#love letters

[deviika]

— William Chapman

[wordx]

"I like you” ok so where are my love letters????

[acknowledgetheabsurd]

Should we keep silent about what is in our hearts or tell each other? I've always played the coward, out of respect for you. I've always pretended that I could live with anything, as if I were really made to be the plaything of men and circumstances, as if I did not have a firm heart within me which, faithful and free in its right, beats for that which is highest, you, my beloved!

Albert Camus to Maria Casarès, Correspondance, February 1950? [#222]

[illbegottenfaith]

heheheheh me when I write an angst fic and smash up any hope of a happy ending: >:)

for the rose and the pearl (a I'm Not That Girl inspired fic)

attending Mattheo's wedding with Theo makes you realise you're not the girl he could truly build a happy life with (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

a/n - so my plan to write shorter drabbles backfired spectacularly 😭😭 I'm suchhh a slut for multiple meanings in a theme - I'm not that girl who's just going to cheer you on from the sidelines. I'm not that girl who's pretty/glamorous to be on your arm. IM NOT THAT GIRL WHO STILL KNOWS HOW TO LOVE YOU 😭😭😭😭😭 anyways enjoyyy :)))

tropes/warnings - angst, tw alcohol

word count - 2.6k

taglist - @lorenzozurzolocanruinmylife @anikatcmh @starkeyszn @natbat666 @ebriton @shrekstoesblog @hzdhrtss @justaproudperson @thaliashifts

True to his word, Theo let you pay for your dress. And yet, a week before the wedding, you receive a charming set of pearls, courtesy of one Mr. Theodore Nott.

"Thin ice," you say to him as a means of greeting at the wedding. He bends down to kiss your cheek in hello, and when he steps back you see him grinning. His gaze flicks down to the pearls around your neck.

"Whatever for?"

After the quick hello, he's almost immediately pulled away again into his best man duties. You drift around, saying hi to a few familiar faces. In fact, you only find him again while exploring the venue.

You spy the groomsmen gathered near the entrance of the reception hall, a loose circle of dark suits and polished shoes, some fixing their cornflower boutonnieres, others already nursing drinks.

Theo stands in the middle of them, one hand in his pocket, looking effortlessly put together with his crisp sky-blue pocket square - that is, except for the small white rose in his hand, still separate from his lapel. He rolls it between his fingers absently, half-listening to whatever joke Enzo is telling.

You know you shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t notice the way it’s just slightly crumpled from where he’s been holding it for too long, fidgeting with it restlessly, like he hasn’t thought to ask for help, like he’s waiting for someone else to step in.

“Here,” you say anyway, stepping forward before you can think better of it.

Theo barely reacts as you pluck the flower out of his slack grip. He only shifts slightly, angling himself toward you, allowing you to close the space between you as you pin it into place.

You focus on the task at hand, on the fine, expensive fabric beneath your fingers, on making sure the flower is positioned just right. You don’t look at him, and if you feel his warm breath ghosting over your skin, you don't show it.

But he looks at you.

You feel it - the weight of his gaze, the way he watches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you to be doing this for him, the way you've done it a hundred times before.

And that’s when it appears. That quiet, unwelcome thought.

This isn’t who I am anymore.

Because it’s not just a boutonniere. It’s the way this feels too familiar, too easy - slipping into an old version of yourself, one who smoothed Theo’s collar without thinking, who fixed his tie before he headed out the door, the one who looked after him like it was just second nature.

Years have passed. You thought you had clawed out, escaped, and yet the second he comes running back to you, you’re back here, in his orbit, making sure he looks good for a moment that isn’t even yours.

And the worst part? He anticipates it.

Not in an entitled way. Not because he thinks it’s your job. But because this is how it’s always been. Because he still sees you as that girl. The one who stands beside him, just slightly behind. The one who makes things easier for him. The one who's ready to cheer him on from the sidelines. The one who's agreeable enough to not take up any more space than he could afford.

But that's just it, wasn't it? You weren't ready to give up a life of your own for his. You tolerated it until you started resenting him for it. He hadn't understood it then. He probably didn't understand it now. Either way, it didn't matter. It was too late.

“There.” You finish pinning the boutonniere, stepping away before the moment can stretch too thin.

Theo glances down at it briefly, then back at you. His lips part, like he might say something. But then someone else claps him on the back, congratulating him on something, and just like that, the moment passes.

You slip away, back into the crowd, back into yourself.

You don’t look back.

The wedding is beautiful and the reception is a vivid, lively affair. You run into so many old friends and made so many new ones that you hardly felt the lack of Theo. You rather enjoy the swing band, but now the music is shifting into something slow, sweeping - a song made for moments like this.

Couples drift onto the dance floor, drawn in by the soft pull of violin strings bathed in candlelight. You’re content watching from your seat, half-listening to the slightly obscure conversation at your table until a hand extends into your view.

Theo.

You hadn't seen him since his toast, after which his attention had been demanded by a thousand other people for reasons that had nothing to do with his fame. Even at Hogwarts, people seemed drawn in by his aloof sincerity despite his somewhat reserved demeanour. You didn't mind watching him thrive in his element - you were more than happy in the company of the sparkling liquor at your table and friends-of-friends you'd only heard of.

Now, you blink up at him, a little dazed. Perhaps it would have been wise to stay a little more sober. His expression is unreadable, but there’s a shadow in his dark eyes. A quiet insistence.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not really a question. Your first instinct is to say no, but something in the way he looks at you makes you pause.

So you take his hand.

His palm is warm with a familiar roughness as it guides yours. He leads you onto the dance floor with a practiced ease, slotting a hand against your waist as if this is something you've done a hundred times before. As if this is something you still do.

It shouldn’t feel so effortless. It shouldn’t be this easy, falling into step with him. But it is.

The rest of the room falls away.

For a while, neither of you speak. The silence between you isn’t unfamiliar—it’s lived in, worn down by time. But it doesn’t settle the way it used to. There’s something restless underneath, roaming and nervous. You wonder if he can feel it too.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, the smallest of gestures, but it makes something twist deep in your chest.

“People will talk,” you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else.

He doesn’t even glance around. “Let them.”

Easy for him to say. He more than looks the part of someone meant to be here - sharp suit, easy confidence, the kind of presence that draws attention like gravity. He belongs in ways you can only dream of.

Your dress is simple. Pretty, but not remarkable. Not the kind of thing people would take a second look at. And yet, standing beside him, in the center of the dance floor, you can feel the weight of glances which linger too long.

You know what they see.

A girl in borrowed glamour, playing pretend in someone else’s world. A fleeting guest on the arm of someone who’s only ever been untouchable. They’re probably wondering the same thing you are - why he asked you to dance in the first place.

You draw Theo closer, wrapping your arms around his neck as you press your cheek into the crook of his neck. Anything to hide your face from him. For the first time in years, you feel inadequate.

“Relax.” You feel Theo's voice vibrate through his chest, low, almost amused, like he can read every thought passing through your mind.

"I am," you rasp. It's an unconvincing sound even to your own ears. Y

ou begin to wish you hadn't agreed to this. It was a stupid reminder of the trophy wife you never knew how to be.Despite what he might think, you hadn't abandoned your relationship at the first sign of strife. You tried - Merlin, you tried - squeezing yourself into a box to make even more room for him. But eventually, you had to accept that you just weren't that girl - the one who was glamorous yet self-fulfilled enough to be seen on his arm.

He imperceptibly slides his hand up your back. “You look fine.”

It’s a throwaway comment, a dismissive sort of reassurance. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, you feel the familiar sting of something old, something buried, something you promised yourself to forget. A part of you missed this, missed him, so here you were, play-acting at being man and wife.

The music swells, and he turns you effortlessly in time with it. You move like muscle memory, feet gliding through the motions without thinking.

Maybe this is why you said yes - because of the way his hand fits against yours, or the way his gaze softens when he thinks you’re not looking. Because the two of you can't help but work this well together.

You exhale, carefully schooling your expression into something even as you pull back to face him. “I wasn’t asking for your opinion.”

Theo’s mouth lifts at the corner—barely a smirk, but there’s something knowing in it. He doesn’t reply.

The song begins to fade, the final notes melting into the hum of the reception. Theo slows to a stop, fingers loosening around yours, and something flickers in his expression. Like he wants to say something. Like he’s looking at you - really looking, as if for the first time.

But then someone calls his name from across the room. His attention flickers, just for a second, but it’s enough. The moment shifts and dissolves.

Tomorrow you'll wake up in a cold, empty bed with aching feet. The both of you will go back to living your separate lives, but each night you'll wonder if tonight was a dream that never really happened.

You step back, slipping out of his hold before he can do it first. Before the silence between you turns into something else.

“Thanks for the dance,” you say lightly, already turning.

You don’t look back to see if he watches you go. And if your hands still feel warm where he held them, well - that’s nobody’s business but yours.

The reception hall is empty now, save for the two of you. The candles have burned low, wax pooling in their gilded holders, and the last of the champagne sits in your glass, its fizz whispering in the quiet. The music stopped a while ago. So did the dancing, the toasts, and the laughter of people whose love doesn’t come with fine print and hidden clauses.

But you’re still here. And so is Theo.

He’s warm beside you, your shoulder tucked into his as he leans back in his chair, one arm slung lazily across the back of yours. The night has left you both a little drunk, a little drowsy, a little too comfortable in each other’s company. Even with the buzz of the drinks, it's getting harder and harder to ignore the chill creeping up your arms. You don’t remember when you started leaning into him, but he hasn’t moved away. You hope he doesn't anytime soon.

He turns his head, eyeing what's left of the extravagantly lavish cake. "Seven tiers, half of which will go uneaten," Theo mutters, voice threaded with amusement. "It is Mattheo's wedding, after all. Why have enough when you can have far too much?"

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head against his shoulder. "Like you're one to talk about...excesses."

Theo gives a long-suffering sigh.

"Is that what you think of me? Excessive?"

"I think," you say in a tone of faux innocence, "you don't want to know what I think of you."

He groans and throws his head back, eliciting a laugh from you. It's a strangely effective balm, this good-natured ribbing, or maybe it's the alcohol. You swirl the last sip of champagne in your glass. The gold catches the light, shimmering against the crystal, and you think—not for the first time tonight—how easy this is. How easy it always was with him.

Maybe it’s the champagne. Maybe it’s the quiet. Maybe it’s the fact that the wedding is over, and yet you’re still here, wrapped up in Theo like a memory, like you’ve forgotten that you were just supposed to be his date for the night.

"You’re warm," you murmur, shifting slightly to press closer.

He huffs a laugh. "You’re drunk."

"Just tipsy." You look up at him, eyes heavy-lidded. "Big difference."

The alcohol has made your consciousness deliciously blurry. You become aware of the cold, rigid surface of your shoes pressing against your aching feet. In your mind's eye, you see your slippers melting off your feet, clear as glass, dripping diamonds which promise to wound your feet.

But you're still curled up with Theo, perched on some delicate fence between exes or something more, and even now, years on, you know he won't let you fall - he never did and he never would.

If only things were the same with you.

You were no longer the girl who knew how to love Theo the way you once did, wholly and purely. You wished you were. Tears gather under your eyelashes like crystals, heavy with remorse. You wished you knew how. For the love of God, wouldn't someone tell you how?

He watches you for a beat longer than he should.

And then his hand comes up, slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to. His knuckles ghost over your jaw, then his fingers slip beneath your chin, tilting your face toward his.

You should stop him.

But the champagne is warm in your veins, his bedroom eyes are the worst kind of drug and the way he looks at you—like he still remembers exactly how you take your tea, like he still knows how to make you laugh even when you don’t want to—makes you hesitate just long enough for his lips to brush yours.

It’s not desperate. Not hurried. Just a quiet thing, lingering at the edges of something once lost.

For a moment, you let yourself sink into it.

For a moment, it’s easy to forget.

But then the thought creeps in—quiet, insidious.

I’m not that girl.

Not the girl he wants or the girl he needs.

You pull away before the thought can swallow you whole.

Theo blinks, exhaling like he hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. It almost sounds like disappointment. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with something unreadable in his eyes.

You don’t resent him for this. Not anymore.

It’s not his fault you still feel the echoes of something that should have faded years ago.

And it’s not your fault that you know better now.

[ccomelantartidee]

“Too well tangled”🤍

[half-a-corpse-half-a-poet]

— Albert Camus to María Casares

[weeedmann]

I wish I could write you a love letter and give you all these beautiful stamps..🎀🦋🦋🎀

vintage stamps

[metamorphesque]

— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra

[cupidford]

Nightjet by khorazir

Johnlock Love Letters #2353

Officially deceased and looking for the last remainders of Moriarty, Holmes boards a train in Germany and is forced to share a compartment with a stranger....what are the chance when it's Watson himself.

[ticklingtimetickstotest]

[destinedjourneyofwords]

Writing poems and love letters for him feels like a prayer of my sincere heart,a sacred act of devotion,worship of his love,a longing plea,a sign of hope,seeking blessing of his loving gaze,a promise of fulfilment

G,Thoughts of him,and poems of mine

[illbegottenfaith]

Ahhh of course!!! I’m so glad you like it lovely awww thank you so much 🥹🥹🫶💕💕💕

only getting married

the news of your engagement is a surprising and off-putting thing. good thing theo recognises it as the cry for help that it is. (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

a/n - I had well and truly moved on from this series but after watching the season 6 finale of House I got the idea for this fic which sets up perfectly for a part 4 of the reader's wedding so!!! and even tho theres no happily ever after (yet) it'll be coming soon in part 4 :))) also thank you sooo much for 600 followers ahh (one of these days I'll do a follower celebration...eventually......)

tropes/warnings - smug theo, mildly dickish theo, slight angst

word count - 2.3k

taglist - @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @ebriton @gemininormouzz @isabeebee

Theo had promised Mattheo he wouldn’t come here.

After Mattheo had let the news of your engagement slip over drinks, Theo had barely reacted—at least, not in any way that suggested he cared. He’d made some offhand remark about how he hadn’t even known you were seeing anyone, then smoothly led the conversation elsewhere, as if the information was nothing more than a passing detail.

But the thought had stuck.

You weren’t the type to settle. You weren’t the type to rush into things, least of all something as final as marriage. And yet, suddenly, you were engaged? Something wasn't adding up.

It didn’t sit right with him.

The next morning, he found himself here - standing outside your door, fingers flexing around the dry parchment of a bouquet of flowers he couldn't remember bringing. His head throbbed from the one drink too many from the previous night, and the dull daylight of the cloudy day was still a little too bright for his eyes.

What was he even doing here? What was he going to say to you? Make small talk? Congratulate you? Euch, that sounded horrid. No, he was better off staying far, far away from you.

The door swung open before he could turn back.

You blink up at him, still in your socks, hair tousled, dressed like you’d spent the morning puttering around your flat with no real plans for the day. You look comfortable in your well-worn sweatshirt, one that seems somewhat familiar. At the sight of him, you raise your eyebrows, lips parting in surprise.

“…Teddy?”

Theo paused. Something flickered across his face. He knew that sweatshirt. Why, he'd know that sweatshirt anywhere. It was his, after all. Well, sort of. It was a sweatshirt he’d lent you ages ago and had long since assumed was lost or discarded. But here you were, standing in front of him, wrapped up in it.

It's an achingly familiar sight. He remembers you wearing it, back when you were still dating. He remembers what it was like, peeling it off of you. It feels like no time has passed at all. It feels like you're still sending him off with a kiss every morning, still yelling at him for tracking mud into your spotless apartment. Still his number-one supporter.

It feels like you still love him.

Meanwhile, you're too busy being distracted by the flowers. You look back up at him, brow arched.

“Someone die?”

Theo lets out a short breath. Not yet.

“No,” he says instead, voice even.

You frown, eyeing the bouquet again.

“Then what’s with the flowers?”

His jaw flexes.

“Congratulations.”

You stare at him blankly, still just as clueless.

"Whatever for?"

He groans internally. He can't believe you're making him say it.

"Your engagement," he forces out, with some difficulty.

It’s out now. There’s no taking it back. He wonders if the words sound just as foreign to your ears as they do to his.

You hesitate, just for a second. It's long enough to catch his attention. Theo tilts his head curiously.

You give him a tight smile. “News travels fast.”

“Mattheo,” Theo confirms.

You sigh. “Of course. That gossip.”

Theo proffers the bouquet, which you awkwardly accept. The two of you stand there for a beat longer, drinking in the sight of each other, neither of you wanting to be the first to bid farewell. You stick your head out above the flowers.

"Tea?"

Your flat is familiar in some ways. Warm, lived-in. There’s a blanket draped haphazardly over the arm of the couch, an magazine facedown on the coffee table, the scent of coffee still lingering in the air. It’s littered with fragments of you, through and through.

But there are things he doesn’t recognize. A set of shoes by the door that aren’t yours. A jacket slung over the back of a chair, too big to belong to you. A framed photo on the bookshelf, half-obscured by the angle, but clear enough for him to pick out an unfamiliar figure standing beside you. Little details of a life that he has no part in.

His stomach knots.

“Nice place,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets. His voice is even, casual. Just two old friends catching up.

He cast his eyes around restlessly. That's when he sees it.

A book. One he left behind years ago, sitting among a small stack on the coffee table. He couldn't have paid you to read it while you were together, but it looked as though you had more than made up for that in the time since. The pages were slightly dog-eared, the spine creased in ways that tell him it’s been picked up and read more than once.

It’s almost enough to soothe the dull irritation creeping up his spine. Almost.

You move through the space with easy familiarity, reaching for cups without needing to look before you fill up the kettle at the sink.

His gaze flickers downward briefly. Still no ring. He bites back a smirk.

“So...when’s the big day?”

Again, you hesitate. It’s barely noticeable, just the smallest hitch before you say, “Spring. Though you shouldn't feel obliged to attend.”

That hesitation - it lingers. It settles somewhere deep in his chest, promising to not give him a moment's peace until he gets to the bottom of it. He scoffs lightheartedly.

"And miss the happiest day of your life? Hard pass."

He feels rather than sees you roll your eyes.

“Spring," he echoes thoughtfully. "That's not far off. You sure that gives you enough time?” Why are you rushing into this? is what he wants to ask instead.

Even from behind, Theo can see your shoulders stiffen fractionally. You sweep some of your hair out of your eyes.

“We’ll make it work.”

He studies you, taking in the way your fingers fidget slightly at your sides, how you won’t quite meet his eyes. Theo files it away. He shouldn’t push. Shouldn’t let himself slip. But the words are already there, pressing against his teeth.

“Right,” he murmurs. “Well, I hope he knows how fucking lucky he is.”

Your brow furrows slightly.

“He does.”

You switch the stove on. A quiet murmur fills the silent apartment as the water heats up. You take a seat at your kitchen island, nervously watching Theo peruse your trinkets.

"So what brings you here? Decided to check up on me?"

He smiles briefly. He puts down the snow globe he had been particularly interested in. “Something like that,” he says easily. His gaze shifts, taking in the space. “Figured I should see how you’ve been. Considering.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Considering what?”

He meets your gaze. “Everything.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to make you uneasy.

You shake your head, turning back to the tea. “I’m fine, Theo.”

He hums, noncommittal.

You don’t believe for a second that this is a casual visit. Theo never just stops by. But he hasn’t laid down anything solid for you to push back on - just vague, careful words brimming with hidden meaning.

Still, something in your chest tightens. He’s watching you too closely, listening too intently, examining your apartment too carefully. But why did that make you so uneasy? You weren't hiding anything. There was nothing to give away.

You watched him for a moment, not entirely hating the feeling of him being in your apartment once again.

Was there?

“So,” he says after a moment, “how’d he manage it?”

You frown. “What?”

“Your fiancé.” The word rolls off his tongue too easily. “The proposal. How’d he do it?”

You put your mug down.

“Why?”

He shrugs. “Just curious.”

Your grip tightens around your mug. You’re not sure what it is - the casual way he says it, or the fact that he’s never 'just curious' - but something about the question feels pointed.

Still, you answer, after a measured sip of tea.

“It was… simple,” you say. “Just the two of us. At home.”

There's an unscrupulous gleam to his eye. “Romantic,” he says with a subtle distaste, as if he thinks it's anything but.

You bristle under his tone, narrowing your eyes.

“It was romantic.”

He nods, slow, like he's humouring you. “Right. Of course.”

You inhale sharply, setting down your mug a little harder than necessary. “What exactly are you trying to say, Theo?”

He feigns innocence. “Did I say something?”

Your jaw clenches. Because, of course, he hadn’t. Not directly. He hadn’t actually said anything critical, hadn’t questioned you outright. Yet.

But he didn’t need to. You’ve known Theo long enough to understand what he’s doing. The carefully placed words. The deliberate pauses. The way he phrases things just so, like he’s laying a foundation for you to unravel the rest on your own.

You hate that it’s working.

“Theodore, whatever you came here to say, just spit it out.”

He raises his brows, all innocence. “I’m just making conversation.”

Your lips press together in a look that tells him you're dangerously close to getting very, very pissed. Your little patience thins.

“What is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem,” he insists, something sharper in his voice now. He sees the glimmer of irritation in your expression, the tension in your shoulders as you pour yourself more tea, not bothering to offer him any. But he keeps his voice casual.

“I was just thinking it’s… interesting.”

You place the kettle back on the stove noisily.

“What’s interesting?” you challenge.

He gives a small, nonchalant shrug.

“Just..you know."

"No, I don't know, actually."

His lips thin into that irritating smile of his, like he knows something you don't, but he likes watching you try to figure it out.

"You. Getting married. Playing house.”

He leans against the counter, gaze drifting around the kitchen.

“I mean, you never struck me as the type,” he muses in an artificially nonchalant tone. “You always liked your independence. Liked keeping things on your own terms.” He glances at you, expression unreadable. “It’s just… a bit sudden, don’t you think?”

Your breath catches, but you don’t let it show. You knew this wasn’t just a social visit.

“Not really,” you say, tone clipped. “But I suppose it’s sudden to people who haven’t been paying attention.”

Theo tilts his head slightly. “I pay attention.”

Something shifts in your expression. Your eyes darken. "Do you, now?" you mutter scathingly. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

"It means this isn't something that will make you happy."

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows he's fucked up. Your eyes glint dangerously.

"This might be a foreign concept to you, Theodore, but my world doesn't revolve around you. I'm happy with my relationship. I'm happy with my decision to marry my fiance. "

Outside, he keeps his expression neutral. Inside, something dark and restless stirs. You’re lying. All the while, you rave with years worth of pent-up frustration.

"I can't believe I was considering inviting you to the wedding," you were saying to no one in particular. "I can't believe I ever thought you could actually be mature about this."

You spun around and glared at him.

"Is this what you think of me, Nott? That I'm just sitting around all day, sighing, waiting for you to come around and give me a reason to break things off with my fiance? To free myself from the shackles of my wretched existence? Honestly, Theo. Do you think I'm hopelessly unhappy without you?"

For a moment, Theo forgets why he's here in the first place. He forgets that you're engaged. All that he's aware of is that he's standing on chilly, linoleum flooring he thought he'd never see again, watching you demand to know what you thought of him, and that he wants to answer you. Yes, he wants to say. He did imagine you as hopelessly unhappy without him.

It was the only way he could rationalise how hopelessly unhappy he had been without you.

Your expression tightens. “You’re being a dick.”

His jaw clenches. "All I'm saying is the Y/N I knew - ”

“Don’t.”

He ignores you.

“ - would never let someone like him be the best she could do.”

Your pulse spikes, white-hot anger flooding through you.

“You don’t know him - ”

“I know you,” Theo says, voice sharpening. “And I know you don’t love him.”

Your fingers twitch. Theo sees the way your throat bobs as you swallow, the way your lips part like you’re about to deny it - like you want to deny it - but nothing comes out.

He presses on, voice lower, quieter. “If you did, you wouldn’t be...inviting me in. Looking at me like that. Waiting for me to give you a reason to walk away.”

Your stomach twists violently. Your temper snaps.

“You cannot be serious,” you say, voice rising.

It’s a lie, you repeat in your head, over and over again. It has to be a lie.

You let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. “You are so unbelievably arrogant - no. No way. You don't get to do this, Theo. Not anymore. I'm done letting you do this.”

He arches a brow. “Do what?”

“This,” you snap, gesturing between you. “You find every excuse to keep me from moving on. You can’t stand the thought of me settling down, because that would mean you’d have to let me go. It's why you're at every corner I turn. It's why our names are still strung together after all these years. It's why you came running to me when you needed a date to Mattheo's wedding.”

Silence. Thick, suffocating silence. You wish Theo would say something.

When he doesn't, you say, hollowly, “There's no conspiracy here, Nott. It’s not weird. Not a mystery. I’m only getting married.”

Theo swallows, breath uneven. It's a miserable thing, hearing it straight from you. This whole visit, it’s the first time he’s heard you say it. The first time he’s let himself truly hear it.

You’re getting married.

And it’s not to him.

He nods. Once. Curt.

He turns, walking to the door.

You don’t stop him.

[goryamberdoll]

yuno would jam out to melanie martinez

[halflifesk666]

Hey (with the intention of making you my wife and spoil you til death)

[geraskierfanficprompts]

In an attempt to be more romantic, Geralt starts writing letters to Jaskier.

Unfortunately, he forgets that humans sign their letters. Witchers just recognize each other’s scent/handwriting.

So, Jaskier is very disturbed by these vaguely romantic, vaguely threatening letters.

"I don't know what to do! This one just says 'I want to smell your hair'! What does that even mean!?" "That your.. Hair looks like it smells like.. Like those flowery soaps you use or something." "Well it reads more like they want to sniff me as they slit my throat or something." "The letters NEVER said anything about HURTING you!" "Geralt, this one says 'I want to bruise your soft cream skin'!" "Like- Like during- Sex, not actually hurt-" "WAIT. You've a lot of thoughts about these...." "..." "...Geralt, did you write these?" Geralt only thinks about escaping on Roach for a split second.