#rise of prophetic voice | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

forlix · 8 months

Text

𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐞・l.f.

— five times you want to tell your best friend you love him and the time you finally do.

words・7.7k

pairing・idol!felix x gn!reader

genres・fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, slow burn w/a happy ending, 5 + 1 trope, idiots in love who are also afraid of love, you do the math

warnings・alcohol consumption, discussions of anxiety, lots of emotional vulnerability, like a surprising amount of crying icl

playlist・jazz bar by dreamcatcher・spring day by bts・through the night by iu・eight by iu ft. suga・house song by searows・not mine by day6

a/n・i borrowed the title of this beautiful day6 song for this fic; give it a listen if you can (especially while reading part four). happy late birthday, lix <333 thank you for being you

One. The door to the café opens with a soft jingle, bringing a chilly draft into the room and causing you to draw your scarf tighter around your shoulders.

Theoretically, you come here to study—but people-watching has become a simultaneous pastime. There was that couple with a pair of samoyeds, so fluffy that they looked like walking clouds; a mother and son, hunched over their croissants, arguing in a classic “don’t cause a scene in public” tone; an elderly woman in bicycle shorts asking for extra shots of espresso in the menu’s most caffeinated item.

And now, there is him.

“Hello,” the ashy-haired stranger says to the barista with a quick, polite bow. “May I have a medium caramel latte? Hot, with sweetener, please. Thank you.”

His voice reminds you of the notes of a cello, of the feeling of running your fingers through tufted velvet. When he turns away from the counter, he’s slipping a card back into his wallet, and you catch a glimpse of long lashes and a scattering of freckles. You cannot see his face, as it’s covered by a black mask, but that only propels the question further: who are you?

And perhaps it is destiny herself who hooks a gentle finger beneath the stranger’s chin and tilts his head upwards, because when he inadvertently steps into a patch of sunlight, his brown irises illuminate like molten amber, and they are fixed upon you.

You feel your lips part, your stomach turn. You don’t know if your cheeks are so warm because of your piping hot tea (your third one today) or because of the newfound eye contact with someone so ethereal.

But you are sure that the corners of the stranger’s eyes crinkle ever so slightly, as if his lips have just curved into a smile beneath his mask.

“Felix,” the barista calls, and you turn the name silently on your tongue.

Maybe you are exhausted from work and not thinking straight. Maybe you are more starved for change than you’ve ever been. Or maybe you’re just prophetic. But you think you sense forever in this man, with his freckled cheeks and pretty eyes.

That is the first time you want to tell Lee Felix you love him.

Two. The second Felix comes into your line of vision, you sense that something is wrong.

You hold up a hand in greeting, and the smile he returns is sincere but muted, as if it pains him to move, to breathe. He sounded weary on the phone earlier—can I see you tonight? Just for a bit—but only now that he’s in front of you do you see the extent of his fatigue, seeping into his sunken shoulders and lightless eyes.

“Hi,” he says once he’s close enough.

“Hey, you,” you answer, rising out of your seat. Instinctively, he extends his arms toward you, and you draw him into a hug that is fleeting and familiar. He smells faintly of laundry detergent and vanilla, and it makes something within you ache, like an oyster searching for its absent pearl.

When you pull away, your hands move to your best friend’s cheeks, cocooning his face so you can get a better look at him. Even under the sparse streetlights, you see that his eyes are slightly bloodshot, the shadows beneath them deep and sullen. Has he been crying?

“Bad day?” You ask, your hands falling back to your sides.

“The worst,” he returns with a weak smile.

“Wanna take a walk?”

“Yes, please. How long do I have you for?”

This is what you do when your schedules are too packed for you to make real plans: take strolls wherever is most convenient, for however long either of you can spare. Sometimes that’s five minutes, sometimes five hours. But you know that you need to be here for him tonight.

“As long as you need me,” you say.

You turn around to pick up your drinks (a decaf caramel latte for Felix and a black milk tea for yourself), and you don't see the way his smile comes back a little bigger the second time, the way his cheeks warm slightly under the moonlight.

There’s a small park a few blocks behind your apartment. Granted, it's not a very good park, with only a tiny, sad playground and very little foliage, but it is an excellent stargazing spot, due to it being so dark and desolate. You and Felix decide to head there now, your arms touching as you walk through the quiet residential area.

Ten minutes later, blades of grass are poking the back of your head, and directly above you is a sea of scattered stars, flickering like millions of faulty flashlights. Felix’s voice is leaden when he starts to speak, breaking the park’s fragile silence. He tells you about his fears, about how earlier today they overwhelmed him so much that he wanted to lock himself away from the world and throw away the key. He tells you about his dreams, about how even in his relentless pursuit of them they sometimes still feel as amorphous and unattainable as fragments of mist.

The way he always does when he’s around you, Felix spills parts of himself that he never thought he could entrust to anyone. And you don’t say a word, your knee leaning against his, listening, understanding. (But you wish you could tell him a lot of things: that you care for him more than you ever believed yourself capable; that you hope for his happiness more than your own; that you don’t have the words to heal him, but you would give anything to find them.)

By the time the two of you leave the park, it’s almost midnight, and the streets have fallen silent save for the occasional whoosh of car wheels on cement and the distant lamentations of cricket choirs. You’re making small talk now, and Felix is smiling a little easier. It seems your conversation worked in cheering him up; a temporary fix, you’re sure, like a bandaid where stitches should be, but seeing his eyes crinkle and hearing his laugh again is enough to soothe your worry for the rest of the night, at the very least.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay going back yourself?” You ask once the two of you reach the entrance to your apartment building.

“Yeah, of course.” Felix touches the back of his neck apologetically. “I’m sorry I kept you out so late.”

“Nonsense, Lix. I’m always here for you.”

Felix averts his eyes to his shoes, and you’re caught off guard by his facial expression: exhausted but contemplative, and possessing a sense of tenderness. It is a look that you don’t think you’ve seen before, and you feel your heartstrings pull at its unfamiliarity, its strange softness.

You say your goodbyes, but your "let me know when you get home safe" is cut short when you feel a hand catch your wrist, just as you’re entering the building.

How Felix doesn’t notice your frantic pulse beneath his touch is beyond you, but instead he parts his lips, and his next words resound in your mind as you try and fail to fall asleep that night.

“I can’t explain why, or how—but I feel braver when I’m with you, Y/N. I meant to tell you that earlier.”

And those three words rush to your mind fleetingly, like saltwater crashing against the shores of your mind. Even when the tide has subsided, they remain on the sand, waiting to be read aloud.

“Thank you,” Felix mumbles, “for everything.”

You don’t read out those words, of course. Instead, you reach up to squish Felix’s face and call him a sentimental dork, to which he rolls his eyes affectionately and bats you away, and the moment is over. But when you turn to go, your heart is pounding so loudly that your reply may as well have been a confession.

Three. You sink into your mattress, careful to keep your tea within your mug’s rim, and let out a hybrid of a groan and a sigh that is strikingly reminiscent of an old man lowering himself into a worn armchair.

You can’t remember the last time you had a cold this terrible. It feels as if your lungs took a plunge in a vat of wet cement and then rolled around in gravel immediately afterward. And it’s got you in the mood to do nothing but listen to the heavy drops of rain knocking against your window, curl up with a good show and a hot drink, and bask in your own congestion.

But then your phone, which you left in the bathroom, emits four deafening notification sounds, and you haul yourself back out of bed with a groan-sigh that’s twice as anguished as the last.

When you reach the hellish device, your best friend’s name greets you, and your ire dissipates momentarily.

From: Lix 🐣 Hey hey From: Lix 🐣 We still on for dinner tonight? From: Lix 🐣 Just gonna be me, Minho, Seungmin. Jeongin has a vocal lesson From: Lix 🐣 Please don’t play the “if Jeongin doesn’t go neither do I” card again I’ve had enough of it!!! ENOUGH

You let out a throaty laugh that sounds like one of Minho’s cats battling a hairball, heading back to bed.

From: Y/N 🌙 ahhhh i meant to text you earlier, but i have the worst cold From: Y/N 🌙 no clue how or why i caught it but i feel like fucking shit. it’d be a bad idea for me to come over right now From: Y/N 🌙 sorry :( can we raincheck in a few days? From: Y/N 🌙 (that way jeongin can come too!!!)

Felix dislikes this last text, and you snort into your tea.

From: Lix 🐣 Yeah, of course. Don’t apologize From: Lix 🐣 Do you need anything? You’re eating and sleeping well, yeah? From: Y/N 🌙 sleeping, YES. From: Y/N 🌙 eating, not really 😅 but i don’t have much of an appetite anyways From: Y/N 🌙 don’t worry about me. i’ll be raring to go in a day or two

Felix starts to type a response, but the gray dots disappear after a bit, and you set your phone face-down on your nightstand. He probably has to get back to work, and you have to get back to your episode.

Slowly, the soporific fragrance of chamomile and the lull of relentless rain start to weigh on your eyelids, and you slump unconsciously into your makeshift fortress of blankets, your show playing to nobody.

Night has fallen by the time the door of your apartment clicks open, and Felix pokes a head into your dark kitchen, cautiously calling out your name. When you don’t respond, he slips inside and moves to your kitchen counter, where he unloads the bags in his arms. A spare key to your place dangles from the opening of his hoodie pocket.

There’s a quiet knock on your bedroom door, another call of your name—infinitely softer this time, like how one would speak to a dove. But Felix finds you out like a light, even when he closes your laptop and puts it on your desk, checks your temperature with a gentle hand to your forehead. It feels normal enough to let you sleep, but warm enough that he brings a glass of water and two pills of ibuprofen to your nightstand, placed within your reach, should you wake up in the middle of the night needing them.

Using only the slivers of light coming in from the hallway, Felix allows himself to look at your sleeping form. Your breathing is callous but steady; your face pallid but peaceful. And if only you'd seen see the tiny, helpless smile that pulls at his lips; if only you'd heard the pulse protesting against his skin, yelling at him “do something about this, you fucking idiot, and do it soon."

But you don’t see or hear anything; you just speak, instead.

“Stay with me,” you whisper, and Felix’s hand freezes on your doorknob, his eyes widening in the darkness. “Please?”

There is a lengthy period of nothing, during which neither of you makes another noise; there is only the sound of your clock ticking, raindrops rushing against the windows, and Felix’s heart in his ears.

And then he moves.

“C'mere,” Felix murmurs once he’s lying down next to you, and you nestle into his embrace as easily as if you've always belonged there, your face burrowing into the crook of his neck, your arms winding around his waist, searching for him, asking for him.

Felix has always expressed his affection for people through touch, and you’ve gotten used to his constant hand on your shoulder, his leg resting against yours. But he thinks this is the first time you’ve initiated physicality outright, and he feels a concerned pang in his chest at your unexpected vulnerability. He lifts a hand to cradle the back of your head, running his fingers through your hair.

“Gonna get you sick,” you say with a wet sniffle, your voice muffled against him. And Felix presses a kiss to the top of your head, perhaps without thinking as much as he should have; but who can blame him for forgetting to think when he’s holding you the way he is?

“Don’t care,” he answers readily. “I'm not going anywhere.”

At some point before you fall back asleep, you think your mouth actually forms the words I love you, subtly and silently and into the fabric of his hoodie. But you resume your slumber before you can think more of it. (Felix waits until your breathing is steady again, checks your temperature one more time; and only afterward does he allow his eyes to close.)

The next morning, you wake to an empty bed and a Post-It note explaining that Felix had to run to a recording session: Check your kitchen! See u soon x. Accompanied by a small, messy doodle of a baby chick popping out of its egg.

Your face melts into a smile when you see that the fridge is chock-full of fresh groceries and the pantry has been restocked with your favorite snacks, including a batch of Felix’s world-famous sea salt brownies—accompanied by another note with another doodle, this time a crescent moon wearing your sneakers. Sugar is prolly bad for you rn. Pls have in moderation!

When you pull out your phone to thank him for everything, you see his remaining texts from yesterday—and you feel momentarily empty, as if only then noticing that you've been missing a fraction of your soul your whole life.

From: Lix 🐣 I’ll drop by tonight to check on you From: Lix 🐣 Wait for me, okay?

And he is right in front of you, just out of reach.

Four. “This isn’t a bad idea, right?” Chan asks under his breath.

“Nah, they’ll be fine,” Minho replies, clapping a hand on the leader’s shoulder. “Y/N will take care of him.”

A loud yelp comes from up ahead, and the men whip around quickly enough to crack a joint—only to realize that the noise was the opening note of DAY6’s “Not Mine,” and you and Felix have just launched into song so terribly and so loudly that it’s probably awoken the entirety of Seoul.

“And who’s gonna take care of Y/N?”

The two men look at each other for a moment before deciding they’re not interested in talking the two of you out of a disorderly intoxication charge.

“Let me know when you get back!” Chan hollers after you, and they reenter the karaoke bar in a hurry.

The members decided to go out for karaoke after finishing promotions earlier that week, and Felix invited you to come along. And you might've gone a little overboard with the mango sake, but your level of tipsy is nothing compared to that of the blue-haired boy draped over you.

Felix is rather prone to hangovers, you’ve discovered from past experiences, so the moment he started speaking in some kind of nonsensical Korean-English mutation that not even Chan could understand, the members tasked you with taking him home early. Now, Felix has his arm around your neck, less out of affection and more out of a genuine requirement for support, doing his best to walk in a straight line. He hasn't stopped grinning for the last hour, and it doesn’t seem like he’s going to run out of energy anytime soon, not as long as there’s more of DAY6’s discography to butcher.

In spite of your foggy mind, you're well aware that your best friend has never been prettier. He sets the bar high as it is, but then you throw in the flushed lips and cheeks, the lopsided, ditzy grin, the wine-kissed complexion, and life becomes terribly difficult for you. It doesn’t help that alcohol amplifies his proclivity for physical contact—he's been attached to your hip all night, holding your waist, pulling you into incidental hugs.

Needless to say, your current situation is a bit precarious; but you don't know that. Not yet.

The two of you finish your disrespectful rendition of “Not Mine” just as you pass the apartment’s front desk, and it is only when you see the deadly look that the receptionist gives you over the brim of his glasses that you finally feel sober again. You have the sense to incline your head in apology. Felix, however, launches into “You Were Beautiful” without a care in the world.

You dig a pointed elbow into his ribs as you hit the up button, and his singing abruptly falters with a pained huff. "Ow."

“Take an intermission, superstar,” you say. “The receptionist looks like he’s ready to throttle us.”

“Ah, he would never. We’re tight,” he returns, and before you can stop him he’s lifting his head, raising his voice. “Have a good night, Mr. Seo!”

Your nose scrunches into an apprehensive wince—but instead, you think you hear a hint of a smile in the man's cool reply.

“You too, Mr. Lee. Keep your voices down, please.”

“Yes, sir!” You and Felix reply in unison. Felix gives you a smile that says I told you so before he nestles his cheek against your shoulder, and you shake your head. Nobody is immune to the boy’s brightness.

Entering the building seemed to be effective in calming Felix down. The elevator ride up is silent save for a bit of quiet humming, and you finally see a bit of sleep on his face when you open the door of his dorm and turn on the living room lights. He lets you escort him to his bathroom without a word.

“I’ll be here if you need me,” you say, reaching to pat his cheeks a couple times. “Be careful in there.”

“M’kay. Thank you," he says with a drowsy smile, and closes the door.

You pull out your phone and open up your messages with Chan, remembering his parting request.

To: Chan 🐺 we got back safe!! To: Chan 🐺 lix is gonna be okay. i'll take care of him

A few minutes later, a notification appears at the top of your screen; Chan left hearts on both of your messages and sent two in response.

From: Chan 🐺 Thanks, good to hear :) you get some rest too, okay? From: Chan 🐺 Bro tore that sake UP

You begin to type back a retort—give me a break it was basically JUICE—when you hear Felix call your name, his voice muffled through the bathroom door.

“What's up?” You answer.

“I think I’m...stuck.”

Now what the hell does that mean?

“Can I come in?”

“Mhm.”

You open the door, and your attempt to suppress your laughter fails with flying colors. Felix is well and truly stuck in his crewneck, the gray material swathed around his head, his arms positioned in some kind of advanced pretzel formation.

“You are a hot mess, Lee Yongbok," you sing, moving toward him, and he whines from inside his cotton prison.

“Please don’t kick me while I’m down.”

Grinning, you bring your fingers to the hem of his top and attempt to lift it over his head. He’s managed to tangle himself quite impressively, and the next few minutes are spent with you trying to extract him, like he’s that one nose hair that your tweezers have never been able to reach, all while he's moaning and groaning about the fabric catching on his earrings, about his joints not being able to handle this kind of pressure anymore.

He emerges from the crewneck a while later looking positively disgruntled. You toss the gray mass onto the counter, proud of your handiwork.

“So maybe I‘m a hot mess,” he concedes. “A little bit.”

“That's alright. We all have our moments,” you giggle. “Come on, let me help you with your jewelry.”

For a second, he looks like he’s about to protest—but the look you give him reminds him that his motor functions are currently on strike.

“Okay,” he mumbles adorably.

You position yourself a little closer to Felix and lift your hands to the nape of his neck, where the clasp of his chain lies. It takes you a few tries to undo it, and you end up having to use the mirror above the sink for guidance. Soon, there is a soft click. You set the chain down next to the crewneck before your hands return to the sides of his face, this time to tuck long, light blue strands behind the cuffs of his ears. Your fingers run over the curves of his silver earrings.

“Are these bothering you at all?” You ask nonchalantly. “I forgot you had so many piercings.”

In your peripheral vision, you see Felix’s lips move, but no sound comes out. Puzzled, you move your eyes to meet his, and it takes you one blink’s worth of time to understand the source of his speechlessness.

Somewhere between your reaching up to touch his necklace and the present moment, you’ve come incredibly, dangerously close to him. Close enough that you can count the freckles that speckle his skin like fallen stars, that you can feel the heat of his body against your own, that Felix’s eyes are nearly crossed trying to maintain eye contact with you.

Your heartbeat lodges itself firmly in your throat, and your thoughts evaporate into complete and utter disarray. There are three differently-worded apologies on the tip of your tongue within seconds. You immediately start to pray that he won’t remember this tomorrow morning. And your strongest impulse is to move; to get as far away from him as possible, before either of you does anything you'll regret.

But there is something that overwhelms your every instinct, and stops you from budging an inch. And that is the way Felix is looking at you, unblinking brown eyes filled with something that doesn’t have a name. It is the same tender expression that’d surprised you the first time you saw it, and it is with a spiraling stomach that you finally realize what that expression is.

You reach your conclusion a second after he does.

Felix’s hand lifts to cradle your jaw, his face moving closer to yours. Your foreheads touch, wisps of his hair falling over the bridge of your nose, your senses engulfed by the vanilla of his cologne and the touch of sweet wine on his breath. The scene is as delicate as a dragonfly’s tail dipping into a pond’s surface; even a minuscule disturbance would shatter this limbo instantaneously.

A part of you wishes that it would, but nothing does. There is only his pulse, perceptible through the thin cloth of his tank top, vehement beneath your fingertips—and your heart, naked and frail, sitting upon the palm of his hand.

Felix doesn’t push you away; he doesn’t kiss you. He does something far worse.

“I love you,” he whispers.

A few seconds. That is how long you stand there for, with every word of every language you know inaccessible, every qualm and doubt and source of anxiety that plagued your mind moments before now distant memories, every ounce of your energy channeled into keeping yourself upright.

But the few seconds feel like forever. The same way he has always felt like forever to you. The same way you imagined you would spend forever loving him, close enough for him to love you back, but far enough that he’ll never know the true nature of your affection: greater and truer than anything anyone would ever call friendship.

An urgent question suddenly surfaces in your mind: is he still drunk? He was falling up, down, and sideways minutes ago. Surely this was an intoxicated slip of the tongue. But you discern the slight tremble to Felix’s breathing and the intensity in his heavy-lidded gaze, all far too intentional, far too conscious to be wine-induced—leaving behind one impossible possibility.

You should be having your happy tears kissed from your face right now. You should be over the moon, relishing in the sensation of two stars aligning at long fucking last, the way you’ve dreamed of since the very first time you laid eyes on Felix.

But instead, you just feel inexplicably and profusely afraid.

You won’t remember the specifics of the next few minutes. You think you stumble away from him and whisper I’m sorry through watering eyes, though you don’t really know what for. He sputters something in return, his tone so desperate and confused that you feel your heart break to pieces on the spot. You apologize again, leave the bathroom, and move towards the apartment door as if your life depends on it. In your peripheral vision, you notice the crease of concern on Mr. Seo’s face when you stalk past him, tears now flying freely down your cheeks. You run into Minho and Jeongin when you step out of the building, and you see the worry that creases their faces, hear their voices calling your name. Jeongin's hand closes around your wrist—are you okay?! What the fuck happened?—but you do not, can not say anything, not right now.

And then you are alone again, and you briskly walk the two miles back to your apartment. Your mind and heart are every bit as foggy as the somber night sky that hangs over your head.

Five. When the two of you step out of the restaurant and into the evening, Felix turns around to face you, launching into his best tour guide walk.

“And, with that,” he says with a glowing smile, “we are nearing the end of our tour of Sydney.”

“Noooo,” you lament, reaching your arm out. Felix falls back into step beside you and links it with his, the movement like clockwork. Your jackets scrunch up together where your elbows bend. “Already?”

“Okay, the tour’s been going on for two days and you haven’t paid a cent for my toil. Don’t push your luck.”

Your laughter spills into the otherwise quiet avenue, the setting sun throwing shadows across the cement, but it always feels like midday when you have the brightest man in the world by your side.

When the two of you discovered you had a free weekend on the same days, Felix conjured up the idea of going home—and suggested that you go with him. You’d freaked out for a bit, but then Felix reminded you that his mom texts you on your birthday and that you’re on multiple different subscription plans with his sisters, and you collected yourself quite quickly. There was a lot of cheering over the phone when Felix informed his family that they’d finally get to meet you in person.

But such a fast trip to the other side of the world proved to be no easy feat. Felix took on the task of piecing together a travel plan that would cover most of his favorite spots in forty-eight hours. The last two weeks were filled with him fretting over the details and you fretting over him, asking time and time again if you could help with anything, only for him to shoo you away with a single hand and a pointed “you are my guest. Now leave me.”

With assistance from every other resource at his disposal, though, he pulled it off, and the weekend has been wonderful thus far.

“I think that was some of the best food I’ve ever had, seriously,” you hum. “I’ll be dreaming about those appetizers for the rest of my life.”

“I'm glad. It took a Socratic seminar to choose the place, after all."

(The Socratic seminar in question: a two-hour FaceTime call and an intense match of rock-paper-scissors between him and his siblings, aimed to decide on where Felix would take you for dinner the second night. Only for his mom to ignore all of their efforts and insist upon her own choice of restaurant instead—no ifs, ands, or buts.)

“We have to try your sisters’ recommendations the next time I visit, don’t we?”

“Yes," he returns, shuddering. "I think my family is done for if we don’t."

He has one place left to take you, and the two of you head there now, shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm.

A month has passed since that night.

You’ve tried with every fiber of your being to put the whole thing from your mind, of course to no avail. You see Felix’s flushed lips and gentle gaze every time you blink; you hear his “I love you” every time you’re alone, the words whispered in the wind and dragged over the earth, in tandem with your footsteps.

You wanted to fucking die of awkwardness in the few days following, but it was never an option for you to avoid Felix for long. The two of you still went on convenience store runs together; still met up for coffee before work; still continued your business as usual, against all odds. And you owed it all to Felix and how he knows you better than you know yourself. He didn’t try to talk to you when he sensed that you had nothing to say; nor did he try to bring you back when you felt miles away. He would just silently slip a pack of your favorite cookies into your grocery basket or order your drink on your behalf.

Felix had questions and wanted answers; there was no doubt about that. But he held his tongue, granted you as much space as you needed to come back to him. And you did, in your gradual, meticulous way.

You’re finally going to bring it up tonight. You’ve planned to since the day you confirmed the trip, and you hope that the final stop of the tour will be the perfect place to bite the bullet.

“We’re here,” Felix says.

The two of you have arrived at the bank of a wide river, and you’re at a temporary loss for words. To your right is a bridge that spans the distance of the water, and to your left is a stunning, panoramic view of the city of Sydney. Twilight has turned the buildings into dark silhouettes against the autumn sunset, and the water reminds you of a palette of oil paints with how it reflects the pinks and oranges in the sky.

Felix feels you tighten your hold around his arm, and he smiles when he sees the wonder in your eyes. He wishes he could see this place for the first time again.

“Not bad, huh?”

“No,” you murmur. “Not at all.”

“C’mon.”

Felix leads you to the center of the bridge, where he props his elbows atop the metal railing and looks over the water. You join him and pull out your phone, but no settings or adjustments render your camera capable of capturing the landscape's beauty.

(Until Felix throws up a peace sign and pokes his head into the corner of your frame. Then it stands a fighting chance.)

“What is this place?” You ask, your shoulder touching his when you also lean over the railing. “Why are we the only ones here?”

“Crazy, right?” Felix says proudly. “I dunno. I think it might be private property, or something. But it’s only a few blocks away from my house and on the way I used to take to school, so I used to come here all the time, always around this time of day.”

Felix’s gaze moves over the sky, oblivious to the fact that his eyes hold whole rainbows of their own.

“There was never anyone around, but I could still hear the birds chirping and the wind in the leaves. It felt like a corner of the world had been sealed off just for me. I’m glad to see that nothing’s changed.”

Some time passes, and Felix tells you more stories about this peculiar bridge: how he asked someone to formal and got rejected and came here to reflect on his actions; how he had to take two different buses every day because his school was so far away from his house, but he always stopped here to feed the families of mallards that came out to swim in the mornings, even if it meant he’d be late; how this was the last place he went to before moving to South Korea, because he knew he’d miss this nook of Sydney most.

Of all the places you've visited, you think this one will remain with you longest. As time elapses, the colors of the sunset augment and deepen, dyeing the world in ways that remind you of the aurora. And then there is the man, wearing a gentle smile to match his softened features, his voice to your ears what honey is to a sore throat, telling you about his past, letting you into yet another chamber of his soul.

You are in no way prepared to butcher the sanctity of this moment, but you know that you can only run for so long and so far. You owe it to him. You owe it to yourself.

When the sun’s final rays are clinging the faraway mountaintops, Felix lifts himself off the railing and stands up straight. “Ready to go home?"

And your hand finds his, the pads of your fingers cold against his skin. Felix is surprised at first, but then he sees the hint of sadness in your eyes and the tension in your shoulders, and he understands what’s coming.

“I want to talk to you about that night,” you say.

Felix doesn’t respond for a few seconds. But when he does, his voice is so soft and so infuriatingly kind that hearing it makes you want to sob.

“...you don’t have to, Y/N.”

“No. I do,” you return, startling even yourself with the firmness in your voice, "I don’t want to keep dancing around the topic, not when you’ve been waiting for as long as you have.”

You feel Felix’s gaze on your face, as if he’s trying to read between your lines, and then he yields with a slight incline of his head.

“Okay.” And the stage is yours.

You don't start talking right away, your mind reeling with the effort to organize everything you feel and verbalize everything you want to tell him. It isn’t until Felix gives your hand a gentle squeeze—you’ve forgotten that you’re still holding his—that you feel rooted in the moment again.

It’s Felix you’re talking to; your soulmate, your sunlight. Nothing you are about to say will ever change that. This, you believe with every fiber of your being.

So you take a deep breath.

“When you said those words,” you begin, and the words sound alien in your voice, despite how many times you’ve rehearsed this conversation in your head, “I couldn’t process a thing. I was so happy, but I was so, so scared. I’ve spent the last month trying to figure out why I was so scared, and I can’t say that I know for sure yet, but I have a much better idea now, and—it’s a lot of things.

“For as long as I can remember, I have only ever been able to love profoundly and deeply, with everything in me. And over time, I led myself to believe that nobody would ever be able to understand or reciprocate my love, not in the manner I want most.”

You feel yourself starting to waver, but you find strength in his touch.

“But you changed that, Felix. You walked into that café that afternoon with your voice and your smile, and suddenly I’d found you—someone who experiences life the way I do, who loves the way I love. And every day since, I’ve been surrounded by you and your effortless warmth and your beautiful soul. It was only a matter of time before I started hoping, constantly and stupidly, that you would one day love me, the same way that I—”

Your voice catches in your throat like a heel slamming into car brakes, “love you” hanging so dangerously from the tip of your tongue that you’re stunned it doesn’t fall out right away.

“But that’s why I’m fucking terrified,” you go on. “When you told me you loved me, I felt like I could fly. But I also felt like I was falling—and maybe this is because I was still tipsy, I'm not really sure—but in that moment I saw a world where we weren't there to catch each other, where something had gone horribly wrong and I'd wake up one morning and you’d—you’d just be a distant memory.

“And that was the thought that shook me so badly: losing you. Leaving you.” You’re crying now, tears paving golden trails against your cheeks. “For whatever reason, that was the first thing that came to mind, and it broke me.”

You need to wrap it up, and fast, if your faltering voice and racing heart are any indication.

“I meant it when I apologized to you that night. I’m sorry, Lix. I’m sorry I made everything so fucking complicated. I’m sorry that I ran away. I’m sorry that I hurt you, or worried you. But I want you to know that I feel more for you than you will ever understand; I just need a little more time to put it into words. So, wait for me—”

Your eyes squeeze shut, and you finally cave, your last word coming out in a shattered rasp.

“—please.”

And the syllable has barely left your mouth when Felix lets go of your hand, only to bring his arms around you and pull you to his chest with such urgency that the breath momentarily leaves your lungs.

When you fall against him, you fall entirely apart. You have no idea where all the feelings are coming from, only that they’re suddenly overwhelming your every sense. And you start to cry, really cry, your fingers seeking refuge in his jacket, in his hair.

The sun departs at last, and night starts to fall. You lose track of how long you remain in this position, shaking with hushed sobs, fighting to regain control of your emotions. But Felix stays with you through it all, muted tears of his own intermingling with yours in the material of his scarf. He holds you carefully yet fiercely, like you really will crumble if he lets go.

And he waits, because of course he does. He would wait lifetimes for you.

One. The way you thaw is like melting snow.

It happens under your nose for the most part, but it is slow, sure, and irreversible, and you open your eyes one morning only to realize that the world outside has changed—and so have you.

You roll over and pick up your phone. There are unread messages from Felix sitting in your notifications, probably confirming the plans you made to get coffee before work today, but you put them on hold for now. Instead, you open up your camera roll and find an album, labeled with a sun emoji and yellow heart.

You made this a few months after you met Felix, and you’ve doted on it since, in the sense that you update it almost every day. Funnily enough, though, you’ve never looked through the album just to look through it. Maybe because you’ve never had the time or felt the impulse, but more likely because you know that the album is a visual time capsule of your relationship with the most important person in your life—which has never been purely platonic for you, despite how hard you’ve tried to change your heart.

Looking through it would mean acknowledging your true emotions, something you’ve never felt ready for.

Now, you open the album without a second thought, a preemptive smile on your lips. And you find yourself swept out of your bed and thrown back inside each of the pictures you see, reliving the moments as vividly as if you’re watching them on film.

This is one of your favorites, taken during a late-night tteokbokki run to a small restaurant behind Felix's company building. Felix was laughing so hard at one of your stories that he could only take bites of his meal every five minutes. His face had broken into a dazzling grin, his figure blurring as he lurched forward in his seat, trying to pull his hood over his face in secondhand embarrassment. Snap. He is always handsome, extraordinarily so, but you think you love the way he looks here most of all: every guard of his lowered, carefree, happy.

Another is from the first time you met Chan. Nowadays, your interactions with the boys consist mostly of running into them at Felix's dorm and making friendly small talk. But it's always been different with the oldest member. The first time Felix introduced the two of you, you clicked straightaway, and you had to have spent four hours after dinner just talking, scouring the city for something cold to eat. By the end of the sweltering summer night, the three of you were perched atop a short stone barrier in a secluded corner of Seoul, right outside the best bingsu place in all of South Korea. Felix had leaned over to steal the last cube of mango from Chan’s bowl, to Chan's dramatic protest. Snap. And Chan is like a brother to you now; you will never be able to fathom how much light Felix has brought to your life, be it through him or the people he loves.

A computer screen displaying a League of Legends scoreboard, in which Felix has died more times than there were minutes of the game. Snap. You (not sober) in the center of Felix's living room, your body poised in what is supposed to be the chorus of “Queencard," Felix and Bin completely losing their shit on the couch. Snap. His head bowed in anguish over a bowl of brownie batter after he mistakes salt for sugar. Snap. A low-quality, tiny Felix on stage, the brightest grin on his face when he finally manages to spot you in the nosebleeds. Snap. Your dining table creaking under the weight of all the gifts he got you for your last birthday. Snap. Him and one of your best friends from home, arms around each other, peace signs thrown up, beaming. Snap.

There are countless more, and they are all so incredibly near and dear to you, all thanks to the freckled boy in each.

You respond to Felix's messages (“be there soon!”), and then move to get dressed. There is a new sense of certainty in your gait when you emerge from your building and into the quiet morning.

The weather is lovely, the fresh sunlight cream-colored against a cloudless sky, the light breeze shuffling the new leaves about. A hound’s ears twitch when you hurry past its home; it is too drowsy to investigate your presence further. The only sounds in the air are the chattering of sparrows in the branches above you and the soles of your shoes, moving quickly across the sidewalk. The wonder in the world is more palpable to you today than it’s ever been.

Soon, the chalk-written menu and hand-carved wooden sign of your favorite café come into view, and you open the door. There are only a few customers inside, and you spot your person right away: his long, dark hair partially pinned back, his figure flattered by a black long sleeve and jeans. He has a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, as well as two drinks on the table before him: one caramel latte and one black milk tea.

When he hears the door jingle, he looks up, and the smile that melts across his face is so fond that you can’t believe there was ever a time when you doubted his feelings for you.

The way his loving smile mirrors onto your face is as inevitable and involuntary as destiny herself.

“Hi,” Felix says, rising from his seat.

“Hey, you,” you answer. “Wanna take a walk?”

And so you do.

You link arms, as always; you try each other’s drinks, as always; you manage to talk about everything and nothing all at once, as always. But when his company building comes into view, your footsteps come to a halt, and your hand fastens around the cuff of his sleeve.

“Hey, Lix—"

When his eyes meet yours, the sun hits them just right, and you have not known anything as clearly and certainly as you do right then.

“—I love you.”

Felix can only stare, his eyes so wide that you can see the whites of them all around, his straw falling from his parted lips.

Then, a smile starts to creep across his face like spilt syrup.

“Say it again.”

“I love you, Lee Yongbok.”

He sets his bag and drink down on the pavement. “Again, please.”

“I love you,” you repeat, starting to laugh. “I love you, I love you, god, I love you, Felix, so fucking much—”

Felix brings his hands to either side of your face, leaning his forehead against your own. And this time, there is no hesitation, no fear—only starlight when he tilts your chin up and finally, finally presses his lips to yours.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach, hordes of them flapping so fervently you feel as though you might take off into the air, but you seek out his elbows, then his shoulders, and then the back of his neck, anchoring yourself to the earth, to him. Felix kisses you like he will never be able to again, and it is all you can do to savor how the curve of his smile feels against your own; how he murmurs the words “I love you, too” in between breaths. He tastes like sugar and smells like shampoo. He feels like forever.

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borninwinter81 · 4 months

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William Blake - an introduction for Good Omens fans

I have sent @neil-gaiman an ask regarding his feelings toward the poet/artist William Blake a couple of times, but no doubt due to the size of the poor man's inbox I haven't received a response. So I did a Google search to see if he's spoken about Blake before, and it did indeed come up with a fair few hits. I think you might enjoy seeing this Twitter post if you haven't already, the painting is from William Blake's illustrations to Paradise Lost.

It's not surprising that an author like Neil Gaiman might have an interest in Blake. A visionary from a young age, his imagination was such that he was surrounded by angels made visible in his mind's eye, and he interpreted these visions through poetry, painting and engraving, and self-printed and published many of his own works. This gave him complete freedom to say exactly what he wanted.

Though he had a passionate faith in God, he also had a deep distrust of the church as an institution, and disliked the use of religion as a means of control. This poem from "Songs of Experience" perhaps summarises his feelings best:

"I went to the Garden of Love,

And saw what I never had seen:

A Chapel was built in the midst,

Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,

And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;

So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,

That so many sweet flowers bore.

And I saw it was filled with graves,

And tomb-stones where flowers should be:

And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,

And binding with briars, my joys & desires."

In his poetry there is often an incongruity with the generally accepted religious ideas of what is good and evil, Angel and Demon. In The Marriage of Heaven and Hell (there's a title that should make any GO fan sit up and pay attention) he tells us that "in the book of Job, Milton's Messiah is called Satan", signifying that he feels it is Lucifer/the devil who is the true Messiah of Paradise Lost.

He gives us The Voice of the Devil and Proverbs of Hell, and has Angels being transformed into Demons through enlightenment. He tells us that Jesus broke all of the 10 commandments, yet was still virtuous because he acted according to his own morality rather than rules.

The god-figure of his later works, Urizen, generally comes across as malevolent, seeking to bind and control, whilst Los, the Satan/Messiah figure represents freedom, imagination and creativity.

"Restraining desire" and acting contrary to your own nature seem to be the only real evils for Blake.

He expressed his faith through a love of the world and the beauty in it, summed up in this quote:

"When the Sun rises do you not see a round Disk of fire somewhat like a Guinea? O no no I see an innumerable company of the Heavenly host crying Holy Holy Holy is the Lord God Almighty".

He saw "God" in everything, in all the wonders we have around us, and considered writers/poets and religious prophets as essentially the same, since they both have a connection to the divine, and express it through stories.

It's quite ironic that probably his most famous poem, Jerusalem (the one that starts "and did those feet in ancient times walk upon England's mountains green"), was made into a very popular church hymn, yet it is supposed to be satirical in nature. The poem recounts the myth that Jesus may have visited England in his boyhood, and Blake is expressing his disbelief at that notion and the unworthiness of England.

Did I have a point to all this? Mostly to show my hand as a massive Blake nerd, but also to hopefully demonstrate that there's a lot of common ground between his ideas and those expressed in a show/book like Good Omens, and hopefully to inspire some of you who may not be familiar with Blake to seek him out. In particular I'd recommend The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to any and all.

EDIT: I should have thought to include this, here's Michael Sheen reading a Blake poem. I have the CD this is from, he reads several by Blake, as well as other poets I love ❤️ 😍

youtube

#william blake #good omens #good omens book #good omens 2 #good omens s3 #neil gaiman #crowley #aziraphale #english literature #literature #poetry #go2 #good omens s2 #good omens season 2 #book omens #michael sheen #Youtube

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occamstfs · 1 month

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Ramadan Recitations

Here's a Arab/Muslim Cultural TF, figured I may as well throw it up for Eid! May not be for everyone, but may those who enjoy have at it! Happy Eid! -Occam

It’s the end of March and Allen’s roommate has been listening to the Quran out loud for the length of Ramadan. He’s out of town for the weekend and Allen is uncomfortable sitting alone in the silence of their apartment. Now that he hasn’t heard the consistent background melodies of a recitation in a couple days he realizes what delight they brought him. He goes to find the playlist that Mo had been using. Suddenly feeling the golden cross that hangs from his neck everyday he briefly reconsiders before deciding to put on the recitation anyway. Jesus is in the Quran right? It’s not like there’s any harm to appreciating someone else’s culture.

Assuming Mo wouldn’t mind Allen using his speakers he throws on the Tilawa, Mo would be playing it now himself anyway. Allen starts to work as the reciter begins his melodic reading. He almost tunes it out as he starts reading and responding to emails in their shared living room. His body sits at ease as the rhythm of the man’s speaking reverberates through him.

Allen doesn’t speak a word of Arabic, but as he continues to type up droll responses to even duller emails he finds himself paying more attention to the verses than work that he needs to get done. As his distraction rises he tabs away from work and decides to take a break and see what exactly the verses that he’s so fond of are saying. He scans a translation but his eyes glaze over as he remembers Mohammad telling him that to really understand the words of the prophet one must read in his tongue.

Instead Allen just decides to just close his eyes and listen to the deep melodies of the mother tongue. The patterns and unfamiliar tonality provide him a comfort he doesn’t understand. He listens and the song only grows sweeter to his ears, he lies back against the couch as he begins to hum along uncertainly to the music. Allen harmonizes better by the second as he feels some sense of understanding over the distinctively not western scales, however he doesn’t notice as the chain of his necklace breaks, falling to the floor. He doesn’t hear the cross hit the floor instead remaining focused on his serene enjoyment of the man singing scripture to him.

Continuing to hum along, Allen notices that despite trying to keep a steady note, his tone seems to be getting deeper. He clears his throat and finds it’s not only his humming but his voice entire that has lowered in pitch. He rises from his serene reverie to go and find some medicine worried now that he is coming down with the flu. Standing he also notices that the temperature seems as if it’s rising in the apartment as well. Allen goes to grab some medicine, under his breath saying “inshallah I’m not sick eh?” Mo had been teaching him Arabic for some time now, but he always avoiding using it, Inshallah in particular since so many kids who certainly don’t appreciate Arabic culture are throwing it around. At this moment though Allen says it as if it’s an instinct, as if he has been using the language for some time.

Walking to a medicine cabinet Allen doesn’t notice as the volume increases on the speakers to still reach his ears. Words continue to steadily flow into his mind, standing in front of the cabinet he finds alongside the still increasing warmth there is a soreness starting to appear through the whole of his body. He groans in his deeper voice, feeling his Adam’s apple rest strangely on his throat as he tries to stretch out his soreness. It’s like he hit the gym this morning, though he certainly has not. He takes deep slow breaths as he bends down to work out the pain in his legs and torso, unaware as his body begins to lengthen in height. He feels the aircon blow up his shirt as his midriff is now exposed, he pulls it down in vain before reaching to grab medicine, accidentally overshooting thanks to his added height.

Allen makes his way back to the living room, dry swallowing his flu medicine before sitting back down to enjoy his repose. This time not only does he have an instinctual understanding of the melody and rhythm, but he finds himself knowing what words are to come next in the verses. Surely he hasn’t heard recitations that much right? He doesn’t even speak the language how could he possibly, nevertheless he starts whispering under his breath the words he feels should be next and finds himself right on the money. His whispering slowly grows in volume as he finds himself beginning to sing along with the tapes, “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim…” he continues on with the verse, singing as if classically trained.

He shoves his hand over his mouth in shock and finds another surprise awaiting him on his face. He is perpetually clean-shaven for work and yet all of a sudden there is stubble growing on his face. Allen rushes to the restroom to inspect his face and finally finds something impossible happening to him. He sees the roots of his hair growing darker, pushing thicker out from his head. Not only has he suddenly grown stubble but the scruff on his face is rapidly approaching a full beard. As he clutches at his hair and beard in inspection he finds that the changes are not isolated to his face.

He sees his arms stretch further from his shirt than they did this morning and feels the awkward gaps on his waist and ankles, and feels the air blow against the dark hairs beginning to spread up his stomach and legs. He sees hair thicker than his pubes begin to grow on his wrists spreading indeterminably up his arms. The reciter’s voice grows stronger as Allen inspects himself, his eyes racing from one part of his body to another seeking any sign of normality. He feels an itch in his pits and on his chest as the song rises in pitch and volume. There is a drive in his chest to continue singing along but as he makes eye-contact with himself in the mirror, seeing the blue eyes he’s always loved swiftly staining themselves the color of coffee before darkening even further he knows that there can be no explanation for this other than that man’s voice.

He clenches his jaw to keep himself quiet as he races through the living room to shut off the speakers. His longer legs trip over themselves as each frantic breath he takes begins to expand his chest. Beyond the physical changes to his body he feels a change begin to take root in his mind. Allin feels he must be big, he must be strong. It is as Allah wills it. He stumbles in front of the speakers as he finds himself torn on what to do. He sees his arms darken under the still growing forest of hair on his arms, his biceps tearing his sleeves as they tan. Growing chest hair tickling his shirt he feels muscle surge from his chest as he raises his hand to yank the speakers from the wall.

The voice of the man singing grows to a din as it is joined by a chorus of other voices within Alin’s head. Thousands of recitations, of songs, the Quran and countless Hadith surge into his mind in a horrible cacophony. He yanks the power cord from the wall and the dissonant symphony within his mind vacates. And Alin is once more left alone with himself, his ears ringing and his vision blotchy. Slowly recovering and laying on the floor he begins to hear himself groan through the tinnitus. Even his moaning sounds changed as the man begins to lose his English vocabulary to learn the only tongue that shall truly matter to him now, that of the sacred book.

He whines to himself switching between eloquent Arabic vulgarities and English more accented by the second, he sees a cross necklace next to him, calling out quite loudly, “Madha? What is this?” Must be a prank from Mo, ach he needs to work on his material eh. Sitting alone in the living room Alin tries to think of what to do to distract himself, both from the silence surrounding him and from the flood of information storming in his head. Suddenly everything becomes simpler when he decides to just do what he always does, turning to the East Alin sees Mo’s prayer rug, always lying out for convenience’s sake. Alin grimaces and briefly considers phoning Mo for his lack of dedication, but upon seeing the skintight outfit he is wearing to pray he reconsiders. He should focus on correcting himself before fretting over even his friend.

Alin closes his eyes once more, languishing in the quiet for one moment before he begins his own, his deep voice ringing out as he sings verse in praise, “Ah, Allahu Akbar.” His chest growing to hold more breath and his pecs begin to surge large enough to honor Allah with his body. He hugs his stomach as he continues “Subhanakal-lahumma wabihamdika-” He feels his biceps pull against his massive chest and almost smirks as he thinks about them, he feels an urge, a desire to flex the them before clicking his tongue at himself to stay on task.

“Subhanna rabbeeyal adheem-” he bends down, feeling his thighs and ass push out behind him, ripping large tears into his pants At the same time Alin sees the bulge in his pants grow larger, popping his zipper and escaping from his pants. He sharply inhales as he feels everything is suddenly more intense. He feels his body grow beyond the limits of his clothes. He feels his already larger cock begin to grow erect and Alin, continues to sing “Rabbana walakal hamd-”

Finally he prepares to do his favorite part of Rakats, he gets to his knees before fully prostrating himself. Continuing the prayer as he feels his beard grow heavier on his face. His forehead touches the floor and he smiles, feeling a warm itch in his crotch as his briefs strain to contain him, pubes spilling out every way, “Subhanna rabbeeyal ‘alaa”

He rises back to seating, the motion creating an intense pang of pleasure throughout his body as he struggles to maintain control of his senses. He ekes out, “Rabbigh-fir lee…” becores cumming in his briefs. He finishes the Rakat in his solid pants before promptly leaving to regain his dignity and change into actual prayer appropriate attire, changing into a thobe and doing two Rak’a ending with a Tashahhud as one is to do.

Ali smiles as he sits in reflection having finally quieted the chaos within his mind. He feels his strong body hidden under the thobe and comforted in his time spent worshiping. His final thoughts before he decides to do another round of Rak’a is a conviction to thank Mo for sending him that playlist of Quranic Recitations. He does not know who he would be without it. Inshallah he shall get the chance to bring his light to others. He rubs his hands down his powerful body as he stands. Wallah, they don't know what they’re missing.

#male tf #mental change #cultural change #racial change #masculinization #muscle tf #race change

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thesirenisles · 24 days

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Mercury’s Prophets🐍🪽

gemini & virgo

love, mythology, astrology observations✨

🌬️Mercury in the 1st house, 3rd house, 6th house,

🌬️Sun-Mercury Aspects, Jupiter-Mercury aspects

🌬️Gemini Sun, Ascendant, Rising, Venus, Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, Gemini Stellium

🌬️Virgo Sun, Ascendant, Venus, Mercury, Mars, Jupier, Stellium

🌬️Jupiter in the 3rd house, Jupiter in Gemini, 6th house

🌬️Mercury Dominant, 3rd House Stellium, 6th House Stellium

“She leapt from the Earth. The free winds of the skies coursed beneath her golden wings as she raced for the clouds… the burden of her omniscience left behind. Nothing but silence above the heavens.”

Fascinating mythological history below! Please do not steal any of my original writing.

Voice of the Gods,

Soaring high above, with Godly knowledge ever-expanding… you are a magnificent being, Mercurian.

Gifted with wings to be free of the Earth 🌍 , one might confuse you for an angel.

However, Mercury blesses you with these wings to be a divine messenger, a literal VOICE of the Gods. ✨.

A prophet of sorts if you will. 💁🏾‍♀️

This energy makes you quite attractive, blessing you with divine looks and energy that is welcomed in any room.

When you speak, everyone listens. (Esp. 3rd house). This is a gift and a curse, of course, but it is still very powerful.

People can spot a Mercurian a mile away with your extensive knowledge and mellifluous way of speaking. You have a silver tongue. You could sell water to a fish in the middle of the ocean. (Pisces, I'm talking about you lol. Stop being gullible!).

The words you say leave a lasting impression and can cut someone deep to their core negatively, while also you could bless them greatly with your insightful knowledge and advice! (Because duh, Duality.💁🏾‍♀️)

You are always balancing two halves of yourself. Gemini of Air and Virgo of the Earth.

At your core, you’re both here to make connections and say what needs to be said!

With your planetary ruler being the fastest orbiting planet in our galaxy, you are always in constant, fast motion.

Ideas.. thoughts.. feelings… are always racing through the mind of a Mercurial being. Most are gifted with a natural claircognizance “clear knowing”, which can look different depending on the placement.

Why is this?

Mercury (Hermes to the Greeks, Thoth to the Ancient Egyptians) rules over commerce, communication, short travels, boundaries, intelligence, trickery, and thievery! 👀 LOL

GEMINI or the 3rd house apply these gifts in their natural settings: to the mind, communication, social activity, siblings (twins).

VIRGO or the 6th house on the other hand apply these gifts to their everyday routines and relationships. Less talking and more analysis & servitude. (The maiden).

The Duality of Mercury

Virgo vs. Gemini

Mercury was the messenger of the Gods. He was essential to the communication and diplomacy between the realms. Each one trusted him. So, of course he knew them all well... and their dirty laundry.

🐍 Is it no wonder why they seem to know just about everybody and everybody’s business? Do not deny it, Virgo. LOL👀

Although they held more power individually, Mercury held the power of being their collective voice! (Also rules oration) They entrusted him with how and what was said on their behalf… often being a literal translator. (Powerful!)

This is similar to situations many Geminis and Virgos find themselves in. Many will come to you for advice and insert you into their dealings.👀 (As the middleman.)

Geminis on a social level and Virgos often within the family and relationships.

The Gods' divine trust came with plenty of gifts, which you’ll also find true of lovers in this lifetime. People value you and your gifts, which gives you purpose. (A virgo's dream.)

The most significant gift given to Mercury, was perhaps his trademark wand or staff... known as

"The Caduceus"

Per the mythology, the caduceus was gifted to him by the Sun God, Apollo. A magical olive branch staff with two serpents intertwining around its base.

They say if it touched the dying, it blessed them with a gentle death. However, when applied to the deceased… they would literally return to life. (DUALITY!)

I like to believe these two snakes themselves are yet another symbol of Mercury’s duality.

One is good and the other bad. One yin. Other yang. One Virgo and One Gemini👀

🐍Mercury was also known as the trickster God or God of thievery!

This is essential to note because I have a theory (possibly far-fetched, but makes so much sense) that this may have a connection to a certain Garden of Eden… where a certain serpent spoke to a certain woman and convinced her to eat the fruit of …. KNOWLEDGE. 🤯

They say that before the caduceus had it's powers, it was just a branch. Mercury was stuck in servitude to the God's.

But…what if… Mercury being the trickster God convinced the maiden (virgo) to bite of the the fruit of knowledge in the forbidden garden and gained a portion of the powers of Mercury that he did not want.

If Virgo took on the need to serve, then Mercury would be free to frolick the realms with his tricks and thievery. He was also remarked as a habitual line-stepper, or boundary-crosser. (This is unevolved Gemini energy all the way)

This really gets deep when you realize that Virgo's sister sign Pisces (whom in my Neptune post, I compared to Persephone) bit of the fruit of Hades in the same curious fashion and was in more or less words cursed!

This does not mean that being of service is a curse in any way, but honestly, the mythology behind this dual planet is fascinating.

I think Virgo actually bossed her side of the energy up to the max. She is the earthy incarnation of her own genius, often never showing just how intelligent she really is... so as not to reveal her cards.

Virgo can bring her wildest ideas to fruition within the Earthy realm! (After it's perfected to her liking of course.) A gift!

However, Virgo can also have some trickery within her nature… often appearing or putting on a more innocent act than she really is.

But, with Mercurian energy there is always the possibility for their beautiful thoughts to come out a bit... wrong.

This brings me to a very important note.

🐍Please beware of false gossip.

It’s inevitable honestly, as people can’t help but give knowledge to a heavenly messenger.

However, with the optional tongue of a serpent… be mindful of the power you possess Mercurians! (Think: Parsel-tongue in Harry Potter Universe.) It’s nothing to play with because here in this Earthly realm, Saturn is dominant and it is the ruler of Karma.

You are a divine PROPHET (or Prophetess). Please handle your energy as such. 🫶🏾

Mercurial Love Bites🐍✨

In love, they’ll have many admirers in several dimensions.

🐍I imagine a Gemini Mercurian as a sapiosexual, playboy of sorts. You’ll have your choosing of many lovers and will probably choose none… in search of new lands and ideas to learn and add to your beautiful collection.

You'll have an array of different tastes (in the bedroom as well) and will share passion with many, as you are a master of tricks.

🐍 It’s hard to lockdown a Godly intelligent being with the ability to fly away at a moments notice.

Many an earthly sign lover and watery soul will long for you and you will spin whimsical circles around them with ease, for you are too quick to catch.

Nothing too heavy or emotional, you must keep it light for this winged beauty or she’ll float away…

But, I do have to ask…my beautiful Geminis, 3rd housers if it ever gets tiresome to always be on the go?

Connecting too much to your air and neglecting your earthly connections through Mercury could leave you afloat for all eternity… alone. (This can of course be counter-acted with other placements in the natal chart.)

🐍Virgo Mercurians on the other hand are much more Earthy with their approach to love. This is the person who has thought very intricately about what the lover of their life will look like, smell like, and even their speech cadence. She eagerly awaits to be a perfect wife, organizing the home, teaching the children, etc.

Many will try to win her, as her innocent.. maiden-like energy is very attractive. While she may appear innocent, she is not naive!

All of her daily beauty routines, outfit curations, and perfected speech will not be wasted on just any man.

The Virgo's analytical eyes has surveyed many a suitor who tried to win her heart. She is looking for the perfect man. The one whom she can serve and assist while being provided for in return.

Better believe, if she chose you.. you have checked all of her boxes. For, she wants an Earthly promise...(AKA, Where's the money? If you ask me, the perfect suitor is perhaps a Capricorn or Taurus dominant. ) But, my Virgo queens... do not neglect your airy influences of Mercury as well. Life can be more rewarding than the material world.

This was a bit longer than i intended! But, I have never seen an in depth explanation of these dual energies of Mercury!

Thank you for reading! Wishing you blessings! 🪽✨

Neptune Observation♓️✨

Pluto Observation ♏️✨

Mars Observation

@thesirenisles

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hirukochan · 8 months

Text

Ambushed

A Severus SnapexFem!Reader Oneshot

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Pairing: Severus Snape x former student reader

Summary: After your former Professor murdered Albus Dumbledore a few weeks after your one-nightstand you never expected to see him again.

Warnings: Smut, catcalling, blood, injury

Wordcount: 5000

Read on Ao3 or below the cut

Life has become significantly darker since the death of Albus Dumbledore. You hear rumours of the Ministry falling, about Death Eaters taking over and You-Know-Who rising. From the perspective of the public all that hasn’t happened. Everybody can feel the change and taste the misery hanging in the air between abandoned and destroyed shops in Diagon Alley.

The rich fuck you work for is paying you extra because you decided to stay. You aren’t going to let yourself be scared into running away!

You started evening courses at a small university in Aberdeen a few months ago. Enchanted Art. For what? Hell if you know, but art sounded good. You however aren’t…good. Not at all, but it’s fun. You enrolled a few days after what you now call ‘the worst mistake of your life’.

Severus Snape.

Death Eater.

Murderer.

Newly appointed headmaster of Hogwarts.

And you fucked him. Just three weeks before he killed Albus Dumbledore, a man who trusted him.

The Daily Prophet and the Ministry are framing Harry Potter for it. There is a large manhunt going on with a bounty on Potter’s head. The boy has disappeared from the face of the earth.

You saw him at the funeral in Hogwarts. Many former students came to say their goodbyes to Dumbledore. You went out of shame and guilt. It doesn’t make any sense for you to feel like that. Neither did you know what Snape was planning nor did you support him in any way. And yet, just knowing you had that man in your bed is eating at you.

You sway and stumble but can catch yourself on the side of an abandoned building. Death Eaters have been attacking Diagon Alley for months, even before You-Know-Who came to power, but never your shop. You guess it’s because a second-hand bookshop is absolutely useless. You don’t even have many customers! The shop is not profitable whatsoever.

You rub your eyes and push yourself off the wall to continue your less than straight way back to your flat. You’ve been drinking with the Weasley twins who run the joke shop a few streets away from yours. They are one of the few shops still open like you. They were three years under you and always good for a laugh though you were never friends with them. Now out of school and in the same boat you get along well.

And drinking alone is pathetic.

You are pathetic, but not that pathetic.

Not yet.

You squeeze through an alley. Just another corner and you’d be there. You’re too drunk to apparate and apparition can suck it anyway.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out all alone?” A male voice calls out to you. You ignore it. You are really not in the mood to be accosted now and your wand might just slip.

You grip it tighter in your pocket. One could not be careful enough these days. Perhaps you should have taken Georges’ offer of walking you home.

“I’m talking to you!” He sounds angry now. Just fuck off. Just turn around and fuck off or better come here and give me something to let my aggressions out on. “Stuck up cunt!” You are whirled around by your shoulder and thrown against a wall. The air is pressed out of your lungs and your back aches.

The blurry face of a sleazy looking man comes into view but in the next second he’s gone. You blink. Your alcohol drenched brain needs some time to catch up. Then a scream rips through the night and you recoil. Everything in you screams to run. To turn around and take off, to save yourself, but your eyes are glued to the man on the ground, writhing and screaming, his body shaken by endless, never-ending agony.

Steps echo through the night and your head snaps up. A tall, dark figure moves towards you. Black robes, dark hair- for a second you think it’s Snape and you don’t know how to feel at that and even less how to deal with the sting of treacherous disappointment when you notice he’s too slim and too short to be Snape.

Moonlight reflects off a silver mask. You grip your wand tighter, terrified of what’s going to happen next.

A Death Eater.

A real fucking Death Eater right in front of you! And you’re still not running. Why the fuck are you not running?

“Tsk tsk tsk.” He clicks his tongue and shakes his hand. The man’s screams have stopped, replaced by a strangled, gurgling sound that somehow sounds so much worse. Your blood freezes in your veins and you start shivering. This is it. This is how you die. Drunk and on your way home. Just a street away! Away from safety, though you suspect that it’s a false feeling. A lie.

There is no safety left in Britain.

“Has your mummy never taught you, you mustn’t touch what isn’t yours?” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue again. A green light illuminates the alley. It paints grotesque shadows onto the silver mask and the wall behind him.

You scream. Shock and pain are ripping the sound out of the wall of your throat and haul it into the night. You cover your mouth with your hands. Tears sting in your eyes. You don’t want to die here.

Your heart pounds in your chest, strong and fast, declaring it has many good years still left, refusing to back down but also trapped by a rich net, woven from terror and dread.

“You shouldn’t be out so late.” The Death Eater says. His voice is slightly muffled by the mask, but he sounds young. So terribly young. Perhaps around the twins’ age? Did he go to school with you? You don’t recognise his voice, but you are in shock. Right? Yes, shock. He just killed someone! Like it’s nothing! To think you might have sat next to him in the Great Hall or the library…

“It’s not safe. Best run along now.”

You blink. Confused. He is letting you go? Why would he let you go? He rips his sleeve up, revealing a jet-black tattoo on his underarm, one that you’ve never seen before but recognise regardless.

“That’s a fucking order!” You flinch. And then you’re running. Running down the street and not stopping until you’ve reached the door to your flat. Your fingers tremble so much you struggle to get the key into the keyhole. You use every single protection charm you know on the door after you’ve closed behind yourself. You’ve gotten good at casting them. You had to.

“What the fuck.” You whisper to yourself, back leaned against the wall and wand clutched to your chest. “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck!” A Death Eater just fucking let you go! He tortured someone for attempting to assault you and then killed him.

He fucking killed him.

You watched someone die.

What the fuck.

Oh Merlin and Grímhildr and god and Jesus fucking Christ!

‘Mustn’t touch what isn’t yours’ What does that mean? You’re not some object to be owned!

“Maybe he has a crush on me?” You think out loud. Yeah…maybe that guy really did use to go to school with you? Maybe he- you have no idea but what other reason would there be? Would a Death Eater disapprove of assaulting women? Somehow you find that hard to believe.

The incident does not leave your mind. You become paranoid. Always checking your steps and looking around for that glimmer of light catching on a silver mask. Often you’d look out of your windows, watching the empty street but you don’t see the young Death Eater again. You expect him to come back any day to finish you off

One day you arrive at the Leaky Cauldron after your evening classes tired and hungry. It’s a little after ten and you decide to eat in the pub instead of cooking. An hour later you step outside and apparate onto the steps in front of the door to your flat. You secure the door with your usual spells and kick off your shoes before hurrying up the stairs. You want nothing more than to collapse into your bed-

Something isn’t right. It’s the faintest difference. A smell that is not quite right. A whisper of magic in the air that does not belong to you. The small hairs on your nape stand and your stomach clenches. You grip your wand tighter.

There is something on your floor. A large black something.

“What the fuck?” You mutter and drop your hand to your side. “What the fuck? No no no- get the fuck up, Snape!” He doesn’t move. He is lying face down in a puddle of blood in the middle of your flat. Where did he come from? How did he get in? Why is he here?

You kick him.

It sounds like a logical choice in your head.

He doesn’t move.

“I have a Death Eater in my flat, on my floor. I have a dying Death Eater on my floor!” You panic. You are panicking. You kick him again. Nothing changes. “Shit shit shit!” You could just…kick him down the stairs and lock the door? How did he get in here?!

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-” What do you do? What can you do? Why is he here?

For lack of a better plan, you kick him again, but despite how gratifying it feels to let your aggression out on him you have to come up with a better idea. You can’t just keep kicking him!

Wary of the Death Eater on your floor you kneel down and press two fingers to the pulse point on his neck, ready to jump backwards at any point. His skin is burning up. What happened?

You can’t just kick him down the stairs. It’s tempting. He’d deserve it- but that isn’t you. Besides it would take the Death Eaters not even two seconds to figure out who left him there to die and they might come back to hurt you.

You heave him into your bed and peel the blood-soaked clothes from his chest. There is a deep gash across his side. Blood steadily runs down his pale skin. What happened to him?

“He’s a Death Eater that’s what fucking happened to him.” You scold yourself. “And you are fucking helping him- fuck! Why did you choose my flat to die in, Snape?!” You flick your wand at him, and his own wand comes flying through the air, landing in your hand. You shove it into your pocket.

Snape looks like shit. He’s thinner than a few months ago, his skin paler and dark, deep shadows have seemingly permanently attached themselves to the skin under his eyes.

The glorious Death Eater that defeated Albus Dumbledore.

You scoff.

“Good- that is that…disarming the Death Eater that is twice your size and can probably do wandless magic…or simply snatch them back from you because let’s be honest here - we aren’t a fighter!” You have no idea who you are talking to, but you feel hysteric and talking to oneself is what hysteric people do. Right? Right?

“Please don’t die here and start haunting me!”

“I’m not dying.” Snape grunts and you scream.

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck- you scared the living shit out of me! What the fuck are you doing here?” Without bothering to answer you, he examines the wound on his side. He grimaces.

“I advise you against attempting that.” The deep, velvety rumble of voice makes you shudder in all the wrong ways. You keep your wand trained on him anyway.

“Get the fuck out of my flat!” You hiss, raising your wand higher, keeping it aimed at him.

“So hostile.” He tuts. “Did I leave you unsatisfied last time?”

“You’re a murderer!” Your voice is shaking, tears pool in your eyes and you have no fucking idea why you feel betrayed. You hadn’t spoken to Snape in five years before your one-night stand. But had you known…had you known he is a Death Eater you would have never let him into your bed.

“Yes.” Snape says and he somehow sounds bitter. What right has he to be bitter? “I heard you ran into some…trouble.” You shove your wand in his face and perhaps he sees in your eyes how serious you are, a faint promise of hexing him or something else, but he raises his bloodied hands slightly as if to tell you he isn’t a danger.

“Do you have a first-aid-kit? So I can get out of your hair.” You look at him, considering. You could make him leave. “I’m not a danger to you.” To you. To others, yes, but not you. You have no idea how to feel about that thinly veiled confession. You flick your wand towards your bathroom. Snape rummages through your first-aid-kit.

“Who the fuck doesn’t stock dittany?” He asks, glaring up at you while aggressively opening the fuckton of buttons on his robes. Who needs so many buttons?

“Why would I have fucking dittany? Sorry I did not expect you would choose my home to almost fucking die in!”

“I wouldn’t have died!” He sneers.

“Tell that to the puddle of blood on my floor. Why are you here?” He hesitates. His shoulders droop and he stops messing with his clothes. Something profoundly vulnerable flashes through his eyes.

“Where else would I go?” And that is that apparently. He peels back layers of blood-soaked clothes, and you try not to ogle him. He hadn’t taken off much of his clothes when he fucked you…

The moonlight hides the currently sickish undertones of his pale skin, making him look like one of those marble statues you’ve seen in a muggle museum once. His skin is littered with scars, a visual reminder that this man is a Death Eater - a fact your body is more than willing to ignore judging by the uncomfortable, damp spot in your knickers.

You watch him patch himself up from a safe distance, your wand pointed at him at all times. His fingers tremble, his skin is chalky pale and beads of sweat cling to his forehead, but his movements are precise and purposeful.

And yet-

You have never seen him like this.

Small somehow.

Vulnerable.

“I was told you were assaulted.” His voice is quiet, he usually speaks soft and quiet - a man like he never has any trouble getting a classroom full of hormonal teenagers to shut it. But today it’s different. There is something…inherently broken about the way he says the words and it gives you pause.

“So what? You decided to break in? Who do you think you are that you get to check up on me?” You spit the words at him because if you don’t, you might do other things and you really can’t afford that.

“That wasn’t-” He inhales sharply and impossibly enough pales even more. You summon a glass of water. “Thank you.” He whispers and downs the whole thing in one go.

“Wouldn’t want your cult friends to show up here because I let you die.”

“You should be careful what you say.” He doesn’t say it as a threat. He says it softly, with dread mixing into his worry.

“I thought you weren't a danger to me.”

“Plenty of people are.”

“Right…then. You know where the door is.” You nod towards it. Snape rises to his feet - far more graceful and steady than he has any right to with how shit he looks. He comes closer and you bite the inside of your cheek to resist the urge of stepping back. He comes closer still, his much larger frame hovering above you and any sliver of thinking Snape is small evaporates into thin air.

His silky hair falls into his face and hides it in the shadows of your flat, with only the moon illuminating the small space.

You take a shaky breath and attempt to ignore the heat between your bodies or the way your heart beats all wrong. His eyes have an intensity to them that makes you shudder and involuntarily recall how his hands felt on you…his breath dancing across your skin…the way he tastes-

“You still have my wand.” He says, his voice impossibly deeper and smokey and his eyes- these damn stunning stupid eyes that burn into yours, whispering promises of things you can’t even begin to wrap your mind around.

You automatically close your fingers tighter around your own wand. He is so close now the tip of it digs into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Like the threat of a curse does not even affect him, like he doesn’t give a shit that you could simply kill him right now or perhaps it’s arrogance. He believes you incapable of it - which is the truth but still! Is it asking too much to want him to be at least a little afraid?

Snape reaches out and his hand brushes over your side and you inhale sharply.

There must have been a lapse in the fabric of time - in the universe itself because suddenly you are kissing. You don’t know why or how but the wands clatter to the ground and Snape’s hands are on you and your body scream fuck the universe because this feels right.

Snape’s arms wrap around your smaller form and press you to his chest and you let him, weaving your hands into his hair while he claims your mouth with a feral hunger. You moan into the kiss and lean into his touch and try to smother the whisper in your head repeating the last two words you’d want to hear right now over and over.

Death Eater

You slide your tongue over his. There is a faint taste of iron in the kiss but it doesn’t matter. Snape’s fingers dig into your flesh like he is trying to devise a way to never have to let you go again.

He clings to you like a dying man to life.

Death Eater

He stumbles backwards and takes you with him, plopping down on the bed and pulling you into his lap. It feels natural. Your bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces and something somewhere in the universe just clicks.

You run your hands down his neck and over his shoulder, noting how much thinner he feels now compared to last time. You shove his frock and dress shirt down his shoulders. The feeling of his naked skin against your hands feels electrifying. A buzzing prickle seeping into your body through the pad of your fingers and spreading throughout your very being like blazing wildfire, pooling deep in your belly.

Death Eater

You moan into the kiss and grind against Snape, feeling his hard cock against your core through your knickers.

Death Eater

Two pairs of hands drop to his fly at one, frantically fumbling with buttons and stumbling over each other. Snape retreats and returns to thoroughly groping your arse under your skirt. You manage to free his cock and Snape helps lift your hips. You push your soaked knickers away and align his cock with your entrance.

“Fuck I forgot how big you are-” You hiss at the stretch. Snape kisses your neck and nibbles on your collarbone.

“Have you been with someone since-?” He leaves the question open. Further specifications aren’t needed. You are still slowly lowering yourself on his prick, until the delicious kind of stretch turns to a stinging stretch where you pause to give yourself time to adjust.

“-no.” You pant. Snape groans against your sternum and wraps his arms around you again, pulling you close. He kisses down your chest and over your breasts. Nuzzling you through the fabric of your blouse.

“Fucking hell-” You mutter once he is finally sheathed inside you. You’re out of breath and sweaty and so so full. His cock is throbbing against your inner walls, hot and thick and you need a moment to collect yourself.

“So good.” Snape groans and continues peppering kisses over your chest. You whimper in response. “You take my cock so fucking good-” He rips your blouse open and shoves your bra up, locking his lips around your nipple instantly. You moan and cling to his shoulders. Snape licks broad strokes over your nipple, alternates between sucking and kissing and grazing you with his teeth.

His lust-drenched sounds make you squirm in his arms and arousal leak over his cock, soiling his trousers.

It takes a little moment for you to get a hang of how to move on top of him, but once you’ve figured it out, you earn approving groans from Snape.

“Fucking missed you.” He murmurs against your skin.

“Did you now?” You raise a brow.

“I’m talking to your tits, dear.”

“You have issues.” You moan and sink back down on his cock.

“I thought we had already established that.”

“Yeah, when you decided my floor was the proper place to die!”

“Wouldn’t have died.” He groans and locks his lips around your nipple again. You cradle his head with your arms and rest your cheek against the crow of his head while bobbing up and down his length in an unsteady, unrefined rhythm.

Snape doesn’t seem to care.

And neither do you really.

The voice in your head shut up a while ago and you bid farewell to it, telling it to never come back.

Snape inhales sharply and you stop instantly.

“Did I hurt you?” You ask, unable to keep the worry out of your voice. Snape’s face is contorted in pain. He reaches for the footboard of your bed and his knuckles turn white under the force with which he holds onto it.

“Lie down.” You murmur and push against his shoulders gently. Snape looks at you both irritated and untrusting, but he eventually (less than gracefully) lowers his back onto the mattress.

You reposition yourself above him and lean back to brace your hands against his thighs right above his knees. Slowly you begin moving again. It feels awkward for a while but then you find the right angle and Snape presses his fingers against your clit, stroking tender circles over the throbbing bundle of nerves and pleasure overshadows any feeling of awkwardness.

“You’ve always been a fast learner.” Snape groans. “Such a studious girl.”

“When the subject interests me.” You chuckle and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Am I an interesting subject?”

“Hmm…Certainly one I can’t seem to escape.” You raise your hips and sink back down, moaning in tune with the delicious stretch of his girth.

“Do you plan on almost dying on my floor in the future?”

Snape laughs, an uneasy sound accompanied by a concerning rattling sound coming from his lungs. “Are you planning on stocking Dittany in the future?”

“Nah, but I was thinking about getting a runner and- ow!” He slaps your thigh, not hard, but a pleasant sting runs through your flesh and the sudden slapping sound startled you. “Bastard.” You hiss and push yourself up, planting your hands on either side of his head, careful to avoid the dark strands of hair spread out around his head.

“Is that the thanks I get?”

“Thanks?” He hums. An expression of raw pleasure flickers over his face and it pulls you in, captures you like a fly in a sticky trap - and like a fly in a sticky trap you realise the danger you are in just by associating with Snape, not to mention by fucking him.

You never thought yourself to be a morally depraved woman but here you are, with the enemy quite literally in your bed.

An injured, weakened enemy.

As if you’d have a chance against Severus Snape no matter how weak he is! No, leave the heroism to other people, people that value their lives less or think the world will be grateful for their heroism.

You close your eyes and lean down to meet Snape’s lips, to get lost in the feeling of a warm body against yours, the mechanical workings of what a romance would feel like, to draw some comfort from a man that is willingly giving it to you when all other male specimens on this earth seem to not give a shit about you.

“Started University.” You murmur against his lips. Snape has put his hands on your arse and is helping your movement, pulling you and down on his cock, guiding your cunt or using it for his own pleasure or revelling in having a former student of his so messed up she lets him fuck her.

“I heard. I’m glad.” He mutters back and takes your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Keeping taps on me?”

“Only a little.” And it’s back to kissing. Wet, heated, burning kisses. And passion or maybe erratic obsession but if obsession feels this good what does it matter?

The heat of his tongue against yours, his hands squeezing your arse, his breath dancing over your face, his cock spearing open your cunt repeatedly, it collects inside you, runs through your limbs and veins and fills your whole body. You can feel it rushing alongside your blood, feel your body respond to it by picking up the pace of your heartbeat, sweet clinging to your skin, especially on your thighs that straddle Snape’s. It floats through your body and eventually pools in your lower belly and deep inside your cunt, welcoming Snape’s prick on each thrust by splitting into two and regenerating like cell division-

Heat grows and morphs and hardens into a brooding mass that threatens to rip free of you. It scratches against your insides, searching desperately for a way out, a way to release this pressure and then Snape presses his thumb down on your clit and it rips free of you. Snape thrust up into you in one hard stroke and he groans, his grip on your arse tightening and you collapse above him and he pulls you down by putting his arms around your torso - his wound long forgotten by both of you.

His cock throbs as he spills inside you, splatters of warm, sticky cum painting your inner walls and with a content hum you rock against his softening cock to relish the last flickers of your orgasm.

Snape grunts - a pained one this time - and you push your trembling body up and lift your hips to sit down on the bed next to him. His now limp cock slips out of you and you hate that you miss the feeling of it, hate the emptiness left behind. You pull your knees to your chest and lean against the headboard of your bed, staring at the window just to not look at Snape.

“I-” Snape begins but stops himself. With another pained grunt he sits up and does the many buttons of his clothes back up. He sighs and rubs his hands over his face, raking through his hair. “I will try to not almost die on your floor again.”

“Good.” You want to sound stern, but it comes out sounding exhausted and confused.

“Good.” He murmurs. A knock on your door rips you from your thoughts. Who would knock so late? Perhaps it’s your elderly neighbour…

You pick your wand up from the floor and fix your skirt and blouse and walk towards the door.

Still caught in a whirlwind of confusing and contradicting feelings and perhaps Snape’s presence has led you to let down your guard a little, whatever it is you forget to cast your detection charms before opening the door-

Silver glimmers in the moonlight. You recognise the mask. It’s the young Death Eater that killed the man who wanted to assault you. He is flanked by two taller Death Eaters. Whatever you had wanted to say gets stuck in your throat as it swells shut. Just out of their sight you grip your wand tighter.

“Miss.” The young one says. “Apologies for the interruption.” Why the fuck is a Death Eater addressing you so polite? Movement behind you catches your attention but you don’t dare move.

“Was I not clear enough when I said this shop is not to be disturbed.” Snape drawls and all hints of pain or injury have left his voice. He looms behind you, tall and menacing and you can actually see the taller Death Eaters shrink back.

“My mistake. Again, apologies, Miss. Your presence is requested, Sir.” The younger one says to Snape.

“Do not repeat it in the future.” Snape scoffs. He ignores them and closes the door.

You can’t seem to find your voice again.

“This all will be over soon.”

“How do you know?” You whisper, uncertain what Snape means. What will be over? The resistance? You-Know-Who? His presence in your life?

“I hope you won’t have to see me again.” His lips brush your forehead ever so slightly, his fingertips dancing over your arms.

He turns to leave.

“Snape-” You don’t know what to say. His eyes linger on you for a moment, you think to see something flash in them, a hint of some deeply buried emotion but then he turns, opens the door again and he is gone.

You lean your forehead against the smooth wood. You can still feel his touch lingering-

A sob tears through the silence and you press your hand to your mouth as you sink to the floor and you don’t even know why. You kneel on the floor in front of your door and sob and cry.

When you eventually regain your composure and return to your flat you are met with the sight of drying blood…

The next day you go to the apothecary down the street and buy a bottle of Dittany.

| Part 3 |

#severus snape x reader #ao3 fanfic #snape x reader #snape x you #severus snape smut #dividers by cafekitsune

719 notes · View notes

harmoonix · 11 months

Text

🪽Angelic Astrology 🪽

• A N G E L I C •

┗━┅┅┄┄⟞⟦♡⟧⟝┄┄┉┉━┛

🪽Having the next following aspects can mean that you have an enchanting/angelic aura around you and you can warm up people with your energy;

Neptune - Moon aspects 🪽

Neptune - Sun aspects 🪽

Neptune - Ascendant aspects 🪽

Cancer in big 3 (Sun, Moon, Rising)🪽

Pisces in big 3 (Sun, Moon Rising) 🪽

Saturn - Moon aspects🪽

Saturn - Ascendant aspects 🪽

Uranus - Ascendant aspects 🪽

🪽 Having Moon aspecting the ascendant can make you to look very ✨ Ethereal ✨ you can have really soft skin and big eyes because of this aspect also very gracious gestures

🪽Having Moon aspecting the South Node means that you can be very attached to your past and often you can be quite sensible, is very hard for you get rid of toxic habits/patterns also this aspect gives you high intuition about things going on in your life you are and you were very connected to your soul

🪽Moon represents your soul and you inner world, the sign you have under the moon can tell you about your past lives and how you lived them based on the house you have your moon sign in

🤍The 9th house in your chart is the house of God, having the Moon/Sun in the 9th house can make you connected to God and to religion/spirituality, you can have this *child of God* allure around you as well you can possess talents related to those things 🤍

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

I don't wanna go

But baby, we both know

This is not our time

It's time to say goodbye

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🤍Mercury can also represent youthfulness, having Mercury aspecting the ascendant/sun can often make you young - looking and people can be confused knowing your age

🤍 Mercury - Moon aspects can have talents related to music and art, they can be very good at singing and their voices can also be quite unique

🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽

🪽Having the next following aspects can mean you can be very lovely and intense + nurturing

Asteroid Ceres [1] in a water Sign

Water placements/Stelliums

Earth in big 3 [Sun, Moon, Rising]

Earth Venus/Venus in 2nd/6th/10th houses

Venus aspecting Pluto

Moon aspecting Pluto

Asteroid Ceres in an Earth Sign

🪽Having Taurus/Libra placements makes you to be someone very romantic and passionate yet also someone who can make a good first impression, people see you as someone very elegant and respected 🌼

🪽Having Capricorn placements is never easy due to the high lessons these natives need to learn, no one knows what's in their heart, no one knows how much they cried or teared for some things no one knows how much pain was in their lives, but one thing is sure they are the most powerful people out there !! You got this Cap Placements!!🤍😇🤍 Never forget how powerful you are

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~ H E A V E N ~

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🪽Having Aquarius Placements is not that easy either because to their differences and uniqueness these people had this stereotype of being "weird" just for doing things they find good for themselves they have their own struggles and their own problems but one thing is clear...Never stop being yourself, be yourself everyday, everyday when you look in the mirror tell yourself how beautiful you are ♥️✨

🪽Having Cancer/Moon prominent in your chart can make you a very sensible person with a very nurturing and warm vibe, you can be like a mother to others with your energy 🪽🤍

Some angelic placements with angel asteroid 🌼

Asteroid Angel [11911] - ascendant aspects

Asteroid Angel [11911] - moon aspects

Asteroid Angel [11911] in the 1st/4th/8th/12th houses

Asteroid Angel [11911] - sun aspects

Asteroid Angel [11911] in the 7th/9th houses

🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍🪽🤍

🪽 Asteroid Angel [11911] in contact with Uranus or Neptune can make the native to have prophetic dreams, they can recieve messages through their dreams

🪽 If you have Asteroid Angel [11911] in the 8th house and someone from your family/someone close to you died, they can give you signs with their presence and you can feel it, you can feel them close when they are near

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It will come a day

When we will find our way

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🪽 Recently i discovered that natives with Sun in the 12th house suffered a lot in their past lives and it was mostly an emotional pain, that's why you can feel very emotional in this life, it is from your past life. You were hurt, very hurt in some cases and the lesson is to heal the wounds and toxicity that is around you

🪽 Asteroid Angel [11911] in aspect with Venus: Your angel/spirit guides can send you messages and signs through songs/music, you can listen to a song when you are sad/when you feel bad and to find something you needed in the lyrics of that song [When you listen music while being sad the brain focus on lyrics more]. It can also show that the native is very loved by their angels/spirit guides

🪽Having Asteroid Angel and Asteroid Juno aspecting or under the same sign makes your relationship protected by the guides/angels, the divinity takes care of you 2

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{ D I V I N E }

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🪽Asteroid Angel [11911] - Pluto aspects in very tight orbs = Your guides/angels can be very powerful and destructive if someone will want to do harm upon you, also they are here to make sure you learn your lessons and you find you power when you are low/at your lowest

🪽Asteroid Angel [11911] - Aspecting the Asteroid Hekate [100] in the 1st, 4th, 8th or 12th houses can make the native extremely intuitive, you are that intuitive that you can feel warning signs if something bad is gonna happen, also Hekate can team up with your angels to protect you

🪽Asteroid Angel [11911] - Aspecting the Aphrodite Asteroid [1388], your spirit guides/angels can give you confidence over you looks and the way you look, you are very beautiful and so is your soul with your angels/guides, you can have a very lovely/beautiful spiritual family

🪽Asteroid Angel [11911] - Aspecting the Lilith asteroid [1181], your angel/spirit guides can be half angel half demon and can hold a great power in these 2, these can be fallen angels who are your guides or extremely powerful sources from heaven, they are the type of guides who can get very mad when someone does harm upon you [These 2 aspecting eachother is so powerful]

🪽Asteroid Angel [11911] - Aspecting the Asteroid Archangel Raphaela [708] have an extremely powerful healing soul, you can heal other people and you can heal yourself from all the pain, also your soul is protected from pain, even if you can experience pain sometimes the feeling can disappear fast

🪽Having these angelic asteroids in your 1st/12th houses can make you an angel on earth vibe/energy

🪽 Having Angel in Retrogade [Rx] your spirit guides/guardian angels need to work with you in this life in order to finish your earth lesson

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🪽 Howwww y'all have been doinggg, July started to show up and the North Node return is coming closer than ever 🔥🥹 need to prepare. Anyway enjoy this Heavenly Post Part II since so many of you liked the 1st part 🪽🪽🪽🪽🪽 Some placements can have this kind of energy in them 🤍🤍🤍🤍 and because the angels are very beautiful and harmonious why to not make an post about them 🤍

🤍🌼 Hope everyone reading my notes has a good day full of love and peace 🤍🌼

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Here is part I for those who didn't see it

🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍🤍🌼🤍🌼🤍

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sodamnradd · 6 months

Text

“I have a confession to make,” Draco said, reading the front page of the Prophet from over her shoulder. It montaged a nondescript wizard dipping a woman in his arms on an illuminated battleground, kissing her like it might be for the very last time.

He tapped his finger on the photo. “I’ve never done this before.”

Hermione looked up at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Kiss someone.”

She snorted. “O-kay.”

“Pansy never wanted to kiss on the lips. She was saving herself for the one. Or whatever.”

“You lost your virginity three years ago.”

“Yeah,” he confirmed, shrugging. “Never kissed her.”

“And there was nobody else?”

“I don’t… do that.”

“What?”

“Stray. Once I’m hooked on someone.”

Hermione’s stomach fluttered. She fiddled with the edge of the newspaper, trying to appear aloof. “And your heart’s still set on Pansy?”

His gaze drifted slowly down her throat. “Is that what you think?”

Hermione froze as he grasped her tie. “What are you doing?”

He undid the loop, dragging the striped red fabric from her collar until it unraveled in his hand.

“It was crooked.”

She had to remind herself that grinning like a fool whenever Draco was nearby was pathetic. But he was a shameless flirt and a damn good co-head. Two things she had not foreseen at the top of the school year.

“I have a confession to make,” Hermione echoed.

Draco lifted a brow, encouraging her to go on.

“I don’t believe you.”

His cheek dimpled. “Shall I demonstrate my wretched skills to prove it?”

Her skin sizzled with heat. They’d been friendly to the point of rousing suspicion among their friends. But this was the first breach beyond platonic friendship, and she wasn’t prepared for the impact.

“I’m terribly hopeless, Granger,” he lamented, draping the tie around her neck asymmetrically.

Hermione swallowed as he coaxed her forward by the ends of the fabric until their faces were inches apart.

“You’re a liar,” she insisted, her voice little more than dazed breath as he righted her collar and crisscrossed the tie, fingertips grazing her chest.

He was all-consumingly close. Daydream Draco close. The one who refused to vacate her mind and never failed to rid the room of oxygen.

He expertly looped the fabric into a Half Windsor, his brow creased in concentration. Maybe if she weren’t so hypnotized by his proximity, she would have noticed the way his breath hitched and the blacks of his eyes expanded. But all she could do was melt when he nudged the knot into place, and whispered, “So kiss me.”

He made a soft moan the moment their lips touched, and she knew it, she knew it, because nobody kissed a girl like that and claimed to know nothing. He yanked the tie. Parted her lips. Teeth and tongue.

It was the kind of kiss she’d only ever dreamed of. Hidden in the depths of the library, alone, but not so remote that nobody could stumble upon them. He wasn’t trying to hide her.

Hermione sank her fingers into his hair, tasting sweet mint, wondering which spell would keep it engrained in her memory for all her future daydreams.

When they separated, Draco’s eyes were hooded and his knees were touching the insides of hers.

“Not bad for a first kiss,” she murmured, distantly aware the bell was ringing.

He took her arm and unrolled her sleeve, buttoning the cuffs. Then did the same with the other. With a wave of his wand, her books tumbled into her schoolbag. He swung her bag over his shoulder and stood, grabbing his own by the handle. The Daily Prophet floated back on the shelf.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, offering her his hand.

Hermione slipped her fingers through his, rising to her feet, looking up at him curiously.

“I wish that was my first kiss.”

And then he kissed her again. So swiftly, she didn’t register it until they were halfway to their next class and her heart was pounding so hard, she couldn’t breathe.

(673 words, prompt: so kiss me, cross-posted from twitter)

#haven't posted one here for a while #dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #dhr #dramione drabble #drabble #sodamnrad #sodamnraddrabbles

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starlingflight · 30 days

Text

loml

Written for @corneliaavenue-ao3 TTPD Several Sunlit Daylights challenge.

Read on AO3 or below:

I. lesson of my life

Every illusion Ginny has ever had is shattered over the course of a single night.

She doesn't go into the chamber willingly. She claws, and scratches and fights against Tom's commands with all her might. She cries, and she struggles, but in the end it makes no difference. She isn't strong enough. As the darkness swallows her up, her final childish hope is for a rescue she knows isn't coming.

When she opens her eyes again it doesn't feel like a miracle. The cold from the stone floor has seeped through her skin, a chill has settled deep in her bones and she knows, with absolute certainty, it will never fully go away.

Of course Harry is there, holding a mighty sword, a dead monster behind him. The very image of the conquering hero she's always fantasised about, but this isn't like one of Ginny's fantasies. He's covered in blood, and his eyes are wide with the same terror that's taken root deep within her soul. There's no triumph in this moment, only horror.

This isn't a dream. It's a nightmare. One that Ginny won't fully wake up from for a very long time.

She learns many lessons that night, but the most important one will come later. After she's spent weeks, months, years putting herself back together, because Harry might have rescued her from the chamber, but, as Ginny will come to realise, the only person who can really save you is yourself.

II. light of my life

Harry's never known a darkness like this. It starts when he watches Sirius fall through the veil, tiny tendrils of black slowly leaking out from his heart, unfurling with increasing urgency until he's overwhelmed by a cold, empty abyss that he's sure nothing will ever penetrate again. How can it when Sirius is never coming back?

He doesn't even notice the first ray of light. It happens so quickly. He's in the hospital wing, trying very hard to let Hermione's commentary on the latest news from The Prophet distract him from the aching chasm in his chest, and the unbearable weight of the prophecy, when it happens.

Luna says something completely ridiculous about Crumple-Horned Snorkacks – whatever they are – Harry can feel Hermione's exasperation from across the small gap that separates her bed from Ron's. Ginny's chocolate eyes meet his, and something happens that he'd assumed would never happen again.

Harry smiles.

It's fleeting, lasting less than a second. There's very little time to dwell on it before they're looking away from one another, and the grief washes over him again, a tidal wave that steals the air from his lungs.

That's just the beginning though… or maybe the beginning had been years ago. Maybe the blush he'd once thought of as the setting sun had actually been the opposite; Ginny's light rising, her warm, rosy glow beginning its ascent into his life.

She continues to rise that summer, forcing the darkness back with her sheer brightness. Her smile turns black to grey; her laugh is powder pinks and bright oranges; the jokes she coaxes from him are pure, cloudless blue.

When she runs at him across the common room months later, she's blazing, burning red. When she reaches him, when Harry finally kisses Ginny, the sun reaches its apex and his whole life is awash with bright, brilliant gold.

For a few shining weeks there are only sunlit days.

III. loss of my life

Fittingly, they're at a funeral when it happens. Ginny always knew he had great comedic timing. She's not laughing, however, as Harry lays out all his stupid, noble reasons why they can't be together. She's not crying either, though; that feels like a small mercy. The only one she's going to get for a while.

She does cry when she finally makes it home. It's silly, she knows. Silly, foolish, naive Ginny Weasley, a familiar, cold voice whispers through her mind. For once, she doesn't try to argue with it, but she doesn't try to stop either.

Instead, she buries her face into her pillow and lets herself sob until her eyes run dry. Her tears aren't just for her broken heart, but for everything Ginny's already had to sacrifice; her childhood, her innocence.

It isn't until weeks later that she realises the true magnitude of what she stands to lose.

“And then what does she think's going to happen? Someone else will kill off Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?”

The fork Ginny is holding almost slips from her grasp. Her heart falters in her chest. Harry playing his flippant comment off a joke does nothing to return it to a steady rhythm.

It plays round and round in her mind that night. Her knuckles are ghostly white where they grip her bedsheet. Vaguely, she'd known what he'd planned to do, but vague notions and knowing with absolute certainty are two very different things. The task Harry brought up so nonchalantly in the kitchen is nothing short of a suicide mission. It hits Ginny with the force of a barrage of stunning spells, knocking the air from her lungs; Harry might not come back to her.

Two days later, when she kisses him in her bedroom, it doesn't feel like she's saying happy birthday, it feels like she's saying goodbye.

When Harry follows Ron out of her bedroom door, he takes a piece of Ginny with him, one she prays she hasn't lost forever.

IV. longing of my life

She haunts him like a ghost. What was once screaming colour and pure unfiltered brightness is now just a memory, a pale imitation permanently stuck on repeat in his mind.

Harry moves stoically from one hiding place to another and, though they're separated by miles, Ginny follows him to every single one.

He can hear her laugh in the wind that shakes the canvas sides of the tent. He can see her smile in the sunlight that penetrates the thick canopy of the forests they move between. At night, when he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend the sheet brushing against his skin is her fingertips.

It's worse when he has the locket on. Then, he's tormented with visions like the one he'd imagined on his birthday; of her moving on. Finding someone else. Living a life that can never be his.

Horcrux or no, he can't stop himself thinking about her. Aching for her. Longing for her.

He clings to memories of Ginny like scraps of driftwood, the only thing keeping Harry afloat when he's been set adrift.

V. lament of my life

It's like the chamber all over again. Ginny's whole world is flipped upside down in the space of a single night.

She doesn't see Fred go. She doesn't know the last time she sees her big brother that it's the last time.

“Take care of yourself,” he'd shouted over his shoulder as Ginny had gone hurtling down a corridor in pursuit of a Death Eater.

“Don't I always?’ she'd called back.

What if she'd told him to do the same? Would he have listened? Would he still be there?

There's very little time to dwell on such questions in the middle of a battle. Especially not when every passing second brings another devastating loss.

Lupin. Tonks. Colin.

Ginny's heart shatters into a million little pieces until it doesn't exist at all. Or so she thinks, until she sees Harry's body cradled in Hagrid’s arms.

Then she knows she still has a heart, because it's in unbearable agony. She doubles over from the pain of it. His name escapes her lips on a scream, as though she might be able to call him back to life through sheer desperation.

Tom Riddle talks; for the second time in Ginny's life, she's unable to hear him, but this isn't like the Chamber at all. This time Ginny wishes she was dead.

When the battle resumes, she jumps straight into it with wild abandon. Ginny's lamentation is not filled with tears, or wailing. It's fire and rage for everything that's been taken from her. Tom Riddle already stole her past. Now he's taken her future. She will take everything she can from him, or die trying.

VI. lowest of my life

He's never truly let himself imagine what it might be like to actually defeat Voldemort. If he had, Harry doubts he would have pictured it like this.

If it's a win, why is there so much loss?

He doesn't know whether the grief or the hope is more overwhelming. They mingle together, like waves in the ocean, swelling and breaking, threatening to pull Harry under.

He can feel it crash over him as he stands in the great hall the day after the battle. The bodies are still there; all the people who don't get the second chance Harry does are laid out in front of him. Lifeless eyes staring, unseeing, up at the enchanted ceiling.

The guilt and the pain sweep through him like ice water, filling his lungs; rising up in Harry's throat until there's no possible room for air. He takes a step back, desperate to flee somewhere he can sink down into the cold, lonely depths.

Before he can, a hand, small and warm, slips into his, pulling Harry back to the surface. He releases one, long, deep breath before looking at her.

Ginny's attempt at a smile is tinged with sadness, sunlight peeking through dark grey clouds.

Only hours ago, he'd contemplated all the things he needed to say to her, but now no words are exchanged at all. Only a look. It's all they need. All they've ever needed. Everything has changed. But he's still Harry, and she's still Ginny.

Instinctively his arm comes around her. Ginny buries her face in his chest, sagging slightly against him, as though she was waiting for this moment to let herself rest. Like she needs him as much as he needs her.

Harry's head rests against hers, the floral scent of her shampoo is faint, lingering beneath everything that's happened. It makes his heart falter anyway. He holds her tightly to him, something he never thought he'd get the chance to do again. As he's come to expect, time seems to stop for her. They stay like that for what might only be seconds, or possibly an entire lifetime passes.

Eventually, Ginny pulls out of his grasp. It takes less than a second for her hand to find his again, fingers entwining. She pulls gently, silently commanding him to follow her. Harry almost asks where they're going, but he doesn't really need to. He's free to go wherever he pleases now. He'll follow her anywhere.

Ginny looks up at him as they walk towards the double doors. He can still see the embers of her blazing light smouldering in the dark depths of her eyes. He was right, there will be hours, days, and years in which to talk, but he doesn't need her to say a word now to know where she's taking him. He lets her pull him forward, lets her light guide him to a future he's still not sure he deserves to have.

VII. loser of my life

For a while, Ginny thinks she'll never recover from the loss, from the grief and the heartache. It's not the first time she's felt this way, but this time she doesn't have to face it alone. Once she has Harry back, he doesn't leave her side again.

They fall back together naturally. They stitch themselves back together slowly until one day, years later, the sun is blazing brightly in the sky, the pleasant summer breeze is ruffling the grass beneath her feet, and Ginny feels whole again.

“Ready?” Her father asks, holding out his arm out to her.

“Ready,” Ginny agrees, threading her hand through the crook of his elbow. Holding her colourful bouquet of wildflowers in front of her with her free hand.

There have been times, in her darkest moments, when she wished she was someone else. A girl who hasn't dwelt in a darkness that most people don't ever see even in their worst nightmares; a witch who hasn't looked into the eyes of evil and refused to bend, refused to break; a woman who hasn't lost things that can never ever be replaced.

Now, as soft music begins to swell in the summer air, and her gaze locks on Harry, waiting for her at the end of the makeshift aisle formed by the rows of chairs that have been put out in her parent's orchard, Ginny doesn't regret any of it. Everything she's lost is a step she's taken towards this.

She can feel dozens of heads turn towards her, but Ginny only has eyes for Harry, and he, it appears, only has eyes for her. His smile makes the sun look dim in comparison. Still, the corner of his mouth trembles; even from a distance, Ginny can see emotion well up behind his glasses.

‘Don't you dare,' she mouths, feeling her throat tighten as she does. Her arm stretches out, lifting her bouquet like it's a wand, miming hexing him. She's closer now. She can hear the tremor in his laugh as he puts his arms up in mock surrender.

It's too late; the laughter she's coaxed from him doesn't stop the tear that slips down his cheek. Of course, one of her own escapes only a half a second later.

“We look like such losers,” Ginny informs him, shaking her head, as her fingers slip from her father's arm into Harry's awaiting hand.

“Yeah,” Harry agrees, quietly enough for only her to hear. He's still smiling as another tear slides unconcernedly down his face. His free hand reaches up, his thumb swipes away the ones that are currently leaking traitorously from Ginny's eyes. “But you're my loser.”

It takes her a moment to regain her breath. A fleeting second in which she can't quite believe they're here; that they made it. Then she smiles even wider than before. “Not officially – not until we get through this ceremony.”

Harry's gaze holds hers. Ginny almost forgets they have an audience. The world reduces down to just the two of them, grinning madly at one another. Harry's fingers squeeze her hand. “We'd best get on with it then.

VIII. legacy of my life

Books are filled with what many consider to be his finest achievements. Tales of thrilling battles, speculations on unsurvivable curses, and records of great victories are inked across the pages of history.

As are the many titles thrust upon Harry; The Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, Saviour. To him, they're little more than noise, assumptions from people who don't really know him, and never will.

When he slips the wedding ring onto Ginny's finger, Harry gets the first title he's ever chosen for himself: husband. Her husband.

Not long after, he gains another one, this one unplanned, but no less momentous. James, tiny, and so precious, is placed into his arms, and Harry becomes a father.

His real legacy begins there. It's not just his, it's hers too. Their legacy.

It's recorded in baby books and photo albums rather than history books. It's memorialised in finger paintings and handmade Christmas ornaments (made under Ginny's expert supervision) instead of plaques and statues. It's hundreds of little memories of their family that will never see the inside of a newspaper, but that doesn't make them any less noteworthy, not to Harry, who'd never dared to imagine that this life could be his one day.

IX. love of my life

“Dinner!” Her mother calls from the back door of The Burrow, her voice ringing out across the garden.

The sun is setting, dipping below the topmost branches of the orchard. The sky is a tapestry of pinks, purples and golds, stretching out for miles above them.

“What do you think?” Ginny asks as her feet meet the ground, dismounting from her broom. “Could I make it as a pro?”

Harry lands beside her. His eyes sweep appraisingly over her. Ginny's stomach swoops like she's still in the air. “I don't know,” he says thoughtfully. “The League is brutal. It requires rigorous training.”

Ginny shrugs unconcernedly, hoisting her broom onto her shoulder as she does. “Do you know any Quidditch captains who might be interested in helping me with such an undertaking?”

“I know one who might be able to make some time for you this summer,” Harry says as he falls into step beside her. He inclines his head towards her broom.“I can take it for you?”

Ginny's eyes narrow, prepared to tell him she's perfectly capable of carrying her own broom, but, when she turns, the way he's looking at her makes her heart race, and the words die on her tongue. without her permission, her expression transforms into a grin. “Very chivalrous of you.”

A weight is lifted from her as Harry settles her broom beside his on his shoulder. “That's kind of what I'm known for.”

“Only ‘kind of’?” Ginny's eyes wander to the quickly darkening sky above them as she laughs. “In that case, I'll be sure to let people know of this latest act of heroism – personally, I don't think you get enough attention.”

“Well, if that's how you feel, you could always give me more.”

Ginny stops midstep. Her head turns sharply back to Harry. She should keep walking, the words that are on the tip of her tongue will lead to something that neither of them planned for on this particular summer evening.

Harry's eyebrows rise upwards; even in the dusk, Ginny can see the challenge sparking in his eyes. Unbidden, she takes a step towards him. “Are you flirting with me, Potter?”

He doesn't back down, but he doesn't make a move towards her either. The brooms he's holding clatter together as he shrugs with just a bit too much tension in his shoulders to be truly nonchalant. “I might be.”

Ginny's blood thrums in her veins as she takes another step towards him. “Need I remind you that I'm spoken for?”

“How could I forget?” Harry's head lowers despite her reminder, until he's so close Ginny can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes. “I suppose he's deeply in love with you?”

“Yes,” she nods with absolute certainty. “And I feel the same about him.”

Harry's head dips lower, the determination in his eyes making his intention clear. Ginny rises on her tiptoes, unable to fight the pull that always inevitably beckons her to him.

Barely an inch of space remains between them. Her heart flutters wildly–

“Oi!” The loud, obnoxious shout comes from the far end of the orchard, making Ginny jump. She turns towards it and finds a lanky figure glaring at them from where he leans against the fence. “When you're done being disgusting, Nanna says to hurry up – dinner’s ready and the rest of us aren't allowed to start without you.”

James doesn't wait for a response before turning on his heel and marching back towards the house.

Ginny rolls her eyes at her son's retreating back. Her hand slips into Harry's, the most contact they're getting, at least until after dinner. “Remind me again why we had children?”

Harry sighs, allowing her to lead him towards the gate James has just departed from. “You said they'd be cute.”

“Well, they used to be,” she says fairly as she pushes the gate open with her free hand. “I wasn't thinking as far as them becoming teenagers.”

Harry nods seriously. “Really, who could've predicted such an unforeseeable outcome.”

Ginny looks up at him as he follows her through the gate. Brown eyes meet green through the burgeoning twilight. Two identical smiles bloom like flowers in spring.

“Certainly not you, judging by your appalling Divination grades.”

#several sunlit daylights #hinny #harry x ginny #TTPD

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starstruckwillows · 1 year

Text

1725 — regulus black ♡

requested by anon<3

regulus black x fem!reader, platonic!marauders, hurt/comfort, fluff, brief panic attack, swearing, non descript mention of feeling ill

you’re best friends with the marauders, but you like regulus

the marauders were used to your sunny disposition and easy smiles, greeting them in the corridors with side hugs before tearing off wherever you needed to be. taking random photos and losing them three days later.

you were a bit of blur like that.

but recently they’d noticed you pulling away. and it wasn’t just them. there were bags frequenting the areas beneath your eyes, less pep in your step, that sort of thing. the usual signs of stress.

it was beginning to worry your friends.

“hey, are you co-” james tried, but you smiled weakly and were off down the corridor at record speed.

remus approached you with a copy of the daily prophet, not looking up at you as he did so, “have you seen th-”

you’d slipped away.

flitwick sat you next to peter in charms, upon the gryffindor boy’s request. a plea of personal concern. apparently the teacher’s had noticed your sudden swing as well. but you were out the class and feigning a headache in the sick room moments later.

well, not feigning. the lack of sleep was pounding inside your head recently.

you weren’t sure why this was impacting you so greatly. it was a... crush. it was a few torrid, heart pounding moments. a couple of emotional conversations. some hands brushing. one hug.

and it was wrong, so you weren’t going to act on it. you couldn’t.

but it was weighing you down.

“what’s going on?” you’d been so absorbed in your own thoughts, and the rising bile in your throat as a product of your over thinking, you hadn’t noticed sirius corner you.

you coughed, “we’re in a library, sirius, keep your voice down.”

there was a raw quality to your voice, a consequence of crying. he noticed it immediately.

“please talk to me.”

trying not to choke, “i can’t.”

he froze, “why? seriously, what’s going on? you’re scaring me.”

the panic was starting to take hold of you again. the dust on the shelves was settling in your lungs, constricting them painfully.

the eldest black brother was no stranger to these attacks. the icy, burning grips of them. he sat you down, and you tried to ignore the grime on the floor.

“this is worrying us all now, love. you can talk to me, you always can.”

despite your calmer state, you were adamant, “i can’t. it’s fine. i’ll... stop. i just need space.”

“you need sleep. like, yesterday. but this is clearly bothering you, so will you please just out with it.”

you shook your head, stomach churning, “i feel awful. i can’t.”

sirius stopped pushing. a little hurt that you acted like you couldn’t trust him, which is why he later went to find you again. he never was one for letting things be.

he found you at the astronomy tower, in an apparent argument with someone. you sounded in enough distress that he stuck around.

“i’m sorry. it’s too complicated, our lives are just incompatibile. we can’t see each other anymore.” you cried.

a lower voice he almost recognized protested, also sounding thick with tears, “i don’t understand. you said it didn’t matter. we knew it would be hard-”

you cut him off, “what would be hard? we... we aren’t together. i’ve cried myself sick over it already, regulus. this can’t work. sirius would never be okay with it.”

there was a slight pang that you were putting your potential happiness aside because of him, but sirius’ main feeling was anger and it’s source was his younger brother constantly getting involved in his life.

it was that burn of resentment that had him rounding the corner, spiteful words pouring free that he wasn’t completely sure he meant.

“and here i was worried about you, coming to check on you, when all that was wrong was you screwing around with my brother.”

sirius wasn’t cold. he was anger and frustration, an open flame, spitting oil.

you didn’t face him, eyes trained on regulus’ face. pale skin streaked with salty tears, dark eyes clouded, and a slight tremor in his hands. suddenly, maintaining sirius’ expectation wasn’t your main priority. regulus was hurting, because of you.

“please.” his whisper was almost inaudible.

but then you did look at sirius. and he was hurting too. and you’d caused it.

“sorry, i can’t be here.” you muttered, and fled. it was unlike you, someone who always faced their problems head-on, to be so flighty. you’d gone from grabbing the bull by it’s horns to hiding in a bush until it passes.

sirius misplaced the blame for your change on his brother.

“you couldn’t stop at my bedroom? or quidditch? you had to start fucking my friends?”

regulus wasn’t crying anymore, “we’re not like that, we haven’t... it’s none of your business sirius, you can’t tell either of us who we can date.”

sirius scoffed, “i know. but she ended it, so you can stop now.”

“i don’t want to,” regulus protested, “she only ended it because of you. you keep ruining things.”

“i keep ruining things? fuck off.” he left his younger brother up there, fuming.

the next day, you felt everyone was avoiding you. realistically, sirius had only told james, but every eye felt trained and you couldn’t cope.

regulus tried to openly approach you, something that had never happened before, multiple times over the following days. everytime you saw him, you ran, continually contradicting your usual fight or flight response.

this was supposed to be better. a blip to be moved past, then things with your friends could go back to normal. but regulus, your regulus, wasn’t a ‘blip’. you couldn’t attempt to think of him in such a callous way.

james found you in a detention you’d received for skipping class, and he’d received for a variety of recent pranks. neither of you could leave.

a part of you expected him to cold-shoulder you, but you knew really he would never.

“hey, how are you?” he askd, with a sincere smile you’d missed greatly.

you couldn’t find it in yourself to reciprocate that as you quietly answered, “alright. you?”

james shrugged, “i’m great, but i don’t think you are.”

“maybe not.” you trod lightly. james and sirius were more brothers than regulus and sirius were, and you imagined sirius was still furious with you.

his face twisted briefly, like he was having an internal fight, before saying, “you shouldn’t end your thing with regulus just because of sirius.”

whatever you were expecting him to tell you, it wasn’t that. you shrugged, “not just because of sirius. it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

“why?” you weren’t prepared for james’ questioning. it wasn’t pressing, it sounded genuinely casual.

you shrugged, “he’s a... y’know, bad guy.”

“who told you that? sirius?”

yeah, you wanted to say, and he’s biased.

but you didn’t. again, you shrugged.

james paused once more before blurting, “he feels bad. sirius, i mean, for getting involved and shouting at you, and... i don’t know. no matter how he feels about his brother, he loves you, and he didn’t mean to make you cry. inadvertently or not. plus, remus laid into him pretty hard.”

you kicked back in your chair, teetering over the edge. you weren’t so sad as lost. the gum in your mouth had long abandoned flavour as you considered. talking to james, you felt more like yourself than you had in weeks.

“i miss them. but i can’t have both. y’know what sirius says, bros over hoes.” the jest was an attempt to lighten the mood, and while it worked because james was as easily humoured as ever, he didn’t let you dismiss it all so easily.

he stood in front of your desk, tipping your chair forward so you didn’t fall and crack your head, and planted his hands on your desk, “you don’t owe this to either of them. they’ll get over it, don’t tell sirius i said that, and you deserve to be happy. put yourself first for once.”

“hypocrite,” you mumbled, but you were swayed. james was good at that.

“i’ll sort flitwick. go find regulus.”

so you did. and it took some tears, a lot of explaining, and the clear planning of boundaries, but you did. you found each other.

it wasn’t long after you sought out sirius, sitting down in front of him and sliding a piece of paper across the desk. he looked up at you confused, “well i’m glad to see you mate, but why the blank bit of paper?”

“1725. treaty of vienna. we’re gonna be peaceful and stuff.”

amusement lit his face, “the peace of vienna was about taking down napoleon. it wasn’t all that peaceful.”

you huffed, “whatever, siri, it was symbolic. i’m sorry. but i’m not going to stop seeing your brother.”

he sighed, twinkle lost and smile dropping slightly, “i know. i know, and i’ll... be fine with it.”

“you’ll talk with him?”

sirius winced, “don’t know. but we’re fine, okay? at least on my end.”

you hugged him suddenly, and while he was taken off guard, he hugged you back with relief.

“i’m... going to find reg now. okay?”

he shot you a somewhat awkward thumbs up, and gave a slightly forced but points for trying, “okay.”

it was night time and the two of you were at the astronomy tower again, as if the last two weeks had never happened. except for some obvious differences, like the two of you curling into each other, hands twisted, eyes roaming the other’s face with no shame.

the violet hues beneath your eyes had disappeared.

🏷️ — @faeriieblush @ariyabella @it-be-me-ella @songofpatrochilless @goodoldfashionedluvergirl @saturnband @ell0ra-br3kk3r @river13254 @meredarling @sillylittlenonbinarygremlin

#starstruckwillows #marauders #marauders era #regulus black #regulus black x reader #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #regulus black angst #regulus black fluff #regulus black hurt/comfort #fem!reader #regulus black x fem!reader

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samafricanreporter · 2 months

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Explore the transformative writings of Pastor Alph Lukau, delving into spirituality, personal growth, and enlightenment. Dive into a world of wisdom and inspiration with Alph Lukau's insightful books. This spirituality book is a strategic tool of the Holy Spirit to awaken, educate, equip, and prepare God’s church for the arising of the prophetic voice. The Rise of the Prophetic Voice wherein, author Alph Lukau introduces a knowledgeable, educational and revolutionary look at the Biblical truths about the prophetic and its practical operation in our time. The valuable tool of the Holy Spirit, it’s proclaimed for relieving light about the prophetic to the body of Christ and to boosting an end-time army of prophets for the Lord. Glorifying individualism and independence from God sadly but emanating in today’s world, as a route to freedom, affecting God’s significance irrelevant. However, the well-informed, spirit- led, and powerful revelations discussed by Pastor Alph Lukau demonstrate God’s unfailing power and establish his supremacy among men once again.

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sweet-s0rr0w · 9 months

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Microfic: I Must Be Lonely

A late birthday microfic, written for the wonderful @getawayfox (look, it balances out @wolfpants' gift which was a couple of weeks early, alright? That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.) Happy happy birthday to fandom's loveliest quadruple threat (writer, artist, reccer, beta/cheerreader). I hope you had a brilliant day! <3

T, 1.8k, no warnings. @drarrymicrofic prompt Simple. Thanks to @tackytigerfic for Irish picking and usual brilliance. This one is also for everyone else who hates night shifts!

Another night shift at the Ministry security desk. If boredom doesn’t get you, the vampires probably will, Draco thinks, sourly. That’s at least half exaggeration, though: Sanguini and his colleagues are always impeccably behaved, hurrying between meetings with barely a glint of incisor on show. But the boredom: now that part’s no joke. Nothing much happens in the Ministry after hours – by midnight, even the most dedicated workaholics have reluctantly ducked into the Floo, leaving Draco to his books, or his fantasy Quidditch, or (briefly and unsuccessfully) his crochet. Sometimes he gets lucky – a disaster necessitating the presence of the on-call Mishaps and Maladies team at the Ministry, perhaps, or an international visitor who’s messed up the time difference – but for the most part it’s lonely work.

Every night, Draco watches as two of the house elves work their slow, methodical way across the Atrium floor from either end, mopping and polishing and casting anti-slip charms until they meet just in front of his desk, some time around five o’clock. Things always get better after that, with the sun rising in the charmed windows and the slow downhill slide until six-thirty, that blessed hour when Draco mumbles his greetings to the day staff, pulling the hood of his robes up to cover his tired eyes, and slopes off towards the Floos.

Midnight until five, then, that’s the difficult time. That’s the hungry but nauseous time, the clammy but shivery time, the grumpy, gloomy, desperately weary time. Helpfully, it’s often the time the morons from the DMLE show up, high on adrenaline and testosterone and god knows what department-approved stimulants, and often, inexplicably, looking to chat utter rubbish.

“Hey! Everyone, look, it’s Malfoy!” bellows Finnigan, his voice rattling through Draco’s skull after three hours of total silence. He marches up to Draco’s desk, at the head of a group of what might appear, at first glance, to be drunken teenagers, but which Draco knows is actually made up of fairly senior Aurors. “How’re things, Malfoy? Ministry treating you well, I hope?”

Draco straightens his robes, shoving his folded up copy of the Prophet out of sight.

“It’s been a good day, Malfoy,” Finnigan continues, clearly not interested in waiting for Draco’s response. “A bloody good day, you know?” His grin is wide and toothy as he thumps his clenched fist against his chest and flings his head back. “Another victory in the fight for truth and justice, and all that’s―”

“Alright, Seamus,” says a voice from the back of the crowd. “Leave him alone, yeah?”

“Hey! Harry! Here’s the hero of the hour! C’mere.” Finnigan tucks a firm arm around Potter’s neck, pulling him forwards, until he’s shoved up against the front of the reception desk, smiling apologetically. “See,” says Finnigan, and his pupils are barely visible when he leans closer, “another bunch of Muggle-hating scumbags behind bars, and it’s all thanks to Hazza here. Good triumphs over evil again, and the world—”

“—hang on Seamus, isn’t that stuff classified?” cuts in Longbottom – who, as far as Draco can tell, is still every bit as much fun as he’d been at school.

“Oh, give over, Neville,” Finnigan spits, mercifully turning away from Draco, “I didn’t say who it was, did I? Classified would be if I’d said oi, Malfoy, d’you know they’re running a Muggle fighting ring out the back of the Reaper’s Arms—?” There’s a collective groan. “What?”

“You’re such a twat, Seamus,” says a short-haired witch next to Neville, folding her arms.

“Oh, I’m a twat, am I?”

“Yeah. You are.”

Then someone else starts up, voices crowding over each other in an unbearable racket. Draco rests back in his chair, closing his eyes, his tired mind picturing the little yapping Crups that Mother’s friend Verity used to bring over; the ones Mother pretended to coo over even while they left puddles of piss on the Persian carpet.

A shadow falls across his desk: it’s Potter, leaning forwards, blocking out the harsh glare of Lumos off the wall tiles. When Draco blinks and looks up, he finds that Potter’s shivering a little, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead. “Sorry about that lot,” he says, softly. “You know how they can get.”

“It’s fine,” Draco says, tightly. “Nice work on the, er, Muggle fighting stuff. Sounds pretty impressive.”

“Oh, cheers,” says Potter, with a shrug. “Just doing my job, you know how it is.”

Draco looks down at his desk: the bonsai yew that reminds him of home, his stupid cheap silver-plated letter-opener-cum-emergency-vampire-repellent, the battered copy of Birdsong he’s been slogging through for two months straight. “Not really,” he replies, shrugging.

“Ah, you’re not missing much. Five minutes of excitement, tops; I’d take a good Seeker’s game over that any day. But, you know—” he glances back over his shoulder, “—truth, and freedom, and all that rousing stuff from the superhero films Seamus watches. How’s your shift going, anyway?”

“Not bad,” Draco says, sitting up taller, sliding the Prophet back into view. “By the way, who’ve you got down for third Chaser? I’m stuck between Lyons and Campos.”

“You should go with Beni, definitely. Ollie’s been raving about his form all summer.” Potter leans over even further into Draco’s space, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he squints down at the page. “You got Chang down for Keeper?”

“McFarlane.”

“McFarlane?” Potter laughs, incredulously. “Seriously? Bloody Magpies fans. Completely deluded, the lot of you.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Well, Potter, I guess we’ll see.”

There’s a scuffle in the background, followed by cheers. “Coming, Harry?” Finnigan calls, wiping blood from his lip. “Hey, Malfoy, we’re heading out after this. It’s House night at XPulso; they’ve got three for ones on Rusty Nails, and we’re going to get Harry here laid.”

Harry stiffens, his eyes widening. “Er—”

“Yeah, I’ve got your back, mate. Maybe we can sort Neville out too, if anyone’ll have him.”

“I’m married, you knob!”

“You should really come along, Malfoy. It’ll be a laugh.”

Potter, still with his back to Finnigan, makes a faint choking sound.

“Sadly, Finnigan,” says Draco, trying to avoid Potter’s eyes, “I’m afraid I’m stuck at this desk for the foreseeable. But you lot have a great time. It sounds… memorable.”

Finnigan just shrugs. “Ah, your loss. C’mon then, boys.”

“Boys?”

“It’s just an expression, Davis, what d’you—”

They’re off, finally, all backslaps and hooting laughter, and no-one’s looking at Draco anymore, which is a small mercy. Potter reaches down to steal a crisp from the unopened packet at the back of the desk. “Anyway,” he says, mouth full, breath salt-and-vinegar scented, “’s been good to see you, Dra – Malfoy.”

“Yeah,” says Draco, glumly, and he hates himself for envying them all. “You too.”

***

Draco tries not to think about Potter, he really does. It’s hard, though, not to wonder what he’s doing – who he’s dancing with, where he’s sleeping – when all you’ve got for the night’s entertainment is Miffy and Jinks, a dodgy alarm on Level Five, and yesterday’s Prophet. He dithers for a while over his Fantasy Quidditch choices, trying to pretend he doesn’t care what Potter thinks, then Diffindos the completed page carefully out of the newspaper and tucks it into his pocket. Both house elves make it across the floor without incident. Through the window behind his desk, Draco watches the sun begin to rise over Salisbury Plain, as slowly, grudgingly, night gives way to day.

“You off?”

It’s his replacement; showered and shaven and far too bright. Draco nods grimly at him.

“Anything to report?”

“Nothing.” He gets to his feet, rolling his shoulders and renewing the Protego on his tree, grateful, as always, for the speed and convenience of the Floo. Five minutes from desk to bed, via blackout charms and a good Silencio; that’s the way to do it.

Something’s off today, though – Draco can tell, as soon as he lands, drained and unsteady, on his hearth. The heating’s already on, for one – he can’t see his breath in the air, which is a welcome change – and hang on… is that the smell of bacon? His nausea evaporates, instantly, as he follows his nose, half in a dream, only to find—

“Morning.”

Potter’s standing by the hob, grinning, and the flat’s a little more smoky than usual, but there’s eggs frying, and sausages on the grill, and just then the toast pops up and, well, Draco could just about kiss him right now.

So he does.

“Oh my god,” he says, when Potter pulls away, popping a crispy bit of bacon into Draco’s mouth instead.

“Good?”

“Oh my god,” Draco says again, salt flooding his mouth. “But what – what are you doing here?”

“Well, I was up all night too. You’re sleeping today, I’m sleeping today – I thought, well, this way at least we get to sleep together properly for once. And I know how hungry you get after night shifts. Here.”

Dizzy with tiredness, or the cooking fumes, or possibly something else entirely, Draco takes the ketchup over to the table, then slumps down hard into a chair. Potter brings over the plates, pulls his own chair in close.

They eat in comfortable silence, and it’s only once Draco’s blissfully full of sausages and buttered toast and beautifully seasoned egg, that he finally works up the courage to speak. “So Seamus’ efforts failed, I take it?” he says, lightly.

Potter snorts. “Shut up,” he mumbles, through a mouthful of beans. “Seamus passed out after the second round of shots. The rest of my night was spent escorting him back to his cousin's house on the Knight Bus. Why,” he says, grinning, “were you actually worried?

“Of course not,” Draco replies, too quickly, then sips his orange juice to try and disguise the lie.

“That’s good. Because I want to tell them, Draco.”

Draco freezes, glass in hand.

“No, I mean it,” Potter says, dropping his knife to take hold of Draco’s forearm. The Mark aches like a bruise, but beneath Potter’s fingers, the pain’s almost sweet. “Look, you know what those shifts are like; you know how they make you feel. The raid, and then getting everything wrapped up, and then seeing you at that bloody desk – the last thing I wanted was other people’s hands on me, Draco. All I could think about was how sick I am of acting the part, of pretending I’m interested, when what I’m really interested in is…” He gestures at the room, at their plates, then, finally, at Draco. “This. You.”

“I—” Draco begins, and if his voice is a bit wobbly, well, he can blame that on the tiredness, can’t he? Beside him, Potter's resumed blithely eating his bacon, eyes heavy-lidded, as though nothing he’s said was at all out of the ordinary. Draco swallows. “They’ll say you’ve lost your mind,” he says, pressing his socked foot against the knob of Potter’s ankle.

Potter nudges him back. “Well, maybe I have. Working nights will do that, after all.”

#drarry #ss writes #happy birthday el!#god i am shit with deadlines #forgive me please

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draco-dormiens · 9 days

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THE STRANGEST OF PLACES - Chapter Twenty Four / The Final Chapter

draco x fem!ravenclaw reader / postwar au series

a/n: so. here we are - final chapter! i really hope i’ve done this ending justice. even got a bit emosh myself. i'd just like to say a HUGE thank you to everyone that has supported this fic, whether that be reading, interacting, sharing, anything. it's been a pleasure to post this story for you ♡ now... onto my next series idea!!

warnings: nothing really, just a tad bit emotional

wc: 2944

masterlist

taglist is now closed - i’ve officially run out of tags! thank you all

The Seventh Years Graduation

As from a dream, Draco woke with an air of blissfulness. His first morning with the girl he loved was cut short, a few messy kisses and promises of tomorrow before he was faced with the dark gates of his home once more. He was ready, more now than ever, to face the music that was his parents and their wishes for his pureblood marriage.

After leaving them in a whirl of confusion the night before, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't slightly dreading the look on his mother's face once he sees her again. Draco could hear her now, scolding him for allowing his family to be shamed yet again, could picture the disapproving look his father would give him from the corner of his eye. He swallows thickly, but with the courage you had planted in him, he entered the foyer to be greeted with absolute silence. It wasn't as if being greeted by an empty home was unusual, it was just that at this moment, the silence was practically deafening.

He hesitated in calling out, but figured it would be worse if they knew he'd come home and not seeked them out first thing after yesterday's fiasco. "Mother? Father?" He called, only to be met with the slight echo of his voice in the quietness. Not even the house elf seemed to respond, and so, he wandered, cautiously, through to the drawing room they would usually reside in. When he entered, it appeared as if someone was there, a pot of tea and half drunk cup on the coffee table and the Daily Prophet sprawled out beside it.

"Hello?" He calls again, coming to a halt before the paper. The headline read "A Joyous Occasion: Returning Students to Graduate", and a rather lengthy article where Headmistress McGonagall had stated how 'utterly elated' she was for the returning seventh years after such a 'stressful and sorrowful time.' Draco flicks through a few more pages, various columns advertising products and, of course, Skeeter's addition. He huffs at her attempts, as the doorway suddenly darkens behind him.

"Draco." Lucius's voice comes at a shock against the silence of the room, Draco spinning on the spot to see his father, who, upon inspection, looked tireder than ever, "you have returned, I see."

"Father," Draco clears his throat, "is mother around?"

"I'm afraid she is not," Lucius said, gracefully crossing the room in an expensive looking gown, "She is collecting her dress for the graduation."

"Ah. Right." Draco breathes, questioning how his mother has simply continued with her graduation preparations.

With a flick of his wand, Lucius summons another tea cup, and steam begins to rise from the teapot. "Sit," he instructs his son, "there is something I wish to tell you."

Draco does as he's told, already aware that his actions had perhaps caused his mother to have a breakdown and leave his father looking like sleep had escaped him for at least a month. Lucius pours two fresh cups, and sips at the warm brew with a little satisfied hum. Draco, as if a guest in his own home, follows suit, sitting uncomfortably on the end of the couch.

"Not long after your mother and I graduated," Lucius begins, "there was an awful lot of talk about the Dark Lord and his success in becoming immortal. It was getting more and more apparent that this man was gaining an insurmountable amount of power."

Draco remained silent as his father took a pause.

"I, young and influenced, believed that following this Dark Lord was the right and just thing to do. My family held the same beliefs, as did your mother's. Swearing allegiance to him, in my inexperienced mind, made utter sense. The things I was doing... made sense. But what I've come to realise, in my doing so, I have caused undeniable pain to those dearest to me." Lucius stops, and looks Draco in the eyes, "and to you, most of all, it would seem."

"Father, I-"

"I often wondered what you may do now that the war was over and Voldemort is dead. I had pictured you following the same beliefs, marrying a pureblood and having children. Perhaps I was naive to think that those events hadn't changed you... that those around you hadn't changed you." Lucius said, ignoring Dracos interception. He could see a slight sheen over his father's eyes for the first time in his life, "what's her name, Draco?"

"Huh?" Draco sounds, a little dumbfounded, "oh, you mean Y/N? I-it's Y/N Y/L/N."

"Half blood?" Lucius asks, sipping his tea as Draco swallows another lump in this throat.

"Yeah," he nods, looking down at his cup, "her father is a muggle."

"I see." Lucius says simply, placing down his cup and saucer, "and do you love her?"

Draco almost chokes. Never did he think his father would ask him such a question, but here he was, looking at him with all seriousness. Even so, Draco's answer is strong and quick.

"Yes," he said without a beat, "more than anything."

Lucius nods yet again and rises.

"Then there is no more to be said," he announced, clearing the table with another flick of his wand, "we shall have to meet after the graduation. Perhaps over dinner."

As his father begins to leave, Draco stands from the couch, gaining his father’s attention. Confusion and elation courses through his veins.

"Is that it?" Draco challenges softly, "you're not going to scold me? Shout at me?"

"Would you still pursue this girl if I did?" Lucius asks calmly, "would you listen if I forbid you from seeing her? Even if I locked you in the highest room of this house, you would find a way to her, would you not?"

"Do I need to answer that?" Draco raises an eyebrow, and his father chuckles. The sound of it was so foreign to Draco's ears.

"Then I rest my case," Lucius holds his hands up, "your mother and I have spoken at great lengths, Draco. Your disappearance last night proved one thing - we have no right to hold you down any longer. I dare say, if someone had kept me from your mother, I may have gone insane."

"I love her," Draco finds himself saying, "and I'm going to marry her, father. No one else."

Lucius is quiet for a long moment, before cracking a slight smile.

"You seem to have found yourself," he says as he walks towards the door, and his small smile disappears from his face, "perhaps we were too blind to notice the young man before us."

Banners, flags and all manner of decorations were adorning Hogwarts the morning of the graduation ceremony. Families from all over the county had congregated to join in with the celebrations, and the grounds were practically teeming with people.

Draco had owled to request you meet him before the ceremony began, to tell you about his meeting with Lucius. It was safe to say you were surprised to hear a more positive story, since he'd ran away and left his parents and the Greengrass's in the lurch. But Draco had reassured you that his father is a serious man - he wouldn't have said those things if he didn't mean them, and especially if his mother disagreed. "I haven't seen her but," he began, looking dashing in his robes of emerald green, "something tells me father spoke for the both of them."

Outside in the courtyard, students were to be seated in their houses, with families and friends seated behind. Important individuals within the wizarding community as well as representatives from the Ministry were also present. The Daily Prophet had photographers and journalists out, capturing the eventual graduation of the returning seventh years. As the moment approached, students began walking in their respective houses to their seats, you amongst the Ravenclaws clad in striking blue robes. From the corner of your eye, you spot the emerald green of the Slytherins walking in the same direction across the entrance hall, one particular student catching your eye as she elegantly drifted across the space, brown hair cascading down her back and heels clicking along the tiled floor.

As if carried by your feet before you could think, you made a beeline across the space.

"Astoria," you call out, and the girl stops at the sound of her name, head snapping in the direction of your voice, "can I speak to you a moment?"

"Y/N," she blinks, "can I... help you?"

For a moment you weren't sure what to say. Do you thank her for letting Draco follow his heart? Do you apologise that her marriage didn't go to plan, and that she has faced just as much heartache as you in all of this? Or do you simply wish her well? Many things flitted through your mind in that moment, but one thing was abundantly clear. Despite everything that had transpired, there didn't seem to be even a glint of disdain in her eyes.

"Well, I just-"

"If it's about Draco, you should know he made his own decision," she cuts you off, smiling at the small crowd of Slytherins entering the courtyard, Draco surely among them, "I simply realised I was an accomplice in his misery. The rest was his own heart telling him what to do."

"From my understanding, you were pivotal in Draco finding his strength," you said kindly, Astoria's pretty eyes looking at you as if she was sure Draco wouldn't ever mention her name again, "and for that, I'm forever thankful, Astoria. As well as deeply sorry for the mess I caused."

She shakes her head with a smile on her face. A light chuckle escaped her lips.

"Love isn't a crime, Y/N," she says softly, "for too long, I've lived in my parent’s shadow, following their ideals and wishes. If anything, Draco, and you, have taught me a lot about thinking with your own mind. It's true I would've married happily," she pauses briefly, "but it's a long time to be miserable, don't you think? Draco deserves better than that."

You go to speak, but nothing comes out. Words fail you in this moment, and Astoria takes your hand as the band outside begin to play the entrance music for the graduating students.

"There is no need for more words," she said, and you hold her hand back tightly, "all I ask is that you take care of him. Merlin knows he needs it. Now, what do you say we walk out together, hm? As a Ravenclaw and a Slytherin, for the last time."

Arm in arm, you emerge from the large doors and into the courtyard, following the groups of other students. The two of you split ways once arriving at your designated spots, and part with a smile. You find your place beside Luna, and settle in, a buzz of excitement and fresh, new beginnings in the air. Headmistress McGonagall rises to the lectern, as students, staff and guests all stand. A round of applause is made, and the ever elegant professor quieted the crowd with a gentle wave of a hand, urging everyone back into their seats.

"Thank you," she begins, her voice magically amplified, "It is my greatest pleasure, as Headmistress of our school, to see such wonderfully gifted pupils embark on their next chapter, not only as high achieving students, but as young men and women." She scans the crowd, and with a wipe of her handkerchief under both eyes, continues, "and most of all, it is an honour to send off those returning seventh years whose final year at Hogwarts was tainted by sorrow and loss, into greener and brighter pastures, as free witches and wizards. The world is indeed your oyster, and I expect great things from each and every one of you."

Professor Flitwick hurries along the stage, wand levitating a large pile of scrolls, each tied with a coloured ribbon of the students respective house, closely followed by Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Now," McGonagall announces, "as we call your name, house by house, please rise to collect your graduation certificate, prestigiously presented by our good Minister, Mr Shacklebolt."

Students from each house proudly took the stage and their graduation certificates, shaking hands with the Minister and posing for a photograph. Gryffindor first, then Slytherin, Hufflepuff, and eventually, Ravenclaw. As your name is called, with slight jelly legs and a nervous but exciting feeling in your stomach, you walk the aisle to the stage, passing the other houses. Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt hands a scroll to you, blue ribbon tied in the centre in a neat and perfect bow, and then shakes your hand in a firm but gentle way.

"Congratulations," he says quietly to you, as the camera takes a photograph your parents are no doubt planning on placing above the fireplace. You take the chance to look out over your fellow students and families, noticing your mother waving at you from the back rows. A small wave back and she's taking her own photos, and even from the stage you could see your father urging her to sit down so the others behind could see. Then, your eyes fall on the rows of emerald green, to a kind face, with white hair shining in the sun, and a smile that makes your knees a little weak.

He winks, and you can't help but feel flustered in front of the hundreds of faces looking up at you blushing like a schoolgirl.

"Thank you," you mutter to the Minister, and share a smile with the Headmistress as you head back to your seat. After a few words from Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt about courage, strength and the 'formidable force that is the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry', one final round of applause, and the chance to mingle begins. Your parents, mother crying and father trying to hide his emotion, are the first to find you. They chat with your professors, even the Minister, and mingle with other parents they know. Students you've known say their goodbyes and well wishes, as a little tap on your shoulder gains your attention.

"So, we've done it." Hermione says, clearly overtaken with emotion, "We've actually done it."

The two of you embrace, squealing with happiness. You hug one another tightly, evoking some tears in the process. It's been a long journey, but you've made it. From the war to your own trials and tribulations, you were both still standing. Together.

"I couldn't have made it through this year without you, 'Mione," you mumble through your tears, and you hear her giggle through hers, "I love you so much. Thank you. For everything."

She pulls back, resting her hands on your shoulders as she looks at you with adoration.

"You must stay in touch," she chokes up mid sentence, "promise me? Don't be stranger, for Merlin's sake. Tell Malfoy the same." You nod vigorously, "I love you too," she says sincerely, and then her eyes are fixed on someone behind you, "speak of the devil."

You turn on your heel to see Draco, handsome as ever in the green that so belongs on him, sheepishly waiting for you to notice his presence. Turning back to Hermione, she insists you go to him, and with one last hug, you cross the space between you. His smile grows wider the closer you get, and as soon as you're in touching distance, he takes your hand and presses a delicate kiss to your knuckles.

"You know," he begins, voice like silk, "blue really is your colour, my love."

A delightful chuckle escapes your lips, and within the next second, his other hand is cupping your jaw and bringing you in for a passionate kiss. He doesn't seem to care that hundreds of students and families surround you, including his own. All he cares about is this moment, and this declaration of his love for you. As you part, he remains close, kissing the corner of your mouth.

"I love you, darling," he whispers to you, only for you to hear, and wipes a stray tear from your cheek.

"I love you, Draco." Your voice is barely audible, but he catches it, and a toothy grin spreads across his face.

"Well then?" he then extends his arm to you, "it's time for the boats, my lady.”

With your arm laced in his, family and friends watching from the courtyard archways, the seventh years descend the stairs to the boat house for the last time, reminiscing about the first time they wandered up those same stairs to the sorting ceremony. Not many words are exchanged between you; emotions are high and his touch is enough, but as you collect on the docks of the boat house, Hermione comes to stand beside you. You take her hand, and the three of you look up towards the castle that's been your second home for eight years now.

"Shall we?" you look between them both, and you share a silent agreement, stepping onto the boat together, symbolising the start of a new beginning, and the end of an era. As the boat is pushed from the shore, your hands are still intertwined, and your arm is still tightly around Draco's arm. If you had pictured your last trip across the Black Lake like this, you would've thought some very strange twist of fate was at play; in fact, it must be. Taking one last look back at the castle that becomes smaller and smaller the further away you get, you think how you've found many things during your time as a Ravenclaw. Friendships, courage, knowledge, and even love. Isn't it funny, you think to yourself. How life plays out, how the universe works.

How true happiness can be found…

In the strangest of places.

disclaimer: i do not own hp or any of the characters in this story

tags: @lovesanimals0000 @cappgyuccino @lightning1ce @onlygetaway @honeyyypeach @namelesslosers @ghostyv @mikadorbs @redactedhimbo @morganadpl @scarecrowscaresthomas @valkyrie418 @animeloverfreak310 @budugu @marplest @torresbarnes @bunny24sstuff @champagneesupernova @serafilms @siriusly-parker-main @lovely-maryj @i-bitch-you-bitch @astablacksword @sun-fiower-seed @tinafuentes @venusjustleft @omgitstatertot @aangsupremacy @ilovezy @leclerc16s @aslanvez @talesofadragon @3vasaur @the-skys-musical-echo @yeolsbubbles @idk-dolans @xx-kiraa-xx @sunbruized @vinkiesz @snickersmee @fandomrulesall-blog @astheraa @idkatee @marsanhwa @vintageoldfashion @63sucker @j-n-i-c-o-l-e @anarchistsons @newbooksmell777 @tangomangroves @neoteezrenyoung @l0v3lies @delusionally-loveless-by-choice @higanbanagirl @ace152435 @arcanebabe @slythermuf @hea-vin @zucchinimalfoy @carolineesnell

#draco #draco x female reader #draco x ravenclaw!reader #draco x y/n #draco x you #draco x reader #draco malfoy x ravenclaw!reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy fanfiction #draco lucius malfoy #draco angst #draco fanfiction #harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #hpff

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outofgloom · 9 months

Text

PAIN AND THEN DARK

The suns of Metru Nui were bright and hot. Too hot, for too long. The heatwave had lasted a year so far and showed no sign of stopping. The meteorologists could not explain it; neither could the seers. Various protocols had been enacted across the Metru to protect and maintain the city's infrastructure, but at times it seemed like a losing battle.

The skyline of Ko-Metru was looking rather pathetic today. The Metru of Ice was the hardest hit by the rising temperatures, and perhaps the most miserable as a result. Another of the great Ice Spires had destabilized during the warm night and collapsed, filling the streets with quickly-muddying slush.

"Woe unto us!" cried a Nonguite street-prophet, standing strategically beneath the shade of a protometal joist, now exposed by the melt. He was maskless as usual, and clearly reaching the limit of his strength.

"The world shall end in heat-death, it is foretold!" he continued. "See how the eyes of Mata gaze down upon us, examining us, judging us. Closer he bends, and we are like insects before him!"

Ioro ignored the ragged Matoran, as did most everyone else. He stooped into the underhang of the crystal tower's base, noting that the usual permafrost foundations were deteriorating here as well. He made a note to shore them up when he left.

The Ice-Toa allowed himself a small expenditure of elemental power, dropping the temperature of the air rapidly, and entered through the low doorway.

"Soon shall the end come!" the distant voice crowed. "Shed your masks, and meet him with your true face!"

A Ga-Matoran glanced up, feeling the icy coolness Ioro brought with him into the medical ward.

"I was summoned," Ioro said. "Another heat-stroke?"

"Not quite," said the Ga-Matoran. She looked down at her tablet, beckoned for him to follow. The ceilings were a bit higher here, allowing the Toa to stand upright as they navigated the halls.

"Patient is identified as Kylda, of the Lower East Sanctums."

"That is Kylda, formerly of the Eighteenth Tower of Knowledge, for the record."

"Mhm."

"What has happened? Is he alright?"

They rounded a corner. Various medical personnel scattered as they passed through the center of the ward. There were whispers. The Ga-Matoran finally stopped at another doorway, examining her tablet again.

"Hang on, let's see...You are the 'Ioro' listed as a direct associate of Kylda in the Ko-Metru central records, correct? I have a mask-record on file for you, but it seems it was from...uh...before."

She gestured vaguely up and down the Toa's body. Ioro flashed his Metru identification morosely. They entered the patient room.

There was a low bed, and various mechanica beside. Ioro reached the bedside in one stride. The figure lying there did not move.

"Kylda..." he mused to himself. Then, to the Ga-Matoran: "Tell me."

"He asked for you by name when they brought him in, but lost consciousness soon after. That was several hours ago. He was--"

"--What happened to his eyes?" Ioro interrupted. "Why the bandages?"

"Ahem. He was clearly overheated from wandering outside, but the most substantial injury was to his oculars. I'm afraid they are completely destroyed."

"What?! How..."

Ioro bent closer. The bandages were woven beneath Kylda's mask, hiding whatever terrible injury lay there. His mask...

"The eyeholes of his mask are...They appear to be..."

"Burnt," the Ga-Matoran said. "Yes. We've ordered a new one from the temple-vault, but I'm not sure that..."

She trailed off.

"He is dying."

"Yes. You arrived just in time."

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

"What can I do?"

"I don't believe there was anything that could have been done. The damage goes deeper than the apertures themselves. We have made him comfortable, but it will not be long now."

"I see."

"There is more: A representative of the Metru Council was here earlier, and she delivered me this directive. I have it...uh...right here. It's for you."

The Ga-Matoran stepped forward and offered a small tablet stamped with the Council Seal. Ioro took it and turned away to read.

For the eyes of Toa Ioro only. Summon Rau for this cipher.

Ioro shifted to his Mask of Translation, read further:

Report of a disturbance at the Second-Channel Observatory Sanctum, Ko-Metru sub-district fourteen. Target of interest is Kylda, formerly Inaku Kylda, formerly of the Eighteenth Tower of Knowledge (position reverted). Intelligence suggests that this Matoran intended to engage in further repetition of illegal astrological activities.

You are designated a direct associate of this target, with knowledge of the target's history. A representative was sent to the Po-Ko Medical Ward, Ko-Metru sub-district nine, where Kylda was admitted, but it was determined that interrogation was not possible at that time. Your directive now is to go to the Second-Channel Observatory Sanctum, Ko-Metru sub-district fourteen, and determine what activities may have taken place there.

Any data derived from these activities is to be destroyed, in accordance with the Prohibitions. Report back to Station, sub-level three of the Coliseum when complete.

Ioro looked up from his tablet. Kylda's breathing was shallow. The mechanica chirped steadily. The Ga-Matoran waited at the door.

"Give me a moment with him, please."

The Ga-Matoran backed out of the room.

Ioro stood still, gazing down at his friend. He looked small to Ioro--all Matoran did, of course. But even smaller now, lying there. It had been too long since they had spoken. He'd worried that Kylda might do something, left to his own devices. Return to...old obsessions.

Ioro glanced back to the doorway. Low conversation in the central ward beyond. No inquiring eyes. Quickly, silently, he knelt beside the bed, hand to Kylda's scorched forehead, and shifted to his Mask of Telepathy.

Down through the shifting psionic waves, through the twisting mental pathways he searched for fleeting remnants of consciousness. Thoughts flickered past, muddled and indistinct. He pushed on, seeking a place of cohesion, of active awareness.

At last, blurry impressions began to resolve, and he felt a faint presence.

"Kylda, I'm here," he said with his mind-voice. "Do you know me?"

"...Ioro?" the answer came slowly.

"Yes."

"Ioro, you are...You came! Where are we? It's dark..."

"We are in your thoughts, my friend. Perks of being a Toa."

"I can hear you. I think I've been...dreaming."

"You've been unconscious."

"They gave me some of the numbing fruit at first, and that helped."

"Are you in pain?"

"No, no...not anymore."

"That's good. I'll tell the healers."

"How long..."

"Just a few hours, I think. They found you on the street and brought you in."

"No, I mean...how long do I have left?"

"...What?"

"I can feel it, Ioro. I was...crawling. I was outside for a long time, in the sunslight. It was too much; I can feel it in my core."

"Let's not rush to--"

"Don't lie to me."

A long pause. Ioro searched for the words.

"I'm sorry, Kylda," he said at last. "There...there isn't much time left."

"I see. It's my own fault. I couldn't stop myself."

"Please tell me you didn't. You know the Prohibitions."

"I made a mistake, Ioro."

"Why? After all that happened, after losing your place at the Tower..."

"I don't know why. I couldn't help it, somehow. It's been on my mind for so long. The work was...It was unfinished."

"It should have stayed unfinished."

"No, it had to be done...And I did it, Ioro. At long last, I did it!"

Another pause.

"Tell me."

"I snuck back into my old observatory--you know the one. I planned it all out, brought in all my things. I'd been doing the calculations for years. It was easy to make the proper adjustments, just like before."

"Just like before...so you violated the Prohibitions after all. I had hoped--"

"Curse the Prohibitions! You know how I feel about them."

"Yes, of course--"

"--Divining of the suns and moons tells us just as much as the stars. More, even! They are a direct link to the mind of Mata Nui. A terrifying thought, that we Matoran could look the Great Spirit in the face. I've always said the seers are too small-minded, too set in their ways."

"--Spare me the speech, Kylda. You sound like the street-prophets."

"Don't say that. You know that hurts me."

"I'm sorry."

"Anyways...well, I did it! The suns were just rising at dawn. I adjusted the great lenses of the telescope and trained it at Akuavo, the upper sun, and affixed my old tinted lenses. I kept some of them, you see..."

"Of course you did."

"And I looked...and I looked through...I saw..."

The telepathic voice grew quieter.

"Kylda?"

"Saw..."

"Kylda stay with me."

"Ioro...my friend...I think..."

"I'm sorry, Kylda. I should have been there. I should have stopped you."

"I think I saw...no...No!"

The mindspace agitated, convulsed. Ioro felt sick, but held on.

"Can you hear me?"

"I saw it! Oh, I saw it for sure, and it burned me, Ioro. It burned me in my eyes, in my brain. I thought the lenses would be protection enough, but I was a fool."

"That's not true."

"I looked into the eye of Mata. I looked and he judged me!"

"It's over now. There's no need--"

"--Behind the suns, Ioro. It was there."

A shudder went through the mental pathways. Ioro felt a pang of something. Dread...and that old curiosity.

"...What was there, Kylda?" he asked after a moment.

"What did you see?"

==========

The observatory was dark and cool, well-shielded from the warm air outside. Ioro had finished his catalogue of items, wiped the remaining records from the various memory crystals. Not a trace was left. It had been a long process, sifting through the various materials Kylda had brought in, making sure the Prohibitions were kept. The long sweltering night was almost over by now.

The Ice-Toa brushed dust from his hands. He was overdue to report in. Station would have a reprimand for him, in all likelihood. He was normally very punctual. Very precise.

He stepped toward the low door.

"...What was there, Kylda? What did you see?"

He stopped, hand hovering over the access panel. Slowly he turned, fixed his eyes on the mechanism that dominated the small, domed space.

"I must tell someone, or I'll never be at peace. But you must promise..."

The telescope was of the usual kind: a shaped flute of metal, fixed to a stone pedestal. The great crystal lens was not visible beyond where it intersected with the dome.

"Promise that you will tell them. That my work...our work...will not be in vain."

"Kylda, I don't know."

"Swear it!"

Dread...and curiosity. The eye-piece branched from the base of the telescope, a blank eye pointing downward.

"I...I swear."

There was a dark spot on the floor of the chamber, a small scorched hole burned into the stone.

"Behind the eyes of Mata, Ioro...Behind the suns. I saw...another. A greater sun. I saw it. Stark and terrible, in a greater void. And not only that: a thousand lights, ten-thousand...all around. All staring at me out of the emptiness. Unreadable. And then pain. And then dark."

Ioro realized that he had forgotten to remove the last of the tinted lenses Kylda had affixed to the eye-piece.

He shook himself and stepped forward, stooping beneath the curved metal. That would have to be destroyed as well...

"I don't understand."

"Maybe you can't...Maybe...But know this: After I fell and crawled in the fire of Mata's judgement, this question was burned into my mind: If our suns are truly the eyes of Mata Nui, as the mad sages claimed of old...Then what...then what...then what...then what..."

"It's alright, Kylda. I'm here. It's okay, you don't have to--"

"--then...what...Eyes!"

The telescope stood above him with its great lens pointing skyward.

"...are...looking...down!"

The eye-piece stared at him expectantly.

"...down upon...Him...upon...Us...from that greater void?!"

Dawn crept over the horizon.

"Tell me!"

And then pain.

And then dark.

#bionicle #art #writing #fanfiction #outofgloom #works

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goldencherriess · 2 years

Text

The art of eye contact || Young! Remus Lupin x Fem! Hufflepuff! Reader

Pairing: Young! Remus Lupin x Fem! Hufflepuff! Reader

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: The three times they made eye contact and the one time he did something about it.

Warnings: none, just pure fluff. Idiots in love

Masterlist

Honey.

That's what she saw when she met his eyes across Slughorn's class. They were sparkling and melting honey combs. Warm. Kind. Sweet. She only wished she could drown herself in them.

Slughorn's voice echoed in the background along with the bumbling of the cauldron in front of her. White noise. She paid no attention to them.

An elbow dug into her ribs brought her back to the present. Frowning, she turned to her friend, who just pointed her head subtly to the professor.

''Miss L/N, can you tell us what you smell from this cauldron?''

She gulped down the lump that was settling in her throat and took a few steps to the front of the class. Y/N could still feel his eyes on her, burning holes into her back. She took a whiff of the potion in front of her. Aromas embraced her and she suddenly felt lightheaded. She took a step back, clutching her robes in fists. ''I smell parchment, chocolate and... honey.''

Slughorn clapped, smiling. ''And can you tell me which potion it is?''

She opened her mouth to reply, but she quickly closed it, shaking her head.

''Yes, mister Lupin?''

She turned her head to where the honey eyed boy was sitting and felt her insides warm up. He was slowly lowering his hand, clearing his throat. ''It's Amortentia. Although, it's a love potion, it can't induce true love, just infatuation. Its smell is different to everyone, according to what attracts them.''

Slughorn's face lit up, once again. ''Very good, mister Lupin! Ten points to Gryffindor!''

Remus' eyes panned to hers, once again, and she felt her face burn.

''Please, miss L/N, you can go back to your seat.''

And she did, feeling his lingering gaze on her all the way to the desk and throughout the whole class.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The Great Hall was bustling with chatter and laughter. The light came through the tall windows, painting the room in a low glow. There were owls delivering mail, dropping them from the air. The Daily Prophet plunged straight in Remus' mashed potatoes with a splash, small droplets sticking to his face and hands. ''Great.'' he muttered. After wiping away the food from his skin, he picked up the newspaper and started flipping through it. Something about dark forces rising were written in ink. Feeling a pair of eyes on him, Remus looked up from the pages.

There, across the room at the Hufflepuff table, sat the Potions girl. Her eyes met his and Remus felt his chest clenching and burning up. She softly smiled and he felt his own lips curling up. The hands on the newspaper loosened, letting The Daily Prophet fall right back into the mashed potatoes.

''Heaven help a fool who falls in love'' said Sirius from besides him, snickering.

Remus turned his head so fast that he was sure he would have gotten whiplash. ''What's that supposed to mean?''

''You're smitten'' smirked Sirius while he bit into the glistening and fat chicken leg.

Remus shook his head, sandy hair falling into his eyes. ''That's not true. We barely even talked!''

''Doesn't matter, mate, it's written all over your face.''

Remus threw Sirius a look. ''What's written over my face is annoyance.''

''Hmm, I beg to differ'' replied Sirius with a mouth full of food. He gulped down the meat, the rich aroma caressing his throat like a velvet to the touch. ''There's no time better than the present! You should ask her out. Someone will snatch her up.''

''Someone like who? You? She's not your type, Padfoot.''

''She may not be my type, but I am everyone's'' said Sirius, pointing at him with the chicken leg. ''Just so you know.'' he shrugged.

Remus grumbled a series of nonsense under his breath, between ''This ladies man, I swear'' and ''We just share Slughorn's class, that's all.''

''You should ask Prongs for love advice. He had more luck with Evans than you did with this Hufflepuff bird.''

Mashed potatoes were thrown. ''Oh, shut up!''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The library was always a place she found solace in. Peace and quiet. And books. Their smell got her high. She could flip through a book hours on end and never feel time passing by.

The afternoon sun was streaming in through the windows, illuminating the dancing dust and the golden books' spines. She read each one, caressing their covers, much like a lover would caress lips.

A sigh escaped her own lips when she remembered the essay on Amortentia she had to write for Slughorn's class. ''Thirty percent of your grade!'' he had said.

It was safe to say Potions wasn't her favourite class. Not because she didn't like it, but because it was the one class she wasn't on top of. Charms were more of her area. Safe and easy to understand.

Her fingertips came across a Potions book. It was worn out, but it would do, Y/N decided. She went to take it out when her fingers brushed someone else's from the other side. A shock travelled her arm all the way to her heart.

The book was removed from the shelf and her eyes met honey ones. Warm. Kind. Sweet. Y/N realized that maybe drowning in them would be a sweet sorrow.

''Oh, sorry, did you want this book?'' said Remus from the other side of the shelf.

''No, it's alright, you keep it.'' And she turned on her heels, feeling her cheeks burning up.

''Wait-''

Her walk was rapid fire, her hair flying behind her. She collided with someone's chest. A chocolate smell embraced her, inviting her in. She suddenly remembered that day in Slughorn's class. Y/N took a step back, feeling very small and flustered. Her face was all red like a blooming rose.

''Sorry!'' said the honey eyed boy.

She just nodded and took a step around him. His hand lingered on her wrist, stopping her in her tracks. He hastily retracted his hand, scratching the back of his head. ''I, uh- you can have the book.''

Y/N shook her head. ''It's alright.''

Remus wrapped his fingers around hers, giving her the book. ''No, please. I'll just find something else.''

His touch kissed her skin in small fireworks and she found herself wondering if he felt it too. Her gaze met his. Honey. ''Thank you'' she breathed.

He softly smiled, nodding his head. And he left.

Her hand felt cold afterwards.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The Great Lake was the perfect place on the school grounds to take a break and just breathe. The air was fresh and sweet and it made her lightheaded. The last sun rays were reflecting in waves in the water like light scales. It was peaceful. Tranquil. And for a moment, Y/N felt at peace herself. She closed her eyes, leaning her back on the tree trunk. The willow was swiftly dancing in the wind, whispering nothings in the air. Peace.

That was until a splash was heard. A few droplets of water splattered her and she shrieked. They were cold against her warm skin. Y/N blinked against the sun, bringing a hand to her forehead. There, a few meters in front of her, on the shore was Remus and his gang of blokes. His sandy hair was shining in the afterglow and he was laughing. His laugh was carried by the wind all the way to her. It lit something inside of her and Y/N found herself smiling lightly.

The one who jumped in the water had shoulder length, ebony hair. And was suddenly aware of her presence. ''Oi! Ain't that your Hufflepuff birdie, Moony?''

Remus turned his head towards her, a smile gracing his features. His eyes met hers and Y/N got on her feet, turning away. Her chest contracted, all the air leaving her. Her cheeks reddened, once again.

''Wait, Y/N!''

His hand gripped her wrist and turned her towards him. He was so close. Y/N could see every imperfection on his face and smell his chocolate, homey scent. But the eyes were what froze her in her spot. They were so strikingly warm, so invitingly sweet. There were specks of gold in the warm, brown, honey eyes. She could count each and every one of them. If she could, she would have taken a jump in their pool, swimming in their depth. But she couldn't. So, she just settled in gazing in them, hoping to see Remus' soul and some of his heart.

Snickers were heard from the back. ''Yeah, get some, Moony!''

He blushed in the light, dropping her hand. ''Don't listen to them. They're a bunch of idiots.''

She shook her head. ''I'm not.'' she whispered.

''Right, right. Uh-''

''You have really pretty eyes.''

He almost choked. ''I, uh- Thank you, I mean, you also have pretty eyes. The best, really.''

She giggled, tilting her head. ''Am I making you nervous?''

Remus puffed out. ''Just a little bit. Am I making you nervous?''

Y/N shrugged, looking at her worn out shoes. ''Just a little bit.''

Silence followed. Only the gentle swings of the willow branches and the lapping of the waves were heard. The sun was now dipping in the horizon, casting orange hues over her face and hair and Remus thought he was looking at an angel. If he could squint enough, he could see her wings.

He took her hand, again. Sparks. They pinched him, drawing shocks against his skin. Her doe eyes looked up at him and Remus smiled, letting adoration find home on his features. ''Would you like to go to Hogsmeade this weekend? With me?''

She slowly blinked. ''Are you asking me out?''

He nodded, his thumb starting to caress the back of her hand. ''I am.''

Her face broke out in a grin. ''I would love to.''

His heart skipped a bit. ''Then, it's date.''

Bonus:

''Ten galleons, boys. Come on, a bet is a bet.''

''This is ridiculous, Padfoot. You practically set them up!''

''Nuh uh, that was the power of love!''

''Rubbish!''

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Writing this fluffy fic was so much fun! It was inspired by "Ophelia" -The Lumineers. It's also written for @lucywrites02 ' creative challenge, so make sure to check their blog out!

Any feedback is welcomed! Take care xx

Tag list: @bohemianrhapsody86 @serenefreakgeek

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