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#fic by me
theawfuledges · 7 months
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i love non-sexual intimacy and astarion having no bloody idea how to handle it, so of course i couldn't resist writing 3000+ words about it. enjoy!
let the pulses run (astarion x gender neutral!reader, baldur's gate 3)
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Astarion waits for it. Expects it.
A beseeching glance, a teasing smile, a flirtatious remark. Hells, even an outright proposition - he can’t quite imagine you pulling it off, but at least it would be something familiar. 
And yet - nothing.
Well, he amends as you settle beside him before the campfire, perhaps not nothing. 
“How is it?” you ask, a solemn slope to your brow as you take in the wound on his arm. A lucky shot from a rather unlucky goblin, who’d received your rapier to the gut for his troubles. 
“Oh, this?” He raises his arm, nonchalant. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it wasn’t a pretty sight. “Barely a scratch, darling.”
Your brows furrow. Liar, they say. 
“You’ll need blood.” You take a second glance at his arm and grimace. The scent of iron clings to the air. “A lot of it.”
Astarion tilts his head, allows a few silver curls to fall artfully across his brow. You track the movement, though your gaze is quick to dart back to his own. He fights a smirk and loses. “Astute, aren’t you? Yes, I’m afraid I’ll need to do more than my usual share of feeding tonight to fix this mess.”
You say nothing in response, not at first. He wonders if you’ll actually say it, or if you’ll hem and haw yourself to death trying to free the words from your tongue.
“If you truly have need of it,” you begin, reaching up to touch your fingertips to your throat. The mark from his first feeding had long since faded, but you remembered where his fangs had struck. 
“How generous!” Astarion exclaims, a little touched despite himself. It took a certain amount of fortitude to offer yourself to a hungry vampire, after all. “If you’re certain - “
You don’t answer with words, merely tilting your head and baring your throat to him. Astarion longs to draw out the suspense, tease you with the anticipation of his bite, but that furrow hasn’t left your brow and he finds himself unwilling to add to your worries. Besides, his body cries out for the meal you’ve so graciously offered, practically rejoicing as he lowers his mouth to your throat.
There’s a certain… intimacy to be had during the act of feeding, he’s learned. Not so much in the bite itself, but in the aftermath: the pull of precious blood, the quickening of a pulse, the flush of warm, living flesh. 
Astarion has never felt the like, not until he first drew blood from you. To know that this is what he had been missing for all the centuries he’d spent feeding on vermin makes his hatred for Cazador climb higher, though he pushes thoughts of his former master far from his mind before they can truly take root. He will not think of his tormentor here, not with you. 
You draw in a breath; it sticks in your throat, your pulse beating like a drum in the back of Astarion’s brain. He can smell your skin, the sweat and blood from your latest battle mingling with the scent of sweetgrass and rainwater, the scent of you, light and sweet against the back of his tongue. 
He can smell more than that. Unease and pain cling to you like a film while he feeds, but beneath that, clinging to your flesh like a limpet, he finds what he’s been searching for - the familiar musk of arousal.
Well, then, he thinks victoriously, feeling a shiver work down his spine as your blood coats the back of his tongue. There’s all the proof I need. 
He had wondered if your lack of amorous advances had been due to disinterest, but no. The body doesn’t lie, and yours was basically singing, crying out its need with increasing frequency the longer his fangs remained buried in your throat.
So then why? Why did you flit away from his advances like a rabbit evading a predator? He knew what you wanted and had no qualms about giving it to you. It would cement your trust in him, bolster your growing bond. Your union would be advantageous to you both. 
He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he doesn’t notice your hand moving until it’s braced against the back of his neck, your palm warm against his skin. He waits for your signal to move away, hungrily swallowing another mouthful of your sweet blood in case it happens to be his last, but all you do is reach for the riot of curls at his nape and pass your fingers gently through them. Once, twice more, until you’ve built up a steady rhythm.
It feels… well, it feels rather nice, actually. It’s far from the first time someone has ever run their fingers through his hair, and yet your touch feels… lighter in comparison, unweighted by sensual delight or a precursor for greedy lust. You’re not touching him in anticipation for more - you’re just… touching him.
It confuses him so greatly that Astarion finds himself pulling away before he’d truly wished to, feeling more than a little bereft when your fingers slip from his hair and land, half-curled still, in your lap.
“That will do, darling,” he mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. It’s a good thing the blood loss has dazed you somewhat, or else your eagle eyes would have quickly taken notice of the bewildered expression upon his face. “A boar or two will more than suffice for the rest. You should sleep, while you’re able.” His nose wrinkles, and he can’t help himself from adding, “But perhaps bathe first.” 
Your eyes narrow at the thinly-veiled insult, but you push yourself clumsily to your feet and head for the river flowing near camp. “Keep your eyes about you while you hunt,” you call to him over your shoulder. “There may still be goblins about.”
He doesn’t know how to tell you that goblins - and hunting, for that matter - are among the last things on his mind. He merely watches you walk away, his fingers creeping to the thatch of curls you had so gently carded through, and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do with you now. 
Your growing affection for him remains more than apparent as the days pass. You’re devoted to finding a cure for the parasites that writhe within your minds and playing savior for everyone you meet along the way, but in the moments between - slivers of time carved out for rest and respite - you gravitate toward Astarion, leaving the vampire torn between petty satisfaction and growing confusion, because you simply refuse to acknowledge his increasingly thinly-veiled offers to fuck you. 
It’s ridiculous. Madness, really. The number of conquests under his belt had grown too numerous for Astarion to recall, his expertise in the art of seduction unmatched, and yet you remained unmoved by his every attempt. Oh, you would flush, your eyes would flit about as though you couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, your body itself would sway towards his like a tree bough rocked by the wind, but still you would play at ambivalency. 
Astarion might be inclined to believe himself incorrect - a rarity, to be sure, but stranger things have happened; that your reaction to his bite was merely a result of the intimacy of the act rather than any true desire you might hold for him, and yet your behavior afterwards serves to lay that theory quite soundly to rest.
You’ve become quite… tactile, with him, as of late. A bracing hand on his shoulder whenever an enemy’s attack knocks him off his guard, elbows brushing whenever you’re gathered near the campfire, even a rather memorable moment where you’d brushed his curls free of his brow late in the night, your hand hovering in the air between you and a bewildered expression writ across your face, as though shocked that you’d actually done it.
It’s driving Astarion mad, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that skull of yours. The thought of tapping in to the tadpole’s power just to catch a glimpse passes swiftly through his mind, but to his eternal chagrin, knowing somehow feels more daunting.
Besides, he’s… curious. Curious as to what you’ll do next and how he may react to it, and so he doesn’t ask you to stop. You would, if only he were to indicate a dislike of your touch, and yet to do so would prove the vampire a liar, for he finds that he actually quite enjoys the fleeting brush of your fingertips across his brow, or the firm, comforting weight of your shoulder against his. 
Gods, what has he gotten himself into?
He ponders his plight late into the night, until his eyes slip closed and he’s confronted by another new pressing issue - nightmares of his former life and dear old master, memories of previous torments and casual cruelties assaulting his mind from every front. 
Astarion twists upon his bedroll, fingers spasming atop his chest as Cazador flits through his mind like a phantom. Sweat beads on his temples, leaving his curls damp. Fear bubbles through his blood like some molten creature.
“Astarion.”
He awakens with a shout, his dreams clinging to his mind for another awful moment before their claws finally release him. You’re the first thing he notices as soon as he’s set himself to rights, kneeling by his bedside with a discomfited expression upon your face. It had been your voice, then - yours, not Cazador’s - that had called out to him, broken him free of his agony. 
His lips try to twist into their customary smirk, but fall short of the goal and tremble instead. He presses them into a firm line. “Apologies, my love,” he murmurs, grimacing at the drying sweat along his brow. “Did I wake you?”
You shake your head. “I had first watch,” you explain. Your hand twitches at your side. You want to touch him, he realizes. Reassure him. By the gods, with the way he’s feeling right now, Astarion might actually let you do it. “Are you alright?”
“Wonderful,” he bites out, reaching up to push sweaty curls free of his brow only to find that you've beaten him to it, your fingertips callused and blessedly cool against his skin. The urge to swoon like a damned maiden is nearly overwhelming, and yet Astarion resists, only allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes and indulging in your touch for a few brief moments. 
“Nightmare?” Your voice is low, dreadfully soothing. Keep talking, he thinks, pushing his brow into your palm. Don’t make me do it.
He hums in the affirmative. Your fingers drift to the crown of his head, smooth through the flattened curls at the base of his skull, and rest there, holding him. 
“Cazador?” The name sounds like a curse on your lips, and might as well be for all the vitriol you spew it with. 
Astarion’s lips twitch. It shouldn’t thrill him, the ire you hold for a man you’ve never met, but he knows it’s there simply because its bearer has caused him harm. You’re protective of those you hold dear. 
“The one and the same,” he mutters into the curve of your shoulder, having allowed his chin to rest there while your fingers curled around the back of his neck. You smelled of embers from the fire and the sweetness of the cool night air, and Astarion breathed deep, soothed by the scent. 
“What do you need?” It’s a gentle query against one pointed ear, and for a moment Astarion stares beyond your shoulder, beyond the camp, all the way to Baldur’s Gate and Cazador’s cold, cruel gaze, waiting for his return. You’re silent, patient for his response, and in that moment Astarion is certain that you would give him anything, if only he would ask. 
He could ask for you - for the distraction that your body would provide this night, and you would give it to him. You would trust him with it. 
He can see it so clearly, the rapture of it driving the echoes of Cazador’s voice from his head. But he can see the aftermath, too, and your disappointment when you realize that it’s all he can truly give you, and only because he knows of no other way to be. 
“I don’t know,” he murmurs into your shoulder, and it’s the truth, for all the good that does him. 
He feels you nodding, feels your cheek resting against his hair, feels more than hears you say, “Let me know, whenever you figure it out,” and listens to the faint beat of your pulse until his dreams seem like nothing more than misshapen fragments, unimportant, without teeth. 
Something shifts between you then, or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that something settles. His machinations cease, insomuch as he stops trying to manipulate you into bed, though teasing you with ill-concealed innuendo remains a habit he can’t quite shake. 
You’ve promised to help break Cazador’s hold upon him, and judging by the sharpness in your eyes whenever the subject is pressed, you’re determined to uphold it. 
You care about him; of that, Astarion is more than certain. He sees it in the way you look at him, feels it in the touches you bestow. He hears it, your pulse as clear to him as the warmth of the blood in your veins. He’s earned your trust, your affection, your protection. And you’ve earned his. 
How could he keep it from you, when you’ve not only unearthed his past but vowed to help him escape it? How could he guard himself against you when he’s seen that fire in your eyes, watched you wield it against that vile drow who’d called him a thing and urged you to allow him to bite her?
Astarion shudders at the reminder. If it had been Cazador in your place, he would have taken the offer without thought, without care for Astarion’s comfort. But not you. 
It had angered you - not just the drow’s request, but her flippant disregard of Astarion’s autonomy.
“Astarion is his own person,” you had said, practically spitting the words through gritted teeth. “And he said no.”
You were still angry, by the looks of it, if your gritted teeth and flashing eyes were anything to go by. 
“Are we going into battle?” he calls out, catching you as you’re about to stomp by.
You jerk to a halt and give him a look, completely confused. He bites back a laugh.
“It certainly seems so, judging by your face.”
“My face?” You reach up as though to check, and this time Astarion does laugh, a soft huff that seems to startle you, but also leave you looking incredibly, undeniably… fond. It’s… well. It’s a nice look on you.
“You’re angry,” he explains, reaching over to rub the furrow from your brows. You go cross-eyed trying to watch him, and another laugh bubbles from his throat before he can stop it.
And ah, there’s that fondness again upon your face. He feels warm beneath that look, full, as if he’s freshly fed. 
“I am angry,” you murmur, drawing closer. “Her ignorance, her arrogance - it infuriated me.”
“Obviously,” Astarion quips, lips twitching as your mouth twists in annoyance. He allows the humor to drain from his tone before he continues, a touch more solemnly, “Thank you. I appreciated that.”
Your head tilts. “What did I do?”
Astarion huffs a breath, astounded by your obliviousness. “I spent two-hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back to my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.” The memories, though old, are fresh, and he does his best to shake them free of his mind. This isn’t about that. This is about you. “You could have asked me to do the same, but you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”
“I never would,” you return, and your words are firm. Resolute. You need him to believe them. “It wouldn’t have been right, forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do.”
“You’re the first to think so,” Astarion murmurs. “The first not to make me feel like something to be used and discarded.” He had still been living as though he was exactly that, he realizes. Still a puppet, a pawn to be ordered about at his master’s whim. But that wasn’t who he was, anymore, and he would never be that way again. You would aid him in making sure of it, and not simply because he’d seduced and manipulated you into doing so. You would do it because you wanted to. Because you cared. 
Because you were his friend. 
“Thank you,” he repeated, a lightness to his shoulders that he hasn’t felt in centuries. 
You stare at him, throat working for a moment as if you don’t know what to say in return, and he smiles. Silly thing. 
But then you’re stepping forward, a determined glint to your eye, and Astarion is left with no other recourse than to gawk over your shoulder as you wrap both arms around him. Your cheek comes to rest against his shoulder, your chest settling warmly against his, and Astarion - 
Astarion crumbles. His arms come up to wrap around you, gingerly at first, until he hears your sigh - a soft thing, sweet, happy - and then he’s squeezing you against him, brow falling to your shoulder.
Gods, when was the last time someone had embraced him like this? He wracks his mind and still fails to recall a single moment where he was gathered so close without an ulterior motive to facilitate it. 
He doesn’t want to let you go. It’s an intimidating thought. A terrifying thought. And yet the terror doesn’t make it any less true. For the first time in centuries, he wants - he actually wants something, just for him, just because.
He wants you.
It would be easy for the fear to consume him, then, fear that this will crumble to dust beneath his hands like so much else, and yet you won’t allow that terror to seep through. It can’t, not with your arms curled so sweetly around his waist, your smile tucked against his shoulder, your pulse a soothing beat in his ears, assuring him without words that he had been right all along.
You want him, too. 
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starlightvld · 4 months
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A new kind of touch...
@kibagib has done it again, this time for a scene from chapter 2 of Couch Surfing. Kiba perfectly captured the tenderness in Simon's hand positioning and the love-sick look in Johnny's eyes. Amazing work!
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The warmth of the room, the pressure of Johnny's head on his hip, and the pain that hummed in the back of his mind all combined to overrule common sense. He brushed his thumb into the buzzed hair just behind Johnny's ear and felt the shudder that ran through his body. Heat began to build behind Simon's sternum.
Slowly, Johnny turned his head, his eyes now wide open and blazing with something Simon couldn't… wouldn't name. Their gazes locked, and a boulder dropped on Simon's chest. He inhaled a shuddering breath, struggling for air as he drowned in stormy blue. The oxygen deprivation was his only excuse for the way his hand moved again, fingers trailing further up Johnny's neck to span over the stubbled jaw now within his reach.
Their gazes held, and Simon's sense of time disappeared in the undertow. The heat overwhelmed him, a flush working up his chest and onto his neck. His thumb stroked over a scruffy chin, then over the corner of parted lips.
He wondered vaguely if something really was wrong with him as the weight on his chest increased, breaths coming in quiet gasps.
A puff of air blew over the pad of his thumb when he finally broke through that last barrier and stroked over Johnny's lips.
___
Read the whole fic by checking out the first comment here or clicking through to my pinned post!
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thegirl20 · 8 months
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Yennaia ficlet (set during 3.06)
So, I watched the early release of ep 3.06, half asleep in the middle of the night. And then this came out during my lunchbreak today. I don’t know how close the description of the scene is to what actually happened (as mentioned I was half asleep) but I thought I might as well shove it out into the world and adjust it later if I’m so inclined after seeing the other two eps.
ETA: Now on AO3 if you prefer
***Spoilers for episode 3.06 - this takes place in between two scenes in the episode***
Her lungs are burning as she runs along interminable corridors, throwing soldiers aside with barely a second glance. She sprints for the stairs, unsure of what she’ll find when she gets there. Alzur’s Thunder is not a spell to be cast lightly and she’s terrified that Tissaia will have paid too high a price for using it. 
When she reaches the upper level, she can see through to the balcony. Tissaia is still there. Still standing. But weak. Even from a distance, Yennefer can see the stoop of her shoulders, the tremors in her hands as the last surges of chaos make their way out of her body.
Her hair is pure white and, for the first time, she looks like an old, frail woman. 
Her legs give way just as Yennefer reaches her, and she grabs her around the waist to stop her from falling. She hoists her upright, taking all of her weight, even as Tissaia twists, trying to move back to her previous position. 
“It’s over,” Yennefer tells her. “We have to go.”
Tissaia makes a noise that cuts through Yennefer’s heart. A low keening, a noise from a distressed animal. 
Yennefer grits her teeth, wrapping Tissaia’s arm over her shoulder and half dragging, half carrying her away from the balcony, grateful when she feels the body in her arms stop fighting and acquiesce. 
They shuffle onward, through smoke and past rubble. Tissaia is whimpering and Yennefer can’t help the tears that fall from her own eyes, more for Tissaia than for Aretuza or herself. They’re nearing what’s left of the staircase when Tissaia stops moving, causing Yennefer to stumble into the wall to keep them both upright. 
“Leave me here,” Tissaia whispers. 
“What? No!” Yennefer urges her to start moving again. “The place is on fire. We need to get-”
“You need to get out,” Tissaia says, her voice a little firmer. She looks up at Yennefer, lifting a trembling hand to brush over her cheek. “Leave me here.”
“What are you talking about?” Yennefer says, growing frantic. “Stop being obstinate and just work with me.” Again she tries to get them moving, but Tissaia stays where she is, still as a rock. 
“Aretuza is destroyed,” Tissaia says, her eyes flicking around the ruin their home is being reduced to around them. “Everything I have worked to build, to preserve, to protect…is gone.” She shakes her head. “I have been a fool. It’s only right that I should die here.”
“No it fucking isn’t!” Yennefer almost screams. “I didn’t keep you alive at Sodden only to walk away now. I didn’t leave Ciri to let you die here.”
“I’m done, Yennefer,” Tissaia says, fresh tears making tracks through the dirt and blood on her face. “Aretuza is gone. I have no place in the world. I allowed this-” She flings a hand out towards the destruction. “-to happen.” Her eyes close. “I have nothing left. Leave me here.”
“Aretuza is a building,” Yennefer spits. “You have flesh and blood people who fought and died for you today. For you, not the building. You have them.” Her throat tightens. “And you have me.” She jerks Tissaia’s chin up, forcing her to meet her eyes. “Am I nothing to you?”
“Oh, Yennefer,” Tissaia slumps further against her, using the little strength she has left to grasp Yennefer’s arms. “Don’t you know? You’re everything to me. You are my legacy. And you will set the world back on its axis. You are the future.” She wets cracked lips with her tongue, more tears spilling down her dirty face. “I have no part to play in it.”
“Yes, you do.” Yennefer is desperate now. She’s seen Tissaia prepared to die before. She looked down upon her from that hill at Sodden, standing straight and proud, looking death in the eye as she expected to perish. BUt she’s never seen her like this. Despondent, dejected, ruined. “We need you. I need you.” 
Tissaia laughs, and it’s a tiny sign of the life left in her. “I’m not sure that’s ever been true.”
“It has always been true and remains so,” Yennefer says, jerking as a piece of ceiling falls and smashes into the courtyard below. “You have saved me more times than I can count. You’ve kept wolves from my door for most of my life, even when I didn’t know it, you were always there, protecting me.” She leans in, pressing her forehead to Tissaia’s. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know how to live in a world without you.”
“Yes, you do” Tissaia says, her nose brushing Yennefer’s as she speaks. “You are a powerful sorceress. You are a mother.” Her ragged voice warms with affection. “You’ve even managed to develop a skill for politics and diplomacy of late.” She inhales, the breath rattling into her chest. “But above all of that, you have retained your kind heart. You care about people, you care about the world. And you will do what must be done to set it right.”
“And I will do all of that with you by my side,” Yennefer says, her own tears flowing freely by now. “I will do it better with you by my side. The Tissaia I know would want to be there. She would fight.”
“I have fought,” Tissaia counters, her forehead dropping to Yennefer’s shoulder. “And I have lost.”
A piece of masonry lands a few feet away and Yennefer turns them both away from the dust it throws up. 
“If we stay here much longer we’re both going to die,” she says, coughing into Tissaia’s unsettlingly white hair.
“Go,” Tissaia says, attempting to push her away, but lacking the strength. “Ciri needs you. The world needs you. I will not allow you to perish here.”
“Then come fucking with me!” Yennefer screams, she has one card left to play. “I’m as stubborn as you are, you wretched old witch. And I’m not leaving here without you. So if you don’t want Ciri to be left motherless, again, you will get moving and walk out of this building with me.”
Tissaia looks at her for a long moment. Then she sighs. “You are stubborn enough to die here to prove a point.”
“Yes, but you’re not going to allow that, are you?” Yennefer holds her breath, but to her immense gratitude, she feels Tissaia move, even if her legs give way almost immediately and she clings to Yennefer to keep herself upright. Yennefer wraps her arms around her, bearing her weight as they navigate the stairs, moving as quickly as Tissaia can manage. 
“You know I have to die sometime, Yennefer,” Tissaia says, when they finally make it outside.  
“I know,” Yennefer says, almost blind from tears that refuse to stop. “But not today.” She draws them to a stop and waits for Tissaia to look at her. “Stay with me today.”
It takes longer than it should, but Tissaia nods, lifting a hand to Yennefer’s cheek and pulling her close, pressing a brief kiss to her lips. Whispered words follow, breath warm against Yennefer’s skin. “I’ll try.”
That’s all she can ask for right now, as Aretuza burns in the distance, and Tor Lara crumbles into the sea. She has Tissaia in her arms, solid and whole, and she has to appreciate that for as long as she can. 
Together they turn and make their way to the group of mages watching their home fall apart. Yennefer never loosens her grip.  If she can keep hold of Tissaia, if doesn’t let her go, she’ll stay. 
She has to stay. 
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hellsgayngels · 8 months
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find the art to go with this here!
it's cold outside, and crowley did not want to go out, but aziraphale wanted to go shopping, so here he is wrapping the scarf aziraphale had just finished knitting for him more tightly around his neck.
(it's one of many - he has them all tucked away in a box under the bed in his flat, and he adds to the collection every time he receives a new one. aziraphale likes to knit and thinks he's quite good at it. he is now, anyways.)
"is the fidgeting really necessary, my dear?"
"'s bloody freezing out here, angel," crowley snaps, perhaps a bit harder than he meant to. "we haven't all got the benefit of the heaven's angelic light, you know."
aziraphale's grasp on his arm tightens just a tad, not enough to hurt but just enough to pull him in closer. it would have been a fine gesture if it hadn't flustered crowley enough to miss a step, and if there hadn't been a patch of ice in exactly the wrong spot.
(for a demon of hell, ending up on one's ass in the middle of a busy sidewalk is the greatest humiliation one can face. which one could argue is rather the point. it didn't help that crowley had been on the bumping end of many a slippage himself.)
aziraphale immediately hauls him back up, murmuring "oh dear, crowley, i'm ever so sorry, are you quite alright darling," while clearly holding back a grin, which only added insult to injury.
"yeah, yeah, fine," crowley mutters, brushing snow off the back of his coat and glaring down any passersby who dare portray an ounce of sympathy. "can we get on with it? this next place better be enclosed against the elements."
(why anyone would choose to have an open-air market in the dead of winter was beyond him. he'd send every vendor right downstairs if they didn't already provide, in aziraphale's words, "simply the most scrumptious little bit and bobs", and who was crowley to deny his angel of the bits and bobs?)
"oh yes, and it should be delightfully warm as well, it's this new café i've been meaning to pop in on. i hear they have the most delicious eclairs..."
aziraphale continues to chatter about the various confections and competencies of the new café while crowley desperately tries to regain feeling in his fingers. somewhere along the way he realizes aziraphale has stopped talking and is instead gazing at him in a way that could, to any casual observer, appear fond, but crowley sees the glint of mischief in it and narrows his eyes behind his sunglasses.
"yesss, angel?"
aziraphale smiles, and stops, and the pedestrian traffic flows around them as he takes crowley's hands in one of his own (he's not even wearing gloves, the bastard) and leans forward to plant a kiss first on crowley's forehead, then to the curve of his nose, and finally on his mouth as warmth blossoms from every point of gentle contact.
"better, my dear?"
crowley's glasses have somehow gone slightly askew, despite not being touched, and he can feel the tips of his ears flush red.
"mmnk," he says coherently, and aziraphale's arm is around his again as he gently steers them both through the door of a bright little place full of warm smells and soft music and time, and time, and time.
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kwannies-boo · 10 months
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Stray Kids Relationship Titles
Or: How you finish the sentence, "This is my....."
Group: Stray Kids 
Genre: Fluff 
WC: 250 
Warnings: Almost entirely non-gendered, but lee know’s potentially assumes gendered reader. 
Disclaimer: All works are non-idol! AUs unless otherwise specified. Barely proofread, written in like five minutes, and is solely based on my gut instinct when thinking of each of them. 
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Bang Chan: Boyfriend. He’s a simple man, and there was never even really a question of what you’d call him. 
Lee Know: Partner, but he asks to use gendered terms for you. He likes to see who gets thrown by the difference and who just rolls with it, and you like to watch the mischievous look in his eyes when it happens. 
Changbin: Boyfriend or girlfriend depending on how he’s behaving. Big buff workout boy? That’s my boyfriend! Cute girly-pop dance master? That’s my girlfriend, 100%. He loves it and cheeses every time. 
Hyunjin: Boyfriend. You had kind of wanted partner, and he calls you that most of the time, but he fully lit up the first time you tried out boyfriend. How could you deny him with that look on his face? 
Han: All of them. It started as a bit between the two of you, but now you call him something different every time. His reactions are always priceless, and he likes that it keeps things playful.  
Felix: Girlfriend, in private. It’s one of both of your favorite pet names for him, but in public you and he both use partner for each other. 
Seungmin: Boyyyyyfriendddddddd. Boyfriend no question. He puffs up with pride a little bit every time you say it 
Jeongin: Partner, usually, but boyfriend when he’s being goofy or playful. He especially loves when you roll your eyes and have to try to contain your laughter while saying it 
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chainofclovers · 3 months
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my new year's fics
If you know me you may have noticed that I'm an absolute lunatic about the passage of time. I'm not even 100% sure this represents every time I have written about New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, but I suddenly felt the urge to attempt to compile my fics on the theme in one spot.
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Silver Lining (Ted Lasso, Ted/Rebecca/Keeley/Roy, explicit, 9840 words): 2022 ends with a whimper; 2023 starts with a bang. :) [side note: this is my favorite NYE/NYD thing I've ever written]
january (Ted Lasso, Ted/Rebecca, mature, 3482 words): The first hours of the new year—the first hours they’re together—are freezing cold.
More Than Life Itself (9 to 5 [film], Judy/Violet, mature, 8411 words): Her friends had so many memories to share that Judy thought she could successfully pull off the fade she sometimes fell back on—the quiet, pleasant fade into the edge of the scene, an appreciative witness to her friends’ bright glow. Judy wasn’t shy, exactly, but she often preferred to listen. It didn’t work this time.
the rose room (Grace and Frankie, Grace/Frankie, explicit, 7294 words): Frankie winces almost imperceptibly at the word friend. (A story for the new year.)
Lightyear (The Devil Wears Prada, Miranda/Andy, explicit, 6741 words, third story in "Land Fathoms" trilogy): Even after six years away from New York, Andy hasn’t forgotten the hush that falls over Miranda’s street when the weather is cold. [Note: This one is only briefly about New Year's, and I have the feeling I'm missing at least a couple other times I'd have written these two at New Year's since I've been in the fandom--or willing to be pulled back in--since 2008 and I was obviously obsessed with the passage of time all this time. But I couldn't find anything else in my quick peer through ao3!]
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Whether you read any of these or not, I hope this post finds you—whenever you're reading it—feeling some of the hope for the future (and commitment to working for peace) that a new year can bring. ❤️
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ladyfenring · 1 year
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fond
"Was any of it real? Tell me the truth." "I grew fond of you."
pre-canon moment between Ingilmundr and Aethelstan
rated m
for @wildwren, @aadmelioraa, and @aelflaeds
read it on ao3 if you wish
He watches the candle burn down to the red line, the Roman numerals melting away. His father would find such an invention ridiculous, another useless Saxon absurdity, but Ingilmundr is charmed by it. There are many aspects of Saxon life he finds charming.
He glances at the bed, where Aethelstan is gently snoring. They normally pray after, to wash away their sin, but he wore Aethelstan out tonight, and the other man fell asleep before the sweat had cooled from his skin.
Aethelstan shifts in his sleep now, a dark brown curl falling over his forehead. Impulsively, Ingilmundr walks towards the bed, leaning down to push back the stray lock of hair; and then he catches himself. Aethelstan is asleep; there is no need to keep up the pretense now. He straightens up, his hand falling to his side. Slowly, he turns, walking away from the bed and out of the chamber.
His feet carry him to the chapel, empty at this late hour and dark but for a lone candle wavering on the altar. Ingilmundr takes a seat at one of the benches, watching the darkness pulse around the small flame. Suddenly, a shadow breaks free from the darkness, slithering up the aisle and dropping onto the bench beside him.
“I hear the king has taken to his bed.”
His spine stiffens. “He overexerted himself on the hunt, that is all.”
His sister laughs. “If riding his horse can send the man to his bed, then his end is truly near.”
“Perhaps. Or he may only be tired. We thought he was dying before and he rallied then,” he reminds her. “Besides, Aethelstan did not seem unduly concerned.”
She smirks at him. “Oh really? He did not seem unduly concerned?”
He shoves her shoulder. “All I mean to say is, if the king’s own son does not believe he is dying, I do not think we have cause to act yet.”
“Perhaps the king’s son has his mind on other things,” Astrid suggests, the smirk still wide on her face.
“Stop giving me that look,” he says irritably. “I am only doing my duty.”
Her finger reaches out to trace a spot on his neck. “Yes, such a difficult duty it is.”
He slaps her hand away, pulling up his collar to hide the love bite. “I have his trust. His confidence. He tells me things.”
“While you have his cock in your mouth?”
“He listens to me,” he says, his face hot. “Because he trusts me. I have influence over him.”
“And you enjoy the taste of his cock,” she adds helpfully.
His face is still hot, but he makes his voice sound cool and detached, like their father when he talks to someone he doesn’t care for. “I have tasted worse things and for far less reward.”
“True. But I think it is more than that,” she says, looking at him closely. “I think you like Aethelstan.”
“I–” he starts to deny, but Astrid raises her eyebrows. Like it or not, she knows him better than most. “I have…grown fond of him,” he allows. 
She nods, satisfied. “Well, do not grow too fond of him. You know what must be done.”
He nods, too, turning his gaze back to the altar. “I do.”
She gets to her feet, making a rude gesture at the cross before letting the darkness swallow her up again.
Ingilmundr sits there for a long moment, staring at the flame on the altar. 
He has learned in his time amongst the Saxons that a candle is always supposed to burn in the chapel, to signify God’s presence. A deacon is supposed to come in from time to time and ensure that at least one candle is always burning, and in the palace of Winchester, Ingilmundr knows there are dozens of deacons assigned to this task.
But he watches as this lone candle burns down, down, down, until the flame gutters out and the room is shrouded in darkness.
Does this mean, he wonders, that God is not here?
He stands up, slipping out of the chapel and back to Aethelstan’s room. The other man is right where Ingilmundr left him, the stray curl still lying across his forehead. Ingilmundr pauses, and then he leans down, brushing back the curl. 
Aethelstan’s eyes flutter open, a smile slowly curving his lips. “Where have you been?”
“In the chapel, praying.” 
Aethelstan’s smile fades. “For our sin?”
Ingilmundr sits on the edge of the bed, taking Aethelstan’s hand in his. “Yes. Does that upset you?”
“No. Yes,” Aethelstan admits. “It upsets me that what brings me joy is a sin, and it upsets me that to live without sin brings me no joy.”
“If it did not bring us joy, it would not be a sin,” Ingilmundr reminds him, stroking Aethelstan’s hand. He moves his hand higher, cupping Aethelstan’s jaw. “But if my faith is to be tested, I rejoice that I have such a companion with whom I can share the burden.”
Aethelstan’s eyes fall to his lips, and without a second thought, Ingilmundr kisses him.
Aethelstan moans, his hand gripping the hairs at the back of Ingilmundr’s neck. Ingilmundr can feel Aethelstan starting to draw back, his eyes roving towards the crucifix on his wall. 
“Should we…?”
“Yes,” Ingilmundr says without hesitation, pressing Aethelstan back against the pillows and kissing him again. Aethelstan groans as Ingilmundr takes him in hand, his own hands fumbling to relieve Ingilmundr of his clothes. 
“Ingilmundr.” Aethelstan pulls back, his pupils blown wide and his cheeks flushed. “You are more than…just a companion to me.”
Ingilmundr’s heart starts to pound.
“I love–”
Ingilmundr kisses him, an ungainly clash of lips and teeth and tongues as his pulse thunders in his ears. “I know,” he whispers. “I know, I know, I know.”
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aelswiths · 3 months
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The first time she had done it it had been like something out of a dream, some out of body experience where she could see herself going through the motions but it wasn’t her controlling them. It had been done out of a quiet rage and pain that could not be expressed in any other way. No one suspected a thing. Alfred was a sickly man, therefore any bouts of sickness were not seen as unusual and not something to be looked deeply into. aka Aelswith and Alfred being unhinged about each other
For @volvaaslaug, @aethelreds, @kingslionheart
Read it here
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fourteenacross · 10 months
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Fandom: Ted Lasso (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Relationships: Trent Crimm/Ted Lasso Characters: Trent Crimm, Ted Lasso, Rebecca Welton, Keeley Jones Additional Tags: Phone Calls & Telephones, Love Confessions, Canon Compliant, Ted Lasso Finale Spoilers
"Good evening, Ted," Trent says.
"How long?" Ted asks. Trent sighs.
"Right to it, then?"
"Bingo, Ringo," Ted says.
*
After Ted goes back to Kansas, Trent sends a finished copy of the book to his house. Ted has some questions. Trent's not sure he's ready to answer them.
Happy my birthday to you! Please enjoy this little one-shot that I wrote this afternoon, hours after resigning myself to not having birthday fic to post this year! Warning: Lots of finale spoilers within!
Enjoy!
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fremedon · 7 months
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Chapters: 18/? Fandom: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Enjolras & Cosette Fauchelevent Characters: Cosette Fauchelevent, Enjolras (Les Misérables), Jean Valjean, Les Amis de l'ABC Additional Tags: Fake Dating, Cosette gets friends, Valjean gets more than he bargained for, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Eventual Happy Ending, Enjolras's metaphorical mistress is literally France, his literal fake fianceé is metaphorically France, Canon Era, Digress like a 19th Century Novelist Fest, Slow burn friendship, Asexual Enjolras (Les Misérables) Summary:
It was true, Cosette allowed, that he was nothing at all like the beautiful young man from the Luxembourg, but she must not judge him unkindly for that. The world was full of young men, and it would be quite tedious if all the handsome ones were handsome in the same way.
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churchkey · 2 months
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Well I’ve finished another simple little PWP that evolved into 15k of character study and relationship development I swear I don’t know what’s wrong me either, trust me I’ve tried not being this way….
Anyway, FRENCHIE AND IZZY FALLING IN LOVE AND BEING SWEET AND SOFT, here it is if you want that in your life
And I swear to god the next thing I write will be actual smut. Actual.
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theawfuledges · 7 months
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not far into the game yet but saw a clip of astarion confessing he hadn’t been able to see his reflection since turning and my brain started whirring like a damn buzzsaw. hope you guys enjoy!
oh, the hungering teeth (astarion x gender neutral! reader, baldur’s gate 3)
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You’re nearly asleep, though you seem to be doing your damnedest to fight it. You seem to think something nefarious or other will occur the second you close your eyes; a sound fear, what with the motley crew you’ve gathered, and yet for now the camp remains quiet enough, save for the shifting of bedrolls and the crackle of the fire.
“Even saviors need their slumber, my dear,” he quips, pillowing his cheek in the curve of his palm and watching in delight as your brows furrow. By the gods, he would never tire of that look upon your face, your annoyance tempered only by your rising affection for him. 
“‘m not tired,” you mumble, a filthy lie if Astarion’s ever heard one - and he’s heard plenty. “I have a few hours in me yet.”
Astarion releases a breath, reaches a hand toward your face and traces a nail along your cheek. He thrills as you shiver, your eyes slipping closed for the first time all evening, and continues his caress along your jaw until he can graze his thumb along the soft swell of your bottom lip. 
“Really now, darling,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low until it’s little more than a hush between you. The rest of the camp falls away in these moments, leaving just the two of you to soak in the warmth of the fire. He watches the glow sink into your skin and wonders if you would taste of the flames, if only he dared to ask for a bite. “I know it may not seem so, but I can assure you that the earth will continue turning even without your watchful eye to guard it.” 
You huff a laugh, and though it’s barely more than a breath and heavy with fatigue, Astarion finds himself leaning in, wanting to chase it. 
“Doubtful,” you say, and this time it’s his turn to laugh.
“And yet you must try,” he returns, watching the glide of his thumb along your lip, the way your breath ruffles his sleeve. “The rest of us will endure, if only for the night.” 
You smile then, and he feels it, the slow curl of your lips against his thumb, the twitch of your jaw against his palm. He’s so enamored by the curve of your lips that he misses your eyes, lids parting to seek out the planes of his face. 
“You worry too much.” 
“Hmm?” Astarion catches your gaze, only to find you reaching for him, rubbing the pad of your thumb lightly between his brows.
“There’s always a furrow here,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. Your thumb glides along one brow, smoothing the hairs there, and your lips quirk. “Strong brows, silver in the moonlight, and always dancing.”
He huffs a laugh, though his chest has grown tight - with realization, with adoration. 
“Your eyes crinkle when you laugh,” you continue, thumbing along the delicate skin beneath his eye. “Piercing eyes, they are. Ringed by thick lashes. Red as rubies, or blood.”
Astarion’s fangs ache within the cavern of his mouth, though it isn’t quite a meal he hungers for. He feels flayed open, suddenly, dreadfully exposed, and yet he does nothing to stall your words or to escape your gaze, even as it swallows him whole. 
“High cheekbones,” you murmur, the tips of your fingers tracing his cheek. The delicacy of the gesture is so at odds with your fierceness in battle that it nearly upends him. “They pinken after you feed, did you know?”
Astarion’s lips part to speak, though it takes a clearing of his throat to free the words glued to his tongue. “Hadn’t the foggiest.” 
Your nails drag along the edge of his jaw, digging softly into the skin there. It gives beneath your fingertips as though his skin has been molded for your touch, and his mouth parts on an exhalation of your name. 
“Darling - “
“Soft, here.” Your voice grows hushed, contemplative as you trace the bow of his lips, his breath warm against your wrist. “Always, even when you’re sneering.”
“I don’t sneer,” Astarion protests, but the words carry little weight. Your skin is too soft against his, your smile too warm, his thoughts too muddled by the sharp bite of affection he feels for you. 
“Liar.” The accusation comes without heat. Astarion bares his fangs regardless, more tease than threat, but you’re well-prepared, your thumb slipping along his tongue and grazing the sharp points of his incisors. 
He freezes. Some part of him wonders what he must look like, what the others might see, were their eyes to drift beyond the flames to your bedrolls - his mouth parted around your thumb, your skin wet with his saliva, his eyes blazing through the darkness like rubies, like blood. 
“Minx.” It comes out garbled, without bite. An inferno roars within his chest, sinks into his limbs, his belly, burning him from the inside out. What a wicked, wonderful thing you are.
Your lips curl into a warm, loving smile. The swell of your thumb presses against his fang, the soft pop of pierced flesh roaring through his ears like a dragon’s screech. The scent of your blood - sharp, sweet - fills the air. 
Astarion releases a sound he’ll be haunted by later - needy, desperate, hungry - and pushes his brow against yours, his curls tickling your face, your breath warm against his lips. 
“Rest,” he commands you, his fingers knotting in the fabric at the small of your back. “Lest you tempt me further, and we both lose sleep this night.”
You laugh, a soft sound laden with approaching slumber, and press your fingers to the strip of flesh bared by the collar of his tunic. 
“As you wish,” you murmur sleepily. You say it so easily, so readily, succumbing to his whims without thought, and Astarion squeezes his eyes shut and tucks you close, feeling the depth of the power he wields filling him to the brim, cracking him open, and spilling over. 
Within the circle of his arms, you sleep.
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i-did-not-mean-to · 4 months
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Rock, Scissors, Tears
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For THAUC 2023 @fellowshipofthefics
In collaboration with The Legendary Blue Acorn Artist , I have written a fairy tale story featuring Ori, my best boy.
Rating: Teen and up
Pairing(s): Ori x OC, Thorin/Bilbo
Words: 14 800
Warnings: Sadness, arranged marriage, a curse, a rebellious dress
-> On Ao3
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Across endless cycles of death and rebirth, the stories of brave heroes and undaunted maidens have thus been repeated unceasingly, so that they might eventually find the fortunate ending they deserve.
To counteract the curses and adamant adversaries my own beloved children would invariably have to face, my brethren and I have endeavoured to supply them with hardy friends, intrepid protectors, and the occasional magical artefact to fortify them in their brave struggle.
This is the story of Thorin, a dutiful prince, and Ori, the wielder of enchanted scissors; it’s a tale that shall be ineludibly changed during and through its very telling by the power of true courage and steadfast love.
Hearken, dear reader, and—with the precious support of your goodwill—we might well achieve a satisfying end to this tale of woe.
Prologue - Aulë
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Lots of love! I hope you'll enjoy!
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teyvatdivision · 1 month
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Rating: E
Pairing: Wriothesley/Neuvillette
Summary:
When the leggy three-piece suit enters the bar, Wriothesley’s eyes are instantly drawn to him. Dressed to the nines in opulent navy pinstripes, his coat buttoned just so and his shoes shined to a mirror finish, reflecting the glow of the neon signs hanging on the walls. His hair – it’s as pretty as it is long – is tied back elegantly. It’s so different from Wriothesley’s beat-up leather jacket and faded jeans, his standard dive attire, that suddenly he feels like he’s the one out of place, not the man seating himself three stools down.
Wriothesley isn't the sort for one-night stands, but he's willing to make the exception for the handsome stranger walking into his favorite dive bar.
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neapeaikea · 3 months
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I posted something!
Life and what not has had me not writing for many, many months as I've lacked time and inspiration. Recently I've been wanting to get back into writing and been excited about being creative again. To get things started, I decided to look into my WIP's and drafts, and found this gem! At the time, I remember thinking it lacked definition and colur, but now I get fuzzy feelings from it.
Sometimes, it can be a short story about two guys being dopey. It doesn't have to describe all parts of their looks or anatomy. We all know what Stiles and Derek look like. We can create the scene ourselves. It doesn't need to be a long-fic about angst and perserverance. It can be about a dog whose breed doesn't even get mentioned.
The irony of the word "chat" being in the title of a fic concerning a dog is not lost on me. I truly considered calling it Derek Gets A Dog, but no. I also had a genuine brainspin about when The Mandalorian came out, what year Stiles would've been in at college and I just... I just decided that had no importance whatsoever. It's just fic, man.
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kwannies-boo · 11 months
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The Trees Know
Pairing: non-idol!Vernon x gn!Reader
Genre: Fluff (calm fluff, if that’s a thing)
WC: 714
Warnings: Reader is able-bodied enough to go for a walk. Otherwise, none! Y'all are just on a lil contemplative walk.
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You and Vernon drove to an older neighborhood nearby – one where the houses were all different styles, and the trees were thick, sturdy, and tall. Parking the car, you got out and grabbed your headphones. “Ready?” Vernon asked you, adjusting his own headphones for the best fit. You nodded, choosing what felt like the perfect playlist for this early evening walk. 
Neither of you could remember who had the idea for these walks first. Vernon claimed it was you, urging him to pull over next to a park one day during golden hour, but you maintained it was him, getting lost in his own thoughts on a regular walk and discovering how nice it was. Either way, it’s become a ritual you both enjoy. A few times a week you take walks together with no pressure to talk, just enjoying the fresh air, the scenery, and your own thoughts. The only goal you both agreed on was to notice something new, even in neighborhoods you knew like the back of your hand. 
Today, you found yourself looking up at the treetops.
Some days you focused on your feet, noticing the ways nature tried to overtake the sidewalk or the way it was kept in line. Other times, your attention was on the buildings you passed by – every home, apartment building, and business telling a story with its architecture and wear and tear. Here, though, the trees were bigger and older than most places in the city. The blue of the sky was a stark contrast to the limbs and leaves, which were fresh and green with spring life. Some rose straight and tall, their trunks bare until halfway up or higher, while others were broad and leafy. A few, you could see, had fought with power lines, and their branches were gnarled and twisting to avoid the lines as best they could.  
You were walking with your head almost entirely tipped back, taking in the entire canopy as best you could. The light was changing, dancing across leaves and branches in the breeze and dappling the trunks and ground. It felt special, and ephemeral, and you were struck with the thought that these trees had seen people like you and Vernon before. They had seen people in quiet love walk these streets before, and they’d see them long after you both were gone. Did the couples before you think about you the way you were thinking about them? Did your love feel the same as theirs did? 
Vernon’s knuckles brushed against yours, and you turned to look at him. He was already staring at you, a soft grin on his lips. He intertwined his hand with your own, lifting them to press a kiss to your fingers. “Just checking in,” he said. “How’s your walk going?” 
You weren’t sure how to put it into words, so instead of answering, you asked a question of your own. “Does it ever make you sad that you can never really know what someone’s thinking? Like, not fully, because there’s always going to be something that gets lost in the translation of thought to word, you know?” 
Vernon paused, considering. “Yes, and no? I guess it makes me a little sad that I’ll never get to experience your thoughts the way you do, especially when I see how deep in thought you can be. Just now, for example. I wondered what you could have been thinking, looking up at the trees like that.” He grinned, and you returned the smile, ignoring the heat rushing to your cheeks. “But also no. I love that I get to discover you bit by bit. It makes me feel like I could never be bored, because there’s words you haven't put together yet to help me know you.” 
He let go of your hand, wrapping his arm around you as you did the same. You hummed at his words, nodding thoughtfully. “I think the trees know, though,” you mused. He looked over at you, grinning wide. “You think?” 
You nodded again, decisively. “Definitely. They’ve seen it all before, so they know.” 
He chuckled and leaned over, kissing your cheek. “If you say so.” 
You smiled and looked up at the treetops again. They waved in the breeze, and it felt like confirmation. 
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