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moons-and-mobility-aids · 1 day ago

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Spoil Me Gently: Chapter 7 - masterlist

Chapter Word Count: 9k words.

Chapter Summary: It's your first date��not just with them, but with the possibility that you are allowed to be adored exactly as you are. The night hums with anticipation, not because of the restaurant's glow or the velvet elegance of their world, but because they wait for you. James, Sirius, and Remus don't sweep you off your feet—they match your pace. Every detail, from a silk-lined handbag stitched with stars to fingers quietly tracing yours beneath the table, tells a truth you hadn't dared to hope for: that care can be intentional, and desire can feel like home. You don't disappear into their orbit—you rise in it. And by the time the entrees arrive, you know this isn't just indulgence. This is reverence.

Tags: fem!reader, disabled!reader, mobility aids, sugar baby!reader, sugar daddy!marauders, famous!marauders, trauma-informed care, slow burn intimacy, chronic pain, sensory overload, adaptive accessories, gift-giving, reader has anxiety, emotional regulation, high-end restaurant scene, accessibility awareness, mutual softness, sexual tension, heavy emotional content, soft luxury

Taglist: @miwi-moore

Three quick taps echo through the silent hallway. Not rushed or hesitant, but measured—a tone that speaks of surety.

Your pulse quickens, not with dread but anticipation. It's the kind of thrill that comes before the curtain rises, before a secret unfolds. A small smile flits across your face because you know who waits beyond the door. Yet, you don't rush to answer.

Instead, you reach for a trinket on the hall table—a compact mirror, its silver surface smudged with fingerprints of the past. This is an old ritual, born not of vanity but control. The lid snaps open with a satisfying click. You watch your own reflection as you apply a coat of bold red lipstick—not for them, but for yourself.

This is your armour. Your declaration. You will not be caught off guard; you will dictate how they see you.

The last stroke is applied with a flourish, your lips pressing together in a defiant smirk. You feel the persona settle around you like a second skin, every bit as real as the first. The mirror snaps shut, and then you move.

You approach the door, hand hovering over the cool metal of the peephole. It's a habit, a reflexive action born from days long past when danger lurked in every shadow, even though now it feels unnecessary. Trust has replaced suspicion, yet some things are hard to unlearn.

There they are—James, Sirius, and Remus—standing like sentinels under the glow of the porch light. Their presence is solid, real, as tangible as the wood grain against your fingertips. Behind them, a sleek car idles at the curb, its silhouette cutting through the hazy glow of the streetlamp. The night is warm, the air thick with the promise of late spring and the whisper of something new unfolding. Everything seems to hold its breath, waiting, watching, as if the world itself senses the gravity of this moment.

Your hand hovers over the doorknob, not in hesitation borne from fear but from a desire to play this game strategically. Let them wait, let the night stretch out until it feels like the world is holding its breath. When you finally turn the handle, it's not because they've won—it's because you've decided the next move.

The door swings open with a silence that belies the gravity of this moment. It should creak, protest against stepping into the unknown. But it doesn't, and that absence of sound only heightens your senses, sharpens the anticipation.

James stands there, his smile the first thing to break through the dim light. It's a curve that speaks of familiarity and yet promises mystery—a contradiction that sends a shiver down your spine, electric and searching. He shifts slightly, a movement as subtle as the play of shadows across his features, but it's enough to suggest anticipation. A silent lure, pulling at the edges of your resolve.

The hallway light catches on the column of his throat, casting a warm glow against his skin. Your gaze follows the path involuntarily, drawn to where his shirt collar sits just below the pulse point. The fabric clings to him, hinting at the strength hidden beneath its folds.

Sirius leans against the doorframe, every line of his body radiating a mischievous charm that's hard to ignore. His silk shirt catches the light just so, unbuttoned far enough to make your breath hitch. You can't help but notice the glint of silver rings on his fingers, one of which he twists absentmindedly, catching your eye with calculated precision. His gaze is like liquid smoke, pouring over you and pausing at the hint of skin exposed where your coat has fallen open. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smile, as if he knows exactly what thoughts are running through your mind—and finds them amusing.

Remus, meanwhile, observes you with an intensity that suggests he's seen past every facade you've ever erected. He remains still, not needing to rely on movement or showy gestures to command your attention. There's a quiet power in his eyes, a steady undercurrent that makes you want to squirm under its scrutiny. His gaze sweeps over you slowly, not devouring but cataloguing, memorising each detail as though it holds a piece to a puzzle he's been trying to solve for centuries. You feel your breath catch, your skin prickling with an awareness that seems to echo from a place your conscious mind hasn't yet reached.

You shift your weight, the cane standing tall beside you. You think you'll feel small under their gaze, but you don't. It's steady, making you feel more grounded than you ever thought possible. It holds you up in ways you never knew you needed. It's a testament to your strength, not a sign of weakness.

James tilts his head, his smile softening at the edges. "Just the cane tonight, then?"

Your fingers trace the contours of the wooden handle, finding comfort in its familiar grain. "It's a good night," you reply, voice steady. "I can manage with just this."

His brow furrows, a hint of concern creeping into his features. "Are you sure you're not overdoing it? You don't have to prove anything to us. You're already more than enough."

That feels different. Not because it's unexpected—it isn't—but because it's sincere. Because he means it. Because he sees you—not as something broken, but as someone who's fought for every step they've taken. And he respects that.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, more genuine this time. "I promise you, I'd let you know if I wasn't managing."

That opens the floodgates.

James steps forward, his voice soft yet filled with playful banter that echoes in the cold night air. "Good, because your cheekbones are doing wonders in this hallway lighting. You look like a silver screen siren from the 1940s who's just gotten away with murder."

"Good," you retort without missing a beat, your voice smooth as silk and just as deadly. The corner of your lips quirk upward into a self-satisfied smirk. "He had it coming. And if you don't watch it, you might be next."

James chuckles, clearly entertained rather than threatened. "I'll be sure to stay on your good side."

"Oh, James," you say, finally meeting his gaze with a glint of mischief, "there is no good side. Just good lighting."

Sirius whistles quietly, a spark of amusement dancing in his grey eyes. "Alright, femme fatale. I didn't realise we were starting the night with theatrics, but I'm here for it." He places a hand dramatically over his chest. "If I start penning sonnets about this moment, don't blame me."

You arch an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile still playing on your lips. "Just make sure they rhyme, I've got standards."

The laughter that fills the air is infectious—warm, unguarded, a little bit giddy. Underneath it all, there's a current of something else, an undercurrent that tugs at the corners of your awareness. It's in the way your hand stirs restlessly at your side, fingers curling and uncurling. It's in the way Sirius's smile fades just a fraction, like a candleflame steadying against a draft. James's grin remains wide, but his gaze lingers on you a moment too long, a touch too still, before flickering back to the others.

They all notice things.

Remus doesn't shatter the illusion, doesn't call out the tension that stretches between each beat of laughter. He waits for the right moment, for the pause in breath and banter.

Then, he asks, "How are your hands tonight?"

The question doesn't startle you—not anymore—but there's something unexpected in the way it lands. Not because he asks, but because he remembers, because he cares enough to inquire without making it sound like pity. You don't answer immediately, your lips tugging into a half-smile instead.

"You always ask as if you're taking notes," you murmur, a hint of challenge creeping into your tone. "Planning an intervention, are you?"

Remus doesn't flinch at the bite in your voice, nor does he retreat. But he pauses, just long enough for you to notice before responding with a dry chuckle. "Only if it comes with a dramatic entrance."

You relent, the corners of your mouth tilting upward as you give in to the shared humour. "They're tight, stiff... but I'm managing."

"Good," he nods, once, and you know he's filed away your response, storing it among countless other details he collects without fanfare. There's no need for gratitude in the exchange—it's already there, unspoken in the look you share, in the trust he neither demands nor assumes but earns nonetheless.

"You alright?" James asks after a moment.

You release a breath you hadn't realised you were holding. "Yeah," you reply, though your voice wavers slightly. "Honestly, I'm a bit nervous. That restaurant looked like it had more forks than I've ever seen in one place. It's like I've been cramming for a test I didn't know about until an hour ago."

Sirius lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed by your candid admission. "Would it help if I caused a distraction with the sommelier so you won't have to ask what an amuse-bouche is?"

Before you can respond, James's tone takes on a note of seriousness that surprises you. "You're not alone there," he admits, his words slow and measured. "Even now, being in places like that feels like a charade half the time, and I was born into it."

Sirius gives a nonchalant shrug, the movement causing his shirt to catch the candlelight. "I used to throw tantrums in fancy restaurants as a kid. Might still if the mood strikes," he adds with a wink.

"Those customs weren't familiar to me either, at first," Remus admits, leaning back in his chair, the lines of his face softened by the gentle smile playing on his lips. "I remember worrying about which glass was appropriate for water and how to pronounce half the things on the menu. It's something you learn over time."

Your laugh echoes around the room, more genuine this time, as some of the tension eases from your shoulders. "So what you're saying is... if I accidentally use my dessert spoon for soup, you won't disown me?"

Sirius shifts closer, his body heat radiating against your side. His voice drops lower, a hint of mischief lacing his words. "You could drink the wine with a straw and I'd still want to lick it off your lips."

"Jesus, Sirius," James interjects, though there's no real bite to his words. He runs a hand through his messy hair, his sigh more amusement than exasperation. "It's not even been ten minutes."

Remus doesn't say anything, just raises one brow like he's tired but entertained, the dry amusement practically radiating.

You let out a genuine laugh then, the sound more like a release than anything else. It's low and bright, cutting through the tension that has built up around you over the past few weeks. It feels rebellious, like going against the world that expects you to be someone else. And for a moment, you allow yourself to bask in it, the freedom of being wanted for who you are.

Sirius moves then, reaching up to adjust your coat. His fingertips brush lightly against the fabric, tracing the lines of your collar as if trying to memorise every detail. It's a simple gesture, one that might pass unnoticed in another context, yet here it bears an intimacy that leaves you conscious of your own heartbeat.

"Truth be told," he murmurs to you, "I had a whole spiel prepared about how the moon pales in comparison to your radiance, but honestly, I'm too awestruck to remember it now."

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough for him to squirm.

"Careful," you say, your voice smooth as velvet draped over steel. "Keep complimenting me like that while wearing silk and I might mistake you for dessert."

Sirius blinks, taken aback at first, then breaks into a grin so wide it rivals the crescent moon above.

You roll your eyes, but it only softens the intensity of your gaze. "You're impossible."

"Perhaps. But I'm impossible in silk and entirely at your mercy, so really, who's winning here?"

Before you can retort, James moves closer, his hand reaching out—not to intrude, but to steady. "Ready, love?" he murmurs, the words a promise and a beginning neither of you wish to postpone.

You nod, breath hitching in anticipation. Not yet stepping into the unknown, but clinging to the precipice with him by your side.

"Just a moment," you whisper, more to yourself than to him.

You lean against the doorframe for support, your hand seeking the switch to turn off the hallway light. The house dims as the light fades, leaving only the faint glow from outside to guide you. You hear the clock ticking, each second punctuating the quiet stillness of the house.

With a final glance back, you close the front door softly, the sound resonating in the silence. Each footstep on the gravel path feels like a concession to the reality of the situation.

Your hand finds his, fingers intertwining with an ease that sends a shiver down your spine. It's like following a script you didn't know you knew, every action leading to the next with an inevitability that both terrifies and soothes you.

His grip tightens just slightly — not enough to hurt, but enough to ground you. It's a silent reassurance that, despite everything, there is a constant here.

The car gleams under the streetlight, a beacon amid the shadows. It's more than just a vehicle; it's a statement, a declaration that not all is as it seems. The engine purrs quietly, almost alive in its readiness, waiting to whisk you away into the unknown.

James releases your hand briefly to open the rear door. The motion is smooth, practiced, as though he's done this a thousand times before.

You move to get in, but Sirius is already there, his presence a magnetic force that draws you in despite yourself.

"Got you," he murmurs, his voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves in the wind. His hand brushes against your elbow, fingers tracing the pulse point there with a familiarity that steadies and unnerves you all at once. His touch lingers for a moment longer than necessary, then withdraws, leaving behind an echo of warmth.

You slide into the back seat, and the leather upholstery embraces you, still warm from the day's sun. It's the smell that hits you next—not overpowering, but intimate, a blend of citrus and warm amber undercut by something darker, more masculine. Vetiver? And is that a hint of incense? Each note seems carefully selected, layered together to create a scent that is uniquely them—enticing and just a little dangerous.

James slides into the driver's seat with practiced ease. His eyes meet yours in the rearview mirror, and for a moment he doesn't speak, just holds your gaze as if committing this instant to memory.

"Everyone all right back there?" James asks at last, his voice steady over the murmur of the engine coming to life.

"Yeah," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's perfect."

Remus settles into the passenger seat next to James. His presence is felt rather than seen, the air shifting subtly around him. He adjusts the temperature controls, changes the radio station, and rests one hand on the armrest, grounding himself and, by extension, everyone else.

"Let us know if anything feels off," Remus says without turning around. His voice is low, threaded with an undertone of concern that wraps around you like a protective charm.

You nod, even though he can't see you. "No, it's... it's perfect. Thank you."

Soft music fills the space, cinematic and sweeping, punctuated by the rhythmic cadence of the road beneath. It's like a pulse in the background, a heartbeat that quickens your own.

The car door on your right swings shut with a soft click, and then Sirius is there. His seatbelt fastens with a quiet snick, and his hand reaches for yours without hesitation. There's no glance down, no question asked — just the surety of fingers finding yours as if it were second nature.

His touch is warm and steady, an anchor in the swirling storm of your thoughts. The hold isn't tight but firm, a silent vow wrapped in leather and skin. You can feel his thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, each movement sending shivers up your arm that steal the breath from your lungs.

"Comfortable?" His voice is low, smooth like the ride of the car beneath you.

"Yeah." Your reply is a whisper, barely audible above the hum of the engine. You squeeze his hand, seeking reassurance in the strength of his grip.

He doesn't squeeze back, but he doesn't let go either. The pressure is just right, not too much to be painful, but enough to make your heart skip a beat. It's as if he knows exactly what you need, even before you do.

James fiddles with the gearshift, fingers drumming out a restless rhythm on the leather. Remus leans back against his seat, one arm draped over the door, eyes watching the path ahead even though the car remains stationary. Beside you, Sirius exhales, slow and measured, a release of breath that feels more like a secret than anything else. There's a tension between your bodies, not quite touching, but close enough to matter.

The engine hums to life, a quiet vibration that shifts something in the air. It isn't broken, this silence, just unfolding—stretching out into the space where stillness gives way to motion, anticipation to desire. The cabin is warm, the seats enveloping you in plush comfort, yet your skin tingles as if exposed to the crisp evening air.

The final rays of sunset cast long shadows across your legs, painting them in hues of fading light and encroaching dark. You don't look at Sirius, but you feel his gaze on you, tangible as a touch, as if he's reaching out to trace the contours of your face, to steal a kiss in the shared secrecy of twilight.

"So," James begins, his voice cutting through the quiet like a warm knife. He glances at you in the rearview mirror, eyes twinkling with both innocence and mischief. "How's the embroidery going? Stitch any particularly good curses into pillowcases this week?"

"Not exactly curses," you respond without missing a beat, the corners of your mouth twitching in amusement. "More like strategic needlework."

Sirius's interest is immediately piqued, his grip tightening around your hand as if to say 'go on.'

You stretch out your legs, crossing them at the ankle as you lean back against the plush seat. "A man sent me a message with his order," you begin casually, as though discussing the weather. "Said he loved the design but asked if I could 'tone down the queer vibe' because he didn't want to 'offend guests.'"

From the front seat, Remus lets out a low groan. "Charming."

You nod, unperturbed. "So I made it just as shown—perfect tension, beautiful finish—and backed it with fabric that looks almost like a rose pattern."

The car falls silent, except for the hum of the engine and the occasional whoosh of another vehicle passing by.

"But if you look closely," you say, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "one of those roses is subtly giving the finger. It's so subtle, in fact, that it could pass for an innocent flourish in the design—unless you know to look for it."

Sirius barks out a laugh that echoes through the car. "That's art. That's rebellion."

James is shaking with silent laughter, his glasses slipping down his nose. "That's customer service."

You grin. "If you ask me to closet the art, you get a small floral 'screw you' sewn in for free. I'm generous like that."

Remus shakes his head, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes when he glances back at you. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

"Thank you." The words are sweet on your tongue, a compliment taken and cherished. "I do try."

James chuckles, and the sound fills the car, warmer than any fire. "Remind me never to piss you off in writing. Or in general, really."

"Good plan," Sirius says, already leaning closer, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "She makes passive-aggression an art form. I'm thinking of hiring her next time I need to sever ties with someone."

You look between them, chin tilted just so, mouth curved ever so slightly upwards. "If spite were currency," you say, voice as smooth as silk, "I'd be wealthy enough to buy the entire neighbourhood, evict a landlord or two, and still have change for champagne."

Sirius chokes on a laugh. James lets out a strangled groan, like he's been physically struck. Remus merely hums—a note of approval, perhaps, or curiosity.

"You should be taking notes," you say, turning back to Sirius. "And speaking of theatrics, what about you, drama queen? Any major wardrobe malfunctions this week, or just the usual high-stakes fashion meltdowns?"

Sirius gasps, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded. "You wound me. My chaos is both intentional and meticulously orchestrated." He pauses, letting the moment hang before continuing with a flourish. "But yes, picture this: I'm balanced on a sculpture made of glass rods—don't ask why—and draped in silken threads, strapped into a harness that would fail any safety inspection. The director's yelling for more vulnerability, so I raise one leg, as if I'm in some perfume advert. Then snap! A rod breaks. I fall, all tragic grace. My stylist is sobbing. Somewhere, a producer faints."

"You forgot to mention you were dancing on said sculpture prior to the incident," Remus interjects without turning around.

"I was not!" Sirius splutters, indignant.

"You were, in six-inch heels no less," Remus replies, deadpan. His voice is dry as dust and just as sharp.

James's laughter is a booming echo in the car, his hand nearly hitting the steering wheel as he doubles over. You feel a laugh burst from your own lips, so strong that it makes your sides ache. Sirius looks on with a triumphant grin, his eyes gleaming with unspoken pride. Even Remus, always reserved, can't help but let a rare smile soften his features. When his gaze drifts back to you, there's a warmth tucked into the corners of his eyes, subtle and unexpected.

The conversation ebbs and flows like a tide around you, pulling you under in waves of laughter and camaraderie. Voices overlap, then fall silent only to rise again in a different melody. You lose track of who started what story or who laughed first at a shared joke. James asks about your latest tapestry piece, and you describe the delicate gold thread that refused to stay tamed. Sirius jumps in with an outrageous theory about embroidery materials having minds of their own. Remus counters with dry wit layered beneath a veneer of sarcasm. Through it all, you find yourself swept up in the current, forgetting for a moment the world outside this car.

James' eyes flick back to you, a hint of something more serious in their depths. "Your work," he says, leaning in, "it's getting better every time I see it. That last piece—the moth with the sword? It was incredible. You made it look... fierce, but also delicate. Like it could win a fight and then write a sonnet about it."

The compliment sends a jolt straight to your heart, making it flutter like the wings of that very moth. "That's... that's what I was going for," you admit, your voice barely above a whisper as though sharing a secret.

Outside, the world blurs past. Streetlights become streaks of gold against the darkening sky, glass buildings stretch upwards until they disappear, and neon signs bleed into one another. It's all a blur of motion and colour, too fast to take in. But inside the limo, everything is slow and deliberate.

The music is a gentle pulse in the background, filling the spaces between words with its steady rhythm. It's there, but not intrusive—much like the way Sirius' thumb traces circles on the back of your hand. You realise he hasn't let go since he took it at the gallery. And the truth is, you haven't wanted him to.

As the car slows, you feel a gentle ease in tension. The engine's purr softens to a whisper, and the tires glide over the slick surface of the road with an almost imperceptible hum. The noise of the world outside recedes, traded for this moment's quiet anticipation. It's as if the city itself is holding its breath, making space for what is about to unfold.

Ahead, the restaurant emerges from the evening shadows, an oasis of warmth amidst the urban sprawl. It doesn't just appear—it reveals itself, each clean line and soft glow of light unfolding like a whispered secret shared between old friends. The building has a confidence about it, exclusive yet unassuming. Its design doesn't shout for attention; it beckons to those who already belong. Glass panels catch the glow from within, their reflections not merely of light but of promise—that within these walls, something remarkable awaits.

James eases the car into a parking spot a little way down the street, one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on his thigh. The shift into park is smooth, almost practiced. "Is this alright?" he asks, not looking over, but there's a certainty to his tone that suggests he already knows the answer. His fingers drum a steady beat against the leather seat, keeping time with the low hum of music in the background.

"Perfect," you reply, and you mean it.

The engine cuts out, and the car settles into stillness. The doors unlock with a soft click, an invitation into the night. You step out, the scent of the sea and blooming hedges filling your lungs. Even the air feels different here—freer, somehow—after being cocooned inside the car. Streetlights flicker on in the distance, casting long, golden shadows that stretch across the road. Everything seems softer, somehow, as if the world has adjusted its focus just for this moment.

There's a subtle shift in your grip on the cane, a brief pause that is neither a falter nor an indication of discomfort, merely a repositioning. But Sirius, ever perceptive, senses the change immediately. His stride slows without missing a beat, adjusting to your pace as if it were second nature. He doesn't comment or question, his actions seamless, like the moon tracing its unwavering path around the earth.

"Alright there?" His voice is low, meant for your ears only.

"Fine," you reply, your nod almost imperceptible. "Just finding my rhythm."

"Good," he murmurs, and there's approval in that single syllable, a quiet acknowledgement of your resilience.

Remus moves to your other side, offering his arm with a casualness that suggests it's second nature. There's no grand gesture, no overt show of chivalry—just the quiet assurance of support, an invitation left open for you to accept or decline.

He feels steadier than you would have guessed, warm against the chill that has nothing to do with the night air. His scent is subtle but grounding, something like coffee and sandalwood that lingers on the edge of your senses—a strange comfort amid the whirlwind of the evening.

"Thank you," you utter, the words barely more than a breath. There's weight to them, unspoken layers of gratitude and relief that hang in the silence between footfalls.

"Always," Remus replies, his voice low yet firm, the affirmation wrapped in an understated promise.

A look passes over James's face, his grin widening as he takes in the sight before him. "Well, aren't you three a proper sight? Should I walk behind like your underdressed servant?"

"Only if you open the door for us and announce our arrival as royalty," you retort, a hint of playfulness seeping into your tone despite the lingering tension.

"Her Royal Highness, Lord Chaos, and the Noble Professor," Sirius adds, flourishing an imaginary cape over his shoulder.

A chuckle escapes from Remus. "Try that, and I'll pay the waiter to ignore you for the rest of the night."

James joins in the laughter. "Joke's on you, Lupin—I thrive on being ignored."

The restaurant entrance looms, its heavy glass doors reflecting the world outside. A staff member approaches smoothly, his movements practiced and precise. He pulls open one of the doors with ease, the smile on his face warm, welcoming. There's a flicker of recognition as he sees James, a slight deepening of his nod. And when Sirius steps forward, that recognition sharpens, becomes something more akin to respect.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And everything stills.

There is no surprise in his eyes, no need for reassessment or doubt. His focus remains steady, unblinking. As if he had been told exactly who to look for, who to expect. And there's an awareness there, professional yet personal. A quiet acknowledgment that says, we knew you were coming. We remembered.

Your breath catches.

Sirius leans closer, his voice low, meant only for your ears. "You're the star," he murmurs. "We're just here to orbit."

Your heart gives an odd flutter at his words, but you straighten your spine, meeting his gaze with renewed determination. A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, more genuine than any expression you've worn all day.

"Then I hope you brought your telescopes."

His grin widens as if he's won some silent victory, and he steps back, allowing you the space to lead once more.

The interior of the restaurant is a study in understated elegance. Warm light spills from sconces along the walls, casting a flattering glow over each meticulously set table. The ceiling soars high above, yet the acoustics are impeccably designed—every conversation feels intimate, every laugh a private joke shared among friends. There's an air of exclusivity, not imposed by velvet ropes or bouncer-deterred lines outside, but by the careful curation of ambiance itself. Each table feels like its own secluded island, buoyed by ripples of soft music and the distant clink of cutlery on china.

The hostess greets you by name.

Not James. Not Sirius. Not Remus.

You.

"Welcome," she says, her smile practiced but pleasant as she extends an arm towards the dining room in a graceful arc. "Your table is ready."

Your gaze flickers over the boys. None of them seem the least bit surprised by this turn of events, and James looks particularly pleased—almost triumphant. It's as if he knew it would happen this way.

"You planned this," you accuse, though there's a playful lilt to your voice as you pass him.

James shrugs, his face lighting up with a boyish grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I merely suggested that you were the most important person they'd be serving tonight. They listened."

"He also told them to angle the table just right so the light hits his good side," Sirius adds, unable to resist joining in.

"Strategic priorities," James replies without missing a beat, maintaining a straight face despite the twinkle in his eye.

As you follow the host, you cannot help but notice the path to your table is clear—no awkwardly placed pieces of furniture to manoeuvre around, no last-minute adjustments required. The table itself is round and intimate, the settings already laid out with precision. The cushion beneath you offers just the right amount of firmness, and the tablecloth hangs smoothly, devoid of creases. The chair is pushed in at the perfect angle, leaving enough space for you to move without feeling cramped. It's as if someone took great care to ensure everything was arranged just so. No detail has been overlooked.

Remus guides you to an empty seat, taking the chair on your right. His hand brushes your elbow until you're settled, a silent reassurance that you're not alone despite the strangeness of it all. To your left, Sirius sits with a grace that belies his stature, crossing one leg over the other and drumming his fingers against the tablecloth before stilling them.

James takes the seat across from you, leaning back in his chair with an ease that suggests years of refining the art of being both present and aloof. He folds his hands on the table, eyes never straying far from your face.

The hum of conversation swells as the room fills, glasses clinking in a symphony of normality. Yet beneath it, something shifts—imperceptible to most but thunderous to you. It's not immediate, not a sudden quake. It's a slow crumble, the erosion of what was once solid ground beneath your feet. You take a breath, trying to steady yourself, even as you catalogue each sound, each flicker of movement in your periphery.

Your palms press flat against your thighs, the cool linen of the napkin a stark contrast to the warmth of your skin. The sensation is grounding, tethering you to reality even as your instincts scream to retreat. The calm settling in your chest feels foreign—too still, too quiet. It's not peace, it's the eye of the storm, the deceptive lull before everything collapses into chaos.

The room is not spinning, but everything feels wrong. The light dances strangely off the silverware, and the murmur of conversation is just loud enough to be a constant reminder of the people surrounding you. You straighten a fork, smooth out your napkin, and align your plate until it forms a perfect barrier between you and the world.

"Here we go again," you think, your fingers tightening around the napkin. Control, that's all you seek—a way to keep everything from spiralling into chaos. But the harder you try to maintain that façade of perfection, the more you feel the cracks starting to form. Your muscles tense, first in your right thigh, then creeping up to your shoulder, finally making its presence known in your clenched jaw.

You want to be present, to smile and charm as you've always done, but your body betrays you. Every nerve ending screams danger, and no amount of reason can convince them otherwise.

And then—

Remus's hand slips beneath the table, finding yours where it rests on your thigh—not commanding, not intrusive. Simply there. His fingers are warm, solid against your skin, anchoring you to the moment when everything else threatens to pull you under. But this time, the touch stirs something more than just comfort. His thumb traces a slow path across your knuckles, and a spark zips up your spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You suck in a sharp breath, turning to look at him, but Remus's gaze remains fixed on the menu before him, as if he hasn't just ignited a firestorm within your chest.

From your left, Sirius leans in close—too close. His voice is barely above a whisper, a low growl that sends a shiver down your spine even as it warms your cheek. "If this place didn't have such fancy napkins, I'd already have you on my lap."

Your reaction isn't a blush or an intake of breath. Instead, you turn slowly, your lips almost brushing against his as you respond, the glint in your eyes mirroring the challenge in your words. "If your self-control depends on napkin fabric," you say, leaning in ever so slightly, "we've got bigger issues, Black."

There's a beat, a pause where all that exists is the charged space between you two. And then, softer but no less sharp, you add, "But maybe I like being the issue."

It's not flirtation—it's defiance, a game of push-and-pull that has nothing to do with teasing and everything to do with power. And Sirius? He grins like you've just handed him his next grand adventure.

James's knee brushes against your own beneath the table, and it doesn't retreat. Doesn't shy away from the contact but maintains it—a point of connection in the midst of chaos. His eyes meet yours across the spread of food, and in them, you see unspoken promises that echo the words he'd uttered before.

"Are you alright?" Remus's quiet voice cuts through the moment, pulling your attention back to the present—not entirely away from the contact under the table, but enough for you to focus on his concerned gaze.

You nod slightly, fingers tracing the edge of your glass. "Better," you murmur, the word barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears.

James's voice lowers a notch, a caress meant only for your ears. "Take your time, love. We're not going anywhere."

Sirius chuckles at that, a low rumble of amusement that vibrates down your spine. "Unless she asks us nicely."

A soft laugh escapes your lips, surprising even yourself. You're not okay, not by any stretch of the imagination, but you're also not falling apart. Not yet, anyway. You're somewhere in between, teetering on the precipice of an unknown future. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don't feel the need to hide it.

"Honestly," you start, your voice steadier now, "this is the most dangerous table I've ever sat at."

Sirius tilts his head, feigning innocence while a corner of his mouth starts to quirk. "Is that a compliment or a warning?"

"Both," you reply, an unwilling smile tugging at your lips despite the gravity of your words.

James chuckles, the sound warm and inviting. "We'll do our best not to overwhelm you with the atmosphere. Can't promise anything about us, though."

"It's early," you say, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "So I'm keeping my eyes open."

"As you should," Sirius agrees, his grin widening as his leg brushes against yours under the table.

Remus lets out a soft huff of laughter, the sound like unexpected sunshine on a cloudy day. "Be careful, or we might start behaving just to confuse you." His thumb continues its slow circuit over your knuckles, grounding and familiar.

The hum of conversation continues as before, the volume unchanging. The pressure in your chest remains, but it's bearable now, only a dull echo of its former intensity. The world feels less like a foreign land, your senses finding solid ground in the mundane.

The menus are large and imposing, printed on thick cardstock with elegant fonts that seem to dance across the page. You handle it delicately, half-expecting it to light up or emit some strange sound. As your eyes scan the contents, the descriptions read more like abstract poetry than culinary detail. One line reads "a study in scarlet on forested textures," and you pause, brow furrowing at the cryptic statement. The presentation feels almost theatrical, as if the act of ordering food requires an understanding of performance art. You cast a glance around the table, wondering if anyone else shares your confusion.

"It just means there's roots and nuts involved," Remus murmurs beside you, his gaze not leaving the menu. His voice is dry yet amicable, as though he's letting you in on a private joke.

You turn to him, grateful for the translation. "I was half-expecting it to be served with a dramatic monologue and a live woodland creature."

"Only upon special request, I'm afraid," Remus responds, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

A chuckle comes from across the table where James sits, watching the exchange. "Don't give her ideas, Moony. She'll order one just to see what happens."

You shrug lightly, playing along. "If I'm to order something named after a haunted forest, I expect some element of surprise."

Sirius's voice cuts through the banter, his tone laced with mock gravity. "If my meal doesn't arrive shrouded in dry ice and accompanied by a low sense of dread, I'm sending it back."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Remus mutters, almost under his breath.

James gives you a mock-serious look. "Need help deciding? We can go halfsies on an order. One dish for adventure, one for comfort. A plan that's as foolproof as it is delicious."

"Appetizer roulette," you muse aloud, eyes gleaming at the thought. "I like it. Certainly safer than the emotional salad."

A low chuckle rumbles in Sirius's chest as he leans back in his chair, arms folded across his broad chest. "You'll be sharing some of mine as well. I'm ordering based on your eyebrows."

You blink at him, bemused. "My eyebrows?"

"They arch a little when you're interested. It's quite telling," he says, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as if he's privy to a secret joke.

You laugh, brushing off his comment with a shake of your head. "That's not how menus work, Sirius."

"It is when I use them," he retorts, grinning.

"Try this one," Remus suggests, pointing to an item on your menu. "Don't let the pretentious description put you off. It's far better than it sounds."

"Is it?" you ask, leaning in to read the fine print: 'A Symphony of Spring in Five Textures.' The words seem more suited to a poetry collection than a meal. "It sounds like an edible hallucination."

"Exactly." He straightens up, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "But in a good way."

The server approaches, a question on his lips, but James is already there, leaning in slightly to indicate he's ready to order. His voice is steady, carrying an air of experience that hints at many nights spent in places like this, navigating menus and wine lists with ease. You watch as he effortlessly takes command of the situation, not out of arrogance, but simply because it seems to be second nature.

"Is everyone amenable to sharing?" James asks, looking around the table. "Or does anyone have any dietary restrictions?"

There's a pause as everyone considers, then shakes their heads. James turns to you last, his gaze steady and considerate. "And you? Are you all right with what we've chosen?"

"Yeah," you reply, surprised by the consideration. "Thanks."

"Excellent." James nods, pleased, and hands the menu back. "Then let's begin."

The first course arrives, dishes placed before each of you with a grace that speaks volumes about the staff's training. Oysters rest on beds of crushed ice and seaweed, their briny scent wafting up to mingle with the aroma of fresh bread. Tiny landscapes of vegetables are arranged with an artist's precision, each morsel a testament to the chef's skill. Wine glasses are filled with a non-alcoholic red wine that sparkles in the candlelight, and even the butter has been shaped into intricate roses.

You watch in awe as each dish is presented, the food delicate and artfully prepared, almost too beautiful to consume. But as the scents envelop you—saltwater and earth, the tang of vinegar, the warmth of baked goods—you feel your stomach growl in anticipation.

James picks up a spoon, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "Okay, ten points to anyone who can identify this without asking."

"Truffle foam," Remus says almost immediately, and James nods in approval.

"Damn," Sirius mutters, poking at the fluffy substance with his own spoon. "I was hoping it was cloud essence."

"It does smell like overconfidence," you add, smirking as you lift a bite to your lips.

Sirius points at you, feigning horror. "See? I told you she was dangerous."

The conversation flows easily, a meandering river of shared memories and experiences. They speak of meals savoured in distant lands, of challenges faced and overcome together, their camaraderie unyielding despite the passing of time. Sirius begins to recount a tale of a particularly memorable dinner in Berlin, where, he claims, the dessert had been watching him.

"It did have eyes, I swear it on my life," Sirius insists, his voice tinged with mock horror.

"You had too much to drink that night, it was just a soufflé," James counters, a grin tugging at his features.

"A very judgmental soufflé," Sirius mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. "And it—"

"—did not make fun of your choice of blazer," Remus interjects before Sirius can embellish further.

You lift your wine glass, taking a small sip as you watch them, the corners of your mouth twitching upwards. "But was the soufflé wrong?"

Laughter erupts from James so abruptly he nearly chokes on his drink. "Christ, you're one of us already."

The conversation ebbs, and you seize the moment to inquire further about his coaching. "You've mentioned mentoring before," you begin, "and I'd love to hear more about it."

James shifts in his seat, and behind his glasses, something lights up—recollection mixed with fondness. "Well," he starts, leaning back, "there was this one time..."

And so he launches into a story about a young midfielder who'd been with the team for only a few weeks. "He got spooked by a stray football during practice. It came hurtling towards him like a missile, and he froze."

James's hands shape the scene in the air between you, mimicking the arc of the ball, the wide eyes of the boy. His voice takes on a higher pitch as he imitates the kid blurting out an explanation, laced with panic and embarrassment.

"The thing is," James continues, his tone dropping back to its usual timbre, "he wasn't afraid of the ball. He was scared of letting the team down."

The wineglass pauses halfway to your lips. You can almost see the boy on the field, chest heaving, face flushed with mortification. And there's James, watching from the sidelines, ready to intervene not as a coach, but as a mentor.

"Tell me," Sirius says, changing the subject, "what does silence feel like to you? Is it a companion or an enemy?"

You pause, considering. "It depends," you finally answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes it's peaceful, like a blanket that wraps around me. Other times it's stifling, a reminder of how alone I am."

"I get that," he murmurs, his gaze thoughtful.

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees, studying your profile. The firelight flickers across his scarred face, painting him in hues of warmth and shadow. "And what has been making you feel stronger lately?" he asks.

Your eyes drop to your hands, fingers tracing patterns on the bedspread. "Having a routine. Asserting my boundaries. Taking up space without apologising. Choosing rest over productivity. Moving at my own pace."

A slow nod from Remus acknowledges your words, and in the dim light, you think you see a hint of approval in his eyes. "That is power," he agrees softly, "the kind that grows from within."

Even as the conversation ebbs and flows around you, there's a sense of peace that seems to settle along your shoulders like a warm blanket. The laughter is real here, the camaraderie genuine. It's such a stark contrast to the cold isolation of the Manor, it's almost disorienting.

And then his hands are moving under the table, your eyes tracking the movement before you can stop them. You're in the middle of taking a sip, the glass still cool against your lips, when you see it—a flash of black, the rustle of paper.

A gift bag appears on your lap as if by magic, and for a moment, you're too stunned to react. Sirius's hand lingers just a second longer than necessary before retreating, dark eyes watching you for a reaction.

You raise an eyebrow at him slowly, the corners of your mouth twitching into a smirk. "If that's lingerie, I'm making you try it on first."

For a moment, he looks taken aback, then his lips curl into a devilish grin. "You say that like it's a threat, not a fantastic incentive."

The brief brush of Sirius's fingers against yours as he releases the shopping bag sends a jolt up your arm. It's grounding, a reminder that despite his smooth veneer and sharp wit, there's something more at play here. The bag is heavy, its contents settled with intention, not merely tossed in.

Your own fingers tremble slightly as they curl around the handles. The material of the bag is unyielding, thick and textured, unlike the flimsy paper carriers you're used to. There's no rustling, no hint of movement within. It feels solid, as though whatever lies inside carries weight beyond the physical. Whatever this is, it wasn't thrown together in haste. Every detail speaks of deliberate choice.

Peeling back the layers of tissue paper, you go slowly, almost reverently. Even the slightest tear might feel like an affront to the care taken in packaging. Your breath hitches as the first item comes into view—a handbag, but not just any handbag. It's structured, the lines clean and unfussy. Its simplicity belies the obvious craftsmanship, the understated elegance of true luxury that doesn't need to shout its presence.

You pause, your breath released in a quiet exhale you hadn't realized you were holding. Your fingertips hover over the bag, drawn to its sheen yet hesitant, aware of the gravity this exchange holds.

But it's not the logo, nor the price tag that likely came with such craftsmanship, or even the material itself that catches your attention.

It's the details.

The way the main compartment opens wide and smooth, revealing strong zippers and magnetic closures that promise no sudden snaps against your fingers. The base, slightly wider than the rest, ensuring stability wherever it's set down. And inside, a treasure trove of thoughtfully placed compartments: a pocket just the right size for your pill organizer, another padded one for your phone, a loop that would perfectly fit your foldable cane, a clip for your keys so they're always within reach, a slim slot that seems almost tailor-made for your heating pad. This isn't just any bag. It's a bag designed with you in mind.

And then there is the lining—it stands out, an oasis amidst the desert hues. Midnight blue silk draws your eyes in, the fabric shimmering like the night sky. And there, subtly embroidered in silver thread along the base, is a constellation map.

Your eyes widen, blinking once, twice as you take it in.

Remus leans in slightly, his voice a soft whisper against your ear. "It's the night sky from the date we saw your profile."

You swallow, hard. Because this level of detail—this sort of memory—it's not just impressive. It's unexpected. It's thoughtful on a level you'd not imagined.

But they didn't stop there.

You find a small tin of balm tucked in one of the side pockets. You recognise the scent even before you uncap it, filling the air with hints of lavender and chamomile. It's your favourite, the one you use on days when you need an extra reminder that you are deserving of care and kindness.

Next, you pull out something wrapped delicately in tissue paper. Unfolding it reveals a handkerchief, not just any kind but one made of silk, its pale ivory colour reminiscent of old-world elegance. But what truly catches your eye is the embroidery—lines of poetry stitched carefully by hand, each letter a testament to patience and attention. They're your words, taken from a post you shared months ago, now returned to you as tangible proof of being heard, being seen.

You catch your breath, fingers tracing over the familiar verses. The thread is real beneath your touch, just as the weight of this moment is real—the gravity of kindness extended without condition or expectation. Your throat tightens as you try to form words, but they stick, lodged somewhere between gratitude and disbelief.

James watches you, his gaze soft around the edges. "It's alright to feel overwhelmed," he says gently, leaning forward ever so slightly. "Just don't ever think this is too much for you or that you're too much for us."

His words strike a chord within you, resonating with the part of you that always questions if you're taking up too much space, if the careful attention you receive comes with invisible strings attached. But here, now, with evidence of their sincerity laid bare before you, you realise that maybe, just maybe, there are no strings. Just presence. Just proof.

Tears well in your eyes, but they refuse to fall. Instead, they shimmer and dance, casting prism-like reflections of the world around you. Your hand flies to your mouth, a vain attempt to still the tremors that betray your disbelief. Sirius watches you, his usual smirk absent, replaced by a quiet pride that hums beneath the surface.

"See? You're not so hard to shop for," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to shatter this fragile moment. "You just needed someone to take you seriously."

A shaky laugh bubbles up from your chest, escaping before you can stop it. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind when I said I was difficult to shop for."

Remus shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips. His eyes hold a warmth you've rarely seen. "We were never going to get you something generic."

Your fingers trace the contours of the bag's interior, the cool silk sliding against your skin like a secret shared between old friends. It's a mirror, reflecting back every part of you that's been ignored or dismissed, screaming in silent rebellion: We see you. We know you. The stitches are meticulous, the zippers smooth—a testament to attention to detail that leaves you breathless.

"You made room," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "Not just for me, but for how I live, move, and carry things."

James grins at you, a flash of white against the backdrop of shadows. "It's yours, after all. It had to work for you."

You look at them, each face a beacon in the dim light. Sirius, eyes bright and challenging. Remus, lips curved in a soft smile that holds the promise of understanding. James, calm and steady, a rock amidst the storm.

And the sensation wells up within you again, solid and undeniable.

You were seen.

But more than that—you were chosen. Deliberately. Completely. And nothing about you scared them away.

#marauders era #marauders au #marauders fanfic #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders x you #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x you #james potter x reader #james potter x you #sirius black x reader #sirius black x you #chantelle writes fic

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semper-legens · 4 months ago

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8. The Colossus of Rhodes, by Caroline Lawrence

Owned: Yes Page count: 194 My summary: The children are on the case. Children have been going missing from Ostia, probably sold as slaves in Greece, and they set sail to find them. But there’s danger in the air. Things keep going wrong on the ship - and Lupus has another motive. His mother is still alive, still out there somewhere. And he’s going to find her, no matter what. My rating: 4/5

Back to Roman Mysteries, and we're entering what, for me, is sort of a slump era. These are the books I reread far less than the others; I don't remember there being a particular reason for that, just that they weren't the ones I was interested in over the others. That's not to say that they weren't interesting, just that for whatever reason my ten year old self didn't obsess over these ones quite as much as others. Anyway, I'm overexplaining something that probably didn't need to be explained. This is a good reflection of the stakes being a lot higher in these books - not just content with helping freeborn children who were kidnapped into slavery, the kids are now actively seeking the people behind this slavery ring and looking to bring them to justice. Too bad there's others looking to get in their way…

Lupus is our focal character this time - not only is the newly-christened Delphina his ship, but he's looking out for his mother. He was told that she was alive and safe, and wanted to return to her and his home island of Symi. Unfortunately, she made a pledge to Apollo that, if Lupus was alive and safe, she'd give her life to him - and Lupus has just missed her. It ratchets up the drama, in admittedly a soap opera way, but I like that Lupus is acting like a pretty realistic kid here. He's singlemindedly devoted to finding his mother, unable to just wait a few days so that they can investigate the missing kids first, and ends up delaying the journey a few days because of his reckless behaviour. It isn't bad that Lupus wanted to keep searching for his mother, of course, but the reality of the situation is made very clear and there's consequences to his actions, which is a pretty mature way of handling this character journey for the audience. It's hard not to feel for poor Lupus here. Kid's had a hard enough life, and he's not even ten yet.

A new character enters in this book - Gaius Valerius Flaccus, whose significance is not yet apparent, but who (spoilers!) will end up marrying Flavia. He's about eighteen or nineteen, which to my child's mind on a first read was practically an adult, but to my almost-thirty year old mind now is just a baby. He's arrogant, in the way of rich teenagers, but gets humbled in the course of the narrative somewhat and actually proves to be useful for the investigation. He doesn't come off particularly well in this book, though. Part of that is Flavia's automatic dislike of him that leads to her suspecting him of wrongdoing and shunning him when they come into contact, part of that is the fact that he does come off as a rich kid with pretensions beyond his limited ability, though he does mellow a little bit by the end of the story. I have a vague liking for Flaccus, though on re-evaluation I don't know why - he's actually alright here, but a few books down the line, he's…less so.

But this book is once again about slavery, and I always admire how this series treats the idea of slavery - it doesn't sugar-coat it, and it provides a slightly more nuanced view of how slavery was in Ancient Rome. Nubia finds herself experiencing flashbacks on the Delphina, because the ship used to be the slave-ship Vespa that took her from her home to Rome. The fates of enslaved children are brutally laid out - children made to weave and discarded when they are blinded by the work, other children (the pretty ones) being taken away to unexplained but subtextually awful fates for anyone with the knowledge of what that implies. There's another horrible subtext with the boy Flaccus is enslaving, Zetes - one of the antagonists references that Zetes' highborn father would be angry with how Flaccus has been 'using' him, Zetes is described as being very beautiful, and Flaccus despite not being shown to physically punish Zetes is abjectly horrified to learn of Zetes' high birth…reading between the lines paints a very ugly picture that likely would go over the heads of kids who don't know about sex and sexual abuse, but are still there for the older reader in the know.

This is less about this book specifically and more about the series generally, but I think Roman Mysteries does a good job overall at portraying that, even for the enslaved people in better situations, slavery is still slavery. Flavia treats Nubia as a friend, but we see in Pirates of Pompeii that she could just as easily mistreat Nubia - the freedoms Nubia has can be taken away from her so easily. The kids don't seem to care that much about non-freeborn children being enslaved, but the lot of Leta in that same book shows that abuse was rampant, and the murder of orphans and enslaved girls in the arena Gladiator from Capua is treated as horrifically as it should be. Later in the series, Nubia is almost tortured for Flavia's oversight when freeing her, showing that the Roman legal system was brutal to those they enslaved, and the point is made in Pirates that runaway slaves would be crucified. And Sisyphus, despite having a pretty good life, still has the happy ending of being freed in a later book, showing that even a person who is well-treated longs for and deserves to be legally free. The books encourage the reader to have empathy for the victims of slavery while showing the characters have period-appropriate biases, and I think that's a good nuance to have, particularly for this audience.

Next, more research, and the history of the Caribbean.

#Roman Mysteries #Caroline Lawrence #bookblr #book blog #book blogger #4

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lasatfat · 1 year ago

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dadwc/thedasweekend info

general info:

I'm most familiar with the Inquisition roster, and I've played Origins enough to get a handle on those guys, I think. DA2, I haven't played as much. I'd avoid Awakenings and Absolution for now, because I haven't got around to them yet. I also haven't played Veilguard, but I'm developing some Rook ideas.

If you want your prompt to be part of one event over the other, please specify in some way in the ask. I'll make sure you get some kind of notif either way.

Please specify the prompt list you're using, if you can, so I can link back to it. Don't worry if you can't.

I'll be reposting stuff to AO3 by default, but if you'd rather I didn't repost for your prompt, I will absolutely respect that.

OT3/poly prompts are welcome, cracky ships are welcome, rarepairs are welcome. "LI swaps" are welcome (e.g. my Surana romances Alistair in my game, but you can request her with Morrigan, for example. Or a non-romanceable character. Anything you like). Nothing too dark, though, please.

If you send me prompts for platonic interactions, I will love you forever. I will give you a little digital kiss/hug/handshake/high five/wave.

If you send me something that I have a real mental block against for some reason, I will let you know and you can send in another prompt, if you want to.

If I combine prompts, I'll post one with a screenshot of the other(s), and @ the other prompters.

prompt lists

I have a whole tag for story prompts and ask games HERE; this is just a selection of various types and topics. Again, please include the name of the list if you can, but don't panic if you're on mobile or just forget. Sparklies are for things I'm particularly feeling.

dragon age artefacts and veilguard artefacts

unusual words and Raleigh's lost words

fantasy settings starters

ordinary things that feel intimate

enormity of my desire and sugar & spice ✨

20 pregnancy and new baby prompts

tol and smol ✨ (would work well for any ship with Basvaarad or the Iron Bull, but not as a combo. Both hyooge.)

horror movie dialogue

100 indulgent prompts ✨

my ocs

canon protagonists:

Eireann Surana, Hero of Ferelden - City elf mage, arcane warrior and spirit healer, wielder of Spellweaver. Mother of Farah. Radically kind, values honesty, wishes she didn't have to keep so many secrets. A good tactician. (she/her, bisexual)

Rian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall - Human hedge mage, force mage. On the diplomatic side of sassy, or the sassy side of diplomatic, depending on your view, but always aims for compassion. (they/them, pansexual)

Gideon Lavellan, Herald of Andraste - Dalish storm mage, Knight-Enchanter. Twin brother of Athim, brother of Aisling. Cunning, and good-hearted, a great believer in uplifting the downtrodden. His title is a burden, but he tries to use his power for good. (he/him, gay)

Persephone "Pidge" Ingellvar, bare bones of a Dwarven Rook. Floundering after being pushed out of the Mourn Watch, they quickly find that they're also free to explore their own interests for the first time. (any/all pronouns, genderfluid, pansexual)

my other characters (I made characters to try out most of the Inquisition romances, and ended up shoving them all into my canon for funsies):

Athim Lavellan - Dalish mace-and-shield reaver. Twin sister of Gideon, sister of Aisling. Honest and inventive, good with problem-solving. Shares her brother's dry humour. (she/her, bisexual with a preference for men)

Kali Lavellan - Dalish dual-dagger tempest, sketches anything and everything. Perpetually anxious, and hides it well until she doesn't. Always goes the extra mile. (she/her, bisexual)

Sigyn, the Lady Archer - City elf mage of the Kirkwall Circle, escaped at the age of fifteen. Mother of Camile. Isn't used to being around people. Angered by injustice, will always protect those in need, but still building her social confidence. (she/her, grey-ace)

Perseverance, a spirit possessing Sigyn. They're mostly content to watch the world from behind Sigyn's eyes, but she calls on them for help in desperate situations. (they/them)

Farid Adaar - Tal-Vashoth mage, shapeshifter. Level-headed and kind-hearted, mellow until a game board or cards come out. A friend to all living things. (he/him, aroace)

Basvaarad Adaar - Tal-Vashoth rift mage, freed saarebas. Says little, and chooses his words carefully. Painfully shy, but loves deeply and well. (he/him, they/them, bisexual)

Nanna Adaar - Half-dwarf Vashoth, two-handed warrior, non-verbal. Brash and hot-tempered, but easily mollified. Very protective of people she loves. A lover of all physical contests. (she/her, lesbian)

Torunn Adaar - Vashoth archer and midwife. In-game she's an artificer, but in my heart she's a bard. Boisterous but emotionally intelligent and always eager to learn new things. Has big sister energy. (she/her, bisexual greyromantic)

Farah Surana - daughter of Eireann Surana and Alistair Theirin. Gregarious and inquisitive, she could make a friend in an empty room. Learned from her mother to value kindness above all else. Later travels north to fight with the Veilguard. (she/her, bisexual)

Luceo "Sunny" Aldwir - adopted child of Eireann Surana and Alistair Theirin. A survivor of slavery by the Venatori, they value their freedom and that of others. Trying to prove themself as more than just a person with famous parents. (they/them, gay)

Camile - adopted daughter of Sigyn. Shy and quiet, but always eager to help. Still learning to trust people to help her where she needs it. (she/her)

Aisling Lavellan - baby sister of Gideon and Athim Lavellan. She's brought to Skyhold to live with them after their parents are killed in the fighting in Wycome. Still finding her feet, but curious about everything. A budding creative. (she/her)

my 'ships

As I said, I would love the challenge of any random ships you want to send me! But these are all the ones I have in my verses. Ships crossed off are the ones I have quite a few prompts for that I'd like to get through before getting any more about them.

main verse:

Gideon Lavellan/Dorian Pavus

Eireann Surana/Alistair Theirin

Eireann/Alistair/Kali/Cullen (and any combination of these) ✨

Kali Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford

Rian Hawke/Anders

Rian Hawke/Varric Tethras

Athim Lavellan/Solas

Rian/Athim/Varric

Pidge Ingellvar/Solas

Sigyn/Blackwall

Basvaarad Adaar/the Iron Bull

Nanna Adaar/Sera

Torunn Adaar/Raleigh Samson (quasiplatonic) ✨

Kali Lavellan/the Iron Bull (FwB)

Gideon Lavellan/the Iron Bull (FwB)

Carver Hawke/Merrill Sabrae

Cole/Krem Aclassi

Fenris/Isabela/optional Zevran Arainai

Josephine Montilyet/Leliana

Raleigh Samson/Ser Thrask/Ambra

probably more I can't remember right now

the Lion and the Hind AU:

Torunn Adaar/Cullen Rutherford (whom the AU is named for!)

Athim Lavellan/Josephine Montilyet

Basvaarad Adaar/Cassandra Pentaghast

Gideon Lavellan/Krem Aclassi ✨

Kali Lavellan/the Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus ✨ (Bull is romantically/sexually involved with both Kali and Dorian, but Kali and Dorian are completely platonic)

other ships I enjoy but don't have anywhere specific to put, really

Alistair Theirin/Zevran Arainai

Basvaarad Adaar/Solas

Solas/Varric Tethras

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jasper-crow · 2 years ago

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I think some of y'all missed the apple butter update, but that did end up going well 💙

Guess I'll drop the recipe as a way of an bonus

Oh and if any of these sorts of posts interest you I've got them all tagged under #lesbian island life on my profile.

Ingredients:

13.5 pounds peeled and cored apples from wherever, the more wasps you have to fight for them the better.

6 and 1/8th cups sugar. No I didn't use a measuring cup for the 1/8th, I'm just guessing the extra I tossed in.

Spices of your choice, I used: cloves, nutmeg, allspice, juniper berry, cinnamon, and cardamom

Like idk, 4-6 cups of water? It's to make it easier to boil down before blending, but honestly you gotta boil most of it off anyways so 🤷‍♀️ your milage may vary.

You should probably can this stuff, I filled up 14 pint jars. If you haven't canned before just get the damn things at the store (the big ones that say Ball on the side) and drop them into boiling water for 15-20 minutes. It'll be fine, it's not hard.

Steps:

Get someone else to peel and core the apples. Or spend 3-4 hours of your own time doing it as inefficiencently as possible with a hand peeler and chopping out the cores with a knife.

Think to yourself "Well all these peels are cores are such a waste to throw out!"

Go make apple cider on the side.

Dice up apples

Realize that 13.5 pounds of apples is a lot of fucking apples and you've filled your 1.5 gallon stock pot.

Split some of them off for now into anything else you have to hand

Add water to pot and stick it on your hottest burner and hope for the best

Once again curse your lack of gas stove but understand that your mortal nemesis the electric stove is better for the environment. Pout about this as the water starts to boil

Measure out sugar, use coconut sugar for first cup and a half because it was in your pantry and you figure it'll taste good.

Clean out wife's coffee grinder so you may once again commandeer it for spice grinding

Add whole cloves, cardamom pods, allspice berries, juniper berries, and the little fragments of cinnamon stick you have left to the grinder along with a whole nutmeg... Berry? Nut? Idk a whole nutmeg thing.

Realize after grinding that the nutmeg isn't breading down

Bust it with mortal and pestle

Read and find it's suppose to be gratted. Huh

Put pieces back in grinder, mom didn't raise a quiter. Also add more cinnamon because there isn't enough.

Realize apples are starting to break down, add in remaining apples. Feel very self satisfied with how this is going.

Remember you haven't eaten since 8am and it is now 4:30pm

Make a burger and eat it.

Grab trusty potato masher and start to try and destroy apples.

Curse your potato masher for it's sudden yet inevitable betrayal as it separates from it's terrible plastic handle and disappears into a sea of bubbling apple mash.

Decide you have a better solution to this whole affair and get out your second stock pot. In small batches use a large ladle to move apple mash into blender, blend till smooth, then pour apple slurry into large stock pot.

Marvel upon your newly smoothed apple sauce and think to yourself "I should probably get an immersion blender"

Add in spices and sugar, mix well by stirring.

Turn heat up till you can get a light boil going, then turn heat down to low-medium (like a 2-3 out of 10) and let the whole mixture start to bubble.

You should probably stir this so it doesn't burn. But I didn't 🤷‍♀️ so idk maybe don't trust me 😅

Get frustrated after about an hour of this when you can tell if it's thick enough yet. Turn heat up slightly and stir aggressively, worried about burning.

Have mixture bubble like a cauldron and splash molten apple liquid onto your hand, handle this as needed.

Notice none of it is burning and slap a lid halfway onto it and turn down the heat back to that low-medium.

Play roughly 3 hours of Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn. Interupted halfway through by your wife jamming her packer down your throat. Enjoy that greatly.

Finally remember that you were cooking, go check on it. Find it to be a beautiful caramel brown color. Can it all, wipe down cans, place on lids, put in water bath, gtf to sleep.

And that's about it. Hope any of you like this or care, but I'm happy to have it work out anyways 💙

Alright y'all, that took way way way too long. But many interruptions, a shower, cleaning the kitchen again, and an hour of my very tiny canning setup later; they are all done!

Look how thick and delicious the apple butter looked when it was all done! I had like a gallon and a half of this liquid gold ��

Filling the cans and running my terrible water bath setup was fun as per usual. I really should buy a funnel and a proper canner 😅

But and the end of all of it I've got 14 pint jars of the stuff ready to go! Now to just leave them overnight to cool off and into the pantry they go!

And only another 2 baskets of apples from the first tree and then 4 more trees to go! I'm gonna have to start getting some of these traded out for stuff, I've got far far too many apples!

#lesbian island life #apple butter #no idea what kind of apples still #apple butter recipe #recipes #hope yall enjoy the play by play #this is how my brain works when recalling stuff #and basically my exact thought process while cooking #femme lesbian

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luveline · 3 years ago

Note

James and the reader baking <333

thank u for ur request! hope this is okay <3 fluffy James is <333

"James," you say, pressing your palms to your eyes to abate an overwhelming wave of defeat.

"What?" he asks, pulling at your fingers until you let your hands fall away. There's icing sugar all over his face, stars dotted in wild constellations over his warm skin. "What's the prob?"

"The prob," you say weakly, "is that I specifically chose this because it was marketed as the easiest sweets to make, and yet. A palava!"

"A palava!" he repeats, delighted at your word choice.

It is a palava. There's icing sugar everywhere, not just his face, a white ring of it burning on the glass stove top, a cloud of it settled over your clothes, and no matter how much you whisk the fudge you're attempting to make on the hob, it won't dissolve.

"We sieved it like the instructions said," you bemoan, picking the whisk up to try again. You break the fresh skin formed over the top of the fudge and turn up the heat.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, babe? We don't want to burn it."

"I don't think it's hot enough," you say. "Doesn't it look too thick to you?"

He hums and leans back against the countertops, hand dipping in a patch of white sugar and chocolate dust. He doesn't notice or doesn't care, but you're betting it's the former.

"Won't you relax?" he implores you gently, reaching out to straighten your shirt collar. You look down at the white fingerprints he leaves behind and feel the opposite of relaxed. He smiles impishly.

"Jamie, this isn't going well for us."

"I know, bub. We'll just have to try again."

You sigh deeply and try to be less tense, pressing your face to your shoulder. You roll your neck and James winces when it clicks.

"Why do we do stuff like this?" you whine, and then feel bad immediately. "Just, not that I don't love doing things with you, Jamie, but I'm so awful. At everything."

"You're not awful at everything, angel. Where'd you get that idea? You're amazing, and one lumpy fudge doesn't dispute that," he tells you, eyebrows pinched in concern.

Your eyes flutter closed as he runs the back of his hand, thankfully clean, down the side of your face. He quickly leans forward to press a chaste kiss against the skin where his hand had been, working the whisk and saucepan handle from your white-knuckled grip. He turns the heat off and sets the pan on a cool hob.

"Baking isn't easy. It's a practiced craft, okay? We're not gonna be good straight away."

You smile at him softly. "I know, James. Sorry. I'm being melodramatic."

He smooths his hands over your shoulders, smiling indulgently.

"You're not dramatic, often. Much. At all. And-" he starts, seeing your accusing expression, "if you are, you're not nearly as dramatic as me."

You drop your head into his chest and twine your fingers in the ends of his shirt. "Bah."

"Fudge is supposed to be thick. So we got that part right," he whispers into your hair.

"And lumpy?" you inquire.

He generously doesn't comment. You groan, sound muffled by his skin.

"Just because you're not good at something the first time doesn't mean you never will be," he says.

"Practice makes perfect," you parrot, a phrase he's told you a hundred times.

"Practice must've made you, then," he murmurs, rubbing your shoulders.

You smile into his chest, best pleased by his flirtation until you still. "James, are you wiping your hands in my shirt?"

"...No."

"Alright, get off me."

#james potter fic #james potter #marauders era #marauders #james potter x reader #James potter x #y/n #james potter x y/n #James potter x you #james potter fluff #james potter blurb #james potter drabble

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planettnibiruu · 3 years ago

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OKAY SO- In honor of Christmas, I present (haha) to you.... *drum roll* .....what our dav demon men would get you dor Xmas :))

Lucifer

Okay, so he spends wayyy to much time thinking about it. He's the avatar of pride, it needs to be *perfect*. He comes up with a few ideas; purfume/cologne, jewellery, an expensive coat, then he settles. A metallic black Inc ballpoint pen engraved with his initial. It's delicate yet heavy, sitting nicely in your hand, the Inc flows smoothly and doesn't smudge. He figures its the perfect way to let others know that you're his, and you'll use it every day, a perfect 2 for 1.

Mammon

So we all know this man has no money, but jokes on you he's planned this for months. He gets a job at hells kitchen, slaving away, working day in and day out. Once he finally saves up the cash, he feels like the happist man in the world. He buys you a necklace, a simple gold chain with a letter "M" dangling from it. But, here's the kicker, man paid almost 700 Grimm for that pretty baby. The chain itself is 18k gold, and the little pendant, well that's a 9k gold. We all know he's possessive, so the idea of you, his human, wearing his initial, WHOOWEE BABY. It's enough to make him be slightly less possessive and jealous.... for about an hour

Levi

Levi spends alot of time debating what to get you, he even thinks of not getting you anything because "No way someone like them would want a gift from an otaku nerd like him." He mills over it day in day out, so much so he can't even enjoy the new rui-chan Christmas special!! Then, the perfect idea comes to him, your own personalised game controller. It's your favourite colour, with grip pads on the underneath of the handle things. The buttons make a nice clicky noise and the battery life lasts days. It's even got your name engraved on the front and it lights up along with the colour scheme.

Satan

Not gonna lie, he planned this out for months. Eversince you formed your pacts he started on it. At first it was something personal, a way of expressing his feelings in a safe and controlled way. Then, he got carried away. Satan presents you with a leather bound, home made book. In golden ink a portrait very similar to how you look is drawn, singed underneath by Satan's. He's written a whole book about for you. It's a murder mystery, of course, in which the two protagonists, who are oddly similar to you and Satan, solve the biggest crime in history while falling in love. At the end of the book the protagonists live in a small apartment with 4 cats and book shelves that go floor to ceiling, wall to wall.

Asmo

Okay, he buys your gift more on impulse then anything else. He and Solomon were out shopping, looking at clothes, jewellery make-up, you name it. But as the sleep deprived checkout chick is scanning thier items Asmo spots the perfect gift. It's a set of purfumes, one slightly more masculine with a woody undertone while the other is more feminine with a hint if brown sugar. As soon as he spots the bottles he knows that you two are ment to have it. Upon unwrapping it, he tells you to choose the one you like best, and then he'll wear the other. What you don't know is a the real reason Asmo loves the gift he got you so much is that you can always take off a ring or necklace, but you can't take of a smell that matches his perfectly.

Beel

Beel knows he's not the best with expressing his emotions verbally. And due to this factz and his constant nightmares he keeps a journal. Everything's written in there, his passing thoughts, bad scribbles of his brothers and you, big blocks of text, everything. Beel doesn't quiet know when, but about a quarter into the journal the pages start to be filled with your name. It starts off slow, "The new transfer student came. They're

Belphie

He doesn't realise it's Christmas until its too late. He's got about a week to get a present, so he buys the first thing he can think of. He gets you a carved silver ring, it's engraved as a chain, symbolising he's 'chained' to you. Although the gift is stereotypical, there's so much thought and symbolization around it that you don't care. The ring is pure silver so you never have to take it off, and if you do belphie will bite your finger so there's a mark until you put it back on.

#mammon x reader #obey me #obey me x reader #levi x reader #beel x reader #asmo x reader #lucifer x reader #satan x reader #obey me asmodues #obey me luficer #beel obey me #obey me satan #obey me mammon #obey me belphie #obey me levithan

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littledead-ridinghood · 3 years ago

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Wait can you please post a link to starrboy's fic? I can't find it and I love Jason + lanterns <33

waiting for it, that green light series by starrboy

so this series has been put on indefinite hiatus(and every day I selfishly pray our lovely author once more gathers inspo, but that's neither here nor there and completely their choice), but it starts out with Jason dealing with phantom pains from the Batarang wound a la UtRH and Guy Gardner finding him, taking him in for the night and then, well, Jason just...never leaves and Guy never asks him too. Over time he befriends the other four corpsmen and gets adopted into their posse. I really like how all the lanterns give Jason a chance at face value, of which Jason returns, and then it works out so easily with them all accepting each other. There's no real conflict except subtle underlying their collective issues when it comes to dealing with other bats(Disrespect, disregard, Batarang scar, etc). It's really cute and fluffy, with good mom!Talia, JayKyle, and HalGuy, while also just being an easy feel-good read. This series is like my version of that fandom fav trope: "Bruce hugged Jason during that showdown, so now Jason understands how much Bruce loves him and everything and everyone is happy and fine". This is my sugar & honey-sweet comfort series. It's domestic and it's Lovely. Guy and Jason's friendship have me frothing at the mouth, and them bonding over shared experiences with shitty fathers and other factors of life bring me overwhelming joy

---you've probably read these next fics as you're also a lanterns + Jay lover, but for others: here are some more series recs!---

Star Sapphire Jason series by Do_not_careissa

starrboy actually wrote in their notes/comments that they pulled inspo from this series and what made them fall in love with lanterns+ jay content! Personally, I love me some jay content that doesn't devolve into "he's the angry, stupid, jocky one :/" and this series does it amazingly! This series is about Jason's growing anxiety about his spot in the family, feeling like he'll never be able to live up to the high expectations they hold for him nor being able to recover his lost connections due to his death and messy resurrection. Though worried over where he stands within the Bats, Jason still continues to work for his recognition and makes sure his family stays safe. The series purposefully states that Jason's anger stems from his love and compassion for others and that's what earns him a star sapphire ring AHHH perfection. Jason struggles with his own self-worth, value as a person, and how he's in over his own head while still depicting Jason as capable, smart, and willful. It walks the line of Jason being a sensitive young man who usually leads with his emotions and not always being able to handle them, but also not woobifing him to hell and back fantastically. I love the friendships formed, Jason's road to healing(his self-worth and is finally being told, after years of "you're too emotional, and need to shut them out more", that it's okay & good to feel and express his feelings) by being surrounded by people who appreciate his company, and also focusing on the side-effects of Jason disappearing off the face of the planet as well as other characters relationships to each other(not just to Jason). This series has JayKyle & HalGuy(all stupidly failing at romancing their other and pinning horribly obviously), Star-Sapphire-who's-eager-to-learn&grow!Jason, Bats trying to work through their issues, and the lanterns taking in Jason as one of their own(including Dad!Hal!). Still marked as incomplete and has yet to update since the end of Nov. 2020, if those kinds of things put you off, but there are 14 parts, and, like, I can not stress this enough, It's so good! I just can't get over the friendship between A. the lanterns between each other and B. the lanterns with Jason!

Emergency Line series by crucifixinhell

Brand new series, so far with only 2-parts, and it's about the friendship between Hal and Jason. Very cute. Angsty as well because, well, we all know what happens to robin!Jason :/. Written within Hal's POV and is snippets of Jason talking to him about his day, asking for help, etc. as Hal reflects on similarities between him and Jay while appreciating his companionship all within part one. This leads into part two where Hal reflects on how he was probably Jason's safe space (in the way that an English teacher is for many) as he struggles to deal with the death of Jason, how it affects him and his relationship with others(primarily Bruce). It's really nice to read about robin!Jason having someone to reach out to, especially because, in his run, Jason was so isolated from the hero community due to Bruce's need to keep him close(and not run off with friends like Dick to form a new superhero team which...I mean...mission failed successfully, I guess, B-man). Hal and Jason's friendship is really cute, and, as it's in Hal's POV, we don't realize how much the relationship affected both of them until the realizations start to fall into place *After* Jason's death. The author says they plan to write more for this series once they figure out where they want it to go, but if they don't, they've started to write other Hal & Jason works which are really good as well

It's Just Paint... Right? series by Jane0Doe

In this series, Jason is secretly a blue lantern and hiding his ring from the other Bats as not wanting to deal with the backlash and negative connotations they already have with lanterns. This three-part-and-in-progress series has Kyle-in-denial about how hot he thinks Jason is he feels with Jason now hanging around with him and the other corpsmen. This is what I read for my angsty, yet more than decently self-indulgent, pleasures with incredibly-bad-dad!Bruce. Some would say he's OOC, I would say "read it with feeling because sometimes bruce Sucks Ass and I Don't Care About Nuance because Jason's my baby and I'm using him to work through something right now, and if that includes him running off to space to refind a found family then so be it." the entire series is only about 3,550 words, so it's a quick read, but it gives me my much needed Jason whump with a side of lanterns and Jason friendship

Of course, there are a handful of other lantern+Jay fics, ones that I very much enjoy or can't wait to read(Glowsticks and Bullet Holes, I'm looking at you. You've been in my tabs for weeks(months, actually shhhh), and I can't wait till my brain finally kicks and reads you), but these series definitely help feed me and my happy little lantern lover/Jason lover heart

#fic rec #series rec #writing this out made me want to pick up more lantern comics so i can write fics with them + Jay but not OOC #If you must know; yes i'm still pronouncing Hal wrong; no i will not be fixing that matter; good day #I went a little overboard in expressing my love and joy but these authors are out here doing the lord's work #they all just mesh so well together!!! and so many people Just. Don't. Understand.#jason todd #hal jordan #guy gardner #kyle rayner #green lantern corps

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harryswatermelonsegment · 5 years ago

Text

Fire For You

Pairing: Reader/Harry Styles,Harry Styles/Omc x2

Rating : Strong R 100% porn w/o plot tbh

Warnings: *cracks knuckles* orgies,sex parties, anal sex, male oral sex, female oral sex, anal play, sub!dom play, drug use, vaginal penetration, squirting

A/N: Look, never posted fic. And I haven't checked anything 😳 Due to the heavily noted anon prompt fluttering around my dash that read: "My friend went to some weirdo eyes wide shut kind of party in the Hollywood Hills last year and overheard 'yeah you can't use that room, Harry Styles is high as fuck and getting railed by some dudes in there" plus that damn 🍉 video... well, I am at peak feral in quarantine and 3k of smut just popped right out. Title actually the Cannons song cos it's such a sex song innit? I'm doing this at 4.20am after starting this at 11pm my time so..good fucking night. ✌🏻🍉

—--------------------------------------------

You were petrified.

You'd moved halfway across the world with your best friend after a shitty person broke your heart and your spirits.

A circumstantial opportunity had arisen to become her PA,after her chance audition for a series had turned into cult viewing overnight.

She was everything you weren't. Confident, effortlessly cool and entirely comfortable in her own skin and sexuality. That's why, as she sauntered away with a tuxedo clad tall stranger, you stood frozen on the spot trying to remember it was okay to watch.

It had been her idea for you to submit an application after you'd said you needed to take risks and feel good in your skin again. Your best friend had told you you were wasting your youth, after years wasted on the ex you were in this country trying to forget. That you should embrace you were young, hot, single and getting older by the second. So you'd rolled your eyes and submitted your video application. You wouldn't get a reply for such an elite thing.

And yet, here you now were, in a millionaires mansion watching two men fuck a bunny masked stranger infront of you. She looks up at you through the velveteen eye holes and offers you to join with her finger come hithering you over. Your eyes widen.

You immediately remember your stiff upper lip and bound up the right hand staircase as fast as your heels will allow. Hoping to find a cool place to catch your breath.

Maybe you weren't as free spirited as you were in your head. Open to trying things theoretically, but now, as you see a flurry of naked bodies out of your peripheral vision and hear sounds you'd only heard in more private settings, you felt quite overwhelmed.

You were no virgin but not to say you could count on two hands your conquests past kissing either.

You came to the one shut door at the end of the long hallway, assuming it was a bathroom. Heels clicking against the pristine marble floor below as you approached. You put your hand to the cold metal handle, if you weren't prepared to see strangers fuck, you certainly weren't prepared for this.

There were five people in the room.

Three men on the bed and two women. The first woman sat open thighed across a low backed plush chair. Another on all fours on the floor licking into the others cunt as one guy stuck his fingers into her own folds from behind. He was then, with the rest of his olive skinned built body, sharply thrusting into the man on the bed at such a pace you could hear his balls slap against the sweat glistening flesh. He held his hip nearest to you so tightly, you could see the red marks appear from under his large hands.

The slender man receiving all this action was being silenced in his pleasure by the guy kneeling up in front of him. He hummed loudly through his nose as his mouth was busy bobbing up and down the guys length. Eyes closed in the orange low light as he was thrust into still, with such force he deep throated the guy he was swallowing down. He suddenly gagged and the man moaned then pulled his head away and nodded to signal if he was okay to continue, he agreed then he got right back down to business.

It was probably one of the more explicit scenes she'd seen. Making her feel hot and cold all at once. Not because of what was happening, no, it was who it was.

His face was disguised by a navy blue, high winged, theatrical mask. As were those involved, or some variation at least.

You heard a voice beside you at the door frame. A deep voice talking to a white bunny beside him

"Nah, that rooms got enough going on, Harry Styles is high as fuck getting railed by two dudes"

And that's all the confirmation you damn well needed. You'd been in L.A three weeks. Three weeks was all it had taken for you to be stood watching Harry fucking Styles getting Eiffel towered by two guys in the Hollywood Hills whilst you watched, mouth agape in barely any underwear.

No one had seemed to notice your intrusion, if the screaming of the red head in the chair reaching her climax was anything to go by. She rode out her high on the blondes face before getting up, lighting a joint and pulling the blonde up by roots. No real concern that she hadn't climaxed from Mr. Powerthrusts fingers yet. Dragging the young white cat back towards the door with a glistening mouth and chin, you were still entranced at the boy on the bed pooling your sheer briefs and the sight before you.

The redhead looked at you, to where your focus was on, then back to you. Giving one condescending chuckle. Still with the small blonde girls hair in a vice hold she spoke roughly into your ear as she passed.

"He's soft and ready to go sugar, strike whilst he's still loose" with that, she kisses your cheek and her Loboutins clicked away from you.

You stood there. Tits up to your chin from the force of the practically sheer black bra you were spilling out of, the suspender belt grasped your hourglass shape perfectly too. There was delicate, black designer underwear framed by the belt and thigh high stockings. You'd felt beyond confident at the beginning of the party. New eyes dragging over you in a way they didn't when you were in your regular get up of jeans and a t shirt. But behind the Japanese type kitsune half mask, you had felt invincible.

Right up until the point people actually started fucking.

But this, this was different.

You'd never been into guy on guy action, not even in porn. It didn't ignite any fire inside the pit of your stomach like it should. But seeing someone you'd casually ogled through the media like the other few million in the world had, well the chances of being in this position again were rare. Suddenly, the thrill of being able to possibly turn dream into reality spurred you on. He'd never know it was ever you if you met again right?

The three of them were still going at it. Powerthruster behind, contorting his face as he placed smack after smack across the pale flesh of Harry's ass. Grabbing a fistful in each hand as he sped up even more to reach his climax, he cried out when he did pulling Harry's hips flush against his own, it was only now, amongst all the activity that you notice Harry's cock for the first time.

The rumours online highly underestimate it.

He's long and thick and his drippy head is causing a string of pre cum to trail from its opening onto the white silk sheets below.

You clamp a hand between your thighs, the first time you feel your inhibitions falter that night. You had to relieve some of the friction your body needs. Watching the man remove himself, and toss the condom in the bin by the door frame you were still fixed to.

Harry scrambles to the other muscular guy infront of him, kneeling back on his calves, hissing a little as his legs under each cheek spread his already tender hole a bit. He doesn't miss a beat though, the already close to orgasming guy looking down at green doe eyes as he pushes Harry's mouth from him. Harry knows where this is leading and opens his mouth for him spill his seed onto his waiting tongue.

By this point you'd moved quietly from the door and across the wall so you were in prime position to watch Harry swallow all this man's cum whilst you just stood watching.

Feeling like a pervert, feeling turned on, feeling fucking everything to be frank. You'd question it later. Right now you needed Harry to touch you.

One leg kicked up behind you so you could slightly part your thighs and rub your middle finger down your folds beneath your knickers. You began to put on a show. The other hand is inside your bra cupping and squeezing your nipple between your index and forefinger sharply. Panting quietly as you see Harry's eye clock you in his peripheral vision. You're terrified of his reaction for a second before remembering the setting of the evening, but he smirks the best he can do with an open mouth and looks you up and down slowly. His dick twitches in his lap and that's all it takes for you to start rubbing two soaked fingers fast against your clit, your ego inflated that you could be the cause of his heightened arousal. You're going at such a pace on yourself that you almost don't catch the ropes of cum descending into Harry's mouth as he watches you trying to get the release his actions have caused. The guy stills, spent. Harry is still watching you pant faster as you take the hand on your breast away to steady a palm against the wall. He holds the guys cum in his mouth before tearing his eyes away from yours to kneel up and place an opened mouthed kiss onto the guys lips, transferring him back into his own mouth, forcefully. Switching the dominant role back in his favour to show you who was really in control in the room despite how it may have looked. He breaks the kiss, both men chuckle at each other before Harry taps the other guys cheek with his palm playfully. Like his just scored a goal at the Sunday football league, but definitely not like they'd both shared a mouthful of semen.

Your pace has slowed down slightly but you see him whisper something into the man's ear before he hops off the bed, grabbing only his black briefs and closing the door behind him. But not before saying "have fun" to you with a knowing wink.

It suddenly feels very intimate. When there were a few more people in the room it felt easier to blend into the festivities, but now you were essentially alone with a stranger who was watching the slow movements of your hands in your underwear. You decided to carry on, to keep up the pretence that this is the sort of thing you do all the time of course.

It wasn't.

So when he stands straight up off the bed, taking the few steps towards you, slightly pouting into the air as he keeps his eyes locked on yours and gently grabs your wrist that leads to the hand on your pussy bringing the two digits that had been furiously rubbing your clit, up to his mouth. He never breaks his gaze as he sucks them fully, with the same technique you'd just seen on that man's dick minutes previous. Closing his eyes and humming approvingly at your sweet taste.

Your insides are screaming but your present body moans and he drops the hand to grab your waist and pull you tight to his torso. He kisses you hungrily and you taste mostly of yourself and try not to think about the other taste from the strangers cum on your tongue.

He kisses you like he's getting to know you through this alone, grazing his palms from your waist to your shoulder blades then back down slowly to your ass, gripping it tightly to his body as he hooks a thigh over his hip. His cock is sandwiched between you, droplets of pre cum on both your bellies. The crotch of your underwear is rubbing his length slightly as you rock your hips down onto his.

His tongue is lapping and swirling languidly against yours, it's unexpected given the setting but, it's fucking glorious. You grab fistfuls of curls at the back of his head between your fingers and once you get to the nape and give a sharp tug on the baby hair there, his breathing hitches.

"You're quite good at this" he says casually,taking a breath. You pant in response and chuckle slightly. Mostly at the contrast of moods he appears to have.

"Not s'bad yourself" you smile.

There's a heartbeat whilst he takes in your accent similar to his own he pulls back, brows furrowed causing his forehead to wrinkle down slightly at the top of the blue mask. This isn't the time to get to know one another though, you get that, and despite your reservations on this place you suddenly don't give a shit. You push your mouth into his neck suckling lightly and finding a sweet spot at his pulse that has him shaking. His nimble pianist fingers undo the flimsy material of your bra as he goes back to the weirdly passionate make out session, you let it fall off your shoulders, shaking it down your arms to the ground.

He walks you both back to the bed and sits down pulling you to straddle his thighs. You both moan at the reconnection and don't miss a beat rolling your hips over his slowly. Giving him a taste of what's to come. He grunts through his teeth out of frustration, pulling away from you both once more to reach blindly for the fishbowl of condoms, provided by the host, on the nightstand.

"Fucked anyone else tonight?" he asks matter of factly.

Your eyes looked shocked, even though they probably shouldn't be. You furiously shake your head.

"Hm" he chuckles as you lay your hands in your lap submissively, he clearly notices and you see an eyebrow raise over the mask. "that mean you're a good girl?"

Cottoning on to the game he's starting, and that you're more than willing to take part in, you take one side of your bottom lip between your teeth and nod quickly.

This is an absolute fantasy. But you're aware you could get interrupted at any moment so you'll take what you can get before being pushed out, and no doubt off, this absolute wet dream of a man.

He tears the packet open with his fingers, sitting back, a little hunched over to roll the rubber down his length. He hisses at the brief contact after being edged so much the last hour or so. You start to wonder how he's keeping up his stamina before he sits back up, taking your chin between his thumb and forefinger and interrupts.

"Gonna be a good girl f'me then love?" he leans forward places wet opened mouth kisses at each of your breasts in between his words, looking you straight in the eye. "Gonna slip those pants to the side and get on me then?"

No sooner had he spoke, you were grabbing his cock in your palm with one hand, and pulling the crotch of your soaked fabric to one side with the other. You hadn't done this in a fair few months and definitely never taken a cock as big as his, but your arousal was so high that you were desperate for the sweet pain of being stretched around him. You pumped him barely as to not roll up the condom, just grazing him and feeling him twitch in your fist as he watched you briefly stick two fingers into your cunt. The wetness being heard as you opened your mouth and gasped at the sensation. You didn't want to waste anymore time checking you were prepared so you scooted forwards on his lap. Brushing his swollen head against your clit, before tapping it a few time as you sunk down onto his length. It burned so good as you got to about halfway before lifting yourself up and sinking down again further. It took three times of doing that to be completely seated and drowning his cock in your juices as your pelvises locked together. You both took a second to pant out curses against each others necks.

"Jesusfuck. You're so fuckin' tight. Can you move? Fuck! Please move" he strained into your throat.

You sat back a bit so you were facing one another and with fingers pulling at those nape hairs you reconnected your mouths before rolling your hips experimentally against his.

"Oh fuuuuck" you shot out, the feeling of him so deep inside you and him pressing against your clit was other worldly. The friction of the underwear you still had on, gathered between your folds and caused the sweetest friction. He grunted once as your jaw lay slack at the contact, before getting impatient and guiding your hips to slam into him harder as he thrust up at the same time.

Your head was spinning.

His strong hands pulled you close to him he smeared your lips together as he flipped you so he was on top, manoeuvring you up the bed and slightly diagonal so his feet didn't dangle off the edge.

It became a power battle then. You knew he was on the edge and holding back. He pulled a leg to hitch around his waist and thrust into you at speed. Enough to leave you sore tomorrow. You smirked into his mouth, pulling both up further to lock behind his neck, knowing the angle would make it so much tighter and so much easier to reach that sweet spot inside you. With your head thrown back at the new angle he began leaving marks around your neck and breasts, trying so hard not to cum before you.

Then you had a brilliant, foolproof idea of how to win this game. As he was preoccupied leaving a red mark against your clavicle, you sucked your middle finger into your mouth for your planned attack. Before you could do anymore though, he moved two of his digits against your soaked clit at speed, tapping every now and then and making you writhe and grip the sheets with overstimulation. You held off best you can but he was hitting that spot that few had taken much longer to find before. You knew what was coming but it was too late to warn him.

Your orgasm took over your body from the middle down to your toes and up until your eyes practically rolled back in your head. You heard the lewd, wet sounds his thrusts were still making and wanting to even things up you made a quick recovery enough to part your mouth and make your middle finger drip with saliva as you gripped his ass to guide him into you. You could tell by his speed he was almost there so you went between his cheeks with your slick finger and suddenly buried it inside him to the hilt. He was still stretched from the previous guy so you sink to the knuckle easily. It only took two movements to feel him spill inside you. Long drawn out moans left his lips like a dirty drawl from his throat. You took out your finger and went slack onto the mattress.

He was spent but he wasn't done.

As he pulled out of you carefully, gushes of your cum cascaded down onto the expensive sheets. If he didn't know you were a squirter, he did now. He stared watching it fall from your weepy hole blind removing the condom and tossing it into the bin behind.

"Holy fuck. I.. I've never managed that before. You're a fucking dream….so fucking sexy. Fuck" he looked at you like a feast. Your saturated underwear stretched out beyond repair now. Laying against your thigh and the material dripping. He pulled the stockings from their clips quickly, not taking them off but so he could peel the knickers from your sticky thighs. You noticed he threw them down near what you assumed to be his tux.

And that was it, he pushed your thighs up and back to your body so your knees were flush against your chest. You felt some of your cum still seeping out if you and he growled watching the last few drops drip down your bum and onto the bed.

He dove into you like he'd not eaten in weeks. Lapping every bit of fluid from your pussy, clit, thighs and ass. He licked around your puckered hole as he sink two fingers into your cunt at pace.

"You got one more in there for me hmm?"

He said huskily, keeping one arm across your thighs as he sat up on his haunches to look down on you falling apart. You nodded frantically, feeling the bubbles in your stomach growing again. You felt the pressure build between your thighs. Completely living in this moment with this beautiful man you got to see so desperate for you to cum. He dived back in to trace figure eights across your clit with the tip of his tongue before laying it flat and going up over it again and again. He alternating the two before you were ready to burst. He felt it on his fingers so he stilled them inside you still lapping at clit but using his whole arm to move at speed up and down to keep pushing at that one ridge inside you. When he felt the first wave of your climax hit he quickly put his face infront of your cunt and let the force of your squirt hit him the face. He caught a good amount in his mouth before repeating the signature move of crawling back up to your face and getting your soft, limp body to open up so he could spit your cum back into your mouth. It was tart but sweet probably due to the pina coladas you'd sipped downstairs to get you loosened up a bit.

"Good girl. Swallow, show me y've swallowed it all up" he panted kneeling at your side.

You gulp and meekly open your mouth to prove it was all gone and he smirks and gives you a slow, lazy Sunday kind of kiss that sends its shivers down your spine. You stare at each other as he sweeps your sweet drenched hair from the front of your face. You're not sure what suddenly changed in the room but you've created your own bubble. Your own bubble where a millionaire pop star a Jenner has shagged, whispers praises against the shell of your ear in some sort of awe and kisses your neck and face tenderly. What even is life?

It's stupid but you don't want to go. Well, it's not stupid as this boy is a hurricane in the sheets and why would you not want more!

But you know the deal. This isn't a date. This is an elite fuck party. A. Fuck. Party.

The realisation dawns on you like a thorn to the side. You can't just lay here in a post orgasmic comatose state. There's people waiting, people he's waiting on too. He sees your eyes widen and watches in confusion as you take a white robe from the hook behind the door, still in your heels you pick up your bra. You smile briefly before closing the door behind you and practically sprinting to your car.

Not before seeing the guy Harry had been deepthoating earlier, now standing fully clothed with a headset at the door you'd just come out of with a suit and headset on. Like nothing had ever happened. Of course you weren't interrupted. Of course he had security. You rush back down the staircase before you have a panic attack in plain sight. Your thoughts scrambled beyond what you thought was capable. Did that really just happen? With him? Is this who you are now?

It's only when you get to the end of the street after texting a quick "sorry wasn't my scene, call me when you need picking up" to your mate before leaving that you're suddenly aware you're missing your underwear...

#harry styles smut #Solo 1d fic #harry styles fanfiction

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ginger-and-mint · 4 years ago

Note

For Ryder: 🧁🍭👁️💀🦴🧛🧟 (Happy Halloween! These are great questions and adorable treats. I especially appreciate the accompanying examples.🧡)

Thank you so much for all these wonderful questions Mel, I had fun with them! ^u^ Also glad you like the treat ideas, I was doing a lot of browsing for Halloween baking anyway~

🧁 [pumpkin cupcakes] – Do you enjoy dressing up for Halloween?

Ryder would get a moderate amount of satisfaction out of dressing up for Halloween. Left to his own devices, he'd probably opt for a simple costume, like one that just involves a special shirt and a hat or something. But he would be game for wearing something more elaborate if somebody else laid out the creative vision for him.

🍭 [caramel apple lollipop] – What’s your sugar tolerance like?

On the high side of average. Ryder doesn't tend to consume lots of sweets of his own accord, but he's done enough di-mage training that he can handle a good bit of sugar before he'd start to feel icky.

👁️ [eyeball cake pop] – How do you feel about scary movies?

Not a fan. He's too empathetic. Unless the movie was really corny, he'd be too disturbed to enjoy anything about it, and if it was really corny, he'd find it so stupid that he wouldn't get the appeal. A mild psychological thriller might be okay, but that's as scary as he goes.

💀 [popcorn skull] – What’s the silliest thing you’re afraid of?

This may sound a bit strange, but dense patches of filth. Like a tangled mess of old cobwebs, or an unswept crevice full of huge dust bunnies, or a neglected boiler closet full of rot and mold. Anybody would find that gross, sure -- but Ryder gets a creeping sense of dread from the sight of it, like the filth might swallow him up.

🦴 [gingerbread skeleton] – If you were a character in a horror movie, would you survive to the end?

Probably not, just because he fits that mentor archetype so well. He's competent enough to survive, but tropes demand that he would probably end up sacrificing himself to the monster to save the rest of the group halfway through the film. c':

🧛 [cup of vampire punch] – Are you squeamish about blood?

Nope. He's got the grit of a medical professional when it comes to blood.

🧟 [slice of graveyard cake] – If you heard a scary noise in the middle of the night, would you go investigate?

He would! Dad-with-under-bed-baseball-bat style.

Treat Total: this comes out to 1 slice of cake, 1 cupcake, 1 cake pop, 1 cookie, 1 popcorn skull, a lollipop, and a cup of punch -- which is quite a bit of sugar for Ryder, honestly! I don't think he'd feel uncomfortable from it yet, but he'd probably start to feel his tummy rumbling a warning that it's time to slow down.

#gnm asks #Ryder #lessthanconventional

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dancedelion · 5 years ago

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40 and 41 for the prompt thing, geraskier. I'd love it if Jaskier said 40 to geralt who completely doesn't believe him but by the end of the story geralt says 41 to jaskier

40: “I know you’re trying to push me away, but I won’t let you.” 41: “The only person I need right now is you.” Thank you for the prompt! I hope you like it. (Link to ao3) Past should stay passed, Geralt always thought. Some things were better buried. The before and the before the before – before the Djinn, before Jaskier, back when the world was easy – and before that there was Kaer Morhen – a castle filled with blood, bad odds and dying dreams. Grave's scattered across the continent, filled with Geralt's worst mistakes, with so many people he never managed to save.

And here she was – not his past, small mercies for that, but past none the less. Engulfed in a green shine, she hovered a few feet above the ground, her dress laced with finest jealousy. She bared her teeth to him like an animal would, straight and pale-green and not the least bit sharp. Gone was all sense of poise or elegance she possessed in her mortal life. Geralt had seen women like her before, born into nobility. She must have had everything. And now she felt entitled to it.

She floated toward him and instinctively, Geralt stumbled back. He teetered on the edge. A glance down quickly reminded him that they were on the highest floor of a five-story building. The contractor, Mr. Lewandowski, pressed himself further against the wall and he stared at her with an intensity only someone haunted could muster. He had been calm and unfazed when Geralt had first spoken to him, arrogance straightening his spine, but deep-seated cowardice in his eyes.

Geralt kept a tight grip on the cold handle of his sword, but made no move toward the spirit. The problem was not the number or the strength of the enemy, it was the number of people to protect. Mr. Lewandowski's mistress wailed quietly on the floor, already beaten down and bleeding from her forehead. But the worst part of it, the part where Geralt felt his eyes darting around, where he felt his movements become frantic, where he felt irrationality slowly taking over his brain, was Jaskier in the corner of his eyes. Idiotic, reckless Jaskier who could not keep out of trouble to save his life. Geralt would be damned if that became literal today.

“Darling,” the spirit said, her voice sweet as sugar, “do you remember the stars that night?”

Even though her words were directed at Mr. Lewandowski, she kept her eyes on Geralt, probably because he was the one with the sword.

“They were sparkling so beautifully, and no better place to watch than from the roof top, isn't that right?”

It would be so easy for Jaskier to run, the stairs were right behind him. He was not hurt yet, there was nothing keeping him from getting to safety. The wraith was not interested in him.

“You've always been a romantic, that's why I fell for you. For wedding nights, spent watching the stars at night.”

But of course, Jaskier's unhealthy fascination with dangerous things kept him rooted to the spot, had kept him rooted at Geralt's side for years.

“So you, great appreciator of beautiful things, was my hair not golden enough for you? Does she buy you the prettiest jewellery? Do the stars shine brighter now that I'm gone?”

Mr. Lewandowski, perhaps remembering that he had once loved her, or perhaps still loving her, slowly stepped away from the wall and took a small step towards her.

“It wasn't my fault,” he said, voice rough, “I didn't know the roof was slippery.”

“But you did know it had rained the night before.”

“You – she's lying -”

“I say nothing I do not believe.”

“She slipped from my grasp, I would have done anything to pull her back up,” his voice was shaking, his whole face was doused in sweat. Her face lit up in anger, she was consumed with it. Could only violence bring her peace now? If Geralt only had more time -

She charged toward the woman on the ground so quickly, it almost felt like nothing more than a gush of wind.

“Hey, beautiful,” Jaskier said and Geralt's head whipped around. He had gripped a broken chair leg, and threw it forcefully at the wraith, who snarled at him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Geralt said, snarling too.

“I-improvising?” Jaskier said and finally – finally – stumbled backwards, a few steps down the stairs when the wraith started lashing out in his direction. Geralt tried to concentrate and focus on the wraith, though it was hard when he always had a clumsy idiot to keep track of. He lunged at her with the sword and kept going. Geralt tried to fight the panic off he had felt when she had moved towards Jaskier, but the stupid nerve connection between his brain and his legs made his next steps a bit sloppy. He tried to cast Yrden when his hits wouldn't land, but the wraith quickly slipped out of the way. This was just a fucking wraith, an easy one and Geralt was acting like a boy before his trials – what was wrong with him?

“You -” Geralt shouted to Mr. Lewandowski, “make yourself useful. Find her veil.”

He could see him starting to search for the veil while he continued to charge at the wraith. She was quick, but usually Geralt was quick, too, what was going on, why couldn't his gaze ever stop searching for Jaskier, who still wouldn't run, he wanted to yell, but yelling never worked, Jaskier always stayed and there was nothing he could ever do about it.

“I won't allow you her sweeter kisses,” the wraith asserted and made for the woman and when Geralt swirled around she was already falling and they were always falling and Jaskier was human and weak and fragile and just a gush of wind could have pushed him over the edge -

“I've found it!” Mr. Lewandowski yelled.

Geralt fought and he fought and he never won – they always fell. And Jaskier was always, always too close to the edge.

Mr. Lewandowski threw the veil when the wraith came toward him and Geralt ran to catch it.

“Helena -” “It never slipped,” she said raising her voice and finally shouting. “You let go of my hand. You let go of my hand!”

She was almost about to reach him when Geralt cast Igni on the veil and it went up in flames. The green blazes consumed the wraith almost in an instant and Geralt let out a harsh breath. She was gone – and so was that woman.

“That was close,” Mr. Lewandowski said after a while. “And all that, just to burn a veil? What did I even hire you for?”

Why was it always men like Mr. Lewandowski who survived?

“Your wraith is gone. I held up my end of the bargain.”

“I suppose. I would expect the higher the body count, the more you shave off the cost.”

Geralt sighed very deeply.

“You lost your – woman... and you are worried about money?”

Mr. Lewandowski shrugged a little and smiled – the unsettling smile of someone who had gotten quite good at lying to himself. Geralt pressed his lips together. At the end of the day, monsters were monsters and humans were humans. Or maybe it was the other way around? Geralt had lived so long that he wasn't quite sure any more. ____ “Whew, that was an adventure,” Jaskier said when they were on the road again. “This is why I will never get married.”

Jaskier was always too - there.

“Hm.”

“You're lucky I was there. Nifty trick with the chair leg, don't you think? You can always rely on your best friend to save you -”

Jaskier was not enough yesterday and certainly not enough tomorrow.

He was too human. Too being.

He was too little of too much. “We're not friends.”

And he always tore at Geralt, tore at everything, until there were a thousand tears in Geralt's skin, and worse, a thousand tears hidden in his eyes, because witchers never cry.

“Gee, what would you call it after all these years? Careful acquaintanceship? I beg to differ -”

And Geralt had had enough of it.

“You are nothing, nothing to me.”

He'd had enough of the smiles, the smirks, the twinkle in Jaskier's eyes.

“You are the last person I ever want to see.”

He'd had enough of the touches, the distractions, the closeness.

“The only reason you've followed me around for years is because I've never found a way to fucking get rid of you.”

Enough of this strange, unfamiliar feeling in his chest.

Jaskier had left Geralt raw. Exposed. Like he had stripped away Geralt's skin and then his flesh until all that Geralt was was teeth and bark and bite. And he was not soft after Jaskier was done with him, he was harsh and hard and there was no sight more harrowing than that of Geralt's skeleton hand reaching out to him – so very fragile, but were they too fragile to – strangle? How hard can bone fingers squeeze?

How could Jaskier leave him so breakable?

He had stripped Geralt of everything, one shove and he would have a clutter, a clusterfuck.

Give me one look and you will have me in shambles, touch me and I will be smithereens.

Geralt pressed his teeth together and he would keep pressing until he heard something break. Jaskier was staring at him, nothing but staring, and how much do I have to hurt you before you leave? How far do I have to reach into your soul and destroy whatever I find before you finally see?

“I know you're trying to push me away, but I won't let you,” Jaskier said finally. Jaskier had loved a hundred people before and none of them were here now.

“Of course I'm trying to push you away, how else would I get you to finally leave?”

(I dare you to find my skeleton in the mass grave you left behind, can you tell human from witcher?)

Jaskier was a leaver and Geralt was – a leavee. He was always being left behind, why would this be different?

Humans were usually fickle, so if Geralt only pushed in the right places... Even someone as stubborn as Jaskier would eventually cave.

“I don't need you, I've never needed you, you're a nuisance, nothing more.” “Geralt, it's okay. It's okay to need people. You don't always have to walk alone, you know.”

Jaskier should keep his pretty lies to himself, Geralt didn't need them. Everyone left. And Geralt was a witcher, not easily deceived.

Geralt pressed his eyes closed, like that would make it all go away, like the image of her falling would vanish.

Slowly, he opened them again and looked at Jaskier, who was still gentle, even though Geralt didn't deserve it and never had.

You will die one day and come back to haunt me, won't you?

(You are already haunting me.)

Jaskier stepped closer carefully. In the face of a thousand lies Geralt almost told him – I hate you, I hate you, I hate you – all Jaskier did was – come closer. Shocked, Geralt stepped back.

“You're always distracting, you're always so irritating, you don't make any fucking sense -”

I push and I push and you, impossible human, come closer.

“I'm staying. Don't you know that, Geralt? If you let me, I will always stay.”

What, so you can push me off the edge -

“Geralt, you don't really want me to go, do you?” Jaskier said softly.

“You will,” Geralt said, all false anger suddenly drained out of him. “You'll go. And I won't be able to stop you.”

“Why would you say that?”

Jaskier slowly reached out and touched Geralt's hand – Geralt could barely keep himself from flinching away.

“Because you're human.”

And Geralt knew, of course he did, what that strange feeling in his chest was, what was so hard to contain but even harder to set free.

Geralt had never loved someone as fleeting as Jaskier. Jaskier flickered from one moment to the next, always a hair's breadth away from flickering out.

Do you think I can stomach that? Do you think I will ever stop seeing your shadow?

(You make me so breakable.)

(You make me more human than anyone else.)

And then Jaskier seemed to see something in Geralt's eyes.

“Oh Geralt. You...”

The shameful truth of it burned in Geralt's throat.

“I don't mean to.”

“But you do.”

“Hard not to.”

“Yes. It's the same for me too.”

Jaskier grabbed Geralt's hand gently. It was a firm grip, one not easily broken.

“I'm sorry,” Geralt said quietly, and no matter what Geralt said, Jaskier came closer.

“I know.”

Jaskier deserved so much more than this, so Geralt was going to try.

“The truth,” he started and broke off. “The truth is. The only person I need right now is you.”

“That's okay,” Jaskier said and squeezed Geralt's hand. “I'm always here.”

It was a promise, and Geralt, who was more of a fool than he would like to admit, believed him, at least a little bit. For just a moment, he allowed himself to believe that this touch would not haunt him years from now, and drew Jaskier in closer. He kissed him, then, and did not think about how there was a last for every first and pain for every bit of joy Geralt had ever dared to reach for. He kissed Jaskier and thought not for a single second about the repercussions.

The stars above them were shining brilliantly.

Some people can reach for the stars and they will fall, but falling upwards is just - flying.

#witcher fanfiction #the witcher fic #geraskier #geraskier fic #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher #the witcher fanfiction #witcher fic #ask

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you-kinda-smell-like-christmas · 6 years ago

Text

Rehab (pt.2)

¡Hola bellos! This is my entry for @pretendcnco 300(?) followers challenge! Congrats babes on hitting that milestone! I hope you guys enjoy this!❤

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Pairing: criminal!Chris x reader

Warnings: swearing, angst?, mentions of jail, mentions of marijuana, feels, drugs

Word Count: 8.1k

“Forget all we said that night, no, it doesn't even matter, 'cause we both got split in two, If you could spare an hour or so we'll go for lunch down by the river, we can really talk it through.”

**********************************************

Christopher's POV

The pouring rain outside foreshadowed the mood for me all day. I've been stuck in jail for 15 days. 2 weeks and 1 day. It's been 15 days since I was dropped off here, and 15 days since the break up. I've been feeling nothing but pain, sorrow, hurt, and regret. Regret for my past, my actions, my self. But most importantly, I felt regret for letting her go so easy. Then again, there's not much you can do to contact someone when they arent on your visitors list, or just dont want to see you at all. All I know is that I need to apologize and explain myself to her. I cant let her go that easy.

Walking out of my cell, I approached the makeshift cafeteria and was given my breakfast. Breakfast today consisted of pancakes, blueberries, and a carton of milk. Just like Y/N used to make. Only much more edible. Nevertheless, I ate the slop. The meal had reminded me to much of her that I didnt realize I started to cry until a tear landed on the plastic tray. God I miss her.

Sulkingly, I finished the breakfast and stood up from the metal table, throwing my trash away, and returning the plastic tray to the men who were working the cafeteria. Heading towards my cell, I had some major thinking to do.

Arriving at C153, I entered, and was locked back in the tiny cubicle. As I looked around the room, my eyes landed on a picture. Inmates were able to keep some form of personal life with them during their stay here. Mine just so happened to be a picture. A picture that held a thousand words. In the picture, Y/N and I were on our couch laughing at god knows what and just having a good time. Though, my ass was high as fuck that night, I still remember the lecture she gave me. The lecture that ultimately landed me here. The lecture that tore us apart.

"Christopher stop! That's too much."

Christopher had arrived home high as hell, and you weren't letting him off easy this time. You and him say om the couch. Your legs intertwined with his, holding hands, with your head on his chest. What started off sweet would soon turn into something you may regret.

"Chris, babe, you're high again. You need to drink some water." You tried to help him recover.

"I'm fine Y/N." His words slipped up, and he definitely was not fine.

"Chris stop! No you arent. You need to get some rest, and drink some water too." You tried negotiating with him.

"I'm fine Y/N. I promise." Christopher slurridly said.

Sighing, you take a step back. He wasn't going to listen to you. He never does when hes high. You always told yourself you knew what you were getting into, when you started dating a drug dealer. You thought he had changed. You helped him stop his drug addiction. You were there for him. And you always would be. However all good things come to an end. Once an addict, always an addict. Right? Halfway into your relationship, he went back to his old ways. Recieving yet another addiction to marijuana. You couldn't handle this anymore. You needed to stop this once and for all.

You tore the blunt he held in his hand away from him. "What the hell Y/N?" Chris had shouted at you.

"Chris, this needs to stop. Once and for all."

"Why? I feel fine. I'm telling you that I'm perfectly okay right now." Chris fired back.

"No you're not. Just stop." You nagged him on.

"Just shut the fuck up Y/N. I said I'm fine and I mean it. Sometimes you just annoy me. I wish I didnt date you sometimes." He muttered the last part to himself, but you still heard it.

With tears brimming your eyes, you shakingly look up, hoping what he didnt mean what he said. "You dont mean that, do you?"

"Of course I do. You nag me all the time about stupid shit, when you know damn well that I'm perfectly fine of handling it myself."

Ouch. That stung. But then you remembered that he was high and most likely wouldn't remember most of the things he said tomorrow.

So with all the courage you had, you mustered up two words. "Fuck you." You sneered at him, walking to your room and locking yourself in it to hopefully try to get some sleep.

The next morning you woke up, and went to check up on Chris. When you got downstairs, he made breakfast for you. Pancakes, blueberries and coffee just the way you liked it: four sugars with five creams.

He seemed stable today. You needed to talk about last night though. "How was your night?" Chris interrupted your thoughts.

"Good. Pero, we need to talk about last night."

Chris remembers what happened last night, and hes scared to talk about it. Of course he didnt mean to hurt you and say what he said, it just slipped out and was a heat of the moment type thing.

"Mira princesa, lo siento. Nothing I said last night was true. I love you and I love having you as my girlfriend. You've helped me through so much, and I can't thank you enough. I dont know what I would do without you. Tú eres mi vida, mi mundo."

The speech was heartfelt. But you wouldn't let it get to you this time. You needed to make sure Chris was understanding this as much as you were. "Chris, I love you, tú eres mi luz, but this needs to stop. You can't continue to do drugs. It needs to stop. Once and for all."

Chris was silent for a while. Realizing he may lose his love to marijuana. "Princesa, I promise to stop doing drugs. Pinky promise."

Trusting him, you intertwined pinkies, though you didnt trust him fully.

Coming back to reality, I realized I was crying. Sobbing even. I didnt realize how much of an effect Y/N could have on me. I said some stuff I regretted that night, and I broke a promise I made. A promise that led me here. In jail. For what cost? Nothing, because I lost something so great to me. All of a sudden, I remembered one final way I could contact her. I would have to write a note. Grabbing some paper and a pen from my cellmate, I began to write the letter. It would all be coming from my heart.

Querido Y/N,

Dios, where do I start? First off, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for breaking a promise I know was so important to you. I'm sorry for being such a terrible boyfriend. I'm sorry for not being there for you, when you were always there for me. I'm sorry for the countless times I've left you sitting at home alone, wondering where I was, when I was out doing drug business. I'm sorry for all the fights I've caused. I'm sorry for what I've said during those fights. Pero, I want you to know that I love you. Te amo mucho. Being in jail, without you gave me some time to think. Think about all that we've gone through, and how lucky I am to even have you in my life. I promise you, after this, no more drugs will be involved. I'll go to rehab, a halfway house, and do anything to get me back to where I need to be. With you. I'm sitting here, writing this note with full regret for my words and actions. Pero, actions speak louder than words, and my actions led us away from eachother. I just wanted to say gracias. Gracias por everything you've given me, and supported me with. I dont know where I'd be if I didnt meet you. You continue to make me want to get better and change for better. One day, we will be together again. I'll always be waiting for you. Whether you're on the other side of the world, or I have to wait a lifetime, my arms are always open for you. Te amo mucho. Forget all we said that night, no, it doesn't even matter, cause we both got split in two, If you could spare an hour or so we'll go for lunch down by the river, we can really talk it through. I love you.

Tú amor,

Christopher

Tears rid the letter. It was a very heartfelt one. Tears littered my face as well. I cant afford to lose her. Sealing it in an envelope with her name and information on it, I quickly say a prayer to God hoping he'll answer me.

Walking out of my cell with the envelope on my hand, I put it in the box labeled "outgoing mail."

Now all we can do is wait.

Taglist:

@smoljoelito, @estoy-enamorado-de-ti, @cncobby, @ericksmamita ,@ellos-me-vuelven-loca

#cnco #cnco blog #cncomusic #cnco angst #cnco fic #cnco chris #christopher velez angst #christopher velez #christopher velez imagine #chris velez #angst?#pretendcnco #congrats babes!#❤

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dangertoozmanykids101 · 7 years ago

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My Sassy Cat Burglar

Okay y'all, this isn't a Tom Hiddleston or Loki story. ['So what's the point in posting here, Tooz??? You're taking up prime TH space on the dashboard!' Ha ha, very funny. Bite me!] But if you bare with me, maybe y'all can help me out? When I had my husband read my story, he thought it was funny. (He better. It's about his spawn.) But he looked at me, "I'm confused. When does Tom Hiddleston come into it?" He thought I would put Hiddleston-smut in a story about our daughter! Does he think that is ALL I think about all day long? (That was a rhetorical question, by the way!)

Like a lot of parents in this day and age, I post about my kids on Facebook. I honestly haven't kept track of anything anywhere else. I didn't do baby books. I don't have the attention span for scrapbooking. And a diary or journal is way too much commitment. Facebook, though, I can handle. I especially enjoy posting stories about how ridiculous living with these 4 monsters feels some days.

When the twins were infants, I would post video after video of the 2 of them crying at the top of their lungs. I wanted to provide that sample taste, if anyone needed a baby-fix. Or I posted the photo of my daughter's tantrum when she emptied out all of her drawers onto the floor. Endless photos of them filthy, naked, and usually crying. I need to assemble a montage of how every video seems to end with me saying, "Oh, forget it!"

One of my favorite videos of the twins around 1 yr old is only 5 seconds long. Instead of helping me put cans into the bag for recycling, they had emptied the bag all over the living room. With Lincoln's eyes glued on me, defiant from birth, I sweetly ask, "Now can we put the cans INTO the bag?" He reaches in the bag, grabs a can, holds it out, and basically does a mic drop with the can, never taking his eyes off of me.

Today, I wrote this story, My Sassy Cat Burglar. WITHOUT Hiddleston smut. If you're lucky, maybe tomorrow I'll post another version WITH Hiddleston smut. But I promise nothing.

My Sassy Cat Burglar

Veronica peeked into the living room, spying me asleep on the couch. I no longer have a fever, so Rob went back to work today. I'm laying on the couch though, because my head is still aching and my throat is sore. Mind you, if a mother is dozing, that never guarantees that she doesn't hear every single sound around her. I could easily discern Veronica's footsteps as she quietly padded back into the kitchen. Her tiptoes sound completely different from Jack's patters or the twins shuffles.

She pulled a chair slowly to the fridge. The floor is filthy again, so moving any chair silently on that nasty floor would be impossible. Between the spilt sugar, ground up chips and crackers, and dripped strawberry smoothie for added stickiness, the chair pads made a loud grinding squeal for the entire 18 inches that she dragged the chair.

My little burglar paused, listening for any sign of life from me, I'm sure. Yet I wasn't going to move a muscle, unless I had to. Once she'd concluded that her stealth hadn't been compromised, she stepped up onto the chair to reach the treasures on fridge-top. The chair creaked more than the floor as she carefully shifted her weight from foot to foot, then back down into the floor.

She's actually getting very good at this. With her recent growth spurt, a whole world of goodies are suddenly within her reach. The cabinets and shelves have never been more interesting to her than they are now. But I knew exactly what she was seeking this time.

Earlier this morning, she had already asked me if she could have a brownie at 10am. Actually, her request started with, "Can I have one if Daddy's York Mint Patties?"

"No." I don't think she was surprised by my answer to that. I may not have even needed to be conscious to provide that answer. Those are Daddy's special treats he takes to work.

"Then can I have a brownie?"

"No!" I actually had to glance at the time before I answered that one. I'm desperately trying to be more of a 'yes' person. I truly am. But no one needs brownies at 10am.

"Then, what CAN I have?"

No shock to her, I'm sure, I sternly retort my standard answer, "How about REAL food?"

In turn, my sassy little thing stomps off in a melodramatic huff. "I'll just starve then!"

So a few hours later, after playing outside and making sandwiches for her and the boys, I don't mind if she finally has that brownie she wanted. I haven't heard any fighting. That is a rarity any day. Granted, I wish she would learn to put meat and cheese back into the fridge when she's finished, but I'll nag about that later. So far today, she's been a great big sister.

As soon as I hear the brownie wrapper pull open, I holler out to her, "If you're going to have a brownie,..." I pause, and she stops rustling the brownie wrapper. "Do you hear me?"

A quiet little "yes" squeaks out of the kitchen.

"Please put the brownie box back up on the fridge when you're done. If the babies get into the brownies, they'll eat them all. And Dad will be PISSED!"

No answer. "Do you hear me? Don't leave that box on the table. OK?"

“OK."

After that, this mom's dozing-radar went off high alert, and I drifted back off to sleep - until I heard more plastic rustling. Rustle. Rustle. Rustle. Dammit Veronica! I can't trust you to help at all! I knew those babies would devour all the brownies. It won't be the first time I find the box empty with brownie wrappers covering the table and floor. The twins are worse than puppies! They use scissors!

Using my firm mom-is-patient-but-serious voice, "That's enough of the brownies!"

The rustling pauses for a moment, leaving only silence. But then, to my shock, the rustling starts again. How dare they!!!! "Do you hear me? I said no more brownies!"

There's only a mere second of pause this time before the rustling starts again. Ooooh, I'm angry now. This means I have to get up. (Well, it's time for more Motrin anyways, since that headache is back. But that's not the point.) So I stand, and fly into the kitchen to catch the culprit in the act, rustling away.

No kids.

No box of brownies.

No empty wrappers.

Just Bingo on the table, biting and tugging on the plastic bags of cereal left on the table. She looks at me with the sweetest, more expectant face, giving a hopeful little "meow!" She jumps off the table and runs to her food bowls, putting a paw on the tupperware, with another pleading "meow."

Veronica pops her head in the backdoor, "Did you call me?"

@alexakeyloveloki @haute-macabre @dianamolloy @missdibley @missanonwrites @largebeeffriedrice @ohhhmyloki @redfoxwritesstuff @bambamwolf87

So I guess we could find Tom sitting on the table fussing with the cereal bags, instead of Bingo? The ties on those bags aren't necessarily easy to undo. What do you think? ;-)

#NOT about Tom Hiddleston #Parenting #Bad parenting #Brownies #Junk food #Cats #Maybe it could have hiddleston in it?#First story posted #Horizontal parenting #From the couch #Lots of yelling

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calyxaomphalos · 3 years ago

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The Ghosts of Windy Ridge

Turn #106, one component

neighbor #11 - Stan McCallen (6)

27 April 2022, Wednesday Afternoon

I'd just paid my tab at Timmy's Diner and was about to leave when I saw Stan McCallen headed across the parking lot toward the door. The last time I'd seen Stan was last Friday afternoon out at the Sundevil River overlook and he had been less than pleased with me. I didn't see any way to not run into him. It was too late to duck back to the restrooms. He'd be in the door any moment.

He'd spotted me, I could tell. But he looked relieved? Like he was glad to see me? I was just putting my wallet into my bag when he opened the inner doors of the diner. "Ms Dyer! I am sure you will doubt my sincerity when I say I am relieved to see you. Please, may we talk?"

"I've just now finished my breakfast, but I think I could handle another cup of coffee and a dessert if you wanted to join me at a booth," I suggested.

"Yes, of course. A fine idea. I could use a lunch break myself," Stan said.

The waitress looked mildly surprised as she lead us to a booth, one just adjacent to where I'd sat with Dani once before. With her coffee pot in hand, she poured us each a mug and pointed to the menus sticking out of the condiment rack at the end of the table. "Be back in a few, eh?" she muttered, then went back behind the counter.

Stan picked up a menu as I stirred a packet of sugar into my mug. I could feel his conflicting relief and nervous doubts.

"I'm sure you know I'm a tarot reader," I began, hoping to ease into this gently. "But it doesn't take a psychic to think that you've been visited by the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come here, eh?"

Stan looked only at the cream he was slowly pouring into his mug. "Yes'm," he said quietly. "Something very much like that, yes."

I put my hand out toward the middle of the table, not touching him, but close by, just in case.

Stan continued stirring a bit longer than needed, then set his spoon aside and took a careful sip. He made no move to take my hand, but after he'd swallowed his coffee, he cleared his throat and said, "a spirit came to me at home the other night. It glowed, much like the one Pastor Mitchelson calls up at services."

He paused and took another swig of coffee. The only glowing spirit around here I know of is Ergediel, and the last time I spent any time in their company was over two weeks ago, when I visited Foras' Lair and came away with an old graphics programming textbook written by Mo. Ergediel hadn't thought much of me at that last meeting, but that hadn't kept me from offering coffee and thanks to them every morning at the cabin for the kindness they showed me when I had first come to town. I was hoping that Ergediel perhaps thought fondly enough of me and in visiting Stan, had convinced him that I'm not the menace he had been led to believe.

I took a swig of my own coffee and waited for Stan to continue. When he had another swallow of his own coffee and didn't seem to want to continue his commentary without me saying something, I faced a moment of indecision. Do I speak of my own connection to Ergediel? Or do I go ahead and let my surprise show at Stan's revelation that Pastor Dick summons visible spirits?

I decided on the latter and lifted my hand off the table to grasp my mug with both hands. "Pastor Mitchelson summons visible spirits, you say? And you believe this same spirit visited you recently? I'm sure you're telling me the truth, but honestly, I didn't think Pastor Dick had it in him to conjure a spirit." I let the pejorative nickname linger in the air for a while and took another swig from my mug.

"Yes'm," Stan said, and then he looked at me with a smile and a wink. "That spirit had a message for you, from your friend Maurice. I'm sure I have no idea why I was chosen to give the message to you, but here I am."

"Well, this is a fascinating turn of events! Please, what was the message?"

"The spirit told me to tell you, well, the spirit told me to tell you, he said, 'I am what I am.'"

I felt like my mind had played a trick on me. The phrases that Stan had said matched up perfectly with a sampled bit of audio I regularly hear on my favorite ambient music internet radio station. I had no idea if that was actually what Stan had said, or if somehow hearing his first few words caused me to hear the entire rest of his comment as the sampled track.

Stan's eyes had glazed over. Before I could muster the courage to ask him to repeat the spirit's message, the waitress abruptly appeared at the table. "Y'all want to order any food?"

Stan came out of his trance almost immediately and said, "I'll take a cheeseburger, extra pickle, no tomato, no mustard."

In hopes that sitting here another half hour or so while Stan ate his lunch might give Ergediel's message a chance to resurface, I went ahead and said, "I'll have a slice of the apple pie, a la mode, thanks."

The waitress turned and left. I paused a moment and then said, "so, you were just about to tell me the message from my friend Mo?"

"Right. I'm having deja vu or something because I thought I'd already told you. The spirit told me to tell you that Maurice says Salimi believes it was Bob who made the paintings and that you know where to find Bob. I have no idea who any of those people are, other than you and your friend Maurice, of course."

"I see, thank you," I replied, unsure about how much more to say on the matter, but I was filled with relief. If Salimi Kamal wasn't going to try to nail me for the paintings, I was probably going to be safe.

#the ghosts of windy ridge #writeblr #nanowrimo #over the mountain

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lizzybeth1986 · 7 years ago

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Nuestra Familia (RCD MC: Astrid)

Book: Red Carpet Diaries

Rating: G

Pairing: Astrid-centric, minor Seth x Astrid

Summary: Astrid realises she doesn't know her family as well she had thought. Minor crossover with The Freshman/The Sophomore/The Junior.

Author's Note: This is a bit late for MC Appreciation Week, but I figured I'd put it out there anyway. This is my origin story for Astrid Ortega, my second RCD MC, who is involved with Seth. There's a cameo of one character from TF/TS/TJ in the end and I have a feeling you folks have already figured out who it is 😅 I used (of course) the "crossover" prompt from this list for my fic. I'm tagging @choices-mc-rules, in case they would still like to reblog this.

Translations:

Nuestra familia - "our family" in Spanish.

Chanclas - slippers/flip-flops

Tres leches cake - Typically a very moist chiffon cake soaked in a mixture of evaporated milk, condensed milk and heavy cream. Tres leches literally means "three milks".

Abuela - one of the terms used for ‘grandmother’ in Spanish.

Ita - Short for Abuelita, also used for grandmothers. Astrid calls her grandmother the former, her mom Teresa calls her grandmother the latter.

Manda Huevos - Can mean a lot of things according to context, but generally used to express a range of emotions, such as annoyance, disappointment, contempt or disbelief. In this context, Teresa means “it's not fair”.

If I've gotten anything wrong in terms of references, please do tell me, and I'll definitely fix it in the fic.

“One more foot inside my kitchen and it'll be my chanclas for you later.”

Teresa Ortega said these words to her daughter Astrid, in the same tone one would use to offer a guest some tea.

It wasn't that her mom didn't allow her kids to help with the cooking. She did. Salome was too young to do much but set the table yet but Astrid (and her big sister Letitia, whenever she was home) often pitched in to help with the meal.

But heaven help anyone who tried to help Mom with her tres leches cake.

This recipe was from Mom's Ita’s faded little diary, passed down to her by her mother on the condition that she would learn its recipes off by heart. It was her pride and joy, Mom would often say. Her baby before her actual babies came along.

And today it was even more essential Mom get this cake right. Astrid's abuela was visiting, and ever since Astrid's mother insisted on naming her Astrid (“She’s already named my first and last - at least leave the middle one to me!”) she could do nothing right.

Perhaps it would've been easier to handle if Dad wasn't Abuela's only son, if Mom had someone she could jointly ignore Abuela with, if they had cousins they could play with while the adults sorted out their issues. Or perhaps not. Still, it would have been nice to know.

“Easy, mom, I'm not going to touch your precious cake,” Astrid said, grinning, “Lemme demolish it at lunch instead.”

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted, though. She could get the scent of baked cake wafting in all the way from her bedroom, and her mother was already starting to combine Carnation milk, condensed milk and 1/4th of a cup of heavy cream into a thin, but somewhat creamy, mixture.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Why are you here, then?”

Astrid felt the muscles around her neck tense up, but schooled her face to a look of injured innocence. “What, can't I just want to talk to my mom once in a while?”

She craned her neck a little further behind Astrid, a tiny frown beginning to form between her brows. “What's that you're holding behind your back?”

Ding! The cake was ready now, just in time for soaking. Astrid let out a sigh of relief. She wanted Mom to see this wedding card, yes - it was why she came to the kitchen in the first place - but now was probably not the time for questions. Questions about family or about secrets. Not when she knew how important it was for her mother to get her weekend cakes right.

“Family” was always a big deal around the Ortega table. Dad was his mother's only child, and Mom’s parents passed on long before any of them were ever born. Her father was as annoyed by Abuela's antics as her mother was, but it never stopped him from having her visit every Sunday because “she's the only family we have left”.

It was as if he needed her to keep himself rooted, as if without her he would be floating aimlessly, no aim or identity, taking his wife and children down that path with him. Abuela knew this. By God, did she know this.

Or so I thought, Astrid said to herself, gripping the wedding card tightly and creating new creases where the word Ortega was written.

Mom was gritting her teeth now, carefully pouring the three-milk mixture over the cake and muttering to herself. “One more word about dry cake this time and I'll give her soggy toast, I swear I will.”

Astrid would have stood up last week and said something to Abuela, if only Mom would let her. It was probably a good thing Leticia wasn't around, she'd fire shots at Abuela for less. She was protective over all of them and often in the heat of the moment she'd forget she’d be landing them all in further trouble.

She was still muttering. “Wants chiffon cake. Screams bloody murder if I use box mix. What, Teresa, looking for shortcuts again?” Mom's voice was raised in an accurately nasal imitation of Abuela's voice. It was almost like she'd forgotten Astrid was there. “Then I make it from scratch like she wants. Then it's Oh Teresa this is so dry oh Teresa it tastes like sawdust. Why else do you think I use box mix, eh? You want it from scratch and you want moist. ¡Manda Huevos!”

The diatribe kept Mom occupied while she finished pouring, so Astrid kept silent. Mom needed this. This wasn't something she can say in front of Letitia (resulting in another Sunday screaming match) or Dad (what would he do?) or Salome (no way would the kid ever take Salome, language! seriously again). Mom needed someone to have her back, no matter how silently or secretly. And that someone had better be her.

“If only Linda had stayed…”

Astrid froze. “What did you say?”

Mom looked up, blinked twice, then stiffened. “Nothing. Nothing.”

Silently, Astrid handed over the card she'd been holding, all this time. She found it while searching for her dad's treasured García Lorca poetry collection, hidden between a page that exalted love and a page that mourned loss.

Mom took it from her, her eyes widening as she read the words.

LINDA ORTEGA

and

DOMINIC SANDOVAL

request the honour of your company at their wedding.

“Dad always told us he was all Abuela has, right,” Astrid said, “The only Ortega for miles around."

Mom answered by busying herself with more activity than ever. Keeping the soaked cake in the fridge. Pouring the remaining milk mixture into two glasses. Washing her hands. Washing the dishes.

“I'll do that for you,” Astrid took a plate from Mom's hands, “Just talk to me.” She grabbed a sponge and dish washing soap, cleaning vigorously. “All this time, Dad's been telling us Abuela's the only family he has, Mom. Like, he has no one else. Like, we have no sisters or brothers besides the three of us. Was he lying?”

“You're wrong,” Mom said, her voice suddenly sounding sharper, harder, “Abuela's the only family he has left. Your father didn't lie.”

“Just omitted the truth, yeah,” Astrid wished she knew how she felt about this. Right now there was so much she was feeling that she didn't exactly know where to begin. “There's no “together with our parents” above their names either. Not like yours’.”

Mom sighed, picked the card up, then held up two glasses of milk-mixture in front of her. “Take one and give the other to your sister. I have a lot of work to do.”

On any other day, Astrid would have grabbed that glass and relished its creaminess, wiping the milk-moustache off her mouth with a flourish. But today no amount of sweetness was going to take away that weird metallic taste in the roof of her mouth.

“I'm not done asking about this,” Astrid said, scowling, “to you or to Dad. If I have aunts and cousins out there, that's something I wanna know.”

Astrid did try in the weeks to come. But she never saw the wedding card again, and neither Mom or Dad ever responded when she raised the topic again. Still. It felt nice to dream.

Every time Abuela made a snide remark at lunch, she imagined her cousins there. A snarky younger girl who’d make smartass comments. A strong boy her age who’d shut Abuela up with just a glare. A nice aunt who’d take Mom's mind off all this nonsense. It didn't help much, but it felt nice.

It felt nice knowing she had company out there. Somewhere.

6 years later.

“Donuts, Iowa?” Seth’s eyes were gleaming at the prospect. He was more a bag-of-chips kinda guy most days, but he also liked having massive sugar rushes before a comedy gig.

“As long as the insides of six of those are practically spilling over with fruit jam, I'm game,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It felt exhilarating, freeing. She hadn't felt this normal in a while - normal enough to kiss her boyfriend without worrying about paparazzo jumping out from a bush. There was a guy in a leather jacket she didn't recognize - three blocks across - looking at her like he wanted to talk, but not in a way that made her feel unsafe.

That was the nice thing about Northbridge. People looked, sure, but they were less likely to make you feel like an exhibit from a zoo.

“Wait here, yeah?” Seth said, planting a kiss on the lips instead, “I'll be back before you can finish spelling “OHIO” with your arms.”

Astrid laughed. Seth said the most Ohio things sometimes. Neither of them had had this much fun since she was offered a lead role in Tender Nothings, which was why Seth always jumped at a chance to take up gigs in Northbridge, and why he always offered to take Astrid along when she was free.

The guy from before stepped forward a few minutes after Seth entered the donut shop. The summer heat must have been too much for him - his leather jacket was now slung over his shoulders. “Um, hello. Astrid Ortega?”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, mouth pursed into a thin line, a tiny curl slipping carelessly from his hair and resting on his forehead. She caught a peek at the tail end of a bird tattoo (Owl? The tail looked pointy) on his left arm.

“Yeah,” Astrid said, wondering whether it was her or Seth he wanted to talk to, “but I don't know what your name is.”

“ Zigmund. Zig for short,” he replied, looking behind him from time to time, “My sister Lucy’s a big fan. Asked me to help her get an autograph from you.”

“Is she here?”

“Yeah. But she doesn't want to come out. She's shy.”

Ah. So that was the cherry-red blur barely hidden by that building. She learned long ago that no matter how friendly you appeared, your image would precede you and intimidate people anyway. Autographs were great, but somehow she didn't want to stop at just that.

“Would she come out now if I asked?” she gave him her sunniest smile, “Tell her I won't bite.”

Zig hesitated, then nodded. Astrid watched him walk to the other building, move his hands expressively as he tried to convince his sister to join him (from that angle he almost looks like Letitia, Astrid thought), and return with a curly-haired, starry-eyed teenage girl.

“H-hey,” she said, then blushed, clearly embarrassed by her nervousness. Silently, she hands over her autograph book. She keeps her eyes studiously away from Astrid's face. “I, um, I like mystery films, and I really, really liked Tender Nothings.”

A girl after my own heart. “Maybe you'll like Sunset Boulevard, then,” she said, smiling.

Astrid could have just signed and left it at that, but there was something about these two. Something about the way they stood together, or exchanged glances, or something, that reminded her of home. Which was silly. But it didn’t change the fact that she wanted to leave a good impression on them.

“What would you like to be when you grow up, Lucy?”

Lucy didn't miss a beat. “Ballet dancer. Like my brother.”

Astrid smiled, particularly at the look the girl gave Zig. Yes, she could see on second glance that even though some people would say he didn't have the body of a dancer, he held himself with a certain grace, a certain lightness that belied a stronger core. Hit by a sudden rush of inspiration, she quickly scribbled a little note to go with her signature, and asked Lucy to read it.

To Lucy and Zig, future (hopefully!) best ballet dancing duo in America. Be sure to save me a seat when you folks get famous. Love Always, Astrid.

“Wowwww,” Lucy whispered. Zig suppressed his smile, trying not to let how he felt show, and failed. A corner of his mouth lifted upwards, revealing an almost-invisible dimple.

The two left before Seth brought his box of donuts,but they thanked her at least thrice as they walked away.

“Wait till I tell Mom about this,” Astrid overheard Lucy tell her brother as they left, “I told you she'd be really, really nice.”

“You did,” there was a note of indulgence in Zig's voice.

"Ortegas all around the world. Wherever we're from, we're nice.”

Had Seth come out a moment later, Astrid would have probably walked up to them and asked. Perhaps asked them where they were from and their parents’ names.

But Seth was here, with donuts, and there was never a moment she could take her eyes off either.

“Do you know those two?” Seth asked her, passing her a tres leches cake donut that was claimed to be one of their best, “They looked familiar.”

“”No,” Astrid replied, closing her eyes in bliss. Mmmm. The treat was taking her back to Des Moines, back to home, back to her mother's little kitchen. “But I wouldn't mind meeting them again.”

#fanfic #red carpet diaries #the freshman #the sophomore #the junior #rcd mc #astrid ortega #seth levine #zig ortega #lucy ortega #seth x astrid #playchoices crossover #seth x mc #mc appreciation week

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