#he usually has body hair but i could not be arsed to draw those

[esaari]

#oc #marcus #for the people that suggested i draw more of this handsome vampire lad #lmao im back to feeling very down about my art uhh but gonna try to push through that #he usually has body hair but i could not be arsed to draw those #aaaaaaaaaeeeeeeeeeeeee... yeah i think thats all

[ammocharis]

Random bits of Avvar lore

These are just some bits of Avvar lore that I consider interesting, though I rarely find an excuse to bring them up in discussions about Dragon Age lore. They might not be terribly relevant but I think they're worth mentioning! If you're working on a fic that incorporates Avvar characters, you might even find these bits useful for adding flavour.

The Lady of the Skies has favourite species of birds.

“Bluebirds carry the goodwill of the Lady.” (Amund, DAI multiplayer)

“Budgerigars are sacred to the Lady. I think she likes the chirping.” (Amund, DAI multiplayer)

The Avvar call the shards "elfstones" and were able to locate them with help of Hakkon Wintersbreath before he got locked away.

"In the old times, the first Jaws of Hakkon spoke with the great spirit himself. He opened their eyes that they might see the elfstones hidden across the world, and they entered the old cave and learned the mysteries of winter." (Codex entry: Leather-Bound Hakkonite Journal)

The ability to read and write is not widespread among the Avvar (and may even be seen as odd) but hold leaders and augurs are usually literate.

"Script style and surrounding symbolism mark text as Avvar. Writing not widespread in holds—place marked by a leader or augur? Few lowlanders known to be in area at time.” (Codex entry: Colette's Notes)

“Thane Harofsen thinks he alone can work the words of lowlanders, as though the augurs had not learned the tale-drawing runes to study the old magic.” (Codex entry: Leather-Bound Hakkonite Journal)

They refer to the Tranquil as "dream-slain".

"The lowlanders, though, have found a new way to see them. The skull of dream-slain, set with the right magicks, can bring the elfstones to our sight." (Codex entry: Leather-Bound Hakkonite Journal)

An Avvar warrior won the Grand Tourney once.

The Grand Tourney is the oldest, and perhaps only, tradition of the Free Marches. [...] Contestants come from all over Thedas. [...] Once, the champion was an Avvar mountain man. (Codex entry: The Celebrant)

Their swearwords often involve gods/legendary heroes

Korth's stony arse, Korth-cursed, Tyrdda’s tits

Another common type of profanity is tied to domesticated animals and/or body waste

goat-lovers, goat-kissing, goat’s piss, goat shit, chicken-craps, shit-eating, blood-drinking

Stone-Bear hold has changed its physical location a few decades prior.

"Stone-Bear Hold's been here a few generations. I was born further north, but we left before I could remember." (Arvid Rolfsen, DAI)

Each of the chief gods has a test associated with them that can be used to settle disputes. The test of the Lady is climbing, as witnessed when first entering Stone-Bear Hold. The test of Hakkon involves fighting with blunted weapon, similar to the Hakkon's Trials quest where you face local warriors and fight until surrender. The one test that wasn't shown in any shape or form is the test of Korth, which incorporates flyting - an exchange of insults conducted in verse.

"The test of the Lady. We use it to settle disputes when it is not clear who has the right of it. There are others. For the test of the Mountain-Father, you battle with verse while those who favor you hold you aloft. The test of Hakkon is battle, with blunted weapons." (Svarah Sun-Hair, DAI)

Veilfire runes are known as "god-runes" to the Avvar.

"Stone-hidden lie the tales of this hold. Here's the means to find them. Return when you've seen all the god-runes, and I'll tell you why the Jaws of Hakkon did this." (Augur, DAI)

#dragon age #avvar #avvar lore

[krethes]

@wolfstarmicrofic July, Day Two: sugar high

Just... expect a lot of firefighter content. Mildly NSFW.

Follow-up to: Fruit

He's going to crash at some point. It's inevitable, he knows, the impending end of this sugar high, this...honeymoon period of new relationship bliss, but he can't be bothered by worrying about the future. Not when the kisses on his neck are so sweet, and the honey-gold of Lupin's eyes warm him from the inside out, and the gossamer strands of emotion thread with the molten lust in his veins at the simplest touch.

So he'll crash and burn. He's used to it. He'll get back up. But he wants to savor this joyride, this illicit make-out in the gear storage room that he hopes will lead to something more in the bunks in a few minutes. They're running the aid car tonight, they might not even be needed, they could have hours of uninterrupted, decadent bliss while the rest of the team is on a call.

"Oh fuck me," Sirius chokes out when those saccharine kisses turn to exploratory bites, Lupin's fingers pulling the collar of his shirt aside to get to hidden, warm skin.

Lupin rumbles a laugh and rolls their hips together, sending lightning up his spine and fanning the flames in his blood. "We're on call."

Sirius has never wanted to leave work early, but the way Lupin doesn't say "no" has him chomping at the bit. "We're always on call."

"Mmm," Lupin hums, and spends the next several seconds sucking a bruise into Sirius's collarbone. Sirius tries to maintain some semblance of control by grabbing Lupin's arse through his trousers and squeezing, but somehow that just makes his own knees weak. "I want the first time we fuck to be in a bed."

First time. Not only time. "There's a b-"

"My bed," Lupin corrects, and he draws back to look at Sirius properly. His lips are swollen and wet, slick with spit, but the erotic image is tempered by the creep of uncertainty in his amber eyes. "If that's okay. If you just want a quick...thing, that's fine. I just...I really, um... I like you. More than I thought. And I'd like to actually date you."

Sirius's mind blanks. There's nothing left except for the spinning admission of "I like you", and he knows he should say something, but he can't even remember how language works, let alone form words that actually make sense.

"Ah, fuck," Lupin swears, and buries his face against Sirius's neck. "Forget I said anything. This is great. We can fuck if you want."

"No!"

Lupin jerks back like he's been burned, his face turning scarlet and then paling as he removes his hands from Sirius's body. "Fuck, sorry, this is a bad-"

"No," Sirius says, much more gently this time, because the fear of hurting Lupin has overwhelmed his overwhelm. "No." He takes Lupin's face in his hands and draws him back in for a long, slow kiss. "Your bed sounds great, whenever we make it there."

Lupin's terror dissolves into palpable relief, and he drags Sirius close against his body in a crushing hug. "Get breakfast with me after shift? Just us?"

Sirius usually stuffs his face with as many pancakes as he can possibly eat at the IHOP down the street with James and Lily after the long sleepless shifts, but he figures they won't kill each other if he misses just one... "Yeah," he says breathlessly. "Yeah."

He still might crash and burn, but it's like Lupin said all those weeks ago: they're firefighters. He's built to resist it, drawn to this heat like a moth to the flame, as obsessed with fire as much as he respects it, and he's not unaware of the danger. Of the damage it can do. Lupin could do the same, those golden eyes of his, his tawny hair like tongues of flame that could destroy him in an instant, consume him in his path without a second thought, but Sirius has never been afraid to burn.

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #my fics #firefighter au #wolfstarmicrofic #sugar high #microfic

[thestarsoutofyourwindow]

Forbidden Library - The Doctor x Reader

This was written with 11 in mind, but you can easily see it as 10, so it’s your preference! I wrote this as a description experiment, then tried to apply some story to it. I’ve been trying to master character/body language too, so this took a while to write because I just couldn’t settle on anything, so I just gave up. If this does well I may do a part two, and I’ll try to make it more romancy. Word Count: 2,161 Summary: You hear a book fall whilst in the library and go to investigate. You stumble upon a book that answers the questions you’ve been asking yourself for a long time, but you just can’t bring yourself to lie to the Doctor about it. Warnings: Time War heavily referenced, Comforting the Doctor, A lot of description, You find it hard to lie, Reassuring the Doctor.

All of time and space, he said. Wherever, whenever, and home in time for tea.  The Doctor has always been a bit of an enigma to you. You knew practically nothing about him, yet if anyone had asked, you would consider him one of your closest friends. However, whether or not you're the sort to ask questions, you had a feeling he isn't as honest as you'd like to believe.

The first time you had asked him about his people and planet, he ignored you completely, babbling about the asteroid you were supposed to be visiting. The second time you had asked, he dodged around it, giving you a half-arsed response. All he told you is that his race died out a long, long time ago and that there was a war. After that, he excused himself, and you couldn't bring yourself to mention it to him again.

You had to admit, that puzzled you: you had believed it to be a sensitive subject, so of course, you left it there. No matter how curious you were, you're not going to force The Doctor into reliving anything he'd rather not. But sometimes it did keep you up at night. The Doctor had never seemed like the fighting sort, but something about his recount didn't settle right with you. You weren’t sure what. Usually, on those nights where you end up in an hours-worth of conversation with the TARDIS, you would truly realise how much you thought about it. As weird as it sounded, you felt she was listening as she would often click or whirr in response. You felt insane the first time you did it, but the longer you spoke to her, the more normal it felt. You hardly mentioned your conversations to the Doctor, but whenever you did, he only grinned to himself.

"Doctor?" You peeked into the library. It was, and always will be, the most impressive library you had ever seen. There were cherry-wood bookshelves, that stood towering over you, each shelf overfilled with beloved, worn books. The library was like a maze, asides from the sitting area where a few chairs huddled around a fake-fireplace, there was an indeterminable quantity of shelves. The rest of the library was lit up by fairy lights, which looked as if to be a new addition to the systematic chaos, making the already supernal library look even more mystical. According to the Doctor, the TARDIS has full management over the configuration and layout of the bookshelves, sort of like the Hogwarts stairs. There were step-ladders haphazardly scattered throughout the library. There was the occasional ivy plant that had grown and twisted down the bookshelves. One day you had been scrolling through Tumblr, and a post with ivy plants showed up on your feed. You talked about how cool that is to the TARDIS; within the next week ivy sprung up all over the place, including the kitchen. The Doctor made a passing remark about the ivy plants, and you confessed, alongside a frantic apology. He laughed, telling you it didn't bother him.

"Yeah, Y/n/n?" He mumbled, not so much as blinking away from his book. He hunched over it; his legs draped off the arm of the chair due to his inability to sit correctly. He nestled himself in a duvet, and which would be inconspicuous if not for his head poking out. "Have you seen... Woah. Fairy lights!" You smile, looking up at the tastefully draped lighting. "Is this your doing?" The Doctor asks ludicrously, turning to face towards you, gesturing over at the shelves, "I knew the TARDIS liked you, but this is getting ridiculous."

You chuckle for a moment before peering back at him, "I only came here to ask if you'd seen the book I left on the kitchen counter, but if you're going to criticise me so rudely, well I guess I'll go trip over something important." The Doctor grimaced at that, "That's really not necessary, I think... Yeah, I brought it in here with me earlier." He gestured the book out at you, over the back of the armchair. You stepped closer, about to take the book, when he pulled it away, his eyebrows furrowing. "Are you going to do some reading? If so, would you like to, um, maybe sit and join me?" "Yeah, why not?" You marvel, looking him dead in the eye. You walked around the chair and sat on the armchair next to his.

You cosied down and tried to focus on reading. However, your anxieties and considerations began cropping up again. You lost yourself in thought over what the Doctor keeps from you. Peeking up at the Doctor, you noticed his eyelids drooping. You watched attentively; you had never seen him asleep, oddly enough. His head, already tilted into his chest, slipped further. His tousled brown hair settled on his face, and his breathing eased. His grip on the book slackened. You remained there, admiring the sleepy face you had grown attached to over the months of touring time and space together.

Due to the endearing nature of his subtle breathing, you hardly realise the TARDIS clicking to get your attention. A distant thump draws you out of your hypnosis, the sound emanating from deep in the library. You stir noiselessly out of the armchair, as to not disturb your friend, and hesitantly edge towards the direction you assume it originated. You notice a small, cherry wood door in the wall between some bookshelves. Convinced you have never seen that door before, you approach the door. Stopping dead in your tracks for a moment, you take a moment to calm your nerves. The TARDIS would never let you get hurt, at least if she could help it. You reached your palm out towards the handle and, taking the TARDIS's silence for approval, enclose your hand around the metallic knob and twist.

Behind the door was what appeared to be the smaller section of the library, perhaps it's a study full of books the Doctor had just never taken back to the library? From what you could make out through the darkness, and the distinct smell of dust, the bookshelves were similarly themed to the ones outside. Although, these shelves are in a much smaller room, both vertically and horizontally. A desk was facing towards the door on your left, and a beanbag on the floor to your right.

You were about to close the door and leave, ready to call it his study and leave it at that. But as the door was half-closed, it dawned on you that the Doctor had never even mentioned this room, and the room appeared as though it had been undisturbed for a long time. This room would be pretty redundant, and the TARDIS surely would've reorganised the books onto the shelves, right? With that in mind, you re-entered the room, curiosity brimming in your eyes as you notice the book in the middle of the floor. It's TARDIS blue cover stood out like a sore thumb against the crimson carpet, regardless of how dark the room was. As you knelt to pick up the obscure book, the ceiling light flickered on.

"History of the Time Lords: All you need to know." You mumbled as you read. You habitually flip the book in your hands to read the blurb, the grey foiled text read, "From humble beginnings to the vicious politics of the time war, here is everything you need to know about the history of our civilisation." You checked to see if there is a contents page, of which there is. None of the chapters stood out, except for perhaps, Gallifrey Falls. It clicked in your mind that Gallifreyan must equate to Time Lord, at least to some extent. The Doctor had referred to himself as the last Time Lord.

You flip to the chapter and settle down on the floor, considering you may be there for some time.

And by god, you were. You read about everything from the potential causes, to the effects on the rest of the universe. What you paid the most attention to, however, was the Doctors' involvement. For the most part, he stayed out of the war, asides from helping the victims. But whoever had "restored" him, had pinned the continuing deaths on the Doctor and his lack of involvement, which had finally made him give in. The Doctor fought for literal decades on the front line.

No wonder he didn't want to talk about it.

You read on about the sacrifices he made and the Daleks. They always survived, no matter what he did. By the time you had wrapped up two or three chapters, you had worked yourself up. Even if you're not the emotional sort, just the thought of the Doctor having to go through all of that brought you to tears. You kept imagining the burden he must be carrying, keeping from you and Amy. The decisions he has made.

You stood up, the book still in your hands, and make your way back to where you had left the Doctor.

Upon re-entering that section of the library, it took you a moment to realise that your companion no longer huddled in the armchair. There was no trace of him. You hoped he had withdrawn to his room, and took a step towards his chair.  "Y/n!" A hand landed on your shoulder. You recoiled, whirling around to face the weary-eyed Doctor, pulling the large book to your chest, "There-... what's up?" "Nothing, I-I just thought you had gone to your room, is all. You scared me." You exhale a sigh of relief, gently laughing as you spoke. "What have you got there?" He scrutinised inquisitively, eyes pinned on the book you were gripping so tightly. "Oh, It's a book," The Doctor raised a brow at you and rolled his eyes, a smile on his cheeks, and you thoughtlessly added an, "Well, of course, it is, uh, it fell off a shelf in a sort of study room- I heard it and went to see what it was." You handed the book over sheepishly. It wasn't your book to keep, after all. You didn't want to admit it, but a part of you didn't want to lie to the Doctor, either.

He shifted the book about until he could comfortably read it; the moment his eyes darted back up to you, eyebrows curved upwards, smile extinct, you could've sworn something shattered behind his eyes. Noticing this, you couldn't stop yourself from clarifying, "I, I did read a bit of it, quite a lot actually- out of curiosity. Look, I'm, I'm so sorry. I didn't realise when I kept asking you about Gallifrey, and the war- if I'd known the half of it-" You paused, taking a deep breath and looking into his eyes, "Look, If you want me to forget about this, that's cool- I, erm, can just pretend this never happened, and I'll make sure to keep Amy/Donna off your ass about it," "Humans, you're so," The Doctor mutters exasperatedly, gesturing outwards with his hands, before sighing, he puts his hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently, "You know, Y/n. You don't have to stay. I get it, I really do. I killed my entire species, nothing co-" "Doctor. You cannot honestly tell me that it is your fault. I won't sit here and listen to you take the blame for something you avidly tried to avoid. From what I read, you tried to help- you swore to help, to make up for something out of your control," You rest your hands on his upper arm, shaking him gently as you speak, "You did your best, you did what you thought was the right thing, and most importantly, you saved the whole of time and space, again, from the Daleks and the Time Lords." The Doctor hesitated, lips pursing as he looked away. You offer him a hug, and he quickly accepts, his arms wrapping around your waist. You try your very best to make it the best hug you've ever given. You hold him firmly and flatten the back of his hair soothingly as you speak, "Treat yourself the way you'd treat someone else, you know? I know it's been a long time, but I need you to know that I'm not leaving you for doing the right thing." The Doctor took a shaky breath, "Yeah. Thank you." He breathily laughed, "I wish I had met you sooner." You smiled, "Well the day you figure out how, I will have prepared some very, strong words for you." He hummed in affirmation into your shoulder, "I'll have to work on that." The two of you just stood there for a bit, hugging each other. You impulsively touch a kiss against the Doctors temple as the two of you separate. 

#doctor who x reader #the doctor x reader #eleventh doctor x reader #11th doctor x reader #tenth doctor x reader #10th doctor x reader #fluff #angst #newwho #doctor who library #doctor who

[spxllcxstxr]

Bumps and Bruises • M.M

(GIF is not mine)

Request: Hi! Sorry, May I ask for a Marlene McKinnon x fem!/gn! reader fic, Soulmate AU where they feel each other's pain. — anon

Summary: Two Quidditch rivals finding out they’re something...more (Soulmate AU)

Warnings: Mentions of food/eating, injury description, brief mention of blood

Word Count: ~2k

A.N: NonGryffindor!Reader, this is my first time doing a Soulmate AU so I hope this is ok! It’s hard to find a balance between Soulmate AU and normal AU, but I’m sure I’ll get better with it in practice! The ending is kinda iffy imo, but it’s not terrible. Hope you enjoy!

****

The first thing you feel when you wake up on Friday morning is a flare up of painful throbbing blossoming across the outer part of your right thigh.

You groan, prying your eyes open and pull back your blanket.

The pale light filtering through your curtains is enough to see the grotesque purpling of swollen skin. You poke and prod at your thigh, occasionally hissing out in agony.

The bruise is both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

Its circular shape is something you see all the time. As a Beater on your Quidditch team, Bludger bruises were commonplace. The issue is, and this is where the mark becomes unfamiliar to you, when you went to sleep last night, there was no evidence of any such mark.

This was peculiar because you never had a history of sleep Quidditch, and you’re sure that if you got up in the middle of the night in a trance, at least one of your dorm mates would’ve told you.

And this certainly wasn’t some accidental hitting your bed frame sort of injury. This was ten inches in diameter, black and blue like a ball of pure iron slammed into you. As a self proclaimed Quidditch expert, you’re fully aware of what caused this.

But this conclusion brings up more questions than answers. Sure, you had practice after classes yesterday, but you would remember being hit full force—and you don’t.

But you have no time to sit and ponder over this mystery, you have to make it down for breakfast and then endure hours of classes. If only you could skip ahead to tomorrow’s match against Gryffindor.

You limp your way through the dorm, unable to put the usual amount of weight on your right leg. The room is empty, save for Bedelia, who, as usual, is still snoring underneath her blanket. On your way out, you make sure to wake her up by slamming the door shut as hard as you can.

Hobbling down to the Great Hall with a bag of heavy books slung over your shoulder is no easy feat even when it’s something that constantly happens.

The Great Hall is buzzing, though most of the noise is coming from the Gryffindor table.

The ceiling reflects the morning, bright blue and not a cloud in sight.

By the looks of it, the Gryffindor Quidditch team just got back from their morning practice, still panting and sweaty. For the entire week leading up to a match, James Potter, their captain, makes them practice and go through relentless drills in preparation. When they’re not on the pitch, he’s quizzing them on maneuvers. You’re lucky that your captain and fellow Beater, Morgana Sharpe, gives you the day before a match off, mostly to rest and review. If Potter was your captain he would’ve ended up in St. Mungo’s by now.

Your eyes wander over to Marlene McKinnon, her blonde hair up in a bun, face red and splotchy from practice, bare arms showing off muscle. Her chest heaves under her scarlet top.

“Practicing getting your arses handed to you?” You joke, leaning against their table.

Marlene scoffs. “Oh, you wish.”

Her deep brown eyes find yours, a troublesome twinkle shining through.

“Focus, Marlene, can’t have you fraternizing with the enemy!” James laughs out between mouthfuls of eggs.

“More like flirting with the enemy.” Sirius snorts, leaning closer to Remus, who chuckles into his glass.

“Oi! Piss off, Black!” Marlene snaps, the red on her face spreading.

Dorcas squeezes in next to her, dittany in hand. “How’s the leg, Marls?”

“Aw.” You pout. “Did McKinnon get a boo boo during practice?”

She scowls at you. “Don’t you have a potion to blow up?”

You clench your jaw and ball your hand into a fist. She’s got a point.

“Alright, enough trash talk, you two, leave it for the pitch.” James rolls his eyes.

Instantly, a weight lifts from your shoulders.

“I gotta go eat, anyway.” You smile warmly at your sort of friends. “So I’ll see you guys in class.” You wave before turning to your own table.

You join the rest of your team the table, squeezing through the tight huddle. Parchment is scattered all over the surface, some with crude drawings of maneuvers, some with written stats.

“Right, now that we’re all here,” Sharpe grunts our in her thick Irish accent, shooting you a disgruntled look. “We have a change of plans.”

“Change of plans?” Webb, one of your Chasers, asks. He looks up from his diagram, eyebrows raised.

“Greene’s soulmate took a tumble and landed him in the hospital wing. Can’t play tomorrow’s match.” She scowls, drawing clenched tightly on her hand.

“Again?” Your team groans.

Rupert Greene spends more time in the hospital wing due to his soulmate’s clumsiness than from playing a dangerous magical sport. That’s the way it’s been for the four years you’ve known him, and you have a hunch that it’ll never change.

“So we’re gonna have to put in Knight? Against Gryffindor?” Webb cries out, eyes wide. “No offense, but he isn’t ready to take on those pricks!”

Sharpe runs a hand through her dark brown hair. “Well, I guess we all just need to pray to Merlin some Gryffindor gets knocked off their broom.” She sighs.

The news of Knight replacing Greene for the match against Gryffindor puts you in a sour mood, making the bruise on your thigh throb more painfully.

You march through the corridors, face contorted in a permanent frown, barely paying attention to your lessons. You do, however, manage to keep your potion from exploding, which Slughorn is thrilled about. Match notes and plays take over your free time, pushing all your homework to Sunday, quickly deciding that this match is far too important. Marlene sticks her tongue out at you whenever she gets the chance as she hobbles through the corridors or looks away from Flitwick in your shared Charms class.

Sharpe drags you and the rest of the team up to bed at nine, lecturing you all about a good night’s rest. You roll your eyes, but you do only spend half an hour studying moves before heading to bed.

You wake up jittery.

You’re always nervous the morning of normal Quidditch matches, but this isn’t a normal Quidditch match. Gryffindor has gone undefeated for the entire season so far, and you just need to beat them. You crave to watch the smug look fall from James’ face and the cocky attitude that Sirius is infamous for crumble. You want to win. At the same time, though, you’re hesitant to see the frown on Marlene’s face. Those perfect lips deserve to shaped in a perfect smile.

Your bruise isn’t as irritated as yesterday. It’s still black and blue, but you really need to dig your thumb into it for it to hurt.

You stretch, listening to your joints pop before strutting down to the Great Hall to join the rest of your team.

Taking a deep breath before making your way through the threshold, you try your best to calm down and radiate confidence. You crack your knuckles and make your way to your table.

Marlene throws you a playful glare across the room, which you teasingly reciprocate.

Breakfast is a quiet affair for your group. Feet tap impatiently against the stone, nervous habits running wild.

The weather is perfect for Quidditch. There’s a slight breeze and a couple fluffy white clouds drifting through the blue sky, providing the occasional blotch of shade. It reassures you and calms you down on your walk down.

Sharpe gives her usual pep talk in the locker rooms. It’s all about blood, guts, and glory, and how we better not mess this up for her or else “she’ll haunt us from the great beyond.” Knight is white as a sheet, trembling underneath his robes.

The crowd roars out from the stands just above, your cue to make your grand entrance. Brooms are taken off their positions in the wall and in a single filed line, you all follow Sharpe out onto the pitch.

“And here it is, everybody,” Remus’ voice calls out over the chaos. “Captain Sharpe, (Y/Ln), Webb, Byrne, Spade, Opal, and their reserve, Knight!”

Your house cheers louder at your introduction, your eardrums pounding. You smile and nod at the crowd, excitement bubbling up inside of you.

“While the two captains are taking positions and shaking hands,” You hear as you mount your broom, Potter and Sharpe facing each other. “I have been paid quite a significant amount to say that according to James Potter, Lily Evans looks absolutely gorgeous today—“

“That has nothing to do with the match, Lupin!” McGonagall cries.

“Godric, Minnie. I’m just doing some adverts, it’s all good. No need to—“

A large thwack echos throughout the pitch, but you’re too wrapped up in Hooch blowing the whistle.

Quickly, you soar up in the air, Beater’s bat in one hand, chasing after your teammates to defend them.

You barely hear Remus over the whistling of the wind and your own grunts.

You watch Marlene laugh after she bats a Bludger away from James, the bat giving off a wicked crack. You’re momentarily mesmerized by her figure. How her tongue peeks out in concentration and her ponytail bounces wildly in the wind.

A moment passes and your arm erupts in pain, and to add onto that, you’re hurtling towards the grass.

You clutch your arm and brace for impact, breath being forcibly ripped from your lungs. Tears well in your eyes from both the pain and the air lashing against your body. Your Quidditch robes flap wildly behind you.

The landing, however, isn’t that bad. You end up in the grass, your bad arm protected. You assume Dumbledore is the one to thank.

You let out strangled pants, sky spinning around you, a piercing whistle sharp against your ears. Your arm screams in agony.

“(Y/Ln)!” Sharpe calls out, broom clutched in one hand. “You alright?” Her face shines with sweat.

“Bloody hell, she’s got quite the swing.” You groan, face contorting in anguish.

In the corner of your rotating vision, you watch red and gold blurs crowding around someone else.

Madam Hooch and the rest of your teammates are talking, but you can’t understand a word they’re saying.

Tendrils of black fog enter your vision and suddenly you’re out cold.

You recognize the hospital wing bed immediately. It’s firm, but not unbearable, the white cotton sheets rubbing against any exposed skin.

“So (Y/Ln) and McKinnon, eh?”

It’s garbled and you’re unable to place the voice, but it’s understandable.

“What’s this ‘bout me and McKinnon?” You manage to slur out, eyes blinking open, the figures above you blurry.

The world gradually clears itself up, your teammates surrounding your bed. Your left arm is wrapped tightly to your chest with a white cotton sling. The pain is dull, but it’s the most noticeable feeling present.

“Ah, well...” Webb scratches the back of his neck, averting his eyes.

“They’re talking about how I finally felt my own strength.”

Slowly, you turn your head to see Marlene sitting up on her bed, carefully watching over you. Her friends surround her, knowing smirks gracing their faces.

Her blonde hair is a bit of a tangled mess from the wind, but her smile is blinding in the light.

“You mean...” Your eyes widen in shock.

Marlene nods her head. “Soulmates.”

You bite your lip in response.

“I mean, it was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?” Sirius asks, looking between his friends for approval. “They literally wake up covered in bruises after like every Quidditch match!”

“Shut up, Pads!” Remus hisses, smacking him on the leg. “They’re having a moment.”

Sirius rolls his eyes and holds his hands up in mock surrender.

Your eyes drift to your thigh where the mysterious bruise was.

“I’m guessing you got hit by a Bludger during practice?” You ask.

“And you’re the one that gave me that broken bloody nose during detention!” Marlene exclaims.

You nod shyly, remembering when Knight accidentally threw the Quaffle at your face during a late night practice.

“Are we really that bloody stupid?” You laugh.

“You want a real answer or...?” James starts, repositioning his glasses.

Marlene shoves James off her bed, and he yelps before ungracefully tumbling to the floor with a crash.

“Guess this is our cue to leave the two stupid lovebirds alone.” Lily giggles before patting her friend on the back and leaving, the Marauders and your own team trailing close behind her.

Because the bones in your arm are practically shattered, you’re confined to the hospital wing for at least another day, but with Marlene at your bedside, it’s been made bearable. You talk about all those mysterious injuries you’ve acquired over the many years and learn the extent of your idiocy.

With various bumps and bruises to match, at the end of the day, the two of you are much more than Quidditch rivals.

#marlene mckinnon x reader #marlene mckinnon #Marlene McKinnon fanfiction #Marlene McKinnon fluff #the marauders x reader

[wren-ravenheart]

You Tried So Loud To Love Me

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Hanahaki Disease Relationships:  Jaskier/Valdo Marx Rating: T Content Warnings: Minor blood Summary: Jaskier absolutely could not stand Valdo Marx for even a second. He was pretentious, too pretty for his own good, and had a terrible habit of writing sonnets and songs about the color of Jaskier's eyes and the swoop of his hair that he was absolutely certain were some sort of masterfully crafted insult to his person and reputation.

Tucked under a cut again for Length, though this one is over just over 2k words.

Cross-posted to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31171259

~

There were exactly three things in life that Jaskier was absolutely certain of. Things that he could continue to count on even when the rest of his life was attempting to fall to pieces around him.

That Belleteyn is the best holiday.

That Toussaint is Hot and Pretentious.

And that Valdo Marx is an asshole.

Even when his pockets were empty, his lute strings snapped, or he suddenly found himself caught up in a mild court scandal that he assuredly had no part in, he could always rely on those few things. It was easy to keep moving forward when one was propelled by Pettiness and Lust. Even if he could never give an exact answer as to why he hated Valdo so much when pressed. Really now, you wouldn’t ask why the grass was green or the sun warm, so why would anyone ask Jaskier why he couldn’t stand that fluffy little upstart?

It was assuredly not because the rival bard did indeed stand two inches taller than him and was criminally handsome. Nor was it because he had a perpetual perfect smile on his face that refused to budge even when Jaskier threw his best insults at him. And it most assuredly was not because the thrice-damned bastard had written not one but Two Sonnets entirely about Jaskier’s eyes and hair and he absolutely could read the undertones of mocking that clearly lay within. No, it was clearly none of those things that irked Jaskier to his very core.

What kept his petty hate-fueled animosity going was the absolutely nonsensical crush he had on the bastard. A crush he had worked hard to snuff out with wine, women, and a few other bards who weren’t nearly as annoying as Valdo. A crush that clearly had not gone away with time. A crush that was currently trying to hurtle it’s slimy little self all the way into actual, ugh… Love.

Which made it even more frustrating than usual that Valdo was suddenly not his normal bubbly self, greeting Jaskier warmly and loudly as he strode into their mutually favorite tavern in the middle of Oxenfurt. He looked tired, and quiet, and barely glanced at Jaskier before shifting his gaze back into the pint of ale in front of him. Not wine? By Melitele, what was wrong with him?

“Well, well, look who the alley cat dragged in. Ale will go straight to your gut, Valdo. I’ll steal back the title of prettiest bard before you know it.” He sniped as he leaned against the table’s edge and smiled with too many teeth.

Valdo cut his eyes up and then back down. “Good day, Jaskier.”

The smile dropped from Jaskier’s face and he narrowed his eyes. “Good day? That’s it? Valdo, are you ill? I did take the title back already, didn’t I? That must be it! I’ve never seen you like this. Ah, it must be such a burn to know you’ve finally been bested by a true bard and exposed for the talentless hack that you are.” As he spoke, he gestured grandly with his hands. Valdo only winced once at the mention of being ill and firmly kept his gaze on his mug.

“Everyone already knew you’re the attractive one between us, Jaskier. No need to rub it in.”

Jaskier ceased his obnoxious flailing and took an actual seat at the table with him. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him and leaned in, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. “Okay now you’re actually worrying me. I was expecting snide sonnets on my unruly mop and ‘lustful gaze’. Jabs, put-downs...anything but this. You are actually sick, aren’t you?”

Valdo slammed back the rest of his ale and stood up abruptly. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock as he was glared openly at by his once-rival turned unnatural crush. “Leave off, Jaskier. Go bother the brothel workers.” And with that final gritted out jab, he stomped out of the tavern.

Jaskier was still staring in shock at the empty spot before him when the barmaid strolled by.

“You’ll catch flies, you leave your mouth open like that, boy.”

He clicked his mouth shut and quickly made his own way out and back to his lodgings.

This just wouldn’t do. What was Valdo’s game? Was he finally making good on all of Jaskier’s assholish attempts to make them public nemeses? Maybe Valdo could read minds; realized the strange feelings the bard had begun to have towards him and decided he was thoroughly disgusted by him.

Jaskier let himself slink into the beginnings of a depression and decided he’d just have to try and shake that off and find out what was going on with his Fri… Rival.

He followed Valdo whenever he could, ambushing him after lectures and hunting him down in pubs. He startled him so fiercely one of these times that the other bard broke down into what sounded like a very painful coughing fit, enough that caused him to pull out a handkerchief to cough into until his lungs settled from the surprise. He found this odd, and then odder still when as he went to ask after his well-being, Valdo abruptly shoved the handkerchief away and growled at him. Growled! Like some angry dog! And left Jaskier once again staring after him as he stomped away, agog.

A month later, Jaskier’s persistence had turned into straight up concern. Valdo was less angry with his antics and instead seemed constantly tired. There were bags under his lovely brown eyes and his hair had turned greasy and less kempt. He consulted these odd symptoms with a friend studying medicine and she mentioned it sounded like some sort of wasting disease. Jaskier was only familiar with a few of them, but none of them sounded like a pleasant time.

So, while still firmly trying to convince his brain that Valdo was still an absolute Arse and absolutely did not deserve his time or affection, Jaskier made soup. Warm pot nestled in the crook of his arm, he marched up to Valdo’s residence and knocked firmly on the door. No one answered. He knocked again. Deep coughs followed by the sounds of mild choking came from within and Jaskier decided basic decorum was right out the window. He pried open the door and rushed inside, looking for the source of the distress.

And there was Valdo; laid out on a lounge chair looking even worse than usual and slowly lowering a cloth from his mouth. There were flecks of blood on his lips and it appeared as if he couldn’t draw a full breath. Jaskier plunked the soup pot right on the floor and went directly to Valdo’s side.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so ill?” He asked softly, dropping all the pretense of being a rampant jerk.

Valdo just looked at him sadly, too tired to muster up his recent attempts at dismissal. “I did not want you to know, Jaskier. You’re like the sun. So warm and happy. I could not bring myself to have you worry so I pushed you away.”

Jaskier’s eyes went a little wide and he reached out to take Valdo’s hand. It was so cold in his own, and he could make out the fine bones in his fingers. A wasting disease indeed. He rubbed his thumb over the other’s knuckles and shook his head slightly in dismay.

“I’ve been a right arse to you for years. Look at us. Idiots to the bitter end.” He murmured wistfully. “Is… is there anything I can do to help? To ease anything at all? I, uh… I made you soup. I thought it might be… nice?”

Now it was Valdo’s turn to look surprised. He squeezed the hand in his and looked over at the pot on the floor. “You made me soup? You’ve never made me anything.”

“Okay yes. Fine. That is true. I’m a complete and total jerk. My feet should not be gracing your illustrious doorstep, my knees not fit for your carpet. I’m sorry, okay? You’re talented. So talented. I’m at a loss without your poetry to bounce my own works off of.”

At this confession, Valdo cracked a little smile. “Maybe there is hope for you and I after all, dear Jaskier… You see, I ha-” A painful coughing fit cut him off abruptly, the force of it causing Valdo to nearly curl in on himself, clutching the cloth to his mouth as his body attempted to forcefully remove whatever was clearly killing him. Jaskier kept his hand firmly in Valdo’s as he tried to rub the other’s back in comfort. The touch seemed to help in some small way, and the hacking died off. Valdo slumped backwards panting, the hand with the cloth falling into his lap.

There, amidst the spattering of blood, lay small bright yellow flowers. Jaskier gasped loudly and shook his head.

“No, it’s a myth. It’s not real.”

Valdo attempted to clear his throat as he bunched the cloth with the flowers up and tried to hide it from view. “You of.. Of all people… .should know the… power of a story… where they come from...the truths hidden in the tales….We’re storytellers.. It’s.. poetic in it’s own way…”

“It’s a tragedy born of the old stories, is what it is. Wasting away from unrequited love? It’s madness. No one actually dies of a broken heart.”

“I’m not heartbroken, Jaskier. I’m simply in love with someone who is my sun and sky… and who absolutely cannot stand me. It will make the most glorious tragedy. I have already begun to write it.” Valdo smiled brightly as he caught his breath better and shifted to sit more comfortably. He squeezed his hand once more before letting it drop. “With any luck, I will finish it before I can no longer write.”

Jaskier stared into the middle distance over Valdo’s shoulder, taking it all in. It all seemed too outlandish to be real. Things that happened in tragedies and stories never actually happened in real life. Soulmates weren’t real. Kisses didn’t break curses. And people didn’t suffocate slowly on flowers for being rejected. But as he slowly shifted his gaze back to the pale, but still softly smiling, face of the absolute nuisance that was Valdo Marx, at lot of things clicked into place for him.

He had never hidden pithy put-downs into his sonnets. He had never crafted masterful insults through his songs. He had honestly and truly sung from the heart and he had called him his Sun. Valdo had been unashamedly, unabashedly, in love with him from the start. He was coughing up small yellow flowers… Buttercups...and had slipped back into waxing poetic over it all. Lord, the fool was fully gone on him. And he had been nothing but the most righteous arse over it all, so very full of himself and sure that the other was somehow mocking him and jealous of his talent.

Turns out it was Jaskier himself who was the pompous wastrul and talentless hack. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was flush against the lounge. Valdo looked over at him and lifted an eyebrow in question. A beautiful eyebrow set in a beautiful face that Jaskier was tired of pretending he wasn’t also long gone on as well. What was it that the storybooks always said saved the day, woke the princess, broke the curse? Ah… yes…

Jaskier set both hands on the cushion of the lounge and angled himself just right to gently lean forward and press his lips right against Valdo’s own. The man below him went very very still. His lips were soft, but the lack of any response twisted something uncomfortable in his gut and he slowly broke the kiss and moved away, eyes cast downwards.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Jaskier, what-?”

They spoke at once. Jaskier looked up and noticed color on Valdo’s cheeks, his mouth slightly open and his eyes nearly comically wide in shock. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ve been a right arse to you, but I love you, Valdo Marx. And I do not wish to see you suffer a moment longer. It will kill me too.”

Valdo’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a deep exhale. Jaskier panicked for a brief second, wondering if he had actually killed him, before he sucked in a very long and full breath and opened his eyes again. They shined with unshed tears and Jaskier had a moment to admire the sight and the warm feeling at finally giving in before he was being tackled to the ground in a crushing hug and warm tiny kisses were being pressed to whatever skin the other could find.

A laugh erupted from them, and Valdo’s kisses shifted from surprised, affectionate pecks, to soft and tender kisses meant to explore the other’s skin. Jaskier shifted slightly under him and set a hand to his chin, drawing him back to his own lips to continue the kissing. Valdo hummed happily and nearly melted into what he hoped was now his new Beau. The university community was going to have a field day with this.

Jaskier rolled them over and slowly moved his head away. Valdo attempted to chase after one more kiss, making him chuckle. “As much as I am enjoying making out on the floor like we’re back in year one… are you sure? Are you alright? You were coughing up most of your lung a minute ago.”

Valdo smiled up at him and reached up to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Yes, my love, I am quite well now. You’ve restored me and I suffer no longer. Now the story I write shall have a happy ending. A proper fairy tale after all.”

“Well, if you insist. Though I would be grateful to continue this discussion somewhere that is not the floor.”

Valdo’s laugh was bright and filled him with warmth as they both got to their feet and he began to tug Jaskier in the direction of a more private space. “Anything for the prettiest bard in Oxenfurt.”

And wasn’t Jaskier pleasantly surprised when Valdo took it upon himself to demonstrate just how much better he now felt, repeatedly and with vigor. As it turned out, stories always had more truth to them than he had ever expected, for this cursed ailment was most assuredly soothed with a Kiss.

~End~

#jaskier/valdo #jaskier #valdo marx #hanahaki disease #witcher rarepair summer bingo #prompt fill

[spacehologramcollection]

Kombat Kast in lockdown:

Real talk, I could have continued writing this. But I’m easing myself back into writing. Some nice fluff with a dash of NSFW. I’m planning on doing a part two, because this is very long. 

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff, get your dentist on speed dial. Little bit of NSFW. Lockdown. 

18+ under the cut guys. 

I don’t own the GIFS. 

·         Kabal:

He’s ready for this. He’s prepared. He cannot wait to spend some quality time with you. Both pre and post burn would be so happy and stoked to spend time with you. Both pre and post burn Kabal, are going to be in their comfiest joggers, hair tied back and glasses on. Takes advantage of the time to catch up on some TV with you, play some videogames and also losing track of what day and time it is. Is 2am too early to make pancakes? No. Because you’re running on lockdown time. Awake at 3am trying to make Macrons because the video made it look so easy. Dancing around your shared apartment like idiots. Though, post burn Kabal would prefer just to hold you close and sway to the music. Lockdown pre-burn would be a dream come true for him. Lounging on the sofa, you’re laid flat against his chest, a hand in your hair. Bliss. Post-burn could be bad for his Mental Health. More time for him to think about his body and what he used to have. So, he may need a bit of TLC and a whole lot of body worship. He just needs to be reminded that he’s still the most handsome man on the planet. Also, reading comics at 3 in the morning. You’re sat crossed leg on the floor, surrounded by pillows, he’s super into comics and nerdy things. He’ll be sat eagerly watching you read his favourite issue, watching your reaction, he knows them off by heart so he’s waiting for you to react to his favourite scene. Debates to no end on who could kick who’s ass. Late nights, lazy mornings and afternoons. Post-Burn Kabal will refuse to put a shirt on. Just lounging around in his joggers. He will need a hand shaving his hair. He always needs a hand with the back. He will let it get a little longer during lockdown. Maybe, if you beg hard enough, he may let you spike it. Best lockdown buddy. Also, Ninja mime marathon, with a drinking game thrown in. Working from home is hard. Especially with his fine arse on your couch. Smiling as you’re on a zoom call. Screaming ‘TELL THEM I SAID HI’ Post-burn Kabal won’t want to appear on them as much. Often miming the action for a drink, bringing you lunch and also looking over your shoulder. Before kissing you softly on the cheek.

         Cassie Cage:

She’s pretty sure her mum is going to flip her shit. But she doesn’t care. She doesn’t want to work-out or train to her absolute limits. You’re here with her and she wants to chill out with you and hang out with you. Like a normal fucking couple. So, she’s breaking a few rules for you. Don’t tell no one about that though. Your both in lockdown in her apartment. You’re both debating if the hallway should be neon orange or neon pink. You’re bored so you end up redecorating the place. Stained. Hair. A playful splat on the nose turns into a mini paint fight. You both also make handprints on the wall together. Because that’s one way to remember it… that and she saw it in Up and though it was cute. Getting wasted happens a few times too. She admits she wants you to be like the couple from UP, but she doesn’t want it to be as sad. She’s also on the floor sobbing because the brownies aren’t done yet. A lockdown with Cassie is fun every day. She ordered a bath bomb for you both to take a relaxing bath together. She also ordered you a few beers to enjoy whilst in there too. She gets pissed with how long her hair is getting. So, it’s time for the undercut to make a comeback. Queue Cassie bringing out the clippers and asking you to help her cut her hair shorter. Playfighting to no end. She’s let you pin her a few times, you’re pretty sure it’s sympathy, but you’ll take that victory. If you suggest a Ninja Mime marathon, she’s straight up refusing. This is a mini vacation from her parents. She doesn’t need to see a full feature length marathon of her dad. Weird food concoctions galore. You’re also dying each other’s hair stupid colours. She literally texts Jacqui ‘Pick a colour’ and then that’s it, you’ve dyed your hair. She’s so full of energy and it’s infectious. She’ll always make you smile. If you have to work from home, she’s going to try and be quite, but she wants to know what you’re doing. Everyone thinks she’s great in your work calls, she’s often requested to say hi. They love her.

·         Smoke (Tomas Vrbada): Smoke is more on the introverted side. He’s got books picked out. He aims to read a book a day where possible. And he’s totally keeping a reading log, so he has something to look back on. If you’re cooped up in the Lin Kuei temple, he’s going to be more stressed. There’s something ever so slightly stressful about been stuck with Bi-Han who gets very restless. That, and he thinks you both have to be quite, because everyone there is a nosey bastard. The one-time Smoke called you his dove, Bi-Han teased him and took the piss for three weeks straight. He can’t be dealing with that. That and he will eventually give up getting dressed. He will walk around in his dragon onesie, attempting to get some food. Ignoring all of Kuai’s attempts for him to get dressed. He’s in lockdown mode. Which means, his comfy socks are on, the string lights are on, and he’s ready to cuddle up with you. You did, once walk into the kitchen to see Bi-Han and Tomas dancing terribly, an empty bottle of vodka on the table, Kuai face in his hands blocking out the terrible dancing.  He’d also much prefer to be in lockdown in your apartment. In a mass of blankets, some ice-cream, lots of string lights and some good TV on. He’d take this opportunity to teach you a little Czech too. Also, in your apartment he can wear his dragon onesie and dance with you like an idiot. Without judgement and shaming the Lin Kuei. And embarrassing Kuai. A lot of terrible dancing, spinning, him picking you up and throwing you onto the sofa playfully. He becomes a little more extroverted around you. Don’t get me wrong he loves nothing more than comfy silence, reading in bed, whilst you’re drawing circles on his chest. But there’s something fun about eating brownie and pizza at 2 in the morning. Fucking wild. If you need to work from home, he respects your space and will sit silently reading, looking over and smiling as you work. He’ll bring you tea and sit crossed leg on the sofa with you. Your workmates think you’ve hit the jackpot.

Bi-Han:

He fucking hates lockdown. He doesn’t want to get sick. But he hates the same four walls. He starts irritating people on purpose. Not you though. Your precious and he loves you. But Kuai and Smoke are fair game. Queue hiding Smokes special shampoo, replacing Kuai’s uniform with one that’s too small for him. Winding people up to their limits. Because he’s bored and was born to be a little shit. At your apartment everything is different. He knows Kuai is more than capable of running things without him around. And is more than happy to do this for him. So, he’s off. He’s usually in his underwear, teasing the fuck out of you. Pray you don’t have to work from home, because he’s very distracting. Always stood behind the laptop when you’re on that zoom meeting, slowly slipping those joggers lower and lower. Lord have mercy on your soul. He does make appearances in your calls. On his best behaviour. Envy of everyone. He’ll cook for you when you’re working too. If you’re not working, he’ll always insist on cooking with you, he used to love cooking with Kuai when he was younger. But he’s grown up now and is grumpy all the time. He misses it. But he loves cooking with you. Queue you both dancing whilst waiting for the food to cook. Spinning you around. Maybe a quick make out session on the counter. He wants a bit of normality, and whilst the situation may not be normal, it’s sure as hell more normal than his usual schedule. He gets a little philosophical in the early hours of the morning. Talking about your future, if you want kids, what kind of dog you want, that sort of stuff. It’s times like this, where your both sat on your kitchen floor, sharing a drink, eating some good food, he’s glad he’s back to his usual self. You’re his everything and he doesn’t tell you that often enough. He loves been able to fall asleep with you and cuddle up with you. Loves waking up at a normal time and lounging in bed with you. Your lockdown time brings you closer together, to the point he probably would propose to you during lockdown. He hasn’t got a ring, but please accept his headband. Just till he can get you one.  

·         Kuai Liang (Sub Zero): Oho. Kuai is in for a rude awakening. He won’t want to leave Arktika. He cannot leave his clan. Bi-Han can be trusted, but he wants to remain with his clan. He’ll apologise that you’ve got to spend lockdown in the cold, but he’ll make sure you’re comfortable and have everything you may want and or need. He’s very curious when you’re working from home. He must admit he finds it interesting that you can still do your job, in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. When people ask where you are, you have to lie, and you’re not sure they buy that your boyfriend owns a castle. But hey fucking ho. It’ll do. You’ve caught him once or twice drifting past, tea in hand, trying not to glance at your screen, when you’re on a call. You end up dragging him into the call and introducing him. Luckily, he’s in some more normal clothes. So, no questions get dragged up. He’s always handing you tea and bringing you sweet snacks to keep you going. Soft kisses on the forehead when he knows no one is watching. You kind of feel easier been at the temple. It’s in the middle of nowhere, which actually makes you calm and keeps you chilled. Kuai will make sure the fire is stoked. He’ll also leave you to work and will keep checking on you. He’s busy with his brother and the Lin Kuei. But he makes a habit of you both having lunch together. He’ll bring you lunch and you’ll both sit and eat together. On an evening in his free time, he spends it all with you. Asking about your day, asking how it went and if you’re okay. A lot of catching up in bed, with you both laid there, his arms wrapped around you, whilst you rest on his chest. He’ll whisper sweet things to you, brush the hair from your face and remind you that you’re his everything. Lockdown with Kuai has a lot of structure. And it’s nice to spend time with him.

·         Hanzo Hasashi (Scorpion):

He’s very similar to Kuai. He has a whole clan of ninja to run so he’s got to be out and about. So, if you need to work from home, he gets it… though he doesn’t need a laptop to do his work. Queue him leaving early and coming back late. He does make a habit of dropping in when you’re on lunch to take you for a walk through the gardens. He’ll also leave origami and notes for you to wake up to. He loves having you around, and very much like Kuai, he’d prefer you to be with the Shirai Ryu. You’re safe her and he does love waking up to you every morning. He loves it so much. He does actively avoid your zoom calls though. He’s a ninja so he’s pretty good at stealthy walking around, dipping and diving to avoid featuring on there. He just doesn’t like a lot of attention. He does end up one though. He had managed to secure a lie in. His bones were aching from training the night before. Takeda was entrusted with waking him… though he thought Grandmaster Grumpy face deserved a lie in. When he awakens, he lazily walks out of your shared room, wondering where you are, shirtless and only in some pants. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Only to softly say your name, open them, to see you’re smiling up at him awkwardly. You’re on a company wide call, and he’s stood there shirtless, hair tussled, and looking like sin incarnate. Queue a lot of people whistling so loudly, he can hear from the headphones you’re wearing. He mutters some swears in Japanese before moving on. You can’t help but giggle a lot, which makes him chuckle to himself. He’s stoic so there ain’t no teasing. But he does love folding the laptop down when you’re working over. Muttering how you can’t overwork yourself. Which is very hypocritical, but you’re not arguing. And you know you need a break, queue Hanzo suggesting a relaxing bath and cooking together. Slow dancing around his room is something he’s reluctant to do, but he does do it with you, because those eyes can’t get any bigger.  He loves this lockdown period. And he grows used to having you around all the time. Soft kisses and romantic talks, Philosophical debates and him slightly complaining about training. Takeda loves that you’re here. Hanzo isn’t such a hard arse with you round.

·         Johnny Cage:

Oh, fuck yes. Lockdown. He’s going to write a screenplay, arrange his awards, build that shelf for the Oscar he’s definitely winning this year. Reply to some fan mail… that was until you wake up and walk out in one of his shirts. His plan definitely changes. You end up trying on all his sunglasses, all his jackets and rings and pretending to be him. Which makes him laugh a lot. He’s sure he doesn’t actually walk and sound like that… does he? He hopes not. He’ll try and install a routine, but that goes out of the window the first night. You’re sat drinking smoothies at 1 in the morning. You’ll become nocturnal. So, it’s a good job he doesn’t have neighbours close by. Two-man parties, with you skyping Cassie, so you all can hang out together. Dancing around, playing those shitty games. Cassie and Johnny get competitive with trivial pursuit and monopoly. You’ve never seen anything like it. It’s insane. You both take the time to catch up on TV together, Johnny has a terrible habit of pointing out all the parts he could have had. But you know, turned down. He’s always got the best food in and best quarantine snacks. Whatever your heart desires he’s got it. Best internet too. So, working from home is so easy and so comfy. You’re the envy of your workmates. Who are very jealous you’re basically in quarantine in a mansion. Johnny does walk past your zoom call on purpose, pretending to act all coy about it. Just waiting to hear a squeal from someone who didn’t know you actually dated Johnny Cage. Que your sigh and inviting him over. He practically leaps onto the sofa. Arm around you. A smug smile as he introduces himself. Not like he’s been bicep curling his award behind you. He’ll also love doing facemasks with you. Nothing better than a pamper night on the couch, some crappy movie in the background (Not one of his though) and some good wine and food. He’s literally in heaven.

·         Raiden:

He needs to consult the Elder Gods before he can spend time with you. Taking the piss obviously. He doesn’t get sick, so he offers to go into the outside world for you if need be. He doesn’t mind taking one for the team. He’s interesting to spend Lockdown with. He’s so fascinated by everything in your apartment. He’s so interested in what you do for work. When you reveal that you’re working from home, he’s watching you from the sofa, cup of tea in his hand. He’s got that face on him. The one where he wants to ask a question but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to. When he sees you’re in a meeting, he asks what you’re doing, so you may just joke ‘Consulting the Elder God Bob, God of financing and accounts’ He does chuckle at that. He does a lot of self-care and a lot of reminding you to look after yourself. As soon as it hits time to clock off, he’s tapping the clock, shaking his head before gently reminding you, that you need to rest and relax and that you’ve earned it. He’s brewed some fresh tea and he would like you to join him. He’s so good to you. He doesn’t do been on the zoom calls though. He has waved once or twice. But other than that, he kind of watches curiously. He’s read all the books in your apartment, if you’ve got a cat, he’s in fucking heaven. Like, you’re cat ain’t walking over your screen, because he’s snuggled up to Raiden. The man is a magnet for cats. If your apartment is a little disorganised, he may sort it out. That cupboard full of mismatched Tupperware and pans, all sorted, all with the correct lids. You could cry when you pull out a pan and it’s got the right lid on it. He’ll love baking with you too. He’s a sucker for freshly baked bread and he teaches you how to make it. Nothing nicer than him having him wrapping his arms around your waist whilst you’re baking. Lockdown equals privacy and he’s taking advantage of his rare opportunity. At night he’ll love to sit on your balcony, watching the stars and enjoying the fresh air. He’s so warm and he’s got a comforting smell to him. He’s literally bliss.

·         Fujin: (Fujin could raw me after the trailer not going to lie)

Windy boi is happy he gets a break from all the bullshit. He does miss Raiden though. They don’t often spend a lot of time away from each other. So, he’s constantly communicating with him. But you make everything easier. That, and he wants to make sure you don’t get sick. By the Elder Gods he can’t have that. Likewise, if you have a cat, please let him hold and pet it. Nothing better than you looking up from your work call, seeing him stood there holding your cat, smiling away and scratching its chin. He appears often in your zoom call. Envy of all your colleagues, because who has hair that perfect and healthy. They ask for his stylist. He’s not sure how to respond to that. He got called a DILF and you had to explain that to him. You had to explain what a DILF was to the god of wind. Holy fuck it was awkward. He’ll let you braid his hair and he’ll also love it when you shower together. Because he loves been close and intimate with you. And the shower is a private place, so he feels he can open up and be more intimate with you without judgement. He’s still shy and new to this whole relationship thing. So, lockdown allows him to be close to you. You’ll also get to introduce him to pop culture. He’s not sure what to think about it. He’s got such a strange, dry sense of humour. When you’re watching Ninja Mime you hear him just say, ‘A clown in the movies, a clown in real life. Art imitates real life’ And you lose your shit. It’s the funniest thing to leave his mouth. He kind of loses it too. He gets really into Game of Thrones. He’s so into it. You don’t know how to tell him how the last season was shit. You don’t have the heart to break it to him. Teaching him to dance too. Oh god. Him getting a bit flustered and picking you up over his shoulder and spinning you around. Also, I can see lockdown running into summer, so you’ve got your own personal fan. At night, he’ll love to settle down in bed with you, whilst you talk absolute shit. You can bitch about anything, and he will listen, provide quips and make you feel better. He has no idea who Kate in Marketing is, but he knows, we don’t like her. I headcanon Fujin is pretty damn musically talented, so he’ll just randomly pick up that guitar or violin that’s there because A. Aesthetically pleasing and B. bought to try and discover a new hobby. And he’ll just start playing it. He loves seeing you smile too and he’s there for you if lockdown ever gets too much. He lives to make you smile.

#Mortal Kombat #Mortal Kombat 11 #mk 11 #Sub Zero #Kabal #Scorpion #Raiden #Fujin #Cassie Cage #Johnny Cage #Kuai Liang #Hanzo Hasashi #MK headcanon #Sub Zero x reader #Kabal x reader #Scorpion x reader #Raiden x reader #Fujin x reader #Cassie cage headcanon #Johnny Cage x reader #kuai liang x #Hanzo Hasashi x reader #Mortal Kombat headcanons

[thevoilinauttheory]

survivin’

[ FFxivWrite 2021 Prompt 8: Adroit ]

The Five Part “In the Dreams of Ashley” series is done! Go read the others here! {Prelude} {In the Dreams of Ashley: The Wind} {In the Dreams of Ashley: The Fire} {In the Dreams of Ashley: The Water} {In the Dreams of Ashley: The Earth}

[ HEAVY HEAVY CONTENT WARNINGS: implied child abuse/assault, detailed suffocation, detailed burial while alive, heavy grief and regret surrounding death ]

[ video has lots of moving colors ]

Dreaming about being buried alive is very frightening and is a warning that all of the things in your life that are causing you anxiety and despair should be thrown away. You have let things build up to a point that you are no longer able to control anything and now you risk being completely destroyed.

==

Ashley was forced into a uniform with little knowledge as to why, having just woken up with a raging headache and handcuffs on. Confused was an understatement. “Y’good?��� There was a soft voice that addressed him, a soft voice that belonged to a large man. His hand set on his shoulder, some level of comfort and grounding while he gathered his bearings. “Wh-What’s goin’ on?” “Y’don’t know?” “Pretty sure the knot on th’back o’ my head answers that.” The man let out a laugh, then nodded. “Guess so. Yer bein’ conscripted.” “Conscripted? How in the hells!” Ashley pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a sigh… he should have been more upset about this, but honestly, it felt like the worst kind of inconvenience. Still, he didn’t fight it, worked with the flow of everything as he usually did. “Guess I’m stuck here.” “We all’re, friend.” “What’s your name, friend?” He snorted. “Hunter. Ya’?” “Ashley.” “Nice t’meet ya’ Ashley, too bad it ain’t on better terms.” He nodded in response.

-

“Yer gonna get caught.” Ashley chuckled. “I never get caught. That’s the thing ‘bout growin’ up in Ul’dah.” “Mm.” “Hand me your rations.” “Are y’kiddin’? I ain’t givin’ y’anythin’!” “Sure? Thought y’wanted to get out o’ here, same as me. N’if y’do, you’re gonna have t’give ‘em to me.” “Why?” “Uh… food to last us until we get home?” “N’how ‘bout the energy they’re makin’ us use t’fight?” Ashley snatched Hunter’s rations from him, stuffing them into a tight and inconspicuous corner with the rest of all of the little items he managed to get away with - some string, blades, pins, badges; even things like hair-ties and pens. Anything he could get away with shoving in his pocket, he did so. He bumped his elbow back into Hunter and lowered his voice. “Get somewhere else, someone’s ‘bout to come in.” “Eh? How’d’y’know?” “I’ll tell you later, jus’ get or we’re gonna get caught.” Hunter backed off, going back to his own belongings to check them off; leaving Ashley to slide a sizeable block of concrete in front of the hole in the wall, covering it completely. “Tucker!” “Yes, sir!” “What are you doing on the floor, get your arse up now.” “Sorry, sir! I dropped my badge.” He stood up, adjusting the collar of his uniform with a small pin on it.

-

“How are we going to get past them? Did you even think that far through?” The Auri woman that had joined along prodded at him while he was thinking. “Will you shut it?”

Four of them clamored and cramped in the vents, waiting for a good time to drop out of them. They were dressed in different uniforms, to match those of the area they were about to infiltrate. When an opening arose, he dropped out of the vent, brushed off his clothes, then pretended to idly look at the schedule board that was on the wall. Well, he was looking at it, but also waiting for another good time to signal another body. He tapped his chin, stretched his arms above his head as the last person in the hall walked past him - he held up a signed “C”, and waved his hand. That let the other two know to let Colette drop down first, she did just the same - brushing out her uniform before striking up an uninteresting conversation about the schedule.

They waited for the hallway to clear again. She held her thumb and forefinger together and waved, signaling Ruta to come down next. As the next crowd came through, she pretended to be scolding them. It cleared, Ashley waved, and down came Hunter. Hunter always came last - he wasn’t the best actor or liar, so they made sure that he could be ready to move immediately. They walked down the hall, past many unsuspecting soldiers and medics, until they were able to escape the facility they were locked up in. “Oh, thank gods.” Hunter let out a sigh of relief at the fresh air, no matter how cold it was. “Sh. We ain’t there yet. There’s still the entire damned city. Make sure your bags are on tight, n’if not, fasten them. I mean it. Y’gotta be ready to book it once we get through.” “What are we going to do after?” The question was, thankfully, vague enough to not alarm anyone they were passing by; but Colette anxiously gripped the shoulder belt to her bag. “Hoof it.” “On land? All the way back?” Ruta folded her arms over her chest. “I’ve worked it out already, trust me.”

-

“How in the hells did you manage that!” Ruta laughed as she ran across the snow, outside the metal confines of Garlemald. “It’s cold, but kami, it’s free!” “I came prepared.” “Is that why your bag is larger than ours.” “Yeah. Managed to snatch a few uniforms and some blankets. We’ve got a long way to walk - most of it’s dead here. No life whatsoever, just snow. Ruta, yer on the way back first.” “Wait… is that why we’re walking?” “Aye. Othard connects here - stowing away on a ship or airship would skip over you entirely. So prepare t’get intimate with one another, ‘cause we’re gonna need a lot of body heat.” Ruta stopped and blinked at him. “...Thank you.” “You can thank me when y’get home. After Ruta, we’re going to stowaway on a merchant vessel - it’ll look more Garlean than Hingan, but it’s goin’ to get hijacked by pirates from Limsa. Which is how we get Hunter home. After that, Colette n’I’re gonna hitch a ship back t’Vesper Bay, and I’ll walk her back home.” They all seemed… shocked. Appalled, even. That this stranger would go out of his way to know so much about the way back, and that he’d help them even. “Where’re y’goin’ after that?” Hunter pat Ruta’s shoulder to get her moving again. “Mm. Back home, maybe. I dunno. Maybe I can get a job like this.” He laughed.

==

“Mister?” “Mm?” Ashley looked up from his book, pipe hanging loosely from his mouth as his eyes caught a young girl standing next to him. Her face was red from crying, and looking over her clothes brought back memories and images he wished he didn’t have.

“...Need help?” His voice lowered, to not draw attention. She nodded, and he stood up from his seat to pull off his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders - it was obviously too large, but that was the point. He pulled a hair-tie from his pocket to tie back her hair, so that its general style was different at a glance. He lifted her up to sit in the chair, having her hold the book up as if she were reading it. He placed his arm on the back of the chair, talking random nonsense about words in the book to the girl as his eyes caught a glimpse of several people walking in, looking around for something or someone. When he noticed the girl’s grip on the book tightened, he figured those were the people she was hiding from. He placed his hand on one of hers, holding the book up as well - and he kept his voice just as low.

“Relax… don’t show any tension. If they see white knuckles, they’ll get suspicious.” She did just that, nodding slowly. “Okay… uhm.” She was afraid her voice would be recognizable if she spoke, so she kept it low. “What’s this word mean?” “Eh?” He looked back at the book, noting she was just pointing at the word “the”, to which he smiled - she was trying to play along with him. “That word? Oh! That’s a name, sweetheart. I know, all them Elezen got such fancy names, y’could swear y’saw ‘em in a dictionary.” They kept on like that until he saw all of those same people leave. “There y’go. All gone. Need someplace safe t’stay?” “Mm..” She didn’t trust like that, and he noticed. He laughed, waving one of his hands. “Not with me. I have a friend who takes care of children goin’ through what you are. I can make sure y’get there with no problem. Unless you’ve got a place? I can take you wherever you need most.” She smiled a little bit, nodding. “Someplace safe… sounds nice.” “Good! Now up y’get. I’ll look inta these people that hurt you, okay?”

==

He stared down at those graves, the ones he made; carved up of nothing but rocks and dirt, with desert blooms laid in place. All the thoughts welled up there - what he could have done, what could have gone better. Memories of all the times they had, wondering why he never said more. A lot of things were left unsaid - Ruta never got to propose to Colette, they never got to choose the colors of their wedding, or what flowers, what food and drinks; they never got to dance, and the last sight of each other wasn’t even a damned smile!

He cursed himself silently.

Hunter never got to go on about his newest niece, never got to tell the unheard stories of his family, never got to see the world as much as he dreamed, never got into a bar fight with a pirate; that the last he’d see of him was a damned smile! He never got to tell him-- He never got to tell them…

Ashley stared at the graves and knew…. this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

He sat down in the dirt in front of them, offering some vague notion of a smile. “Y’won’t believe me. I know it. But… helped someone out today. Didn’t turn ‘em down. Didn’t make any snarky comments or nothin’. ‘Member that time out in the eastside of La Nocsea? It was like that, unfortunately. But, despite their faults n’corrupt nature, got the Blades t’clear ‘em all out after trackin’ ‘em to wherever they were hidin’.”

He let out a soft sigh. “...I miss y’all. So much. Y’meant so much to me. I was jus’ s’posed to take y’all home… n’y’stayed with me. You were my family… everythin’ I had. N’I… n’I jus’...” He shook his head. “I wish I could’ve done more. I… I… I love y’all, with all I could. Each n’every one o’ya’. I… never got t’tell you that. I hope… wherever y’are now… you know that. I’ll keep livin’ on, keep y’strong. Yer memories aren’t wasted, aren’t gone. Not yet. I’ll be damned if your story don’t get heard, though.”

He closed his eyes for just a moment

He snapped awake, not upright; he laid flat and stared at the pitch darkness in front of him. The bed below him was hard - it felt more like a floor. Wasn’t he in the dirt before? He could’ve sworn he was outside but a few seconds ago. It must’ve been a bad trip, lost all sense of time and ended up wherever he was now. All he had to do was find his stuff. He tried to sit up, only to slam his head on a short ceiling. “Augh… ow…” He tried to rub the spot he hit, only for his arm to scrape a wall right beside him. What was going on? He placed his hands flat on the shallow ceiling, feeling around - it was wood - he tried to find some means of escaping. There must’ve been a latch *somewhere*. One hand lowered to his pocket… most, if not all, of his gear and possessions were stripped of him; though he pat around to find an assortment of objects in the corners of his prison. When his hand landed on a lighter, it immediately lit up.

A coffin. Was he dead? Had they found him and buried him with his family? Did he… even want to be dead? The response of him slamming his hands on the lid and screaming for someone answered that question. There must’ve been a mistake, he wasn’t dead - he wasn’t! There was no way, none of this could be real. Dirt fell in between the cracks of the splintering shell he was incased in, no one was going to come. No one could hear him. He could feel the tears at his cheeks, the deepest recesses of his mind coming forward.

He didn’t want to die. He wasn’t ready to join them. “Gods, please… please…” He hoped some entity would come forth to dig him up and let him breathe. It was getting hot, he could barely catch his breath; like something stuck in his throat. He tried to cry for help again, met with the same silence. He could feel the blood rushing to his head, settling on his mouth and face and numbing his skin while he choked on nothing. He slammed his hands against the wood. Maybe there was just a small bit of air, if he could just get out. He dug his nails into the splinters and chips, tearing back his fingernails for just a *chance* at being able to dig his way to freedom. He was getting tired, though, exhausted. His chest hurt, and he could no longer hold up his arms. He stared at the darkness above him. Regardless of whether he wanted it or not, he could feel his vision fading - he tried to keep his eyes closed while gasping for the air that didn’t exist.

==

Ashley snapped awake, upright, this time; eyes forced closed by the brightness of the sun reflecting off the walls of the city - still in front of the graves of his family. He panted heavily, head reeling from the nightmare.

A nightmare.

Just a nightmare.

He was never so thankful for knowing it was just a dream.

#ffxivwrite2021 #prompt 8 #adroit #about: Ashley Tucker #virtues and vices #:') #didn't think i'd get around to completing all of it #this short little series is to also explore my deepest fears #which you think would maybe ease it a little? #but nope #i fear em worse after doing much needed research #/cry

[slytherinnbitch]

Prompt #17

Prompt #17- Wedding

Pairing- Drarry

Asked by @textrovert-01​. Thank you for asking <3

Background- It’s been ten years since the war. Draco and Harry had been dating for the past five. They have been living together for the three of them. 

...............................................................................

His hand groped at the bedding beside him, in search of the familiar warmth of his beautiful lover only to find it cold. He had left hours ago, it seemed. But that wasn’t what woke him, someone was pounding at the door, yelling his name at the top of their lungs. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and looking around for his wand and found them at their rightful place on the bedside table as usual. He swished his wand to open the door while he put on his glasses.

Ron came barrelling inside, wearing proper wizard robes, looking like he had on his own wedding day albeit less nervous but happy all the same.

“Blimey, Harry! Did you just wake up? The wedding starts in an hour and half!” he practically shouted, giving him a headache.

“An hour and half? Why that is more than enough time I need to get dressed, isn’t it?” He knew it wasn’t--not on his own wedding day but he might as well try.

“Draco would have killed you. He has been up for almost three hours now, double checking then triple checking the quadruple checking everything. He was then stolen by Mione, Pansy and Blaise to get him dressed properly. Bloody hell, mate but now I’m going to be in trouble if you aren’t ready.” He looked terrified at that idea as anyone who knew Mione and Draco’s wrath should be and well, thinking of them combined made him shudder as well.

“Alright fine! Let me get my robes and then we’ll see what to do with this thing called my hair, sound good?”

“Right now, that is all that I would get so it’s great! Rush now!” he exclaimed as he left to get Harry something to eat while he showered and got dressed, because there was no way he could get away with not showering even though he was late as hell.

He shaved as quickly he could, using the muggle way; even after all these years that was the better and more comfortable way for him. 

As he brushed his teeth, he reflected back to last night and how both of them had been forced to sleep separately. It’s the tradition Harry Molly had said, and he couldn’t have argued with her, anyone but her. Narcissa had said the same words as well and he was forced to oblige both of his mother figures.

That was until Draco had slipped into bed, just after midnight when everyone had already gone to bed. He had shushed Harry when Harry told him that it might be bad as per the traditions, he had then proceeded to cuddle him from behind, peppering small kisses all over his neck as he fell asleep.

They had woken up early morning, sharing some more languid kisses before Draco slipped back to his own room to get another hour or so of sleep, while Harry slept like the dead. 

Merlin, he still couldn’t believe he was going to marry Draco fucking Malfoy at last.

Although he knew Ron would surely have his head, he took his time in the shower, soaping his body meticulously and just being. He won’t get another slow moment in the whole day so he cherished it.

.......

“Where are my cuffs?” he asked Ron as he buttoned up his dress shirt. He was wearing a silver dress shirt with black trousers and a black tie. They had after many many arguments decided upon wearing robes complimenting their own eye colours. He had been teased mercilessly by Draco for wearing Slytherin  colours on his wedding. He had told him about his sorting ceremony and that made Draco shut up real quick. They had also made their wedding theme upon those two colours as well, although Ron’s hair clashed hideously with both colours, still he had somehow used black outer robes to make him look slightly less-strange.

“Uh...well....” he looked sheepishly at Harry as he brushed his hand over his hair. 

“Ron Weasley, tell me where my cuffs are? My soon-to-be husband will leave the altar when he sees that I’m without cuffs so tell me now!” Ron had told him that he would take care of the cuffs and he had left it to him but now he didn’t know what to do!

“Alright mate, don’t get so much worked up.”

“Don’t get so much worked up, my arse. Tell me now! I’m supposed to meet him before the wedding anytime now!” Harry knew his voice was octave up but he didn’t care, not now.

Just then, Hermione entered the room, wearing a silver dress which made her look ethereal, what with her bushy hair-somewhat sleaked up and complexion. 

“Wow Mione, you look amazing!” he exclaimed as he took in her outfit properly.

“Why Harry, you don’t look bad yourself.”

“Except the fact that someone was supposed to take care of my cufflinks for me.” He looks pointedly at Ron but Hermione just laughs.

“Mione!!! You are supposed to scold him.” he whines.

“Oh love. It’s alright. The cuffs are in perfect condition but they are with someone else.”

“So tell them to bring it here. I’m to meet Draco any moment now.”

“That’s why I’m here to take you to him. Now come on!”

“But the cuffs!”

“Harry, don’t you understand?” “Understand exactly what Mione?”

“What are you gifting Draco now?”

“Cufflinks for the wedding, you know this Mione.”

“And does he know about them?”

“No”

“Don’t you think he is frantic about the fact that he doesn’t have his cuffs?”

“You can hold him off. Mione, how is this even relate--” he stops mid-sentence as Mione fixes him with her how-can-someone-be-this-oblivious stare, and after a moment it finally clicks, “Oh.....ohhhhh.”

“Yes, exactly now let’s go and leave the outer robe for later, just come with what you’re wearing right now.”

So that’s how he finds himself, standing before another unknown door of the Manor where the wedding is being held. Mione and Ron by his side; just as he is about to open the door Hermione makes a disapproving noise and he stops. She produces a green blindfold and much to Harry’s reluctance covers his eyes.

“Is this really necessary?” “Yes it is, now get inside, here hold my hand.”

He hears gasps as he gets inside, followed by numerous compliments from all their friends because of course everyone is present.

“Potter” He hears the familiar drawl from somewhere infront of him and then Hermione is dragging him to the.....center of the room?

She makes him stand a couple of inches away from Draco so his hands wander in front of him in search of the warmth he had been searching since he left in the morning and then just like that, they both are clasping their hands together.

Draco’s hands feel just about right in his own, he draws him closer so they touching. He leans forward and sure enough a pair of eager lips are waiting there to be kissed. So he kisses him thoroughly, ignoring the snickers and cat-calls of their friends. He smiles slowly, as they break apart even though their lips are still touching.

“Hey, Malfoy.”

“Miss me, Potter?”

“More than you would ever know.”

“I think I know, because I missed you all the same.” Draco leans forward to peck him once more, then leans against his forehead. They don’t need words, just being in each other’s presence speaks a thousand sentences for them.

But they are brought back to reality as someone coughs loudly and they break apart, not exactly because there is at max a inch between between them.

“In case you both are done, we do have an wedding to attend. May I bring it to your attention that it is your wedding?”

“Yes we know that Granger. It is our wedding, we are allowed to be late.”

“Absolutely not, Draco.” It’s Pansy who speaks this time, “Also don’t you both have something to give.”

He had completely forgotten about the cuffs, he takes them out of his pocket and presents it to Draco, who gives him a similar box in his other hand.

“Can’t we see them?” he asks, eager to find out what Draco had given him.

“Not now, you can look when you get back to your respective rooms.” Ginny replies.

They both mutter ‘fine’ respectively as they shove them inside their pockets. They are going to be late but this feels right, so much right that Harry doesn’t want to leave, even though he knows he will again be with him in fifteen minutes. He just likes this moment so so much. He shuffles forwards and hugs him tightly, placing his head in the crook of Draco’s neck and feels Draco do the same. 

They stand like that for an eternity before Hermione hesitantly tells them that it would be really late now. So he leaves, he lets Hermione drag him out of the room and when he opens the blindfold he realises he has tears in his eyes.

“Oh Harry.” Hermione whispers as she sees the tears.

Ron just silently whips away the tears and squeezes Harry’s hand. He knows how it feels like, after everything they are finally finally going to be together and no one can come in between them now. No one. Not the Wizarding World. Not Lucius Malfoy. No one.

......

He walked down the aisle with Molly, looking at all his friends and family standing there with the flower girl, Victoire and ring bearer, Teddy just in front of them.

He kissed Molly’s cheek and stood just in front of  the officiant who in their case was Andromeda, on both of their mutual request and decision.

He looked up just in time to see Draco enter with Narcissa. Narcissa must have looked great as well but his eyes were just for Draco now. He looked absolutely ethereal. His hair was styled back with a bit of gel, but still wavy somehow. He was wearing silver dress robes which upon looking properly had intricate designing with a emerald green silk dress shirt him inside and a silk black tie.

He then, finally looked into his eyes and he was lost. They held so much emotion that his smile couldn’t convey. They held so so much love and happiness and content. He was looking into his eyes and he was smiling at him in that sweet manner that was reserved just for him. It made him feel giddy with happiness as Draco mouthed a silent ‘I love you’ and grinned---

“Avada Kedavra.”

It was loud among the otherwise silent room. They locked eyes for one last time before he collapsed. Almost instantaneous wands were drawn out and people started starting shouting but he couldn’t focus on that, on anything.

Because his world had just fallen apart.

#i am sorry not sorry #please #dont kill me #drarry #harry x draco #draco malfoy #harry/draco #drarry established relationship #drarry wedding #harry potter #hermione granger #ron wealsey #teddy lupin #victoire weasley #pansy parkinson #blaise zabini #ginny weasley #after war #after hogwarts

[illfoandillfie]

5 Simple Rules for a Successful Relationship: Blurb

This wasn’t requested by anyone but the idea has been kicking around my head basically since I wrote the Ben POV chapter

Warnings for fluff and smut but it’s all very soft

5 Simple Rules Series Masterlist

Blurb Advent Day 1

Taglist since it’s part of a series: @vee-ndetta @atomic-watermelon @kellypenac @labessieisallama @deakyclicks @jennyggggrrr @drowseoftaylor @hannafuckingsucks @i-cant-hangout-im-drumming @queenmylovely @taron-egrotten @johndeaconshands @borhapbois @stardust-galaxies 

@coni-martina @hardforbenhardy @cubedtriangle @vicouscirce @arianabrashierstuff @pattieboydwannabe @maggieroseevans @theprettyandthereckless @friccinfricks 

Ben had it all planned out. He’d known how he was going to ask for a while, before he’d even picked out the ring. But, so far, he hadn’t been able to put his plan into action. As much as he wanted to ask it never quite felt like the right time. There was always something going on, somewhere to be – work or dinner with friends or general errands to sort out. But he knew how he wanted it to happen. He’d cook dinner, your favourite meal of course, followed by dessert made from scratch, really bring out the big guns. Afterwards he’d put on some music, a playlist of love songs he’d been adding to for months now, maybe ask you to dance. It was a little corny but sometimes corny was okay. Later on he’d pop into the kitchen and pull out your two mugs and place the ring in the bottom of yours before returning to the couch to sit with you. And then, at the usual time, he’d say he could really go with a hot drink before bed. He knew you’d volunteer to make them since he’d made dinner so he’d wait for you to leave the room before following. He’d listen for the gasp of surprise when you checked the mugs and saw the ring. That would be his cue to step into the room and get down on one knee and ask you to marry him. He had the speech ready to go too, knew what he wanted to say. How fast he’d fallen for you, how glad he was you were with him, how much he loved you.

Thinking about actually popping the question made Ben nervous. But the good kind of nervous. Of course the topic of weddings and marriage had come up before, abstractly. It was nearly unavoidable when his mum would not-so-subtly check for an engagement ring every time you visited, and then even less so when Gwilym got engaged and invited you both to the party. So he’d asked you about it, whether you had ever considered the whole settling down thing – marriage, kids, white picket fence, the lot. He was pleased to find out you liked the idea, had even imagined what the future might be like with him. The only thing you didn’t want was a public proposal which Ben fully supported. After all the attention you’d received as a result of the relationship, all the magazine articles and snapped photos while you were just trying to buy milk and bread, it felt wrong to voluntarily make such a private situation public. Ben was sure you’d be asked about it in future interviews and on social media and he wouldn’t mind sharing the story then, after he was sure you’d say yes. He had no reason to believe you wouldn’t but there was always that slight uncertainty, that intrusive doubt that made him wonder if you’d just tell him to bugger off instead. He found comfort in the plan though. Knowing exactly what he would do was reassuring. But even the best laid plans weren’t guaranteed.

Ben’s actual proposal caught him off guard as much as it did you. It was early on a Saturday, sometime between two and three. Usually you’d both be fast asleep but instead you were stumbling into the house, lit only by the grey light of the morning. You hadn’t meant to stay at the afterparty for so long but people kept handing you drinks and drawing you into conversations and music was still pumping through the speakers and before you knew it five more minutes had become a couple of extra hours. Ben emptied his pockets onto the hall stand as he watched you lean against the front door and kick off your shoes. He couldn’t resist catching you in a quick kiss before he wrapped his arm around you with a soft, “C’mon cuddle bunny,” and lead you towards the bathroom. Both of you set about brushing teeth and washing faces and changing into pyjamas. He chuckled as he watched you extract an almost obscene amount of bobby pins from your hair before you retied it to sleep in. But, even after everything was done and you’d both climbed under the covers, sleep didn’t come. Ben, eyes closed in an attempt to trick sleep into taking him, felt you move under his arm and peeked through his lashes to find you facing him.

“You okay?” His voice was hushed though there was no real need and when you responded yours was too.“Yeah just not really tired,” “Me neither,” “Do you wanna…?” “Now?” “Well just lying here waiting to drop off is a bit boring but I also don’t really feel like getting up,” “Alright then, why not.” “If you fall asleep half way through I won’t hold it against you,” “Shut up and take your pants off,” Ben laughed, already wriggling out of his. “You just didn’t sound very enthusiastic,” “I am always enthusiastic about this,” Ben forgot everything else he might have said as you pulled him into a kiss.

The sex itself was okay. Nothing special really. You’d had better sex plenty of other times, though you’d also had worse. The best way to describe it was fine. It wasn’t mind blowing but it was comfortable and reliable and fine. Ben felt a little clumsy as he kissed you back, his hand roaming over your side and down to your arse. He supposed the dark of the room and the drinks you’d both put down over the course of the night were having an impact, but, by the way you giggled against his lips, it seemed you found it cute more than anything else. To compensate for his inelegant fingers, Ben moved slowly, enjoying kissing you as much as he could. He hummed when you slid your hand down between your bodies and found his dick, stroking it unhurriedly. There wasn’t a need to go faster, no built up passion to release. The sex was a way to kill some time. Even when you hooked your leg over his and he sank into you, nothing really changed. But Ben knew what you liked and did his best to hit those spots as he wrapped his arms around you and kissed you again. He decided he must be doing something right based off the small keening noises you made. All the same he didn’t expect your next outburst, said softly right against his lips.

“God Ben, I want you inside me forever,” It slipped out before he could second guess himself, “Then marry me,” “What?” Ben paused his movement, not totally sure he’d actually said it until he drew back enough to look at you and saw the stunned expression you wore. His heart pounded as he realised this was it, this was the moment, “Might be easier to do that if we’re married is all. So, will you? Will you marry me?” It took a few moments for the question to sink in but once it had you nodded in agreement. You felt the same. “Yes?” “Yes.” “Yeah? You’ll marry me?” “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you,” Ben broke out into a grin and swept you into another kiss though he cut it off abruptly, “Wait, hold on,” somewhat ungracefully Ben pulled out of you and rolled out of the bed, switching on a lamp and heading over to his chest of draws. He dug around in one for a moment before he pulled out a small box which he brought back to the bed. Kneeling in front of you, he popped the box open to show you the ring before taking it and sliding it onto your finger.

You couldn’t help but stare, holding you hand out in front of you to see how it looked. It was beautiful, not too over the top but not exactly understated either, and it fit perfectly. When you raised you eyes back to Ben’s face you noticed his eyes glistening. “I love it Ben, I love you,” “I love you too Y/N,” he whispered back, kissing you again and laying you back down.

As Ben sank back into you, you placed your hand on his chest, picking up his body heat except where the cool metal of the ring lay. You could feel his heart beating under your palm as he rolled his hips against you, trying to finish what you’d started. It took a little while longer, though things moved less slowly than they had before the interruption of the proposal. Ben dropped his fingers to your clit as he felt you getting closer, drawing gentle circles until the warm wave rolled through you, pulling a soft sigh from your lips. He kept his fingers there as if to try to give you another orgasm, maybe one not quite so soft, but you pulled his hand away, linking his fingers with yours as you kissed his throat and encouraged him to finish too. It didn’t matter that your orgasm hadn’t been particularly powerful. All that mattered was that Ben was with you and he always would be.

Afterwards you curled up, leaning your head on Ben’s chest, his arm around you. He sighed contentedly and kissed the top of your head. “So much for sleeping,” he chuckled. “What we did was better than sleep,” “Definitely. And if we hold out for a little longer we could watch the sunrise,” “I don’t know if I’ll last that long,” “No, me neither. It’d be nice though,” You agreed and lapsed into a comfortable silence. And then a thought struck you, “You know, we’re going to need a cover story,” “What?” “People are going to want to hear the story of how you proposed. Felicity, Joe, Gwil, the rest of our friends, our families, not to mention paparazzi and the press, they’ll all ask.”  “Fuck.” “So you don’t want to look your mother in the eye and explain it happened mid shag either? Good to know we’re on the same page,” Ben laughed, “Funnily enough, that was very unplanned. I had something much more romantic and better prepared in mind when I thought about how I’d do it. A whole big speech about you being the love of my life and how I want to spend every day of my life making you feel happy and safe and loved,” “Go on then, what was it,” Ben explained his original idea, about the dinner and the mugs, all the while playing with your fingers as if he didn’t want to break contact.  “That does sound wonderful, but I have to admit, I really love how it actually happened,” “Me too,” he laughed, “But that’s good. Because now we have a story to tell everyone and a slightly more accurate story just for ourselves.”

#my writing #my blurbs #blurb advent 2020 #ben hardy x reader #ben hardy imagine #ben hardy smut #smut blurb

[dameronology]

the one with the void {poe dameron x reader}

summary: poe dameron is a good boyfriend - and a surprisingly good therapist too 

warnings: language, mentions of depression 

this is my first proper imagine in a while bc i took a small break. i hope you enjoy!!

- jazz

Sometimes a bad day could turn into a multiple bad days. Then those bad days could turn into weeks and those weeks could turn into-

- Okay, you probably get the point. 

You were having a rough time of it. Nothing in particular was wrong but that might have been the worst part. The inability to pinpoint your problem translated to an inability to solve the problem. You could have gone through every aspect of your life with a fine tooth comb and still not have found anything. 

It was a lack of motivation. A lack of enthusiasm. A lack of smiling. A lack of...feeling. Of everything. You couldn’t explain it if you tried and that was posing to be a serious problem every time your boyfriend poked your cheek and demanded an explanation for the fact you’d been walking around with a face like a smacked arse all week. 

‘I’m fine, Poe.’ You muttered, swatting away his hand. 

‘Finn tripped over earlier and you didn’t laugh.’ The pilot spun your desk chair around to face him, hands gripping your shoulders. ‘I could have dealt with you not asking how his trip was but I draw the line at you not laughing.’

‘My mind is just elsewhere.’ You shrugged, trying to brush off your sudden pessimism. ‘It’s not a big deal.’

Poe let out a sigh, expression softening for a minute. ‘I haven’t seen that gorgeous smile of yours in weeks.’

‘Poe.’ You sighed. You gently ran your hand through his hair, almost smiling when he nuzzled into your touch. ‘It’s hard to explain.’

‘I’m a pretty smart guy.’ He stood up, intertwining your fingers and pulling you up with him. He lead you away from the desk chair and to your bed on the other side of the room. He fell back onto the mattress, pulling you with him. 

‘I know you are.’ You leant back against the headboard, head dropping into his shoulder. 

‘So talk to me.’

‘That’s the thing.’ You murmured. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I’m not feeling anything at all. It’s just sort of...numb.’

‘So you’re in limbo land?’ He replied, fingers gently carding through your hair. 

‘Limbo land?’

‘Like...you’re feeling apathetic.’ Poe continued. ‘It’s the absence of emotions - you’re not sad but you’re not happy either.’ 

You shuffled round, propping your head up on your hand as you tuned to face him. ‘That’s exactly it. It’s like somebody unplugged the part of my brain that makes me feel things. Good and bad things.’

‘I get that.’ He nodded. ‘How did it start?’

‘Tiredness, I guess.’ You replied. ‘I lost motivation to finish my work and it was a death spiral from there.’

‘It’s emotional exhaustion.’ He explained. ‘You know when Beebs fries a chip and the poor guy suddenly becomes motionless? It’s like that.’

‘But then you reboot him and he’s fine.’

‘The human brain is a little more complicated than that, sweetheart.’ He softly chuckled. ‘You can’t just turn it on then off again but you can look after yourself.’

‘Leia has been banging on at me to take the week off.’ You murmured. ‘Apparently she noticed I’ve been a little off as well.’

‘How long has it been going on for?’

‘A week? Maybe two?’

Poe sighed, pulling you into his chest. He held you there for a moment, arms wound tightly around your waist as he held a hand on the back of your head. That certainly made you feel something - it was a little fuzzy feeling in the bottom of your chest. His body was warm against yours and you could smell the subtle scent of his aftershave. There were certainly worst places in the galaxy to be. 

‘You have to tell me these things, baby.’ He murmured into your hair. 

‘You’ve got your own shit to deal with.’ You replied, grip on him tightening. 

‘I am your partner - what’s yours is mine.’ He reminded you. ‘I usually use that one when I want to steal your fries but it applies to your problems as well.’

The fact that Poe had managed to take your jumbled feelings and rearrange them into something that made sense felt like a weight off of your shoulders. It didn’t solve the problem, not by a long shot, but the fact he understood had made you feel a lot less isolated from the world. 

‘I feel like a robot.’ You muttered. ‘Emotion is the only thing that separates us from droids, right? I might as well be Threepio.’

‘Oh, you’re not that annoying.’

‘Right. That’s comforting.’ 

He suddenly sat up, rolling off the bed and sticking his hand out to you. ‘C’mon.’

‘Where are we going?’ You frowned. 

‘I know where they keep the ice cream in the mess hall.’ He wiggled his fingers, prompting you to grab his hand. ‘Ice cream isn’t the cure for what you’re feeling but it sure does soften the edges of the void a little.’

Poe yanked at your hand, tugging you off the bed. Before he could make his way to the kitchen, you flung your arms around your torso and buried your head in his chest again. He staggered backwards slightly with the brute force of your body hitting his, but he quickly found his balance and returned the gesture. 

‘I love you.’ You peered up at him, chin pressed to his chest. 

‘I love you too.’ He smiled. ‘And hey! Love is a feeling. That’s proof you’re not a droid.’

#poe x reader #poe fluff #poe imagine #poe x you #poe x y/n #poe dameron x reader #poe dameron fluff #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron x you #poe dameron x y/n #star wars fluff #star wars imagines #star wars imagine #star wars preferences

[thedistantdusk]

Peace

Also on AO3. For @isidar-mithrim. Thanks to @floreatcastellumposts, my beta/life coach, for catching the gaps I always miss! 

N S F W

They haven’t had another chance to do this since that time. The First Time. Which is rubbish. 

Because as it turns out, rebuilding an entire society is loads of work. And as it turns out, Harry’s expected to help. The past week has been a blur of trials and sentencing, of long meetings and paperwork, of hurrying up for more waiting. He’s had to make decisions. Hard decisions. Decisions he’s nowhere near qualified to make, decisions he wishes literally anyone else could make instead, because for fuck’s sake, he feels middle-aged but he’s only 17, and—

Knock knock knock.

Oh. 

So that’s how long he’s been sitting there. 

Eleven minutes. 

Eleven minutes of thinking about all that — his head in his hands, his knee jiggling impatiently, his mind filled with what he could’ve said, should’ve said. Because eleven minutes is exactly how long they’ve agreed to wait between Ron leaving and Ginny showing up. (Privately, Harry and Ginny both feel the whole room-switching charade is a colossal waste of time. Molly and Arthur almost certainly know they’re doing it, which defeats the purpose. But it makes Hermione feel better about shagging Ron under Molly’s roof, so Harry and Ginny participate. Albeit snidely). 

Regardless, though, he barely has time to issue a muffled “hello” before she’s tumbling into his arms and pressing her body against his and filling his nose with the flowers from her hair and—

“I — want — to — try — something,” Ginny manages, peppering his neck with kisses.

“Erm… y-yeah?” Harry stammers, not sure if he should be more turned on or confused. He doesn’t care when Ginny doesn’t explain herself, though. Who needs answers, really? They’re secondary to the way she’s brushing her shorts against the erection that wasn’t there five seconds ago. 

Harry just moans and grips her more tightly as they stumble back towards his bed. She gives a little nip at his jaw and her tongue darts out to caress his lips, aaaand bollocks, his glasses have fogged. Harry lets out a frustrated sigh, but doesn’t pull away from the snog-slash-walk, even though he’s doing both a bit blindly. It’s a painful reminder that they haven’t sorted out the balance yet, haven’t quite found a rhythm. At Hogwarts she used to take his glasses off during this (before they remembered there was a charm), but shagging when you don’t have 20/20 vision presents challenges. Especially when you’d quite like to see what’s happening. 

Still, Harry doesn’t dare object… not when she’s making that lovely high-pitched purr. Not when he can feel her nipples through her shirt. Not when her arse is in his palms. Not when she’s sliding her tight little body against him, the friction shooting straight to his cock as she moans and rolls her hips.  

He’s so distracted he hardly notices they’ve reached her goal. 

“Bed,” she declares with a hard shove. 

Harry lets out a startled groan as the backs of his knees hit the mattress. She’s still on him, attached to his front; her weight’s distributed across his knees and crotch, which isn’t the most comfortable position. He grabs her arse to shift them back, and without conscious thought, his body takes control. He automatically rolls her beneath him as he’s done a thousand times, and with that, they’re snogging — properly snogging, with lips and tongues and real touching, just like he’s wanted to all week. She moans into his mouth as his hand creeps beneath her baggy t-shirt, and then he darts down to her neck to nibble and bite. 

She loves it when he does this. She’s told him as much, over and over, which is why he loves snogging her like this. Do you still call it snogging when you’re in a bed and you’re about to start shagging? Harry doesn’t know, but his ability to reason either way is diminishing by the second. He begins drifting down her chest, and now she’s doing that thing where she arches her back and rubs her thighs together. All he fucking wants is to stick his head between them as she screams his name and rips at his hair and—

“Wait,” Ginny pants, pushing on his chest. “Wait, Harry.” 

Shit. 

Harry freezes, his hand still cupping her left breast. 

The gravity of the request isn’t lost on him. 

She’s literally never stopped him before. Ever. The closest they’ve even come to facing this… dilemma… was soon after they’d started dating during those glorious weeks at Hogwarts. Things had gotten so hot, so quickly that Harry was legitimately worried he was taking advantage. So one day during a particularly intense snog, he’d employed his last shards of brain power to rip himself away and slur, “Please promise you’ll stop me, Ginny.” 

Ginny’d just blinked back at him in a few panting, desperate second before she’d gripped his hand and shoved it against her chest. Then, in a shaking voice, she’d firmly reminded him that she wasn’t the sort of girl who fancied ambiguity. Or permission. Which was, of course, why he fancied her.  

But now things are a bit different, aren’t they? 

Harry draws a deep breath and rips himself from the memory, growing more mortified by the second. Ginny’s breathless, which is normally a good sign — but she’s also biting her lip, even as a flush crawls further up her chest. Her eyes are filled with something tentative, something uncertain. 

Harry stammers an apology and pulls back as fast as he can. He doesn’t know why she’s asked him to stop, but that hardly matters; his head spins with where he’s gone wrong, with all the shit he’s had to do this week, with all the problems weighing on his heart, and he’s so certain that—

“Harry,” Ginny blurts. “Where the hell are you going?”

Wait, what?

Harry pauses, his leg half-raised to step off the bed, and peers over at her. Ginny’s propped up her elbows and giving him a quizzical look. He tries very hard not to focus on the hair tumbling over her shoulders and not the creamy patch of exposed skin just below her navel. 

He clears his throat and opts to stare at the wall instead. “I… erm. If you want to stop, I—”

“—WHAT?” 

For some reason, she sounds furious — not disturbed or uncomfortable. 

She narrows her eyes. “Harry,” she says slowly, in the tone she usually reserves for defending him in public. “Did you seriously think—”

But all at once, it’s too much. It’s too, too much. A week of frustration and exhaustion boils over, snapping like a band in his chest. His face hurts from fake-grinning, his heart aches from what he can’t do, his mind reels with what-ifs. 

So Harry just throws himself back on the bed with a groan. He’s not quite sure which way is up.  

“Well, I don’t know!” he mutters, rubbing his hands over his eyes, beneath his glasses. His voice is nearly pleading. “You just told me to wait, and it’s been a shit week, and I’ve hardly seen you.”

A moment later, he removes his hands from his eyes. He blinks a few times as the room appears, but it’s not until black fades to starry pinpricks of light that he sees her overhead. She shoots him a wink, her hair draping like a curtain around his face, and Harry reckons he’s a bit thick; during his griping she must’ve removed her shirt. 

He lets the confusion melt away as his eyes travel over her perfect breasts. He doesn’t know how he’s made it thus far without a good look at them from this angle. Lord knows he’s thought about it. They’re the exact size of his palms... so round and perfect. And pebbled, just in the center, with a gorgeous interplay of lighter and darker pink. 

“Harry,” Ginny says softly. His eyes snap back to hers. “I’m sorry you thought it,” she clarifies with a gentle smile, “but I definitely wasn’t trying to outright stop you. I just… erm.” She bites her lip. “I wanted to try something new, but I knew that if you… kept going… I’d get distracted and forget, and we’d have to wait another night. And I don’t want to. So.” 

Oh. 

“I… distract you, then?” Harry’s lips twitch. He can’t help the male pride from roaring in his chest. He knows he’s good at it — at that. Even if she hadn’t told him a million times, he feels it in the way she clenches and releases against his mouth and fingers. He hears it in the way she cries his name in a hoarse growl. 

Since May, he likes to think he’s gotten amazing at it, really, no matter how she wants it. But seeing as they’ve only shagged once (and how the first time was spent trying and failing to last longer than 10 seconds), he hasn’t made her come during sex. Yet. 

“Harry,” she says flatly, “You know that you’re… embarrassingly good at that. You’ve always been.” 

Harry smiles and moves to caress her thigh. He loves it when she reminds him. He loves it when he’s useful — skilled, even. Especially when it comes to making her happy. 

As if sensing this, a mischievous grin darts across Ginny’s face. “You may want to update your CV, actually,” she says, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t see oral skills on there, last I checked. Not that I want you sharing them.” 

Harry snorts. “Shows what you know. I put that on first thing. May, 1998: Voldemort. June 1998: The second time I caught the snitch with my mouth.”

For a half-second, she just stares at him, her jaw hanging open — but then they both burst into laughter. 

Ginny trails off with a groan, her mouth still stretched in a smile. “Fuck, that’s exactly what I mean! I don’t know how you can be so unsure of yourself while also being so bloody cocky. I mean, for fuck’s sake!” She raises her eyebrows and makes a vague gesture. “It’s the fucking English Channel in my knickers right now! It pretty much always is.” 

Ginny gives a dignified sniff, crossing her arms over her chest. “Which I reckon you know.” 

“Liar,” he murmurs, his fingertips trailing up her arm. “We both know you don’t wear knickers to bed.”

“Fine then,” Ginny concedes, waving her hand. “It’s the fucking English Channel in my shorts right now. Happy?” 

Harry considers this. “I can think of something that would make me happier,” he admits, but then realizes what he’s said. 

There’s a pause. Harry clears his throat — and acknowledges she very much has a point with him not knowing if he’s confident or not. Oh well. He’d might as well be consistent. 

“But I’m… erm. Whatever you want is fine, Ginny,” he says quickly. “And you don’t owe me anything, and you can try whatever you want, and I’m so sorry if—”

Ginny heaves a sigh that ruffles the hair around her face. “No, it’s not that! It’s just that you’ve been so stressed with all this Ministry bullshit,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I thought if I just took the pressure off for one night it would keep you from having to worry about making me happy all the bloody time and we could both just focus on…”

There’s a beat. Ginny worries her lip between her teeth. 

“F-focus on what?” Harry asks faintly. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. 

Then Ginny looks him dead in the face. Her cheeks are still tinged pink, but her eyes ring with determination. “I want to be on top,” she says flatly. Then, on an exhale: “And I want to touch myself when I do it.” 

Fuuuuck. 

Harry feels his mouth go dry. “I… erm… “ he manages, gripping at the duvet. “I’m… yeah! Yeah, Ginny, whatever you…” He clears his throat and throws his hands in front of him. “Glease!” 

There’s another beat. 

Ginny’s lip twitches agan. “Glease?” 

“Erm. It was supposed to be both go on and please,” he explains, unnecessarily. “But erm. I… I got  distracteddd— fuck!” His voice breaks at the end as her hand drifts below the waistband of his comically tented shorts. 

Ginny ignores this. “Now,” she chides, taking him in her fist. “If it’s ok with you, you’re going to let me take care of you for once. Ok?” 

Harry makes a strangled groan as she picks up speed. “Y-yeah!” he stammers on a half-chuckle. “I’m… fuuuuck.” 

She’s good at this, even if she insists there isn’t much to it. All Harry knows is that her hands feel loads better than his. All he knows is that he loves it when she touches him — any part of him, but especially this one. 

It’s still hard for him to watch her with his cock without exploding on the spot. So he opts not to. Instead, he focuses on the gentle sway of her breasts as her arm pumps up and down, on the adorable, sexy determination that’s etched on her face. He’s so damned transfixed with it — with absolutely all of it — that he doesn’t notice she’s removing his shorts until the fabric slides down his bum. Then, with a soothing murmur, she guides his cock out. He hisses as it hits the cool air, but Ginny doesn’t stop; she eases his shorts down his legs, one hand still working the gathered moisture down his shaft.

He’s about to open his mouth for a moronic, half-formed joke about women and multitasking — but blessedly, she saves him from that. With a final wink, Ginny releases his cock and tugs her shorts down, too. Harry’s not a Ravenclaw, but he can take a bloody hint when he sees one. He scrambles to tug his shirt over his head, his arms shaking in his haste. It’s only when the collar catches on his glasses that he even remembers he’s wearing them — and ah, bugger, that’s lovely, because now he’s blind, and his arm is caught! 

Ginny giggles through his frustrated groan, but in an instant, her fingers are in his hair, her voice a soft whisper. She takes his shirt off the rest of the way, unhooking the collar from his neck. Before he has the chance to say anything else, she rests his glasses on Ron’s bedside table. Which presents an obvious challenge. 

“Erm. I can’t… watch?” he protests, even as she settles him firmly on his back with a push to the chest. In truth, even Harry’s not sure that watching is a good idea — but he’d hate himself if he didn’t ask. He’s fantasized about this exact scenario too many times. Countless wanks have been devoted to the vision of her using his cock, rocking above him, bringing herself off. 

Ginny pauses with her knees on either side of his waist. From this distance, she’s mostly a blur of red and white. “Are you… sure?” He can almost see the blob of her head tilting to the side, curious. 

“No,” he admits quickly.

She giggles again, but he plows on. 

“Right, so… this will be over fast. Very fast. Which is why I wanted to make you happy first, because—” 

He stops as she slides his glasses onto his nose. The world comes back into focus, but Ginny — in her naked glory — doesn’t look pleased. She’s glaring at him, crossing her arms over her bare chest.   

“For starters, Harry,” she says firmly, “you always make me happy.” He makes a noise of protest, but she cuts him off with a pointed stare. 

Harry squirms. He’s a fucking mess, isn’t it? Now it’s turning him on that she’s bossing him around…  

“Secondly,” Ginny continues, eyebrows raised, “I think you’ve forgotten that you’re not the only person in the room who’s getting a bit desperate. I can guarantee that I won’t last much longer than you, which is why I proposed this in the first place. I only asked about your glasses because I wasn’t sure if they’d fog or not and be a bigger bother. Ok?” 

Harry manages a weak nod, but it’s clear Ginny’s tired of waiting. Which suits him just fine. 

“Right then,” she says, that fascinating blush crawling up her chest again. “Right.” 

Harry doesn’t have a moment to question that before she’s settling her knees on either side of his waist. Then she shifts just a bit, draws a deep breath, and does the sexiest fucking thing he’s ever seen: She reaches two fingers inside herself, slides them forward, and stares right at him as she rubs quick, tight circles.

Harry swallows, gripping her thighs; even from here, he can tell she’s wet. So fucking wet. Not that he’d mention it, of course, even if he could. Most of his brain power is spent simply watching as the red triangle at the apex of her thighs draws closer and closer to his cock. Then, with a final shudder, she bites her lip and lowers herself down — and fuuuucking hell, he almost, almost comes. 

Harry slams his eyes shut, biting the inside of his cheek, but Ginny doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t stop sliding, doesn’t stop whimpering. With willpower he didn’t know he had, Harry pulls himself back from the edge, just as he feels her bum rest on his thighs, her fingers continuing to dance. 

When he finally opens his eyes to look at her, he doesn’t know how he holds on for another ten seconds. Somehow he does though, which is perhaps his most prolific accomplishment to date... because she’s absolutely beautiful. More gorgeous and stunning than she’s ever been. Her back is arched, her chest red and heaving, her eyes heavy-lidded; she’s almost mewling as she adjusts, as she shifts her weight against her fingers. 

“Fuck, Harry,” she whispers, her eyes never leaving his. “Fuck. It’s so different… it’s… oh!” Then she draws a shuddering breath, her eyes rolling back, and Harry watches as instinct takes over. He watches as she follows her body just to the edge; she swirls her hips, lifting and lowering herself, as the fleeting pain of their first time disappears forever. 

“Ginny,” he manages, his voice strangled. He wraps his palms around her waist and clings to the last vestiges of reality. “Please. I can’t—” 

Then her expression goes blank, her lips part, and with a final, breathy squeak, she sets him over the brink. “Iloveyou,” she manages in a rushed whisper. “Fuck, Harry, I’m—” 

But as she cuts off, as her voice trails into a moan, Harry feels like he’s leaving his body. Even if he couldn’t actually feel her coming around him, her words would’ve done it. 

He can, though… he absolutely fucking can. 

He can feel her milking him and gripping him as she cries out in ecstasy, and following her over the edge is no longer an option, but a command. His release crests over him like a tidal wave, ripping through his body on a strangled roar. It’s so fast, so blinding, that he can’t even feel himself pulsing inside her. He knows he must be doing that, though, because his entire lower body vibrates in a delirious staccato, his back arching off the bed as she surrounds him, engulfs him, soothes him. Her hips continue their gentle rocking as he ebbs and flows and clenches and releases, as those pinpricks of light return behind his eyes, stealing his breath, reducing his voice to babbled variants of her name. 

He’s not sure how long it takes to catch his breath. He’s also not sure when she lifts away, or if she casts charms to clean up. All he knows is that at some point, he smells flowers. Her head nestles beneath his chin, her body pressing against him, her breath coming in deep, slow sighs. 

And Harry wants to laugh, really. Or cry. Because he doesn’t think she’ll ever know what she’s done for him. How she’s removed the pressure and stress, if only for a night. How she’s taken things into her own hands -- literally and figuratively. How she’s given him the one thing he thought he’d never have: Peace. 

“Hey,” she whispers, trailing her fingers along his chest. He’s surprised the skin there is tender. It feels numb, along with the rest of him. 

He grabs her hand in his and kisses her knuckles. His eyes grow heavy as he peers down at her, as he watches how perfectly she fits against him. She props her head against his chest, blinking at him in the flickering candlelight. 

“I love you,” he reminds her, his voice raw and graveled. A flicker of a smile crosses her face. It always does, when he says that. “Thanks,” he adds, kissing her knuckles. “For… for everything? Can I thank you for everything?” 

She laughs, shaking her head. “Nah. I reckon we both needed a night off. You especially. See how easy it is when I make all the decisions?”

Harry laughs back and threads his fingers through her hair. “We’ll see about that. Maybe by the end of summer, I’ll be able to put proper sex on my CV.” 

Then Ginny pulls back from her chest, her eyes twinkling. And even before she opens her mouth, he knows what it’s in for. “I’ll hold you to that, then,” she says, smirking. “Glease.”

#harry/ginny #harry potter smut #so much smut #for isidar #ginny's first time on top somehow became this

[intricate-oeuvre]

On how to be deadly || Geralt of Rivia || part XI

Word count: 2.5k+

Summary: Axelia is Witcher experiment herself and has gone through same harsh Trials as Geralt, but she wasn’t so lucky with the outcome. Her vision didn’t become better. Therefore, she was rendered blind in the end. And because of that, she solely uses her Witcher senses to make her ways. Only potions can give her false sense of sight for limited time.Somewhere along the way she meets the Rivian. Who’s interested to know how she’s been killing monsters and hasn’t been killed herself yet.

Warnings: nakedness, bad grammar. angst, Geralt doesn't know what are feelings

A/N: I have certain schedule when I post updates. that is, the last part has to reach certain note count before I upload the next part. THANK YOU FOR READING!

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

What? Axelia’s eyes grew big, small confusion settling in her. She looked around. Shit.

This was his room.

That’s why his shirt was there.

As she heard him drop his boots and unbutton his pants, she sat up straighter, her hands sliding to the edges of the tub.

Next second she was out of the bath, drenched like a rat in pouring rain and with swift hands grabbed the towel to press it against her chest. But Geralt was as fast- his hands encircled her waist and held her above the ground. Axelia let out a shriek and started kicking and hissing at him.

“Towel. Drop it.” He said to her.

“Geralt. Put. Me. Down.” Axelia hissed at him. He did put her down, but didn’t let go of her.

“Get back in the tub or I’m going to throw you back in with the damned towel.” He threatened her.

“You wouldn’t.” Axelia gasped. But then again, this was Geralt who they were talking about.

Next second Axelia was under water, alongside her towel. With splutter and angry grunt, she rose up, the towel all wet now and soaked as it rested on her head.

Axelia looked as some kind of a vile monster- her hair, spread across her back and shoulders like sea-weeds and the drenched towel on her head and face. She pulled off the towel and with stare that could kill, Axelia looked at Geralt, who was now in the tub opposite her.

“There you are, princess.” He teased her in mock sarcasm. Axelia opened her mouth as water poured out from it, making Geralt bark out a laugh at her. She hated that Geralt called her like that.

It had stuck with him when he had heard Eskel call her like that because she was the only girl around the school. They all were drunk at the time and picking drunken fights with each other and just primarily having great time. When fellow witcher had said that she should be treated as a princess, since she is the only female witcher, ever. She had smacked Eskel in head with a wooden spoon for that. And right after that Lambert also had called her a princess, which earned him- a smack of spoon on his forehead too, without a doubt. They all were too drunk to fight back. Of course, Geralt had to jump in on it as well. He had been sitting across her, and as Axelia had leaned across the table to smack him in the head with the spoon, he had leaned back, out of her reach. With grunt she-witcher had climbed swiftly across the table top, grabbing onto his shoulder and thus making both of them fall on the ground with laughter as she just had balanced the spoon on his forehead. But those were absent times now.

“You, complete arse.” She spat, and threw the wet towel at him. With smack it landed on his shoulder. Still chuckling, he pushed it to the floor.

Axelia stuck her tongue out at him. Geralt didn’t seem to notice that, now more content on getting himself clean as he scrubbed his arms with washcloth.

Axelia only huffed and dragged her hands upward her face, to get hair out of her mouth and eyes. Her hands staying on sides of her head, elbows raised.

“I’m getting out.” She said, more to herself than Geralt, as her hands flew to the edges.

“There’s no towel.” Geralt answered mater of factly.

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.” Axelia turned and hissed at him. With a grunt she rose from the tub and stepped out. She didn’t shy away from him. Nothing he hadn’t seen before and vice versa. With her bare back to the witcher, she stopped at the table and carefully picked up the rings. One at the time, and slid them on her pale fingers. Her skin felt soft and ample from the bath. Meanwhile, Geralt looked at her, shamelessly letting his eyes travel along her back, watching how water droplets were running down her figure.

Gathering all of her rings, she made her way towards the curtains and disappeared behind them, leaving witcher to bathe alone.

For some time, he enjoyed the bath, basking in silence when someone out of nowhere, emptied a bucket of water on his head.

“I said you need a bath!” Axelia laughed behind him, bucket still in her hands. With hands on both sides of the tub, Geralt turned to look behind him, at her, water running from his hair, down his face.

She was dressed in his black shirt which barely covered her bottom, leaving enough for one’s imagination; one sleeve rolled up as the other was left loosely dangling around her wrist. But other than that, the shirt itself was neatly buttoned up.

“Come here.” Geralt tried to reach for her, but she took a quick step back, dropping her hands at her sides.

“Bathe. Then we’ll talk.” Axelia said seriously, leaning down to put bucket on the floor.

“Hmm. Don’t trust your talk. You usually run away.” Geralt grunted, his eyes catching her movement a she pulled the stool and sat down on it. Hands length away from him.

“Where am I going to run- naked?” Axelia hummed in return as she put her elbows on her knees and placed her chin in her hands.

“In my shirt.” Geralt corrected, leaning back against the tub, his eyes scanning her form. Axelia hummed, and just stared at the edge of the tub.

“Thank you for having my back, I guess.” She mumbled.

“Hmm… You are an absolute idiot.” Geralt tilted his head back, looking at her down his nose as his hand was circling in the water, sending small ripples across the surface.

“I know. I though there’s going to be only couple of ghouls.” Axelia sighed.

“In old war crypt? Only ghouls? I thought that papa Vesemir taught you better.” Geralt raised his eyebrows as he ducked his head towards her, almost seemingly similar to a inquisitive way.

“Fuck off.” Axelia wasn’t having any of his jests. “I have made enough of a fool out of myself these past days.”

“Have you now?” He said, running wet hands through his hair.

“Don’t laugh at me. You, of all the people.” Axelia grunted and turned her whole body away from him.

“Axelia.” Geralt hummed defeated, his hand reaching for her knees to turn her back, facing him.

“I know I fucked up. Don’t lecture me.” Axelia looked at him.

“I’m not.” Geralt assured her, studying her features, and the fact that she was playing with her rings.

“Show me.” He extended his hand, waiting for her to take it, in a way distracting her thoughts. She putted her hands in his.

She had started wearing rings, when Geralt had brought one for her when they were younger and he had gone for his witcher travels and she had stayed back. The first ring he got her was a dainty one, because he hadn’t been sure, if she would like it. Simple silver band with three dark crystals on top, that was sitting on her left hand’s fourth finger. Another one of his gifts had been a much more colossal one- silver wolf head. Situated on her right hand’s pointer finger. He run his thumb across it, but didn’t dwell long on it. Third one, that he had gotten for her was another smaller one, this time with white rock that had translucent turquoise tone to it. It had reminded him of the mix of her old eye colour and the one she had now. This one was gracing her right hand’s ring finger. With two other rings he was not familiar with. He looked at the two small silver bands, simple, nothing on them, just adorning her left hands middle and pointer finger.

“All silver.” Geralt stated.

“Yes. Because you said you won’t let me have those silver wolf brass knuckles. These come as handy. Especially strangling wise.” Her statement made him look up at her with this weird expression, like he was repelled or something.

“Oh, don’t you look at me like that.” Axelia pulled both of her hands away, but Geralt was quick enough to grab one before she pulled away entirely.

“Experimenting, are we?” Geralt laced his fingers with hers.

“You know that I never slept with anyone else.” Axelia’s eyes narrowed at him.

“Jaskier?” he raised questioning eyebrow at her.

“Gods, no. Never went as far as kiss him. He gets… distracted, if you will…” Axelia’s own brows creased as she was trying to search for words.

“He loves everything that has two legs.” Geralt offered.

“But he’s a good friend.”

“Hmm.”

“You and Yennefer. She’s as mother to Ciri.” Axelia voiced her observations.

Another hmm.

“Thank you…” Axelia trailed off, when silence stretched across the room.

“Thank you for saving me, for not letting me die out there and thanks to Yennefer too, I would have probably bled out without her stiches. Thank you for all the best memories—” Axelia started quietly.

“Why are you-” Geralt couldn’t understand why was she saying this to him. Whenever they met, she never voiced such things.

“I’m leaving in the morning. This time I’m telling you.” She looked him in the eyes. The scorching amber. A tone that one could never catch in a pendant.

“No.” Geralt’s eyes grew big as he gently shook his head, his hold on Axelia’s wrist getting stronger, but not causing any pain.

“We should draw the line.” Axelia shook her head in return tilting it sideways.

“You think that drawing a line will stop us from running into each other?” Geralt said, his brows creasing and his tone gaining an edge of irritation.

With shake of her head, Axelia pulled her hand out of his grasp.

“Don’t you think it’s exhausting?” Axelia sighed, hugging herself. Her wet hair falling around her shoulders in clumps. Geralt didn’t answer, he never really was on for explaining emotions, his own or others.

“I told you it hurts. To an extent that it almost physically hurts.” Axelia whispered, her voice dropping, almost fading into nothing.

“Axelia…” Geralt whispered her name in return.

“Aren’t we cursed enough?” Axelia suddenly turned to look at Geralt. Her eyes brimming with tears and her mouth unexpectedly going dry. The look on her face making the male witcher intake a sharp breath.

Running her hand under her nose, Axelia got up and disappeared behind the thick drapes. As she was nicking around the room and choosing which pants should she take, she couldn’t will the tears away. With huff pulling on new pants and tying her boots, Axelia sat on the edge of bed. Her legs looking long for her small stature and her shoulders almost gaining a lanky look because of Geralt’s big shirt. Woman’s hands falling in her lap as she looked around the room, her lips pulling in a frown as tears anew streamed down her cheeks.  Her marble-like eyes stopping at the drapes and blinking rapidly, she silently chocked out a sob, her mouth falling open. With sniffle, she dug the heels of her palms in her eyes, her nails digging in her head as she groaned in fury. She couldn’t ignore her emotions for long, she will explode. Yet it was the only thing she knew how to do. Running her finger under her nose she got up. Seeing her corset draped over the chair she swiftly put it on. Axelia glanced out of the window at the light that was slowly disappearing, and grabbing her stuff she was ready to leave the room. In no way, will she be staying in that room. Not alone, not with him.

“Already running?” Came Geralt’s voice as Axelia tried to reach for the door handle. She froze, sigh escaping her as one tear run down her cheek to land on her forearm that was not obstructed by his shirt.

“Maybe.” Axelia said, her voice gaining unusual tone because of her stuffed nose.

“I stand by what I said.” Axelia was referring to what she had said back at the edge of the forest.

“Please. Don’t follow me.” Axelia closed her eyes, her hand gripping the handle tighter.

“You think I can control that?” Geralt said behind her, pulling on his shirt.

“But you must. For my sake.” Axelia whispered, not sure if Geralt even heard her.

“Just… promise me that you won’t come seek me out. Never again… even if your gut is telling you otherwise.” Axelia looked over her shoulder at him, half hiding her tears.

“Gut? You really think it’s my gut telling me to look for you? No instinct, no witcher senses are telling me that.” Geralt spat at her, growing tired of her running.

“Then what is?!” Axelia swiftly turned around to look at him. Geralt grabbed stepped closer to her, kind of expecting for her to step back but she didn’t even flinch. Her eyes only following his movement. Then he grabbed her right hand and pressed to his chest, right where his heart was.

“This is.”

Axelia’s eyes stayed trained on his chest, on their hands. His hands always seemed warmer than hers.

“Yennefer… it’s all magic… djinn.” Geralt explained, his eyes searching her face.

Axelia’s furrowed, she wasn’t sure that she was understanding him. Did she hear him right?

“W-what?” she mumbled, her eyes closing for a second.

“The last wish,” Geralt choose to stay vague. “…to save her.”

For a second, Axelia’s nails lightly grazed his shirt. And then her eyebrows slowly rose up.

“It’s not real…” Axelia mumbled, and gently pushed herself away from him. Geralt tilted his head, not understanding her actions.

“But you love her…” Axelia looked up at him.

“But she’s not my soulmate.” Geralt narrowed his eyes at her.

Did he really think that after all this time of being completely alone, she will just run back in his arms?

“Took you a really long time to realize that, Geralt.” Axelia smiled bitterly at him. Now, when she thought that she will be finally ready to cut things off and fight this feeling of love, he comes prancing back, confusing her.

“Why now?” she looked warily down at her own hands.

“I could let you go only so many times. And every time I did… I regretted it. Didn’t matter if Yennefer was there or not nor Jaskier’s constant babbles of me being and stupid arse.” Geralt’s eyes were jumping from one item to another all around the room.

“It’s funny how fate has made us like this… You could break my heart thousands of times, Geralt. And I still would pick of every single peace and put them back into your hands. But I am not sure, if those pieces haven’t turned into sharp daggers.” Axelia hummed, her fingers toying with her rings.

“I rather be spitting blood and bleed out myself, than rather watch you leave one more time.” Geralt looked down at her.

Axelia looked at him. Unsure of what to do. Not knowing any better, she took one swift step and crushed into his chest. Missing his warmth dearly. With a small grunt from Axelia’s sudden movement, Geralt wrapped his hands around her, planting a small chaste kiss on her forehead.

~~~~~

part I || part II || part III || part IV || part V || part VI || part VII || part VIII || part IX || part X || part XI || part XII || part XIII | Epilogue

tags:

@boiled-onionrings​ @fandomwithnolifesblog​ @901seconds​ @kingniazx​ @shesakillerkween @your-dreams-are-strong​ @stitchattacks​ @ayamenimthiriel​ @stormfire6​ @mr-illegal-king​ @stretchkingblog97​ @mikariell95​ @geralt-of-motherfucking-rivia​ @martian-m​ @republicansithlord​ @notso-fetch​ @lizliz3107 @godlydolans​ @arsaky-lou​ @eternallyvenus​ @le-reina-asesina @alwayshave-faith​ @writingmi​ @staringmoony​ @kenai731 @holychic​ @dramaticturnaway​ @ihopeyousteponarosepetal​ @seouldesire​ @runs-with-sciss0rs @yes-captainstark​ @fandomhell97​ @newtdisneywho​ @ekaymnslvs​ @deansbbyblog @hopplessdreamer​ @dejewskoo​ @sleepy-bunnie​ @strangerliaa​ @puffedchoco @mommableaubear  @secretsthathauntus​ @sailor-moons-butt​ @sageandberries-png​ @star017​ @rahdaleigh

a/n: pardon, if Tumblr doesn't let me tag you

#deadly series #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt von riva #geralt z rivii #witcher geralt #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x #geralt x reader #geralt x oc #geralt x you #Witcher #thewitcheredit #witcher netflix #witcher x reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #witcher x #the witcher #the white wolf #the #witcher 3

[panda-noosh]

against the odds {Finn Shelby x Reader}

  Words: 11.2k

 Summary: Your worlds could not be more different, but that doesn’t stop them colliding. 

 Genre: angst!

 Warnings: strong language (stronger than usual because it’s the Peaky Blinders), violence, graphic depictions of injury.

  Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - okay we’re trying something new. let me know what y’all think :)

----

  The sound of guns shots has become something normal.

    Your mother would be absolutely mortified to hear such a thing. When you moved from London to Birmingham, she thought for sure you would be safe, hidden away in a little shack with no one to bother you. You would get on with your studies before moving on to bigger and better things, and in the beginning, that was the plan. You kissed your mother goodbye, hopped on the train and departed for a life you had all planned out.

    Small Heath isn’t the place to make dreams come true, but it’s where you ended up.

    The job at The Garrison was only meant to be part-time, but again, Small Heath is full of unexpected little mishaps. After the old barkeep, Grace, was brutally murdered at a party she herself had organised, you had been offered the job full time - and you took it.

    You took it, even though you knew with everything in you it was a bad idea. The world was falling apart around you, and it was as if the main source of this destruction came directly from inside The Garrison itself, like this tiny little pub in Birmingham was the hub for all the worlds travesties.

    Despite the little voice in your head telling you to step away, find a life elsewhere, it’s Finn Shelby that keeps you rooted behind the counter. It’s always been Finn Shelby.

    Tall, broad shouldered, built like a watered down version of his older brother, John. By name, Finn is scary, but he’s only scary because he’s a Shelby. For the first few weeks of you settling into The Garrison, you had walked on egg-shells around him, lest he suddenly draw a pistol out of his trousers like you’d seen his brothers do on multiple occasions.

    However, time went on, and things became clearer, and soon, Finn was seated in front of you when the rest of the pub was emptying, and the two of you spoke.

    About nothing. About everything. About a life outside of this mess. He’d laughed at that, and you remember the noise being so pleasant, like music to your ears, and you remember shutting those thoughts down with the harsh reminder that the man in front of you was a Shelby, meaning there would be no room whatsoever for anything like that.

     You saw more of Finn each and every day. He hardly ever speaks to you when his older brothers are waltzing about, but with the recent business with the Russians, the older Shelby’s visits are getting few and far between, meaning you see more of Finn throughout your always-busy shifts at The Garrison.

    The door slamming closed signals his arrival this evening. Having already spent a good six hours on your feet, serving the drunk and disorderly, it is a relief of the grandest kind when you look up and see Finn and Isaiah pushing through the crowd towards the bar; Finn is smiling, nudging Isaiah’s arm to which Isaiah ruffles the boys sandy blonde hair.

     “Evening, Y/N,” Isaiah says once he and Finn have finally arrived in front of you.

   “Evening,” you reply. “What are you two drinking today?”

   “I’ll have a whiskey,” Isaiah replies. “My boy here will have-”

    “Just a water,” Finn cuts in.

   Your eyes sparkle, darting up to meet his own; he’s staring right back at you, a shy smile on his face. “Just a water, Mr Shelby? You do know what time of day it is, right?”

     Isaiah has one eyebrow raised, glancing at Finn through the corner of his eye. “Have you gone fucking mental, mate?”

     Finn shrugs. “I’m not feeling good. Just a water will do fine.”

    “Alright. A whiskey and a water, coming right up.” You turn to the shelves, trying desperately to suppress the tiny smile threatening to weave its way onto your face. 

    Behind you, Isaiah’s voice is hushed but still audible when he says, “You think staying sober is gonna impress the new barkeep?”

    “I’m not impressing anyone,” Finn bites back. “I don’t need to impress anyone.”

   Isaiah scoffs. “Right. You’ve just lodged a stick up your arse for the fun of it, have you?”

    The unmistakable sound of Isaiah’s forehead smacking off the counter sounds behind you.

    “Fuck! Alright, I get it. I get it. I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut next time, yeah?”

    “Good. Next time it won’t be my hand smashing into the back of your head.”

   “Ooh, I’m shitting myself.” Isaiah is laughing when you turn back around, their selected drinks in your hand. You slide them across the counter, following close behind when you lean forward with your arms crossed. Isaiah smiles, taking a swig of his drink before he pats Finn’s shoulder and says, “I’ll be off now, anyway. That table over there is playing cards.”

    You crane your neck. “Are they really? I told them not to do that - half of them gamble their money off before they pay for their drinks. Robbing bastards.”

    “I’ll tell them to keep a few shillings spare, shall I?” Isaiah grins again, grabs your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles before he turns on his heel and heads towards the table in question. You watch him go, shaking your head slowly.

    It’s just you and Finn now.

    Finn hollows out his cheeks, swirling his water around and around and around. His hazel eyes burn into the top of the glass, as if he can somehow turn the water to wine if he stares at it long enough; his hands are scarred and bruised - old and new, mixing together against pale skin that really shouldn’t be so blemished, but is anyway. 

    You resist the urge to reach out and touch his hand, trace your fingers along the scars left behind by years of being a Shelby. There’s so much you can say to him, so many opinions you can throw at him in one go, but you don’t think he’ll listen. Maybe you don’t really want him to listen. Maybe he shouldn’t listen, because at the end of the day, he’s a Shelby brother, and you’re a barmaid. 

     Finn looks up. “You know what I’ve noticed recently?”

    You raise a brow, silently urging him to continue.

    “You don’t drink a lot. At all.” 

   “Is that a problem?”

   “No. It’s weird, though. You’re a barmaid. You’re surrounded by all this booze and you don’t touch it.”

   “Arthur will have my hands if I even think about taking from his stash.”

   Finn purses his lips, casting a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t think Arthur will notice. He’s a bit busy right now.”

     You shrug, straightening up. Your shoulders crack with the slow movement, hours on your feet finally taking a physical tole on you. “I don’t have to worry about that, anyway. I’m not a big drinker in the first place. I’m more of a tea fan.”

    Finn scoffs. “Tea?”

   Your arms fall to your sides. “What’s wrong with drinking tea?”

    Finn raises his hands in a mock pose of surrender, a shining grin forming on his face. You find yourself smiling right back, completely unable to stop yourself. “I’m not saying anything is wrong with tea. I like a cuppa myself sometimes, actually.”

   “Aye, so wipe that fucking smile off your face, Finn Shelby, before I do it for you.”

   Finn laughs, his hands clapping back against the counter. “You and what experience?”

    You roll your eyes, slapping his hand away from your arm before he can curl his fingers around your wrist in that way he always does when your conversations take a turn for the amused. “You have no right to judge my drinking habits when you have a glass of water sitting in front of you.”

    “If you want me drunk, Y/N, all you have to do is say.” With that, he takes a swig of his water, staring at you over the lip of the glass; his gaze has a warning to it, but that isn’t uncommon for the Shelby boys. Dark eyes an accessory to a personality of pure gold, you find your knees going weak beneath their scrutiny. 

    You look away, grabbing a dirty glass as way of distraction. “It’s not my job to tell you what to drink, I’m afraid. I pour the beverage, collect the money, tell the drunk twats to fuck off when I need to - and that’s it.”

    Finn hums into his glass. “Sounds fun.”

    “It pays.”

   “And that’s all you care about?”

    You look at him. “That’s all anyone in this shit hole cares about, Finn. Including you.”

   Slowly, Finn sets his glass down on the counter. You find it strange how he can down an entire glass of whiskey in two seconds flat, but struggles to make a dent in a glass of water. 

    “Money isn’t all I care about, you know,” he says. “I have. . . other things.”

    “Do I even want to know?”

    “You can ask if you want.”

    You pause, towel still stuck in the dirty glass, mind still reeling, knees still slightly unstable. “I don’t want to know. I’m too involved with you Shelby boys as it is.”

    Finn chuckles. “Is that a bad thing?”

    “Oh, it’s the worst sin of them all.”

    “May God have mercy on your-”

    Finn’s words are cut off by the gunfire.

    As earlier stated, gunfire has become something you’re not unfamiliar with. Before arriving in Small Heath, even the sound of a car back firing would have sent you scrambling for cover, unfamiliar with the sounds of violence, but now, you simply crane your neck to get a better view of what is going on.

    Thomas, John and Arthur Shelby stampede through the doors of The Garrison, John laughing his head off, Arthur yelling, Thomas strolling alongside them. John still has his gun raised towards the door, but judging by the sudden silence, none of his enemies have been left standing.

    Finally, John twirls around and laughs. “That’ll show the bastards, eh?”

    “What did you do?” Finn asks, turning to face his brothers. John immediately wraps an arm around his shoulders, pressing Finn’s face into the crook of his neck. Finn fights against the grip, pushing John away with a scowl.

    “None of your concern, Finny-boy,” says Arthur. The older man doesn’t look at you when he says, “Whiskey. Now.”

    You grab him a whiskey. 

    “Who are you sending out to clean up the bodies?” Finn asks.

    “Some of the Lee’s will take care of it,” Tommy replies. “Casualties were light this evening.”

  “I think that’s a cause for some fucking celebration!” John hollers, slapping his hand against the counter. “You’re a bit slow on it today, love. Where’s my fucking drink?”

    “Give them a bloody chance,” Finn hisses.

    You grit your teeth, handing Arthur his drink before you nod your head at John. “Sorry Mr Shelby.”

    “Whatever. Just get me a whiskey. And don’t be stingy with it, alright? I’m in a good mood tonight.”

    You do as asked, pouring a glass half full of whiskey and sliding it over the counter. You make one for Tommy, as well, even though the boss didn’t ask; he’s got his head down, staring at some pages he has now scattered across the bar, taking little to no care about the other inhabitants spread out across it. You give Mr O’Neil a pleasant, apologetic smile, and he nods because he understands perfectly well why you can’t move them; they’re the Shelby boys. They’ll sooner take their fingers off one by one before taking orders from a simple barmaid.

    “What’s that you’ve got there, Finn?” John asks.

    “Water. Don’t touch it.”

    You turn. John is glaring at Finn’s glass of water like it has just offended his ancestors, one eyebrow raised, his lips quirked in an amused smile that tells you he is seconds away from taking the piss out of his youngest brother. You hang back, watching the scene unfold in the way you’ve mastered over the past few months - looking, but not making it obvious you’re listening. 

     “Water,” John repeats, jostling Arthur’s arm. Arthur is laughing, has the decency to cover it with his own whiskey glass. “You’re on the water, are you? When’s the baby due, then?”

    “Fuck off, John.”

   John slaps the back of Finn’s head. “I’d sooner drink my own piss than touch that stuff.”

    “Don’t let me stop you.”

    John laughs. “Oooh, he’s got a mouth on him tonight, hasn’t he?”

    “The water makes him loosen up,” Arthur replies, before his eyes shoot to your own. “Or maybe it’s the barmaid. Tell me, Finn - is their mouth any good?”

    Your eyes pop open, heat rising to your cheeks. You’ve always known the Shelby brothers to have absolutely no filter, but it’s very rare you’re behind the comments they fire. You fold your arms over your chest, resisting the urge to tell Arthur to go to hell; you’ll leave that to Finn, who now shakes his head and says, “For fuck sake, can you two just mind your own business for once?”

    John wraps an arm around Finn’s shoulder and purrs in his ear. “You are our business, little brother. I’m proud you’re getting your balls drained.”

    Finn’s cheeks are coloured red by now. He keeps his eyes on the countertop, fingers moulding together to the point where there is a red mark beaming from where he rubs his thumb back and forth. “It’s not like that. Neither of you have a clue what you’re on about.”

    John’s eyes snap up. You look away, running your fingers along the glass cabinet in any attempt to keep up the facade of not caring. “Aah. They’re hard-to-get, are they? Do you forget you’re a Shelby? You can have anyone you want.”

     “I don’t want anyone.”

    You bite your lip, turning your back on them. 

    John laughs. “Right. Well, when the hormones finally hit and you start getting blue-balls, just keep in mind that we run this place. We’ll get you sorted.”

     Finn doesn’t reply. Part of you is glad he hasn’t, because his response would only lead to further discussion into something you certainly do not want discussed; John and Arthur continue their celebrations throughout the night, requesting more and more drinks, making more and more crude jokes. Tommy laughs along with them sometimes, but he can handle his drink much better than they can. Every now and then you will look over to the Shelby table, note Finn’s uncomfortable demeanour, before catching Tommy’s eye. It startles you every time, and you never keep the eye contact long enough to figure out what he wants - just long enough to acknowledge that it’s not an accident. He’s analysing you.

    When it comes to Tommy Shelby, that can’t be good.

    ----

     The light is dim in your flat.

     The bulb is on it’s way out, and you know that. If you hold off buying another one for any longer, you will be left shrouded in darkness for the evenings - and you’re not home during the day any more. Nonetheless, you pretend it’s fine when you get home. Another day spent dealing with drunken idiots, though Finn didn’t show up tonight, which made the night a little bit worse. 

     You turn on the record player, put it on it’s softest volume before you tug your robe from your shoulders and step into the bath. There is a cup of tea sitting on the desk beside you. The curtains are closed, your bed awaiting your arrival. You are determined to relax tonight. You think you deserve it.

     You don’t wash yourself. Instead, you spend the time just staring up at the ceiling, a cigarette between your fingers. You trace the patterns indented in the roof, notice the damp spots that will soon make you cough if you don’t take care of them - yet another maintenance issue to add to the ever-growing list. You don’t even know where to start; the idea of going out after work to buy light bulbs, or ventilation, or a new set of curtains - it’s daunting when you’ve seen what these streets can be like. In the day time, perhaps it’s not so bad. People walk around Small Heath in the day light all the time, but you’re always working when the sun is out; the only time you can go out is at night, and you’re not stupid enough to risk that.

    You close your eyes, sliding lower beneath the warm water. Your feet pop up over the edge of the basin, and you wiggle your toes against the cool air that attacks them, a direct contrast to the bubble-less water you’re currently soaking in. You want to stay there until your fingers are wrinkled, until the water is cold and there is no pleasure to be taken from it any longer. 

    You want to disappear beneath the water forever, never resurface. Not dead, but not present, either. 

     These thoughts get to you sometimes. Ever since leaving London, they appear at the most random of moments; you wouldn’t describe yourself as a very sad person. You’ve struggled, and you are struggling, but life is good. For the first time ever, you have a steady wage, and you can afford things. For the first time ever, you have friends you can genuinely joke around with, regulars at The Garrison who have already sworn to protect you with their life purely because you know just the amount of tonic water to top their whiskey with.

    But anyone will agree - disappearing forever is much easier than dealing with life. It doesn’t matter how happy you are. 

     These thoughts are cut off by a knock at your door. You immediately bolt upright, water sloshing over the side of the bath. Your eyes dart to the door, mouth opening, words of welcome on the tip of your tongue, but they are blocked by the anxiety coursing through you right now.

    And then, “Y/N? Open up.”

    Your throat closes over, the familiar voice of Thomas Shelby startling you into action. You don’t waste time pondering on why the fuck he’s decided to visit you. You just hop out of the bath, snatch your robe and tug it over your shoulders before opening the door. You grip the front of your robe with one hand, your other hand curled protectively against your chest.

    Because there he is. The most feared man in Small Heath. The most feared man in Birmingham. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was the most feared man in the United Kingdom.

    He’s not a tall man, but his personality gives him a good foot in height, in your eyes. With his shoulders drawn back and his daunting, ice-cold stare, the fact that most men are taller than him does not factor in on the fear he emits from people. He’s wearing a nice suit - as per usual - and there is very little expression on his face. His eyes roam your form for a second before he sighs and says, “Bad time?”

    “Yes.”

   He pushes into the house, nudging you out of the way with nothing more than a clip of his shoulder against your own. “That’s a shame. Have you got whiskey?”

    You swallow, slowly closing the door behind him. The music still plays softly in the background. Tommy rummages through the tea set-up you have laid out, frowning when he realises you don’t have any alcohol for him to consume.

    “I have tea,” you reply, hovering by the door in case you need to make a run for it. He’s trying not to be threatening, but the outline of a pistol is so prominent against his waistcoat. 

    Tommy glances at you. “I’ll have tea then.”

   You gesture towards the tray. “It’s all there.”

   “I pay you to pour my drinks.”

   You tap your empty wrist. “Off the clock, Mr Shelby. Pour your own drink, or dehydrate for all I care.” You fold your arms. “What are you doing here?”

    Tommy sighs, pouring himself a cup of tea - no milk, no sugar. “I’m here on behalf of my brother - young Finn.”

    Your heart stops for a brief moment. “Finn sent you?”

   “No.” He takes a long, loud sip of his drink. “Finn seems to have become quite. . . mute when it comes to matters concerning you.”

     “You shouldn’t tease him, you know. He’s a nice boy.”

   “He’s a Shelby. None of us are nice.” Tommy sits down, runs his fingers along the broken curtains behind him. “He’s just nice to you, which is why I’m here.”

    You raise a brow. 

    Tommy looks over at you, shakes his head when he sees your confused expression. “You’re aware of the work Finn is involved in, yes?”

    You don’t reply. It’s response enough.

    “Good,” says Tommy. “Then you’ll know the risk you’re taking by getting involved with him.”

  Your eyes widen. “Mr Shelby-”

   “Call me Tommy.”

   “Mr Shelby, Finn and I aren’t involved. We talk when he comes to The Garrison, but it’s nothing more than that. I talk to everyone that comes to The Garrison.”

  Tommy takes another long, loud sip of his tea. You want to slam the entire tea kettle into his fucking skull. 

    He sighs, content, when he finally sets the cup down. “I have a question, Y/N.” He flicks his eyes up. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid?”

    You freeze. “What?”

    “Finn doesn’t just talk to people. He knows his own business just as well as anyone else - he knows it can never just be talking when it comes to people outside the Peaky Blinders. Our enemies will find his weak spots, and they will use that against him. I’m afraid, Y/N, you are definitely one of his weak spots.”

    Your heart is beating so loud, a symphony in your chest. Your palms are sweating, and suddenly the heat from the steam is overwhelming. You swipe a hand over your forehead, biting your lower lip when you say, “No one has come to hurt me if that’s what you’re worried about. Nobody will come to hurt me, because I’m the fucking barmaid. I’m not your little brothers play thing.”

    Tommy smiles. Smiles, like he’s amused. “I never said you were. In fact, I think Finn sees you as everything but a play-thing. He’s always been the naive one of us - I think he believes in true love.”

    “And do you not, Thomas Shelby? You had a wife once, no?”

   Tommys smile fades, replaced by that familiar deadly look that - somehow - you’re much more comfortable looking at. When Thomas Shelby is smiling, he’s unpredictable. At least you’re used to his scowl.  

     He bites the inside of his lip and looks into his tea cup. “I came here to tell you that - for your own safety - you need to stay away from him. Break his heart. Do whatever it takes, because the business we’re involved in right now is no place for you. And you will get involved if this little thing with Finn continues.”

    “How many times do I have to tell you? There’s nothing between me and Finn. You’re wasting your time.”

    Tommy slowly stands up, setting his cup on the side. He glances at the bath water, the dim lamp turned on in the corner, the broken curtains. He purses his lips, points to the ceiling and says, “I’ll send someone over in the morning to fix some things in here.”

    “I don’t need your charity.”

   “No.” He starts towards the door. You move out of his way, keeping your eyes trained on the floor when he leans in and says, softly, “But this place needs to look decent if I want it taken over when the Russians get rid of you.”

    ----

     Every person walking through the door is an enemy.

    That’s the power Thomas Shelby has. He twists your brain. He puts you on edge. He makes every person a threat.

    Your hands tremble when you pass the glass across the counter. Your voice shakes when you laugh at the inappropriate joke told by the man you’ve seen everyday for the past three months - he’s an alcoholic, you’re pretty sure, and you sometimes feel bad for being the person serving him his addiction, but right now, you look into his eyes and you see nothing but motive, motive, motive.

    He wants to kill you. The person over at that table wants to kill you. 

    Thomas Shelby probably sent them. A warning. A way for you to understand he isn’t messing around. Whatever you and Finn have - it needs to stop before things get out of hand.

    You inhale deeply, leaning your head against the glasses case. Behind you, the pub is thick with people, the evening crowd bustling through the doors at speeds you can’t keep up with. It’s strange, really; you’ve been doing this job for months now, and never before have you lacked. You’re always on your toes, skilled in talking to people, providing drinks right on time. But today, things are different. You can’t concentrate. You have to ask people to repeat their orders.

     Nothing is right. Everyone is an enemy. 

    “And what the fuck has got into you this evening?”

    You close your eyes, Isaiah’s voice making you tense. “Is Finn with you?” 

    “No. Little Boy Shelby had a family meeting to go to. Left us both for dead.” Isaiah racks his knuckles against the counter. “You didn’t answer my question.”

    You turn. Isaiah sits at the bar, that jovial smile on his face. As soon as your eyes meet his, however, it morphs, shaping into something close to concern. He’s a Peaky Blinder, though, so you aren’t really sure what way to take it.

    You hollow out your cheeks, closing the gap between you and him. You lean against the counter, ducking your head down. “Thomas fucking Shelby.”

    Isaiah sighs, placing a hand on the back of your neck. “What’s he done now?”

    “Nothing. He’s done. . . Well, he’s done what he always bloody does.” You look up, around, shrink back down against the counter. Lowering your voice, you say, “You didn’t exactly go into detail about how bad this whole Russian deal is.”

    Isaiah pulls back. “Tommy was talking about the Russians?”

   “Tommy was talking about me and Finn.”

    “Right. . . And that has to do with the Russians, how?”

    You raise a brow. Isaiah examines your face for a second before the realisation dawns on him; he pulls back, that cheeky smile forming on his face again. You roll your eyes, grabbing his wrist to yank him forward.

    “He’s talking shit, Isaiah. You and me both know that Finn and I are just mates.”

    Isaiah scoffs low in his throat. You wack him round the ear.

   “We are!”

    “Maybe you think that,” Isaiah argues. “But Finn has a special place in his cold dead heart for you.”

    You shake your head; you’ve heard it all before, and it still doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t seem real. Finn is a Shelby boy through-and-through. Shelby boys don’t fall in love with barmaids. Shelby boys don’t fall in love at all.

    But then you remember Grace. Sweet, kind, understanding Grace who managed to sweep Thomas Shelby off his feet with nothing more than a purring accent and an attitude. She was close to the complete opposite of Thomas Shelby, and yet she had his heart in her grasp.

    But you’re not like that. You’re not another Grace. Whatever she had, you don’t have it.

    “Yeah, well,” you mutter, pulling away from Isaiah. “You’re no fucking help, are you?”

    “I’m telling you the truth. What did Tommy say to you?”

   “Is that any of your business?”

    Isaiah rolls his eyes. “Don’t get bitchy with me now. You’re the one looking like the fucking mafia have their guns to the back of your head.”

     “Keep your voice down!”

  “Or what?” Isaiah swivels round in his chair, doing a dramatic overview of the crowded pub. You squeeze your eyes closed, raking hands through hair matted from long hours trapped in a room full of smoking alcoholics. 

    Isaiah turns back to you, one eyebrow raised. “Y/N, what has Tommy got you so afraid of?”

    Opening your eyes, you regard him with what you hope is a brave look; you don’t want to make your fear obvious, but it is, because it’s there and you can’t push it away. Thomas Shelby’s voice is playing on a continuous loop in your brain, the warning that once meant nothing to you only just now reaching its full potential in your head.

     “He’s just being Thomas Shelby,” you mumble. “You know how he is.”

    Isaiah opens his mouth to say something more, but is cut off when Charlie pokes his head round the door. “Oi, Y/N. We need some more rum from the back room.”

    You scowl. “I’m a bit busy out front, Charlie-”

    “I’ll take over. I hate the smell of that fucking stuff.”

   You roll your eyes, nod a quick goodbye to Isaiah before pushing away from the counter and heading into the back room of the pub. It’s only small, filled to the brim with multiple wooden containers that hold all types of beer and alcohol. The stench of bleach fills your nostrils, and you succumb to pulling your shirt over your nose to block it out.

       Pushing crates of alcohol out of the road, you make your way to the back of the room where you know the rum is stored. You quietly curse Charlie under your breath, curse Thomas Shelby, and the Russians and everyone who is currently making your life a complete misery, because there’s just something about finally being alone that gives room to all the thoughts you’ve been trying to avoid.

     Clink.

    You freeze.

    The echo sends goosebumps up your arms. Your hands still against the wood of a single crate, fingers curling. The air grows still, and suddenly you are made well aware of the gaze burning into the back of your neck.

   It is replaced by the cold kiss of metal.

    You inhale sharply, bolting up straight but you don’t dare move. You stay rooted there, trying desperately to gather some coherent thoughts that will help you out of this situation, but nothing besides white noise comes to the surface. You’re going to die. Tommy was right. The Russians have pinpointed you, and there’s no going back now.

     “You didn’t even scream,” a cold Russian accent purrs. It’s low, so close to your ear. You nearly jump with the unexpected proximity, but it’s as if the gun has pinned you down. “I don’t know why I expected any different - the Shelby boys like the brave ones, yes?”

     “I’m just the barmaid.” Your voice shakes. At this point, you don’t even care.

    Your captor laughs. “Oh sweetie, I know. And I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

   “It doesn’t. You’re wasting your time. I don’t have any information-”

    “Who told you I’m looking for information?”

   You clench your teeth, squeezing your eyes closed. “What else could you possibly want from me?”

    It’s quiet for a split second. The air is suffocating. The walls are drawing impossibly closer, and you’re certain you’re going to faint with the sudden onslaught of unexplainable heat rushing to your face. 

    The Russian leans in. His lips are inches from your ear, barely brushing the lobe when he says, “Loved ones make fine bait, don’t you agree?”

    His question goes unanswered when he slams the gun into the back of your head, and the darkness pours in.

    ----

     The ropes have already done more damage than you’re comfortable with.

    Indents in your wrist. A bloody indent in the back of your head. Throat hoarse from yelling, crying out for a mercy you know you will not get; there is only one way this can end. Finn will come barrelling through that door with his band of merry men, and you will be dragged from these pits through gunfire and death.

    Or you’ll get killed.

    Neither of the options are appealing. You don’t want Finn throwing himself into danger, but in the same breath, you don’t want to never see him again. You have things you want to say to him. You have things you need to say to him, because if you’re about to die, you don’t want to die with this weight on your shoulders.

     Blood drips from the cut above your eyebrow. You blink it away, throwing your head back to let out another strangled cry for attention; so far, the only people who have entered your cell are the people assigned to injure you - only little cuts; a slit above the eyebrow, bending your finger back just a little bit, tugging on a tooth just enough to make you fear them ripping it from your skull entirely.

    It’s a weird form of torture, but it’s certainly working. You feel the pain tenfold when it bombards you few and far between. The cut on your forehead throbs. Your fingers ache with strain. Your gums have already started swelling from the prodding they’ve been given these past few hours.

    Few hours. Time isn’t real any more. You’re locked in a windowless room with only a metal table and a single chair placed within it. The world could be burning outside, and you would be none the wiser.

    The door opens again. A tall, grey-haired man in a lab coat walks in, smiling  with a set of teeth too perfect for the head they’re moulded in. His steps are sure and professional - he’s done this before. He probably thrives off it.

     “How are you?” is the first thing he asks.

    You spit blood on the concrete.

    He nods, kneeling down beside your chair to double check the bindings. His fingers are warm against your cold wrists, and you silently curse the sudden desire for him to just wrap them around your own and never leave - the cold is eating you alive. This tiny taste of warmth makes you crazy.

     “Another hour has passed,” he explains. “It seems we might be forced to take things into high gear.”

    Your eyes snap up. You say nothing, but the question glows in your eyes nonetheless.

    The man nods like you’ve replied. “We’re going to start sending the letters out. Details. And we’re not known for being liars, so we’re going to have to rough you up a little bit more to really make the Shelby boys quake, yes?”

    You stare at him. You hate him. You hate him, and he’s smiling, and you would do anything for the opportunity to reach over and claw those glowing eyes from his fucking skull.

    He smiles again. “Don’t worry. The sooner your boy comes through that door, the sooner this can all stop.” He slowly stands up straight. “Let’s just hope he gets here before the blood loss gets too much, yes?”

     “Why don’t you just kill me?”

   You hadn’t even realised that was a thought you were having; it seems so desperate, so close to the edge of giving up that it feels wrong to even think. But your head is throbbing. Your mind is numb. For the first time in your life, death doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

    The Russian’s smile slips. He tilts his head to the side, regarding you with beady eyes the colour of cracked pottery. “Don’t get it twisted, little one. We don’t enjoy doing this - but we have business.”

    “Oh, fuck you! That’s your excuse?”

    “That’s the truth.” He tugs on your bindings, forcing them deeper into your cold flesh. You squeeze your eyes closed, a trickle of blood tracing its way down your hand. “We don’t enjoy doing this, Y/N, but if you keep this up, you’ll definitely make it easier.”

     You shake your head. “I told your man back at The Garrison that this is a waste of time, and it is. The Peaky Blinders don’t give a fuck about me - they never have. They’ll see I’ve disappeared and put up a vacancy for a new barmaid. That’s all the attention they’ll give me.”

    “Oh, but we both know that’s a lie. Young Finn Shelby has already taken an interest in you. He’s already given you much more attention than what you describe.”

     “Finn likes a chat. So does any drunkard on a Saturday night.”

    And then the first blow hits.

    Unexpected, uncalled for. You don’t have time to beg for mercy before his wrinkled fist is smashing into your nose, your head crashing against the wall behind you, blood immediately clogging your nostrils. The noise that escapes your mouth is guttural, gargled from the blood that rises in the back of your throat; he caught your lip, too. 

    “I don’t like liars.” He steps back, rolls up his white sleeves. That smile is gone from his face, replaced by an angered scowl. “Lying will get you nowhere here, little one. It’s only going to make you look like a fool.”

    You try saying something, but blood pools over your lips and the words are caught within the platelets, drowned beneath a pained grunt.

     “Sometimes it’s just easier to know you’re place,” he continues. “Feel free to scream if you so wish, but that was the last lie I want to hear from you today, do you understand?”

    You spit blood onto the concrete again. “Fuck you.”

    He drags the knife from his sleeve.

    ----

    “The letter has been sent. They should receive it within the next half hour.”

    The man - Igor, you’ve learned - nods. Still, his sleeves are rolled to the elbows. Your blood mats the dark hairs running along his arms. His smile has returned.

    He’s got what he wanted.

    You can’t lift your head. Blood dribbles from your swollen lips. Two fingers on your left hand have been snapped for no reason other than they are bone, and Igor is merciless. Cuts and bruises dot your face, your body. Your shirt is ripped, sliced from the blade currently sitting idle in Igor’s hand. He’s taken a break, the letter has been written, and the Peaky Blinders will soon hear word of your stupidity.

    Tommy will read the letter and laugh. You know he will. He’ll look at the details, and he’ll imagine your bruised and battered body, and he’s going to say what Thomas Shelby always finds pleasure in saying: “I was right.”

    And he was. The little bastard was right the entire time.

    “It takes an army, you know,” says Igor, waving his little helper off. The door slamming closed behind him makes you jump. “To do this, to really rile us up to this point. It takes an army.”

    He approaches you slowly. His heels click off the concrete, silenced only when he kneels beside you. The stench of his breath fills your senses, a mix of smoke and alcohol - something you’re all too familiar with.

    “You must realise how far Thomas Shelby and his men have pushed us,” Igor continues. “We protect our own. You understand that, don’t you?”

    You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

    Igor runs his thumb along your swollen bottom lip, examines the blood before wiping it on his unstained handkerchief, pulled from the inside pocket of his blood stained lab coat. “I wish to be friends with you when this all ends.”

    You squeeze your eyes closed.

    “You lied to me a few times, but I can get past that. As I said before, Y/N, it takes an army to rile us up - not a few tales told in the moment. So I hope when this is all through, you can look past the corpse of your lover and see our side of things.”

    Your head snaps up. Pain bounces through your skull, but you push past it to say, “Corpse?”

    Igor smiles, slow and thin. “Finn is a Peaky Blinder.” Not a question, because Igor has done his research. “They must all go, Y/N. All of them. No matter how innocent they seem.”

    “Please don’t.”

    “I will not argue this point with you.” He stands up, brushing imaginary lint off his coat, as if it’s not covered in blood. “I’ll leave you to rest until we get some kind of response.”

    “If you get a response,” you spit. “I told you-”

    “We’re not wasting our time,” Igor says. “Having you in our company will never be a waste of time.” 

    He offers you one final grin, one final chance to tell him you understand, before he turns on his heel and walks out the door.

---

    In the moments before death, you may take a moment to look back upon the life cut short.

    Regrets, pleasures, happiness - all of it will come rushing back to you in a single, fatal blow. Faces of loved ones will flash through your mind, all smiles and scowls and inside jokes. Their voices will echo. The feel of their hands against your skin will tingle against the flesh now rotting away as death takes its patient, steady strides towards you.

     This moment can be seen as a blessing or a curse. A good farewell, or a waste of time. 

     You sit with your head hung, blood matted hair falling against your blood stained cheeks. Your head thuds, but not enough to push the image of his face away.

     Finn Shelby was never meant to be the last person you ever thought about, but you’re almost certain that is how it’s going to end up.

     His smile, always timid because he’s a Shelby and Shelby boys aren’t meant to smile. You remember sitting behind that bar, trying desperately to find something that amused him, some inside joke the two of you could share together - just to see him smile. Just to see him break the hard mould his brothers have always set him in.

     You recall him walking through the doors of The Garrison almost every evening. Sometimes he would be alone. Sometimes he would have Isaiah with him, or some other threatening member of his brothers motley crew; it didn’t matter who accompanied him, though. His eyes always found yours, his stride always led to you, his final goodbye for the night was always pressed into your hand for you to take to bed. 

    And you always claimed you didn’t love him. It was easier that way. You have an idea that most people who find themselves feeling things for any of the Shelby boys will much rather live in denial than admit their feelings. That was the mindset you took; it’s safer to ignore them. It’s safer to pretend you just care for Finn as a friend might care for a friend.

     But you’re dying. There’s no reason to deny anything any more. 

    Your head rolls back, cheek pressed against your shoulder. In the distance, you can hear the Russians talking. They stand outside the door, discussing things in a language you do not know, making decisions about a life slipping away. One of them bites into an apple, and they make it so loud and so obvious, and your stomach starts growling in response.

    You won’t be able to eat anyway. Not when everything will taste like your own blood.

    You settle your mind on the sound of Finn’s voice. It blocks out everything else, giving you a nice distraction to latch onto until things end. Your wrists ache, and your body is going numb, but in the back of your mind, Finn is telling you it’s all going to be alright, promising a life beyond this moment. You close your eyes, let your head fall to your chest-

    And then the gunshots sound.

    A noise once familiar now jolts you upright. Your heart spirals, thumping against your rib cage in a manner close to dangerous. People are yelling. In two seconds flat, the calm and quiet of wherever the fuck you are is shattered.

    “Shit,” you whisper through swollen lips and blood. “Shit, shit, shit.”

    Something has happened. The Peaky Blinders, maybe, but your brain goes directly for the worst case scenario - it’s not them. They don’t care about you. This is the Russians. Maybe they’ve got impatient. They might be wiping each other out. You don’t know. You’ve never dealt with this kind of thing before.

    You stir in your seat, ignoring the burning pain flaring in your wounded wrists. The ropes are slippery, the blood curling around the fibres, and you can feel them shifting, but you’re too weak to slip them off. You thrash back and forth, biting back the scream of frustration just seconds before the chair tips to the side, dragging you with it.

    You cry out, bruises and scrapes being knocked against the cold concrete. Black dots burst behind your eyes, and you’re certain this is it. These black dots are going to overwhelm you, take over everything until that pretty bright light appears in the distance, an angel coming to take you home.

     But you don’t want to die. No part of you wants to die. The pain isn’t bad enough. The circumstances aren’t scary enough for you to crave death; not when the memories you were pondering on before are so strong, so bright, everything you want and aren’t willing to give up.

     You curl your knees into your chest, squeezing your eyes closed to block out the sound of the gun shots. You remember all those evenings in The Garrison, simply rolling your eyes when John or Arthur or Tommy would come skidding through the front doors, gunshots following close behind. Back then, in that setting, it was so normal. It was an everyday occurrence. In Small Heath, people are meant to die. Wars are meant to be fought. Enemies are meant to be-

     “Y/N?”

    Your eyes pop open. A sob falls from your lips. You’re trembling.

   “Finn!” you cry out. “Finn!” 

    The door is thrown open, locks wasted, security obliterated. In the hallway, people yell and scream, and gunshots are fired left, right and centre, but suddenly, all of it is just background noise. 

   Finn is here. He slides to his knees, dropping the gun that is far too big for him. He pulls the strap away from his shoulder, throws it to the side before he grabs his knife and cuts into the ropes binding your wrist to the chair. You gasp as soon as you’re free, crawling to your knees only to fall directly into his already-open arms.

     You sob into his shoulder. Your body aches. The world is tilting, and blood is pouring from a slit in your eyebrow, right down the side of your face. Finn holds you close, whispers in your ear words that you cannot hear. You just focus on his voice, the lull of it, how each syllable shakes as it passes his lips.

    He pulls away, holds you at arms length. His eyes scan your face, thumbs tracing a line down the side of it. His fingers pull away bloody, and at the sight of it, his own skin pales.

    “You have to get out of here,” he says. “You have to get out of here now.”

    He scrambles up, dragging you with him. You wince, but you know you have no other choice; you need to move fast or risk getting shot, wasting this second chance you’ve so mercifully been given. 

    He drags you towards the door, where the gunshots are loud and the smell of death is pungent. You wince, letting Finn drag you into the blood smeared hallways-

    Where he passes you right to Isaiah.

    You flinch away, neck twisting round just in time to catch the moment Finn starts walking in the other direction. It’s confusion at first, followed by anger, followed by panic that sees you reaching out and grabbing his wrist before he can get very far.

    He ducks his head down, gun dangling around his neck. “Let me go, Y/N.”

   “No. You’re coming with me. You’re getting out of here, too.”

    “They nearly killed you.” He turns, running his eyes over your injured form. You’re slouched against Isaiah, one eye swollen, but not enough to shield your obvious hesitance at letting Finn go in there on his own. “I’m the one who’s pulling the trigger this time. I told Tommy that when we walked in.”

    “You don’t have to - Finn, you don’t have to do any of that. Leave it to Tommy.”

  “I told him this,” Isaiah says. “The shithead didn’t listen.”

  Finn whirls round, pointing a finger right in Isaiah’s face. “And you can shut the fuck up, alright? These men came for me. They came for my loved ones - I’ll be the one to sort them out, and that’s the end of it.” He pushes Isaiah. You stumble to the side, scrambling for his wrist, but Finn pulls away before you can get a hold on him again. “Get them out of here. I’ll meet you back at The Garrison.”

   “Yes boss,” Isaiah grunts. He starts pulling you away. You start yelling, thrashing around in his grip as much as your injured limbs will allow, but there’s no point to it. Finn turns on his heel and starts down the hallway, marching towards the area where the gunfire is still going off, where blood is still being spilled, where there is every risk he might be added to the long list of corpses found later on.

    You let Isaiah drag you from the building, because it’s all you really can do right now. Your body is giving in, the pain coming back in full force when he drags you out of the building and into the sunlight. You fall to the side as soon as Isaiah lets go of your arm, stumbling in the grass with a gasp. You grip your arm, curling fingers along the slitted knife wounds running the length of your flesh.

    Isaiah drops to his knees beside you. “What did they do to you?”

    “You’re an idiot,” you choke out through a wince. “A fucking idiot! You let him go back in there on his own!”

    Isaiah pulls back, eyes wide in disbelief. “You’re blaming me? He’s a Shelby, Y/N! A stubborn bastard.”

    You groan, shaking your head. “We need to go back. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know how dangerous they are-” You stumble to your feet. Isaiah catches you just seconds before you crumble to the floor all over again.

    Tears leak from your swollen eyes, the world spinning. There’s a bed of water just a few feet away, and the sight of it reminds you of your dry mouth. A boat bobs within it, Charlie ready to take you home. You meet his eyes and he waves, but there is none of his usual enthusiasm; he just looks startled, eyes wide as he takes in your battered form.

    Isaiah tugs on your arm, drawing your attention back to him. “Finn will kill me if I don’t get you back home in one piece, love. So do me a solid, yeah? Just this once.”

    You close your eyes. “I don’t think - I don���t think I have much of a choice.”

  “What are you - ay, no. Open your eyes, Y/N. Stay with me!”

    But it’s too late. The world is spinning. The gunshots echo inside a head that suddenly feels much too heavy for your shoulders. It falls against Isaiah’s shoulders, and then he starts yelling, hands scooping you up. He barrels across the grass towards the boat, Charlie yelling out questions you cannot even begin to comprehend. Isaiah is yelling something back, voice hectic, but again, it slips through one ear and out the other.

     It’s a relief when the darkness finally settles in.

    ----

    Your body aches. 

   Bones out of place, blood pooling in the back of your mouth, the taste of ash and death licked from your teeth. Memories cling to the surface, perched on the shock of still being alive.

    The hospital room is lit only by a tiny lantern set upon the table beside your bed. In the air, there is a single cloud of grey, swirling from the soft lips of Thomas Shelby to the roof high above your head. 

     The mob boss sits beside you, legs folded at the knee, eyes trained on a magazine. Between his lips is a cigarette that he now takes a heavy puff from, draining the life from it in the way you’re certain he has drained the life from so many human beings.

    You should be intimidated, demanding answers to a situation you don’t even really want to ponder right now. But instead, you glance over, swiping a lazy hand across your eyes. Thomas flicks his own eyes up, acknowledges your rousing state and goes back to his reading.

     “You’re not the right Shelby.”

    “I’m afraid you have to go through me before I can put you through to Finn.”

   “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

    He looks at you then. Ice blue eyes carved into a face of pure steel; it’s a lie. His entire expression is a lie, something to throw you off balance. He smiles, and he tilts his head, and he hardly ever raises his voice, but behind that casual demeanour is a demon - a demon you’re growing to respect.

    “They told Finn you might not make it,” he says. 

    Your heart stutters. “Good.”

    “But you’re alive.”

   “Also good.”

    “You should have listened to me, Y/N. You’ve dug yourself too deep into this to crawl out now.”

    You shrug. It’s a lazy gesture, one that certainly does not encompass the real emotions clawing to the surface right now. The world is coming back into view. Recollections of what happened are prying, trying to get you to give them an attention you really cannot afford to give them at this moment.

     Tommy sighs, setting the magazine aside. He even has the decency to quash his cigarette in the ashtray before he leans forward, elbows pressed into his knee. “Finn wants to see you.”

     “He made it out alive then?”

  “Did you think otherwise?”

  You tap your temple. “I was a little too out of it to be focusing on Finn Shelby.” A lie, but you don’t need to tell Tommy that.

    Because he probably already knows.

    “I want to see him, too,” you reply, voice quiet. “I just - I want to make sure he’s okay.”

   Tommy tilts his head. “He’s not in this hospital beside you.”

   “Where is he then? Bleeding out back at the Shelby headquarters? Left to die because he didn’t listen to his all-mighty older brother?”

    Tommy doesn’t even flinch at your tone of voice. He simply plucks a second cigarette from the tin case in his pocket and hands it to you; you take it, do not place it to your lips. “I didn’t make a mistake in telling you to stay away from Finn. Clearly, my warning was made with sense. None of this would have happened if you listened to me.”

    “No, Tommy,” you say. “None of this would have happened if you didn’t get involved with the Russians in the first place.”

  And for the first time, Tommy looks genuinely shocked. His eyebrows shoot up for only a single second, his lips parting before he snaps them closed and turns away, glancing at the door of the hospital. His jaw clenches, Adams apple bobbing as he swallows down whatever words of hostility he had set out for you.

    And then, his voice low, “I don’t know what power you have over Finn, but he won’t listen to me. Nothing I say - nothing I do - will make him see sense. He wants to see you.”

    “And I want to see him. Where is he?”

    “Back home. He doesn’t know I’m here.” Tommy looks up. “He thinks you’re dying, Y/N. We’ve made an effort to keep him away.”

     “I appreciate the sentiment, Thomas, but it isn’t needed. I’m alive. I’m - I’m okay.” You place your hands on your ribs, bruised and battered, halfway to broken. “Let me see him.”

      “When you’re healed,” Tommy replies. He starts to slowly stand, all long legs and expensive suits. He brushes a hand through his hair before placing his flat cap back on his head, and all you can do is watch his gracious movements when he plucks your unlit cigarette from your fingers, places it in his own mouth and heads towards the door.

    “Tommy,” you bark, stopping him in his tracks. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t reply, but the acknowledgement is enough for you to continue. “You were right. It’s my relationship with Finn that threw us in the shit. But just ‘cause you’re right, doesn’t make my relationship with Finn wrong.”

     His fingers curl around the cigarette tin in his hand. For a second you think he might humour you, respect you enough to turn and give you some kind of response, but he does no such thing. He simply starts walking again, slamming the door closed behind him.

    ----

    Being out in Small Heath at night is dangerous. It was once an action you never would have even considered.

   Now, however, with your battle scars throbbing and your mind a blur of painkillers and hostile memories, you don’t care. You pull your knees into your chest, leaning on the wall of the small building you call home. The children no longer roam the streets; the carriages have been parked up for the night. Above you, the moon blinks, asking you what on earth you think you’re doing sitting in the open like this, when the rapists and murderers are at their optimum.

    You take a sip of your tea. Well, Mr Moon. I don’t care.

    Tommy kept his word, of course; stumbling into your house for the first time in two days, the first thing brought to your notice was the new bulb in your lamp and the new curtains set up against the window. The roof was painted a fresh white over the course of your absence; Tommy had left a single note on the mantelpiece: “Sleep well.”

    What it means, you don’t know, because it obviously isn’t just a casual, light hearted message to welcome you back. Thomas Shelby isn’t like that.

   Through the silence, it is easy to hear the footsteps sidling up beside you.

   In the darkness, you stiffen, hands curling round your mug. You don’t look up to see the persons face, but a single glance to the left reveals all; you would recognise those polished boots anywhere. Boots that should be stained by dirt and blood and gore remain clean, because Finn is a Shelby, and that’s what Shelby’s do.

     “You should be inside,” he says.

    You press the cup to your chest, the warmth scorching your collar bone in a most delicious way. “I couldn’t sleep.” You look up, breath leaving you as soon as you see him. Even the shadows do little to mask the face you’ve fallen in love with - and god, you’ve fallen in love. Months of trying to deny it, of telling people you and Finn are friends and only friends has come crashing down with the experiences of the past few days. He stands above you now, hands tucked in his pockets, his hair a little bit messier than usual. He’s staring down at you, eyes glittering under the lanterns lining the street above your head.

    You tap the concrete beside you. “Sit?”

    He lowers himself to a squat, not quite sitting but he’s close enough to you now that you can smell the mint leaves on his breath. 

    “How have you been, Finn?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

    He glances at you, chews his bottom lip. “I thought you were dead. They told me you were dead.”

   “Who?”

  “Everyone.” He rubs his knuckles along his upper lip, a rare demonstration of nerves. “It fucked me up. Fucked my brain up.”

    “I could have died.”

   “But you didn’t.”

    You close your eyes, tilting your head back just a little bit. When you speak, it’s like you’re addressing the moon. “No. I didn’t. Because you stupid fuckers came and helped me.”

    Finn scoffs. You look at him, one eyebrow raised. You can feel the stitches in your forehead pulling with the movement before Finn reaches over and runs his thumb along the seam, as if flattening the scowl. 

     “I’m offended you thought I’d just lounge about on my arse all day whilst you were in danger.”

    You swat his hand away, tea nearly spilling over the lip of your mug with the action. “You could have been killed, Finn. Killed. Do you know how long Thomas would have let me live if you got yourself murdered whilst trying to save me?”

   Finn rolls his eyes. “Don’t even talk about Tommy. He-”

   “A whole zero seconds,” you cut in. “He would have shot me on the fucking spot.”

    Finn lowers himself to the curb completely, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “He wouldn’t waste bullets like that.”

    You slap his arm.

   Finn throws his head back, laughing. His smile is so bright, momentarily letting you forget about the darkness you are both encompassed in, the world of danger you stand upon. For him, it is willingly. He was born into it and has seen no reason to leave. For you, the choice was made not by your head, but by the stupid thing beating in your chest. You’ve fallen in love, and can’t bring yourself to walk away.

    It’s as you’re having these thoughts - these scary, scary thoughts - that Finn reaches over and brushes his thumb against your lower lip. You tense, eyes darting to his own. He’s staring at your mouth, tongue peaking out from appealing lips of his own. 

    You slowly reach up, curling your fingers around his wrist. 

     “I killed them.” His breath fans your face, all mint leaves and truth. “Shot them with my own fucking gun.”

    “Finn…”

    “And it still wasn’t enough.”

    You close your eyes, tilting your head to rest in the palm of his hand. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, tugs you into his side without explanation or awkwardness; you fall into his grip, resting your head against his shoulder as the darkness comes back, and the reality follows suit.

    “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

    His grip tightens. “Don’t.”

    “I don’t want to give you the burden of having to protect me all the time.”

    “It’s not a burden-”

   “Tommy warned me about what it would mean for me to fall in love with you, the danger of it. He told me to stay away.”

    Glancing to the side, you catch sight of Finn’s clenched jaw, fingers on his free hand curling and uncurling. 

    You reach over and touch his wrist. “He wasn’t wrong, Finn.”

    The Shelby boy closes his eyes. “Don’t say that.”

    “I don’t want to hurt you-”

    He stands up, sudden and swift, with the grace only a Shelby boy could truly have. You catch yourself before you tilt, head following his movements. He runs his hands through his hair, jaw clenched and teeth gritted. “You know, Y/N, there’s a reason I didn’t let Tommy handle the Russians on his own.”

   “Finn, keep your voice-”

   “A very good fucking reason.” His eyes burn into your own. “You’re the one person who listens to what I have to say. I felt like you were the only person in the world who saw me as Finn, not just an extension of the fucking family business.” 

    Your heart thunders. “Finn-”

   “You were the one thing I thought I could enjoy on my own, because you can look Tommy in the eye and tell him no. You’ve always been able to do that. You don’t want to hurt me? Then don’t let that fucker get in your head. You can walk away from here now, never talk to me again, but for the love of god, don’t be like everyone else - don’t let Thomas Shelby run your fucking life.”

     You’re standing in two seconds flat, arms thrown around Finn’s shoulders, back and stomach screaming in agony but you don’t care. You kiss him with a ferocity you’ve never known before, drown in the feel of his hands resting on your jaw, his breath mingling with your own, the years of pent up need finally rushing from your system in a single clean swoop.

    Finn kisses you back just as desperately, his fingers resting on your jaw line but not controlling your movements; you’ve taken control. You’ve got your arms slung round his neck and this man wrapped around your little finger, and you sink into him, deeper, deeper, deeper if that’s even possible after the months of denial you forced yourself into.

       You pull away first, shaking your head. “This is so stupid.”

    Finn runs his hands through your hair, voice a whisper. “I love you.”

    You melt against him. He catches you, hands slipping from your hair to your waist where he tugs, pulling you closer against him. “I know this is a bad idea,” you mumble into his neck, “but I can’t leave.”

      “You don’t have to leave. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

    “You can’t promise that.”

   “And I won’t.” He pulls away, holding you at arms length. “But my life is a fucking mess, and you’re the only thing that makes sense, so I’m going to try my fucking hardest.”

     Here he is. Finn Shelby, a member of one of the most feared gangs in England, someone who is meant to grow up to be just as scary, just as intimidating, just as savage as the rest of his family - and yet he holds you like you’re made of glass, nimble fingers cupping your elbows, eyes soft, trained on your mouth as you purse your lips and shake your head.

     You can imagine the destruction this will cause; Polly will have something to say, some insult to throw in your direction because god forbid someone put her boys in any type of danger. Arthur will let you away with nothing. John will curse and kick things and throw a hissy fit. Thomas will just be a danger, a risk you’ll have to look out for.

    You wrap your arms around Finn yet again, hugging him close. He nuzzles his nose in the crook of your neck, sways back and forth just a little bit, like the night breeze has finally taken him hostage. You bury your own head against the side of his, the feel of his skin making it so, so easy to forget about what it is you are really doing.

     “I love you,” you whisper, directly into his ear because you feel like you need to. Right now, with the stars and the moon as witness, you need to tell the truth.

    Finn shudders against you, tightening his hold on your waist. Afraid to let go. Afraid to dive headfirst into a life he once signed up for, but one he has never been prepared for.

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[for-emilia]

Never Too Far Away.

Emilia had always been a bad sleeper. Ever since she was young she’d struggled with her sleep, it was something she became accustomed to. Countless sleepless nights haunted her and became standard but she always knew sleeping next to someone helped send her off to sleep better than any medications or home remedies. Once she met Dele, sleeping wasn’t such a task for her anymore, she found comfort in the warm weight beside her every night, listening to his heartbeat and feeling his legs tangled with hers. It felt safe and like home, finding herself drifting off in his arms with little difficulty. However, the insomnia still crept up. 

The first time Dele was introduced to the battle, he’d been asleep next to her for a couple of hours completely none the wiser. They were only a few months into being ‘exclusive’, still adamant on taking it slow even though neither of them liked the thought of spending the night away from each other (and rarely did). She came over after Dele had finished training and they made dinner together since Harry and the other occupants of the house weren’t home, followed by a friends marathon, long forgotten once Dele had a hand pinning her wrists above her head and the other gripping her throat, payback for pushing her ass into him non stop throughout the episodes. Like most nights, they ended up moving from the sofa to their Dele's bed, sweaty and exhausted after a few rounds, usually passing out with limbs tangled together. But not tonight. Her boyfriend’s eyes fluttered open as a result of her shuffling around a little, accidentally pressing her cold foot up against his shin.

“You okay?” Dele mumbles out, looking up to see no signs of sleep on Emilia’s face. She’d clearly pulled on Dele’s hoodie from earlier, nuzzling her nose into the neckline as she turned away from him. “Yeah Del, go back to sleep,” she smiles half heartedly at him, reaching to slightly turn down the TV that was still playing in the background so he could rest. He takes that as a sign and sits up reaching down to pull his joggers on so they could get properly comfy again. “Mm what’s up? Have you slept at all?” He asks suppressing a yawn while looking over to the clock on the wall, 3:23am. “It’s fine Dele, you’ve got training tomorrow, sleep bebe,” she spoke out, shooting him a sincere look and pulling out her phone. “Hey, look at me,” he said, reaching over to lock her phone and put it back on the nightstand, “Why can’t you sleep? Have I done something wrong? Talk to me,” Dele whispers into the room, pulling her closer to him and that’s just what she did. 

She talked him through the years of sleepless nights and exhaustion, brushing it off like it’s not a big deal as Dele strokes her hair and kisses her forehead every so often. “So yeah.. I’ve been fighting insomnia my whole life,” Emilia smiles softly up at him as her quiet story comes to a close. “I’m sorry, pretty girl,” Dele cuddles her in further, thinking for a second before speaking out again, “You’ve tried fighting it, so let’s try and make friends with it.” She cocks her eyebrow in confusion before realising what he was doing.

Dele tucked her into his side just how she liked most, with their legs tangled together and her head resting on his heart. She’d explained that she couldn’t sleep without noise so he decided to take that into his own hands, letting Friends still play as backup but starting his own monologue to drift her off to sleep. Thinking of topics he could drabble on about absentmindedly to send her asleep, not keep her up, his mind wandered to his tattoos, knowing she loved hearing the stories and meanings behind them all, tracing them whenever they’re lying together in silence. 

“We’ll start with your favourite shall we? Little Bamm-Bamm,” he started, voice barely above a whisper as he progressed through his tattoos, taking his time and keeping his voice low as the consistent rumble pushed his girlfriend further towards sleep. He spent about an hour in total talking over his tattoos, the stories she could tell herself she’d heard so many times but he knew she’d never be sick of hearing them and it’d relax her. Gradually he felt the weight on his chest increase and the small movements of the girl next to him coming to a halt. “I’ve come to the end of my tattoos but you’re lying where the most important ones will be,” he drops his voice lower, half expecting a response from Emilia but nothing gives so he continues, realising he’d eased the fight and lulled her to sleep, “if everything goes my way and the world is on my side, I’m going to marry you.. We’ll have children and I’ll put their dates of birth over my heart, along with yours.” He sucks in a breath, even talking these things out into an empty room felt scary but he meant every word of it. With one final look down to his girlfriend, he turned Friends up slightly so the noise was audible now he wasn’t talking and snuggled down alongside her.

-

Another time it happened, their first son Isaiah was 6 months old and already a handful. Their boy had just started teething, turning the happy, giggly boy into a restless, sad bundle of tears. He was energetic at the best of times, waking up at  the arse crack of dawn and clearly not having the word ‘nap’ in his vocabulary, so sleep wasn’t common in the Alli household, but this was a different kind of tired. 

A crying baby when you can’t do much to help was soul destroying, both Dele and Emilia wanting to take it all away and relieve their little angel of his pain, but all they could do was listen to his cries and try to accommodate him. After Sally had recommended they froze some yogurt and gave it to Isaiah, it had become a bit easier for him to deal with, eventually making the pain in his mouth manageable enough to sleep through the whole way for a few nights in a row. But Emilia couldn’t do the same.

They weren’t sure if it was the stress of Isaiah or just a general dip but she found herself awake once again. She tried to hide it from Dele, letting him get the rest he deserved while he still could, but by now Dele had grown a sixth sense and his body woke him up, sensing his wife wasn’t asleep next to him. He first grabbed her by the waist and pulled her towards him, startling her slightly since she thought he was still asleep before mumbling into her neck “you want to talk about anything?”. He knows she rarely does but the offer is always there in case something is on her mind, not just insomnia. “Nuh uh,” she shakes her head, assuming her position on his chest, already feeling a little more relaxed than a minute ago.

Dele didn’t ask about it, becoming a seasoned professional at talking the insomnia away over the years, so he didn’t even think before starting his ramble. “Yknow, I was thinking this morning, wouldn’t it be ironic if he went on to become a dentist,” he giggled out, his chest shaking under his wife’s head for a second as she laughed out an exhale and started dragging her nails across his chest. “I wonder what he’ll go on to do in his life.. Maybe he’ll solve world hunger.. Maybe he’ll cure cancer..” Dele talked out, his ideas plucked out of nowhere, jumping from extremity to extremity. “He’s quite a good drawer, maybe he’ll be an artist and have his work in galleries around the world.. We need to buy him new crayons, the ones we have now keep snapping.” He droned on about their son for a few hours, Emilia barely taking in what he was saying but catching the odd idea and smiling at the thought of her boy taking after his dad but playing for Chelsea, or being a world renowned brain surgeon. 

The soft rumble of Dele’s voice mixed with the comforting ideas of the wonderful things their baby could achieve relaxed her mind and sent her to sleep against her husband’s heartbeat, stopping listening as he spoke out to himself about when they should next take Isaiah in to see the Chelsea boys. She felt safe.

-

Emilia’s second pregnancy was rough to say the least. They’d spent more nights awake talking to the insomnia in those 9 months alone than they had the rest of their relationship combined. Between the ‘morning’ sickness that lasted all day and the constant heartburn and painful relentless kicks to the bladder, she was exhausted but her body wouldn’t let her sleep. She didn’t often wake Dele up purposefully when she got like this but with the baby kicking mercilessly she couldn’t help it.

“Del.. Handsome.. Dele,” she whispered against his bicep, getting increasingly louder until he woke from his sleep. “Hi gorgeous, you okay?” he yawns out, glancing up and down first of all checking she hadn’t gone into labour. “Mhm, jus’ can’t sleep,” she sighed, snuggling into the space he’d freed on his chest, “madam is driving me insane.” That comment was punctuated with a hard kick that even Dele could feel up against his hip bone. 

“What are you doing up still? Little attention seeker,” he leaned down to the bump and joked out, making both parents giggle. “Not even born yet and already stealing the limelight,” Emilia joined in as Dele helped her maneuver to a position they could lie in so Dele could hold the bump without having a dead arm in 20 minutes time. They’d noticed almost as soon as their babygirl became hard to handle and squirmy, she could only be calmed and soothed by Dele’s voice and the soft patterns he’d draw on Emilia’s stomach. Without a second thought, Dele started talking out into his wife’s hair.

“I want her to have your eyes, the sweetest shade and the most perfect big cat eye shape, the door to you the soul intertwined with mine, the cheeky little glint nobody can resist,” he stared drawing out the shape of an eye repetitively on the left side of her bump where the kicks appeared most often. “I want her to have the prettiest, cheekiest smile just like Issa has, the big full lips they’ve fortunately inherited from you, with the little cute turned up sides and the dimples just like her mama,” he drew out a few smiley faces littered across the underside of the bump where their daughter liked to push down on Emilia’s bladder at the most inconvenient times. “I hope she is as caring as you are, willing to do everything for someone she loves, a selflessness I’ve never seen in anyone else,” he traced out a big heart on the centre and a few small ones on the skin surrounding it. “I hope she has your drive and determination, the ability to stand up for what she believes in and never back down, a strength that we won’t have to worry what she goes through because she’ll pull through and have the ability to face the hardest things in the world, just like you have,”... he continues on for hours, this time more speaking to himself than the insomnia, the baby, or his wife. He felt so lucky.

When he glanced up and realised two hours had passed, not knowing how long ago Emilia had drifted off to sleep or how long it’d been since the baby had stopped kicking, he decided to join his two girls in dreamland, hands still stroking mindlessly over the bump.

-

With Dele’s job came a lot of international and national travel, staying in hotels and catching flights nonstop which was copious amounts of fun for the singletons of the squad but both Emilia and Dele hated it and the hatred only grew and grew each time he left. Of course it was easier for Emilia to sleep with the mass of Dele beside her but now Dele had become accustomed to it as well, obviously not in the same way as Emilia but it was a comfort all the same. Dele didn’t mind being away for the most part, what he found the worst was knowing Emilia was 200 miles away or 3,000 miles away depending on the severity of the trip, trying to sleep without Dele beside her.

The first time he left and the effects really hit her, he spent 3 nights away and by the 2nd night, he received a sheepish text at 2am reading ‘You up?’ knowing immediately what was up. If he spent the next two nights talking Emilia to sleep on the phone in the hotel lobby, nobody had to know. 

They both knew if the gaffer found out he’d slap Dele fifty times around the head so Dele had to get creative. He left a few months later to France for a 4 day trip with England, nervous as to whether his plan would work but hopeful nonetheless. The days leading up to his departure, he’d snuck away Emilia’s phone and recorded 5 different lengthy voice memos, hidden away into the app nobody used, discussing different things: 

‘The places I want to travel with you and why’ 38:06

‘The places we have already travelled to and why I loved it’ 43:54

‘Little things you do for me that I don’t thank you for often enough’ 51:12

‘My version of what happened on our first date’ 35:21

‘Incase you ahem miss me ;)’ 21:56

He didn’t want to make a big deal of it so he wrote out a little note explaining to look in the voice memo app of her phone (even directing her where the app was because it took him some trouble finding it the first time) and to plug her headphones in. Dele hid it in the draw he knew held her night time skincare where she’d certainly find it before she retired to bed. He felt so much less on edge knowing she’d be able to sleep better or at least relax while he wasn’t there. 

The two of them never spoke about it after the first time, she’d rang him with a sniffle she tried to hide, thanking him for being so thoughtful and jokingly scolding him for stealing her phone on 5 separate occasions. From that point on, every time Dele left for a trip, new voice memos magically appeared without a word in her new favourite app alongside the old ones, a gesture nobody but the pair had to know about but something that meant the world. She couldn’t explain how grateful she felt to feel so safe and cared for, that someone would work so hard and be so thoughtful as to make friends with the things that haunted her, even from the otherside of the world. Knowing that no matter what happened or what time it was, the love of her life was never too far away <3

#hope you enjoyed hehe #ily

[maviemesregles]

Once I was an Eagle

Part II has landed, my friends. I hope you enjoy it. :)

NSFW under the cut.

As always I’ll never get tired to say the words of appreciation to my beta @eclecticstarlightconnoisseur​ <3 

Thanks for sticking with this story, guys.  ♥

All the chapters can be found on AO3 as well.

Chapter I: The beginnings

Chapter II: Sassenach

Chapter III: Catharsis

Chapter IV: Lovestruck. Part I

                              CHAPTER V: Lovestruck. Part II

Jamie ran feeling his leg muscles burn with the effort. Endlessly long, his feet stumbling over the dry branches cracking under his feet startling forest’s inhabitants that seem not to care of his attempt to escape. They know there is no way out. He feels the slap of wet leaves on his face and scratches all over his skin. An aching hollow space inside his chest is growing bigger and bigger. Ultimately, Jamie knows his heart will be ripped out at the end. The sweat dripped down his face forming salty paths. Jamie wants to scream that it stops. He wants to fall down and beg for mercy. But something behind pushes him back further and further into the darkness. His own mother’s voice whispering “Ye didna try hard enough.” 

In the end, the darkness has won. Once again he succumbs to its cold clutches.

* * *

The crisp, fresh Highland air always brings him back on track. Jamie thinks it is one of the main reasons why he feels much better when he’s in the wilderness, especially since his Mam has passed away. He enjoys the freezing early morning air, giving his skin goosebumps and his mind to think straight once again.

He shivers at the swoosh of cold wind. His toes slowly developing a bluish tinge standing on a chilly stone patio. The skies are pink aquarelle with white fluffy marshmallow clouds passing by. Jamie can hear the birds taking charge of the morning chirping away in the garden in front of him. He thinks Claire would love the view. Claire.

Jamie tiptoes back inside closing the doors behind him back facing the wall. Even if he wanted to wake her to catch the beauty of early rising he could not do it. Jamie has learned by now that Claire was a relatively light sleeper. Not by her nature but rather her professional duties. She always slept with her iPhone kept near at hand always, heard each and every message and call. Sometimes Jamie wanted to throw that technical invention through the window and see it break into small pieces. It was his only chance to see her peaceful. Her face always seemed to be concentrating, as if she was not truly asleep. But now that little crease between her eyebrows seemed to be gone.

Claire usually slept like a child with her knees brought up close to her body and wrapped up into a blanket cocoon-like, now was sprawled on her back. The mass of curls exploded into the waves all over the pillow. Like a crown, he thought. One of her breasts peeked from under the quilt, her veins cast a bluish trail over her pale skin all the way down the soft hip pressed to the mattress in its relaxed shape. Jamie was sure he knew each and one of those blue paths under her skin and could trace the map of them on her body with his eyes closed. The morning sun travelled through the thin curtains running its warm rays over Claire’s skin. There was something that came to his mind so sudden that the realisation almost knocked him down. 

Sorcha. 

She was his remedy from that darkness he was running from. That light he longed for so badly but could never find.

When Jamie slid under the blankets next to her she stirred just a bit but did not wake.

He could try to speak to her in English, Gaelic, French; he would even learn any other language just trying to explain what he felt. But it still would not be enough. He was falling in love. Falling in love gave him the same tickling sensation inside his belly and made him breathless as when he rode the roller coaster for the first time at the age of ten.

* * *

Half awake and drowsy I thought that my cat decided to crawl under the quilt in an attempt to beg for his morning feeding. My eyes snapped open when reality kicked in. I viewed a glorious pink sky surrounding the high mountains I saw yesterday through the window of the cottage. The sun crept along the wall, drawing knitted lines of light there. I watched the sunny glimpse run away (creation of the curtains dancing in the wind). It climbed up on the bed all the way up burying itself inside Jamie’s red hair that shone like Amber. His head found its residence in the valley between the milky white of my legs. Jamie’s lips softly touched a spot on the inner side of my thigh where three birthmarks gathered together. 

“Ye ken ye have a witch mark here?” His thumb circled dark dots upon my skin.

Something that vaguely sounded like “mmmm” escaped my mouth. All of a sudden I forgot how to breathe. 

“Now I ken about them too.” 

The rest of the blanket was pushed aside falling to the floor with a soft whisper. It was the competing temperatures, the cool air of the room playing against my hot skin, that raised goosebumps all over me.

I tried to tell him that I am not a witch though (as if they really existed and he was going to execute me). But the words remained stuck inside my throat only letting out a moan when the velvet of Jamie’s tongue descended lower. In mere seconds, my legs began to tremble, hips instinctively rising up with want. But Jamie’s hand laid atop my stomach keeping me pinned on the mattress. A shuddering sigh left my seized lungs as Jamie flicked his tongue once, twice and then his lips closed over the sensitive flesh sucking.

The ceiling started to spin above and I closed my eyes, surrendering to the only existing thing in the world that moment - Jamie. His exploration up and down, from left to right, circling and suckling did not last long before the daylight has disappeared from the view and my cry echoed in the room.

As the real world returned and I regained my senses, I felt my breathing slowly return from short gasping breaths. Jamie's blue eyes settled on me excitedly remarking, "We have a great day ahead of us."

Jamie indeed had plans. It was hiking in fact (“it’s a must in Highlands, ye canna not do it”). Mentally I kicked myself for stopping jogging in the mornings. How big is the chance that I’m not going to be out of breath ten minutes into our nature exploration? The yoga classes where I went with Geillis was also abandoned after several weeks. “I stand enough on my feet in the surgery” I reasoned with myself (and Geillis who made a remark about having “trained arse”).

With perfectly ripe avocados on toast and cherry tomatoes for breakfast (with occasional kisses in between, Jamie tasting sweetly of orange juice and I of strong coffee) we made it outdoors.

The Highlands was dressed in autumn. The leaves were toned in shades of orange, red, and gold causing the scenery to look as if someone had spilled paint down them. Other sepia coloured leaves fell down, whispering their goodbyes to the last warm days. They rustled softly as they dropped from dry branches bidding their farewells. I remembered as a child I liked collecting star-shaped maple leaves, creating a bouquet of reddish-brown remnants of summer. I used to put them between the pages of my Dad’s books in his office. Usually, he would find them days later and smile at me. Together we would take them out and stick into the notebook I had. We did that each autumn until my blue notebook was left behind. As well as the life of my parents when uncle Lamb turned the keys to close the door of our London house. That way he locked away my childhood forever.

Jamie was a walking book of legends and stories. Since we left the cottage he was telling me all kinds of things I’ve never even heard about. He made a remark that I should be ashamed I live in Scotland and only heard about the Loch Ness Monster. 

“Have ye ever heard about Kelpies?”

“No, I haven’t,” I shook my head clinging to Jamie’s forearm for support when we passed a muddy puddle.

“Kelpies were said to take the form of a horse. They could also take a human form. They would use their beauty to lure people to climbing upon them before being taking them into the water, not to be seen again.”

“Charming.” I grimaced.

“Dinna fash, I willna let them take ye.” Jamie laughed grabbing me by the waist before I was trapped under his lips.

The cool mid-autumn air slightly burned inside of my throat when I inhaled too deeply. Not being used to such fresh, crisp sensation I coughed feeling my eyes water. Jamie who walked next to me, kicking the leaves with his shoes, squeezed my hand softly.

“Yer okay, mo nighean donn?”

I liked the sound of the Gaelic he spoke sometimes. His ability to fluidly incorporate it into his speech when he spoke to me made me long to hear it even more. Made me long for him. There was something about the way he sounded. The soft lilt of his voice, the deepness of his accent with a trace of huskiness that poisoned my blood with curiosity and mystery. I was dying to know what he was saying but also wished it to remain a secret. But I could not resist.

“Jamie, what you just said, what does it mean?”

Jamie stopped turning me to face him. His warm breath travelled upon my skin as his forehead leaned to meet mine. He smiled lips curling into a soft shape.

“It means my brown-haired lass.”

“Rather a dull colour I always thought,” I whispered, the pink blooming in my cheeks.

His lips brushed mine. Hands tangling around his neck, I kissed back, fingers running along with the soft curls on his nape.

“No,” Jamie’s finger gently touched a stray curl on my cheek. “No, not dull at all. It’s like the water in a burn, the way it ruffles down the rocks. Dark in the wavy spots with wee bits of auburn when the sun touches it.”

I knew this wasn’t just a crush on him. I was well and truly smitten. There was such a serenity when he was around that I could not imagine how should I carry on if he suddenly disappeared. My heart was swelling with my feelings growing with something that one day I could name as love. And I was unquestionably petrified but with him, there was nothing I could be afraid of.

Every time he looked at me like that, the world seemed to stop.When he kissed me, I felt breathless as if all the air from my lungs. His presence, his being was stretching throughout my whole body wrapping around my heart and cradling my soul between his hands. How could I not be falling in love with this man?

 Jamie softly kissed her temple when she closed her eyes. His heart leapt as he held her like that. They stood there in the middle of nowhere, with the mountain rising above them, golden leaves falling down. They were spiralling all the way to the ground as the signs of a bright future life holds for them. The way Claire’s body melted into his, her chin rested at the crook of his neck, Jamie’s hands holding her waist tightly. It was more intimate than anything else they’d done already.

“Claire, about what ye said yesterday,” He spoke quietly into her hair. “Do ye really feel that way?”

Her words echoed in his fevered mind. ‘I fancy you. Very much.’

She nodded.

A romantic inside Jamie wanted to tell her that he loved her from the first moment Claire’s solid head bumped into him but he nodded back tightening his grip on her.

The mountains rose high into the blue. We passed fields with yellowish grass, still wet with morning dew making our shoes damp; It was a glorious expanse of dried grass softly rustling in the wind bending over where we walked creating a pathway.

When my fingers became cold and numb from the freezing Highlands wind Jamie untangled our hands to share the pocket of his jacket with me. We ate a tuna sandwich and vinegar crisps on the wooden bench that stood in the valley near an abandoned cabin. Jamie spilled half of our coffee from the tumbler he prepared. I stifled a need to laugh at him, my thumb gently sweeping away sandwich crumbs from his lower lip. My lips chapped from the wind but Jamie’s touch soothed the burning sensation.

“Ye ken that Loch Lomond,” Jamie pointed to the left where in the distance a great lake stretched out. “Is the largest water lake in British Isles?”

“It surely looks like it,” I smiled looking at the dark water on the horizon. “How do you know so much?”

Jamie chuckled speeding up in front of me to let me pass in safety then, with the help of his steady hand.

“I grew up in the countryside, Sassenach. That’s where I belong. That’s what I love. A Scot must know his history.”

“You know, you would be one of those Highlander warriors in the past for sure.” Laughing, I pinched his biceps.

When we reached the blanket of trees at the base of the mountain, the sun started to go down in the horizon. The sky almost vanished in the forest leaving us with small glimpses of the blue coming through the thickness of pines above us. We took at least a hundred awful selfies during our four-hour hike. I spied a flower that bloomed in all possible shades of purple. Crouching down, I took a picture of it so I could look it up later.

I heard the leaves rustling under Jamie’s feet when he appeared next to me holding out his phone.

“I, er… I... I need to take a pish,” Jamie announced shyly. “Dinna want to drop it down the rocks”

“Smart.” I chuckled hiding his iPhone into the depths of my jeans pocket. 

The mist started to gather around covering the ground with a smoky quilt. I inhaled fresh air perfumed with the rich fragrances of the trees and plants. It was filled with a promise of coming rain clouds ready to burst any moment. I mentally estimated how long we have to get to the cottage before we got soaking wet.

The buzz of Jamie’s phone took me out of my thoughts. Not sure what to do, I fished it out my pocket. 

“Jamie, you got a text!” I shouted into the tall trees startling a lonely bird from the bush.

“Who’s it from?” His voice echoed back somewhere from the left. 

Hesitating for a few seconds I looked down at the screen to see the message. Involuntarily my eyes ran along two lines of letters.

“How are u, mo ghraidh? Dougal popped by, said he canna reach ye, it was urgent. I guessed ye didna have a connection there. Xx.”

The box From said Jen with two emojis -a heart and a house. It was Jenny.

“It’s your sister.” I handed him the phone when he came out brushing off the pine needles from his pants.

When we were going down I wondered what those words meant that Jenny had called him. It was something he’d said to me once before. While Jamie was telling me something about the castle that we could see from our path I googled the meaning of Gaelic that I could not understand. 

It said, “My love” and my heart sank down my chest and then almost broke free out of it ready to burst with happiness.

My love.

* * *

The countryside stretched itself around us in brown, golden and burgundy stains of colours. The hills rolled in soft waves of yellow grass meeting the ground in the valleys with hidden flora.

We walked back in companionable silence holding our hands, fingers securely tangled together, not breaking that needed contact between us.

When there was less than a kilometre until we get to the house the grey skies grumbled with anger. The heavy clouds no longer wanted to wait and cold drops started to fall down as gunfire. In no time it turned into a heavy storm soaking the ground beneath us until it was soft and slippery under our feet. The downpour of water felt icy cold and we had to run lest we get completely wet. The wind howled muting our laughs but for once in the longest time, I felt reckless and happy.

Jamie went to the bedroom peeling off his clothes that stuck to the skin. I followed in suit, not wishing to catch a cold and left a damp pile of clothes on the floor. While I had the time I filled the bathtub with steaming water. Turning off the main light the room went into the warm glow of the candles I’d managed to find in the cabinet in the living room. They were half used, the wax melted into peculiar figures. I had placed them in the corners near the windows and popped a couple on the bathtub sides. Sliding down the water, my eyes closed at the feeling of heat soaking into me. I physically could feel each muscle in my body relax and become numb, limp. 

Jamie stood in a doorway looking at me quietly. In this light, he reminded me of a Greek statue. He was beautifully made. With long, graceful bones and flat muscles that flowed smoothly from the curves of chest and shoulder to the slight concavities of belly and thigh. He was fair with bits of freckles but slightly touched by the sun, toned in a way that reminded me floral honey.

“Come here,” I spoke quietly lifting my hand up from the depths of the water.

He walked over slowly, stepping gracefully as a cat, not breaking our gaze. I felt a tight knot in the bottom of my belly starting to ache just by looking at him. Soon his boxers were left aside together with the puddle of my clothes. The water raised slightly when Jamie got in, sitting behind me, my back pressed to his chest. His hands roamed on the water slick sides of my thighs and my head dropped down his shoulder. I hummed an appreciative ‘hmmm’ at his touch. It felt soothing and much needed after our long hike.

“I must tell ye something, Sassenach.” His voice sounded husky. It was the tone that pulled at the deepest strings inside me. “I’m sure ye bewitched me. Cause for God’s sake I canna imagine how I managed to live without ye before.”

My head turned slightly to the left as my lips had found the column of his neck. I loved to touch him. But not just in a sexual way. Being with him, simply existing in the same space, in a distance of millimetres of each other. This became my everyday dose of oxygen. I craved him. All of him. Including his soul and heart and all of his body. He seeped deep into my being and would remain there forever I was sure of it. And I could not remember life before him anymore. As it simply could not be there without James Fraser. I ached for him every time we separated and I would be a damn fool to deny that.

“I think I can’t imagine that either,” I whispered kissing my way down his torso. When he was well-loved with my lips, my mouth and hands Jamie pulled me up cradling my face between his palms.

“I could love ye, Claire. I could love ye well.”

I exhaled feeling his moist full lips tracing my collarbone. When Jamie lifted me up from the water that became our shelter of warmth and my hands circled around his neck I remembered.

When Jamie kissed the tip of my nose I remembered twisting my ankle two years ago on the slippery grocery store tile after the rain.

When his hands held me tightly, the drops scattering off my body I remembered calling first Geillis asking to bring me to A&E. 

When Jamie’s lips softly touched my forehead I remembered that I called Frank but he did not pick up being busy at the meeting.

When Jamie passed the first stair I remembered I stayed home and felt lonely.

When Jamie’s lips dragged down my neck I remembered that Frank had left to the conference in London saying that he’d call me several times a day to check on me.

When Jamie gently laid me down the bed I remembered feeling awfully lonely despite Frank’s words of reassurance and support, calls and promise to come back soon.

When Jamie’s thumb brushed over my nipple I remembered feeling empty.

When Jamie held me I felt safe. And when he leaned in to kiss me I whispered into his lips.

“I could love you too. I could love you well.”

#outlander #once i was an eagle #outlander fic #outlander fanfic #maviemesregles #jamie x claire #jamie fraser #claire beauchamp #the frasers #modern au #these babies