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queenshelby · 3 years

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A NEW WORLD - PART ONE (UPDATED)

A Quiet Place 2 Fanfic

Pairing: Emmett (A Quiet Place 2) x Fem!Reader

Summary: This story will follow Emmett and the Reader before and after the invasion. Each Part will be about 1,000 to 2,000 words long and take place on a particular day (as listed on each part).

Warning: Mild Smut, Age Gap, Alcohol Abuse, Spoilers for AQP2

***

DAY: 41 DAYS BEFORE THE INVASION

It was a sunny Saturday evening and you were out watching the local baseball match. Your half brother Lucas was playing and, as usual, your mother was unable to take him to the game.

Ever since your step father had passed away two years ago, she became addicted to alcohol, drinking moonshine in the early hours of the morning.

Your younger sister quickly moved out when she turned 18 but you couldn’t leave your step brother behind. He was only 12 years old and too young to care for himself.

Most of your mother’s income support payments were spent on booze and you were fortunate enough that your stepfather’s life insurance payout covered the remainder of the mortgage on the house.

In order to buy food for yourself and your brother, you had to work hard. You’ve been attending an educational program in town to become a midwife and, at the age of 22, you almost completed your studies. Your goal was to move to Georgia with your brother and make a new life for yourself.

But little did you know that life had other plans in store for you, beginning on that particular day, at the baseball game.

***

‘Hey Y/N’ you heard from behind you and you quickly turned your head only to see your colleague’s husband Emmett sit there with his son Max, watching his other son Henry play alongside your brother Lucas.

‘Oh god Emmett, what happened?’ you asked as you saw his hand covered in bandages.

‘This? It’s nothing. Just a hunting accident’ Emmett explained and you recalled Nora telling you that he had been away for several days with two of his friends causing a major fight between Nora and him.

You haven’t seen Nora since and what she didn’t tell you that day was that, following the fight, she decided to take a break from their marriage.

Nora was your supervisor at the hospital where you were doing your work experience hours and she was rather difficult to deal with whenever she and her husband had a fight. She loved him and he loved her, but in recent months their marriage was going through some ups and downs and you could see that she was obviously needing some time to revaluate matters.

‘Did Nora take a look at it. The bandage needs to be changed. It doesn’t look right Emmett’ you said concerned as you took his hand into yours, evaluating his injury. You had done about three units of nursing before changing over to midwifery in your course.

‘Nora is out of town, visiting her sister’ he explained and you couldn’t help but give Emmett a sorry look. They were fighting again you thought and it had become a frequent occurrence.

‘Perhaps when she comes back, I should look after Henry and Max again for you guys and you can take her out on a date or something’ you suggested. You frequently babysat for Nora and Emmett to make some extra money.

‘The truth is that we are taking a break for now. But, if things change, I would gladly accept your offer’ Emmett smiled and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. In your opinion he was a nice and incredibly attractive man. He was also a fantastic father to Max and this was something you picked up on immediately when you first met him several years ago through Evelyn and Lee whose children you also frequently babysat.

You also knew that Nora and him had met over twenty years ago. They were high school sweethearts. Everyone saw them both as the perfect couple but their relationship was far from being perfect.

Just over a year ago you heard rumours that, about two years ago, Nora had a short-lived affair but Emmett forgave her. He was a family man and valued his marriage. His sons were everything to him and leaving them would never have been option for Emmett.

He was incredible and you found it difficult to admit to yourself that, over the past two years, you were developing a little a crush on him.

***

About an hour later, the game had finished and you suggested to Emmett that he comes to your house so that you could have a look at his hand.

Your house was a short five-minute walk from the baseball field and Emmett agreed reluctantly after you told him that your mother wasn’t home.

He knew what state your mother was in and he would not have exposed his sons to her constant swearing and antics when she was drunk.

When you arrived at your house, Emmett’s sons and your brother went to play outside in the garden with your brother’s new soccer ball which you had bought him for his birthday while you looked through the medicine cabinet to find some more bandages and some betadine.

‘Have you considered admitting her to rehab?’ Emmett asked as he sat down at the kitchen table, besides which was a large plastic box with several empty bottles of spirits.

‘That’s the plan. I want to take Lucas to Georgia as soon as she is in rehab’ you explained as you carefully removed Emmett’s bandage.

‘This will hurt’ you then went on to say before cleaning his wound and applying some betadine.

‘Fuck’ he complained as you were rinsing out the wound and, after you were finally done cleaning it, you placed a fresh bandage over his hand.

‘You need to keep this clean alright?’ you said with your hands still holding on to his hand while you looked at him with a warm smile.

This was the first time you noticed how blue his eyes were, a shade of deep shimmering blue just as the sea and just as the depth of the ocean, you could get lost in them.

‘Thanks’ he nodded, not bothering to pull his hand away from you as you were staring at him.

‘Nora is one lucky woman’ you sighed as you finally collected your thoughts and let go of his hand.

‘Why? Because she finally is getting rid of me?’ Emmett laughed but knowing exactly what you meant.

‘No that’s not what I meant Emmett. In fact, I think she is crazy thinking about leaving a man like you’ you said shyly and with flushed cheeks as you looked down at his hand once again.

‘Right’ Emmett chuckled and, just as he did, you moved one of your hands over his cheeks.

‘Don’t doubt yourself Emmett’ you said before, slowly and tentatively pressing your lips onto his.

He didn’t retract, nor did he pull away as, for a short moment, he allowed the kiss. Your lips were soft and sweet and he couldn’t recall the last time another woman had kissed him.

Eventually, you broke the kiss at your own accord and Emmett looked at you as if he had seen a ghost. He was surprised by your actions and his eyes were full of questions.

‘I am so sorry’ you then shuddered while Emmett was still speechless.

‘I should go now’ he quickly said, unable to even look at you after what had just happened.

‘Emmett?’ you said as he got up from the chair next to yours. ‘I am sorry, really…I shouldn’t have’ you said somewhat flustered.

‘Y/N, it’s fine. Let’s just forget about it, aright?’ he smiled as he ran his hand over your shoulder in the way a friend would.

You nodded just before he left but the truth was that you couldn’t forget about it. This kiss stayed with you for the rest of the day.

***

Just as the evening had arrived and you were sitting in your bed, reading yet another novel you had borrowed from the library, you imagined yourself with Emmett.

This wasn’t right, you thought. You should not be thinking about him the way you did. He was a man twice your age. But you couldn’t help it and your imagination was running wild.

His lips were on yours, his fingers roaming over your body and you simply couldn’t go to sleep that night until you satisfied your needs with the small vibrator you kept in your beside table.

‘God damn Y/N’ your inner voice tried to reason. But you wouldn’t listen to it until you found your release that night which is when, finally, you drifted off to sleep.

Tag List (Cillian):

@lilymurphy03 @deefigs @theflamecrystal @desperate-and-broken @weepingstudentfishhorse @livinginfantaxy @rosey1981 @atomicsoulcollecto @peakyboyslover @nerdy4itall @elenavampire21 @hanster1998 @mariapaiva13 @fairypitou @harry-is-my-sunflower @zozeebo @lauren-raines-x @kasaikawa @littlewierdalien @sad-huffle-nerd @theflamecrystal @peakymalfoyscullymulder @themissthang @0ghostwriter0 @stylescanbeatmyback @1-800-peakyblinders @datewithgianni @momoneymolife @ntmynouis @lilymurphy03 @mcntsee@cloudofdisney @missymurphy1985 @peakymalfoyscullymulder @otterly-fey @janelongxox @uchihacumdump @basiclassy @being-worthy @chaotic-bean-of-smolness @margoo0 @chocolatehalo @vhscillian @ysmmsy @littlewierdalien

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@l0tsofpennies @trolleydolly @avonlady1985 @chrisevanshoeee @daydreamingnymph @fookingshelby

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #Emmett #emmett x reader #emmett smut #a quiet place 2 #a quiet place imagine #a quiet place smut #a quiet place fanfic #a quiet place

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hslotharrie · 3 years

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To My Best Friend

summary: reader faces quarantine at Harry’s and, turns out, it was exactly what they needed to come clean. also, Anne is the superior Mum.

word count: 2.3k

warnings: completely fluff. with marriage + mentions of family? not edited... when do I ever edit

based off of this ask<3

When you wake, the sun is shining through a slightly opened window in the far left corner of your bedroom. You can hear birds chirping amongst themselves from outside, cars driving far in the distance, it's quiet at Harry's home. Peaceful.

It's been a little more than four months since you and Harry decided to bubble at the beginning of quarantine. What you expected to be a few weeks turned into a lot more, but there were no complaints. Harry has the space, is the type to crave company, and you're his best friend.

Best friend.

You roll in the soft sheets, hugging the covers for a few minutes until you inevitably force yourself to get up for the day. You're not sure what sort of expensive luxury bed set this is, but god, they are comfy. You make a mental note to ask him later.

You zone out again on the soft sounds of the birds and the pleasant cool breeze flowing in through the window. You pull your phone from the bedside table to check the time, 10:56– and the weather, sunny and 78. You consider getting in the pool later.

Harry's phone rings somewhere outside of your room, followed by some muffled mumbling from the man himself signalling that he's awake too. You wonder if he's ate yet; he's a sucker for your omelettes and you're craving one about now.

You climb out of bed, going to the bathroom to tame your hair and brush your teeth, before heading to the kitchen to put together ingredients for the omelettes.

It's about 10 minutes before Harry appears in the kitchen, provoked by the smell. He places a hand on your lower back as a silent 'good morning!' while he stands to your side to admire your cooking. You try your best to ignore the warm feeling that his touch brings; the feeling that makes you wish for more than just a touch.

It makes you nervous, how quickly his presence has you feeling butterflies or how fast he can make you smile when you're in the darkest of moods. You've been sitting on the feelings for years, they were always there, hiding in the back of your head. The feelings that made you wish you'd shared that drink with him just for the second-hand contact to his lips.

Those are the thoughts that make you nervous. You try not to think about them when he's standing right next to you watching your every move with a wandering hand on the small of your back.

He's dressed in a colourful flannel and some shorts, you notice, much different than your fresh out of bed joggers and t-shirt. You make a mental note to change later, and you consider stealing one of his flannels (there's the thoughts again,) just to have his smell on you.

He pulls away from you to begin setting up the eating area, bringing out cups and silverware and then returning with a plate when he senses the omelette is nearly done. He stands to your left with the plate held in both hands like an excited toddler and when you flip the breakfast meal onto his plate he leans over and presses a quick kiss to your forehead in thanks. The thoughts come rushing back; I like when you kiss me, Harry.

"D'you have any plans for today?" he quizzes, before taking a drink of his orange juice.

"Was thinking about going in the pool later," you tell him, "it seemed nice out, an' I love your pool."

"I rather like my pool too," he chuckles "I'll join you, yeah? Could go for a swim later."

When you finish eating, Harry takes the plates to wash despite your protests. You cooked, he argues, so he cleans. You glance at the time, almost 12, and decide that the time it will take to change and freshen up will be enough for your stomach to settle and therefore a swim will be safe.

Returning upstairs, you first search for a bikini and then your sunglasses, changing and adding a pair of shorts. You brush your hair, throughly this time, and tie it up to avoid contact with the chlorinated water.

Before you go back downstairs, you take a minute to look at yourself in the mirror— doing your best not to allow the thoughts to come forward. (You don't think about how your body will look to Harry, and you definitely don't allow yourself to think about what he might think about the bikini you chose. Absolutely not.)

When you return downstairs to the kitchen, the dishes are washed and on the drying rack. Grabbing two cups and straws, you fill each about half with ice and then filtered water; and carry them both out to the poolside where Harry sits contently in the sun.

Unbeknownst to you, Harry's eyes travel along your body through his sunglasses when you appear from inside of the house, wishing he could touch you. His brain flicks back to the phone call he had this morning with his Mum, how she encouraged him to make a move because she knows you're meant to be. His stomach flips thinking about it.

"Do you remember when we went to that party and you pushed that guy into the pool because he was flirting with me?" you smile, sitting down beside him and handing him one of the cold waters.

"Mm, we had to leave because he was gonna' beat me up," Harry chuckles, "I was drunk. Probably lucky he ended up in the pool."

"You were being protective! It was cute!" you defend, rubbing his back lazily in comfort. He looks at you in a funny way, smile faltering a little before he returns his eyes back to the pool.

"M'gonna test the waters so the princess doesn't freeze," He proposes, rising from his seat when you give him a playful smack.

You rise as well, shimmying off your loose shorts and moving to sit at the side of the pool. Watching harry submerge himself first, you let your legs dangle off of the edge and into the water. It's cold, but a pleasant, enjoyable cold in the hot sun.

You sit contently for a few minutes, enjoying the water on your legs and watching harry swim back and forth. You lean back and turn your attention somewhere else, trying to avoid being caught staring. Suddenly, though, a hand brushes up the side of one of your submerged legs, informing you of Harry's presence.

"Y'coming in?" he asks, standing now. He's tall, so your faces are about level now.

"Are you in a hurry?" He's close enough now that he's dripping cold water on your skin.

"Maybe,"

Suddenly, he's gripping your waist to lift you and pull you into the water. You squeal, grabbing his shoulders as leverage as he practically drops you into the water that feels ice cold against your warm sunny skin. He laughs loud and happy when you splash water in his direction as payback.

Soon, both of your energies mellow out. Harry's on his phone, while you're floating around in a doughnut shaped floatie. Harry snaps a photo, but you don't notice.

When it's time to get out, Harry offers to go grab the towels while you float around for a few more minutes. He's driving you crazy in the best way. Your skin still tingles where he had touched your sides to lift you into the water, and your palms burn with the memory of his bare shoulders.

When he returns, it's like his energy has changed. The sight of a shirt over his chest makes you frown momentarily, and he's light on his feet rather than the happy strides he took on his way into his home. You see him tuck his phone into his pocket as if he's been talking to someone again, and when his eyes meet yours the wide smile is hiding something else.

When you slip out of the doughnut and climb up the pool ladder, he mumbles a soft "c'mere" and wraps the towel around your shoulders. His eyes watch you for a little longer than they should've.

"Mum called again," He murmurs.

"I's she doing well? Is that who called this morning?" you question, keeping your attention on his eyes.

"Yeah, woke you up I suppose,"

"Not at all!" You defend.

He goes quiet, picking at his fingernails (a nervous habit you notice he's developed since beginning to paint his nails) and looking off to the side to avoid holding eye contact with you. This makes you nervous, he's never this way around you.

"Harry,"

"I'm sorry, 'shouldn't be such a big deal," he says, letting out an awkward laugh.

A soft smile appears on your face, taking his hands into yours to part them. Gently, you move towards him, pressing yourself wordlessly into his body and allowing his hands to wrap around your towel-covered body. It brings him comfort, and you ignore your own heart beating at the contact.

"Better?"

"A little." He admits. He loves holding you, and sure, it helps his nerves, but he's going to tell you.

His Mum's been on him since he told her you'd be staying with him, telling him “now or never, Harry!”, and he's beginning to realize it really is now or never. He doesn't know how long quarantine will keep up or how much longer you will decide to stay, and he misses you even when you're just running something as simple as a grocery trip.

He doesn't know why he's scared, he knows a friendship as strong as yours could work through anything, Still, there's always the possibility that things could go bad. “Get out of your head!'”Anne would say.

This type of topic between the two of you is quite common, given Harry's music and your tendency to be quite open. However, this type of topic concerning the two of you is uncharted territory.

He thinks about the story you'd brought up earlier. When you'd both went to a party together and some guy, very obviously drunker than the both of you, tried to flirt his way into your pants before Harry had pushed him into the pool himself.

The truth is, he knew you would hold your ground if you weren't interested. Actually, Harry knows from first-hand experience that you don't need protection, you can be very vocal when you need to be, and he's even seen you deck someone at the bar a few years back for touching one of your friends. You were the protector.

That's why, upon seeing Harry at such a nervous loss of words, you had hugged him. It was your own way of protecting him.

"I wasn't trying t'protect you when I pushed that guy into the pool." He states, quiet and unsure.

You only hum in reply, allowing him to finish his sentence but letting him know you heard what he said.

" 'was jealous."

What?

"What?" you pull away from him only slightly, “why?"

"I didn't want stupid—" he pauses for the name "Josh, or whatever, t'be the one to take y'home."

You give him a confused look, now that you can see his face. Not putting two and two together.

"Josh is great! I love Josh—"

"More than me?" he murmurs, and it clicks.

Oh.

"Of course not... Harry," you hesitate, watching his eyes move between your own and his jaw clench.

Is this happening?

"I wanted," his shaky hand finds your arm, sliding down to take hold of your own, equally shaky left hand to toy with your fingers.

"I wanted t'take you home. Crawl into bed with you. Whatever else." he finishes. His stomach is in butterflies by now and he feels the tight, anxiety feeling in his lungs.

It catches him completely off guard when your lips are on his.

When you try to pull away, scared you've overstepped, his mouth only follows your own and his hand rises to your jaw to hold you steady. He feels a weight lifted from his shoulders, holding you, kissing you, like this. This is what he's needed.

When you finally do pull away, it's to go inside. Harry erupts in happy laughter when you make a beeline up the stairs. Nothing happens though, it's too soon and Harry agrees, but that doesn't stop you from curling into Harry's sheets, cuddling and kissing each other while watching one of your favourite films.

Catching up on missed time.

***

The wedding reception.

How did we end up here?

"Honestly," Harry speaks loudly to the crowd of your family and friends within the dinner hall "I have two people to thank for sealing the deal."

You smile wildly, knowing exactly which story he's about to bring up. Your eyes travel through the table groups you and Harry had spent so much time planning out. When your eyes catch with Mitch's he gives you a wink.

"Anne, my beautiful Mother, thank you for not letting me coward out of finally telling my girl how I felt," he pauses, you place a hand on his knee

"And Josh—"

You can't hold back the laugh, especially when the entire room turns to face the poor, completely unsuspecting victim. Josh, face red and confused smile on his lips.

"Years ago, when I pushed you into that pool at your birthday party because— you would've killed me if I didn't run! Because you were talking to her and I got jealous!" the room is erupting in laughter.

The room is full of the most important people in your's and Harry's lives. Still though, your happy eyes are glued to Harry, working the small crowd of people as per usual and telling a story about the time of and before quarantine; of when you'd basically moved in with him and never left.

Later, when you're wrapped in warm blankets and Harry's arms, you're reflecting on your day. The guests, who you'd talked to, what you'd heard.

"Wow. I'm married." he dumbfounds.

Wow is right.

"We're married." you restate for him, giving his hand a soft squeeze.

"Wow. I'm married to my best friend.”

Giggles boil over in the dark room. Harry is astonished suddenly, pupils blown, wide grin on his face. He presses quick kisses to the side of your face and you snuggle into his side more.

"I think we win, H."

#i feel like this was sorta rushed but hskdjsks it’s fine #can you tell i love the zane lowe interview #harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles fluff #fineline #harry styles x y/n #harry styles imagine #harry styles friends to lovers #harry styles marriage #request #not edited

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joucearchived · 3 years

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The Hell In Your Eyes - 2

Summary: Loki doesn't meet her until two weeks after his initial imprisonment, but he knows he hates her. He has to hate her. Because the way she talks to him and helps him and saves him meals can't mean anything. She is too soft to deal with Loki, who is hardened with pain, pain, and more pain. And Loki hates soft things.

Have you ever seen the hell in someone’s eyes and loved it anyway?

Characters: Loki Laufeyson/(f)Reader

Warnings: mild blood

Word Count: 3498

Previous Chapter

It’s 5 in the morning.

The sun isn’t even out yet and you’re standing in the kitchen, dressed in your pajamas, preparing smoothies. You thought you’d be used to waking up early, considering how you always used to make smoothies before everyone else woke up, but apparently your recent ‘break’ has thrown off your internal schedule. In fact, if not for FRIDAY’s not-so-gentle reminder of your morning plans, you wouldn’t have gotten up in time.

You shake your head, tightening your grip on the mason jar you’re holding.

It won’t happen again.

It can’t.

Not when you’re already in everyone’s way, always leeching off of Tony’s money, always causing trouble for Steve and making Bucky worry. Not when Natasha always feels a need to look after you and Wanda constantly checks in. Not when Sam and Clint feel obligated to train with you and Thor treats you like you’re going to break — going to shatter into a thousand tiny pieces and then cut and bleed all over the tower’s expensive, clean floors.

No. If you can’t even do something as simple as making smoothies for the people you’re always inconveniencing, what use are you?

Your fingers tighten and you can feel your nails digging into the hard glass of the mason jar. For a second, you wonder if it’s possible for you to scratch the class. You clench your fingers — hard — in an effort to break the glass. Just once, you want to break something else. But as you loosen your grip, you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that the jar is just as pristine as it always was.

Not a single crack. Not even a scratch.

The jar is fine — the jar is always fine. But your fingers are dented and your joints are sore and you’re so tired of this. Of always being the one who is damaged. The only one who is ever damaged. Everyone else is always unscathed and no one else ever breaks.

You drop the mason jar.

Shit.

It falls to the ground and you watch as it shatters all over the floor.

Maybe Thor is right. Maybe you are going to shatter one day, just like that mason jar.

But it’s not going to be today. Breath quickening, you furiously remind yourself that it’s okay.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

It’s not you on the floor. Maybe one day it is going to be you, lying there broken and useless and fractured and gone, but right now, it's not. You’re still full and whole and not broken and the glittering glass fragments on the floor aren’t you. Looking back down, your eyes catch on droplets of red. Your breath stops and the air in your lungs still. Sure, the glass on the floor isn’t your ground-up soul, shattered and crushed, but the blood is yours.

There are specks of blood splattered amidst the glass, staining the kitchen’s pristine floor. And you know it’s your blood because you can feel it dripping from your fingers where the glass cut into your skin and you can’t help but stare as a drop of it rolls off your middle finger and falls to the ground and you flinch as it lands in a little crimson circle.

It’s pretty, though.

And you can’t look away as another drop falls, landing directly on top of the previous one, doubling the size of the puddle. For a second, you wonder how much blood it would take to cover the entire floor — and if your body has enough.

But then you hear footsteps approaching and you hastily kneel onto the ground, furiously attempting to clean up the mess you made, to fix it. More blood trickles from your fingertips as you desperately grab at the broken pieces. You’re making it worse.

The glass blurs and you frantically blink, trying to rid yourself of the tears beginning to form in your eyes. The last thing you need is to cry — for your tears to mingle with your blood — for you to appear even weaker than you already do.

But you are weak. You can’t even win this battle — against yourself, and you feel the tears overflow and you watch as they fall, turning the dark red into a lighter pink.

It's a pretty pink.

It’s a pink that reminds you of the first lipstick you ever bought. You and your best friend had gone down to the convenience store after school, sneakily carrying the lunch money you’d both saved. You remember counting the coins together and excitedly running towards the makeup aisle, where the both of you promptly agonized over the perfect lipstick for the better part of an hour.

Eventually, you settled on a sparkly little tube of lipstick — more of a chapstick really, and you can distinctly recall how it smelled like heaven and tasted like strawberries, and how it always tinted your lips just the slightest bit pink.

But right now, the pink you’re staring at isn’t lipstick, and you can very clearly make out two feet standing before you. Looking up, you meet a pair of eyes. Blue, like the sky on a sunny day. It’s a blue filled with promises of picnics and lemonade and daisies, of innocence and childhood, of strawberry lipstick. And in this moment, you want nothing more than to drown in that blue.

Maybe if you bleed enough blood and cry enough tears you can drown in it. Maybe you can drown in the perfect shade of pink while staring into the perfect shade of blue.

______________________________

For such a muscly man, Thor’s fingers are surprisingly soft.

The god is currently standing before you, carefully bandaging your cut hands.

“My lady, I thought you specifically told me that blood smoothies were not appetizing.” His attempt at humor brings a smile to your face, but you can’t do more. Shrugging, you answer.

“Well, I guess I’m just a hypocrite.” His eyes squint, his eyebrows furrow, and you can tell he’s about to reassure you. You hurriedly continue. “Even the best of us make mistakes, Lord of Thunder.”

Thor’s eyebrows relax again, and the corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Relief courses through your veins. You wonder if Thor can feel it in the blood that is still leaking from your fingers. Gently, you tug your hands out of his grasp, just in case. Sending out a silent prayer of thanks to whatever prompted you to wear your black sweatpants today, you try not to grimace as the fabric brushes against your injured legs. At the very least, they conceal the blood.

Thor doesn’t need to know about those. It’s bad enough that he’s already seen you dissolving into an emotional puddle earlier, not to mention how the literal King of Asgard had cleaned up the mess you made and is now attempting to inspect your hands again.

“Were you planning on making the smoothies this morning, my lady?” Thor’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you look up, meeting his poorly-disguised-concerned gaze.

“Yup.” You nod, popping the p . “I’m glad to be back, and I wanted to start making you guys smoothies before your morning workouts again. I know for a fact that whatever concoction you made yesterday was an absolute disaster.”

Thor looks sheepish as he smiles, his hands running through his short blonde hair. “My brother would agree with you.”

At this, you suddenly remember. You need to get Loki’s smoothie preference, as well as the time he wakes up. You know everyone’s preferred flavors, as well as their morning routines, to ensure your smoothies are always as fresh as possible.

“Speaking of Loki, when does he wake up?”

Thor shrugs, a confused look flitting across his face. “Truth be told, I don’t really know. Loki and I haven’t inhabited the same space in quite some time, and I am not familiar with his routines.”

“Oh.” That would be slightly hard to work with. “Uh, well do you know what type of smoothie he might prefer?”

Thor’s lips turn down into a pout. “I don’t think Loki would like any type of smoothie, my lady. Yesterday he made his distaste for smoothies quite clear."

Before you can interrupt and remind him that his smoothie most definitely tasted nothing like your smoothies, he continues with a wink. "But I suppose if anyone could make a smoothie Loki does approve of, it would be you, my lady."

You know Thor is somewhat disappointed by Loki’s lack of enthusiasm towards his smoothie. It’s easy to detect, even under his charming antics. Thor’s lips turn downward when he is upset, and he always picks at his nails. Sometimes he will suck in his cheek, and that’s when you know he is truly in a mood. But Thor never stays sad for long.

His expression has brightened up again, and Thor is back, his ever-chipper energy once again emanating from within his warm eyes. There’s not a single trace of conflict in his eyes, and you wonder, for the hundredth time, how he does it. Thor has seen so much death — caused it, even — and been through so much pain, yet he is always able to hold it together, always able to smile and laugh and come back stronger.

Thor is the embodiment of the word 'golden'. No matter how much dirt and grime Life layers on top of him, nothing could ever dim his luster.

You think you're closer to being the dirt and grime than you ever were to being gold.

“Thanks Thor.”

______________________________

In the end, you settle on making Loki Thor’s favorite smoothie. After all, Thor is the only other god here who has dined on the finest Asgardian delicacies, and if he likes your chocolate-strawberry smoothies, you just hope Loki does too.

The only difference is, Thor prefers his smoothies absurdly sweet. Whether it’s his insane metabolism or the ten thousand calories he burns a day, he never seems to be affected by the hundreds of grams of sugar you’re sure he consumes.

You’re carefully pouring the smoothie into two mason jars when Nat comes into the kitchen. You smile and motion towards her drink sitting on the counter. Natasha prefers a green smoothie, packed with kale and spinach and cucumbers and ginger — not the best tasting thing you’ve ever made, but it must do something , ‘cause Nat looks like she doesn’t understand what the word ‘bloating’ means.

The redhead raises an eyebrow, motioning to the second mason jar you’re carefully pouring. “Does Thor drink two of those every morning now?”

“Well, no. This one's for Loki. I don’t know what he prefers, so I thought I’d make him Thor’s favorite for now. Except without the whipped cream and excessive number of chocolate chips.”

Nat’s other eyebrow raises. “You’re kidding right? Angel, stay away from Loki. He’s a dangerous man. He’s deranged and unstable and selfish. He’s not going to appreciate your smoothie.”

And with that, all the self doubt rushes back in. The self hatred that Thor’s fingers had smoothed away, the shame that bled from your fingertips, it all rushes back in, pumping through your veins and into your heart.

“Do you appreciate my smoothie?” You hadn’t meant for it to come out, and you certainly hadn’t meant for it to sound so insecure.

Nat’s eyes widen, and she hastily retreats. “Nono Angie, that's not what I meant. Come on, you know all of us love your smoothies. What I’m trying to say is —” her fingers meet her forehead in a gesture of frustration “ — we appreciate and love you for all that you do, but Loki won’t. He’s too arrogant and he definitely thinks we’re all beneath him.”

With that, she moves closer to you and envelopes you in a hug. Natasha means well, you know that, but she doesn’t realize how her words come off — how she just backed up the little voice inside your head, repeatedly telling you that you’re worthless. You wonder if she even wants your smoothie, or if she just humors you. And then her arms retreat from around you, and she steps back.

“Sorry Angie, but I’ve got to go now. I love you — we all do. You know that right?”

You nod, and smile. “Thanks Nat. I love you too.”

______________________________

Natasha’s smoothie has separated. The blended ingredients have floated to the top, and the green liquid has settled below. The abandoned smoothie sits on the edge of the counter, where she left it, only reaffirming your suspicions that she didn’t really want it in the first place. Dimly, you consider dumping Loki’s smoothie out. Maybe Natasha is right. But you don’t really want to waste any food, so you move to put his smoothie in the fridge. Maybe Thor will drink it later.

(If he even likes them.)

But as you open the fridge door, you notice the plate of leftovers you snagged yesterday is gone. The saran wrapped plate is missing, and you don’t think anyone would have taken it, except…? You look around for the plate. It’s not in the sink or left on the counter, nor lying in the dishwasher. You find it in the cabinets, placed directly on top of its companions.

You’re confident that no one in this tower would clean their plate after eating, except maybe Steve. But Steve isn’t here — he made his famous lasagna last night because he was leaving for a mission early today. So really, that just leaves Loki.

Is it possible that Nat was wrong?

Did Loki take the food you left for him? And ate all of it? And cleaned up?

You suddenly remember yesterday, walking in on Loki scrubbing blood off the floor. You can’t say you were surprised Thor had left a mess, but you were somewhat surprised Loki was cleaning it up. Maybe it is possible then.

So you decide to bring the smoothie to Loki.

First, you make a quick stop at your room. Your legs are really starting to sting, and you don’t want the sweatpants to dry onto your skin. Damn. You’re going to have to wash these again, and you just did laundry. But it’s okay, and soon you’re walking out of your room, clad in another pair of sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, holding Loki’s smoothie.

You take the elevator and press the familiar button of Thor’s floor. Mentally, you’re once again debating whether or not this is a good idea. You’ve almost decided to just turn back when the elevator doors slide open and you make eye contact with Loki, who is standing awkwardly in the doorway of his room, one foot inside the door and one foot in the plush carpet of the Odinsons’ shared living room.

His eyebrows are raised comically in an expression of surprise, and for a second you don’t see the intimidating god.

But then the moment passes, and he straightens, eyes narrowing, eyebrows drawing together in a frown. “Can I help you?”

A part of you — a large part of you — wants to leave immediately. To apologize for disturbing him and go back to your room. But another part of you, the one who caught a glimpse of Loki before he threw up his defenses, roots you to the ground.

“Actually, yeah. I made you a smoothie.” You stick out your hand, ignoring the way it trembles slightly. “I know Thor’s smoothie probably tasted like shit, so I thought I’d make you one to show you how it's done.”

When he doesn’t move, you step further into the living room and set the smoothie down. One of Thor’s hoodies is lying haphazardly across the coffee table, so you pick it up. Loki is staring at you.

There’s an awkward silence, and you wish he would say something. Anything. But the raven haired prince is as stoic as ever. His eyes are still boring into your own and you can’t help but notice how strikingly different they are from Thor’s.

Somehow, you’re engaged in a staring contest with the god — and you don’t really want to lose. In an effort, perhaps, to prove to yourself that you’re not weak (especially after the morning’s incident) you resist the increasing temptation to blink. You don’t want Loki to think you’re scared of him, even though you may be a bit wary , and you continue to stare into his eyes.

They say eyes are the windows to the soul. If that’s true, Loki has a very — empty soul. It’s neither warm nor cold, just vacant . It’s almost as if you’re staring into the eyes of someone long dead.

With that, you shiver, and surprisingly, Loki breaks the intense eye contact. He looks away then, and his head tilts downward.

“Right then. I’ll just be on my way.” You hold up Thor’s hoodie. “I’m going to do some laundry. Do you have anything that needs to be washed?”

You hope he doesn’t ignore you. You really don’t need that today. You just need to be productive. To do something — to help someone. And maybe he senses that, because Loki actually nods and walks back into his bedroom, leaving you to stand awkwardly in the middle of the lavish living space.

A few moments later, Loki reemerges, effortlessly holding a laundry hamper.

“Would you like me to take this down?”

You’re a bit stunned by his unexpected and considerate offer, but your desire to prove yourself shines through.

“Nah, I got it. Thanks.”

With that, you lug Loki’s hamper and Thor’s hoodie out of their room, leaving Loki’s smoothie — and an intense hope he drinks it — behind.

______________________________

Loki is an unbelievably neat person.

His dirty clothes are folded — inside his hamper. And organized by article, as well as color. You don’t think he realizes how — awkward — it makes the entire process. After carefully shoving his button downs, slacks, sweaters, and jeans into the washer, you’re left with an interesting assortment of clothing.

His undershirts are ridiculously soft, and you resist the urge to snag one. This isn’t Thor, you remind yourself. After piling them in, you stare at his hamper. Loki has folded his socks, which are paired together. You sincerely hope the washer doesn’t decide to eat one of them, as you doubt he understands the Midgardian concept of missing socks.

Below his socks are… Loki’s boxers. You wipe away the mental image your mind involuntarily conjures and quickly dump the rest of the clothing into the washer, without touching anything.

With that, you throw in Thor’s hoodie and your sweatpants, start the cycle, and leave, shaking your head.

On the way back to your room, you realize that Loki has a very limited closet. All of his laundry had barely filled up his hamper, and you notice how most of his clothing consisted of somewhat uncomfortable items. You haven’t seen him around due to your break, but from his clothing you can assume that Loki has a very different fashion taste than Thor. Mentally, you make a note to slip him some of your oversized hoodies when returning his clothes.

______________________________

You’re immensely thankful for Thor. He always seems to have the best — or worst — timing, and this time he has saved you from a rather embarrassing situation.

You’re pulling Loki’s clothes out of the dryer (having already stolen Thor’s hoodie), and you’ve just started to fold his clothes. So far, you’ve shoved a forest green hoodie at the very bottom of the hamper, and you’re in the process of carefully layering Loki’s sweaters over it. Thankfully, the dryer is still mostly full, and you haven’t been confronted with the dilemma of handling Loki’s underwear again.

Luckily, Thor walks in before you have to.

“Are you doing Loki’s laundry, my lady?” His voice startles you and you jump, but manage to not drop Loki’s earthy brown sweater.

“No,” you deadpan, “These are all mine.”

Thor smiles that smile you’re so familiar with, and you can’t help but grin back. “Well, let me take it from here.” His grin falters for a moment, and he looks more serious when he continues. “Thank you Angel, for giving Loki a chance. I know he can be — difficult. And I wouldn’t blame you if you only saw the villain.”

You meet Thor’s eyes, always filled with emotion — whether that be happiness or warmth, sadness or anger, and you think back to another pair of eyes. Soulless. You think of Loki, and you think of how you’ve seen those soulless eyes before; every single time you look into a mirror. And for a second, you let yourself believe that maybe Loki’s soul wasn’t voluntarily taken from him either. Maybe his cruelty is his defense, just like yours is the fake-happiness that you wear as a shield.

“It’s no problem Thor.” You smile, your shield intact. “I couldn’t let him suffer with your smoothies forever, no matter how villainous he might be.”

______________________________

Cruelty is just loneliness disguised as bitterness.

- Tom Hiddleston

______________________________

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lumosinlove · 3 years

Text

Relic Keel

(Warnings in tags)

part i

Sirius woke up with the sun for one reason only. He wanted to see the far off, white sails of Lupin’s boat.

Some people came to Hogwarts Island for the yearly trade show in Helga. Some people came for the resorts. Some came for the waves, perfect for surfing. Some came for the history.

If Sirius hadn’t already lived there his entire life, he would have come for those white sails. But he’d always been here. This island didn’t let many go. Not even Lupin’s boat truly went. It always stayed in view, never even close to a dot on the horizon. Sirius only ever saw the tourists really leave. And they didn’t count. They were strangers.

Sirius pushed himself up from the mattress he’d dumped on the floor one day and never bothered with again, and glanced at Saint, who had fallen asleep on the porch hammock. A book was clutched to his chest. James got them for him, from the island bookstore or his father’s library. Anything he wanted. He even told Saint to keep them sometimes, but Saint never would.

“If I’ve read it, I’ve got it up here,” Saint would say. “I don’t need people asking questions about how I got them anyway.”

“Tell them the truth,” James would say. “I got them for you.”

Saint would just laugh. Everything about Saint was sunny, all the way down to his honey brown skin and bright smile, his golden hair and his amber eyes. Sometimes his laughs weren’t though. Sometimes things about Saint promised storms.

“Or one of the Gods,”—a Hollow word for Godric’s inhabitants— “could say I stole them,” Saint would always reply. “And it’d be all over from there for this St. Clair.”

St. Clair was the name given to all the kids of the island who didn’t have one. It was the name of Godric’s church and orphanage, and Saint Clair was the saint of the island. They thought they were doing a nice thing, giving orphans a name.

The Hallow called him Saint because he wasn’t one, though, and that was why Saint liked it. He wasn’t a St. Clair. He was no saint. No one was.

“Pretty fun,” Saint would laugh. “To be known for what you’re not.”

“Not to mention,” was another one of his sayings, “I get to go around telling all the people of the island that they can worship me in bed.”

Only Sirius knew his real name.

Hogwarts Island had four neighborhoods. Hot all year round, and just off the coast of Guadeloupe in the French territory of the West Indies Islands.

Your island paradise! said the sign on the main port dock in Rowena.

Sirius had spray painted that sign. More than once. Saint liked to replace the dice with site, just to freak people out a little. The tourists took pictures of it anyway, and then of each other. Zinc covered faces, or barely covered girls on spring break. It didn’t matter. They would all be gone in, at most, two weeks. Hogwarts was small, and the neighborhoods kept to themselves. Tourists were both a part of and outside the dynamic.

First, and northward, there was Godric. Money, money, money. Great manors lined the streets, built in the days of French occupation. They were still mostly filled with the old families—Potter, Lupin, McKinnon, Evans, Deveaux. Sirius always swore that more money went to these peoples’ golf courses and gardens and swimming pools than to food and water. It was also where the main hotels were. Griffin Beach was lined with villas and hotels and resorts, all either pointing outwards towards the endless ocean, or inwards, towards the pools and bars and Gryffindor Golf course.

In the western part of the island was Rowena. Rowena was where the island’s port was. It was where the tourists came in, only to get swindled into paying too much for crappy hotels, for their drinks, and for surfboard rentals.

To the East lay Helga. Anything anyone needed, they found it in Helga. Rows and rows of the finest craftsmen. Helga held the other part of Hogwarts’ main income. What the tourists didn’t cover, Helga’s treasures and their yearly trade show did.

Finally, there was Salazar. The snake of the South, people called it, because it wound all the way out to the skinniest, most pointed part of the island. Salazar was equal part money and dirt. Salazar held more old families, more old money. The Montagues and Capulates, Saint liked to say, the Jets and Sharks. Lestrange, Carrow, Meadowes. Black. The houses, Gothic and looming and built within inches of each other, were the maze of the drug dealers. One quarter of it, at least. Normally, Sirius Black would have nothing but hatred for his home arrondissement, the one he hadn’t re-entered in almost seven years now, for fear of never escaping again, but Salazar had produced Dorcas, after all. And Dorcas was one of Sirius’ closest friends. Doras gave Salazar, if not a redeemable image, proof that it wasn’t a complete hell-hole. There were rarely any cross-over. Godrics stuck to Godric, Salazars to Salazar, and so on. Unless there was trouble.

But then there was The Hollow. It was a sliver of a place, right on the northern-most shoreline. Ironically placed beside Griffin Beach, just outside of Godric. A small slice of land dedicated to…no one really knew who. Runaways, like Sirius? Do-what-you-wants, like Dorcas? Godric-rich-boy-looking-for-a-thrill, like James? Or had you been born there, like Saint?

To the island, they were like the poor of Ancient Rome, slanting wood against the outside of the city’s walls for shelter. But it didn’t feel that way. Not to the people inside.

Some knew what they had done to end up there. Some didn’t. Everyone knew that was it though. You didn’t make it out of The Hallow. Saint liked to say that you had to make it in. Like some A-lister Godric club. A tangle of too low wires, stollen cable, junk yards and thatched, patched houses. More surfboards outside of houses than cars.

They called their little piece of wood leant against the Roman wall Grimmauld Place. Grim old place, in French. Sirius didn’t know why. It wasn’t grim to him. It had always been called that, forever, named by just another somebody that no one knew. A shelter, gorgeous and haphazard, built by different inhabitants over the years, that was half on the ground and half in the trees. Rope ladders, rope bridges. Spirals and spirals of it. Warm, hanging lanterns all the way up into the branches of the biggest oak tree Sirius had ever seen. Like fireflies. None of Godric’s window screen mania. You wanted the sun on your face, you wanted the ocean breeze, you’d deal with a few mosquitoes. Sirius knew that the sun, the sand between his toes, his friends, just a level below…it was worth it. He’d never forget the first time he’d seen it, Saint looking over the railing, much younger, and telling him to fuck off. He’d take it over the dark halls he had grown up in any day.

Sirius planted his feet on the floor and pushed himself up, going to the sink for a glass of water and so he could stare out the window some more. There it was. Sirius loved that boat. The sailor sailed it like they were trying to escape, too. Only, Sirius couldn’t think of a reason a Lupin would want or need to escape. He’d seen their house plenty of times, almost everyday when he went to work at the Potter’s. But that boat…it didn’t fit anything else about the Gods, except perhaps that they could afford it. Sirius loved that boat, he loved its billowing sails, and the looping script reading, Wolfsbane, its name, across the side.

The sky was just beginning to give up dawn, and Sirius wanted to be closer.

He put his glass down and shoved his feet into his flip-flops. Saint was closer to falling out of his hammock now, and dappled in the pale light between palm trees. Sirius gave the hooked fabric a kick, and Saint flailed awake.

“Fucker,” Saint said, one eye open and voice groggy.

“I can’t sleep,” Sirius said. “Let’s go do something.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost dawn.”

It was all Sirius needed to say. Saint threw a hand over his eyes before rolling to his feet and stretching his back. Sirius stared out over one of the railings of Grimmauld and all he could see was ocean. He looked for his boat, his white-sailed perfect thing, and then turned away. He’d have time to watch again at the beach.

The Hollow was grand to Sirius, mostly because it was the farthest away from Salazar that one could get. At this point, Godric, as much as Sirius hated it, felt like a point of protection. If Salazars hated the Godrics, they’d hate having to go through them to get to the Hollow even more. But the Hollow was great for other reasons.

Shack Beach was theirs. No tourists. No villas or hotels that shooed you away from the private bars and lounge chairs. It was empty, and so it was full. And the waves. Oceanic rollers that pushed you up, that let you get your feet under you, or forced you down beneath the surface in a tumble of salt and sand. Not so great during a hurricane, but glorious for this.

Sirius hefted his board under his arm before throwing it into the sand and stretching his arms back, then up above his head. Saint was doing the same beside him, his wooden, sea-soaked cross hanging around his neck.

“D’accord, Black,” Saint said. “Wagers?”

“Whoever gets the most air has to play lookout for Dorcas,” Sirius said. “And dinner.”

“High stakes,” Saint whistled lowly. “Fine.” Saint’s smile was sharp. “Go.”

They took off at a run.

The water, although warm, was the shock Sirius needed. Saint beside him, as always, and the unknown weight of creatures and water below them. It was terrifying and thrilling. The ocean floor was dark this early, but Sirius stared down at it anyway as they sat on their boards, waiting. They didn’t need light for this part anyway. Sirius could recognize the telltale pull of the tides in his sleep.

“Oh,” Saint drew out the sound, tilting his head back. “I feel it, baby.”

Sirius turned wordlessly back towards the shore, Saint following with a flash of a smile, as they began to paddle. Sirius felt the lift, the curl, heard the water begin to rush and rush, faster and faster. The water kissed his feet and hands. Sirius jumped himself up and let out a long whoop, laughing as he gained his footing with a few twirls before pushing himself up towards the crest. He curled around the top of the wave and there was the Wolfsbane again, just for a moment, before it disappeared to the sea again. Sirius, for a moment, had felt like he was sailing beside it, with it.

They could stay out there for hours, always had been able to, but Sirius had work soon. They went until Sirius felt thoroughly salt-drenched, lips parched. Dragging their boards, they collapsed together in a small thicket of palm trees, up the beach a little. It was like a small cave of bark and wind-rustled leaves. There were still a few stars visible, and Sirius closed one eye and connected them with his finger.

“Dipper?” Saint said.

“Just Orion,” Sirius sighed and dropped his hand. “We learned that in school.”

Saint snorted. “When’s the last time we went to school?”

“True,” Sirius laughed, then, “You should steal the Wolfsbane for me."

Saint looked over at him. “What is it with you and the Lupins’ boat?”

Sirius just shrugged. He didn’t know. “I miss sailing, maybe.”

“You know Kris will let you take one of his out at the marina,” Saint replied.

“I don’t want to get him in trouble. He already lends us the motorboat, anyway.”

“You’re all trouble,” Saint said, and then he knocked their ankles together when they had been quiet for a few moments.

“Well?” he asked quietly as the sun began to warm them.

Sirius turned to look at Saint, sand in his hair. He laughed. They both knew what that meant.

“That sort of day, huh?” Sirius said.

“I’m asking for you,” Saint said. “I can go wherever I please, Dorcas has Marlene, but you…” Saint made a tisking sound. “Oh, Sirius Black. You lonely creature of the sea.”

Sirius scoffed. “You’re always so romantic.”

“Come on,” Saint propped himself up on an elbow and pressed a warm palm to Sirius’ bare chest. “It’s nice. It’s nice because we know each other.”

“Why do you always do this to me in public places?”

Saint raised an eyebrow and looked around the empty sands.

Sirius knew Saint could feel his chest rising and falling beneath his hand, knew that if he dragged it down some he would feel Sirius stirring in his swim trunks. Saint was his best friend. It was easy with Saint. There was no risk of losing Saint. Except maybe to Saint Clair, but they never went to Salazar, and Salazar had yet to come to them.

“Come here,” Sirius sighed, as if he was entirely put upon, and Saint made a pleased noise and leaned down for a kiss. He tasted like the sea, salty and smooth. Sirius pressed a hand to his back, coated with sand.

“Sandy hand jobs,” Sirius grumbled into his mouth. “My favorite.”

“There’s no sand in my mouth,” Saint breathed out and threw a leg over Sirius’ hips, mouth moving down to suck at Sirius’ neck. Sirius let his eyes close, hand squeezing around one of Saint’s strong shoulders.

“That’s true,” he said.

The barely there light in the sky cast Saint’s skin in blue, his light curls taking on the color, too as he kissed down Sirius’ chest, whose breathing was coming faster. He bit playfully at Sirius’ hip when he reached the band of his swim shorts and Sirius laughed, hitting his head lightly.

“We gotta go soon.”

“So?” Saint looked up with one of his sharp smiles, his freckles sprinkling his brown skin and honey eyes.

Sirius did love Saint. They loved each other, in their own way. For a long time now, they had been all each other had. Some type of love had to grow out of that. It just had to.

He was warm and felt safe as Saint’s mouth slipped over him, nursing him slowly. Sirius threaded his fingers into Saint’s salt-tangled hair and let his head loll back in the sand.

Sirius didn’t relax often. Saint knew that because he was the same, even if he pretended he wasn’t. The closest Sirius got, besides this, was in the ocean. Something to focus on. Something to look for and be careful about. Something to love.

He breathed out slowly, trying to quiet his mind and pass all his attention to Saint. He was stiffening quickly to full hardness from the wet heat, and his hands in Saint’s hair moved with his movements, sounds soft.

Sirius let himself stare out at the ocean again. The Wolfsbane was filled with wind, the double pontoons tilted so that one was a little ways out of the water. He could only barely make out the sailor’s silhouette. He didn’t know which Lupin it was. They was skilled though, very skilled. Sirius would do anything to have a sailboat of his own that he could take out every single day. He envied the sailor.

It didn’t take him long to come, not with Saint knowing his body so well. Soon, he was open mouthed, back arching as Saint pulled his orgasm from him.

Saint smiled when he leaned back, sitting on his heels and tucking Sirius back inside his shorts. “Worship me yet?”

“Always,” Sirius panted. “What do you want?”

“Have you seen your mouth?”

Sirius hummed and surged up to kiss him before knocking him back into the sand. They wrestled, rolling and laughing together in the dune, before settling with Sirius on top, hands pinning Saint’s wrists.

“Go on,” Saint grinned, then parroted, “we gotta go soon.”

“So romantic.”

Sirius reached into Saint’s suit and took his cock, hot and throbbing into his hands, biting his lip at the way Saint’s mouth dropped open. Saint really was beautiful. Sirius thought there must be something wrong with him to not want him in the way that he should.

“Life’s not too bad,” Saint sighed after, as Sirius rolled to lay next to him again. “Island. Surfing. Sex. We’re basically The Beach Boys.”

Sirius laughed. “Basically.”

Saint made a disgruntled noise. “Is it weird that we aren’t in love?”

“Yeah,” Sirius replied. “It sort of is.”

“Do you wish we were?” Saint looked at his profile.

Sirius returned his gaze, their noses close. He nodded, sand shifting in his ear. “Sometimes.”

“Gosh, we suck.”

“We really do,” Sirius patted near where Saint’s swimsuit was still askew. “Literally.”

Saint let out a loud laugh, pulling his trunks up, and Sirius a long groan.

“Gotta go to work.”

“Poor baby,” Saint said.

“You also have to go to work.”

“Poor me.”

“You also owe me dinner. And your Dorcas’ look out. I won.”

Saint sat up. “Then I gotta go to work.”

Sirius smiled and looked back out over the waves. The white sails were pushing back West, towards Lupin House to dock. He’d have to wait until tomorrow to see them filled and tilting again.

Dorcas slung her backpack on while Saint all but forced the Jeep into park. She hopped out of the door-less side and turned to grin at him, elbows resting against the hot metal of the rusty blue sides.

“One hour,” Saint said, already kicking his seat backwards and pulling out his earbuds. “Then I have work. Don’t think I won’t leave you here.”

“You’re a saint, baby, really.”

Saint flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes. “Don’t I know it.”

Dorcas waved him off before jogging lowly around the back of the McKinnon’s gardens, skirting the gate until she found the bent out posts. She threw her backpack through first, before sliding through herself on her stomach. The manicured grass stained her tank top green in places, but Marlene wouldn’t care. Marlene was an angel. Dorcas was positive.

Marlene’s father, not so much.

Dorcas kept away from the vast windows until she could pull herself up one of the drain pipes that led straight to Marlene’s bedroom window. She crouched, sneakers wedged against roof tiles, and tapped on the glass.

At first, all Dorcas could see through the window was Marlene’s familiar bedroom, the sunlight partially reflecting herself back at her, her chin length dark hair, backwards hat and tank top. In the rest, Marlene’s bright walls, once white but now covered with posters and Marlene’s paintings. Concert posters, random letters from the Hollow’s old abandoned movie theater marque that Dorcas had brought her, and the oil paint in swirling shapes or stroked to form friends’ faces. Dorcas saw her own face many times, and the sight was warmer than the hot sun.

Then, Marlene was there, blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She pressed her forehead to the warm glass briefly before pushing the window, sticking with the heat, open.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Dorcas said.

“D,” Marlene sighed, and pulled her in.

Marlene was an angel. Dorcas was sure.

Saint felt uneasy in Godric. He probably always would. He kept his earbuds in, but tapped off beat and nervously, glancing back at the McKinnon house every once in a while. All these houses looked the same. The lawns were so green that they rivaled the sea, aqua and glimmering in the sunlight. He didn’t like that. He didn’t like the women, seemingly ever out for a morning speed-walk with each other, died blonde hair piled high on their heads, who stopped to ask, Do you do lawns? What about pools?

Saint merely slid his sunglasses off, smiled at them, and they were lost. Their eyes went bright, their mouths giggly. Boy from The Hollow, they would whisper to their friends later, so sad to waste such a face—

Saint had always been beautiful. He knew that. But it didn’t matter so much when you were from where he was. In Godric, beauty was key. Anywhere else, it was a waste.

And then they’d see his neck. The cross with the 7 singed there, hanging around his neck.

Oh, they’d gasp, oh, sweetheart, you’re one of those St. Clair Church orphans aren’t you?

A waste. A waste.

The nuns—waste of space, wasteofspacewasteof—

Saint hated the Godric men, with their linen pants and green juices. Walking their property lines and greeting each other each morning, like Roman elite on their salutatio.

Saint was here for Dorcas, who for some reason had decided to love one of those men and women’s daughters. He could never.

That was the surest way to be a waste. Why love them? Why love anyone who was raised like this? By these people?

There was an excitement that came with The Hollow for the Godrics. A strange fascination, animal and exotic. Marlene, to her credit, didn’t have it. She loved Dorcas, too. James Potter…Saint liked James well enough. But both he and Marlene could still go home every night. They didn’t live it. Not like Dorcas, not like Sirius, not like himself.

Yes, Saint would say. I do lawns. I clean pools.

Saint grinned sweetly. Sultry.

He’d also steal their favorite gold necklace.

“So, Remus, what do you plan to do with yourself this summer, sweetheart?”

Remus looked across the dining room table at his parents. His mother was looking at him expectantly, knife and fork poised, and his mind had still been with the wind and the sea.

“I know the history museum is always looking for volunteers, which looks wonderful on a college application,” his mother continued when Remus had paused for too long.

Remus nodded, hoping to keep his expression pleasant, and cut his pork chop. “Maybe. I was hoping to lean in a little bit of a different direction.”

“Oh?”

“Just sailing, I mean. Racing. There are prizes, some of them with money attached. Good for scholarships, or…”

Remus’ father chewed slowly. “Oh. Well, yes. But you have the mornings to do that. Something more productive with your day, maybe. What are the other boys on the team doing, for example. Maybe ask James or Luke or Thomas. Well, maybe not Luke, given everything that happened this year.”

Remus only nodded again, biting down everything else. But he wanted to race sailboats, run with them, he wouldn’t say. What could be more productive?

“Yeah,” he said instead. “I’ll look into some options around town.”

That, made his mother and father smile.

Julian sat to Remus’ left swinging his legs and looking between them all.

“Can I go out on Wolfsbane?” Julian asked hopefully. Julian, through Remus, had developed an incredible love for Remus’ sailboat and wanted nothing more than a ride.

“Absolutely not,” Remus’ mother said. “Not until you’ve finished your lessons at the Club.”

The Club. Dreaded words. Gryffindor Club, what Remus and Marlene secretly called The Yacht, was the most prestigious private club on the island. You needed a two-member invite. It was beautiful, but it was all walls. Closed off from the rest of the island. People came here, stayed at the club, and didn’t even see. The pools were not the ocean, and the cuisine was not Hogwarts cuisine. Remus wasn’t even sure his parents knew anymore, although he knew they had once. Early on. He didn’t know what had changed. You fall into a crowd, maybe.

He would get Julian out and about one day, when he was old enough. Remus himself spent his time on all parts of the island, in all neighborhoods—almost. He loved Helga more than anything, with its nicknacks and beautiful, dream-like creations.

Except The Hollow.

He’d never gone. Almost, once, on a dare from James when they were thirteen. There were nasty rumors. He’d only seen it from the sea, the deserted sands of Shack Beach and clusters of houses. And the rumors looked true enough. He knew James went sometimes, knew who he was friends with. The only reason he didn’t get shit for it at school was because everyone liked him too much. Remus thought they liked the fact that James could get away with it, too. James could get away with anything. He was a Potter.

Everything except me, Lily always said, and Remus smiled at the thought.

They’d all be out of here in a year anyway. At least for a while. College was like a promise-land. Remus was so sick of this island, but not the ocean. He’d miss the ocean.

The Lupins had been on Hogwarts for nearly one hundred years—a short time, compared to the Evans and McKinnon families. An even shorter time compared to the Potters and Deveaux. One hundred year old new money? Remus thought it was a ridiculous statement but, compared to the other Godric families, they were new. It was relative. Relative money. The Salazar families had been there even longer, Remus couldn’t quite remember their stories.

Remus couldn’t imagine how no one had wanted to go out and see the world. This island was his home. He loved its every shore and nook. But he…wanted. He wanted with the sea and the wind and his Wolfsbane with its twinning pontoons and white sails. It’s tiny below deck cabin that snugged in a bed for nights lulled by the waves. Nothing outside but water and the stars.

After dinner, Remus climbed up the tall, winding stairs to Bane Tower. It had been named by his great, great, great, grandfather, also named Lyall, like his father. A play on words. Lupin, wolf. Wolfsbane. Bane Tower. Sometimes Remus felt like he was just another word game. Remus and Julian. Raised by the wolves.

“It kept him sane, the stars,” Remus’ grandfather had always said. “Quite literally, I mean. Madness runs in our family, Remus. Who knows when it might pop up again. And they kept him almost sane, I should say.”

The stars kept Remus sane, too. They were a map on the ocean, and an escape on land. He didn’t have to think when he looked at them. Maybe that was what was dangerous about them. Hypnotic. Mirrored by the haphazard lights of The Hollow, right along Godric’s shore.

Remus’ grandfather had died of madness. That’s what they said. Remus had watched him go. He missed him.

It didn’t stop Bane Tower from being the perfect place to see the stars.

For Gods, the Potters were good people. Really, for anyone the Potters were good people. They were kind to Sirius, and payed him well. Mostly he looked after their boat, but he would also do chores around the house, run errands for this and that for Mrs. Potter.

It was how he had met James. Really met him. School didn’t count, Sirius had disappeared when he was eleven from his old life and that meant, what friends he might have had at Hogwarts Academy were no more. No one liked a run-away. No one really liked a Black.

The Potters weren’t prejudice. Did they have more money than Sirius could picture? Yes. But they were good. It was the only reason Sirius had even considered liking James again. And still, that didn’t mean he understood why James still hung out with him—them. James was the only one from Sirius’ old life who had decided to reconnect. It was strange. Sirius had nothing to offer him.

It had only gotten stranger when, about two years ago now, he’d brought Lily Evans, who had in turn brought Marlene McKinnon. The boys and the girls had been taught separately when Sirius had still be there, and so Lily and Marlene were vague memories for Sirius. Dorcas—homeschooled—and Marlene were gone for each other almost immediately, and Sirius had theories about Lily and James. None of them had ever brought anyone else, so, Sirius assumed, the rest of his old schoolmates had turned out to be the assholes he expected. Gods in their own territory, up on Olympus, reaping their spoils on the backs of others. Lacrosse playing, secret addicts to something, who drank too much, lived for the summer, and liked boobs more than themselves. Then again, James hung out with those people, too. It was hard to figure out.

But weren’t they all.

“Black!”

James, in all his leather boat shoes and pink swimsuit galore, was jogging up the dock to meet him. Sirius gave a nod, but kept sweeping last night’s rain from the decks, the morning sunshine hot on his neck.

“What’s up?” Sirius said.

“Throwing a party,” James said. “Thought maybe you and your crew would want to come.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “You’re inviting us to a party?” They were famous, Godric’s boisterous parties. Drugs, alcohol, swimming pools, and the ocean. The best mix.

James nodded. “That I am.”

Sirius laughed. “Pots, that place will be crawling with Gods.”

“I thought you liked that sort of thing.”

“Yeah,” Sirius said. “On our turf, where we aren’t so outnumbered that, when the police show up—because they always do—we’re the ones who get blamed just for existing. And for the Crucio that’ll be there—and don’t try to tell me someone won’t bring some.”

Crucio. Hogwart’s powdery nightmare.

“Fine,” James said. “We’ll make it one of yours, then. Your turf, you name the place.”

“Why?”

James grinned. “Maybe I like transcending boundaries.”

“Maybe Marlene wants to see Dorcas.”

“Maybe.”

Sirius straightened and leaned on his broom, looking at James squint at him in the bright sunlight reflecting off his glasses. He was wearing a navy Castle Lacrosse t-shirt that decidedly did not go with his shorts.

“Maybe,” Sirius said. “But it’s gotta be at Shack Beach.”

James whistled. “That’s pretty deep territory. You know Felix will make its rounds.”

Crucio was the island’s greatest gift, and its greatest curse. Some people called it Crucio, some called it Felix. The drug wasn’t very addictive chemically, but its effects were powerful. Sirius had heard that it allowed the user to hallucinate memories. Past, distant or near. It could keep people coming back for more, time and again, hoping to relive things—or desperate to see something different. Crucio wasn’t addicting, but memories definitely could be. Good thing Sirius didn’t value his past.

Sirius stuck to the name Crucio. It was torture to live like that, not luck.

Crucio meant a good and steady cash flow for the suppliers. Like Dorcas. Sirius and Saint basically lived off of her income—not that she could do much without answering for how she accumulated it. It was a strange gift, a tedious life, but Dorcas seemed to like it.

Sirius stared James down. “And if it does, no cops will show up to tell about it.”

“Deal,” James sighed. “You’re fucking hardcore, Black.”

“Sure,” Sirius said.

“Potter,” came a voice from the end of the dock.

They both looked and Sirius stiffened as soon as he did, feeling self-conscious clutching his broom. Remus Lupin and Luke Deveaux were standing there, aviators on and Castle Lacrosse tank tops. Luke’s flashy Jeep was waiting in the circle driveway of James’ house. It was Luke who had spoken. Remus stood a few steps back. With their sunglasses, Sirius couldn’t tell where they were looking.

“Let’s go,” Luke said simply.

Sirius turned away before they could, pushing rain water harshly into the sea.

“Yeah,” James said, voice softer this time. “Coming.”

Pity. Sirius could practically feel it.

“Ten tonight?” James said to Sirius. “Sound okay?”

“Okay,” Sirius said without turning around.

He felt the vibrations of James jogging back down the dock, but didn’t turn to watch the three Gods go.

326 notes · View notes

morifinwes · 3 years

Note

Lauraa I finished all the fics, apart from decay (currently reading that now) and I love it sm! Especially the lip gloss one lmao the whole thing was so hilarious to me XD but also like the concept of lwj wearing lipgloss is >>> -yibobibo

@yibobibo then i'm going to rec you some more!! the lip gloss one was !!!!! ajsksks yes!! lwj wearing lipgloss is just so!! good!!

modern

this one is the painful one i talked about:

visitations by var_abelasan (12K, wip, divorced wangxian, post divorce, most of this is angst, uhm lowkey don't but also do want wangxian to end up together, it's messy, the jiangs & lans are shitty, wwx was in prison (brief mentions of that but it's kind of a major plot point), mxy & xy are the little brothers he never wanted but wwx picked them up anyways)

"Wei Ying-" Lan Zhan says, stutters, "I'm sorry."

And now Wei Wuxian sees it, the red rimming Lan Zhan's eyes, the rumpled edges of his blazer. There is an old, familiar urge for him to reach over, to hold Lan Zhan's hand and smooth his hair, to tell him that everything will be fine.

"We're all a bit sorry about this, I think," he says instead, and finds that he means it. For Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji and everyone else in that Guanyin temple, the pain must be unbearably fresh, like skin just flayed open. But Wei Wuxian's chest had been cracked open a long time ago, his wounds licked and cauterized and sewn shut over five long years - Ever hurting, but a dull, constant ache, "It's really alright, Lan Zhan."

Five years after being accused of corporate espionage and losing everything, the Guanyin Scandal breaks open and Wei Wuxian finds a familiar face at his door.

please don't let me be misunderstood by sysrae (3K, partly deaf!wwx, lwj notices, nobody else does though, idk wwx is like made out of fucking steel or some shit)

Lan Wangji has known Wei Ying for a fortnight, the first time he sees him get hit by a car.

light by redkosmos (10K, blind!lwj, which causes angst, but they manage it, best friends to lovers, fluff, lwj being insecure and feeling like a burden, college au kind of? but it doesn't matter too much)

The realization slowly dawns on him.

He can never again see the brightness of Wei Ying's eyes, the way they crescent when he smiles, never again see the rich black of his hair, the mess of it in the early mornings, never again see the beautiful tan of his skin, the beauty of the scars and marks adorned on it, how he wears his clothes, how it hugs his frame beautifully, how he looks like he's adorably swimming in cloth when he wears Lan Zhan's, and-

(Lan Zhan loses his vision in a car accident and learns to cope with it.)

don't leave me by trippinonskies (19K, brief very brief mention of lwj cheating, he doesn't but wwx is afraid lwj is cheating on him or just wants to break up with him, (he doesn't), marriage proposal, lwj acting distant = wwx's insecurities show up, fluff, angst and comfort)

Lan Zhan! Where are you lost today?” Wei Wuxian finally asks, at the end of his patience.

Lan Zhan looks a little guilty as he looks at Wei Wuxian, “Sorry, just a lot of work to deal with.”

Lie.

If there is one thing Lan Zhan can’t do, it’s lying. Especially to Wei Wuxian. But he doesn’t question Lan Zhan. He just accepts the reply, too scared to know that he is right. Too scared to know the truth.

// or where Lan Zhan is too hung up in planning the perfect proposal and ends up accidently ignoring Wei Wuxian making the other think that he wants to break up //

want you closer by xiaobucephalus ((3K, HORSES, only in the background tho, but wwx is an equestrian vet, which is so fucking valid bro, the lans own horses, a sick bunny, lwj the bunny parent!, super cute, dark bay throughoutbred chenqing is honestly so valid)

“Thank you,” Lan Zhan said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Don’t thank me, Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying laughed again, his voice warming the chill of fear that had settled in his chest. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to get into your hutch for a while anyway.”

safe in your thoughts by anonymous (20K, it's a cherry magic au???? (i haven't watched it, but you have i think?), horny lwj but only for wwx (always for wwx))

Wei Wuxian learns three very important things on the night of his twenty-seventh birthday.

One, that Lan Wangji is ridiculously funny, which Wei Wuxian had known before but what Wei Wuxain hadn’t expected was Lan Wangji to be funny at his brother’s expense.

Two, that Wei Wuxian had finally gone mad, absolutely mental at the ripe age of twenty seven because nothing else would explain the third thing he had learnt.

Third, and the most unbelievable of the lot, that Lan Wangji wants to fuck him.

iura by yoo_im_finally_writing (1K, only added bcs op is right and wwx would've the cutest german accent, it's more fun if you understand german so hit me up if you want translations for the german sentences)

Wei Ying calls in the middle of the night to talk about German law, and Lan Zhan tries very hard not to fall asleep. Or at least, not to let Wei Ying notice he's falling asleep. (As best friends do.)

breathe in the air, the last of its kind by wereworm / @neverdoingmuch (27K, getting together, jealous!lwj, but also kind of supportive, brief mention of cheating bcs of miscommunication, no actual cheating tho, college au, lwj pov)

Following Wei Ying’s line of sight, Lan Wangji can barely prevent a smile from crossing his lips when he sees the short row of rabbit statuettes placed at the front of the display. Silver, with bright gems for eyes, they look elegant yet lively and animated.

“A-Yuan would love one of those,” Wei Ying murmurs, almost as if to himself.

Lan Wangji frowns; the rabbits, while cute, don’t seem like a suitable gift for Wei Ying’s A-Yuan.

...

It’s only when he glances back at the rabbits and notices what has been placed on display behind them, that the pieces fall into place. They’re engagement rings, there’s no doubt about it. Lan Wangji feels his heart sink – Wei Ying isn’t just dating A-Yuan, he wants to propose to him.

Or: the five times Lan Wangji thinks that A-Yuan is Wei Ying’s boyfriend and the one time he learns the truth.

paint smears on sunny days by snowshadowao3 / @angstsexual (53K, getting together, art teacher!wwx, single parent!lwj, they're rich if i remember right, wwx & lwj are both good with kids!!!, this is so good actually, fluff)

To say that he runs to his car would be incorrect, as he is a Lan, and running is both undignified and unnecessary unless in immediate danger. Nor does he slam his key into the ignition, or aggressively swerve around the cars on the freeway, or have a mild panic attack at the fact he is picking A-Yuan up late from school for the first time ever.

He comes close, though.

By the time he arrives, it’s 4:35PM, and he has imagined about fifty different worse-case scenarios. The door is partly open when he gets to it, a messy label of 104B—Art Room scrawled with chalk on a placard next to the faded wood. As he opens it fully, he expects to see a wailing, terrified child, or perhaps a scene of utter misery and betrayal.

What he finds is his son, hands covered in paint, being sung to by a beautiful, dark-haired stranger.

“Ducks live in the pond, yellow ducks, happy ducks!”

Lan Wangji stops in his tracks.

(Or: Falling in love with your son’s art teacher, in five parts)

no bunny compares by gusucloudbunny (4K, god this is cute, fluff)

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian cornered his friend one week before his birthday. “If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?”

Lan Wangji furrowed his brow at Wei Wuxian, not exactly sure how to answer that question in a truthful manner that didn’t involve confessing his undying love for his best friend.

Wei Wuxian is on a mission to get Lan Wangji the perfect gift for his birthday. What Wei Wuxian doesn't know is that the only thing Lan Wangji truly wants is him.

wei wuxian's week of realizing things by photojenny (12K, i have read this multiple times, i always forget what happens, idk why but my notes say it's good, the tags say drunkji makes an appearance and i'm always up for that)

"Lan Zhan, do you like Mianmian?" asked Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji blinked, and stared. It was not the first time Lan Wangji had questioned the perceptiveness of the boy he had a crush on. Wei Wuxian had been smart in the class they had taken together. Yet time and time again, Wei Wuxian had tested the old wisdom that there are no stupid questions.

---

Lan Wangji must figure out how to confess when Wei Wuxian is the most oblivious person he's ever met.

are you my wisdom tooth? because i'd like to take you out by yellowcarnations (1K, crack, fluff, lwj stop flirting with a stranger, even if he is your husband, drunkji but make it to max level)

Lan Zhan wakes up and he has no idea where he is.

There are bright lights and his jaw hurts, he doesn't who this man next to his bed is but oh he might be in love, maybe, probably, definitely.

–

based off that guy-forgets-who-his-wife-is-and-hits-on-her vid but its wangxian.

beep! goes his heart by wearing_tearing (3K, fluff, lwj is like "he, he likes me right? he likes me" and everyone is like "yes, yes he does")

“Wei Ying’s heart monitor,” Lan Wangji starts.

Wen Qing blinks at him. “Yes?”

“It beeps.”

“That’s… what they generally do, yes.”

“The beeps change,” Lan Wangji continues, “when others are around.”

Wei Ying’s heart only sings for Lan Wangji.

canon

obedient and bellicose by thunderwear (19K, lwj is cursed by the lan elders, they notice too late, fix-it fic kind of?, lqr being a good uncle and lxc is a good brother, wwx accidentally uses the curse but he doesn't know about it)

It took Lan Wangji a long time to realize he was cursed. Too long really, anyone else would have noticed so much sooner. The problem was, he liked following the rules.

Ella Enchanted AU that no one needed but I wanted.

hello my old heart, how have you been? by ravenditefairylights (10K, amnesia, fluff, wwx taking care of lwj, so much fluff and softness, angst too but not that much)

The issue is, Lan Wangji brings his thoughts back before they stray too far, that it is impossible for someone to be in his bed, unless Lan Wangji himself invited them. He has not. He would remember doing so, and besides, all his night clothes are still on and there is no headache to imply that he was inebriated last night. No, the situation is simple.

There is someone in Lan Wangji’s bed. It is impossible for anyone to be in Lan Wangji’s bed, and yet that doesn’t seem to have stopped the stranger.

or lan wangji wakes up, and wei ying is there. he doesn't understand how or why, and he can understand even less why his hallucination of wei ying is so insistent on bathing him, and braiding his hair, on holding him and fixing his clothes. why the hallucination of wei ying seems so happy to see him.

teach me the way by likeafox (58K, rogue cultivator!wwx, horny wangxian, lwj wants wwx to teach him how to be a good lover, ....wwx is a virgin, the porn is the plot, but there's less of it than i thought)

"I do not wish to leave my future spouse… dissatisfied with my intimate knowledge,” Lan Zhan says, very seriously. “I am hoping to find an instructor, to better prepare myself for such matters."

Wei Ying feels his mouth drop open. He's pretty sure the Second Jade of Lan just told him he's a virgin who wants to learn how to do sex good.

Rogue Cultivator Wei Wuxian is the stuff of local legends. Some of those legends are even true! The ones about his tremendous experience in bed, on the other hand, are not so true. Which becomes a problem when Lan Wangji, on the verge of an arranged marriage and worried he won’t know how to please his future spouse, enlists Wei Ying's help to teach him the art of love-making. Wei Ying's great at improvisation, though, and is pretty sure he's got this sex mentor thing under control. What could possibly go wrong

other aus

of god: my love unholy by tunnelodfawn (3K, tw blood / war, dark!lwj, god!wwx, kind of poetry)

Lan Zhan takes everything as a sign from his god. The blood staining his fingertips—a holy anointment. He sanctifies himself through blood. The strings of his guqin gleam red in the sun—a divine blessing. This is an instrument of destruction. A single note—a cry of power—and in this note the voice of his god unravels the earthly threads tethering man to earth.

The Yiling Patriarch blesses Lan Zhan with war. Wei Wuxian blesses Lan Zhan with agility. Wei Ying blesses Lan Zhan with love.

The base of the Yiling Patriarch’s shrine is the home of Lan Zhan’s knees. He worships. There is something of the blasphemous and the unholy in his prayers. He prays not for victory but for the sight of Wei Ying. Bless me with your presence, he begs.

Or, wherein, Lan Zhan bridges the gap between the mortal and the divine—the worshipper and the god—with blood.

the river and the sea by sasamelons / @sasamelons (7K, soulmate au, arranged marriage (wangxian with each other), they're both kind of dumb but i love it)

Lan Wangji gritted his teeth, wishing to just be left alone. "I am looking for my soulmate," he ground out.

"Oh."

It took Lan Wangji a few moments to realize that Wei Wuxian had stopped following him. When he looked back, the other boy seemed to be frozen to the spot, eyes wide and lips still parted. He quickly looked away when he saw Lan Wangji looking back. "I see. Well, have a good trip!"

At six years old, Lan Zhan met his soulmate on the streets of Yiling and promptly lost him again.

At sixteen years old, Lan Wangji met his betrothed and was determined not to like him.

#so...i realized i forgot to check the things i already listed but? i tried to avoid listing fics twice?#yes i've mostly been reading oneshots these past few weeks idk why but i can't seem to find any long fics #or at least not ones that i like #wei wuxian #lan wangji #wangxian #wangxian fics #mdzs #mdzs fic #cql fic #the untamed #aamna tag #we're almost through the rec list now? i have so much open but idk why i add so few #i'm just really picky when it comes to which ones to write down and which ones not #and then this became a kind of comfort list?#idk?#but also ANGST #not Angst but ANGST #fun fact: Angst means fear in german

106 notes · View notes

pomegranates-and-blood · 4 years

Text

νοσταλγία (Prologue)

(Gif credit to @honestsycrets)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: Like 7k, I’m sorry

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice. Sorry and btw this isn’t my creation, this is based on some exchanges I saw on reddit and a lil bit of me lol)

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is expected out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, Heathen?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed me, they believe in me,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “You followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it will be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of Vikings.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. I can’t.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles.

“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”

“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”

“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”

“Who?”

She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest.

“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all."

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, anything, to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant come back to us, my love even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it.

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel alive.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter.

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye.

The King’s hungry smile when he spared you.

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

“You are the one that taught me-…”

“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and free. “I taught my daughter better than this!”

“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I know will grant us victory!”

Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face.

“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”

“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies.

“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though, minn dóttir.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”

“I am not lost to any man.”

Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little Viking.

“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, Vikings, will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, Christian. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title -Anassa, Hiereiai-, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.

_____

Hi, I’m kinda amazed you got this far down lol, but thank you so much for reading! This is one of the first projects in a while that I am really loving to write, and I hope you like it!

Please let me know what you think, I am one needy fuck when it comes to feedback :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία prologue #νοσταλγία

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qqueenofhades · 4 years

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Hi, I hope this isnt annoying to ask but w the old guard ive seen a lot of people mixing up catholic and christian when it comes to nicky. when by todays standards theyre not interchangeable as catholic is a specific strain of christianity. i was kinda under the impression the crusades were a purely catholic thing since the pope. is that right or were other christians involved??

Hmm. Just to be clear what you’re asking, are you wondering whether it’s a mistake to use “Catholic” and “Christian” interchangeably when talking about this time period or describing Nicky’s faith? And/or asking for a basic religious primer on medieval Europe and the crusades more generally?

First, it’s not a mistake to use “Catholic” and “Christian” as synonyms during the crusades, especially since a) Catholics are Christians, no matter what the militant Protestant reformers would like you to think, and b) until said Protestant reformation, they were the dominant and almost (but not quite) singular Christian denomination in Western Europe. Our source material for the period doesn’t describe the crusaders as “Catholics,” even if they were; they call them Christians or Franks. (Likewise, the word “Frank,” i.e. “French” was often used to describe Western European crusaders no matter which country they were from, since so many crusaders came from France and that was where the crusades were originally launched, at the council of Clermont in 1095.) To call them “Christians” points us to the fact that the crusades were viewed as a great pan-Christian enterprise, even if the reality was more complicated, and nobody would need to specify “Catholic,” because that was implicit.

In short, medieval Europe had two major strands of Christianity, which developed out of the centuries of arguments over heresy, the contents of the biblical canon, the nature and/or divinity of Christ, their relationship to Judaism, paganism, and other religions of late antiquity, and so forth. Eventually these two competing branches took on geographical, cultural, and linguistic associations: Western (Latin) Catholic Christianity, and Eastern (Greek) Orthodox Christianity. The Great Schism in 1054 split these two rites formally apart, though both of them had at least some thought that the internal divisions in Christianity should be healed and dialogue has continued intermittently even up to the present day (though they’re still not actually reconciled and this seems highly unlikely to ever happen.)

The head of Western Catholic Christianity was (and is) the Pope of Rome, and the head of Eastern Orthodox Christianity was (and is) the Patriarch of Constantinople. Both of these branches of Christianity were involved in launching the crusades. To make a long story short, the Byzantine (Greek) Emperor, Alexios Komnenos, appealed to the Catholic (Latin) pope, Urban II, for help in defending the rights of eastern Christians, territorial incursions against Greek possessions by the Muslims of the Holy Land and North Africa, and the city of Constantinople (and Jerusalem) itself. So although the actual French and Western European participants in the crusades were Catholic, they (originally, at least) joined up with the intention of helping out their Orthodox brethren in the East and “liberating” Jerusalem from the so-called tyranny of Islam. To this end, the accounts of the council of Clermont focused heavily on the brotherhood of western and eastern Christians and the alleged terrible treatment of these Christians by the ruling Islamic caliphate in Jerusalem. At that time, that was the Isma’ili Shia Muslim Fatimids (who had replaced the Sunni Muslim Abbasids in the early 10th century -- there are many names and many dynasties, but yes.)

However, despite this ecumenical start, relations between Western and Eastern Christians started to go bad very quickly over the course of the crusades, indeed within a few short years of Clermont. Alexios Komnenos wanted the crusade leaders to swear loyalty to him and pledge to return formerly Byzantine lands that might be recaptured from the Muslims, and the crusade leaders did not want to do this. There were deep cultural, linguistic, religious, social, and political differences between Greek and Latin Christians, even if they were both technically Christians, and these caused the obvious problems. The Greeks were obviously located in a different part of the world and had a different relationship with their Islamic neighbors (they fought them often, but also traded with them and established diplomatic ties) and this caused constant friction during the crusades, since the Westerners always suspected (not entirely wrongly) that the Greeks were secretly in league with the Turks. Albert of Aachen, writing his Historia Ierosolimitana in the early 12th century, referred to “wicked Christians, that is to say Greeks,” and our primary source for the Second Crusade (1145--49) is Odo of Deuil and his De profectione Ludovici VII in Orientem (Journey of Louis VII to the East.) He spent the entire time grousing about “treacherous Greeks” and blaming them for the crusade’s struggles (though the Second Crusade pretty much sabotaged itself and didn’t need any outside force to blame for its failure). There was some truth to this accusation, since Byzantium was then engaged in a war against Sicily (Louis VII’s ally, though it had its own connections to Muslim culture and indeed had been Muslim before the Normans conquered it in 1061). The Greeks had thus been working with the Muslims to undercut the invasion of Western Europeans into this contested territory, and this was not forgotten or forgiven.

The best-known example of Western-Eastern relations during the crusades going catastrophically awry is in 1204, at the sack of Constantinople as the culmination of the Fourth Crusade. Basically: the crusaders were deeply in debt to the Venetians and had already attacked the Catholic city of Zara (Zadar in Croatia) in hopes of getting some money back, then got involved in the messy politics of the Byzantine succession, went to Constantinople, and eventually outright attacked it, sacked and destroyed the city, and raped and slaughtered its inhabitants. This obviously poisoned the well all but permanently between Latin and Greek Christians (frankly, in my opinion, it’s one of the worst tragedies of history) and Constantinople never regained its former wealth and pre-eminence. It declined until it was captured in 1453 by the Ottoman Turks and Sultan Mehmed II, and has been an Islamic city ever since. (It was renamed Istanbul in 1923, under Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the “founding father” of modern Turkey.) Obviously, Latin and Greek Christianity still had to work with each other somehow, but the crusades were actually the single biggest factor in driving the two branches further apart, rather than reconciling them.

The words “catholic” and “orthodox” both have connotations of universality, overall correctness, and all-encompassing truth claims. Therefore, in some sense, to a Catholic Christian or an Orthodox Christian, defining themselves as such, with both words, is repetitious; they are Catholic/Orthodox and therefore the correct sort of Christian (even if their theological opponents would disagree). However, historians obviously do use that convention to distinguish them, since the identity is important, and makes a big difference as to what religious landscape an individual is living in. As for heresy, it was an equally complicated subject. Numerous “heretical” (i.e. not mainstream Catholic Christianity) Christian sects existed in Europe for this entire period, most notably the Cathars. (They got their own crusade launched against them, the Albigensian Crusade of 1209--29 in southern France.) The lines between heresy and orthodoxy (small-o orthodoxy meaning in this case, confusingly, Catholic Christianity) could often be blurred, and religious practices were syncretic and constantly influenced each other. A big problem in the Albigensian Crusade was identifying who the heretics actually were; they looked like their Catholic neighbors, they lived in community with them, their friends and family members were Cathar and Catholic alike, both rites were practiced, and plenty of towns were just fine with this hybrid arrangement. Hence it was not as simple as just pointing and going “get those guys,” and indeed, one of the leaders of the Albigensian Crusade, when asked by a knight how to tell them apart, advocated to just kill them all and God would know who the good Catholics were. Welp.

Northern and eastern Europe also remained pagan relatively late into the medieval era (into the 10th and 11th centuries) and the Northern and Baltic Crusades were launched with the aim of converting them to Catholic Christianity. (You will notice that the crusades have a complicated history as both a vehicle of religious warfare and as an attempted theater of conversion.) Heresy was a constant preoccupation of the Catholic popes, especially Innocent III (the progenitor of the Fourth, Albigensian, and Fifth Crusades). Especially in the thirteenth century, splinter religious groups and localized sects of “heresy” were popping up like crazy, and it was a constant point of contention as to how to deal with them, i.e. by force, persuasion, reconciliation, dialogue, etc. No, the medieval Catholic church was not the stereotyped instrument of fear, oppression, and tyranny, and could never enforce its views universally on all of western Europe. Church attendance on the parish level could be so low that in 1215 at the Fourth Lateran Council, Innocent issued an order requiring Christians to take communion at least once a year. So yes. The standard was very far from “everyone believed Catholicism fervently at all times and if they didn’t, they were immediately punished/burned alive.” The idea of burning heretics at the stake wasn’t even introduced until the early fifteenth century, and even then, it required an often-months-long formal church trial and wasn’t just something that the local village priest could hand out on a whim.

There were also monastic orders, and these (at least in Western Europe) were therefore Catholic, but they had different ways of practicing it and what their orders emphasized. The most common order were Benedictines (founded in the 6th century by Saint Benedict), who adhered to the Rule of Saint Benedict, which is still the basis for the following monastic orders. There were also the Cluniacs (founded in 10th-century France at Cluny Abbey) and the Cistercians (founded as rivals to the Cluniacs at the end of the 11th century, also in France). In terms of the crusades, the Cistercians were by far the most involved with/zealously supportive of them (Bernard of Clairvaux was a Cistercian) and took part in directly financing, preaching, and launching the Second, Fourth, and Albigensian Crusades alike. The better-known monastic orders, the Franciscans and Dominicans, weren’t founded until the thirteenth century, on the tail end of the crusades, and didn’t take much direct part in them. The Dominican inquisition, however, took over the business of dealing with the Cathars after the Albigensian Crusade petered out, and their concern was often with heresy thereafter.

Anyway. This has gotten long, as per usual. But I hope this gives you some introductory sense of the religious landscape of medieval Europe, the divisions within Christianity, and the fact that it’s entirely accurate to use “Catholic” and “Christian” interchangeably when discussing Nicky’s crusades-era faith and counterparts. The crusaders themselves did not specify themselves as being Catholic, and the crusades were (at least initially) viewed as a pan-Christian movement, even if eventually fatal tensions with Orthodox Christians left a permanent scar. The idea of identifying the precise denomination of Christianity is also another Protestant Reformation-era innovation, and wasn’t, at least in this case, necessary to do.

#history #medieval history #history of religion #long post #anonymous #ask

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pinkykitten · 4 years

Text

truth or dare

- @someoneovertherainboww heey i dont know if u tak requests but i loved ur writing and i was wondering if u could make prompts 20 and/or 25 for zuko pls prompt(s): “i’m not playing truth or dare.” “why don’t you take a picture? it’ll last longer.”

pairing: zuko x female! reader words: 2,210 genre: modern au, high school au, cafe au, fluff, comedy, requested

a/n: tysm!!! yes requests are opened atm! omg while writing this i thought of that thing that dante said at like a con or something where he was ordering at starbucks and the lady was like omg ur zuko!!!😂 art in title isnt mine! hope yall enjoy this ball of cheesiness that cures my acne and enjoy the love that i have for zuko to make me become a disaster for him （＾コ＾）V

Your back ached from the way you hovered over your laptop and sat at your desk. Your mind was focused on learning and getting good grades it didn’t mind the pain. Your eyes burned from the strenuous gaze at your blue screen. Your hands felt as if you churned butter and not to mention the mean girls were extra rude today at school. High school was tough and you needed the rest of the day to be filled with relaxation and peace before you hit the books tomorrow.

“Where are you going?” Your best friend Sokka asked through the phone.

You hopped off the bus with all your items almost spilling out of your bag. “I’m going to Fire Tea Shop. I read the reviews online and people say its pretty good.”

“No, c’mon Y/N you had your chance. You mean its pretty lit!!!!” Sokka sounded too much like a kid that had eaten edibles.

“I’m hanging up,” you said deadpanned. “I don’t even know how I’ve kept up this friendship this long. I’m so proud of myself.”

“Its because you love me.” Sokka sang.

“It might be because I think you need my help. If I wasn’t with you and had your back like where do you think you would be? Probably eating crap off a cave right now and starving.” You walked up and inside the cafe was so cozy. It had an earthy yet red contrast feel to the place. It sure matched with the name Fire. It had some vintage Chinese architect to it. It was stunning and really caught your eye. And it was peaceful. “Do you want anything babes?” You asked as you looked at the menu. “They have cactus juice.”

“No!” Sokka shouted on the phone. “I tried that, I couldn’t get out of the bathroom the whole day! Plus I thought I saw like mushrooms of some sort.”

You snickered, “baby, I think you’ve been eating too many mushrooms!”

“I’m good. You enjoy it there.”

You said your goodbyes and hanged up the phone. As you did an old man came up with a long beard to say his welcoming.

“Hello there, young lady. Might I interest you in trying our newest tea? White Jade tea. It’s very delicious.” He smiled wide.

You read his name tag. He was such an adorable old man. “Hmmm, Iroh? Actually since this is my first time I want to try your most popular tea. How about-”

“So White Jade?” Iroh was about to punch in your order when you heard a shriek and what seemed to be a pot dropping on the floor. “One moment please. That is probably my angsty, incapable nephew that made a mess. Please look to see what you would like.” Iroh made a hasty get away.

Out came a teen your age as he rubbed the back of his head. He was so handsome looking. His hair was disheveled and he wore a red apron. His attitude really attracted you. “Good thing I made a distraction, that White Jade tea is not a hit. I’m not that good at making tea also. That’s more my uncle’s job.” His voice was low and had an edge to it. It was so handsome.

“Oh he’s your uncle. That’s sweet!” You grabbed your wallet out. “I would like a Jasmine tea please.”

“Good choice. My uncle loves that tea. That will be $4.25.”

You grabbed your money and went to give it to him when you saw the huge scar. It was red and didn’t scare you but you couldn’t look away. The thoughts that went through your mind was how in deep pain this person must of been in to endure and cope through that painful wound.

“Why don’t you take a picture? It’ll last longer.”

You wanted to hit yourself. You were taught to have manners and here you were staring at this young man. He probably felt self conscious and insecure and you made him feel worse. “Oh my God I am so sorry. I wasn’t meaning it like that. I’m just sorry that you had to go through that.” You read his name tag. “Zuko. Its a beautiful name.”

Zuko’s nose flared up, “yeah, thanks.” He grabbed forcefully at the money and you sat and awaited your order.

You dug your head in your arms. ‘Why are you like this Y/N? Why did you stare?’

“Here is your tea miss,” Iroh instead brought the tea out. “My nephew felt he didn’t want to scare you away.”

You bit your lip, “I am so sorry. Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to make him feel uncomfortable. It was so insensitive for me to do that. Please can we start over.” You felt so bad and guilty.

Iroh thought about it then pointed to the tea. “I make the tea myself. Taste it and I’ll think about your offer.”

You sipped the warm tea and no lie it was amazing. He definitely knew what he was doing. You weren’t thinking it was fantastic because you wanted to make amends with these folks but it was actually the truth.

“Honestly?”

Iroh nodded.

“This is really good and totally what I needed today. Thank you for this and please take this tip.” You gave Iroh the money. “Its a way to say I’m sorry.”

Iroh saw the money and smiled wide, “I can think we can find it in our hearts to forgive you.”

You finished your tea and went to the order counter and rang the bell. Zuko came out thinking you left.

“Yes?”

“I was thinking. Do you maybe want to go to the park tomorrow and catch some lunch? Its A way for me to apologize for my behavior today.”

Zuko looked around sheepishly, “I don’t know.”

“Please,” you pouted your lips.

Zuko agreed and the date was set.

After school the next day you went straight to the cafe.

You were going to be honest in saying Zuko was really cute. You were nervous and thinking about him the whole day non stop. You even dressed up for the occasion which rarely happens! Even Sokka knew and wouldn’t stop teasing you the whole day. He should of been your hype man but he made you feel like a little girl with a crush!

“You ready Zuko?”

“Yeah just give me a sec.” Zuko went in the back and came back with a changed look. He wore instead a red bomber jacket. Could he be anymore boyfriend material?

“Love the jacket.” You poked him on his side and he blushed awkwardly.

The way to the park was more silent and you were considering if this was a bad idea.

“So do you go to school or are you home schooled?’ You tried to break the ice.

“Actually, I go to the school not to far from here.” Zuko pointed in the direction your school was at.

“Wait! I think we go to the same school! Yeah, I’ve seen you before!”

“I’m not that hard to miss.” Zuko, in a way, brought up his scar.

“No I would remember you from being so handsome.” You smirked. Zuko almost choked. “That school sucks though. Its the same everyday. Work my butt off and then get kicked around like dirt by the schools mean girls. I feel like my life is a movie sometimes.”

“Yeah I get made fun of too.”

“I’m sorry.” You touched his arm.

“My dad did this to me,” he pointed to his scar. “Didn’t like me as a son and loved my sister more, I guess.”

“It’s a touchy subject. I didn’t realize it, I’m sorry.”

Zuko chuckled which was something new to you and almost shocking, “you can stop saying sorry. I already forgive you. Its not a big deal. I like you though, I think you’re cool.”

“Thanks.”

“And those people that make fun of you, they're crazy. They're probably jealous of you because you're so beautiful.”

You almost died right there! You were like already ready to get married to this man it felt like. Would it be wrong to ask if he was single? You prayed and hoped he was.

You two sat at the bench. It was such a peaceful, sunny day. You crossed your legs and faced him. “So Zuko, lets play truth or dare!”

“I’m not playing truth or dare.”

“Alright I choose dare to get it started.”

Zuko rolled his eyes. He knew you weren’t going to do this. “I dare you to ask that old lady over there if she knows any place that sells laxatives.” You shot up and Zuko immediately regretted it. “Y/N I was just kidding. Let me do another one.”

“A dares a dare my man.” You fist bumped your chest like the warrior you were. You went up to the old lady like a lost kid.

Zuko couldn’t help but laugh hard and try to shy away from the world.

You ran back and fist bumped the air with a skip. “In your face fire prince!” You nicknamed him. “She said around the block they got a drug store. Boom! Now your turn.”

“Okay, truth.”

“Boriiiiiiiing! Oh my God! Fine! What’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done?”

He groaned, “really? We’re going there? I said a joke, okay, that my uncle said and it came out terrible the punchline left the building and nobody laughed. It was [pretty brutal.”

“I would of loved to see that,” you said in awe. “That’s full on cringe right there sweetie.”

“Okay, you now.”

“Truth.”

“Sissy much?” Zuko raised his brow.

“Hypocrite! I’m just following your footsteps.”

“Okay, feisty. Have you ever kissed anybody?”

“Totally!” You struggled on that one. It was such LIES!

“You stumbled on that one. I can tell you’re lying.”

“Yes, fine I am. I’ve never kissed anybody in my life okay. Only my pillow. I’ve practiced on that and lets just say its been through a lot.”

“Wow,” Zuko tried to stifle his chuckles, “you’re unbelievable.”

“And what about you? Have you ever kissed anybody?”

“It’s not my turn.”

“Truth or dare?” You were starting to see a different side of Zuko that you really liked. He was fun and made you smile.

“Truth.”

“Have you ever kissed your girlfriend?” You wanted to see if he was single.

“I’ve kissed before but I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You legit wanted to party and cry because this could actually happen. “Who’d you kiss?”

“A customer.”

“Oooh, you have to spill the tea on that later. I choose dare!”

“I dare you to try your first kiss with me.” Zuko raised his brow.

Oh my Lord was he serious? You were sweating profusely and at an alarming rate. “Are you for real?”

Zuko nodded his head, “it is a dare. And you wanted to start this. I told you not to.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone! How do I do it?”

“Just look at me and try it out and I’ll critique it.”

“I’m kinda hating you right now.” You glared at Zuko. “Only 3 seconds okay.”

Zuko surrendered to that and you closened up on him. He smelled of tea leaves that were light and airy and a burning flame of musk. He was really growing on you. You came closer and closer until your lips met. You wanted to keep still but Zuko moved his lips so you followed. You felt the whole shebang. Fireworks, butterflies, everything. You clutched onto his bomber jacket. They seemed so strong and vigorous the kisses but they were tiny pecks to start you off. Your lips moved in sync with his because you got the memo and started getting used to it. You looked down at your watch as saw that it passed the three seconds. Separating from him you wiped your lips, breathless for a puny kiss. It seemed like such a milestone for you and something so big but in reality some kids kiss their posters longer than what you did.

“How was that?” Zuko looked away blushing.

“Very invigorating and exciting.” You were speechless. You were such a daredevil is what you thought to kiss this complete handsome stranger. It was like a dream though. You stood on the bench and screamed out the park, “I just had my first kiss everyone!!!”

Zuko pulled you down, “oh my God it wasn’t that amazing. Chill out. I choose truth.”

You evilly smiled, “do you think I’m attractive?”

Zuko’s blush was even redder this time. “Yeah, you’re cute. My type.”

You wiggled your brows, “you’re type? You think I’m cute? He’s think I’m cute! I have finally a guy! Who thinks I’m cute! I have a chance! At not being alone! And being a crazy cat lady!” You sang as you shook your body. “Okay last one, I choose dare again. Yolo. Living on the edge.”

“I dare you to go on another date with me,” Zuko asked as he played with his fingers.

It was silent and you were surprised on one factor. ‘This was a date?’ You grabbed his hands and smiled at him, “I’d love to go on another date with you! And you said you didn’t want to play truth or dare.”

a/n: IROH IS SUCH A MOOD OMG 😂 and zuko is so sly and cheesy sdkgjfdskgfkgjfdgk omg. i loved this wayyyyy to much as u can tell and like made this like a chapter book bc im extra like that! would u kiss a stranger if he was zuko? i prob would bc im a thirsty nerd fam 🥵

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#atla x reader #atla #atla imagines #atla fanfiction #atla modern au #zuko x reader #avatar the last airbender #avatar the last airbender x reader #atla scenarios #avatar the last airbender modern au #atla x you #atla x y/n #avatar the last airbender imagines #avatar the last airbender fanfiction #au #truth or dare

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hayleysstark · 3 years

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For your prompt event: Merlin accidentally hurting Arthur with his magic post-reveal and freaking out about it? (I love your writing!)

oh my god op YOUR MIND!!!!!!!!! im losign it,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Arthur had all of ten seconds to get out of range and, as it turned out, ten seconds wasn't nearly enough.

To tell the truth, he knew it was all his own fault—he hadn't tried or, at least, he hadn't tried hard enough, mostly because he didn't want to get out of range, he didn't want to run away, and he certainly didn't want to leave Merlin behind to face the mad old witch entirely on his own. For all his magic, for all his power and know-how and strange, old-soul wisdom, Merlin was a right idiot most of the time and, while Arthur trusted him to take down an obviously mediocre, middle-of-the-road sorceress alone, he most definitely did not trust him to be smart about it. He didn't trust Merlin to be smart about most things, come to that, but magical battles with evil sorcerers was settled firmly at the top of the list.

But it didn't do an ounce of good, because Arthur couldn't get near enough to land a blow on the old woman, and he couldn't even get near enough to watch Merlin's back like he should, like he usually did in these sorts of situations—the spells flew far too thick and fast around the quiet green grove, blinding bursts of color and light flashing like suns and stars in the deep shadows of the wood, curses rebounding like stray cannonballs off the trees and boulders and branches—no, he could only stand there, sword in his hand, out on the edge of the battle, completely useless.

All of a sudden, the old witch stopped, her wrinkled hands still held out in front of her, and she said something—it didn't sound like magic, it didn't sound like a spell, and it didn't look much like magic, either, it looked like she was talking to Merlin, like she was talking and she wanted him to talk back, but Arthur couldn't hear the words over the whispers and rustles of all the sorcery in the grove—and it must have been magic, he realized, hardly half a second later, because a high, howling wind whipped up, right in the middle of the forest, on a cloudless, sunny day.

She must be a bit better than mediocre, then, she must be a bit more than middle-of-the-road, if she could call up storms like Merlin could—

The wind picked up, stronger and stronger until the shriek of it was all Arthur could hear, until the force of it nearly ripped his cloak from his shoulders and clawed the sword from his hand, until it pushed him back, farther and farther away from the old witch, away from Merlin, until it finally grabbed him up in its screaming grip and slammed him, with a nasty crunch, back into the nearest tree.

As near as Arthur could figure out, from the flashes of blue sky rushing past over his head and the fleeting glimpses of Merlin's bone-white face and terrified blue eyes, he had come back 'round on the way back to the castle, but he hadn't stayed awake long enough to remember much, and Merlin had, apparently, defeated the old woman mere moments after Arthur had blacked out, but he never heard the whole of it, and Merlin never told him.

All he could say for certain was, when he had finally opened his eyes to find himself in Gaius' chambers, in the rickety white cot reserved solely for the very ill, the old man had forced him to choke down a vast number of horrible potions and medicines before he had allowed Arthur to settle back in his own bedchamber.

It had seemed an awful lot of fuss for nothing but a broken arm and a few bruised ribs, and, if he had to make a guess, he would say the whole thing had upset Merlin rather more than he had thought it would, and certainly a great deal more than it had any right to—the idiot had turned into the perfect servant in the week since, nothing but yes Sire or no Sire or let me get that for you, Sire, not one gripe or grumble or complaint to be had, and never more than ten steps from Arthur's bedside.

And he didn't make a face when Arthur told him to muck the stables, and he didn't breeze in to work a half hour too late Arthur's breakfast in one hand and a sheepish smile on his face, and he didn't throw the curtains wide and shout good morning like he wanted to wake the entire castle, and he hadn't spilled wine in Arthur's lap even once, and he hadn't used his magic to heat the bathwater, or scrub the floor, or make the bed, and Arthur's armor had literally never shined brighter, a dazzling silver gleam out of the corner of his eye, glinting and flashing in the light of the sun through the open window.

It was absolutely unbearable.

And it was obviously much more than the usual mother-hen impulses Merlin fell into when Arthur got hurt, because he certainly hadn't acted like this even when Arthur had gotten a bite from the Questing Beast, when Arthur had, very literally, cheated death, and survived the unsurvivable!

No, this was bigger than all Merlin's girlish little fits and frenzies of fear, this was more than his everyday panic over nothing, and Arthur was not going to put up with it one moment longer.

"All right," he said, eight days out from that fight in the forest with the old witch, his arm still wrapped firmly in a simple white sling, and the bruising on his ribs a touch lighter now, and certainly less painful, "out with it, Merlin, what is it? What's gotten into you lately?"

"Sorry?" Merlin said, flatly, and he didn't even look up from where he had crouched down to pick up all the dirty laundry scattered 'round the chamber. "Not sure what you mean."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Don't be an idiot, Merlin, you and I both know that suits you a bit too well."

"Yeah," Merlin said blandly, stuffing Arthur's brown trousers in his basket, "just one of my many gifts, Sire."

"Merlin," Arthur sat up a little in his seat, and put down his quill with a soft swish of the long white feather on parchment, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," Merlin said at once. He tossed a pair of socks in the basket, too. "It's nothing."

Arthur waited.

Merlin straightened up and turned his back on Arthur to pluck a red tunic up off the floor and plop it down in the basket with everything else.

Arthur waited a bit more.

All of a sudden, Merlin stopped, with the basket perched on the end of the bed, his hands still clinging to the wooden rim, and finally, Arthur thought, with a rush of relief, finally, he's going to stop being such a girl and just tell me—

Merlin sniffled.

Arthur's insides turned to ice. Oh, God, no, this was a mistake, this was a terrible, awful, horrendous mistake, and now Merlin was having feelings, and what if Merlin wanted to talk about those feelings, couldn't he just give Merlin the day off and let him sort it out on his own time, wasn't that a thing he could do, or would that be "insensitive" and "rude" the way Guinevere always told him, would that make him a "bad friend" the way Guinevere always told him—? "Um," he said, a little blankly, and a lot desperately, "y-you don't need to—you shouldn't—erm—"

"I—" Merlin wiped at his face with the back of his hand, and turned to look at Arthur, his eyes red and puffy, his cheeks sticky and stained with tears, "—I-I'm sorry."

"For crying?" Arthur said, rather weakly, and also rather hopefully.

"I should have said it sooner, but I thought you were going to—to bring it up, and I thought you were going to be angry, so I-I just waited and waited, but you didn't—"

Not for crying, then, Arthur concluded dismally, before he scraped up the last remnants of his dwindling-in-the-face-of-a-crying-Merlin courage. "Why on earth did you think I'd be angry with you?"

"I did this to you," Merlin said, looking for all the world like a deeply repentant puppy left out in the pouring rain, waiting to be kicked. "I hurt you. I-I used my magic to h-hurt you."

What? Arthur blinked a bit dazedly at Merlin while he waited for the words to make some sort of sense. "Hang on," he said, slowly, mostly to make sure he had this absolutely right, "you were the one who called up that wind? You were the one who—?"

Merlin blinked back, just as dazedly. "Y-You didn't know?"

"I thought it was the witch!" Arthur said, thoroughly baffled now. "What in God's name did you do that for? You never do storms unless it's—!"

"I got angry," Merlin said miserably. He sniffled again and wiped at his nose now. "I—I got so angry, she—she said some things that made me realize she was—she was somebody that had done really awful things, she had—she had hurt someone I know, she'd hurt her really badly, and I lost my temper, and—" he flicked a mournful glance up at Arthur from under his wet lashes, "—and it just happened, and Arthur, I'm so sorry!"

Arthur almost crumpled right back down in his seat again. Merlin had conjured up that wind, not the old witch, and oh, that made sense now, didn't it, he had thought, even then, the old woman hadn't seemed strong enough for magic like that, he had thought she hadn't had the power for a thing like that, and he had been right, and—

—and if she was so mediocre and middle-of-the-road, what on earth had she done in her past, to make Merlin so furious with her? "Is she—?" Arthur raised his head to look at his friend on the other side of the room. "Is she all right? The friend that the witch hurt? Is she all right now?"

Merlin stared blankly back at him, blue eyes wide and wet. "That's—?" he scrubbed at his nose again. "That's what you're worried about? Not the fact that I almost killed you?"

Arthur almost laughed. "It's a broken arm, Merlin, and it's not even my sword arm! Honestly, I hardly think I'm going to drop dead all because—"

"It's not funny," Merlin snapped, his every word sharp as a knife when it rolled off his tongue. "It's not funny, Arthur, this isn't a joke! I almost killed you! I almost killed you because I lost my temper! Because I lost control!"

"Yes," Arthur conceded, "but everyone loses their temper at some point, I wouldn't worry about it if I were—"

"Well, you're not me!" Merlin bit out. "And count yourself lucky on that, because when you lose your temper, you don't have to worry that you'll wipe out the entire kingdom, or—or level a whole forest, or put all your friends in danger just because you can't—!"

"M-Merlin," Arthur said, too startled to stay silent any longer, "of course you're not going to—"

"You don't know that!"

"No, I don't know that!" Arthur said sharply, a bitter burn of fury in the back of his throat, because what the hell was wrong with this idiot, why the hell couldn't he see—? "You're right, Merlin, I don't know that, I don't know for absolutely certain that you are never going to do something horrible, but I trust that you won't! I don't know, I can't tell the future, I'm not a Seer, but I trust you to do what's right and to never take it too far, and isn't that enough for you?"

For a moment that felt very much like forever, Merlin only looked at Arthur, his eyes still red, a few stray tears still trailing lazily down his wet cheeks. "But look at what I did to you," he whispered. "You can't honestly tell me you're not angry with me."

Arthur let out a soft, heavy sigh, and rubbed a hand down the side of his face. Yeah, sure, he was a bit put out, but mostly he was put out that he had gotten stuck in bed for three days straight, and that Merlin had decided to hedge around the problem for so long when he could have come to Arthur and told the truth straight-out, but it was like he had said to Merlin—everybody lost their temper now and then, it was hardly some sort of bone-deep sin Merlin had to atone for every day for the rest of his life.

"You can't honestly tell me," Merlin said, and even softer than a whisper now, softer than a breath, "that you're not scared of me."

Oh. Arthur's chest squeezed with something almost like pity. Oh, that's what this is, that's what he thinks, that's what he's so worried about— "Merlin," he said, and he meant it, "I'm not scared of you. There's nothing in you to be afraid of."

"Except the magic that could have broken your neck," Merlin snapped, voice high and tight and still thick with tears. "You don't have to pretend, Arthur, you don't have to put on some kind of front for me, I understand, I get it—"

"You can't swing a sword without almost impaling yourself on the blade," Arthur pointed out. "You can't go an entire day without tripping over your own boots and falling flat on your face. There's nothing in you to be afraid of, and trust me, I'm not flattering you when I say that."

Merlin stared at Arthur like he had never seen him before, his eyes enormous in his tear-streaked face, one hand halfway up to dry the damp trails on his cheeks again. "Y-You're not—?"

"For God's sake, no!" Arthur rolled his eyes. "One time, I heard you say sorry to a butterfly!"

"I startled her," Merlin said, at once, and scrubbed at his eyes again. "I hit the branch she was resting on with my elbow, and I startled her."

Arthur had to bite back a smile. "Yes, I'm absolutely terrified. Shaking in my boots, Merlin, please don't kill me with your evil temper and big bad sorcerer powers."

Merlin turned a little pink. "I'm sorry," he said, hoarsely. "I really didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah, I picked up on that, believe it or not."

Merlin went a touch pinker, but he pushed on valiantly. "I-I didn't realize you were near enough to get hurt. I should have been more careful with you."

"Careful with me?" Arthur echoed incredulously, half-offended and half-amused. "Tell me, Merlin, how is it that I'm the one who got thrown into a tree, you're the one crying about it, and you still manage to make me sound like the delicate maiden in this situation?"

Merlin wiped at his nose again. "Should have known you'd be all right," he said, finally, and unless Arthur was very much mistaken, he could swear he saw a small smile tug at the edge of the idiot's lip. "Should have figured your thick skull would cushion the blow."

"Merlin—!"

#merlin #bbc merlin #fic #filled prompt #sweetteaanddragons #this is uh. bad. but on god we're posting it lads

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blossom-hwa · 3 years

Note

family restaurant cook!reader with childhood friend haknyeon who absolutely LOVES their cooking

class is over I don’t have to worry about stats until thursday so HERE WE GO

your and hak’s parents are old friends who live in a small town together and even though it’s small it’s v comfortable and sweet and literally there were only two ways you + hak could have turned out: best friends or enemies and luckily enough for your parents it was the first and so yeah! your parents run a little family restaurant so you’ve basically been cooking n shit since you were a kid and hak’s dad or smth has a nearby farm while his mom works in the town and it’s rlly cute bc the farm is a little far away from the town so after school hak will come to the restaurant with you and your parents will feed the two of you some snacks or whatever and you’ll do your homework and then later hak’s mom will come over and drive hak home :) and yeah both of your parents get a headache from all your yelling but like it’s worse than having their kids be absolute enemies so who’s complaining

so this like continues as you two grow older, even though you + hak start attending after school activities instead of going right to the restaurant after school you both always meet up outside the school gates or one of you will go to the restaurant before the other and wait around there because?? it’s tradition?? like sometimes maybe your other friends will be like oh do you want to come over and do something and unless it’s planned out in advance you’re like sorry no i’m going to the restaurant with hak and vice versa and literally everyone is CONVINCED you two are in love but both of you are absolutely oblivious and?? so what if you have little fights in the back of the kitchen (not food fights bc your parents would beat your ass for wasting food) but like. hak will throw an onion at you and then you throw a potato back and he’ll threaten to bring his pig over and decimate the place and you point out he’d have no food then and then he’s like ur right ur right and you both cackle and everyone in the restaurant (customers + parents) are like. how are you not DATING yet

it doesn’t even cross your mind to date until people start pairing off in high school and suddenly everyone’s got a partner or whatever and it feels weird but like?? you and hak just make a deal to stay single together and if you make it to thirty without getting married you two will just marry each other or whatever (hak pressures you into this just bc he wants your cooking and you point that out but he’s just like. well you’re not wrong but also you get my sunny personality and beautiful disposition so are you complaining? and no you’re not so you agree) and when hak tells his friends this they’re just like. DUDE YOU’RE SO IN LOVE ASK THEM OUT and hak is like we’re just friends!! just friends now i gotta go help y/n at the restaurant (aka eat all the food while you try to cook) and they’re just like GOD HELP YOUR OBLIVIOUS ASSES

but honestly dating and love is inevitable at some undetermined point like. you’re cooking and hak is stealing meat from the pan and you’re yelling at him that it’s unsanitary + he’s going to burn himself if he touches the stove and he’s just grinning and eating more and he says some shit like ‘your food is the best though i can’t stop’ and yeah idek but in that moment you’re like. oh my GOD i’m in love with this stupid piece of shit motherfucker who’s only around for my food and likes to let his pig loose whenever i visit the farm what the fuck what the fuck what the FUCK and hak has come to a similar realization when he calms down and lets you cook and just watches you doing your thing with the most concentrated expression and he’s like HECK MY FRIENDS WERE RIGHT I’M IN LOVE

anyway

hak is sleeping over at your house for the night bc reasons idk maybe his mom and dad are going out of town for an anniversary or smth equally cheesy (both you and hak fake vomit even though they’ve done this every year) and yeah hak is definitely old enough to stay on the farm alone but he’s like! i can reach school easier from the restaurant pls let me stay over PLEASE and we all know it’s not bc of school or anything it’s bc you two don’t want to mess up your ~traditions~ and your parents are anything but oblivious (even though you two are) so they’re like okay cool please get together and date while you’re at it and it’s like midnight and you + hak are in the restaurant doing homework and hak is complaining about work and begging you to cook and you’re like it’s MIDNIGHT we shouldn’t eat at MIDNIGHT and he’s like??? why the fuck not???? and you’re just like jfc if you want food so much what will you do for it

and IT’S MIDNIGHT AND BOTH OF YOU ARE SLEEPY AND TIRED AND HUNGRY SO WHAT THE FUCK ELSE CAN HAK SAY BUT ‘I’LL KISS YOU IF YOU COOK FOR ME’

you fall off the chair and your books just drop to the floor and hak’s like. oh my god i really just said that and he’s in half a mind to just RUN OUT THE DOOR AND BACK TO HIS FARM but you’re like. are u telling the truth and he just kinda nods and you’re like WELL I’M GONNA COLLECT MY FUCKING KISS BEFORE I COOK JUST SO I MAKE SURE YOU’RE NOT LYING TO ME

weird way to get together but that night you wake your parents up with the noise in the kitchen bc you and hak alternate between begging for more kisses and fucking stuff up on the stove and you’re both like. oh heck sorry and your parents just look at each other like. what idiots did we raise at least they’re together now and holy shit it’s just really fucking cute bc hak is the definition of a gentleman when he isn’t being a little shit so it’s all hand holding and flowers n shit meanwhile you cook and feed him in the back of the restaurant (which doesn’t stop him from still trying to steal food but you’ve gotten p good at defending the stove from his grabby hands) and everyone wants to throw up bc you’re such a stupidly cute couple (like?? childhood best friends to lovers that EVERYONE has seen coming??? how is that NOT stupidly cute) and yeah it’s just great

hak burns himself on the stove trying to steal food and you almost just leave him to nurse the burn on his own but he starts fake-crying loud enough for the customers (who are all regulars and have literally watched you two grow up together, they’re your biggest shippers) to hear so you bandage up his stupid finger and feed him when he insists he can’t do it himself bc he’s ~injured~

the old couple who runs the candy shop down the street gives you two couple discounts every time you go in bc “you remind us so much of ourselves” and it’s cringe but sweet and you/hak love them

you promised to get married at age thirty if you were still single but voila you’re definitely not single so you get married before then and half the town shows up and everyone’s screaming about how they all saw it coming and the wedding’s a mess and you feed hak but he also feeds you and then you kiss and you can taste cake on his lips

and that’s how it goes

#lina answers #the boyz #tbz #ju haknyeon #juhaknyeon #the boyz haknyeon #tbz haknyeon #the boyz juhaknyeon #tbz juhaknyeon #the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #the boyz haknyeon x reader #tbz haknyeon x reader #ju haknyeon x reader #juhaknyeon x reader #drabble #fluff #stream of idiocy #scriptura-delirus

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popunktomlinson · 4 years

Text

this is everything i’ve read in the past month put into a list for the sole benefit of my short term memory. it’s a mess of pairings but mostly drarry and can be summed up as lots of enemies to lovers, excessive pining, and a splash of fake dating.

Drarry:

What Real Thing? - loveglowsinthedark (13k)

They don’t cuddle, they don’t talk about their relationship (or lack thereof) and they certainly never fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Aural Gratification - birdsofshore (11k)

Harry's not gay – he just likes listening to exciting stories about Aurors. It's not his fault that the narrator's voice is so smooth, so expressive... and really rather hot.

You open always (petal by petal) - birdsofshore (65k)

Harry’s not the kind of person who pays for sex. He really isn’t. Until he is.

Lumos - birdsofshore (41k)

Harry never expected to spend eighth year listening to Draco Malfoy wanking.

Heartlines - shiftylinguini (73k)

Harry never expected he’d end up chipping away at his virginity while wandless and bonded to Malfoy in Northern Europe.

He never expected that would turn out to be the least surprising thing to happen while out on their training expedition in the middle of nowhere, either.

The Sleeping Beauty Curse - who_la_hoop (153k)

When Draco Malfoy falls into a cursed sleep and can only be woken – at least, according to the Daily Prophet, that impeccable source of truth – by ‘true love’s kiss’, Harry Potter knows there’s no way on earth he’s the answer to this particular riddle. Is he . . .?

Strange Bedfellows - orphan_account, ravenclawsquill (31k)

When Harry encounters a frail and fidgety Draco Malfoy at the Ministry, he just knows something is wrong and he’s determined to get to the bottom of it.

A story about Deadly Nightshade, crippling insomnia, excellent wine … and finding what you need in the strangest of circumstances.

The Devil’s White Knight - orphan_account (65k)

When Harry wakes up in an alternate timeline--a timeline where Voldemort was defeated long before the first war--he discovers everything is different. His parents, his godfather, his friends--and him. Harry must deal with the consequences of who he would have been if he had been raised by his parents, and figure out where he stands with his casual hook up, Draco Malfoy.

Who Shagged Harry Potter? - faithwood (6k)

One beautiful sunny Sunday the Slytherins wake up after a raunchy night only to discover a very naked Harry Potter sleeping in their dormitory. Naturally, they ask themselves a logical question: Who the hell shagged him?

Draco Malfoy, It’s Your Lucky Day - faithwood (47k)

Even though he's unarmed, injured, lost in the Forbidden Forest, and facing a possible murder charge, Draco Malfoy gets lucky.

Love Comes Tumbling - taradiane (22k)

'Harry's thoughts were of how much he would have done differently with Malfoy over the years, and of Dumbledore's final words to the other boy . . . "It is my mercy, and not yours, that matters now." Maybe, Harry wondered, he could find some mercy, too, and give Malfoy the second chance that Dumbledore had believed him worthy of.’

punch-drunk fingerprints - tamerofdarkstars (2k)

In a world where every touch of a soulmate leaves a temporary heat mark on bare skin, Draco Malfoy suddenly finds his life devolving into a massive cliche because the Boy Who Lived Twice has no idea how to respect the personal space bubble.

Muggle Technology and Heroism - TommyLane (90k)

Draco Malfoy wasn’t exactly the best roommate Harry’s ever had. The man tended to watch way too much James Bond and his obsession with muggle technology not only rivaled Arthur Weasley’s but more often than not ended with Harry trying to assure him that the appliances weren’t out to get him. Then there was the little fact that Harry was hopelessly in love with him while Draco remained completely unaware, bringing nameless men home night after night.

But Harry loved his life and was somewhat (as long as he doesn’t actually think about it) content enough in the way things were going. That is until Draco’s old boyfriend comes sweeping back into town – making Draco breakfast and fixing the remote control before Harry can and forcing him to realize that if he doesn’t do something soon, that he might lose the man he loves before he even gets a chance to ever actually have him.

Party of Two - fireflavored (13k)

Drinking, sex, and a total misreading of the concept of fuck buddies.

A Dented Old Street Sign - orphanghost (27k)

Draco knows they aren't the only students who will be completing their NEWTs this year, but they are the only ones whose home fireplaces were disconnected from the floo network by the ministry.

At least, Draco assumes as much until he sees the light falling out from the front door of one of the other rickety old houses in front of them and the three figures cast in its warm glow. For a moment they look like some sort of strange, many legged creature. An acromantula, or a particularly massive Blast-Ended Skrewt. Then Draco hears Pansy make a disgusted sound beside him and the light falls in a less blinding way, and Draco can see that it is actually Potter and the Weasel carrying a large couch between them, and Granger fluttering around them with her wand out, seeming concerned.

(The Piece) I was Missing All Along - lauren3210 (31k)

Draco and Harry have been flatmates and best friends for years, and Draco thinks life is just perfect that way. But when something comes along and threatens to take all that away, Draco has to decide what it is he really wants, and just how hard he's going to work to get it.

The Gentlewizard Club - Sophie_French (28k)

Draco wants what Draco wants. And if he has to snuggle up to Harry to get it, well, surely, Draco can handle that. Problem is, not sure Harry can.

Larry:

A Little Bit Like Fate - Galaxie (8k)

Louis stumbles upon a kiss-in protest for LGBTQ rights, and he meets Harry. They click. It feels a little bit like fate.

Go Nowhere Tonight - objectlesson (12k)

As always, the easy nonchalance with which he treats the rumors hurts, stabs Harry in the gut, twists the knife. Because it is hard for Harry; it’s hard to know people think they should be or are together because he wants that. Wants it so fucking badly, and it would be one thing if he could just silently quarantine that part of himself and pine secretly, but instead he’s faced with fictionalized accounts of his and Louis’s nonexistent love life and photoshopped pictures of them being coupley every time he’s on the internet. It is hard, and the fact that it supposedly isn’t for Louis functions as proof that it’s unrequited. “It’s gonna be a rude awakening for them,” he starts, gazing into his empty glass, “when we eventually come out but are dating other people. No one likes being half-right.”

Good Enough to Eat - objectlesson (7k)

“Okay. I just...fuck, I can’t believe I’m telling you this,” Harry whimpers, and he must be blushing because Louis can feel waves of heat coming off him, his embarrassment a hot, palpable thing. “So, like…I love rimming videos. Nothing makes me come harder,” he admits, covering his face with his hands so his voice comes out muffled and strangled.

You Drive Me Crazy (I Just Can’t Sleep) - objectlesson (18k)

The first time Louis ends up in Harry’s bed is a total accident.

Vinyl and Lace - objectlesson (8k)

Harry tries on a skirt in the X Factor dressing room as a joke. Louis doesn't think it's very funny.

Wolfstar:

Let Us Be Silent, That We May Hear the Whispers of the Gods - gyzym (2k)

Remus Lupin doesn't want to hear it--not tomorrow and not yesterday, but certainly not right now.

Trobed:

Advanced Ambulatory Ichthyology - gyzym (49k)

Course provides advanced instruction in avoidance of the phenomenon commonly known as "jumping the shark." Prerequisites for this course include Introduction to Friendship, Contemporary Best Friendship, The Politics of Emotional Baggage and Cohabitation 207. Students may wish to simultaneously enroll in our sister course, Introduction to Non-Traditional Romance, but said enrollment is optional.

Introduction to Women’s Studies - ama (7k)

You know the story. They're best friends, they're inseparable, Abra has a rainbow collection of hijabs as extensive and impressive as her graphic t-shirt collection and is the hottest girl Tory's seen outside of a mirror--not that that means anything. Right?

#fic rec #read #drarry #mostly drarry ive been in a mood #fics #mine

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marvelousell · 4 years

Text

My dearest

Pairing: Harrison Osterfield x Female reader

Summary: Harrison realises how his past actions were wrong after seeing you in a wedding dress

Word count: 1.9k

Warnings: Angst, swearing

A/N: Thanks to @harrysleftchelseaboot for tagging me in her challenge I love it and I enjoyed writing this so much! “Don’t you love me?” & “Letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” were the prompts I used. Hope y’all enjoy this:)

Masterlist || Add yourself to my tag list

“You’re getting married.”

A lovely sunny day, the warm weather that wasn’t usual for the beginning of May was a big irony for Harrison. Everyone was loud, chirpy and hyped about today. He didn’t want to come here, he tried to convince his girlfriend to stay home but the whole thing fell in the water. Everything was bright, even his shirt that his girlfriend chose for him to wear was but he sure wasn’t. Harrison was sure that the whole ceremony, people and the weather were harmonised just so he could feel worse.

It was all too much, the flowers that he knew you loved endlessly, the soft white and beige theme with the small details were your choice. He knew how you would always go through those magazines to daydream about your wedding, how you always bragged about having white roses so they could match your dress. 5 years passed and he still knew every single detail about you and your thoughts.

“You alright?” The low voice that belonged to his girlfriend made him sigh, questioning if he really was.

“Absolutely.” The small smile and hand on her lower back was enough for her to believe him. Harrison loved June so much. Her kind heart and open mind was something that made his heart so warm when he met her, however he couldn’t stop thinking about you. He couldn’t stop thinking about that night and how he messed up and how your bitter words after his actions stung.

“I would be nervous if I was the groom’s best man as well. Go look for Ian and help him out it’s a big day for him. I’m going to catch up with Bianca there.” June was a ray of sunshine, she was always here no matter what. Her heart was too big, her kindness and patience were Harrison’s weakness.

“Love you.” The small giggles that escaped past her lips after he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, sent nervous chills down his spine.

Harrison was doing just fine, he had a lovely partner, an apartment, a dog. He had absolutely everything he wanted but somehow he still missed something from time to time and this wedding wasn’t helping him to push that feeling away. He swallowed thickly as his feet brought him to a door which was half open. Harrison wanted to help Ian, be the best friend he could to him on this day and then go home and forget everything. Somehow he knew that his plan was ruined after he saw your figure through the door, cursing silently. Harrison wasn’t sure what it was that dragged his feet closer to that door, eyes never leaving your body.

You looked astonishing and breathtaking. The dress wasn’t dramatic, it hugged your body perfectly and the details in your hair made you look like an angel. You were cursing about your heels still unaware about the man behind the door. Harrison’s throat got dry, breathing was an unknown term at that moment, the heartbeat in his chest was getting more and more hectic after every second. This wasn’t happening. He tried to squeeze his eyes shut and stop whatever was happening but you were always there after he opened them again looking more beautiful after every try.

Was he supposed to talk to you? You two were fine, for your, his and Ian’s sake. June and Ian didn’t know about your past, maybe it was for the best but he still doubted if it this was good for you two. Harrison didn’t want to stand here for the whole time, he didn’t want to feel like this, he didn’t want to look at you in that dress knowing that the last hope he hold onto is going to be gone in a few hours after you say yes.

He was still silent, he got inside without you noticing since you were focused on something else. The accelerated breathing and his stomach churning from the sight of you made the whole room smaller for him.

“You’re getting married.” His husky and low voice was the best he got for you. The lump in his throat was an obstacle so this statement was the only thing he could spit out.

“What are you doing here?” Your fast reaction and words were what Harrison expected. You didn’t see each other for a long time but after Ian came back to his home town and wanted him to meet the girl he met and went crazy about, you two reunited. After it you were always around each other but you stayed silent about your past.

“The d-door was open.” Harrison took a big breath, clenching his jaw from the nervousness. He couldn’t do this.

“You can’t see me before the wedding starts.” You avoided his gaze, gripping the edges of the chair you were sitting on. You weren’t ready either. You weren’t ready for him to be here and you weren’t ready to be Ian’s when the good part of you belonged to another person.

“I’m not the groom it’s fine.” It came out more bitter than he wanted it to be. After it he couldn’t stop imagining if he would be in the room downstairs getting ready for you and your life together if his actions were different years ago. The silence and your gaze shifting to everything but him was killing him he needed you to look at him once more before you say your vows.

“What do you want Harrison.” The words weren’t harsh as before, they were filled with sadness and tiredness. You should be happy, beaming right now yet you looked like a total catastrophe. You didn’t want him to see it but he was too good. He knew you like the back of his hand, he read you like an open book, you just couldn’t hide it from him.

“Nothing. Wanted to see you one last time and have the conversation we avoided for so long.” It was the truth, he wanted to know how you were. He wanted to see his girl one last time before she stopped being his.

“It’s not like I’m going to disappear after the wedding so we won’t be able to see each other.” Although you knew what he meant with his words you wanted to hear it from him. His hair was styled perfectly, the pinkish shirt was a novelty since he didn’t love colours, he was still the most handsome guy ever.

“You won’t but everything we had will.” He still hoped that your feelings didn’t fade for him. Harrison’s heart tightened every time he looked at your rosy cheeks and eyes that were full of tears now. He wished for another chance, another one so he could go back and do the right thing, he wished for a happy end here with you.

“Please Harrison.” You stood up, letting the dress fall down, giving him a harder time after his eyes landed on your figure and the damn white dress.

“Don’t. I just want to know..” He couldn’t even finish, lowering his eyes down on the floor squeezing his fist to stop this feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“What?” Your voices were so fragile, you couldn’t look into each other’s eyes like you used to.

“Don’t you love me?” Harrison throat was burning, burning from those words that he hoped he wouldn’t have to say to you.

“Are you serious Harrison?” Was he really asking you that? Was he really here after everything?

“Please Y/N.” He was begging, he couldn’t continue without you. He was being selfish he knew that but the love he had for you was stronger than every possible feeling he had for June and Ian combined.

“You’re asking me this after you left?” Your eyes were now focused on his, both of your visions blurry from the tears that formed non stop.

Harrison left, he didn’t need a reminder, the constant guilt he was battling with was enough. Was he being unbelievable now? Absolutely. Harrison was the one who exploded, the one who thought that space was what you needed but now he was the one begging for closure. Irony at it’s best.

“Letting you go was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. I’m a complicated person I agree. I agree with everything you’ve said that night, I fucking agree Y/N. I was an idiot I still am but believe me I can’t do this without you. I-I won’t be able to do it.” His thumb rushed to your cheeks, brushing the tears away constantly so your makeup doesn’t get smudged. You were still beautiful, you always were in and out.

“Why are you doing this today? Why today? You had 5 years to tell me that and you chose this one? Are you trying to make fun of me Harrison?” Your feelings were sure mixed but right now they were a mess. A mess that you won’t be able to get rid of.

“Because I’m a coward. Someone who thought that you deserved better before. You still do but I can’t help myself. You are the one. You are the one I need Y/N.” He was glad that you didn’t reject his touch, that you didn’t reject his closeness after he pressed his forehead against yours. You were both breathing rapidly, unsure where this will go now.

“June, Ian, you. I c-can’t.” Your head moved slowly. The sobs were stuck in your mouth as you turned away from him not wanting to deal with his blue eyes that made you weak instantly.

“Love.” He tried to touch you, get you to relax in his arms that seemed foreign after a long time.

“Stop it please.”

“Stop what?” Harrison assumed what you were thinking, his voice shaky, afraid to hear the answer you were going to give him.

“This. Us. We’re both happy. We have someone, for God’s sake I-I’m getting married to your best friend. It is a bit too late for us Harrison. I forgive you, I actually forgave you a long time ago b-but I can’t. I’m s-sorry.” Was that the decision you wanted? No, definitely not what you wanted. However it was the decision you needed, both of you needed it.

Harrison knew that, he knew how you weren’t a girl like that. Always putting others and their feelings before you and your priorities, one reason out of many why he fell in love with you.

“I’m sorry that I left that night.” He was whispering, voice barely audible. You said what you needed and now he needed to say at least that.

“I’m sorry too.” Harrison wanted to fight, stay here and not leave like he did once. Still your happiness was the only thing that mattered. The room was getting smaller, he felt the walls swallowing him completely. He moved but he didn’t want to.

“You asked me if I love you.” You started before he left, playing with your fingers nervously. Silence filled the room once again after you took a pause before continuing. Harrison stood near the door, his back facing you as he waited for your words.

“You’re an idiot for even asking. I loved you so much.”

“And I still do.” The corner of his mouth quirked up, relieved that you didn’t stay on the past tense. You were an angel, a true one. He glanced at you before leaving, smiling through the tears just like you did. You were both aware that if he wasn’t late, if you both weren’t silent until now this wouldn’t be happening and he wouldn’t leave again like he once did. Still Harrison knew deep down that his heart belonged to you and so did yours belong to him and it was enough for him, even if he didn’t deserve it.

#zoeyswritersappreciationwc #harrison osterfield #harrison osterfield imagine #harrison osterfield fanfic #harrison osterfield angst #harrison osterfield blurb #harrison osterfield fluff #harrison osterfield x reader #harrison osterfield smut #harrison osterfield au

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kamosweasley · 3 years

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I don’t want to talk - Part III (George Weasley x Reader)

Description : To read first and second parts.

Word count : 2.2K

Taglist : @lilypad-55449 @girl22334 @memekingofwwiii

Time heals everything. Maybe it's true and it's not just a proverb that is repeated to all those who are in pain to make them believe one day they will not be in pain anymore. Things are getting better between you and George, it's not back to normal yet but there is progress. It's been a month since he let you come back to live in the apartment, since then you always sleep on the couch and there are always awkward moments. You don't rush things, you prefer to give him space and wait until he feels ready. So you've had time to think about how to save your couple, the answer that came to you is simple and obvious.

Seduction seems to be the best option. This is what needs to be preserved in a couple to avoid routine, so logically this is the best way to reconnect and regain confidence. You have to wait for George to get close to you before you try anything, you don't want to force him to anything. In the meantime you behave more like a roommate than a girlfriend.

-Did you answer Luna and Rolf's invitation ?

-Not yet, you didn't tell me if you were coming or not.

-I should be able to free myself, it's the wedding of one of my friends. Will you come with me ?

Is this a trick question ? Apart from the day the invitation arrived, you never mentioned Luna. It's still a sensitive subject, so you both avoid it carefully. You don't know what you should answer, the truth or what he might potentially want to hear ? You don't even know what he wants to hear. Does he want you to come with him or tell him you'll stay away ? You don't know, and it's turning your brain upside down for the umpteenth time. It hurts you to realize you don't know how to deal with George anymore, every day you ask yourself dozens of questions when before, everything was natural. You were happy, there was no awkward contact, so few moments of discomfort, you were as if you were connected. And now it seems like the line is just cut.

-Do you want me to come or not ?

-What happened to the Y/N who always did as she pleased ?

-She tries not to do anything stupid and to regain her boyfriend's trust. So she asks him if he wants her to come to the wedding with him or not.

-Darling, you do what you want. I didn’t fall in love with a woman who asks me what she has the right to do.

-I don’t want to come and then you resent me for some reason. She's also my friend and I'm not going to interrupt the wedding to elope with her, but I don't know what's going on in your head that I don't want you to imagine-

-So you want to come ?

-Yes !

-Then come with me. It's that simple.

You look at him, confused. It seems that everything is normal, doesn't look like you almost broke up because you had a renewed love for Luna. You can't help but be suspicious, how can he talk about it in such a detached way ? A month ago you were on the verge of breaking up "because of her”, and now he gives the impression Luna is still just your friend. Which is true, especially since as you refocus on your relationship with George, your feelings for her seem to have faded away. But you haven't said a word to George, you don't dare tell him much about your relationship since he let you return to the apartment. Being in the kitchen with him finishing the dishes reminds you of a bad memory from a previous conversation about Luna.

-You try to trick me.

-Why do you think that ?

-Because you were jealous of her, and mad about me to the point of almost breaking up with me.

-I know. Aren't we trying to overcome this ?

-Yes, but

-I'm not going to keep you from seeing her until the end of time. Luna is getting married and you have made your choice. I have to trust you again.

Having finished the dishes, he wipes his hands as he looks at you, sitting at the table with the invitation still in your hands. It is probably involuntary but a tension is created, you have the feeling that everything depends on your answer. But there is not even a real question. Your heart races and you realize once again how much things have changed between you, and you wish everything would return to normal. You can’t take it anymore, you miss your Georgie so bad. You feel almost like a stranger, you have the impression that you can no longer joke with him and that each of your gestures, each of your words can lead you to your ruin.

-I miss you.

You admit in a low voice, as if it were a shameful secret. Honesty gives you that strange feeling of shame because you don't feel legitimate to express it. Yes you suffer from this situation, but it must be even worse for George. It's the first time in a month that you've said something so sincere and intimate, before you were silent in fear that it would be inappropriate. You are in constant balance and you are so afraid of falling and losing everything. You are so afraid of losing him.

-I miss you too.

His answer shatters your heart, but in a good way. He feels the same, and you can read in his gaze all the sincerity of these words. Then it looks like a barrier has just collapsed, without the slightest noise, but you feel it as if the fall has made the walls tremble. It must be the time, where the line is crossed and you have to play all your cards. You get up and keep looking at him, leaving the piece of paper on the table. As you get closer to him, you observe if he has a backward movement, but not the slightest. You play with your ring to relieve your stress, but your heart is beating even faster.

-Can I kiss you ?

-What ?

-I really want to kiss you right now.

-Are you sure you remember how to do this since then ?

George winks at you, the second after your hands are in his neck and a smile on your lips. You get back to the normality of before, the exact same feeling you always had just before you kissed him. Your heart that suddenly calms down as if to enjoy the moment, your thoughts vanish to let the magic of the moment possess you fully. And when his hands land on you, you shiver with delight. You are his, you surrender yourself completely to him without the slightest doubt. It's so sweet to love George, he has your complete trust and you can't wait to get back to him. When the lack of air starts to make your head spin, you stop like teenagers in love. He puts a strand of hair behind your ear, looking at you from his full height with a slight satisfied smile.

-You’re blushing. A lot.

-I wasn’t this close to you for weeks … I think I lost the habit.

-It’s kinda cute, reminds me of our first kiss. Do you remember how flustered you were ?

-Oh no ! I keep hoping you'll forget, it was so embarrassing. You laughed right after I kissed you, I thought you were making fun of me and that I was a terrible kisser !

-Are you getting flustered again ?

-Shut up Weasley, you’re talking too much.

-So shut me up.

His hands go down on your buttocks, sticking your body to his as he kisses you again. It's like before, it's soft, soothed and harmonious. God, you love this man with your whole heart and soul. Nothing seems to have changed, suddenly you're not afraid anymore, there's nothing you can’t say or do.

-So we'll go to the wedding together, we have to go shopping for yellow clothes.

-What about a matching outfit ? We would be the most radiant of the ceremony, after the bride and groom of course.

-Sunny you should ask, I’m in.

-Yes ! You will see, you will have the brightest and sunniest suit you’ve ever seen.

-We'll have to take sunflowers, one for my jacket and one for your hair.

-Have you seen the size of a sunflower ? You want me to put one in my hair ?

-I know you can handle it, you are used to a lot bigger.

-George !

You both burst out laughing, one in front of the other. George has one of his hands on your waist and the other in the back pocket of your jeans. His smell of fireworks tickles your nostrils, he worked all day in the store, it makes him smell like smoke and you love it. He hasn't taken off his purple suit either, he’s beautiful to die for.

-You feel like home.

-I'm glad I do, because I used to feel the same way and I hope it will be like this again.

-Used to ?

After those bitter words, he leaves you to lean on the counter. This abrupt distancing makes you feel the space between the two of you again, not as big as before, but still present. Suddenly you feel stupid, of course not everything is back to normal, we're not in a movie. But his face is always cheerful, not severe like all the other times, that means you're on the right track.

-I know we haven't really talked about it in the last few weeks, I wanted to see if things would improve on their own.

-And did they ?

-It looks that way since we just kissed for 5 minutes. But it's not that simple, it will take much more before-

-Before becoming George and Y/N again. Got it.

A bittersweet taste spreads in your mouth, one of disappointment in addition to your blood. You didn't even realize you had started biting the inside of your cheek, probably from the moment he stepped back. It turns your guts upside down that he ruins this beautiful moment, you felt like you were in a fairy tale and here you are again in reality, in this sad world where you are an almost-cheater. You would like to erase everything, to start again a few months before, just after the war. This time you would stay with him, you wouldn't leave him an inch, you would be totally his. After all, you always were, long before you met him. Because you're made for each other, it's as if you've been waiting for him until the day you understood it. You blame yourself for almost ruining everything but things can't be changed. We have to deal with it and move forward now.

-I am all yours.

-What ?

-I know it’s cheesy. I know it's cheesy. You don't have to tell me back, but you need to know. If there are times when you have doubts, when you finally want to break up with me for good, and you need something to hold on to so you don't leave ...

And here we go again ! Tears in your eyes, a lump in your throat and your hands starting to shake again. You can't stop it, but you wish you could. He's going to end up thinking you’re forcing his hand, like a kid trying to show pity so he doesn't get punished too harshly after a big mistake.

-Hey, I'm not going to disappear. I'm not going anywhere except in the same direction as you. Look, I know you're trying and I believe you when you tell me you don't have feelings for Luna anymore. Just give us some time, love.

In an instant, he comes to take your face in cup. His thumbs gently rub your cheeks, he dives his gaze into yours, his brown eyes are warm and so soothing. How much you love his eyes, those damn eyes … How not to fall for them ?

-You promised, so I promise you in return that I will never give up, no matter how long it takes. And that won't be our last promise.

He smiled at you, as if he knew it was the purest truth. And it's never been closer than how you feel about him. You’re his, he is your home, he is everything. He doesn't need to hear it, he already knows it. But saying certain things out loud is sometimes necessary and it feels good to hear it.

-I love you. More than I'll ever be able to tell you.

-I love you too. More than I’ll ever be able to show you.

His kiss on your forehead melts your heart, he always knew how to do it. It's a strange thing, you still love each other so much and yet you're not back to normal yet. Maybe that's why it hurts so much, you love each other unconditionally and it hurts even more when you make mistakes. Right now you’re the one who made the mistake, you don't know which one of you suffers the most in recent weeks. You'll never know, but it doesn't really matter to dwell on the past.

The future is reaching out to you, George is reaching out to you.

#george weasley #george weasley fic #george weasley imagine #george weasley x reader #george weasley angst #weasley twins

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