i want to cuddle with early 90's james. like, he comes back home after staying until late at the studio recording the black album, and he's so tired that he just wants to go to bed to cuddle and make out.
aaaand then we fuck
i like to think of this james purely because i've been thinking about him a LOT lately
you'll be in bed, having gone to sleep hours before he came home and wake up to the bed shifting with his weight. he's trying not to disturb you, cringing as the bed creaks and slowly pulling the covers around him.
he can't help but press a quick kiss to your head when he's finally settled, turning over to try and get some sleep. but you've missed him all day and want to say hello. so you turn over, wrapping your arm around him and kissing the space between his shoulder blades.
"hi," you say, voice laced with sleep.
he turns back around, hand automatically on your waist and gazing at you in the dark.
"didn't mean to wake you up," he mutters, struggling to stifle a yawn as he pulls you closer.
"i heard you come in." you snuggle closer to him, pressing your face into his neck and pressing a small kiss to the skin. "i missed you today."
he chuckles, hand running through your hair and caressing the back of your head.
"i missed you too."
you pull yourself from his neck, smiling sleepily at him and reaching up to cup his face with one hand.
"good day?" you ask, stroking his cheekbone with your thumb.
"it was alright." you're so close you can feel the heat of his breath on your face. "didn't get much done though."
that's what you were waiting for. you could tell as soon as he sat down on the bed that his day hadn't been brilliant. it was the relaxing of his shoulders when you finally touched him - the unclenching of his jaw as your fingers traced his face. he was glad to be home.
"that's okay, you've got time," you reassured, smiling at him to provide some comfort.
"i know. i'm just glad to be home." his hand was flat against your back, pulling you as close to him as was comfortable.
"i'm glad you're home."
it's the last words you speak to each other before your lips overtake your speech, kissing each other softly.
it doesn't take much time - a few wandering hands and a slip of his tongue inside your mouth - before the mood switches and his kisses become more desperate.
"need you," he murmurs into your mouth, rolling over so he's on top of you, arms bracketing your head as he presses his lips to your jaw. "missed you so much today. all i could think about..." a kiss to your neck. "was fucking that pretty pussy of yours."
you can only whimper in reply, noises being pulled from your throat as he sucks on your neck.
"been thinking about those pretty little noises you make." he pushes your shirt up, exposing your breasts and sucking and biting at the flesh. a noise escapes your throat and he smiles against your skin. "yeah, those kinda noises."
you laugh with him, hands threading into his hair and tugging him back up to your mouth.
"you feeling better?" you ask genuinely, scanning his face and trying to pinpoint any tension. you find none.
"i'm always better when i'm with you."
he fucks you slow that night, long, languid strokes filled with intention and desire that have you moaning into his mouth. he mutters "i love you" in the dark, over and over until you its the only thing you can hear.
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What do you think as Hermione's career would be post battle of Hogwarts? To me her being minister for magic really doesn't make sense. She does not have patience or tact to wade through murky waters of politics 😭😭
So hard to say! The Trio are so, so young when we leave them, I find it almost impossible to project their futures farther than a few years out. The job that suited me at 17 would be radically unsuited to me now. That's why of all the Trio, Ron's ending strikes me as the most realistic — he jumps straight into the save-the-world business again, burns out, realizes he's actually Done The Fuck Enough, Thanks, and pivots into a low-stress career where he gets to see his family a lot. Feels accurate! The others are weirder to me because they do seem to just... pick a lane and stay there.
With Hermione, you could spin her a couple ways. You could say that she leans into her bookish side and does research or teaching, which is not my preference for a couple reasons (namely, I don't think Hermione would like academia as a profession; she finds her classwork interesting and enjoys intellectual validation, but she'd be stifled and wasted in a DPhil program, and she'd be infuriated by the administrative politicking of your average higher-ed faculty). You could say that she gets disaffected with politics and ends up as a barrister or a lobbyist of some kind, but if anything that requires more political finesse, because you don't actually have institutional power, you're just handling the people who make decisions and trying to persuade them of your goals. This is not Hermione's preferred method of influence. She's not even particularly good at persuasion, she just happens to be smart enough (and right often enough) that people take her ideas seriously.
Or you could say her brashness fades with the years into a softened flavor of tell-you-like-it-is honesty, which some politicians actually do successfully trade on; as we see in British politics today, you don't have to be all that charming or clever to get ahead, you just need to be really driven and well-connected (which Hermione completely is; she fought shoulder-to-shoulder with the first postwar Minister and her bestie, the Literal Messiah, runs the Auror Office.) But I don't know if Hermione especially wants to be Minister, after the war. She's just watched years of horrendous bureaucratic incompetence plunge the country into a violent civil conflict. She's had not one, but two Ministers of Magic try to bully or shame her friends into complicity with fascism. Her view of government is... likely extremely dark.
But Hermione also isn't the kind of person who sees her life as a quest for happiness. Babygirl has a savior complex that makes Harry look selfish. (She basically kills her parents — yeah, obliviating is a form of murder, #changemymind — "for their own good," and justifies every batshit, vindictive, mean-spirited move she ever pulls on the grounds that it "helps" one of her friends.) She is a mean, lean, dragon-slaying machine, and she needs a dragon. After Voldemort, the Ministry is the no. 1 threat to muggle-borns and non-wizarding Beings. As a war heroine with basically infinite political capital, I'd be surprised if she didn't try to do something there. That said, Hermione is so vivacious and dynamic that she could potentially grow in a hundred different directions; it's possible that all of this, while true of her at 18, becomes completely inaccurate by 22. That's why I'm not too fussed about any particular fanon interpretation.
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THE QUEENLY TRADITION OF KILLING BEARS AND SAVING PRINCES
In the very same forest where his parents met, Ayn reminisces about them with you. The conversation gets derailed long before you decide to tease him about the Sword of Transcendence—only to get teased in turn.
— pairing: [godheim] ayn alwyn x little painter/you
— word count: 1.3k
— tags: established relationship, referenced pregnancy, takes place after an AU of courtyard reunion/crown's weight where they were together the entire time
— note: i've had this in mind since the scene where you kill a bear. it's the writer's fault for making parallels so easy to draw.
— return to lbc masterlist | series: none
"THIS—" AYN SAYS AS THE sound of the careful footsteps and rustling grass draw closer to his location, underneath the very same tree that witnessed his parents' first meeting. "—is where my parents met. It took a while for me to find it, but I can finally show it to you."
In lieu of a greeting, his queen gazes upon him with a displeased expression. "I could've been an assassin."
Rather poetically, your long, messy hair has been tamed into a well-behaved plait. But you are not his mother, and he is not his father. There should be no tragedies in your future, and Lars will once more sit on the throne only if Ayn's own child refuses it.
"I knew it was you." He watches the ends of your red bow—the same shade as your dress—peak out shyly from behind your head. "Do you not trust my instincts?"
You don't respond. Instead, your gaze travels to the initials carved onto the tree trunk, where the E of his mother's maiden name has been overwritten by the A of his father's, and his own, surname. Crossing the remaining distance, you neatly sidestep his hand and places yours over the crude outline of the heart surrounding them.
"She saved him from an assassin," you murmur, voice distant and guilty.
At once, he knows where it is your thoughts have wandered to. Ayn shifts, reaching out his gloved hand to you—an offer, to do as you please, whether it's to pull yourself down, or pull him up, or to simply hold on.
"This is where Father meant to give her the Sword of Transcendence," he explains, once you take his hand and sit down. His voice has grown softer, and you take it as your cue to rest your head on his shoulder. "But he changed his mind after one of his knights stopped him and made a ceremony of it."
Even though you've heard this story before, you seem as enchanted by it as you did the last time—and all the times before that. You adjust your hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and when he looks over at you, he sees nothing but pure affection in your gaze.
Birdsong accompanies his story, as does the gentle rustling of the leaves. Closing his eyes, he remembers the days where his parents would narrate it for him. As a child, before he began to properly notice Father's treatment of Mother, he found it to be nothing less than a perfect fairytale.
Now though, most of the magic has been scrubbed off, leaving behind only a bitter taste on his tongue he associates with the life Mother could've had without him and his father. Ayn only hopes his own child won't feel the same way about him.
"And that was when he asked her to be his bodyguard," he finishes, repeating exactly what his father would say at the end.
"We met in a ballroom," you lament, after your obligatory cooing. The longing in your usual comments that you don't is especially pronounced today. "No carving hearts into meaningful trees for us."
He smiles faintly, angling his head towards you. "The ballroom is much closer to the palace than this tree."
"It doesn't have to be a tree," you murmur. Before he can comfort you, though, you spring back to life, lifting your head off his shoulder with a faux thoughtful look on your face—and he pays the price for it, your shoulder bumping against his, with a fond sigh. "But, you know, I've saved your life before. I've even killed a bear before. Even if we don't have a tree or a flower field—"
Lips stained red, slanted into a mischievous smirk. A slight tilt of your head. Gloved fingers tucking the longer strands of your bangs back behind your ear. You lean in close, until all that's left in his vision from the scenery around them is the golden hue your hair takes under the gleaming sun.
"How come I don't have a fancy heirloom sword to pass down?" you ask, clearly anticipating your turn at teasing him.
"You're right," he acknowledges easily, a bit unwilling to play along. Ayn cups his chin in such a manner that it covers up the small smile playing on his lips, and commits himself to the act. "I should've prepared some sort of gift."
The smirk on your face drops as he taps the handle of the Sword of Transcendence. A panicked gaze lingers on him, on his hand, and it isn't long before your emotions manifest in a more...physical manner.
"Wait, no—" You straighten up, hurriedly putting some distance between them, and perhaps Ayn is a terrible person for it, but he can't help but silently guffaw. "That was a joke. That's your mother's sword! You can't—you can't give that to me."
When it becomes clear that your ramblings have no end, he reaches out and curls his fingers around your wrist. The act silences you immediately, even before his patented snarky comment. You wrap your own hand around his, and your fingers slot into place in the spaces left between.
"Why not? I thought you wanted a 'fancy heirloom sword'." he quotes.
Though you hardly look threatening with the rosy hue of your cheeks clashing against your scowl, he can admire your commitment to the role. "I'll take another one."
"I don't have another one," Ayn responds innocently, taking delight in the way your glare intensifies.
"Make another one then," you fire back immediately, crossing your arms. A pout forms on your lips, before your hand slips out and cradle your still flat belly. "Your father is such a bully. Don't let him fool you, okay?"
He bites back a smile and leans closer, closing the gap between you and him. "I should be saying that about you."
You seem to understand what he's after. With a snort, you make the first move, pressing your lips to his for a quick kiss. But despite that, when you pull back, you're still holding onto your grudge.
You even go so far as to throw his own words back at him.
At that moment, he has a sudden, vivid vision of his own child—your child, separated by gender only through the length of their ambiguously-colored hair and nothing else—stirring up trouble. Usually, in idle moments, when his thoughts wander to the future, Ayn sometimes frets about what they'll take from who. From whether red eyes and deep purple hair is a better combination than the opposite, to whether they'll favor a paintbrush or an instrument, and anything in between.
But their affinity for trouble-making is something he's never budged, and right now, Ayn is certain your features lend themselves best to trouble-making.
Narrowing his eyes fondly at his wife, he says, "We can let the little one decide then."
The expression on your face as you think over his offer would fool anyone into thinking you were deliberating over something serious. You purse your lips, taking the time to exaggerate your exasperation, and declare:
"That would take years. So, I'll let you off, just this once."
"Oh, how can I ever repay you?" His voice is dripping with amusement. Ayn has the smile to match, which only widens as he pretends to have found the answer. "I know—"
"Not a sword."
Ayn bursts into laughter—the kind that leaves him breathless, with an aching stomach and a curse that only prolongs his condition. Soon, you join in as well, and then both of them are stuck in a loop, able to afford only a slight lull of peace before something or the other sets them off.
"A kiss?" he wheezes, once his laughter begins to die down. For real, this time.
"That—"
You don't hesitate to take him up on his offer. But this one is not a merely peck. He has enough time to pull you into his arms and onto his lap. Enough time to think about what it is that you taste like. Fruit, mostly.
When you pull back, both hands still cupping his cheeks, your eyes are glimmering with delight.
"—I'd say, is acceptable."
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