#Blackboard red wine

[inoreuct]

zosan caretaking fluff feat. hair washing, banter and very soft vibes. dinner is served.

Sanji sighed, sliding down until the back of his head pressed against the lip of the bathtub. The water was toeing the line between too hot and just right and he'd poured in enough lavender emulsion to coat it with dense, heady bubbles; they tickled his chin as he let his eyes slip shut.

It had been such a long day.

He'd been rudely woken up by the sound of a cannonball crashing through their hull, tossed out of his bunk a second later when the enemy ship rammed into their side; having to fight moments after being startled awake had already put him in a horrid mood, and then he'd realised that the galley had taken damage and he would have to restock more than half of everything he'd had in there. The fridge had lost power too so he'd had to cook all the meat that had thawed (which, to be fair, was never a problem with Luffy around) but then his whole crew had scattered during their supply run and he'd lugged a shit-ton of food back to the Sunny himself and now his brain was buzzing and his everything was aching and he was pretty sure he had gunpowder in his hair.

The steam filled his lungs when he breathed in, damp and dense and warm, settling heavy as he trailed his fingers through the milky water. His neck hurt from staring down at goods all day and he could feel the beginning of a tension headache behind his eyeballs. It was a small blessing that he had the bathroom to himself—

The door creaked open.

Goddammit. Sanji sucked down a fortifying breath before he looked up— and relaxed, because thankfully, the one possible person he might be able to tolerate at the moment was sliding inside with one arm behind his back.

Zoro pushed the door shut with his heel, loose pants wrapped low around his hips and hair already darkening from the humidity. "Hi."

"Hello, marimo," Sanji sighed, tilting his head to the side. He watched as Zoro trudged over and stuck his free hand into the water before yanking it back with a muffled hiss.

"That's hot."

"Nearly enough to boil a lobster," the cook agreed mildly, eyebrows flashing up as he turned his head to track Zoro pulling up a stool, lazy and languid. "Now did you need anything, or are you just here to kill off more of my brain cells?"

Zoro gave him a dry look.

A heavy exhale slipped from Sanji's nose before he reached behind him, fingers brushing Zoro's elbow and sliding down to take his hand. He spread the swordsman's fingers out, tracing over hard-earned callouses with featherlight swirls. "I'm sorry, mon chou," he sighed, letting his temple fall against Zoro's knuckles. "Just... tired, is all."

"I know." Zoro flipped his palm, rubbing a thumb over Sanji's cheekbone before pulling away. "Brought you something."

Sanji heard the sound of glass being picked up and nearly turned before he was presented with a dark, stout bottle, the labelling font reminiscent of chalk on a blackboard. "Pirate Blend," he read, huffing a chuckle. Fitting. "No glass?"

"As if you won't finish the whole thing."

He let out a faux-indignant gasp, reaching out to whack the back of his hand against Zoro's bare chest. "Ass."

"That was my tit, cook. Think the steam's getting to your head."

The laugh that peeled its way out of Sanji's throat was sticky with exhaustion, steeped through with lavender suds and underpinned by the ache in his muscles as he popped the cork with his teeth and took a swig. "...Where did you get this?"

"There was a tasting booth in the market. Thought you'd like this one."

"You thought right," Sanji admitted, lifting the bottle to his mouth again and letting the wine coat his tongue; a red by the taste of it, with a nearly savoury spiced vanilla and dark, syrupy cacao, a rich core of sweet berry, an almost silky hint of dry tannin. He held out the bottle, but Zoro shook his head with a soft quirk of his mouth.

"Got it for you, swirly."

The cook smirked. "Suit yourself. So that's where you ran off to while poor little me was stuck doing all the heavy lifting," he lamented, sighing and emphasising it with an exaggerated sip.

"Not just that."

He heard twine sliding across waxed paper, packaging rustling as it was unfolded—

The water sloshed as Sanji set his bottle down and turned around, holding onto the edge of the tub as Zoro pulled the last bit of paper away to reveal the set of soaps in his lap.

The cook's breath caught. Each of the five bars clearly had a different scent, and a design to match; the one with green and cream swirls was matcha, surely, and the translucent one with rose petals was obviously rose. One more was oat and honey, and the one with a herb sprig on top was definitely rosemary mint— But the last one was plain brown, mild enough that his nose couldn't pick out what it was supposed to be. "Marimo."

"Hm?"

"How much did these cost?"

Zoro shot him a smug grin. "Just a couple of logs that needed chopping... And some charm."

"You." The cook blinked, stretching out like a cat to rest his chin on his hands, lips twitching as he tried to hide his awed smile. "Charm."

"Oi! I can be charming when I want to be!" The swordsman scowled at Sanji's fond, disbelieving scoff. "I charmed you, didn't I?"

"Yes, well—" Sanji felt a little breathless, buoyant, like if he let go of the tub he'd float with no effort at all. "Yes, I suppose you did." He held still, heart fluttering in the hollow of his throat as Zoro's face softened, leaning forward to poke at something in his hair.

"You've got gunpowder in your bangs."

"I— Ugh, I know!" he complained, rolling over with a dramatic sigh.

"Well, hurry up and pick one, then!"

"Pick one?" Sanji lurched up again, bubbles sloshing everywhere, eyes flicking between Zoro and the soaps. "I can't just pick one, they all smell so good and they're too pretty to—"

"Oh, for the love of— Curly, can you just pick one and let me wash your hair?" Zoro deadpanned, crossing his arms over his chest and completely oblivious to the way he'd just made Sanji's entire system freeze, the inconsiderate moss-headed bastard.

If a cannonball crashed into their ship again, Sanji wouldn't have noticed. If the Sunny was sinking, he wouldn't have cared. He was much too preoccupied with staring at the man sitting in front of him, skin flushed with the warmth, green hair mussed as it always was, soaps that he'd bought for Sanji on a whim in his lap. The cook's fingers dug into the edge of the tub and gripped until ceramic squeaked. Zoro wanted to wash his hair.

Zoro's throat bobbed as he swallowed, clearly fighting the urge to look away. "Look, if you don't want—"

"No!" Sanji yelped, startling himself enough that he nearly clapped his hands over his own mouth. "No, I— This one," he breathed, reaching for the plain brown bar and pressing it into Zoro's palm. "This one." He knew that he probably looked nearly shocked, eyes so wide it must have been unsettling, but his chest ached something fierce when he breathed in deep down all the way to his gut and he couldn't help it. His water must have been getting cold by now but he didn't feel it at all.

Zoro's lashes fluttered as he shifted in his seat, carefully wrapping the rest of the soaps up and placing them aside. "Okay, then. Turn around."

Sanji flipped, sitting still as Zoro gently pulled the tie from his hair and slipped it around his own wrist, holding back a shiver when calloused hands cupped his face to guide him nearer the running tap. The water seemed warm, but not warmer than Zoro himself; the swordsman always seemed to run ridiculously hot and Sanji—

"Relax," Zoro murmured, his hand broad and steady against the back of Sanji's head. "I've got you, cook. Lean back."

And Sanji was slowly coming to realise that he was loathe to deny Zoro anything, so he did. He let his weight sink back against Zoro's hand, trusting the swordsman to hold him up, letting his eyes close as Zoro carefully poured water over his scalp until his curls were soaked. He didn't open them even as he was pushed back up, settling comfortably in the tub as Zoro lathered the soap in his hands. What remaining suds left in the tub lapped at his collarbones; the water was a soothing pressure all around his torso, and he didn't bother hiding his soft sigh when Zoro's fingers slid into his hair.

"S'getting long." Firm fingertips started scrubbing at his scalp, kneading into spots of tension Sanji didn't even know he had. "You gonna cut it?"

"Mm? No," he sighed, shuddering when Zoro dragged his thumbs up from his nape. "Think I w'na grow it out."

Zoro hummed at that, tipping the cook's head to the side. "You'll look pretty."

"I know I will. And you'll tell me every day."

"Oh, will I, now?"

"Mhm."

The swordsman scoffed without any bite, doing something with his fingers that made Sanji melt. "You're so cocky."

"Mhm," Sanji mumbled again, not even bothering to find out what he was agreeing to. He had better things to focus on. "Just... keep doing that."

He heard Zoro chuckle and then pretty much zoned out completely, tension bleeding from his muscles, letting Zoro move his head this way and that. His bathwater was tepid at this point; he didn't care. Zoro's hands were big and warm and as the bubbles drifted down to his shoulders, he finally realised what this bar was scented with.

Sandalwood suffused his senses, a deep creamy sweetness with an undercurrent of leather and earth. With what little wherewithal he had left, Sanji decided that it suited Zoro more than it did him. Maybe he'd try to convince the mosshead to take it for himself. A few kisses should be bribery enough. Fingertips dug beneath the bones just behind his ears, working until the ache dissipated, and Sanji felt his shoulders slump because God, that felt good.

He didn't know how long he sat there, drifting blissfully between sleep and Zoro's fingers scrubbing at his crown, gingerly detangling his hair, but if you had to ask him his answer would be not long enough. His eyes fluttered open when Zoro tapped his cheek, and he squinted at the light. "Wh—"

"Wake up, baby. Gotta rinse."

The pet name made something tucked inside his ribcage pull tight like a gasp, but Sanji just closed his eyes again. "Just a while longer..."

Zoro chuckled as Sanji's head lolled in his palm. "We should get you to bed."

"Noooooo." Was he whining? This was ridiculous. He really didn't care.

"You're a spoiled prince," Zoro said matter-of-factly.

"Your fault." Sanji discreetly cracked one eye open to gauge the swordsman's reaction and immediately closed it when he saw Zoro's expression, sucking in a hitched breath.

That was enough devotion in a glance to kill a man, and it tore through Sanji like a fucking bullet. Right through the ribs, in and out faster than he could stop it, so quick that he didn't even realise until his love was bleeding out of him, all over his hands, filling his mouth, colouring his teeth, honeyed at the back of his throat and finally he'd be able to see how much of it his heart held. He didn't mind. He didn't think he ever would, actually; he'd fill this bathtub with red if it meant that Zoro would see. If it meant that he would understand how every time he looked at Sanji like that it felt like he had Sanji's heart in his fist, his lungs in a vice, his goddamn life under his thumb.

Sanji had come to terms with it long ago. He put his soul in these battle-scarred hands every day and he trusted them to be gentle because he knew that they could, they would be, for him. Even now, Zoro took his weight easily, one palm at his nape and the other stopping suds from getting into his eyes and it meant far too much for something so simple, but that was just how it worked, wasn't it?

The cook swallowed hard, allowing himself one more moment before pushing up so Zoro wouldn't accidentally waterboard him. It would possibly be hilarious but he might also very possibly just die, considering how low his guard was. The thought made him laugh a little, strained with how his head was tipped back; he saw Zoro give him a weird look upside-down and decided that he was either more tired than he'd thought or he'd had more of the wine than he'd realised.

Zoro rinsed his hair quickly, but he was no less meticulous than he had been at the beginning. It was something that Sanji had refused to admit he admired at first, that single-minded intensity regarding the things Zoro cared about, and oh, wasn't that a thought? That he belonged within that distinction now. Sanji pulled his knees to his chest when the swordsman leaned over to grab the towel he had set out, scrunching the cook's hair dry as best he could and then dropping the fluffy white cloth over his head just to make him laugh.

The bottle of wine was relatively full when Sanji picked it up, holding it up to the light as Zoro dried his hair. "Guess I didn't finish it after all."

"Yeah, well." Zoro shrugged as he took it from him to put aside and tugged gently on a stray curl. "Nobody's gonna want it now that it has your spit in it."

Sanji scoffed. "You'd still drink it. You'd drink any booze."

"...Yeah, I would."

Zoro's eyes were a soft grey as he stood up. Sanji had a feeling that he could have left out the second part of that statement and the answer would still be the same.

He let Zoro pull him up out of the tub, wrap him in the towel and hold open the pair of briefs he'd left for him to step into. He held his arms up as Zoro pulled his soft sleep shirt over his head, brazen as if he didn't know full well the shirt was Zoro's to begin with. If it were any other time he might have protested against being helped to dress like a child— but for now he'd just refuse to admit that he enjoyed it, enjoyed being cared for, even in minute ways like this. Plausible deniability and all that.

Sanji didn't resist as the swordsman took his hand, leading him back to the men's quarters and tugging the covers up for him, patting them into place around his shoulders as he settled. The bed dipped by his hip where Zoro sat, and Sanji sighed as his damp bangs were brushed away from his face. Zoro liked seeing both his eyes, he'd noticed. Maybe he'd start wearing his hair back more often.

"Goodnight, cook," Zoro whispered, leaning down to press a soft kiss to Sanji's temple.

Sanji's brain was full of cotton and sandalwood suds. He squeezed over underneath the blankets, cupping Zoro's face in his palms. "Stay."

The swordsman laughed under his breath. "Haven't showered."

Sanji considered letting him in anyway, but yep, nope, guess his brain wasn't that full of cotton. "Make it quick," he ordered, the effect broken by the massive yawn that interrupted his last word. Pulling Zoro down for a proper kiss was easier than breathing, the press of their lips just enough to wrap warmth over his skin like a blanket. "And use the soap from just now."

Zoro huffed at the words murmured against his mouth. "Spoiled."

"Your fault," Sanji yawned again, jabbing a finger into Zoro's chest before waving him away.

He heard his boyfriend's rumble of a laugh, smiled into his pillow as Zoro's acquiescence was brushed over his cheek, before the lamp was turned down and the door opened and shut. He'd been serious about Zoro being quick; they both slept better when they shared a bunk, and today had been more than enough of a shitshow for them to have earned a good night's rest.

Sanji snuggled down, fully intent on waiting.

He was asleep between one breath and the next.

(And if he woke briefly to curl closer when Zoro slid half-asleep into bed behind him, clean and warm and smelling of sandalwood, well. Neither of them would remember it in the morning.)

thank you for reading! part 2 where sanji takes care of zoro is already in the works, so keep your eyes peeled if you're interested :)

#wishing i was sanji rn #i'm telling you that man is fussy about his drinks but zoro knows his preference down to the last flavour note #that l.a.s. vino pirate blend is a real thing btw and it's absolutely delicious #zosan #zosan fanfic #one piece zosan #op zosan #zoro x sanji #roronoa zoro #black leg sanji #sanji #one piece sanji #zoro #one piece zoro #one piece #ino writes #it has been SUCH a long day it's 3am again #but writing this was like a balm to my soul

[bramble-scramble]

Of Verses and Curses: Chapter Five

Author’s notes:

[I sighed a song that silence brings, it’s the one that everybody knows.

Oh everybody knows the song that silence sings, and this, this was how it goes.]

Yesterday I talked about struggling with the ending of this part. Originally the events were stretched out over two days, and I was torn between keeping it that way because SLOWWW BURN! SLOW DOWN THE DAWNING REALIZATIONS! and condensing it because it was getting way too long-winded and just not fun to write, or probably to read. I eventually went with the condensed version because that’s the one that just feels better and that I’m happy with. Dead time in a story, just like on stage, isn’t very interesting, after all. So yeah, these boys are falling fast... but that’s just how it is sometimes, isn’t it? Fanon thanks: @randomrabbidramblings​ for the idea that Phantom punctuates his more flirtatious statements with purrs. Did you know rabbit purring is actually them clicking their teeth together really fast? I just learned that the other day and have been waiting for a chance to drop that knowledge. So, the skills on this guy to do that between talking! Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five - Kindred Spirits

Woodrow had business to attend to in town, and all afternoon he went about it, moving slightly faster than normal, merrily, humming to himself- and the songs that came out of him were familiar ones, comforting ones, ones he had listened to time and again on his gramophone; they were the Phantom's. No one in town failed to notice his demeanor. The spring in his step, his energy, his smile - it was all quite unusual. The locals babbled and whispered amongst themselves when he passed, swinging his umbrella about with a jolly flourish. He felt the sun shine clear and bright upon him, and today not even Jinx had the power to block it completely.

Before he knew it, the appointed hour drew near. Having made a quick visit home to make sure he was all in order, to adjust his bowtie, and even to slick down the wisps of scruffy hair under his hat, he made his way back to the inn.

Entering by a side door into the establishment’s adjoining restaurant, he saw a few villagers seated at scattered tables and booths- and then, in the back, settled into a plush chair at a large table, looking almost like a king on a dais: the man he was looking for. No longer wearing the black and gold of earlier, he was now in his most familiar traditional outfit, the one he was known for, the one Woodrow had expected to first see him in - all sumptuous and vibrant, red and blue. And he only seemed to grow brighter and more splendid the closer the warden got. To see him in person… a songbird in all his glory, resplendent in plumage divine-

The warden stopped in place, and stopped his thoughts as well. A poem need not rhyme, and he was getting dangerously close to a poem. And why did he need to write one, anyway? Why did he need to write one for someone whose whole existence was poetry-

“Ah! Monsieur!” He had been noticed. With a suave gesture, the Phantom motioned to the matching seat across from him. The warden did his little bow and took off his hat, placing it on the table - he had been so distracted he’d forgotten to hang it up at the entrance- and settled back into the chair. It had been designed for the bulkier Rabbids of the area and was rather spacious and empty around his uncommonly oblong form.

The two made small talk as they decided what to get, looking over the menu written on a big blackboard on the wall. When the waiter came over, the Phantom ordered their house red wine for himself, and looked expectantly at the warden, who asked for a non-alcoholic apple cider.

After the server had left, Phantom turned to his companion. “You don’t drink?”

“Not often,” said the warden. In truth, he did sometimes… but sometimes it led to depression, and always- ALWAYS it led to poetry. And thus he'd have to abstain, for a while.

When their drinks arrived and they waited on their meal, Phantom took a sip and glanced over his wineglass at the warden. “So,” he said, after a swallow, “I have been wanting to speak to you about your writing.”

Woodrow’s ears pressed themselves backwards involuntarily, and he choked on his cider.

“Oh- are you alright?” asked the Phantom in concern, leaning over.

The warden coughed a bit. “Yes,” he managed to get out after a moment, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I’m fine.”

“I am glad of that! As I said, I have read some of your work, and I find it quite wonderful. To be honest… it moves my soul. And I can scarcely believe it- to think I should find myself destined to stay on a planet where such a storied poet resides, as the very warden, no less!”

‘Storied’ is right, thought Woodrow, wondering how much he knew.

“...What is it you wish to know about my poetry?” he said cautiously, feeling a burning in his ears and cheeks that was half astonished pleasure and half dread.

“Oh- anything! Your process, what inspires you. I suppose I am most curious about what you’re working on now. Have you written anything good lately? I should love to be your sounding-board.”

The erstwhile poet frowned and looked down at his hands. “Alas, I must admit��� I am not writing much right now,” he said, clasping his paws together.

“Oh?” said the Phantom, seeming a bit crestfallen. “Writer’s block?”

“Yes,” answered Woodrow. “That’s just it. The muses have fled me. More’s the pity- I should have liked to compose something to commemorate your momentous arrival, but… the well of my inspiration is dry, as of late. I am under a drought… the river has ceased to flow."

“It’s alright,” said Phantom, sadly but gently. “I feel the same way with my own work recently. You can’t force these things.”

“Yes, of course you understand,” said Woodrow with gratitude, and he knew that the other truly did. Only… it wasn’t true, for the warden, of course. The poems were definitely still there- battering and scratching at the locked door in his mind, building up like a flood behind a beaver’s hastily-built dam. He wondered how long it would hold.

“But I do hope your muses come back, while I am here,” said the singer with a smile. “Or that you might at least recite some of your existing work to me. I’d love to hear it in the author’s own voice.”

“Yes, well! It is painful to even think of such matters right now, but- but we shall see,” said Woodrow, his ears flopping down helplessly to the sides of his face, at a loss as to how he could ever resolve this. But he would worry about that later - he ought to try and enjoy this night. Forcing his ears back upwards, he said, “But enough about me! I know… I know times have been rough for you, of late. If it’s alright to ask… how have you kept yourself busy, since retiring from the opera?”

Phantom smiled somewhat ruefully- excited to talk about himself, even if to vent his woes. He explained how, in addition to going on publicity tours and making money from selling and signing his own older work, he had hardly retired from the stage entirely. He’d been getting cameo roles in plays, and even non-singing roles in musicals; even with brief stage-time, they were still enough to be attractions in themselves, and to make the crowd go wild. (Sometimes with boos, if they were part of Bea’s fanbase.)

They had to be smaller roles, though- his voice was not only totally ruined for singing, but he couldn’t even talk for too long without the damage becoming notable. Woodrow said he hadn’t noticed, and indeed he hadn’t as of yet- but as the night went on, he was saddened to notice a faint scratchiness, a raspiness, start emerging in his companion’s rich voice, like static on a radio signal as the radio moved further and further from its source. When it started to come out, Woodrow said not a word, but noticed his companion would take a drink, and rest for a moment, and sometimes look wistfully into the distance at nothing in particular.

But it did not stop him from talking. Throughout their meal - a vegetarian stuffed eggplant for the planet’s warden, and a seared fish filet for the visitor - the singer went into detail about the plots of his favorite productions he had starred in, the character motivations of his roles, how he had moved into somewhat of a backstage coaching capacity recently (another stream of income), and how happy he was to still work in the theatre despite his ailment. Woodrow sat rapt in attention, sometimes forgetting to eat, his head resting dreamily on his paw. His companion had such a fine voice, and he began to think that its supposed damage was not so bad, really… no more of a problem than the fuzziness and pops of an old record - in fact, that’s what it quite sounded like indeed. A layer that added a feeling of texture and nostalgia, not covering up the pleasure of the listening experience. The warden found himself hardly comprehending his companion’s words sometimes, only hearing the resonance of his voice, the rising and falling lilt of his passion. He did not need to sing to make music.

“Hello! Would you like any dessert?” the voice of the waiter brought Woodrow back to reality. He looked down at his food, which was only half-eaten, and said, “Oh… no, thank you, I shall be fine.” He then took to hurriedly trying to finish his meal while the Phantom ordered something for himself.

“Crème brulée,” he repeated merrily when the waiter had gone. “My favorite.”

Woodrow swallowed and looked over at him. “To be honest, I am somewhat surprised that a ghost can eat at all. Fascinating…” then his eyes suddenly widened behind his glasses, and he winced. He had asked the question in the state of dreamlike wonder into which his companion’s voice had lulled him, but now he was embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry… that was rather rude-”

The Phantom laughed, then leaned his elbow on the table and his face in his hand. “Not at all!” he said. “You must remember, mon ami, that a ghost is only one of the many things that I am. In fact, it’s not as though I was made from a real ghost at all. The mere concept of one created me, thus I am more one in concept than in reality… does that make sense?”

“Hmm,” said Woodrow. “Perhaps, but not fully. I hope… I shall come to understand better in time, as I know you more.”

“I am sure of it,” said the Phantom. “For now, let me put it like this - I may look like a ghost, and I may have some of their powers, but my needs… my desires… remain that of the living.”

Woodrow nearly choked again. Had there… had there been a slight purr in the pauses between his words? No- surely that was just the scratching of his voice….

“I- I see!” was all he could get out, and he hurried to finish his meal before it got too much colder.

Luckily, their conversation quickly returned to theatre and music. And when Woodrow had finished his food, and Phantom his dessert, and the check was settled… they found themselves once more on the veranda of the inn, preparing to part.

And yet, it was clear that neither of them wanted to. Jinx had come down under the awning of the porch, gravitating between and above the both of them.

“Well,” said the singer, “I do believe you’ve had a long day, haven’t you? You were so kind to take time to give me a tour, on top of all your wardenly duties.”

“Oh, 'twas truly my pleasure,” said Woodrow. “I… I ought to let you retire. You have your publicity event tomorrow, and I’m sure you wish to rest after your travels. Speaking of which- I forgot to mention. I have a number of appointments that have come up for tomorrow, and I’m quite afraid I might miss your signing. I do hope I can find the time to stop by. I… I would very much like your autograph…”

The Phantom threw his head back with a laugh. “Oh, you are a silly man, for such a serious one!”

Woodrow frowned in confusion, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly with both paws, wondering what inappropriate thing he had said this time. “I… I’m sorry, I-”

But the singer reached out and touched his shoulder, his hand resting amongst the leaves that were perpetually stuck under the warden’s collar. “It’s just- you must understand, by now, surely? You need not wait for a special occasion for my autograph. You can have all that and more, anytime you wish. Do not panic on my account.”

A wave of relief flooded the warden; aided by the startling warmth of his companion’s touch, which he could feel through his coat. “Thank you,” he said. “You are… most kind.” But suddenly nervous at the extended contact, he stepped away a bit, then looked back. “I suppose I shall see you around town, then-”

“Please, my good poet, will you not join me here for dinner again? Same time, same place? I hope you will not be too busy into the evening, tomorrow.”

“Again!!” said the warden. “Are you quite certain?! Did I not bore you to tears tonight?”

“The only tears I will shed is if you say no,” said the Phantom with a sly smile. “So…”

“I cannot bear the thought of your sorrow,” said Woodrow with sincere concern. “I shall see you tomorrow, Sir Phantom.”

“Enough of that,” said the ghost with a wave of his arm. “You can call me Tom, if it please you.”

It pleased him very much. “Of course… Tom.” No single syllable had ever felt so wonderful.

“And if I may be so bold… do your friends have a name for you, besides Woodrow?”

The warden hesitated for a moment. Of course, to Sweetlopek he had been Woody since childhood, but somehow he didn’t wish to be called the same thing in this case… he always preferred to go by his last name, and yet- before he knew what he was saying, before he could even regret it:

“Woodrow is always fine, but- but you can call me Tristan. My given name. If- if you like!”

“With pleasure, Tristan Woodrow.”

Woodrow found himself unable to speak- he could only nod, moved almost to tears, as if hearing a familiar simple tune arranged by a genius and played by a grand orchestra. His own humble name had never sounded so wonderful, even filtered through the slight rasps of the other’s weary voice.

“Shall I accompany you home?” said the ghost after a moment. “It’s a fine evening for a stroll - or a float, I suppose, in my case.”

“Oh…” said Woodrow quietly. I would like nothing more, he thought. But his mouth said, “That’s alright. It’s quite out of the way, and you ought to rest. Perhaps some other time.”

“Alright then. I shall see you tomorrow, poet of the forest. The night and the day shall be too long.”

“And I will see you too, o fair spirit,” said the warden. “Palette Prime already shines more brilliantly in your presence.” 

And suddenly heat rose to his cheeks and he found himself feeling nervous and giddy all at once. With a little wave, he turned and scuttled off as fast as he could.

—

Woodrow had climbed his stairs quickly, without a second thought, trusting his luck. Lying in bed, clutching his blanket to him, he fell asleep to the joint music of a newly-opened roof leak and the sound of one of Phantom’s gentler albums, playing on his gramophone safely away from the steady drip. He had not wanted to stop hearing that voice. A voice that had spoken his name.

Not far away, stretched out on his own rented bed, wearing a luxurious robe, a certain performer lay reading a book he had purchased in a souvenir shop that afternoon.

“Ha, ya sure ya want that one?” the shopkeeper had laughed when he took it to the counter. “His stuff is a little overwrought, methinks, on top of everything el-” But noticing the visitor’s surprisingly serious face, they’d stopped and added- “Alright, whatever floats your boat.”

Now he held T. S. Woodrow’s newest volume of works in his hands, thinking with amusement of how he would surprise its author by asking to trade autograph for autograph. More than any other book he’d ever handled, he found himself holding it gently, flipping its pages slowly, almost like a caress. Its cover was unassuming, but within was unfathomable beauty and passion, a spectrum of agony and joy, pain and love. He wanted to understand. He wanted to know its every page. He wanted the book to open itself before him and tell him, and show him, everything that wasn’t written in ink… it wasn’t about the book anymore, was it? He wanted… he wanted…

It had been quite the day, and he fell asleep with the book at his side.

#mario + rabbids #mario plus rabbids #fanfic #woodrow #ts woodrow #the phantom #phandrow #mario rpgs

[princessmadafu]

Books beat TikTok any day.

The farmer next door slurried his fields this morning.

The golden corn of two weeks ago has been harvested and the fields repainted in big brown streaks. The entire village stinks to high heaven and everyone's grubbing around trying to find old Covid face masks they ditched earlier this year and rubbing them with Vicks.

I'm a gardener, I'm used to manure, I brew my own fertiliser, but this is a-whole-nother level of fresh, ripe country smell, so yet again I have to WFH but this time with all the windows closed and bunches of joss sticks dotted in every corner of the old school room that is temporarily housing the contents of my ex-shed. Lawnmowers and hedgetrimmers line up in front of the blackboard; trowels and handforks fight for space on the bookshelves; the old school clock stopped at 9.45 and I can't reach to fix it because there's a ruddy great shredder on the coffee table underneath.

Garden shredder for branches, not paper shredder for A4.

Talking of bookshelves, anyone interested in crime fiction may want to check out this website for free ebooks, all legal and in the public domain:

fadedpage.com

and have a browse through their library of murder mysteries. I have another favourite site as well though I'm not sure how legal it is as some books are quite recent:

Online Reading Books for Free - ReadAnyBook

I can only presume they are in the public domain of wherever the website is hosted, but I look on these sites as performing a service like any good library or bookshop; you can browse and read a few chapters before you decide you want to buy.

We have an amazing community bookdrop in the village too. I've seen photos of them in England in old red telephone boxes, though ours is just a chipboard bookcase in the supermarket. You probably have something similar, you can donate a book you've read and take someone else's donation. If you don't have a bookdrop, organise one! I had some children's books in the shed (carefully bagged and clean) that have found new homes the past couple of weeks. I take a sneaky pride in the thought of the local kids sitting in their slurry-scented bedrooms with their Vicks-smeared face masks reading my sons' old Gargoylz and Diamond Brothers.

They're probably on their phones, but heck, I can pretend. They watch, they want to go viral, they imitate and get upset when nothing happens or worse, they’re trolled. And where are the parents? These stories of kids sending and receiving intimate photos horrify me. If that were my pre-teen child I’d be going nuts about it.

OK I admit, the other week I knocked and walked into my 24-yr-old’s room with a plate of dinner for him, and he was in front of the computer naked but it was 34 Celsius and to be fair, I was barely dressed myself and he was playing some shoot-the-zombie game and only from the waist up. But kids half his age don’t know what they’re doing online. Where are the responsible adults? Oh, wait, probably on their phones too!

What’s wrong with a good book?

A book of verses underneath the bough, A jug of wine, A loaf of bread—and Thou Beside me singing in the Wilderness— Oh, Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Gotta go, need to light some more incense cones. My house stinks.

[riflewounds]

Whumptober, day 2 | Nowhere To Run (cornered, confrontation)

Cw: abusive relationship, posessive whumper

---

The sky glowed with those wonderful hues of purple and orange.

A little over half past six in the evening. It's been a good day today.

Fuchs told him to have some time for himself. To relax, unwind, do whatever he needed to do.

It was almost suspicious, the way his boss said all those things. The strange grin twisted the younger man's lip as he stared his gunman up and down. Something predatory twinkled in the man's eyes, but Durant - naively - paid it little mind.

What's the worst that could happen?

He trusted him. After all, wouldn't his boss have the best intentions in mind for him?

Durant turned the corner, long legs carrying him down a smaller street. Plenty of tall buildings, separated by thin, dark alleys.

He had a gun on him. If anything were to happen, he could fight his way out of it, tooth and nail.

Unless... unless he asked for it.

He passed by a deli or two. Then a fancy bar. He paused in front of it, studying the lit sign, but ultimately his interest faded. Too high-brow for him. He didn't need to be reminded of the weird fucks he worked for some years back. A good number of them seemed to love these fancy cocktail lounges, where even the cheapest drinks ran in the double digits and a laughable amount of french fries cost upwards of six dollars.

But the caviar and pork were suspiciously cheap.

And the wine had a strange aftertaste that reminded him of... a lot of things.

So he moved on, in search of some cheaper establishment. Those seemed to be honest, never lying about what they were. They didn't try to mask their rancid stink with fancy flowers or beautiful architecture. No, they proudly displayed their blackboard signs, touting their shit beer was cheaper than water. And they weren't lying, one large beer came in at half the price of a small bottle of water.

He kept pacing, heading through progressively shadier streets.

Until one sign caught his eye. It was colorful, shades of pink, blue, purple and yellow, big green-yellow lettering stating 'TOUCAN CLUB'.

And he went in.

Cheap cigarettes and tropical cocktails. He could pick out a faint trace of a tequila sunset among the dense sea of overwhelming scents. Maybe he should have that instead of his usual order of whatever was closest to whiskey on the rocks. He didn't particularly care about what they put in it, just that it was strong, burned his throat, and distracted him long enough to relax.

But the atmosphere beckoned him to try something else for a change. The dim colorful light, neon signs of toucans sitting on branches, they even had potted palms scattered around the bar to make it feel even more tropical.

He stopped in front of a big poster listing the drink menu.

Nothing out of the cocktail section caught his eye. He moved on to the special section, a selection of cocktails made only at this establishment, and nowhere else. They were all toucan themed, but there was one that sounded interesting. The Toucan Secret.

This one was based on white rum and orange juice, with some pineapple juice and a dash of dragonfruit. But the ingredients also mentioned sugar, kiwis, lime, everclear, and a 'secret blend'. Who knows how potent this would be.

But his curiosity got the better of him, Durant waltzed up to the bar, ordered this toucan-themed concoction, and sat his eager rear on the bar stool.

It took a few minutes, but he was a patient man. In his line of work, he wouldn't have gotten this far if he was an impatient little shit. He passed time by studying those colorful toucans. The lights were pretty, pink and yellow went surprisingly well together, molding into a red gradient where their colors met.

A mesmerizing image, one he was broken out of with the sound of glass against lacquered wood. "The Toucan's Secret, sir."

Before him sat a tall glass, much like the ones used for Long Island Iced Teas. It even had a green straw and a little pink parasol stuck in a chunk of pineapple lazily floating on top.

And it wasn't even that expensive.

It didn't take long for someone to notice him. He practically glowed with such a flamboyant drink on his hands. And as this stranger approached, Durant looked him up and down. Tall, he wouldn't call him handsome, but there was something about the way he carried himself that caught his fancy.

Durant sipped away at his drink. The pineapple juice nibbled at his tongue, tiny invisible saw teeth stripping the outermost layers of his tongue. The sugar and orange juice gave the cocktail its smoothness, and the dash of kiwi and dragonfruit left a nice sweet-sour aftertaste. He couldn't really feel the alcohol in there, save for the warmth spreading through his chest.

Overall, he was happy with his choice.

He took another long sip as the stranger sat down, briefly glanced at the lone gunman before he turned to the barman with those magic words: "I'll have what he's having."

Oh no. Durant knew this little dance. He's seen it before, been a part of it before. Wanted to engage in this little tango again.

They hit it off. Had a little chat. Things turned spicy, with the gunman forced against the cold tiled wall, giggling like a little child with a grin spanning half his face. Consensual violence.

He didn't recall most of what had transpired, on the account of his head slamming into the wall multiple times. Thankfully nothing broke, but his head throbbed with that nasty sickening headache and looking at lit street lamps sent waves of stabbing pain throughout his skull. But he could still walk.

Well, mostly. His legs ached, especially his thighs, and badly. But it was all in good fun, it was the good pain he sought out once in a while, not the bad pain he tried to avoid at all costs.

He still had that satisfied smile as he stumbled out of the Toucan club. The nice warm, fuzzy feeling radiated from his depths, rose up to his head and he tipped his head back for a moment, sending him reeling.

Okay, he definitely had a concussion. Combine that with alcohol (just one drink, but it was a hefty one, who knows how potent, too), and he had quite a powder keg on his hands.

He'll be fiiine. He always was, given enough rest.

But he didn't have time. The sun was setting and it was almost dark, and he had time until midnight to haul ass home.

Home. As if some dingy, moist hole in the wall was a home. No. It was one of Fuchs' hideouts, a web of strategically placed vacant apartments scattered across most cities. An expensive operation to maintain, but there always was a home (or three) wherever they went.

Durant traced quite a path through the town, killing time, trying to sober up a bit before he headed back. The concussion was enough of an issue on its own, he didn't need to get home drunk, too. 

He wound up settling in a park, sprawling across an old bench. The wood caught against his creased clothes, a mainstream combination of a dark cotton shirt, black suit jacket and dark chinos, brought together with a simple cloth belt with a toothed buckle, and dark brown leather moccasins. Maybe excessively formal for this part of town, but inconspicuous enough to blend in with the crowds. The gunman sat there in the park, head craned back, resting against the hardwood strips. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but he's slept in worse places. Spending a few minutes resting on a shitty park bench was always loads better than sleeping on cold granite floors of a train station. And then scrambling before the guard set on beating the everliving shit out of him if he didn't leave.

He didn't like to reminisce about his time between jobs. Living on next to no money, unable to even get a motel room for the night. Raiding delis and gas stations to even get by, then skipping town just so the cops wouldn't get their grubby little hands on him.

And he got good at running. Running from the law, the people he pissed off, his previous employers, and himself.

Some time later, he noted how the cold was slowly creeping through his clothes. Maybe it was time to move.

Durant slowly got up to his feet. The world didn't spin as he moved, maybe he'd recovered enough to continue on home.

And so he walked. Away from the park, next to some small river, down a suburban street and then another. Suburban houses gave way to low apartment buildings, five, six stories tall at most. Blocs upon blocs of the same brown brick buildings, separated by thin alleyways.

He turned left, a second to last turn before he finally got home. 

There was a hand at his throat, pulling him into the alley next to him. Durant went for his gun, fingers almost wrapped around the grip, when he caught a glimpse of the man's eyes. He barely got a sound out before the man's hand cinched at his windpipe and steered him back-first into the nearest wall with more force than necessary. Durant's head met the brick with a dull thud, bright sprites dancing across his vision as sounds slowly came back to focus.

"I don't think you've listened to me, puppy," the man hissed through clenched teeth, "I thought I've made myself clear."

He tried to remember how his tongue worked among the thick buzz in his head.

"And yet you didn't listen!"

The hand at his neck yanked at him, threw him off balance before it tossed his confused body to the ground.

He recognized the silhouette, long lanky limbs, messy dark hair, eyes full of some strange predatory instinct. "Fuchs?"

"Oh so now you've found your words," his boss mocked, kneeling beside the gunman, "Tony."

His lizard brain screamed at him to get up, but then Fuchs' hand was at his collarbone, just resting there, thumb stroking the gunman's shirt.

He wouldn't get up. It wasn't the right decision.

Durant felt how his ribcage grew and shrank under his boss' hand.

"Tell me, puppy. What did I tell you about hanging around other men without my approval?"

"To mind my own business," Durant replied, a slight terrified tremble to his voice.

"That's right. And what did you do?"

God, what should he say? The cat's out of the bag and it wouldn't go back in. Durant sucked in a tense breath.

"I went against my word."

"You'll have to make this up to me."

The gunman was afraid he'd utter those words. That this fucker needed his ego stroked with Durant squirming on the floor under him, scratching at the carpet and screaming, begging to be let go. He just hoped it would go quick this time but... he had a hunch it wouldn't.

"Now get up. We'll talk when we get home."

#whumptober2022 #no.2 #nowhere to run #cornered #confrontation #OC #fic #abusive relationship #possessive whumper

[songs-about-girls-like-me]

chapter 15: 4ever obsessed

I hated the paper in which they had printed every english workbook in the world. It either was literal newspaper or magazine material and it was always a PAIN to use pencil on them. Still, I did, cause I refused to use pen to write on them. I was missing a couple of answers on the page before I could go ahead and be chaotic with my friends, as the rest of my classmates participating in the jungle-like ambient of school.

"2. Her lawyer would [___], or argue, that she was innocent." The words I hadn't used were "stress", "spare" and "contend" and I was re-reading every sentence on the page when someone leaned over me and drummed on my desk.

"Hurry up, bitchhh" It was Ella, half singing her words.

"Shut the fuck uppp" I said copying her, still with my eyes on the page.

"Come onnnn!! The answers are written on the damn blackboard, Rees!" She pretended to choke me for a second, making us both laugh.

"Yeah, I'm trying to learn a language here."

"Ugh, you're so annoying. Plus, it's so easy!"

"It's literally not"

"Number 1 is "prohibit", number 2 is "contend" She was reading from the blackboard. Miss Claudia would straight up write the answer key for us to "check our results" aka not having to teach a class lol. And we knew she was being lazy and she knew we were being lazy.

"Aaaaaaaa shut uppppp, Ella"

"3 is "spare", 4 "adress", 5 "countr-

"Come on, Rees" It was Poppy now, and she was shaking my shoulders. I laughed a bit again.

"Maybe if you guys let me have a think!!"

"Ree, just copy the stupid answers!!!!" This was Olivia, who would call me "Ree" like my family did.

"Aaaggh" I looked up at them, MJ was there too, just laughing and I couldn't help but smile at them towering over me looking happy, but also just needed a moment to finish!!! As we've stated before, I had a hermione granger personality complex and cheating on something like this was a bit unthinkable to me and my knowledge ambitions.

"We love our smarty pants friend"

"Fuck you guys"

We laughed and then they gave me a couple minutes to finish while they were chatting, standing around my desk, their four voices and laughs hovering over me. I was obsessed. Never had it felt this way to be me. It felt so cool and different to have Poppy and MJ now. Maybe because I had met them being now older, it felt so much like a new and cooler vibe, and even Liv and Ella felt newer and cooler to me.

Five minutes later, after getting my work graded and having Ella and Liv mock me cause "I would've gotten a 10/10 had I just copied from the blackboard as everyone else!!!", we went to the back of the classroom to a bunch of desks that had been pushed messily against the wall by the four of them, and then we hung out there, sitting on top of the desks, or rather laying on them, sort of how mermaids rest to take the sun and comb their hair on a rock in the shore. As if there was any sun to take in the cloudy 1pm afternoon inside the classroom.

One of the top activities we enjoyed was chat and have a great Time while focusing on appearing nonchalant and pretty. That specific day, one of us had brought grapes for lunch, the type of grape that is very round, the color of red wine and actually crunches inside your mouth when you bite them. Delicious! We put the tupper ware in the middle of the desks and talked while actively trying to look cool while eating. We all were giving tips on how to achieve this, as if we could've given a master class on "how to bite a grape and how to make it look like you're kissing someone and how to do it without making it look weird." And we laughed and laughed and laughed, cause sometimes it was terrible and sometimes we would mock each other, and it still felt like being by the pool side.

"They're looking at us" said Ella.

"Who?" asked Olivia.

"My stupid jerk ex-friends" said MJ.

"That's fun" said Poppy bitting a grape down the middle. "Of course they're looking, you look emotionally fine and we're looking cooler than them." Poppy said it as facts and I believed her.

"Also, you haven't cried in ages" added Ella.

"Thanks, Elle" said MJ with a bit of irony, making us laugh. But it was true.

"We love our drama queen" I said messing her hair up a tiny bit.

"Yea, I know I know" MJ blew us a few kisses. And Poppy asked whether she could also be our drama queen and we started talking about who was most dramatic of us five.

I took a grape to my lips and looked around while bitting it, believing I could look like a greek godess as I flicked my hair off my shoulder. They were talking between them, the popular group of girls and boys, but it was true, I could feel a faint glance from some of them. Rome, the new kid who had voluntarily admitted to thinking I was pretty, now had these dismissive glances he would give me if we ever looked each other in the eye, as if that could erase the fact that it happened or that I was indeed pretty. I thought it was very petty of him. Also, MJ's ex girlfriends were clearly talking about us. Mia and Brody were still "together", which just meant they were always next to each other, while he tried talking to her and she ignored him. They were suppossed to be a "cool couple" but i'm sure no one really thought so, not even them.

I didn't tell my friends about him putting his jacket over her shoulders during Disco Night but it crossed my mind for a second when I saw them there. "They look so dumb" I thought to myself with a shake of my head. I actually hadn't even mentioned Brody to either MJ or Poppy. It was rare that I would articulate even a sentence about those type of feelings. Just cause I thought they weren't important. They were not these intense die-hard sentiments, so I didn't want anyone to make a big deal out of them. I would talk about them if it felt fun. Like at the sleepover. But usually I would just lazily drop them somewhere inside me with my careless hands, let them hang around in the back of my mind, like a receipt you've been meaning to either paste on a scrapbook or toss in the trash, that ends up falling between the wall and your desk. Like, I just couldn't find a reason to recount that interaction at the camp ? Maybe if I liked him, I would. But all I was doing at this point was keeping tabs on Brody cause I had loved the spark between us at age 5. I shook my head thinking I was being stupid, finishing another grape with a laugh.

"NO way I am more dramatic than either of you!" said Ella sounding categorical.

"You sure??" I asked just to take the piss on her.

"Ohh, you? You can actually take my place in this drama podium, Rees"

"Shut up" we all were giggling, even after she threw a bitten grape at me which was criminal cause they were too good.

"Why is Rick coming this way?" Said Olivia. One of the basketball dudes, Rick, was heading towards us. It came like a slap in the face:

"Poppy, you're a whore"

The world paused for a split second after hearing that word. I looked at her, Poppy, to find a half smirk on her face.

"Yea? and what are you, dumbass?" asked her, with a laugh.

"Oh wait! Wait... we don't give a shit" said Ella cutting him before he could even come up with a comeback. I saw him trying to formulate words on his lips.

"Cool. Bye Rick!" I added before he could insult anyone again. I was glad Poppy was chill about it, but I was ready to fight. We all waved at him with sarcastic smiles and said "bye-bye" almost in unison which made us laugh. And he had to leave cause what else could he do?

"What the fuck?" asked Ella.

"It was them" said MJ.

"You think they sent him?" thought Liv.

"Idk. Could've been the basketball guys" commented Elizabeth.

"Well, either way, that was fucking mean." Stated Poppy with an undertone that wasn't too light.

I had been sure because of her reaction, Poppy didn't care being called a whore. She actually got that constantly. But by the look in her eyes now, I understood she was just good at laughing pretty and cursing at people when she had to.

"Whatever." Ella passed the tupper ware box around and lovingly played with Poppy's hair for a second. We all knew. So we shit-talked everyone and played to be mermaids again.

#chapter 15 #forever obsessed #4ever obsessed

[wineryescapades]

Blackboard by Matthews

Our wine tonight is the Blackboard Red Wine by Matthews Estate of Walla Walla, Washington. Vintage 2018. Sourced from many Columbia Valley vineyards within Washington. Medium ruby in color with a garnet rim. Blend of 52% Cabernet Sauvignon, 29% Merlot, 19% Cabernet Franc. Pronounced nose of black cherry, black plum, mocha, and dark roasted coffee. Dry, medium-full bodied and high acidity…

View On WordPress

#Blackboard red wine #Cabernet Sauvignon #Columbia Valley #Matthews #Merlot #red blend #red wine #Washington #wine #wine lovers #wine review #wineblog

[vopegist]

Taste of Love - kth

pairing : taehyung x fem! reader

genre/au : fluff, stranger to lovers au, cafe au, christmas themed.

wc : 2.4 k

warnings : none

rating : G

summary : Getting to taste food from almost every restaurant or cafe in the city during the holiday season sounds like a great idea when you’re not a food critic. But you are, and you can do nothing but come to terms with the fact that every place you would have to visit will offer you the same old boring holiday experience. Turns out though, Goût d'amour is different.

a/n : part of the BCC X FI 12 Days of BTS event ❄ prompt: cosy cafe with christmas songs ❄ aaaahhhh! this is finally out of my drafts! took a while, but here it is! thank you soo much @ddeseokielune​ for beta reading this! really helped me out when i was going through a whole crisis with this fic lol.

Hope you enjoy <3

The bleak wind that manages to slash through your coat hampers your reasoning due to obvious reasons, but even without the lack of warmth around you, you are certain that being a food critic tops the list of one of the worst jobs during the holidays.

It has nothing to do with the teeming multitude of people huddled in such spaces or their overflowing saccharine sentiments, and everything to do with the iteration of events that you can no longer bear.

If you see one more person sink on their knees extending a blue velvet box before their lover, or a side of mashed potatoes on your plate, or something that even remotely resembles a gingerbread man- you will lose your goddamn mind because this is how every other visit to a restaurant, fancy or not, this week has been.

Even the mere thought of having to consume yet another apple pie has you releasing a shuddery breath.

It’s a chilly Friday evening, and you’re set to examine the last place for the week before you retire to your home-cooked meals (that do not include turkey, ham or gravy in any shape or form) for the weekend.

Sinking your hands further down your pockets, you round the street housing what was described to you, a cozy cafe. You trust Seokjin and his word of mouth to guide you towards, at the least, an adequate restaurant experience, but with the preceding events of the week, you don’t have very high hopes as you stop before the entrance.

Goût d'amour. 

The words elegantly scribbled on a blackboard greet you promisingly before you wrap your fingers around the icy brass handle of the door to push it open. Almost immediately you smother an escaping groan as you hear the familiar ‘I don’t want a lot for Christmas’ chime through the air, halting at the threshold.

You briefly keek inside and there isn’t a single being in vision, your feet ever so slightly shuffling backwards and grip on the handle slacking. Maybe you can leave unnoticed and just crawl into your bed an hour earlier than designated, crying over rom-coms all night. Maybe that’s how you would have spent your evening if it weren’t for a tuft of brown hair and a hunched figure emerging into sight a moment later.

You only see so much at first: wavy locks graciously splayed across a face you cannot see, white shirt taut across the wide expanse of the man's back followed by a wine-red apron pinching at the waist.

An unintended garbled noise slips past your lips at the sight, and that's all it takes to gather the man's attention, his head snapping up before he straightens his stance.

If it isn't for your hold on the latch, the chilly gust of wind that blows past could easily sweep you off your feet and toss you into oblivion because the man before you has to be the prettiest fucking one you have ever laid your eyes on.

"Hello," the greeting carries a hint of confusion— bearing evidence in the way his defined brows pinch ever so slightly and head askew. His voice is deep, much deeper than you anticipated, reaching you from across the cafe. "Are you planning on taking a seat?"

Right, almost forgot about that, didn't we?

"Yes, yes, I am." You let your hand fall and your feet shuffle in, the entrance thudding shut. "This place was recommended to me by a friend. Seokjin, you must know him, right?"

"Ah, yes." The owner, you're guessing, must have received a heads up on your arrival as he nervously chuckles, dusting his hands off to step away from the counter. "He had informed me about you." 

You nod, taking a brief moment to appreciate the grace the man possesses as he walks up to you.

"Welcome to Goût d'amour." He smiles, wide and box-like, before bending into a formal bow. "I am Kim Taehyung. It's a pleasure to have you here."

"Thank you," you return the gesture, allowing Taehyung to walk you towards one of the tables.

As previously informed, the place is cosy. A comfortably small spacing in a rather secluded street, which is a pity since it has already surpassed many places you have visited in the elegance department. Scattered pendant lights illuminate the area with their amber glow, rivalling the bright gold fairy lights that run in parallels across the walls. There are hardly ten two-seater tables on counting. Nonetheless, they are satisfactorily kempt and decorated as per the occasion.

"What does it mean… Goût d'amour?"

"It means 'taste of love' in French."

You slide into one of the chairs he offers. "That's an interesting name." 

"I'll take that as a compliment," he chuckles, and you allow yourself to smile. His innate charm must be an aid while serving customers, but now that this thought enters your mind, you notice that the place is empty and unusually silent for a cafe, save for the two of you and the voice of Mariah Carey over clinking bells.

"I hope you don't mind me asking... is it usually this empty?"

"Uh, yeah," Taehyung answers, timid. "It's a fickle business, isn't it? Running a cafe..." Before you can sympathize he claps his hands together, "Anyways, what can I help you with?"

With hopes that he isn't going to bring you eggnog and pumpkin pie, you humbly reply with 'House specialty, please', throttling a groan in your throat when yet another overplayed Christmas song interrupts the silence.

Taehyung seems to be a keen observer because your annoyance doesn't go unnoticed by him. "Don't fancy some Christmas songs?" He walks over to the station, getting to work.

Your usual conversations with restaurant owners are strictly limited to work-related, but for some reason, you don't mind bending that rule for a couple of moments with the gorgeous man.

"Not the overplayed ones, no."

The sound gets drowned in the tunes of Feliz Navidad, but you don't miss it, the deep rumble of his chuckle before he suggests: "Those are all I've got, but I could try looking for something else if you'd like."

"Thank you."

You lean back in your chair, momentarily relaxing when the song pauses. It's been a long day, and you need some well deserved moments of peace without the sound of bells and tambourine pestering you. The prolonged silence has you assuming Taehyung fails to have spare songs reserved in his stash, but you'd rather bask in the quiet than anything else.

Until the warm timbre of an electric guitar fills the air, immediately garnering your undivided attention. It's an uncommon sounding Christmas tune- if it's even that- and not one you think to have heard before.

Your gaze darts to the cafe owner who is hunched over the workstation in what could only be a rather uncomfortable position. Sure, the marble surface is a little too low to accommodate his height, but the way he is awkwardly crouching brings your brows together.

“Hey snow, it’s coming today. What should I prepare? I’m ready for at least one thing — to greet you, okay.”

The voice drifts in the cold winter air- so tender, so warm that you are already beginning to melt in its intangible embrace. But what’s even more riveting is the fact the singer sounds uncannily familiar to your cute cafe owner. And your suspicions are proven true when a quick glimpse reveals to you Taehyung frozen in place- hands hovering and back still arching over whatever he was preparing.

“How did you come about this song? I don’t think I’ve heard this one before.”

“Uh,” The man straightens, lifting a tray to his hands as he strolls towards your table. The red that seems to bleed from his cheeks to his neck is a telltale of his embarrassment. And frankly, that shouldn’t be the case at all, given that his voice rivals the angels up above.

“You have a beautiful voice.” It’s an understatement, really, but you don’t think you can even concoct a praise that would do justice to his voice. Nonetheless, his shoulders relax, relief washing over his features.

“Sorry, I really don’t have anything else that isn’t overplayed,” he mumbles, gingerly placing an assortment of delicacies before you.

“Hm, it’s unusual to counter a compliment with an apology, isn’t it?” You playfully tease, and Taehyung cracks up, part of his uneasiness dissipating.

You’re not sure what has gotten into you today. Maybe it’s the vibe of the cafe, or the emptiness of it, or the angelic man before you- you’re not sure, but what you know is that you’re being severely out of character for any one of these reasons. Banter with a place owner isn’t something you would even remotely consider doing, but here you are complimenting the man over anything but the food.

“Christmas without you would just not be Christmas at all. Bright mistletoes up above us, it’s just you and me.”

“Thank you,” Taehyung smiles, eyes crinkling, and you almost want to ram your head into the nearest wall because there is this tingling looming somewhere deep inside you, shaking your being at the smallest of his actions, and you haven’t even reached the food yet.

Shaking your head, you sit up straight as Taehyung introduces you to the dishes. “Gingerbread latte and hot cocoa cookies,” he points. “Hope you enjoy these, while I bring you the rest.” And with that, he’s gone again, retiring back to his kitchen.

If one thing you’ve gathered from the very little time spent in the cafe owner’s company is that he is all about aesthetics. The snowman-doodled scarlet coffee mug– its rim decorated with whipped cream and caramel– which houses your beverage; the heart-shaped baked goodies accompanying it, and the very next lyric that says something about believing in Santa Claus- all of it tells you that Kim Taehyung is a hopeless romantic. Not that you have known him for any longer than thirty minutes, but whatever you’ve witnessed so far– with his soft smiles and tender words– indicate the obvious.

Licking some of the whipped cream off first, you let the warm coffee flow through your system, the perfect blend of sweet, spice, and bitter and luckily for you, nothing like any of the beverages you’ve consumed over the past week.

Involuntarily, you let a chuckle slip past.

“What- Is something wrong? It’s the song, isn’t it?” He rambles, shuffling to turn it off.

“No, no.” Smothering a smile, you rest the mug on the coaster. “I’m not of the kind to pass compliments so easily but,” you glance around, drinking in the ambience: the blinking fairy lights, the shadows settling outside, the pleasant aura and Kim Taehyung. “This is nice.”

You take a bite out of the delightful cookie.

“I'm assuming you're referring to the food, hm?”

And you almost choke on it, head whipping in his direction fast enough your neck cracks. Of course, only his back greets you as he hums to himself. You peer outside at the darkening street, carefully contemplating your next words.

Fuck it.

“Among other things.”

Silence.

You can feel that uneasiness growing in the pit of your stomach yet again, and it’s so aching you can’t help dart your eyes back to him. Taehyung is already looking back, his face so painfully neutral it makes you want to dig up the ground underneath and crawl into it.

Until his lip twitches, betraying his amusement.

“I see,” Taehyung is just as swift in turning his back to you, but you beat him to notice the ghost of a smile on his lips.

You find yourself smiling along. Another nibble on the cookie, and you realize why.

You taste it. The place holds up to its name because you taste it.

Love.

[ … … … ]

Taehyung holds out the door for you as you step out. Night has fallen upon the street, scattered lights adorning the few shops that house the lane illuminating the scene.

You exhale a puff of breath, leaving a trail of smoke in the cold winter night.

"It was lovely to have you here," Taehyung thanks you, his gleaming eyes reflecting the twinkling lights of the alley.

"The pleasure is mine." You bow.

"Travel safely." He's awkward, shuffling his weight from one foot to another. It's endearing. "It has gotten pretty cold."

You want to argue that Taehyung should really be the one concerned about the cold since he is out here chatting with no extra clothing shielding him— besides an apron which still does nothing— but you don't mention it. You're the one keeping him here, so the sooner you part ways, the sooner he can return to the warmth of his cafe.

You don't want to leave.

"I will. Thank you," you murmur, feet unmoving.

"Okay," Taehyung whispers.

You should really leave.

"Is this place open on weekends?"

"Uh well," his eyes swiftly dart towards the cafe and then towards you.

"Yes," he exhales. "During the holiday season, yes. We are open on weekends."

Or at least henceforth will have to.

You nod.

"See you tomorrow, then." The words leave you without any prior thought of their consequences, but now they're out in the open, and you cannot swallow them back as his brows shoot up.

"I mean-"

"I'll be waiting."

And now your cheeks are aflame. You hope it's because of the winter, hope he thinks the same. Both of you know it is not.

"See you tomorrow," Taehyung smiles.

All you can do is nod, biting your lips to hide whatever you think would escape if you stay in his proximity for any longer. Maybe a smile, maybe something entirely else— you don't trust yourself.

Taehyung waves you goodbye, one hand buried in the pocket of his apron, as you walk away.

The events of the day seem laughable to you now that you recall them on your way home. One moment you wanted nothing more than to escape from your job or the prospect of visiting more eateries. Now, you cannot wait until tomorrow to return– a seed of unnamed feelings planted inside your heart, eager to be nurtured and blossom into something more.

You think it will, and you cannot hold yourself back from wanting to have more because it’s addicting– the taste of love.

eeeeeek idk this has to be one of my favourite works that i’ve written- there are barely any fics here to begin with but whatever. I hope you enjoyed reading it, and if you did, please consider reblogging this post <3

feedback is highly appreciated | share your thoughts ♥

update: ok, I'm not over this couple either and it is likely I may write a follow-up drabble soon, not really sure when but if you wish to be added to the taglist, feel free to comment or send in an ask !

update: PART TWO IS HERE

#12daysofbts bccxfi #btshoneyhive #houseofincantations #bts fanfiction #bts fanfic #bts imagines #bts fluff #taehyung fanfiction #taehyung fanfic #taehyung imagine #taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #strangers to lovers #bts scenarios #taehyung scenarios

[astridbecks]

@astrid-week may technically be over but we’re still doing this, oops. Part four of five, started as a fill for day 5 (years). Also on AO3.

CW: discussions of death, gaslighting; this deals heavily with the effects of memory modification, but the premise is that at some point, Astrid and Eadwulf must have also had their memory restored

— — — 

Remove Curse (3rd-level abjuration)

Range: Touch Components: V, S

At your touch, all curses affecting one creature or object end. If the object is a cursed magic item, its curse remains, but the spell breaks its owner's attunement to the object so it can be removed or discarded.

— — — 

Two years and three months after Bren is sent to Vergesson — Bren would be able to tell her the time elapsed, down to the hour, were he in his right mind — Astrid sits cross-legged on top of the desk at the front of a dark classroom. It’s near midnight; the moonlight through the high windows leaves faint rectangles of silver to fall across the empty rows of desks.

It’s one of the larger lecture halls, used for introductory courses. Behind her, the blackboard is still marked with the day’s lesson. She’d spent a few minutes staring at the arcane equations for the second fundamental law of evocation, then the next half hour staring through the pale, moon-limned chalk lines, recalling her own first year of lectures and papers and exams. The untrammeled ambition and hope.

A floorboard in the hallway creaks and she tenses. One hand rises, ready to cast; the other draws a knife from a sheath in her boot.

A familiar figure steps into the room, broad-shouldered and carrying a scent of wine undercut by iron.

“You always pick the strangest places to brood,” Eadwulf says, and then: “Please don’t stab me, I don’t need more blood on this shirt.” Fire crackles to life in his hand, throwing flickering light over his face. His expression is drawn, a shuttered look to his eyes, and there is indeed a telltale stain on one sleeve, red fading to brown.

Astrid narrows her eyes at him, but sheathes the knife with a jerk. “Don’t sneak up on me, then. And I’m not brooding.”

“Aren’t you?” He leans against the desk, making a familiar gesture, and a bottle drops from a pocket dimension into his hand. The fire leaps from his other hand, lighting the lamp on the desk. “Want some?”

She shakes her head, wordless. He shrugs, uncorking the bottle and taking a swig.

“So. If you’re not brooding, what’s on your mind?” He sets the bottle between them, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What went wrong with tonight’s mission?” she asks instead of answering. It’s technically a guess, but she knows she’s correct even before his eyes grow harder and more distant. (He wouldn’t have worn a shirt light enough to show bloodstains if he’d expected the night to end with stabbing.)

“Doesn’t matter.”

Astrid could press the matter, but it’s not worth it. She flicks her finger moodily against the bottle, nail ringing on the glass, until Eadwulf gives an irritated sigh and moves it out of her reach.

“And you didn’t answer my question, anyways,” he adds, lifting the bottle again and regarding her over the lip of it.

Astrid raises an eyebrow. “I was considering the factors that might turn a loyal citizen of the Empire down a path of treason.”

Eadwulf snorts and sets the bottle down harder than strictly necessary. “Your extracurricular activities are supposed to be different from your actual job, you know.” When she fails to respond with something barbed and clever — misses her step in their usual conversational dance — something in his gaze shifts. “And you could’ve thought about that without breaking into a classroom after hours to lurk in the darkness.”

“Where I choose to have my breakdowns is my own business,” she says, haughty.

“Is that what you were doing?”

“No.” Not yet, at least. “I was just… thinking.” He doesn’t press her to elaborate, but he also doesn’t look away from her as she turns the words over in her mind, considering her admission. “Our — graduation. It doesn’t make sense when you really consider it. The coincidence of it, the lack of prior indications, the lack of a motive. And the execution followed so quickly that we never had time to hesitate.”

It’s a cruel thing to throw at him without warning, especially when he’s half-drunk and recovering from a botched mission. She sees his hand shake before he grips the bottle tighter, knuckles going pale.

“Soldiers don’t get to hesitate.” His voice is strained. “Shit, Astrid. Why dig up the past like that?”

One of us has to remember. It’s an exceptionally unfair thought, and she knows it. “How did you find out? An overheard conversation?” She doesn’t need him to confirm it; they’d reported to Ikithon together like the good, loyal children they were. “One conversation. Short — a few minutes, no? Ten minutes or less?”

The traitorous discussion she’d overheard had been startling in its simplicity, a clear admission of intent and disloyalty. Later (much later) she’d thought back, tried to remember. She’s never had Bren’s knack for telling time, but it could have been ten minutes. It could have been less.

It’s almost insulting, the idea that Ikithon might have only deigned to use one spell on each of them, not bothering to expend the effort to make the modification more convincing. It would be insulting, except that it had worked.

Eadwulf lifts the bottle to his mouth again, but his hand shakes and wine splashes on his collar, leaving a pale plum stain. Astrid resists the urge to lean forward and pluck the bottle from his hands.

“We did what we had to,” he says hoarsely.

It would be simpler to remember it that way. It would be comforting to believe that.

“There are ways to undo enchantments,” she says, and Eadwulf shakes his head in mute refusal. “Simple ways, for arcanists of our ability level.”

“Stop it.” His eyes blaze with abrupt fury, a sudden immolation. “We don’t need to know. It doesn’t matter.”

“If we can find out, there’s no reason not to,” Astrid snaps.

Eadwulf’s hand jerks, flashing the somatic component for a shield spell before he catches himself. He dismisses the bottle without bothering to recork it — stupid, it’ll spill all over him the next time he summons it — and steps away from the desk.

“That’s what’s going to get you killed someday, you know. Not knowing when to let something go.”

“Oh, are we taking bets on it now?” Her voice comes out more venomous than she means it to, but there’s no way to take it back. “Because based on this, I’d say you’re most likely to get killed because you’d prefer to close your eyes and pretend everything’s fine, even with a knife pressed to your back.”

Eadwulf stalks out of the classroom, leaving Astrid alone in the silent moonlight.

:

There are things that can be burned down, over and over, until they’re rebuilt correctly.

Memory is one of those things. It doesn’t even take a spell to do it — not if you’re patient and careful and cruel. A calculated lie here, a seed of uncertainty there, and a master of the art can manipulate a target’s recollection of reality simply by making them doubt their own reliability.

Astrid knows so many ways to rewrite history. She’s learned by example. Embed crystals in a child’s skin until they sob, but tell them afterwards that they were so strong to endure it, that bearing this pain is a privilege. That they’re getting stronger, even as the nightmares get worse and every hint of compassion is stripped from them like marrow from a bone.

Be cruel, but call it kindness. Kill an innocent, but call it justice.

Eventually, if you repeat a falsehood enough, even the liar starts to believe it.

:

In the minutes that it took her parents to die, she prayed (pointlessly, irrationally) that they would not realize it was her hand that tipped the vial of poison; that they would die thinking that her crime was only — only — failing to act to save them as they choked before her.

Like everything else she’d known, the gods showed little mercy. Perhaps she had been beyond the reach of mercy for a long time.

She’d clutched Bren’s hand under the table, out of sight. His face had betrayed no pain even as she felt bones creak under her fingers. He wore the same impassive mask that settled over her own face as she watched her parents die. The mask of justice delivered, a sentence handed down with merciless hands.

The night Astrid killed her parents, she killed the child they’d raised, too. It just took her longer to realize that.

:

She opens her door the next morning to find Eadwulf standing outside it, hair mussed and eyes bleary, still wearing the same stained clothing from last night. She opens her mouth to comment on the fact that this time he seems to be the one lurking around in strange places, which makes his comments last night very hypocritical, but he cuts her off before she can.

“I’ll do it. We’ll find out together.”

Astrid casts a critical glance over his rumpled state. “Why the change of heart?”

Eadwulf glares at her. It’s a hollow echo of the fire in his eyes the night before. More resigned, somehow. “Because I know you’re going to do it by yourself if I don’t, and I’m not letting you do that alone.”

Unexpectedly — and embarrassingly — her throat tries to close, an uncomfortable tightness building in her chest. It takes her a moment to steady herself enough to nod and say, “Fine. Together, then.”

:

The worst part is this: Astrid already knows how to spin the justifications out, to walk the tightrope of truth and propaganda. She knows how to burn down a memory of guilt over and over until the ashes have no choice but to yield vindication.

It was necessary. Even if their parents were never traitors, weapons have to be forged somehow, and if they are destined for greatness, well — a few murdered innocents, a bit of blood on their hands, these are small prices to pay. The sacrifice their parents made — the sacrifice any loyal citizen of the Empire might be called upon to make — is one that Astrid and Eadwulf and everyone else like them must simply make worthwhile.

That is the fulcrum on which her life swings. If, years down the line, she takes her seat on the Cerberus Assembly, wears the scarlet robes of an archmage, shepherds the Empire into a new age of peace and prosperity, will it have been worth it? Will she finally be able to visit the humble graveyard in Blumenthal and find the grave she’s never searched for and honestly tell her parents that no, their deaths were not in vain; yes, Astrid has become everything they had hoped for and more?

Does it matter, when that will never change the past?

:

They would have understood, if they knew everything, she tells herself. If I could tell them, explain it all to them, they might have forgiven me.

She knows it’s a lie.

:

The spell to remove a curse is simple, in the grand scheme of things. No expensive material components; nothing terribly involved in its casting. Any sufficiently advanced wizard could learn it. By the end of the week, both Astrid and Eadwulf have acquired the necessary materials and copied it into their spellbooks. It is truly laughably easy.

The inevitable conclusion is that Ikithon wanted them to know. Not immediately; not until they could prove themselves ready. It has the shape of a lesson, even — identify a possibility, acquire the means to test that possibility, remain unbroken under the weight of that final truth.

This is still part of their schooling. The last stage of the final exam. A graduation of a different sort — to understand what has shaped them, that they might better understand how to shape others.

(Perhaps that is only what Ikithon wants her to think. Or perhaps he has never truly cared what lies she spins to justify her actions, only that she knows how to do so.)

Eadwulf stands in front of her, his spellbook open on the table next to them, his brow furrowed. “Are you ready?”

Astrid lifts her chin. “Yes.”

To Eadwulf’s credit, he doesn’t voice the hesitation evident on his face. He only places a hand on her shoulder and speaks the incantation, voice steady even as his fingers tighten with unspoken fear.

The spell rushes like a sudden wind under her skin, and the smoke in her mind tears away.

The memory of her parents’ treason turns faint and insubstantial. Present, but unreal. A fiction laid down by Ikithon’s voice, a cunning whisper she now hears clearly — you overheard your parents plotting terrible, treacherous things against the Empire. They wanted to undo all of your hard work, supplant your accomplishments, because they were afraid of what you could become.

Astrid supposes she should feel surprised, but maybe she lost that ability long ago. There’s only the hollow echo of wind, fading. Eadwulf releases her shoulder and she sways for a moment as she comes back to herself. He watches her warily, waiting for her to speak.

“You know,” she says, and can’t quite meet his gaze. “I agonized more over my choice of poison than the act itself. I thought it was weak that I didn’t want to see them suffer for too long, but I knew that if it was too swift, he would think I was being too merciful.” She takes a shuddering breath. “That was what worried me most — if he would approve of the way I murdered my parents.”

“Astrid.” His voice wavers. He’s afraid, and part of her hates him for it. Does he think she will break like Bren? Does he think he will, when the veil is torn from his eyes? “Was it—“

She slams her palm against his chest and casts.

The spell releases in a burst of warmth that she feels through her hand, up her wrist. Eadwulf staggers back half a step, breath rushing out of him as the realization breaks over his face, memory slotting cleanly back into place.

His face blurs, and it takes Astrid a moment to realize that she’s crying. A sob catches in her chest, sharp and humiliating, and then Eadwulf’s arms are around her and she buries her face in his shoulder, feeling him shake with her.

I’ll kill him for doing this to us, she thinks, and the thought settles in her chest, cold and sharp. It doesn’t sound like a lie, but she repeats it anyway — I’ll kill him with my own hands, watch the life leave his eyes, make sure he knows it was me.

There’s nothing to say, so neither of them speak.

#astrid week 2021 #critical role #cr2 #astrid beck #eadwulf grieve #my fic #i'm a big fan of the 'wizards doing somatic gestures as instinctive responses to conversational stabs' trope #also these ficlets keep getting longer and i'm not sure why #r: caught between forever and nothing at all

[dreaming-about-fanfictions]

Smile, Draco II Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested by: @venuswrites​ - I hope you like it! <3

Summary: You are destined to show Draco a little bit of happiness in the midst of a troubling 6th year at Hogwarts. (fluff/angst)

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader Words: 1.3k Warnings: none

Ducks

Draco opens his book and a little piece of parchment falls out of it. It lands in his lap and he grabs it, intending on throwing it away, when something catches his attention. Black lines moving across the parchment. He frowns and unfolds it. A single “huh” escapes him.

Ducks.

Two drawn ducks that someone enchanted so that they’re now waddling across it. One of them carries a little basket in his mouth, filled with cheese and a bottle of wine. The other one reaches a corner and starts picking at the edge of the paper as if it is trying to escape its two-dimensional prison.

 Draco stares at it for a few seconds. He doesn’t understand how it got between the pages of his potions book. Did someone put it there or is it just a long forgotten doodle from the years before?

He looks up. Draco sits in the last row of the classroom, alone at a table for four. The same seat he has chosen since the beginning of his sixth school year. His classmates all seem to be focused on the words of Professor Slughorn, their eyes fixated on whatever words appear on the blackboard. Movements in the corner of his eyes causes him to turn his head.

There’s no one.

Well, no one except for you. He doesn’t know who you are. Six years of sharing classes and yet he still never bothered to learn your name. He has seen you around, obviously, and he vaguely remembers Blaise talking about you at some point. But when he tries to remember your name, his mind goes blank.

You are opening a new inkpot and your eyes quickly glance over to him, when you notice his stare. They drop to the piece of parchment in his hands and then back to the inkpot.

Draco shakes his head. Coincidence.

He looks at the ducks another time. One of them had put down the basket and now sits on a little picnic blanket. It watches the other duck who still picks at the corner of the parchment. The corners of Draco’s mouth twitch and he decides against throwing the drawing away.

Chocolates

Eight days later, Draco finds a box of chocolates with his name on it. It rests in front of his dorm room. He picks it up suspiciously and opens it. Twelve pieces of chocolate sit inside the dark green box. They smell heavenly and the sight makes his mouth water.

“Look at that, Theo!” Draco flinches at Blaise’s loud voice. “Draco has a secret admirer.”

“Oooh, who’s it from?”, Theo asks. The two boys appear behind Draco. When Theo reaches for the box, Draco closes it quickly.

Blaise rolls his eyes. “What do you think does the word ‘secret’ entail, idiot?” They disappear inside the dorm. Draco doesn’t join their conversation. By now, they don’t expect him to anymore.

He puts the chocolates in his bag and wonders who sent it to him. The drawing comes to his mind and he can’t shake the eerie feeling that the two instances are somehow connected. When he reaches the Room of Requirements, however, his thoughts darken again. Inside, the vanishing cabinet waits for him and he grits his teeth.

Draco eats the first piece of chocolate when he opens the doors to the cabinets and finds a dead bird.

Frogs

Draco used to love the weekends in Hogsmeade. Drinking Butterbeers at ‘The Three Broomsticks’, buying way too many sweets at ‘Honeydukes’, judging the people shopping at ‘Gladrags Wizardwear’ together with his friends - those weekends were the highlight of his years in schools.

They aren’t anymore.

His friends left without this morning and Draco doesn’t blame them. It was him who commented on Pansy’s supposed clinginess after she asked him if he wanted to come. Insulting her is a guaranteed way to get the whole friend group off his back. It hurt. It hurt watching them leave but it’s better this way. Easier.

Especially today.

Draco walks out of the ‘The Three Broomsticks’ when you bump into him. He reaches for your arms instinctively and holds you up so you don’t slip on the icy ground. You thank him and smile at him. Draco doesn’t reply. He lets go of you, buries his hands in his pockets and is about to turn around when he suddenly notices something. A small piece of paper, crumpled in his left pocket. Draco pulls it out, a confused look on his face, and opens it.

Another drawing. This time, it’s three tiny frogs that stare up at him. One of them makes a ‘ribbit’-sound when he smoothes over the paper. It wasn’t there before.

A second passes and it finally clicks.

You.

Draco’s eyes widen and he looks up, searching for you. You are already a few steps ahead.

“Hey!”, Draco calls out.

You stop and turn around. You wear a black coat and your scarf is wrapped around your tightly, glowing brightly in your house colors against the snowy landscape. There’s a smile on your lips. It irritates him.

“Did you …?” Draco holds up the drawing. You open your mouth as if you want to say something and then close it again. He sees a hint of embarrassment in your eyes. He caught you red-handed. “The drawing with the duck, it was you?,” he asks. “And the chocolates?”

You nod.

“Why?”

“You’re sad.” You give a half-shrug. You say it as if drawing little animals for strangers is the most normal thing in the world. “I don’t like it when people are sad.”

Draco frowns. “You don’t know me.”

“So?”, you ask. 

Draco doesn’t have an answer.

“Did they cheer you up?”

He looks down at the drawing again and it happens again - the corners of his mouth twitch. He hears you chuckle.

“I’m glad,” you say. “Have a nice day, Draco.”

He doesn’t remember the time someone called him by his first name in Hogwarts who doesn’t belong to his immediate friend group. “Wait!”, Draco calls out again when you want to turn around again.

“Yes?” You tilt your head.

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

Beautiful, Draco thinks when he hears it. How could he not have noticed you before? A sudden idea pops in his head and he starts speaking before he can think about it: “Do you maybe want to …”

He trails off when the bell of the door chimes again and Katie walks out, in her hands a black box. Draco feels the dark magic oozing over to him. She doesn’t notice him but he can’t stop staring at her.

“Do I maybe want to …?”

He snaps out of it when he hears your voice, and clears his throat. “Have a drink with me? It’s cold.”

“You don’t have to feel obligated-” You raise your hands.

“I’m not one who does things out of obligation,” Draco interrupts you.

You hesitate and for a second, Draco is convinced you’ll say no. When the next word leaves your lips, relief washes over him. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he repeats. You come towards him and he opens the door for you. When you walk past him, the whiff of your shampoo reaches his nose and Draco is convinced he’d never smelled something more calming.

 “Are you friends with Looney Lovegood?”, Draco asks when the two of you sit down. You reminded her of him.

“Pansy’s girlfriend?” You shake your head. “No, but I wish. She seems cool.” You smile again, a soft, much more shy smile, and for the first time in months, he returns it.

***

HP MASTERLIST

Thank you for reading! If you want to add yourself to my taglist, message me or use the form in my bio! <3

Taglist: @writerdee1701​, @zpandaqueen​, @ladylizzieofdarbyshire​, @aspiring-ginger​, @nobleking​, @harpersmariano​, @dracos-slut​, @destiels-assbutt13​, @justmesadgirl​, @hermione-stark​. @dracosathenaeum​ @cherie-draco​, @natsiboo, @theanxietyqueen17​, @amelialilypotter, @summertimelilies, @malfoysp0tter​, @dontpanicitsdan​ @punchnxzis​ @potterhead-of-ilvermorny​ @bimbelle​ @gloryekaterina​ @idaydreamofanotherlife​ @hahee154hq​ @ofheartsandcries​ @draco-malfoys-significant-other​, @capkatie​ @awaken-the-sirens​ @hesaidimcrazy​  @amourtentiaa​ @MarshMellowYellow @onyourgoddamnleft​ @kaiteliyn @dracosbaibe​ @harry-and-draco-loves​ @dracomalfoyswifey​, @donttellany1iusetumbler​, @beiahadid​, @lavenderblossom12, @weasleytwinswheezes​, @bellagrayson-wayne​, @pixiedustsupplyco​ @purpleskymalfoy @piercinghorizons​ @svturtles​ @miso-tang​ @krazykendraisnotinsane @vee-is-a-writter-now​ @lauren-100​ @tifftiff233​ @rennaisancebaby @mushi98​ @thecityinthesea @dracosaurusrex​@turtletaylor98 @saby06143, @peterspideysense​ @dracoismybabey​, @labualill​ @thatoneniceslytherin​ @anythings-n-everythings @loumila-layouts​ @dracoswhore007​ @ceridwen-02​ @sunshinetm @drabblingdraco​ @cheywtf​ @kerie-prince​ @sylvanslytherin​ @littlemissnoname13​ @minsuuwu @serrendiipty @disartrous​ @t38h @dracoxmgg @dracomalfoyreader​ @dreamy-clousds​

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy imagines #draco malfoy fanfiction #astrids fics

[wildeastra]

Dark Academia Extended Tag 🪐

Taken from @wellyouwontknow on weheartit

1. Are you going to learn Greek, Latin or French?

2. Will you drink coffee or tea as you read trough old books?

3. Running through the dark, mysterious forests behind the school at night or early morning walks around the school?

4. Will you read Kill Your Darlings or The Picture of Dorian Gray?

5. Will you read The Secret History or Dead Poets Society?

6. All-girls school, all-boys school, or going to a school for everyone?

7. Will you tell your friends about Oscar Wilde or Edgar Allan Poe?

8. Will you tell the rough truth or the sweet lies about what happened last weekend?

9. Will you prefer the sound of the crowded library (flipping pages, pencils meeting paper, soft whispers) or your shared dormitory at night (snoring, fire crackles, rain tapping against the window?

10. Running in the rain or laying on grass during summer?

11. At night, when they ask for a scary story, will you tell of true crime or urban legends?

12. Will your old radio play classical or jazz?

13. Will you take history or English class?

14. Will you dance in the moonlight, or play the piano, softly?

15. Will you prefer an old countryside manor, or a big city house?

16. In an empty classroom, will you solve equations on the blackboard, or search for answers in an old forgotten book?

17. Will you sit on a bench, in silence, with the person that you love, or dance at a ball with the same person?

18. Will you write music or poetry?

19. Will you go to a crowded reception, or spend the night telling horror stories to your friends?

20. Will you be a student at a boarding school in the countryside, or at a prestigious university?

21. A quiet and desired solitude or a group of friends with whom to break the rules?

22. Will you play Hamlet or Othello?

23. Will you pledge allegiance to the gods of science or literature?

24. Will you be forced to abandon love for ambition or ambition for love?

25. Will you visit rainy London or gloomy Paris?

26. Will you experience a forbidden love, because homosexual, or because incompatible with the social differences?

27. Will you play the piano or the violin?

28. Will you study late at night, or from early morning?

29. Will you be crazy about old novels or old movies?

30. Will you visit an abandoned chapel, at night, or a hidden library?

31. Will you wear tweed blazer or a trench coat?

32. Corduroy or plaid pants?

33. Oxford shoes or Doc Marten's boots?

34. A beige blouse or a black turtleneck?

35. A pocket watch or metal glasses?

36. Will you prefer the sound of dead leaves crunching under the feet or the feeling of the sun on your skin on a winter day?

37. Will you smoke a cigarette on the terrace of a cafe, reading the newspaper, or drinking red wine at night, a violin in your hand?

38. Will you spend hours in a museum, starring the same piece of art, or typing an essay on a typewriter?

39. Will you wear your hair tied by a ribbon, or braided?

40. A hazy graveyard at dusk, or a wild horse running in a field?

41. Will you prefer a Gothic-style building (high windows, towers) or neoclassical (columns, sober)?

42. Will you meet your love in secret between two shelves in the library, or behind a chapel?

43. Will you read Jane Austen or Henry James?

44. Will you wear the portrait of your loved one as a medallion, or place one of their letters against your heart?

my inbox is open! send me a number <3 (or do it yourself too)

#dark academia tag #dark academia asks #dark acadamia aesthetic #dark academia #questions #tag #art #books and libraries #music #photography #poetry #writers #science #quotes #travel #books #knowledge #academic

[aliceisdead22]

Let the war begin Pt1

Genshin Oc // Kaebedo(?)

Ft : Albedo, Diona, Hex (Oc), Kaeya, Klee, Jean.

Cw ~ Kinda Kaebedo Angst, sabotage,

Tw ~ Manipulation.

Notes : I multishiper so...Yeah..

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"My dear friends..." A young woman said with a pointer in her hands.

"The gift of your presence is not for me. It's for yourselves." She started walking into the dark room, where they were only two little girls "who came today because of the desire, and the knowledge that the old ways no longer serve us."

The room was cold. A raven was at the top of a board. " You came here because you crave something new, something different." The raven was black with some blue feathers.

One of the little girls raised her hand, and the young woman let her talk.

"I've heard people say you hate my brother, is that true?" The girl in a red dress asked.

The female just let out a smirk. "It is said that. I hate the alchemist, the bio-alchemist, the cavalry captain and the knights of Favonuis, and I don't hate them."

The young woman approached the girl with a disturbing look. "Because I do not fight out of hatred, I say that. The alchemist is not inferior, he is just different, is not that he is worth anything." She walked away from the little girl. "He has another value. He is not disposable. He is just at a different disposition."

"Love grows in unique souls. It is granted to those who have meaningful destinies." She took a pencil and started writing different things on the board. "Oh, and what a world we would make for all of humanity. Those of us who live for freedom."

"For the truth" The women stop writing to take a little break.

"And for the love-" Suddenly the conversation is thwarted by the front door opening. The darkroom was, penetrated by the light. "Klee, what're you doing with the lights off?... Oh! Hex... Am I interrupting?" the tall blonde asked.

"Miss Hex tries to convince us to join her team." The little cat girl said to the blonde.

"What teams?"

"Lady Lisa and Amber say that it, would be a good idea for Albedo and Kaeya to go out together." Klee said with a big smile.

"And she's giving us points about why we shouldn't support them." The cat replied.

"Sure, I better leave them..." The blond left the room closing the door.

Klee got up to turn on the lights. "I don't know Hex... that would make Albedo sad..." The kid said taking her backpack.

"Well, Klee, I haven't finished my presentation." The little girl returned to her seat a little annoyed.

The young woman cleared her throat. "The time has come to share my vision of the future that awaits us if we don't get up and avoid the place that doesn't belong to him."

The young woman walks away from the blackboard and takes the pointer.

"Albedo will stop paying attention to Klee. Now he will have higher priority over his ''love'', and they will spend his time doing experiments, and he will no longer see you". She took a challenging stance towards the little girl.

"But, Albedo isn't like that! He loves me!" The girl looked angry at the brown-haired girl.

"Once Albedo marries him, you won't exist anymore. Anyways you're not even blood brothers." Hex's eyes turned from grey to bright pink. "What will you do when that happens?" The girl hadn't seen him from that point. She was shocked.

"And Diona, you know Kaeya, you know perfectly well that someone can get hooked on wine just by being in Kaeya's presence. How long will it take to convince Albedo? He will want to experiment with the wine and create new types." The pink-haired one kept thinking about Hex's words.

The girl hit the blackboard, "That is what we fight. That is the enemy. His arrogance! His thirst for passion, his barbarism." She looked at the girls "and how long will it take for them to fall in love and leave us behind?"

"What do you say?"

#Kaebedo angst #angst genshin impact #klee genshin impact #diona genshin impact #Hex (Oc) #Oc x Kaeya #Kaebedo #genshin impact #genshin #diona #albedo #Kaeya #klee #kaeya genshin impact #albedo genshin impact

[regulusfate]

One loose thread doesn’t take the roll down

Hinny

Prompt : You’re safe now, I’m with you .

Requested by @alwaysmagica1 <3

the title is playing on the idea one bad day doesn’t mean they all will be.

It had meant something different once, to be safe. To be safe. It had been a thousand and one possibilities, of testing boundaries, of warmth, of a breath of fresh air and her falling body and his solid arms, like an anchor.

Somewhere that had changed for both of them, she wasn’t entirely sure when she stopped being scared of that thought, or if she ever had. Even there, in the light of the lampshade watching the over the marks of their children’s presence scattered across the living room, the handprints of paint etched into the walls, the toys knocked beneath the table, there came a hint of unsettlement within her chest.

Not quite placeable, the word danced between her tongue and her teeth, on the edge of spilling over like drops of red fine wine against a cream carpet, she never could find the right word for it. An ache, yes, and her fingers massaged through the cotton of her top to the callous skin, an ache but the feeling that came with it detached like a half formed thought cast to the fringes of her mind.

She wonders when they became so complacent. How they could forget so quickly, the world in all its fragile glory, the single tap of one man to shatter the globe encasing them.

It was dangerous, to pretend so sullenly, that life had moved on as though it could never happen again and yet, they all forget, their war had not been the first.

Her husband doesn’t forget. He cannot, and she will not, tracing the scars on his chest and the blackened edges of numb flesh where he could not feel, those long term effects of evading death and that striking curse.

She sees Harry. Not the boy who saved her in the chamber, but the man that built a pillow fought with his kids. Not the war hero still fighting in the ranks of the ministry, but the man who kissed her freckles ‘like the stars’, and plays with her hair, and that body that holds her close under the sheets.

They are a reliance on each other, letting the world drift in its complacency, they are upon their own mound of earth, a whole other wave.

.

sixth year

“Weasley !”

The sun struck the air and it dazzled, as she weaved through the beams cast her way as the blue of the ocean sky seemed to shimmer, froth on water.

Ginny laughed, billowing up from her lungs into the breathless air, embracing the rush. Harry lunged for her, their bodies swooping, swooning, clambering through the clouds about the sea of green and tiny etched houses. He missed. Their game of cat and mouse.

“You know for someone with an ‘elegant disposition’ on a broom-“

She laughed harder, arching out of his stretching hands, pitching her voice to mimic the report of the latest witchly weekly article, and his face fell into horror pulling his broom up short.

“You read that!”

The mortification in his voice and it cracked an octave higher. Ginny grinned, the wind brushing through her hair.

“Did you know you have an elegant disposition Mr Potter?”

She teased and his eyes sparkled despite the groan from his lips, their chests heaving with pleasure and panting breaths and flushed cheeks.

“Did you always want to be a poet, Miss Weasley?”

Harry quipped back and she choked on the breeze that cascaded her hair in waves of sparks.

“I was eleven !”

“Are my eyes still as green as a fresh pickled toad?”

He laughed, and Ginny scowled, watching his head tip back and eyes flutter closed, the soft cylinder of his giggles echoing in the breeze.

“Is my hair truly as dark as a blackboard?” Harry wheezed

It was quickly followed by a yelp, as he narrowly avoided a strike to the head. Darting forwards, he soared away, and she snatched up the quaffle once more.

“Don’t throw it at my face !”

“Scared to mess up that nose?” She teased back, and they were chasing through the clouds and the sunlight sky.

“Hey it’s straighter than Eloise Midgen’s”

Spurring her broom forwards, his voice tailing back, and she smirked

“Let’s see that elegant disposition then, I’ve always wanted a moving target”

“This is harassment, Weasley,” the distance closed between them, her eyes narrowed on his mop of hair, and he took a sharp left closer to the trees.

“Only until you forget the poem-“ Ginny warned, half teasing though her eyes were bright and smiling as her lips twisted into a determined frown.

“His eyes are as green as fresh pickled toad.”

Harry chanted with a bubbling laugh, dipping between the clouds

“Keep talking Potter !”

“At least I have a Hungarian horntail on my chest”

She snorted, thrown off guard by the sudden change, her hand slipped against the polished handle of the broom as a rogue bludger spun her way and she fumbled, off balance and unable to keep a hold as she veered to the side.

Falling was second nature to quidditch, but still a surprised noise escaped her lips as the air pushed past her, and her fingers gasped at nothing, as though the wind was fighting against gravity and losing and sinking and her hand would not reach her wand in time.

She didn’t want to die.

And then arms snatched at her waist, forcing the final breaths of oxygen from her lips in a startled jerk that bruised her ribs, and she was latching on to the stable body that kept her afloat. Something that might have been a laugh but detached from her ears and a tinge of hysteria as her fingers wound into the shirt and the world was burry in front of her eyes, woozy and sweeping, but she knew those arms as her chin connected with his shoulder.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Harry murmured, a different chant, more to appease his own racing heart as his feet touched the ground gently but he didn’t attempt to remove his arms and for that Ginny was glad. She needed that anchor against her own pounding heartbeat.

“You’re safe now, I’m with you.” He mumbled, and she felt the soft graze of his lips pressing against her head as she squeezed her eyes shut.

“Holy crap, Ginny I’m so sorry !”

Fred, his voice bursting forwards like a galloping horse and she could move again, the leaded feeling that weighted her legs seeped as they finally pressed fully into the grass.

“You’re an ass.” She snaps, voice partially muffled by Harry’s shoulder.

Fred’s face crumpled from horror to a kicked puppy, and Ginny sighed, not removing herself from his arms but twisting her neck to meet his eyes.

“It’s fine, it’s not the first time.”

His face remained plastered in worry, until a smirk lept on to her face.

“I’m fine,” her smirk grew wider “but I think you just gave mum a heart attack.”

His eyes snapped round to meet Molly Weasley white face in the doorway and gulped. His lips moved inaudible for a moment before his eyes found George with a pleading look. ‘Save me Georgie’

It was only when Molly’s yells began from the muted walls of the burrow, did she pull away, and met Harry’s own pale face with curious brown eyes, that bordered on teasing once again.

“I’m really sorry-“

“What did you mean?” He blinked, taken aback and frowned in confusion.

“You’re safe now , I’m with you?”

The colour returned full force to his cheeks, a blush riding up and he shifted awkwardly for a moment with a bashful shrug.

“I- I dunno” he mumbled sheepishly

“Okay then , Mr Chosen One,” she grinned and grabbed his hands, intertwining their fingers and moving towards the burrow and he groaned.

She was never letting him live it down.

.

There’s a shadow at the door, a creak and he’s stood there. It’s always his eyes. Brimming with an expanse of pain and loss and his fingers jumped against the side of his leg even as he shifted weight. His throat moved beneath his skin, swallowing in air, swallowing in silence. His lips not fully closed, she knows he wants to say something, anything, she can feel the tightness of his voice just in the shuddering breath he clambered to retain.

“You’re up late,” Ginny offered gently, and a part of her wished his face would crack into that roguish godforbid sexy smirk, stride forwards and tug her up against chest with an arching eyebrow. She wants to hear his low husky ‘maybe I was waiting for you’ breathed down her neck.

She wants it, because she knows the pain that takes hold is so much worse.

“Well I-“ he bites the inside of his cheek, and turns his head. His voice is rough, but it’s grating behind the force of every swallowed scream battering in his dreams and she can see his eyes blinking, the sharp line of his jaw in the light softened by the growth of his beard and jumping in place.

“Hey,” Ginny rose silently, into the shadows of the room and slips her fingers into his larger ones. They shake slightly against her. “Harry.”

He shakes his head for a moment, the muscles in his face gripping at his skin for control and she sees the blink of his eyelashes, thrice, before he folds into her embrace. His beard is ticklish against her neck, as his head presses into her shoulder and his arms curl tightly and Ginny knows he’s clinging to the heartbeat.

She reaches through his tense and tightening biceps to rub his back. His hair smelt of roses, it’s soft petal texture, feathered against her cheek, she liked it. His hair always seemed to smell of roses.

“Hey , hey it’s okay.”

He shudders, and her fingers find gently into the soft locks. The muscles in his back tense, rolling like the cup of raindrop slipping down the veins of dying leaves, and a sob follows.

“You’re safe now,” Ginny whispered, and he presses closer. “I’m with you.”

The always is left unsaid , but she knows he hears it. For a long moment they are simply held in an embrace, his body and hers, intertwined in limbs and a shared grief.

“You’re with me,” he mumbles, “you’re with me, you’re with me”

A pause, and her chest aches more to take his pain away. He pulls back first, pressing a sleeve to his eyes with another shaking breath, and exhaling slowly. She keeps a hand on his back rubbing up and down, as her mother had done , as he had done to her.

Ginny doesn’t ask if he wants to talk about it, as they gravitate slowly towards the sofa where there’s light cast out of the shadows and their tired bodies slump into the cushions. She doesn’t need to ask. They told each other everything they could , some things had taken years to speak of, others only seconds. Sometimes it would be silence, times where neither one will speak of what came crashing, tearing through their mind, it’s a story for another day.

Harry rubs a hand down his face, their knees touching, legs almost overlapping, and torso’s inclined towards each other. He leans an arm on the top of the sofa, and his fingers brush lightly over the scar , that scar , that ripples through his skin. He does it automatically, and sometimes purposefully. It’s strange how they could find comfort in the things that haunted them most.

“I’m scared for them.” He speaks after a while, and she fiddles with a loose thread on his shirt.

Them being the kids and Ginny knows he means, that ever present fear that their children should grow and witness the same horrors they had seen, as their parents had before them.

“James is almost five,” and the number comes out almost breathless, as if he can’t quite wrap his head around it, a wistfulness and a yearning. She sighs and moves, and he accepts the gesture instantly, opening his arms and she curls up against his chest.

It’s not something she likes to think about, truthfully.

“I’m scared too,” Her hand rubs against his chest, watching the creases in his shirt. “But our babies are growing up, and we get to see that.”

He hums, and she moves to glance upwards and meet Harry’s eyes, still those beautiful green.

“We get that.” Ginny whispers, and the echo of a smile wraps around his lips as his fingers drift up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

“We do.” He murmurs, like clarification and they lean into the touch the other offers instinctively. Her head presses back against his chest, and his fingers wind their way through her hair and they’ve stopped shaking now.

“I saw you in the mirror this morning,” it’s been plaguing her all day.

“Oh?”

She can almost hear the smile in voice now, and relaxes a little more.

“You’re not getting rid of the beard.”

A deep chuckle reverberates from his chest though soft into the quiet of the house and she grins.

All was , sometimes , well . They could live with that .

#post war hinny #hinny #hinny prompt #harry potter #hp golden era #hp next gen #hp fandom #hinny fanfic #harry and ginny #hp fanfic #post wizarding war #I’ve realised I’m not actually sure when in sixth year this could have happened #but let’s just go with it anyway

[novelconcepts]

Every time I watch episode 9 I think, for some reason, about what a long plane ride it is from Vermont to England and how Dani must of felt on that plane knowing she was going to her death and how Jamie must of felt on that plane ride, knowing what she was about to find. Not necessarily looking for an entire fic here, just wondering your thoughts on how long that journey was for them both and their mindset?

She’s fading. She can feel it--the past six months have served as more than a warning, of how it will go in the end. Moments vanishing into hours without her consent. Hours becoming days before she can blink. She’s fading, all the pieces that once were Dani Clayton being wiped slowly--slowly--slowly away like a wet cloth across a blackboard.

She moves as quickly as she’s able, knowing there isn’t much time left. Knowing the moments-hours-days in this unplugged reality can only end one way. One way that is acceptable, anyway. 

The Lady would prefer otherwise. The Lady would prefer another method, another road taken. Every day, Dani gets a little closer to walking that road. Every day, the Lady gets a little closer to the surface. 

She almost has a face, some days. Almost has a self, some days, beyond anything Dani has been able to make out over the years. Sometimes, she opens her eyes and watches blue eyes, long lashes, hair so dark, it’s nearly black tumbling across a sharply beautiful face, and she thinks, This will be me. If I let it. If I let her. No more Dani Clayton. No more love of Jamie’s life. Just this woman, whose red lips turn up at the corners like she knows a secret Dani would kill to keep buried. 

She boards a plane. A nearly twelve-hour flight to London, they say, with expressions that suggest so much more. You don’t look so good, Miss. You don’t look so good at all. Can we call someone to travel with you, to make certain you aren’t alone?

Not alone, she thinks hollowly. Haven’t been alone in so long. 

The last flight she boarded was so different. The last time on a plane, over a year ago, with Jamie at her side, had felt like one final bid for freedom. She hadn’t even cared where they were going--had just run her finger up a globe with her head turned to the side, heedless of where she’d land. Didn’t matter. Jamie’s hand over hers, Jamie’s ring caressing her skin, had been enough. 

The Lady followed her, of course. She’s been outrun by too many ghosts, never once able to pull ahead in the race for her own sanity. She knows by now--knew, even before the not-quite-face started appearing in every pane of glass--there would be no escaping. A sacrifice willingly made is only legitimate if it is driven to completion. 

But she’d thought--hoped--desperately needed--more time. More time with Jamie. More time burning popcorn, and lazily cherishing Sunday mornings in bed, and trying to wrap gifts the night before Christmas with Jamie bustling over mulled wine in the next room. More time. You get only so much, and she’s had so much more than she’s earned, but still--

I wish, she thinks, and does not allow herself to go further. If she finishes that thought, it’ll all change. If she finishes that wish, she might turn around in a London terminal. Book the first flight right back. She imagines herself turning up on the doorstep, imagines Jamie’s shell-shocked face on the other side of the lock. Jamie, pulling her close, whispering into her hair that she is still here, still her, still pushing toward a future both of them can see growing thin. 

I wish, she thinks, and does not finish. She leans her head back, lets her eyes close, letting Jamie’s sleepy smile play across her memory. The memories are really all she has now, for this final day. This final bid for Dani. She ought, she thinks, keep her eyes open. She ought, she thinks, drink in every color the world has to offer. The sunrise. The storm. The grass, the architecture, the human laughter which ties the world together on even the worst day. She ought to keep the world firmly in hand as long as she’s able.

But it’s memory that wins out, in the end. She’s so tired. Maybe this is the Lady’s gift to her--maybe this is the Lady being kind, in her own horrific way. Not tucking Dani away, not really; Dani is terrified to let her hands off the wheel even for a moment, terrified she might wake to a plane in an unresolvable nosedive. She holds on, knowing it’s only for a little longer, knowing the exhaustion has to win out eventually--and knowing, even still, there is this one thing left to do. 

No; she does not allow herself to be tucked anywhere. But the memories are stronger than the daylight stretching out beyond the plane carrying her home. The memories are stronger than the airline stewardess with her nervous eyes, than the drink cart rattling by, than the offer of food. Dani closes her eyes, and she is--

--in a bathroom, Jamie’s shirt soft around her shoulders, Jamie’s hand firm around her upper arm. Jamie, eyes refusing to shed tears, Jamie, lips trembling, Jamie, reminding her she will stay, she will stay, she has to stay--

--in a hotel in New York, skin stained with the neon of city lights strobing through the window as she kisses Jamie, as she keeps her eyes on Jamie’s face, as she watches Jamie cast her head back and arch into her hands--

--in a restaurant in Paris, cigarette smoldering between her fingers as Jamie’s hand slides around her ribs. Jamie’s thigh relaxed beneath the stroke of her fingers, Jamie’s perfume mingling with her own from the careless, easy way Jamie had leaned her head against Dani’s shoulder on the cab ride over--

--in their kitchen, a ring hidden in a pot, Jamie’s eyes widening with understanding as it clicks home that Dani is doing this, Dani is certain, Dani knows this is the thing to do even as she’s running out of time to do it. Jamie’s hands in her hair, Jamie’s thumbs on her cheeks, Jamie laughing and crying and kissing her all in mad, perfect joy--

--in the back room of The Leafling, Jamie shushing her, listening for the knock at the door that says they ought to have opened back up after lunch twenty minutes ago. Jamie shushing her, and sighing, and giving up any pretense as Dani kisses her neck, hand slipped between trouser and skin, not caring the least about time as it marches on--

--on a plane. She is on a plane, and the plane is touching down, and time is unraveling around her faster, now. She feels the world bend and twist, as though she is walking not on solid ground, but upon shifting waves. If she loses focus for even a moment, she might forget--might forget a woman cannot walk on water, might forget and sink under before she’s ready to go. 

Could she ever be ready to go?

She calls a car, wishing almost that it could be a dark-haired man in glasses and a leather jacket who steps out to help with bags she has not brought. She calls a car, and closes her eyes in the cold sunshine to wait, and she is--

--in an apartment barely furnished, takeout containers spread across the floor, Jamie’s head in her lap. Jamie, saying, “Christmas in Vermont--know it’s silly, but I feel like I was always supposed to be here.” Jamie, leaning up to kiss her with breath tinged with wine, the giddy anticipation of a new life dancing along her tongue as it slides between Dani’s lips--

--in a bedroom no longer her own, tears running down her cheeks, Jamie’s pinky notched around her own. Jamie, in shades of blue and promise, saying, “D’you want company? While you wait for your beast in the jungle, do you want--” and pressing lips to white knuckle in a knight’s oath--

--in a hallway, vibrating with need, wishing she could find the words to coax Jamie into another night. Just one more night, she thinks, knowing it could never be enough. One more. And one more. And one-- as Jamie is kissing her with sweet promise, Jamie guiding her hands up to hold tight, Jamie saying, “There are other nights, and there will be...”--

--in a grove of glorious flowers, rain sweet on the air, feeling as though this is what it is to jump--to fly--to bury her hands in Jamie’s hair and linger in every inch of her skin, her jacket pulled tight between her fingers, her hips bumping into Dani’s like she never wants to be apart from her again as she recognizes, “Once in a blue goddamn moon, I guess”--

-in a kitchen filled with the mundane ease of afternoon meal, of new friends and new charges, a woman strolling in as though she has nowhere to be and no rush to find it, her eyes meeting Dani’s with the simple certainty of oh, hello, you--

--standing at a lake. She is dressed, she notes with distant alarm, in a tight red dress unlike anything she’s ever owned. She is dressed for a show no one else will see. A moment, she thinks, given to the Lady without realizing. And still, she wound up here. Still, her legs carried her all this way. The Lady had allowed it, or Dani had mandated it, but either way: she is here, now.

She is here, and she wishes. She wishes with everything she would not allow herself on the plane over. She wishes, and she dreams, and she knows she could not for all the world put Jamie through it. Even now. Especially now. 

She is twisting the ring, as she begins to walk.

She is holding the ring, as the waves lick higher. 

She is gripping the ring, as her shoulders, her neck, her head vanish beneath the waves. 

And this, here, a final gift--from the Lady, or from Viola, or from the magic of the night Dani Clayton gave up her future to save a child from this very fate. One more sweet moment granted, as she closes her eyes, as she lets the cold seep into her bones. Her lungs are quiet. Her heart does not pound from her chest. She is--

--in a bed with someone she has chosen, for the first time. In a bed, with someone who helps banish the shadows, just a little. In a bed, with Jamie’s hair curling between her fingers, Jamie’s skin sliding warm and supple against her own, Jamie kissing every part of her she’s never allowed anyone else to grace. Jamie, asking if she’s all right. Jamie, asking if she’s sure. Jamie, already loving her in ways she can’t yet know will punctuate her entire life. 

Jamie, holding her tight as she breaks, swells, breaks again. Jamie, kissing her brow, tasting her skin, testing the weight of her as she rolls them both over and takes the lead. Jamie, smiling with wonder, eyes dilated, body seeking contact as they move between soft sheets. 

Jamie, falling asleep not upon finishing, but in the middle of a conversation. Jamie, who has been asking about school, about favorite movies, about Dani’s first look at the stars and last time being sick, as though she’s trying to pack a lifetime into a single night. Jamie, punctuating every sentence with fingers tracing Dani’s every scar, every freckle, every beat of a heart that already sings Jamie’s name. 

Jamie, falling asleep mid-word, pushed tight against Dani as though making of herself a talisman against the dark. Jamie, breathing soft and deep and even. 

Jamie, with her now, with her always, with her until the very last. 

Jamie. 

There is, at last, peace. 

#ask #fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #dani x jamie #dani clayton #well. it's not quite what you asked for #but it's certainly what I couldn't help #you're welcome. or I'm sorry. probably both

[veterveter]

I'm looking for a way to drop that funeral planning ficlet on tumblr, maybe this would be a "fun" way to do that?

“Everyone should wear black.”

“Of course they will, it’s a funeral.”

“Not because it’s a funeral. Because it’s stylish.”

“Whatever. I’ll write it on the invite. Wear black, it’s stylish.”

“Thank you. White roses, white lilies. You’ll play a white piano. You should play Bella Ciao, that could be my requiem. I think it would be fitting.” He imagines how Martín would make it sound – he would doubtlessly turn the joyful rebellion into something haunting. “Nevertheless, everything will be white, except for the guests.”

“Duly noted.”

“Have everyone bring red roses to lay on my casket. You’ll curse God as you stand there, for a while. I hope rains.” He leans back, and it doesn’t ache too much, and that feels like a blessing. “And afterwards, you’ll go clubbing.”

This makes Martín pause, finally.

Andrés makes sure to have eye contact as he continues, “You and Sergio. Dance. Drink. Start with wine, then whisky, then shots of tequila. Get drunk, forget about me and live.”

Martín sneers, an ugly little thing. His face was made for joy, not… whatever this is. “You won’t have any control over me anymore, Andrés.”

Andrés continues to look at him. An ugly little thing he has always loved. “I will always have control over you. You will do as I ask of you.”

____________________

A week ago, he said, “One last plan, Martín.”

It was the first time he had seen Martín’s eyes light up in three months.

It was the first time he truly felt cruel in his life, when he followed it up with, “The funeral. We need to plan it, you and I.”

The light behind Martín’s eyes faded, and Andrés knew he would never see it again. He wished he had cherished it when he still had the chance, when it took nothing at all to coax it out of him. When that light was his default expression, when Andrés’s presence brought him joy – instead of everlasting pain, a suffering that would surely stay with him for the rest of Martín’s life.

Martín does it, of course. Martín is dutiful, so he clears out the blackboard, without a moment’s hesitation, wipes away the plans they had. He doesn’t say, not even once, this is morbid, Andrés, even though he must be thinking it. Andrés hopes that someday, Martín might think back to these days and find them cathartic. Or that he’ll find it in himself to be proud.

Proud of himself for being brave enough to watch Andrés wither. Proud of the depth of his love. Proud of the gracefulness of their plan, Andrés’s swan song.

Together, they plan the setting. Privately, Andrés plans everything else.

He plans futures for his loved ones.

Tatiana will look pretty as she cries, a woman too young and alive to be a widower. Martín will comfort her, will wrap his arms around her as she shakes with tears. He has never held a woman like that before, but he will do it, if only to distract himself. She will bring him comfort, because she will understand a shard of his suffering, the thinnest sliver of it. Because Martín will be able to look at her and see her love for what it is: inferior.

Sergio will be fine. He has Raquel, and Paula, he has already started building a life that doesn’t include Andrés. It’s just as well. He’s finally growing up, doing what he has to. Taking care of himself in a world that has never cared about him.

Maybe Sergio and Martín will finally bond, over their shared pain.

Or maybe they will become strangers, incapable of meeting each other’s eyes, unwilling to see their own suffering reflected back in them. Andrés can’t do anything about that. He’s not God. Gods are eternal.

For Martín, Andrés has only one plan, but his is the most important one.

Martín will live.

____________________

If it weren’t for Martín, Andrés would have simply killed himself. Truly, he would have. He would have crafted an elegant death for himself, something poetic and needlessly cruel.

The only reason he deems it necessary to cling to life so desperately, even as his body withers, is to give Martín this. He wants Martín to have closure. He wants Martín to grieve beautifully.

Even though Andrés is technically still alive, he misses what life used to feel like. What life was meant to be like. He misses stealing priceless jewels and irreplaceable paintings. He misses drinking tea and going on walks. He misses feeling untethered by the confines of his mortal body.

He misses Martín.

Other people will doubtlessly go on walks and steal jewels, but Martín will eternally be but a shade of himself. Andrés is taking Martín’s heart and soul to his grave, and leaving behind this sad little puppet, his strings pulled by mourning and hatred.

Some part of Andrés is quietly pleased with that. There’s a certain beauty to be found in everlasting suffering.

And if he can’t have Martín in all his glorious brilliance and destructive grace, then no one should.

____________________

“You haven’t changed your mind, have you?” Martín asks, in a falsely casual manner, studying his cup of coffee.

Andrés sighs. He had been thinking, foolishly, that Martín will have finally gotten the hint, but of course not. Martín never truly stops, he just reschedules. Anything he ever feels or thinks willcome back, again and again, until he finally finds something to do with it.

“No. And I won’t, so you can stop asking.”

“You won’t even know what I do. You’ll be dead.”

“But you will. And I am not giving you my blessing to put a bullet to your brain. You’ll live. It’s my last wish and you will honour it.”

“I never thought you’d be so cruel,” Martín says, his tone accusatory and wounded.

He doesn’t continue, but the implication is clear: he means not to me. He knows Andrés, knows exactly how cruel he is. He just never thought it would be aimed at himself. He’s Andrés’s foil, his mirror, his other half.

And he’s right. It was never meant to be.

“So be it. You’ll live the life I never got to have. If you must die, then it will be from something else. Not your own hands.”

“Andrés…”

“I didn’t get to make a choice, and neither will you.”

He has to ask Martín for this, despite knowing that it’s the cruelest thing to ask for. Because no one else has ever loved Andrés enough to live for him. No one else ever would have, even if he had more time. Andrés knows he’s hard to love. And anyone would be hard to love, this unconditionally.

It was only ever going to be Martín.

Andrés doesn’t allow himself to wonder if he would be willing to go through the same, were the roles reversed. He’s afraid of being bitterly disappointed in himself, on his final days.

Martín has always been his favourite part of himself: just the right kind of cruel, the correct shade of suicidal. Chaos without an outlet, manifesting in the strangest ways. A genius caged in the body of a man.

Now Martín is going to be the only part of him left. That thought doesn’t bring Andrés peace, necessarily, but it’s one of the only things he isn’t going to leave behind as regrets.

“I’m sure time will bring us back together.”

Martín glares at him, but he says nothing. Martín doesn’t believe in any kind of life after death, or absolution, or even redemption, but he’s not going to say that to a dying man. Martín is never going to be fully honest with him again.

Andrés wants to hear every single ugly and awful thought he is holding back.

____________________

“Can I stay here?”

“Martín…”

“Just to be here. I won’t do anything. I just want to—”

Andrés sighs, too weak to argue, in mind and body as well as in spirit. “Fine, come here.” He scoots over, allowing Martín space on the bed.

“You are my own personal hell,” Martín muses quietly in the dark. He stays an arm’s length away, and Andrés can’t summon the energy to question it. “All nine circles, just you, every moment of my life with you.”

Andrés feels the same way about Martín. All nine circles, every wasted opportunity. If there is life after death, he might be stuck repeating exactly that.

He would still take it. He would choose hell of himself repeating the same mistakes with Martín, over heaven without him.

“Would you do it again?”

Martín turns to look at him, doesn’t answer right away. “I would watch you die a hundred times over,” he finally admits, quiet in the way the truth always is.

How misfortunate Andrés is, to have been given a love like that. A love so desperate, so out of control. He would have much rather been loved by a woman, someone like Tatiana, softly but without the intent to burn and destroy everything around them.

If Andrés has to be loved like this, he should have at least been given the chance to truly reciprocate. He should have been given time to give Martín everything he deserves and everything he doesn’t. He should have been allowed to give Martín the entire world, with all of its beauty and all of its gore. To murder every last man but themselves, to bask in their own brilliance, surrounded by all those decaying bodies, rather than being trapped in his own.

Their love is but an incomplete masterpiece, smiting them both with its existence. It’s unimaginable cruelty, because theirs is a love most will never get to experience.

It could have been so perfect.

“You should do the bank heist with Sergio,” he says, “Take my place. Do it in my honour.”

“Sure,” Martín says, and for that one word, his tone is as amused as it is destructive. “It’s always been a suicide, that plan. It was meant to be ours.” He angles his entire body away from Andrés, like looking at him is suddenly somehow offensive. “Now it’ll just be mine.”

____________________

“Here’s what I would have done, if we had more time.”

Andrés doesn’t have the energy to do anything but angle his head towards Martín, without even opening his eyes.

“I would have married you. I like to think you would have wanted that, too. I would have taken your last name. We would have bought an island. We would have stolen all the most priceless things in the world and gifted them to each other. I would have killed all of your ex-wives. Well, maybe not Tatiana, she’s grown on me. But we would have been happy, you and I.”

He takes Andrés’s left hand in both of his, and sighs.

“Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that.”

Andrés wonders if he would have been better off not knowing all of this.

____________________

The end comes fast.

That makes it both easier and harder, but Andrés doesn’t have the energy to feel sad or grateful. He feels like he still has things he would like to say, to both Sergio and Martín, but he just feels tired. Too tired to remember the words, too tired to decide if they need to be said after all.

Every day, he’s awake less and less, to the point where there’s no longer days to speak of. There’s only moments, all of them with Martín by his side. His presence is the only thing Andrés takes notice of, even if he can’t conjure up many thoughts about it. Or anything else.

Andrés is no longer conscious as he takes his last breath, but as he falls under, the last thing he sees are Martín’s sad, sad eyes. The last thought he ever has is

unimaginable

cruelty.

#anyway have some stuff I wrote a while ago #actually it was while I was still working on 'spike the punch' #I took a break from wholesome dinner planning to plan some funerals #I finally felt like editing it and posting it just because #honestly I just never wanted to post it as a full thing so this prompt collection seems like the perfect opportunity #I wrote this one inspired by 'Jos mä kuolen nuorena' by Heli Kajo #and even repurposed some lyrics for dialogue (near the beginning) because I thought Andrés totally would #hope you like this little thing I wrote #ficlets #lcdp #berlermo

[hizerain]

the extended tag thingy- 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 12, 14, 16, 20, 23, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41

Dark academia extended tag (I'm sorry if I missed any, the list was quite long)

3. Running through the dark, mysterious forests behind the school at night or early morning walks around the school?

Running through the dark, mysterious forests behind the school at night. Nothing makes me feel as alive as being outside at night, running or biking around.

4. Will you read Kill Your Darlings or The Picture of Dorian Gray?

The picture of Dorian Gray

5. Will you read The Secret History or Dead Poets Society?

The Secret History

6. All-girls school, all-boys school, or going to a school for everyone?

A school for everyone

8. Will you tell the rough truth or the sweet lies about what happened last weekend?

I feel safe in saying lost my mind the past weekend, you decide wether that is fact or fiction.

9. Will you prefer the sound of the crowded library (flipping pages, pencils meeting paper, soft whispers) or your shared dormitory at night (snoring, fire crackles, rain tapping against the window?

Crowded library

12. Will your old radio play classical or jazz?

Classical, though I may switch to jazz once in a while

14. Will you dance in the moonlight, or play the piano, softly?

Play the piano softly

16. In an empty classroom, will you solve equations on the blackboard, or search for answers in an old forgotten book?

Both. The first shouldn't take too long.

20. Will you be a student at a boarding school in the countryside, or at a prestigious university?

A prestigious university. I prefer the anonimity of a grand school.

23. Will you pledge allegiance to the gods of science or literature?

Science

27. Will you play the piano or the violin?

Violin, it is absolutely my favourite instrument.

28. Will you study late at night, or from early morning?

From early morning

29. Will you be crazy about old novels or old movies?

Old novels

30. Will you visit an abandoned chapel, at night, or a hidden library?

An abandoned chapel

31. Will you wear tweed blazer or a trench coat?

Tweed blazer

32. Corduroy or plaid pants?

Plaid pants

33. Oxford shoes or Doc Marten's boots?

Oxford shoes

34. A beige blouse or a black turtleneck?

Beige blouse

35. A pocket watch or metal glasses?

Pocket watch

36. Will you prefer the sound of dead leaves crunching under the feet or the feeling of the sun on your skin on a winter day?

The feeling of sun on my skin in the dead of winter whilst the cold wind rushes past.

37. Will you smoke a cigarette on the terrace of a cafe, reading the newspaper, or drinking red wine at night, a violin in your hand?

Drinking red wine at night with a violin (I cannot stand cigarette smoke)

40. A hazy graveyard at dusk, or a wild horse running in a field?

Graveyard

41. Will you prefer a Gothic-style building (high windows, towers) or neoclassical (columns, sober)?

Neoclassical

#ask

[chinuppoppins]

Dani and Jamie: Revolutionary War AU

(so this is about six pages long and my first fic in 2 years. It was six pages long so I will be posting a part 2 to my AO3 later)

The air outside was crisp and cool, a perfect autumn night. It was nice out on the balcony compared to the stuffy and noisy air in the ballroom behind her. It was not like she hated parties, she just did not like being around a lot of people. It was the looks of pity that she was still given after all this time, the whispers from the patrons how she was too young, too pretty, too delicate to be a widow. It was the ones that were a bit cruel, how he died foolishly and wickedly with no gravestone. 

Duels, according to some was compared to suicided. Rumors went around why her late husband, a private in the ongoing revolution, dueled a fellow man, but she new the truth. A rumor, no, a truth about her, how she allowed a woman’s touch to linger and how her husband had to defend her- no, his honor. His pistol backfired after she begged him to raise it to the sky and he laid dead in the mud in Jersey of all places. She had been in their small Philadelphia home before an errand boy came for her. Her husband was already dead by the time she arrived at the doctor’s home and she wept of course and shakily took his cracked spectacles from his greying face. He died for her selfishness and she reminded about that every time she looked in a mirror, he was always behind her, haunting her memories.

“Dani,” She turns around to see her aunt standing at the doorway. “Come inside, you’ll catch a chill from being out here.” The older women smiled. “Besides a group of Washington’s men have just arrived and they are pretty easy on the eyes.” She added with a wink. “And you look like you could use a drink.”

She allows a small laugh to escape her lips before she nods her head and allows her aunt to take her arm and drag her back into the busy room. Sure enough men in blue coats now added themselves to the festivities. Women surrounded them, faces flushed and full of giggles, wine for sure helped give them their glow. She took a glass for herself as she scanned the room, finding a lone solider standing beside a potted plant, inspecting the drooping leaves. Dani sighed as she downed her glasses before pulling the server over to grab another one, she had to keep up an appearance. Though as she made her way over to the lone solider, a friend stopped her for a second. “Careful, Dani.” She slurs just a bit. “That ones a bit odd, a mute apparently.”

Dani raises a brow, even better. She did not have to fake a laugh at terrible jokes. “Odd, just my type.” She jokes as her friend shrugs. So, she makes her way across the room to the odd solider in the blue coat with red and white trim. “I’m guessing that plant is a better conversation than the people in her.” She laughs a bit awkwardly. “Probably better than the night sky.”

The solider turns around and Dani is surprised by his feminine features, she had to blink to make sure that she was seeing delicate features on this man. If she did not know any better- no, masquerading around as a man was a crime that was punishable by death. She knew the story of Joan of Arc. “My name is Danielle, I wanted to thank you for your service.”

The solider smiles softly and nods, not speaking.

“I’m sorry if this seems odd, but could I keep your company for the rest of the night?” Dani asks. “I’m a bit of an outcast myself and I’d rather not be here but being that this is my aunt’s home and I still have to social climb, I have to. So?”

The solider nods and keeps her company. They do not move from the wilting plant, but every time a waiter passes them, either she or the solider grabs them another glass of wine. Dani finds herself a bit drunk as she talks to the solider, well more talks at rather than too. The solider listens and Dani cannot help but to let almost everything off her shoulders. The solider seems intrigued though, their own brow raising when she speaks about the rumor that got his husband killed, while adding with a whisper that maybe it was not just a rumor. Dani’s eyes widen in horror after realizing what she let slip, that rumor, that lie could get her committed or worse. So, she stands up and excuses herself, turning in horror when she realizes the solider is following her. A cool rush of fear washes over her as she picks up her pace, trying to find a lone balcony and when she is unable to find one, she settles to the empty gardens. For a moment, Dani thinks she is alone and lets out a shaky breath before she feels a hand on her arm.

Dani jumps back and lets out a jumble of words. “I- I’m drunk and I just, I don’t- I.”

“It’s alright.” The solider finally speaks, a soft and womanly voice to match their feminine features. “I’m not going to say anything.”

Dani’s eyes widen in awe, because her intuition was right, this solider was a woman and perhaps she was braver than her male counterparts. “You’re- you, do you realize what they would do if they found out?”

The other woman rolls her eyes. “Do you have any idea what they would do to you if they found out about you?” She questions back. “You need to be careful who you tell your truth too, you’re a pretty face, they wouldn’t kill you. They would just try to fix you and I don’t think you want that.”

Dani frantically looks around as she struggles to process this. “I don’t understand.” She finally whispers. “Why would you risk your life to fight in the war?”

The woman sighs. “It’s complicated- family is complicated.” Her eyes narrow. “Why would you tell me your truth?”

“I- I don’t know, I’ve had a lot to drink and I just felt that you were- are,” Dani stumbles, finding herself flushing at the woman’s smile.

“Different?” She finishes and Dani nods. “I am different, and I want you to know that there is nothing wrong with being different.” She shucks her hands in her pockets and toes the grass. “I’m Jamie, but the men in there, they think I’m Michael the Mute, you think you can go along with that one?” She grins when Dani nods. “Good and how about after this party is over and we part ways, you write to me? I’d love to have someone to talk to.”

“Of course.” Dani agrees. It is a nice feeling to have a friend in all of this after all and a friend with a secret that was almost as dangerous as her own.

 By the time Dani hears from her dear friend again, a fresh blanket of snow covers the ground, and she took a job as a governess for a prominent patriot family. She is walking the grounds with the two children, reading aloud a story to them as the snow crunches beneath their feet. Their lesson is interrupted when the housekeeper, Mrs. Grose, a tender and devote woman comes out to her with a letter. The older woman raises a brow and of course Dani loses the children to the fresh snow at their feet. “A letter from a suitor?” Mrs. Grose asks while a snowball speeds past their heads, missing them by a mere inch. Despite the chilly air, Dani blushes. She never once thought of Jamie as a suitor. After all, being with another woman was frowned upon. Part of her, however, did not care. She breaks the wax seal and settles down on a bench as she reads the letter with a mile-wide smile on her face. Jamie was brave, very brave with what she was doing. True, Dani didn’t her motives, why she was parading around as a solider. As she reads, little Flora joins her on the bench, peering over her shoulder as she reads about Jamie’s adventures, she was in Jersey now. She spoke about how the men were becoming weary and sick of battle. So many good men lost due to freeing this country and Jamie spoke about the sympathy she felt towards the dead and their families. However, she pauses for a moment when she reads how excited she is to come home and see her. She had hoped to be home around Christmas, however rumors about a new plan to push back the British was in the works. So maybe, just maybe she would be home after Christmas and that she would be honored to be able to celebrate with her. “Miss. Clayton?” Flora’s little voice breaks her trance. “Who is the letter from? Do you have someone special?”

Dani laughs a bit and then nods. “Something like that, it’s from a friend.”

“Just a friend?” Miles asks coyly.

Flora giggles. “Yes, Miss. Clayton. You are blushing.”

Dani folds the letter up and sticks it into her pocket. “This has nothing to do with your lessons today. Now come along, your parents expect you to be fluent in French by the end of this year and my personal life has nothing to do with that.”

Letters come frequently now and Dani always writes back quickly always ending each letter with ‘Yours, Dani’ while every letter to her starts with a ‘My Dearest, Dani’ She is in her room when she reads that and she giggles and giggles and giggles with a flushed face. It was an odd feeling; she never felt this way about her own husband. There was a different feeling with Eddie, almost how friend loves another friend. Reading letter from Jamie made her heart race, her palms sweat and cause her stomach to flutter. Dani felt giddy, like a child on Christmas morning and she becomes even more excited when she reads that Jamie would be visiting her soon, about how they were victorious in Trenton and how she earned this break. It would be after Christmas, possibly after the new year.

Jamie keeps her promise and manages to arrive a few days after the new year to the mansion she was staying in. The children spot her first and perk up from their books. “Miss. Clayton! Miss Clayton, look! It’s the solider you’ve been writing to!”

In her last letter, Dani told Jamie it was okay to be herself. Mr. and Mrs. Wingrave were a different breed of people. They knew about Dani’s truth and never spoke a word about it, they were kind and had open hearts. They understood her and accepted her, and she knew they would do the same for Jamie.

Dani walks from the blackboard to the window to peer out the frost covered glass, forcing it up when she realized that it was Jamie pushing herself through the snow. “Jamie!” Dani shouts, voice full of joy into the winter air. Jamie looks up, using her hand to block out the sun. “You’re early!”

Jamie scoffs. “Yes, well, I wanted to surprise you.” She shouts back. “But it looks like my plans was thwarted by two little imps.” She points towards the children.

Laughing, Dani pushes herself from the window while Flora and Miles watch from the window. “Miss. Clayton was telling the truth, the solider is a girl.” Miles points out as their governess rushes out of the classroom and down the stairs. The large doors fling open and Flora sighs when Dani rushes into her arms while their laughter fills the morning air. “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Miles?” Flora leans on her hand. “To see Miss. Clayton smile like that, it’s perfectly-”

“Splendid, yes, yes.” The older boy finishes as he fixes his jacket. “Come along, Flora, we should introduce ourselves properly.”

“Oh, how exciting!” Flora exclaims. “I have so many questions for the lady solider, how scandalous.” She adds with a giggle.

Miles turns quickly and puts a finger to his lips. “Flora remember that we mustn’t tell anyone about Miss. Clayton and her friend. Remember what mother and father said, if people find out- they won’t be kind.”

When the children enter the foyer, they see their governess taking the blue coat off of her- well the children were smart, they quickly picked up that perhaps that Jamie was more than just a friend even if the adults were too shy to admit it. “This is full of holes.” Dani seems to tease, poking her finger through one of the tears. “Did anyone teach you how to sew?”

The woman shrugs. “Oh yes, fixing the holes is number one on my list, right under evading British gunfire.”

“I can patch that up for you.” Mrs. Grose says as she comes out of the parlor and takes that coat from Dani. “This one here is terrible at it, I’ve seen her attempt it on the children’s clothes. It is her fingers that need the patching up when she’s finished. I am Mrs. Grose, the Wingrave’s housekeeper,” She looks at Dani, smiling. “It’s nice to finally be able to meet you. We have heard so much about you, the children and I light a candle for you every morning, we are just so taken with your bravery.”

“Oh, the children!” Dani had almost forgotten about them; she was just too entranced by Jamie being here. While only meeting in person once, it was the letters that brought them close. The playful nicknames and the plans for the future, hints here there about their past. The little tidbits of information that was passed only between the two, things that she would leave out when she had read them out loud to the children. She spots them though, standing by the staircase and ushers them over. “This young man right here is Miles, and this little lady is Flora.”

Flora pushes herself in front of her brother and curtseys. “Oh, it is such a pleasure to meet you. Miss. Clayton told us about your adventures, why, we didn’t even know you were a woman until- well until a few days ago.” She took Jamie’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Father says we are fighting for,” She pauses as she recalls her lessons. “Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and he says that Miss. Clayton and you both have a right to be happy.” Flora beams as she clapped her hands together. “He and mother have a wonderful offer for you at dinner. It’s perfectly splendid.”

Jamie blinks while impressed with the little girl’s vocabulary. She raises an eyebrow towards Dani as she knelt in front of her. “Well aren’t you an intelligent little thing, how old are you?”

“She’s eight and I’m ten.” Miles speaks up, stepping forward. “And our intelligence is all thanks to our wonderful teacher. Lessons can be boring, but Miss. Clayton makes it fun for us. She says, sometimes it’s better to learn with you hands rather than being in a book all day.”

Jamie smirks while Dani blushes. Jamie once stated in a letter that she learned almost everything she knew today with her hands. It is how she learned to farm and to paint after all. “Well, Miss. Clayton sure knows what she is doing.” She grins over toward Dani. “She is very bright, after all.”

Mrs. Grose looks between the two and then walks over towards the children, standing between them. “Well, I think we’ve bothered you long enough and I think the children deserve the rest of the day off, wouldn’t you agree Miss. Clayton. That way you and Jamie can catch up, maybe show her where she is staying?”

Dani brightens and nods her head. “Yes, of course. I’m sure you two can busy yourselves and stay out of trouble?” The children both nod, Flora exclaiming that she does need some time with her dolls while Miles takes his book into the parlor. “They are only being this well behaved because they are dying to hear your stories.” Dani whispers, as she leads Jamie up the stairs. As they wander into one of the halls, Jamie stops, causing Dani to turn to her in concern.

“Are you sure that it’s safe?” Jamie asks. “You trust these people enough?”

Using both of her hands, Dani cups her face, a serene smile on her face. “I promise you; we’ll be safe here. They actually want you to work here after the war, they want to give us a small plot of land on the Manor to build a home.”

Jamie chuckled as she covered her hand over hers, pressing her forehead against Dani’s with her eyes closed. She felt at peace for the first time in a long time, like this woman was her home. “How did you even find these people?”

“They found me,” Dani sighs. “But that is a story for later, you look exhausted. When was the last time you had a good sleep?”

Pulling back, Jamie shrugs. “I have no idea really.”

Dani takes her hand and leads her to her room. “Well, lucky for you, there are some pretty comfortable beds here.”

Once she gets settle, Dani wants to be courteous and give her some time alone. However, Jamie stops her asking her to stay. So, she does, and they lay into bed together, Jamie reaching out to run her fingers through her blonde hair. Her eyes flutter and she breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I tell you something? Just please don’t start thinking I’m strange.”

Jamie scoffs. “I already think you’re a bit strange, Dani, but that’s what I adore about you.” She adds with a wink. “What it is?”

Dani reaches and takes Jamie’s free hand, caressing her rough knuckles. “Before you came along, I always saw him, my late husband. He was my childhood friend, everyone expected us to marry so, we did. I never loved him, not the way he loved me and that and my attraction to women is what got him killed in the end. Sometimes I would feel him over my shoulder, catch him out of the corner of my eye. I guess the guilt was driving me mad, but then, I read your letters and I just felt- different. I stopped seeing him, he no longer haunts me. I just wish things were different.”

“His pride killed him, darling, not you.” Jamie assures her. “How do you mean though, with wishing things were different?”

Dani smirks, bringing Jamie’s hand towards her lips, gently kissing her knuckles. “I wish I met you earlier. Then we could just be two spinsters, living in a cabin with two cats- maybe a dog too.”

Jamie snorts and rolls her eyes. “Yes, spinsters wouldn’t raise eyebrows. We all know what they are doing in their life of celibacy.” She adds with raised brows, laughing at her own joke before Dani moves in, taking her- hell maybe herself by surprise and kisses her softly and slowly. She pulls away just an inch, a soft laugh escapes her lips. “Never done that with another woman before, hm?

Dani shakes her head and Jamie grins. “No I- you’re the first.”

“Well,” She runs both hands into her hair. “We should keep at it practice makes perfect, after all.” Jamie points out, pressing her lips against Dani’s smiling against her lips when she felt her relax in her arms. They had all afternoon alone and Jamie planned to make it a memorable one.

#dani x jamie #the haunting of bly manor #dani clayton #my edits #sorry the moodboard is kinda blah #finding good pictures of Amelia is rough