#she rose above it all and faced it with cheer and grace

[pinkomcranger]

About the white asshole line: it's not as left field as people think tbh There's a similar line in the first AW game from Alice (in the DLC, Wake's version of her since it's all in his head). She uses the term 'while male melodrama'. This is literally Wake's own mind so he knows a lot of stuff he put her through was from a perspective of a person who has a lot of advantages. Back to Saga, that line aligns with the racism we are hinted she dealt with in her field and STILL deals with in present day. Mulligan and Thornton are racist af (haven't seen anyone discuss this yet) to her even if they seem pleasant at the start of the game. Not entirely either, when Saga and Casey meet Mulligan he automatically assumed Casey is the lead agent. He apologizes about it but there's an air that neither him or Thorton take Saga seriously. They barely speak directly to her and instead more to Casey unless she directly speaks to either. It's that seemingly benign, passive racism that is more toxic sometimes, especially in a work environment. In her face they show some surface level, thinly veiled respect but behind her back they called her a 'stuck up FBI bitch'. Part of the horror story adds she let her daughter drown so they doubt her work entirely. And concerning the Bookers, there's this passive aggressive comment where Thorton says the case of the murder of Nightingale would've been solved if the FBI wasn't involved. Thorton says something like "they stick with their own". Now, this could be seen as city folk stick with their own but the Bookers are black, this was purposeful imo. I honestly liked how Remedy incorporated this in such a realistic way. Some could dispute this and say "that's circumstantial/reaching" but lets not forget both Mulligan and Thorton are literally the bastard law enforcement type that kills are the drop of a pin. They killed that woman while enthralled with this feeling of power (referencing the page about it) and threw her body in the well to hide it, blaming the death on each other at first before they decide it's neither of their faults and hide the evidence. They become taken being so twisted in their dark ways. They are bad guys, I'd argue misogynistic too. And lets add a layer of actual parallels to rl racism to the mix here now. If she dealt with that in Bright Falls on her first day I can only imagine the assholes she had to deal with climbing her way up in the FBI, in life in general. This is why her mother is a strong foundation, they are not only close because they loved each other but she made sure she'd be strong. Parents who have mixed kids (black kids especially) know what they will deal with. Maybe even a meta thing like Spiderverse, adding the backlash into the story. Which she did and still does get from gamerz (tm). People STILL bring up that "race swap" from the Quantum Break trailer which is honestly just early concept stuff. Saga is written so well and carefully that even her problems outside the pace of the story seems to have been considered. So while it does seem random and may make people uncomfortable it's purposeful. Remedy really captured this aspect with Saga without making it her personality or the core part of her (like she just there for black trauma, so glad they did not do that and made her a character with experiences). Let's not forget Saga's field of work. We know it's predominantly white. Her saying 'another white asshole' says more about her experiences than anything else. And being at her lowest where her insecurities, doubts, fears thrive it says something about her agency and how sometimes it can feel taken from her based on her skin tone, gender, so forth. Sorry for the long ask! It's just, this line definitely does not feel like it's random to me. I was just shocked I heard it but the game lays down the ground work for it to be said. It's as subtle as the worst kind of racism though imo

I'm VERY interested by imagined!Alice's line because while we don't know if she actually feels that way, we see Alan can acknowledge that he KNOWS how lucky he is by virtue of being a white man, it might not be something he thinks about daily, but he's admitting he's aware of it.

You're right in regards to what Saga deals with in her work environment and most likely her daily life. It sucked for me that Mulligan and Thorton ended up being racist, misogynistic assholes because they truly just seemed like the goofy, slightly dimwitted small-town cops. I think maybe because I haven't actually played the game yet (shame on me, I know! I just managed to get it last month and haven't had the time to dedicate to it like I want) that I kind of brushed Mulligan and Thorton's behavior towards Saga off until we learned their true nature.

But we see how they're more comfortable deferring to Casey over Saga, and we can even see that Casey is NOT the least bit pleased with it. Saga clearly picks up on it, and it's one of the reasons she chooses to leave them with Casey. She can handle the Bookers easier, because yes, they ARE black, she KNOWS they're going to open up to her far easier than if it had been Casey. Do we get reflections of their shared experiences? Not really, but the Bookers weren't going to trust the FBI regardless, Saga being a black woman lowered their defenses a little.

You can argue that she was better suited for talking to the witnesses because it's just her personality, Casey was dry and sarcastic from jump while Saga was the opposite. But did the Bookers know that? Absolutely not. They were less cautious with Saga, Ed especially. They weren't hiding anything to be malicious, they just wanted their own things to be successful.

Hearing Mulligan and Thorton's true thoughts about Saga really tore me up. Not even so much at the fact they felt that way, but because they didn't have the guts to say it to her face. You don't hear that venom directed towards Casey at all, even though he's the EXACT same stuck-up government agent who's worse to them than Saga.

But it's what black people tend to see when dealing with the police force. Condescending, impatient, better-than, bitter, power-hungry and drunk on their self-importance and position of authority. There's a REASON they were made Taken when the Koskela brothers couldn't, but that's really neither here nor there.

Seeing what she had to deal with in Bright Falls from two guys that were SUPPOSED to be on her side and help her is very telling and it made me even more interested in her backstory. How many people actually believed in her when she joined the FBI? Who dismissed her out of pocket simply because of the color of her skin and her gender? You can even get a hint of her past simply by her questioning Casey on why he wants her to be the lead on the case instead of jumping in straight away.

And that's to her PARTNER, a man she’s known and trusted for years, who clearly never had a problem with her being a black woman, or there's no way in hell they'd have the kind of relationship that they do.

Freya being such a strong influence for Saga was evident in her card to her daughter. She knew the struggles Saga was going to face by going after what she wanted to do and never discouraged her. I'll always be bummed over Freya lying to Saga about her being a Seer though. I know it was to try and protect her from even more shit she didn't deserve to go through over something she had no control over. But it almost felt like a vote of no-confidence. And there's no feeling in the world like thinking your mother might not believe in you.

I'm still VERY annoyed at ANYBODY bringing up the "Return" concept from Quantum Break JUST to say Saga was race-swaped when almost NOTHING from that teaser made it to the main game proper. Sam and the team took all of that and flipped it on its head. That was clear the second FBI Alex Casey stepped into the background instead of being in the lead.

I love the fact we don't get the "another white asshole telling me what to do" until the end of the game, and it's when Saga is at her lowest point, when the Dark Presence is trying to do its best to break her down. But like I tend to bring up, Alan says it can't create something out of nothing. Meaning those doubts and resentment were there for a LONG time, and it VERY easily could have been her entire personality.

The fact that it wasn't showed how much thought Remedy put into creating Saga and I appreciate it so much. She wasn't her trauma, she wasn't her anger, she was the exact OPPOSITE of that. She faced her problems with determination and PUNS! Even when shitty things were going on, her mind wandered to humor "More like "Underwatery" I'll have to tell Casey that one later." Speaks volumes about her character.

I think that's one of the reasons she fought SO hard against the horror story. OBVIOUSLY her main motivation was saving Logan, and then Casey. But she wasn't about to let her agency be taken from her like she's been fighting against it for years. She was the one that was going to be in control, she was going to tell this story, and Alan himself (some of that as him being the face of the Dark Presence for her) "no, fuck you. Another white asshole is NOT going to tell me how to live MY life. You're not using my doubts and fears against me to take my family from me"

And she did it, she did what the white man couldn't do on his own in 13 years. How am I NOT supposed to root for her? How could I NOT want to know more about her history? There's no way I can look at Saga Anderson and go, well her story is done, there's nothing else to be written for her. As I said, I do love FBI Casey, but he's practically a blank slate compared to Saga, I could live without him because, for me, outside of his personality (I'm also grumpy and sarcastic), I cannot relate to him.

Despite not being a wife and mother in the FBI, I CAN relate to Saga. I can understand her struggles and pain. I feel her love for her family, I can relate to her love and disappointment towards her mother. The struggle of being a black woman in a world that still caters to white men and the pushback she gets just from existing. I understand her in a way I never could with Alan Wake. I understood and related to his issues as a writer struggling with inspiration. But the thing with that is Alan didn't HAVE to struggle like that, he could have chosen, at any time, to stop being a writer and do something else.

Saga couldn't choose to change the color of her skin. Her challenges would be with her simply because of how she's perceived at first glance. She'll never have the advantages of Alan and Casey in that regard.

I'm sorry for the long answer! But I LOVED your ask, and that's why it took me a hot minute to answer it. I had to get my thoughts in order and give this the response I felt like it deserved. So thank you for letting me see your thoughts towards Saga! ❤️

#alan wake 2 #saga anderson #alex casey #alan wake #ask #meta #my thoughts #racism #hard pills to swallow #strong black woman #a somewhat bland white man #Saga was the hero we deserved and got #Sam and Remedy truly showed they cared about Saga and I love that #Saga was not the product of her past #she rose above it all and faced it with cheer and grace #not everybody can do that and actually pull it off #she didn't try to “fake it til you make it” #Alan was the one doing that when you think about it #Saga was his foil in almost every single way and it WORKED #and she still managed to be her own amazing fully-fledged character in her own right #I haven't connected to a character like that in actual decades #Saga Anderson deserves everything good #i would go to war for her #I love her so much #alan wake 2 spoilers

[crypticminx]

More girl dad! Felix bc I have baby fever like soooo baddd ꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱₊˚⊹

The day called for perfect weather.

Clear blue sunny skies without a single cloud gracing its presence. The air was inviting and utterly warm, but not to the point where humidity only made those outside drenched in sweat.

It was on this day that Felix found himself spending the entirety of his usual packed days at home—a rare occasion for the profound business man.

He was never the type of man to let his work come first and kept himself disciplined in a sense that he found balance and separation in terms of a busy work life and home life. Thus, making him feel exceptionally grateful for the fact that he could finally take a well deserved day off.

“How does this look, princess?” Felix turned to the little girl sitting beside him, her white babydoll dress already painted with grass and a tiny bit of gravel—something her mother was not going to be pleased with.

“Very good daddy!” She joyfully cheered, clapping her delicate hands to prove a point in congratulating her father.

Felix, who tried his hardest not to wipe his forehead with his soil stained hands, gradually passed the pink gardening shovel to his daughter. Completing the first step of digging a hole wide enough for the rootballs that would later on stem into stunning roses just outside the castles main entrance.

Gardening.

The gardens in saltburn were more emaculate than any garden you could see displayed in a catalog waiting to be purchased in the shops. From vibrant greens of trees older than any of the residents and heavenly grown flowers that looked like they belonged above, it was certainly something miles away from what most had ever witnessed.

A gardeners wildest fantasy painted into reality.

“Did you want to ask mummy to make the bone meal for the soil?” Felix politely asked his daughter, noticing her adorable cherubic face turn almost smitten. He knew she was hiding something from that devious expression and it made want to do nothing more than to scoop her up in a big hug.

“I’ve already made it daddy!” She giggled, pulling the mix that rested in a glass jar from behind her. “And I did it without mummy’s help.”

“My smart girl,” Felix wiped his dirty hand with a washcloth they brought outside before ruffling his fingers in her soft brown curls. She scrunched her button nose as a response, her eyes twinkling with adoration.

“Now, baby, why don’t you go get the roses and then we can start preparing them?”

She nodded her head, loose strands of hair swaying in motion. She was quick in dusting off any remaining dirt that laid on her dress before running off to grab the remaining materials they needed.

Felix’s eyes never left her tiny body as she hastily ran off into the distance as if her little life depended on it. He couldn’t restrain himself from chuckling at the cute scene unfolding before him.

It was times like these that he cherished the most with all of his heart.

#felix catton x you #saltburn #felix catton #felix catton x reader #felix catton x y/n #jacob elordi #girl dad! felix catton #dad! felix catton #girl dad!felix catton #dad!felix catton

[cas-kingdom]

Can you please write Damon cheering up sis!reader by taking her out for some 1 on 1 time? Maybe even some grumbling from Stefan when they get back home lol ❤️

"If this is what you call a date, I want you to know I'm not impressed."

Damon Salvatore rolled his eyes to the high heavens and punted a stone across the grass. "Would you stop your grumbling? God," he said, "you try to do something nice."

You dragged your feet totally unnecessarily. "I'm tired."

"You wouldn't complain like this if it were Stefan, would you?" He stared straight at you, immediately noting the hesitation flit across your face. He stopped. "Would you, you little snake?” You turned on your heel, walking backwards and sticking your tongue out. Damon grit his teeth and surged forward, making a swipe for you. You easily darted out of the way but wasn't as lucky the second time, your brother catching your head in the crook of his arm and mussing your hair.

"You're a vampire," he said above your screaming, "you can't get tired. Ooh, bunny rabbit."

He let you go, stumbling, and approached the oblivious black rabbit. You recovered and grabbed his wrist before he could snatch the animal.

"No, no, no, don't." Damon gave you a look and your mirrored it. "Just let it exist, D."

"Fine, but when I'm hungry later and wanna snack on a passing tourist, don't come crying." You slapped his shoulder and he leaned down, beckoning to his back.

"Come on, get on." You merely blinked in response and he rolled his eyes once more. "Get on, or I'm leaving you behind." You, figuring this was the only way you were getting to the top of the mountain, jumped onto his back with all the grace of a baby elephant. Damon, ever the drama queen, groaned under the weight. "Damn, sis, how much do you weigh?"

You kicked his hips. "Walk on, ass."

Damon had hauled you out of the house that morning without allowing you—or Stefan—a word in edgeways. "It's a date," he'd said when you’d protested, "we're going on a date." Said date apparently included hiking up the tallest mountain in Virginia.

You moved faster now you were off the ground, hanging around his neck with your cheek against the back of his head. Your eyes followed the moving view until Damon got to the top and the trees cleared. You lifted your head and dropped down as he let go of your legs. "Woah."

"What'd I tell you, kiddo?"

"It's beautiful."

"Yeah, I—" A sharp trill pierced the quietude at the top of the answer and Damon grumbled, reaching into his pocket to yank out his phone. The name caused him to audibly roll his eyes "—aw, seriously?" He put the phone to his ear. "Hi, bro. No, bro, I haven't kidnapped our sister. We're having a dandy old time, thanks very much. She's fine, we're fine, the bunny's fine, and don't even think about coming after us because you're not invited. This is a date." And with that, the phone was turned on silent and pushed right back into his pocket.

You crossed your arms over your chest and grinned, one brow raised. "Eloquent."

Damon rolled his eyes and sat at the edge of the mountain. "Come here. Come on, I won't let you fall." He rose a brow playfully. "Maybe."

You gave him a look but came to sit beside him anyway, making extra sure to be close enough that if the wind blew a little too hard and you did topple over the edge, he'd be able to grab you in time.

"I brought you here when you were a kid, you know?" Damon thought about that. "Well, more of a kid than you are now, I mean."

"Yeah?"

"Yup. Carried you all the way up. You said your legs were tired." He jabbed you in the side. "Guess some things don't change."

“Hey, I walked up most of it by myself.” You jabbed back.

“Yet the question remains…will you walk down by yourself?” He rose his brows in question. You narrowed your eyes but didn't respond, prompting your brother to snort.

"What did I think of it then?" you asked. The views were gorgeous, but you doubted you’d appreciated them as much when you were younger.

"Absolutely no idea. You fell asleep on the way up." Damon didn't sound impressed. You grinned. "Seriously. Busted my ass climbing up that hill and you weren't even awake to see all this."

"You didn't wake me up?"

"You were a deep sleeper."

"Belated sorry."

"Accepted."

You leant against him, your shoulders touching. "That's why you wanted to come today?"

Damon shrugged. "Seems a shame not to see it at least once." He paused. "And to spend some time together." You glanced up at him. "What?"

You said nothing. You shook your head and rested it against his shoulder, reaching to take his hand in yours. "I missed you too, big brother."

TVD Masterpost

#vampire diaries #the vampire diaries #damon salvatore #stefan salvatore #damon x reader #damon salvatore x reader #stefan x reader #stefan salvatore x reader #damon x stefan #stefan x damon #reader #reader fic #teen reader #KINDA #teen!reader #sister reader #sister!reader #vampire!reader #mine #vampire reader

[bleach-your-panties]

Sincember Event❄️❄️

Rating: Fluff🍥

Shinji Hirako has a big crush on you.

Ever since he saw you at the induction meeting where you were appointed the new taichou of squad thirteen.

Dare he say it, you may be the only person in existence to make Shinji Hirako feel shy.

He can’t help himself, though; you're just so cute! 

The moment you walk into a room, all eyes fall to you. 

Stylish, graceful-

Overall ethereal.

How can he ever garner the courage to talk to you? 

Well, that was when the other Visoreds came in-

But of course their advice was less than savory, per usual-

“Stop being a pussy and just talk to them.” Love, Kensei

“You should just give up, they'd never entertain an uncouth savage such as yourself.” Rose

“It’s more daring and romantic if you make the first move. Trust me, I've read the books.” Lisa

“You're a lovely person. Just be yourself. “ Hachi

“Just go right up to them and give them a big smooch! That'll surely get you noticed!” 

Mashiro, what?

“What did you just say?” Shinji narrowed his already slanted eyes at the greenette.

“I said to kiss them! It'll be cute and show that you really like them!”

“Pretty sure that’s sexual harassment.” Lisa mumbled while thumbing through the pages of her manga.

“Right. I can’t just go up to them and kiss them; they might kick my ass! Then I’ll be the laughing stock of the entire Seireitei!”

“Aren’t you already that, though?” Hiyori finally chimed in, having just rejoined the group after running an errand for Kurotsuchi-taichou.

Shinji scowled at her, but she continued with her thought process, 

“They should be coming to the annual Christmas party this Sunday. Make your move then, or just shut up about it altogether.”

“Swear you motherfuckers get on my nerves.” He mumbled underneath his breath. 

“Care to repeat that?” Hiyori raised a blonde eyebrow and Lisa’s head snapped around in his direction. 

“Nothing. I said I’ll be there.” 

—-

Shinji began looking for you immediately upon entering the party.

His lips tilted up into his signature grin when he saw you by the punch bowl conversing animatedly with Shunsui and Nanao.

Just as he was about to approach you, a random shinigami came up and joined in the conversation, tugging incessantly on the sleeve of your top.

‘Ugh! Seriously?! This is not going to work. I have to find a way to get their attention. Think, Shinji, think!’ 

His earthy-colored eyes scanned the room, searching for some type of opening or distraction.

A mistletoe.

The little green shrub with white berries dusted with white paint to make it look like snow had fallen upon it. A bright red ribbon strung it from the ceiling right above your head.

‘Well, I guess you can’t get any more cliche than that. Lisa is going to have a field day with this.’ 

Puffing out his chest, Shinji strode forward and began walking towards the table where all the food was set out. 

Just as he was merely inches from being able to brush his fingers against your sleeve, something caught around his foot and he went sailing up into the air.

A few sharp gasps of surprise and then loud snickers flooded his ears as he hung mercilessly upside down from the ceiling by his ankle.

No one could have been as surprised as you were, though. You quickly rushed to the blonde’s aid and cupped his face between your soft hands.

“Hirako! Are you alright?!”

Shinji’s cheeks blushed a million shades of pink, but he simply nodded. From this angle, he had a perfect view of your pouty lips and before his overbearing thoughts could stop him, he pressed forward and connected his with yours.

It was quick and a bit rushed due to the swaying caused by his current predicament, but you were slow to pull away, cupping his chin and pulling his mouth back onto yours repeatedly.

A chorus of whoops and cheers finally broke you both out of your little moment and you could see Mashiro, Hiyori, and Lisa standing off to the side with satisfied smirks on their faces.

“Drastic times call for drastic measures.” Hiyori laughed.

----

ʳᵉᵇˡᵒᵍˢ ᵃʳᵉ ᵃᵖᵖʳᵉᶜⁱᵃᵗᵉᵈ ᵃⁿᵈ ⁱ ˡᵒᵛᵉ ᶜᵒᵐᵐᵉⁿᵗˢ🫶🏽

#shinji hirako #hirako bleach #hirako shinji #hirako shinji x reader #shinji hirako x reader #bleach shinji #sincember #⋰❄︎gotta sin to win❄︎⋱ #happyhornydays #💗💗🍡°my fics #💗💗🍡°bleach masterlist #byp🌹holiday event #byp🌹2023 events #byp 🌹

[bionic-egypt]

Elder Guardian

Far below the churning waves, in a temple of polished prismarine, rules the Elder Guardian. Her people revere her as their god-queen, the creator of their race. Her influence is vast; even those in fresh water acknowledge her power. With the extent of her reach, it is no wonder travelers sell to place themselves in her good graces.

The Elder Guardian is older than sentient life in the oceans. For many years, centuries even, it was her alone with the fish. In that time, she scoured the seas, exploring warm coral reefs and frigid glacier islands. After so long spent exploring, she finally found somewhere she felt she could settle down. She built her monument out of prismarine and sea lanterns, carved the blocks with her own hands.

For ages, she swam alone in her corridors, joined only by wandering schools of tropical fish. It was a solitary life, but one she enjoyed. And then the builders came.

At first, she only saw them from afar, in their tiny rowboats that barely cast a flicker of a shadow on the sea floor. She let them float past uninterrupted; surface dwellers were inconsequential to her life beneath the waves. Over time, those little flickers from the rafts grew to giant expanses of shadow cast from towering ships. Still, she paid them no mind. They weren't her problem. Not until they started diving into the water.

When the builders stated exploring her waters, tearing up her reefs and carving away her prismarine, the Elder Guardian made herself known. Perhaps they were unaware the waters and their contents were protected; how would she expect land-dwelling creatures to know of her claim? After realizing they were trespassing and stealing, the builders were willing to meet with her on the shore and discuss just how they could get along.

A treaty was crafted, granting the builders safe passage above the waves and set up a trade between them and the Elder Guardian. She was gifted materials she could have never imagined from all over the lands in return for trinkets and commonplace items. This treaty served both sides well for many years. Trade and travel were bountiful. Things were going wonderfully.

Unfortunately, greed eventually grew in the hearts of the builders. They started wondering why they should listen to this so-called queen, this monster under the sea. They were experienced monster hunters; surely she would be easy to dispose of? And with her gone, they wouldn't need to hand over so many of their precious building materials in exchange for the ocean's bounty.

At the next trade meeting, instead of bringing supplies, the builders brought only violence.

They drove the Elder Guardian back into the sea, cheering at their perceived victory. But they were unprepared for her reaction. If it was war they wanted, then war they would have. She sought out lost ships, ones that before she would have guided back to shore, and dragged them down into the depths. The waterlogged bodies of the sailors rose again as the zombified Drowned, their only purpose now to serve her. And serve her they did.

The seas were a battleground unlike anything the builders had faced before. The Elder Guardian led her undead army against the builders, adding every one of their fallen to her ranks. Every battle added to her inevitable victory. It was only a matter of time before they would be forced to surrender.

The final battle barely deserved the name. The builders' forces were swarmed by the Drowned, faces they knew all too well staring back at them with milky, lifeless eyes. The Elder Guardian held the leader by the throat with her poison grip and dared them to move. It was over. She won.

A new treaty was drawn up, this time heavily favoring the Elder Guardian and her new subjects. No longer would she help the builders sail to new lands. Any and all who were lost at sea would join her under the waves.

What the Elder Guardian didn't, couldn't know was that the builders found a new method for long-distance travel. No longer would they have to rely on sailing her oceans. No, they found something else. Somewhere else. A place devoid of water entirely.

They had found the Nether.

#my art #my writing #marker #minecraft #minecraft elder guardian #minecraft mob queen au

[writtingforfun]

Two Sides of a Thorn (2)

Chapter 2

Warnings: mentions of death and mourning

The next week had been hell for anyone in the family. Viserys was in another world, Rhaenyra was crying at every moment. As for Visenya, she was a hollow shell of what she had always been. She barely ate, barely slept and she barely spoke to anyone. Everyone knew she did not possess such a cheerful personality as her sister and parents; she was always more calculated, showed less emotions and kept her thoughts more to herself, for she knew how to assess situations.However, she also had the brightest of smiles and was the kindest soul when she wished to be. Her beauty was unmatched, making many men stare at the young girl since she was little. she did not mind it, she valued more than her looks, she valued the brain.

But now she was cold and distant. Barely uttered a word to anyone. Two words sentences were the only things said to her father and not much more to Rhaenyra, who was always with her father and did not understand her sister’s anger. Had it not been for Daemon she would become mute. He was always there for her, spending his entire days flying with the girl and sitting upon the fourteen flames while his niece prayed as he had taught her. He understood the pain she was going through, having never fully mourned the loss of his own mother.

Visenya felt the wind against her face and smiled. That was exactly what she needed. She flew higher on Balexion, Caraxes following her.

Just above the clouds, she stopped going higher and the Balexion stood there.

“Is it crazy that this makes me feel closer to her?” she asked once her uncle was in earshot.

“No. It 's sweet.”

“Sweet never got me anywhere”

He analyzed her. This time together certainly made them closer, if possible. His heart broke with every sad smile, every cry and every nightmare that awoke her and made her wonder around the corridors.

“Don’t you think it’s time to talk to your father?”

“He does not care about me. He allowed me to watch-” she swallowed the lump in her throat “He never tried to talk to me again”

“You should try to talk to him”

“Why are you saying that?”

“He’s my brother. I may like to annoy him but I love my family.” Visenya looked at him. She knew it was true. His family was his priority even if he sometimes acted as if they weren’t “You’ll turn into me if you don’t”

“How terrible” she smirked and he laughed. She had become addicted to his laughter and company. Without him she felt incomplete.

“It’s not as good as you think it is, little dragon. One day you’ll wake up and he’s going to hate you”

“My father does not hate you Daemon”

“He also doesn’t like me. But we’re talking about you. Talk to him”

And she took his advice. She walked to the council meeting that was starting now. All eyes drifted towards the younger princess but she ignored it.

“I was flying, sorry for being late, Your Grace” she walked towards her father and kissed him on the cheek.

He smiled widely “Don’t worry my girl. I’m glad you decided to join us”

Visenya smiled and went to her sister’s side. Daemon walked in just after her, taking his seat as Commander of the City Watch. Everyone seemed amazed how he was able to keep the position and not be bored yet. Except he was bored. He kept it because it was the only way to be near Visenya.

“Very well, now that we’re all here” the King rose from his seat “After you all nagged me for a week about my line of succession..” he glanced at Daemon and then at his daughters, especially Rhaenyra. “I have decided to name my first daughter, Rhaenyra, as my heir”

Silence fell on the room. Visenya looked around to see the faces of the men sitting at the table. She then looked at her sister. She already knew, that was obvious by the way she wasn’t amazed and only smiled.

“Congratulations niece” Daemon was the first to talk, although Visenya knew he didn’t fully mean it.

“Thank you uncle” she then looked at her sister “Well?”

“Oh, yes… Congratulations sister” They hugged each other, but Visenya couldn’t help but feel betrayed. Not only had he chosen this without even mentioning to her,but he didn't have the decency to tell Daemon he would no longer be his heir.

The Lords sitting at the table were worried about this decision. A woman had never sat on the Iron Throne.

Otto Hightower was especially angry at this decision. He had planned everything since the day the Queen had died. How would his plans be after this, he wondered.

“We should also discuss possible betrothals for the Princesses. Don’t you agree, Your Grace?” the Hand asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“What?” Visenya said loud enough for everyone to hear

“Well, you’re coming of age Visenya”

“I do not wish to be wed”

“You are a Princess. You must wed to continue the line and male a good connection with another house”

“I do not intend to be bred like a mare simply for the liking of some man!”

“Sister”

“No. I will not marry anyone!”

She stormed out of the room and made her way to the training grounds. Ser Harwin Strong was the one helping her practice whenever Daemon wasn’t around.

While she stormed out and Rhaenyra was asked to leave, the Hand proceeded to insist on the king remarrying and finding a match for the girls.

“Perhaps the Princess Visenya should be considered for a match with the North?” He wanted to get rid of her with everything he had

“The North?” Daemon stopped him before the King could say anything. “Are you so threatened by a young girl that you wish to send her to the North, Otto?” he chuckled

“It’s my duty as Hand of the King to do as I see better fit for the crown”

“It’s not better to send her away. She won’t go. You know that Viserys”

“It’s true, Otto. My daughter will never leave to go so far away. Especially not to such a cold place. Dragons do not like the cold.”

“Forgive me then, Your Grace”

“Your Grace” Lord Corlys spoke “Perhaps you would like to consider my son. Laenor is still young but soon he’ll be ready to take a wife. It would be a great honor to join the two great houses of Old Valyria”

“You intend to marry Laenor to who exactly, Lord Corlys?” Daemon asks.

“To Princess Rhaenyra. They are childhood friends, it would be a great match not only because of their blood but because of shared friendship”

“I will definitely consider it, Lord Corlys.” Viserys smiled, considering the match.

“What about having ser Laenor wed Visenya?” the Hand tried again “Afterall, your son is to inherit Driftmark. If he is to become King Consort he won’t be able to do so.”

“Stop trying to marry Visenya, Otto” the King warned and Daemon smirked.

“I shall consider it. You may all go”

“You’re doing it wrong,” Daemon said from the top of the stairs.

“I’m just trying not to kill anyone” Visenya hissed

“The Princess is letting go of her anger” Ser Harwin told the Prince and walked away.

“What happened in that room? How many matches for me in this short time?” She wiped the sweat from her forehead and placed the wooden sword down.

“A few. But your father discarded them all”

“He did something right, now that is amazing” she mocked

“The Hand wanted to send you to the North”

“What?! That fucker!” she yelled in frustration.

“Then to Laenor Velaryon”

“What?” she repeated.

“He said no again. Laenor is, however, being considered for your sister.”

“Good. At least I’ll have someone who actually cares about me here”

“Ouch” he fakes hurt and smiles at her.

“Well, besides you” Visenya walks closer to him, only inches away “But you may want to go to your wife”

“That will never happen” he holds the necklace he gave her. She has worn it everyday since he gave it to her “Let’s train properly”

*

Six months had passed and the King had announced he was to marry Lady Alicent Hightower. The Hand had won this one. This decision had hurt the new relationship Viserys was building with both his daughters. Rhaenyra felt betrayed for the fact that her best friend had lied to her and agreed to this match.

Rhaenyra was betrothed to Laenor Velaryon and they were to wed in 8 months from the wedding day of her father. All the houses had also come to swear allegiance to the new Heir.

Daemon had stood with his niece through this time. She was getting much better at sword fighting and hand to hand combat. Her father did not like this proximity one bit; he did not want her daughter to turn out like his brother. Her and Daemon shared the Blood of the Dragon. They were restless and impulsive. But Visenya had another thing that scared the people around her; not only was she clever but extremely calculated and unpredictable.

Visenya was getting dressed with Rhaenyra. They were both dressed in their House’s colors. Rhaenyra’s hair was up and Visenya had two braids on each side, falling behind. She also wore her uncle’s necklace.

For Visenya, the wedding under the Seven was ridiculous. Why should the man cloak the bride with his protection? Was the woman a little doll who could only live with protection from a man? A wedding in the tradition of their ancestors was what she wanted. A traditional Valyrian wedding.

Her thoughts were pulled from her when they were pronounced married.

While the King and the now Queen danced, the sister stayed in their seat. They tried to talk, to eat but nothing seemed to make the time go by faster. And the smile on the Hand of the King’s face... That was enough for Visenya to draw the dagger she kept hidden in her thigh and stab him until she was sure he was dead. She took a deep breath and got up, ignoring that thought. When her father saw her leaving he let go of his new wife and followed her.

“Visenya. Must you leave already?”

“It’s been hours, father. I understand it. I truly do” she walked towards her father. She did not forgive him about what he did to her mother, she didn’t think she ever would. But she understood that he had to marry and produce more heirs. Unlike Rhaenyra, she knew how the world worked. “I know that you had to marry” she saw Alicent come behind the King “I do not resent the fact that you are wed. And I will not resent any children you and the queen may have. I apologize for my anger, Your Graces. But for today, I wish to sleep”

“Thank you for nor being angry. It means a lot to me, Princess” Alicent said.

“Yes it means so much”

“You are not my favorite person though” she joked to make the air lighter “But one day I hope we no longer remember the short period of time that I was mean to you Alicent”

“It’s forgotten on my end”

“Have a good night. I shall retire now”

Instead of going to her chambers, the Princess made her way to the Dragon Pit, where she sat next to Balexion. She was growing fast, being as big as Caraxes at this moment.

“Thought I would find you here” Rhaenyra said as she sat near her. Balexion huffed at the disturbance and fell asleep again

“Balexion is a great company”

“What were you talking about with father?”

“I was saying I was not angry at him for marrying her”

“Are you joking?”

“There is nothing we can do Nyra. It was clearly orchestrated by Otto. Alicent only did what her father told her”

“Would you do it if father had asked you?” she asked trying to make a point

“No. But not everyone is as strong minded as me”

The girls laughed together. Since their mother’s death everything was different with them. They no longer went flying together as much and they talked less. Luckily it felt like everything was as it was. They always loved to be together, it used to be impossible to separate them.

Read it on AO3, already complete:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/43163785/chapters/108531222#workskin

#twosidesofathorn #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #house of the dragon #fire and blood #fanfiction #daemon targaryen fanfic

[alwritey-aphrodite]

What Love Is

Chapter 7 of You Are In Love

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Pairing: modern!Poe Dameron x gn!reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: can you tell how I feel about kitchens?

When you blink awake, the sun is already high in the sky. You yawn, stretching like a cat, and think over what happened last night, early into the morning.

You and Poe had sat there on the blanket, well past 1 AM, with your shoulders touching and nothing else. Once, you felt his hand shift, as if he was reaching for yours, but then he settled again. Once you’d both yawned no less than five times, you decided it was time to turn in for the night.

As soon as your head hit the pillow, you were fast asleep. And now, you’re being pulled from your bed by the food you can smell from the kitchen. You make your way downstairs, pulled towards the kitchen by the scent of the pancakes.

Finn and Rey sit at the island, coffee cups in hand, looking rumpled from sleep. Rose is the one cooking the pancakes, and the first to shoot a cheerful “good morning” your way. She’s always been a morning person.

That’s one of the reasons why you always loved working those early morning shifts with her. She was always so energetic, so happy just to be alive, that it was impossible not to have a good time with her, even though the sun wasn’t even up.

And when you see Poe, he almost takes your breath away.

His curls are all sort of tousled, sticking up at endearingly odd angles and falling into his eyes. He’s wearing a soft looking t-shirt and pajama pants that sit low in his hips, giving you a generous view of his lower stomach as he stretches his arms above his head with a yawn.

You almost want to avert your eyes, because you’re not completely sure if you can control yourself around him if he’s looking all sleepy and adorable.

So much for the promise you made yourself.

You make your way over to the stool you’d been occupying during meals, smiling your thanks when Finn slides you a cup of coffee, doctored up just the way you like it. Poe is standing on the other side of you, leaning against the counter like a goddamn model. Has he always smelt this good?

He smells fresh and comforting, like rain and bonfires and clean laundry. You resist the urge to stick your face into the junction of his neck and shoulders, and chalk it up to your brain still waking up, not the way your heart falters whenever you see that sleepy little smile grace his features.

You need to get a grip: both on the yearning and on the part of your brain that’s scolding you for your every thought. It’s not like you’re dreaming about him sticking his tongue down your throat or leaving marks on your thighs. You just want to give him a kiss on that perfect nose of his and tessellate yourself around him, koala-style.

It’s really just a crush, and you still aren’t quite sure why you’re acting this way. Maybe it’s because he’s one of the first friends you’ve made in a while and you can’t picture your life without him now. Or maybe it’s because Finn planted that little ‘he totally loves you’ seed in your brains and now you’re overthinking every single interaction you and Poe have.

You resist the urge to shoot Finn an angry glare, because he’s not the one to blame for your pining, and instead just sip your coffee and listen in on the quiet conversations that fill the small space.

Rose finishes with the pancakes, making a sizable stack on each plate before she hands them off and the five of you start eating. You’ve always known that Rose was a talented baker from all your shifts together at Maz’s, but that clearly rolls over into cooking too. All of the pancakes are perfectly round and perfectly golden, and you’re convinced she’s some sort of kitchen wizard.

Breakfast is a leisurely affair, as you all eat and talk over your plans for the rest of the day. Then, slowly, your friends filter out of the kitchen, returning to their rooms to shower and get ready for the day, leaving only you and Poe in the kitchen.

You briefly wonder if he plans these little moments, choosing to stay back because he knows you will and he craves this time as much as you do, but you dismiss that thought as quickly as it comes.

“Dishes?” He asks, and holy hell, that soft, gravely voice of his should be illegal. You’ve never heard a better sound.

“I’ll wash, you dry?”

“No, I’ll wash.”

“But you did yesterday.”

“Exactly,” he says, smiling at you, “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it.”

You shake your head at him to hide your smile, and make your way towards the sink on the other side of the kitchen island. You settle yourself into the little corner as Poe gathers the remainders of the dishes from the counter.

Just like yesterday, the two of you make the task ten times longer with all of your easy-flowing conversations. You don’t let yourself dwell on how lovely and domestic it feels: the both of you in your pajamas, doing a household chore, talking about practically nothing.

You don’t even realize that the two of you have been standing there, crowded against the sink, for far longer than it would reasonably take to do the meager dishes until Rey walks into the kitchen to start packing the snacks and drinks for the beach.

A bit awkwardly, you slip out of the kitchen and hurry up to your room, where you rush through getting ready to meet up with your friends back in the kitchen. Before you do, you take a deep breath, trying to calm the hell down and hoping that no one catches on to your little crush, especially not Poe.

You’re calling it a crush because it feels indecent to say: I desperately want to spend the rest of my life with this person who is one of my best friends and every single time I interact with him it feels like my heart is going to implode.

So you settle on a crush.

Thankfully, no one makes any comments about how long it took for you to do the dishes, no winks or raised eyebrows or teasing grins.

You gather up the towels, and make your way towards the beach, and set yourselves up in the same spot you were in yesterday. And, luckily, just like yesterday, the beach is practically empty with the exception of your group.

The entire morning is spent playing around and having fun with your friends, and the majority of that time is spent on the water, floating and splashing around. You don’t even realize how much time is passing, too distracted by all of your laughing.

You can’t remember a time when you’ve felt so light, so happy, in a way that you can’t possibly articulate. You can’t describe how even being near them makes you fill with a warmth that could only be described as pure joy and safety, but even that doesn’t reach the depth of your feelings.

They’re your home.

And you can’t figure out a single way to tell them that, to let them know just how much they mean to you. So, instead, you smile a little wider and laugh a little harder, and vow to hug them a little tighter.

When noon approaches, you step out of the water to lay out in the sun and dry off before you head back to the house for lunch.

After you all decide that you’re dry enough, you gather up all of your things and begin the trek back to the house, where you settle into your spot at the kitchen island. There’s yelling and teasing when Rose announces that she’s heating up a frozen pizza, and you couldn’t be happier.

There’s always so much life when you’re with the group, so much affection you can almost feel it, as if it’s a tangible thing. It seeps into every teasing yell and every serious conversation, every hug and silent moment.

You wonder, then, if that’s what Poe feels for you. Love, but not in the romantic sense. In the way that you feel whenever you share a smile with Finn or work a shift when Rose, whenever Rey goes out of her way to bring you something special when you feel down.

You love them like your family, but that is not the way you love Poe, if you can even call it love.

It’s a slow, simmering thing that lives and builds in the depths of you. It flutters to life in the moments you steal, in diners or near kitchen sinks or on beaches past midnight. It’s the desire to spend the rest of your life wrapped safely in his arms.

And you’re terrified that that’s not the way he feels about you. That he doesn’t get that flutter in his stomach whenever he sees you, that he isn’t fighting the urge to kiss you whenever you smile or laugh. That he loves you the same way he loves Finn and Rey and Rose.

Which is a gift itself. To have someone like Poe Dameron love you at all, especially to have him love you like family? You’re not sure how you got so lucky.

And you fear that’s the extent of your luck, and you fear that you want him to love you differently.

After you finish eating, the cooler gets refilled with snacks and drinks and the five of you head back to the beach to spend the rest of the afternoon the same way you spent the morning.

By the time dinner rolls around, you’re ready for a nap: you’ve spent practically all day in the sun, laughing and letting loose with your friends.

All of you head to your own rooms, to shower and spend some time alone and out of the sun. In the bathroom, you peel off your still-damp suit before getting in the shower, luxuriating in the cool water that seems to bring your body temperature back to normal levels after all day outside.

Afterwards, you change into some comfy clothes, deciding that you were done being outside for the day. As much as you loved it, you really wanted to enjoy this vacation, and you couldn’t do that if you felt pressured to spend every single moment living it up.

But, when you head downstairs, it’s clear that everyone else had the same idea.

All of your friends are dressed in their coziest, weather appropriate clothes, and Rose is putting together a tray of snacks.

“We decided on a movie night, if that’s ok with you?” Rey asks from where she’s leaving against the countertop, reaching over to attempt to steal food and faking shock when Rose gently bats her hand away.

“That sounds perfect.” With that, the five of you head to the living room, and you help Rose haul all of the snacks, even making a second trip to make sure nothing gets spilled or dropped.

When you return, there are only two open seats: one right next to Rey and one right next to Poe. Finn had taken the large chair, and looked all too smug about it. You narrow your eyes at him, with a meaning only he knows, before seating yourself next to Poe.

Despite the fact that you felt like your heart was about to beat out of your chest, you really had a great night. The movie marathon started with a mindless comedy, giving you all the opportunity to joke and talk without worrying about missing plot points, and then progressed onto childhood favorites, movies with low production value but high nostalgia factor.

You must have fallen asleep, because you come to with your head on Poe’s shoulder and your legs stretched out onto what should be Rey’s body.

“Where’d everyone go?” You ask sleepily, reluctantly pulling away from Poe and his warm body.

“They all went to bed.” Even with the faint light coming through the windows, you can see that he has that soft little smile on his face again.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you up.”

“It’s alright, really.”

“You should have just woken me up or pushed me off.”

“You looked all peaceful and comfortable, I couldn’t do that to you.”

And you were.

That was probably the best sleep you’ve had in months, and Poe’s shoulders were surprisingly comfortable. If it were up to you, you would stay on the couch and sleep with your head resting on his shoulder all night. And Poe would probably let you.

But, you would never actually do that, so you stand and stretch and yawn, regrettably making your way to your own bed.

“Goodnight, Poe. Thanks for letting me nap on you.”

“Anytime.”

If he was serious, you would absolutely take him up on that offer.

Still, you make your way to your room and all but collapse onto the bed, barely pulling up the covers before you’re asleep.

——

The rest of the trip passes much like the first two days: you spend most of your day on the beach, swimming and playing around on the sand, only going back to the house for meals. Sometimes, you’d stay in and play board games or watch a movie after dinner, and sometimes you’d hear back outside for a fire and stargazing.

And, by the end of the week, you have a nice little collection of water colors. You have plenty of the lake, and a few of the kitchen, and tons of your smiling friends. You even woke up early one morning to paint the sunset, and it was so beautiful you wished you did it more.

On the morning of the last day, you all decided to switch it up a little.

You all got dressed, and headed into the little town to grab breakfast at the local diner, a family restaurant that’s been open for over 50 years. It’s small, and painted a bright, happy yellow. You imagine it would be packed on the weekends, with tourists and locals alike.

“These might give those other pancakes a run for their money,” you say to Poe, shoving the last bit of your meal onto your fork. He sends a wink your way, and Finn has that smug look on his face again. You simply roll your eyes, and savor your last bite of food.

After you’ve all finished your breakfast and sat and talked for a while, you decide to take a walk through the town. The whole place feels oddly nostalgic, even though you’ve never been before. It feels homey and safe, and you wonder how much of that feeling is due to your company.

You spend the morning leisurely walking and wandering through the small shops. It’s an interesting little town, and you almost wish you had spent more time there. But, you were just as happy with all of the time you spent at the lake.

By the time you return to the house, it’s deep into the afternoon and far past lunch time. So, you quickly whip together some sandwiches, taking everyone’s preferences into account.

You all decide to eat on the back porch, soaking up as much time outside as possible. Afterwards, you change and head down to the lake one more time, trying to get as much as possible out of your last day.

As you try to avoid getting splashed by Finn, you can’t help but think about how lucky you are to be surrounded by people who love you and who love being with you. You’ve never really had a place to belong before, but now you have four amazing people who you know would do anything for you.

If you think about it too much, it’s practically impossible not to get emotional, so instead you change your focus to enjoying your last few hours here and getting Finn back for how much he’s splashed you this past week.

As much as you all wish you could stay outside forever, you have to start packing up, planning on making the drive back home after dinner. You take as much time as possible drying off, laying in the sun and soaking up the last bits of your vacation, before trudging back to the house to shower and get ready to leave.

In your mind, nothing is as nice as a vacation shower, after you’ve spent all day in the sun, spending time with your favorite people. Still, reluctantly, you need to dry off and start repacking, despite how much you wish you could stand under that stream of water forever.

Really, you want to stay in that house forever, with your friends and an endless summer mindset. You don’t want to go back home to your lonely apartment or go back to work, to have to deal with all of the problems of real life again. Mostly, you don’t want to go back to seeing your friends only once or twice a week, when you’ve grown accustomed to them being the first and last thing you see every day.

So, you take as long as possible packing up your things, trying to prolong your peaceful fantasy. But, all good things must come to an end, and even with all of your procrastinating, your bags are in the living room within an hour.

And, surprisingly, you’re the first one packed. You imagine, or hope, that your friends are having the same dilemma you are, trying to stretch out these last hours as much as possible.

You use your extra time to make dinner using up all of the leftovers and fresh food that you have, to try and reduce your waste as much as possible. While that cooks, you empty out the pantry and divide the remaining snacks between the five of you, something to keep you all from getting too cranky on the ride home.

Poe is the first one down, and slides himself into his usual counter spot after placing his bags next to yours. Finn follows almost immediately after him, with Rey and Rose coming down a little while later. All that matters is that dinner is still warm.

Despite how you wish to slow it down, time moves on and your departure gets closer and closer.

“We should do this again soon,” you say as you all do a final sweep of the house and the backyard for any items you missed early, and it’s a little embarrassing how much you hope they’ll agree.

“Definitely,” Rose responds, squeezing your hand briefly and shooting you a knowing smile that seems to lift a weight off of your shoulders, especially when the rest of the group agrees.

You all pile back into the car, returning to the same spots you occupied on your drive down. This time, however, everyone is much more talkative, and you watch as the sky fades from a vibrant blue to red and orange and pink before settling as a deep navy.

There’s music playing softly on the radio, and the sounds of your friends’ laughter fills the car and your heart. If you could freeze one moment in time forever, you would choose this one. You’re carefree and full of life in a way you’ve never felt before.

As much as you're disappointed about leaving your vacation behind, you don’t feel nearly as sad as you thought you would. That’s practically impossible to do when you’re surrounded by the people you love most, their happiness infectious.

The drive goes by much quicker than you’d like, and soon Finn is parking outside of your apartment and you’re shouting your goodbyes to everyone except Poe. He slipped out of the car and insisted on helping you bring your bags up, and you’re so eager to spend more time in the presence of your friends that you accept.

“Thanks for inviting me to come along, I had a lot of fun,” you say when you make it to your door, key in hand.

“I’m glad you could make it,” he says and smiles in a way that leaves you breathless, “I had a lot of fun too.”

You feel bashful, in the same way you felt talking to your crush in first grade. It’s a juvenile, childish feeling, but there’s a part of you that loves it, that revels in this feeling that reminds you of simpler times.

“Well, I shouldn’t keep them waiting,” he says, but he looks like he’d be content standing in front of your door all night.

“Thanks for helping me with my bags.”

“No problem.”

You’re not sure what prompted you, but next thing you knew you had placed a soft, quick kiss to Poe’s cheek, leaving him looking slightly stunned.

“Goodnight, Poe.” You don’t wait for a response, unlocking your door and hauling your bags inside as quickly as possible. You don’t hear him respond through the door.

Tags: @aellynera @disabledameron @dailyreverie @stevenngrant @creatively-analytical @poopirate @luckynachos @tiquinntheghost @ghostsongwriter-22 @fallinallinmendes @sabxism

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron x you #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron fanfic #poe dameron au #modern!poe dameron #modern!poe dameron x reader #star wars fanfiction #you are in love series

[chaand-sitara]

Chapter III

Agatha and Absinthe walked towards the orientation hall, and then they saw Sophie standing in between the Nevers, all three of them run to each other but halt at the middle ramp, Sofie then looks at her friends "They gave you a gown!?" Absinthe then says "Are you okay?" then a person with the help of a wolf grabs Sofie and throws her down "Shut up, reader!" Absinthe then glares at the Wolf person "Hey! Watch it! The rest of them are tailing way more then she is!" with rage she didn't know about, which also made Agatha and Sophie look at her with disbelief, because never in their whole life they saw Absinthe's voice going louder then a squeak.

Agatha and Absinthe then sit down next to each other but suddenly Agatha falls back and the net of her gowns goes up, but quickly Absinthe grabs her dress and pushes it down and then helps her friend.Agatha then looks at Absinthe, who was still glaring at the wolf man "Hey, hey! Abbie, you okay? I never saw you angry?" Absinthe breaks out of the glare and looks at Agatha "No, no.. Just frustrated.. That's all.. Don't worry."

Suddenly the horns blew out startling Absinthe, then she sees Professor Dovey standing next to a woman with vibrant orange hair with a black attire and smiling "Welcome, first years! I am professor Dovey, Dean of the School Of Good!" all of a sudden the students around the both girls starts chanting 'Evers' loudly.

"And I am Lady Lesso, Dean Of the School of Evil." Lady Lesso says in a very, villainy manner, then the Nevers starts screaming 'Kill You.' to them, which makes Absinthe scared.

Beatrix looks at the scared girl and places a hand on her shoulder "Don't worry, they just say it, the princes will protect us."

Absinthe nods and smiles slightly at Beatrix. "As per tradition,the winning school from last year,us again imagine that! will now grace us all with a display of their chivalrous talents gentlemen!"

She then banged her staff on the ground then in came the boys the girls cheered and the nevers screamed at them with insults

They grabbed thier sword and faced eachother and they started to fight but a boy dropped his sword he went to get he then looked at Agatha and Agatha looked at them the boy then grabbed his sword and went back to the fight

They then posed making the evers cheer more and the nevers booed them more the men stopped and put thier swords in and grabbed a rose and threw it to the princesses.

Suddenly two roses fell on Absinthe's lap, she looks up and sees a prince with red tunice and the other with black staring at her and then leave.

The Girl Next to Agatha squels "Oh my goodness! You got the roses of Tedros' best friends! The one with the red tunic is the son of Queen Rapunzel and King Eugene , Adrian and the other one was the son of Queen Ariel and King Eric,Malachi.You know, I have heard that Malachi and Melody, his sister goes for underwater swims as they can breath underwater, well of course their mother is a mermaid!" Absinthe looked at the two princes and bows slightly to thank for the roses.

Then suddenly the door at above opens up and a boy with black hair and blue eyes stand up there with a rope in his hands "if you boys are finished with dance class maybe you'd like to have a real fight what do you say?"

And then he jumps and goes down the floor and slid his way through the boys. Suddenly the girl next Agatha again screams "It's Tedros!"

Adrian and Malachi,who threw the flowers at Absinthe ran and hugged Tedros stood at each his side.

The three men then started to fight all of them "These three are the royal trio, they are good at everything." Agatha glared at the girl sitting next to her, got up and then pushed Absinthe next to her and sat next to Absinthe, not wanting to hear her talk so much.

After some while, only three of them were now standing and cheering at each other suddenly they heard someone say "Let's see how you do in a real fight boys.." and then a cyclops got up and walked towards the centre of the ramp, Tedros looked at his friends and smiled "Don't worry, I will take care of it, You can heal me later if I do get any injuries Adrian." the two boys nodded and went to the side and watched the show.

Absinthe closed her eyes, not wanting to see such fight as Agatha wrapped her arms around her. "It's okay, everything will be fine."

After sometime, Absinthe heard a scream she was about to open her eyes but Agatha covered them "Don't, not now." Absinthe nodded and followed the instructions of her friend, then suddenly Agatha's grip on her shoulders left and she saw a rose on her lap.

Tedros came near her and was about to say something but Agatha beat him to it "Yeah, that I don't belong here? I already know that, and I don't want your stupid rose." then Beatrice grabbed the rose from behind saying "It was not for you, you stupid girl." Then Tedros looked at Agatha and said "You know, you should let others talk too." then he moved and sat besides Beatrice, Adrian and Malachi looked at each other and shrugged, and sat next to Tedros as they kept looking at the mysterious girl in front of them.

#the school for good and evil #lady lesso #professor dovey #rafal mistral #rhian mistral #sge agatha #agatha of gavaldon #sophie of gavaldon #sge hort #sge tedros #little mermaid #rapunzel

[wolfbrawn]

*slides a single septim across the table* i need reaction to eira accidentally winning at arm wrestling (she feels really bad about it tho)

Frost climbed the windows, coating panes of rippled glass in a second, shining skin. Miniscule scales glittered when firelight caught them just right, setting them to twinkle like a thousand jealous eyes peering inward. To ordinary folk, the smoky heat of the tavern and its wide-mouthed fire pit proved a haven in the tundra, a bastion on the sea-like spread of ice and snow. For Farkas, it was almost too hot, the press of bodies raising the fever of his blood – but he was nothing if not a pack animal. He grinned along with friends and comrades and strangers alike, kept his face buried in his tankard, drinking deep, while the hair at the back of his neck glistened and curled with sweat.

Eira made for pleasant company, and Farkas had no desire to disappoint her. When she challenged him, he rose to it good-naturedly, though to him it seemed a poor match -- scarcely a fair contest. Few paid mind as they shuffled and settled on opposite sides of a small table, kissing its cracked and ale-stained top with the points of their elbows, hands grasping with singular purpose.

It was not the outcome he had imagined, not one he could have predicted. Farkas had tempered his strength, in the beginning, not wanting to shame the pale slip of a moon-maiden. That grace could not account for the loss, for the moment they each trembled with effort, before the tide turned steadily against him. All eyes seemed to be on them then all cheers and jeers melding into a mouthy cacophony – so loud that he did not hear the sound his forge-scarred knuckles made when they cracked against the table in defeat.

Strength was the foundation of his worth. Without it, he was absolved of value. This was the poison he had been weaned on, the belief that the only counterpoint to his stupidity was his strength. Farkas could not remember the last time he tasted loss; defeat lay bitter and unsettling on his tongue.

For a beat, he stared dumbfounded, before shedding his bemusement and rearranging his features into a celebratory grin. He was not one for bristling defensively – it was not in his nature to diminish the accomplishments of another, and he would not dream of tarnishing Eira's victory with wheedling excuses.

Instead, he rose, the feet of the chair scraping heavily against flagstones as he loomed over his competitor and friend. Seizing her by the wrist, he heaved Eira to her feet – onto her toes, in fact, in his enthusiasm – and thrust the birch branch of her arm into the air.

“We have our winner!” Farkas roared, his voice landslide-loud, rising above the din. It was only when the attention of their audience drifted, when the spike in chatter tailed off into the low, mumbling drone of drunken conversation, that he spoke to Eira directly, his expression softening:

“Next round is on me.”

#oh eira :') #he'll be fiiiine #he'll be her biggest cheerleader #literally and figuratively #farkas and eira tbt #selunyte

[flowersbyjenniely]

Make Her Swoon this Valentine's Day with These 5 Flowers

Are you looking for the perfect way to wow your special someone this Valentine’s Day? Why not surprise her with a bouquet of beautiful, fragrant flowers? Showcasing five of the most romantic blooms, we’ve got some great ideas for how you can make your sweetheart swoon.

 Red Roses

A classic choice, red roses are the symbol of romance and love. Representing deep emotion and passion, these red-petaled beauties are sure to get her heart racing this Valentine's Day. Whether you opt for a single stem or an entire bouquet, she is sure to be impressed by your thoughtfulness.

 Tulips

Fun and flirty, tulips come in a variety of colors that range from cheerful pink to vibrant yellow. Expressing feelings of adoration and joy, these delicate blooms are sure to bring a smile to her face when she receives them. For an extra special touch, consider adding some chocolates or another small treat along with the bouquet.

 Lilies

Lilies are an elegant flower that is available in many different colors. A popular choice for celebrating special events such as anniversaries and birthdays, lilies communicate feelings of devotion and admiration. To add even more meaning to your gift, consider pairing lilies with roses—red for passionate love and white for spiritual unity.

Orchids

When it comes to luxury and extravagance, look no further than orchids! An exotic valentine day flower that exudes grace and beauty like no other, orchids will show her just how much you care about her. While they do require more care than other blooms on our list, they will last up to 3 weeks when properly maintained—so their beauty can be enjoyed long after the day ends!

 Carnations

Carnations have been used in floral arrangements since ancient times due to their long-lasting nature and vibrant hue. Representing affectionate thoughts and pure love, carnations will make any woman feel cherished when gifted on Valentines Day flowers! Plus, they make a great addition to any bouquet as both filler flowers as well as accent pieces that draw attention wherever they go!

 No matter which flower you choose for your sweetheart this Valentine’s Day – whether it’s one of our five favorite blooms above or something else – she is sure to appreciate the gesture! Show her just how much you care about her by sending a beautiful bouquet of flowers that expresses all those loving sentiments in one simple gesture! So don’t wait—order your flowers today from Flowers By Jennie Lynne so she can enjoy them on February 14th!

#flower shop near me #florist near me #valentines day flowers

[mrsalwayswrite]

My Promise (Sigtryggr x f!Reader)

Summary: Sigtryggr reveals why he agreed to Brida's plan to take Wintanceaster.

So there is an abysmal amount of fanfics with Sigtryggr x reader....and I mean like none. And he has become one of my new favorites from TLK so I decided to show him some love.

This is my first time writing for him, so let me know what you think!

kanìna- Icelandic for rabbit

Words: 4500

Warnings: threats of violence, sexual tension, mild sexual content

"You told me you would not risk your men unless for food, or land or to protect their families. Wintanceaster provides all of that." Brida argued, staring imploringly at the only man who could provide her with her vengeance. That very bloodthirsty need soured the air around her. The fury she carried like a weapon was even more apparent than the baby growing in her womb.

Sigtryggr studied her for a long moment, those blue eyes assessing, calculating, evaluating. He analyzed her like a workman studying a new tool before putting it to use, learning how to best utilize it and determining its apparent and hidden flaws. There were few who could withstand the full weight of his scrutiny, for his eyes always seemed able to witness more than just what stood before him. They appeared able to pierce into a person, deeper than any arrow or sword, and sift through one's words for the truth.

Perhaps, it was due to the rage she wore like a second skin that allowed her to meet his scrutiny unwavering.

Seeing what he needed, his attention then turned to the Saxon traitor. He studied the turd, who could not meet his eyes without fidgeting. A few malicious chuckles quietly echoed off the room at the man's shiftiness, betraying his fear of those he sought to help and secure safety from. With a feline grace, Sigtryggr pushed off the table and prowled towards the turd.

The great hall fell into silence. Only one or two dared to interrupt. Everyone stared in rapt attention at their lord, curious as to what he would do next. Even the stones and fire quieted down, refusing to disturb the silence.

The Dane warlord inspected the traitor as if determining his worth and if the secrets he harbored were worth their usefulness or better tossed into the sea. A tension clouded the air with the continued silence. For everyone knew, if deemed unworthy, these would be the final, sweet breathes the traitor enjoyed. So they waited in anticipation to see their lord's verdict. To see if more blood would spill in the king's hall at his command today.

After the tension-saturated moment, his somber and calculating demeanor shifted. Sigtryggr teasingly held up an animal skull over the traitor's face, smirking as his men laughed and cheered. He placed the skull in the traitor's hand before wiping his hands on the turd's jerkin. An unspoken threat hidden in the simple action- once your worth is gone, you are dead, and your blood will not be on my hands.

Without hesitation, Sigtryggr jumped up on top of the nearby table, laden with food and spoils of their victory. "We leave for Wintanceaster….today."

With hands fisted, he cheered. Riling his warriors for the upcoming fight. Reviving the bloodlust in them once more. And those warriors mirrored his enthusiasm, some pounding on the tables with their fists, celebrating the chance to earn more glory and riches or Valhalla.

Looking around the hall of the once king of Wealas, he rose to his full height. 'Warrior' screamed from every fluid movement, the stance of his posture, the way his eyes tracked those around. Here, standing on the table like a king above his subjects, was a man those surrounding him willingly followed. Who fought for them just as much as they fought for him. He was a man, a warlord, worthy of their loyalty.

Surveying his warriors, a smile tugged at his lips. When his gaze landed on you at a table further away, his eyes immediately brightened and his smile slanted into something more genuine.

In return, you flashed him a small, fond smile. You loved his genuine smile, how his whole countenance radiated warmth, and how anyone close by became magnetized and reciprocated his infectious joy. Unfortunately, that sweet smile was something that had become far more rare since he chose to venture forth from under his father' mantle to make a name for himself.

But your smile did not reach your eyes, even as you wished to share his excitement. For it was hindered by the shiver of apprehension that shot through you as fast and deadly as an arrow.

As the warriors celebrated the win against the men of Wealas and the future, easy fight against the great kingdom of Wessex….you slipped away.

A weariness clung to you like a heavy cloak which you were unable to shed. Months of battles and fights had weakened your stamina. This past fight against the men of Wealas had drained the last of your reserves. You never spoke of it, not wanting to be deemed weak, but you had taken a particularly nasty fall two weeks ago during a battle in Irland. Your body had still not fully recovered from it. Occasionally, shorts bursts of pain radiating from your left hip that left you gritting your teeth until the discomfort subsided.

You walked past those in the throes of revelry or beginning to pack for the abrupt departure. You shook your head as you passed some of the younger men in the midst of a drinking game. Others you shared a smile or a brief word.

You ducked into one of the few hallways leading off the main hall, hoping few noticed your absence.

"Where are you headed?"

The sudden question caused you to glance back over your shoulder, realizing you had been followed. Instead of being frustrated, you smiled at the behemoth of a man whose long strides allowed him to easily catch up to you. The two of you fell into step together. The sounds of your footfalls on the stone floor and his massive axe thumping against his hip made you momentarily forget your prior worries.

"To find some peace and quiet until it is time to leave. I had planned to sleep away the rest of the day but that clearly will not be happening."

His deep grumble echoed in the hallway you found yourselves in. "Aye, I was hoping for a good hump."

You openly laughed. "Go on, you still have time for that!"

He shot you a cheeky wink before peeling off at the next corridor and, most likely, heading in the direction of the stables.

You just shook your head as you kept walking along the stone steps. Ulf had only recently joined Sigtryggr's men but had proven himself loyal and a warrior worthy of the Sagas. A friendship had evolved between the two of you unexpectedly. One day he walked up to you, declaring you reminded him of his little sister back in Denmark and that he would look out for you. And so he had. Although the care had become mutual at some point. Even now you would happily claim him as a brother.

Your thoughts drifted like the waves against the shore, a new one rising up as its brethren faded away. You knew Sigtryggr had a reason for leaving Wealas in order to capture Wintanceaster. He never did anything without a secure reason. That was one of the many reasons his warriors were so loyal to him. The young warlord had proven over and over that he cared for his people and would not waste their lives needlessly nor rush into a situation without fully considering it beforehand.

So consumed in the gentle lapping of your thoughts, you did not hear the footfalls in the corridor behind you. It was not until the sudden, soft call of your name reached your ears that you were made aware you were not alone again. Anyone else you might have ignored or yelled at over your shoulder. But not this voice. Not him. It was this voice which caused your feet to falter, to cease their movement.

"I thought you would still be celebrating." You said into the open air, not removing your gaze from the stone steps laid out before you, denying yourself from turning around to see him. You knew he would eventually find you. He always did.

Each carefully measured step reverberated in the otherwise quiet corridor, drawing closer to you. At the far end, where you both had come from, faint sounds of revelry drifted in the air like leaves in the wind. Yet somehow it still felt like you two were completely all alone. As if nothing real or imaginary would dare intrude on this moment and disturb the serenity you sought for.

"Why did you leave?"

That slow, thoughtful cadence of his voice was like honey to your ears. Your eyelids fluttered closed on their own accord, your heart missing a beat. You loved listening to his voice, it was one of the things that first drew you to him. Even now, years later, his voice was a sound you would never tire of.

"I am tired." You replied easily. "I hoped to rest before we leave."

The hairs on the back of your neck rose when you felt his presence just behind you. But it was not fear that sent a shiver down your spine. The warmth of his body called out to you, beckoning you to fall into his arms, to surrender to him. You fought it viciously, refusing to give in. Not this time.

"That is not why you left the hall though." Sigtryggr stated, not even bothering to pose it as a question. Evidence of how well he knew you.

You shrugged, lowering your gaze to the tips of your boots. Stains from mud and blood decorated them, layers of the discoloration evident creating a patchwork effect that suddenly held your attention.

Wordlessly, he pressed his chest to your back, placing his hands on your waist delicately as if too much pressure would cause you to fracture and break. His forehead lowered to rest against your temple, his hot breath fanning your cheek. Instinctually, your body relaxed into his embrace. The prior tension humming through your veins silenced under his touch, your body betraying your will.

"Kanìna, talk to me." He murmured into your ear. "What bothers you so?"

Hearing his private nickname for you, a silly grin spread over your face that you were unable to stop anymore than you could stop the sun rising and setting….even if you were upset with him.

"It's nothing." You muttered.

After a silent minute, in which you hoped he would drop the subject, two of his fingers lifted your chin and guided your face to turn and meet his gaze over your shoulder.

"Tell me." He gently commanded.

His cool, blue eyes gazed down at you, sussing out your secrets with an unnatural ease. No matter how much your inner secrets tried to live and hide within you, he was always able to shed light on them, coaxing them forth like a skittish animal. Being the recipient of his devoted attention was both thrilling and unnerving, for with a single look he seemed to just know. With those eyes that could soothe like the coolest of water on a hot day or easily set you aflame with the icy fire in them, you were at his mercy….a place where you felt both safe and at peace.

Finally, he hummed as if in confirmation. "This is about Brida."

You huffed. "I don't trust her."

The corner of his lips kicked up as he released you, backing away. "And why not?" He asked as he leaned against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest, waiting for your answer.

You knew your words, your thoughts, were safe with him. Still you kept your voice low, aware that anyone could pass through the corridor. The last thing you wanted was to make an enemy of Brida. She seemed the type to permanently remove those she deemed obstacles in her way.

Your hands dropped to your hips. The tension that had abated under his touch now returned with a fury. "She's a she-wolf with the need for revenge that will drive her to her death." You fumed, gesturing back towards the main hall then slamming your hand back onto your hip. "And still she would willingly go! She isn't thinking straight!! Her selfish actions will get our people killed. And for what?! To take over some Saxon town? It doesn't seem worth it. We only just arrived here. Our warriors need rest. None of them will fight for her! We only fight for you!"

You breathed heavily through your frustration, suddenly caught in the depths of his fathomless eyes. Your ire dissipated like the morning mist, transformed back into the exhaustion that clung greedily to you. You sighed, your voice barely above a whisper when you spoke next. "I will only fight for you."

A weighty silence hung between the two of you, a pressure that attempted to bow your shoulders and make you crumble. Yet you stood firm like an oak tree, resolute in your opinion. Something about Brida rubbed you the wrong way and disdain threatened to choke you with the idea of following her orders. Sigtryggr was the warlord you followed without question usually. But this time you could not restrain your tongue from sharing your opinions. You would march to Wintanceaster with him, your loyalty superseded all, but that did not mean you agreed with this order.

Several seconds passed in the tomb-like silence. His penetrating gaze never wavering from your face. Eventually, he spoke. His soothing voice was like the sail to lift you out of the stagnant waters. "I agree."

You blinked several times before responding. "You do?"

"Yes. She is dangerous. Her desperate need for vengeance clouds her judgement."

"Then why?" You pleaded. "Why are you listening to her? Why are we going to Wintanceaster? Please, just….help me understand."

His eyes softened as they met yours, a vulnerability there that you were one of the few to be allowed to see. The sight of it made your heart melt. He reached out and ran a thumb over your cheek. Without a second thought, you grasped his hand, placing his palm against your cheek, desperate for his comforting touch. In his eyes, you could see the internal struggle, the multitude of thoughts clashing and crashing like waves in a storm.

"Do you remember the first time we met?"

You slowly nodded, confused by the change of topic but listening.

"I remember seeing you across my father's hall. You were laughing with some friends at a table. With the hearth separating us, the fire's colors danced on your skin making you glow. I could hardly look away from you. I was certain you were a goddess among men, sent by the trickster, Loki, to beguile me. Even when my brothers teased me, I did not listen. How could I when enraptured by the very presence of you?"

"I remember that night." You whispered back. "I caught you staring at me several times and I thought it was creepy."

He chuckled, tugging you closer, drawing you into his embrace. His arms banded around your waist. Those captivating eyes never left yours, a twinkle of mischief in them. "And when I tried to talk to you, you darted away like a frightened rabbit."

"After you began calling me 'kanìna'."

He hummed, a boyish smile turned his lips up, curbing his sharp edges. "Luckily, I know how to catch a rabbit. You learn their patterns and set your traps where they frequent. Most importantly, one must be patient."

"No wonder you spent all that time by the river fishing or at the practice yard. You always seemed to be nearby." You teased lightly, with your arms around his neck, keeping him prisoner in your embrace, just as much as you were in his.

He closed the distance between you, ghosting his lips over yours in an tantalizing kiss. "My heart chose you that first time I laid eyes on you." He whispered against your lips.

The heady confession made your mind melt and a heat simmer across your skin. When he started to draw away, you eagerly chased his lips with your own. He only allowed the simplest of kisses, a barely-there brush of lips, that left you aching for more. A needy whine left your throat in response. You could feel the smug smirk on his mouth as he dipped his head to the side, his teeth scraping against your pulse point. Your hands tangled in his hair at the sensation. Eyes drifted closed on their own accord as you tipped your head to the side to provide better access for him. Shifting the two of you, he turned just enough so you were caged between the hard, stone wall and his lithe, unforgiving frame.

"And that first night we made love under the stars."

"I had never been so happy." Your voice came out somewhere between a whimper and an admission.

His mouth never left the column of your throat, alternating between planting kisses and drawing patterns with his tongue, even as he spoke, as if trying to brand the words to your skin. "I asked you to be my woman as Máni drove the moon across the night sky that night. Do you remember what you said?"

"You had to make me a promise."

"And I did." He hummed, his hands tightening their grip on your hips. "I promised that we would find good land, we would find peace, and once I completed that…."

"I would be your wife." You finished his sentence, the ending of the promise made between the two of you under the star-studded sky two years ago.

"And bear my children."

You laughed quietly. "And bear your children."

Pulling back, he gripped your chin, forcing your head up to meet his eyes. That lazy, predatory gaze had turned heated due to the desire raging in them and the promise he carried on his heart like a banner for you. "I will take Wintanceaster for you." He declared ardently. "To fulfill my promise."

You blinked owlishly. Your mind muddled and hazy from his pleasurable torment on your skin. "I don't….I don't understand." Your brows furrowed as you tried to piece everything together. "We have Wealas. You set out from your father's land to make a name for yourself. You have done that! Your name will live on in the Sagas. Why do we need Wintanceaster?"

"If we remain here in Wealas, we will always be fighting to protect our borders from Mercia and Wessex. They will not trust us to be satisfied. Our forebears saw to that reputation. Wintanceaster is the crown of Wessex. If we take that, we have all of Wessex at our mercy."

"So we leave a whole land to take a single city?"

"Yes, we do." He replied, his nose bumping into yours playfully. "Because then, my beautiful kanìna, we have the leverage we need."

"For what?"

"To make peace."

Before you could question him, his mouth descended on yours, kissing you with a savage ferocity that you met with equal passion. Your hands fisted in his hair, drawing a groan from him. His strong body further pressed into you, as if seeking to fuse your bodies into one. The air around you was charged, kindling just waiting to burst into flames that would leave you both burning with an endless fire of need only you could soothe with the joining of your bodies. Suddenly, he ripped his mouth away from yours.

"Sigtryggr…." You whimper, uncaring of how his name dripped with such blatant want.

His forehead landed on yours. His voice had turned husky and dangerous as he spoke with a passionate candor, shooting delicious chills down your spine. "I have no intentions of conquering Wessex and eradicating the Saxons like our forefathers tried to do. Like Brida wants to do. We would never find peace in Wessex. We would constantly be at war to maintain our land. But if we can come to an agreement with the young King of Wessex….then I can fulfill my promise to you."

A few of the pieces fell into place in your mind as he allowed a look into his plans. "And Brida? She will not agree to this."

"She has her uses still. She can help us take Wintanceaster." He softly admitted. "But I will not lead my warriors to Wessex only for her revenge. No, we go to broker land and peace. Something she does not understand."

"But why must we leave today? I wanted to sleep in a bed tonight." You whined with a faux pout.

"Alone?"

"I was hoping not," you sighed dramatically, "but now it seems that someone is more inclined to travel than keep me warm in a nice, soft bed."

"I would do far more than just keep you warm." He purred out in a voice soaked through with wicked intentions.

Your whole body tingled in anticipation. You pulled back just enough to see into his eyes, how they had further darkened with desire as they met yours. Your womb clenched and pulsated within you, silently begging to allow him to fulfill his word.

You uncoiled a hand from his hair to trace a finger over the scar across his eye. A scar he had received while saving your life from a man prepared to bludgeon you to death. Your finger trailed down the scar, along his cheekbone and to his lips, tracing their shape as your lips quirked up in a teasing smirk.

"How can I be certain you are a man of your word?"

"Because I can tell you burn for me already. Your body aches for me, cries out for me to fill you and make you scream my name." He nipped at your bottom lip then soothed it with his tongue. "And I would never allow my woman to be unsatisfied."

"Promises, promises, my lord."

His lips crashed against yours like furious waves against the rocks. What self-control he prided himself in having, snapped at hearing you call him 'my lord' in that sultry tone. It was a weakness of his. One you had only recently learned about. And for how often he could drive you wild with a single look or a lingering touch, it was nice to have ammunition to use against him.

In a blink, his strong hands had grasped your thighs and wrapped your legs around his waist. The uneven rock wall dug deeper into your back but you paid no mind. Too caught up in the glory of his mouth and the decadent taste of worship in it. Let there be bruises. You would wear them proudly. His kiss turned soul-searing that sent you to the brink of ecstasy. Your tongues clashed, fought and danced. A single roll of your hips against him drew out such an animalistic growl from him, all you could do was whimper helplessly at the fire flooding your veins.

A loud clatter at the end of the corridor momentarily stilled the intoxicating haze bathing the two of you. Waiting a moment, you tried to chase his mouth, wanting to sink back into its depths and have his taste soak you from the inside out. Then an obnoxiously loud shout of his name echoed down the corridor.

A whiny sigh escaped your throat, your head falling back to knock against the stone wall. Whatever blissful moment was now shattered. Sigtryggr was needed by his warriors.

His answering, annoyed groan made you feel a little better, that you were not the only one disappointed by the interruption. It was also impossible to not notice his….considerable….issue pressed flush against your core.

Teasingly, you rolled your hips once more. The sound that emerged from between his teeth was a blend of a snarl and a growl, shooting a shiver down your spine, igniting your blood. His hand slapped against the stone next to you before he dropped his head to your shoulder. Both of you fought to control your breathing, to subdue your raging libidos, and piece back together your composure. However much you both hated it.

"You owe me." You muttered, resuming gently running your hands through his hair.

"I vow to make it worth the delay."

"Promises, promises."

He nipped at the junction of your neck and shoulder, making you squirm, before pulling back. "When we take Wintanceaster, I will allow you to choose our room first. Then you may have whatever soft bed is most to your liking."

Carefully he relaxed his grip on your thighs, helping to guide your feet back to the floor. Instead of stepping away, he stayed impossibly close, as if trying to draw out this private moment for a little longer.

"Our bed, huh?" You teased. "Who said I would share my bed with you?"

"You miss me when you are alone."

"What makes you think that?"

"You talk in your sleep."

Laughter rolled off your tongue at the purely smug look he wore. "And what else do I say in my sleep?"

He stared down at you with warmth in his eyes as he was clearly deliberating what to admit. After a long second, he traced the edge of your bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. When he spoke, it was low and tainted with lust. "You have quite the naughty imagination."

A flush heated your cheeks while a bolt of desire shot straight to your core.

Before you could latch yourself onto him like a tick and forcibly drag him away to have those very wicked ways with him, he moved back, putting space between the two of you.

"Come, we must prepare to leave. For after we take Wintanceaster, there will be a siege. During then I will have plenty of time to make sure you are satisfied in our bed." He reached out and took your hand, laying a sweet kiss to your palm. "Now, my kanìna, we must leave to go build our future."

"Our future." Those two simple words bloomed something in you. No longer was your future like trying to look at the horizon through a heavy rainstorm. You knew what you wanted, and he stood before you with a plan, ready to fulfill his vow he made to you.

Those blue eyes gazed into your heart, into your soul, and he smiled as he threaded his fingers through yours. "I will accept no other future where you are not my wife."

"But first we take Wintanceaster."

"Yes, we take Wintanceaster. For us. For our future. Come." He stepped back, guiding you away from the wall and down the corridor, towards the sound of departure.

And you followed without question. You would always follow him. For how much he said his heart chose you….your heart had chosen him with equal ferocity.

Tag List

TLK (all): @geekandbooknerd @trenko-heart @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @solinarimoon @errruvande

#mzwrites #the last kingdom #the last kingdom fandom #the last kingdom fanfic #the last kingdom imagine #sigtryggr ivarsson #sigtryggr #sigtryggr x reader #sigtryggr ivarsson x reader

[earlgreydream]

doubts.

| loki x reader | fluff |

anon requested. loki kinda degraded sub!reader and she scrunches up all tiny and sobs afterwards because she thought he meant what he said

cw: slightly smutty, slightly angsty

You begged Loki to let you come, fighting against the magical restraints your dom had placed around your wrists and ankles. 

“Oh, you want to come so bad you’re crying? You desperate, pathetic whore. You’re so fucking filthy, have you no shame?” Loki sneered, the words sending arousal pooling deep in your belly, even though you fought against it. Your body jolted at the slap administered to your inner thigh, a pained cry escaping your lips. 

You’d been acting up and testing Loki’s patience, which is what earned you this punishment, your pleasure being dangled in front of you, just out of reach. You’d broken his rules, and he’d had enough of your attitude. 

“Come now before I change my mind,” Loki’s tone was dangerous, and the pressure inside of you shattered. He followed your lead, finishing inside of you before he pulled out and made the restraints vanish. 

As the pleasure wore off, his words echoing in your mind, You desperate, pathetic whore. You’re so fucking filthy, have you no shame?

Loki stood off of the bed, going to run you a hot shower. As soon as he’d stepped away, a sob tore through your chest, your shoulders heaving as you cried. You curled up in a ball, feeling small and alone on his massive bed. 

Loki heard you crying, and he felt like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. He abandoned the shower and ran to your side, kneeling down on the bed. You looked so tiny and fragile, folding in on yourself. His chest ached when he heard your soft sounds and saw the way your hands trembled as you tugged at your hair, trying to self-soothe. He reached out to pull your hands away, wanting to keep you from anxiously tearing the hair from your sensitive head.

“My darling-” his voice cracked when you jerked away from him. You hiccuped on your broken sobs as they wrecked you, emotion flooding every last thought and turning you into a mess. 

Loki’s magic sparked around you, cleaning you up and leaving you both in loose clothing. The green shimmer surrounded you, Loki’s fruitless attempt to touch you without frightening you. It was warm, and seemed to buzz with its own life, but didn’t make you feel any better. 

“My darling, have I hurt you? Tell me whatever is wrong so that I may fix it,” Loki begged, wanting nothing more than to pull you into his arms. 

“Don’t touch me, please,” you tried to catch your breath, wanting to get your keys and leave. 

He sank back, giving you space. His eyes were concerned and sad, and he fought against the urge to pierce into your mind, ripping the truth from you. The door vanished from the wall as you tried to run out, and you whipped around to face the god, who was kneeling on the bed and looking wounded. There was no exit, Loki keeping you contained to the bedroom until your devastation was resolved. 

“Y/N, I won’t let you leave when you’re so upset. You cannot drive safely. If you wish, I can take you anywhere you want to go,” Loki fretted, and though you knew he was right, you only grew more and more upset. 

“Come to me, darling,” Loki opened his arms, the authority in his voice making you comply. You knew this was a fight you couldn’t win. You’d end up in Loki’s arms confessing your pain whether by his will, or your own.

Your sobs broke his heart, and he slowly wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you down into his lap. He held you firmly, and eventually your struggling subsided as you let yourself weep against his chest. 

“Please don’t make me pry the truth out of you,” Loki begged softly into your hair. He didn’t want to add to your pain, he only wanted to fix it. He was very aware that sifting through your mind to take your private thoughts was something that made you feel extremely violated. He wanted you to tell him on your own, but he wouldn’t let you keep such heartbreaking secrets from him. 

“Y-you... did you mean what you said about me? That I was pathetic, and d-desperate and a whore?” You sobbed out, stammering over your words.

“Oh, oh my goodness. My darling, I am so sorry. I never meant any of that. I thought you understood I just said it in the scene... please my love, I adore you more than all of the stars. Never think you are not the most perfect, beautiful, eloquent, and lovely person in my eyes. I love you, I will never say such horrible things again.” Tears flowed freely down Loki’s face. You were startled, unused to seeing raw emotion from him, especially not guilt. It hadn’t occurred to you that the words Loki had spoken were just part of the scene, part of the sex you were having. He wasn’t typically fond of degradation, but he was experimenting in the moment, never expecting it to be received as genuine. 

There was no room for doubt in his words. He meant his love then, and he would spend the rest of his life proving his love to you.

His strong arms cradled you against his body, trying to hold you together.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” he breathed apologies like a repetitive prayer.

You listened to his heartbeat, letting the rhythm slow your racing mind. Your sobs eventually subsided, calmed by the steady circles of his hand on your back.

“I forgive you,” your lips moved against the underside of his jaw.

“Please always stop me, tell me then, if anything at all makes you feel even the slightest bit unsafe. I never want you to feel this way again, certainly not at my fault,” Loki begged, and you nodded before burying your face back in him.

“Do you still love me?”

“I love you the most,” you promised.

Loki talked you into staying the night, doting on you to the point you were almost smothered. His magic conjured everything you wanted, even in the back of your thoughts.

“Do you want to go get some?” He asked, and you turned, tilting your head in confusion.

“To Paris. For the macarons.”

“You’re reading my thoughts,” you sighed softly, but a smile graced your expression as you kissed him.

“No, I’m sleepy. Maybe tomorrow?” You asked, and he nodded, sweeping you off your feet and carrying you back to bed.

You situated yourself in his arms, your back against his chest. His larger frame shielded you, wrapping you in safety and warmth. You slept soundly with him, the pain and uncertainty from the afternoon long gone and replaced by his love.

The smell of coffee rose you out of your sleep. Your eyes took a few moments to adjust to the soft light spilling in through the windows, and you sat up, suddenly realizing you weren’t in Loki’s bedroom at his apartment, where you’d fallen asleep.

“Loki?!” You called, and he leaned in the doorway.

“Good morning. I didn’t mean to frighten you. We took a short trip in your sleep. We’re at my Paris flat.”

You smiled, stretching your arms above your head as you yawned. Loki put a coffee in your hands, leaning down and kissing your forehead.

“If I cry will you spoil me more often?” You teased lightly, and he shot you his signature dom look of warning, making you shudder.

“It breaks my heart to see you cry, my darling,” Loki’s tone was apologetic, guilt still left over from the day before. You squeezed his arm as you sipped your coffee.

“I’m okay,” you swore, earning another kiss from your lover.

“Mm. Finish that up and we’ll go to the patisserie down the street.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled, happy you were cheered up and back to normal. He moved his fingers and a pretty sundress appeared hanging on the back of the washroom door for you, delicate white flats placed below.

“Dressing me up like your little doll?”

“Careful, or I will dress you, after I get that attitude in line.”

“I love the dress. And I can put it on by myself,” you apologized, pecking his lips before walking to the bathroom.

You returned in the sundress, a white beret adorning your head along with it. You relished in the bright smile Loki rewarded you with. In a shimmer of green, he was dressed in pastels that matched your own. You loved to see him in casual clothes instead of the Asgardian armor he frequently wore, and he indulged you for this small Parisian vacation. 

“You look stunning, my darling.”

Giggles erupted from your lips, making Loki’s heart soften. He dipped his head down to kiss you, making your nose scrunch up in the cutest way that he loved. His long, slender fingers folded with yours, holding your hand as the two of you made your way out of the flat and onto the bustling street. You were thankful for the sunny weather, greatly improving your mood from the rough night in New York’s rain. 

“Feeling better?”

“Much,” you nodded.

“Let’s get some crepes. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect, Loki.”

The young god pecked your lips before pushing you inside of a patisserie. 

“Salut,” the girl working called to the two of you as the bell clinged on the door.

“Darling, what would you like? We can take some macarons to go,” Loki asked, pointing to the pastries behind the glass.

You chose a few, and Loki rattled off your order in French to the shopkeeper, taking the bag from her and moving you to sit at a table in the corner for your crepes. 

“Can we stay in Paris for a couple of days? Just us, not any of the distractions from New York,” you asked, leaning your head against his shoulder and accepting the bite he fed you. 

“Most certainly.” He kissed the sugar off of your lips before the two of you left for a park with your snacks for later. Loki held your hand as you walked along a low stone wall beside him, your eyes level with the extra height. 

“Y/N, you must know that you are so, so terribly loved.”

You turned and snaked your arms around his neck, looking deep into his crystal blue eyes.

“I do not doubt your love, Loki.”

#earl grey loki #loki fanfic #loki #loki laufeyson #loki x reader smut #loki x reader fluff #loki x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x you #loki x y/n #marvel #avengers #loki smut #loki fluff #dom!loki #soft!loki #female reader

[ecoamerica]

Watch the 2024 American Climate Leadership Awards for High School Students now: https://youtu.be/5C-bb9PoRLc

The recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by student climate leaders! Join Aishah-Nyeta Brown & Jerome Foster II and be inspired by student climate leaders as we recognize the High School Student finalists. Watch now to find out which student received the $25,000 grand prize and top recognition!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24HighSchoolStudents #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental education #environmental justice #environmental protection #environmental health #high school students #high school #youth #youth of america #school

[host-club-hq]

Not So Bitter Days (Honey x Fem!Reader)

pairing: honey x fem!reader

word count: 1.7k

genre: fluff! as much fluff as I could think of

notes: honey is flustered! That’s never happened before!

gif isn’t mine!

what to expect: “Wow, I’ve never seen Senpai so flustered before.” “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.” *cue host club groaning at Kyoya*

Requested! Thanks for the request this was in my drafts :)

As you trudge from your classroom to the Host Club's abandoned music room, the bell signaling the end of school ringing in your ears, you notice something odd; your favorite host, moping about the club room with a cloth tied from his chin to his head, holding his adorably swollen cheek in a painful way. His pale blonde bangs hung over his adorable brown eyes, dimming the light they once brought to the club.

Of course, you're nothing but an admirer from afar. Honey is always surrounded by his multitude of guests and they're always too loud for you. From afar, you can experience his presence without having to experience the presence of his guests.

But today... his request rate seems oddly low. You've been hovering around for a few moments now, and Honey hasn't spoken to... anyone? Usa-Chan dangles loosely from his grip and his ears drag slightly on the floor as he walks, looking dejected about something. What did you miss? You don't attend the Host Club for one day and suddenly the most cheerful third-year you know no longer has his light about him. 

You walk timidly up to Kyoya and he takes slight note of your presence. 

"Ah, Miss (L/N), who might you be here to see today? I noticed you were absent yesterday." Kyoya acknowledges your absence as if you were required to attend each day... but you can't help but take note that he seems much more cheerful than usual. 

Has he... switched bodies with Honey? That's ridiculous, you've watched enough movies to know that it only happens in movies.

Then, Kyoya smiles brightly down at you, and you're not so sure that it only happens in movies...You cock your eyebrow slightly at him, but nonetheless continue on as if nothing is out of place or unusual. The abnormal cheerful disposition that he's radiating somehow makes him even more intimidating... you shiver at the thought of him being like this forever. You much prefer your monotoned Kyoya. But, you have other concerns at the moment.

"I was wondering if Honey was free...?" Your voice trails off as your eyes follow Honey, slowly dragging himself to a sofa and then throwing himself onto it with an exaggerated sigh. Kyoya, however, catches your words as he's used to the timid voice you use and the shy demeanor you've always had. 

"Why, of course he's free at the moment. May I add, you would do well to not offer him any sweets or treats. You see, he's given himself a cavity and he's forbidden to consume any treats with sugar of any kind." Kyoya explains to you with exceptional detail. You hum in acknowledgement as Kyoya leads you to an empty table, sitting with a vase of freshly picked pink roses, and you can smell them from your seat if you focus hard enough. Honey appears moments later, seemingly elated to finally have a guest that seems to not know what's going on.

"Hi, there! I don't think I've met you before, what's your name, pretty lady?" Honey giggles as he seats himself across from you, a bright smile despite his swollen cheeks. You're finally coming face to face with the host that you remember, and you're grateful for that.

Nonetheless, finally talking to him is nerve wracking... watching from afar, you never have to think about something that you could do to embarrass yourself. A pink tint dusts the apples of your cheeks as you tuck a strand of hair behind you ear and avoid direct eye contact. Although your movements are subtle, Honey seems to notice intently as his smiles slightly falters, but that's not something that you notice. 

"I'm (Y/N) (L/N)." Your voice is small, but Honey smiles. He giggles and stands on his knees atop the chair to reach your height. 

"It's a pleasure to meet you, (Y/N)-chan!" He smiles brightly at you. You feel your lips tug up in a smile and you stare down at his hand. You slowly reach out and shake his small, outstretched hand. 

"Wow, (Y/N)-chan! Your hands are really soft!" Honey pulls your hand across the table and causes you to lurch forward with a surprised yelp, gripping onto the table with a newfound strength, your knuckles turning white. You watch as Honey traces your fingers with his own and places his palm against yours, sparks flying when-

His face flushes a bright red and lets you go immediately and you fall back into your seat as you weren't expecting him to let go of you that way. "Sorry, (Y/N)-chan..." He turns and seems to take sudden interest in the wall next to him. You don't think you've ever seen him flustered before. Something must be terribly wrong for his behavior to be displayed as such. 

"Um... it's alright, I don't mind." you take a moment to glance at your hand, wiggling your fingers slightly; are your hands really that soft?

There's a long beat of silence and you hear a hushed whisper, "Senpai." You turn to where you heard the whisper, finding Tamaki and the twins crouched behind a sofa nearly on the opposite side the room, observing you. They gasp and duck out of sight, but it's already too late, you've seen them. You turn back to Honey, who hasn't seemed to notice their observing, so you definitively decide to say nothing about it. 

"If you want to, you can have some cake, (Y/N)-chan... I can't have any, but that shouldn't mean that you can't." Honey drags his fingers in different designs across the clean, polished table top with a prominent frown. Your eyebrows raise as you watch him glance between you and his finger, a typical sign for wanting to get a reaction from someone. 

"It's okay, Honey-Senpai... I won't eat cake if you can't." Your voice is soft and comforting as you reach across the table and place your hand over his, effectively resulting in his hand stilling and his eyes boring down into your connected hands. 

Rather than his usual remarks, Honey says nothing. He only glances from where your hands are connected and then back up to your eyes. You can't help but become captivated by his wide, innocent eyes, glistening in the filtered light from the large window next to your table as if he's unable to move his eyes from yours. There's something there that you've never felt before, some sort of connection you feel by just being in his presence. 

"Wow, I've never seen Senpai so flustered... isn't that the girl that usually watches him?" Hikaru whispers to Tamaki quietly from their eavesdropping positions on the sofa. Tamaki grumbles,"It doesn't make any sense."

"It's not that bizarre." Haruhi speaks from beside them, standing in full sight of you and Honey as she peers down at Tamaki and the twins' ridiculous antics. 

"Maybe... he really likes her." Haruhi watches Honey interact with you, and it's safe to say that in all the time she's know him, she, too, has never seen him act like this in front of anyone, not even their prettiest guests- and you are, most definitely, one of those. 

"Could just be the cavity." Kaoru shrugs next to Hikaru, who nods. Tamaki sighs and his mischievous expression is replaced with a solemn one. "No, I know that look." The Host Club turn one by one at his assertion, most in confusion, some in agreement. 

"Honey-Senpai doesn't look like he's in pain... he looks like he's in love." a small grin tugs at Tamaki's lips at the familiarity of the feeling of being love-sick. Everyone turns to observe Honey, and indeed, he stares at you with the upmost admiration that anyone's seen from him. The two of you aren't talking, but you don't have to be. The comfortable silence is there- and comfortable silence is rare with Honey. 

"I can practically see the hearts floating above his head." Haruhi chuckles from where she stands. Mori hums a monotoned, "Yeah" from where he stands, but this resonance has a bit more of a solemn tone to his voice than usual. 

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised." Kyoya sighs. The Host Club groans, expecting nothing less from him. 

"Every day that she's not here, Honey is asking where she is. He might've not known her name, but he knows she's always here." Kyoya scribbles in his notebook as he speaks and the club glances at him briefly. 

"Why are we not surprised that you know that?" Tamaki glares in Kyoya's direction. 

"I am a little bit surprised that Honey-Senpai could get so flustered around someone." Hikaru mumbles as he diverts his attention back to you and Honey, both love struck. 

As Honey stares at you, he feels a grin tug at his lips despite the pain it might cause his swollen cheeks. "(Y/N)-chan? Will you come back tomorrow? I want to see you again!" Honey's cheerful disposition has returned and couldn't be more so. You smile for that.

"Of course, I will. Hopefully next time, we can share some cake." Your disposition, as a result of being in Honey's presence, has improved significantly and you can feel yourself becoming more confident with each passing minute.

"Thank you for seeing me, (Y/N)-chan!" Honey waves enthusiastically as you make your exit, turning over your shoulder to give a small wave before you disappear through the doorway. 

Mori materializes at Honey's side, though Honey isn't phased in the least. Mori hums to gain Honey's attention, but it does little to distract him from staring off to where you disappeared. 

"Like her?" Mori inquires simply. Honey hums. "Mm. Just a lil, bit. Promise." He puts his chin to rest on his hands, and it wouldn't take an expert to observe him and conclude the puppy-love expression gracing his features. 

In fact, he couldn't promise that it was just a 'lil bit.’ Mori smiles for that. 

thank you for the request! i had this written in my drafts for a while now and i’m glad to have it out here. check my masterlist for more like this and feel free to request anything you want!

#honey x reader #honey #mitsukuni x reader #mitsukuni haninozuka #ohshc #tamaki suoh #tamaki #takashi morinozuka #mori #kaoru hitachiin #kaoru #hikaru hitachiin #hikaru #haruhi #haruhi fujioka #kyoya #kyoya ootori #fluff #honey fluff #imagine #oneshot #drafts #draft #this was in my drafts #ouran academy #ouran host club #ouran #ouran honey #reader insert #fem!reader

[oh-for-merlins-sake]

SLOW BURN | gw | golden

summary: y/n, a local florist, stops in weasleys’ wizard wheezes for the first time and finds more than she bargained for. soon, she’ll teach george that there are many reasons to stop and smell the roses.

pairing: george weasley x fem!reader

word count: 2.6k

warnings: alcohol

a/n: AAAAAH you guys i did not want to stop writing this!! i had so much fun, and i’m really happy with how it turned out! it was really challenging for me to write a “slow burn” relationship, but i hope i did it justice! as you’ll see, this is not a “song” fic, but a lyric (in bold and italics) was used. cheers to the first installment of the golden collection!!

taglist: @iliveiloveiwrite @andromedaa-tonks @pansydaisy @a-little-too-much @slytherinsunrise @marvelettesassemble @msmarklee1213 @letsgotothehop @finnishslytherin @starlightweasley @witch-and-a-half @darthwheezely @vogueweasley @gcdric @breadqueen95 (message/ask to be added/removed, loves!)

Blackbirds trilled overhead as you glided over the cobblestone path to work. The sun was finally reemerging from behind the dark, dreary clouds, which had just finished bathing the streets of Diagon Alley in a springtime shower. You admired the lingering smell of fresh rainwater that dripped from the eaves above you.

Today, you were taking a detour from your ordinary route. Your younger brother’s birthday was just around the corner, and you had yet to find a gift worthy of a teenage boy’s microscopic attention span and angst-ridden ennui. You smiled to yourself as you spotted the vibrant shop down the street with its mechanical mascot tipping his hat to you.

It was curious to you that this shop had a natural magnetism to people of all ages. If you hadn’t found a thing yet, this shop should surely hold something that would cater to your brother. You’d seen the troves of young wizards clamoring in a morning or two before.

As you approached the large front doors, you glanced at your watch: half an hour until the start of your shift. You strolled into the whimsical shop, dodging a Fanged Frisbee in the process. You slowly turned in place, eyeing the towering shelves of eccentric gadgets and vivid pyrotechnics. Truthfully, it was a little intimidating; where to start was beyond you.

“Can’t find what you’re looking for?”

Startled by the sudden voice, you spun to face its origin. You were met with a tall, redheaded man with freckles that practically danced across his cheeks as he chuckled at your expression. Suddenly, you felt sheepish. “Sorry?”

“You looked a little...” he pondered the right word, “overwhelmed.”

You laughed, “To be honest, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”

He nodded, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. “Younger brother’s birthday?”

“How did you know?”

“Just a guess,” he shrugged.

You were quite impressed. As he motioned for you to follow him up the stairs to the next floor of the shop, you couldn’t help but notice how familiar he looked. Surely you’d seen him before — perhaps in line at Gringotts or sipping mead in the Leaky Cauldron. You couldn’t quite pin it.

You were relieved to leave the gargantuan fireworks below — on behalf of your mother mostly. You followed him to a wall of massive tubes that were filled to the brim with colorful candies.

“Our full collection of sweets,” he announced.

You eyed the assortment, noticing the words Puking Pastilles on a golden label. “Are these different flavors or...?”

“Yes, but more importantly, they serve different purposes. These, for example,” he pointed to the pastilles, “induce vomiting — perfect for skiving class!”

You chuckled. “Surely these aren’t allowed at Hogwarts?”

“‘Course not! But that’s what makes them so bloody popular — hot commodity,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “We’ve got a sweet for nearly every malady.”

“Who even thinks of this sort of thing?” you mused — again, thoroughly impressed.

“I guess we do,” he answered, leaning against the counter.

Your jaw dropped. “You made these?”

He shrugged, the faintest smirk on his lips, “I made everything.”

“Get out!” you laughed, pouring some candy into a purple plastic bag.

“Of my own shop?” he teased. “I don’t think so!”

You twist-tied the bag shut and turned to face him. “So you’re Weasley?”

“One of them, at least — George, to be exact.”

“That’s wicked!”

You noticed his freckled cheeks growing rosier by the second. “That’s awfully kind of you,” he said, waving dismissively.

“No, honestly! It’s incredible!”

As you reached for another plastic bag, George rushed over to interrupt. “Here,” he pointed to the display of Skiving Snackboxes. “Take one of these — they’ve got all our best-selling sweets in one box. Your brother’s sure to love it.” He led you over, plucking a box from the top and handing it to you. “On the house.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” you said, shaking your head.

“I insist! Consider it an incentive.”

“An incentive?”

He nodded. “To come again.”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Thank you, George — really! I just know he’ll love it!” As you turned the box in your hands, you caught sight of the time on your wrist: five ‘til. “Merlin!”

George furrowed his brows.

“I’ve got to go!” If you hadn’t known any better, you could’ve sworn you’d seen a flash of disappointment in his eyes. “But, perhaps you’ll stop by sometime. I can return the favor — clip you a free dozen roses for your girlfriend or something,” you rushed out.

“I’d have to find one first,” he chuckled, following you as you skipped down the steps towards the doors.

A warm blush flooded your face as you laughed nervously. You spun to face George one last time as he landed at the foot of the stairs. “Well, maybe you’ll stop by anyways.”

“Florist down the road?” he asked, pointing in the general direction.

“That’s exactly the one!” you called, stepping backwards onto the street.

You rushed down the path towards the florist, your step feeling a touch lighter than it did earlier. You noticed the result of the sudden sun after the storm: a rainbow hanging above the grinning man attached to the storefront.

“Aha!” you exclaimed, finally realizing why George had looked so familiar.

When you arrived at work, you swung the screen door into the greenhouse open, announcing your presence, “Sorry I’m late!”

“Not to worry, dear,” Muriel remarked.

Muriel hired you a few months prior, admiring your proclivity to gardening and greenery. She taught you something new every day without ever realizing she was doing so. Her green thumb had a knack for nurturing every flower both under and out of the sun. And her extraordinary eye for piecing together various plants and flowers to create a stunning and elegant arrangement never ceased to amaze you.

“Be a dear, Y/N, won’t you?” Jasmine grunted as she attempted to haul a heavy-bottomed, ceramic pot.

You threw your things onto a nearby stool and rushed over to lift the side closest to you. The two of you managed to hoist the pot just above the dirt floor to carry it to its destination.

“Re-potting the Wiggentree,” Jasmine explained, dusting off her hands. “Pretty soon it’s going to be too big to stay, mum,” she called to Muriel.

“Yes, I know, dear,” Muriel muttered, “That does not change the fact that it must be re-potted.”

Jasmine was less fond of gardening than her mother was. But if something unfortunate were to happen, the shop would fall to Jasmine, so she figured it’d be best to at least try and learn a thing or two.

You walked through the door leading directly from the greenhouse into the shop. “Morning, Candace!”

“Morning, Y/N!” the cheery teenager chirped as she balanced a vase full of violets on the counter.

A set of hooks adorned with various dirt-stained aprons lined the wall just behind it. You reached for the one with your initial embroidered in the upper right corner, quickly throwing it over your head and down your body. You tied a bow behind your back before throwing your hair up and stepping back into the greenhouse. You grabbed a pair of gloves and began heaving soil into the planter with Jasmine.

Beads of sweat were already forming on your forehead as the humidity of the greenhouse settled into your skin.

Re-potting the Wiggentree proved to be a difficult and timely task, taking up most of the morning. By lunchtime, you’d moved on to trimming daisies and de-thorning roses, and come sunset, you were planting hyacinth seeds and watering Flutterby bushes in the garden.

“Y/N,” Jasmine announced, stepping out from the greenhouse. “Someone’s here to see you.”

You wound your way through the garden and the greenhouse, stepping into the shop in search of your guest. Candace giggled as she zipped her coat and nodded towards the front door. You stepped onto the patio, where the outdoor displays danced in the gentlest of breezes. You were shocked to spot George leaning over to smell the roses.

“George?” you laughed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Someone said something about roses,” he teased.

“Well,” you began, walking over and gesturing to the basket of pretty, pink roses, “What do you think?”

“Well worth the walk over here,” he answered, smiling brightly at you as he rocked on his heels with his hands in his coat pockets.

Jasmine rushed onto the patio with her jacket and purse draped over her shoulder and swiftly said, “Y/N, I completely forgot about my mother-in-law’s birthday dinner, and Candace just left! I’m so sorry — would you mind —”  

“Go on!” you hurried, waving her off of the patio, “I’ll close up!”

“Thank you, Y/N!” she called over her shoulder, “You’re an angel!”

You chuckled and rolled your eyes in amusement as she disappeared around the corner.

“I’ve got to tidy a few things but... the bar down the street doesn’t close for an hour,” you began, your heart fluttering as your stomach burst with butterflies, “We should take a walk and look at all the flowers down the alley.” You chuckled, feeling your face grow warm, “I planted half of them.”

George smiled, a light laugh gracing his lips, “All right, sounds good then.”

George busied himself with the outdoor displays while you prepared the shop for closing. He brushed his calloused fingers over the delicate flower petals, occasionally indulging in their sweet scents. He imagined how you likely smelled of flowers after a long day of work, and how that would be the perfect antidote to the lingering smell of gunpowder that constantly plagued his pillows.

“Ready?” you asked, stepping back onto the patio.

“More than ever,” he said.

As you walked down the alley together, you pointed out flowerbed after flowerbed resting on the windowsills of various shops and bakeries. Your favorites, he learned, were always the dahlias. He was surprised by the natural beauty that erupted from the brick and stone storefronts, and even more so by the fact that he never once paid attention to any of it. How could he have missed this?

“Merlin!” you gasped, rushing over to Mr. Reilly’s butcher shop. “Mr. Reilly has been doing an absolute lovely job tending to his poppies! You see, when I first popped in, he swore to Godric that he was incapable of keeping anything alive but himself, but look!”

George laughed, racing to keep up with you.

You led him to the pub that had just opened the month prior, Brenda’s Brews, whose owner agreed with your suggestion of keeping a few Fire Seed bushes out front to “really grab the people’s attention!”

Upon entering the pub, Brenda greeted you from behind the bar, “The usual, Y/N?”

“Two please!” you called, sliding a few sickles across the counter faster than George was able to dive into his pockets. “Don’t worry about it,” you winked.

“Okay, but next one’s on me, yeah?”

“No, no, consider it a thank you for earlier,” you said, raising your glass.

George clinked his glass with yours before sipping from the foamy ale. “Good choice,” he nodded.

“Can’t go wrong with a little Dragon Scale,” you remarked, savoring in its tangy, bitter taste.

“I’ve got to ask,” George began, setting his glass down on a coaster with The Weird Sisters plastered on it, “It seems like you know everyone in this bloody part of town. How come we haven’t met? Have you been here long?”

You laughed at his disbelief. “I’ve only been here a few months, so I haven’t quite gotten to everyone yet — for example, Number 93,” you muttered as you fidgeted with your diminishing glass.

“That’s wild,” he paused before snapping his fingers and saying, “Y/N?”

“Y/N,” you confirmed, taking a swig from your glass.

“And you’ve already made that big of an impact on everyone?” he continued.

You blushed, feeling flooded with a sudden warmth. You were quite flattered by the idea that you may mean something to this place; a place that was so new and intimidating not that long ago; somewhere you were certain a florist could never thrive: the middle of the city.

Perhaps the finger pricks from a thorn every now and then was worth it.

You shrugged bashfully, “I don’t know about all that.”

“Y/N,” a bartender called as he raced past, carrying two different mugs with different colored ales, “May loved the mayflowers! She said yes, by the way!”

You clapped, squealing in excitement, “Congratulations, Borden!”

George raised his eyebrows, as if to say, See?

Brenda bellowed, “Last call!”

You checked your watch: half an hour until close.

And despite the short burst of time remaining, it felt as though you’d been laughing and chatting away with George for hours. If someone insisted that they’d magically slowed time, you might have believed them. It felt so familiar to talk to George; it came so naturally. You wondered if he’d been talking since birth, given the way he animatedly told stories and produced witty comebacks within nanoseconds of the original comment.

At last, your glasses had been drained of their contents, and Brenda was shooing the last of the stragglers out the door. George followed behind you as you ducked out, calling goodbye to Brenda and Borden back inside.

Perhaps you’d been imagining it, but it certainly seemed that you and George were walking much closer together than you had been originally. One misstep and you might have brushed his hand.

You were suddenly distracted by the vibrant purple dahlias sitting outside of Rosa Lee’s. You raced over, carefully assessing exactly which flower to pick, explaining, “She won’t mind, I give her a new basket every week.”

George felt suddenly in awe of your natural grace and delight. It seemed so simple to please you: a dainty dahlia was all you needed to feel like the world was a good enough place to live. In a way, he envied your childlike wonder; it was different than the one exhibited in his shop by his products. It paid attention to the smaller things in life, rather than inciting big, booming bangs. It provided a sense of serenity.

You giggled and tucked the flower behind his right ear. He blushed as your hand gently grazed his skin. “How do I look?” he managed.

“Beautiful,” you said sincerely.

You continued walking as George fiddled with the dahlia. “Your favorite, right?” he asked, pointing to it.

“That is correct, sir,” you answered, impressed by his memory.

Once you reached Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, George leaned against the door and twiddled with the tiny flower between his fingers. He considered asking you inside, despite the lights clearly being off, indicating that the shop was clearly closed, and therefore, indicating that he meant inside his flat.

Likewise, you pondered the same prospect. You wondered if it’d be too forward: to suggest the idea of coming inside. Perhaps, tonight wasn’t the night.

And that was all right.

“Well, George,” you sighed, “I must say I’m really glad I stepped into this wacky shop of yours today.”

“I’d say the same,” he said earnestly.

You paused. “You’ll have to stop by again... you know, to finish off your bouquet,” you said, gesturing towards the dahlia.

He smiled. “You’ll be there tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” you echoed, a smile growing on your lips. You stepped onto the street and waved.

The sight of George waving back with a lopsided grin on his freckled face was enough to tide you over until next time. You spun in place and apparated home.

Honestly, George liked the idea of taking his time, carefully picking flowers — a few each day — until his bouquet was erupting from its vase.

Maybe then, you’d come in.

#george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley x y/n #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley #hp fanfiction #george weasley x fem!reader #golden collection

[snackhobi]

pairing: jimin x reader / word count: 11.8k / genre: tea witch!reader, nonwitch!jimin, growing up and finding your place in the world; fluff

summary: be careful, his mother would say. witches don’t care for mundane humans. be polite, do your business, but then leave. don’t linger. it’s not safe.

park jimin feels lost and alone and he’s still looking for home. but something unspoken leads him to your door—a witch who brews tea to match the stories and sadness that spill from his lips. a witch who gives him a question that he has to repay with an answer. (after all, you always have to pay a witch their dues.)

warnings/rating: SFW - talk of negative self thoughts, but that’s it I think! (so I suppose it’s a little angsty but it clears up dw :) )

a/n: thank you to the lovely @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this, ily queen!! the majority of teas mentioned are by the company bird & blend, and where possible I’ve inserted links to the exact teas I’ve included (so I suppose you could buy them yourself if you wanted to 👀)

edit [24/09/20]: please see the end of the story for an extra author’s note. -- Jimin is wet.

Jimin is tired, and sad, and lonely, but these are all things he's intimately familiar with, monochrome burden curled around his limbs and his heart, dragging him under their relentless weight. A familiar Sisyphean torture. Struggling against gravity only to be brought hurtling down once again. Yes, he's used to it by now.

But the wetness? That's new. Rain paints him with messy strokes, laid slick and cold across his body, soaking through clothes to skin to bone, reaching and curling chilled fingers into the heat of his insides. His shivers are full-bodied, every atom of his soul dripping rainwater, and Jimin—

Jimin wants to go home.

(He just doesn't know where that is, now.)

(Doesn't know if he's ever going to find it here.)

People rush past him. A sea of lifted hoods, unfolded umbrellas, crumpled newspapers— an array of protection from the downpour, some effective, some less so, but each offering at least a modicum of shielding. Hasty armour against the heavens. 

Jimin is not so lucky. His pockets are empty and his jacket has no hood. Sodden blond hair guides tributaries down his face, the back of his neck, rainwater rivers that touch him so soft, so cold. Just more weights on the scale that are tipping him down, down, down.

(He's so tired.)

(He's so lost.)

The city becomes a different beast in the rain, grey and hazy, heaving with bodies, and Jimin has been swept up and spat out, road signs useless, phone dead, passersby more intent on their own destination than his. Too busy to spare a glance for the soaked boy who stands aside, out of the shifting tides of people, out of place.

(He's used to that, too.)

But then: a touch. Feather-light. A breath of wind, the gentlest curl of fingers as it brushes over his rain-slick cheek; a summer breeze, dappled sunlight and rose tinted warmth.

He turns into that touch, turning his head into that ephemeral hand, chasing the sensation of sun-hot air, and then, it hits him—

the smell.

(Sea salt and pale waves, a view that stretches on forever and falls into nothingness, endless skies and deep waters; cold across his skin and in his nose as he breathes in Songjeong beach, fills his lungs with the mellowed chill. The sand is a familiar soft roughness under his feet as he stares across the horizon, out to the world beyond, so close he can almost touch it.) 

(Frying pastry, sticky street food, the smell of hot oil as the vendor flips the ssiat hotteok; air sweet with brown sugar and warm yeast, round and plump and full of seeds, a delicious crunch against his teeth. Laughter fills his ears and his lungs, as sweet as the sugar on his fingers, his lips, warmth and happiness and light.)

(Fish tang, salt and wet; the bustling yell of the fish market, fat shrimp and slick squid and rough oysters, fresh from the sea; everything breathing and shuffling and so alive, air full of the brightness of it all, edged with brine, sharp. He cuts through the choppy waves of people, treading a path that’s drawn by his steady feet, guiding him through this place he knows so well.)

Here, Jimin stands in the rain of Seoul, and all he can smell is Busan, Busan, Busan.

All he can smell is—

All he can smell is home.

(Home, that place of comfort, carved out in the heart of his memories, when he was younger and smaller and burned brighter; rose tinted and past perfect, unchangeable.)

Something stirs in his stomach. Something far reaching, but light, that soft curl of salt air brushing past the cold rain that's filled him.

He follows it.

(After all, it couldn't possibly take him somewhere that's worse than where he already is.)

--

Jimin has only met two witches in his life.

For the first, he was young, all chubby cheeks and small hands—he’s lost the round cheeks but the small hands have stayed.

He can easily recall the grizzled edges of the witch’s face and the deep solemnity in his voice. He’s a cliffside of a man, unbending and awe inspiring in his earthly solidness, almost terrifying; skin with pockmarks like crags, sandstone rough and chipped, eyes flint-hard and unchanging as he squats down to look at Jimin. The only thing that keeps him from bolting is his mother’s presence at his shoulder, hand warm in his, holding him tight and safe.

The witch is a monolith, and that scares Jimin. But whatever concoction the man passes over to Jimin’s mother—after she gives him jars of their family-recipe kimchi, spice and salt and sour—finally clears up the cough that’s been lingering in his throat for weeks, squeezing his lungs and throat, so he’s happy. (Even if his lips taste like sickly sweet aniseed and something deeper, something he still can't name).

For the second, he was all pubescent awkwardness, limbs still so short and yet so ungainly and gangly, a cygnet still shedding the grey plumage of his youth—desperate to reach the signature elegance and grace of a swan, all curved neck and crystal feathers and perfection.

This witch is all hard, perfect edges, glittering diamond, beautiful, untouchable; hair a dark waterfall around her face, lashes long, lips red, perfect curves and yet still so sharp. Terrifying. She eyes Jimin with something bordering on disdain, but disdain would require him to be worth her time. (He’s not.)

But he comes with payment, bundles of samphire he picked from the coast with bare hands, fat and green and salty, and so she deigns to give him a moment of that time. The metal charm is cold in his palm, ice and fire, but it works—Jonghee finally notices him, sees him, smiles at him. (Even if their relationship only lasts two weeks, a short lived school romance, she never would have looked at him twice without the charm that’s tucked in his pocket, drawing her gaze.)

Both witches had carried power like a cloak about their shoulders. Heavy around them, magic weighty and dark, smoke and fumes. Both were so different, but cut from the same cloth; clouds in the distance, sparking with lightning and weighty with rain.

Never cross a witch, they say. Always pay your dues, they say. Never approach a witch without knowing what you want, and never approach a witch without appropriate payment, ready to strike an accord, reach an agreement. One thing for another, tit-for-tat, keeping the scales even.

Witches are dangerous, they say.

(Be careful, his mother would say. Witches don’t care for mundane humans. Be polite, do your business, but then leave. Don’t linger. It’s not safe.)

(But witches keep their word. A promise from a witch is ironclad and unbreaking, written in stone. They’re dangerous, and you should always be wary, but there are rules they cannot and will not break. 

In a way, it’s easier to trust a witch more than anyone else, because they’ll always honour an agreement. Jimin might not have spoken to a witch in years, now, but he knows this: if a witch gives you their word, it’s worth more than its weight in gold.)

--

Jimin’s feet—so skilled at treading the sea slick sands of Busan’s beaches—are unsteady on the firm concrete of Seoul’s streets. But still, he follows them. They tread a path he doesn’t know, tracing directions he cannot see, but it’s impossible to ignore and even harder to resist.

Ley lines cross. They settle here, a soft X drawn in smudged pencil on a finger-worn map, and Jimin stops. 

The sign in the window says closed. At least, Jimin thinks it does, but then he blinks, and it’s almost like the words have rearranged themselves: open. 

The building is unassuming, nestled between two others, a stunted tree surrounded by towering redwoods, but it’s this shopfront door that draws his eye—duck-egg, blue green, the colour of new life, the morning sea, the ebbing tide. The sign that hangs above is wooden, a little faded, but in a way that suggests comfort and not disrepair; like an old jumper, worn soft with age, but still warm, still loved.

Aurora. 

A spark of light catches his eye. A glint, a dazzle, pulling his gaze towards it: below the sign, windchimes, circling a piece of quartz, catching the sunlight that's swallowed by clouds. It glitters at him through the rain. Even in the harsh breeze, the chimes are almost still, gently singing, soft voices whispering under the sound of falling water.

The door seems to swing forward at the lightest touch of Jimin’s gaze, already open, opening further. Beckoning him in. 

The smell of sea fills his senses.

The quartz throws refracted light over him, lines between each colour sharp and defined despite the rough hewn edges, a rainbow that shines even brighter on the dark wetness of his clothes as he steps through; the windchimes ring out, a crystalline murmur, and then the door eases shut behind him.

It’s warm. It’s warm, and dry, and serene. Light slants in through the windows, dulled by the rain but still painting the room in white and gold. Everything is in its place, neat and quiet and cheerful, a spray of pastel crocuses in a lopsided, handmade clay vase on the counter. The counter is clear while the rest of the room is full; busy shelves and wall hangings and a garland that has the shifting phases of the moon, crescent-quarter-gibbous-full; glittering geodes, polished crystals, water smoothed pebbles; half burned candles, jars and bottles and shells, all crowding against each other.

The whole place hums with magic. But unlike the magic Jimin has felt before, sulphur sour at the back of his throat, burned tobacco in his lungs, this is gentle, all encompassing—like a kitchen warmed by a busy oven, full to the brim with bread, filling the room with its scent and heat. 

Jimin feels out of place. He’s wet and dark and sad, drip-drip-dripping dirty rainwater on the hardwood floor. Hair hangs into his eyes, and he’s small and cold, almost bowing under the wet of the weather that clings to him. He shivers, caught up in the chill.

“Jinnie? Are you back already?”

A voice calls to him, out of sight. Jimin looks away from the mug and open book that lies on the counter, ring mark caught by the sliced geode coaster, sparkling copper green and jade.

“Did you forget to bring your charms? I told you to double check your bag before you left. I’m not done yet, anyway, I—”

Blink, blink. Wide eyed, soft and slow, surprised into stillness.

You look like comfort. It’s like someone’s taken a soft winter’s evening and turned it into a person—jumper big and thick weave warm, hair a softened mess, dangling earrings that look like little cherries, bare feet, skin touching the warm wood floor, mug in hand that coils with steam. Like a fireplace that flickers warmth and light in the cold.

Your pretty mouth is a little open, poised to speak another word that fails to come as you blink at Jimin.

“You’re not Jin,” you say, instead.

Drip, drip. Shying away from that doe-eyed gaze, Jimin looks down at his feet.

“The sign said open,” he mumbles, wanting to fold in on himself, a sodden origami crane that collapses under its own weight.

“It did?” There’s a tinge of surprise in your tone, but then a drip of rainwater trails down Jimin’s nose and falls, a teardrop of crystal. Your voice turns soft. “Oh, dear. No, of course it did. You’re soaking. Come on, come in. Take your shoes and coat off, leave them by the door. You look like you need a cup of tea.”

You leave no room for argument, disappearing back the way you came. Jimin is shocked into stillness, but then you reappear with a soft cream towel, an uplift to your eyebrows that looks expectant. Jimin pulls his worn shoes off, leaving them in self-created puddles at the door, jacket hung on the curved arms of an old coat rack.

The towel is warm around his neck and in his hair, cotton soaking up wetness with unnatural ease. The warmth of his surroundings is seeping in, chasing away the chill that’s settled in his bones, and when Jimin perches on the chair you’ve pulled out for him, he feels a little better. Not much, but a little, and that’s more than he can ask for.

The tea room is cluttered, racks of glass jars, some full to the brim, others almost empty, washed-out white and green and brown, some bright with full flower buds, some muted with dried berries and fruit; strings of dried orange slices hang from the ceiling above, surrounded by scatterings of bundled flowers and leaves. And yet, somehow, under the smell of bubbling water and dried tea, that tang of salt lingers, light on Jimin’s tongue.

“You look like you’ve had a long day. Would you like to talk about it?”

(In Seoul, no one has time for Jimin. Their eyes are closed off, hard, absorbed in themselves, their own problems—Jimin understands. Life is difficult, and it can be an uphill struggle, everyone so hungry, starved. Just like him. Trying to scrabble for a foothold in a mountain that’s been worn smooth by generations of grasping hands before him.)

The look you give Jimin is soft, and warm, and open; the look a mother gives a child when they fall and scrape open their knee. No pity, no judgement, just empathy.

“No,” Jimin says. Then: “Yes.” Then, after a long, lingering silence: “I don’t know where to start.”

You let out a little hum, patient, encouraging, reaching for two mismatched cups; one, soft camellia pink, the other, dark blue, bumpy ceramic, deep ocean waves.

“How about you start with how you’re feeling?”

How he’s feeling?

(How is he feeling?)

(Lost. Lonely. Alone. Like he’s caught in a riptide, and no matter how much he swims, the shore is growing further and further away; adrift and out to sea, swallowed by merciless waves.)

(Like he should have listened to the cautious words of everyone back home. Like he’d set himself up for failure from the moment he’d set his sights on Seoul, on success.)

(Like he’s never been good enough, will never be good enough, and he should have known that.)

Jimin doesn’t—Jimin doesn’t want to show you this raw, aching part of him, fit messily between his lungs. 

He doesn’t have to tell you anything. He doesn’t have to peel back the skin of his chest and lay himself bare.

--

But for the first time since he’s stepped foot onto Seoul’s soil, Jimin feels seen.

--

His words are slow and faltering.

Jimin is out of practice, talking about himself, the things that he keeps small and folded away in quiet corners of his heart, but you listen. You hum and shift and move, opening jars, closing jars, weighing out loose leaves, eyes intent on your work.  Maybe that’s what makes it easier.��

You’re not staring at Jimin, watching as he strips himself raw. You’re watching the fire that flickers on the small burner, water bubbling and almost boiling, but not quite. Not yet. You’re watching your careful hands as you scoop the blend into a cast iron pot, burnished darkness. You’re not watching him, but you’re listening: how he’d come to Seoul to pursue his passions, his dreams, how it’s left him lonely and lost and aching. A ship on a course without map or compass, sky overcast, no stars to guide him.

“Sometimes I feel like I should have stayed in Busan,” Jimin murmurs. His head is bowed forwards, eyes caught in a knot on the wood of the table, lines coiling together. “Everyone was right. I’m never going to make it.”

The cup set in front of him is empty.  Your fingers are curved around the handle as you turn it towards Jimin, and he notices little clouds on your nails, fluffy white against pastel blues. You hum lightly at his words, lifting the iron pot from its woven mat, steady as you pour.

(This is unlike any other place he’s ever known.)

“Do you want to go back to Busan?”

The tea smells lovely, a little floral, a little sweet, mellow and warm. It flows over the sharp salt that’s coating Jimin’s senses, sweeping away the last drops of rain that cling to his bones; washed fresh and clean. It settles in the pit of his stomach, lies light against his tongue, warming him from the inside out. 

(A blanket that’s tucked over his shoulders and wrapping him tight.)

Suddenly, Jimin wants to cry.

He swallows down the tears, the rising tide that threatens to spill from his eyes. He thinks about his answer—does he want to go back to Busan? Back to the salt and the sea? Back to the world he knows so well, misses so well?

“No,” he admits. “I miss it, but… no. I want to find my place in Seoul.”

I want to be good enough. I want to find a new home.

The answering smile on your face is a small, tender thing.

The tea stays hot, no matter how long Jimin takes to drink. Rooibos, coconut, lavender, cocoa, earthy and delicate flavours mixing across his senses. His hands wrap around his cup, the shifting blue waves steady around the liquid inside, cotton towel around his neck crowding even closer as his shoulders bow inwards. 

He notices, then, that he’s dry, somehow—every inch of him, from his skin to his hair to his clothes, whisked away by some unseen, ephemeral hand. Like he’d never been in the rain at all. His hair is soft on his head, clothes unwrinkled, and he smells like citrus and light, a shimmering garden. Not like rainwater and muted sorrow.

“You’re a witch,” he realises, suddenly. 

He knows this place must be home to magic, but he’d figured you some sort of assistant, apprentice, as soft and unassuming as you are. 

But, no. The magic he feels in the air, butter rich and sugar sweet, isn’t from the building. It’s from you.

He shouldn’t have told you anything. Witches are dangerous. He owes you now, undeniably so—for the tea he’s drunk, cup empty and cooling in front of him.

No one ever denies a witch their dues. No one would dare. But he has nothing to give you.

“I don’t have anything to give you.” Jimin’s eyes are wide. “I don’t have any money.”

“Jimin.” Your voice is a murmur, but it does nothing to quell the spike of worry in his heart, the realisation that he’d never told you his name, not once. But of course you know it. Witches see the unseen. Witches read the unknown. “You don’t owe me money. Please, don’t panic.”

Jimin tries to swallow down that panic.  There’s nothing in his pockets but his phone, dead as it is, an old bus ticket stub, his keys, plain and unadorned save for the tiny puppy keyring he’s had for years, but doesn’t remember the origin of. Nothing a witch might be interested in. “Then what can I give you?”

“You’ve already spilled your heart to me,” you say. “That’s half of the payment. A confession of feelings.”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He can’t help his eyes darting over you, reading the signs he’d missed before—you might not stink of magic like coal dust and smothered fires, but instead it rests like a garland of flowers about your head, woven into the wool of your jumper like silken thread, gossamer. Delicate and light but undeniable, a fleur-de-lis that blooms over hard marble, strong and steady.

“What’s the other half?”

“That’s up to you.” You tilt your head, little cherries in your ears swinging with the motion. “A secret. A memory. Something you’d like to share. That’s the price; a story you want to share. The final half of the transaction.”

“Do you… keep it?” He’s heard of witches stealing the memory from people, leaving them hollow shells, but you shake your head with a soft laugh.

“No. You share your story, Jimin. You don’t give it to me. Your words and history are yours, not mine. I promise you: anything you give me remains your own.”

A witch’s promise. Unbreakable truth.

(What does he have that’s worth a witch’s time?)

A memory. A good one. 

Climbing the trail of Geumjeongsan, warmed by the sun overhead, filtered by the arching trees, his brother beside him, his parents behind. He was still young, too young to climb all the way up the mountain route, bundled into the cable car that had lifted them towards the heavens, world spread at his feet, a feast for his hungry eyes. Their dinner had been roasted duck, fatty and crisp, leaking oil over his lips and cheeks as he’d eagerly bit in after a day of hard work. His family had been laughing, surrounding him with their love, liquid sunlight spilling over him. Happiness.

Your chin rests in your palm as you listen, hair a soft frame around your softer eyes, smile lingering at the edges of your lips. Jimin’s words trickle and slow, and for a second he wonders if it was enough, if this years-old memory, fuzzy around the edges, pays his dues—but as his mouth curves around the final syllable, listing the room back into warm quiet as he smiles at this remembered joy, he knows. Something in his heart knows. It is. It’s enough.

“Thank you for sharing that happiness with me, Jimin. It was lovely.” 

For the first time in a long time, Jimin’s heart feels less like a broken thing. It feels like someone’s starting to take liquid gold to the cracks in his heart, protective resin that brings his broken parts together, the soft touch of kintsugi that shows his flaws but also lets him see that his heart can work despite them. 

Broken and imperfect but still here. Still whole.

(He may have paid off his debt, but Jimin feels like he’s taking away something that’s more than just a cup of tea.)

His shoes are dry when you return to the door, and when he reaches for his jacket, it’s like he’s just peeled it off a washing line, smelling of sun and fresh laundry. His trainers fit better on his feet, not rubbing at the heel like it should. Small, little things that change so much.

“It’s still raining,” you say. “There’s an umbrella in the stand that you can have.”

The umbrella is a long, sturdy thing, plain black, but when Jimin lifts it, there’s a small charm tied to the handle. A tiny string of rose quartz beads, polished pale pink.

Witches never give things away for free. Jimin knows this. 

“The price is that you have to share it with the first person you meet who needs it.” The words fall from your smiling lips before Jimin can ask. “You’ll know who it is when you see them.”

The arms of the umbrella spread so wide above him, engulfing him in protection, keeping him dry and safe. He turns to look at you. You're leaning against the doorframe, still barefoot, fingers that bear the sky barely peeping out of the sleeves of your jumper. Untouched by the rain and grime of Seoul, a lit candle in the night, vanilla scented wax, dribbling hot and sweet. So unlike any other witch Jimin has ever heard of.

There’s no smell of sea, any more. No lingering memories of Busan. Just petrichor, rain and concrete, an undercurrent to the fresh smell of his clothes, his hair, washed clean by a magic that’s softer than anything Jimin has ever known. 

The only thing that’s softer is the smile on your face, the curl of your fingers as you wave goodbye. The door swings shut as you step back, windchimes trembling at the gentle parting, quartz throwing glitter over Jimin’s cheeks and catching in his lashes.

(The sign in the window remains untouched.

As Jimin turns away, it says closed.)

The rain has lessened, a drizzle that threatens to sweep over him, but the umbrella keeps him safe, draped over the air around him, warding away the cold that tries so desperately to claw back into his chest. Jimin doesn’t know where he’s going, just like before—but he steps onto the street and immediately stops.

The string of rose quartz pearls swings into his wrist. 

“Hello. Would you like to share my umbrella?”

Jimin has to hold it up high, shorter than the long-limbed boy who stands in front of him. His eyes are dark and almost solemn, sliding across Jimin’s face as he seems to pull himself out of some faraway, unseen place. He doesn’t seem to notice the rain that’s starting to soak through his clothes, peppering his handsome face with small, cold kisses, but then he smiles, gratitude written across his grinning teeth.

“Hello.” His voice is so deep. “Thank you.” And then, after only the briefest pause: “My horoscope said I’d be helped by a Libra today.”

Jimin startles, umbrella scattering rain with the motion. “How did you know I’m a Libra?”

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Kim Taehyung. With a witch’s blessing warm in his belly and overhead, umbrella a shield against the heavens.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin meets Jeon Jungkook. With Kim Taehyung at his side, a witch’s charm around his wrist, rose quartz a soothing calm against his skin.

--

And so—this is how Park Jimin starts to build a home in Seoul, brick by brick, larger hands working alongside his own; Taehyung’s palms large, Jungkook’s fingers steady, laying the foundations to happiness. Together.

--

His feet find their way back to Aurora again and again, a moon that pulls at his waters, caught in its gravity. Quartz to citrine, aventurine to hematite, windchimes singing like bells whenever he passes underneath them, door swinging open at the lightest of touches.

Your wide eyed surprise ebbs like the tides. The second time, and then the third, and fourth, you’d stopped in your tracks at his arrival, hands a tumble of confusion whenever he’d appeared at your door, but now you’re always ready and waiting.

(“How did you find this place the first time?”

Today’s tea is sencha, salty sea-buckthorn, bright spearmint, delicate lemon verbena, tinged blue with cornflower and butterfly pea, the ocean waves in a cup, brewed just for him.

“I followed the sea,” Jimin answers. “The salt air. Didn’t you do that?”

“No.” The same tea lies in your own cup, a shared moment in the past and present. “You called out and you were answered. This shop is older than you or me, and even Jin doesn’t know the magic that lies in its walls. We don’t control this place. We just live here.”)

The stories he pays you with change over time, memories from years past, growing closer and closer to the present, an autobiography that lays out the peaks and valleys of his life; the happy, the sad, the embarrassments, the triumphs. The tea changes every time, too, mellow greens to bright fruits, smoky blacks to delicate whites, whisked matcha and woody lapsang souchong. Matching the timbre of his voice, reflecting his words, letting him dwell on happiness, or pulling him out of sorrow.

Sometimes Jin is there. Oftentimes, he isn’t. The tea room is sacred ground when Jimin is paying his dues, stories and secrets falling from his lips, but otherwise Jin will bundle in, all energy and noise, leaving plates of flaky pastry and tiny biscuits and soft bread, brioche lined with chocolate, melting and hot. They leave Jimin warm and full, no matter how much or how little he eats. Two kitchen witches that give, and give, and give.

Jimin pays for a plate of rose shortbread with a recollection of the time he’d spilled juice over his brother’s homework, only to blame the dog, who was refused his usual after-dinner gravy bones. Jimin still lives with the guilt. Jin laughs, and you smile, flower petals soft and sweet in your mouth as you listen to him speak.

He wants to bring Taehyung and Jungkook, share the brightness with them, with you, the things that make him smile and laugh; lifting him out the deep waters of sadness and towards the sun, light dappled waters, bright coral reefs, a multicolour display of life. But Aurora doesn’t call to them the way it calls to Jimin, which means he goes alone.

Taehyung’s eyes widen when Jimin mentions his disappointment.

“Jimin-ah.” His mouth is round with shock, a sweet pomegranate, red flushed lips. “Don’t you know?”

“Know what?” 

Jungkook’s cheeks bulge with lettuce and samgyeopsal, but he swallows it down in one go, a gannet with the metabolism of a god. (Lucky.) “Finding witches in Seoul is hard,” he says. “You have to actively search them out. Do you?”

Jungkook has met more witches than any of them, a little golden spark of magic nestled deep in his chest, a magnetised needle that points him forward like a compass. But even he can’t find Aurora, no matter how much Jimin tries to guide him.

“I just… walk,” Jimin says, unsure. “I just feel it and I walk.”

“I’ve alway wanted to get a cup of tea from that shop. They say the best way to solve your problems is to share it with a witch, but I’ve never been able to find it, no matter how hard I’ve tried,” says Taehyung. An empty leaf of lettuce lays in his palm, curled up, almost sad in how small it looks. (The same would be a riverboat in the tiny cups of Jimin’s hands.) But rather than jealousy sparking in his eyes, he just seems happy for Jimin, toothy grin appearing on his face. “You’re so lucky, Jimin-ah. I bet it’s incredible.”

--

(Jimin is a nightjar, a singing bird, calling out into the darkness. The dawn bursts over the horizon, light heavy, laden with brightness, aurora shimmering rose and gold, welcoming hands.)

(Jimin sings. You listen.)

--

This time when he finds Aurora—or maybe it finds him—it’s snowing.

Seoul is blanketed in white, pavements worn smooth with a thousand busy feet, roads salt slick and slush. The wind bites at his cheeks, apple crisp and sweet, the air a soft whisper that runs its chilled fingers through his hair and turns his head.

(The rose quartz lies warm around his wrist.)

The winter sun overhead casts short shadows, pale light flushing down Jimin’s face as he leans into that fleeting touch. It’s not Busan that fills his senses this time; it’s the smell of mulled wine, hot cinnamon, melting chocolate, but more than that—dark evergreen and sweet cherry-wood fires, dusty pepper and star anise, sticky caramel.

(Homely.)

Open, the sign says.

Today, the windchimes circle a shard of snowflake obsidian. It trills out a greeting as he touches his fingers to the door, tiny bells that tinkle their hello as Jimin steps over the threshold, Aurora just as warm and inviting as it had been the last time he’d stepped foot here. As warm and inviting as it always is.

(Closed, the sign says.)

He’s warm too, today. He’s wrapped up against winter, hand knitted hat on his head—a recent project by Taehyung—and his hands are nestled in his pockets, curled around the small hand warmers that Jungkook sneaks into his coat without comment. Reminders of the love of his friends even when they’re not beside him. His cheeks are flushed pink from the cold and his eyes are sparking happiness, smile wide as he stomps snow off his feet.

But there’s no one to greet him. No candles are lit, no half-finished drink on the counter, an unintentional offering to the quiet building. It feels like a held breath, light, heavy, ephemeral, weighty.

(Every moon hanging from the garland is waning.)

Jimin’s socked feet are quiet as he steps the familiar route to the tea room, hallway beckoning him forwards; the door is shut, and he hesitates, but even as he watches, it quietly swings open, untouched. 

You’re bowed over the table. A hand rests over your eyes, your body held still, a rictus of—of deep thought, maybe? The weight of decision, indecision. Maybe. Something that hangs heavy about you, usual shimmering magic pulled down, osmium heavy; still glittering and beautiful, but sharper edged, burdensome. 

The cup in front of you is dry, empty, matte ceramic the colour of bone, muted white, brittle cream. There’s no smell of warm tea today. Just still air.

(No matter how many times Jimin has seen you laugh and smile and tilt your head, the truth is that you’re a witch, and Jimin has only just started to map your world. He’s a cartographer with nothing more than his own hands and the aching need to find the stars, to trace those celestial bodies overhead that shine out so bright.)

The floor groans under Jimin’s unmoving feet and your head snaps up.

“Jimin?” Your eyes are wide and startled. All at once the air lifts, sunlight seeping from the floorboards; an open window that’s been thrown open to pull in the summer breeze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

(The windchimes had been as loud as always, announcing his presence.)

“I’m sorry,” apologises Jimin. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

You shift away from the table and straighten, magic coiling around your neck like a scarf, thick and warm. (Covering your mouth and muffling you.) “I just wasn’t expecting any customers,” you say. “You never have to apologise, Jimin. Come on in, take a seat. What do you want to talk about today?”

Jimin had wanted to share his happiness. He’d wanted to talk about Taehyung, and Jungkook, and the dancing job that’s turned steady, all the bright little pieces of his life, glistening opals, precious stones. But he realises, then, that’s not what he needs, really. 

(Not what he wants, really.)

“Nothing,” he says. His voice is soft and sweet, white milk bread, fluffy and light. “I just wanted to see you. How are you?”

The fire under the water flickers, a sun flare that dies as soon as it’s born, settling into its usual ring of tiny flames. The magic around your neck turns into a stole, slipping away from your mouth, settling about your shoulders. You’re silent, for a long moment, as if you’d been in some unseen place and Jimin has pulled you back.

You glance at him through the curl of your lashes. “Busy,” you say, eventually. “Distracted, I suppose. Trying to work things out.”

Why? Jimin wants to ask. Work what things out?

But he knows better than to pry for a witch’s secrets, as open armed and soft palmed as you might be. So he just says: “I hope it gets better soon. I’m sure you’ll find the answer.”

The bundles overhead shift in an unseen breeze, dusty cinnamon sticks and fat berries and handfuls of clove, stirring the spiced smell of winter. Jimin would swear he hears the windchimes singing, a tiny choir of voices that swells and breaks as quickly as a wave crashing against the shore. 

You let out a small laugh. It’s edged with something Jimin can’t put a name to. “Oh, this is the kind of answer that’s given, not found, so I have to wait, even if I think I know what it is,” you say. “And it’s… not one I was expecting. Witches don’t do well with being unable to take control of the situation, but I can’t do anything about it.”

Jimin pauses. He realises then, in a way, he’s been selfish—always speaking, never listening. But you don’t offer yourself up in the way Jimin does. A witch is a library of knowledge and secrets, locked to the outside world; Jimin wouldn’t dare to try and find the key. It would burn his hands, sear itself into his palm. The door has to be willingly opened by whoever’s inside.

He thinks about those words he’s heard you so many times, now, mouth so gentle around the syllables, the lilting question. A flickering constellation that guides his feet. One that he can trace, lines between the stars.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

The smile you offer him is one he hasn't seen before, crooked, a whispered secret. Sending the pages of all those books fluttering, stirring on their shelves. “Do you want to strike a bargain, Park Jimin? I give you a story, and you pay me in turn?” 

A tiny shiver prickles over Jimin’s skin. Your question feels like a test you both know he can't complete, but—there's something inside him that flickers bright at that challenge. 

He’s not a witch and has no magic glowing in his spirit, but a contract takes two people, mundane or not. He’s never considered himself bold, softer and gentler than he wishes he was, sometimes, but—there’s that unrelenting part in him, reckless and brave, hungry for more, that pulled him from Busan and set him in Seoul, that bruises his knees and rubs blisters on his feet from his endless dancing; the part that brings him to a witch’s door, over and over, heedless of the magic that lingers like crystallised sugar about his wrists and ankles, almost painful were it not so sweet.

(Bravery isn’t always about being bold. Sometimes bravery is trying again, and again, even if it seems hopeless.)

“If that would help you?”

The delicate hanging chains of your earrings tremble, tiny sparkling hearts of crystal, your eyes widening imperceptibly in surprise. Witches are forces of nature, relentless, but for a second—just a second—Jimin stops you in your tracks. Not as an imposing seawall built against the crashing waves, but rather, a soft hand that’s lifted, palm first, fingers spread wide.

(Bravery is this, too: being gentle and open where others might expect you to be cold and distant, worn bitter by the cold world around them.)

(Jimin has always known this, but you’d reminded him, when he’d almost forgotten.)

The air smells like mulled wine, heady and sweet, a bonfire of spice and tannin. For a moment, Jimin fears he’s misstepped, craggy cliffs crumbling underneath his feet and throwing him into the merciless waves below—but then you step back, cast your hand at the wall of jars, almost endless in width and height.

“What tea do you think I need today, then?”

Jimin smiles, all full lips and shy teeth, and says: “You have to tell me your story first. That's how the transaction goes.”

And for the first time, Jimin sees you truly laugh. You shed every piece of armour that’s girded about you; you might be quieter, and gentler, but your magic is coiled close, plate metal that shines so bright but falls so soft. Your heavy iron door opens, just a crack, the smell of leather bound books and old manuscripts curling outwards, letting Jimin catch a glimpse of the wonders inside. 

“I can’t tell you a story that hasn’t finished yet, but I have plenty of memories,” you say. “Hm. How about the day Jin and I found this place?”

Jimin doesn’t know how to blend tea. He doesn’t know how to balance flavours, top notes, heart notes, base notes, curling tastes together in a way you do so effortlessly. But he knows how to follow his heart, and as always, Aurora helps guide him.

He listens to your words the way you listen to his, with soft encouragement and gentle laughter, eyes bright as he swallows down the secrets of witchcraft that are banal to you but utterly fascinating to him. A glimpse into a world he’s barely touched. He traces unseen vibrations in the air, reaches for jar after jar, none of them labelled, but perfect each time he pulls them open and breathes in their scent. Almost jumping into his hands. He thinks of a feeling, a flavour to match each memory you lay in front of him, and the magic responds; not under his control, no, but letting him drift in its flow.

He plants a garden: fat rosebuds, yielding petals, bright lemongrass, earthy raspberry leaves, flaky cocoa shells. 

(Jimin doesn’t know these ingredients, but you do, eyes intent and sharp as you watch him move with an ease no one else has ever displayed here, moving around the room that’s entirely yours—a part of your heart nestled safe in Aurora’s walls, one that even Jin could not traverse, if he tried.)

(But here he is. With no magic in his bones, here he is, treading a delicate path through this sanctum, weaving the energy around him without knowledge or thought. Just human, but also so much more.)

The iron pot is heavier than Jimin realised, a solid weight that you always heft with ease. The scent that fills the room when he pours is delicate and light but it washes away the spicy scent of winter warmth, and instead smells like floral enchantment. 

He slips into the seat across from yours. It’s a reversal, tipping the world on its head, an entirely unfamiliar perspective; the wall behind you isn’t lined in the tools of your trade. Today, Jimin sits in the master’s seat. Today, you are silhouetted by the dried bouquets that hang from the crooked branch that coils from the ceiling, muted colours even quieter in the nimbus of your magic, dawn light and warmth, dripping honeycomb, gold and saccharine.

“Would you ever leave Aurora?”

(Even the fleeting thought sends disappointment through every part of him, an echo of loneliness for something that hasn’t happened. Jimin’s always been possessive, in a way, wanting to keep a tight hold of the things he cares about.)

(You’re one of those things, now.)

The smile you give Jimin is answer enough. “Once a witch finds their home, there’s no turning back. No matter how long I’m gone, or how far I go, I’ll always find my way back home.” And then there’s a little glitter in your warm eyes, gold dust under a sun-laden river. “Time for tea, I suppose?”

It’s rosewater sweetness, dark chocolate bitterness, a citrus undercurrent that flows around it all. Biting into Turkish delight, coated in rich chocolate, yielding to the press of your teeth, an explosion of flavour. Jimin has never tasted anything like this— rich and creamy but also fragrant and light.

Judging from your wide eyed stare, you haven’t, either.

(It’s perfect.)

(It takes that indecision that’s been settling around each of your bones, sweeps it away, Jimin’s eyes as large as the moon and just as bright. This cup is so much more than just a warm drink, a hot touch down your throat; it’s the world telling you something, showing you something, something about Jimin, something you thought you'd been wrong about.)

(Jimin has no magic of his own, but he burns so bright. A lovely, sweet, strong, talented boy, stronger than he knows, lovelier than he knows. The world fits around him so well, a backdrop to his beauty, shaping itself to his touch.)

(Your magic shapes itself around him in a way that's as easy as breathing, and it should frighten you.)

(But it doesn't.)

With any contract, the witch sets the price. Your story for this cup of tea should be enough, a parting of the curtain into a world he shouldn’t be allowed to see—but something still pulls in Jimin’s stomach. He feels a little empty. Like he’s eaten a meal and could be content to finish now, but he’s waiting for that final course, that bite of dessert. Something to satiate his lingering hunger.

You still need to pay the final part of the price.

“You need to give one more thing,” says Jimin, reciting the ancient law that he’s never been taught but sings in his bones. 

Your silence is summer lightning. Light sparks in the distance, flashing hot and bright, but without the weight of thunder, without the promise of rain.

“A secret,” you decide. “I’ll give you a secret.” 

If a witch’s word is worth more than gold, then a witch’s secret is worth more than rhodium; stronger, rarer.

“I’ve told you that Aurora answers people who call out, if they need our help?”

“Yes.” Jimin remembers this well, thinks about it every time he’s led back here, the guiding hands that helped him find the path he’s treading now. “You’ve told me that.”

“Witches can find the shop and come here often,” you say. “They come to buy things and leave again; they have to keep their magic safe. You see, a witch’s power is most potent in their own home, and weakest in another’s, so you’ll find witches won’t drink one of my teas, or eat Jin’s food, unless they’ve left the shop. It’s a sign of absolute trust to do something like that.”

You snack on Jin’s biscuits all the time, spread homemade jams over freshly-baked bread, watch Jin drizzle honey into soft camomile, slip lemon slices into hot Earl Grey. Mixing your magic and trust together like a tangle of fresh sheets.

“But humans, without magic? Even if you try, you can’t find this place unless it wants to be found. Neither Jin nor I control that, really, but the sign helps control the flow,” you continue. “If we put it on closed, the shop won’t beckon people in. But if it’s open? People come with their burdens and their sorrows, and I’ll sit, and I’ll listen. My magic isn’t what helps them. Sometimes all people need is a listening ear and that’s what I offer: a single moment of quiet in their busy lives before they leave again. You want to know what the secret is, Jimin?”

“Yes,” says Jimin, eager. Not just as a payment of something that’s owed, but for his own curiosity, digging its fingers into his stomach and lungs. “I want to know.”

The smile you deliver now is the final jolt of lightning, white hot and flooding the air with crackling energy, before the clouds part to reveal the quiet night sky, the vibrant colours of the Milky Way naked for the eyes to see. 

“My secret is this: you shouldn’t be able to keep finding this place. I didn’t realise anyone could, but here you are, again and again. You’re the only non-witch who’s ever stepped foot in here more than once.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: you are the only thing in my life that I cannot answer with magic, and it’s completely out of my control. Even if the sign says closed, you can walk in, regardless.”

Clink.

“My secret is this: I know I won’t be able to find that answer I'm looking for, because it’s not in me, or my magic, or my shop. It’s something in you.”

Clink. 

Three falling secrets that fold into one. A handful of coins tumbling over themselves into the waters of a wishing well, slipping into that liquid quiet. Throwing ripples across the glass surface.

Jimin has always thought that witches were gods of their domain, endless fonts of wisdom, magic cast over the world around them that catches knowledge in its weave, Indra’s net. “But I’m—I’m just human.”

Your eyes are soft. “There’s no just about it, Jimin,” you say. “Witch or not, we all have our place in the world, as small or large as it may be.”

“But I don’t have any magic. Jungkook does, and even Tae does, a little.” He always knows when to say bless you before someone sneezes. “But I’m just… completely mundane.”

“I know you don’t have magic, Jimin. But do you know what the word mundane originally meant? It doesn’t mean boring, or dull. It’s rooted in the world. The earth. There’s nothing more powerful. Don’t you know how brightly you shine?”

Jimin tilts his head away. The truth is that for all the happiness that’s started to grow across his heart like blooming roses, trailing wisteria, some days the river at his feet feels less like sun flecked waters and more like tar, thick and dark, ready to pull him back under. It’s not so easy to cast off sadness once it’s found you. Sometimes his chest feels like it could cave in under the weight of his own failings, each and every one of his flaws stacked up high, pressing on his lungs, his heart.

He doesn’t feel like he shines.

“Oh, Jimin. You really don’t see, do you?” The magic that curls around him is silken, light. Touching the rose quartz around his wrist with recognition. “Remember earlier, when I said the answer I wanted has to be given, not found? It’s because you need to find it. You can give it to me, once you do.”

“What if I never find it?” He looks back at you, back into your eyes, endless and deep. You’re a witch with power that drapes about you, a cascading mantle spun from silver and gold—if you don’t know the answer, how could Jimin possibly find it? “What do I do then?”

“I promise, you will,” you say. “You will. Sometimes the things we need to find appear when we’re not even looking for them. After all, you found your way here, didn’t you?”

“I did,” Jimin answers, truth settling quiet between his lungs. Easing that weight that presses down on them. “I did.”

--

He did. And he does. And he will.

--

You stand in the open door and watch Jimin go, wrapped up once more, a Christmas present of woven wool and thick socks.

“By the way,” you call, and Jimin stops, turns back. “You said that your friends wanted to come here too, right?”

“Yes,” answers Jimin. Taehyung asks him endless questions and Jungkook might pretend like he’s not interested but he’s always nearby when Jimin recounts his tales of the witch’s shop. “They really do. But we can never seem to find Aurora when we try, even though Jungkook is normally so good at finding magical places.”

“Next time, don’t focus on Jungkook.” Above your head the windchimes tremble, obsidian spiralling. “You said he was a compass, didn’t you? But he’s not the one with the map. You are. Don’t forget that, okay? Trust in yourself, Jimin. Be your own guide.”

--

The next time Jimin stands with his friends flanking him, he thinks about the moon. How its silver light is loved so dearly, even if it’s just a reflection of the unseen sun, shining with someone else’s flames. 

He might not have the strength of fire, but he can still shine.

The windchime’s call is throaty as Aurora comes into sight, brushed by a stone of lapis lazuli, door falling open at their arrival, the building filling with sunlight as Jimin steps in. Welcoming him. Jungkook and Taehyung are far more hesitant, staring at Jimin like he’s a voyager into unknown waters, here there be dragons, at risk of being swallowed whole, never to be seen again.

Jimin laughs at them. The lapis swings into the windchimes in a way that sounds like a giggle, too.

“Holy shit,” Jungkook says, once he’s inside. A candle sets alight. “Jimin, what the fuck.” Another. 

“It’s Jimin-hyung,” Jimin says, but Jungkook ignores him, staring at the candles that start to catch flame one by one as he watches them.

“It’s so nice, Jiminie.” Taehyung’s eyes are huge. “Aren’t those flowers pretty?”

On a nearby shelf, the bowl of pansies blooms brighter under Taehyung’s gaze, every plant in the room standing tall, trying to catch his attention.

But of course, the thing that’s stronger than any of the candles or plants or trinkets here—you, stepping into sight, every inch as overwhelming as always, swallowing the room with your magic. Souffle soft and sweet, with all the rich headiness of melted chocolate.

You’re barefoot, as always, cardigan overlarge and draping, nails adorned with tiny butterflies. Jimin’s never met another witch like you, but now that he knows you, it’s almost laughable how he hadn’t noticed from the instant he’d seen you; you’re a witch, through and through, magic dripping through the air like nectar, ambrosia. God touched.

“You finally made it,” you say. “Jimin's told me a lot about you both. Your timing is perfect; I’ve just put the water on to boil. Who wants to go first?”

“Holy shit,” murmurs Jungkook. 

The final candle bursts alight when you smile.

--

Jimin is always surprised at his capacity to find new happiness.

His parents had been heartbroken when he’d announced his decision to leave Busan, and pain had turned to anger, and anger had turned to arguments; he wanted too much, asked for too much, was never happy with what he was given. (All has been forgiven, now, but as always, the memory still lingers.)

Seoul had been so lonely, at first. He’d felt like the bottomless pit his parents had accused him of being, hungry, demanding ceaselessly for more, more, more—his heart had felt like a shrivelled thing, only good for holding onto sadness and bitterness. No room for happiness in any of the weeping corners of his soul.

But, now, Jimin realises that he’s sated. 

He’ll always strive higher, work harder, that little edge of hunger in his core, but life has been given to him in its fullest measure. Unconditional friendship stuffs his heart full, but it can grow and grow, more and more, shuffling around to make room. Taehyung and Jungkook, and now Hoseok, then Yoongi, then Namjoon, each one burning bright, another star in his growing galaxy.

(Things he’d needed to find without knowing, appearing when he hadn’t even been looking.)

He still doesn’t know what answer it is he’s looking for, to give to you, and really, he’s not sure what the question is. He’s been given so much, and he’s so grateful, but there’s still that tiny hollow inside him, waiting for his hands to close around the final puzzle piece. Waiting for him to slot it into place. 

But winter passes, sliding into spring, and then spring rolls into summer, and Jimin realises—he has time.

He has time. There’s no rush. He’s so used to chasing and running and aching, and that momentum will never leave him, but he’s starting to learn that it’s okay not to always sprint forwards. He sparks bright with progress, a glistening shine, but the things that shine out greater still are these: the moments of stillness. Taehyung and Jungkook sprawled around him, cheeks full of takeaway food. Hoseok in the dance studio, all the energy of his limbs brought to a quiet standstill as he sits and drinks water, staring at Jimin in the mirrors and wiggling his eyebrows. Yoongi beside him on the subway, eyes shut as he listens to the music coming from his earphones, tilting his head at Jimin’s questioning touch and taking one bud out to share. Namjoon, brows furrowed as he reads the book in front of him, large hands flipping the pages with such care, but turning his attention to Jimin the second he appears.

You, ankles hooked around the legs of your chair, cup of freshly brewed tea in front of you, letting the steam curl over your nose and cheeks. A cup of the same tea in front of Jimin, sometimes made by his own hands. Not often, but enough to find out more about you, the building blocks that have shaped you into who you are. 

Jimin learns about witchcraft, and magic, and how it’s far less complicated and somehow entirely more complex than he thought. You’ve pulled the library doors wide open and invited Jimin to browse at his leisure, through ancient tomes written in languages he doesn’t understand, vellum covered in calligraphy too faded to be read, but you’re his Rosetta stone, translating it all. He always thought that magic was a secret thing, and it is, but you’re letting him look in. You give him knowledge, and patience, and time. You give him an open door, a place that always welcomes him, no matter the time or weather. 

He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, but Jimin doesn’t have to wait for Aurora’s call any more. He doesn’t have to wait for that crest of that nascent dawn on the horizon. He follows the curvature of the earth and walks towards the sun himself, chases that luminous aureole and finds it all on his own. And there you wait for him, at the base of that shining star, your magic a halo that’s settled in your hair, the north on his compass. 

He still comes empty-handed, no answer to offer you; but you seem content to wait, so Jimin is, too.

He’ll wait.

He has time.

--

Jimin returns to Busan for the weekend. He sleeps in his childhood bed, eats food that never tastes the same when he tries to cook it himself, thinks about how tall he feels compared to his parents now, even if he hasn’t grown at all. He feels a little off kilter, like he’s pulled on an old t-shirt that used to fit him perfectly, but doesn’t anymore; too loose around the neck, too tight around the arms. Wearable, but different. Still comfortable, but not the same. He’s outgrown it now.

(Busan will always have a piece of his heart, but it’s not home anymore.)

(Home is somewhere close, he knows, but he’s still waiting to find that key, final tumbler of the lock sliding perfectly against its metallic teeth. He’s close, so close, but not there. Not yet.)

He’s walking past the fridges in the supermarket, on a quest for fresh radish for his mother, when he catches a smell that dredges up an old memory, smoke and ash. 

Jimin turns his head.

The witch looks just the same as before: ageless and perfect. Long dark hair in perfect curls, nails and lips blood red, eyebrows perfect arches, imperious ice. She’s already staring at him, and once their eyes touch, a flicker of recognition passes over her face, and then surprise, gaze darting over Jimin.

“Well, look at you. You finally grew into those cute cheeks of yours. I thought you would.” Although her words might be patronising, Jimin is shocked at her tone. It’s polite; almost friendly. Nothing like the aloofness she’d shown him all those years ago, when he’d come to her with the reckless desperation of a youth in love. “You’ve clearly done well for yourself.”

Jimin’s jeans are ripped more from wear than fashion, his shirt is from the discount rack at the Lotte mart, and his trainers are scuffed and worn. He might have grown into his face but nothing about him shouts success—and yet this witch is looking at him with something like mutual respect. “Pardon?”

“I can smell the power of the magic on you from here,” the witch says, and Jimin startles. “Like warm banana bread. Or the bark of a maple tree. It suits you.”

“That’s—that’s not mine,” Jimin admits. His heart races in his chest. He hadn’t known that he carries some brightness of your magic with him, some sweetness, motes of light swirling around him even after he’s left Seoul. He hadn’t known that other witches could smell that magic the way he can smell theirs.

(He hadn’t known that he would smell like you.)

The witch tilts her head. Her earrings are interlocking hoops, circling each other, sliding at the motion. “Oh, I know that,” she says. “It’s been given to you. It’s not yours, but it’s a part of you. It just takes a special kind of person to control that flow of power, and I’ve never met a mundane who can do that. Surely you must have realised?”

Jimin’s lashes flutter. He mixes tea, sure, but—that’s not him. It’s the shop guiding his hand. Isn’t it?

It’s been given to you. It’s not yours.

That promise you’d made Jimin, last year, the first time he’d stepped over your threshold, dripping rainwater and sorrow, so sad, so small: Anything you give me remains your own.

You just hadn’t mentioned it was the same for you, too.

(Hadn’t mentioned that you’d given him anything at all.)

(But you’ve given him so much, haven’t you?)

(It’s a part of you.)

(Jimin is changed by every person he meets, the sum of every part that’s ever been given to him by someone else. But he’s also more than those parts; he’s himself, something he’s made, is still making. Working towards being the best he can be.)

(He's himself, controls himself, the world around him. When he lifts those jars from the shelves, he's following his heart. He's his own guide. He trusts himself. Oh, it's not the shop after all, is it?)

(Is it?)

“Ah.” The witch lets out a knowing hum. “Understanding will come with time. Magic can seem such a fickle thing to the mundane, but it’s not. A witch’s magic is a reflection of who they are.”

He thinks of your magic, warm and honey-sweet. Dawn light; sun bright. A reflection of you. One that adorns him with its brilliance, even when you’re miles away from each other. You’re the silver lining to every cloud in his sky, when they’re white and wispy, or heavy with rain, torrenting water, weathering every season that turns in his heart. In the bittersweet death of autumn, the cold loneliness of winter, the emerging life of spring, the buoyant joy of summer. You’re a shelter against the elements. You’re the place Jimin feels safest in. You’re his—

Oh. 

Oh.

(There it is.)

(Home isn’t a place. Home is a feeling. You carry it with you, in your heart; that comfort, that belonging. Somewhere you want to come back to, that you know is waiting for you at the end of the day, any day, every day. That knowledge of love. Your friends; your family. Familiarity. Contentment. Feeling at peace because you know no matter where you are or where you go, home will always be there with you, and waiting for you back where you started, or wherever you finish.)

(Dropping that answer into his hands, feather light, rays of the morning sun cast over his palms, weightless in his grasp.)

(The key finally fits into the lock, and turns, door bursting wide open, letting life and light into Jimin’s heart, filling something that he already thought was full.)

The dark haired witch gives him a smile that’s equal parts pleased and self-satisfied. She sweeps away, leaving Jimin lost, and found.

--

Jimin steps down in Seoul with an utter lack of grace. Like the world has been pitching beneath his feet and has only just turned steady, sea legs buckling on the solid earth.

His bag is heavy with everything he’d brought to Busan for the weekend, and he’s tired after the train journey, and it’s hot, so hot, the summer heat oppressive in its height and weight, pressing sticky hands over his sweaty skin. Even so, he’d spent almost all three hours of travel with his leg jiggling up and down, wound up, pent up, every thread of him coiled around the knowledge he holds. The answer he’s been looking for, inside him all along. 

Part of him wants to run. That hungry part of him, still scared of not being good enough, terrified that if he doesn’t grab something with both hands it’ll slip away like quicksand; that the river at his feet will pull the earth up in its rush, leaving an empty canyon in front of him, lonely and deep.

But another part of him—the part of him that’s grown so bright, watered by the love of everyone around him—quells that fear. It’s the part that gently reminds him that he has time. It’s the part that carries him gently in its current, guiding him through the swell of bodies and busyness that’s all pervasive in Seoul, guiding him north. 

(His north.)

His feet aren’t a stumbling rush. He doesn’t have to hurry, after all. No matter how long he takes, he’ll get to his destination. 

(Home is always waiting for you at the end of your journey.)

The windchimes orbit rose quartz today. The same pastel pink that circles his wrist.

“Hello,” says Jimin. “I missed you.”

The windchimes shiver and spark out a note of happiness, and Aurora’s blue-green door swings open. He’s hit with a burst of cool air that pulls the sweat away from his skin. Stepping into the shop feels like a shot of caffeine in his veins, and, besides, he’s found what he’s looking for.

He has the question, and the answer. (He’s had it all along.)

(Where is your home?)

He sheds his shoes and bag, cast carelessly on the floor, and doesn’t hesitate to step forwards. The door to the tea room swings open before he reaches it, as always, feeling his urgency and responding without being asked.

And there you are.

Your hair is bundled up out of your face, arms and legs bare in the summer heat, tiny pineapples on your nails, a sweating pitcher of tea dripping rivulets of water on the table as you pour yourself a glass, ice tumbling around slices of fresh peach. You glance up at his arrival, and when you smile, Jimin feels how the magic in the room lifts and swirls around him. 

It’s the tart sweetness of fresh-squeezed lemonade; the soft chill of vanilla ice cream; the rich cream of mango parfait. It’s all happiness and tender affection, and Jimin wonders how he’s never seen the depth of it before now.

“Hi, Jimin.” Your voice is brighter than the summer sun outside, stronger still. “Did you just get back from Busan? You must be exhausted. How was your family?”

He answers by stepping forwards and wrapping his fingers around your glass. You watch in stunned silence as he lifts it to his lips, swallowing down the mix of flavours; rooibos, apple, hibiscus, rosehip, orange peel. Peach melba, sugary and mellow against his tongue, cold biting pain against his teeth.

He wipes away a stray drop of tea from his lips. Sunlight ripples in the room as your eyes flicker over his mouth. “Ask me.”

Your eyes tear back up to his. He can feel how the magic in the air slides away from you, pooling on the floor, swirling about your ankles; it’s like the brush of sand against his skin, treading across wet beaches, sticking to the soles of his feet. “Ask you what?”

“I need to pay for the tea. Ask me for a story.”

Jimin can feel the tug in his stomach, that telltale sensation that he has to pay his dues. Still, you seem surprised. “Okay, Jimin. What story do you have to share?”

“I met a witch, once. I was sad, and lonely, but she listened to me, every time I went to see her, again and again.” Jimin can feel your magic rising with each of his words, the gentlest tide. “And one day, she let me listen to her, too. She asked me to give her an answer for an unspoken question. But she didn’t press me for it. She just let me come back, again and again. She gave me a part of her magic. She’s not like any other witch in the world.  I’ve been waiting to find that answer to give to her, but then I realised I had it all along.”

(Where is your home?)

Your mouth drops open, but Jimin speaks over your intake of breath. That tugging in his stomach is still there. That pull towards you. “Ask me for a secret,” Jimin says.

“Okay, Jimin.” Your voice is quiet, but your magic has never felt stronger, spilling out of you like morning dew, shimmering, opalescent. “What’s your secret?”

“I think I’m in love,” he says, feels how the magic in the room swells, but he knows he still has more to give. “Ask me for a confession.”

“Okay, Jimin.” A whisper. Your magic is as bright as a solar flare, glimmering crystal, spun sugar. “What’s your confession?”

“I want to kiss you,” Jimin confesses.

And then he does.

Every window and door flies open, every plant bursts into bloom, every candle catches light, windchimes singing, breeze rushing through every room, but Jimin doesn’t notice any of these things. All he can feel is the warmth of your mouth against his own, the sweet taste of peach, how your magic fizzes on his tongue like champagne, a heady rush. 

Your breath is a flicker of candlelight in his mouth, one that grows into a bonfire, one he readily fans, watches how the flames leap high. One kiss turns to two, then three, your lips fitting so perfectly against his own, parting so readily at the first press of his tongue; your mouth a sweet little curve, dripping honey and syrup, as lovely as the rest of you. The world narrows down to this, to you; your hands warm where they cup his face, run through his hair, soft touches, how perfect those feel. 

He’s breathless when he finally pulls away, resting his forehead against your own. The magic is a heat shimmer, glistening air, surrounding the two of you in its embrace—but it doesn’t shine as brightly as you, your beauty, the sheen on your lips, kiss-swollen and exquisite.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh, Jimin.”

You’re so warm under his hands. The summer air that fills the room is swirling motes of brightness, brushing over you both with its delicate touch, and Jimin breathes you in. Not your magic, but you; a little salt, summer sweat, a little sweet, perfume soft. You feel so perfect like this, wrapped up in his arms, a powerful witch that’s opened up for him, the yielding petals of a flower, the sweet nectar at its core. Jimin’s always hated feeling so small, almost dainty, a slip of a thing compared to Taehyung’s height or Jungkook’s strength, and yet you fit so perfectly against him. 

For all the magic that drips from you like liquid gold, divine and powerful, here you are: all comfort and tenderness and affection, open arms, calling him home.

“I’m giving you my heart.” Jimin presses his words into the lovely swell of your cheeks, the line of your jaw, your neck, lips trailing over your skin, drinking down the way you shiver. “It’s still mine, I know, but I’m giving it to you, too.”

The smile on your face is all open happiness, laughter brighter than every star in the sky. “A witch never lets a payment go unreturned,” you say. “My heart for your heart. Sound fair?”

Jimin’s answering laugh is echoed by the windchimes outside, tickling and light. “I think that settles the score.”

--

(Where is your home?)

(Wherever you are.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

--

[24/09/20] author’s note: hi, guys. so I’ve recently been on a bit of a rereading binge, digging up old favourite fics of mine and enjoying them all over again, and I was horrified to discover a scene in a fic that’s eerily similar to something I’ve written here: namely, the scene where Jimin first comes across the shop and pays for a cup of tea with a happy memory. 

I genuinely had not read the fic in over two years and don’t recall many details at all, but I must have remembered it without realising and echoed it in my own writing. I was reading the fic and my heart genuinely stopped in my chest and I started to freak out because I would never, ever want to plagiarise someone else’s work, intentionally or unintentionally. 

however, on a reread of both the other fic and my own, the scene in question is somewhat similar but not the same. I just feel uncomfortable at the idea of benefiting from someone else’s time; writing is hard work and publishing things online takes a great deal of courage, and I know people who’ve had their work plagiarised, and how much it hurts. so I want to state for the record that when I wrote finding home it was without reference to anyone else’s story, so any similarities were coincidental. 

#bts #bts au #bts imagine #bts fic #bts oneshot #cypherwritersnet #bts drabble #bts fluff #jimin x reader #jimin x you #jimin #park jimin #jimin scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin au #jimin imagine #jimin oneshot #jimin x oc #just wildly throwing tags around like chucking rocks into the ocean #joy.masterlist

[i-drink-and-i-write-fics]

Dragon Queen

Chapter 10: Long Live The Queen

Summary: Your family finally gets their happy ending.

Notes: Thank you all for joining me on my Blood of the Dragon series! Not sure if there will be a part 3, so for now I will keep the series as incomplete on AO3.

Just when you thought your nerves were at their highest point during momentous events in your life, your body proves you wrong. The day had finally come for your coronation and you couldn’t even believe that this is where your life had lead you.

When you were a little girl - long before the X-Gene reared its ugly head - you had a basic idea of how your life was going to go. There had been a career you had picked (even if it wasn’t a realistic one at the age of seven), a place you wanted to live, and how you wanted a princess wedding (you blamed all those Disney movies you had grown up on). But then your life took a turn for the worst when your eyes slowly turned red. And then the nubs for your wings began to push through. Before at last, your tail bone extended outward into an actual tail. That’s when your parents dumped you on the street before the rest of your physical changes could take place.

And now....now you were looking at becoming Queen of New Asgard. You were a former Avenger and Thor’s wife. If only your parents could see you now.

Well, they had tried to, anyway. And it went as well as one could imagine. You don’t even know how they found you. It was shortly before you were pregnant before Thor had even thought of marrying you. Both of you were taking vacation time from the Avengers in Iceland, visiting sites from the show that had been made from the books you and Thor had bonded over. 

The ice-covered lands had been beautiful and your naturally high body heat kept you warm even during the snowstorms. Thor looked so handsome covered in fur from an animal that had roamed his home planet. Both of you dining out on a patio of a local establishment, the wine flowing and laughter filling the air. Until two people who looked vaguely familiar came running up to your table.

“____! There you are! We have looked everywhere for you!” The woman cried, though, her tears didn’t seem genuine. 

The man smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes and seemed rather creepy. “You’ve grown into such a fine young woman. Just look at those wings! Who knew they would get so big?”

You shrank back in your chair when the woman tried to hug you and Thor got in between.

“Forgive us, but do we know you?”

“Oh, you must be Thor!” The man went to shake his hand, but Thor just crossed his arms. “Uh, we’re ___ parents. And we’ve missed her so much!”

Your eyes had gone wide at these words, instantly recognizing the pair in front of Thor. Of course, you saw it now. The woman had your eyes before they had changed. The man your color of hair. Both carried themselves in a similar manner. But there was something off. The woman couldn’t look at your eyes, choosing to focus on your nose so it still looked like she was looking you in the face. The man kept his eyes on your wings, only occasionally sparing a glance at Thor.

“Her parents?” Thor’s voice became colder with each word. “The very ones that threw her out into the street when she was only a child? That left her to be scooped up by Hydra and used as a weapon? All because she couldn’t control that she was a mutant?!”

The woman backed up to her husband, her eyes now on Thor. “That’s no way to speak to us! We are her parents.”

You finally found your voice. “I don’t have any parents. Any ones I did have, lost the right to call themselves as such the moments they refused to act as such.”

Your dad tried to take a firm voice with you. “Now, ____. That’s no way to speak to us. We have been worried sick.”

“Have you?!” You rose to your feet and your wings spread out slightly behind you. “Because the last I remember was you-” you pointed at your father “tossing me into the street while you-” now you gestured at your mother “screamed that such an abomination would not be allowed under your roof. So as far as I’m concerned, my direct family consists of Thor and Loki, of the Avengers, and the X-Men. Those who stood by my side, who saw past my mutation. You only come to me now as I have risen above my past and become a hero. I will not let you back in just so you can use me for my fame.”

“A hero?” Your father sneered. “You just found a place with other freaks.”

“ENOUGH.” Thor’s words carried over the restaurant and now everyone was focused on your table. “You will leave my presence now and never try to contact ____ again.”

As if to emphasize his words, lightning crashed behind him. Your parents took one last look at you, before fleeing for their lives. That night, old wounds had been ripped open and Thor did his best to comfort you.

That night, you knew without a doubt that Thor Odinson was the one for you.

And now, here you were, married to him and a mother of his twins. Awaiting your coronation to become queen of his people. It was better than any childhood dream.

“Are you almost ready, my love?” Thor poked his head into the room, seeing you struggle to zip up your dress.

“Almost….got...it,” you grunted as you tried to reach around your wings.

“Here, allow me.” Thor reached over and zipped the dress up with ease.

You turned around to plant a kiss on your husband. “Thank you, my love. Are the twins ready?”

“Ready and playing with Loki.”

“I hope not with his daggers again.”

“No, he promised no more of those until they were old enough to learn proper safety.”

“Somehow that doesn’t put my mind at ease.” You playfully rolled your eyes. “So? How do I look?”

Thor took in the floor-length gown that was deep red with black lace over the bodice and bell, matching your wings and eyes. Your tail twitched nervously behind you.

“You look amazing as always, my Queen.”

“I’m no queen.”

“Not yet. Just a couple more hours.”

And that brought back your nerves. “Are you sure about this? It’s not too late to change your mind.”

Thor chuckled as he kissed the top of your head. “You will do fine, I promise.”

While you tried to always believe Thor when he showered you with compliments and praise, it was still hard to believe you were the best choice for queen. Soon, Thor left to see to the ceremony and you paced your room as you waited.

Hilde poked her head in. “Hey, your grace.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Very professional.”

“Eh, I’ll save it for after the ceremony.”

“Save it for public appearances only,” you laughed again.

“So….should I even ask if you are ready?” Your face fell and Hilde instantly ran up to hug you. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. You’ll do great!”

“I just worry that-”

Hilde pulled away so she could look you in the face. “If you’re about to say you’re not worthy of Thor or being a queen, I will literally shake the sense into you.”

That made you laugh once more and you hugged her again. “Thanks, Hilde. I guess then I am ready.”

She called a few guards to make a formation around you as you began your long walk to the throne room. And just like Thor’s coronation, your wedding, and the announcement of your twins, your makeshift family of the Avengers and the X-Men were there to watch your new chapter in your life. To support you as they had when they first freed you from Hydra.

The only faces to be missing were your parents and there would never be a moment in your life where you truly would miss them. Need them. Love them. 

Next to the dais, Loki held your son while Helena cradled your daughter. Taking a deep breath, you slowly climbed up the steps to the thrones and stood next to Thor, who looked breathtaking in his armor and red cape. 

You turned to face the audience, your wings pulled back and your tail draped to line around the edge of your skirt. Smiles across the room greeted you. Thor stepped up next to you before addressing the crowd.

“Nearly seven years ago, the Avengers were called upon to stop a dangerous weapon that Hydra control. It was soon obvious that the truth was worse than that. That Hydra really had a powerful prisoner. Over time I was lucky enough to earn that person’s trust, setting her free from her prison. We fell in love, got engaged, and she gave me two beautiful children. We have had our fair share of ups and downs, and there is no one I would have by my side than her. My fellow Avenger. My wife. My Dragon Queen.”

The crowd erupted in cheers as Thor moved to placed a silver crown atop your head, then moved to stand by your side. As you both held hands, you couldn’t help the tears that came to your eyes.

No, this wasn’t the fairytale life you had pictured when you were a child. This was far better.

Tagging Crew:

Everything

@marvelfansworld​

@that-chick212​

@keetnerj01​

Dragon Queen

@animegirlgeeky​

@profoundtyrantharmony​

#marvel #marvel cinematic universe #fanfic #fan fic #dragon queen #blood of the dragon series #thor #thor x fem!reader #fem!reader

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24Leaders #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental justice #environment protection #environmental health #Youtube