#might do more tmrrw | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rosiehunterwolf · 3 years ago

Note

CONGRATS ON 100 FOLLOWERS FREN 💖💖 you deserve it and so much more

If you're feeling up to it (DONT FEEL OBLIGATED DO U HEAR ME MY DEAR) movie verse Jay my beloved

asfljdlkj tysm Amour! I'm so glad to have you as part of my tumblr family, ur one of my best friends on here 💕✨

i really needed to write something movie!verse because I LOVE movie!verse and haven't written anything yet, so I was excited for this one

(@fabro-de-omres you've said in the past that you would love to read it if I wrote something movie!verse, so here's ✨content✨)

I'll chase you to the moon and back

Summary: When you’re in a secret ninja force and are your city’s primary protectors, pulling your weight is important.

Jay tries to be an asset to his team, but it’s difficult when he’s viewed as the scaredy-cat who cracks lame jokes. He loves his friends with all his heart, but sometimes it’s hard to know if they return those feelings.

Jay wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t.

Sometimes, Jay felt like he was a burden to the team.

He tried not to, he really did- he knew the others liked him and cared about him. But standing next to strong Cole, smart Zane, brave Kai, determined Nya, or warm-hearted Lloyd, it was difficult not to feel… inadequate.

It didn’t help that Cole hadn’t answered any of his recent texts.

It could be anything, Jay told himself as he stared down at the unread messages, resisting the urge to send another text. He could have an appointment he forgot to tell me about, or maybe he’s just not looking at his phone right now, or he simply doesn’t share my urgency to answer a text message so quickly. Cole had always been much more laid back about that, raising an eyebrow as Jay always scrambled to answer the text from his mom, or whoever had sent it this time.

But Cole was also Jay’s best friend. He knew he got anxious when someone left him unread for too long. Because of that, he had always been good about answering Jay’s texts quickly, even as the others still groaned about the earth ninja taking ages to respond to them.

For him to go an hour without responding was… concerning, to say the least.

Jay pushed the thoughts aside. He was probably just overthinking this, like he always was. Cole would get back to him soon. It wasn’t like he was ignoring him, or anything.

Maybe the others are up to something. He opened the group chat, but although there were usually a hundred notifications at any given time- he had learned that the hard way the first day he had joined, turning on his phone after school to a whopping 785 texts- it was empty now. The last text was from Lloyd, asking Kai to meet him at his locker before lunch.

Jay felt his heart rate spike. The lack of an argument between Kai and Nya in the last five minutes alone was worrying- because heaven forbid they actually talk things out in person, even if they literally lived one bedroom down from each other- and his mind quickly spiraled into possibilities. Had someone kidnapped them? Had their parents grounded them? Or maybe they had committed a crime and gotten thrown into jail. He wouldn’t put it past Kai and Nya to pull something dumb- Cole and Zane would go along with it, and Lloyd would never speak up enough to voice his disproval-

No, don’t be ridiculous, they wouldn’t commit a crime.

Well… Kai might. But the others would stop him.

What if they made a separate group chat without me?

No. His friends would never do that. They’d be more likely to commit that crime.

But the thought wouldn’t leave Jay’s brain, and before he knew it, he was sending a text in the group chat.

jaybird123: What r u guys up to? Wanna hang?

He immediately regretted it. What if he came off as too clingy? Too overbearing? They probably just wanted some time to themselves.

That didn’t sound quite right to Jay, but he stuffed his phone in his pocket, forcing the thought out of his mind.

He decided to go to the park- watching the people there always gave him good ideas for inventions. He was too late to catch a bus down there, but it wasn’t too far to walk.

His phone buzzed, and he glanced down.

thegreendragon: sorry jay, got plans 2nite. maybe tmrrw?

Jay tried to stop the pang of disappointment. Lloyd wouldn’t lie to him. The others probably were just busy. It was no big deal. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal.

A couple of blocks away, he caught the sounds of annoyed shouts, the kind that usually hinted towards the presence of-

He stopped, blinking, as a boy darted past the onlookers and into the shop.

Huh. Lloyd?

Starting towards the store his friend had vanished into, Jay peered through the window, looking for Lloyd-

Jay froze. Lloyd was standing with the others, animatedly babbling something to them as they watched him happily.

Jay shrunk back. They really had met up without him, and had lied about it, too. He wasn’t being paranoid- his friends just didn’t want him around.

For a moment, the shock left Jay floundering. He had no other friends. The other ninja were his entire livelihood. What was he meant to do now?

He quickly wiped at the tears pooling in his eyes. I’ll go home. My mom will know what to do.

He had the worst feeling that this was something that even his mom couldn’t fix, though.

About halfway home, a buzz in his pocket interrupted him from his stupor. Pulling out his phone, he saw there was a new message in the group chat.

rock’n’cole: hey jay, something just came up, can u meet us at the warehouse asap?

Jay just stared at his phone for a minute, debating whether to actually show up or not. After all, the others had ditched him, why shouldn’t he do the same? And he still felt hurt- he wasn’t sure if he was ready to talk to them yet. He really should just go home.

jaybird123: sure, i’ll be there in 20

Jay had never been good at holding grudges.

Thirty minutes later (he had ended up stalling a little bit just for the spite of it) he pushed through the doors of the warehouse. It was pitch black inside, and as he fumbled around for the lights, he couldn’t help but notice that no one else was there. It was stupid of me to come. They just abandoned me. Again.

Suddenly, the lights burst on, and the others were jumping out from behind the furniture, cheering and hugging him. Jay stumbled backward, taken aback. “What’s going on?”

Kai looked at him like he was crazy, gesturing widely at all the balloons and streamers that Jay could see now that the lights were on. “It’s a party, dumbass, what else do you think?”

“What for? It’s not my birthday!”

Nya scoffed, as if he had just told her that men lived on the moon. “Of course not, this is for your Ninja-versary!”

“My… what?”

“The anniversary of the day you first became a ninja, stupid!”

“Oh.” He blinked around at all the decor. “All this? Just for something as simple as that?”

Kai wasn’t the only one looking at him like he had sprouted a second head, now.

“Are you kidding?” Cole said. “We’re not going to skimp on celebrating the day one of our favorite people came into our lives.”

Jay blinked at him. “I…” I’m so sorry for ever doubting you. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.

“Now, what are we waiting around for?” Cole threw an arm around Jay’s shoulders. “Let’s go get some cake!”

As the ninja hurried over to the table, squabbling over who would get which slice, Jay squashed between the middle of his big, loud, bickering family, he couldn’t have felt more at home.

#:D #movie characters are so fun y'all #i'll definitely have to write something that explores all of them more not just jay #but i'll save that for something longer so i can do it properly #and coming up with their chat usernames was the highlight of this piece XD #i have more for the others as well and this is going to remain canon within all my movie fics #ninjago #asks #amourshipper393 #fic request #event #100 followers event #ficlet #my fic #rosie writes #movie!verse #tlnm #jay walker #requests open

62 notes · View notes

pepprs · 3 years ago

Text

today and tomorrow are gonna be the purest hell like genuinely and idk how im gonna survive them but i have to

#speaking on a panel at a conference in 2 hrs and i haven’t even finished my presentation yet 😍😍😍😍😍😍 and then im moving home and then i have #to bust ass on my workshop which is happening tomorrow at 5 and my stomach is in absolute motherfucking knots. i just want to sleep i just w #want to rest i just want to calm down but no i have to be pulverized thru the fucking meat grinder!!!! but at least i have stuff to look #forward to on friday and the following weeks and also i might get to drop my stupid fucking class that im absolutely not doing homework for #lol but like yeah naur i am so exhausted rn and I’ve had nightmares 2 nights in a row and also my moms bday was yesterday and she’s fucking #PISSED at me bc i was scrambling to do hw due at 7:10 last night and she was mad i didn’t get it done before her bday and then i had to film #a video for the hw and i did it like right at the deadline but i was so stressed that my family didn’t realize that i was only doing a video #and not going to class so they sang the bday song and did the candles and everythi ng WITJOUT ME and i didn’t know they were going to do #that and no one told me and then when i came up they said i missed it and my mom is hurt and it’s like OMG i had a deadline and i was talkin #talking abt it and now i look like the bad guy and a fucking awful daughter because YOU didn’t tell me what was going on!!!! so now we r #fighting 😍😍😍😍 abt that and then this other thing we have a lot of tension over that i just had a nightmare abt so yea um i am kinda like #well i need to get out ov here scoob i have to not have nightmares abt us fighting lawl. this whole situation sucks and also I am ABSOLUTELY #going to have to move back home in may indefinitely until i have enough to live on my own again and the dread in my stomach over it. the #dread and despair and grief of it all. bc i come here for like a week 4 days whatever like any short time im here and i feel myself starting #to regress and to get more depressed and whatever so then what happens if im here for months with no end in sight. AND working at a job that #my mom won’t approve of and coming home to her disapproval every night. lolllllleeeeee i cannae take it i really don’t think i can take it #purrs #this wasn’t supposed to be a super long rant it was just abt the way today and tmrrw are abt to eat me alive but i just ranted i #suppose. whoopsies shoulda saved that for finch 🤡#delete later #?

15 notes · View notes

hardkinkbardkink · 4 years ago

Text

hi babes x so this isn’t a prompt, but i started this fic some months ago with the intention of posting it to my regular ol account. i just finished it in a fit of divine intervention & thought it might fit here better x

it’s a fuck or die in which geralt gets cursed with a knot and goes into rut, please don’t think about the logistics too much because there’s about two paragraphs of setup and then nearly 6k of porn x

as a sidenote i fucking Love the idea of just a regular witcher-human verse and only the wolf witchers have knots, like,,, that’s mint mate honestly

a prompt fill should be up tmrrw but for now please enjoy this xx (it’s also on ao3)

***

He's—fuck, so warm.

Like he'll sizzle out of his skin. Burst at the seams and set molten iron to spill in his stead.

The day is chilly, he remembers vaguely. Frost had caught in his hair and his fingers had gone numb, stiff around his sword, but a thrill had settled in his chest, kept him warm through the fight. The sun in his eyes, a faint crackle of magic on his skin, raising the hair at his nape. And then the gentle swish of his blade through the air—the steel one, for humans rotten beyond saving. The spray of arterial blood high towards the heavens. Silence.

Each chance he gets to kill a mage, Geralt enjoys it greatly.

Mages with their meaningless chanting and knowing grins, like they find the prospect of death enthralling. Mages that have more merit to them than the mindless beasts he's used to slaying, yet feel less human, more—deserving. Mages with their perverse spells, parting curses that he can never quite catch. Nor avoid, for that matter.

Geralt fucking hates mages.

It's the last coherent thought he remembers having.

He doesn't recall much after he'd pulled his sword free, slick and glistening red. Suddenly each breath was a gulp of scalding hot water in his lungs, flooding his insides from head to toe, to the very tips of his fingers.

Mounting Roach had been a feat bordering on impossible, achieved solely by force of habit. He rode hard and he rode fast, not entirely sure of what it is that he's chasing but unable to go another excruciating second without it.

It's not a tangible heat, not one easily done away with. He leans his cheek against a wall; the stone is cold, but brings him no relief. He shrugs his swords off, flinching as they clatter on the floor. His own desperate hands tug at the straps of the armour that's so oppressively tight, even though it'd served him time and time again without such issues.

Geralt presses the heel of his palm over his cock. Rubs it through the leather breeches. Fuck.

"Fuck."

It helps, a bit, or maybe it makes everything worse.

He should've ridden straight for the brothel, he—

His clothes are stifling. The air sits too heavy on his skin, catches at the back of his throat. He gives his cock a desperate squeeze, and for a heartbeat he can breathe.

Fuck, but he's hot.

He's halfway through tearing out of his undershirt when footsteps sound in the corridor. They set his mind racing. The thought of being seen like this—no, gods, the very thought of another person, of a warm body, of—

"Geralt?" Jaskier calls as he shoulders the door open. He doesn't knock, of course he doesn't, when had the man ever done anything decent? "Everything taken care of?"

The linen shirt rips beneath his fingertips like it's nothing more than aged parchment.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't. Mistake, mistake, mistake.

Jaskier doesn't turn, doesn't leave. He lets the door fall shut behind him. He stares. He gawks. He—

"Don't," Geralt says when Jaskier crosses the room in quick strides. "Don't touch me," even as his body screams the opposite, screeches at him to take take take.

He feels Jaskier's gaze heavy on him. On the shirt clinging to his shoulders. On his cock hard and straining against the fastenings of his trousers.

"Are you—" Jaskier swallows anxiously, but his eyes stay calm. "Quite well? Shall I fetch a healer?"

The pink of Jaskier's slightly open mouth is enticing. Geralt wants to reach out and touch, trace his lips with gentle fingers, bite down and draw blood. He takes a breath to steady himself and fuck, he doesn't mean to groan out loud, but he'd never quite realised just how divine Jaskier smells. He wishes he could touch his cock, just to take the edge off, take it out and shove it between Jaskier's perfect lips—

"Don't know what's happening," he chokes out as he scrambles to move away, away from Jaskier, away from the deliciously sweet scent of him.

"Geralt," and he comes closer, the fool, closer and close until Geralt's head spins and his mouth waters, and maybe he can sneak a hand down between his legs, just for a second.

Jaskier touches his forehead, an innocent gesture that Geralt would scoff at on another day.

"Oh." Both of Jaskier's hands move to his cheeks. "You don't always run this hot, do you?"

He turns his face slightly, presses his nose against Jaskier's wrist. Inhales. It's intoxicating. It's overwhelming. He wants and he needs and—

Jaskier jerks away with a startled noise before Geralt realises his teeth had sunk into the thin skin.

"Sorry, sorry, I didn't—"

He stumbles back in a daze. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he collapses onto it without much grace. Geralt frantically gathers the sheets in dire fists, hoping to regain the control that's escaped him. Hoping to rid his mind of Jaskier's scent.

It's absolutely beyond him why Jaskier stays so close. Why he takes a tentative step toward the bed. Why he swipes his tongue over his lower lip, like he's tasting Geralt's desperation.

"Can I help?" The words are barely out of his mouth before Geralt barks a sharp no.

The bed dips, creaks under Jaskier's weight.

"Why do you never listen?" It comes out a breathy thing. He turns his head away from Jaskier as his nostrils flare. There's not much fight left in him, but he clings to the shreds of it all the same.

A hand on his knee nearly burns a hole straight through him.

"Geralt." Jaskier leans in, his breath hot in Geralt's ear, sending an electric current through his spine. "I hope you realise that there isn't much I wouldn't do for you." The hand moves up, up, up his thigh, dangerously high—

"Whatever you need."

Vesemir would strike him, had he known how little self-control Geralt would grow to display. How easily he'd succumb to the temptation laid in the curve of Jaskier's jaw, or the timbre of his voice, or the warmth of his hands.

Grabbing a fistful of Jaskier's hair, Geralt hurls him backwards, crawls over him driven by instinct more than purpose.

"You smell so good," he groans, face tucked behind Jaskier's ear. His scent is so much stronger there, so much more alluring.

When his lips claim Jaskier's in a kiss, it's like breaking the surface at last after being underwater for too long. The air in his lungs had turned lead-heavy, but the swipe of Jaskier's tongue forces a new life into them and he can breathe again, and it's everything he'd ever wanted, and he craves more.

He's kissed plenty of people before. Fucked plenty of people. More than he can count, more than he cares to recall. But it was—never like this. Never this real.

Never Jaskier's hands on his bare shoulders, pawing at his back, never the heated whisper of anything, anything you want.

And Geralt does, he does want, he wants so incredibly much when Jaskier reaches down to unlace his breeches and the mere brush of his fingers is enough to set Geralt rutting, grinding his hips into the pressure and fuck, fuck.

He growls when his seed spurts from between the laces, onto the embroidered silk of Jaskier's doublet, and he wishes, he needs it to be on Jaskier's skin instead, so he snatches Jaskier's hand and presses it against the head of his twitching cock and he comes, he comes on his palm and his wrist and it—

"Fuck, gods, fuck—" because it brings him no relief, only makes him ache for more, so much more and he has to take it, he'll take it from Jaskier, he will.

He'll wreck him, he thinks, and the concept leaves him ravenous.

And Jaskier doesn't say anything, when Geralt continues to helplessly thrust his still hard cock against him. Jaskier lies under him, quiet and trusting, his eyes wide, his chest rising in quick pants as he accepts whatever Geralt gives him, and it sends Geralt's head reeling.

But then Jaskier takes him in hand, strokes him like he doesn't mind, and Geralt's arms shake, struggling to support him.

He keeps his eyes on Jaskier's face in a bout of unadulterated adoration, so he sees the shift when Jaskier looks between them, when his eyes widen even more and his hand falters.

"Geralt, what—"

Geralt glances down as well. He's—he's had this body for nearly a century, now, he's fairly certain he knows what he looks like, and this—surely he's just delirious, burning with an improbable fever, surely—

But Jaskier sees it, too, and his breath hitches as he studies Geralt's face, and,

"It's a—a knot," he says before he can think about it, the words popping into his mind, rolling off his tongue like he'd been born knowing them.

"A knot," Jaskier echoes breathlessly, like the concept isn't wholly, utterly mad. His fingers tighten around Geralt's cock, around the—

"Like hounds have," Geralt adds between desperately ragged pants.

And he hangs his head in shame, his skin burning in an entirely different way, with embarrassment instead of need, until Jaskier, the cunning bastard, says,

"Like wolves have."

Geralt moans at that. He does so again, when he sees Jaskier's eyes glaze over, his lips part. He smells—gods, indescribable. Geralt feels half-feral with it. Why do curses have to be so carnal in nature?

Jaskier squeezes the—the knot, and it's a punch to the gut like he'd just downed a potion, like he's seeing colour for the first time in his life, everything sharp and vivid and he collapses heavily on top of Jaskier as his arms finally give out.

"Does it feel good?" Jaskier asks as if it isn't apparent in the way Geralt groans right into his ear.

He remembers, through a thick haze, remembers a night, months, years ago, when he'd stepped through the door, found Jaskier on his knees and elbows and the inkeeper's son balls-deep in him. Remembers the arch of Jaskier's back before he scrambled to cover himself. Remembers pretending before him and before himself that he didn't enter the room on purpose, that he couldn't hear Jaskier's moans from downstairs. Remembers coming into his own fist behind the stables thinking about exactly what Jaskier would let Geralt do to him.

He needs that now, he realises. Nothing will quench the dreadful heat except the tight clutch of Jaskier's body. Geralt trembles at the thought.

So he rolls off of Jaskier, laying flat on his back, chest heaving unnaturally, cock throbbing. He throws an arm across his face, shielding his eyes from the sun that steals into the room.

"Jaskier," he says to the air, to the ceiling above them, to the gods who'd abandoned him and the ones who still listen.

Jaskier shifts next to him, sits up. Geralt can hear him undressing, the sound of fingernails on ivory buttons and the rustle of cotton that follows.

"Anything," is spoken, softly, and the fever spikes so suddenly he nearly chokes on it.

Incredibly, blessedly, Geralt feels the weight of him when Jaskier settles astride his thighs. Warm hands guide his wrists to press into the mattress above his head, timid, doubtful, and Geralt thinks, this isn't right, but his eyes snap open and he can't think at all, anymore.

Because Jaskier—he's—

"Like it, do you?" and there's a teasing lilt to his voice even though his chest heaves still. "You got me pretty damn well."

And he had, he very clearly had, because there's a bruise, dark and swollen, spilling up the side of Jaskier's ribcage from when Geralt jammed the hilt of his sword there to get Jaskier to run, to get away, and suddenly Geralt can't shake the thought of mine mine mine from his clouded head, and it's hard to breathe again.

Jaskier's grip on his wrists isn't hard, is far from unbreakable. It makes it so deliciously easy to snatch his hands free, to push at Jaskier until he tumbles back on the bed, underneath Geralt, where he belongs. So easy to press his famished mouth over where Jaskier's skin is purpled and tender. So easy to dig his fingertips into the flesh, listening to Jaskier's hiss of pain and,

"Careful there, wolf," his voice quiet, breathless.

But there's no careful, not anymore, only need and hunger and undoing Jaskier's wretched trousers in a frenzy to get at his cock, so he can bury his face between his legs and smell him, scent him, fuck.

And he smells so, so good, like the most decadent feast, and Geralt has to taste him, he has to or he'll perish, surely, so he fits his mouth over the head of Jaskier's leaking cock, hears Jaskier whine above him—

"No, no, don't, Geralt, too close, I'll come, I'll come," and there are fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him away, except Geralt has never wanted anything as much as he wants to make Jaskier come, right now, to wring this pleasure out of him like he never had before, and then to do it again and again until Jaskier can't give him any more, until he has to take more, has to pry it from between his trembling thighs.

He will. He has to.

"Geralt—" Jaskier sounds distressed, he sounds panicked as he tugs roughly at Geralt's hair.

Geralt, for his part, had never been this desperate to suck dick. The pain of having his hair nearly pulled out serves only to make him go faster, to rut against the bed and take Jaskier's cock so very deep he'll feel it when it's gone. He'd choke, if he could, but as is he merely lets the head pop into his throat and out with a satisfying shift. He thinks he moans, maybe, but it's difficult to hear over the rush of blood in his ears.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—" Jaskier's got such a pretty voice. Even prettier when it climbs up high, breaks around Geralt's name. He burns with a scathing desire still, but the noises Jaskier makes when he's coming, the feel of it on his own tongue—it makes something release in his tight chest, drives a horribly possessive part of him to satisfaction, if for a moment.

He doesn't want to move. Jaskier struggles underneath him, twists his hips and claws at his forehead, but Geralt relishes the taste, the weight of him. It makes the heat almost bearable.

"Mercy, mercy," Jaskier breathes, and regretfully, Geralt releases him.

He's so hot.

It's worse, somehow, than before.

Geralt doesn't remember the last time he'd been dizzy, but he thinks he is now. The bed spins and the room spins and fuck, he needs to come again, so he rests his cheek against Jaskier's thigh, gets a too-tight fist on his cock, and he'd cry if he could. Maybe he can. He feels like he might.

Jaskier touches his other cheek, and it almost sizzles. He feels Jaskier's gaze on him as he fucks his own hand.

"Gods, will you—breed me? Fill me with your pups?" Jaskier's voice rings clear through the fog in his head, makes him snap up to look at him.

"Jaskier," Geralt growls in response. His own voice sounds foreign, too deep, too threatening. Jaskier squirms against him, eyes wide.

"I want it." And he tips his head like he's inviting. "Want your knot. Want your pups. Want you."

Geralt marvels for a second—that Jaskier is so eager against all odds, that Jaskier wants him even with this bizarre curse (he doesn't dare wonder if he'd be wanted on another day, on a normal day)—but takes the invitation. He leaps up the bed, puts his lips to Jaskier's bared throat, to the place where his pulse rushes loud and hot. An angry red mark remains in the wake of his mouth, and he knows, he knows it'll bloom into a purple matching the splotches on his side, except higher, where everyone will see.

Everyone will know.

They'll look at Jaskier, prancing around, draping himself on fair maidens, rugged blacksmiths and distinguished lords—and none of them will want him, because they'll know Jaskier is his. They'll see him marked and bruised and they'll know Jaskier belongs to the scary witcher they all cower before.

"Mine," he rumbles into the skin of Jaskier's neck, just to be certain, and follows it with a scrape of teeth.

"Yours."

Fuck. Is it hotter, now that he's so close to having?

"Jaskier." Please, he almost adds, but that would be too much. Too dangerous.

He helps Jaskier kick his trousers off and to the side, before he gets his hands under his thighs, pushes them blindly apart far as they'll go. Settles between them, and his dick drags against Jaskier's, and Geralt doesn't whine, not consciously, but he wants to.

"Ge—eralt," Jaskier does whine, voice cracking around the name just as his legs tighten around Geralt. "I've—I've done something indecent. Naughty."

Geralt can only look, mesmerised, as Jaskier's mouth moves, his pink, wet tongue peeking out, threatening to drive Geralt wild. He traces two fingers along his lower lip—thinks, fuck it, and pushes them in.

Jaskier's eyes widen but he seems to fall calm, sucking on the fingers, licking between them. Geralt moves his hips in little aborted moves, thrusts his heavy cock against Jaskier's abdomen as he watches, listens to the contented moans Jaskier gives. Fuck.

Geralt doesn't often dream, not good things, not pleasant things. He dreams of death and suffering and loss, because that's what he knows. But now, now—Geralt thinks this could be a dream, the way Jaskier sucks his fingers as if they are a cock, the way he lets himself be kissed breathless when Geralt takes his hand away.

He rubs spit-slick fingertips over the head of Jaskier's half-hard cock, just to make his bard writhe in sweet agony.

Geralt doesn't whine, but when he manages to slip two fingers inside Jaskier without any resistance he thinks he might scream.

"Jaskier."

He needs to touch, and he needs to be close, and he leans back all the same to watch Jaskier's greedy hole open and eager for him.

"I've, ah—I had a bath, while you were gone," Jaskier breathes.

Geralt can't tear his eyes away from where his digits dissappear into the intoxicating heat of Jaskier's body.

"Just my fingers, and I—I thought about you. I usually do."

His skin is prickling, itching to touch, to have, to claim, his blood threatening to boil over in his veins, and still he just looks. Jaskier is moving his hips, up and down and up, fucking himself on Geralt's fingers, moaning like he can't get enough.

Jaskier—fuck, Jaskier touches himself waiting for Geralt to get back, thinking about him. He leans in close. Lets his fingers slip free. Red-hot sparks of static crowd his vision, multiply until he's blinded. He thrusts against the crease of Jaskier's thigh. Presses Jaskier's leg closer to his chest, makes it tighter for himself. He goes faster. Jaskier is looking up at him with clouded-over eyes. Faster.

Geralt's second orgasm proves more satisfying, only because it paints Jaskier white from his hip all the way to the hollow of his throat.

"Fuck." It shudders out of him. He shudders all over.

His come glistens on Jaskier's skin, caught in his chest hair. It rolls off the side of his ribcage, over the bruise that's bloomed there. Geralt wants to lick it up. He wants to rub it in, brand Jaskier with it. Make it stay. Fuck.

The knot's filled again. Geralt doesn't feel it, not really, not until Jaskier's fingers come to squeeze around it. Then he feels like he's dying, like he'll never breathe again. Like he doesn't ever want to.

"It's so big."

And Jaskier sounds—amazed. Awestruck. Geralt sees how the tips of his long, shapely fingers don't quite touch. Fuck, it is big. Every time Jaskier's hand tightens around it, Geralt feels like he's coming all over again. Maybe he is. It pulses out more of his spend. Gods. And Jaskier said—

Want your knot.

He'd said—he'd asked Geralt to put it in him. Fuck, Geralt wants that. He needs that. He'll stuff Jaskier full of his cock—his knot—and he'll keep him round with seed and he'll never let him up. Maybe it'll take.

He thinks he's about handled it, even if each insistent touch leaves him breathless, weak with a dizzying surge of pleasure. He thinks he's about handled it, but then Jaskier looks him in the eye, his pupils blown entirely black as he says,

"You're such a good pup, aren't you?"

And he looks confused, is the thing—like the words crawled up his throat, forced themselves on his tongue. The perfect words, the exact words that send Geralt into a frenzy, that make it seem as if the whole thing hadn't been frenzied already. He whimpers, whimpers and lets his teeth nibble on the corner of Jaskier's jaw. The skin there is rough, like Jaskier hadn't shaved in a few days, and that makes Geralt even more mad, somehow, more desperate.

"Jaskier," he says, and it sounds like a plea. Maybe it is. His hands shake. They—they never shake. He slides them over Jaskier's sides and they come away sticky. "Jaskier."

"You can—fuck me, Geralt. Have me."

Have the bitch, a voice calls from the darkest corner of his mind, a voice that sounds too much like his own. Take him, take what's yours.

Geralt groans as the last dam holding him back creaks, splinters, shatters in front of him.

He should've ridden for the brothel, and he didn't, because he knew Jaskier would be here, waiting and willing.

His eyes slip shut for a moment against the realisation. Geralt takes a steadying breath, drowning in desire that belongs as much to him as to the beast that claws at his skull and cries for him to breed, to own.

Jaskier tells him something—unimportant, Geralt wagers, because it's accompanied by the press of an ornate glass bottle into his trembling palm, and then he's got a slick hand on his cock, and Jaskier is holding his legs wide open in the filthiest invitation, and Geralt blacks out for a second when he pushes in.

It's a different heat entirely, the sweetest fever he wouldn't mind succumbing to.

He'd go slow, normally. He'd pause to let Jaskier get used to the stretch. He can't. He can't. The last of his fragile composure slips as he thrusts forward, quick and rough.

He barely feels Jaskier's nails rake down his arms, the sting secondary, irrelevant against this pleasure. "Geralt—"

Geralt knows what Jaskier wants to tell him, he knows—but he can't give that to him, can't stop, can't slow down, can't hold back or he'll die, fuck, fuck.

"I'm sorry, sorry, Jaskier, sorry—" he mumbles against Jaskier's temple when he tastes tears. They burn on his tongue, pierce his soul with an ugly guilt. He licks them up all the same, drives his cock deeper without meaning to. Faster. Fuck.

"It's fine, it's good, you—" Jaskier sobs, a horrible, shuddering thing, but his palm comes to rest on Geralt's cheek. It's—grounding, somehow. "Don't hold back."

Claim the whore. Yours. Yours.

Geralt prays for strength, then. For clarity and restraint.

He finds neither.

Instead he finds a bottomless, insatiable hunger—so overwhelming it steals his thought altogether, leaves him mindless and weak and craving to scratch an impossible itch.

Jaskier feels so good around his cock. There are tears of his own threatening to brand his skin. It's—

Jaskier's so tight, oh, so tight and warm and—

Heat had been the thing that drove him to madness, before, but now, now—

It's a cure, a blessing, it's—

"Do it," Jaskier whispers as he surges up to press his parted lips against Geralt's. "Put it in me, knot me, Geralt."

"You want it? You want it?"

"Fuck, I want it—"

"Beg for it," he manages before he has to start kissing his bard again. Yours. "Beg for it."

Jaskier nods, his teeth pinched around Geralt's lip until it nearly splits. "Please, please, I want it, I need it, give me—your knot, put it in me, oh, oh—"

The knot swells, and Geralt thinks he might go crazy. The knot swells, and he thinks it might tear Jaskier to pieces. The knot swells, and it presses close close close against Jaskier's rim, and it pops in, and then he doesn't think at all.

Can't—can't think even if he wanted to. He'll never hold a thought again. Not a single thought other than how blindingly good it is to have Jaskier tight on his knot, to be locked together as he fills his bard with come. His teeth ache, so he clamps them down on Jaskier's shoulder. It doesn't help much. It's almost like—like there's another place he should mark. A place he could sink his canines into that would bind them, somehow.

His head spins. He's vaguely aware that the knot expands inconceivably more as it pulses. He grinds desperately forward. It feels so good. He whines. Maybe this'll never stop. Maybe he'll float in this impossible ecstasy until the end of time.

The flutter of his heart is the first thing that filters through his dazed mind. It's not meant to flutter.

As though across a dream, he hears Jaskier calling his name. He laps at the dents his teeth had made. Yours.

He doesn't expect Jaskier to get even tighter around him. It knocks the breath straight out of his lungs, and that's not meant to happen either.

"Gods," Jaskier whispers somewhere next to him. Geralt agrees.

The air is thick around them, but not with the curse; it's heavy with sweat, with unwavering arousal. The smell of Jaskier's spend. Fuck.

"You—" he says, voice hoarse.

Jaskier laughs, breathless, and Geralt can—he can feel it around his cock. "Sorry."

A look down the length of Jaskier's body, the sight of his bard still covered with seed—Geralt's, his own—sends him rutting forward without much say in the matter.

"Fuck. Fuck."

Geralt doesn't allow himself pleasure often. Only if its lack proves distracting. This, now—he doesn't know how he's ever done without it. He doesn't know how he'll manage to let Jaskier off of his cock, his knot. Perhaps Geralt just needs to keep him like this. Always open, always ready. Always dripping with come. Always—

His head feels clearer, maybe. Clear enough to keep his eyes focused, to see the wince twisting Jaskier's features. Dread grips his heart in a vice, his throat growing too tight to breathe.

"Jaskier."

The only thing more frightening than the thought of hurting Jaskier is the sudden, cold shiver of realisation that Geralt couldn't get himself to stop. Not now, not if Jaskier cried and begged him to. Not at all, not ever.

Gods, Jaskier's big blue eyes, rimmed-red and gleaming even more as he chokes on tears, chokes on pleas and protests, but Geralt keeps taking his pleasure in spite of it all, keeps—

"Geralt?" He snaps back to a feverish reality and finds his fingertips resting against the wet skin of Jaskier's cheek. "Oh, don't worry about it. Four orgasms in one day will do that to a man."

Fuck. Geralt has to grit his teeth to keep still.

"—four?"

The smile Jaskier gives him is almost bashful.

"You were gone a long time."

Geralt bows his head to mouth absent-mindedly at the soft, bruised skin of Jaskier's neck.

"Not—not that I'm not enjoying myself, but—why now? What brought this on?"

Don't ask, Geralt thinks miserably. Don't ask lest I slip.

"Curse," he manages to say. It's the truth. Part of it. Should've ridden for the brothel.

"O—oh. All of it?"

"Hm."

"The, uh. The kn—"

"Hm."

"Ah. Pity."

Pity, Jaskier says, because he's not really interested in Geralt, only the horrid, monstrous part of him. A part that's not even his own.

Geralt knew this isn't real, and he—he'd still—

"I'll—" It chokes him, but he's already come this far. He'll see it through. He'll see it through, because he'll die otherwise. Just for survival, this. "I'll need you. Again. In a minute."

Jaskier mutters something at that. Geralt sees his lips move, but he can't hear the words. His vision swims, like a heatwave, melting Jaskier's expression into a soft, malleable thing. Could be anything. A burning want, not unlike Geralt's own. Fascination, maybe.

Love.

No. No.

He pulls out too harshly, too quickly. The knot is still half-swollen, the drag of it the sweetest torture. The only thing sweeter being the sight of his seed gushing onto the sheets in his wake. Gods. Gods.

"Take whatever," is what Jaskier tells him as Geralt plugs his stretched hole with two shaking fingers. "Just don't—don't make me come. Please. I am but a mere mortal."

He sounds eager, still, if tired. Geralt is tired, too.

And so, so very hungry for more.

Rolling Jaskier onto his front is the easiest of tasks. Geralt grips knuckle-white at his hips and his hair and drags him up onto unsteady knees. A growl rises in his chest as he watches his spend drip down Jaskier's thighs, his pert balls. He'd never been quite so interested in—in breeding someone like this, planting his seed, marking Jaskier up inside and out, and now, now—

"Fuck."

He pushes back in and it feels like coming home.

Like it's meant to be.

Like Destiny, in her infinite wisdom—

"Fuck."

The snap of his hips knocks the air out of Jaskier, a little hitch of breath that slips into moans and whimpers. Time ceases to exist. Geralt isn't even certain that the inn still stands where it'd been—they might be floating in a bottomless void and Geralt wouldn't know. He wouldn't care.

Maybe it's that, that he doesn't care. Maybe it's because this isn't real, beyond the raw carnal need, because it doesn't matter, that he asks through clenched teeth,

"… talk to me."

Jaskier's got his fist shoved halfway in his mouth, Geralt sees now, so all he gives in response is a confused hum. Damn him.

"Say you—say you want this." Say you want me. Lie to me.

The bed's frame creaks dangerously, yet Geralt can't get himself to slow.

"I want it so much, gods, my wolf, have mercy, I—" a gasp, a whimper, the slap of their skin, "Your knot feels so good, so—" a tremor in Jaskier's shoulder, twitching muscle and wet moans, "I want it in me forever, please, I'll stay on it and you—you—"

He lasts longer, this time, the pleasure cresting slowly, but Jaskier's words make his hips snap forward brutally, his knuckles white around Jaskier's hips.

"—you can breed me full and keep me tied to the bed and I'll thank you for it, gods, just let me have it, let me sit on your knot until I can't remember what it's like not to be full—"

It's too late, when his release hits him like a punch to the chest; the knot's already full, fuck, it'll never fit, except, except Jaskier's asked for it so sweetly, so beautifully, and Geralt squeezes his eyes shut and throws his leg over Jaskier's hip and forces the bloody thing in with a roar.

Jaskier screams. Geralt can barely hear it through the buzzing in his ears. He watches Jaskier's thighs shake, his fingers twist tightly around rumpled sheets.

They pant together for a moment, desperate gulps of air. Then, when Geralt's cock finally stops pulsing come, when thinks he's picked up all the pieces of his shattered composure,

"Can you fuck me with it?" Jaskier asks in a small voice, sounding drunk, fucked-out.

Geralt's head spins. Surely Jaskier doesn't mean—

"It's—so much when it pops in. But—" He shudders. Geralt can see it in the curved line of his spine. "Please. I'm sorry. Please."

Red bleeds into his vision. Jaskier arches his back more, shakes his hips and makes Geralt near-delirious.

He tries to pull out. The knot won't budge and it's—so fucking good. His hands shake, again, and he braces them at the base of Jaskier's spine and pulls out with considerable effort. He watches Jaskier's hole stretch so incredibly wide around the knot, watches it pulse and flutter around the thickest part of it. He keeps still. Just looking.

"Fuck," Jaskier whines feebly. "Fuck, that's—"

Geralt pulls his hips back, slipping out of Jaskier's body completely. Jaskier stays open, gaping, leaking spend. He shivers violently.

Pushing his swollen, oversensitive knot back in is a feeling so intense Geralt nearly doubles over.

Jaskier says something, his voice hoarse, but Geralt can't hear it, can't hear anything but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He puts his thumbs against where their bodies connect and pulls out again, slowly. The muscles in Jaskier's thighs spasm.

"Geralt, Geralt, Geralt—fuck, that's so good, so—please make me come again, please, oh—"

The echo of Jaskier's words sounds in his head, asking him precisely not to do that, and when he reaches to touch Jaskier's cock he finds it only half-hard. Jaskier squirms away.

Geralt squeezes the head of Jaskier's prick harshly and shoves the knot it again and Jaskier goes so very still before he spills over into Geralt's palm.

The vice-tight grip of his body makes Geralt lose his bearings and he collapses forward, forces Jaskier to splay flat on his belly with Geralt plastered to his back.

"Gods," Jaskier wheezes, and Geralt's so horribly hot all over again.

He grinds the knot forward, tries to get it deeper, deeper, deeper, feeling like he might come again even before the knot's gone down. Jaskier still contracts around his cock, and Geralt's—so close, so close, and he ruts frantically forward, and he sinks his teeth in the back of Jaskier's neck and spills again so violently that tears roll down his cheeks, the smell of ozone heavy in his nostrils, a faint crackle of Chaos against his skin.

It takes a long moment for his heart rate to trickle back to its usual sluggish thud, but when it does, when Geralt releases the skin between his teeth—

The fever recedes so suddenly, it's like he put his head in ice-cold water. Frigid air rushes to his lungs, cools the sweat on his skin. At last he can think clearly.

He tries to roll off of Jaskier, but finds them bound together still, Jaskier's ruined hole clinging to him weakly. Seems like the knot is a permanent feature, then.

"Leave it there," Jaskier mumbles, sounding on the edge of consciousness when Geralt goes to pull out as gently as he can manage.

An overwhelming exhaustion seeps into his bones at once. Geralt settles on his side, still inside his bard, pulls him close to his chest and drifts off into a calm, dreamless sleep.

#cw dubcon #i guess? since it's a curse #cw knotting #cw breeding kink #it's filthy but also a wee bit soft

82 notes · View notes

dread-and-despair-dyke · 3 years ago

Note

Are you able to go for a walk? Preferably in a park or in nature? I know walking for 30 minutes to an hour while looking at nature or observing animals (or even just listening to music) tends to calm me down and put me in a slightly better mood when I'm in a bad headspace. Taking a bath, washing/doing my hair, using one of those face masks, etc. Anything where you're taking care of your body might help. And trying to be as present as you can and focusing on the sensation. I'm not the best at doing that but sometimes it helps when I get a little too stuck in my head.

I hope you feel better soon 💕

this is very sweet of u anon ily so much

it's like 11pm here rn, and i get anxious walking out in the dark so i cant do that rn unfortunately but i think ill try and go out tomorrow, it wld be good for me i think

as per recommendation of my therapist and other people here, I try to think abt mindfulness techniques and being present in the moment, but i think maybe i just need more practice on that kind of thing! since i can't currently get it to work lol ;w; i will try to get an early night maybe, and do some of these things tmrrw <3 <3 <3

going to ramble-vent aimlessly under the cut, nothing coherent

nobody needs to read this but its only in this post bc i thought abt it in relation to the things mentioned above

but i think somth i struggle with is having issues with depressive or anxious thoughts/emotions coming in if I'm not intensely preoccupied - e.g. if im showering or taking a bath (don't worry, i do these things anyway lol), taking a walk (dont do this one as often, whoops), other things where the activity doesn't require much 'thinking', I start to spiral into anxiety particularly in those moments where I don't have something to think about

And my levels of how preoccupied i have to be to avoid the anxious thoughts coming in have only gotten higher over time- now i can be trying to play a game or listen to music and bring myself back to focusing on it every 30 seconds or so, but I still manage to get anxious about whatever it is in my mind at that time. It is the same whether I am doing nothing, or am occupied with one thing, or occupied with three things; I can't let the thoughts pass through, they just stay in my brain stubbornly and don't leave until they've reached their conclusion half an hour later, at which point I am mentally exhausted from overthinking so rapidly for so long, emotionally exhausted from all the anxiety, and physically just kind of achy from standing up in a shower for half an hour. At which point, I get out and then lie in bed for the rest of the day because being alive feel so goddamn bad.

i think it's because, my mind not being preoccupied means I have to think about things in real life! ah, i get to think about such joyous things as: how absolutely incapable of feeling connection with others I am, how subsequently lonely i am, my actions and mistakes, the way that even my best efforts aren't enough for people, every hypothetical situation in which a problem might arise, how i should prepare for each of those hypothetical and unlikely problems, how i would fix any and every problem, how people perceive me, how i'm a burden to the people around me, the way that my best judgement will always still be 'bigoted' to somebody, my responsibilities that i have long abandoned, the people i used to know whose lives continue while i stay stagnant, the way that i can't keep putting off these issues forever, general existential dread...

...and other fun things to think about for half an hour while I stand in the shower forgetting that i was meant to be actually showering!

I have spoken with my therapist about these things before, I think. We talk through the logic of it, and of course there are always CBT sheets talking about how it isn't accurate to real life to think in such a way, and sometimes i agree. but even when I do agree, it doesn't stop the thoughts from happening. they happen whether i agree with the logic behind them or not, the logic is always biased in favour of assuming the worst outcome of everything, because that's just how I'm used to thinking. Because that's how life goes anyway, It's always bad, even if an outcome initially assumed to be 'good' happens, it turns out to be bad anyway, or at best it turns out to be just neutral.

There is no good, there is just hope sometimes, and love. But I don't have those things either! oh well. time to sleep.

#deepthoughtsTM #this one got uhh pretty fuckin long bois #haha what if i screencapped this and sent it to my therapist who i havent spoken to in months #im sure she would #uh #probably suggest i schedule another appointment with her #but i find talking so hard #i cant stay mentally present in the conversation bc im too busy worrying about how hard it is to stay mentally present in the conversation

3 notes · View notes

cherpupz · 3 years ago

Note

How are you? :D

im doing p good !! as well as very,, very,, exhausted xP hope ur doing good too !! <3 i've been doing a lot of art and trying to prepare for artfight (which is about to start at 11 AM for me lmao), i've finally finished most of the TBHK catified stuff, redesigned a few characters and now im just

right now HASFVBSAV i've taken a long "break" from social media (it's rlly just me poppin in and out when im comfortable), esp. twt bc we all know that place is a hellhole jfc, but i might come back and try to post more often?? idk :// i was supposed to do an art dump yesterday or days ago but i didn't... might try n do it tmrrw if im comfortable sobs, i feel like there's a lot i missed out on tbhktwt </3 (i saw y'all started a new hashtag called #tbhkselfieday wahh </3 i wish i could join aaa ) anyway, im hoping to get out a lot more art in the next few months !! esp. OC art since im thinking abt finally working on expanding on lore and stories + while getting out some catified fanart (obviously TBHK mainly lmao)

#ask #tsukasaenthusiast #@ anyone who's on team cyberpunk for artfight come @ me im team steampunk <3

4 notes · View notes

goldenclosetkook · 4 years ago

Note

Im even unfollowing any lgbt related accs i follow on insta and deleting my spam insta acc where i mentioned my sexuality multiple times, im for real gonna try this, also gonna go through all my pics and search history tmrrw and delete any lgbt related things, fuck i might need to talk to some ppl im out to they gotta know too, idk if i can pretend to be homophobic tho, tho being an ally would probably give me away too much but maybe it wont be mentioned or i can stay neutral?

Darling please please please I hope you see this. Conversion therapy is NOT the answer - it’s only going to force you into a place that has the potential to do more damage to you.

There is nothing wrong with not being het- absolutely nothing, ok? And there is nothing wrong with you.

Babe I am begging you to speak to someone close to you who you know you can trust. One of my closest friends once tried to ‘convert’ to being het and it destroyed her - she’s only recently becoming herself again and idk if she’ll ever really accept herself. It scares me so much.

Please please please don’t try and torture yourself into this. I hope you see this. I hope you’re ok ❤️

#gck ask #anon

5 notes · View notes

oghoneytryst · 6 years ago

Text

winter flakes.

UPDATED

request: harry is upset when he takes his love to meet his family, but they end up not liking her

where the holiday season brings upon a terrible first impression

a/n: yo pls read this is I M P O R T A N T lol ok so I'm trash. I wanted to write so many xmas one shots since I had time but now I just ... don’t. I wanted to finish this one before Christmas Eve bUT that didn’t happen so here’s an essential *part one*. I won’t make another post for part two, I'll just update it on here since I wanted it to be a one-shot and nothing more.

I just wanted to post this in case I actually don’t finish the rest tmrrw (today) but hopefully I get myself in check.

The second part has been added to this post, thus making this one-shot finished. Happy reading!

--------

She hides in plain sight, where fragments of white winter flakes sink from the clouds.

The sky is in full gloom, a gray nature that flawlessly exhibits her most inner emotions. A frown etches her face as powdery snow decorates the roofless patio, the couch cushions as stiff as ice. Behind her numb face is the infinite chatter of her teeth; her fists in the pockets of her creamy coat begin to lose feeling.

Somehow, it is warmer out here than it is inside.

She yawns silently, blinks away the icicles of fallen tears from her sad and wandering eyes. She knows she will fall ill soon, but perhaps it is in everyone’s best interest. She – sick in bed as the holidays go on without her. An absence in the family pictures is favorable over having to eventually cut her out with precision and an open-mind.

A reasonable part of her wishes she had declined Harry’s invitation to visit his family this holiday season. She would have had to spend Christmas and New Year’s alone, but she imagines it is better to be in her lonesome than in the company of people who dislike her.

It no longer matters. By some chance, it is better this way. At least now she can prepare for the meek outcome of her relationship’s future – or rather, a lack thereof.

Through the harsh yet whispering winds, she fails to hear the patio door slide open. With her back to her visitor, she stares out at the hibernating greenery, entirely entranced by the Earth’s chaotic intricacy.

“Baby,” Harry’s voice calls out. “What’re ya doing out here?”

She manages to shrug despite the startle that Harry gives her. “Needed some air.” Tiny inhalations temporarily sniffle the coldness away. She tugs her arms together in an empty self-embrace, hoping that it will still the shivers of her body.

Harry appears behind her, peeling the blanket he had stolen from inside so that it may envelope her entire frame with its great quilted pattern. She senses this added warmth and looks up to her right, gracious of Harry and his proud smile that peers down at her.

“Better?” he asks, long legs moving him around from behind the patio couch.

It is better, very much so. Yet, when he flumps down on the cushion next to her, she responds with a frown. “Now you’re going to be cold,” she reprimands. He wears nothing more than a puffy sweater, trousers, gingerbread socks, and slippers.

Harry leans forward, slim fingers switching the controls of the sleek fire pit table in front of them. “Why didn’t you turn this on then?” he asks, chuckling when she tries to pull him into the warmth of the blanket for two.

He allows her to wrap him up, two lovers cocooned with legs in a knot and hearts beating as one. His left arm slides around her, lazily squeezing her into his chest. She encloses his waist in a hug, slips a hand underneath his sweater and over his hip. She rubs tenderly with frozen fingers that make his skin tingle, not a single complaint hanging off of his tongue.

“Didn’t want to mess with it,” she answers, snuggling the tip of her nose deeper into his sweater. “Knowing me, I’d figure out a way to break it.”

“So, you’d rather freeze to death?”

“Better than having your mother angry at me.”

“She’d never.” His chin meets with his chest, lump limps against her head. It isn’t so much a kiss, rather a little something that lets her know he’s there. “You should be inside, having a little girls’ talk or wha’ever. Mum’s made some hot chocolate, said she’ll start on the cookies soon.”

“It’s okay. I’m fine out here.”

It is important to note that only a handful of months into their relationship and already does Harry adore her so much. A handful of months in and he has already studied and learned the shifting features of her strongest emotions.

Ecstatic is when her eyes crinkle. They practically disappear behind her happy cheeks, front teeth blossoming with power.

Angry is when she appears neutral. If not for the haunting flare of her nostrils, he would end up playing a dangerous game between his oblivion and her temper.

Hungry – yes, to her it is an emotion. Apart from her rumbling tummy, she has this certain pout that his lips find irresistible.

Whether her demeanors are bold and obvious or faint and unnoticeable, he is aware of them all. Whether he can see her face or not, he knows. It is in the way she speaks, the way she holds onto him as though he is only possible thing that can calm her mind.

He asks then, “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” because she is sad, in the simplest of terms. He doesn’t quite know why – figuring it out on his own requires a little more patience and expertise. For the moment being, he only focuses on her sullen blue mood.

“What do you mean?”

Harry expects her dumbfounded response, along with the slight stiffening of her body. “You trust me, yeah?” he tries instead, eyes to the crackling wisp of the fire.

She raises her head to him, an instant, “Yeah,” as her answer. She doesn’t doubt the confidence she has in him.

Harry pouts with a now delicate grip on her chin. “Then be truthful with me, please?” He loves this position they’re in, where two bodies connect in such an innocent way, an invisible link between their loving eyes. “I don’t want you alone in whatever’s bothering you. You and me, that’s us, alright? No exceptions.”

Her lover seals this promise with a spongy kiss. She admires the way he breathes her in and out, specifically because she likes that certain smell of his. Their mouths melt as one; his tastes of that delicious chocolate liquid that lingers on his lips.

When he pulls away – and god, she doesn’t ever want him to – his green eyes glaze with the upmost sincerity that has her sighing in his arms. From this he knows that he has won, but her prefers to consider it as earning her vulnerability.

He is patient with her, but even then, she is wary. No exceptions, he had said. None, unless it concerns the people most important in his life.

“I kind of ... I didn’t want to start anything,” she begins, evidently avoiding those piercing eyes of his. “Still don’t. Even mentioning it might ... I don’t know, ruin something? And that’s not what I want, because you’re so content right now and I want you to stay that way. I don’t want to be a trouble.”

“Are you trying to say that you’re some kind of burden?” Harry quizzes, suspicious of her spiel’s direction. “Cos’, honest, whatever concerns you is my problem too. If you’re not happy with something, neither am I.”

“That’s the reason, baby!” She sits up straighter, and he tries his hardest not to melt around his girlfriend. For her to call him such an endearment is something he truly loves. It is thick like honey, dripping down the chambers of his heart. “I don’t want you to be upset. If I don’t tell you, at least for the time being, then it won’t affect you. At a time like this, I think that’s pretty important.”

“No!” he argues, eyebrows knitted like the sweater he wears. “No, that’s ... what’s important is that you’re honest with me. ‘Bout anything, at any time. Still don’t even know why you’re upset. You just gotta tell me, I’ll help you. If I didn’t care about you all the time, then I’d hope you’d break up with me for being a dickhead.”

“It won’t be on my part,” she says under her breath, never intending for him to hear. To her dismay, the winter winds are not nearly loud enough to mask her voice.

“S’cuse me?” Harry raises, no longer slouch against the couch. “What do you mean by that? Are you saying that I’m just going to date and dump ya?”

“No.” She shakes her head, repetitively, as if to further deny his assumption. “You know I don’t think of you that way.”

“Alright, then what is it?”

“It’s ... it’s complicated. More than you think, or maybe not ... can we just talk about it later?”

Harry states her name in such a way that is frightening, serious, even emotionless. This is a first in their relationship – the first time he’s ever been so strict with her.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to call my mum and sister out here to drag it out of you.”

His darling’s face expresses shock up to her eyebrows and down to her chin. She shakes her head again, this time more frantic and desperate. “No,” she pleas, gripping onto his cold hands. “Please don’t. Harry, I swear I will never forgive you.”

A spontaneous spill of words conceives her threat. Her bottom lip quivers, her rapid tongue suddenly dry as she waits for Harry to settle back against the couch.

Harry, however, is frozen. He doesn’t know if he is hurt; if he is, he doesn’t know what for. It is just something about this warning of hers that makes him feel weird.

“Forgive me?” he questions, his voice now smaller than hers. “Forgive me for what? Have I done something? Am I the reason you’re upset?”

The look on his face is heartbreaking. She frowns at him again, gently smoothening her fingers over his hands to explain to him, silently, that no, he is not the reason. While in their future – if there even is one – they will have many arguments where he is the one at fault, or she is the one to blame, he currently does nothing to make her feel this way.

For this reason alone, she knows she has to tell him. He is here for her in this blistering cold. He had promised he would be. In such an unfamiliar place as his mother’s home, he is her common, her serenity. This is something that she has to trust in.

“It’s not you,” she confesses, nervous as her eyes begin to dart from side to side. “It’s because ... your family. They hate me.”

Silence. Her heart beat ironically aches in her chest. She tries to find a reaction in his body language; a head tilt in her peripheral, a twitch in his fingers. Instead, there is nothing, which only makes her want to scream.

“Hate you?” Harry blinks, cautious about whether or not she kids with him.

“Hate, dislike ... does it really matter?”

“...No. You’re right, no, it doesn’t matter.” Harry is unyielding, which makes his girlfriend raise her head with surprise. He leans forward, green eyes burning into hers. “Cos’ they don’t feel either way about you. Why would you even say something so ridiculous?”

She cranes her neck up a little, eyebrows soaring in defense. “Have you even been paying attention the entire time since we’ve gotten here?”

“Of course, I have. Haven’t seen anything less than a smile directed toward you.”

“It’s not that hard to fake a smile out of kindness.”

“This is my family we’re talking about. The people who raised me.”

“You don’t think I know that?”

“Alright, so trust me then. They’d never hate the person I’m dating, ‘specially not after just a few hours of knowing them.”

“Seems like there’s a first for everything.”

“Or you’re just being extremely paranoid.”

At this, it is her turn to feel hurt. The word stings a little, especially since she knows she’s right. It is an intuitive gut-feeling; a negative energy surrounds her all afternoon. Harry somehow foreshadows his fate. She is upset, but now it is all because of him.

In an impulsive tantrum, she throws his hands down to his lap. Her body turns away, arms crossing over her chest like a grumpy child. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” she grumbles, ignoring the burn she begins to feel in her nose.

Harry knows his family. He knows these accusations of hers are nearly impossible. Though, he also knows that his love had been nervous to come here – and this gesture of hers! It is so harsh and abrupt; it is very unlike her. Harry hates that he only notices her distress over his unintentional name-calling after the damage had already been done. He had promised to be tender, but now his guilt overpowers every fiber in his foolish being.

“Hey ... none o’ that,” he mumbles, reaching out to sling an arm around her shoulder, a gentle hand on her knee. He is afraid that she will push him away, a dent in their relationship that is entirely his fault. To his relief, she actually allows him to pull her in, even turns toward him a little. “M’sorry,” he coos. “So sorry, baby. I didn’t mean that.”

Harry presses his freezing dry lips to her temple, further murmuring his apologies. She is stubborn with where she is now, but rightfully so. Still, it is nice to have him so close.

“You can tell me anything,” he assures her. “You’re not being paranoid, I’m just ... being a dickhead.” Harry laughs, cursing the universe for this clever turn of events. “I’ll listen, alright? Please, talk to me.”

“You don’t believe me.” She rolls her eyes, hating how instantly she complies to his touch.

“Okay...” His face scrunches as he tries to work his way around this one. “But you’ve got to understand why I’m a little hesitant about it. Look, doesn’t matter. How ‘bout you explain to me why you think that way, hmm?”

His love begins to ease up a little in his arms. She reluctantly turns her head to him; an angry frown still taints her pretty face. In contrast, he smiles warmly, never once loosening his grip.

“...Gemma answered the door,” she explains, making Harry contently sigh.

“Uh huh,” he presses on. He prepares his ears to catch onto any faint detail that he can use to dissect her version of their visit.

“And she was really happy at first because, you know, you.”

“Right.”

“But she kind of like ... interrupted us? Because she opened the door without us even knocking. So, you were whispering in my ear about ... things and because of that, her sudden presence took me by surprise.”

Harry smirks. He had been whispering to her, alright. Whispering about things that his sister definitely doesn’t want to hear.

“So, when she came to hug me, I was still in that sort of shock, y’know? So, I was really stiff and I didn’t even hug her back. It was terrible! When she pulled away, she had this awkward look on her face.”

“I don’t think that means anything. She was probably just taken aback, same as you. Doesn’t mean that it was bad or that she hates you.”

His girlfriend scoffs. This is how he knows she has much more to say.

“That was nothing compared to your mother. I didn’t even hug her, Harry! She came in for one, or maybe just a kiss on the cheek, and I was so nervous that I just ... turned away! Do you realize how bad that is? Everyone in the kitchen just looked at me like ... like I was some kind of spoiled brat.”

“But you said it yourself,” Harry rebuttals. “You were nervous. I’m sure my mother understood that. She knows I wouldn’t date someone so self-absorbed.”

“Oh really? Is that why I keep seeing them whispering to each other? Even worse, when they instantly stop once they see that I’m in the room?”

“Alright!” Harry stands up from the patio couch. “I’m going to settle this, and when I’m right, I want a cuddle.”

Her eyes bulge out of her head when she sees her boyfriend rise. She leaps to his side, holding onto his hand as though she is clinging onto the last bit of life.

“What are you doing?” she cries. “Please, don’t say anything. Don’t you dare say anything, are you crazy?”

“How do you expect this to be resolved if I don’t bring it up to them?”

“I am begging you not to. Please ... don’t.”

Harry pauses, staring into her anxious eyes and then to the skin-tight grip she has on him.

He sighs. “Okay. I won’t mention anything, but I am going to figure this out. Whether that means bringing you into the conversation or not.”

“That’s ... fine,” she settles, though she is a little wary of how he will manage to fix any of this. “Can I just ... hold your hand for a little longer?”

Her beloved smirks, taking his rightful place next to her on the couch. He lets her wrap his larger hands in hers, a tick that he now learns is what she does when she’s nervous. She’d done it when they had first arrived, and she does it now.

“You’re gonna have to let go some time,” he points out, though smitten with the peace she finds in him.

“I know, just ... a little longer, okay?”

He nods, raising their clump for hands to press a kiss on her knuckles. “Tha’s fine with me.”

~~~

In the face of her reluctant separation of hand-holding, Harry is content when he persuades his girlfriend back into the warm confinements of his mother’s house.

The two of them walk past the sliding patio door, shuffling away the snow in a living room exuding lively chatter. There are family friends in the mix, extrovertly stunning individuals who sit on cozy cushions with fishbowls of wine in their grips. They’re kind people, a hilarious lot, although she fears their previous talk in these walls.

For a short moment, the queasy uproar in her chest subdues. Anne and Gemma are missing from the bunch. The most vital of Harry’s blood and bones whom she cannot blame for any of this. In actuality, it is she who is the root of the problem. Her mannerisms, her presentation – she has failed herself. She has failed Harry.

“Alright.” Harry folds the quilted blanket upon locking the sliding glass door. “I think they’re in the kitchen. Would you like to come with?”

She takes a studious gander at the living room. The other guests had only spared the couple a glance upon hearing them walk in. Besides that, they had returned to their chirpy conversations with ease. Their laughs bounce off the walls; the couples discreet chat goes unnoticed.

“N-No.” She shakes her head. Here, in a room full of persons, she is practically invisible. She is safe.

Harry nods, hanging the blanket over the back of the couch. “Okay.” He slips his hand right underneath the side of her jaw, puckering his lips on her forehead. “I’ll be right back then.”

She is frantic again when he says this, pulls him back by the arm as he begins to walk away. “Don’t say anything,” she warns him once more, this time with much more intensity. It is clearly moot to him how ashamed she will feel if he so much as even mentions her sad emotions.

“I won’t!” he whisper-yells, mimicking her look of absurdity with nothing but loving intentions. “Why don’t you sit down, eh?” He flicks his head to the opposite end of the couch where an entire cushion is available to her. “Next to Michal. Y’think you’ll be okay with that?”

She grimaces, side-eyeing the man’s harmless appearance. “Gemma’s boyfriend ... he probably hates me by default.”

Harry snickers, unable to resist another kiss on her sweet face. “Adorable.”

He backs away from her reach in dance: bends his arms and sways his hips. The glare she sends contrasts his cheeky wink, and he is off to the kitchen.

It is true that he doesn’t want to lie to his darling. It is obvious how in distress she is over this, but he believes that it is nothing more than a mild illusion, a product of her nerves. Surely his mother and sister will find it endearing that she worries so much over their approval. He can fix all of this in a matter of minutes.

“...not know what he’s thinking.”

Harry’s stroll comes to a halt in the hallway, the light of the kitchen cutting diagonally across the floor. He hides in the shadows, up against a wall where his mother and sister cannot see him. Eavesdropping is a dirty thing, but something about his mother’s voice is strange.

Curiosity killed the cat.

“He’s blind to it,” Gemma adds in, a hint of secrecy in her tone. “But that’s him. He grows obsessed, then he gets ... I don’t know, bored?”

Harry narrows his eyes. Are they speaking of him?

“A simple and kind person,” Anne tuts. He can hear her place batter on the cookie sheet. “That’s all I want for him. Why is it so hard?”

“Why don’t you tell him then?” Gemma asks, then pauses. He can imagine her sipping on her wine, licking the elegant flavor off her lips. “Maybe he’ll be open to the idea of you setting him up. He trusts your word more than anyone else.”

“I do have a couple of people in mind that I’d like him to meet, but it’s as you said. He’s obsessed. He won’t listen now. We’ll just have to ... wait it out, see how long it goes for.”

Wait it out? He’s utterly lost, but at the same time, he fears what he already knows.

“Do you think...” Gemma begins, “Okay, this might be a tad harsh, but do you imagine she’s here because her own family didn’t want to spend the holidays with her?”

The question is a bullet to his heart. He blinks rapidly with a face that twists; disbelief washes over all of his senses. Had he heard it wrong? His lovely sister would never be so cruel. Is this all a misunderstanding solely on his part?

His mother. Oh, his dear mother. Her response is the icing on the cake.

“Poor girl. I can’t even begin to think what family must have raised her.”

He won’t lie – it hurts. Their gossip hadn’t meant to belittle him or his decision making. In a strange type of way, he understands where they’re coming from. They love him. They want what’s best for him.

Nonetheless, understanding doesn’t make him any less upset. It doesn’t make him any less confused, overwhelmed, absolutely livid. This side of his family is a disappointing shock and it makes him a little sick.

Of anything else, he feels for his lovey. While this mess concerns him, it is not about him. In the end, she had been right, and he had been selfish. He had dismissed her, had disregarded her intuition and her discomfort, all because he had much more faith in his family than in her.

His mother and sister’s conversation becomes a jumble, not as if it matters much anyway. He had heard what he had heard, and they had moved onto a new, safer topic as unbothered as one would be flipping through the channels on the telly.

He takes a minute to calm himself, inhaling and exhaling before pushing himself off the wall. A few nervous clicks of his knuckles and he stumbles into the light with more to prove than before. His heavy footsteps garner their attention mid-conversation.

They greet him with twin smiles, but he responds in a boiling, amusing stare. Leaning against the counter opposite to the island, he crosses his arms and nibbles inside his cheek.

“Everything alright?” Gemma asks, noticing his stare-down with the tile floors. He is in thought, a distracting amount of it, and it is concerning to his sister – his sister that knows him so well.

Harry opens his mouth, lips silently stuttering over infinite responses. How could he go about this in a way that is civil amid his lingering vexation?

“Mother o’ mine,” he comically says, full out ignoring his sister’s question.

The pair of ladies look at him with curiosity, but it is not in an eager or silly way. It is tense. Stiff. Suspicious.

“Darling?” She smiles, setting the batter aside. Her chin tilts up, her soft features almost overpowering his will. How could he possibly be mad at the woman who’d given him everything?

He wants to give her a chance. He wants to believe that he’d been right. Very casually does he mention the chat he’d had with his girlfriend, her name that twitches the gleam in their faces. Though it is only a slight falter, a millisecond of a reaction, he had seen it.

“It’s funny.” He laughs, raising his head in the gravity of his words. “She’d said something to me that I found quite ... mmm, ridiculous, I’d say. Unbelievable, even. I couldn’t quite believe it myself, but for her sake, I listened. That’s what a person in a relationship does, after all. So, she’d said to me that she was, ehm, she was feeling a bit down.”

Anne frowns. “Oh no, darling. What about?”

“What about? Well, she’d said ... hmm, how did it go? In her words, as best as I can remember it anyway, she’d said, your family hates me. Yeah, tha’s what I heard.”

At this sated accusation, the faces of the two women grow paler. Gemma freezes, while Anne swallows in discomfort. Her eyes search for a way out of this maze, but her beautiful son does not allow it.

“Doesn’t that sound ridiculous, mum?”

“It does,” Gemma answers. She easily catches onto how they have to team up against Harry’s spontaneous quips.

He smiles again. “Right. After all, she’d been devastated to find out that she couldn’t travel to spend the holidays with her family. The snow just wouldn’t allow it. Cancelled her flight and everything.” He steps up, leans forwards now with his palm gripping the edge of the island. “And you had been so kind as to welcome her into your home. So, really, how could you possibly hate her?”

His gaze is unbearable. His mother feels as if she had committed a crime.

“Of course,” Anne chuckles, “that’s – it is ridiculous. I don’t ... hate her.”

“And you, Gem,” he switches his interrogation. “Of all the ... questionable people I’ve been obsessed with, it doesn’t seem sensible that the one simple and kind person I’ve finally ended up with, turns out to be someone you hate, right?”

Gemma raises a brow as the intensity of his stare increases. Their eyes – her dark ones, his light ones – from the same genes collide in a battle. Together, in a team setting, they are competitive, supportive, and practically unstoppable. Apart, in a duel against each other, it is an all-out war.

She never gives in, no matter how grueling. She is as stubborn as he is, but this time, she knows. She knows that the longer she plays this game of his, the winner he will become.

“Oh, stop it!” She folds the towel and turns away from his mocking smirk. “I’m not doing this!”

“Gemma!”

“What? I’m not going to sit here and lie to him.”

“Oh really?” Harry asks, hands on his hips. “Just like you two have done all evening?”

“We haven’t lied!” she defends in a high-pitch.

“You said you didn’t hate her!”

“We don’t!” Gemma sips her wine, commenting very quietly that: “We just don’t like her.”

“Gemma!” Anne repeats. It astounds her that her daughter would be so blunt, but she can’t bring herself to disagree.

Harry shakes his head in shame. Not of his own, nor for bringing his love to this place, but for the distaste of his own blood. “Unbelievable,” he mutters. “It is actually unbelievable. And after all of the boyfriends of yours I defended.”

“Oh, don’t be such a knob.” His sister glares. Her wine glass is lonely on the island counter. “Anyone in my past hadn’t nearly been as impolite as her.”

“Impolite? Wh—” Harry turns his head from side-to-side. He wonders if anyone else can hear the absurdities. “When has she ever been impolite?”

“Darling,” Anne speaks up. She’d been quiet, nervous about where this sensitive topic would end up going. It had not finished well. “Why don’t we just leave this as it is?”

“No! No, I will not—”

“Harry, please, it’s just not worth it.”

“Not worth it?” He questions, a pattern of the sorts ensuing. Every ridiculous thing they say, he has to repeat. They have to hear it again, from his opposing tongue, and maybe then they will come to terms with how unreasonable they’re being.

“Can you honestly tell us that she’ll be here in a year’s time?” Gemma says, a bit sincerer than she’s been.

“I ... how am I supposed to know that?”

The two women give each other a look. It only boils his blood more.

“Don’t do that!”

“It’s a simple question, Harry.”

“It’s not so simple to answer given that you two don’t even like her! I mean, what – what could you possibly not like about her? What has she done?”

“She’s just ... rude,” his sister answers, his mother nodding in agreement. “Reserved, but in a bad way.”

“She’s nervous!” he retorts, hands twitched out in frustration. “And rightfully so, given how you two are behaving. You’d think, that with all I have to go through in the media, you’d know better than to judge someone off of one unjust impression.”

“It’s has more to do than that,” Anne says, her tone so sweet that it makes his tummy ache. “It’s just a feeling.”

“A feeling? A hunch then?” He waits for her to nod, and then he nods, and suddenly no one is quite certain where this will go next. “Right. I’ve got one of those myself. I have a feeling, a very strong one at that, that I do want her to be here in a year’s time. But do I see her here, in another 365 days? No.”

The women are silent, this unexpected sincerity captivates them. Still, there is something circulating the air. It is thick and unsettling, the loud chatter from the living room beginning to echo into their private area.

“She won’t be, because who in their right mind would willing endure this kind of treatment? Oh, the family doesn’t like her. Big shame. There’ll always be another one ready to take her in with open arms. She’ll realize that eventually, and she’ll go. None of this is worth it, as you’ve said, ‘specially not for me.”

The ticking of the wall clock has never sounded so ardent and bold. The more it ticks, the more of Harry’s vulnerability unravels from his monologue – his deepest fear. Tick, tick, tick. Seconds pass, but they are as torturous as lightyears. The trio grows weaker, the team of two at a loss for words. This steady beat in time makes no progress at all.

Harry sighs, a long one that devours them all. He steps around the island, throws an arm around his mother’s shoulders, the opposite hand on the crown of his sister’s head.

“I love you,” he says to Anne, then looks to Gemma. “Both of you. And I respect that this is your house. It’s your decision, I can’t change that. But I can’t stay here and pretend that it’s not a problem. It’s not fair to her.”

He finishes his sentence by giving them both a respective kiss on the head. They don’t respond, emotionless even, and he walks back into the hallway where the light does not blanket his creamy skin.

The guests are even chattier when he walks into the living room. He can easily spot his love on the couch, just as he had suggested. She scoots up against the end, the nearest person not even an arm’s length into her personal bubble of space. A majestic black dog is in front of her legs, head resting on her lap as she gives gentle rubs to his ears.

Harry smiles sadly. He had wanted to fix this for her. He had wanted to enjoy these days with her, to begin a tradition that everyone would be more than in favor of. He feels now as if he has done her wrong. Maybe there was more that he could have done, but she deserves better either way.

He walks over, opting to crouch down to her eye level next to the arm of the couch. She senses Harry, relieved to see his face of tranquility. She offers him a smile, but it shapes oddly at his less than neutral expression.

“M’sorry I didn’t believe you,” he says, with the softest eyes that had ever existed. He hopes that she can trust in his sincerity, that he truly is sorry for all that has happened. He doesn’t want her to hurt; he doesn’t want her to go through this mess when it clearly isn’t her fault. He adores her; hopefully that is enough for her.

She quizzes over his out-of-context statement, but when it does eventually hit her, it drowns her in deepest ocean. Her mouth gapes, wrinkles on her forehead, and the smallest, most innocent shake of her head.

“I told you not to say anything,” she remarks in the most precious voice. That is when his heart finally breaks.

“I know, baby.” His own voice is a little croaky. He pouts, and it isn’t exaggerated or playful. It is a genuine representation of his dismay. “M’ so sorry. You can have all the cuddles you want.”

A makeshift laugh exhales through her nostrils, but she sucks a meager amount back in when her vision glasses up. She won’t cry – although it is a very strong possibility despite her rapid blinks – but her entire mind, body, and soul reacts to this quite negatively.

Over all, this sucks. This holiday sucks and while Harry’s cuddles are therapeutic, she wants to revert to the darkness of the universe where the stars had first gathered her.

“C’mon.” Harry pulls her head down, sponging his lips right over the crease on her brow. It softens and smoothens, but she is still uncertain on the edge. “Let’s go.”

“What?” she questions, allowing him to clasp their hands tight. He pulls her up from the couch, murmuring his condolences to the large dog who sighs and trots away. “Wait, what are you – go where?”

She splits herself in two opposing halves: one follows Harry, but the other resists with heels dug in the floor. He directs her to the Christmas tree, where his path ceases in determination.

“Home,” he answers, freeing his hand to sift through the boxes of gifts. “We’re taking the presents with us.”

“What?” she whisper-yells, same as he had done to her, only hers is much more severe. “Are you out of your mind? W-we can’t just leave! Our bags!”

“Still in the car ... didn’t take them out.”

He can sense her glare burning on the back of his head. “I told you to take them out.”

“It was snowing hard, I was cold ... but now look ... didn’t even need to go through all the hassle.”

She grimaces at the pile that begins to appear at his side. Decorative paper seals all of the presents, wrapped by the two of them weeks prior. She feels useless in this situation, but he resembles something of a champion, a hard-headed competitor sprinting to his goal.

“Harry...” she whines, sneaking glances back at the oblivious guests. She hopes that they remain blind to the commotion he causes. “Please think this through.”

“I did,” he insists. “We’re not staying.”

“We can’t just leave.”

“You’re not comfortable here. We can spend the holidays by ourselves. Tha’s all we need anyway, right?”

Her mouth opens to protest his name again, but another voice calls out to him instead.

It causes him to tense up, a first in his life. He rises from his bent position and turns to find his mother and sister now present, with a certain concern scribbling their faces. He notices the obvious distance between them and his girlfriend, and it only increases as she takes discreet steps back in oblivious fear.

“Harry,” Anne tries again, smiling to his love the way a mother would smile to a stranger when her child misbehaves in public. “Please, don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have to leave.”

“We’re not staying,” he announces, a repeat in only a mere minute.

“Harry...” his girlfriend mumbles, to which sets an alarm off inside of him. In a second, he has her by the arm, pulling her behind him in protection.

“Harry, let’s talk about this,” Gemma offers, her once confident tone now lacking clarity. “For everyone’s sake, please.”

“M’sorry, but there’s been enough talking for now. I’ve heard everything I needed to. We’d like to spend the rest of the holidays in peace.”

She tugs on his arm now. “Harry...”

“By the way, mother...” Harry points up, reaching for the smallest box on his pile. He hands it to his bewildered mother, who takes it hesitantly. “You can keep that. It’s from her. She spent weeks worrying about what to get you, said she had to get you a gift on her own rather than just writing her name on mine. Said it was really important to her.”

Anne frowns, fingers still as ice on the square box. “Sweetheart...”

“It’s a lovely pair of earrings,” he reveals with a shrug. “Wouldn’t let me pay for it either. Cost her a few paychecks.”

“Listen to us, we’re really sorry—”

“No, m’sorry, but I really don’t want to hear it.”

“It’s our tradition to spend the holidays together!”

“Harry...”

“I thought it was our tradition to be kind to people.”

“Harry...”

“Stop it, we haven’t done anything!”

“That is just laughable, Gem—”

“Baby...” she states, her voice still soft but more stern than previous.

The instant clench of his heart causes his lips to seal; his ears open up to the sound that he had been accidentally ignoring in the midst of his defense. He looks to his love, who has found enough courage to step beside him than hide in the privacy of his tall frame.

“Give me the keys to the car.”

Harry twists his face. “What?”

“Give me the keys,” she repeats, eyebrow shooting up for emphasis.

“What for?”

She looks to the floor, her hand still firm in his. She feels their eyes on her, but she can’t seem to figure out if it is in envy or curiosity.

“You obviously don’t want me to stay here,” she confesses, “So I’ll just go back home and you can spend this time with your family.”

The silence that follows her quiet explanation is almost like a near-death experience. She doesn’t know what will happen, but in a millisecond, it feels as if the end awaits her.

Harry chuckles. “No. Absolutely not.”

“I’ll be fine—”

“You are not spending the holidays by yourself!”

“You are not leaving,” she persists, and there he sees it: the flare of her nostrils. “This is your family, Harry.”

“And you’re my girlfriend,” he retaliates, the word ever-so loving on his tongue.

She smiles, but it is sorrow in every way. “Doesn’t nearly compare.”

“That’s not—”

“Look, we can talk about it ... we’ll talk about it next year,” she tries as a joke, but it sounds disgustingly distant. “Just give me the keys—”

“No, no,” interrupts her command, not from Harry, but from the woman who loves him more than she’s ever loved anything, alongside his sister.

The couple turn to Anne, who shakes her head at the both of them.

“No one is leaving.” Anne looks at her, whose blood freezes in circulation. “Darling ... I’m sorry about all of this. I didn’t mean for us to so clearly start on the wrong foot. It’s just...” she pauses, then reaches up to touch the side of her son’s tense face. “He’s my baby. I ... admittedly, might strive too hard over what’s best for him.”

“He’s very special to us,” Gemma adds, with a warm smile to her brother’s companion. “No matter how annoying he may be.”

“Hey...” Harry glares, but it’s with pure intentions alongside his growing grin.

“We’re not ones to assume so quickly,” Anne continues, “but I just couldn’t help myself this time. That was wrong of me, and I hope you can understand how sorry I am. If you’re still willing, I still need to go finish up the cookies. I’d love to get to know you better, putting all of this behind us, of course.”

She is speechless, to say the least. She hadn’t known how much she had wanted this approval until her offer opens up a gate of relief in her chest. “Y-Yes,” she agrees, a bit of a falter in her voice. She embarrassingly clears her throat. “Yes. That would ... be great. I um ... accept ... uh, your apology?”

She looks up to Harry, begging with her eyes to help her.

He smiles at her, kissing the top of her head with the upmost glee he’s ever had. “She’s shy.”

#honeytryst

1K notes · View notes