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fadedseas · 2 years

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inconsistent flowers: part vi

Druig x Makkari

Part 6 of __: sunflowers part ii

Tags: Flower Shop AU, Modern AU, No Powers, Canon Divergence

Summary: Druig is a cantankerous flower shop owner trying to get through his day. Makkari just wanted flowers for her new apartment. Or the flower shop AU no one asked for.

Chapter Summary:

Druig hovered at the barrier of the door. His usual arrogant demeanor was interrupted by the nervous brushing of his hair. Makkari headed over to him, ready to invite him in and save him from Sersi’s botch attempt at an interrogation, when she spied what he held in his other hand. A small white box and…

Sunflowers.

TW: cursing

Word count: 2453

A/N: Hello readers!I'm so sorry for the hiatus! I got into grad school and it's just been absolutely insane. I've had to steal time to write this chapter - but I really wanted to slip in a few fluffy Drukkari moments before we get back to plot - so enjoy!

“I’m just saying. I cleaned up your coffee cup last week when you left it in the sink,” Dane counted another one off on his fingers, “And I ran your load of laundry with mine yesterday - and folded it!” Makkari could read the indignation on his lips and fought to hide her amusement.

Makkari shrugged, dipping a spoon into her penne vodka sauce, and tasting it quickly before throwing in some more basil.

“Yes Dane, but you’re not a gorgeous Irishman with luscious lips and blue eyes,” Sersi chuckled.

Dumpling barked in agreement, drawing Makkari’s attention to give him a quick scratch as Dane rushed over, stealing a piece of cooling garlic laffa bread and throwing a piece of plain bread to his four-legged co-conspirator.

Thief, Makkari signed accusingly, as Dumpling eagerly devoured the piece of bread with his signature slobber.

I have to say - I’m somewhat in agreement, Makkari. It’s a bit early to pull out the penne vodka, Sersi signed and grumbled lightly.

“And the bread too!” Dane inserted, “I can’t believe blue eyes and an accent is enough for the flower shop man to receive Makkari’s elixir of the gods instead of her best friends.”

Well, his lips are fairly luscious too… Makkari lowered her hand thoughtfully and chuckled at Dane’s scoff of annoyance as he listened to Sersi’s translation. She set the sauce to simmer.

We’ll finally see how luscious they really are, Sersi tapped her shoulder playfully as she passed Makkari to pour herself a glass of water.

Makkari rolled her eyes, stirring the penne noodles in their roiling boil. You really don’t have to stay to meet him.

Of course we do, Sersi set her glass down on the small island, and signed fiercely, He could still be a complete serial killer - charming florist or not. He could be luring women in, using their bodies as fertilizer. He could be grinding them up at the back of the shop -

I’ve given him quite a number of opportunities to get rid of me and he hasn’t taken the bait. Makkari interrupted Sersi’s spiral into her bloody fantasy. I wouldn’t hold my breath at being the next BBC feature story.

“The Deadly Obsessions podcast says that most women are killed by their long-term partner,” Dane chimed in, finally accepting that he likely would not be able to eat Makkari’s masterpiece tonight, “It can take years for them to snap.”

I think you both consume way too much true crime content. And if anything, doesn’t that mean that you’re the most suspect person in the room right now, Makkari raised her eyebrow at Dane.

“Don’t look at me! Sersi’s the one who’s already planned the perfect murder.”

The Deadly Obsessions Instagram has great tips, Sersi shrugged, Regardless, Phastos would absolutely murder me - or at least invent some sort of medieval torture device for me - if I wasn’t here. Have you told him about Druig yet?

Makkari winced, Haven’t gotten around to it yet.

Makkari expertly evaded Sersi’s disapproving gaze, and focused on adding more chili flakes to the sauce.

“Are you sure you don’t want to slow down on those, Makkari? Not everyone is a capsaicinophile like you,” Dane raised an eyebrow as Makkari continued to add pinches of flakes, continuing to studiously avoid Sersi’s gaze.

Makkari cleared her throat and put down the seasoning, I’m sure it’s fine! She signed, waving off the smoky fumes wafting from the sauce, spice of life and all, as they say. She chuckled nervously, blinking quickly to dissipate the tears from her burning eyes.

She moved over to strain the noodles, pouring the boiling water in the sink when the knock at the door surprised her, causing her to almost drop the pot.

I’ll get it! Sersi signed quickly.

No! I can - Sersi was already gone before Makkari could finish signing. She could imagine a cartoonish plume of smoke that followed in her wake. Damn she moved fast.

Makkari hurridley moved to the door with Dane and Dumpling at her back.

Sunflowers.

The swoop in her stomach nearly swept her off of her feet.

She couldn’t see what Sersi was asking him, but she could see Druig’s uncomfortable answers that made her want to laugh.

“...just dinner…”

“...no expectations at all…”

“...my intentions…whatever Makkari wants to do…”

Makkari decided to save him, placing a hand on Sersi’s shoulder.

Alright? She questioned, holding two thumbs up.

Druig finally caught sight of her, Alright. He confirmed.

They stared at each other for a moment before Druig started, suddenly remembering the bouquet in his hands. He held it out and Makkari took it.

Finally made good on my promise then, Druig signed, twisting this closed fist and thumb to the left.

Makkari took a moment to examine the bright yellow blooms and smell their fresh sweetness. She set the flowers down on the end table nearby.

That you did, Makkari grinned. She looked around, Well, you’ve met S-E-R-S-I, my roommate. That’s D-A-N-E, her boyfriend. And you already know about Dumpling, our dog.

Dane raised his hand in greeting and extended it to shake Druig’s, “Cheers mate.”

Druig shook Dane’s hand, “How are you?”

Dane nodded. Dumpling crept out against her legs, sniffing at Druig’s feet. Druig smiled and knelt down to pet him.

Well! Makkari clapped, Isn’t it date night for you both?

We were having such scintillating conversation, Makkari, Sersi protested as Makkari shoved her coat in her hands and ushered Sersi and Druig out the door.

Have scintillating conversation about the Paleozoic exhibit you just helped curate, Makkari signed frantically above Sersi and Dane’s protests.

But Makkari - Sersi signed.

Have fun! Makkari rubbed her palms together and shut the door.

She turned around to see Druig rubbing the belly of an ecstatic Dumpling who was sprawled out and early licking at his arm.

He’s ridiculous, Makkari chuckled with fondness.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” Druig gave one last pat before standing up.

Come on - dinner’s almost done.

Makkari knew her kitchen was small, but she considered it to be “cozy” instead. She had already cleared the used dishes into the sink alongside various knick knacks that had accumulated throughout the week. She could see Druig’s gaze caught on the vase of mildly wilting hyacinths left on the table…and then drift to the various vases filled with his flowers placed haphazardly around the apartment.

Druig cleared his throat into his fist briefly, “Your apartment seems…rather decorated already.”

Makkari turned away, lowering the heat on the pasta and taking a moment to temper the blush that rose to her cheeks. She spun back around, Don’t be cheeky about it. We’re very overprotective plant mums here.

A smile tugged on the corner of Druig’s lips, I can absolutely see that. Truly honoured to be your supplier for your plant children.

Makkari rolled her eyes with her grin betraying her amusement. This was nice. Having Druig here in her apartment. Of course, she had friends over to her apartment briefly in the past, and obviously Dane was here fairly regularly, but she had never invited anyone that was hers in the way that she wanted Druig to be.

There was a certain intimacy in having him in her space, standing in the area in which she rushed about every morning and wound down in the evenings with her friends. The brief awkwardness at the door had melted away and they were bantering like usual. She liked it.

Well, make yourself useful and grab the plates from the cabinet there.

“I wouldn’t dare offend the hostess,” He quipped, as he moved past her to set the table.

Makkari portioned out the pasta, and they sat down at the small, cracked wooden dining table that Sersi had found online months ago for a steal.

“I have to admit that I have high expectations,” Druig warned, piercing his fork into a few noodles and being sure to soak them wholly in the sauce.

And I’ll exceed them, Makkari sniffed, watching closely as he placed the forkfull in his mouth.

His blank expression as he chewed worried her. But she wasn’t going to break. Dane and Sersi had once snuck her into the bone vault at the Museum if she agreed to make her pasta for them every weekend for a month. It was good. And she knew it.

At least, she thought she knew until Druig began coughing, his face turning a flushed red as he grabbed for the water.

Oh shit.

You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it! She signed frantically. She reached over and snatched an empty plate, shoving it in front of him. Shit, was Dane right? Maybe she did add a little too much -

Druig’s choked grumble broke through her anxious rambling thoughts. He coughed again, his eyes watering and a flush spreading across his face. “It’s good -” He sucked in a quick breath, “Delicious, really.”

Makkari walked over to the fridge and poured a glass of milk, handing him the glass.

That unfortunately sounds mildly sarcastic at the moment.

“Not at all,” Druig gasped. He downed the milk in three large gulps.

Makkari watched him, drumming her fingers anxiously on the table, I should have been more careful about spice levels, She furrowed her brow, Sorry - I’m used to cooking for my family and Sersi - and she can probably swallow hot coals if she wanted to.

Druig tipped his head back. Makkari could see his Adam’s apple bob against the thin white of his neck as he attempted to regain his composure, “You’ll have to excuse my delicate Irish tastebuds.”

Makkari snorted and smirked, I suppose I can forgive your ancestral weakness.

“How very kind of you,” Druig smirked, “How did you find this recipe?”

I’m shit at cooking - pasta is one of the few things that I can make without risking the entire building burning down.

“You’re…?”

Oh sorry, I’m terrible at cooking. I guess your class doesn’t cover vulgarity, Makkari signed apologetically.

Druig chuckled, No. not really a priority. We just finished shopping for clothing. I can now ask a shop clerk, how much are those trainers? he signed slowly. “I suppose I have to depend on you to get the real beauty of the language.” He mimicked her sign for “shit,” dragging his pointer and middle finger down his face.

Makkari smirked, pulling out her phone.

They had gone through a fair list of expletives. At some point, Makkari gently directed Druig’s palm as he attempted to sign the word “fuck,” and the warmth of his skin in comination with the piercing look that he sent her way made those damned swoops sweep through her stomach yet again.

She pushed the chipped plate piled high with garlic and plain laffa bread.

There’s always bread…or we could always order takeaway.

Druig shook his head. He ripped off a piece of garlic laffa bread and popped it in his mouth. He chewed for a moment, and closed his eyes, sighing. This is delicious, He signed, Dinner of Champions, really.

Come off it, Makkari chuckled, spearing a fork in her pasta and eating it without any problem, it was terrible for you.

Maybe, but I’d argue it’s greatly improved now, Druig shrugged, Besides, we always have dessert.

Makkari raised her fork in agreement.

The small white box turned out to be a bread pudding that they had decided to share alongside two cups of steaming coffee on the small balcony that rose high above the street.

Makkari took a sip of coffee, enjoying the contrasting bitterness with the sweetness of the pudding. She watches the glow of the late-night stores and pubs and the stream of people that moved through the streets. She turned to see Druig, his face illuminated by the street light, watching her, his eyes soft.

It was something entirely new and familiar at the same time. This warmth that echoed through her as she returned his gaze.

“You know, you don’t have to buy flowers every time you visit the shop? You can just come and…talk,” Druig raised his eyebrows.

I’ll keep that in mind.

“If you really wanted something, you could just ask. I’ll probably give it to you.” Druig couldn’t meet her eye as he played with a piece of bread pudding.

Makkari’s breath caught. Not a very good business model if you ask me.

“What can I say? I live life on the fiscal edge. Call it a favorite customer discount then.”

Makkari smiled.

My mum would appreciate all of the flowers - she’s a legitimate horticulturist, Makkari snorted, She’s been dismayed at the status of all of mine recently.

There’s promise there, Druig shrugged and signed, And you can tell her that’s from a professional.

Much appreciated, Makkari shoved at his shoulder. Druig chuckled.

There was a comfortable beat of silence.

What about your mum? Makkari tapped one hand against her palm hesitantly, Has she ever seen your shop?

Druig paused, resting his spoon on the plate, No…she’s never visited. My family is… ”complicated, if you haven’t already noticed.”

Makkari raised an eyebrow and nodded, Where is she now? Is she with your brother?

Druig shrugged, Last time I heard, she was back in Ireland. My brother is probably there too. I…I didn’t really look behind me when I left. He kept his eyes cast downward, focusing on picking apart a piece of pudding.

Makkari sat forward, reaching out to wrap a hand around his wrist briefly, ceasing his fidgeting. You’ve made an entire life for yourself here, she signed, recalling his words, I’m so glad you did.

He turned, moving closer, “I’m glad I did too,” Makkari read on his lips.

The kiss was slow and sweet. Much like the cooling bread pudding in front of them. Makkari closed her eyes, relishing in the feel and taste of something she had yearned for. Druig’s hand was soft on her face, and she could feel the calluses of years of lifting and arranging and working. It made a fission of heat twist violently in her stomach.

The kiss slowed down naturally, and Druig leaned back to break it. She could see the raggedness of his breath stagger his chest.

Finally. Makkari signed, grinning.

I was trying to be a gentleman!

Don’t be.

And under streetlight that was so soft, Makkari could’ve mistaken it for moonlight, Druig kissed her once again.

v. hyacinths

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A/N: No interesting historical facts in this chapter unfortunately - but they're on the horizon! Also, I definitely get nervous when someone comes over to my apartment for the first time - it's such a weirdly intimate moment, but that might just be me. Also, I wanted to give Sersi and Dane a little more character than they've were given in the movie and make them interact a little more like a real couple? I'm so sad we didn't get to see their relationship more!

Bread pudding rocks.

Let me know what you think!

Please DM/comment if you’d like to be added to the taglist for inconsistent flowers!

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#Eternals #druig x makkari #druig #makkari #drukkari #drukkari fanfic #druig fanfic #makkari fanfic #eternals fanfic #flowershop!au #flowershop #inconsistent flowers

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butcherknives-remade · 3 years

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Anonymous asked: Request for a reader(f! Or Nb!) patching up the sparda boys after they come home injured?

Tending to the Sparda men

ft. Gender Neutral Reader from the Devil May Cry Series

SFW - very fluffy

descriptions of blood/wounds

Dante

Although he regenerates skin cells, sinew, and bone on a molecular level that baffles you, when Dante saunters into the shop that day, you notice he has three long gashes like welted canyons serrated into the left side of his neck. The blood has coagulated, yet you see a rich shadow that taints the wound an unnatural purple.

When you ask, Dante waves you off with a sideways grin. Of course he does, you think. What were you expecting? Yet you catch the twist in his brows that expose the pain he’s masking, always blasé, and you refuse to let it slide even when he reminds you that hey, “My body heals itself, remember?”

When he removes his sword and jacket, you pull him into orbit to examine the wound. You can see the river of surrounding veins are a series of swollen blues. His skin seems pallid, and against the smattering of freckled blood stains, beads of sweat gleam.

Your concern is met with another dismissive click of his tongue. “Looks like I’m gettin’ old. Body’s slower on the uptake.” He shrugs. “Give it some time and it’ll be fine.”

Frankly, you don't care what he has to say. His jugular seems to pulsate with each heartbeat and even if he won’t tell you what happened, you’re still going to care for him; that’s your job, you say out loud. “So please sit down and let me do that?”

He doesn’t argue with you. His exhaustion is bruised beneath his eyes, so perhaps it’s a relief when he collapses on the couch. (He certainly seems to melt into the peeling leather.)

When you return, it’s with bandages and disinfectant, a clean cloth and a bowl of warm water; you place your items on the coffee table and sit at his left side while you survey the damage with clinical attention. “Seriously,” you say, wetting your cloth. “What did this to you?”

And Dante sighs through his nose as you gently dab his neck. “Hellhound.”

You pause, incredulous as you ask, “How?”

“Got me good,” he says with a derisive laugh. When you shoot him a warning glare, he raises his hands. “Look, I really don’t know. Your guess is as good as mine.”

You return to your work, diligent despite the concern that wraps icy fingers around your throat. “Does it hurt?”

His lips mesh together, his eyes sliding toward you. You can see the gears in his head turning as he weighs his options: Honesty or a bold-faced bluff? “Mm, I’d say... not as much as you seem to think.”

It takes roughly ten minutes until you feel satisfied. Until you place your bloody basin and cotton swabs down and observe the way his skin has begun to knit itself back together. Incredible. Anyone else would need stitches.

You’re so focused, you don’t catch the gentle smile twisting at the ends of his lips.

“How’s it looking, doc?” he asks as you squeeze preventative antibiotic - just in case he’s capable of getting an infection. “Will I live to see another day?”

You huff and cuff him gently on the arm as he snorts, but you find relief in his ability to jest through this. “Not if you keep giving me a hard time.”

He grins his mirth, yanking you into an unexpected embrace that steals the wind from your lungs. “Careful,” he says as you settle into his hold. “Who’ll patch me up if you try to kill me?”

You hum as if in thought. “You could always call your brother.”

This gets a laugh out of Dante. “Sure, so he can finish the job.”

“Finally,” you say with a chuckle.

“Finally,” he agrees.

And as you wrap your arms around him tighter, unbothered by the scent of his sweat and musk, you plant a feather kiss to his jaw. “Please be careful out there,” you tell him.

“So long as I have you,” he says as his lips brush against your crown, “I think I’ll be alright.”

Vergil

You don’t expect Vergil to burst into your home grasping the doorknob until his knuckles are white, his breathing ragged and teeth bared in agony. You startle and rise from your seat, at his side in a burst of horror. He’s bowed forward, hunched as he grapples for his torso, and you’re leading him inside with an arm around his waist.

Blood hammers through your ears. “What happened?” you ask, hurried, urging him to sit down.

“I miscalculated,” he grunts through his gritted jaw. “Arrived in a nest...” he swallows as you gingerly assist him into the recliner. “There were far too many.”

On his jacket you see blood staining the threading, yet when you reach for him, he jerks away. Your eyes flick up to meet his and within his guarded stare, you observe only the line of furrowed pain in that sea of otherwise unrelenting pride.

He says your name and you still your mind to listen. “Don’t trouble yourself. I only need time and I will heal.”

For a moment, you can’t help but endure the sting of rejection, yet you’re quick to recover; before anything else, he’s come here, to you, where he knows he’s safe to rest.

He trusts you. There are no words to express how profoundly this strikes your heart. It fills you, spreading like sunshine across the chords of your ribs until you buzz with breathless joy.

“Can I at least get you something?” You’re standing in front of him and you want nothing more than to be helpful, to show him how much you care, and as he studies you through his intensity, you are able to watch him make his conclusion. It’s a click in his irises; a spark of electric knowing.

“Your company.”

Heat floods your cheeks and with a nod, you take a seat at his side. You attempt to smother your smile, focusing instead on the way Vergil steals a moment of reprieve to close his eyes. Your worry lessens - you’re certain that he will recover.

“Will you take me with you next time?” you ask, intentionally quiet when you reach for his hand.

(He does not withdraw.)

His eyes part, that pale gaze shifting to observe you, mild and curious. “I wouldn’t actively seek to put you in danger.” His brow quirks. “I can heal. You may not.”

And while you know this is true, you wish he wouldn’t continue to venture on his own. Can he not take Dante? Nero? If he’s concerned with leading you to harm, surely his family can handle it? Yet you know Vergil too well, and with that comes the knowledge that he would rather take care of his own business because he thinks it’s easier than delegating tasks, or attempting to control two less malleable forces.

As your thumb strokes the back of his palm, you lean on your arm rest. “Can I make a request, then?” Although Vergil doesn’t answer, merely closing his eyes once more, you know that he’s listening. “Consider taking someone else with you? At least... Sometimes.”

He hums his acknowledgement. “Would it ease your fears?”

Your heart thrums. “Yes.”

Exhaling through his nose, he turns to look at you, and for a moment, he says nothing. He’s roving his eyes across your expression as if to read you, to piece together a detail he perhaps has missed, then finally, straightening his shoulders, he turns his palm over to press into yours. Your fingers lace.

“Then I suppose... I’ll consider it in the future.”

Nero

“For the last time, it’s not a big deal!” He tries to duck away but you’re persistent. “Ugh, quit it!”

“For heaven’s sake. Would you just stay still, Nero?”

You have your grip on his arm as you tug him toward you, but Nero has a stubborn heel in the carpet. His head is cast toward the wall but you can see him making a show of rolling his eyes regardless.

At least he’s fallen silent.

In your own tenacity, you crowd into his space and slide your hold to his hand. You have to use force to get him to relent, yet when he does, it’s with a long-suffering sigh that has you rolling your eyes. “You’re such a baby.”

“I’m not a -” but he catches himself, flushing, giving you a cantankerous stare before he scoffs and turns away once more.

Such a baby, you repeat to yourself.

There are a series of nicks in his knuckles from a particularly heavy-handed punch. His index finger is split open, a wound that spans across the entirety, and as you inspect it through the oozing blood, he huffs. “C’mon, seriously?”

“We need to wash it off,” you say with a sense of finality. “Come.”

And for all of his complaining, arguing, and - no matter what he says - whining, he follows you into your small bathroom where you twist the sink on. The water takes a moment to heat but when it does, you hold out your hand for his. He hesitates, lips flattened together, then wordlessly complies.

He stares at the flowing water rather than you, and in his expression, you can read the simmering shyness that he’s attempting to suppress behind a hardened glare.

“You shouldn’t fight me,” you tell him, patient despite the way he jerks in your hold as if burned. The water coasts along his knuckles, staining the sink a diluted crimson while you ghost the pads of your fingertips over the broken flesh. “I’m just trying to help.”

“But I’ll be fine,” he says, quiet against the rushing water. “I’ve been through way worse than this.”

“I know,” and you do. You’re peeking at him, smiling a touch while his muscles visibly ease. “But I’m here for you now and I hate seeing you hurt, so let me make it a big deal. Just a little bit. Please?”

A light brush of pink tints his face while he takes a sharp inhale, as if he’s irritated by the thought. You both know better. His eyes are giving him away and oh, they always do. There’s a glimmer of elation drawn there, the upturn of his brows belying the sweet spark of affection he feels.

You feel it, too.

“Here,” you say. “Keep your hand under the tap. I’m gonna grab some stuff to wrap your finger, okay?”

You slide past him, maneuvering through the tight space and tiled white walls to head toward your cabinet. Yet you get so far as the toilet before Nero’s snatching your wrist with his free hand, and when your gazes meet, his eyes dim with an outpouring of ardor that heats your cheeks.

“Thank you,” he says, and you tip your head with a demure smile. He gives you a sideways smile in return.

“You’re welcome.”

#devil may cry #dante #vergil #nero #headcanon request #I’m reeeeeally proud of this so I hope you all enjoy #ps likes and reblogs keep me in business!#(support your local content creators!)

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on-a-lucky-tide · 4 years

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This is a dedication to @goldandlights. Not exactly Christmas yet, but I didn’t think you’d mind it early. Thank you for all the beautiful art, headcanons and general loveliness you provide to the fandom. Also, thank you @lookoutrogue for pointing out the opportunity!

Lambert always starts winters at Kaer Morhen inside a blanket fort. Eskel’s the key to unlocking the gates in time for the winter solstice…

There was a mound of growling furs in the kitchen. That wasn’t unusual for winters at Kaer Morhen. For the first few days, it was important to leave the mound alone. It was testy, prone to biting and only occasionally showed signs of life when Vesemir placed a bowl of food or a goblet of alcohol down nearby. Sometimes the warm cocoon would flatten when its occupant left to bathe in the springs or relieve himself, but he’d soon return, hissing or growling at anyone who stepped in his way.

After some time to rest and acclimate, the mound of furs would disperse to reveal a cantankerous young wolf ready to train in the courtyard with his brothers and pull his weight when it came to the chores. However, there was one catalyst needed to begin this process of emergence; a healthy dose of Eskel.

Jaskier and Geralt arrived first. The bard, excited and eager to meet everyone, had almost disturbed the mound of Lambert, enticed by the fluffy hair he could see poking out one end where he hadn’t tucked his head away completely. Geralt reached out and took his elbow to guide him away. “No, not yet. Wait for Eskel to arrive,” he said softly, so as not to disturb the rumbling creature curled up by the fire.

Eskel arrived a day later. Cold and bedraggled, he shared an embrace, a drink and his first meal with Geralt, Jaskier and Vesemir before heading to the baths to restore some warmth to his limbs and shave away a week’s worth of beard. He stopped by his own room to dump his bags just inside the door, taking only a familiar glass jar of sweet smelling oil and a book of Aen Seidhe fairy tales with him to the kitchen. Vesemir had piled up the fire; the heat washed over Eskel’s exposed skin and he smiled gently at the pile of furs, blankets and pillows before it.

The body beneath shifted—a ripple passed from one side to the other—and a tuft of dark fluffy hair popped up at one side as Lambert revealed just a small part of his face to scent the air. “You’re late,” said a growly, petulant voice.

“Sorry, got caught up in Kaedwen,” Eskel shucked out his clothes—just trousers and shirt—folded them neatly nearby and crawled beneath the blankets. The interior was warm and saturated in Lambert’s scent; spiced apple cider with a hint of something deep and musky that made Eskel’s mouth water. He ran his nose through the bristles on Lambert’s jaw as warm limbs bound around him; their legs weaved together, Lambert’s hands running over the familiar curves and angles of his torso in a slow, careful exploration.

“This is new,” Lambert whispered into Eskel’s hair as gentle fingers slid over a jagged line wrapping his hip. It was still sensitive and the muscles of Eskel’s stomach clenched, body responding to tender caresses with a shiver of enjoyment. “Haven’t even touched you properly and you’re already shaking, old man. Sure you’ve got a good session in you?” Lambert drawled, tilted his head back as blunt teeth grazed the arch of his throat.

“Good to see your attitude’s survived another year,” Eskel breathed against warm skin, before consuming it with a hungry kiss that left a red mark in its wake when he moved on. He didn’t usually dabble in verbal sparring; his hands and lips did all his talking for him when it came to Lambert. The younger wolf arched against him as his mouth reached his collarbone, one muscular thigh lifting to hook over his hip. The warm, velvet skin of their cocks brushed together as they both filled out. Eskel, starved of touch and intimacy for so long, knew he wouldn’t last long this round. Lambert was too intoxicating, like the spiced mead of Beltane that formed the main notes of his scent. The taste of his sweat and the smell of his arousal overwhelming, intensified by the cocoon of heavy blankets around them.

“Ahh, fuck, yeah,” Lambert’s fingers wound through Eskel’s hair, still slightly damp from his bath, and tugged with barely contained enthusiasm as Eskel’s tongue swirled around his chest. Dark hair left as wet cowlicks off defined muscle, Eskel smiled around one of Lambert’s dusky nipples and relished the hardness of the prick grinding against his stomach. “Uh,” Lambert grunted, a spurt of precome soaked through the trail of hair in the centre of Eskel’s stomach. “Get in me.”

“Patience…”

“If you say patience is a virtue, I’m gonna’ ride you raw and then bite it off,” Lambert growled his threat, but he was half-drunk on his lover already. While Eskel leaned out of their soft fort to grab the oil and slick his fingers, he recited the rest of the quote in his head. Patience strengthens the spirit, sweetens the temper, stifles anger, extinguishes envy, subdues pride, bridles the tongue, restrains the hand, and tramples upon temptation. One of Barmin’s many, many lessons taught during meditation. It was no surprise then that in the absence of patience, Lambert displayed none of the restraints that came with it. Well, except spirit. His spirit was stronger than any Eskel knew; a furious, unrelenting tempest of passion. It was loyal, and fierce, and unafraid to burst forth into the world.

Eskel loved him for it. He loved Lambert’s untamed ferocity, his temper, his sharp tongue… because just as he was ferocious in anger, he was so in love. To be loved by Lambert was to be thoroughly consumed by it; to have a lover devoted to the care of your heart, enthralled by your touch, desperate for your affection and keen to return it. After a year of emptiness on the Path—void of love, of smiles, of even the vaguest validation of your efforts—sliding beneath these blankets into Lambert’s arms was like feeling the warmth of the sun on your face after an eternal winter. Eskel had never said it out loud, but he needed this as much as Lambert did.

His forearm tucked beneath the thigh now over his waist and he reached to caress the supple skin of Lambert’s cleft with slick fingers. His mouth continued to work, teasing hard nipples with gentle flicks of the tongue interspersed with deeper kisses that made Lambert moan. “Eskel, c’mon, stretch me open. I need this, need you.”

Need you. He needed Eskel. The words burrowed into Eskel’s chest and stole his breath away. Because that was it, wasn’t it? Lambert didn’t just want him, he needed him. The desperate clutch of his body around Eskel’s fingers as they slipped inside was testament to that, Lambert’s heel digging into the small of his back with a needy gyration of the hips. Those cunning yellow eyes would be misty with lust; soft, full lips agape. Sweat beaded on their backs, in the grooves of their chest and abdomen, easing the grind of their bodies to a sultry glide that stoked their lust higher. Lambert’s cock continued to weep silky beads into the dark thatch of Eskel’s abdomen, so close despite his earlier bravado. He didn’t touch himself once he was up the mountain. His body was a means to express his love for Eskel, and he liked to save everything.

Eskel drew away only far enough to roll him over, guide his legs forward and bind him up in one strong arm. The thick head of his cock nudged against Lambert’s rim, the only warning he got, before it was sinking inside. Lambert’s body tensed with a strangled cry and Eskel paused to gentle him, teeth nibbling the arch of his ear—”doing so well, little wolf, relax, let me love you”—hand pushing his head back against his shoulder. Tight muscles eased and Eskel continued the slow roll of his hips. They always made love like this the first time. Later in the winter they’d fuck—hard, raw, fast—against walls, tables, any relatively stable surface available. Their bodies would be covered in nips and bruises, and Lambert would bounce on Eskel’s cock roaring his pleasure so every ghost in the keep could hear.

Not the first few days though. The first few days were to remind them that Witchers were capable of loving, of touching and kissing tenderly. Their hands were built for more than just wielding a silver sword; they were more than just harbingers of death. Lambert whimpered as his body struggled. “Fuck, old man. You have—nngh—some work done, or—?”

Eskel chuckled; a deep, salacious growl into the side of Lambert’s neck. “All me.”

“Nngh, oh fuck yes,” Lambert gasped as Eskel bottomed out and he felt his cock punch into his fucking soul. He clung to the thick forearm wrapping his chest and latched onto the one slanted over his hip as Eskel stroked his cock in time with his thrusts. His thumb circled over his weeping head, sweeping away the tears of precome to ease the slide of his hand. The musk of sweat, of the slow, sensual fuck, filled the cavern of the blankets. Both were overtaken with the heat of it, their noise untempered; Lambert all desperate whimpers and whines as Eskel dragged over his prostate in a continuous grind, while Eskel growled and moaned at each fluttering clench of Lambert’s body.

Bottoming out with each slow thrust, Eskel buried his face in Lambert’s hair, every panting breath drawing in huge hits of his familiar scent saturated with lust, pleasure and happiness. It gave a better high than even a hundred lines of Fisstech. He felt the warmth and shudder of Lambert’s climax in his palm, around his cock, and fucked him through it. His lover melted helplessly in his arms as Eskel continued to stroke his sensitive, twitching cock; hole looser after his orgasm, but still sucking greedily on Eskel when he withdrew. Eskel could go on like this forever, walking the delicate balance of bliss, preventing himself from folding to his climax, but Lambert tilted his head back and whispered softly into his jaw. “Love you, Eskel.”

Eskel’s hips stuttered and he held Lambert tightly, face buried against his beard, as his cock throbbed inside him. He stayed put even as he began to soften, unwilling to break the spell of intimacy enveloping them; their first moment of being intertwined after a whole year apart. When they eventually drew apart, it was only far enough to settle in a comfortable sprawl. They’d stay like that for a day or two, wrapped in each other and emerging only briefly to attend to nature’s other demands.

At the end of the end of the second day, Vesemir worked in the kitchen around them. He chopped vegetables, herbs and meat even as the blankets shifted and Lambert groaned; stepped over them to reach the fire and hang the stewpot, returning occasionally to stir it, even when the blankets were rippling quite violently and Eskel growling.

Halfway through the third day, Jaskier wandered down to collect some ale for Geralt and met two amber eyes as he stepped through the door. Lambert was on his back, his eyes lidded, with Eskel hanging over him. There was little left to the imagination, the height of the blankets betraying the legs wrapped around Eskel’s waist. Jaskier cleared his throat. “Can I… get you anything? Something to drink, or—?” He was cut off as Eskel shoved his hips forward and Lambert’s eyes rolled into the back of his head with a desperate moan.

“Tea would be nice,” Eskel replied, only slightly breathless, to his credit. So Jaskier tried to ignore the deliciously feral sounds being punched out of Lambert by Eskel’s criminally enormous cock as he brewed them some tea.

“Terribly sorry—just need to—step over here and heat the water, oh, don’t want to step on—mmhm.” Jaskier tiptoed gingerly over the blankets, almost tripping on Eskel’s hidden legs, and tried really hard to keep his eyes on the pot. It was impossible. Lambert looked wrecked, and Eskel’s shoulders were just breathtaking when they bunched and flexed. His breeches became far too restrictive.

Jaskier left his offering at their side as Eskel seemed distracted by his task of sucking bruises into the side of Lambert’s neck, his hips thrusting a little faster as his lover pleaded for more. The bardling fled straight into Geralt’s arms and immediately demanded they spend some time in bed before he combusted.

A day later, both the Witchers emerged from their blanket fort, tidied it away and everyone sat down for breakfast as if it was all entirely normal to spend a few days fucking in front of a kitchen fireplace. Lambert glanced at Jaskier from across the courtyard the following morning, rolled his eyes and growled. “I hate him already.”

Geralt smirked. Lambert didn’t really express his love well unless he was in Eskel’s arms, so ‘I hate him’, probably meant ‘he’ll grow on me’. That was a decent enough start.

#rawrkinwrites #smut #lambert #eskel #lambskel #winter at kaer morhen #blanket fort #lambert hates the cold #but he loves Eskel #Eskel is love #Eskel is life #Eskel is a gods-damned furnace

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charincharge · 4 years

Note

could you write something about cardan maybe tricking jude into leaving her queenly duties just so he could spend time with her alone? if it's really fluffy i would adore that

Cardan’s No Good, Very Bad Idea

could you write something about cardan maybe tricking jude into leaving her queenly duties just so he could spend time with her alone? if it's really fluffy i would adore that

Jude taps a long nail across the long mahogany table in front of her. She looks over the lengthy agenda for today’s meeting. The scroll seems to be never ending, and Jude has a feeling she will be trapped here until the wee hours of the night, especially if they wait any longer to begin. She’s been worked to the bone, recently. And Jude is exhausted. She doesn’t know if she has the stamina for this tonight.

Randalin sighs, staring at the double doors on the opposite side of the room, as if willing them to open. But, they remain shut, its gold filigree swirling across the front to create a perfect replica of the Greenbriar crest, unbroken.

“I suppose we should begin,” Randalin says, addressing the rest of the Living Council, though the seat next to Jude remains conspicuously unoccupied.

“I suppose…”

Jude has sat through many of these councils by herself. Since her coronation, the High King has been scarce during political meetings. He’d much rather be drinking in the basement, learning how to be a shadow, or sparring with his cantankerous wife. The latter usually happens immediately after the Living Council wraps.

Today, Jude is impatient and weary. She woke early to an empty bed and a note from Cardan that he was going on “an adventure” and would return for Council. A faerie loophole, Jude laughs to herself. Apparently he can lie in writing.

Just as Randalin is about to begin his lengthy agenda, the doors swing open, the crest splitting apart in two. The loud crack makes the room jump, almost as much as the appearance of The Bomb, looking distraught and disheveled. Her white hair falls into her panicked eyes haphazardly, her wings tittering, agitated, behind her.

Jude stands immediately.

“Her Majesty.” The Bomb pants, out of breath, and Jude can scarcely breathe as she continues. “You must come at once. It’s the King.”

Jude is out the door before the end of the sentence is complete. The Bomb takes Jude’s hand in hers as they rush through the halls.

“Where is he?” Jude asks. “What happened?”

“We couldn’t move him.” The Bomb slows and looks at Jude, the weight of her words evident in her serious eyes. “He asked for you.”

Jude’s throat tightens as she nods and picks up the pace.

The Bomb leads Jude out of the palace, out the back towards the stables where her horse is already saddled and ready to go.

“He’s on the western shore of Insmire Lake,” The Bomb explains.

Jude hoists herself onto the horse and looks down, confused and upset. “You’re not coming?”

The Bomb shakes her head. “We’ve already said our goodbyes. You two need your privacy.”

Jude nods and digs her heels into the horse, spurring him forward, as fast as she can. She races across the palace grounds, needing to go faster and faster. Lush green plants angle themselves as she passes by, the wind curling itself around them, leading the way to where her king lies. If only she could see them in the dark. The stars seem to grow brighter at her desire to see clearer, clouds parting to reveal a dark yellow moon.

She spots him, sprawled on his side, exactly where The Bomb said he’d be. He is completely still and silent, and Jude doesn’t even bother tying the horse up as she dismounts and rushes to his side.

“Cardan,” she pleads. “Cardan.” Tears well in the corners of her eyes as she strokes his shoulder. “Cardan, please,” she chokes back a sob.

Cardan stretches his arms above his head and a sly smirk curls his lips upward as he flutters his dark eyes open. “I really thought you’d be here faster with the threat of your husband in mortal danger.” He pushes himself up on his elbows and finally takes a look at his wife. “Am I truly so meaningless to you, my Queen?”

Jude’s brown eyes darken as she examines him. She realizes he’s in perfectly fine form, and shoves him back down onto the ground, pinning his hips with her straddled thighs and her hand dangerously clasped around his throat. Her glare is like two piercing daggers, and he can’t stop the rumble of laughter that starts in his chest.

“Are you serious?!” she gasps. “I swear, Cardan Greenbriar, if you ever do anything like that again, I will murder you my gods damned self,” she hisses. “I thought…” She swipes at the stray tear that’s betrayed her and rolled down her cheek. “I thought…” She repeats herself, and Cardan’s devilish eyes turn worried.

He places his hand atop hers, stroking her fingers so they release their grasp on his neck, and twines with his fingers instead. He places their joined hands above his head, and she leans over him, her heart still racing with the remnants of panic.

“Please forgive me, my darling,” he coos, his voice holding none of the mirth from mere seconds before. “I’d seen the council agenda and thought I was saving you. I know you’ve been exhausted. I just wanted to treat you. I didn’t think…”

He sits up, still keeping Jude in his lap, cradling her soundly against him. She presses her ear against his chest, letting the thrum of his heart center her. He’s alive and well. Just an idiot.

“I planned us a picnic.”

It’s only then that Jude realizes they’re spread on a large and soft blanket. A host of fireflies hover around the tree they’re perched under, acting as their own personal twinkle lights, which reveal an elaborate feast. Toast with soft cheese and honey. Real mortal strawberries dipped in dark chocolate. Smoked meats and assorted nuts. And wine. So much wine.

“I thought you could use a night off,” he whispers into her ear as he rubs her back, and finally her heartbeat starts to slow.

She looks up at him, her pink lips pursed in contemplation. “I hate you.”

He grins, knowing she’s already forgiven him for his clumsy way of extracting her from her queenly duties. “Shall I feed you? You must be famished.”

Jude frowns. “I’m not a child, Cardan. I can feed myself.”

But Cardan ignores her and lifts a strawberry to her lips. They part slightly as she nibbles away the tip of chocolate and then takes a bite of the ripe juicy fruit.

“Mmm,” she hums as she chews. It’s been so long since she’s had a strawberry. Cardan swipes the berry back and forth across her lips, staining them red.

He tilts her head up and licks the sweetness from her lips. She opens to him, and lets his tongue explore her mouth, curling around hers softly, until she’s putty in his hands. Their tongues move against each other in languid strokes as Cardan’s hand moves into Jude’s hair, softly caressing the back of her neck with his thumb.

As Jude pulls away to gasp for air, Cardan plops the rest of the strawberry in his own mouth, and then can’t resist leaning down and kissing Jude once, twice more.

They take turns feeding each other and taking sips of wine from the same cup, until they’re both sated. Only then does Jude stretch out on the blanket, curling into Cardan’s side. She kisses the top of his chest, which is exposed in his unlaced shirt.

“Okay, maybe I did need this,” she admits, and Cardan beams at her. A night, just the two of them, with no pressure and no one to accidentally interrupt and no pressing matters to attend to… it’s pretty much perfection.

“A husband always knows,” he chuckles, running his finger down her arm. She shivers under his touch, goosebumps raising like little pin pricks under his hand.

“Are you cold?” he asks, worried, and Jude shakes her head. She looks around the darkened lake.

“Are we really alone?” she asks, and Cardan’s smile curls into something far more salacious as he grasps her waist and pulls him astride his lap.

“Take whatever you want, my dearest.” His hands rest under his head, goading her into action. And so she does. Over and over, well into the night. And when they head back to the castle, locked like intertwining puzzle pieces galloping and racing against the rising sun, Cardan reminds himself to plan this again for next month. Only maybe he’ll tell her before time.

~*~*~*~*~

tags:

@hizqueen4life @wordsafterhours @cursebreaker29@x3hopeless-dreamer @sarahjmaasslave @thewickedkings @aesthetics-11 @thewayshedreamed@studyforthestars99 @feed-the-madness01 @brit-alltoowell @gabs-2002 @m-like-magic @sophiekarim @the-third-me @babycardan @justfangirling @isardinesinacanblog @youknowpurple @snusbandxknifewife @youknowpurple @cosmosstarstudio @wannawriteyouabook @aneurwin @bookieworm @bamchickawowow @taco-taco-belle

#jurdan #jurdan fanfic #jude x cardan #prompts #charincharge writes

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writefightandflightclub · 4 years

Text

Texture like sun (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn is your favourite season, whenever he comes around. Autumn vibes and Llewyn snuggles.

Rating: TEEN

Author’s note: I’m still mopping up some requests from soft blurb week. These will come when they come! Think I failed for this one as it’s a) probably too similar to the other Llewyn blurbs I wrote under this theme, and b) it’s not exactly what was requested (sorry Anon!). BUT, by the time I realised both these things it was already written (d’oh!), so you may as well have it, I guess? FYI, if I write Llewyn again I wanna be sure I give you something a bit different, so don’t worry, I have some ideas which will keep things fresh.

Warnings: swearing. cigs. too many metaphors, not enough plot. Zero. Sorry.

Llewyn’s cheeks are flushed with garnets as he crawls in from the cold night, lending an autumnal crimson to his olive skin.

Llewyn.

His gloom black, windswept curls are like a tangle of yarn as he enters headfirst through your window - like a mess of abandoned projects and half-finished scarves it feels good to tangle your fingers into on a cold, autumn evening.

Llewyn.

These days become shorter and his visits grow longer, and, increasingly, you can prevent neither him nor the autumn chill from climbing inside your apartment. You cannot prevent him from climbing inside your soul, filtering through the cracks.

No matter.

Llewyn is your favourite season, and you do not wish to keep him out.

He stands in front of you apologetically as he emerges out of the gloom. You pick-out the shape of his striking hair and beard first, hovering over him; soft and volumous like a dark cloud of curls.

Llewyn.

The chill from the still open window crawls along the floor and finds your bare legs, kissing goosebumps on to your skin as you stand, silhouetted against the amber light of your bedroom. The blare of car horns and sirens and chatter from the bodega downstairs filter up towards you, beats of the city like background music.

“Llewyn!” you say, the name finally falling like from your surprise-parted lips like a stubborn red leaf, the word sharp and vivid as the cold begins to bite at your ankles.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles, his breath a white cloud in front of him. He turns to wrestle the window down in its frame, swearing as his scarf gets jammed. Cursing, as he nips his finger on the second attempt.

“Llewyn,” you say when he turns back to you, his name falling from your lips again. This time it is orange; softer and warming, cushioned by the air between you as it drifts to settle on your floorboards.

Llewyn moves closer. Close enough that the amber light from behind you bathes his face, his eyes despondent and mysterious even as they shine softly. As his eyes meet yours, they brim with gathering clouds and half-written songs. Just like autumn, you never know whether to expect dull grey rain, or a glimpse of pure gold from a low-slung sun. Llewyn is your light when his clouds part.

Your eyes rove gently over his tired, disheveled form as he shrugs off his coat and fingerless gloves, resting them on the arm of your couch.

This time of year reminds you of him.

He is cinnamon and gingerbread and wool and frost.

He is loose leaf tobacco and the metallic twang of guitar strings on a rainy day.

His voice is low, golden light.

His soul is disappearing wisps of cigarette smoke.

He is at once the cold chill and the warm mug of tea beneath your fingers.

He is petrichor and gloom.

At times, he is a cantakerous, angry wasp at the end of its patience.

Llewyn and autumn are one.

Llewyn is your favourite season, though you’re never sure when he will arrive.

You watch him fold his woollen scarf and set it on top of his jacket, inching towards your throw blanket, looking ready to lie down and bundle himself up without another word. But, it has been too long since you held him, and one more word is teetering on your lips, ready to be shed. The same word, but painted a fresh colour.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, and this time, his name falls golden from your mouth. The word is gilded and aureate, like the final flare of summer, and it resonates in the space between you.

Llewyn is your favourite season, but you’re never sure when he will depart. You want to soak him up, texture like sun, whenever you can.

He looks up at you with cautious eyes, between warmth and cold, glowing and afraid all at once.

Llewyn.

His name whips through your head and through your blood like leaves on the wind.

You reach out for his hand, like you did when you walked in the park, sighs crunched beneath your feet when all the trees were giving up. When you both walked together like trembling leaves afraid to fall. Maybe Llewyn will never roar or blaze with love, but maybe, one leaf at a time you will carpet your floor with fire, until everywhere you walk is golden. Until everytime he comes home it is autumn.

Llewyn’s icy fingers wind around yours, and he does not resist your warmth - he lets himself bask in your ochre and your butterscotch and honey. His eyes light up and they are umber as you lead him to your bed - lead him to where everything is warm.

Llewyn.

He sheds his clothes and his reservations like a tree sheds its leaves. He sheds them one layer at a time, forming a blanket of warm hues of cord and wool on your floorboards.

Llewyn.

You pull him under the fluffy cloud of the blanket and hold him, his body slotting easily in beside you, limbs entwining with yours as you let him slip his cold feet in between your legs to thaw.

His head nuzzles into your chest, the tangled yarn of his hair brushing softly against your chest. His hair smells like the Gaslight and late night diners. Sticky ales and smoke and cinnamon waffles. Perhaps a few half-written songs are hiding in there too.

Llewyn.

You massage your hands through his hair as he reaches out to find your skin, his calloused, well-practised fingers digging into all his favourite spots as though he is playing a familiar song through his touch on your skin. He grips your arm, your back, your thigh like this, until you are humming chords for him, your sounds mellow and yellow in the warmth of this moment.

Llewyn plays your body with his fingers as though he can’t help himself. Whether he realises it or not, there are two times he lets his dark soul glow golden; when holding his guitar and when holding you.

Your hands are not musician’s hands, and yours skim over his back with greater trepidation as you coax this flighty soul to melt into you. Still, while he does not hum or sing for you, you at least feel him thaw beneath your touch. Sometimes, his silence is as golden as his voice, when you know it stems from contentment. When you put everything despondent and cantankerous and forlorn to bed. When you bring Llewyn to your bed.

“Llewyn?” you breathe, and this time when you say his name it is green. Fresh like spring and full of hope.

“Yep?” he responds efficiently, holding you a little tighter when you say his name with such kindness, garnets flushing his cheeks again.

“Don’t crawl out of my window.”

You soothe his hair and try to soothe his gentle, flightly soul along with it, lest he might disappear and take your carpet of leaves with him, gone with an eddying wind and swept out into the open street. Lest he might take all of the colour from your world along with him.

Llewyn.

You don’t want your warmth to leave you to a long, bleak, monochrome winter.

“Angel, it’s cold outside. I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles sleepily into your chest.

You pull the blanket over both your heads and shimmy down to bury your face in his chest this time, pressing delicate kisses to skin. “Charming, Llewyn. Just a warm body to you, am I?”

“Shit. Fuck. S-sorry,” he says, pulling the blankets down again and re-bathing you in amber light. He looks at you deeply, fragments of unwritten songs and unspoken sentiments filtering across his eyes and being drawn together, knitted into coherency. You can see him beating himself up inwardly, his eyes dark bruises. “I meant...uh...”

“Sshhh, Llewyn,” you interupt softly. Gently.

His words are not ready, and you don’t want him to bare himself before all the leaves are fallen. For now, you will focus on shedding moments and words and feelings to create your carpet of leaves, until you can crunch them all beneath your feet, hand-in-hand.

For now, whilst you are literally bare -leafless- you can settle in for a long rest. Leaves turning in reverse, becoming fresh.

Llewyn.

He is crimson and russet and saffron and moss all at once. He is golden, and he lights up your world, even though he thinks himself dreary.

If only he knew you loved his dreary too.

This is autumn, and Llewyn and autumn are one.

He is your favourite season, and you go to sleep with his name on your tongue, his warmth in your arms, and his song in your heart.

Llewyn.

#llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis #inside llewyn davis #llewyn x reader #inside llewyn davis fanfiction #oscar isaac

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eccentricpony · 4 years

Text

Hello dear! I kind of did a spin on this request, and the story starts around the time of their first meeting and shows the progression into a romantic relationship. Mildly inspired by Tenma’s home screen quote to practice a kissing scene.

I think it’s a good blend of angsty, spicy, funny, and fluffy, but you be the judge! I am quite fond of this piece, and I hope you are, too! <3

Bad First Impressions

Despite your best efforts to suppress it, a dramatic sigh rumbles past your lips. And to think that you had actually looked forward to working with Tenma Sumeragi. You had watched his performances in a few teen dramas and found his ability to be quite impressive, and he was highly lauded among other actors in your professional circle for being the consummate professional and perfectionist. More like pretentious and pompous.

“…and you there-“ the haughty redhead pointed towards a mousy looking boy sitting at a diner table on set.

“Uhh, B- Bill?” the mousy boy responded meekly.

“Yeah, sure – no one just stares at the person across from them without saying anything at all. It’s creepy and weird. That goes for you, too, guy with the glasses.” He moved an accusatory finger towards Bill’s dining companion. “Haven’t you guys ever heard of “peas and carrots”? I mean, this is amateur hour stuff that you don’t even need any skill to execute…”

“Can you just close your mouth and do some work, Sumeragi?”

You could hear a pin drop in the spacious sound studio. The cantankerous teen star whipped his head towards you with a pointed glare. You were an up-and-coming actress in the teen drama scene, and although you were a year older than he was, his acting resume was at least three times the length of yours. Sure, you were pretty, and you seemed passably talented, but you had a long way to go before you could even reach the echelon of his level of expertise. And you had the audacity to criticize his judgment??

“Excuse me?!” His eyes raked up and down your form, sizing you up in an attempt to appear intimidating. The manner in which you nonchalantly rested your hand upon your hip, head-cocked and eyes rolled; it was utterly disrespectful to him, a major authority in the industry, not to mention disrespectful to your fellow actors, to the very sacred space of-

“And to think that I had heard you were a competent leader…” you continued in a jaded tone. There was a visible flare in Tenma’s cheeks, the fury sizzling behind his eyes red hot.

To his credit, he certainly had a high level of talent, but that gave him no authority to degrade his teammates, whether they be fellow actors or the key grip. You weren’t normally this abrasive, but charming teen cutie Tenma was a self-important bully who was surrounded by “yes” men. This suave schoolboy star needed a wakeup call. The scandalized celebrity opened his mouth to commence a tirade when the director stepped in.

“Now, now, please folks. Let’s be civil…” Pinching the bridge of his nose, he glanced between you both with a pleading look.

With a final sour stare in your direction, Tenma transformed back into TV’s favorite high school hottie with a heart of gold.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, and you also nodded in consent. Everyone placated Tenma, endured his toxic attitude because he brought them money. But one thing was for sure, you had no intention to relinquish control to tyrannical Tenma.

Japan’s Newest Sweetheart

Tenma rushed down the street, tipping the brim of his hat further down his forehead, his alarming speed drawing attention from passersby. But he couldn’t slow down now; it was only a matter of time before Igawa caught up to him and asked where he was going, and why he was going by himself, and what was he looking for after all, and a number of other questions whose answers he would very much prefer not to explain.

With the convenience store in sight, he quickened his pace until he reached the threshold, throwing open the door with a tenacity that startled the cashier. Returning upright from where he hunched over his newspaper, the shopkeep threw a cautious eye to the young man at the doorway, wearing a suspicious amount of accessories and panting like he was running from the law.

The ginger on a mission performed a quick visual sweep of the displays until he located the object he desired. Bounding forward, he approached the magazine rack and flipped open the arts & entertainment periodical to the index. …page 31…

Rifling through the flimsy pages of the gossip rag, he at last reached the article which he had sought. There looking up at him was a page-wide spread of you, armed with an impossibly charming smile and a sparkle of mischief in your eyes. The page opposite of your come-hither headshot bore the headline “Japan’s Newest Sweetheart.”

It was infuriating. You were a nobody – barely any experience at all, and certainly not in anything particularly noteworthy – yet you were the one pushed to the forefront of advertising. His eyes flicked back to your picture once, twice… I mean, it was a good photo.

Ignoring the manner in which his throat seized when met with your 2-dimensional gaze, he directed his attention to the article. His eyes tripped along the words, “captivating new series… “ “character growth and development…” – aha! He spotted his name among the text and focused on the containing paragraph.

“blah, blah… he’s a true veteran in the industry…” Tenma puffed up like a rooster at this remark. Damn right, I am. He continued to read your commentary, mouth silently forming the shape of the words, scouring each sentence for more well-deserved praise. You went on to describe the characters, their struggles and how the cast related to their roles… One line in particular raised his brow. Tenacious young man?? Young man, what? She’s like, one year older than I am! He rose his head, appalled that you would speak of him like a child. He turned back to the print, reviewing the sentence a second time. She’s not even a whole year older, we’re practically the same age. He bent his brow in concentration. He counted back from your birthday. Yeah, totally not even a year old. Tch. He chose to ignore the fact that he recalled your birthday so quickly and glowered down at you while you beamed right back up at him.

It was undeniable that he was pissed off due of all the attention you were receiving when he was the lead. Possibly because… well, maybe you did deserve it. He had come to respect your acting ability over the past few months, in particular your impressive ability to become truly immersed in a role.

But maybe also because…. well, you looked good in this spread. Like, really good. Your smile was intoxicating; why didn’t you smile at him like that? On second thought, maybe it was for the best that you hadn’t. His hardened exterior would likely dissolve, and he’d be a stuttering, fumbling mess. Scanning your features, he noticed that they airbrushed away a tiny birthmark on your face. Or maybe it was a freckle? And they did something to your eyebrows, they just looked off. Why would they even do that? They were perfectly fine eyebrows…

“Hey, buddy, are you going to buy that or not? This ain’t a library.”

Tenma’s head shot upright, dazed for a few moments before he comprehended the words spoken to him. His tense fists gripped the wrinkled magazine tightly, fragile pages strained and starting to tear. Loosening his hold, he spared a final glimpse at your face before neatly closing the pages and smoothing out the bent cover.

“Uhh, yeah. I am.”

Sliding his shades further up his nose with his pointer, he coolly ambled to the checkout area and lay the gentleman’s digest upon its surface. The material refused to remain flat after its recent abuse, leaving your shirt and neck visible beneath the dog-eared pages. The employee recognized the article right away.

“That new actress is really something, huh? They say she’s going to be the next big thing.”

Tenma scoffed but offered no discourse, handing over the required yen.

“Pretty cute, too,” the young worker added as he slipped the purchased item into a plastic bag.

“Yeah, whatever,” Tenma huffed heatedly, snatching the illustrated booklet containing your first big media premiere and returning to the sidewalk to await Igawa.

Salty to Sweet

“Don’t they teach you how to stay on task in Middle School? Or are you in High School? Your lack of common sense is misleading…”

“Funny,” Tenma retorted caustically, though more annoyed at himself than you. He had been finding it challenging to focus as of late since he bought that magazine and he kept screwing up on the same damn lines. His short fuse was growing ever shorter with every butchered word.

You could see that Tenma was downward spiraling; the spark he always carried behind those big, vibrant eyes was fading fast.

“Look, why don’t you try something else…” you started, preparing for opposition.

“What?” the taller boy began, with no small amount of skepticism. Ignoring his sour attitude, you stood opposite him and continued in a calm tone.

“Try talking to me about something you really like while staying in character.”

“Talk about something I like?” Tenma replied incredulously. “What am I, six?”

“Sometimes I wonder, with the way you hide your vegetables under your mashed potatoes during lunch, so no one notices you throwing them away.” You smirk knowingly, pleased with the look of surprise on your fellow actor’s face.

“You saw me do that?” Tenma stared at you with a look of both wonder and bewilderment. He was certain no one could see him do that, and you sat at another table entirely! How on earth could you have been paying close enough attention to him to spot that, unless…

“Everyone knows that,” you deflected quickly, the rosy tint on your cheeks belying your innocence in the matter. “So what are you going to talk about?” Your bitter scene partner rolled his eyes. As a veteran in the industry, he felt pretty foolish having you talk him through basic acting exercises. Yet…. There was no question that he was struggling with the script, and no better ideas came to mind. With a sigh of defeat, Tenma offered the one outlet that came to mind.

“Bonsai…” he mumbled in a barely audible tone.

“What was that?” you ask, leaning it. Your close proximity fuels a steadily growing warmth along the back of his neck. He takes a sudden step backward and repeats himself louder.

“Bonsai! Are you deaf?”

“Bonsai, huh?” You smile with amusement. “Well, that’s something you don’t read in all your magazine interviews.”

“Reading my interviews, are you?” he responds dryly, but his stomach does a flip. He thinks back on the magazine he has featuring you, kept privately stashed away in a box under his bed. The thought that maybe you had a magazine featuring him tucked away somewhere in your bedroom causes chills that ran down his broad arms and shoulders.

“Nevermind that,” you grumble, brushing a stray hair out of your face. “Well, bonsai it is, then. Whenever you’re ready.”

You spend the next few minutes listening to Tenma ramble on about bonsai pruning, the proper tools to use, and even the proper light, pH and moisture levels to ensure optimal bonsai health. Despite the fact that you now know more about bonsai trees than you would have ever cared to know, it seems that engaging, dynamic Tenma has returned. He comes to a full stop after finishing a discourse on bonsai diseases; his head now feeling clear, he’s convinced that he can recite his lines without hesitation.

“That was really good,” you commend him honestly, mirroring the pleased look on his face.

“Naturally,” he boasts in a cocky tone, feeling confident following his flawlessly delivered bonsai monologue. “It’s amazing how pleasant you can be when you’re not yelling at me,” he jibes, looking rather pleased with himself. You raise a brow at his renewed brashness, but you’ve always been quick on the trigger.

“It’s amazing how handsome you can be when you’re not scowling,” you reply with a smug expression, reveling in the crimson darkening his cheeks.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he mumbles with an air of mild embarrassment irritation, rubbing the back of his neck which is now damp with sweat.

“Who says I want to go anywhere with you?” you shoot back with a patronizing smirk before turning your attention back to the script. “SO, where were we?” you inquire loudly before he can get a word in edgewise. Thumbing through the marked-up pages, you see in your periphery that he is doing the same.

“Scenes 12 and 14 we did, 17 we did… no need to go over scene 28…”

“Why are we not practicing scene 28?” Tenma inquired in a cheeky tone. He knew exactly which scene 28 was: the kissing scene. You hadn’t gone over it yet, in read-throughs or on set. After you had just bested him in a mini battle of wits, this would be a great opportunity to even the playing field.

He had performed at least a dozen kiss scenes; it was old hat for him by now, and he knew for sure (not that he had googled your TV and film credits or anything) that you had never performed one. He was certain you’d flounder in search of a clever comeback, then, admitting defeat, blush profusely and outright refuse to do it.

“Fine, let’s do it.” You were no fool, and Tenma Sumeragi couldn’t bluff to save his life.

If Tenma wasn’t youthful and in great health, he might fear he were having a heart attack. Words seized up in his throat, and he could only manage a curt nod. He walked in a small circle, shaking his limbs as he often did while getting into character. He could do this, this was nothing. He had kissed, like, at least 12 girls before. 12! That was more girls than most men kissed in their entire lifetime! Wasn’t it? He couldn’t really think straight. With a long breath in, and out, he reformed his strategy.

He would perform a star-worthy kiss, absolutely knock-your-socks-off amazing, and then swagger out of the room while you were still swooning and dazed. His ego swelled a bit at the thought of leaving you desperate for another kiss, but his blood ran fast and furious at the thought of… well, actually having the kiss.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” you started in the tone of your character’s persona, the sudden smoldering look in your eye plucking at his every last nerve.

“At lunch, in the hall… even waiting for the bus.” Slowly, you crossed the floor towards Tenma’s frozen form. “You’ve given me flirty smiles, you’ve given me teasing winks, but there’s one thing you have yet to give me...” His pulse pounded in his ears as you leaned in closer, far closer than you had ever been before. His eyes flicker anxiously to your mouth, his breath held tightly in his throat.

“A kiss” you purr, biting your lip with the thrill of anticipation. Your lip bite just about crushes any dignity that remains in Tenma; tracing the lines on your lips with a wanton stare, it takes him a few seconds of feeble gaping before he remembers he has a line.

“Come and get it,” he whimpered, his line in a tone more befitting the token band geek than a smooth high school hunk. And get it, you did.

His script is lost to the floor as you press your lips onto his, his body rendered both limp and tight all at once. He did not expect this kind of kiss from you. Or maybe it was because he was used to a stage kiss, with twenty people watching and instructions from several individuals on how to hold his mouth at just the right angle for the camera. This… this was a kiss kiss. Your soft mouth was moving fluidly against his with such hypnotic, sweet caresses that he was convinced that he had never truly kissed someone before now. It was humbling but delicious; he had no control, and he couldn’t care less.

He couldn’t contain the small whimper of disappointment you drew from his throat when at last you pulled away, slyly wiping your reddened lips with the back of your hand. Tenma watched you with a mixed look of shock and awe, as though you had just miraculously materialized from thin air. Practice was over.

“Don’t lose that script,” you called over your shoulder cheerfully as you exited the practice space. “I think you could use another review of that scene.”

The Premiere

The Interview

You: …and it’s been bittersweet, but we’re both ready to move onto new projects. Isn’t that right, Tenten?

Interviewer: Tenten? That’s adorable, is that your nickname for Tenma?

You: Yeah, I call him Tenten because to me, he’s a ten out of ten. [You place an overly-dramatic kiss on his cheek]

Tenma: [Feigns a gagging sound while seated beside you, but reciprocates the kiss] That is a heinous lie, by the way, on both counts. [Tenma’s ability to poke fun at himself is refreshing, his overall manner humble and gracious, demonstrating his tremendous growth from child star to the consummate professional actor.]

Tenma: Actually, one of my fellow trou- uh, one of my friends at the Mankai Company, Kazunari, gave me that nickname.

Interviewer: The Mankai Company, that’s right! You’re putting on a production soon, aren’t you?

Tenten: We are! I’d love to give you the details of our production if you could publish them alongside this article.

Interviewer: Absolutely. [Turning to you] And do you usually attend Tenma’s performances? I know both of your schedules are rather hectic these days, with all the job offers you’ve both received following the highly successful final season of your most recent television drama.

You: Yes, absolutely; I attend every one.

Tenma: In the front row, every performance. [He links his arm in yours, speaking with a tangible sense of pride]

Interviewer: I’ve noticed you have at least a half dozen bonsai trees in your apartment. Is that a mutual hobby?

You: Well, it’s our thing. I mean, it’s his thing really, but it’s kind of both our thing now. [You smile at Tenma with affection]

Interviewer: And, I’ve been meaning to ask - that framed script on the wall there, is that a keepsake? Or a valuable script from one of your favorite films perhaps? [The interviewer gestures to the worn script hanging above the mantle, protected and held in place by a thick pane of glass, bearing a large penned “SCENE 28”]

Tenma: Yeah, it has a… special meaning. [Your boyfriend contributes, glancing into your eyes with a knowing smile that only you two could understand]

#a3!#a3! actor training game #a3! imagines #a3! headcanons #a3 x reader #tenma x reader #a3 tenma #a3! tenma #a3! tenma sumeragi #tenma sumeragi #a3 imagines #a3 headcanons #a3 actor training game #a3 act addict actors

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smoakmonster · 4 years

Text

G is for Gadgets and Gimmicks {3/3}

A/N:‌‌ ‌Well‌ ‌folks,‌ ‌the‌ ‌conclusion‌ ‌to‌ ‌my‌ ‌little‌ ‌bookstore‌ ‌AU‌ ‌is‌ ‌finally‌ ‌here!!‌ ‌Sorry‌ ‌for‌ ‌the‌ ‌extreme‌ ‌delay‌ ‌in‌ ‌finishing‌ ‌out‌ ‌this‌ ‌series.‌ ‌I‌ ‌appreciate‌ ‌all‌ ‌of‌ ‌your‌ ‌sweet‌ ‌responses‌ ‌to‌ ‌this‌ ‌fic.‌ ‌There’s‌ ‌just‌ ‌something‌ ‌so‌ ‌precious‌ ‌about‌ ‌fluffy‌ ‌Olicity,‌ ‌isn’t‌ ‌there?‌ ‌I‌ ‌hope‌ ‌you‌ ‌enjoy‌ ‌the‌ ‌wrap-up!‌ ‌Thank‌ ‌you‌ ‌again‌ ‌for‌ ‌reading!‌

‌Special‌ ‌thanks‌ ‌to:‌ ‌‌pleasantfanandstudent‌ ‌for‌ ‌this‌ ‌adorable‌ ‌cover‌ ‌art!‌ ‌

(Part‌ ‌1)‌ ‌(Part‌ ‌2)‌ ‌(Read‌ ‌on‌ ‌AO3)‌

***

com∙pro∙mise (v.)

3. to cause to become vulnerable or function less effectively

***

“Hey, the QR code on the door isn’t working, so do I still get the coupon?”

Oliver glances up from meticulously arranging rows of his latest mini-soufflé experiment to find a gangly teenage boy (probably a college freshman) watching him with expectation and just a hint of entitlement.

He frowns, stifling a sigh. “The what?”

This has been happening a lot lately. Interruptions. Deep down, Oliver knows that any form of interruption is a good interruption, that droves of customers, albeit annoying ones, do not detract from his work, but rather are the purpose of it. Strangers mean business. They mean another day where he gets to make payroll and keep his archaic practice of second-hand bookselling from dying out.

He’s not sure when or why or how his antiquated cardboard box of a business managed to draw this sudden influx of cantankerous college kids buried in cancer-causing gadgets, but he has his suspicions. Perhaps it has something to do with this QR...something? While Oliver may not understand ninety-percent of the latest digital discourse, he does know what a coupon is. And he’s pretty sure he would remember issuing said coupon.

As though the fringes of his very thoughts have pulled her forth by a string, the oh-so-familiar staccato of heels on old wood flooring tears Oliver’s attention.

“I’ve got this,” Felicity says brightly, with a brief hand on his arm. She inserts herself into the conversation with ease, brushing past Oliver to smooth things over with the impatient customer.

Her touch is so quick that for a second he thinks he might have imagined it. Only the warm buzzing just below the surface of skin is proof that it was real. In truth, her touch has become a more regular occurrence. This marks at least Number 10. Not that he’s keeping track. Not that his body even remembers. Every reaction is like the first time.

Simple, innocent little touches that cause his mind to stray to dangerous places. She probably has no idea the effect she has on him.

Felicity suddenly peeks his way and shoots him a quick wink. Or more like her attempt a wink. The squinty-eyed delayed blink is so endearingly Felicity that Oliver has never had the desire to correct her.

So maybe she has some idea.

Oliver shakes his head with a soft smile. He’s not sure when this happened, either, but somewhere along the way Felicity and he stopped exchanging the usual social greetings and formal pleasantries. Now, she just barges into his store with as much zeal and belonging as Thea.

The conversion taking place directly in front of him quickly devolves into Domain Lookup and Cloud Networking, and a mere five sentences in Oliver finds himself on the periphery. Feeling inept and oddly foolish, as he so often does in the presence of Felicity Smoak, and yet also a bit bereft that this kid can keep up with her whirlwind trail of thoughts and he cannot, Oliver decides to venture into the nonfiction recesses of the store. The only safe haven he has left apparently.

Oliver finds himself gravitating towards the cramped little nook nestled alongside the brick fireplace that’s been inoperable since Plymouth Rock (Thea’s words, not his). Last year on a whim, Oliver tried cleaning out the old fireplace and ended up drowning himself and the entire back of the store in soot. He spent days washing soot out his hair. Thea got a real kick out of that, dubbing the incident Gray Day.

Even now, it is not uncommon for the occasional customer to find a book sprinkled with the stuff and mistake it for dust.

The conversation up front grows muffled, lending a calm stillness to this part of the store. Hardly anyone ever ventures back here, partly because the aisles are more narrow and the lighting is poor, and partly because according to Rene it smells like a murder happened here. As if the kid knows what a murder smells like.

Personally, Oliver kind of likes the pine and leather aroma. It reminds him of simpler times, when Dad and he would go camping in the woods every summer. Oliver chuckles, remembering what a poor sport he could be and how patiently Dad taught him how to start a fire and set up a tent. He’d give anything to get more days like that with his father. More days at all, really.

What would it be like to get away like that again? Even just for a weekend? To go somewhere off-grid, no cell reception, no emails, no internet or WiFi or QR Codes or...

A flash of yellow binding catches his eye, and Oliver spots a book haphazardly stuffed on the third shelf. Carefully, he yanks the book out and reads the cover. Beginning Programming for Dummies.

A huff escapes him. It seems he can’t get away fast enough.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Oliver flips through the book, hopelessly searching, but not really wanting anything to stick. Maybe something in here will remind him of Felicity. Maybe if he can find even one word embedded in all these hieroglyphics, he’ll be able to make more sense of her world and actually be able to communicate with her about the things that are important to her.

But with every turn of the page, every heading and diagram just serves to confuse him all the more. With a frustrated groan, Oliver slams the book shut and attempts to shove it back into its tight crevice; at this point, he couldn’t care less if the book’s misshelved.

“Hey, what did that book ever do to you?”

Oliver stills. Her voice both jars and soothes him.

Feeling strangely guilty, he turns around but has trouble meeting her gaze, stuffing his hands into his pockets, as though he’s been caught cutting up in Mrs. Hannoven’s fourth grade class again. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

Felicity tips her head, wearing that adorably confused pout of hers. “I’m not sure I’m the one who needs you to apologize.”

“Oh. Um…” Does she seriously want him to apologize to a book?

“What I mean is…” She takes several steps closer to him and has the decency of a saint to wait until he’s looking her in the eye before she continues. “Oliver, I’m sorry.”

“What?” What on earth could she possibly have to be sorry for?

“I shouldn’t have pushed for the QR codes. I knew it was too soon, but I just got so excited after all of my contacts agreed to help sponsor your website. And then, during a webinar last Thursday there was this study that said QR codes can help increase foot traffic by upwards of 30%. And I thought, ‘Hey, that seems like it could work for my friend Oliver’—I hope it’s not too presumptuous that I called you my friend. We are friends, right? Of course we’re friends, what else would we be? It’s not like we’re exactly colleagues or anything—”

“Felicity.” He rests his hands on her shoulders, effectively halting her ramble, a tried and true tact. And if she happens to shift a bit closer to him as a result, well, who is he to stop her?

He likes this about them. That in this one, predictable way he can give her the same sense of quiet security she gives him.

“Yes, we are friends,” he says, giving her a slight smile, the finality of the word friends sinking into his gut. After all, it’s like she said. What else could they be? She is so many leagues out of his league. He's t-ball, and she's the Seattle Mariners. He doesn’t even own a digital watch, much less a smart watch. What could she possibly want with a guy like him?

Clearing his throat, Oliver moves on, “And I don’t know if I’ve said this to you yet, but...thank you. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done to help me out here.”

“Really?” That tentative, searching look makes him want to pull her close and wrap her up in his arms. She only wears that look when she’s seeking approval. She wears it a lot around him. Though why she’s still aching for his approval is beyond him. She’s had his approval and more since that first rainy Sunday.

“Yeah. Although I do have to ask…”

Felicity raises her eyebrows.

“When did I start offering coupons?”

“Oh. Um...since last week?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, not wanting to cave just yet but secretly pleased. It’s a smart ploy, even if it was never part of his original plan. So much of their relationship and business schemes are way outside the bounds of his original plans. And he’s a better person for it.

Looking a little too pleased with herself, Felicity reaches into her pocket, pulls out a slip of memo pad paper, and hands it to him.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a list of all the computer science books you need to stock up on before the Starling University summer quarter starts up. There’s an Advanced Algorithms course that’s only offered once a year, and I have it on good authority that the college bookstore never carries enough textbooks. And let’s be honest, your computer science section is lacking. Pretty much all of your STEM material, actually.”

Oliver huffs a laugh. “What are you, my sales rep?”

“I could be.” She gives him a knowing look, telling him he can either waste time arguing with her about this or just accept the inevitable.

And after altering all the basic mechanics of his store, what are a few additional books really going to do?

“In the meantime, let’s see this little guy back to his proper home.” Felicity proceeds to extricate his paperback nemesis and saunter further down the narrow aisle, looking for the right Dewey Decimal destination.

“I also think we should advertise at the grad school,” she calls over her shoulder.

“We?” he replies, following her down the aisle.

“Yeah, bring in some study groups. Do you know there is a perfectly good History and English Literature study hall that meets at the Starbucks around the corner, when they could be meeting here?”

“No. No. I don’t do study groups.” He’s caved on a lot of things, but there has to be a line somewhere. And so help him, if this is the hill he has to die on to preserve even one ounce of dignity, then so be it.

“Since when?”

“Since always. Felicity, they’re a bunch of toddlers who leave scone crumbs all over the floor and never actually buy any books.”

Felicity just chuckles at him, and if he were in a better mood he might actually be able to enjoy the sweet sound. “Oliver, stop being such a grumpy old man.”

“No, Felicity, I think—”

She’s already moving up the ladder before he can stop her. The rickety, unstable pile of firewood that technically qualifies as a ladder he’s been harassing Rene about pitching for months. Honestly, he’d all but forgotten it was still tucked away back here.

While she makes her way up the rungs, Oliver latches onto the base, holding the ladder firmly in place. With an excruciating amount of restraint that he barely even knew he had in him, Oliver watches her heels lift up and settle on each rung, all the while discreetly avoiding a glance at her pencil skirt. Not even a peek.

The ladder shakes as Felicity engages in a wrestling match with the top shelf. “It. Won’t. Go. In,” she says through gritted teeth. Finally, on the third push, Felicity lets out a strong exhale of relief. After wiping her hands, she makes her descent.

Like a hawk following its prey, Oliver keeps his gaze glued to her feet. Even so, he’s still not quite prepared when one of those black t-straps slips, throwing her off balance and tumbling straight into his arms.

“Oliver!”

He catches her easily, pulling her soft frame snuggly against him. Felicity wastes no time in wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “Hey, I gotcha. I gotcha.”

Her head plops against his shoulder, her warm, rapid breaths tickling his neck. He tightens his own grip around her back and under her knees, as if to reassure himself that she’s alright.

“You okay?” he finally asks.

Her only answer is to press her cheek more deeply into his shirt, her soft hair nuzzling against his jaw. He catches a faint whiff of her strawberry shortcake shampoo.

“My hero,” she breathes without a trace of humor.

I’m no hero, he wants to say. It’s his gut reaction any time a single mom commends him for his “Cool Books” section that finally got her teenage son to try a book of his own accord. As though selling books can compare with saving lives every day. His greatest risk comes in the form of avoiding papercuts. And rescuing toppling patrons apparently.

Selfishly, he’s currently enjoying the feel of Felicity in his arms a little too much to be considered a hero. Can she feel his own racing heartbeat beneath her ear?

He clears his throat but fails to put any real distance between them without releasing her. He’s not ready for that just yet. He’ll prolong the sweet agony for as long as physically possible.

“Well, this is a bit compromising,” he admits.

“Compromising?” She snickers, lifting her head, a spark of mirth shining behind her eyes that wasn’t there before. “What are you, a Jane Austen character?”

“Blame Thea. She made me read them. It was in our original founders’ agreement. I have the contract to prove it.”

If you’re going to own a bookstore, Ollie, then you have to know who Mr. Darcy is. It’s a requirement. Plus, it’s catnip for women. Nothing gets girls more excited than if you acknowledge the perfection of Jane Austen protagonists.

That knowledge has never served him until this moment. Until Felicity.

He still hasn’t liberated her, and she seems in no hurry to be free of him. His ego far too eagerly takes note of that.

“Are you making an actual joke, Mr. Queen?” Her smile is contagious. “You know, if this were a novel, this would be the part where we would um…” She flushes, her gaze suddenly faltering to his mouth.

His heart jumps to his throat, pounding with misguided hope. While he’s not an avid reader, despite his self-appointed line of work, he can read between the lines now. And he knows Felicity well enough to know that she only ever blushes over accidental innuendos.

She can’t really mean it. Can she?

“Where what?” he asks gruffly, not trusting himself to crave more than she is ready to give him, yet aching for a way to turn fiction into a reality, to give Felicity Smoak her happy ending. And maybe find his own in the process.

She doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t correct her misstep. She just watches him with a strange and quiet expectancy.

Oliver gently shifts his hold, bringing her a bit closer, leaning down to meet her. The tip of his nose brushes against hers, and when she lingers there with him, it’s all the invitation he needs…

“Hey, boss, we got a spill behind the counter!”

Felicity starts in his arms, and Oliver very nearly groans. Of all the times for Rene to interrupt him. The spill is probably minor. How many times does he need to remind his employees that if you make a mess, you should just clean it up yourself?

“Ollie?” calls Thea. Her voice comes from far too nearby for his comfort. It must be a real pickle if Rene’s managed to rope his sister into the ordeal.

Reluctantly, Oliver loosens his grip on Felicity, and she slides right out of his arms with a graceful plop, returning their difference in height to its usual status. The top of her head aligning with the level of his heart.

“I uh…” His entire vocabulary seems to have vacated his brain at present, leaving him feeling ten times more abashed than he was ten minutes ago.

Felicity tucks a golden strand behind her ear, still dodging his regard with robust persistence. “Yeah, you should go...take care of that…”

He nods once, not that she notices. As he slowly turns to walk away, she stops him with a simple question.

“Same time tomorrow?”

He really should not put much stock in the hope her voice carries. But he can’t seem to stifle the grin spreading over his face when he glances back over his shoulder. “Same time tomorrow.”

***

Thea pulls out a small chalkboard from under the counter, erases the number ‘1’ with her fist, and then writes a ‘2’ in its place. The sign now reads “12 Days Since Last Attempt To Date.”

Scowling, Oliver is almost too afraid to ask. “Thea...what is that?”

His sprite of a sister proudly places a hand on her hip. “This, dear brother, is a record of the number of days since you last tried asking Felicity out on a date.”

“What?” A flicker of panic rushes through him. What does she know? She can’t know about the almost-kiss. Besides, that wasn’t twelve days ago. Again, not that he’s keeping track. He opts for being as evasive as possible. “And when was the last time I supposedly did this?”

“That day you bought Big Belly Burger for the entire staff as a thank you for staying late to reorganize the science section. You gave Felicity the burger with extra pickles that mysteriously ended up in the bag—even though, last I checked, she does not work here.”

She gives him that pointed look, the one she usually wears when she’s guarding a straight. They really need to have a discussion about the merits of a refined poker face.

“That wasn’t a date, Speedy.”

“Hence the word attempt.”

Oliver shakes his head, returning his focus to the monotonous task of counting the till. Where was he again? Oh yeah, the fives. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five…

Once he’s got that row tallied, he finally tells Thea, “Felicity and I...we’re just friends.” The words burn his throat. Felicity might think of him as nothing more than a chum, but after that near-kiss nestled behind the dusty stacks, Oliver has ceased lying to himself about his feelings, resigned to this new, unrequited reality.

“Sure.” He can feel her eye roll. “Friends who just happen to spend all of their free time together and buy each other beverages and have inside jokes—”

His head snaps up. “We don’t have any inside jokes.”

“Really? Then how do you explain this?” Thea holds up the cassette player tape dispenser Felicity got him as a gag gift. He still has no idea where she stumbled upon the trinket. Using her internet prowess no doubt.

Oliver snatches it out of Thea’s hands while purposefully searching for anything in need of repair, as if to justify its very existence. “Our old tape dispenser broke.”

“Uh-huh. And what about that little emoji keychain you bought her? The one with the glasses on it?”

Oliver shrugs. “It just...reminded me of her, that’s all. It didn’t mean anything.”

Thea is clearly ready to keep arguing, but Rene wanders over with a pastry order for one of the offices across the street. For once in his life, Oliver is grateful for Rene’s keen ability to interfere with his private conversations and begins boxing up the order. His heart does a strange flip when he recognizes the usual list.

Unfortunately, Thea remains undeterred. “Hey, Felicity works there, right? I’m sure you could swing by for a quick visit.”

“Thea.”

“Don’t ‘Thea’ me. This is a good idea! Just tell her you were in the building and wanted to see if she’s available to go out to dinner this weekend. Easy.”

“I work on the weekends. You know that.”

“And you could schedule yourself some time off once in a while. You are the boss. Plus, you’ve built this place so that even Rene can practically run it with his eyes closed.”

Both Rene and Oliver shoot her a look.

“Alright, I said practically.”

Rene grunts his agreement, stuffing the to-go box to the brim with chocolate chip muffins. “You know, she’s got a point. You could think of this delivery as a trial run. You bring the order across the street, while Thea and I monitor the store. If all goes well, then you might feel comfortable enough to take a more extended break in the future.”

“You’re just trying to spend more alone time with my sister, aren’t you?”

Rene smiles, guilty as charged. “There’s no reason why we can’t both be winners here.”

Oliver sighs. “Thea?”

Thea chuckles, crossing her arms. “Don’t worry, Ollie, I can handle him.”

Still he hesitates, running his thumb back and forth over the box, the box he’s supposed to bring to her workplace. He has so much more riding on this than a mismanaged store in his absence.

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Do not burn down the store while I’m gone.”

***

“Ms. Smoak?”

“One second, Curtis. This alphanumeric algorithm isn’t going to crack itself.” Huddled in front of the monitor and nibbling on the remnants of a Twizzler, Felicity has been doing the digital tango for the last hour.

“Well, I hope you get cracking in the next ten minutes, because Coffee and Coding is about to start.”

“We have Coffee and Coding on Wednesdays,” she dismisses without tearing her gaze from the screen.

“It is Wednesday,” says Curtis.

Felicity darts a glance at her IT Director, who just lifts his eyebrows in confirmation. Flustered, she pushes up her glasses. “But who ordered the pastries?”

“I did,” Curtis admits. “Don’t worry, I didn’t forget to call your favorite little coffee shop around the corner. Or across the street in this case. Can you believe they still don’t have online ordering?”

A pang of disappointment flutters through her. While it’s not much, Felicity has come to treasure her little Wednesday morning ritual, an easy excuse in her routine to spend more time with Oliver.

Still, it’s not like they don’t see each other an ample amount of time during the week anyway. Though after The Incident a few days ago, things between them have been different, more uncertain than usual. He hasn’t been avoiding her exactly; he just seems a bit...distant. Like he’s carrying a secret he doesn’t know how to share yet. Takes one to know one. The mystery has been driving her crazy.

She’s also been racking her brain for the perfect scenario to recreate that heated moment they shared after her Humpty Dumpty debacle. But the trouble is...as soon as she hints at the depth of her feelings, she’s going to have to tell him everything.

Hey Oliver, so you know how you assumed that I was an Executive Assistant, and I never corrected you? Well, the thing is I’m actually more like the CEO of a product-pushing conglomerate that is slowly encroaching on everything you know and love. Do you want to go out sometime?

Ugh. A stealthy flirter she is not.

So maybe today’s mishap is for the best. A chance for her to rally some gumption and figure out how to phrase her affections while still salvaging their fledgling friendship.

The workshop will likely provide plenty of opportunity to strategize. Denise tends to drone on and on about the benefits of heapsort every time it’s her turn to talk, so the redundant lecture will afford Felicity added time to do some real romantic brainstorming.

Sufficiently mollified, Felicity pops up out of her chair and strolls towards the conference room.

“The food just arrived,” says Jerry as soon as she’s outside her office.

She stumbles to a halt, blinking at her executive assistant. He says it so casually, as though her entire, perfectly orchestrated little enterprise isn’t coming crumbling down around her by one bakery blunder.

“What? Now? Here?” She’s pretty sure she’s having a stroke. Although her ability to remain upright negates that possibility. But what good is logic at a time like this?

Of all the truth-telling scenarios she had running through her head, this was not one of them.

This is why she never asked for delivery! Why she personally has placed and picked up every order.

Okay, no need to panic. This is no different than any of the other work-related conflicts she has resolved in the past. Of course, those were mostly software issues, but surely the skills are transferable. She’ll just have to insist that Rene not breathe a word of this to Oliver until she has a chance to talk to him later. This afternoon, in fact. She can come up with an adequate confession by then.

That cursory idea gets zapped the moment she turns the corner and finds the apropos man of the hour waiting in the hallway. Oh frack.

Every blessed thought evaporates straight out of her skull. Only one person on the planet has this effect on her.

As though it’s been days and not mere hours since she’s seen him last, hungrily her eyes feast on every part of him, from his golden-brown hair with little flecks of gray that he likes to pretend aren’t there, to those broad shoulders and sturdy arms beneath that favored blue henley. She remembers far too well what it’s like being wrapped up in those arms, all snug and safe and wonderful.

Then she starts to catalog his overall uneasy demeanor, hands stuffed into his pockets, shoulders rigid with discomfort.

Guilt pricks her heart. He looks a little lost.

She tries to observe her office through his eyes. Surrounded by glass walls, open and exposed. Screens scrolling with tech lingo. Not a single paper product in sight or dusty nook to duck behind. Everything is quite literally the opposite of his usual environment. And it has never been more apparent how contrary their lives are.

All this time, she’s been invading his world and never once has he stepped into hers. Because she wouldn’t invite him. Not until she was ready. She’s driven them to this precipice. Her little lie is the grain of sand slowly corrupting the motherboard, eroding their communication from the inside out. Some friend she is.

And yet, him braving the unknown and everything he opposes just to come and see her has to mean something, right?

“Should we wait for you?” asks Curtis.

Felicity shakes her head, keeping her focus on Oliver. “I’m not going to make the meeting.”

“Well in that case, can I have your muffin? Because you know I’ve been working out in the mornings, and my tummy is a rumblin’—”

“Curtis!”

“Okay. Okay.”

Footsteps retreat into the conference room, until at last the door closes, encasing them in peaceful silence.

Swallowing, Felicity hedges closer to him, the clank of her heels echoing down the long hallway. “Hi,” she says when she’s standing just a foot away from him.

“Hi.” He’s looking at her in that soft, affable way of his, making her heart short-circuit.

She has a masters degree in cyber security, and she’s taken many a profit-hungry board member to task, so why can’t she seem to come up with a better conversation starter than ‘hi’ ?

But Oliver, her sweet friend, saves her from her own awkward web of absurdity. “So...” he begins, nodding to the wall in between the elevators. The wall covered in bold, betraying letters Smoak Technologies.

Oh crap on a cracker. He knows. Already. Duh, Felicity, he walked into your building, you know this. The man can read. What did you expect?

Felicity slams her eyes shut and blurts, “I can explain.”

“You don’t have to explain.”

“I know it was wrong. And I hope you know that I would never want to take advantage of your friendship, and that my lying to you has nothing to do with you and everything to do with me. I was afraid that if you knew the truth that I would lose you—”

“Felicity, hey.” Oliver’s hands, solid and steady, grip her shoulders. She has no right to draw from his comforting warmth. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She licks her lips, daring to meet his gaze again. She’s startled to find those bright blue eyes looking back at her full of sympathy, absent of judgment. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure I’ve broken every cardinal rule in the friendship book.”

His face softens. “I don’t care that you lied to me. I don’t. I care...that somehow I made you feel like you had to.” He sighs, his voice deepening to a near whisper. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Felicity fights a wince and loses. “Because I...I kind of liked not being a CEO for a few minutes a day? It was nice. Freeing. And I didn’t know how you would react to the fact that basically my entire livelihood stands for everything you hate—”

“I never said I hated it.”

Felicity tilts her head playfully. “No, you just loathe the mere suggestion of technological advancement.”

Oliver chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“So you’re not mad?”

As he shakes his head, relief and elation spill through her.

Not for the first time, Felicity is grateful that her charming literary companion is truly a good person. And not just the kind of good where he’s friendly toward impatient customers or gracious with incompetent employees—although, he is that, too. But his integrity runs so much deeper; it’s the core of who he is. Modest and generous. Forgiving to a fault.

Oliver fundamentally embodies all that her corporate associates do not. Is it any wonder she was so drawn to him from the very beginning?

She may have ruined her chances for anything more than friendship to develop between them, but as long as he remains in her life, she’ll be happy. She can settle for cordial camaraderie. Besides, it won’t feel like settling with him. Not really. Not completely. At least, she’ll convince herself of that sooner or later.

Oliver withdraws his hands, leaving an alarming coolness tingling on her arms. Instantly she misses his touch.

She watches in puzzled silence as Oliver shifts his weight, clears his throat, and suddenly evades her look. He’s nervous, she realizes. How did she not notice sooner?

Because you’ve been a little too preoccupied with yourself, Felicity, that’s how.

“Listen, Felicity…I came by because I was in the neighborhood. But I guess I’m always in the neighborhood. You don’t need to be told that.”

Felicity bites her bottom lip to hold back a smile. He’s awfully cute when he’s flustered.

“I know I’m just an obsolete bookstore owner, with no degree, and you…” He glances around the hallway, as though the point he’s trying to make is engraved on the walls somewhere.

“And I what?” she prompts, a sudden burst of panic flaring in her chest, more terrified than anything that he’s never going to finish that sentence.

Oliver studies the screens for a long time, his gaze finally coming to rest back on her, and what she sees there makes her want to hold on to him and never let go. “You’re going to change the world,” he says. “You’ve already changed mine. For the better, I might add. But, I don’t know, maybe our worlds are just too different.”

“But I don’t care about the differences, and I thought you didn’t either.”

“I don’t!”

Everyone in the conference room can probably hear their conversation by now, but that is a low priority issue. All she cares about is Oliver.

“Okay, so then what are we arguing about?”

“Felicity…you should be with someone who deserves you, someone who won’t hold you back.”

“That’s what you came up here to tell me? Oliver, what I deserve is up to me.”

He dodges her look again, and she can feel him retreating, feel the invisible barrier he’s erected between them.

Not one to forfeit so easily, Felicity calmly sidles up to him and lays a bold hand on his chest, right over his heart. “Please, Oliver,” she whispers. “Ask me what you really came here for. Whatever it is, I’ll say yes.”

“Promise?”

Her inability to read his face scares her more than anything. “Promise.”

He sighs, and an anxiously long time passes before he says, “Felicity, would you like to go camping?”

She starts. “What? You want to drag me out into the woods with your sister—”

“Thea will not be there.”

“Oh.” Nibbling on the inside of her cheek, Felicity processes this information before it dawns on her. “Oh.”

Oliver nods faintly, as though he can hear the flurry of questions her heart is suddenly screaming.

“Are you asking me out on a date? Like an actual date? Like a date...date?”

“I mean, the implication with me standing here…” He bobs his head around, like he can’t really decide whether to confirm or deny that. She’s really put the poor guy through the ringer today.

“Or we could go hiking,” he suggests with a shrug.

“Hiking?”

“Yeah, there’s a great trail about an hour north of the city. My dad and I used to go there all the time. There are waterfalls and plenty of wildlife. I should warn you, though, that it’s near impossible to send or receive phone calls in our spot.”

He wants to take her to his special haunt? Her heart twists with bittersweet excitement. She deceives him, and he rewards her by sharing yet another coveted piece of his history.

How can this man think he’s not worthy of her? If anything, their situation is exactly reversed. What are gadgets and gizmos compared to goodwill and grandeur?

With more boldness than she thought herself capable of, Felicity meticulously wraps her arms around Oliver’s waist, leaning her head way back to keep eye contact with him. “Well, Mr. Queen, that sounds perfect. So...am I forgiven?” she whispers, pinching her lips together.

His own lips twitch as he follows her movements and pulls her close. “Always.”

***

“I like you like this,” Felicity tells him, following his lead down the winding, rocky trail, her hand snuggly wrapped around his.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, sort of Man Versus Wild.”

He laughs, a loud, rich melody that vibrates through the core of her being.

She’ll admit she was curious to see what side of Oliver the great outdoors would bring forth, and reality did not disappoint. Out here, away from the chaotic noise and hustle and bustle, he seems so...free. Happy. Like he’s really alive for the first time. And she feels privileged that she’s the one he chose to let so close to him.

The perks of the great outdoors have surprised her, too. Not once has she missed the ding of her cell phone.

They stop for a break on a small cliff ridge (small according to Oliver, anyway) overlooking a waterfall and a trickling stream. The views today have been glorious. All of the views, she thinks, sneaking a peek at the man beside her.

Though he doesn’t turn, he squeezes her hand once, and there’s a slight flicker at the corner of his lips, acknowledging that he can feel her ogling him unabashedly. She gets to do that kind of thing now, though.

“I’m thinking of closing the bookstore,” he admits, causing her to trip over a branch in shock. His grip steadies her, and then he motions towards a large rock. Once they’re sitting beside each other, he continues. “I’ll turn the business into a full-time bakery and cafe. It’s something I probably should’ve done a long time ago. You were right.” He glances her way, wearing a reluctant half-smile.

Reeling, all Felicity can say is, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. You were right about the QR codes, too.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Our weekly customer traffic is up 25%, and the sales reflect that the majority of those purchases are from the coffeeshop. Just seems like the smartest decision.”

“But Oliver, don’t you love the bookshop side of things? Helping people find their next go-to read?”

He shrugs. “Sure. But I love staying in business more.”

Felicity doesn’t understand it, but the thought of never smelling second-hand pages or stumbling over disarrayed book stacks sends a pang of longing through her. “Well, it sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”

“I have,” he confirms.

“But will it make you happy?”

He hesitates. “It’ll give me some stability to put Thea through college. That’ll make me happy.”

He’s so selfless, it breaks her heart a little every time she beholds that soft underbelly of his gentle nature. She wonders what other secret dreams he’s sacrificed over the years to provide for his sister and his employees. And maybe even for her. If she gets her wish, she plans to return the favor and help make his tucked-away dreams come true. First she has to discover what they are.

Shuffling closer, Felicity rests her head on his shoulder. “You know, I hate to break this to you, but bakeries are just as liable to collapse as bookstores. You can never fully predict the market, even in the most stable of economies.”

“I need information about what I don’t know,” he says in her ear.

She perks up. “What about a compromise?”

“Compromise?”

“Yeah, it’s where two parties agree on a mutually desirable outcome.”

He chuckles, the hearty sound warming her down to her toes. “I know what a compromise is, Felicity. What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I have converted the entire IT department over to the ways of Verdant-roasted coffee. We could make you the official sponsor of our weekly Coffee and Coding. Think of all the free advertising that will bring.”

“I don’t want any handouts, Felicity.”

“It’s not a handout if it’s good business,” she argues, pleased to see him giving it some genuine consideration. After a long time of companionable silence and sharing a water bottle, she says, “And if all else fails, there’s always the kindle route.”

She giggles at the dismissive look he shoots her before growing serious again. “Don’t give up, Oliver. Your little bookstore...it’s changed my life. You opened up my heart to ideas and worlds that I didn’t even know were possible.”

Pulse hammering in her throat, she wonders if he catches her accidental revelation, that the depth of her urgency has far less to do with treasured paperbacks than it does her utter dependency on him.

“A compromise. It could work.” He nods to himself. “Speaking of…” He slips his hand into his back pocket.

“What are you doing?”

Oliver pulls out a phone. A shiny, non-retrograde phone.

Felicity gasps. “Since when do you have a smartphone?”

“Thea got it for me after she spilt a latte on my old phone. I’m choosing to believe it was an accident.”

“That is very sensible of you.”

“We could take a photo,” he suggests.

“You mean with the front-facing camera? That, my friend, is called a Selfie.”

He scowls. “I don’t think I’m ready to say that word. Baby steps.” After an arduously humorous struggle, with Felicity patiently helping him navigate all the buttons, Oliver finally manages to snap a photo or two or twelve.

While she’s fairly certain the majority of the photos turn out blurry, they take an unnatural amount of fun in making ridiculous faces at the camera anyway. “Okay, you have to delete that one.” She points to a photo that paints her in a particularly unattractive light.

Oliver studies the picture fondly. “Can’t. I don’t know how.”

“Here, then let me.”

He holds the phone out of her reach. “Oh, so you can delete all of them?”

“Not all of them, just the ones that make me look bad.”

“Felicity…” he says her name as if it explains everything. And suddenly he’s not laughing anymore, though his eyes still carry a spark of secret amusement. “Let me have this keepsake.”

Keepsake. Such an old-fashioned word from this unconventional man. If Oliver were a book, he would be just like those scuffed up, intimidating volumes he’s always trying to convince novice readers to sample. Judged for his strange and rough exterior, yet guarding a mysterious sweetness and—more than he will admit—gooey epicenter. You just have to crack the spine and ruffle a few pages to get there.

“Felicity…” Just the way he says her name makes her feel like she could do anything so long as he’s with her.

He leans in just enough to let her know his intent, but stops halfway, leaving the final choice to her. What a gentleman he is. And like all the great heroines, Felicity doesn’t let him do all the work. She meets his kiss eagerly, pouring out in little touches what they’re both unsure to say out loud at this early stage.

But she knows it. Deep down in her bones, she knows she loves him. And she can feel his love in the way he responds.

What a risk she’s taken, giving her heart to the most anti-technology human on planet earth. She has a feeling the dividends will be well worth it.

***

Tag Team: @angelalafan / @austencello / @dust2dust34 / @emeraldoliverqueen / @hope-for-olicity / @mel-loves-all / @memcjo / @releaseurinhibitions / @scu11y22 / @smoakqueenz

#olicity #oliver x felicity #olicity fic #olicity fanfiction #olicitysquee #olicity au #my stuff #my fic #shelley does fic #g is for gadgets and gimmicks

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fallen029 · 4 years

Text

Within: Part I

Part I of a request from hey-youu-pssss for some werewolf Laxus action. I split this because I got a bit carried away with it, haha, but more soon, promise.

Things had been in a stead standstill for the Strauss family for the better part of a decade. The untimely deaths of both the patriarch and matriarch would come to pale to the near total inhalation of the clan faced during the great plague. It had irradiated much of the country, changing both the physical and ownership landscape involved. While the other great families dealt in their own ways, the eldest child of Elvin and Miren Strauss eventually found herself next in line of ascension all at the tender age of ten.

It was rather unorthodox and would have been vetoed during normal means. Not only due to the age, but most importantly due to her gender. Women were very rarely considered the head of families in those times, were not thought to own land or command houses. And yet, as the plague ravished the land and the end-times felt rather imminent, it was hardly of consequence and no claim was fully realized in place of her own.

Mirajane Strauss, with very little guidance or help, found the weight of the world placed upon her shoulders at an unimaginable time in an unfathomable way. There was hardly any time to mourn her parents, her family, her friends, as she was tasked with keeping the family affairs in order.

A distant dream, it felt like now, and when she thought of those early days, she had to smile a bit wryly. Swallow a bit of air, clear her throat, blink back any wetness that might have found its way into her eyes, and continue on.

She couldn’t quite claim that she’d been all alone, during the thick of it. She had a both a younger brother and sister who, honestly, she imagined she was lucky just didn’t possess any desire for power themselves. It would have been rather easy, in those tumultuous periods, for either to have killed her off or, in her brother’s case, honestly just stake a claim. As the male heir, he probably had more of it and if he’d been interested in pursuing that, could have found himself the head rather easily.

But neither were quite interested in all of that. Elfman Strauss, while a rather broad shouldered and striking young man, was also a bit of a, well, a mama’s boy. But when she was taken from him at such a young age, he clung instead to his older sister who he’d never think of undermining. In fact, he’d get quite agitated at any sort of suggestion, even to that day.

He saw his older sister as the only reason the Strauss name held any value currently and credited her with saving not only his namesake, but even his own life.

Elfman would never allow anything to befall his beloved older sister. Not without putting up a fight.

Lisanna Strauss, however, would never have had a claim to the estate and lands, were either sibling alive, and perhaps that was why she was so insistent that they take care, in the later stages of the plague, when socializing was becoming commonplace once more. There was nothing more frighting to the youngest Strauss as the idea of ever holding power.

The small amount she had now, only in riches and the prospect of marriage, frightened her greatly.

Being from a noble family was the pits and she spent every day from childhood to the tentative adulthood she was now reaching rejecting what it meant. She hoped to never find herself in control of anything, really, and balked even at the idea of marrying into it. As the youngest sibling, a daughter of one of the head families, she was meant to be married off young and into more nobility. Perhaps even far from home.

Were her parents still alive, some of her older relatives, this probably would have happened around her sixteenth birthday. Which in itself was devastating to think about for the young woman, only just now surpassing her eighteenth. Instead, it was still her older sister that most men were interested in courting and she watched those many awkward dances from the distance, instead spending her days balancing between doing the bare minimum Mirajane required of her and goofing off out in the surrounding woods with her best friend Natsu, the orphaned servant employed at the manner.

It was a rather precarious situation that Mirajane found herself in, those days. While surely leading the family out of the plague would go down as her crowing achievement, her putting off marriage and the inevitable power transfer that would involve, was surely a feat in itself.

She was meant to marry someone of equal or lesser power than her. Or at least both she and her small group of close associates thought so. It would help her to consolidate power. When she married, she could either assist the family in absorbing more land or join them to one of the neighboring families. Either wasn’t exactly favorable for her siblings, who didn’t rightly wish to see her leave their estate and, at least in name, leave Elfman as the head of the household and Lisanna, unfortunately back in the spotlight once more for suitors.

But it didn’t seem as if their older sister seemed to keen on any of the interested men anyhow. Not truly. She spent balls and social occasions fielding interests and gaining the reputation of a bit of a prude. Not that it mattered. Many attributes had been shackled to the woman in the past and she wore them all far better than most. Mirajane knew what she wanted and, though she didn’t share it with many people, she was confident that, eventually, she would get it.

Laxus Dreyar was from the Dreyar clan, a revered and respected family who’d managed to survive the plague with very little harm. Their position in the country, surrounded by jagged cliffs and backed into the rougher side of the sea, had allowed them to quarantine far better and shield themselves from much of the damage. Makarov Dreyar, their aging (and to some decrepit, even) patriarch still resided over the family. The next in line was his cantankerous son and, finally, his brash and bold grandson Laxus. The three made up the main family and were well regarded in the land as being a bit...eccentric and surely not the best family to align yourself with.

They would be of no use to the Strauss family. Too distant and too chaotic. Mirajane was meant to marry into true stability to the house once more. It was hardly meant to be between she and Makarov’s grandson and ye, following a chance encounter, the woman found herself rather smitten with him.

It was strange, clandestine almost, or so she told herself, the way that the pair of them happened upon one another. He’d been once more, as frequently was the occurrence, had a falling out with both his grandfather and father and had been banished from both the Dreyar estate and the home his father kept on the opposite end of their hold.

Not that this was a much of a problem. From the time he was a teen, he frequently was sent away to different dignitaries and even, once, the Kingdom’s capital. Now a man in his twenties and with enough inheritance and gold to his name to inspire much work ethic, he found himself a bit of a nomad, staying around with friends of the family when they would have him and sleeping around with women when they wouldn’t.

The Justine’s were a lesser family that was a ward of his own, but Laxus had always been friends with the heir apparent. Freed was a quiet man, reserved, and functioned well as a cohort for Laxus in that he balanced the other man out. Dreyars were naturally ferocious and it had been many a fight that Freed had to lead the other man away from- And some that he wasn’t so capable.

Freed, who was sent by his father on business to meet with the Strauss family in regards to a few trade agreements, invited Laxus when to accompany him with little care. He didn’t know the Strausses, neither of the men did, and it would be nice to have company on the rather lengthy journey.

They weren’t even meant to meet with her. Mistress Mirajane. It was one of the lesser lords in her hold that Freed was to trade a few person documents with. But this sounded dreadfully boring to Laxus and, though he’d accompanied the man most of the way, he begged out of going to the stuffy environment that would be a lesser lord’s house. No. Sounded like a shitty time, honestly.

It was midday when Laxus found himself roaming around an unfamiliar city, more or less scoping out what possible night life it might offer. Not much, honestly. But it was as he was roaming about, hands shoved down in his pockets and his standard fluffy coat floating from his shoulders that he saw her.

She was seated at a patio cafe, looking over a small book of some sort as a much older man sat before her, speaking rather animatedly though the woman didn’t seem quite as interested.

He knew who she was immediately. Or at least had a good idea. It was the true Strausses, of the old blood, that possessed the snow white hair and bright blue eyes. He’d seen old photos and such of the family, anyways, growing up in the privilege of tutors and thorough education. His grandfather used to sit in on his lessons sometimes, giving him a cookie when he was able to name all of the major houses and holds; maybe something better if he could name all of their lesser houses and the neighboring.

The Strausses were remarkable, when he was growing up, for their resilence and young leader. He used to dream of one day being able to do the same as her. Once the old geezer and his father were out of the way. He imagined, when he was a boy, that he’d be awfully good at leading his hold. But now, distanced and miserable in most aspects, he looked on disdain at most everything.

But not that woman that day, as his chest ached a bit, when she lifted her eyes at just the right moment to meet his and he was hardly ever so smitten with someone. A woman. He got them quite easily with his status and money. They usually threw themselves at him and were hardly a concern. Something other than gold to burn through.

Something harsh raged through him then though and he didn’t think he could ever break her gaze, that he would ever break that gaze, even if it were only a few seconds, perhaps less, as it felt eternal. Honestly, the only thing that caused him to finally look away from the woman and she him was the loud sound of a carriage horse in distress and some yelling from the street.

It had reared up on its back legs, the creature had, fighting against two men who were trying to calm it and most everyone walking about stopped to stare in surprise.

“Oh, Uncle, go help them,” Mirajane said quickly to the man sitting beside her as both she and him stared with concern at the scene that was quickly arising. “You’re so good with them. Horses and things. I… Please, Uncle, go help.”

“O-Of course!” The stout man rose to his feet quickly and rushed right from the table he was sharing with his liege, rushing across the street to where, honestly, the horse was being subdued and comforted.

As he left though, Mirajane found herself standing as well while Laxus, after a weary glance over at the horse, found his feet bringing him over, instead, to the patio cafe. At his approach, he noted two heavy set men seated nearby tense and advert their gaze from the horse scene and instead on the new, strange man.

“Lady Strauss,” Laxus spoke loudly as he approached, keeping gaze with her while the woman, in turn, only shut her little book and looked the man over.

“I prefer Mistress,” she remarked simply and he almost bit his tongue as yes, Freed had mentioned that to him, on the off chance they happen upon her. But perhaps it would have been for the better, should he have bitten the appendage, as at least drawing a bit of blood from it would distract it from the growing ache in his chest when she smiled at him all the same. “But I am sorry, I do not believe we’ve been acquainted before. Are you a member of my uncle’s house?”

She knew this couldn’t be, how could it? The way he carried himself and his clothing gave off significant standing and birthright, but still, she knew most everyone that would qualify those standard in the immediate area.

“No.” As he came to a stop in front of the table, he said quite loudly, “I am Laxus Dreyar. Grandson of Makarov Dreyar.” And his words alone were enough to put the two burly men at ease. To her only now, he said much softer, “Here on business.”

“Business?” She scrunched her nose in such a precious way as her blue eyes seemed clouded momentarily. “Were we meant to meet, Lord Dreyar?”

“Laxus.” He took a hand from his pocket, but rather than reach out to take hers, he instead bent low, at the waist, in a way he wasn’t fully accustomed any longer. As he rose, he assured her, “I prefer Laxus.”

Rising herself, Mirajane took his hand however, once he’d righted himself, and she shook it with a heaviness no woman he knew possessed, but made the pang in his chest only grow.

“Mirajane,” she told him as a soft grin fell over her face, when she released his hand. “I want you to call me Mira.”

“Who is this then?”

And her uncle was back then, stuffy and put out as he eyed the strange man with clear disdain, but it didn’t matter. It was too late. Everything was too late, fates already sealed.

He wouldn’t be going back with Freed, no matter how much Justine insisted that he not do as he was thinking, to rethink all of his thoughts, least he wind up in a far worse situation with his grandfather than he already was, but nothing could dissuade a man in love.

“You’ve met many Ladies before,” Freed argued with a heavy frown that final time he tried to get through to his longest friend. “Your feelings always pass.”

But his words meant nothing and when Freed returned to his father, it was with a sigh and lie over the Dreyar grandson finding other business in the hold to attend to.

Given his rather high status, it was easy enough for Mirajane to write off giving him a room on the estate property, a guest cottage not far from the main house, and things moved so fast from there.

It was a cool autumn night, the first one that Laxus spent on the property. He’d spent the past few at an inn near her uncle’s house, where she was staying for a few herself, and they’d had dinner a few times. Spoken. A lot, honestly, for the short amount of time they’d been allotted. Neither was too sure who’d suggested him following her all the way back home, but when he boarded her carriage with her, it was to the disdain of her uncle and maybe some whispers of others, but Mirajane assured everyone who questioned her that it was purely business.

And yet, it was anything but.

She’d had many men in her life attempt to get fresh with her before and even reciprocated at times, but things felt much different with Dreyar. He sat beside her, in the carriage, wrapping his coat tightly around her shoulders as he spoke, at her request, of his home. Back on the cliff. Of their customs she’d forgotten or perhaps not even been taught, given how ravished their lands were during the time period this was mostly be passed on to her. She asked, also, what he knew of the Strauss hold, of their lands, and Laxus more honest than he’d ever been in his life, whenever he spoke to the woman.

“This feels,” she whispered softly in his ear after their first true embrace, when she welcomed him to the guest cottage his first evening on the estate, “so improper.”

“I’m sorry,” he replied as he ran a knuckle over the soft, pale flesh of her cheek. “We can move slower.”

But they couldn’t.

They never would have been able to.

Elfman and Lisanna were, quite quickly, suspicious of her sister and, more over, distrustful of the new man she’d brought back to their property.

“We don’t know what you’re doing here,” Elfman grumbled softly to him that first night, over dinner, when Mirajane was distracted and he was able to lean over towards the other man, “but watch yourself.”

And he, quite clearly, would be a problem.

The other one, the younger one...not so much.

“I,” she complained to him with a frown that evening as he was headed down the path back towards his temporary resting place, “use that guest house during the winter time for very important activities. So you better not plan on staying around for long, Mr. Dreyar.”

“Lord,” he corrected her simply, “Dreyar. And it’s not proper, you following me around you know. People we get the wrong idea.”

“You got the wrong idea,” was all Lisanna insisted to him as, at the tree line, where he’d have to follow the path further, to arrive at her apparently prized location, she stopped to glare at his back, “if you think you’re sticking around.”

But oh, he was.

And Lisanna wouldn’t be the Strauss most making that short trek to the guest house that autumn.

It wasn’t hard to spot the Mistress in those days, previously very tied up in her travel and work, now taking long strolls along the property with Lord Dreyar. All over the property. Even down to the cottage, citing a desire to glance over the changing of leaves and the season.

“I’m meant to marry soon,” she told Laxus, one day, when upon their walks they both nosed instead through the cracked door of the cottage and lost themselves in his disheveled sheets for what was, honestly, not nearly long enough.

It was against her neck as she clawed at his back and the man squeezed his eyes shut that he assured her soft, flushed flesh, “You will. You will, I promise you will.”

The fall gave way to winter and, though his placement on the estate was rather obvious to most, it was around that time that the news had made it back around to the Dreyar’s hold.

And there was a lot of discontentment over Laxus’ recent behavior.

He received a letter from his grandfather, urging him back home at once while the Strauss estate, instead, were not long after bombarded with letterhead from the residence of Ivan Dreyar, requesting the hand of the Mistress immediately.

“He’s doing it to fuck with me,” Laxus remarked dryly to Freed who, at Laxus’ urging over letter, arrived at the Strauss estate soon enough to discuss his next movements. “My father.”

“Forget your father, Laxus,” his friend retorted. “Your grandfather-”

“Gramps, that old geezer, he’s been trying to get me marry into another kingdom’s family. Out of Fiore.” He spit, Laxus did, on the ground, at the thought. “Fuck that. I’m not leaving Fiore. And I’m not leaving Mirajane.”

So it was decided, against the counsel of his friend and the chagrin of his family that the young Dreyar found himself officially beginning an engagement to the eldest Strauss.

“I’ll never take your land from you,” he promised her softly as they lay together one night in his cottage, which he’d stocked with champagne, roses, and the most important thing the woman was looking for; himself. “Your people. I don’t want any of that. I’ll even put it in writing. I...gave up on ruling people a long time ago. I just want you. In a way I’ve never wanted anyone in my entire life. If you will be my wife, I’ll take on whatever title you wish. But you will always be Mistress Strauss and I would never wish to remove that from you. I just want to be included in your life, not change it.”

And she smiled at him, sweetly, as she shifted to rest her forehead against his, gazing longingly into the man’s eyes as she assured him, “I just want to be in your life too, Laxus.”

There would be fallout for this, of course. A lot of scorned suitors now felt bamboozled as the woman didn’t even pick for the intended pool, but rather bypassed it entirely. The Dreyars, in particular Makarov, wrote that he would be arriving soon to meet his prospected new granddaughter-in-law, and the letter detailing this felt rather cross.

Ivan, for his part, merely sent once last request for his son’s betrothed’s hand.

Still, an engagement party date was put in place and Mirajane found that, eventually, a certain stillness began to fall over her regarding the entire thing. Being with Laxus had felt exhilarating for many reasons, but also the potential pain in him eventually being taken from her, choosing to leave her, hung over her head frequently and made him cling all the tighter to him. The resolution to this being found, the woman couldn’t help the obvious contentment that washed over her, even in the hectic days of wedding planning and house joining that would follow.

“Now that the chase is done,” Freed questioned his dear friend quite bluntly when he arrived for the engagement party, “you have not lost interest, Laxus, have you?”

“Of course not,” he replied as if this were a ridiculous question, but that was hardly the case. While it might seem as if the man was getting everything he wanted, Freed knew him well enough to know that this was hardly what the man wanted.

Not at all.

Laxus liked for things to be hard. For them to be difficult. To anger his family and draw the ire of those around him. But as people only naturally warmed to this venture, it made sense that he’d fall out of interest with it, to fall into another ill conceived ploy for attention.

But when he looked his best friend in the eyes that evening, Laxus merely vowed to him, “I’m not a boy anymore. I’m a man. And I’m ready to move into that phase of my life. This is where I want to be.”

Forever.

The night of the engagement party was wild. It was a massive function with many neighboring Lords and Ladies. Even those from the further reaches of the Kingdom. The King himself sent word of his approval only days before and while Mirajane had smiled down at the letter, it was that night, when all her friends, family, and even those distanced to her gathered, just that once, before the eventual wedding, that her grin was at its widest.

He met so many people that day, Laxus did. Had to introduce Mirajane to so many people. Dodge a lot more people. Makarov had arrived earlier in the day, to much fanfare from the Strauss estate and though his grandfather originally wore his sternest of gazes, it only took one look into the bright eyes of his grandson (and perhaps the bosom of his bride-to-be) to understand the union.

“Will you get that short, Laxus?” Lisanna questioned him with wicked laughter that night when she passed him. “Like your grandfather.”

“Lord,” he retorted to her, “Dreyar. And Master Dreyar. Respectfully.”

But the little shit was anything but respectful.

For all the tough talk that Elfman had long given Laxus, he was a bucket of tears that night, falling all over his sister whenever he saw her and even into the arms of her affianced.

“I always wanted,” he sobbed into the shoulder of the ill-at-ease Laxus, “a brother.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t got one now,” the man grumbled, but Mirajane only giggled at the sight from where she stood nearby, with all her female friends, and for as suffocating as he always imagined be betrothed was, Laxus honestly was finally at peace as well.

He had much to drink that night, as did most people, but as the party raged on, he thought to head back to his cottage when the evening air grew colder, for his coat. It was as he stumbled down the path that he thought he knew so well, however, that it happened.

When he heard the rustling in the bushes, he thought that it might be some other guests, having snuck away with a beloved of their own, and Laxus imagined when he wouldn’t have to do such things with the Mistress. Finding a place, a proper place, in her estate. And while he’d like to give them their space, he had, unfortunately, found out what Lisanna (and her servant boy that she kept around, Natsu) had secretly been using his cottage for previously. What with how close to the cottage it was, Laxus imagined it was them, as he’d found them not long ago, together on the back property, hidden and yet now known to him, and he thought to break them up. Once more. If someone else stumbled upon them, it would be pure pandemonium and he hardly wished to deal with that.

But as he approached the bushed area in question, he sensed something else. A strong foreboding. The man hardly had time, however, to back away before it happened. A deep growl and then a vicious attack, his yells of pain being drowned out by the party not too far away, back on the estate and he was left eventually, mauled and beaten, forced to hobble and crawl the rest of his way to the cottage.

It had been a...wolf of some sort, he thought, hiding in the bushes and had sprang out at him. Powerful, sharp jaws had wrapped around his arm and ripped into the flesh, perhaps to the bone, and he thought he’d die, when he fell into his bed alone. Imagined he had that night, maybe, as he had the most vibrant and terrifying dreams.

Yet, he couldn't recall a single one, that next morning when Mirajane found him there.

Her shrill call of his name had sent most everyone running and, given all the blood in the cottage and the pathway leading up to it, the prognosis didn’t seem to bright. But most everyone was thankful (if not a bit confused) to find him blearily arise and brandish on the strangest of fang markings on his forearm and a deep scratch along his right eye.

“That wasn’t from the beast,” he muttered as he sat in one of the palours of the estate, his fiance and grandfather flanking him while the local proctor looked him over. “The arm...that was. But the eye was from some rock or something. It scrapped me on the way down.”

“Lucky you still have your eye,” the man told him bluntly. “Or your arm for that matter.”

“All that blood from those little puncture wounds?” Mirajane questioned as she rested a hand on Laxus’ shoulder. “That can’t be right.”

“Maybe the blood of that damn beast,” Makarov muttered gravely as he shook his head. “Hell hound, it sounds like. You get it good, boy?”

“I...I don’t remember,” Laxus whispered and he felt nothing like himself, nothing at all. “I don’t remember anything.”

“We’ll hunt it down,” Elfman vowed as he wiped at his eyes. “Hunt the whole damn property. Some of the men already are. If you didn’t kill it, big brother, we will!”

“Don’t call me-”

“Yes, big brother,” Lisanna agreed, noting with glee that Elfman, unknowingly, had stumbled upon something new to get under the man’s skin. “We’ll hunt it down!”

But they wouldn’t.

Not for lack of trying though.

For all the men that searched the forest and neighboring areas, no such animal could be found. Some wolves were slaughter, but none with the same, dark, piercing eyes that Laxus recalled.

“I thought,” Mirajane would remark a lot, when he’d mention the red lit, haunting eyes that he could still see, if he just closed his eyes, “that you couldn’t remember anything?”

“I can’t,” he assured her. “W-Well, I mean, I thought I couldn’t….but...”

Though the next few days were difficult, if not downright unpleasant, Laxus did eventually leave the room in the estate he was given to stay in. It wasn’t proper, after all, Mirajane had sadly remarked as she and her brother, as well as a bodyguard, walked with him that first time, back to the cottage, Dreyar trying very hard not to flinch when they passed the exact spot he’d been attacked.

But soon enough, Mirajane was able to add then and it helped anyways, when she smiled at him so sweetly.

Eventually, things fell back into their uneasy peace and Makarov returned home, with a promise to visit before the wedding, signifying his blessing was more than bestowed. Freed too returned home unfortunately, but Laxus found that he was becoming rather accustomed to his regular day-to-day life in on the Strauss estate.

His woman seemed keen to continue on alone in most work and, considering he had little else to do, Laxus did as he’d done all fall, hanging around her siblings or other friendly workers he stumbled across. Winter now, there was snow for Lisanna to frolic through and toss at him though, oddly enough, the man specified that under no circumstance were she ever to build a snowman around him.

“I,” he told her plainly, “hate them.”

Which meant that Lisanna, who rightly didn’t care for them either way, was now determined to build as many as possible.

Still, life on the estate was nice..until about a month or so later.

Laxus grew tired early the night, retiring not soon after dinner and whispering in his beloved’s ear before he departed that no, he doubted he’d be up for a midnight stroll that night. She was disappointed, as the moon was meant to be gorgeous that evening, but relented with a nod.

When he fell into bed, it seemed almost instantaneous that Laxus found himself asleep. But, unfortunately, it was a rather fitful one. Filled with glowing red eyes and sharp pains as well as, in certain portions, an intense pleasure.

He didn’t know what to think, when he awoke the next morning to labored breathing and a few rather strange bruises along his arms.

“Even scratched myself, somehow, in my sleep,” he was grumbling to Mirajane over breakfast in the main dining hall when Elfman, who usually didn’t join them, came rushing in with one of the men from village.

“Elf,” Mira remarked as she rose to her feet immediately. “What-”

“One of the women was attacked last night,” he remarked gravely as the man beside him, the father of a young woman, looked equally distraught as he did murderous. But Elfman only looked to Laxus as he insisted, “By the same beast you were!”

#Miraxus #AU #Mirajane Strauss #Laxus Dreyar #Lisanna Strauss #Natsu Dragneel #Elfman Strauss #Freed Justine #Fairy Tail #Fanfiction

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mystic-kitten-writer · 5 years

Text

Limerence [M] ︳16

Pairing: Zuko x OC

Genre: Romance, mainly fluff with future smut, and if you squint hard enough - you’ll find some angst.

Rating: SFW

Words: 6000+

Notes: It’s a big old fluffy chapter, enjoy loves <3

Masterlist ︳15 ︳ 17

❤ Buy me a coffee? ❤

Limerence: (English/n.) the state of being infatuated with another person.

The moment their eyes locked they knew - the flames within him twisted while the water within her turned. It was a connection, a connection that would lead to love, adventure, and drama.

Redamancy

(English/n.) The act of loving someone who loves you; a love at full return.

~ Fire Lord Zuko ~

An accident.

I could feel my blood boil as my fingers tightly gripped the flimsy paper in my hands. The temptation to burn it and let the ashes dance on the wooden table ate away at my mind, but I let out a sharp breath and closed my eyes to control my temper.

An accident.

That was all the guards and investigators could muster up as they hastily analyzed the waterfall and the damage done. ‘After searching the area and studying the land, it appears that a natural erosion of the rocks has occurred, thus leading to the landslide…’

Yet something in my mind told me otherwise. Toph built that waterfall, and she was one of the few people in my life that I trusted. She may be lazy, stubborn, fuck - I would even say careless. But she was a Master. A Master Earthbender who discovered Metalbending and a teacher to the Avatar. To think that she made an ‘accident’ or ‘miscalculation’ on a waterfall made me laugh bitterly.

It was not only an insult to me but Toph’s abilities. Lives could have been lost - children’s lives. Yet thankfully, despite the incident, only one person got hurt…even though that very person was probably the most important being in my mind.

I let the papers fall from my hands as I gazed upwards. The room was dimly light, candlesticks flickering back and forth and casting shadows along the red walls. No one spoke a word, and for a split moment, I forgot the very fact that we were in the middle of a meeting. Six council members sat on either side of the wooden table, for a total of twelve very solemn and cantankerous people. I crossed my arms as I leaned back, my gaze falling upon every single one of them. They were waiting for my answer, my final decision. And I was going to give it to them.

“Ying Yue Jiang will continue being my Imperial Consort, despite her Waterbending capabilities.”

“That’s bull!” Growled a council member. His nostrils flared as he slammed his rough hands on the table and stood. I glared unsparingly, but to my annoyance, he didn’t back down. Instead, my glare seemed to feed into his anger more. He huffed furiously as he looked at me - if only looks could kill.

“She’s a Waterbender. I'll never bow down to her. She doesn’t deserve her title.”

This man has a lot of fucking nerve.

“She has a name, Ying Yue Jiang, and a title, Imperial Consort. If you still want your position, I advise you to sit down.” I snarled. His eyes narrowed unmercifully before he patted his gown, and sat. The air was tense; you could cut it with a knife. Stress lines were evident all over their faces as they weighed the pros and cons of having Yue as my consort.

I knew this point would come eventually - when her Waterbending abilities would be brought to the light of day, but not this soon nor today of all days. I breathed deeply as I tightly pressed my hands together. The council were clearly split, unsure of where to go from here. I would be the first Fire Lord to have a partner who wasn’t from the Fire Nation, let alone a Waterbender. Why is my life so fucking complicated?

A dry cough caught everyone’s attention, as we looked towards the noise. An elderly lady calmly placed her hands flat on the table, signalling she was about to speak. Clearing her throat one last time, she took a deep breath before speaking, “ I agree with Fire Lord Zuko’s decision…Imperial Consort Ying Yue proved her loyalty to the Fire Nation. She sacrificed her life for those children. And in a more…political tone - a unity with Imperial Consort Ying Yue could prove beneficial with our relationships with the Northern and Southern Water Tribes…”

An asset. They were viewing Yue as an asset - I frowned but bit my tongue. The thought of them viewing her as nothing more but political gain was disgusting, but it was better than her being stripped of her title and our relationship going along with it. A few councilmen nodded their head in agreeance, “She has a point. But we could take that notion even further, in terms of the United Republic of Nations…” the man beside her spoke, his voice drifting off towards the end.

“You, Fire Lord Zuko, would be embodying preciously what the United Republic of Nation is setting to do – creating a safe space for people of all Nations to live in harmony. It would settle well with the public.” He finished. As annoyed as I was to view Yue as some ‘political asset,’ they had a point.

“This is blasphemy! Do you understand what you people are speaking of? Our Queen would be a Waterbender. What would we do if the next heir to the throne is a Waterbender? Have a Waterbender rule the Fire Nation?” The same man from early blurted out irritably.

The woman scoffed at his outburst, swatting her hand before giving him an eye roll. He hissed as he watched her gesture, but she shrugged her shoulders, “Simple. Should their first-born child be a Waterbender, they will have no legal rights as heir.” Her very words seemed to pierce through my stomach, “Isn’t that right – Fire Lord Zuko?” She finished. It pained me how calm her words were, as everyone turned to look at me. I thought this was supposed to be a discussion about Yue and me, not our future unborn child.

“We can discuss such…matters later in time. It would not be right for me to decide on my own, as the child would be as much mine as the Queen’s.” I said carefully. How the hell would I bring this up to Yue? ‘I know we haven’t even been together for a year, let alone have sex or say ‘I love you,’ but can we talk about our future children?’ – this is fucking stupid.

“Discuss later? We would not have to waste our time discussing such matters if we strip her of her title now. She’s no Firebender, just a…Waterbender. I refuse to accept that the future Fire Nation Queen will be a Waterbender.” The repulsion lingering in his voice as his nose scrunched up at the mention of Waterbender. As if Yue was lesser of a human.

“It was that type of attitude that lead to the genocide, in case you forgot.”

The man scoffed and crossed his arms. His head turned away, as he muttered to himself exasperated, but the room fell silent upon hearing his whispers, “If your father were in rule, none of this would have happened.”

Something in me snapped.

I stood up coolly, folding my arms against my chest as I gazed down at him. The whole room was silent, to the point where you couldn’t even hear a single person breathing - fearful. Some would call me as someone ‘quick to anger’, and in some ways they were right, but I never did act out on such emotion, until today.

I smiled bitterly, as I beckoned at the guards that stood at the far corners of the room. Tentatively, they moved forward, their heavy boots dragging onto the floor with every step, “You know, I just remembered, there is enough room in my father’s ‘kingdom’ for one more person. Since you adore him, oh – so much, I'll have the guards escort you right this instant. He hasn’t had company in a while; I bet he will be delighted to see you.”

The man’s eyes widen in fear, as he studied my face, looking for any indication that I was in some fucked up way ‘bluffing.’ But I wasn’t. I had it up till here with this pointless discussion. Yue was mine, and I was putting my foot down. I didn’t care how many people I would have to step on to ensure Yue’s safety, but with the Avatar as my witness, I’ll do it. I would travel to the moon back for that woman, what has gotten into me?

Everyone in the room looked at the man and me, wondering who would make the first move. His eyes met mine, a look of regret and fear painted him before he lowered his head. Probably realizing that being locked in the same prison cell with my father wasn’t going to be fun at all. His mouth opened and closed, as he tried to formulate words to speak, and just as he was about to, he was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening wide.

All eyes were at the door, as a petite woman came dashing in. Her face was rosy as she wore a plain red dress, her black hair pinned up as she gripped her dress. She wore a badge on her right arm, a red cross embordered on it. A nurse from the infirmary…that can only mean…

“Who do you think you are? Coming in and interrupting a meeting.” A woman from the council lectured harshly towards the lady. But the nurse didn’t seem to care, as she beelined towards me. A woman on a mission – literally.

“She’s awake!” She spoke breathlessly, her words not much louder than a whisper. The eagerness to speak was evident as she didn’t even bother referring to me formally. That was when I noticed she was smiling, glowing as she looked at me, “She’s awake and…she’s fine.” She laughed, almost in disbelief, “A few scratches but – don’t just stare at me, go see her!” the nurse edged on.

Within a heartbeat I stood up from my seat, stepping down as I walked passed the councilmembers, “You’re dismissed. This meeting is over.” I said as I waved my hand around aimlessly to show my point. She’s awake. She’s okay; she’s going to be okay.

“B-but, Fire Lord Zuko! What’s our decision? What about Ying Yue, and her title?” A council member shouted as the guards held the door open for my exit. They were all standing, looking at me eagerly for a final answer. I let out a sigh as I looked over my shoulder, “Ying Yue will be my Imperial Consort, that is my final decision.”

A few council members looked at each other, small smiles starting to paint their faces and reach their eyes, “Wish our future Queen a speedy recovery for us all, Fire Lord Zuko.”

~ Ying Yue Jiang ~

I hissed under my breath as I struggled to open my eyes. It felt like someone put weights on top of my lids, preventing them from fluttering open and taking in my surroundings. I could hear people rustling about around me, their voices hushed as they seemed to be busy doing something. Even the way my dress felt on my skin seemed different, what was I wearing?

“Ahh-ahhh-choooo~!”

“What the hell man, can you not sneeze like an animal?”

“Sorry, I just can’t control it…”

“…I would hate to be a nurse for a bunch of Airbenders…”

“Hey – we make lovely patients….”

Without a second thought, my lips slowly started twisting upwards. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know exactly who those two bickering voices were. Some things will never change. The cold gust of wind from Aang’s sneeze made whatever sheets that were on top of me sway and even threw my closed eyes, I could see the light from the room I was in flicker. Candles…

Wait, what. W-where am I? W-what…what happened…?

I frowned to myself, trying to piece together my last memories. Everything seemed like a blur. As if someone dropped a box of puzzle pieces and I tried to put them back together. The party….the waterfall…Kiyi. I could feel my heart starting to thump louder and louder in my ears, oh my gosh. My head buzzed noisily the more I thought. The kids. The rocks, the water, Zuko pulling me out of the rubble…

Zuko.

Our secret – what have I done?

In a quick jerking motion, I found myself sitting upright. My eyes peeled open as I started breathing heavily. A cold shiver ran down my back as reality started walloping me.

Zuko – his name was on repeat in my mind. What did I do? This is it; we are done for. I had one job, don’t Waterbend. But the kids…Why did I have to make a choice? Between Zuko and the kids. What was I supposed to do? I couldn’t let the kids get hurt, but I don’t want to lose Zuko either. I could feel tears start bubbling up, ready to topple overboard and stain my face.

“H-hey, don’t you dare start ugly crying on me, Princess. Relax~! Aang call the nurses!”

A pair of hands tightly gripped my shoulders, forcing me to look upwards, only to see a dishevelled Sokka. His eyes looked worn-out, and he wore nothing more but a pair of casual slacks and a baggy T-shirt. My breathing steadied immediately, a sense of familiarity overcoming me. “Zuko, the kids, Kiyi?” I blurted out every single thought that came to mind. But Sokka smiled and softly brushed back the hair that flew everywhere when I sat up. Although drained, he seemed relaxed, put together – the opposite of me right now. “Yue, relax. Everyone is okay. But are you okay?”

Am I okay…?

It was like Sokka’s words made me take in the fact that my body was practically screaming at me. A dull stabbing pain radiated up and down my back, my neck felt stiff, and I could feel an itchy sensation on my lower jawline. I was in shock and a lot of pain. I knew I pushed myself, but it seemed like all of my poor decisions and lack of planning came to hit me all at once.

“Did Appa sit on top of me or something?” I moaned out as another wave of discomfort ran through my muscles. My hands tightly gripped the white sheets underneath me, and I took in where we were. I was in the infirmary. I wasn’t even wearing my fancy gown anymore, just a plain white robe. I probably ruined the dress…I destroyed everything.

“H-how long was I out for?” I asked as I turned back to Sokka. The room was dim, and candles lit up the space, did I pass out for that long?

“Don’t freak out - it’s still the same day.” I let out a breath of relief as I scanned around the room and took in more of my surrounding’s. The windows that lined the walls were dark, only the dim light from the moon and stars shinnied through. It was night time, and the incident happened during lunch. That means I must have been out for maybe eight…nine, gosh, maybe ten hours?

But my mind went back to one thing – Zuko.

I messed up. Everyone saw what I did. We couldn’t dismiss my bending as just ‘rumours’ – it was an issue too gigantic to run away from or push aside. What is Zuko going to do? He didn’t have time to think of a solution with the Earth King and this party. Gosh, the Earth King. What are we going to do now? As if Sokka could tell what I was thinking, he tightly squeezed my hand, a soft reassuring smile on his face, “He’ll figure something out…” I hope so.

“YUE!”

My head shot upwards, but I immediately winced, my neck inflexible and another bolt of pain causing black spots to flood my vision. I needed something, anything to make this pain lessen just a bit. “I got the nurses, are you alright?” Aang cried out as he stood at the end of my bed, fidgeting in his spot.

I nodded, before hissing once more, this neck pain is going to be the death of me. “I’m fine, but really sore,” I said with a light laugh, although I quickly regretted that as every sharp intake of air I took led to a stabbing pain in my back. Aang frowned as he walked over to Sokka’s side, “I should have been there at the party. I could’ve helped; I could’ve-”

“No. You’re sick, don’t you dare blame yourself for this,” I said sharply as I looked at Aang. Maybe the reason why Aang and I got along so well was that we’re so much alike. We always took the blame for things that were never our fault, wanted to make sure everyone was safe, even if it was at the cost of ourselves. The way Aang looked over me with regret and disappointment made me feel even more guilty.

“Yue…” Aang started, but he let out a heavy sigh before finally busting out a smile, “I’m just glad you're okay.” I smiled and nodded, and it was then a soft voice interrupted us, “Imperial Consort Ying Yue…?”

I turned to look at the foot of my bed, noticing a few nurses gathered. They all clenched clipboards to their chests as they observed me with sincere smiles, looking just as relieved to see me awake like Sokka and Aang. They didn’t look at me with judgement or seemed upset, something I was mentally preparing myself for the moment they found out I was a Waterbender. Instead, they looked…happy?

“Do you mind if we assess you? Make sure you’re okay?” the nurse in the middle spoke. With a quick nod, they quickly dashed towards me and began checking my vitals and other things. I was sat there completely stunned. The nurses treated me as if I was…like them? Maybe they didn’t know that I was a Waterbender? But is that even possible? I’m pretty sure everyone would know by now.

Finally, they all backed off, the same nurse from the beginning smiled brightly and gently tapped her lower jawline, “Please be careful, the cut wasn’t big enough to stitch, but it’s still an open wound.”

My hand gently trailed upwards, as I gently caressed my jaw. That was what the itchiness was. It was the bandage that was taped to my skin. “Also, please don’t try to heal yourself, your chi is not stable. Physically, you’re fine, but spiritually, you’re unbalanced.” She started. My eyes widen in surprise, so she does know that I’m a Waterbender. As if my surprise was evident the nurse laughed, “Earthbender, Airbender, Firebender, it doesn’t matter. Fire Lord Zuko entrusted us with you, and we plan on making sure you’re okay before we discharge you. We can’t have our future Queen injured, can we?”

They care for me, despite knowing what I am…

At that moment I could hear a few people gasp and mutter to themselves, and the nurse bowed down swiftly, “It’s my cue to leave, the man of the hour is here.” And she turned to Sokka and Aang, “Tell Fire Lord Zuko she is free to go, but she can’t be on her feet. Her chi levels need to re-balance, which can take a matter of hours to weeks depending...”

Fire Lord Zuko. I completely ignored the nurse, and what she was telling Sokka and Aang, I can figure that out afterwards. My eyes frantically scanned around, jumping from nurse to nurse as I tried to find the entrance to the infirmary. Gosh, why is it so hard to see him? I could usually spot him in mere seconds, but now seconds felt like hours. I could feel my heart beat faster and faster as I looked everywhere around me, but it was a figure standing a few feet away from me that made my heart stop.

Zuko.

He looked exhausted.

Despite the distance, I could see how hollow his eyes looked, his skin seemed pale, and even his shoulders were slumped. My fault. The council were probably eating him alive, and it was my fault - all my fault. I could feel my bottom lip start to tremble as I ripped my gaze away from him and looked down at my lap. I couldn’t face him. I promised I would never hurt him like that, and I did just that. I don’t deserve this title, this care or attention, I don’t deserve Zuko at all. I tightly gripped the blankets as I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to force myself not to cry. It’s all my fault-

A pair of warm hands cupped my face, forcing me to look upwards. My eyes met his, and before I could utter a word, he pressed his soft lips against mine. It was a kiss of desperation, as his hands ran up my face and entangled themselves in my black hair. I sat there like an idiot, my hands on my lap, completely overwhelmed with him. I didn’t want to lose him. I was in love with this man so much it hurt.

He pulled away and pressed his lips against my ear, “I swear if you do anything that stupid, careless, dimwitted – I’ll kill you myself.” he whispered harshly, never letting go of me once. He hugged me as if I could disappear any moment, little did he know I could barely turn my head without my vision cutting out. I pouted as I shook my head, letting my tears overflow and fall down my cheek, “I had to, the kids, Kiyi-”

“And what about me?” Zuko started, as he pulled away and looked at me in the eyes.

“If I- fuck Yue, if I lost you, as the Avatar as my witness I would fucking lose it.” He growled angrily before planting a kiss on my forehead. I bit my lip as I pinched at the skin around my fingernails because as much as I didn’t want to ask, I already knew I had to know. I needed to know; I needed to know that we were still a ‘thing.’

“Zuko…t-the council. Did you- are we…” I couldn’t even finish my sentence before Zuko cupped my face and looked at me dead in the eyes. A soft smile reached his eyes before he spoke, “Aang, Sokka, Yue is going to stay the night with me. That way I can keep a watchful eye on her in case she needs anything.” He said, completely avoiding my question.

I’m sorry – what?

Sokka patted his shoulder, before nodding, “If you need anything, let me and or Aang know. I’ll let the nurses know. She has a checkup in the morning, so make sure you guys are awake for it.”

Sokka is okay with this!?!?

Zuko nodded before standing straight, “I’m going to carry you, wrap your arms around my neck.” I could feel my cheeks flush as I looked at him, all I wanted to know was if the council allowed us to be together, and now he is taking me to his room? Before I could protest, his arms snaked underneath my legs and arms, I gasped and instinctively wrapped my arms around his neck, wincing as my arms were sore.

The immediate sense of coziness filled my heart to the brim feeling Zuko’s warmth as I let my head fall against his chest. I was tired, so mentally and physically exhausted at this point that I don’t care where I sleep, I just want to relax.

“Rest up okay Yue?” Said Aang as he gave me a thumbs up. I smiled, and Sokka gently patted Zuko’s back, “Watch her, okay?”

“Promise. Let’s go, get you tucked in bed…” Zuko muttered before walking off. I let out an exhausted sigh and let my eyes close as I rested against his chest. This was the last thing I thought would happen today. But I was too tired to fight, too tired to question; I couldn’t handle it anymore. I let myself enjoy the comfort of being in his arms, enjoying his scent, his touch, just everything. I could faintly feel a low rumble coming from Zuko’s chest, catching me off guard; he was humming.

A soft deep hum echoed down the halls as he carried me. It was a tune I wasn’t familiar with, but that didn’t change the fact that it was comforting. I fluttered my eyes open to look at him. He looked peaceful as he walked – utterly different from earlier. He seemed to have relaxed tenfold. “What are you humming?” I asked delicately. Zuko looked down at me before shrugging his shoulders, “My mom…she use to hum this to me whenever I was sad…” Zuko said quietly. I smiled before letting my head rest once again on his chest.

“They said okay.”

My eyes widen with regret as I sharply looked upwards. I hissed inwardly at the pain, but I didn’t care, “Who said okay?”

“The council…” Zuko said with a soft smile. A sense of overflowing relief filled me, and I let my head fall against him once again. “Not everyone was happy, but the majority of them were.” We’re okay. We’re going to be okay…

“I’m sorry Zuko…”I grumbled into his chest.

“Don’t be. Just…just don’t scare me like that again, okay?” I looked upward, noticing a soft tinge of pink painting his cheeks. “I have enough stress between Aang and Sokka, don’t make me add you to that list.” He said with a light laugh. I grinned, and it was then I noticed we weren’t in the hallway anymore.

“I’m gonna sit you down on the bed; I’ll go slowly…” Zuko muttered. I nodded my head gently as I could feel him lean over slowly, my body making contact with the cold blankets on the bed. The white robe I was wearing was thin, nothing more than a patient gown, and I didn’t do much to keep the cold away.

I groaned as I leaned up against his bedframe, trying to get my body to relax under my strained muscles. Zuko pulled away, pushing back my hair before getting a good look at me, “Are you okay?” I nodded, but I couldn’t help but let a small yawn escape my lips. Damn, I’m tired. As if I didn’t pass out for at least eight hours. Zuko chuckled before standing up and going to his dresser. We were in his room, and I couldn’t help but blush remembering what happened the last time I was here. Not the time Yue.

A light thud caused me to look at the space beside me- a plain shirt that was semi-folded laid there. “Here, change into that, there’s no way you're going to sleep wearing that,” Zuko said with an airy laugh. Pyjamas. I smiled and lifted the shirt to my chest; it was four times too big for me. For spirit’s sakes, Zuko was at least two heads taller than me; this was going to be a dress for me.

“Zuko, I could use this as a blanket,” I said with a giggle. Zuko laughed before shrugging his shoulders, “Hey, it’s either that or nothing, I prefer the nothing but-”

“ZUKO!” I squealed as I covered my face with his shirt, engulfing my nose with his natural firewood scent. Zuko laughed, and I could hear him coming towards me, “In all seriousness, I’m going to wash up quick. Do you need help changing?” I lowered his shirt from my eyes, making a conscious effort to hid the rest of my flushed face, “I’m fine you pervert.” I grumbled into his shirt. Zuko grinned before turning on his heel, “You have twenty minutes before I come back, try not to give me a show.” I rolled my eyes as he walked off.

I stared at the shirt on my lap, a broad smile erupting on my face. I’m happy. Despite everything that happened, and the pain I was feeling, Zuko managed to lift my spirits in a mere few seconds. I did love this man. He was perfect, so stupidity perfect that it made me mad that the universe would create such a flawless man like him. What did I do to deserve him?

“Ten minutes!” I could hear Zuko shout. How the hell-

Thank goodness it’s a robe; with a single tug on the stash that was wrapped around my waist, I was able to slip out of it effortlessly. Although the real trouble was raising my arms above my head. The pain that throbbed down my arms and back was sickening. But since his shirt was way too big for me, it slipped on my body with ease. A faint blush appearing on my cheeks as I looked down at myself. I was wearing his shirt. It even smells like him…I could get used to this…

Now to get under the blankets…maybe if I shimmy my butt around like this.

I probably looked like a fool, smushing my bum around in a pathetic attempt to get the blankets to move down. But it was the only way to limit the piercing pain in my back. And to make matters worse, my stupid plan was actually working. I grinned to myself, as I carefully lifted one leg at a time underneath the blankets, “I’m going outside! You better be naked; I mean don’t be.” Zuko said with a chuckle, and I couldn’t help but laugh at him, ignoring the pain that seemed to tag along. “You’re a pervert Zuko. I don’t know how Sokka let this slid.”

“Hmm, we can’t all be perfect can we?”

I smiled as I watched him walk over to my side, his hair fell down his shoulders, that was where he was wrong; he was so perfect it should be illegal. “Lay down; I’ll tuck you in…” I didn’t bother trying to fight him, letting him ease my body down, and the moment my head hit the pillow, I let out a sigh of relief. “Can you help me get on my side?” I asked. Zuko nodded, helping me move, “Side sleeper?”

I nodded, letting Zuko pull the blankets high up and tucking it under my chin, “I feel like I’m tucking in Kiyi.” Zuko said with a nervous laugh, reality settling in. We were going to sleep together - in a non-sexual way. It was…strangely intimate. I never slept with anyone before, besides that one time Sokka and I had to share a bed because some stupid prank Toph pulled on him. ‘I’m scared to sleep on my own! What if she scares me again?’ And what I learned from that night was that Sokka was a crazy sleeper, how did Suki get any rest with him?

As Zuko walked over to the other side, he blew the candles along the way, the room slowly getting darker and darker. I felt the bed dip and the blankets starting to shift. Zuko was getting inside the same bed as me, oh my gosh. I bit my lip to control my heartbeat because I knew he could probably hear it beating profusely. I could feel him shifting, trying to get comfortable, before speaking gently, “I’ll stay on my side, but if you need anything shout.” Zuko muttered. I frowned. He didn’t want to make me feel uncomfortable. He was purposely staying as far away as possible from me.

I knew it was sweet of him to do, sweet for him to respect the fact that I was naturally a nervous person and a complete novice when it came to this boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. I bit my lip, and with a deep breath, I opened my mouth. There’s no going back now.

“Zuko…?” I said softly.

“Hmm?”

“C-can you…uh, hold me?” I said whispered. I knew it was risky to ask this. Zuko didn’t seem like a cuddler, someone who would want to hold me during the night, and the fear of rejection weighted heavily. B-but, I just…I just wanted him to hold me. I could feel Zuko shift in the bed, and I knew he sat upright, even though I couldn’t turn around to see. “A-are you sure? I don’t want you to feel-”

“I want you too…” I spoke timidly. Maybe it was my sleepiness that was making me a lot bolder than usual. But thankfully, it worked.

Slowly, I could feel the bed behind me shift once again, and a sudden warmth engulf me. Zuko’s broad arms wrapped around my tiny waist carefully, as he pressed his body against mine. Zuko’s frame was overwhelming, and I found myself melting away. He’s so warm, and I smiled as I let my hand grip his. “You’re warm…” I said with a giggle, and I could hear Zuko chuckle, “Using me I see…”

“If I could warm myself up I would…”

“That’s my job babe…Hey…”

“What?”

“Do you have some stuffed bear you like to cuddle or something…?”

I giggled as I let my eyes close, “I use too…” A sense of sleepiness was starting to wash over me, but before I let it consume me completely, I finished off, “It was old and stinky, to be honest. My dad gave it to my mom as a gift, and then she gave it to me…I lost it when my parents died…” I could feel Zuko hum to himself in thought before he suddenly jerked away and the bed shift. I groaned as I tried to turn around to see Zuko, but the pain made me think twice, and I let myself stay on my side. I could hear Zuko walking around the room and rummaging through something.

“Z-Zuko? What are you doing?” I grumbled; the sense of sleep that was washing over me disappearing from hearing Zuko moving around. “Just wait, I’ll warm you up in a few seconds greedy.” I rolled my eyes and smushed my face into my pillow. Zuko really wasn’t lying, as a few seconds later I could feel him cuddle up from behind me again, his arms wrapping around me and pulling me close. “Here…” he grumbled, and I felt something being pushed into my chest.

I opened my eyes, and although it was dark, I could still make out the fact that it was a small stuffed teddy bear. “Zuko…where did-”

“It was one of the few things I had before my mom left when I was a child. I use to hide it, scared my dad would burn it or something sadistic. I…always kept it. But anyways, here, it’s yours now.”

“B-but Zuko. This is important to you, it may be a teddy bear, but it’s yours. I can’t-”

“I have a teddy bear, right here.” He grumbled, and I suddenly felt him warm up a bit more and snuggle his face into my hair, “Sleep. You have to rest up.” I let my eyes close once again as I cuddled the small teddy bear into my arms. My breathing started to ease up, and I could feel myself drifting off to a deep slumber feeling Zuko’s warmth against me and the way his fingers gently rubbed circles on my palm. “Don’t scare me like that again, you’re more than just a crush, you’re so much more…”

Disclaimer: I do not own any Avatar characters portrayed in this story besides Ying Yue Jiang, Lia, Kima, and any future creations.

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#Zuko #zuko x reader #zuko x oc #love story #avatar #avatar the last airbender #fire lord #prince zuko #atla #atla zuko #a:tla #series #story #love #future smut #fluff #thanks for the support!#Enjoy everyone!

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caffeineivore · 4 years

Text

Commission #5

For @lyrhiamoon, who prompted fluffy Christmastime Minako/Kunzite with bonus Artemis. A Hallmark Movie-esque meet-cute, if you will :P

Only Nicholas Abington-Bryce, the aging, irrascible founder of the Bryce Real Estate empire, would have the chutzpah to demand a house call from his lawyer a mere two days before Christmas. And indeed, even soulless lawyers have their limits. Kyle Grayson, however, never put much stock in the holiday, and though his idea of a good time undoubtedly entailed something other than making yet more painstaking and arbitrary adjustments to an already-elaborate will, that it was half-past three in the afternoon of the twenty-third of December did not faze him in the least. Kyle had been the old man’s lawyer for the last year and a half, and he did not expect anything more or less than to deal with a little hand-and-foot waiting. And when one had no family or close friends with whom to celebrate Christmas, that particular calendar day was much like any of the other 364 out of the year.

Of course, he did not particularly care to make the drive all the way to the palatial Abington-Bryce mansion all the way upstate. The old man had done his business in the city back in the day, but had retired to live out his golden years in a picturesque resort town mostly known for its ski slopes in the winter and its hiking trails in the summer. He still made the hour and a half journey into the city to meet with his board once a week, or perhaps to put Kyle through the paces if he felt like it, but on the phone call, he’d explained abruptly that he’d given his chauffeur the week off for the holiday. It had certainly not occurred to the old man to do such an outlandish thing as to drive himself into the city, and had Kyle suggested such a thing, it’s entirely possible that Nicholas Abington-Bryce would have reached through the phone and choked him to death for the impudence. And so it is that at the hour of four o’clock, Kyle pulls into the merging traffic bringing drivers away from the lights and liveliness of the big city and onto the expressway heading north.

The snow begins to fall in fat, feathery flakes about halfway through his commute, but Kyle grits his teeth and soldiers on. He had just gotten the pre-winter oil change and routine checkup on his car, and it boasted freshly rotated tires and brand new windshield wipers and a full tank of gas. The roads get increasingly slick the further he gets away from the city, but that is only to be expected. By the time he reaches the winding mountain roads which lead into the little podunk town in BFE, lane markings are all but obscured, and he has dropped his speed down to thirty miles per hour, then twenty-five as the winds howled and raged outside. The GPS had given him an estimated time of arrival of half-past five, but it is a good forty-five minutes past that when he finally pulls into the long, winding drive of the Abington-Bryce mansion.

The house is picturesque enough-- all red brick and slate-gray shutters and white columns adorning its front facade. A generous expanse of lawn is covered with the rapidly-falling snow, and white Christmas lights glow against the fringe of glittery icicles along the eaves and windows. The porch is flanked by neatly trimmed privet hedges and the main door is hung with a forest green wreath of pine boughs and holly. Stamping through snow that is almost certainly melting into and ruining his shoes, Kyle hunches his shoulders against the biting wind and rings the doorbell.

He would have been surprised if the cantankerous old man himself have answered the door, sure, because Nicholas Abington-Bryce definitely strikes him as the sort who likely spent his evenings in state seated in an easy-chair with a snifter of brandy and a cigar and a newspaper. A housekeeper would be more in-character, or perhaps a butler. Quiet, inobtrusive, judgmental, clad in neat black clothing. What he had not expected, though, was for the door to be pulled open by someone with a fountain of golden hair and a fuzzy sweater in a shade of candy-apple red, but before his mind could register much more than ‘young woman, blonde, very hot’, a white fluffy blur shoots straight at his legs.

“Artemis, NO!” Very Hot Blonde has a voice like silver bells, and it’s not at all effective in scolding what looks and feels like a very determined cat climbing its way up Kyle’s right leg, claws painfully searching for traction on the fabric and digging into his skin. Indeed, the cat ignores the woman and likely would have made his way all the way up to Kyle’s hip had she not huffed out a breath, stooped down and bodily yanked the beastie off. That doesn’t end well-- the move puts her face-level with his crotch, but before he could even stammer out something in mortification-- the cat yowls and digs in, and the sound of ripping fabric immediately follows. His pants, in very short order, look like something which would be found in some hipster designer bin. Very Hot Blonde, now holding onto the cat in a death-grip like a mother with a squirmy, hyperactive toddler, takes a step back, and looks up into his face, baby blue eyes wide and contrite.

“Oh, hi. I’m sorry, please come on in. I’m Mina, and this VERY BAD CAT WHO WILL GET NO TREATS is Artemis. I’d offer to shake hands, but I don’t want to let him go for an instant or he’ll jump on you again. He’s just being friendly, I promise!”

“... Am I at the right place?” Kyle asks belatedly, stepping into the foyer area. Overhead, a big, glittery crystal chandelier glints off the gold of her hair. “Is this the residence of Mr. Nicholas Abington-Bryce?” Certainly nothing in the old man’s demeanour or lifestyle suggested that he would feature unknown beautiful women and mischievous cats as a part of his household. “I’m Kyle Grayson, from Grayson and Burnett in New York City. I’m his lawyer.”

“Oh! Yes, he did call you to come today, didn’t he? I forgot, because it’s Christmas soon, and I’ve been getting ready since I’ve arrived two days ago. I’m Mina. But I said that already, didn’t I?” A pretty blush touches those flawless cheekbones, and Kyle has never before found himself charmed when faced with a flustered female. “That is to say, I’m Mina Abington, here to visit Grandpa Nicky from out of town. Do come in out of the cold so we can get you some hot cocoa and cookies. Do you like gingerbread?”

Kyle did not consider himself a hot cocoa and gingerbread type of guy, but surely the alternative was worse-- saying no to those big blue eyes, which happened to belong to the very-off-limits granddaughter of a client. Cautiously, he follows her in.

“We’ve just had dinner, Grandpa Nicky and I, but if you’d like a plate, I’ll be happy to get you one. We had broccoli-stuffed chicken breast and wild rice. You must be starving after that drive.”

“Doesn’t your grandfather want to see me? I am quite late, unfortunately. But the roads are getting pretty bad out there, and it couldn’t be helped.”

“I’m sure he will, but he’s taking a nap. He takes a nap after dinner every day, for about an hour. He’ll be up again in time to watch the seven o’clock news.” The fetching-- and since when did he use such plebeian terms as ‘fetching’-- Miss Mina Abington leads him into the kitchen with her cat still clutched in her arms, and beams a megawatt smile at the stout, apron-clad woman standing by the stove.

“Mrs. MacGregor, could I maybe please get you to put together a plate of dinner? For our guest? He’s come a long way and it’s so cold outside.”

Even as Kyle raises an eyebrow at the positively Dickensian descriptor for himself, Mrs. MacGregor harrumphs. “Are ye goin’ to take that bloody wee beastie out of me kitchen first?”

“I will do that in just a moment. He can keep Grandpa company, don’t you think?”

“I dinna care so long as he doesna get his wee paws into the fish again. Or the chicken. Or the ham. Or, indeed, the tatties, which he has no earthly use for, now does he?” Mrs. MacGregor waits until both girl and cat are out of the room, then turns a beady eye on Kyle. “Ye must be the lad from the law office in the city.”

Kyle cannot recall, at any point in his thirty-two years, ever being called a ‘lad’, but he nods in an awkward way. “Yes, my name is Kyle Grayson. I’m Mr. Abington-Bryce’s lawyer.”

“And have you been working for him for long?”

“For almost two years now. He’s always done business with our firm, but I took him on after I made partner. My predecessor was good golf buddies with Mr. Abington-Bryce before they’d both retired, as I understand it.”

In short order, Kyle finds himself more or less telling the grumpy Scotswoman his whole life story-- growing up in Connecticut, attending college and law school at Yale, moving to New York City after receiving his Juris Doctor and getting a job offer at the firm. She harrumphs again at random moments, but places a steaming cup of coffee and fragrant plate of food in front of him, and he’s hungrier than he thought, because by the time Mina walks in again, this time sans cat, he’s almost halfway through the plate. She beams at him in a way that makes him feel embarrassed for no good reason, then moves onto cajole Mrs. MacGregor for hot cocoa and gingerbread cookies.

It’s almost insidiously nice, and a distant clock strikes seven as he starts in on the cocoa and gingerbread, and that brings him back to reality with a jerk. “Look, Miss Abington, I’m not here to socialize. I’m here on behalf of your grandfather, my client, who is undoubtedly wondering where I am. I appreciate the hospitality, but I should definitely get to work before it gets even later. I still have a long drive back to the city.”

“Oh, do call me Mina, won’t you? I had a teacher in high school call me Miss Abington in a really snide way whenever I dozed off in her class, and considering it was Geometry, who could blame me, right? And certainly you must see to Grandpa’s business with you, but you’re not thinking of driving back in the blizzard, are you? The forecast says we’re supposed to get a foot of snow. Oh… you must have some plans for Christmas. Of course. It’s supposed to stop snowing by tomorrow morning, and hopefully by tomorrow afternoon we’ll be plowed out.”

“I don’t have plans for Christmas, but I can’t really just impose on you guys, either.” Kyle finds himself inordinately fascinated by the rapidly changing expressions on her face, and at this latest statement, she looked as though someone had kicked her troublemaker cat across the icy street straight into a snowdrift.

“No plans for Christmas? But… but…how?!”

Kyle shrugs, a bit disturbed that it seems to matter so much to her. “I just don’t. Anyway, I should get to work. Where is your grandfather, Miss… Mina?”

“In the den. Here, follow me.” Still looking very sad and lost, she leads the way, and Kyle gets an impression of a cavernous, well-kept home all buffed hardwood floors and antique furniture polished to a gleam. The den features a roaring fireplace complete with boughs of holly festooning the mantel and a towering Christmas tree glittering with ornaments and ribbons and lights, festively topped with an angel with golden hair not unlike Mina’s. Nicholas Abington-Bryce is seated in an easy chair, looking not unlike a Bond villain or a Mafia boss in his Italian suit, the fluffy white monster of a cat quite docilely perched on his lap and purring loudly. The cat, Kyle notices with not a little bit of resentment, seems to have no inclination of sharpening its claws on his pant legs.

“Ah, Mr. Grayson. You have arrived.” The old man stands, dislodging the cat on his lap. It zeroes in on Kyle once again, but seems a bit friendlier this time, choosing instead to wind circles around his ankles. Or perhaps attempting to trip him. Either way, between the rips and the cat hairs, his trousers are destined for the trash heap. Kyle manfully attempts to move his way across the room without tripping over the animal, and shakes the old man’s hand.

“Yes, I’m here, as you requested. When did you want to get started on the work?”

“After we finish watching the news, of course.” Nicholas, now that the formalities have been observed, plunks right back down in his chair, gestures Kyle towards the plush white loveseat where Mina is already sitting with a peremptory hand. “One must keep abreast of what’s going on in the world, you know? The work will wait until we’re done here. At my age, young man, there’s nothing left but time. Now hush.”

A glance at the screen of the gigantic wall-mounted television screen shows an accounting of what looks to be the latest Kardashian-Jenner escapade. Kyle seats himself gingerly next to the girl, and as the cat now makes himself quite at home by crawling its way back up into his lap, he resigns himself to a long night ahead. At this proximity, Mina’s thigh brushes against his, and he can smell the scent of her hair-- something sweet and warm, like wild honeysuckle and vanilla. She laughs at the Kardashian antics on the screen, and the thought occurs to him that her voice is far more suited for laughter than for scolding or recriminations. And he absolutely doesn’t know her at all, nor has any business thinking or noticing anything about her voice, or the scent of her hair. In his lap, the cat fixes piercing blue eyes upon his face, as though suspiciously trying to ascertain his intentions towards its mistress.

Kyle sighs. A very, very long night ahead. And if the weather report, as being delivered by an unnaturally chipper redhead in a skirt suit on the screen, is accurate to any degree, he’s very well and truly stuck. There’d be no navigating his sleek but seldom-used Lexus through the snowdrifts if he left now, and they’d probably find his dead body after the spring thaw. He’d have to spend at least one night under the same roof as his most demanding client and quite possibly the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he didn’t even have a toothbrush or a change of clothes.

Bah freaking Humbug indeed.

#m/k #senshi/shitennou #sailor moon #fanfiction #fanfic #commission #lyrhiamoon

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fluff-and-such · 2 months

Note

How does Rathma react to Inarius after he calms down?( If at all :D ) That's one curiosity. Another is that as the guys are currently standing (Muffy I don't know if he's angry or curious, I couldn't tell) fluff rathma walks in determined to drag Inarius and Muffy back. That is, if he can travel. And of course I'm curious about Malthael's curiosity myself.

Okay even after explanations, Rathma is still extremely uncomfortable with Inarius. His relationship with his own father is monstrously complicated, and this is basically a twilight-zone version of that.

Fluffy-Inarius is overly-friendly, as compensation for being big and scary but also for being a legitimate monster in the past. He ate some of the nephalem who rebelled, and then blew Fluffy-Rathma's wings off himself. Of course, he has no way of knowing CantankerRat's exact experiences with his own Inarius, but he just generally assumes it was nothing good, and tries to be way-too-nice as a weird quasi-apology.

All this results in an all around uncomfortable and awkward experience for CantankerRat.

Although he might come around after a few rounds of German-Shepherding by Ina.

If there's one thing Inarius excels at, its scaring people away from Depressive Death Boys. Rathma can appreciate a sentient shield.

As for Muffy, he just gets his ass kicked by his own Fluffy-Rathma. He wouldn't have much of an opinion on Mat, although he vaguely doesn't care for other Malthaels in general. (Funny enough, across fandom, it's been rare for two Malthaels to really get along. They tend to argue and be too sure of themselves to have a proper conversation that isn't just Smartass-Pissing-Contest)

F-R could care less what Ina does with his time, be that hassling Malthaels, hassling Rathmas, or getting hassled by Izuals. If they happen to end up in the same dimension, on the same planet, Oh Well. It's not his business, and he'd like to keep it that way.

Sorry CantankerRat, you're on your own.

At least he has Mat.

Sort of.

#art #asks #answers #anon #Fluffy Angels #Fluff meets Cantankerous #Inarius #Rathma #Malthael #Rat just wouldn't enjoy having Ina around #that thing gives him the creeps

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mal-likes-biscuits · 5 years

Text

[Continued from here!]

@fluffy-angels

“Honestly, that is how he does things,” Lyndon replied, before Malthael could get a word in. “He’s only cantankerous because you did it and not him.”

“Lyndon,” Malthael hissed, turning his discomfort into a pointed glare at the scoundrel. It gave him an excuse to break Rathma’s gaze. The ur-Nephalem’s ebony eyes were more than a bit disquieting.

“Merely helping you uphold your status as the paragon of truth.”

The remaining quips Malthael had prepared evaporated as soon as Rathma’s still unidentified companion mentioned Chith. Of course it was the healer’s doing. That explained a great many things.

“And I am sure Chith would be enthusiastic about meeting you. Very enthusiastic.” He resisted the urge to massage his forehead.

If the strange bird-Nephalem was Rathma, however improbable that was, then there was a high chance his companion was Kalan. Though Malthael was not exactly a Priest of Rathma, he had familiarized himself with their lore and history enough to be able to hold a proper conversation with their adherents.

“Kalan, yes?” He tilted his head. “Chith is not hard to find. And if you,” he glanced at Rathma, “are so inclined to take a bath, then there is a sizable river near Tristram, as well as several meadow ponds. Try not to frighten the locals. I would rather this not become my business again.”

He barely managed to not snicker at Rathma’s blunt declaration. Of all the things the necromancer had said, his expression of hunger was certainly the most relatable. A proper plate of baking and a warm cup of tea were on Malthael’s mind, as well. Relaxing. And nothing to do with strange Nephalem and stolen pants.

#my asks #ask replies #rp!malthael #lyndon #chith #kalan #rathma #Mal thinks hunger due to BS is a Big Mood #we'll see if Rathma flies the coop to go fish #@fluffy-angels

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romaniassexdungeon · 5 years

Text

Just Kids - Chapter 47

Pairing: HuttMol

Notes: Not a big, dramatic chapter. Just a HuttMol date. This isn't my proudest or best chapter. It's just pointless fluff, and not even that well written or important, sorry. But if you like cute dates, then that's enough. There'll be more plot next chapter. :)

Oscar - Hutt River // Mike - Molossia

Read on AO3

...

The main takeaway from the next meeting - Saturday morning at the end of the first week back - was that the website needed more attention. Messages had trickled to a halt over the holidays, like everyone had forgotten the site existed. It needed to be promoted everywhere, not just with posters that kept getting defaced. They needed to modernise. Everyone was to promote the absolute shit out of the website in every social media they had, if they hadn’t already. For Oscar, that meant doing nothing, because he had no social media accounts to post on. None at all.

It baffled Mike.

Even his mum was online, posting horrendous conservative memes about various minorities until he'd blocked her. He'd wondered why Oscar hadn't added him on anything. But at least it gave him the opportunity to read out what he considered his funnier tweets, on a variety of topics from American politics to BBC Sherlock. Except most of them went over Oscar’s beautiful, but Australian, head.

“Well you should watch the news more often,” he grumbled, putting his phone away.

“Why? I’m depressed enough as it is.”

“Fair enough,” Mike contemplated putting his arm around Oscar, but he couldn’t risk it. There was only a handful of old people on the bus, but anyone from school could get on. Or see from the street. He didn't want to get into a confrontation because it wouldn't be the one incident. It would continue for the rest of their school lives and drive them to the brink of sanity. And make things unsafe, worst case scenario. Even the best case scenario probably involved drama. Mike was a social vegetarian: he didn't do beef.

The house would be empty later. They could always kiss there.

It was a wonderful relief when they got off at the garden centre, and Mike’s mind was occupied with a squabble over whether or not they should get a trolley.

“Come on,” Mike whined, “my grandpa gave me so much Christmas money! I wanna get loads of stuff for spring! I don’t think he’ll be sending any more, not after what Mom’s gonna tell him.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Fine, but I probably won’t get much.”

“That’s okay,” Mike took a trolley and browsed the flower displays by the door, “you can help me plant stuff.”

“Doesn't look like there's much in stock, though,” said Oscar as they walked inside.

“Yeah, but the home decor section is gonna be fun. Winter stuff on sale.”

“I hate winter,” Oscar grumbled. Mike smiled at him.

“Me too, but I still appreciate the aesthetic. You know, I got really excited, the first time I saw snow.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, smiling. “Me too, but it gets old. I’m just a baby about the cold.”

“You’re my baby,” Mike mumbled, glancing around. No one heard. Oscar smiled at him, putting a little succulent in the trolley.

“One small thing,” he said, “and we can’t grow anything outside yet.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna stock up on seeds anyway, though. Never know when it’ll get sunny again.”

“How about never?”

“Hey, we can’t both be the pessimist here.”

“I don’t think you’re a pessimist,” said Oscar, “I mean, you can try all you want, but you’re nice and sweet and this little ray of sunshine. That swears. You’re grumpy, but you’re not cynical. You're too American to be.”

Mike smiled, despite himself, and loaded up on seeds. “Come on. Let’s look at the animals!”

He grabbed Oscar’s wrist, and dragged him over to the pet section. Oscar smiled and let him; there was little chance of finding anyone here. The only people remotely their age were small children with their parents, too distracted by a pen of rabbits to stare at some gay guys. Oscar and Mike decided to keep things platonic, though.

Mike awkwardly waited for the children to move on, so he could fawn over the rabbits himself. Oscar smiled, watching him. Charlie was always pestering Logan for a rabbit, but they weren’t allowed pets in their rented house. The rule broke both his brothers’ hearts, and Oscar’s too. He wouldn’t mind a rabbit. Or a cat.

Mike stared, adoringly, at the rabbits, then moved on to the guinea pigs. Oscar followed along, letting him ramble as he watched fat hamsters climb on top of their little wheel, only to fall into their thick bed of straw. He smiled at them.

Mike turned a corner, finding a menagerie of reptiles. He particularly liked the dopey geckos and tiny tortoises in their tanks. The snakes didn’t do much, but he loved them too. Oscar was less keen, but he watched Mike coo and fuss over them regardless.

When he’d had his fill, and moved on to the fish, Oscar spoke up.

“I’m gonna go look at the home living section,” he said, “I wanna get a new throw for my bed.”

“More?” Mike raised his eyebrow. Oscar’s bed was almost hidden by layers of blankets, all the Cooper siblings had them. And thick pyjamas, and hot water bottles, even with the heating cranked up. They hated the cold as much as Mike did, but Oscar was a lot skinnier than Mike and seemed to freeze over the littlest thing. And his hands were always cold.

“I can’t help it,” he mumbled, “I like getting new ones. They’re so soft when you just buy them, you know, before they go in the wash.”

Mike shrugged. “I- guess? You’re very cute.”

“Thanks, um, I’m gonna…” Oscar covered his face to hide his blush, and ducked off. Mike watched him go with a soft smile, then turned back to the fish. He fussed over all of them, trying to give every tank the same amount of attention, and the axolotl too. He wanted a pet so badly, even a tiny fish that didn't do anything, but now the Jones brothers weren’t getting money from their mother, they had to cut back on expenses. Get “real” jobs, in the twins’ cases. Alfred was handing out rather empty CVs, and Matthew had gone back to selling weed, not a real job but it made more money than one. It was keeping them afloat, along with support from their dad. He was a little skeptical of having two LGBTQ children, but accepted Mike all the same. It was more than a weight off for him.

He missed his dad at times. The man was gruff and cantankerous, and not quite in touch with his emotions, but he loved them, and could be fun to hang out with. Mike wasn’t one for fishing in silence most of the time, but it wasn’t so bad to get away from it all, just sitting by a lake, admiring the view and recharging.

When he found Oscar again, the trolley was half full.

“I got a little carried away,” Oscar admitted, fiddling with his hair. “Thought it’d be nice to redecorate.”

He’d bought a pair of fluffy cushions and a duvet set to go with his blanket, all a soft lilac.

“So much for not getting stuff,” he commented.

“I like stuff,” said Oscar, blushing.

“I noticed. Luckily, you might get some more stuff for your birthday.” If they were still together in three months. Mike hoped they were.

“Aww, you don’t need to,” said Oscar in a way that told Mike he would very much like to be spoilt for his birthday, and every other day too.

“I’m gonna,” Mike decided to get a set of string lights for his room, since they were on sale. Oscar decided to join him. Mike added some lanterns and a star ornament to the trolley, then grabbed some snacks. “For later,” he added.

Oscar made a face.

“You don’t have to have any, or get something you want.” Was this something they needed to talk about? Mike wasn’t sure it was his place, but Oscar’s aversion to food was getting concerning. Did he eat at home when Mike wasn’t around? Should he ask his brothers? Was it any of his business? He didn’t want to mention it to Oscar in case he got upset and that was that and they were done.

But he should say something.

But he didn’t want Oscar to dump him.

But the guy just didn’t eat.

Mike didn’t bring it up, like the coward he was, and just went to the checkout in silence. He’d talk to Oscar eventually, someday, or he wouldn’t forgive himself.

“I hope you didn’t have any other plans for the date,” said Oscar, a little more chipper once they were outside, despite the snow beginning to cling to his hair. “I mean, I’m kinda excited about sorting out my room.” He looked away. “If it sounds boring, we don’t have to, though.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Mike nudged him, “I’m cold. And I like it when you’re excited.” Also, Oscar had mentioned his brothers weren’t home. He wondered what would happen, and tried not to let the bubble in his stomach distract him. Nothing was going to happen, most likely, so he should just calm down.

Stupid hormones.

...

“There, beautiful.” Oscar smoothed out his blanket, then continued to run his hands over the soft, fluffy material. His bed was neat and made up with the new things, the string lights wrapped around the bars of his headboard. His succulent was on his desk, named Mikey, whilst Human Mike watched him with a soft smile.

“You are,” he mumbled with a blush, then stood up to hug Oscar from behind. He sighed, kissing the back of his neck as Oscar's hair tickled his nose. Oscar reached a hand back around to squeeze him, and pressed himself against Mike. He wasn’t the warmest person, but Mike was happy to provide all the heat here, holding him tight.

Everything was perfect. He hoped he didn’t say anything to ruin it.

“I love you.”

Fuck.

Oscar paused. “You do?”

“Yeah, um, it might be a bit early, sorry,” he could feel sweat creep into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just- I don’t know what I’m sorry. I mean, saying, sorry.”

Oscar turned around and kissed his sweaty forehead. “I love you too.” He kissed his nose. “And, yeah, maybe we’re being dumb teens who go on about being in love after two months, but it’s how I feel.”

Mike grinned, despite himself. Who knew what would happen in the future? Maybe, by next Christmas, they wouldn’t even be talking, but it didn’t matter. He was going to live his life, and so was Oscar, and they were going to make as many mistakes as they could. They were fifteen! They had miles and miles of life ahead of them, and they needed to make the best of it.

His mother was just one of many challenges he knew he’d be facing over his life, so he had to grab any happiness he could. Any memories to get him through the bad times. And Oscar was good for those kinds of memories.

“Wanna get under the covers and cuddle?” He kissed Oscar cheek.

“But I just made the bed,” he whined.

“I’ll make it again when we’re done.”

Oscar looked at him. “Done with what, exactly?”

“Kissing, nothing more,” he put his hands up, then slowly lowered them again. “Unless, you-”

“I don’t!” Oscar’s face softened. “I’m sorry, it’s a bit soon. I’m not ready.”

“That’s fine, baby,” Mike kissed his nose, “baby dear man.” Oscar huffed a laugh. “We’ll do things when we’re both ready and comfy.”

Oscar pulled Mike into the single bed, the two of them clinging together to save Mike from falling out. Mike pulled the new blanket around them both and kissed him. Then kissed him again, because Oscar’s lips were soft. Oscar smiled and kissed his nose.

“Say you love me again,” he mumbled, “I liked it.”

Mike grinned. “I love you.”

#huttmol #aph hutt river #aph molossia #hetalia #aph micronations #Hetalia Fanfiction #Hetalia fic #just kids

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aidanchaser · 5 years

Text

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone: Everyone Lives AU

Table of Contents

Chapter Sixteen Through the Trapdoor

Dear Sirius,

Detention was exciting. We went into the Forbidden Forest. Met some centaurs.

I know I tell you lots of stuff and make you promise not to tell Mum and Dad, but can you keep this one a secret, too?

When we were in the Forbidden Forest, we were looking for a hurt unicorn. I finally found it, but it was already dead. And something was drinking its blood. Then it came for me. It was terrifying. A dark, hooded, cloaked-thing. A centaur named Firenze scared it off and saved me. But I keep having nightmares about it. And there’s this green flash. And a woman screaming. Sometimes it sounds like Mum. And my scar keeps hurting.

Promise you won’t tell them? They get weird about my scar. All quiet and distant, and I don’t want them to worry. It’s just nightmares like normal, right?

Love, Harry

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Dear Harry,

Congrats on surviving your first detention! You’ll make it alright.

I wouldn’t worry too much about your nightmares. Your exams are coming up, aren’t they? The Forbidden Forest can be a bit scary, and the extra stress of exams can make it worse.

You’re better off asking your Dad or Remus about what you saw. It sounds a bit like a Dementor, but those shouldn’t be in the Forbidden Forest. Might’ve been a Boggart.

I promise not to tell your parents about it, but you really shouldn’t feel like you can’t tell them. They’re your Mum and Dad, and no one but them loves you more. They only want what’s best for you, and sometimes they get a little worried about you. It’s because they love you.

I told Remus I was getting some stress headaches and he gave me a funny look, but recommended some teas. I tucked the recipes in. Maybe you can sneak some potions supplies out from under Snape’s nose, eh? And I also added on some hexes for that Malfoy kid. Nothing de-stresses for exams like hexing Slytherins who deserve it.

Best of luck!

Love, Sirius

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Dear Remus,

I had detention in the Forbidden Forest. We were looking for a hurt unicorn. We didn’t find it in time, though. But I did meet some centaurs. One of them was friendly. His name was Firenze. The other two didn’t seem to like me much. I think they knew about when I was a baby and You-Know-Who tried to kill me, Mum, and Dad. They didn’t seem very happy about the whole thing. Are all centaurs like that? They kept talking about Mars. But we don’t take Divination until third year, so I have no idea what it means.

What happens to you if you kill a unicorn? And are the centaurs any better at Divination than humans?

Love, Harry

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Dear Harry,

I’m sorry you had to see a dead unicorn. It’s a tragic thing. No one should have to see something like that.

But you’re very lucky to have met some centaurs! They don’t usually like talking with humans, but I understand Hagrid is on decent terms with them. I’m glad you met Firenze. He is a dear friend of mine who helped me through a difficult time at Hogwarts.

I wouldn’t take anything the other two said personally. Centaurs generally aren’t sociable, but I’ve heard they’re more cantankerous than usual. The Ministry’s been pushing through new laws and restricting what lands they’re allowed to live on. Dumbledore’s been very kind to let them roam the forests around Hogwarts. And if you’re worried that they’re supporters of You-Know-Who, rest easy. Centaurs stay out of the affairs of humans, and if it came down to it, You-Know-Who would exterminate them. He was never fond of half-breeds in his regime.

Good luck in your exams. I’ve included some recipes for relaxation and increased concentration. They’re not potions, just teas with magical properties. So it isn’t cheating, and you should be able to brew them yourself. I think Ms. Granger might like to try them as well.

Love, Remus Lupin

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Dear Mum and Dad

Exams are coming up. Hermione has made colour-coded notes for us and everything, so I think we’ll be okay.

Detention was fine. And I feel bad about losing the points for Gryffindor, but we were breaking rules for the right reasons, so I don’t feel bad about what we did. It was to protect Hagrid, and that’s okay.

But the Forbidden Forest is pretty terrifying. I was glad we had Hagrid. And we met some centaurs.

I’ll see you guys soon.

Love, Harry

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

Dear Harry,

Best of luck in your exams. I included some scones for a midnight study snack. But the best thing for you is a good night’s sleep.

Your father seems to think you must’ve had a grand old time in the Forbidden Forest. I think he and Sirius and Uncle Remus did a lot of illegal adventuring in their day. I hope you weren’t too frightened.

I’ve never seen a centaur. They’re supposed to be lovely. You’ll have to tell us all about it when you come home.

We’ll see you soon!

Lots of love, Mum and Dad

—————————— ✶✶✶——————————

And somehow, they made it through exams. Voldemort never came pouncing out of any hidden doors, or ducked around dark corners. And no one fainted — though Neville nearly did in Potions.

Their last exam was History of Magic. Then they were free to relax beside the lake. At least, Harry and Ron were relaxing. Hermione was going over her notes, looking for the answers to all the exam questions.

“The 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct wasn’t all that important, or Elfric the Eager.”

“The 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct was revolutionary,” Harry said, “and it prevented hunters from coming after werewolves who abided by the rules. It allowed Werewolves to be treated like Beings and not Dark Beasts.”

“I know that,” Hermione snapped. “I just meant for the exam.”

“The exam is over. Why not just pay attention to the parts that matter?”

“Like the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct?” Ron laughed, and Harry’s ears burned, but he couldn’t explain to Ron why the Werewolf Code of Conduct was so important.

Harry sat up and rubbed his forehead. He saw Neville, Hannah Abbott, and Susan Bones coming down the path. He had barely spoken to Susan this year. He wondered briefly what her exams had been like, then pain shot through his scar.

Harry groaned and laid back down in the grass. “I wish I knew what it means! It happens sometimes, but not as often as this.”

“Maybe Madam Pomfrey will know what to do,” suggested Hermione.

“I’m not ill. Maybe it’s a warning. I think it means danger’s coming.”

But it was too hot to convince Ron and Hermione to do anything. They told him he was just stressed from the exams, and that there was no sense worrying with Dumbledore around. And that they at least were sure Snape didn’t know how to get past Fluffy, since he’d failed last Halloween. Quirrel hadn’t helped him; it was only Hagrid who knew about Fluffy, so there was nothing to worry about. Hagrid would never turn against Dumbledore.

Harry jumped up so suddenly, he startled his friends. “We’ve got to see Hagrid right now.” He walked so quickly towards Hagrid’s hut, his friends had to jog to catch up with him.

“Don’t you think it’s odd,” Harry explained, “that what Hagrid wants more than anything else is a dragon, and a stranger turns up who just happens to have an egg in his pocket? How many people wander around with dragon eggs if it’s against wizard law? Lucky they found Hagrid, don’t you think? Why didn’t I see it before?”

“What are you talking about?” Ron groaned as they approached Hagrid’s hut.

Hagrid was sitting outside, enjoying the sun, and smiled pleasantly at the trio. “Hullo. Exams all finished? Want ter stay fer tea?”

Ron started to accept, but Harry interrupted. “You know that night you won Norbert? What did the stranger you were playing cards with look like?”

Hagrid scratched at his beard. “Dunno. He wouldn’ take his cloak off. It’s not that unusual. Yeh get a lot o’ funny folk in the Hog’s Head — Mighta bin a dragon dealer, mightn’ he?”

“Did you talk to him about Hogwarts at all?”

“Mighta come up. Yeah… he asked me what I did, I told ‘im I look after the creatures here. I said I’d always wanted a dragon egg. He kept buyin’ me drinks…. I told ‘im after Fluffy, a dragon’d be easy.”

“And did he seem interested in Fluffy?”

“Well — yeah. How many three-headed dogs d’yeh meet, even at Hogwarts? So I told ‘im, Fluffy’s a piece of cake if yeh know how to calm him down. Jus’ play a bit o’ music and he’ll go straight off ter sleep —”

That was all Harry needed to hear. He ignored Hagrid shouting after him as he headed up to the castle. “We’ve got to go to Dumbledore. Snape has everything he needs to get into the dungeon and the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

They started up towards the Headmaster’s office, but they were stopped at the stairs by Professor McGonagall.

“You wanted to see Professor Dumbledore?” she said with a frown. “Why?”

“Er — it’s a secret,” Harry explained weakly.

She raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips. “Professor Dumbledore left ten minutes ago. He received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and left at once for London.”

“He’s gone? Now? But this is important!”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very great wizard. He has many demands—“

“Professor McGonagall, it’s about the Philosopher's Stone —”

Professor McGonagall dropped all of her books to the floor in shock, and did not even stoop to pick them up. “How do you know —”

“Professor, I think Snape is going to steal the stone and I’ve got to tell Professor Dumbledore.” McGonagall’s shock gave way to suspicion. “I don’t know how you found out about the Stone, but rest assured, no one can possibly steal it. It’s far too well protected.”

She refused to listen to any more of the stories and explanations, and the three were forced to retreat to their common room in defeat. Harry whispered to them that he was sure it would be tonight that Snape went to steal the stone.

“But without Dumbledore,” Hermione said, “There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I can steal the stone first,” Harry said, green eyes determined.

“You can’t! You’ll be expelled!”

“You’re mad if you think you can do that, mate. There’s a whole pack of enchantments protecting the stone.”

“So what?” Harry shouted at them. “How do I make you guys understand?” He lowered his voice so the rest of the common room couldn’t hear. “If Snape gets the stone, Voldemort comes back. You’ve all heard what it was like when he tried to take over. There won’t be a Hogwarts left. He killed a lot of people and I won’t let it happen again. Not when I can do something about it.”

Harry thought maybe this was what Firenze meant when he said there was something horrible in his future. He was going to face Voldemort for the stone. Well, it was that or do nothing, and if his parents, Sirius, and Uncle Remus had taught him anything, it was that doing nothing was just as bad as going dark.

“Yes, you’re right,” Hermione said very quietly.

“I’ll take the Invisibility Cloak so I don’t get caught.”

“Is it big enough to cover all three of us?” Ron asked.

“You don’t have to come —”

“As if we’d let you go alone.”

“How do you think you’ll get to the Stone without us?” Hermione sniffed. “I’m going to go through my books for some useful spells.”

Harry’s chest swelled. He hadn’t thought they’d help him. It’d be dangerous, and maybe they didn’t understand, but it would be wonderful to have someone with him. Wonderful to have the two people outside his family that he trusted just as much.

#harry potter #harry potter everyone lives au #harry potter and the philosophers stone #hp fic #hp everyone lives

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