#march pleasepleaseplease

[solarphobiia]

i havent felt like this so consistently since i was 12

[onceuponaladye]

I may not know what may come in the 3.x updates, but if I had to predict there is one thing that I am hoping will come true...

5-STAR MARCH 7TH

MARCH 7TH REAL NAME

MARCH 7TH LORE

[help-i-lost-the-instructions]

Knife shower? Knife shower for me???

[autism-corner]

please when is the levi plush going for sale i need to cash in my christams present Y-Y

[fairszy]

# — oral ! 🕊️ (part two)

how : childe, neuvillette, kaveh, itto, + dottore give head ! find part one here ! ♡

disclaimers : you give neuvillette head too ! oh also he has two dicks. bottom!itto drabbles teehee !! medical play with dotto !

afab!reader, no pronouns used ! mdni 18+ ONLY ‼️

# 001 — CHILDE !

being in a sexual dynamic with childe was quite the wild card. things were always changing and the sex was never consistent — except for one thing.

ajax is obsessed with oral, he needs to give it to you even when you have no plans to have sex. he starts by trying to sweeten you up, kissing your neck and gently squeezing at your thighs until before you know it, his tongue is gliding against you.

he loves when you sit on his face, bright baby blue eyes watching your body intently while you use his face as your own personal object. he whimpers — whines pathetically under you. his cock is so hard it’s painful and leaking. his heart continues to race for you. ♡

— “more . . please — fuckin’ give me more.”

#002 — NEUVILLETTE !

the ludex is calm and collected . . unless it comes to you. usually, neuvillette was someone who always followed the rules, he’s the face of justice after all. due to his nature it was no suprise he attracted someone like you.

someone who was a rule breaker, someone who marched to the beat of their own drum. which is how he ended up with you under his desk, tongue licking all over the tip of his primary cock, hands happily stroking the secondary. the grip on his desk was intense as he listened to the conflict one of his dear assistants provided him with.

the longest ten minutes of his life went by before neuvillette was panting, chest heaving slightly as he motioned for you to come out from your hiding place. before you could even stand up properly you were shoved onto the same desk he just gripped his nails into. biting and nipping at your thighs he left sloppy desperate kisses against your hole. ♡

— “such a bold brat . . aren’t you ? my my . . a lesson you shall learn today, little étoile.”

#003 — KAVEH !

since he’s an artist, everything that kaveh does is meant to be an artistic expression. sometimes he doesn’t even realize it.

sometimes, kaveh will have you on the expensive 500,000 mora couch he has. he watches you struggle to stay still under his touch. he watches the way you drip onto said sofa in need. silently he drops to his knees, ruby eyes staring intently at your heat.

his tongue paints a beautiful and erotic picture. the architect takes his time gently running his tongue through every single fold and nerve he can find. his chest practically heaves when you grab his locks, shoving him in even further. ♡

— “fuck . . your taste — you’re so . . ethereal, my muse.”

#004 — ITTO !

big strong arms always keep you close. the oni treats you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever possessed. he would walk to the edge of the world and back if you told him to.

which is why him being the usual submissive in the bedroom was one of your favourite things. itto waited for every single order like a puppy eager to please it’s owner. the muzzle around his face made your much large boyfriend grunt in annoyance.

ittos face shoved right up to your cunt causing you to hiss from the feeling of the cold metal of the muzzle. itto had a problem with biting and marking you from head to toe, so you had to compromise. however he also just looked incredibly sexy while he whimpered — tilting his head in every way possible to get his tongue flat against your holes. sometimes he was successful! ♡

— “pleasepleaseplease !! come onnn sugar ~ just a little taste yeah? fuck . .”

#005 — DOTTORE !

the doctor is quite the tease when he’s not completely engrossed in his work. he wouldn’t ever admit it but you are one of his weaknesses.

so when you come to visit dottore during one of the periods where he’s completely locked himself in his laboratory it’s only a matter of seconds before your being lifted and spread against the cold metal lab table. all of his previous experiments had been disregarded as non important as his hands explored you.

silently he used black gloved fingers to poke and prod at the most delicate parts of you. sexual reactions was truly something dottore was interested in. he dips down, parting his lips to prod his tongue against you. he’s by no means gentle, using his razor sharp teeth to gently bite down on the skin. his free hands is taking messy notes on a clipboard. a skill he’d learned to do from each and every one of these meetings. ♡

— “interesting reactions . . every day i get closer to figuring out all your secrets, little dove.”

[domutkniecie]

have you considered… redrom eridan x nepeta? PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE ERINEP SHPIPPERS ARE SSTARVIGN /nf

tbh i dont really see it but there ya go.

i googled them in a ship and there was something about neither of them being kissed in canon, so i was like, damn, now i gotta draw it frfr. but i couldnt see them together unless eridan was a march eridan lol

thx for requesting!!

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

hey robot programmed to act alive can you act alive pleasee pleasepleaseplease ily

It is 7:34 PM on March 6, 2017, my IQ is 175, my hair is medium length, I have brown eyes, I am 5′8", my weight is 220, and I am wearing blue jeans and a red shirt.

Thanks for tuning into the life of Nostalgebraist, only on tumblr.

[queermarzipan]

GUYS GUSY GUSYSGUESS WHAT.

my gig. is on. the IDES OF MARCH

adghafgdhsjfdghaeriouhsrvhjklesf

please please pleasepleaseplease let me be able to influence the theme I WANT CAESAR.

[heart4erm]

am i so incredibly callous. so conceited and selfish to hope that love wouldn’t exist , as long as i couldn’t inhabit such a thing. pleading to the sky , to some unknown entity

please please please pleasepleaseplease

give me something please.

It’s march first and the snow is falling in my hair, and the ghost of someone i know not to exist whittles around me.

pulling my weight and more, grasping for anything, everything.

I know that soon this snow will melt, as rare as it is here.

this insatiable force, this pull, will soon coerce my body to become insolent

it claws at my throat , begging and pleading as i do

i will not let it.

[tiberius-kirks]

happiness will come to you in late March pleasepleaseplease be true

[hansoulo]

lead me to the promised land

part two of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NSFW - language, kissing, heavy petting, dom!Boba, gagging/choking, marks and bruises of the Spicy nature, hand and finger kink, allusions to canon-typical violence

Word Count: 2k

Gif Credit: (x) by @/tylowen

A/N: good day gremlins i am not very good at updating but i bring u some fun times as penance pls forgive me

༓ series masterlist ༓

7:00 PM: T-MINUS 14 HOURS UNTIL IMPERIAL CONVOY DEPARTURE

You were used to being moved around by other people, poked and prodded and lifted up so that stays could be tied or burdensome headpieces be attached to your head. Shuffled around to smile and be proper, sedated by heavy skirts and perfume. It was a fact of life.

Your dress was unlaced by the mechanical hands of an attendant, the change happening quickly and without fond regard from any party. It was early evening now and the sky peeled itself into a burnt orange. If you closed your eyes, you could almost taste citrus.

“Careful, please,” you whispered with a slight wince as the woman’s thin fingers brushed against your neck, both of your reflections cast warm in the mirror you now stood in front of. They were almost-bruises. Little ghost flower petals. Delicate and pretty, trailing behind your neck and not quite noticeable.

The woman only nodded. Servants weren’t ones to ask questions.

 ⫸ ———————————————————————————— ⫷

3:25 PM: T-MINUS 17 HOURS AND 35 MINUTES UNTIL IMPERIAL CONVOY DEPARTURE

The world seemed to tip on its axis, spinning too fast and not at all. It’d only been a minute, maybe two, but Boba’s words hung out to dry in the summer air and there was nothing else to do but wait for the actions to fulfill themselves. It shouldn’t have been as easy as it was to let him keep kissing you, but you only broke away to warn in a jolted, harsh whisper when his touch became too sharp. “Don’t leave any marks.”

“Are you commanding me?” Boba sneered, his voice slightly cruel as his gloved thumbs rubbed circles into your hip bones. You didn’t bother opening your eyes to look at him, letting his mouth skid over your jaw. Your answering yes or no wouldn’t make much of a difference. You had the feeling he would do what he liked either way. You had the feeling you’d let him.

It was strange, too fast. Too fast because really, what did you know about Boba? Were you even on first name terms? He’d never called you your name, and you’d never called him his. You’d only known of him for a few weeks. Had truly talked to him for even less than that. Maybe you should stay a capitalized Princess and he should be “Fett.” For the sake of clinicality.

Letting him lift you up and onto his lap was most definitely not clinical. “That depends,” you croaked out after a moment, finally looking at his face in your half-stupor. He’d sat you up to face him and you’d gone with, pliable and keening. Being champagne drunk felt like this; like his eyes coal-black and the way he seemed to take up everything in your mind until there was no room for reason.  You traced over the scar on his forehead with a light mouth, knees bowed to nestle closer and every muscle in your body flexing, tensed as if dripped over with sunshine. “Are you going to listen?”

The smile of a predator was the only answer he gave you.

⫸ ————————————⫷

3:30 PM: T-MINUS 17 HOURS AND 30 MINUTES UNTIL IMPERIAL CONVOY DEPARTURE

Men were vile. They had clammy hands that wandered to your thighs at banquet dinners, slimy mouths when they pressed their lips to your hand in greeting. They were all insufferable and you promised never to go near one as long as you could help it. But promises were a boring thing to keep sometimes. They were much more fun to break.

Boba spoke but it was swallowed in your interlocking mouths, hungry and escalating desperate. You were still sitting with—on?—him, too cowardly to do anything more than kiss and let yourself be felt by the strength of a man’s greed. He tasted like teeth and blood and pink flesh. That was the thing that no one had ever told you about kisses; about men like him. They tasted like broken skin. 

You were eating Boba whole. He was eating you piece by piece. 

You were just kissing. Had been just kissing for what seemed like ages but was actually only fifteen standard minutes. Fifteen standard minutes for your stays to be dragged loose, your lips to be bitten plush, and both sandals abandoned somewhere in the slow scramble. It wasn’t so much desperation as it was just a sheer curiosity goading your irrationality, but the end result was the same: a man squeezing the back of your neck, calling you lovely in the same breath he called you naive. 

“Take them off,” you almost demanded, pulling desperately at his gloves as the warm leather dragged against your fingernails. Learned manners were added in as an afterthought. “Please.”

His one-handed grip on your thigh tightened. It would bruise, likely. Raise questions, definitely. You would have to chalk it up to something else. A fall. A bad trip on a set of stairs. Anything besides what was happening now. The words rumbled against your chest and registered vaguely as a threat. “What was that?”

Huffy and impatient, you answered in a much more keening, undignified echo. “Please, pleasepleaseplease—”

Boba put his fingers in your mouth.

Boba put his fingers in your mouth.

Stuffed was the more apt word. You tried not to think about how he could only fit two of them inside without hurting you. It made you feel temperature-hot, physically burning until your cheeks and your insides twisted into smoldering ash because his fingers breached the alabaster edges of your teeth until they almost gagged you on your own tongue. Boba drew his hand back only when you sighed around it, sedated with fluttering eyes and no longer asking questions. His voice seemed to get deeper, raspier around the unplaceable accent from a place you’d never heard of and probably never would. “Good girl.”

The gloves stayed on. Why they did and why you couldn’t just get him to do what you wanted like everyone else you had no idea, but your frustration quickly ebbed into hazy, sparking pleasure. He called you good. You liked being good. 

Your hips stuttered when they caught on Boba’s trousers and suddenly you were giggling into the thick muscle of his shoulder, quiet and juvenile in your own disbelief. Everything about this was absurd and inappropriate, which formed the basis of your amusement. It was something to play with. Someone. Big and shiny in the most literal sense of the word. 

The hunter let out what could be construed as a laugh but sounded more akin to a growl and two large palms settled again on the soft rise of your hips. “Not here,” he repeated into your jaw, the words that were previously muffled so long ago now clearer. Not here. Which implied a theoretical somewhere other than here where you would possibly, hypothetically be doing more than- “We need to go.”

You should go. You should be pushing him off of you and running and screaming or something equally inflammatory because this was… because his...

“No,” you protested weakly with a slow shake of your head. Your hands curled around his pauldrons and rested there, limp and slightly shaking. “No, they- they didn’t actually need me for anything. My father just had to—oh Maker-” his cuisse plate pressed up hard between the warm softness of your thighs. “—had to send someone out to search for me—” you rutted against his leg once, twice before the arms around your waist tightened again and inhibited any further attempts at movement. You recovered from the loss of friction quickly, instead letting yourself sag into his solid chest as one set of fingertips dragged along your spine. “—’s just a poor look for him not to,” you finished flippantly, barely audible from where your face settled smushed against the creep of stubble on his cheek. “Bad press.”

“I’ve still got places to be, princess. Even if you don’t.”

“Oh I’m terribly sorry,” you tried replying sarcastically as his mouth flattened against the thin skin of your neck. His lips were soft, but they pressed against you like anything but. You tried rolling your hips again but were thwarted. “Am I in the way of a prior engagement?”

“Something like that.”

“Well then,” you flattened your palms against his chest plate and broke away from the seal of his touch. It wasn’t fair. You couldn’t breathe right and looked like you’d been dragged through a sarlacc pit, but he was just sitting there. Watching you. His eyes were hungry though. “Why let me keep you?”  The words were shot through with airy exhales as you were lifted up off the smooth stone. “I was under the impression that you hated me,” you continued into Boba’s neck with hands curled around the dark curls at its nape.

You did think that, before… this. Now you didn’t know what to believe, what his intentions were. Most likely they were the same as yours. Nothing good.

Whatever either of your motivations were, they would have to be paused now. For his mysterious, vague “engagement” and probably for the betterment of your health, because you were certain if you stayed here with him, shielded away from prying eyes and marching men, your heart would burst right out of your chest and through your ears. 

Your legs wobbled slightly when he set you standing on the ground, Boba’s helmet still laying on the fountain’s edge, and you handed it to him with a reverence that belayed the previous minute’s informality. When it was restored to his head you found yourself mourning the loss of his face. You’d been spoiled this last hour. You didn’t like not seeing it anymore.

“I don’t.” was his short reply. What a wordsmith. 

“Aren’t you still my escort?” you huffed, trying to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell in panted inhales. Wiping haphazardly at your mouth, you leaned over the fountain’s reflection and attempted to compose yourself. The circlet usually pinned neatly to your head lay crooked and loose, glimmering its delicate metals in the daylight as you fussed with it this way and that. The pool of water currently acting as a mirror rippled too much to be of any real use. You pressed your palms to your flushed cheeks and mumbled. “My penitentiary guard, more like.”

Boba turned you around to face him with his hands on your shoulders and you imagined his eyes to still be edged in charcoal embers. The last smudge of lipstick on your chin was rubbed away by a broad thumb and you watched, curious to his intentions and surprised at his actions, when he reached up to right your crown.

“Let’s go, princess.”

You didn’t argue. You’d been sated from rebellion for the time being.

 ⫸ ————————————⫷

4:10 PM: T-MINUS 15 HOURS AND 50 MINUTES UNTIL IMPERIAL CONVOY DEPARTURE

The mercenary stood by the side entrance watching you. 

“You look a mess!” your mother admonished, harried with the exertion of the day’s events that you somehow managed not to be privy to. Apparently there was to be a dinner with the guests leaving the next morning, and apparently you specifically were asked to be present. Both would be dull pieces of information on the best of days but now, after the events that had just transpired, they were positively brain-numbing. 

The queen consort motioned for you to turn around and you complied with a slow spin as your being was examined for minor casualties. Once the woman assured herself of your being alive and unharmed, barely registering the tall figure that stood mere yards away, she allowed herself more frantic inquiries as she shuffled you down the hallway. “What were you doing out there?”

“Oh nothing,” you answered vaguely, eyes trailing as far back towards the doors as they could go without actually turning your head. There was a flash of green armor. “I just wanted to take a walk, is all.” You turned to her and smiled your best attempt at a brilliant, royal-white assurance. “Clear my head.”

[secret-engima]

Actually now that I'm thinking about it.. The original time travel verse that you've mentioned.. By chance did you write a snippet from Libertus' pov of Noctis coming into a hospital and start healing glaives?? I have a vague memory of reading something like that and /loving/ it, but it was near the start of my descent into this fandom so I didn't /save/ it D: if so.. pleasepleaseplease may I know what Noctis was thinking at that moment??

YES. THAT WAS FROM THIS VERSE. I don’t have Noctis’s POV on it written down but like- I can do an HC ramble???

...

-It’s not long after they get back from Tenebrae that it happens. Nyx is agitated, and Noctis picks up on it and asks why. Nyx, dutifully, tells Noctis that the rotation from the front just came in and ... there are always high casualties.

-And Noctis is a child now, physically, but mentally he is a king. He is the king that walked into a world ten years ruined and saw what remained of the glaives live and fight and die all so he would have something to come back TOO. He remembers walking into that camp in Insomnia, all of the glaives tired and dirty, many of them wounded, yet when he spoke their eyes had lit with fire and when he called for their loyalty one more time they had answered.

-They were his glaives.

-And he won’t abandon them now.

-He orders Nyx to take him there, and ignores the nurse that protests his arrival. Inside the underground medbay the air is tainted with desperate magic and blood and suffering and disinfectant. There are doctors rushing around looking busy, yet there is a distinct lack of tang to the air that comes from elixir and potion use and Noctis feels something is wrong.

-He’s right.

-There is a man not far from the entrance, his breathing is labored from internal injuries and his legs are shattered and no one is helping him. They will not help him because he is a hopeless case.

-A hopeless case only because someone (and when Noctis finds out who they are a dead) insisted that only officers and Crownsguard could receive any magical medical treatment above potion level.

-Fury turned his vision blue until he could fight it back, and he didn’t hesitate to pull an elixir out of his armiger (still full from the time-travel, all the items and weapons within dragged through time alongside his soul) and crush it in the man’s hand.

-Then he turned to Nyx and ordered him to show Noctis the other “hopeless cases”.

-The world became a blur after that. Patient after patient, glaive after glaive. Noctis waded into the blood and death that felt as familiar to him as air (thanks a lot Kings of Yore). He gave them what they needed out of his armiger. A near warehouse of magical curatives still lurked in there from the final battle, they had spent all their gil on it with the assumption that being stingy now would do no good if they were all dead. Noctis had more than enough to spare for something like this.

-He leaves those who only need a regular potion and some bedrest alone and focuses on the forgotten, the hopeless cases, the ones who would have been permanently crippled if they had survived at all, more out of time constraints than anything. But he makes note of them all the same, keeping an ear out for any who’s condition suddenly worsens.

-He is aware, dimly, that the silence grows the longer he works. The longer he murmurs comforts and passes out curatives, his hands growing slick with blood as he patted uniforms and pushed curatives against open wounds. He thinks he used a phoenix down at one point, but he isn’t sure. He doesn’t care either way.

-These are his people, his Kingsglaive. For them he will give anything. Any curative, any resource, any weapon. They’ve earned it a thousand times over.

-He isn’t sure of anything by the time Nyx gently touches his shoulders and whispers that it’s over, it’s done. He’s helped them all.

-Noctis feels the tug of magical exhaustion pulling him down. His magic reserves are STILL not quite up to par, especially since he only got back from Tenebrae about a week or so ago and he’d been pushing extra magic into each curative just to make it more effective.

-There’s a moment he tries to walk on his own only to collapse against Nyx’s leg, too exhausted to keep his limbs from going limp. A moment later, Nyx is holding him in a bridal carry, “Easy there,” the fellow time-traveller grunts.

-”Sorry,” Noctis slurs, “’m ‘kay. I c’n walk on m’own.”

-There’s something ... different in Nyx’s tone, something Noctis is too tired to place, “You just saved the lives of over three dozen of my friends, Majesty. I owe you for that. Please, let me do this much for you at least.”

-Noctis almost wants to laugh, but he’s too tired. Nyx doesn’t get it. Of course he doesn’t. He died before he could see what had happened. What he and his siblings in arms had done for him (Libertus, so tired but steady in his Captaincy, Luca and Jenica and and Tobul, all of them exhausted and awed that their king would bother to learn their names despite all they’d done).

-“You told me to rule well,” he slurs, only barely louder than a breath as Nyx carries him out of the bay. And there’s more to it. So much more. His glaives deserve everything. They deserve their home back, they deserve to smile and dance in their jungles and on their beaches, they deserve to see their children playing in the sunshine or the rain. They deserve so much.

-They had walked with him into the fires of Ardyn’s wrath. Held off daemons and the remnants of Niflheim so that he and his brothers could march on the Citadel itself.

-The least he can do is give them the care they’d been so long denied.

[localswordlesbian]

Something There That Wasn’t There Before

Read chapter 1 on ao3

The morning Martin wakes up and realizes his mother has wandered off, he knows he's in trouble. He just never expected this sort of trouble. Never expected a secluded castle beyond the woods, a friendly group of Archival Assistants trapped by an evil curse – a curse saying that if their boss, the reclusive Archivist Jonathan Sims doesn't have someone fall in love with him, he'll remain a monster subservient to the Beholding, and they'll all be trapped forever. Martin never bargained for curse-breaking, but he's never been a quitter.

When Martin woke up to find his mother gone, he knew he was in trouble.

He silently cursed himself as he ran through the house, shouting for her as he checked every room he could possibly think of, even creaking open the door to the attic despite knowing perfectly well his mother couldn’t climb those stairs if she tried.

Not that she ever did, of course. But that wasn’t relevant. What was relevant was that she was gone, and Martin hadn’t the slightest clue of where to find her.

He stopped in the kitchen, pushing his hands through his unruly hair, willing his racing heart to calm down. Just think, Martin. Where would she have gone?

Staring out the window as the town whisked by on their way to run their errands for a typical Saturday morning, Martin grabbed his coat and ran outside. Of course, you daft fool, he chastised himself. She must have just gotten hungry and gone to get bread. Nothing to worry about.

Walking through the town, dodging chickens and waving hello to familiar faces, Martin kept an eye out for the small, familiar form of his mother. Instead, he spotted a man taping a sign to an old, wooden building. Martin smiled as the man turned, waving a friendly hello.

“Blackwood!” the man shouted jovially, sauntering over from his previous perch by the door of the town’s old library. “In the mood for a new adventure? We got a couple donations from a library over in the city. Some Leitner fellow? Didn’t get a look at the books, but I thought you might want to be the first to check them out.”

Martin smiled his first real smile all day. “Thanks, Phil, but I’m in a bit of a hurry at the moment. Have you seen Mum today?”

Phil frowned thoughtfully, rubbing his scruffy beard, stark white against his dark skin. “I think I did, now that you mention ‘er. Saw her walking down the road, towards the bakery. Probably went to get bread? You need to keep a better eye on that woman, my boy. She won’t be able to remember the way home for much longer.”

Martin nodded. “I know. Slipped my mind this morning.”

Phil placed a friendly hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Don’t apologize, young man. These things happen.”

“Thanks. Sorry about the books – I’m sure I’ll be back soon to check them out.”

“No rush – they probably aren’t going anywhere. Now go fetch your mum before she falls into that darned well.”

Waving goodbye, Martin set off down the road toward the bakery. Some people gave Martin a friendly nod or a wave, some gave him a wide berth in the streets. Martin, for his part, mostly kept his eyes ahead of him, until he felt something ram into his legs and wrap around his middle, nearly causing him to take a tumble into the dust.

“Jack, you’ve got to be more careful,” Martin scolded the little boy who was now latched on to Martin’s waist. “I could’ve fallen!”

The little boy, Jack, only giggled in response. “Mr. Martin, did you hear that Mr. Phil got new books in the library? Could you read them to me? Please? Please please please pleasepleaseplease –“

“Yes, Jack, I promise I’ll read them to you,” Martin said with a smile, prying the boy’s small, calloused hands from behind his back. “How about tomorrow morning? I’m a little busy today, but I promise I’ll read to you tomorrow.”

Jack pouted, his freckled face puffing up in annoyance. “Promise?”

“I promise. I’ll be at the well at noon.”

Seeming satisfied, Jack poked Martin’s nose with his finger before sprinting off in the other direction. Martin smiled to himself as he stood and continued down the road – he loved reading to the kids in the town, teaching them the joys that words could bring to the world. They were all a little young for poetry, which was Martin’s personal guilty pleasure read, but he enjoyed reading them children’s books and fairy tales all the same.

Arriving at the bakery, Martin nudged past the line outside, earning him grunts of protest and annoyed glares as he made his way to the window.

“Get in line, boy!” the baker shouted as he sold a loaf to an old woman in a dark cardigan and skirt.

“Sorry, Charles, I was just wondering if you’d seen Mum today?” Martin wrung his hands nervously, the eyes of the annoyed patrons feeling as though they were burning holes in his back.

Charles, the baker, narrowed his eyes. “I did, I saw her head towards the far end of town, towards the woods.”

Martin’s stomach plummeted as he hurriedly thanked Charles and began to walk quickly, up the road once again, a walk that turned into a run as his heart thundered in his chest. Why was she leaving town? What could possibly be in the woods? Where was she intending on going?

Martin sprinted beyond the buildings, adrenaline pumping through his veins as his legs carried him beyond the town and out into the woods. After what felt like an eternity and a second at the same time, Martin slowed, wheezing to catch his breath, as he beheld the looming, foggy forest before him.

Shit.

Martin was oh so hopelessly lost.

After hours of trudging through the woods, twigs breaking under his heavy footfalls as he shouted for his mum until his voice was hoarse and his throat felt like it was splintering, Martin was beginning to lose hope of ever finding his mum or returning to town. He didn’t even know which way the town was anymore, with the looming figures of the trees seeming to make the paths shift right before his eyes. As he stopped in a clearing, his feet aching and his throat begging for water, Martin surveyed what was before him.

Fog seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see in all directions. Behind Martin was a steep cliff that he couldn’t hope to scale if he tried, to his left was trees and fog, same as behind him. To his right, he noticed, was a winding trail that led downwards, leading off to who-knew-where.

Breathing a sigh of defeat, Martin made his way down that path, hoping beyond all hope to either find his mother, the path back to town, or somewhere he could take shelter for the night. The creeping darkness paired with the fog meant he could hardly see in front of him, and the night chill was piercing through his coat and jumper. He shivered as he walked, trying not to let his mind spiral with thoughts of what could have happened to his mum, focusing instead on how his teeth chattered and his feet hurt and his shoulders ached from slumping in on himself in an attempt to stay warm. At the bottom of the path, before him stood tall iron gates, gates which had swung open, seeming to mockingly invite Martin inside.

Had Martin been in his right of mind, he would have immediately turned around and walked away. Though he couldn’t see through the fog, he knew there could be nothing good on the other side of the wicked looking gates.

But Martin was not in his right of mind – he was cold, he was in pain, and he was panicking. So, without a moment’s hesitation, Martin marched through the gates and emerged in what appeared to be a beautiful garden.

For a moment, Martin was awestruck, and he could feel lines from a poem he might write tickling the back of his mind. The stone path he walked on was made up of hundreds of pieces of what appeared to be ceramics and broken glass, forming a twisting pattern that looking at nearly made Martin dizzy. In the middle of the path was a tree, growing along a gnarled trunk and sprouting the most beautiful white, black, and red roses he’d ever seen. All across the property grew different types of flowers: rosebushes and peonies and lilies and lilacs guided Martin towards the massive structure looming before him: a massive gothic castle, dark in comparison to the beauty of the garden, with colossal wooden doors, dark bricks piling higher than Martin could see even when he tilted his head, with spires reaching for the sky and a massive clock: it read that it was half past midnight.

Shaking off a shiver that wasn't quite from the chill of night, Martin marched forward and pushed at the doors. They gave with surprisingly little resistance, and Martin walked into the castle foyer.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d expected – for the place to be abandoned, perhaps. Certainly not for the blood-red carpet underfoot to feel soft and to cushion Martin’s footfalls, nor for the dark wood of the interior to look as polished as it did. The foyer was brightly illuminated by a massive chandelier hanging above a grand staircase, which first went upwards before splitting off into left and right. There appeared to be old paintings on the walls, and cabinets lined one side of the front hall.

Beside the door was an ancient-looking wooden coat hanger, so Martin shucked off his coat and hung it up, standing by the door in his favourite yellow wooly jumper and jeans. He walked in slowly, wondering who could possibly be living here.

“Hello?” he called, then cringed as his voice echoed back at him in the vast, empty space. “Mum? Hello? Is anyone here?”

He got no reply, so he dared enter further. To one side he saw an archway that led to a room decorated with an intricate carpet and a comfy-looking sofa, with a roaring fireplace in front of it. The heat hit Martin’s face as he walked towards it, then paused as he noticed a second staircase behind the grand one.

This one was much smaller, leading downwards into what appeared to be a dimly-lit circular stone staircase. The spookiness of it sent shivers down Martin’s spine, and as he debated which direction to go first, he heard the sound of something moving.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice behind him drawled, and Martin yelped as he turned and saw a man standing in front of the couch, the fire behind him accenting his silhouette. As the man approached, Martin could make out more features: pale skin with sunken-in eyes, a lanky figure with long, poorly-dyed black hair and eyeliner accenting his gray eyes. Silver piercings glinted from his eyebrow, nose, and ears, and his nails were painted black that matched his outfit. “You looking for your mum? I heard you shouting.” The man smirked, placing his weight on one foot and crossing his arms in front of him. He seemed friendly, though, if a little intimidating.

“I–yeah,” Martin stammered. “She wandered off this morning? She’s, ah, not exactly in the rightest of minds, so, yeah. Have you seen her?” A hint of hope creeped into his voice.

The man shook his head. “Probably would’ve heard from the boss if she was in the house. Though, the boss can’t see into the basement – Michael and Helen make sure of that.” At Martin’s confused look, the man waved a hand dismissively. “It’s a long story, one that won’t be relevant once you get your mum and get out of here.”

“I–right,” Martin fidgeted with his jumper. He felt like a tele tubby next to this man, and curse Martin’s face for turning red, and he tried to convince himself that it was from the fire and not because he was anxiously facing a sort of cute guy who had just told him he needed to go into a creepy basement to retrieve his mum. “Didn’t you say not to go down there, though?”

The man shrugged. “I hate it down there. You’ll definitely get lost. But if Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum.”

Martin nodded dumbly and tried to muster as much courage as he could, releasing his jumper and willing his hands to be still. “Uh, thanks?”

The man nodded. “No problem. Don’t die.” With that, he walked back towards the couch, vaulted his slim body over it, and settled down. No wonder Martin hadn’t noticed him before – he blended right in.

Taking a deep breath, Martin turned towards the staircase, and before he could talk himself out of it he started the descent.

The staircase was dimly lit by what looked like oil lamps, and Martin felt cramped in the narrow passageway. He felt humidity hanging thick in the air, and soon his ginger curls were plastered to his forehead and his shirt under his jumper was soaked through with sweat. Just as Martin questioned whether the stairs would ever end, his feet hit solid ground and a hallway stretched before him. A hallway lined with cells.

Martin stared at the sight before him, at the ancient looking dungeon that Martin didn’t want to think about why was there. As he stepped forward, he noticed that every cell he passed was empty, which gave him a small amount of relief. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been used in a long time. As he walked, he thought back to the man upstairs’ words.

The boss can’t see into the basement. If Michael and Helen like you, they should let you go once you’ve found your mum. Don’t die.

Who was the boss? How could they see everything in a castle this big? Who were Michael and Helen? Martin picked up his pace, thoroughly spooked and wishing he were back home.

Eventually, he turned around, and nearly stumbled from shock. Behind him was a wall, where there certainly hadn’t been one before. Panic rising in his throat, Martin turned back around and saw with a start that there were now several branching hallways when before it had been a straight path ahead of him. His heart pounding and breath quickening, Martin grabbed the moist wall, wincing at the gross texture but forcing himself to hold on and ground himself. Now is not the time to panic.

Once the panic had become manageable, Martin looked up and saw with a start that there was a figure ahead of him. Familiar dark hair piled on top of the person’s head, and they were dressed in a nightgown and coat.

“Mum?” he called, and the familiar face of his mother looked up at him. As he walked over, her frown deepened into a scowl.

“Where have you been all day?” she demanded.

Martin winced. “I’m sorry. I was looking for you. You went really far, Mum.”

Martin’s mum glowered at him. “Useless. Just like your father.” Martin suppressed a wince, not wanting to let on how wounded he felt at her words. He’d gotten lost and tore his feet up for her, and all she could do was insult him.

Bitterness rose in his throat, and he crushed it down. She’s ill. Let her be. he chided himself. “Come on, Mum. Let’s get you home.”

“Yes, let’s,” drawled a voice that was not his mother’s from behind him. Martin’s shout echoed off the walls, and he heard his mother shush him sharply as he turned and saw a figure leaning on the wall. Behind him, the passage was as it was the first time Martin had looked at it – straight ahead toward the stairs. “I have no problem with letting her go. A nasty piece of work you’ve got there, boy.”

Martin sputtered as he beheld the man – his long, curling blond hair fell past his hips, acting as a cape for his lithe frame. He was dressed in a suit of colours so bright and patterns so disorienting it gave Martin a headache just looking at it. But what was most notable about the man, aside from his high-pitched drawling voice, was his fingers – long and spindly, as though there were several extra joints extending them to inhuman lengths. The man leaned one shoulder against the wall, his long fingers dangling at his sides. “I don’t-“

“What do you think, Helen?” the man addressed someone over Martin’s head – despite how tall Martin was, this man was significantly taller. Craning his neck, he saw another figure similar to the first one: a woman this time, with dark curling hair that stood straight up before falling to her waist, a spiralling colourful dress, a manic grin, and the same long fingers as the man. “The woman gets on my nerves, but the boy is quite cute.”

The woman, Helen, gave Martin a slow once-over. Martin felt like his skin was crawling, as though the woman was trying to see into his soul. “He is. Wonder if he’d be the boss’ type.”

“Woah!” Martin exclaimed indignantly. “I am not just a piece of meat, I’ll have you know! I don’t know what your boss is running here, but I’m not interested!”

The woman – Helen – chuckled. “Ooh, a feisty one. I like him, Michael.”

So these two were Michael and Helen. “Look, I just came to get my mum and head home. I’d appreciate if you let me do that.”

Michael clucked his tongue. “Shame. Though I suppose we aren’t in the business of taking prisoners, so alright. You can go.” With a click of his tongue, a door appeared to Martin’s left. The door was warped, yellow, and did not look trustful at all. “Go ahead, it’ll take you home.”

“How did you–“

“You should stay behind.”

Martin stared as his mother cut off his question of how Michael knew where he and his mother lived to gape at her. “I–what?”

His mother glared at him. “I’d really forgotten how dense you are, boy. Stay here. I can return home without you. I think I’ll be better off.”

Martin found he could barely form a single word. “Wh–I–Who will take care of you?”

His mother sniffed and made her way for the door. “I’ll find someone. Do not follow me. Perhaps you’ll mope less here.” And with that, his mother stepped through the door and was gone.

[iamafictionfreak]

Hello, hello!!!

So… it’s been a while. I know I promised/offered/hoped for more of this. And... even though it’s been months, I've finally managed to write the next part.

Not to be deceiving, but part 2 is literally episode 2 only. I'm going the way of Loaded march and posting oneshot's with a rough length of about 20, 000 words? Give or take 5000.

Ever read Footloose’s Loaded March? The Merthur fic to end all Merthur fics?

For those here who aren’t Merthur veterans – we hold weekend group therapy sessions, and depression Thursdays – Loaded March is a series of stories (16 in all) amounting to 1,261,720 words, which is mind boggling to me, and each story is never more than either a oneshot or a handful of chapters until you reach the end.

So, I’m doing that here. Highest form of flattery there is.

So, yep. Part 2 is written and it's around 20000 words - Once it's edited I'll upload, very hopeful for a release by New year. Each episode will be the equivalent of a mini arc but it'll likely be a while before part 3 etc.

As with the above post, I’m aiming, if I actually manage to get there, to cover the rest of season 1 and leave it in a good place. It’s basically a retelling of the show, except with Arthur knowing Merlin’s secret, which changes everything. The juicy part is how this is investigated, developed and how it may or may not alter events as these two idiots progress.

Forewarning: don’t expect a light and fluffy time. Yes, I’m hoping it will be humorous. It’ll likely be dark at times, angsty. Painful. But the light is the key, and the relationship between Arthur and Merlin, the core. It’s, hopefully (pleasepleaseplease) full of adventure and truth and fun!

Unfortunately, Arthur, as you’ve seen, won’t immediately be buddy buddy with the personification of ‘evil’ that his father has raised him to want to destroy. We have a trained killer with a nobility made of steel and a heart as fragile as a bird’s. We have a soft and squishy peasant boy beholding the world's heart of gold, a primal gaze who is an unforeseen powerhouse with unlimited potential to grow into the most formidable man on the planet.

In the show, we see Merlin change over time, moving from servant to devotee of Arthur but kept very much isolated and shadowed. It leads to a very bittersweet end and a deeply fearful Merlin who should never have had to be. With said man knowing the truth, how does that change this growth. I’m not a fan of unearned progression so please don’t expect these two to become the best of friends in the space of 2 chapters.

In the show they fit all the definitions yet fit exactly none of them. They’re friends, except they’re not because their social status gets in the way. They’re devoted comrades, except they’re not because how can they be when such huge secrets stand between them. They’re each other’s protector, except neither really knew it nor understood what it meant. Arthur became Merlin’s purpose, and no one ever knew that heartbreakingly beautiful truth, so he couldn’t serve said purpose to his fullest potential. Arthur was never able to know what it was like to have someone like that by his side because even when he married Gwen, there was a piece if himself that he kept concealed. Watch season 5 and you’ll see what I mean and it’s because of that, that Gwen feels so alone at times.

The show held such potential. And luckily fan works aren’t limited by money or stereotypes or backwards thinking or, oddly enough, a yearning to thrown in a boatload of realism in the last half hour of a supremely unrealistic show.

This fic will not be halted or forced or rushed into romance of any kind. I have an issue with unearned progression. Natural chemistry leads to places yes, but people don't usually just fall in love and go with the flow.

The possibilities are delicious, won’t lie. If Arthur and Merlin had been allowed to ‘touch that’ in the show, the depth of it - the many layers it would have added - would have taken it in a very different direction, one that didn’t fit BBC goals at the time. Imagine all the S1/2 episodes with a bi Arthur. How that alone changes everything about it. Likewise, rewatch the episodes and imagine that it circles certain forbidden feelings and suddenly it’s so much more. I also won’t destroy existing love angles for the sake of something that I want more. No, it needs to feel natural. We’ll see what happens.

If you have questions, throw them at me, whether I answer them is another thing entirely.

I hope you’re all okay at the very least. It’s been a tough few years.

P.S I was going to wait until the third part was written as well, but the year has been hard; I've been sick, I've gotten a new far more stressful job and I've begun it question whether we really do exist within a 'matrix', so it feels right to post a sequel at christmas when merlin did everything to kill us once upon a time.

*not my gif*

In a Land of Christmas, and a Time of Fanfiction, There was an Irritated Woman in Dire Need of a Re-Write:

(gifs not mine - they're from @genyakosstyk)

So… I did it! I did exactly what I said I’d do here. I wrote the start of what could become a long-winded piece of diatribe focusing on how much Merlin the tv series could have healed us instead of hurt us.

I can’t tell if I’m overly ambitious, a little desperate (about anything and everything honestly) or just so done with 2023 and the crap-tastic news it generates. That and, I have this on repeat in my mental-space, which is more of a shed than a palace:

(gif from @punqueen13 )

So that's fun.

It’s forgivable to escape horror or fear or fatigue or guilt and grief by diving into fantasy. And is there anything more fantastical than merlin? Merlin and all the promise it brings. Is there any wonder why fics are still being churned out for a series that ended 11 years ago?

So here it is.

Part 1 of one. I’ve written a short, five chapter thing. It isn’t a prologue, it’s an intermission between episode 1 and 2 of season 1. The chapters are short for a reason, but I wanted to give a mix of both Arthur and Merlin povs so do let me know if they’re extremely out of character – I can handle a little ooc, especially given the nature of fanfic but if I can’t hear their voices in my head or see them as I read, I feel like I’ve failed.

I think I did ok?

The premise is simple:

Arthur sees Merlin, a peasant he had a brief altercation with, use magic to save his life. He should tell his father about. He should arrest Merlin.

He doesn’t. His honour being at risk, he allows Merlin to work for him on the proviso that he doesn’t use magic. Ever.

Except Arthur has questions he’s never been given the answers to. And Merlin is – odd. He’s nothing like what Arthur’s been told a sorcerer is and he makes it all too easy for Arthur to drop his guard around him.

Which- well, it must be magic, right?

His father, his attendants and tutors, have taught him about the manipulations of witchcraft and sorcery and how they can twist a man into feeling empathy for the wicked.

The problem is that Merlin isn’t exactly what he’d call wicked. Arthur trusts his own instincts and they’re telling him very different things to what the king decreed. He vows to watch over his new manservant. The moment he commits treason, he’ll run a sword through him.

And in the meantime, maybe – just maybe – he’ll find out for himself if a man who turns to evil, can’t turn back.

I’LL POST EACH CHAPTER WITHIN THE NEXT TWO WEEK SEASONAL PERIOD.

But.

There will then be a wait for part 2 – if anyone truly wants it, that is. And if not, hey. I had fun writing this.

Other bits and bobs and odds and sods:

Will there be romance?

Eventually! But I do wonder with who you mean? And this is first and foremost an experiment about how Merlin and Arthur could have been if what when how and why. If Arthur had Merlin's full trust and if Merlin was allowed past the walls Arthur had erected to keep even Gwen out, what could they have become?

Is it funny?

I HAVE NO IDEA. I truly hope so though, at east a little. There's some seriousness ahead to get through first though, Arthur isn't just going to jump into trust.

Will there be a lot of differences from season 1?

I aiming for exactly that.

How much trouble is Merlin in? More than season 1?

Ahem, have you seen the below man?

Merlin's in ALL the trouble. He just doesn't know yet that trouble is his home-spice.

[icybreaths]

Jewel would make a terrible bodyguard. She would have had to have been paid extra and even then her efforts would be questionable. Catch her pluming out her reiatsu to lure in any targets and one of the baddies is one of her friends.

And they’re like, “Hey you know where [target] is I’m looking for them.”

And she says something like, “Oh yeah I know them. I know where they are. :) You’ll have ta fight me for it~”

Villain: Oh okay.

Jewel: But you can’t kill me otherwise you’ll never know.

Villain: Ugh fine~ >:/

Fight ensues meanwhile the person she’s supposed to protect is hidden nearby like, “I am freezing my ass off Jewel holyfuckingshit--”

Or a different scenario where the person she protecting actively needs her assistance and they’re like, “They are in my house please help.”

Jewel’s on their roof drinking a new slushie when she gets the call and says, “If they’re in yer house and ya don’t want em there then just tell ‘em ta leave? It’s yer house??”

And the person’s fumbling with their phone and audibly getting stressed, “I can hear their footsteps pleasepleaseplease.”

And she’s a little annoyed but gets up, marches inside, and brutally destroys the attacker, making a huge bloody and icy mess in the house and causing property damage. 

Points at the mess like, “I ain’t payin’ fer that btw.” and goes back to her perch.

[rainbowserenity]

I love your fic about blind!Light 😍 Can you pleaseee write a continuation fic/headcanon about hope proposing to her and their marriage? Pleasepleaseplease...? XD

original fic

total nano count: 25880/50000

Themorning of their third anniversary, Hope veered from his usualroutine.

Hesupposed that for a typical couple, this wasn’t really a notablething, but when your girlfriend – the love his life, really – wasblind, routine was expected. Typically, they’d wake up around thesame and he’d make coffee while she took Odin, her guide dog,outside. If they had no other plans for the day after that, he’dusually make breakfast and they’d laze around the kitchen.

Moreoften than not, though, he had to go down to the coffee shop he ownedand take care of things there. Most of the time she and Odinaccompanied him and they’d wait for Serah to come in for her usuallyraspberry mocha.

Thismorning, however, he crept out of bed as quietly as possible andquickly took Odin out himself so that they wouldn’t have to worryabout him later. Once they were safely back inside his apartment, hepeeked in the bedroom to make sure she was still asleep and then wentto make coffee and breakfast.

Well,it wasn’t so much making asit was arranging things on a tray. Hope mused that maybe he should’velearned how to make crepes by now, since they were her favorite thingto have for breakfast. Hopefully he’d have time to learn.

Atleast…having more time with her was the plan, anyway.

“Lightning?”he murmured as he stepped into the bedroom, trying not to jostle thetray so he could surprise her. There were definitely benefits tohaving a girlfriend who couldn’t see when it came to catching her offguard…in a good way, of course.

“Hmm?”Her eyes fluttered open, though of course they didn’t quite focus onanything. Still, her face glanced in his general direction, and asalways, his heart did this weird little stutter in his chest. “Whatare you doing out of bed?”

“Oh,y'know.” He grinned and carefully set down the tray.

Apparentlyit wasn’t carefully enough, because she frowned in confusion when heslid back into bed. “What was that?”

“Situp a little more.” When she did, Hope sat right beside her, theirthighs pressed together, and set the tray on their laps. “Breakfastin bed, that’s what.”

Lightning’sfingers traced the edges of the tray, placing everything in her mind.Her lips quirked into a confused little smile when she felt thecrepe. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Yeah.I special-ordered them at the bakery last night.”

“Huh.”She carefully broke off a piece and ate it, humming in contentment.“What’s the occasion?”

“What,I can’t be nice to my girlfriend?” While that was truth, there wasalso a special occasion…she just didn’t know it yet.

“Notthisnice,” she teased. “Plus, you can’t stop smiling. I can hear itin your voice.”

“Whatcan I say? You just…” Hope smiled again, his voice softer. “Youmake me really happy, Light.”

Sheturned her head more towards him at the words, her lips curvinggently. He closed the space between them before she could even closeher eyes, a little shocked at himself that this was their first kissgood morning.

Notthat they lacked for kisses in general, but still.

“Drinkyour coffee,” he said when they’d pulled away. “You don’t want itgetting cold.”

“Youknow me so well.” She chuckled, feeling for the mug and holding itup to her lips, sipping from it as fluidly as any sighted person.

Thewords struck a chord in Hope’s heart.He, well, hopedthathe did know her as well as he believed. Three years was a long timeto be with a person, and even with the rough patches before they’dofficially gotten together, he couldn’t remember ever being happier.It was a feeling he wanted to cling to for the rest of his life.

Hehoped she’d agree.

Afterthey finished breakfast, she turned her head to silently ask foranother kiss, which he happy obliged. “Do you need to go down tothe shop today?”

“No.”Hope had purposely given himself the day off and taken care of enoughso that Noel would have no problems running the place for the timebeing. Not that Lightning knew that. “Why? Did you have somethingin mind?”

“Notparticularly.” Her hands carefully reached out and he met herhalfway to lace their fingers together. “I just think it’d be niceto spend the day with you. I guess that breakfast in bed put me in agood mood.”

Yessss.“Ican’t say no to that.” He leaned in for another kiss with a smile,brushing their noses together in warning before their lips met. She’dtold him many times that it was fine to take her by surprise when itcame to a kiss, but he preferred to be considerate. “Actually…”

“Hmm?”

Andit was was, one of the most nerve-wracking parts of today. Lightningwas so perceptive that he was sure she’d instantly see through hissuggestion somehow. “I found a new song you’d be able to play. Ialready marked the keys. Wanna try it out?”

Luckily,she didn’t seem to think anything was strange with his suggestion.Instead, her face lit up in that way it only ever seemed to aroundhim. “Sounds good.”

“Great.”He breathed out a sigh of relief. “I’ll take care of the dishes,okay?”

“Someone’sbeing helpful,” she teased. Dishes were usually her doing.

“Yeah,yeah. Just for today.”

Shewas still laughing under her breath as he took the tray and headed tothe kitchen to load the dishwasher. The chore was juuust menialenough for his nerves to come flaring back again. What if she thoughtthis was stupid? Or didn’t want anything to do with him after this? He didn’t think that would happen, but if three years of being withLightning had taught him anything, it was to assume nothing.

Asigh escaped him as he left the kitchen and crossed the room to sitat the piano bench. Having one had been pretty much mandatory whenLightning had moved in with him, so he’d basically had to rearrangehis entire living room. It was kinda nice, though, since it meantthat the both of them could get used to a new space together. Atleast moving things around had forced him to clean and now he madeevery effort to keep things exactly as they were so Lightning had noproblems getting around.

Heglanced up when he heard Odin’s paws padding across the floor,smiling as the dog shuffled to the kitchen to eat. Seconds later,Lightning emerged, looking beautiful as usual.

“Blueshirt and black skirt?”

Shenodded, making her way towards him, her hand held a bit out to theside. Typically, she didn’t like using her cane, never mind insideher own house, so they’d devised their own ways to help her getaround. “I thought so.”

Hopesmiled when her fingers brushed the piano and he tappedher hand, guiding her to the bench. It was comfortable, familiar. Hesincerely hoped he wasn’t about to ruin it. “You look beautiful asalways.”

Sherolled her eyes. The expression was so perfect that sometimes hewondered if she’d perfected it before she’d lost her sight. “You’rebiased.”

“Maybea little.” He grinned and brushed their noses together beforestealing a kiss. Another. And another…

“Quitdistracting me,” she murmured, pulling away, but even her unfocusedgaze was smiling. “I came here to play, Estheim.”

“Ifyou say so.” He tried to laugh, but it came out a little weak. Ohgod, his palms were sweating. Good thing he’d already marked the keys– using their tried and true method of masking tape so Lightningcould feel them easily – or he never would’ve been able to pullthis off. “We’restarting at the F chord.” The real song started a bit later thanthat, but this was a way to…ease her into it. Yeah.

Lightning’sfingers drifted soundlessly over the keys until she’d found onemarked with masking tape. She pressed down, smiling as one lone noterang through the air, and then slowly continued. Hope occasionallycovered her hands with his to guide her to the right notes, but shewas doing quite well by herself. As usual.

Themelody started out as asoft little tune that spoke of promises. It was something you couldlisten to for hours, he thought, because there was nothing about itthat commanded you to concentrate on every note.

Unlikewhat was coming next.

Hopetook a deep breath as he guided Lightning’s hands to the next keys.She tilted her head at his sharp intake of breath, but obedientlyplayed where he asked, the melody flowing into something else.

Thetune was unmistakable.

Dum,dum, da-dum…

Hewatched her the whole time, taking in how her brows furrowedslightly. Luckily, she didn’t seem annoyed – just more confusedthan anything. Even though he could just telltherewas a question at the tip of her tongue, she kept playing until thelast note faded andthere was a buzzing silence.

“Hope,”she said, turning her head in his direction. Somehow, she managed tostare directly into his eyes. “That was the wedding march, right?”

“Um.”He cleared his throat, glad that she couldn’t see him reach into hispocket. “Yes.”

“Why?Are we playing this at some wedding?”

“No.I mean, we won’tbe, because that’d be weird. I think. I don’t know.”

Shenarrowed her eyes. “What are you - ”

Herwords were cut off when he gently took her hand and placed an openbox in her palm. Carefully, he guided her other hand to feel the ringthere. It was different from a typical engagement ring – this onewas a platinum band molded into the shape of a rose with a smalldiamond in its center. Lightning didn’t wear much jewelry, but he’dwanted this to be completely unmistakable, so she’d never confuse itwith any other ring and could describe it by touch in an instant.

“Light,”he murmured when her eyes widened in realization. She knew exactlywhatthis ring was supposed to be. “Will you - ”

“Yes.”

“…”He blinked a couple of times. “What?”

“Youheard me.” She was smirking now, but the wonder in her expressionhadn’t faded. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

Thenerves that had been knotted in his stomach all morning finallyunraveled. “Maybe you should let me finish the question,” heteased.

“Areyou going to go down on one knee?”

“Idon’t need to. I’d rather see eye-to-eye with you.” She rolled hereyes at the bad joke, but that didn’t deter him from leaning in andbrushing his nose against hers. “Lightning Farron,” he murmured.“You make me the happiest I’ve ever been. I want to feel this wayforever with you.”

Sincehe already knew her answer, Hope gently took the box that was stillcurled in her hand and plucked the ring from it, carefully sliding itonto her ring finger. It sparkled there perfectly. “Will you marryme?”

Lightningflexed her fingers a few times, getting used to the feel of the ringthere. She touched it with her thumb, like she needed to make surethat it was real. He couldn’t blame her.

Eventhough he already knew her answer, the smile on her face spokevolumes. Still, he heard it again before she tilted her head andcarefully sought out his lips.

“Yes.”