#seven and a half lumps of sugar

[noirgasmweetheart]

Lorre's Cat Café: Polo

Polo is the most energetic and beloved baby at the café!

At barely seven months old, this boundless marauder is a cleptomaniac. He compulsively steals the most random objects and hides them in bizarre places. He also effortlessly snags food and toys from the other cats, and from the humans. (Often right off of your plate.) While play-wrestling with the other cats, he'll come out somehow wearing his opponent's collar or bow.

Oh yes, Polo loves to play with the other cats. Whether they want to or not. He tends to pounce on his rommates even if they're bigger than him, sometimes resulting in a brief piggyback ride. Different individuals react differently. Leyden, Vicky and Marius are usually happy to play. Cairo hisses, shakes Polo off, and bats angrily at his face. Baron swishes his tail angrilly, while Polo bats at it. The easily-startled Ugarte--who was probably purring serenely a moment before--tears across the room in a frenzy. Abbott, Baron, Gogol and Marko are the grumpiest. Julius on the other hand barely notices.

Polo is so clever, able to pop opened locked doorknobs, and bringing home the most unusual kills from his outings. (Hopefully that snake wasn't somebody's pet.) Yet, he still runs into walls, is startled by his own tail, cowers before cucumbers, and fails to find the food bowl right in front of him. He licks photographs, licks live insects off the floor, and deliberately runs into the refrigerator because he just likes it in there.

And he loves sugar. Do not leave your bowl of ice cream unattended, or his face will be in it. Some people will let him lick out the bowl when they're done, and he goes absolutely berserk. His favorite treat is sugar cubes, which he can lick at for ages. The vet has limited him to seven and a half cubes per week.

[theprecuresystem]

Pro-curetember Day 29: Rainbow!

Bonjour~! For today's prompt, I looked at the Cures who had Rainbow color scheme, according to Toei's official categorization, and decided this was a perfect time for our third Animal Sweets recipe translation on this blog. Un moment Parfait, if you will. This recipe is a one star difficulty out of three, so you should have a fine time with it. It's the Pegasus Parfait that Kirahoshi Ciel uses to transform into Cure Parfait from Kirakira Pretty Cure A La Mode Episode 23 of the Precure Franchise.

Let's・La・Mazemaze!

What you'll need

For the Waffle Wings:

85g, or 3oz, of pastry flour

1 tbsp of baking powder

25g, or 0.9oz, of caster sugar

A little salt

1 Medium Egg

100ml, or 2/5 cup, of milk

2 tablespoons of vegetable oil

For the Pegasus Decoration:

Vanilla icecream, as needed

Fresh cream, as needed

Sugar, as needed

Canned pears

Melon Slices

Orange Wedges

Strawberries

5 Chocolate Pens (1 of each: Pink, Purple, Blue, Yellow, Chocolate)

Your favorite jam, as needed

For your pre-preparation step, pre-heat your waffle iron if your waffle iron's instructions require that, and cut your fruit into your shapes. If you're young, ask an adult to help with the knife.

Step One

We're going to make the waffles. Whisk your pastry flour, caster sugar, salt, and baking powder in a bowl.

Step Two

Crack the egg into another bowl, and beat them lightly. Then add your milk and oil, and whisk with a whisk.

Step Three

Very gradually, add your wet ingredients you made in Step Two to your dry ingredients you made in Step One, and mix with a whisk until smooth. The key to preventing lumps in this step is to add the liquid to the powder little by little, rather than in large amounts.

Step Four

Coat a pre-heated waffle iron with a thin layer of vegetable oil (not included in the recipe), and pour in the waffle batter you made in Step 3 with a ladle. Clover-shaped waffle irons work best to make heart-shaped wings, but any shape is fine.

Step Five

Cook your waffles according to your own waffle iron's instructions, then remove your waffle with chopsticks, allow to cool, and then cut the waffle in half.

Step Six

Dip your pink, purple, blue, and yellow chocolate pens in hot water, and cut the tip. Then, draw four lines in pink, purple, blue, and yellow on half of your waffle halves that you made in Step Five. We are done with the wings.

Step Seven

It's time to make the whipped cream. Place the caster sugar and fresh cream from the Decoration ingredients in a bowl. Place the bottom of the bowl overtop some ice water, and whip until it is about 80% stiff. Place a star tip on a piping back and pour the cream into it. We are done with the whipped cream.

Step Eight

It's time to assemble the parfait. Place the vanilla icecream into a bowl using a scoop and squeeze the whipped cream you made in Step Seven onto the top and in front.

Step Nine

Combine the canned pear and melon slice to make the Pegasus' head and beginning of the mane. Continue the mane down the icecream back with orange wedge and strawberry. To secure the melon mane on the pegasus' head, use short bamboo skewers or toothpicks.

Step Ten

Place the waffle you made in Step Six on top of the icecream to make wings. Put your favorite jam into a piping bag, cut the tip, and squeeze it onto the sides of the waffle.

Step Eleven

Squeeze the cream you made in Step Seven onto the neck of the pegasus in star dollops to make a necklace. Dip your chocolate-colored chocolate pen in hot water and cut the tip. Finally, use your chocolate pen to draw the eyes and nose of the pegasus on the canned pear head. Your Pegasus is assembled!

Please, everyone, enjoy your tasty Pegasus Parfait if you ever do try to make it, following the translated recipe. I apologise if it's a little unclear, but given how customizable it is in terms of your favorite fruits, feel free to do what you wish. Régale-toi bien!

Procuretember Event by @pro-curetember

[peterlorres21stcentury]

oof

I ate too many lemon cookies and jellybeans for dessert, but we'll say it was in honor of Peter Lorre's birthday, yeah that's it.

Seven and a half lumps of sugar in our coffee, why not?!

[bitchlessbiped]

This was years ago, a park bench I still remember you by.

As the sun fell and the wind picked up, you offered me your hoodie. I laughed because it wouldn't fit me. I laughed because I wanted you to be warm.

We sat there like that. Stared into the middle distance for a while. Our town. You lived right around the corner for a few years. On your own since you were 12. I didn't know you then.

"I really would have liked the chance to live longer", you said.

I bit firmly on my lip to not cry. You chose to ignore my welling eyes and tremulous voice as I looked back at you to reply "..Yeah".

I feel around in my pocket aimlessly, until the sharp edge and metallic snap of the candy bar remind me that I brought it for you. It was always for you. All of it. If you'd have asked me to trade lives, I wouldn't have hesitated. Even now. But you were never the type to ask for a hand, or for anything. I never knew quite how to tell you how much I loved you. I wish I did. Really. You smiled sincerely and earnestly, like a parent receiving a dandelion.

"I have to watch my blood sugar levels", you told me, now with a half smile.

"Oh. Right, sorry."

You take a bite and grin.

I wish I'd said something here. Anything. I wish I remarked how divinely brilliant your eyes were to me. How your hair flowed like amber clouds of a breezy sunset. I wish I'd lied and said that I wasn't afraid of my life anymore, so that you wouldn't have to worry.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know", I muttered.

"It's alright, I'm sure a little won't hurt"

You asked me what I was in school for. I told you I might as well switch to engineering by the end of the year, though I didnt know if I could really make it. You told me that I was obviously smart enough.

At that moment, I remembered that in high school I considered you an older sister to me. You used to help me with my homework. Gave me study tips. You taught me to love words and to engage with the world in verse. On lunch breaks, when I used to eat alone at the edge of the woods, I could see you from the 2nd floor library window. You must have thought me such a curious person even then. I often stood on the tree stump and looked up at you, like the Northern Star.

You opened up the conversation again. "You know, things sometimes turn out in ways you wouldn't expect. Maybe one day you'll be an engineer in... something, and you'll have a big old barbecue. Your friends will be there, your kids will be there, and I'll be there too! I'll be the aunty who gives them so much candy their teeth will start to rot, and you'll have to shoo me away like a fly."

We shared an innocent laugh, the lump in the back of my throat having not budged an inch.

"I would let you keep giving them candy, you know. Baby teeth doesn't matter."

"I changed my mind. You'd be a horrible parent!" You observed my surprised expression with your eyebrows scrunched in mischief. We broke out in laughter again.

At this point I could feel the tears welling up and I wasn't sure what kind.

You coughed into a napkin. The corner of it grew red. Reaching into your bag, you pulled out a tray of pills I'd never seen before and took seven. I looked away.

Now it was dark. You asked me if I needed to call my parents. I told you that I trained them not to care.

We stared again into the middle distance, the empty soccer field, and I began to shiver.

"Alright, it's time for you to go home." You pulled out your phone and started looking for bus routes for me. We talked leisurely all the way to the stop. The bus was coming. Its high beams making us cover our faces momentarily. Around 10 seconds until doors open.

"It's been so long. I-. Do you do hugs?"

"Yeah, come on."

You leaned towards me and held me. I hugged you back. A little taken aback. I'd grown. By now the top of your head rested into the nook of my chin.

Bye.

Bye.

I scanned my card and stepped into the bus. The blue light inside irritating my retinas. I see you from inside. Still on the sidewalk.

I wave at you.

You wave at me.

That was the last time I saw you. It will likely forever be the last time I saw you. I love you. I still try to live fearlessly as you do, or as you did. I don't know.

Bye.

[gwensparlour]

Beginning of an idea I'll probably never finish because I don't write romcoms unless the planets align In which Thetis is a super rich heiress, Peleus is smitten, and shenanigans ensue

Jumping out of the car on a Saturday morning, Peleo swings the box of pastries from the small curled bow at the top.

The box is warm and smells heavenly. Freshly baked baklava with extra pistachios from the fanciest bakery in town. It is the surest way to put his brother in a good mood, despite the early hour. He hopes. 

The hall is quiet, no one there except the doorman, busy sorting through the mail. He gives an abrupt nod to Peleus before returning to his work. 

Telamon lives in a penthouse on the top floor. It takes ten rings of the doorbell before a very gruff voice answers from behind the door.

"It's half past seven."

"'Morning bird gets the worm,'" chirps Peleus and lifts the box of pastries to the peephole. "I brought breakfast. Baklava, your favorite." 

"Extra honey?"

"And double pistachios."

There is the sound of various locks and keys being turned. Then the door opens, revealing an extremely irritable Telamon in his underwear and old sweatshirt.

"The pastries had better be good," he mutters, rubbing his eyes and stepping aside. 

The kitchen is still dark, with the curtains down, and pleasantly cool. Peleus sets the box down on the granite countertop before moving to the window, while Telamon rummages through the drawers for coffee beans and the grinder.

"What did you do this time?" The sound of crushed grains is soothing in the stillness of the morning.

"Why do I always have to do something? One accidentally shoots his old man once and gets branded for life."

Telamon drops three lumps of sugar into his cup and does not respond. "Then why the urgency?"

"I'm getting married."

Telamon bends over, in the throes of a violent coughing fit. Frosted crumbs fly everywhere.

"You what? How? When?" He gasps. Peleus pats him on the back. "Well, it's not like I'm getting married right now. That's more the end goal. But I'm in love," he says and takes the steaming cup of coffee that Telamon hands him. Leaning against the refrigerator, his brother drinks his in two long sips.

"When? Who?" He asks. "Someone I know?"

"Technically."

"Technically?" 

Before Telamon can ask any more questions, Peleus takes a rolled-up magazine from inside his jacket and throws it in his direction. "Page 245."

It shows a full-page photo of a dark-haired woman in side view. She is leaning against the railing of a marble balcony and showing dangling earrings of emeralds and sapphires. Each one is the size of a drachma. On page 246 is a front view of a huge villa overlooking the sea of the French Riviera. 

Telamon looks at Peleus as if he had grown an extra head. 

"One of the daughters of Nereus Okeanids."

"The eldest."

"Of Nereus Okeanids? Do you have any idea who we are talking about?"

Peleus does, a pretty clear one actually. Everyone knows the Okeanids. It is the third richest family in all of Greece, the top ten in the whole world. They are so rich that they could buy the Eacides company as easily as a grandmother buys fish at the market. They are practically nobles. 

Rubbing his forehead with his massive hand, Telamon gives him a sidelong glance.

"You're high, aren't you?"

"Never been more lucid."

"I have a hard time believing that. Look, it's okay. I know what it's like. You partied a little too hard last night, snorted one too many lines.... " He pinches his nose, leaving two pieces of pistachio on his left cheek. The look in his eyes is a well-known routine. 

"I am not on drugs. I'm not drunk. I'm just, how to say ... it was love at first sight," Peleus insists, unable to hold back a dreamy sigh. He does not hope his brother will understand, he and his too many mistresses.

"They are out of our reach. Completely."

"We are not beggars."

"To them you might as well be. Nereus will marry off his daughters to some Arab prince who might pave the streets with gold or something."

"Technically, we're noble, too."

"No. Father is the bastard son of a prince who has scattered so many bastards around that by now half of Greece could say they have blue blood. There's a big difference."

[sea-salted-wolverine]

aight, here we go

Step one. Shoot a caribou.

Step two. Butcher and process your caribou all by your onesies. Try not to bitch about it too much. It will take 15 hours.

Step three. Grow your own onions. Dry your own onions. Vastly underestimate how many onions you will get from this experiment. Give away onions. You still have too many onions. Dice one.

Step four. Onion goes in a pan with a can of diced tomatoes. Ha, you thought i was gonna get ahold of a fresh vegetable in February?

Step five. Add caribou. Aim for a sear. Fail because there's too much liquid from the canned tomatoes

Step six. Add shaohsing cooking wine, fermented bean paste with chili oil and dark soy. Measure with the heart. Do not drink the cooking wine.

Step seven. Transfer to pressure cooker (beloved). Add lump of brown sugar dollop of bullion and water. (I will be cold in the ground before I buy boxed broth) pressure cook for half an hour because thats the preset.

Step eight. Clean. Put shit away. Give cat a peice of unseasoned cooked caribou because she's been a good girl.

Step nine. Boil noodles. Forget where i put the rice noodles and make angle hair instead.

Step ten. I can name 3 Asian food markets that are nearby and open of the top of my head. I could have bokchoy if I wanted. However it is currently 25 degrees below zero and there is no yearning for Chinese cabbage that could possibly overcome my desire to stay inside and Not Go Out into the 25 below. So this soup is gonna be a smidge light on the veggies.

Step eleven. Noodles go in the soup. It's delicious. It's warm. It's being served in an oversized teacup because when I said clean I meant load and run the dishwasher which somehow had every bowl in the house in it.

Someone tell Cassyeungmoney that I love her.

Someone help me find that tiktok of the lady making tiawanese beef noodle soup. The one with the green onions for razzle dazzle.

Otherwise I'm winging this recipe.

Let's be real, I'm always winging my cooking.

[spencer-reids-adventures]

it's just a shadow you're seeing that he's chasing - chapter 3

Warnings: Depression, self harm, suicidal ideation, disordered eating, alcohol abuse

Summary: Weeks go by and he feels himself deteriorate, feels the thread he’s hanging onto begin to split and fray, and he starts to wonder how this is going to end for him. At what point enough will be enough.

or,

The one where Spencer goes to the psych ward.

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Word Count: 2.1k

AO3 Link

Chapter 1 - The Enemy Within Chapter 2 - Errand of Mercy Chapter 3 - Dagger of the Mind Chapter 4 - Where No Man Has Gone Before Chapter 5 - The Galileo Seven Chapter 6 - This Side of Paradise Chapter 7 - The Man Trap Chapter 8 - And the Children Shall Lead Chapter 9 - Mirror, Mirror Chapter 10 - A Private Little War Chapter 11 - Wink of an Eye Chapter 12 - That Which Survives Chapter 13 - The Empath Chapter 14 - Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

When Spencer wakes up the next morning, he’s not alone.

“Is that you, Jack?” he asks the lump under the covers next to him, and a moment later Jack’s head peeks out, giggling.

“Morning Spencer,” he says with a big smile. “Daddy’s downstairs making pancakes. He said I could wake you up, but you didn’t move when I shook you so I decided to get in bed with you instead. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” Spencer says, laughing a little. “Why don’t you let your dad know I’ll be down in just a minute, okay?”

“Okay!” Jack jumps out of bed and scrambles out the door, and Spencer, dehydrated from the previous night’s combination of wine and tears, grabs the water bottle from the night stand and downs the whole thing. Then he rolls out of bed, throws his hoodie back on, and heads to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Hotch says, holding a mug of coffee and a sugar bowl out to Spencer.

“Morning,” Spencer replies, focusing on his coffee and not on the circumstances that brought him here the night before.

Jack is already seated at the table with a plate in front of him, and as soon as Spencer sits down, Hotch sets a plate in front of him as well, following shortly with his own. Jack and Hotch dress their pancakes and dig in while Spencer carefully cuts his into bite sized pieces and then pushes them around on the plate.

“Would you like butter and syrup, Spencer?” Hotch asks, holding them out to him.

“Oh, uh, no thanks,” Spencer says awkwardly. He makes sure to take a bite while Hotch is watching him.

By the time the Hotchners are finished eating, Spencer has eaten almost half of the food on his plate, and he glances apologetically at Hotch as he scrapes the rest into the garbage and puts his plate into the sink.

“I’m not used to eating breakfast,” he says as an excuse, and looks away before he can see Hotch’s reaction.

“Spencer, wanna play dinosaurs?” Jack asks, running up to him with a handful of plastic figures.

“Sure!”

“Jack, Spencer will meet you in the playroom in a minute, okay?” Hotch calls.

“Okay!” Jack yells back.

Hotch guides Spencer to the living room and they both sit down, Spencer with a second cup of coffee in his hands.

“This afternoon, Jack is going to a birthday party,” Hotch tells him. “I thought that might be a good time for us to talk about some things. It’s a sleepover, so he won’t be back until late tomorrow morning.”

Spencer can’t imagine why that information would be relevant, if all he and Hotch are doing is talking, but he tries to push the thought out of his head.

“That’s fine,” he says quietly.

“Are you sure you had enough breakfast?” Hotch asks, and Spencer stares down at his hands.

“I’m sure,” he says.

“Because we have other things, if there’s something you might find more appetizing--”

“Hotch, I’m fine,” Spencer says, a little sharper than he’d meant to. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “But please don’t worry about it. I’m going to go play with Jack now, okay?”

“Okay,” Hotch says with a sigh.

By the time the carpool comes to pick Jack up for the sleepover, Spencer is exhausted and shaking with anxiety. Jack was a good distraction all morning, helping him forget why he was at Hotch’s house in the first place, but now he’s faced with the reality of last night, the fact that Hotch is going to expect answers from him, and he doesn’t know what to do. He feels like he’s been awake for days, rather than hours, and he stumbles upstairs and lays down on the guest bed. He buries his face in a pillow and lets his tears soak into the fabric until he falls asleep.

---

Aaron doesn’t wake Spencer when he finds him in bed, but he stays close by just in case. He’s putting clothes away in his bedroom when he hears a sound, and when he gets to the room he finds Spencer thrashing and whimpering, in the throes of a nightmare.

“Spencer,” he says firmly, sitting down on the bed and leaning close, keeping aware of his position in relation to Spencer’s flailing limbs. “Spencer,” he repeats. “Wake up. You’re dreaming.”

It takes a minute or two, but Spencer finally opens his eyes, breathing heavily and pulling away from Aaron.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Aaron says gently. “Just breathe. I’m going to make you some tea, okay?”

Spencer nods and slumps against the headboard, and when Aaron returns several minutes later, he’s calmed down enough to take the mug without spilling it.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Aaron asks, and Spencer shakes his head. “This is why you’ve been drinking at night? So this doesn’t happen?”

“Yes,” Spencer says defensively. “Inadequate sleep can lead to problems with blood pressure, cognition, memory…”

“I understand,” Aaron tells him. “I know what it’s like to just do what you have to.”

Spencer just nods.

“Last night you called me because you said you felt unsafe. Are you in danger, Spencer?”

“No…” he says uncertainly.

“Are you sure?”

“No one is, like, out to get me or anything,” Spencer clarifies.

“Are you a danger to yourself?”

“Your phone is ringing,” Spencer says, and it takes a moment for Aaron to realize Spencer isn’t just trying to distract him. He can hear the phone in his bedroom, and he jumps up to answer it. It’s Jessica, wondering if Aaron will need her help with Jack tomorrow. He tells her he’s not sure yet. That he’ll keep her posted.

When he comes back into the guest room, Spencer surprisingly hasn’t moved.

“I’m just sad,” he says, before Aaron can pick the conversation back up. “I’m sad and scared and it hurts and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“What are you scared of?” Aaron asks.

“What?”

“You said you’re scared. What are you scared of?”

Spencer throws his hands up in the air and waves them vaguely.

“That I’m going to feel this way forever? That I’m hopeless? That I’m a grown adult who apparently can’t even take care of himself? That I’m going to lose my job and my friends because I’m a mess? That I’m going to end up like my m--”

He stops abruptly, horrified.

“I didn’t mean that,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean that, I love my mom, I didn’t--”

“I know you love your mom, Spencer,” Aaron says gently. “And it’s okay not to want to end up in the same situation as her. That doesn’t say anything about the way you look at her, or feel about her. I’m sure she would rather be living on her own if she could, and I’m sure she wants that for you. Don’t you think?”

Spencer nods.

“Have you talked to her about this at all?” Aaron asks. “About how you’re feeling?”

“I haven’t talked to anyone,” Spencer says. “Not until I called you last night. I’m used to handling things on my own.”

He gives Aaron a meaningful look, and all Aaron can do is nod, acknowledging the way he failed Spencer all those years ago. Taking responsibility. Wishing it had been different, and knowing he won’t let Spencer down like that again.

“You don’t have to handle this on your own,” Aaron says. “How long has this been building?”

Spencer reaches into his satchel and pulls out a plastic tangle toy, staring down at his hands while they fidget with it.

“When Emily ‘died,’ I wished it had been me,” he says quietly. “I thought her existence would be worth so much more than mine, and it wasn’t fair that she should lose so much when I was fumbling around here with so little. And then-- and then she came back, and--”

He bites his lip and glances around, everywhere but at Aaron. He snaps two segments of the tangle apart, then snaps them back together, repeating it a few times before he finally looks up.

“She came back and I thought, she doesn’t even know how lucky she was. Because if I’d had to fake my own death…” He pauses again, licking his lips like he’s trying to force the words out, but they’re getting stuck. “If I had to fake my own death, it would mean that you all could mourn and have a funeral and everything would be normal and then I could go off and kill myself without, um, without hurting any of you. Without cursing you with that knowledge. Of what I’d done.”

Aaron is speechless, then. He tries to remain stoic as he watches Spencer snap the plastic pieces over and over, apart and together, apart and together, until he can’t take it anymore and he reaches out and circles his fingers loosely around Spencer’s wrist.

“Is that still what you want?” he asks, his voice breaking and shattering his illusion of composure. He feels tears prickling at his eyes. “To die?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” Spencer murmurs.

“I think you just did.”

“I have to...” Spencer says suddenly, and jumps off the bed, making it to the bathroom in a few long strides and shutting the door. A second later, Aaron hears the lock click.

“Spencer, come out, please,” Aaron says, approaching the door, but he gets no response. “Please open the door.”

He can’t remember where the key to the bathroom is, so instead he runs downstairs to his office to grab his lock pick set.

“Spencer,” he tries again when he gets back upstairs, and he hears sounds from inside, some shuffling, and a few cabinets opening and closing. “I’m going to unlock the door,” he says, and there’s a thump, but still no response..

He picks the lock quickly and turns the handle, flinging the door open to find Haley’s old sewing kit open next to the sink and Spencer sitting on the floor, his back to the tub, dragging the open edge of a pair of embroidery scissors up his arm.

Aaron wordlessly drops to the floor and pulls the scissors out of Spencer’s hand, tossing them on the floor and grabbing a towel to press over the wound. It’s long, but not very deep, and it only takes a few minutes before he’s able to clean and bandage it, silent the entire time. Spencer doesn’t move through any of it, staring straight ahead with glassy eyes.

Once he’s cleaned up the rest of the bathroom, Aaron carefully helps Spencer up and walks him back out to the bed, sitting him down and then joining him.

“Why did you do that?” he asks quietly.

Spencer takes a long, deep breath.

“Because now that you know I want to die, I know you’re going to take me to a hospital. And I didn’t want them to think I was wasting their time.”

“Spencer…” Aaron doesn’t know what to say to that. He finally settles on, “Have you done this before?”

“Yeah,” Spencer says faintly. “Mostly before joining the BAU. A little after what happened in Georgia.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t want you to. It’s not entirely out of modesty that I don’t let most people see my legs.”

Aaron latches on to most people.

“Is there someone else who knows about this?” he asks. “Someone else you talk to?”

“Ethan knows. We used to talk about everything, and we were, um, intimate, so he’s seen all of me. I haven’t talked to him in a while, though. I thought that if I decided to… do anything… it would be easier if there was distance between us.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know it had gotten so bad,” Aaron says, because he’s at a loss -- he feels responsible, he feels like he’s failed his friend, and he has no idea where to go from here.

“I’m sorry to put this all on you,” Spencer replies. “I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“You don’t need to be sorry for any of that,” Aaron insists. “Spencer, you know I need to take you to a hospital.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, because Spencer’s already stated it for him.

“I know.”

“Have you been before?”

Spencer raises an eyebrow.

“For this.”

“No,” Spencer says. “I haven’t.”

“All right,” Aaron says. “Then let’s go downstairs. I’m going to make you something to eat. And then you’re going to eat while I make some calls and find out the proper procedure.”

Spencer opens his mouth as if to say something, but appears to change his mind. He closes it and follows Aaron downstairs.

[callmearcturus]

how to make scones (and specifically London Fog scones)

look there is a pretty standard method to making scones. they are dead easy, even for me, someone who has failed at bread seven times.

get two bowls

BOWL ONE, the larger bowl:

2 and 3/4 cups of flour

1/3 cup sugar

3/4 teaspoon of salt (unless you are using salted butter, then don’t)

1 tablespoon of baking POWDER (POWDER!!!)

Mix those dry ingredients up real good, then cut one stick of butter (1/2 cup) into little patties. COLD BUTTER, it has to be cold. Add to the dry ingredients, then get your hands in there and just squeeze and integrate the butter with the dry stuff. It should make a very shaggy mix. You don’t want to fully break up the butter and make the mix uniform; the texture of the scones comes from these chunks of butter.

BOWL TWO, smaller bowl:

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons of extract (vanilla, orange, coffee, whatever you want)

3/4 cup of milk or half&half

Mix those up so they are ready to go.

ADD YOUR ADD-INS:

Here you can add anything you want to flavor the mixture. 1 to 2 cups of dried fruit, or maybe some food grade lavender, or whatever you’d like. Add them to the dry bowl and mix them up.

COMBINE THE BOWLS.

Pour the liquid ingredients into the dry ones and use a spatula or spoon to mix them up. BEWARE OVERMIXING. As soon as everything is thoroughly moist, you’re done, don’t keep going.

Get out a pan with parchment paper. Dole out lumps of dough. I get a lot of complaints from family about scones being too large, so I rec getting a teaspoon, heap up a scoop, then lightly pat it into shape and put it on the pan.

Preheat oven to 375F. Put your pan of scone dough into the fridge for 30 minutes.

This is very important for texture. They have to get cold again. Put them away.

After 30 minutes, you can put them in the oven for another 30 minutes.

While they bake, I recommend making some kind of easy glaze. Scones tend to come out of the oven incredibly dry, so they are ready to soak up some glaze. I usually do something simple, like confectioner’s sugar and milk and maybe some orange rind.

When the scones are done, move them to a grate to cool, then dip them in the glaze. They’re done! Enjoy!

Ah but what about London Fog Scones?

This is the benefit of the recipe, it’s a blueprint. To make this basic scone into a London Fog scone:

1. Add tea satchets of Earl Grey tea into the dry ingredients. Just cut them open and mix them in before the wet ingredients.

2. Use vanilla extract.

3. If you wanna be an overachiever, orange zest added in will do well.

4. I improvised a tea glaze? It’s like half a cup of milk in a small sauce pan, heated on low with like 2 or 3 teabags in it. Once the milk is medium dark (like a tea latte), add in confectioner’s sugar until its a workable glaze.

Like this, but don’t make them as big!!!! These are huge. Delicious, but too big.

[scorchedhearth]

5 + joe/nicky or 2 + andy/quynh?

Those prompts are really clearing up my writer’s block, so this got quite long. It also diverted a bit from strictly Joe/Nicky, hope you still like it!! And lastly, it’s found family appreciation 24/7 in this house, have some pre-canon fun.

Taken from this prompt list

5- “I think the edible glitter, might be a bit much.”

 ~

Joe hears the back door opens and a quick glance at the clock tells him he’s just in time. He’s just done with the cake decoration, the house is mostly set up, cleaned and aired and they even found the good meat to cook something nice for this evening. A meal that is already simmering on the stove and make the whole house smells divine, thanks to Nicky. Nicky who just stepped into the main room, a couple of bottles under his arm.

“What do you think?” Joe asks him, arms wide open and showing him the masterpiece that’s sitting on the counter.

“What do I think?” Nicky walks closer, puts the bottles on the counter and takes a good look at the cake. Well, technically cakes but they’re all stacked together and that makes it only one cake, and isn’t that beautiful?

“It is nice. I like the design.” Joe committed to the scene and used an ample amount of fondant and icing to draw as best a bear and a man on it as he could, completed with a forest behind and river on the side. “It is somewhat heavy in terms of decoration.”

“I think it’s the edible glitter. It might be a bit much.” He found out about the existence of edible glitter yesterday while shopping and he had to buy some to try it. About seven different colors and it is a delightful activity to layer glitters over a cake, it really is. It might have slightly gotten out of hand though.

“You think?” Nicky says, raising one eyebrow. Out of hand as in the entire cake is covered in them, making it shine like one big disco ball.

“Okay, maybe I had a heavy hand with it. But it’s edible glitter Nicky! Look at that.” He trusts one of the small glitter bottles into Nicky’s hand who carefully reads the labels.

“You know we can eat regular glitter, right?” He says offhandedly and yeah, technically they can.

“Come on, it’s not the same. Don’t be a killjoy, isn’t it a nice invention?”

“I guess so.” And then, like the huge sap that he is, Nicky looks at him with unblinking eyes and smiles. “If these make you so happy, then yes, I am grateful they were invented. If only for the way your smile shines.” It’s the way it’s unexpected that catches Joe off guard, even though he saw it coming a mile away with Nicky’s small and gentle smile, the honesty in his voice puts a lump in his throat.

“Nicolo, ya amar.” And now he’s smiling himself. “And you say I’m the romantic one.”

“I don’t go around and embellish the world as those romantics do. I simply state the truth.” And once again, those big, honest eyes turn onto Joe. “If it brings you joy, then it brings me joy too.”

“Come here.” Joe loops his thumbs into Nicky’s belt and tugs him closer to kiss him, something soft and slow, tasting like sugar and mint. It tastes like joy and everything he wants in the world. They have about half an hour before Andy arrives to clean up the rest of the house and lay the table, just enough. Joe steals one last kiss before they get to work.

~

“Happy anniversary!” They both shout at the same time when the front door opens to reveal Andy and Booker, one smiling and the other frowning.

“Anniversary?” She sharply turns her head toward Booker who’s standing by her right. “You were in it?”

“Yup.” He’s grinning like an ass, pumping his chest out like an overconfident rooster might. “And you saw nothing. Not. A. Thing.” He emphasizes each word, deliberately taunting her. “You gotta admit boss, I’m getting better at lying.”

“I’m just getting worse at seeing it,” Andy grumbles but she doesn’t even try to hide her smile, it’s there, on her face and in her voice.

“No, you’re not.” Joe grins as he walks up to her.

“No, I’m not.” She admits and bumps shoulders with him before taking him in her arms. He does a little waltz simply because he can and she’s there, just a few shuffling steps and she laughs in his ear. What a beautiful sound. She pushes away but keeps her hand on his shoulder a little while longer.

“So you’re saying I’m good at lying?” Booker pips up from behind and she rolls her eyes.

“I never said that.” She turns to Nicky who engulfs her in his special kind of hugs, more gentle but just as intense. Joe ears her ‘grazie Nicolo’ and sees Nicky’s smile. One of the world’s wonders for sure.

“Didn’t need to use words boss.” Booker keeps talking as he takes off his jacket.

“You read mind now Book?” She says as she and Nicky pull apart.

“I don’t. But I’m richer now.” He extends his hand toward Nicky. “Come on. We said two hundred if she didn’t see me lie and two more if she said I’m a good liar.”

“She never said you are good at lying Booker.” He retorts, reaching for his wallet in his pocket.

“She did!” Nicky pats himself for a moment before turning to Joe and getting his own wallet out of his back pocket in one smooth movement.

“She didn’t!” Nicky doesn’t take his eye off Booker as he counts bills and Joe’s heart swells with happiness, seeing how easy it is to love this family. “You only get two hundred.”

“You sneaky- I get four!”

“What is this even for?” Andy cut shorts the childish quarrel and throw her own jacket over one of the kitchen chairs. “I don’t have an anniversary.” She walks up to the counter where the cake is waiting for her, standing gloriously on its porcelain plate.

“You have one, it’s just that no one knows the date,” Joe says as Nicky and Booker keep bickering in the background. “You like it?”

Andy, standing over table, is slowly pursuing her lips, judging the enormous blue and white cake covered in glitter and those pieces of fondant Joe had so much fun cutting and styling into flowers, vine, and delicate leaves. The glasses and bottle of champagne are laid on the table next to it, everything you need for a nice party according to this decade.

“Not sure if I can pronounce myself yet.” She touches the fondant piece and seems to frown even more if that’s possible. “What are we celebrating?”

“Ah, you don’t remember?” Nicky is looking at them again and they all hear Booker’s gritting through his teeth ‘we’re not done yet.’ He walks up to them and stands by Joe’s side.

“What should I remember?”

“Today,” Joe, grinning from ears to ears, is already flexing his legs, prepared to start running. “Dear Andromache, today marks one century since you tried to ride a bear like a horse and got thrown into a river because of it.”

“Oh come on. It happened only once!” She looks at the cake again, the vines and nettles and human figure sitting in the midst. When she looks back at them her gaze bores holes in their skull. “Whose idea was this?”

“Not mine,” Booker says, the troublemaker that he is. “I only enabled it.”

“Nicky?” And Nicky, as kind as he is, can also be an ass when he wants to.

“I simply bought the champagne.” He says, leaving Joe alone to bear the consequences of his superb idea.

“Oh you’re done for Joe.” She kicks her heels but Joe was expecting it first and he flees ahead before she can start running.

“Not if you can’t catch me!” He throws above his shoulder.

“You’ll see, I’ll buy you a cake too the next time you do a stupid stunt.”

“Only if you remember it!” The last thing he sees before he escapes the main room into the higher floors is Nicky’s happy face and Booker already taking bets by his side. And Andy’s grin wild. Oh, he loves his family.

[rainpuddle13]

👀 😁

Thank you 💕

This little ficbit was inspired by an autumn Ross/Demelza baking mood board that made the rounds.  This is part of the first section. I have quite a lot of it written, but then I stopped because I thought it was overly indulgent and maybe no one would want to read it :P

Thank you for the ask, @super-radix-fan. Love you oodles! 💖

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ross was on the hunt for apple cider donuts. 

He’d had them the previous fall while on a business trip to upstate New York.  Trip itself was a bust, but the scenery had been spectacular with the trees in full riot of fall colors against crisp blue skies. His hosts had insisted on an orchard tour to show him some of the local sights in order to entice him to invest in the area.  He went along grudgingly, but the afternoon took a turn for the better when he discovered the stand selling mulled cider and donuts.

Those donuts were simply the most delicious things he’d ever tasted in his life -- loads of cinnamon and nutmeg with the delicious tang of fresh apple cider  -- it was almost as if he’d just tasted a bit of heaven. 

 He’d thought of them ever since. 

The crisp cool mornings that had ushered in fall a year later had him thinking of those donuts once again. He was up at sunrise and outside in the chilly air blowing in off the Celtic Sea overseeing some work being done to the stone wall that fronted the property at the old family estate, a large mug of steaming black coffee in his hand. He wouldn’t regret returning to the quiet of home after several years of living abroad, but that just meant he was now thousands of miles away from the apple orchards of New York.

His search for the donuts once he’d returned home had been literally fruitless. No one had ever heard of them and he’d been hard pressed to find a baker who was willing to take a special order.. The one place he’d found in London that had charged him an exorbitant price for a dozen of heavy, way too cinnamon-y lumps of dough they dared to call a donut. Then to add insult to injury they used British apple cider, not the non-alcoholic American version for some sort of glaze. 

On a whim he drove into Sawle after Zacky told him there was a new bake shop in the village. A small place apparently, but amazing pastries, owned by a local girl.  He found it with little trouble. The front of the tiny (and that was being generous) shop was painted a cheerful yellow and in the window display were mouthwatering looking pies and cakes nestled among the colorful fall decorations. The hand painted sign on the door read “The Littlest Bake Shoppe”. 

 The delicitible warm scents of vanilla and sugar and butter enveloped him the moment he stepped in the door.  There was a small counter and glass case to the left of the narrow space and three wooden tables and a few chairs to the right. There was a chalkboard menu with that day’s offerings and prices hung on the back wall. The space was neat and tidy, and like the outside, bright and cheerful. A bell had announced his arrival when he’d come in the door.

Ross spent a few moments looking over the offerings in the case and trying to decide which ones he was going to take home.  Several of the plates and trays in the case were empty with a little card that read “Sold Out” and left him wondering just what he’d missed out on.

“Can I help you?” 

He startled a bit at the sound of a young woman’s voice, having been so distracted by the wares on display, but then nearly forgot how to speak when he looked up to see who had addressed him. She obviously was the mastermind of the baked goods in the case if her flour covered apron was any indication, but beyond that she was simply the most lovely person he’d ever seen with her messy red hair and blue eyes and brilliant smile.

Ross cleared his throat and straightened up. “I’ll have the raspberry tart.”

“Good choice,” she said, smiling and reaching for a box from the shelf behind the counter. “I’m surprised it is still here.”

“Popular then?”

“Very.”

“Four of the potato and leek pasties as well,” he found himself saying while trying very hard not to stare at her.  “Who does all this baking?”

She laughed as she leaned into the case to carefully remove the rustic tart to place in the black and white checkerboard paper lined box.  “I do.”

“What time do you get here?”

“Usually half past three, and I do have help,” she answered, gathering the pasties to also box up.  “We open at seven.”

He made a mental note of the time since he was often this way that early.  “Good to know.”

“Anything else?” she asked.

Ross looked over the case again to a lone chocolate cupcake sitting on a glass plate.  “I’ll have that cupcake, a cup of black coffee, and your name.”

Her cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink when she ducked her head a bit. “Demelza. My name is Demelza Carne.”

“I’m Ross.”  He felt slightly guilty for not stating his last name was Poldark, but she obviously had not recognized him. The family was well known in the area, for better or for worse, and he didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with her. It’s not like she wouldn’t see it on his card or when he signed the receipt anyway.

“Just have a seat, R-Ross.” Her adorable little blush deepened. “It’ll be a few minutes to brew you fresh coffee.”

He smiled and gave her a little nod. It’d been a long time since he had a very pretty woman react that way to him, and he had to admit it was rather nice. He wandered over to take the seat closest to the door and tried very hard to stare after her as she went about plating his order while humming to herself.  The local newspaper had never been so interesting.

“I’ll have to warn you this cupcake is dangerously chocolate,” she said, placing a china plate laced with a blue floral pattern in front of him followed by a steaming cup of coffee in a plain white mug. 

He took up the fork that had come wrapped in a blue gingham napkin.  “There is no such thing.”

Demelza just smiled.  “I’ll leave you to it.”

[chrysalispen]

borealis #4 - nose

AO3 LINK HERE

there’s an extended scene i’m still working on for this, but there was a lot of stuff going on offline today (including internet blips) that ultimately caused me to leave off with the SFW version so i hope no one is too disappointed. XD

Prompt response is below the cut, as ever.

======

Perhaps the most self-evident observation that could be made of the small house nestled in its small copse in the Shroud upon first entry was that its adventuring inhabitant -- or inhabitants -- were either avid readers or wished any potential guests they might have to believe that was the case. The sitting-room with its tall shelves of books was immediately visible from the front entry, and one might be forgiven for assuming there was no possible way every tome on its shelves had been read.

In point of fact, the Warrior of Light was an avid reader when the subject fascinated her. However, this particular book was not the sort that normally caught her eye. She had only attempted to peruse its contents once, and that was yesterday when she had decided to outline today’s plan of attack. Last year, Nero had treated her to dinner - among other things - and she had completely forgotten the occasion. 

Well, she was not going to be caught unawares by the holiday this year. Today was Valentione’s Day and by some miracle, confluence of the fates, or what-have-you, she had managed to capture a small handful of days to herself in order to prepare. The flower arrangements were simplicity itself; those were already set on the table along with the gift she’d commissioned, wrapped neatly in its box- part of his gift, anyroad- and now all she had to do was see to the dinner. 

And the chocolates. 

...Aurelia wasn’t nearly as sure about the chocolates. 

Making them herself had seemed like a wonderful idea at the time, but she was starting to regret it. Warrior of Light or not, she really wasn’t what one would call the most accomplished culinarian, unlike Nero, who seemed to take the same meticulous approach to cooking as he did to his research and his engineering. He had grown up in a poor farming village, had learned how to make food alongside the grandmother who had raised him in order to help feed his family. 

Whereas Aurelia had- well. As the daughter of a wealthy landed gentleman - even if he was a younger son - her upbringing had been very different. Her lady-lessons had not included such things; the husband her family selected for her would have hired a cook and a housekeeper in the interest of keeping up appearances. And as a child, she had wanted to climb trees and grow flowers and be a scholar, the seven hells take sweating over a stove or bending over a distaff until her fingers ached.

Too late for regrets now, she supposed. 

Aurelia squinted doubtfully at the illustrated page, then back to the bubbling mess in the pot. It all felt rather simple, she thought. She’d never made truffles before, true, but only four ingredients? Surely she could do better than that. Chocolates with no embellishments seemed so-

“Well,” she muttered, “perhaps it’s fine if it’s a little uninspired.” 

Though on second thought, watching the cocoa melt down in the saucepan: perhaps some brandy wouldn’t hurt? Culinarians put spirits in sweets and other things all the time, and she remembered some treats she’d had in the Crystarium with Lakeland brandywine in them that had been absolutely amazing. 

With that decision made, she turned to make her way down the stairs towards her wine cellar, but the moment she set foot on the stairs, her linkpearl sounded off. Frowning faintly, she tapped the small device alongside the shell of her ear. 

“Yes?”

“Oh, Relia!” Tataru’s voice, perhaps just a touch too bright, chirped across the aetheric link. “So sorry to trouble you! I know you asked for no calls unless it was an emergency.”

“So I did. Is aught amiss?” She glanced over one shoulder as she made her way down the stairs towards the cellar door, too impatient and worried about the state of her cooking chocolate to pay much attention.

“Oh, not at all! This isn’t a work call, I promise. It’s just, er…”

Aurelia knew the sound of Tataru’s ‘I’m about to ask you for a favor’ voice when she heard it. “Go on.” 

“I was going through my measurement book for sewing patterns - for no reason whatsoever! - and realized I was missing one of yours. The, um, the bust.”

Her brows furrowed once more, this time in mild disbelief. 

“...The bust.”

“Yes.”

“Just the bust size is missing. Somehow.” Damn, where had she put that cognac?

“Yes.”

Right. Well, you're clearly up to something, old friend. 

She supposed she could grill Tataru for the details of whatever scheme she’d hatched, but attempting to pick apart the reasoning behind the Lalafell’s choice to call her with an extremely transparent lie would be better done while she was not preoccupied. In the meantime Aurelia didn’t see any harm in giving her a couple of measurements  - she had, after all, entrusted her with them once before. 

With this reasoning in mind, she rattled off the numbers as best she could remember them while squinting at the labeled bottles within the dimly lit rack. After a few moments of rummaging, she found what she was looking for just as Tataru piped, “I’ve got it. Thanks, Relia!”  

“You’re welco-”

The quick chime of a severed connection left her in relative peace and quiet once more. Which was strange in itself, because usually when Tataru was making a social call Aurelia could expect to be on the hook for a good half-bell of her time. 

But it was a question she could ask herself later. Right now she had chocolates to make. 

She trotted happily up the stairs, bottle in one victorious hand… only to see an alarming amount of smoke billowing from the stovetop. 

“Oh swiving Twelve- ” She made haste to the range and switched it off, then snatched one of the mitts from the nearby wall mount to wave back the smoke. Most of the pan’s contents appeared salvageable, thankfully, but it didn’t seem like enough. She wanted to make another batch, but if she didn’t have the extra ingredients-

Wait. I can just melt down some of the chocolate chips I saw in that bag in the dry pantry, can’t I? And just add the brandy in while it’s melting?

Aurelia turned towards the shelves of dry goods, somewhat cheered by the thought that she could spare herself a trip to the markets, at the very least. The bag was at the back of the very top shelf and she had to stretch a considerable bit to reach it, but she managed to pull it down without spilling any of its contents. 

She set aside the saucepan with its half-scorched contents, reached under the counter for a fresh pan, and poured in the chocolate, then paused. She probably didn’t need the cocoa butter if all she was doing was melting pre-made chips-- she’d have to pour in the cream while it was still hot but maybe that was fine, maybe it would even help melt the chocolate faster. Then “a splash of spirits,” whatever that meant. To taste, perhaps?

Hmm. Speaking of taste, which patisserie was it back in the capital that used to put chilies in their truffles...? 

Her good mood returned as she acted upon that stray impulse; she plucked one of the chilies from its bag and started cutting into fine pieces to add to the new mix. Of course, she might be getting a touch ahead of herself, but surely it would turn out alright in the end. These were all flavors she knew would work in chocolates so a little deviation here and there wouldn’t hurt.

The longcase chronometer in the parlor struck four just as she was stirring the pieces into the half-melted lumps. 

Hells. She still had to put the noodles on to cook and she hadn’t even started the sauce yet. If she wanted everything to be ready in order to spring her surprise, she’d have to work fast.

That was all right. She’d worked under far worse conditions before.

With a determined nod, Aurelia tucked a stray tendril of hair back behind her ear, turned up the heat on the cream until it began to bubble, and uncorked the cognac bottle. ~*~

Nero was not sure exactly what he should have expected when he opened the cottage door, but the smell of burnt sugar and the sight of a darkened kitchen was concerning, to say the least. 

He set the box that had been in his hands upon the nearby table (where, he noted, there was a wrapped box and a vase of fresh-cut flowers she had likely arranged herself) and ventured into the parlor. He found Aurelia sitting in one corner of the sofa, curled in a tight ball with her arms wrapped about her legs and her face buried in her knees. “Before you say anything,” she said, her voice muffled, “don’t.”

His brows arched. 

“That bad, is it?”

“You have to ask? You can surely smell it for yourself.”

“I can.” Though he knew it was unwise, he cracked a grin. “...Did you perchance fight an eikon in the kitchen? Is that my surprise?” 

Nero received precisely the answer he had expected for that particular bit of cheek: a sound swat to the face with one of the sofa pillows. He ouched as she drew her hand back and made an exaggerated face at her, but Aurelia didn’t take the bait. Instead she made a breathy, angry little hmph!, the sound muffled against her thighs, and tried to angle herself away from his perusal to face the apple-green brocade which covered the sofa’s frame. 

“Sweetling-”

“Don’t talk to me,” she huffed. “I’m angry.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

“I’ve made a mess of everything.”

“I don’t see how- well yes, alright, I suppose the kitchen is a bit of a disaster. But it’s naught that can’t be salvaged.” He sat down next to her and smelled chocolate and… something alcoholic. “What happened? You look absolutely gutted.” 

Finally she lifted her chin to look at him. Her blue eyes were very dark and very wide and shimmered with suspicious wetness.

"I was going to make dinner for you," she groaned. "I had flowers and a present and I was trying to make-”

“Chocolates.” Aurelia’s face was hard to see in the darkness but he could see her chin bob. “I take it something went awry.”

“A great lot of somethings. And then I was so busy trying to fix what had gone wrong that I burned dinner and-”

“Hush. Come here.” Reluctantly she let him untangle her from her sulk and pull her into his lap, like a tired kitten. “You know I appreciate the gesture, but it wasn't necessary.”

“Yes, it was!"

"How so?"

"I completely forgot last year. You went to all that trouble and I forgot. So I wanted to make it up to you. I thought if I could make it as special as possible-.... never mind.” Aurelia lifted her hands and stared at her chocolate-stained fingers with a disconsolate sigh. “...I’ll clean up the kitchen as soon as I’ve my wits about me.”

“You will do no such thing.” Nero kissed her on the nose, then gave it a tiny tap with his index finger. “You are going to go downstairs and run yourself a bath while I clean the kitchen- once I’ve dialed Mistress Tataru and thanked her for her very timely assistance, that is.”

So that was what that call was about! Seven hells, what had Tataru told him? The look on his face was that of a man hiding an extremely exciting secret, and she didn’t know whether to be apprehensive or curious.

Cautiously, she chose the letter. 

“Dare I ask?”

“You can ask all you like,” he grinned, that smile that was so often in turns endearing and infuriating. “Whether you’ll get an answer before I wish to give it remains to be seen.”

Aurelia sighed but felt her lips curve in a smile, some of her humor returning. “Surely cleaning the house was not on your docket for the evening.”

“Of course it wasn’t- but there's really only been a slight change of plans. Once you've had a chance to clean up, you're going to open that gift, and then I’m going to show you how to make proper chocolate-- and how to put it to far more interesting uses than homemade truffles.” Her cheeks felt ablaze with color, and as she watched a mischievous curl crept slowly into his smile. “One good turn deserves another, after all.” 

“Is this where I say ‘happy Valentione’s Day’ or somesuch?”

His lips brushed her cheek.

“It's a start,” he said. "And if it hasn't been happy thus far, I am quite confident I can make it so."

[futurewriter2000]

If we are not this, then what are we? - pt. 15 - final part

A/N: Well, there it is. The final product. I haven’t read it through. I’m so tired- I’m so so tired.  I think I’m gonna make an epilogue as well to explain a bit further but ooh, am I tired. 

XX

Did you know that soulmates exist in all different shapes? You can find a soulmate in your lover, close friend, stranger, family, even in your own mother or father. 

Will was your soulmate. He was. He still is because even if your soulmate passes away, they can still stay in your life as a spiritual guide. 

Will told you that when he asked you if you believed in soulmates. 

You could remember the day so clearly; both of you were studying for Arithmancy test in his dorm. He was poking you all the time as you tried to concentrate on the material. When you sent him a glare and he was still smiling at you with his childish innocence, he asked you that question. When you told him that soulmates was a fairytale, he told you otherwise. 

He told you that day the two of you were soulmates and if he dies far in the future, he’ll stay by your side as your spritiual guide. He’ll be that angel on your shoulder, showing you the way, guiding you on the right path, being there when you’re in your worse and there when you’re at your best. 

You doubted him. 

‘ “How will I know?” you asked, quirking him an eyebrow.

“You will have to believe.” he winked, pulling himself on his elbows as he continued to see the disbelief you. “Okay- how about?” he got on his knees and looked around the room. He narrowed his eyes at his nightstand drawer and made his way to open it. It was messy, filled with papers and junk until he dug his hand into it, searched and pulled it out a small bronze key on a bronze chain. “See this?” he lifted it up in the air. 

“It’s a key.”

“It’s not just any key. It’s the key to my journal when I was like- six or seven.”

“UUU!” you reached to grab it but he quickly stepped back and started to laugh.

“I don’t know where the journal is- I think I threw it away because it was too cringey.” he continued to laugh. “But there were two keys for it. I gave one to Davie.”

“And you’re giving this one to me?” you wiggled your eyebrows, trying to reach again as he stepped back, holding up his index finger.

“Not quite.” he unclipped the necklace and put it around his neck, clipping it back until it hung around his neck. “Originally there were two keys- you know? In case if I lost one, which I did and now I have this one-”

“But you don’t have the journal?”

“Your point?”

“If you don’t have the journal, why keep the keys?”

“Aesthetic?” he shrugged and you laughed. “Anyways it isn’t about the journal. It’s about what I wrote in the journal. This key didn’t open just a book. It opened my thoughts and secrets-”

“What kind of secrets could you have at six years old?” you laughed, throwing yourself back on the pillows. 

“HEY!” 

“Dear diary, today I rang Mrs. Fotak’s doorbell and ran away. Living on the edge.” you joked and laughed as he stared at you, narrowing his eyes at your mocking.

“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” 

“I pretty much think so.” you continued to giggle. 

“It wasn’t a diary. IT WAS A JOURNAL.”

“Sorry, sorry.” you cleared your throat. “Dear journal, I farted today in kindergarten. Nobody noticed.” 

“You’re such an asshole.” he shook his head, unable to keep his laugh inside. 

“Still think I’m your soulmate.” 

“Oh, without a doubt.” ‘ 

You stood on the doormate as finally someone has opened the door. From your thoughts to reality, you were faced with two saddened grey eyes. “(y/n)!” he exclaimed, clearly surprised by your sudden appearance. “Wh- what are you doing here?” 

You forced a big smile on your face, lifting up the plate of baked goods you made today. “Hey, Sirius. Brought some carbs for you and the Potters.” you said as he invited you in, moving to the side and watching you with the quirk of his eyebrow. 

“You bake?” he asked, walking after you. Clearly, you knew the way to the kitchen. Despite in the years you haven’t stepped in this house, you still knew exactly where everything was. They didn’t change a thing. 

“Actually not so much. Just started- If I’m going to live in my own apartment and maybe a house some day, I need to get more culinary experiance.” you placed the plate on the counter and sat behind it. 

Sirius smiled, walking over and getting to the fridge. “Banana juice?” he pulled out the flask and your eyes lit out. 

How did he know? 

“James is obsessed with it.” he laughed as he poured it in the glass and brought it too you. “He said you introduced him to this heavinly beverage.” he winked, pouring himself a glass as well and sitting next to you. There was silence as he only continued to look at you, both hearing  only the crickets and the summer wind outside this house.  “Why are you really here, (y/n)?” he asked, bringing you the safety and comfort with his eyes. 

You could see now why James was friends with him. He really was a good man. 

“I really did not like to cook when I was a teen.” you smiled, tapping your fingers on the glass and watching the bubbles on the surface. “Will loved it.” you looked back up. “Especially if something worried him, he went into the kitchen and started cooking, baking and making all sorts of dishes.” you smiled, reminiscing of the messy Hufflepuff in the kitchen. “I guess I wanted to see if it worked. Clearly, it’s great coping mechanism.” you glanced at the plate and Sirius smiled, unwrapping the foil and taking a bite into one of the brownies. 

“It’s not bad.” he continued to chew, licking his lips as the crumbs kept falling down. 

“Not perfect yet.” you shrugged, leaning back and watching him eat the rest. “The first portion I made, I accidentally mixed baking powder with baking soda.”

“What’s the difference?” he asked, clearly more clueless about baking than you. 

“Let’s just say-” you laughed, remembering the final result of the failure and crying because of it. “- it didn’t end well.” 

He smiled with his mouth full of brown mass, clearly enjoying the sugar he was intaking. His eyes shone out some childish glint you haven’t noticed on him before. 

“Where’s you other half?” you asked, looking around the room. 

“He went to a job interview with Fleamont.” he rubbed his hands together, brushing off the crumbs. “I have it tomorrow.” 

“Oh, wow.” you were taken aback a bit. You didn’t know they would move on so quickly with the jobs. School only ended a few days ago. You thought they would enjoy more of the summer as they were both quite hyperactive teenage boys. 

“You seem surprised?” he smirked.

“I didn’t think- I mean, you and job responsibility. Sort of hard to imagine.” you teased and he laughed. 

“Hard to imagine it myself.” he stood up and walked to the sink, washing his hands. “How about you? Any job interviews?”

“No- not yet.” you smiled. “I think I’m going to take this summer off.” 

He turned around, drying his hands with a cloth as his eyes saddened again. “Is it...?” he stopped, trying to frame it into words but you understood him completely, nodding in return. “I’m sorry for what happened, (y/n).” he said, walking back to you again. “We might have our differences but he was one hell of a guy.” he smiled and you could feel the pressure in your eyes. “I didn’t ask but... how are you?” 

You swallowed thickly before answering, trying to mask the grief and the hurt you felt inside. “He told me we were soulmates.” your voice started to quiver without your permission and even thought you did not feel it, Sirius saw the tears that fell down your cheeks. He walked closer, opening his arms and pulling you in and despite who he was, his embrace felt more safe than anything- it felt as safe as it was with Will. 

You wrapped your arms around his broad chest and sobbed in. 

You didn’t feel pathethic or ashamed. You felt better now for the first time since Will’s death. 

“But if we were soulmates, wouldn’t we have had more time together?” you continued to cry, tugging his shirt under your fingers and squeezing him harder. “And Davie just left! He just disappeared into thin air after his death! He didn’t even show for the funreal!” 

Sirius put his hand on the back of your hand and let it rest there softly. “Will may be gone in his physical form but that does not mean his soul left you. He’s here, you just have to open your mind to it.” he said and now you did feel tears fall down your cheeks. 

You pulled away, watching into those grey eyes and trying to find a golden-brown colour in them. 

He felt like him. He felt so much like him. He even spoke in the same way as him, believed what Will believed. He reminded you so much of him- but it wasn’t him. It wasn’t Will and that pissed you off.

James has his soulmate, alive and well, standing right in front of you, meanwhile your soulmate is dead and burried in the ground. 

More rage and eenvy boiled the grief inside of you. You couldn’t bare yourself to brake down in front of Sirius. Instead you bottled it up, ignored the lump in your throat and smiled through the pain. 

“Thank you, Sirius.” you nodded and started backing away. “For listening to me. You really did mature.” you started to joke as you backed away. “I have to go now but good luck on your interview tomorrow.” you walked to the door as he followed.

“(y/n)!” He called after you and you stopped, your hand resting on the doorknob as you looked over your shoulder with a soft simper. “He’s not the same since that day, James I mean...and... and-”

“Nobody is the same since that day, Sirius.” you forced a bigger smile, turning the door knob and opening the door. “It takes time, Sirius but he’ll come back... and so will I.” you nodded and left through the door, putting your hand over your mouth and muffling the sobs as you walked back to your house.

You locked yourself into your room and fell down on the floor. Your legs were numb just as that day. Crawling to your bed, you grabbed one of your pillows and started sobbing into it. 

It hurt so much more. It pained and ached- it felt like knives stabbing your organs. It schorched your body until it couldn’t bare to sit anymore, so to try and numb the pain you fell to your side an rocked yourself back and forth. 

Until you drowned in grief to the point you were so calm, you only felt your heart beat in your chest. Your eyes focused on this miniature spot on the wall. 

And there was nothing but that spot. That spot and you and it felt the most interesting and calming thing in the existance up until the moon came up and shone through the window and something caused your attention to turn on the brown bear next to that spot. 

You narrowed your eyes at the bear and noticed something glinging around its neck. 

Leaving the pillow behind you, you crawled up to the bear to discover the mystery glint around his neck. 

Your breath was taken away- you fell back on your ass but continued to stare at the bronze key, wrapped around it’s neck. 

You climbed back to the bear and took it into your hand. You turned it to see the metal a bit bent on the head of the key- 

‘ “I don’t get it.” you stared up at him as he groaned and hung his head and shoulders. 

“Look.” he sat down beside you, seriosness on his face. “When I die at the age of 140 years- “

“Because you’re healthy like a fish.” you rolled your eyes and he smiled.

“Exactly.” he opened your eyes, explaning further. “I’ll be burried with my key and when my body can’t handle this amazing soul of mine, my soul is gonna woosh through time and space, finding the other key and bringing it to you- just so I can prove you wrong.” 

“Not because you’re gonna look after me like a guardian angel?” you tilted your head as he shurgged.

“I mean that too but mostly to prove you wrong but seriously, all jokes aside. If anything does happen to me, especially with the war coming, I want you to know that -”

“Stop, Will.” you cut him off, placing your hands on top of his. “You won’t die. Neither will I and if what you say it’s true about these soulmates thing- than we wil both live to 140 years.” you smiled, then added. “So what does the other key look like?” you reached to his chest and pulled out his bronze key. “Like this one?” 

“Not quite. The other is a bit more used. It has a few scartches and the head is a bit more bent.” he took your hands and kissed your knuckles. “So when I do find it and bring it to you, I want you to put it around your neck. That way, I’ll always be with you- everywhere you go.” ‘

---

It was 3 in the morning the next day and you couldn’t bring yourself to fall asleep. Perhaps the reason behind it was the sleepless night before and all the nights since the graduation day. 

You stood up, stretching your arms and walking to the window. You opened it and peered through, watching the view and consuming the moonlight on your skin.

Some people soak in the sun but you prefered the moon over the sun. Sunny days were nice but moonlight was different. It has its own magic, the rare form that it can only be described in far away lands. 

You breathed in the summers breeze and opened you eyes with a smile. Turning away, you took a few steps back and closed the window back down but when you did, a familiar figure cought your eye. 

You opened the window yet again, narrowing your eyes at the figure in the distance. “James?” you muttered to yourself before closing the window again and facing it its back. 

Thoughts ran through your head, heartbeat rised faster than the sun and you squeezed your palm so the key dug into your skin. Until it pained, you realized that you held onto that key for a completely different reason. You looked down, then smled when you felt a light push on your shoulders.

--- 

James was laying on the grass, stargazing. 

He wore his favorite Gryffindor Quidditch hoodie but completely ignored the fact that it might get dirty. 

How could everything get so complicated? - Everything was such a mess and this time I can’t just get detention and erase the whole thing.  Will did not deserve death. He did not deserve to finally grow on me and then die- As soon as I become an Auror, I’ll kill Greyback with my own hands-

“Banana juice?” he shot his head to the figure next to him, offering him a small glass bottle of his favorite beverage. 

He kept looking up at you, then saw the light in your room behind you and put the pieces together. He smiled as he took the banana juice from your hands and sat up. “Wine would be nice but I can settle for banana juice.” he joked and you laughed, sitting next to him but in the opposite direction. The two of you opened the cap and clinged the glass together. “OH!” he gasped, marveling at the bottle in his hand.

Giggling, you put your own down on the grass and leaned back on your arms. “It’s imported from Germany. Aunty always brings a few packs when she visits. She knows I love it.”

“That isn’t fair.” he took chugged the whole thing down and continued to marvel at the bottle.

“Life isn’t fair.” 

His head shot up to you again, watching you bathe under the moon just like that day at the lake. It was such an innocent statement but for him it was a sentance of words he hated to think about. 

“It really isn’t.” he kept looking at you as you opened your eyes and locked yours with his. You simpered, trying to ease the tension in the air- the silence and moment that was so intense between the two of you, you could pierce through it. He shook his head and let out a chuckle. “It all got so messed up for us.” 

“Well, if we’re not messy, than what are we?” you tried to cheer him up, scooting closer to him unti the two of you were close, chest to chest. 

He tilted his head to the side and arching his eyebrows, showing his perpetual smugness. He chuckled lightly again, turning his head away and opening his mouth so the tip of his tongue licked the bottom lip, then bit it. He kept his head turned on the side but his eyes looked at you from the corner of his eyes. 

“What?” you laughed, throwing your arms back on the ground and leaning on your elbows. “If we are not this, than what are we? Really, James? Enemies, frenemies, neighbors...?”

“Complicated, I’d say.” he answered, scooting over until his shoulder was touching yours and his eyes observing your face features - mostly your lips. Those seemed to draw him the most. “Will told me you love me.” he looked up at your eyes, grinning smugly. 

You rolled your eyes, turning away just for a moment before locking your eyes with his. You grabbed his chin gently and pulled him into a slow, faint kiss- only a bare touch of your lips. He smiled wider, looking down on you as you kept looking up. “I do but as I remember correctly, you were the one with a plan of marrying me at the age of-” he cut you off with a kiss, this one more firm and deeper than the one you gave him. 

Pulling away, he brushed his thumb on your bottom lip and said. “Guess that plan is back on.” 

“Guess, it is.” 

- Fin 

[ladyknightleyisundercover]

A Baker’s Dozen

some saccharine sweetness because quarantine means time to write again and all i wanted to produce was hinny fluff :) read on AO3

“Something smells good,” Harry calls, on arriving home. He follows his nose to the kitchen, where Ginny is eyeing a cake she has clearly just pulled out of the oven. “Oh, yum. Is that dinner?”

She pulls a face, and swats him away when he tries to reach for it, so he settles for wrapping his arms around her waist, and they stand there, pressed against each other, surveying it. “It’s for Helen’s birthday,” she explains. “Which is tomorrow, and I don’t have time to bake another, so no touching.”

“I didn’t realise you and Helen were that close?” says Harry. Helen was one of three Healers the Harpies employed to ensure their team were at the peak of their physical fitness. As far as he could remember, though, she mostly worked with their reserve squad, so Ginny, who was always in the starting seven, didn’t have that much contact with her.

“It’s this new thing we’re trialling at work this year,” she explains. “We were just getting absolutely inundated with cake—whenever it was someone’s birthday, everyone would bake a cake and bring it in. Gwynog was starting to worry about our nutritional intake. So this year, she made us pull names out of a hat, and whosever name you got, you and you alone were responsible for baking their birthday cake. Everyone went in, all the players and coaches and Healers, and I got Helen.”

“Well if it tastes as good as it smells, she should count herself lucky,” Harry declares.

“It does,” say Ginny with confidence. “There was some stuck to the bottom of the tin that I helped myself to. And no,” she adds, “there is no more.”

“That’s terrible,” he teases, “I’m cake-deprived. You’re a terrible girlfriend.”

She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah,” she says. “Honestly, though, I’m more worried about how it looks. Last month, Jen brought this amazing cake done out in the Harpies colours for Miriam’s birthday, and when we cut it open, a load of confetti and fireworks burst out of it. This might taste okay, but it doesn’t look great, and I’m not exactly skilled on the icing front...”

For all the tempting smells, Harry has to admit it is very misshapen. Ginny isn’t going to win any marks for presentation, that’s for sure. “I’d never want to eat a green cake, though,” he says loyally.

Ginny smiles, and extracts herself from his arms. “Even though you’re cake-deprived?”

“Even though I’m cake-deprived,” he confirms. She’s digging around inside the cupboard now, and pulls out a jar of buttercream and some candles, each of which are shaped into the letters of ‘happy birthday’.

“I’ve got this—shop-bought, but don’t tell anyone—and some edible glitter,” she says. “If I pile it on, it should hide any lumps, and then I’ll stick the candles on. It won’t win any awards, but it should do, right?”

Harry nods. “Don’t overthink this,” he assures her. “If it tastes good, no one will care what it looks like. I just think it’s nice that everyone at the club will get an additional birthday cake on their birthday. A family-and-friends cake and a work cake. That’s great! When I was a kid, I’d have killed for just one cake. I mean, it’s not like the Dursleys ever...” He trails off, aware that Ginny is looking at him in that way she does sometimes.

Well, ‘sometimes’.

She only ever looks that way—shocked, even appalled for a moment, then quietly, utterly furious—when he mentions one thing: the Dursleys. She opens her mouth, closes it for a long moment, then, when she speaks again, her tone is very, very carefully controlled. “You never had a birthday cake, growing up?” she asks.

“I guess my parents must have, my first year...” he says. “I don’t know, there aren’t any pictures. But then I didn’t have one again until my eleventh, you know, when Hagrid turned up.” He’s trying to make light of it, to move the conversation on, but he can’t be doing a very good job because Ginny continues to look absolutely furious. “You know, on the scale of all the things the Dursleys did, not giving me a birthday cake is not that big of a deal—”

Ginny makes one of her angry cat noises. “When we were kids...well, you know how poor we were,” she says, a moment later. “Some years, our birthday presents were just hand-me-down clothes wrapped up in old newspaper because Mum and Dad literally couldn’t afford to get us anything else. Not even proper wrapping paper. But we always, always had a birthday cake. And Mum never skimped, either. It was always whatever flavour we wanted, nothing too much trouble, decorated however we chose!”

“Your Mum is really good at baking,” Harry jumps in, trying to head her off as her voice rises in agitation. “I mean, that Snitch cake she did for my seventeenth? Made up for all the ones I didn’t get!”

“And it’s not like Mum and Dad were doing anything unusual there. Every kid gets birthday cake. That’s your job as an adult,” Ginny carries on regardless, and Harry realises he hasn’t done a great job in calming her down. “Even if you go to the shop and buy it because you’re crap at baking. Even if you’re dentists like Hermione’s parents and don’t believe in sugar, you still get a cake. And maybe it’s not that big of a deal compared to the other stuff those people did, but it is just another example of how they are absolute, complete—”

“Alright,” Harry says hastily. “It’s okay, Gin, honestly it is. I’m over it. They’re the past, now, and I survived, and—”

“They are terrible people,” she says, shaking her head. “What you said earlier about being cake-deprived—”

“That was just a dumb joke,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Honestly I’m not traumatised by it, I was just kidding.”

“I know, I know,” she says. She sighs, and puts down the tub of buttercream she’s been holding onto, waving it around in agitation as she speaks. “I know it was just a joke, but it is true. You were cake-deprived. And yes, like you say, on the scale of all the things they did to you, it’s not that big of a deal. But it’s just so representative of what despicable humans they are. You had eleven birthdays without a single cake—and I assume no cards or presents, too?”

“No cards or presents, yes, but not eleven birthdays—Hagrid came through for me, remember? So just ten. Well, nine, I guess, because my parents must have done one when I was one, like I said. It’s fine, I swear.” She gives him a look. “I guess next birthday, rather than a present, you can just bake me nine cakes, plus one for this year, so a nice round ten, and I’ll be all caught up, yeah?” he says.

Ginny still looks troubled, so he tries to make more of a joke of it by going back to the cake she made for her colleague, which is still on the worktop. “Actually, I could start by eating this one, and...” He flicks his wand at it, so it starts levitating, and he pretends to take a bite.

She pulls a face again. “Damage my cake, Potter, and I’ll make you pay,” she says, but her heart isn’t in the teasing like it usually is.

“Ooh, sounds fun,” he tries, but carefully lowers it back down nonetheless. Then he walks over to her and wraps his arms around her again, and she rests her head on his chest. “Honestly, don’t spare them any thought,” he says. “They are terrible people. I know this. The no-birthday-cake thing was an awful thing to do to a kid, and I used to get upset about it. But now, I’m over it. Really.”

She gives him a look—not disbelieving, as such, but still not completely convinced that he’s not just saying these things to make her feel okay. She thinks its subtle, but he, of course, understands. “Look,” he says, “I have you, and Ron and Hermione, and everything and everyone else, and I am happy. And they are sad, sad individuals living their sad, sad lives and they will be until the end. Who wins, really?”

“Well,” she says, “when you put it like that...”

“It’s obvious,” he agrees. Then he grins. “This summer, we’ll do a cake-tasting, or something. Like wine-tasting, but with cake. Much better.”

She laughs. “Cake-tasting! I am on board.”

“See, it’s almost like they did me a favour!” he says.

Ginny wrinkles her nose. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far…”

*

Her cake for Helen, while not one that sets the world on fire, goes down just fine at work. Harry, meanwhile, is normal. Happy. Busy with work, sure, but he shows no signs of lasting trauma after their conversation. Not that Ginny expects it: even after all these years, she’s still not used to the casualness with which he will announce something totally shocking about his past. Not being given a birthday cake is clearly not on a par with having bars put on his bedroom window, or being forced to sleep in the cupboard under the stairs.

But it still shocks her to her core.

And she can’t shake it. She has half a mind to organise the cake-tasting he’d been joking about, but truthfully, baking has never been her strong suit, and she doesn’t want to let anyone else know, for Harry’s sake. She knows he mentions things about his upbringing to Ron and Hermione sometimes, but she also knows she has to let him drive these conversations. Her mentioning this latest revelation to them would only upset him. So she keeps quiet, until, one day in early June, nearly a month later, it comes to her.

“When do you come off nights, again?” she asks him, over breakfast-for-dinner.

“Wednesday, why?” he asks. “You want to do something?”

“I’m feeling a party coming on,” she replies. “Friday sound good?”

“Sure,” Harry says, “but what’s the occasion?”

“Well, we had our housewarming back in February,” she says, referring to the party they had when they had officially moved in to Grimmauld Place together. “But we never had a garden warming.”

“Well, no,” Harry says, “because the garden’s tiny. Not much to warm.”

“It’s big enough for our lot,” she replies. This is hard to argue with: ‘our lot’ can anything from the two of them, Ron and Hermione, to everyone. At their housewarming, ‘our lot’ meant assorted Weasleys (a houseful on their own); other ex-DA and Order members; some of Ginny’s fellow Harpies; a few colleagues of Harry and Ron’s from the Auror Department; anyone who’s ever been employed at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes; and a fluctuating number of plus ones as all of the above get into, and sometimes out of, relationships. Harry somehow senses, by the gleam in Ginny’s eye, that this time she’s means everyone.

“The forecast’s good,” she adds. “The garden is pretty big, plus we’ve got the kitchen—and the rest of the house if it comes to it. BYOB, we’ll get a few snacks in, get Lee to play for us... It’ll be fun!”

It would be fun, Harry had to admit. The parties the two of them threw were not usually anything special, really—they didn’t spend lots of money on entertainment, just invited people round, asked them to bring drinks, and left it at that—but this was what made them special. Their housewarming had been ace: why not a garden warming?

“If you insist,” he says, rolling his eyes like she’s asked him for a kidney, and she laughs.

“That’s settled, then,” she says, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll let everyone know: party here on Friday. Get your dancing shoes out, Potter!”

*

Come Friday, Ron and Hermione are the first to arrive.

Harry’s in the garden, magicing up some extra chairs when they apparate in, and he waves them over, giving Hermione a hug while Ron carefully arranges a cake on the centre of the table Ginny’s set up. This takes longer than it should, and both Harry and Hermione watch, amused. “Behold,” he says, when it’s placed precisely how he wants it. “Pumpkin pie and custard cake.” He waits for a flourish which doesn’t come.

“Er…?” says Harry.

“I told you it sounded revolting,” Hermione says, rolling her eyes affectionately.

Ron looks mortally wounded. “How dare you!” he says. “I have spent hours concocting the precise recipe for a cake-pie hybrid, and this—”

“Oh please, not the cake-pie speech again!” she cuts in, throwing her hands up in front of her face in horror. “I swear, ever since he took up baking he’s become absolutely unbearable,” she adds to Harry and Ginny, who has just appeared from inside the house.

“You just can’t deal with the fact that I’m better at something than you,” Ron says smugly.

“Oh...whatever,” she replies, trying—unsuccessfully—to hide her smile. “Anyway, Ginny, how are you?”

Before she can answer, they are interrupted by Dean and Seamus, who have just arrived. Harry knew Ginny had invited them, so their presence is not exactly unexpected. What is unexpected is what is in the box they are holding, and the shriek Hermione lets out on seeing it. “Is that a Colin the Caterpillar cake?!” she squeals.

“Sure is,” grins Dean. Seamus gives an I-don’t-know-either shrug in the direction of the two Weasleys, but Hermione is all but clawing it out of Dean’s hands.

“I have never wanted something for my birthday as much as I wanted one of these,” she sighs almost dreamily. “But my parents were absolutely horrified by the sugar content and wouldn’t let me have one. Plus, they said it was rampant consumerism when a perfectly good, unbranded plain sponge cake would do just fine. Which probably wasn’t too far wrong. But...oh, goodness, you must let me have a piece.”

Dean laughs. “Of course! We always got one every year for our birthdays when we were kids.”

“Dudley used to love ’em,” Harry says. “One year, he had three. One just for him, and the other two to be split between the rest of the kids at the party. But he still ate the face from both of them.”

“What are they?” asks Ron, looking slightly displeased at the excitement Hermione is showing for a shop-bought cake in a box, especially after she was less than enthused about his own creation.

“Chocolate swiss roll smothered in chocolate, with a white chocolate face and feet, and smarties for decoration,” Dean says promptly.

“That sounds—” Ron begins.

“Incredible,” Ginny nods, and everyone laughs. Harry briefly wonders why the two of them have brought a muggle children’s cake to the party, but then Seamus starts ribbing Ron about the Cannons’ last game, Hermione disappears inside with Ginny in search of more plates, and Katie Bell arrives, distracting him.

“Hi, Katie,” he says, waving her over. She’s apparated into the yard like the others had, and she, too, is carefully carrying a cake on a plate.

“Hi, Harry!” she says. “Thank you so much for having us over, it’s great to see you again. Can I put this on the table?”

“Uh...sure,” he says. He eyes the cake with some confusion, which she sees, but misinterprets.

“It’s pineapple upside-down cake,” she explains. “Only,” she adds, sounding slightly worried. “I’ve never made it before. So I’m not sure if it’s actually pineapple right-side-up cake.”

“As long as it tastes good, right?” he asks, deciding to roll with it.

“That’s the spirit,” Katie says, laughing. “Anyway, how are you?” They chat about inconsequential things for a few moments, and it never seems to him quite the right time to ask why she’s brought a home-made, slightly wonky looking pineapple upside down cake to a garden party. But when Bill and Fleur, and then Susan Bones and her partner arrive almost simultaneously, both couples carrying cakes as well, he starts to suspect something is up.

Susan has brought a very neat Victoria sponge cake, dusted with icing sugar and layered with strawberry jam and cream. It is, Harry thinks, a very Susan cake. Bill and Fleur have bought Victoire (who is to go down a storm: later, they’ll say they’re only going to stay for a half an hour, but will end up staying nearly three, mostly because they get to nap whilst the baby is passed around and cooed over) and a galette des rois.

“Of course, traditionally, one only eats this at the New Year,” Fleur explains. “But Ginny said—” unfortunately, Ron, Dean and Katie Bell all burst out laughing at something Seamus has said at this exact moment, and Harry doesn’t hear exactly what Ginny said, though he’s starting to suspect, “—and so I could not not introduce you all to French culture.” She makes her you’re welcome face, but fortunately Victoire starts squawking and her attention is diverted before Harry has to come up with a response.

A few more people arrive: Oliver Wood, looking very sheepish with two muffins he confesses he stole from the Puddlemere staff canteen at the last moment, having forgotten Ginny’s request; Parvarti and Lavender, carrying a honey cake. George and Angelina arrive with a delicious-looking chocolate cake which everyone eyes with intense suspicion until Angelina rolls her eyes and loudly says that she made it at which point everyone relaxes. (When the first person to take a bite from it turns into a large cockatoo for a moment, a la the Canary Creams, she rolls her eyes again and says that she said she made it, not that she wasn’t also capable of creating a Wheeze. Fortunately, the cake itself so delicious that nobody actually minds turning into a parrot).

While this is all going on, Ginny remains in the kitchen, or else when she comes outside, she’s always deep in conversation with someone. At first, it seems natural—she’s always been sociable, but after a while, Harry starts to think she’s avoiding him. Glancing in through the window, he sees her talking in the kitchen with a couple of girls from the Harpies’ squad who have just arrived, with, it appears, a large cake apiece.  

Everyone wants to say hello to Harry when they get there, so he ends up taking up residence by the table on the yard for a while, welcoming everyone and watching the cakes pile up. He starts to feel like he’s ended up at the village show by mistake and will be asked to judge everyone’s offerings. Alicia Spinnett turns up with what is essentially a giant, handmade cauldron cake, and Percy brings something covered in buttercream with rows of sweet cherries on the top that are so neatly arranged Harry suspects he used a set square.

Lee Jordan brings his decks and an incredibly boozy trifle; Harry makes a mental note to not let anyone who has a helping also have any of Hannah Abbott’s Firewhiskey fruitcake. “Half the bottle’s in there, I swear,” Neville says, when they place it down among the growing collection. Hannah elbows him and makes a comment that the other half would’ve been in there, too, had he not helped himself to it, and they walk off, laughing.

The party already has a good vibe to it and it’s hardly begun—the weather’s turning into summer, and so the yard is warm, but not stifling and Ginny’s placed flobberworms in jars around the place which give the yard a magical luminosity. Lee sets up his music, everyone’s talking and laughing, drinks in hand, and Harry’s just about to go over to where Ron and Neville appear to be having a very animated conversation when someone places a plate down on the now bulging table. While Harry logically knows it must be a cake, if only because literally everyone else has bought one, it bares a startling resemblance to burnt toast.

“I’m sorry,” says Dennis Creevey, by way of a greeting. “It’s a travesty, I know. I wouldn’t have bought it, but I was too scared of Ginny to turn up empty handed.” He tips Harry a wink, and Harry grins back.

“You realise you could’ve stopped off at the corner shop and picked up something readymade?” he says.

Dennis makes a show of slapping himself on the forehead, like he forgot something really obvious. “See, mate, this is why you’re the Auror and I’m not. Can’t think on my feet, me,” he says. “No, seriously, that did occur to me. But I wasn’t sure what the rules were with non-homemade things.”

“The rules?” Harry asks.

“Yes, you know, after Ginny’s frankly terrifying invitation.”

“I seem to have misplaced mine,” Harry says, “remind me again what she said?”

“We bumped into each other last week in Diagon Alley,” Dennis replies. “And she’s all, oh, we’re having this party next Friday, are you free? And I said yes, and she said we’ll that’s great, we’ll see you around seven, oh and on pain of death, bring a cake. So I asked what kind of cake, and she said that any would do. But she said she was concocting a special punishment for anyone who turned up empty-handed. I mean, she sounded like she was joking. But d’you remember the fancy dress party, last winter? And what happened to Percy, when he didn’t turn up in costume?”

“I do,” Harry says, matching his grave tone. “Well, we can’t have a repeat of that.”

“Anyway, I asked: why cake? I mean, fancy dress at least makes sense, right?” Harry nods, and Dennis carries on, oblivious to his sudden focus. “And she just said, and I quote, ‘I just love cake, and so does anyone with a brain, so why not have a party where all there is to eat is cake?’”

“Why not indeed,” Harry says. It’s such a Ginny thing to do: make up something that sounds like a silly game, a quirk, a touch of whimsy. Let everyone think it’s just because that’s how she is, but actually, make it a secret present to him.

Truth be told, he’d forgotten about their conversation a couple of weeks ago, when his joke about being cake-deprived had accidentally become A Thing. But clearly she hadn’t, and not only has she now done all this for him, she’s done it in such a way that no one will ever know. She’s squared it so that no one will ever know about the Dursleys and their treatment of him, but he gets all the cakes he missed out on anyway. It’s the silliest thing—it’s just cake!—but at the same time, it’s the best thing.

“...think it’ll be okay?”

Harry blinks. “Sorry, what was that?”

“My cake,” Dennis says. “I know it’s a disaster, but do you think it’ll count?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll vouch for your monstrosity,” he says cheerfully. “Besides—and I never thought I’d say this—I think if anything we might have too much cake.”

“Nah,” says Dennis. “No such thing.” Harry laughs, and then Dennis is summoned over by George, leaving Harry free to do what he wants to most right now: find Ginny.

What he gets, instead, is Luna.

Despite the fact that she’s pretty much the last person to arrive, and so the table by which he’s still standing is now absolutely covered with cakes of all description, she still manages to look incredibly vague as she places one down next to all the others. It looks like a fairly basic sponge, except that it’s a rich purple colour and covered with a bright orange frosting. “Oh, hello Harry,” she says, looking slightly surprised to see him at his own house party. “Fancy seeing you here. Would you like a piece of my cake?”

Harry thinks he would rather eat a slice of Dennis’s burnt monstrosity—would rather eat the whole thing—but gamely agrees, then, with an overly-dramatic slap on the forehead, exclaims that he doesn’t have a knife to cut a piece. “Not to worry!” Ron and Hermione have appeared, both carrying several knives and forks, and a pile of plates. “Ginny sent us out with these.”

Harry looks over, and finds her now talking to Bill and Fleur, baby Victoire balanced on her hip. As he watches, she carefully hands Victoire over to her parents, then slides over to where Susan Bones and her partner are talking, saying something which makes them both laugh, then drops in to say hi to Lavender and Parvati, getting briefly drawn into whatever good-natured debate they’re having. She flits in between everyone’s conversations, and maybe it’s just him projecting, but it feels like everyone lights up when she joins them.

She catches him staring at her when she’s midway through a chat with Neville and Hannah, and even though they’ve been together for years now, it still makes him blush. She winks at him, and smirks, and he deliberately looks away, making a conscious effort to refocus on the conversation at hand. Luna is going into great detail about her cake, which appears to be made of Dirigible Plums, chocolate, and Gillywater essence, which both sounds revolting and, according to Hermione, is not technically legal.

“...should let her know that distilled Gillywater is a class-three non-tradeable—”

“What was that, sorry?” Luna says, and Hermione opens her mouth again, looking vexed.

“Hermione was just saying how delicious your cake looks,” Ron says smoothly, and Luna looks flattered.

“You should give Ron the recipe,” Ginny adds, coming over to join them. “He’s a fantastic baker, and he’d love to try it.”

“You must have the first slice!” beams Luna. Ron looks panic-stricken. “Is there a knife? And some plates?”

“Oh, look at that, we’re out of plates,” Ron says, quickly sliding a stack behind Alicia Spinnet’s giant cauldron cake.

Harry catches Ginny’s eye, then they both have to look away for fear of laughing.

Fortunately, Neville comes over and start asking Luna about some new species of Murtlap which has been bred by a team of Magizoologists in Argentina, and the conversation turns away. Hermione starts magically slicing the cakes, and Ron goes rooting around in the kitchen for all the cutlery he can find, whilst Ginny walks around the different groups, inviting people to dig in.

And dig in they do: everyone, it turns out, thinks a cake party is an excellent idea (“But then it would be, wouldn’t it?” Ginny says when Lavender says this to her, “I thought of it!”). The music is turned up, darkness falls, and the drinks flow, and it’s certainly well into the early hours before the last stragglers have left. Ron and Hermione offer to stay to help with the clearing up, but Harry and Ginny both wave them away. “We’ll do it in the morning,” Ginny says, yawning. “The proper morning,” she adds, glancing at Gideon Prewett’s battered old watch on Harry’s wrist. And, after a final round of goodbyes, it’s suddenly just the two of them in the yard.

Well, the two of them and the remains of upwards of twenty cakes.

Ginny lets out a huge, long yawn which leads into a full body stretch and Harry seizes the moment to reach out and pull her close, dropping a kiss down on her head. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“...mmm?” she responds, snuggling in.

He could brush it off, pretend he’s said nothing—or at least nothing of any importance—and lead her off to bed, but somehow that doesn’t seem right. “Thank you,” he says again, more clearly. She’s been burrowing into his chest, but she stops for a moment, not pulling away, exactly, but certainly not going any further.

“Harry,” she says, very very softly—and it’s clear that, as usual, she know exactly what is is he is saying, even when he’s not saying anything at all.

“Thank you,” he says, for a third time, and more firmly still. “Thank you for tonight, and for the cakes, and for...for everything. It means a lot.”

She pulls back far enough that she can see his face, and her own has never looked so loving. She gives him a smile so small as to be almost shy. “I’m glad,” she says, and he thinks, then, that it is impossible for anyone to have ever understood another person as much as she understands him, and that he must be the luckiest person living. She gives his arm the gentlest squeeze. “It was a good night,” she says, and he nods in agreement.

“There’s just one thing...” she says hesitantly. She seems to be pausing, collecting her words, and Harry turns his head ever so slightly to one side.

“What is it?” he asks after a moment, as she hesitates. He wonders if she’s leading up to a question about the Dursleys, something sensitive and delicate which leaves her reaching carefully for the right words.

“Oh...” she says. “Just...” It happens so fast that he can hardly credit it—but, he supposes, she is an international Quidditch star, known for her almost inhuman reflexes. Still, it crosses his mind that his boss, Gawain Robards, might be less than enamoured to know that the leading light of his Auror department can be caught out by a five foot one menace, shouting “Gotcha!” and shoving the remains of Percy’s buttercream sponge in his face.

He blinks for a moment, pulling his glasses off to wipe them on his shirt even as he can feel the rest of the icing sliding down his face. Ginny’s musical laughter comes from somewhere over to his right, as she’s sensibly stepped out of retaliation’s way, and he freezes in place for a few seconds. The laughter trails away, until: “...Harry?”

And then he moves, lunging towards Luna’s Dirigible Plum cake, grabbing a handful, and lobbing it in her direction. Her shriek lets him know he hasn’t missed his target, even shooting (practically) blind. He takes the moment to wipe his glasses clean, placing them back on his face just in time to see her eyes narrow.

“Oh, Potter,” she says, grinning in delight. “It is on.”

My thanks to Emily, for the encouragement, and everyone who’s ever re-written *that* HBP movie mince pie scene, for the inspo x

[orangeflavoryawp]

Jonsa - “From Instep to Heel”, Part 7

Finally catching up on posting my chapters on tumblr now that I’ve got the time to do the freakin’ formatting, lol.  I’ve been lazy.  My bad.

“From Instep to Heel”

Chapter Seven: Taken

"(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind." - Jon and Sansa. Like the curve of the horizon, when the moon breaks from beneath its bow.

Read it on Ao3 here.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 fin

* * *

"You slept well, I hope, brother?" Aegon's eyes crinkle with his smile as he bites off a piece of salted seabass.

Jon offers a tight smile in return, leaning back in his chair at the table, shoulders bunched. Aegon does not wait for the ladies of the house to join them, tucking into his breakfast with poised and slender hands. Jon picks at a piece of brown bread, eyes lingering over his untouched plate. He glances to the door again, half expecting Sansa to walk through it this very moment. "Not particularly," he sighs, tearing off another piece mindlessly.

"Yes," Aegon muses, "I see you're clearly distracted."

Jon raises a brow at him.

Aegon continues chewing, waving a hand nonchalantly, knife in his grip as he speaks, "The first night can have that affect."

"And you've enough under your belt to advise me on it?" Jon bites out, tongue smarting instantly when the words leave his mouth. He pulls a sharp breath in, turns his gaze to the table.

Aegon stops chewing, swallows slowly – demurely. A humoring smile tugs at his lips. "A wife is different."

Jon does not argue him that one, but he decides to keep his thoughts on the matter to himself, drawing his shoulders back, trying to ease some of the tension there.

Sighing almost wistfully, Aegon sets his cutlery down. "Daenerys has not changed much since that first night." A chuckle lights his lips, almost nostalgic. "Still as demanding and insatiable as ever."

Jon scrunches his nose in distaste, resisting the urge to reach for his wine, wash the lump of bread in his throat down.

"I don't imagine Lady Sansa was so, however."

Jon's gaze snaps to his brother, hand clenching into a fist atop his thigh. He draws a slow, tight breath in.

Aegon cocks his head at Jon, leaning back easily in his chair, eyes glinting sharply – a violet lance cut through the brisk, morning light streaming through the windows. He smiles again, the ends of his lips curled like the whip of a dragon's tail. And then he returns to his food, resuming his meal smoothly. Another bite. A slow, long chew.

Jon watches his brother, knuckles white. "Is this really the conversation you want to be having over breakfast?" he manages tightly.

Aegon makes a small sound of contemplation in his throat, glancing back up at Jon. "My appetite isn't so easily curbed, brother. Is yours?" Aegon swallows, a flash of teeth peeking out beneath his curved lips.

Jon grinds his jaw, his bitterness curling like smoke in his chest – sour and lung-scraping.

Aegon continues with ease. "I do hope at least you enjoyed your evening, brother. Mine was terribly lonesome." He laughs, short and disturbingly bright. "Daenerys would not have me last night."

"I can hardly suspect why," Jon snaps dryly, mouth clamping shut when he realizes what he's said.

Aegon watches him with unblinking eyes, rolling the food around his mouth leisurely, wrists resting atop the table edge, cutlery still in hand.

Jon thinks of the petal crushed under Aegon's boot in the garden, and the flick of the riding crop to the backs of his calves, and the smooth, weathered stone sitting pointedly atop their father's desk.

And then he thinks of the way Aegon had stepped back from Sansa at the wedding feast, a relinquishing sweep of his arm and a brotherly smile aimed his way – how he had not objected to Jon's intrusion, nor his brusque manner.

Jon swallows tightly.

But of course.

He should have known better. Aegon forgets little, and forgives even less.

Jon smooths his hands along his thighs, chest constricting, waiting, poised at a knife's edge.

(He should have known better.)

Aegon leans forward across the table, smirk adorning his lips, brows arched in a conspiratorial look, as though eager to share a well-kept secret. "You've never spilled in a woman before, have you?" he asks softly, almost carefully to any other ear.

Jon hears the edge to it, easily enough.

He works his jaw, eyes fixed to Aegon.

His brother leans back smoothly, smirk still curling the edges of his lips. "Too fearful of spawning a bastard, weren't you?"

Jon has no answer for him, can only turn his gaze away, fix it glaringly to his wine glass, feel his skin prick with a resentment too familiar.

"They're not such terrible things, you know – bastards," Aegon says nonchalantly, setting his knife down to reach for his own glass, bringing it to his lips before he pauses, as though in sudden remembrance, "When properly kept."

Jon blows a breath through his lips, heated and halting, unable to keep the glare from his gaze when he looks back to Aegon.

His brother only offers him a lifted brow, lips stained red with wine when he pulls the glass from his mouth.

Jon feels the words brimming in his throat, rancid and airless – a choke, a strangle – feels his mouth open even still, a recklessness blooming beneath his skin, as heady as it is unfamiliar, and –

The door swings wide, Sansa stepping through, Rhaenys following behind her with a dour expression.

Jon swallows that slice of shame back down –stinging and raw.

"Sisters," Aegon greets, and Jon does not miss the address, nor does Sansa, it seems, as she stops short, blinking doe-eyed at him for a spell, before she's nodding her greeting, cheeks a faint pink, stepping gracefully toward the seat beside Jon. She doesn't meet his eyes.

Rhaenys lets out a scoff at Aegon, shaking her head with pursed lips, settling into the empty space beside him.

Aegon cocks his head in question, eyes drifting to the closed door. "You seem to have lost my wife along the way," he says, amusement lilting his tone.

Rhaenys reaches for the sugared plums instantly. "Daenerys says she's too ill to break her fast with us this morning." Sucking a piece of fruit between her teeth, Rhaenys sends a meaningful look Aegon's way, swallowing after a pointed chew. "She sends her regards." A sugared smile follows the words.

Jon manages to bite back his scoff. It isn't the first time Daenerys has sought to spite Aegon with her absence.

Aegon picks the napkin up from beside Rhaenys' plate and raises it to her with an arched brow. She takes it with a roll of her eyes, dabbing at her sugar-smeared mouth. "I'll have to see to her later, then." His gaze flicks to Jon and he has the unexplainable urge to grab for Sansa's hand next to him. He resists the inclination – only barely. "Make sure she's not too unwell," Aegon finishes, his violet gaze settling back on Rhaenys

She's already filling her plate, well past the conversation.

Beside Jon, Sansa is quietly cutting into her own food. He takes a breath, wills the lingering rage from his face, tries to smooth his brow and his frown and his hardened gaze, dipping his head to catch her eye. "My lady?"

She flickers soft blue eyes up at him and for an instant, they stay staring at each other.

All at once he remembers the way his palm had fit around her thigh and the gasp she'd sounded at his ear and the drowning, bone-singing heat of her when he'd finally sunk inside her. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and watches it purse.

When he glances back up to her eyes, he finds her staring unblinkingly at him, fork halted halfway to her mouth. She clears her throat, settles the fork back to her plate.

Jon glances away, wiping a hand down his mouth. A gruff exhale leaves him, and he reaches for his own fork, eager for a distraction. "I'm sorry for leaving before you woke this morning," he says softly, careful not to let the conversation reach his siblings' ears. He glances up to find the two already occupied by their own discussion, and looks back to Sansa with a barely discernible sigh of relief.

She only nods, glancing down to his hands as he digs into his quickly cooling roast.

"I...had matters to attend to," he mumbles.

He feels the lie shrivel up along his tongue even as it tastes air.

Blessed air.

And that's what he had needed – after waking groggily in the early hours of the morning, body curled loosely around her sleeping form, half-hard at her backside, and he'd wanted nothing more than to trail his fingers down the smooth line of her arm, and then lower over the curve of her hip, her skin warm and supple to the touch, and he'd nearly rocked into her on instinct, lulled by sleep and hazy desire, before the night rushed back to him in a flood of memories.

The pained whimper she'd tried to smother when he'd first entered her, the stiffness of her frame, muscles bunched achingly tight, the way she'd squeezed her eyes shut, those soft, iridescent blues blanking out into shadow -

The way he'd clearly hurt her.

(Warnings mean little to nothing in this house, and Jon should know that by now.)

He swallows thickly, pausing in his determined cutting, eyes blinking furiously down at his plate.

Jon had torn himself from the bed that morning, dressed as swiftly and quietly as he could, and then left Sansa to her slumber.

He tells himself it couldn't have been helped.

He'd tried to be quick about it, tried to bring himself to completion without prolonging her pain, and truth be told, it wasn't particularly difficult when she was so warm beneath him, so soft and breathy, so tight around his cock.

It's easy to get lost in Sansa Stark, he finds.

Except, there's a smaller, more insistent part of him, that tells him he is wrong.

"I intend to do my duty," she'd said, and it had been his unraveling

Jon glances up to Rhaenys, finds her watching him with a perceptive stare. He growls his frustration beneath his breath, tearing back into his food.

Sansa does not answer him, only nods mutely, gaze flicking back to her own plate.

His eyes sting.

And what a stupid, foolish hope.

(The realization is blinding.)

He understands now, what he'd been so adamant to smother before, what he'd been unable to admit to, even in the darkest parts of him.

He wants her.

He wants her – maddeningly.

"You will never be more to her than duty."

He only wishes she wanted him back.

* * *

"Alright, I've been patient enough I think," Margaery says on a laugh, shuffling closer to Sansa in her seat. "You must tell me how the wedding night went. Was it everything you'd hoped for?"

Sansa blinks alarmingly wide eyes up at Margaery, hand stilling halfway off the table, cream puff caught between her thumb and forefinger. "The wedding night?" she manages after a gulp.

Margaery cocks her head, a mischievous smile tugging charmingly at her lips. "Yes, of course. From what I saw at the feast, your Jon simply couldn't wait to get you back to your chambers." She shivers deliciously, leaning closer to the younger woman over the armrest of her chair.

Sansa drops the pastry in her hand back down to her plate, going for the napkin in her lap, throat tightening. "Yes, well, it was...unexpected." She smooths her hands over the napkin in her lap, the breeze from the open gardens fluttering strands of copper around her face.

"I'm sure," Margaery smirks. She urges her on with a waving motion of her hand.

Sansa bites her lip, and then she turns fully in her seat to face the Tyrell, brows furrowed sharply. "Margaery, he... he tried to touch me... well, there." She bites her lip again, a flush of remembrance branching through her, cheeks heating.

"I should hope so," she says, a laugh bubbling at the edges of her lips, before she catches the expression Sansa wears, her smile wilting instantly. She clears her throat, straightening in her seat. "And that...unsettled you?" she asks now, voice calmer.

Sansa wears a worried thumb into her opposite palm, watching the motion. "I didn't want him to," she says, and she remembers, instantly, the heat that had suffused her when he did, the almost uncontrollable urge to shift her hips up toward his touch, to chase that fluttering thrum of nerves that ricocheted through her. She clamps her mouth tight around the words, chest tight with her embarrassment.

Oh, but what would Margaery think of her? What would her mother think of her?

"Sansa," Margaery says, infinitely soft, her gaze concerned, body shifted toward her. "Did he..." She stops, brows bunched tightly together, voice working over hoarse words. "Did he hurt you?"

Sansa blinks back up at her, head shaking vehemently. "Oh no, I mean, yes, well – Mother always said – I mean –" Sansa sighs, takes a deep breath, tries to control her raging heart. "I knew there would be some pain the first time, but I... I didn't..."

Margaery's hand curls over hers in her lap, stilling the nervous motion of her thumb against her palm. The touch is light, comforting. "Sansa," she begins, eyes imploring on hers, "When he kissed you, when he touched you, did he not – "

"Oh, he never kissed me."

Margaery blinks at her, suddenly alarmed. "Sansa."

"I couldn't... I couldn't let him."

Margaery's brows dip down in confusion. "You couldn't...?"

She shakes her head, hand turning beneath Margaery's to link her fingers through hers, palm to palm. "I wasn't ready for that. To be kissed – oh, but I want it to mean something, Margaery. I want it to be more than expectation, and I couldn't help remembering all those stories from the books, and the songs, and the tales, and is it wrong? To want such a thing? Even still? Is it wrong, Margaery?"

It was too intimate.

His hand on her thigh, and his stiffness pressed between her legs, and the heat of his bare stomach braced against hers and still -

None of it could compare to the intimacy of his breath fanning her lips, his dark stare through the candlelight, the pink tip of his tongue edging out to wet his lips.

He could fuck her ragged and still, she'd never be as breathless as she'd been in that moment, when he'd stared at her, leant down, moved to take her mouth with his.

To taste and touch and know each other.

To share breath.

No, Sansa had not been ready for such intimacy. And even when he'd slipped inside her, and even when he'd spilled inside her, and even when he'd fallen asleep beside her once they'd taken their turns at the wash basin – even then -

She couldn't let him kiss her.

Margaery rubs a comforting thumb along her knuckles, a sad sigh leaving her. "Oh, dear girl."

"It will come with time," Sansa says reassuringly, mostly to herself. "With care and time, I will try to love him. And maybe then..." She trails off, eyes glancing over the table. She never finishes the thought.

Margaery stays silent at her side for many moments, just holding her hand, letting the silken afternoon light dance across the table set. And then she makes a sound like a hum, thoughtful and cautious, leaning back in her chair as her hand slips from Sansa's. "Sansa, let me ask you something."

She raises a brow in question, expectant.

Margaery seems to mull over her words a moment, expression still cautious and concerned. "When he touched you – when he tried to... to ease you – did you like it?"

Sansa's mouth parts, cheeks heating.

(His calloused palm at her thigh, the graze of his fingers along the edge of her smallclothes, the hot pant of his breath at her ear.)

Did you like it?

The question presses sharp and insistent at the edges of her mind.

Sansa swallows tightly, eyes searching Margaery's. "That would be... improper."

Margaery cocks her head, voice still soft and careful. "Why?"

"I do not love him." The answer leaves her far more readily than she expects, and it carves a longing in her chest she isn't prepared for – a gentle throbbing between her ribs. She swallows back the trepidation.

Shifting in her seat, Margaery inclines her head toward Sansa, eyes focused. "And what if I told you that didn't matter?"

Sansa stares at her, brows scrunched in thought, hands bunching together in her lap once more. "What do you mean?"

Margaery blows a steady breath through her lips, a thoughtful expression gracing her face. "What if I told you, there can be pleasure regardless of love? What if I told you, you deserved it, even still?"

Sansa blinks at her, a frown marring her features instantly. "But I don't..."

"Dear girl, there is already enough grief in this world without you sabotaging your own marriage. Let the man please you. It seems he wants to, at least, which is more than can be said of most husbands."

Sansa's frown deepens, an uncomfortable warmth unfurling in her chest, something close to yearning, if she lets herself linger on it for too long. "And what makes you think he has any interest in that regard?"

At this, Margaery throws a baleful look her way, lips pursed as though in disappointment. "Anyone who saw him with you at the wedding feast couldn't say otherwise," she remarks pointedly.

"Gods, but that was embarrassing," she sighs, shifting uncomfortably in her seat, hands tightening in their hold atop her lap.

Margaery seems to notice the shift, straightening somewhat, interest piqued. She rests her hands along her armrests languidly, a finely-arched brow aimed Sansa's way. "Was it, now?" There's a devilish curve to her lips that Sansa thinks she should be wary of, but she's too caught in her remembrance of the night to notice.

She huffs her irritation. "Of course," Sansa presses on a heavy exhale, chin turned up. "To be so... so rude and brazen, in the midst of everyone, and to the crown prince! To paw at me like some... some... possession. To touch me so in public." Sansa scoffs, her derision staining her tongue. "No, no, I did not enjoy that one bit." Her chest heaves, her hands wringing in her lap, tongue caught behind her clenched teeth.

Margaery merely peers at her.

She finds the look disconcerting, a hesitance washing over her when she looks at the Tyrell, suddenly small and unsure in her midst. "What?" she asks tentatively, barely trusting the word.

A slow, knowing smile slips across Margaery's lips, her hand reaching for Sansa's once more.

Sansa startles at the touch, but doesn't pull away. She glances down to their joined hands, finds her gaze fixed to Margaery's sun-touched hand as she swipes a comforting thumb along her knuckles once more.

"You know," she starts, the hint of a smirk playing at her lips, "It'd be okay if you did, Sansa."

Sansa only furrows her brows at the words, her confusion lighting her face.

Margaery's smirk goes full-blown. "If you enjoyed it, that is."

Sansa pulls her hand from hers, a sharp breath sucked through her lips. "Margaery!" she scolds, even as the smile touches her lips.

But the other woman only laughs, settling back along her chair. She takes a moment, smothering her chuckle behind a graceful hand. "Don't be so cruel to yourself, dear girl." Her smile grows fond, and then an abstract sort of sorrow lines her face, softening her beyond measure. "You don't have to love him," she says, hand tightening over Sansa's. "That's not what this is about."

Sansa sighs, her humor leaving her instantly, eyes drifting to their joined hands.

"We women deal with enough pain in this world without having to endure it from our husbands," she says solemnly, hand tightening over hers. "Take your pleasure where you can, Sansa. And do not be ashamed of it." Her eyes are fervent on hers, imploring, and Sansa feels her chest constricting beneath the look.

Did you like it?

Sansa thinks of the way he'd yanked her to him, the dark gaze he'd leveled Aegon with, the greedy press of his fingers along her ribs.

Did you like it?

Gods help her, but she did.

And nothing had scared her more.

* * *

Sex becomes perfunctory.

"I'll be gentler," he says on the second night, voice hesitant – the pale imitation of an apology, even in its sincerity – and Sansa fiddles with the tie of her robe, standing near the bed.

He's watching her from the threshold, his tunic already unlaced, and when she nods in response, a cool breath leaving her with the motion, he takes a breath, flexes his hands at his side, and then strides across the room toward her.

It begins anew.

They each know what is expected of them, after all.

When he eases into her this time, it's impossibly slower, a long, ragged breath leaving him, his jaw clenching at the effort. Beneath him, Sansa bites her lip, seizing up again, staring up at him in the dark, never looking away, and he has to glance down to her chest, the edge of her shift still adorning her, has to brace a hand along the bed at her head and still himself, let her adjust.

She reaches for his shoulder with a gentle squeeze, an indication to move, and Jon does.

Her legs fit around his hips easily now, her hands more sure at his shoulders. Every night, he still finds hazel oil at her folds when he sets himself to her entrance. Perhaps he is foolish in hoping to find otherwise. She doesn't jump like that first night anymore though, when he touches her between her thighs to line himself up.

He never touches more – knowing how unappreciated it is.

He never tries to kiss her either, and he thinks he hears the light breath of relief escape her lips when he drops his head to her shoulder instead, unable to bear her gaze any longer without wanting to crash his mouth to hers, to hike her thighs higher up his hips, to reach between her legs and ease some of that tension out with a wet thumb.

So, he braces his mouth to her shoulder, panting into her flesh, pumping into her with a steady, even pace that draws no whimpers but draws no winces either, and this he will have to be satisfied with.

Because if he cannot bring her pleasure than at least he can avoid bringing her pain.

He tries to make it good for her, in what little ways he can – always settles her with the pillow beneath her head, tries to massage the smooth flesh of her thighs when he's spreading her wide, manages to keep his teeth from catching along her collar bone with his ragged need, never drops atop her when he's finished, passes her the wet cloth from the bedside basin first and keeps his dark gaze turned from her when she's sopping up the seed spilling from her cunt with flushed cheeks and a still-heaving chest.

One night he swears he hears her breath hitch when he angles himself deeper, strokes inside her along a spot that has his eyes rolling back, her nails digging into his shoulder blades as her knees tighten at his waist. But when he finally looks down at her, her eyes are closed, her brow scrunched, as though she is trying to ride something out, and Jon thinks it must be pain.

He curses himself and draws back out, keeps to shallower thrusts, misses the curl of her nails along his back when her grip relinquishes him.

Another night she lets him cup her breast through her shift, his hand toying at the end of the fabric until she nods hesitantly, his rough palm closing around the mound unsurely, the sigh raking from him when he feels her heat beneath his touch, her heartbeat beating a rhythm against his palm, and he squeezes – gently. She arches imperceptibly, a sound curled in her throat, and she turns her head away. He barely contains his growl of impatience, dipping his head to her throat instead, lips latching to the skin there and palming at her through the shift, rutting until he spills, and her heartbeat never wanes, still frantic beneath his hand. He stays inside her for as long as he can get away with, pulling from her when she touches a delicate hand to his neck, the press of her fingers light enough to send him spinning, aching and desperate again.

He rolls from her with a hand raked through his curls, jaw clenching, his control like a taut string she plucks at precariously, unknowingly.

Because her every sigh he wants to drag out into a breathy moan, every rise of her chest he wants to bow into a delicious arch, every purse of her lips he wants to draw into a needy howl of his name.

To have her writhing beneath him, whining at his ear, coming apart for him with a splintered cry and her cunt clenching around his cock, to watch her break and crest and surge beneath his hands, to drive her to madness for him.

To draw it wildly from her – like a snarling wolf.

To sink his teeth in her and let her do the same.

To taste.

Sansa buries her face in his shoulder when he grunts his release atop her, a low curse panted in her hair, his fingers dug into the flesh of her hip.

She'll drive him mad soon, he knows.

She sleeps always with her back to him.

Jon takes to sparring with the eldest Stark often, a means of releasing some of the frustration he cannot release upon her, and Robb offers little but a raised brow when he comes demanding his presence in the training yard with a scowl and a nod jerked in the opposite direction. Robb always follows with a laugh, and more than once, Jon has found himself panting ragged at the end of a fight, tugging the collar of his tunic open harshly, chest heaving, sweat matting his curls to his forehead, and his body's absolutely thrumming, absolutely screaming beneath his skin, ready to rip and roar and -

And fuck.

Jon rakes a hand through his hair roughly, catching sight of Sansa at the edge of the training yard, gripping at the column she leans against, watching him with unblinking eyes.

He thinks he must be imagining the way she licks her lips, the way she bares her throat just so, the way her nails curl along the column.

(Because he can't be the only one – he just can't be.

Even when every trembling line of her body is telling him otherwise.)

Jon frowns at her presence, mouth opening, but never getting the chance to speak.

"It's been a while since we've had a turn, brother. Shall we?"

Jon's gaze whips to Aegon coming up behind Robb, swinging a blade casually, the hilt rolling through his fingers with practiced ease.

Robb frowns at the motion, eyes alighting the blade. "Live steel, my lord?" he asks cautiously.

Jon bites his tongue.

And so, the punishment continues.

Aegon's eyes dance with violet exhilaration beneath the afternoon soon and Jon nods toward Robb, motioning for him to join his sister. "Step aside, Stark." It isn't said callously, but Robb seems to recognize the edge to it regardless. He joins Sansa at the edge of the yard without further word.

Jon sighs, catching the blade Aegon tosses his way, and the spar begins.

Aegon has always been exceptionally good with a blade, but Jon's always been better. He weaves around Aegon with surety, stepping lightly, letting his blade miss just barely, letting Aegon's swings avoid him just barely.

It is a dance he learned the steps to long ago.

He is a well-kept bastard, after all.

Jon swings low – too low. And Aegon parries it easily, as he'd expected, knocking him back, and Jon stumbles a step, muscles tensing in anticipation, ready for the blow, as he turns his head just enough to miss the brunt of Aegon's responding swing, but not enough to miss the slice of the tip up his jaw, a thin arc of blood catching the air and Jon winces at the pain, a hand clamping over the wound when he stumbles back.

Aegon smiles triumphantly, blade stilled in an over-arch.

Sansa's gasp of "Jon!" has him nearly biting down on his tongue, and it takes all of him not to turn to her, a feral sort of need curling in his chest.

Aegon's blade tips into the dirt. "Well fought, brother." The words are accompanied by an appreciative nod, a narrowing of his eyes, fair skin glinting with a sheen of sweat that Aegon somehow manages to make look graceful rather than grimy.

Jon pulls his hand from his cut, collaring his glare, a tight swallow his only answer.

And then Sansa is at his elbow, one hand turning him in her grasp and the other reaching for his jaw. He pulls from her more harshly than he intends, but he doesn't think he can manage to bear her searching touch or her scrutinizing gaze this very moment.

Sansa retracts from him slowly, clearly hurt by the rejection of her touch.

Jon closes his eyes, breathes deep, opens his eyes on the exhale.

Aegon is standing with his hands behind his back, sword still held in his grip, head cocked toward Sansa. "Did you enjoy the match, my lady?"

Sansa opens her mouth, closes it, folds her hands demurely before her. "You are an exceptional swordsman, my lord," she says softly.

Jon's gaze snaps to her finally, watching the way she doesn't meet Aegon's eyes, her thumb rubbing over her knuckles in a motion of unease. He narrows his eyes at her.

"Well," Aegon begins, a light smack of his lips following the words, "With such a fair lady in the audience, I imagine it is any man's wish to prove their prowess." His smile branches out like a spill of rich wine, his head dipping down toward hers, voice lowering. "I admit, I am not immune to such powers, my lady," he says without faltering, eyes never leaving hers.

Jon glances to the side, fist already curling, tongue already tart with his rage.

"You're too kind," Sansa answers, and Jon feels her gaze on him, her figure a rigid line in his peripheral.

Jon presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, holds it there, tries to drown out the rush of blood.

To rip and roar and fuck.

His hands burn for her – maybe especially so with Aegon eyeing her so intently.

But his brother only chuckles, glancing back to Jon. "You should tend to your husband, Lady Sansa." His voice goes hollow – a dead expel of air. The ends of his mouth ease down, his smile uncurling like smoke. "He's bleeding," he says, sharp and cursory.

Sansa's hand slips along Jon's elbow, curling along the crook of it. "I shall," she says evenly, no tremble to be heard.

Jon, however, is practically quaking with his fury.

It doesn't abate until Aegon is stalking from the courtyard, until Sansa is turning him in her hands for another look at his jaw, huffing at his reluctance, until he meets Robb's eyes over her shoulder, intent and watchful.

Until Sansa is tugging him from the yard and he's trailing after her skirts, mouth full of useless words, his hand clutched in hers.

Until the spot between her shoulder blades becomes a blur beneath his heavy stare.

Until he is too far gone to ever turn back now.

* * *

"Take off your tunic," she says, wringing out the cloth in the basin beside him. When he doesn't move to do so, Sansa glances over to him, finding him leaning with his elbows over his knees, a bemused brow quirked. She resists the urge to roll her eyes. "The blood will set if we don't clean it immediately," she explains, motioning to the splatter of blood along the collar.

Jon considers her a moment quietly, and then he's reaching along his back for the material, tugging it up and out of his breeches, over his broad shoulders and head. He bunches the tunic in his hands, holding it out to her expectantly, chest sweat-lined and sun-kissed.

Sansa keeps her gaze deliberately fixed to his as she grabs for the soiled garment, handing it off behind her to the waiting handmaid without breaking her stare. Her throat flexes tightly, and Jon seems to catch the motion, a slow, predatory smile tugging at his lips, half hidden in his beard.

Gods, but she can clearly see every sinewy cord of muscle she'd only ever seen before by candlelight.

The handmaid exits the rooms with the tunic swiftly, closing the door behind her, and then they are alone.

Jon leans back in his chair slowly, hands sliding over his thighs, shoulders pulled back as he watches her.

Sansa frowns at the deliberate display, reaching for his chin with perhaps a bit too much force and turning his head away from her. "We'll have to clean the cut," she gets out in a hoarse voice, dabbing the wet cloth to the wound.

Jon lets out an exasperated sigh, but does not fight her touch, letting her clean the thin cut down the length of his jaw. Sansa is focused, brow furrowed, swiping the blood clean that she can through his beard, dipping it back into the water, wringing it out, drawing it further and further down his jaw. She hardly notices the soft puff of his breaths or the way he watches her out of the corner of his eye, so intent on her task as she is. She cocks her head to see the underside of his jaw, to swipe at the blood drying there, tipping his chin in her delicate hold, and he acquiesces easily. But the light isn't good, and it's a bad angle from where she stands at the edge of his knees, so when she presses into them on instinct and he parts them for her, her skirts brushing along the inside of his thighs as she steps into the vee of his legs, she doesn't even note the shift, instead, taking advantage of the new position to better see the trail of blood drying along his throat.

She bends further, hair slipping over her shoulder, fingers perched beneath his jaw. Another swipe of the cloth. Slow and measured. Sansa watches the faint bob of his Adam's apple, the flex of sweat-soaked skin across his throat, and suddenly she remembers the way that throat had looked above her just the other night, with him braced atop her, driving into her with sure and steady thrusts. She remembers the clench of muscle along his neck when he'd spilled inside her.

Sansa's lips part, an unsteady breath leaving her. She's suddenly very aware of how close she stands to him, the steady rise and fall of his bare chest beneath her, how she need only lean a handful of breaths closer to bury her face against his neck. She presses harshly along the half-dried blood marring his jaw.

"You could have parried that last swing," she manages in a thin voice. She clears her throat, swallows back the quiver, hopes he doesn't notice it.

Jon doesn't answer her.

She frowns at the silence, wet cloth dipping along the edge of his collar bone now. She huffs. "Why didn't you?"

Jon takes a slow, deep breath, and Sansa can't help the way her eyes drift to the broad expanse of his muscled chest at the motion. She averts her eyes quickly.

And then he's reaching for the hair spilling over her shoulder, fingers snaking around the end of a softly curled tendril. Sansa stills with her hand at his throat, glancing at the gesture from the corner of her eye.

A sound brews in his throat, low and contemplative, his dark eyes fixed to the strand of copper between his fingers. "At our wedding feast," he begins, ignoring her question, "When you danced with my brother – were you not as upset with his familiarity as you were with mine?"

Sansa grips the cloth between white knuckles, drawing back enough to properly look at him. His hand at the edge of her hair keeps her from stepping back out of the space between his legs. She wonders if he intended it so. She stays resolutely silent.

A short, subtle quirk of his lip lights his face before it's gone. "Or did you welcome it?"

Sansa swallows tightly. "A lady must always be courteous."

Jon's gaze drops to her laced-in side, the fingertips of his free hand suddenly grazing the edge of her waist. His voice is low and breathy. "And your compliment on his swordsmanship? That was courtesy?"

Raising her chin, Sansa watches him with wary eyes. "A lady must also be conscious of her station."

Jon scoffs at the word 'station', his hand folding more surely around her waist, giving it the slightest tug so that she stumbles even closer, her hands going to his shoulders to steady herself. She sucks a sharp breath between her teeth at the jostle, watching as he gazes up at her, his face hovering just above her stomach. "A lady must be so many things," he mocks, his other hand curling tightly over the hair in his grip. "One has to wonder if she manages to ever be herself amidst all that decorum."

She remembers his warning to curb her tongue, suddenly. She smarts beneath the hypocrisy. Sansa's chest tightens with her frustration, the air stalling in her throat. She stares down at him with an air of incredulity.

Jon's hand branches over her waist possessively. "Or have I simply married a pretty little doll? Easily filled with other people's opinions about what she should be?"

Sansa's eyes narrow so quickly he almost misses it, her jaw clenching beneath her ire. His responding smirk incites her more, and she's reaching over to the basin then, dropping the cloth back into the water unceremoniously. "I've watched my brothers sparring often enough back home to recognize a thrown match when I see one."

Jon's hand tightens over her waist, his mouth pursing up at her.

"If even I can see it, who else do you think has noticed?" she says sharply.

Jon untangles his fingers from her hair.

Sansa raises her chin, a tight breath drawn through her lungs. "I doubt Prince Aegon would care very much for you coddling him, were he to know." She moves to step back, but he reaches for her with both hands now, gripping at her hips, steadying her against him as he glares back up at her, eyes hooded and dark.

"You have a particular interest in what my brother cares for?" he intones darkly, fingers curling tight along her hips, bunching in the fabric of her dress.

She glares back just as intensely, trying to ignore the way his steady grip lights a heat even through her heavy skirts, his fingertips marring the curve of her hips with his imprint. A long, charged moment passes between them, with neither relenting, until finally, Sansa brushes a delicate hand to the cut at his jaw, eyes still steel, mouth still cut into a sharp frown. "I'll call Maester Gregor to stitch that for you." She doesn't acknowledge the quiver underlining the words – swallows them back quickly. Her hand falls from his face. "Have you any further need of me, husband?"

Jon grinds his teeth, still glaring up at her, a shadow passing over his face, and then gone. He releases her instantly, almost forcefully. "No," he says simply, gaze falling to the wayside.

She steps from his overwhelming presence immediately, pretending to miss the clench of his fists along his thighs when she does.

"My lord," she says, nodding in farewell, before turning for the door and never looking back.

* * *

Daenerys is pregnant.

They discover it when she doesn't arrive for breakfast one morning, Aegon striding into the room to his chair, hands resting along the back of it as he blinks dazedly at the table.

Rhaenys pulls the spoon from her mouth. "No Daenerys tonight? Is she ill again?" A worried furrow of her brow mars her features.

"I've just come from the maester," he says slowly, eyes drifting to his sister's. "She's with child." He releases the words on a heavy breath.

Sansa's mouth parts, her shock overcoming her for a moment, before she regains her manners, setting her napkin to the table with a warm smile. "That's wonderful news, my lord."

His gaze flicks to Sansa, settling on her a moment, before returning the smile with a lilt of his lips, an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Lady Sansa."

"How is she?" Rhaenys asks, spoon stilled over her grapefruit.

Sansa glances to the princess at the tender exhale of her words.

Aegon steps around his chair, settling a hand at the back of Rhaenys' head. "It is no more than the common sickness, they say. She is well." He offers her a reassuring smile, fragile and barely there.

The image is striking to Sansa.

Aegon's hand falls from Rhaenys' hair when she nods in answer, lips pressed into a concerned but warm smile.

"Congratulations, brother," Jon says beside her, voice gruff as he leans back in his seat. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Aegon looks at him, then to Sansa, and then just as swiftly, back to Jon. "Yes," he says, "It is." A lick of his lips, hands returning to the back of his chair.

It's a decidedly delicate flicker of movement, nothing deliberate about it. It's almost...unnerving, in its fragility – the way Aegon's fingers curl around the back arch, the way his chest fills with his breath, lips turning up into a faint smile.

Sansa shifts in her seat, hands smoothing out over her thighs, before curling in her lap. She glances to Jon out of the corner of her eye. He's staring at his plate now, his hand curled into a loose fist along his armrest, and he's so close, she realizes suddenly. Close enough to touch.

Her hand moves to curl around his forearm, hovering hesitantly in the air, before retracting back to her lap. He takes no notice, and Sansa breathes deep, settling the roaring pit of her stomach.

To taste and touch and know each other.

She sighs, eyes flicking back up toward Aegon. He's watching her steadily, and Sansa almost startles at the look. She flutters another encouraging smile toward the prince, throat tightening. "I'm sure you're very happy," she says.

Aegon cocks his head, a thoughtful purse to his lips. "I am, my lady."

Jon picks his fork and knife up beside her, cutting into his food with a single-minded focus. "The quail's getting cold."

Sansa turns to him, mouth open to scold his brusqueness, but she sees the tight clench of his jaw, and her mouth closes abruptly.

It isn't until later, when she's walking the gardens arm in arm with Margaery beneath a slowly waning sun, that she thinks on it again.

That stiffness in his jaw, the muscles of his arm flexing – all cold and callousness when he's bristling beneath something, and yes, she's become accustomed to his moods long enough to notice when he's bristling.

She wonders when that happened.

Maybe it's because she knows now, the gentle ease that can be found in his palms, the vulnerable quake that can be found in his breath, the decidedly not cold and callousness of his gaze when she's spread beneath him, taut beneath his fingers like the chord of a harp.

Maybe it's because of the way he looks at her these days.

Maybe it's because she's starting to look back.

"Margaery," she says, clearing her throat.

The Tyrell cocks her head to listen, a quirk to her lip in answer.

Sansa's hand tightens along Margaery's elbow. "Do you think Aegon and Daenerys love each other?"

Margaery laughs, short and bright, tapping Sansa's hand affectionately as they continue their stroll. "I think there are many things those two feel for each other, but I cannot rightly say whether any of it is love." She offers an impish grin. "Why do you ask?"

Sansa's gaze turns toward the path, lips pursed. "I don't know. I think I just..." She sighs, shaking her head. "I suppose there must be something of love between them, indiscernible as it may be to others."

Margaery plucks a nearby low-hanging flower off the vine, twirling the short stem between her fingers as they continue. "Because they're expecting?" There's something incredulous to her tone. "Sansa, any beast can breed."

She's taken aback by the words, even as softly-crafted as they are, melodically spoken, no hint of malice.

(The image of Jon, sweat-lined and panting above her, streaks through her mind. Her stomach turns without warning.)

Sansa bites her lip. She thinks, instead, of the look Aegon had let flutter across his face, perhaps even without meaning to, earlier that morning.

More exposed than she's ever seen him, except perhaps during their dance at her wedding, his eyes sweeping out over the room for his salt-haired wife upon her question.

"It is the wish of every marriage, is it not?"

Sansa blinks back the memory, another one stealing swiftly behind it. Jon's breath fanning her lips, his chest hard-pressed to hers, a dangerous glint to his eye – how the heat of him had burned her to the bone when he took her in his arms across the dancefloor, even as her sharp tongue cut into him with a branding chastisement.

He'd only held her tighter, never relinquished his hold, let her rebuke him without interruption.

That heat hadn't dissipated until well into the night, long after he'd spent inside her for the first time, long after she laid awake staring up at the canopy, listening to his soft breaths behind her, wondering if sleep eluded him as well.

She thinks she should have turned to him then, broached the silence, reached for something tentative and shadowed between them – something to hold onto in the comfort of night, where they may be free to be 'Jon and Sansa' outside of 'husband and wife'.

(She hadn't though, in the end. She'd only pulled the sheets up to her chest and turned her face into the pillow, craven and lonely – but mostly –

Mostly, afraid.

Of herself, more than anything.)

"That's not it," she tells Margaery, brows furrowing, steps never stalling. She glances out across the gardens, catches sight of the fountain coming around the bend, the faint light of dusk glinting off the waters like a mirage. She keeps her silence for many moments, watching the soft splash of water as they glide past, her throat tight.

Margaery fondly taps her cheek with the flower, a cheerful motion, even when her voice goes solemn, hesitant. "Is this about you and Jon?"

Sansa gives her an exasperated look but Margaery is undaunted. She merely raises a brow, a pointed look thrown Sansa's way.

"Jon and I – we..." A heavy sigh, a one-shouldered shrug. "We're still learning each other."

Margaery gives her a sharp look, barely managing to keep the disappointment from her face.

If she thinks Sansa a coward, she kindly doesn't say so. It wouldn't matter, though.

Sansa already thinks herself coward enough.

She sighs again, brushing a tendril of hair from her face. "Gods, I'm pathetic."

Margaery stops then, her hold on Sansa halting her as well, and she turns fully to her, eyes searching hers, lips tipped into a pretty frown.

Sansa blinks at her, brows raising in question.

Margaery takes a breath, hand sliding down Sansa's arm to clasp along her own palm. "Do you think Daenerys happy?"

She blinks at the question, glancing down to their joined hands, and then back up. Margaery is staring at her intently, and Sansa finds herself growing hesitant under the gaze. She fumbles for her words. "I don't..."

"In your eyes, does she seem happy to you?"

Sansa clamps her mouth shut, the words stalling along her tongue. She takes a breath, shakes her head almost imperceptibly. "No," she manages, a soft expel of breath.

Margaery only nods, a gentle thumb grazing over her knuckles. "And do you really think a babe is going to change that?"

Sansa bites her lip, a sudden sorrow lighting her bones. She thinks of Daenerys' self-assured words and her perfect posture and her unabashed gaze, all exceedingly graceful, and yet... somehow empty.

It saddens something great in Sansa.

"No," she answers – truthfully.

Margaery looks at her a moment longer, contemplative. "A babe is not the highest aspiration of love, Sansa, no matter what your Septa told you," she scoffs gently.

Sansa opens her mouth –

"Nor should it be," Margaery continues, hand tightening over hers.

Sansa's mouth clamps shut, her brows furrowed.

"Duty is all well and good, Sansa, but will it keep you warm at night? Will it weather the years with you? Will it grow old and grey beside you?"

Her chest aches at the words, her eyes stinging suddenly. She lets out a rueful laugh, the sound catching in her throat. "Take my pleasure where I can?" she asks, repeating Margaery's earlier words with a sardonic smile.

The other woman only offers a comforting gaze, patting her hand once more before releasing it, winding her arm through hers and continuing their trek through the gardens. "Quite," she says succinctly, chin tipped high.

The light has grown dim across the gardens, and they turn back toward the keep in unison. Sansa considers the other woman a moment longer, before leaning into her, whispering almost conspiratorially, "Do you think pleasure can become love with time?"

Margaery mulls the question over, rolling the stem of the forgotten flower between the pads of her fingertips once more. "Perhaps. For some."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then it is still pleasure," she says simply.

Sansa raises her brows at that, tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

It's not an untruth, really.

And what guarantee does Sansa have that her union with Jon will nurture love? What guarantee has she at all that he even wants the same?

Sansa looks ahead, steps light and even, hand crooked into the hollow of Margaery's elbow.

Wolves have never been craven things.

So why should she start now?

Sansa draws her back straight, eyes instinctively searching for the high window that is hers and Jon's bedchamber.

Yes.

She will take her pleasure where she can.

"Sansa, would you..." Margaery trails off, fingers clenching around the flower in her grasp, a nervous sort of tremor making her shake her hand out, tossing the flower to the wayside with a long look. She breathes deep, tucks her hand more surely into Sansa's arm. "Would you find it terribly improper of me if I asked to write your brother back at Winterfell?"

Sansa turns wide eyes to Margaery, but the other woman's staring intently ahead, cheeks deceptively unflushed in the growing shadows, a nonchalant sway to her walk that is entirely too contrived in Sansa's eyes.

She smiles devilishly. "Well, I don't think he'd particularly appreciate letters from a strange woman, even one of such a noble house."

Margaery glances at her, brows raised, mouth parted with no sound coming out.

Sansa can hardly contain her giggle. "Though my brother Rickon is too sweet to tell you such himself," she teases.

Margaery stops, mouth gaping, and then a laugh breaks from her, a hand swatting at Sansa's arm good-naturedly. "Sansa, you terrible thing, I meant Robb," she near shrieks in laughter.

"Oh, Robb, is it? Just Robb? Not 'Lord Robb'? So intimate already?" Sansa cannot curb her smirk as she watches Margaery huff.

"You're teasing me."

"And rightfully so." Sansa beams.

Margaery tuts dramatically. "I find this friendship terribly one-sided, Lady Sansa. I am aghast at your insensitivity to my plight."

"Oh, how unladylike of me."

Margaery nuzzles at her cheek, laughing.

Sansa can hardly imagine why such a self-possessed woman would need her approval or opinion, but she is glad to give it, nonetheless. She clutches at Margaery's arm, keeping her close, smile never breaking from her face. It's a meaningful look she gives her, a warmth blossoming in her chest. "Take your pleasure where you can, Margaery," she says.

Margaery presses a swift, full kiss to her temple, smile etched against her skin, hand braced to the back of her head. "Then I shall," she whispers gleefully.

Sansa shakes her head at her, pulling back slightly. "Though I do imagine Robb is like to be the one to write first. Horrendous restraint, that one."

Margaery's laugh fills the night air.

Sansa is warm all the way back to her room.

* * *

Sansa sits at her vanity table, turning the vial of hazel oil over in her hand. She glances back up to her reflection in the mirror, braid undone over her shoulder, the thin silk robe parted over her white shift, the faint outline of her breasts barely visible in the flicker of candlelight atop the vanity.

And this is what Jon sees each night before they go to bed.

Sansa sighs, placing the vial back on the table top.

Do not be ashamed of it, she tells herself, repeating Margaery's words like a mantra. But she doesn't quite understand how it works without it.

She closes her eyes, thinks back to that first night he'd slid his fingers up her folds, and the jolt that shot through her at the touch. She curls her fingers around the edge of her shift at her thighs.

Maybe it all starts there.

Her knees part hesitantly, her eyes still fluttered closed, drawing the hem of her shift up her thighs, settling it at her hips. Taking a long, slow breath, feeling the tightness pricking at her chest, she trails a finger over the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, dipping down between her legs.

She imagines spreading her legs for him, the warm, rough pressure of his palms urging her thighs apart, settling his weight in the cradle of her hips.

A shuddering sigh escapes her parted lips. Her hand presses against her clothed cunt, a sharp drop in her gut jerking her hips unconsciously at the motion. She snaps her eyes open.

Her image in the mirror is the most scandalous Sansa has ever seen, thighs parted eagerly, shift bunched up at the waist, chest already heaving, cheeks flushed, and then there – there – her cunt pushing toward the pressure of her palm, fingers curling down over her smallclothes. She gasps at the image, her hand retracting, and she brushes something – gods, something wonderful, a shudder racking her, a soft moan caught between her teeth, surprising herself, and before she even knows what she's doing, her hand is returning, seeking that spark, that surge, fingers more sure now, pressing over her smallclothes for something – for –

"Ah!" Sansa whimpers, hips jerking, fingers finding home. She rubs at the soft nub through her smallclothes again, feeling the dampness, head lolling back, hips bucking up into her own tentative touch, and another moan makes it past her clenched teeth, nearly loud enough to cover the sound of the door unlatching, but not quite, and Sansa rips her hand from between her legs, fumbling to replace her shift, smoothing her breath out, feeling that clench in her cunt even now, aching and eager, and she bites down on her lip to keep from trembling just when Jon stalks through the door.

Her eyes catch along his in the mirror when he stops short, the door slipping closed behind him.

For the horrifying stretch of an instant, Sansa thinks she's been caught out.

Her mortification is almost enough to drown out her arousal.

(Almost, but not quite.)

Jon's brow furrows as he steps toward her. "Are you well, my lady?"

Sansa releases a forced chuckle, a practiced scoff. "I'm still unused to this heat," she says, brushing the hair from her shoulders, hoping the light sheen of sweat at her brow is not construed otherwise, nor the faint flush of her cheeks she still catches in the reflection.

Jon stares at her a moment, considering, before nodding silently, seeming to accept her answer, and then making his way to the bed. He sits along the edge and goes to remove his boots.

Sansa feels the air rake from her chest in faint relief. Her body is still wound tight, her skin thrumming, heat lancing through her, and she watches Jon undress in the reflection of the mirror, hands curled over her knees in anticipation, lip caught between her teeth.

He's down to his sleeping tunic when he sits back along the edge of the bed again, his back to her, a heavy sigh leaving him.

Sansa stands with a surety she hasn't felt in many moons. She makes her way to the bed, settling along the opposite edge. In her peripheral, she can see the vial of hazel oil still lingering atop her vanity – untouched.

It will be the only thing untouched tonight, she promises.

With trembling fingers, she begins to slip the robe from her shoulders. It flutters to the furs just as Jon's voice hits the air.

"Forgive me, my lady, but I – I think I've had the wrong of it all this time."

Sansa stills, hands curled along the material of her robe, ready to drag it from the bed, her gaze flicking over her shoulder toward him.

His back is still to her, his hands hung between his knees as his elbows rest along his thighs.

She licks her lips, shifts to pull a knee up along the bed, angled toward him. "My lord?"

Another sigh racks him, and he's rubbing his face then.

Sansa's chest tightens inexplicably.

Jon straightens finally, turning so that he can meet her gaze across the bed. "When you said you wanted to be a proper wife."

Her mouth opens, words ready along her tongue, but the look in his eye stops her.

They stay staring at each other across the bed, half-turned with their backs to each other, half-leaning into the other's words.

And then Jon offers a rueful chuckle. "You wanted civility, not affection."

She thinks she means to say something, she must, she surely will but... but the words lay dying in her throat. She swallows them back like turned wine.

"But I'm a bastard," he says, gaze falling to the bed. "And it seems I exceed at neither." A light quirk of his lip, the curl of his fingers in the furs, fist white-knuckled and stiff.

Her gaze stays rooted to that fist, chest rising slowly and steadily. Her throat is dry, her tongue heavy. She does not meet his eyes.

"I apologize, my lady," he says now, turning from her fully, back a curved line, like a scream.

Or a howl.

Sansa blinks back the imagine, eyes stinging uncontrollably. She shifts over the bed toward him, hand outreaching. "Jon - "

"We should get some rest." He goes to put out the bedside candle, dousing their room in darkness.

Sansa can still follow his outline in the dark, still make out his form in shadow. She has grown used to the shape of him, the weight of him. She has learned to find him in the absence of light.

"Jon, please, I – "

"It's okay, Sansa," he says lowly, already turning under the covers, gaze fixing to the canopy of the bed. "Duty can take a night's respite."

Sansa curls her lip back in a trembling grimace, hand bunching in the furs, that sting at her eyes a sudden, wet sheen. She blinks back the tears in the cover of darkness, grabbing for her ends of the furs. She shuffles into her side of the bed, curling on her side, watching him.

He takes a breath in, heaves it back out.

Sansa curls her fist beneath her chin, huddled in the furs. "I don't think you exceed at neither," she says softly, watching him in the night.

He makes no move to turn to her, but she can see his eyes searching the dark – skyward, unfixed.

She almost reaches for him.

But instead, her hand stays bunched in the furs beneath her chin until sleep takes her, Jon's outline painted in shadow against the backs of her lids.

* * *

Jon wakes groggily to a noise at his ear, the film of night still dowsing him, sleep still fogging his mind. He blinks in the darkness, a grumble lighting in his chest. He's laying on his back, a warmth at his side, a steady rocking. Another sound at his ear – low and breathy.

Jon stills.

He blinks again, quickly, a hand rubbing at his eyes, straining to see through the shadows as he turns his gaze to Sansa beside him, half-draped over him. She's on her stomach, one of her legs thrown over his, fist bunched in the sheets at her cheek, her warm center pressing into his thigh and she's – she's –

Jon's throat goes dry.

Sansa rocks into him in her sleep, slow and even, rubbing herself against his thigh. Even through his breeches and her rucked up shift, he can feel the throbbing heat of her, her cunt damp against him. Another sigh leaves her, and Jon's gaze snaps up to her face, watching her lashes flutter in her sleep, her mouth pursing tight. He takes a moment, blinking wildly at her, jarred by the sight of her. And then he shifts just slightly beneath her, pressing his thigh more firmly against her.

The soft moan that leaves her has the blood rushing to his cock instantly. His mouth drops open as he watches her. Another rock of her hips against him, a keening sound in the back of her throat, and Jon's breath comes quicker, his thigh pushing against her cunt on each intoxicating grind.

He can feel his growing hardness pressing into the thigh she has between his legs and he shifts slightly on his side to better fit into her rocking. His eyes never leave the enthralling expression on her face, watching the scrunch of her brows, the purse of her lips, the pale column of her throat flexing as she strains in her sleep, drawing closer to him, back arching as she grinds against him, and she's wet, Jon finds, so unbelievably wet, and his mouth goes slack, his breath hitching, a maddening haze overtaking him, and he grabs at her thigh before he can stop himself, fingers inching up past her bunched shift, fixing to her hip. His fingers dig into her flesh, dragging her into him, grinding her against the hard muscle of his thigh, eyes fixed to the look of rapture on her sleep-touched features. His hand reaches further, encouraged by her breathy moans, grabbing at her ass and dragging her harshly against him, pressing his cock into her hip as his thigh wedges further between her legs, pressed up against her slick cunt, that sodden, intoxicating heat of her, grinding her against him, and the chest-rattling groan rakes from him before he manages to bite it back.

Sansa stills.

Jon's breath stalls in his throat and he stills as well, blinking deliriously at her in the dark, hard and aching at her hip, fingers digging into her flesh.

Her lashes flutter, her fist uncurling in the sheet beneath her, eyes lifting in a sleepy daze to catch brilliantly along his. Her breathing is short and shallow, her body stretched taut, a line of precarious rigidity. She blinks at him, her eyes focusing in the dark.

Jon barely breathes. They lay staring at each other, chests heaving, legs entangled. He watches the light of recognition in her eyes, even amongst the shadows, the flicker of a tremble at her lips, her tight swallow as she fixes him with a wide-eyed stare.

And just when he's about to release her, to draw back, to turn from her in heated shame and attempt to will his straining erection down, curled as far away from her on the bed as he can be – he catches the tentative shift of her thigh against him.

Her mouth parts, her breath hitching, and he doesn't dare move. She's still staring at him when she shifts again, this time just as hesitant, but it's a shallow rock of her hips rather than the simple press of her thigh.

Jon sucks a breath between his teeth, fingers tightening over her hip.

She seems to catch the reaction, because then she's biting her lip, brows drawn down in concentration, eyes never leaving his when she rolls her hips very purposely, very surely against his thigh now, a thready moan building in her throat.

Jon's control snaps. He grips at her thigh, pulling it from between his legs, ignoring her delicate whimper at the loss and shifting her so that her leg is swung over his hip instead, angling them so he's on his side fully, pressed into her, his other thigh braced at her center now. She sighs at the return of the pressure, an instinctual roll of her hips meeting him when he presses more forcefully into her. Her eyes go hooded, fixing to his mouth, the hand that was bunched in the sheets reaching tentatively toward his hip, anchoring there to steady herself against his thrusts. Even in the dark, he thinks he can see the pinks of her cheeks at the motion, at the steady rock of their hips, her cunt rubbing incessantly at his thigh through their clothes, and the thought has him impossibly harder, groaning in the space between their panting mouths.

"That's it," he tells her, voice gravelly from sleep and desire, hand guiding her hip against him. Watching her chase her pleasure like this, her cunt soaking him through his breeches, her chest heaving, her lip swollen and plump beneath her teeth, eyes hooded and fixed to his – it has him near on delirious. "That's it, Sansa, just like that," he grinds out.

She moans so prettily at his guidance that the sound staggers the breath in his chest. He ruts into her mindlessly, watching her face screw tight. His hand leaves her hip and fumbles for her shift, tugging the sleeveless thing past her shoulder, almost baring a breast entirely when he stops his frantic tugging, glancing back up at her, eyes boring into hers. She nods fervently, never stopping her grind against his thigh or her enticing mewls. Jon doesn't wait for a second confirmation, yanking the material down, breath catching when a perfect, pale breast spills out, nipple a dusky pink and pebbled to hardness. He cups her eagerly, groaning at the responding sigh that leaves her. He palms at her breast as she rubs herself more fiercely at his thigh, her hand curling tight at his hip.

Jon licks his lips, hungry, aching for a taste of her, growling impatiently as he dips his head down and takes her nipple between his lips, lapping at her, sucking eagerly. Sansa cries out, arching into him, panting above him.

"Fuck," he groans into her skin, teeth catching at her nipple, relishing the tremble that racks through her. His hand returns to her ass, hauling her against him, rutting shamelessly against her still-clothed cunt like a green boy. Jon imagines the slick heat of her, that tight cunt sheathed around his cock, so absolutely drenched for him, as he fucks her senseless, burying himself deep inside her again and again. He clamps down on her nipple, tongue swirling over the pebbled flesh, moaning with her in his mouth, sucking her harder.

"Jon," she gasps sharply, and the sound of his name in her breathless voice has him quaking, so painfully hard against her, wedging his thigh up, grinding her against the lean muscle of his leg, mouth releasing her breast on a needy growl.

"Come on, Sansa, just like that," he grunts. "Harder. Yes – fuck, just like that." His teeth catch at her collar bone, his tongue lashing at her sweat-slicked skin. "I want to feel that hot, wet cunt rutting against me. Want to hear you moan with me between your legs."

And she does moan – loudly – at his urging, grinding wantonly against him now, nails digging into his hip. Her eyes screw shut and Jon pulls back just enough to watch her, just enough to catch the disarming scrunch of her features as she chases her high, whining low in the back of her throat, pressed nearly flush up against him. "I want to see you cum for me, Sansa," he groans out, gaze fixed to her, breathless, and she cries out sharply, shuddering against him, wet and throbbing at his thigh, fingers like talons at his hip, face screwed tight, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen, the pleasure crashing through her. He's spilling instantly, vision going white, grunting into her shoulder as his hips jerk painfully, the force of the hardest orgasm he's ever had washing through him in waves and waves and waves.

It seems an age before he's able to regain his breathing, his thoughts.

"I've got you," he mutters, voice coarse, rocking into her languidly, steadily, drawing her close. Her hand edges up from his hip, gripping at his tunic, an anchor. She's trembling, her chest heaving, her mouth at his ear. "I've got you," he says again, swallowing thickly, ignoring the sticky mess his seed has made in his breeches, against her shift.

Like a fucking green boy.

Jon sighs, biting back a curse.

(Too far gone to ever turn back now.)

Sansa's fist doesn't unfurl from his chest until sleep well and truly claims her.

"I've got you," he breathes into her hair, ragged – taken by the sight of her.

Taken – wholly and recklessly.

"I've got you."

[xbadmuse]

request - can you write about shownu as your long lost love that you thought had got away but he fights his way back to be with you?

*******

a long lost lover. determined to fight his way back to the one he thought was not good enough for him. how he ended things was clearly something he regretted doing from the day it happened. but what was the excuse? what was the reason he did such thing? something that clearly broke your heart into millions and millions of pieces. love is not easy. not even for the person that loves easily. Hyunwoo fights for his love. but would it be worth it? how was he suppose to approach you. what was the first thing he should do to be by your side again? he wanted you. that was for sure. but did you want him? would you take him back with open arms just like how he expects you to and wishes you to do from all his heart. clearly, in your mind that would be the last thing you ever thought of. a long lost lover. how long would you last to be lost? it was one year and almost seven months when he last saw you. his fault. his damn fault to let you go like you were nothing. sitting on his bed every night, contemplating on wether to call you or not. contemplating on wether to see you and ask you to be his again or not. well, what was stopping him? you. the way he left you. the look on your face. the tears of sadness. it was the guil that’s been eating him alive. without any warning he just left you. without explanation. “i can not be with you any longer” he said to her. her face crashed into the void. empty eyes when she realized that this was it and that another man just played her, again. empty thoughts as he walked past the crowd of people. his eyes fixed on the road, desperate to get you out of his mind. you were stuck inside. not able to release yourself from him. it was painful to leave you like this. but why did he do exactly that? what was he thinking. “damn it” he exhaled out of frustration. his phone was ringing. you. he did not pick up. staring down on his phone, he watched the incoming call. you hands were shaking, holding the phone tightly to your ear. you tried it one last time. giving him his last chance of proving that he just overreacted. that he loved you and that he would never leave you. your phone display now covered in tears as you let it ring for the last time. hanging up and blocking his number instantly, deleting him slowly but painfully out of your life. the vibration stopped when he saw your name and a missed call. he swiped it to the left, deleting it from his display. watching his phone background, it was still a picture of your beautiful smile. he stared at it, one last time. sighing he shoved his phone back into his pockets, continuing his way back. that was almost two years ago. since that day he has not been the same. it was painful, the thought. you must have already forgotten him, got over him and continued with your life. but he did not. but why did he do it in the first place? what was he thinking to do such thing? he does not know himself. he was dumb to let you go. mistakes happen and he knew that he made one of the biggest mistakes in his life. he still stares at the pictures of you he never had the heart to delete. he still wears the shirt you bought him for his birthday because it was his favorite. because it was from you. so silly; oh how silly he thought he was. crazy and dumb. he wanted you back. so much. it was 4.24 in the morning. the thought of you still not escaping his mind. he walked the path down to the place where you used to work. a long way from where he lived. almost two years past, you probably still work there. he stood in front of the bakery. a warm orange light contrasted on his face as it turned on. you must have been getting inside just now. he did not see you but he knew that you were there. so he waited. he waited at the side of the bakery until 5.00 in the morning, the time you would open up your little shop. walking towards the door and standing right in front of it, the closed shield was still drangling in sight. he bowed down, reading the opening hours of the shop carefully. his mind was racing. too many thoughts. he did notice you walking towards the door.

when he saw a delicate hand turning the shield slowly around, letting the open be in sight he looked up to you. there you stood in front of him. the glass door the only thing separating you. oh; how beautiful you looked. how much he missed your face. his hands started to sweat. he was nervous. you could not believe your eyes as you fixed your vision on the man standing in front of your bakery door. the beating of your heart increased, pumping in your ears as Hyunwoos eyes fell on yours. you had to compose yourself. the lump in your throat excessively getting bigger and bigger the longer you stood there, staring at him. he was not worth any of these tears of yours. you already had cried enough for him. emptying your body, exhausting your body. you felt the hard push of your heart against your chest again. this oppressive feeling inside of you crawling it’s way back from deep down, where you had pushed it all these months ago. finally, you managed to turn in your heel. walking towards your counter. you heard the familiar ring when the door opened soft footsteps following you as you hurried behind the counter almost hiding yourself behind the glass. “good morning, what can i get you?” you asked him, professionally but not looking him once into his eyes. it was silent for a moment. you rummaged around, cleaning the counter off the crumbs of your baked pastries. “i would like to have a coffee, please.” “to g-“ “for here please, if you do not mind”. you eyes shot up to look at his face only to withdraw as quickly as possible. “of course. one moment” you answered him, almost in a whisper. turning around you started to prepare his coffee. you still know how he liked his coffee. how strong it has to be and how sweet. it was like riding a bicycle. you could never unlearn it. but you decided to prepare him the regular coffee you offered. nothing special to prepare for him. you were not bitter, you just do not want to give him the feeling of him being still special to you. that was a lie. he let himself down on the chair, on the right from you near the counter and infront of a window. he took off his jacket and hung it on the chair right beside him. his eye lids started to fall down and slowly close themselves. he did not sleep. he did not sleep well at all. this situation on his mind the whole night as he tossed and turned. deciding to desperately try and find you. he used to come here everyday, the spot where he sat actually his favorite one, spending hours and hours with you while you worked and served your clients. it was a small shop. not too many people visited it but always the same who kept your petite bakery going. “here is your coffee” you placed the cup that was sitting on its matching plate down infront of him as well as two small cups filled with milk and several cubes of sugar. “thank you (y/n)”. it hit you right through your heart. the heart that has been healing for months. it felt like it’s crashing again. all over again it felt so painful. hearing your name. hearing his voice speak out your name again. you thought you will never hear it again. you stared down at him. his eyes soft when you met him. he looked so tired. the feeling was so warm. so familiar. he made you feel so sad but so comfortable. Hyunwoo opened his mouth to speak when the door rang open, cascading you to the counter in an instant. the hours past, Hyunwoo was still sitting at his spot, the third coffee with a small pastry you gave him as an extra now on his table. he was not ready to leave. but watching you was all he ever wanted. seeing you again in that beautiful apron you still had, smiling at every costumer and being so polite and sweet. he smiled to himself, looking down at his coffee and taking a sip. ‘she pretends like she does not know me’ he thought. of all possibilities he was thinking of to happening when he appeared infront of you, this was the last thing he has thought of. your smile faltered as the costumer left the bakery, leaving him and yourself alone again.

after a few minutes of quiteness and you cleaning the counter, Hyunwoo spoke up: “you changed the wall colors. it’s pretty”. you exhaled the air that you did not know you were holding in when you turned around to him to give him a half hearted smile and nod. “everything looks different here. but the spot here is still the same.” he added, looking up from his hands. “Hyunwoo, why are you here?” standing at the edge of the counter, a few inches away from where he was sitting, you watched him. it was the first time in these few hours that you looked at him clearly. the way his broad shoulders where sagged down, how his hair had a darker shade then from two years ago. he straightened himself on the chai he was sitting, now looking up at you. “i came here to apologize” “apologize? for what?” you asked him. unsure what your reaction would be like but he continued. he was determined to fight over the urge to just stand up and leave. to just ignore everything and run away from the problem he was now facing. “for everything. that i left you alone without any explanation” it was silent again. you just could not believe what he is saying. this whole situation felt like a dream to you. even though you hated what he did to you. the way he treated and left you. you just sometimes did not get away the thought of him eventually coming back. you knew that forgiving him is a long way. but just the thought of him coming and begging for forgiveness was a dream you surpressed deep inside your heart. now that he was really there, asking for your time and forgiveness, you did not know how to react. “Hyunwoo, it has almost been two years. don’t you think this is a little too late?” of course it is never too late ask for forgiveness but for you, it just felt that this is too late. “i know. i know i am too late. i messed you and left the only thing that made me happy. i can not even explain how much i regretted my dumb desicion. i can not even explain why i did it. i just know that i want you back in my life. so much time went past me to realize that i have and will never love someone as much as i love you” you felt them. the lump in your throat growing with each word of him. your eyes started to fill with tears but you were not giving in. this is not how it is supposed to happen. “Hyunwoo..” you whispered now. you felt so sad. why does this happen to you now? why is he doing this to you? giving you the frustration and no will power to think of your own thoughts. oh; god how you missed him. how you missed his voice and his face. but is this really right? is this how you should handle it? “what are you expecting from me now?”. he watched you intensely. his biggest fear now slows creeping up on him. “to forgive me and take me back” he answered. this was all he ever wanted. this is everything he needed in life. you. only you. he does not care about anything else but you. you laughed. “you seriously think you can come back after two years, after breaking my heart, i have been trying to fix and stick together again for the past month and expect me to run back into your arms?” “i am not sayi” “do you actually know what you did to me? do you understand how you left me behind? now, that you realized that i was the only person that loved you unconditionally, now that i healed these fucking wounds and finally forgot about you, now you decide and have the audacity to appear like that into my bakery and ruin my life again.” he was quite. he knew that. he knew that everything you said was the truth. he knew that he did wrong by leaving you and coming back the way he did. but he just couldn’t get you out of his mind. he couldn’t forget about you. “i am sorry. i really am. i feel so bad and guilty towards you. i did the biggest mistake of my life and i have been regretting it since the day i left you” “then why did you leave then?”

“i thought i had enough of you. i thought getting to know you more and more would be just a waste of time for me. i thought there was something better then you. but there was not. and there will never be. i thought of i leave you i will forget about you, but i could not. please. i begging you. if not now, give me a chance and let me back into your life. please (y/n) i am begging you.” you did not notice when he stood up, Hyunwoo now just a few small steps away from you. he wanted to take your hand. to guide you to his chest and hold you tight again, how he used to do it. but he knew if you ever decide to let him into your life again, it will take a very long time to feel comfortable around him again. and he will respect it. he will respect every decision you take. whatever the outcome will be. good or bad. he will understand. but until then he will fight for you, as if his life depends on it. “(y/n) you don’t have to answer me now. i just wanted you to know that i still feel the same as before. that i see you only wherever i go. i respect you (y/n). please think about it. i will wait-“ the sound of the door rang again, a women with her child entering your bakery. you greeted them with a soft smile, giving a light nod towards Hyunwoo and getting preoccupied with your costumers.

a few more costumers walked inside, the time flew by as you cleaned up. when the last costumer leaving the bakery, you noticed the spot where Hyungwon sat was empty. you did not realized that he left the shop. he did not even said goodbye when he left. walking towards that spot you noticed the note under the cup plate. taking it into your hands you opened it.

i am not trying to ruin your life. i never wanted something bad to happen to you. i know i hurt you and i know that you will not forgive me that easily. just know, i am here. i will always be here. please give me a chance to show you how much i love you. it was always you. and will always be you, my little sunshine. xxx/xxxx/xxxx

the tears you have been holding in where now falling on your skin. warm on your cheek as you read the note again and again. he was here and he wanted you back. if he was telling the truth is something you would have to find out yourself. you just know that he had your heart before he left you and after he left you. it was always his. accepting that you always loved him is harder now. releasing the pressure that’s been inside of your chest for the first time since he left you, a low son escaped your lips. a chance to take is a chance to accept. you knew it will be a long while until you trusted him. but until then, your wish is to be happy. if it is with Hyunwoo or not.

[sushiandstarlight]

“Cardinal”: NaNoWriMo 30 Days of Prompts

Prompt One / Prompt Two / Prompt Three

This one is a bonus!

Read this story on AO3

After it was over they purchased a cottage in South Downs, but they didn't settle there at first. No, first they traveled. They went to places they had been before, but couldn't enjoy because they were there on official business. They went to places that hadn't been official business, but they hadn't been to together. They traveled to cities that they had watched spring to life, but were altogether different now than they had been at the beginning. New places that didn't exist until now.

Somehow, they wound up in a tiny town in the northeast of the United States just before Christmas time. The town was a tiny place, barely a dot on Google Maps. They didn't have their own newspaper, nor their own post office. And yet, they were in full swing for the holidays. A towering live tree dominated the town square, reaching towards the clouds and covered in as many lights as it would hold: a dazzling array of whites and golds and reds and greens. Garland dripped from every telephone pole and streetlight. A small red and green hut sat dwarfed beside the evergreen, proclaiming that Santa would be there for the good boys and girls of the town between the hours of 5pm and 7pm right up until the day before Christmas. There wasn't a night in the twelve before Christmas that the jolly voice of carolers couldn't be heard drifting from one street or another. Most houses offered them cocoa or cookies as payment and protection from the cold. Every house fought the darkness of night with thousands of tiny lights.

“Crowley, dear, it's more about good will towards all men, loved ones, gifts, and warm bellies nowadays. We should enjoy the revelry. It's thanks to us, at least in part, that they're still getting to enjoy it!” Aziraphale was delighting in the season whole-heartedly. He'd booked them a room in the only tiny little bed and breakfast near the town (which had taken a miracle and a half, let him tell you, with all the people returning home to be with family for the holidays!) and, while there, spent every evening baking sweets with the elderly lady that ran it. In the morning, he'd find them both tuckered out and snoring away on the matching oppressively floral recliners in the sitting room, sugar and icing-covered aprons still on.

Crowley would sip his black coffee and perch in the bay window, watching the snow gently falling against the backdrop of the rising sun, and he would want to hate it. He would really, really want to. But, he couldn't quite manage it. There was something different about celebrations this year. Maybe it was the newfound freedom they had. It pushed him to feel that little bit more human. They were here by choice, not assignment. They could leave if they so chose, and they chose not to. The energy the humans were exuding was positively contagious. The snowy weather made him cold to his very bones, yes, but watching Aziraphale enjoy himself? That warmed him well enough to be worth the chill. He blew a warm breath on the window pane in front of him a drew a snowflake. Then, smirking, he drew a serpent slithering around it.

“I made you something.”

Crowley jumped and hissed, nearly spilling what was left of his coffee.

“Sorry, I thought you would hear me coming.”

Crowley grumbled and shrugged. Normally, he would have. Something about this place had made him drop his guard. He blamed all the damned coziness. He set down his coffee and turned away from the window to face Aziraphale and held out his hand.

As he had suspected, Aziraphale placed a cookie in his palm. He hadn't expected the cookie to be delicately piped in a non-christmas design. Turning it to face him, he supposed the original shape was to be Santa's toy sack. It was a lumpy shape and he couldn't imagine what else it might have been. But, Aziraphale had re-imagined the shape. Now it was a coiled black snake with a red belly and golden eyes. A lump formed in his throat and he tried, desperately, to swallow it. His eyes were stinging, too, and that just wasn't fair. Not over a cookie.

“I thought, well you know... The whole Santa myth is nice. And angels and Christmas trees and presents are good and well. But, my Christmas wouldn't be right without you in it, Crowley. Christmas is about time with family.”

“Th-” Crowley coughed and cleared his throat, “piping's pretty good, Angel. We might have to put you to work.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waved him off, “you should see all the cookies that didn't make the cut while I was figuring out how to do this.”

“Could I see them?” Crowley just knew.

“Certainly not, they're all...” the angel sniffed, “disposed of.”

“Meaning you ate them.”

“To remove the evidence!” He was puffed out like an agitated bird and it took every bit of Crowley's self control not to laugh.

“Too right, can't have the evidence laying about.” He looked back at the cookie, the idea of eating it made him a little sad. Aziraphale had obviously put a lot of work into it.

“You can eat it, I won't be upset. I made it for you. Her recipe really is positively scrumptious.”

Crowley peered down at the cookie, glanced back at the expectant angel, and then back at the cookie. He then did the only thing that seemed right: he stuffed the entire thing in his mouth and chewed.

“Now, really.”

“Wuff?” Cookie crumbs went everywhere.

Aziraphale just laughed and cuffed the back of his head gently before turning back towards the kitchen.

“Wuss good, Angel, fanks!” Crowley called after him, gulping his coffee to help ease the cookie lump down his throat.

-

That night, everyone left their homes late in the evening. There was almost no need for the streetlights-although they were lit- the festive houses shone in a rainbow of Christmas revelry that did more than enough to fight the night back. Families came out and greeted one another, walking together. Adults laughed at the children as they squealed and threw snowballs at one another. Grandparents tutted about wet clothes on a cold night, but still smiled as if remembering what it had been like to not care about such things.

Crowley joined the crowd that left the bed and breakfast together, but lingered behind them. He had hoped Aziraphale would join them, that he was only lagging behind for some reason. But, the angel was nowhere to be seen. So, he followed the group to the square, wondering what this was all about.

Arriving in the square, he saw that there were lines of tables on either side of the Christmas tree. One side was laden down with dozens of baskets of ornaments. Old ones, clearly antique (and probably ridiculously breakable. New ones, covered in gaudy glitter that somehow looked beautiful when placed near the twinkle lights. Strands of garland, tinsel, and popcorn- the birds were sure to have a field day with that! The other line of tables were covered in all kinds of treats: one contained warm beverages from coffee to tea to cocoa. Another contained festive foods: turkey, ham, stuffing, rolls, mashed potatoes, and gravy. And, nearest the tree, was one covered in cakes, pastries, pies, and hundreds of cookies. Behind that table he spotted Aziraphale next to the woman that ran the bed and breakfast. They were laughing as they watched a small child eat one of the cookies, getting more icing on his face than in it.

Something relaxed in his gut, just seeing the angel again. Just knowing he was here, after all. Aziraphale had said that Christmas wouldn't be the same without Crowley. Crowley was beginning to think none of his days would be the same without Aziraphale. All the time they had spent apart over the last 6,000 years and now he didn't want to spend more than an hour or two without him.

“What, no Christmas snakes for the table?” his breath puffed out into the air between them and dissipated.

“As it just so happens, I did make you one more.” Aziraphale reached for a tiny paper plate that was hidden behind the other mounds of goodies and handed it to Crowley. It was another snake, like the one before. But, this one had cookie crumbs delicately placed all over it's snout.

“You know what, Angel?” Crowley could feel the laugh bubbling up from his belly and twitching at the sides of his lips.

“What, you old serpent?”

“I absolutely deserve this.”

Aziraphale's laughter rang out over the square, traveling into Crowley's ears and, somehow, curling at the bottom of his spine and making his limbs tingle. Or, you know, it could be frostbite. He would blame frostbite, for sure.

They both turned, smiling, to watch as the town folk gathered around the ornament tables. Everyone plucked up something, small or large or gaudy or delicate. The children grabbed whole baskets and skipped merrily to the tree. Someone was high above on an electric company lift, hanging giant baubles around the top. Everyone down here would only be able to decorate, at most, to the seven foot mark. Still, by the time they were done, the whole bottom half of the tree glittered and twinkled with so many decorations you could hardly find any tree beneath them.

As voices rose together in song between the tables and the front side of the tree, Aziraphale joined Crowley around the back side, handing him a steaming cup. Crowley sipped it: coffee and cocoa with marshmallows. Not his usual fair, but still good. He took a big swig, feeling it warm him from the inside out while the voices warmed him from the outside in. “I'm glad we stopped here for the holiday.”

“Hmm, me too. Though, I wasn't exactly expecting you to enjoy it.”

Crowley shrugged and took another deep sip, licking the melty marshmallow from his upper lip.

“I have one more thing for you.”

“You didn't have to get me anything.”

“I know, but I wanted to. It's half store-bought and half homemade. Little chintzy, really. You don't have to pretend to like it if you don't.” Aziraphale was dithering and shifting on his feet.

“Well, let's have it, then.” Crowley put out his hand and waited.

Aziraphale eyed him seriously for a moment then reached into his pocket and pulled out a little box covered in red paper, tied with a opalescent white ribbon. He passed it over and then turned to face the tree.

Crowley drank the last of his cocoa-coffee and sat the cup on the ground at his feet so he could open the box. Inside, nestled amongst some tissue paper, was an ornament: it was a green wreath and inside it were perched two birds, a cardinal and a dove. The cardinal had clearly been a part of the original design. Whatever had been perched next to it- probably a second cardinal- had been carefully removed and replaced with the dove.

“Didn't know you could sculpt.”

“I had some help from one of the innkeeper's grandchildren, to be honest. Do you... do you like it?”

“I think it's lovely.”

“Really?” Aziraphale seemed to let out a breath he had been holding and relax, “Oh, I'm glad. I mean, it would have been okay if you didn't...”

“But, I do.”

“Yes, good.”

They spent another moment looking at the tree instead of one another before Crowley broke the silence.

“What does it mean? I'm sure there's meaning here.”

“Well... in a literal sense, cardinals are said to be messengers of love and signs that angels are near. Or angel, as the case may be. Doves are a sign of peace. Peace and love, Crowley.”

Crowley looked from the ornament to Aziraphale and back.

“And, figuratively?”

“It's our first Christmas together... as, well, as family. Our side. And, this is our reward... peace and love. That's what we're free to receive. Well, from one another.” The angel swallowed, staring pointedly ahead.

Crowley side-stepped closer and hooked his arm in Aziraphale's.

“I like that even more.”

Aziraphale shot him a glance and his stormy eyes were glistening, but he smiled.

“Let's put it on the tree then,” Crowley tugged him along by the arm, “we'll find just the right spot... Ah, here!” he removed a glittery red and green plastic ball and hung the new ornament in it's place, right next to a golden light. He pulled Aziraphale closer into his side and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. A moment later, the angel relaxed and tilted his head to rest on Crowley's shoulder. Crowley placed a kiss on his forehead and rested his own head on top as he gazed at the ornament.

“Happy Christmas, Angel.”

“Hmm, Happy Christmas, dear boy.”

The voices on the other side of the tree dropped off one at a time as people dispersed to their warm homes, ready to crawl under covers and greet the bounty of gifts that were to be found in the morning. The couple stayed behind, content in their closeness, until everyone else was gone. Then they held hands as they made their way back to the bed and breakfast by light of the moon and the towering Christmas tree.