#and did reblog some of the parchment posts

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

.

[currently-becoming-potatoes]

List of words for the computer:

LONG POST- more under the cut

STANFORD- Pulls up a file on Stanford Pines, written by an unknown scientist. It discusses his extra finger and praises his intelligence, as well as calling him the “next evolution in the human species”.

BILL CIPHER- Takes you to the Wikipedia page for the Eye of Providence. Also took me to a Sesame Street video about a Jazzy Triangle and a Square. Not sure what prompted the change.

STANLEY PINES: Takes you to a list of EBay listings for brass knuckles.

FIDDLEFORD: Takes you to the music video for Cotton Eye Joe by Rednex.

SHERMIE: Nothing. I sure do wish we got some lore about Grandpa Pines.

GRAVITY FALLS: The text on the computer reads “never heard of it” and the red light on the bottom turns green.

ALEX HIRSCH: Leads to Google Images for “flannel”. Huh.

WEIRDMAGEDDON: Pulls up an article from the Gravity Falls Gossiper about how nothing happened at all and there was no apocalypse.

DISNEY: Screen reads “rat.gif censored for your protection”

SOOS: Leads to a page of writing from Soos himself, referencing many things (including Tad Strange being gay and madly in love with Woodpecker Guy. Love wins!!!)

DIPPER: Leads to a creepy yellow parchment with a message from Bill Cipher himself trying to trick Dipper into blinding himself by staring at the sun for 13 hours straight! Silly! (Also if you keep clicking on it, the page gets darker and blurrier until it implies we've gone blind)

MABEL: Causes stickers to appear on every available surface. Clicking it enough times leads to message “lab now fully Mabelized”.

WENDY: Leads to a note from Wendy that mentions a way to ward off evil triangles written in the bottom corner of the book.

GIDEON: Makes a web recording of Gideon scatting play. It ends with “I love you forever Mabel”. Please shut the fuck up you little creep.

TAD STRANGE: Plays a video of bread with smooth jazz in the background.

TOBY DETERMINED: Leads to a Google search for a restraining order. Holyyyyy shittttttt

WHO ARE YOU: “I could ask you the same question”

SEASON 3: “Season Two”. I guess that’s that lol

This was about all I could find. Please reblog with anything else you can discover! Thank you, fellow Gravity Falls enjoyers!

And make sure to give some love to all the wonderful folks down in the comments! Many of these answers and tips come from what they've found. I can't list everyone, unfortunately- I didn't expect this post to get popular- but, to everyone who's helped out, THANK YOU.

FURTHER EDITS:

BLIND EYE: Pulls up an optometrist’s eye exam. Each line reads “WKHBOOVHH”. Too lazy to translate atm.

PIÑATA: Bill Cipher getting beaten to death /hj

MASON: A note from Dipper listing several anagrams of Gravity Falls characters’ names. You can check in the comments for the answers.

AXOLOTL: “You ask alotl questions”. Thanks for the pun, Alex, but I’m kind of losing my mind rn

MYSTERY SHACK: Leads to a Google search for Confusion Hill, the real-life Mystery Shack!

MYSTERY: “?”

MONSTER: Leads to several YouTube videos for “There’s a Monster at the End of this Book.”

VALLIS CINERIS: Leads to an analog-horror-esque video of Baby Bill and his parents, who have been blotted out by static, and a voice repeating “WHY DID YOU DO IT” over and over again until you stop the video.

PORTAL: “Portal.exe has been deleted. I bet you could build a new one.”

GIFFANY: You need to put it in multiple times. Several warnings about breaching firewall, followed by a message from GIFFANY saying “SOOS! I still love you!” or smth like that, and then GIFFANY herself briefly appearing onscreen. Trying again after that summons her more. Also lets you download some ZIP files.

DORITO: Summons an image of a spinning Dorito, followed by the most cursed image of Bill Cipher I have ever seen.

GOD: A short video of an axolotl in a tank with a Bill Cipher statue plays. This is Alex’s axolotl, shown in the Book of Bill countdown.

REALITY: “Is an illusion”

FILBRICK: “I’m not impressed”

CARYN: “I knew you were gonna write that”

GLASS SHARD BEACH: Leads to an image of the New Jersey Hell Hole.

ANY CUSS WORD: Pulls up a paper reading “NOT S&P APPROVED. WASH YOUR MOUTH OUT WITH SOAP” with an image of soap below.

MATPAT: Leads to a video of MatPat next to a conspiracy board, holding the Book of Bill. He tells us we’re on our own.

BABBA: Plays an audio recording of Dipper singing BABBA. Not Disco Girl, a different song.

CRAZ: Leads to the Jem and the Holograms theme.

XYLER: See above.

AD ASTRA PER ASPERA: Shows us two new journal pages from Ford and Mabel, studying the Cipher statue. They’re definitely worth the read, I teared up looking at them.

ANSWER: “Question”

QUESTION: “Answer”

SEASON ONE: “Season -1: Antigravity Falls”

SEASON TWO: “Season 1” …maybe scratch what I said about Season 3. Or don’t. Things are starting to damage my brain.

CURSED (got from @slimslamflimflam decoding the candle! Thanks!): Shows two pages talking about the dangers of drawing triangles, with the bottom of the second page showing several drawings of Bill and the words “HE IS COMING, RUN”

THE UNIVERSE: “Hologram”

RIZZ: “Life privileges revoked. Now releasing poison gas.” This response is repeated if you type in SKIBIDI or FORTNITE.

BABY: Shows an ultrasound of a fetus Bill Cipher, captioned “Look at what’s growing inside you! See you in nine months, papa!”

JOURNAL 3: “The Journal for Me”

PACIFICA: Leads to a note from Pacifica calling Bill Cipher “ick” and telling us to follow her on social media under “Platinum Paz”

PLATINUM PAZ: Pulls up an image of Northwest Manor with the llama symbol overlaid and a “NW” logo beneath. There's also a short story beneath!

LOVE: Leads to an audiobook of “The Love Triangle”. Need to read later.

BLENDIN: “The time agent lost and presumed incompetent”. Uh…?

SCARY: Leads to another audiobook of a cheesy Goosebumps-esque horror novel written by Bill himself, apparently.

DIVORCE: Shows you the logo of the bar Bill went to after his fight with Ford… Billford bitter exes confirmed

ROBBIE: Leads to the cringiest messages ever. He’s such a failure I love him

CONSPIRACY: Leads to a video of a man losing his mind over the countdown counting up. I feel so seen. (I have been informed that his name is Charlie Day, he's an actor from It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and that one meme, he had a quote on the back of the Book of Bill, thanks to everyone who explained that to me, I'm sorry, I'm uncultured)

RAT: “Thurburt’s number?”

BLANCHIN: Leads to a YouTube video on how to blanch vegetables.

TJ ECKLEBURG: “Never mention that name again.”

NOTHING: “Something”

SOMETHING: “Nothing”

BURNSIDE: “Burned inside.” Well… at least we know what happened…

WADDLES: Leads to the pig placement network!

THERAPRISM: Pulls up a sign from the theraprism regarding an emergency situation. The code reads "THE OLD ONE".

SHAPE: Pulls up an article on Plato, triangles, and Ancient Greece. This article is presumably written by Bill.

LLIB and BILL: THIS leads to the Sesame Street video every time.

WEIRD: Shows a video of a frightened Weird Al panicking about being trapped in a computer. Sorry, man...

CLONE: Pulls up an image of Paper Jam Dipper, a warning about not getting him too close to liquids, and an option to print.

TRIANGLE: ")" or "Tri harder."

THEYLLSEE: "Is seeing believing?"

DEER TEETH: "For you, kid!"

LIFE: "Life: 72% complete. Now loading: death."

DEATH: "Life's goth cousin."

PINES: "A good family tree."

OWL TROWEL: A slab of hieroglyphs, translating to an ancient ad for an owl trowel.

SCALENE: "Life form not found." EUCLID has the same outcome.

WELL WELL WELL BEING: Some assorted notes from Bill's Theraprism file. These include his greatest love and fear, his art therapy notes, and notes on his phobias. Three clicks is required to read them all.

BOO BERRY: Offers a poem on the meaning of life! Wow! I feel so enlightened!

LOVE YA BRO: Shows us a doodle from Stan of one of his and Ford's Sea Grunks adventures, and another code on the back. It translates to "Kings of New Jersey." I've been told it lets you download the code as a font.

SORRY: Reveals the repaired Backupsmore photo, with a note from Fiddleford about his and Ford's growing friendship. Fiddauthor fans, we are eating well tonight!

HORROR: Pulls up an image and report on The Always Garden, which is essentially a cheap Italian restaurant hidden in the backrooms.

HOLOGRAM: "Universe."

NAITSUAF: Pulls up a page that looks like it would be from the Book of Bill, in which Bill tries to convince us to sell us his soul. Clicking "ARE YOU READY?" pulls up a contract where we can sell our soul to Bill (with an alarming amount of coded fine print. Will need to translate later). You can print this document out, back out, or sign it right there on the web. Hitting "SIGN" causes the words "PLEASURE DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU!" to appear, and the document to close. In other words, I no longer have a soul.

IMSTILLONYOURMIND: Plays a recording of the ocean, with Stan faintly talking in the background. Poor Ford ain't quite over the divorce yet...

HOTXOLOTL: Pulls up a "MOST WANTED" doc on the henchmaniacs.

SEVENEYES: Pulls up a faded polaroid of The Oracle with text on the back that reads "LEAVE HIM. Escape to dimension *blurred out*. It's against the rules but it's the only reality where you'll be safe from him." The code at the bottom (once again decoded by the powerhouse that is @slimslamflimflam) reads "Set a course for Dimension: R34LITY." Is another Cipher Hunt in the makes? Only time will tell, hehehe.

JUST FIT IN: Plays an old commercial with a few moments of speech in the glitches at the end.

EVEN HIS LIES ARE LIES: Shows a transcript from a therapy session at the Theraprism. Bill discusses his relationship with Ford and cuts off the session when someone brings up his parents.

NOT A PHASE: Shows a Google search for "black hair dye stained an entire bathroom."

PAPER IS BOOK SKIN: Instantly downloads a page of fleshy pink paper with the word "ENJOY" written on it!

SHAVE YOUR GRANDMA: Pulls up a few more pages about the human life cycle.

LIES: Pulls up an image of "The Game of Lies" board game, with a long stretch of text from (I assume) Bill, ending with "LIE UNTIL YOU ARE NOT LYING ANYMORE." Someone has some issues...

SAY BAAAA: Pulls up a neat little rhyme about being Bill Cipher's obedient flock of sheep. The code at the end translates to "Black Sheep."

ONE EYED KING: Plays a video of a hypnotist's spiral, with Bill proclaiming "YOU WANT TO PLEDGE YOUR SOUL TO BILL CIPHER" in the background. There is also morse code that translates to "NAITSUAF", leading to a previous discovery- the soul contract.

TANTRUM: Pulls up a transcript of a spat between Bill and Time Baby.

TITANS BLOOD: "HOOT HOOT! Password please!"

CURSE WITTEBANE: Pulls up an image of a Bill Cipher ouija board.

FORDTRAMARINE: Pulls up several rejected files from Ford trying to convince us Fordtramarine exists.

SUCK IT MERLIN: Pulls up a tapestry of Bill riding a unicorn. The code at the top reads "DAY MARE VS NIGHTMARE."

HEY NERD: Plays a commercial advertising things such as a Bill Cipher calendar, the Scrubba-Bill, a severed hand, and the entire Cygnus-XIII galaxy. Half of the image can be found in the Book of Bill.

DESTRUCTION IS THE FORM OF CREATION: Pulls up a frantic page of notes from post-portal-shit Fiddleford. A sticky note at the bottom has a code that reads "Unreality."

RUBBERHOSE: Plays "The World is Small Ever After for All."

IRREGULAR: Shows us Bill's mugshot in color. The code below reads "No prison or attention span can hold him."

UNREALITY: Offers a guide by Bill on how to become immortal.

GUN: "Oh yes oh yes oh yes they both."

ABUELITA: Leads to a video on vacuuming the walls.

YES: "What's McGucket's favorite soda?"

NO: "Your loss..."

REPEATEDLY CLICKING STAN: This stuff deserves a section of its own, away from the OG Stan stuff. It takes you through several Ebay listings on various Stan-ish items until you get to a page written by Bill about Stan's secret shames. "Ex-wives" further confirms our theory on Stan and Eda's relationship, as well as revealing many other bits of lore. "Fears" is somewhat goofy to be honest. "Secret Shames" reveals that Stan is a fanfiction writer and that his mother is the only member of his family who truly loves him outside of Ford and the kids. "Unreported Crimes" is somewhat goofy as well. "Failed Products" basically confirms that Stan is that world's Alex. "Lowest Moments" is genuinely depressing, and "Darkest Thought". Well. I'm not spoiling it lol. And the bit on "How He Beat Me" causes Bill to get more and more frantic/angry the more you click it! Comedy GOLD!

DIPPY FRESH: Leads to a Reddit post of the Burger King Kids Club.

MEOW: Leads to a TikTok of a man playing the Gravity Falls theme on that cap keyboard.

HELP ME: Pulls up another video of Alex's axolotl and the tiny statue. Rip Bill ig :/

R34LITY: Pulls up several photos of the henchmaniacs in live-action, captioned "They found a new home."

JOURNAL 1: "The journal of fun."

JOURNAL 2: "The journal for you."

FBI: "Your webcam is on. We are watching."

BURNED INSIDE: Shows an image of a charred Oregon Parks badge and nametag on the ground.

HECTORING: Plays a silly little country song!

OROBOROUS: Pulls up two journal pages about Fiddleford buying Ford an axolotl to keep him company, and Bill subsequently telling Ford to get rid of him. There's also some code on the first page that reads "CHONKY BOY." Ford, you wonderful dork.

[theespeakerboxxx]

I don't know if it was ever archived, but shortly after Lily's started using the first human puppet, she received an anon along the lines of "why is your avatar an (indigenous slur I don't remember)?" to which she responded "a what?" and later reblogged the post to call them out, having apparently googled the term. I think she also made fun of them for using the wrong ethnic slur.

As a Lily fan at the time, I thought it was weird that the anon clocked that her puppet was indigenous, which to me just looked vaguely white-ish. That was how I found out she IDed native.

Now knowing her documented history of making imaginary racists to fend off, it makes a lot more sense.

oh my days where do I begin

let’s say an anon really did feel like being a luh racey to lily for some reason right

why would they immediately jump to the conclusion that she’s indigenous? white people can be tan, and brown people aren’t just all indigenous

i whole heartedly believe lily self-asked this. she likes to seem progressive by battling projections of herself either through anonymous messages and or sock puppets (ex. Terra Callie)

still, very weird and EXTREMELY distasteful. do you know how bored and mentally fucked up you have to be to fake being called a redskin or smnth along those lines, esp when you’re as white as parchment paper?

[imagrindylow]

Muse

Sebastian Sallow / Ominis Gaunt. 4.4k Words Based on this post by @into-the-undercroft and the reblogs by @the-ominis-gaunt Hope you both enjoy :) I will probably write a second part to this at some point, this was just too fun to work on. Content Warning: None, just fluff. Summary: Sebastian is a sketch artist who enjoys secretly drawing Ominis as he does everyday things around the castle. One day Ominis finds out and confronts him and agrees to pose for him. ~~~~~~

Sebastian didn’t like lying to Ominis, it was never easy. Even on the topic of something as seemingly simple as this. Claiming the need to be elsewhere, to have plans with someone else, only to sit in the same room as his friend at a good distance, with his sketchbook and charcoal in hand, silently studying his features and transferring the likeness onto his pages.

It always made Sebastian feel a little guilty. Not just the secrecy of his hobby… or rather of the subject material... but how shamelessly he let himself stare at Ominis in the name of his art. His sketchbook had dozens of drawings of Ominis in various settings… reading with his wand in their common room, leaning back on his palms outside of the castle in the grass, sitting among his other friends near the lake, playing wizards chess… The list was endless. And that’s not even mentioning the pages upon pages of quick sketches of his individual features... most frequently, his eyes and his hands as they fiddled with his wand.

Sebastian had taken up this hobby during sixth year, as a release for his stress of the previous year, as a way to clear his head and focus himself on something pleasant. Since then, he had become quite good at it. The sketches were all instantly recognizable and Sebastian thought he took great care in covering the pages as other classmates passed by, trying to get a peek at just what was on them. But it was no secret. Anyone could easily just follow his gaze back to Ominis. When he was sketching, the rest of the school seemed to melt away.

Today, Sebastian had excused himself from Ominis’s side with the excuse of needing to serve detention for disrupting a lecture. He packed up his materials and left Ominis sitting in the library working on an assignment at a table alone. He headed towards the library doors, even going as far as to open them without going through them, to really try to make it seem like he left. Then, he crept his way to an armchair that offered him a good view and the comfort he’d need since he knew he’d be there awhile.

Ominis was sitting with his head propped in his hand with his wand pointing at his book, speaking quietly to himself while his quill scrawled down his words on his parchment. Sebastian folded his sketchbook open to an empty page and pulled out a little packet of charcoal and an eraser and got to work, first taking in the shape of his face, something he could probably draw blindfolded at this point. He mapped out his hair, and the way one eye brow arched just a bit higher than the other as he focused to worked on his assignment. Merlin, he is beautiful.

Sebastian often blushed as he sketched Ominis, and now was no different. He shaded the angles of his jaw thinking about what he wouldn’t give to drag his lips along it. He sat there with a grin on his face and flushed cheeks, looking between Ominis and his sketchbook, as he got lost in his art. He barely noticed when Imelda sat down next to Ominis and started running her mouth in his ear. He just kept drawing.

“Ugh, I wish someone would look at me like that,” she said as she set her bag down on the table beside Ominis, and pulling out a textbook of her own. She rolled her eyes as she spoke and looked genuinely jealous of whatever affections she was speaking of.

“Hm? Like who looks at what?” Ominis turned his attention to her, setting his wand in the crease of his book.

Sebastian’s ears perked up at the sound of Ominis’s voice. He did a double take and met eyes with Imelda as she began to speak again. The color left his face as her words left her mouth.

“Like Sallow looks at you of course. While he’s sketching you. I don’t know how you get anything done, I’d never be able to focus knowing someones eyes are burning into me like that.” She said and gave a little chuckle, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, not giving her words a second thought because surly Ominis had to know he was always the subject of his best friends hobby.

“Is Sebastian here?” Ominis asked her quickly and in a hushed tone. “He told me he was serving a detention...”

It was only then that she realized he had no idea. Ominis had no idea that Sebastian was drawing him... Not now, or ever. She cleared her throat and shot Sebastian an apologetic look, realizing she had crossed a line in which Sebastian was clearly not ready to cross. “Um…” She could think of absolutely no good way to answer him.

Sebastian hastily shut his sketchbook, stuffed his charcoal and eraser back into their little drawstring

pouch and tried to shove everything back into his satchel as fast as he could. His mind was scrambling, this was not a conversation he wanted to have with Ominis. Not now and possibly not ever. Admitting these kinds of feelings for your closest friend was one thing but secretly sketching them for months without their knowledge…. Oh the very thought of him finding out made Sebastian's stomach churn.

As he was cramming everything into his bag, several sketches fell from the worn binding of his book. The sounds of paper scattering caught Ominis’s attention and he just knew that it was him, that Sebastian was in fact here. Sitting just a few yards away from him, this whole time. Sebastian grabbed the loose pages, his bag, and shot Imelda a scornful look before tearing out of the library, before Ominis had even finished getting out of his seat to approach him.

But Sebastian couldn’t hide forever. Not from Ominis, anyway. Ominis actually thanked Imelda for her slip of the tongue, with a flushed face. He gathered his classwork and made his way out of the library as well, the corners of his mouth pulling upwards in a satisfied grin.

The obvious first place Ominis decided to look for Sebastian was the undercroft. He strode through the clockwork door with his wand outstretched in front of him, into the middle of the room and listened carefully. Silence. Perhaps this was too obvious a place for Sebastian to run off and hide at. Just as Ominis was heading back through the gate, he heard the exhale of a deep breath. He was here. He turned back around and called out this time. “Sebastian. I know you’re here. I heard you breathing,” Ominis stated and waited for Sebastian to relent.

Sebastian scoffed, but before he spoke, his voice softened. “Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-”

Ominis cut him off, “You don’t have to apologize, Sebastian.” His voice sounded… sweet. Too sweet, in Sebastian’s opinion, for him to be angry about the bomb Imelda dropped on him out of no where. He sounded flattered. “I… I don’t mind if you sketch me.”

“Well, thanks. That… that certainly makes things easier.” Sebastian replied and gave a nervous chuckle.

“I wish I could see your sketches. To see how you view all of your friends, you know? I find the concept of art very interesting. Who else have you drawn?”

Oh of course. Of course Ominis wouldn’t assume he’s the only one Sebastian has been sketching all this time. But he was. That didn’t mean Sebastian was any more ready for that question. It hit him like a spell to the chest. Sebastian ran his hand along the back of his neck and paced a bit, trying to think of an answer that wouldn't be absolutely foolish.

But Sebastian was nothing if not foolish at times, and he settled on putting honesty above his pride this time. He felt he owed Ominis some honestly around this for a change. “I haven’t sketched anyone else. I haven’t sketched anything else.”

The thick silence that hung in the air felt crushing. Surly Sebastian should have said anything else. He should have lied. Ugh what a way to break your feelings to someone. But when he finally replied, Sebastian felt a rush of relief, Ominis again, sounded flattered.

“Oh.”

“Mhm.”

“Why me… why only me?”

“I mean…” Sebastian sighed and let that nervous laugh fall from his lips again. “You just look like you were born to be drawn. Your features… Your… bone structure.” He swallowed hard after answering. He wasn’t lying. Ominis already looked like artwork walking around the castle everyday. He deserved to be recognized for the beauty he was. “And I mean, you’re my best friend. I feel more comfortable just drawing you.”

“I see.” Ominis sounded only half convinced, mostly because Sebastian was only giving him half of the truth. But his curiosity was sufficiently satiated for now.

Before he even knew what he was saying or why, Sebastian blurted out, “Maybe you can pose for me at some point.” He felt his skin get hotter as he spoke and could feel his heart race in his chest while he waited for Ominis to answer.

“Sure, I guess. I… Wouldn’t mind that.”

Sebastian let out a sigh of relief. “Alright then.” He cleared his throat. This was incredibly awkward, but, at least he agreed. “Well… I’ve got class. I’ll see you later in the common room, then.”

“See you.” Ominis replied.

Sebastian headed out of the undercroft quickly, and made his way to his NEWT Potions class, where he’d be able to completely focus his mind on something else for awhile. He welcomed the distraction. Ominis paced around the undercroft a bit more now that he could be alone with his thoughts. He didn’t want to jump to any conclusions, but if his best friend felt so strongly about sketching him, indulging him in his hobby didn’t seem like it could hurt. He would leave the timing up to Sebastian and discuss it with him later. He headed back to their common room to resume his classwork that Imelda had interrupted earlier.

Despite spending dinner with each other as always, and spending the evening in the common room together, they let the topic of Sebastian’s art lie for the time being, chatting about other things instead, as they usually would. Sebastian was intentionally trying to avoid the topic, and still feeling a bit embarrassed over the way his little habit got revealed to Ominis, while Ominis didn’t see it as too big of a deal, was still feeling flattered, and was not thinking it was something that needed further discussion, at the moment, anyway…

~~~

The following morning was another story however. Ominis always rose earlier than Sebastian, and he readied himself for the day quickly and headed down to the common room, where Imelda could also always be found stretching and having some tea, before making her way to the grounds for flying time before breakfast.

Assuming she’d be there as usual, Ominis called out for her as he entered the common room.

“Over here.” She called back and he let his wand guide him towards the sound of her voice. She was sitting on the couch.

“Are we alone?” He asked as he sat beside her.

“Mm, mostly. Couple of lower years about. Only a few. What is it?” “How long have you known about Sebastian sketching me?” He asked her quietly, leaning in towards her slightly as he spoke.

She let out a hum, as though she was expecting more questions on the subject since she had inadvertently let it slip yesterday. As expectant as she was, her first instinct was to deflect. “Why don’t you talk with him about that?”

“I did. I found him yesterday after he left the library. I just wanted more clarification than I felt like he’d have been comfortable giving me in the moment.”

This little bit of coaxing was enough to get her to answer him. “Hm. Well. I’ve known for awhile. He thinks he’s slick covering the pages with his hand when someone walks by, but he doesn’t ever take his eyes off you. It isn’t his best kept secret, that’s for sure. That being said, I thought you were aware. Obviously.”

“Have you seen them? The sketches. What am I doing in them?”

“Everyday things. Just… being. Nothing inappropriate, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Ominis nodded. He appeared to have thoroughly satisfied his curiosity now. He thanked her before getting up and heading to get himself some tea of his own.

It wasn’t long before Sebastian had awoken and made his appearance around the common room. He blushed at his first sight of Ominis for the day, and thought back on their chat from the previous day.

He was feeling more confident now, given that the rest of their evening the day before went smoothly and without awkwardness. He felt ready to plan a time for them to meet for their little arrangement.

���Morning, Ominis.” Sebastian greeted his friend as he approached him. He had been sitting in an armchair along the common room wall.

“Good morning, Sebastian.” He said with a little smile.

“I was thinking this evening after dinner we could meet at the room of requirement, if you’re still willing to pose for me, that is.” He spoke in a low voice, a hint of trepidation present.

“Of course. Yes, I’m still willing to do that.” His reply came easily, much to Sebastian’s relief. And Sebastian couldn’t be certain, but he was nearly positive that Ominis’s face reddened slightly as he assured Sebastian he was still on board.

“Right. Ok then, I’ll see you there this evening.”

The rest of the day went on as per usual, breakfast, classes, lunch, studying in the library, more classes, and finally, dinner. Sebastian found as dinner was nearing an end, he was becoming ever more nervous. He couldn’t pin point why, when he had drawn Ominis countless times, and now, finally, he had Ominis’s permission. Not only that but approval. Willingness to participate, even. But that’s what made it so nerve racking. Why was Ominis so willing? The possibility of him returning Sebastian’s feelings was absolutely too much to even consider. The mere thought of it made his knees feel weak and his heart palpitate. No matter how enticing the idea, Sebastian forced it from his mind as quickly as it crossed it, else he may not have had the strength to climb the seemingly infinite number of stairs to the seventh floor.

Despite leaving the Great Hall at the same time, the two did not make the trek to the seventh floor together. Sebastian first had to go back to his dorm room to gather his supplies. When it wasn’t on his person, he kept his sketch book at the bottom of his trunk at the foot of his bed. He pulled it out and packed it up, along with his charcoals and an eraser, put everything into his bag, and then he was off to meet Ominis, who headed off right after dinner.

When Sebastian approached the hallway, he faced the blank wall he paced, thinking of his need to meet with Ominis to get the door to appear, and it did. He headed inside. This was a version of the room he’d not seen before. There were already art supplies here – an easel, new sketch books, jars of fixative, weaponously sharp sticks of charcoal in more variety of hardness than Sebastian held in his personal collection. He shouldn’t have been surprised… the room does provide what’s needed. The room was smaller and more intimate that it had ever previously appeared to Sebastian. Ominis was inside, in the middle of the room, sitting on a stool with the most perfect and most magical lighting cast upon him. It was though the lighting was tailor made to highlight the bone structure of Ominis’s face, the glistening of the golden strands of his hair, and the angular cut of his jawline. All of Sebastian’s favorite features to draw. He had never seen Ominis look more perfect than he did in this moment. He looked like an absolute treasure.

“Wow,” Sebastian muttered.

“Did the room deliver?” Ominis wondered.

He quickly snapped out of his trance and gave an appropriate answer. “Did it ever. My own little art studio. It’s perfect.”

Sebastian dragged a small end table over to the provided easel and began perusing the stash of supplies shelved along the walls for what he wanted to use, and setting things up on the end table. Ominis sat on the stool, tipping it back and forth with his heels pressed to the floor.

“How do you want me?” Ominis asked, definitely not meaning for this to be construed in the way that Sebastian’s mind did initially.

Sebastian almost choked, stifling a giggle before shaking his head as though to rid it of the nonsense in his brain. “How you’re sitting is fine. But…” He approached Ominis slowly, and reached nervous fingers forward for the clasp of his robe. “Let’s take this off…. It really... inhibits your form.”

“Ah, of course.” Ominis replied, shrugging his robe off into Sebastian's hands, a playful tinge to his voice. He smiled as Sebastian pulled the robe away and walked to hang it over another chair in the room.

“You know, I haven’t done very many full body sketches like this. I appreciate you letting me do this.” Sebastian thanked him and readied a sheet of sketch paper on the easel. “Just, try to stay still, and I’ll get started.”

“Mhm. This is an interesting feeling, you know?”

“What, exactly?”

“Knowing that you see me as something worthy of… appreciation, like this.”

Sebastian had barely began stroking the charcoal against the paper before he set it down to digest Ominis’s words. “Well… does it feel good?”

“Well it’s certainly not a bad feeling.” he chuckled, “Just an unexpected one. But, I am very flattered.”

Sebastian smiled, and was thankful for the fact that Ominis couldn’t see the blush rising on his cheeks. “You do make a good subject. I’m not sure I could stand to stare at anyone else for so long.”

Ominis chuckled a bit and fidgeted with his hands in his lap. Sebastian was back to working the charcoal against the paper, his dark eyes floating between Ominis and his sketch. Time passed slowly, with the two mostly in silence from then on.

An hour must have passed since their last words. Sebastian took a step back and admired his work thus far, deciding he wanted to change the placement of one of Ominis’s arms. He walked towards him and muttered a quick “may I?” before taking his right hand and moving it from his lap to resting on the edge of the stool at his side, with his elbow slightly bent.

This time Sebastian was certain, Ominis blushed as he arranged his body, and Sebastian could feel heat rising in his own cheeks in response. “That’s nicer.” Sebastian said finally, taking a step back to admire the updated pose. “You look relaxed. Why don’t we roll up your sleeves, too?”

“Alright.” Ominis agreed and began to reach a hand towards the other to pull his sleeves up before Sebastian caught his wrist and put it back where it was.

“You stay still, let me. Can’t have you moving too much or it will mess up my shading.” Sebastian instructed. Maybe it sounded believable, he hoped it did. But really he just wanted another excuse to put his hands on Ominis. He unbuttoned the little button at Ominis’s wrist and folded the sleeve up a few times to his forearm. Sebastian inhaled shakily as his fingers dragged against Ominis’s pale skin as he moved up the fabric.

“Ah, of course. Can’t mess up your shading.” Ominis’s other arm laid across his lap while Sebastian did the same to the sleeve on that arm, the gentle and light brushing of Sebastian’s fingertips against Ominis’s skin sent goosebumps down Ominis’s arms and left him undeniably red in the face.

Sebastian grinned as he stepped back to the easel. “There. This is a good look for you, you know.” He said as he picked back up his charcoal and got back to work.

“Is it now? Well, it’s definitely outside of my typical styling.” He replied with a soft laugh.

“I know, that’s why I like it so.” Sebastian said, his smile must have been audible because Ominis gave him one in return right away.

“You know, if you’re wanting to style me outside of my typical fashion, I could do this…” Ominis offered, his voice heavy with mischief. Sebastian directed his gaze away from his sketch to see what Ominis was talking about. He looked up in time to see Ominis had brought his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, and began to undo them slowly.

Sebastian crossed the room to him quickly, grabbing both of his wrists gently and stilling them, before speaking to him in a quiet playfully scolding tone, “Keep your hands in place, Ominis.” He guided his hands back to their posed position. “Let me do it.”

“Be my guest, then.” Ominis permissed with a grin crossing his face as he felt Sebastian’s hands move to his buttons.

Sebastian stood close to Ominis, leaning over him slightly, Sebastian's warm and unsteady breath finding Ominis’s forehead, giving him chills, as Sebastian undid the buttons of the waistcoat, letting the garment hang more casually from Ominis’s shoulders. The tension between the two was undeniable, but Sebastian did his best to ignore it. He exhaled deeply as he adjusted the fabric just right, and made his way back to the easel.

The only sounds in the room were the scratches of the charcoal against the paper and the quiet breathing of the two. Slow, intentional breaths, both of them trying to appear calm to the other. Sebastian’s hand trembled every so slightly now, as he looked over Ominis with an insatiable desire in his eyes. He let his gaze rest on his forearms. Such an inconspicuous part of him, yet one that was so rarely seen under Ominis’s typically more formal dress. Sebastian took care to add the details of the lean muscle and protruding veins along his arms to his sketch, and took equal care to chisel the actual form in front of him into his memory.

He kept on and kept on. Sketching wasn’t usually this slow a process for Sebastian. He didn’t mean to, but this time, having his muse actually pose intentionally for him, he indulged his eyes greedily for far too long, apparently. Ominis’s posture slowly sank, and his expression grew tired as time passed. It was late in the evening now, definitely past curfew. Even in his viably tired state, Ominis didn’t complain.

Sebastian was nearly finished, with his sketch, but not quite. His eyes were tired, but so fulfilled. “It’s almost done,” He assured in a soft voice. “I know it’s late, I appreciate you sitting for me for so long. Truly.” Ominis smiled at him and gave him a nod as he straightened up his posture.

About twenty minutes later, Sebastian set his charcoal down and roughly brushed his hands together trying to rid them of at least some of the excess charcoal dust. He took deep breath and sighed happy as he sat back and admired his work. It was his best sketch yet, he was proud of himself and he beamed thinking of how lucky he was that Ominis agreed to pose for him like this.

Ominis could feel the mood shift in the room. While he was sketching, Sebastian grew serious and mostly silent. The air felt lighter now. “All finished?” He wondered.

“I am.” Sebastian confirmed. “It’s my best piece yet.”

“I’m glad.” Ominis said, sounding genuine. He shifted in his seat, stretching out his back and rolling his shoulders a few times. His body was stiff from posing for hours now.

Sebastian crossed the room over to him. “I just, I don’t know how to even thank you for letting me do this… How can I repay you?”

Ominis chuckled and shook his head slightly, “You don’t have to repay me, Sebastian. Like I said… knowing how you see me, as something special… It’s a nice feeling. That made be happier than you could know.”

“Is that so?” Sebastian asked, raising a brow, his voice growing playful. As quickly as the playfulness came on, it had passed, his next words sounding much more serious. He didn’t want them misconstrued as a joke. “I’m glad I could make you feel happy. You make me feel… more than just happy.”

Ominis’s cheeks flushed and he let out a sigh. He tilted his head up towards Sebastian’s voice. He could tell he was standing close in front of him. He slid forward off of the stool he had posed on, making Sebastian take a step back, else get bumped into. They were still standing closely enough to feel the others soft breathing.

They didn’t need words anymore. It was clear after the hours in this room together, their little bouts of flirting punctuating the long stretches of silence while Sebastian worked, their most recent sentiments towards each other... Their feeling were mutual and there was an understanding between them finally.

Sebastian smiled and exhaled the smallest laugh. He brought his hands to cup Ominis’s face, just holding it tenderly for a few moments, taking in the feel of his warm skin, before closing the gap between them and pressing their lips together firmly. Sebastian held the kiss for a few seconds before letting up, still holding his face gently, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs.

Ominis grinned and leaned his forehead against Sebastian’s and brushing their noses together. He rested his hands on Sebastian’s hips and brought his body closer. He spoke softly to Sebastian, “Well… I’d say you’ve thanked me for my time sufficiently, now.”

“I don’t know… You sat there for an awfully long time,” Sebastian reminded, bringing their lips together again, keeping him longer this time and humming in satisfaction as he took in the feel of Ominis’s lips with his own.

“And I’d do it again, if this was my repayment,” Ominis told him through a grin when their kiss broke.

“Well, I think you have yourself a deal then.”

Part Two!

[fluffapalooza]

Well, it's that time of year again. What time of year, you say? Oh, hello there, Rumbelle newbies, I see you there, busily working away on filling out the ballot for the Chipped Cup Awards and flailing happily if some of your fics were nominated. Congratulations, and good, you should be in the right mood.

This is a fairy tale fandom, so let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, in the early times of the fandom, some of the Rumbelle writers looked at each other and said "Let's make all the Rumbellers cry". This challenge was taken up, and the Rumbelle War commenced, in which works of great angst and darkness were written. Readers cried and cursed the writers, who cackled evilly as they collected the broken hearts which were flung at their feet, and tucked them away in boxes and bags and old wooden card catalog drawers (because Rumbellers are big on libraries).

But because there must be light to balance the darkness, a new event was created -- FLUFFAPALOOZA.

Fluffapalooza is when you write and draw and gif the fluffiest fics/art/scenes you can think of. Haven't got the time or spoons to do any of that but you've got ideas? Post them as prompts, or headcanons! Or if you want a challenge, make a post announcing that you want to play "Fluffify this!" and invite people to send you angsty-sounding prompts in the form of sentence starters, which you will then sneer at and say "Not today! Today is for fluff!" and write a little prompt fill in which you turn that prompt into something fluffy. (See an example here.) Or maybe you just want to rhapsodise about Rumbelle and talk about their chemistry, or what the ship means to you and how it affected your life. Maybe you want to reminisce about how we started adding silly Rumbelle captions to every picture of a croc or gator or lizard that crossed our dashes. Anything goes! Tag everything with #fluffapalooza if you want it reblogged here!

Oh boy, you're saying (I hope), it sounds like fun! When is it? FLUFFAPALOOZA IS FEBRUARY 12, AKA SKIN DEEP DAY, THE ELEVENTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE FOUNDING OF OUR SHIP. THIS IS OUR HIGH HOLY DAY, GUYS, LET'S KEEP THE LOVE FLOWING AND CELEBRATE IT RIGHT.

(Oh yeah, and I believe it was in that contract you had to sign when you entered the fandom (you DID sign that scroll of parchment you were sent, yes?) that you have to reblog Love Is Purple and Love Is Still Purple at least once a year as part of the Anniversary Rites.)

[jiminthestreets-bonesinthesheets]

Love Beyond the Black - CH2

Fandom: Ateez Rating: Mature Pairing: Jung Wooyoung/Choi San, with a little bit of Kim Hongjoong/Park Seonghwa sprinkled in AO3 Masterlist

Summary: Wooyoung is the son of a merchant sailor for the King, one of his best. He is coming of age to prepare to take his fathers place as the captain, and so his father takes him on his first sail. After nearly facing death in a raging storm at sea, Wooyoung and his father make port at their destination. Not long after their arrival Wooyoung finds a boy washed up on sea, still alive, and the most gorgeous thing he has ever laid his eyes on. He is instantly entranced by him, taken by this boy with no memory of where he came from or why he had been washed up on shore. Wooyoung couldn't have cared any less about the unanswered questions, but how will he feel when he finds out the boy he has so very quickly fallen in love with turns out to be one of the most revered pirates to have ever sailed the seas?

A/N and Warnings: I added them to the bottom of the post, just because it's a bit long, so if you'd like to see the warnings just head to the bottom :)

*** MY WORK IS NOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER SITE WITHOUT MY EXPRESS WRITTEN PERMISSION. THOUGH REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE SUPER LOVED AND APPRECIATED! THANKS FAM!***

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Two

     Land. Wooyoung had never been so glad in his life to have his feet firmly planted on the solid and unwavering wood of the docks. His legs were still a little shaky, and though it had been over a week since they had sailed out of the storm, it still had him by its clutches. He had barely slept since they managed to sail the ship out of it, every time he closed his eyes he saw that wave above him, ready to crash down and end his life, felt the side of the ship colliding with his back as he was washed toward the side and just barely managed to grab the railing and keep himself on the ship. He felt the jerking of the ship, the cold mist of the waves, the endless rain pounding into his skin. He heard the screams of the crew being pulled off the sides of the ship, the shouts of others trying to get to them even though they all knew it was pointless. The endless sea sickness had been annoying, but he would gladly take that over this feeling of looming death any day. 

     While he was still a trembling mess, his father was as collected as ever. Wooyoung was sure this wasn't the first of like circumstances that his father had faced, or the first crew members he had lost, but it was yet another reason Wooyoung knew that being a merchant sailor was not the job for him. Not only did the storm still haunted him and would continue to haunt him for some time to come, but losing crew members so suddenly, people he had just started to become close with during their time at sea, some of which had known him since he was just a boy, it was too much for him to handle. He did not want to have the lives of so many people at the tips of his fingers. And still, after all of that, they had two more weeks of sailing left before he could get home and convince his father to let him choose another path.

     He watched his father from where he stood on the dock, leaning heavily against one of the posts to steady his still swaying legs. He was in the middle of the dock, a new parchment in hand that had been given to him by Nero's dock master, checking and re-checking everything that the remaining crew unloaded from the ship. 

     The intricately carved box was unloaded last and handed directly to a man dressed in the most expensive looking fabrics and colours. He placed it immediately into a waiting carriage, surrounded by men in armour and armed with swords and shields, and once the door of the carriage was closed and locked the man turned back to his father. 

     “The King thanks you for your service.” He held his hand out to shake Wooyoung's fathers, both of them bowing into it. “He is also aware that you sustained great damages to your ship during your travels, the storm that you sailed through also hit us hard as well. He has set up rooms for you and all of your crew at the best inn our kingdom has to offer, as well as arranged for his own personal crew to make the necessary repairs to your ship. Once you are all ready I will have someone escort you to the inn, and you are all welcome to stay as long as you should like.”

     His father nodded his thanks to the man, then turned back to seek him out. “Wooyoung! Get whatever you will need from the ship, we will be heading into town to stay for a while… Wooyoung?”

     Wooyoung's eyes had long since wandered from his father and the king's man, and drifted off down the shore to where a rather unusual grouping of seaweed caught his eye along the shore. It was a large clump, mixed in with splintered debris that had been blown into shore by the storm, but there was something else about it that seemed odd. That being an overly large buildup in the middle that caught his attention and wouldn't let go.

     His curiosity got the better of him, and despite his father calling for him in the background, he ignored it and jumped off the dock anyway. He walked unevenly across the loose sand, his eyes never leaving the mess being rocked gently by the waves against the shore. When he was just a few steps away he was finally able to see what it was, and his feet picked up on their own and he was now running across the sand. He slid on his knees to the pile and his hand made quick work of moving the tangled seaweed and debris. His hands clasped the torn shirt of the man limply clinging to the broken piece of wood beneath him, and flipped him onto his back. For a moment Wooyoung was struck, unable to move as he peered down at the gorgeous man before him, he had never in his life seen another more beautiful, more angelic than he. If he hadn't known any better he would have thought this man to be one of the merpeople the sailors had warned him about, the ones that would lure you in with their beauty only to happily drown you in the open waters. Had he been one, he would have gladly jumped off the edge of the ship for him and drowned with lust in his eyes, he wouldn't have been able to resist.

     The man suddenly coughed, his head turning to the side and choking out a mouth full of water against Wooyoung's knees, and he finally snapped out of it. He looked back over his shoulder and shouted to his father, “He's alive! He needs help!” Then he turned back to the man and cradled his head in his hands. 

     As soon as his fingers touched the man's smooth skin he instantly calmed. His coughing stopped and he settled with Wooyoung's fingers running gently through his sand infused hair. Wooyoung could hear the hurried steps of the crew running to help the man, but he kept his focus on him, leaning down slightly to whisper. “You're alright, I've got you. I've got you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

     For the first time in days the man felt warm, and comfortable. It was a nice change from consistently wet and shivering, though he couldn't for the life of him remember why he had felt either of those things so harshly, nor did he know why there was a sudden change. 

     A warm light was filtering in from somewhere and casting over his face and arms like a blanket, much like the one he felt between his fingers when he flexed his hands. He hadn't a clue where he was, but he was sure it couldn't be anywhere bad. 

     He tested his eyes and slowly opened them, curious as to see where he had ended up, and when his eyes opened enough and the realization hit him, he was less upset about it then he thought he would have been.

     "An angel," he managed to force out through his dry, scratchy throat, reaching out to the form before him bathed in a golden glow that made him look as ethereal as he had imagined. 

     Wooyoung, who had spent the better part of the last two days at the man's bedside, running warm cloths over his frigid skin, stopped the man's hand and placed it back over his stomach. "What?" 

     San rolled his head to get a better look at Wooyoung through his still mostly closed eyes, and repeated, "You're an angel. That means I must be dead."

     Wooyoung chuckled, even blushed a bit as he continued his work with the cloth to distract himself. "What makes you think I'm an angel?"

     "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he answered as if it should have been obvious.

     Wooyoung's blush only got deeper as the man continued his compliments. "That's very flattering, but I'm not an angel, and you’re not dead."

     "Then where am I?"

     "You're in the kingdom of Nero, do you know it?" The man thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I found you washed up on the beach after a sail with my father, he's a merchant sailor and we had a shipment to deliver here. Do you know how you ended up here?"

     Again the man shook his head, he couldn't remember anything.

     "What about your name? Do you remember that?"

     "San," he nodded, and opened his eyes a bit wider, getting a full glimpse of Wooyoung sitting beside his bed. Though he may have still been a bit delirious, he hadn't been wrong when he thought Wooyoung had been an angel or the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. "My name is Choi San, but that's all I know."

     "That's alright." Wooyoung smiled at him and it nearly took San’s breath away, and certainly had him speechless. "At least you know your name, so that's a step in the right direction. We’ll figure out the rest later, the most important thing is that you're alive."

     "And your name?" San asked, and again Wooyoung stopped running the cloth over his skin. "What is the name of the angel who saved me?"

     This time Wooyoung knew there was no hiding the blush, San definitely saw it creep up his neck and land in his cheeks. "I told you, I'm not an angel, and my name is Jung Wooyoung."

     "Nice to meet you, wooyoung." San reached out and took his hand, holding it in both of his own and gazing at him with an intensity that shut Wooyoung down. "Thank you for saving my life, you truly are my guardian angel, and how lucky am I to have been given the most beautiful one."

     All Wooyoung could do was gape. He himself had thought the stranger he'd found on the beach was the most handsome man he'd ever seen, even while completely drenched and covered in sand, but to have his own thoughts reciprocated sent a thrill through his entire body. 

     "Good, he’s awake!" Before Wooyoung could do or say anything more the door to the room opened and his father walked in. He was smiling down at San, looking friendly and welcoming as he walked over to the bedside. "How is he doing, Wooyoung?"

     "Much better then he was when we found him." He smiled over at San who returned it, then looked back up at his father. "All he remembers is that his name is Choi San, but nothing more than that."

     "One step at a time," he too smiled at San, "until we can figure this all out, you’ll just stay with us and make sure you fully recover. You'll have to continue sharing the room with Wooyoung, though, we've all had to double up on rooms, the inn is full. But my son makes wonderful company, I can assure you that, and should you need anything do not hesitate to ask."

     "Thank you, Mr. Jung." He sat up slightly and bowed, as much as he could while in the bed, and Wooyoung's father did the same.

     "Not a problem," he answered, then added, "we’re stranded here for a while as well, my ship was pretty badly damaged in that storm we passed through. More than likely that was the cause of your ending up here as well."

     "Yes, Wooyoung said you were sailors."

     "My Father is the head of his Majesty's merchant navy," Wooyoung answered, "we were delivering something on special request from our King to yours. Which reminds me, Father," he turned in his chair to look up at him, "I meant to ask you before but the sickness was far too much. I've seen you turn away shipments of far greater value than whatever was in that small box, why say yes this time and not all the others?"

     "Most times, yes, I will refuse to carry such cargo," he nodded, agreeing, "the threat of pirates, especially over such long distances is far too great a risk, and should we ever come across any we are ill equipped for such a fight. But this was a request straight from the King, I could not refuse." Wooyoung nodded along with him, then he turned his attention back to San. "Have you ever had any troubles with pirates, San? Perhaps that's how you came to be washed up. A fellow merchant sailor caught in a brush up with some pirates?"

     “No, Sir.” San shook his head. “I don't think I've ever come across pirates, not that I can remember at least.”

     Wooyoung's father watched him for a few moments, as if he was searching for something, but neither Wooyoung or San was sure of what it would have been. He looked San up and down a few times, the boy remained still as he did, then he closed his eyes and when he opened them again he was smiling at San. “Of course not,” he reached out and rubbed his shoulder, easing San’s discomfort slightly, “but merchant sailing can be tricky business, as I am sure you will come to remember if that is the line of work you are in. I am trying to teach my son right now all about it so that he can one day take my place.”

     “Do pirates often give you trouble?” Wooyoung wondered the same question as San asked it. They hadn't come across any on their travels over to Nero, nor spotted any sails on their horizons, but then again the storm was rough and would have been enough to deter even the greatest of sailors and captains from the chase.

     “No, not often, but it is a very real threat. I have had a few encounters myself over my years of sailing, but nothing too extreme.” Then he turned his attention from San to Wooyoung, his expression suddenly turning serious and his tone matching. “When you are sailing you must always be watching, Wooyoung. If pirates ever catch wind that you have a valuable shipment aboard, they will come after you, and merchant ships are not built to fight pirates, especially experienced ones.”

     Wooyoung furrowed his brows at his father, confused. “How would they ever know what we are carrying? The only people who ever know are the crew, the King, and the port captain who is hired by the King. Surely you don't mean-”

     “I do, Wooyoung.” He held his gaze with a steely expression of his own. “You would be surprised what some people would do and who they would betray for a handsome pouch of coin, no matter who it's from or how it is acquired.” Then he shifted his expression and gave his son a sympathetic smile, understanding the look of fear that crossed his face as he had been much the same when he began sailing. “The most important rule of being a merchant captain under the King is that no one can truly be trusted, at times not even your own crew. Always be on your guard, and be very careful about who you let into your crew, even more so about who you place your trust in.”

     Wooyoung was only able to nod and swallow hard. As if he needed another reason to cement his decision that sailing was not for him. The last thing he ever wanted to come across was pirates, especially some of the more merciless ones he had heard about, the ones that seemed to be more fiction than fact. Walking nightmares in their own right.

     “And as for you, San.” The boy perked up and turned to Wooyoung’s father. “Don't push yourself too hard into trying to remember. Wooyoung and I will make sure you’re taken care of until we can get it figured out, so you have nothing to worry about.”

     “Thank you, Sir.”

     Wooyoung's father left the room, closing the door behind him, and as soon as he did Wooyoung let out a shuddering breath and slumped over in his chair. How could this trip possibly get any worse? He could not be a merchant sailor, he was not made for any of this.

     “Why do you look like that?” Wooyoung turned sharply, as if he had forgotten he wasn't alone in the room. San was sitting up fully now, his elbows resting on his knees and his arms hanging loosely between them, watching Wooyoung with a look he couldn't quite decipher, but it made his entire body tingle with excited nerves. “Angels should never be sad. What's wrong?”

     “I… it's just this merchant sailing thing,” he answered, unsure of why he was telling his secrets to a complete stranger, especially after his father had just given him a lecture about being careful to give out his trust so freely. But there was something about San that made him feel comfortable, able to open up without judgement. “I don't think it's the job for me, in fact I know it's not.”

     “Have you told your father that?”

     Wooyoung shook his head and pouted his bottom lip. “I don't know how to. It's been his only plan for me since the day I was born. Follow in his footsteps, sail with him as his apprentice, and then take over for him when he is ready to retire. If I tell him I can't do that he'll be disappointed, he'd probably never look at me the same way again, but I just can't do it. I’m sick most of the time I'm on the ship, I nearly died in the storm, and now pirates! This is just not for me.”

     Wooyoung dropped his head into his hands, but jolted quickly back up as San landed his hand on his knee. “I think you should tell him,” he said, looking straight into his eyes and holding him there, “you can't live a life working a job that makes you this miserable. And he might be disappointed at first, but I'm sure he would just want you to do something that makes you happy.”

     Wooyoung smiled at him, which made San beam. “Yeah, you're right,” he said, turning away from Sans' wide toothy smile before his blush started up again, “I just know it's going to be a hard conversation.”

     “Probably,” San squeezed his knee and leaned down to try and catch his eye again, “but I'll be there with you.”

     The thought of San standing by his side while he told his father the bad news made him feel much calmer, but then another thought crossed his mind. “But what if you're not? I'm sure you have a family of your own that's looking for you, probably sick with worry right now.”

     San’s eyes turned heavy and downcast. He thought as hard as he could but still could not bring forth any memories. “I'm not so sure,” he answered, still clearly searching his mind, “I can't remember anything right now, but I just have this feeling that it's not just because of the memory loss that I can't remember a family, I don't think I have one. I don't think anyones looking for me, at least no one who cares about me the way you and your father care about each other. I think it's just me.”

     Without even realizing what he was doing, Wooyoung reached a hand out to cover San’s where it still rested over his knee, and when San turned his hand over to lace their fingers together, he let him. “Not anymore. Like my Father said, you've got us now.”

     For a while they gazed at each other, seemingly captive in each other's eyes. He found it so instantly easy to be with San, in a way he had never felt with anyone before. Even with his own family, Wooyoung had to put in effort to maintain a conversation or just feel seen, but the way San was looking at him, Wooyoung knew he didn't have to try. He saw him.

     “Bed.” Wooyoung suddenly blurted as he found both of them slowly inching closer and closer. A panic move for sure. “We should go to bed. It's very late and you still need to rest.”

     He pulled away from San and stood from the chair, walking around the room and cleaning up the water bucket and cloths he had gathered. 

     San’s eyes followed Wooyoung around the room, and then a realization hit him. “How long was I out for?”

     “Two days.”

     “Where did you sleep last night?” He asked, and Wooyoung froze in place with his back to San. “There's only one bed in here, and your father said this was your room and the inn was full.”

     Wooyoung didn't answer right away, instead he slowly turned and pointed to his right where a pile of blankets and a pillow was pushed up against the wall near a fireplace.

     “No,” San hurriedly shook his head, “no, you can't sleep on the floor.”

     “It's fine-”

     “It's not fine!” He argued back, insistent. “I can't let an angel sleep on the floor!”

     Wooyoung sucked in his bottom lip and bit down, trying desperately to stop the smile at the seemingly permanent pet name. “It's fine, San. I slept there last night and I was perfectly fine. And I would rather just let you have the bed so you can recover properly. I don't want to accidentally hurt you in my sleep, you've been through enough.”

     “I-”

     Wooyung raised a hand and stopped him from arguing anymore. “I’m sleeping on the floor and that's the end of it.” He sat on the floor and then laid back on the pillow, pulling the blankets over him as he did. “Now go to sleep, and blow out the candles beside you.”

     He heard San sigh hard before turning and blowing out the candles. He laid in the darkness for a moment while he listened to him shuffle around in the bed and get comfortable, then called out quietly, “Good night, San.”

     “Good night, my angel,” San answered back, his tone already lazy.

     This time Wooyoung let his smile overtake him in the dark. He had a feeling he wasn't going to be getting used to being called angel anytime soon, and he kind of liked that.

~~~~~~~~~~~ A/N: Also, I just thought I would add in this little tidbit for funsies. san-nakji is a korean dish that is literally just raw octopus tentacles, which is why poor Wooyoung looses his stomach when his dad mentions it, poor babe :P If anyone wants to be tagged for future chapter posts just let me know <3

[graysparrowao3]

Well I posted this to introduce Larry Pickle to the world but apparently I had the entire fic just sitting in my drafts? lol. I'm so bad at Tumblr. Copy and paste that shit into a reblog! Behold! ✨

What if Lorroakan was Named Larry Pickle

Word count: 1791

Tags: Humor, Comedy, 4th wall break, Names not respected

Summary: Lorroakan is named Larry Pickle. Rolan has a shit time. Miklaur makes his debut but no one cares.

And so, here they were. The three of them, ready to leave the Grove and embark upon the next stage of their journey. Cal’s eyes once again reading over the words on the parchment, his brow creasing, eyes narrowing as he found the name signed at the end. He handed Rolan back the letter from the archmage in Baldur’s Gate.

“I still think it’s not very ‘wizardy’.” Cal said, clearly disappointed. “Larry Pickles.”

“A name hardly matters,” Rolan scoffed, basking in the recent victory over the goblins, “what matters is that he is a great spellcaster with infinite resources at his fingertips – ones that I might soon also get my hands on.”

“Elminster might not’ve been taken as seriously were he named Egbert Cucumber.” Astarion shrewdly noted.

“Gale could be Gary Gherkin.” Shadowheart thought aloud.

“Were I to have a say in the matter,” Gale added, “might I suggest Graham Pistachio.”

“Don’t give me one.” Rolan commanded.

“Ronald Turnip.” Lia shouted before he had finished speaking.

He sighed,

“What could Larry’s name have been instead?” Cal mused, “What’s wizardy sounding? Gandalf? Merlin? Lorroakan?”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Rolan chastised.

“Those sound made up.” Lia added.

They all stood for a moment to take in how right he was, nodding solemnly in agreement.

“Wait… is it ‘Pickle’ or Pickles’?” Cal asked.

“Ah!” Gale exclaimed, “Allow me to share the great tale behind the pluralization of the preserved fruit-based moniker. Cast your minds, if you will, to the academy of the learned magician. A young man seeks to impress upon his peers, and indeed those who may have caught the eye of his affection, the, uh, potential of his… potential. Thus, he did set to develop the most shameful of spells that would bring a blush to the cheek of even a dead goblin, I wager. Well, as you can imagine, Larry’s Multiply Pickle was more than popular with the fellows of the academy. As I recall, his two-for-one offer was a deal that went down as the most memorable of the youthful shenanigans ever concocted by a bored learner with time on their hands. Rather makes my own folly somewhat drab in comparison. Alas, one too many prickly duplications too late were the unfortunate side-effects revealed, public humiliation not least among them. A fair few verbal lashings later from the fellows of the academe, Larry found himself somewhat of a folk hero as far as rebellious apprentices go, and the results of his infamous spell cast unfortunately upon his own memorable epithet.”

He paused dramatically.

“…and I thought Rolan was bad.” Lia eventually said.

“Did anyone actually bother to read all that?” Astarion said with a yawn.

“Read?” Wyll questioned, “Surely you mean ‘listen to’?”

“It was a lot of words to avoid saying ‘penis’.” Shadowheart mused.

Cal furrowed his brow,        

“I’m still not sure which one right.” He said, scratching his head.

“Classic Pickles.” Gale chuckled.

~~~ Some time later. Ramazith’s Tower, Baldur’s Gate. ~~~

“Oh, Miklaur.” Larry Pickle threw the back of one hand across his forehand, “will I ever be rid of these cruel whispers?”

His long-suffering assistant moved only his eyes, as Larry was clearly no longer concentrating on where the animated armor was aiming.

“You should have heard the chortles.” Larry pined as he walked dramatically around the chamber. Then turned to his assistant, still frozen in place for fear of being impaled. “The hushed mockery behind my back at the wizarding conventions, like daggers to my heart. I am, afterall, known for my kind-heartedness and generosity. Will you not tell me, Miklaur? Why they mock me so?”

“Uh.” Miklaur blinked a couple of times, hoping that Larry would lower the armor’s weapon. He did not.

“I’m sure they’re all jealous, sir.” Miklaur said.

“How you humour me,” Larry sighed, “of course they’re jealous, but they needn’t be so ruthless in their bullying – after all, what’s in a name?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” Miklaur said, worrying a great deal more about the arrowhead threatening to enter his skull.

“Honestly, you’d think my compassion and arcane skill would more than make up for whatever perceived imperfection they have conjured.” Larry twirled around as though admiring himself in an unseen mirror.

“It is a little…” Miklaur muttered, before realizing he was speaking aloud.

“What was that?” Larry’s eyes snapped over, “You’ll have to speak up.”

“Well,” Miklaur shrugged, “you know.”

Larry raised an eyebrow.

“What do I know, Miklaur?” he asked.

“They may think it sounds a little...silly.” Miklaur murmured.

“Silly?” Larry’s voice raised an octave.

“Or, you know…”

“What is it they think it sounds like, Miklaur?” Larry asked, stepping closer. “What do they think my illustrious, eminent Pickle sounds like?”

“The, er, …nether regions.” Miklaur shuffled uncomfortably.

“Hmm?” Larry pressed him further.

Miklaur bowed his head low and mumbled,

“… a penis.”

Gathering his inner strength, Miklaur added,

“It’s funny because you’re a dick.”

Larry moved as though to strike the halfling, then stopped his arm midair,

“I fucking hate you, Miklaur.” He announced with a flourish.

Miklaur nodded his head ever-so-slightly.

“I know, sir.” He said.

“I’d throw you out this tower but then I’d have to do… whatever it is you do when I’m not threatening your life.”

“I know, sir.” Miklaur said.

“Well, I think you’ve taken up quite enough of my time today. Go and greet this new apprentice of mine.”

“His name is Rolan.” Miklaur said.

“His name is blah blah blah.” Larry mocked as he smacked Miklaur with the back of his hand, “There’s only one name of a wizard that shall be spoken of within these walls.” He stepped out onto the balcony for a dramatic monologue that no one other than himself would hear. He proclaimed across the sky above Baldur’s Gate,

“And now begins the greatest epoch of Pickle, when a true admirer of my wonderous talent arrives, one who recognizes this incredible pedigree. Finally, someone respects the power of authority of the great, the incomparable… Archmage Larry Pickles!”

~~~ Some time later. Sorcerous Sundries. ~~~

“I hate that pickled moron.” Rolan muttered.

“Do you now…” Miklaur replied, looking down at his notes. “Well Lord Pickle of the Tower said ‘Tell Ronald to stop reading in his spare time. If he has time to read, he has time to… I have no idea how that place runs, make something up and add it here.’”

“My name is Rolan.” Said Rolan.

“Then he said ‘Oh, and tell Rudolf to stop giving discounts to those Godsforsaken adventurers, there’s a world-ending cataclysm going “My name is Rolan.” Said Rolan.

“And then he said ‘And don’t forget to tell Ronnie that he’s a minor NPC and that there’s no way in all the Hells that anyone is going to lust after or emotionally connect with such a small role when there are so many incredible companions and such a vast plethora of story to engage with.”

Rolan paused, considering this new information.

“…My fucking name is Rolan.” He finally muttered.

“You know, my name is Miklaur.” Said Miklaur.

“There’s no way to say this delicately, so I shan’t bother,” Rolan said, “I’m not sure that anyone cares.”

“I know.” Miklaur sighed.

~~~ Some time later. Ramazith’s Tower. ~~~

Pained cries echoed through the tower as the two wizards clashed, lives and futures hanging in the balance. Lightning crackled through the air as Larry’s body slammed into the ground with such force the wooden floorboards splintered under him as bones shattered through broken skin.

“My name,” Rolan proclaimed loudly, standing over his defeated master, heavy breaths falling from dry lips, hands aglow with his final spell, “is-”

“Rolan!” Lia and Cal shouted as the door burst open, “Are you okay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Rolan shouted, “You two troglodytes just stole my Gods damned moment!”

“What do you mean, Rolan?” Cal asked.

“I’ve been building up to announcing my name for 1,310 words, and you barged in and stole my glory.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Lia snapped.

“Oh, never mind,” Rolan sighed, “it’s not as though anyone is going to remember a minor NPC like me anyway.”

“What’s an NPC?” Cal asked, “I feel I’m the only one who has no idea what’s going on here sometimes.”

“More wizard mumbo-jumbo.” Lia rolled her eyes.

“I beg of you,” Larry wheezed, as his broken body struggled with every breath, “end this torturous existence.”

 “Ah!” Gale interjected, “An NPC, well now we really are pushing the bounds of the nonsense we’re unwillingly involved in. Any more of this and I’m afraid we may all become painfully self-aware of the ridiculous reality we find ourselves in, and I dread to think what would become of us should we test the very nature of our existence.”

“Fucking kill me.” Larry coughed through blood.

“I fear ol’ Pickles got inside your head,” offered Wyll, “are you not the Master of Ramazith’s Tower?”

“I suppose once I kill the bastard,” Rolan considered, “I’ll have it all – the resources, the tower, my family. I’ll be the Archmage of the tower and the most powerful spellcaster in all of Baldur’s Gate.”

“Goody for you,” Astarion rolled his eyes, “you’ll still not be a companion, darling.”

“Perhaps,” Rolan responded, “but one can still wonder… ‘what if…’”

“The humiliation is a greater pain than the near-fatal injuries.” Larry gasped as he writhed on the bloodied ground.

“Enough!” Rolan proclaimed, “You will toy with me no longer! Your life is in my hands, Larry Pickle, you will treat me with some Gods damned respect!”

Rolan stepped over to his former master, holding his quarterstaff tightly, and pushing the end painfully into Larry’s broken chest.

“Say it.” Rolan commanded, jabbing the arcane weapon between shattered ribs.

“Your name is –” Larry spluttered.

The group leaned in to hear the words they had been waiting for. Rolan pushed again.

“Your name is –”

Rolan used the staff to move Larry’s head and force eye contact, ready for the long over-due moment. Ready to hear the word he had long waited to hear.

“…psych.” Larry said with his final breath and then he fucking died.

“Wow. That guy was a dick.” Said Cal, nudging the corpse with his foot.

“I fear your grand finale was somewhat anticlimactic.” Gale consoled the tiefling wizard.

“I didn’t need him to say it.” Rolan announced, quite sincerely. “They’ll speak of Rolan the Archmage for the next age – but who would remember such a pathetic, despicable excuse for a spellcaster… as Larry Pickles?”

What if Lorroakan was Named Larry Pickle

In this thread on Twitter/X user effelants noted that Lorroakan ought to be named Larry, and user aceforspinaltap clarified he looks like his name is Larry Pickle. I threatened to write a fanfic about it, and let it not be said that I'm not a person of my word.

This is a very silly parody skit based entirely on that joke. The 'graphic depiction of violence' is minimally described and towards Lorroakan - I mean, Larry - but tagged it to be on the safe side. There is no sexual content, but there are two instances of the word 'penis'. You're welcome.

✨ What if Lorroakan was Named Larry Pickle ✨

This delightful accompanying image provided by effelants.

[littlemissnoname13]

Fortunate Misfortune (D.M x Reader)| Chapter 2: Open 24/7

Summary: where Draco comes with with a plan to help you out with Blaise

A/n: This multi-chapter has been in my Drafts since before I started posting on here and I’ve used so many scenes from it and turned them into one shots in the past. The series is almost complete and ill just be dumping it on my blog over the next few days. Please do not feel pressured to read it. 😅🥲

Reblogs and Feedbacks are always welcomed. :)

Warnings: none except coarse language and food (No voldy AU) *Note: Hogwarts is a bit more lenient with its curfews in this series*

Words:1800ish

| Chapter 1 | Masterlist | Chapter 3

The attempt to steal food from the kitchens was a failure and the two of you now stood outside a dodgy looking inn at Hogsmeade.

Four Broom sticks? 

They could have gone with so many different and more creative routes for the name like…“the earthy ..ferret” or…“the…Aggressive..hm..Owl”. But they chose four broomsticks of all names.

“Looks like a lawsuit is on the horizon.” Draco coughed, and tightened his green and silver scarf around his neck.

“Well, beggars can’t be choosers.” You snapped, grabbing him by the hand and dragging him in through the door. 

“Table for two please.” You said sweetly and Draco was awed by your ability to change demeanors on demand like that. 

“I’d very much prefer it if you used that voice with me.” Draco muttered as the two of you sat down. 

You didn’t respond to him. You only glared at him with your eyes squinted before proceeding to order something to eat.

“The usual please.” You said in that strangely sweet voice of yours again, making him draw up some conclusions about you as he ordered black coffee for himself.

From how comfortable you looked and the way you completely disregarded the menu indicated that you were a regular patron at this shifty place. 

You instantly started to devour what looked like a sandwich of some sorts as he continued to watch you with each sip of his bitter coffee. 

“First meal of the day huh?” He muttered and you nodded with your mouth full. “Why did you skip dinner then?”

“What is it with you and all this interrogation?” You mumbled with your mouth full, while your left hand slightly pushed the plate towards him. “Here, try some.” 

“No. Thank you.” Draco said at once, scrunching his nose . “I don’t even know what’s in it but I can already tell it’s a strange combination.. looks like strawberry jam and…cheese?!” 

“Well, don’t say I didn’t offer any.” You shrugged. “Astoria likes this a lot.” 

His grey eyes lit up with curiosity and his cheeks turned bright pink at the sound of her name. 

“Astoria likes this?” 

“Last time I checked.” 

Draco hesitantly took half of the diagonal cut toastie and took a careful, tentative bite—expression as blank as an unused piece of parchment. 

Then slowly, even though he tried very hard to fight it, a small satisfied smile formed at his lips when he swallowed. 

“Wasn’t so bad now, was it, Malfoy?”

He just huffed in response and continued eating like he didn’t just call it strange a few minutes ago. 

“So, Astoria..how come you know so much about her?…what else do you know about her?” Draco mumbled after taking a final bite. 

“We have bumped into each other here and there several times over the years and hey, It doesn’t work that way.” You smirked and he couldn’t help but sigh in defeat. 

“Fine, how does it work then?”

“What do I get in return?”

“Some intel on Zabini. How about that?” 

As one cup of coffee became another, Draco exchanged his knowledge about Blaise with your knowledge about Astoria. 

To his surprise, Four broomsticks stayed open all night long, and you knew quite a lot about Astoria. 

~~~

While heading back to your respective dorms to freshen up for Care of magical creatures, Draco suddenly grabbed you by the hand and pulled you towards him. 

“Malfoy.What are you—”

When he was close enough, he leaned down and whispered into your ears. 

“Flowers.” 

“Huh?”

“Little known fact about Zabini, he likes flowers. He won’t ever admit it to anyone but he used to stop and sniff roses in my mother’s garden.” He gently placed his long and limber fingers on either side of your hips and your breath involuntarily caught up inside your throat. 

The place on your body where he’d placed his hands felt awfully aware of his touch even though there were layers of clothing in between. 

What was even weird was how you felt the sensation slowly migrate upwards to the left side of your chest where your heart was rapidly accelerating its beat. 

What was this boy doing to you?

Slowly tightening his grip, Draco whirled you around so that your back was now pressed on his chest.

His chin rested on your shoulders as his breath tickled your neck. Draco slowly removed his left hand from your hips to point at a neon sign.

“Friends, family & foes. War, weddings, funerals, christenings. Flowers for all occasions. Open 24/7.” 

~~~

Hagrid had the class split up into groups of three that day and Draco instantly walked towards you dragging Vincent Crabbe with him. You could tell that Crabbe was terrified about partnering up with you. 

“Malfoy...she’s the harbinger of bad luck..I’ve heard things about her.” Crabbe reminded him.

Draco completely disregarded Crabbe’s babbling. To top that all off, he even had a wonky little smile etched on his lips and it made your heart feel all kinds of strange. 

Just twenty four hours ago, this boy was reluctant about even being near you and now he was offering to be your partner like you were his only choice.

“Nervous?” Draco asked when he finally made it to you, referring to the plan the two of you had made before parting ways earlier in that morning. 

“Obviously.” You muttered, as you looked left and right—paranoid about someone eavesdropping. “I still think giving him flowers is a rather stupid idea.”  

“Fine. Have fun watching when someone else beats you to it.”

“Okay. Okay.” You sighed. 

“Am I correct in assuming that you brought the flowers with you?”

You patted your pocket in response indicating that you had shrunk the flowers to fit into your pocket and he looked impressed that you’d even thought about shrinking it. 

“Good Girl.” Draco grinned in approval.

Neither of you discussed his plan further and tried to get through the class as quickly as possible.

It seemed like Draco was equally stressed about the success of this plan but you knew that was simply because you’d promised to give him back the letter if things worked out. 

When class was finally over, you watched Blaise walk away with Theodore Nott and Gregory Goyle and Draco quickly turned to look at you.

Once again, he took a step towards you like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

His eyes looked more baby blue than grey under the sun you couldn’t help but notice the crease in between his eyebrows as he smoothed out your stray hairs.

For a minute there, you forgot about the flowers in your pocket. That is, until he gave you a small push towards Blaise’s direction.

“Go on then.. you don’t have all day”

You turned your head back to give him a sour glare before following Blaise back into the castle. 

You felt like a creepy stalker as you watched his robe swish gently with the wind as he continued to walk ahead, completely oblivious of you.

Just when you were about to quicken your pace to catch up to him, Blaise met up with another Slytherin girl by the name of Tracey Davis. 

She stretched on her tiptoes and gave him a huge hug and you wanted to reach for your wand and Avada yourself on the spot. 

Of course he was already seeing someone. 

Draco was probably aware of this and he failed to inform you. 

Maybe he was messing around with you all this time while you were putting your blind faith onto him. 

You turned on your heel and walked back to find Draco Lucius Malfoy and give him a piece of your damn mind. 

~~

Draco lazily walked back into the castle with Crabbe but in the back of his mind, he kept thinking about you.

He didn’t want to admit it, but he wanted the plan to succeed for reasons beyond getting back his letter. 

He also didn’t want to admit it but he liked it when you smiled.

The blokes at Hogwarts were lucky you didn’t smile too often, because if you did, you’d have them hovering around you in swarms like bees, minus the rumours about you.

Just as he found himself thinking about your smile and all the ways to describe it, he noticed that you were stomping towards him, looking anything but smiley. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You shouted. 

“Tell you what?” Draco asked, suddenly confused. 

“About Tracey Davis!” You threw your arms up in frustration while Crabbe looked at the two of you utterly confused before quickly excusing himself.

“Tracey?” Draco echoed her name back to you.

“Yes! Tracey.” You sighed. “She was all up in Blaise’s business. Hugging him like he was her long lost soulmate.”

“Tracey is going out with Marcus Flint you dimwit!” 

“Blaise was the one that set the two up about a week ago.” He sighed as he continued. “Clearly, she’s just a bit too...thankful.” 

“Oh.. ” Your voice trailed off,  suddenly embarrassed at the overreaction. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Did you give him the flowers at least?” 

You shook your head and he rubbed his face in frustration.

The two of you then walked back into the castle, deciding to ditch the rest of the classes. The morning had been a bit too tumultuous and the two of you were far too sleep deprived to sit through more classes. 

He was surprised at himself and at you, when you invited him to your dorm and he nonchalantly accepted. 

You had an old kettle and instant coffee in your mess of a room, and your armchair didn’t seem like too bad of a place to rest.

He watched you frustratedly throw your robe away, kick your shoes off and sink into your bed, all the while muttering all sorts of complaints about classes and homework.

He quietly drank the coffee he’d made and he couldn’t help but smile to himself when he noticed that sleep had slowly started to make your eyelids droopy. 

After you fell asleep, he reached for your robe laying unceremoniously on the floor and pulled out the flowers you’d shrunk. 

He’d watched his mother put flowers on vases and perform a misting charm to keep them fresh a thousand times and it only seemed appropriate to do the same to your flowers.

He looked around and found an empty paint jar before using aguamenti to fill it to the brim with water. 

As he restored the bouquet to its normal size, he felt a strange scratchy sensation on the tip of his nose. The sensation traveled to his eyes and he was suddenly in tears. 

Wait a minute….

Out of all the different flowers you could have picked in the shop, you’d somehow picked allergenic and toxic flowers that made the receiver tear up, cough and sneeze uncontrollably. 

And he thought Hufflepuffs knew their plants! 

He shook his head and quickly vanished the flowers before walking towards the bed where you were fast asleep. 

He noticed that you’d left the letter he wrote to Astoria on the bed side table and now that you were asleep, he could easily take it and run off. 

Come tomorrow he wouldn’t even have to talk to you because You’d have no leverage against him. 

But there was a voice inside of him, refusing to take the letter and run off.

He’d heard that pesky voice a million times before. It was the voice of his moral compass and up until that point, he was used to ignoring it repeatedly. 

After a minute long pause to contemplate, Draco decided to pretend like he’d never seen the letter. He went so far as to putting it under a spare pillow.  

“I hope I don’t regret this, Catastrophe.” He whispered, looking at you with a smile before pulling the covers up to your shoulders. 

~~

🏷 Series Tag list: @writeandtranslate @louweasleymalfoy @silentkiller2374

~~

End of chapter notes:

I generated the inn names Draco was thinking about using this. It was fun.

[donnerpartyofone]

When I wrote this I was thinking about the Ikea thing I reblogged from myself two posts down. I was extremely proud of that obviously, and it was a hit with my friends on Instagram--except for one person who I could tell didn't get it and I knew that if I tried to help her, it would turn into this swirling quicksand of misunderstanding that would eat both of us alive. I had taken a picture of this ridiculous children's kitchen playset in Ikea, and I wrote a prose poem about it that I think was pretty obviously a joke. Everybody else got it. But my one friend was not able to look at the miniature kitchen thingy, and read my funny text about the miniature kitchen thingy, and figure any of it out. She goes "WHAT IS THAT", and I told her, but her response gave me the feeling that she didn't understand the joke I wrote either, like possibly she thought all of it was part of the Ikea catalog and she still wasn't sure what any of it signified. And I mean she definitely has a specific habit of pretending not to know things; it's sort of a subconscious instinct of hers to broadcast to other people "I'm just a dumb little puppy with candy where my brain should be, please pick me up and protect me from this cold, confusing world!" That sounds harsh and I am exaggerating to amuse myself, but I've caught her pretending not to know very simple things she absolutely knows already from direct personal experience, with this doe-eyed look on her face...

But that's only relevant to what I'm now saying insofar as she ALSO genuinely doesn't get a lot of stuff, and/or isn't in the habit of trying to figure anything out for herself because she benefits so much from recruiting others to help her. She's a little older, but she's fairly hip, so sometimes it's easy to forget the fact that she doesn't *entirely* get social media. Like she uses it actively, but there's a limit. A little while ago on IG I posted part of an illuminated manuscript that I saw in a museum, that was not only a masterwork but it was obviously on ancient parchment and full of Latin calligraphy, and I have to think I captioned what it was, too. And she replied like "WOW lol did u make that? Ur so talented (heart-eyes + fire emojis)!!!" And there were so many obvious reasons that I could not possibly have made that thing, including the fact that she's known me for ten years and if there was the slightest chance that I was a master painter and calligrapher, it would definitely have come up by now. It's a little like when you see a fine art blog that posts Picassos and Cezannes and stuff and once in a while somebody will send them a message asking if any of them are for sale.

--which brings me to the point that I am actually trying to make, that media literacy is not natural and generally needs to be taught. This has little to do with intelligence. There's an obscure Herzog anecdote that he tells about people in some extremely remote, rural situation, who saw a medical wall chart of an eyeball. Because these people weren't accustomed to the semiotics of this type of graphic, they didn't see it as a closeup of a regular organ, they saw it as a depiction of a giant eyeball, which puzzled them. By now you might also be thinking of the rumors of audiences panicking at the first projection of the Lumiere brothers' film of a train entering a station. It is also true that reading comic books is not a natural thing, and if you grow up with little or no exposure to comics, then the visual grammar of them, including expressions of action or comic timing, can be very confusing. I used to work for a digital comic book distributor where I was the in-house expert on controversial or underground material; I made it my business to defend books that I knew the executives wouldn't understand and might feel threatened by, so when we received a batch of Johnny Ryan files from one of our partners, I leapt into action. I had to go talk to our legal council, who was this aged, extremely elegant and cultured lawyer who we all loved, who knew nothing of the low brow world, because I was going to have to explain the mechanics of a comic where the main gag is a fashion trend of wearing adults with dwarfism who are dressed up as children on your dick. I had to explain how this comic would not make us liable for child pornography, and I also had to break down how the joke worked on the page. I was standing in this poor guy's office trying to guide him through the panels while my evil boss stood behind him with tears in her eyes trying not to laugh. Finally he looked up at me with this very professional seriousness and asked, "So are they children, or are they midgets?"

Anyway if you too were confused by my brilliant Ikea joke, what happened was I was buying a rug and I saw this kitchen playset that was just as sterile and forbidding as their normal kitchen furniture for pretentious grownups and I was like wtf, this is for CHILDREN? What the hell are they supposed to do with it? The End.

One friend is a crazed perfectionist because this helped her navigate around, and also make life bearable for her cripplingly particular father. Another friend is compulsively, brutally honest, because it helped her survive a household dominated by her manipulative, gaslighting, avoidant/denialist mother. A third friend acts willfully ignorant all the time because her family essentially abandoned her and her feigned helplessness makes other people want to aid and adopt her. Sometimes it's helpful to see your friends' neuroticisms for the survival mechanisms that they often started out as.

[lockejhaven]

locket's fairytale friday

↪ standalone: the artist with the crimson hair

She never spoke; the artist with crimson hair. Some wondered if she even could. When she had washed ashore a year before, the prince had taken her in until she had recovered enough to stand once more. Some speculated he had almost decided to marry her, however, this proved to be incorrect as he soon met another young prince and asked for his hand.

 He and the palace healers had tried to sign to her, to give her parchment with which to write; to soothe her throat, but it was of no use. She simply refused to communicate. 

She could certainly play music; the prince had seen her once, barely touching the ivory keys of the piano in front of her, playing a ghost of a melody as if it flowed through her head. Her eyes ran over pages of music, her fingers moving with nimble grace, yet she never made a sound.

And she certainly had quite an intelligent and creative mind to be able to paint such gorgeous and astounding underwater kingdoms as if she herself remembered them. Flora and fauna none had ever even dreamed of, lit by glowing lanterns and bioluminescent creatures.

And she most certainly could have communicated if she had tried; if she had wanted to. But instead, she kept to herself until she had recovered, and then she left in the early dawn of the next day. 

The prince missed her art after she had left, though he never made a move to restrict her freedom.

What he and the kingdom did not know was quite a great deal. They knew not of where she came from, nor of who she was. All they knew of the artist with crimson hair was that she had quickly settled at the edge of the kingdom and continued to improve in her work.

The artist was happy to keep her life as hidden as an octopus in plain sight. She kept her memories in her music and her past in her paintings. 

Scenes of home. The palace with its underwater glow, the hippocampi frolicking through the coral. 

A melody that traveled overseas, slipping its way through thick fog; hauntingly beautiful and seductive in sound.

Her journey to the surface. The cavern where a sea witch had isolated himself; a cauldron bubbling over a magical fire. Legs, in exchange for a voice. A voice the artist now portrayed through lyre, violin, and piano.

All that she created, the kingdom assumed was straight from her imagination. 

The witch had not anticipated her choice. Convinced the artist had fallen for the prince, the witch had kept her voice hidden in a shell around his neck and set off to take him from her. 

So when the witch married him, he found he had lost, for the artist had taken her gift and used it to create a life for herself. 

She never spoke, the artist with the crimson hair. She had much to love in both her work and her new kingdom, and she always made sure to visit her family from time to time and explain all the wondrous things about the surface.

--

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[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry XXII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), trauma, violence, blood, some elements untagged.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: The reader’s past and present come to a head.

Note: I want to thank everyone for making this fic so special. Honestly, my intent was 4 chapters with just Bucky and Steve. It stretched on into... this and I had so much fun reading everyone’s reactions and thinking of what to do next and just hitting ‘post’ has been so much fun!

You guys really are special. You’ve not only taken this story this far but you’ve done so much more for a blog I started when my old fandom left me a little disillusioned and uninspired.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

MASTERLIST

Your existence stretched on from one torturous day to the next. The nights were hardest. Even as you cursed the mornings for rising. You counted them like the lashes across your flesh, like the violations of your body, like the aches that inhibited your body. You counted, you waited. You didn’t know when it would come but there had to be a chance. A single chance for it all to be over, one way or the other.

You woke after the first fortnight to the noise of shouting. Two weeks to see you once more bound to the prison of his body and mind. Two weeks to drag you back down to the pathetic maid without a hope. 

The guards inside the walls clamoured in the courtyard and those at the gate secured it as voices argued in bellowed shouts. You couldn’t make out what was going on beyond even as you crept over to the window and peered down at the flurry.

You saw only shadows beyond the wall but hadn’t the strength to think it was anyone who could save you. You heard Barnes sit up with a groan and looked back at him, shying away from the window as you balanced yourself against the wall.

“What is happening?” He stood and swept his long tangled hair away from his face. He drew back the curtains and looked down. He frowned and squinted. “Who is fool enough to stop at my gate?”

He brushed past you and checked his reflection in the glass hung against the wall. 

“Fetch me a tunic and some breeches,” he demanded as he combed his locks and tidied his beard. 

Your gaze lingered on him in the mirror; the lines around his eyes were deeper and the silver in his hair foretold of his most recent isolation. Two years had only caused his bitterness to boil over. He looked like a maddened woodsman, not some elegant duke.

He turned as you didn’t move. “Well, you only ever wanted to be my maid, eh?”

You limped over to the wardrobe and retrieved several pieces. You helped him dress and you tried not to think of years before when you’d done the same. 

Those last weeks you’d spent in the prison of this chamber, he hadn’t bothered to dress often and he had stripped you of all your layers that first day. He kept you bare and prone, your scars displayed to him as his eyes hung on the stretch marks at your thigh and stomach.

“I will send them away,” he assured, “these lords, they think hospice is offered at any keep.”

He left you and you sat on the bed for a moment as you stared at the door. You were sore all over, numb as you wondered if you were truly still alive. It all felt like a blur, like it could have been the afterlife, an endless purgatory.

You went to the window as you heard him below and the air stilled. You leaned on the stone sill and listened. Lord Barnes’ voice cut through the tension.

“...Parker, you’ve returned… what… else….” his words floated up disjointed as you strained to hear him clearly. His laughter reached you and sent a shiver down your spine. Then it died and the silence returned.

Then you heard another. You recognized Peter’s tones as he spoke sternly. You heard the anger even if you could not decipher his exact words. You watched as Barnes went to the gate and reached through them. He snatched the parchment and dropped it to the dirt. He spat on it and stomped it into the ground.

He waved away the lord outside his gate and spun as he barked orders to his men. You were confused by the unusual scene, more so as you saw the party of men who accompanied Peter retreat from the wall and sink into the cover of the tree line. They carried banners like an official party and kept formation until they were out of sight.

You slipped away from the window and to the bed. Barnes entered as you sat silently. He kicked a stool over and growled. “Wine,” he snarled, “now.”

He sat heavily and his feet splayed out before him as he sighed. You got up and went to the cabinet and uncorked a bottle. You filled a goblet and he took it from you just as roughly as he had the piece of parchment from the men at his gates.

“The boy has returned on some fool’s errand,” Barnes gulped loudly, “you fuck him to?”

You didn’t say anything as he drained the last of the wine and thrust the cup out again. You poured him more and he sniffed it and curled his lip.

“Doesn’t matter. You’ve always been mine,” he drank again, “you remember that, don’t you? The way you’ve taken to your former place so easily. You really thought you could escape me?”

“No, my lord,” you said plainly, “I knew I could not. It iss why I threw myself before your horse.”

He stopped his sloppy sipping and whipped the cup across the room so that the wine splashed around you. He stood and neared you, bearing down on you like a wolf. You faced him unflinchingly and waited for him to strike you. He didn’t.

“You’re fortunate I even have the stomach to touch you still. Look at you, scarred and crippled. Used.” He said darkly.

You watched him evenly as he reached to your throat. He squeezed until your breath stopped and his blue eyes focused on his fingers. You did not resist as your head began to pulse. He let you go suddenly and shoved you back towards the bed.

“Well, didn’t damage anything of value, did you?” he sneered, “not those parts of you I require.”

You caught yourself on the bedpost and stared at the mattress. He approached you and you felt his warmth against your back, smelled the alcohol on him.

“That boy will get bored soon enough,” he smacked your ass, “and my sister will not let that warrant stand long enough to be enforced.”

🏰

Everyday Barnes rose and left you to parlay with the men outside his gates. Their interactions were nothing more than mocking laughter and venomous words on his part. But the men outside did not leave. At night, you saw their fires burning beyond the trees and sometimes even heard there voices from the distance.

That day, you watched through the window as Barnes went to the gate. You listened again, the voices quieter than usual and before he stepped back from the bars, he shook them violently. His heel dug into the dirt as he spun around and your heart raced as you watched him march across the cold ground.

You heard him even before he reached the chamber and he flew in a rage. The door hit the wall as he held your cane in his hand and thrust it before you. Naked, stunned, and confused, you blinked at him dumbly. He jabbed you with the silver head bluntly as he bared his teeth.

“Take it. Come with me,” he demanded.

“My l--”

“As you are. I don’t mind taking you to them naked or bloodied, so let us go,” he hissed.

You took the cane from him and leaned on it as he waited for you to precede him through the door. He followed and nudged you along to the winding stairway. You descended slowly as his impatient huffs clouded behind you. When you got to the bottom, he seized your elbow and dragged you across the front hall.

You shivered as you came out into the late autumn morning. Your shame was stifled only by the rising fear in your gut. The guards watched you brazenly as you were forced across the yard and as you neared the gate, you gasped.

Peter stood on the other side with several other men. Among them, you recognized a head of dark hair and they all grew silent as they sensed your movement. Zemo turned and his features hardened as he saw you beside the duke.

“You came all the way here for this wench?” Barnes taunted, “well, that does speak so much. Eh, I think, perhaps, to lose her would be akin to say, well, perhaps losing an arm.”

You stiffened and gripped your cane as you watched Zemo come to the gate. He tore his eyes from you and glared at Barnes.

“You won’t do that. You would have done it long ago if you had the nerve,” he said, “your own king has signed to have you seized. Would you add further dishonour to your name, sir?”

“Dishonour? I have none. I served my kingdom. I do not play at war over the cunt of a maid,” he spat, “I’d sooner have her dead as I thought her all those years.”

“There is no war,” Zemo replied tersely, “you killed a nobleman of your own land. We are not invaders,” he looked at the other men, “you are a traitor.”

“Oh, if you want me, you will have to fight for it,” Barnes scoffed as he pulled you close, “and you might get me in the end, but you won’t get her. I won’t let--”

You swung your cane up and hit Barnes in the ribs. He rasped and his hand fell from your arm. You stepped away from him and went to strike him again but he batted away the stick as he coughed. He ducked under another strike and tripped you with his foot so that you landed on your back.

As he came to stand over you, you flipped up the end of your can and hit him between his legs. He croaked and grasped his crotch as he stumbled back. You grunted and pushed yourself back up to your feet with your cane. You struck him again across the shoulder but he surprised you by latching onto the end of the stick and thrusting you off-kilter.

You heard a clatter at the gates and voices shouting. You were too enthralled with your fight for your life to look over and see why the guards were yelling and running all around. You only expected to be accosted by one of Barnes’ men before you could gain your foothold.

You struggled with him and clung to the silver head of the cane. He pulled you closer and closer as you tried to turn it and you felt the subtle shift. He stumbled back as the bottom came loose and he hit the dirt. He landed with a thump and a rattled breath as the air was knocked from him.

You didn’t think, only moved as you lunged onto him and brought down the pointed steel. The long blade sank into his right shoulder and he screamed in agony. You watched the pain contort his face and you twisted the dagger. His voice grew louder but he could not move his arm to get you off of him.

You pulled the dagger from his flesh but before you could bring it down again, he lifted his pelvis and forced you off of him. He rolled away from you as he groaned and grunted and you got to your knees as you gripped the knife tighter and prepared for your second attack.

You were shocked as Barnes was kicked onto his back once more and a foot planted itself in the middle of his chest. His tunic was stained with blood as he gritted his teeth and writhed and moaned. He did not resist as he was held down by Peter’s boot and a sword was pointed at his throat.

“We promised the king we’d bring you in alive,” Peter declared, “you’ve fared well enough without one arm. What’s another?”

You winced as a hand closed around yours and kept you from striking out at your accoster. You looked over as Zemo knelt beside you and wiggled the knife free. He handed it off to one of his men but never glanced away from you. He nodded and as he untied his cloak and draped it over your shoulders.

“Elina?” you whispered.

“Safe,” he assured as he covered you and wrapped his arm around your shoulders, “I never did have the chance to introduce you to my mother.”

“What--How--” you peered around as the armored guards handed over their weapons to the lords in their colours.

“Your countrymen do not take well to their nobles murdering each other so carelessly. The king could not but listen or risk a rebellion,” he explained as he sat back and drew you into his lap, “We bring your king his prisoner and he forgives our diplomatic oversight and our kingdoms will sign the long-awaited accord.”

“It can’t-- I--”

“Lord Rogers was also listed on the warrant,” he cradled your face, “but he was never one to face consequences. We have Astrens but its duke has conveniently made himself sparse.” He swallowed as his thumb caressed your cheek, “Nevertheless, we needn’t worry about him…” he pulled you closer to him and his breath skimmed along your lips, “You really are bold, you know? You kiss a man and just walk out on him.”

You closed your eyes as tears pricked along your lashes. You let yourself smile as you opened them again and you let him close the space between your lips. You kissed him down in the cold dirt, with blood on your hands, naked and bruised. You kissed him and forgot it all. You kissed him and thought of the future as your past laid sobbing in the mud.

🏰 🏰 🏰

So we leave reader to live her life with her daughter. To ride off into the proverbial sunlight but an end is never really an end, as even those characters who exist only in our minds, live on there. I hope that every now and then, you will revisit this MC, Barnes, Zemo, Peter, Sam, Rebecca, and yes, even Rogers.

🏰 🏰 🏰

End Note: I have not yet decided if I will add an epilogue to this series but for now, I am content. Thank you again. Be safe and take care of yourselves.

[lilith-of-rivia]

The Bards Sister  Geralt XFemale!Reader Part 1

Part 1  Part 2  Part 3

Masterlist 

Summary: Geralt of Rivia and his long time travel companion Jaskier find themselves in Jaskiers home land. A place geralt had not only never seen nor heard of. Jaskier is ready to reunite its his family after traveling and exploring the world for 20 years. The one person he missed the most was his baby sister (Y/N). Who he hadnt seen since she was 5. The journal is long, but the pay off is grander then they would ever be able to predict. I know i am trash at summaries.

Trigger warnings: NONE a lot of Geralt and Jaskier in this first part. Your charicter doesn’t come in till closer to the end.

Pairings: GeraltxReader JaskierxSister!reader

Word count: 6,095 longest fanfic I’ve ever written!!

A/N: hello my loves!!! I got my Insperation back!! I’m hopping i will be regularly posting agin!!! I ove you all so much you consistent love and supoort has not gone unnoticed. The constant likes and reblogs truly means the world to me. I love every single one of you so much. Thank you for believing in my writing the way you do. All my love -Lilith ps. I have reviewed and edited but I will be doing a more in-depth review soon!

“Where are we going, Jaskier.” The Witcher’s brooding voice echoed threw the flowered valley. His horse trotted not far behind his companion. Jaskier looked back at him and just rolled his eyes.

“How many times have you led me on endless roads, towards the middle of nowhere speaking little to no words to me no matter how much I ask?” Geralt said nothing. Jaskier snorted looking back towards the road.

“Exactly. No shut up, your brooding is giving me a headache.” The bard was giving the witcher a taste of his own medicine. The idea that Jaskier was leading him to somewhere he had no idea of the location, made him uneasy. Did he trust his bard? Absolutely without a doubt. Would he ever admit it to him? No never.

Their travels continued till the sun was barely hanging in the sky. The air had grown crisp replacing the harsh burning of the full summer sun. Jaskier pulled his mare to the side of the road, climbing off her, tying her to a tree. Geralt followed, realizing they were stopping for the day.

“We still have a couple hours of daylight left.” Geralt said as he took Roach’s saddle and tack off.

“We don't need a couple hours, we are nearly there. Maybe an hour and half.” Geralt cocked an eyebrow at Jaskier.

“Then why did we stop?” Jaskier pulled his saddle bags off his horse, putting them beside a log as he gathered some sticks for the fire.

“Because I have to debrief you as to who we are going to see and you must bathe before we do so. The stream here will do the trick.”

“Gods Jaskier, will you just tell me where we are going? The secrecy is bullshit.” The broot of a man was losing his patience with his friend.

The duo had been on the trip for nearly two weeks. They left Tramieria and headed east. Much further east than Geralt could ever remember traveling. Yet the bard seemed to know exactly what turns to take and when. The closer they drew to their destination the more the witcher could hear his heart beat faster.

“Jaskier if this is some stupid plot for me to protect you from some man who’s wife you slept with again-“

“It's not Geralt-“ Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, his stress causing a minor headache. “Just go bathe then I’ll tell you everything.” Geralt studied his friend, his eyes searching his face, his ears tuning into his heart beat trying his best to figure out what he was getting himself into.

With a low grunt the witcher grabbed his last set of clean clothes and the bar of soap from the bard's hand before stomping off to the river.

“Clean EVERYTHING!” Jaskier yelled over his shoulder. Only getting an unfriendly finger in return.

Nearly an hour later, the sun was completely hidden behind the canyon, the glow of the fire Jaskier started illuminating their small camp. Jaskier’s fingers strummed mindlessly at his lute, his eyes fixed on the stars that were making their presence known more, humming to himself softly. He heard his friends footsteps as he approached, his hair was wet at his shoulders. A fresh white Cotton tunic hugged his muscular build, black trousers hugging his legs. He smiled nice for once. All thanks to the lavender and honey soap Jaskier had received as a gift.

“Now don't you look better.” Jaskier said with a chuckle. The witcher sat down across the fire from him, his golden eyes staring heavily at the bard.

“Spill your guts Jaskier.” Jaskier rubbed his hands over his face and nodded. His eyes looking anywhere but at his friend.

“I haven't been completely forward about my family life.” Jaskier’s eyes landed on the moon above them. It was nearly full, he was doing well with time. He knew they would reach their destination well before the next full moon.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s harsh voice broke the silence. With a loud sigh Jaskier finally looked his friend in the face.

“I’m royalty Geralt.” The Witcher’s expression did not change. He just looked at his friend. He could hear Jaskier's heart beat become uneven and unsteady. At first he thought it was a joke but the nervous energy radiating from his long time friend made him think better.

“My family, they are wonderful people. My mother, bless her, taught me everything I needed to know about writing and music. Convinced my father to let me train at Oxenfurt Academy. My father is a noble and loyal king. He served our people well. Still does to my knowledge. I haven't been back in nearly 20 years…” the bard trailed off, his eyes fixated on his hands, his fingers twildilling with a ring he had on. The ring was that of his family. Their crest engraved into the gold.

“I was never meant to be a noble. I lived for adventure, for more than just sitting on a throne and watching people come and go. I was never fit to be king. My parents knew that. They understood. Understanding people they are.” His voice trailed off again, hopping his friend would say something. Ask a question. Anything. He didn’t know where to go next.

“Why didn't you ever tell me?” Geralt finally asked.

“Because it never came up. My family never needed me. I never needed them. I love them all dearly of course. But we were never the closest people in the world. Well, my sister and I were.” That caught the Witcher’s attention. His eyes narrow slightly, he made sure to not let his expression scare the bard into not telling him more. He was genuinely curious about his family. But he couldn't lie and say he wasn't disappointed that in the 7 years they traveled together he never heard of them.

“You have a sister?” The bard's eyes lit up. His memory raced with images of his tun little sister chasing him around the courtyard screaming, yelling his name. Her giggles and laughs pulling at his heart strings.

“Yes. Her name is (Y/N). She is about to be 25. Big age for a princess. I havnt seen her since she was very little.” His heart started to break softly. His neglect to his baby sitter weighting heavily on him.

“I write her often, as much as I can. She was...well, a surprise to my parents to say the least. I was 15 when she was born. I left home at 20. I was only around for her toddler years. I never got to see her grow, blossom into a young woman. I missed so much.” Jaskier had to fight back the tears, his throat becoming tight and dry. His body filling with regret.

“I just kept pushing it back Geralt. I alwasy said I’d make it home. I alwasy had it in the back of my mind to go back and see her. But I never did.”

“Why now?” Geralt asked.

“She wrote me a few months back. It was nearly a book. It was filled with tales of her new travels around our country. She had been training heavily with an unmanned matester of combat. She traveled the countryside with the man. She referred to him as an uncle. In the letter she asked me if it was true that I’d been traveling with you. She said the songs and tales of Jaskier the Bard traveling with the White Wolf made it to her ears.” Jaskier stopped talking for a brief moment, rummaged around his rut sack and pulled out a notebook. He untied its string and a large pile of papers fell out into his hand. He unfolded the parchment and scanned the writing.

“I wrote her back that week. Only to receive this in return.” He began to read;

“Oh dear Jaskier!! I cannot believe its true. I thought he was only a legend. The white wolf. Please tell him he is a hero here. We love his stories. Many have written books of him. Children run round calling themselves the butcher of Blaviken here to save the damsel and distress. I love his stories, mainly because they involve you. Please come visit me this year. I miss you terribly. I want to hear of your travels with the wolf. Mother said he is more than welcome to stay if he wishes to travel with you. I do miss you Jaskier. More than I think you know. I do not mean to guilt you or make you feel bad as i know you are traveling the world to your heart's content and would never want you to feel as though I do not support you-“ Jaskier stopped reading for a brief moment. A small tear dripped onto the page he was reading. Geralt listened to every word he read. He couldn't help the small tug of his lips when he read about the children pretending to be him. It was a breath of fresh air for the witcher. He had constantly been told he was a monster. To hid your children from him. Yet here was an entire country that loved him, yet he had no idea. Jaskier cleared his throat and continued. “But i miss my brother. And maybe, just maybe. I could come with you. If you deem me fit. I have been working tirelessly with a friend of fathers. He trains me in not only swordsmanship, but Herbology, and monsters as well. I can name nearly every monster that has inhabited the Continent and how to slay it. He thinks I’m ready to leave the nest and I think mother and father are getting a bit tired of me as well. I cannot stand another somber, dull, dinner party with nobles who look at me like a piece of meat. So please. Visit me soon. Come and stay a few days. Catch up with your dear sister and maybe, if he isn't too busy and if it doesn’t inconvenience him, bring the Wolf with you. He’d be a welcomed hero. All my love dear brother. Xoxo Love always, (Y/N) Irene Pankratz

Jaskier folded the letter, placing it inside his notebook before safely storing it inside his sack again. He ran a hand over his face, his eyes slowly moving from his hands to his best friend. They sat in the silence for a while. Geralt’s brain replaying the words he had heard from his friend.

“You could have told me about her Jaskier. Why didn't you? You’ve been in contact with her all this time, planning to see her and your family again. Bringing me along for the ride, yet not a single word in 7 years. Do you not trust me with such a secret Jaskier?” Jaskier was taken aback by his friend's words.

He never knew his secrecy would have such an impact on his friend. When it came to Geralt he learned long ago, the little words, the better. The witcher can only handle so much before he loses interest and stops listening or walks away. He never in a million years would have thought he cared about his life that much. It warmed the bards heart to know his dear friend, the only brother he ever had, cared that deeply for him.

“It has nothing to do with not trusting you Geralt. Is has everything to do with the shame I hold for not seeing her sooner. For treating her like a dirty secret form the world. There is no logical reason for me to keep my family such a big secret. Yet I have. For 20 years.” Geralt’s hands rubbed together softly as he listened to his friend. He understood the secrecy. He was a box full of secrets that nobody could get into.

“Its okay Jaskier. I understand the secrecy. Is that where we are going tomorrow?” Jaskier nodded, a smile appearing on his face.

“Her birthday is the next full moon. I’m hoping my gift will be a good start in time lost.” Geralt looked at him curiously. He hadn't noticed any major item in Jaskier’s possession that could make a good gift for a young princess.

“You’re her gift Geralt. I wrote her back after that letter and told her I’d be back for her next birthday. But that you simply were to busy with your work. I told her that you greatly appreciated her support and that youd consider writing to her in the future. She has no idea your coming with me.” Geralt didnt know how he felt about being a gift. He never ever saw himself as a gift to anyone. More of a burden the a gift. He shook his head at Jaskier and tutted at him.

“Jaskier if your that broke you could’ve asked me for a few extra coins for a real gift.” The witcher attempted to joke with the bard. It made Jaskier smile more. Geralt could be funny, but his humor was incredibly dry, much like Jaskier’s father.

“Geralt! Did you just try and joke around with me??” Geralt rolled his eyes, laying down stretching his muscles as he looked up at the starts.

“Best get some sleep Jaskier, you’ve got a rather big family reunion tomorrow.”

The next morning Jaskier was up and awake before Geralt, a rare sight. He truly hadn't slept more than a couple hours that night. His nerves kept him awake. He feared his sister wouldn’t be as loving as he pictured, she had every right to be mad at him, hate him even. By the time Geralt was up, Jaskier had bathed, changed and had his horse completely ready to go.

Geralt had to do everything in his power to not laugh at his friend. He looked rather ridiculous. His normal bright attire was replaced with a royals outfit. A green and blue velvet tunic and some extremely uncomfortable looking black trousers. His hair was combed back and his face was freshly washed. He even cleaned under his fingernails. He looked rather ridiculous in Geralt’s opinion. He couldn't help the low chuckle that left his lips as he put his bed roll away.

“I don't understand why you're laughing. I have some clothes for you to put on as well.” Geralt’s expression changed instantly, from humorous to angry.

“No. Absolutely not. What I’m wearing is perfectly fine. I’d wear it to meet any king or queen.” A bag was chucked at him, he barely caught it before it smacked into his face.

“This isn't any normal king and queen Geralt. This is my family. And besides, you are no ordinary witcher in my kingdom, you’ll be treated as royalty there. You may as well look the part.” Geralt huffed and threw the bag of clothes back at his friends feet, glaring daggers at him. He hated dressing up with a burning passion. Everything was too tight, not easy to fight in. If anything happened he’d have to rip the seams on every piece of clothing to be able to maneuver his weapons properly. And fancy clothes dont have space for weapons. He didn't like that one bit. Jaskier looked at his friend. His eyes pleading with him.

“Please Geralt. Just for today and her birthday. I couldn't care less what you wear at any other point on this trip.” He had walked closer to Geralt now. About a meter away from him. He extended his hand, the bag in his hand. Geralt looked from the bag to his friend. His teeth and jaw clenched.

He let out a loud huff and grabbed the bag from the bard.

“Fine.” He said through gritted teeth and began taking off his clothing. Jaskier smiled before turning his attention to Roach, getting her stalled and tacked so when Geralt was dressed they could leave.

“If we move with a bit of a haste we could make it there before breakfast.” Jaskier said as he mounted his horse, looking at his friend. His hand slapped over his face. The witcher looked utterly ridiculous in his new attire. The bright red and orange vest a-top a cream tunic, his legs tight in some disgustingly ugly corduroy pants. The pants were obviously smaller than the seamstress he bought them off claimed them to be. The ends of the pants came nearly mid calf on Geralt’s legs. His pasty white ankles and feet shining in the early morning sun.

“Jesus Geralt. Those are worse than the ones I got for Pavetta’s party.” The bard could no longer hold in his laughter. Did Gerarlt look like a nobleman? Sure, but his size, white hair, and bright yellow eyes really didn't help the situation.

“Jaskier, I will kill you for this.” Geralt grumbled angered as he pulled his socks up his feet and over his calves. Luckily for him (and Jaskier) his boots went higher than his pants, making it harder to notice that the pants he was wearing were way too small.

“At least I’m not making you wear a big hat with a feather, those are truly hideous.” Geralt mounted Roach, more carefully then he normally does in fear his pants could bust at the seams.

“I had to wrap you up nice and pretty to present you to my sister.” Jaskier commented as he led his horse; Napoleon to the main road, Geralt and Roach in tow.

The two men rode in a comfortable silence for some time, but as they got closer and closer to Jaskier’s home, all Geralt could hear was his frantic heartbeat. Jaskier’s palms get sweaty and his throat dry, no matter how much water he drinks from his water skin.

“Jaskier. You need to calm down. Your fucking heart beat is driving me insane.” Geralt hissed. They could see the end of the valley they had been traveling in. Geralt looked out in the distance, his eyes saw the castle first. It was very far, but he could tell how beautiful it was from where they were.

“Maybe you just shouldn’t listen to it then.” Jaskier barked back.

“You know I have no control over it, idiot. Take a deep breath. I know you're scared, I understand. But from the sounds of it your sister desperately misses you, I don't think she would ask you to come see her if she was going to hate you.” Geralt didn't talk much at all, that everyone knew. He was a man of few words. But when he did speak it was wiser than most people ever expected. People tended to forget the age of the white haired man, as he stopped ageing physically in his late twenties.

Jaskier smiled softly at his friend's words, he listened to him and took a few deep breaths, calling himself down. Geralt was right. His sister seemed eager as ever to see him again.

The two men approached the entrance to the city. Geralt was more than shocked. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen a city so beautiful in his entire life. The streets were lined in beautiful stone, flowers, vines, greenery all around every corner. The banners that were hanging on the outside of the main gates caught Geralt’s eyes. The crests on them were brightly colored in greens and blues, a very large diamond in the center. Their horses rode into the entrance of the town. Jaskier’s heart was calm, steady, his face was bright and had a smile Geralt had never seen on him before. He was finally home.

“Welcome to Inritha (In-Rithe-A) the capital of Unthya (Un-The-A) Geralt. Welcome to my home.”

Their horses traveled down the stone brick road slowly, the city was buzzing already even with it being the early hours of the morning. Geralt was surprised to see everyone look so...happy, care free. Enjoying their lives. They looked as though nothing was a fret, no monster looming. Geralt was mesmerized by the city. The buildings were built out of what looked to him like limestone, a building material he so rarely saw in other parts of the Continent. The buildings were being taken over by vines and moss, flowers all over. He’d never seen so many butterflies in his life.

“Jaskier-'' his voice was barely a whisper, the bard turning to look at him as they rode side by side. Jaskier couldn't help but smile as his friend admired the beauty he himself had so easily forgotten over the years.

“I know, it's beautiful. I've forgotten myself.”

The two men continued riding their horses up the road closer and closer to the castle. The longer they road tho more attention they got from passer buys. Geralt could hear their whispers.

It couldn't be. Could it?

THE Geralt of Rivia? Here in Inritha?

Mummy look! It's the butcher!!

Has Prince Jaskier finally returned home?

For the first time in what seemed like his entire life, the hushed whispers Geralt heard as he rode through a city were not of hate and disgust. But of admiration and curiosity. The entire time Geralt and Jaskier rode through the city, he never once had the urge to grab either of his swords that were at his side.

The two men approached the gates of the castle, four armored guards stood outside. The put their hand up in motion for the men to stop. One who looked as tho to be the commander of sorts stepped forward poking between both men. Eyes lingering for a long while on the two.

“State your name and what business you have in Inritha at this early hour.” Jaskier dismounted his horse, waking a few feet forward.

“My name is Jaskier Alfred Pankratz son of Dastrill and Alvere Pankratz. This is my companion Geralt Of Rivia, we are here on behalf of my sister, (Y/N) Irene Pankratz’s 25th birthday.” Jaskier bowed his head lowly, keeping eye contact with the commander in front of him.

“Prince Jaskier?!?” The man clearly looked flustered and embarrassed for not recognizing the prince of his own kingdom. All four men quickly bowed their heads.

“Please accept my apology your highness, we welcome you home. As do we welcome your honored guest.” Jaskier smiled and told the men to not trouble themselves with an apology. Geralt continued to watch from atop Roach, still not use to being idolized instead of feared. Honored guest. Geralt thought to himself. He could get use to the new treatment. Jaskier remounted Napoleon the gates to the castle walls opening. The both road threw, all four men bowed their heads as the two walked threw. Not once did they threaten Geralt’s life. They were led by a guard to the stables where they left their horses.

Geralt could hear Jaskier heart beating again in his chest as they were led inside the castle. Geralt tried to concentrate on his friend, to be there for him but he couldn't help but let his eyes wander all over the castle's walls, it was a bright exterior. The walls polished, candles everywhere. Large windows allowing for natural lighting. Nothing dark or gloomy about the castle at all. He felt uplifted..cheary almost. As they neared the entrance to the grand hall where the King, Queen, Princess along with some others were. Geralt could hear the light conversation, and the clicking of silver on plates, they were eating breakfast. But he could still hear Jaskier’s heart beating in his chest. Geralt placed a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder as they walked, giving it a soft squeeze. The action made Jaskier more worried if the witcher was feeling alright, as it was abnormally out of character for the man. But he said nothing, appreciating the gesture.

They got to the door and just as the guard was about to push the doors open Jaskier grabbed his arm.

“Could we maybe skip the loud over dramatic announcements of my arrival? I have not seen my family in years.” The guard only nodded, bowed his head and walked back outside to his post. Jaskier looked over at his friend, as he put his hand on the door ready to push it open.

“Now or never.” Jaskier said as he opened the door. Both men walked into the large room, the talking stopped almost instantly. Geralt stood at the door, not wanting to impose on the important reunion of his friend and his family. He followed Jaskiers gaze to the table ahead of them in the front of the room. The room was lined with huge floor to ceiling windows, the light of the early morning sun shone brightly making the marble floors glisten.

“JASKIER!!!” The loud scream of a girl nearly made Geralt jump out of his skin, his hand reaching back for a sword that wasn't there in instinct.

It made Jaskier jump but the smile that covered his face was even bigger than the one he had seen as he walked through the city. Geralt followed Jaskier’s gaze to a young woman. The sight of her alone made Geralt want to pass out. He wasn't sure if he had ever seen someone so beautiful in his entire life. Her hair was the same chestnut brown that Jaskier had, but it was long, hip length. She had it pulled back slightly out of her face, a few baby hairs framed her face. Oh her face. Geralt thought as though he was looking at a living breathing angel. He heard her chair scrape roughly on the ground before it loudly crashed on the floor. She raced around the long table from her mothers side and sprinted to her brother. She practically threw herself on him. Her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He quickly wrapped his arms around her, stumbling back a few steps. Everything was quite as the two embraced. Geralt's eyes went to the king and queen who were now standing. The queen looked just like (Y/N) but her hair was black, long stripes of grey peeking through her hair. The crown atop her head glistened in the light. Her right hand was tightly around her husband's arm, her other hand placed softly over her mouth as she looked at her children. Her husband looked much like Jaskier. His hair was the same color as both of their children, but much like his wife’s, much of it had turned grey. His eyes were the same cornflower blue that Jaskier had.

Minutes passed in silence before Jaskier put his hands on his sisters shoulders, pulling her away from him. He put one hand on her cheek as he examined her features. Her pale cheeks were damp with tears. But not sad tears. Tears of joy.

“My sister, how you’ve grown.” Geralt could hear the tears in the bard's voice. He couldn't see him but he could hear everything.

(Y/N) fingers gently brushed over her brother’s face as she smiled at him.

“My brother, how you haven't aged a day. You look just as I remember you. Maybe a few more wrinkles.” She teased. He laughed softly. Wiping his eyes with his hand before pulling her into another bone crushing embrace. She was much shorter than Jaskier, barely shoulder level with him. Geralt was shocked to remember she would be turning 25 in two days. She was still young in the face, beautiful. He wanted nothing more than to see her more up close.

While the siblings spoke their parents moved from the spots at the table, standing behind (Y/N). Alvere was the first to pull him into a tight embrace after her daughter let go. Her fingers gently combed through his hair as she inhaled his scent deeply.

“My dear son how I've missed you.” She whispers slowly into his ear. Geralt was starting to feel bad for eavesdropping. Not that he could help it. He was still standing at the entrance to the grand hall yet he could hear everything.

Jaskiers father hugged him next, it was not nearly as long as the outer two but both men were okay with it. Understanding that their relationship had never been one for long father son hugs.

“It is good to see you again my boy.” His hand clasped down on his son's shoulder.

The four of them stood close together, smiling more than Geralt ever thought possible. It almost made his heart turn. Deep, deep, deep, down the witcher longed for a family that would look at him the way they looked at Jaskier. He often cured the universe for not giving him an option when it came to what he had become. He clung to the few memories he had of his mother. But as years passed they became harder and harder to remember, more painful. But he had. Made a new sort of family over the years. From Jaskier, to his brothers at Kaer Morhen.

“(Y/N), mum, dad, there is someone I’d like you to meet.” Jaskier turned his head towards the door to the hall. Geralt stood tall, shoulders pressed back, his hair framed his face gracefully. Even in the entirely ugly attire he was in, he made himself as presentable and as proper as possible. (Y/N)’s eyes grew bigger when her eyes met his. He once again was taken aback by her beauty. Her eyes were a powerful emerald green matching similarly to the color of her brother's tunic, but brighter. Her mouth fell slightly agape when she realized who it was. The eyes were a dead give away that he was in fact a witcher, but once she saw the silver medallion that rested on his chest, she knew.

Jaskier nodded his head for Geralt to walk forward and he did, his footsteps were light, his pace slow and steady as he walked closer to the royal family. (Y/N)’s hand gently covered her mouth in excitement. Her eyes flickering to her brother who grinned at her.

“A bit of an early birthday gift.” He winked. Once Geralt was closer to the group Jaskier turned so he could introduce them, at his sister's side. All eyes were on him. Even the few people who were still seated at the table were looking at him. He started to feel a bit more uneasy. He started to remember how far away his swords were if he needed them. This alone was beginning to make him panic. He was not used to being welcomed into royal courts unless it was specifically for a hunt.

“This is Geralt of Rivia, one of the most feared, renowned, and skilled Witcher’s the content has to offer. And also my best friend.”

Geralt's eyes were back on (Y/N)’s, his worries dropped more when she smiled brightly at him. Her eyes gleamed.

Geralt bowed his head to the three of them, “ it is an absolute pleasure to meet you, your highnesses.” (Y/N) was nearly blown over by the sultry sound of his voice. She had only heard stories of the witcher. Never see him for herself and definitely had never heard him speak. She never expected a monster hunter to be as handsome as he was. She admired every feature he had. Her eyes fixating on his chiseled jawline, the light gray stubble across his chin and cheeks.

“My, what a pleasure it is to meet such a famed warrior as yourself Geralt!” The king spoke before (Y/N) could, which she was happy about as she did not trust her voice to not waver at his beauty in that moment.

“You my dear are very popular around here. Your stories are legendary. The school children even host yearly plays, Reenacting your most beloved stories.” (Y/N)’s mother added her finger pointing light hardly at Geralt. Her hand came out gracefully from her side to shake the Witcher’s hand. He gently took it, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. His attention returned to (Y/N).

“I’m terribly sorry I’m the birthday gift from your brother this year.” She shook her head almost as soon as the words left his mouth.

“Do not be sorry Geralt-'' the way she said his name made him feel as though he could keel over. “I would like to thank you, for protecting my brother for the years you have. He never skips on his gratitude for you in his letter to me. For that we are all eternally grateful for you.” She reached her hand out. Geralt wasted no time in grabbing her hand, shaking it gently. He was dying inside, but he couldn't let her or anyone else see. He took a gentle step towards her, his head lowering softly, his soft lips were placed on the back of her small hand. The small action made the young girls' faces burn red. Her eyes flicked to her brother who smugly smiled, knowing danm well his gift was going to take the cake.

“Well, you both should come join us, we just started eating.” The king said with a smile, with a quick wave of his hand two more places we set.

(Y/N) gently removed her hand from Geralt’s. Walking towards the table, both men in tow. As she reached her spot she moved her plate and glass to the middle seat that had been prepared, leaving Jaskier a seat next to their mother and Geralt a seat next to her. They all sat and waited as food was served to them. (Y/N) could feel Geralt watching her as she ate, her brother deep in conversation with her parents about his most recent travels. But she wasnt listening. Her attention was only on the man seated to her left. She looked over at the man, eyed him up and down then turned to her brother. For the first time she noticed how ugly their attire was.

“Gods Jaskier who dressed you two?” She asked as she sipped her orange juice. Both men looked at her. Jaskier looked a bit hurt and Geralt only snorted.

“I told him the clothes were horrendous.” Geralt said beside the young woman making her giggle. The sound made his heart beat faster. This was also when he realized how sensibly everyone else in the room was dressed, and how much they stood out. (Y/N) was in a thin white cotton dress, it was around knee length and a light sweater was on her shoulders. Her mother and father dressed similarly. Their clothes looking normal, comfortable.

“Oh my dear brother. What have you done to the poor witcher.” She laughed, turning her attention to him. She could see how uncomfortable the clothes made him. The vest was way too tight and he was practically bursting out of his pants, not that she minded, she gladly enjoyed the view.

“He is torturing me. That's what.” Geralt scoffed and she couldn't help but giggle again.

“You're so dramatic Geralt it's truly not that bad.” Her head flicked to her brother.

“Jaskier don't be rude.” She tutted him like a mother, it made Geralt snort under his breath as he took a bite of his eggs. She stood and walked behind him. He was stiff at her movements.

“Do you mind?” Her fingers were on the strings of the vest. He shook his head no and she quickly untied the tight strings, and it fell from his shoulders. She took it off and handed it to one of the maids

“You can burn that horridly ugly thing.” She said as she sat back down.

“I do not remember you being so rude, little sister.” Jaskier quipped.

“What I think is rude is how you made sure you got the more presentable clothing and dressed your poor friend in those horrendous colors. Have you seen his pants, Jaskier?? It's a miracle he can still breath.” Her eyes looked towards the witcher who was already looking at her with a cocky smirk on his face, glad she was putting Jaskier in his place for the ugly outfit choice.

“I can take you to the seamstress later today, if you’d like Geralt.” Her smile was like a drug.

“I’d appreciate that m'lady.” He said softly.

“And I can show you around the city, both of you. But in return I would like to hear some of your stories, first hand if that’s doable.”

“That sounds like a reasonable trade.” Geralt quipped back.

“Then it's a date, Witcher.”

“A date it is.”

[dcbbw]

The Witch Hunt

This fic is a highly fictionalized account of true events. I wrote it as a way of coping with the discourse and said it would never be publicly posted. But thanks to an ask from @twinkleallnight (and her persistence that anything I write needs to be shared and enjoyed by all), and discussions with my boos, bears, and Coven sisters … here it is.

HUGE THANK YOU to @ao719 for the amazing moodboard.

Thank you to my writing sisters for re-reading this story and assuring me that it still makes sense.

For all who will read this fic, THANK YOU! Your time, efforts, and energy spent reading, commenting, and/or reblogging is greatly appreciated more than you know.

Please excuse any and all typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. (I rushed through my final editing)

Only the Commoner and the King belong to Pixelberry.

Song Inspiration: Every Breath You Take, Scala/Kolacny Brothers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bt63b4x2Xec

Word Count: 3,546

Eastwick

Light years and many moons from Reality, there is an alternate universe called Fandom where both children and witches live. The witches are a large coven, and spend their days writing spells; incantations of love, lust, and laughter … sometimes of darkness. The spells are for their intended and beloved, and tell of the lives and adventures the sorceresses wish to experience with them.

The witches live in a corner of the Fandom known as Cordonia, in a small town called Eastwick; for the most part, they all got along well and were supportive of each other.  Within the coven were three sisters: Hilda, Zelma, and Glinda. The sisters lived together in a large Victorian house, complete with wraparound porch, bay windows, and spires. All three were well-known and well-liked throughout the coven.

Glinda was the most popular; her bright cheery smile and sweet personality made her a favorite throughout Eastwick.

Zelma was the friendliest; she knew nearly all the other witches, and read over their spells to ensure that nothing went wrong. One incorrect word or improper enunciation could twist the spell’s intention completely.

Hilda, who was also a wizardess, was the most empathetic; she offered hugs and a listening ear to the strays of the coven: The witches who either had no magic, or if they did, no idea how to use it. Her sisters were usually tolerant when Hilda brought home her newfound, friendless acquaintances … except for Apple Core. There was a reason the oldest citizen of Eastwick had never truly been a part of the coven, but Hilda insisted Apple Core just needed love.

The sisters were sitting at their kitchen table, writing spells for their love interests. Zelma was in love with the Commoner of Cordonia, as were many others; it did not deter her from sending her love spells into the universe, neither did it stop the Commoner from returning her affections.

Glinda and Hilda were in love with the King; as was the case with the Commoner, the sisters were in competition with many for his both his hand and his heart. Glinda had decided that she and Hilda would love different versions of the King so as not to make things awkward between them. Glinda fell in love with the blonde-haired, blue-eyed King, while Hilda’s King had dark hair, dark eyes, and Asian features.

“I love him so much,” Zelma murmured as she finished her spell, her eyes landing on a picture of the Commoner she had summoned in their crystal ball.

“And he loves you in return,” Glinda said while tapping her quill pen against her chin.

“He loves an alternate version of me. If he knew what I really looked like, he wouldn’t,” Zelma lamented.

“Our beloveds see our hearts and souls, not our outer appearances,” Hilda stated as she waved a wand over her spell of lust.

Silence as the sisters worked to finalize their spells before casting them into the Void. Suddenly, there was a jarring of the earth and a loud clap of thunder; it was so loud and sharp,  Glinda covered her ears as the house shook.

Zelma looked up, her eyes darting around the room, as if the source of the disruption was in their home.

“The Dark One is casting.” She looked at her sisters uneasily.

WestWorld

On the other side of Cordonia, in WestWorld, The Guardian’s head lifted at the sound of distant thunder. Her eyes fell to her glass of water, now slightly moving across the table from the remnants of the shaking earth. Her gaze narrowed.

“The Witches!” she hissed.

WestWorld was where the children of Cordonia lived. There were some adults:  survivors of trauma and abuse from their previous worlds, but the majority of the residents were children. The Guardian lived there to ensure the under-aged residents were properly housed, clothed and fed. She shielded them from the Witches, whose sorcery and magic were misunderstood by WestWorld.

The Guardian and her Army believed in love and light; no sex was needed for that. Angst and strife were not needed for that. Darkness definitely was not needed. So, the Guardian warned the children constantly not to venture into Eastwick and to never, under any circumstances, read the spells that were cast into the Void from the other side.

And now, the Witches were casting darkness into the Void … again. Dark magic was the only thing that would have such far reaching effects.

The Guardian retrieved an ornate gold box from her cupboards and removed the lid to reveal her crystal ball. She chanted as she waved her hands over the ball, summoning up a spell to inform her of what was happening.

The Dark One appeared in the glass, looking rather smug and pleased; her image faded, to be replaced by the parchment containing her spell. The Guardian fell into her chair, her eyes wide with shock as she read what the Dark One had cast.

The Guardian felt her stomach churn; the children would most certainly want to see what had caused such a disruption in their world. Normally, the citizens of West World were content to read their tales of otherworldly creatures from a time long past, or of the single mothers who loved their childen beyond measure.

But they were children, and they were curious.

And now Dark One was once again summoning the Guardian’s charges to the other side.

The Guardian rose hastily from the table, and ran through the halls calling for her Generals.

One Week Later

Eastwick

The Dark One sat in her living room, her eyes fixed on her Book of Spells, searching for an answer, a solution.

Something.

The Guardian and her Army were calling for the Dark One’s head. They wanted her banished from all of Cordonia, and her spells erased from existence.

The Dark One shook her head to herself.  

That was unacceptable.

The Dark One was in love with the Commoner; she always had been since she first laid eyes on him. However, The Dark One knew she would never stand out in the sea of spells filled with love and lust. She didn’t speak that language.

No, she needed to speak to the Commoner soul to soul.

She focused not on his perfection, but his flaws and insecurities. She sought out the Commoner’s dark side that no one wanted to hear of or speak to. The Dark One offered the Commoner her broken pieces, her sorrow and hurt … and he was finally accepting them.

He was falling for her.

And she refused to let anyone stop them from being together.

With a small sigh, The Dark One sipped from her glass filled with hibiscus wine. This was not her first run- in with The Guardian. When The Dark One cast her first appeal to the Commoner’s dark side, her spell was met with resistance from both Eastwick and Westworld. She had taken a day away from the coven, not in shame, but to consider whether to remove her spell. If it inspired such strong feelings from her fellow witches, would it repel the Commoner?

But it did not.

He began looking her way. He urged her to tell him more about herself; he whispered more of his secrets in her ear. And The Dark One decided not to remove her spell simply because others were jealous the Commoner’s attentions were turning to her.

But now, The Guardian was viciously attacking her, over simple spells! There were threats of her murder if she did not comply with The Guardian’s request. Her sister witches, save for a few, were silent. The chosen to do battle with WestWorld fought alone; however The Dark One was given suggestions, instructions, and encouragements in private:

Listen to their concerns.

Perhaps you need to not cast so many spells.

Just stand down for a little while; it will blow over. The battles always do.

The Dark One thumbed slowly through her Book; her eyes took in the words that her soul had spilled. Her blood, sweat, and tears covered every page. And she knew what she had to do. She would step away from the coven; not because The Guardian told her to, but to protect the innocent.

It meant leaving the Commoner behind and The Dark One wasn’t sure she could do that. She had finally captured his attention and found her understanding.

But she would try.

She just had to do one last thing …

That night in Cordonia the earth shook, and the thunder clapped loudly and incessantly as The Dark One released nearly all her spells into the Void.

The Three Sisters

At the home of The Three Sisters, Zelma fretted as the house shook and dark clouds covered the sky.

“She’s been casting nonstop for a week! They’re threatening to kill her! And now what is she doing? The Void cannot handle so much dark energy.” Zelma stopped pacing to angrily throw her hands in the air. “She’s going to make it so none of us can cast!”

Glinda poured hot tea into three delicate teacups. “Perhaps we can appeal to The Guardian.”

“She won’t listen to us! With The Dark One being so unreasonable, The Guardian will set her sights on us. I’ve dealt with WestWorld once and I’m not eager to be once more tossed into that fray,” Hilda argued as she added honey and lemon to her fragrant beverage.

“If we use our powers of invisibility, she may. I see others from both sides are appealing to her in that manner.”

Zelma and Hilda barely heard their sister; they were watching the crystal ball reveal spell after spell flying past, flurries of parchment and ink whisking before them as if in a windstorm.

“Stop it! Stop the ball!” Hilda yelled.

With a frown of confusion, Glinda waved her hands over the sphere and froze the image. The sisters read the spell before them, eyes widening at the darkness it revealed. When they finished reading, they looked at each other, each trying to process what they just read.

Hilda straightened up. “This…this is not good. Perhaps I will approach the Guardian. I see where she has let the children read one of my spells. She praised it.”

“Perhaps … “Zelma said doubtfully as she reached for her cup.

The knock on the door startled the trio. Glancing at the clock, Glinda wondered aloud who it could be at this hour. Hilda went to the door; she was the oldest and viewed herself as her sisters’ protector. She pulled open the door to see Apple Core.

Apple Core was an outcast amongst the witches. She was without magic, and very demanding of members of the Coven. Apple Core had no true home and only one friend.

“Hello, dearie,” the outcast croaked.

“Good evening,” Hilda responded politely.

She noticed the older woman’s threadbare cloak and cracked, dry lips. Hilda stepped aside, pulling the door open wider as she did so.

“Please, come in. Perhaps partake in a glass of water? And a bowl of brew?”

Apple Core smiled thinly as she entered the household; she ignored Glinda and Zelma rolling their eyes at each other.

“The Dark One is releasing her magic quite freely tonight,” Apple Core remarked as she settled into a wooden rocking chair.

Glinda went to fetch water and brew for their visitor. Zelma and Hilda sat side by side on the sofa.

“Yes, she is. I plan to reach out to The Guardian as she and I are on friendly terms.” Hilda smoothed down her dress.

Apple Core looked at her quizzically. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“She has let the children read one of my spells.” Hilda said with a hint of pride.

WestWorld never allowed a spell to be voluntarily brought into their corner of Fandom.

“Your spell has been removed and cast out of WestWorld. The Guardian has discovered that you are mutuals with The Dark One, and therefore are guilty by association. In fact, all three of you are now on The Guardian’s blacklist.”

Glinda was returning with the sustenance for the visitor and heard the last part of the statement; her voice held an edge when she spoke.

“What are you talking about? I was never mutuals with The Dark One, and Zelma broke ties with her months ago! Hilda has maintained ties with The Dark One, but in name only!”

“This has become so much more than a push to banish The Dark One. And I fear now, even if she leaves, the damage has been done. Deep damage,” Apple Core said cryptically.

Her eyes fell to her bowl and the glass of water; she greedily licked her lips. “The best thing to do … frankly, the only thing … is to deflect The Guardian’s anger and ire back where it belongs. On The Dark One.”

“But how?” Glinda sat next to her sisters.

Apple Core slurped her brew directly from the bowl; splashes of broth splattered both Apple Core’s dark cloak and the silver spoon still sitting on the tray. Her eyes rolled over to the three sisters. “I can only point you in the direction, I cannot lead you.”

Hilda spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “The spell we just read; perhaps that will be enough to redirect The Guardian. I can speak to her invisibly. It can’t hurt.”

“Have you ever used the Spell of Invisibility?” Glinda asked, scoffing slightly.

“Hmmmm, once?” Hilda shrugged.

Glinda shook her head impatiently. “I’ll show you!”

Apple Core finished her meal and rose from her chair. “Your secret is safe with me, dearies. Just know, I have seen many battles fought between the two sides, and this one is going to be far worse than the others before. And a word of caution … The Dark One has even more spells; she just isn’t releasing them yet.”

“MORE spells?” Zelma exclaimed, wondering just how many spells The Dark One had. She rose to  usher Apple Core to the door where she bid the woman a good evening, watching Apple Core’s dark cloak billow behind her as the outcast made her way back to a hut on the outskirts of Eastwick.

Two Weeks Later

Eastwick

Zelma was sobbing as her sisters tried to comfort her. The battle with WestWorld was intensifying at a rapid rate.

Hilda’s attempts to divert The Guardian had failed: The Guardian had already read every spell The Dark One had cast into the void, which led her to seek out who among the Witches approved of such an abuse of power. The Guardian’s research went back over a year and was helped along by several informants, all invisible and anonymous to her but she had her ideas as to who the people were.

Names filled her ears, portions of spells and those who supported them crossed her desk. Her lips tightened a tad more with every name she came across. The Guardian needed a plan; a plan to end this once and for all.

This was so much bigger than simply The Dark One.

Zelma had wanted to approach The Guardian with news that one of the informants was bogus, and a spy for both sides. But in her haste and eagerness, she forgot to cloak herself with the Spell of Invisibility.

The Guardian’s lips had curved in a slightly cruel smile when the two women faced each other in their crystal balls. The Guardian knew who Zelma was; Zelma found out who the Guardian was. The witch flushed beet red and began to stammer, but The Guardian waved her hands and both balls went dark.

Zelma panicked. She knew about the Blacklist and didn’t want to be on it. Zelma didn’t want to be in WestWorld’s crosshairs at all.

She saw what had happened to Hilda; she saw what they were doing to The Dark One. Zelma immediately wrote a letter of apology to both the Coven and WestWorld. She tried to scrub any traces of her affiliation with The Dark One; but still, they remained.

The Guardian refused to listen to Zelma’s apologies and excuses. Moreover, she was angered by the outpouring of love and support for Zelma. But The Guardian held the upper hand, and she did not hesitate to use it.

Zelma was blacklisted and outed.

Her best friend in the coven had her spell creating abilities revoked.

Yet another friend wrote an appeal to both sides, asking to come to a consensus as to the best way to protect the children. She too was outed and blacklisted.

The only concession made by The Guardian was to restore spell creating privileges and to assure Zelma that she was in good company:  Her sisters, along with many others, would be joining her on the list.

Invisibly, Glinda, Hilda, and several others from the coven reached out to The Guardian; they were either ignored, or met with dismissiveness. Hilda’s plea was met with acknowledgement she raised valid points, but The Guardian would not waver on her decision.

This was for the children.

The sisters and their friends were both resigned to and relieved at their fate. Perhaps this Blacklist would be a good thing. They were buoyed by their fellow Witches requesting to be added to the list.

WestWorld and Eastwick rarely interacted; another layer of separation may be the best thing.

WestWorld

The Guardian’s head was in her hands, her fingers splayed across her face. Everything was going to hell in a handbasket, so quickly.

Too quickly.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way.

The Guardian had started her crusade with one mission in mind: banishment of The Dark One. But that hussy hadn’t left; she had barricaded herself inside of her home after releasing hundreds of spells into the Void. For days on end, all that crossed anyone’s path were dark, potentially triggering spells. The Guardian was truly puzzled how one witch could have so.many.spells. just waiting to be cast. And for the Commoner’s love at that; for the King … The Guardian could see that.

At least it was over.

Then began the influx of invisible, anonymous visitors. The Guardian knew they weren’t all witches, at least in the beginning. The Spell of Invisibility was available to all the citizens of Fandom.

Hour upon hour, The Guardian heard words of support and encouragement; tales of trauma; grateful sobs … all from people with no names or faces.

The Guardian knew she was doing the right thing; she and her Army were protecting those who were defenseless. The Dark One was simply the tip of the iceberg. All the dark spells had to go, and the ones who wrote them had to be outed, at the very least.

A new plan formulated in her mind, and her generals agreed with it.

The Blacklist would include the witch’s names, their addresses, and a list of the offensive spells.

And that is when the others began to visit.

They came while The Guardian slept; they came while she was preparing her meals. One came while she was bathing. All told her she was self-serving, trying to draw attention to herself and WestWorld.

That her plan of the Blacklist was simply telling the children where to go.

That they too were traumatized, and this is how they chose to cope.

The others told her they warned the children not to read their spells because the words they spoke were not for young eyes.

They told her to reach out to the people being put on the list, to walk in their shoes for a day or so.

The Guardian’s brain felt as if it were about to explode from too many voices and too much information.

She argued that she had reached out to the Witches; they had blocked their portals to her.

The Witches said that was an untruth.

The Guardian said she was doing what was best: Providing the children with the witches’ addresses and providing them access to their portals was to protect the children and survivors.

The Witches countered The Guardian was readying her Army to attack them. The children had already used their invisibility and anonymity to bully them to the point of encouraging the witches to commit suicide.

The Guardian said she was making Fandom a safe and nurturing environment for all.

The Witches scoffed at that, arguing that was why they lived in Eastwick and the children lived in WestWorld. It was neither safe nor healthy for either side to interact with each other.

It was all too much; this is not what was supposed to happen. Despite what it looked like, she was not looking to start a war.

But one was underway.

And to make everything even worse, The Dark One was casting spells again.

With a slightly trembling hand, she reached for her glass of water as she popped an aspirin in her mouth. The knock on her portal startled her; water sloshed from the glass and onto her frock.

She raised her head as the witch stepped over the threshold. It was Hilda.

A smile on her face, but a serious look in her eyes, Hilda sat uninvited at the table with The Guardian.

“We need to talk.”

Tagging:  @sirbeepsalot @jared2612 @ao719 @burnsoslow @bbrandy2002 @ofpixelsandscribbles @debramcg1106 @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @texaskitten30 @glaimtruelovealways @indiacater @forthebrokenheartedthings @kingliam2019 @bebepac @zaffrenotes @liyanin @liamxs-world @choiceslife @ac27dj @the-soot-sprite @gnatbrain @anotherbeingsworld @atha68 @hopelessromanticmonie @amandablink @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @iaminlovewithtrr @shewillreadyou @starrystarrytrouble @liamrhysstalker2020 @alyssalauren @queenrileyrose @ladyangel70 @yourmajesty09 @gkittylove99 @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet @lodberg @charlotteg234 @sweatyrysconnoisseur @mainstreetreader @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @jessiembruno @darley1101 @txemrn @tessa-liam @phoenixrising308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @thegreentwin​

[missdawnandherdusk]

Little Things

Draco X Reader

Request: @deanwswinchester79 But I thought of an idea that maybe the readers parents never write to her while she’s at Hogwarts, Draco notices and eventually gets her a simple gift so she doesn’t feel so lonely. She doesn’t react quite so well but over time it started to become a little tradition of theirs because they’ve come to like each other.

A/n: Thank you for such a wonderful request!! Sorry this took so long, I had most of it written with no idea how to end it, but I figured that out! think I’m gonna make the reader a Slytherin just for the proximity and convenience. Let me know what y’all think as always~ (Also it seems that my posts haven’t been circulating in the explore page... so more than ever, please if y’all love my work reblog it. Tumblr sucks and I’d hate to have to leave...)

Being pure bloods and Slytherin, it’s not uncommon that you and Draco are near each other a lot, even before Hogwarts.

Unlike his own parents who would give him anything at the mere mention, your parents never batted an eyelash at you

They spent their wealth on themselves and expected you to sit still and look pretty. The perfect compliant child.

Sure you had everything you needed, and asked for... but you had to bluntly ask for it... there was never anything thoughtful or decent

So, you never get letters from your parents while you’re at Hogwarts

Or gifts, or packages... you write letters and send them off, but never get a response. You don’t even know if your parents get them.

So... maybe it’s a few years before Draco notices and cares.

It’s only because he happened to be sitting next to you one morning as mail came in, a flurry of owls, letters and parcels. And you don’t even bother to look up. Your eyes are trained on your breakfast, your face stoic

“Here,” Draco shoves a covered tin of treacle tarts your way. “My parents sent me these. I don’t even like them,” he scoffs, trying to play off what he’s doing.

You eye him, in disbelief and stand abruptly. “Be grateful they send you things,” you snarl and storm out of the Hall, spending the rest of the day in your room, writing a letter you never send.

Maybe after writing the letter you never send about how you feel makes you realize you were a bit rude to Draco

So you apologize when you see him next.

It’s later that night when you two are the only third years left in the Common Room. Maybe you were a bit of a coward and waited until he was alone

He reaches into his bag and offers you the same tin. “I meant it. I really don’t like sweets,”

You can’t help but laugh as you accept his small gift.

Sitting beside him on the couch, you stare at the tin in your hands.

“You can eat them,” he teased. “They’re not poisoned.” He says it so earnestly, you laugh again.

You mumble another thanks before you stand abruptly and head back to your room, leaving Draco a bit confused. He shrugs and goes back to his potions homework.

“Mother, Draco gave me some treacle tarts today. They’re from his parents. I think he noticed that you never write back. Of course it’s been three years. But at least someone noticed. If that’s what this was...”

It’s a few days later during breakfast that you get a letter. You’re shocked because it’s the first time it’s ever happened and your owl is fluttering happily on your shoulder.

It’s not signed, and you have no idea who it’s from, but it holds kind words and encouragement. It’s such delicate and immaculate script, you’ve got no idea where to start looking for the author.

So maybe you don’t. But you keep the letter and write a response. Again, it’s never sent, but it makes you smile and not feel depressed afterwards. Which is new.

Draco would never forget the innocent smile on your face as you opened the letter he had sent anonymously. You didn’t seem to notice his stare, so entraputed in the bit of parchment.

He sent you a letter maybe a few times a months. It was the most mundane things. How he liked the weather. His worries for the next exam. How you handled yourself well in Transfiguration.

He never knew you reponded to each one. And kept those letters in a fabric box under your bed. Or how every night when you were feeling depressed you’d take them out and read them. And that they made you feel better.

You knew your secret author went to school with you, and was in close proximity but that was about all you knew. Sometimes you wondered who it was writing to you. Sometimes you were just content with having a letter to hold.

“I don’t really know who you are, but I’d like to know I think. At least to thank you for making me happy, even for a short while with your letters,”

You leave that letter on your desk, not thinking to tuck it back into its box. Which is your first mistake

Your owl, seeing the letter on your desk, delivers it, knowing who your secret author is.

Draco grips the letter so tightly that the paper almost tears. Your owl preens herself on his sill. “You know,” he accuses. “Did you tell her?” Like he expects a response from the bird.

It’s Christmas, and your mystery writer sends you a parcel this time with a note: “haven’t you figured it out?” In the parcel is a tin of treacle tarts.

You freeze before your gaze turns to Draco, who’s watching you intently.

You run through a lot of emotions. Anger, confusion, gratitude, hesitation, joy... it’s all so overwhelming that tears sting your eyes and you practically run from the Great Hall, leaning against a random hallway wall and start to cry at the absolute ridiculousness of it all

Draco Malfoy was sending you letters

Really sweet letters that were thoughtful and kind and honest and nothing like you’d ever seen from him before

The there was the tin of sweets sitting in your lap. Looking at them made you cry all over again

Draco, on the other hand is very confused and rushes after you against his better judgment.

“Look I’m sorry if—” he starts but you cut him off by laughing.

“Merlin, don’t apologize,” you sniffle, standing. “Thank you,” you throw your arms around him, and pull him close, showing your gratitude. He eventually figures out that it’s a hug and hugs you back.

“You really don’t mind?” He asked, hesitant. “Because I... I know it’s stupid. But you never get anything and I know what it like to be ignored by your parents and I just thought—”

“Draco,” you call his attention, finding it sweet that he rambles when he’s nervous. “I don’t mind in the slightest. And it’s not stupid. It’s the kindest thing anyone has done for me,”

Draco fidgets and blushes slightly, looking at the ground.

“I will admit, I’m surprised it’s you,” you mused softly, catching Dracos attention and the hurt on his face. “Only because you’re... I don’t know.” You smile and shrug. “I feel like no one knows that—this part of you,”

“And what part of me is that?” He scoffs, trying to play it off.

“The sweet caring one,” you smile. “Who doesn’t mind sharing his sweets with a girl even though she knows he’s the first to eat dessert every meal,” you raise an eyebrow at him.

Draco goes a deeper shade of red because you’ve caught him in his lie. He starts to apologize again, but you stop him

Later that night you look at all of the letters he wrote you and that you wrote back. And the night before Christmas when everyone else was asleep, you spent the entire night working the letters into a book with magic

You give it to Draco Christmas morning, and though it’s lost in the pile of gifts from his parents, you’re happy (even if your parents didn’t bother to send you anything. You had a few gifts from your friends and you were okay with that)

Draco doesn’t pay much mind to the book until later that night, when he’s alone and can go through it in private. He’s surprised to see that you answered every letter you’ve written him. And he’s sort of in awe. He never knew that they meant that much to you

He thinks of you and your smile and how you’ve poured your heart out into these letters the same way he has and he never thought anyone would open up to him like that

Slytherins had a reputation to uphold—you both knew that, so the fact that both of you had this little secret made things a bit better

You see each other the next day and he thanks you for the gift and it’s a bit awkward, but in a nice way

Draco still sends you letters but now he signs them and they get a bit ridiculous that they make you laugh

“Did you see how Snape tripped over his robes today?” “You’ll never guess what Blaise did today...” “Greg actually asked me if the sky was blue because it’s not blue at night,”

They’re so endearing and making you giggle to yourself. You always catch Draco’s eye from across the hall and he raises an eyebrow at you, daring you to say something

Your friends of course want to know who’s making you laugh with their letters and you try so hard to not let your secret slip because you don’t think Draco would want anyone to know

And you’re afraid if others do know, he’ll stop writing to you. Letting his pride and ego get the better of him.

Draco wonders if you’re embarrassed to be talking to him so he never reveals your secret either but your both a bit frustrated at the other because of this dance you’re going through

He still writes to you over the summer and they’re more diary entries than they are letters but you still love them and respond when you can your parents might get suspicious and you don’t want to lose your penpal

You totally sneak into his families box during the Quidditch World Cup and your parents didn’t notice because they never do and you have the best time with Draco, both rooting for different teams

“You just like them because of Krum,” Draco accuses.

“Do not!” You argue back. “And besides he’s a great player anyway!”

Draco grumbles “I could do better,” and you have to laugh at him and he smiles at you

He grabs your hand and you both run as the Dark Mark is sent out over the match and Draco pulls you out of the chaos to where it was safe and you wait out the attack. He holds you protectively as you shake with fear against your will

Neither of you mention it. But at night you remember the feel of his arms and he remembers your warmth as you both curl around pillows wishing it was the other

Fourth year means the Durmstang students are rooming with the Slytherins and you get to share some of your classes with Krum and you might just explode with awe

Draco is jealous and hell hath no fury

Now Draco starts to send you ridiculous little gifts and notes almost weekly

Your friends (and most of the school) are now interested in this secret admirer of yours and you huff and you’re more annoyed at Draco than anything because he was being well, ridiculous

You grab Draco one day and confront him because he just sent you a bouquet of sunflowers

“What the hell?” You demand. “You said you liked sunflowers in Herbology,” Draco shrugged. You growl and storm away.

Now he’s sending you notes in class when you’re with Victor who doesn’t even sit next to you

At that point the secret is out on who your secret admirer is and now Victor won’t even talk to you because of Draco’s behavior.

You’re livid to say the least.

You stop talking to Draco altogether and become indifferent. You almost tell him to stop sending you things because you don’t want them, but you don’t.

It’s not that you don’t want the gifts and the kind gestures you just know it’s coming from the wrong place and it doesn’t sit right with you.

“What is wrong with you?” Draco demands one day.

“Wrong with me!?” You snap back. “What is wrong with you!? Seriously Draco! I’m not some shiny toy you can show off!! I’m not something you can claim either! So stop trying!”

“Who said that I was—”

You give him a sharp dangerous look and he shuts up.

You storm away again, tears in your eyes because it’s not how you wanted things to go.

It felt like you were walking away from your best friend and you knew you couldn’t fix it. And maybe that’s what it was like.

You almost run into Krum and fall down, but he catches you. Concern grows when he sees you crying. His concern for you just makes you cry more as your run back to your dorm room, not caring about the whispers around you as you lock your door and sob.

There’s a knock on your door and you have a good idea of who it is, but you don’t really want to talk to him right now

And Draco knows that. Sure, it took you to confront him about what he was doing, but you were right, you weren’t some toy to fight over

He sat against the other side of the door, mimicking your curled up position

“...I’m sorry,” You hear through the door. “You’re right. I... you’re not... I’m sorry...” 

When you finally have the courage to open the door, he’s gone

You close the door again and flop on your bed, screaming into a pillow

You may or may not fall asleep there... 

in the morning there’s a letter sitting on your window sill

Knowing who it’s from, you curl up in your covers with the letter and open it

Draco had spent about two hours thinking of how to make things right again, to prove how sorry he was... and so he poured out his entire heart to you in a letter

it was messy, scratched out, sappy, and heart felt, and apologetic and vulnerable and a beautiful mess that you couldn’t help but read again, and again, and again until you let a few tears slip out

You quickly get dressed for the day and rush into the Great Hall, seeing Draco sulking at the breakfast table, until he sees you, then his eyes go wide with panic and fear

It takes everything in you to remain composed and not run down the line of tables, but you manage

He stands to meet you and you smile, grabbing his robe and pulling him close, pressing your lips to his

“But... I... and you...” Draco fumbles, pulling away. 

“I might not want to be owned,” You grin, pulling out his letter, “But I’ll belong to this Draco any day,” 

“Deal,” He grins, and cups your face, kissing you again

.

masterlist

.

more like this:

muggleborn!slytherin

patronus cliche

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@coffee-addicti @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @savingdraco  @akari180 @slytherin-emerald @queenfeatherwings @fanficflaneuse @go-whovian-universe @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise@katsukink @takemetothekingdom @strangerr-things @tmnt-queen @hxneybgb @belcvayelena @moviesbooksandfandoms @cocochanelthepupper @ninacotte @braelynn-johnston @jiggllyy @darcypotter-blog @thiccheerioss @lottie289 @beautiful-pegasus @tceedlmao @anonymous034 @bi-andready-tocry  @dragonsandbread @the-queen-of-hell-things @alienmotel @oh-itsnothing @sunflowerxsadnessw @fattycooter @fanficsigottaread @gweaslvy @strawberriesonsummer @gaysludge @ray-of-sunrise @artist-bby @shadowsingeraxolotl @quillsareforwriting @wollymalfoy @lilpieceoftoast @paper-cats @floweryjh @hufflautia @livize75 @annie-mcl @riathearora @live-like-luna @justathoughtfulangel @coconutdawn @skteaiy@naughtygranger @dragonsandbread @abundantxadorations @moony-artnstuff  @and-then-a-girl-with-luv @1-800-luvsick @pandas-rice-field @in-slytherin-we-trust @emmaa-t @introvertedrae @infinity1o1 @echpr @dekulover @marshmallowtraver @cereuselle @lonely-skywalker @sleepysnapesnake @hoeforthefictional @coldlilheart @helen-paris @rosie-starlit-sky @vulture-withafile @hogstupefy @eveft @iraniq @groovyfluxie @cool-weirdo-wannabee-author @rosegold-thorns @criminaly-supernatural @ghostofdolans @mxl-foyrecs @ginger-haired-queen @bex4whovian @kellyrose193 @unlikelygalaxygiver @marvel-trash-was-taken @one-edgy-bitch @supersouthy @garbagejay @rejectedlonelyasianchild @lucymxwell@coldlilheart  @elia-the-bibliophile @biggalaxydreamland @fuckbuckyyy @hopem1218 @youareinllve @tyrusparker @3rdofkingdomtrees @whamitsqueen @i-mmunity @zero-nightshade @graym01 @fandomtrash88 @snakey-drakey @ceeellewrites @thatguppienamedbae @pinkleopardss @angel-blogging @xhoney-bee-x @jovialthings @samanthahaigwood @minigigglybabi @clumsy-writing-rdb @lahoete @yourenotafailureoverall @m-winchester-67 @shiningstar-byulxx @clumsy-writing-rdb @dracosathenaeum @dracofeltonmalfoy @harryslouis @iilovemusic12us @itsbebeyyy @dumspirospero-1 @kaye-lantern @stardewsnail @anerroroccurrrrred @franbow29 @big-galaxy-chaos @itsbebeyyy @gryffindors-weasley @ornella0910 @ultrabuzzlightyear @phantomface1983 @emmalee12​ @kuyrukludenizkizi​

[iliveiloveiwrite]

Long Lost Love // Part One (D.M.)

Summary: Two piles of twelve letters, hidden away in the bottom of a trunk, browning with age. Twenty-four letters in total, all addressed to him. 

A/N: This is my entry into @teheharrypotter‘s two weeks of angst! I just really want to take a moment and say that I am so proud of this fic and how it has come out, like ridiculously proud of it. I would really appreciate some feedback on this - reblogs and comments are so important. There is going to be a second part where all the love letters will be compiled into one long post. However, I think not giving too much away only adds to the suspense and angst. Also, the ending... I love it and I think you’ll all hate me for it.

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Reader

Warnings: this is a lot of angst combined with hurt/comfort but there’s a lot of growth in Draco (I think?)

Word count: 5.4k

It had been fifteen years since the end of the second wizarding war; it had been fifteen years of healing and working on himself, of repenting for his family’s crimes during the war. Draco Malfoy had aged in that time; his hair had grown past his shoulders, tied back with a black leather hair tie, and there were lines on his face that had not been there when he was an eighteen year old running away from the castle he classed as his home.

He had lived a lifetime in those fifteen years. He had seen the world before training as a Healer; working his way up the ranks to become head of the emergency department of the only wizarding hospital within Britain. He had trained Healer after Healer; many of them going off to establish clinics in their own community, all of them sending cards at Christmas, regaling him of their successes.

Draco had lived a lifetime. He lost his father first. Lucius had never truly recovered from his time in Azkaban, and though Draco had tried his hardest to form some semblance of a relationship with his father, Lucius had remained cruel until the end. Truthfully, Draco doesn’t want to think about what it was that killed him in the end. Whether it was the spite that had poisoned him for years, or whether it was something else. Draco doesn’t dwell on it; instead, he leaves white roses on his father’s grave every Sunday like any loving son would.

Narcissa hadn’t lasted long after Lucius passed. She had been distraught. Whilst Lucius was not a doting father, he was a doting husband and he adored Narcissa until his very last breath on this earth. To Draco, her tears started that day and didn’t stop until she passed away in her asleep. Her heart, the coroner said. She had died of a broken heart.

A feeling Draco knew only too well.

Despite achieving so much and traveling so far, he had only ever been in love once. There had only ever been one moment in his whole life that had been filled with the kind of love read about in books, sang about in songs, and played out in films. Draco had fallen in love with you when he was sixteen years old and entering what would be the darkest period of his life. To him, you had been the light in the dark. The answer to his constantly asked question: will there ever be a happy ending?

Nothing had ever happened; nothing could happen. You were the epitome of goodness; the very incarnate of its definition, and he… he was the opposite. In those days, his self-hatred ran so deep that he would argue he was the Hades of the story. Doomed forever to the underworld only to fall in love with the Goddess of Spring and hope for retribution that would never come.

However, in this version of their well-told myth, Hades and Persephone never fall into a relationship. In this version of events, feelings were known and reciprocated, but letters that pleaded for a chance either never arrived or were never answered.

So for fifteen years, Draco Malfoy has been working hard on repairing his family’s tattered reputation whilst coping with the depth-defying grief that comes with losing both parents within the span of a year as well as never truly dealing with the heart wrenching grief that accompanies a relationship that was never given the chance to bloom.

--------

It was a bright, clear day in the middle of March when Draco decided to clean out the attic. He had woken with the urge to clean; with the urge to organise his life and start to work through the piles of his parent’s belongings. He hadn’t been able to touch them in the beginning; the most he had been able to do was relocate everything to the attic and then shove the very thought to the back of his mind where it began to fester like an open wound.

Bright and clear was the day when Draco chose to enter the long forgotten attic in the Manor. Bright and clear was the day when he had to hold a handkerchief to his face to stave off the inevitable sneezes from the dust floating in the air.

Looking around the old and dusty attic, Draco takes in the first of the mess. Trunks line the wall; some ancient – locks worn down with time, almost rusted from their exile to the attic; others are much newer such as his parent’s belongings. Their trunks remain almost new; their initials still painted onto the lids in bright gold paint.

The majority of the morning is spent creating two piles; one to be thrown away, one to be donated. Expensive gowns and suits were to be donated. Anything that reminded Draco of his allegiance in the Second Wizarding War was to be thrown.

As he goes through the belongings of not just his parent’s, but also his grandparents, Draco begins to feel conflicted. With each addition to the bin pile, he feels lighter, he feels one less burden. However, he cannot help the guilt that unfurls in his stomach as he thinks of his mother’s kind face and her forever painted red lip.

By the time Draco makes it to his mother’s final trunk, he feels as if he has been in battle once more. Weariness hangs heavy over in shoulders, settling in his bones. His body slumped, not just from the tiredness from lifting heavy trunks and boxes, but from the emotional weight of memories freshly unleashed upon him.

Draco’s movements are slower as he opens the lid to this final trunk. He thinks back to the day he filled it; piling his mother’s correspondence and personal effects in here – separate from the clothes he knew he would one day get rid of. He slides his hands over the emerald green lid – a Slytherin till the day she died, Draco thinks as he smiles to himself.

At some point, he lets a few tears fall. It’s the sight of Narcissa’s handwriting, he realises. He hadn’t seen it in so long – not having received a birthday card or a Christmas present this year due to her death. Seeing her strong cursive brought tears to his eyes; he remembers being a child, sitting by her desk, watching her write away and wondering who on earth she could be talking to. If Draco focuses hard enough, he swears he can still smell the fresh ink drying on the parchment and the melted wax being pressed with Narcissa’s signet ring.

At the bottom of the trunk, Draco notices a latch. Frowning, he flips it open to reveal a false bottom hidden away. Uneasiness spreads through him, turning his stomach to lead as he reaches inside to feel two distinct piles.

The uneasiness turns to heavy anguish when Draco realises just what he is holding in his hands.

------

Two piles of twelve letters, hidden away in the bottom of a trunk, browning with age.

Twenty-four letters in total, all addressed to him.

They now sit on his kitchen counter; the ageing paper a stark contrast to the obsidian black of his counter top. Draco leans back in his chair, huffing out a long sigh, running a hand down his face as he does so. It had been fifteen years, but he would recognise your handwriting anywhere.

It had been fifteen years and he hadn’t had any contact with you. He wondered for so long why his letters had gone unanswered to the point where he stopped writing altogether, feeling the keen sting of rejection.

Fifteen years and he now had his answer.

Hidden away in a trunk; squirreled away in the hopes that he would never find them. The hope that he would forget about you and move on. He never had; he just kept his feelings silent, caging them up in his heart along with everything else he kept from his parents.

Anger surges through him. The first emotion he has felt since he opened that damned trunk.

He lets out a choked scream; the intensity of his anger surprising him as he slams a fist onto the counter top, wincing slightly from the pain now radiating up his right arm.

How dare they, he roars. How dare they keep this from him? How dare they keep you from him? Did you not fit their ideal – a pureblood from a well off family? Did you not meet their needs visually? Your hair perfect, your face just the same.

There was no good reason he could think of. Draco pads over to the bar, tucked away in the corner of the kitchen. There, he pours himself a knuckle’s length of the amber liquid, knocking it back with a hiss. The whiskey burns as it goes down; burns just like his emotions, like his anger.

Draco’s lip curls in distaste as he hears his father’s voice: a distraction, Draco, that’s all.

Lucius Malfoy had never uttered such words in Draco’s presence, but Draco was well aware of his father’s distaste of you.

Reading over his home address once again, Draco is hit with a sense of helplessness. He doesn’t know where to go from or what to do. He reads over your home address, neatly written in the top left hand corner of the envelope.

Sighing, he runs a hand down his face, still uncertain what his next move is going to be. He runs through the options in his head once, and out loud after.

To no-one in particular, he argues:

“I could reply. I could write a letter back, apologising for the absence of replies with a brief sentence or two about meeting up after so much time has passed.”

Draco waves that option away; his tongue too tied up to even think about coherently writing a letter out now. He moves onto option two:

“I could show up. I could apparate to the address right now, knock on the door and ask to speak to them.”

He shakes his head; immediately ridding himself of the idea. For starters, what if you had moved, and he finds himself knocking on the door of an unknown family? However, what if you still live there, and you answer the door? What is Draco to say to you then after such a long time apart?

He imagines the situation; forces himself into shoes that he could possibly be wearing in the near future. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Not a word, not a whisper, not an apology.

So he ignores option two.

Draco knows its cowardice that drives him to the third option, but to go fifteen years without a reply to a letter declaring love… it is too long of a time to expect any form of forgiveness, and he supposes that is what he is most afraid of. Draco’s terrified of not being worthy enough for your forgiveness.

So he goes with option three:

Do nothing.

------

Draco does the only thing that makes sense.

He takes the letters to work.

Draco slides the letters into his satchel, latching the buckle afterwards and taking a deep breath. Already, Draco feels the twenty four envelopes burning a hole through the soft, worn leather of his bag.

Their presence continues to haunt him: placing his bag in his locker and grabbing his lab coat, walking towards the admit desk where Martha – the head nurse – smiles at him before handing him a cup of coffee.

The emergency room is swamped. It is full to capacity with even more waiting in triage. They work as hard and as fast as they can, but it takes time to cure burns from potions and injuries from spells gone wrong.

It gets to the point where Draco needs to take a step back. He has to take a step back and re-evaluate. His personal life is shot; the love he had found at sixteen a dead end until this last weekend. His professional life is all that he has going for him, but on days like this, when he isn’t feeling entirely himself for the shock from the weekend, Draco does find himself being short with patients.

He escapes to the break room; the familiar bitter scent of coffee already relaxing the tense muscles in his shoulders. He settles into a chair at the rickety table, head in his hands as he takes a deep breath.

Draco represses the urge to cry. He pushes it down; deep, deep down inside him where he can deal with it another day. At this moment, all he wants is a hug from his mother and the age old promise that everything is going to be okay. It’s her fault’ it is Narcissa’s fault that he is like this.

That he is a husk of a man.

He feels like a therapist’s wet dream. Blaming his mother, his parents as the source of his problems, but he cannot help imagining how different his life would be if those letters had been delivered to his hands.

He would be with you. He would have given it all up for you.

His lineage; his inheritance; his name; the pureblood mania that infected his parents.

He would give it all up for you.

Fifteen years later and he would still give up every aspect of his life, every part of him that makes him him.

Draco would drop it all in a heartbeat for you.

“What’s gotten into you?” A feminine voice questions. Draco turns in his seat to see his closest friend and confidant, Alexandria Delphi, leaning against the door with a smile on her face.

He cannot help the smile that grows on his face at her presence. He shrugs, hoping he appears nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

Alexandria pushes herself off the door, coming to sit next to Draco at the old rickety table that has been at home in the break room since before time itself. She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow at his obvious aversion. She gestures to his entire being, “I mean this. You’ve been off all day – not as attentive to patients, not your usual flirtatious self with the nurses which I know they are missing very much. What’s gotten into you, Draco?”

Draco sighs, knowing very well he could never hide anything from her. Alexandria and Draco had known each other since their first year of training; an unlikely friendship forming between them, but a friendship nonetheless. Thirteen years later, they had been working in the emergency department of St Mungo’s the longest – second only to Martha, the Head Nurse.

“I was cleaning out the attic over the weekend. Getting rid of some of my parent’s things.”

Alexandria frowns, reaching for Draco’s hand over the table. “You should have called me. I would have come and helped you; you shouldn’t have had to that alone.”

“I know,” Draco starts, running a hand down his face, “I know you would have but I think I needed to do it alone.”

Alexandria nods, releasing his hand at last and bringing it to the coffee mug sitting in front of her. Draco smiles at her before standing, opening his locker and grabbing the letters that call to him from his bag.

Sitting back down, he slides the two piles of letters in Alexandria’s direction, all the while saying, “I found these in my mother’s trunk. It had a false bottom, and they were sitting there.”

Her deep brown eyes widen, “How scandalous! They’re addressed to you?”

Draco nods, “When I was at Hogwarts, there was a girl.”

“Isn’t there always?” Alexandria quips, rolling her eyes at the dramatics of her colleague.

“Anyway,” Draco comments pointedly, “I was in love, or at least, I was as much in love as you can be when you’re sixteen years old. I still am, I think.

“Anyway, my parents didn’t approve of her; they never would so when war started brewing and I went home, I never imagined I would get letters. I never got letters. Turns out, she had been sending me letters all along and my parents had kept them hidden until now.”

“Bastards,” Alexandria spits; furious at people long dead.

“What do you think I should do?” Draco asks earnestly, his eyes never leaving the pile of letters.

“Have you read them?” Alexandria asks; her eyes fixed on the two sets of letters placed between them on the rickety table.

He shakes his head, refusing to meet Alexandria’s eyes, “I think I’m too scared.”

Alexandria smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She sighs, “You aren’t going to know what to do until you read them. Reading the letters should give you the answer you are looking for.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“When you made me Attending,” She quips, yet there is still no heart behind it – none of her usual heat that tends to come out when Draco baits her slightly. She shakes her head, standing from her seat with her coffee in her hand, “I want to see you back out there soon. I don’t care whether you’re the head of the department.”

He raise an eyebrow at her in challenge; she simply smirks. He shakes his head at her antics, already rising from his seat, “I’m on my way.”

“Good, I have plenty of patients for you to see.”

Draco doesn’t reply, he watches her leave with a fond smile on his face.

Alexandria leaves the break room. She leaves as it is the only way that Draco will not see the sorrow and the longing reflected in her eyes. Alexandria doesn’t let him see the jealousy over the letters; the very emotion gnawing away at the ever growing pit in her stomach, only making it deeper as she replays the story of Draco’s first and only love.

She remembers when she used to look forward to coming into work; to help those in need and be a source of comfort for those she couldn’t help. Now, she struggles to make it through the door with the knowledge that she has been in love with the same man for years and nothing had happened.

That’s the thing about loving someone who doesn’t love you back – it turns you into a ghost of your former self.

------

Draco finds himself reaching for the first letter in the pile on a Friday night in the middle of April. If he had to be honest with himself, it had taken him a whole month to work up the nerve to read them. Draco had come home after the conversation with Alexandria and dropped the letters on the side table where they have taunted him ever since.

He knows he isn’t in the right frame of mind to be reading them; a bad shift with too many deaths combined with the two half full tumblers of whiskey consumed creates the equation of self-destruction. However, Draco reminds himself, he’s had fifteen years of internal self-destruction – what’s one more night when you tear yourself down so regularly despite the accolades attached to your name?

Draco hesitates, holding the first of the twenty four letters in his hand. He hesitates; unsure as to whether he is ready to read the handwriting of someone whose notes through class not only made him happy, but hopeful.

Releasing a shuddering breath, he tears open the seal and begins to read.

------

The letters are not long. They aren’t pages and pages of eloquent syntax over your feelings for the blonde haired, cocky teenager he once was. The closer he gets to the end of the pile, the less is written as if you had grown tired of such an act and not getting a reply.

Draco keeps his favourite close to him. It’s tucked away in his inner coat pocket, on the left hand side close to his heart.

The letter has been with him a month now. A month of one letter being read and reread too many times a day; to the point where Draco is reciting it in his sleep. It’s creased beyond recognition, but he still takes the risk every day to take it out and read it.

He misses you. He misses you. He misses you.

Now, Draco unfolds the paper. He unfolds the paper and reads the opening line: do you remember that night in the greenhouse? Writes your neat handwriting; the letters perfectly formed on the now browning parchment.

How could he forget? Draco closes his eyes, letting himself fall into the memory perfumed with compost and night blooming evening primrose.

*****

“Name two purposes of Valerian Root.”

“To help someone sleep as well as to ease anxiety.”

“Very good,” You laugh, moving quietly between the rows and rows of plants. You turn to him suddenly, “What is one danger of Black Henbane?”

Draco pauses, eyes already searching for papery flower with spidery black veins. He finds it nestled towards the back of the greenhouse, hidden away from sight and away from the wandering hands of children. Draco follows you closely; remaining near you as he says, “As a member of the nightshade family, the plant can be toxic if used in large quantities.”

The sight of your smile takes his breath away. You rush to him; toothy grin and loud laughter as you nod your head. “Madame Pomfrey was right,” You splutter, “You’re going to make an incredible Healer, Draco Malfoy.”

He doesn’t need to see the blush to know it’s there; he can feel the heat creeping its way up his neck to his cheeks. “I don’t think I’ll get there if I don’t have you.”

A satisfied smile replaces the happy grin that was on your face only moments ago. It was as if you were waiting for those words to fall from his lips; the reassurance within those words spreading over your worry like a balm over a wound.

How many more nights would they get like this? How many more nights would they have together?

Somewhat foolishly, Draco hopes he has forever. He hopes he has an eternity and a day with you, but he can feel the changes in the air, and he knows it isn’t good. Draco can see the tension at home; more and more people arriving, each just as secretive as the last, and Draco suddenly knows he only has a short amount of time before he’s inducted into the same fanatic group as his parents.

He’s on limited days with you so he’ll take the nights.

He’ll take all the nights.

-------

The shoebox had remained untouched under his bed for years now. Draco had shoved it there in a fit of anger and despair and he hadn’t looked since.

Reaching for it now, Draco represses the growing anger directed at his parents. He ignores the growing resentment surrounding the fact that they hid your letters for years and never thought to whisper a word of it – not even on their death beds.

The shoebox has aged; not unlike himself, he thinks as he wipes the dust from the top. The thick layer drawing a sneeze from him before he can open the box.

It doesn’t matter how many years it has laid unwanted under his bed; it doesn’t matter how long it has remained there, untouched and not thought of – Draco, to this day, can still recount for every little thing in there.

Notes that have now turned brown with age; old photos where youthful faces glance up at him; a chocolate bar wrapper from Honeyduke’s.

They each line the bottom of the shoebox. Draco’s memories of you out there for him to finally confront, to see. He sinks down onto his childhood bed; almost blinded by the force of the wave of nostalgia washing over him, threatening to drown him with the strength of his memories.

The memories hadn’t plagued him for some time though you played on his mind constantly – even more so since the letters.

They’re silly memories, but memories, nonetheless. Ones that he adores; ones that he cherishes.

It was the letters that triggered this. The letters that have brought the ghosts back from where they had been hidden, haunting him quietly until now.

Draco runs a hand through the trinkets in the box. He smiles at them, thinking of Hogsmeade and how he had surprised you with a bar of your favourite chocolate. The grin on your face worth all the jibes from Crabbe and Goyle when he got back to the Slytherin common room that evening.

Draco falls back onto his childhood bed with a huff.

He has a decision to make, and he doesn’t know where to begin. He has a decision to make, and he doesn’t have the guidance he so desperately needs.

Draco wants to see you; he needs to see you, but what if you don’t want to see him?

----

“I heard you handed in your notice,” Draco states as a way of breaking the ice.

Her notice of leave had landed in his hands not even three hours ago. He had spent the time since in a panic; rushing about the hospital to find Alexandria and to question her, to find out why she would leave after so long.

Why she would leave him.

Alexandria nods, “I have. I leave in two weeks.”

“Why?” Draco all but demands, “You love this place.”

“You’re right,” Alexandria sighs, “I do.”

“Then why are you leaving?”

“Because I can’t do this anymore, Draco. I can’t sit here and listen to you talk about those letters and sigh dreamily, or date someone else. I can’t do it,” Her voice breaks, “So I won’t. I want a fresh start, so I’m going to get one.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

“If I had known…”

“What? You’d have loved me?” Alexandria laughs mirthlessly, “Love me, Draco! Love me.”

“I can’t,” He whispers; the words the death knell to any scrap of friendship remaining.

Tears fall down her face, “And that’s why I have to go.”

She presses a kiss to his cheek; lingering for longer than what was probably good for her. When she pulls away, she can see the wetness of her tears on Draco’s cheek. “I hope you find her, Draco. You deserve a love story.”

-----

The cottage is small, but it is perfect. Ivy covered walls with a neat front garden; every inch showing the love and attention being paid to it. From the red roses that makes Draco think of his beloved mother to the intense scent of lavender that reminds Draco of the perfume you wore through Hogwarts. Looking up at the cottage, Draco realises that he had never seen a house look so much like a home.

He pauses at the gate; eyes focused on the bricks of the cottage and nowhere else. He doesn’t let the hope grow; he doesn’t let himself dream of what could happen. He’s thankful he has made it this far.

That he’s made it back to you.

The black gate creaks when Draco pushes it open. He winces at the noise, praying it doesn’t give him away and that you answer the door unexpectedly.

He needs this.

He needs the time.

It’s been fifteen years and since he found your letters months ago, he thought he would be ready by the time he found you.

Now Draco is thinking, perhaps he isn’t ready.

Will he ever be ready? He asks himself. Will he ever be ready to confront the very person he has been in love with since he was sixteen years old?

Draco doesn’t know; he doesn’t think he’ll ever know until he steps through the gate.

Draco’s hands shake as he rushes down the well-worn footpath to your dark brown front door. His hands continue to shake as he raises a single fist to knock on the door, three times.

He’s about to turn away; he’s about to walk away and never enter your life again. He will go away and never think of you again; of what could have been.

But then the lock clicks, and the handle moves.

“Hello?” A sweet voice calls out; your voice calls out.

“(Y/N)…” He breathes, and suddenly his nerves are gone and so is his worry. Suddenly, Draco is back at Hogwarts, the feel of your hand in his as he presses you into walls and steals kisses behind statues. He’s back to being sixteen years old and feeling the unrelenting agony of teenage love for the first time along with the merciless fear to do with the rising tensions.

“Draco,” You whisper, bringing a hand up to your mouth. Shock reflects in your eyes; your eyes that show no signs of aging other than the lines that are now forming in the corners.

Draco can’t help himself; he runs his eyes over your body, taking in the changes that becoming an adult has brought. It means nothing; he would love you regardless, but he cannot seem to help himself from drinking it all in.

From the realisation that he in fact stood in front of you.

You are there, and he is here with you.

“How have you been?” He asks; more out of politeness than anything else.

You shift awkwardly, “I’ve been good, Draco. How have you been?”

Draco nods, “I’ve been good too. I know you’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

You laugh, tucking yourself slightly behind the door, “That did cross my mind.”

He smiles; a large grin that he hasn’t felt on his face in a long, long time. Less than five minutes with you, and you’re already bringing out a side of him that Draco had long thought was extinct. He reaches into his coat, grabbing some of the letters that he keeps there. He holds them out to you, “I’ve only just found them.”

Audibly gasping, you instinctively reach for the letters. Your fingers brush Draco’s and he swears his heart skips a beat at the small touch. “I sent these years ago.”

Draco closes his eyes, “I know, and I cannot apologise enough to you for how long it has taken. I thought a reply in person would be better.”

Tears line your eyes as your fingers brush the worn paper; the crease marks more than evident from where Draco has folded and refolded the letter to read. “I always wondered what had happened…” You trail off, lifting your gaze from the letters to meet his eyes.

“My parents,” He whispers; voice pained. He takes a moment to collect himself, but you put a hand up to stop from saying anything else.

“I understand. You don’t need to explain more, Draco.”

“Thank you,” He replies, smiling softly. Then he launches into his tale, “I was cleaning out their belongings; cleaning in general really when I found a false bottom in my mother’s trunk. When I took it out, I found your letters… and I read them and reread them. I practically memorised them. I don’t think there are enough words in the English language to convey just how sorry I am.”

“Draco…”

“No, let me say this… please,” He whispers, adding on the last word for politeness. You fall silent, your eyes begging him not to say out loud what you know he is going to confess.

“Until the last star fades and we succumb to darkness, I shall love you. I have always loved you; from being a scared teenager to being a just as scared adult. My feelings haven’t changed. I’ve thought of nothing but you for fifteen years,” He pauses, drawing in a shuddering breath, “I love you.”

Silence falls over you both. Draco’s heart pounds in his chest as he watches the emotions flicker over your face in a pace he didn’t think was humanly possible. Acceptance, happiness, relief and then finally, sadness.

He furrows his brows; surely this would be a happy event no? Draco has tracked you down after a fifteen year absence. He has found his one true love at last, and now he stands before you wondering the cause of such sadness on your face and in your eyes.

“Draco…” You trail off, holding up your left hand, “I’m married.”

******

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[nebula-jazz]

His World part 5

Dragon Alpha Bakugou x omega reader

warnings: this part has depictions of violence. Please do not report or hate. This is just how I have set up my story.

Your recovery was slow but a certain Alpha didn’t leave. When you were well enough he introduced you to his friends. Or you assumed that they were his friends, he refused to say so. There was a blonde named Denki, a redhead named Kirishima, a pink haired girl named Mina, and a brunette named Sero.

They came and said hello one at a time and at different times. This struck you as odd. You had met Kirishima last and had asked what was going on. He paused, Bakugou had left to go see if you had any meat left in your shead and Kirishima had made sure he was gone. He sighed.

“You can’t tell Bakugou that I told you but...” He hesitated as he tried to find the words to explain. “He asked if we could help watch over your land... That alpha that had threatened is still trying to get you.”

You felt the blood leave your face. Your skin prickled with mild panic. You had to go into town in a few weeks. Winter was ending and at the beginning of spring the king would gather taxes for land, food and protection. And even though your land was separate you still were taxed heavily on food and ‘protection’. King Endeavor was not a kind man to people who lived on dragon land especially since his son had ran off with one.

You explained what was going to happen and Kirishima’s face dropped.

“Are you sure you pay taxes? I mean you don’t live on his land.” You smiled sadly at his ignorance.

“Yes I do. I sell my vegetables in town so that I can have tools and clothes. And because of that he views me as a citizen. He especially knows I exist, since there are so few people who live on dragon land he has a specialized tax for people who do.” You heard a booming growl from behind you. You turned around to see a slightly pissed Bakugou.

“’Specialized tax’? What the fuck?!” You chuckled slightly at his anger. You felt endeared at his obvious worry.

“It’s just a few shekels more. The king claims says it’s for protection against dragons. But I don’t see why he always has me pay more than the other land owners. I think it's because my family was able to get more land from you guys than he ever will.” You said honestly. Kirishima seemed irritated this time. This surprised you because all you had seen from him that past several days was that he had the patience of a saint.

“It pisses me off that we are seen as a threat to everyone. It has been years upon years since any dragon has hurt any human without reason.” He ground out between his clenched teeth. You set a gentle on his shoulder and tried to make your scent calmer. You noticed the visible change of the two alphas.

“I have never been scared of you all. I only met one dragon before my parents...” You trailed off before you shook your head. “He was a decent sized golden dragon. My father said that he was the largest gold he had ever seen. The poor guy was coughing up blood and had a lot of internal injuries. We couldn’t do much. We did what we could before he left in the night and left a large part of his horde. My father said that because of his kindness we were able to live very comfortably and build most of what I have now. We could have had made this building more comfortable and fortified if our taxes didn’t go up so drastically.”

You finished with a sad sigh. They said nothing before you looked up and saw a unfamiliar look of awe on Bakugou’s face.

“You met the great dragon All Might?” He asked in a hushed whisper. Confused you nodded.

“Awesome..” Said Kirishima.

You sat in awkward silence as Bakugou started to cook. A feminine throat cleared and you looked over to a confused Mina holding a paper.

“Some dude was putting this on your fence on the border closest to the town.” Your face contorted into distaste.

“That must this years taxes. May I?” you asked and held out your hand she bounded over and handed the thick parchment over. You read over it slowly as to make sure you caught everything. When you reached the amount your mouth went dry. It was personal letter from the king.

Dear y/n l/n,

It has been brought to my attention that you have been harboring and nursing a dragon on your land. If you do not pay a fine of 300 gold by the last day of taxes you will be tried for treason. As you well know the punishment for treason for omegas is mutilation of all scent glands publicly. And all housing will be stripped from you.

Sincerely,

King Endeavor

“300 gold?” You whispered in horror. Mutilated scent gland ment painful heats, no mate ever, and would end with omega depression before death. You scent must’ve become bitter with your panic, because Bakugou stormed over and read over the post.

“Mutilation of scent glands?! No wonder Deku’s mate was in so much pain.” He growled. Mina’s and Kirishima’s scent spiked at the news.

“I don’t have 300. I only have 15.” You breathed. A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. 

“What did it say.” Asked Mina gently. You swallowed hard to try and get rid of the lump in your throat.

“Unless I pay 300 gold I will lose everything except the land and will be tried for treason.” Mina’s eyes brimmed with tears at your next words. “I will be found guilty because the king will be judge and jury... And all my scent glands will be mutilated publicly.”

You could smell all three of their scents turn burnt with anger. Kirishima spoke up. His voice broke in several places as he did.

“They willingly do that to omegas?” His eyes begged for the information to be a lie. You slowly nodded.

“Its horrifying to watch. They did a mated omega when I was younger. They were one of the only willingly mated couple and were very nice. They stripped her of all clothes and slowly destroyed each gland. I remember having nightmares from both of their screams.” The room became cold after that. 

Bakugou cleared his throat.

“But that won’t happen. You have enough right?” He said in a very gruff voice. Your throat constricted and you had to take several steading breaths as you stared at the ceiling to try and prevent tears. Your obvious distraught did not go unnoticed. The three alphas started pumping out calming scents as they all turned panicked.

“No. I don’t.”

~~~~~~

That night when you had gone to bed Bakugou paced in front of his friends. He had already talked to Kirishima and Kirishima was currently pacing the border. The three remaining friends watched him silently. Knowing that when he was ready, he would speak, as it was Bakugou who called them. Bakugou would pause clear his throat then go back to pacing.

Anxiety racked his brain even though it showed as anger. He had already made up his mind. He was just worried about his friends reactions. He finally turned on his heel and faced them. He was met with faces of concern and confusion.

“I’m flying back to my horde tomorrow night after Y/N goes to bed. I am not allowing that scumbag of a king to threaten my-” he cleared his throat again his face turning a slight shade of red. “Im not going to let Y/N get mutilated like that.” they all had to hold back laughter. Denki was the first to speak up.

“Your dragon has already chosen them. Hasn’t it?” Bakugou clicked his tongue.

“That’s all I wanted to say. Just protect them while I’m gone.” They nodded as he turned around and headed back into the house.

The answer was yes. And it was the most thrilling and terrifying thing that Bakugou was completely was ok. He started to live for all the small things that you did that he had noticed over the months he had stayed with you. It sent his stomach rolling and shivers up his spine. It sent him running yet wanting more. He was conflicted yet had made up his mind.

He quietly entered the upper room in which he had moved you. his scowl softened slightly as he gently traced your face. You sighed and cuddled into his hand. A small smile tugged at his lips and he tried to get up so he would sleep on the bottom floor. But your whimper of protest and you drowsy voice made his walls crumble.

“Stay...” Was your sleepy request. He let out a steady low purr as he carefully laid next to you. Your body visibly relaxed and you smiled and curled into his chest.

He knew you would embarrassed in the morning, but right now he just reveled in that he could hold you. So he wrapped his cape and arms around you and dozed.

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