#with the bird feathers and roses all over his sleeves!!!!

[akkivee]

nobody has ever understood what you were giving but it’s okay i understand you ew02 ramunui

[tomriddlehyperfixataion]

The summer of 1942 - Tom Riddle x reader - P4

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Tom got bored easily, it had always been one of his…faults, he supposed. And when he got bored, he derived to one of three things. Stealing, exploring, and finding someone to entertain him.

He hadn’t really decided what to do yet.

It had been a week now since his arrival at the Prothero home, and he hadn’t exactly done much yet. He had read all his books, did all his school work, cleaned his room three times, cleaned the bathroom, did his laundry(which, there wasn’t much), visited Viper, sat outside with one of his already read books, took some books from Mr. Prothero’s small selection, and had some entertaining spats with Prothero.

He was bored-oh so very bored. So he put on his shoes and wandered outside, squinting his eyes at the warm summer sun that rolled over his face. It was warmer out here in the countryside, bright too; unlike the muggy gloom of London.

His ears caught the sound of a shriek and he turned, seeing the shelter yard-some of the horde running about with the dogs-another teen holding a water hose and spraying everyone down-laughing as they ran about-spewing curses and laughter.

Tom just blinked and turned away, tucking his book and diary further into the crook of his arm and making his way up the hill by the main road-finding a shady spot under a tree and sitting under it-resting his books on his lap and looking around.

It was hard to deny, this place was quite peaceful-but he supposed that was the point. Tom ended up writing his thoughts and the past week's events in his diary, mostly complaining to himself about being surrounded by rowdy muggles and a spiteful mudblood.

“Well, don’t you look comfortable?” Tom looked up from his diary, narrowing his eyes at the shadow above him. Prothero, with her shirt sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, was smiling at him-only a slight taunt behind her grin. She was sweaty and had a snake in her hands- a corn snake it looked like.

“Oh I am, the shade is quite delightful and the breeze just makes this a perfect spot for a nap,” Tom sneered with a grin, his eyes on the little corn snake-who stared back at him. Prothero snorted, rolling her eyes. He was very much taunting her for working In the summer sun, while he was free to relax as much as he wanted.

“Uh-huh, well, if you ever get bored of not doing anything productive, there's always a spot open at the shelter.” Tom snorted at the suggestion, rolling his eyes, snapping his diary shut and grabbing his book. “And get dog shit all over me? No thank you.”

Prothero mocked his snort and stepped back, looking down at the corn snake in her hands, which had curled up in her palms-soaking up the warmth. “Suit yourself, don’t melt Riddle.” Tom just stuck his tongue out at her back-pausing when he did. What an oddly immature gesture he just made-he never stuck out his tongue. Though he supposed Prothero brought out that childish side of him-with how childish she acted sometimes.

Eventually, Tom no longer felt like writing or reading, so he closed his books and stood, wiping his trousers clean before wandering about the field, the animals grazing within the fencing looking back at him when he got close enough-one of which was a large horse; brown and white with a long flowing mane. It was easily the biggest horse Tom had ever seen in real life, taller than the other horses around it too.

Tom froze as it rose its large head, its deep brown eyes staring into his soul. After a few moments, it huffed, strong and loud, and went back to grazing. Tom stared for a bit longer-and then shook his head, continuing to explore until he was bored, and he hadn’t even gone near the shelter.

-

Prothero collected curious things, stones, books of magic(from muggle imagination), bird feathers, blank books that were worn from age-waiting to be used, crystals, jewelry, leather cords(half of which were turned into bracelets), animal skulls, and many more things Tom could hardly name.

He was bored, but he had already explored the grounds, Prothero could only entertain him so much with their spats; and he was getting fidgety. So he took a few stones from Prothero's collection, and some of the leather bracelets-he wasn’t planning to keep them-he just…liked stealing things he supposed, and it would be entertaining to see how long it would take Prothero to notice her stuff was missing.

One hour, it took her one hour. Because one hour after he took those items-he noticed a few of his things missing. And he knew he hadn’t misplaced them, he was meticulous about his things-he had a list even, and he never put things in a place that he would forget about.

He found some of his books and his bloody WAND in her room(how in the bloody hell did Prothero get his wand?! He kept it on him at all times?!), with a huff and red cheeks-he took back his things and took a few more of hers, wishing he had the key to his room so he could lock it.

More of his things vanished; books, school work, socks, his bleeding trunk, his wand-again-, and even the few rings he had collected over the last five years(one of them being a gift from Malfoy).

Prothero looked all too proud upon the third day of this-thieving competition. He had most of her leather bracelets, all of the small crystals, a quarter of her books, some of those animal skulls(which he had to admit were kinda cool), and he had attempted to snatch her wand-but he had been unsuccessful, and he had to wonder how she got his wand(thrice now).

But she had all his books, all his work-his wand(AGAIN!!), most of his clothes(she wasn’t mean enough to take all of them), the sheets off his bed, his bloody diary, all his quills, pens, and pencils; she was leaving him with the bare minimum.

He would not be the one to give in, he would not lose, not so some-farm girl mudblood. But soon enough he had only a few pairs of clothes left; all of them winter wear. So here he was, sitting at breakfast wearing a long sleeve shirt and thick cotton pants, glaring at Prothero as she happily ate her food, his pencil in her hand as she doodled in a blank book.

He had rolled up his sleeves and wore her leather bracelets, showing off what he stole, which just made her snort and roll her eyes-her parents sighed at their new little spat-but at least they weren’t arguing. She stole an equal amount of his things that he stole from her-and since he didn’t have much, what little he stole from her ended up being nearly all his things when she returned the favor.

“you look…comfortable,” Prothero said as the day started getting warmer, the summer sun beating down on the house and field. Tom was flushed with heat and starting to sweat-but stubborn as he was, he refused to take off his shirt or ask for one of his short-sleeved ones back, he refused to show that he was bothered by it all. “I’m fine,” Tom muttered, sticking his hands in the sink-finishing up the dishes, baring his teeth a little as his sleeve drifted back down again.

Prothero just stared at him, and then held out her hand-glancing down at the leather bracelet he wore. Tom turned the water off and glared at her hand, and then realized what she was offering.

‘give me something of mine back, and I’ll return something of yours.’

A simple exchange.

Tom stared at Prothero for a long moment, and then he huffed, rolling his sleeves up further and turning away. He wouldn’t give up; he would not claim defeat.

As soon as he was up in his room-he took off his shirt, breathing sharply as his skin cooled instantly. He wasn’t stupid though, and if he wasn’t careful he might overheat and suffer from heat sickness. He had done it before-when he was nine-and he never wanted to do that again.

So he decided to stay in his room for the rest of the day, shirtless. But he had none of his books, no school work to review, his wand was gone again; he had nothing to do. He glared at the stack of books of Prothero’s that he had stolen, and rolled his head back, he hadn’t touched them since he first stole them-her selection would not be his taste but…he was bored, and he had exhausted all his other means of entertainment.

He took a book off the top of the stack and began to read, prepared to hate it. But what he found was not some muggle writing or muggle magic book-but a handwritten book, about magic, real magic. It was dated from September 1st, 1941 to June 20th, 1942, and filled with everything Prothero had learned from the past year. There were chapters devoted to each class; such as transfiguration, astrology, defense against the dark arts, care for magical creatures, ancient runes,  history of magic, muggle studies(though that one had many notes of correction), charms, herbology, and potions.

Notes filled the blanks of each page, art between those notes; of potion reactions and ingredients, magical creatures, sigils of defensive spells, runes, quidditch rules, and house emblems; the book was just filled to the brim with knowledge-allowing Prothero to reread it at any point.

Tom read that book for hours, completely transfixed by the content within. Seeing her point of view on what they learned through the year was interesting, she took certain things differently than him-from basic charms to powerful offensive spells.

She was an extensive researcher, in a way that reminded him of himself, and the way he poured over books and books of every class he took-even if it only mildly interested him.

In the back of his mind, Tom resolved that he and Prothero were more alike than he thought, but he continued to read, and then he read the book from their previous year-their 4th year- and it was filled with all they learned in 4th year, and then he read 3rd year, then 2nd, then first.

The first was a bit rough, using muggle words to describe certain things and it was not as put together as the 5th book, but it was just as interesting for being written by a 11-year-old.

He almost wished he had been able to do the same-but he barely had the money to buy his diary as a 15th birthday present for himself, he would’ve never had the funds to buy enough blank books and ink to do such a thing.

Plus he didn’t have the artistic skill that Prothero had-several times he had expected the drawings to move-or jump out at him. some of them did-which impressed Tom, since the animation charm was actually quite difficult to do, even he hadn’t mastered it. There was a further version of it that was extremely difficult to do, Piertotum Locomotor; which was rumored to be attached to the armors before the great hall.

Tom indeed found a page dedicated to the charm in the 5th book, a suit of armor standing tall and strong in the right of the page-close to the binding. He had to wonder how much Prothero knew, if she could be just as knowledge hungry as he was-they were both from the muggle world after all, introduced into the wizarding world at 11 years old.

He would find one foolish if they didn’t research everything they could of a world they didn’t know-but had a blood right to. In the 2nd book, he found two pages dedicated to the basilisk-the king of serpents. Tom stared at this page for several minutes, absorbing all he could-there were notes in here not even he had found in his multi-year search for information on the chamber and its beast.

‘it is rumored that there is a chamber deep below Hogwarts, built by Slytherins founder, Salazar. Connected to that rumor-it is legend that there is a beast, a monster, within the chamber-placed by Salazar himself. A basilisk, the king of the serpents; with venom that can kill a grown man in just more than a minute and eyes that are rumored to instantly kill someone with just one glance-similar to the death curse. Theory; is the death curse derived from the basilisk eyes' power?‘

That was a very curious theory, and Tom was tempted to look into it when he could. But he was further pushed into curiosity by the page of the chamber, he didn’t know others wanted to know about it; much less a mudblood.

He snapped the current book he was reading shut as he heard footsteps running up the stairs-going towards his room. he looked at the window-it was already mid-afternoon, about the time Mrs. And Mr. Prothero would start making supper. And as of late-Tom had begun helping make it, out of boredom mostly.

He grabbed his shirt(which was really more of a jumper) and slid it on, leaving Prothero’s 5th year book on the bed and walking over to the door after hearing someone stop in front of it. he opened it before whoever it was could knock-a fist stopping right in front of his face-Prothero was wide-eyed and quickly reeled back her hand. “holy fuck you’re quiet,” she muttered, and Tom rose his brow at the curse, wondering what she wanted. “anyway-Moms starting supper, and wanted your help with the biscuits.” Tom slowly nodded again, and then followed Prothero’s gaze-landing on her books.

She was grinning when he looked back at her-and he hoped she couldn’t see the warmth on his cheeks as she chuckled. But she didn’t say a word, turning on her heel and going into the bathroom-taking a shower to clean herself from the long day at work.

Later that night-Tom found some of his summer clothes back on his bed, and in turn, he returned her bracelets and some of her books. A simple exchange; but he had the pride that she broke first.

….she took his bloody wand again.

-end of p4-

[another-heroine]

Silver Lining

A/N: IT'S FINALLY DONE

You probably are tired of me saying that I'm weak for parents-family-children boundaries in fiction since my irl family was disfunctional *laughing crying*

So here it comes an oneshot just for the fluff. I kept the WOTR spoilers low and Ekaterina in a 'neutral' route (it fits weather she becomes a mother after game or not, for example, regardless of romances etc)

Thank you, @silversiren1101, for lending me your little ganzi-gnome ;___;

She knew every corner of that place by heart. Even with shutted eyes, she could tell what was going on there: the birds chirping, the water fountain running, the oldest cat complaining about anything. And that sound of feathers, along the muffled giggle, was very familiar.

Ekaterina felt little hands grabbing her skirt, and heard a scare attempt, “Boo!”

The druid did her best acting, putting one hand over her heart. “Jesyll!”

The little girl laughed out loud. “Hi, auntie! I gotcha again, didn't I?”

“You always get it.” Ekaterina couldn't help but smile. She patted her head. “Hello, my dear. How are you doing?”

Jesyll hugged her legs. She adored how Auntie Kaya smelled like. It was like a fusion of a vegetable garden in summer and a pine forest. Herbs, flowers, juicy fruits.

Comfort scent.

“I came to help you.” The girl leaned her chin on the woman's leg. “What can I do?”

Ekaterina gave a half smile. She looked around; there was almost nothing more to do in that afternoon. But it would be impossible to change the mind of a ganzi-gnome child. Then she asked, “Alright, can you fetch me some water?”

“Yes, ma'am!” she happily agreed, darting through the greenhouse. The rustle of her tail always lured the stray kittens out of their feline dreams under the branches, making them run after her. Jesyll was used to that kind of buzz, and just laughed. When she had learned that it was a great way to bait them to pat them, she didn’t mind anymore about the occasional chase.

Ekaterina watched the scene, silently having fun, but also paying attention. She didn’t want anyone to get hurt in her greenhouse. And the vines, branches, playful kittens, many things there could leave a scar or two. Especially when you were small like… a gnome.

Jesyll got a bucket and filled it into the fountain. As she stopped and curled her tail, the kittens tried to nuzzle into it. She sighed, delighted with the scene, leaving the bucket on the stone edge for a while. One of the creatures had golden eyes like her, and his tail was halved. The girl pouted, thinking about what could have happened to him. She couldn’t imagine how to live without her tail, even without a tiny piece. The girl shook her head and went back to her actual task. She had to help Auntie Kaya and her plants.

Plants… Jesyll loved tending to them. Every time when she had the opportunity, she was on her Mama’s side in the gardens, taking care of roses and trying to make friends with insects. One time, she mistook wasps for honeybees, and it caused her to fall into her mother’s favorite rose bushes. She could swear that Papa’s eyes got brighter for a second when he heard about it later. And since then, everybody — mostly Auntie Kaya — kept all eyes on her when she was outside. Like that very moment, when the druid craned her neck slightly, pondering if she should disperse the curious kittens, but it was not necessary; soon the girl came back safe and sound and with a bucket of water as requested.

“Done!” Jesyll nodded. “What do I do now?”

“Now step aside, my assistant.” Ekaterina put her hands on waist.

The girl climbed a seat next to her, and watched with attention. Auntie was about to do that thing that she would never get tired of.

The druid rolled up her sleeves, revealing her Irriseni tattoos. Sometimes she let Jesyll touch them, feeling their texture, and Ekaterina told her what every piece meant. Auntie said that in her homeland, Winter Witches used to scare common people, so many girls received their tattoos when they were between nine and twelve years old. That was a way to protect them from evil, and to avoid being kidnapped by the witches. Jesyll asked once if she could get one as well, and Ekaterina smiled.

“Oh dear, it’s not necessary. You are safe here, don’t you think so?”

“Pleaseee, they are so cool!”

“Maybe when you get older, yes? And… if your parents allow…”

Jesyll was pulled to the present again when she caught the blue lines on Ekaterina’s arms starting to glow. The druid cupped water from the bucket with one hand, and the liquid became goldish. She hummed something in Hallit and little waves danced on her palm.

Before them, over the wide table, there was a dying plant. If Jesyll was recalling right, that one was touched by the Blight. Although the Worldwound was sealed a long time ago, even before she was born, there were some scratches around the world. And druids like Auntie Kaya had the duty to cleanse that mess. That was why sometimes she had to leave for weeks or months.

The enchanted water flowed into the roots of the blemished plant. At first, nothing special seemed to happen, then from the depths of the pot, golden lines began to spread through the stalk to the leaves. The black stains began to vanish, and then stopped. Ekaterina cupped more water and did that again, until the Blight lingering was gone and a small white flower popped between the revivified leaves.

In the meantime, Jesyll was grabbing the seat’s edges with anxiousness, and her tail curled on one of the wood legs. When the process was done, she sighed with relief. “I thought it would never go away!”

Ekaterina smiled gently. “Sometimes, you need to take a longer time to fix things.”

“Like… for anything?” Jesyll tilted her head.

Auntie nodded, taking the vase and placing it on a shelf. For a moment, Ekaterina thought of using the feats of the Fifth Crusade as an example, after all, it took over a century for them to finally close that crater. And it demanded a lot of time, sweat and blood. But probably Regill had already told his daughter about it, and she didn’t want to be repetitive. Also, the Crusade was not a story for little kids, although the stains of that were still spreaded out there.

She observed the full shelves of ‘rescued’ plants. Definitely there was no rest for the good ones in Golarion.

Katya felt Jesyll pulling the hem of her skirt shyly.

“Auntie… Can we have cake now?”

The druid took a moment to react, letting the demons in her memories return to their hideout. They couldn’t touch them anymore. None of them. The work would never end, but at least there was hope and renewal ahead.

And that little talkative being around her, with her curious eyes prying everything, her loud laughter and everyday discoveries was one of Ekaterina’s silver linings after the end of the Crusades.

She didn’t say anything. Ekaterina just rolled down her sleeves and took her niece’s hand. They would have cake and lemonade and anything that she wished for.

At the greenhouse’s door, they noticed the halved-tail kitten was following them. The druid stated, “He likes you”.

The girl smiled wide, looking over her shoulder. She liked him as well.

What if she hid him in her bedroom?

[dawnsbreaking]

you can win - chapter three

pairing: Harry/CMC Rose chapter 3 of 4 chapter word count: 8,015 read on ao3 taglist

The morning of the gala, Rose thought she might be sick.

So much time and effort had gone into this event—it was the culmination of almost an entire year’s work—and there were so many little things that could go wrong.

She was glad for Harry’s offer to pick her up and go with her, for the extra set of hands he’d provide setting up the venue and because it saved her the anxiety of driving on such an important day. Rose was, by nature, an anxious person and jumped at the opportunity to be driven by someone else, even on less momentous occasions.

After a nervous breakfast of plain buttered toast and green tea, Rose went to her closet and pulled out the dress she’d purchased for the event. It had pained her to purchase such a fancy dress rather than renting it, knowing that she had to save for an impending move, but she supposed she could always resell the gown if she found no reason in the future to wear it.

The gown was floor length, made of silky emerald fabric with long chiffon sleeves and a heart-shaped neckline. Besides being her favorite color, the woman who sold her the dress had complimented the way the green brought out Rose’s gray eyes and pale complexion. She unzipped the garment bag just enough to look at the dress one last time before hanging it delicately over the back of a chair by the door.

Harry, like Rose, was a chronic early bird. They were both consistently among the first people in the office building most mornings. So, when he knocked on her door twenty full minutes before she’d told him to arrive, she was unsurprised.

“Hey, sorry. I’m, like, ridiculously early.” Harry told her. He looked like he’d come straight from bed, his hair still feathered in the back from sleep. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Rose grinned, despite her nerves, at his hair. She remembered waking up next to him in the villa, teasing him for the same ducky tail that formed on the back of his head.

“You and me both,” she said, reaching to loop her arms around his shoulders, brushing her fingers through his hair to smooth the cowlick down. “You could have been less early if you’d bothered to brush your hair.”

Harry blushed, whether from the close contact or the teasing Rose wasn’t sure. He joked, “I brushed my teeth, at least.”

Without thinking, Rose pulled him closer and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. They had only kissed twice since the time in her office a few days ago—both on that same night—but she felt at ease with him when it came to physicality. They’d already done all of the awkward boundary-finding before, in the villa.

Beyond the inherent comfort that came from having been together before, though, Harry had always brought out a boldness in Rose that she didn’t experience with other men. She knew that he saw her as an equal and that he wouldn’t feel small if she took control.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Let me just—” She took a half step away and retrieved the garment bag with her dress as well as her work tote.

“Let me.” Harry took the garment bag from her and threw it over his arm, taking her now-free hand in his to lead her to his car.

The venue, a rented ballroom inside a public civic centre, was empty when Rose and Harry arrived. According to Rose’s spreadsheet, the first volunteers weren’t slated to arrive for thirty more minutes. However, over-eager morning volunteers usually arrived early. 

“Come here,” Rose said, pulling him by the hand to a supply closet.

She handed him her coffee—they had stopped on the way, as promised—and opened the closet door with the set of keys the venue had given her. From it, she pulled a small folding table and two metal folding chairs.

“Let me do that,” Harry protested. But Rose shook her head and set the table up, working quickly so Harry didn’t feel too useless watching with his hands full of drinks.

“Fifteen minute coffee date,” Rose said. “Or, until-my-volunteers-start-showing-up coffee date.”

“Fine by me.” Harry set the coffees down and took a seat, facing Rose.

“Do you remember our first date in the villa?” She asked. “With the cheap champers and rose petals all over the table?”

As a rule, Rose tried to keep talking about Love Island to a minimum. She and Harry seemed matched in their desire to put the reality show behind them. However, she was feeling nostalgic. And the table setup felt somehow familiar. She spoke softly, as if to keep from scaring Harry away with talk of the past.

Harry laughed. “How could I forget? God, I was so nervous. I tore a poor couple of rose petals to shreds.”

“I remember…” Rose shook her head, giggling at the memory. “I thought maybe you didn’t like being on camera, I felt the same way.”

“Nah, it was mostly you that made me nervous. Not anymore, though,” he said. Then, defensive, he added, “I mean, in a good way! I’m comfortable around you but only because we’ve known each other and I think I can read you better now.”

“Shine worn off?” Rose teased.

“Not in the slightest.” Harry gave her a look, suddenly serious. Before Rose could reply, he spoke again. “What’s got you nostalgic?”

“You,” Rose said. Then, “Also, I was thinking about how you asked about my job right off. Like you knew that was important to me.”

“Of course I did! You talked about it really fondly when we were all getting to know each other. I always liked that side of you, the passion you have for the things you care about.”

Rose blushed, glancing away at the heat of his sincerity. “You’re too much for this early.”

“You brought it up,” he countered.

“I also remember you talking about all of your hobbies, how you hadn’t found the right thing yet.” She smiled, remembering the over-eager Harry in the villa, contrasting him to the self-assured man in front of her. “Do you reckon you’ve found the right thing, now?”

Harry smiled wide, clearly pleased she’d remembered such a small detail of something he’d said. “I do, yeah. I really like where I’m at now. It’s not, like groundbreaking, but I’ve found that it’s really validating being good at something.”

“Even if you’re not going down in history?”

Harry paused, thinking for a moment. He reached across the table for Rose’s hand, squeezed it gently. “I’m perfectly content at the moment, making an impression on just a worthy few.”

-

Once the volunteers arrived, Harry was quickly overwhelmed. In order to keep from getting lost and feeling completely useless, he designated himself Rose’s errand boy for the morning. He stood by her side and followed her around, happy to assist wherever she needed.

It was nice, getting to see Rose in her element. Despite a quiet and calm demeanor, she was naturally at ease giving orders and rallying her troops of volunteers. He could tell she was nervous, but only because he saw her tells. To the outside observer, he imagined she seemed perfectly put-together.

Just after noon, once the tables had been set up and the volunteer rotation changed from the furniture-moving corps to the decorating committee, Rose gave Harry an outside errand.

“Would you mind going to pick up lunch for us? And running to the office supply store? I can put in an order for pickup somewhere close to the store, but I need to accept that I need another clipboard.” She held up the clipboard she’d been using, demonstrating the loose hinge on the clip.

Harry nodded, trying to hide the relief he felt at getting a break from the commotion of setting up the venue. “Sure thing.”

The errand didn’t take long, though, and soon he was back where he started: watching Rose arrange centerpieces. 

“Are you going to take a break to actually eat the food I brought you?”

Rose checked her watch. “These volunteers are here for another 20 minutes.”

“Your food’s gonna get cold.”

“I ordered a salad.”

Harry frowned. “Your food’s gonna get hot.”

This earned a small laugh, filling Harry with relief. She’d been a touch more serious than usual in the rush to get everything done and Harry had to fight not to take it personally. 

“Twenty minutes,” she told him.

Twenty-three minutes later, the second slot of volunteers had dispersed, either for their own lunch breaks or to go home for the day. Rose joined Harry back at the table which had been pushed into a corner and would surely be put back in the closet before the event began.

“Thank you for this,” Rose said, unwrapping a plastic fork. Harry had unpacked her salad for her, laying it out next to wrapped cutlery and paper napkins. It had done a little to kill the time waiting for her.

Harry swallowed a bite of his sandwich hastily. He hadn’t ordered hot food either. “No problem. When do the volunteers get back?”

Rose checked her watch again. He’d watched her do that roughly three hundred times in the last few hours. “Like, thirty minutes? We have one more set of set-up volunteers to put out the silent auction items and their bid lists. Then we have an hour in-between their slot and the catering setup that will take until the start of the party. You and I will have to get ready during that slot.”

Harry blanched. “Shit. I forgot my suit.”

“Harry!” Rose exclaimed. She was still smiling, though, only half serious. “I made a point to remind you and everything!”

“I know, I know.” Harry frowned. He’d laid the suit out the night before, too, but had forgotten it in his excitement to pick Rose up. “I’m the worst. I’ll have to run home to change.”

“That’s fine, it’s really not a big deal.”

“It’s not?”

“Yeah, as long as you promise to come back.” Rose giggled, scrunching her nose at the absurdity of the notion.

They finished their lunch in companionable silence. Harry could tell that Rose needed a break from all the speaking she’d been doing to volunteers and he was happy to leave her be.

When he was done eating, he folded his sandwich wrapper into a neat square before taking it to the bin. “I’ll be right back, then.”

He came back to the table and pressed a kiss to Rose’s forehead.

She smiled up at him fondly. “See you soon, love.”

-

When Harry left, Rose was glad for the moment of solitude. As much as she enjoyed his company, she was nervous for the gala and frazzled from shepherding volunteers all morning. It was nice to take a moment to breathe.

Before long, though, the tell-tale creak of the back entrance to the venue sounded again. Rose turned, half expecting it to be Harry having forgotten his keys or something similar.

“Rose?” The voice registered before his form did in the doorway. Rose froze in place.

“Rafi? What are you doing here?”

He walked toward her in long strides. He looked just a bit disheveled, his hair flattened from the baseball cap he always wore while flying. He’d clearly just come from the airport.

“I went home,” he said. “And you weren’t there.”

Rose checked her watch, more as a pacifying movement than for truly checking the time. She wasn’t even sure what to say or where to begin.

“Why…” She didn’t have it in her to finish the sentence. She was afraid of the romantic undertone of this grand gesture.

Rafi took another step closer.

“I’m here,” he said, voice dripping with honey. He spoke like he was reciting a romantic line from one of his films. “I couldn’t miss your party.”

Unable to speak, still, Rose opened and closed her hands nervously as if grasping literally for a way out.

“You can’t just…” She tried, the words fizzling out. “I don’t…”

“Rosie.” Rafi smiled and Rose almost wished she were happy to see him. In many ways it would be easier that way. “I knew you wanted me to be here, so I’m here.”

“This isn’t what I wanted, Rafi,” Rose said, all in one breath. She was partially grateful that the words had shown themselves out from her chest, but partially wary of the finality of the argument that loomed because of them. “I don’t want you here like this.”

All at once, Rafi deflated. It was as if her words had been a physical blow to his gut. He crossed his arms like he needed the protection.

“What do you mean?” He asked. “I came all this way to be here and now you don’t want me here?”

“That’s right,” Rose said. She leveled her voice, sounding a bit like she were speaking to a child. “I wanted you to be here because you wanted to be here, not because you feel like you have to.”

“I want to be here,” he countered. “I’m missing the film festival.”

“And not so you can hold being a good boyfriend over my head, either.” Her voice cracked, but she kept tears at bay. “It shouldn’t be this hard to do the right thing.”

As painful as it was to get the words out, Rose was glad that her vocabulary hadn’t failed her. She was finally able to speak her mind now that she had nothing to lose.

“So what does this mean? Are we…” He gestured between them, a despondent look clouding his eyes.

Rose knitted her brows at him, wishing he’d make the connection without her interception. When he remained silent, she answered in the most straight-forward way she could.

“Yes,” she said. “I think that’s for the best.”

“Can we talk about this? I mean, this can’t just be—“

She interrupted him, “I tried to talk before and you ran away. Now, I have volunteers coming back any minute and a gala to run this evening. We can talk another day but definitely not tonight.”

Rafi pulled his shoulders back and squared his jaw, taking her rejection on the chin. “Fine.”

“Good,” she said.

“I’ll see you at home, then.”

“Right.” Rose wished she didn’t have to go home to him, but she put that aside for the moment, for the sake of her sanity.

She brushed past him, charging to the door. “I’ll show you out.”

Once Rafi was gone, Rose’s brave face went with him. She tucked herself into the employee bathroom and began to cry.

The past few weeks considered, it felt almost cruel to Rose that Rafi would overlook her feelings so thoroughly. Such a grand gesture may have worked before, but she’d hoped that she’d made it clear that her backbone had strengthened recently. It was frustrating and unfair that Rafi’s appearance had rattled her like this. She was supposed to be doing what she did best, reaping the rewards of a year’s difficult work. Instead, she was crying alone in the loo.

Her phone rang and she wiped her tears and sniffed before looking at the screen. Harry.

“Hello?” She tried her best to sound like she hadn’t just been crying.

“Rosie? Are you okay?” Mission failed.

She sniffed again and avoided the question. “What’s up?”

“I just got back, I, um, saw Rafi outside…”

“I know.”

“God,” he said. He sounded as angry as Rose wished she could feel. Her bad moods always tended towards sadness, even if she deserved a little righteous anger now and then.

“He’s not still there is he?”

It was just what she needed, her ex camping outside the venue, scowling at Harry and the returning volunteers.

“No, no. He left.”

Rose sighed, relieved, at least, for that. “Good.”

“Where are you?” Harry asked. “I’m coming in.”

“The catering bathroom, just outside the ballroom on the left.” She caught herself, not even hesitating to tell Harry where she was. It was a nice dynamic, feeling comfortable enough at the prospect of him comforting her.

“Okay.” He hung up without another word and a knock on the door soon followed.

“Come in,” Rose called.

She was sitting on the edge of the sink counter, a crumpled tissue cradled in her lap. Rose was sure that she looked terribly pathetic. This feeling intensified when she saw the worry in Harry’s eyes as he opened the door. Her second thought, following the shame of him having to see her like this, was that he looked incredibly cute in his formalwear.

He rushed to her side, taking her shaking hand in his. “Oh, Rosie…”

Being that she cried easily at almost every emotion, Rose was used to people dismissing her feelings. Telling her that she cried too much or for silly reasons. It had become a part of her public persona, a meme for fans of Love Island. She was used to people looking right past her while she cried—Rafi very much included.

But Harry never did. On the show, when she’d cried in front of him just because she’d been tired and overwhelmed, even when they were just friends. He’d always tried to see her. Rose hadn’t realized his care until that moment, when the worry in his eyes struck her as deeply familiar.

-

Harry was sure that Rafi had caught him staring. Though, he wasn’t doing so out of malice, but sheer confusion. He hadn’t seen Rafi in person in so long—though he’d seen him in stupid movie trailers a regrettable number of times—it took Harry a moment to place him out of context.

Besides, Rafi was supposed to be in Italy for an indie film festival.

“What are you doing here?” Rafi called. A fake movie-star smile plastered on his face, as if Harry couldn’t guess at the anger in his tense shoulders.

With boldness he couldn’t quite trace the origins of, Harry called back, “I could ask you the same, dude. I thought you were out of town.”

His voice was miraculously level, he completed the illusion of calm by stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets as he took a step forward.

“I was. I came back for Rose’s gala.” Rafi puffed up his chest.

“Did you talk to her?”

For just a moment, Harry worried that Rafi had talked Rose into letting him come to the gala. Or worse, Rafi’s grand gesture had worked and he’d somehow made up with Rose. Harry wasn’t sure where the latter option left him.

To Harry’s relief, Rafi visibly deflated. He looked Harry up and down, seeming to decide whether or not to give him the satisfaction of an explanation.

“I’m going home, now,” Rafi said, finally. “Have a good night.”

As soon as Rafi was gone, tucked into an expensive rental car and driving back to his flat, Harry called Rose.

She answered right away,  gave him her location in a tearful voice. He went right away. Scorched earth, in a rage, almost forgetting to knock on the women’s bathroom door.

He softened immediately at the sight of her, all the fire inside of him doused by a more immediate desire to comfort. He’d never been like this before her—soft, worried about another person’s feelings so thoroughly.

“Oh, Rosie…” He crouched, balancing on his toes to keep his nice suit pants from touching the bathroom floor. He took her hand both for comfort and balance.

Harry held her hand in his, quiet as she collected herself enough to tell him what happened. He looked up, tracing the line of her worried brows down to wet eyelashes veiling stormy gray eyes.

In the villa, he remembered being tempted to talk her out of her feelings and running from disagreements. He remembered not having the strength to weather tinier storms, then, how he’d felt out of control and out of depth with smaller problems. Something within him had bolstered, so slowly he hadn’t even noticed the change as it was occurring.

“Did you know he was coming?” Harry was certain he already knew the answer, but it felt like the most obvious question to start with.

Rose shook her head, wiping her eyes with the crumpled tissue in her free hand. “No, he just showed up.”

“Did he say something to make you cry?”

“No…” She shook herself, finally meeting his eyes. “It’s the bittersweetness of it all. Like, the fact that he flew all the way here but it doesn’t matter. The fact that I don’t even want him here anymore.”

Harry nodded, encouraging her. She was always choosy with her words but he knew that she was especially worried about saying the right thing in this moment to capture all of what she was feeling.

She continued, “It’s a lot harder to deal with the relationship ending when I’m not confronted with the good bits. He made an effort to fix things—a poor, last-minute effort—but it was an effort, nonetheless.”

“That makes sense.” He squeezed her hand, ran a thumb across her knuckles, waited for better, more encouraging words to find him.

Rose squeezed his hand back. “This doesn’t change anything, you know? With us…”

The words hung in the air between them as Rose searched his face, seeming to look for any reservations. He had none. Harry trusted her. Her Turning Rafi away at the door had shown him that much.

What remained was the rest of it. The conversation with Rafi to make the break-up official, the defining of relationship conversation that Harry would have to have with her after, the moving boxes to pack the last two years of her life into. Despite the excitement and relief that Harry felt for finally having her, everything else loomed just over the horizon.

He wanted to tell Rose that he would shoulder the burden, that he’d happily help her pack and carry boxes up and down stairs, that he’d hold her through all of it, that his romantic feelings were incidental to the care he felt for her as a human being.

“I know,” he told her, wishing he could manage grander turns of phrase, placing hope in the value of his hand holding hers in the silence.

-

Beyond the dramatics, there was still the gala to attend to, and Rose couldn’t let the situation with Rafi ruin any part of it for her.

Comforted by Harry’s sweet understanding, Rose returned to the ballroom and to the volunteers. As she worked, the stress of everything before faded into the background. Harry helped, leading the volunteers as he’d watched Rose do for the first half of the day. Setup was done in record time, and Rose found solace in her own aptitude for her work.

When time came to get ready, she was grateful that Harry had changed before her.

“Come with me,” she said.

Harry took her outstretched hand, following her wordlessly and without protest. She led him back to the catering bathroom, bringing with her the makeup she’d packed the night before and her dress in its garment bag.

“My favorite part about being an event organizer,” she told him, swinging the door open with the back of her arm, “is the privilege of knowing all the hiding places at big parties.”

Rose had never been a fan of big parties. In school, she’d been dragged kicking and screaming by her brother to every party she ever attended. She was a wallflower at best, well versed in the art of the untimely Irish goodbye at worst. It had been a surprise to most of her friends and family when she’d become a party-planner professionally.

It had been an even greater surprise when she’d applied for Love Island.

What people didn’t understand was that by inherently hating parties, Rose had become master of them. She could make events painless for others because she’d spent her formative years thinking of all the ways parties could be painful.

Some part of her believed that this principal had won her Love Island, too. She’d been too anxious to be herself the whole time, spent the summer trying to seem like the perfect girl instead of having fun. Had fallen into the best looking love story rather than chasing after the person she fancied most.

While it hadn’t all been an act, necessarily, Rose’s time on Love Island had in some ways been a practice in hospitality. She’d packaged herself into a product and sold a service, at the end of the day.

“Are you planning on hiding much of the night?” Harry asked.

Rose smirked, shrugging cooly. “Maybe a little of the night.”

-

While Rose unpacked her makeup next to the sink, Harry hopped up onto the bathroom counter to watch her. He’d steered clear of the dressing rooms for the most part in the villa, scared away by threats from AJ and Gen, but he’d always enjoyed watching girls—Rose especially—put on their makeup. There was a subtle magic to it, something in the sum of all the the steps that Harry didn’t feel quite privy to since he’d never learned the skill.

“Hey, you’re taking up my counter-space.” Rose protested, glaring facetiously as he made himself comfortable up against the mirror.

Harry made no move to remove himself from the counter. “I’ll hold things if you need me to.”

She rolled her eyes, but accepted, plopping her makeup bag in his lap before continuing to rifle through it for the first step in her routine.

“How are you feeling?” He asked when she took a step to the side, having found what she was looking for. Waiting for her reply, he busied his hands playing with a tassel on the zipper of the bag in his lap.

She certainly seemed better, but Harry wasn’t quite all the way comfortable yet. Since Rafi’s unexpected arrival, their relationship had taken on a gaseous form, like it could dissipate like fog any moment.

“I think I’m doing alright,” Rose said. She came back to the makeup bag, dropping the bottle she’d been using back in. Instead of going for the next, she lingered, placing her hands on Harry’s knees. “How are you feeling?”

Harry startled. He hadn’t expected her to ask.

She spoke again before he could answer, “It’s okay if you’re shaken up, too.”

“Oh.” Harry reached to his neck and pulled the tie he was wearing away just a bit, as if he needed more air. “I was a bit shaken up, I think. But it’s okay. Really has nothing to do with me, does it?”

Rose frowned, seeing right past his play at nonchalance. “It does have to do with you. If you have feelings about it, that is.”

“I’m alright, Rosie. It’s just that the timing of Rafi coming back is abysmal,” he said, using a dramatic, fancy word that Rose would usually tend toward. Abysmal. He was beginning to sound like her.

“Exactly that,” she agreed. “But I meant what I said.”

She brushed a hand through his hair, searched his face for words unsaid. Finding none, she sighed and leaned her head to rest on his shoulder.

“Tired?” He asked.

“Exhausted.”

“You’re not getting makeup on my suit, are you?”

Rose pulled back, giggling. “No, I literally just washed my face and nothing else.”

“Ah.” Harry blushed. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

“Clearly.” She lingered in his personal space for a moment longer, tracing a line with her thumb from his ear to his jaw. Harry loved watching her watch him. Loved watching her try to solve him like a puzzle.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked. He also loved cutting to the chase.

-

Rose had worried that getting ready in front of Harry would ruin the effect of a grand reveal. She was happy to be proven wrong.

When she’d finished her makeup and curled her hair, Rose took the garment bag in hand. She checked her watch. It was almost time for the next round of volunteers and catering to arrive, getting them settled into their jobs for the night would lead all the way up to the beginning of the event.

“Do you want me to step out?” Harry asked, looking pointedly at the garment bag.

Rose shrugged. “You saw me in a bikini every day for two months. Up to you.”

Out of either some sense of obligation toward purity or for the sake of being contrary, Harry hopped down from the bathroom counter and made for the door.

“I’ll be outside.” He kissed her forehead on the way out.

One of Rose’s favorite parts of being in the villa had been the outfits. She loved wearing fancy dresses to casual cocktail parties at the end of every week. By the finale, Rose had also had to begin trading dresses with the other girls to disguise the fact that they were all running out of clothes. She’d loved that, too, and the illusion of intimacy and close friendship that the villa had created between them.

Though it was much less common for her, now, Rose still loved getting dressed up. And she still loved the look on Harry’s face when he saw her finally.

“This dress?” He reached for one of her gossamer sleeves, feeling the fabric as he took a step closer. “You look gorgeous.”

"You think?" Rose beamed. She loved the way she could see all the cogs turning in his mind as he looked at her. It was like she could read his thoughts.

"Give me a spin." Harry took her hand and spun her around. They'd danced before, in the villa, Rose had forgotten until that moment. Under twinkle lights, at Love Island prom. He'd stolen her from Rafi for a friendly dance at the end of the night. She remembered feeling so safe and warm with everyone together and finally getting along.

"You look really lovely," he said, admiring her still. "Really, Rosie."

She blushed at his easy sincerity. Rose felt she may never get over the way he always said exactly what he was thinking.

"Ground rules," she said, earning a questioning look, "you can't muss my hair or ruin my makeup. Or do anything that might wrinkle or endanger my dress."

"Okay?" Harry looked like he might be catching on, but let her continue.

She took his hand, pulling him down the hall, stopping just short of a metal door and turned to face him. She raised up on tip-toes to whisper, "If you accept my terms, you can make out with me in this storage room."

Harry's confusion turned to a sly smirk. He held out a hand for her to shake. "You've got a deal."

-

Harry's head was spinning as he followed Rose into the supply room.

If it had not been for the very real dilemmas that had followed them throughout the past few days, Harry would think that he was dreaming.

Rose herself was like a vision from his dreams. Ethereal moon-glow skin against a mossy green dress, makeup glittering on her cheeks under the florescent lights, hair falling artfully around her pretty face.

Soft lips wearing nothing but sheer chapstick.

"You're gorgeous," he told her again, pressing a hand to her back as if to push her faster into the private room.

Rose skipped out of his grasp, giving a cutesy twirl as she escaped him to lock the door behind them. When she returned, she threw her arms over his shoulders, letting her wrists rest against his neck. He could hear her watch ticking against his ear, reminding him of how little time he had, despite wishing he could keep her to himself all night.

"Where am I allowed to touch you?" He asked, blushing when the question sounded much more suggestive than he'd intended. "I mean, so as not to endanger your dress."

"Here." She guided his hands to her waist. "Just try not to ruffle me too much."

Harry laughed. "I'll make a valiant effort, I promise."

He kissed her, carefully pressing her against him so as not to leave evidence of the encounter. Harry wanted more of her, though, wished that he could take her home in the dress and quickly see her out of it.

The kiss, like many others Harry and Rose had shared in the past few days, was familiar in its way. Her smell—tart apples and sweet roses—was quickly working up the ranks to becoming Harry's favorite scent. The mix was nostalgic and intoxicating, only missing the coconut scented sunscreen she’d lathered on in the villa.

She pulled herself closer to him. Harry had always loved the way she'd smiled against his mouth when he kissed her. The way her hands went straight to his hair.

Harry pulled back, managed a breathy chuckle. "You're allowed to muss my hair?"

"Absolutely." Rose didn't give him the opportunity to reply, kissing him again with renewed enthusiasm.

He shuddered as her tongue sweetly parted his lips, as she threaded her hands through his hair again and pulled, just to tease him.

"Double standards." Harry tutted as he pulled away again, wishing he didn’t have to come up for air.

She rolled her eyes at him. “You’re not the one who has to give a speech. I can’t look like I’ve just been snogging someone in a spare room.”

Behind Rose, there was a spare dining table that looked suitably sturdy. Harry ushered her back a few steps to the edge of the table before swiftly picking her up and depositing her on the table’s surface.

Rose let out a surprised squeak, then giggled at herself before returning to her stern conceit. “You’re getting a little ruffle-y, there, babe. Mind treating me with care?”

He parted her legs as much as the gown would allow and stood between them. Visions of green velvet dresses on his bedroom floor danced before him. Mussed hair and smeared makeup. Rose Prichard, laid bare before him, in his bed, not thinking about Rafi or party planning or anything but how much she wanted all of this too.

“I don’t mind at all.” He kissed her jaw, trailed kisses down her neck and to her exposed collarbone. If he didn’t have so much respect for how hard she’d worked in service of the gala, he’d be more tempted to leave a mark. As it stood, he was content with the thought that he may someday be able to mark her wherever he liked.

“God,” she muttered. “I really wish we weren’t in a glorified closet right now.” She paused for a beat, laughed. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind too much if we had more time.”

Harry leaned back, studying her. She looked disappointingly put-together—kissed pink lips were the only evidence of his handiwork. She checked her watch, sparing a guilty glance up at Harry as untangled herself from his arms.

“Time’s up, loverboy.” She pecked his lips and smoothed his hair back down before hopping down from the table and adjusting her skirt. “Could have done with a bit less mussing, though.”

“I think considering all the things I want to do to you and that dress, you should be thanking me.” He brushed a stray piece of hair out of her face, letting his hand linger against her warm cheek.

She tugged his collar back into place and straightened his tie. She’d done a fair bit of mussing herself. “You’re right. All things considered, you were very good.”

“How are you feeling now?” Harry was unsure how much he’d be able to see her and talk to her for the rest of the night, he wanted to know that she was truly alright and not just putting on a show. “You seem in better spirits.”

She took his hand, gave him a convincing smile. “I’m just relieved that the gala is happening. I’ll get to rest on my laurels for, like, at least a month before I have to start planning the next one.”

“And about Rafi?”

“Not thinking about Rafi at all.” She squeezed his hand, started pulling him to the door. “I’ve gotta meet the caterers.”

-

The first half of the gala passed Rose by in a blur. She was pulled in a hundred different directions, by other members of her organization, by a problem with the catering company, by attendees who knew her from the name on the invitations and wanted a better picture of the girl behind the signatures.

By the time she gave her welcome address, a smaller, more logistical version of the welcome address by the president of the organization that she followed, she had shifted into auto-pilot. After checking in with the caterers again, Rose finally seated herself for dinner. She shared a round table at the front of the room with a handful of other staff, as well as Harry.

Harry, for his part, seemed to be thriving. He'd mostly been left alone, introducing himself as a volunteer or a friend of the organization if asked. Rose hadn't had to ask him not to hint at the fact that something was going on between them. The public nature of Rose's relationship with Rafi was obviously a hurdle to him, and he did his best to keep people from asking questions.

It wasn't until she was seated for dinner that Rose was finally questioned beyond her ability to artfully evade.

"I thought your boyfriend would be coming,” Marisol, a volunteer coordinator and administrative assistant for the organization, commented. "I'm a fan of his work, you know."

Rose resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Marisol had worked her love for Rafi’s worst film, Liar Liar Pants on Fire, into almost every conversation Rose had engaged in with her. And the one time Marisol had seen Rafi with Rose at the office, she'd nearly broken a bone hustling down the hall to say hello.

“He couldn’t make it,” Rose said, swallowing the desire to tell the truth just to earn the privilege of holding Harry’s hand under the table.

Maybe she’d introduce Rafi and Marisol, once all was said and done.

“That’s a shame.” Marisol turned to Harry and offered a hand for him to shake, recovering her manners. “You’re Rose’s friend-date, then?”

“Yeah! Harry Zhōng.” He gave her hand a sturdy shake, not missing a beat. “I actually work in the same building as you, too.”

“Oh yeah? You do look familiar…”

Rose and Harry exchanged a look. It was entirely possible that Marisol hadn’t seen their season of Love Island, but fans of Rafi’s were usually fans of the show.

“I’m a programmer on the sixth floor, you might have seen me on your way to Rose’s office.”

“Huh!” Marisol laughed. “Small world.”

“Big office building,” Rose offered.

Similar encounters followed as the other seats at the table were filled. Harry repeated the same lines, shook hands with Rose's coworkers, generally did a great job of being a sweet, unobtrusive party guest. When Rose had to duck away from dinner for another catering emergency, she felt completely comfortable leaving him alone.

"I'm sorry, I know this is stupid," the caterer, a handsome man named Jake Wilson, told her when she entered the kitchen, "But I need someone to help lift one of the cakes from the walk-in. One of my guys called out sick.”

Rose looked Jake up and down, hands on her hips. She wanted to scold him for not telling her sooner, but she knew that this was likely as stressful an event for him as it was for her. She sighed, "I'll get someone."

"Thank you! Sorry again," Jake called after her, already leaving the kitchen in a hurry.

"Everything alright?" Harry asked when she returned to the table.

"Yeah, not a big deal." Rose smiled at her coworkers, not wanting them to worry for anything being wrong. "Would you come help me, actually?"

Harry excused himself, dropping his napkin from his lap onto the table. "Of course."

"It's really not a big deal," Rose assured him.

"Oh, so you do actually need my help?" Harry chuckled. "I kind of thought you were just sneaking away."

She gave him a sideways glance. "I need you to help the caterer lift the cake from the freezer onto a rolling cart. No big deal."

"What if I drop the cake and ruin your gala?"

Away from the main ballroom and hidden in the hallway, Rose was free to let her guard down a bit. She grabbed Harry's sleeve and gave it a playful tug as she tried to manage a stern tone of voice. "You better not drop the cake."

"Will you forgive me if I do? I think I'll be less nervous knowing there's an opportunity for redemption." Harry made his best puppy eyes at Rose, barely able to keep from laughing out loud as he did so.

Rose laughed. "Yeah, best I can do is promise I won't literally kill you."

"I'll take it."

They shared a laugh as they swung open the kitchen doors. Rose felt the stress of the gala fading into the background as she spoke with Harry. She loved how easily he brought her out of her shell and made her want to laugh and make jokes.

"I've brought you help," Rose called, knowing that Jake was right around the corner. "He's not the strongest lad but he'll do in a pinch."

"Hey," Harry muttered. He pretended to elbow Rose in the side. "I'm plenty strong, thank you very much."

Jake came back around from the hallway with the walk-in cooler. He jutted a thumb behind him. "Cake's this way."

Rose followed, knowing she probably wouldn't be much help but wanting to supervise the cake being moved anyway. Her anxiety wouldn't let her leave the boys to it. She joked with Harry again as they walked, "Pinky promise you're not gonna drop the cake?"

In response, Harry held out a pinky behind him for Rose to shake as they walked. She did so with some difficulty, giggling as she tried to grab hold of the digit on his moving hand.

"You're in a much better mood than you were two minutes ago," Jake remarked.

While she was startled by the observation, she knew he was right. And, by nature of having catered every gala Rose had been involved with, Jake spoke with authority. He’d seen her in much worse moods.

“Not worse than the year before last, though, right?” She asked, artfully changing the subject. That year, her boss had been sick and she’d had to do twice the work. Jake had walked in on her crying inside of the walk-in freezer.

“Right.” Jake laughed. “I’m just glad to see you really enjoying one of these things for once.”

-

Harry did not drop the cake.

In fact, he thought he’d done an incredible job of being Rose’s date. He was especially proud of the way that he was able to dodge questions about Rafi and not arouse any suspicion about Rafi and Rose’s impending breakup.

Because of Rafi’s fame, it was possible that the public breakup would become a scandal. It had been almost a little painful to friend-zone himself so thoroughly for the night, but it was entirely worth it if it saved Rose some heartache.

Besides, he felt a little like a secret agent on a mission not to disclose his true identity.

“I’m so tired,” Rose said, finding him lingering on the outskirts of a conversation with some volunteers. She’d been popping in and out of his vicinity all night, constantly being called away either to mingle with guests or by varied, ridiculous mini-catastrophes behind the scenes.

The gala had finished with its silent auction and the organization’s president had given her final remarks. The cleanup volunteers were waiting by the walls to descend upon dirty tables like hungry lions observing their prey. Harry could tell that they were as ready to finish with the gala and leave as he was—and none of them had been there as long as he and Rose had.

“Home stretch?” He asked.

Rose nodded. “Yeah, and technically I don’t have to stay for cleanup. That’s Marisol’s jurisdiction.”

“So we get to leave soon?” Harry did his best not to sound too eager, for her sake. He didn’t want her to think he was put out by having to be there all day. Getting to spend time with her and be there for her in a meaningful way had far outweighed the strain of essentially volunteering for twelve straight hours.

Rose gave him a sly look. “I’m gonna say goodbye to my coworkers and then we can slip out.”

“I’ll be here, waiting with baited breath.”

He watched the internal struggle of her wanting to touch him play out on her face and in her unsteady hands. She settled for squeezing his bicep in a friendly-seeming gesture, a shy blush forming on her face before she ducked away.

Before long, she’d returned, the garment bag from her dress and her tote slung over her arm. She nodded toward the door. “Let’s get out of here, before someone decides they need me.”

Harry resisted the urge to take her hand as he led her out to the parking lot. He waved his goodbyes to the volunteers and guests he’d briefly become acquainted with as he scurried out the staff entrance behind Rose.

“You are amazing at your job,” Harry told her, once they were safely tucked away in his car. “Like, that was so lovely.”

Rose beamed. “You think so?” 

“I know so.” Harry took her hand in his and pulled it toward him to rest their intertwined hands on his thigh. “Objectively that was the best charity gala I’ve ever been to.”

“You’ve not been to any other charity galas, have you?”

“That’s besides the point entirely.”

“I appreciate it,” Rose said, laughing at his joke. She leaned back against the headrest, closing her eyes and letting out a sigh. “Now, as a reward for my hard work, I’ve got to go home and break up with beloved movie-star Rafi Sayed.”

“Eh, have you seen Buff Ninja? He can’t possibly be that beloved.” Harry gave her a mischievous look. “Like, come on.”

“I went to the premiere red carpet for Buff Ninja.” Rose laughed again, despite herself. “But I’ve heard it’s got a thriving fanbase in some dark little corners of the internet, so.”

Harry raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to the base of her thumb. “Are you worried about what people will think?”

She considered for a moment, staring up at the car’s ceiling in silence. Then, she shook her head decisively. “I trust Rafi enough to know that he wouldn’t make me look bad. Even if people are upset, he’ll defend the fact that the breakup was mutual, I think.”

“That’s good.” He kissed her wrist, swallowed air as he psyched himself up to ask the next question. “You don’t think that it’ll look bad if you’re immediately with someone else?”

Rose turned, eyes flickering over Harry’s face as if she was seeing him for the first time. They had been so preoccupied with Rose’s side of the situation, that it seemed both of them had failed to consider the optics where Harry was concerned. She ghosted her free hand against the side of his face like she was wiping away invisible tears, trying to smooth the worry from his jaw. 

“As long as you’re alright not posting about us for a couple of weeks, I think everything will be fine,” she said, finally. Harry could tell that it was a difficult ask for her, knowing that she hated the idea of having a secret worth hiding.

Harry wouldn’t mind, though, he thought. After everything, some part of him enjoyed the idea of keeping her to himself for a while. -

thank you all for reading and for the kind comments!! the next chapter will be just a short epilogue, so this is technically the ending. I'm posting it very quickly because it was all pre-written but I am also a really big fan of how it turned out. hope you enjoyed <3

tags: @starsarestars@lasswithumor@fujihime-litg@future-mrs-suresh

[untilthenextencore]

Linda Mujer: Ch. 1~...

The loveliest girl in all of Mexico. If not of the entertainment jetset entirely. No it's not Veronica Castro. No it's not Julie Christie. No it's not Ali MacGraw.

Her name is Mercedes Linda Lolita Laelia Lourdes Quintero Rojas. And she has quite a pedigree. Daughter of Don Miguel Carlos Quintero Sr. businessman, and Gloria Rojas Quintero vedette. Gloria herself is the daughter of Doña Olga Rojas Fernandez noted vedette of Veracruz.

(Note: For our non-Spanish speaking friends, Spanish naming conventions decree that the maternal surname follows the paternal surname. Accordingly, Mercedes' last name is Quintero.)

Mercedes is the youngest of her father's three children, while also being her mother's only child. The apple of both parents, grandparents & brother & sister's eyes, the young miss has grown up following her mom on the road in between intermittent stays with her extended family.

The shy miss keeps her circle small aside from her family and tutors. Yet her quinceañera and the dress chosen was the talk of the town & front page story on all of the international society pages.

Her hair, a mass of raven waves & curls, lips as red as rose, cheeks in full bloom as well, the petite sloe-eyed beauty dressed in a white frothy, full skirted off-the-shoulder, sweetheart necklined, nipped waist confection paid truth to the saying that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

A studious, dreamy-eyed girl with a figure and face to make any red-blooded lad equally dreamy-eyed, young "Merce" (pronounced "Mehr-seh") is also taking after her mother's side of the "family business" and starting with a budding & popular elegant burlesque career as the latest hot-ticket vedette on the scene.

"Hey Pagey! Look at this!" Robert gawked at what he saw on screen. Jimmy put his guitar down momentarily & ambled over.

Indeed there stood young Merce twirling about in a frothy confection of a dress. Puff sleeves. Sweetheart neckline. Full petticoated skirt. The footage was old footage of her picking her "Quinceañera" dress. A dress for her fifteenth birthday. From what they understood it was like a sweet sixteen a year early, coupled with a coming-out party of sorts. Sort of a pre-debut debut.

It was a fuckin' throwback. Hearkening back to Robert & Jimmy's youth.

Robert's jaw dropped further & Jimmy quirked a brow at what that sight was followed with. The fresh-faced, giddy & starry-eyed young girl in the petticoated full dress had apparently put her petticoats away for the time being.

Instead, her lips were lacquered red as were her nails. Eyeliner flicked in cat-like wings accenting the glittery, shimmery lids. Her cheeks were as rosy as ever. Long black hair curled & pinned atop her head with jeweled pins & a feathered fascinator. Those same jewels glimmered from her ears, along her neckline, framing her bust & around her hips as they accented her feathered cinched waist costume. Touches of the same jewels decorated her matching gloves. She posed & danced & spun about a golden-framed perch. Like a phoenix in a bird cage.

She was A SIGHT.

Enough to pique anyone's interest.

She certainly piqued Robert's & Jimmy's!

Enough that she was the main topic of discussion between the two for the next few days. The sweetheart in the sweetheart neckline. The ravishing young thing with roses in her hand. The glamour girl in gemstones & a golden setting. The phoenix in the birdcage. The fact that both were one & the same.

But even amidst the headiness of the revelations they saw on screen, and later in print from what they could scrounge up of her in international trade papers, nothing could compare to the revelation that was to come.

As they yet again chattered like two gossiping old hens, banding her name about, Peter's ear pricked up. "Merce? Did you lot say Merce? I knew a Merce once. Years ago. Before I even met you Pagey!" He laughed before reminiscing. "She was a tiny little thing then. Just a dear. All raven curls & outstretching arms ready for a hug. She could tug on your heartstrings though. She could ensnare a bloke just like her mum & grab before her. Yeah. Just like Olga & Gloria themselves." With each word it became clear that Peter was losing himself more & more in his reveries of yesteryear.

"Would the names Rojas or Quintero play into this at all, Peter?' Jimmy queried carefully.

Peter nodded. "Gloria's last name was Quintero but her maiden name was Rojas. Olga's last name of course."

"Yeah! Yeah thats her!" Robert cut in. "That's the girl! Her mum's name is Gloria & her gran's is Olga. The whole nine yards! That's her!" He shook the newspaper articles about young Merce & her family that he & Jimmy were then perusing.

Peter leapt to his feet faster than one would think possible. He bounded over to the lads & took the papers from Robert, studying them intently.

The room fell into silence.

Both Jimmy & Robert studied Peter as intently as he did the papers.

The silence was only broken by a suddenly misty-eyed Peter whispering a single word. "Gloria..." As he lost himself in the pictures of Merce's early youth tagging alongside her glamorous mum in years past.

"Yeah..." Robert hushed, in a voice that seemed so careful as to tiptoe around Peter in his moment of quiet yet keen emotion. "They say this Merce is taking after her a bit. Doing a bit of dancing herself. Making quite an impact it seems."

"She's like the Garbo of the scene apparently." Jimmy added quietly. "A sensation on the scene and yet not all at the same time. She's a huge hit in her field, yet so unreachable behind the scenes. Unless you have an in with her tight little circle, you hardly have a chance see her. They say she never sees anyone backstage. Only family & the like."

"That sounds like Merce." Peter chuckled & nodded. "That's Merce. I see she hasn't changed. Shy dear. Such a sweetheart."

A beat passed before Peter cut his eyes at the guitarist & vocalist in his midst.

"You want to meet her don't ya?"

Robert & Jimmy both nodded. A bit meekly at that. Naturally.

Peter nodded, stroking his chin as he mused. "Knowing Merce the Zep name won't open the door anymore than any other Hit Parade name. No matter if she listens or how much or if she likes or loves or how much. Big names don't sway her. They never have. Stardust don't account for much with her. She grew up backstage."

"Good girl." Jimmy smiled. Garbo mystique or not, he already liked what he was hearing of this new girl.

"How do you suppose we go about it then, mate?" Robert asked.

"I think I can get you in. Perhaps. On one condition." He cut his eyes at the pair again.

"What?" They both asked in unison.

'You lot have to be on your best behavior. No treating her like some slag off the street. Or some barfly. I shouldn't have to tell you that she's not like that at all. Nor should she be treated as such. I won't have it. I won't stand for that." Peter sounded very avuncular as he spoke. Fatherly even. But the edge remained in his voice. Decided. Firm. No nonsense. Knowing him as they did they both knew there would be no fooling Peter Grant.

And so it was that Robert sputtered out. "Of course not!"

Jimmy shook his head firmly, pledging. "Wouldn't even think of it. You have my word of honor."

Peter held their gaze for a moment before sighing & dashing off a quick note which he tucked & sealed into an envelope that he marked with her name. "'Ere. It says in the paper here that she has a show coming up. Knowing you lot I already know you're going to go. Have one of the stagehands or the like tell her that Peter Grant wishes to send his regards. And when she allows you backstage. - which I think she might - give her this. But make sure only she opens it. "

The boys were a fountain of effusive thanks, handshakes galore & backpatting.

It was only a moment later that as he was about to leave, Robert twigged. "Hey wait... Exactly how did you know her & her family, mate?" He turned around to face Pete, awaiting the elder's answer.

But by the time he turned back, Peter was gone...

Slipped out a backdoor...

With a handful of articles on the Rojas Quintero clan in tow...

~

As ever this is forever under construction~!

Hope you guys all enjoy~!

[cero-tia]

In which the nightmares come

Most nights, the dreams didn't come. Most nights, the manor was calm and peaceful, with quiet footsteps on stone stairs and the gentle crackle of firewood in the huge yawning fireplaces. The servants spoke quietly amongst themselves as they cleaned up after the meal and performed the tasks that kept the house a home. The butler conferred with the hunt master about how to plan future meals with future catches, the maids swept through with their feather dusters and brooms, and the old nurse settled into an old chair by the fire with a hot pot of tea. These nights, it felt like a home, and the young lord was soothed.

Some nights were not so smooth. The wolves crept close to the high stone walls and the heavy iron gates creaked ominously as ferocious winds seemed determined to pull the towers down to ruins. The fires seemed smaller and the pools of light cast by the thick taper candles were weak and flickering, barely holding the shadows at bay. On nights like these, the cruel truth of the happy home threatened to tear through the chinks in the drafty walls and the threadbare tapestries. The servants clustered in small groups like pallid, fearful ghosts, unwilling to draw attention to themselves. On nights like this, the young lord of the house stayed by the nurse's old chair in front of the guttering fire, on old blankets and worn pillows pulled from guest beds that hadn't felt a body in a decade.

He remembered the worst night of his life best when the storm and the forest raged around the castle like this. It hadn't been so foul on that day, but this was the weather that felt like it matched his heart and his fear the best, so this was when the nightmares came strongest.

He remembered being in the forest, and being further out than he was supposedb to roam—there were wolves in the forest, but there were also birds and squirrels and baby deer to watch, and patches of berries in the dappled light where the forest gave begrudgingly to a few rays of sunlight. All he had wanted were the berries...and so it was that he had snuck out of the garden, away from his nurse, to where he could feel the leaves and soft loam beneath his paws. He loved being out here, even if it got him scruffed or chastised if he got caught—it was worth it for the adventure, the treasure of sweet bramble berries and warm little bird eggs to hold.

He could hear the nurse calling him as he ran, laughing to himself at his cleverness. He ran and ran through the woods, leaping over logs and diving between twisted tree trunks, squirming his way between dense thickets until they gave way to open clearings—

The child skidded to a halt on all fours and froze. There was something else in his berries today...someONE else. He rose onto his feet slowly, wiping dirt from his fingers onto the dirty red linen of his little suit. He had never seen a man like this before—for it had to be a man, even if it looked nothing like his father. His father was tall and the color of leaves in the fall, with glossy fur he kept well brushed and horns that curled down low over his forehead. This man was smooth, covered in furs and leather and parts of animals.

They stared at one another for a long moment where not even birds sang above them, until the child sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. The stranger sank to one knee slowly, hand extended, offering out a slow smile that warmed his dark skin and made his honey-gold eyes crinkle at the edges. They were beautiful, and his strange dress captured the youth's curiosity enough that he was enticed to step forward in turn, watching warily. One little hand reached out, covered in a fine layer of fur the color of wheat fields in the rosy glow of sunset, each dirty finger tipped with the baby nub of a young claw, and lit slowly on the outstretched thumb. His fur was such a bright contrast to the black leather, even in the dim forest light, and dwarfed by the size of the broad palm.

Their two hands moved carefully around each other's, like two birds each afraid to move too fast lest they startle the other. The softly furred fingers moved over the worn, warm leather that felt so much like the pads of his own toes, and the young lord remembered wondering in that moment what the long fingers looked like under the gloves. The child's wide, trusting eyes looked up just in time to see the kind eyes harden, and before he could recoil the stranger snatched for the boy's shoulder.

The first instinct was to shove the hand away and wriggle out of the stranger's grip, to turn back to the protective thicket of brambles and flee back to his home again. Hackles up, teeth bared in a startled snarl, the lad twisted in the grip that had immediately tightened to a painful iron hold and refused to release him. Now he could see that the stranger held one hand behind his back, hidden under his cloak, and the child's ears flattened against his head as fear made icy prickles run down the back of his neck. He braced his feet and tried again to shrug out of the fierce hand on his shoulder, looking up at the dark smirk with a child's growl--

But what came out of the child was bigger than his body, bigger than the thicket they stood in, and it shook the silent birds out of their hiding places in the trees above the pair. The boy's father burst through the thorny vines behind him, exploding through the brambles to land on all fours with a roar that would have loosened the bowels of weak men. The boy took advantage of the moment to throw himself backwards out of the black gloved grip, hitting the ground with a yelp but never so relieved to be in trouble with his parents before in his life. He would never go so far out of sight again, he would be the most obedient child in the provinces, whatever they asked for.

Another harsh grip seized him by the back of his neck, jerking him off the ground by his soft scruff as his father bellowed "Take him!" The boy's mother clutched him to her chest, and he could hear her heartbeat from the run through the forest and the adrenaline of the confrontation. He dug his fists into her clothes and tried to see around her, to watch the facedown between his father and the stranger. Now there was a glint of metal in the stranger's hand, the one that had been behind his back--a long curved blade that hooked wickedly through the air as the hunter made a feint towards the mother and child. That was all the boy got the chance to see as his mother turned and fled, crashing back through the brush towards home and safety. A crack echoed behind them, ringing sharply through the forest as a whip snapped through the air. The boy had heard whips crack before, but this one had teeth in its sound, a vicious bite that rattled in his ears like the air itself had snapped its teeth in his face. Thunder rumbled behind them--hoofbeats?--but did not pursue. The sound of confrontation faded under the pounding of the boy's own heart in his ears, until his mother paused for a brief moment to release her grip on him and give him a swat to get him running on his own.

And then she stopped, and the frightened boy turned to look back at her. She stood upright, chest heaving with fear and fury, soft honey-golden ears turned towards the fray they had just fled. The thunderous hoofs were far fainter now, but the crash and crack of fighting was still easy enough to hear even at a distance--his father was roaring furiously, and the snapping cracks sounded off like breaking tree branches, and then it stopped too abruptly. Both mother and child waited with baited breath for a long and painful moment, and still his father did not follow.

The boy was startled when his mother whipped around and grabbed him by the face, pulling him close.

"You turn around and you run, do you hear me? You run home, and you run fast, and you do not look back. Run. Run, now!" She pressed a kiss to his forehead and spun him around, and he was too frightened to disobey. What else could he do but run? He dropped to all fours and ran like the rabbit through the trees and bushes, not stopping when he cut his paw on a rock or when briars snagged the collar of his suit and tore. He couldn't hear anything but his mother's order echoing in his ears, urging him on and giving him strength.

He burst into the garden through the gate, scaring the servants nearly witless as he did, but his nurse was there and he ran right to her skirts and clung to them as he gasped for air. They stooped to check his scratches, to ask him questions, but he was panting too hard to answer and could only stare back into the woods, waiting for the trees to yield his parents back to him. They would follow him home, and beat him for his idiocy, and he would be grateful for it because they would all be safe. The hunter wouldn't follow them, and they would have their little forest kingdom back again.

Except the woods were peaceful behind him, and eventually even the birds began to sing again. There were no cracking branches or rustling leaves, no movement save the slow shift of sunlight through the dappled leaves as the household watched and waited. Eventually the boy caught his breath and could tell them what had happened, what he had seen, what his mother had told him. His nurse made the sign of the gods against her chest and hugged him closer, and still they waited.

Light grew rosy as the sun slowly sank into the trees, and some of the assembled servants slipped away to see to the necessary running of the house. There were still meals to make, and surely the master and mistress would not want the house ground to a halt when they returned. Except they did not return, not that night. And not the next morning when the boy woke from where he had fallen asleep in the open window, because his nurse could not convince him to sleep in his bed. They still had not returned upon the following sundown either, and the servants conferred with whispered voices where they thought the boy could not hear them about what they were to do now. With no master or mistress to lead them, it fell to the child to become the Master of the House, although he would refuse the responsibility of it for a long time, certain that his parents had only gotten lost in the woods, and would yet return.

Back in the stormy night, the present time ten years later, the young lord of the house pushed the tangled blankets off of himself and sat in the dark for a long moment, catching his breath from the horror of his nightmares. The warm glow of the coals in his fireplace guttered softly as the winds whipped around the chimneys high above, lighting his path through the room to the window. The crack of the whip and the heavy thunder of hooves still whispered into his ear as the young man settled into the pillows under the window, staring out into the storm and trying to quell the lingering bitterness of his memories.

[magic-to-write]

Once again, sorry this is late. That said may I introduce:

Chapter 4; Dinner and Psychic powers.

Theo and Ridley arrived at the shop; Ridley wore a nice blue dress under her lab coat, Theo was in his tuxedo. The moment they walked in Leila put them to work.

    "We're arranging a Magic Misfits centerpiece for the dinner table." Leila said, she was already dressed in her straitjacket; though she'd left the sleeves untied so that she could carry items from the shop.

  Ridley looked skeptical, "And why would we want to do that?" 

    "In honor of two generations of magic clubs." Carter said, bouncing on his heels.

    "Plus, seeing how great our magic club is might get Dad talking about the old Emerald Ring." Leila added, tossing Ridley a stuffed parrot.

  Glancing around Vernon's Magic Shop made Leila suddenly nostalgic for the time she'd first arrived from Mother Margaret's Home. Walking through that front door, as the little bell sounded over her head, Leila felt like she'd stepped into wonderland she'd only read about in books. The high-ceilinged room contained every color of the rainbow. The windowpanes were painted bright purple and green. The rugs that covered the rickety wood floor swirled with ochre stripes and red dots and yellow lightning bolts. The glass jars filled with toys and tricks reflected sunlight, casting beams into the far corners of the room, catching the glitter embedded in the plaster walls. For a moment, on that first day, Leila had been certain that it was a dream she'd wake up from; in a way, as time passed, she had.

  Friends, you might already understand that it's impossible to live surrounded by such magic without it eventually feeling somewhat normal. Thankfully, her fathers were able to remind her how special she was simply by taking her into their lives and giving her the attention and love she deserved. The magic in the shop was the icing on an already delicious cake.

  The quartet gathered supplies from the shop's hidden nooks and secret drawers. Then they took the small service elevator upstairs to the dinning room. Leila always giggled when she rode the elevator. Who had an elevator inside their home?

  Leila laid the black top hat from the shop on its side in the middle of the long wooden table. The other Misfits surrounded the hat with trick wands, playing cards, knotted ropes, feather flowers, whoopee cushions, tiny cups and foam balls, balloon animals, miniature human skulls made from clear plastic, rainbow-colored glass vials, along with the stuffed bird from earlier; that looked like Presto. It appeared as if everything was spilling from the top hat like a magical horn of plenty. Leila placed her favorite candlesticks- cast iron and shaped like little witch boots -on either end and then lit the tips of the tall white tapers.

  The light from the setting sun came through the gauzy curtains, and it- along with the glow from the candles -gave the dinning room an aura of enchantment.

    "Perfecto!" Said Leila, "This'll get them talking." 

***

When Poppa returned home from the resort, he brought Sandra Santos with him; which Mr. Vernon had declared there was a God when he saw her, which Sandra found very funny. She wore a more simple dress, it was a white with red fabric roses dotted on it, her hair was up in a messy bun. The same white star-shaped earrings dangled from her petite earlobes. According to fashion magazines, every fabulous woman had one or two signature accessories; the stars were Sandra's. She greeted the Misfits with air-kisses.

    "Oh my!" Sandra said, examining the table spread, she turned back to the Misfits, "Did you all make this?"

    "Leila lead us." Theo piped up, putting a hand on Leila's shoulder.

    "Yeah, it was her vision." Ridley said. Leila didn't look at them she just couldn't look away from Sandra; Sandra looked so proud of Leila, it was like how a mother would look proud of their child. It made Leila feel like she was glowing.

  Carter set the needles down on the record player on the sideboard, and playful jazz music danced around the room. Leila was startled out of her own thoughts.

    "The Magic Misfits welcome you to dinner." Leila said; trying to make a quick recovery. she then bowed.

    "The best part is how all of this will magically return to the shop at the end of the night!" Said the Other Mr. Vernon.

  Leila's Poppa brought out plates filled with steaming lobster Mac and cheese, fried green tomatoes, parmesan potatoes, and spaghetti squash with marinara. Everyone gathered at the table, their mouths watering as the Other Mr. Vernon filled crystal glasses with fresh-made lemonade that glowed in the candlelight.

    "This all looks so good!" Sandra said, with a wide smile.

    "The best. As usual." Said Theo.

    "Thank you, Mr. Vernons!" Ridley said, with a smile.

    "Dig in while it's hot." Leila's Poppa instructed.

  The sounds of silverware clacking against plates sounded out like chimes, until Sandra interrupted, "Wait!" She stood up, her dress caught on her chair and she would have busted her face in if Mr. Vernon hadn't grabbed her; somehow Sandra didn't spill the drink in her hand. "First, a toast! To old friends!" 

  Mr. Vernon smiled and chuckled, his thin black mustache decorating his top lip. "To old friends." He echoed. They all clicked glasses, took quick swigs, then got back to the task at hand- filling their bellies with delicious grub.

  The table was filled with chatter, Sandra and the Other Mr. Vernon talked about the food; Sandra seemed to know a thing or two about cooking. Ridley and Theo were sneakily doing magic tricks to mess with each other, Carter even joined in making eye contact with Ridley as he made the salt shaker disappear, that nearly got them caught because Ridley was about to burst a seam from holding in her laughter. Leila was about to join them, wanting to tie Theo's fork to his spoon, but was stopped when Sandra said something that drawed Leila's attention.

    "Oh, how I adored this old building as a child." Sandra said; apparently the Other Mr. Vernon had gotten up to fetch the key lime pie. leaving Sandra to her thoughts. "Remember the magic shows we put on for passersby? Or that time we destroyed the house because we couldn't find Lyle during hide and seek?" 

    "Lyle would always wins, that day Kilory was determined to best him." Mr. Vernon said, his eyes far away, like if he tried hard enough he could go back to those moments. "We never did find where he had wiggled himself into." Leila sneaked a glance at Carter. At the mentioned of his father, he had sat up straight, his eyes not leaving Sandra and Mr. Vernon.

  The Other Mr. Vernon passed out slices of the luscious pie and they were passed around until everyone had one, all well Sandra went on.

    "Best of all, we'd stay up late, telling secrets and making up stories, daring one another to guess which were true and which were lies." Sandra then scooped some pie into her mouth, letting out a hum of pleasure at the taste.

    "Can we play?" Leila asked, hoping to learn more about her secretive dad.

  Sandra glanced at Mr. Vernon hands clasped together, like she was begging. He shrugged and then nodded.

    "Only if you go first, Leila." He said.

  Leila thought for a moment and then stood. "When I first came to live in Mineral Wells, I was so amazed by my dads and their shop and my new home I was certain I'd wake up from the best dream ever." 

    "Well, that's obviously true." Ridley said, "You've told me that same line almost every week since we met." Leila shrugged and chuckled. "My turn!" Ridley rubbed her hands together like an evil genius, "I once won a soapbox derby contest by decorating my chair as a giant shark." She declared proudly.

    "That never happened." Theo said, "Or else we would have heard of it already." 

  Ridley deflated, her lips curling into a frown, "it'll happen one day. And you guys will help me put it all together." 

    "Let us invite Sandra to go next." Theo said.

    "Surely!" Sandra cleared her throat, "When I was going through some of my mother's things in our old house, I discovered that she'd kept some drawings I'd done when I was young. I'd copied images from some playing cards that I really loved. I never knew she'd paid close attention to my interests..." Sandra was staring at Mr. Vernon her mouth slightly agape, like she wanted to say something, but couldn't find the words. She took in a sudden breath of air, and continued, "I just miss my mother, I guess." 

    "That’s is all true." Mr. Vernon said with a sad smile.

  Sandra perked up, shaking off her sudden melancholy as if it were merely a slight coating of pixie dust. "Who's next?" She asked.

    "I'll go." Volunteered the Other Mr. Vernon. "Before it was a magic shop, this building was a jazz club." 

    "Totally false." Leila said.

    "Actually, that's quite true." Mr. Vernon said.

    "Dad, how could you not tell me?" Leila asked, her voice showing her amazement.

    "I suppose it never came up."

    "Now you go, Dad."

    "Me?" Asked Mr. Vernon. "Why me?"

    "Why not?" Asked Carter, the most confident he has been since Sandra has arrived.

  Mr. Vernon tossed his hands in the air, giving up. "Okay, then! Secrets and stories. Truth and lies. Which will it be? Let... us... see..." He leaned forward and stared intensely at each of his guests.

    "Got one. As you all know, a long time ago, I lived in this very apartment with my parents. Downstairs, my father established a little store that he called Vernon's Magic Shop. You see, my father was the original Purveyor of the impossible. I loved watching him do magic tricks for the customers. I was most impressed when he'd transform one item into another right before their eyes. I begged him to teach me. But he refused, insisting that the best way to learn a trick was by figuring it out for myself." 

  Mr. Vernon picked up the green bird plush that looked like Presto from the centerpiece and held it in his plam. "And so I did. One day, I decided to show my father what I had taught myself. I took his coffee mug, still holding some coffee, and placed it on a clean plate. Then I dropped a top hat on top of it, like so..." Mr. Vernon placed the stuffed animal on the table, and placed the centerpiece top hat over it.

    "My father waited patiently as I waved my hand around the hat, like this, and said 'abracadabra!' Then I lifted the hat from the counter. And the coffee mug was no longer there- instead, a snow globe with a wintry scene of Mineral Wells sat in its place. My father was so proud. I remember clearly how he beamed at my self earned ability. Little did he know, I broke his mug during the trick, which is why he never saw the mug again. But, I've gotten quite a bit better since then..."

  Mr. Vernon whipped the hat off the plate and the entire table yelped.

  Instead of the plush bird, Presto the very real parrot sat there and squawked at them. She bounced up and down, as if impressed with herself. Mr. Vernon set the hat back into the center of the table and held his finger out to the bird. The parrot stepped on, and he brought her up to his shoulder. After a fluttering of wings, she perched there.

    "Now tell me, kids." Said Mr. Vernon, "Was that story the truth? Or am I lying?"

  Carter knocked on the table, using Morse code to answer:

- •-• ••- - ••••

  Ridley burst into applause. "Very good, Carter!"

    "It was the truth, Dad!" Leila beamed, "The absolute truth!" 

  Mr. Vernon bowed his head, and the whole group broke into a round of applause. Leila felt giddy. Having Sandra here seemed to brighten up Mr. Vernon, he was talking about his past, a smile never left his face; it was like seeing Sandra was the same person that she was when she was younger was a huge relief to Mr. Vernon. 

    "How did you do that, Mr. Vernon?" Asked Theo. "Presto was in her cage downstairs when we came in." 

    "I know how he did it!" Carter said, he leaned forward putting his elbows on the table, "First you need a mechanism-"

    "Indocilis privata loqui." Mr. Vernon interrupted, holding a finger to his lips.

    "What's that supposed to mean?" Asked Leila, "Are you trying to tell us some sort of new code?"

  Her dad motioned like he was zipping his lips, and then, with an invisible key, he pretended to lock them up tight. The Other Mr. Vernon shook his head.

    "What have I told you about no animals or speaking Latin at the dinner, Dante?" The Other Mr. Vernon said.

    "Latin?" Leila echoed. "Since when do you know Latin?"

  But Mr. Vernon pretended he no longer heard her, "Can't we make an exception?" He asked the Other Mr. Vernon. "My old friend is here."  

  Sandra snickered, "Please James, it took forever to convince him to learn with me when we were wee little."

  Mr. Vernon ran his fingers through his hair, showing it was white all the way through. "I'm not so young James, I need more Latin." 

   "You aren't going to die from a lack of Latin." The Other Mr. Vernon said. Mr. Vernon looked him in the eyes and gave a little fake cough. The Misfits burst into laughter, The Other Vernon smiled.

  Sandra seemed to have an idea and she nearly fell out of her chair, with after a quick recovery she nearly yelled "Who wants a reading?"

  The kids clamored their approval.

    "I'm not sure if I'll compare to Dante's little story, but I'll try." Sandra clicked her tongue and squinted. The room went silent as Sandra sat with her eyes closed for about ten seconds. When Sandra's eyes opened, Leila almost didn't recognize the woman who looked back.

    "Running, running, running... the smell of smoke, the rush of a train... there are many trains... more than I can count... counting... the shell game... a feeling of shame... followed by... escape!" Sandra's head turned to Carter so fast Leila feared her head would popped off. "Does that mean something to you Carter?" 

  Carter flinched back, his posture similar to that of a cat wanting to smack something that had frightened it. Carter glanced at his friends, their mouths were agape.

    "Yeah... it does. Before I came to live with the Vernons, I... I traveled by train. A lot." Carter finally managed to say.

  Sandra tilted her head for a moment. "That time is over for you. Forever."

    "Good to know." Carter said. When Sandra's gaze turned away Carter relaxed.

    "What about me?" Ridley said.

  Sandra turn her gaze to Ridley, Ridley stiffened up under Sandra's gaze. Sandra grinned so wide it HAD to hurt.

    "Words... tangled in one's throat... fueling the fires of frustration... love... confusion... the want of her attention..." 

    "THAT’S ENOUGH!" Ridley yelled interrupting Sandra. Sandra laughed, but Leila heard two sets of laughter; one slightly different then Sandra's.

  Sandra's gazed fell upon Theo.

    "Many voices... a house filled to the brim with voices..." She whispered.

    "My brothers and sisters are all coming home to visit this summer. In just a few weeks. My mom and dad are really looking forward to it." Theo said.

    "Something new... no... someONE new... loud... prideful... over the others... bringing the sound of... violin to everyone's attention... they will help you through this..." that seemed to startle Theo. Before he could recover Sandra turned to Leila.

  The moment Sandra looked at Leila, her neck hair stood on end, the air felt thick. Leila felt her muscles tense to the point she was frozen in her spot. Leila wasn't sure if she could speak like this. Leila was dizzy, but Sandra squinted. Leila forced a smile onto her face.

    "Footsteps. A knocking at a door."

    "Thank goodness." Leila thought. That didn't mean anything to her.

    "A gift... a key..." Leila's heart jumped into throat. Then Sandra continued; her voice became so stern it scared Leila a little. "Do you know?"

  Leila thought of the key on the string in the tin box, the one that she'd had since she was a baby. But she didn't want anyone to know about it. The secret made her feel strong. Still, she found that she couldn't lie to this woman.

    "Yes." Leila said, as confident as she could. Mr. Vernon gave Leila a quizzical look, but he didn't pry.

    "This key will become important in the coming days." Said Sandra, then gave the next part almost like an order. "Keep it close."

  Then Sandra just went back to her pie. What ever spell Leila had been put under had broken the moment Sandra looked away, leaving Leila to ponder how she made her feel like that. The static feeling in the air that surrounded Leila felt too real to fake. The Other Mr. Vernon looked horrified at what just happened at his dinner table. Mr. Vernon did not seem surprised.

    "Do you want to see some of our tricks? Theo, Ridley, Carter and me" Leila said, trying to push past what just happened.

    "Oh! Could you? Please." Sandra said.

    "Carter, show Sandra what you can do." Leila said, sounding more nervous then she would have liked.

  Carter snatched up Ridley's spoon from the table. With a flick of his hand, the spoon disappeared. With his other hand, he reached beneath his plate and retrieved the spoon. He returned Ridley's spoon to her.

  Sandra gasped. "That’s quite good."

    "Now, Theo." Said Leila. "Go on."

  Theo removed his magical violin bow from the pocket of his tuxedo pants and held it over the centerpiece. Slowly, the top hat flipped upright and began to dance in a small circle around the table.

    "Amazing!" Said Sandra. "Bravo!" 

  Ridley shook her head. "I'm not a circus monkey, and I do not perform on cue!" For a moment, everyone thought she was really upset. But when she picked up her napkin and tossed it onto the table, it turned from white to bright blue instantly, "What trickery is this?" Ridley said with a wink. She picked up the napkin again and gave it a shake, and it turned green. "Stop it!" She yelled at the napkin, and it turned red. Everyone laughed.

    "And don't forget Leila." Said Carter. "She can escape from anything. Look, she already wearing her straitjacket."

    "I'll just need to get my locks from my bedroom. Dad, can you help set me up?"

    "Escaping at the dinner table?" Asked Mr Vernon. "I'm not so sure about that."

  Leila was silent for a few moments just looking at Mr. Vernon. He must of saw something in her eyes.

    "That is a very good argument." Mr. Vernon said, snapping his fingers. "You talked me into it. Let's go!"

  Sandra stood up from the table, "While you do that, would someone point me towards your powder room?"

    "It's in the same place it's always been." Said Mr. Vernon, nodding towards the hallway. "We haven't done any remodeling since I inherited the building."

    "The end of the hallway right?" Sandra thanked him and made her way down the dark passage.

[doecreature]

hi this is eight hours late and i'm sorry but for the oc meme, 😨🍩💐🌹🌱📣🎵🌪️👖💗💖 for sparrow? you don't have to do all of them if it's too much

hi!! thank you so much!!!!  😨 FEARFUL - when scared, do they go into “flight” or “fight”?  fight! Sparrow is a small animal and just acts on instinct  🍩 DONUT - favourite sweet treat?  this is a weird answer without explaining where the story is set, but i don’t think they’ve ever had sugar? so fruit i guess??   🌹 ROSE - do they like valentines day? have they been confessed to before? have they confessed to anyone before?  they don’t have valentine’s day, but she’s been confessed to!! they were very close to Hawk for a long time before realising it was love, but she was very surprised he like liked her back

🌱 SEEDLING - what is their most vivid memory from childhood?  i don’t want to say too much, in case i do actually make this comic one day hehe

📣 MEGAPHONE - how loud are they? what do they speak like? got a voice claim? not particularly loud but very blunt, so the way they talk stings a bit if you’re not expecting it. Sparrow speaks with a lot of imperatives (especially when they’re mad), but he’s trying to be conscious of how he comes across  i find it SO hard with my characters to think about what they sound like, so i have no idea about voice claims, i can’t even think about what accent they’d have! 

👖 JEANS - what is their go-to outfit? kind of only has two outfits story-wise,,, but design-wise i wanted him to be top-heavy, so he feels a little like he’s balancing and unstable on his lil stick legs. and the idea with the big hair and big sleeves is that thing birds of prey do to fluff up their feathers to make themselves look bigger when they’re defensive! 

🌪️ TORNADO - what is the biggest change you’ve ever made to them? how have they changed from their original version?  they’ve changed a LOT!! i think biggest is personality, his original version used to be nice and sweet and kind of a pushover and he just kept getting nastier and nastier ajkndkajk my tastes really changed! i’m really into characters where their flaws are their most obvious traits, so all the characters for this story are like that, and Sparrow kind of became the main antagonist as his goals shifted  with her design, mostly i got better at pushing shapes and i really enjoy drawing fun body types so i got more playful with giving her weird proportions. also her hair kept getting longer and her eyes kept getting bigger 

💗 GROWING HEART - if they have a crush, is it noticable? what changes when they’re in love? they hate liars and they’re bad at lying so it’s very obvious when they have a crush because they just become so different, it’s really hard for them to hide it. when she’s REALLY flustered, it’s the only time she struggles to get words out or avoids making eye contact. she’s a lot gentler when she’s with Hawk (not that he needs it, but he appreciates it). they also go really red when they blush!!!  💖 SPARKLING HEART - are they a subtle or a showy lover? both she and Hawk are big on physical contact, they just like to know eachothers there!! other than that, they’re not hugely into pda. Sparrow has no shame over anything and everyone knows they’re together and nobody cares, it’s more that being together is so normal now they don’t feel they need to make a big deal out of it  send me an emoji and i’ll tell you about my ocs!

[loud-whistling-yes]

... So, turns out I did end up writing a part 2 to the oneshot after all, considering im pretty sure red techno anon has now birthed a new au. hooray...?

@wildcardjoey good morning! this thing is 2400 words long. god help me.

(tagging people last i knew wanted a part 2: @parchmentengineer @dragongobrr @carbonated-roses @sunny-is-in-the-void @offcameras @cc3204 ​)

Edit: now available on Ao3! 

.

“The fuck are you people doing down there?” Tommy hollered, voice echoing down the canyon. The group — five people, he counted, all looked up to him.

“Watch your language!” One of them shouted back, and Tommy snorted, a grin creeping up his face.

“Dick!” He cupped his hands and yelled down at them. “Ass! Fuck! Shit! Bitch! Cock! Dick, dick, dick, dick-”

The one with the red helmet and a stupid backpack stomped their foot. He burst out laughing. Oh well, things were getting a little boring around his house anyways, he could use some entertainment.

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

“How did you get here? Pretty sure this server is private or some shit. Y’all just gonna-”

“Why won’t he stop swearing.” Grian complained through gritted teeth. Pearl laughed. 

“You’ve challenged him into a battle. I don’t think you’re gonna win anytime soon.” She grinned, studying the funny boy up the canyon. He had blond hair, tied into a short and messy ponytail behind him, and was that a butterfly clip in his hair? Around his neck was a faded green bandana over a white t-shirt with sleeves as red and loud as his voice was.

The boy squinted. At least, Pearl was pretty sure he was squinting — it’s hard to tell from the distance. 

“You guys need a rope to get out? No one dug a staircase down yet.” He hollered at them. 

“We’ll be fine, thanks!” Grian replied, pulling off his dummy suit. The rest did the same. Pearl stretched her wings. Hers were nowhere as bulky as Grian’s or Impulse’s bird and demon wings, but moth wings are unfortunately a lot less foldable than theirs. The hard backpack Scar made for her might’ve saved her wings from tearing, but wow was her back sore.

Impulse raised an eyebrow, eyeing Grian’s head. “Grian, buddy... looks like your horns got bigger...”

Grian looked over to him, hands reaching up to touch the side of his head, before humming in amusement. Ever since he first got the Tegg at the start of Season 8 (wow, that felt like ages ago) little horns had poked out from the top of his head. They grew horrendously slowly throughout the season. In fact, Pearl was pretty sure his horns barely grew over an inch over the course of six months? Now though, his horns curved up from his hair, much more similar to Impulse’s than before. It must’ve grown at least an inch- no, two inches since their escape.

How long had they been in the void?

“Your wings are changing too,” Mumbo pointed out, gesturing at his molting wings. Grian’s red-yellow-blue feathers of a parrots’ scattered in a mess on the ground, his wings currently in awkward patches of black and the old colours. He unfolded one of the limbs, revealing that the wing was almost completely covered in black scales, turning purple at the tips. Small clumps of parrot feathers clung stubbornly onto the leathery skin, refusing to come off no matter how hard he shook. 

It was silent for a moment. Even Grian himself stared in shock.

“Holy shit, you people have wings?! Where the fu-”

“Grian, when did you have dragon wings?!”

“I mean-” Grian squeaked, everyone electing to ignore the screaming teen above them- “They were molting a bit on the last week before the moon big thing happened, but I thought it’d take forever for them to change completely, not-” He turned his backpack upside down, an impressive amount of brightly-coloured feathers were dumped onto the floor- “this!”

“Well, we did spend like a week’s time floating through the void.” Scar scratched his head. “Maybe that kicked off your dragon puberty?”

“Scar, I love you, but never put those two words together like that ever-”

“Are you guys gonna come up or what?”

“Coming!” Impulse replied for the rest, stretching his own wings. “Grian, you take Mumbo and I take Scar?”

“Sure,” Grian shrugged, trying one last futile attempt at patting off the last of his feathers before grabbing onto Mumbo by the armpits, Impulse did the same with Scar. Elytras were banned on the ship to save space in the suits. Unfortunately, that meant that both Mumbo and Scar will probably have to rely on Grian and Impulse for the foreseeable future. Pearl wished she could help, but alas, having wings as thin as paper was not suitable for carrying the weight of more than one person (she tried it with Gem once; it took her respawning to fix that nasty tear through the back). 

Grian flapped his wings. Once, twice, and the two of them lifted up into the air. Then Grian titled to his side with an awkward turn and before they knew it there was a sharp yelp and Mumbo was back on the ground with Grian collapsed onto him. 

“You guys sure that you don’t need help?”

“I’m fine,” Grian grumbled, pulling himself and Mumbo up. Pearl turned to the blond boy up the crater and gave him a thumbs up, laughing awkwardly. 

“I think the feathers are throwing me off-balance..” Grian dusted himself off, yanking at one of his feathers before hissing in pain when it stayed on the leathery skin. He massaged the area he pulled at, probably regretting his decision. 

He flapped his wings again, testing his flight abilities. Once, twice, thrice, he was well over their heads by now, the wind sending the feathers he dumped on the ground flying as well — then he took a sudden swerve right. Pearl ducked as he crashed onto the floor yet again, feathers fluttering back onto the ground and over him. 

“I could’ve braided the goddamned rope needed to get you guys out by now with the time you’re taking to fly.”

Pearl giggled, watching as Mumbo pulled Grian off the floor, dusting off his feathers in the process. She cupped her hands, yelling at the general direction above her. “We’re stuck, could you go get the rope?”

The boy sprinted off, presumably to get the aforementioned rope. 

“If dragon wings are anything like demon wings,” Impulse chuckled, folding his own wings back down, poking at Grian’s scales. “Then you’ll have to wait till all those feathers drop before you can fly again. They’re really fussy about balance.”

Grian groaned, wings folding out and raised fully like they do when he gets distressed. Back when his wings were feathered they would’ve puffed up as well just to get the point across. Now though the remaining strands of feathers stood up awkwardly amongst the unfazed dragon scales — it was quite a pathetic sight to be honest. 

“The horns took forever to grow out,” Grian complained, head in his two hands. “How long is shedding a few damned feathers gonna take?”

“Oi!” The voice Pearl had begun to grow accustomed to echoed down the crater, interrupting their current conversation. The boy from earlier returned, hand full of a large bundle of rope. Beside him was another person, dragging a hammock behind him.

The person- what were they, actually? They looked almost translucent, as if light went through them without any acknowledgement from their part. They wore black-and-white all over, cloak floating and fluttering in odd ways unlike the wind would do. Even their skin was black-and-white, split down the middle, and they were tall, taller than the other boy by a head, if Pearl had to hazard a guess. 

They turned to the boy, nodding as he seemed to give them some instructions, before he turned away and disappeared from the ledge with one end of the rope with him. The person sat down, taking the rope with one hand and the other holding- were they tying it to the hammock?

They got up after a while, both hands full of the now stringed-up hammock, peering over the ledge and looking over at the group. Pearl was pretty sure they had green and red eyes.

“Oh, hello!” They— oh wait, it’s a he— he greeted, head tilting as he studied the group. 

“Hello!” Scar broke into his characteristic smile, waving at him.

“Tommy’s tying the rope to the fence over there,” The person— ghost?— pointed his chin at the general direction of where the boy had gone. “He said you guys can’t fly? I don’t really know why he said that, considering the only two-”

“Boo!” The boy — Tommy, Pearl now knew him as, hollered from somewhere she couldn’t see. The ghost turned to look behind him. “Yeah?”

Soon enough, Tommy came back in sight, hands now lacking the rope he was holding onto from earlier. He muttered a few words to the ghost— was his name Boo? That’s a cute name— before being handed over the hammock. 

He threw the hammock down towards them, the fabric landing on top of Grian, much to his annoyance. A shriek-like laughter rang from above.

“Very funny.” Grian muttered, pulling the green hammock off him. The rest bit back their own laughter.

“Who’s the lightest of you bunch down there?” Tommy tugged at the rope, causing the hammock to jump up-and-down. There was no hesitation; they all pointed at Grian.

“Get in there, we don’t have all day!” He ordered. 

Grian crawled into the hammock, grumbling all the way. “This kid is gonna be the death of me.”

“Oh come on, he’s helping!” Mumbo laughed, patting him on the back. The hammock suddenly shot up, and Grian yelped, almost falling off. He swung side-to-side like an out-of-control swing.

“Don’t fucking move!” Tommy’s voice rang down again. “Boo, pull harder- You’re really fucking heavy, you know that?”

Grian gritted his teeth, probably resisting the urge to inform Tommy that if even Mumbo could toss him over the shoulder with one hand it probably meant that Tommy had the physical strength of an endermite soaking with a weakness potion if he found him of all people heavy. Then the hammock suddenly dropped and Grian screeched, before catching his heart halfway up his throat when the falling stopped. 

“You guys need help up there?” Impulse asked, hands cupped together and looking up.

“I thought you people- oh my god this was a fucking mistake- coudn’t fly?”

As if on cue, both Pearl and Impulse opened up their wings. Impulse tilted his head at the others. “Are you guys gonna be okay down here?”

Mambo nodded, before continuing his concerned spectation of Grian being dangled up the canyon walls. Scar gave them a thumbs up. “We’ll be fine, I’ll make sure Grian doesn’t go splat on the ground!”

Impulse shook his head, hiding his smile, and the two of them were off. Pearl landed first, earning a startled yelp from Tommy and an amused “Hello!” from Boo, followed by an extremely distressed Grian screaming as Tommy loosened his grip on the rope. The line went taut suddenly, and the screaming stopped. 

Pearl turned behind her; Impulse was gripping onto the rope, chuckling awkwardly. “Hey guys…”

“You’re telling me only that guy can’t fly even with wings?” Tommy blinked, before looking over the cliffside to stare at Grian.

“I heard that!” Grian yelled from somewhere below. 

The rest of the process went a lot more smoothly afterwards, Grian back on solid ground after several quick tugs with Impulse on the team, followed by Mumbo, and Scar was picked up by Impulse while the rest focused on getting Mumbo up, just to speed things up a little. 

“So,” Mumbo started, after everyone had managed to pull him up the cliffside. “Asking on the behalf of everyone else here, who are you guys, and where exactly are we?”

Just as the same time Tommy mutters “Shouldn’t I be the first to ask?” under his breath, Boo answers cheerfully. “Oh, I’m Boo — Ghostboo is my full name, this is Tommy, and you’re on the Dream SMP!”

“I’m sorry, we’re in the what-” Grian cutted himself off, head spinning towards the sky above the canyon, eyes snapping into full attention. “Our stuff!” 

The entire group stared at the sky, Boatem searching wildly for whatever Grian picked up, Tommy and Boo squinted at the sky, puzzled at the reactions. A flash of dark colours appeared in the sky, from afar it looked like random objects on parachutes. Pearl focused harder at the spots, a cow, a horse… Nugget!

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

“Is that a fucking horse in a parachute.” Tommy deadpanned, watching as the demon and the moth hybrid sped through the air to catch the slow-falling animals mid-flight. At the other side of the L’Manhole the other three people yelled from the ground. The guy in the red sweater in particular — was his name Grian?— danced around like a headless chicken, staring up into the sky and screeching whenever a weird black object swayed in the wind.

“I think the girl is holding an egg.” Boo shielded his eyes from the sunlight, observing the scene like it was a drama spoken in a different language: you can kinda tell what the people are doing, but sure as hell ain’t gonna know what the fuck is going on in the bigger picture. “Oh wait, no, it’s a black cat- oh wait no it’s a black cat and a big black egg.”

“Why the fuck, in the two damned dimensions, would there be a big black egg.”

“Don’t look at me, I don’t know ei- oh! The demon guy is shoving the cow and the horse towards the water.”

Tommy looked down at the crater. Sure enough, there was the shadow of a horse and a cow slowly growing larger over a pool of water down below. “I think he also has a white cat with him,” Boo added, watching as the girl swooped back down to the ground near the three other people. The guy in the red sweater scooped up the gigantic egg, black wings wrapping around himself protectively like a goddamn mother hen sitting over her eggs. 

“Pretty sure the cat is yellow, Boo.” Tommy argued, studying the scene across the canyon. “Also, did the red guy lay that fucking egg or something? Why is he so… like that with it.”

“Incoming!- Oop, the horse is in the water now… and the cow. Do we have to pull them up with the hammock too?”

He sighed, watching the five new lunatics scramble around one of Eret’s towers, rescuing the random animals that fell from the sky. Again, they never told him how they got here?

“What the fuck…”

[novelizt]

NEST OF OURS ☁︎ keigo takami

GENRE ➺ fluff, drabble

SYNOPSIS ➺ life between an early bird and a night owl

AUTHOR'S NOTE ➺ i honestly didn't edit after writing so i'm crossing my fingers so it comes out decent

 The sun cut through the gaps in the curtains, breaking between Keigo's feathers, and shining on your face. A lovely gold slanted across your nose would have been welcomed on a normal day, but not on the morning after a 48-hour shift.

 Saying you were exhausted felt like an understatement. Your limbs felt like led, your eyes could barely focus, and the tremor of a headache was beginning to thrum on your temples, threatening to trip you up if you didn't get a wink of sleep.

 You were all too thankful that Keigo was home on time. Practically flinging yourself at him, you were out like a light. His wings tucking you securely against his frame for the rest of the night.

 It was perfect. Husband and wife cocooned beneath the covers trying to catch up on missed sleep... And then the sun had to go ruin it. Oh, fuck you, you blazing epicenter of the solar system!

 As much as you tried to convince yourself to go to back sleep (even flipping over to further immerse yourself in your winged lover), you felt the sinews of sleep beginning to slip away until nothing but deep dissatisfaction was left behind.

 "For fuck's sake," you cursed. Barely above a whisper. Already tired of the world's cruel shenanigans this early in the day.

 You slowly came to the realization that Keigo was awake. The arm draped over your waist tightened to fasten you against him was evidence of it. Lightly nuzzling his chin onto the top of your head before chasing it with a kiss. "'Morning, lovebird." His greeting was lilted in a drowse. Raspier than usual and sleepy, as expected. But it was Keigo, and the bare minimum made your mind blank as if it was the first time you'd woken up in his embrace.

 As always, he placated your dislike for the morning with a close-lipped smile. Too aware of how treacherous morning breath could be. That didn't stop him from placing a chaste kiss on your pouted lips. Returning to resting his head above yours as you nudged your nose against the juncture connecting his neck and shoulder

 "Morning, lovebug." You finally replied after a moment of quiet. Your tone more tender with the sun's previous offense leaving your mind.

 As much as you enjoyed the cuddles, you knew he'd get antsy sooner or later. Itching to take a morning flight as he usually did. A habit he kept up even after marrying you. It was good to keep himself fit and start off his day. Heaven knew the guy would stay in bed if he could help it.

 And as you, predicted, his wings began to shift. Miniscule movements that made it clear that he was trying to stretch them without hassling you. To his luck, you sat up — groggy, but awake enough to rub the sleep out of your eyes. Freeing the wing that somehow got caught beneath the pair of you in the night.

 His arms stretched as his feathers did, rattling some of the furniture on the bedside table. Making enough ruckus to make you sit up, alert, but not enough for anything to actually topple over. After all, Keigo grew accustomed to being careful even if it was daylight. A little adjustment he made after moving in with you.

 And as you foretold, one of them fell over your frame. Flexing to pull you back to his side for a much-needed hug. His arms giving you a quick squeeze before he pulled away and stood. Heading for the closet to fetch a pair of jackets. One for you and one for him.

 “Come on, pretty girl. Time to get some air.” He encouraged. Pulling you up by the arms as soon as they were through the sleeves of your — his — jacket.

 “‘S too early though,” you rebutted, rubbing your eyes. Not believing the morning came so quickly.

 “The earlier the better. Then we have the whole day to do other things — or each other. Whichever you prefer — ow! Okay, kidding! If you ever change your mind though . . .”

 A smile pulled at your lips, smacking his arm with the very little strength you had at this time. “Just get me my slippers, please.”

 “My pleasure,” He quipped. Acting too happy to be fetching your slippers — slippers that matched his, thank you very much. It was one of those cheesy his and hers pairs you bought for cheap, but he treasured them because they were the first purchase you made as a married couple.

 Before long, you found yourself outside, on the balcony. Clutching the jacket closer and waddling as close as you could to Keigo to steal warmth before he took off. Vermilion encompassed most of your vision, the fiery hue of his feathers a gentle reminder that the past few years had been true after all — and the rocking chair on the balcony was yours and yours only.

 “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He promised again as if he didn’t every morning. Turning around to cup your cheeks and place a tender kiss on your forehead, nose, and lips in order. Wings stretching to the heavens before he perched on the railings and took off. Leaving wisps of red behind.

 Your smile stayed plastered on your face. Your senses waking up slowly as the sun rose higher and the breeze got warmer. You sat in the rocking chair, overlooking the view of the city and tracing the silhouette of your beloved hero with nothing but a full heart making you eager to carry on with your day. The tiresome events of yesterday melding into ‘just another bad day’ as Keigo returned. Hair wind-swept yet grin unrelenting. You couldn’t help but smile back. What a beautiful sight.

⚘ SEPTEMBER PROMPT LIST DAY 16: ROCKING CHAIR ˎˊ˗

pls- the rocking chair doesn't play a big role cause my brain is dead at the moment

⌠ @dahliaroseanne 2021 ⌡

[dreamwritesimagines]

Burn The Witch 12 - Bad Surprise [Bucky Barnes x Reader]

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful support and feedback my loves ! ❤ Here’s the next chapter, I hope you like it as well and please let me know what you think! ❤ Thank you! ❤❤❤

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: Enemies to lovers, fake dating, mentions of blood, sex, violence, death, manipulation, language, guns, knives.

Summary: Sometimes plans have to change.

Series Masterlist

Every job required something from people, and your job was no different.

Being a spy was not a conventional profession, everyone knew that. You were expected to be on the move all the time, be a good liar, be a good fighter, be whatever the job told you to.

And most important of all; never show fear, which you were usually fine with. You had learned long ago how to keep your calm in times of crisis. You had even managed to keep your calm facade when your last mission required you to play Russian Roulette with a target in order to keep your cover.

But this? This was something else.

Bucky cleared his throat to stifle a laugh as he looked down at you.

“Is it just me or are you using me as a human shield against a peacock right now?”

Your eyes snapped up at his for a moment before you turned your gaze to the peacock again, taking a subtle step to Bucky’s right to keep him between you and the animal.

Coming to the zoo was his idea, and you thought it could be a fun experience. You had never been to a zoo before, and it would count as one of the old times dates, so you were almost giggly by the time you got there.

Right until now.

“I think peacocks don’t have souls.”

“Alright.” Bucky sipped his coffee while you tried to ignore the fear bubbling at the pit of your stomach, eyeing the peacock that walked around the area behind the fences.

“I’m serious,” you insisted “What if it attacks me?”

“It’s not going to attack you Y/N.”

“It could,” you said, “It looks like it wants to attack me.”

The peacock fanned out its feathers all of a sudden and let out a squawk, making you jump out of your skin.

“Fuck!” the curse left your lips and Bucky’s eyebrows rose, an amused grin pulling at his lips.

“Sorry!” you said quickly, “Sorry, I…I don’t trust peacocks.”

“You got mugged in a dark alley and got shot, and a bird is where you draw the line?”

Correction, you were once held at gunpoint by the Italian mafia and peacocks were still where you drew the line.

“That’s not a bird.”

“….Peacocks are birds.”

“No, that’s the devil looking like a bird,” you said, “In-in bird shape. Bird shaped demon.”

“Okay, how about we see some other less threatening animal?”

“Let me check—oh my God Bucky they have sharks, I love sharks!” you said, waving the brochure in his face and he pulled his brows together.

“Sharks fall under the less threatening animal category?”

“Of course they do!” you said, looking at the brochure before looking around, “I think the aquarium is over there, let’s go.”

You grabbed his hand to entwine your fingers with his as you both started walking towards the huge blue structure.

“So I feel like I shouldn’t ask because I know you can’t exactly tell me the details,” you said, “But you’re not going on another mission soon, are you? This week?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, “Why?”

“I’m kind of planning something.”

He tilted his head, “What are you planning?”

“Not a club, relax.” you said, “Although I find it quite ironic that you’re this unstoppable brave superhero with super strength who gets intimidated by dancing.”

“I’m not intimidated…” he grumbled under his breath, making you giggle.

“Whatever you say,” you sang, and reached the entrance of the huge building and you pulled your hand out of his.

“Excuse me sir, is the aquarium still open?” you asked the security guard by the door and a small smirk appeared on his lips.

“Yes but it is closing in ten minutes sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?

Jesus Christ….

You smiled politely at him, batting your lashes.

“Oh—“ you took a look at the sign, “I just want to see the killer shark and we’ll be out. In five minutes. Please?”

He eyed you up and down but seemed to snap out of it when Bucky cleared his throat behind you as if warning him, making the guy gawk between you two.

Even you had to admit you seemed like a quite unusual couple. You were wearing a short white sundress with ruffled sleeves and sweetheart neckline with your hair loose while Bucky looked as if he was there to kill someone, a complete opposite of you with his dark jeans and black leather jacket as well as leather gloves.

You didn’t even have to turn your head to know that he was glaring at the guard before the guy shifted his weight, then stepped aside.

“Enjoy.”

“Thank you!” you said, grabbing Bucky’s hand as you led him inside. He followed you without any objections whatsoever, in complete silence as the sight of blue filled your vision along with many fish swimming behind the glass.

“You don’t even see it, do you?” he asked softly and you pulled your brows together.

“Hm?”

“Does anyone ever say no to you?”

You approached the label by the glass, “You do.”

“Do I?”

“All the time,” you nodded, still reading the label but your head shot up when you felt him tug you by the hand. A giggle escaped from your lips as he turned you around so that you could look up at him, then wrapped his arm around you to scoop you up, making you squeal.

“Bucky!”

“All the time?”

“Put me down!” you said, your laughter echoing in the empty aquarium halls and he tilted his head.

“Not until you explain yourself,” he teased you, “All the time?”

“Sometimes, sometimes!” you said quickly, “Very rare times I might add!”

“Mm hm, I thought so.”

“If you drop me, I swear to God—“ you started but was cut off when he pulled you into a kiss, making you wrap your arms around his neck. He took a step with you still in his embrace and you gasped as you felt your back hit the thick glass, but every single protest you could think of seemed to disappear from your mind as you lost yourself in the kiss. You raked your fingernails over the nape of his neck, making his grip around you tighter-

Then someone coughed.

Bucky pulled back instantly and you turned your head to see another rather annoyed technician leaning on her hip, watching you with her brows raised.

“Aquarium is about to close,” she said, pointing at you, “Take it elsewhere.”

Bucky put you down and you tried to fix the skirt of your dress, trying to look presentable.

“Sorry!” you said as Bucky mumbled an apology beside you as well, and the technician shook her head and walked away, talking about how she wasn’t getting paid enough for this. You covered your face and let out a whine but Bucky chuckled, causing you to lower your hands to stare up at him.

“Why is this entertaining for you?” you exclaimed and he held your wrist, gently steering you to the exit.

“Come on.”

“We can never come here again, ever.” you insisted as you followed him outside. It didn’t escape your notice that he bumped his shoulder into the security guard’s quite hard, almost knocking him over on your way out and your jaw dropped.

“That was mean!”

“Nah, he had it coming. Are you hungry?”

“But you could get in trouble. Besides, he was a nice guy—“

“Uh huh, a nice guy who was ogling you.”

You pulled your brows together, pretending to be confused, “Oh I’m sure you misunderstood.”

He tilted his head and pulled you closer to wrap his arm around your waist, then brushed his lips against yours, making you sigh.

“Bucky, it was mean and you can’t just kiss me to distract me—”

“I can try,” he murmured to your lips before kissing you again and you looked up at him when he pulled back with a grin.

“Fine,” you admitted, still pouting. “I’m hungry. Starving actually, let’s eat something.”

                                                    ***

You were finding it harder and harder to convince yourself it was time to go home after every date with Bucky.

Scratch that, you were finding it harder and harder not to invite him upstairs.

But of course, you would have to report it back to the General and discuss the further strategies with him and for some reason, it felt more of a betrayal than this whole thing.

Surprisingly enough, it was something you wanted and not something you would will yourself to do because of the mission. There was no denying it, he was an attractive guy and you really liked spending time with him and you kept having dreams about him and whenever you were with him you had this lightness in your mind, as if you were a different person.

A better person, maybe.

You shook your head at your thoughts and left your apartment to knock on Keith’s door.

“It’s me, open up.”

You heard footsteps before he opened the door and a boyish smile pulled at his lips at the sight of milkshakes in your hand.

“Jesus, finally!”

“I made it at home, can’t promise it’s good,” you said as you walked past him into his apartment and stepped into the living room, “What are you watching?”

“James Bond,” he grinned at you, “Hey, have you ever tried milkshake with gin?”

“No?”

“Me neither, let’s try it.” He said, taking the big glasses from you to pour gin into them. You sat on the couch and took a look at the screen.

“How many times have you watched this again?”

“Like a hundred,” he handed you your glass and you took a sip.

“Not bad,” you commented, putting your feet up on the coffee table. He sat beside you, keeping his eyes on the screen.

“What did you do today?”

“Had a date.”

“With Barnes?”

“Yeah. At the zoo.”

“He took you to the zoo?” he asked and you nodded.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And peacocks are fucking scary,” you muttered, “And hey, we learned that Bucky is the jealous type.”

“The guy was dating people back at 40s, I could tell you that much myself.” He snorted, “Chloe says you went on a mission with Julian?”

You slipped a little on the couch, “He’s an asshole.”

“I know. Is he really that bad in bed?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Nah as much as I hate to admit, he’s pretty good. Unfortunately.”

“So top or bottom?”

“He goes either way to be honest, that comment was more about me.”

“About you?”

“Yeah, I like to be on top.”

“Suddenly everything about you makes sense,” he murmured and you took another sip of your milkshake.  

“Don’t try that with Barnes though, the guy is from 1940s. He’s probably used to missionary only, you don’t want to give him a heart attack,” he wiggled his brows, making you scoff.

“Shut up.”

“Chloe is right, maybe you should go full on vintage on that when the time comes.”

You turned to look at him.

“Speaking of Chloe,” you said, “Anything you would like to tell me?”

Keith’s grin faded slightly and he shifted his weight, “Like what?”

“Bringing her coffee, taking her out to the field…” you trailed off, “What gives, man? I thought we had a deal.”

“We never had a deal,” he defended himself, “You slammed me back during training years ago at the academy and told me not to even think about it when you saw me looking at her.”

“No,” you shook your head, “Five years ago, in Ireland. That undercover job, the one that almost got you killed? We made a deal.”

He swallowed thickly, looking down at the milkshake before taking a sip. “Y/N…”

“Keith, you can’t,” you insisted, “She deserves a normal life, a normal family and kids and a dog and stuff.”

“I know,” he ran a hand over his face, “I know.”

“Then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a spy,” you said, “You said it yourself, spies die like flies.”

“Not all of them,” he said, “General is still alive. He has a family.”

“Yeah, one in a hundred,” you said, “Face it. That’s a very low possibility for us.”

“You don’t think you’ll get to grow old and have a family and all that?”

You pulled your brows together.

“No,” you said, “Of course not. I’m probably going to die in one of these missions.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“Keith, I can’t have any of those,” you said, “I can’t. I…it’s impossible.”

“Don’t you want to?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” you muttered, “I made my choice ages ago.”

“Y/N,” he sat up straighter, “Do you want to?”

With a very bad timing, your imagination went overdrive and a strange scene flashed before your eyes. You laughing in Bucky’s arms, watching two kids playing in the garden-

You shook your head, trying to shake off the thoughts.

“I could never have that,” you stated simply, “You might love Chloe and you might also be lucky enough to have her love you but…it’s not the same with me.”

“I’d say Barnes loves you.”

A bitter smile pulled at your lips and you bit inside your cheek, taking another sip of your milkshake.

“He loves someone who doesn’t exist,” you managed to croak out, “He loves my cover. He could never love me.”

                                                           ***

Spending the night at Keith’s and drowning your sorrows in gin and milkshake meant that you would have a killer hangover the next day. Unlike Keith, you didn’t have the luxury to sleep until the noon, seeing that you had a cover job to keep so for the whole day until noon, you walked around like a zombie.

Coffee helped though. Just a little.

Thankfully it was a slow day at the shop. After serving a couple of people, you had nothing to do other than seriously considering sticking your head in the freezer to get rid of the hangover.

“Long night?” Tara asked as she walked past you to put the straws into the cup and you nodded, groaning.

“Remind me not to drink, ever.”

“I make that promise to myself every Monday, does not seem to work.”

You chuckled, “Have you ever tried to mix gin into milkshakes?”

“No?”

“Don’t,” you shook your head as you helped her to move an empty milkshake container into the kitchen. “It’s a terrible idea and I’m experiencing the consequences of that mistake right now.”

“That sounds like a fun night though.”

“Fun night, terrible morning,” you let out a laugh as you walked out of the kitchen but as soon as you did, your eyes caught the sight of the man in the shop. Your smile was wiped off your face as the familiar anger filled your system.

Jesus Christ, this day sucks.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you asked and Julian had the audacity to shoot you a grin.

“Whoa cute outfit,” he said, eyeing you up and down, “Holy shit I didn’t even know I was into this whole thing, I’m having an epiphany.”

You looked over your shoulder to see if Tara was still in the kitchen, then turned to Julian.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was craving milkshakes,” he stated, “Hey, would you recommend Lavender Macaron?”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

“I think I’m gonna go with Lavender Macaron, makes me think of France,” he said, “Fun times.”

“Fun for you maybe.”

He shot you a look, “Come on Y/N, we didn’t leave the honeymoon suite for two days. That was the greatest-“ he lowered his voice, “Mission I’ve ever had.”

“You’re putting this entire operation in—“ you started but stopped talking as soon as Tara walked out of the kitchen. Julian raised his brows for a moment before smiling at her and you went under the counter to grab his arm.

“Y/N, is everything okay?”

“Just peachy,” you said as you dragged him out of the shop, and he heaved a sigh, following you.

“No I’m serious…” he said with a chuckle as soon as you both stepped outside, then motioned at the uniform, “This is something else.”

“Why are you here?”

“I heard that it was good, I did not think it was this good.”

“I’m seriously two seconds away from punching you.”

“How come you never dressed up like this for me when we were dating?”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you insisted and he shrugged his shoulders.

“I was around.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want,” he said, “Your shop has good rating, although I’m beginning to believe it has less to do with milkshakes and more about the waitresses.”

“Julian I swear to God—“ you started but you were cut off when someone cleared his throat, making both you and Julian turn your heads. Your stomach dropped as soon as you saw Bucky watching you two with a frown and you withdrew your hand from Julian’s arm.

“Bucky,” you breathed out, “Um-hi.”

“Hi,” he said without taking his eyes off Julian, and you could almost see the wheels turning in his head.

He was trying to decide whether he was a threat to you.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I figured I could drop by,” he said, crossing his arms, “What’s going on?”

Fuck.

Fuck, you had no idea how to turn this around. Thankfully neither of you had said anything about the mission, so it was more than likely that Bucky just knew you knew each other, but other than that, your cover wasn’t blown.

“Nothing! Nothing at all, he’s just—“ you stammered, trying to come up with an explanation, “He’s um—“  

“Oh come on Y/N, don’t be one of those secretive people,” Julian said, “You hate secrets. You’re Bucky, right? I heard about you.”

Bucky just raised his brows, his glare on him unwavering but even if it was quite chilling, Julian was a trained assassin just like you were, so he was used to it. Instead he curled his lips, looking between you before offering him his hand.

“I’m Julian,” he introduced himself, shooting you a grin as if you two shared an inside joke “The evil ex-boyfriend who’s gonna take her from you.”

Chapter 13

[julek]

my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

+

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

+

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

+

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

[tooweirdforyou]

Hi, I'm glad your ask box is open I've wanted to send a request in for a while. Your work is so good!! I was wondering if you could have Law, Sanji, Marco and Katakuri reacting to there s/o wearing a cute onesie. Just imagine Law reacting to his s/o in a polar bear onesie that would be cute.

Law, Sanji, Marco + Katakuri Reacting to A S/O In A Onesie

A/N : I’m so sorry requests were closed for so long, ;-; but thank you 🥺🥰🤍 I hope you enjoy this! This was cute~

Summary : These boys reacting to their significant other in a cute onesie.

-

Law

“What are you wearing?”

Spinning in a small circle, you lift the hood off your head and smile brightly at Law. “What? I think it’s cute!”

Stretching out your arms and feeling the rather comfortable and fluffy fabric on your skin, you grin at Law and his taken back expression.

“What do you think?”

Law presses his lips into a firm line, just slightly biting his lip at, the possibly most adorable and cute sight he’s ever seen.

“Since when do you wear these kinds of things?” He mutters, trying to keep his voice steady, but honestly, he absolutely loved how you looked in that polar bear onesie.

Pouting at his question, you bring back a soft smile and pull up your hoodie to display the cute ears attached to it.

“I saw it in the last island we were at. It was in one of the stores and thought it looked cute.” You answer, your smile brightening with each word you spoke.

“Come on, doesn’t it look adorable? Bepo seems to think so. And Penguin and Shachi complimented it too!” You excitedly say, bouncing in place excitedly.

Law stares at your excitement, a small glint running through his eyes as he tilts his head in the slightest, feeling a bit of amusement and warmth filling his heart at how joyful you were.

“..it looks nice.” Was all he said but it was more than enough for you. Especially since you could tell he was trying not to expose his pink cheeks.

Smiling at the doctor, you go over and peck his cheek, since you were in his office, and pat his chest.

“I’m glad you like it, I’ll be wearing this more often then~ now, are you almost done? I want to cuddle.”

-

Katakuri

“[Name].”

Hearing your name, you snap your head up a bit too quickly, causing the hood to fall off your head. Looking up to see your lover, you smile brightly and crawl off the bed.

“Kata!” You excitedly call, finally glad he was home as you ran over to him eagerly, spreading your arms wide to hug him.

Slowly, Katakuri returns your hug with the faintest pink tint on his cheeks before he pulls away to look at you and your outfit.

“What are you wearing?”

“A onesie. The color’s cute isn’t it? Looks just like your mochi!”

Taking a small spin in your plain creme-white onesie, you beamed brightly at him.

Katakuri widens his eyes at your comment before he looks closer. Slowly, heat began to rise to his cheeks as he averts his eyes and brought his hand to pull his scarf more over his face.

“..Yeah. It does..”

Katakuri felt shy, that you decided to wear a rather cute little outfit when he got home, and much more of its color resemblance to his devil fruit.

Noticing his small discreet action, you giggle at him and peck his cheek, hugging him tightly before pulling away again.

“I’m glad you like it too then. I’ll wear it more often. Now come on, you were gone for days! Let’s cuddle and tell me about your mission.”

Reaching for his hand, you began to guide him over to the large bed for the two of you and climbed onto the bed as Katakuri hesitantly takes off his scarf and climbs on.

Laying on his back, he pulls you on top of him and held you close.

“Wear this from now on. Whenever I come home.” He mutters quietly and your smile softens, chuckling a bit at him.

Nodding, you snuggle into his hold. “Of course. Now share how your mission went.”

-

Sanji

His heart bursted.

Sanji has died.

Recovering from his fainting, Sanji wipes his blood-dripping nose and bites his lip to prevent himself from swooning and gushing at the sight of you.

“Oh, my lovely [Name]-chan! My eyes aren’t worthy to see you in something so adorably cute!” He exclaims dramatically, holding out a rose and averting his eyes, holding a hand over his face.

Having walked into the kitchen to get a glass of milk, you just stood there speechless when you saw Sanji completely passing out at the sight of you before now kneeling before you.

Tilting your head and smiling at the chef softly, you extend your hand to take the rose, the long sleeve of your onesie brushing against his skin.

He couldn’t help but felt feel his heart clenching at your soft touch and adorable sleeve as you stood in front of him, wearing a penguin onesie.

“Sanji, get up. What are you doing?” You laugh softly and held your hand out, your hood up and showing your little penguin beak and eyes on it.

Sanji felt his nose leaking a little more and he saw stars in his eyes at how cute and innocent you looked.

“Come on, let’s get some milk before we go to sleep, okay? Let’s go.”

Pulling him up, you began heading over to the fridge to get your milk, Sanji following after and wrapping his arms around your waist immediately, completely calming down now.

“If you wish, but let me, madamoiselle.” He says sweetly into your ear, gently kissing your temple before grabbing the milk from the fridge, mindful of Brook’s reserved one, and then grabbed a cup from the cabinet.

Smiling at Sanji’s kindness, you walk over and lean into him, letting him feel the soft fabric of your onesie against his skin once more.

Forcing himself to remain calm and still, Sanji could feel his insides about to burst at just how precious you were and in that onesie.

-

Marco

“And to what do I owe the pleasure of seeing this-yoi?”

Chuckling slightly from his desk, Marco set down his pen and leaned on his palm, elbow resting on his desk as he stared over at you from the doorway.

Standing there was you, holding a mug to your lips where a nice warm cup of hot chocolate was inside, and since your arms were up, he could see the feathered wing design of your outfit, you dressed in a little bird onesie.

It was a teal / turquoise blue too. Just like his Phoenix form.

Feeling the curve of your lips move up, you enter further into the office and close the door. “I’m cold, and this is rather comfortable and warm.”

Marco chuckles more at your response and stands up, taking off his glasses and sets it down.

“It looks cute. Did you get it recently?” He hums, walking over to you and took the mug from your hands, bringing it to his lips to drink as well.

“Yeah, the last island we visited. Reminds me of a particular someone.” You grin a bit, turning to let him see the cute little tail at the back and then extended your arms like wings, to show off the designs.

Marco reaches over you to pull up your hood to reveal the cute beak and eyes of the birdie and laughs aloud at it, his heart filling with warmth at how cute it looked.

“How adorable-yoi.” He compliments, amusement in his tone, chuckling even more as he hands back the mug and leans to kiss your forehead.

“But next time, if you wanted warmth from a blue bird, especially a Phoenix, you can just ask me, [Name]-yoi.”

-

A/N : some of these might not have proper endings because they might be too long- or because I wasn’t sure how to end them ;-;

IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, THIS WAS CUTE TOO BUT I NEVER GOT AROUND TO IT!

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

wonderland, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: The curious thing about adventure is that you never know when it starts. For Jeon Jungkook, it starts on a train, staring at a woman with exposed shoulders, eventually leading to his lips on her wrists, his tongue dancing over the words, eat me, drink me.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; graphic descriptions of fantasized sexual acts (fem reader, slight ink kink, biting / marking, dry humping, m and f-receiving oral, cowgirl, a ridiculous amount of sexual tension); non-idol!BTS; Alice Adventures in Wonderland themed; strangers-to-lovers; (purple-haired) Jungkook's POV; based on this

--

"How do you know I’m mad?" said Alice. "You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn’t have come here.”

excerpt from alice's adventures in wonderland by lewis carroll

He swallowed hard.

He shouldn’t be staring.

But he was.

She turned her head and looked right at him.

He quickly jerked his eyes away, zoning in on a screw bolted to the floor as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He should not be gawking at some random woman on the train. That was creepy, no matter how attractive she was. Her outfit was eye-catching, that was all. He had noticed her because of the off-the-shoulder, v-neckline of her black-and-white tartan top that exposed her shapely collarbones and shoulders. The floaty bishop sleeves ended with delicate hands that were elegantly poised on her bare knees, complete with a flared black skirt that revealed most of her juicy thighs because of her crossed legs. And those calves. Fuck. All that and it unexpectedly ended with chunky, ribbon-laced black boots.

Beside her was a black leather purse that was shaped like a coffin.

It rested against her hip.

The train screeched to a stop and people began to move, shoes appearing in his line of vision. She didn’t notice, right? No. Of course not. He just… zoned out. He wasn’t staring at her collarbones and shoulders, imagining planting kisses over that skin, running his teeth over them and leaving bright red marks.

Shit, what the hell was wrong with him?

Someone sat down on the seat next to him. He scooted closer to the window, away from whoever it was. There were plenty of seats on the train. Something hit the outside of his thigh, flat and oddly-shaped.

Out of his peripheral vision, he saw the coffin purse against his black jeans.

He jumped, snapping his head up.

“Sorry about that.”

His eyes shifted and she was looking right at him.

Expression unreadable.

His heart exploded, frightfully fluttering like a trapped bird in his ribcage.

“I-It’s okay.”

She lifted the purse and placed it in her lap. Then she tapped her right ear.

“It’s the earring, isn’t it? You’re curious what it says.”

His eyes darted to the earrings gleaming on said ear. She had three piercings, all silver, two on the lobe and one on the cartilage. The cartilage was a ram skull whose horns curved around the outside of the ear. The two lobe piercings were a hoop with an embedded black stone and a large script earring that dangled down, swinging every time she moved her head.

It read, eat me, drink me.

“It matches these.”

She lifted her hands and turned them around, pulling down the bishop sleeves and exposing her wrists to him. One had a tattoo of a small, square-shaped cake with text printed in the center – eat me. The other was a bulbous, potion-shaped bottle with a vintage-looking tag on it in the same font – drink me.

“Alice in Wonderland,” he breathed.

She smiled at him and he swore his heartbeat multiplied into seven birds feverishly flapping in his ribcage.

She turned her wrists inward, resting them on her purse. “I don’t see many people with exposed tattoos,” she commented, ticking her head to his right hand.

“A-ah… yeah,” he stuttered, covering the back of his hand with his left, leaving only the sheepish emoji tattoo on his upper middle knuckle exposed. “My mom hates them. Well, not hate, but she doesn’t like that I got so many at once.”

“Your mom ever told you that staring is impolite?”

His cheeks burned hot. “S-Sorry!” He bowed his head downward in guilt, gulping nervously. From this position, he could see her hands.

The left was tipped up, exposing the eat me tattoo on her inner wrist.

“Whoa, no need to apologize like that. I was only teasing you.”

He lifted his head slowly and her wrist turned back inward, now simply the back of her hand. His eyes flickered up and she was looking right at him. He almost jerked his head away in embarrassment, but tried to maintain eye contact.

Don’t be a creep.

Her gaze was unwavering, unreadable.

“You think I’m weird, huh?” she said with an amused smile.

He blinked rapidly. “No. No, I don’t. I thought… your purse was pretty unique,” he offered, pointing to it. It made him look down to make sure he was pointing at the right thing.

Her right wrist was exposed to him, the drink me tattoo stark and enticing.

He had a brief, obscene image of his lips attached to it, running his tongue up and down the inked skin, catching a bit of it in between his teeth and releasing it, moan on the tip of his tongue.

He yanked himself out of the moment of jamais vu, quickly switching to her face, his peripheral vision noticing her wrist turned back inward, pressing against the leather. Her lips curved into a coy smirk.

“I get questions about that too, on the regular. I saw it in a shop and liked it, so I purchased it.”

A lock of purple hair fell into his vision, somehow dislodged from his ear, but he couldn’t look away. Something about her tone made it seem like she was going to say more, so he sat there, frozen, captured by those alluring eyes that called to him.

“That and if I’m single or not.”

He felt his eyes widen a little, breath catching in his throat, the birds in his ribcage smashing against their confines, anxiety and anticipation roused from deep within him. Fear wasn’t the right word. It was more like seeing something from the corner of your eye that makes you do a double take, a mix of curiosity and interest, invested in what you might see.

“I am, if you’re curious.”

“O-oh. I… see…”

Her smirk grew into sly delight. She lifted her right hand and placed her palm on her chin, lips against her closed fingers, elbow resting on the coffin purse. Movement slow, deliberate. His lips parted, more violet hair falling around his face. His normal nervousness would have him looking away and pushing it back, but he somehow couldn’t. At least there was safety in this veiled curtain of purple surrounding the edges of his vision. Her hand turned, fingers cupping the left side of her face. Lips sliding down, emphasizing the plushness of them, and he could almost feel the warm inhale on his skin, but there was no way he could – he wasn’t that close and she wasn’t breathing that hard, but that was the feeling he got. Goosebumps prickled on the back of his neck.

He held his breath.

Her lips pressed to her tattoo, the faintest flicker of tongue against the ink.

There was no way anyone would notice unless they were looking very closely to her mouth.

His lower lip trembled, shudder shaking his shoulders.

The train screeched to a stop and the intercom called nonsensically, mumbles as stamping feet rushed out. No one seemed to notice the impossible electricity of this moment, shrinking it to just him, those lips, and that tattoo, the drink me text right there between her lips, an image that he had already seen, except it was his lips on that skin, and that image was imaginary because it only existed in his head.

She pulled her lips away and looked out the window, past him.

“I have to get off at the next stop.”

He was the stop after the next.

“May I…?”

Her eyes drifted back to him. “Hm?”

His eyes flickered down to her right hand, her inner wrist resting on black leather.

“Have a closer look at your tattoo?”

He wasn’t looking at her face. He was staring at the back of her unmoving hand.

“I mean, if it doesn’t make you uncomfortable–”

But before he could finish his sentence, the wrist was turning, lifting, placed right in front of his hungry eyes. Her forearm slid down the leather, grazing her skirt, suspended in the air for the briefest of moments, and then it brushed against his thigh, his left hand turning, and her graceful wrist rested on the pad of his palm, black ink standing out against that skin.

He was touching it.

Holding it.

Her presence neared. His eyes widened.

Goosebumps prickling, her warm inhale feathering right on his curve of neck to shoulder. His white sweatshirt was several sizes too big so the neckline was also oversized, revealing the tops of his own collarbones.

“It doesn’t bother me. Take a look.”

The train rushed into a tunnel, deafening all sound, and then it was only her voice and his gaze on that potion bottle, mesmerized. His hand rose, lifting her arm close to his face, his breathing shallowing. What was he doing? This was crazy. Absolutely crazy.

“If you want, you can bring it even closer. It's quite detailed.”

Insane.

He was lifting her hand, curiouser and curiouser, closer and closer, the script getting bigger and bigger, expanding, taking over his vision. His eyes following the elegant and prominent outline, drink me, the slightly dashed lines that emphasized the roundness of the bottle, the added etched fraying of the edges of the tag, drink me, the way the liquid was drawn to look like it was sloshing a little, as if it was really moving, drink me. He thought it was all in his head.

Her whisper, like sultry smoke, swaying the dangling earrings on his left ear.

“Drink me.”

He pressed his lips to the drink me script and moaned, so soft that she probably couldn’t hear it, but she could feel it on her wrist, vibrating her skin and his tongue tracing the lines, kissing softly, the taste somehow sweet, or was it just his imagination? Was it just a dream or was her body really a wonderland?

The edge of desire, on the cusp of something unknown.

He hadn’t even realized his eyes had closed and he opened them, seeing her looking directly at him, amusement sparkling in those mysterious orbs. He whimpered quietly, realizing how strange this was, how unbelievably weird, and this wasn’t him, this wasn’t something he ever thought he would do, or even something he ever imagined he would ever be in the position to do, kissing the wrist of a stranger on the train, but she pressed her wrist to his lips, her own parting in a faint Cheshire Cat smile.

“Don’t be afraid. I like it.”

He should let go and apologize for his odd behavior. His lips moved on her skin and there was nothing but her taste lingering on his lips, lost in images his head had conjured, tumbling, tumbling.

"Me too," he whispered, looking up into her eyes, silently saying, I don't know why.

Her smile was all he could see.

"You're very handsome...?" She tilted her head, inquiring.

The subway tunnel made the train roar around them.

"Jeon Jungkook."

The smile widened. She lifted her left wrist.

"Would you like to, Jungkook?"

His eyes flickered to it. The little square-shaped cake, eat me. Then back to her, heart racing, lowering her right and her left neared, his fingers slowly encircling her wrist, his eyes following the detail of the small crumbles, eat me, the added line shading to make the cake seem fluffed and appetizing, despite having no frosting or other decorations, eat me, the letters that looked almost stamped on her skin, eat me, and then he attached his lips to it, lightly nicking with his teeth, a nibble that flooded his senses with rushing pleasure.

He looked at her through his lashes, licking at her wrist, and she breathed out, unmistakable desire, her fingertips ghosting his cheek.

There was a sudden bloom of light as the train exited the tunnel, rays of overhead lights expanding through the windows, and he pulled back, gasping, holding her hand tightly, suddenly aware of the world around him, people getting up, sound crackling through the intercom, her hand in his and his thigh pressed against hers, the corner of her coffin bag digging into him because he was so close, so close to this stranger with beautiful tattoos and sweet-tasting skin.

The doors opened.

His eyes darted from her to their joined hands, then back to that faint grin playing on her lips, somehow the only thing he seemed to see.

"Coming?"

His other hand closed around his backpack.

They walked out together, hand in hand.

No one paid any attention to them.

Why would they? They had their own lives, hurrying home, pushing past each other, late for something, early for others. Time tick, tick, ticking, frowning at their wristwatches and wondering where the time had gone, an absurd thought, because time was made to provide linear reason to a nonexistent plane that flowed in every direction and preceded all other things, and so you were always late.

Always.

Jungkook stared at the back of her exposed shoulders, her hair pushed to the left, script earring dangling of her right ear, following on her light steps, all while holding her left hand and watching those muscles flex and relax, spellbound by the movement. She weaved through the crowd, slinking in spaces where he didn't think there was space, stopping for a moment to let someone pass, and Jungkook bumped into her back, his body flush to hers. Because of her tall shoes, the height difference was lessened and those long legs meant her ass and his crotch matched up is perfectly when otherwise they wouldn't.

His breath caught in his throat at the contact of softness to his hardness.

"Thank you for waiting."

The old woman smiled gratefully and the younger bowed her head, letting the elder take careful strides to the escalators.

She rolled her hips into Jungkook's jeans and his unbearable, stiff erection slid down his right pant leg, trapped against his inner thigh and layers of fabric, hot and pulsing.

He swallowed hard, releasing his backpack to grip her shoulder, turning his head so his long purple hair shadowed his eyes and cheek, smelling the tea-like scent of her hair. His inked hand stood out against the nakedness of her shoulder. She turned her head and the long earring bumped against his cheek, icy cold to flushed skin.

The images crept into his mind, them sitting on the train and her in his lap, his left hand pressing her head forward, her hair spilling down, neck and shoulders exposed to his waiting mouth, lips to delectable skin, kissing, sucking, biting, his hands sliding down the curves, pushing her legs apart, spreading them wide, his nails sinking into her inner thighs, her ass on his crotch, grinding down. Marks on those shoulders and neck, her mouth open and soft cries tickling his ears, her hands finding his, eat me on top of his left wrist, drink me above his right wrist, his hands sliding down to wet heat, fingertips pressing into drenched, slick fabric.

What was wrong with him?

"Let's walk a little, hm?"

Jungkook had been holding her left with his left. He let go of her shoulder and readjusted his backpack on his, standing behind her, not quite shy, but still shadowing the path she laid for him, his steps in her steps, his breath on her neck as he spoke in this moment.

"I'm not like this, normally."

He wasn't like this, ever.

"Isn't it alright to fall into abnormality to discover what is wild and new?"

His lips brushed the ram earring on her cartilage, gasping lightly as her hips swayed against the front of his pants, instant, hot, radiating friction.

Her fingers that were laced with his stroked the back of his hand.

This train stop connected to an underground mall, still alive with people and open shops. The scent of restaurants cooking away at this busy time made the air heavy and thick, wafting around the crowd, inciting customers to fill their bellies.

"Does it bother you?" she asked, walking through the crowd with feline grace, but there was a playfulness to her movement. She turned back to look at him, smile dancing on her lips.

"Uh... I... I don't know," he admitted truthfully, staring at those lips, feeling them ghosting his inner thigh, long tongue extending and licking his hard, throbbing length from tip to base before pushing it up, making him gasp, tongue swirling around the bottom, wrapping around his balls, soaking them with saliva, her eyes on him, watching, her wrist pressed to the red, aching, leaking head of his cock, pre-cum smearing all over the words, drink me.

"That's odd, Jungkook. Usually people know if they're bothered by something."

His eyes drifted up from her lips to her eyes, little lights that glimmered or maybe it was simply the sparkly lighting of the whimsical shops around them, crammed full of knickknacks and cute things. Something caught his eye in one of the windows – a writing desk, covered in pastel stationery, set up with pens and half-written notes, as if the busy student had just left the desk.

An obsidian raven plush was perched at the corner of the desk, looking down at the mess left behind by an imaginary child dreamt up by sales associates.

He looked back to her right in front of him. Her head was tilted, her body twisted because he was still holding her left hand. In her right, she held her coffin purse.

"It's not you I'm bothered by," he said slowly, realizing that it was the truth as he said it. Despite this woman being completely unfamiliar to him, a riddling enigma, she had done nothing but present him with things to consider.

"I don't understand what's going on in my head."

He let go of her hand.

Underneath these lights and surrounded by passerby that walked around them without a second thought, Jungkook stared into the eyes of the stranger of his memory.

His hand tentatively touched her waist, waiting for her to step back. She stepped forward, into his warmth. His fingers closed, resting snugly on tartan fabric and the waistband of her skirt, the slimmest sliver of skin in between the two articles of clothing.

She smiled.

"You're a little curious, aren't you?"

His middle finger pushed the hem upward, the pad of his finger directly on her skin.

Her lips parted.

Her left hand raised, touching his chest lightly, elegant fingers barely on the fabric, but he felt more, felt those fingers dig into his sweatshirt and clutch it tightly, pulling it up and over his head, his own left hand pressing her chest down, grabbing the bottom of that off-the-shoulder tartan top, his lips on her stomach, hungry kisses, his hands on her skirt, forcing her to hold it up, dragging her panties down as he looked up at her on his knees before leaning to hot, wet nectar, letting it fill his tongue and mouth, the viscous juices sticking to his lips, his cheeks, sweet and tart, so delicious, and he wanted it all, his hands gripping her ass, fingers of her left hand tangling in his hair, pushing him closer, not letting him go until she was satisfied, her wrist surrounded by dark purple stands curling around the words, eat me.

"You have beautiful eyes, Jungkook."

He blinked, the image gone, feeling his neck heat. "R-Really?"

Her hand lifted off his chest and reached up, nearing his face. Her fingers traced the air, hovering.

"The shape. The way it raises in the center and curves down like this," she whispered to his chin, sounding awed. "The inner corner, so sharp and defined. And the color, like freshly brewed black tea cradled in a delicate teacup."

It was the most bizarre love letter to his eyes that he had ever received and, yet, it suited her and tore his heart asunder, beating wildly in his chest, the anxious birds trapped in his ribcage suddenly released, the stinging air of his rushed exhale making him feel strangely detached, as if his head was no longer part of his body.

"Touch me," Jungkook whispered.

Her fingers millimeters from his face, the eat me cake tattoo and his own purple hair shrouding his peripheral vision.

Fingertips pressed to his right cheekbone, caressing it gently.

He started at her lips and he could feel it, her hand encircling his head, lips to lips, heated, all-encompassing kisses that consumed him, his hands on her waist, pulling her on top of him, his hardness pressed to her softness, sliding in between soaked folds, her gasp on his tongue, gripped by her tight walls wrapped around his stiff length as he pushed deeper, his eyes rolling back as he bottomed out, her tongue tracing his open mouth, her teeth nipping on his lower lip, whispering his name in burning ecstasy, rocking her hips to his, surreal pleasure enveloping him, her hands in his hair, moaning onto his chin as she held onto him, his hands clutching her hips, lost in the heat, the softness, the tightness, the sweetness, thrusting up into her pussy, his cock drenched with her, their dragged-out pants echoing as he took her wrists, one by one, pressing eat me, drink me to his lips, his tongue tracing a circle around the words, staring into her eyes, a wonderland he had yet to discover, all in a golden afternoon.

"Jungkook, may I kiss you?"

He blinked, realizing his gaze had landed on her collarbones and shoulders. He raised his head, a smile forming in his lips.

"Please."

She leaned in and he met her halfway, lips to lips, her wispy, contented sigh as they connected, warm and inviting. His hands around her waist, holding her to him, and her hand cupped his jaw, fingers sliding back to tangle in his purple hair, pressing her chest and thighs to his body, tongue flitting against tongue, teasing, and he wasn't like this normally, truly, all of this was absurd on many levels, but the kiss was like being shaken awake, comforting him from head to toe, the sounds of people swirling around them. Laughter, conversation, footsteps going forward.

The kiss broke. She pulled away with a smile, her lips flushed from the contact.

"What's your name?" he asked breathlessly.

She laughed, leaning against him, her fingers playing with his long violet hair.

Her name, formed by her lips and then by his, the beginning of an adventure.

What a curious, curious happening for Jeon Jungkook.

--

masterpost

[shoutogepi]

Red Roses

Kirishima Eijirou

word count : 7.5k

[ ✘ (nsfw!), flowershop!au ]  

themes : haaaa where to begin… almost dubcon?? (BEWARE!), dom!kiri, size kink!kiri, light spanking, tinyyy bit of ass play, little use of “Sir”

bio : Kirishima decides to educate you on the alternative meaning behind a red rose.

author’s note : this fic was meant to be for the @bnhabookclub​ provisional licensing exam event using their flowershop!au, but alas... i am a lazy procrastinator. anyway you should check them out!! i’ve absolutely loved being a part of something so great. also thanks to all who helped me with this fic <3 buuut special thanks to @lady-bakuhoe​​ for beta reading <3

tagging: @queensynderella @marilla-eldriana @1-800-callmekatsuki​ @hisoknen 

also available on AO3 here

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

🅃he bell tinkles overhead as you step into the quaint store, palm clammy against the metal doorknob and chest tight with apprehension.

“Y/N! Thank god for you,” your friend exclaims from behind the register, sliding over the counter with ease. She shoves the apron she’s holding into your hands before attempting to throw her hair into a messy bun. “I cannot believe my sitter cancelled on me this last minute— my husband has to be out of the house in ten minutes!”

You smile at her gratefulness, but your eyes are not on her. The curtains on the back room part and out steps the store owner, red eyes landing on you. “Y/N,” he greets you, the timbre of his voice low and cool. You nod and smile hesitantly toward him, shifting your attention back to your friend even though you can feel his gaze raking over your body.

Yuki wags a disapproving finger toward the man behind the counter, “Kiri, you better take good care of her!” She commands with a playful yet firm tone, body already halfway through the door you’d just come in through.

Your entire being screams out for you to beg her to stay, but you hold your tongue as you recall it was you who said you’d cover her shift. She already seems to have had the stress lifted from her shoulders at your arrival, and you can’t bear to back out after coming all the way here.

Looking back toward the source of your stress, you can’t help but admire him. Scarlet locks hang down around his face, majority pulled back into a sleek, short ponytail to give you a better view of his handsome face— jawline sharp as his teeth and the scar on his forehead slicing through his brow. He’s tall; well over six foot with rippling muscles adorning his long, tan arms. He’s wearing a crisp, white button down rolled up to the elbows, black and red ink poking out of the hem and trailing down his forearms. The store’s pine green apron is pulled snug around his figure, accentuating his broad chest and narrow hips. You already know his ass looks incredible, even though it’s hidden by the plastic countertop. He’s a five course meal on legs, for Christ’s sake, but you know better than to get ideas— he’s a player.

“Of course,” Kirishima replies across the store after her retreating form. His eyes drift over to you, catching your stare. “I’ll take great care of her.”

The door closes, sealing you to your fate with the red beast of a man. For a moment you just stand there, frozen as your mind runs through a thousand thoughts. Before he can comment about your blatant staring, you rip your eyes away from his, throwing the neck of the apron above your head. Tugging the tie around the back of your waist, your fingers fumble with the thick material as you turn to face him again. “So what should I work on?”

He seems amused at your question, even though it’s extremely valid. Not even bothering to hide the generous once-over he gives you when you've finally tightened the bow behind your back, he takes his time to answer you. “Yuki usually does the ordering for next week’s shipments tonight, but I’ll do that. You can put together some bouquets— I’ll give you one to follow off of.”

You’re honestly surprised that he’s giving you real work to do, but then again, you are covering a shift after all. Kirishima shows you the corner behind the counter designated for bouquet assembly, and he helps you make the first bouquet before he slips away behind the curtains of the back room once again, leaving you alone in the store.

He’d picked a simple bouquet for you to reproduce; a dozen red roses with a few sprigs of baby’s breath and a touch of greenery. The work is pleasantly methodic to complete, and by the time the sky is dark, a small sense of pride blooms in your chest at the pile of bouquets you’d managed to complete. It’s five minutes to close, and not a single customer has come into the store in the last hour. You’re snipping the ends off of the last branch of baby’s breath when you hear the rustle of the curtains behind you.

Immediately the atmosphere of the room changes. The once warm and light mood that filled the shop dissipates, replaced with a heavy, silent tension that causes trepidation to ooze into your veins.

“These look pretty good, Y/N,” Kirishima speaks from behind you, thick fingers moving over the packages of cellophane in a slow, analytical sweep. You roll your eyes, wondering if he’d thought you’d do a shit job or something.

You open your mouth to give him a curt thanks, but your voice dies in your throat as you feel his presence a hair’s breadth from your backside. The heat that rolls off of him licks at your skin through your clothes, your hands fixed midair.

“Though this one’s a little off,” he murmurs, breath washing over the shell of your ear. His hands come into your field of vision, arms absurdly thick and just generally large in comparison to you. His hands are just as big, dwarfing yours as he plucks the dainty flower from your stiff fingers.

The tattoos that peek out from the cuff of his sleeves hold a certain gravity that captures your stare. You watch him tuck the stem among the bouquet in your peripheral, placing it in precisely the perfect location to make the ensemble flawless.

Your stomach lurches when his chest brushes against your shoulders, fingers turning in on themselves to form to meager fists that you place atop the counter. “There,” he whispers, and you can feel just how close his lips are to touching your ear.

His voice does something to you; up close like this it sounds almost akin to how a tiger’s purr rumbles through its whole body. Except it’s your body that it thunders through, an unwanted heat beginning to form between your thighs. You shift your legs slightly, bringing your feet closer together in an attempt to mitigate the sensation.

You nearly gasp when he pulls away, eyelids fluttering shut in relief.

“You’re actually pretty good at this,” he comments, returning to the pile of bouquets that rest along the countertop. He starts to tuck them into his arms, red gaze flickering to gauge your expression. There’s a knowing gleam in his eyes, and you try your best not to allow heat to flood into your cheeks. But he doesn’t push it any further, turning and walking around the counter to crouch in front of one of the fridges that line the wall. You find yourself wishing for the cool air to wash over your own face, and you grab a few bouquets before making your way over to him.

You kneel down next to him, slightly annoyed that even sitting down he’s still at least a head taller than you. Stupid proportional man. You open the door and prop it open against your hip, leaning in to place the fresh bouquets inside an empty bucket, following Kirishima’s lead.

Kirishima watches you from the corner of his eye for a moment. “Thank you,” he says as he continues to fill the buckets in front of him, “for filling in for Yuki, I mean. The shop doesn’t look too busy but it needs two people to keep it up and running, so… I appreciate you coming in.”

His words are unexpected, and they bring a fresh wave of heat to your cheeks. You’d never seen the playboy be so openly appreciative before, although honestly you’ve only seen the fuckboy side of him— the one that eyes you down, and blatantly flirts with you when you come to visit your friend during her shifts. “Of course, Kiri,” you reply automatically. The burning in your cheeks only intensifies when you realize you’ve addressed him so informally, but when you turn to apologize to him, you find he’s much too close for comfort. He’s leaned in, taking you by surprise as the scent of his deep, savory cologne wafts into your face. Those carmine eyes piece into yours, making your stomach fill with butterflies, flapping round your stomach in a concoction of nerves and— you hate to admit it— hunger.

“You’ve done such good work today, Y/N,” he nearly whispers, and you watch as his full lips part to utter the words, sharp fangs glinting at you. Before you lose yourself to the moment, he stands, mollifying the intensity and severing you from the invisible string that pulls your gaze to his. You hesitantly take the hand he reaches out to you, trying not to think about how truly huge it is compared to yours. He pulls you up effortlessly, and you still as his other hand comes to touch the back of your waist when you all but collide into his chest. “Sorry,” he says but you wouldn’t deem his tone apologetic, “you’re so dainty, y’know— like a flower.”

You turn on your heel to face the other direction, hoping he doesn’t notice how much his comment affects you; you’re sure you look like a bird with fluffed, ruffled feathers— you certainly feel that way at least. You let out an awkward laugh as you take a hasty step toward the register, your body wanting nothing more than to rid itself of this infuriatingly delicious heat that Kirishima’s words create underneath your skin, licking and crawling along your bones. Finding yourself safely harbored behind the counter once again, your eyes fall to the nearly-completed bouquet you were just wrapping up when Kirishima exited the back room. Your fingers reach for a sprig of greenery, flat wide leaves fanning out in an elegant manner that could only accentuate the beauty and simplicity of the red bouquet.

But your sense of security is proven false, for Kirishima’s deep, demanding voice trickles like honey into your ears. “Red roses are accepted as the symbol of love all around the world,” he pauses for dramatic effect, and you hate to admit you’re left teetering on the edge of your metaphorical seat waiting for his next words, “but true florists know they convey another meaning.”

By the clarity of his diction you can tell he’s standing not far behind you, probably a step or two away. You can feel your heart rate spike again, your breath catching as you wonder what his next move will be. “And what’s that?” You reply dryly but it comes out more like a breathless whisper.

His thick forearms intrude your vision and settle on either side of your figure, leaving just a touch of space from your flesh. Your nearly shaking fingers drop the twig of leaves when he reaches between your hands, plucking a single thorny stem from the assembly before you and holding the soft, velvety petals to the tip of your nose. He doesn’t have to say the words for you to know to take a sniff of the blossom, and you inhale as much as your lungs will take before he answers your question, breath hot against the shell of your ear.

“Desire.”

Your body freezes completely, too shocked to even draw in a breath of air, when his pointy teeth graze the very tip of your ear. Jaw hanging at his sheer impudence, you’re still as a statue when he moves the soft swell of the bloom across your far cheek, soft petals trailing along your fiery skin. The action tickles slightly, causing your head to turn toward his face that hangs down above your shoulder.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart,” he coos, and again there’s that rumble in his voice that resonates through your frame. He drops the flower, not caring to even spare a glance as it falls from his fingertips. The digits move to cup your chin, middle finger pushing the corner of your jaw to swing your face directly in front of his. Simmering red eyes stare deep into yours, flickering toward your lips briefly before he decides he no longer wants to drag this out.

You’re horrified to moan so unabashedly when his lips press against yours in a vicious siege, dominating them and claiming them as his. His kiss is rough, as if he can’t hold himself back from his beast-like passion, yet it’s much more meaningful and encaptivating than you’d imagined it would be. His arm slithers around your hips to place his hand atop your ribs. Your eyes widen at his undisguised motive, and you open your mouth to call him out— but before you can pull away to tell him to stop, his tongue slips between your lips. Knees wobbly at the sudden intrusion, your tongue begins to move with his, stroking, and swirling, and tangling into one sexy, sloppy mess. His hand slips from its place on your ribs, drifting underneath the side of your apron and cupping your entire breast— not much of a challenge for his large palm.

Kirishima moans into your mouth at your acceptance, and you can only croak out a small whimper of reciprocation. His hand is hot through the nearly sheer fabric of your blouse, and the bra does not do much to block his calloused hands from your chest. His other hand continues to grip your jaw, just hard enough so you’d have to struggle to pull away from him. That is, if you were ever to want to pull away from him.

Your hands are still frozen in front of you, unsure what exactly to do in this situation. Mind completely exhausted of all higher levels of thought, the only emotions you can recognize are lust and satisfaction. Actually, your brain is so hazy with these feelings that you don’t even complain when he starts to undo the tie at the back of your apron. His teeth drag across your bottom lip, the sharp edges not quite pressed hard enough to cut you, but for some reason it brings an unexpected thrill. Pulling away from your mouth, Kirishima’s lips meander across your jaw, his hand tilting your head up so he can continue his journey to your throat. He sucks on the tender flesh there, inhaling your sweet and clean scent as his tongue washes against your skin. You gasp at his brazen action, ass pushing against his hips to discover something long and thick there. Teeth prick into your flesh just a touch too hard, but he’s let go of you after only a minute, and he traces over the small wounds with careful licks.  

“Do you,” you suck in short breath when he squeezes your breast, your words faltering, “Do you do this with all your employees?” You taunt, but Kirishima can recognize the doubt in your tone. It’s hidden under false scorn, but your question is pure and filled with true intent. 

He pauses his treatment on your neck for a spell, and when he speaks, the wet skin on your throat feels cold as his breath falls upon it. “Of course not,” he purrs, raising his head to take your earlobe between his teeth, pulling away and sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. Your body jolts at the stimulation, and your bottom brushes against his crotch again. This time, his hand moves from your breast to wrap around your waist, securing you in place. He presses his concealed cock against the swell of your ass, and you bite your lip at the sheer size of him. Leaning in, he places a long stripe on the side of your ear with his hot tongue, and you can hear the teasing dripping from his voice. “Only with the pretty ones who beg for it.”

Kirishima’s hips rut against your ass, and he holds you in place so that the gentle grind he offers is felt in full effect. You nearly moan at the feeling of his hot length rubbing against you, your pussy starting to leak onto your panties. Of course you know he’s been around, but he’s so sexy— and he’s got to be good at what he does with all that experience.

He pauses, angling your face to still in front of his again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and a pleased smirk pulling up one corner of his mouth. He turns your face away again, and your eyes fall shut as his nose scrapes along your cheek. “Yuki says to stay away from you,” he grumbles, lips pressing against your cheek as he speaks, a groan slipping from his parted lips as he rolls his hips into yours particularly hard. Your bottom lip is held prisoner between your teeth in a desperate attempt to hold in the moan that craves to be set free. “Says a good girl like you is too good for me to be messin’ around with.” His words convey a dash of irritation, and you’re caught off-guard at the seasoning of disdain.

You wonder when she’d told him that— when they’d talked about you— but Kirishima does not allow you another moment to ponder it. He kisses you again, and all thoughts are cleansed from your brain as his lips seize yours. The hand on your chin drops and you gasp as it lands on the hem of your skirt, curling around you so his hot palm rests on your inner thigh, just a short distance from your soaked panties. Your feet move to draw your legs together, and your quivering thighs rub against his hand as you struggle to make your body move to your will. Pulling back to fill your lungs with fresh air, you mumble against his lips, “Kirishima, that’s—”

“But I know you’re not all that innocent,” he continues, fingertips brushing over the saturated lace. He groans as he traces along your slit, delighted to find you’re more than aroused from all his touching and teasing. Your cheeks feel impossibly hot, and you let out a soft whimper as he grazes over your clit a few times, your head falling back against his broad chest. Kirishima takes in your lustful expression, and the way your eyelashes flutter at him makes his cock twitch in his pants. “You’re so wet, sweetheart— fuck, you’re a naughty little thing. Y’want this, huh?”

Even though you only give him the slightest nod, he seems to accept your response, for his grip around your waist tightens considerably, pulling you flush against him. His hips buck against yours and you moan aloud when the clothed tip of his cock rubs against your panties through your skirt. You can’t even react when he spins you around, your head feeling fuzzy and laden with desire. He grabs your hips, easily placing you on the edge of the countertop before his fingers move to rip off your apron, then coming to undo the buttons at the front of your blouse. “The— The store,” you pant, eyes darting toward the door that currently sports the ‘open’ side of the sign. You swallow thickly when Kirishima falls to his knees, landing at the perfect height for him to put his head between your thighs.

His hands move to snag the hips of your panties, and you nearly whine in embarrassment when he slides the item down your legs, a thick string of your lust connecting the material to your pussy before it severs. Kirishima only moans in awe, pride oozing into his system as he takes in how drenched you are for him. He shoves the soiled lace into his pocket, and you whine at the action, about to complain but he cuts you off. “Don’t worry, Princess. No one’s gonna bother us,” he breathes out as he comes closer to your weeping core, your slick trickling down your ass cheek to drip onto the countertop.

White hot mortification bursts through you as he takes a long whiff of your pussy, and you squirm to move backwards but rough hands trap your thighs open, dragging your ass to hang halfway off the edge. He smirks as he looks up at you, examining your flustered expression.

“You ‘dunno how long I’ve wanted to have a taste of this sweet little pussy,” he growls, and your hands fly to the end of the counter to steady yourself, grasping onto it tightly. He chuckles when your cunt twitches before him at his words, his hands spreading your thighs apart into an obtuse angle, moving forward to drag his nose along your slick folds. You whimper at the contact, clenching around nothing as he teases you, your mouth falling open to suck in ragged breaths of air. His tongue darts out just slightly, and he runs the tip along your slit, separating your folds and savoring how your thighs shake underneath his grasp. “Mmmm,” he moans, sending tiny vibrations echoing through your sopping cunt, “good girls always taste the best.”

You can’t bear to look at him any longer, and you move your hand to place your curled knuckle between your teeth as his tongue creeps out, the flat muscle petting over your entrance slowly. His teeth graze your clit and you whine at the stimulation, the smooth enamel sliding across your bundle of nerves easily. His tongue is slow and playful, stroking you and avoiding where he knows you want him most.

Kirishima nuzzles into your cunt, rubbing your clit again with a lewd snarl pulling up his lips. “Look at me,” he commands and you follow his direction instantly, eyes blown wide with lust and tongue pressed tight against your knuckle. He groans at the sight, and you only shift your hips in his grasp to try to get closer to his mouth. Those scarlet eyes find yours once again, and you struggle to hold his gaze as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking it in and rolling his tongue over it. He moves the muscle hard against you, just fast enough to have you moaning out, your hand flying from your mouth to grasp the top of his crimson hair. Pulling away briefly, he blows a small huff of air across your heat, shit-eating grin splitting to gloat. “Doesn’t that feel good, sweetheart? Be a good girl and keep those pretty eyes on me.”

Your lips waver as they press into a firm line, your thighs straining to close at the intensity when he sucks your clit into his mouth again. But his massive hands hold your legs apart without any effort, and he lashes his tongue against you without mercy. There is nothing more you want other than to throw your head back and close your eyes, jaw hanging open and heated pants drifting out, but you force your gaze to remain on the man between your legs. Your fingernails scrape against his scalp as you try to find some way to channel the pleasure he introduces to your body, but the action only seems to spur him on. One hand leaves your thigh only for his other arm to wrap right around your ass, and your hips buck helplessly against his face when a fingertip prods your slicked entrance.

Kirishima does not ask for permission, and you suck in a silent gasp as his finger spreads your pussy, shock and pleasure shooting through your limbs at the stretch just one finger provides. “You seem a little quiet, sweetheart. Wanna hear that sweet voice of yours again,” he growls against your pussy, tongue flicking down to trail along the edges of his finger lodged deep inside of you.

You can only whimper as he glides the digit out, pushing it back inside slowly and nearly making your eyes roll back in your skull. His finger is already so long and thick— god, if you had fingers like that you could probably make yourself cum in—

A shriek of bliss rips from your lungs as he thrusts his finger into you, curling toward himself and rubbing some place your fingers have never reached. There’s a cocky grin on his face, and you hate to admit he looks so good looking up at you like that from between your legs, but you can’t bring yourself to form any words. “That was cute,” he chuckles, jagged teeth nipping gently at your pearl again and forcing your entire body twitch against him. He makes sure to capture your full attention before he finishes his thought, the corners of his lip curling with something darker. “Is that the best you’ve got? I think you can do better.”

He’s anything but gentle, the heel of his palm rubbing against your folds as he fucks his finger into you at a rapid pace. You’re seeing stars flash before your eyes, the sliver of sanity you were so desperately clinging to ripped from your grasp. You cry out when his mouth returns to your clit, sucking, and flicking, and slurping. Your eyes just won’t stay open, jaw losing the opposite battle as it hangs ajar, broken and unrestrained moans tumbling out like a burst dam.

Kirishima seems satisfied with your reaction, and he begins to groan against your cunt. You’re dripping with enough slick to coat the entire lower half of his face, and the vibrations from his throat only reverberate through your pussy, making you sharply tug on his hair.

“K-Kirishima,” you pant, a plea about to leave your lips. You’re not sure if you want to beg him to stop, or to give you even more. But Kirishima makes that decision for you.

A strained gasp slices though you when his finger slides out of you, only to be pressed against another digit and shoved into you. The unexpected addition causes you to yelp, a strained moan purring out of you as he allows a few slow strokes for you to adjust. Jesus, having two of his fingers in you feels like you’re being stuffed already— a fleeting pang of fear shooting through you as you wonder what his cock will feel like. But you’re not allowed to ponder the thought, his fingers picking up the pace and curling against that spongy spot again.

Body squirming with bliss, your hips thrash in his hold, switching between scooting back and forth, rocking yourself against his mouth. Kirishima can feel your cunt begin to tighten snug round his thick fingers, your walls fluttering and pulsing at his rough but generous stimulation. “Gonna cum? Bet you make sucha pretty face when you cum, come on sweetheart,” he murmurs, slick lips kissing along the top of your pussy, across your clit. You would’ve cum already if he just kept that sly mouth of his on your clit, and you don’t expect his next words to affect you so much as you cum all over his hand. “Sooner you cum, sooner I can split you open with this cock. You want that, right? Wanna have me fuck that tight little cunt— y’wanna be my good girl, huh?”

Kirishima holds your hips close, arm tightening around your bottom as your body spasms with your orgasm, euphoria zipping through your entirety. The broken moan that rings out into the room makes his cock pulse in his pants, trousers feeling suddenly much too snug for his liking. Your head is thrown back in ecstasy, thighs quivering atop the counter and toes curled in your sneakers.

Finally he allows you a moment to breathe, fingers slipping out of your pussy and standing before you. His arm slides up with him, snagging around your waist to lay his palm flat against your shoulder blade and hold you upright. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he smirks as your eyes finally open, only to catch him tracing his tongue along the fingers that just brought you to heaven’s gates.

Your palms land on the broad expanse of his chest, fingers curling around straps of his apron. He laughs as you whine gently, ducking down a considerable distance and allowing you to slip the loop over his head. You undo his shirt as your lips collide, this time in a sloppy and desperate kiss. His tongue rolls over yours in your mouth as he tugs your bra to rest on top of your chest, your breasts spilling out into his eager palm. He thumbs over your nipples and growls against your mouth, and you whimper and allow your fingers to spread across the flesh of his chest. When you open your eyes, you notice a black and red dragon carved into the top of his pec, dipping halfway down from his collar bone and curling around his shoulder down the length of his arm.

Shirts thrown to the floor in crumpled heaps, you trail your fingers down his hard six pack, thumb combing through a neat trail of black above the button of his jeans. Digits running down to cup his hard length, you look at him with wanton eyes and groan. “Wanna taste you, Kiri.”

Kirishima clicks his tongue in his mouth, a beefy hand wrapping around your wrist entirely and steering your hand to rest on the bulge on his thigh. Your eyes widen almost comically, your throat drying and pussy tightening with a cocktail of apprehension and excitement. He leans down to run his tongue along the column of your throat before he pulls back with a brief nibble to your jaw, locking eyes with you. “I don’t think a sweet girl like you can handle taking me in your mouth.”

His fingers move to undo the button on his jeans, the suspense thick in the air as you watch in awe. He tugs the jeans to rest beneath his ass, the bulge in his black boxer-briefs already indicating you might be in for more than you can handle. You try not to let your jaw drop when his cock springs free, swollen tip glazed with a sheen of pre and pulsing veins decorating the entire shaft. Hand around the base of his cock, you whimper as it only covers half his length— his fist is already considerably bigger than yours and suddenly you’re in fear for your pussy.

Kirishima laughs at your expression, pressing a quick kiss to your lips and smoothing the hair from your forehead. “Don’t worry Princess,” he murmurs, arm around your waist again to push your hips to the very edge of the countertop. Your pussy twitches when the head of his cock brushes your folds, and you find yourself wondering if you’re about to be in a world of pain or pleasure. Probably both. “I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promises, nuzzling his face into your neck and pressing gentle, wet kisses there.

“I don’t— I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” you croak out, arms hesitantly wrapping around his neck. Yet your legs spread on their own accord, inching forward so his cock rubs against your opening.

Kirishima purrs at the action, licking his lips against your throat. “We’ll make it fit, sweetheart.” He brings his hand up to his mouth and spits into it, the crude noise making you flinch and wrinkle your nose in disgust. But it doesn’t last for long— any conscious thought leaves your brain when you glance down, seeing him stroke the top half of his cock with his slick hand. Biting your lip, you close your eyes and pull him closer, trying to prepare yourself for whatever is about to come.

Thankfully his movements are slow as he pushes into your wet cunt, and you’re surprised how easily his length slides into you. The stretch is unreal— unlike anything you’ve ever felt before— and it takes all your willpower not to clench around him for you know that will just cause you further discomfort. He only enters you halfway, grip tight on your waist as if he’s having a hard time controlling himself. Sighing against the flushed skin of your neck, he moves to kiss you again, lips tender and careful.

You whimper when he gives a tentative thrust, your nails clawing into the muscles lining the top of his shoulder. His cock is so thick, and knowing it’s only halfway inside you has your stomach twisting in terror. He’s goddamn huge. It takes a few more gentle thrusts for your grip on him to loosen, and your body relaxes slightly in his arms.

Kirishima clearly has enough experience with this, because the pace he sets is perfect. His hands slide all over your body, cupping and squeezing every inch of flesh he can find. Hips rock into yours at a slow, benevolent pace, your pussy stretched wide around him and fluttering as his thick veins drag along your velvet walls. Lips finding yours again, his tongue and pointed teeth distract you as with each thrust his cock shifts a tiny bit deeper inside of you.

At some point you start to moan, head falling back and mouth open wide as long, unadulterated sounds float out from the bottom of your lungs. Kirishima’s pace hastens, hands landing on your hips and thrusting into you swiftly. His cock is making your head spin, brain full of fog as your heart hammers in your ribs. He swears as his rough hand claps atop your ass cheek, taking note of the way your pussy shivers around him and a sharp squeak is summoned from your lips. “God you’re fuckin’ tight sweetheart— fuck, you a virgin?” He moans, fingers biting into the reddened skin on your ass. When you shake your head at him, he questions how on earth it is possible for you to be this snug around him, but he makes sure to thank whatever deity there is for it.

You cry out when his thumb greets your clit, and he fights to maintain his measured pace at the way your cunt squeezes so tightly. Your slick is dripping onto the countertop, his cock buried deep in your core, again and again. His added stimulation to your clit has you gasping for breath, a coil in your stomach filling with pressure. “Ohgodohgodohgodohgod Kiri please don’t stoppp,” you beg, pupils drifting up into your skull and your hands flying all over his torso, grabbing whatever skin you can reach.

Kirishima groans, palm pushing your tailbone forward so your hips bump against his. You scream at the full intensity of his cock inside of you; every inch and every vein setting fire to your insides, his thumb relentless on your clit. Your vision turns white as you reach your peak, your body seizing in ecstasy. Pulling him close, you wheeze for breath against his chest, his thumb never stilling its movement on your clit until you grab his wrist and rip him off of you, overwhelmed with the bliss from your orgasm rippling through every bone in your body. He’s still moving inside of you— albeit at a snail's pace— but it’s enough for him to prolong the pleasure simmering in your veins.

Finally you collapse into his chest, mind numb and eyelids too heavy to keep open, your lips pressing clumsy kisses into his skin. A deep chuckle rumbles through his chest, his fingers carding through your tresses. “Now, that was cute, Princess,” he says, the amusement in his tone laced with something darker. His fingers curl in your hair, pulling your neck back so your head tilts up to meet his sinister gaze. “But you didn’t get permission to cum, did you?”

Your heart begins to race, your stomach plummeting as he holds your gaze without vigilance. You whine as he pulls out of you, your cunt never feeling this empty before as his hot length disappears. Kirishima picks you up without effort, biceps swelling with intricate swirls of charcoal ink. He places you on wobbling feet before spinning you around, your hands flying out to grab the counter as he shoves your shoulder down.

“That makes you a bad girl, Y/N.”

Horror streaks through your every limb, and yet, only a sinful moan wanders out of you, your feet moving apart and thighs spreading for him to fit between. You crane your head to look at him, drinking up the beautiful man behind you. Broad shoulders trail into a broad, thick chest, tapering down to a tight and powerful waist. Each muscle on his body is prominent and enticing, covered snugly with tan skin that glimmers with a sheen of sweat. His red hair hangs to frame his handsome face, mostly still tugged back into his low ponytail.

As if reading your mind, he moves a hand back and snags the tie off, vibrant locks of scarlet licking the tops of his shoulders. Running a hand over his forehead, he looks at you with a predatory gaze, a smirk curling up one side of his lips. “Y’know what happens to bad girls, right?” You bite your lip and shake your head, egging him on as the top of his cock traces around your opening. “Bad girls get punished.”

The loudest scream of the night rips through you as he thrusts into you without warning, his cock hitting all different kinds of places than before in this new position. Kirishima doesn’t allow you a moment to adjust; he starts slapping his hips against your ass roughly, fist gripping the hair near your scalp again and pulling it tight so your back arches. You cannot breathe, or speak, or think— but somehow his name slips out of your mouth between all the moans.

A harsh slap across your ass sounds, the sting causing your pussy to quiver around his length. “Bad girls don’t get to use my name,” he growls into your ear, leaning over your body to take the tip of your ear between his teeth.

Your eyes are crossed in pleasure, your expression probably comforted into the most lewd, carnal face you’ve ever made. His cock is too big, and you know you won’t be able to walk right tomorrow, but maybe that adds to why it feels so fucking good right now.

“You’re makin’ this seem like a reward, not a punishment, Princess. You like taking it rough, huh?” He teases, pulling your head back by your hair and eliciting another moan from you. “Answer me.”

His cock pounds into your cunt, the sheer stretch enough to make you cum, let alone the length. Your lungs begin to shake as you feel your orgasm building again between your legs. “Yes Sir!” You yelp when his palm cracks against your ass again, your knees wobbly and the pressure continuing to build.

Your reply makes his cock twitch inside of you, and Kirishima sucks in a cool breath of air between clenched teeth. His hand grips the bottom of your thigh, and you cry out when he hikes your knee onto the countertop, cock drilling into you even deeper than before.

Your pussy twitches as you cum instantly, a drawn-out moan vibrating through your throat. Fingernails scraping along the countertop in your gaze of euphoria, Kirishima is forced to halt his assault on your cunt as it squeezes him tightly, his teeth piercing into his lip in pleasure. But as soon as your cunt loosens, he’s fucking into you with renewed vigor, your hips knocking into the counter as he plunges his massive cock into your sloppy heat. “You just don’t fuckin’ learn,” he snarls, wrist twisting to pull your hair tighter, bending your spine to his will.

“I’m sorry Sir,” you choke out, tears beginning to trickle down your cheeks. Each thrust brushes your cervix and it hurts, but at the same time the intensity of it all feels incredible. “I didn’t know I could… could cum so q-quick! Please, Sir— ah!— Please forgive me!”

Kirishima tosses his head back at your admission, your apology immediately accepted. His hand slips from your hair to your throat, turning your head so he can see your face as he pounds into you without mercy. The tears slipping down your cheeks make your eyes sparkle and he groans, his own end in near reach and only approaching quicker at the sight of you. “Y’look so pretty when you cry, sweetheart— shit, I know you have one more for me,” he leans in and pokes his tongue out to collect a salty tear, kissing the wet skin on your cheek. His thumb on your throat wanders to your lips, and you take the digit into your mouth with enthusiasm, keeping your eyes locked with his.

You whimper around his finger when his other hand comes around to circle your puffy clit, already overstimulated and thighs shaking. Your legs try to close but he keeps them spread apart, cock still ramming into you as his lips trail down to your neck. His hand on your throat loosens and comes to rest on your ass, pulling your cheeks apart and tracing his slippery thumb over your puckered hole. Your eyes widen with shock, and you force your voice to work even though it comes out scratchy and breathless. “W-What are you— Kiri wait, that’s—”

“Have you ever had anything in here, Princess?” He inquires as his thumb slips into you, making you shriek at the fiery stretch. Pushing the digit into your ass, he moans at the sight of you sucking in his thumb so obediently, your hole trembling and squeezing round his finger.

You shake your head, at a loss for words once again. You can feel his cock rub against his finger through your walls, and though it’s a foreign, unfamiliar sensation, it’s far from unwelcome. More tears of pure pleasure descend from your lashes, the combination of all his stimulation driving you insane. You can feel your climax building with every thrust, your walls dragging along his cock and his finger, his other hand rolling your clit.

“C’mon, baby. Cum for me, it’s alright,” he purrs, balls feeling tight with his near release. His fingers pinch and rub all over your slick clit, and you mewl out as that familiar pressure heightens in your stomach. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you? Show me how good you are, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t allow you a second to think, and you whine out for him when his hips crash against your ass, shoving his entire cock inside your soaked hole and spreading your aching walls. The spot he’s hitting with the head of his cock causes your eyes to cross— you didn’t even know it existed before now— and suddenly everything is too much, and you’re crying out his name as your orgasm tears through you.

Kirishima gives a few more hard thrusts before he’s there too, the tips of his teeth piercing into your neck as he floods your pussy with his heavy load. Your cunt pulses around him, milking out every drop he has to offer as you’re thrown into waves of complete euphoria. Eyes closed, toes and fingers coiled tight in pleasure, you whimper as he gives your clit a few more rubs before his hand moves up to push his hair back. “Good girl,” he praises, hot palms sliding along your curves and rubbing circles into your skin.

You’re totally spent; body limp atop the countertop, nipples hard and hot against the cool plastic, tears drying on your cheeks, ass feeling warm and fuzzy, and pussy trembling with the aftershocks of your climax. Kirishima is careful when he pulls out, and you can’t even find the energy to make a noise of complaint at the emptiness between your legs. You can feel his release begin to dribble out of your abused hole, and your body twitches when he presses his thumb in to shove his seed back inside.

He sighs as he grabs a paper towel from the sink behind him, dragging it along his weeping, yet still impressive, length. As you’re still catching your breath, he walks around the counter and into your field of vision, tucking himself back into his pants nonchalantly. When he reaches the door, he flips the ‘open’ sign over to ‘closed’ before sauntering over to you, eyes trained on yours. “Well, sweetheart,” he chuckles, gaze raking over your exhausted form, still collapsed on top of the counter in a sedated-like state. He reaches forward, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear as he smiles brightly, but a shadow of something more ominous lingers in those scarlet eyes. “You’re gonna have to cover Yuki’s shifts more often.”

   ─── ・°* ﾟ✧:* • ｡ﾟ:*･☽･*: ｡ﾟ•*:✧ ﾟ*°・ ───

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soooo that happened. finally some dom kiri on my blog!!! please be sure to lemme know if you enjoyed <3

➥ masterlist

𝐂𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐩𝐢 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎. 𝐀𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝.

[runawaymun]

Hi! Could I possibly request a drabble of some fluffy/comfort Elrond x Celebrían just being endlessly in love and/or comforting each other? Perhaps Elrond comforting Celebrían? I love those two so much & I see you do too so I had to ask! The Tolkien OTP to end all OTPs imo hehe. Thank you. <3

aaaaa yes!! This one has been sitting percolating for some time because I normally write angsty boi Elrond getting comforted by Cel, because I can't stand to see Cel sad. But I finally thought of something~

Set kinda early in their relationship. The twins are still pretty young!

tw for mild animal injury, but it’s all okay in the end don’t worry!

The Complexities of Avian Biology | Elrond x Celebrían | Fluff/Comfort

He found Celebrían in her rose garden, sitting on one of the carved marble benches in tears. That came as a shock, considering only that morning she had been cracking jokes at the breakfast table that had flustered poor Erestor, rescued Elladan out of a tree (he had climbed too high and couldn't get down), and had yelled some rather obscene things at a deer that had wandered into the kitchen gardens and gotten into the strawberries.

He rushed to her side without a minute's hesitation and discovered the source of her stress almost immediately.

The robin redbreast in her arms was on the verge of death, its breathing labored. She was just a crumpled mass of feathers, with one wing extended at a horrible, wrong angle. In the blooming cherry tree on the edge of Celebrían's garden, the robin's young cried for their mother.

"She flew straight into the window," Celebrían said through her tears. "She's in so much pain. And the babies--"

Ai, vivacious, bright, gentlehearted Celebrían!

Elrohir was so like her. He kissed the side of her head with deep affection as she stroked the robin's feathers. Gently, he covered her hands with his and stilled them.

"Give her to me?" he murmured.

Celebrían reluctantly relinquished the bird. The robin fluttered fruitlessly in his grasp. He could feel her tiny heartbeat beneath his fingers, irregular and slowing with each passing second. Her body was so delicate. The impact against the glass had been devastating. The broken wing was not the only injury.

Elrond cradled the little bird in his hands --his grip exceedingly gentle but firm enough to keep her from struggling too much and hurting herself further-- and began to Sing.

It was just a little tune crooned under his breath. Light bloomed in his hands, beneath his skin, illuminating the capillaries in his fingers. The joint in the robin's wing corrected itself and knitted, and he felt her skull do the same. Elrond sought through the Earth beneath his feet, listening for the correct rhythm that a robin ought to have, found it, and gave it back to her in Song until her heart beat in time and she was, once again, whole.

"There you are," he whispered to the bird, stroking her head with the pad of his thumb. "Well done, little one. That feels better, does it not?"

The bird cocked her head, eyeing him with evident disapproval now that she was still detained. Celebrían breathed a laugh and scrubbed at her face.

He opened his hands and the robin burst out of them and promptly crashed back down to the earth, fluttering, then staggered upright. She preened herself in embarrassment.

"Easy," he scolded. "Give it a moment."

She hopped experimentally, then pecked at the ground, and then at last flew up into the cherry tree to join her children. Celebrían hooked her arm around his and rested her head on his shoulder. Elrond reached over and dried those lingering tear-tracks with the hem of his velvet sleeve and dropped a kiss to the top of her head.

"Thank you, meleth nín," she whispered. A little sigh. "It is...so silly of me. They live such a brief time, but--"

"--never change, Cel," he interrupted, voice warm and fond. He put an arm around her and she drew a little closer to him. She lifted her head to kiss the corner of his mouth.

"A master healer," she teased, "Of robins."

"A fine compliment!" he laughed. "Their biology is most complex."

"I'm certain it is."

They sat there a bit longer, listening to the little cheep-cheep-cheeps! of the hatchlings in the nest in the cherry tree. Eventually Celebrían turned to kiss him again, a kiss which he habitually deepened as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her even closer as they relished a moment to themselves that had become so rare since having the twins--

--a surprised yelp came from the far end of the garden and they broke apart to see a very red-faced Lindir with his hands covering his mouth.

"I am so sorry," he said. "But Elladan found his way up a tree again and fell out of it and has been completely inconsolable--"

Celebrían and Elrond heaved matching sighs and disentangled from each other.

"I suppose Peredhil biology can be no more complex than a robin's," Elrond muttered, straightening his jacket.

Celebrían snorted a laugh and stood.

"After you, master healer."