#as you can probably tell from that lumpy part

[fennopunk]

I think I might have done something extremely ADHD...

I tried nålebinding once something like ten years ago, and gave up after about an hour. Since then, it's been on my kilometer long craft to-do list to try learning it and obviously haven't tried it since. I never gave hope though, I even kept my nålebinding Pinterest board and the needle I made!

So, this morning obviously I woke up full of confidence that today's the day when I will nålebind again (because I'm avoiding another task on my more pressing craft list). And apparently I have retained more info from my short stint 10 years ago and/or have acquired information by osmosis because I have managed to do this with only couple pics on Pinterest as my guide:

Yes, it not great, but considering I haven't really done this before beyond a quick try, it's weirdly good.

My actual theory is that the stitch I'm using doesn't differ from sewing blanket stitch all that much and I've done A LOT of hand sewing in the past decade... Plus, I've also gotten pretty good at knitting and crocheting too and so far the increase has worked very similarly to crochet.

[jar0fhoney]

PART 1 - PART 2 - PART 3 (NSFW) - PART 4 -

PART 5 (NSFW) - PART 6 - PART 7 (NSFW) - PART 8 (NSFW)

Odd things started happening.

You unlocked the door to your shop, and you could hear a pin drop. And that’s just it. It was quiet. Something so small, so simple. But you noticed it immediately. The hinges of the door had been oiled. You opened and closed the door so many times… you probably looked quite mad to onlookers. You gasped when inside the shop you noticed another repair. The window. The one you had boarded up, fixed good as new. Instead of relief, a wave of worry was beginning to wash over you. Was this a joke? Was Milo doing this just to let winter take it all away? Or giving you a taste of what you could have if you surrendered to his advances.

The thought began to cross your mind recently. The days were beginning to grow longer, and the sun grew more stifling. Spring was melting into summer. You and your mother were beginning to find proof of pests and varmints making a feast out of the fields. When you had your sisters and your mother was stronger, winter wasn’t such a frightening thought.

tap tap tap. You looked around the shop. A mouse? Tap tap tap.

You looked to the window, and there he was.

”We keep meeting each other like this.” His voice muffled through the glass. “You’re a lot more bold without your friends around.” You retorted. His smile faltered, “I’m a coward.”

You laughed. This orc hunter? Cowardly?

”Here.” He held something up into the window. A lumpy burlap rucksack. “It’s Turmeric. But… for growing. In the dirt.”

You walked over and opened the window. “Why?” You were cautious, you didn’t trust “gifts” from men anymore. He tossed the bag on your counter, “Those golden eggs you gave me, the boys said they were just like home… thank you.” His gaze was so piercing, you felt your face grow hot. “How much for these?” You tore your eyes away from him towards the burlap bag.

“Nothing. Just keep making them, and I’ll tell everyone to come here and keep buying them!” He seemed absolutely giddy. “This orc must really love pickled eggs.” you thought to yourself.

“I see Milo around here pretty often.”

”You’ve been watching?” His face got very red at your reply. “Well regardless,” He didn’t deny your accusation, “He seems real sweet on you.”

”He can go fuck himself.” You hissed. Khargaad’s eyes widened. “I refuse to give him what he wants and I think it’s nearly driven him mad.” He looked at you expectantly, like he was hanging onto your every word. You paused before you went on with your rant, “How do you know him?” You realized you should know if the two were chummy before cursing Milo’s name.

“When you hunt big game, you end up meeting the people with enough money to pay you to hunt said game. But we are not friends, if that’s what you’re getting at.” You sighed in relief. “Hey,” you said changing the subject, “come in here and pick something out. On the house. I really appreciate these.” You patted the burlap sack. He grinned and shimmied his way through the doorway. You hadn’t had the chance to fully appreciate his size. He had to crouch to fit beneath the low ceiling, but you guessed he must be 7 feet tall standing fully upright. And his arms, oh his arms. Big and thick like two tree branches. You were staring. You didn’t realize it before you caught his eye and yanked yourself back behind the counter, counting your coins.

He quietly pondered over all of the jars of pickled vegetables. “What’s in this?” You heard him ask. You didn’t bother looking up from your coins, “It’s written on the label.”

”Are you kidding?” His voice lacked any light-hearted tone. You glanced up from your counting. He looked at you, then at the label, then back at you again. “Don’t you remember? What those two said when you mentioned the recipe?”

“That you were illiterate?”

”No, they said I couldn’t read, y/n.” Was he yanking your chain right now? That’s what you just- “OH… oh. I thought… they were kidding.” The words eked past your lips. The poor orc had a pained look of embarrassment on his face. Before he could even conjure up of an answer, the words tumbled out your mouth like a turned over bushel of apples.

“I’ll teach you!”

He peered over at you, his cheeks were very flushed. “No one has ever tried to teach me before.” You smiled very sweetly at him, “And I have never grown turmeric in my garden before. But here you are. And here I am.” It only took him one and a half strides to meet you at the counter across the room. “What can I give you in return?” It almost sounded like he was pleading.

You chuckled, “It’s a gift, Khargaad.” He was so close now that you could smell the smokey leather scent coming off of him. You probably should have been embarrassed to take such a noticeably large inhale of it. But it was too lovely for you to care. You couldn’t have known his own sensitive scent receptors were going haywire this close to you.

“I should go now. Thank you. I’ll be back.” He said shortly. He left so quickly he forgot his jar of pickled vegetables.

~

He had to leave. Had to. You smelled so sweet. He felt awful. Thinking like that. About you.

He found himself in the forest, back pressed up against a tree. So much blood had rushed to the orc’s cock it was becoming painful. He winced, palming himself over the strained trousers. He frantically pulled at the strings of his waistband, the fabric pooling down around his thighs. “Ah!” Gods, the noises that were coming out of his mouth were sinful.

He ran a hand down the trail of hair leading to his cock. “O- oh. F-fuck.” He wrap one hand around the base, already fucking himself in and out of his fist. He won’t last long. Not with the memory of your scent still fresh in his mind. He would bet his right hand that you taste just as sweet.

It felt so wrong, but Gods when you walked into that town square wearing that dress. He knew you had used the spice he gave you. And on that day, it was wrapped so pretty against your body. Around your waist. Around your breasts. The briskness of the spring morning making your nipples poke through the gauzy fabric.

He didn’t last long, his hot milky cum dribbled over his fingers. He couldn’t do this again. It was an insult to you. It was filthy. You were kind. You were generous.

From this day forward, he was determined to court you. Properly.

~

The sky was purple and orange in twilight. The street was uncharacteristically vacant that evening, but you didn’t think much of it. You didn’t think to watch the front door. And you certainly didn’t hear the person who had quite silently slipped through the entrance.

You screamed. You really screamed, when you felt an arm snake around your waist. But there wasn’t anybody around to hear you. “You’re going to die, y/n.” It was Milo and he was very drunk. The scent on his breath stung your nose. “You and your mother are going to die come winter. You can’t work fast enough to protect the rats from your fields. Not with two women. You’re mother can hardly walk anymore can she?”

His grip was digging into your waist, “And when winter comes, I won’t let anybody in this entire fucking town help you. I swear it, y/n.”

Milo was not an honorable man, but you knew this was one oath he intended on keeping. “Don’t do something stupid, Milo. Let’s be reasonable,” You seethed through your biting teeth, “There’s so many girls in this town, Milo. So many girls who are more rich, more beautiful, better family names-“ He brought his other hand to your neck and squeezed just a little bit.

”Do you know what people say? About a rich man who can’t even get the hand of a simple farm girl?”

“I can’t help your bruised ego-“ He squeezed your air pipes even tighter, making you choke on your words. “The Gods have blessed me, y/n. This morning I woke up, and I-“

”Hey.” A very gruff voice came from behind the two of you. Milo released you immediately, leaving a red ring around your neck. You knew that voice.

”You should go from here Milo.” Khargaad didn’t brandish a weapon. To kill a man he only needed his bare hands, after all. Milo trembled, hells even you trembled too. Milo threw his hands in the air light heartedly, “Lover’s quarrel-“

”Wrong. Leave. Don’t come back here.” Khargaad uncrossed his massive arms, taking a step to the side. Milo, the coward he was, stormed out the open door. Not before spitting on Khargaad’s boots. The orc didn’t stop him, stepping between you and the doorway. His eyes stayed trained on Milo as he stormed down the street.

You massaged your aching neck, the orc had a troubled look on his face, “Are you okay?” You weren’t. Of course you weren’t. You brushed him off, “I thought you were going to kill him.” He crossed his arms again, “I considered it. Trust me, I did. But what would you do after that? The son of the richest man in town. Killed by an orc. In your presence, in your shop after hours.” He was right. But there was a part of you who would’ve risked it all just to see Milo snuffed out.

Khargaad cleared his throat, “What was he talking about? With you and your mother? And the Farm?”

Shit.

Me: I’m gonna write something beautiful and meaningful :)

Also Me: Orc man experiences post-nut clarity in the forest >:)

As always: Hugs and smooches to everyone who asked for part 3 ❤️

@reads-stuff-quietly @loo-looland @sluttygirl123 @beaniebaneenie @blushycadaver @sunndust @whyiamadegenerate @the-attic-of-porcelain @freakyotaku059-blog @youknowits-derea @thoughts-of-bear-undercovers @allthecraftandthings @gruffle1 @kennedyabraxas123

[venus-haze]

Damned If You Do (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Summary: You're almost certain Bo's getting tired of you. You're not so sure how much longer you can prevent the inevitable, but a slip of the tongue in a moment of desperation proves to be your salvation.

Note: Female reader but no other descriptors are used. I missed writing for Bo! I might be kinda rusty, but I hope y’all like it🖤 Please read the warnings before reading. Do not interact if you're under 18, terf or radfem, or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. Canon typical violence. Prolonged captivity and isolation. Stockholm syndrome (some basement wife elements). Mentions of past torture. Extremely dubious consent. Sexually explicit content involving vaginal fingering, sadism, degradation, choking, knife play.

You were sure Ambrose was gonna kill you if he didn’t first. The damp, dead air permeated the basement walls, filtered in thick through the vent in the ceiling and filled your lungs with each breath. It would choke you once summer settled in, foul and unforgiving. Almost as unforgiving as him, whose presence inspired fear and loathing in you. Lately, however, the lack of it brought a foreboding sense of dread over you as your isolated mind raced to its logical conclusion.

Bo was getting tired of you.

One cursory glance at the state of your body made you panic—bruises fading, cuts and cigarette burns scarring over without fresh marks to replace them. For the first week or so you were there, every part of your body pulsed with pain. He found your limits with the efficacy of a bloodhound and brutally forced you past each one. 

All you felt then was dull aching, kinda hungry, too. Didn’t bode well for your long-term survival.

You shifted on the old, lumpy mattress on the floor, stained with blood, sweat, and cum that reeked with the breakdown of others’ bodily fluids. Probably the girls in the Polaroids all over the walls. He’d taken a few of you since you’d been down there. Hadn’t done that recently, either. Mostly came down there to feed you, take you upstairs to use the gas station bathroom, bring you back downstairs to throw you around a little and fuck you, and then leave. Shit. You were becoming a chore.

Bo had plenty of chores around Ambrose already. Would grumble about them to you, the closest he ever got to pillowtalk. The movie theater, the church, even the houses were his responsibility. You weren’t quite sure why, less able to clearly picture the town you’d driven into the longer you spent as Bo’s captive. There weren’t any immediate red flags that popped out at you. After all, you’d driven straight to the gas station on your blown out tire. Didn’t take the time to do any sight-seeing. He made sure of that. From what you’d gathered from Bo, the only living souls in town were he and Vincent, with the recent and temporary addition of yourself.

The floor creaked above you, and you pulled your knees to your chest, anticipating his arrival downstairs. It was almost impossible to tell what mood he’d be in whenever he’d pay you a visit. Tried listening for the sound of his footsteps, the way his boots pounded against the linoleum above to the cement stairs to where you waited for him, as if you could do much else. There was the TV, but the glimpse into the outside world left you feeling especially helpless when your own face flashed across the screen on the 6 o’clock news not long after you became captive in Ambrose. Then after a week or so, all mention of you stopped. Seven days for you to be rotated out of the news cycle. They’d gotten tired of you long before Bo did.

You screwed your eyes shut, as he ambled down the stairs, racking your brain for what to do. Opened them just as quickly to give him your undivided attention, just how he liked. Panicked and hopeless, you blurted out upon seeing his face, “You’re gonna kill me soon, aren’t you?”

He set the bottle of soda he’d undoubtedly brought down for you and smiled. Charming, disarming, like the one he first gave you when you naively drove into town on the roadkill guy’s advice—Lester. His name was Lester. Could he have known? Was he in on the whole thing? You hadn’t seen anyone but Bo for weeks, and he only made mention of Vincent, his brother, who you were certain had no interest in rescuing you from your plight.

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

‘Tire blew out,’ you had told Bo, feeling silly and self-conscious when he laughed. ‘I can see that.’ Threw a wink your way and assured you he’d have you back on the road before it got dark. You trusted him because he was handsome and laid on the compliments thick. Made you think maybe driving over that broken bottle in the road wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Within an hour he had you in that fucking basement.

“You—you’re bored of me,” you said. “You don’t come down here as often as you used to.”

“Aw, you miss me? Is that it?” he mocked.

Maybe. Maybe it was the security of knowing you were wanted, that the longer you kept his interest, the longer you’d be alive. Maybe even earn his trust enough to get a chance to escape back into the world that’d forgotten about you. But Bo wouldn’t forget. He’d keep you immortalized on those cinder block walls with all the others. Disgustingly sentimental. Part of you preferred being part of his shrine to his own depravity than a black and white photo people carelessly flipped past in the local paper.

“How are you gonna do it? Tell me,” you begged.

He tilted his head, narrowed his eyes at you as a grin spread across his face. “Well, I like to get that shit over with quick, but you might be worth slowing things down for.”

“Like—like how?”

As soon as he made his way toward you, regret filled your gut. You crawled backward on your hands, trying to put some distance between you until your back hit the wall. His hands were around your neck, his hungry eyes drinking in your distress.

“If you were most girls, I would just keep squeezing until you stop breathing,” he said, squeezing harder. “Pretty clean.” Black spots filled your vision as you fruitlessly tried clawing at his hands. “Makes it easier for Vincent to get to work on you that way.” He released your throat, and you fought through the coughing fit that burned in your chest as you gasped for air. Tears streamed down your face, and you wanted to smack the smug expression off of his.

“But that ain’t always fun,” he said.

Bo stood up and kicked your legs apart with his boots. Grabbed something from the nearby tool cart. The fucking knife. You swore he kept the blade dull on purpose just so it’d hurt more, leave nastier scars behind in its wake whenever he dug it into your skin, dragging it through your flesh with horrifying precision that only came from experience, because you never needed stitches.

“For you, I think I’d be a little more personal.”

He straddled you, sitting on your legs so you couldn’t possibly move them in an attempt to escape or defend yourself. You could feel his hard-on straining against his jeans, pressing into your bare pussy as he leaned over you, knife shining menacingly in the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. He made rags of your clothes not long after you became his and never offered any replacement.

The blade pressed against the middle of your chest, right between your breasts, making you shudder. He licked his lips. “I could shove this knife on in there, open you up all the way down to your cunt.” His fingers brushed your clit. “‘Beauty’s only skin deep’, that’s what my mama used to say. But sluts like you all look the same on the inside. Crack open your ribcage, and I wouldn’t be able to tell you from all the rest.”

You whimpered as he dragged the blade down your abdomen with a deceptive gentleness, his fingers still working your clit, making it hard for you not to jerk your hips, risking a slip of the knife directly into your belly. 

When he lifted the knife, you couldn’t even let yourself feel relief as your eyes followed it to one of your wrists. 

“Could take it nice and slow. Let you bleed out,” he pressed it against your skin, dangerously close to a vein. “It’d take hours for you to die, then. Messy as hell, too, but we could get up to some fun, you and me. A good fuck for ol’ times’ sake, then I can sit back with some popcorn while I watch the lights go out in those pretty eyes of yours.”

You let out a shaky breath, fear and arousal mixing with your lingering lack of oxygen so you could only half-grasp what exactly he was saying, just that he had a knife to your wrist, and he was enough of a homicidal monster to kill you that way. He slid his fingers inside you, and you could feel your orgasm creeping up on you, your head heavy and fuzzy as he kept going. 

“But if we’re talking easy and personal, then I’d just—” He brought the blade up to your throat until you could feel your rapid pulse beating against it. 

Bo curled his fingers, pleasure tearing through you as you jolted in place, feeling the cool metal superficially pierce your skin. 

Your voice came out as a strangled sob. “Please, Bo. Please don’t—” 

He kissed you, an undertone of fondness in the gesture that filled you with relief and terror. “You won’t have to worry about any of that for a long while,” he said, his voice low, reverberating through your aching bones. “I’m not finished with you yet. Not even close.”

[oceansmotion]

Aoife's Maxis Match Face Templates UPDATED.

Now less gendered, more consistent between ages, and with baby faces! More info and a bunch of pictures below.

Finally, after months, I have finished these. A long time ago now, I'd made my original templates but didn't really pay any mind to how gendered faces really are, and how inconsistent they are between each age. I love the Maxis faces, I just wanted them to look a little less lumpy, and to replace ones that I felt were redundant. Basically, I hated that with any given template, I couldn't really tell what a sim was going to look like as an adult because every face looked different at each stage!

So today I bring to you my less gendered Maxis Match templates, where I have chosen which face I felt was more iconic and matched the other gender with it, and then made every age look more like that template (including baby faces).

Martin Ruben can be a good example:

Yeah, sure, the eyes are the same, but that's pretty much where the likeness ends. A lot of the templates will do this, and some of the female faces suffered for it (jaws were outlawed on females in 2004, didn't you know?)

They aren't perfect but they're miles better than the originals! I also think they bring a lot more variety to faces, because I did notice that a lot of the templates would use face parts from entirely different templates! Face 2's eyes and face 1's nose are really popular, as well as yeeting jaws and chins out the window.

Faces 1 - 4

Faces 5 - 8

Faces 9 - 12

Faces 13 - 16

Faces 17 - 20

Faces 21 - 24

Faces 25 - 27

An example between AF and TF

and the same face as a child and toddler.

If you noticed in some of the pictures, the ears clipped through a few hairs, and that's because I also took the liberty of adding custom ear shapes to almost every face. No, it didn't occur to me to change the hairstyle I picked for photos until I was already on face 18 and didn't want to start over.

These aren't perfect, and maybe someday I'll go over them again to change more minute details, but for now, I'm very happy with how they turned out! Please let me know if there are any issues, I triple checked everything but I probably missed something somewhere.

Download || Mediafire Box

Credits: Meowingcookie on MTS for their baby face templates. I pretty much just used their baby faces with some tweaks to better match my changes.

@withlovefromsimtown for giving me the idea in the first place. I love their faces!

[wasitforrevenge]

oh sweetheart pt. 2.5

pairing: boxer!ellie x f! jesses sister!reader

word count: 1.2k

rating: 18+ (smut will be coming in later parts)

warnings: dealer! boxer!ellie, weed, alcohol,

summary: ellie gets your phone number.

author notes: hi just something small for a filler, setting up for the next part, hoping to have it posted up friday the 1st! thank you for reading! pls reblog, comment, or like! i love the support, and thank you for over 1000 likes and 100 followers!! it’s a great feeling

italic = ellie and bold = reader

part 2.5 | part 3

series masterlist <3

from the river to the sea, palestine will be free 🇵🇸

READ: this account stands with palestine, and so— i require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1 and 2, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.

its been a week and a half since you last saw her when she drove you home from the match in her old busted truck. thoughts of her plagued your mind all week. you wondered if she was working. you wondered if she was out with friends. you wondered if she was thinking about you. she is but you don’t know that. you’re not aware she’s thinking of you also. thinking of the way the smell of strawberries stained her car after you left. thinking of the way you said you like it when she calls you sweetheart.

both of you wonder when the next time you’ll see each other is.

its a wednesday afternoon, you’re currently sitting on the couch with dina. she’s the only friend you have down here so far and its not weird that she’s dating your brother. she has come over a bunch, helping you shop, getting little things for your apartment, watching movies and of course, getting high. which is exactly what you’re doing right now. you both sat on your old lumpy couch and watched the iron man series that you had on dvd, not paying to much attention to the tv, but rather your conversion.

“so no luck still? you should just come work with me at the farm, i mean i love it- the horse shit not so much.” dina exclaimed.

“yeah its like no one is hiring, i may have to take you up on that, i still wanna keep looking though, maybe something will come along.” you told her.

“yeah avoid horse shit as long as you can, something will come along don’t worry!” she said trying to make you feel better knowing you’re stressed. but at the end of the day, you need something to fill your time besides thinking of the boxer that drove you home.

you guys just sat and talked then eventually as the credits rolled for the last movie, you got up and started to clean up the mess from the pizza you ordered earlier. after you went to the kitchen and put the plates in the sink, you grabbed the bottle of wine and two glasses and made your way back to dina still in the living room. you hold it up to her and with the look on her face, you knew she was thinking the same thing.

by the third bottle, it was 10pm and you’ve run out of weed and not much wine left but you both are feeling great, laughing and giggling like kids. its nice to have a friend you thought.

“what are you doing friday night?” she questioned.

you responded to her, “probably exactly what im doing right now” you both laughed.

“well there’s another match this weekend, me and jesse are going if you want to come along again, ellie will be there too.” she replied. you couldn’t hide the smile on your face when she said her name.

“woah! what’s with the smiling and the blushing…” she joked asking. you didn’t tell either of them what happened that night at the first match. from outside or inside, they assumed you both got an uber and you didn’t tell them any differently.

“nothing, i just thought she was nice thats all.” you said trying not make any signs of anything more.

“oh she is!,” dina started, “well maybe not at first but once you get to know her, we’ve been friends for years now,” she laughed and kept going, “she fights at the gym sometimes, but she works there too, its a good hang out space plus cheap drinks. plus she’s bringing us the restock.” she finished as she picked up her weed jar.

“oh you get it from her?” you inquired, thinking back to the faint smell of weed in her car when she drove you home.

“yeah she’s got good stuff and nice deals, ugh its great, always easier to get it from someone you know,” she ended. you thought about asking her if you could tell her to get you some to and for some other non-obvious reason but she beat you to it.

“ill send her your number and she’ll text you.” she said to you as she pulled out her phone and sent a message. a few moments later, her phone rang and she answered, it was jesse waiting outside for her so she gave you a hug and grabbed her stuff and you walked her to the door.

you locked it before you turned around to sit back down on the couch, grabbed the wine glass and poured the last bit in your cup, you were still drunk and definitely feeling it. you heard your phone buzz and you picked it up, answering the call, not paying attention, thinking it was dina but the voice surprised you.

hey sweetheart

you didn’t expect her to call so soon, you haven’t even given yourself a moment to think about what to say beforehand. you weren’t prepared for this. you feel yourself getting nervous over the girl you only met last week but you just cant help it. she’s been on your mind since you met her.

hi ellie

dina sent me your number i hope that’s okay

yes she said she was going to

well in that case, she said you needed to buy

yeah we managed to smoke up all her stash and i haven’t gotten any since i moved here, probably cause i didn’t know where to get it

well no worries, i’ve got everything you need sweetheart.

thank you ellie, you said smiling but she couldn’t see you through the phone, you wondered what she’d think if she saw how red your face was right now.

you can call me el sweetheart, no need to be so formal.

she laughed through the phone, and then asked if you were coming to the gym on friday with your brother and dina.

they invited me but i hadn’t thought about it yet, not wanting to sound too eager about the potential thought of seeing her on friday.

mhm- well you should, we’re just gonna have some drinks and chill so nothing crazy. but i will have the weed for you then if that peaks your interest.

bribing me with drugs?, you laugh into the phone and she laughs with you.

if that’s how you want to put it sweetheart, sure

you smiled into the phone, not even sure how to respond to that before becoming flustered, before you continued,

i guess we’ll just have to wait and see then…

yeah i guess we will… goodnight sweetheart.

that was the last thing she said before she hung up and you sat staring back at a black screen. thinking that now she has your number and you have hers.

it’s almost 11 now as you brush your teeth, throw on a t shirt and cuddle up in bed. falling asleep to the thoughts of how friday was going to go when you finally saw her again.

[frantic-fiction]

May I request some Jealous!Fem!Reader x Astarion? Maybe one where someone from Astarion’s past makes an appearance and while Astarion sees this woman as just a friend, reader can see the woman blatantly flirting with her vampire spawn and she doesn’t like it one bit. ESPECIALLY if Astarion’s oblivious to the woman’s advances and innocently engages (because let’s face it, our boy loves being praised & complimented 24/7). Reader decides it’s her turn to stake her claim on our little sassy vampire and remind everyone who he belongs to ;)

Yes! Yes! Thank you for the request!

Jealous

Astarion x gn!reader

Warnings: None

Word Count: 1.5k

Masterlist

It was nice being back in the city. Yes, there was still the ever-looming threat of the Absolute, but most of the party was back home, and for once, it felt like, for a moment, everyone could breathe. You had a fluffy bed to sleep on instead of a lumpy bedroll. And while Gale always made whatever perversions the party scavenged taste good, the warm, hearty tavern meals you've been treated to as of late were too good to beat.

But the best part of being back was taking any moment to drag Astarion out into the city to wherever he fancies so he can explore Baldur's Gate in the daylight without the darkness of Cazador. He wanted to visit the farmers market today, so you wandered the vendors' stalls, stopping to take moments and smell flowers and sample wares.

Astarion politely conversed with a tailor about the fabric quality used for a shirt he wanted. Frankly, they had been talking longer than your attention span could handle, so when your eyes wandered to a stall full of beaded jewelry, you wasted no time giving Astarion a quick peck on the cheek and telling him where you'd be.

The pieces were beautiful and skillfully crafted—brightly colored beads and gold inlays, gems of various minerals, all catching your eyes. The older halfling woman propped highly on the stool, greets you politely, and gives little details and facts about each one you set aside for closer inspection. Maybe you should get something for Shadowheart and Karlach? Probably not Lae—

"Astarion!"

A feminine voice has you snapping your head back to your partner. A frown instantly settles over your features when you see a tall, elven woman pull Astarion's hug. Her brown hair is intricately braided into a top knot decorated in sparkly chains. Her dress hugs her curves, framing her body perfectly.

Why are they still hugging?

"Oh Gods, it's been too long. You're looking amazing." Her nasal voice filters down the markets. "How are you, love?"

Astarion finally manages to break the hug, giving the woman an automatic flirtatious smile, the tailor long forgotten. "Eleanor, I've been well. I do hope the same can be said for you."

Dropping the beads with little care, you leave the stall, ignoring the halfling. You don't like this woman. You don't like how her hand still lingers on Astarion's forearm or how she leans ever so slightly closer as if daring him to kiss her.

"I've been fine, though I'm upset you haven't visited in quite a while. It's been rather dull without you." She runs her hand up his arm.

Astarion laughs, flicking his hand in the air and clearly enjoying the woman's words. "I could only imagine, my dear. Those brutes are fowl at their best. Who wouldn't miss me."

Your jaw clenches when her obnoxious laughter rings in the air. Pushing past a family of four throwing a half-ass apology, not paying mind, too pissed off. Who does this woman think she is putting her hands on Astarion as if he's hers?

"Astarion, you always knew how to make me laugh." Elenor ducks her head, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "If I'm being honest, I was always jealous of the ones you took home. But now that we're here, maybe…"

Oh, hell no! You practically jump the rest of the way and run into Astarion's arm. He lets out a breathy oof, arms tightening around your waist to keep you from tumbling to the ground. Pretending you weren't aware of the woman, you capture Astarion into a chaste kiss before beaming up at him.

"I hope you found what you were looking for, my love." Your voice is sickly sweet as you trail your thumb across his cheekbone. Then you turn your head and feign innocence, looking at the elf. "Oh, I'm sorry, Star. Who is this?"

Astarion gives you a look but recovers quickly. Clearing his throat, he speaks, "Darling, this is Eleanor. She owns a tavern I frequented. One of the only decent companies I've had before we met."

Moving away from Astarion's side, you reach your hand out in greeting, giving her your name, "It's a pleasure to meet a friend of my Star,"

Eleanor looks a bit taken aback, staring blankly at the two of you, clearly not expecting this change in her plans. You're internally preening. She takes your hand in a limp shake before dropping it and stepping back. Eleanor quickly wipes her hand on her dress slyly and chuckles.

"That explains why I haven't seen you in a while."

You sneer at her, wanting nothing more than to punch her. Instead, you drop your hand onto Astarion's chest, nuzzling warmly into his side. "Yes, sorry about that. I've been a bit selfish. Sometimes it hard to get out of bed."

"Right…" Eleanor says. Astarion, I never took you as one to settle down, especially someone as… unique as them."

"What is that supposed to mean?" The venom drips from your words, and Astarion has to keep you in place.

Eleanor smirks. "Oh, I meant nothing bad." The mocking tone alone reinforces that she meant this to be as insulting as possible. "I'm just stating you're rougher around the edges."

Astarion's hold on your waist tightens as you move to step forward, hand reaching for the dagger discreetly hidden against your thigh. There is no possible way this woman values Astarion in any way more than as a body to conquer. That thought alone has you practically baring your teeth.

"What the fuck does that mean!"

Astarion steps in before you can do anything extreme, "Eleanor, it was lovely seeing you again. We'll have to come and visit sometime for a drink, but I'm afraid my love and I must make our leave."

"Oh yes, of course!" Elenor says, her voice a bit too filled with fake cheer. Her smile is strained, and her eyes stare daggers into your skull. "I hope I can see you at the tavern sometime soon."

"Yes, we'll come down for a visit sometime soon. " Astarion calls over his shoulder, practically dragging you down the cobblestone. You think about ripping your arm out of his hold and turning back, but you let him pull you along with only a death glare sent toward Eleanor.

As soon as the two of you are in a secluded place, Astarion drops your hand and turns on you. "Darling, what was that?"

Picking at your nails, you shrug your shoulders. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Astarion takes your hand and, with a finger, tilts your chin to force you to meet his eyes. He has a shit-eating grin, and his fangs are even more prominent in his smile. "You were jealous."

Swatting his hands away, you step back. "I was not!" You lie and storm down the alleyway. You didn't get far before Astarion caught your wrist and spun you into his chest.

"You were jealous." He repeats. "But you really shouldn't be."

"She was all over you."

"It was a hug, my dear, from probably the closest normal friendship I had before the tadpole."

"Friendship? She was practically begging you to fuck her." You huff, fiddling with the lapels of Astarion's shirt.

Astarion chuckles deeply and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Gods, you're cute when you're jealous."

"Don't make fun of me, Astarion."

Ignoring you, he continues. "For argument's sake, if she was begging me to fuck her, as you so eloquently put it, who cares? I certainly don't, not when I have this beautiful, strong, incredibly understanding partner who knows all the darkest parts of me and still stands by my side?"

"Well, I am pretty noble for putting up with you when you're hungry." You smile, looping your arms around his neck, all jealousy draining from you like water from a colander.

"How could another soul handle me in that horrid state." Astarion runs his nose against yours. "I love you and don't plan on stopping soon."

You beam and kiss him breathlessly before mumbling, "I love you too," against his lips. "I think we should head back to our room."

Astarion chuckles under his breath, running his hands down the curve of your spine. "Oh, what for my sweet?"

"Well," Crawling your fingers up his chest, you press your lips to his ear and whisper. "If you'll let me, I want to mark every inch of your neck." "Mark me as yours, darling?" Astarion hums.

"Mhmm, we could go further, but" you continue. "Tonight, I want you to show me this tavern Eleanor owns. I think we deserve a date night."

"You are jealous."

"If I agree, will you take me out?" You lean in for a kiss.

Astarion presses forward, brushing his lips against yours. "As long as I have a necklace of your pretty love bites."

"Then yes, my love, I am very much jealous."

I've been struggling with inspiration lately. Moving was super stressful and I had to leave a hostile work environment very quickly so life's been a bit messy. But I've got my kitty cat and don't have to deal with a shitty boss so hopefully things will go up from here.

I'm kinda iffy on how I feel on this one but that might just be my current mindset. I hope you all enjoy it regardless, and stay tune because I plan on have something spicier posted soonish...possibly Astarion discovering his breeding kink 🫣❤️

Taglist: @heartfully10@ayselluna@marina-and-the-memes@anixson@canonicalchaoticneutral @toadsbitch @meulinkitten-blog @ambr4armr @lotusandcrystals @venussakura @synapticjive @skittleabyss@asterordinary@lariatbunny @whispering-depths@butchboi-chihuahua-slumlord@darkest-part-of-the-forest@queenofcarrotflowers-s@sessils @d20bunny@cherifrog@ophelia-ophelian@bgthree@darlingxdragon@mothynyx @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf@babyqnn @mmendez0124@kokoyu-art@lilah-asteria

Want to be added to the taglist? DM me please!

[kazekagevi]

Bonds Beyond Words: If Eywa Wills It

PART ONE PART TWO PART THREE

Pairing: Aged-Up!Neteyam x Fem!Human!Reader

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: dark themes, mention of suicide attempt, eventual NSFW, aged-up! Neteyam, reader has PTSD, Neteyam dislikes humans (except for you), eventual jealous/possessive Neteyam, future Olo'eyktan! Neteyam, Jake Sully appearance, random Human!OC's, interspecies slow burn, angst, fluff, probably OOC, POV’s all over the place, forgive the inconsistencies. 

Summary: You settle into your new home at High Camp. You have a conversation with the Olo'eyktan, Jake Sully.

A/N and Disclaimer: If anyone would like to be notified/tagged in future updates, please comment on this post! Forgive any present tense inconsistencies.

This story contains explicit content and is only appropriate for audiences 18+. MDNI. Please do not repost my work. 

Your adrenaline plummets. You rest for hours without interruption. 

The room Max has put you up in is nice, but you know it’s too spacious to be permanent. You lie comfortably on a lumpy couch. Sometimes the dim lights flicker, there’s a constant mechanical hum, and the blankets are scratchy, but you nap peacefully for the first time since cryosleep. It’s homely. You need this moment of respite. 

Hours later, you wake to the smell of something fragrant cooking. You’re so hungry that you feel nauseous. 

As badly as you want to leap from the couch and venture into the kitchen, you lie still. You continue to cherish this time to yourself—you’re unsure when you’ll get such an opportunity again. 

You let the events of the past week wash over you like a tidal wave. Tears come and go, just like mental flashes of the faces of the many women and allied wardens long gone. As demoralizing and dehumanizing the experience was, you became a tight-knit family because of it. Your pain is like nothing you’ve ever experienced before—as much as you miss them, you know they’re better off dead than being torn apart and transformed into the RDA’s breeding machines. It leaves a tart feeling in your mouth: it’s upsettingly bittersweet. 

Wading through the water of your thoughts and emotions is treacherous. If you swim too long, you know you’ll drown. 

You push away the blankets, then fold them neatly. You swipe beneath your tear ducts. After standing by the door for ten minutes, you gain the courage to place your palm over the entryway censor. You make it two steps out before you’re stopped. 

You’re startled by a woman’s whistle—it’s reminiscent of a catcall. She leans against a doorframe with a toothpick between her canines. She’s human. She’s stocky and muscular. The woman wears a navy-blue jumpsuit and combat boots. You can tell her hair was once jet black, but it’s starting to grow in gray. “Welcome, new girl,” she says.

“Hi,” you reply sheepishly. You introduce yourself—first name only. 

She does the same: “I’m Mia.” 

You shake hands—you note that her palms are very calloused. Mia must be involved with hands-on labor. 

“Listen, I don’t like to beat around the bush,” says Mia. She leans in closer, like she has a secret to tell you. “You need to shower,” she confesses, this time much quieter. There isn’t a lick of malice in her tone. “Like, immediately.” 

You appreciate her honesty, but your cheeks flush. Mia pulls a chuckle from your chest. “I know,” you reply feebly. 

And so, Mia takes this moment as an opportunity to give you a proper tour of the human’s facility at High Camp. You’re going to be living there, after all. 

Admittedly, there isn’t much to see. Together, you stroll through the science shacks and a few vacant laboratories. You meet a few more scientists. You return to the two flex rooms, like the one you napped in; Mia shows you the barracks and bunk beds, the link units, and the kitchenette. Norm is cooking what he describes to be his very own fusion recipe: a soup that combines both human and Pandoran ingredients. In passing, you apologize to Norm for spitting on him, again—you’ve already apologized four times, but once more couldn’t hurt. He makes it abundantly clear that everything is well between you both. 

“I would do the same if they captured me,” Norm confesses. “Much worse, in fact.” 

Your tour ends at the showers. Mia leaves briefly, then returns with a towel, a new bar of soap, a plastic hairbrush, a few garments of clothing, and a toothbrush and paste. “This is all we have right now,” Mia explains. 

It’s more than enough, you think. 

Tears well in your eyes at the sight of these items; although necessary for most humans, to you, these things feel like a luxury. 

“There’s hot and cold water knobs. The hot water alone won’t last long. Try to maneuver the knobs to use hot and cold at the same time,” she says with a short demonstration. Warm water spits out of the shower head onto the tiled wall in front of it. You hold out your palm—it’s bliss. 

You’re solaced. You thank Mia one last time. She takes her cue to leave and gives you some privacy. 

---

Despite the lukewarm water diminishing to icy-cold after only a few minutes, you spend a long time in the shower. You wash your hair. You scrub everything, at least twice. Your pruned fingertips feel foreign angst the metal knob—you haven’t been allowed a long enough shower since your past life on Earth. 

The clothes Mia left for you don’t fit quite right. The pants drag on the floor and aren’t secure around the waist; you take a step, and your trousers pool at your knees. You have no choice but to create a makeshift belt with spare twine and an aptly-sized piece of elastic from Mia’s sewing kit. As you weave the components together, you realize her sewing kit doubles as her first-aid box. She must use the same thread to stitch seams on fabric and cuts on skin. You take this opportunity to gently reapply scar ointment and new dressing to the stitched slash beneath your collarbone. 

The tanktop she gave you, on the other hand, was made for someone with slightly smaller anatomy. In comparison to the pants, it fits skin-tight snug. Luckily, the undergarments are trouble-free. 

When you re-enter the common area, everyone is there. It’s down-to-Earth, you note—the thought makes your lips curl into a smile.

You spend a few moments observing. Most of the scientists look like regular people. They’re plain. Modest, simple. There’s nothing particularly special about any of them, barring their bright smiles. People involved with the RDA don’t smile like that. 

It isn’t long before the “plain scientist” exception enters via the airlock entrance. 

At first, you think he’s naked. You instinctively cover your eyes with your palms to give the guy some privacy. You faintly hear him yell something out the door through the glass—you can’t discern any of it, so it must be in Na’vi. You peek through your fingertips. 

Once the front airlock closes, the human male removes his oxygen mask, hangs it on a hook by the entrance, and presses his hand to the entryway scanner. He strolls in casually, like he owns the place. The young man wears nothing but a loincloth and carries an old leather satchel. Painted, blue streaks mark his body in horizontal stripes. 

It clicks for you quickly—he sees himself as one of them. He wears his loyalty to the Na’vi. It’s… admirable. 

When he speaks again, he greets Max in English and makes an inside joke with Norm that flies over your head. He chucks his bag onto a nearby stool and smoothes his hands over his ash-blonde dreads. 

Inevitably, you’re curious to know more. Your thoughts buzz with questions—instinctively, you’d like to interview him. 

“Food’s ready!” Norm calls. 

That’ll have to wait. 

The room descends to orderly chaos. A scientist you’ve already forgotten the name of is gathering silverware. Another gives everyone a bowl or mug. Metal chairs scrape across the floor as people line up in front of the kitchenette. Mia is adamant about having her mug, which is bright pink with a broken handle. Norm serves stew with a metal ladle. Someone else passes out dethawed bread rolls from the walk-in freezer. 

They make jokes in passing. They ask each other questions. Occasionally, they bicker, like when one of the scientists scolds Norm for giving him too big a portion. They’re a family. It’s lovely, you think. 

Then Mia calls your name. “Please,” she says, “join us!”

The room quiets down. You briefly make eye contact with the semi-nude young male. He’s around your age—maybe a year or two younger. 

Entering the common area takes only a sliver of bravery in comparison to the courage you had to collect in order to survive thus far; it’s still scary, nonetheless. You gulp. 

You’re provided a bowl. Norm serves you a heaping portion of soup. Max pours you a glass of water from a large pitcher at the end of the table. You’re offered two dinner rolls—just this once, Mia says. People move their chairs to make room for you. Your heart swells. 

“This is-” Mia begins. 

Your interruption is far from rude—you introduce yourself instead. First and last name. 

---

Dinner runs its course. It began with juvenile questions; the community simply wanted to know more about you as a person. They never banked on someone taking one of the empty bunks. They were all being used as precious storage. What’s your name? Where did you come from?

The spotlight is uncomfortable—blinding, even—but you squint through it. You want to interview these people, but it’s your turn instead. 

When some of the scientists begin asking about the RDA, however, the group rears towards an unsettling interrogation. What was it like? they ask. How many were there? Could you spare any details on the escape plan?

With every intrusive question, you intake another mouthful of the fusion stew. It tastes funny, like a bad pun or cringey joke; but you’re too hungry to care. 

“Did you ever see the General?” The human male whom you now know as Spider asks. “She was short. Blonde lady, resting bitch-face. General Ardmore?” 

Mia snorts. Norm clasps his hands together. “Alright, everyone. I think that’s enough,” he states. "Let's not overwhelm the newcomer."

The scientists look at each other, humbled and slightly ashamed. They give you apologetic stares and quiet redresses. 

Max offers to do the dishes. He knows he’ll regret this act of selflessness, but he does it for you. The rest of the scientists leave their empty bowls at the table and retreat to the barracks. Mia pats your shoulder before exiting with the others. 

You turn to Norm once everyone’s left. You hold out your bowl. “Can I have some more?”

---

You’re on your third helping of soup and fourth glass of water when there’s a series of raps at the door outside the airlock. For a split second, you’re back in your cell. You’re reminded of your least favorite warden’s early-morning roll calls. 

You flinch—your body instinctively jerks. But you don’t realize this until you’re swiftly saving your water glass from falling off the table. You rub your brow with the back of your head; you can’t break two things on your first day. 

“Is it him?” Max asks Norm. Max is elbows deep in soap suds and dirty dishes. He starts scrubbing faster. 

“Think so,” Norm replies. 

Who’s him? You’re left to wonder as you scrape the bottom of your soup bowl and take your final bite; there’s no more stew left. 

Norm stands from the table and strides over to the airlock. “Come in!”

You nearly twist your neck trying to turn around before the door opens. 

A tall, blue humanoid enters. He has to crouch when breaching the threshold—the door frame is just too short. It’s the first Na’vi you’ve seen since your interaction with the Na’vi in the forest; spare for Grace, the one in a glass tube full of liquid in the common area. 

For a moment, you think this Na’vi is the one who saved you. But as they grab a respirator mask and enter once the airlock is closed, your assumption is proved to be false. 

The Na’vi nods to Norm. “Good to see ya, Max,” the male Na’vi says, peering into the kitchen. Notably, his English is fluent; but above that, his accent is strangely commonplace among humans. Nothing like the Na’vi from the forest. 

Max peers at him over his shoulder. “You too, Jake,” Max calls back. 

Your eye twitches. You face forward. Your visage pales. 

“Let’s talk about all of this for a moment,” Norm tells Jake Sully. He agrees. Their footsteps get quieter as they walk away from the common room and round the corner. Max dries his hands with a dish towel and follows them. 

You hear bits and pieces of their hushed conversation while you chug another glass of water. 

“You’re sure?” Jake Sully asks. “Completely positive?”

“There’s no way,” one of the humans responds. “When she thought she’d been recaptured by the RDA, she tried to slit her wrists. A spy wouldn’t do that.”

Someone adds something to that point, but it’s indiscernible. 

“You’re right,” replies Jake. 

There are footsteps again. You keep your head forward. 

Max clears his throat. “You have a visitor,” Norm says. 

You push away the empty glass and bowl, then rise from your seat at the table. Your eyes meet pale yellow—the same shade as the other forest Na’vi’s irises. 

Jake opens his mouth to speak. “I’m-”

“You’re Jake Sully,” you interrupt. He’s like a myth come to life. During your imprisonment, the girls and wardens talked about him nonstop. He’s a Pandoran celebrity. 

Your face turns crimson. It’s one thing to interrupt Mia, but it’s another to interrupt the goddamn Olo'eyktan, the leader of his people. Not just any, but Jake Sully in particular. You’re mortified. 

You’re unsure how to greet him properly. Should you kneel? Your body scrambles to do the right thing—you bow, curtsey, and offer your hand to shake all at once. 

Jake Sully breathes into the respirator around his neck, veiling a small chuckle. He takes your hand and shakes it gently; due to his size, his engulfs yours. 

“Have a seat,” he says. You do.

Jake Sully can’t possibly fit in any of the chairs, so he defaults to sitting on the floor. “I may be asking for a lot,” he says. “But in order to grant you asylum here, I need to know everything.”

He is asking for a lot. You’ve been through nothing but hell. Your face heats up just thinking about the things you’ve witnessed. You don’t want to relive it. Maybe Norm stopped the others earlier because he knew this was coming. 

As you look into Jake Sully’s eyes, you know malignity isn’t his intention. It quite literally has nothing to do with you, actually. You know that the Olo'eyktan’s job is to keep his people safe. That’s Jake Sully’s motive. He has to know you’re safe. It’s a two-way street—in order to grant you safety, he must be able to ensure his own. 

---

You relay your history on Pandora thus far. It takes over an hour to get through everything. It doesn’t help when Jake asks a dozen questions, and tangents branch off into more tangents. Half-way through the conversation, however, you already know you’re earning his trust. You pinpoint the exact moment, in which Jake admits the reason he joined the RDA and decided to come to Pandora when he lived in a human body. 

It’s just the two of you now—Max finished the dishes a while ago and Norm left because he needed rest. 

Jake avoids your eyes every time you mention something particularly harrowing about your imprisonment. You’re as precise as you are descriptive. Towards the end of your testimony, he looks at his feet for ten minutes straight, while you reiterate the prison break. He can’t say much in response. He acknowledges that the ordeal must have been horrific. 

“Sounds like something out of this old dystopian novel,” Jake mutters. “I think it was called The Handmaid’s Tale.” 

Lastly, you tell him about the Na’vi in the forest who saved you. 

“Do you know him?” you inquire. 

Jake nods. “I do. His name is Neteyam.” He chooses not to elaborate. He omits the fact that Neteyam is his first-born son, next in line for his title. 

“Neteyam,” you echo. 

Jake nods again when you mimic his pronunciation. It’s not bad, he thinks. Not as bad as Neteyam said, when his son was harping on your horrible accent after bringing you, a human, to High Camp on his ikran. Something Jake never thought he’d see. 

“I’d like to thank him,” you say. “He saved my life. How do you say thank you or show gratitude?”

Jake rubs the back of his neck. “I think you should spend a week or two or three here. Take some time to yourself before you consider leaving the science shack and interacting with my people,” he says awkwardly albeit bluntly.

Your brows furrow. His tone of voice suggests there’s no room for protest. 

“Spider, Norm, Max, and everyone else will teach you the ways of the Na’vi,” Jake says. “They all speak the language fluently. And if you want to interact with and live amongst my people, then so will you.”

You nod. You consider telling him the very reason the RDA chose you and your talents—that that was exactly what you came to Pandora to do. “So I will,” you reply simply. 

“If you see us, then we will see you,” Jake says in Na’vi. 

You catch none of it, but nod confidently anyway. He scoffs. 

“Good talk,” Jake says lastly. He takes another breath through his respirator, then leaves through the airlock, just as he came. 

---

A/N: Feel free to leave any and all comments on this chapter! The exposition is almost done, just hold on a little longer! The exposition continues in the next part, but Neteyam will make an appearance, I pinky promise!

Next part is projected to come out a week from today, Tuesday. I will try to keep a consistent posting schedule.

Thank you all so much for the kind comments and notes thus far! <3

[belokhvostikova]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Oral (female receiving) and a really bad joke.

𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐃𝐨 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭.

It had been an hour of nonstop, "Eds... Ed... Eddie... Edward?"

But no variation of his name could pull his concentrated eyes from his beloved journal, tormented with the indenting stabs of a pencil, as the gears in his brain were proffering idea after idea for Friday's upcoming campaign.

Hunched, and creating a divot at the end of his bed where his body weight dug into, a whirlwind of wicked sorcery, turned dark wizards, eventually leading to battling evil cultists had captivated his attention, sparing him from the fact that a girl laid naked his bed.

In his defense, his freckled back had been turned to you, where you sat perched by his pillows, homework in hand. But when angular momentum and torque became boring and sprinkled moles on his skin suddenly became enticing, your teeth sunk into your puckered lip at the moistening realization that Eddie Munson had a strong back.

Large expanse, kissable skin, moving muscles toning at any flexion of his upper body; just oh so utterly, hypnotizingly, leg clenching worthy. So can you really be blamed when the bright idea of being rid of your clothes suddenly came about? No, you can't. In fact, a horny finger could always be pointed to the man, himself, for the reason as to why your underwear got sticky when completing Mrs. Wilson's physics homework.

Because it surely wasn't rotational statistics.

As quiet as could be, your thumbs dipped below the waistband of your shorts, hooking onto the elastic cotton of your underwear, where both articles made the journey down your legs, lifting your ass to make the movement smoothly. Your t-shirt quickly followed, nothing of any trouble, letting your breasts fall free as the universe intended.

You could audibly hear the pencil scribbling the chicken scratch that was your boyfriend's handwriting when you sat up to feel your knees shove into his lumpy mattress; probably some fantastical enchantment that you wouldn't understand, but so deeply care about if it meant seeing Eddie's shining face whenever he'd tell you about it.

Hushed movements led you towards him, where the gentle touch of your fingertips upon his broad shoulders elicited a hum of activation from him. But it hadn't been until your grip tightened, pulling his body back, that his attention was pulled away from his notebook, as he was abruptly being met with the surprise of your cunt hovering over his head, as he hit the mattress.

A book and pencil dropped, as no time was wasted when your body sunk onto his welcoming mouth. Eddie's large hands were quick to snake a hold onto the fat of your ass to have you seated on his lips, encouraging your hips to hump what was yours. That lingering fear of potentially crushing him that he hated was no longer being accepted on his terms.

You were sat.

"Mm, just didn't want- ugh," you gasped, as the sharp tip of his tongue parted your slick folds to pour your juiced into his mouth, "didn't want you to get tunnel vision- fuck, Eddie!"

"Uh-huh!" His moans vibrated through your pussy, as his lips latched onto your pulsating clit, only to abuse it with the suctioning shake of his head. Yours fingers clawed at his bare chest, where your palms found the support to gyrate your hips. "Only vision I see is me in your tunnel."

Unbelievable. Airy chuckles escaped your mouth, as your fingers were brisk to pinch his growing bulge through the stretching material of his sweatpants in retaliation. His legs jolted, attempting to squirm away, as he laughed into your pussy, only drawing more moans from you atop, as his boyish cackles only gave way for more tremoring sensations against your oozing cunt.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | Short smut while I find the will to write long smut.

[liveyun]

a silent gift | eyes like stars — j.jk

drabble of the series eyes like stars

pairing. jeon jungkook x fem oc/reader

genre. (series) e2f2e2L (you get it), angst, drama, romance, boy next door sorta situation

warnings. (for this drabble) jeongguk and oc are both 15 in this! oc being grumpy and in denial, jealousy and loneliness, toxic parenting and neglect :(, overthinking,, a bit of fluff to balance it out tho 🥹, jungkook is so sweet and he deserves the world , oc is kinda.. rude. + feelings, feelings, a very cute stolen moment. english isn’t my first language so excuse the mistakes, + the ending..

wc. 4k+ wtf happened

divider credits to @issysh3ll ! 🌰

The ceiling above you is a dull, lifeless white.

You stare at it as if it holds the answers to questions you’re too afraid to ask aloud. Your limbs feel heavy, sinking into the lumpy couch you’ve claimed as your refuge. The faint glow of Christmas lights from the window bathes the room in soft, muted hues, but it only makes the emptiness feel sharper. . . colder. . .

You’re alone.

It’s not the kind of aloneness that you savor after a long day or the type that lets you gather your thoughts. No, this is suffocating — the kind that wraps around your chest and pulls tighter with every passing minute. It presses against your ribs and reminds you, with every flicker of those cheery lights outside, that this is what your Christmas looks like.

Your parents’ voices play in your mind, their parting words etched with an offhandedness that stings even now. “You’re a big girl now,” your mother had said, brushing your cheek with cold fingers before hurrying out the door. “You’ll be okay.”

The cash they left sits untouched on the kitchen counter. You hate the sight of it, its crisp edges mocking you, as though money could fill the void they left behind, the empty feeling in your chest.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, but it doesn’t do much to keep out the chill. Not the one seeping through the windows, nor the one curling inside your chest.

Your gaze drifts toward the window again, where the Jeons’ house glows like a beacon against the cold, dark night. Glows. Even from here, you can hear faint sound of their laughter, the flow of life and warmth spilling from their walls.

Your chest tightens.

You turn away from the window. You close your eyes and try to push it out, but it sneaks back in — along with the memory of that morning.

Mrs. Jeon had called you. She sounded like she was in a crowded place, probably somewhere in the market. You remember her voice, warm and soothing, like honey on a sore throat.

“Sweetheart, come over for Christmas dinner,” she’d said. “We’d love to have you.”

The invitation had been so kind, so genuine, that you’d almost said yes without thinking. Almost.

But then, in the background, you’d heard his voice. Jungkook’s laughter, loud and carefree, floating over the line like an unwelcome reminder of why you couldn’t go.

A spike in your chest, like a thorn pricked in your finger.

You’d stumbled over your words, mumbling some excuse about needing to stay home. You could practically hear Mrs. Jeon frown through the phone.

“Are you sure? It won’t be the same without you here,” she’d pressed gently, her concern as tangible as the warmth in her tone.

Your throat had tightened. “I’m fine,” you’d managed, though the words felt brittle and false.

She hadn’t argued, but you could tell she didn’t believe you.

Now, hours later, her words run through in your mind, looping over and over.

You want to go. You want to be surrounded by the warmth and laughter that seeps through their walls, to feel even a fraction of the joy that seems to radiate from their home.

But you can’t.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because of him.

Or. . . are you just blaming him?

You grit your teeth, hating the way his name lingers on the edge of your thoughts, unspoken but ever-present.

Jungkook.

He’s the reason you can’t bring yourself to cross the street, to knock on their door and accept the invitation that feels both like a lifeline and a trap. You can’t face him. . . at least not tonight.

Not when the sight of him laughing with his family would only twist the knife already lodged in your chest.

You don’t know when it started, this. . . thing. This feeling you can’t name, the one that makes your stomach flip and your heart race whenever he’s near.

You hate it. You hate him.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But deep down—so deep you barely admit it to yourself—you know it’s not true.

Because no matter how much you want to hate him, you can’t. Not really. . .

You sigh, pressing the heels of your palms against your eyes as if you can rub the thoughts away. But they don’t budge.

The quiet stretches on, heavy and suffocating. Your stomach growls, but you don’t move. The thought of eating feels pointless, like trying to fill a void that’s far deeper than hunger.

You glance toward the window again, unable to help yourself. The Jeons’ house is as bright and inviting as ever, a stark contrast to the dim, lonely space you call “home”. Trying to read or write feels way too much of a chore, not when you feel like if you move the cold will consume you.

For a moment, just a moment, you imagine what it would be like to be over there.

To sit at their table, surrounded by laughter and warmth. To not feel so. . . alone.

But then, just as quickly, you shove the thought away.

You bury yourself deeper into the couch, pulling the blanket over your head like a shield. You tell yourself you’re fine. You tell yourself you don’t care.

But the lump in your throat, the sting behind your eyes, and the ache in your chest betray you. You want to go to the Jeon house.

You’re not fine. And you do care.

You just wish you didn’t.

────⋆☃︎⋆────

There’s a knock on the door.

Faint, but there. You ignore it, like you ignore every other thought which pops up in your mind. The house is empty. . . nearly empty, anyway. Whoever is in the door would go away.

So you don’t pay much attention.

Knock.

You close your eyes. Your feet are freezing. The visitor can fuck off.

Knock.

The knock comes again, just as soft and insistent as before, like the visitor knows you’re here but is too kind to make a fuss. You hesitate, a bitter taste in your mouth, still wrapped in the cocoon of your blanket, your fingers clutching the edges like it’s your last defense.

The third knock follows, a little firmer this time, and you sigh, dragging yourself toward the door.

Okay, you lose. Peeking through the crack, you catch a glimpse of Mrs. Jeon.

Oh.

Her familiar figure stands in the faint glow of your porch light, snowflakes gently dusting her coat and hat.

She’s holding a plate covered with a red-and-green kitchen towel, and the unmistakable scent of macadamia nut cookies wafts in as soon as you open the door wider.

“Hi, sweetie!” she says with a warm smile. Her voice is soft, laced with the kind of kindness that makes your throat tighten.

You glance at the plate, then back at her, trying to swallow the lump forming in your throat. “Mrs. Jeon?”

“I brought you some cookies, child.” she explains, holding the plate out slightly, her grin bright and sweet like her voice. “I thought you might like a little Christmas treat.”

Your stomach growls, loud and embarrassing.

Uh-oh.. You flush, tightening the blanket around yourself like it could shield you from her gentle gaze. “I’m fine,” you mumble, the words coming out far too quickly.

She tilts her head, her smile growing a little. “Your stomach doesn’t agree.”

“I—” You start to protest, but she interrupts with a soft laugh, brushing snow from her shoulders.

“No need to explain, darling. Just take them.”

You reach for the plate hesitantly, your hands brushing hers as you take it. The warmth of the cookies seeps through the towel, and the scent wraps around you like a hug. Holy shit, you don’t even remember the last time you had freshly baked cookies . . .

“T-Thank you,” you mutter, stepping back into the doorway.

“You’re welcome little darling,” she says easily, but her expression shifts slightly, her eyes searching for yours. “Now, I know you’re planning on staying here all alone, but it’s Christmas, and nobody should be alone on Christmas.”

Your grip on the plate tightens, and you shift awkwardly. “I.. I’m fine, really,” you insist, even as your voice wavers. You cannot look up to her eyes. The kindness they hold, the softness they radiate, you’re sure to crumble down like cookies if you ever look straight to those kind eyes.

She shakes her head gently, her tone soft but unwavering. “Come on, sweetheart. It’s just dinner. We’d love to have you.”

The word we makes your chest tighten, your mind immediately jumping to him. “I don’t want to intrude,” you mumble, staring at the cookies.

She lets out a soft chuckle, her hand reaching out to rest lightly on your shoulder. “You’d never intrude. You’re family.”

Family.

The word hits you like a jolt.You glance at her, at the way her eyes crinkle with genuine affection, and something inside you twists painfully.

“I really shouldn’t. . . ” you start, but she interrupts again, her smile turning playful.

“Now, none of that,” she says, her voice firmer but no less kind. “Grab yourself a coat. You don’t wanna be freezing, yes?”

Your gaze drops to the plate, the cookies warm against your palms. You nod slightly, a very warm feeling in your chest settling down. “Okay, but. . . let me put these away first.”

“Of course,” she agrees, her voice lighter now, like she’s won a small battle.

You step back into the house, setting the plate down on the counter and carefully transferring the cookies into a jar.

They feel soft and delicate in your hands, plus the white chocolate chips on the top . . . ! you can’t resist sneaking one into your mouth before you close the lid. Your eyes nearly flutter close as the first taste settles down on your tongue. . . nutty, comforting, sweet and warm.

Chewing quickly, you glance back toward the door where Mrs. Jeon waits patiently. The thought crosses your mind — should I have invited her in? — but it passes as you grab your coat from the back of a chair.

Before you slip it on, though, you pause. “Maybe I should wear something festive,” you murmur to yourself, glancing at the mirror by the door. “I should look nice, right?”

You call the question over your shoulder. “Mrs. Jeon?”

“It’s family, darling,” she responds warmly. “You always look your best to us.”

Her words make you pause, guilt mingling with a faint warmth in your chest. You grab the nearest scarf, something red and soft, and wrap it around your neck. “J-Just a second!”

Her laughter floats in from the doorway. “Take your time, child.”

You tuck the jar of cookies onto a shelf before hurriedly shoving your arms into your coat.

When you finally step outside, she’s still standing there, her smile never faltering despite the cold.

“I-I’m ready,” you say, though your voice comes out quieter than you intended. You feel nervous, almost expecting her to make a comment about your old, worn scarf.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she beams, taking your arm and gently taming a few stray strands of your hair. Her fingers brush your scarf, straightening it slightly, before she dusts off the crumbs from your lips with a soft laugh.

“There,” she says, satisfied. “Now you’re ready.”

The feeling in your chest intensifies.

Her arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you close as she guides you toward the Jeons’ house. Her warmth seeps into you, her steps sure and steady against the crunch of the snow.

You glance up at her as she hums softly under her breath, her gaze fixed ahead. There’s something about the way she carries herself, so full of ease and care, that it makes you wonder if you’ll ever be as comfortable in your own skin. . .

When you finally reach the Jeons’ door, the laughter and chatter spilling out makes you pause. For a moment, you consider turning back, retreating into the quiet of your own home. But Mrs. Jeon’s grip on your shoulder tightens ever so slightly, a silent reassurance that steadies you.

“It’s okay, child,” she murmurs as the door opens, the warmth of their home washing over you like a tide. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Her words settle into your chest, soft and steady, and you nod slightly, stepping into the glow of their home.

It’s warm.

It’s the kind of warmth that’s more than just physical, though; it seeps into your chest, wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

The entryway smells of pine and cinnamon, and the soft glow of fairy lights draped around the staircase banister casts the entire space in a golden hue. A small shoe rack lines the wall, neatly arranged with indoor slippers and shoes. Mrs. Jeon nudges you gently.

You slide off your boots and try not to feel self-conscious as you step into the house.

The living room is straight out of a Christmas postcard. . . like the ones you see in magazines.

There’s a beautifully decorated tree in the corner, its branches adorned with red and gold ornaments. Beside it, a few neatly wrapped gifts are stacked, their ribbons catching the light. You feel your heart racing at the thought of presents. How good must it feel to receive presents from someone you love?

You’ve been in their house so many times that navigating through it isn’t a big job, but accidentally stepping on a decoration and ruining it is.

You crane your neck up as you see framed family photos hanging on the walls . . . — holidays, birthdays, candid moments. There’s even a framed picture of Jungkook as a baby, his toothless grin making you pause.

Cute.

“Ah, there she is!” Mr. Jeon’s voice booms from the kitchen doorway, already dressed as Santa, but he’s wearing bermuda shorts instead. His face lights up as he strides toward you, his apron dusted with what looks like flour. “You’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence.”

Mrs. Jeon laughs softly beside you. “It took a little convincing.”

“A little?” He quirks an eyebrow at her, then turns back to you with an exaggerated grin. “You mean you actually succeeded in persuading her? I’m impressed, love.”

You manage a small smile, feeling your cheeks warm as he ruffles your hair like you’re still the same little girl who used to kiss his cheeks for a toffee every evening. “We’re glad you’re here, kiddo.” he says, his voice softer now, full of genuine warmth.

“T-Thanks for having me,” you mumble, feeling awkward and unsure of where to place your hands.

“You’re always welcome,” he replies easily, gesturing toward the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. Dinner’s almost ready.”

Mrs. Jeon nudges you forward gently, guiding you into the heart of their home. The room feels alive, filled with the faint sounds of Christmas music playing from a vinyl recorder and the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.

You settle onto the couch hesitantly, your hands folded in your lap as your eyes roam the space. Everywhere you look, there’s another memory framed — photos of family vacations, certificates, and little trinkets.

It just makes you realise you barely have any photo frames back in your own house.

On the shelf beside the sofa, nestled between two larger frames, is a photo of you and Jungkook. You don’t even remember when it was taken — maybe last. . . summer? — but there you are, smiling wide and carefree, with his arm slung casually around your shoulders, both looking like dorks grinning under the sun.

Your stomach twists.

The photo feels like a piece of home you didn’t know you were missing, but it also reminds you of what you don’t have. To be carefree. To be. . . happy.

You tear your gaze away quickly, focusing instead on the glow of the Christmas lights. But the feeling doesn’t leave—it sits heavy in your chest, a reminder of all the ways you feel like you don’t belong.

Mrs. Jeon appears moments later, handing you a warm mug of tea. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she says, sitting beside you and resting a gentle hand on your knee. “Are you feeling okay?”

You nod quickly, forcing a small smile. “Y-Yeah, thank you.”

She studies you for a moment, her eyes soft and understanding, before giving your knee a gentle pat. “You’re home here, you know,” she says quietly.

Home. You nod again, murmuring another thank you before taking a sip of tea to distract yourself.

The warmth of the tea doesn’t quite reach the cold knot in your stomach, though, and as the minutes pass, the room’s liveliness feels almost overwhelming. You glance around, watching the Jeons move seamlessly around each other, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a kind of ease that feels foreign to you.

It’s not that your parents are cruel—they’ve never been anything but practical, efficient, busy. But sitting here, in the midst of the Jeons’ warmth and love, you can’t help but feel the sharp contrast.

The way they joke with each other, the way Mr. Jeon steals a kiss from his wife as she passes by, the way the house feels alive — it’s so different from the quiet, cold efficiency of your own home.

Your parents are either always fighting, on each other’s throats, and when they’re not, they’re on yours. There’s always these two options — nothing in between, nothing after.

Your gaze drifts back to the photo on the shelf, and the bitterness bubbles up again, sharp and unforgiving. You try to focus on the warmth of the mug in your hands, on the hum of conversation around you, but it’s no use.

You feel like a puzzle piece in the wrong box—close, but never quite fitting.

────⋆☃︎⋆────

The soft patter of footsteps pulls your attention toward the staircase.

Jungkook stands at the landing, the dim Christmas lights casting a warm glow over him. His face is flushed with the kind of easy joy you used to know so well, framed by a mess of dark hair that falls softly over his forehead. The thick, oversized sweater he’s wearing swallows his frame, its sleeves hiding his hands as he shifts awkwardly in place.

His jeans are slightly loose, cuffed at the bottom, and you catch a glimpse of fuzzy socks that make something in your chest twist unexpectedly.

But it’s his eyes that hold you captive, even if only for a moment. They’re wide, sparkly from the reflection of the lights, and impossibly soft as they lock onto yours. Innocent. Earnest.

A little too happy to see you.

Your breath catches, and for a second, you feel like you’re drowning — pulled into something you don’t quite understand, something that makes your heart stutter painfully in your chest. His face morphs from sheer surprise to that of great joy, his eyes lighting up like . . . stars, though you try to reason that they’re just the lights.

“Hey!” he says, his voice breaking through the haze. It’s cheerful, just like his face, and he’s already bounding down the stairs like a puppy too excited to sit still.

He nearly trips on the last step, catching himself with a sheepish grin, and it only makes him look more endearing.

You hate how cute he is.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he says, his grin widening as he comes closer. His sweater sleeves flap slightly as he raises a hand to scratch the back of his head, his shoulders shifting with boyish awkwardness. “Eomma’s been trying all day to get you over here.”

You can’t stop staring, and it makes your chest ache in ways you wish it wouldn’t. He’s warm, in every sense of the word, and for a moment, you think it might actually burn you.

You wrench your gaze away, gripping the mug in your hands so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t shatter. “She convinced me.”

Jungkook chuckles softly, shuffling his feet like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” His voice softens, and it’s so tender, so genuine, it nearly undoes you. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The warmth in his voice feels too much, too close, and you hate it.

Hate the way it makes your chest feel tight and your head feel heavy.

So you pull yourself back, withdrawing behind the walls you’ve carefully built. “Yeah . . . I guess,” you mutter, barely glancing up.

For a split second, you see his smile falter, the light in his eyes dimming ever so slightly. He recovers quickly, his grin returning, but there’s a flicker of something in his expression.

“Still as talkative as ever,” he teases gently, but you don’t miss the way his shoulders drop, just a little.

You swallow the lump in your throat, forcing yourself to look away. “I’m just. . . tired,” you say, the words clipped.

He nods, his gaze lingering for a moment longer before he steps back, his voice soft. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone.”

And just like that, the warmth is gone, leaving you colder than before. You hear him retreat, his footsteps growing quieter, and the bitterness you’ve been clinging to feels hollow. You feel terrible. Shitty.

Why did you even do that?

Mrs. Jeon squeezes your shoulder, her touch firm but kind. When you glance up, her eyes are knowing, her expression gentle.

“He was so happy you came,” she says softly.

The ache in your chest only deepens.

────⋆☃︎⋆────

The night air is crisp, biting against your cheeks as you sit by the glowing bonfire.

You pull your knees to your chest, burying your hands under your arms in a futile attempt to stay warm. There’s this quiet crackle of the fire fills the space, the occasional pop echoing in the stillness of the yard.

Dinner had been. . . . a lot. You’d felt impossibly guilty throughout. Mr. Jeon had been all jokes and warmth, constantly refilling your plate despite your half-hearted protests. Mrs. Jeon had been the epitome of kindness, making sure you had everything you needed.

And then there was Jungkook.

He’d barely said much to you, only offering small smiles and passing glances, but each one had sent a pang of something sharp and unrelenting through your chest. He’d nudged your calf lightly under the table, trying to get you to take the hotteok he’d placed on your plate.

When you ignored him, pretending to be too busy with your food, he’d silently taken it back, the disappointment in his eyes so subtle it almost went unnoticed. Almost.

You’d wanted to say something, to apologize for how grumpy you’d been, but the words had tangled in your throat.

Why are you such a coward? Why is it so difficult for you to look him in his eyes and not be so mean?

Now, sitting alone by the fire, the warmth of the day still lingers faintly, like an aftertaste. And it’s not bitter. For once, you feel full — not just from the food, but from something deeper, something unfamiliar.

This house, this family, they feel like the kind of love you’ve only ever read about in books. It makes your chest ache, makes you want to cry, and you don’t even know why.

“Hey.”

His voice startles you, soft and familiar. Jungkook. You glance up, and there he is, standing a few feet away with a shawl draped loosely around his shoulders. His cheeks are pink from the cold, his hair a little mussed from the wind. The glow of the fire reflects in his eyes, making them look impossibly warm.

You swallow hard, looking away. “H-hey.”

“You look cold.”

Before you can respond, he steps closer, his movements unhurried but deliberate. You blink up at him, confused, as he sits down behind you and opens his arms, spreading the shawl over your shoulders in one smooth motion.

“Wh-what are you—”

“Sharing,” he says simply, wrapping an arm around you to hold the shawl in place. His voice is light, almost teasing, but there’s a quiet sincerity in the way he pulls you closer, his warmth seeping into your side.

Your chest is about to burst out.

Your heart thunders in your chest, and you’re sure he can feel it, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he reaches up to smooth your hair, his touch gentle. Soft.

“Eomma does this, you know,” he says softly, his fingers combing through your hair. “When I’m upset. It helps.”

You squeak, your whole body stiffening, but he only chuckles, the sound low and comforting. He’s so close now, his steady heartbeat thumping against your upper back.

“Relax, dummy.” he murmurs, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. “It’s just me.”

Just him. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

You want to be mad, want to shove him away and demand why he has to be so. . . so him. How he always looks up to you as the friends you two always have been . . . But you can’t. For some reason, you’ve understood today that not only are you a coward, but also very weak.

“I. . . ” You start to say something, anything, but the words dissolve before they can form.

Instead, you let yourself lean into him, just a little. His heartbeat is steady, a comforting rhythm against your own erratic one. You can’t bring yourself to apologize, but you hope he can feel it in the way you let yourself rest against him.

Minutes pass, or maybe hours. The fire crackles softly, the world around you growing quieter. . . warmer.

Slowly, your eyes grow heavy, your body sinking into his warmth as exhaustion takes over.

You fall asleep with your head against his shoulder.

Your brows are still faintly pinched, like you’re fighting off a troubling thought even in your dreams.

Jungkook stays completely still, his heartbeat steady as he watches you. There’s a softness in his gaze, a quiet wonder, like he can’t believe you’re here, like he doesn’t know what to do with the way his chest feels so warm.

Hesitantly, his hand rises to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingertips linger, ghosting gently over your cheek. It’s a small, familiar motion — one he’s picked up from watching his mother. His thumb strokes your cheekbone with the utmost care, almost like he’s afraid he’ll wake you if he moves too quickly.

“You’re kinda cute when you’re not glaring at me, you know that?” he whispers, though he knows you can’t hear him.

From the corner of his eye, a movement catches his attention.

He glances toward the house and freezes when he sees his mother standing at the kitchen window. Her arms are crossed, her expression practically glowing with amusement. She doesn’t say anything, just raises her brows at him with a playful smirk that makes his whole face flush.

Jungkook’s hand quickly drops from your cheek, and he hunches his shoulders like that might somehow make him invisible. His mouth opens, ready to deny whatever it is she’s clearly thinking, but no words come out. Instead, he huffs, pulling the shawl tighter around both of you and burrowing his face into your hair in an effort to hide.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” he mumbles, as if she can hear him through the window.

When her footsteps fade back into the house, he lets out a shaky breath, glancing down at you. You’re still sound asleep, your face soft in the firelight but not without its usual furrowed brows.

His heart squeezes; you even look grumpy in your dreams. Somewhat. . . troubled.

That’s when he remembers.

He wiggles a hand into the pocket of his PJs, fishing out a small, clumsily wrapped package. The corners are wrinkled, the tape slightly askew, but the tiny red bow on top makes up for it . . . or, at least he thinks so.

His fingers hesitate over it.

Maybe it’s a dumb idea. Maybe you won’t even like it. But. . .

Carefully, as if any sudden movement might wake you, he nudges the present into your lap, tucking it snugly beneath the edge of the shawl.

His lips twitch upward at the sight. Satisfied, he leans back just a little, his arms still holding you steady.

He rests his chin atop your head, smiling to himself, silently vowing that no matter how grumpy you act tomorrow, you’ll surely smile when you see what’s inside.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispers, his words meant only for you.

a/n : aw 🥹 i would really love to hear what you think! i would also recommend you read the original series to get a glimpse of their world <3 merry belated christmas. i hope you smile a bit more today 🤍

[fuckyeahisawthat]

Furiosa viewing #3 for me last night and I figured something out. I have heard multiple people say that the pacing of the movie felt off or weird or even "slow," even though the plot consistently moves along at a brisk clip. But what people were noticing was not the speed of the story but the structure.

I realized the pacing feels weird because the movie has two third acts.

The overwhelming majority of movies released by Hollywood studios follow a very standardized three-act structure. This is certainly not the only way to structure a film story, but it's the most common one in the Anglophone film world, so common that you have probably absorbed its pattern without even thinking about it. The previous Mad Max movies do generally fit this structure, and Fury Road fits it like, down to the minute.

When we get to the big fight sequence at the Bullet Farm, where we know Jack has prepared everything for Furiosa to leave and they just have to get through this one last mission together, my gut story sense was like this feels like it should be the third act. The fight in the Bullet Farm and the chase with Dementus that ends in Jack's death feels like it should be the climax of the movie. And not just because we are around the two-hour mark at this point, although we are.

In terms of themes and plot arcs and story beats, Jack's death feels like where the movie should end. We start the story with Mary Jabassa telling Furiosa to leave her behind and make it home safe. I'm sure Mary knows she's on a suicide mission at this point, but maybe she can hold off their attackers long enough for her daughter to escape. But Furiosa can't leave her mom behind. So she goes back, and she watches her mom die brutally and gets trapped by Dementus.

Then, at the Bullet Farm, Furiosa has her best chance yet at getting home. She has a fully loaded vehicle, and she's outside the Bullet Farm gates while Jack is stuck inside. Jack, too, tells her to run and save herself. (While it's never spelled out, I'm sure we're supposed to intuit that the green flare means GO.) He probably thinks he's dead either way at this point, but maybe Furiosa can make it out. But once again, she can't do it. She goes back to defend Jack, and we have this little bit of hope of, maybe this time she'll be able to save the person she cares about from being killed by the same warlord who killed her mother. Whether she succeeds or fails, narratively, this feels like it should be the climactic action sequence of the movie.

But there's still another 30 (ish?? I need to watch with a timer) minutes to go after that, in which we have a whole other plot arc of Furiosa getting back to the Citadel, making her prosthetic arm, and going off on her quest to hunt down Dementus. And if this part all feels a bit grueling, it's because your brain expected the movie to end half an hour ago.

(I should pause here to say that you absolutely can write a movie in three-act structure that's longer than 2 hours--you just have to stretch all the pieces out equally or it starts to feel lumpy. And the place where our attention spans are going to be least forgiving of lumpiness is at the end of the movie.)

Well, you might say, maybe Furiosa was just not written with the three-act structure in mind. And that could be true! But I would argue that the oddness of the end of the movie comes primarily from the film not being clear on what narrative question it's trying to answer.

Because an ending that focuses on Furiosa's choice between finally getting home or going back to try to save Jack is addressing the question of, "Do you prioritize saving yourself, or do you fight for the people you love, even if you may end up in a worse situation because of it?"

An ending that follows Furiosa's revenge quest seems to focus more on, "What does seeking revenge do to your humanity?"

Both of these questions are rich territory to be explored in the wasteland, and the other Mad Max movies deal with both of them. But I would argue that the first question is very clearly set up in the beginning of the movie as a thing we expect to be exploring, and the second question, not so much.

I think the story would have benefitted from picking one or the other. And if they wanted to tell a story about the price of revenge, then highlighting this earlier--either by making revenge Furiosa's primary motivation from the beginning, or highlighting it thematically by showing how the quest for revenge warps other characters--would have made the last section of the movie feel more like a payoff and less like a sudden left turn into the desert.

[moremaybank]

SPARKS FLY (II) — r.c

pairing hockey player!rafe cameron x fem!flight attendant!reader

summary rafe spends his time on his flight pushing your buttons. then, the obx thunder boys go out to celebrate their latest win, and rafe ends up running into you at the club.

warnings flirty rafe, rafe annoying reader on their flight (but it's cute), alcohol consumption, a sexual innuendo, some suggestive parts, allusions to smut (it's coming next i swear), i think that's it?

author's note decided to make a part two, and this is probably going to turn into a mini series but we'll see. (series inspired by liz tomforde)

sparks fly — the masterlist ;; rafe masterlist

Rafe had been on fire this season, racking up win after win with the help of his team. His following was growing, and with that came plenty of women propositioning him. Normally, he would have revelled in that attention. He probably would've taken at least three of them home to have a party of his own. But something had changed. He didn't want any of them. He couldn't even think about them. All that he wanted was you.

Ever since that first flight with you, Rafe couldn't get you out of his mind. Your banter, your commitment to your professionalism, and the fireworks that erupted in the pit of his stomach whenever he interacted with you. You'd left a lasting impression on him, like you imprinted on his soul with just your glimmering eyes and captivating smile.

No matter how many girls threw themselves at him, he found himself uninterested beyond belief. The only thing on his mind was his desire to get to know you more, to win you over and to show you that there was more to him than his reputation.

Tonight, as he boarded the plane, he couldn't help but glance around, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. There you were, standing in your crisp uniform, your hair down this time around and framing your face. You were wearing a bombshell red lipstick, one that Rafe tried not to imagine painted all over his skin. Your heels accentuated your legs, and even through the stockings, he could tell how glowy and smooth they were. God, the way he wanted them wrapped around his waist, or hooked over his shoulders. Bent back with your feet near your head. He had to stop himself before he sported an accidental hard on.

You could feel eyes on you, and you turned to the right to find Rafe settled in his seat, a teasing grin on his face. He offered you a wink, before shifting his attention onto his phone.

Throughout the flight, he pressed that damn call button over and over, each time with a playful excuse to get your attention.

"Can I get another pillow? This one's kinda lumpy," he'd request with the same stupid yet panty-dropping smirk.

Some time passed, a little longer than usual, and you prayed that Rafe was finally over his antics. But you spoke (albeit, internally) far too soon.

"Could you adjust my seatbelt for me?" It was perfectly fine, and you both knew that, but Rafe refused to let up.

You fixed it for him with a huff. "I'm sure you could've done this yourself. You're more than capable."

"Maybe," he shrugged. He inched closer, the look in his eyes making it impossible to look away. "Or maybe I just wanted to feel your hands on my body."

Your thighs clenched as you gulped, and you prayed that he didn't notice. "Well, cherish that memory because it's never happening again."

He watched you walk away, heading over to another one of his teammates who actually needed your assistance.

"You know, you're trying real hard with someone who doesn't wanna give you a chance," Topper spoke from his seat across the jet. "Why not just go for one of your admirers?"

"I don't want them. I want her," Rafe responded.

Topper chuckled to himself, "Yeah, for one night. Then, you'll ruin it for the rest of us by making it awkward."

"Nah. Not this time. There's something about her. She's different. I can tell."

"Whatever you say, man."

By the time the plane touched down in Seattle, Rafe was on his way to exit the plane when he took one last look at you. There was a newfound sincerity in his eyes. "I'm not giving up, Y/N. It might not happen today, but sooner or later, you're gonna fall for me."

You tilted your head, giving him a knowing look. "I wouldn't hold my breath."

"You're stubborn. It's cute. But it won't last for long."

-

Later that night, the team had decided to celebrate yet another triumphant victory but heading to one of the hottest clubs in downtown Seattle. Upon arriving at Aura, Rafe's teammates were eager to toast to their win and spend the night mingling with people that would promise them a fun time. He agreed to join them, hoping that the night out might help him get you out of his head, even if only a short while.

Everyone entered the barely lit club, the pulsating beat of music filled the air. His teammates wasted no time diving in, but Rafe hung back, nursing his whiskey and surveying the crowd before him.

As if by chance, Rafe spotted you with your colleagues looking effortlessly stunning. Your dress sparkled from the strobe lights, and your laughter and bright smile were infectious, causing Rafe to sport a smile of his own as he watched you. You were captivating, and he couldn't help but be drawn to you.

Rafe took a deep breath, determined to seize the opportunity. It was like the universe was working for him. So, he made his way toward you, and he couldn't deny the flutter of excitement that mingled with nervousness in his chest. It wasn't enough to stop him, though. He couldn't let his chance slip away.

"Twice in one day? I must be the luckiest man alive," he said, trying to sound casual. He wondered if you could see how giddy he really was.

You turned to him, a surprised but sweet smile on your face. "Rafe? What are you doing here?"

He was elated when you didn't brush him off. "Celebrating tonight's win. But I have to admit, seeing you here is a win in itself."

"Really? And why's that?"

Rafe leaned into you, and he looked deep into your eyes. "Because I can't get you off my mind."

Your heart fluttered, and you found yourself torn between resisting his charms and giving in to the chemistry that sizzled between you. You had to admit, his persistence was starting to reel you in.

"Then maybe you should buy me a drink," you suggested.

"Let's go."

Rafe's hand found the small of your back as he led you away from your coworkers and to the bar. You both ordered your drinks, and the alcohol gave you some courage.

"You clean up nice. Not that your uniform doesn't do you justice. It does," Rafe said.

You couldn't help but chuckle. "And you clean up pretty well for a hockey player. But don't let that go to your head."

Rafe grinned, his eyes sparkling. "You know, I'm starting to think that you enjoy challenging me."

You met his gaze with a sly smile. "Maybe I do. It's not everyday that I meet someone who can keep up."

"My stamina's never been an issue, sweetheart."

You felt the heat blooming in your cheeks at the innuendo, and your slowly circled his wrist. "Then prove it. Dance with me."

"Lead the way."

Your magnetic pull drew you two closer, the connection louder than the noisy club that surrounded you. His hands rested on your hips and your back pressed against his front. Your bodies moved in sync, and Rafe's hands on you made you shiver with excitement. The spark between you was now a full fledged flame, burning so brightly it threatened to burn everything in its wake.

As the two of you continued to dance, the question that lingered in the back of your mind pulled at you. You needed to know the depth of Rafe's intentions. You twirled around in Rafe's hold slowly, your arms bracing on his biceps. You bit your lip in anticipation. "Why are you trying so hard with me?"

He paused for a moment, his eyes locking on yours. He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice raw with emotion. "You're a challenge. I like a good challenge. But more than that, there's something about you that's different. You're unlike anyone I've ever met before, and I can't resist wanting to figure you out. I want to know you. I need to."

You felt a mixture of curiosity and attraction. "So I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve?"

He nodded, pulling you closer as you swayed to the music. "Yeah. And I can't shake the feeling that the more I get to know you, the more interesting you'll become."

His answer was enough to intrigue you. "Do you...wanna get out of here?"

He smiled, with a shy but eager nod. "Yeah. Definitely."

RAFE TAG LIST (JOIN HERE!): @oncasette @taintedxkisses @maybankslover @goldenroutledge @penny4yourthoughts @bmo-bri @hemogloban @princessbetsy123-blog @slytherhoes @whoisdrewstarkey @dreamingwithrafe @vigilanteshitposting @twelfthmortalofcrimsonpalace @wildflwrdarlin @adoreyouusugar @f4ll-for-you @tell-me-when-ur-ready @bbycowboi @jjmaybankisbae @jjsbank444 @enhypens-hoe @loverofdrewstarkey @countryclubkook @earth2starkey @angelofcigs @glen-powells @koalalafications @aerangi @cantstoptheimagines @bloody-mf-bsc @maybanksbabe @slut4drudy @lvvrgrl @dancinglikeaballerina @somerandos-world @shahanaazsoumah @darleneslane @sya-skies @ellabellabus07 @emmalandry @madelynie @urbestieboo @cruzgrecia @l1lactheflower @rafegirly @thatsthewaythechrissycrumbles @gillybear17 @allsmilesreally7 @obaex

[eksvaized]

Part Twenty [ Previous 〡 Next ] taglist: @kingsprettyangel, @simonsslvt, @herwristsarehercanvas, @the-faceless-bride, @ghostieslove, @bbypionaa if you want to be added - let me know!

A/N: the updates on all my stories are slow because of uni the exam season is killing me >.< but once i'm done with it, i plan on posting more frequently!

You stare at the white ceiling. The light blanket draped over your body feels like a suffocating weight that’s pressing down on you. Yet, you lack the strength or mental energy to peel it away. As you lie there, it’s hard to believe that you’re back in this house, back in this room - your room.

When you first woke up, you had thought you would spend the rest of the day crying. But now, the reality of your return, the fact that you didn’t escape, that you’re back where you started, seems oddly natural. It’s as if you had always been caught in this relentless cycle and the brief moments of freedom were just cruel illusions. Of course, you didn’t escape Simon’s grasp. How could you? And for what reason did you even dare to dream of running, when your fate had already been sealed?

A chilling realisation settles heavily on you: deep within, you always knew that you weren’t going to make it too far away. The thought of escape was nothing more than a tantalising mirage that kept you going.

You sink deeper into the mattress, and your thoughts drift to Johnny, his memory filling the empty spaces of your room. His belongings, once scattered haphazardly here, are now all gone. The lack of his familiar presence, the void where he once existed, suggests that he’s probably been banished as well. Simon knows he can trust his friend. Yet he likely doesn’t want Johnny around you anymore. His presence is too dangerous for you. It sparks rebellious thoughts, ignites dangerous ideas that should have just remained as silly fantasies in your silly little head.

Simon occasionally comes into the room. Each time he appears, he brings you a meal: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He always places the neatly arranged tray on the nightstand. However, your appetite fails you every time and you never reach for the food. The meals, untouched, grow cold and then Simon, without saying anything, takes it all away.

You had thought that Simon would grow furious with your refusal to eat. Despite his seemingly calm demeanor, you braced yourself for the moment he would finally snap and unleash his pent-up frustration the moment you dared to meet his gaze. You imagined him yelling, maybe even resorting to physical violence, then dragging you to the basement to be shackled and left alone on the lumpy mattress. However, contrary to your expectations, his interactions with you are limited to occasional curt commands. He orders you to eat, to go shower, to change clothes. Sometimes you comply, sometimes not.

Day after day passes, each blending seamlessly into the next. From the confines of your bed, curled up into a tight ball and clutching your pillow, you watch the sunrises paint the sky with hues of pink and orange. A haze of sleep consumes you, pulling you into its depths and then pushing you back to reality, though every time you wake, you still feel an overwhelming sense of fatigue that never seems to lift.

Time becomes a blur, its passage marked only by the changing light outside your window. You can’t tell if only a few days, a long grueling week, or perhaps a full month has passed since Johnny found you in the forest. But the truth is, you don’t really care. What’s the point? What’s the point of caring, of trying, of devising potential escape plans when you feel the hopelessness seeping into your every pore?

There are moments when you catch yourself questioning your own sanity. What if you really do have a delusional disorder? What if you fabricated all those terrifying scenarios about Simon kidnapping you and forcing you to stay with him? Everything seemed to point in that direction. After all, when you mustered the courage to make an escape attempt, his reaction, when you were brought back home, was far from the explosive rage that you had predicted.

Instead of a storm, there was a surprising calmness, an almost passive acceptance that rocked your preconceived notions. His demeanor was mild, oddly gentle, and this discrepancy led you to question the authenticity of your own perceptions. It was as if a mirror was held up to the distortions of your own mind, casting doubts about the reality you thought you knew.

Simon himself was constantly proving to be nothing more than a caring and soothing presence. His actions were always considerate, his words tender and comforting. This gentle behavior conflicted with the image of the captor you had created in your mind, leading to further self-doubt. You found yourself wrestling with your own thoughts, trying to convince yourself that perhaps, just perhaps, you were indeed fabricating all of these disturbing scenarios.

* * *

Simon has reached his breaking point. The relentless sulking, the constant gloom, the oppressive atmosphere that hangs in your bedroom like a shroud - it’s unbearable. Each day is a mirror image of the one before: he’d make his way into your room, anticipation gnawing at him, only to find you in the exact same position in which he had left you, sprawled out on the bed in an almost lifeless manner, neglecting food and water, your gaze fixated on the wall, staring blankly as though you were lost in a world far beyond anyone’s reach.

So, on one evening, Simon decides to take matters into his own hands. He isn’t going to stand by and watch any longer. He is going to do something, anything, to bring back the light that once twinkled in your eyes.

Simon enters your room, cradling a bottle of what appears to be an extremely expensive bourbon, its golden liquid glinting under the soft evening light. His brows are furrowed in determination, a silent testament to his resolve.

He carefully places the bottle on the nightstand, accompanied by two gleaming glasses. “We are going to drink,” he declares, but you don’t say anything. You raise your chin up and just stare at him. Your gaze empty.

He studies you, his eyes shimmering with a complex cocktail of concern and firm resolution, before he reaches out for your hand. With a gentle yet firm tug, he pulls you out of the bed, making you stand. As you do, your gaze falls upon your own reflection in the mirror that hangs on the wall. You stumble, taken aback by your appearance.

You are still clad in the same clothes you had on when you left the house. The fabric is uncomfortably sticking to your skin, chaffing at the edges. This realization sparks a sudden urge within you to shed it all off. However, you remain frozen because you aren’t alone in the room.

Simon approaches you once more, this time presenting you with a fresh set of underwear, a fluffy white towel, and a pair of shorts along with a shirt.

“Go shower,” he instructs in a tone that brooks no argument. Although a part of you, the part that’s grown comfortable with the cocoon of sadness, wants to shake your head in refusal and retreat back to the bed, you decide that a quick shower wouldn’t do any harm. It might even serve as a much-needed break from the tumult within.

As you make your tentative way out of the room, you catch a fleeting glimpse of Simon’s silhouette against the window, managing to open it despite the lack of a handle. Once the window is cracked, inviting a breath of fresh, untainted air in, he proceeds to methodically peel off all the sheets from your bed, preparing it anew.

You spend a while standing under the scalding hot water. The warmth washes over you, blanketing you in a comforting heat that seems to momentarily suspend the world outside. The luxurious, expensive, fruity smelling gels that Simon has purchased for you are ignored, lined up against the wall of the shower. You simply don’t have the energy to slather your skin with them. However, you make a conscious effort to untangle the knots in your hair, running your fingers through the strands repetitively.

When you come back into the bedroom, Simon is sitting on the bed. Your bed is adorned with crisp, clean sheets, and on the nightstand, next to the bottle and two glasses, there’s a bowl with some steaming hot soup. The aroma wafts through the room.

“You can’t drink on an empty stomach,” he says in a tone that suggests he’s more stating a fact than offering an opinion. If you had the energy, you would no doubt argue with him, insisting that you have no intention of drinking or eating. But instead, you only manage to sit down next to him, the exhaustion preventing any form of protest.

When you make no move to reach for the bowl, Simon takes the initiative. He cradles the dish in his hands and begins to feed you. You allow him to. When a stray droplet of soup trickles down the corner of your mouth, he gently wipes your chin with his thumb, an act that is both comforting and strangely intimate.

There’s a part of you that wants to ask why he’s being so patient, so considerate with you. In fact, myriad questions are swirling in your foggy head, each one demanding an answer. But the haze clouding your mind is so thick, so dense, that formulating even a single coherent sentence feels like scaling a mountain.

Simon insists you finish the entire bowl of soup, meticulously ensuring that not a drop is left before he finally puts it away. As he proceeds to unseal the bottle that has been sitting on the nightstand, you find your eyes inadvertently drawn to his hands, noticing the rough, hardened callouses that adorn his fingers.

“Drink,” another command slips past his lips and he passes you a glass filled to the brim.

You gaze tentatively at the glass. The liquid inside shimmers under the soft glow of the room’s light. You hesitate. You don’t want to drink. However, you know that Simon, with his stubborn persistence, won’t back off or leave you alone until you do. So, with a heavy sigh, you bring the glass to your lips and take the first, small sip, instantly feeling the harsh sting of alcohol as it trickles down your throat, searing every inch it touches.

You hope that after the glass is finished, the alcohol will make you drowsy, lulling you into a deep slumber. After all, it seems that’s all you seem to do these days. Sleep.

However, when your glass finally drains, reaching its anticipated emptiness, instead of the expected heaviness or sense of dread, your eyes unexpectedly widen, and you find yourself becoming more alert. After enduring days of feeling emotionally numb, hollow inside, akin to an empty shell thoughtlessly discarded on a deserted, lonely beach, you feel an unfamiliar warmth spreading gradually throughout your body. This sensation is new, yet not unwelcome.

And then, when Simon, seemingly satisfied with your compliance and perhaps even relieved, nonchalantly turns on the TV, randomly selecting some film to fill the room with some background noise, you find yourself giggling as you watch the screen.

You don’t know why you are laughing or why you keep extending your arm towards Simon, wiggling your glass every time it empties, but you do.

Simon, with a careful vigilance, keeps an eye on you from the periphery of his vision. Matching your pace, he drinks as much as you, if not slightly more, but he is not nearly as drunk as you. Just a bit tipsy. He knows that getting drunk with you is far from the wisest decision he could make. But he quiets his mind, trying to convince himself that you won’t do anything reckless. After all, the bottle was only uncorked after he was fully convinced that you had no intentions of trying to run away again.

After Johnny brought you back, Simon was relieved. Ecstatic, actually. The thought of you, alone in the dark, lost and frightened, was a horrifying prospect that had Simon on the brink of tearing his hair out in sheer anxiety. It felt like a thousand icy needles were piercing his heart. In fact, the notion of you in danger was so excruciating, it made him want to raze the entire forest to the ground until he found you.

He had initially steeled himself, preparing to unleash a storm of admonishment, to let you taste the bitter regret of your impulsive decision to venture outside the safety of the house. After persuading Johnny to leave, under the guise that your condition had worsened, and you needed to recover in a safe environment devoid of any agitation, he stationed himself in your room, sitting by your bedside, watching over you, waiting for your eyes to flutter open so he could mete out the punishment he believed you deserved.

But when you woke up, something was amiss. Simon immediately noticed it. At first, he thought you were simply sad, but there were no tears to confirm his suspicion. No other emotions were evident on your face, either. The vacant stare you wore, the long, empty days you spent lying in bed, refusing to eat, and merely gazing aimlessly out of the window, filled him with an unsettling, gnawing fear. He longed for some kind of reaction from you, any indication that the person he knew was still there, beneath the facade of emptiness. He reasoned that perhaps you needed time to process everything, so he gave you space. Yet, even that didn’t seem to help.

During the times when his emotions would threaten to consume him, when his mind would be bursting at its seams with a relentless onslaught of thoughts, or when he felt the crushing, suffocating emptiness that seemed to envelop him, as though the bullet that had merely grazed him had instead ended his life, he would seek solace in the comforting burn of the most expensive bourbon he could find in the store. He would drink until his mind was blissfully quiet, until he lost consciousness, in the hopes that the morning would bring relief, and the horrors of the previous day would feel like a distant, unpleasant dream from which he had finally awoken.

“Hello? Earth to Simon,” you call out, playfully nudging his shoulder with the tip of your index finger. A lazy smile plays on the corners of your lips. “Are you falling asleep on me—yes, yes, you are!” you exclaim, your laughter bubbling up from deep within your chest. The sound of your giggles fills the room. You sink deeper into the bed and finish the last of your liquor. “You are such a lightweight,” you tease, your voice slightly slurred from the alcohol. Unexpectedly, a hiccup slips past your lips, causing your giggles to escalate into full-blown laughter.

Simon raises his eyebrows. His eyes twinkle with mild amusement and a hint of disbelief. His gaze is fixed on you. It takes him a moment to register your words, but then he shakes his head and smiles. Genuinely, smiles. A feeble grin spreads across his face, accompanied by the gentle crinkling of his eyes at the corners. 

[possibilistfanfiction]

happy new year! maybe a prompt for sleep/nap bc i need one lol

bea 🧑🏻‍⚕️🐝❤️‍🩹 (4:27 am): If you’re done with your post-op and would like to stop by, I’m in the on-call room. 

it’s so late it’s almost morning, and you really should be headed home because, technically, your shift is over and you’d been at the hospital for, like, too many hours to really want to keep track of at this point. but bea — beatrice choi, md, the resident in charge of you — is, like, so handsome, and kind, and an incredible teacher, with her perfect handwriting and her free gender-affirming clinic and all the languages she knows fluently. you think you’re a little in love with her, but who can blame you — you’re sleep-deprived and sometimes in awe of the skill and calm she has, even in just her third year. 

Dr. Ava Silva (4:31 am): sweet yah omw :)

when you open the door, a little harried, you immediately still and quiet as much as you can. bea has the room darkened, the only light coming in from a sliver under the window curtain, blue and red from the ambulances and easy white-gold from the street lights in the hospital parking lot. you’ve spent so much of your life — way too much of your life — in dark rooms in hospitals in uncomfortable beds that, for years, you could barely even feel, so you should want to run away. you should want to leave as soon as your shift is over and go home to your cramped apartment with its rickety table you found on the side of the road and its lumpy couch and the chipped mug in the kitchen — it’s not much; you can’t afford more, but it’s yours.

but you’re starting to think in some way maybe beatrice is yours too. all of the tension in your shoulders from the day — from countless central lines and three boring laparoscopic surgeries and one fatal stabbing in the er, from sutures and journals and so much to learn — melts away when you see her fast asleep. bea is on her back, scrub top off, one arm over her head, the blanket pooled around her waist, her phone face down on the flat plane of her chest — scars you haven’t seen before there that make you smile, just a little, beautiful — like she’d fallen asleep texting you. based on the fact that it’s only — you check your watch — 4:35 am, you’re pretty sure she did. 

camila keeps pestering you, and probably bea too, knowing her, to just talk to chief superion about your feelings so you can be on another resident’s service, so that there won’t be any issues and you can kiss bea if you want, but it’s, like, totally terrifying to imagine not only telling beatrice your feelings, let alone dr. superion, who puts up with your antics but just barely. 

you could leave. you could sneak out the door right now back to your apartment. it feels like a cliff to jump off, or a knife’s edge — but maybe it’s not that. maybe it’s something warm and easy and not really a choice at all, to love the steadiest person you’ve ever met. 

it’s easy to pull your running shoes off and discard your white coat and climb into the small space in the small bed next to her. she stirs a little, and so you say, ‘hey, i’m here.’ and she puts out her arm so you can lie down. it’s an invitation, albeit a sleepy one, so you make sure: ‘is this okay?’

she hums and nods. ‘hi ava.’

her voice is heavy with exhaustion; later you’ll come to find out that the hardest part of residency for beatrice — beyond literally everything else you personally find abhorrent and impossible — was just a lack of sleep. 

‘hey bea,’ you say, close enough to count her freckles and take in the warmth of her skin. she curls into you when you scoot closer to her, and it’s cramped and these beds are horrible for your back but it’s still basically heaven. you feel such deep fondness for her, small and in the dark like this, so different from her ramrod straight posture and clever hands in the light. 

she mumbles something incoherent and pulls you closer, and you fall asleep just like that. you’re awakened by the sound of her pager — a crime in your book, totally homophobic — just as the sun has risen. she’s disoriented, seemingly, as she wakes up painfully, and you kind of expect her to panic upon seeing you. but she smiles apologetically, a little nervous but apparently happy you’re there.

‘i don’t remember you coming in,’ bea says, searching for her scrub top until you hand it to her from where it was discarded over the side of the bed. she looks at you questioningly for one second, the tiniest bit of trepidation crossing her face, and so you just smile. 

‘you were very asleep, mere minutes after texting me. kinda rude to knock out after inviting me, don’t you think?’

her little blush is worth everything as she checks her pager and slips into her clogs. ‘you’re lucky i even managed to get that text off.’

’the er was that bad?’

she groans. ‘worse than.’ 

you’re ready to just lay around for a few minutes before you go home, but then she pulls on her quarter zip and you think about the scrub cap she’d had on earlier, blue with little otters all over it, unexpectedly adorable, and you decide to get up anyway. ‘have time for me to grab you a coffee as i head out?’

‘i’m sorry i kept you here. that can’t have been comfortable.’

you have to physically hold back the urge to tell her about how good she smells, even smooshed near her armpit. you’re, like, the best at all things self-control though, obviously, and so you don’t. instead you just shrug and stand, thankful for the last round of jillian’s shots that seem to be helping your back. ‘well, if you weren’t so ripped.’

she rolls her eyes, but her blush remains. camila is right, you think, because all you want to do is kiss her right now. but you don’t, you’re good for once, and you get ready too, as quickly as you can, and then hold the door open for her. she blinks a few times at the light, rubs her eyes behind her glasses, but then smiles at you — just for you.

‘maybe, soon,’ she says, taking a brave little breath after you’d waited in easy silence at the coffee counter, ‘you might want to join me on a hike? i go most days off if i can.’

and, like, that’s a terrible idea for you maybe, but whatever, some of your most ambitious terrible ideas have earned you an md and a phd and this very cool person in front of you, offering. ‘i’d really love that,’ you say. ‘text me.’

she nods, definitely pushing the time it would take to answer a page — lilith is going to be pissed, a delightful detail — and then reaches out to squeeze your hand, just once.

‘have a good day, dr. choi.’

she smiles. ‘see you soon, dr. silva.’

[sleepyking]

The Science Behind Adventure Time

Hello and welcome to my TED Talk-

@forphysicsandimagination and @brokenmilkcrates this is for you:)

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING IS A NINE PAGE ESSAY ABOUT THE SCIENCE BEHIND THE END OF THE WORLD IN A KID'S CARTOON SHOW, AND CONTAINS DISCUSSIONS OF NUCLEAR FALLOUT, CANCER, RADIATION, AND OTHER HEAVY TOPICS. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

Also, if there's anything I say in this that I'm repeating from someone else(because let's be honest there's probably something), and it bothers you, lmk!

Introduction

Adventure Time is a show that ran from April of 2010 to September of 2018, totaling ten seasons and 283 episodes. It followed Finn the human and Jake the dog, who went on weird adventures and got into trouble. Other major characters featured are Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum, Marceline the Vampire Queen, BMO, and Lady Rainicorn, along with others like Flame Princess, Lumpy Space Princess, and the Ice King. The Ice King was the main antagonist for most of the first season, until the Lich was introduced near the end of season one. Adventure Time is known for its far-fetched, wacky, and odd creatures and characters. But what if I were to tell you that they aren’t as far-fetched as they seem?

Background Information/What We Know

The strange things we see in Adventure Time were caused by the end of the world—also known as the Great Mushroom War(GMW). The GMW was a nuclear war that resulted in the near extinction of humanity, as well as the creation of new races and species, ranging from vampires to hug wolves to mutated coyotes. Not much is known about the war, but we do see bits and pieces of it in flashbacks. 

The exact time of all of this is unknown, but it is speculated that it happened in the late twentieth to early twenty-first century. It most likely took place between 1998 and the early 2000s, as sitcoms from the 1980s are referenced by multiple of the surviving human characters, the appearance of a Generation 3 iMac computer in The Lich (which became available to the mass public in 1998), modern smartphones in flashbacks, and internet phrases and expressions frequently used by the characters. 

The cause of the end of the world was a nuclear bomb—most likely more than one, as two bombs can seen exploding at opposite ends of the planet in the episode BMO. We also know that the Enchiridion was finished after the war, most likely on August 13th, 2021, going off of the numbers that are on the back of the book. 

Part One

During a flashback, Simon is shown looking up at the sky. In the sky, there are more than thirteen planes, which are most likely what was used for dropping the bombs. These planes are probably Boeing B2-9 Superfortress planes, which were used to drop nuclear bombs during World War II. In the episode Finn the Human, we get our first look at the actual bomb, which is nearly identical to the Fat Man bomb that was used in WW2, and was dropped by a Boeing B2-9 Superfortress. 

We’re told by Farmworld-Marceline that the bomb was poised to bathe the Earth in mutagenic horror, meaning that it was a mutagenic bomb. Now, you might be thinking, what’s the difference between a mutagenic bomb and a nuclear bomb? Are there any differences?  The simple answer is yes. 

Nuclear bombs are made to cause mass destruction using the energy released when the nucleus of an atom is split or merged. Mutagenic bombs are bombs that can cause direct DNA damage. However, nuclear bombs can be mutagenic, so Marceline could mean that it was a mutagenic bomb, or a nuclear bomb with mutagenic effects. Going by how much damage it caused, it was probably the latter. 

For this study, I’m going to say that the mushroom bomb is the same as a Fat Man bomb, and the fallout happened in 2010 (because, well, that’s realistically the time it probably happened). This bomb was dropped on the Japanese city Nagasaki on August 9th, 1945, and resulted in the deaths of over 70,000 people. 

However, I don’t think that the Fat Man(FM) was the only bomb used. 

In the intro of every Adventure Time episode, we can see things from the old world—a broken TV, cassette tapes, and, most notably, warheads. Warheads that are different from the mushroom bomb. 

So I went digging. I dug even deeper into history and everything we know about nuclear fallouts, and I found it—the first of two nuclear weapons ever used in warfare; the Little Boy. 

The Little Boy(LB) was used in the bombing of Hiroshima, another Japanese city, on August 6th, 1945—three days before the FM—and had an explosion force equal to 20,000 tons of TNT. 80,000 people died as a direct result of the bombing, and tens of thousands more died later. 

Out of the 120 FMs and the five LBs made, only one of each was used, leaving 119 FMs and four LBs left. There are three warheads in the intro, which means that three of the four remaining LBs were dropped but didn’t detonate. 

Scientists have estimated that an all-out nuclear war between the United States and Russia would result in over five billion deaths. 

The Great Mushroom War took place in approximately 2010. In 2010, there were around 6.7 billion people on Earth. 

The Great Mushroom War almost wiped out the entire human race. See where I’m heading with this?

The Great Mushroom War, a nuclear war, almost caused the extinction of humanity. If roughly five billion people died as a direct result of the fallout, that would leave around one billion people left alive on the entire planet. Due to radiation, food would be destroyed, and temperatures would drastically change, which would cause more deaths. The people we see, the actual humans we see, are very few, because there are very few actual humans still alive.

Part Two

The only characters we see that have five fingers are Marceline, Simon/Ice King, Marceline’s mother, Elise, and the Lich, who were all born before the end of the world. This means that either all of the future generations lost a finger, or these four characters all got an extra finger, both of which are possible. 

Oligodactyly is the term for having less than the normal amount of fingers/toes, and is the exact opposite of polydactyly. Oligodactyly is a congenial condition that is often, but not always, a genetically inherited disability, and can also be caused caused by mutations. So, if people born after the fallout all have less than five fingers, it’s very likely that it was caused by exposure to radiation. 

Children born after nuclear fallout commonly have polydactyly. However, since Marceline, Simon, Elise, and the Lich were all born before the fallout, this is less likely to be the reason that they’re the only characters with five fingers. 

The tribe of people that Marceline meets all have four fingers, which supports my theory on oligodactyly. 

“My mom and I didn’t talk about bad stuff. When she got really sick, she didn’t even tell me,” [Distant Lands: Obsidian] Radiation can cause multiple kinds of cancer, the most common being leukemia. While it’s very likely that Elise just had radiation poisoning, I want to mention leukemia as well, because she has some of the symptoms of it as well—irritability, coughing up blood, sleep problems, feeling cold, and excessive sweating. Coughing up blood is the most obvious, as we see her cough blood onto her hand. Feeling cold is based on the fact that she’s wrapped up in a blanket while in the middle of the desert, and depending on what time of the year it is, the temperature could be higher due to radiation. The entire time we see her in Obsidian, she has eyebags(and noticeable ones at that, which means that the animators wanted us to know that she was having trouble sleeping). When she’s trying to fix the motorcycle and tells Marceline to go to teh secret clubhouse, she’s very irritable. Excessive sweating is the biggest stretch, but I added it because she’s sweating a lot of the times she’s on screen. 

Skin conditions. Exposure to radiation causes skin conditions. 

Ice King is blue, Marceline looks like a walking corpse. See where I’m going with this? 

It does seem like Marceline’s skin has always been grey(and it makes sense that it has because Hunson is blue-ish grey), but there is a difference in her skin color between her when she was younger and her when she’s older. Her skin is lighter and more blue. Now, it’s not lighter by that much, but it IS lighter, and it’s not something that you’d notice while watching the show. Radiation doesn’t cause skin to turn blue, but remember that Marceline isn’t fully human—radiation probably affects demons and demon hybrids differently than how it affects humans. 

If you look at Simon before and after the fallout, you’ll probably be able to tell the differences. Even before his skin turns blue, it’s definitely lighter than it is in scenes like flashbacks and the tapes Finn and Jake watch in the season three Christmas special. This isn’t the only way he suffers from exposure to radiation, though—he also has several psychological issues that were caused by the fallout. The crown is what makes his mind deteriorate, but constant exposure to radiation definitely doesn’t help, and, if anything, probably made the crown worse. 

I would talk about the Lich, but it’s been said that he wasn’t originally human, and it seems like he’s meant to be a kind of primordial being. 

Back to Marceline, in the Stakes finale, she says “Smelled something bad.”  This is similar to something an actual survivor of nuclear warfare said; “There was a strange smell all over.”  You could make the argument that this doesn’t have anything to do with the fallout, but while she was saying this, it showed flashbacks of when she was younger and living in the apocalyptic world.

Part Three

The first species I’m going to talk about are the gums, as they’re some of the most humanoid creatures, but they’re still very supernatural. I talked previously about skin conditions, and that’s what I believed caused the gum people. Radiation can change the texture of your skin, and can make it appear pink, red, tanned, light, or dark. It can’t turn your hair pink, but you want to know what can? Sun exposure, chlorine exposure, chemical reactions, and nutrient deficiencies. Hair can also become squishy due to protein deficiency. Hair that lacks protein can feel mushy, sticky, and gummy, and clumps together. It’s safe to assume that in an apocalypse, nobody is going to be getting all of the nutrients and proteins that they should be. 

The mutated coyotes are probably the most realistic creature in the show other than humans. Yellow sclera and red irises are commonly caused by radiation. The mouth on the chest and the extra eyes are less likely to happen, but they are theoretically possible in terms of evolution.

Radiation can also cause abnormal brain development, which means that animals could possibly mutate to be able to do things humans can, like how most of the less humanoid creatures are able to talk, or how that creepy FUCKING deer can STAND ON ITS BACK LEGS LIKE A PERSON (I really don’t like him-).

The oozers are, essentially, zombies, which are scientifically possible. Zombies can’t be caused by radiation, but cells can be changed. There are diseases that cause animals to basically become zombies, and while humans aren’t affected by these diseases, cells can change because of radiation. If the cells change, it could make it possible for humans to catch these viruses. 

Conclusion

Now, obviously, this is all just speculation, and a lot of Adventure Time isn’t able to be explained by science, and it was meant to be fantastical. This was made for fun, and I wanted to show how even though it’s clearly a magical world, a lot of it can be explained by science. 

Two-headed lizards exist, why can’t any of Adventure Time’s creatures exist? After Chernobyl, cats living in the area went feral, meaning that radiation can change the mental state of an animal. Cows produced radioactive milk. Taking all of this into account, the things in Adventure Time seem a lot less far-fetched. 

(Side note: maybe the crown was affected by the radiation, too, and that’s why it caused Simon’s mind to deteriorate-lmk if you'd like me to go more in depth about that as well.)

I'd love to do something like this again if anyone has any ideas:)!

[fizzycherrycola]

FrUK, July 1920

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

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

Grey Seaside

Bordeaux region, France; 14 July 1920

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

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

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

Ah, right, Bastille Day.

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

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

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

France pauses, his lazy dark lashes blinking open slowly.  

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

“Only because you insisted.”   

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

“Not likely.”

“Have you still not learned how to swim?”  

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

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

England gags. “Absolutely not.”

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

“That's entirely different.”

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

“Fucking hell.”

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

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

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

“Bollocks.” 

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

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

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

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

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

The pause in the atmosphere is palpable.  

“...And?” France eventually asks.  

“And we shouldn’t still be here.”   

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

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

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

“Hang on! You brought food?” he says.    

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

England glowers. 

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

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

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

...Should be safe enough, then.  

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

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

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

“Get off,” he groans.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I do not. Do you wish to leave?”   

“Did I say that?”

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

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

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

“Tu cherches la petite bête….”

“Ridiculous. Why would I be worried?”

“Then, why did you not even ask?”

“...Just leave it.”

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

“Where are you going?”

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

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

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

“Oi!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why a nunnery?!” France cries.

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

“Non.”

“Wh–!”

“I told you that I am going to swim!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...Sorry, what?”

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

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

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

“Is this another of your philosophical sermons?” 

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

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

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

England blinks. “What?”

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

“The Rhineland?”

“Oui.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You've indulged plenty.”

“...You are not going to sleep.”

“I am.”

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

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

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

“Come off it.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Again?”

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

“We’re soaked to the bone.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

  —

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Your thoughts are too loud.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thumb brushes his cheekbone.

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

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

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

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

It’s everything he needs.

End / Fin  

~~~

Author’s Notes  

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

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

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

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

Pain de campagne is a type of French sourdough bread.

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

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

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

[romione-trope-fest]

Speak Now

Title: Speak Now

Author: adenei

Selected Trope: Weasley Weddings

Summary: In the midst of trying to navigate what life looks like following the defeat of Voldemort, and the loss of so many, there’s one thing glaringly missing. The irony of it all is it takes someone else’s wedding to give Ron the kick in the pants he needs to go after what—or rather *who*—he wants.

Word Count: 1988

Rating: G

TW: mentions of character death (all canon)

“Ron, I need to ask you for a favor.” Ron’s hand stops on the doorknob, the floorboards creaking under his feet. 

The thick piece of wood is the only thing separating him from a much needed afternoon nap. Sleep has been evading him. Nightmares torturing his mind as he tosses and turns on the lumpy old mattress that’s been his for as long as he can remember.

He shoots his brother a withering look, letting go of the handle as he turns to face him. “Right now?” 

It’s been two weeks since the Battle of Hogwarts. Two weeks since Fred died. Two weeks since Harry defeated Voldemort. And two weeks since he and Hermione kissed.

Every waking moment has been filled with funerals or meetings, and helping around the Burrow to ease the load on his mum, who’s completely overwhelmed with grief. And if he’s not doing his part to ensure the household is running smoothly, he’s taking a shift with George, making sure he doesn’t do anything rash or stupid as he navigates a world without his twin.

Because of all that, he’s barely seen Hermione, let alone had a chance to sit down with her. Every time they cross paths at the Burrow, he feels like he’s not making enough of an effort to make her a priority, yet how can he when everything else is just as important right now? She always smiles and nods in understanding when he’s pulled here or there, but sometimes he wishes she’d speak up and be selfish, asking him to come with her for once instead.

“Yes, right now.”

Ron sighs, trying to prevent the eye roll that sneaks out anyway. “Can’t you ask—”

“No. Bill is with George, and this really needs to be addressed by the end of the day.”

“Fine,” he groans, opening the door wide enough to welcome Percy inside his room.

He’s so busy ushering Percy inside that he doesn’t notice that there’s someone else already occupying the space—more specifically, his bed.

“Oh! Hi, um, sorry. I was just waiting for—do you need me to go?” Hermione’s brows knit with worry.

Ron could curse Percy all over again for needing him now—especially if he’s missing another opportunity to talk to Hermione. His brother stares at the girl he longs to be his girlfriend, contemplating her presence until he finally decides.

“No, actually, I’d like you to stay. I think that would be best.”

“Percy, what is going—”

The uptight redhead straightens his tie and clears his throat. “I have an appointment at the courthouse in Devon in thirty minutes, and I need someone to come with me.”

Ron’s not sure why, but he suddenly realizes that Percy’s dressed up—in Muggle garb.

“What did you do?” Hermione’s eyes widen as the question slips out of her mouth.

“I—nothing. I’m—er—getting married.”

“What?” He and Hermione both exclaim in tandem.

“But you’re not even seeing someone! Right?”

“I—I know it seems rash and maybe rushed, but it’s not. I’ve been seeing a—a Muggle for about two years now. Her name is Audrey, and I truly love her. She knows about me and our world. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing, dating her amidst the war, but—now that things are, well, over, I don’t want to waste any more time.”

Ron balks at him. “You’re seriously going to get married without the rest of the family knowing?”

“Er, no. They don’t. And that’s the thing. I do want to tell everyone…eventually, but Audrey and I had talked about eloping before things got really bad. We’ve been living in a Fidelius protected home and I had to be so careful not to get caught. Otherwise, I would have tried to make amends sooner too. But—Merlin forbid something were to happen again, I don’t want to miss my chance.”

Percy rarely gets flustered, but when he does, he is very much like Hermione. His train of thought tends to bounce all over the place and he doesn’t always make sense. Ron shakes his head.

“That still didn’t answer the question.”

“I am going to tell them. When the time is right. And we can have a reception or whatever else Mum wants to plan when she’s ready, but right now, I just need it to be me and her. We don’t want the fanfare.”

“So, why are you asking me to come with you?”

“Because we need a witness. Her best friend was supposed to come, but when I got the paperwork this morning to file the marriage license with the Ministry, we realized the witness needs to be magical for our end of things. Lara is still planning on attending, but…please, Ron?”

Ron stares at his brother, who looks at him with pleading, hopeful eyes before his gaze flits to Hermione. She nods gently.

“Fine. But I don’t have—”

“Oh, Merlin, thank you! Here.” Percy pulls his wand out and Accios something from the other room. It’s another muggle suit. “Hermione, you can come too, but I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you to—”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No, please, I’d like you there. It would make me feel a little better knowing that some of my family can be there.”

Ron’s heart constricts in his chest. Does Percy really consider Hermione family? Even though they aren’t even together?

“I—I’ll go look in Ginny’s room to see what I can find.” Her cheeks are rosy as she climbs off the bed and slips between them, exiting the room without so much as a backwards glance at either of them.

Percy looks back to Ron. “I’m sorry if I interrupted something.”

“It’s fine. You…didn’t.” 

Not technically, anyway.

“Er, right. Well, I do appreciate this. Truly. Thank you. I promise it won’t be long.” Percy glances down at his watch. “We need to leave in ten minutes. I’ll meet you in the garden and we can Side-Along?”

Ron nods. “Sure.”

As Percy disappears into the hall, shutting the door behind him, Ron has trouble wrapping his head around everything. 

Percy’s getting married. To a girl no other Weasley has ever met before—a muggle. And he and Hermione are the ones being asked to bear witness to it all.

* * *

The ceremony is just as Percy said it would be: brief, quiet, and intimate. For someone who always wanted all the pomp and circumstance of whatever position he held, this is uncharacteristically unassuming and private. And Ron can’t help but feel a little guilty upon seeing how the war—and the estrangement from his family—has changed Percy.

But when the justice of the peace asks them to say their vows, there’s a spark that comes to life in Percy’s eyes when he looks at Audrey, and even though Ron thinks his brother’s rushing things, it’s obvious they share something special. He doesn’t blame Percy for not wanting to wait anymore.

After all, hadn’t he said as much to Hermione in the Room of Requirement? ‘It’s now or never?’ Except it’s turned into ‘it was now, but then we had to wait a few weeks and he’s starting to think it might be never.’

Ron glances at his best friend, whose eyes are glassy with unshed tears as she watches Percy and Audrey share their promises with each other. He’s struck with an overwhelming feeling that he can’t quite place. Relief, maybe? Hope? Maybe it doesn’t matter that he doesn’t have the word to describe it. Until it’s obvious.

Love.

It’s against all odds—the fact that they’re here. They made it. Even when one, or perhaps both, probably shouldn’t have. Ron’s been so caught up mourning the loss of everyone who gave their lives to protect their world that he’s forgotten why they died in the first place. Fred, Tonks, Remus…they wouldn’t want everyone to grieve them so much they can’t get on with their lives. What good would all that fighting have been for? 

Maybe Percy has the right idea, marrying Audrey. Perhaps this is part of his journey of healing and moving forward on his own, and eventually he’ll find a way to fuse his life with Audrey to the one he’s working to repair with his family. Ron wonders if he should follow in his brother’s footsteps, and find his way to happiness again.

As Percy and Audrey are pronounced man and wife, Ron knows exactly what he has to do. He offers a genuine smile as they share their first kiss, signs the documentation as their witness, and congratulates them.

“Thank you for being here,” Percy extends his gratitude again as they walk down the steps exiting the courthouse.

“No problem. Just, er, maybe don’t keep this from the rest of the family for too long. I think they could probably use something happy to latch onto.”

Percy’s mouth forms into a thin line as he nods curtly. “I’ll…try not to.” Then, he turns to his new bride. “We’re going to head back to our flat, unless you need help getting home?”

And there’s Pompous Percy, back to play.

Ron rolls his eyes. “I think we’ll manage.”

Percy and Audrey wander off down the road as Ron eyes the park nearby and nods to it. “Care for a walk?”

“Sure,” Hermione agrees.

They meander side by side, and all of the things Ron wants to say storm through to the front of his mind, but he can’t latch onto a single one long enough to start a conversation. After harboring his feelings for years, how is he supposed to finally tell Hermione how he feels?

Their fingers brush as they walk, and Ron brazenly slides his hand into hers the next time the sway of their arms sync up.

“That was unexpected,” Hermione offers.

“It was.”

“But also really sweet.”

“Yeah.”

Hermione slows her pace and turns toward him, forehead crinkled in concern. “Are you alright?”

“I—yeah—”

“I feel like we’ve barely seen each other, let alone spoken since—”

“I know.” The hand that isn’t still holding hers moves to slip around her waist. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, but—I’ve wanted to talk.”

“About what?”

Us. The kiss. The locket. What happened at Malfoy’s. Shell Cottage. Everything that’s ever happened between us since the fucking Yule Ball and what it could possibly mean. All of it.

He supposes any of those could be a good starting point, but that’s not what slips out of his mouth. “I want what they have—Percy and Audrey.”

“Oh?” The singular syllable catches in her throat as she looks at him in surprise.

“With you.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

He’s not sure how, but Hermione manages to move her body closer to his. “Me too,” she breathes. “I’ve been hoping—”

But Ron doesn’t give her a chance to finish. Dropping her hand, he brings it to her face, tilting her chin up as his lips graze hers. It’s much more gentle, tentative even, than their first kiss, and he relishes every second of the leap they’re taking.

“I never thought…” she starts to say when they finally break apart, but the words drift off and she bites her lip instead. 

He knows exactly what she means though, even without saying it. “I know. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” she agrees.

“Reckon we probably shouldn’t jump to marriage right away though,” Ron jokes. It’s the first time he’s genuinely been able to since—well, before they broke into the Ministry.

The crack brings a smile to Hermione’s lips. Merlin, he’s missed making her smile. “No, probably not. But I don’t see a problem with dating.”

“Neither do I.”

“So, it’s settled then.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Then, a wide grin spreads across his face and happiness bubbles up from his heart. “I finally get to call you my girlfriend.”

She nuzzles her head into his chest. “I like the sound of that.”

“Me too.” He kisses the top of her head.

For now.