her face to find her eyes were closed. Her cheek was squished just slightly where it lay against her arm, and Jamie nearly melted at the sight.  

“Like when I touch yer skin?” he probed. In demonstration, he brought his fingers to the skin of her back in between her wings, smoothing them down along the bumps of her spine. 

She shivered again, shifting her head, and then answered dreamily, “no. It’s different. I can’t really explain, it’s like… my wings are more… sensitive.” 

Jamie hummed in acknowledgement and returned his touch to her wings. They fluttered a little at the unexpected sensation, flitting against his hands, and that only served to make him more eager. As they settled again, Jamie began drawing absent circles over the surface with his fingertips. 

They weren’t paper thin, but still so heartbreakingly delicate. Their golden hue seemed to shimmer in the light from the window, although it was soft and barely noticeable if he hadn’t been studying them so closely. He couldn't get enough. 

It was unreal. 

His body was nearly trembling with excitement over this strange experience. As relaxed as Claire was, Jamie was pulsing with energy, thrilled by this newfound intimacy. He could touch her forever and never tire of it— wings or no. The thought that this strange creature was his awed him to no end... 

Absorbed as he was, he barely even noticed Claire was moving until she had sat up, her wings fluttering freely as she did. Jamie drew back, not wanting to hurt her as they moved, and he sat watching like a besotted fool as she turned to him. 

Her eyes seemed glazed with serenity, her whole posture carefree and relaxed. His touch had melted her into a puddle of soft warmth, and Jamie came to the realization that she was about to be all over him the second before she did just that.

She moved slowly but nonetheless insistently, and Jamie found himself absolutely covered in faerie a second later. She had straddled him and pushed him down on the floor as Jamie obediently relented. He let her drape herself over him as he leaned back, staring up at her in enrapturement. The second he was laying on the ground, Claire spread out at length upon him, she purred, “It’s your turn.” 

A dhia. 

“What?” He sputtered, his brain having halted all proper function at the feeling of her body spread on top of him. 

Lord give him strength. 

“It’s your turn,” she repeated, “On your front.” 

Jamie’s brain snapped back into his head as he realized what she was asking. Getting himself in check through some monumental force of will, Jamie managed to smile up at the hooded eyes above him. 

“Lass, I canna turn over when ye’re on top of me.” 

Claire was too tranquil to laugh or flush. She just hummed in acknowledgement, brushed her nose against Jamie’s once (making his wame twist), and then removed herself from his body. 

Jamie mourned the loss instantly, but he turned over onto his stomach as ordered, mirroring the position Claire had just been in, lounging on his front. 

As soon as he was settled, soft wee hands slid under his tee shirt, pushing it up. Then, lips met skin. 

He had to resist the impulse to jerk away as she kissed the scars, her lips warm and tender. No one had ever touched him fondly there— before her— and never in his life had he imagined someone kissing him the ugly evidence of his pain. 

Her lips touched the scarred flesh again, this time further up, and Jamie shivered. Gooseflesh broke out along his arms as her hand smoothed down the length of his back. She took her time, her touch gentle and intentional. 

“You’re so beautiful,” she said reverently. 

Every insecurity in Jamie screamed at him to deny it, to say something to the contrary, or even just joke about getting her eyesight checked. But the next brush of lips made the words die in his throat. He simply remained silent as tears gathered in his eyes. 

Her fingers traced the criss-cross of his scars for a long time, easing the tension from his muscles with her soft touch until Jamie was just as relaxed as his faerie. 

He wasn’t expecting it when a solid weight rested on his back, and he realized she’d laid her head down on him. 

“I love you,” she said softly, her fingers still tracing over his shoulder blade, “all of you.” 

Jamie wished that he were sitting up— or anywhere that he wasn’t trapped like this— so he could embrace her as he answered, “that means more than ye know, mo nighean donn.” 

Her hand smoothed back and forth over his side in response. He could feel her breathing— slow and deep— against him. 

“Dinna fall asleep on me there, lass,” he joked quietly. 

“I’m not.” She answered so softly that he wasn’t entirely convinced of the validity of the statement. “I just want you to know that I love every part of you.” 

The warmth in Jamie’s chest could have melted even the most ancient ice. Claire’s loving his scars couldn’t take away his insecurities— couldn’t magically heal the years of hating his body— but she gave him hope that one day he might be able to love himself with even a fraction of the intensity with which she loved him. 

Jamie pushed up on his elbows (Claire letting out a displeased noise at his disruption), and he hastily sat up to take her into his arms as he’d been wishing to do ever since she’d begun her ministrations. 

She went willingly as he pulled her into his chest, and they stayed pressed together as two parts of the same whole, serenity wrapped around them with the comfort of a blanket. 

*** 

Later that day, Jamie finally had the chance to introduce Claire to the wonders of literature. After finding out weeks ago that the fair folk didn’t have a written language, Jamie had been positively itching to introduce Claire to some of his favorite books. The choice had been brutal—Jamie being the book lover that he was— but finally, he had decided on Lord of the Rings. 

As soon as the decision had been made, he’d begun to prepare Claire, telling her everything he could think of about reading and books and human literature so she’d be ready before hearing the story. 

When the time finally came— and Claire had draped herself over Jamie’s lap, holding onto his neck and laying her head on his shoulder so she could stare the book as he read— Jamie found it rather hard to concentrate on the words. He had to block out her touches and reactions in order to give her the proper experience of hearing him read. After not too long, Jamie began to get the hang of it— it’d been a long while since he’d read aloud to anyone, but the story came alive as he grew more comfortable. 

Claire had hummed with excitement the whole time, stifling her wonderment into Jamie’s shoulder as he read with enthusiasm. 

“You’re a wonderful story teller, Jamie,” she praised during a break at the end of a chapter. 

“Thank ye, lass, but it isna so hard when the story is just here in front of me.” 

“You’re getting all that story from there?” she asked, pointing dubiously at the page. 

“Aye, much easier than remembering the whole thing,” he answered. 

She’d pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You humans are so sweet,” she said fondly, “we just treasure everything worth telling inside of us.” 

“Oh lass,” Jamie said, “I canna wait until ye hear more. There’s so much out there, more than we could ever remember ourselves. I’ll make a bookworm out of ye yet.” 

Getting back to business, Jamie squeezed Claire closer with his free arm and resumed reading. Her attention soon shifted from the page (which was meaningless to her) and instead rested on Jamie’s face as he read. He found himself distracted by her regard and her wandering hands that were doing their best to draw him away from his reading. 

“A nighean,” he said at one point, looking away from the book to level her with a mock stern look. Her hand froze over his nose where she’d been tracing up and down the bridge of it, “I canna concentrate on reading.” 

“Oh,” she said, abashed, withdrawing her hands, “sorry.” 

“Are ye enjoying the story so far, a leannan?” he asked. He had to prepare himself for the possibility that he was boring her, although hearing her say out loud that she didn’t like Lord of the Rings would probably break his heart. 

“I love it!” she exclaimed quickly, straightening herself against him, “it’s amazing. I’m sorry, please keep going.” 

“Okay,” he chuckled, “maybe jes’ let me focus on the reading for a bit, aye?” 

*

After they’d finished their section of reading— Jamie closing the book as if parting from an old friend— Claire pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek. 

“Thank you for telling me your story,” she said softly. 

He couldn’t help but laugh at hearing it referred to as “his,” but he didn’t have it in his heart to correct her outright. 

“We’ll read more of Tolkien’s story another time. Would ye like that?” 

She nodded enthusiastically, her curls bouncing and her smile melting his heart all over again. How could anyone ever look at her and not love her?— he wondered. He would spend all day, every day pouring out his soul just to see a glimpse of that smile. 

“Would ye tell me a story of the fair folk?” Jamie asked suddenly, longing to experience a part of her world as she was experiencing his. 

She raised up from where her head had just rested back on his shoulder. 

“I would love to tell you a story, Jamie,” she said, but something about the tone of her voice seemed… off. Was she sad? Had bringing up her home been a mistake? “But later. I don’t know, I… I don’t really feel much like storytelling at the moment.”

“That’s alright, a leannan,” Jamie reassured, “I just want ye to ken how much I care about yer stories too.” 

Claire wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her head underneath his jaw, squeezing tightly. 

“I love you, Jamie,” she said. 

“I love you more, mo nighean donn.”

***

Next

[baoshan-sanren]

Chapter 42

of the wwx emperor au that’s back to being called Emperor Wei WuXian And His Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birthday

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 Part 1 | Chapter 8 Part 2 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 Part 1 | Chapter 15 Part 2 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 Part 1 | Chapter 22 Part 2 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41

The summons come while the sky is still dark.

WangJi had woken with a tight sense of foreboding lodged in his chest, alert and on guard the moment his eyes had opened in the pre-dawn gloom. The events of the day before had certainly disturbed his equilibrium to such an extent that the anxiety and the trepidation do not seem out of the ordinary. The air is heavy in the Imperial guest chambers, weighed down with uncle’s disappointment and XiChen’s silent misery; in such an environment, it is difficult to trust one’s own instincts.

WangJi does not try. He moves though his morning routine as unobtrusively as possible, refraining from any unsolicited observations.

XiChen had not slept. If uncle had managed to sleep, no such thing can be garnered from the deep shadows under his eyes.

The small flame of joy in WangJi’s chest, so bright and unrestrained the day before, is now layered with bitter guilt. He has always experienced all of his happiness and misery with XiChen. They have always shared their burdens equally. It feels a betrayal, that this is a burden WangJi cannot make lighter for his brother, that he is powerless over the way their paths have diverged.

It is almost a relief, to have the heavy silence interrupted, to have something else to focus on for the time being.

The Imperial summons are for WangJi alone. Wei Ying is unpredictable in this respect; it is difficult to tell if he intends to sneak out of the Immortal Mountain again, propose for the second time, or if he simply wishes to have company with his morning tea. Nie ZongHui does not offer a reason for the summons, and WangJi does not ask. Still, the moment he steps out into the hall, his sense of foreboding increases.

The Imperial guest chambers have been heavily guarded from the moment the Lan Sect had taken up residence. However, the number of the guards had increased throughout the night, unnoticed by those within. Now, dozens of them stand shoulder to shoulder, forming an impenetrable wall outside the receiving hall.

Even more alarming is the fact that WangJi’s escort consists of thirty men, a mix of Nie Sect members and Imperial guards, all personally headed by the Lieutenant General of the Emperor’s army. The Emperor himself is rarely ever seen with such an excessive escort, especially within his own palace halls. It is slightly absurd, being surrounded by so many armed men, that they can barely fit through the palace halls without tangling in each other’s scabbards. The size of such an escort would suggest that their destination is some distance away, but hardly any time passes at all before he finds himself back in front of the doors to the Emperor’s personal study.

Immediately, he is both concerned and frustrated. If Wei Ying has summoned him before sunrise, with such an obnoxious escort, only to propose again, after he had promised to give WangJi time--

“Lan Zhan!”

The exasperation bleeds away in a hurry. Although it is difficult to pay attention to anything with Wei Ying’s bright smile turned his way, there are other people present in the Emperor’s personal study, each one a sharp reminder of WangJi’s current ambiguity of position.  

He is not yet betrothed. Even if he were, the level of familiarity he has displayed when alone with the Emperor will certainly not be seen as appropriate. He knows that kneeling will make Wei Ying unhappy, so he settles for a compromise; a bow, and a polite greeting.

“Your Majesty.”

He does not quite manage to complete the bow before Wei Ying has his forearms in a tight grip, and is tugging him forward.

“Do not address me so Lan Zhan, everyone present is family. You have met my uncle XingChen and Song Lan.”

Being pulled into the circle of people he hardly knows is more than a little discomforting. Song Lan is coldly polite, but the Rogue Prince, the person WangJi had actually offended, smiles in a warm greeting, for the first time displaying some physical resemblance to his nephew.  

“I know you have met Jiang Cheng and my Royal Companion as well.”

Jiang WanYin looks distinctly unhappy to see him.

Nie HuaiSang does not. He looks... half-asleep, and at best, disinterested in WangJi’s presence.

“I do not believe you have officially met Wen Qing.”

The day they were supposed to meet, the day WangJi had come upon Wei Ying covered in dirt, with a child on his hip, seems to have occurred decades ago.

WangJi bows, “Lady Wen.”

It is difficult to tell from her expression whether she approves or disapproves of him being present among the people Wei Ying had claimed as family, but WangJi has a clear impression that her approval is not something which can be easily obtained.

“Shijie should be here,” Wei Ying says, “but she had pressing business to attend to in the dungeons.”

Jiang WanYin snorts at that, but no one bothers to elaborate on the subject.

“Can we get on with this?” Nie HuaiSang says, “I would like to nap before the Gifting Ceremony.”

“You mean, you would like an opportunity to riffle through all the gifts before they are presented,” Jiang WanYin says.

He sounds irritable and cross. There is something defensive about his posture, the folded arms, the tightness around his mouth. WangJi does not know Jiang WanYin well, and cannot discern if this defensiveness is an ordinary occurrence, or a specific response to his own presence.

“I have already done so, yesterday,” Nie HuaiSang says, “so the joke is on you. By the way,” he turns to Wei Ying, “the set of jade hair ornaments from the LaoLing Qin are mine. They would look terrible with your complexion.”

Wen Qing and Jiang WanYin both roll their eyes at the same time. They do not seem aware that they have done so, as they appear to be taking particular care not to look in each other’s direction.

“We have the same complexion,” Wei Ying says.

Nie HuaiSang snorts, “Not even on your best day.”

“I have work to do today,” Wen Qing snaps, “can we focus on why we are here?”

A silence falls, one in which WangJi feels uncomfortably out of place. He is the only person who does not know why they are all gathered in the Emperor’s personal study, and he cannot help but wonder if he will ever feel a sense of belonging among the people Wei Ying considers his family. It is discouraging to think that he may always remain an unwelcome stranger, even once the marriage takes place.

“Second Young Master,” the Rogue Prince finally says, “You were perfectly correct in your assumption two days ago, and more than justified in your reproof. The man we are hunting is in the Immortal Mountain, and likely has been, all along.”

WangJi is not surprised. The thirty guards provided as an escort, just so WangJi could cross the length of the Jade Sword Palace, already implied the existence of some imminent threat.

It is somewhat of a relief, however, to have a rational explanation for his lingering sense of foreboding.

“The two servants connected with your attempted poisoning were killed by the same man,” Song Lan adds, “and it is possible that the attempt on the Emperor’s life, two days later, was also his work.”

“You are certain it is a man,” WangJi asks.

“We think it is a Jin Sect disciple,” Nie HuaiSang says, “Specifically one of these three Jin Sect disciples.”

The small piece of paper he passes to WangJi looks to have been folded up tightly, numerous times, by numerous hands. The three names appear unfamiliar at the first glance. Two carry the Jin name, but the third does not.

“Jin ZiXun,” he says, “is the Jin disciple who accused my brother of poisoning the Fan Sect Leader.”

“Jin ZiXun is not the one we want,” Nie HuaiSang says dismissively.

“You cannot be sure of that,” Jiang WanYin says, his tone quarrelsome.

“Jin ZiXun is clearly too stupid to commit mass murder, and not be caught in the process,” Nie HuaiSang counters.

“He must be an accomplice, at the very least.”

“He is too stupid to be an accomplice.”

“Okay!” Wei Ying says, “You have both had this argument three times now. Let us just-- move on.”

“We do not think that the Emperor is his target,” Song Lan says, as if Nie HuaiSang and Jiang WanYin had not spoken, “We believe that he is at the Immortal Mountain specifically because it provides him an easy access to a Sect that is fully removed from the public presence at all other times of the year.”

This does come as a surprise.

It had not been so difficult to believe that a hired assassin, or a random cultivator with a grudge, may be targeting the Lan Sect. But to be a target of a person who has collected the resentful energy from more than three hundred corpses seems preposterous in both theory, and in practice. WangJi cannot begin to guess what would motivate such a man to specifically attack the Lan Sect over any other.

“What none of them are brave enough to ask,” Wen Qing says impatiently, “is the Lan Sect’s history when it comes to the use of resentful energy.”

WangJi feels himself stiffen at the implication. Perhaps she did not mean to sound accusing, but it is difficult to hear the words in any other context.

Before he can respond, Wei Ying’s fingers are wrapping around his wrist, his body shifting slightly so his shoulder is in front of WangJi’s own. It is a small movement, barely half of a step. And yet, the intention is clear, and the result indisputable.

Wei Ying is shielding him. From those he had, only moments ago, referred to as his family.

The defensive armor that WangJi dons so easily, as familiar as his own skin, melts away at the gesture. It leaves behind a hot, dry lump in his throat, one he cannot seem to properly breathe around.

“We have had this argument three times as well,” Wei Ying says, his voice hard, “The Lan Sect is clearly a victim.”

“Yes, but why,” Nie HuaiSang says, seemingly unbothered by Wei Ying’s gesture and tone, “Why focus on the Lan Sect?”

“A madman does not need a reason,” Jiang WanYin says.

WangJi wonders if Jiang WanYin would resort to explicitly defending the Lan Sect for no other reason than to be as contrary as possible.

“I do not believe that we can assume him to be a madman,” XingChen says gently, “His actions so far, the way his victims are chosen, his behavior here at the Immortal Mountain, it all points to a highly organized individual, one who carefully plans each step before execution.”

“A madman cannot be organized?” Wei Ying says, and Nie HuaiSang shoots him a look which seems to imply that Wei Ying is being intentionally dense.

“The point is,” Nie HuaiSang says slowly, “he has not chosen the Lan Sect on a whim. There is a purpose in his focus.”

“A member of the Lan Sect murdered the rightful ruler of the Shan Empire, and her Consort, all because her distant relative, long dead, had used resentful energy,” Jiang WanYin says impatiently, “I would think, out of all the Sects, they would be the least likely to meddle in this type of cultivation.”

He may be right, but his defense somehow sounds both like censure and an accusation.

In the next moment, Nie HuaiSang’s fan meets Jiang WanYin’s shoulder hard enough to make him wince.

“Do not be crass,” the boy says coldly, “Frustration is no excuse for incivility.”

“The Lan Sect is particularly skilled in dispelling resentful energy,” the Rogue Prince says, “I suppose it is possible that this individual sees them as a threat to his plans.”

“The Lan Sect also has a few hundred cultivators and disciples, all in possession of this particular skill,” Wen Qing counters, “Killing three of them would hardly make a difference.”

“But it is unlikely that any three together could equal the power and skill of the current Sect Leader and his two top disciples,” Song Lan says.

All eyes now turn on WangJi, as if expecting him to deny or confirm the assertion.

Still reeling from the fact that Jiang WanYin, of all people, had felt the need to come to his defense, WangJi needs a few moments to consider the question.

“I am less skilled than my uncle or my brother,” he finally says, “Among the rest, only my father, two of the Sect Elders, and Lan HanLi have an equal, or greater ability. None of those we brought to the Immortal Mountain can be considered particularly proficient or powerful.”

Everyone seems to consider this in silence, forming their own conclusions.

Wei Ying’s hand is still wrapped around WangJi’s wrist. The gesture should be awkward in front of so many witnesses, but instead, it is a soothing, grounding contact that WangJi does not want to relinquish.

He wonders at the power of Wei Ying’s touch, to instill in him a sense of comfort even among strangers.

“I still do not see why we cannot simply arrest all three of them, stuff them into the dungeon, and get a confession through torture,” Jiang WanYin says irritably.

“Because two of them could be completely innocent,” Wen Qing retorts, sounding equally as irritable.

“Is anyone really innocent?” Nie HuaiSang says.

“Certainly not you,” Wei Ying quips.

“You were never innocent,” Wen Qing says.

Nie HuaiSang’s smile, hidden behind the fan, is only evident by a slight crinkling in the corners of his eyes.

Song Lan sighs, rubbing his forehead, “XingChen and I believe that this individual’s last attempt to eliminate the Lan Sect must be tonight. The sects and clans are all due to depart tomorrow, and despite the recent... development,” his eyes slide off WangJi, “there has been no indication that the Lan Sect plans to remain at the Immortal Mountain. The seventh day banquet is traditionally a much more... unrestrained event than any of the others, likely to result in drunken fights and unseemly indiscretions. We think the individual will try and use the revelry as a cover.”

“We want you to be the bait,” Jiang WanYin cuts in bluntly.

“No,” Wei Ying says, his voice hard, “We have discussed this already, and the answer is no.”

“It is not up to you,” XingChen says kindly, “This person has repeatedly attacked the Lan Sect. Whether they have a hand in his capture is entirely their choice.”

Wei Ying does not seem to realize that his hand around WangJi’s wrist has tightened to the point of pain.  

“Wei Ying,” he says, fighting the urge to pull his hand back, “I am willing.”

“I will not put your family at risk again.”

“We will not be at risk. You will protect us.”

Wei Ying flinches, whirling to face WangJi, his eyes wide and lost, “How can you say that? I have done a terrible job protecting you.”

It is absurd, that he can be so sweetly endearing, and at the same time, so utterly maddening. WangJi is not sure if he would like to kiss him, or kick him. Perhaps both.

“All three of us are alive and unharmed. You have done nothing but protect us from the moment we had arrived at the Immortal Mountain. I trust you.”

Wonder of all wonders, he seems to have found a combination of words that will render Wei Ying speechless. His mouth is still moving, because he is Wei Ying, and apparently incapable of being speechless with his mouth shut, but no sounds are forthcoming.

Everyone else, however, is beginning to look noticeably uncomfortable in their presence.

Jiang WanYin, his expression sour, is the first to break the silence, “Ugh. Are we done?”

Nie HuaiSang smacks him on the shoulder again, “Why do you have to ruin the moment?”

“I do not want to see any moments. I want to finish this discussion, then leave.”

“I second that,” Wen Qing says.

“I will be the bait,” WangJi says firmly, ignoring the fact that his face feels uncomfortably hot, “Along with my uncle and brother.”

“Excellent,” Song Lan says, “We will meet again after the Gifting Ceremony to discuss the particulars.”

Apparently, he is in a hurry to leave as well, because he does not waste time tugging the Rogue Prince towards the exit. Jiang WanYin practically tramples Song Lan’s heels, and Wen Qing is only a step behind him. 

Nie HuaiSang is the only one who feels the need to take his time, and although his grin is wide and knowing, WangJi feels little resentment.

He does not know how to erase this silly, speechless expression from Wei Ying’s face, but he will start his attempt with kissing, and decide the rest depending on the progress he makes.

[hunxi-guilai]

is there anything you /wish/ had happened in CQL? it doesn't even have to be a canon scene, just something for fun! ;)

oh man... I don’t have it with me, but while I was watching CQL, I kept a running list of “missing scenes I wanted to see” on a piece of scratch paper I had taped to my wall. A lot of those missing scenes ended up on this blog in one form or another anyway (Sunshot Campaign wangxian? Sunshot Era!Lan Wangji? Literally everything about Wei Wuxian and those three months in the Burial Mounds?)

But you know what I’m feeling, right now? Jokes on you, I’m always feeling this -- I wish CQL had more fight scenes. 

And not just like, the super quick shots we got of Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen tearing their way through hordes of fierce corpses during the Sunshot Campaign (though that was wonderful and aesthetic, thank you for that CQL production crew). I wish they had the time and the budget (and the space in the story) to really develop the ways various fighting styles inform our understanding of characters.

Ever since I took one (1) class on stage combat/theatrical violence, I’ve been fascinated by the amount of character analysis and deliberate performance choice goes into choreographing and performing fight sequences. Every little detail can be so rich in terms of character content: say person A has provoked person B to physical violence via, oh, insults about their parentage. First of all, we learn a great deal about person B -- what is their berserk button? What can get them to snap and lift a hand with intent to cause harm? Second of all, what is person B’s instinctive response? A punch indicates some level of training in combat, because 1) punches are not instinctive to throw, and 2) it’s very easy to fuck it up and break your thumb or hurt your wrist. Or does person B go for a slap? Slaps read differently from punches; for one, they have a weird amount of gendered connotations. For another, they’re open-palm blows, which seem, on the surface, to be less aggressively violent than punches, but can deliver the same amount of force. Or does person B go for a collar grab? A classic move -- inflicts no damage, but indicates how seriously upset you are. Or perhaps a shove? Does that send person A to the ground, or back into a wall? What does that tell us about person A’s experience with violence?

...and so on and so forth.

The fight between Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian in the Qinghe Nie courtyard lasted approximately... what, twenty-five seconds? and I went off on it for over a thousand words. Okay, fine, I wasn’t talking solely about the fight choreography itself, but the point still stands -- we can learn so much about characters in a well-choreographed fight scene, and I’m dying for more.

If Lan Wangji and Lan Xichen’s fighting styles are anything to go by, we can assume that Gusu Lan’s sword forms emphasize elegant, momentum-driven lines, all fluidity and continuity of motion (it’s about maximizing those Sleeve Aesthetics, y’know). If Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian’s fighting styles are representative of Yunmeng, we can see that the Yunmeng Jiang style focuses on strength and stamina; the two of them tend to catch their blows from their opponents on their blades/hilts/flutes rather than simply deflect and move past. Meanwhile, the Lanling Jin school of combat seems to give equal weight to both empty-handed brawling and swordwork; in the Xuanwu Cave, Jin Zixuan doesn’t seem fazed by fighting empty-handed in the slightest, unlike Wei Wuxian, Jiang Cheng, and Lan Wangji, who avoid fighting empty-handed if at all possible and pick up weapons as soon as they can. Jin Zixuan in general tends to be more willing to get up-close-and-personal in fights; he often moves into and through other people’s ranges, rather than keeping them firmly at arm’s/sword’s length the way, say, Lan Wangji does.

Again -- fascinating. What does that tell us about Lanling Jin culture? The ability to fight and defend oneself while weaponless? Does that point at a history of political turmoil, where Jin Sect members have needed to learn how to defend themselves just in case, oh, I dunno, all swords were confiscated at the door for a peace-talk that is now devolving? Or is this a fighting style unique to Jin Zixuan himself, and if so, what does that say about his training and education? does this mean that Jin Zixuan sometimes goes out bar brawling with Mianmian??? inquiring minds wish to know

We don’t get a ton of songxiao fight scenes (one of the biggest tragedies of CQL is that we never get a back-to-back badasses/battle couple fight scene with songxiao), but how does Xiao Xingchen’s movement style differ from other characters? He’s incredibly light and fast on his feet, but doesn’t seem to deliver the same amount of force that, say, Jiang Cheng could deal in a single blow. Meanwhile, Song Lan is a brilliant fighter (when he’s not, uh, being terribly provoked by Xue Yang); all swift, crisp movements backed by an immense amount of power. Speaking of Xue Yang, he and Jin Guangyao incorporate a certain amount of psychological warfare into their fighting styles, which subsequently rely on the need to maintain distance with their opponents (to avoid getting Stabbed Whilst Evil Monologuing).

...y’all I’ve got feelings about fight choreography. What I wouldn’t have given for a tournament arc, where we can just have every character fight every other character for, y’know, character development

[casuallyimagining]

Postcards

Jeon Jungkook x Reader

Summary: Jungkook goes on tour without you, and he sends back mementos to let you know he’s thinking of you. Notes: Part of the Long Term Couples series.  Read more here

The postcards had started to appear in your mailbox in mid-August. One or two a week, sometimes three, always a few days between to space out their appearance. And while it was October and they had been appearing regularly, you had to admit that each one was a surprise.

You thought maybe eventually the novelty would wear off, or that it would become too expensive to send mail to Seoul from halfway across the planet. But their appearance never ceased.

Sometimes, you would find more than one postcard in your mailbox at a time, the handwriting on each different--sometimes sloppy, sometimes cramped, sometimes tall characters, sometimes short ones--but you looked forward to the neat, even-spaced handwriting the most.

It had been months, and even though you talked on the phone every night, you missed Jungkook more than you anticipated.

Any other tour, you’d be there with him and the rest of his members. Any other tour, you were a valuable member of the crew--working with the stagehands and the production staff to make sure every concert ran as smoothly as possible. But this wasn’t a world tour, and really, it hadn’t been planned too far in advance. So as Jungkook and the boys traipsed across Europe and Asia, you were stuck in your apartment with Kimchi, Jungkook’s Jindogae puppy.

The first few postcards were a little worse for wear. Kimchi hadn’t mastered yet to leave things alone when you commanded him, and the postcards--which were just the perfect size for a puppy to steal from your coffee table--had been punished for the pup’s poor behavior.

You worked harder on Kimchi’s training, and you went out and bought little frames to protect the postcards from any further punishment. You had agonized over which side to display at first--knowing Jungkook, he had really put thought into which postcard image to send--but in the end, you decided that the message was more important than the location. You could always flip them later when you were missing him less.

When a new one arrived, you reread the old ones. After a few weeks, you had most of them memorized. And while you loved and cherished them all, the first one was your favorite. Partly because it was the first and it was a surprise, but partly because it was so different from the others.

The front was a photo of London’s Tower Bridge at dusk, the lights on the supports twinkling in the near-darkness. On the back was an image of the Union Jack with the opacity turned way down. The message was a short and simple “London isn’t the same without you. We miss you a lot. I love you! - Kookie,” but it was how it was written that made you smile. The handwriting was the messiest you had ever seen Jungkook produce. It was almost like he was in a hurry, like it was a last-minute, rushed decision. Like he had seen it at the train station and just had to buy it.

The second had arrived with two friends. One, from Jimin, was a picture of a Scottish Terrier in green and red plaid and simply said “Wish you could have come with us! We met a friendly dog wearing a kilt. You would have loved him.” The second was from Yoongi and had a picture of the Clyde River at sunset on the front. On the back, he told you in a fairly lengthy message about their first of three concerts in Glasgow, how much fun they were having, and how much you would love Scotland. The writing was so tiny you could barely read it, and even then, Yoongi had almost run out of space.

The last one was a cute cartoon of a shaggy-haired Highland cow. On the back, Jungkook’s handwriting was neat this time and evenly spaced. No more rushing. This one was intentional. “We saw these cows in person! They reminded me of your hair in the morning!”

A few days later, a postcard from Amsterdam. The following week, ones from Berlin and Paris. By the time the European leg of the tour ended in Barcelona, you had at least one postcard from each of the six other members. You had started hanging them in the small makeshift office space you had in your living room, 12 in total so far, clustered together in what you hoped was a tasteful display.

The messages were mixed. Some, like the ones from Yoongi and Taehyung, were longer and more thoughtful. Hobi’s was just bright musings about his day and a wish for your wellbeing while they’re away. Namjoon had sent one from Amsterdam that also contained vandalism by Jimin. Jin’s from Paris was simply just a collection of jokes he had picked up along the way. Really, they were all very predictable.

Jungkook’s on the other hand… those were all wildcards. And you wouldn’t have it any other way. In addition to his cow from Glasgow, he had sent you one from Amsterdam in which he mused about clogs and windmills, one from Berlin that was just him saying “I love you” in every language he could think of, one from Paris where he just talked about some ice cream he and Jimin had gotten, and one from Barcelona where he told you how he made some sort of mistake at the concert that he knew he wouldn’t have made had you been there because, in his words, “you always have my back.”

The postcards were chaotic, and stream-of-consciousness, and oh so Jungkook that it made your heart both ache and swell every time you looked at them.

When the boys arrived back in Asia, you could tell immediately just from the postcards you received. Not just the images, either. The messages had an entirely different tone.

From Tokyo, it was a watercolor painting of one of the shrines and a simple message of how much he missed you.

From Osaka, it was a photo of the cherry blossom festival and the desire to make a point to visit to see the flowering trees the following year.

And from Fukuoka, it was from the art museum, and held a promise to take you there as soon as he could because they had works by Roy Lichtenstein and Mark Rothko he and Namjoon both thought you would love to see.

One postcard from Jungkook for every international city the mini-tour stopped in. They had one more concert in Seoul and then he would be home. Unfortunately, they landed early in the morning and then were swept away to rehearse, so you wouldn’t be able to see him until after the concert.

So you sat on your couch, curled up under a blanket, watching reactions to the band’s various music videos and fan compilations on YouTube. It had become one of your favorite pastimes in recent weeks. Currently, you were making your way through one channel’s reactions playlist. Three men sat at a table, two of whom were apparently hip-hop dancers, and they were reacting to “Daechwita.” Clearly they were into it--the two dancers kept making the guy in the middle pause the video so they could rewatch certain bits.

You and Kimchi both jumped at the knock at your door, the dog giving a warning bark, his ears trained towards the door. It was quiet, and then you heard the soft ‘fwip’ of something being slid under your door. Kimchi was up in a second to investigate, and you followed, giving the dog a sharp ‘leave it’ so he wouldn’t destroy whatever it was.

Curious, you bent down to pick it up. It was a piece of thick paper, no more than 16 centimeters in length. Immediately, your heart began to race. It was a postcard. From Seoul.

Kimchi must have sensed your feelings because he gave a confused bark, his attention turned back to the door. You flipped the postcard over. It was blank--no address, no stamp--except for one small line of neat Hangul. “I missed you.”

Without thinking, you opened the door. Kimchi was in the hall in a second, barking at a pair of black combat boots. The man attached to the boots attempted to shush the dog. You laugh as he tried to shoo Kimchi back into the house. His wide eyes met yours then, and he was laughing, too, a smile blazing like wildfire across his lips.

“Kimchi, in,” you commanded the dog sharply, and with one more bark, he retreated into your apartment. You motioned with your head for the man to enter as well. He did as he was told.

As soon as the door was shut, you pulled him to you. He smelled like Downy and vanilla, but also airplane and sweat and rain. His clothes were drenched--was it raining? You hadn’t noticed. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you to him tightly. You had forgotten how much his hugs felt like home.

A few moments passed as you stood there in your entryway just holding each other. Your mind vacillating between getting lost in him and wandering. Why wasn’t he at the concert? It didn’t matter, because he was here. Did they get rained out? Who cares, he’s home. You felt his lips press against the side of your head.

You pulled back, your hands going to his cheeks, thumbs ghosting against his soft skin. “Jungkook,” you breathed. He smiled softly, his eyes giving away how happy he was to be there.

Silently, you stood there, hands on his face, his own on your waist, as you stared at him, trying to commit him to memory. His hair was longer, the ends turning under slightly as they dried from the rain. His face was a little flushed, though you weren’t sure whether it was from the chilly bite of the late October air or something else.

“Not that I’m not so incredibly glad you’re here,” you began, your eyes meeting his. “But why are you here?”

He laughed, letting go of your waist so he could loosen the laces of his boots. “Rained out. I guess they’ve been having problems with the retractable roof at the stadium.” He shrugged, kicking his boots off haphazardly. Kimchi barked at the noise, running to investigate the shoes. “They’re going to reschedule, I guess?”

You nodded. As soon as his shoes were off, Jungkook pulled you close again, one arm slung over your shoulders as he led you into the living room. You sat on the corner of the couch, and immediately he was leaning into you, nudging your arm up over his shoulders so that you were the one holding him. You could feel him sigh against you, his head falling and resting against yours.

“God, I missed this,” he admitted softly.

“I missed you.” He ducked his head, burying his face in your neck. You felt him smile against your skin, pressing a light kiss there.

With the excitement of him finally being home starting to wear off, you remembered the postcard still clutched in your hand. You made an excited noise and jumped to your feet, scurrying over to your desk. Jungkook protested the lack of contact with a whine, his arms trailing after you as you moved.

He watched you pick up one of the empty frames and slide the postcard into it. “Whatcha doing?”

“Saving it,” you said simply, holding it up to the wall with the others to see where it would look best.

“You framed them?”

“I like them. They’re sweet.”

He laughed, and you could hear him stand and move closer. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you into his chest. He rested his chin on your shoulder, going silent as he inspected your handiwork. “You really liked them?”

You hummed, placing the newly framed postcard on your desk before reaching up to pat his cheek. “Of course I like them. I missed you guys.”

“Honestly, I don’t even remember sending some of them. We only spent like a day in Amsterdam and Barcelona. I had to grab some of them at the airport.” He squeezed you tighter. “Do you know how hard it is to find a postcard nowadays?”

You spun in his grasp so you were facing him, one hand on his cheek. “Thank you for making the effort.”

Jungkook smiled at you, gentle and sweet. “I will always make the effort for you.”

Read more of the series here

[sunflowerhazzavol6]

Cherry

A/N- Heres little quarantine blurb! Since it seems we’re all stuck in this shitty social distancing situation, might as well pretend you’re getting high with Harry ;) marijuana usage (ofc) with a little angst and a whole lot of fluff!

“Make me a sandwich?” Harry asks, not even glancing up from his very important activity of picking at his fingernails.

Y/n laughs a bit from the kitchen, watching as the water from the tap fills up her glass. “If I wasn’t so damn bored I would call you out on how sexist that sounds. Do you actually want one or are you just joking?”

“Only kidding.” He sighs, staring at his socked feet on the coffee table in front of him. He wiggles them just to be sure that they’re real, that he’s in fact still alive and not a sack of bones and skin on the sofa. He lets out an exasperated yell as he throws his head back, looking from the top of his eyes at his girlfriend across the room. She snorts a laugh, moving to stand behind him and play with his hair. “I’m going to lose it if I don’t get out of here, I swear, y/n.”

“Mhm. So remind me again, what position was it that you took last week when I told you that you were a bit hyperactive?”

“That I wasn’t?”

“Funny how that played out.”

Harry rolls his eyes and reaches back to pinch her side in annoyance before sitting up and turning around to face her. He liked the way she looked now. Y/n was usually very invested in fashion and her appearance- she was like him in that way. They both liked to express themselves through what they wore and how they carried themselves. But she was absolutely stunning as she was right now- his Fleetwood Mac t-shirt brushing against the swell of her thigh, black leggings traveling down to her ankles. He especially loved when she kept her hair like this, unstyled and wavy, unruly due to the constant laying around the house. He sighs a bit in appreciation, tugging on a small curl by her shoulder.

“I hate to say it, but i’m also tired of having sex even.”

Y/n seems to sigh in relief, and he laughs. “I know. Isn’t that awful? It’s not that the sex is bad-”

“...by any means…”

“It’s just that you can only do the same activity so many times in a day, you know?”

“I know.” He smiles, wrapping his arms around her middle. “At least we won’t get the Quarantine 15.” This draws a laugh from her belly, and he can’t help but to feel a sense of pride in that he caused it with little effort. They really were delirious from the isolation.

“And I feel so guilty.” Her arms slide around his shoulders as she hooks her fingers into the curls at the back of his neck. “Because we’re at your place and it's a literal mansion, and loads of other people are in far worse conditions than we are.” He turns his head to kiss her forearm while she rants, listening intently. “I’m in a literal HGTV dream home and I’m complaining, how awful is that?”

“Not awful. It doesn’t matter where you are, being cut off from your routine and normal human interaction sucks.” He shrugs. “Even when you’re with your sex god boyfriend.” Harry grins before pulling her over the edge of the couch and into his lap, causing her to spill her water all over his shirt.

“Harry!” She scolds, giggling and standing up to examine the damage on her own outfit. He smiles at her reaction, lifting her soaked shirt to gently kiss her stomach, just above her belly button. She pulls the wet fabric over his head, making him laugh and kiss again before blowing cold air against skin to make her squeal like he knew she would. He pulls himself out from under her clothing and grins at her boyishly, squeezing his hands on her waist.

“Bloody hell, I’m so in love with you. Want to share a joint?”

His girlfriend snorts at his inability to focus on one thing at a time, pushing his hair from his forehead and kissing the skin it exposes. She was secretly grateful for this social distancing, because it meant there was no way Harry could cut his hair. It was quite close to the length that made him look like a prince out of a fairy tale, and there was no way she could pass an opportunity like that up. “I’d love to. I love you. You roll?”

He giggles giddily as he bounces up from his spot on the couch, his soaked shirt at the far back of his mind by now. “I love it when you talk weed to me!” He calls over his shoulder as he disappears down the hall. She follows him, peeling off her own shirt and pinching his ass as they walk into his bedroom.

“You know, I quite like that shirt on you. Almost makes me wish I wouldn’t have gotten you all wet.” He winks before going to his bedside table and pulling out a small box. Y/n rolls her eyes, grabbing his ‘women are smarter’ shirt and putting it on. “Ah, but that's the money shot right there.” He shapes his thumbs and forefingers into a square, squeezing one eye shut and peering through it.

She rolls her eyes before walking up to him, ignoring his smirk when she peels his own shirt from his skin and over his head. “I am wet all of the time.” She mumbles in imitation of him, making him chuckle.

“What can I say?” He shrugs, sitting on the bed and pulling out his stash. As he starts preparing their joint she sits behind him, wrapping her arms around his middle and watching his hands over his shoulder. She always had an appreciation for his hands no matter what they happened to be busy with. Turning the pages of a book? She’d imagine them on her arms, rubbing up and down to warm her up. The strings of a guitar? She’d think about it all day until they were buried in her in the evening. For now, though, she just appreciated that they were attached to him, her Harry. His cross tattoo stretched across his skin as he pulled the paper over, sealing the plant inside, and prompting her to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Want to go outside? It’s sunny, and I think we both need a bit of vitamin D.” He leans into her hand when she combs his hair back, just for it to fall right back into place.

“Well in that case I’m rolling two, because you’ll start whining about wanting another and I won’t have nearly enough energy to come back inside.” There's no malice in his voice, just pure observation, and it makes her laugh.

“You’re probably right.” She lightly kisses his neck just below his ear. One side of his mouth turns up into a crooked smile as he grabs more herb, creating a long mound on the paper. They sit in comfortable silence while he works, but y/n, being impatient as she is, can’t sit still for long until she gently bites his earlobe. “Haz.”

“For fuck’s sake, love, can’t an ounce of attention go elsewhere than you?” He says, his accent forming an o when he curses. She laughs and her breath tickles his ear, making him smile and turn his head to look at her. “I’m nearly finished anyways, good lord.” He wrinkles his nose before pecking her lips, making her groan in impatience as she stands up.

“If you weren’t such a perfectionist we’d be high by now.”

“Would we be? With a canoeing joint?” He holds it up to inspect his work, the sides smooth until they peak with a twist at the top. She plucks it out of his hands before sprinting down the hall, her boyfriend calling an indignant “Oi!” behind her. She giggles as she runs out into the living room, perching the joint between two fingers as she sits on the floor to shuffle through his collection of vinyls. Harry follows her with a smile, bending to rest his hands on her shoulders and rubbing his thumbs into their blades.

“What’re you thinking, little thief?” He murmurs in her ear, brushing his lips along the cartilage. “Classic rock? Psychedelic? Something smooth, slow?” She feels goosebumps on her arm, and knows he can see them when she feels his smile against her skin.

“For someone who’s supposedly tired of sex, you sure do like to be suggestive.” She says, pulling out Lust For Life by Lana Del Rey. She wipes the small collection of dust off the front with her palm, admiring the ethereal beauty of one of her favorite artists.

He merely hums in response, reaching over her head to turn on the record player. When they had first started dating, Harry had pestered her with question after question about music. What she liked, what she hated, what made her smile, what made her cry. At first she had been compliant but confused by his questions, until she observed him in the same situations he was asking her about. Harry didn’t just listen to it, he felt it. She could tell in the way his body fluidly responded to his favorite songs, as if they had entered his bloodstream and were traveling through each of his limbs. She felt it in the way he held her close and swayed back and forth in the kitchen with her while Helplessly Hoping by Crosby, Stills & Nash played softly in the background. Or saw it in his eyes when Elton John’s I’m Still Standing came on in the car and he would pump a fist into the air. His constant questions were him getting to know her in the only way he understood- through music.

The first soft beats of the opening song crackle through the speakers, and y/n can feel the pop in her knees when she stands up. “Outside, my love?”

Harry nods in response, tucking her hair behind her ear with a soft smile. “Better than sex, yeah?”

She laughs and pushes his shoulder as she brushes past him to slide open the glass door. Harry leaves it open behind him to let the croon of Lana’s voice follow them outdoors, his fingers reaching out to tug on the fabric of her shirt. “C’mere, baby.” He says, fishing a lighter out of his pocket and holding it up to her. She perches the joint between her lips, watching him as he flicks his thumb and cups his hand around the end. She inhales slowly with her eyes closed, feeling the burn of the green hit drift down her throat and the burn of his green eyes on her face. She exhales after a second, handing it over to her boyfriend. Harry does the same, brushing the curls out of his face and keeping his eyes on her. “How the fuck did I get so lucky?” He says on his exhale.

“What do you mean?” She takes it from his outstretched hand, sitting on the ground with her back against the wall of the house. Harry sits beside her only to pull her into his lap so she's facing him.

“How the fuck did I get so lucky to live this life? I get to make music, smoke a joint with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life. I get to see you, like this. No makeup, wearing my clothes…” He pinches her chin in between his fingers, kissing the corner of her mouth.

“You’re always so sappy when you smoke.” She smiles, kissing his forehead while he takes another hit.

“Maybe so, but I mean it.” He coughs slightly, adjusting her in his lap so he can bend his knees to support her back. She rubs his arm, tilting her head to watch him. “I’ve been in some dark places before. Mentally, ya know? But now that I’m here, and you’re here, and we’re together, I can see how fucking pointless it all was.” He waves his arm to the side to emphasize his point, physically pushing away the metaphorical memories in the air. “Er, not pointless I guess. I can see how I needed it. To be everything I can be for you.” Her eyes soften, and she can see the water pooling beneath the green in his. She holds her hand to his cheek, and he leans into it, closing his eyes. “I was stuck in that place for so long, trying to decide who I was when I was on my own and who I didn’t want to be. And now I’m at a point where...” He huffs, his curls blowing away from his forehead. “Now I’m at a point where... I don’t know. I just want to be everything for you, y/n.”

“You are everything for me.” She wraps her arms around his middle, resting her head on his collarbone and squeezing him tight. “Really. I admire you so much Harry. How hard you work and how far you’ve come. You are oozing with passion, not just in our relationship but in everything you do. I see that. I wish you would see that.” She holds his face in her hands now, rubbing his cheekbones with her thumbs. “You’re allowed to step back and be proud of the progress you’ve made.”

He takes a drag and then kisses her palm as he considers what she had said. When all the smoke has escaped his lips he looks at her with a small but pleased smile, his eyes still shiny. “Okay.”

“Okay?” She kisses his eyelids, causing his dimples to make an appearance in his cheeks.

“Okay. I’ll try. I mean I will. I love you.” He wraps his arms tightly around her, burying his face in her neck. She can feel his groan start in his chest before he releases it, the type of exclamation that only comes with relief of getting something off your chest. She laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him close. He pulls away only to kiss her, his eyes still closed when their lips separate. 

“I’ll always be here too, Harry. You don’t need to put up a front just because it’s what you think others expect. You can be whoever the fuck you want to be, and I’ll stay right here beside you until you figure out who that is. I know I’m still figuring myself out. For god’s sake, we’re in our twenties. The entire plot of Sex and the City is figuring yourself out, and they’re in their thirties. I think we’re doing well.”

Harry chuckles at her rant, kissing her again. “Thank you, y/n. I appreciate the analogy. Now that the heart-to-heart is through, can we get high as balls?”

She snorts a laugh, taking the joint from his hands and taking a hit in response, raising her eyebrows. He grins up at her, squeezing her waist in his hands and attacking her neck with kisses, whispering and teasing her. The smoke from their lips intermingles in the air with the soft sounds from the record player, Lana’s Cherry drifting to and around them.

‘Cause I love you so much, I fall to pieces

My cherries and wine, rosemary and thyme

And all of my peaches

[ashleyswrittenwords]

Subtleties of a Suitor (Part 1 of 2)

Summary: Pre-calamity AU where Zelda’s powers awaken in time, but not everything is back to normal after Calamity Ganon is defeated.

Note: This is all @intangiblyyourswrites‘s fault. Also, the second part is NSFW -which also happens to be Kristie’s fault. Enjoy!

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Scrawling ink coated the underside of her hand and left light imprints on the edge of the paper. That paper was bound within leather covers that rarely left the Princess’s desk. It was a journal of upmost confidence; containing her deepest secrets and cresting moments of happiness. The highs and lows of her life caught between compressed papyrus.

It was hardly secretive that her lows were concentrated in the years before, caught in the repetitive cycle of failing expectations that were handed down to her from birth. This desk and this journal were Princess Zelda’s small reprieve. Even going as far as referring to it as an old friend because it felt better to write with purpose than to speak nothings into a void.

My dearest friend,

A worry line creased her forehead. The nameless friend was so accustomed to moments of happiness nowadays, it felt alarming to her that she was writing with distress once more.

These days have been nothing short of harrowing. In my last letter, I was convinced that he finally understood my intentions after Calamity Ganon was sealed away. I thought-

She paused her pen strokes and glared at the page, willing herself to connect thoughts to words and words to paper.

We don’t meet anymore, we haven’t since before the monster was sealed away. Even though the night prior haunted my dreams for weeks following my expressed wishes to cease these small moments of privacy. No matter how sweet and innocent they could be. As you know, in my heart of hearts I can’t bind him to me when-

When Zelda could never be his. When, in times of great enlightenment and prosperity, their fates have crossed and her father now sees him only as a valuable combatant in his army. When destinies have been fulfilled and they were no use to one another.

They both knew this in the beginning, but with the veil of ignorance and Zelda’s everflowing failure, she was convinced they were fated to die with the kingdom. It was a simple case of action and reaction. If she didn’t unlock her sealing powers, then Calamity Ganon would not be defeated.

The knowledge most likely drew out their passion. Pages upon pages recounted shaky hands and blushing cheeks that glowed hot and bright against starry skies. A string of months where she felt more warm than she had ever been and more loved than she thought she deserved.

Then, a week after the Calamity, when Link was pressing her against the railing of an empty stairwell far from the celebratory festivities, she broke their kiss after her guilt grew too heavy for her chest to bear. Zelda will never be able to forget the unmasked hurt on his face as she thickly told him that they couldn’t do this anymore. Among it all, Zelda told him she loved him.

I was under the impression he understood. Father offered Link a promotion and he didn’t even wait a day to think about it. The next evening another man was waiting by my door and of course it shocked me. A part of me wanted to be belligerent when Link hadn’t bothered to ask, another part was more than understanding. But now?

Now I’m rethinking everything.

It started two weeks ago.

The court was lively. Since Calamity Ganon’s appearance and subsequent defeat, Hyrule Castle had its fair share of celebrations. Three months later, the Zora was being hosted within its walls. Without looming dread over her head, Princess Zelda found herself in more social circles. The Zoran princess and Champion, Mipha, became an especially close contact. As opposing as the two princesses were, they had cultivated a solid friendship. Zelda assisted Mipha with fitting into Hylian customs and Mipha was a fantastic listener.

“Link hasn’t said anything about it to me,” Mipha said gently, swinging her little brother in her arms. Prince Sidon made a disgruntled noise and reached out towards Zelda once more.

The small prince smoothed the trouble in her brow as she heaved him in her arms. “Well maybe it’s for the best. We should both move on.”

They were taking turns about the court, trying to spend the dying summer days. Sidon giggled and reached out to his sister.. Mipha seemed to be debating what to say before opting for nothing at all and looked across the room. Her Hylian companion followed her gaze to find Link communing with her father and few other Zora. It was typical for him to parade around the Hero of Hyrule as if he were some trophy.

“I don’t know, Zelda,” Mipha softly said beside her. A joke from Link made the group laugh and suddenly the blond caught her eye. As if stung, Zelda looked at the marble tiles in front of her. She scorned herself when her mind would drift from the fact that he wasn’t wearing his Champion’s Tunic. “His burden is lifted, yes, but it’s not like him to so easily let go of someone.”

When Zelda didn’t respond, Mipha tried to reassure her. “I could be wrong. If anything, we can refer to Lady Urbosa.”

As they walked, they soon found themselves amongst a throng of Zoran and Hylian ladies who began to gossip about the affluential bachelors in the room. Although she was physically there with polite smiles galore, her head was miles from the court. There was something about wealth they were talking about when all went silent.

“Master Link!” a woman exclaimed, “What a pleasant surprise!”

Suddenly, Zelda was back with slight vertigo. The group moved from her and began asking a dizzying amount of questions.

“Tell us, how frightful was that monster?”

An excited Zoran was nearing jumping out of her draped fabrics. “Heavens! Recall to us how you slayed the dreadful Calamity Ganon, please sir.”

“Oh goodness, Catherine, not with my weak nerves.”

Why hadn’t they asked Zelda those questions? She was there too!

The man seemed caught up in the storm of women and it occurred to Zelda that she had the opportunity to slip away amongst the chaos. Right when she discreetly bid Mipha goodbye, Link began speaking.

“You’re all too kind. I’m afraid I’m not a very good storyteller,” he wore a graceful smile, but she could see the anxiety behind his eyes. She knew him. Then, she saw the skies in his eyes and any desire to leave dissipated. “I can tell you that Princess Zelda saved my life.”

All eyes fell on her and she felt the acute urge to stare at her feet. Her voice sounded foreign, “You say the most fantastic hyperboles, Captain.”

Those were the first words she has said to him beyond common pleasantries in three months.

“I assure you that there was no embellishment in the slightest.” Link was looking at her along with the rest of the ladies.

“Ah, well,” Zelda trailed off, “It was only fair when you saved mine.”

That caused a sea of hushed whispers around them. The woman that separated them spoke up excitedly, “Will you allow us a story or two, sir?”

“My apologies, I should be off to the barracks right now,” Link said, meeting her again. “I came to bid Her Highness goodbye.”

Another wave of whispers as the woman between them shuffled off quickly. Confusion ebbed at the Princess, but refined manners kept it at bay. Link reached out to her and she instinctively offered her hand, but his fingers grazed the underside of her forearm, the tips of his glove brushing down its length before finally clasping her palm. As he bent down low, he held her gaze, and it felt like they were the only people in the room. Warm lips pressed a long, searing kiss to her hand, and it revived the sensation of those same lips drifting up the inside of her thighs.

He pulled back, “You look lovely this evening, Princess. I hope we cross paths again.”

Zelda’s lips drew tight together and she nodded chastely, not trusting her voice to speak. Footsteps on marbled signified his leave and she looked at Mipha, who stared back with bewilderment. The two princesses thought the same question.

What was that?

Her ink quill scratched against the paper from added pressure, she readjusted her grip.

I thought about it for the rest of the evening. That one moment dredged up emotions I spent weeks burying. Logically, I had chalked it up to basic biology; chemicals in my brain that were ultimately a hindrance to my responsibilities. For a few hours, that had worked until I found out that that night would be the first of many where he would bid me goodnight.

The next day was no better because Father decided he was honored enough to dine with us.

“I’m so glad you can join us, Captain!” King Rhoam boisterously said. “There is a seat next to Princess Zelda.”

The woman stared holes into her empty plate as the chair beside her grated against the floor. When her father coughed to clear his throat she glanced up, “Isn’t it nice that he has joined us, Zelda?”

“Oh, yes,” she smiled tightly, hardly meeting their eyes. “It’s good to see you, Link.”

Her hands folded tightly in her lap. Zelda didn’t hear him reply, so she assumed he demonstrated his signature nod. Perhaps he didn’t want to be there either. Before the Calamity, he was never permitted to sit at the royal table, much less next to the princess. He was a simple soldier then, she reminded herself, someone with promise. Princess Zelda assumed this was another way for her father to show off the Hero of Hyrule to the lords and ladies at the table.

The thought made her bite the inside of her cheek. Didn’t he deserve better? Had he been asked what he wanted?

Supper crawled by painfully. Typically, she didn’t mind if someone sat by her but she hadn’t realized how common it was to brush arms with a neighbor. Each time they touched, she’d involuntarily flinch away. Sometimes he would mumble his apologies that were a little too close to her ear.

Like all things, the torture ceased and as Zelda was about to excuse herself, dessert was announced.

“Where are you off to?” Link said, watching as she was already half-risen from her chair.

The Princess swallowed her curses. “I’m excusing myself,” she lilted, not quite leveling with him. “A lady should keep her figure.”

It was a bold-faced lie. She knew that he knew she loved sweets and would easily endure three courses of her most hated dishes to reach them. Zelda dared him to say anything. The door to the kitchen swung open and revealed several servants. Her father suddenly eyed her oddly, “Are you not planning to stay? I requested fruitcake for this evening on your behalf.”

Oh.

Link looked away as she flopped back in her seat. Despite the rolling in her stomach, her cheeks flared in embarrassment and she rushed to say, “Thank you, Father.”

As much as Zelda wished it would, the issue hadn’t immediately folded. When a large cake was placed on the table, she had the full intention of taking the slice to her room under the guise of studying a fallen Guardian’s laser module. It would be an easy solution to this problem. The cake knife was in her field of view and she went for it, only for another’s to brush her hand away.

With accusation in her eyes, Zelda watched the smallest smile - almost unnoticeable - cross Link’s face.

“What are you doing?” she said under her breath, glancing around the table to assure no one was watching. It hadn’t seemed to be the case, but this was exactly what she didn’t want. The Princess knew this court and though they’re opinion of her had shifted, the lords and ladies would cling to any rumor no matter how innocent his actions were.

His eyes were carefully guarded and if he had been anyone else, she would have been offended by how large the slice of fruitcake was when he set it on her plate . Right when she moved to stand, he caught her with his words.

“Who is it that has you caring about the way you look?”

At the head of the table, King Rhoam was laughing at something an advisor said. By now, it would look uncouth to leave the table mid-course. With a heavy breath, Princess Zelda pulled her chair in and spread her napkin over her skirts. The cake was layered with lemon icing, which would usually make her exponentially excited. Her lips upturned into a soft frown. He shouldn’t ask questions like that. It wasn’t fair.

Annoyance surged into her chest. “Does it matter?”

He was quiet for a moment and conversations from others dominated the air between them. The fruitcake tasted stale in her mouth.

“Yes.”

She wasn’t looking at him - she couldn’t. A stirring feeling lodged itself in her throat and threatened to bring about everything she tried to undo. Memories of laughing so hard in Hyrule Field, doubled over in her saddle from something ridiculous he had said; learning in that moment that he looked at her like she was the moon on a cloudless night; his hands twirling her into a circle besides a campfire to the sound of her humming ballroom tunes.

He had asked me if I fell out of love with him or he had hurt me in some way. I hadn’t and I wasn’t then and I am not now. It wasn’t just about me, but him as well. If it came out to the court, to the public, that we were having an affair, of course I would be criticized. My character put into question and subsequently tarnished for as long as it stayed in the minds of my peers, but nothing would happen to my title. I would still be the Princess of Hyrule.

Link would be scrutinized and his reputation ruined. He could be subject to expellment and be banished from the castle or Castle Town entirely. That was a fear I had harbored and for me to perpetuate our relationship for selfish indulgence… that isn’t love. At least, not a love he deserved.

Daintily, Zelda set her fork beside her plate and partially turned to him. The man had been expecting her as if this was any ordinary conversation, his fork pressing down the spongy dessert instead of eating it.

“Only because you care so much,” she uttered with a stiff back. “The royal family of Labrynna will be hosted in Hyrule Castle in just a few days. I haven’t seen their prince since I was a child.”

His expression hadn’t changed, but he ceased his movements with the fork. Guilt pricked at the edge of her consciousness. Link placed his fork on his plate and reached up. Immediately, her faced flushed hotly and felt his coarse fingertips brushed her cheek. There wasn’t any movement to indicate that she would pull away from his touch.

Then, he smirked. “There was cream on your face.”

It was like he didn’t care! I was mortified.

Her ink pen ran underneath the last word several times to create a line deep enough to bleed onto the next page. The worry line on her forehead had creased deeper as she recounted the events that had happened.

I should have made it clear to him after dessert was over, but when we were taking leave, Father got caught up in a conversation with him. I couldn’t confront him at that point and when Link came to my door again to say goodnight, I shouldn’t have opened it. And when I did, I should have told him: Link, this is inappropriate and I’ve told you that I didn’t want this to continue. Especially in front of my father, no less!

But I didn’t.

Zelda’s face burned and she couldn’t get herself to write down that she might have liked it. She was someone who was both stubborn inside and out, and even her feelings wouldn’t leave with tumultuous effort on Zelda’s part. What was she supposed to say? That she really does miss him and that every second around him chipped deeper in the hole he left?

It was rude. Irresponsible. Ungentlemanly and without regards to propriety. OR my feelings for that matter! What if the way I felt about him is different? Three months is a long time.

And then she remembered his self-satisfied smirk when her face was hot under his hand. Her handwriting grew more frantic against the paper and she had to consciously apply less pressure before the quill-tip punctured through the surface.

Her mind shifted to the days after.

Labrynna was hosted in Hyrule Castle amongst continued celebrations of Hyrule’s success. Their King and Queen were welcomed with open arms, overwhelmed by the jubilations of Hyrulean citizens. Along with them was their son and daughter: Prince Tyrion and Princess Aurra.

Prince Tyrion had written to Zelda several times after the Calamity about their shared childhood, a time she hadn’t remembered at all herself and referred to Impa more than once to verify his stories and to write back to adequately pretend she had. The Labrynnian princess was someone Zelda wasn’t aware of whatsoever and even her father had leaned in during the processions to ask of her name.

Aurra, however, was acutely aware of Zelda. More importantly, she knew of the Hylian Champion who slew a monstrous being of myths.

Not long after making her introductions to Princess Zelda and King Rhoam, she skipped to who was at King Rhoams side and curtsied. Before Zelda could see Link’s reaction, Prince Tyrion took up her view. She offered the appropriate pleasantries and allowed him to take her hand, but she didn’t miss when Link took Princess Aurra’s.

She made note that he didn’t bring it to his lips.

Through the day, she didn’t wander from Prince Tyrion’s side. He was an interesting man; well read and well traveled. She found him to be a fantastic conversationalist nor was she blind to his charm. Dark eyes paired with brunet hair that was shorn close to his ears, which were notably shorter than any Hylian’s - a common trait amongst his people.

However, he was also arrogant.

As King Rhoam led the party through the castle grounds, a level above the barracks and training grounds, Tyrion spoke up.

“You know, Your Majesty, I am well trained in the arts of combat,” he said with a slight smile.

Rhoam raised a brow, turning slightly to face his daughter and the Prince. Two men sparred below, each clash of their swords echoing off the walls. The King of Labrynna nodded in affirmation, a certain pride in his face. “Yes, it’s custom for our prodigy to learn the blade from young ages. Tyrion has a special affinity to it.”

“Fascinating. I hope to see your skill during your stay, young man.”

“Well,” the smile of the Prince’s face and he gestured to Link behind him. “I would be honored to spar with the Hero of Hyrule.”

Princess Aurra stopped her chattering with Link and grabbed the sleeve of his blue tunic, “Oh, brother, you will surely lose. Isn’t that right, Link?”

Zelda swallowed, suddenly uncomfortable with her familiarity with him after only hours. Even more was how unbothered he was by it.

“It surely would be quite the duel,” Rhoam mused, “As long as it has your approval, Captain.”

Link nodded Tyrion’s way, graciously, “The honor would be all mine, Your Highness.”

He said it to the Prince, but his eyes meandered to Zelda’s.

The preparation took an hour and by the time Princess took her seat overlooking the training grounds, the sun casted a golden glow over them. King Rhoam was incredibly eager for the duel, shooting secret smiles at his daughter as the two men shook hands below.

It was clear who would win to the Princess, Link was at the top of his class even before he became her attendant. She scolded herself, though, and told herself that she shouldn’t underestimate Prince Tyrion so soon.

Dimly, she could hear the two opponents giving their regards to one another. The Prince had changed into an elaborately designed sparring outfit that appeared to have leather padding laced at his forearms. Link, however, changed only into Hylian trousers.

Princess Aurra hummed next to Zelda, “Is that the magical sword? It looks normal to me.”

It wasn’t as he had chosen a Knight’s Broadsword to match Tyrion’s.

“It isn’t the Master Sword. We returned it to the pedestal after felling Calamity Ganon.”

Aurra blinked, “Together?”

Zelda politely nodded. That sword was an extension of Link and she remembered comforting him after he realized its purpose was served. The night of, she felt his tears through her nightgown and told him he was more than his destiny - they both were.

After Link gave his regards to King Rhoam and Princess Zelda, a man who had sparred prior held an arm out and shouted to begin the duel.

“Oh, how exciting!” Aurra squealed.

The two men  circled each other like vultures. Prince Tyrion was the first to push forward, a simple feint that Link sidestepped. He was testing the waters. Then, the Prince leapt forward and went for his opponent’s side, who parried without losing ground. There were several short exchanges of the Hero being passive, while Tyrion was assertive.

Before Zelda knew it, she was gripping the sides of her chair as they danced. Tyrion was grinning wildly at his stoic opponent. He hadn’t been bluffing earlier, he was skilled. The Hylian Princess had seened Link spar time and time again, never did it take so long for him to disarm his opponent in some manner. The sun beat down on them, creating glistening sweat on their skin that bled darkly through their clothes.

Suddenly, Tyrion had space for a large horizontal slash before Link could recover from a parry. Zelda let out a yelp and watched him duck into a lateral roll, regaining his senses and plenty of ground between them.

Tyrion harked out a laugh, “You are brilliant, sir!”

They were panting now and the comment brought a sideways smile to Link’s lips. “I appreciate the regard, Your Highness. You’re a remarkable swordsman.”

They took a moment to breathe and Link did the unthinkable. His Champion tunic was discarded easily to the ground and Zelda held her breath when his eyes found hers on the perch where she sat.

Princess Aurra gasped softly. Zelda didn’t blame her. Hard lines on his stomach were only more prominent in the sun and his chest heaved with his hard breaths. The lack of coverage revealed the flex of his arm as he readjusted his grip on the blade.

It wasn’t an oddity that he was now half naked. Tyrion had long let the strings that laced the neckline of his tunic loosen, leaving a large portion of his chest exposed. Considering that they were already in the heat of midsummer, the sight of shirtless men should be expected at this end of the castle. But Link, well, he was always different.

The Prince of Labrynna lunged forward with a grunt, thrusting his blade out. Where Tryion was tactful, almost mechanical, in his movements, Link was fluid. He took his opponents strikes like water, flowing into the gaps of his defenses and reevaluating in a moment’s notice. It truly was an art in Zelda’s eyes, a very dangerous art.

Much different than anything Tyrion had done, he brought his blade upward in a sideways slashing arch with a loud shout. Princess Zelda’s heart surged in her chest. Link grit his teeth and threw his weight back into a flip, landing on his feet.

Surprise registered in Tyrion’s eyes and couldn’t recover fast enough when Link brought his blade against the hilt of His Highness’s broadsword. The blade was sent skidding along the dirt.

“Ah,” Tyrion brought his hand up to further demonstrate his lack of weapon. “I yield.”

It was then that Zelda realized she was holding her breath. Her father and his guests had all stood and applauded, so she followed suit.

“Good show!” Aurra leaned on the stone wall. “Very well done!”

The two men clasped hands again with a few words of respect. The Hylian princess watched a short regaling and found an opportunity to slip away from the processions without another glance at the arena.

[arcticfox007]

Suggestions

Welcome to Day 3 of my Destiel December 2020 Challenge posts! My intention of one shot posts is now a continuing story until at least day 6, if not more. My story has clearly run away from me, but I’m just going to go with it and hope for the best. I promise a happy ending by the end.

Anyway, Day 4 will continue the story (but with more action and angst!), and Day 5 will have Crowley guest starring! So if you’re enjoying this ride with me feel free to request a tag - and of course I can remove you from tag lists as well. And as always, here is the AO3 link.

Enjoy! 

Day 3: Presents

               When Cas entered the room carrying a large box with Dean walking in right behind him smiling Sam was relieved. He sometimes wished Dean could talk to him more easily, but over the years Sam had noticed what his idiot brother hadn’t seen, at least not yet. Castiel was in love with Dean. Sam was also convinced that his brother was in love with the angel but he doubted Dean had figured that out. Neither of them seemed to be aware that the other harbored similar feelings.

               Sam had thought it was pretty obvious. Literally everything Cas did was for Dean. He responded when Dean called or prayed (a lot more frequently than he acknowledged Sam). He defied heaven for Dean. They shared a ‘profound bond’. They stared at each other intensely for awkward stretches of time. Meanwhile Dean worried himself sick over Castiel when the angel was out of contact for any length of time. Every time Cas had been in real danger Dean would lovingly cradle the angel’s face when he thought no one else was watching. Sam also saw Dean genuinely smile more and more often the longer Cas was around. Honestly, Sam was fairly certain everyone knew the two of them were head over heels for each other except for them. Even Mom had asked about it.

               “Hey Sammy. Where’d you get the tree?” It was nice to hear Dean sounding somewhat normal again. Sam stood up from where he was trying to test the tree lights.

               “Cas picked it up on the way here. He brought lights and tinsel as well. I told him that you had found an old box of ornaments.” Sam looked down into the box that Cas set on the ground. He crouched down and started pulling out the smaller boxes of ornaments so old they probably counted as antiques. “Do you guys want to get the lights on? I can start sorting through this stuff.” Dean nodded, still looking at the tree.

               “Yeah, sure.”

              “You probably want to start at the top, you should be able to reach if you stand on a chair.” Dean glared at Sam.

              “What good is you bein’ a giant if you can’t do the top of the tree?” Sam just rolled his eyes and went back to digging through the box. It looked like there were some decent looking ornaments mixed in with the odd ones. He wasn’t making much progress because he kept getting distracted watching his brother and Cas work on putting the lights on the tree. Despite being the shortest of everyone in the room, Cas was the one standing on the chair listening carefully to Dean’s suggestions on how to wrap the lights. Looking at the decorations for the box Sam noticed something missing and turned back towards the other two in time to see Cas standing on his toes starting to pass the lights around the tree’s tip.

              “Hey guys, we don’t have anything for the top of the tree.” Cas looked confused as he was clearly putting lights around the top. Dean was staring up at Cas when a wide grin broke across his face and he bent over laughing.

              “We already have an angel at the top of the tree Sammy!” Sam started laughing as well as Cas looked at the two of them completely baffled.

              “What are you two talking about?” Cas scowled at them, waiting for an answer. Sam managed to compose himself first.

              “Sorry Cas, Dean means you. Lots of people put an angel decoration at the top of their Christmas trees.” Cas just raised his eyebrow as Dean wiped the corners of his eyes still grinning. Actually, this was giving Sam an idea…

              “I am fairly certain that the tree would not hold my weight.” This just set Dean off again until Cas dropped the light string on his head.

              “Are you going to help, or not?”, Cas asked with a growl. Sam saw that the angel was fighting a smile though. Dean grumbled a bit but started passing the lights back around the tree to Cas. Sam stacked the ornaments that really did need to be tossed back into the box thinking hard about what he wanted to do for both his brother and his angelic friend.

              “Hey, we should do presents this year. I bet Cas hasn’t opened presents for Christmas before!” Dean and Cas paused with wrapping the lights around the tree and looked at Sam. Cas seemed curious and Dean looked surprised.

              “I hadn’t thought of that. Well, Cas? Have you?”

              “No Dean. What does this ritual entail?” Dean rolled his eyes.

              “What are you man, one of those professors Sam gets nerdy about? It’s just presents. We get all get each other a gift and wrap it. Then we give them to the person we got ‘em for and unwrap them.”

              “Like when I got Claire a birthday present at the Hot Topical?” Sam smiled as Dean tried not to laugh again.

              “Yes Cas, like that except everyone is supposed to get presents on Christmas.” Cas nodded very seriously as he took the lights Dean passed around to him.

              “I would like to try this. Crowley implied this was an important custom, and the store where I purchased the lights had displays of wrapping paper.” Sam smiled brightly but Dean looked over at Castiel, disgruntled.

              “You and Crowley talked about Christmas? Seriously?” Cas just stared at Dean.

              “Yes, he seemed to think I was running out of ‘shopping days’.” Dean just shook his head at Cas’ air quotes and pulled the lights through the bottom of the tree. Sam brought the ornaments over and passed some to the others and they showed Cas where to hang them. Even though Sam had planned this to cheer Dean up, he also found himself grinning non-stop. Now that Sam thought about it, standing here talking about presents with his brother and Cas, while happily making jokes about the Men of Letters choice in tree ornaments, was the closest thing he had experienced to a real family Christmas.

Now if he could just have a bit more luck, he thought he could use getting one another presents as a way of showing his brother that Cas loved him back, and that Sam was happy that Dean had fallen in love.

***

@jellydeans, @galaxycastiel, @my-favourite-hellatus, @nguyenxtrang

[bave-de-crapaud]

The Darkness Within...

CHAPTER FIVE

(Yearning by crescentcreations.storenvy.com) 

Request by: the babe @belladonnarey

A/N: hmmm this one took a while BUT it (hopefully) is the smut you have been waiting for. Let me know what you like about it, what you don’t, what you think will happen. Enjoy and stay safe.  Sirius x Reader Older Sirius Sirius Lives/Post Azkaban Smutty McSmut Word count: 5500+ Disclaimer: All characters are assumed 18+ Warnings: Smut!

—-

Finding yourself at Number 12 Grimmauld Place became a regular if normal occurrence over the next few weeks. In your spare time you sat on the floor in Sirius’ library, pouring over dusty volumes containing everything and anything related to wizards and witches with ‘eccentric abilities’ - the technical term to what you had, apparently. 

The good thing about this was you weren’t the only one who had surfaced over the years with strange skills, there were wizards who could command water without a wand, witches who with one touch could drain a person of their fears, individuals who could fly sans apparatus and countless others who had fascinating and outrageous traits. The bad thing was none of these wizards were alive today to speak with, the last person with documented abilities had died over 100 years ago. Yet again you felt like you were on this journey on your own.

Sirius and Remus were constantly in and out of the house completing various missions and tasks for the order. Sirius checked on you often, bringing you tea or something to eat but kept himself scarce to let you figure out your mysteries alone. He seemed to understand that this was a private affair for you and you were grateful for the time. However each night around 8pm he would come into the Library, sit on one of the old leather couches and ask you about your day. 

You caught snippets of what he and Remus had been up to and learned that one of the missions ended in a grizzly discovery of Macnair’s body - found dead in his home - magic obviously the cause of torture and death. 

Voldemort had become less of a focus in your mind and each time you were called to his presence you found it easy to resist his psychological torment. The disgust on your face was not evident when fellow Death Eaters talked about their foul crimes. Being around Sirius was giving you a strength you never knew you had. The way he threw himself into fighting for equality and the right to live no matter what situation or who he had to work with, both humbled and amazed you. If he can put up with more than 12 years of the world thinking he was a betrayer and cold-blooded killer who was associated with Death Eaters and Voldemort, then you could put up with sporadically rubbing shoulders with Malfoy, Lestrange, and their cronies.

Your new attitude didn’t go unnoticed, it was put down to you growing a stronger stomach for violence and generally taken positively amongst the Death Eater ranks. However, Voldemort, though he outwardly showed no signs of displeasure, watched you more and decided to hold whatever he wanted Macnair to deliver to you for later. Like any nefarious leader, he was constantly on the lookout for a rat in his ranks and you were not exempt from this scrutiny.

After every Death Eater meeting, you would return home before heading over to Grimmauld Place, a new sanctuary, to pour over more books and hopefully absorb the good vibes from its admirable inhabitants. This made being with Death Eaters bearable. On the nights of Order meetings, however, you stayed away. Those evenings were becoming Sirius’ least favourite. It made sense to shield you from them for your own and others’ safety. However, that didn’t stop him feeling concerned for you. Reckless and impulsive, he may be, he was also a very intuitive and perceptive man. He hadn’t failed to notice how much you seem to relax in his library. He wanted that for you, relating to that feeling of relief as almost an addictive substance, he knew you needed and craved it and he wanted to give it to you. Badly. 

He felt protective and territorial of you. If he really wanted to analyse his feelings he would have noticed that your safety, though paramount, was not the only reason he wanted you to come to his house: the lingering looks as he gave you yet another cup of tea, finding a way to bring you into conversation with Remus, seemingly innocently, was a dead giveaway of deeper feelings. Remus said nothing, prefering to feign ignorance, yet the annoyingly knowing looks he gave Sirius hinted otherwise.

“Just ask her, Padfoot.” Remus sighed exasperatedly, shuffling his paper one day as Sirius kept looking towards the door of his library, knowing you were inside.

“Ask her what?” Sirius tried and failed to nonchalantly reply.

“Out, mate!” 

Sirius frowned, placing both hands on the kitchen table as though readying his defense. “For one: what makes you think I want to ask her out? And two: I couldn’t anyway - we are supposed to be on opposing sides remember?” 

Remus stared at his friend, conceding defeat but not enough to hold in his last words before disappearing behind the Daily Prophet; “True but if it can be concealed from the Death Eaters that she is at your house every day, then asking her to have dinner with you is not a huge step up I would think.”

There was another reason, Sirius hadn’t tried to gauge your feelings: He didn’t want you to think he was just trying to get a leg over. Your outright statement about his intentions after he first visited your house, had stuck with him. He concluded that you didn’t want him and pursuing you would only harden your view towards him further. So he played it safe, frustrating himself and unknowingly frustrating you in the process.

—

Sirius’ library was vast and carried more volumes on runes than all the franchises of Flourish and Blotts combined. What was interesting was that the interpretation of runes and ancient markings was just as vast and also open into a plethora of interpretation. You had discovered that the rune on your chest - the mirror image of one of Sirius’  tattoos - did indeed mean ‘destruction’ but in a form of new growth. Much like a farmer sowing soil, ridding the earth of old, dead, and rotting plants preparing it for new seeds.

Two runes on your left arm meant ‘Harm To My Enemies’ and another on your thigh could be interpreted as ‘The East Wind’. Other forms of your abilities were harder to quantify as there was no record of someone with all the same traits as you, however, those who had shown up throughout history with varying sources of atypical power were more often than not tyrants and individuals who used their abilities for evil. Stories of wizards who did not feel cold, commanding animals, and manipulating the elements such as fire were largely negative however speckled throughout the research were wizards who were great warriors, shepherds of the people, and in some cases just normal citizens living their lives like everyone else

Though you were slowly and steadily finding out more information about your powers and relished the time you were so easily given you couldn’t help but wish for Sirius’ company more often than an hour or two at night. Luckily for you, that was about to change.

—

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” You were sat on the floor in front of the fireplace staring gloomily at your fifth cup of tea.

You smiled “Sirius I’m so grateful for you letting me stay but I was wondering - do you have anything other than tea?”

He smirked and left the room returning seconds later with a bottle of fire whiskey. 

Handing you a large glass he clinked it with his and took his place back on the couch asking you again how was your day. Each night Sirius had helped you with your findings, giving his opinion or helping you to digest what you had read. He was adamant that your powers weren’t evil and that you needed to be confident in your choice to do what was right. He had served to make you feel good about yourself a lot but you wondered if he had the same support from his pairs. Tonight you put aside your research and decided to question him about his life. You had gleaned a bit about him over the last month but he was infinitely fascinating to you and seemed like a well of untapped ideas and beliefs.

He talked about his family, his friends, and the Order. He told you light hearted tales about his Hogwarts days and he talked at length about Harry and how sometimes he was nervous about his parenting role considering Walburga and Orion were such poor examples to go off.

“You know, you are not what I thought.” You said boldly after a moment of silence.

 Sirius sat up straighter on the couch and cocked his eyebrow at you. A side smile not quite covering a flicker of worry in his eyes.

“Oh?” Was all he said. “Yeah.” You walked forwards from your current position in front of the mantle place and took a seat beside him. 

“You care more about what people think than you let on.”

“Is that so?” He subconsciously moved his body so it was angled towards you.

“Yeah, and you are not as much of a dog around the ladies as I thought you’d be.” Sirius barked out a laugh at this. “Why thank you Y/N, but to be fair you have never seen me around ‘the ladies.’”

“I’ve seen you around me.” You answered bluntly. “You aren’t all over me with cheap pick up lines and cocky bravado.”

Sirius turned his head away and tried to hold in a laugh. Where was this coming from? He wondered.

“Is that how you think I would woo a woman? I’m slightly offended, Y/N.” He didn’t look it. He looked amused and a little interested.

He wasn’t able to tell if you were joking and as you glimmered at him, taking another sip of your drink.

“I don’t sleep around you know. I haven’t done that since I was 20, but unfortunately, that reputation has always preceded me.”

“You probably deserved it!” 

He scoffed, turning back to stare at the fire; “Probably, and don’t get me wrong I still like meeting new people but I have long since learned sex is far better with someone you have a connection with.”

“Ok then.” You said brightly, gaining his attention again. “What would you do?” 

“What would I do, when?” Sirius narrowed his eyebrows slightly, confused.

“When you want to “woo” a woman.” You signalled quotation marks in the air as you said the word ‘woo’ earning another quick chuckle from him.

Sirius paused, looking at you intently, cogs working fast in his brain. She wants you to woo her? No, she wants you to show her what you would do to woo her. Does that mean she wants me?

As Sirius battled these rapid thoughts, your own inner monologue was pipping up as well:  This is a dangerous game, Y/N.  You are leading him on and you know it.  It’s too dangerous, you can’t do anything with him. Don’t confuse the poor guy…unless you want to be leading him on.  Do you?

Shaking your head and forcing yourself to believe this would just be a fun game you crossed your legs leaning closer to Sirius.

He noticed glancing at your legs, smooth skin exposed up to past mid-thigh where your skirt took over covering the rest from there.

He looked back into your eyes and noticed a difference. Your pupils were bigger and there was a faint purple hue in your irises.

Right now, the sexual tension in the room could be cut with a knife. It had been building over the past few weeks. An accidental touch here and there, a smile, or a look that meant everything and nothing at the same time from him would floor you. When he looked over your shoulder to consider whatever book you were showing him, little puffs of his breath in your ear flooded your body with heat making it impossible to concentrate. All these reactions confused you and created a chronic longing feeling in your chest you had not experienced before. It made you feel warm, content, and giddy. 

Never having fallen for anyone before, you didn’t recognise the signs, the changes in your body and the effect he had on you mentally and physically. By the time these feelings had reached boiling point he was sitting next to you and your body was doing the thinking for you. God you wanted him to touch you. To an untrained eye Sirius looked so cool and collected, however beneath the surface he was anything but.

Since Remus had confronted him about asking you out, Sirius had thought little else. He was super aware of his body language, how it angled him towards you, begging him to take a step closer even if just to place his hand on your back as he passed. Believing that you didn’t want that from him, he was careful not to brush past you or stand too close and cause you to feel uncomfortable. He constantly watched himself and made sure he didn’t give you the wrong idea. It was hard though. Very hard.

Just yesterday he nearly pinned you against the wall and kissed you. He was walking you out and after a long night of research, you were tired and not watching where you were going. Just as he was saying “watch out for the…” you kicked over that bloody troll leg again. Instead of steading yourself, your first thought was not to wake up Sirius’ Mother’s portrait so you reached back to catch the falling article before its clatter made a sound. Overreaching, you fell backward into something hard and warm: Sirius’ chest. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight and upright. 

“Are you ok?” he whispered in your ear, his puffs of breath once again making your veins tingle.

You swallowed and exited abruptly leaving Sirius cursing himself for what he thought was his incongruous behaviour. As far as you were concerned, it had been anything but and you were unable to stop thinking of him for the rest of the evening, dreaming of those same arms doing other far more inappropriate things making your sleep wrought with pleasurable shivers and fever. Oh God, was he ever going to come closer?

Until this evening he had been the perfect gentleman, respecting your boundaries and staying just out of reach. Apart from the one incident in the hallway, you hadn’t felt his touch, no matter how innocent, since he had carried you up the stairs to bed and that was having an unacceptable effect on you. It made you lean towards him further, lick your lips whenever he was near, and glance at his body when he wasn’t looking in a completely wanton way. He must notice the heat coming from me? You thought. He seemed so relaxed, not at all perturbed by your presence.

How wrong you were. Inside, Sirius was struggling. He was trying to be a gentleman but it was hard, you were making it hard. Do you actually want him? He was ok with just being in your orbit slowly torturing himself at not touching you, content at just being there but this evening, your flirting coupled with the fire whiskey was not helping, in fact, its lubricating effects ware making resisting anything you said that could be slightly construed as even vague interest, very, very difficult. 

Sirius cleared his throat. Not taking his eyes off you. “You want me to show you how I ask a woman out?”

“Yes, show me your moves!”

Sirius smiled but his eyes held a serious, almost pained look. Before you could ask him what was wrong he shuffled in his seat.

“Y/N, I don’t have moves I just sort of feel a situation out, see if she likes me and then go from there.”

“Ok well, show me how you do that. Come on.” You egged him as he gave you a look of doubt. “It’ll be fun.”

It’ll be torture. Sirius thought, but you were looking at him with such a blazing warmth in your eyes, he relented and shifted so he was closer to you.

“Well, if I like her I have usually gotten to know her a little bit, watched the way she moves, adjusted my body language to suit whatever she is comfortable with, and look for signs she is interested in me too.”

He stretched so his right arm was running along the back of the couch, behind you, touching your shoulder ever so lightly. You shivered at the contact. 

“Then I guess I would let her take the lead.” His voice had lowered and you noticed he had leaned closer to you. You had also noticed that the outside of his right leg was pressed against your crossed calves and as he leaned to you further you got a whiff of his cologne. The musky, manly scent combined with his closeness dilated your pupils further and sent your mind whirling.

Before you could collect yourself Sirius gave you a slow, mischievous smile, took a sip of his drink and said very quietly; “Your turn.”

“My…w-what?” you uttered, stammering slightly.

“Your turn to show me your moves.”

Fuck you wanted him. Could you? No? Slowly, not realising it you inched closer to him. 

You were nervous, Sirius could finally see that. Whatever he was doing had an effect on you. Sirius loved the excitement of turning someone else on, this was him in his element. However, unlike most interactions with the opposite sex, this one was equally thrilling and torturing him. Setting his glass down and gathering a sliver of confidence he tentatively he placed his left hand on your thigh. You sucked in a sharp breath which he mistook for fear immediately whipping his hand away and opening his mouth to apologise only to be interrupted by the words: “Don’t stop.”

He looked back at you, having just enough time to register your meaning before you lunged forward, capturing his lips in yours. 

There was a seconds pause then Sirius was returning your kiss with fervor. He wrapped his arms around your back clinging to your shirt before lifting you up and onto his lap, legs either side of his, pressing into him exquisitely. 

He tasted like fire whiskey and something sweet at the same time.

He moved his hand through your hair holding your head while the other held your lower back pressing you firmly, further into him. Suddenly the hand holding your head was gone and running up your outer thigh, underneath your skirt. 

His warm fingers caressed your upper thigh, moving further to touch the tip of your hip and run tantalizing circles across your backside.

His kisses were feverish and sending you reeling. The way he swept his tongue across your lips opening them and deepening the kiss was tantalizing. Clinging to him, grabbing fistfuls of his hair, you ground down into his crotch and he groaned, opening his eyes. They were heavy with desire.

Sirius squeezed your bum picking you up and laying you back down on the couch. He didn’t remove his lips from yours as he wrapped your legs around his waist and lowered his body onto yours.

You arched up into him and he was immediately transported to the first dream he had of you, lying naked on his bed. He let out a shuddered breath; “You are so beautiful, Y/N. I want you.”

Instead of being flattered by this, a voice popped up in the back of your mind; Did he though? Shaken by this sudden thought, then jumping slightly at the bang of the front door signifying the probable return home of Remus served to knock you back into reality. The situation suddenly became very clear to you. You had just thrown yourself at a man who was known for sleeping with multiple women, very easily it seemed if you were to believe what he said before - he didn’t have to do anything and they offered themselves to him.

Of course he wanted you - you had led him on with your ‘game’ basically given yourself up to him on a platter. This wasn’t real, it was convenient and you could seriously hurt him if you let him in further.

Seeing the change in your face, Sirius sat up, “Y/N, are you ok? Was this too fast?.”

“Sirius..I” you were so embarrassed. Sitting up, quickly removing your legs from around him. 

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have.” He could see the blush rising up around your cheeks and you couldn’t look at him.

“Shouldn’t have? What do you mean - I think this was on both of us. Don’t you?”

“I mean.” You screwed your eyes shut, breathing deeply, “I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea…I… I don’t do one nightstands.” 

“One nightstands?” he was frowning at you, confused, his mind racing. Didn’t she hear me before? 

Seeing him frown and mistaking it for annoyance rather than confusion you stood up and started to back towards the door. “I should go, I’m so sorry for coming on to you.”

“Y/N! Wait!” But before he could take two steps towards you, you had turned on your heel and raced out the door.

“Y/N!” Sirius was still calling your name as you shot out the front door, turning on the spot to disapparate. 

—

“Argh, Y/N how could you be so stupid!” You cursed yourself as you walked around your kitchen.

That had been the hottest, most erotic thing that had happened to you and you choked, freaked out, and left.

You wanted Sirius it was true but you couldn’t quite believe someone like him could want you for anything more than a one time fling. No one else had wanted more so what made him any different?

Plus even if he did there was a real chance you could lose it and hurt him. The feelings he elicited from you were unreal and you had never felt that alive and heated before. It both thrilled and frightened you to your bones.

Though the research you conducted in his library had opened up ideas that you hadn’t had before - you were still afraid. Sirius had quickly and unquestionably become your favourite person and you didn’t think your poor heart could take having him in the most intimate way and then not having him again. So you had done the most adult thing you could think of: insulted his intentions and run away. “Brilliant!” You spat.

Back at Geimmauld Place, Sirius was pacing up and down the hall. “YOU IDIOT!” He yelled at himself waking up his mother. “Oh shut the fuck up you old hag!” Storming out of the house, and out into the night air helped calm him and give him clarity. He disapparated instantly.

Lifting your head from your hands you got up from the kitchen table as you heard a soft knock at your front door.

Sirius stood at your door with a dark, devastating look.

“Sirius I…” you began.

“I want you more than just for tonight.” He blurted out. “I have for a long time” 

“What if I hurt you?” 

He walked in, eyes dark and grabbed you, “You won’t.”

He let you go and stood before you, waiting. He wanted you to be sure of him and sure of yourself. His broad shoulders quivered under your stare, not with fear but ready to do anything you desired. Sirius was a handsome man, sure, but standing before you laying his cards on the line, his need for you so obvious and open made him the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. He was not afraid of anything. His confidence fanned yours and you ignored the fear building in your stomach and stepped into him. 

Attaching himself to your lips once more he didn’t look as he closed the front door and led you towards your staircase.

Laying you down on your bed once again he hovered above you, one muscled arm on either side of your head. This view of you sprawled out underneath him jogged his memory and as he recalled first dream about you again. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

“What’s wrong Sirius?”

Your concern was squashed by a sly smile. He opened his eyes and said with a smirk: “I’ve dreamt about this before”

“Is that so?”

“Yes” he looked at you intently.

“What did dream me do?”

You couldn’t quite hold your smug smile while Sirius bit his lip and told you.

Wrapping your legs around him once more, you pulled him down on top of you. Hands running down his sides as you kissed him, you felt his muscles tense at each spot you touched. Whatever you were doing to him, he enjoyed it.

Taking great effort to wrench his lips from yours Sirius looked at you once more and asked: “Y/N, would you like to go to dinner with me sometime?”

Looking surprised, you nodded. He smiled. “I meant what I said. This isn’t just a once off. Not for me.”

“I know.” You conceded. “I also just didn’t want my first time to be meaningless.” “Your first time?” Sirius looked shocked. “You mean you’ve never…?”

You shook your head, grimacing slightly hoping this didn’t change anything.

“Oh Y/N, are you sure?” Sirius was surprised and, if possible, turned on even more. There was something so special about sharing someone’s first experience. Meaning something so much to them that they wanted to be with you. He felt sexy, powerful, and potent which combined with how long he had lusted over you and the way you moved, made it incredibly hard for him to focus.

“Yes Sirius.” The brazen look in your eyes and the way you ran your hands in sweeping strokes around his body told him that though you may not have had sex you had had other intimate experiences and you knew what you wanted.

He shuddered once more, closing his eyes as you arched up into him again. 

“Y/N.” His voice came out in a rasp. “God, you are turning me on… I want you so badly but if this is not right for you please tell me and we’ll stop.”

You surprised him by laughing softly. “You’re sort of killing the mood, Sirius. I want this, I want you - you know you are not the only one who has touched themselves dreaming about us.”

Suddenly, with a twirl of your fingers, soft, malleable ropes appeared at your wrists. Gently lifting your arms up and firmly tying your hands to your bedpost.

Sirius’ jaw dropped and he almost started drooling. The look on his face, one of absolute adoration, spurred you on further. Another flick of your wrist and your clothes slowly started peeling themselves off your body, ripping in parts to remove themselves from you until you were lying naked, stretched underneath him, replicating that particular dream perfectly.

As you looked up at him through relaxed eyelids and purred; “I want you to touch me, Sirius.” He nearly came undone.

Though he was only wearing his jeans and a shirt he couldn’t get naked fast enough.

Sirius laid his body against yours, groaning at the feel of your soft skin. He kissed you deeply, letting one arm hold himself while the other dipped low, wandering further until it came torturously close to your clit before moving passed and circling your inner thigh.

You groaned with frustration and he smiled into your lips as he kissed you, tongue sweeping inside your mouth lighting sparks inside your head.

Each time he neared closer to your core, your breath hitched, waiting, only to be expelled in frustration as he moved passed and to another area. 

He explored your mouth, your neck, your collar bone, and your nipples with his mouth, all the while coming close to touching you where you needed but not getting close enough.

Finally, he swept his finger up the line of your folds and flicked your clit. A move that literally took your breath away and his. He could feel how wet you were and it made his cock twitch with excitement. “Oh, Y/N.”

His teasing had become torturous for him as well. If he wasn’t careful, your body was going to turn him on so much that he might come on you rather than inside you like he desperately wanted.

He moved down to flick your nipple with his tongue then continued further south until his head was level with your core. A brush of stubble on your inner thigh had you jolting. He kissed the spot, sparking your lust even more. Not able to take any more teasing, “please Sirius” you begged. The desperate timbre of your voice made him feel incredibly desired.

He gently made taught the skin above your clit tilting it upwards and licking it, so lightly but giving you the feeling of being shocked with the most incredible surge of power. A whimper and a groan encouraged him to carry on and soon he was holding your bucking hips down as he continued to rapidly lick, and flick the sensitive bead. You could feel a sudden blooming inside you, growing outwards, and upwards lighting even your soul on fire. Suddenly afraid your weird powers might cause you to lash out and hurt him you made to move away but he held you down and stopped his tongue briefly enough to growl, “you won’t, just let go.”

He shifted his free hand under your bum and squeezed as he buried his face once more in your core.  There it was again, that sweet hot feeling running through your bones. A warm glow washed over you and into him - consuming him filling him with love. You could feel his devotion to you, how turned on he was, how much he longed for you. This had never happened previously and before you could process it the orgasm he gave you lifted you off the bed causing you to cry out his name over and over. He did not relent, it was exquisite ecstasy.

“Oh God, oh God…” you breathed, hyperventilating from how good he had made you feel. Sirius was smiling, he had made his way back up the bed and was lying next to you, stroking your side.

You wrenched your arms out of the ropes and launched at him, taking him off guard and kissing him deeply, pushing yourself on top of him until you were straddling his lap just like you had only moments ago in his library.

Sirius’ cocky smile turned into an ‘oh’ as his mouth opened while you grabbed his erection and placed it at your entrance. Wetting the tip from your already dripping core you slowly began to slide down.

Sirius, groaned, bit his lip and grasped your hips. He was utterly and irrevocably under your spell.

Feeling a stretch, painful at first, you continued to slide down until a snapping feeling followed by a slight relief brought you to the bottom of his shaft.

Taking your breath you slowly started to move up and down his cock, squeezing intermittently and kissing him sporadically.

The frenzy he had whipped you into before had served to lubricate your entrance so though there was some pain at first, it soon gave way to a delightfully filling feeling.

“Ohhh Y/N” Sirius groaned as your inner walls stroked his shaft. You were tight, as he expected but your smooth movements and rocking of your hips blew him away. If this was you at your first time then he was in for a real treat when you had more experience under your belt. Thoughts of you experimenting with others flashed across his mind and he growled. Territorial hormones took him over as he squeezed your hips hard lifting his own up into you, hitting a spot inside you that caused you to moan.

Sirius noticed this and increased the snapping of his hips. Continuous thrusts meeting each other coupled with your already sensitive clit rubbing against the rough hair on his pelvis was causing an orgasm to build again. Surely not? Not at your first instance of sex, you thought?

A delightful wave tickled your walls and you shivered. “Sirius, I’m going to come. Don’t stop.”

He didn’t, reaching down between you he rubbed your clit once more to bring your orgasm about faster. Feeling your walls clamp down around him his thrusts became sloppier and as you came, unraveling on top of him he found his release crying your name and squeezing your hips painfully. 

You fell forward on top of him and he instantly wrapped his arms around you rolling you to the side, still inside of you showing no signs he wanted to get up.

Laying there entwined with him, you felt the content warm feeling ripple through you again. You had let go and not lost control! If you could do this then you could do anything. No more holding back. In one act of love Sirius had helped you break the shackles of fear and find relief from a lifetime of pressure and concern. You felt light and confident. Chuckling to yourself he looked at you cocking an eyebrow in question.

“Well Sirius, those were some good moves!” 

There was a beat and then you both laughed.

—- Tag list: @sirius-lysad @riddikuluslypotter @emmamass24 @evyiione @mylovelykelsifer @sly-vixen-up2nogood @ashkuuuu @songforhema @wangmangagavroche @borbole-teias @legalyred @qwertyokok

[originofjaehyun]

Prelude: After Story | Part 2 | Nonstop

Prelude: After Story Masterlist

Word count: 4,027

Warnings: None

Part 2 | Nonstop

“You’re in danger, and I get shaken.”

Prev | Next

Read Interlude: No More Drama

Tag list: @justineasian​ @elauniesdream

Ever since Yuta moved to Seoul, he would always wait for Doyoung before they go to the office together. Simply because one, Yuta is an early riser and two, they lived in the same building.

Doyoung helped Yuta a lot with his move, which includes finding the best place for Yuta to stay for at least the next three years. Surprisingly, among all of the options that Doyoung has offered, Yuta fell in love with the apartment that was none other than Doyoung’s building.

“Are you sure about this?”

Yuta nods. “I like to keep my place with greeneries. This one faces the east, so I’ll get plenty of sunlight.”

Doyoung rested his hand on his hip, hummed in agreement. “If you say so. The view from here is really pretty, that for sure.”

Yuta and Doyoung friendship are odd. They’re not exactly the closest friends –since they started as colleagues. While Yuta worked with other people aside from Doyoung in the company, he felt most comfortable around him. It’s just the charming point of Doyoung, since he always took care of people around him. Furthermore, Yuta did have a thing with his best friend, resulting in them sharing a fairly good amount of time outside of work, thus making them closer naturally. Though, it’s not like they suddenly could claim as to each other’s partner in crime.

Today was like any other days. Yuta would wait in the smoking area near the parking lot. Yuta usually doesn't smoke in the morning –he said he likes to keep his lungs fresh when he starts his day– but everything changed a year ago. He doesn't really mind though, ever since he converted to IQOS.

“Morning, I hope you’re– whoa!”

Doyoung, who was still half-awake, is now on full alert when he sees Yuta.

“Dude, what a haircut!” He exclaims. “I thought your long hair would fit you best. Pretty jealous with a guy who’s able to tie their hair and still managed to look good, but dang those undercut looks good on you.”

Yuta smiled. “Thanks, bro.” He draws a smoke. “Thought it was a nice change. A new beginning, I guess? Like how someone told me.”

“A new beginning huh?” Doyoung shoved his hand to his pants pockets. “Well, speaking of…”

Yuta hummed at Doyoung, tilting his head because Doyoung is hesitating.

“Nevermind, I’ll talk to you over coffee.”

“Wow, such a joy killer.” Yuta quickly removes the white stick from its cartridge. “Well, let’s go then. I can’t handle cliffhangers.”

–

“Here,” Doyoung passes Yuta’s usual americano while holding his own matcha latte.

“Sankyuu,” Yuta thanked him, purposefully using his Japanese accent. “So, care to continue where you left?”

Yuta could sense that Doyoung stopped sipping his straw. But Doyoung realized that he’s dealing with Yuta here and his best trait is his directness. Though he’s a bit taken aback, Doyoung already expected Yuta to go back straight to the topic.

“Well, the thing is,” He pulled the chair, sitting across Yuta. “[Y/N] asked me if she could meet you.”

“[Y/N]?” Yuta’s eyes widen. Amongst all of the people, her name was the least that he would expect to want to meet him. “Meeting me? Is there anything wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong, but…” Doyoung pursing his lips, noticeably nervous. “Damn it, [Y/N], why do you have to do this to me?” He mumbles.

“Bro seriously, just go straight to the point.” Yuta gives his cup a few twirls before sipping it. “I won’t be offended if that is what you’re worried about.”

Yuta can see how Doyoung’s adam’s apple moves up and down. “She asked me whether she and Jaehyun could meet you to give you their wedding invitation.”

Immediately Yuta halted all of his movements. He has sworn to himself that he tries to move on. At this point he is even convinced that he already does. He never thought Doyoung’s last statement would cause that much pain.

Yuta remains silent, exactly how Doyoung expects him to be. “She did it out of good intentions, Yuta. I mean, I was around when you guys were together and I know it sucks to come to your ex’s wedding, but–”

“We never dated.” Yuta cuts him off.

“Well, whatever you called your relationship back then. At least from my eyes, you guys were happy and regardless of the ending, you did help her out of her slump. And she’s very grateful for that. If it weren’t for you, she probably wouldn't be able to be her complete self again, let alone to be together with Jaehyun.”

“Nonsense.”

Doyoung sighs. “You are special to her, Yuta. That wouldn’t change, no matter how bitter you take this news. If you’re uncomfortable I can come with you or I can ask [Y/N] to come by herself. Or would you rather to have her pass the invitation to me so–”

“Fine,” Yuta finally looks Doyoung in the eyes. “But I’m not comfortable meeting her… fiancé yet, so it would probably be best if I could meet her alone.”

A gum smile appeared on Doyoung’s face. “Sure, I’ll make sure to tell [Y/N].”

He finally rested his back on his chair. “Thank you for not making this difficult, bro.”

Yuta raised one of his brows, “Who said so? You’re paying for my coffee, right?”

Doyoung’s eyes grow bigger in disagreement.

–

Thank God Yuta managed to swallow his last piece of canelé —else he would choke after seeing her presence.

She came alone, just as Doyoung had promised. Yuta noticed she kept her hair length just the same. Nothing has really changed about her, except that she looks visibly more radiant.

She quickly spotted Yuta, and immediately pulled the chair in front of him.

“Hi,” She said as she took her seat. “Have you been waiting long?”

“No, not really.”

“Yet you just finished a canelé?”

“You know I’m a fast eater.”

She giggles. “Yes, I remember.”

Ah, her giggles.

Yuta could listen to this the whole day. It’s a strange feeling for him. As much as he loves her laughter, he hated the fact that he’s such a simple man –because he wishes he could listen to her laugh nonstop. That he could be the one that makes her laugh.

“Uhm, so…” Her relaxed demeanor changed into a slightly more skittish posture. “I guess if you agree to be here, it means you know the reason why I want to meet you.”

Yuta parted his lips from his cup. “You could’ve just text or call me by yourself, you know? Our Doyoung looked like a poor rabbit that got trapped.”

He glad he mentioned Doyoung, as it manages to put a smile on her face. “Right, you are a scorpio, to begin with.”

Yuta rested his chin on his hand, unconsciously smiling. He never believes in astrologies, but it’s funny how whenever she mentioned his sign, he would reactively feel giddy as it is the first thing that she knew about him —other than his name and his nationality, of course.

“Well,” She went through her purse. “I was hoping you could come to our wedding.”

Then when the smile gradually fades.

You expected this.

Yuta said that repeatedly in his mind. Yet the pain that he feels on his chest doesn’t seem to subdue.

She’s marrying a Jeong. One of the most desirable bachelors in Seoul. Not only women are fawning over his look, but Jeong Jaehyun is a brilliant, wealthy man. At a young age and to be able to manage Seoul’s biggest corporate, it’s a no brainer that women fly around Jaehyun like he’s a flame to a moth.

Yuta expected the invitation to be grander, but instead, it was stunningly simple. The rose-embossed envelope was dominated with cream tones, and the only noticeable color was the muted rose gold wax seal on the envelope with their initials. Another simple detail that makes the invitation look even more beautiful was the addition of dried flowers in between the stamp and the envelope.

“It’s beautiful,” He flips the envelope to reveal a calligraphy text that reads Nakamoto Yuta. “You’re a creative director indeed, huh.”

She pinches his hand at his jokes, to which Yuta quickly replies with repeated ouches.

“Can I open this?”

She nods, and Yuta carefully opens the envelope to reveal a tea-dyed paper that has floral-details embossed on the corner.

Love isn’t something you find. Love is something that finds you.

And the two shall become one.

[Y/N] and Jaehyun invite you to celebrate their love and wedding.

Yuta remains silent as he continues to read the date and the venue, before finally speaking up.

“Dinner, dance, and drinks to follow, huh?”

She held her breath, clearly unable to predict Yuta’s reaction. “Specifically champagnes. Though, I’m pretty sure Johnny’s going to smuggle some whiskey —don’t ask me how.”

The memory of her, sitting next to him while going on a date seems as clear as a day for Yuta. He remembered how the tip of her ears turned red when he held her hands, receiving her smile at the end.

But she never shines as bright as she is right now. The way the stardust on her eyes sparkled when she talked about her wedding.

As painful as it is for Yuta to let her go, it would be even hurtful if he were to steal that happiness away from her.

“I’ll come.” He puts the invitation back to its envelope.

“You will?!” She shrieked, unable to contain her excitement.

“Whoa, calm down soon-to-be bride.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you would… give me an answer this fast.”

“What? Do you expect me to be an asshole? You know I’m a pretty decisive person.”

“I’m aware on how… awkward this situation is. So I expected a lot worse.”

Yuta scoffed at her remarks, cuts her off before she could continue, “Congratulations, [Y/N]. I’m happy for you.”

Yuta saw how his statement caught her off guard, but her eyes slowly softened gradually. “Thank you Yuta. Really, I’m grateful that it was you.”

Yuta did not ask her to further explain her sentence.

“I’m glad it works out in the end.”

–

“Ah, thank you.”

Yuta exited from the back seat of his Uber when the valet opened the car door for him. Although Yuta already owns a car in Seoul, he had a hunch that he’s going to drink a lot today and as a responsible adult, he decided to skip driving.

The wedding venue stretches out to the lobby –and Yuta can already tell that the scale of the wedding is quite grand. The hallway was filled with the wedding decorations, in which the couple tries to keep the ethereal theme intact. A large acrylic box filled with green leaves fillers and giant white orchid greets the guest. On that box Yuta could spot gold letterings that spelled Welcome to the Wedding of [Y/N] and Jaehyun on its full glory.

The more steps Yuta takes to walk to the main venue, the more magnificent the decoration is. Toffee-colored roses bloomed beautifully on the hallway, looking marvelous with the giant pampas in between. Yuta gave small nods in approval after looking at the decor –impressed with the florist who worked on this.

Of course, he could see the pictorial pre-wedding photos of the couple. It seems like there are multiple themes for their pre-wedding shoots –from an editorial-like studio photoshoot to something that goes above and beyond like a shoot in the middle of the desert. Who knows how they were able to pull these off, but knowing the person she’s marrying, the answer doesn’t seem so far off.

However, the very photoshoot that made Yuta stop his step was the simplest theme; both of them laughing in the kitchen. Obviously Yuta is aware that there were probably crews behind the scene, asking them to pretend that they’re cooking –or in this case, playing with their food. But for someone who spent a good amount of time loving this very person, he knows best that the smile on her face is genuine. And the way they hug each other was so full of love.

He bitterly smiled, steps getting heavier as he knows the more he entered, the more pain it is going to be for him.

Why did I say yes?

He didn’t rethink much about his own question when he finally arrived at the main venue. The weather was clear as if nature is giving their blessing to the happy couple. The outdoor wedding was breathtaking, especially on the main wedding arch. The venue itself is already spectacular on its own –beautifully nestled on the bank of the river. Another charming point is the fact that the traditional Korean architecture married very well with the skyscrapers across the river. Additionally, it was even more impressive because the guests are able to soak in the spellbinding view of the sunset.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The wedding organizer greets him. “Are you a part of the bride’s or the groom’s guest?”

“The bride.”

She gave him a warm smile as she received the invitation, confirming his reservation. “OK, please take a seat on the left side. It shouldn’t take long before the ceremony started.”

It was an intimate wedding. Though they were a pair of lovebirds before, it was not enough for Yuta to know every single person on her circle. At least, he was unable to find any familiar face. So Yuta assumed people like Doyoung, Hanbyul, and Mingyu are taking the role of bridesmaid and groomsmen.

He took a glance at the groom’s side, where he spotted Donghyuck who’s glued to his phone. Yuta also notices the people from the last party, was it Sicheng and Taeil? He then saw how Taeyong quickly found his seat, and before long the ceremony was starting.

The officiant leads Jaehyun to wait at the altar from the side. Afterwards, Mark made his entrance, as Jaehyun’s only relative. The groomsmen quickly follow after, including Johnny who’s his best man, escorted the bridesmaids down the aisle.

When the flower girl disperses the roses petals and the ring bearer enters, Yuta is unable to focus on anything but the person who is walking right behind them.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.

Her choice of the wedding gown was the classic white off-shoulder silhouette dress. But the Óscar De La Renta gown is anything but mediocre. The floor-length tulle gown was embroidered with organza threaded flowers, and the veil that she wore that was made out of delicate chantilly lace. When he thought the dress couldn’t impress him further, the custom made veil was dazzled with meticulously embroidered rhinestone embellishments.

As the bride makes her entrance, Jaehyun starts to hold his hand together tighter. It is almost too visible for the audience to see how red his hands are. Jaehyun is a man who rarely wears his emotions on his sleeve, but seeing the love of his life walking down the aisle is enough for him to take off his mask. The thought of making her officially his wife causes him to well up.

All eyes were on her, but Yuta was especially unable to stray his eyes away. The way she walks gently to meet her groom at the other end of the aisle, but at the same time holding her bouquet that is dominated with muted blush orchids that are complimented with white roses nervously.

Yuta is able to catch all of that. However the thing that keeps Yuta’s eyes fixed on her is how even with the sheer veil that covers her face, he could still see how incredibly happy she is.

And the one that is able to put on that radiant smile is no other than Jaehyun.

She finally reached where her future husband is. She faces Jaehyun, and he takes a step forward to lift up her veil. Almost instantly, a single stream falls from Jaehyun’s eyes. She was beyond beautiful in his eyes. And although he was crying, he couldn’t help but to grin widely, exposing both of his dimples.

The sweet scene gained collective awes from the audiences. But Yuta took a deep breath instead so that he won’t stop collecting himself. Preventing him to do something that he would regret in future.

“Dear our lovely guests,” The officiant opens the event. “We are gathered here to celebrate love, the unison of our happy couple, [Y/N] and Jaehyun who are about to become Mr. and Mrs. Jeong.”

He proceeds by addressing the couple, and then comes the time where they exchange their vows.

“[Y/N],” Jaehyun opens up his cue card. “You are, without a doubt, my unconditional love.”

Contradicting the smile that she put on her face, her eyes started to tear up. Jaehyun took another deep breath before he continued.

“Today, I love you completely, as I did yesterday and yes, definitely for another seventy years, and even more. I promise I will provide a safe haven for our family, like what you provided to me. I promise to build a home that is filled with joy, learning, and compassion. There’s no need for you to look for me because I will be there for you, always. I will share your dreams, your joys, and I will be the place of comfort in your sorrows. I promise that you are my once in a lifetime love, because I will always find you in every love song, even in deafening weather, on the smallest things, and my dream is still, and will always be you.”

She wished she could hug the person in front of him after he reached the end of his vow, but she was busy tapping the tissue gently so that the tears won’t ruin her hours-long makeup. The officiant gave her a nod, allowing her to proceed with her vow.

“Jaehyun,”

There’s a crack in her voice, telling the audience that she’s mustering all of her strength to keep herself calm and collected.

“My everything, I give myself today to you to be your wife. I vow to share the rest of my life with you. To speak nothing but the truth to you in love. I promise that I will never give up on you, to respect you as to how you respected me. Building a home together with you seems like a dream, but my dream, too, is always you. Whether it’s through health, or illness, or when all of our hair turns grey and we get all wrinkly –at the end of my life, even when it has passed seventy years, I hope the person staying next to me is you.”

At her vow, Jaehyun repeatedly uses his thumb and index finger to wipe his own tears. He pressed his lips together, and even from far away it is visible that he was doing his best to hold his tears. Crying not out of sadness, but under immeasurable happiness.

After they exchange their rings, the couple look at each other once more. Completely on their own space. Speaking in a language that no other person in the audience could understand, before the officiant pulls them back.

“You may now have your first kiss!”

At the sign, Jaeyun pulls her to his embrace and gently kisses his now-wife. As if they’ve dreamed of this moment to live, they closed their eyes to soak in all the raw emotions they’ve felt for each other. They only realize that the time didn’t stop when the audiences are cheering for the happy couple.

And that is all Yuta needs to confirm his feelings.

Like everything that he’s been holding on, burst open like a bubble. There were no longer lingering feelings. No longer sign of remorse. Everything just made sense. So while people who sat nearby clapped and cheered, Yuta quietly wiped his own tears.

–

The scenery of the brilliant sunset is quickly replaced by the dim lights from the string lights that drape above the venue. While they provided tables for the guest to eat, all of them are currently holding drinks while enjoying the dance floor. 

Yuta, on the other hand, decided to step away from the crowd. Distancing himself so that he can have a moment of peace for a second, but just enough for him to see how the happy couple shares their happiness with their friends and family.

“Enjoying the night breeze, sir?”

Yuta was not expecting someone to come see him. After all, the crowd that is acquainted with him is quite minimal in this party.

“Ah, you are–”

“Oh, how rude of me,” She uses her free hand to cover her mouth, before offering it to Yuta. “Hi, I’m __.”

“Yes, the florist. Are you the groom’s guest?” Yuta assumed since Mark is working for her.

She quickly shook her head. “Actually I’m here because I’m in charge of the floral decoration.”

Yuta’s eyes widened. “You did all of these? They’re amazing!”

She smiles shyly. “I’m glad all of the efforts didn’t go in vain. At least, I’m glad to know that you like it.”

“The couple is impressed, too, I bet.”

She nods her head. Yuta took another sip of his champagne before prolonging the pregnant pause.

“Are you OK?”

Yuta cocked his head, asking her to elaborate her question.

“I didn’t mean to pry, but I saw the way you look at them during the ceremony and… you cried.”

Oh?

He didn’t think that anybody would notice. Yuta does not have that much significance as part of the guest. He is not Johnny, being the groom’s best friend, nor Doyoung. He is simply the bride’s ex-lover, and they invited him probably out of guilt and a way of saying their gratitude.

He also didn’t expect a woman would be as equally direct as him while keeping her eloquent speech.

“Well,” He twirls his glass of champagne. “Are you free? Or do you have any other responsibilities after this?”

“Oh, usually I leave after I finish. Usually the W.O. would have their own cleaning team, and I leave the couple to decide what they would do with the flowers. Mark insisted me to enjoy the party, but it’s quite difficult to enjoy the party if I don’t know anyone. You’re a regular in our shop, so out of hope that I have sheer luck, you don’t mind that I approached you first.”

A coy smile appears on Yuta’s face. “Actually,”

He then took a glance at where the main event was. Looking directly on how Johnny forces Jaehyun to drink directly from the bottle, and the way his legs sways left and right before he falls to his wife’s arm. A happy, but drunk chap.

“I happen to know one of the groomsmen. They clearly oversupply their alcohol, let me steal a bottle or two. Would you care to accompany me for a drink?”

Yuta saw how bewildered she is, and unconsciously laughed at her expression. “I guess the tie is not for me, it suffocating. Also, you don’t need to worry about me being drunk-driving, I can also ask an Uber from the groomsmen.”

Yuta could see she nervously looking sideways, probably not sure how to react to Yuta’s invitation.

“There’s no hidden agenda, really. Odd, isn’t it? You are a stranger, yet I feel the most comfortable talking to you. Probably because you are a stranger, I got nothing to lose by telling you anything. You don’t have any prior judgment about me anyway.”

She remained silent, eyes still fixed on Yuta. Silence consumed them, and the only sound that could be heard was the distant laughters from the dance floor.

“Well, I’m not forcing you or anything.” Yuta decided to break the silence away. “But I thought of drinking my woe away, and it would be a pretty sad scene, don’t you think? To drink alone on such a happy day?”

She finally lets down her guard, smiling at him. “My car is not fancy, but I can definitely drive well.”

A/N: They’re finally a married couple :’) One more chapter to go before the series come to an end!

[jowritesthingss]

Excuse Me Sir This Is My Emotional Support Eldritch Being

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Pairing(s): n/a

Rating: Teen (for swearing)

Content Warning(s): rabbits, food/drink, mild(ish) swearing, not!Sasha, eldritch beings, spoilers through early s3-ish

Length: 2,190 words

Brief Summary: The archival team adopts a rabbit. (Part one of the Emotional Support Eldritch AU!)

AO3 link in reblogs bc Tumblr is a biatch!

*

“What is it?”

Jon levels a suspicious glare down at the fluffy blob comfortably stretched out in the middle of the overstuffed break room couch.

Tim blinks owlishly at him from behind his mug of tea. “A...rabbit?”

“Yes, but are you sure it’s a rabbit?” Jon asks insistently. “Not a—a spirit, or...an animated doll, or a clown in disguise or something?”

Sighing, Tim sets his tea down on the counter. “Look, I get the whole ‘suspicious of us being murderers’ thing—no I don’t, actually, but that’s beside the point—it. is. a rabbit.” For a good measure, he walks over to sit on one side of the rabbit, reaching a hand out to the little guy’s fluffy head. If a rabbit could smile, he suspects this one would be doing so as it leans up into his hand.

“No fleas or ticks...or worms, so it’s not some Jane Prentiss Pet Sematary crossover, I promise—” Tim rolls his eyes, “—the veterinarian confirmed as much when I brought the poor thing in. Out of the mud and the rain of the gutter,” he adds, not even attempting to hide the guilt-trip. He wishes Martin were here, with his ridiculously effective puppy-dog eyes.

Tim knows this is Jon he’s talking to, but surely even he can’t be that cold-hearted. He rather thinks that Jon will enjoy not being alone anymore down here during all his late nights. If he’d let himself, surely Jon would enjoy having company in the form of a teeny tiny creature that can’t and won’t harm him—which, uh, certainly is not why he’s lying about his current flat not permitting pets, no siree.

“...Fine. Whatever.” Jon points an accusing finger at him. “But we’re not keeping it,” he stresses. “The moment you find it a different home, it goes. The moment.”

“Sure thing, boss,” Tim chirps, although as he begins a staring contest with the rabbit’s curious red eyes, he has no intention of actually doing as Jon says.

Martin chooses this moment to walk through the door. His eyes light up. “Aw, is that a rabbit?”

“No, this does not mean you’re allowed to bring in more strays,” Jon snaps.

The light in Martin’s eyes fades. “Okay,” he says mournfully as he crouches to pet the rabbit, sulking.

-

“So what should we name him?” Tim asks Jon when the Head Archivist comes into the break room the next morning.

“Oh—my—” Jon startles where he stands by the counter, attempting to make himself some toast with the Archive’s horrible fifteen-year-old toaster—toast that now splatters across the floor. Somehow in his sleep-deprived stupor he must’ve missed Tim sitting on the couch with a white rabbit on his head. He never seems to really notice Tim, but at this point it’s fine enough; Tim has accepted that the guy has impossibly poor taste.

The rabbit clambers down from Tim’s shoulders, jumping off of the couch and padding over to investigate the new human(?) and the mess he made.

“How about Thumper?” Tim puzzles aloud, stretching leisurely and acting as if he doesn’t notice Jon frantically scrubbing up raspberry jam and trying to avoid the rabbit’s investigative snuffles all in one. “No, no...that’s too cliché.”

“I really don’t see the point in naming it when it shouldn’t be here more than a few weeks,” Jon comments, shooing the animal in question away before it can try to lick up any jam.

“Maybe Joe?” Tim continues loudly, as if he hadn’t heard the other. When the rabbit ambles back over to him, he scoops them up, pressing their noses together. “Ligma?” He shakes his head at the rabbit. “No, no. We need to have more sophistication as we go about this.”

“You could do with applying that sophistication to your work,” comes the grumbled retort.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jon abruptly turns to burn another piece of bread in the toaster.

-

“How about Marshmallow?”

“What on Earth—” Jon shrieks, jumping in his desk chair, and a sheaf of papers is sent flying around the office.

“The rabbit. Should we call him ‘Marshmallow’?” Tim smiles as innocently as he can manage, standing out in the hall with his head peeping into his boss’ office. “Marshie for short?”

“I am in the middle of a statement!” Jon sputters. “Get out!”

“Okay, okay....” Tim fluidly shrugs his shoulders. “What about ‘Bob’?”

“Out!”

But Tim continues to pop into Jon’s office unannounced throughout the day, tossing out name suggestions. He even manages to rope Martin into doing it too, and notes with savage delight that between the two of them and his work, Jon doesn’t get much more than a moment to wallow rest for the remainder of the day.

Between the two of them Tim and Martin manage to compile a surprisingly long list of names:

Snowball,

Posy (Martin is partial to this one because he thinks it’s cute),

Bungen Leitner,

John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt (“is that too American of a reference for a fanfic taking place in the UK?” “what?” “what?”),

the Bunholding,

Michael (Jon is especially averse to that one for some reason),

Cottonball,

Fluffy Bastard (Tim’s own favorite),

Bugs Bunny,

Eldritch Horror (Tim tosses that one in as a joke; no way the rabbit that eats his own shit is some kind of otherworldly being),

Big Bungus (“it’s a play off Big Chungus!” “d’you seriously think anyone else here even knows what memes are”), and

the Vampiric Count Sir Maximillianus-Who-Is-Also-A-Werebun

(Despite badgering Sasha multiple times in an attempt to get her thoughts on the matter, the only name she offers up is “Dinner”, which makes Martin cry, so that one is out.)

None of the names quite seem to fit the little white puffball that has now taken over the realm of their break room, however—so Tim and Martin find themselves going back to the drawing board. They reluctantly leave the Institute at the end of the day, still without having decided upon a name.

-

“JON JUNIOR!” Martin screeches excitedly the next morning as they’re congregating once more in the break room, zombie-like before their tea and mid-morning snack time (primary schools don’t get all the fun, okay).

Jon and Sasha startle, and for once even Tim himself jumps. The rabbit doesn’t seem to care much where he is, nibbling at some hay in his corner litter box.

“I—what?” Jon asks, flabbergasted, although he manages to not drop his toast this time. Character development.

“We should name him Jon Jr! After you!” Martin explains eagerly.

“Absolutely not,” Jon tries to say, but before he can finish, Tim is jumping in.

“I think that is an excellent idea,” he says, grinning broadly. “Thoughts, Sasha?”

“I’m not emotionally invested in this.” Sasha shrugs, uncaring. “I’m going back to my desk.” She takes her drink and walks out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.

“All right, since Sasha doesn’t care, I’ll decide her vote for her,” Tim says, carefully containing his glee. “So that’s three votes for and one against, then. Majority rules.”

“What? No!” John protests, but Tim is too busy looking at the rabbit for confirmation.

“What do you think, little guy?” He walks over, bends down, and lightly boops the rabbit’s nose. “Are you a Jon Jr?”

The rabbit twitches his nose in agreement and poops.

“Well then!” Tim stands, clapping his hands together. “That’s been decided upon.”

No, it hasn’t,” Jon insists, but Tim cares little for his boss’ objections. He’ll accept his fate as Jon Senior eventually.

-

To Tim’s utter surprise and fascination, it happens sooner than later.

Jon, Tim quickly realizes, is a lot like the one dad who says “no dog” and then ends up loving the dog more than he loves his own children.

Despite his initial objections, the daft fool ends up getting caught up in Jon Jr’s big, innocent, rabbit-y gaze (worse than even Martin’s puppy-dog eyes, they conclude gravely), and by the end of the day Friday Jon has announced that he supposes the rabbit can stay with him over weekends and holidays.

“We’re still not keeping him,” Jon reminds them all, even as the rabbit gathered in his arms, giving his nose kisses and knocking his glasses askew, says otherwise.

He gets caught trying to sneak the rabbit into his office on more than one occasion, but Martin raises a fuss about it.

(“He’s all of ours! Jon Jr is our department’s mascot now,” Martin protests defiantly. “You can’t take him away from the rest of us.”

“Yeah,” Tim adds, mostly just to stir up drama—he doesn’t particularly care one way or another. “You can’t just swoop him up and file him away like one of your statements.”

“Just don’t let it get out and chew at my electronics,” Sasha says, distractedly typing something on her phone, probably to that weird new boyfriend.)

To stave off the imminent coup, Jon Jr becomes an officially-declared resident of the break room. He slowly amasses chub around his middle and a cardboard kingdom of bunny toys, houses, blankets, and treats. A rabbit could want for nothing more.

And perhaps—perhaps a human could want for nothing more, too, Tim thinks as he looks down at the figure curled up on the sofa, rabbit nestled against his chest.

He doesn’t love the man, not by a long, long shot—doesn’t even particularly like him half the time—but Tim can’t deny that the scene is adorable. And, regardless of his very vocal protests, Jon Jr may very well be what Jon Sr needs to finally process things and move the hell on with life.

Tim smiles grimly. It’s about damn time.

He quietly closes the door to the room and heads back towards the Archives. He’ll leave Jon to wake himself up.

(And to discover for himself that Jon Jr has peed on his pants leg.)

-

Of course, this is the Archive we’re talking about, so naturally the peace is abruptly shattered, and everything goes horribly, horribly wrong.

Tim isn’t entirely certain what happens or why, but all of a sudden Sasha isn’t really Sasha, and he and Jon have gotten backed up and cornered in the tunnels as this not-really-Sasha stalks towards them, predictably with the intent to kill, just like the rest of the spooks they are so lucky to deal with.

Tim and Jon Sr slowly back away until they hit a dead end. Meanwhile, Jon Jr licks at Tim’s arm—he’d been scooped up as they ran into the tunnels, Tim doesn’t entirely know why—and despite the fact that they are most probably about to, y’know, die, the little kisses almost feel strangely reassuring.

The thing-that-is-not-Sasha cackles, her—their?—its?—voice distorted and echoing throughout the tunnels. It stalks towards them.

All of a sudden, Jon Jr wriggles loose and leaps smoothly down onto the ground. He scampers in front of Tim and Jon, heading towards bitch-give-me-my-Sasha-back.

“No! Get back here!” Tim hisses at the rabbit, even though he knows it’s pointless. He hates to admit it, but he’s becoming rather fond of Jon Jr, even if Tim mostly brought him in to piss off and totally not help Jon. Jon—who, speaking of, seems to be equally fond now, judging by the deflating tire of a terrified squeak he makes, and the adorable immature grabby arms he makes at the little bugger.

“Junior,” Jon calls out, sounding like a toddler who’d just been told Santa wasn’t real (he is, they have the statements to prove it, he is). And Tim wants to laugh, albeit hysterically. The first time he sees his brick wall of a superior cry and it’s over a rabbit, and he’s not even going to have time to gloat over it because they’re about to die. “No! You’re going to—”

Jon Jr stops and sits in front of wholly-absolutely-totally-not-Sasha-what-the-fuck, who looks down at him, bemused through its murderous bloodlust.

The rabbit lifts a dainty paw up to his mouth, and suddenly—suddenly it’s twisting and huge, towering up to the ceiling of the tunnel, its skin hairless and tinted a sickly, glowing gray, with five, six, seven...a whole lot more limbs than a rabbit is supposed to have.

The not-rabbit unhinges its now meters-long jaw and snaps up the creature.

Tim and Jon stare at each other, wide-eyed.

There is a loud gulping sound, then a deafening crack, and suddenly there is a very normal white rabbit sitting in front of them again, carefully cleaning one paw with a very normal pink tongue.

“Wh—” Tim chokes on his own words.

The holy-shit-it-really-is-an-eldritch-horror-after-all stretches, yawns, and flops over in a dead sleep.

“...We’re keeping the rabbit,” Jon says faintly.

“I—yeah.” Tim nods, light-headed. “We’re keeping the rabbit.”

-

Jon Jr the rabbit-slash-eldritch-abomination gets a very hearty dinner of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumber peels that night.

-

(Tune in next time* for the terrible, terrible realization—“Jon Jr is a girl?!” (Also why is there another dead body again, dammit, can’t we go one week))

Fin

First || Next

*

(There may or may not actually be a next time. It depends. )

Behold. What very well may be the stupidest thing I have ever written. Ahem. Did I say stupidest? I meant most brilliant. Clearly I meant it’s the most brilliant thing I have ever written. Obviously.

Let me know if you enjoyed this! I have a bunch of ideas to continue this ridiculously silly AU of sorts, but idk if I’m going to quite yet and am not certain that I’ll be continuing to write for TMA. atm I’m focused on a different fandom, and I’m only on s3, so the really big idea I had has to wait, anyway.

Want to chat or be added onto any of my taglists? Shoot me an ask or a message here or via my other social media!

[the-book-reaper]

my @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @saltytransidiot!! I’m no IndigoDream, inexplicifics, round--robin, or any of the other amazing authors in this fandom, but I hope this makes you smile 💕💕

Jaskier absolutely loves wintering at Kaer Morhen. Geralt had finally worked up the nerve to invite him  to meet his family two years ago. They’d been together for thirteen years and together for a little over five.

Jaskier loves the winter because it’s really the only time Geralt gets to completely relax. With his father-figure (though none of them would ever admit it) and brothers there, isolated from a world that seems to wish them every harm.

read on ao3 here

Even after just two winters with them, Jaskier loves Lambert and Eskel. Not in the same way as he loves Geralt, of course, but as some mix of friend and brother. Eskel showed him around the library and Jaskier is teaching him how to craft his own lute, since every lute made for a human would be much too small. Lambert, while he loves his pranks, is quite clever and they can spend hours trading riddles and jokes.

He’d been expecting at least some animosity from Vesemir, considering he is the first “human” to enter Kaer Morhen since the raids. Geralt had blushed so adorably when Vesemir casually mentioned how often he talks about his bard. Jaskier likes doing food prep with him, though he’ll leave the actually cooking to the old wolf. The few times he tried… well, let’s just say those scorch marks in the stone of the kitchen weren’t completely intentional.

He loves cuddling up to Geralt in the evenings, all five of them around the crackling fireplace. He’d tried one sip of Lambert’s moonshine and started tearing up from the sheer amount of alcohol in it. The wolves would need a lot of human drinks to get drunk, so they usually only can during the winter. Every coin they make on the Path goes to food, shelter, supplies, and the occasional prostitute. Anyway, they don’t feel safe enough around humans to allow themselves to be in such a vulnerable state even if they did have the money.

Vesemir never gets terribly drunk. Actually, Jaskier has never seen him act even just the littlest bit intoxicated, even though the witchers drink from the same barrel and roughly the same amount. Eskel either stops after he feels tipsy or drinks until he falls asleep. Lambert usually has to be cut off once he starts suggesting things like going outside—during a blizzard—to spar. Naked.

And Geralt. Oh, how Jaskier loves his witcher. Completely sober, Geralt always maintains at least one point of contact with him if they’re in the same room. After one drink, he purrs easily and will grumble at Jaskier if he stops playing with his hair. At two, Geralt either pulls him into his lap, or is nearly in Jaskier's lap.

Somewhere between three and four is the adorable sweet-spot. When he hits this point, Geralt gets sad if Jaskier's attention strays from him too long. He demands many kisses, pouts if he only gets a peck, and whines adorably if Jaskier refuses him outright. Jaskier will herd him to their room at this point, where he cuddles his darling witcher until he falls asleep, secure in his arms.

This year, he is very much looking forward to exchanging their gifts. Geralt has been extremely secretive about his present, and the anticipation is killing him. This year, Jaskier’s gotten his love a couple new journals with some pencils, colored chalks, and a few paints.

Geralt recently shared that he initially had a lot of trouble with memorizing the bestiary. After the first couple beatings when he couldn’t answer the Masters’ questions, he learned that if he drew each monster, labeling as he went, he was able to retain the information much easier. Soon, he had a sketchbook completely filled with drawings and his only bruises were from training or roughhousing.

But once he’d memorized the bestiary completely, he didn’t want to stop drawing. So he started filling up notebooks with sketches of herbs and flowers, whether or not they had a use. Then he turned to anything he could think of, really.

Nothing is secret in Kaer Morhen though, and the other trainees mocked him mercilessly about it. Eventually he just stopped drawing altogether. Once he was on the Path, he didn’t exactly have much coin to spare on such frivolous things.

When the bard started improving his image, however… Geralt found his coin-purse to be not nearly as empty as it was before. Still, he worried that Jaskier would make fun of him about this hidden interest as well.

He honestly can’t even remember how, but Jaskier did find out and actually supported it, surprisingly. Jaskier had even been the one to buy his first notebook along with a few different pencils.

He never made fun of him, instead praising his art to a near ridiculous extent. Ridiculous to Geralt, that is. Jaskier insisted he was merely being honest.

Now Yule is coming up, and Jaskier has his gifts prepared. The art supplies for Geralt. A good set of strings for Eskel’s lute and some more sheet music. For Lambert he’s brought a book of 500 names since the idiot never calls his horses anything but “Horse” as well as more of that fancy soap he pretends to hate.

Vesemir is always the toughest. The old wolf doesn’t want for much, and it’s pretty bad form—in Jaskier's opinion—to give a person a gift they’ve already received in the past. Last year, Jaskier gave him an extremely old book of poetry written in Elder Speech he’d gotten for a steal at the market. The poor merchant had absolutely no idea about the true value of it!

That find had just been a fluke however, but he somehow got lucky again this year.

--

Now, four Wolves and one bard lounge by an open fire, safe and content. Jaskier takes another sip of his hot tea, the warmth spreading through his body. He can’t help but snuggle in closer to Geralt, who squeezes him gently with the arm around his waist. Finally, it’s time to open presents.

Jaskier insists they open their gifts from him first. He simply can’t take any more anticipation; he needs to know what they think. They’ll probably like them, but there’s always that little niggling voice telling him they’ll only say they like it to be polite.

“Oh, fuck you.” It seems Lambert has opened his gift the fastest. “And why do you keep getting me this fancy-pantsy soap?”

“Why do you keep using it?” Jaskier teases. Geralt chuckles at Lambert’s petulant grumble. Warmth completely unrelated to his tea blooms in Jaskier's chest. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being nice to yourself every once in a while, my little wolf.”

Lambert growls at him, but can’t protest because he is several decades younger than Jaskier.

Eskel and Vesemir love their gifts, which is good because Jaskier had no doubt whatsoever that they would. Absolutely none.

He turns to Geralt, who had been able to open his gift with only the one hand, and is staring down at the art supplies in his lap. Jaskier doesn’t think he’s breathing. His heart drops. “Darling? It’s okay if you don’t like-”

Geralt quickly sets the gift aside, pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. His shoulders are shaking suspiciously. “Oh! Oh, my dear. I take it you do like your present, then?” Jaskier tries to add a teasing tone to his words, but he really was not expecting this kind of reaction.

“Thank you,” Geralt whispers emphatically into his neck.

Jaskier adjusts his grip on his—thankfully unsplit—tea and hugs him back just as fiercely. After a moment, Geralt releases him, kissing him softly.

There’s a gagging sound to their right and Jaskier has to pull away to laugh. Eskel cuffs Lambert on the back of the head—almost starting a spat—but Vesemir growls at them before it can go much further.

They move on to opening Vesemir’s gifts, no one mentioning the water in Geralt's eyes. Despite being crass and rough with each other, the Wolves know when not to make fun of something.

They open their gifts from Geralt last. Jaskier unties the meticulously wrapped string and unfolds the paper. Inside is something made from yarn, a light lavender that’s ever-so-slightly reflective. He runs a finger over the indescribably soft yarn, breathing in sharply. The fabric unfolds as he picks it up, revealing it to be a long scarf. Holding it closer, he can see the beautiful design woven along its entire length. There are a few breaks in the pattern, but they only make it more perfect.

Geralt spent gods know how long making this, either late at night or early in the morning, most likely frustratedly undoing his work half the time. That he spent so much time and effort, remembering how Jaskier is sensitive to the cold, and deciding to do something about it… His eyes prickle with an emotion he cannot name, he only knows that the word “love” is not strong enough.

He looks up at Geralt, who seems nervous. “Darling… You made this?” he whispers, just to be sure. Geralt nods and Jaskier mimics his love’s actions from earlier, throwing his arms around him—mindful of his drink, of course—and holding him close. “I love it so much. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must have been!” Jaskier releases him and holds the scarf up. “Will you put it on me?”

With reverent hands, Geralt wraps it loosely around his neck. Jaskier rubs a cheek against the yarn, breathing in Geralt's scent, etched into every fiber.

What happened after that, Jaskier honestly couldn’t tell you. The rest of the night passes in a sort of happy daze. Geralt gets all gooey with him and Vesemir herds them all off to bed.

He would have slept with the scarf on, but his dear witcher is much too fond of falling asleep with his nose buried in Jaskier's neck. They both relish in the little touches. Being able to hear the other’s heartbeat, feel their chest move as they breathe.

The undeniable truth of it gets to Jaskier sometimes. That scarf is just one more testament to their love. He really had been loathe to part with it so soon, but it would have just become tangled or stifling in the night. Besides, no item of clothing—even one made by Geralt—could ever amount to the man himself.

[annhellsing]

Fleurs du Mal

notes: if i had half a brain cell i’d stagger this shit but you guys know me and i fucking don’t. so the results of my coffee-fuelled write-a-thon last night are being posted at the break of day. enjoy!! rating: explicit, my dudes!! here there be smut!! pairing: homare arisugawa / reader word count: 2,437

Your love, who does not know he is your love, waits patiently before the mirror. 

It’s a bit difficult to understand how he could not know he is loved, really. You undo his tie with all the fondness and familiarity that practice implies. This is not the first time you’ve done this for him, dressed him down to reveal his softer parts. Nor shall it be the last.

All is rather silent but for the ticking of the clock. His grandmother’s record playing Vivaldi’s Autumn has run its course. Neither of you speak at first, content inexplicably with one another’s company to the point that no words are needed.

Homare likes very much when you do this, even if he does not yet know the reason. He likes to imagine that it’s because he’s loved, but working up the courage to confess such a thing is much easier on paper.

Conversation never plagues him so, but you have proven to consistently defy his expectations. He very much cares about what you think of him. And though he is utterly correct, he does often wonder if the mutual dalliances enjoyed on slow afternoons are being misinterpreted on his part.

It stays his tongue in the worst way possible, for you similarly lack the ability to define your relationship. So, you take his clothes off slowly with playful and flirtatious intent. Yet neither of you can admit as much until the act begins.

“With the way that you dress and undress me, I feel a little bit like your doll,” Homare comments, good-natured in tone even as his stomach does flips. Butterflies roost in his chest, not his gut. There is where his words reside, choked and stifled by the flock of delicate wings making his chest flutter uncomfortably.

He wants to say he likes being your doll, could he please be your doll forever? But he does not.

The spell is broken, it seems. You look up at him with soft, loving eyes who’s emotion he is certain he reads incorrectly. You smile at Homare, taking in the beauty of his face and wishing that now were the time for kisses. You’re sparse with them, not wanting to drive him to discomfort with your emotions.

“Mm, you’re prettier than any Barbie,” you tell him, relying on teasing to alleviate how tight your own rib cage is.

His tie’s been cast aside. Your fingers work open buttons without pausing to explore his skin underneath. Homare is fair and beautiful, smooth and clean. He might appreciate comparisons to a lily or a rose, but your resolve wavers when he smiles back. And your compliments die on your tongue.

“I care very little for my appearance,” he begins. You can believe that, at least. “I prefer compliments directed at the mind— ah!”

He cries out for you’ve come to the bottom of his shirt and untucked it from his waistband. You press your hand to his lower stomach, drawing your palm up his chest and feeling with a confidence that you can’t voice. 

“Softer, too,” you mumble, unable to say anything more. Homare’s smile returns quickly, with a fox-like tilt that emboldens you just a bit. He seems pleased, if still surprised with the attention.

“You can thank Azuma for that, he was quite transparent about his skincare routine,” Homare adds. Your shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.

“That’s nice of him,” you say. Your hands move of their own accord, pulling him a little closer by the thin taper of his waist. Homare turns towards the mirror. You take up the place behind him, drawing his back against your warm chest.

You explore, as soft and careful as any lover. And yet he is still quite sad about the fact that the two of you are not in love. He reaches behind, holding your hips but allowing you a moment to touch and feel at your leisure.

“I quite agree,” he chimes, settling in for the long haul of touches meant to heat the blood. He’s already stirring in more ways than one, fighting back small and contented noises on the basis of pride. 

With you, Homare is gripped by a phantom desire to expound your virtues and profess the depth of his emotions. But a pride that does not belong to him rattles his ability to do so. It belongs to his past, he suspects, to one woman in particular who was easily able to destroy him.

Of course, he does not recognize this behaviour as destructive at all. Only honest. You have been left with the pieces of his heart she scattered. He only hopes it’s some time before you cut yourself on them.

But you touch him like he is not broken glass, indeed as if he were not broken at all. Your clever fingers undo the button in his dress pants, making him stiffen up in anticipation in more ways than one.

You coax relaxation from his slight frame once again with patience. However, he still finds it difficult to breathe as you dip your hand into the front of his trousers.

Surprised by what you find, your eyebrows lift. That smile comes back, just as fox-like as his while you feel beneath his boxers.

“Did Azuma show you how to take care of what’s down here, too?” you ask. That impish smile of yours burns in the mirror. Homare feels very exposed, even with his shirt hanging only part way open and his trousers still preserving his modesty.

He understands your joke enough to give a short laugh, the sound somewhat strained, but does not retreat. You take to stroking the skin around his half-hard length, which is fast approaching fully erect under such careful attention.

Homare gives a strangled sigh as you explore, your hand cupping his balls and giving a soft squeeze. He’s mostly smooth to the touch. You set your head on his shoulder, content to feel.

“That was a bit of experimentation on my part,” he admits, turning to look at you. He gives the end of your nose a gentle peck. Unable to keep himself still any more, his hand falls to your wrist. His grip is loose and unhurried. He doesn’t want you to stop, exactly.

But the tightness of his fingers increases a bit when you brush somewhere not sensitive, but painful. Your expression shifts to one of concern.

“Poor thing, you nicked yourself,” you say. You retreat from the source of pain but do not fully remove your hand.

“There is a reason I am not in the sciences, my flower,” Homare smiles still at you, hoping that his mishap with the razor won’t put you off. He’s aching for you now, his lower belly now a mess of writhing anxiety and glorious heat.

“Ask me if you want help with any further experiments, angel,” you say, offering up a soft kiss immediately following. He sighs again, as you return to your former occupation with even more care not to hurt him further.

“Your enthusiasm is rather exciting,” he says. His voice takes on a rather unexpected, sultry tone. You lift an eyebrow. “I do hope a few minor flesh wounds won’t chase you off.”

“You look ravishing, Homare. Where else have I to go that’s half as interesting?” and he has no answer to such a question. He supposes, had you any idea of his true nature, you might find elsewhere to spend your time.

But as it stands, you return to him time and time again. 

Rather, he returns to you. His family home is a little lonely, and has been ever since his grandmother passed. But you look after his parents when they have need, and after Aeriel when she does. 

It’s almost shameful to Homare that his love’s picked you because his dog decided you were good at heart. But he looks at your smiling face in the mirror, at the way you dip your head to kiss his neck and he knows you’d find no shame at all in that. You’d likely be flattered.

Of course, if you didn’t spurn his affections wholesale. He would understand that entirely. But as it stands, you’ve neither asked for such things nor voiced any true feelings you may harbour. He is more than content with this passionate, if infrequent affair as it is. At least this way you’ll stay with him.

“You’re very clever to realize that you stand in the presence of a poetic genius,” he muses. “Very few know to appreciate my company, muse.” You bite down very softly on his neck, pulling from him a quiet mewl. In his ear, you whisper,

“Tonight, I think you’re the muse,” and the shiver that runs up his spine is nothing short of wanton. You grip him on two fronts, putting a hand both to his throat and around the base of his cock. Homare stiffens and then sighs.

You apply no pressure to either, you simply hold him as he is with his back to your chest. While he can admit that the two areas you’ve sought out are quite delicate, he’s glad to an extent that you did not think to take him by the heart. At least, not literally.

“Will you come to bed?” you ask, “Or shall I see what other secrets you’re keeping underneath your trousers.”

“Take me,” he whispers, goosebumps rising on the back of his neck when your lips find his shoulder. Your hand leaves his throat, moving down his chest before falling to his side.

You entwine your fingers with his and remove your other hand from his trousers. Homare is turned around and guided towards the mess of pillows and quilt at the centre of his parent’s guest room.

He sits, looking almost in a daze. You’re still mostly dressed as well, but when you guide his hands up your thighs and to the waistband of your underwear, Homare understands. He plays a moment with the soft, elastic lace. His thin fingers touch your thighs with a reverence best reserved for church. 

“Don’t tease me, muse,” you whisper to him, “that’s my job.” Leaning in, you take another, fragile kiss. Homare decides to be petulant, biting gently at your lip and seizing forward all of a sudden so that he might still have your lips on his.

You indulge, doting and gentle as always while your hands push into his bright locks of hair. Homare seems hesitant to take your panties off, moving his hands over the roundness of your hips and the outward press of your pelvic bone. Over the fabric, he makes a show out of exploring your mound.

Your hand grips the hair at the back of his head when it becomes obvious he’s dragging his feet. It’s only ever for the sake of irking you, and the reaction is one he favourably courts.

“My, my, my, never in all my years have I met a woman with such impatience,” he exclaims, “and not to mention so lacking in a sense of humour.”

“Oh, I have a sense of humour,” you say, “wouldn’t it be funny indeed to make my own fun without any help from yourself?”

Homare is quite glad that his ego is feeling rather strong today. Such teasing holds no bite. But still, as if to turn the thought from your mind he begins to slide your panties down your thighs.

“That’s better,” you say, “I do love you.”

His hands still.

Those eyes, red and so often full of sly emotion go wide as dinner plates. Homare looks stricken for a second, as if you’ve said something truly awful as opposed to a confession. He stares at you, mouth slightly agape.

“You love me?” he asks, his voice now more like a croak than its previous, sultry invitations. Slowly, you nod.

“I---” you start. You close your mouth. It was a mistake to so freely give it up, but the sentiment is truthful. You do love him very much. “Have I never told you?”

“I thought---” Homare begins, but the second half of his sentences dies. “Come, kiss me again. I have been denied that for far too long.”

“Only because you stay away for ages,” you reply, settling back into the familiar territory of breathless kisses. You touch your lips to his, bending down to reach his new height.

You crawl into his lap and his big, thin hands support you. The kissing comes and does not ebb, every time you try to pull away to speak he hauls you back in for more. It’s almost like he’s looking for something between your lips, the courage to speak his own truth.

It comes on swift after you push him onto his back. Homare falls with you on top of him, caught up in the sound of your heady laugh as you shift and hold yourself above him.

“I love you, too,” he starts very suddenly, lifting his head so that you are near enough for comfort. “Never doubt I love, my flower.”

“Mm, really?” you ask, though your tone still holds that gentle teasing that so sets him at ease. Homare doubts you are trying to name him liar, you place both of his hands on entirely scandalous locations. You fiddle with his trousers to try and press towards unity.

He’ll allow it, the both of you have been bubbling with unrequited tension for far too long.

“I love you in so many ways that they cannot be counted,” he insists, “though since I am poet I shall no doubt have to try---”

You dip your head, taking another kiss.

“I’ll count mine for you,” you say, “my reasons number in the thousands.”

“Flatterer,” he scolds, though the criticism holds no malice.

“Hypocrite!” you exclaim, tossing your head back and laughing over him like you belong nowhere else. Homare grips your hips and prays you can think of nowhere better to sit. “Your poems hold truths aplenty but you speak too highly of me in most of them.”

“Never,” he says, his lips finding the center of your sternum with the intent to kiss through your skin. If he focuses, he can hear the perfect beat of your fond heart. “I could never find the words to speak higher of you than what you’ve earned.”

“Write that down, Homare,” you playfully urge. But your hand moves somewhere dangerous yet again, making him moan and driving all thoughts of poetry from his mind. He’s nearly-incoherent when you add, “But not right this minute. I have things to do presently.”