#bells and spires

[dandelion-wings]

Still thinking about this particular Gunnhildr family tonight, and I've had this scene floating around in my head for literal years by now, so:

---

It's been two hours, and Alba won't stop crying. Jean has fed her, and changed her nappies, and bounced her, and rocked her, and whispered soft soothing words even though she herself wants to scream just as loudly as her daughter. None of it works. She's been up since four this morning, and it's nearly eleven at night, and all she can do right now is sit on the chair in the nursery and stare at Alba's crib, where her daughter lies wailing, because Jean doesn't trust herself to hold her any longer.

How did her parents do this? How does anyone do this? Why did Mother take that trip to Liyue and abandon Alba to Jean, when she has no idea what to do?

That last is unfair. Her mother has affairs of her own (personal affairs, that Jean is carefully not thinking about in detail) that she deserves to be able to take care of without being weighed down by the task of watching her granddaughter. And Jean does know what to do; she's watched her mother carefully, and heard advice from her father and the sisters of the Church and half the knights of the Ordo. It's just that none of it is working.

Over Alba's wails, she doesn't hear Kaeya come up the hall until he's slipping into the room.

"There's my little Gunnhildr," Kaeya croons, sweeping Alba up out of the crib and bouncing her on his shoulder as he turns to Jean. "I would ask if she just woke up, but as you look like you haven't slept…."

"She's eaten, she's changed, and I've tried to put her down, but she's been crying like this for hours." Jean is ashamed to hear the frustration in her voice. "I even sent for Sister Jilliana, who said she isn't colicking or teething. I don't know what else to do."

"I'd say you should start by getting some sleep. I'll take her downstairs to the kitchen and see what I can do. If I'm lucky, I can calm her down, and if I'm not, at least your room should be quiet enough for you to get some sleep."

"You just came in-"

"And I can sleep in tomorrow. You have a morning meeting with Varka and the Inazuman delegation."

That she can't miss. That's been preying on Jean, too. It's why she nods miserably instead of arguing further, and leaves Kaeya to carry their daughter away while she makes her way to her bed.

As far across the house as Kaeya can get, she can, indeed, barely hear Alba's crying, muffled by floors and doors and walls. The sound is so faint she could almost imagine it an echo in her own head. Jean still hates to hear it; her daughter is upset, and she should know why and be able to fix it. That she couldn't makes her want to shrink with shame. With tomorrow's duties in mind, though, she lies back and tries to relax into sleep.

Gradually, Alba's wailing fades into silence. No--not silence. Snatches of sound still come from below, coming and going, but they're soft and slow. Jean, pulling herself up out of the unhappy half-sleep she'd been hovering in, listens more intently, her curiosity as strong as her relief. It's Kaeya, singing, the tune drifting in snatches up from below. The music itself is the simple strains of a lullaby, familiar in form even if she doesn't recognize the specifics of the song. The language… sounds almost hilichurlian, but it's softer around the edges, their choppy cadences smoothed out, words and phrases longer and more complex.

Jean has never heard Kaeya speak Khaenri'ahan before.

It isn't particularly beautiful singing. She had been enough of a singer as a child for her father to give her lessons, Barbara listening wide-eyed at her side. Diluc and Kaeya have a classical aristocratic education just as she does--maybe more so--but she doesn't recall either of them having any musical inclination. Kaeya's singing is inexpert, shifting in and out of key, and the eerie similarity to hilichurlian makes it seem even more inelegant despite the flourishes. But there's a gentleness in it that makes Jean want to cry.

She falls asleep, instead, lulled at last by the relief of silence and intermittent bars of Keaya's song.

Kaeya lets her sleep until only an hour before her meeting, and so Jean can do nothing more in the morning than thank him for the sleep and scold him for the late waking in the same sentence and glance into the nursery. Alba is asleep at last, and Jean isn't going to wake her up, so she foregoes a goodbye kiss and rushes to get to the Ordo in time.

Then her day turns into the usual routine of work, one meeting followed by another, interspersed with inspections and reports and a patrol of the guard stations around the city, because rumors have been floating around about Abyss Mages again. Kaeya arrives shortly after noon with the reassurance that he'd handed Alba off to her father and sets off on a brief mission with his company that keeps him past when Jean finishes with her day and goes up to the Cathedral to retrieve her daughter from her father and the sisters' doting care.

He catches up with her an hour or so after she gets home, managing to make it while dinner is still warm. Alba is fed and, thank Barbatos, happy, cooing in excitement when she sees Kaeya come through the door. After a few minutes of playing with her, he serves himself a plate of bolognese and runs through a brief overview of the mission as he eats. The description of one unfortunate knight managing to fall halfway off and tangle herself in her stirrup leather is likely exaggerated for effect, but Jean giggles anyway.

"And my official report will be on your desk when you get in tomorrow," he concludes, rising to rinse his plate. "Are you and Lisa still on for your date tonight?"

"I can stay home and let Lisa know I'm unavailable, if you'd like. I don't know how late Alba kept you up last night."

"No later than the trail I was hoping to pursue at the Cat's Tail would have if it had played out as I'd hoped." Kaeya shrugs. "I did get her to sleep eventually."

"I noticed. I heard you singing," Jean confesses. "That was Khaenri'ahan, wasn't it?"

Kaeya's cheeks go dusky. "You have good ears."

"If it was private, then I am sorry. I wasn't trying to overhear."

"No need to apologize. There's no reason for it to be private. I… don't speak the language often any more, but it's hardly a secret. Not to you." Kaeya is still blushing, not quite meeting her eye. It isn't the Khaenri'ahan he's embarrassed by, Jean realizes. It's the song.

"It sounded lovely," she offers him. "What is it about?"

The question only makes him even more reluctant to meet her eye, hesitating to answer. When he does, it's with a shrug and a sheepish chuckle. "Not to disappoint you, it isn't nearly as nice as the tune makes it sound. It's telling a child to be quiet and still, because if they make too much noise, or cause too much trouble… well. The riftwolves will come and carry their family off."

"Oh." Jean is embarrassed herself now for prying. "That isn't that strange, though, is it? Some of Mondstadt's nursery rhymes are just as unpleasant when you really listen to them. That one about the mockingbird is said to relate to a curse by an ancient witch, and the rhyme children sing in that circle game is about a plague in Decarabian's day."

"Huh. That's true." Kaeya looks over at Alba, who has wriggled partway under the table and is happily banging one toy against another. His blush has faded to a fond considering look. "There certainly aren't any riftwolves in Mondstadt to steal her away from us."

"No. And if they ever come, she'll have us to defend her. Lisa and Barbara, too, and Mother, and Father, and Grand Master Varka…."

"And no doubt half the Ordo as well. She doesn't need to fear anything, does she?" Kaeya sounds faintly wondering, as if this is a revelation that's only just occurred.

Jean is hardly going to remind him of all the things their daughter does need to fear, from falls down steps to clumsy drunks to Jean's own political enemies. She suspects she knows what that 'anything' encompasses for him, and she's as glad as he is that Alba is safe from the nightmares of his own childhood. Instead she comes to stand beside him, bumping his shoulder companionably as she watches Alba play.

He throws her a quick smile. "You're going to be late if you hang around any longer. I don't particularly want to face Lisa's wrath, so you'd better hurry up."

"Thank you," Jean tells him, bumping his shoulder again as she turns to go. She pauses in the doorway, glancing back once, and smiles to see him crouched down and carefully examining an offered toy. Then she heads out to meet with Lisa, leaving the two of them in the safest home she knows.

[notsquid]

New Year pfp! It’ll last at least for December and maybe week of January if I won’t be lazy

[msbellebelle]

Drew my Pizzelle and Fake Peppino fan dragons for fun :3

[scotianostra]

St. Giles, High Street, Edinburgh. 1904.

A rare picture of the clock on St Giles "Cathedral2 on The Royal Mile.

The first clock on the spire was installed 1552 but had fallen into disrepair. In 1585 it was replaced by one which came from the Abbey Church of Lindores in Fife at the cost £55. It had two faces with ‘twa hands’. It was built to strike the hours, relieving the bellman of that duty. The clock was set from the time shown on a sundial erected on the south wall of the Church

In 1721 the clock mechanism was replaced by one from a London firm of clockmakers, much to the annoyance of the Edinburgh clockmakers. This clock was repaired and the minute hand inserted in 1797 by the Edinburgh Clockmaker Thomas Reid.

In 1912, the firm of James Ritchie and son, installed a non-dial chiming clock which functions to this day. This clock has no faces for it was felt that the faces destroyed the appearance of the steeple. The hours and quarters are struck on the three bells still in the steeple – the great bell, originally cast in 1460 strikes the hours, and two small bells dating from 1706 and 1728 strike the quarters. The old clock was given to the Museum of Edinburgh, where its mechanism can still be seen.

[thelordismylightandmysalvation]

Roman Catholic Cathedral Basilica of St. John the Baptist, Savannah

My Photo

[sinceileftyoublog]

Shemekia Copeland Interview: Break It Down to the Basics

Photo by Dave Specter

BY JORDAN MAINZER

A couple weeks ago, in speaking with Shemekia Copeland over the phone, I called her out. Though her new album Blame It On Eve, out Friday via Alligator Records, is her purported attempt to make an album that's a "break from the news" instead of "breaking news," she still sings about doomscroll-worthy topics. She admitted it right away. "I can't help myself," she said. "There was no way I couldn't talk about women's rights on this record." The album's very title refers to society's tendency to put the woman at fault, one that, of course, has biblical precedent. Copeland always has a way of selling you without hitting you over the head. "Hurricanes and tropical twisters / Always gettin' named after some sisters," she sings on the title track, "But the worst winds come from DC / Stealin' rights from you and me." Even alongside Jim Hoke's skronking saxophone and Luther Dickinson's screaming guitars, it's Copeland's wail that rises above.

Copeland calls herself "an idea person" who works with a stellar team of songwriters. Like most lyricists do, she jots down song ideas when they come into her head, and flushing the songs out with her team happens organically. "It's like getting a dress tailor made to fit you," she said. Blame It On Eve is her most balanced record yet. There are autobiographical songs (the blues stomp "Tough Mother"), paeans to interracial love ("Cadillac Blue"), gospel-rock jams ("Tell The Devil"), educational treatises ("Tee Tot Payne"), and even a couple covers, including her father Johnny's "Down on Bended Knee". Copeland turned to longtime collaborator Will Kimbrough to produce the record and play various instruments on it, and the core band of Kimbrough, bassist Lex Price, and drummer Pete Abbott treats Copeland's words with appropriate gravity. Kimbrough's mournful, echoing licks mirror Copeland's pained expressions on "Only Miss You All the Time". And the band's rock and roll strut gives levity to an otherwise serious song "Broken High Heels", where Copeland cleverly compares our collective attitude towards climate change to "Dancing in a graveyard in broken high heels."

Indeed, Copeland's songs that one might call "political" aren't really that--they're just about issues that affect everyday life. "Anything uncomfortable, people want to call it political," Copeland said. On "Is There Anybody Up There?" a duet with Alejandro Escovedo, the narrator starts to doubt that God is listening when looking at the ills of the world, like our broken immigration system, before realizing that his very doubts make him a sinner, too: "If they crucified poor Jesus, think what they'll do to me!" "Tee Tot Payne" is, of course, about the Black man who taught Hank Williams the blues. Copeland views the song as part of the larger conversation going on about Black influence on country music, and an important opportunity to engage with Black history. "Rhiannon Giddens wrote an amazing essay about the banjo and how it wasn't originally an instrument used amongst white bluegrass artists as much as it was used within Black culture," Copeland said. "They're trying to get rid of history, so for my last records, I try to put something educational in there."

As traditional as is the music Copeland makes, her view on making records and performing is pretty consistent with that of today's world. She's the first artist I've ever interviewed to admit that the sequencing of her albums isn't crucial. That is, she doesn't care whether listeners listen to the album's songs in order as much as they pay attention to what's in each song. "In all honesty, I don't believe sequencing is that important because people don't listen to records that way. I still do, but people don't listen to records in sequence. People pop it into their device and listen to it the way they want to," Copeland said. She then offered a caveat. "But it's important to me that they hear all the songs. They all fit on the record in some shape or form." That's Copeland, the idea person, thinking big picture, knowing that the collection of songs makes a whole, but each individual track tells a unique story. It's perhaps why her approach to playing live is so effective. Sequencing a set is important to Copeland, but it's less about planning and more about doing some of her own listening. "I don't really do setlists. I try to feel out the audience. I have some idea what we're gonna do, but I change it up," she said.

At the end of the day, Copeland has an innate sense for what makes songs tick. As she and her team write and practice, they start to think about who else could feature on the song, always without overloading it. It's how they ended up with Jerry Douglas contributing lap steel on "Cadillac Blue", Dashawn Hickman providing Sacred Steel guitar on "Tell the Devil", and Cara Fox playing cello on "Belle Sorciere", on whose chorus Copeland sings in French. Copeland's song-making prowess, though, is never more so evidenced by her version of Ron Miller's "Heaven Help Us All", recorded most famously by Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles. The album closer, it features Kimbrough on organ and Lisa Oliver Gray and Odessa Settles providing impassioned backing vocals. Copeland had first heard the Charles version, which appeared on his 1972 album A Message from the People and featured Gladys Knight. "It [has] a lot of background vocals and horns. It was done in a very big, produced way," Copeland said. "I thought I wanted to break it down to the basics." She's not a minimalist, but when you listen to Copeland's albums or performances, or even talk to her on the phone, every word and moment is essential. She can't help it.

Tour dates:

8/30: Peoria Blues & Heritage Music Festival 2024, Peoria, IL 8/31: Fishers Blues Festival, Fishers, IN 9/1: Rhythm & Roots 2024, Charlestown, RI 9/5: Bell's Brewery, Kalamazoo, MI 9/6: The Ark, Ann Arbor, MI 9/7: Wheatland Music Festival, Remus, MI 9/17: Americanafest Showcase at 3rd & Lindsley, Nashville, TN 9/20: Fanatics Pub, Lima, NY, United States 9/21: Pittsburgh International Jazz Festival, Pittsburgh, PA 9/22: Center for the Arts of Homer, Homer, NY 9/27: Rochester Opera House, Rochester, NH 9/28: Spire Center for Performing Arts, Plymouth, MA 10/10: One Longfellow Square, Portland, ME 10/12: StageOne at FTC, Fairfield, CT 10/13: Ardmore Music Hall, Ardmore, PA 10/17: Daryl's House, Pawling, NY 10/18: Elkton Music Hall, Elkton, MD 10/19: Rams Head On Stage, Annapolis, MD 10/20: The Tin Pan, Richmond, VA 11/14: Music Box Supper Club, Cleveland, OH 11/15: The Acorn, Three Oaks, MI 11/16: City Winery Chicago, Chicago, IL 11/17: City Winery St. Louis, St. Louis, MO 11/22: Lizzie Rose Music Room, Tuckerton, NJ 11/23: Barre Opera House, Barre, VT 11/24: City Winery Boston, Boston, MA 11/30: SFJAZZ Center, San Francisco, CA 12/6: Sam's Burger Joint, San Antonio, TX 12/7: The Kessler Theater, Dallas, TX 12/8: Houston Blues Society Holiday Bash at Rockefeller's, Houston, TX 1/19: One Longfellow Square, Portland, ME 2/7: Zellerbach Theatre at The Annenberg Center, Philadelphia, PA 2/16: Vero Beach Blues Festival, Vero Beach, FL 2/22: Soka Performing Arts Center, Aliso Viejo, CA 2/23: Poway Center for the Performing Arts, Poway, CA 4/4: Lied Center of Kansas, Lawrence, KS 4/7: McCain Auditorium, Manhattan, KS 4/12: Bitterroot Performing Arts Council, Hamilton, MT

[jameelahmaury]

view from inside the top of the Spire in Bordeaux - August 2020

[theblacksheepcz]

WOAH

MAN I REALLY LOVE THESE FUSIONS HOMIE BRO

wasn't planning to draw too much more of these guys cause I think the idea is pretty out there but had more thoughts/fun facts thanks to lovely comments I gotten from folks

(last doodle I forgot to add to the doodle page, but cancelled classic is absolutely a crazy enough of a mf to guzzle down boiling hot water if there's a parasite in him)

[britishchick09]

the madeline church in utah looks so much like st. joseph church in new orleans! i wonder if it has the same perfect bell tower... ;)

[ducotte-real]

Spires and bells and carousels Of figures that lead you in

[natsaffection]

Kingdom of Secrets | Prologue | N. Romanoff

Knight!Natasha x younger!princess!Reader

MINOR DNI!! (18+!)

warnings: age gap (Natasha is 16 when she comes to the palace and the reader is 4 years old. At the end of this chapter Natasha is 33 and reader 21) fingering, begging, crying

word count: 4,5k

A/n: welcome to the prologue of Kingdom of Secrets! (Yes the title has a meaning) This is just the opening chapter. So it's not the first real part. It cost me already tears because I wanted it to come across the way people spoke back in the Middle Ages..so please give feedback!🫂

In the heart of the great kingdom of Celestria, where emerald fields stretch as far as the eye can see and spires kiss the sky, there was great anticipation in the royal court. King Alistair and Queen Seraphina Dawn, the beloved rulers of the realm, had long yearned for an heir to carry on the legacy of their noble lineage. The palace echoed with the whispers of courtiers as news spread of a momentous event.

Queen Seraphina was expecting a child.

Months passed, each one accompanied by prayers and whispered hopes echoing through the halls of the palace. The kingdom collectively held its breath, waiting for the joyous news that would bring new life to the royal family. The gardens adorned with blooming flowers bore witness to the ebb and flow of the seasons, reflecting the anticipation within the palace walls.

And then, as the golden colors of autumn tinged the landscape, the long-awaited moment arrived. Like a melody of hope, the announcement resounded through the kingdom and spread from town to town. Queen Seraphina had given birth to a daughter, a shining beacon of joy in the embrace of her parents' love.

The kingdom erupted in jubilation. Banners swayed in the fresh breeze, their colors dancing to the rhythm of the joy that flowed through the streets. The citizens rushed to the gates of the palace in their finest clothes to join in the royal rejoicing. The sweet scent of flowers was in the air and the distant sounds of musicians tuning their instruments heralded the great celebrations to come.

Inside the palace, the little princess lay in her mother's arms, wrapped in a tapestry of delicate silk. Queen Seraphina's eyes, glistening with tears of happiness, met King Alistair's gaze, a silent exchange that spoke volumes about the unspoken journey they had traveled to reach this blessed moment.

As the sun sank below the horizon, the palace gates opened to welcome the many well-wishers. The Great Hall, decorated with golden tapestries and crystal chandeliers, shone in the light of a thousand candles. Laughter and chatter filled the air as nobles, commoners and dignitaries alike joined in the celebration.

In the midst of this splendor, the little princess lay in her crib, surrounded by a symphony of admiration. Her tiny fingers, like rose petals, grasped at the air as if reaching for the love that surrounded her. The flickering candlelight painted her delicate features and cast a warm, ethereal glow on her.

Y/n, as she would later be called, became the beacon of hope that united the kingdom. Her laughter echoed through the palace like silver bells, eliciting smiles from all who basked in her innocent radiance. The court musicians, attuned to the heartbeat of the celebration, played melodies that blended with the collective heartbeat of the kingdom, a harmonious testament to the unity created by the birth of the princess.

Over the years, the princess's birthdays became a cherished tradition. The kingdom celebrated with greater fervor each year, turning the anniversary of her birth into a grand spectacle. The gardens, where once the whispers of anticipation could be heard, now bloomed in vibrant colors that reflected the princess's exuberant spirit.On her birthdays, the people of Celestria gathered to honor their beloved princess. The streets were lined with stalls selling sweet treats and enchanting trinkets. Musicians played lilting melodies and performers brought fairy tales to life through dance and theater. But amidst the splendor, it was Y/n herself who was in the spotlight.

Her laughter, the elixir that had breathed life into the kingdom years ago, echoed through the air. The joy that emanated from her was infectious and transformed the celebration into a mosaic of smiles and shared happiness. Y/n had become the living embodiment of the kingdom's dreams with her sparkling eyes and a heart full of kindness.

As Y/n grew, so did the kingdom around her. The once silent halls of the palace echoed with the footsteps of a vibrant princess whose spirit danced like the sunlight that fell through the leaves. She became a symbol of hope, bridging the realms of royalty and commonality - a beacon of unity for a kingdom that had waited with bated breath for her arrival.

And so, under the golden skies of Celestria, the royal court and citizens celebrated the birth of their princess, whose laughter echoed throughout the kingdom, mingling with the melodies of joy that had marked her grand entrance into the world.

But a shadowy group lurked in the hidden corridors beneath the splendor of the kingdom. Unseen and unheard, this gang shrouded in mystery plotted insidiously to infiltrate the royal house.

In the dimly lit chamber adorned with ancient symbols, the agents of the group - Shadows of Darkness - received a chilling instruction. The leaders, shrouded in the cloak of shadows, readjusted their strategy. Princess Y/n, an unforeseen variable, demanded an adjustment to their malevolent plans.

As Y/n's laughter rang through the palace, the group's secret game unfolded on an invisible chessboard. The birth of the princess upset their carefully laid plans and brought an element of unpredictability into play. Beneath the surface of the festivities, a calculated dance played out, where joyful echoes collided with the malice lurking in the shadows. Citizens and royalty revelled in blissful ignorance, unaware of the ominous threat lurking in the hidden corners of the palace. A dangerous dance began. One in which the laughter of a princess served as an eerie soundtrack to a covert operation that would reshape Celestria's destiny.

As daylight bathed the kingdom in golden hues, the shadowy group moved in secrecy. Their ominous influence extended to unsuspecting future queens. The dark puppet, manipulated by unseen hands, infiltrated the royal court and left a menacing presence.

The king, who had followers in every country, became aware of the terrifying power. Fearing for his family and the future of his country, he had his troops strengthened and also looked for a guardian for his daughter. So he spread the word throughout the country that a tournament was to be held in the late evening and that the bravest and strongest fighters were to take part.The anticipation of the great tournament was in the air that day. The king, seeking the perfect protector for his most precious treasure, gathered warriors from faraway lands. Men vying for the honor of protecting the jewel of the realm presented themselves in the arena.

The tournament, a spectacle of skill and courage, began with the clash of swords and the thundering hooves of warhorses. Knights from all corners of the realm showcased their skills, a dance of blades played out under the watchful eyes of the royal court.

As the dust settled and countless fighters succumbed to the skill of their opponents, there was a quiet tension among the spectators. The king, seated on his magnificent throne, surveyed the remaining warriors, his keen eyes searching for the one who would serve as a shield against the impending danger to the princess. Then, amidst the remaining fighters, a lone, young figure emerged, clad in armor that seemed to absorb the essence of the shadows. The air fell silent as this knight stepped forward, exuding an aura of fear and admiration. A murmur went through the audience, a collective acknowledgement that a formidable force had entered the arena.

The king, mesmerized and wary, leaned forward in his throne, a silent question etched on his regal countenance. "Tell me, what is a child doing on the field?" he asked his 1st in command. He bowed to his king, "Forgive me, my majesty, but you emphasized that the gates were open to anyone carrying a sword." The king forced the moment back into his mind and now looked further down, at the person.

At that very moment, the mysterious knight removed the helmet, revealing a cascade of fiery red hair framing a face marked by the scars of countless battles. Her piercing gaze, a mixture of steel and determination, met the king's eyes with an unwavering intensity. A murmur went through the hall as the realization set in. "Lady, Natalia Alianovna Romanoff," someone breathed, the name inspiring both awe and fear. As the first young woman to be knighted, Natasha was widely known, and her accomplishments on the battlefield were whispered about in saintly tones. The king, who also learned of her presence, widened his eyes.

As she approached the king, Natasha dropped to one knee, a sign of respect and submission. Her armor bore the marks of countless victories, and the sword at her side was a testament to her skill as a warrior.

"Your Majesty," Natasha's voice, a symphony of authority and humility, echoed through the arena. "I am Natalia Alianovna Romanoff, sworn to protect those deemed worthy of the Empire's protection. I offer my skills and loyalty to defend your princess, the jewel of Celestria." The king, observing the steely determination in Natasha's eyes, pondered her words. Isn't she too young to be a knight? Presently good..She could form a bond with Y/n. He thought.

The court remained in a collective breathless pause, awaiting the monarch's decision. After a moment's thought, the king nodded, a gesture that echoed through the arena like a decree.

"Lady Natasha Romanoff, rise. You have proven that you are an excellent Fighter. May the realm be witness to your service as my daughter's protector."

The crowd erupted in a mixture of cheers and whispers in appreciation of the gravity of the moment. Natasha rose from her knees and hid her features behind her helmet again. With measured steps, she returned to the ranks of the assembled knights, her presence leaving an indelible impression on the tournament and setting the stage for a new chapter in the kingdom's saga. Since then, the unique bond between the young princess and the fearless knight began to grow. Y/n, a little bundle of joyful energy, zoomed through the flowerbeds. "Tasha, look, I can fly!" she cried, spreading her tiny arms. Natasha, with a smile on her lips, leaned down. "Really? Show me, little whirlwind." And chase her through the field.

"Tasha, why are you so strong?" asked Y/n three years later, while they were playing in the halls. Natasha, with a mischievous smile, replied, "Strength comes not only from muscles, but also from courage and determination, my Princess."

The royal parents, from their thrones, watched the scene with warm smiles. "Look how Natasha is teaching our daughter," said the queen. The king nodded proudly. "A bond strengthened not only by duty, but also by the heart..I could not have chosen anyone better."

In the shelter of the pavilion, Y/n and Natasha talked about the years of shared experiences. "Promise me, Natasha, that you will always be by my side," Natasha, serious yet tender, replied, "As long as I breathe, I will watch over you, Princess."

Over the years, not only did Y/n grow up, but so did the love between her and Natasha. Adventures together, laughter and tears formed a bond that blurred the boundaries between princess and protector.

At the age of 20, Y/n found herself in the midst of an inner turmoil. The years had passed since Natasha had taken up residence as her protector, and a subtle change was creeping into the princess's mind.

In the quiet moments when the sun slowly disappeared behind the palace walls, Y/n discovered a growing urge to seek Natasha's closeness. Every look from the knightess, every gentle touch, seemed to break through an invisible barrier within Y/n.

The glances Natasha cast across the ballroom as they shared in royal festivities carried a deeper meaning. Y/n recognized the warmth in Natasha's eyes, which came not only from her proximity to the king, but betrayed something more intimate. Uncertainty gnawed at Y/n as she thought about these growing feelings. Society, royal expectations, all created a veil that kept her growing affection for Natasha hidden.

The Royal Mother observed the subtle changes in Y/n's behavior, but the secret remained hidden between the lines. Y/n felt her heart beat faster when she faced Natasha, and the soft sighs that escaped her were carried on the winds of fate.

One day, Natasha, bathed in sweat from the rigorous training session, gracefully moved through the courtyard, effortlessly wrestling each knight that dared to cross her path to the ground. As Y/n strolled through the palace, she unexpectedly caught sight of Natasha in action, sans her usual formidable armor.

Mesmerized by the raw power and agility on display, Yn found it challenging to look away. Natasha's every move seemed like a choreographed dance of strength and finesse. It was the first time Y/n had seen her like this, vulnerable yet invincible

Natasha, engrossed in her sparring session, sensed Y/n's eyes on her. Mid-wrestle with one of the knights, she subtly shifted her gaze to meet Y/n's, exhaling almost imperceptibly. In that brief connection, Natasha's intense focus softened, and a ghost of a smile played on her lips, as if she had caught Y/n in the act.

Y/n, startled by Natasha's awareness, quickly averted her gaze, pretending to be absorbed in the palace architecture. The blush on her cheeks, however, betrayed her attempt to conceal the intrigue Natasha's athleticism had sparked.

She continued her training, each movement deliberate and powerful. Y/n, despite her efforts to remain discreet, stole occasional glances, hoping Natasha wouldn't notice..

When a maid approached, unaware of the silent exchange, Y/n stammered, "I-I was just, you know, walking around," as she tried to divert attention from the fact that Natasha had momentarily captured her focus. Natasha, still engaged in her training, shot Y/n a knowing look, her eyes betraying a hint of amusement, silently acknowledging the unspoken connection while respecting Y/n's attempt to keep her feelings concealed.

Several hours passed, and Y/n immersed herself in the demands of royal duties. As she diligently attended to matters within the palace, she couldn't shake the memory of Natasha's training session. Much to her surprise, as she returned to the main hall, there was Natasha, seamlessly transitioning from warrior to protector, resuming her role by Y/n's side.

Their eyes met once again, and this time Natasha's expression spoke volumes. A playful glint in her eyes suggested a shared secret, referencing the earlier stolen glances. Y/n couldn't help but smile in response, a subtle acknowledgment of the connection they had formed.

Weeks later when the moon towered over Celestria, Y/n dared a tentative look into Natasha's eyes. It was as if the universe melded their souls together, and in that moment, Y/n knew it was more than mere reverence for the brave knight. The realization that her heart was following a path of love was like the blossoming of a delicate flower within her. But the world she lived in demanded secrecy - a love that blossomed in the shadow of royal duties.

Another year passed and Y/n's duties to the throne drew ever closer. Her parents now saw her as an adult woman who would later rule the people. However, this could not be done alone and the time had come to find a suitable mate. So they embarked on various journeys to neighboring countries to consider their princes and princesses. A point Y/n is proud to show. With all the fuss she secretly has about Natasha, her eyes opened to another part.

It was a sunny day when the royal family were visiting another kingdom. The family was welcomed with joy. But the festive atmosphere was pervaded by an underlying tension. As Y/n strode through the hall in royal garb, she was swarmed by the polite remarks and advances of the foreign prince. The looks he gave her were full of obvious interest, and the smile on his lips betrayed intentions that went beyond polite courtesies.

Natasha, standing in her imposing armor alongside the royal family, felt a flame of jealousy flare up inside her. Every passionate look, every touched hand, felt like a stab in her chest. In a quiet moment, when the prince engaged Y/n in a private conversation, Natasha could hardly bear the sight. Her hands clenched into fists as she inwardly fought back the burning sting of jealousy.

Finally, the festive gathering broke up and the royal family returned to their chambers. The opulent chambers of Y/n awoke to the pale glow of candles as the evening shrouded the royal estate in an atmosphere of twilight. The prince, wearing a polite facade, had made his intentions clear. But Natasha sensed the unease in the air. When the prince attempted to cross the boundaries of politeness and seek out Y/n in her chambers, Natasha turned cold as ice. Her eyes, normally as impenetrable as the darkness, bore into the young nobleman. Without a word, her gaze spoke volumes, and the prince retreated as if he had entered an invisible barrier.

When Natasha entered Y/n's chamber, the discomfort was reflected on Y/n's face. "Thank you.. I was so uncomfortable, but I didn't mean to be rude," Y/n murmured, her voice low in the intimate atmosphere. Natasha stepped closer, her touch cooler than the night breeze blowing through the open window. "My princess, you never have to compromise for politeness."

In a calculated move that blurred the line between protector and seductress, Natasha lifted Y/n's hand and stroked her fingertips over the delicate skin. "Don't let anyone enter your world if you don't want them to. You deserve respect and so much more."

The darkness of the room seemed to tighten around the two of them as Natasha continued, intensifying her own touch. "And maybe, there is someone..who is willing to go deeper than politeness allows."

The words echoed between the walls as the coolness of the night turned into a dance of desire. Y/n sensed the play of shadows as Natasha, took on the role of seductress. A passionate revelation that in the twilight of her chambers revealed a connection that transcended the duties of the royal hall.

The room lost its dimensions in darkness as Natasha and Y/n were caught in a mesmerizing dance of tension. Y/n's heartbeat quickened as Natasha's words sounded like a breath in the night, a promise that implied more than it stated. "Natasha, I don't know what you mean..." whispered Y/n, her voice caught between curiosity and an underlying desire that lingered in the air. Natasha stepped closer, her gaze like the dark veil of night that hid everything and yet revealed everything. "I speak of desire that goes deeper than any protocol that exists within the walls of a palace."

The atmosphere thickened as Natasha began to loosen Y/n's royal robes with deft fingers. "You can feel it, can't you? This suppressed energy between us. It's time to explore the shadows that lurk in the corners of our connection."

Y/n's breathing quickened as the warmth of Natasha's hands touched her skin. A mixture of fear and desire flickered in her eyes as she embraced the unknown.

"N-Natasha, I... Is this right?" asked Y/n, but her reticence was swallowed up by the darkness.

Natasha replied with a cool smile that betrayed a deep, hidden passion. "Right or wrong, Y/n, does not exist in this world of shadows. There is only what you desire and what you are willing to experience." The air between them was charged as Natasha gently placed her lips on Y/n's. A passionate kiss that burned down the blurred lines between duty and desire. Still, Natasha paused for a moment and looked her princess in the eye, “I notice your looks, your breath when I sneak up on you..you’re begging when I retreat to my chambers..” Natasha pushed the princess onto the bed. The redhead had Y/n's legs wide open. Open for her to devour.

Natasha licked her lips, staring at Y/n's underwear, a hungry look in her mouth. Y/n still felt the slight urge to protest. What is she doing here? What happens if her parents find out about this? Are they allowed-

But all words of resistance melted into a moan in her mouth as Natasha opened her entrance with her tongue. She lay down in front of Y/n, lifting the princess's legs by her thighs onto her shoulders. Natasha's tongue turned her princess's moans into groans and then shouts of ecstasy. After tasting Y/n for long enough, Natasha lifted her head. Her mouth was covered in Y/n's fluid, giving her face a glow that Y/n found simply intoxicating.

"How are you feeling? Can I continue?" Natasha's eyes widened as she saw the sight of her ruler. Spread wide and with her hands clenched in the pillows, "K-Keep going please..” Natasha smiled and climbed up to Y/n to take off her dress and while she undressed Y/n, Natasha kissed Y/n and she tasted herself on her lips. Without breaking the kiss, Natasha inserted two of her fingers into Y/n. In response, the young princess let out a deep moan into Natasha's mouth as she slowly penetrated her. As Natasha alternated between driving her index and middle fingers in and out of Y/n's cavity, Y/n was disturbed by the amount of armor Natasha still had on and set about removing it.

Natasha smirked again as she realized what Y/n's plans were and sat back up, "You could have asked, my highness..." Y/n's eyes were wide as she watched Natasha remove every single piece of metal from her body. Eventually it just tinkled on the floor and Natasha stood before her in a white shirt. She wasted no more time and pounced on the young girl again.

"What do you want me to do, princess?" Natasha now asked, breathing in unison with her aroused ruler. She had already slipped a hand between Y/n's thighs and was leaning on her shorts. Y/n knew what Natasha wanted to hear. "Please.." she begged, "fuck me." Natasha watched Y/n's flushed face. It was so, so lewd. This time, however, Natasha stroked a finger over the edge of her labia and felt how far the wetness had spread.

"You really want it, don't you?" said Natasha with a hint of smugness in her voice. Y/n knew it wasn't to humiliate her, but rather to increase her sense of exposure.

Yes, I really fucking want it, Y/n wanted to say, but managed to hold back. Natasha, however, didn't miss the look on her face before she leaned in and slowly kissed Y/n again. She began to run her fingers up and down the wetness between Y/n's legs, stroking slowly and rhythmically.

Y/n held back any sound that wanted to come out of her mouth, knowing there was more to come. A touch slipped past a certain spot so briefly and lightly that Y/n's body flinched in response. Natasha had to keep her senses together, just a little longer. The stroking and kissing gradually became faster, without either of them noticing against the backdrop of their growing arousal. Natasha's fingers were touching Y/n's clit more and more frequently now, and Y/n couldn't keep up, the tension between her legs growing and her mouth remaining slightly open.

"A-A-hh..." she gasped, and her body arched back more and more. She was crying out now, twisting and turning, her clit at the center of the movement, her hands wrapped around Y/ns, her face pressed into her shoulders, her upper body arched so that her breasts and erect nipples moved against Natasha's body in the same rhythm as the caresses between her thighs. "Nat-..Natasha...!" She cried out. "I'm... ah, I'm..."

Natasha kissed her neck in response and concentrated fully on bringing Y/n to climax. She wanted to hear her princess scream, to feel her thrusting against her body in a frenzy of pleasure. She wanted Y/n to lose all inhibitions and move against her hand like a horny slut. Y/n couldn't take it anymore. Her hips and buttocks began to move against Natasha, thrusting towards her with desire, begging her not to stop. It felt so dirty to cooperate and beg so earnestly, but Y/n didn't care about any of it. Natasha moaned along with Y/n and couldn't hold back either after listening to Y/n feel this way about her.

“Cum for me.”

When Y/n heard Natasha's soft and loving voice moaning like that, she shook with pleasure. Her mind went blank. The room disappeared, the bed vanished. The world consisted only of her body, which contracted and pulsated to release all its pent-up arousal in one go. Y/n didn't know how much time had passed while she trembled and shook and moaned, even though she didn't want to. All she knew was that Natasha had been holding her the whole time and watched every single facial feature of her beloved princess.

-

-

-

-

-

TAGLIST: @taliiiaasteria @natty-taffy @natashaswife4125 @lifebyinez @aemilia19 @natwifesblog @clearcoloredlenses @ragoshmog @eringranola

[dandelion-wings]

Good morning. For no reason whatsoever this morning I started to think about the fact that little Alba Gunnhildr gets raised alongside Klee. Now I have the image in my head of her at sixteen, a junior knight, standing at attention as Jean dresses her down for taking Klee on a mission that truly didn't need bombs involved, a lecture which is utterly undercut by Kaeya standing behind Jean with a hand over his mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his giggling. Alba is smiling in exactly the way he does when he's about to coax Jean out of her disapproval with a facile but smooth argument and Jean, once again, knows she's inevitably going to fall for it. But she will finish the lecture first.

(Lisa will very gently chide Alba over tea, later, and it will be ten times more effective. Klee needs to mature a bit more before she'll truly understand the nuances of appropriate bomb deployment, sweetie. Maybe wait twenty years before doing this again?)

[vestaignis]

Церковь в вулканической лаве.

Церковь Сан-Хуан-Парангарикутиро расположена на западе мексиканского штата Мичоакан, была погребена под лавой вулкана Парикутин в 1944 году. Потоки лавы высотой в несколько метров полностью уничтожили деревню. Чудом остались нетронутыми алтарь и церковная колокольня, окруженные руинами храмового комплекса. Шпиль колокольни, торчащий посреди покрытого черной лавой безжизненного ландшафта, является частью удивительного пейзажа: на мног��е километры торчащие конусы застывшей лавы напоминают иноземные картины. Лучшие виды на церковь Сан-Хуан-Парангарикутиро открываются из деревни Ангауан (Angahuan).

Каждую весну, перед Пасхой, жители соседней деревни Нуэво-Сан-Хуан-Парангарикутиро (Nuevo San Juan Parangaricutiro), расположенной в 23 км от Сан-Хуан-Парангарикутиро, отмечают день рождения вулкана, совершая паломничество и принося цветы к алтарю разрушенной церкви. Туристы могут присоединиться к шествию. В сохранившейся колокольне несколько раз в год проводятся музыкальные фестивали, праздники и религиозные службы.

Church in volcanic lava.

The Church of San Juan Parangaricutiro is located in the western Mexican state of Michoacan, was buried under the lava of the Paricutin volcano in 1944. Lava flows several meters high completely destroyed the village. Miraculously, the altar and the church bell tower remained intact, surrounded by the ruins of the temple complex. The spire of the bell tower, sticking out in the middle of a lifeless landscape covered with black lava, is part of an amazing landscape: cones of solidified lava sticking out for many kilometers resemble foreign paintings. The best views of the Church of San Juan Parangaricutiro open from the village of Angahuan.

Every spring, before Easter, the inhabitants of the neighboring village of Nuevo San Juan Parangaricutiro, located 23 km from San Juan Parangaricutiro, celebrate the volcano's birthday by making a pilgrimage and bringing flowers to the altar of the ruined church. Tourists are welcome to join the procession. The surviving bell tower hosts music festivals, celebrations, and religious services several times a year.

Источник:/masterok.livejournal.com/2208737.html,/morethantravel.livejournal.com/tag/Сан-Хуан-Парангарикутиро?utm_medium= endless_scroll,/vk.com/@zabroshenoevk-cerkov-san-huan1-parangarikutiro-v-meksike,https://dzen.ru/a/YbEM_-dT3TK38JYa, /www.travel.ru/wow/san_juan _parangaricutiro.html.

[msbellebelle]

This is my first ever piece of Sugary Spire fanart. I think I made a good choice

[silkmoon777]

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same. 

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

[stateofmarauders]

About You - James Potter

“Do you think I have forgottan about you?”

London hasn't really changed since the last time you were there.

It was charming as ever —timeless in its blend of old-world elegance and modern bustle. The streets were alive with their familiar rhythm: the hum of black cabs, the distant chime of church bells, and the chatter of bundled-up locals and tourists. The bridges over the Thames stretched gracefully as always, framed by a skyline where historic spires stood side-by-side with sleek glass towers. Every corner seemed to whisper stories, as if the city itself had been waiting patiently to welcome you back.

You strolled through the streets, colourful leaves crunching under your footsteps. You had no idea where you were going, relying on your instincts to guide you. You could’ve contacted your friends from Hogwarts to ask them if they want to meet up. You could’ve contacted him. But you didn’t. He probably doesn’t even remember you anymore.

He must have forgotten about you.

The thought lingered, bittersweet and unshakable, as you wandered through the city that seemed to remember everything. The golden light of the late afternoon wrapped London in a familiar warmth, but your heart felt caught in a chill. You had always told yourself it was better this way—leaving the past untouched, preserved like a perfect photograph. Yet, as the memories surfaced, unbidden, you couldn’t help but wonder if he ever walked these same streets, thinking of you too.

Perhaps it was foolish to hold onto the echoes of what once was, but you couldn’t help yourself. This town screamed his name.

You shook your head, trying to dispel the ache that swelled with each passing thought. But no matter how much you tried to focus on the now—the vibrant city bustling around you—his shadow remained, trailing you like the autumn leaves caught in the breeze.

———————————————————————

James Potter stood on the crowded pavement of Diagon Alley, leaning casually against the doorway of Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was supposed to be here to pick up a new pair of gloves before the Gryffindor team’s next match, but his mind was elsewhere.

His hazel eyes followed the movement of the crowd with idle curiosity, though his trademark grin tugged faintly at the corners of his mouth as he greeted passing friends and acquaintances. The chill of autumn was biting, but James barely felt it. He rarely felt the cold—it was hard to feel much of anything when his thoughts were as loud as they were today.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t thinking about Quidditch strategies or even his mates back at Hogwarts. No, today his mind had wandered somewhere he usually tried not to let it go. Someone, to be exact.

He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, ignoring the breeze that tousled his already messy hair, and allowed himself to think about her. About you.

The last time he’d seen you, you had been laughing. That was how he remembered it, anyway—your laughter, bright and full of life, echoing in his mind as if it were a memory burned into his soul. You had that way about you, didn’t you? You could fill a room just by being in it.

He had told himself not to dwell. People came and went in life, and Hogwarts had its way of making the fleeting feel permanent. But here he was, standing in the middle of the busiest wizarding shopping district in the country, wondering if he’d ever run into you again.

“Oi, James!” Sirius Black’s familiar voice broke through his thoughts. James looked up to see his best friend striding toward him, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips.

“What’s got you standing there like a lost Puffskein?” Sirius asked, slapping James on the shoulder.

James forced a laugh, the easy mask slipping back into place. “Just thinking, mate. Trying to decide whether I’d look better in black dragonhide gloves or burgundy. The decisions I have to make, eh?”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’re full of it, Potter. I know that look. Who’s got you all tangled up in your own head?”

James hesitated for a beat, his grin faltering ever so slightly. He glanced away, watching a group of witches hurrying by with packages from Flourish and Blotts.

“No one,” he said finally, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue.

Sirius snorted. “Right. And I’m about to join the Celestina Warbeck fan club.”

James rolled his eyes and then stared into the distance.

“Two years ago, today. . .” James spoke, trying hard to say the painful words, “she left.”

Sirius sighed. “You haven’t spoken about her in so long. I thought, we all thought, you got over it. Over her.”

James exhaled a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he shifted on his feet. “Yeah, well,” he said, his voice low and uneven, “you were wrong.”

Sirius tilted his head, the usual teasing glint in his eyes replaced by something softer. It wasn’t often that James Potter showed cracks in his confident, easygoing exterior. But Sirius knew better than anyone how deep James’s feelings ran—how loyal he was to the people he cared about, even if he didn’t always say it out loud.

“I don’t get it,” Sirius said after a moment, folding his arms. “You’ve had girls throwing themselves at you since third year, mate. But her—” He paused, searching for the right words. “She wasn’t even… I mean, she was brilliant, but she wasn’t the type of girl you usually go for.”

James’s head snapped up, a flicker of defiance sparking in his hazel eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Relax,” Sirius said, holding up his hands. “I just mean she was… different. Muggle-born, quiet. Not exactly a Quidditch groupie, was she?”

James shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, she wasn’t. That’s what made her so… I don’t know. Real.”

Sirius frowned, leaning back against the shop window. “So why haven’t you done something about it? Two years is a long time to mope around.”

“I’m not moping,” James said quickly, though his voice lacked conviction. He kicked at a stray cobblestone, avoiding Sirius’s piercing gaze. “It’s not that simple. She’s out there in her world, living her life. She probably doesn’t even think about me anymore.”

Sirius snorted. “That’s bollocks, and you know it.”

James blinked, caught off guard. “What are you on about?”

“You don’t just forget someone like that, James,” Sirius said, his tone unusually serious. “If you haven’t let her go, what makes you think she’s let you go?”

James didn’t answer right away. The noise of Diagon Alley seemed to fade around them, replaced by the steady thrum of his own heartbeat. He wanted to believe Sirius was right. Merlin, he wanted to. But the fear of reaching out and finding nothing there—no spark, no connection—kept him frozen.

“What if she has?” James finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

———————————————————————

James wasn’t usually one to brood, but today the city felt heavy. The memory of his conversation with Sirius lingered, as did the unanswered questions that followed him like shadows. What if she had forgotten him? What if she hadn’t?

The thought was maddening, but James wasn’t ready to let it go. His feet carried him aimlessly through the bustling streets, weaving past bundled-up strangers and dodging the occasional pigeon. He kept his head down, trying to shake off the nagging ache in his chest.

He didn’t notice the figure until it was too late.

“Sorry!” you exclaimed as you collided with him, your shoulder bumping against his. Your shopping bag slipped from your hand, the contents spilling out onto the pavement.

“No, it’s my fault,” James said automatically, bending down to help. He reached for a book at the same time you did, and his hand brushed against yours.

“Here, let me—”

The words died on his lips as he looked up and saw your face.

You froze, the breath catching in your throat. For a moment, neither of you moved, your gazes locked in a mix of shock and disbelief.

“James?” you said softly, your voice barely audible over the noise of the street.

James swallowed hard, his mind racing. He hadn’t seen you in two years—not since the day you’d left Hogwarts—and yet here you were, as if the universe had decided to play some cruel trick on him.

“It’s you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. He straightened up, still clutching your book in his hand. “I—wow. Hi.”

You blinked, your cheeks flushing. “Hi.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with all the things left unsaid. James searched your face, looking for answers to questions he didn’t even know how to ask.

“What are you doing here?” You asked him, avoiding his gaze.

“What are you doing here?” He repeated your question. “You’re supposed to be in America!”

“I’m here for just a week. My cousin’s getting married in a few days.”

“Married,” James repeated your words once again. “How exciting.”

You smiled, finally meeting his gaze for the first time. You’ve felt the same feeling you used to feel when you saw him. “Yes, it is. And what about you? What are you doing in Muggle London?”

His grin returned, faint but familiar. “Avoiding Sirius. He’s been nagging me about Quidditch gloves all day.”

Your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. “Some things never change, do they?”

James laughed softly, the sound warm and easy. “No, I guess they don’t. Except you—you’ve changed.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them, and for a moment, he regretted them. But you didn’t look offended. If anything, you looked almost… wistful.

“Two years is a long time, James,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” he said, his throat tight. “It is.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy again, and James found himself wanting—no, needing—to fill it.

“I thought about writing to you,” he blurted, his cheeks flushing as the admission hung in the air. “A lot, actually.”

You blinked, startled. “Why didn’t you?”

James hesitated, his confidence faltering. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I thought maybe you’d moved on. I didn’t want to mess things up for you.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you move on?”

James opened his mouth to answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Because the truth—the messy, complicated truth—was that he hadn’t. Not really.

Instead, he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, a nervous habit that hadn’t changed since your Hogwarts days. “I guess I thought if I saw you again, I’d have my answer.”

Your heart clenched at his words, but you didn’t let it show. “And do you?”

James looked at you, his hazel eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Not yet,” he said softly.

A chill wind swept through the street, rustling the leaves at your feet, and you pulled your coat tighter around you. James noticed and cleared his throat, his voice breaking the tension.

“There’s a café just up the road,” he said, nodding toward the corner. “It’s warm, and they do this cinnamon hot chocolate that’s… well, it’s something else. If you’ve got time, that is.”

You hesitated, your mind spinning with a thousand reasons to say no. But then you looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the boy you used to know. The boy you used to care for, who still looked at you like no one else existed.

“Alright,” you said, your lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “Lead the way, Potter.”

James’s grin broke through, bright and unguarded, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the weight between you didn’t feel so heavy.

As he walked beside you, the golden light of the late afternoon casting a soft glow over the streets, James couldn’t help but think that maybe—just maybe—he was finally getting his answer.