#Pink Wall eyed sheep

[imhereformysciencefriends]

@mcyt-yuri-week Day 5: Rarepair!

Gem/Puffy because faves should kiss. And flirt. Excessively. Read on AO3 here

Princess Gem was in the lighthouse running some mild repairs when she first caught sight of the ship on the horizon. Ships were not strange things in Dawn. She herself had built the port, after all, but this was not one of Dawn’s ships, nor did she recognize its sails nor its flag. It wasn’t a pirate flag, thank goodness, she wasn’t sure she was quite up to task to deal with seafaring pillagers at the moment, but there was still a stranger at her shores.

She descended the lighthouse and crossed to her port, wings folded behind her for the time being. She didn’t know if this was a threat yet or not, and butterfly wings made for delicate, easily shot targets if she wasn’t cautious.

The ship was modest. Typically there would be a crew of maybe four people for a vessel this size, but it was possible for one person to man such a thing alone, if the person was practiced. Gem stood at the stone wall shoring up the small cliffside, hand resting on a crenellation, and watched as the vessel’s one-woman-crew heaved the anchor over the side, fastened her boat to the dock, and staggered off.

The bow-legged sheep hybrid (ram? She had large, curling horns) glanced up and caught sight of Princess Gem, and flashed her a big smile.

“Hey girl,” she called, leaning her elbow awkwardly on a pile of crates Gem had ready for trade when one of her own ships returned from their current voyage, “are you from Tennessee?”

“...What?”

“Cause you’reeeee the only ten I see!”

Gem stared at her, wide eyed and flabbergasted and maybe just a touch pink to the cheeks.

“Are you drunk!?” she shouted down, trying to sound appalled and mostly just coming off as embarrassed.

The sailor clicked her tongue and snapped before she pointed two double pistols Gem’s way, staggering slightly with her weight removed from the crates. “I am so dehydrated.”

“Oh well for goodness sake!” Gem unlocked the gate to port and descended the steps, catching the sailor before she could tilt hooves over kilter into the seawater behind her. “Did you not pack enough water for your trip?”

“Got blown off course,” she muttered, leaning on Gem heavily, “nasty storm.”

Well. At least she was alive. Gem huffed.

“I am Princess Gem, ruler of Dawn.”

The sailor grinned. “Captain Puffy; at your service pretty lady.”

Gem felt herself blush again, then snapped her gaze forward, focusing on getting them up the steps. “Let’s just get you some water!”

Puffy laughed, and let Gem all but drag her to the tavern. Across multiple bottles of water, a tankard of very thin mead, and two cups of apple cider, Puffy detailed what had happened to Gem. She’d been sailing since she was old enough to hold a rope and had all the overconfidence to match. She’d been on her own, something she’d done a billion times before, when a storm caught her blindsided. She’d survived and so had her ship, but she’d lost some supplies and had been blown far from the shore she’d been headed towards.

“Normally I have my son with me, and he can get rid of the worst storms. Guess I got too comfortable; didn’t prepare like normal people should.”

“You have a son,” Gem said, for some reason fixated on that fact and feeling… oddly sad?

Puffy grinned, waggling her eyebrows at Gem. “Yeah, but I’m single.”

Gem felt heat rise to her cheeks once again.

“And ready to mingle,” Puffy added lasciviously, leaning forward, and Gem shoved the glass towards her.

“Ju–just drink your juice!!”

Puffy laughed and hoisted the glass upwards, first, as though to toast, before downing it.

“You, um, feeling less dehydrated?” Gem asked, desperately changing the subject.

“Yeah. It’ll take a while to fully recover, though, hydration is best done in multiple smaller drinks done consistently and frequently overtime.” Again, that cocksure, self-assured grin of hers. “Guess I’ll just have to stick around a while.”

Gem was a princess. She was trained from a young age to flit lightly and easily from social situation to social situation, always fluttering above conflict and subtle insult and shadowed prodding. Her words were as delicate lace, intricate and woven into complexity.

This woman’s straightforward flirtations and direct approach had Gem’s heart pounding like a warhammer against her birdcage ribs. If Gem’s decorum was trained to look like stained glass, Puffy’s brazenness was a rock crashing through it.

And, on top of all of that, the captain had the audacity to laugh at her.

“You don’t play with sailors much, do you little lady?” she asked, reclining in her seat and crossing a leg over her knee. It gave Gem a very clear view of her. Her white-turned-beige shirt with ruffles over her breasts tucked into high waisted, big-buttoned pants. Her large captain’s coat hanging boldly off her shoulders, her elbows propped up to the sides. Her beads and coins strung throughout her hair, catching the light of the tavern and glinting distractingly. Her sailor’s muscles and big curling horns and the way the light caught on the dampness left on her lips.

“I—” Gem started when she realized she’d been staring, “Converse. With, traders, perfectly frequently.”

“And none of ‘em take advantage of how cute you are?” Why was her voice so loud? It didn’t sound this loud in Gem’s ears when they were on the dock. Well, loud yes but not this loud. Must’ve been because they were inside now. Puffy’s voice was simply filling the space, and echoing back.

“I’m not—it’s not, in a princess’s job description to be taken advantage of,” Gem stuttered, blushing at how the words sounded coming out of her own mouth. She didn’t mean it like that!

But Puffy laughed at her, and uncrossed her leg with a sharp thud of hoof hitting floor, and rose with a faint jingling of her hair ornaments. She rounded the table with lazy swagger, and it should’ve been impossible for a woman so short to loom so toweringly.

She stopped with her hip cocked against the table, and set a hand on Gem’s shoulder, deceptively slow and gentle. “What about fun?” she asked, voice now so quiet, so so so so quiet Gem had to lean forward to hear her better, her hand drifting off Gem’s shoulder to trail down her arm. “Is having fun in the job description?”

“I—” Gem cut off as she shuddered, Puffy’s hand, roughened with rope and seawater, caressing the freckles dotting the exposed skin of Gem’s own. She swallowed, unable to blink or look away. “I have plenty of fun.”

Puffy grinned like she’d won. “Yeah? Come by my boat and show me sometime, pretty princess. I’ll let you see something nice.”

Gem was so red in the face it made her lightheaded as she watched Puffy saunter away. It did not become a princess to lose her marbles so easily, but Gem simply couldn’t seem to relocate her composure. It was fully lost. Off in the fields somewhere. Or maybe it was leaping around Puffy’s hocks, admiring the way her fluffy woolen tail wiggled as she walked.

The moment the tavern door swung shut behind her, Gem tore her eyes away and grasped at the nearest drink, downing the entire thing in big, heaving gulps. She slammed the cup down in a distinctly unladylike fashion, gasping slightly.

Without distraction, she was now free to make eye contact with the tavern keeper. The tavern keeper who watched her very knowingly. Who had probably been watching her and Puffy since the two had entered in and ordered an absurd number of drinks.

But instead of remarking, the tavernkeeper merely asked, “So are you the one paying for those, then?”

“She—oh she didn’t even—!” Gem gasped, realizing Puffy had left her with the bill. “Oh that little—I’m gonna—!”

She was going to—!

Going to…

She…

Gem’s face, flushed red with a mixture of arousal and fluster and embarrassment at being lightly swindled, felt surely that there must be steam rolling out of her ears by this point. She dropped her burning face into her hands, hiding behind her curtain of hair and red to the tips of her ears.

[ethereousdelirious]

Sicktember 2023 Day 9

Prompt: Alt 2. Fuzzy Sock

Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs

Characters: Kunikida, Dazai

Worcount: 1,063

Notes:

Kunikida became aware of two things simultaneously when he awoke and opened his eyes.

Least pressing: his throat hurt. Badly. Even breathing sent a sting through it and he was a little afraid to discover what swallowing might feel like.

Urgent: someone was standing over his bed.

His body reacted before his brain did and he had the intruder halfway in a grapple before Dazai's frantic "hey, hey, hey, it's me, it's me!" processed in his sleep-addled brain. He let go of Dazai to sneeze into his sleeve several times and emerged moments later much the worse for wear.

"...Dazai?" Kunikida blinked and looked around, reassuring himself that this was indeed his apartment. The blurry outlines of his bedroom greeted him, bookshelves and windowpanes all exactly as they should be.

"Sh, sh, sh." Dazai put a palm to his forehead and pushed back down onto his futon. Kunikida allowed this more out of confusion than anything, though the pressure against his sinuses made his nose throb. "You're sick," Dazai explained.

As though he had planned it, another series of sneezes tore through Kunikida's body. He jerked his head to the side to avoid sneezing right in Dazai's face. He sighed after the fit passed, then shot Dazai a suspicious look. Dazai was up to something, that much was clear. He narrowed his eyes, nose twitching despite himself. "What are you doing here, Dazai?"

Dazai's face brightened into that disingenuous grin and he started fussing with the blankets down by Kunikida's ankles. "Why, I'm looking after my partner, of course! I can't let you go to work when you're sick."

"What time is it?" Kunikida demanded, bolting upright. He half expected Dazai to try to stop him on his way out of bed, but no resistance came. Instead, he got to his feet and nearly toppled over when his first attempt at taking a step met unexpected resistance. He caught himself on the wall and looked down. Thick silver cuffs peeked out from beneath his pajama pants, connected by a short chain. "Are you holding me hostage?"

Shouting made his throat hurt all the worse, the urge to cough completely irresistible. He tried anyway and only made himself choke.

Dazai wrapped an arm around him like he was an invalid. "I can't have you going to work in this condition, now can I? I know you'll try to sneak off if I don't take safety measures."

"This is insane," Kunikda said roughly, and had to cough again.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice about denying my request for a day off," Dazai sang, and forced Kunikida back down to the futon.

"Dazai…" Kunikida's head hit the pillow and he couldn't help but relax. He really was sore. And his throat hurt. Maybe Dazai was onto something— "Oh, God."

Dazai peered at him, wide-eyed. "What is it?"

"I think I have a fever."

"Don't worry!" Dazai said cheerfully. "Doctor Dazai will take excellent care of you."

The next several moments happened to Kunikida; all he could do was sit back and experience the events. Dazai set a box of tissues in his lap and explained who was covering for their absences. He made Kunikida tea and checked his temperature. He fluffed the pillows, dosed out cough syrup, tied his hair up, and lastly…

"I can do that myself, you know," Kunikida said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"No, no." Dazai continued working the remaining fuzzy sock up Kunikida's ankle and under the cuff. "You'd try to free yourself and run back to work."

"Tch." Dazai was right, of course. Kunikida scowled. "I'd set those socks on fire, too."

"Kunikida!" Dazai said, faux-scandalized. "I bought these warm, fuzzy socks especially for you!"

"Here we go," Kunikida said under his breath.

The socks were pastel pink, scattered with little white hearts. At the cuffs near the ankles, two sheep smiled benignly out at the world. Sweet, soft, saccharine.

"They're charming!" Dazai continued, still as though Kunikida had mortally offended him. "I can't believe you'd just throw away my love and affection like that."

Kunikida tried to answer, but his breath caught in his throat. He rolled over and coughed into the pillows, unintentionally jerking his foot out of Dazai's grip.

His ragged breaths tore their way up his throat, burning his chest in the process. And the tickle wouldn't go away, only subsiding into something semi-bearable for a moment before he has to cough again. All Dazai's tea and cough syrup had been temporary measures at best.

"Aren't you glad you didn't have to go to work today?" Dazai asked conversationally.

He had moved at some point, coming up to squat by Kunikida's head.

"No," Kunikida rasped, shooting Dazai a watery glare before burying his face in a tissue and sneezing.

"Well, do you at least like the socks?"

Kunikida rolled over with a stifled groan and looked at his feet. An absurd picture greeted him: adorable pink fuzzy socks, the hems of his pajama pants, and between them, thick silver shackles. "Not really." He sighed. Dazai was sure to pout and make a scene if Kunikida didn't give him something. "But I appreciate that you went out of your way to get them for me."

"Go onnn?"

Kunikida gritted his teeth. "Thank you, Dazai."

As expected, Dazai brightened at once. "Anything for my cherished partner! Now how about some breakfast?"

"Please don't burn down my kitchen."

"Oh." Dazai waved a hand, already halfway to the door. "Don't you worry about that." He paused as though to continue, then disappeared out the door.

"Dazai!" Kunikida called after him, but the pain in his throat flared up and he could do nothing but cough. Without Dazai there to distract him, the full extent of his discomfort washed over him in waves. The congestion was bad, the sore throat was worse, and he was so cold. Everywhere except his feet, thanks to Dazai's stupid socks.

Kunikida groaned in defeat and flopped backward against his pillows, though his congested nose really didn't appreciate it. Above him, the ceiling swam and fogged, blurring out of his its already tenuous focus. Staring at it made Kunikida's head hurt, so he closed his eyes.

Sleep pulled at him immediately, and the last thought in his foggy mind was the brief hope that Dazai didn’t burn down his kitchen while he was out.

[angelisverba]

thinkin’ bout you

in which harry owns a flower shop and has a major crush on a girl who comes in to buy flowers every once in a while (and he’s too shy to ask for her number) 

word count: 17.3k

paring: florist!h and y/n

warnings: just some pinning and lustful yearning. m for mature...

author’s note: i’ve been working on this forever. not to pick fav’s but i think florist!h comes second to sl23... hes just so.......well, you’ll see!!

*    *    *    *    *    *

When Harry was given the option to go on a playdate with his car-loving and dirty-nailed schoolmates or spending the weekend at his nan’s house, he would often pick the latter. 

He preferred to spend his afternoons frolicking with her Siamese kitty in her wild-flower filled garden, sunbathing in the open grass, or napping on a quilted blanket under the large, round oak tree, with the kitty nestled into his tummy, keeping him warm. When he woke in the arms of his nan as she carried him inside the house for a glass of cool lemonade, he bore a band of pink sunburn over his button nose, and the blue and white striped Mickey shirt was sticking to the areas where his furry friend had provided an extra heat. 

So, it was safe to say that from the start, Harry’s tastes weren’t what could be considered ‘average’ or ‘normal’ or ‘straight’ for a heterosexual male of his age in current society. 

Not that he ever valued those opinions, but their impressions rang in the back of his loving head when the women who he brought to the comfort of his home made hurtful ‘joking’ comments on how ‘peculiar’  his choice of decor was or giving him prolonged strange looks before shaking their heads and yanking their clothes off so that they landed in a forgotten heap in some unimportant corner of his room. 

Granted, he still got a good shag, but it wasn’t enough to fulfill his desires regarding any actions associated with relationships. He wanted someone warm and soft and kind. Someone who wouldn’t judge his home, his music choices, his clothing, or anything else about him. A girlfriend, not a fuck. 

Long ago, he’d stopped caring about what others said about him. Adopting this mindset had given him some of the happiest and healthiest moments of his life (albeit occasionally, doubts merged with the ghastly shadows of his loneliness). Business at his flower shop increased as his charm increased with positivity, and a new life within him bloomed like a baby rose bud when he accepted that being single was okay. The ribbons of his bouquets bouncing with an added umf and the mist that landed on his skin when he changed the water in the flower buckets only enhanced the golden hue of his skin. 

Harry even took to renovating his home a bit. 

 Coincidentally, his apartment was located on the floor above his flower stop, and contained a significant amount of singular flowers in vases or bouquets in empty corners to prove it. An array of pastel colors smeared on the once blank walls. Bambi pink in his bedroom, sage green in his kitchen, and a French blue in his living room. The couch was a suede papaya three-seater with black and white checkered pillows, and the coffee table was an emerald-tiled piece standing on top of a geometric lavender carpet, a soft contrast against the dark oak of his floorboards. Harry’s taste in pop-culture, art, and literature was displayed on the frames hanging off his walls. Pictures and posters of his favorite pieces like Matisse’s Blue Nudes and Goldfish and The Dance II. An enhanced, enlarged photo of maraschino cherries and a raven haired pin-up girl. Another glass table by the end of the couch held a silver candlestick and a small statue.

Sometimes, the miniature Greek statue he bought at a thrift store of a man with his nakedness pure and unobscured to the viewers' eyes made his dick bloat against the seams of his pants. If he stared at it for too long, his eyes drawn to the softened cock between thighs that looked so flesh-like even though it was carved out of some clay or ceramic material, his mind would travel to sensual, honey-red places that he hadn’t been in so long. Harry’s imagination explored- as cheesy as it sounds- the sexual aspects of the male genitalia, and therefore his own sexual expeditions and how much he missed giving or receiving a good fuck. More often than not, he ended up with himself in his fist, forehead sparkling with perspiration under the candle lights in his room as his thighs and abdomen clenched with every buck of his yearning hips. 

The doorknob of his room was in the shape of an eye, the iris colored a brilliant blue. His king bed- no, frame, just a minimalist white base, pushed up against the wall with two tables on either side, both of them loaded articulately with vintage trinkets and ceramic ring trays shaped like seashells to hold his jewelry. His bedsheets were a stylish combination of pastel colors; lilac comforter, mint and sky pillows. Previously, they had been snow white sheets with strawberry print, but a woman he brought over said they looked like the sheets her five-year-old niece had. 

He changed them the week after that.

On the windowsill, a pot in the shape of a white, blue-eyed kitty with vines of string of hearts kissing the floor. A mirror in the shape of a heart with a pink trim besides the lightswitch, above his brown dresser. In the corner, a bookshelf stuffed with books that spilled over the seams, and perpendicular to it, the home of his pet chameleon, Owen (he wanted a cat, but when he went to the pet store and saw the dehydrated creature, he couldn’t leave him there). A 16 x 16 x 30 inch tank filled with a branch that cut across halfway. It was full of all the things he might need, maybe even too much of it, but it didn’t matter because when Harry was home Owen spent most of his time hanging off the collars of his shirts or snuggled in the ruffles of his hooded sweatshirt on his shoulder. The small, color changing friend adored his owner, and only morphed into a mild red color when Harry didn’t feed him more mango. 

The renovations occurred in his bathroom; a cherry-red covering the walls because it looked boring before (at least in his opinion).  The gold piping of the sink accentuated nicely with the darker color, and the sun seemed brighter when it streamed in through the window above his ceramic claw-footed tub. Owen particularly liked the misty showerhead stall in the corner, and as long as he kept his eyes to himself, Harry didn’t mind it if his green friend wrapped around the showerhead and enjoyed the mimicked tropical atmosphere. 

For awhile now, it had been just him and his chameleon (and maybe his mum’s cat if she was going out of town and needed a sitter) but he didn’t mind it. 

He got to meet new people everyday within the parameters of H’s Garden, and they all tended to overshare when it came to buying a bouquet. ‘My wife just had our son, want to see a picture?’ or ‘my boyfriend and I have our anniversary on Saturday’ and even ‘my sister had plastic surgery so me and my dad need something that says ‘congrats you look like Kim Kardashain now’ how ‘bout it?’ 

Stories ranged from sweet, to grotesque, to sad, to funny, and sometimes even evil- Harry didn’t like customers that gave flowers as a ‘fuck you’. He thought it was a waste of beauty and sacrifice. Flowers were living things that had their lives cut short in order to provide momentary satisfaction and life long memories to the receiver, not bitter feelings of revenge. Although it was still business, it pained him that such a pretty arrangement be misused. It was one of the cons of his work. He created what he considered to be masterpieces, and had no control over where they would end up, whether it be as a centerpiece for a candlelit dinner, or in the trash after the apology for a strong argument hadn’t been enough. 

However, Harry couldn’t deny that he didn’t love his job, because he did. 

When he turned 16, he’d determined that he wanted a peaceful life with a job that wouldn’t bore him. He wanted to be as stress free as possible, with his spirituality as a prominent highlight in his lifestyle. When he turned 18, he had determined that he wanted to be a florist, and began to save up to open his own shop with the occasional help of his friends and sister. He refused to take anything from his mother because he wanted to be the one giving her gifts and money and everything good after all of her sacrifices in raising him. Call him a momma’s boy. Harry loved his mother. 

Online seminars and college classes became his best friend, teaching him everything he needed to know about accounting, stocks, and how to keep his business going. He was a businessman first, florist second. During the slow seasons (the start of winter and an awkward half-week between summer and spring) he relied on his investments to triple-ensure that he had enough money to stay afloat. 

On his 22nd birthday, as a gift to himself, he signed the lease to the building that housed all of the pretty plants in temporary buckets full of flower food and water, and hired a graphic designer to design the cursive, golden letters that spelled out the name of his shop above the front door. 

 Now, three years later, he lived as happy as can be. 

And he wasn’t lonely anymore. 

Well, if you wanted to be technical, his relationship status was still a checkmark over the box labeled ‘single’, but his heart couldn’t be fluttering any harder at the sight of one of his regular customers, and she was there, creeping around in his brain to keep him company. 

She was the complete opposite of every girl he’d ever been with. She was sweet, kind, funny, and didn’t judge him for the way he dressed, or his profession. In fact, they bonded over things that previous women had… slyly berated him for. The color of his nails, the lace of his collar, the pattern of his flared pants,  and even the sheep on his baby blue sweater vest.  

She stole his heart the moment she walked through his door with a soft smile on her face, a sparkling gleam in her warm eyes, and placed it in her pocket the moment she said, “it smells lovely in here!”

Harry, awestruck and blushing because well, she was pretty and wore a shade of purple that somehow made her hair look so soft. Two strands of hair were pinned at the back of her head, essentially keeping the rest of it away from her face save for the few baby wisps that rested gently against her cheeks like a lover’s caress. The stuttering, stumbling cupid’s-bow-struck fool replied with, “thank you. It would be my pleasure to help you with anything you’d like,” and that had been his name, signed on the dotted line of a soul contract. Only she was not the devil. She was an angel. 

But even then, it wouldn’t matter. If she was the devil, if she was an angel, something in between or something new entirely he wouldn’t care because he was half gone for her already. 

“In that case,” she smiled, and Harry’s heart sang a melody it never had before. It was like the sun beamed from the spaces between her teeth and tickled the fuzzy spot beneath his earlobe. She had the most amazing voice, tranquil and clear and ethereal. “I just moved into a new apartment and wanted the place to feel like home. I thought maybe flowers would give it a little life.” 

He vividly remembers that the color of her cheeks changed to that of what is called a ‘blush’, but he didn’t know if it was a trick under the light, or a product of his wistful imagination. Her fingers gently skimmed the petals of a rose from it’s bucket near her hip, and one of the straps of the tote bag on her shoulder disrespectfully dropped away from her shoulder. He wanted to simultaneously rush over and fix it for her, and yell at the inanimate object for not being grateful of the fact that it had the opportunity to cling to her shoulder.

But, before either of these inner-conflicts met a sound resolve, her delicate fingers righted what was once wrong, and Harry cleared his throat, embarrassed because he’d stared for a little too long. He wanted so badly to ask for her name and how she liked her eggs in the morning, but instead he said, “there’s nothing like a bit of something pretty to brighten your day. Did you have something specific in mind?”

He hoped that the meaning of his words wasn’t caught on her, or that would be totally embarrassing and ‘loser’-like. 

When she walked out the door with a content smile on her lips, his own heart was beating faster than the flapping of a hummingbird’s tender wings. He was sure that he had never laid eyes on a pair of lips like hers, neither the feeling that blossomed in his chest at the thought that she might be smiling just for him to see and enjoy. 

Of course, it was a silly crush. One that clawed and gripped onto his sweaty palms with no sign of letting go. Maybe, Harry thought, it was because he hadn’t wet his wick in so long, and the interaction he’d had with her had sparked irrational, poem-inspiring feelings within the love cavern of his ribs. Because how could he fall head over heels with someone he didn’t even know? Surely, the swarm of hormone-pumped butterflies in his stomach was the beginning of a dead-end infatuation. 

Right? 

Harry went that entire day, appalled at the apparent angel he had the fortune of being in the presence of in her short fall from the tender heavens. He wondered where she placed the flowers she bought (an arrangement he was particularly proud of, full of lilac, delicate stems of lavender, and puffs of baby’s breath wrapped with a white bow) and where that tiny extension of him was. At the entrance of her home, right below the place she rested her hand against as she tugged her shoes off? At the center of her table? Maybe besides her bed? Where she would see the purple petals and white of him as he wrapped it every time she woke up or went to bed? He hoped- as much as it was a romantic thought- that it wasn’t the last one. He’s been so awkward, so pink. A blush on his cheeks he hadn’t remembered being there since the time he yelped, startled, at the unexpected pain of a tattoo needle, the artist pointedly peeved. Acting like such a boy. 

Right before crawling up the steps of his apartment, heart still bleeding with love-blood from the deadly tip of Cupid’s arrows, he made himself a mini version of the bouquet he’d made her, and placed it at the center of his tiled coffee table. 

*********

A few days trickled by, and the memory of her face drifted in and out of his mind like a giant sway of fabric slowly billowing in the wind. He was just so… struck by a slab of awe, stunned by her kind of beauty. Natural, the kind that hooks you in it’s purity, like the golden beams streaming in through transparent curtains on a warm spring afternoon. 

Her strawberry lips curved elegantly under her nose, and displayed a smile that leaked some sort of heady drug into the air because the air was sweet when he breathed it in. And when he handed the bundle of flowers over to her, the pads of her delicate fingers skimmed the rough ridges of his knuckles. He wondered immediately what kind of moisturizer she used, and if it smelled like honey or lavender or peaches. She smelled sweet. Sweeter than all of the flowers in his colorful soul shop put together. The colors that belong to her, on her person and worn by her, were more captivating than any of the tones that painted the petals on his plants. 

Owen got a kick out of this whole ordeal, though. Harry’s passionate mood had him divulging in munching and nibbling on things that tasted the way he felt; ambrosial, fresh and pure. It resulted in the purchasing of endless amounts of fruit, with many bites given to the tiny chameleon. Mangoes, strawberries, oranges, grapes, pears (Asian pears, if the store carried them, they were Harry’s favorite), peaches and guavas. The sudden craving for fruit might be explained as just a casual craving, but deep deep down inside, Harry knew that it was because he wanted to replicate the feeling that coursed through his golden veins when she giggled at something she happened to find funny. 

He wished that he had caught her name. The girl had paid in cash (and left a five dollar tip Harry fawned over), so he couldn’t have read it on her card, and he was halfway between charming and awkward that he didn’t even think of asking for it until the minute the door closed behind her, bells tinkling in announcement of her exit. He wished for a hundred different things, but he was not the type to live in regret. Not anymore. So after about a week of floundering in her memory, he meditated for an hour, tropical incense on one of his bedside tables, and cleared his mind as best he could. 

The next morning, he did the same thing. Woke up with heavy limbs, plopped himself down on his blue mat and stretched in various positions, his white boxers hanging low on his hips. His lips and eyes were sticky with sleep, and the back of his nose ached with cold air that he must’ve breathed in throughout the night after forgetting to close the window (again) but the pleasurable twinge of stretching aches between his joints were the perfect way to start his day. They urged his mind to transform into the still surface of water, clear and collected from any unproductive-pinning thoughts towards a girl he would most likely never see again. 

Even his clothes reflected his refreshed mindset.

Harry donned his favorite pair of flared  trousers in an earthy brown color, nestled snugly on his slender hips and around his thighs. The tight fit accentuated the way his back tapered into his waist, glutes shapely and sculpted. A maroon sweater vest that had a teddy bear embroidered on the middle of his chest, the small latte-toned stuffed animal seemingly childish, but on him it only directed attention to the spotlight daze of the velvety heart sheltered underneath his breathless plate. Underneath, a mustard long-sleeve shirt with tiny cherries printed on them. Some straight, some tilted or lopsided. His shoulders and biceps were hidden in the floofy bunches of cloth, anonymity given to the true thickness of his ink slathered skin. 

He looked like a corduroy dream. A thick milkshake of patterns and colors, but he managed to pull it off.

A tiny gold hoop on his right ear gleamed under the morning sun coming in through the windows and a pearl necklace rested against the downy skin of his throat. Slender fingered tipped with a coat of pure white, with his ring fingers accented in a shimmery pink. Chunky rings adorning the base of his digits; a silver rose, a band of dancing teddy bears (a running theme with him), two gold rings with his initials H and S on one hand, and a simple ruby stud from his graduating class. 

He looked good, he knew that he looked good, and was ready to begin a bright, healthy, non-pretty-girl-thought-polluted day. Even the old woman had pinched his cheek whom he had been assisting- a regular-had said he looked like a proper ‘nice boy’ along with ‘when are you going to her a lovely girl to help you run this place, Harry?’. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he had momentarily sworn off women until his broken sentiments healed, and they had a long way to go. 

In the middle of wrapping a smashing set of tulips and fern stems with a cherry red bow, the bells adorning the top of the door frame dinges, announcing the entrance of another pleasant customer and giving passage to a gust of chilly air. Harry looked up to greet the customer with his usual pleasantries of ‘welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment!’, but the words died on his throat in a desperate hussle, just as the little mermaid had given up her voice to meet her gallant prince.  

It was his own personal little slice of heaven presented to him on the black and white checkered floors of his shop. Hair loose against her shoulders again, eyes cast downwards to inspect a bucket of fresh daisies that tickled the space above her bare knees. How she could wear a skirt in this biting weather, he didn’t know, and it partially prevented him from continuing his pursuit of admiring her because the first thought his caring mind jumped too was, ‘is she cold? And if so, does she need a sweater? Because I will gladly give her one.’ His second thought, however, was ‘how could someone be that beautiful?’. The third was something along the lines of ‘all my yoga has gone to shit, and I’m okay with that’. 

He cleared his throat, tightened the bow around the stems of the flowers in his hands and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment, love!” His head bowed, looking at his work because he wasn’t sure he could afford the medicals for the paralysis that was sure to take over his meek self if they made eye contact so soon. Harry needed a moment of homeostasis, his soul adjusting to her dulcet presence. 

The woman he was assisting, Edna, spoke, drawing him out of his daze, but he had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard what she said. 

“What was that?” He asked her. He grabbed Kraft paper from the roll by the register to wrap up her arrangement. 

“The girl. You like her?” She was smiling at him, wagging a finger the way his nan used to do when she caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. “Don’t lie to me, I recognize that look. I’ve given and received that look many times throughout my life.” 

The woman was not wrong. With age, comes wisdom, Harry thought, smiling to himself at being caught. A dimple carves itself into his cheek, nestling onto the space above the corner of his mouth as if he had no choice in the matter. The apples of his cheeks were shadowed with a dusky pink, and the tip of his nose was twitching like a rabbit when it stood on its rear and sniffed the air, only he was coy after just being caught and wanted to avoid the question as much as possible. 

“I’ve got no idea what y’talking about,” he chuckled, keeping his voice low so that the intriguing stranger in the store didn’t hear that their topic of discussion was her. He moved over to the register to ring her up, and even slid in a discount he applied to customers he liked. 

“Next time I come in,” Edna said, passing Harry her debit card, “I hope to hear that you got her number, dear. Don’t let these opportunities pass you up. Life is short. And who knows? She could be the one.” Harry gave her the card back after charging her, and handed her the flowers, too. All the while Edna was grinning at him, shaking her head like she knew something he didn’t. 

“Take care, Edna. And don’t forget to change the water every 2 days with the flower packets I placed at the stems,” he reminded her, sweetly wiggling his red-lacquered nails at her retreating woman as butterflies awakened in his stomach in a furious flood of nerves. The girl was looking around, her hands hovering over the up-turned faces of a bundle of lively sunflowers, browsing and quietly humming to herself as she waited. 

There was no backing out of this, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t! He didn’t want to back out. The girl was a customer, and he would have to approach her no matter what. But she was so pretty it was also intimidating. He doesn’t remember ever being this nervous while approaching someone, especially one he harbored feelings for. His heart was pounding so loud, he was sure it was audible. 

“Hello,” he wanted so badly to add ‘love’ at the end of his greeting. “Are y’finding everything a’right?” He asked her, his hands wringing themselves, palms moist with sweat from his unyielding need to impress her. The pink tip of his tongue poked out to swipe across his full bottom lip, and soon after that his teeth sunk down into it, nibbling with uncertainty. Harry made sure that he was standing straight, body aligned to face hers because in that psychology course he took once, he learned that it was a subconscious tactic to engage interest and pleasant replies to attempts at wooing another. 

At the sound of his voice, the girl jumped, startled at the sudden vibrations of Harry’s husky voice. Her delicate feet, he noticed, skittered on the floor from her tiny jump, and her doe eyes widened, shouldered rising and falling at a quicker pace than before from the new rush of light fear. When she realizes that it’s just him her hand flattered over the base of her neck and her collarbone in attempts to soothe her racing heart. 

“M’s sorry,” he whispers, his hand clamping over his mouth, and then lowering to his chin when he speaks again, “didn’t mean to scare y’love.” This time he can’t restrict himself. It comes so naturally, like the endearment was meant for her, and when a flush covers the bridge of her nose his first instinct is to coo at her for looking so cute. The second is a surge of guilt for having scared her to such an extent. 

“It’s okay,” she says, a little out of breath. The blush on her face was partly because she was embarrassed at her own reaction, while the other was that she had let herself act so freely and uncoordinated in front of someone that looked like him. Handsome and sweet and eyes so green they refreshed you upon first glance. Like the cool burn of water going into a mouth that had just chewed a stick of minty gum. “I want to buy these flowers.” 

God help him. Her voice alone was enough to make him melt. The lilts and melodies of her voice swarming all four of the ventricles in his heart with warmth, and every blood cell that passed contained a glowing heat, buzzing with her energy. 

She points to the sunflowers, her gaze lingering on them with longing. A soft smile toying on her mouth, and Harry could see the tendons in her throat stretch as she inhaled to add another thought to her sentence, “Do you sell vases by any chance?” The girl looked at him shyly, her eyelashes almost twinkling as she blinked, and his heart soared, “I had a really nice one in the shape of a big Coca-Cola bottle, and I accidentally knocked it over, so now I have nothing to put them in.” 

Harry is incredibly enamoured by subconscious gestures that take over her hands as she speaks, fiddling as if the vase she spoke about was in her hands, all in one piece before it was broken. He’s quiet throughout her tiny ramble, listening and taking note of her enticing antics. She’s looking down at the floor or the flowers or her hands, and when her eyes dance over to his steady gaze, “I’m rambling aren’t I?” she murmurs bashfully. 

“No, no it’s a’right. I can look in the back for something if y’like?” He suggested, arrowing a thumb to the ‘back’ he mentioned. “Did y’want anything in particular?”  

“Oh, I don’t wanna be a troubling customer!” She squeaked, concerned with becoming a nuisance she didn’t want to be. 

“Y’not a bother, love. M’promise. I’ll go look f’you. What color did y’have in mind?” He asked her, tone calm and soothing to reiterate his sentiment. She was not a bother. The only thing about her that bothered him was the fact that he did not know her name, and even that was his own fault for not asking her. 

His hands rest on his hips, tattooed cross momentarily hidden by the bunch of his sweater vest  as he waits for her to respond, his eyes locked on her mouth, her own tongue subtly licks her lips, adding a sparkly sheen to it that only drove him crazy. Ever the jilted fool, his mind jumps to what it would feel like to kiss her, or what it would feel like if she kissed him in other places. What fruits she tasted like, and what kind of kisser she was. A timid one? With a patient mouth waiting to be broken open with the force of his own? Frugal? Opening her mouth and giving him everything she had to offer. 

“Something pink, please. If you have it.” That smile again. One that told a million apologies it didn’t owe, with her eyes pinching at the corners with whatever nonsense culpability she felt. Her voice was sweet, Harry thought, like wind chimes on a summer morning. 

Feeling guilty for allowing such dirty thoughts to gallop through his mind when she was so… so pure. Like an angel. Even her way of presenting herself was shy and sweet, yet he was thinking about kissing her. Was that perverted? She was a customer he had seen twice, and his mind was already running wild with luscious assumptions; a sunday topped with a red cherry of sensuality. How awfully dirty of him. 

But! But those were not the only thoughts he had. He wanted to ask her what happened to cause her to drop her vase, and where she had bought it. If it was vintage, considering it was a Coca-cola bottle, and if she had any accidents while cleaning up the mess of broken glass. He wanted to hear her thoughts. No, better yet, he just wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to get to know her. To know if she was as nice as she looked. 

“‘Course,” he mumbled, his eyes shamefully downcast to the floor. “Be righ’ back.”

Harry stalked off to ‘the back of the store’. Truth was, there was no back of the store containing vases. There was only a small closet with boxes of items he might need around the store, like flower food, rubber bands, and decorative paper for the bouquets. A crate of bottled water for when he got too lazy to climb up the back stairs and into his home. 

His home. 

Plucking the keys from his pocket, a ring that held a ceramic swan his closest friend Mitch had gifted him with a humble admission of ‘saw this at a thrift store and thought about you, H, I had to buy it’, and five keys: one to the front door of his shop, one to the cash box in the register, one to the mailbox, another to the front door of his apartment, and one to his car. The one to his front door was painted at the head with pastel pink nail polish, so it was easy for him to pick out when he was dead tired after a long day of being on his feet (spunky shoes that he liked to wear sometimes didn’t help ease the ache on his back, and neither did his posture). 

The back door that led to the stairs had locks on both the inside and the outside. A deadbolt and chain on matching sides of the door to ensure comfortable sleep at night, and peaceful work time during the day. Not having to worry about curious children opening doors or nosy customers relieved him. It was a little amatuer, but the door made a loud noise when opened because it wasn’t quite level, and he had a tiny key so he could lock it from the outside, too. 

A loud shucking noise resonated through the store as he pulled the door open, and then again when he closed it behind him. The delicacy of his dainty yet large hands were nearly comical around the tiny golden pin stud that hung from the chain, almost slipping from his hands with nerves as he slid it in place. Harry didn’t think that she was nosy or anything like that, bit if he was going up to give her a vase of his own personal collection, he didn’t want her to find out and feel even more intrusive that she already did. 

He was a huge giver, and upon hearing her say that she broke her flower pot, his mind was already thinking about the perfect one to replace it. It just so happened to be sitting on his shelf with a bundle of dying lavender. Climbing up the stairs (the ache in his thighs was a mere twinge compared to what it was when he first moved here), Harry huffed and thought to himself all the ways he could ask for her name and number. 

Listen, I really like y’and would like to have y’number?”

Do y’wanna have my number so we can go out sometime if y’feel like it?”

“Is it alright if I get y’number so we can go out sometime?”

“Hey, love. What’s y’name?”

Nothing’s making sense to him. The pick up lines he had stored in his head for the rare times he would flirt with a girl were slipping from him. None of them seemed worded right to use with her. Too abrupt or too brisk. Not sweet enough. He wanted to treat her gently and to be worthwhile of her time. Plus, it also had to be smooth enough that it made her forget she was paying him for flowers or it would be awkward. He was a twenty-six man for crying out loud, not a twenty-one year old smile at the bar looking for a good time. This wasn’t a ‘good time’. This was… a courting. An inquiry to a relationship. A rose rose in a candlelit room. 

Harry opened his front door and moved in a quick jog to a table besides his hi-fi that held a translucent pale pink glass, fat at the base before twirling and widening a few inches at the lip. An image of a nude mermaid puffing out at the front like an engraving. Cuddling it into his breast, he grabbed the lavender, speed walked back to his kitchen where his toe banged against the metal of the trashcan as he pressed on the lever to open it. He hissed fuck under his breath and shucked the dead lavender into the bag before turning back to his door, closing it behind him, but not locking it because he didn’t want to keep her waiting. His feet moved quickly down the stairs, the one hand not holding onto the vase cupping a hand over the side of his hips that held his keys so they didn’t make much noise. 

The button on the chain slipped from his fingers a few times from their repeated clamminess, and when he was ready to finally twist the knob, he paused to take a breath and collect himself. Harry ran a hand through his hair, fixed his collar, and dusted off his pants legs. He wanted to look perfect for her. 

“Don’t be stupid,” he murmured to himself. He had a good feeling about this. About her. And if he messed this up because he looked bad or said something weird he would kick himself into a muddy ditch. 

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and calmly walked back, “I’ve got the last one,” he said, tapping the tip of the vase with his pointer finger. It was a lie, right through his teeth, but he was happy to tell it in return for the way she was looking at him in that moment. His eyes rounded out as he approached her, like the curves of hearts that made up the heart-eye emoji, or the puppy-dog face. Just another physical display of his growing affinity towards her. 

“Oh my god!” She said,  “It's so pretty!” The trapped crystals in her irises twinkled with bewilderment at the treasure Harry’s presented her with.  She’s got a smile on her face, and he can’t help but think, ‘wow, she looks like a freshly bloomed white lily’. 

There’s a vintage print hanging in his corridor, a ‘flower language chart’ with different types of flowers and a sentence beneath them describing the messages they send. For example, red carnations= my heart aches for you. The description beneath white lilies reads ‘my love is pure’. 

She asked him if it wasn’t too pricey, and he made up some fake sale he had going on about a hybrid BOGO in which if she bought an arrangement she would get a vase included in her purchase (he added “I’ve got a shipment of new ones coming in an I need the space cleared out before they get here” just to make sure his fib is believable.) And he explains this so shyly. Harry can’t keep his eyes locked on hers because she’s staring at him with an intensity that lets him know she's really listening, and it makes him squirm.  The tips of his fingers tap against the vase, and he’s tripping over his tongue, which is ridiculous because he already talks so slow. 

“I guess I was right in waiting then,” she said casually, waiting for Harry to finish ringing her up. 

His finger froze over the touch screen of the sleek, modern device (he wanted nothing but the best for his store) and listened to the exciting roar of blood through his eardrums at her words. I guess I was right in waiting then? What did that mean? That she was planning on coming back to see him and didn’t? Of course, it could also mean that she was going to buy something else somewhere else, but he couldn’t stop the vine of ripe hope that swelled around his chest. And she looked so apprehensive while saying it. As if she was walking on glass and was looking for cracks as she stepped. As if she was waiting on him to catch on to something.

Harry cleared his throat and looked at her through the corner of his eye, trying to be as discreet as possible as his fingers continued their deliberate work on the screen, “What d’you mean, love?”

“I was going to stop by sooner, but I just got in my head about it,” the girl shrugged, and adjusted the ends of her cardigan so they wrapped around her torso. She had a different bag this time, one of those reusable market bags that was made up of holes, and it was filled with two books and a can of green tea from the vegan store down the street. Harry thinks he can make out one of the titles on one of the spines, which looks suspiciously similar to something that he has on his own shelf. 

“Why would y’get in y’own head about coming to m’flower shop, hmm? It’s hardly that intimidating,” he chuckles to play off the dashes of pink and red that are painting themselves across the bridge of his twitching nose, “I don’t bite, either.” 

And he hopes that his wistfulness isn’t meddling with his vision because he swears that he can see a matching reaction on her own doll face. “I know! I know, it’s just that I can’t help it sometimes. Talking to other people makes me nervous.” 

Harry could coo at her right now. He doesn’t, though. He nods and smiles at her before reading her total out to her, “That I get, too. But y’doing just fine with me, love.” 

Waiting patiently as she digs through her bag for cash, he tries to not stare. However, it’s impossible. His eyes had a mind of their own dragging against the forces of his will to feast on her image again. Her hands and the tip of her nose. The base of her neck and gentle swell of her clavicles. The swoops of hair that hung in a curtain from her shoulder as her head tilted in search, and the how her teeth bit down into her lip in concentration. Harry counted the amount of times her eyelashes met her waterline in those few seconds of comfortable silence. Three. 

“I thought I had cash on me today,” something in her bag clicks, and she pulls out the rectangular card Harry’s become familiar with, holding it out to him between two deft fingers, painted with red hearts on a white base. “I guess I used my last twenty at the organic food store down the street,” she said. 

“It is pretty easy to get lost in there, isn’t it?” He took her card from her, and tried not to make it obvious that he was eager to read her name off of it as he inserted it into the machine. The embossed letters into the plastic read y/n y/l/n, and when he turns back to look at her, he can’t help the smile that spreads across his boyish features.

Y/n. 

Y/n, y/n, y/n.

This is what it must feel to be let in on a secret that’s worth millions of dollars. It must, because Harry’s heart is soaring with a closure he didn’t know he needed. Y/n, y/n. Her name tickled him. Stroked him. Lathered him with the honey smoothness of the beeswax shampoo he bought at that fateful organic store. It was a fitting name. Sometimes, one could tell a person ‘you know, I actually thought you were a Amy or a Jessica’, because their looks and style just didn’t match the strength or modesty of their name. But not y/n. It fit her like a glove. There was no other way to make sense of the way Harry’s brain was thinking. The name was her. 

“What?” Her lips quirk up into a smile and her eyebrows dip in confusion. Why was he looking at her like that? Did she have something on her face? Here she was, opening up to a cute stranger and she had something on her face? This, she thought to herself, is humiliating. Her finger dusted off non-existent crumbs from the corners of her mouth, “do I have something on my face?”

“No! No, no.” Harry’s careful beam simmered down from it’s previous brightness, and his hand nervously filed through the swoop of chocolate curls sitting on his head like a cinnamon roll. “I just think y’name is pretty thas’ all.” 

He murmured the last part so that it was practically incoherent, and lowered his gaze as a searing heat stretching like saran wrap around his head and the divot on the nape of his neck.  Oh, God. He was fucking blushing. Great Harry. A normally favorite among the ladies had been reduced to murmurs and thick, uncoordinated movements. 

Like dropping her card when she piped up again. 

Voice as small and quaint as his had been, "you think my name is pretty?” Her fingers are wrapped around the frail straps of her bag, tight enough that her knuckles were white and Harry was scared that she’d bury her fingernails into her palm. 

“I think y’very pretty.” He whispered back. He can’t even bear to look at her in fear that he’s totally fucked himself over once and for all. His logic was this: what girl wants to be told by the guy they’re buying flowers that they’re pretty after he reads her name from her debit card? Especially one who (if outside female sources are to be believed) dresses “the way my mother did when she was a girl in the seventies”? Jesus, fuck. He must’ve looked ridiculous. 

Harry opened his mouth to backtrack and apologize for being so unorthodox in his workspace, a breath sitting on his tongue with words ready to spew out, but the bell began to chime and it yanks his head from the register to the front and instead he said, “welcome! I’ll be with you in a moment.” 

Flustered and full of regret, the flower connoisseur returned his wired gaze back to y/n, who… was smiling at him? The kind of smile that said ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you just said that. Now please say it again’? Was he… dreaming? Did he have to pinch himself in order to verify that he wasn-

“Thank you... what’s your name?” Y/n looked at the card from his hands and sunk her hand- carefully, as to not get her fingers stuck in any of the tiny holes- and there was another clicking noise before she took her hand back out. That angel-like smear of girlish happiness was still on her, decadently radiating positivity and secret affection. Goodness leaked from the seams of her bones; through the cracks of her breastplate, radiating from her chest to Harry’s. He could feel it now. He could feel that his previous assumptions about her nature were true. She was altruistic and tender, like the inside of a bird’s wing. 

“Harry. M’name’s Harry.” This time, he didn’t hide his happiness. Even his eyes shone with a heightened, clear and sparkly shade of liquid evergreen. The joy that bounced inside of him like ricocheting metal balls in a pin game machine. His slender hand, fawn-skinned and graceful like the legs of a deer, stretched out between them. His mother had taught him that along with the first introduction of his name, a handshake must be present, always. Dipping his head slightly, and his words spongy with love-ditz, Harry rumbled, “Nice to meet you, y/n.”  

She placed her hand in his, and was practically swallowed by only his palm. He curled his fingers around her, thumb and middle finger overlapping around the clammy center of hers. So she was nervous, just as he was. Y/n was trained on their embracing limbs, and he could feel a spot on his neck where the skin palpated from the rush of blood as she observed their entwined digits. Their hands moved up and down, up and down between them for longer than necessary until her chin twitched back up to meet his, and she blinked mawkishly, slowly, like the videos of rehabilitated barn owls Harry sees on his Instagram. 

Then, suddenly, as if she remembered she was not the only one present, y/n jolts upright and shakes her head dazedly. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Harry. I like your nail color,” she added. 

He’s cheesing. A shit-eating grin too big for his face and it carves dimples into the flesh of his cheeks. His name on her tongue had never sounded so appealing, like it was made for her and only her to say. Not even the turtle-doves that cooed outside his window in the mornings sounded as beautiful as she did saying his name. And she complimented her nails! She hadn’t scrutinized him like others had, instead, she displayed her admiration for them. No one- well, actually he can’t say that without offending Mitch- no female of his age had ever received him with such open-mindedness as hers. If he didn’t have any self-restraint, he would giggle. Instead, Harry pulled his hand back so that their perfect moment wasn’t sullied with bouts of bad timing, “thank y’love. I like yours, too. You’ll have t’come over sometime and paint mine, yeah?” 

Y/n laughed, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t been too bold, “I’d love too!” With glee frozen on her, she turned to look over her shoulder at the customer who was browsing the flowers Harry had in buckets, “I don’t want to hold you back from a customer for so long. I’ll stop by again soon, Harry. Thank you so much for your help.” 

The moment her hands reached for the wrapped bundle of sunflowers and the mermaid vase, a metaphorical grey cloud of rain and thunder manifested in the space above his head, and blocked all of the sunshine from spanning across his toned, lithe body. Did she really have to go? He wanted to whine. Maybe even wrap himself around her ankles like a child that refused to leave the park. They were only just getting to a mutual spot of comfort! Forget the other customer, he wanted to shout. Harry would kick them out and flip the sign to ‘closed’ if it meant only a few more minutes in the presence of her candy-coated charisma. 

But he knows that’s unrealistic, and settles with, “it was my pleasure, y/n,” a flirty wink (at least he hopes it is), “I’ll be waiting f’your next visit.” His taffy lips wrapping effortlessly around his smooth words, fueled by her welcoming receptiveness to his advances. It would be easy to be himself in the future, a little smoother and eloquent in his language and feeling. He was usually clear with what he wanted from anyone, and made it a pleasurable experience in all aspects for both parties involved (once it was three). Harry wanted to sweep her off her feet, and he wanted it to be an enjoyable experience for the both of them. Revel in that feeling of blooming emotions in a new relationship. A healthy one, in which he wasn’t receiving back-handed compliments all the time. 

He wasn’t superficial enough to push anyone off the table based on looks alone, but it did help that y/n had the disposition of an angel. An ethereal voice, supple lips that looked so silky and soft they had to feel that way, too, and hands that felt so tender in his. Perfect for holding on a late night stroll, or over the center console of his car when -if they go out on dates. 

What really hooked, reeled, and sinked him, though, was the fact that she was so nice to him. From the start, she’d been nothing but polite and sweet with him. Don’t even get him started on the way he swooned at the tone of her voice when he said that her name was pretty! So quiet and velvety, careful and calculated like she wanted him to know that it was okay. That she wasn’t thrown off by his comment. He nearly toppled over, clutching his heart with his legs jutting straight up into the air like a frightened goat. 

It wasn’t until the bells stopped ringing the sad notice of her exit that Harry realized he passed up the perfect opportunity to ask for her number, and as he kicked himself over it, he walked with the perfect customer service face he could muster to help the other person in his store. 

***

Harry was having a shitty morning. 

Not the kind of morning where every aspect of his routine is a terrible mishap, but like the water being too cold and the stove not working or the bottle of oat milk in the fridge being empty so he couldn’t make coffee. No, everything was fine and rolling smoothly, as it should. 

His water was the perfect temperature and ran down the toned bumps and divots of his muscles like the relaxing thrums of a lover’s caress in the midst of prowling heat. As soon as it hit his back, he released a sigh of contentment, his shoulders hunching and head rolling back and his hands roamed his shoulders and the back of his neck, rubbing away any aches that existed. The branch of eucalyptus that hung from the golden pipe of his showerhead fused a thick minty scent into the steam that fogged the glass wall, and the calming aroma helped the tendons loosen like the deflating limpness of untied shoelaces. He spent a few minutes just standing there, inhaling and exhaling deeply and feeling his lungs open and stretch beneath his rib cage. 

It almost made him wish that he’d opted to use his tub for a hot bath instead. 

He was able to cook an egg just fine on his stove, with dashes of Everything Bagel Seasoning with a side of avocado and a slice of toasted cranberry walnut bread, the same thing he had every morning. The carton of oat milk was brand new from his trip to the market the day before, and his coffee tasted the same as it always did. But… he was just... sad. An melancholy soreness that eroded against the insides of his body, consuming him slowly but surely and leaving him with a lost feeling of emptiness and unimportance. 

He thinks he might know why he’s feeling this way. 

While he’s stirring his scrambled eggs, he’s wondering how y/n likes hers. Over easy? Sunny-side up? Scrambled, like him? Did she even like eggs in the morning? What did she eat in the morning? He knows that some people ‘aren’t hungry’ in the mornings, though that’s only because they’ve gone hungry in the mornings before for an extended time period, and after so long of not feeding their growling stomachs, their brain discontinues the signals of hunger. Harry hopes that isn’t the case with y/n, and that she’s eating the proper three meals a day every day. 

And while he dipped a mini vegan chocolate croissant that he got at Whole Foods, he also wonders what she likes to dip chocolate croissants into, or if she even likes chocolate croissants. If she was a person who likes sweet treats, like strawberry tarts with powdered sugar over them or something lighter, like fruit cut into small squares in a bowl. When Harry was younger and would visit his nan on the weekends, she would pick fresh strawberries from her garden and cut them up for him when he’d woken from his nap. Sometimes, she would even sprinkle half a tablespoon of sugar over them. He wonders if she’d ever eaten strawberries like that. 

It’s been a week and a half, he still hasn’t seen her, and his heart is yearning. 

Harry knows he’s not in the correct headspace to assist other people with a cheery disposition about an hour before opening time, and decides it’s best if he writes a note on the door about how the shop wouldn’t open that day because he didn’t want to taint the reputation of his business by snapping at a customer for the only bundle of sunflowers he had, or dissolve into a puddle of love-sick tears in the middle of ringing someone up. Though really the notice just says ‘H’s Garden will not be opening today. Sorry for the inconvenience!’ followed by a frowning face and a lopsided, filled-in heart. 

Harry drags his feet back up the stairs, his lower lip jutting out in a discreet but depressing pout, and grabs Owen from his tank so that the chameleon could curl into the shoulder of Harry’s hoodie while he moped on the couch to sappy rom-coms that would only make him think about her more. At least there was someone there with him, even if his small green friend only used him for mangoes and papaya. They sit together for the entirety of Romeo + Juliet, and when it’s over, Harry’s sniffly and standing up to return Owen to his enclosure and to clean because the riotous emotions that whirl within him are too much to process while sitting down. 

Cleaning wouldn’t help him solve his problems, but it would help him cram all of his worries into a tight corner at the back of his mind- sort of like when dirty laundry began to overflow in the hamper and it requires extra force to shove it all in, only to come all back out like a memory sponge. His tormented thoughts on y/n could be compared to a dramatic inner monologue, very similar to how Romeo feels about his Juliet. But, soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and y/n is the sun. Harry has the play on his book shelf (the one with the side-to-side modern English translation because he was never quite gifted in the English department) and as he reaches for a bandana to tie his hair back, he finds himself resonating with a particular line: parting is such a sweet sorrow.

There was no need to change any of his clothing, since he was already dressed in one of his more impromptu outfits; grey sweats and a white t-shirt that read ‘women are smarter’ in black across his chest. He tied the red bandana into a knot at the back of his head, and lifted it over his chin so that it settled on his forehead, sweeping his hair back with a final push back. It doesn’t get in his way when he crouches to clean his various tables, spraying cleaning products with his shirt pulled over his nose, another organic product that’s supposed to be less harmful and smells like cinnamon and sandalwood. His shoulder blades begin to ache because he’s being a little more aggressive than he has to be, but the green tiles were sparkling so he was content. 

He washes the dishes, mops the kitchen floor, vacuums the carpets, cleans Owen’s habitat, and tidies the mail that piled up on the table when he finally calls it quits. Scouring his brain for something to do, to keep him busy- his brain busy, Harry settles on the floor with his back to the edge of his bed. He’s shirtless now, and is in need of another shower but he’d rather not because he knows he might end up crying over the possibility that he’s scared y/n off. There’s a book in his hands and a Frank Ocean record playing softly in the background that mentions something about ‘I've been thinkin' 'bout you, do you think about me still?’ and it’s not helping his case at all.    

It’s no use. 

There’s a plague of darkness buzzing like cicadas in his ears. He fears rejection and criticism. That maybe, she was only pretending in order to make the situation more pleasant so it ended sooner. Most of all, he feared that it would always be this way. That he would never find someone who embraces who he is as a person. Always met with mean side-eye glances or second looks of displeasure and confusion. It isn’t always that way, though, because then that would mean he gets absolutely no action, and that isn’t true. 

Harry is very… well-educated in matters that concerned sexual intercourse, but it was always a one-night stand ordeal. It was never ‘I really like you we should go out sometime’. In fact, he noticed that only time his approaches were well received were those in which he was dressed in a calmer manner. Simple, solid colors with sneakers or a t-shirt. Girls would flirt back, make good conversation, allow him to buy them a few drinks, and when he’d take them to his apartment they’d ask why he lived on top of a flower-shop, and if it was his sister or female-friend’s palace that he was crashing. Sex would ensue, but his heart wouldn’t be as present and engaged as he wanted it to be. 

Wrong. It was always so fucking wrong, and God, if he didn’t get out of this apartment he’s going to breakdown and cry and there’s no one to call to come over because Mitch is on a trip with his girlfriend, Sarah, and his other friend Jeff is on his honeymoon in Sweden. They were the only two on his mental speed dial list during the rare occasions he had a crisis, as they were the two that Harry had ever really opened up to. Mitch was a bit closer to his heart. They’ve known each other since their school days and practically grew up together (at one point they had small crushes on each other, which were confessed years down the line). Jeff was the owner of Winsome where… where y/n had mentioned spending her last twenty dollar bill. He didn’t have an issue opening up to them. He liked opening up to them, but he didn’t understand why they were the only two that ever truly opened their arms to him. 

A walk, he decided, would help him… air out his brain. Calm down. Breathe a little deeper, a little easier. 

He threw his white shirt back on, and a forest green sweatshirt that donned the emblem of the school he went to earn his business degree that fit him wide around the shoulders and felt like a marshmallow. Putting on a pair of beat up shoes, he shoved his keys into his pocket, hobbling and nearly losing his balance because he was moving way too fast. The door closed behind him with a slam, and even though he was still wearing the bandana around his head, wispy stray curls framing his face in a wild mane, his distress palpable through his appearance, but he doesn’t care. He just needs to get out and feel the cool air against his skin. 

There’s a backdoor behind the stairs that will take him to a small alleyway that leads to a back parking lot where other shop owners that live at the top of their stores on the same side of his street parked their cars. He unlocks it from the inside, and throws his shoulder into it, desperate to her out. When it shuts behind him, he doesn’t turn back because it’s the kind to lock from the outside when closed. His fingers curl into the ends of his sleeve so that the tips of his fingers (nails now changed to a sparkling silver color) are the only parts of his hands visible. 

Rounding the corner, he whistled the cheeriest tune he can muster. His lips are puckered and his cheekbones high with the extension of his mouth. He’s not very happy on the inside, though he remembers reading something somewhere that if you pretend to be something long enough, you’ll eventually become it. If he pretends to be happy, then he’ll actually be happy. 

Right?

Harry rounds the corner of the parking lot and turns on to the main street. It’s only two in the afternoon, so there's people crawling in and out of shops anywhere. He even sees a man and a woman peeking into the window of his store, and he would feel bad if he wasn’t in a shitty mood already. He’s so out of it, that he nearly yells ‘get your hands off my windows!’. He doesn’t though, because for a moment the woman becomes y/n and the man becomes him, wrapping a ringed hand around her waist and whispering in her downy ear ‘they’re closed, darling, let’s go somewhere else’ and she straightens dejectedly, pouting playfully and standing up and her tippy toes so that she could press a quick kiss to his lips. 

That image fades though, and the couple continues with their stroll, hand in hand, and his heart is wrenching, writhing and trying to yank itself free from it’s place in his chest because it hurts too much to stay. 

Cars whizz past, and he skirts in and out of people on the sidewalk, keeping his pace fast and focused. There’s no intended destination, he’s just moving with the intent to forget the pretty girl who haunts him. Her voice is all he can hear. Her smile is all she can picture. And the rest of her is all he can imagine, which is exactly what hurts the most. Imagination only goes so far, fulfils so much with uncertainty of what the truth was and what wasn’t. Harry could imagine her with her feet up on the lip of a bubble filled tub, a glass of wine in her hands, but then…what kind of wine did she like? Or did she even like wine? And did she even have a bathtub to stretch out in after a long day? 

He curses the crimes he may have committed in past lives to deserve this torture. This unbearable pain that felt like he was being dunked in a slow-acting acid. He can do nothing about it but keep walking with labored will power. He passed his shop, and a bakery and a small thrift store that sells used clothing for way too much money. At the propped open double-doors of Jeff’s Winsome, he decides to talk in and browse. There’s so many items that smell good and taste good, that it was fun to just walk in and look. 

“Back again so soon, H?” 

Spinning on his heel, Harry comes face to face with Niall, a brunette, fit, Irish bloke with a chummy smile and a killer sense of humor. The two have brokered a sort of friendship, considering the amount of time (and money) that Harry spends there. Niall has even started calling him ‘H’ in silent homage to his flower shop. 

“Y’know I can’t stay away,” Harry attempted to joke, his lips pulling up in a weak smile, “plus, I think I needed s’more of the peppermint essential oils f’my diffuser.” 

“‘Course ya do! You're worse than the bloody vegan mums that come in asking for gluten free baby powder!” Niall cups a hand over his mouth and loudly whispers to so that only Harry catches his verbiage. There was a woman in the back of the store, looking through soaps in the limited kid’s section, the same exact kind that Niall was speaking about. “Go on and look around then, I’ll be here when you’re finished.” He said. 

Harry only nodded his acknowledgement, and moved in between wooden walnut shelves. The entire store had a caramel brown color scheme, with only the inventory adding color to it. Macramé potted succulents and plants added to the natural, outdoorsy feel. Winsome had an interesting mix of smells from all of the aromatherapy based products it housed, but it only added to the appeal. 

Currently, he held a packet of four lip balms that advertised to be ‘100% all naturally derived ingredients with no artificial additives' infused with ‘healing power of crystals’, two of them ‘citrine cherry' flavored, and the remaining ‘garnet guava’. The brand name is something in Italian that he can’t read, packaging thick and a triangle made of arrows in the corner signaling it can be decomposed and/or recycled. He had the same exact ones at home, only they were all misplaced and- 

“Harry?”

A small, timid voice called his name from behind him, and he froze. He knew that voice. It was the same one he had repeated over and over in his head for the past week, waiting for her promised arrival with a hopeful heart. 

His eyes go wide with recognition, body still and stiff like a deer caught in headlights. His heart begins to rump at a furious speed, loud in his ears like a million stampeding hooves. The packaged products in his hands shake, and then she speaks again, “Harry, is that you?” 

Is this really happening right now? He’s embarrassed at having been caught with lipstick in his hands of all things, but he can’t put them back now. It was too late for that. He lets them hang at his side, and turns around. He hopes there isn’t perspiration dripping from his temples because all of a sudden he wants to yank his sweater off. 

Harry turned, slowly. He feared that if he moved too fast she would fly away like a startled dove. 

“Y/n…” He’s breathless, but he manages a pitiful quirk of the corner of his mouth, which he licks over right after, “hi.” 

She’s wearing a dress this time, frilly at the hem which fell just above her knees. It’s pink and covered and lined with blood red trim at her forearms. A string of pearls glistens at the base of her throat, and her lips are covered in a sheen of lipstick. Her hair, however, is a tousled mess, pieces of it framing her face and untucked from her bun as if she had been jostling around. Her cheeks are flushed with the cold, and clearly that thin beige cardigan hanging off her elbows is doing nothing to keep her warm.

Y/n smiles at him, with the same shakiness, “f-for a second I thought I was talking to the wrong p-person.” 

 It’s quiet again, and they’re both fidgeting. Y/n’s knees knock together as she shifts her weight from foot to food, and Harry idly rubs his finger under his nose and sniffs boogies that aren’t there. She’s staring at the ground and rocking back and forth on her heels and he can’t think of anything to say because he’s so paralyzed by the fact that she’s actually standing in front of him, and looks as gorgeous as ever. Had he somehow manifested her presence? 

While she’s hiking up the ends of her sweater so that they’re situated properly on her shoulders, he says the first thing that comes to his mind. “Aren’t y’cold?”

Her head snaps up and she peeks at him from under her lashes while flattening a hand at her thigh, “a little bit.” 

Harry watches her tuck her hair behind her ears and wonders if she came walking from her apartment again. In the cold. Dress as she was. Not that he had a problem with the way that she was dressed! He understood that sometimes when people grew bored they used the smallest occasions to dress up and have some fun and get out of their homes. He did it too, sometimes. To clear his head. Hell, isn’t that what he was doing now?

“D’you need a ride home?” He stumbled over his tongue to backtrack, not wanting her to think that he was a wierdo or anything like that, “t-that is if y’walking, I wouldn’t want you to get sick or anything like that. S’bit chilly out today.” 

Y/n smiles shyly at him, a blush on the highest points of her cheeks, and rubs the side of her face against the fabric of her cardigan, “thank you, for the offer, but uhm… it’s my friend’s baby-shower-gender-reveal thing today and I came with my other friend to some last minute gifts and some flowers. I was going to buy some stuff from here because she’s crazy about the whole ‘no preservatives’ and all but, and I was also going to stop by your shop to buy some flowers, but I saw you were closed so I…I’m rambling again.” She sputtered out the last bit, and pressed the tips of her three middle fingers to her lips to stop the words from coming out. 

Harry smirked at her antics, but it’s more of a repressed smile, and the rest of his humor gleamed in the sea-glass of his eyes like a message in a bottle. 

“S’alright, love.” He’s still holding the lip balms in his hand, and he can feel the moisture that’s collecting on his palms dampening the Kraft like material as he gestured to her dress with the tip of his chin. “Y’wearing pink. I take it y’want the baby to be a girl?”

“Actually, I know it’s a girl. She told me,” y/n pips, shrugging smugly. 

Harry laughs at her this time, “Did you finish with all your purchases here? I can make an exception and open up f’you.”

“Oh, Harry, I don’t wanna bother you! Because if this was your day off then-”

He lifts a hand to get her to stop, and uses the opportunity to twist around and put back what he had in his hands. The conversation is flowing so smoothly now, that all of his previous worries are gone. He can only focus on her and the way her eyelashes fluttered and the crystalline sparkly in her voice. 

“Y/n, it’s fine. D’ya finish here? We can head over to the shop now if you’d like.” Harry points a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the door. 

“Uh, no. I just got here so I still have to go grab some things,” she said, pushing her hair past her ears again. He thinks that she can probably tell the disheveled state her hair was in, because she begins to pop off a pin in her hair to readjust it. He doesn’t mind it, though. He thinks she looks cute. Angel-like. 

He nods, rolling his hands into fists within his sleeves so that the cuffs hang over his knuckles, and tries not to trip over his legs as he backs away. “A’right. I’ll wait f’you in the front, then. Take y’time, love.” 

“‘Kay,” she gleams at him, biting down on her bottom lip, and Harry turns away fully before he starts whining about how cute she is or before there’s a dent in the heather grey fabric of his sweatpants.  

At the front, Niall has his chin at the palm of his hand, and as he gets closer, Harry lifts his head to see that the brunette is wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. There's a shit-eating grin on his face that clearly points to a mountain of teasing in the near distance. 

“A little love-struck, mate?” He said, as soon as Harry was within hearing distance. At least he had the decency to keep his voice down, he thought. 

Harry flips him off, “oh, bug off.” 

Silver glitter sparkling on his nails, and his gaze strays to the floor, bashful of how clear his affection was. He turns to rest his bum against the counter and pulls out his phone to appear busy as he waits for y/n, mindlessly opening Instagram to have something to do (and to stop him from glancing at her ever two seconds).    

“Yup. I knew it. Have y’asked her out yet?” Niall doesn’t stop to let Harry refute his question, “y’know she comes in sometimes, after stopping by your place? And she just will not stop talking about how nice yeh were to her.”

Harry’s head snaps up from his screen so fast, something at the back of his neck creaks with the force. Instagram is long forgotten.

“What? Are you fuckin��� with me right now?” He doesn’t mean for his words to come as aggressive as they do, but the thought of her speaking to someone else about him is… well, it’s thrilling. 

Alarmed, Niall’s hands come up near his face in the motion of surrender, “no, man! Dead serious. Think she likes yeh, honestly.”

He can only say: “Fuck me.”

Niall is about to respond when a quiet voice breaks their stares, “I’m all finished.” 

“Already, babe? I’ll rig ya up, then!” 

He’s quick to slide the few products over the scanning square, and y/n and Harry stand beside each other silently, their height difference laughable. Niall’s gaze flickered between them with no commentary, and his lips pucker with a wiggling smile when he finally announces her total. A bit too much for a small changing blanket, oatmeal-based baby lotion, pacifiers with a lavender infused towel attached to ‘aid with goodnight night’s sleep’, and a bamboo hairbrush with a tuft of soft bristles. 

Nonetheless, she provides the money with a pleasant smile. Harry can see a bit of tightness around her eyes that suggests discomfort, but he doesn’t say anything. Niall hands her a paper bag with her purchase, “there yeh go! Have a good day now, y/n! And be good, to Harry!” 

Harry’s eyes widen at Niall’s last comment, and it takes every bit of self-restraint in him to not reach the other counter and whack him in the back of the head. Instead, he shakes and ducks his head in near shame.

Y/n, however, quips back with “I’ll be nice only if you’re nice,” and bumps her shoulder against his before walking towards the door, looking over her shoulder at Harry who’s smiling wide now, and trailing after her with no regard to Niall at all. 

He shouts something after them about being rude lovebirds, but Harry doesn’t care. He’s floating after this heaven-sent like cartoon characters being led to a freshly baked pie with their nose on the scent. His rump high in the air like the Lorax disappearing into the light in the clouds, utterly ignorant to everything else. 

When they’ve both stepped outside, they speak at the same time, 

“Let me just-”

“Do y’wanna put-” 

Harry and y/n giggle at each other, 

“You go first.” 

“Y’speak first.” 

And then they laugh again. Harry pretends to zip his lips and throws away the key, and she says radiantly, “I’ll drop this off in my friend’s car really fast and we can walk to your flower shop.” 

Watching her approach a car parked two spots away, a girl with blue, pink, and brown hair leans over to the passenger side, seat belt straining against her throat and when she sees Harry, she waves and it makes y/n push her back to her spot behind the driver’s  side. Whoever this girl is, she and Niall have to meet, seeing as they can’t mind their own business. He chuckled and waved back, that girl laughing along with him and it made y/n cover her face with her cardigan covered hands. 

“I’m sorry about Charlotte,” she said when she got back, “she doesn’t know how to mind her own.”

“A bit like Niall, it seems.” Harry said. He waits for her to catch up before beginning to walk down the street. Side to side, shoulder to shoulder. They’re so close, Harry can feel the warmth of her body heat through the fleece of his sweatshirt. It’s cold, and she’s still this warm? 

“Maybe,” her eyebrows raise, and her head tilts towards him, “they should meet.” 

“Tha’s exactly what I was thinkin’!” His voice rises with his excited agreement, and the tip of his nose wiggles as he scrunches his nose. 

As they get closer, to H’s Garden, Harry reaches into his pocket for his keys, fingering through them so that they wouldn’t have to stand in the cold for so long. He didn’t want her to get sick. 

“I’m sorry, Harry. I feel really bad about this,” she whispered beside him, looking up at him with doe eyes as she worried her lip between her teeth, the sheen of gloss adding an extra allure to her image at that moment. “It’s your day off, and I’m bugging you.” 

They stood in front of the door now, underneath the green umbrella cover that extended from the top of the door and down the side of the window. Harry waited for her to step into the little alcove created by the indent of the door before stepping in after her and jiggling the key into the lock. He resisted the urge to pull his lips down into a cooing frown at the look on her face. She really was worried about disturbing him. If only she knew that he spent the entire day moping (and nearly crying) over her. 

He sucked on his teeth, “oh, love, please worryin’ about it. Don’t wanna see that frown on y’pretty face anymore okay?” His confidence was slowly coming back, “s’not my day off, I just didn’t feel like speaking to customers today.” 

Shrugging, he opened the door, and took a step back to allow her to step through first. Y/n ducked her head as she passed him with a murmured ‘oh, okay’, and he followed right after her, wanting to get away from the cold too because he knew that his nose was probably pink at that moment, but what he didn’t anticipate was for y/n to stop right after breaching the threshold, and bend over at the waist to pick something up from the floor, causing Harry to bump into her at such an awkwardly sexual angle with all of his momentum. 

Considering he was half twisted away from her and in the middle of pulling out the key from it’s slot, the amount of force in Harry’s push from behind was enough to cause her to nearly fall forward, a surprised whimper slipping from her lips. Harry, determined not to see her fall, lets go of the key and reaches out just in time to grasp her hips on either side, pulling her back towards him mid-fall so that she doesn't collapse on her face. 

However, in the midst of all of this Harry forgets himself and uses a bit too much force. Not to mention, the implications of their position makes him hyper aware of every single place their bodies touched, her small frame against his lithe, tattooed body. 

This moment only lasts for a few seconds, but he can feel everything. 

He can feel the easy give of the skin of her hips underneath each finger that touched her, the softness of the flesh on her thighs against his sturdy knees. The fabric of his sweatpants is suddenly non-existent, and it’s almost as if he felt every taught tendon of her legs, frozen with efforts of helping catch or brace herself. The heat of her groin is flush against his, and it makes him want to scream with a sudden sensitivity. Her ass is practically seated on him, full and malleable against the points of his laurel covered hip bones. Harry’s semi-hunched, as her weight also pushed him back, and the position is doing nothing to help his frenzied mind settle. He feels like shit because he’s being a horny, pubescent kid instead of asking her if she’s okay, but then y/n moves back into him to straighten fully and their centers grind. Her dress is semi-bunched at the halfway point of her bum, and he can feel heat emanating from her, radiating back on his bloating cock. He has to stifle a moan when she pushes herself up with the tips of her fingers. 

Just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Y/n is dusting her bum off so that her dress falls and covers her modesty, and she’s beet red in the face, not looking at him. Which was fine by him, he was too ashamed to look into her eyes. 

He clears his throat (something he’s doing a lot around her) and asks if she’s okay. 

“Yes. Yes, I’m okay. This was on the floor,” she squeaked, holding up a neon yellow notice sheet in her hand. That damned thing was what caused all of this?

It’s a notice from the delivery men that said, ‘sorry! We missed you!’ with a time and date messily scrawled on the dotted lines. Harry had forgotten that he was getting a shipment of several plants that morning. 

Cursing, he takes it from her, “t-thank you. Now how ‘bout those flowers?”

It’s awkward, obviously, but y/n is severely silent. Harry’s still stuffy in his pants, but he ignores it and doesn’t add any fuel to the fire because there’s more pressing matters at hand than a boner. Y/n is the most quiet she’s ever been around him, considering all of her word vomits and ramblings, and he’s suffering. Definitely beating himself up in his head for having ruined the moment. He held onto her for a second too long, frozen. She must feel so embarrassed, and he was self-endulging like a fucking asshole. 

Harry asks her questions on what flowers she’d like, and she answers by pointing or bringing a stem to him, laying it on the counter without a word. A mixture of dahlias and baby’s breath with a handful of feverfew to make the pink in the dahlia’s stand out. He lays them out on his work table, cutting the ends at an angle where they need to be cutted and laying them out on a sheet of clear, dusty rose paper. Three packets of flower food are strewn at the corner, and y/n busies herself by fidgeting with them. He grows concerned when he makes a comment on the kinds of ribbons he had stored and she doesn’t say anything. Not even a nod or a hum. 

Eventually, he decides he’s had enough of her neglect, and pauses his work to devote her some attention.  

“Love, I’m sorry about what happened,” he said softly, trying to catch her eyes, “I know it probably made y’uncomfortable, and I didn’t do much to make the situation better, but I just didn’t wanna see y’fall.”

Y/n’s head is already dipped, so he can’t see her face, but when her shoulders begin to shake, he knows he’s utterly fucked. She starts to sniffle, and his eyes go wide. The paper crinkled as he set down the baby’s breath he’s holding in his hands. He hates seeing people cry, not because he didn’t know how to deal with it, but because he often ended up crying along with them. Also, he just didn’t want to see her cry. Harry wanted her to be happy, glowing, and smiling. Not dull with dollops of woeful distress in liquid form.

He rounds the corner and spares a look out to the street, wanting to make sure that there is no strange onlooker eavesdropping on their interaction. His hand reaches out to stroke her back or shoulder comfortingly, but he thinks better of it and drops his arm. She most likely would not like to be touched, considering what just happened between them. He drops his head, seeking face-to-face interaction, and speaks as gently as he can, “y/n, what’s wrong?” 

She avoids his search, and turns the other way while sniffling, “you probably think I’m weird now or something after that.” 

“No!” Harry exclaimed, jerking his head back as if he’d been struck, and her words practically had. He can’t believe that she would think that and even go as far as verbalizing her thoughts when he worshipped the ground she walked on and didn’t even know her that well, yet. “No, no. I don’t think that. Y’tripped, that’s all. Happens to everyone. If anythin’ I’m the weirdo for grabbin’ y’the way I did, and I’m really sorry about it.”

Y/n dig the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, “that was so embarrassing, I should’ve told you I was gonna stop or something. I always embarrass myself in front of cute boys and I never know what to do. I just-” 

Harry interrupts before she can dig herself further another hole. He highlights a segment of her words, dropping everything else in hopes of changing the conversation and taking her discomfort away, and mostly because he was bursting with relief and happiness. She had said that she thought he was cute, just how he thought that she was adorable, and nice, and everything good. They were on the same level, their minds in sync. Did that mean…

His voice is airy and light because of what she had just admitted, “y’think I’m cute?”

She stills with awareness of what she’s just said, and a puppy-like noise seeps from the back of the throat before her hands sink further into her eyes, embarrassed. Harry tenderly wraps his fingers around her small wrists and pulls her hands away from her face, murmuring about ‘don’t rub y’eyes anymore, love, y’gonna hurt’ with nothing but kindness. A millisecond of distraction speeds through his mind at the softness on the inside of her wrists. 

There’s a trickle of blubbering in her part, her bitten lips bumping against each other as she attempts to backtrack, “I mean- I- I-”

Harry decides that it’s now or never. It was a bit inconvenient, perhaps, but with her revelation his confidence soared and he was more prepared now to ask than he ever had been. So, he goes for it, “can I have y’number?” 

A moment of semi-uncomfortable silence as the unknown tips the scale. Would she say yes? Would she say no? His head was spinning and he hoped his nose didn’t start bleeding or something because y/n nods slowly, smiling, and then, “okay.” 

He’s elated. He was the polar opposite of what he had been that morning. If only Owen could see him then. He doesn’t waste any time reaching into his back pocket and handing her his unlocked phone. They don’t share any words, only coy glances and flirty quirks of the lips as the tips of her fingers move on his screen. Harry can’t believe that he’s finally getting her number, after nearly a month of pinning. 

When she’s finished, she clicks it off and sets it next to him with an added pat to the back of his suspiciously clean white phone case while he’s tying the flowers together with a loose rubber band at the ends to attach the food packets. He’s fine with working in silence now that she's not crying anymore. He throws occasional glances in her direction, and catches her watching his hands while fiddling with her own. Her brows were furrowed and her mouth was twitching. 

“Will you text me?” She asked him. 

He’s careful not to bruise any of the petals as he sets them down again, pausing with his ministrations to pick up his phone. He wiggles his eyebrows at her and types a quick ‘Hi. It’s Harry :)’. He hits send, “until you’re sick of me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.” She shakes her head, and Harry’s reminded Rachel McAdams in The Notebook while she’s in complete denial of her feelings for Noah. The comparison makes his heart flutter, considering the romance of the onscreen couple. “How much do I owe you?” 

Harry waves her off, “it’s on the house.” She begins to argue, but Harry stops her before she starts rambling again, “y’better go or you’ll be late, love.” He holds out the arrangement to her, tufts of baby’s breath poking out from between the vibrant dahlias like fluffy clouds, the feverfew looking like miniature white daisies in the center. 

She looks at it, and back at him before huffing, “fine, but you’ll have to let me return the favor.”

“Of course,” he smirks, “with dinner, maybe?” 

They’re both gleaming at each other now, “okay.” Y/n takes a step back, her body half twisted as she walks away, but it remains like that for a moment as her eyes rake him up and down, a murmur following, “bye, Harry.” 

His veins charge with electricity, and his dark taffy lips part at her actions. Had she just checked him out? He doesn’t recover quick enough to return her goodbye because the previous swirl of arousal in his navel was bristling back to life at the implications of that look. Calm, slow, steady, and her eyes remained doe-like and innocent. 

She had to have known exactly what she was doing, whispering his name the way she had, looking over her shoulder and under her eyelashes the way she did. Deviously provoking his thoughts to begin a new with a reinspired fervor. The space in his underwear was growing tighter by the second, a blissful ache swelling. 

Before any other customer stepped in after her, Harry locked the door, and jogged up the stairs to prepare himself a nice, hot bath, simultaneously cursing and thanking the stupid fucking delivery men.  

********

Harry can’t stop thinking. 

Obviously, this is a huge issue for him. He was constantly thinking, and well, who wasn’t? The process of thoughts wisping around in his brain was one that he often put an unnecessary amount of energy into because he had no one to filter these thoughts onto, releasing them through a conversation to prevent the exhaustion of his brain and heart. A prime example of these mishaps being the depressing slump that occupied his demeanor that very morning. 

This?

This was different.

As soon as the apartment door was shut behind him, Harry pulled the suffocating sweatshirt off of his upper body, fingers hooking in at the collar and yanking it off with a swift tug. It landed somewhere on his kitchen floor, and he didn’t stop to take note of its final destination. Instead, his legs instinctively took him to his bathroom. 

Chest heaving, Harry walked to the small window leaking sunlight and rolled the stick between his fingers to close the blinds. His thumb dipped into the waistband of his boxes and dragged them down lopsidedly, the tiger tattoo roaring as it became exposed. When the blinds are fully closed, the white extension clangs against the shutters from his aggressive release. His body was slowly being consumed by a raging fire stoked by the illicit images his brain conjured of the innocent, unsuspecting y/n.

His inner turmoil consisted of guilt for using her image that way and justification from the conspiring rake of her eyes along the upper half of him that was visible behind the counter. He was so fixated by her, that her look alone felt like a tempting caress along his skin. And it all happened in a matter of fucking seconds. That’s how gone he was. That’s how fucking gone he was. Harry guesses that the easy excitement also had to do with the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in a while (he only ever gets lucky when he goes out to the bars with Mitch or Jeff, and they’d been gone for a significant amount of time) and the strong affinity he had for the girl who bought flowers from him.  

Explanation or not, he had to do something about the problem in his pants. He was painfully hard, and when he shucked his pants off fully, his underwear dragged with the movement and pressed against the tip of his swollen prick. A darkened patch of moisture bloomed where the head was, and he saw stars at the short pressure. He wouldn’t take his pants off just then, though. He liked to stall his pleasure as much as he could so that when he finally did cum, his stomach muscles contracted and his toes remained curled for more than ten seconds. 

He twisted the golden knobs of his tub so that the water would come rushing out at a borderline scalding temperature, and opened the small cabinet above the toilet for a bottle of almond and coconut shea butter bubbles. He uncapped it and bent over the edge of the tip, the cool, porcelain lip touching his crotch and provoking a choked whimper to leave him. Jerking his hips back, he poured the soapy liquid into the spot where the water cascaded, and retracted his hand when the beginning of froth formed along the surface. 

The heady sweet smell permeated the air with the rising levels of bubbles, and Harry couldn’t wait any longer. Because he liked to torture himself, he closed his eyes and slowly dragged the hell of his hand over the outline of his cock, a groan ripping though the silence. It’s so painfully good, that he does it one more time, and he jolts forward. He removes his hand, slips his thumbs underneath the waistband of his boxers, and lugs the fabric down his hips at an excruciatingly slow pace. The head of his member smearing precum all along as he moves and when he gets caught in the ripples of his boxers the muscles in his thighs flex at the ripple of pleasure that zips into his nerves. 

“Fuck,” he hissed under his breath. His mind was a spinning vintage reel of slideshow images of y/n. Y/n on bruised knees, her mouth wide open and her own drool on her tits, the tip of his cock flat on her tongue as she pleads with weepy eyes for him to cum down her throat. When he finally springs free of his underwear, a hefty slap rings out as his dick collides against his abdomen, right on the space underneath his belly button. 

There’s a stripe of liquid on the trail left by the mushroom head of his prick, and Harry’s eyes roll to the back of his head, throat straining as he hovers over the bathtub. He doesn’t remember the last time he’s ever been this hard over a girl before, and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know if he’ll be able to last as long as he usually does. As he swings a leg over the edge of the tub, the hot water encasing his calf, he’s thinking about how soft she is. The inside of her wrist and the palm of her hand. If she’s that soft on an external part of her body that’s used everyday, he can only wither away at the idea of what the inside of her thighs feel like. 

Bubbles are swarming up now, swathing his thighs and buttocks as he sinks into the sloshing water. When he’s completely seated and satisfied with the belly-button level of water, he clumsily throws a hand in the direction of the knobs to shut them off, and reclined his head against the curved end of the tub with his eyes shut. 

He hikes up his knees so that they’re resting against the porcelain walls, and mindlessly ruts up into the water at the filthy images he’s picturing, white foam collecting in sparse clouds over the math on his chest. He doesn’t know what’s gotten into him. It’s as if his body is being transported back to the moment his hips clashed with y/n’s. At the recollection, his mouth drops and his eyebrows pinch in a silent moan. The feel of her flesh underneath his fingertips has him bobbing in the water, and the next ideation has him gripping the base of his cock. 

Vividly, he pictured her on all fours, keening back onto him as her pussy enveloped him in warmth, a warmth that is almost replicated by the temperature of the water, dripping and making a mess of him but what’s turning him on most of all is the easy flushness of their bodies. He had felt the way her bum gave way under his hold, and he imagined the bounce of her flesh as he thrusted into her. 

He moaned a broken call of her name with his eyes still shut, and heard the trickling of water as his fist rolled up his stiff prick, squeezing at the tip so that a few more droplets of precum dribbled out. With his thumb, he rubbed over the red mushroom head and lathered it in slow, leisurely circles, a throb pulsating with the beat of his heart as he returned to flicking his wrist over himself. 

The way that he looked at him and the sound of his name on her lips seared into his memory. Airy and willowy, similar to it resonated in his brain with the fantasy of sinking into her for the first time, stretching her and having her preen and arch with desperate whimpers of his name for more. Harry considered himself to be ‘well-endowed’ and his size was a factor of what sent him careening over the edge as girls mewled over his size after he’d bottomed out. He wanted y/n to mewl under him, both of them falling apart at the seams at the mutual pleasures because if Harry’s this broken over just the thought of her, then he’s sure he’s going to lose himself beyond recognition after he’s buried himself into her velvety walls, slick with her arousal and so fucking warm. 

Just as she had been earlier that day. There had been two layers between them- the fabric of Harry’s pants and her panties- yet, he was still able to feel an immense heat from the apex of her thighs against his cock. He needed more than this. He needed her, not just his hand driving him closer to the edge. 

His jaw clenched as he bit back on a particularly loud moan, for no reason other than he enjoyed self-sabotage from time to time, and the speed of his jerking hand increased. His other hand gripped the side of the tub, and his legs flexed as he began to thrust up into his own fist, a trail of bubbles sticking to the tanned muscles. The cut rectangles of muscles of his abdomen glistened like freshly chopped cubes of apricot with the droplets of water that remained clinging to him. His breath came in labored, strained puffs as the palm of his hand twisted, tightening at the tip and loosening at the base. 

For a moment, he paused and cupped his balls, massaging them as the fantasy in his head continued. His mouth wrapping around y/n’s nipples, her eyes glazed over from previous orgasm that he wanted so badly to give her. She’d whine something soft and quiet to match her personality, ‘please, Harry, please I want more. Need another Harry, please’, and he’d speed up the movement of his hips, driving deep into her and cooing into her ear about, ‘c’mon, darling. Give m’another then. Y’want it so bad, yeah? Give me a’fucking ‘nother’, and she’d release a peircing moan that explodes in his eardrums while arching into him. She’d squeeze impossible tight around him, gushing with her own cum. 

The water in Harry’s tub sloshes around his ankles, and the muscles of his abdomen clench so that he’s closing in on himself, sputtering on an outrageously loud cry that he can’t contain and his hand increases the speed of his filthy ministrations because he’s right on the edge. He’s about to fucking cum and the back of his eyelids burns with the possible variances of y/n’s face in ecstasy provided by him with his nose deep in her cunt, lapping at the sweet honey that spills with every whimper of, ‘please let me cum, Harry. I’ll do anything, I’ll be good, please let me cum. 

He tensed violently, his face contorted painfully as white ropes spurt from the tip of his cock over his fist and onto his chest, blending with the white almond foam. His feet are braced against the edge of the tub and his head falls back and his stomach tenses even further, the final leaks of his cum dribbling out. 

With the fuzziness that comes after an orgasm, his body melts back into the water that’s still warm, and his jerks with a pant as he allows his softening prick to sink into the water. The head on his hair is matted in a chocolate smear across his forehead, and his lips are a raging heart of cherry blossoms, parted with arduous gasps of recovery breath. His hands fall into the water at his sides, and with the lapping movement of the liquid against his sensitive member, he ruts into nothing again. 

Reclined with his eyes closed and heartbeat slowing, Harry murmurs a final, “fuck me,” at the extreme sensations that had raked through his body. 

Somewhere in the muffled distance, his phone dings with the notification of a text message, and with a tired noise of resentment, he sits up and reaches for his sweatpants that lay in a messy puddle besides the tub. His fingers drip darkening spots onto the grey material as he rummages for his phone, and then he finally clicks it on...

It’s her name, lighting up his screen, and the text reads: 

y/n <3 : so… dinner? 

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever crushed on a girl this hard before because even though he’s just completely physically spent himself, there’s something stirring in the depths of his tummy just at seeing the heart she put next to her name. 

He couldn’t be happier. 

*    *    *    *    *    *

and here he is!! what do you guys think?? pls pls pls leave your feedback in my askbox! i’d love to hear your thoughts! and if you really really loved it, don’t be afraid to press that reblog button <3333

[totiredtowrite]

Wolf In Sheeps Clothing

Warnings - Cursing because angry boy, reader being a cold mf, reader's clothes are described (but kind of vaguely so dw)

Note: I feel like I can hear the gif for some reason :D? Kind of self indulgent so reader is shorter than kyotani. Poor mad dog, always being put in his place by pretty boys. I'll have you know that I consult the wiki everytime I write something for character details by the way. (bragging shamelessly). Reader is also a second year and the student council president because this is fiction and I'm not sure if you have to be a third year hehe

this turned out longer than I thought it would, really popped off with this one

Male Reader

Kyotani Kentarou has a new enemy.

Whether or not you knew he though of you as an enemy didn't matter to him.

Suprisingly, it doesn't happen as often as some might think. His awful attitude and uncooperative nature ensures that he makes more enemies than friends, but most people are too afraid to approach him in order to become one of the two.

His new enemy?

You. (L/n) (y/n), Student Council President.

Kyotani never really though much of you. Not when you campaigned for the spot, (despite being in the second year), and not when you got the position. He's seen you, sure, you made that whole speech when you got the part and you oversaw detention sometimes.

Kyotani, (surprisingly), didn't get detention much. On the one time you oversaw the detention class when he was supposed to be there, he decided not to go.

So, overall, he hardly saw you at all. You were nothing but a passing thought in his mind when he heard people talking about you. He never expected to talk to you, much less consider you his worst enemy.

~~~

It really was a normal day for Kyotani. He woke up, took a shower, ate on his way to school, and slipped into class with his usual "fuck with me and you die" look on.

Practice was cancelled that day as the coach was out sick, so he didn't really have anything to do. Everything was all normal for him, right up until the end of the day. Kyotani was stalking through the hallways, the other second years moving out of his way and giving hushed whispers to their friends as they got ready to leave.

He was used to that, and even liked the feeling it gave him, knowing that these people were actually afraid of him. He was close to his locker when it happened.

He ran right into you, almost knocking you back. He glowered down at you, an angry spark in his eye that would have any other student running far away. You however, just stepped back to be clear of his general bubble, and looked up at him with a frown.

Truth be told, he had never really seen you up close. True he'd overheard some of his classmates talking about how 'intimidating' and 'handsome' you were, but Kentarou didn't expect to actually feel it coming off of you. He didn't expect to point out how attractive you were right off the bat.

The hard glisten in your eye faded as you scanned his face. You know this guy. Your expression changed from 'stone cold dictator' to 'unbothered student council president.'

Somehow feeling the tension, most of the students cleared out before either of you said a word.

"Kyotani Kentarou," you said, "Number 16 on our schools volleyball team. Infamous for your out of control aggression and prowess in your sport." You smirked at him quickly, straightening your blazer and standing up straight.

"The hell," he lifted his head to look down his nose at you, "why do you know me?"

You shrug. "I keep tabs on all the students I think are troublesome. Or interesting." He watched as you casually turned to your bag and pulled out a large binder. "You're on the first page, marked in red." you had a somewhat mocking tone in your voice, that coy smirk returning.

Kyotani growled, the noise sounding surprisingly like an animal. You were much more cocky up close. Cocky and aggravating. He moved closer to you so that your chests were almost touching while you put the binder away, and looked straight down at your face. "I can be much more troublesome," he said lowly.

You barked out a laugh. "Careful there Mad Dog." You advanced, causing Kyotani to step back. "Or I might just think you're threatening me," you continued to move forward. Kyotani took more steps back. The only way he could describe the feeling was like he was being herded like a sheep.

Another animalistic growl left his throat when his back hit the lockers. By now everyone had left, leaving just the two of you. "You aren't leaving a very good first impression on your president," you say dangerously, almost mocking your own title.

"Why do I need to leave a good impression on you," he muttered out. You didn't say anything and instead lifted your arm above his shoulder to slam it by his head. He recognized this feeling. Yet somehow, it felt all different.

Not once had the rumors spoken about the affect you had on people. You scanned his face again, those intimidating (e/c) eyes holding him steady in place. His breath hitched in his throat softly when you pulled your hand back to straighten his tie. "You don't," you said referring to his earlier question, eyes focused on his tie. "And you haven't."

You pulled away from him and stepped back, patting him on the shoulder before turning on your heel to head towards the doors. You turned your head just as you were about to leave, the blue grey light from the cloudy sky making you seem more threatening. "Take care, Mad Dog." You left the school building, leaving Kentarou breathing heavily and on guard at the lockers.

~~~

He really didn't expect that from you.

He had had a similar feeling, when Yahaba threw him into a wall and scolded him during the spring preliminary game against Karasuno. Similar, but not quite the same. It felt like you had him trapped. He still had your words replaying on repeat in his mind.

Those rumors he heard about you didn't do you any justice. He never heard anything about how easily you could make people feel... things. For once, he felt like he was the one being hunted. And oh boy did he not like that. All those times he'd seen you, he thought you looked like a regular goody two shoes who would report even the smallest wrongdoing to the teachers. He didn't expect a calculated, threatening boy who had a binder of 'troublemakers' and a heavy presence.

He didn't sleep more than 2 hours that night.

Maybe it was your eyes that were etched into his mind. Maybe it was your smooth voice, that look that made it seem like there was so much more under your surface.

So naturally he came to the conclusion that you were his rival.

He managed to avoid you all till the end of the week, Sunday rolling around like a saving grace. He didn't see you once for the rest of the week, but it still felt like you were watching him with those calculated eyes of yours. His shoulder still felt all weird and tingly from where you had touched him.

The weekend felt like an asylum to him, a feeling of safety and control returning to him when his older sister sent him out to go pick up some things from the store.

Kyotani had decided to cut through the park on his way back, but now he was quickly regretting his decision. It's not like he was afraid of you, he just thought that avoiding you would be the best option.

The last place he expected you to be was sitting in the park, staring out at the little man-made pond with a few birds at your feet. You had an overcoat on to compensate for the slightly chilly weather, a sweater visible underneath it. Your shoes were tapping the ground rhythmically.

You looked much less intimidating out of uniform. You had a neutral, content look on your face, cheek squished against your palm with your elbow resting on your knee. It was almost cute, he thought, if that was the right word for it.

"Are you just going to stand there forever," you turned your face towards him and regarded him with lidded eyes. "You can sit down you know."

He jumped, standing still for a second before slowly moving towards you. His guard up like a wall as memories of your last interaction replayed through his mind. His breath quickened ever so slightly, and his ears turned pink.

He slid into place on the bench next to you. You turned towards him again and smiled. He went bright red.

It was an actual smile. Not that cocky smirk, but a soft clad cute smile. You focused your attention back on to the pond.

"You live around here," Kyotani inquired gruffly.

You nodded. "I don't go out much. Usually cooped up in my room working on god knows what." You leaned back, draping your arms gracefully across the back of the bench. "Sorry about our little encounter, by the way. I must have come off way scary, right?" You gave him that soft smile again.

He looked away and hid his cheeks with his hand. "Like I'd be afraid of you," he muttered.

You hummed softly. A thought struck him. He regained his composure before speaking again. "You must have known that I live around here, right?"

You nodded wordlessly. "It was in your file."

Kyotani decided not to comment on how creepy that was, and instead muttered out a small "oh."

Neither of you said a word for a few moments.

"We really got off on the wrong foot, huh?" You turned your whole body towards him, watching his movements like a cat.

He just grunted.

You laughed a little bit, and extended your hand. "Why don't we start over. I'm (l/n) (y/n)."

Kyotani eyed your hand suspiciously before taking it. The tingly feeling returned, but this time it felt stronger as both your hands were bare. Your slightly smaller hand gripped his firmly, the slight size difference making Kyotani blush a bit.

You really weren't what he thought, were you? Even so, you were still his enemy. His cute, scary, calculated, calm enemy.

He doesn't even know what hit him.

[rotworld]

2: Centaur

it’s said that only pure virgin maidens can call a unicorn, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

->explicit. contains horse genitalia, weird sex magic to enable human-to-horse genitalia compatibility, dubcon/noncon, semi-public sex, implications of mind-altering magic, gore, murder, kidnapping.

.

.

.

You’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

The meadow is in full bloom, a sea of brilliance. Here, a profusion of daisies. There, a carpet of poppies. Asters and yarrow and little clovers, flowers you’ve never heard of, colors you didn’t know existed, bloom as far as the eye can see. There are starbursts, blue as the sea, that smell of salt and sand, and cones of pink blossoms that glitter in the light. Petals dance in a gentle breeze like prismic rain, carrying a soft, sweet scent. It feels like a dream. You’re knee-deep in flowers beneath a cloudless sky.

“This is impossible,” you say softly, afraid to disturb the peace. Your fingers graze a curving stem, heavy with bluebells. “It’s autumn. The leaves should be turning. How is everything so green?” 

The king’s men sigh tiredly, looking uncomfortable and terribly out of place in their clanking armor. “Unicorn,” they say, the only word they seem to know. Why are the winds so gentle here, spring-sweet and warm? Unicorn. Why is the water crystal clear and sparkling, the perfect temperature for both a quenching drink and a quick rinse of your dirtied hands? Unicorn. Why couldn’t you see the meadow until you crossed the river and passed a certain willow tree? Unicorn, obviously. They shake their heads at you like you don’t know anything.

“Sit here,” one of them tells you, pointing to a spot among the daffodils. 

Another one stops you just as you’re kneeling in the grass. “No, no, wait, over there is better. There are lilies. Lilies are a symbol of virginity.”

“I think the roses would be best,” a third chimes in. “Seems very maiden-like, doesn’t it? That’s what a maiden would pick, I think, if a maiden were out here, picking flowers.” The other knights nod sagely. “Then it’s decided. Over there by the roses, please. Here, sit with your legs folded like this…”

You roll your eyes. You can’t believe how seriously they’re taking the stupid little details. This whole expedition is a lost cause. It doesn’t matter how much they pretty you up, dressing you in this flowing gown and making you wander barefoot among the flowers. You’re a sheepherder, not a waifish little girl. A unicorn can tell the difference. But the king must really be desperate, because the knights are insistent as they correct your posture, smooth out your hair, and inspect you from every angle.

“Good. Perfect,” one of them says, nodding at his handiwork. “We’ll get into position. Do,” he pauses, waving his hand vaguely, “maiden things. Sing songs. Braid your hair. Whatever it is maidens do.” You watch them clang and clatter away to the treeline, hiding poorly among the rocks and flower bushes. You relish in the space and freedom, flopping on your back in the grass. You couldn’t care less if a unicorn comes or not. The fields are yellowed and prickly at home, nothing like the beautiful softness of this meadow. Your cousin agreed to watch your sheep for the day, so you don’t have a care in the world. You close your eyes and let eternal spring wash over you. 

You open your eyes to darkness.

You sit up slowly, groaning and groggy. You must’ve drifted off. Petals fall from your gown as you yawn and rub your eyes. Snoring drifts from the trees; the knights fast asleep. You stand up to stretch, only to find a new, fantastic landscape stretched before you. The meadow is tinged silvery blue in moonlight. New flowers, unopened buds just hours ago, bloom with a faint glow. A river of stars shines overhead. This must be the dream, you think, or maybe you’ve been dreaming since you crossed the river. Everything about the meadow is otherworldly, a place of beauty and gentleness unlike anything you’ve ever known.

And then you hear it. Softly at first and indistinct, but nearing, gradually louder. A rhythmic gait, too heavy for a human, too pronounced for fleshy feet. Hoofbeats. Your breath catches in your throat. You scramble to your feet and look around. Auroras shimmer above you, rippling ribbons of green. Night breeze blows across the meadow and the grass whispers at your ankles. You see him, trotting across the meadow. You see him and there are tears in your eyes. You realize you’ve never known beauty until this moment.

The unicorn is the color of night, black and deepest blue. His mane shimmers, woven with gemstones and glittering flower buds, and his horn shines like polished onyx. He is a man from the waist up, silver eyed and handsome. There are scars along his broad shoulders, puckered skin that healed a lighter gray. Beneath the waist, muscle twists and transforms into long equine legs. His gait is leisurely, a smile tugging at his lips. 

“My oh my, what do we have here?” he says. His voice is velvety smooth and alluring. Your apprehension melts away even as he stops before you, his front legs bending so you’re face to face. A heavy, coat-like fabric rests across the back of his horse body, royal purple and delicately embroidered with intricate floral patterns. He reaches for you, slender fingers curling along your jaw. You’re sure of it now. This is all just a dream. The unicorn chuckles, a warm and rumbling sound that fills you with heat. “You’re wide awake, little one.”

“You can read my thoughts?” 

“I can read more than that.” His smile widens and he stands to his full height. You fidget nervously as he walks in a slow circle around you, a hand beneath his chin. His hooves kick up petals and glittering pollen with every step. “Hmm, let’s see...a shepherd! How precious. What gentle hands. Ah, but a solitary life. You’ve not known a lover’s touch in quite some time.” Your face heats in embarrassment. His palm trails across your back as he passes behind you, squeezing your shoulder. 

“I thought unicorns only came to pure maidens,” you say. His every touch sends sparks across your skin. You can feel his warmth through the flimsy, thin fabric of your gown. At that, his smile gains a sharp edge, almost predatory. It’s gone as quickly as it came.

“What a delight you are,” he murmurs. “Coming all this way was worthwhile after all.” He begins to walk and you follow without being asked. There are flowers all around you but you pay them no mind now, too entranced by the beautiful creature beside you. You don’t know if you go far or not, time and distance rendered meaningless in the dreamlike embrace of the meadow. He leads you to a large, mossy rock formation, the stone sheared away to leave an unnaturally flat surface. You look back over your shoulder, remembering the knights. Did they sleep through all of this? Should you say something? The unicorn’s hand cups your chin, dragging your gaze back to him. His breathtaking smile obliterates all thoughts of anything else. 

“The stories are an exaggeration,” he tells you. He guides you gently, hands on your shoulders, to sit on the stone. His legs fold beneath him and he sits, his hands carding through your hair. The affection and desire in every touch, every gentle scratch of his fingers against your scalp, makes you hotter. “We appear to whomever we wish to appear to. But I confess, some of us do have a soft spot for virgins.” He presses a sharp kiss to your lips, nipping at you. “We enjoy teaching them pleasure,” he hisses, and pushes you suddenly onto your back. The gown is pulled from your body, discarded in the grass. Night air caresses your bare skin and you squirm beneath his wandering gaze.

Somehow, it only occurs to you now what his intentions are. The gentle caresses, the sensual touches and the heat in his gaze didn’t feel real. They still don’t, but now, naked and at the mercy of his hungry eyes, you understand. “You...you want me?” you say, your voice small in embarrassment. When you say it out loud, it sounds even more ridiculous, but there’s no mistaking this. He rests his arms across your abdomen, gazing up at you with fondness and longing. 

“I do,” he says. “Very, very much. Would you let me have you?” 

You bite your lip, your body trembling as he slips a hand between your legs and just grazes your sex with his fingertips. The touch is teasing, too fleeting, and leaves you aching for more. You nod shakily and he hums, pleased at your acquiescence. “What’s your name?”

He looks rather charmed that you asked, warmth filling his gaze. “I am Myurva,” he says. You give him your name in return and the way he says it back to you, the lascivious purr, makes you squirm. The unicorn rests his hands on your knees, gently but firmly easing them apart. “Spread your legs for me, lovely. I want to see you.”��

Myurva’s seduction is slow and patient even as you writhe and beg him for more. He opens you on his fingers, soothing your frenzied whimpers with sweet nothings and loving whispers of your name. You’ve never been treated with such devotion, such smothering lust and affection. He touches you like the love of his life, kisses tenderly and messily, drags his hand along your side and savors the way you move for him. “So very worth it,” he murmurs, kissing your inner thigh. He has two fingers inside you, caressing your walls and curling just right to reach the spot that makes you shriek. “How fortunate I am to have found you, lovely. I want to keep you. I want to spoil you each and every night.” 

You’re keening for him, sobbing with need, when he flips you onto your stomach. You hardly notice. You spread your legs when you feel his hands on you, kneading your ass. Everything is hot and electrifying, hazy with pleasure. Then his front hooves land heavily in the grass near your head and something enormous rubs against you. “Wait,” you say shakily. You hear a chuckle above you. The fleshy end of Myurva’s cock slides against your ass, smearing precum along your spine. Your heart skips a beat feeling the sheer size of it against you. There’s no way. It’s impossible. You try to push yourself up on your elbows and one of his hooves stamps dangerously near your head. 

“I thought you wanted me, lovely,” he says. He thrusts again, the length of him slipping between your thighs and grinding against your sex. “If you move, I’ll have to chase you. You won’t get far.” 

“You won’t fit,” you tell him, voice pitched in desperation. Trying to squirm just makes him rest his weight against you, crushing you between the stone and the bulk of his body. “You’re going to break me!”

“I’ll go slow,” Myurva purrs. He demonstrates with a slow grind, a gradual roll of his hips. His heated flesh feels so good against you. “I’ll be so, so careful with you. Don’t you remember the stories? I enjoy virgins. I haven’t harmed a single one. They wander the woods in search of me, begging to feel my cock again.” You hear his back hooves shifting, repositioning behind you. He lines himself up and his cock prods against your opening. “Let me show you,” he urges. “Let me bring you pleasure you’ve never known.” He grinds against you again, hot pressure building as he begins to push inside. You gasp his name, beg him to wait, to go slow, to give you a moment to collect yourself, but he chuckles and presses harder.

Your nails rake against the stone and your vision whites out. The burn of the stretch becomes a tingling sensation, numb at first and then blindly pleasurable, lighting sparks in your belly. It shouldn’t be possible but you feel the head inside of you. The pain is a dull ache but every movement chases it away, pleasure washing over you. He rocks his hips and the steady, shallow thrusts push him deeper. True to his word, he fucks into you agonizingly slowly, panting and moaning

“How do you feel, lovely?” he asks, his voice strained. He’s holding back, you realize, his hooves stomping restlessly as he makes small, unconscious thrusts to feel you wrapped around him. “Let me in deeper. Let me fuck you properly. You won’t regret it.”

You don’t think he can get deeper. You try to tell him as much, but a hard thrust knocks the breath out of you. The fullness makes your head spin. You feel yourself pushing back against him despite all of the sensations, the ache inside of you, the impossibility of the whole situation in the back of your mind. He makes a breathy, choked sound and then laughs, fucking you harder. “Ohhh, that’s it. Just like that. I knew you’d love this.” You can hear his cock slamming into your body, can feel the weight of his heavy balls slapping your ass with every thrust. You feel like a cocksleeve, a snug toy for him to fuck. The force of his thrusts drags you back and forth over the stone, scraping up your chest, but the pain is nothing compared to the pleasure he gives you. 

Someone is screaming, crying Myurva’s name into the night. You barely recognize your own voice, the needy pitch, the tremor in every word. You’re so full, so unbearably stuffed with cock, no longer trying to meet his thrusts but letting him move you, ruining you for any human partner. Your knees bruise on the stone. Your toes curl. Your cries build to a frenzied crescendo and you cum impaled on his enormous cock, shaking, panting his name.

“Lovely,” he moans, an obscene sound leaving his lips as your inner muscles clamp down on his cock. “Gods above, darling, I’m going to fill you.” He fucks you wildly, no rhythm, no caution, his whole cock slamming into you as hard and deep as he can get. You can’t move. The whole world turns white-hot and blinding. You go limp, gasping weakly as Myurva begins to grunt, his cock pulsing, his whole length crammed inside you.

You thought you were full already, but then he cums. You feel him straining on top of you, his whole weight thrown forward as he fucks ropes of thick cum into your body. It foams up around his length and makes obscene, slick sounds. You feel it overflowing, trickling down your thighs. It feels like it goes on forever, his moans, his deep, straining thrusts, his cock pouring more and more cum into your body until his balls empty and he finally, with a satisfied sigh, pulls out. 

You make an undignified sound at the sudden emptiness, and the rush of cum that follows. You’re grateful for the stone beneath you, cool against your sweat-soaked skin. Your legs are jelly. You don’t know if you’ll ever walk again. Myurva’s front hooves lift, stepping back from the stone. His human hand caresses your cheek. “You’re truly something, lovely,” he says quietly. “I spoke in jest of keeping you, but now...it’s difficult to resist the temptation.” 

You try to speak but only manage an incoherent murmur of noise. He chuckles and strokes your hair. Distantly, you’re aware of other noises than the two of you. Shouting. Footeps. Clattering steel. You remember suddenly that you aren’t alone out here, arms struggling to lift you. The knights. How could you forget? Shame heats your face. How long have they been awake? How much did they see? How much did they hear? Myurva shushes your protests, pressing a gentle hand on the small of your back. “Rest,” he says. You don’t think you’re capable of doing much else, anyway.

You hear a commotion behind you. The knights, shouting in outrage, drawing swords. Are they going to hurt Myurva? Your eyes widen and you try again, uselessly, to lift yourself and see what’s happening. The unicorn gives you one last gentle caress and leaves you, his hoofbeats stopping somewhere between you and the knights.

“At last, you show yourself!” the knights exclaim. You manage to roll onto your side, craning your neck to see them surrounding Myurva, but he doesn’t look concerned. He glances around, examining each of the men. 

“Let’s see,” he murmurs. “Subjects of King Cornelius. And you want…” The corner of his lips twitch in amusement. “A hostage? Is that right? Your people have no claim over our mountains. A hostage will not change this. My king does not negotiate.” His words are ignored. The knights are wary but they do not back down. You feel like a fool. Why didn’t you ask them what they wanted the unicorn for? You assumed it was something trivial, a silly princess who wanted a pet. Nothing like this. 

Myurva glances back at you. His silver eyes catch the moonlight and glint dangerously. Those are a predator’s eyes, you realize. A thing that hunts and stalks the night. “You worry for me, lovely?” he purrs. “Your every emotion is so tender. I really must keep you. But, alas,” he chuckles, turning back to the knights, “business first, my sweet.”

You hadn’t looked all that carefully at the fabric across the back of his body. You hadn’t noticed the sword sheaths hanging there, hidden beneath the drapes and tassels. You hear steel scraping steel as he unsheathes twin blades, long and curved, as strikingly silver as his eyes. One of the knights tries to say something. “Come quietly,” or some other meaningless thing. He never finishes speaking. You hardly see Myruva move. A flash of silver, a rush of air; that’s all it takes. The knight’s head falls from his shoulders, and his body sinks to the ground soon after. The others begin to scream and scatter, but they’ll never get away. There’s no outrunning a unicorn. 

Laying there upon the stone, you see everything. Prey fleeing and predator giving chase. Swords clashing. Flesh pierced and mangled. Myurva tramples one of them, snaps the man’s ribs with glee in his shining eyes. Their armor does nothing but trap them in slow, awkward shells, easy prey to catch and dismantle. The unicorn moves like a whirlwind across the meadow, death his shadow. Blood soaks the soil and splatters the flowers, almost black in the night. 

You’re on your knees when it’s over, hunched over the stone with your legs in the grass. You can’t stand. You can’t run. You can’t do anything but turn and see Myurva standing there, fresh blood dripping from his swords. He smiles at the sight of you, the shivers wracking your body. “You didn’t know,” he assures you. “I can read you, remember?” He wipes the blood from his blades, sheathing them at his side once again. You flinch when he comes closer, sitting in the grass beside you. You smell the carnage on him. The fingers that tuck your hair behind your ear are wet and warm. “Pleased to meet you,” he purrs. “I’m Myurva, the royal spymaster. And you are the loveliest little human I’ve ever seen.”

You protest weakly when he scoops you up in his arms, standing suddenly. You’re vaguely aware of moving, of being carried somewhere. You fight to cling to consciousness, but it’s slowly slipping out of your grasp. “Hush,” Myurva coos, kissing your forehead. “We’ve a long ways to go and you’re in no condition to ride me just yet. But, eventually…” He chuckles, one of his hands cupping your backside. “Eventually, we’ll have all the time in the world to do whatever we like, won’t we?”

[meltwonu]

〚 💜 𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕕𝕚𝕡 💜 〛| [CHAPTER 4]

this chapter pairing; incubus!jeonghan x fem!reader x incubus!jimin

genre&warnings; incubus!au, stripper!au, dancer!reader, lap dances, dom!jeonghan, dom!jimin, dirty talk, dumbification, degradation, name-calling, handjob… .004 seconds of sir kink 🥴 lbr, these two… are like, devils in sheep’s clothing ykwim, such gentle faces but boy would they fuck you up real fast 🥴🥴 which is rly the allure HAHA also I can’t believe I only realized how close their birthdays are??? bday vlive at bh plz 😭😭💕 also inbox roundup tmr! im finally a little more free this weekend for the first time in like... 4 weekends 😭 I'll try to update my masterlists too!! 💕 For now enjoy ch 4 and have a loooovely weekend! Stream spider! 💕😎 I love u! 💕

word count; ~2000

chapters; 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - ?

It’s a slow Tuesday at Club Arcane when Jeonghan walks in - soft sighs on his lips when he spots you from across the club.

You’re tending to someone else right now though; a different incubus whose eyes twinkle with mischievousness when he looks up at you and Jeonghan can’t help but make it his business when he walks over.

He didn’t particularly like it when others played with his things.

“Hi there, sweetheart.” He smiles as he stands behind the seated male but you can already sense the underlying threat in his voice when he glances down at the back of the male’s head.

The silver haired, crimson eyed male peers up at Jeonghan when he feels eyes on him - smile equally as angelic as Jeonghan’s. “You must be Jeonghan. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Jimin.”

I didn’t ask, Jeonghan thinks.

“Ah, no, the pleasure is all mine. I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” Jeonghan smiles wider but both males can already sense each other’s aura and it’s not long before it starts to affect you too.

“Mm, you’d be correct~ I’m just… visiting. Seeing what this town has to offer.”

“Um…” You whimper slightly as you fall victim to their overpowering aura and while usually Jeonghan’s was already more than enough for you to be on your knees - now there were two of them and you found yourself overcome with thrums of arousal pouring over your body in an instant.

“Ah, humans are so… weak to us, I always forget.” Jimin scoffs, “So fun to play with though. This pretty ‘lil doll right here was telling me how much she likes to dance for you… Although, I take it that’s not all she does for you.”

Jeonghan runs a hand through his red hair; something you thought suited him and his sharp black horns. Much like how Jimin’s silver locks almost made him seem angelic if not for his own set of black horns protruding from his skull.

“Oh, of course.” Jeonghan rounds the small table, hands on your shoulders when he steps behind you.

You were wearing his favorite pink set of lingerie tonight - something he appreciates.

“She’s a very talented girl. Aren’t you, sweetheart?” He grip on your shoulder tightens slightly in possessiveness and you can’t help but mewl when a rush of wetness soaks into your lace panties.

“Sweetheart, I asked you a question~ Don’t make me have to repeat myself.”

“A-ah, yes! I, mmh, um, I… I’m sorry, i don’t r-remember what you were--were saying…”

Your head feels muddled as you sit in between the two males and it only takes a split second before identical smirks are etched onto their faces.

“You said you were new to town, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

Jeonghan leans over your shoulder, lips ghosting against the shell of your ear as you shiver from the proximity.

“Why don’t we show the newcomer something we like to do for fun, hmm, sweetheart?”

You’re familiar with the private rooms - very much so when Jeonghan shows up.

But admittedly, it’s the first time you’ve ever been in a room with Jeonghan and someone else.

“Wow, this tiny little club has such nice private rooms.” Jimin steps in after you and Jeonghan; kicking the door shut before he settles against the long sofa lining the wall. “I can see why it’s… popular.”

The room is dimly lit - only soft red lights keep the room from being completely pitch black and a wraparound sofa lines the entire room with a small pedestal and pole directly in the center.

Most often than not, unused, when you and Jeonghan are using the space.

Jeonghan takes a seat diagonal to Jimin, legs crossed as he leans into the plush material.

“Why don’t you give Jimin a lap dance, sweetheart?” His crimson eyes gleam even in the darkness as you gulp and step closer to the silver haired male.

You’re nervous, even though it’s not the first time you’ve ever given a lap dance.

It is, however, the first time there’s been an audience. Even just of one.

“Well, doll? I don’t think we have all night~ Or maybe we do?” Snickering, Jimin spreads his legs and rests his arms on the sofa’s backrest as he grins up at you.

“If I’m lucky, maybe I’ll get to see what else you’re good at.”

The music is sensual and slow as you move and sway your hips to the beat; two pairs of eyes on you like a hawk when you finally put your hands on Jimin’s thighs.

You get nervous when his eyes smolder back at you, so you turn around - grinding your ass on his lap instead as your eyes quickly flit to Jeonghan before directing your attention to the floor instead.

“Ooh~ Now we’re getting somewhere, doll~ Hurry, come sit on my lap~”

Gulping, you give it a second as you try to shake off your nerves.

Here goes nothing.

You turn to face Jimin again as your hands roam your body over your thin lingerie; soft moans on your lips from how sensitive your body was with both of them in the room. You gather up all of your courage as you start to ease onto Jimin’s lap; still moving to the beat of the music when you start to grind down onto him.

“O-oh, I--” You choke up, finding that your actions seem to affect yourself more than the male sitting underneath you.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You stopped all of a sudden. That’s not very nice, y’know? I think Jimin was enjoying~”

Feeling Jimin’s hands on your waist, your hazy eyes meet his own crimson ones as he smirks back at you.

“Let me help, since it seems like you might’ve forgotten.”

His hands guide you - hips swiveling atop his lap as garbled noises fall from your lips.

You can already tell you’re soaking through your thin panties and Jimin’s slacks; slightly embarrassed when you find yourself moving your hips on your own without his guidance.

“Oh, sweetheart, you smell so good~”

Jeonghan palms himself over his neatly pressed pants; quietly moaning as he watches you start to move faster atop Jimin’s lap. 

Admittedly, he wasn’t too keen on the idea of sharing at first. But now, watching you lose yourself so easily with barely even being touched made him realize that maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

Now he only wanted to see how far you could go.

“Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you, doll? Just grinding down onto my lap like a needy little slut.”

A choked sob bubbles past your lips as you nod. “P-please… let me c-cum!”

Your entire body feels like it’s aflame when you feel Jeonghan’s presence behind you; caging you in between their bodies as he stares at the back of your head.

“Then cum.”

The tension snaps quicker than you can formulate a response and you find yourself curling into Jimin’s chest at the immense pleasure that wrecks your body - twice as strong as it normally was with just Jeonghan.

Your walls are clenching around emptiness as you whimper and moan against his warm chest and you immediately start to crave more, even when your orgasm still hasn’t even started to ebb away.

And they know.

“Mm, we both know you need more, sweetheart~” Jeonghan takes a seat next to Jimin this time and you turn your head slightly to stare at him through bleary eyes as he smiles at you; deceiving and warm as you start to drool onto Jimin’s silk button up.

“The question now is, can you take more?”

Jeonghan’s laugh is cruel and taunting when you cum for a third time - your hand wrapped around his cock as he kneels on the sofa next to where you’re bouncing on Jimin’s lap.

“Ah, you know, I have a friend who I think would love to be a part of this~” Jimin suggests; grinning when he feels you clenching around his cock. “Should I invite him next time?”

Your grip on Jeonghan’s cock loosens slightly as you lose focus from the three orgasms and from the way Jimin’s cock grazes your g-spot - mouth agape as you pant slightly. You can barely register anything the males are even saying at this point as your head becomes fuzzy from the overwhelming sensations.

“Oho~ Wouldn’t that be a treat, sweetheart?” Jeonghan’s mind becomes greedy at the thought of seeing you falling apart on three cocks; drool pooling in his mouth as his hips thrust up into your closed fist.

Humming back in response, your head lolls to the side as the warm fuzziness makes your body feel weak and lightheaded.

“I think she’s already drunk off of two cocks, I don’t think she’ll be able to even handle three.” Jimin pouts mockingly at you, hands on your waist to keep you steady as he starts to thrust his hips up into you. “Isn’t that right, doll? Your cute ‘lil holes can’t keep up, can they?”

You whine in response this time, grinding down and meeting Jimin’s thrusts as you work Jeonghan off with your hand - squeezing him at the base as he growls.

“I--ah, c-can take i-it… w-want more…”

A choked sob falls from your lips when you feel the pleasure building up again and you know you won’t be able to stop your fourth orgasm as much as you wanted to try.

“We’ll see about that, sweetheart~ You always talk so big but can you really take it?”

The thought of both of your holes being fucked with a cock in your mouth sends you reeling; thighs trembling at the desire that floods every inch of your body.

“Fuck, her dumb ‘lil cunt just got tighter just thinking about it. Fuckin’ slut. So greedy for cock that even just the thought of it is enough to get her to cum.”

Jeonghan smirks at Jimin’s words, not even anywhere near his orgasm when he can already tell you’re seconds away from yours.

“I didn’t realize how greedy her dumb ‘lil holes were. I would’ve done something about it sooner, had I known~”

Jimin fares no different from Jeonghan - both of them able to stave off their orgasms for much longer than you as they only drag it out.

“I--I ca--can’t…!”

Tears blur your vision as you cum for a fourth time and through the haze, you can barely register anything else happening in the room as Jimin and Jeonghan’s movements both stop.

You feel your own breath stop in the midst - the buzzing in your ears becoming unbearable as your thighs continue to shake and tremble.

“Hmm~ She’s such a good human~ So… strong-willed~” Jimin’s eyes flash a darker crimson much like Jeonghan’s own, both of them drinking in your energy as you continue to cum on Jimin’s cock; walls fluttering around him in a vice grip.

Jeonghan chuckles as he reaches a hand towards you; tangling his nimble fingers in your hair as your head lolls into his touch. 

“Ah, but you haven’t seen what else she can do.”

There’s a knowing look the two incubus share before Jeonghan is using his free hand to pry your shaking fingertips off of his cock and Jimin’s grip on your waist is tightening to keep you from slumping over on his lap.

“Do we have to be out of here anytime soon? I need to make a call.”

Jimin’s words are muffled through the ringing in your ears but you can still make it out as you gulp. Goosebumps rise on your skin as you stare back at him with teary, blown out pupils - silently begging him to do exactly what he knew you wanted before Jeonghan decided to change his mind.

Not that he would.

“Even if we had to leave, I don’t think you’d mind, right, sweetheart?”

“N-no... s--sir...” 

[aswiya]

Zeynab Serekaniye, a Kurdish woman with a gap-toothed smile and a warm demeanor, never imagined she’d join a militia.

The 26-year-old grew up in Ras al-Ayn, a town in north-east Syria. The only girl in a family of five, she liked to fight and wear boys’ clothing. But when her brothers got to attend school and she did not, Serekaniye did not challenge the decision. She knew it was the reality for girls in the region. Ras al-Ayn, Arabic for “head of the spring”, was a green and placid place, so Serekaniye settled down to a life of farming vegetables with her mother.

That changed on 9 October 2019, days after former US president Donald Trump announced that US troops would pull out of north-east Syria, where they had allied with Kurdish-led forces for years. A newly empowered Turkey, which sees the stateless Kurds as an existential threat, and whose affiliated groups it has been at war with for decades, immediately launched an offensive on border towns held by Kurdish forces in north-east Syria, including Ras al-Ayn.

Just after 4pm that day, Serekaniye says, the bombs began to fall, followed by the dull plink and thud of mortar fire. By evening, Serekaniye and her family had fled to the desert, where they watched their town go up in smoke. “We didn’t take anything with us,” she says. “We had a small car, so how can we take our stuff and leave the people?” As they fled, she saw dead bodies in the street. She soon learned that an uncle and cousin were among them. Their house would become rubble.

After Serekaniye’s family was forced to resettle farther south, she surprised her mother in late 2020 by saying she wanted to join the Women’s Protection Units (YPJ). The all-female, Kurdish-led militia was established in 2013 not long after their male counterparts, the People’s Protection Units (YPG), ostensibly to defend their territory against numerous groups, which would come to include the Islamic State (Isis). The YPG have also been linked to systematic human rights abuses including the use of child soldiers.

Serekaniye’s mother argued against her decision, because two of her brothers were already risking their lives in the YPG.

But Serekaniye was unmoved. “We’ve been pushed outside of our land, so now we should go and defend our land,” she says. “Before, I was not thinking like this. But now I have a purpose – and a target.”

Serekaniye is one of approximately 1,000 women across Syria to have enlisted in the militia in the past two years. Many joined in anger over Turkey’s incursions, but ended up staying.

“In discussions [growing up], it was always, ‘if something happens, a man will solve it, not a woman’,” says Serekaniye. “Now women can fight and protect her society . This, I like.”

According to the YPG, a surge in recruitment has also been aided by growing pushback against and awareness of entrenched gender inequality and violence over recent years. In 2019 the Kurds’ Autonomous Administration of North and East Syria passed a series of laws to protect women, including banning polygamy, child marriages, forced marriages and so-called “honour” killings, although many of these practices continue. About a third of Asayish officers in the Kurdish security services in the region are now women and 40% female representation is required in the autonomous government. A village of only women, where female residents can live safe from violence, was built, evacuated after nearby bombings, and resettled again.

Yet evidence of the widespread violence that women continue to face is abundant at the local Mala Jin, or “women’s house”, which provide a refuge and also a form of local arbitration for women in need across Syria. Since 2014, 69 of these houses have opened, with staff helping any woman or man who come in with problems they’re facing including issues of domestic violence, sexual harassment and rape, and so-called “honour” crimes, often liaising with local courts and the female units of the Asayish intelligence agency to solve cases.

On a sun-scorched day in May, three distraught women arrive in quick succession at a Mala Jin centre in the north-eastern city of Qamishli. The first woman, who wears a heavy green abaya, tells staff that her husband has barely come home since she’s given birth. The second woman arrives with her husband in tow, demanding a divorce; her long ponytail and hands shake as she describes how he’d once beaten her until she had to get an abortion.

The third woman shuffles in pale-faced and in a loose dress, with rags wrapped around her hands. Her skin is raw pink and black from burns that cover much of her face and body. The woman describes to staff how her husband has beaten her for years and threatened to kill a member of her family if she left him. After he poured paraffin on her one day, she says, she fled his house; he then hired men to kill her brother. After her brother’s murder, she set herself on fire. “I got tired,” she says.

The Mala Jin staff, all women, tut in disapproval as she speaks. They carefully write down the details of her account, tell her they need to take photographs, and explain they plan to send the documents to the court to help secure his arrest. The woman nods then lies down on a couch in exhaustion.

Behia Murad, the director of the Qamishli Mala Jin, an older, kind-eyed woman in a pink hijab, says the Mala Jin centres have handled thousands of cases since they started, and, though both men and women come in with complaints, “always the woman is the victim”.

A growing number of women visit the Mala Jin centres. Staff say that this doesn’t represent increased violence against women in the region, but that more women are demanding equality and justice.

The YPJ is very aware of this shift and its potential as a recruitment tool. “Our aim is not to just have her hold her gun, but to be aware,” says Newroz Ahmed, general commander of the YPJ.

For Serekaniye it was not just that she got to fight, it was also the way of life the YPJ seemed to offer. Instead of working in the fields, or getting married and having children, women who join the YPJ talk about women’s rights while training to use a rocket-​propelled grenade. They are discouraged, though not banned, from using phones or dating and instead are told that comradeship with other women is now the focus of their day to day lives.

Commander Ahmed, soft-spoken but with an imposing stare, estimates the female militia’s current size is about 5,000. This is the same size the YPJ was at the height of its battle against Isis in 2014 (though the media have previously reported an inflated number). If the YPJ’s continued strength is any indication, she adds, the Kurdish-led experiment is still blooming.

The number remains high despite the fact that the YPJ has lost hundreds, if not more, of its members in battle and no longer accepts married women (the pressure to both fight and raise a family is too intense, Ahmed says). The YPJ also claim it no longer accepts women under 18 after intense pressure from the UN and human rights groups to stop the use of child soldiers; although many of the women I met had joined below that age, though years ago.

Driving through north-east Syria, it is no wonder that so many women continue to join, given the ubiquitous images of smiling female shahids, or martyrs. Fallen female fighters are commemorated on colourful billboards or with statues standing proudly at roundabouts. Sprawling cemeteries are filled with shahids, lush plants and roses growing from their graves.

The fight against Turkey is one reason to maintain the YPJ, says Ahmed, who spoke from a military base in al-Hasakah, the north-east governorate where US troops returned after Joe Biden was elected. She claims that gender equality is the other. “We continue to see a lot of breaches [of law] and violations against women” in the region, she says. “We still have the battle against the mentality, and this is even harder than the military one.”

Tal Tamr, the YPJ base where Serekaniye is stationed, is a historically Christian and somewhat sleepy town. Bedouins herd sheep through fields, children walk arm-in-arm through village lanes, and slow, gathering dust storms are a regular afternoon occurrence. Yet Kurdish, US and Russian interests are all present here. Sosin Birhat, Serekaniye’s commander, says that before 2019 the YPJ base in Tal Tamr was tiny; now, with more women joining, she describes it as a full regiment.

The base is a one-storey, tan-coloured stucco building once occupied by the Syrian regime. The women grow flowers and vegetables in the rugged land at the back. They do not have a signal for their phones or power to use a fan, even in the sweltering heat, so they pass the time on their days off, away from the frontline, having water fights, chain smoking and drinking sugary coffee and tea.

Yet battle is always on their minds. Viyan Rojava, a more seasoned fighter than Serekaniye, talks of taking back Afrin. In March 2018, Turkey and the Free Syrian Army rebels it backed, launched Operation Olive Branch to capture the north-eastern district beloved for its fields of olive trees.

Since the Turkish occupation of Afrin, tens of thousands of people have been displaced – Rojava’s family among them – and more than 135 women remain missing, according to media reports and human rights groups. “If these people come here, they will do the same to us,” says Rojava, as other female fighters nod in agreement. “We will not accept that, so we will hold our weapons and stand against them.”

Serekaniye listens intently as Rojava speaks. In the five months since she joined the YPJ, Serekaniye has transformed. During military training in January, she broke a leg trying to scale a wall; now, she can easily handle her gun.

As Rojava speaks, the walkie-talkie sitting beside her crackles. The women at the base were being called to the frontline, not far from Ras al-Ayn. There is little active fighting these days, yet they maintain their positions in case of a surprise attack. Serekaniye dons her flak jacket, grabs her Kalashnikov and a belt of bullets. Then she gets into an SUV headed north, and speeds away.

By Elizabeth Flock. Additional reporting by Kamiran Sadoun and Solin Mohamed Amin. 

[modeus-the-misanthrope]

I think the "Secret_early_access_Pristine_Cut" file I downloaded wasn't legit.

[peppersteakss]

(hello i come with a little dsmp christmas oneshot, enjoy)

“tommy!! wake up!!”

the raspy whisper coming from ghostbur caused tommy to slowly open his eyes, only half awake from his slumber. the first thing he noticed other than the obvious ghostbur standing over him was how cold his room had gotten overnight, despite the fire from the torches.

“ghostbur,” he spoke in a groggy tone, “what are you doing here? what time is it?”

“it’s about dawn - and i wanted to spend the holiday with my brothers, of course!” ghostburs tone was cheery as usual as he stared down at tommy.

“the holiday?” tommy sat up, even more confused as he rubbed his eyes awake.

“tommy, have you forgotten? i’ve reminded you everyday for the past week, it’s christmas! i even got you a gift!” tommy sat with no reaction as ghostbur held out some blue for his brother.

“sorry i didn’t get you anything, ghostbur. i forgot,” tommy lied. he hadn’t forgotten - he wanted to, though. it was the first christmas he’d be spending without his whole family and his best friend (which is not a a reality any teenager would want). he figured there was no point in celebrating christmas, at least for this year.

“that’s alright - it’s not the gifts that matter most, what matters most is that we get to spend christmas together! techno, you, and i! just like the old days!!” ghostburs tone was always one that lifted spirits, and today would be no exception. and although tommy still felt uneasy about the day, he climbed his latter with a little more pep in his step.

tommy noticed the sun was still coming up when he reached ground level, but the lack of natural light didn’t stop his vision from seeing white flurries flying about. sure, it was always snowy, but he’d never actual seen it snowing out in the arctic. that explains why his room was so cold, and just at the thought of his room and the snowflakes falling outside - he started to shiver. arms shaking, teeth chattering, clutching tightly onto the blue that ghostbur had just given him.

ghostbur then gasped. “i’d almost forgotten!” he quickly pushed open the door and ran out of the house and was back in a few seconds, holding a small wrapped box. tommy stared at it with confusion as ghostbur extended it towards him. “go on, take it! it’s for you! i give you blue all the time, so i got you something else as well!”

tommy felt a tinge of guilt as he took yet another gift from ghostbur, he’d have to think of something to give to him by the end of the day. he held his breath as he opened the box, expecting more blue despite the specters words.

“it matches your hair, and the walls of your room!” ghostbur spoke, as tommy pulled out a yellow bandana. it was soft and clean, unlike the green one he wore around his neck. “i also added some yellow patches and thread if you wanted to fix up the green one!”

tommy looked up, wide eyed, not knowing what to say. he stammered a bit, his arms open - ghostbur took this as an opportunity to hug his brother. tommy flinched, hesitant at first - not only was ghostbur ice cold to the touch, he just wasn’t used to human touch anymore - but eventually, he hugged back. he closed his eyes and rested his head on ghostburs shoulder, it almost felt like when they were kids. he managed to mumble a simple ‘thank you.’

tommy flinched only slightly when he heard the latter behind him creek, turning only a little as not to let go of ghostbur. “techno! merry christmas!!”

ghostbur pulled away from tommy, going back outside to retrieve something - at least that was tommy’s guess. he turned and saw techno at one of his chests, pulling out a few wrapped boxes of his own.

‘please let those all be for ghostbur and phil,’ tommy thought, feeling guilt build up inside him yet again.

ghostbur came back and slammed the door shut behind him, another box in hand - much smaller than the one he gave to tommy. it was wrapped in blue, with a pink bow (not christmasy, but very much techno).

techno saw ghostbur and ended up only pulling one box from the chest, wrapped in yellow. the twins quickly exchanged their gifts, ghostbur waiting while techno opened his gift.

“it matches your new everything!” inside the small box was a dangly earring with a snowflake at the end. techno smiled in content as he put it on, now waiting for ghostbur to open his gift.

ghostburs smile widened as he made a squeak of joy, pulling out a small blue sheep plushie. “friend!” techno let out a chuckle as he walked back to the chest, grabbing two larger boxes - one wrapping in green and the other wrapped in red - and walking to tommy, who’s guilt had only built up as techno got closer.

“phil would’ve wanted to give this to you himself, but...” techno paused for only a moment, “he’s obviously not here. he’d want you to have it, anyways.” and with that, techno handed tommy the box wrapped in green.

tommy hesitantly grabbed the box, carefully unwrapping it as if he were on the lookout for some sort of prank or sick joke. he opened the box, revealing the contents inside to be a blue mantle and boots - similar to the ones both techno and phil donned.

“he had a hunch you’d be here at some point,” techno said, as tommy stared in awe at the contents. “you’re also have nothin’ to keep you warm out here, so that’s that. and if for some reason you don’t like the blue,” techno then handed tommy the red box, “there’s this - this ones from me.”

tommy was less hesitant now as he grabbed the red box, unwrapping and opening it to reveal technos red mantle.

tommy felt overwhelmed as he looked techno in the eyes. “techno, you didn’t-“

“i don’t need it anymore. and i’d rather give it to someone who might use it than to just let it collect dust or throw it away. besides that point, gettin’ frostbite or hypothermia isn’t ideal at the moment - look at you, you’re shiverin’ right now,” techno said, as he grabbed the blue mantle and quickly wrapped it around tommy.

now overwhelmed with the weight of the mantle on his shoulders, tommy looked at techno with guilt in his eyes. “i didn’t even get you anything.”

“so what? i don’t care,” techno said, quite nonchalantly. “just don’t take my gapples and we can call this even.”

the guilt left tommy’s eyes, and he began to chuckle. the chuckle turned into a giggle, and the giggle turned to a hardy laugh mixed with choked sobs - he grasped tightly onto all of his gifts, and mentally he held onto the feeling he felt right then and there, happiness. pure, unfiltered, and utter happiness.

“h-here i was, thinking that this year just wouldn’t be the same - and t-truth be told, it i-isn’t - but,” tommy let out another laughing sob, “i thought it’d be way worse.”

“why’s that?” techno asked.

“well, for s-starters - wilbur is a ghost. then i lost my best friend, something happened with d-dream, and now p-phil’s stuck in l’manberg. on an o-outside perspective, that sounds p-pretty shit t-to me.”

tommy let out a squeak as he received his second hug of the day - this time from techno. he didn’t move and inch, his eyes wide, his crying coming to a halt.

“none of that matters right now. we’re gonna get things back to how they were, we’ve discussed this. but it’s christmas - don’t worry so much. today is the only day i can say with full confidence that nothing bad will happen, nothing will go wrong.” techno said, his voice stern yet still comforting to his younger brother. and after a moment, tommy clung to him - sobbing and wailing. he hadn’t had a proper cry like this since... since... he can’t even remember.

for a while, tommy and techno just stayed like that, and tommy realized that this was the first time techno had ever really hugged him - despite being brothers. but it was nice, his embrace was similar to that of their fathers. and after another while, ghostbur joined in.

and so the brothers sat, hugging on christmas day.

[remmushound]

Bay/rise 24!! Sorry it ends quite suddenly; the fighting went on for longer than I anticipated. @selfindulgenz @brightlotusmoon @errorfreak88

Content warning!! Panic attack and violence are featured!!

Four solid turtles landed with solid thuds on the rooftop. Leo was thankful for the quick approach of sunset that cast the city into the shadows they learned to live by. One quick look around the rooftop revealed nothing out of the ordinary as far as Leo could see.

“Thought you said she’d be here Don?” Leo sighed. It wasn’t that he disliked going out of his way, not when the life of an April was at risk, but they couldn’t risk coming out when the city was still active.

“She should have been.” Donnie whispered, checking his wristband as his forehead wrinkled in concentration, “I don’t have footage of her leaving…”

“Well, you see a teenage girl anywhere?” Raph growled.

“Man, I was excited!” Mikey snapped his fingers, “This would be like the third chick I know! Hope she thinks I’m cute!”

“Who wouldn’t think you’re cute, Mike?” Raph snarled.

“Aw, thanks bro!”

“Guys!” Donnie said, his goggles now pulled over his eyes as he looked around the area. “I think I figured out our issue.”

The air around them was filled with the stuff. Like pink cloud of cotton candy betraying the faintest traces of Dimension X. He gave the goggles over to Leo so the leader could observe for himself. Leo became unusually quiet as he eyed the strange cloud, then gave the googles back to Donnie and stalked off to the corner of the roof to get what little privacy he could to mull over his thoughts.

“What’s Samurai Jack over there bummed about?” Raph huffed, his voice betraying the concern for his brother.

“There’s traces of Dimension X here.” Donnie explained.

“So? We already knew Bubblicious was back.” Raph shrugged.

“Yeah— we knew he was in his dimension, not that he could get into ours. If he can come through again, then he might be trying to bring the technodrome through.”

“So? We beat him once!”

“And Mikey was nearly cracked like a walnut! I’d rather not go through that whole situation again— it hasn’t even been a year!”

“Well we know what to expect this time so it shouldn’t be that difficult!”

Donnie opened his mouth, but then quietly reserved. “Leo— I— if Krang’s in the city still, I could probably track him?”

“What are the chances of that?” Leo asked, almost imperceptibly soft.

“Uh… not very likely… but if there’s even a small chance then…”

“Then you should try. Go ahead, then.”

Donnie nodded and set his tracker to work. 

The wait was the longest ten minutes of Mikey’s life. Granted, every minute usually passed like an eternity to him, but it was always a lot harder when he got like this. Always without warning, it could seize him and squeeze him tight like some icky, cold octopus. Or maybe it was like… the thing he couldn’t think of. Maybe he was still there and that’s why he couldn’t breath and that’s why his chest felt tight and painful and why the world was suddenly spinning circles. He wanted to sit, so he did.

“Hey bro, you good?” 

Raph’s touch was innocent enough, just a simple wrap of his arm around Mikey’s shell and a gentle squeeze, but for Mikey it was agony. It was like fire shot through his body and he just needed to run because if he didn't then his mind was screaming at him that he would die—

Donnie’s announcement came just in time to save Mikey’s life. “Hey Leo, I got a hit!”

That caught Leo’s attention. “Great. Where to next?”

***

“I’m only going to ask this once more. Where are the turtles?!” Baron Draxum demanded, his voice booming with a robotic enhancement.

“Last I saw, they were in Nunya.”

“Nunya?”

“NUNYA BUISNESS!”

Cassandra laughed and pointed at Baron, making the yokai glare back at her with angry eyes. “You walked right into that one! Just like ligma!”

“Ligma? Who’s ligma?”

“LIGMA BALLS!”

Both Cassandra and April laughed that time. April’s eyes were forever trained on the orb. April had long since given up on escaping the restraints but she was still bubbling with fury at seeing her precious orb in the grip of someone so villainous. Cassandra had the artifact strapped safely to her belt. Yet still, for some reason, April laughed along with the foot soldier that could destroy everything she protected at the slightest whim.

“You are really getting on my nerves, little girl…” Draxum leaned over April with a threatening scowl, his lion-like features visible even through the new armor that covered him. 

“Why are you doing this?” April knew what she was doing. She had spent so long with Donatello that the drama and the tears came to her like the flick of a switch, the emotions on the outside not at all matching the inside. Outside, she was a mess of tears and distress while inside her mind was calculated and almost cold as she considered every possible escape. “I thought you changed…”

Draxum laughed. A cold, chilling laugh with no warmth in at all. No care for the fate of the teen in front of him. Caring only for his own self-preservation and willing to toss everything and everyone aside to achieve the goals in his mind.

“You seriously think thousands of years of being evil and I could switch to being all sunshine and daisies because some pathetic failure of an experiment asked nicely?”

April couldn’t hide her rage, giving a battle cry as she tried to lunge out of her seat. Baron Draxum pulled away at the last minute and laughed as April topped over, unable to catch herself due to her restraints and slamming her face hard into the cold concrete. Her war shout turned into a painful cry as the impact reverberated inside her skull and rattled her to her core. It took a few seconds of numbness before pain returned to her tenfold.

“Oops.” Baron Draxum laughed, “Sorry.” He laughed and raised his hoof to give her another solid blow, but the impact never landed.

“GET AWAY FROM HER!”

Baron Draxum looked up just as a massive figure came from the sky in a flip, a powerful kick landing on his outstretched leg and making the sheep bleat in a pain of his own. All April could see from her position on the floor were a set of massive green feet, but she didn't have to wait long before the chair was lifted effortlessly off of the ground and back upright, her binds undone with a quick flash of a pocketknife.

“Hi, I’m Michelangelo.” The massive green giant gave a dopey smile and pointed to his orange mask. “Like, don’t be scared dudette I’m totally here to be your prince in shining armor! Uh. With no armor!”

“Huh. Okay.” April had seen weirder.

Like she were little more than a sack of potatoes, April was lifted bridal style and carried away from the conflict by the strange mutant calling himself by her friend's name.

“Where’s Krang?” Leo demanded, aiming his katana at what he perceived as a mutant attacker.

Baron Draxum stared curiously. “You must be the Leonardo of this world. Strange. I imagined you smaller!” With the enunciation of the word, Draxum brought a vine down upon the leader and whipped him hard against the soft of his chest, sending ninja flying backward with the force.

Before Draxum could revel in his victory, a bigger force slammed into him and knocked him off his hooves, sending Draxum into the air a few feet. The yokai came down hard but turned his slide into a charge. Raph had his sai ready, deflecting the blows that Draxum tried to land on him while landing a few punches when the opportunity presented itself.

“Master Draxum!” Cassandra was momentarily distracted and Donnie took the opportunity to jump out of his own hiding place and swing his staff toward her. Cass caught onto the attempted attack from the corner of her eye and swung her naginata to intercept the blow, locking her and the mutant into a struggle. 

Cassandra dug her feet into the ground as hard as she could, dragging the turtle as close to the other spar as she dared before putting everything she had into a sudden turn that caught Donnie off balance and sent him stumbling into Raph.

“What the Hell Don—“ Raph lost his focus and Baron Draxum jumped, slamming both hooves hard into the giants chest to send him knocking into Donnie once more. Then a sudden ankle-swipe from Cassandra had them both on the ground tangled in each other's limbs.

Cassandra ran to Draxum’s side and they gave each other a fist bump.

Leo charged back into the fray with a blow aimed at Draxum, but Cassandra caught sight of the attempted attack and shoved her master out of the way.

“Master!” 

Leo’s charge handed hard against her and he didn't stop charging until he had slammed her into the wall.

“Cassandra!” Draxum, despite his years of experience, was dumbfounded by the sudden rescue from the general. He looked behind him when he heard another battle cry and spun to catch Mikey mid-jump, the vines wrapping around Mikey’s shell securely before spinning him around and tossing him carelessly. Mikey ducked into his shell before the impact and didn't come back out.

“You children are getting on my nerves!”

Raph and Donnie untangled themselves from each other finally and charged Draxum as a unit.

“Good teamwork.” Draxum brought his vines neck-level with the charging brothers and knocked them both flat on their carapace with their own momentum.

Cassandra was still too preoccupied with her assault on Leo to lend any assistance to her master. Leo was caught off guard by how weaselly the general was, zooming in and out and up and down and, by the time any of his blows were ready, she was already somewhere else. He didn't want to praise the enemy, but damn was she fast!

“Would you— stop moving?!” Leo was starting to get frustrated.

Finally, the soldier kicked off his chest and landed a short distance away on her hands and feet, shooting up quickly and brandishing her naginata. “FOOT CLAAAAAAAAN!”

She charged Leo again and flashed her weapon, the blade just barely brushing across Leo’s plastron before he was able to pull back and dodge the attack.

“Do not waste all your energy at once, general.” Draxum’s voice was surprisingly steady despite taking on Raph and Donnie’s attacks at once. He deflected another one of Donnie’s attacks and once more the lanky teen stumbled. “You need to work on your balance recovery.” Another attack from Raph that Draxum had been anticipating. “You need to mix up your attacks!”

Raph growled, “STOP GIVING ME ADVICE!”

[flowercrown-bard]

To give without knowing (9/?)

word count: ~5k

read on AO3

previous / next

"Geralt look!" Jaskier turned towards Geralt with a grin. His eyes were half-hidden behind a curtain of wet hair that he had given up on wiping out of his forehead once he had realised that the storm would render his efforts useless. "We're saved!"

Geralt grunted. Through narrowed eyes he looked at the hut in the distance, not sure if he could share Jaskier’s enthusiasm but unwilling to dim it.

Jaskier's excitement was palpable. His steps became longer and he tugged at Geralt's arm insistently.

"Come on, the quicker we get there, the faster we're going to be out of this miserable rain." When Geralt resumed at his own pace, Jaskier swatted a hand at his arm. "I’ll blame you if my boots end up ruined because of this."

Geralt’s lips quirked up. "Not much to ruin there. They were ugly when you bought them."

Jaskier squawked in indignation, but his mouth closed when Geralt patted Roach's flank. He had taken to walk beside her lately to made sure she didn't have to carry more than strictly necessary. "The old girl won't be able to make it through the mud without slipping if we're going any faster."

Something soft flashed across Jaskier's face. It looked suspiciously like pity.

"Of course," Jaskier said quietly and slowed his pace again until he walked on Roach's other side.

Geralt tried not to listen in, but he couldn't help it when Jaskier started coaxing Roach with praise and his soothing voice. No longer was Jaskier bickering with the horse for trying to nip at him and Geralt knew that Jaskier knew.

Roach had been a good horse, but age and a minor yet consequential injury had made her slow.

Slow witchers didn't live for long.

Still, Geralt couldn't bring himself to get rid of Roach just yet. It would be better for her and better for Geralt if he got himself a new horse, but the irrational part of him that talked to his horse as if she could understand him and sought comfort in burying his fingers in her mane couldn't let her go just yet.

Jaskier knew. He didn't say as much, but Geralt saw it in the way Jaskier looked at him when he stroked Roach's soft nose or in the way he snuck her more treats than usually. He heard it in the way that Jaskier didn't playfully insult Roach anymore. Jaskier knew that Geralt should give her away and he knew why he didn't.

A harsh gust of wind tore at Geralt's hair and the rain pricked his face like needles. If it was this cold and uncomfortable for Geralt, then Jaskier must be freezing. The late summer was still warm, but once the sun was hidden behind walls of clouds, it was impossible to ignore that autumn was nigh.

"Come here," Geralt said more roughly than he had aimed for.

Still, despite his tone and Jaskier's bad first experience of Geralt asking him to come closer, Jaskier obligated without hesitation. Geralt guided Jaskier to walk between him and Roach. It wasn't much better, but at least like this Jaskier would be shielded a little from the biting wind. Jaskier gave Geralt a grateful smile.

Geralt tried not to read too much into the way Jaskier leaned into him as they continued trudging through the storm. Jaskier was just seeking warmth and this, at least, Geralt was able to give him. That, of course, was the only reason why Geralt, too, shuffled closer to Jaskier.

Geralt's nerves flared up with every laboured step they took towards the hut. They needed the shelter, but there was no guarantee that whoever lived there would grant such a thing to a witcher. To Jaskier, surely. Maybe even to Roach if Jaskier put on that pleading look of his. But Geralt? He couldn't be sure. Jaskier had improved his reputation in the big cities where his songs were widely spread and popular, but in this remote place? There was no guarantee these people had even ever heard of Jaskier.

And if Geralt was turned away, he knew that there was no chance that Jaskier would stay. The pink scar on his forehead proved that much. Guilt spiked through Geralt. It had been Jaskier's choice to stand between him and the stones, but it had been Geralt's fault it had even come to that. And now, it might become Geralt's fault that Jaskier might not accept dry and warm shelter because of Geralt.

It was no use worrying. He would find out soon enough whether he would be chased away or not.

When they reached the hut, Geralt didn't move. He pressed his hand against Roach's neck as if she was the one needing reassurance, while Jaskier knocked on the wooden door. Geralt let his eyes wander over the hut. A part of the roof had very obviously been patched by someone who hadn’t known what they’d been doing and the window shutters looked as if there was a good chance of them getting torn off if the wind got any harsher. If it weren’t for the muffled sounds of worried voices from the inside, Geralt would have assumed the hut was abandoned.

The wait for the door to open felt like an eternity. The voices stopped and now the only sounds were the drumming of the rain and the bleating of sheep coming from an adjoined pen and barn. Then, hurried steps joined the noise and the door creaked open just enough to reveal an elderly woman looking at them suspiciously.

"Dear lady," Jaskier began with his charming performance smile, "you have such a lovely house. My friend and I -"

He was cut off by a sneeze. Sniffling, his smile returned, but this time it was more sheepish than suave.

Without taking a second to think about his actions, Geralt put an arm around Jaskier's shoulder, draping half of his cloak around him in the process.

The old woman's suspicion vanished in the blink of an eye and more wrinkles appeared around her eyes as she smiled.

"Oh dearie, you must be so cold." She took a step back and opened the door fully. "Come in, come in."

She ushered Jaskier inside and turned around. "Basia, come here!" she shouted over her shoulder. "Show this young man where to put his horse."

A girl who looked like she could be the old woman's grandchild appeared in the doorway, looking up at Geralt with curious brown eyes.

He nearly squirmed under the scrutiny, but then a grin broke onto the girl's face.

„She’s so pretty, can I pet her?”

Without waiting for permission, she reached out for Roach’s face. Geralt caught her wrist lightly.

“Don’t,” he said, trying to sound less gruff than normally. “She bites when you spook her.” Roach might be used to carrying bloody trophies, but on the Path a horse’s natural instincts to run away from danger were often invaluable to keep it alive. “Try it like this.”

He held out his own flat hand. Basia looked at him with big eyes and mimicked the gesture.

“Let her come to you.” Geralt let go of her wrist and watched as her eyes grew even bigger when Roach curiously sniffed her hand and nibbled gently at the girl’s sleeve. Basia turned her hand to stroke Roach’s soft nose and let out a small giggle when Roach huffed, blowing hot air at her.

“She likes you,” he stated the obvious, but it made the girl’s face light up.

“I like her too. And you. You’re nice.”

Geralt huffed, not unlike Roach and crossed his arms in front of his chest, unsure what else to do.

The girl didn’t seem to mind his awkwardness. “I’ll show you the barn.”

As if it was the most normal thing in the world, she took Roach’s reins with one hand and Geralt’s hand with her other.

His heart stuttered and he threw a panicked look at Jaskier who by now was sitting at a table inside the hut with a blanket over his head and soup thrust into his hands. Jaskier’s eyes were on Geralt and there was something unbearably soft in them. Geralt lifted a brow in question and nodded towards the girl, doing his best to convey a silent help me to Jaskier, but instead of telling him how to handle this situation, Jaskier only grinned at his discomfort. Maybe it was a little encouraging too, but mainly Jaskier just seemed to enjoy watching how a feared fighter was powerless in the presence of a little girl.

Unaware or uncaring of Geralt’s uncertainty and Jaskier’s betrayal, the girl tugged at Geralt’s hand and led him around the hut towards the barn. Geralt was already thoroughly drenched, but the girl still tried to save herself from the rain.

Once they were inside the barn, she shook her head like a wet dog, letting her locks fly into her face.

“You can put her in that box,” she said. With a harsh noise, she shooed some of the chickens fluttering about away and propped herself onto a box standing at the wall, her legs dangling over the edge. “My Pa used to have a horse, but he had to sell it after the last storm broke our roof.”

Geralt hummed with a frown.

“He’s away now,” Basia continued while Geralt but Roach in the box and began unbuckling the saddle girth. “He went into town some days ago to sell the eggs and wool but it takes him forever to get back now without the horse.”

Geralt’s brows furrowed. “He wouldn’t try to come back in this weather, would he?”

The girl shook her head. “My Pa is smart. He said not to go outside when there’s a storm. The only time he did was because some of the sheep had run away and he had to catch them. Because he’s also brave.”

Geralt offered her a small smile. “So are you, aren’t you?”

She cocked her head to the side. “I don’t think so. I want to be. But I never go outside and I never catch sheep. Storms are scary.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “You tried to pet Roach. That’s a brave thing to do.”

Or a stupid thing, if the person in question was a bard who thought it was a good idea to approach a horse from behind and try to touch it without warning.

The girl’s nose scrunched up at the name, reminding Geralt too much of a certain bard. Had Jaskier been like this as a child? Red-cheeked and talking wide-eyed about wanting to be brave?

“Has your Pa ever taught you how to take care of a horse?”

Basia shook her head.

“Do you want to learn?”

Immediately, the girl jumped down from the box, brimming with excitement. “Really? You’ll teach me?”

Geralt hummed. “I’m not a good teacher,” he warned her, even as he offered her a brush.

Basia’s jaw was set in determination. “But I’m a good student. Gandma says so.”

And she was. She watched with hawk-eyes how Geralt brushed Roach down and rubbed the sweat and rain off of her, before mimicking everything she had seen on Roach’s other side, at least as far as she could reach.

When Geralt was satisfied and Roach was thoroughly cleaned and fed, they made their way back to the hut where the old woman promptly shoved a woolly blanket and a towel at Geralt.

“Dry your hair, dear,” she said in an unexpectedly commanding voice. “I’ll not have you get sick under my roof.”

“I can’t get sick,” Geralt protested.

The woman put her hands on her hips, but before she could scold Geralt, Jaskier pushed off the table, his chair scratching against the floor.

As he stood up, the blanket wrapped around Jaskier slid down his shoulders and it took Geralt a moment to catch up with what he was seeing.

Jaskier was no longer wearing that purple doublet that had turned dark with the rain, but modest and almost baggy looking clothes that he normally wouldn't have touched with a pole. The old woman must have been kind enough to give Jaskier some of her son's clothing.

It looked wrong somehow seeing Jaskier like this, which was strange. The discomfort at seeing Jaskier wear this didn't come from the lack of colour or fancy frills. Jaskier had stolen Geralt's clothes often enough when his own had gotten dirty or he didn't want them to tear when they had to crawl through underbrush. Geralt had never had a problem with Jaskier wearing his clothes, no matter how colourless or ill-fitting they were - sliding down Jaskier's shoulders or with sleeves that hid Jaskier's hand inside with how much too long they were.

So it didn't make sense that there was a hot iron burning around Geralt's heart at the sight of Jaskier in someone else's clothes and with tossed hair. It was probably just the bitterness of knowing that Geralt himself would need to stay in his soaked clothes - there was no chance he would fit into the stranger's clothes if they were offered and he doubted any of his spare clothes had remained safe from the rain.

“Don’t worry, Ollga,” Jaskier said with a grin. “He is stubborn as an ox. Let me.”

Geralt didn’t know whether that last part was directed at Ollga or at him, for Jaskier took the towel out of his hands and began rubbing his hair. Geralt shot him a glare. He was sure Jaskier was putting extra force behind it, too delighted to see Geralt already gobsmacked.

Jaskier only returned his glare with a wink. “I’m just taking care of you. Really, dear heart, you take more care of Roach than of yourself.”

Geralt snorted. “You say that as if you don’t jump at every opportunity to pamper me as if I was some delicate flower.”

A blush rose in Jaskier’s lips and he narrowed his eyes at Geralt, but before he had a chance to come up with a witty retort, Basia piped up.

“He didn’t take care of Roach. I did.” She jabbed a thumb proudly at her own chest.

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up. “He let you touch Roach?”

She nodded eagerly. “He said I was brave for touching her.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Jaskier’s lips twitched into a grin. “Geralt, you never told me you thought I was brave.”

“That’s because you’re not. You are an idiot.” He said it with no heat. Or rather, with a different kind of heat, one he wasn’t sure he liked or wanted Jaskier to know about.

“Oh really?” Something sparkled in Jaskier’s eyes, the kind of glint that meant that Jaskier knew he had the high-ground. “Because last time I checked, I was master of the seven liberal arts.”

“You carry around a stick as if it’s an expensive jewel. You tell me which one of us is the idiot.”

“Ah, but darling, it is the stick you gave me. That makes it far more precious than any old jewel, wouldn’t you say?”

This time it was Geralt who got saved from having to come up with a retort.

“It’s adorable watching you two bicker,” Ollga said. Geralt pointedly avoided looking at Jaskier’s eyes or flushed cheeks before he said something he’d regret. “But how about we finish eating first before the soup gets cold.”

Thankful for the out, Geralt nodded. He ate in silence, as Jaskier entertained their hosts with tales of the fae and the adventures they’ve had together.

Basia listened with shining eyes and told Jaskier her own stories, about how one time her Pa had let her ride on his old horse Daisy and how she had brushed down Roach.

Jaskier leaned closer to her, as if telling her a secret. “If you give her apple slices, she’ll let you plait her hair. And she likes it when you scratch her behind the ears.”

Geralt melted a little with every word Jaskier said. For as much as he had complained about Roach over the years, it was clear that he had a soft spot for the stubborn old girl and had done everything he could to win her favour. Just as he had never given up on getting Geralt to like him.

Basia was just in the middle of telling Jaskier about her Pa, when lightning cracked outside. The girl blanched and slung her arms around herself.

“It’s alright, love,” Ollga said, “it’s just a storm. You’re safe in here. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

Basia lowered her eyes. “Did last time. When the roof came down.”

Geralt’s heart clenched painfully when he saw the fear in the girl’s eyes. Too vividly did he remember the many times he himself had been afraid as a child, with no adults who comforted him or told him that nothing bad would happen to him.

He wished he had the words to offer the comfort he had never received himself.

“Everything is going to be alright,” Jaskier declared with such a confidence that for a moment, Basia’s eyes lost that glimmer of fear. “Do you want to know why?”

“Why?” she asked in a small voice.

Jaskier held her eyes for a moment, building the suspense, before reaching into the bags he had put down next to his chair.

“Because I have this.” With that, he presented one of his treasures; the sheep. “Remember what I told you about the fae?”

Basia nodded with round eyes.

“Well, I just so happen to have been blessed by them multiple times. And this blessing here,” he held the sheep up a little higher, “makes it so that you are safe when you sleep. Since I’ve had it, I haven’t had a single nightmare or woke up because something bad had happened.”

“And it can protect you from storms?”

Jaskier grinned at her. “Of course it can. After all, Geralt and I have been stuck in the storm and then found the two nicest people this side of the Pontar to help us. If that’s not a sign that this sheep is magic, I don’t know what is.” He leaned back in his chair, looking pensive. “I was going to ask if you wanted to have it for the night, but if you don’t believe that it is magic, I don’t think you would want it.”

“I do!” Basia almost shouted.

“Basia,” Ollga scolded her and the girl gave Jaskier a sheepish smile.

A little quieter, but with no less excitement, she repeated, “I do. Can I please hold it?”

Jaskier’s smile became brilliantly bright. “Of course.”

He handed over the sheep. Geralt was sure he was the only one who noticed the hesitation before Jaskier let go. Jaskier kept his eyes trained on the wooden figure and his smile was a little strained before he smoothed it out.

“Now nothing can happen to you.”

Basia nodded, but a low rumble of thunder made her flinch again.

Geralt’s jaw tightened and his eyes flickered from Jaskier to the sheep. “It’s not complete yet.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows shot up and Basia cocked her head. “What do you mean?”

Geralt squirmed a little in his seat. “It’s a gift from the fae, but you have to do something to make it yours. So it knows who to protect.”

His eyes darted back to Jaskier, silently asking for permission. He needn’t have worried. Jaskier’s eyes were soft and almost adoring.

“Of course, how could I forget! Maybe Geralt was right after all and I am an idiot.” But he wasn’t. Jaskier was so clever, brilliant even, catching on and playing along without missing a beat. “What do you say, we try to make the sheep a bit fluffier?”

Geralt’s lips quirked up. “You said your father sells wool?” he asked, though his eyes were on Ollga, who gave him a grateful nod, her hand resting fondly on her granddaughter’s shoulder.

“I’ll go get some.”

Attaching the wool to Friend wasn’t as easy as Geralt had imagined. But as Basia and Jaskier worked together to give the sheep some wool, laughter rang through the hut, almost loud enough to drown out the sounds of the storm raging outside. The child was thoroughly distracted and by the time they were done and the sheep resembled a cloud more than a wooden sheep, night had fallen outside and Basia was yawning unabashedly.

Ollga brushed her hand through the girl’s curls. “Time for bed, hm?”

Basia nodded, but before she followed her grandmother to the only other room, she pressed the sheep against her chest and turned to Jaskier. “It’s so smoft now!”

Geralt’s inside turned to something soft when he saw Jaskier lower his head for a second to hide his laugh.

“It sure is,” Jaskier agreed once he caught himself again.

Basia ran her ran over the sheep, but her brows were drawn together in concern. “But do you think it’s enough? Does the sheep know now that you borrowed it to me?”

“Hmm,” Jaskier made and ran his fingers through his hair, pretending to think. “There is one more thing I think I need to do. Did you know that the fae love songs? If I sing a song about sheep to you, I am sure the fae will accept that for tonight the sheep is yours.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt whispered in warning. “As much as you love that song, I don’t think the fishmonger’s daughter is appropriate.”

Jaskier gasped in indignation. “Geralt, what do you think of me? That song isn’t even about sheep. I’m not an amateur.”

Softly, Jaskier began to sing. It was a simple melody, clearly made up on the spot and designed to make a child fall asleep, but Geralt listened enraptured. “Sleep, darling, sleep. I’m giving you a sheep. With white wool and a friendly smile To hug, so you can sleep a while Sleep, darling, sleep.”

As Jaskier's melody rang through the tiny room and Basia's heartbeat calmed, Geralt felt himself transported back to all the different times he himself had lain awake at night.

Geralt was no stranger to nightmares or dark thoughts preventing him from falling asleep. He also was no stranger of hiding such things. He hadn't thought that Jaskier could have ever realised that Geralt was suffering from nightmares, but now that he thought about it, he remembered soft humming in the dead of night. Geralt had always thought that that was just Jaskier being unable to keep a new composition to himself no matter the time of night. But now as he watched Jaskier sing a girl out of her fear, Geralt wasn't so sure anymore. “Sleep, darling, sleep. You’re bleating like a sheep When you sleep you’re snoring I’ll wake you in the morning Sleep, darling, sleep.“

By the end of Jaskier’s lullaby, Basia’s eyelids had dropped and Ollga just about managed to keep her awake for long enough to get her to bed and tuck her in.

Geralt and Jaskier remained awkwardly standing at the table. They exchanged looks and Jaskier lifted his shoulders, clueless as to what they were supposed to do now.

It didn't take long for Ollga to appear again. She pulled the door to the bedroom close quietly so as not to wake the sleeping girl. Then she turned towards them with an apologetic expression.

"I am afraid that's our only bedroom," she nodded towards the door behind her. "I wish I could offer you a bed, you have been so kind to the child, but there's nothing -"

"Don't worry." Jaskier stepped forward and touched her arm briefly in comfort. You have already been kinder to us than most people would have been in your place. Geralt and I don't mind not sleeping in beds. If you'll allow us to stay the night, we could sleep in the barn? "

Geralt's eyes widened and it took a great effort not to make a surprised sound. He knew that Jaskier was used to not sleeping in beds, of course, but it hadn't occurred to him that Jaskier would be the one to suggest sleeping surrounded by animals when he could instead be sleeping in the kitchen in front of a hearth.

He forced his heart to remain calm when Jaskier looked at him for confirmation and nodded.

"Roach gets anxious during storms. She'll be happy about having some company."

-

The storm didn't let up as they made themselves comfortable in Roach's box. They lay close to her, close enough to touch and calm her whenever she threw her head back with rolling eyes when thunder clapped, and used the hay in lieu of a mattress.

It wasn't perfect. The rain drummed onto the roof and the wind howled through the cracks in the walls, but Geralt couldn't have been more comfortable.

At least, until Jaskier started tossing and turning. With every minute they spent in the barm, more and more of the facade of carefree confidence from before fell away until Jaskier was shaking and wincing almost as much as Basia had whenever the thunder roared.

Something tightened in Geralt's chest. The last time he had seen Jaskier like this in the late hours had been months ago, when he had carved the sheep for him. Since then, not a night had passed that Jaskier hadn't had Friend close to him in his sleep.

Jaskier's frantic heartbeat was louder than the storm to Geralt's ears.

He wanted to help. But he didn't have the time or the wood to carve another protector for Jaskier and he didn't have a soothing voice like Jaskier did to sing or talk him to sleep. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but –

"Jaskier?" he asked quietly. He was Jaskier's friend and he would be a poor one if he didn't try - if he didn't at least offer -

"Yeah?" Jaskier's voice didn't tremble, but it was a damn near thing.

Geralt wasn't soft. Nor was he friendly looking. But Jaskier had said... Months ago he had said there was one way to help him sleep peacefully.

"I can hold you," Geralt said stiffly. The words sounded wooden and not at all like the beautiful images Jaskier had conjured up in Geralt's mind back then with his words.

Jaskier turned to him. Pieces of hay were stuck in his hair and had left an abstract pattern on his skin. He looked like a mess. He looked beautiful.

"You would do that?"

Geralt swallowed thickly. He wanted to look away, but forced himself to keep eye contact. He couldn't mess this up. If Jaskier gave any sign of not wanting this, Geralt couldn't miss it.

"If you wanted to."

Jaskier smiled and the sun broke forth from the clouds in the midst of a thunderstorm.

Geralt opened his arms a little and without a hint of hesitation, Jaskier scooted closer and pressed himself against Geralt, nuzzling his face into his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered and his lips brushed Geralt. Even through the thin fabric of his shirt, it set his skin ablaze. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The only thing he could do was tighten his arms around Jaskier and close his eyes as he buried his nose in Jaskier's hair.

Behind them, Roach snorted softly as she drifted off to sleep.

This should have been perfect. Geralt was holding Jaskier in his arms - he was being a good friend, a kind and comforting person - he was warm and dry and Roach was happy.

So why did his heart grow so heavy?

He knew. In his heart of hearts, he knew even though he did not yet dare to allow the thought into his mind or past his lips.

But Jaskier knew it too.

His finger started to draw soothing circles onto Geralt’s chest and playing with his medallion. It was distracting, painfully so. Geralt lost himself on Jaskier's touch and suddenly, as if a damn had broken, the words flooded out if his mouth, not many but enough to know the inevitable was coming.

"Roach likes this stable. It's dry. Bigger than the ones at most inns."

Jaskier nodded against him. "Do you think the chickens and her would get along? Because I like to think the chickens would take my place as the obligatory annoyance Roach has to deal with to keep her occupied."

A low chuckle rumbled through Geralt's chest.

Jaskier smiled against him and continued, "Basia would talk to Roach like a certain someone."

Geralt snorted. "The child would spoil her like another certain someone."

Jaskier chuckled. "The poor old lady wouldn't have a minute or peace."

"Who? Roach or Ollga?"

"Both. Obviously. But they would also be happy. Basia is a good kid."

Geralt hummed in agreement. "Her father is in need of a horse."

"She would probably go to Roach for comfort during the next storm."

"She's a brave girl. She would comfort Roach."

Jaskier was quiet for a moment and Geralt had to squeeze his eyes shut to stop the burning in them. Witchers couldn't cry. Sometimes he wished they could.

"Geralt?" Jaskier asked quietly, his fingers wandering up to Geralt's hair and running through them in calming motions.

It was no longer Geralt that comforted Jaskier.

"I'm going to leave her here." The words felt wrong, even though he knew they needed to be said. No weight was lifted off his chest and no sudden relief washed over him. He just felt tired. "It's for the best. When Basia's father comes back he'll take care of Roach and Basia will talk to her and be there for her."

Jaskier's fingers halted for a second. When Jaskier spoke again, his voice sounded unsure and serious. "Geralt, she's not going to replace you. You know that, don't you?"

Geralt didn't reply.

Jaskier lifted his head and propped himself up on his elbows so he could look Geralt in the eyes. He was leaning over him. Not caging him in, but shielding him from the world.

"You're not replaceable, Geralt. Just as little as she is replaceable to you."

Geralt let out a mirth less laugh. "That's a bad example."

"Why?" Jaskier challenged. "Because you are going to buy a new horse? Because you are going to give the next one the same name? That means nothing, Geralt. You can't deny that she's important to you. As was the last one. As will the next one be."

Geralt remained quiet, but his hands pulled Jaskier closer to him. He hoped Jaskier understood the silent gesture as the thanks that it was. Geralt was sure he did. Jaskier always understood.

He settled back against Geralt and hummed softly.

Slowly the storm quieted down but Jaskier stayed snuggled against Geralt. Sniffles that had nothing to do with having gotten caught in the rain interrupted his humming until he gave up fully.

"I will miss her," Jaskier said for the both of them. "She is a wonderful friend, the old shrew."

Is, not was. It made something in Geralt's chest loosen, made him finally feel lighter.

"I'll leave Friend with Basia," Jaskier said and turned his face so Geralt couldn't see it.

He didn't need to, in order to know how devastated Jaskier was at the thought alone and yet he had sounded determined.

A frown darkened Geralt's face. "Why? You love - that sheep is important to you."

Jaskier didn't try to deny it. "Of course it is. And Roach is important to you." He gave a wet laugh. "To me too, if you can believe it. I want her to have something to remember us by."

"Don't worry," Geralt whispered in Jaskier's hair and it felt like a confession. "You are not someone who’s easy to forget."

Jaskier let out a shuddering breath that send chills down Geralt's spine when it hit his bare neck.

"I'm going to tell Basia she can keep the sheep," Jaskier said firmly. "To keep her safe so she can always look after Roach."

"And what about you?"

Jaskier lifted his head just enough that Geralt could see the unwavering trust and sincerity in his eyes.

"I have you. And you'll have me too."

---

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[soukokuwu]

i live for aku angst. could you please write a scenario where he develops feelings for a fem reader during the dark era, but watches as her & dazai fall in love together? he wouldn’t be able to do anything since he’s dazai’s subordinate. but imagine them having a significant friend (ish) relationship, so when she disappears along with dazai he gets left utterly heartbroken and alone, wishing he would have said something to her when she was still with him. thank you! i love your writing

➥ genre: angst

➥ pairing: akutagawa x crush!reader, dazai x reader

➥ synopsis: akutagawa watches as you fall in love... but not with him.

➥ word count: 2k

➥ a/n: and i live for angst 😼 i really really loved this idea & i really hope you’re still here — tried a certain theme for this, hopefully you like it!! and tysm kind anony ^.^

Black and blue

You came out of the blue.

In the form of medicine for his wounds, and a cure for his aches. You were his superior, but you were unlike a certain other superior he knew. You radiated warmth and comfort — something Akutagawa didn’t know he craved. And yet you managed to instil that feeling in him within a matter of seconds.

“Dazai did this to you again?”

What was that he heard in your voice? Was it pain? Disapproval? Sadness, maybe? He was too detached from any emotion to be able to tell. Everything he knew, he learned from Dazai himself. All he wanted was the man’s approval. That was all he worked for. But you ignited a conflict in Akutagawa that he didn’t bargain for. One that he didn’t know would lead to fireworks instead of just a single spark.

“Yes,” was all he said. Was there any other way to respond? This was the first time you spoke to him, was he supposed to continue the conversation? A part of him wanted to. This was the only time a superior has shown any sort of care to him after all. So why couldn’t he get anything out?

You pressed your lips into a firm line, and he couldn’t help but notice how soft and pink they looked. You didn’t wear a lot of makeup, and his opinion was that you didn’t need it anyway. You already looked... pleasing enough to the eyes. Was that how people described someone they found... good-looking?

Endless questions darted across Akutagawa’s mind that day. But none were answered. Because how could they be, when the one questioning didn’t have the guts to say a thing in the first place?

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Akutagawa knew.

He knew you didn’t mean to. But you did it anyway. He knew why, too. Because he let you. And just like that, his walls came down. No, they didn’t crumble — he wouldn’t let them fall that easily, but still you were the only one who could take the bricks out piece by piece until the barrier was almost nonexistent.

It was like demolishing a house and rebuilding it again — just better, stronger. You painted over his grey with your red. It was your favourite color, and fitting enough; it was the color of his feelings for you.

Since that day you were always there for him. You had your own tasks, sure, but you always looked out for him when you could. And he found that days when you were especially busy were the days he felt most blue. Akutagawa found it strange though — why did you care? What did you have to gain?

And he found the answer one night, a conversation with you by the bay. You had invited him to take a walk with you, to get some proper fresh air and let off steam. But Akutagawa had read way too much into it, that he knew. Why else would he feel disappointed that there wasn’t so much as any physical contact with you? He merely stayed at a distance as he always did, and you never tried.

One fruit bore out of that night though. He learned more about you than he thought he would. You were much like him; joining the mafia because you had nowhere else, you accepted an invitation from a senior in the mafia, wanting to prove that you weren’t worthless, that you could produce something of value to someone. No wonder you looked out for him. You saw a part of yourself in him, didn’t you? You knew how lonely it felt. That night, Akutagawa felt something he never thought he would — a sense of belonging.

The longer you spoke to him that night, the larger that feeling grew. And somehow he looked at you in a way he didn’t before. It confused him, disgusted him. No, correction — he disgusted himself. Not his affection for you. Why did he feel like pursuing this; you? That night, he denied himself the chance to let you in on his feelings.

A useless kid like him doesn’t deserve you.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Akutagawa Ryuunosuke was a black sheep. But you were the golden girl.

Should he be surprised then? As he watched the way his mentor interacted with you, should he be worried? No, did he even have the right to be? But then he saw him smile at you, a smile he’d only seen formed when he was around that other guy — Oda Sakunosuke. You were... another exception? Yet again, many questions raced through his head. But one thing he knew for sure — he was turning into the green-eyed monster.

He started to notice how you reacted to Dazai. He hated how you always seemed so mesmerised whenever he walked by. He hated how your eyes twinkled whenever you talked to him — where’s that sparkle in your eye when you talked to Akutagawa? He hated how one day you just showed up with Dazai’s coat wrapped around your shoulders. He hated how much he was affected by it. It really wasn’t unexpected — next to Dazai, who would take a second look at him anyway? He wished he could be him. Then maybe you’d... He shook his head. No, maybe not even then.

What he hated the most? He couldn’t even hate the guy. He yearned for Dazai’s respect; approval, and that never changed. But then the upset dissolved into an understanding. Something in his head clicked. You belonged with Dazai. He knew next to nothing about your relationship and how it worked. But what Akutagawa did know? Dazai was a revered member of the Port Mafia, one likely to take Mori’s place as the big boss in the future. He couldn’t even lay a hit on him with Rashomon. Dazai wasn’t a formidable fighter like Chuuya either, and still he managed to beat Akutagawa into the ground. That man... was exceptional. You deserved that. You deserved the best.

That’s what Dazai was. He was the black that would take no other hue, and fittingly so he was the Port Mafia’s great white hope.

“Devour space? That sounds cool,” you had commented one day while bandaging up the cut on his wrist, one inflicted on by Dazai himself. He noticed how you didn’t comment on his barbarism as you usually would, and the usual concern in your tone never appeared. As it never did ever since the first day he saw you talk to Dazai.

“I still can’t do it.”

“If you try to imagine you’re protecting me, could you?”

You see, Akutagawa knew it was just a joke to you. And yet? His heart started pounding so fast, so loud in his chest the moment he heard it. It was a tiring dance — feeling so happy about a tiny comment and then feeling a heartache after realising your smiles, even then, were never as sweet as the ones you flashed at Dazai.

Did Dazai even love you? Or was he playing some sort of game as he usually does with women? He hated how he was praying for the latter. Hated how he wished that things would crumble for the two of you so that he could be the one to help you pick up the pieces — to be the one. Akutagawa sighed, knowing he could never get inside his head. Anyone who tried would fall into a cognitive prison. But even these selfish thoughts couldn’t last long, because Akutagawa got his answer later that day when he overheard his mentor talking to his friend.

“Odasaku, how vulnerable can humans get?”

Akutagawa is shocked at the depth of the conversation. He didn’t know Dazai was capable of talking about... emotions. He didn’t think he had any. The other man mentioned something about it being to a big extent, Akutagawa let it slip past his ears. He was more interested in what Dazai had to say.

“It’s weird. It’s like finally being seen after having lived in perpetual darkness. The light she holds, it’s small... but is it wrong of me to hope that it will grow with time?”

Was that... hope he heard in his mentor’s voice? ‘With time’? That meant the future... for all his suicidal thoughts, because of you, was Dazai really considering living? Akutagawa sighed in exasperation as he quietly walked away from the spot he eavesdropped from. He would never understand Dazai.

He never did. Especially not when the same Dazai who spoke so fondly of you was the same Dazai who shot three bullets at Akutagawa for killing the enemy. You were a saviour in more than one way. Your words echoed in his mind, and his shield came out of his will to protect you, an imaginary you. That’s why Dazai didn’t manage to shoot him dead this time. Because of you.

“Oh? See? You can do it. How many times have I told you? Cutting open unfortunate hostages isn’t the only thing you’re good for. You should be able to use your powers for defense too.”

“I’ve never been able to successfully do that before this.”

“But you just did. Isn’t that great?”

Akutagawa wanted so badly to argue back in an act of rebellion, to yell out that it was only because of you that he was able to do it. But the words got stuck in his throat. And Dazai’s threat embedded themselves in his brain. He always wondered if Dazai knew his subordinate harboured feelings for his partner. But Akutagawa already knew the answer. Nothing escapes that man. But he’s sure that he doesn’t view him as a threat, not even as competition, no.

To Dazai, it was probably just another reason to hate him; another reason to justify why he was in Dazai’s black books.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It was a complete bolt from the blue.

Akutagawa remembered the day he realised he had lost two important people in his life. He thought that watching as you fell in love with Dazai was the most horrible emotion he could feel. He was wrong. Losing the two of you, not even being able to see either of you, not knowing where either of you vanished to — nothing could top that agony.

The day Oda died, the two of you disappeared along with him.

You took down his walls, painted the insides red, furnished it and made it vibrant again and then suddenly you were gone. You left him in the dark. You invaded his solitary space — slowly, ironically without any violence, and yet the moment you left, it was anything but peaceful for Akutagawa. No, you and Dazai left him even lonelier than before. You graced him with your presence and healed him, only to break him down even more than he already was before he met you.

Everything he heard about love after you left just seemed like everyone viewed the world through rose-coloured glasses. Nothing he found could describe the anguish he felt over losing you; or the regret he held for not telling you how he felt — the remorse that he knew wouldn’t change a thing, and yet wished he did anyway.

Because who knew when he would ever see you again, if he would? What if he never did? Yet ironically, your memory is always there — you’re sitting at the edge of his periphery, taunting him with your smile, tempting him to go and find you. And Akutagawa thinks of it everyday; what it would be like to find you, to hold you, to tell you everything he should have when you were still there.

However, a part of him nags at him not to. After all, the grass is always greener on the other side — maybe because Akutagawa isn’t there. And as an image of you flashed in his mind yet again, he scoffed at himself.

Beautiful. That’s the word he was looking for that first day you touched his soul.

You’re beautiful.

tags: @yokelish @gogolparadise @fyowyn-writes

[lo-55]

Lightning In A Bottle Ch. 2

Nanohana wasn’t changed much, to the point that Nao was beginning to wonder how long she had been inside her crystal prison. She had no idea how much time had passed, but if the boy who had broken her out of the rock hadn’t recognized her or her flag it had to have been a while. 

And that hat…

It had to be a duplicate, surely.

Nao tucked her hands into the pockets of her pants. Her high leather boots kept the sand out of her socks, at least, and when Luffy managed to burn whole sacks of Raindance powder her cape kept her dry. At her side, Odenta and Mikazuki hung as heavy comforts in their sheaths. They didn’t garner nearly as much attention in the city as Nao and the Gem’s had when they had arrived however long ago that was. Back there the city had emptied out as soon as they stepped foot in the sand covered streets of the Alabastan port. 

No, no one even looked twice at them, there were so many people going through the city. 

Not her, or Luffy in his hat. 

How peculiar. 

Nao made a mental note to get a hold of a newspaper as soon as she could, or maybe visit Ohara. They would have the best records about what she’d missed. 

It would have to wait. Ohara was a long ways from Alabasta, and it would be hard to sail Blood Stone without someone else helping her. The ship was just a little felucca, hardly big enough for fifteen people, but she was tough as nails and made for the roughest waters in the world. All the same, it wasn’t safe to sail alone in the Grand Line, where the weather might change without warning, when there wasn’t someone to stay awake and keep watch. Not to mention Marine’s, other pirates, and all sorts of other dangers. Sea Kings probably hadn’t gone extinct since she went under. She’d rather not deal with them. 

Nao was so busy contemplating her ship that she nearly walked right by the restaurant that Luffy went shooting into. 

She had to backtrack to poke her head inside. A crowd had gathered, and Luffy was ignoring it entirely in face of ordering lunch. A pair of unconscious bodies lay through several broken walls. 

Nao cocked her head. Had Luffy done that when hed stretched out and launched himself like a demented rubberband? She knew it had to be a Devil Fruit, but she didn’t expect him to go causing that much destruction mindlessly.  

What a weird kid. 

Ah well. Pirate.

Nao took a seat next to Luffy while the chef frantically started cooking. Whoever had been in before them had eaten a lot, with dirty plates stacked nearly to the ceiling. Now he was feeding Luffy, and her too. 

Nao made a mental note to tip him well. 

She casually elbowed Luffy’s face out of the way and stole a whole chicken to rip into. 

“Hey!” he shouted around a mouthful of food. His head stretched unnaturally away on his neck. “That’s mine!” 

“Finders keepers,” she said succinctly, and shoveled it into her face as fast as she could. Time hadn’t passed for her at all inside the stone. Her injuries from the battle weren’t healed, and she didn’t feel well rested. She was famished, but not starving like she’d spent months unconscious. 

Nevertheless, she’d always been a big eater. She needed the energy to keep up with her lifestyle, and to keep herself strong enough to fight. She wouldn't let her broad shoulders shrivel or her powerful legs grow weak if she could help it. It was a death sentence.  

She nearly bit Luffy’s hand inhaling spicy noodles next, and a hank of lamb. The chef was sweating and out of breath but he kept putting food on the counter and they kept eating. Luffy was chatting with the locals while he ate. 

“Why’s there a hole in the wall? Is that some weird hobby of yours?”

“YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PUT THE HOLE IN THE WALL!” 

She knew it. 

Nao was in the middle of a plate of roasted peppers when one of the formerly-unconscious men climbed out of the hole in the wall. She watched him get slammed back down by a man in a fur coat, and the next thing she knew she was getting dragged through the streets of Nanohara by Luffy. 

Why are we running? That guy isn’t even that strong...

“Tashigi!” the man chasing them shouted, “Stop them!” 

Nao looked forwards to see a girl with a sword. 

“I’ll handle her,” she offered Luffy, who nodded and let go so he could go bouncing up onto the rooftops like a ninja or something. In one smooth move Nao drew Odenta from her side and lifted it to block a blow from the other girl, Tashigi. 

“Nice sword,” Nao grinned sharply at the girl over their locked blades. Her form was good, but she wasn’t very strong. Too bad. 

“Yours is too. It’s a shame it’s being used by pirate scum!” 

“Xeshishishi, tell you what, if you can beat me you can have her.” 

 The man who’d been smashed into the floor landed next to the two. An orange hat rested on his head and he had a bad slung over one shoulder. Black hair fell in soft waves to frame his cheeks, which were covered with freckles. 

There was something familiar about him… 

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said politely, startling both of them into looking away from their crossed blades to him instead. He tipped his hat towards them, then the building that Luffy had jumped up onto. He was blocked from it by their swords. “I have to catch up with my brother now.” 

“Uh, sure,” said the marine girl. They pulled their blades away to make a path for him. 

“Why are you telling us this…?” the redhead countered, looking confused. She faltered when she got a good look at his face, recognition shooting through her. Nao sucked in a breath. He looked like- 

“Hey, hold on-!” 

“Sorry, I can’t,” Portgas waved to them and shot over the rooftops, after his brother and the marine. Nao shook her head. She would see him again, if he was chasing Luffy. 

Nao drew back and slashed again easily. Each move was economic and graceful. She spared no energy, partially because she simply didn’t have any. Tashigi blocked, but the force pushed her back a few feet. 

Nao parried her next attack and side stepped to smack her on the back of the neck with Odenta, sending her careening to the ground.  

Someone screamed, but no blood came from the fallen marine. 

She touched the back of her neck in confusion. “Wha-?”

Nao didn’t answer. 

She was already gone. 

Nao ducked around a corner and ran after Luffy, following his Haki until she caught up with him and a group of colorful people. Hadn’t he said he was a pirate? Or he was going to be King of the Pirates. That was what he’d said. Well, to be king of them you needed to be a pirate in the first place, right? 

That sounded right. 

So these people were probably his crew. 

When he saw her he grinned and threw his hand out. It stretched far enough to grab her by the wrist and yank her forwards. 

“Hey! You made it past the sword lady!” 

“Well yeah,” Nao landed beside him running. Her leg was starting to ache where a cut had caught her over the knee.  

“Who are you supposed to be?” A curly haired young man with a long nose demanded, eying her. 

“She’s a rock person I found,” Luffy said cheerfully.  

“That. About sums it up,” Nao felt herself smile involuntarily. “I’m Roche Nao,” she said for the second time that day. She really hoped they stopped running soon. Her leg was seriously starting to ache. 

“So Luffy picked up someone else weird,” an orange haired girl looked exasperated more than anything else. Nao felt like she should have been offended, but she just shrugged. She was too tired to be upset with people who hadn’t actually done anything to her.

Besides, she wasn’t wrong. 

They came upon a pretty caraval, with a sweet looking figure head. A sheep. Nao felt herself smile. It was cute and light hearted, like this crew seemed to be. Nothing at all like the swift, devil faced Blood Stone. Her eyes were two carved rubies, and a pair of snakes twined around her in a macabre necklace that matched the one that hung beneath Nao’s own shirt. 

“Permission to come aboard?” she asked Luffy lightly. The boy beamed at her and tipped the brim of his hat. 

“Granted!” 

They scampered onto the ship and in a whirlwind of motion they set sail. The caravel carried them away from the port. The pirate flag flapped in the wind, showing off a skull wearing a straw hat. 

Seriously, what was up with that hat? 

Had that up-and-coming volcano really given it to some upstart?

...actually. That sounded exactly like something he would do.

She realized that their little pet (a raccoon?) was staring at her only when he shouted suddenly. 

“Ah! You’re bleeding!” 

It was a testement to how tired she was that she hadn’t noticed that he was a mink, and not just a weird animal. 

“Hah? Where?” 

“Your leg! Quick, take off your pants and I’ll- ouch!” 

The orange haired girl smacked him over the head. “Don’t ask it like that!” she scolded. 

“But I need to see how bad it is! She might need a doctor!” 

“You’re the doctor!” 

Ah. Nao would have preferred they didn’t know she was actually injured, or weak, but there was nothing to be done about it. They seemed like good people anyhow, as far as pirates went. 

“Well then, mister doctor, where’s your office?” 

“A-ah! I don’t have a real office yet. We’ve been using the bathroom.” 

“Then lead the way.” 

The doctor, Tony Tony Chopper, guided her down to the bathroom. The Caravel was small without being cramped. Nao took off her boots and pants, now stained with blood, so he could clean and stitch her leg. He treated her smaller scrapes and bruises as well, and stuck bandaids across her cuts. 

He left so she could clean herself properly, wash her hair and get the blood off of her. She watched the pink water wash down the drain and wondered where her crew was. What had happened to Elba, Talisa, Adrien and Pearl? Were Rize and Hinami still injured? Had the marine’s tended to their wounds? Tier had escaped into the sea before a blast from a marine flagship had sent them hurtling out of the little cove they’d been hiding in and beached their ship. Had she made it back to fishman island? 

She needed to find out. She owed it to her crew after she  had failed them all.  

There was a knock on the door.  

She cracked it open to find the blond man standing outside, holding a bundle of clothes in his arms. Her red hair dripped across her shoulders, but in a few minutes it would be dry and wildly curly again. 

“I bought an extra outfit for Nami or Vivi, but now I see it was destiny that I have it ready for you!” 

He had literal hearts in her eyes when he presented them to her. 

Nao took them carefully. The clothes were lightweight and soft, so soft that they caught on the sword-callouses on her fingers. 

“Thank you?” Her clothes weren’t ruined, by any means. Did she really need a new outfit? 

“If you need any help changing I-” 

She shut the door on his face. “Nope.” 

They definitely didn’t recognize her. No one who did was stupid enough to flirt with her. Her dad would kill them. 

Nao changed into the clothes and was disappointed to find that they were dancers clothes. 

Yeah. No. 

She couldn’t fight in that! 

Instead she cleaned her pants as best as she could, used a small sewing kit she kept in her cape to fix the cut in them, and redressed. 

She'll have to find a hair tie eventually. 

When she came back up to deck the other man they’d run into was crouched on the outer rail. With his back partially to her while he chatted with someone else Nao caught a glimpse of a tattoo on his back. 

It was familiar, too. He nodded to Nao when she came to stand beside the green haired man. Solo? 

Most of his attention was on Luffy, not her. 

“Luffy. Will you come join the Whitebeard Pirate Crew? With your friends, too, of course.”

Whitebeard pirates. Whitebeard. Edward Newgate. 

Nao could feel a headache starting to throb behind her eyes. 

“No way!” 

The man laughed. “Just thought I'd ask! Whitebeard is the greatest pirate I've ever known. I want to make him the pirate king. Not you, Luffy.” 

Nao internally winced. Brutal. They were obviously close. Childhood friends? 

“That's okay! I'll just fight him.” 

Nao blinked at Luffy’s back. Was he stupid? Or just crazy? 

Either way, Nao liked him. 

She couldn’t start her hunt for her crew yet. She didn’t know how long she was trapped, and she didn’t know where everyone had gone. She also wasn’t in any shape to go rushing off and finding out. Her mother would have killed her for doing something as impulsive as grabbing the nearest Marine and demanding to know where her crew had been taken. And her dad… 

Her heart twisted in her chest. Nao shook her head. She wouldn't let herself have a breakdown yet. Not here. Not yet. 

“Hey, Luffy.” 

He turned his head to look at her. Nao offered him a half bow. “Sorry but, I’m going to have to take advantage of your hospitality for now. Until I can get in contact with my own crew.” 

Luffy shot her cheerful grin. “Sure, okay. You can hang out with us for a while.” 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” the blue girl stepped forwards. Nao really needed to figure out everyone’s names. She only knew Luffy and Chopper. “We’re not here for tourism. Where we’ll be going is bound to be dangerous.”

Nao cocked her head. Yeah. “I appreciate you worrying. But I’m a pirate as much as anyone else. I won’t change my mind just because it’s dangerous.” 

Besides, they were going to Yuba, where Nao was supposed to meet with her crew. 

Molly should have already gotten there and set up shop. 

“Wait for us, Moll. We’ll get there, even if it takes a while.”

Molly pursed her black-painted lips. “I don’t like it, captain. This splitting up stuff. You already sent Harry and Monty back to Zou. We’re stronger together.” 

“I know we are. But with dad-”  

“Don’t worry,” Nao looked the girl in the eye and lay her hand on Odenta’s hilt. “I won’t ask any of you to be responsible for me.”

“I am my own captain, after all.” 

[lippskinn]

Limit to Love

Pairing: Sirius x Remus 

Rating: R 

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Angst, Medical Conditions, Starvation, Nudity

The bear-like dog trotted down a narrow road in the Yorkshire Dales. It had crossed miles of barren land and had finally reached the last stretch of the journey. Tired and hungry, it dragged itself up to the stone cottage on top of the hill. The place looked uninhabited and resembled more of a sheep shelter than a house; roof tiles were strewn across the land and the door was boarded up with planks of thick wood. As the dog reached the door, it barked, and as the door opened, a familiar face welcomed it. Once inside, the dog turned into a man.

The cottage looked slightly bigger on the inside. It had only one room with a tiny kitchen. The bathroom was separated from the rest of the space by a curtain to grant a bit of privacy. Everything was tidy yet worn; most things were held in place by duct tape, and Sirius noticed the claw and bite marks on the furniture. Remus apologized repeatedly for the state of his house, but Sirius was simply glad to have a roof above his head; anything was better than the cold cave in the Highlands.

The journey South had quite literally eaten him up. The famished human before Remus was much skinnier than the man he had hugged in the Shrieking Shack (if that was even possible). Sirius looked beyond exhausted, yet desperate to tell Remus what had happened at the Triwizard Tournament. Something about Harry, Voldemort, Mad-Eye Moody and a dead student. He had such trouble focusing, however, that none of it made sense.  

When Remus offered Sirius to sit down, he almost collapsed on the couch, stretched out his limbs, closed his eyes, heaved a sigh and fell asleep on the spot. He had mustered his last bit of energy to reach the house. Remus stroked his head and cheek and put a strand of hair back behind his ear. He watched Sirius’ chest lift and lower. The old prison uniform hung so loosely on his body that Remus could see every single rib protrude from under the tightly stretched, scaly skin covered in scabs and dirt. A whiff of dried faeces, wet dog and putrid breath surrounded him. His head fell back onto the couch’s backrest, and his mouth gaped wide open. The sounds he made reminded Remus of a dementor drawing closer; the rattling and laboured breath.

Remus figured he wouldn’t wake up anytime soon and wrapped him in a blanket for the night. He gently lifted Sirius’ arms, which were about the size of walking sticks, and tugged the blanket under them. Despite their feather-light weight, the joins were stiff, and they were difficult to move. Remus feared he would break them if he moved them too much. He tried to take off the boots as well; completely removed the laces, widened them and then carefully pulled on them as the full sole came off with it. There were no socks left. His feet were bare and covered in black blisters and lesions. Remus gagged.

He carried what was left of the boots with two fingers, threw them in a bin bag, washed his hands and face, took a deep breath, and checked on Sirius again. He looked like an old man on his deathbed; cheeks hollow, skin stretched tightly over the face, thin nose and sunken eyes.  If Remus hadn’t been notified that Sirius was going to visit, he would not have recognized him. He’d been desperate to reconnect with his best friend but felt slightly repulsed by the state of him and at the same time worried he wouldn’t make the night.

So, Remus found himself tiptoeing around him all night. Always alarmed as soon as he made a sound; checked his breath, checked his pulse, watched him closely and added as many blankets as possible. An electric jolt ripped through his intestines every time Sirius coughed and sighed in his sleep keeping him awake until the early morning hours.

That morning, Sirius woke up early with Remus still resting on his shoulder. He stretched, gave Remus a kiss on his forehead, and got up to make some tea for the pair. Finally, Remus was woken by the sound of the kettle whistling, pushed off the pile of blankets, and joined Sirius, who was reading yesterday’s newspaper, at the table. Remus had a slightly lopsided gait and slumped down on the chair as he got to the table. He gave Sirius a wry smile and thanked him as he poured a cup.

“It’s the first time you’re staying for breakfast”, he joked moving in his chair visibly in pain.

“Just ignore my groaning. It will go away eventually,” he added seeing the worried look on Sirius’ face, “did you sleep well?”

“It was the most comfortable in a long while”, Sirius smirked and eyed Remus over the edge of his cup. He made a sound like a suppressed laugh and put his cup down. Remus noticed he’d been making the same sound throughout the night. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

When Remus got the letter from Dumbledore that Sirius was on the way to his home, there was no doubt about letting him stay whatsoever. Their last meeting, a year ago, had ended abruptly and they had not had time to talk. Now, that he was Sirius was awake, Remus hoped to learn a bit more about the events.

“I was waiting for an article in the paper but all they wrote was that Cedric died in the tournament”, said Remus pointing at the paper Sirius was reading, “they dismissed it as an accident.”

“The Prophet has always been a pile of rubbish”, scoffed Sirius, “that Barnabas Cuffe has his nose so deep in Fudge’s bum, he can smell what Fudge had for breakfast.”

“I’m sure Fudge will do anything in his power to lull the public. They cannot afford to admit that Voldemort has returned. Not after they let you escape.”  

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less. Let the whole ship go down and Fudge with it,” Sirius took another sip from his mug and set it down a little too hard. Something seemed to fall shut behind Sirius’ eyes. He stared at the cup in front of him for a couple of seconds, licked his lips and then seemed to snap out of it again. “Fudge only cares about a good article in the papers. He’d never do what’s right if it gave him a bad rep.”

“Do you think it will be like last time?”

Sirius seemed to ponder his answer. He scratched his beard, took another sip from his cup, waited a long time to swallow and said, “No.”

“Did Dumbledore tell you anything?”

“He sent me here. It’s not like I’ll be much of help, anyway, is it?”

Remus felt the strong urge to hug Sirius but all that came out of his mouth was, “I think you should rest. Take a shower, eat something, sleep. Dumbledore won’t be here before midnight and he’ll be happy to know I didn’t let you starve.”

“Do you still keep the chocolate in your nightstand?”

“There’s a limit to love, “Remus got up and put his cup in the sink, “I need to go to town. You have the whole place to yourself. Enjoy yourself. Not too much.”

“This is the happiest I’ve been in years.”

Remus smiled and a distinctive crease formed on his forehead. He turned away from Sirius, breathed out and in and limped over to the wardrobe where he’d hung a suit the night before. Sirius watched him take off his pyjamas. Nothing he hadn’t seen before and yet he couldn’t help but stare. His chest was covered in pink and white scar tissue and his body looked like someone who had worked heavy, manual labour all his life.

“Since when are you wearing suits?”, asked Sirius, “I thought suits were for posh people?”

“Since I am a registered werewolf and might have lied to my landlord about a steady income.”

“Is that your business in town?”

Remus froze, dropped his pants and then swiftly pulled them up, “I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”

“A pair of new boots. Mine magically vanished overnight.”

“What boots?”, laughed Lupin, grabbed a heavy key and opened the door, “I’ll be back soon.”

Sirius watched Remus limp down the hill to the main road. As far as he could tell, it must have been an hour on foot to the closest town. Once Remus had turned left and disappeared behind a stone wall, Sirius cleaned the kitchen table and sat down on a chair. Although he'd only just woken up, he felt overpowering tiredness and his arms felt heavy. He was torn between hunger and sleep and couldn't decide if he wanted to raid the fridge or crawl under a blanket. He stared down on his feet and picked at the remaining fabric of his socks. With one tug, the cotton crumbled and he removed the tatters. His ankles were swollen and he noticed how much his feet were hurting from the journey. Every step felt like walking on eggshells. He rubbed his legs and decided that a bath would probably be best while Remus was gone.

Sirius poured himself a scorching hot bath and steam filled the whole house. He slipped out of his prison uniform and carefully sank into the water. It was as if layers of dirt were peeling off his body and he suddenly felt feather-light. He closed his eyes, leaned back and enjoyed the warmth. Every inch of his body ached as the water turned muddy. Soon the overbearing tiredness returned, he rested his head on the edge and let himself soak in the water. Sleep had won.

The next thing he knew was a wet and frantic Remus rubbing his chest with a towel. He was lying naked on the floor in front of the bathtub, his back propped against Remus legs whose jacket was dripping wet.

"How long have you been in there? I was away for three hours."

Sirius shivered. The last thing he remembered, he'd poured himself a nice warm bath. Remus had dropped the groceries by the door when he hadn't received a reply from Sirius. He'd dragged him out of the cold bathwater by his arms and put him on the floor to check if he was still alive.

"You could have drowned!"

Remus aggressively dried the rest of Sirius' body, wrapped him in a blanket and leaned him against the tub.

"I fell asleep", murmured Sirius drowsily.

"The water is ice cold", Remus put a finger in the muddy water and then removed the strands of wet hair from Sirius' face, "you could have died." Remus pulled himself up by the tub and pulled the plug. He gave Sirius the towel to cover himself and cleaned out the remaining dirt in the tub. He then walked over to the door where he’d dropped the groceries, collected them, placed them on the kitchen table and took off his wet jacket. “I’ll make us some tea and then we’ll start another attempt at making you look presentable. You look like the last survivor of a hunger strike.”

Remus gave Sirius a hand to pull him up; the towel slipped off him, and Sirius stood naked and shivering in front of Remus. He had a nasty scar on his shoulder, which Remus immediately identified as a werewolf bite. Remus shook his head, bit his lip and said, “Sit down.” He helped Sirius sit down on the edge of the tub, took the showerhead, turned on the water and felt the temperature with his hand. “Lean back, I’ll hold you.” Remus had rolled up his sleeves not to get wet and held Sirius with one arm while rinsing his hair with his other free hand. Sirius was still shivering, he had closed his eyes and let the water run over his head. The hair was matted and brittle; steaks washed down the drain as Remus tried to untangle them.

“We might have to try some of James’ hair brews or you’ll have to let me cut it off”, suggested Remus.

“There’s a limit to love, Remus.”  

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Things I Love About Carrie 2002

because this movie is so damn good!! it’s on American Netflix, so i highly suggest go watching it if you can, you won’t regret it

Carrie hair twirling

Sue’s sass

Not a part of the movie, but every time I watch a clip from YouTube and Sue is in it, people call her Rihanna 

Tommy throwing a book at the kid that was messing with Carrie

My girl Carrie isn’t even trying at baseball

Tina hits Carrie with her glove

During the period scene Carrie raises her hand and they’re covered in blood, and then she goes in for another scoop just to make sure

The shot of blood running into the other stalls was a neat way to grab the attention of the other girls without screaming

I also love how this Carrie panics in silence instead of running around screaming her head off. To me, it shows a greater layer of fear of the other girls, but also shows that she’s completely paralyzed with terror over what’s happening to her.

Carrie actually has a panic attack

Instead of getting things thrown at her, Carrie is cornered in a shower stall while the other girls bang on the walls and chant “period”, and I’m not sure which is worse

The shot of Carrie shaking in the shower is so sad

And then her curled up on the floor with her hands over her ears!!!! Poor girl!!!

Desjardin instantly going down and wrapping Carrie up in a towel, not caring if she’s naked

Desjardin tucking Carrie’s head under her chin and stroking her hair

I LOVE  how wet and resentful Carrie looks after getting dressed! Angela Bettis plays this character so well!!!!!

“The point is, up until a half hour ago, Carrie White thought her first period was Homeroom.”

Desjardin has to go over to the door and guide Carrie into the principal’s office

Carrie’s sweater being way too big for her

The way she smiles and nods at herself in the mirror after washing her face

The locker being filled with tampons 

“What are those, Carrie?”

Carrie just enduring all the torment, poor girl

Tina growls at Carrie when she walks by

Little Carrie has blue eyes instead of brown eyes like teenager Carrie?????

She has a lamb stuffed animal with a pink bow in its ear!!!!!

Estelle doesn’t even care that a child is ogling her breasts. She’s honestly really nice to Carrie.

Little Carrie’s crying!! Poor baby!!!!

Carrie doesn’t wear her cross necklace at school hell yeah

Carrie always looks like she’s about to cry in every shot I swear

I don’t think it ever shows how Margaret found out about Carrie getting her period. Because in the 1976 movie she got a phone call and in the 2013 movie she picked up Carrie from school and was probably told about it by the principal, so did 2002 Margaret just assume?? Did she sense it????

Carrie’s face when Margaret starts to talk about Eve

I love how defiant 2002 Carrie is- talking back to her mom and refusing her orders

“Shouldn’t religion be more like Dogs Playing Poker?”

Hell yeah Carrie reading magazines instead of praying!!!!!!

THE WAY DESJARDIN PUNISHES THE GIRLS IS PERFECT!!!!! THROWING TAMPONS AT THEM? AND THEN SLAMMING THEM AGAINST THE LOCKER?? HELL YEAH MISS D!! DRAG THEIR ASSES!!!!!

Carrie shyly walking up to the teacher and asking, “Can you show me how to do a search?” has my whole heart she’s literally so innocent 

“You think she’s ugly, don’t you?” *Tina snickers* “Well, you’re ugly.”

“Open your mouth one more time, and I’ll plug you up.”

“This is so far from over, it’s not even in the same area code as over!”

This movie literally has so many good lines

Madeline’s (the cop with the detective) expressions during all the interviews are so funny omg

Carrie’s seizure during her class really helps show 1) how weak her mental state is and 2) how nobody really cares about her because she’s shaking so badly and her eyes are rolled up into her skull, but nobody is doing anything to help her

Morton not caving when he speaks to Chris’s dad!!! Finally, another good teacher!!!!

In Carrie’s room, I can see stuffed animals that look like the sheep from the flashback, two bears, a baby doll, and something fuzzy I can’t discern but!! Carrie had toys still!!!

Carrie is so sweaty when she’s trying to move the brush. In fact she always looks really sweaty, which is something I like because in the book she was said to be really sweaty and gross.

“What’re you reading?” “Nothing. Just something about s--sewing.” 

Carrie starts to tear up when Tommy asks her to prom!!!!!

Her little “thank you”-- my heart!!!

Everything about the scene where Carrie tells her mom about the prom is perfect. The setting, the emotion, the acting- it’s all so good!!! Carrie is teary-eyed and about to cry, and then Margaret throws tea in her face and basically causes her to snap. And the way she sobs while saying, “Please sit down and talk with me” is heartbreaking!!!!!

The shot of Carrie gripping onto her chair, visibly shaking after she flips the table is chilling!!!!!!

Chris manipulating Carrie into thinking she’s her friend and Sue isn’t

Carrie looks at Chris’s boobs when she says they get sore when she’s bloated lmao

“She practically talked me into getting Botox last summer. Can you believe that?” “Maybe she thought you needed it” Ahhh I love Carrie’s lack of social skills

Carrie having absolutely no idea how lipstick works

Also I asked my mom, and I found out that you are NOT supposed to just try the lipstick on, so once again we have Carrie not knowing how anything works

Sue trying to help Carrie with makeup

The shock on Carrie’s face when Sue tries to put the lipstick on her

CARRIE USING A PAD TO WIPE OFF THE LIPSTICK OH MY GOD

“I think this one’s real pretty :)” “It’s Godless.” “>:(”

Carrie’s “this one’s prettier :)” is so cute

“They’re called breasts, Mama. All the girls have them. They’re very fashionable these days.”

The way Carrie’s hands shake them she tries to put on her makeup

The shot of Tommy outside and you can hear all the furniture crashing from inside

“So, did your ceiling just, like, collapse or something?” *glass shattering* “Yes. Yes, my ceiling just collapsed. Just now.”  “Woah. Can I see it?” “...No.”

Carrie’s look of shock when she sees the limo 

“You look really beautiful.” “So do you”

“If they decide to run away together, I’ll dance with you.” Oh, Carrie, you sweet girl. I love how she opens up a little to say that!

“Oh my god! Where did you get that dress?” “I made it.” “Shut up!” “You shut up!!” (seriously her lack of social skills is so cute)

I really like the lack of chemistry between Carrie and Tommy because I always found it weird how there was supposed to be romantic tension between a girl and a guy who is dating someone- it feels sorta weird and wrong.

Desjardin mentions James Bond and you can tell Carrie has no idea who the hell that is

“Preaching to the choir! No offense.”

Carrie’s little giggles as Desjardin talks to her

Desjardin legit threatens to expel Tommy if he doesn’t give Carrie a good time and I LOVE IT

“Stick to the slow songs. She’ll look stupid dancing to anything fast.”

“Tommy, we’re on here.” “Yeah, I saw that.” “Can we decline?” she has no right being this goddamn adorable

I like how it takes a moment for people to start clapping after Tommy and Carrie’s names are called

Desjardin’s slow, suspicious clapping

Carrie’s eyes are shiny 

And she doesn’t get up when Tommy does, so he has to pull her up and even then she’s really stiff

I love how a drop of blood falls on Carrie’s hand and she looks up and she knows what’s about to happen to her, which makes the blood dump even more sad because she realizes it

HER EYES WERE OPEN WHEN IT FELL

She starts to shake really badly and gasp, and I enjoy that little touch right before she goes on her rampage

Kenny calling Carrie a pig makes it hurt even more

Helen, her boyfriend, Desjardin, and Morton running up to go help Carrie was so sweet- I wish there was an alternate ending where they managed to get through to her and help take care of her instead of her killing everyone

I love how Carrie kinda goes into a state of shock during the massacre

Carrie desperately asking what happened when she’s in the bath, proving that she was in some sort of trance

Also I love how weak and squeaky her voice in

Carrie spits water directly into Sue’s face lol

Also I swear Sue picks Carrie up at the end of the scene where she saves her

Sue hiding Carrie is honestly so sweet

Also the shot of Carrie huddled up in the corner when Sue goes into the hiding spot

Carrie’s PTSD over what happened immediately being hinted at with her double nightmare at the end