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ldrfanatic · 1 month

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two worlds collided

theodore nott x fem!malfoy!ravenclaw!reader

a.n. this is quickly becoming a theo obsession blog BUT I am open to requests for others

love theo in this piece.

to be added to my theo nott taglist just comment on one of my theo nott posts :)

synopsis - you're draco's sister but you're a ravenclaw. your father shunned you because he thought that voldemort wouldn't want you but when Nott sr is trying to find theodore a bride your father takes this as the perfect opportunity. over time you grow to genuinely care for one another.

warning - cursing, lucius malfoy is a prick, hitting, borderline verbal abuse, arranged marriage

accompanying song - never tear us apart (bishop briggs)

nav slytherin boys

"Father is asking for you."

Shock washed over you and you wondered if you submerged yourself into your cloud-like bed if Lucius would just forget about it. After carefully weighing your options, it seemed rather unlikely. You threw your navy covers to the side and shuffled awkwardly to the main dining hall where your mother, father, and older brother Draco were waiting.

Your eyes fell onto a rather scary looking man and another handsome figure who you recognized as Theodore Nott, one of Draco's friends.

"Daughter." The warm velvet tones of Narcissa Malfoy filled the air. After you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, Draco and Lucius had shunned you. Narcissa had been the only person in the entire family still kind to you. Well, she and your estranged aunt Andromeda who you'd been secretly exchanging letters since third year.

"Now that the Dark Lord has gained strength, it is imperative that we maintain close connections within the Sacred 28." Lucius approached you, looking rather unhinged, and placed a large hand on your shoulder. There was a malicious look in his eyes that made the entire interaction all the more unnerving. "Once the Dark Lord begins his plans, he'll need people he can trust to continue the most important of magical bloodlines."

Your father took you by the shoulders and moved you to stand in front of Theodore and the mystery man at his side.

"This is Theodore Nott Sr. and his son, who I presume you know from school."

Nott Sr. glanced to the side at Theodore who snapped out of a sort of trance. He brought your hand up to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on it.

"Y/n."

You smiled but didn't say anything, waiting in silence for your father to elaborate. He and Nott Sr. had clearly formed some sort of plan. "You and his son are to be married."

"What?!" Your body whipped around of its own accord and you felt rage explode over your body. "You haven't spoken to me in years and suddenly you expect me to marry this man without even asking me if I wish to be married to him or anyone for that matter?!"

Lucius' hand came down suddenly. A loud 'whack' resounded in the room as the back of his palm made contact with your cheek. "You ungrateful little brat." He straightened his cloak and took what you supposed was meant to be a calming breath. "Draco noticed the way that you stared at the Nott boy in school. You ought to be more appreciative that I didn't choose that awful Pucey boy although he was more than willing."

Though you couldn't see, Theodore's nose turned up in disgust at the mention of Adrian Pucey. He'd taken a liking to you, completely undeterred by the elder Malfoy's numerous threats to stay away from his younger sister. Draco might've been appalled that you'd been sorted into Ravenclaw, but that didn't mean that he was gonna let that slimey tosser terrorize you.

Your gaze stayed on the floor for a few moments before you turned back around, muttering a small apology to Theodore and his father. Overall, Theo was quite handsome and you had stared at him more than a few times. He really was quite handsome.

Nott Sr. studied you for a few moments then turned to Theodore expectantly. "Why don't the two of you take a stroll and become acquainted while Lucius and I finish up the particulars." It was phrased like a question, but in truth he wasn't asking. The air was silent as you walked out of the room the brunette boy following diligently.

The cool air nipped at your exposed skin as the heavy oak door slammed shut behind you. It was always cold and dark in the area surrounding Malfoy Manor.

"I'm sorry Theodore."

"Theo."

You stared at Theodore like a fish out of water waiting for words of any intelligence to come to you. Finally, you stuttered out an ignorant 'Huh?'.

"Call me Theo."

Your heart beat loudly in you ears for a few moments. "Oh-kay," Theo began to mosey into the Manor gardens with you hot on his heels. He was quite tall and due to the length of his legs, every one step he took was nearly three of yours. "So Theo. I am sorry you got dragged into this."

"That's alright fiancée." Theo teased you with a smile that could make any girl weak in the knees. For a moment you felt as though you could almost forget that the both of you were being forced into this.

"Still. I know your reputation. I only ask that you keep your conquests separate from our entanglement."

An indescribable akin to hurt flashed in the eyes of the boy before you. As well as something you didn't quite recognize.

"My reputation?" You spluttered at him for a few moments once again making a fool of yourself in front of Theodore Nott.

"Theo I didn't mean to--"

"Whatever." He turned away from you and stalked angrily back towards the Manor, calling over his shoulder. "And it's Theodore."

The rest of the break passed by pretty miserably, as expected. You and Theodore had gone on a few dates, as demanded by both your father and Nott Sr. since the pair of you were courting now, but they were long and excruciating with little to no conversation.

Despite a summer that seemed as though it would never end, September finally arrived.

You were boarding the train with Theodore and Draco as your parents watched on. They'd been keeping an extra close eye on the pair of you. In all honesty, you and Theodore hadn't grown any closer in your courtship than you'd been as distant acquaintances the year prior. If anything, the walk in the garden at the start of your relationship had forced you further apart.

And though you'd pretended you didn't care, seeing Theodore with other girls was never something you'd enjoyed. Now, knowing that he'd be your husband sooner rather than later, the thought of Theo running around with some daft blonde Slytherin made your heart sink to your stomach.

Yet, as the year progressed, you and the rest of Hogwarts were unexpectedly surprised by Theo. Before you knew it, the first snowfall graced Hogwarts in November, and Theodore hadn't had any flings with any girls. He was even turning down girls that had been brave enough to approach him and make the first move.

Without your parents to keep the two of you tightly bound, you and Theodore hadn't spoken since the train in.

Through all of this, you hadn't expected to become close friends with Pansy Parkinson, a Slytherin girl in Theo and Draco's year. But she'd walked up to you during breakfast one morning and the two of you really hit it off.

Hence why currently, you were sat on Pansy's bed while she worked on her charms homework. And she was putting her absolute all into trying to convince you to ask Theo to Hogsmeade.

"C'mon Y/n! It might be fun."

"If by fun you mean he'll humiliate me in front of the entire student body." You mumbled under your breath. You tried to tune her out so as to focus on the book you were currently attempting to read, but she was determined.

"According to Blaise Theo's been talking about you when Draco isn't around to glare at him for it."

"Look Pans, I know you're in love with the bloke but have you considered that Blaise may be confused? Or simply taking the mickey?" Pansy shot you an unimpressed look. "Theo and I haven't spoken since September. In any case, if he's turning down long legged red heads who are all but stripping in front of him, what makes you think he'd want to go out with me?"

"Because he's already agreed to speak with you in the Slytherin Common Room tonight."

"What?!"

Pansy ignored your protests and damn near dragged you down to the common room with an iron grip on your wrist. When you got there, Theo was spread out on one of the expensive leather couches with a cigarette in between his lips. Yet as he noticed you approaching, he immediately dropped it and put it out with a stomp on the stone floors.

"Y/n."

The sonorous tones of Theo's voice bounced off each wall of the common room and seemed to warm you from the inside out. His voice was so inviting that you almost believed you could actually do this.

There is, however, one thing to know about Theodore Nott. No matter how inviting or pleasant Theo's aura is, you'd made a promise to yourself not to look him in the eyes. You knew that if you made the unfortunate mistake to look Theodore Nott in his malachite eyes, you'd lose all ability to think, speak, even breathe properly.

It wasn't until you saw his shoes enter your line of sight that you knew that he'd approached you at all. Worse, when his large hand found purchase under your chin and lifted your gaze to meet his, you knew that you were well and truly fucked.

In that most regrettable moment, you realized how much you'd fallen in love with Theodore. During shared hushed dates and the rare moments of laughter. Theodore Nott had completely enraptured you. And you realized much too late to do anything about it.

So now here you stood. Lost in the beautiful blues and greens of your fiancée's eyes. You were completely, 100% at Theodore Nott's mercy. And likely not for the last time in your life, you felt the urge to give into him. He was a sin that you'd willingly drown in.

"Bellisima," Theo's voice thickened as he spoke. You couldn't understand what he was saying nor could you place the language. But in all honesty, you hadn't known that he even spoke any other languages. His tongue wrapped effortlessly around each syllable and his voice deepened even more than usual, if possible. "I asked you a question."

"Huh?"

"You've been avoiding me." He stepped closer and your heartbeat spiked. "Why?"

Why had you been ignoring Theo again? How could you, or anyone for that matter, ever dream of not giving this devastatingly handsome man everything he desired and more? Oh yeah. Your wretched father.

"You've already been roped into entrapment with me and then forced to hang out with me all summer. I didn't want to cause anymore turmoil to your peace than I already have."

Theo's lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Once again you'd gone and offended the poor boy.

Immediately, you opened your mouth to apologize, but he cut you off.

"D'you know for a Ravenclaw, you really can be rather thick sometimes?"

You felt your jaw drop in shock. The small grin he currently sported on his face let you know that he'd obviously been teasing. And for the umpteenth time since knowing him, Theo stole your breath with his stupid mesmerizing smile.

Yet, through all of that, he was right. You genuinely had no idea what he was talking about. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Theo finally seemed to get the hint that he was going to have to spell this out for you.

"I know you probably don't know this about me, but I never do anything that I don't want to. No matter who's asking."

You continued to stare at him blankly. Had he hit his head during the last quidditch match?

Theo ran a hand stressfully through his hair. He grabbed your wrist and led you back to the couches where you settled comfortably in the seat next to him, careful to maintain a respectful distance. "Merlin, Y/n. Turns out you Malfoy's are all slow."

"No offense." He added on quickly when he saw the look on your face. "That's not the point. Y/n I never would have agreed to this engagement with you if I didn't actually want to. I know that you did not get a say in the matter so if you truly wish to live our lives separately, I will respect your choice." Theo gently pulled your hand until it was safely tucked in between both of his larger ones.

"But whatever your decision, know that I am yours. I have wanted nothing more in the past few months than to be by your side. And every moment I spend without you is inexplicable torture for my soul."

"Theo."

He shook his head and cradled you face between his palms.

"No. My mother had a saying. Lascia che la vita accada. It means 'let life happen'. She believed that the only way to truly know if something is meant for you is to let life make it happen on its own. So take a few days. I'll meet you Saturday morning in the Great Hall. But know that if you agree to be mine, Tesoro, you'll be mine for eternity."

To say that staying away from Theo in the days following was easy would be a complete and total lie. When you told Pansy about the conversation the pair of you had (or lack thereof really) she'd all but exploded.

Finally, Saturday morning rolled around. You'd genuinely thought about all your options and you'd come to a decision. The only issue with Theo's plan is that Saturday was the infamous Gryffindor v Slytherin Quidditch match. The Great Hall was bustling in seas of only red or green. You were sporting a dark green jumper, a show of obvious support for the Slytherin team.

Those of your house that favored Gryffindor looked on at you with disdain as you stood from your bench and began making your way to the Slytherin table in search of Theo. He was one of Slytherin's chasers so trying to find him during such a hectic morning proved difficult.

As you walked up and down the table, a familiar figure appeared in front of you.

"Ahh Malfoy. I've been looking for you. I was wonderin' if you'd wear my jersey."

Before you had time to respond or even acknowledge the situation at all, Adrian Pucey had shoved his green and silver practice jersey into your arms. It was an incredibly common practice for girlfriends and boyfriends of Quidditch players to wear their partner's jerseys to their games for good luck.

The hall fell silent as the sound of glass breaking reverberated through the air. You looked to the source of the noise. Theo had stood so abruptly from his seat next to Blaise and Lorenzo that his entire breakfast went flying and ended up on the floor.

He was staring at you with clear ache in his eyes. Suddenly, he swung himself over the bench and stormed out of the room.

You threw Adrian's awful smelling jersey back at his face and ran frantically after Theo.

"Theo!" He ignored you and continued walking briskly even as you approached quickly on his heels. "Theodore please. Just let me explain."

"You don't owe me an explanation, dolcezza ragazza. You've made your choice."

"You've got it all wrong. That's not my decision. I don't want that." You cried out as tears brimmed your eyes. The thought of losing Theo because of Adrian Pucey was mournful.

"Hey, hey. Calma tesoro. Breathe." Theo's hands one again found their way to your face. He gently thumbed the tears from your face. "Don't get yourself all worked up. I'll always listen to you."

"Adrian he just sort of threw his disgusting jumper at me. I don't want him. I only want you. I'm yours, Theodore Nott, completely and without hesitation."

The grin on Theo's face was nothing short of heart-stopping.

"Does that mean you'll wear my jersey at the game today?"

wc 2.6k oops

4.17.24

-- taglist --

@thatdammchickennugget @moonlightreader649

#slytherin boys #slytherin #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theo nott #slytherin boys x reader #lorenzo zurzolo #draco malfoy #blaise zabini #pansy parkinson

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rthko · 10 months

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I recently saw a post with Fran Lebowitz saying, "a book isn't supposed to be a mirror; it's supposed to be a door," and it made me think about the state of "representation" discourse online. I thought back to an anon I once received from someone who claims to get "secondhand embarrassment" from "drag queens, leather daddies, and kinksters with pup hoods acting like they represent all gays." Many thought my response was too harsh, that I ought to show more sympathy to people who do not "relate" to nor feel "represented" by these modes of queer being. Blame it on online fandom, blame it on heteronormativity, but we are too concerned with "relatability." It is the sort of "relatability" advertising executives concern themselves with, or "relatability" of people who treat their online presence as a "brand." It is a notion I find alien to queer art and culture.

I have never done drag, nor do I consider myself a part of the leather community beyond befriending others who do and owning some gear. I do not "relate" to these expressions in any vulgar, literal sense, but they are still deeply resonant. And how many of these individuals truly "relate" to the images they peform? Drag artists and leatherfolk are purveyors of fantasy. In their daily lives, they might not be bikers, rockstars, pop divas, or mythical beasts, but they reinvent themselves through metaphors and performances. These theatrical performances are no more absurd than the quotidian performances expected by cis straight society. Larry Mitchell writes, “The faggots act out their fantasies without believing them to be real. The men act out their fantasies always proclaiming that they are real."

This could explain why literal attempts at relatability are often less resonant than campy extravogant fantasies. I once wrote a rant about how Taylor Swift is not a gay icon, and an anon smugly told me, "Taylor makes music for everyone and not just gays." Yes, I suppose she does make music for "everyone," in the same way that the Midwestern weather reporter voice is the universal accent of the English speaking world. But diva worship was never about "relating;" rather, it's about survival through the evocation of patron saints of strength and glamor. Most celebrity or mass media attempts at "relatability" are at best clueless or at worst insulting. I would much rather participate in a campy fantasy, which is in its own right more "real." Susan Sontag describes camp as the "farthest extension, in sensibility, of the metaphor of life as theater.”

I am not telling anyone to stop pushing for the recognition of diverse stories. This is crucial! But the recognition of queer stories should also come with an understanding of queer modes of resonance. When has John Waters ever produced something "relatable?" Who cares? His work resonates, in fact, more than a lot of "safe" gay media that should be all accounts be more "relatable." The "average" listener would not necessarily relate to SOPHIE. They may find her work otherwordly or downright unsettling. But she did not produce music for the "average" listener, at least not before the rest of the musical landscape dragged to catch up with her. Adam Zmith writes: "Inside SOPHIE’s words, performances and final act is the queer utopia of always grasping, always dreaming of a freer life." We are living the wildest dreams of our former, closeted selves, but we are still always grasping, never quite satiated. Queer art is not just autobiographical but aspirational. Let art be a door.

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yandere-romanticaa · 7 months

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Here are some crumbs about yandere mortician! From now on, his name is Viktor. (I'll make a detailed post about him, his personality, looks later, I promise.)

masterlist.

Viktor can often be seen with headphones in his ears, his expression neutral and eyes glazed over with a sheen of nothingness. When he's spotted in public people want to give him the benefit of doubt and say he's just lost in his own world, consumed by the sound of music. Perhaps he's just so in tune with the lyrics, maybe they speak to him on a level which people often seek out when listening to music. His playlist is filled with all sorts of songs - be it long ballads, cheesy love songs, generic pop, heavy metal, screamo, classical music, frankly some songs you wouldn't even expect someone like him wouldn't even listen at all(a la WAP by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion).

Even while working, Viktor likes to have something playing in the background. His co-workers often joke about his music taste but he just shrugs them off without saying anything. It's all just a rollercoaster, a complete mess but he likes it that way. It's fun to be on his toes.

Truthfully, Viktor never liked music. He never bothered paying attention to the lyrics nor the meaning or even the tune of the song.

He simply can't stand the silence.

Viktor is a walking contradiction - he dislikes most people and yet wishes to be a part of them. He wants to be someone. But he doesn't know how to do that. His way of coping became listening to music. He even learned to play some instruments growing up, thinking that maybe someone would take a liking to him.

Even so, no one bothered with him. He was still a nobody.

Some did admire him, from a safe distance at least. His aura was black as charcoal and posture stiff as a board. Even if one dared to look at him for too long it felt like Viktor would pluck their eyes out if he caught them looking.

Perhaps he would. He wasn't sure either.

The sounds had no meaning to him. It was all used to cover up the silence, pure white noise. Nothing more, nothing less.

All of that came to a screeching halt once he met you, his tiny piece of sunshine.

You'd go through his playlist, sometimes scoffing, sometimes liking the things you saw. His eccentric side never failed to amuse you. Amongst that jungle you'd ask him who his favorite artists were, if he had anyone specific he liked.

Viktor said the names of some random artists he thought you fancied yourself. He wanted you to like him.

His answer ultimately did not matter in the end as you would still recommend some of your own personal favorite songs to him. Viktor promised he'd give them a listen as soon as he could.

Later that evening, he was hard at work. As he was putting on his coat he turned towards his phone and reached towards it, slightly eager to see what you had in store for him. The song played quietly in the background as gently rain tapped against the window, giving the morgue a more tranquil feel than it ought to have. The person on his table tonight was an old man who presumably died of a heart attack earlier this morning.

Poor soul. That was all he could bother to say.

The evening went on as it usually did but Viktor could not stop thinking about you. His sweet little sunshine, he was so touched by the fact that you bothered to go so far for him. He could feel his heart racing as unfamiliar butterflies started to flutter in his chest.

Badum. Badum. Badum.

If he wasn't careful he would be the next one to die of a heart attack.

The music got a bit louder as it reached the chorus, its tune almost perfectly in sync with his heart. He hadn't even realized that he started to sway his hips gently. Left, right, left right.

It felt like the correct thing to do.

Viktor also picked up the sound of a male voice humming which was odd, considering the fact that the singer of the song was a woman. He nearly dropped his scalpel as he realized that the one who was humming was him, not someone else, him.

For the first time in his life, Viktor bothered to pay attention to the song. The singer detailed her undying feelings for her lover, promising herself to them and them only.

Viktor thought about you the entire time. He never fancied himself as a dancer but if he could, he would want nothing more than to dance with you.

Would you want to dance with him?

For the first time in his life, Viktor found joy in the music he listened to. And it was all thanks to his sunshine.

🔪 TAGS: @shamelessdarkprince

#yandere #yandere x reader #yancore #yandere imagines #yandere x you #yanderecore #yandere aesthetic #yandere oc #yandere oc x reader #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x y/n #yandere mortician #yandere mortician x reader

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moorishflower · 4 months

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Eating Out (Dream/trans!Hob Explicit)

i heard we were writing trans Dreamling and then I saw that one ask someone sent @gabessquishytum and I blacked out for a few hours and woke up with this on my desktop please enjoy

Contains: FtM Hob Gadling, public sex, oral sex, free use/multiple partners, voyeurism, multiple orgasms, scent kink, hair kink, little bit of eldritch Dream as a treat

The club is almost violently loud, and the instant that Dream materialises within it he wishes to leave.

He could. There is nothing holding him here. Not even his new agreement with Hob Gadling, that they meet twice a month, holds sway here – they have already held their pre-arranged meetings for December, have 'caught up' with each other, as Hob calls it, though Dream always feels as though he has nothing to contribute. He tells Hob about the unceasing tedium of ruling a kingdom, of settling disputes between his creations, of shoring up the defences of the Dreaming such that it will be prepared for any onslaught, and it is all the same, always the same things over and over again for aeons, but Hob leans towards him and listens with the most fascinated air. He asks questions. He is interested.

Dream would much rather hear about Hob's life. His many lives, in fact, within the last two centuries. It seems as though Hob is always doing something: viewing art with noted professors on the subject, or attending poetry readings, or assisting in the building of various installations of a political nature at protests, or organising a play put on by trans youth from local universities. In this century he is highly invested in matters regarding gender and sexuality – which Dream supposes makes sense. His own gender would have been considered at best a novelty in his own time, and at worst an affront to God. These days, however, he lives openly and freely as the man he has always known himself to be.

It is all of these things, and more, that are the reasons why he is here tonight. The Dreaming is stable at last – there are no pressing matters for him to attend to this eve – but he is shortly expected to meet with Lucifer in order to renegotiate their ancient treaty of tentative peace, and he is, as Hob would say, not looking forward to it. He is, in fact, dreading the experience. He is certain that Lucifer has neither forgotten nor forgiven his brief foray into Hell when he retrieved his helm, and the humiliation they were forced to endure at his hand. He will freely admit that he was. Not as gracious. As he could have been, upon his triumph.

He does not want to think about it. And so he is here, looking for Hob Gadling.

It occurs to him, however, as he watches the ebb and flow of people around him, that Hob may not wish to be found this night. He had assumed, when he'd reached for Hob's presence in the Waking and drew himself towards it, that he would appear in Hob's flat above the New Inn. That is where he is most often to be found, this time of night, unless he has prior engagements.

This club, though...it is of a distinctly sexual nature. Its patrons dressed in leather and latex, and some dressed in almost nothing at all. There are sheltered alcoves with faux-leather seats where two or three or more humans whisper quietly to each other, and kiss, and touch sensuously; there are other stations that Dream recognises, but only from dreams: a St. Andrew's Cross, a whipping post, a wooden bench over which a young man bends while a woman dressed entirely in white lace strikes him with a thin crop, raising fine red weals on the pale skin.

Perhaps he ought to leave. If Hob is here to procure a partner for the evening, then it is no business of Dream's.

Except.

Except the thought makes him. Unhappy.

He examines this realisation with detached interest, because he knows if he allows himself to become invested in the idea there will be no going back. Hob is his friend. They have known each other for over six-hundred years. He does not want to ruin their friendship, burgeoning as it currently is.

Neither does he wish for Hob to be here, seeking something that he believes Dream cannot provide for him.

Is that the crux of it? The source of his displeasure? Hob has come here, seeking fulfilment, instead of seeking out Dream? He would have no reason to approach Dream. Their friendship has never had a sexual component.

Although.

He remembers the way Hob had looked at him in 1589, so proud of the largess he had provided, eager for Dream's approval. He remembers the slow up and down glance of 1389 when he had approached Hob's table, when he had still been a beardless ruffian, binding his chest with scraps of wool. He remembers, in 1789, how Hob had looked at him, how he had tugged at his ear, how eagerly he had come to Dream's defence.

Perhaps he had simply not been in the best position to notice any interest. Hob's, or his own. Too prideful. Too convinced that Hob was just like every other human, grubbing about in the dirt for power and acclaim. Too assured of his own high status – one such as he, friends with one such as Hob?

He knows better now. Knows that Hob has lived rich and varied lives, which Dream has, for the past several months, taken succour in, experiencing them through Hob's tales, learning more and more about his friend. Liking what he has learned.

This, he decides, is a new aspect of that learning. And perhaps a new chapter in their friendship, if Hob is amenable. It has been long and long since he has laid with a human – he spares a moment to thank the memory of his sister for withholding her gift from Hob, for it means that Hob is not, strictly speaking, mortal – and perhaps it would be wise of him to observe Hob in this environment first. If Hob is here, he reasons, then necessarily he will be familiar with the etiquette of such a place.

And if Hob is otherwise occupied with a lover already...

He decides not to continue that thought.

A path forward decided, Dream wends his way through the crowds. The club is densely-packed with people, all ages, all nations and creeds and genders, and of them all he is the least-appropriately dressed in his coat and t-shirt and jeans. He does not bother to change, and no one approaches him – he is as a ghost, drifting between the revellers, a visitor to this holy house of Dionysus and Pan, following the faint trail of Hob that guides him like a ball of twine. Gentle prodding at daydreams reveals that Hob was here at the bar, that he, also, had been dressed-down for this occasion, in a white button-up and a pair of loose trousers. Still, others had looked upon him and had, in gauzy fantasies, wondered what he would look like dressed in less. Had wondered what his stubble would feel like against their cheeks. Had imagined his hands – broad, callused, peasant's hands – on their hips, their thighs, their genitals.

Dream does not linger in these daydreams for long, but pursues his true quarry, slipping through the gathered throngs, enjoying, for the moment, the feeling of stalking his prey. It is only infrequently that he is allowed to feel this, the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit; he is, by necessity, a guardian of his dreamers, but he is dreams and nightmares both, and often he longs for an end to the mournful tedium of his duties. Longs for peaceful oblivion or, at the very least, something that he can sink his teeth into.

The club is much larger than he had initially thought, and Dream follows Hob's trail up stairs and down corridors, until he finds himself in a section of the venue that has been cordoned off; several security personnel stand stationed at pre-set points, keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings within.

There are significantly fewer clothes in this part of the club, Dream realises. And what is worn is designed for easy access.

It is less crowded here, but no less quiet – the air is filled with the sounds of pleasure, moans and squeals and throaty whispers, creating a chorus of rising debauchery that drowns out the thumping music below them. He remains unseen, untouched, as he slides through the gaps in the crowd, around amorous couples, ignoring the slick sounds of bodies entangled and flesh entwined, until, at last, he reaches the end of the trail.

Hob Gadling has arranged himself in a secluded section of the upper floor, where dark curtains have been set up to give a modicum of privacy, though the acts happening just beyond are still within full view of the rest of the floor. He is seated in a chair, one of the low, slightly reclined ones that pepper the rest of the club, though this one has been considerately draped in plastic sheeting. The reasoning behind this is immediately obvious: Hob Gadling sits with his thighs spread, revealing the hole that has been cut in the groin of his loose trousers, and there is a woman kneeling before him, with her face buried between Hob's legs.

Dream does not care about the woman, though objectively he recognises that she is beautiful, and clearly quite happy with her current position. His eyes are fixed on Hob, who has his head thrown back, sweat dappling his forehead, mouth open as he gasps and pants. His neck is pulled taut, revealing the tempting line of his jugular, and his shirt has been unbuttoned to reveal the thick hair on his pectorals, almost completely hiding the scars beneath. The woman between his legs does something that must be particularly pleasing, because Hob's eyes slip shut, and his hips rut upwards, and even through the music and the noise and the crowd Dream can hear the sound of his moaning, reaching a fever pitch as he climbs towards climax. When he comes, all his muscles strain at once...and then he slumps, panting, while the woman leans back and licks her lips. The entire lower half of her face is soaked in fluid, and Hob's thighs glisten with the same. It is clear that he has been here for some time.

There is a small sign, Dream realises, that has been set up beside the chair, and a few people positioned around it, reading its words, watching with interest. Some of them watching with eagerness. Eat me out, the sign says. Accepting all comers. Face-sitting offered for best orgasm. Beneath this titillating invitation is a short list of the things that Hob is not interested in. No PiV, says one, and, No S/M.

He watches the woman climb to her feet and then lean down again, whispering something into Hob's ear. It makes him laugh, whatever she says, a full-throated, beautiful display, his head tossed back as he guffaws. Then the woman kisses his cheek, and Hob takes the opportunity to pull her in for a generous hug. Dream has been on the receiving end of such hugs before, but he has never considered that he might be gifted them under such. Specific circumstances.

Then the woman moves away, and he is treated to the sight of Hob on full display. And Dream stops. And looks. And breathes.

Hob had been beautiful, with the woman between his legs, but now that it is only him he is even moreso. With no one in the way Dream is able to see the thick trail of hair on his belly, leading down to the dark thatch of his pubic hair, curls wet with spit and slick. The lips of his sex are parted, red and swollen from the attentions of Dream knows not how many, and here, too, he is wet and open and wanting, with his cock jutting proudly upwards. The plastic sheeting beneath his seat is soaked in his own fluids, and even as Dream watches a newcomer approaches, speaks quietly to Hob and, at Hob's cheery nod and grin, kneels down and begins to lick the plastic clean.

He could remain here unseen, Dream realises. To interrupt Hob's revelry would surely lead to a foul mood later on, but. But.

He wants.

For all that he is neither flesh nor blood, he responds as the form he has taken bids him to, his trousers growing tighter as his erection fills, his stomach clenching with desire, his heart beating faster. His mouth floods with saliva at the sight of Hob's hairy thighs flexing, the dark, spit-damp and abundant curls of his sex, the thin trail of sexual fluids that drips from his fluttering opening and is caught on the tongue of the man kneeling in front of him. And he feels a flash of jealousy, when Hob reaches down and pets the man's hair, and says something softly to him. He recognises the look in the man's eyes, one of fervent adoration, and knows that, were he in the same position, his own expression would be much the same.

He does not wish to ruin their friendship, but. But.

He must make a decision. To remain here, unseen, a silent watcher, is a violation of Hob's trust in him. To reveal himself is to potentially face Hob's ire, but he might take pride in the knowledge that at least he tried.

Dream inhales, breathing in the sharp smell of lust and sex, and steps forward, allowing himself to be seen.

Hob does not notice him at first, still murmuring to the man between his legs. After several moments, though, he looks up, and Dream sees the exact second that Hob spots him: his eyes go wide, and his legs reflexively clamp shut, nearly trapping the man between them, and his muscles shift as if he plans to launch himself upwards before his expression turns resigned, and he relaxes back into his seat. A quick word is had with the kneeling man, who shrugs and then clambers to his feet; he gives Dream a lingering glance as he takes his leave, as do several others of the assembled patrons.

"Dream," Hob says, raising his voice to be heard above the muffled music and the moans and screams emanating from other rooms on this floor. He is still sitting with his knees locked together. "What are you...I mean, far be it for me to judge what you do in your spare time, but what on God's green earth are you doing here?"

"Seeking you out," Dream says. He takes a step forward, and then another, until he has come to a stop almost directly in front of Hob. There is a pillow on the floor, he notices. He had not seen it before; it bears the indents of many previous lovers. He wonders how many have serviced Hob this evening.

He sinks down to his knees.

"Um," Hob says. His eyes are huge, the pupils so dilated that his irises appear as two drops of ink in white clouds. "Dream? What...?"

"I will leave if you wish me to," Dream says. He lifts his hands, letting them hover uncertainly over the heavy curve of Hob's thighs, but not yet daring to touch. He can feel the warmth emanating from Hob's body, more intoxicating than any wine or stimulant, and another wave of wanting crashes over him. Were he standing he thinks he would be staggered by it. "But. If you have no objections. I would very much like to stay."

"No objections," Hob says, voice rising to a squeak. His legs fall apart again, slowly at first, tentative, but widen with more generosity as Dream accepts the invitation, and lays his palms at last on Hob's thighs. They are just as muscled and warm as he had thought them to be, the hair on them coarse where it rubs between his fingers, against his fingertips, and there, at their centre, Hob's sex revealed to him once again. His cock still firm, jutting upwards, his labia still spread and glistening as Dream lowers his head to breathe in the scent of him.

"You smell ambrosial," Dream murmurs, and Hob barks a sudden laugh.

"I've come six times," he says. The tension is slowly leaving his body, allowing him to slump backwards as Dream strokes his thighs. "I smell like sweat and jizz, more like."

"As I said." And to drive home his point, Dream bends down and presses his nose to the sopping curls of Hob's cunt, inhaling deeply. Sweat, yes, and Hob's excitement, and the saliva of others, easily and summarily dismissed in favour of Hob's natural scent, and his friend's murmured, "Oh, oh fuck," as Dream lets his nose brush along the side of his prick. It strains towards him, twitching faintly with Hob's heartbeat. Impudent thing, Dream thinks, though not without a great deal of fondness, and he looks up at Hob through the wild fringe of his hair, blinking slowly.

"You know, I wasn't expecting this," Hob says. His hands clench at his sides. "I only come here maybe twice a year. I wasn't...You don't have to..."

"I wish to."

"...just because I'm. Here. What?"

"I am precisely where I wish to be," Dream says. "And if you truly have no objections. I wish to sample you."

"Jesus Christ," Hob says, and his head falls backwards, thumping against the cushions. "Yeah. Yeah, fuck. Do you know how long I've thought about this?"

"Since 1789," Dream says. He drags the tip of his nose along the length of Hob's cock, and then presses a soft kiss to the head of it, greatly enjoying the sound of Hob's muttered curses. The smell of him is growing denser, sharper, as fresh wetness drips from his cunt.

"Longer," Hob says. "Since the moment I saw you. Thought about bouncing on your cock later that night, even. I would've ridden you so fucking hard."

"Perhaps later," Dream murmurs, and then, for the first time, takes Hob into his mouth.

The effect is immediate, electrifying: Hob goes rigid, mouth opening in a soundless cry as his hips rut forwards, pressing his pubic bone against Dream's nose. His prick is thick, compact, perhaps three inches of trembling nerves that slide along Dream's tongue like silk. The taste of him here is not as strong as it would be directly from the source, but the musky salt of it delights Dream's senses, enraptures him. He lets Hob set the pace at first, trying to gauge how tired he is, how sore...though it quickly becomes apparent that six orgasms in an evening is not, apparently, his friend's limit. Hob does not cry off, nor beg for Dream to give him a moment, but sighs and moans and laughs as Dream sucks at him, first softly, and then with greater force, tracing the thin skin of Hob's prick with the tip of his tongue, then letting it fall free of his mouth so that he can instead lavish attention on the plump lips around it.

Here, he thinks. Here is where his mouth is intended to be, at the nadir of Hob's sex, where his labia are spread like flower petals and his cunt clenches and leaks. Dream hums to himself in delight as he laps a searing path from the root of Hob's prick down to his twitching, wet opening, kneading Hob's thighs with his fingertips as he does so. There is so much hair here that it is impossible to keep his face dry – nor would he want to, even if he could – and Dream leans in to taste, pushing his nose through Hob's pubic hair, committing the scent of him to memory as he licks and sucks at everything he can reach. His wild hunger makes him crude, inexpert, but when he glances upwards to gauge Hob's pleasure he finds his friend flush-faced and panting, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, one hand pushed back into his own hair. When he sees Dream looking he smiles.

"Do you know how gorgeous you are?" he asks. "Between my legs? I've imagined this for so long."

The encouragement is. Pleasing. More than he had thought it would be. Enough that it makes his own cock twitch as he basks in the pleasure of Hob's praise. "So beautiful," Hob says, and he lifts his hips slightly, demanding. Dream is eager to indulge him, and buries his face once more into Hob's sex, licking, now, at his cunt, pressing the tip of his tongue inside to where he is wettest and hottest, savouring the taste of him. The scent that has gathered in his hair, surrounding him now, filling Dream's nostrils, making him dizzy with lust. He cannot resist the temptation to bury his tongue deeper, and then deeper still, longer than any human Hob would ever have taken to bed. Muscles clamp down around him, and Hob makes a startled, thrilled little noise, and then begins laughing again, one hand at last stealing to Dream's hair. He does not clutch, but strokes, softly, like a favoured pet, and Dream purrs, mouth sealed around Hob's cunt, tongue buried in him until there is no more space for anything but Dream.

"You're a marvel," Hob says; Dream flicks the tip of his tongue against the opening to his cervix, soft, soft, and Hob's whole body goes as taut as a bow. "A fuh-hucking marvel oh God, oh fuck, Dream!"

A crowd has begun to form, Dream notes, though it is distant and unimportant information, useful only as much as these people may now see that Hob has chosen him, that Hob favours him. He is too focused on the task at hand to feel anything but the faintest hint of possessiveness – why should he, when he already has what he desires? – and he sets to it with relish, pumping his tongue in leisurely strokes, deep enough that Hob will feel him later, like a sweet bruise. Above him, Hob swears a blue streak, his neglected cock pulsing, prompting a sharp outcry of pleasure every time that Dream bumps the base of it with his nose. Eat me out, the sign had said, and Dream intends to follow it to the letter – there will be time enough, he hopes, to worship every other part of Hob later.

"Dream," Hob says, "Dream, I'm, I'm close, I'm–"

Dream does not wish to be warned. He wishes to be covered in the smell of Hob, drenched in him, and so he presses his tongue sharply up at the same time as he moves his hand to stroke Hob's prick with his thumb, humming in satisfaction as above him Hob shouts, thighs clamping hard around Dream's ears, a gush of fluid oozing around Dream's tongue as he works Hob through first one panting, keening peak, and then a second one just after, smaller, Hob squeezing rhythmically with his thighs, his cries of completion turning to whimpers and then to silence, just the sound of his breathing, like thunder, and murmured noises of appreciation from the gathered crowd. Dream slowly pulls back, and looks with satisfaction as Hob's gaping cunt, at the trickle of spit and come that drips from him, smoothing the curls there flat and sleek.

"Oh," Hob says. His voice is shaky, but inexpressibly fond as he reaches forward and cups Dream's cheeks with his palms. "Oh, I've made a complete mess of you."

He does not need a mirror to know that Hob's words are true. Dream can feel the warm air of the club brushing cold against the wetness on his cheeks, his chin, where it drips in thin lines down his neck. Hob smiles at him, his thumb stroking Dream's bottom lip.

"I think I might have one more in me for tonight, if you're interested," he says, and then with his foot he stretches out and tips over the little sign he had set up beside his chair. "But maybe somewhere where it's...just us? If there's no objections?"

His voice is hesitant. Searching. Dream gazes up at him, dazed, as he had known he would be, with how much he wants, and not only with how much he wants Hob's body, but his laughter as well, and his joy, and his time and his company. No, there are no objections.

"It would be my pleasure," he says, and Hob, still smiling, leans down and kisses the damp tip of his nose, and then the corner of his mouth, and then Hob's lips cover his own, gentle, and around them the club continues on in its revels but, for the moment, it is only them, and it is perfect.

#dreamling #dream/hob #dream of the endless/hob gadling #dream of the endless #hob gadling #my fic #the sandman #the sandman fanfiction #trans hob gadling

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currentfications · 5 months

Text

Christmas Special | 🎄

Synopsis: after your last shift of the year, you excitedly made your way home. The snow had made running difficult, and the delay was enough to cause you to miss your bus. With your phone battery flat and only one phone number memorised, you decided to try your luck, hoping that your ex would pick up the phone.

A/N: this is just cliches after cliches cause I am a basic bitch, special shoutout to @bluebada for the Christmas post (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵) sorry for the cheesiness and general cringe, I just sat down and typed a whole bunch of tropes into one fic, sorry if it’s not my best work, I’ve had the worst week and needed some fluff >/////<

Warning: swearing, fluff and cringe, but mostly sfw (mention/alluded to sex but no smut in this fic)

“Wait!” You waved your hand at the bus’s closing door, to no avail. The hydraulics hissed and the driver took off in haste before the doors had fully closed. “Fuck,” you muttered, tugging the suitcase behind you, the wheels squeaking in protest after being hauled around the past miles while you sprinted.

Walking up to the dimly lit bus stop, you checked the posted schedule for the next bus. A piece of poorly stuck on paper informed you of your continued misfortune while its peeling corners flapping around in the wind seemed to mock you. You bit your tongue from making a sarcastic comment at the situation on hand, not wanting to jinx your already doomed self. Instead you silently wondered if you could survive the night if you wore all your clothings at once. The Christmas sweater at the bottom of your bag ought to serve it’s purpose, you thought.

Noticing a phone booth nearby, you thought the shelter might make the wind chill more tolerable. The stench that hit your nose immediately had you reconsider taking your chances with the elements. Staring at the key pad and the suspicious puddle of stain on the floor, you tapped on your phone screen again, hoping that it had magically recharged itself. It did not.

You hung your head in disappointment and immediately regretted taking a deep breath to self regulate. Picking up the rusty phone and the last few quarters you had at the bottom of your bag, you swiftly punched in the number to the studio, hoping that someone- anyone- had stayed behind. Maybe the night cleaners would call you a cab.

“Thank you for your call. We are currently away for Christmas closure until the second Monday of January. Please leave a message-”

You hung the receiver up and sprinted outside for some fresh air. By the time you had remembered to jiggle the little refund handle on the pay phone, only two quarters are spat back out. Groaning at your own stupidity, you stared at the keypad and dialled in the only cell phone number you remember.

An odd feeling stirred in you as your finger lingered above the last button. Before you could quite identify the emotion, a wave of nausea from the smell quickly dismissed any other feeling in you.

The call went through.

What was I thinking? You thought to yourself as the wait tone went on. She’s not going to pick-

“Hello?” A familiar voice pierced through your doubt.

Instinctively, you took another deep breath. Your eyes watered up, and you’re not sure if it’s from her voice or the reek. “Hey Bada,” you managed to squeeze out.

A brief moment of silence hung in the air, and you thought she had hung up on the call. “Y/n?”

You nodded, realised that she can’t see you, and croaked out a confirmation. “Sorry to call you this late, I-”

A sharp beep cut you off.

“Please insert a quarter to continue the call.”

You fumbled around for some extra changes, but the call ended. Looking down on the mystery stain, you have a sudden irrational urge to defecate on the money hungry technology. Before you could do anything you’d regret, or worse, destruction of public property, the phone rang.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

You waved at the approaching headlights, and the black sedan came to a screeching halt next to you. The door to the driver’s seat flung open, and a familiar silhouette darted towards you. You were engulfed in Bada’s comforting scent warmth as she threw her coat on you.

“Are you okay?” Her soft voice was dripping with concern as she brushed a stray strand of hair out of your face. “Shit, you’re freezing. Get in the car.”

You climbed into the passenger seat of the still running car, thanking her as she shut the door behind you. “Sorry for the trouble,” you muttered apologetically as she buckled herself behind the steering wheel. “Thanks for getting here so quickly too, I hope I haven’t interrupted anything?”

“Don’t be silly, I’m just glad you remembered my phone number.” A hint of pink tinted her cheeks, and you convinced yourself that it’s either the weather or the poor lighting.

You sheepishly smiled at the taller girl, “well I’m glad you picked up an unknown number in the middle of the night, or I’ll probably have to crash in the phone booth.”

“Wouldn’t want the Mouse King to get to you, princess,” Bada teased.

You beamed at the pet name before quickly tuning down your smile, reminding yourself of the distance you ought to put between yourself and her. “How’d you know I got the role?”

Bada’s eyes widen and she whipped herself around, turning her attention to the GPS. “I- uh, Lusher told me. Speaking of which, the girls are having a Christmas party at Minah’s, you wanna come?”

You raised an eyebrow at her sudden change in subject, but nodded nevertheless. “It’s been a while, you think they’d mind?”

“Nah, it’ll be a Christmas surprise.” A smile sat on the corner of her lips as she gripped the steering wheel, her hand on the lowered break lingering beside you went unnoticed as you fixated on her eyes.

“Thanks for the invite,” you said as you finally peeled your gaze away. The scent of her car reminded you of something. “I better change,” you muttered as you pulled out a sweater from your bag, before wiggling off her coat and the shirt that you were wearing, which still faintly smelled like the phone booth. “Sorry for the stench.”

Bada glanced over to you and almost swerved into the opposite lane, immediately hiding her surprise with a cough. “Geez y/n, trying to make me crash the car?”

You chuckled as you pulled the Christmas sweater over your head. “Eyes on the road Bada, nothing you haven’t seen here before.”

Bada bit down on her bottom lip as she fixed her eyes back on the road, her knuckles turning white as she gripped on the steering harder.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

You heard the party as Bada pulled into the driveway, shaking your head at the girls’ energy. “They’re still as lively as ever,” you remarked at the Christmas karaoke blasting through the basement. Bada hummed and nodded in agreement.

“Perks of living near a construction site, I guess.” Bada was worried when Minah first told them she’s moving into this area, but soon discovered that the BEBE dancer is actually the menace of the suburb.

“What took you so long?” The door swing open at the bottom of the stairs and Minah peered through, stopping dead in her tracks when she spot you wrapped up in Bada’s coat, an ugly Christmas sweater underneath. “Holy fuckery are you-”

Bada shot her a warning look and wagged her head ever so slightly, and Minah muttered an apology of some sort before pulling you into a hug with a huge grin on her face.

“Merry Christmas,” you squeezed the redhead, “it’s been too long.”

“Come on in and tell me all about it,” Minah chirped excitedly as she pulled you into the house behind her. “Lusher is here too,” she nodded towards the singing, All I Want for Christmas echoing through the stairwell.

“Hurry up,” you turned around to Bada, who’s already kicking off her sneakers, “don’t wanna miss your part.”

Bada whipped around and sprinted down the hallway, leaving you with Minah, who offered to take your coat. “We have beer and eggnog, Lusher was making something in the kitchen. Do you have work tomorrow or can you stay?”

“I can stay,” you said as you handed her Bada’s coat, “we finally finished our last show of the year. Can I take up on that eggnog offer?”

With a mug full of spiked milk, you leaned against the door frame leading to Minah’s living room, where Lusher and Bada stood in front of the television, singing (Bada rapping Soulja Boy’s Crank That).

“WAR IS OVER!” Lusher screeched when the song finished, turning to you with a hug. “WE CHEERED!”

Bada covered her mouth with her hands, but it was too late as Tatter emerged from the kitchen with a cup in hand, which she flung to the other side of the room as she dived into your arms. Minah’s disapproving groan overshadowed by Tatter’s chatter. “It’s a Christmas miracle, we are no longer children of divorce!”

☆*:.｡.:*☆

“Who’s baking gingerbread at this hour?” You asked, sniffing the air as smell of baked goods slowly filled the room.

“Oh shit,” Lusher recalled, making her way back to the kitchen. “Should we make gingerbread house?”

“Should you be making gingerbread houses right now?” You followed her into the kitchen, hot behind her heels as she stumbled on flat ground.

“Oops,” she chortled. The gingerbread now smelled toastier than before, and you hastened your speed towards the oven.

You found the kitchen mitten hanging by the stoves and reached out to grab it. “I’ll do it, go sit your drunk ass down.” The girl giggled and you heard the kitchen stool being pulled out, lusher plopping into the seat.

A hand appeared from above your shoulder and plucked the mitten off your hands, you turned around to Bada already putting them on. “Your clumsy ass is no better than her drunk one. Go sit next to her.”

You tried to protest but Bada’s firm hand on your lower back guided you away from the oven door. You stood in place even after she had withdrew her hand, too distracted to notice the quickly browning smell of the baked goods. Definitely too distracted to notice the blush taking form on both of your cheeks.

Bada opened the door and a gust of cinnamon and clove scent poured out the oven, and you almost forgot how ridiculous it is to be making gingerbread houses in the middle of the night with your salivating.

“Hot tray incoming,” Bada warned as she pulled out a sheet tray, snapping you out of your daze. You looked around and found a coaster, placing it on the bench behind her as she put down the piping hot tray.

It was brief, but the domesticity stirred up some feelings you thought had long settled in you. You then immediately scolded yourself for dredging up the past. The festive season must be making you all sappy.

You shook your head and turned your focus to Lusher’s trays instead. “Are we building minecraft houses?” You couldn’t help but ask upon seeing two dozens or so poorly formed shapes on the sheet trays.

Bada peered over your shoulder. “These are squoval at best,” she noted, “how many drinks have you had tonight?”

“Enough to spontaneously want to bake,” Lusher slurred.

“You can glue them with melted sugar,” Minah suggested, pulling out a pot from her rack.

“Nope, too drunk to handle hot sugar.” Lusher threw her hands up, sitting back into the stool. “You do it.”

Bada sighed exasperatingly, “is this a Christmas party or a babysitting gig?”

☆*:.｡.:*☆

Between the gingerbread house decoration, eggnog, and Christmas songs karaoke, the tiredness from the bus chase earlier that day had finally caught onto you as you let out a yawn, covering your mouth with the sleeved of your Christmas sweater.

“You alright there?” Noticing your watering eyes, bada checked in on you. “Do you need to go? I can drive you if you need,” Bada offered.

“No, no I’ll be fine, once my phone charges up I can call myself a ride. Plus no drinking and driving,” you added,

“No more Nutcracker this season?” Minah asked.

“Nope, just finished our last show of the year,” you gestured towards your suitcase.

“Speaking of which,” Lusher chimed in with curious eyes. “Have you gotten the role?” She asked, “for Sugarplum Princess?”

You nodded with a smile, before quickly realising something was off. You squinted at Bada, who has taken a vested interest in the bottom of her cup.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

“So,” You prodded, “I thought you said Lusher broke the news?” Leaning against the concrete wall, you took a draw from the cigarette, the dim light from your lighter illuminating the snowy street.

“She must had too much to drink,” Bada adamantly insisted, leaning towards you. You held up the smoke silently for her, raising an eyebrow at her response.

“Lee Bada, are you stalking your ex?” You joinkingly said, gently taping her shoulder with your fist.

“It’s Christmas, nothing wrong with watching the Nutcrackers during the festive season,” choking on the smoke, her tone turned defensive.

“Right, so you came by and watched me without stopping to say hello?”

“I- I didn’t know what to say, after…” Bada trailed off, leaving the silence to fill the icy air. After what felt like minutes, she turned to you with a smile, her eyes suspiciously damp. “You were incredible on that stage, princess.”

You blushed at the pet name, having to remind yourself that she was just referring to your role. With a smile and en pointe, you lifted your arms beside you while you gave her a stage bow. “Thank you for coming to the show.”

When you stood up straight again, the moisture pooling in her eyes seemed to have increased, moments away from falling off her cheeks. You looked up at the tall girl and instinctively reached your hand out towards her. Whilst your hand is still raised in midair, you realised that the gesture may be too intimate, and settled with fixing her fringe instead.

“Are you still putting on one right now?” Bada asked, her voice hushed as it wavered ever so slightly, the tears welling up in her eyes finally falling off.

“What are you talking about?” You frantically asked as you caught a stray drop sliding off her cheek. “Bada are you alright?”

The taller girl shook her head and tilted it back to stop her tears from falling. “I’m sorry y/n, I thought I’ve moved on like we promised to.”

“Bada-”

“But I don’t want to,” Bada continued, still looking away from you. Her neck stretched back as you saw her swallowing hard. “And I don’t think I can.”

“Bada,” you tentatively said again, your voice now much softer with the emotions bubbling up. “I’m sorry I asked that of you. I thought it would be easier if we both just walked away, I-” your voice trailed off as you pondered how the hell did you even thought that was a good idea in the first place.

Sure, work gets in the way of relationships. But if you had just tried harder, accommodated more, would it have made a difference?

Her chuckling made you look up, now meeting her gaze as she looked down at you, a tight smile that couldn’t quite reach her eyes plastered on her face. A nervous habit you knew she had. “It was anything but easy these couple years, y/n.”

You hummed and nodded in agreement, “look at me being stranded on the side of the road without you.”

Bada chuckled, “look at you, still remembering my phone number even in a pinch.”

“I’m surprised you picked up unknown numbers this late at night,” you said with a laugh.

“Can’t help it, I know an accident prone idiot who needs my rescue at all hours of the day.”

“That can’t be safe, how many scam calls do you end up picking up?”

“Probably too many, I actually almost fell for one once- but it’s well worth it, I got the call I’m waiting for.”

You stood flabbergasted by the admission, the cold air stinging the inside of your cheeks as your jaw hung. “Shit Bada, I’m sorry I’m still causing you trouble even after I left.”

Was two Christmas ago? When you sat her down in the kitchen and told her you’re moving out. Between trying to keep your relationship working and your career, you’ve chosen the later. You’d also gotten her a hand knitted sweater that year- speaking of cliched.

“Nah, ‘y can’t help that you’re forgetful-”

“I am sometimes forgetful,” you corrected, and Bada backed off with her palms up, a smile finally returning to her rosy cheeks. Frostbitten, likely. “Get some sleep after this party, sleep debts’ a bitch,”

Bada raised a finger to her under eye. “Oops, busted,” she said as she stuck her tongue out, like being caught red handed in a cookie jar. “Fine, New Year’s resolution,” she announced as she turned to you. “Go to bed by two each night.”

“Ten,” you whacked away her hand placed on her chest.

“Twelve.”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven each night,” Bada replaced her hand on her chest.

You rolled your eyes at her but didn’t correct her this time. “And eat breakfast,” you added.

“Huh?”

“New Year’s resolution, don’t forget to eat breakfast,” you reminded.

Bada groaned. “As if you eat breakfast,” she muttered, scrunching up her nose in annoyance.

“Fine, our New Year’s resolution. Breakfast.” It’s about time you make one and stick to it anyways. “Eight cups of w-” you begin, only to immediately cut off by Bada.

“Y/n, be reasonable.”

You shrugged. “It was a nice try though. Congrats on the competition- you girls’ schedule must’ve been packed lately?”

Bada hummed and nodded a confirmation, “it’s great to have a job, don’t get me wrong,” she said, holding her hands up defensively, “it’s just nice to be able to sit around and do nothing for a while.”

“Word,” you muttered, as the chilled wind blew at the awkward silence that filled as the small talk settled.

“Uhm,” bada started, breaking the silence. “I can send you home?”

“Oh don’t worry about it, my phone should be charged up by now, I’ll call myself a ride. Thanks, again, for coming to my rescue.”

Bada chuckled, “anytime, princess.” The pet name is starting to grow on you.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

“How is the battery STILL flat?” You wailed, clutching your lifeless phone.

“Did you plug it in?” Bada peered behind you.

“Of course I plugged it in,” you snapped, “I’m not stupid.”

Bada took over your phone and charge and wiggled it around. “Is the plug turned on?”

“Of course it’s-” not turned on. You could’ve sweared that you had seen the phone lit up when it was plugged in. “Oh come on who turned it off?”

You suspect foul play, but your streak of bad luck of the day made you sound hesitant. Bada was not convinced.

“Do you want to crash for the night?” Minah poked her head into the kitchen, letting out a yawn. “It’s getting real late.”

Between asking Bada to drink drive and staying the night, you chose the later and thanked Minah for the bed. “Sorry if I’m over staying my welcome.”

“Don’t be silly, we haven’t caught up in a while. Stay as long as you like,” said Minah, as she led you to the guest room. “Lusher fell asleep on the couch,” Minah continued, turning to Bada. “So you can sleep here too I guess. Aight, I’ll see you in the morning,” Minah’s voice trailed off as she quickly made her way back to her room, slamming the door behind.

“Minah set us up, didn’t she?” You said with a sigh.

“Probably unplugged your phone too,” Bada chuckled. “Sorry for the wrongful accusation.”

“That was very hurtful,” you joked, “since you felt so bad about it you’ll let me call dibs on the bed.” You flopped yourself down on the nearest mattress and looked around the room, realising that you’re sitting down on the only bed.

“Minah!” Bada shouted as she marched towards her room, shortly returning with a huff. “Bastard locked her room.”

“I still call dibs on the bed.”

“Well scoot in then,” Bada instructed, “unless you want me to sleep on the cold hard floor?”

You rolled your eyes at her and made room for Bada. “That little minx, I’ll get her in the morning.”

Bada climbed in, and the old mattress sunk at the weight of you two, squeaking as gravity pulled you together at the bottom of the mattress nest.

You opened your eyes to meet Bada’s hot chocolate brown ones staring back at you. “The fuck are you looking at,” you giggled as you pushed her fringed down to cover her eyes. “Go to sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah I will, just-” bada stirred in her cocoon of blanket, “I haven’t seen you in a while. You keep sleepin’ and don’t worry about me.”

You tried to close your eyes but felt her burning gaze on you. “I can’t sleep with you staring at me, you weirdo,” you said as you turned around, the mattress nest pulling you backwards.

As you were falling asleep you felt an arm around you, but you quickly drifted off as the slow rising and falling of Bada’s breathing gently lulled you to sleep.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

The first crack of dawn spilled through the window above the bed, and you snuggled deeper into the warmth as slumber reclaimed you.

A firm hold around you enveloped you as you next woken up from possibly the best sleep of the year. Followed closely by the rudest awakening of the year. Bada’s arms had snaked around your waist as she nuzzled into the back of your neck, you backside pressed up against her stomach as one of your legs have started to fall asleep. You suspect it is between her thighs.

“Bada,” you gently nudged the sleeping giant, poking at her shoulder. “My job needs me to have both legs,” you whispered.

“Hm?” She continued to stir, gripping you tighter into herself.

Seeing that her slumber is not letting up, you yanked your feet out from her weight. Pins and needles attacked your foot as blood returned to your leg, and you let out a hiss as you rubbed your foot.

“Y/n?” Bada opened her eyes in confusion, slowly recalling the events of the night before. “Shit, sorry. You okay there?”

You nodded, pulling yourself up from the bed. “Merry Christmas, Bada.” Judging by the lack of noise in the house you assumed the rest of the BEBE girls are still fast asleep, you pointed at a door down the halls and mouthed ‘toilet?’ at Bada, shuffling towards it as Bada nodded a confirmation.

Bada followed closely behind you out the room, heading for a glass of water in the kitchen. “Merry Christmas to you too.”

A bundle of mistletoe hung by the doorframe, staring back at the two of you, its waxy white berries beckoning. “This wasn’t here last night,” you said, observing the tape holding up the ribbon.

“Mhmm,” Bada hummed, easily guessing the culprit who’d set it up. “Should we let it serve its purpose?”

You chuckled at the offer, before leaning in to plant a quick peck on her cheeks. “Fine, seeing that I didn’t have a Christmas present.”

The kiss was short and sweet, and you tried to not linger on the sweet part too long. Doesn’t stop the butterflies from fluttering in your stomach. You shrugged off the feeling and made quick time to the toilet.

Bada’s hand grabbed you by the arm, pulling you back into her arms. “Y/n, wait.” Her eyes took you in as she hit down on her bottom lips, brushing away a strand of hair away from your face. “Can we try again?” She said with a hushed tone, concealing a break in her voice.

“Bada we’ve been through this,” you sighed, “it’s too much work and it’ll take away-”

“I’m sorry I left you to fend for yourself,” Bada cut you off, her eyes welling up again. “But I promise I’ll be more present this time. It takes two to make a relationship work, right?”

You pondered at her words for a second. “We are both so, very busy,” you reminded, “it’ll be hard fucking work.”

Bada leaned down and pressed her forehead against yours, her breath tickling your upper lips. “Then I’ll put in the hard fucking work,” her soft voice determined, uttering a promise in whispers. The firmness in her voice felt so reliable, and you couldn’t help but falter at it.

Maybe this time it’ll be different. You’re older, know better. And her arms felt like home, like shelter in a storm, a ride in the dark. “Are you sure?” You glanced up, looking for signs of hesitation but found none.

Bada pressed her lips against yours, and you found your answer in her firm hold around you. You melted against her and allowed yourself to let your guard down, to allow the crashing waves of yearning you’ve been feeling wash through you. Grabbing the collar of her shirt, you pulled her closer into the kiss.

An excited screech broke your tender moment, as Lusher had awoken from the couch, now prancing towards Minah’s room. “Wake up Minah! We did it! The room trick worked!” She shouted, slapping the locked door.

You’ll get them back. But first, “I still really gotta pee,” you turned to Bada in the midst of cheerful chaos, peeling her arms off you.

“Since you haven’t gotten me anything for Christmas, I’ll take watersporting as a gift,” Bada teased, earning an elbow to her guts.

☆*:.｡.:*☆

A/N2: Thank you guys for reading~ hope you all have a wonderful time at this time of the year, and to all my hospitality workers: stay strong, thank you so so much for your service!! Thanks for allowing my self indulging fics (I really should be talking to a therapist than putting y/n through shit but alas)◉‿◉

#bada lee #swf2 #bada lee x reader #swf2 x reader #fanfic #bada lee x fem reader #bada lee x y/n #christmas fic #merry christmas #fluff

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arlecchno · 9 months

Text

everything has changed (alhaitham x gn!reader)

ONE. i just wanna know you better

masterlist next

SUMMARY - alhaitham was positive that he was not worthy of anyone's love, nor was anyone worthy of his. but after bumping into you on a random wednesday morning, he was ought to be wrong in many ways. also; in which you attempt on asking alhaitham out a grand total of three times; three different ways, three different places, and three different situations, in hopes of him reciprocating your so called love— people do say that third time's the charm, right?

A/N - i have delayed this for far too long. i have maybe slept while editing this draft for around 4 times. i was supposed to post this last week. forgive me pls

“three times.”

“pardon?”

you smiled at the gray-haired man at his desk, holding up three fingers as you repeated yourself once more. “i'll only ask you out three times, and if you decline all three of them, i won't ever bother you again. you can trust me on that.”

if there's one thing about you that alhaitham could describe, it's that you are… maybe a tad bit weird.

no, scratch that, you're insanely weird.

it's silly, he thinks. you're a well-known and respected scholar slash biologist from the amurta darshan. there's no one in the akademiya who doesn't know you, not when you're widely known for your eccentric researches and experiments. no, alhaitham definitely did not look into your work profile after that little incident. and even if he did, it was purely for work purposes, he was mainly doing his duty to report about it to the higher ups, lest he craves punishment or a lecture from grand sage azar.

anyway, frankly speaking, you should be professional, at the very least. hell, you have a doctorate. the title itself should be written all over you.

so why are you speaking to him like… well, he doesn't know. like you're a fool? a desperate moron in love? whatever it is, it's anything but professional to him.

see, this all started due to that sudden incident from a few weeks ago.

nothing ever beats the rush hour in the akademiya on a wonderful wednesday morning, it seems.

as a full time worker at the prestigious institute, it was just another day for you and your overworked colleagues. however, getting errands done during this time around would be a death wish, everyone within the akademiya walls knew of that, and of course, you do too.

yet it seemed like you had just dug your own grave.

honestly— who wouldn't? you needed to head over to your lab immediately, the specimens in the crate you were currently carrying needed to be experimented on within the fifteen minute timeline you had mentally set up in your head, so it was obvious that you had no time to lose.

and to speak; the crowds in the house of daena honestly weren't that bad— maybe a little less spacious than usual, but still merely nothing for an experienced scholar like you. see, that's what you had initially thought before getting back to your private lab.

you just need to head on over to the biology section of the house of daena to retrieve a book titled ‘fungi and its extraordinary lives’, and you'll be set to continue conducting your ongoing research project. look— you did think of snatching the book way earlier before you even set out on an adventure of getting your crate of supplies, but it would've been too much work for you to go back and forth from your lab, as it was already close to the house of daena.

you figured it was best to do it on your way back instead, which, in full honesty— was not even a bad idea. it was just that things just had to escalate a whole lot differently than you had intended to.

see— your first mistake was keeping your eyes busy on your task instead of what's in front of you. which, in another sense, is what any other normal person would do. well, you know your way around the akademiya like the back of your hand. the shortcuts to aisle number thirty-six in the house of daena, the bathroom to the end of the hall on floor two, the shortest route to the archive room of the akademiya, you name it. so you thought you could just waltz your way through the library easily. again, your first mistake.

your second mistake was that you were clearly doing anything but walking, understandably so. you're well aware of the akademiya rules: no running in the institution, no careless mistakes, no idle chit chat and gossip— among many others. right, the handbooks weren't a stranger to you. there was even a point in your life where you were forced to memorise it from a to z by one of your professors because you were unfortunate enough to have unintentionally broken one of the many minuscule rules that one time, which in your opinion was quite the torture for a mere student like you back then. you may or may not still hold a grudge against the said professor.

as you were double checking your to-do list with a pencil and piece of paper on your beloved crate, you hadn't realized that you were walking towards someone. okay, maybe the correct word for your actions right now would be sprinting, but you'd hate to admit that you were in the wrong.

now, this is your last mistake. the person that is about to bump into you is not a mere scholar, whom you can't just apologize to once or a few more times and move on with your day.

next thing you knew, you collided into the person's chest that was so hard it felt you just crashed into a wall, and much to your dismay, caused you to harshly fall on the pristine floors from the impact, along with your precious, precious crate, which is now most likely a lost cause as your specimens and other important stuff you had worked so hard to look for earlier were all over you and the extravagant floors of the house of daena. disgusting, you know, but that was the least of your worries right now.

as if that wasn't already downright embarrassing enough, you're now covered in gooey fungi, you have totally made a fool out of yourself, and all eyes are currently on you, scholars and students alike whispering amongst themselves at the scene they were witnessing. a monstrosity, truly.

you were sure that you'd be the main topic of gossip for at least a week. maybe two weeks at best.

the house of daena was silent, with only the chit and chatter amongst the scholars as an exception. at first sight, you wondered why everyone would pay so much attention to you instead of continuing on with what they were doing just a fleeting second ago. surely this happens in the akademiya at least once, no?

you've made two revelations to this; one, you were so ungodly hideous that everyone just had to stare. or two, you had probably just bumped into some hot-shot akademiyan.

of course, the first thing any sane person would do is look up to the perpetrator who had cause you this much damage. (it was your fault to begin with.)

so you did.

and of course any normal person who had just been bumped into would have thought of the same thing: have every reason to be angry at the person who bumped into you, whether they were in the wrong or not.

so it was only natural that you too, had the same thought in mind.

but the second you laid your eyes on him, it's as if the whole world stopped, and you finally understand why everyone was so adamant on just standing there and whispering about your little incident instead of helping you out like any decent human being would. and the latter of your revelation was definitely on spot. you would've done a victory dance if you were in any other situation except this.

because the person you had just bump into is none other than the scribe of the akademiya, the one and only, alhaitham.

you've heard of him a few times— apparently he's quite the reserved man, yet would not hesitate to call you out on your wrongdoings or foolish mistakes. well, that's what you heard anyway; as a mere worker who is trying to make ends meet, you are in no position to judge people based on what your fellow juniors run their mouths about these days.

for as long as you've been both an alum and full-time employee at the akademiya, it's truly a wonder that you've never actually seen the scribe in person. right, that's also what you've heard people say— that the scribe can hardly be spotted, nor can he be found easily to begin with. he's never in his office, and it's not often that you'd find him within the akademiya walls; the man is anywhere but at his working place, and somehow gets away with it because he's the scribe, whose presence is not of importance unless he deems so.

and if you are granted the position to say this; it is mainly because the higher ups of the akademiya takes great pride in their respected positions, so it is not a shocker that someone with an official title like grand scribe can frequently get away with such things.

egocentric, blunt, unambitious and many more— those are the few descriptions you've heard over the past few years from scholars about the scribe.

but out of all of the mysterious things you've miraculously heard about the man, you've never seen or heard people point out how attractive he is.

how could they not? he’s got a broad frame that could actually knock the breath out of you (which in this case, quite literally did knock you down), a set of clothes that somehow just screams him, despite the fact that you know next to nothing about the guy, tuft of gray hair that bounces graciously and looks luscious enough it makes you envious how he even manages to take such great care of it, and lastly, a pair of turquoise eyes that looked like an oasis from the sumeru desert, one you could just stare into forever, ever and ever.

this man is a whole package.

it was like the gods had granted you the perfect opportunity to present yourself in front of an attractive man, like the gods have finally decided to fill a bit of colour into your hopeless romantic and workaholic life, and gave you this blessing— except for the fact that this, this might be the most embarrassing way possible in doing so.

oh how you want the ground to swallow you up right now.

after what seemed like forever (it was less than thirty seconds), the man of the hour finally speaks, startling you with his voice. “would you rather sit down there like a fool or will you stand up?” ouch. maybe it's safe to say that at least one of the things people say about him are, in fact, true.

you blinked, once, twice, before you could pick up on what what he said and hurriedly stand up, glass jars of your specimens that were previously all over you clinking to the floor a little too loud, some already having been broken and shattered, but you could care less when the man in front of you was currently glaring at you like you have committed one of the six cardinal sins.

before he could even jab you more with his next few blunt words, you decided to bow down to a complete ninety-degree and started profusely apologizing, all previous thoughts of wanting to blame everything on him for ruining your prolonged experiment were thrown out the window (again, it is your fault in the first place.)

sure, this might hurt your pride and ego, but you'd rather do this than having the possibility of listening to the scribe giving you a lifelong lecture on the basic rules of the akademiya, or yet even worse, you get sent to the grand sage and have your doctorate and title revoked for being unprofessional, unethical, or whatever nonsense grand sage azar would demote you for. call yourself dramatic and insane, but you'd rather not inflict any chances of ending up humiliated or jobless. or both.

a beat passes, and you're still mumbling out apologies, causing alhaitham to clear his throat in order to cut you off.

“you… you can stand upright now,” he said, and it takes you another few seconds before you reluctantly do as he says, and the first thing you see is him looking at you with a puzzled expression plastered on his face.

“i apologize once again, scribe. it was my fault, i wasn't looking,” you looked down as you spoke, staring at your ruined materials on the white tiles.

alhaitham all but sighs, and tells you to look where you're going next time. you couldn't help but only nod, not even glancing at him once out of embarrassment. “you are fully aware of the akademiya rules, are you not? act one-o-three; no running in the institution unless–”

“–an emergency occurs, or and if ordered to by either of the six sages, grand sage included,” you finished his sentence with the slight of an eye roll, before remembering that this was the scribe, not your annoying biology professor who countlessly had you memorise the five-hundred-page worth of akademiya rules. truthfully, there was no need for a teaching institution to have that many rules.

then, he prompts another question: “do you perhaps need any help…” he seemed to have trailed off, and you flickered your eyes to him just for a fleeting second to see what he was doing. “amurta scholar?” he finished his question as he stared at your lab coat, a small badge to your left with the amurta logo pinned on it, indicating which darshan you are from.

“uh… no– it's alright,” you say sheepishly as you quickly crouched down, already starting to pick up your glass jars and whatnot. “you should get going, scribe. you must have a lot of work to do here in the akademiya.”

alhaitham could only nod as you tell him that, not even minding the fact that you were not able to see him as of the moment. he merely tells you to watch where you're going next time and starts to walk away; which in your opinion was maybe just a tad bit rude— the least he could do was help you out. but knowing him, as per what people talk about, that'd be nigh impossible. also, you did say that you didn't need any help, so you couldn't blame him per se. honestly, if you were in his shoes you'd probably have done the same.

so you hurriedly finished cleaning up your mess and ran to your lab, all in your splattered–with–gooey–fungi glory. as you sighed behind closed doors, you prayed to the gods above that your project would go smoothly and peacefully. fingers crossed.

well, maybe after yet another exhausting trip to the avidya forest for another set of fungi, that is.

but of course, it was only wishful thinking, there's not a lot to hope for when alhaitham pretty much occupied your mind the whole day. it has even gotten to the point where your fellow juniors had to snap you out of your daydream so that you could actually focus on your research.

sure, call yourself a hopeless romantic (maybe a crazy lunatic in this case), but who wouldn't fall for him at first sight? and who the hell cares about the things scholars gossip about him? a man with that sort of pretty privilege could run over your toe and you would gracefully thank him for it.

and, point in case— alhaitham isn't that bad. okay, sure, maybe a little too blunt and too uncaring for his own good, but he is not as bad as people make him seem.

maybe you should get to know alhaitham more, right? not because you're interested in him (you are, but that could be pushed aside for now), you merely want to debunk the bad rumors about him going around (they aren't even half as bad, just highly exaggerated and overall childish) and make sure that everyone knows that alhaitham is not just the egocentric and arrogant guy people always see (he probably is just exactly that, but it's worth the try).

you firmly believe there's more to the scribe than what meets the eye.

so, you make it your mission and goal to get to know alhaitham better, even if it may be the worst idea possible.

spoilers: it absolutely is the worst idea possible.

after the minor incident you had, you tried your very best to encounter him during work hours, which honestly wasn't as challenging as you thought it was. sure, he's not around much, but after maybe a week or so of hanging around the house of daena (stalking would be the ideal word you're looking for), you finally got to know his routine— well, only for when he's around the humongous library, but that will suffice for now.

evidently, alhaitham would only visit the house of daena on wednesdays, and weirdly on saturdays, at ten in the morning sharp. for what reason you quite have no clue, but he's frequently around the linguistics section, reading a book or two about ancient runes and that sort of stuff, sometimes even seen squabbling with a certain architect from the kshahrewar darshan too. you don't know kaveh much— but apparently he's acquainted with alhaitham, of all people.

but now that you know a part of his routine, you can probably catch the opportunity to get to know him. so ever since then, you have been, quote unquote, “bumping„ into him nonstop.

the first few times you bumped into him, you had greeted him a couple of times, and after a bit of coaxing, you somehow managed to drag him into small talk. you've even gotten to the point where you're asking him when he's free— reason why? of course, you just want to take him out for a bit during lunch break to make up for the incident you two had just a few weeks ago, definitely no ulterior motives whatsoever; which unfortunately, alhaitham kept declining because he quotes that “it would be a waste of time,” and that “things should just be left in the past.”

but that clearly didn’t stop you from trying, again and again. your guardians clearly didn't raise a quitter.

one thing you did find out about alhaitham after a few conversations with him is that the man is anything but fond of small talk, which was expected. and after countless attempts on trying to get him into one, you eventually had to go on a different route to get his attention.

so, here you are now, somehow having managed to reach your way to his office— and miraculously enough, alhaitham just so happens to also be present at the time, which gives you the perfect opportunity to raise the deal that has been dying to escape from your throat.

look— there's no denying that you are here for work purposes; you were requesting for one of your documentations to be cited and reviewed, and although alhaitham is mainly responsible for documenting data regarding the akademiya and the six darshans, he offered a helping hand during one of your small talks you had successfully managed to coax out of him.

and you did come here for that, but you just couldn't help but blurt everything out.

and it doesn't really help that alhaitham is looking at you like you've submitted the worst thesis possible. you haven't even handed it to him yet.

alhaitham continues to frown. “would it not be a hassle to be asking me out that much? why would you even be interested in me?” he had asked, and he didn't bother waiting for your reply as he continued speaking. “you could use those three times right now and i'll decline all of them instantly. that way, you won't have to bother me again.”

“well aren't you quite rude, scribe,” you huffed, retracting your hand back to your side. talk about rude; you're here for the sole purpose of asking him out. “give me a chance, would you? i'm confident that you'd have changed your mind by the time i'm on my last chance,” you grinned as you quirked your eyebrows up and down, and alhaitham almost rolled his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and leans back on his chair. almost.

“i highly doubt it,” he says.

you tucked your files closer to your chest. “have you ever heard of the saying ‘third time's the charm’, scribe?”

“i believe so, yes,” he nods, then adds: “you'll only ever hear obsessive gamblers say that sort of nonsense when they've lost their current gamble, in hopes of winning the next round.”

in an instant, your jaw drops. “are you implying that i am gambling my love life?” see, if you look closely— alhaitham was this close to smiling.

“i am just saying that there is no point in pursuing something, or someone, in this case, when you've already failed the first time, biologist,” well, now you understand why scholars say he is unambitious. “it would be a waste of time to be around me, or be with me, for that matter. i doubt that i could ever reciprocate your feelings.”

ouch. you'll probably have to double check your list of alhaitham's personality chart again.

“please?” you plead, and alhaitham stares at you for a little too long that you eventually had to break eye contact to avoid his intense gaze. “i promise you that i will never bother you again, you can trust me on that. you won't even see my face on the grounds of the akademiya.”

he looks at you confusedly. “are you not the famous biologist with fifteen awards on their name? i am bound to bump into you in the near future, in one way or another.” he says, tapping his finger on his forearm.

huh, how did he know that you have won fifteen akademiyan awards? as far as you know, this guy knows nothing about you, the fact that he had to check which darshan you are from during your incident was enough proof.

maybe you're not the only one who is interested in the other.

“that's not the point!” you groaned, rubbing your temple with your free hand. this may or may not be directed to both your thoughts and him.

okay, maybe this was a bad idea after all— alhaitham is an impossible man. you'd think that you were capable enough to break his façade, to see the true him after a bit of pestering, but nooo, you're pretty damn sure this is him. there's no such thing as a façade. he's just… alhaitham. which could either be a blessing or a curse, if you ever manage to steal his heart. that, or maybe both. but then again, it still doesn't change the fact that he is one tough nut to crack.

alhaitham sighs. “will you really leave me alone?”

“huh?”

“will you really stop bothering me once you're over with your… shenanigans?”

you blinked. then, you widen your eyes, nodding. “of course. i won't pursue you again, scribe. all i am asking is for you to lend me your time for the duration of— uh, actually, i'm not sure what i am supposed to call this,” you mumble the last few words, but still audible enough for the gray-haired man to hear.

“say, hypothetically, what would you do if i were to agree to one of your three chances of asking me out? what will you do then?”

“oh,” you shift from one foot to another, awkwardness coursing through your veins at the lack of answer you could think of at the top of your head. “i… i am not quite sure. that's for future me to worry about, i guess?”

alhaitham raises a brow, but doesn't question your uncertainty. instead, he says something else in return: “alright, then. i will indulge in your antics for as long as you'd have me as your… social experiment.”

social experiment is just an over exaggeration, right? it has to be. no rational person says it like that.

“what?”

“i'm saying that i will agree to the terms you have given me, but you will stop bothering once your chances are up. do you understand?” he enunciates his words carefully, and you almost dropped your files, right then and there.

gulping, you nod, a small grin tugging at your lips, and alhaitham already regrets his words when you say: “of course.”

well, be prepared for a rollercoaster ride.

extra note - ok guys please keep me in your thoughts and prayers 🙏 writing slump is crazy this is the first work i’ve posted in over 2 months. that is ridonkulous. hope i don’t disappear again

taglist; @isotofl @dancinghillary @heartswonder

taglist is still open!! :D

#alhaitham x reader #alhaitham x you #genshin x you #genshin impact imagines #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact reader insert #genshin x reader #al haitham x reader #genshin alhaitham #h✧˖— writes #h✧˖— everything has changed #i went through the five stages of grief writing this #yet somehow i still hate it

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kokiri-leaf · 9 months

Text

I can't stop thinking about this post from a few years ago that really just makes everything click together about Crowley better than I think anyone actually realizes...

Crowley was The Serpent. He introduced free will into humanity, not by tempting Eve with fruit, but by helping her understand that she could CHOOSE whether she wanted to follow orders or not. Crowley gave her the Gift of Knowledge, not the fruit.

Crowley has all the empathy for the Universe, because he was its Architect. In the Great War of Heaven against Hell, picking a side was arbitrarty, because as he saw it, it wasn't a real choice that mattered. It was just a contest between two sides over who to gets privilege of destroying it all. Either way, the Universe loses. Only Crowley could see the bigger picture; only he dared to ask the question: Why?

Ultimately, the only lesson he took out of his damnation was that Heaven could not be trusted to understand the difference between what is Good and what is Right any more so than Hell. It was out of empathy, when he told Eve that she shouldn't need to listen to God, and in doing so, he gave the Universe the chance to make its own choice, to do more than just follow orders. Following God's orders may be seen as being Good, but if those orders are unjust, then how Good can they really be?

But Crowley is the only one who can see this, because as the serpent, he IS the free will that gave to the Universe. After witnessing the death and destruction of nearly the entire world's population to the Great Flood, he refused to remain complicit to any injustice that God wrought onto humanity. He refused to follow orders given to him in Uz to kill innocent children and livestock just because God took a dare to make one particular man's life suck for no other reason. When Crowley meet Jesus of Nazareth, he decided to show and educate the young messiah all about the rest of the entire world and all its beauty, because he thought the kid just simply ought to know. He taught others to think critically when it came to blindly following orders. All because a universe where an individual's choices don't matter, where every decision is preordained by cosmic forces until the end of time, is unfair. And Crowley learned firsthand just how unfair that is, to not have a choice in one's own destiny. This was the gift of knowledge he hoped to pass along to humanity: to ask questions, to address injustice, to be able to choose between doing good and doing right.

The serpent told Eve that we should always have a choice.

#good omens #good omens 2 #crowley #aziraphale #david tennant #michael sheen #neil gaiman

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scriggle-scraggle · 2 months

Text

Due South Fic Recs

Academic Punk by TheHoyden (RayK/Fraser): The quintessential college professor AU

Busted & its sequel Tapestry by JiM: A year after CoTW, and a life-changing experience, Ray goes back to Canada

Like a House on Fire by @bethbethbeth01 & kelliem (RayK/Fraser): “In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, ‘It’s deja vu all over again.’”

With Six You Get Eggroll by @cesperanza (RayK/Fraser): The story of how Ray & Fraser ended up with six kids.

Ray Is Not Actually Graphing The History Of His Relationship With Fraser–That Would Be Pathetic, And Ray Is Not Pathetic–But If He Was Graphing It, Even Just In His Own Stressed-Out, Messed-Up Brain, It Might Look Something Like This by sprat (RayK/Fraser): The sex has never not been good. That is not the confusing part of Ray-and-Fraser. They are naturals at the sex; the sex is their friend. If there was some kind of sexathalon, the two of them would be All-State, trophy-winning champs.

Like a House on Fire by Beth H (bethbethbeth): "In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, 'It's deja vu all over again.'"

Ping by Speranza: I am not the only person here who wants a do-over.

Tip, Slide, Tumble by j_s_cavalcante: Ray knew when he found the body in the alley it was going to change someone's life. He just didn't expect that life would be his.

All the Comforts of Home by rattlecatcher: post-CotW

Family Portrait by Journey [archived by dsa_archivist]: A slightly AU Ray Kowalski meets Constable Benton Fraser.

This Is Us Series by AuKestrel: how was the decision reached between Kowalski and Fraser to embark on the quest for the Hand of Franklin?

Near Wild Heaven Series by AuKestrel: This was, almost literally, the first thing I wrote, and certainly the first long thing I ever wrote. (Coming to Terms was the first "short" story I wrote and posted.) I worked on this off and on for over a year and did not write it in any kind of linear fashion. The first part was actually finished last, in part because I was stuck in getting them to a plausible misunderstanding that was necessary for the plot (such as it was). It's rough, and could have done with more work, although I did fix a lot of the (popular at the time, I swear!) dialect.

I'm posting it in part because I had SUCH a great time writing it (in fact, there are still parts of it that make me laugh), because I learned so much by/while writing it, and also because it's sort of "historical": a lot of the tropes in dS fandom did not exist when this was written (hard to believe, but there were only 27 F/K stories on Hexwood when I came into the fandom, and only about 5 of those had any kind of M/M sex!), and I thought it would be fun for other people to see how we earlier writers managed such things as tropes before they were tropes. But, in essence, you are about to read a "first novel," with all the alarm bells that ought to ring in your head.

Hawks and Hands by Dira Sudis (dsudis): Eighteen sex scenes strung together with angst and hockey.

Finding the Words by Berty: When luck finally runs out, who's there to pick up the pieces?

Wildly Courteous Ways by Starfish [archived by dsa_archivist]: A new assignment has Ray worried until Fraser steps in to help.

When the Ice Goes Out by Kellie Matthews [archived by dsa_archivist]: Long past CotW, Fraser and Ray K. discover that life both it and isn't as simple as it seems.

What We Talk About When We Talk About Wolves by Penelope Whistle [archived by dsa_archivist]: From stake-out to make-out.

Unguarded Protectorate by Bone [archived by dsa_archivist], Mairead Triste [archived by dsa_archivist]: Smut and angst. This story was previously published in the zine SERGE PROTECTOR.

Somewhere Else to Be by Kellie Matthews [archived by dsa_archivist]: This is an AU. Fraser's not a Mountie, Ray's not a cop, but as someone once said, things once linked remain that way. In any universe, they are meant to be partners.

The Reaching Out One by Alex51324: (AO3 account required) It's ten years after the events of CoTW (in other words, the present day). After the Quest, Fraser and Ray went back to their regular lives--

The Course by Bone [archived by dsa_archivist], Aristide [archived by dsa_archivist]: Randomness. Inevitability. Smut.

If It Walks Like A Duck . . . by Beth H (bethbethbeth): When an old friend of Ray Kowalksi's returns to Chicago, it takes almost no time at all for her to draw the obvious - and erroneous - conclusion about Ray and his "partner."

Genesis by kalena: In the beginning, Ray Kowalski meets Benton Fraser, geologist and volcano cowboy, in Hawaii. AU.

#ds30below #fic rec #due south #ray kowalski #benton fraser #rayk x fraser

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thesiltverses · 8 months

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I don’t know who types up the ask answers on this blog but to whoever’s reading this: how do you all feel about being alive and sentient? What keeps you going, what purpose propels you through this chaotic void? What do you think (or hope) waits for you after your inevitable end? What do you think constitutes a life well lived?

I'm going to answer this in the most wayward and stupidly overlong manner possible, because the previous ask had me thinking about puppets, and I was already mid-way through writing up a book recommendation that's semi-relevant to your questions.

Everyone (but especially people who've enjoyed The Silt Verses and all the folks on Tumblr who loved Piranesi by Susanna Clarke) ought to seek out Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban.

Riddley Walker is a wild and woolly story set in post-apocalyptic Kent, where human society has (d)evolved into a Bronze Age collective of hunter-gatherer settlements. Dogs, apparently blaming us for our crimes against the world, have become our predators, hunting us through the trees. Labourers kill themselves unearthing ancient machinery that they cannot possibly understand.

A travelling crowd of thugs led by a Pry Mincer collect taxes and attempt to impose themselves upon those around them with a puppet-show - the closest possible approximation of a TV show - that tells a mangled story of the world's destruction, featuring a Prometheus-esque hero called Eusa who is tempted by the Clevver One into creating the atomic bomb.

Riddley himself, a twelve-year-old folk hero in-the-making surrounded by strange portents, ends up sowing the seeds of rebellion and change by becoming a conduit for the anti-tutelary anarchic madness (one apparently buried in our collective unconscious) of Punch 'n' Judy.

It's a book in love with twisted reinterpretation, the subjectivity of interpretation, buried or forbidden truths coming back to light (the opening quote is a curious allegory about reinvention and cyclical change from the extra-canonical Gospel of Thomas, which is a good joke and mission statement on a couple levels at once) and human beings somehow stumbling into forms of wisdom or insight through clumsy and nonsensical attempts to make sense of a world that is simply beyond them.

It rocks.

The book starts like this:

On my naming day when I come 12 I gone front spear and kilt a wyld boar he parbly the las wyld pig on the Bundel Downs any how there hadnt ben none for a long time befor him nor I aint looking to see none agen. He dint make the groun shake nor nothing like that when he come on to my spear he wernt all that big plus he lookit poorly. He done the reqwyrt he ternt and stood and clattert his teef and made his rush and there we wer then. Him on 1 end of the spear kicking his life out and me on the other end watching him dy. I said, 'Your tern now my tern later.'

Riddley's devolved language - a trick which has been nicked/homaged by many other works, most notably Cloud Atlas and Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome - is a masterwork choice which may seem offputting or overwhelming at first, but which has its own brutal poetry and cadence to it, and ultimately which makes us slow down as readers and unpick the wit, puns, double-meanings and playful themes buried in line after line.

(Even those first five sentences get us thinking about cyclical change, ritual and myth in opposition to the dissatisfactions of reality, and 'tern' to paradoxically indicate a rebellious change in direction but also an obedient acceptance of inevitable death.)

In one of my favourite passages in literature and a statement of thought that means a lot to me, Riddley has been smoking post-coital weed with Lorna, a 'tel-woman', who unexpectedly declares her belief in a kind of irrational, monstrous Logos that lives in us, wears us like clothes, and drives us onwards for its own purpose:

'You know Riddley theres some thing in us it dont have no name.' I said, 'What thing is that?' She said, 'Its some kynd of thing it aint us but yet its in us. Its lookin out thru our eye hoals...it aint you nor it dont even know your name. Its in us lorn and loan and shelterin how it can.' 'Tremmering it is and feart. It puts us on like we put on our cloes. Some times we dont fit. Some times it cant fynd the arm hoals and it tears us a part. I dont think I took all that much noatis of it when I ben yung. Now Im old I noatise it mor. It dont realy like to put me on no mor. Every morning I can feal how its tiret of me and readying to throw me a way. Iwl tel you some thing Riddley and keap this in memberment. What ever it is we dont come naturel to it.' I said, 'Lorna I dont know what you mean.' She said, 'We aint a naturel part of it. We dint begin when it begun we dint begin where it begun. It ben here befor us nor I dont know what we are to it. May be weare jus only sickness and a feaver to it or boyls on the arse of it I dont know. Now lissen what Im going to tel you Riddley. It thinks us but it dont think like us. It dont think the way we think. Plus like I said befor its afeart.' I said, 'Whats it afeart of?' She said, 'Its afeart of being beartht.'

While Hoban is, I think, deeply humanistic to his bones and even something of a wayward optimist, the notion of human beings as helpless and ignorant vessels, individual carriers - puppets, if you like - for an unknowable and awful inhuman power-in-potentia and life-drive that lacks a true shape or intent beyond its own continued survival (even when that means destroying us or visiting us with agonising atrophy in the process) conjures up the pessimism of Thomas Ligotti, another big influence on our work and a dude who was really into his marionettes-as-metaphor.

Let's go to him now for his opinion on the thing that lives beneath our skin. Thomas?

Through the prophylactic of self-deception, we keep hidden what we do not want to let into our heads, as if we will betray to ourselves a secret too terrible to know… …(that the universe is) a play with no plot and no players that were anything more than portions of a master drive of purposeless self-mutilation. Everything tears away at everything else forever. Nothing knows of its embroilment in a festival of massacres… Nothing can know what is going on.

Curiously, both Ligotti and Riddley Walker have appeared in the music of dark folk band Current 93, whose track In The Heart Of The Wood And What I Found There directly homages the novel and ends with the repeated words,

"All shall be well," she said But not for me

These words, in turn, hearken back to Kafka's* famous reported conversation with Max Brod:

'We are,' he said, 'nihilistic thoughts, suicidal thoughts that rise in God's head.' This reminded me of the worldview of the gnostic: God as an evil demiurge, the world as his original sin. 'Oh no', he said, 'our world is only a bad, fretful whim of God, a bad day.' 'So was there - outside of this world that we know - hope?' He smiled: 'Oh, hope - there is plenty. Infinite hope, just not for us."

So, we walk on.

We carry this thing that's riding on our backs, endlessly bonded to it, feeling its weight more and more with every passing day, unable to turn to look at it. Buried truths come briefly to life, and are hidden from us again. Perhaps they weren't truths at all. We couldn't stand to look the truth directly in the eyes in any case.

If there is hope, it's for the thing that looks out from our eyeholes, which thinks us but cannot think like us. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. There's no hope for it. Perhaps we don't want it to win anyway. It's nothing, and the key to everything.

The Jesus from the Gospel of Thomas says:

'When you see your own likeness, you rejoice. But when you see the visions that formed you and existed before you, which do not perish and which do not become visible - how much then will you be able to bear?'

Kafka, writing to his father, begins by expressing the inexpressibility of his own divine terror:

You asked me why I am afraid of you. I did not know how to answer - partly because of my fear, partly because an explanation would require more than I could make coherent in speech…even in writing, the magnitude of the causes exceeds my memory and my understanding.

Kafka concludes that while he cannot ever truly explain himself, and that the accusations in his letter are neat subjectivities that fail to account for the messiness of reality, perhaps 'something that in my opinion so closely resembles the truth…might comfort us both a little and make it easier for us to live and die.'**

It doesn't bring comfort to Kafka, whose diarised remarks both before and after the 1919 letter make it clear that he views his relationship with the things (people) that birthed him as an endless entrapment that prevents him from attaining any kind of self-actualisation or even comfort, since he cannot escape their influence or remember a time before them:

I was defeated by Father as a small boy and have been prevented since by pride from leaving the battleground, despite enduring defeat over and over again.

It's as if I wasn't fully born yet...as if I was dissolubly bound to these repulsive things (my parents).*** The bond is still attached to my feet, preventing them from walking, from escaping the original formless mush. That's how it is sometimes.

Samuel Beckett returns again and again (aptly) to this pursuit of a state of true humanity and final understanding that is at once fled and unrecoverable, yet to be born, never to be born, never-existed, endlessly to be pursued, pointless to pursue. From the astonishing end sequence of The Unnameable:

alone alone, the others are gone, they have been stilled, their voices stilled, their listening stilled, one by one, at each new-com- ing, another will come, I won’t be the last. I’ll be with the others. I’ll be as gone, in the silence, it won’t be I, it’s not I, I’m not there yet. I’ll go there now. I’ll try and go there now, no use trying, I wait for my turn, my turn to go there, my turn to talk there, my turn to listen there, my turn to wait there for my turn to go, to be as gone, it’s unending, it will be unending, gone where,where do you go from there, you must go somewhere else, wait somewhere else, for your turn to go again

I’m not the first, I won’t be the first, it will best me in the end, it has bested better than me, it will tell me what to do, in order to rise, move, act like a body endowed with despair, that’s how I reason, that’s how I hear myself reasoning, all lies, it’s not me they’re calling, not me they’re talking about, it’s not yet my turn, it’s someone else’s turn, that’s why I can’t stir, that’s why I don’t feel a body on me, I’m not suffering enough yet, it’s not yet my turn, not suffering enough to be able to stir, to have a body, complete with head, to be able to understand, to have eyes to light the way

From Thomas' Jesus:

When you make the two one, and you make the inside as the outside and the outside as the inside and the above as the below, and if male and female become a single unity which lacks 'masculine' and 'feminine' action, when you grow eyes where eyes should be and hands where hands should be and feet where feet should stand and the true image in its proper place, then shall you enter heaven.

Tom's Jesus makes a particularly Gnostic habit of both insisting that the hidden will be revealed and demonstrating the impossibility of attaining a state where the hidden ever can be revealed. Contrary to C.S. Lewis, we will never have faces with which to gaze upon the lost divine and the mysteries that shaped us, and crucially, as Christ puts it, we would not be able to bear the sight of ourselves if we did.

We will never become the thing that's riding on our backs.

Jesus again:

The disciples ask Jesus, 'Tell us how our end shall be.' Jesus says, 'Have you found the beginning yet, you who ask after the end? For at the place where the beginning is, there shall be the end.'

The Unnameable:

I’ll recognise it, in the end I’ll recognise it, the story of the silence that he never left, that I should never have left, that I may never find again, that I may find again, then it will be he, it will be I, it will be the place, the silence, the end, the beginning, the beginning again, how can I say it, that’s all words, they’re all I have, and not many of them, the words fail, the voice fails, so be it

The final passage of The Unnameable, which often is hilariously shorn and misinterpreted as an inspirational quote about how if you don't succeed, try again:

all words, there’s nothing else, you must go on, that’s all I know, they’re going to stop, I know that well, I can feel it, they’re going to abandon me, it will be the silence, for a moment, a good few moments, or it will be mine, the lasting one, that didn’t last, that still lasts, it will be I, you must go on, I can't go on, you must go on. I’ll go on, you must say words, as long as there are any, until they find me, until they say me, strange pain, strange sin, you must go on, perhaps it’s done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me, if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don’t know. I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on. I’ll go on. †

We bear this thing that's riding on our backs. We'll never get to where we're going, and the thing will never be born. If it was born, it'd be too terrible for us to bear. There's nothing riding on our backs.

It will never speak us into being.

We keep on calling out into the silence, we keep trying to explain or understand the thing that's riding on our backs, searching for a way to birth it before we die. Our words about the thing are crucial, and they're meaningless, and they're all we have, and they're nothing at all. We cannot name it and we cannot express it, but we cannot stop trying, and we will keep turning back to our words about the thing, obsessing over them, tearing them to pieces, putting them back together.

I'm fumbling at something I can't think or say, but fumbling is all we're capable of. There could be beauty and meaning and comfort in the fumbling, but it's also vain, and foolish, and pointless, and we're lying to ourselves about the beauty and the meaning and the comfort, and we're indulging ourselves pointlessly by going on and on about the pointlessness of it. Nothing can know what's going on. We will never get close enough to understand without being destroyed.

Thomas' Jesus again, warning those who seek to reveal what's hidden:

He who is near me is near the fire.

Riddley Walker, reflecting on the Punch puppet's inexplicable desire to cook and eat his own child:

Whyis Punch crookit? Why wil he al ways kill the baby if he can? Parbly I wont ever know its jus on me to think on it.

If you got to the end of this, congratulations: but the above is honestly the most appropriate patchwork of what I believe, what propels me, what I feel.

As for what comes after life, I think it's fairly straightforwardly a nothingness we are tragically incapable of fully knowing or accepting - it's Beckett's unimaginable and unattainable silence, a silence that his characters' voices keep on shattering even as they cry out for it.

-Jon‡

*I can't remember if Kafka makes prominent reference to Czech puppets in his work, which is interesting in its own right given the thematic relevance (the protagonist in The Hunger Artist is perhaps a kind of self-directing puppet show?).

However, Gustav Meyrink - who some unsourced Google quotes suggest was pals with Czech puppeteer Richard Teschner - did write a strange little story, The Man On The Bottle, about an audience watching a 'marionette show' who are too wrapped up in performances and masks to interpret the reality that they're actually watching a human being suffocate to death.

**Thomas Ligotti: "Something had happened. They did not know what it was, but they did know it as that which should not be.

Something would have to be done if they were to live with that which should not be.

This would not (be enough); it would only be the best they could do."

***Beckett's Malone Dies actually kicks off with a related sentiment:" I am in my mother’s room. It’s I who live there now. I don’t know how I got there...In any case I have her room. I sleep in her bed. I piss and shit in her pot. I have taken her place. I must resemble her more and more."

† I don't necessarily align myself in humour with Ligotti on a lot of this stuff but I imagine he would recognise both Beckett's writing and Kafka's frustrations re explaining the causes of his hatred for his father as sublimation: finding artistic and philosophical ways of sketching the inexpressible horror and uncertainty of our existence in order to reckon with it at a remove without destroying ourselves. A higher form of self-deception, but self-deception nevertheless.

‡Muna's more of an anarcho-nihilist, I think.

#long fucking post just to say 'i don't know'

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phonydiaries · 7 months

Note

I am begging politely for something with number 20 from your one word prompt list?? Maybe something fluffy to save me from the angst of whatever bloodbrown has asked for? (Luv you bloodbrown)

Hope you are doing well <3

I am SO excited that not one but two people asked for 20 because I was so so hoping for an excuse to extrapolate on my promise headcanon from this post so here it is! Thank you so much for the ask <3 megafluff ahead!

Promise Me - P x Reader

It was well known that sunny days were not so easy to come by in Krat, a city most commonly overtaken with a stark and looming gloominess. So on a rare sunny day, eager to take advantage of the warmth which so often eluded you at the hotel, you practically dragged P to the kitchen in search of decent picnic-ing supplies. There, you loaded up your pack with sandwiches and fruit and a bottle of some sparkling something-or-other. Pino of course couldn’t really partake in the food, but it was more the aesthetic of the picnic that really mattered, and he had seemed interested in the whole ordeal besides.

Along with all the goodies, you stuffed a carefully folded blanket and a hardcover book into the pack. Lately you’d spent a great deal of time wandering the library with your trusted puppet, and he’d taken quite the liking to simply lazing about as you read to him in hushed tones, often with his head settled comfortably in your lap, listening intently.

Now, as you headed for the shimmering daylight of the courtyard you realized one very important piece of the picnic was missing; P himself. You huffed, sure that the damn puppet had wandered off again, as he so loved to do. It was not the first time he’d silently slipped away from you, either distracted or whisked away or otherwise lost in his own thoughts, and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

For the better part of the next hour, you were relegated to the rather painstaking and exhaustive task of lapping the hotel in search of the lost puppet. At one point you even entailed the help of the other hotel’s guests, but neither Sophia nor Eugenie could offer any better guess at where he might’ve disappeared to. Finally, tired, rumpled, and out of breath from your efforts, you stalk back to the courtyard, your head hanging low in anticipation of a far less rewarding picnic alone.

As you round the path, digging around aimlessly in your bag, you come to an abrupt halt. The picnic pack falls to the ground with a light thunk and the puppet crouched in front of you glances up. He grins in blissful ignorance of the tremendous effort you’d just expended in search of him. He motions for you to come closer and points to a blue butterfly which emerges, glistening, from its cocoon, buried away in the branches of a rosebush. He’s seemingly enamored by the unfurling of the insects iridescent wings, and offers a finger of his legion hand to it gently.

Lovely, just lovely. You think.

I’ve lost him to a butterfly.

Exasperated, you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh. “Yes, it’s very beautiful P, don’t get me wrong, but your habit of running off like this is frankly…” you pause, wondering how to put it delicately. “Just. The worst.”

P’s shoulders sink and he looks almost hurt by this, though you can tell that even he can’t deny his tendency to explore precariously and without warning. It had landed you in loads of trouble at the worst of times, namely active combat, but this was neither here nor there.

“You know what, I ought to make you promise to knock it off.” P opens his mouth, about to speak before you press a finger to his lips. “No no- a regular old promise won’t do either. Pinky swear it.” You say, offering your finger to him. He only stares blankly at it for a moment, then tips his head quizzically at you. This must be a new concept to him, you realize, and a creeping mischievousness takes root in your mind. With faux bewilderment, you gawk at him. “Your father never told you about pinky promises?”

Pinocchio shakes his head fervently, now obviously eager to gain this oh-so-coveted knowledge. You take both his hands in yours and speak sotto-voce, as if the matter were of great importance. “It’s an ancient human tradition, a vow of the utmost seriousness. It’s a promise so great that once spoken aloud it would bond the two of us forever!”

P leans in, enamored, and gestures between the two of you with curiosity. He seems, if anything, eager to engage in the grand ritual you’ve made this silly little thing out to be. You turn away with a saddened look.

“Though I don’t suppose you’d be interested in such a thing. After all, it’s quite the big responsibility-” But P is already tugging you by the hand and nodding vigorously. You can’t help smiling at his enthusiasm; he is after all, nothing if not incorrigible.

Swiftly, you situate yourself in the grass across from P.

“Now,” you start, taking the puppet’s wrist in your hand and turning it over as if in careful examination. “This is a very serious business. I mean it.” P’s chin juts forward and he looks up at you, his head tilted in rapt attention. He looks like such a little boy, you think, sitting criss-crossed in the grass, hanging on your every word.

“Once the oath is taken we can never ever break our promise. Ever. Are you sure you’re ready for that, P? To pledge your fealty right here, right now?” You ask, punctuating each grave word with a squeeze to his hand. P’s brows knit together in unbearable sincerity as he offers you a lone dutiful nod.

You exhale deeply, giving P one last solemn look. “Well then. I warned you.”

You hold your own hand out, elbow resting on your knee, your pinky finger extended in P’s direction. He watches you and with precision copies your posturing. He takes a moment though, to deliberate between his legion and human halves, before propping the fleshy arm upon his knee just the same as you.

You straighten up a bit and clear your throat, speaking in a manner uncharacteristically clear and commanding.

“By the power vested in this hand, I, and Pinocchio too of course-” You say, gesturing towards the boy. You assume, being a puppet of few words, he won’t mind you speaking for him. “Swear to always stand by each other's side, ever valiant.”

P’s gaze is locked with yours as you speak, hanging on your every word. He is painfully earnest, and in a moment of overwhelming fondness for the poor puppet you add, perhaps getting a bit carried away with the whole thing “And.. and to always protect one another, never allowing harm to befall their most trusted friend.”

You expect some surprise or even protest at this added condition, but instead Pinocchio settles the palm of his legion arm calmly over his heart, leaning ever closer with all the conviction in the world.

And with that your finger brushes his, and you find much to your surprise, that you’ve begun to believe in your own dumb joke. Somehow, as your tiny fingers lock together, you feel the tremendous weight of this promise in the depths of your heart. You wonder if somehow by mistake you made magic here, in the soft green grass with a puppet much too naive and trusting and eager for his own good. You decide if there truly was an unbreakable contract forged between the two of you this day, you don’t mind. You don’t mind at all.

When you glance at Pino, you find his eyes squeezed shut, his pinky finger wound tight around yours as if bracing himself.

“Your oath is sealed.” You say, and watch P’s eyes open one at a time, uncertain. “Bonded for life. How does it feel?”

P blinks a couple times in consideration, and allows his fingers to thread neatly through yours. With his other hand, he leans in close and presses it firmly but with the utmost care against your chest, and although you know logically he’s only a puppet, you swear you feel warmth radiating from his touch. He presses his forehead tenderly against yours, so close that you feel the breath of his words dance along the surface of your skin.

“Safe.” He says simply.

And although the circumstances are silly, you can’t imagine a truer word.

#lies of p #lop #lies of p x reader #pinocchio x reader #my writing #lies of p fanfic

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fizzycherrycola · 6 months

Text

FrUK, July 1920

A lover's quarrel at the beach, under the bright summer sun.

Warnings: Alcohol, post-WWI thoughts, and France is 100% naked

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

The soft croon of the Atlantic blankets the senses; rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. Seagulls cry out, breaking the ocean's harmony with their noise. England stares, unfocused, at the cross-hatching of his straw hat and the twinkles of sunlight poking through its gaps. It lies gently over his face, and he shuts his eyes, willing himself to doze off, but it’s useless. Even with a bottle of wine warming his bloodstream, the rest of the world is too distracting.

Sand is scratching him in-between the folds of his union suit, picnic quilts are twisting beneath his back, a lumpy towel is pressing against his neck... and oh, yes. He’s baking. The hot summer sun is beating down relentlessly on his skin, roasting him alive like a Christmas goose. Every inch of his body will sting tomorrow, save for those parts hidden under his skimmer hat and undergarments. Whoever decided that sleeveless, short-leg unions were the way to go ought to be sacked.

Somewhere to his right, a glass clinks, followed by some shuffling and the quiet snap of wicker wood. France is probably going for another drink, the sot. The pop of a cork and bubble of liquid confirm England’s suspicions, and he frowns. Why did he agree to this?

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

For a whole week, France pestered and nagged him about this little beach picnic to have as a private celebration. What resulted instead was an excursion of nothing but wine and sex. However, if the past months should offer any evidence, it was quite idiotic of England to assume otherwise.

England pokes the brim of his hat with his fingertips, lifting it to peek at his nemesis-come-lover. Lying on his belly, France is guzzling the prized alcohol. His Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow and his back arches upwards like a cat. Upon draining the cup, he gasps and leans heavily on his free hand, the languid pose emphasising the reddish-gold tan blooming across his bare shoulders and ass.

“Put your clothes back on, at least,” England says.

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.

“How can you already be in such a terrible mood?” he sighs. “We are on a private beach.”

“Only because you insisted.”

France raises one of his perfect brows and hums. “So you say.” He brings the cup back to his lips, halts, then glares at it for being empty. He goes for another. “If you are bored, why not go swimming? The ocean is right there.”

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”

“I know how to swim,” England lies. “...I just didn’t bring a bathing suit.”

An impish smirk splits France’s lips. “I do not see how that is a problem, when you can go in the nude.”

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

“But you were naked just moments ago, weren’t you?”

“That's entirely different.”

“Free yourself from the chains of modesty and embrace the au naturel lifestyle.”

“Fucking hell.”

“Then, tell me. Why did you not bring your bathing suit?”

“I didn’t pack one for a trip to Paris, funnily enough. And after we suddenly left for your estate in the countryside, I didn’t have a chance to buy one, did I? I had no idea you’d insist on visiting a beach.”

“Again, I did not insist. You came of your own accord.”

“Bollocks.”

France pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mon Dieu, either you can tell me what is upsetting you, or we can argue in circles for the rest of the day. What would you prefer, hmm?”

England glares and they lock eyes with one another. His French opponent is perfectly unimpressed; deadpan on the edge of a blade. So still and sculpted that he could be mistaken for a Renaissance statue, if not for his wine-flushed cheeks and dramatic chest hair. The gaze is one that was perfected in the court of Versailles, which caused many proud courtiers to buckle and spill their deepest secrets.

To England's credit, he is wholly capable of rebuffing that look for days (and has done so, on several past occasions). But perhaps it's the salty ocean air, the refreshing wind that has calmed to a whistling breeze, or the fruity buzz of alcohol. For whatever reason, he relents, tossing his hat away into the nearby clump of marram grass and scowling at the feathery clouds above.

Admittedly, France did pick a nice spot: a beach that lies on the most Western part of his personal sprawling winery. With an expanse of bright sand and rustling grasses, it’s a gorgeous place to frivolously squander a few short hours, or in their case, a few perilously long months.

“You’re aware,” England states flatly, “that we’re shagging as a way of putting off issues back home.”

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.

“...And?” France eventually asks.

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”

France laughs incredulously; a trill that rises in pitch to match the gulls around them. “Why not? Speak for yourself, Angleterre, but I believe that I deserve an extensive intermission from my government.”

Setting his glass down, he stretches and enters England’s field of vision. Pockmarked skin spans the landscape of his body; fresh shrapnel divots and bullet craters, not yet a decade old, pepper across it. Somehow, by the grace of God, the Germans missed his precious face. “I am going to stay in this exquisite locale for as long as I wish. Then, when at last I’m satisfied, I will return to Paris, but not a moment sooner. Monsieur Deschanel can reign while I’m absent.”

He crawls forward, his manhood dangling carelessly between his legs, and reaches for the wicker basket. After a moment of shuffling, he produces a chunk of Livarot cheese and a small paring knife. England gapes, his mouth watering almost immediately, and he pushes himself up with a start.

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.

“Of course. I said this was a picnic, no?”

“We’ve had nothing but wine all day! Why didn’t you take it out sooner? What else have you got?”

France slices off a sliver of the creamy cheese and eats it right off the knife. “Mmm. A bit of pain de campagne and some grapes that my vintner decided are not good for making wine. They are probably too sweet.”

“Well, pass the basket here,” England demands.

“...Typically, everyone who attends a piquenique is required to bring at least one dish.”

“No, it’s called a picnic, and we’re on your estate. You’re the host.”

“I think your favourite ‘Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Politeness’ says otherwise. You should have brought food to share.”

“The customs of last century no longer apply.” England juts out his open hand. “Give it here.”

France snorts. “Ask politely and I will consider it.”

England glowers.

His lover plops himself cross-legged right in front of the lunch basket and slices yet another piece of cheese. And this one, France eats slowly. His lips part, revealing a glimpse of teeth and tongue that delicately pull the morsel from the silvery blade. Deep indigo eyes goad England, flickering with a fervid intensity that borders on seductive. England’s stomach rumbles and the thrum of his pulse quickens, wavering on what, exactly, he may be hungry for.

It's the food, of course. Just the food.

His muscles and nerves are alert. The basket is barely beyond his reach. He glances at the paring knife and hesitates. Despite his shared tumultuous history with France, his likelihood of being stabbed should be on the lower end these days, given the Entente and recent wartime cooperation. Not to mention the rekindling of a perpetually unnamed, possibly mutual, bone-deep sentimentality, as of late.

...Should be safe enough, then.

He darts for the basket. The knife hits the picnic quilt. A palm comes up to squash England’s nose, and an arm wraps around his torso. Drunkenly fumbling, he stretches his hand out as far as it will go. Fingertips brush the basket’s rough wicker wood. Then blunt force hits his knee, throws his balance, and France wrenches him back. Sand flies as they grapple. Elbows jab into joints and feet scramble for purchase. Until France manages to lock England in an awkward hold.

“I think,” France grunts, “that I am still more accustomed to wine than you are.”

The world wobbles. Tasting sweat, England grits his teeth and twists. But the move is counterproductive, and he finds his head mashed into France’s inner thigh.

“Get off,” he groans.

France chokes out a laugh. “Aren’t you more comfortable in this position?”

A colourful kaleidoscope of profanities launch out of England. His cheek is flattened against France’s pliant skin and he can practically taste the olive oil from earlier; a staple lubricant that the frog always has on hand. The grassy vegetable scent fills his sinuses, swirling through his nostrils and burrowing into the back of his skull. Beneath it, lingers the salty aroma of sex, pungent and merciless as it settles low in his belly. France coos at him. “Why don’t you tell me what is wrong, hmm? If it is something physical, I can help you make it better.”

England does not shiver. Instead, he clamps down on his treacherous libido and wriggles free with a quick twist, straining his core muscles. Away from that maddening odour, he gasps and glares.

“Just tell me when you’re headed back.”

France blinks, raising both of his brows. “I haven’t decided.”

“You honestly have no plans for when you want to return?”

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”

“Did I say that?”

The basket is close. England snatches a thick slice of pain-de-wotsit, shoves the fluffy bread in his mouth, then flops back onto his side of the blanket. A wisp of grey cloud blocks out the sun and England recalls all the wretched things that await him in London: from paperwork on the national debt, to rising unemployment, to an ongoing rebellion. No, he absolutely does not wish to return any time soon. Who in their right mind would?

“Is that what you were worried about?” France tuts, shaking out his wrists. “That our excursion might be ending soon?”

“Worried?” England mutters around a mouthful of crunchy crust. “Why would I–? No. Any half-responsible nation with a taxpaying public should know what day their pornographic sabbatical ends.”

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

France exhales through his nose and stands. “Very well!”

“Where are you going?”

“You have drained every last drop of my patience, so I am leaving you here to rot.” Wobbling slightly, France stretches both arms to the sky. “I am going to go swimming!”

England sits up. “You can’t go swimming, you’re still sloshed.”

France stumbles, splaying his arms for balance. “My vacation will not be ruined by a petulant Englishman. I am going to enjoy myself and neither you nor a Cabernet Sauvignon will stop me. And keep the basket; you may have as much of my homemade bread as you wish!” He lurches away, keeping his gaze locked on his feet as though each step he takes requires deliberate concentration.

“Oi!”

“Au revoir, Angleterre! I will find a fish, or a scallop, and it will be better company than you.”

With France meandering, he begins to slowly shrink into the distance. His details fade, starting with the stray glimpses of hazel in his blonde curls, and continuing to the moles on his hip bones, the dips in his backside, and the jagged pale scars splitting his tanned skin. He wanders naked across the shimmering sands, alone, and England’s stomach twists. A mouthful of bread sits on his tongue, thick and buttery.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters. His conscience worms its way around his neck, weighing down his shoulders and chest as though they were made of wrought iron. What is he to do, though? How is he meant to act when months, not hours or days, but months are squandered in a bizarre, French caricature of Eden. And all that time has been spent… cohabiting. Cohabiting in secret, like a pair of newlyweds that elope in the scandalous climax of a Jane Austen novel.

It was that damn war — the conflict that upended everything. By the time it ended, France had become forlorn, silent, and despondent. England visited him, frequently finding excuses to travel to Paris. He would nag France about his wretched health, and then tidy up the Baroque flat, all under the pretence of: “If you look miserable in front of our peers, then it’s a hassle for me as well.” But there were no pretences when they kissed at France’s bedside and spent the rest of the afternoon under his duvet, nor when England followed him to Bordeaux.

Even now, the surprise on France’s face at the train station is still crystal clear: his coral flushed cheeks framing wide eyes. There was a handkerchief in his hand and tears were staining his lashes; he’d been crying.

Groaning, England presses his hands to his temples. What is he doing? Why would anyone have a fit in his situation? Sipping wine, lazing on a beach, the blue midsummer sky rising over the horizon…. He must be insane. He must be a twat who cannot enjoy any good thing without a heaping dose of self-sabotage.

He swallows the bread, and forces just a smidge of his pride down with it. “Come back here!” England barks. There’s still a frown anchoring his features, but can’t seem to be rid of it. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tries again. “France!”

France is halfway to the ocean when he stops and whips around. His glare is… not deadly. Though his head is tilted low, like a wild ram before charging, and his lips are pressed wire-thin, he’s still significantly less ferocious than he was after Trafalgar. England’s mind races through twelve different options, before choosing pragmatism. “If you swim right now,” he says, “you’ll just drown. The current will pull you out and you’ll be too drunk to know which way the shore is. It’s the Atlantic, not a lake.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” France mocks, his distant voice ringing above the ocean surf. “Is my English gentleman concerned for me?” Heat rises to England’s face, but France forges ahead before he can consider a response. “I have been drunk before! I know these waters, and unlike some,” he stabs a finger at England, “I know how to swim.”

“That– That doesn’t matter!” England retorts. “You’ll still get tossed about by the waves, and then I’ll have to find a bloody boat, and drag you back here, if you’re not dead. And if you are, you’ll wash ashore someplace a hundred miles down the coast, and frighten the living Christ out of an entire nunnery when you return to life!”

A pause, filled only by the obnoxious squawking of seagulls.

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

“...It was the first thing I thought of.” The warmth in England’s cheeks has spread to his ears. He averts his gaze. “Look, just get back here!”

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

Nose in the air, France performs an about-face and continues his graceless march towards the water.

Grumbling, England snatches his skimmer hat and staggers to his feet. “Stubborn wine bastard…. Why even bother trying to be reasonable with the French?” He takes off after his stupid companion, jogging and keeping a tight grip of the hat so it won’t blow away in the wind. His feet mash into the ruthless sand, sapping what little speed and balance his drunken limbs can manage.

France glances over his shoulder, and for a half second, they make eye contact. Then, he breaks into a clumsy sprint. England gapes. “Oh, for the love of–!”

He gives chase, his legs pumping in a disjointed rhythm and flinging sand in their wake. His body is listing this way and that. Closing in on France’s blurry form, both arms reach out. Then, he makes contact, right at the shore and his arms snap shut tightly around France’s torso.

The sound that escapes France is akin to that of a startled rooster being tossed across a circus tent by an acrobat. A flurry of French expletives follows and he kicks out his legs in a naked whirlwind. England braces his feet in the wet sand. They struggle and spin, water swirling at their ankles, dangerously teetering in every direction at once.

An elbow smashes into England’s liver, sending a burst of pain through his side. One more strong jerk and his balance is gone. In a spiral of vertigo, the coastline topples over.

His back hits the sea. Warm salt water floods his nostrils. Immediately, he releases his grip on the frog and pushes himself out, gagging. He is drenched. The muggy sand squishes between his toes in a lovely impression of a mediaeval latrine. Cursing, he spits the Atlantic out of his mouth and crawls backwards out of the surf.

France coughs and groans somewhere nearby. And then he’s in England’s lap, aggressively. Soaking wet and heavy, France straddles him and yanks a string of foamy seaweed from his bangs. “What are you doing, Angleterre?”

England snorts, then chokes when the action drags more water into his lungs.

“I am preventing an international incident,” he wheezes, squinting against the salt stinging his tear ducts. “Or maybe I’m stopping you from committing self-murder by drowning, whichever you’d like.”

France gives him a look, his sapphire irises sharpening into little daggers, still capable of reading minds even behind the sluggishness of alcohol. An intrusive thought pops into England’s head: of splashing him with a wad of salty beach muck, however at this point, that action may trigger an armed conflict and they are both trying to cut back. After a moment, France clicks his tongue and seems to make a decision.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts, shuffling his hips to sit more comfortably in England’s lap. “And then, if you are still being unreasonable, you may spend tonight in the stables. I do not care.”

“...Sorry, what?”

“Pay attention. I remember.… On my last day in Paris before I decided to come to Bordeaux, I received a letter.”

England feels a dull weight settle into every muscle of his body. “Oh, come on.”

“It was on a Sunday, I think. Or was it Monday…? No, it was Sunday. I thought it was strange, because how often does mail arrive on a Sunday?”

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?”

France flicks England’s forearm. “No, now listen to me.”

“Fine.” England crosses his arms and does his best to ignore the sogginess of his union suit.

“This envelope was pale with sharp corners, as if it was delivered by hand. Also, it was sealed with the Grand Sceau. So, tell me. Can you guess who sent it?” England knits his brows with the utmost patience. The question hangs in the air before France answers it himself. “The letter came from my president… and he was suggesting that I join the army occupying the Rhineland.”

England blinks. “What?”

France nods. “Mmm. Well, it was not truly a suggestion; those things never are. But as soon as I read that letter, I knew I needed time away.”

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

“...Was that why you wanted to leave Paris in such a hurry?”

He, too, recalls that morning, when he awoke in France's flat to the smell of smoke. Jumping out of bed, he ran downstairs only to find that there was a letter burning in the oven. And a moment later, France was pushing past him, with fury and heartbreak on his face as he tossed clothing into his trunk. It was bewildering at the time, and they’d nearly had a row over it, but now like a puzzle, it all clicks together.

“Our politicians will have us back eventually, but there is no need for us to rush. We owe them absolutely nothing.” France’s eyes are nearly vacant, as they were in 1918, when he was a husk devoid of his familiar pride and wit. “In a handful of years, we gave enough blood to turn my lovely farmland, my pastures, into swamps. So, they may wait patiently, while we enjoy life’s simple pleasures.”

England can’t help the response that flies past his lips. “Well, you’ve certainly been doing that.”

A wide smile cracks France’s frozen features and redraws warmth into his being. “Naturally. And perhaps, by the grace of a god I no longer believe in, there is a chance that I can rediscover some of the happiness I lost.”

No words come to England immediately. He turns over this shard of new information in his mind, scrutinising how it slots into the ever-changing mosaic of his companion’s soul.

France raises his arms to rest them on England’s shoulders. “There you go. That is why I am here, and why I will not be leaving anytime soon. Now, how about you, hm?”

“What?”

“Do you have anything to say?” His dangling hands are tracing circles on England’s spine. “An explanation, or perhaps, an admission you would like to make?”

England squints. “...Nothing comes to mind.”

“Are you sure?” France prods, shifting his hips closer, leaning in, water glistening off his skin, in the curve of his smile. “Then, maybe, I will make a suggestion? Is there anything else you are here for… other than a rendezvous?”

England scoffs. Suddenly, France is much too close and his playful grin is bordering on mischievous.

“I ought to toss you back in the ocean.”

France responds by brushing his nose along England’s cheek. “Indulge me.”

The hairs on the back of England’s neck stand at attention. Retreating to the picnic quilts would be an uncomplicated solution, if not for the very naked man straddling his lap and nuzzling his face, his ear, his throat. So, finding his trusted skimmer hat, England lies back, and plops it over his eyes. It’s riddled with droplets of beach muck.

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

France lets out a quick, birdlike chirp. “In the wet sand?”

“I slept in the trenches; I can manage this easily.”

“You– You are absurd. No. You are being sincere. You– How?” France releases a series of half-sentences, like a combustion engine failing to start, before breaking down into a fit of hysteric giggles. Something hard presses into England’s chest, likely France’s forehead, and the laughter goes on for far longer than it has any right to, becoming almost melodic as it peters out. Dragging his hands across England’s front, he draws messy shapes in the cotton union suit. “The most stubborn, unfashionable fool in the world….”

“Come off it.”

“You cannot blame me for being curious,” France sings, “Perhaps one day, you will indulge me. Don’t you think that would be nice?” He punctuates the question with his fingertips, peppering pinpricks of warmth over England’s chest.

Because responding only encourages more teasing, more laughter, and more cumbersome fondling, England bites back the urge to say ‘never’. He is rewarded when silence mercifully falls on their conversation, which is not disappointing. It is, in fact, good. He does not need France’s musical glee nor any further exposure.

Their simple back and forth relations throughout history are sufficient, swinging with time’s pendulum and the whims of their people. After centuries of constant presence, familiarity is expected, but too much openness is risky. Pleasure and leisure can be fine, in controlled doses, and far within whatever standardised, unspoken framework they have concocted along the plunging annals of immortality. But, a line has to be drawn. As it is now, they are playing with fire, tiptoeing around the edges of a wide pit filled with something unmarked and… intimidating.

A shift, and suddenly, sunlight pierces England’s eyes. The hat is snatched away. He opens his mouth to complain, but France captures it, swallowing any protests through a pair of firm, ardent lips.

Old instinct snaps at England to catch those lips between his teeth, so he does, nipping hard enough to signal offence, while a newer instinct holds his strength in check. Damp champagne hair dances across his cheekbones, France’s beard scratches his chin; it is dizzying how quickly his focus converges on those sensations, how his breath steadies beneath them, slowly melting both objections and barricades. Already drunk, and a bottle of gin is gushing down his throat.

Slipping a clever tongue inside, France thoroughly explores England’s mouth as if it is a novel experience, as if they have not done this a hundred thousand times. The tang of red wine mingles with the savoury, earthiness of Livarot. Below all of it though, tucked away under the many aromas and elements of France’s being, lies unmistakably a floral incense – some quiet bouquet found along the river Lys.

Eyelids weakening, one of England’s arms hesitates midair, a last ditch effort made by either reasoning or dignity, before it falls between France’s shoulder blades and drags him down, crushing their chests together. The wind is sucked from England’s lungs, his union sticks to his skin and crumples, bound by their bodies.

A pair of knuckles touch his temple, then curl to thumb his jaw; so gentle, it borders on frightening. Gradually, France’s tongue slows. Unhurried and tender, taking his time, as if to extract every inch of pleasure, every grain of want.

Warm water crashes at their feet, and the kiss finally breaks. England sucks in a gasp of air, heart thrumming behind his ribs.

“There is some oil still left,” France murmurs.

A matchstick strikes in England’s belly. He groans, his toes curling.

“Again?”

France’s teeth graze the shell of his ear. “You don’t want to?”

“We’re soaked to the bone.”

“The towels are just there,” France breathes. “We can dry off.”

He pours a river of kisses along England’s skin, anything bare he can reach, and England turns to him, meeting dark, hungry eyes. They promise carnal ecstasy and pain, should things continue to his liking. Like a creature of greed, he licks a hot, wet trail along England’s clavicle and bites his jugular, pressing his tongue to England’s rising pulse. And a thrill of anticipation shoots down the curve of his spine, arching his back.

This is where it always goes. A knot of irritation tangles itself in the back of England’s sex-drunk head at how pathetically easy this is. How his body (and heart) fucking yearns for it. Since arriving at the winery, they’ve gone at it every single day, wrenching their perverse fantasies into the light of dawn. By now, France has become a drug, in his veins more than the alcohol, or the laudanum he abuses when the shell shock tremors won’t cease.

Those talented hands wander everywhere, leaving behind trails of fire. They run through England’s hair, across his ribs, and then those fingers slip through the first two buttons of his union and England’s self-restraint fizzles out. The world is warm and pleasant. What was it that France said earlier? That they could ‘regain some of the happiness they had lost.’

Wrapping a hand behind his lover’s neck, England pulls that sinful mouth impossibly closer. “You’re insatiable.”

He can feel France smiling on his skin, and cannot bring himself to mind at all.

—

For some reason, the picnic quilt feels softer, like lying on a bed of clouds.

Wind dances across the beach, rustling its tall grasses in the silence left behind by the gulls, long since vanished. England relishes the ache in his bones, deeply satiated as he drinks in the raw afterglow and the weight of France’s head on his chest. His quiet breath comes in steady puffs, tickling England’s sternum, and his body is a cool shield from the sun, still balmy as it hints orange and signals the end of the afternoon.

This place is cathartic, and England tries to allow the seaside to permeate him, while it can. He follows the rolling waves in his ears, the salty ocean spray in his lungs. It’s a pleasant escape, maybe even a beautiful one. Such a shame that it will not last.

As in the paraphrased scribblings of Geoffrey Chaucer, all good things must come to an end. Sun-swept beaches, lush vineyards, and France’s laughter will soon evaporate into the suffocating cough that is London’s grey smog. Normality calls, incessantly, with government paperwork and ink-stained sleeves. The only company it offers are the cold walls of Parliament and fluttering phantasms of a war past.

Before his departure, far too long ago, he left his brothers to manage things and when he returns, they will demand answers. If he’s lucky, he’ll get an earful from Scot. Some nonsense about responsibility from a brother who reaps all the benefits of an empire with less than a quarter of the work. However, if England is unlucky, Scot’s tongue-lashing will be far outmatched by the disappointment and distance in Wales’ eyes. One bitter look, and all the hurled verbal abuse becomes devastatingly correct.

An angelic sigh cuts through the fog. “I cannot rest with you like this.” France stirs, glancing up at England, causing his contemplations to crumble.

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

England pauses. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You do not need to.” France shifts to face him. His eyes are calm.

In the space of a few heartbeats, England sighs. Words stick to his throat as he tries to say something, anything, and doesn’t. Then, working his jaw, he tries again.

“Nothing’s the matter,” he manages. “I’m simply not looking forward to the wretched tedium when I return home.” It is an understatement, helped along by the alcohol, but it’s the best he can do.

“Then, do not go there yet.” France cups England’s face in both hands. “Why think about this today? We still have time, no? Then, you should stay. Let yourself rest and be present. Not in the past or future, but here, in this moment.”

Rolling out and rolling in, the waves strum upon the beach. France’s golden hair haloes as it catches the sunlight and England, mesmerised, laces his sunburnt fingers within it. His lover’s skin is full and healthy, filling up the once prominent hollows that lingered after the war. Stray patches of stubble sprout from his cheeks; the aftermath of an uneven shave this morning. England devours the view, burning the image into his retinas before it vanishes in smoke, because no peace between them has ever lasted. What will happen when his tryst ends? Which of them will tear up the Entende first? “Stay,” France repeats, softer.

England’s throat is as dry as kindling. The familiar hands framing his face, their texture echoes a millennia of life, and his chest tightens. As if they are reaching across the Channel and back through time, diving under to grasp his soul. He can feel himself – toes scraping the edge of the pit, pebbles tumbling in – on the precipice of a thousand dangerous feelings, bubbling up from his core in a thick slurry. Too much, and he falters, fingertips trembling. Taking France’s warm palm, he presses his lips to it, and maybe the gesture will say whatever he cannot.

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

“Stop it,” England whispers. “You’re being too bloody emotional.”

The trace of a smile appears on France’s lovely face and he draws closer, eyelids fluttering. “Oh, I am being emotional?”

England breathes his answer on France’s lips. “Yes.”

They lock together in a kiss, another one of the thousands that came before it. An ocean cascade, surging overhead, drowning him in selfish contentment and bottomless indulgence. All concerns and burdens and regrets wash away, leaving only this. Paradise.

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Union vests were typical undergarments popular in the 1920s. Around then, the new “sleeveless, short leg” style was made to allow men to stay cool in the summer.

Monsieur Deschanel served briefly as the President of France from 18 February – 21 September 1920.

There is absolutely no estate in the Bordeaux wine region that is large enough to reach the Atlantic Ocean. I made that up for the story. Please kindly overlook my poor geography.

The etiquette guide’s full title is: ‘The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette and Manual of Politeness’. It was printed in 1860. The book is still in circulation, and you can find copies of it online.

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

Trafalgar was a naval battle in the Napoleonic wars, with the British on one side, and France and Spain on the other. It was a decisive British victory, with the allies losing 22 warships and the British losing none.

The Rhineland is a loosely defined area in Western Germany which was occupied by Allied forces following WWI. The purpose of this was for security against a renewed German attack, and to serve as a guarantee for war reparations.

Laudanum was a ten percent solution of opium powder in ethanol, and was historically used to treat a variety of medical issues. Today, it is recognised as an addictive substance and is heavily regulated throughout the world.

#fruk #hws england #hws france #aph england #aph france #arthur kirkland #francis bonnefoy #historical hetalia #hetalia fanfiction #hetalia #my writing

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tubchunk · 7 months

Text

me spitting out all my thoughts here as i watch tubbo's vod

"YEP innocent" "innocent to me" yeah like qtubbo doesnt give a shit if fred is bad, he will burn it all down to find her

"its time for me to step into the sun, you know? and who cares if everyone else burns?" HOLY FUCKKKKKKKK TUBBO??????

"this is more than a villain arc, this is a lifestyle adjustment" oh qtubbo you are going to fly so close to the sun and youre going to burn and i am here for it all

"you wrong me? you're not gonna be around to tell the tale" HES SODHDJDBFBFJ QTUBBO ENJOYERS WE ARE SO BACK

"this is not a story of villains and heroes, this is a story of revenge" WHAT WAS IN HIS FOOD TODAY WHAT WAS HE ONNNNN LINE AFTER LINE IS HITTING

qtubbo knowing the server underestimates him and is now ready to show what he really is capable of YOU GO BABYGIRL

"this is a conflict where there arr no winners, just mutually-ensured destruction" goddamn he is on it today

GIRL 26 STACKS OF TNT?????????

"anything to get the upper hand, am i right?" AND THEN MENTIONING THE FED OFFICE WARP PLATE IS ACTIVE OH MY GODDDDDDD FED QTUBBO ERA????

"in my own experience, the members of the islandhave been much worse to me than the federation ever has been" oh my gOD YES QTUBBO FEELING THE FED PUNISHMENTS ARE STILL "JUSTIFIED" CUZ THERE WERE RULES BROKEN BUT THE ISLANDERS HAVE BEEN POKING AT HIM FOR THINGS HE CONSIDERS UNNECESSARY OH VILLAIN ARC TIME IS REALLLL

HE CALLED FRED "THE ONE PERSON I CARE ABOUT ON THIS SERVER" IM SICK TO MY STOMACHDBDBFGBDBFJFJ

qtubbo deciding that morning crew doesnt need to know about what hes gonna do, cuz theyll always be his boys :(

"i think we show them a healthy does of regret" his qcellbit is coming out !!

just imagining qtubbo with his airpods in as he is dramatic, bumping classical music

"the suit stays on until he's found, safe and alive" thr fact that qtubbo does all this, still in thr suit for his date GOD its so sad

that post that said qtubbo, a machine guy, tearinf every block down by HAND is important cuz that shows how genuinely furious he is. cuz he needed to feel the catharsis of tearing it all down himself.

why did he research warp plate mods to figure out where fred is😭😭 gay love stories are getting out of hand

"i made a promise today. i said i would break every block he has ever placed. *i* will break. fire wont break. tnt wont break. *i* will break." holy fucking shittttttttt he got possessed by qtubbo

FIT LMAOOOOO

qfit noticing and asking why qtubbo was at quackity's but as qtubbo askes him to leave him be, he did. he knew qtubbo would come to him when he wanted to.

COY PISO INTERMISSION!!!

qtubbo's action plan just being pushing qquackity over the edge that is so fucked up and i am here for this downward spiral !!

"i could mentally destroy him until hes a quivering ball of tears and regret on the floor" HOLY FUCK???????

"youre trying to turn me against the federation while actively doing thr same exact thing they're doing, the fucking hypocrisy" GOD i think qquackity is justified in his reasons BUT QTUBBO ISNT WRONG HERE!!!! IN HIS EYES, WHY WOULD YOU SAY THEYRE BAD AND THEN DO THR SAME THINF AS THEM???

him still saving all the stuff qquackity got from the eggs and others cuz "those seem important" GOD

"he doesnt need a hoise, cuz home is where the heart is. and i feel like thats a lesson he ought to learn. too bad that his is dead and cold" QTUBBO HOLY?????

"its like you never existed at all. thats my mission" girl youre speedrunning that descent into insanity and evil and i love you for it

"youre crazy. maybe i am! i dont give a shit!" wow hes so aware

"i didnt have a purpose before. but now its to make sure quackity never has a mark on this server" he didnt have a purpose and now, after losing fred, his purpose is to make qq pay holyyyy

"i never said i was morally grey, i said i would fuck up all his shit" LETSGO BABYGIRL

HIM GOING TO THE FED OFFICE TO PoSSIBLY SNITCH, CUZ THE ENEMY OF HIS ENEMY IS HIS FRIEND

NOT THE SERVER RESTART STOPPING HIM LMAOOOO

him literally saying he doesnt care and the enemy of his enemy is his friend yoo

qtubbo not being silly and walking into fred's office and just quietly moving on STOPPPPPP

NOT THE LORE SPOILERSSSSS LMAO

RETURN OF CUCURUCHO OFFICE PODCASTTTTTTTTT

"if youve become as bad as the thing you are trying to destroy to destroy it, yourr not better. youre just a replacement" BARS 🔥🔥🔥

qtubbo's voice instantly softening looking at fred's office and the desk plant he got STOPPPPP THEY MEAN SO MUCH TO ME

him replacing the flower on fred's desk with a poppy :(((

QTUBBO REPLACING THE WARP AT HIS HOUSE TO THE FED OFFICE OH I CAN FEEL HOW THIS GOES DOWNHILL

"why do i bother making anything to help the server? this is the thanks i get" oh yeah he is fully turning against everyone soon

oh god convo with qfit

oh i know qfit is concerned hearing qtubbo talk this way but theres nothing he can do to make him change his mind, so he just stays by him

"just to watch him. not say a word. just watch him" WATCHER QTUBBO??????

oh qtubbo is actuslly scaring me rn

"theres an old sayinf that 'if youre on the quest for revenge, dig two graves" "thats alright. i dont care if i burn as long as he does as well. maybe ill dig 3 graves. maybe ill take some other people along with me on the way" HOLY FUCKCJDJFJDJFJFJDJFJ QTUBBO YOURE INSANE I LOVE YOU SO BAD

"so i take there was no date?" "i was invited on one. it was real to me" GODJDDHFB IM GONNA END IT ALL

qfit still reassuring qtubbo that fred is okay, he still cares for qtubbo so much thats someone he has grown to care for

TUBBO SHOWING FIT WHAT HE DID TO QUACKITY'S HOUSE AND SAYING "like i said. like he never existed" AND THEN JUST BOUNCED????? GIRL.

qtubbo gaslight gatekeep girlboss

"is it more satisfying to destroy a person. or watch them destroy themselves?" AND WE ARR WATCHING AS QTUBBO ALSO DESTROYS HIMSELF BIT BY BIT OOOOOOOOH

his ass spoiling stuff again😭😭

snack break!

PHIL HOUSE TIME

qtubbo instantly leaving when he sees quackity joined and fred joined god

the curse of bad nees bringer tubbo about to strike again with wilbur LMAO

distracted to spy on wilbur so real

QUIRKYDUOOOOOO

qtubbo just carrying thr flower from fred's office in his offhand im sick

qtubbo warning qpac that he may hear some stuff about him that isnt true i. coming weeks, and qpac saying he trusts qtubbo 100% MORNING CREW MY FAMILYYYYYYY

PAC MY BELOVEDDDDD

not pac and tubbo arguing over who has to break the news to wilbur lmaoooooo

qtubbo qquackity's biggest hater rn

damn im sad tubbo crashed before the event but that laptop was hanging by a THREAD

#q!tubbo #qsmp #qsmp tubbo #qsmp liveblog

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bluexiao · 1 year

Text

—reverse comfort, fluff, short drabble | a studio ghibili valentine’s collab with @spiriteddreams | honestly this was supposedly posted on valentine’s but college said no, anyway, enjoy~

#“i asked the spring to bring you to me”

Another month has passed, it seems, XIAO could only think to himself, gaze stretching as far as it could, seemingly far away than where he ought them to be–so unconsciously, so irrationally. In silent days like these, when he had cleared the monsters and karma within the night, only then does he find himself lingering on his thoughts, only then does he seek the idea of the serenity of his solitary, the silence that hovers over the air.

“Twenty-sixth,” he mutters to himself, golden eyes now focused at the moon above, leaning back and continuing to stare at the bright, new moon.

He was still counting.

Of course, he would.

He releases a small breath as he then closes his eyes, clearing out the world around him while remaining vigilant. It has been a while since he had last closed his eyes and fallen into slumber–right. It was the same day that you left.

He finds himself staring at the moon once again, its bright reflection gazing back at him.

Just a little more, he says to himself.

He’ll just have to see until the twenty-seventh moon.

The days started growing longer and the warmth was beginning to slowly ebb away the cold that winter brought in the winds from the past few weeks, especially ones that have come from the snow of Dragonspine that found its way to Liyue. Winds that he wished were you instead.

And as if Celestia had heard his silent wishes, he soon finds himself face to face with you, and that beautiful gentle smile you wore whenever you-

“Xiao!” you exclaimed, your smile then brightening upon seeing him looking right at you. Xiao denied every thought of missing you–he had no right to, he thinks, not one to expect, as well. Human life is fragile, one that can be so fleeting and so painful to all those who were left behind. He did not want to acknowledge it–missing you; your voice when you call out his name, your eyes that lights up like the sun, your smile under the starry night and moonlight.

But he could not deny it now.

Not when your voice is calling out to him, when your eyes are looking right at his very own, and your smile was flashing his way. Just like they were thirty-four months ago.

You were giggling as you spread your arms wide for him, and almost as if on instinct, he stepped forward to your form, shoulders easing up in an instant once he embraced you and buried his head on your neck.

At that moment, he could finally breathe.

“I missed you too, Xiaoxiao,” you whisper right next to his ear, making him shudder. Oh, how he missed it—how he missed this. He could feel your arms all around him, enveloping him with your ever-pleasant warmth, thawing off the winter that had encased his heart and his soul, freeing him and letting him see the light once again.

“I asked the spring… to bring you back to me.”

His words came out slowly. If it was the Xiao you knew back then, you would’ve thought that he was embarrassed to say such a thing—but no. This is him. This is the real Xiao, and he was showing it to you.

Your hold on him tightens as your lips find the spot below his jaw.

“I’m sorry, my darling,” you say, followed by another peck under his ear, as if it was another apology, “I’m here. I’ll never leave you again. I promise.”

He found his eyelids closing, breathing in, and heaving out a sigh of relief.

“Thank you,” he whispers, “for coming back to me.”

#genshin x reader #xiao x reader #yaepublishinghouse #genshin xiao #genshin fluff #xiao x you

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nina-renmen · 1 month

Note

loved the makarov story:D can’t wait for part 2

Thank you! I’m glad you’re interested in it. I already have part two ready so I might as well post it. It’s taken me a bit longer to write as I’ve been juggling with school, work, ect. I’ll try and produce more but I can’t really promise anything yet!

Bleed for me Pt.2

Makarov x black reader

Warnings: Makarov has Yandere tendencies, reader is said to have braids, killing, stalking, threats

(If anyone wants a male version don’t be afraid to ask. Story is under the cut)

The base was quiet, your angered yells no longer filled the corridor. The harsh banging of the doors ceased, like still waves after a storm. It was almost too quiet. This prompted Makarov to get up from his comfortable office chair that was way to expensive to just be an office chair. Making his way down the halls he was oblivious to the dead body that was on the first floor. Your body hunched over it, pulling a pistol from it.

As he opened your shared bedroom confusion washed over him. He looked at the room that was only missing your presence. Anger over took its place. Your suitcase was still there but your backpack and immediate essentials were gone. You’d gotten up and left.

He slammed the door shut, shouting commands to his Russian soldiers. He would turn this place upside down if need be. He couldn’t let you go, he wouldn’t allow it. He’d become too attached to your presence. You knew his secrets, you knew that he wasn’t always a cold hearted monster. His enemies would try and take you, pull information out of you.

And unfortunately for you, that’s exactly what they did.

Y/n ran down the empty streets. The muscle memory in her body kicking in as her legs strengthened after being pampered for so long. She sped up, occasionally patting her pocket to make sure the plane ticket was still in her pocket.

It seemed as if she were running for a while. Twenty? No…maybe thirty minutes? Y/n couldn’t call a taxi, the people in these parts of town knew who Makarov was. They knew that y/n was his ‘woman’ and would immediately report it.

She was on her own.

As y/n rounded the corner she finally crossed into the next town. The airport was within sight. As she began to near it she realized that a car had passed her three-no…four times. Ane cursed under her breath, making a sharp turn into an alleyway where a large man tackled her down.

“Het the hall off of me!” Y/n sneered at the person in Russian, pulling out a pistol she’d looted from the dead body of the Russian soldier. Pressing the barrel against his stomach she put her finger on the trigger.

The two struggled on the ground, grabbing her wrist he pulled it out from under him but the gunshot rang out. Going straight through his arm.

“Fuckin hell lass!” He cursed in English. His Scottish accent was noticeably making y/n’s eyes glance down at at the flag that was on his vest.

Oh…..he was apart of the uk military

Immediately he grabbed her wrist, twisting it, forcing her to drop the gun. “I….I thought you were one of his men.”

The sound of multiple other pairs of footsteps reached her ears. “Shit…I-I didn’t mean it.” Y/n spoke in a distressed manner. Her hands covering the wound, pressing down to stop the bleeding.

“Tis’ fine.” He groaned, putting his hand on top of yours to press down harder. From her peripheral vision she could see three other men. She removed one hand, reaching for her gun. Well…until her wrist was grabbed harshly. She yelped in pain as it was twisted behind her back and she was pulled away from the unknown man.

“Where’s Makarov?” A deep, rough voice barked out.

“If you think I’m going back there then you’re wrong! Get the hell off of me!” Y/n sneered at the bearded man. “You ought to kill me before taking me back to him.”

There was a small silence. “You’re not with Makarov?” A dark skinned man asked, he crouched down beside you. “No! Of course not. I’m trying to get away from him and if he finds you with me he’ll kill all of you.” Y/n said in a rushed tone, she tried to wiggle out of the man’s grasp but he kept a strong grip on her.

“You’re still comin with us-“

“Like hell I am! I havnt done shit” Y/n barked at the bearded man.

“We can still put you behind bars for illegal underground fighting.” The man threatened, pulling y/n up to her feel.

“Captain be gentle with the little lady.” The wounded man spoke, getting up to his feet as well. His bleeding had stopped.

The man known as ‘Captain’ only shot his wounded team member a look before nudging y/n to get into the vehicle. He grumbled something along the lines of ‘Soap being soft of pretty women.’

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sharedramblings · 1 year

Text

Kept Up

Summary: Sleep doesn't seem doable while you miss a certain blonde.

Contains: Slight worrying

Author's note: Pretty sure the ideas I've outlined before this are side-eyeing me as I post this one. But I'm also pretty sure those ideas (not calling them wips because there's no progress) would probably not see the light of day.

Taglist: @friskyfisher (I remembered your comment regarding this so I did! But to be certain, is this still okay?)

—-—-

Call her.

Don't.

Just try.

She's probably busy.

There's an active war going through your head while you lay in bed, your phone clutched in your chest.

You're tired from today's events, to summarize it all up, yet sleep seems hellbent on evading you. You were doing well this past week, adjusting fairly to the fact that you're cities away from her, so why must this happen now? And why must the yearning be so deeply rooted that it's physically preventing you from doing anything?

What's more frustrating is that the relationship isn't new. It's been going on for almost three years now, so you're honestly blindsided by the shyness you're feeling all over.

Just do it.

What if she's preoccupied?

It's just a video chat!

There's still a possibility of disrupting her.

You forcefully shut your eyes, willing your own thoughts to die down. Your head throbs at the internal back and forth, and all you can do is massage your temple in an attempt to soothe yourself.

A text, you decided. You'll shoot her a text and see if she's busy. That's as good a place as any to start.

'Baby, are you busy?'

Before you can overthink it, you've already hit the send button, staring at your screen for a bit before lowering the phone back to its former place.

You waited, and it felt longer than it should have been. Maybe because you've been fighting yourself with this for a good, solid time. Maybe because you were silently hoping she's free. Maybe because you're slowly feeling ridiculous. Maybe it's all that and more. Whatever it is, you're starting to feel restless, more than what the exhaustion has brought upon your spent body.

The vibration you felt in your hand accompanied by your ringtone felt like a huge relief. You eagerly unlocked the phone, reading her reply.

'Just finishing some email, my love. Everything alright?'

You felt the immediate dip in your spirit, feeling like it's the end of the world. She's busy. You've always admired her diligence, how she's on top of everything most of the time, but right now it looks like an opponent of your want, and you very much dislike it.

'Oh, okay!'

The exclamation point was purposefully put in place so she wouldn't think much of your message. You feel more frozen in place after that. You honestly can't pinpoint what's making you hold yourself back. Is it because this is the first time you've been away ever since the relationship blossomed? Were you so accustomed to her presence that you're finding it difficult to part from her? Is it because you can't immediately tell if it's alright to get her attention? Perhaps it's finally settling in that it's been a week since you've felt her skin on yours, and your heart isn't taking such realization lightly. You miss her so damn much, your heart is aching for her.

It's... it's okay. You got this. Just a few more days and you'll–

Ring... ring... ring!

Your ringtone pulled you out of your supposed comforting of yourself, the vibrations thrumming in your hand. The name of the caller made your heartbeat flutter, the phone quickly finding its place in your ear once you've accepted the call.

"Hi" you whispered, awaiting her voice on the other end of the line.

"Hi, darling. What's the matter?"

A deep inhale was immediately breathed in the moment you heard her voice. God, you miss her. Truly and achingly so, that her voice seemed to alleviate some of the heaviness you feel.

You were silent for a beat before attempting to shrug everything away. "Just wanted to see if you're still up. You ought to sleep by now, you know?"

Play everything off all you want, but she knew something was up. She knows you and could completely read between the lines, or in this case, caught on the fact that you didn't answer her question twice now.

"I'll be off when I'm done. How about you?" You can practically imagine her sitting in her chair, her other arm supporting the one that's holding her phone close to her ear, while fully leaning back on the backrest.

"Already in bed."

Larissa acknowledges your answer with a hum, debating whether to poke again or just wait for you to spill it out.

Silence. There was silence and it stretched out, making her think you've fallen asleep until she faintly hears what could have been you clearing your throat.

"Rissa?" you asked, hesitance coating your already small voice.

"Sweetheart?" comes quickly, and you can't help how the endearment makes your heart soar.

"Can I... can we do video call?" There. That wasn't so hard now, is it? Out in the open. You unconsciously held your breath, afraid it's loud enough that you'll miss her response.

There wasn't one though, so you check to see if the call was somehow ended the exact moment that Larissa's name appeared, an incoming request of what you've asked for displayed on your screen.

You hurriedly accepted, rolling in your side to sandwich the phone between your hand and the bed. There she was, in her late night, still working glory. It's beyond you how she still managed to look so beautiful even when she's tired. Blessed by the higher beings, you supposed.

"Hey" you greeted, giving her a small wave of your hand.

She smiled at you, returning the wave with her own while she set her phone up in the best place she could prop it.

"Any reason you wanted to see me?" Her voice was tinted with a teasing tone, and you can't help the breathless little laugh you let out despite your tired state.

"Just because."

The comfort that the bed should have brought the moment you laid down finally washes over you. You released a contented sigh, this will tide you over.

"Seems like someone misses me, huh?"

"You don't have any idea just how much, baby." There was no point in denying, and you weren't really keen on doing so. Your gaze never left your phone, taking in every chance to look at her.

"Is this okay? Am I not bothering you?" There it was again. You were uncharacteristically shy and worried, which she has picked up on ever since you've asked for the call. What she's wondering though is the why. You seem alright the last time you've talked, so something must have happened.

She waved your concern away. She liked this set up even better since it has you on it. "You're never a bother, my darling."

That melted all the worrying you've had, a gentle smile appearing after her reassurance while she continued working on the email she was in before she called you.

The clacking of her keyboard as she typed was the only sound audible on both your ends, and you silently watched her while hugging a pillow. It went on just like that, and soon sleep seems to finally be on your side. Your eyes flutter close, your vision slowly becoming a blur that you haven't noticed your girlfriend watching you slowly accept it.

Once she's sure you've fallen asleep, she quickly finished the last email for tonight so she herself can rest. She didn't end the call, wanting to pretend that you're by her side. She misses you too, and Larissa can't wait until you're back in her arms once again.

#larissa weems #larissa weems x reader

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