#not rustle more like swish or sweep

[nyenyerle]

also the two sounds i associate with feanor the most are ‘perzsel’ (scorch/singe?) and ‘csikorog’ (grind/grit?). person whose signature noise is steak burning in the pan; screaming and popping and blazing from the fireplace; door with a faulty hinge; gears with insufficient lubrication; teeth of someone having a nightmare; finicky race car taking a sharp turn or coming to a sudden stop

[ms-snape]

Hello, can you just write severu x reader? Some angst but fluff at the end? She’s try several times makes first move but he is just Severus. He won’t realize until she stop with trying to get to him. Thank you.

Title: Too Late?

Warning: Angst

Words Count: 3000+

Masterlist

---

Professor Y/N L/N loved the quiet, the calm of the Hogwarts greenhouse. The smell of damp earth and the soft rustle of leaves were her comfort. It was a sanctuary, a place where she could lose herself in the careful tending of magical plants, and a place where she could allow her thoughts to wander — especially to him.

Severus Snape.

She didn’t quite know when it had happened, or how it had grown so deeply rooted in her heart, but somewhere between the late-night faculty meetings, the shared glances in the staff room, and the way his voice lingered just a bit longer than necessary when addressing her, Y/N had found herself hopelessly in love with him.

It was ridiculous, really. She, the soft-spoken Herbology professor, with her love for nature and her quiet kindness, had fallen for the cold, brooding Potions Master. He was a man of sharp words, dark eyes, and a demeanor so cold it could freeze the very air around him. His silences spoke volumes, and his gaze could pierce you, if you weren’t careful.

Yet despite the distance, despite his icy exterior, she had tried. Tried, again and again, to show him that she was different. That she could be something more. That she cared. But he didn't seem to notice.... Or at least pretended not to....

--

It was a Tuesday morning, and Y/N was working diligently in the greenhouse, tending to the mandrakes. The plants had been quite active lately, and their cries were always a challenge. She hummed softly as she carefully repotted one of the mandrakes, the soft clink of her trowel against the ceramic pot soothing in the otherwise quiet room.

She hadn’t heard him approach.

"Professor L/N," came his voice, low and familiar.

Y/N’s heart stuttered. She straightened quickly, wiping her hands on her apron, trying to hide the flutter of nervousness in her chest.

"Professor Snape," she said, smiling a little too brightly. "I didn’t hear you come in. How can I help you?"

His black robes swished around him as he stepped into the greenhouse, his eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned the plants. His gaze flicked over the mandrakes, the fanged geraniums, the bubotubers. He was a master of his craft, of course, but the world of Herbology wasn’t one he usually paid attention to. Y/N couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth when he stood so close.

"I’m just inspecting your work," he said, his tone sharp but not unkind. "You’ve been… diligent."

She nodded eagerly, pleased by his praise, though she wasn’t sure if it was meant as one. "I’m always happy to share what I know, Professor Snape. Perhaps I could show you some of the more—"

"No need." His voice was clipped, dismissive. "You are doing fine. Just make sure the plants don’t become too… unruly."

She bit her lip, her smile faltering, but she kept her voice steady. "Of course. I’ll keep an eye on them. Would you like to join me for a cup of tea after your rounds? I’ve been experimenting with a new blend of chamomile and valerian root. It’s quite calming."

The words hung in the air between them like a delicate thread, fragile and vulnerable.

Severus Snape didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked over her face, as if searching for something in her expression. His lips were thin, his brow furrowed slightly.

"I do not have time for tea, miss Y/L/N." His tone softened, but it was still cold. "I suggest you spend more time with your plants than offering tea to your colleagues."

She blinked, feeling a pang of hurt pierce her chest, though she quickly masked it with a polite nod. "Of course. I understand. Maybe some other time, then."

He didn’t say anything more. He simply turned and walked away, his black robes sweeping behind him like a shadow.

Y/N stood in the middle of the greenhouse, staring after him, her heart sinking. It had been the same every time.

A week had passed since that encounter in the greenhouse. The morning had been busy with classes, and now Y/N found herself in the staff room, going through some notes and preparing for the afternoon lesson. It was always the same. She would prepare, she would smile, and yet the reactions from Severus were always cold.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door opened, and Severus stepped into the room. His black eyes flickered over her, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. They both knew why he was here — the weekly staff meeting was starting soon.

Y/N straightened and greeted him with a polite smile, as always. "Good afternoon, Severu. How was your morning?"

He gave her a curt nod. "Uneventful."

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Y/N had tried to fill it once with a conversation about a rare plant she had recently discovered, but he had barely acknowledged it. His eyes were always distant, always elsewhere.

She didn’t know why she kept trying. Why she kept hoping that one day, he might see her. That he might realize that she wasn’t just another colleague, another face in the crowd. She didn’t know why she thought her kindness might be enough to break through the fortress he’d built around himself.

But despite it all, she kept trying.

As the staff meeting started, she sat across from him, her attention on the various discussions about upcoming events, but her thoughts were elsewhere — on him. Always on him. His sharp profile, the way his fingers drummed on the armrest of his chair, the occasional glance in her direction.

She could feel his eyes on her at times, though she couldn’t be sure if it was just her imagination. She didn’t have the courage to look up and meet his gaze, but she always felt the weight of it, a silent pressure.

A few days later, after another failed attempt to make him notice her — a carefully chosen compliment, a smile, a lingering look — Y/N had had enough. She had poured her heart into her attempts, trying to show him that she wasn’t like the others. That she could understand him, if only he would let her. But he wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t let anyone in.

It was a quiet night in the castle, and Y/N found herself walking through the hallways toward her quarters. She had spent the entire day in the greenhouse, putting in extra hours, hoping to take her mind off the frustration of the past few weeks.

The door to her room creaked as she entered, and the warmth of the fire that crackled in the hearth greeted her. She closed the door softly behind her, leaning against it for a moment, her heart heavy.

She had tried. She had been so kind, so patient, so open. But Severus would never look at her the way she had hoped.

Tears stung her eyes, though she didn’t let them fall. She wiped her face quickly, determined not to let the hurt consume her. She wasn’t going to chase someone who couldn’t even acknowledge her efforts.

No more trying.

The next day, Y/N was different. She kept to herself more than usual, focusing entirely on her work, her plants, the students. She had stopped making any attempt to speak with Severus, stopped offering him tea or trying to catch his eye.

And it didn’t take long for Severus to notice.

He wasn’t sure when it started. At first, he thought it was a fleeting thing, just another mood, another oddity in her usual demeanor. But when the days stretched into a week, and he saw her pulling away from him more and more, it began to gnaw at him.

He didn’t understand it.

Why did her absence bother him so much? Why did the sight of her avoiding him, walking past him without so much as a glance, make something in his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain?

He found himself watching her from afar, noting the way she no longer lingered in the staff room, no longer made small talk, no longer gave him those tentative smiles. The warmth that had always seemed to radiate from her was gone.

It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Severus sat alone in his office late one night, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the stone walls. His mind was racing, and for once, the calm, measured pace of his thoughts seemed to have been interrupted by something… something unexpected.

Y/N.

Her absence.

Why did it matter? Why did it hurt?

He had spent years perfecting the art of indifference, of never allowing himself to feel anything that could be used against him. And yet, here he was, unable to focus, unable to keep his mind from wandering back to her.

The way her eyes sparkled when she spoke about her plants. The soft way she laughed. The way she cared for things. For him, in ways he couldn’t understand.

It was then, in the quiet solitude of his office, that Severus Snape realized something that terrified him.

He missed her.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

Severus Snape sat in his darkened office, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth, his mind a turbulent sea. The realization that he had been ignoring Y/N’s feelings — that he had pushed her away in his usual cold, dismissive manner — had only just hit him, and the weight of it was suffocating. He had been too absorbed in his own self-imposed isolation, too locked away in his fortress of bitterness and skepticism, to notice what had been so painfully clear to everyone else.

Y/N was gone.

Her warmth had disappeared from the corridors, from the staff room, from the greenhouse. And the coldness in his heart, which he had always managed to keep at bay, now gnawed at him like a hungry animal.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

The door to his office creaked open, and Severus was momentarily startled from his thoughts. He raised his eyes, expecting to see the usual ghostly figure of one of the students needing a late-night potion or a missing assignment. Instead, it was Minerva McGonagall, her stern features softened by concern.

"Severus," she said, her tone unusually gentle, "I thought I might find you here."

"Minerva," he replied with a slight nod, though his voice was edged with weariness. "I trust there's a reason for this unannounced visit?"

Minerva didn’t immediately respond. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, her movements deliberate, and her gaze sharp as always. She had been his colleague for years, and over that time, she had come to understand him more than most. But there was something different about her today, something perceptive in the way her eyes followed his every movement, as if weighing something heavy.

"I need to speak with you, Severus," she said, her voice quieter now. "And I believe you need to hear me out."

Severus tilted his head, his interest piqued. "I’m listening."

Minerva took a deep breath before sitting down opposite him. Her hands folded neatly in her lap as she began, carefully choosing her words.

"I've noticed the way things have been between you and Y/N lately," she started, her gaze steady but soft. "And I’m sure you’ve noticed, too. She’s been… distant not only to you but to everyone."

Severus stiffened, his chest tightening. "I hadn’t noticed," he replied, though even to his own ears, the words sounded hollow. He had noticed of course. How could he not? The absence of her smile, the quiet that surrounded her every time they crossed paths — it was impossible to ignore. He had simply been too afraid to confront it.

Minerva’s gaze softened with an almost imperceptible sigh. "Of course you noticed, Severus. But I don’t think you understand why she’s been avoiding you."

He frowned, his brows knitting together. "She has her reasons, no doubt. But if it’s something about my behavior, then it’s none of your concern."

Minerva leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a quieter, more direct tone. "Maybe not but it is your concern, Severus. Y/N has been avoiding you because she’s finally given up. She cares about you more than you realize — more than you’ve ever given her credit for. She’s been trying to show you that for months."

Severus recoiled slightly, as if struck. "What are you talking about?"

Minerva’s eyes softened, though there was an unmistakable firmness to her words. "Y/N is not the kind of person to wear her heart on her sleeve. But she’s a kind woman, a generous soul, and she’s been trying, in her own quiet way, to get your attention. She’s been patient, thoughtful, and kind, always offering you small gestures — a smile, an invitation, a word of encouragement — things she knew you needed, even if you didn’t ask for them. But you never noticed. You’ve always been so consumed by your own… distance, your own walls, that you failed to see how much she cared for you."

Severus felt something twist inside of him, sharp and painful. He thought of all the times he had dismissed her, all the times he had pushed her away. The little moments, the fleeting glances, the kindness she had shown him without asking for anything in return. The realization hit him like a jolt of electricity — he had been blind. Completely blind.

"She’s given up, Severus," Minerva continued, her voice full of quiet understanding. "She’s stopped trying. And that… that is what you’re feeling now. The absence of something you took for granted. But you need to realize something — it’s not too late. If you want her to stay, if you want her to know how much you care… then you need to show her. You need to show her before she walks away completely."

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable. Severus’s mind was whirling, and his stomach churned with regret. He couldn’t let her go. Not like this. Not when he was finally starting to understand the depth of his own feelings.

Minerva stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Don’t waste any more time, Severus. I’ve seen the way you look at her when you think no one’s watching. You’re not as good at hiding it as you think. She deserves to know how you feel. If you don’t tell her now, you may never get the chance again."

Severus nodded, his face grim but determined. He had no more excuses. He needed to act.

It was late in the evening when Severus finally made his way to the greenhouse. He had spent hours pacing his office, turning Minerva’s words over in his mind, until he had worked up the courage to do what he should have done weeks ago.

Y/N was there, as always, amidst the plants that seemed to bloom brighter in her presence. She was kneeling beside a potted plant, carefully tending to its roots, her back turned to the door.

For a moment, Severus hesitated. His heart was pounding in his chest, and for the first time in a long while, he felt vulnerable. His pride had kept him distant for so long, but now, standing in front of her, it felt like he had nothing left but the raw truth of his feelings.

"Professor L/N," he said, his voice low but steady.

Y/N’s head snapped up in surprise. She looked at him for a long moment, her face unreadable. "Professor Snape," she replied quietly, her voice just as cold as it had been the past few weeks. "I wasn’t expecting you."

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to step closer, the sound of his boots on the stone floor loud in the silence. "I owe you an apology, Y/N."

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, and she stood, brushing her hands on her apron. "You owe me nothing, Professor."

Severus shook his head, the words rushing out before he could stop them. "No. I do owe you something. I’ve been… blind. I’ve ignored you, pushed you away, and I’ve been foolish. I’ve taken your kindness for granted and never once thought to reciprocate it. I never realized how much you… how much you meant to me." He paused, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "You were trying, weren’t you? Trying to tell me how you felt, trying to show me you cared. And I—"

Y/N’s expression softened, though there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Severus, you don’t have to do this," she said quietly, her voice trembling slightly. "It’s too late."

"No," he said, his voice more insistent now. "It’s not too late. I was a fool, and I’m sorry. I don’t expect forgiveness, but I can’t stand the thought of you walking away because I didn’t see what was right in front of me. Please. I—"

Y/N took a step closer, her eyes searching his face, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Severus saw something in her eyes that wasn’t guarded. Something warm. Vulnerable.

"You don’t have to apologize," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I didn’t think you’d ever see me like that. I gave up, Severus. I thought you didn’t want me around."

Severus reached out, his hand hovering just in front of her as if afraid to touch her. "I was wrong. I was so wrong."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound in the greenhouse was the soft rustling of leaves, the distant hum of magic in the air. Then, with a gentle but firm motion, Severus reached out and took her hand in his. His heart raced, and for the first time, he allowed himself to be vulnerable — to let her see what had been hidden behind the icy walls he had built for so long.

Y/N’s gaze softened, and she squeezed his hand, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, but instead, she just looked at him — with warmth, with understanding.

And for once, Severus didn’t feel alone.

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 19

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sister!Reader

a/n: so frustrated with tumblr—this didn’t save anything the first time so ultimately I had to spend forty five minutes re-editing everything

warning: a lot of head nodding

word count: 7,723

-Part 18- -Part 20-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Tentatively, you raise your hand to knock on the door. 

And pause. 

Your fingers are trembling faintly, a cool shiver sweeping down the length of your spine, a cold sweat beginning to prickle up from beneath your skin. 

You knock, lightly. 

Shadows dip at the handle, bringing the door open.

Hazel eyes glance away from the partially opened window, a cool morning breeze circulating through the room while watery autumn sunlight warms the floorboards. There’s a smell of dew in the air, along with something vaguely smokey and fresh, and it nips at your throat. You tug your sleeves a little lower over your gloves—made to conceal your skin, not keep them warm. 

“Are you…are you free to talk?” You ask, stood hesitantly on the threshold. 

“Sure.” He nods. “Have a seat.” 

You give only a small delay, space enough for a breath to pass in between moments, one that would have gone unnoticed by human minds and eyes. Then you’re covering the distance between you, taking a seat in the armchair that’s been pushed to accommodate longer visits to his bed. You try to take your time in organising yourself in the seat, making sure your skirts are flat and unwrinkled; sat evenly on the chair; split between facing directly forward as the seat would have you, or angling yourself to face him; but it’s all belied with that sense of hurry you get around him that causes your fingers to fumble and shake, for your heart to start a butterfly-flutter in your chest, throat tightening from being in his presence. 

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, hands settling in your lap, pinching lightly at the fabric to give yourself something to hold on to. You struggle to look at him, keeping your gaze averted. 

“…how are you?” You ask. 

Sheets rustle and you can hear the quiet shift of the wooden beams before he answers. “Good.” 

Toes cross in your socks, teeth tugging at the interior of your lip. “How…” —you swallow past the shudder in your chest— “Will you be up again, soon?” You ask, shifting in the chair. Eyes glance to the bedside table, peering at it for the sake of looking somewhere. 

“A few more days,” he replies, sounding as if he’s uncommitted to the time frame given. A fresh breeze rolls in through the open window, curtains wafting with the wind, and you hold down a shiver, pulling yourself tighter to keep warm. Fresh air’s probably good, right? 

“How are you?” He asks. 

“Good. Good,” you reply, nodding your head gently. “Up and about.” 

Another breeze enters, and the curtains swish against the wallpaper, scraping faintly against the vaguely abrasive texture. A book rests on the table, the edges faded yellow and for a second it strikes you how strange it is that there might not be a spell to prevent ageing. Perhaps he prefers the worn edges, though. You can imagine how they’d rasp against your fingertips. Like thousands of tiny cuts. 

“Feyre mentioned you were sick a lot, when you first woke up,” you say into your lap. 

“A bit.”

“But it’s over now?” You ask.

“It’s over.”

“Good. Good.” You nod your head faintly. “That's— I’m glad.” 

A glass of water is beside his bed, along with a candle that’s dripped wax over its silver holder, carefully welded vines making up the handle, small flowers flourishing around the rim. Lilies.

A leather-bound notebook rests beside the novel, a pencil set straight atop it, the tip worn down and blunt. 

“I heard your conversation with Mor,” he says, and your eyes flit away from the table, peering at your lap. You nod. 

“From a few days ago?” He prompts, and you nod again. He sighs. “It was good that you took initiative. Maybe a bit too soon, but she’ll need some time to process what happened.” 

You nod, accepting each slice across your skin. He’s known her for much longer than he has you, and he’s loved her. The blessed moments when you forget those unreachable likes of his only make the moments you’re reminded more staggeringly painful. Of course he’ll be on her side. But would it be so difficult to…

Don’t I deserve a little affection? 

“Why did you…” you falter over save, disagreeing with its narrative. Lick your lips.

Just a small bit of care? 

“Why?” You ask, looking at him. Tone rising at the end.

…please…

The bandages are clean across his middle torso, obscuring fractions of the ink on his chest where they curl beneath the wrappings. You know exactly where the wound lies, despite not having had the time to really study it when it happened. Just knowing it sits opposite the tiny scratch over your heart, formed into a scar. So tiny nobody would spot it unless they knew to look. 

“Instinct, I suppose,” he answers after the quiet passes. 

“Instinct,” you repeat, a touch faintly. You don’t know what you’d been expecting, but that makes enough sense. Maybe you’d at least been wondering if it was something more emotional than that. At least an, I couldn’t let you die. But instinct will do. Blind, indifferent instinct.

“Have you spoken with Rhys?” He asks after a pause. 

“We spoke in the kitchen a couple of days ago. …he said I should speak with you…?” 

“Okay,” he nods, waiting patiently. You blink, unsure where to put your eyes. You don’t know what Rhys had wanted you to visit him for. No idea if it was to try and clear up the mess that’s tangled itself between you and the male on the bed; whether he just wanted you to take the first step in improving something, to clear the air, to get things on the mend? 

“Would it help if I asked you some questions?” He prompts tentatively. 

You flush, lips parting slightly as you peer down into your lap, fingers pinching your skirts to keep out their tremble. You’re not…speaking about what happened; the arrow; the deep darkness that’s been cloying at your mind for the past few months… Years… 

But if it’s going to be anyone, it’s going to be him. 

Your lip is pulled between your teeth, blunt enamel prodding at the full flesh of the interior of your mouth. The idea of speaking about it…why you aimed the arrow at yourself…a lot of it wraps around him in a way. So if you’re going to share that with anyone…  

Lungs shake when you inhale quietly, but you manage to sit a little straighter, steadying yourself. You have to learn to take the first step.

All you have to do is answer. And be honest.

“Yeah.” You nod, swallowing. “Okay.”

“Alright.” He nods. “We can go slowly, to start off. I would appreciate answers, but if you aren’t ready, tell me so and we can move on.” 

Your heart thunders in your chest, but you agree, gloved fingers twining together in your lap, legs crossing themselves apprehensively. But slow, and easy breaths. Keeping calm, and steady. Answering as truthfully as you can bear.

“Okay,” he says, “what can you do with your magic now?” 

You nod a little to yourself, swallowing, “…I think, sometimes, I can…I mean, I think I can bring it out by myself sometimes now?” He nods encouragingly. “…it didn’t hurt the last time it came out. I hardly even noticed it, actually, compared with how it was before.” 

“And when was the last time it came out?” 

“Oh…” you falter, quieting. “Yesterday. With Mor.” 

“With Mor?” 

“We had a…an argument, I think,” you answer, wanting to shrink into the floor.

“What happened?” 

You fumble, there. “Can we…can you ask something else?” 

“Okay.” He nods. “I can ask Mor, if that would be easier?” Your lips part, glancing at him in surprise before your eyes flit away again. “I…we just bumped into each other after dinner, and she…she asked why I went to…” You trail off, shifting uneasily in your seat. 

“Did you tell her?” 

“We spoke about it…yes,” you hedge, peering into your lap. 

“That’s great,” he says, voice sounding softer than before, and you look at him hesitantly. “You should have mentioned that to start with. I can speak with her about it, when she comes round. If you come back tomorrow we can clear up anything left out. Will you be okay with that?” 

You nod, unable to do much else as you attempt to digest and process what’s happening. 

Please ask.

Hazel eyes glimmer faintly and his mouth softens, as if trying to show he’s proud with you for managing the conversation. “Was that fine for you?” He asks, watching you quietly while thousands of tiny eruptions occur beneath your skin. You manage a nod. 

He glances at the clock mounted on the dresser pushed against the far wall. “I think Feyre mentioned you’ve been seeing Madja around ten, haven’t you?” He asks, and again you manage a nod, not really thinking about the occurrences. 

Please don’t leave it here. 

“She’s been keeping an eye on me, yes. Making sure everything’s working right.” Your voice is distant to your ears, feeling as though you’re being pulled back into your skull, watching from somewhere further away. 

Ask me. Please.

“Ah. Have they been okay for you?” He asks, and you nod your head. “Fine.” 

He nods. “Then I won’t keep you any longer.” 

You stare at him through the surreal moment. 

Show me you care. Even a little bit. 

But he doesn’t, so you stand, watching distantly as your skirts swish over the floor, and you turn to leave, feet carrying you to the door, obeying the dismissal. Heart feeling as though it’s being squeezed. A heavy pressure crushing down on your chest. It’s only when you reach the threshold that you pause, something making it impossible to leave without…

You turn. 

“Is it a deliberate choice?” You ask, voice shaking, hands curling in your skirts. He looks at you patiently, waiting for you to elaborate. “Are you—… Are you choosing not to ask me why I want to die, or has the thought plainly not crossed your mind?” You try to hold his gaze, but your heart fumbles, and you look away before you can even count to two. A hot wetness drips down your cheek. 

“I hadn’t though you’d want to tell me,” he answers. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” You ask before you can think. “You were the only one who was there. Who saw how it happened. Why wouldn’t you be perfect to speak to?” 

He pauses, but you can’t bring yourself to be embarrassed over the vulnerable wording. “I don’t think you should make me the person you go to for that kind of solace,” he answers at last. “I don’t wish to give you reason to believe me the best choice for that.” 

“Who else?” You ask, staring at him. “Who else can I go to?” 

“Your sisters will always be there. I’m sure they want you to go to them. So don’t share with me that part of yourself. They’re the ones who have been there for you.” 

“How can I expect them to understand? They weren’t there.” 

“And you think that I’ll understand? That I do understand?” 

“Yes.” 

He shakes his head; is the first one to look away. “You can’t expect them to know what you feel if you haven’t even tried speaking with them about it. You’re cutting them off before you’ve even given them a chance.” Hurt aches across your chest—you want to speak with him. Want more than anything to have that shared moment between the both of you. 

You open your mouth, but he looks at you again, beating you to it. “Speak with them first,” he says firmly, his features set. “If you try honestly speaking with them, giving them the chance to look after you…and if that doesn’t work, if you feel they haven’t understood you as you need them to,” he continues, making it impossible for you to look away from him, caught up in the connection. “Then I will speak with you. You may tell me about whatever you like, what you’re reading; how your day was; anything that has taken or caught your interest, be it from the Night Court, the Autumn Court, or anywhere else in our realm. But give them a chance first.” 

Your jaw is trembling lightly, a delicate heat simmering in your flesh as a cool sweat slides down your spine, overwhelmed and quietly trying to keep up. 

Again you open your mouth, but again he speaks before you do. “And I know you’ll instinctively want to speak with Elain, but you always pick her first. Nesta has been through what you are going through, or at least something similar,” he says, watching you with an expression you can only call imploring. “Speak with her.” 

You’re too stunned to reply, left staring at him silently. 

It’s probably the most you’ve heard him say. The most the two of you have spoken so intently without the conversation taking a sharp plummet. 

You barely manage a nod of your head before you acquiesce, then you’re turning from him, carefully bringing the door to a close, heading for your room while the conversation circles through your mind. 

————

Slim, pale fingers latch through the delicate ceramic of the teacup’s handle, thin and elegant, easily broken with an application of force, requiring careful handling. It’s a temptation Feyre resists every time she picks one up, refusing the urge to press her fingers together and snap the thin bone-like curve. How many things had she accidentally shattered after first turning? How many spoons had she inadvertently bent? 

She supposes it doesn’t matter now, but the urge is still there, stronger than usual. 

The two females are sat in the parlour, a fine silver tray perched between them on a dark-wood table with ornate swirls carved into its edges and swirling up its legs. A few pastries sit untouched on a finely decorated plate, a carafe of cool cream at the edge, three flavours of jam contained to glass pots that fit nicely to the dip of one’s palm. The sugar pot remains undisturbed upon the tray, its short, golden shovel tucked deep within the sweetened grains, nestled beneath and awaiting use. 

“Were you aware of it?” Feyre asks, raising the teacup to her lips, basking in the wet heat that’s rising from the steamy liquid. Across from her, Mor is cupping her own drink, heated and steaming like Feyre’s, idly swirling the thin spoon to stir in the milk. 

“No,” Mor answers honestly, gazing down at the swirl of her tea, clasped between her hands. Red nails squeaking faintly across the porcelain. 

“You had no right to tell her any of that,” Feyre says quietly, watching her friend from over the rim of her cup, before glancing down, and taking a sip, testing out the heat. Too hot. She takes another sip, feeling the tingling singe of pain as the scalding liquid trickles down. 

“I know,” Mor agrees, also looking at her tea. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

Blue-grey eyes are watching keenly, a sharp wildness glinting just at their edge, one that’s been surfacing more and more as of late. Everything seems to have such unfortunate timing. A damn filling up to its maximum capacity, before breaking. Mor meets her High Lady’s gaze steadily, unwavering. “I didn’t.” 

The connection remains unfaltering, each not wanting to look away, one for the sake of appearing mistrustful, and the other for the sake of appearing too forgiving. 

“What do you think it is?” Feyre asks at last, and the two mutually avert their eyes. 

“I don’t know,” Mor answers quietly. “It doesn’t feel good, though.” 

Feyre sends a sharp glare in Mor’s direction, but her red lips purse. “You felt it, too,” Mor points out. 

“Briefly.” 

“And it set you on edge, too.” 

“I also only came into contact with magic a few years ago. Don’t give me excuses.” 

“I’m telling you the truth,” Mor grits out, raising amber eyes from her pale mug. “I hardly noticed it  having an affect until you appeared.” 

“Because you were too caught up in all the emotions you wanted to unload onto my sister.”

“I’m not trying to make you pick sides,” Mor says carefully. 

“Good. Then don’t.” 

“You know it’s a tender wound,” she whispers, lowering her mug. “It shouldn’t have come out like it did, but it hurts.”

“You know what else hurts, Mor?” 

The rest of that sentence lies unspoken between them. 

Feyre knows she’s being unfair, that she clearly is picking a side. But she’s speaking as Mor’s friend, and also a sister. Not as High Lady. 

Mor once again raises her eyes to Feyre’s blue-grey set, putting every ounce of sincerity, and truth she can find within herself behind her amber eyes. “I wasn’t myself,” Mor whispers, fingers paling from their grip on the cup. “I don’t know what happens with her magic, but it’s influential, even on me.” 

“You want me to let this slide, then?” Feyre questions, her jaw set but there’s an obvious conflict in her eyes. Neither of them are enjoying this fallout. 

“No,” Mor concedes, looking away. “My actions are my own, and I agree I went too far. But you felt it, too. You know what I’m talking about, Feyre.” The two females share a look. “Madja’s going to be here to check up on her soon, isn’t she?” Mor asks, earnestly. 

“Every day, at ten o’clock.” 

“Ask her to give her own opinion. What it feels like,” Mor urges. “I know my anger, I know how I hurt, and I don’t lose myself like that.” 

Feyre’s lips are pursed, her brow pinched. Fatigue lines beneath her eyes, the stress of a newborn unavoidable, even with all the support being offered. It’s not easy for her. For anyone. 

Not easy to deal with everything else, either. Not to mention a sister who apparently wants to die, on top of all that.

There’s so much to think about…it’s inevitable a mistake will be made. 

“I’ll mention it to Madja.” Feyre relents, drinking deeply from her tea, savouring the hot liquid on her tongue. “Maybe she can offer some insight to what’s going on.” 

Insight. If only it were available for the mountain pile of other problems plaguing their lives. That might crumble into an avalanche, if they aren’t careful. 

————

“It’s good to see you again,” Madja greets, her round face smiling as she enters your chambers. “How have you been?” 

You manage a reciprocating smile, hands tucking together in your lap as you shift on the bed. “I’m good, for the most part anyway.” 

“For the most part?” She questions, taking a seat, and you toe off your slippers to settle properly against the pillows. “I…my magic flared up a little yesterday,” you admit, glancing at your toughened, flaky skin. “It didn’t hurt like it usually does; I hardly felt it. Though I was a little carried away…” 

Madja nods gently. “Yes, Feyre mentioned something about that.” You look up at the healer with raised brows. “…she did?” 

“She requested I look into it, if I could; it’s something I would like to discuss with you, before we start with the checkup,” she tells you clearly, that gentle look in her eyes that helps keep you at ease. 

Your tongue flicks over your lips, but you agree. 

“Your sister spoke of your magic feeling deathly,” Madja begins. “I’d like to see if there are any abnormalities that appear while it is in use—if you think you can manage that?” 

“You’d like me to… You want me to intentionally use it?” You question, a hint of fear creeping into your voice. “I don’t know…I…” 

“If you’re worried about it getting out of control, or that you might injure me, I will remind you that I am a healer,” she says solemnly. “And if you are still concerned, I can tell you that your sister and I agreed it might be better if the High Lord were present, should anything get out of hand. He is available should you wish for that reassurance.” 

Something sinks in your chest—you’d forgotten Madja is their healer, that she is theirs more than  she is yours. She’s just doing her job. 

“I…I should be able to do it on my own,” you hedge, looking at your palms. Nobody else can see how ugly your skin is. Your sisters…Madja…technically Azriel too, though he hasn’t seen it now that it’s crawled up your arms…you don’t want to have that humiliation with anyone else than you must. “If that’s okay with you?” You check, looking at her. 

Madja smiles, nodding her head. “That is fine by me. Whenever you’re ready.” 

Teeth worry the interior of your lip, but you splay your hands out, palms tipped upward as you recall their tingle, gathering what you can remember and bringing it to the tips of your fingers. There’s no more than a slight itch beneath your skin. 

It comes easier to you that it has done before, and you can’t help the breath of ease that slips into your lungs. Before it had felt stunted, like it was trying to squeeze a full, fleshy body through a windowpane of jagged glass, slicing itself as it attempted to crawl out. But now… “There’s no pain…” 

You stare down at the faint green glow, the golden shine at the edge of your skin. You could simply push, and— The light brightens, filling your flesh and shining from your knuckles, hands encompassed in the strong light. 

Madja opens her hands, fingers splayed as she approaches you gently, before you feel a slight company. Something else joining you. You try to push toward it, in the direction of her magic so she can examine it better, like you do when offering your hands, shifting yourself so she can better access them. 

Madja nods, and you let the magic recede back into your body, curling itself up into a peaceful rest. “I’m going to check your torso now, please hold still.” Her hands open over your body, palm settling firmly over your rib cage, that tingling warmth sinking into your skin. Her brows narrow. “You’re going to feel a brief surge of heat…” she murmurs, eyes closed in concentration. 

Sure enough, there’s a small spike in temperature, and a slight sting in the aftermath but it fades swiftly enough. Her palms inch over a bit, slowly making their way across your stomach, fingertips still faintly hot with power as she continues with the checkup. You keep yourself as relaxed as possible but your heart is beating faster than usual at the discovery.

“Another quick surge,” she murmurs, and you nod despite her eyes being closed. You feel a small ball of tension popping along with a careful, targeted burst of heat. You ease a full breath into your lungs. 

Her brows furrow as she settles her palms over the base of your sternum. “Will you activate your magic again?” She requests, voice faint while she concentrates. You do as she says, unspooling it again, and the heat of her palms intensifies in response to your own. “Can you bring it into your body? Away from your hands?” She asks, and your brows furrow. You’ve never tried to manipulate its centre before…but you can try now. 

Your eyes flutter shut, easing back incrementally into the bed, allowing the power to prickle up your arms, crawling between the bones, wrapping around your shoulders…the two of you recoil at the same time, though you flinch from the sting of pain that splits down your spine; lacerating across your chest; through your lungs, while Madja’s retreat is from shock. The corners of her mouth are slack. Her eyes dark. 

“I’m sorry,” you say frantically, trying to sit upright, “I didn’t mean— Are you okay? Did it get you?” 

Madja looks at your torso, then at her hands. Then she’s settling her palms back atop your ribs. “Will you repeat that?” 

You pause, looking at her as she gently guides you to lay back in the bed. “Madja…I’m not sure…are you okay?” 

“I’m very well,” she replies with a smile, voice as soft and smooth as it usually is. Carefully curated to put you at ease. “I saw something that I should examine in more detail, if that’s possible. Will you repeat it?” 

You look at her, lost. Concerned. Helpless. You swallow. “Okay…” 

Your lids slide shut, and you reach for the power again, feeling as Madja’s warmth begins seeping into your torso, filtering through your vessel as heat begins rising in a steeper intensity to your surface, as if being called to one place by her magic. Again, you own power sprawls itself across your palms, dragging itself higher, slinking between bone and muscle, threading itself through sinew and cartilage until it reaches your shoulders, and…

“Try and hold it steady,” Madja tells you, the heat from her hands amplifying at the peak, just as you power curls itself to strike down from your shoulders. 

Your throat shuts, eyes squeezed closed as you attempt to grapple with it, hands balled into fists as perspiration breaks on your brow. Trying to keep it from lashing at your internals, causing that familiar, piercing pain. 

“I want you to try pushing it back to your hands now,” she instructs, but you’re struggling enough as it is. Barely keeping it contained. You need to breathe. 

Madja releases her magic over your torso, and the weight of your power increases, your body straining beneath the tension when she removes that blanket that had been between you and this blazing magic. But then both her hands are firmly gripping your own, and you can feel as it filters through you, prying the pain away, dragging it back down into your forearms, then your palms, and eventually your fingertips, until it’s dissipated entirely. 

You inhale heavily, breathing ragged as you try to calm yourself. “What…what was that…?” 

Madja’s quiet, thumbs stroking carefully over your knuckles, keeping her magic to a faint pulse so she doesn’t upset your skin. “Will you breathe with me?” She asks. “Deep breath in…hold…one, two, three…slowly exhale…” She makes you repeat the process thrice before deeming your pulse to be relatively calmed. She offers you the glass of water that’s always sat by your bed, never draining, and you take a few sips to appease her, then a few more. A couple of small gulps, before handing it back to her. 

You lick your lips, finding them hot and crisp. 

She looks at you solemnly. “I would like to ask you a few questions about your magic, if you feel right enough to manage,” she tells you calmly. “I would like you to answer with as much clarity as you can. It’s imperative you’re truthful and don’t hide anything. Are you alright with that?” 

You stare at her, bewildered—where has this come from? Is it serious? Are you going to die? Is it going to be painful? Will you know when it happens? Or will you have no warning. Is it happening now? About to?

You inhale sharply, deeply, breaking out of those thoughts. Exhaling heavily, before managing to nod. 

“How long have you known you’ve had magic?” Madja starts with. 

“…I think maybe two months? I can’t remember exactly how long ago it was that I first realised what was happening…” 

“Perfect. And can you tell me what made you first realise you had magic?” 

“I think it was when…I had an altercation with someone, and felt upset and angry. My hands were glowing.” 

“Great. I believe you’ve mentioned a feeling that accompanies your magic?” 

“Yes. …It used to hurt a lot, but recently hasn’t? The past few times, at least. Not while it’s been in my hands, anyway.” 

“Lovely, you’re doing well,” she smiles. “You sister mentioned a deathly feeling to those around you, have you ever noticed that?” 

“No. No, not a deathly feeling. I had no idea it felt like that for other people.” 

“Okay, can you tell me how it feels for you?” 

“It’s…it used to be like burning? My fingers and hands would hurt a lot. They would sweat, and I would feel dizzy some nights…I used to get up to drown my hands in water, when it started.” 

Madja nods, her brows furrowed faintly as she listens carefully—believing you. Your heart tightens, and you avert your gaze. 

“And all of that has been happening over the past two months or so?” She inquires. 

“Well, no…I…” you pause, trying to grapple with your memory, get it into a coherent, linear form. “I’ve…I experienced the sweats, and nausea, and dizziness a lot when I first…after the…when we came to Prythian,” you answer. Madja nods her head encouragingly, and you wet your lips. “Sleeping was difficult, and it lasted for a few months before I could be normal again…I think we each had our own…moments, after the Cauldron.” 

“But you didn’t experience any feelings similar to what you now know is your magic?” She asks, offering you the full glass of water, that you sip from again. Hand it back. “No. Those have only been in the past couple of months.” 

Madja pauses in thought, her round face tightened as she thinks, though she doesn’t look unkind, or stern. She still looks like Madja. Then she looks up again, her warm brown eyes softened, an intent look on her face. “And how have you been feeling?” 

“Me? I...” You trail off, unsure how to answer. “I’ve…been reading a lot…?” 

She smiles, “that’s lovely, but I mean how have you been feeling internally?” 

Her lips twitch when your brows furrow in question, looking at her strangely. “You’ve been telling me about your physical senses, tell me about how you’ve been feeling these past few months. I can imagine it might be scary to go through this?” 

“Oh…I suppose…” 

“You sound unsure,” Madja speculates, “do you not feel fear is an accurate descriptor?” 

“I mean, I’ve been scared when it happens, naturally. It hurts, and I don’t know what causes it, or how long it will last, so I suppose in those moments it is scary.”

“But the rest of the time?” Madja prompts. “I understand you were staying up in the House of Wind, by yourself for the most part. Do you like being alone?” 

“I guess I do,” you hedge, “I don’t…there wasn’t really anywhere else to go. And I liked having my own space up there, so I think it worked well. Plus I could access the libraries, so I enjoyed that part a lot.” 

“You’re a big reader,” she smiles, nodding her head. “What do you like to read?” 

“Mostly whatever I can find, but I like the books that tell me more about the world. There’s a lot of information I never would have gotten access to as a human, like the different climates in each of the courts, some small accounts of what it’s like overseas, where the food we eat comes from too which I find particularly intriguing. The plants and flowers are engaging too—you can see correlations between the flora and fauna distinct to each court and the characteristics they each exhibit, which I find fascinating.” 

Madja’s smile broadens as she nods her head, eyes twinkling. “I remember first learning about their benefits, how different plants have certain properties too. Often plants endemic to the Dawn Court are the most potent, and it’s where we import a lot of the ingredients for medicine from.” 

“Yes! I remember reading about that! But that sometimes the riversides and shores struggle with overgrowth, and measures are made to make sure seeds don’t spread too far. I remember reading too about the animals there—that a lot of them seem more jovial, compared to their relations in other courts.” 

Madja’s smiling so wide you can see her teeth, one of her canines is slightly twisted inward, and the teeth on her lower jaw are a little crooked in places. You can’t see anything wrong with them—they’re just hers. 

“And who else do you tell all of this?” She asks, “I imagine you would have read a lot over the course of your time here so far, who do you share all of it with?” 

“I don’t…really,” you say, trailing off. “I don’t mind though. I love reading.” 

“Elain enjoys botany too, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes, but to the extent that she can have, I suppose. She has a garden that she keeps alive, and she bakes, too. They’re similar interests but they ultimately lead in different directions.” 

“So you don’t speak with anyone about what you enjoy?” Madja asks, and you blink, fumbling a little. 

“I…I choose not to, so it’s fine,” you assure. “I like reading. And I speak with Azriel about…” You wet your lips, voice fading. “I mean when I was up in the House of Wind…we spoke a lot more.” 

Madja’s watching you quietly, listening to what you have to say. It feels like she’s expecting you to continue, and you don’t want it to be quiet, for the conversation to halt its flow, so you think of something to say. “We spoke a lot more…back then…” 

“Has something changed?” She asks. 

You look down into your lap, feeling a little far off. Distant. Not entirely present. 

“I like his company…” you say vaguely, “but he’s busy, and hardworking. …and I don’t think he…” Your lips curl at the edges like dried leaves tend to beneath the sun, then they seal together. “I think he finds me a bother, at times.” 

Madja’s quiet, but you can’t bring yourself to continue. Silence falls. 

“Can you tell me how long you’ve been feeling that way?” She asks gently, allowing pause for you to recollect yourself, should you wish. “I think a few months,” you murmur. 

“And can you tell me why you think he finds you bothersome?” Madja asks. 

Your lips part by a fraction, a small gap opening between the centre of your upper and lower lip, then you’re closing them again. “I…I make bad choices, quite a lot,” you answer quietly. “And I…I don’t make it easy to be around.”

“I think your company is lovely,” Madja says softly, palm resettling over your hand, drawing your attention back outward. “What makes you think you’re difficult to be around?” 

You open your mouth to give your answer, but your throat tightens sharply, lips forcefully being dragged down in the corners, and you crumple back into the bed. “I am,” you insist, eyes growing hot, then squeezing shut when they blur. “I don’t know how…I don’t know how to be normal around him. I feel like every time we speak I make it so obvious…and he doesn’t like it…and I just…” 

You pull your hands away from hers to try and hide your face, to push the tears away as they fall heavily. “I wish I hadn’t tried to tell him what I…how I felt for him. I never should have…”

“Does how you’re feeling right now have any reason to do with why I was tasked with looking after you?” Madja asks, voice softened to a tender effect, and you could weep from how believable she sounds. 

“He finds me a nuisance,” you whisper, hot tears dripping down your lowered face, letting them roll down your cheeks to collect at the underside of your jaw, before falling heavily into the crisp linen of the sheets. “I’m always causing him trouble of some kind. All of them.”

Heat wells behind your eyes, wishing you could go back and reorganise events so things wouldn’t have ended up like this. So you wouldn’t have caused him so much trouble, and given him reason to further distrust you. At least before he trusted you enough to give reliable recollections of your sister. If only you could go back to then. 

You could at least have a use. 

Madja’s thumb gently swipes across your knuckles, magic softly seeping from her fingertips. “You’re not a nuisance,” she replies solemnly. “You are not causing them trouble.”

You stare at her with a down-tilted mouth, and tears overflow from your lashes, dripping down your cheeks as your brows bunch, heart aching in your chest as small sobs break through your lungs. “I am,” you cry, head hanging as you try to inhale, but your body takes control of itself when it’s sad, and it’s not giving you chance to breathe. Madja, I am.

“Is this how you’ve been feeling these past few months?” She murmurs, stroking your palm, a hand at your shoulder as you curl your knees up to your chest, pulling them from beneath the duvet. You nod. 

“I thought it might be something like this,” Madja sighs, making you look up questioningly, pushing at the tears so you can better see her. She takes both your hands in her own, and looks into your eyes. “There’s no quick fix to matters of the heart. The way you’re feeling right now, the way you’ve felt in the past, and the lows you’ll experience in the future—I can do very little right now to give ends to those. But what’s going on with your magic, within your body—that we can work on. We can start somewhere familiar, and take steps from there. How does that sound?” 

But despite her good words, you shake your head. “I can’t, Madja,” you whisper. “I don’t want to.” 

“Sometimes you have to,” she says, squeezing your hands. “Do you believe I have any reason to lie to you?” 

You shake your head. 

“Then have faith that I’m telling you the truth: you are not troubling them.”

You watch her, a pained look in your eyes. “I can’t believe that.” 

“Why not?”

“Because, Madja,” you cry. “It doesn’t matter what you say, or what anyone else says. I am convinced. I know it like you know a bone will break under pressure, or that adding sugar to a tea will sweeten it. How I feel is not temporary, or fleeting, it is ceaseless and pervasive; it’s not something you can simply disprove like that—please don’t try to.”

“But in the same way I know a bone will snap with too much force, I know you are not as bad as you think you are.”

“Please, Madja,” you whisper. “If you can’t help me, do me the courtesy of believing me.”

The healer is silent, gripping your hands with her own warm palms, squeezing them gently but firm.  “I do believe you,” she says with conviction. “I believe you because I have seen what you are going through, and I know how you’re feeling is as real as a broken bone, or sweetened tea. But the bone will heal, and the tea will cool—can we both agree on that?” 

You cast your head down, eyes falling to your lap. “I chose poor analogies.” 

Madja thumbs across your knuckles. You can hear the almost sad smile in her voice. “Then I’ll return tomorrow and you can tell me what you’ve come up with.”

———

Outside, the wind bites at your throat, stinging at your nostrils with each inhale, burning on the way out. 

You clasp the scarf tighter around your neck, shoving your hands under your arms as you make the walk down the streets, careful to watch for ice on the cobbles. Winter is a while off yet, but the nights are becoming frigid enough for you to keep an eye out, particularly as the sun hasn’t yet gotten to her point in the sky where she could thaw any frost out. 

Before midday you find blues and purples lurking in the shadows, greens and yellows splashing where the sun spills across the exterior of coloured houses, shop windows shining viciously where the light is hitting just at the right angle to temporarily blind and disorientate. Though an upside of Prythian is the magic that’s infused into the land, sustaining special plants that thrive in this environment: frost lilies that bloom in the coldest months, taking their water from the dew that freezes on their petals over night; moon drops that have a pale, hanging outer shell of short petals that shrivel up and die if faced with an overdose of pure sunlight; the pale pink sprawl of the lengthened, stretching leaves that creep up from the earth between houses and cobble, settling narrow, capillary-like veins spreading across whatever they can cling onto. 

The long walk is enjoyable, despite the intrusive and unpleasant cold. Enough to look at, study, and recognise, to preoccupy your mind from the chill nipping at your skin, even beneath the gloves. By the time you reach the house however, your body is freer flowing, less stiff and disjointed though your extremities remain a little on the numb side, fingertips tingling faintly, and you have to remember to keep wiggling your toes in your shoes. But you’re warm enough you’ll be happy to discard the scarf once you’re inside—if she’s inside. 

Looking where the shadows lie, you would think it’s an hour or so from midday, so Nesta should be in… As far as you know for certain, training is the only activity that might be an obstacle, but that should surely be done by now.

Their house is a relatively new build, but finished enough for them to have moved into soon after their mating ceremony. While remaining naturally a little barren from its short-lived existence, there’re obvious touches already emerging in the patterns and style they’ve opted for, selecting things that catch their eye, taking time to build a home rather than to rush it in a year. 

A window of stained glass sits in a half-circle atop the wooden door, the panels that make up the imagery mostly clear. Dimples ripple in the crystal clear frames, while the neat cuts of coloured glass are smooth and flat, showing off the sprawling petals of a tuft of milk flowers—you realise with vague surprise milk flowers are endemic to the Night Court, but perhaps more interestingly are mostly found in Illyria. Exclusively found, rather. They’re rare, and symbols of endurance, due to the unforgiving and brutal environment they live in, remaining a small beauty amongst the barren rock of mountain. Compared to the wealth of information available on other plants, there’s little recorded about milk flowers, likely due to their habitat up in the Illyrian Steppes. 

You wonder if it’s a subtle way to hold onto Cassian’s history, without brutalising their home with architecture particular to the Illyrians: exhibiting traits expressed as sturdy and practical—an antithesis of that aspiration caught in the elegance of the stained glass. 

Maybe that’s a bit of Nesta’s humour bleeding through. 

You land three knocks to their door, starting with a hard strike to the wood with your knuckles then a sharp decrease in force when pain bleeds through your carpals, the final knock hardly louder than a soft tap, all but giving out entirely. You cradle your hands beneath your arms, regretting the bout of recklessness. 

No noise comes from inside, so you’re startled when the door opens, sharp hazel eyes peering at you from within the relative darkness, watching for a second before the door opens wider and a broad smile breaks across his face. “Well aren’t you far from home,” Cassian chuckles, shoulder keeping the entrance open, “what are you doing all the way out here? On a mission?” 

You swallow, managing a smile, understanding he’s joking but too drained to be believably reciprocative. “Somewhat,” you reply, trying to sound humorous, “is Nesta in, too?” 

“I should have known you’d be here to visit her,” Cassian remarks, sighing into the frame before gesturing for you to come inside. “Come in, I’ll go pull her from her reading.” 

You give an appreciative nod before following in behind him, catching the door as it closes with an oomf, surprised by its heavy weight, knocking you back a step. You gingerly step inside, crouching down to untie the laces of your boots, freeing your socked feet as you push the shoes to the rack before again standing, peering about the entrance hall. The walls are pale, having not yet been painted with whatever colour or wallpaper they’ll eventually settle on. From around the corner you can make out the faint pad of footfalls, and Nesta appears a few seconds later, sharp eyes finding you instantly. She greets you. Asks you why you came. 

You fumble. How does one begin a conversation like this?

“I…haven’t visited in a while,” you end up telling her. “I thought I might come by—if you aren’t busy? It’s not urgent,” you quickly add.

“I’ve nothing planned,” she replies, glancing to where the light is falling on the floor. “It’s a little early for lunch, but I suppose we can begin.” 

“Oh, it’s fine,” you assure, “I don’t think it’ll take long.”

“What will take long?” 

“Nothing,” you affix, blinking once. 

Nesta hums, then turns in the hallway. “Then we can go to the sitting room. It’s still lacking some furniture here and there, just so you know.”  

You nod, forgetting she can’t see you with your head turned, then follow after her as she makes her way down the hallway and to the right, entering through an empty doorway that leads to the living room. She takes a seat in a chair with a dipped pillow, guessing it was where she’d been before you interrupted. You take a seat adjacent. 

Ataraxia lays upon the table like a discarded shopping list, except much bigger, and much deadlier. 

“So,” Nesta muses, “what did you want to speak with me about?” 

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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[addisonstars]

"trick or kiss"

written for day 17 of october for @jegulus-microfic with the prompt "trick"

689 words!

James came up to Regulus and said “trick or treat!” with a huge goofy grin on his face. Regulus rolled his eyes; however, he couldn’t help but laugh. He handed James a handful of candy, even though he was supposed to save it for the kids later. 

“Jamie, stop eating all the candy babe, we have actual trick-or-treaters coming later to our door. We’ve already been through half of the two bags we bought for tonight, thanks to you.” Regulus pretends to be upset, but really, he can’t be when it comes to James. 

James frowns. “Are you saying I’m not an actual trick-or-treater? How dare you!” James says, mock offended. 

In his defense, he is dressed up like one. He was wearing his old Hogwarts robes from a long time ago. Regulus suggested he burn them, as Regulus had done with his, but James was a sentimental bloke and couldn't bear the thought of getting rid of them. It may have been 10 sizes too small, but James didn't care. It may have looked a little goofy on James, but again, he didn’t care. 

Regulus supposed that's what he liked about James. James had enough care for everything and everyone, but never when it came to himself in negative ways. He didn’t care that he was married to a guy, wearing a childish costume, and had a personality unlike the sun; he just went through life living and loving every moment of it. 

Regulus kisses James briefly on his lips before returning to the task at hand. It was still light outside, so the kids - or adults - were not quite prowling the streets yet but would be soon. James ate a piece of the candy that he had gotten earlier and smiled. 

“I had forgotten how good dark chocolate was, we never have any in the house.” he says, after he finished the piece. 

Regulus groaned. “That's because it’s nasty.” 

“You take that back, dark chocolate is the finest stuff there is. It’s not less concentrated like milk chocolate is, and it isn't that fake stuff they call white chocolate.” 

Regulus scoffed. “I enjoy my ‘less-concentrated chocolate’, thank you very much.” 

“Whatever.” James says, and then grabs the bucket to scout for some more dark chocolate. 

“James.” Regulus pulls the bucket out of his grasp, shoo-ing him away

“I know I know,” he concedes. He moves around back into the kitchen, his robes swishing as he moves. He comes back with a couple pieces of the stuff. “That’s why I stashed away some for later,” he smiles sheepishly. 

Regulus sighs, but smiles at it. Of course he did. 

“I didn’t want to have to deplete it this early though, I’ll have to remedy that sooner than later.” He thinks thoughtfully. 

“Just stay out of this bucket, I can’t have any more disappearing, otherwise I’m sending you out to get some more tonight. I want to make sure the kids have enough.” He says, looking down at the bucket. 

James moves over to where Regulus is looking a little too intently down at the bucket. 

“Reg, honey, the kids will have enough. I’ll even give some of my stash away if I have too.” He moves his hand to grab Regs’ chin gently and guide it up to where their eyes meet. “Don’t worry about it.” He leans it, nose nuzzling nose. 

Regulus dips his head to meet James in a kiss. His kisses always manage to sweep him off his feet, instantly wanting to bend over backwards for the other. He supposes that's what love is. They stay connected like that for a minute, mindful that everyone can see them through the windows on the side of the door they are standing right beside. 

Regulus hears rustling sounds, and picks up on the sound of candy being rifled through. “James,” Regulus starts. 

James pulls his hand back, mockingly innocent. “Just one piece?” he asks with a puppy dog face on. And how could Regulus ever say no to that precious face of his. He reluctantly hands him a piece of candy, and James repays him with a kiss. 

not me posting todays only like an hour before the day ends lmao! anyways, have a great day lovelies <3

-a.s.

[huskynotwolf]

When I first met a Watcher — Scar

From my Fanfic Watchers and Hunters on Quotev

The world is weird. 

Like, for example, the day me and Martyn found a Watcher. 

We were, as usual, patrolling around to see if there is anything wrong. Martyn was complaining about it being boring, but Xisuma told him he had to otherwise, so he couldn’t argue with that. Impulse said he had other jobs, so he didn’t join us.

I mumbled as I went down to weaponry to get myself crossbows because I thought it would come in handy. I found Scott enchanting shields and tridents in a corner, with Cleo next to him, holding an axe. “Hey come on, don’t stare,” Martyn mumbled, grabbed a bow and a stack of arrows and started up the stairs. Cleo gave me a brief wave before walking away to another chest. 

We were walking through the forest, with Martyn murdering any chicken we came about. “Look, I don’t know the point of hunting Watchers. They’re not really messing with us, right?” He grumbled. I elbowed him hard in the ribs and grunted. “You never know when they attack. They hit hard.” I touched the long scars on my face. It was from a hawkling Watcher a bit back ago, when I got attacked by it and then my buddies had to save me. I kept my distance ever since, but I won’t hesitate to kill if I got attacked. 

There was a rustle of leaves up front, and Martin stopped torturing a nearby rabbit. “What’s that?” He perked up, walking closer to me. I pulled out my crossbow, just in case, when a swishing sound followed by the hiss of a creeper came behind up. I jumped and tried to pull Martyn away, when a multicolour blur shot past me, slammed into the creeper and knocked it into a tree. It screeched, then vanished in a puff of smoke. 

“Whew! That was close. Careful next time, travellers. Creepers are nasty in my forest.” He said, waving a hand and sweeping leaves off his red shirt. He had brown beady eyes and a pair of jeans, but sprouting behind him was a pair of giant, red-yellow-green parrot wings sprouting behind him. He had bird talons instead of legs as well. 

There is a Watcher right in front of us. 

“Ahhh!” Martyn screamed and lashed out his sword. The Watcher yelped and leapt up a tree, claws scraping against the branch. “Woah woah woah woah woah… I save your lives and now you wanna kill me? Wow, should’ve just left you there.” The Watcher mumbled. Martyn held his sword high. “Gimme a reason not to kill you right now.” He growled, poison seeping in every word. “Eh, I know you won’t. Anyway, be grateful. Now get out of my forest.” He flicked his hand in a ‘shoo’ motion. 

I raised my voice. “Wait, Martin, stop.” I pushed his sword downwards. “Sorry. You have a name?” I turned towards the mystery guy that apparently owns this forest. “What’s yours?” He replied, playing with a stick. “Scar. That’s Martyn. We’re Hunters.” I said, trying to keep my excitement. I’ve never managed to talk to a Watcher for more than thirty seconds! Most of the time they’re trying to kill me!

”Grian,” he mused. “I’d better be off. Just in case someone tries to find my base and steal all of my stuff.” He flapped his wings. Martyn stared at his wings in awe as he stretched them. “Bye!” Grian laughed and launched off the branch, sending leaves and sticks showering down onto the floor. 

“Well, should we tell Xisuma?” Martyn asked, shaking his head. “Nah. Tryin’ keep that secret.” I mumbled. He shook me. “Dude! How can you be so calm about that?!” I only held up a finger. “He seems harmless.” He slapped my hand. “Hey! You know what happened to your face? No one wants that again.” He growled. “You’re the one who said nothing will happen.” I pointed out. He scratched his head then looked down. “Yeah whatever.”

”Let’s get back to base.”

Contents

Next

[kazeofthemagun]

Continued from [ X ]

The blood (of the legacy editor) runs in the woods @thefatalmarksman​

"Wait. No, no - n-no..! Don't go! Please! Nonono -"

But the soldier's pleas did not fall on deaf ears. Even worse - they fell on indifferent ears. Oh yes, his plight was fully acknowledged; It was only help that was not coming.

What was worse? To die, unheard, or to have one's screams ignored by a stranger and one's death spectated like some common street show..?

How could this man... this man... engrave these images into his unblinking eyes and watch?

"Fuck..! Curse you! You monster! The Earl will - he will punish you..!"

Yes, the Earl would... the Earl never turned a blind eye. The God of Gaudium would smite all these wretched, monstrous nonbelievers to hell.

The wounded warrior attempted to rise only to fall short, a soundless laughter ringing in his ears. The woods were silent. The screams of agony had ceased, now. He was alone, and the trees were mocking him. Every windswept rustle of foliage sending shivers down his spine as scratched-up hands clawed the dirt in a futile attempt to escape. The trees howled in laughter, the sound almost forming words.

Where is your God now? Where, oh where could he be?

His one true God and his protection. He did not protect his comrades, now, did he?

Because the Hunter could hardly be evaded. Whether he crossed a God or a Devil, the Hunter did not care. Perhaps that was the reason even the Earl feared him.

After all, what was a God to a Godkiller?

The gait of the distant silhouette shifted, mechanical paws moving faster, strides lengthening until the beast's hind legs pushed off the ground, a monstrous form sailing through the air with the killer grace of a predator. And then he knew.

His god? Was only prey. And him - well, he was less than dirt.

A shrill wail pierced the eerie quiet, blood pouring onto the thirsty earth as razor-sharp claws and teeth tore at the Gaudian soldier's back. No, this death would not come quickly. The performance would drag on mercilessly. The jaws of the beast latched onto a feebly kicking leg to lift its prey up, then slam down with no remorse. Crack. And again. Crunch.

Crack.

Until it all fell silent.

The strange creature sank its maw into the mangled corpse, chewing slowly. Its tail swished back and forth behind it, leaving a ghastly trail. The wet tearing of flesh ceased after a short while, however; A darksteel head lifting to sniff at the air, suddenly so lifelike. Indeed - was this an animal, or a machine? Perhaps, something inbetween?

Or beyond either.

The moonlike glyph - a substitute for eyes..? - faced the tree where the gunslinger was hidden, an uncomfortable moment of simply staring.

And then, a rustle in the treeline.

Forth came a figure shrouded in pitch blackness, his features obscured. He walked without urgency, gaze sweeping the gory mess in front of him. And then, a single reflective eye found Xigbar - with ease ill befitting a human.

More silhouettes appeared out of the darkness, glows of vibrant violet and burning gold. There seemed to be at the very least three other beasts, one of them also bearing a curved sword in place of a tail. Where the first creature's was spectral blue, this one was a fiery orange.

"Death." The figure said with unbroken calmness, entirely unbothered by the carnage.

The beasts headed for the tree.

[mendozaed]

@sebastiandelorges / 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒓. morning room at chelsea house.

Este es un país empapado de sangre – this is a blood-soaked realm.  Clotted ink flew across the parchment, Maria’s sharpened quill scratching noisily against fresh vellum, consigned – in a secret, byzantine code – to the Queen of Spain, Mary Tudor. 

The King’s great houses, which he bankrupts in order to entertain his guests, are former monasteries, the nunneries and abbeys your Lady Mother promoted; the medicine gardens and old burials for nuns and abbots have been dug out for pretty flowers, and the farms which fed the poor in the hard of winter are leveled into parkland for His Majesty your brother’s voracious hunting.  England is now a superstitious realm, a country of devout Catholics who reject the Pope, and tear down shrines in the belief that it will yield them closer to God; a land of heathens who who crush marble statues and leave only the crumbling feet of saints and angels.  This realm is nothing as you left it, Reina, for there is nothing here but heresy and blood.  The King and the Boleyns go against the interest of their own country, against the interests of their own God, in their indomitable bids for power.  The stink of incense at court mingles, sickeningly, with the putrid rotting of traitors and martyrs spiked above the Thames.  

This, and more, Maria pens in a secret language known only to herself and the Queen: a flurry of strike-throughs and hieroglyphics and a cyrillic-like script, undecipherable to pale English eyes, passed to Mary by her mother, and to Catalina by the wily, cunning, implacable King Ferdinand of Aragon.

But at the sound of footfalls, Maria hastily, fluidly, snatches up her writings and folds them into the secret pleats in her gown, trimmed with lavish Spanish black-work; the schooled arrangement of her black eyes and mulberry-lips free of any traces of anxiety.  She rises to greet the guest at the threshold, clanking of metal and rich collars of estate, with practiced grace –– wreathing her face in a surprised, albeit charming grin, welcoming the Comte into Chelsea Place’s morning room with a swish and rustling sweep of her elaborate bell-sleeves.  ‘My lord Montgomery,’ Lady Medina announces, her voice thickly-accented.  ‘If you are not the most infamous man in Europe… Do you seek me out for respite from the English tongue, or have we more pressing matters to discuss and reacquaint over? I welcome either, but I will not stoop to the nonsensical language of our hosts.’ 

[pinkanonwrites]

Bath Time

I know I have a lot of requests waiting, but sometimes you’ve just gotta write what you’re feeling in your heart. And bathtime Azul smut is what I’ve been feeling the past couple of days, so I hope you all enjoy!

AFAB!Reader, sharing a bath, feeding & alcohol (minor mentions), handjobs, soft dom reader, sub Azul

NSFW Below the cut!

"So, how was the event?"

Azul hadn't realized he'd begun to fall asleep in the bath until your voice jolted him back to the land of the waking, the soft click of the latch signaling your entrance from behind the drawn shower curtain. Certainly he hadn't intended to doze off, far from it. But the Lounge had been firing on all cylinders for weeks, making absolutely certain all staff were prepared to host the incredibly reputable (and profitable) wedding that took place that afternoon. 

And though it felt like a thousand different things were going wrong behind the scenes, leaving Azul feeling quite a bit like he were about to tear in two, the happy couple were delighted by the final product. The wedding party was even so kind as to not endlessly linger around the bar as the evening rolled in, leaving enough time for Azul to close up, double-check the ledger, and make it home to slip into a hot bath just before the clock struck 11PM.

“For lack of a better word? Eventful.”

You chuckled at his response, and Azul could hear you quietly clinking something around from behind the curtain. You hadn’t been able to join him at the Lounge, plans of your own keeping you tied up until the early evening. He had assured you needn’t wait up for him, as he couldn’t possibly know what time he would actually get home. He also should have known you would not heed this advice. There was more shuffling from beyond the curtain, rustling and the sounds of fabric hitting the tile floor. Before he could think to ask you what scheme you were up to this time, the curtain drew open with a soft swish. 

He found his gaze level with your knees, sweeping upwards across the plush expanse of your thigh and settling, with a hot streak of embarrassment, at the thatch of thick, dark hair coiled between your legs. Azul found himself overset by a pang of desire at the image, strong enough to cut through the exhaustion and serving only to further that feeling of embarrassment. Gaze sweeping higher over your soft stomach, bare breasts with nipples pebbled from the cool air, the sloped expanse of your neck to settle on the pleased and oh-so-slightly coy expression on your face. In one hand you were balancing a crystal bowl of sliced strawberries. In the other, two bubbling flutes of champagne. Whatever words were about to leave his mouth, he quickly lost when faced with your image. You simply chuckled again at his dazed expression, motioning with your head for him to move over.

“Scoot up, unless you don’t feel like sharing a bath tonight?”

“...Ah? A-Ah! Of course, love. Thank you.”

You stepped gently into the bubbly water, sinking to rest behind him. His back pressed to your soft chest, the both of you leaning against the sloped back of the clawfoot tub. Wordlessly you handed him a flute of champagne, waiting until he took a sip before offering him a slice of strawberry between two pinched fingers.

“Say ‘Aah.~’” You cooed, causing a hot flush of… of something to burn across his face. Something in between humiliation and arousal, if he had to guess.

“It’s almost as if you enjoy embarrassing me. I’m hardly incapable of eating a strawberry of my own accord, you know.”

“Oh, hush. Just let me spoil you.” You tutted, pressing a kiss to the shell of his ear as a reward when he finally ate the strawberry from your waiting fingers. “Especially after you worked so hard today.” You had balanced the bowl precariously on the side of the tub, one hand holding your champagne while the other rubbed Azul’s bare shoulder, humming at the tension you found there. 

“It’s hardly, mmh… Hardly outside of my capabilities.” It was so easy for him to lose himself in the warmth of your exploring hand, sliding slowly down the length of his arm, then back up with the same languid pace. Eyes fluttering shut, he would sluggishly open his mouth each time he felt the press of a cool strawberry against his lips, the lingering sweetness on his tongue pairing with the bubble of the champagne.

“That’s my good boy.~ Let me take care of you for a change.” 

The clink of glass on porcelain must’ve meant you set down your champagne glass as well, and the thought was quickly confirmed by another wandering hand trailing up and down Azul’s slick skin. Both of your hands dipped in unison beneath the bubbly water to caress his thighs, thumbs rubbing along the inner crease where they met his hips and sending heat rushing to his head and his cock. Your teasing fingertips only served to stir further interest, his length quickly filling and rising to attention, eager for your direct touch.

“Well hello there.~” You murmured, clearly pleased. “And here I thought you were too tired.”

Azul could feel his cheeks burning. “You’re really quite the- aah!~” Whatever protestations he had in mind were quickly lost by the sensation of your hand closing around his cock, stroking him slow but firm as you pressed your lips the the slope of his neck. Languid but insistent, squeezing around the base with each stroke, coming all the way back up to caress his sensitive cockhead with playful fingertips before descending again. The sleepiness that had just begun to creep into the corners of his mind intermingled with the pleasure, leaving Azul feeling limp, floaty, and completely at the mercy of your touch. 

You smeared the flat of your other palm over his head as you continued to stroke, making his body jerk and shudder as his hips moved of their own accord to buck into your warm hands. He bit back a curse as you fisted him in both hands, stroking him like you were trying to wring every ounce of pleasure from his tired body. All the while you teased his sensitive neck with your mouth and tongue, nibbling softly on his earlobe, murmuring sweet placations that he could barely consciously make out but certainly served to make him even more eager, more desperate for release. He was too tired, too delirious with pleasure to even stifle his usual noises, gasping openly with whimpers and little ‘oh, oh, oh!’s as you stroked him off. Heat curled deep in the pit of his belly, head lolled back against your shoulder as he let himself thrust unabashedly into your tight hands.

“Oh, oh please love, please!~”

“I’m not gonna stop you, honey. You purred, one hand slinking further down to cup and massage his balls, swollen and as desperate for release as the rest of him. “Whenever you’re ready. Just come for me, Azul.”

“Yes, please, yes!”

Sparks behind his eyes, the immediate rush of levin coursing through his body, down to his fingertips and the tips of his toes. He felt like his whole body was drawn taut, one foot thumping weakly against the far edge of the tub as he couldn’t help but thrust and stutter through your relentless, stroking grip. He’d surely be embarrassed by whatever sounds were escaping his lips once he came to, but for now there was nothing but the sensations of your hands, your lips, your soft chest pressed to his back as he spilled, and spilled, and spilled.

Finally, when the pleasure had just begun to eke over to pain, your hands trailed off of his softening length. He whimpered as you pressed another kiss to his ear, a content hum leaving you and rattling through his whole body. He felt fuzzy, distant, content. Like he’d been good for you. After what could have easily been minutes or eternity, he was able to croak out a mostly-coherent sentence.

“It’s going to… It’s going to get in the water.”

You laughed again, airy and light. “That’s fine, we can wash off with the showerhead in a bit. Besides, you spilled the rest of your champagne in it anyway, so we’ll have to wash off if we don’t want to smell like it.”

“Ah. So I… So I did. My mistake.”

You just fished the lost glass from his hand and set it next to your own, wrapping your arms around his middle and sighing into the crook of his neck, content. “You can make it up to me another time. But let’s just get to bed, okay? I’m sleepy.”

As jelly-limbed and wrung-out as he was, Azul couldn’t help but agree with you. The only thing that could possibly feel better than this would be coiling up with you amidst your silken sheets and soft, piled blankets. To him, that was certainly something worth staying up just a little bit longer for.

[wkemeup]

Crawl Home to Her

summary: Stranded without coms, alone, and bleeding out in the middle of a Russian snow storm, Bucky is content to let nature take its course. Only you won’t seem to let him go.  pairing: bucky x reader word count: 8k warnings: passive suicidal thoughts, hallucinations, ghosts???, its all very confusing but humor me ok,  a/n: based on Work Song by Hozier ✨

No grave can hold my body down I'll crawl home to her

Laid amongst old wooden floors rotted in decades of weathering and the whistling brush of wind sweeping in steady drift of snow from the open doorway, Bucky wondered whether he might have preferred the coffin of ice Hydra once shoved him in for storage.  

The chill nestled deep into his bones and he tried not to focus on the small puff of breath as it touched over chapped, cracked lips. It was the only warmth he had left and that, too, was leaving him.  

It was getting hard to breath under the sting of freezing temperatures barreling into the cabin; sharp, like crystals had formed in his lungs and punctured into his chest from the inside. The fireplace long extinguished, his rifle laid in a heap amongst his tactical vest and gear too far out of reach. He was unprepared when the mercenaries barreled in through the windows, leaving shattered glass along the floor, safe house exposed to the elements of a Russian winter.

He’d stopped shaking an hour ago, which he knew was a bad sign. His body had given up on fabricating false heat through the tremors in his arm and legs, the twitches of his breaths, the chattering of his teeth. The serum only did so much before he was left with the frayed remnants of his humanity to cover the slack.  

Bucky’s fingers dipped down and glazed over a thick, warm pool at his stomach. He pulled his hand back to find an unsettling, deep red coating his skin. It was warm to the touch and it dripped down along his fingertips into his palms, soaking into the dried patches.  

A violent cough suddenly broke through his chest and Bucky’s head fell back to the floorboards, a dull ache in his stomach from the effort. He could taste copper on his tongue as a fuzziness began to take over, like he was floating on the edge of a cloud, somewhere high up in the sky. It was a pleasant feeling, he decided, a break from the world that had not shown him kindness in nearly a century.  

He stared up at the ceiling, at the blades of a fan lined in decades of dust, as it spun around and around and around and around and —

“What the hell are you doing?”

Bucky jolted awake, a sharp flinch through this nervous system like the current of electricity. Eyes wide open, he turned to find a figure sitting on the loveseat to his left. The fabric was torn in the trajectory of dozens of bullets, cotton lining oozing out the cushions and littered amongst the snow. It was too dark to see but the dim flicker of the swaying light in the kitchen illuminated the corner for only a second. It was enough to still his heart.  

“Y/n?”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a scowl on your face as lips pursed together.  

“Hey Buck.”

No.

No. That—that can’t be right...

You were wearing a SHEILD crewneck with a rip on the hem of the sleeve, faded in color from the wash, and a pair of sleep shorts he’d seen you in dozens of times. The slight imprint of a pillow case fold on your cheek, your hair a little out of place in sleep, and cast in the glow of sunshine through his bedroom window despite the stars littering the night sky outside the cabin’s door.  

It was what you were wearing when he left on assignment two weeks prior. He knew because he memorized every moment he left you behind.  

There was always that uncertainty, that knowledge that every mission could be his last, so he took the time to bring you with him; a memory, an image, of you laying under rustled sheets, curled up against his pillow with that pout on your lips as you told him ‘five more minutes, baby’ when he was already ten late.

He held that memory close because he could feel himself slipping. The blood pooling at his stomach was seeping into the floor beneath him and he felt dizzy, the spin of the fan above him throwing him off balance even as he laid completely still. It was the last good thing he had left -- this image of you -- because he knew it was time to let go, time to let the universe make things right again, to take him from the time he never belonged in.  

There was a relief in that... almost.  

"You’re not giving up, are you?”

Bucky gritted his teeth as your voice pulled him back sharply from the edge of dreamless sleep. He glanced over to you and found there wasn’t a trace of goosebumps on your skin amongst the snow sliding along the floorboards by your feet. You were unbothered by the rush of wind barreling in through the open door though it picked up in the small wisps of your hair, carrying them away from your face before it settled again.

“This isn’t happening. You’re not real,” Bucky chanted under his breath, but the way you were looking at him—Jesus—he'd seen that look too many times before. The pinch of your brows, the slight tug of your cheek between your teeth, your eyes narrowing down on him from a distance, never in anger, but determination.  

Bucky closed his eyes, clenched his jaw real tight, but he could still hear as you push yourself up off the couch, the slight squeak of floorboards under your feet as you paced. Bucky dared to steal a glimpse and you were kneeling down over one of the mercenaries he was able to get a shot in before hell broke loose. You pursed your lips, tilted your head just so, and pulled off his helmet to get a better look. It rolled a good few feet before it hit a sudden stop against the edge of the couch.  

It was the wind, he told himself. His mind was playing tricks on him again.  

“Jesus, they make ‘em big around here,” you murmured to yourself before you pressed two fingers to the side of the man's neck. You started ruffling through his pockets for weapons and Bucky could hear the jingle of coins in his pockets, the swish of the fabric. He was certain he’d gone mad.  

“You need to get warm, Buck,” you told him and a coat dropped down on his left. “You’ll die if you don’t.”

“You’re not real,” he argued, keeping his eyes closed, hoping that you’d just disappear and let him die in peace. “You’re... you’re in my head.”

It was hard enough knowing he was going to die in Russia of all places before you ever knew he was in trouble, hard enough to imagine you crying over his body as his skin paled to blue and grey, hard enough that he’d already said his last goodbye, already had the last kiss from your lips…  

“It doesn’t matter if I’m in your head or not, Bucky,” you warned, though he was almost certain he could feel the warmth of your breath touch his skin as you leaned down next to him. “You’ll die if you stay here. Do you understand? You’ll die."

Your hand slid into his hair and he could feel the trace of your fingertips, your nails, on his scalp; combing through locks matted in blood and dirt and drawing shivers in his spine untouched by the cold.  

He whimpered, tears burning at the corner of his eyes, because you were right there and somehow not at all. He didn’t want to say goodbye but his energy was draining. It slipped from him in every breath, the pain becoming a tired memory and he knew his body was giving in.  

He’d spent so much time fighting in his life. He just wanted to rest. That’s all. Just some time to rest...

“Bucky!”

He snapped awake, heart beating frantically for a few minutes before it lulled again; his breaths too short, too far apart.  

You were hovering over him, hair falling down into your face and there was real fear in your eyes. Your hands settled on his chest, trying to draw his attention back to you and he was certain he could feel the pressure of it, the grip of your fingers to the fabric of his shirt. The touch of a ghost.  

“You need to get up. We’ve got to get you out of here,” you ordered, hands fumbling for the coat you dropped by his side and trying to drape it over him, but he pushed your hands away. You sat back on your heels, wide eyed, desperate.

“I’m already dying, sweetheart,” Bucky choked out, voice raspy and raw. “There's nothing left to do. Coms are out... nearest town is a dozen miles away... I’m-- fuck—I've got at least four bullets in me. This is it, honey. I’m-- I’m sorry...”

It hurt as he said it and he dared himself to meet your eye. Draped in sunlight and all that was ever good in his life, you were an ethereal wonder; a stunning image of the women he left behind, even if his mind was fading on the edge of insanity. It was nice, he thought, to see this memory of you one last time, to hold onto it tighter as the darkness gently carried him away from this world.  

His hand lifted slowly, wanting to touch you one last time, and he was surprised when it didn’t slip straight through you like a ghost, but instead, landed tenderly against your cheek. So tangible, warm to icy chill of his hand, he could feel the clench in your jaw, the strain of the muscle, the divot of a scar by your ear.  

A final blessing he didn’t deserve.  

“Bullshit.”  

He winced as you grabbed a firm hold of his wrist and pulled it from your face. Everything started to hurt again, in his chest, his stomach. He was falling apart.  

“I’m so sorry, honey, I’m—I’m not making it out of—”

“Bull. Shit.”  

You slammed your hands to the floor beside him and suddenly, you were up and rummaging through the kitchen, tossing old utensils around and making a mess of the withering cabinets. You tore them to shreds, emptied the drawers onto the floor, the shattering of glass and the crash of metal to tile in an unsettling scream.  

“You don’t get to do this. Do you hear me? Not after all you went through! Just to die in fucking Russia!”

Bucky swallowed though it tasted like bile. You tossed out the mugs from a cabinet with the swipe of your hand and the sound they made as they crashed to the floor skipped several beats in Bucky’s dimly beating heart.  

“Sweetheart,” Bucky tried again, voice falling on empty, a whisper, “no one’s comin’...”

“Then you fucking get up and get to a goddamn phone!”

You froze then, your hand curling around whatever you were looking for with a sigh of relief. As you stomped back over to him, Bucky looked down at your grasp to find two sets of hand towels and an ace bandage clutched in your grip.  

You were grumbling under your breath as you sank down to your knees. Hands shaking, you pushed up at the thin fabric of Bucky’s shirt. He didn’t even hiss as the cold air touched his skin. That wasn’t good.  

You pressed a towel to his open wounds, hard enough for Bucky to groan at the impact and he bit down hard on his tongue. There was no apology as you wiped away the pools of blood, tossing aside the soaked towel to the corner and pressing down a new one in its place. You were angry, furious even, and Bucky had only seen you like this once before.  

The Hydra base in Siberia. He was surrounded, ordering you to get back to the jet without him though he had no clear path to an exit. It was a diversion, one you saw through instantly, because he had no intention of leaving that warehouse, not as long as you made it out alive. You almost killed him yourself by the time the last Hydra agent fell to the floor. Panting, covered in blood, you had slapped him hard across the face before you gripped at his shoulders and kissed him.

The first kiss between you.  

The beginning of it all.  

Fitting it should end like this, too.  

“Sit up,” you demanded, pulling Bucky back from his memories.  

He sighed as he stared up at you, your teeth gritted as you pressed down harder to his wounds. Everything hurt. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.  

“Sit. Up.”

“I can’t,” he whimpered, voice breaking in the effort. “I-- I can't, honey. I’m sorry. Just—Just let me go. It’s time, Y/n. It’s okay…”

There was a silence, one that carried over the scream of the wind outside and the scratch of tree branches against the shattered windowpanes. Bucky’s own breaths were shallow, raw and wheezing through his lungs, and they sat in pained contrast to your silent, elongated inhales, the seconds you held them before you released it. He could have heard a pin drop even over the whistling wind and the mess in his chest.  

“No.”

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat. “No?”

“No,” you gritted out, sinking back onto your heels. “No! You don’t get to just give up, Bucky. You don’t get to leave me behind!”

“You’re not even here...”

You clenched your teeth, biting on the inside of your cheek. “Maybe not. But you know exactly where I am back home, don’t you?”

Bucky’s jaw wired shut in an instant. It was what he’d been avoiding, why he clung so hard to the image of you as he left, the glow of the sunlight on your skin and the sleepy mess in your hair. The perfect memory to take when him as he died, but it was being ripped from him, torn away in an instant because as you knelt beside him, your ghost began to change.  

Dark circles colored under your eyes, a sunken look hollowing in at your cheeks and temples. Your hair fell down from the bun at your crown and braided down the side, a nervous habit you’d taken up to keep your hands busy when you were anxious. Lines formed on your lips, cracking along the center; broken skin now exposed on your knuckles from a restless night in the gym.  

Tear tracks burned down your cheeks; some old, some fresh, and your eyes were bloodshot red.  

“Please, stop,” he begged, trying to will his mind to give him the memory he had before.

“You know what this is doing to me,” you told him. “You missed your checkpoint eight hours ago, Bucky. We both know what that means. We both know I’m scared out of my mind for you. I’m panicking. I’m desperate to find you and you’re going to give up before I can.”

Bucky closed his eyes, choking back tears as he pictured you frantically pacing back and forth in the intel room next to Steve, waiting by the satellite phone, waiting on a call that would never come. His coms had been destroyed in the shootout, torn and shattered under the boot of a Russian enforcer. There was no way to get word to you, no way for you to track his location. He was entirely on his own.  

You would have figured that out by now, too.  

He could practically hear your voice as you shouted for an update every few minutes, biting the head off of an Agent who dared to give you any answer outside of Bucky being found safe and on his way home to you. He could see you clenching at your fists, digging your nails into flesh, and shrugging off Steve as he tried to ease your distress. You’d be terrified, with a deep kind of unsettling dread burning like a hole in your stomach. He knew, because it was how he felt when you were on assignment. It was agonizing.  

“Don’t do this, Bucky,” you said quietly, softer now, begging. “Don’t give up. Don’t—Don’t leave me.”

He could hardly keep his eyes open, every breath drawing him further away.  

“You’ll be okay,” he said slowly, achingly, though a flash of shock widened your eyes. “You’ll be okay without me.”

Bucky’s fingers crawled along the floor to you, nails digging through a mess of blood and splinters before the curled sweetly around the palm of your hand. He squeezed it gently, the most he could manage, and he watched with a fading smile as you stared down to where he held you.  

“How could you say that?” you whispered, gaze glued to blood stained hands. You swallowed, a tear slipping past your eye as you turned to find ocean blue. “How could you possibly think that would be true? You’re my life, Bucky. I need you. You can’t—Please, baby. You have to come home to me. You have to.”

“You’ll move on,” he exhaled, closing his eyes as the exhaustion started to pull him under. “It might take some time, but you’ll be fine, honey. You don’t need me. You never did.”

“That’s not true—”

“You were always too good for me,” he chuckled sadly to himself. “At least now you can find someone who really deserves you…”

“Dammit, Bucky!” you cried, hands gripping into the fabric of his shirt and shaking him until he opened his eyes again. “You don’t get to just throw your life away because you have some backwards, fucked up notion that you’re not good enough to love me because newsflash, you idiot, I don’t care! I love you! I love every goddamn part of you and there is not a person on this planet, or any other, that I want to love me the way that you do!”

There was a silence that followed. The whistling wind and the scratch of branches on exposed windows the only solace between you. Your features softened, your hands releasing from his shirt and you gently patted his shoulder, running your fingers along his neck to touch the side of his face. He leaned into the palm of your head, jaw quivering as he bit back tears.  

“Why are you here?” he whimpered, voice cracking as a sob crawled its way through his spine. “Why-- Why won’t you just let me go?”

Tears spilled out the corners of Bucky’s sides, sliding down along his temples and soaking into his hair. He was exhausted and aching and – god—he just wanted to sleep.

You smiled sweetly at him, brushed the hair from his eyes. “It’s you, Bucky, don’t you get that? I’m in your head, remember? I’m apart of you. Stop fighting yourself and come with me. Let me help you survive this. It’s why you brought me here in the first place.”

“No... that’s…” Bucky shook his head, heart racing a little faster, “that’s crazy.”

“Crazier than talking to yourself?” you chuckled light-heartedly. “It’s been you this whole time, Buck. Look.”

You gestured to the floor leading into the kitchen, and sure enough, there was a trail of bloody footprints in the size of his combat boots leading into the mess of shattered mugs and scattered utensils. His palms had tiny pieces of broken glass in them, colored in the paint of the kitchenware on the floor.  

Then, you showed him the wrapped bandage at his stomach, the one with his own bloody fingerprints at the clasp. He’d done it all himself.  

“Your imagination can’t do all that for you, baby,” you said, a soft smile on your face, though it faded to something solemn as he stared at you in shock. “You’re dying, Buck, really dying and I know you’re scared. I know you want to come home. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”

“I don’t--” he swallowed, though his throat was dry and it burned amongst the cold air, “I don’t understand…”

“The mind is a funny thing,” you shrugged. “It does what it has to, to keep you alive. This is what you needed, to be reminded of the love you have waiting for you back home when you survive this.”

You nodded to the edge of the cabin, and sure enough, there was Steve standing at the door. Hands tucked into his pockets, wearing the thin white shirt and suspenders from their youth, though it looked a little funny now on the man he was today. He was smiling, that hopeful kind of look in his eye that Bucky never quite learned how to replicate.  

Sam stood next to him, hand on Steve’s shoulder, smirk plastered across his face as he nodded at Bucky; the strange and varying brotherhood between the two of them full of bickering fights and unbridled loyalty.  

Natasha was on Sam’s left, arms folded, scowl present as her eyes flickered down to the mess of bodies littering the floor. She raised an eyebrow at the burly looking soldier you’d rummaged through the pocket of— or, or maybe it was Bucky, he was still trying to wrap his head around it – and nodded as if she were impressed.  

Then, there was Shuri and T’Challa. Lang and Barton. Wanda and Vision. Peter Parker sneaking his way in behind Steve, looking just damn excited to be standing in the presence of Captain America. Even Tony Stark stood in the corner of the cabin; arms crossed, sunglasses on, observing from a careful distance, but still present.  

“You’re not alone, Bucky,” you said quietly, drawing his attention back to you. “Not here. Not at home. Please don’t give up on your family. Don’t give up on all you’ve built. We’re waiting for you, honey. Come home.”

A blur in his vision, Bucky couldn’t quite focus on your silhouette, not until you tenderly brushed the tears from his eyes, droplets on the edges of long lashes. He clenched his jaw, searching for a stronger breath as you held his face. Your lips pressed down to his forehead and he found his strength again.  

“Okay.”

Bucky grabbed onto the edge of the couch and pulled until his muscles were at their limit. A scream tore threw him, his body raw and broken and falling apart at the seams. It burned in his throat, in his chest, and it echoed deep into the empty cabin. It was no louder than the wind outside.  

“Okay,” he repeated as he sat up with his back pressed against the couch. He clutched at his stomach, heavy breaths in his lungs. The bandages were holding up, with little leakage onto his palm in all the effort.  

When he looked back over to you, he found you smiling, proud, though your appearance had changed again.  

Your hair was pulled down to a bun at the nape of your neck, a few strands falling out the sides. Dressed in a large winter coat with a thick fur around the hood and mittens on your hands; the navy-blue jacket you’d worn in your mission in the Swiss Alps last year where you’d convinced Bucky to stick around a few extra days in the blizzarding cold. You’d told him then how much you loved the snow, the mountains, but mostly the hot chocolate, the fireplaces, the snuggling in close to him at night. It was a pleasant memory.  

Bucky smiled back at you, though it took most of his strength. He turned to look at Steve and the rest of his family, but they were gone, disappeared to thin air and his stomach lurched as he quickly shot his eyes back to you.  

“You ready, baby?” you asked him sweetly, nodding towards the door.  

“Stay with me. Please.” He felt childish as the words left him, talking to what amounted to nothing more than particles of snowfall and thin air, but it carried his whole world.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, as if it was never a choice at all, and you offered your hand.  

Bucky nodded, stringing together all the strength he had left in his body and slipped his hand into yours. He tried not to think of the logistics of it all, how he was really getting up on his own because you weren’t here to tug him to his feet. It created a dull ache in the back of his head and he figured he better not mess with the remaining functioning pieces of himself. Let his mind get him through this, even if he felt absolutely insane.  

“Put the jacket on, honey,” you told him, bending down to grab the coat of the mercenary you’d swiped earlier. “It’ll be a long walk in the cold.”

“Y-yeah, okay.”  

The wind barreled in from the open door and it pushed at the little balance Bucky had left, leaving him to sway unsteadily, grunting at the pain that resulted in his stomach. He clutched at the wrapped bandages, relieved when fresh blood did not add to the stains on his fingers and palm.  

“Time to go,” you urged him, nodding to the door. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Bucky stared out into the blanket of darkness beyond the door, the snow falling and dancing amongst the violent sweeps of wind, illuminated by starlight untouched by the pollution of a city. He didn’t know where to go, but you promised you’d guide him; a piece of his subconscious that must have picked up on a sign along the road at some point, he figured.  

As he made his way to the brutal cold, shivers tremoring in his spine and his feet limping dragging along the floor, facing a journey across miles of exposed land, he was thankful he wasn’t alone.  

***

Bucky had never been so cold in his goddamn life; not even when Hydra would put him on ice.  

It had been a relief then, a dreamless sleep and safety away from his captures, but this – this was torture in itself. His boots dragged through two feet of snow, the winds picking up the further he trudged out into the darkness. He wrapped the scarf tighter around his face, trying to shield himself from the cold, though ice crystals had formed on his lashes.  

Everything hurt and each step was more painful than the last, but he kept moving.  

“You’re almost there!” you shouted over the scream of the wind in his ears. You were smiling, jogging out a few paces ahead. It was easier for his feet to carry him when it was you he was walking towards. “Come on, sweetheart. One more mile. That’s it.”

Bucky panted, his breaths far too labored, his head feeling quite fuzzy, but as he looked over your shoulder, he spotted a light in the distance. Blurred by the snowfall, but still clear as day. A gas station with half the letters missing in its name. His saving grace.

“I’m coming, baby,” he whispered and for the first time, he wasn’t talking to the mirage beside him, but the woman waiting thousands of miles away.  

Picking up in pace, Bucky pushed himself harder than he’d ever tested the limits of his body before. He knew that without the serum, he would have been dead before he even left the cabin. There were few moments Bucky was ever thankful for the hell he’d been through. This – giving him a second chance to get home to the love of his life – was one of them.  

“Careful,” you warned him, gesturing to the trail of red droplets in his wake; blood that had seeped out from the soaked bandages at his stomach and trailed down under his coat to the snow below, marking his path.  

Bucky nodded, determined as he finally broke through to solid ground, to dirt roads plowed just enough from the snow, and sprinted the rest of the way. You were on his heels, cheering him on like you did when he first got back on a treadmill after he broke his leg in New Mexico last year. He was smiling so wide it hurt his cheeks, laughing as artificial light illuminated his path.  

He shoved his shoulder to the door, winced at the sound of the bell above, and charged straight up to the counter.  

A man in a thick overcoat and a fur hat stood behind the counter, reading a newspaper quietly to himself, and paid no mind to the man frantically rushing up to him. He glanced up in Bucky’s direction, eyes flickering to the blood trailing in his wake, before turning back to his paper.  

“Phone,” Bucky panted. “I need a phone.”

The man didn’t respond.  

“Russian, Buck,” you reminded him quietly to his right.  

“фона,” Bucky tried again, slamming his hand down on the table.  

The man rolled his eyes and set the paper down. Stone cold expression, he took his time as he muddled around behind the counter, leaving Bucky on edge. You nodded at him, running a hand along his arm to keep him calm.  

Then, the man set a flip phone down on the counter. He didn’t say another word as he sat back onto his stool and picked up the paper again.  

Bucky grabbed the phone and quickly stumbled his way back to the far end of the convenience stores. Brushing up against rows of chips and shouldered a few to the ground, he was starting to lose his balance again. The dizziness was kicking in and it became evident as he tried to dial the SHEILD emergency call number and kept hitting the wrong numbers.  

“Breathe,” you said softly as Bucky started to panic. “Try again.”

Deep inhale in, Bucky typed the ten digits and held the phone to his ear. It rang three times.  

“Good morning,” a voice replied, deep and clinical, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky leaned his forehead to the glass of the freezers, cold compress on his skin touching a blaze of heat.  

When did he start sweating? When did it start to soak through his clothes?

There was a stickiness under his feet and Bucky glanced down to find blood dripping down from the edge of his coat and staining the dull-white of the plaster floors. Dark red seeping into the cracks between tiles, filtering through years of dirt and dust and muddied tracks. The outline of his boots in perfect pattern.  

“Good morning,” the voice said again, “this is Sandbox Bakery. What can I get for you?”

Bucky swallowed, trying to find his voice, but he was sure he’d left it behind in the cabin. He could hardly hold himself up, his hand slipping on the handle of the freezer doors, nearly taking him down to the ground amongst the blood and dirt.  

Under hooded, heavy eyes, Bucky glanced over at you as you nodded encouragingly at him, but there was two of you; swaying over one another, blurred, out of focus.

“Good morning, this is—”

“Baklava,” Bucky muttered the code word between labored breaths, the meaning of it sitting somewhere along the line of I shouldn’t be alive but I am – Fucking come get me. The dizziness was starting to take hold on his body and he leaned his shoulder against the freezer doors in search of the cold glass to offset the burning heat on his skin.  

A darkness started to tunnel at his vision, thick black rings closing in around him and he tried to grip at the handles on the doors, but he missed each time; his fingers too weak to grip onto the edge, his vision swaying and doubling over.

The agent on the other end of the phone was asking him questions, but they barely registered, like white noise no louder than the burrowing winds past the door. Bucky clutched at the handle, phone slipping from his grasp as it fell to the ground. He stumbled backwards, hitting a tower of plastic cups as they collapsed around him.  

“Bucky, lie down,” you warned gently as he struggled to hold himself up.  

“I’m—I’m okay,” he gasped, voice barely a whisper, unintelligible, before the darkness caved in completely and he met the floor.  

***

When Bucky came to again, it was to hands gripping harshly at his arms, at his legs, dragging his body onto a rock-hard surface that smelled of plastic and the sting of sterilizing alcohol. Pain ripped through his stomach at the sudden movement and he whimpered quietly, painful breaths in, lips quivering as he tried to bite down hard on the dried, cracked surface; the movement jarring enough to make him wish he was back in the cabin amongst the snow and broken glass.

But there was a hand encasing his. One that was soft, impossibly gentle, a slight squeeze, and Bucky realized there were voices around him. Muffled, barking orders, but they were distant, like an echo at the edge of a ravine. They were too far away for him to hear.  

All except one.  

“Stop it! Jesus, you’re hurting him,” one of the voices warned; soft and melodic, even within the tension, within the slight tremor of panic. It was a voice that called to him, as the grip on his forearm tightened, and Bucky forced his eyes open.  

He was seeing double, couldn’t quite focus on what was right in front of him, but he could see the three agents dressed in black combat vests huddled over him, strapping him on the stretcher while a petite Englishwoman with mousey brown hair and slender fingers worked to stabilize the mess at his stomach.  

Then, he focused on the voice to his left, the kind voice, the familiar voice – yours.  

“We’ve got to get him out of here, Simmons,” you urged, glancing back at the doors to the shop and the chaos of broken aisles in between. “God knows how long he’s been here like this...”

“I just need to stabilize him before we make a break for the jet,” the woman with the quiet English accent replied. She pressed down hard on Bucky’s stomach and he was surprised to find he didn’t feel a thing.  

Bucky swallowed back the dryness in his throat, trying to find his own voice, catch your attention in some way, but you didn’t seem to notice him watching you.

“It’s been ten hours since he missed the checkpoint. Ten hours,” you stressed, your free hand reaching up to brush back hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear. It was then Bucky noticed the braid sitting over your shoulder, the dark tactical suit, and the discoloration under your eyes. There were marks in the shape of crescent moons on your hand from where you’d dug your nails to your skin. You looked tired, scared; it was different than how you appeared when Bucky collapsed.  

You gritted your teeth, brushing away tears Bucky so desperately wanted to reach to wipe away if he could only move.  

“We don’t know how much blood he’s lost or— or if he has internal bleeding or--”

You froze suddenly, words pulled right out of your mouth as Bucky’s hand twitched under your grip. Slowly, you turned to meet his eye with a kind of panicked shock and relief and an array of complex emotion.  

“Bucky?”

He nodded, a weak smile on his face.  

You nearly cried. “Oh, thank God you’re--”

“You stayed,” Bucky muttered, voice groggy and slurred. A tired smile etching up against broken lips.  

You blinked, biting back your tongue as your eyes shot over at Simmons. She shrugged, working quietly to reseal the bandages at Bucky’s stomach. There was a smile on Bucky’s lips, broken and cracked in dried blood, almost hazy, like he was floating high above in the clouds.  

“Honey, I’m here now,” you told him, voice a little cautious, but Bucky shook his head, though his vision was starting to leave him again, the comforting pull of darkness wrapping its arm around him.  

“You... you really stayed with me...” His voice was barley a whisper.  

Your eyes widened, a fear taking over and your quickly snapped your attention back to the agents surrounding him.  

"We need to get him out of here, now,” you ordered as Bucky’s eyes started to flutter closed again and he did not return the grip to your hand when you squeezed. Sudden movements and he was lifted into the air, though your grip on his hand did not leave him.

He fell back to the darkness before the cold air of Russian winter could touch his skin.  

***

The first thought Bucky registered was that he was warm. Not warm enough for sweat to form on his brow, but enough so that a chill didn’t press its way into his bones, enough that the thin layer of a freshly washed blanket draped over his legs chased away the goosebumps on his arms.  

He blinked his eyes open gently to take in the stream of light from the window to his left and the reflection held against bare, white walls. The room was not one he knew and quiet murmuring of strangers passing by outside in a language he couldn’t place didn’t help the rush of panic etching up through his veins.

Bucky turned to his left to see a monitor carrying his heartrate and the increasingly frantic rhythm of his pulse. There was a bruised mark on his right forearm around an IV that stemmed to a bag hanging over his head.  

Could be filled with anything, he reminded himself. Always on the defense. It was how he stayed alive.  

A hand settled against his stomach to find it wrapped in bandages, no longer searing in pain, but still sore; a dull ache left behind to remind him it was real, that he’d been shot and left for dead in the frozen wastelands of Russia, that he’d walked miles alone in a blizzard and found comfort in the ghost of –  

Bucky jolted upright, a hiss pulling swiftly from clenched teeth as a sharp pain reemerged at his stomach. He groaned, breaths coming in a little heavier now as he glanced around the empty room. Up at the open door ahead of him, he watched as stray physicians and nurses passed by in white lab coats talking quietly amongst themselves in... German, maybe? His brain was too foggy to register much of anything.  

“Y/n?” he called in search of your ghost, but his voice was too weak, he could barely hear it himself.  

Kicking the blankets away from his legs, Bucky felt a chill sweep up his spine. The pain was excruciating, but he’d been through worse. He ripped the IV from his arm. He kept his hands gripped tight to the mattress, setting his bare feet to the cold floor and wincing as the pain in his stomach worsened with every movement.  

But he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home to you. He’d promised.  

He set his stance to the ground, careful to hold himself up on the edge of the bedframe, but his legs were shaky under him, muscles unused and tired and so incredibly useless, his left hand started to warp the plastic of the railing in his frustration.  

“Bucky?”  

Wide eyes shot to the door to find you standing in its frame, a Styrofoam cup of coffee in your hand, lips parted in shock. Your hair was swept to the side in a long braid, dark circles hanging under your eyes, your clothes wrinkled with days of use.  

He tried to speak, but suddenly, his hold on the bed frame gave out. The smell of dark roasted coffee beans filled the air before he even met the ground and his skin touched the ice of tile flooring. Sharp pain in his hip and a heat of embarrassment in his cheeks, Bucky tried to find an ounce of his dignity on the ground.

You slid up on your knees beside him; coffee cup noticeably missing from your hands as it laid in a puddle by the door to his room.  

“Jesus, Buck, what were you thinking?” you gasped, hands roaming down over his arms, fingers warm to the touch from the coffee you’d held between your palms. A worry line creased in your forehead, lip tugged between your teeth as you grazed your touch over his face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones and jawline in concentration as you inspected for damage.  

Bucky closed his eyes, a little lost in the feeling of it as he leaned into your touch, missing you and wondering how he could possibly feel that heat from your skin.  

“You’re lucky you didn’t reopen your stitches,” you murmured, hands touching gently at his wrapped bandaged around his waist. It was still white, at least, so that was something. The scowl on your face was a comfort, something familiar, and he was thankful to have it.  

But there were small differences he noticed as you tried to help him back up into the bed. Like how when the light from the window touched your skin, it reflected a little differently, got caught in your eyes and you’d have to squint away from it. Or how there was a new scratch on your jawline he hadn’t seen before. You huffed a hair away from your face as you struggled to life him back to his feet and it fell back into your line of sight almost instantly.  

“Give me a sec, I’ll be right back,” you told him before you pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, hands sinking into his hair. It felt so real, he almost convinced himself you were really there.  

When you came back into the room, a nurse was at your side, hands planted firmly on her lips.  

“I thought you were joking,” the nurse huffed in a thick German accent, exchanging a glance with you. You shrugged, scowl present but lips curved up in a smirk. The nurse groaned, sinking down to the floor to grab Bucky’s arm. “Why would I expect a man who’s been under for nearly a week to just up and walk out the room? Huh? I wouldn’t! No one is that foolish, Sergeant Barnes.”

You were laughing quietly beside her as you helped to guide Bucky back up into the bed. As he settled back into place, he found himself watching you intently as you conversed with the nurse. She told you keep your eyes on him, that he was a flight risk, and that she’d be back to check on him again soon. You nodded, thanking her for her time and quickly pulled up a chair beside his bed.  

“You've got terrible timing. You know that, right?” you chuckled, shaking your head. “I haven’t left this room for days, Buck, and the second I go to get coffee, you decide to wake up.”

“How long?” he asked quietly and the smile faded from your cheeks.

“Five days,” you told him. “Almost six.”

“Longer since I missed the checkpoint, then,” he reasoned, pinching at his brows. “We should get moving again. I’ve got to get home.”

“What? No,” you said quickly, leaning forward in your chair in an attempt to set your hand on him, but he pushed it away. It seemed to surprise you because you paused for a moment before you said, “Bucky, you’re still healing. You need time before we can—”

“I didn’t almost bleed out in a goddamn cabin in middle of Russia just to end up trapped in some hospital in Germany and still not make it home!”

Bucky threw the blanket off of him again, pushing himself to the edge.

You rushed forward, grabbed a hold of his shins before he could swing his legs off the side of the bed. Your grip was forceful, but not enough to hurt. You planted your hip down on the bed to block his path.  

“We’re staying here, Buck,” you pressed, a slight tremor in your voice. “You almost died.”

“Why are you arguing with me about this now?” Bucky groaned and the flash of confusion on your face went unnoticed. “You’re the one that convinced me I had get home, aren’t you? You’re the one who wouldn’t just let me die and made me walk into a fuckin’ blizzard while I was bleeding out! I have to get home to you, right? That’s what you said! I’m not giving up on her – or, or us – or... fuck it— on myself, ok? Whether you’re with me or not. I have to get home to her. Even if I have to fucking crawl.”

Through the frantic swelling in his chest, the heavy pants of his breath, and the dizziness forming back in his head, Bucky didn’t register how quiet you’d become until his eyes flickered over to you. Your body was rigid, lips parted just slightly, a semblance of shock in your eyes and Bucky’s stomach sank.  

“Is that... Is that what you meant when you said ‘I stayed with you’? Back in the gas station in Russia? Do you... Do you think you’re just imagining me here?” you asked slowly and a burning heat ached into his cheeks. Something like shame or embarrassment or guilt, but none of it stronger than the relief that coursed through his veins as your hand reached out for him, fingers encasing his. Smaller than his own, warmer, and so real he could feel the divots of your lifeline and old scars and the soothing trace of your nails. Tangible. Real.  

“I...” Bucky started, stealing a glance up at your eyes before they darted back down to your hands wrapped so tenderly around him. He exhaled a heavy breath. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, honey,” you sighed, bringing his hands up to your lips and kissing sweetly at his knuckles. You pressed the chill of his fist to your cheek and he could feel the warmth burning there. The way you watched him, with eyes so filled with the kind of love and adoration he’d longed for his entire life, it was enough to mend his heart whole.  

“I’m here, Bucky,” you whispered, another kiss to the tips of his fingers and it took the breath straight from his lungs. “I’m really here, honey. Your mind isn’t playing tricks on you anymore. You’re not alone.”

Bucky nodded, watching as you peppered kissed along his hands, over flesh and metal like they were one in the same.  

“It felt so real...” he murmured, sinking into the way your hand stretched up along his arm, rising over his neck like the crest of ocean waves, and rested to his cheek. He leaned further into the touch.  

“I know,” you soothed, your thumb tracing over his cheekbone. “But I’m here now, love. You found your way home.”

Bucky nodded, shifting in the bed just enough for you to crawl in beside him. The dull ache in his stomach lingered, but he didn’t mind, not when you curled up into the crook of his neck, your hand gliding down over the marred scarring on his shoulder, your breath warm against his collar.  

“Home,” he echoed, the word slipping from behind broken lips, a curve of a smile etching into his cheeks. He leaned his cheek to the crown of your head, eyes closing in a relief that spread through his chest and through the very ends of his body in a gentle kind of warmth he could only ever hope to find with you resting in his arms.  

He found his way home.

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

[clefairymuke]

oiiii i have a request for a oneshot or maybe something fun to add to your regrets fic (whatever you find better) I think it would be funny a reader x the scouts drunk and levi finding them and being all cute taking care of reader :3

thank you for this request!! sorry for how long it took, but it managed to pull me out of some writers block that’s been kicking my ass lately. thank you for suggesting it and reading!

as always, much love! <3

-----------------------------------------------------------

Red Wine | Levi x Reader

pairing: levi x reader

themes: fluff

tw: swearing, alcohol use

word count: 2511

True fun and relaxation is not something you typically experience.

Of course, when you signed up for this whole Scout Regiment thing, you weren’t expecting nights out in bars and plush queen-sized beds with wool blankets. You expected exactly what you got: exhausting days and mostly sleepless nights, demanding grief and waking nightmares. One thing you hadn’t expected, however, was how stale it would get. These thoughts are why you ended up where you are now: propped lazily against a wall surrounded by your friends, loud laughs bubbling freely from your ever-smiling mouth, and a bottle of wine in hand.

While the “why” is clear to you, the “how” is a bit more cloudy. Around the complete euphoria in your head stands a thick fog blocking your memory — that, or the fact that your drunkenly dwindling attention span can no longer support a thought lasting more than a second or two. All you know is that you’re here now, and you’re having the time of your life. Your eyes and ears skirt past Eren and Jean arguing without stopping to listen in as you pass the bottle to Mikasa.

For once, you aren’t thinking about how Levi could make this experience better. Although you love being in the company of your boyfriend, you can’t help but imagine his disdain if he were to witness your situation. You can almost feel the ferocity of his razor sharp-glare creeping up your spine as you picture it within your mind.

You lay your head back on the concrete wall that keeps you upright and close your eyes. Although you had shown to be quite social when the bottle first began to be passed, you now wanted nothing more than to take a nice nap — or to go vomit just to ease yourself of the queasy feeling that was overtaking your stomach. Either would suffice. You listen to your friends chatting mindlessly around you, their care to be inconspicuous slipping away with the wine. You watch Connie drain what was left in the bottle, leaving you to curse at the fact that you would be stuck in the uncomfortable kind of drunk that left you a bit nauseous while still conscious enough to be prone to anxiety.

You sit there in a dizzy oblivion for what could have been five minutes or fifty, tuning out the antics of the rest of the people in the room as they laugh and roughhouse. Your stomach stirs and turns, but your mind begins to clear: you notice Connie and Sasha choreographing a dance routine to music only they could hear; Mikasa and Armin sit quietly chatting behind Eren as he and Jean argue over who is more adept at fighting; Ymir and Christa are making googly eyes at each other over their giggles.

“Hey, guys?” you say, your brain lagging behind your mouth by at least a few seconds. “I’m probably about to throw up.” You quickly discover that you’re right, as your gut begins to bubble and your mouth begins to water.

“Oh, fuck,” Connie mumbles as he looks around the room desperately. Sasha looks disappointed as he stops dancing and approaches where you sit against the wall, gripping your wrists in his hands and helping you to your feet; with both of you being drunk enough to show it, stumbles are surely present. Time skips, and you’re kneeled in front of the toilet, Connie leaving to give you privacy — you’re decidedly much drunker than you thought you were.

Just as you start to vomit, you hear Eren defeatedly say, “Oh, fuck me.” That can’t be good.

The space goes silent save your groans. The most imaginative depths of your brain think that perhaps a titan is looking in the window, waiting to bring you all to your doom. How convenient for half of the newest scout recruits to be intoxicated and defenseless. When you hear Levi’s voice say, “Stupid fucking brats. Where is she?” you wish it were a titan instead.

A chorus of voices answer, “Bathroom.” What a bunch of fucking sellouts, you think to yourself. Your heartbeat begins to pound in your throat again as you hear his footsteps grow near; when he taps at the door a few times, you let it all out — out of fear or simple drunkenness you are unsure. “God damn it,” you hear him mumble before the door handle turns and his hands find your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail.

He rubs your back in a manner you can only describe as passive-aggressive. You can tell he wants to scold you — and you’re definitely in for it once you get to feeling better — but you can also tell that he wants to care for you. That’s why you try to pretend not to hear his curses as he lectures you on responsibility.

“Why the hell are you drinking with these idiots? I wouldn’t be mad if it was a glass or two, but there are three empty bottles on the floor in there. Three. No wonder you’re puking your fucking guts up,” he mutters, voice low enough for only you to hear despite his angry tone.

You feel your eyes watering as your stomach settles for another brief moment. “Levi,” you say, your breathing labored, “now is not the time.” You hear him scoff before you begin to dry heave, his hand moving a bit more caring across your back as he holds onto your hair. Your gut starts to feel a bit better as your brain realizes there’s nothing left. He places his hands under your arms and lifts you gently to your feet before flushing the toilet. You stumble awkwardly to his lead as he escorts you to the sink.

He reaches around you to turn on the water, which is cold to the touch as he holds your hand beneath it. “Clean your mouth out,” he says, nudging his hand around yours until you form a cup. “It’s disgusting.” You oblige him, lifting it to your lips. You feel it drip down your chin as you swish it around between your teeth, looking up in the mirror to see your blushing cheeks and droopy eyes. Levi stands behind you, dressed in no more than a grey t-shirt and some comfortable-looking pants. His hair is neat and combed, which doesn’t quite match the rest of his attire, but you aren’t complaining. He looks as ethereal as always. After you spit, he grabs your shoulder and spins you around to face him.

“You okay?” he asks, brushing the tears that had formed on your face away with his thumbs. You shake your head at him, your eyes trailing down to the ground. Here comes the scolding.

He sweeps you off your feet, to your surprise, holding you bridal-style as he carries you out of the bathroom. You lay your head against his shoulder, seeing the walls of the room and the faces of your friends go blurrily by as he strides to the door; they all look terrified.

“Laps,” you hear Levi announce to your friends, his voice icy. “At dawn. I don’t give a shit if you’re hungover.”

A chorus of groans is the soundtrack for your exit as the door slams shut. The walk back to Levi’s suite is spotty at best; you’re unsure of exactly how long it’s taking. The scenery around you feels more dreamlike than anything — you find yourself hoping that you’re still propped against the wall with your friends, sleeping soundly and dreaming of Levi catching you red-handed. When time jumps and he’s laying you down on his couch, you’re pretty sure you’re awake.

You hear rustling around as you lay there, still half waiting for a scolding. He rejoins you rather quickly, setting some things down on the side table and gently lifting your head. He sits, letting you back down slowly to lay in his lap. “I brought you bread,” he says, taking it from the table and placing it in your hands. “It’ll soak up the alcohol. There’s water over here when you need it.” You inspect the bread lazily before nibbling on it. The very idea of chewing something and swallowing it is enough to make you nauseous, but you trust his judgement.

You feel his hand fall atop your forehead and his fingers draw circles in your hair. You don’t fight the grin threatening your lips. “Are you okay, my love?” he asks, his voice soft. This is the tenderness you had fallen in love with many months ago; the one thing your friends are blind to. He carries himself with such coldness for the public — he is rude, and blunt, and insufferable, and unobtainable. With you, however, he could be kind. He could be loving. The speed with which his gentle voice melts your heart never lessens. This is Levi at his most vulnerable.

“I’m just drunk,” you tell him, your words slurring into each other. “I’m not dying.”

You hear a chuckle barely pass over his lips like a spring breeze, the sparkle in his eyes reminiscent of the way the sun reflects off the surface of a pond. The peaceful nature of your position is a worthy opponent to how your insides wage war on one another: nausea, dizziness, and the beginnings of what will become an absolutely splitting headache all contained within one disoriented body. “I would’ve gone with you, you know,” he says suddenly after a serene moment of silence. “I would’ve known when you needed to stop drinking.” He combs his fingers against your cheek, silvery eyes softening into pools of undeniable adoration.

“You would’ve been a complete buzzkill,” you reply, half joking as you close your eyes and enjoy the rare affection.

You hear a cross between a scoff and a laugh come from above you. “Keeping those brats from getting you so wasted that you start puking isn’t being a buzzkill. It’s called taking care of you.”

“I think I’m not drunk enough,” you say honestly. “We ran out of wine right at that stage where you could go to sleep or start throwing up, but there’s absolutely no chance of having a good time.”

He taps the top of your head with two fingers, prompting you to let him up. You oblige him, using the opportunity to lay down your bread and take a sip from the glass of water that rests on the side table. You watch as he saunters back toward the kitchen, wondering what he was doing somewhat, but mostly just trying to get a grip on your senses. You sit up as you wait on his return, laying your head back against the plush upholstery and taking deep breaths.

He’s back as quickly as he left, both hands behind his back in a feeble attempt to hide the wine glasses as their stems poked around to your view. You feel a smile creep onto your face as he unveils his master plan: a bottle of red wine and a glass for each of you. “Don’t expect this often,” he announces as he sets it all on the table, pulling a wine key from his pocket. He joins you on the couch, scooting in close so that your knees brush before you hear the satisfying pop of the cork and the relaxing swish of liquid on glass.

“You’re expecting me to believe that Captain Levi is offering to get drunk with me?” you giggle, almost nervous to reach for the wine in front of you. He laughs off your comment, reaching in front of him and lifting the glass to his lips; he takes only a sip before looking at you in expectation. You take yours as well, holding it up to his jokingly before you both bring them to your mouths.

After your first gulp, time begins to melt away. A movie-esque montage begins in front of your eyes: the sight of the man you love, once so stoic and so stiff, loosening and laughing the night away at your side; the feeling of typically isolated and scarce hands trailing carelessly along the length of your arms, warm against the sensitive skin of your wrists and your thighs; the smell of red wine spilled innocently on hardwood and upholstery without complaints or uprooting to clean it; the sound of his velvet and brass voice with his uncensored expressions of love, whispered and melodic; the taste of mint and jasmine tea on his unusually wandering lips.

What might be thirty minutes or three hours passes in a flash, leaving you sprawled across the couch with the drunken mess that is your typically reserved lover, legs utterly entangled so that you were unsure where you ended and he began. He’s whispering to you — that much you know — but his words are slurred, and you’re unbelievably distracted by the feeling of wet kisses being peppered along your jaw and ear. He grasps at your back, massaging and caressing and leaving no inch uncovered by his calloused hands as his touch reminds you why you breathe and laugh and plainly exist.

“Levi,” you whisper, your mind a tangled ball of twine save for the feeling of his breath on your cheek.

He hums in response, not bothering to look up at you. You can feel his grin against your jaw.

“We should get to bed, love.”

You’d be left to wonder how the two of you made it into the next room when morning came; rest assured there would be a trail from the couch to the bedroom door made from clumsily knocked-over knick knacks and your discarded clothes from the day to clue you in. If you were sober, you’d care enough about Levi’s wrath tomorrow to clean up behind the two of you; however, you aren’t sober, and you don’t care enough.

The two of you fall into the bed you share, intertwining your limbs like the threads of a tapestry, laying out plainly and beautifully the comfort you find in him. Your head finds his chest and his hands find your lower back, pulling you flush against him as his eyelids begin their threats to close before he is quite ready. He murmurs out your name, his hold on you growing more snug when it passes his lips. “I love you, s—” he falters, nuzzling his face in the top of your head. “So much.”

It’s short — and a pretty common thing for someone to say to the person they love — but it means everything coming from him. “I love you, Levi,” you tell him, praying to whatever is up there that you’ll remember this in the morning.

Soon, the two of you stop stirring and whispering. As you breathe him in, you try to hear his words in your mind as many times as you can before you slip out of consciousness. You begin to drift off to sleep, peaceful and content in his arms as you’ve ever been.

[keepers-of-lost-light]

A God Without a Name

Within the realm of Inferis, a place of shadows and smoke, tucked away in the furthest reaches out of sight of prying eyes, there was a forest of dark wood maples. Their leaves were as crimson as the fires that burned in the pits of The Wailing Breach, but rumored to be just as beautiful as the Mother of Mercy.

A black marble pavilion stood at the center of The Nightwood, draped in wisteria and morning glories. A figure stepped away, kicking up scatterings of leaves as she raced to the nearest stream. Ever shifting and unsure of her natural form, Noćtis crouched down at the river bank to test her newfound ability to shape change. Golden eyes stared back at her as well as the natural gray pigment to her skin that connected her origins back to Lunis; the living part of their shared cosmic godly essence.

Noćtis shifted into what she remembered Lunis looking like. A gray skinned human with moonlight white hair. Her appearance shifted again to mimic that of a grey skinned umbra elf with Noćtis’ naturally black hair. She tried copying Nemus’ appearance only to end up as a gray furred rabbit folk instead of a deer folk.

Finally, she settled into a gray skinned cambion. Black hair ran like a darkened river down her back between a set of horns that swept back. She felt bouncier on cat like legs, and more balanced with a lion's tail swishing in the grass behind her. She tried to imagine herself with wings like she had seen on Messorem, but they came to her like that of bat wings. She shed them with a shiver and a roll of her shoulders as they disappeared into thin air.

Still, through all the shifting, her eyes remained golden.

‘They connect you to the other half of your soul,’ Messorem had told her when she asked why they never changed. She very much enjoyed them, especially when they became cat-like and luminescent.

Noćtis’ hair stood on edge as static filled the air. She hugged herself as she glanced around, eyes wide.

Off in the distance amongst the red maples, the air shimmered in a vertical line like a mirage trying to take shape. Noćtis stood, and a tearing rang through the woods. She looked back at the train in her dress to check if she had caught on something.

Looking back at the shimmering air, Noćtis noticed the mirage had opened like a tear in a silk tapestry. She approached it, catlike curiosity pulling her closer. One sweep of the grove told her she was still alone.

“Hello?” Noćtis called.

She half expected one of her family members to step out from behind the trees. Nemus walked with her on many occasions, and Lady Sapientia & Lady Eleatheria came to teach her about The World Garden almost every day.

They had never arrived like this before.

Noćtis reached for the tear, and static nipped at her fingers. She shook her hand, backtracking slightly.

“Don’t touch anything suspicious,” Noćtis repeated to herself. A lesson Lady Sapientia had taught her when they spoke about planar travelers. ‘Tears will happen here and there, do not pay them any attention for it might be the occasional traveler taking a peek. If it becomes concerning, come get someone.’

Noćtis backed up, and sat on her heels. Her black sheer ember touched dress pooled around her as she waited. She fiddled with the golden bracelets that held her drapery to her arms before resting her chin on her knees.

The planar tear cast gray light across the leaves pooled on the ground. Noćtis poked at the maples, some crunching while others gave way with a soft huff.

“By the name of the gods,” a voice echoed.

Noćtis perked up, a cat hearing the rustling of critters in the distance. She focused on the planar tear. Standing, she inched closer.

“Please,” the voice called again. “Give me the power to help my mother and father. Spare them from death’s door, and give them peace. I beg of you.”

Noćtis peered into the planar tear, gray light shining across her eyes.

The air was sucked out of her lungs as the static from the tear latched onto her, and tugged. She fell forward, spilling onto the cold marble floor of a small chapel. Noćtis found herself chilled by the new environment. Her bones creaked from the cold as she pushed herself up from the ground.

A candelabra clattered to the floor, and Noćtis startled. She flipped around to see a young woman, an umbra elf, leaning against an altar. The dark tendrils of Death Divinity curled off the altar, reaching out to an obsidian blade dipped in crimson.

Blood dripped to the floor from the woman’s arm.

She let out a breathy laugh, mania dancing in her eyes like sparklers.

“Did it work?”

Noćtis looked about the room. Globules of lights danced across the ceiling, and illuminated a mosaic of ravens across a starry sky. A visage of Morsa was holding her hands out to her escorts of Inferis.

“Ispričavam se, ne znam na što mislite,” Noćtis tried in the language of Inferis. The umbra elf furrowed. Noćtis shook her head. “I am sorry, I do not speak common very well.”

The woman cocked her head, red hair like wine falling over her shoulder. She looked over Noćtis with cold amber eyes. Her gaze landed on the sweeping horns that adorned Noćtis’ head. 

“You’re from Inferis,” the woman spoke in the native language and Noćtis perked up. She did understand me. The woman stepped down off the dais, blood staining the train of her silver evening gown.

“Did Morsa send you to help us?”

Noćtis furrowed. Morsa? Why would mother send me? She looked around the dark marble chapel again. Where am I?

“My apologies,” Noćtis started. “I don’t know what you’re speaking of or why Lady Morsa would send me to whatever this place is.”

The manic light drained from the woman’s face as it twisted in a sneer. She whipped around, taking the second candelabra still standing by the altar, and threw it. The metal clattered against the marble, and the flames petered out.

Noćtis covered her ears as the ringing scraped against the inside of her skull. She squinted up at the woman, who was stringing curses together. She was hovering about the altar, her stature unsure of whether to destroy the ritual she set out or keep it active.

The air grew heavy, the globules dancing across the ceiling dimmed. Noćtis shrunk in on herself. This doesn’t feel like the doing of Inferis. She looked back from where she had fallen in search of the planar tear.

It was gone.

Noćtis scrambled to her feet. “No,” she murmured. “No, no, no, I can’t stay here.”

“What are you?”

Noćtis’ shoulders shot to her ears as her tail wrapped around her leg nervously. She turned slowly back to the woman who was brandishing the obsidian dagger, and descending on her.

Backing up, Noćtis’ back hit the locked doors of the chapel. She held her hands in front of her as if to ward off the rolling anger filled storm clouds coming from the elf.

“I don’t know what you want-”

The woman slashed out at her. The blade bit into Noćtis’ skin.

Noćtis slid to the floor, clutching at her forearm as golden ichor seeped through her fingers. She whimpered as panic crawled up her throat. I can bleed? I can be hurt? How? She tried to force the cut closed, fingers slipping against skin.

“You're a god.”

The woman’s voice was barely a whisper. Noćtis met her eyes, and the manic glint was back. Shadows curled at the woman’s back as she came closer. She crouched in front of Noćtis.

The fledgling goddess pressed herself against the door.

“You’re the one without a name, aren’t you?” The woman asked. “The one that began to appear in the constellations about three hundred years ago.”

(An excerpt from the short story, The Prophet & The Nightingale, written by circa. January 2022)

[contemplativepancakes]

five times geralt saw jaskier naked on accident + one time it was entirely on purpose. ~6k. Read on AO3 here!

i.

“Get back here, you mangy knob!” echoes down the hallway, and Geralt pauses on the way to his room. 

It’s been a long night, and Geralt would like nothing better than to collapse into bed, but trouble has a habit of following Jaskier like flies to shit. He’s the whole reason Geralt even has a bed for the night, so Geralt sighs and follows the shouting. 

He wishes he could say he’s surprised when he rounds a corner and Jaskier runs head first into him, but honestly, it’s nothing short of expected. What does throw Geralt for a loop, though, is the fact that Jaskier is completely naked, expanses of smooth skin exposed as he sprawls back on the ground in a very undignified manner, clutching his nose. 

“Fuck, Geralt!” he cries, but it comes out garbled. “You broke my nose!”

The man who was chasing after Jaskier comes to a sudden halt, panting in front of them. “He slept with my wife!”

Geralt frowns. “Are you sure it was him?”

The man gapes and gestures at Jaskier’s nakedness. Geralt curses Jaskier for being so obvious; it makes his job much more complicated. 

“Maybe he can give you some tips on how to satisfy her so she doesn’t feel the need to look elsewhere next time,” Geralt suggests, one hand coming up to casually rest on the hilt of his dagger strapped to his belt. 

“It’s all about the tongue,” Jaskier pipes up in a nasally tone, and Geralt rolls his eyes. 

The man’s eyes dart from Geralt to Jaskier, and back to Geralt before a look of realization crosses his face and it drains of color. “You’re… the butcher of Blaviken?”

“That’s him! So you’d best get back to your chambers if you want to keep all your limbs!” Jaskier crows, but only half of it is intelligible through the hand he’s holding to his nose. 

The man looks like there’s something else he wants to say, but he bites his lip and retreats, after one last withering glance at Jaskier. 

Geralt turns to Jaskier, suddenly very aware of his lack of clothing. “Will you ever learn?” he asks in exasperation. “I’m not always going to be around to clean up your messes, you know.”

“I’m fairly certain you have a much longer life expectancy than me,” Jaskier lisps, looking up at Geralt with doe eyes. 

Geralt sighs and sticks out a hand to help Jaskier up. 

Jaskier takes it, his fingertips lingering on the soft flesh of Geralt’s forearm, and heaves himself up. His hand stays on Geralt’s arm, and Geralt drags him back to their room. 

“Sit,” he says gruffly, rustling around in his pack for a clean rag. 

He steps over to the wash basin and dips it in before walking back to over Jaskier. He wipes the blood away from Jaskier’s nose gently, but an observer wouldn’t think so from the way Jaskier winces and groans.  

Geralt sighs. “Serves you right.”

“That’s just cruel, Geralt.” Jaskier squirms on the bed, pulling a corner of the blanket over his lap. 

Geralt resolutely focuses on his face. He squints at Jaskier’s nose, which is just the slightest bit crooked. “This is going to hurt,” Geralt warns. “One, two.”

Jaskier yelps as Geralt sets his nose back into its proper place, finishing up dabbing the blood away before he packs Jaskier’s nose full of gauze. “There,” he says. “Good as new.”

There are tears welling in Jaskier’s eyes from the pain. “I don’t know if I’d go that far,” he says weakly. 

“Maybe you’ll be able to go more than a week without cuckolding another husband this time.”

Jaskier lets out an indignant snort. “Hey, sometimes I just sleep with the husbands themselves. Then I have to watch what I eat, though,” he blathers on, and Geralt is honestly impressed with the lengths of his chatter even when Geralt imagines it must be painful to speak. “Have sex with one wrong person, and all of a sudden everyone and their mother is trying to poison you.”

Geralt’s not sure how to respond. 

Jaskier sighs and turns over in the bed. “Good night, Geralt.”

“Try not to drown in your own blood.”

“Always nice to know you care.”

And then, almost too softly for Jaskier to hear, “Good night, Jask.”

ii.

Geralt jerks awake and sits up in his bed roll. The fire is crackling happily, a far cry from the smoldering logs Geralt would have expected. He looks around, and Jaskier is gone. Normally, this would worry him, but if Jaskier took the time to stoke their fire, that probably means he hasn’t been eaten. Most likely. 

The slight chance that something untoward has happened propels Geralt out of the warmth of his blankets. He tugs on his boots and follows the faint scent of Jaskier, a warm mix of wood smoke and contentedness, these days. 

His nose leads him to the river bank, and he hovers right on the edge of the tree line, scouting for any possible dangers. He doesn’t see any, but as he does his sweep, his gaze catches on Jaskier’s bare back and lingers there. There’s a smattering of freckles that Geralt can just barely make out, until they disappear when Jaskier dunks his hair under the water. 

Geralt knows that he should stop just standing here, should either reveal himself or just slink back to their camp and start packing things up, but he finds himself rooted in place as Jaskier rubs a rag over his shoulder blades. 

Geralt is half tempted to offer his help in reaching Jaskier’s back, but he knows how that would probably be received. 

Geralt is transfixed as Jaskier begins to sing, and he sinks down to sit with his back to a tree to listen. Jaskier is always wanting his opinion on his songs, so surely he’d be fine with this, right?

It's not fair, oh, it's not fair how much I love you

It's not fair, 'cause you make me ache, you bastard

And he'll say

Oh, how, oh, how unreasonable

How unreasonably in love I am with everything you do

I'll spend my days so close to you

'Cause if I'm stood here, then I'm stood here

And I'll stand—

Geralt’s jerked out of his trance of listening to Jaskier sing in his honeyed tones by a disturbance in the water, and Geralt focuses in on the ripples that are starting to froth before a drowner emerges, its scaly skin glistening in the morning light. Jaskier screams, and Geralt leaps from his hiding spot, unsheathing his sword. 

Jaskier turns to look at the new disturbance with wide eyes, minutely relaxing when he sees it’s Geralt. Geralt jumps into the water, landing on the drowner’s back. It jerks and bucks, deceptively strong as it tries to toss Geralt off. Geralt hooks his hands around its neck, his sword gripped precariously. 

The drowner gives one last shake, and Geralt goes flying, his sword falling with a splash. There’s a clawed, webbed hand on Geralt’s head, forcing him under the water. He thrashes, trying to get free, but to no avail. Geralt keeps his mouth tightly shut, and his lungs start to burn as he continues to fight. 

Bright spots start to dance at the edge of his vision, getting darker and fuzzier now, and Geralt knows he’s right on the verge of losing consciousness. He’s unable to stop his gasp for air, but only water finds his lungs. He’s resigned himself to this being the way it ends when suddenly the grip goes lax and he’s able to propel himself to the water’s surface, gasping for breath. 

“Geralt? Geralt?” comes a worried voice, floaty and distant sounding. “Geralt, are you okay?”

There’s a pounding on his back, and water dribbles from his lips. A litany of curses follow and sharp tugs on his arm that lead him back to the bank. 

Geralt coughs and splutters, more water escaping him as he finally registers Jaskier pacing around anxiously... completely naked. Geralt chokes, and Jaskier is there in an instant, a warm hand on his back, rubbing in soothing circles. 

“You’re okay,” he croons with a gentle pat. 

Geralt doesn’t feel okay. He feels like he about died and is seconds away from doing it again via spontaneous combustion at the sight of all Jaskier’s skin on display. Geralt picks a spot on the distance and fixes his gaze on it. 

“Good thing you were around,” Jaskier says finally, and Geralt burns in shame at the thought of why exactly he was there. 

He’s lucky Jaskier isn’t running away in repulsion, like he would be if he knew the truth. 

Jaskier asks him if he’s okay yet again, and Geralt grunts. 

“Oh, goody, you’re well enough for monosyllabic conversation. Back to normal, then.”

Geralt grunts again, and Jaskier laughs, a delightful trilling thing. 

“Oh, here you go,” Jaskier says, handing Geralt back his sword that’s covered in monster guts and ichor. 

Geralt’s eyes do not bug out as the realization hits him. “You… you?”

“Well, it was drowning you! I couldn’t just stand around, now could I?”

“I...suppose not,” Geralt mutters, but in actuality, he can count on one hand the number of times someone’s actually come to his aid while he was fighting a monster. The most he can wish for is someone who won’t recoil as they patch up his wounds later. 

“Are you sure you’re alright? You’re acting a bit,” Jaskier pauses, “distracted.”

“I’m fine,” he says gruffly. 

“Well, I guess it’s not every day you have a near death experience,” Jaskier muses, “Oh, wait.”

“Maybe if I didn’t have to save your sorry ass so often.” Geralt shoves at him and instantly flushes red as his hand touches Jaskier’s bare skin and he registers again that he’s naked. 

“Put on some clothes,” Geralt mumbles, averting his eyes. 

There’s a heavy silence as Geralt waits for Jaskier to say something in response, some sort of rib, but nothing comes, just the soft swish of fabric as he gets dressed. 

Geralt grits his teeth. 

iii.

Geralt trudges down the rocky path, Roach just behind him. The trail from Kaer Morhen is downright treacherous at the best of times and fatal at worst, so Geralt would rather walk than risk Roach making a wrong step and sending them both pitching off a cliff. 

Not that that would be entirely unwelcome, after the winter Geralt has just endured. Eskel and Lambert took great pride in elbowing Geralt and making him the butt of their every joke, saying in glee that they could smell the longing drifting off of him. 

“Is Geralt in loooove?” Lambert had sang, until Geralt shoved him off his chair to shut him up. 

Lambert tumbled to the floor with a clatter of his armor, but he still wore his unbearably smug expression. Eskel had looked at him with soft eyes. “You could have brought them here, you know. I want to know whoever can make you happy.”

“Yeah, we all know how impossible that is for Mr. Melancholy,” Lambert said. 

Geralt shakes his head and puts his focus back on putting one foot in front of the other. The other witchers had endlessly pestered him about his plans for the spring, but Geralt hadn’t wanted to tell them. He likes Jaskier being just for him, and he had waited impatiently for the snow to melt in the pass. He was the first to set out, and he valiantly tried to ignore Lambert’s snickers as he left. 

Geralt is headed to Oxenfurt. He and Jaskier hadn’t made set plans to meet up, because it normally doesn’t take too long for them to accidentally on purpose run into each other, but this year, Geralt doesn’t want to wait. The winter had stretched out into much longer than normal, with biting cold and piles of snow, so Geralt is more than ready to be warm again. 

When the path finally stops twisting and turning, Geralt mounts Roach and picks up their pace a bit. It’s certainly only because he’s eager to sleep in a bed, never mind that he’s been sleeping in one all winter. 

Geralt pulls his hood up against the early spring chill and soldiers on. 

-

When Geralt finally arrives, several days and sleepless nights later, it’s just before dawn. Jaskier has always had a proclivity towards nocturnal behavior, with only Geralt’s need to be up and moving at first light tempering it, so Geralt doesn’t think Jaskier will mind the intrusion. 

Geralt ties Roach to a hitching post, promising to come back and find her a stable once the sun breaks over the horizon, and then he wanders until streets start to look familiar, and Jaskier’s cozy house comes into view. 

Geralt steps up to the door and knocks, and he definitely does not try to tame his hair into some semblance of kempt or get an anxious churning in his stomach at the prospect of seeing Jaskier again. There’s no answer to his knock, so he tries again, but Jaskier still doesn’t materialize. Geralt tries the knob, and to his alarm, it’s unlocked. 

His first thought is one of panic—what if something’s wrong? Jaskier wouldn’t just leave his door unlocked; someone could walk right in and steal his lute. Geralt opens the door quietly and creeps through the dark house. There are no immediate signs that there’s anything amiss. There are only three rooms, and Geralt eases the bedroom door open to peek inside. He’s immediately arrested by Jaskier sprawled out naked on his bed. 

Geralt takes a hurried step back, but not before his eyes dart all over Jaskier’s body. He’s just taking stock of any new injuries Jaskier might have incurred while Geralt wasn’t around to protect him from the wrath of cuckolded husbands, that’s all. Jaskier looks paler and more gaunt than he was when Geralt left him, but Geralt supposes that’s just a side effect of winter. 

Geralt retreats slowly, locking the door behind him and resolving to come back when the sun is high in the sky. 

Geralt stumbles onto the street, the early morning light making everything washed out as he scuffs his boots along the ground. He meanders back the way he came, deciding he’ll stable Roach and then see about something for breakfast. He hadn’t felt hungry in his haste to get to Jaskier, but now that his enthusiasm has been tempered, he’s starving. He tries to remember the last time he stopped to eat something more substantial than whatever he could pull out of his pack. Two, three, days ago, maybe? 

Roach comes into view, pawing her hoof against the dirt impatiently. Geratlt huffs a laugh as he walks closer, untying her reins from the hitch and clicking his tongue as he leads her in a direction that he’s getting a big whiff of horse from. 

Geralt leaves Roach at the stables, with his usual stern frown at the stable boy and a chastisement to Roach to be good as she nips at his shirt. 

Roach taken care of, he sets off to look for something to eat, wondering if it’s too soon for Jaskier to be up yet. His eyes flicker shut for a moment as he thinks of the Jaskier’s robe, and how if he goes right now and knocks on his door, he might answer wearing that and nothing else. 

Although, if he does that, even Jaskier might be able to smell the lust rolling off of him. 

Geralt sighs and continues his trudge, until he stops in his tracks and redirects his path. He looks up at the sun’s position in the sky. It’s been long enough. Surely Jaskier is wearing actual clothes by now?

Geralt walks back to Jaskier’s home, the path turning from dirt to cobblestone as he gets closer. There’s a patch of grass peeking between the stones with three orange wildflowers growing in it. Geralt stoops down and picks them without thinking too much about it. 

Geralt carries the flowers loosely in one hand down at his side. When he reaches the steps leading up to Jaskier’s door, he pauses to steel himself, to try to prepare himself for if Jaskier’s whole chest is on display in his robe, but he’s interrupted by an obnoxious throat clearing. 

Geralt whirls around to glare at the person, but he’s arrested by the sight of a man scowling right back at him. “Hope you’re not planning to bother some nice girl, Witcher. Like anyone would ever want you.”

Geralt glances down at the flowers in his hand, and then back to the man, mouth flapping uselessly. He has a point. 

“She’s probably just too scared to tell you to fuck off,” the man sneers, and Geralt’s fingers itch to pull his dagger from his belt, but he restrains himself. 

He surreptitiously looks around for a place to drop the flowers. The man is right; this is a terrible idea. What is he hoping to accomplish with this? Just to make Jaskier smile? He’s an idiot. 

A door slams open, and then, “Well, I have no such qualms. Fuck off.”

Geralt turns around to see Jaskier—and thank fuck he’s wearing clothes this time, but he’s wearing that ridiculous lavender robe, with his leg jutting out right below where it’s knotted together. Geralt desperately averts his eyes, turning back around to frown at the man, but he’s disappeared. 

He looks at Jaskier, then, drinking him in after a winter apart. Jaskier makes a pleased hum in the back of his throat. “For me?” he asks, holding out his hands for the flowers. 

Geralt hands them over without comment, but he can’t hide the smallest of smiles as he follows Jaskier into the house, Jaskier chattering away about everything Geralt missed. 

And, gods, did he miss a lot. 

iv.

When Geralt bolts awake this time, Jaskier is gone again. Geralt would be concerned that just anyone could sneak up on him while he’s sleeping, but he knows his body has started to become in tune with the sound of Jaskier and it no longer deems it necessary to rip him from his sleep for just Jaskier padding around. 

Still, Geralt wipes the sleep from his eyes and slowly gets up to start disassembling their camp. Jaskier will be back soon, and then they can be on their way. Geralt casts his eyes to the horizon, noting the first rays of morning peeking over it. 

 Geralt ambles over to where he had tethered Roach to a tree and scratches his fingertips over her neck. She headbutts his other hand, impatiently waiting for her breakfast. Geralt huffs a laugh. 

Geralt has everything packed up and he’s been leaning against a tree impatiently for three minutes when he starts to get worried. Who knows what could be in these woods? There could be any number of things looking to make a meal out of Jaskier. 

Geralt paces in a circle around their doused fire. On one hand, Jaskier could be doing something like taking a shit somewhere, but on the other hand, he might be hurt. 

Geralt freezes when he hears a faint strangled cry, and his feet are moving even though his mind has barely registered the sound. Geralt crashes through the underbrush, uncaring about how much noise he makes or the thorns that tear against his skin, until he skids to a stop in front of Jaskier. In front of Jaskier, who locks eyes with him while his cock is in his hand and comes with an aborted gasp. 

Heat burns up Geralt’s face. “Sorry, I—” he cuts himself off and flees back the way he came. 

He berates himself as he walks back to their camp. They haven’t been in a town in over three weeks, why was that not what he expected? In all honesty, that’s why he hadn’t gone after Jaskier immediately, but after he heard him shout all of the thoughts of restraint flew out of his brain. The only thing he could focus on was Jaskier needing help. 

Geralt tries not to dwell on the thought of how Jaskier’s cock had looked, flushed and jutting out proudly. Geralt pulls Roach’s brush out of the saddle bag and works her over carefully, making sure every hair is going the same way and helping her shed her thick winter coat. 

By the time Jaskier stumbles back, Geralt had thought he had managed to put the incident out of his mind, but the sight of Jaskier proves him wrong. “Ready to go?” Geralt grunts. 

Jaskier opens his mouth and shuts it with a click of his teeth. “What are we waiting for?”

Geralt swings himself up onto Roach, and doesn’t let himself look back to make sure Jaskier follows. 

v.

Geralt’s eyes crack open as the door to the inn room squeaks. He grunts in displeasure at being disturbed, and then remembers Jaskier is supposed to be with the barmaid and bolts upright. The door is just out of view from the bed, so Geralt eases himself out of bed and picks up the dagger. He creeps to where the wall juts out and then jumps out on the other side, revealing himself. 

“Is that a knife or are you just happy to see me?” Jaskier laughs nervously, and Geralt sheepishly drops the dagger onto the chair as his eyes widen. 

“What is with you and always being naked?” Geralt growls in frustration, trying not to look at the creamy expanse of Jaskier’s skin, marred with freckles instead of scars like Geralt’s. 

Jaskier’s brows pull together in confusion. “What?”

“Nevermind. Just—what is going on?”

“Ah. Right. That. I got…kicked out.”

“Did she have a husband?”

“Um, yes, yes, that’s exactly right. He did not appreciate the soiling of their marital bed.”

Geralt rolls his eyes fondly even as a pang of longing lodges itself right between his ribs. He doesn’t stop to examine it for too long. 

Geralt turns his back and slips back over to the bed. The one bed, because he had thought he would be alone tonight. Geralt sighs. 

There’s a quiet swish of fabric as Jaskier pulls on some clothes. “That was one of my favorite shirts, and now it’ll probably end up burnt or some other ridiculous thing.”

The doublet in question was a gaudy scarlet thing with obnoxious gold threading and beading sewn into it. The light always caught on it just wrong to shine into Geralt’s eyes and give him a headache. “What a pity.”

Jaskier shoves at his shoulder as he clambers into the bed without a second thought. Geralt swallows hard at the dip of the lumpy mattress, at the body what so close to his all of a sudden. Jaskier’s heartbeat thuds, and a peculiar smell drifts off of him that Geralt can’t quite place. 

Geralt turns over so that he’s facing Jaskier. “What’s wrong?”

Jaskier buries his face into the pillow. The one pillow, that he tugs away from Geralt. “Nothing,” he says, heaving a dramatic sigh. 

“Hmm. Well.” Geralt pauses and tries to think of a way to respond that won’t have Jaskier calling him an emotionless boulder later. “If you want to talk about it, I can listen.”

Jaskier lifts his head up from the pillow to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Wow, I didn’t know that I was speaking to anything other than the wall when I talk to you.”

Geralt yanks the pillow out from under Jaskier and hits him with it. “Shut up.”

+ i.

Jaskier sighs as he unfurls his bedroll. He’s been unleashing heavy sighs about once an hour for the past week, and it’s driving Geralt up the wall. He’s asked Jaskier if everything was all right four separate times now, and Jaskier has brushed him off each time. 

“Jaskier, just tell me what’s the matter,” he begs after Jaskier sighs as he returns with water from the stream. 

Jaskier plops the bucket down right next to the fire, and some splashes out and douses the small smolder Geralt had got started. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls before Jaskier can even react. 

“Fine! You want to know what’s so wrong? It’s you!”

Geralt rears back, blinking rapidly. He wants to make a beeline for Roach and try to get the feeling of Jaskier’s eyes boring into his out of his mind as soon as possible, but he can’t just leave Jaskier high and dry out here all alone. Geralt shakes his head and turns away. 

“Wait,” Jaskier’s hand comes around to clamp onto Geralt’s wrist. Geralt nearly shakes him off, but then Jaskier is saying again, “Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

Geralt meets Jaskier’s eyes cautiously and arches an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation. 

Jaskier rubs the back of his neck. “You know I got kicked out of that room the other night.”

Geralt grunts. “For cuckolding the husband?”

“Well, yes, but not exactly. I lied. There was no husband. Turns out some people aren’t all that impressed when you say the wrong name in the heat of things.”

“Jaskier, what does that have to do with—” 

“It’s you, Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Oh.”

Geralt is taken aback. He’s never had this happen with a human before. It’s… hard to imagine that a human could see him as anything other than repulsive, something to be tolerated just to part him from his coin. 

“And now I see that I’ve made a complete and total mess of things. I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

As Jaskier’s grip on his wrist loosens, Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand instead. “You haven’t made a mess of anything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen before he reaches the hand Geralt isn’t holding up to cup Geralt’s face. Geralt turns his head to nuzzle into Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier leans forward to press his lips to Geralt. Their fingers become untangled as they move on, Jaskier’s coming up to twist in Geralt’s hair, and Geralt’s stroking across Jaskier’s cheek bone. 

When they pull away, Jaskier lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “Wow. It seems like I could have saved my hand some work while we were on the road.”

Geralt rolls his eyes at Jaskier’s crudeness. 

“Come on, you know that was funny,” Jaskier wheedles into his ear. 

Geralt pushes him aside and crouches down to rebuild their fire. “You’re rarely funny.”

Jaskier claps a hand over his chest and splutters. “Okay, still incredibly rude. Nice to know some things never change, I suppose.”

Jaskier huffs and walks away, going over to feed Roach while Geralt attempts to find some kindling that isn’t damp. 

A smile tugs at Geralt’s lips. 

When the fire is roaring once again, Geralt wanders over to where Jaskier is now sitting against a tree. 

Geralt sits down beside him. “I do think you’re funny sometimes,” he admits. 

“You’ve already wounded my pride, Geralt; it’s too late.”

“And so if I offered you a… hand, you’d turn me down?”

Jaskier jerks his head up and turns to Geralt. “That is not what I said in any way, shape, or form.”

“Hmm.”

In the end, it doesn’t happen that night, or the day after that. It’s when they’re finally at an inn that Jaskier pounces on him. Geralt has barely shut the door to their room when Jaskier is on him. “I’ve been so patient,” he whines. 

Geralt raises his eyebrows, unconvinced. “All you had to do was ask.”

“Geralt, you’re impossible,” Jaskier huffs in exasperation. “Well, I’m asking now.”

Geralt kisses him, slow and sweet, and Jaskier groans his eagerness into his mouth. 

Jaskier’s fingers fumble with the clasps of his armor, until Geralt laughs and takes it off himself. When he turns back around after carefully setting all the pieces on a chair, Jaskier is already naked, and finally, Geralt allows himself to look. He drinks it in, notices the tiny scar Jaskier has on his thigh, rakes his eyes over Jaskier’s chest. He moves closer so he can comb his fingers down the hair between Jaskier’s pecs, and he preens at the attention. 

Jaskier reaches down to undo his trousers, and Geralt steps out of them. He takes off his shirt, and sheds his smallclothes, looking back up to see Jaskier staring at him. His soft expression turns into a self satisfied grin as he hums to himself. 

“What?” Geralt asks, already sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Nothing. Okay, fine, just—the carpet matches the drapes, is all.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’s a mutation. Do you think I would choose for it to be white? What were you expecting?”

“You’re no fun,” Jaskier pauses. “What color did your hair used to be?”

Geralt stops and thinks. “Brown, probably? I don’t remember.”

Jaskier whistles. “That’s terribly sad. Do you think your childhood would make a good ballad? I bet it would.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grits out. 

“Okay, okay. Insensitive, I apologize.”

Geralt pulls back, but Jaskier winds his arms around his shoulders and keeps him in place. “I’m sorry,” he says again, rubbing his nose against the delicate skin of Geralt’s neck. 

Geralt shudders and lets Jaskier distract him. It’s not like his childhood is something he particularly likes to dwell on, especially when there’s something much better for him to focus on in the form of Jaskier’s swelling cock judging against his hip. 

Jaskier presses up close against him, bracketing Geralt against the door and putting his palm flat over Geralt’s heart before he kisses him again. 

Geralt lets the sensation wash over him, the pleasant feelings and the vibration that sends a thrumming through his bones. He walks Jaskier back to the bed and lays him out, crawling on top and straddling him. 

Jaskier sucks in a breath. “Gods, Geralt. You’re beautiful.”

A hot blush rises to Geralt’s face and he turns away, but Jaskier takes his wrist. 

“Don’t mock me,” Geralt mumbles. 

“Darling,” Jaskier says, sitting up and taking both of Geralt’s hands in his. “I’m not.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to respond. He looks down at his body, littered with scars, some pink and small and some, long healed, white and wicked looking. “Hmm.”

Jaskier sighs and tugs Geralt in for another kiss, before he maneuvers Geralt so he’s the one laying down. Jaskier works his way down Geralt’s body, lingering on each scar until Geralt squirms uncomfortably beneath him. 

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh as he makes it to the soft inside of Geralt’s thighs, and Geralt starts squirming for a different reason. A whine comes from the back of Geralt’s throat as Jaskier continues to ignore his cock, throbbing and painful at this point. 

Jaskier finally has pity on him and takes him in hand, making Geralt sigh and his eyes flutter shut. Jaskier jacks him quickly, bringing Geralt to the edge faster than he would like to admit before he backs off and moves his hand. He goes back to tracing Geralt’s scars, his fingertips finding the one that cut through the muscle of his leg and healed jagged and rough. 

He hovers over a different one, looking up at Geralt with a question in his eyes. Jaskier’s wheedled most of the stories of his scars out of him, but this one—Geralt huffs. “I tripped over a rock and fell right onto a very pointy root,” he admits. 

Jaskier’s lips quirk up into a grin, and Geralt is about to chastise him for laughing when Jaskier directs his attention back to Geralt’s cock. 

Geralt gasps as warm heat envelops him, and his hand comes down to tangle in Jaskier’s soft hair. Jaskier’s other hand comes up to stroke the part of Geralt’s shaft not in his mouth and scoots further back to trail his fingertips over Geralt’s balls and ghost over his perineum to his hole. 

Geralt shudders at the feeling, and Jaskier pops off of him with a wet sound. “Can I—?”

“Yes, yes, please,” Geralt babbles. 

Jaskier disappears for a moment to rummage through his pack, and Geralt tries to slow his pulse. His heart is practically trying to thud out of his chest compared to its normal steady pace, so he sucks in a deep breath through his nose. 

Jaskier returns and settles himself between Geralt’s legs. Geralt lets Jaskier position him until his knees are bent and his feet are planted on the bed on either side of Jaskier. Geralt swallows past the lump forming in his throat as a wave of vulnerability crashes down on him. 

Jaskier must be able to sense his skittishness, because he takes Geralt’s hand in his and rubs soothing circles into it with his thumb. With his other hand, he rests the pad of his pointer finger against Geralt’s hole until he slips it in, a second finger quickly joining it. 

Geralt can feel himself tensing up, but he tries to relax, tries to let himself give in and just be boneless. 

Jaskier stretches him out until Geralt whines in anticipation. Jaskier chuckles and pats his clean hand on Geralt’s thigh. “I seem to recall you saying I was the impatient one?”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier laughs again. “Fine, fine. I truly don’t understand why people think you’re so frightening.”

Geralt could list a few reasons, but he doesn’t want to kill the mood. He just grunts at Jaskier until he finally shuffles closer to Geralt and presses inside of him. 

Geralt’s head thumps back against the mattress as he squeezes his eyes shut, adjusting to the overwhelming fullness and the way the feeling radiates through his stomach. 

Are you good?” Jaskier whispers. 

Geralt nods, one of his hands finding Jaskier’s and tangling their fingers together, while the other grips the sheets as Jaskier begins to thrust.

He starts out slow, almost too slow for Geralt to bear, each slide dragging inside of him and creating delicious friction while the head of Jaskier’s cock nudges his prostate.

Geralt hums. 

“Let me hear you,” Jaskier says into his ear. 

Geralt looks off to the side, but Jaskier puts a finger on his chin and tilts his head back. “You’ve never been shy; don’t start now.”

Geralt stays sullenly even quieter than before, deliberately slowing his breathing. 

Jaskier laughs at his obstinance. “No performance review for me?”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Geralt says breathlessly. 

“Who am I to say no to that?” Jaskier asks, and then there’s no more talking for a while, just gasps and moans as Jaskier slams into Geralt at a pace that leaves them both panting. 

Finally, Jaskier shudders to his climax and wraps a hand around Geralt’s weeping cock to bring him over the edge with him. 

Jaskier slips out of him and collapses onto the bed beside him, draping his leg over Geralt’s thigh, his fingers meandering their way again to the forest of scars that live on Geralt’s skin. 

“You’re lovely. Do you believe me yet?”

Geralt gives an unimpressed hum. 

“Well, lucky for you, I have the whole rest of my life to make you see reason.”

Geralt likes the sound of that.

[saudadeonly]

burn my heart out: rewrite the history pages (Chapter 4)

Read on ao3. Part 8, consisting of 4 chapters.

Death Eater!Sirius Black AU

Lord Voldemort wages war on Hogwarts but he is unaware of the years-worth of battle fought against him.

(or, several instalments following the Battle of Hogwarts with Sirius Black standing on the wrong side)

In which the House of Black tailors the tapestry of fate.

Word count: 6425

___

James’s knees have gone out from under him, the words streaming out of his mouth far, far away from English or any spells known to man; they’re his mother’s prayers, ancient and further away than the possibility of their survival. It’s only thanks to Marlene’s quick swish of her wand that James doesn’t end up on the floor and remains upright, half-standing, half-floating instead, but the book he was holding isn’t afforded the same luxury. It falls to the ground and slams open, revealing familiar handwriting curved over the pages, covered by an ever-moving picture of James, Lily and Harry; James pressing a kiss to Harry’s wild hair, Harry grinning and Lily’s mouth pressed to Harry’s chubby hand, all of them swaddled in thick, winter-coming clothes. Remus used to read pages-long letters in that handwriting; it’s burned to the back of his eyelids and the words the letters used to convey are the first ones he remembers when he wakes up. He doesn’t know how the picture he took got into the hands that loop their letters this way.

“James,” Remus whispers, stepping in close to take on James’s weight. He doesn’t dare look at the book or the picture again. “James,” he repeats, louder this time, as he presses his fingertips to the sweep of James’s ribs, where he was always sensitive, “we have to go, we have to –”

He doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He doesn’t know how to help them get out of this one. Lily and Harry were supposed to be safe. He saw them out as far as he could and kept them protected as far as the Invisibility cloak would allow him to. It was his idea to use the passage underneath the Whomping Willow, even if Lily said that they shouldn’t, but there was nowhere else to go. If it was his idea that got them captured – or worse, by now – he will never forgive himself.

“Yeah,” James says anyway, nodding as he rights his glasses on his drained face, “yeah, let’s go.”

They rush out of the Great Hall, the two of them and others Remus cannot, for the life of him, think of right now, and they go down the corridor, through the side door of the Entrance Hall and out into the torch-lit courtyard. There is a shadow that passes behind the colonnade on the side but Remus sees the group of dark-robed figures next and he can’t look away.

Lily struggled. She is still struggling even with a stream of blood from her temple down the side of her face but her efforts are futile against the strength of the woman holding her against her chest. Aubrie Rostami, he remembers with vivid clarity, the young leader of a werewolf pack he talked to on Dumbledore’s orders. A lifetime ago but she told him his, as well as the other side’s, efforts were in vain and he believed her. Now, with Lily’s wand tucked into the belt around her narrow hips, his naivety about her words adds insult to injury.

“You have come to watch,” Voldemort says, a cruel smile playing at his lips. Beside him, Harry is caught in the arms of a masked Death Eater, who doesn’t seem to be struggling with keeping him in place. Harry has his Padfoot plushie hugged to his chest and probably doesn’t sense the danger drawing down over him. “I hoped you might.” He swishes his wand.

It’s too unexpected to counter, too sudden to make a grab for their wands – they all go up in the air, suspended in it but still able to move until Voldemort points his wand at them again and adds, almost lazily, “Immobulus.”

A desperate sound escapes Lily. “James,” she says, an apology, a plea, as Aubrie drags her little ways to the side, toward the tattered part of the group, leaving Greyback the only werewolf not standing with the Death Eaters. “James, I –”

“It’s okay, Lily,” James says, tears in his eyes. “It’s alright, I love you, I love you.”

“Touching,” Voldemort sneers. “Unfortunately, we have other things to do than to listen to you desperate lovebirds.”

“Please,” Lily says, tears running through the dirt streaked across her cheeks, voice strained through the pressure across her neck, “please, not Harry, take me instead, please.”

She must have said it a thousand times over during their walk up to the castle, begged each one of the cold, hidden faces for the life of her son; it doesn’t make it any less heartbreaking.

The Death Eaters don’t stir. They all have their masks on, except for Bellatrix who has covered her face with manic delight instead and Narcissa with her bright head bowed at the very back, but Remus doesn’t see the one he’s always looking for. If Sirius, even masked, were among them, Remus would know him by the easy way he moves, the way his spells cut cold and precise to the others’ wicked delight. It is for the better, perhaps, that Sirius is not here; Remus wouldn’t be able to stand knowing that when faced with the choice himself Sirius would easily give Harry’s life away.

Bellatrix is the only one that reacts. “My lord,” she murmurs as she turns to Voldemort with gleaming eyes, “if the Mudblood wishes so –”

“You’re right, Bellatrix,” he says, gaze flicking towards Lily as he runs the tip of his finger down the length of his wand. “There’s no harm in a little entertainment before we go on to the next part and Nagini has not properly eaten.” His eyes, red as blood, slide to Aubrie, the Death Eaters behind him chuckling. “You,” he snaps. “Bring the Mudblood here.” A scornful glance at Lily, his face cold. “Don’t worry, I will be more merciful than I was with your dear Severus.”

Remus’s stomach turns at the remark. Snape’s body turned up months ago, mangled and tortured beyond recognition, with scores down his face and sides, his bones broken a hundred times over; it is not a high bar of mercy to clear.

“No,” James shouts, his body straining against the magical restraints, to no avail. “No, don’t hurt them, please!”

Aubrie glances at the colonnade across from her then looks back at Voldemort and nods, her expression steeled. Remus follows her gaze but there is nothing there but dust and shadows, dancing with the flickering lights.

Aubrie tightens her grip on Lily, then, when they take a step forward, stumbles over the ground and ends up pushing Lily away from her, far away from the reach of her or the other werewolves’ arms, nearly to the foot of the staircase of the side entrance, where Hogwarts’ students, pale-faced, are now beginning to gather. Lily gasps out a breath, two, and stays, heaving, on the ground.

“You imbecile!” Bellatrix screams, pointing her want at Aubrie. “Do you half-breeds know how to do anything right?”

Aubrie smiles, guilelessly, at her. “Oops,” she says, tucking her hands behind her back, the lines around her eyes and mouth cut in marble. “Stupid werewolf, me.”

Bellatrix exclaims, the curse flashing out of her wand too familiar to warrant any kind of actual words. Except a purple curse slashes through its trajectory, away from Aubrie, and the combined force of the two spells slams into a wide pillar to the side, sending up a flurry of dust and debris.

Among the surprised exclaims that break out, Bellatrix looks toward the source of the second spell and finds, as the rest of them do, a masked Sirius Black strolling out from behind the columns on the opposite side. “I would appreciate it, Bella,” he drawls, hands in his pockets, “if you didn’t break an alliance I worked for months to obtain.”

“Sirius,” James gasps out, the sound more relief than anything else if it weren’t for the hope filling it up, “Sirius, you have to –”

“Silencio,” Sirius says, flicking his wand at James, whose mouth remains open around the non-existent words and eyes wide. Marlene a few paces behind him is pressing her mouth into a pained frown. Remus doesn’t want to know what she was about to tell him back in the Great Hall or how many more seeds of hope that would now be crushed she would have planted with it.

“Sirius,” Voldemort drawls with a tilt of his head, eyes narrowed, “how wonderful of you to join us.”

Sirius, positioning himself next to Aubrie, dips his head into a quick, precursory bow. “The Hogwarts grounds are vast, my lord,” he answers, his voice muffled enough it betrays no emotion. It doesn’t make sense, any of it, his book in James’s hands or his name in James’s mouth, inflected like an orison, because there was nothing he had to gain from it if this is the side he’s chosen now. Remus has never understood him but he never thought he’d let them get so close to the brink. Not ever and especially not after they saw each other in Hogsmeade, when Remus thought a line had clearly been drawn: not Harry.

Voldemort’s face doesn’t clear but he inclines his head and moves his gaze to Aubrie. Sirius’s hand reaches behind her, to where exactly Remus can’t really see but Aubrie tilts her chin up.

Before Voldemort can exact his fury over Aubrie, however, there’s a rustle among the students and they part to the side to let a tall, thin figure steps past. His blond hair reflects reddish in the torchlight as he pauses only for a second by then moves forward. Lily pulls herself to her feet with the help of a student’s extended hand instead but when she tries to follow after, an invisible wall seems to stop her.

“Barty,” Voldemort says, echoing the name murmured among the students, teeth bared the tiniest bit in an appropriation of a smile, cold as death. “You should have been back long ago.”

Barty Crouch moves toward the crowd of Death Eaters with a sort of fluidity Remus wouldn’t expect of someone who was just addressed in such a displeased tone by Voldemort. His robes are ripped at the top of his left sleeve and his leg is dusted with white so he might have an excuse but still, Remus can’t imagine he’d be that confident. He bows before Voldemort but his eyes flick toward the glowing sphere Voldemort’s snake is floating in. “Forgive me, my lord,” he says. “I got held up.”

Voldemort considers him and the robes lying out of place. “No matter now,” he answers, waving him off, “if you found it.”

“I did, my lord,” Barty says as he straightens and pulls a pouch out of his pocket. The Death Eaters around Voldemort quiet as Barty pulls the top of the pouch open and fishes out a mangled, dull silver piece that Remus recognises to have been some sort of tiara once. “I took the liberty of taking care of it.”

There is a second of stunned silence, the tiara’s remains falling off the tip of Barty’s finger as he reaches behind him and pulls a silver dagger out instead. He turns his wrist, the torchlight glinting along the blade, flashing poison-green, and chucks it directly at Nagini.

The dagger flies through the air, its trajectory straight, and Remus knows he’s witnessing something important, something monumental, like a dice roll moments before a jackpot or bankruptcy, like a ship on top of a wave before it breaks; he holds his breath, the air in his lungs stilling before it rushes out of his lungs as the dagger hits the sphere. It bounces off and clatters to the ground, only inches away from the broken tiara. Nagini curls inside the sphere with gleaming eyes, her tongue slipping out her mouth, unharmed.

Voldemort yells, wand lashing out, and Barty flies back, arms flailing around, his shout not as surprised as it should be. Except it’s not Barty that skids across the ground several feet away; his hair has bled into black, his skin tanned and when he looks up, a wheezing sound escaping him, his features have angled into the face of Regulus Black. It takes Remus a second to recognise the sound as laughter, breathless as it is, out of sync with the sharp, emotionless face he last saw. Linsy told them but, even now, Remus doesn’t quite believe it, cannot reconcile the dawning of Regulus’s death with the man that just took a hit at Voldemort.

Across the courtyard, Sirius is indiscernible under the mask, the knot of his Adam’s apple bobbing the only sign he’s even noticed. His hands are buried deep in his pockets. Otis Shah, the leader of another werewolf pack Remus talked to what seems like years ago now, pushes to the front and keeps his steady eyes on Sirius.

“You.” Voldemort’s skin has gone paler than possible, eyes wide. Even Bellatrix is silent, left out from the stream of murmurs that rises up among the Death Eaters. “You’re dead.”

“I guess not.”

There is a short scream of pain when Voldemort points his wand at Narcissa. “Bring me that,” he orders, gesturing to the pouch fallen from Regulus’s hands. “Restrain him, Bellatrix.”

Bellatrix obeys while Narcissa steps forward, straight-backed, but picks up the pouch with unsure fingers. It seems that an aeon passes before her soft-footed steps bring her close enough to Voldemort to hand it over. As soon as she’s done so, she slinks back to Lucius’s side, her eyes passing between Regulus’s face and Sirius’s motionless form, the silver mask secured over his expression nearly the same shade as her cheeks.

The courtyard stands still as Voldemort pulls out several charred objects: a leather-bound book, a golden goblet, a ring. A moment of silence passes. Then a scream tears out of Voldemort, so violent it echoes in Remus’s bones, so cruel it turns into the only thing it could have: “Crucio.”

Regulus trashes into his standstill, body convulsing of its own accord with nowhere to run and Remus cannot stand the sight of him but it’s not a pain he’d wish on him or anyone. He is Sirius’s brother but he is more than that; he is someone who grew past him, bigger than him, who turned against Voldemort, the only thing Remus has ever wanted for Sirius to do. Remus cannot bear to look at Sirius’s reaction, if there is any at all.

Regulus stills, chest heaving. “I’ll keep the locket as a keepsake,” he says hoarsely, staring up at Voldemort with deep, Black-grey eyes. Inexplicably, Remus wishes it were someone else’s eyes proclaiming their defiance, someone else’s words drawing a line of sure-fire stance.

Someone clears their throat and everyone turns to look at the source of it. In one smooth movement, Sirius pulls off his mask and flings it onto the ground. It fractures, almost exactly down the line of the constellations, silvery bits smashing around. He has his wand pointed at Voldemort in the next split second, his face forged into single-minded determination, as familiar as coming up for air after diving down to the bottom, his simple movement an act of war for itself. “Avada Kedavra.”

Not pointed at Voldemort, Remus realises belatedly but at Nagini, still caught in the glowing sphere. He can’t imagine why killing Voldemort’s pet is so important to Sirius and Regulus but he’s willing to concede their already-questionable sanity must have chipped away by now.

A large chunk of stone flies up in front of Voldemort and Nagini and explodes into green fire, the sickly light washing over the astounded faces all around. Sirius Black, the most loyal of supporters, going against Voldemort himself. An alliance built for years, thrown away on a dime for the one person Sirius has always been most protective of: Regulus.

The explosion and the astonishment give him a few precious seconds but Sirius doesn’t use them to go to Regulus. Instead, he shouts, “Now!” and fires his next spell at Bellatrix and her manic-gleaming eyes. She was the only one who didn’t stop to gawk and whose wand summoned up the chunk of stone in front of Voldemort.

The clash of their spells, a knock of wordless curses, cutting and precise, lights up the night and through it, Remus sees Otis Shah punch the Death Eater holding Harry. His fingers break with the impact but the Death Eater pitches to the side and Otis doubles down, unflinching as his bones splinter. “Run, boy!” he yells at Harry, who lands, sprawled and scraped but ultimately unharmed, on the ground.

Sirius has taken on both Bellatrix and Voldemort in that time, not sparing a glance for Regulus trying to get out of the magic binding him or the werewolves jumping the other Death Eaters, but seems to be holding his own until his wand slashes through the air a split second before Bellatrix’s, confident in its motion, infallible in its target. Bellatrix is knocked back, gasping for air as she rolls across the ground, her wand falling away from her.

“Crucio!” The word out of Sirius’s mouth revibrates with a strength that makes Voldemort’s knees go out from under him, his mouth open in a sky-slashing scream but Sirius doesn’t keep it longer than a second. Instead, his eyes go to Nagini, then to Regulus. At the very end, they follow the small figure prickling through the battle.

Harry has picked himself up and is running across the cobbled courtyard but his short legs aren’t fast enough to get him away; Greyback, throwing off another werewolf, leaps through the air and is at his heels in a matter of moments, his sharp, yellow nails brushing over the top of Harry’s black hair, the sound of his footsteps reaching up to grab at Remus’s throat.

“Harry!” Lily’s hair is a beacon in a sea of black and brown but she might as well be across the world for Harry, separated by a mountain of danger and fire that he cannot brave alone, and he dashes away from them. “No!”

Harry ends up throwing himself into Sirius’s arms instead, from where Sirius has half-braced himself to catch him, just as Greyback lunges after him and, unable to stop his momentum, slams directly into the two of them. They go tumbling back, Sirius’s body like a shield around Harry’s as he takes the brunt of both Greyback’s force and impact with the stones. Remus’s breath catches in his throat, traitorously, stupidly, not only because it’s Harry, but because it’s Sirius’s arms that are secured around him.

The movement in the courtyard stills as the three of them end up sprawled across the ground, Greyback across Sirius’s legs, Harry’s dark head tucked against Sirius’s shoulder.

Otis crosses the few feet between them and pulls Greyback off Sirius with his good hand, aiming a kick at his stomach and another one at his ribs, leaving him gasping out. The last kick, centred directly at his face, breaks his nose and makes him go still.

Sirius’s lips are moving, the words they’re shaping inaudible, and Harry is nodding reluctantly as they slowly pick themselves up, Sirius getting his knees beneath himself. He draws himself up, his hair a halo of black and dust framing his face, arms firm around Harry, a silver ring glinting on his finger. His wand lies a few feet away, snapped in half. This is how tragedies go, Remus knows, an inevitable fall from grace, a turning point; the beginning of the fifth act, a certain bitterness in the fact that there isn’t any other way this could have ended.

A sob rips out of Lily. “Harry.”

Only a meter away from Remus, but still too far away, James’s face is drained, slashed open with grief and fear. “Please,” he murmurs, the sound dragging over Remus’s skin, skimming down his spine; suddenly, he is standing back in that Muggle town, years removed, his life going to pieces around him. “Sirius, please.”

“Sirius,” Voldemort says as he gets to his feet, batting away the offered help of a Death Eater and reaches out a hand, pale and unwavering. It’s obvious what he’s about to offer: a redemption for the havoc he wreaked, a way out of his predicament. “Bring me the boy.”

Sirius looks around, the grey of his eyes bottomless, incomprehensible with the way he’s caged his heart so fully. They flit over Otis, still standing over Greyback, stop momentarily on Regulus, now motionless on the ground but with his eyes wide open, and pass over Narcissa’s pale, pinched face; they settle on the phoenix feather stretched thin between the two halves of his wand. When he looks back at Voldemort he swallows and says, “No.”

The word hangs in the air, descending slowly upon the faces of Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but it settles somewhere deep in Remus’s chest, pressing up to the shape of, That was ours, that Remus made space for so carefully in the outskirts of his heart two years ago. Harry, with James’s face and Lily’s eyes and Remus’s heart, is theirs, down to the bone; but he is Sirius’s too, his choice and his redemption.

“Give me the boy,” Voldemort says, voice a bit lower, those ruby-red eyes narrowing.

Wordlessly, Sirius nudges Harry out of his arms and behind himself, arms forming a protective brace around him as Harry clings to his back. The Death Eaters have spread out, forming a wall of bodies between the two of them and the Order and Hogwarts’ residents. Between Harry and his parents.

Sirius keeps his eyes on Voldemort but his calm and even words are only for Harry as his hands tighten on Harry’s torso. “It’s alright, pup.” He glances at Otis. “Now would be a good time to make your exit.”

“And miss all the fun?” Aubrie says loudly, grinning as she looks at Bellatrix, who’s picking up her wand off the ground, with gleaming eyes. An incline of her head and the werewolves get behind Sirius and Harry, their backs to Voldemort. Only now it becomes apparent to Remus that, trough the entirety of the battle, no werewolf looked to Voldemort for instructions. An alliance I worked for months to obtain, Sirius’s voice echoes, pushing a sudden realisation that whatever this was for Sirius it certainly wasn’t an impulsive decision if he had offered the werewolves something even Dumbledore hadn’t. “I rather think not.”

“Better future, didn’t you promise?” Otis adds, moving in line with the other werewolves. Bone sticks out from his fingers, blood pooling around. Still, the brace of his mouth is nothing but firm.

Remus’s throat burns; brave as they might be, dedicated and fierce, they will be no match for the Death Eaters once they decide to use their wands. Sirius must know it, too – that they are willing to die for this. For Harry.

“It’s waiting for you,” he says.

“Only if it’s waiting for you, too,” Aubrie shoots back. She pulls Lily’s wand from her belt and arcs it high above the heads of Death Eaters, all the way to the barrier keeping Lily and the students at bay. Lily’s fingers grapple for it.

“You, Sirius?” Voldemort asks, the soft, silky sound dragging through the air. “Not Regulus, not Severus. You.”

Sirius inclines his head. “Snape did betray you,” he says, the cadence of his voice a slow, agonising dance of death, a promise of, I won’t get out of this alive but neither will you, “but I wasn't yours to begin with.”

“Traitor!” Bellatrix hisses but the sound carries, her face white with rage, her wand pointed directly at Sirius. “I’ll kill you.”

“You can do better than that, Bella. Didn’t Aunt Walburga ever teach you?”

“No, Bellatrix.” Voldemort levels his wand at Sirius, pale hand steady. “I will do it.”

“My lord, such betrayal requires pain, he played us for fools for years –”

“He has the boy,” Voldemort cuts in smoothly, face a grimace. “I do not wish to lose more time. These dramatics have gone on long enough. Besides,” he adds slowly, “the greatest pain for him will be knowing that he leaves all the others here at my mercy.”

Sirius swallows, his eyes blinking closed for a moment, but he lifts his chin and doesn’t budge. Perhaps that’s all Sirius has left to give of himself: a last sacrifice, a declaration of love and lies and apology, laid bare on the cobblestones of Hogwarts, poured through the cracks of the ground it’s built on, raw with how final it is, fragile with the way it was for nothing at all; the act of a dying man, a reminder that even now he would rather crawl home than walk among them. Still, Remus wants to tell him, still it mattered. It will matter.

“Please,” Lily whispers, her voice hoarse. “Please, don’t – take me instead, please –”

Sirius, in his last moments, turns his eyes to Regulus, who is shaking his head in desperation, the pained sounds crawling up from his throat ripping a black, bleeding line into the meaning of devastation. “Guess even the two of us playing together wasn’t enough, huh?” he says, soft between him and his brother, something untouchable spread out in front of them, pulsing. “Désolé, Reggie.”

“This is your last chance, Sirius,” Voldemort murmurs. “No matter your motivations, you have been a good subject. See reason now and all will be forgiven.”

“Easy now, Harry,” Sirius says and Remus’s heart might rip its way out of his chest with how painfully it’s tugging, knowing that Harry is Sirius’s last thought. Harry sobs and curls closer. “It’ll be alright, little one.”

“So be it.”

The motion of Voldemort’s wand, the incantation falling from his lips, the flash of blinding green light; all of it is familiar, achingly so, and it leaves a bitter taste in the back of Remus’s mouth.

“No!” Regulus moves, breaking through the strain of magic around him, and Remus sees it as if time has slowed down; the scrambling off the ground, the desperate, rushed strides towards his brother, his hand, closing around the dip of Sirius’s shoulder, Sirius’s own hand coming up to wrap around Regulus’s fingers. Two brothers, one a Gryffindor, the other a Slytherin, different in everything but that which matters, both so brave, both so clever. Neither moving to save the other from death and take it on himself, but remaining next to each other. To die side-by-side. Together.

The light hits them – Remus can’t tell who it hits, because they are one, these brilliant boys; they are the stars they are named after, they are Blacks, with magic in every nook and cranny of their being, they are brothers, in blood and in name, in everything that they hate – and someone shouts. The world erupts in motion, rallying, wild, fierce, but Remus stays still, unable to watch, unable to look away, and wonders if he is the only one that can feel the magic, old, old magic, sizzling through the air, the taste of it pungent, its sound buzzing in his ears.

But even the Blacks, with their stories written in the stars, are mortal and when Regulus and Sirius collapse, their hands still linked, Remus thinks that the worse sound he has ever heard have to be the screams that rip out of McGonagall, out of James and Lily and Marlene. It’s not until Voldemort moves forward that Remus realises: he was screaming too.

There is no time to let the action sink in, however. The werewolves have surged forward, a tide of beaten bodies and broken spines, fighting for a future that may never come, their edge of surprise lost – the first retaliating spells cut a quarter of them down. The students follow their lead, firing off spells at random but their magic is nowhere near enough to get any of them to Harry.

“Fools,” Voldemort says and waves his wand as he steps past Sirius and Regulus’s limp bodies, towards Harry, who still stands, petrified, next to the safety Sirius tried to preserve for him. Nagini drops down from her sphere and curves her body after him. “Goes to show that even the greatest bloodlines can be tainted.”

Bellatrix points her wand at Sirius and says, “Crucio!” and Sirius’s body flails through the air, silent as only dead men can be. Her triumphant laugh echoes around the courtyard, drowns out all the other sounds in it, followed by a chorus of others’ as the werewolves continue to fall.

Only one doesn’t follow her lead and through the carnage, Remus catches sight of the blonde head bending down behind Bellatrix, the trembling hand that closes around the handle of the dagger that Regulus, minutes away from death, threw. Narcissa Black Malfoy draws herself up, eyes trained on Nagini, now freely slithering across the ground a pace behind Voldemort, toward Sirius and Regulus’s bodies, and moves. And then the end of the world comes bathed in green light.

It begins with Lily’s scream, unearthed from the deepest parts of her chest, thrown out into the world that seeks to take her son; it continues with Narcissa’s hand coming down in a quick, steady arc, with Nagini’s body convulsing and then stilling on the blood-splashed stones; it ends with Voldemort’s wand falling from his limp fingers, his body following a moment, a blink of a second, later. His vacant eyes, like the blood spilling from Nagini’s body, receive no mercy from the dark sky.

There is a moment of utter stillness, of complete silence and then Harry’s wails shoot over the entire battle, over the werewolves that push harder, over Lily and James that break free and dive for him. Remus finds himself among the ones that raise their wands against the furious onslaught of Death Eaters, the words, wasn’t enough, huh, beating out of his chest with the knowledge that it was; it was, Sirius, it was.

“What have you done?” Bellatrix half screams, half gasps out, turning on Narcissa, raising her wand towards her sister.

Narcissa has none of Bellatrix’s strong, ferocious features but she lifts her chin in the same haughty manner, the way Sirius and Regulus did, prepared to go down if that’s what it takes. “I have lost my sisters, my cousins and my husband to him,” she says, her jaw set, as she lets the dagger fall down and grabs her wand instead, pointing it directly at Bellatrix. “I will not lose my son, too.”

“Fool,” Bellatrix spits out, slashing her wand at Narcissa, who parries it with a quickness Remus wouldn’t have expected of her. It devolves into a fierce back-and-forth but Remus is forced to look away when a curse comes flashing his way.

He ducks out of the way and sends a retaliating one, pausing only for a moment to make sure it hits home. He turns and finds Otis half-heartedly ducking out of the way of white spells. While the Death Eater isn’t focused, Remus sends a Stunning Spell his way and doesn’t wait for him to hit the ground before he spins his wand on another one.

A part of Remus doesn’t want the battle to be over because when it is, there will be no way to keep the fresh memories at bay. He is nearly lost in it, in the dodge-and-shoot rhythm, when a familiar throaty shout reaches him.

“Lily!”

Heart thrumming up to his throat, Remus turns and sees, to his and James’s horror, Lily facing off against Bellatrix and deflecting a curse that would have likely finished off Narcissa, who is pressed against a column with no wand in hand. Her stance is sure, feet spread wide apart to keep her steady, and the sheer fury carved into her face gives even Remus pause. The best duellist of their generation, back on her feet, and ready to make a lasting impression.

The spells shoot out of their wands in rapid succession, far too dangerous to disturb from either side and it makes all the others pause and watch. More than once, they have to dodge out of the way of a redirected spell. Lily's sleeve darkens with her blood; Bellatrix's leg buckles every few, unsure steps.

“Is that all you have, Mudblood?” Bellatrix taunts, with none of her previous delight; her voice is full of rage and if she had had time to think about it, Remus is certain there would be grief there as well.  

Lily jumps out of the way of a red streak, hair flying, and twists her arm through the air, making her wand only a blur of light wood. The purple spell hits, right over Bellatrix’s heart and she falls much like her master did: with none of the ceremony that seemed to have been reserved for her in life, the way all mortals fall.

“No,” Lily says, pushing her hair out of the way, face stripped of all anger and slowly washed by exhaustion. She crosses the space back to James, who is kneeling with Harry, and folds herself into his arms. Remus hears her murmur, “This is all I have.”

Half-lost, he steps forward to join them but a sharp cry makes him look up instead. Fawkes has appeared in the sky, gleaming gold and red, with Dumbledore holding onto his long tail. They land in the middle of the courtyard, Fawkes unharmed and Dumbledore with a charred beard but their presence seems to be enough to make the rest of the Death Eaters concede. Lucius Malfoy, kneeling by Narcissa’s side with his fingers over her cheek, is the first one to throw his wand to the ground.

The rest of the happenings seem like peculiar snapshots to Remus: the able picking up the injured, checking the dead, Dumbledore binding the Death Eaters, Fawkes bowing low over a few bodies, the werewolves slowly coming together. He can only watch, pain spiking up every time he breathes.

When everything settles like dust, McGonagall is the first one to move, limping and with dirt-smudged robes, almost toward Dumbledore until she steps past him – to Sirius and Regulus, Remus realises with a painful tug that begins in his lungs and ends somewhere around his liver. “Sirius,” she says as she drops down beside him, her hand gentle over his slack face, painted in dramatic, torchlight-falling lines: high cheekbones, arching brows, sharp jaw. Remus’s eyes burn. He thought, for a moment, that he might get to look into his eyes again and tell him – tell him something, anything, that would have crumbled away this bitter ache; now he can’t even scream. “Sirius, I’m sorry.”

The words seem too familiar for someone so far removed from Sirius, from the pain he caused and the bridges he burned. She had her fondness for them in their school years but to be so openly mourning the death of someone she must have thought was a Death Eater less than an hour ago seems – it seems –

There’s a familiar presence in his space, a gentle hand between his shoulder blades. He faces Lily, who has Harry in her arms and is looking up at him with glassy eyes. Her lips are twisted down and her eyelashes dotted with tears, the side of her face crusted with blood. Remus draws her against him, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, and hopes her warmth makes it down to all the parts of him that have frozen over.

“Hi,” he breathes when Harry reaches for him suddenly, small fingers grabbing over his shirt. He takes him from Lily and wraps his arms around him as Harry clings to him, just like he clung to Sirius. Blood soaks his fringe, pooling around the new wound across his forehead, and Remus uses his wand to Vanish it away for the time being, then draws him tighter against himself, thankful despite everything that it isn’t this small body that’s lying among the motionless ones strewn across the courtyard. “Hi, little one.” 

There’s a sob behind him and he turns to see Marlene crouched down with her hands pressed across her mouth, shaking her head. Her eyes are focused on Sirius and McGonagall but she leans into Dorcas when she kneels beside her and hugs her to her chest. It’s not unlike how she was all those years ago on a cold December night, crumpled in on herself on the floor of his small apartment, begging them to tell her it’s not true. Remus’s heart wants to go out to her but it is shackled by its own pain.

James’s approach is slow, the antithesis of a man rushing to his friend’s side, desperate to find out if his heart still beats; his steps are heavy with the knowledge that no life is waiting to greet him. He folds his knees underneath himself and reaches for Sirius’s hand, his face contorted into anguish, brown skin sallow. Remus has seen the expression on his face too many times throughout war and aimed at the face beneath his even more than that. Only Sirius, Remus think with more painful humour than he feels, could have broken their hearts over and over, years after they were supposed to let him go.

“James.” McGonagall looks up at James with big eyes, her forehead creased up. Her hand shoots out and wraps around his wrist, quick enough it makes even James look at her in surprise. If it hadn’t been such a strange day all together, Remus might have thought McGonagall to have truly lost her mind. “Tell me I’m not imagining it,” she says, voice hoarse, as she brings James’s hand to Sirius’s neck and presses his fingers there.

James lets out a low, breathless sound and bows down to press the side of his face to Sirius’s chest. “It can’t be,” he whispers.

“What is it?” Marlene asks, drawing herself up, swaying on the balls of her feet. “James, what is it?”

McGonagall lets go of James and Sirius to push herself toward Regulus and feel against his neck, too. She stays silent for a few moments, chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. Then she faces back to them, her lips curved up into a near-smile. Her laugh comes out sudden and small, disbelieving and out of place among the downtrodden winners, but it makes something in Remus’s chest bloom up.

“They’re breathing.”

___

A/N:  To the tumblr anon who asked me if they could write "so and so finds out about Sirius": please don't let the fact that this part of the story is done discourage you from writing the rest of your ideas. I'd still very much love to read them.

[yeochikin]

of coffees and spells. | j. wooyoung

a/n: thank you so much @fvrcore for requesting a wooyoung fluff! i tried something new but still held onto the fluff concept bcs haha i suck at angst pls jfhdj this is a long read with maybe a few inaccuracies as well. so please do forgive me! i enjoyed writing this though so i hope you enjoyed reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this! ✨💖

word count: 11k+ (idk man i lost count djfhh)

warnings: uhh inaccuracies with spells and the likes maybe, a few swears too. other than that, there isn’t anything else!

a soft sigh was slowly emitted from slightly chappy yet moist lips, courtesy of the warm tea swirling ever so gently in your favourite mug you are holding in your cold hands. your favourite blanket was draped over your shoulders while you admired how the stars and moon were hanging on the night sky above your head, shining ever so brightly. this certain time of day has always been your favourite, or should you call it time of night? ah, whatever. what matters is that you find comfort during the night. 

speaking of the night, it was rather quiet, save for the sounds of the night’s wind breezing through that would make the leaves of the trees surrounding your cottage rustle every now and then, the wind chime hanging idly on the arch of your porch gently chiming by the wind as well, and of course, let’s not forget the crickets playing their songs into the night. 

of course, you are not completely away from civilisation, where else could you get your basic needs if not from the town’s market? if you had a dollar every time someone asked if you lived deep within the wilderness, surely you could at least be a millionaire by now. truly, you feel amused with such assumptions being thrown in your direction. and as for money? why, you used to work in a little coffee house just a little over a month ago. from there, you worked on a lot of different pastries that ranged from sponge cakes to muffins to breads! and also from there, you had the determination to open up your own place when you have the sufficient funds.

and before you know it, tomorrow’s finally the day to open up your own little bakery in town, aurora bakery was the name you had decided. coincidentally, right in front of the coffee house you used to work in. despite being another place where one could hang out, the pressure of being possible rivals with the coffee house was not present. if it wasn’t for the coffee place, you wouldn’t have found out the love for baking.  the thought of opening said shop up is already enough to make your chest bubble with excitement as the corners of your lips twitched up. that was, until..

CRASH!

‘oops!’

with furrowed brows at the sudden noise (and the voice that invaded your mind) from the inside, you looked over your shoulder to gaze through the window to see whatever the hell was making the noise. to your surprise, your little.. feline friend standing on one of the several shelves that were hung on the walls of your cottage’s living room. the contents of the shelves varied from glass bottles, to dried herbs, to jars of objects filled in them, some recognisable while some of the contents were just unknown.

following their gaze on the floor, a previously glass bottle with some type of red liquid had covered your floor. sighing, you got up from your seat and immediately went inside to clean up the mess. 

there goes your peaceful night. 

“leo, this is the fourth time you broke one of my potion bottles!” you hissed, immediately looking for your broom and dustpan right next to the door. 

said cat merely had his tail swishing from back and forth as he blinked boredly at you, curling up into a little ball afterwards. 

‘sorry, a cat’s instincts.’ the voice appeared in your mind yet again, undoubtedly from the cat friend in front of you. 

“more like an asshole’s instincts.” you grumbled underneath your breath, and with a wave of your hands, the broom started sweeping the broken glass pieces into the dustpan, promptly throwing them into the almost full trash bin as you made a mental note to empty it out later during the morning.

ah, yes. potion bottles, jars of unknown objects, things in your house moving in the air by itself with a simple wave of your hands, a talking feline friend, living in a cottage just outside of town alone? there was no doubt the same answer would pop up into a stranger’s mind.

a witch. 

sure, you don’t always wear black like it would be someone’s funeral every day of the year, nor do you have a long and pointy nose along with a high pitched laugh that could easily split someone’s ears. but is it really necessary to pinpoint someone as such just by those three points? oh how the stories you heard from the townsfolk with their assumptions were an eye roll or managed to make you feel amused. 

times have changed, yet you still wonder as to why people seemed to still have such a mindset on witches. 

so far, you are the only witch in town. surprisingly, no one has caught onto the fact that a little witch has been living near them for a few years now. you didn’t really care if someone had caught on though, there’s always a special drink you could come up with to erase that certain fact away from their minds or with a discreet snap of your fingers along with an incantation, it would be washed away. 

it was understandable as to why your parents were against letting you move away from the safe haven they had created in another town you used to live in, afraid that someone would have found out about your true identity. but of course, as mentioned before, a simple spell or potion could do the trick. besides, you were sure you could handle it yourself. with enough convincing and reassurance, your parents finally let you go. and as some type of companion, your parents insisted on bringing one of your many pets from home to go with you. thus, having leo by your side.

true, you felt homesick at times, but the feeling was always washed away whenever leo would come up to your side and snuggle to you in bed, silently knowing how you felt deep within. if a huge chance was on your side, you could even go back to your old place for a little while to catch up on your parents, telling all of the interesting events during your endeavours. 

speaking of visiting, you had made a mental note to visit them as soon as possible, wanting to tell them about the little bakery you are about to open.

‘it’s late, young lady. stop thinking too much, you’re being too loud.’ a grouchy voice interfered with your thoughts, knowing full well who it belonged to.

with a roll of your eyes, you made your way to the bathroom to do your nightly routine of washing your face, brushing your teeth, and burning the incense you had made earlier in the afternoon, sighing in content once the sweet smell of roses had wafted into your nose as soon as you got comfortable in bed. 

slowly, you let the soft sound of the rustling leaves, the soft chiming from the wind chime, and the crickets of the night lull you to sleep, getting enough rest before the big day tomorrow.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

“one, two!” you heaved pulling out the last tray filled with chocolate filled croissants out of the huge oven, walking out of the kitchen to the front of the bakery with leo balancing himself on your shoulders. 

‘you’re a witch, why are you going through this?’ grumbled leo. 

“you seem to think that it would be easy for me to use my powers in broad daylight where half of the town could see.” you retorted, walking over to the glass display so you could place the freshly baked pastries next to the other ones.

“plus, i don't see why you are complaining considering you're just watching me.” you added.

you didn’t bother to answer the cat’s next complaint, merely pulling him off of your shoulders to let him rest on top of the counter. a satisfied purr resonated against the feline’s neck as your fingers scratched behind his ears. smiling proudly to yourself and placed both hands on your hips to marvel your hard work of the day. you had spent most of the morning just decorating the empty spots of the bakery, baking the treats, and wiped the tables clean. nodding faintly, you decided that it was time. 

it was time to flip the sign to ‘open’. with that, aurora bakery is officially open for business!

while expecting for customers to hopefully smell the scent of freshly baked goods attracted them to your little bakery, you grabbed your broom and started sweeping away the dried leaves just outside of your bakery as if to busy yourself a little more without having to bore yourself waiting (another part not wanting to bicker with the annoying feline in your bakery), and occasionally greeted the few townspeople that recognised you. pausing slightly in your sweeping to wipe away the thin sheet of sweat that had formed on your forehead with the back of your hand, it was only then you noticed that another pair of eyes was watching you.

there, in the coffee house in front of your bakery, you noticed a raven haired boy leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. an unfamiliar face to you, could he be a new resident of this small town you lived in? 

with the short sleeved collared shirt he wore, you could faintly make out what seems to be a tattoo on his arm but with the distance, it was difficult to make out what it was. his wavy hair was parted right in the center with a dark ebony colour that reminded you of the sky just last night. his eyes, though half-lidded, held some type of cheekiness in them. however, his appearance wasn't the one that caught your attention. the male’s aura for some reason was rather… different yet familiar? if that could even make sense. true, he had a mysterious air around him though he radiated another energy that you can't quite put your finger on.

'it's rude to stare, young lady.’ 

blinking a few times, you glared down at the furball sitting next to your legs, partly embarrassed that you were caught staring and partly wanting to turn the cat into one of those fortune cat dolls you see every time you were in a family restaurant around town. leo only stared up at you with an unamused expression then to the male just in front of you. following his gaze yet again, you turned to look at the boy but instead, he already turned on his heels and walked further into the coffee house with both hands tightening the strings of his apron around his waist.

“i wonder if he just moved in, haven't really seen him before.” you mumbled before feeling a slight tug on your dress shirt, immediately catching your attention to look down.

a little girl with two high pigtails stared up at you with her huge eyes, one hand on the fabric of your shirt while the other tightly held a stuffed bunny close to her side. she looked to be about six years old. you smiled gently and kneeled down to match your height with hers, tilting your head to the side in question.

“hey, cutie. what can i do to help you?” you spoke, tone all soft as if you were afraid to scare her away.

with sheepish eyes shifting over at your face then to her shoes, then back to you, she held out a ten dollar bill, causing you to confusedly blink at her actions. it took the girl a few more seconds before parting her lips to speak. 

“i smelled something really nice from your… bread house and, and i have money that mommy gave me earlier, and can i buy something with this?” she asked.

internally, you were about to combust at how adorable with the way she was talking along with the fact that she had called your bakery ‘bread house’. you were happy to say that having a cute girl as your first customer managed to be the highlight of your day so far. nodding your head, you stood back up on your feet and held out your hand for her to take.

“of course! why don't you come inside and see what interests you, little one.” you cooed, melting on the inside at how she carefully took your hand in her own smaller one as her features brightened up out of happiness before the both of you walked back inside, leo trudging shortly from behind.

you watched as the little girl looked around the bakery in awe, no doubt amazed at the various treats on display, before running towards the ones that were in the large glass case. kneeling down once again next to her, you couldn't help but to release a chortle that bubbled in your chest. 

before you know it, a couple more townspeople had visited your little bakery. hopefully, things are looking up. with a huge grin on your face, you stood up on your feet, getting ready to assist the customers.

“welcome to aurora bakery!” 

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

you hummed to a soft tune as you kneaded the dough, leo napping on top of the shelves in your bakery’s kitchen. thankfully, his so-called cat instincts didn’t push the jars of flour and spices that adorned the many shelves. had he did so, you swear you would make him take your place instead of you. you didn’t realise how much time has passed as you were too focused on assisting the customers that walked into your bakery, along with cleaning the tables, and of course, continuing to refill the trays with your treats. though, judging by the rays of crimson slipping through the thin curtains hanging above your windows, you made a random guess that it was near late afternoon.

as soon as you placed the dough into the oven to let it bake and went to wash your hands from the excess dough sticking on your skin, a quiet ‘ding’ from the bells hanging on your door signified a customer had walked into your cafe. wiping your hands on your apron with a quick fix of the crescent shaped clip that threatened to fall off of your hair, you made your way out to the front to greet the said customer. 

“welcome to- oh.” you accidentally let the words die off in our throat. really, you didn’t mean to. 

standing in front of the cashier, you were met with the same cheeky eyes from before staring into your own. it was the boy from the coffee house! with his elbows resting on top of the counter, you could finally see that the tattoo on his arm was in the shape of, what looks like, a fox, a snow fox to be specific. you also noticed the little mole just underneath his eye. like before, you once again felt the familiar yet still unfamiliar energy surrounding the male. odd.

“well, hello, miss baker.” he greeted, simpering at the way you had paused in your steps. 

his voice was soft, catching you off guard yet you remained a calm demeanour. it wasn’t bad at all. the tone reminded you of… of milk coffee warming you up during a rainy evening. you didn’t know if it made sense but if you had to mean it in another way, it was just… soft. shaking your head to finally get it together, you sent him a polite smile as you walked closer to the counter. 

“ah, you are the boy from the coffee house. how can i help you?” you asked.

leo as if he could hear you, suddenly appeared in your peripheral vision as he jumped onto the counter next to you and gave out a soft purr as you scratched behind his ears. his eyes stared at the tattoo that was inked on the boy’s skin with intrigue. the boy smiled down at your feline friend and switched his gaze to yours. 

“well, i thought i would stop by and say ‘hi’. i haven’t really seen you around before, the town’s baker at that.” he replied, quirking a brow up.

“now that you mentioned it, i’ve never seen you before. are you perhaps new around here?” you asked, tilting your head to the side ever so slightly. 

the question made the corner of his lips stretch further into a grin, you could faintly make out how the apples of his cheeks looked fuller once he did so. as much as you didn’t want to admit it, you knew that deep down he looks rather cute. 

“i guess grandpa didn’t tell you his grandson finally took over his coffee house once he retired, huh?” he chuckled, straightening up to shove his hands into his denims.

the look of realisation already says it all, much expected from the male with how he let out another chortle. sure, you had heard from the old man in the coffee house telling you stories about his grandson during the time you were still working there. though, the said boy never once visited. it ranged from whatever he did as a child to him during the years of growing up. however, you failed to learn the fact that his grandson would be the one taking over the coffee house. or the fact he finally retired. much less, so soon. what you clearly remember, was the name the old man had mentioned a few times.

“you must be.. jung wooyoung?” you said, though the way you had worded it coming out as more of a question.

a look of surprise was etched onto the male’s face before it softened, holding one hand out to point at himself. 

“the one and only. and you are..?” he trailed off, you catching up immediately.

“i’m y/n, y/n l/n.” you introduced, a huge grin plastered over your lips. 

“it’s nice to meet the baker. i guess we will run into each other more often than not, eh?” he grinned. 

“you say that as if i even have a choice to open up a bakery someplace else.” you mused, causing the male in front of you to release a hearty laugh.

you noted at the high pitched laugh he had, finding it contagious as you can’t help but to find yourself chortling along. despite the aura around him, you would have to say that his presence was rather warm. 

“so, how can i help the town's, um, new coffee maker for today?” you asked.

‘i don’t know, his taxes maybe?’ leo’s voice interrupted, making you discreetly pull at his tail, just enough for him grumble, ears twitching as he looked up at you. honestly, someone is in need of a cat nap rather than the one working back and forth in the bakery all day.

“ah, it would be rude to stay and not have anything, no?” wooyoung replied before his irises looked around the bakery, only stopping at a certain treat as he pointed towards the cinnamon rolls. 

“i’ll have two of those, miss baker.”

“coming right up!” 

and with that, your nimble fingers made a quick work of placing the treats into a little box before placing a little cat sticker as a seal so that the treats wouldn’t fall out of the box. satisfied, you gave the said male his treats, promptly thanking him once he paid. it was when your fingertips brushed against one another that you felt a sudden chill down your spine.

could he… no, he can’t be.

“thank you for this, y/n. in return, why don’t you come to the coffee house once you’re free?” wooyoung winked, a certain glint shining in his irises as he spoke.

“h-huh? oh yeah, sure, definitely!” you said, still recovering from the chilling sensation down your spine. 

and with that, the boy turned on his heel to walk out of the bakery. though it seems normal, something had caught your eye.

the exact fox tattoo had moved from its place on his arm to the back of his neck, its eyes blinking over at you. 

quickly rubbing your eyes with the back of your hands, the fox on his nape was gone. were you dreaming? 

‘young lady, your bread’s gonna burn in the oven!’ leo called out, making you quickly turn to rush back into the kitchen to take the bread out of the oven.

you are the only witch in town. you were certain of that.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

that night in the grassy field right in front of your little cottage, you were hunched over in front of your cauldron, hands idly stirring the ladle into the concoction while your eyes had read over the instructions of your spellbook. as usual, leo was balancing himself on your shoulder blades. despite him being an annoying (and grumpy)  ball of fur, he surely knows what or what not to add to whatever you are currently doing.

with a few trials and errors, along with you and leo bickering, and some ingredients being tossed in, the dark navy mixture swirling in your cauldron lit up. at first it was rather dim but after a few more stirs in the mixture, the light grew brighter and brighter while the concoction started to bubble up. you had to shield your eyes once leo told you to back away from the cauldron, a ringing sound resonating throughout the area. you could hear liquid gurgling and some type of low thrum filling the silent night. once you were sure it was safe to open your eyes, you carefully moved your palm away from your face to look at your result. upon doing so, your eyes widened.

in front of you, stood a large mirror-like object just on top of the cauldron. the huge smile on your lips along with your tense shoulders relaxing, it was safe to say that the little experiment you tried out worked. there, you could see your parents standing with your reflection. your mother had an excited grin on her brims while your father, though with an emotionless expression, the twinkle in his eyes gave it away.

“y/n! you have finally gotten the hang of conjuring up the spell your father taught you.” came your mother’s cheerful tone.

‘yes, without my help little witch right here would’ve summoned up a flame thrall by accident.’ leo responded, his own reflection had him curling his tail around your mother’s leg. 

“not impossible. let’s not forget the time where y/n had forgotten to add a heart stone before spawning up a wolf familiar. the whole house was a huge mess trying to make the wolf go back to its realm.” your father mused, much to your embarrassment.

see, you didn’t have any problems with casting illusion spells, nor did you have any trouble in the restoration spells as well. but for some reason, conjuration spells were a bit of a difficult task for you. you remembered the time where you accidentally conjured up a one eyed troll instead of a pixie at the age of ten. it was a good thing your father was around to immediately petrify the troll before it could squash you with its giant club, and dismiss it back into another realm. let’s just say that you were grounded with a month’s worth of studying ingredients for potions after that incident. 

“i thought we didn’t need a heart stone.” you grumbled.

“you don’t need it if you want to make your wolf guardian a worthy opponent.” your father deadpanned, causing you to pout over at him, leo snickering at you. 

“all jokes aside, how are you, my dear?” your mother’s soothing voice came through, immediately reminding you of the main reason why you had decided to call them in the first place. 

“i’ve been alright, mother. i’ve even opened up my own bakery in town right in front of the old coffee house i used to work in!” you said, thumbs twiddling with each other. 

while your mother was delighted that you’re doing well, your father was rather quiet. eyes as sharp as a hawk, your father noticed your movements. from the years of watching you grow up and having to deal with you trying to hide away the little mischief you had caused since you were a mere toddler, he couldn’t help but to release a low chuckle. 

“is there something else we don’t know?” your father suddenly asked, causing you to flinch slightly in place.

“n-no!”

“y/n..” he said sternly, causing you to sigh out of defeat, shoulders deflating.

“father.. how do you know if another witch is around you?” 

the pair in the mirror-like portal looked at one another upon hearing your question then back at you, your mother moving to place her hands on your shoulders. 

“are you safe, my child?” your mother asked, though she was a mere… ‘illusion’ through the mirror, it felt as if your mother really was there enveloping your entire frame as the familiar sweet fragrance she usually wore while you still lived them wafted into your nose.

“yes, i am safe, mother. i can assure you that.” you spoke softly.

“it’s just that.. the grandson of the owner in that coffee house took over. old man had finally retired.” you added, your parents merely nodded, making you continue as they were listening intently. 

“he seemed pretty nice, though he had an.. aura that seemed to be intriguing. no one else in the town has that certain aura but him.” you continued. 

“are you sure you will be alright, y/n?” came your mother’s worried tone, your father holding her hand.

“our child is a strong one, i’m sure y/n can handle it.” he reassured. your mother, on the other hand, merely stared between you and your father before releasing a low sigh. 

“alright. just remember to cast a ward spell around your place whenever you sleep.” she said.

‘no need, she has been burning her self-made sages for a while now. might say that it’s quite useful.’ leo said, mewling up at the older woman. 

it was when the light in the mirror somehow started to grow dim, indicating that the remaining time you had with your parents was slowly coming to an end. your parents, seeing the same thing as well, took a couple steps back from you, their hands intertwined with each other’s.

“it’s time for you to sleep, my child.” your mother said, you noticed how her eyes became a tad glossy. your father held her close to him and rubbed a hand on her arm reassuringly. the sight in front of you was enough to make your throat clench.

“we wish you well in your endeavours, y/n. stay safe, and good luck with the bakery.” your father said.

“take care of her, leo.” he added, the cat merely bowing his head and blinking slowly.

and with that, the object shone brightly once more, making you take a few steps back upon hearing leo telling you to do so with an arm covering your eyes. the familiar ringing noise was heard and then, silence surrounded you once again. you took your arm away from your eyes and saw how the cauldron from earlier laid idly on the grass, the fire you had prepared earlier was put out. taking a deep breath as you felt a slight rush of emotions, you went to pick up the cauldron, and the spellbook. 

‘it’s late, young lady. we have another busy day at the bakery tomorrow.’ leo mewled, rubbing his body against your leg.

with a gentle smile, you leaned down so the cat could climb on your shoulders once again, purring as the two of you made your way inside the cottage so you could get started on your night routine before sleeping.

for some reason, a fox with fur as white as snow visited your dreams that night.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

it has been a few weeks now ever since your little bakery opened up. you weren’t exactly that popular nor was the bakery completely deserted of customers as well. you had your fair share of busy days, some days you had to even go for a quick run to the town’s market to get the ingredients that you had run out of. though, you weren’t complaining. you loved working at the bakery. something about seeing the people having their expressions brighten ever so slightly as soon as they took a bite out of your treats would always make you feel giddy on the inside.

and sometimes, when you really have to use it, you would quietly whisper an incantation or two to someone’s treat whenever you see them struggling with their day upon stepping through the doors of your bakery. your eyes holding a jovial twinkle once you see the happy expressions on their faces once they took a bite out of the treat. 

“alright, time to close up.” you mumbled. and with a couple claps of your hands, the broom floated in the air before making its way towards your outstretched hand.

with that, you started to sweep the tiled floor and the daily routine of cleaning your bakery. whenever you did tricks like these, you made sure to keep it on the down low, only using it when you were really sure no one could see you doing so. 

“good evening, miss baker.” wooyoung greeted, making you cease momentarily of picking up the empty trays for the day, mentally thanking yourself that he didn’t walk in just in time to see the floating broom.

ah, yes, jung wooyoung. it is no doubt that he is the old man’s grandson, alright. everyone in town loves him, saying his humble and bright personality reminded them of his grandfather, though with added snarkiness to it. but of course, they were all lighthearted.

on your days of not working in the bakery, you would find yourself spending time in the male’s coffee house. honestly, you weren’t a huge know-it-all when it came to coffee. all you know is that any type of caffeine being consumed by you will make you stay up all night. wooyoung was the one who would introduce you to the types of coffee he had in the place. from the weakest one to the strongest one, though you still can’t make any difference from them considering that it would still make you stay awake. 

the two of you shared a similar bond for sweet things though. whenever you came to his coffee house, you would make sure to bring cinnamon rolls when he mentioned that your cinnamon rolls were really good during the first time you hung out at the coffee house. and just how you would bring cinnamon rolls to his place, the raven haired boy would make sure to bring two coffees (one of them with the appropriate amount of caffeine in them) during your break time. 

it was during those hangouts the two of you grew closer but for some reason, you still couldn’t figure the unknown aura enveloping the male, the thought still gnawing in the back of your mind. and the snow fox tattoo on his arm.. it reminded you of the dreams you had been getting frequently now. you swear that sometimes you could see it staring at you with its fluffy tail swishing and curling around wooyoung’s neck. either that or you just really need to get your eyes checked.

or ask your mother if there was some type of restoration spell to fix your eyesight.

“well, if it isn’t, coffee boy. coming over for our daily hangouts again?” you replied, wooyoung following you to your kitchen to help with carrying the trays. 

the boy leaned against the faux marbled counter crossing his arms. since he was wearing a long sleeved pale green shirt, the fox tattoo was hidden underneath it. as much as you were irritated with the fact your eyes could play tricks on you because of the damned fox tattoo, you would have to admit that you would find yourself admiring the details of his inked skin. sometimes you would catch yourself wanting a tattoo yourself but you were a little nervous around needles, unfortunately.

“ah, i can’t today sadly, i need to check the ingredients back home.” he replied, you looked over your shoulder with an eyebrow raised up. 

“ingredients for..?”

“for my poti- ah!” the sudden squeak that left his lips was enough to make you turn around in alarm, wondering if he had hurt himself. 

there, you see wooyoung aggressively rubbing his tattooed arm with his eyes glowering down at the fox tattoo. your eyebrows creased in confusion at the sight, was his tattoo still hurting him? surely that can’t be the reason. his head lifted up so your gazes could meet at once you asked if he was alright, you noticing the way his pupils were shaking as if he was nervous about something. 

“oh yeah, i’m okay!” he quickly responded, hiding his arm behind his back.

“you were saying..” you continued as you placed the washed trays away, leaning against the sink. 

you had expected that wooyoung would answer your question but instead, he walked closer to you. closer and closer. your eyes widened ever so slightly at his actions, leo on the shelf had his tail all fluffed up while his pointy ears flattened over his head as if preparing to pounce on the male if he planned on doing something to you. though you were nervous, you had kept a calm composure while reviewing all the protective incantations in your mind, or if that failed, you were ready to kick him between the legs. 

you were about to cast a spell on him when the male held his hand up until you felt him picking softly at your hair, near your star shaped hair clip, then took a few steps back, showing you the pieces of dried batter that somehow managed to get on your hair. 

“you got something in your hair there, miss baker.” he spoke softly, his expression softening up. 

“also, i meant to say the ingredients for the coffee house. some were running out in the place already so i needed to check if i still have some at home.” wooyoung added smoothly. 

“ah, that’s alright then. i guess i’ll see you tomorrow?” you asked, still trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart from earlier. 

“yeah, see you, miss baker!” he bid then turned around to walk away, leaving you slumped against the sink.

‘what the hell was that?’ leo exclaimed, tail swaying from side to side.

“don’t ask me, i’m as stumped as you are.” you sighed, pushing yourself off of the sink and looked around the kitchen to see if there was any more cleaning to do until your eyes landed on a certain box filled with cinnamon rolls. 

with a sharp gasp, you grabbed the box and quickly made your out of the kitchen. you hoped that you could at least catch up with the raven haired male yet as soon as you stepped out, emptiness greeted you instead. your eyebrows furrowed as you walked directly outside of your bakery, looking around for wooyoung but he wasn’t there. you crossed the cobbled street and peeked through the windows of the coffee shop, still nothing. the place had its lights turned off, even the kitchen. 

“how the hell did he walk so fast?” you grumbled, walking back inside. 

oh well, maybe you could just give it to him tomorrow. for now, you had a bakery to close.

❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀

“thank you, come again!” wooyoung’s voice rang throughout the coffee house, sighing in relief as he bid goodbye to the last customer for the day before his hands untied the tied strings of the brown apron around his waist. 

“today’s a little busier than usual. don’t you think, yuki?” he mumbled, rolling up his sleeves to see the fox tattoo on his arm. 

on his skin, the snow fox tattoo on his arm slowly uncurled itself from the tight ball she was in before yawning then wagged her fluffy tail happily, a clear indication she was content. how wooyoung managed to hide his enchanted tattoo from the public’s eye was astonishing, knowing full well how foxes could be sneaky and full of mischief, whether in tattoo form or not. if wooyoung could have a dollar every time yuki would disappear from his arm and ended up in a different part of his body, he could be a millionaire. though the idea was pleasant, it also made wooyoung scold her since someone could see her easily. but of course, he couldn’t stay mad at her for long. she was too adorable for her own good. 

and being the only witch in town (or so he thought) wooyoung needed to be extra careful as well. 

honestly, wooyoung never felt the pain of being inked. being a witch himself, he just managed to conjure it up on his own skin and enchanted it so it could move by itself. hence, the reason why yuki would often move from place to place on his body. sometimes even jumping out to grow into a full size snow fox once she wanted to stretch her legs and not be stuck on skin. and knowing how the fox had so much energy packed in her, yuki would sometimes visit wooyoung in his dreams just to have an extra playtime with the male. though, when she’s feeling cheeky, she tends to jump to someone else’s dreams, someone who wooyoung would think occasionally before falling asleep.

drying the last coffee mug, wooyoung looked over at the bakery on the side of the street. his eyebrows furrowed at the sight of your bakery’s lights were still on. normally, you would close earlier than wooyoung’s coffee house every saturday and sunday since the both of you knew the town wasn’t as busy on weekends. 

“she’s still at the bakery. wanna go check up on her, yuki?” the raven haired male said, looking down at his forearm, smiling at the sight of his companion hopping in circles excitedly. 

locking up the coffee house, wooyoung made quick strides across the street to reach your bakery. peeking through the windows, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion that he couldn’t see you, instead your lights were still on. curiosity got the best of him and soon, wooyoung found himself inside. the smell of pastries still lingered in the air as soon as he entered the place. everything in the bakery looked normal, nothing out of the ordinary. that was until he walked into the kitchen, a sharp gasp leaving his lips at the sight.

your broom was floating in the air, not only that, it was sweeping by itself. wooyoung had to rub his eyes immediately to make sure they were not tricking him, maybe he even drank a lot of coffee to the point where he’s hallucinating things. however, those ideas were thrown out the window once he saw that the broom was still moving by itself, lightly tapping against his foot as if indicating him to move over so it could sweep over where he was standing, to which made him quickly move away.

his irises looked around the place before they landed on one of the many shelves that hung on the kitchen walls, a familiar glass bottle with some type of golden liquid filled in them to be exact. to someone’s eyes, it could easily be mistaken as a bottle of honey but does honey radiate a bright yellow light? 

swallowing thickly, so many things were running through his mind. but all answers already pointed to one thing. 

“wooyoung!”

with wide eyes, the male spun around, almost falling on his own from how fast he had moved. there, you stood in front of him with leo on your shoulders, both of your eyes were wide as you realised the broom was still moving on its own. with a quick snap of your fingers, the broom stilled by itself and fell idly on the floor.

“l-listen!” you started, heartbeat rising as your hands started to get all clammy as you were caught.

“...a witch.” was the first thing wooyoung had said.

silence hung over the both of you. it was so quiet that it was almost deafening. 

your mind was racing with all the possibilities of what wooyoung could do when he found out about your true identity. you wanted to use the incantation to him forget what he just witnessed yet your throat felt constricted, as if someone was clutching on your vocal chords so you just stood there in front of the raven haired male who stared at you with his jaw dropped. once you felt a little confident, you shakily reached a hand up, about to snap your fingers as you whispered the incantation.

“wait, wait! i’m happy that you’re a witch too!” wooyoung interjected quickly, knowing full well which spell you were about to cast.

wait.. too?

“what..?” you whispered, the hand lifted near your face dropping to your side. 

the surprised face on wooyoung’s features slowly melted away at the realisation he had, replacing it with a relieved yet jovial expression. you, on the other hand, stood there, the idea of being found out and having to move away from the town when you just started your own business was still lingering in your mind. 

by now, the two of you were seated at one of your tables, as what wooyoung had suggested so that the two of you could talk. it took a couple of times for wooyoung to reassure you, yuki even jumping out of his arm as she attempted to help her owner comfort you, nuzzling her head against your hand. leo was on the counter of your cash register, sharp yet curious eyes watching the snow fox grow from a mere ink to a full sized snow fox. 

although finally calmed down, your head was still in your hands as you tried to get a hold of the things that had happened.

“so, what you’re saying is.. you’re a witch too? does that make the old man a witch too?” you said, lifting your head to look at the male who only smiled sheepishly in return.

“well, grandpa is just a normal human. though, his wife is the one who is a witch, which she passed her powers onto my mother.” he reminded you.

it all made sense now. the unfamiliar aura that gnawed in the back of your mind, the countless times of you wondering if your eyes were playing tricks on you from the fox tattoo on his arm, the way he apparated in thin air that one time when you wanted to give him his cinnamon rolls, and how you saw the exact fox popping up often in your dreams.. things finally fell into place.

“god, the things that are happening..” you groaned, resting your forehead on the faux marble table of yours. 

wooyoung could only laugh, and turned his head to the side as he watched leo and yuki chasing each other around the bakery. he felt the weight on his shoulders slowly being lifted off. relief was what he was feeling, relieved that he at least found someone the same as he was. his eyebrow quirked up once you suddenly straightened up in your seat, a look of realisation hitting you.

“you mentioned how the fo-”

“yuki.” he corrected.

“right, yuki, would visit someone in their dreams right? and that someone is someone you were thinking about before you slept?” you said, wooyoung nodding his head in confirmation.

“...does that mean you were thinking about me?” you asked.

wooyoung choked on his spit, the apples on his cheeks turning into a faint shade of pink before abruptly standing up from his seat, promptly calling yuki, who immediately scrambled up to the male and spun around. a bright light shone briefly before it disappeared, going back to being wooyoung’s tattoo on his arm.

“i-i need to head home, i’ll see you tomorrow, y/n!” he announced, making his way out of the bakery.

“wooyoung, wait!” you tried to catch him but like a little while ago, he was quick to apparate away.

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“well, aren’t you glad that you finally found another witch friend, my child?” your mother said.

you had decided to conjure up the mirror like portal once again, you wanted to talk to your parents about what you had just recently discovered. no, you had to talk to them. though, you were relieved that you had found a fellow witch in town, the idea of being caught still scared you. 

“with how he found out about you, i really should say you need to be careful next time, y/n.” your father said. 

despite the strictness laced in his tone, he was genuinely concerned about your safety. and he was right, someone could have easily found out. you had to admit that it was your fault for letting the broom move by itself, thinking that no one would have walked in since, well, it was your own kitchen. your head hung low as you emitted a groan, hands coming up to rub your face. you were thankful that it was wooyoung who had found out, a fellow witch just like you. 

“i think that also solves the little mystery revolving around the boy, doesn’t it, my dear?” your mother said. you could only nod your head, lifting your head to send your parents a little smile.

“i trust that these things won’t happen again, y/n?” your father added.

“of course, father. i will be more careful next time.” your parents’ expression softened up at your small promise before the light around the mirror had once again grow dim, indicating that you needed to finish your conversation soon. 

“do tell me how the progress goes between the two of you, y/n.” your mother teased, effectively making your cheeks heat up before whining out of protest.

“mother!”

with one hearty laugh coming from both of your parents, along with a final wave of the night, you knew what was coming up next. shutting your eyes, the ringing grew loud in your ear before it finally died down, letting the silent night to envelope around you and leo, who was already fast asleep next to your legs. rolling your eyes, you gently picked him up in your arms along with your cauldron and spellbook before making your way back to your cottage.

your eyes were staring at your reflection through your dresser’s mirror while brushing your hair, rewinding the events that had occurred earlier in your bakery, and the hasty explanation wooyoung had mentioned once he sat the both of you down. but.. a particular fact lingered in your mind.

‘what exactly do i have to do in your mind, wooyoung?’ you thought.

‘for the last time, go the hell to sleep. your mind is too loud.’ ah, of course, the one and only grouch just had to interrupt.

what a sourpuss. 

with a shake of your head, you switched off the lights and made yourself comfortable in your bed before finally getting that much needed sleep. 

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“miss, can i, can i buy a cake? it’s for my mom, it’s her birthday today!” 

your eyes looked down at the chubby hand sliding the crumpled up dollar bills along with the shining coins on top of your counter, making the conclusion it had been kept for quite a while now.

standing in front of your counter (though you had to lean a little to have a good look at the child), it was the little girl from the very first day of you opening up your little bakery, pigtails and all. you bit down on your lower lip, heart clenching at the sight of her puppy-ish eyes. you didn’t have the heart to tell her that she had enough money to buy a whole cake. instead, you knelt down to her height and asked if she knew what her mother’s favourite treat in the bakery was.

“oh, she loved your mini chocolate croissants!” the girl chimed, pigtails bouncing as she excitedly hopped in place. 

“alright, how about i give you the croissants instead?” you offered.

with a gentle smile, and a pat on her head, you straightened up and rushed around the bakery to pack the croissants into the little box, not forgetting the cat sticker to seal the little opening so it wouldn’t fall. you also placed the box into a white paper bag so the treats won’t easily fall out of the girl’s hands. 

a soft cheer made its way out of the girl’s lips, taking the bag in her chubby hands before thanking you as she made her way out of the bakery. following the retreating figure, it was only then you noticed a certain raven haired male leaning against the doorway with two cups of coffee in his hands. 

it had been a few days after the incident in the very back of your kitchen, you were awkward and cautious during the next day of meeting but wooyoung never gave up in trying to convince you that everything was fine, and that no one would find out about the both of your identities. as per usual, he would always bring you your coffee whenever it was your break time. sometimes, you would even sneak a little incantation in his cinnamon rolls to make his day a little better whenever you saw how his face held a frustrated expression, most likely dealing with a stubborn customer.

and ever since then, wooyoung was willing to wait for you to close up your bakery, yuki playing with leo. it was a surprise that leo was actually getting along with the fox considering how the two were polar opposites of each other, both physical and personality wise. he even managed to communicate through wooyoung’s mind now, sometimes having wooyoung laugh out loud from the cat’s snarky comments.

“one iced latte for our lady.” he grinned, handing you the cup of said drink, you gratefully taking it in your hands.

“our?” you chuckled. in response, wooyoung merely eyed his arm where yuki was spinning in circles.

you couldn’t help but coo at the snow fox, whispering softly underneath your breath so only you and wooyoung could hear, “hi there, yuki.” 

“i was wondering..” wooyoung suddenly started, making you look up, tilting your head as you urged for him to continue.

“do you wanna go somewhere? after you close up, i mean.” wooyoung asked.

now that he mentioned, you had never really explored much of the town as of late considering how you would busy yourself in the bakery, and only went straight at home so you could finally rest or work on your spells and incantations (mostly conjuration spells). with a wide smile, you nodded your head. 

“i don’t see why not. a little break from the bakery won’t hurt.” you chuckled.

the sheepish grin had appeared itself over wooyoung’s lips, making the apples of his cheeks grow fuller by the action. you won’t lie, it is an endearing sight. 

‘i heard that.’ came leo’s voice, causing you to snap your gaze on him while wooyoung confusedly looked over at the cat who was busy licking his paw.

“what is he talking about?” the boy asked.

your cheeks flushed a faint shade of crimson after hearing the question as you waved a hand in a dismissive manner, mentioning how it was just random thought you had.

‘a random thought thinking that he has a.. ‘cute’ smile, young lady?’ leo snickered.

you could only glare at the feline while wooyoung snapped his gaze from the cat to you, the confused expression on his face melting away and instead, was replaced with a sly grin.

“you think it’s a cute smile, huh?” he teased, causing you to groan before grabbing your broom.

cue a loud yowl coming from the cat as you chased the cat around while wooyoung laughed his high pitched laugh at the entertaining sight. 

“i guess both our companions know how to embarrass us.” he grinned, immediately catching you in his arms as you were about to run past him once again.

“i swear, one of these days i’m gonna turn that cat into a dog instead.” you mumbled.

it was only when wooyoung’s cologne wafting into your nose had your attention, looking up once you had calmed down from the brief chasing around. sure, you had always smelled wooyoung’s cologne whenever he stopped by but being so close to him like this, almost made you never want to leave his arms. it was if you were slowly growing intoxicated by his scent. 

“y/n?” wooyoung called.

“huh?” you blinked, breaking out of the trance. 

“i said i needed to go back to the coffee house so i’ll see you later?” he asked once again, amused at the slight dazed look glossing over your irises. 

realising what he meant, you immediately pulled away from the embrace, almost whining at the loss of warmth around your frame. hugging the broom close to your chest, you faintly nodded. 

“yeah, i’ll see you later, wooyoung.” you waved as the male made his way out after bidding goodbye, though not without sending a wink at your way.

“don’t miss my smile too much, miss baker.” 

“jung wooyoung!”

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“and that’s the last of them!” you huffed, placing the clean tray into the many racks. 

with both hands on your hips, your eyes glanced around the kitchen to make sure there weren’t dirty trays or utensils in your kitchen. once satisfied, you untied your apron and hung it over the little coat rack in the corner before heading out, making sure you didn’t forget your keys. from the last specks of crimson painting the nearly black sky, the night was about to greet you once again.

true to his word, wooyoung was already waiting for you. he sent you his bright and cheeky grin upon seeing your figure walking out of the bakery, making quick strides to stand next to you as you locked the main entrance of the bakery. once he saw that you were done he held out his arm, glancing at both you and leo who, as usual, rested on your shoulders. sometimes he wondered how your back doesn't hurt from the amount of times leo would climb on you.

“ready to go?” wooyoung asked, looking down at you. with a link of your arm around his, you nodded. 

though what happened next, nearly made you want to cling onto the male next to you. you had expected for a walk in the park or something similar. not apparating into thin air and quickly arriving at - you squinted around before realising where you were, the town’s old watchtower. the balcony of the watchtower to be more specific. though, no one has ever set foot here in over three years now since the town had a new one on the other side.

with the way you were practically hugging wooyoung’s arm, he made a short conclusion that this must have been your first time doing so, or rather, you not being used to it. leo was already off of your shoulders, calmly licking his paw as he balanced himself on top of the railing. yuki, on the other hand, was napping so she didn’t join leo this time. gently placing his hands on your shoulders, wooyoung leaned his face down to look at your face, concern painting over his own features. 

“you okay?” he asked.

“s-sorry, i was just not expecting that, is all.” you mumbled, giving him an embarrassed smile from the sudden confession. once you were sure you were steady on your feet, your gentle eyes stared at the scenery from the balcony.

you knew that the town was beautiful, but seeing the town where most of the lights were turned on along with the moonlight illuminating the calm waters of the sea right next to it, the stars shining ever so brightly on the sky’s dark canvas. the scenery was absolutely breathtaking. once the night breeze brushed against your skin, the strands of your hair slowly dancing to their own rhythm from the gentle blow of the wind, you shut your eyes and took a deep breath. instantly, the smell of the ocean filled your senses, making a soft smile to curl itself over your soft petals.

wooyoung, who was leaning against the doorway of the entrance, couldn't help but admire the way the moonlight kissed your skin, the night breeze blowing against your strands, and the peaceful expression you held. over the months of getting to know you, he somehow started to develop feelings for you.

how could he not when you looked at peace in your kitchen baking the treats whenever he stopped by? how could he not when your expression brightens every time a customer complimented your treats? how could he not when soft laugh that sounded so melodic in his ears whenever he told his lame jokes or his embarrassing childhood stories. no, this was not some kind of puppy love or a short crush.

jung wooyoung has fallen for you.

he had spent nights trying to think of other things and not you before falling asleep, knowing how suspicious you would get if yuki frequently visited your dreams. sometimes he would even charmed your drink of the day to give you an extra burst of energy to get through the remaining hours of your day after seeing the tired look on your face. he knew that you would slip the little happiness potion into his cinnamon rolls yet could only pretend that he didn’t know, not wanting you to ever stop.

taking his eyes away from you briefly, wooyoung looked down at the palms of his hands before his eyelids fluttered shut. his lips moved as a hushed chant left his lips, slowly a faint pink smoke started to form on his palms but he was not done. half lidded eyes stared at the smoke in his hands before they were clasped together. with pursed lips, wooyoung gently blew into his hands. 

there, laid a single rose in his previously empty hands. looking up at you, who was still occupied by the night view of the town, he cleared his throat, calling your name to catch your attention.

the surprise expression on your face upon seeing the rose in his hand was enough to make the male release a low laugh, walking over to where you stood. with the rose being held out, wooyoung stared at your face.

“wooyoung, what’s this?” you inquired, though you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks.

like wooyoung, you had your fair share of sleepless nights as well. but rather than thinking of other things, the boy in front of you managed to crawl into your mind every now and then, sometimes you would even find yourself zoning out while stirring whatever concoction you wanted to create, only snapping out of it once leo had called your attention or swatted at your hand.

before you could even realise it, you developed feelings for the raven haired male as well.

how could you not when he loves making you flustered by watching you with gentle eyes as you bake? how could you not when he would come by your bakery to give you your coffee while the two of you talked about the current highlight of your days during break time? how could you not when he would cheekily sprinkle a tiny bit of flour in your hair by levitating the packet above your head just to gain your attention? how could you not when his laughter sounded so endearing?

you, too, had fallen for jung wooyoung. 

“from the months of meeting and getting to know you, i knew you had something that intrigued me. i have always thought that you were a normal townsperson, never a fellow witch like me.” wooyoung started, face perking up as soon as he saw the way you playfully grimaced after remembering the time he had found out your true identity.

“before i know it, the intriguing feeling was replaced with admiration, thinking i only admired how you managed to keep a calm demeanour whenever you had to face a stubborn customer, unlike me. but i was wrong.” he trailed off, feeling his heart beating fast as his words were caught in his throat. 

as an attempt for him to calm down, you silently reached out for his free hand and laced your fingers in his. your reassuring smile was enough to let him know that he could take his time, gathering his words. once ready, wooyoung gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he continued.

“the nights spent thinking about you, having our own little break together, and seeing you walk through the doors of the coffee house just to give me the cinnamon rolls… i knew that i have fallen for you.” he curled a stray strand of hair behind your ears as his warm irises stared into your own, letting his hand resting against your cheek.

“so, y/n l/n..” he called out your name, making your heart beat rapidly in your chest. 

“will you be mine?” 

you didn’t answer right away, merely wrapping your arms around wooyoung’s neck as the corners of your lips stretched themselves into a huge grin, nodding your head. “yes, a million times yes.” 

laughing out of pure relief, wooyoung hugged you tightly against his frame, your chin resting on top of his shoulder as the two of you stayed in each other’s arms, slightly swaying in place. it was when he pulled away that made you look up, your faces mere inches away. 

“may i kiss you?” he asked softly, eyes trained on your brims.

“you may.” you whispered in return.

the two of you stared at each other for a few seconds, slowly feeling your faces drawing closer. closer, and closer, until the gap was finally closed with your lips pressing his own. he tasted like coffee, while wooyoung could make out the faint taste of cinnamon on your lips. his hand slowly came up to cup against your nape, moving your lips together in a slow yet synchronised dance. it seemed that everything else didn’t matter as the both of you were in your own world.

to wooyoung, this was better than any potion you had snuck in his cinnamon rolls.

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“babe, where did you put the new coffee mugs?” wooyoung called out, looking through the cabinets. 

“ah, i washed them. i thought that was what you wanted to do as soon as they arrived.” you said, poking your head out from the kitchen.

it had been a few months that the two of you had finally gotten together. before you know it, your first anniversary is just a week away! during the first couple of months, the two of you went on dates frequently. it was to be expected considering the two of you would see each other on the daily. sometimes you would grow embarrassing from the flirty winks being sent at your way by the male, no matter how long you had known him. 

just recently, or rather, a couple of days ago. the two of you had decided to sell off your bakery and instead, started your own shared coffee house together in wooyoung’s place, now naming the place as ‘utopia’. he was in charge of the coffee orders while you were busy with your pastries. sometimes, the both of you would teasingly cast harmless jinxes on each other as you worked, creating a small war that consists of spells and potions. of course, the two of you were careful to not let anyone else see it.

occasionally, the male would stay over at your cottage. the first time he visited, he was gushing at almost everything in your place. even admiring how peaceful the place was whenever night falls. the frequent visits only met that wooyoung had an excuse to give you his shirts or sweaters, saying how you looked absolutely adorable in his clothes. it was when your closet was almost full of his clothes that the two of you had decided to just live together in the small cottage of yours.

to your surprise, he had insisted on wanting to see your parents. which you let him do so. once the male and your parents had met, your mother was delighted to have finally met him while your father kept a stern act, causing your mother to whisper that he should be nice. of course, with the amount of times wooyoung would talk to your parents (which was whenever he stayed the night), your father slowly opened up and would even crack jokes with wooyoung.

knowing that the cottage was a safe haven for you, wooyoung would often teach you about the conjuration spells along with enchanting. he had noticed the awed expression on your face every time yuki had switched back into her tattooed form before asking whether you wanted a tattoo as well. your reaction of mentioning how you were scared of needles amused him, you glaring at him in a sulky manner in response. without much thought, wooyoung reassured you that you didn’t need needles for this.

so here you are, standing next to wooyoung greeting the customers that walked into the coffee house before taking orders, the tattoo that consisted of your favourite flowers adorned your wrist, making it look like a makeshift bracelet. occasionally, the flowers would change into a flower following your emotions. 

“love, what do you wanna do for our anniversary?” wooyoung asked, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressed his lips on your shoulder.

you couldn’t help but to emit a light chuckle turning your head slightly to give his cheek a kiss, humming in thought. “dinner at the cottage, how does that sound?” 

nodding at the suggestion, wooyoung grinned, eyes twinkling with excitement. “sounds good to me.”

with a final kiss on the tip of your nose, your lover unwrapped his arms to greet another customer who had walked inside the coffee house, you immediately walked to stand next to him. 

you were, no, are content. you are content living in a small cottage with your lover, you are content working in a coffee house with wooyoung, you are content with everything life has to offer as long as you are with jung wooyoung.

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Merry Halloween, Ya Filthy Animal

It’s the day after Halloween and the good cheer comes in a little early. 

Enjoy my masterlist (more FAHC blurbs and fics are up there)

Support me on kofi

____________

Fiona waiting until the day after Halloween to pop into the local grocery store. She makes a beeline directly to the seasonal section and she can see them putting up Christmas. But that’s not what she’s here for. She’s looking to see if her favorite lollipops are on sale. 

She doesn’t tell anyone, considering they already had work early on in the week and Fiona just wanted to run a quick errand, be normal for 4 seconds by herself. In what should’ve only been a 5 minute trip, Fiona manages to two minutes loading her basket up with candy-- it’s easier to do by just sweeping all the left over lollipops and sweet candies with her arm into the basket-- and another ten minutes staring down the Christmas decorations. 

The garland’s are itchy against her hands, but the miniature Santa’s and elfs are too cute to avoid. As Fiona continues down the aisle, stopping at the chocolates, she can hear the squeak of sneakers behind her. She throws just a quick glance over her shoulder, just to see who it is. And her jaw falls slack. 

“Does she like these?” It’s Jeremy holding up a blue bag. Michael and Gavin surround him.

“Think so,” Michael returns, taking the bag to look over it. He drops it into the hand held basket before reaching for another bag on the shelf. 

“I seriously can’t five minutes away from you freaks,” Fiona teases, walking back down towards them. Gavin squawks at the sound of Fiona’s voice. How had they missed her being literally on the same aisle as them?

Michael snaps his head up and Jeremy shuffles in front just a little. “What-What’re you doing here?” Michael asks. 

“Uh, being a paying customer. What the hell are you three doing here?”

“Also being paying customers,” Jeremy retorts. 

Fiona takes in each of their faces. Michael’s playing is mostly cool along with Jeremy, though they’re stand pretty close together as if trying to hide something and Gavin’s frozen in place just a little, a bag of assorted candies in hand. Why would they need to be hiding anything? She takes a step closer and the three of them shuffle closer together. 

“What’s goin on here?”

“Nothing. Just shopping. Browsing,” Jeremy answers. 

“Uh huh, like I totally believe that.” Fiona takes another step closer to them and watching them scuttle together yet again. She has the urge to swat at the candy in Gavin’s hand. Her hand raises, almost giving into the urge, but thinks better of it and salutes the three of them. 

“See you losers, later,” she states and shuffles down the aisle back towards check out. 

Her return to the penthouse is uneventful. She lounges on the couch, a bag of candy resting against her torso as she scrolls through her phone. TikToks and Instagram reels are a time suck and Fiona chuckles and snorts at each passing one. There’s tinkering in the kitchen from Geoff and Jack. Trevor settles down on the couch next to her to show off videos and memes that he’s accumulated just to show her. 

Soon the front doors open and close with a gentle thud. Peeking up from her phone, Fiona sees Michael, Jeremy, and Gavin with grocery bags in hand. “Sup?” she calls out with a nod. They all return it before walking into the kitchen and start unloading various grocery. 

The rustle of plastic bags last for a few minutes and the sound of one swishing gets closer to Fiona. Something drops onto her stomach. “Merry Halloween, ya filthy animal,” Jeremy teases. 

Fiona swats up at him but misses. “The fuck are you doing? Trying to give me a heart attack?!”Jeremy only shrugs before slumping down into the armchair next to her. 

Fiona peaks into the bag and sees a couple bags of candy. “Wait! For me?” she screeches. She thought it was strange that they were on the candy aisle but she hadn’t thought they were shopping for her. 

“Yeah, I didn’t drop it in Trey’s lap.”

“Wait, no.” She sits up, trying to comprehend. When she looks into the kitchen, Gavin and Michael are cracking open some White Claws but are bugging Geoff about what he’s cooking. “Seriously, you guys got me candy?”

“Oh, don’t cry about it,” Michael calls out, leaning into the counter. “You scared the shit out of us at the store, but figured since it was on sale, we could help you stock up.”

Fiona sits for a moment, unsure of how to process the moment. But her chest warms. “You guys are still losers, but you’re pretty fucking sweet.”

“We try. No matter how much you almost ruined our plans,” Jeremy teases. 

[spideycurls]

BODY SWITCH ! PETER P

word count: 600+ i think

warnings: none besides tony being a smug mf. this was just something quick i wrote on a road trip with my family. i had to end this quickly cause i got sleepy and too lazy to finish so i'll make a part two to finish it. tell me what you would want to see in part two!

paring: peter parker x reader

when you agreed to help your boyfriend clean up his mess in the lab this isn't exactly what you expected to happen. it started off easy enough. wiping down tables and tiding up his supplies which were scattered all over the table. it was generally quiet apart from peters quiet humming and the occasional rustling of test tubes.

"hey, pete? where are these supposed to go." you held up a small beaker with a blue powdery substance, swishing it around it the jar.

peter quickly rushed forward, snatching it out of your hand rather forcefully. neither of you noticed the small amount of power that tipped out of the jar and fell onto your shoes, causing a faint twinkle to come from the floor.

"we're not supposed to go near that apparently. tony says it's some weird new dna formula thingy. i don't know, i stopped paying attention after he told me to leave it alone." you rolled your eyes as peter gently placed the beaker on the workbench.

the two of you went back to cleaning the lab, you sweeping while peter carefully stacked bruces files in a nice pile. the lace of your shoe must've gotten stuck on a crack in the floor or something because before you could blink, you were falling face first into the table. with the force of your fall, your knee bumped the leg of the table, causing the beaker to topple off the tabel and smash onto the floor.

"shit! y/n, you okay?"

"what the fuck happened to your 'spidey senses'?" you questioned, hands rubbing your face, feeling the dull pain that throbbed in your cheeks.

peter covered his mouth with the back of his hand, biting back a laugh while you scolded him. both of you failed to notice the sparkling powder spread over the floor till you suddenly dropped to the floor, panting vigorously. peter rushed to your side, tapping your cheek while he practically screamed in your face.

"y/n! hey, what's wrong? are you okay? how many fingers am i holding up?" you simply groaned, gripping onto the hem of his shirt. your head was pounding and you were starting to feel faint, like you could pass out any second now. your limbs ached like a full body cramp and you watched as peter started to sweat, laying down on the floor next to you.

before you could say anything, your eyes rolled to the back of your head, and just like that, the world went black.

well, it wasn't that deep. no, you just passed out till tony and bruce came running into the lab, shouting both of your names. tony shook your shoulder till you slowly blinked up him, his face initially coming off as blurry. you titled your head to the side, hoping to see peter next to you but he wasn't there

well, he wasn't there.

you were though.

"what the fuck!?" you screached, sitting up, quickly regretting that decision when you started to feel faint again.

it was like you were looking into a mirror. you were staring at your unconscious body while tony shook your shoulder trying to get your attention onto him. you heard him murmur something like, 'i fucking told them not to go near it' but you didn't care.

you were practically heaving at this point. then it got worse

so much worse.

you looked down to see you weren't wearing your normal clothes. no, you were wearing (peters?) jeans with a midtown tech sweater. then you realised you felt much more bigger. more built than normal. it didn't take long till you looked down at your lap and your eyes widened. you heard tony sigh deeply behind while bruce watched you with cautious eyes.

while you were busy freaking out over your new appearance, peter groaned next to you, slowly waking up while rubbing his eyes like he would from a nap.

"y/n?" he groaned out and your head snapped towards him. you would have laughed at how feminine his voice sounded had you not been panicking from the more important matter at hand. tony and bruce scrambled off the flip through their files, leaving you and peter to cope with your temporary appearance.

peter scrambled away from you when he saw what you looked like, looking down at his your hands. he noticed that he wasn't wearing his jeans but instead a pair of demon shorts and a lilac blouse. you noticed his breathing pick up and slowly crawled over to him, outstretching your hand towards him.

"what the fuck?" his eyes widened when he heard not him voice, but yours. you let a giggle (well, chuckle) at his reaction and stretched your hand out to cup his cheek.

"you're me." you said, a fascinated lilt to your tone. your heard tony shout a 'yeah no shit' from the other side of the lab but ignored him, you're attention purely on your boyfriend.

peter nussled his head into your hand as he looked you up and down curiously. his attention then turned to himself as he stood, tugging your hand with him, and guided the two of you to the large window near the door of the lab. your fingers brushed your cheeks and a light smile took its place on your lips.

"jeez, pete. how do you get your skin so soft?" you joked, trying to make light of the odd situation. peter laughed next to you, though you noticed his eyes elsewhere, "seriously?" you deadpanned.

"babe, im a teenage boy who's switched bodies with his extreamly hot girlfriend. what do you expect." he chuckled and you rolled your eyes as his fingers poked at his your boobs. you slapped his hands away and tugged him to where tony and bruce were flipping through their files.

"look, i don't wanna know the the fuck happened. i just want to know if you can fix it cause i might need to pee and theres no way in hell im going like this." you pointed down to your pants and tony huffed out a laugh, grabbing yours and peters shoulders and guiding the two of you out of the lab.

"no need to worry, spidey. brucey and i will come and get you guys when we figure out how to fix this. in the mean time, go have fun and i don't know, prank cap or something but don't stress." and with that, he quickly pushed the two of you out of the lab, leaving you and peter standing there like two confused idiots.

"so, what now?" you asked you, still shocked, boyfriend as he turned to you, face blank.

"i have no clue."