#Wedding Suits Devon
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Look Your Best on Your Big Day with Roomten Wedding Suits in Devon
Your wedding day is one of the most important days of your life, and you want to look your best. At Roomten, we offer a wide range of wedding suits in Devon that are tailored to your specific needs. Our suits are made from the finest materials and are designed to fit you perfectly, ensuring that you look and feel your best on your big day. Whether you're looking for a classic or modern style, we have the perfect suit for you. Trust Roomten to make your wedding day unforgettable.
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pt III the wedding dress: crowley's shirt's ruffles (the brainrot is in terminal stages only palliative care is possible now)
OKAY. I'M SORRY FOR NOT POSTING FOR A WHILE BUT I AM HERE MAGGOTS (WHILE YOU'RE ALL BEING SO FUCKING LOVELY AND AMAZING ON THE COLLEGE POST WHICH TERRIFIES ME).
The last update was the shirt (everything related to aziracrow wedding brainrot is on my blog with the tag weirdly the nightingales wed) and I talked so long about the shirt and the Regency influences and the Jane Austen part that I realised I'd need a separate post for the ruffles. So. Here we are.
THE RUFFLES OVERVIEW: I spent too much time on this, but let's go. The ruffles were taken from that 1805-10 Regency evening gown that inspired the entire neckline, and they're the same material, muslin. They're overlaid with Alencon lace, the reason for which shall be stated below. I stopped the ruffles at the edge of the square neckline rather than going around the neck because given how the coat will be buttoned, it's not necessary and would just add bulk. For the same reason the ruffles would be sewn down at the edge with a French seam (it won't add lines to the silhouette or bulk, a maggot recommended that stitch) to prevent it from getting displaced.
THE LACE OVERVIEW: Oh, the fucking lace. Okay. So, this part of the dress was supposed to represent Shakespeare's time, the Edwardian era, from the Shakespeare/Hamlet scene in the season 1 episode 3 cold open. So I wanted to choose a lace that was popular in England at that time. I looked up the types of laces and their history, and found that Alencon lace best suited my purposes. It is the most popular lace for wedding dresses now. The lace would have motifs of birds (nightingales), leaves (Crowley's plants), angel wings (self-explanatory) and flowers (traditional for this lace).
THE NICE AND ACCURATE HISTORY: Ah, textile trade in the Edwardian era, exactly how I thought I'd be using my brainpower in the year of our Lord and Saviour Bildaddy 2024. Okay, the reason I chose Alencon lace was that during the end of the 16th century (which was around the time when Hamlet was written, 1599-1601, a direct reference to the episode), French lace was most popular in England. There were other popular lace imports, from Belgium, italy etc, as well as lace made in Devon (which wasn't as popular), but Queen Elizabeth had maintained ties with the French court and used lace on her gowns and that's how lace became fashionable. So I picked French lace.
Now the other types of French lace, Chantily lace and Argentan lace, weren't invented at the time Hamlet was written, so I was left with Alencon. The wedding thing was a bonus, honestly. Alencon lace originated in France in the 16th century, was called "Queen of Lace" and was a luxury. I do believe Aziraphale of the infamous I have standards would approve.
Soooooo. There you have it. The detailed real history behind the real lace on the ruffles of a fictional character's fictional dress for their fictional wedding that's not canon.
*contemplates life choices* Well, this isn't the very worst choice I've made, at least.
...that honour would belong to the cufflinks. Next update.
#good omens mascot#weirdly specific but ok#asmi#maggots#good omens#good omens fandom#crowley#aziraphale#weirdly the nightingales wed#good omens brainrot#at terminal stages#wahoo#aziracrow#it starts as it will end with a garden#fashion history#shakespeare#hamlet#dress design
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If you ever want a prompt, something with Granada Holmes and Watson helping 'Random Harvest' Paula with her search after her husband goes missing
I have been contemplating it, and I'm not sure how much it would change. But I am interested by it in part because in book!canon, Charles Rainier adored the Holmes stories as a small boy, and was taken by an indulgent butler to see Baker Street when he was in London at the age of seven (my heart), cementing Sherlock Holmes as sign and symbol of the lost rightness and security of his world. I have a normal amount of feelings about this. Theories below.
So. Holmes and Watson might well take a holiday at the end of the world in Devon. And in some lonely and lovely spot on one of their rambles, they might well encounter a woman and a small boy. (Young John would, I am convinced, soon be sitting on Watson's foot.) Holmes could easily deduce her search for news from the wedding ring, her anxiety, the discouraging official letters and the fresh, undaunted telegraph forms. It is even true, I think, that Holmes' particular methods and insights would be well suited to solving this puzzle. I've hypothesized elsewhere that Watson might be involved in work with the damaged minds of the war that was to end wars. And if they conclude that this man would not desert his family (impossible,) and he has not appeared anywhere else, then would it not be logical to investigate a mysterious appearance to match this disappearance? Whatever remains, however improbable.
However. I don't think this would substantially change the subsequent unfolding of events because, crucially, Paula does not want her husband by persuasion or by the force of logic. She wants him as he was; she wants his love. (Do I cry every time? Yes.) What this does change is the unfolding of events after their reunion at the cottage. I am firmly convinced that Paula does not sail for Buenos Aires. Why sail for the other side of the world, and an escape from what has become unbearable, when suddenly the person she loves most in the world is once again entirely hers?
Still, I think Charles asks if she plans to sail for Buenos Aires (ridiculous, beloved man) and receives a response in the negative. At this point, the story of what led him to Devon emerges. Chet has been left bewildered in his wake, with Harrison too tactful to explain; only Julian is, I suspect, unruffled by this conduct. Dry, observant Julian may even remark that a greater leaven of eccentricity would do Charles good. In any case: I think they agree together that although, if anything, he's experienced whatever the opposite of a breakdown is, he may in good conscience take a few days away from the business and from Parliament, for his health. The gleam in Paula's eyes at this suggestion is, perhaps, slightly wicked. Paula, who has maintained a correspondence with an address in Sussex, suggests that they ought to make a social call before returning to London, if he doesn't mind (Charles, at this point, minds nothing.)
And so they do. Once again journeying together by a series of slow trains across England, they come at last to another cottage, with another creaking gate, and beehives in the garden where two men are working. Sherlock Holmes may no longer be in Baker Street, but once again, all is right with the world.
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Amelia Grey
an introduction
𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐒
full name : Amelia Grey
meaning :
Amelia : deriving from amal, “work” - connoting industriousness, fertility
pronunciation : am+ EEL + ee + uh, gr + AY.
monikers : Lia, Amy
status : Countess of Hertford (in secret), Lady Grey
age & d.o.b : Twenty-six & 01 January 1533.
status / rank : Nobility, second granddaughter of Queen Mary Tudor of France, Princess of England.
country of origin : England
place of birth : Bradgate house, Bradgate park, Leicestershire.
birth order : Middle daughter of three
mother & father : Katharine Brandon, Dowager Duchess of Suffolk | Henry Grey, 1st Duke of Suffolk, 3rd Marquess of Dorset.
siblings : Phillippa Grey, Duchess of Suffolk, Eleanor Grey, Lady Grey
sexuality : Heterosexual
horoscope : Capricorn
virtues : Courage, Compassionate, Generous
vices : Proud, Impulsive, Rehearsed
marital status : Secretly wed to John Seymour, Earl of Hertford ( c. 1558 )
issue : John “Jack” Seymour ( b. 1558 in secret )
religion : Catholic in secret
allies : The Seymours, the Courtenays
adversaries : The Boleyns and descendants
𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄
1528 : John Seymour is born to Edward Seymour & Catherine Filiol, Earl and Countess of Hertford
1533 : Amelia is born second child and second daughter to the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk, Henry Grey and Katharine Brandon, on New Year’s Day, 1533. She joins sister Phillippa Grey.
1534 : Eleanor is born to the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk
1535: Countess of Hertford dies
1536 : Edward Seymour, son of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, is born
1537 : The Seymour Subterfuge at Tower Green: Edward Seymour, Earl of Hertford, dies
1538 : Amelia commences a strong education at Bradgate House - deemed essential for young ladies of her rank and status - principles of arithmetic, grammar, history, reading, spelling, and writing. Languages. Includes learning the necessary education regarding dancing, embroidery, etiquette, household management, music, needlework, singing, cards, chess. She was also taught archery, falconry, riding, and hunting.
1546 : Phillippa is invited to serve as Queen Anne’s maid of honour. Amelia follows suit later that year, with an invitation to join Princess Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting, venturing between Hatfield House, Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. A warrant is signed for the queen’s arrest, though abolished through the king and queen’s reconciliation. Thomas Cromwell is stripped of his title as Earl of Essex.
1552 : Catholic and Protestant tensions rise at court
1556 : Henry Grey dies. The Duke of Suffolk title reverts to the Crown, despite protest from the Greys to maintain their title and lands due to such a transition. Phillippa is arranged to marry Nicholas Sutton-Dudley, thus able to retain the dukedom of Suffolk, though the land is tied to her intended.
1557 : Henry VIII dies, William is crowned king. Princess Elizabeth and her ladies join the king at his court, Amelia follows. Phillippa weds the Duke of Sufflolk.
1557: Amelia falls hard and fast for John Seymour, Earl of Hertfordshire.
1557: Amelia weds John Seymour in a clandestine ceremony
1558: Amelia returns to Bradgate, and her son, John “Jack” Seymour, is born in summer. Amelia is back in court by winter 1558.
1558 : Hugh Courtenay, Earl of Devon - a leading supporter of the Grey’s- is executed.
1559 : The court celebrates the marriage of Anne Boleyn to Thomas Wyatt.
𝐁𝐈𝐎𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐇𝐘
Henry Grey spent the first sundown of 1533, nestled within the warmth of Bradgate House, in mourning: his second child born female, a failed attempt at hereditary security for the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk. Amelia’s bloodline overwhelmed the small vision of a newborn babe: she, the product of the established noble Grey’s and granddaughter to Mary Tudor, the Queen of France. Woven into a family with an intimidating lineage and rumoured Catholic sympathies. No son, no heir, was fated for Henry Grey and Katharine Brandon - instead Amelia, much like her sisters, was equipped with expectation for accolade and influence. Thus inheriting ancestral desire, to achieve a far greater purpose than herself.
Amelia’s transformative years consisted of building education like armour. The middle child trailing Phillippa’s footsteps and learning from her elder sister’s example, whilst guiding Eleanor’s in tow, hand outstretched behind her. Three Grey girls devouring letters sent by their mother spent in rich tutelage within the expansive Leicestershire grounds of Bradgate House. Initially a shy little creature, but perceptive, malleable, curious, Amelia was afforded expansive lessons, her preferred subjects blending with the art of charm- dancing, singing, literature. Desperate for her father’s approval, for her mother’s pride. Anticipating a life of content servitude to solidify her family’s seat. As her age progressed, she sought to emulate the qualities she’d seen her mother master. A necessity for a Grey, lest weakness for a movement’s folly turn ruinous.
As the Grey girls rehearsed their roles, so too did England watch her family in bubbling anticipation: Phillippa served as the queen’s maid of honour in an arranged attempt to quell rumours of rebellion. Shortly after her dear sister’s departure, Amelia joined the Princess Elizabeth’s ladies in waiting at her court in Hatfield House. The world grew wider as she served Elizabeth, travelling between Hatfield, Hampton Court and Greenwich Palace. So, too, did Amelia’s circle of spectators and companions. Ever committed to her own disarming role of grace, gentleness, poise, combatting the unyielding fears of familial ruin that rattled her system.
Upon the death of her father, the Grey’s title and subsequent lands were stripped and reverted to the Crown’s rule. Phillippa is arranged in matrimony to salvage their ties to the duchy of Suffolk - a stark reminder of their servitude to the name Grey. Maintain, advance, thrive. There is no room for otherwise, in such critical times. No. She shall have no mercy, a vow she repeats within the introspection of her mind.
No mercy. Here, the girl evolves into woman, and the story’s pace accelerates- a hum approaching, unavoidable, undecipherable. Racing, racing, toward a fate of a new calibre.
She sparks throughout the new king’s court as the next Grey daughter to wed, lady-in-waiting to Princess Elizabeth and hellbent on tailoring herself as a prime prospective bride. She manages to amass decent traction as arrangements are discussed, teasing in nonsense of courtly love, poetry, delicate dances of targeted admiration.
Fate is twisted, cruel, shifts beautiful amongst the chaos. The warning signs etched into her system fade into the ether as she falls for John Seymour. Avoidant, initially - but unable to deny their disruptive connection, Amelia delves into a secret affair that shatters the years of work she’s spent finessing. The Grey service she’s devoted her life to protect.
John becomes part of what she swears to protect: her purpose strays from the primed path and paves a way with him, together. Rebellious and reckless, the pair wed in secret. The middle Grey daughter flees to Bradgate House, gives birth to their son, John “Jack” Seymour, for only the trusted few and the walls of her family estate to know.
Jack is born, but Amelia still carries with her the fates of all those tied within her web of success and duty, and all the enemies awaiting her demise. Her son’s, her husband’s, her families. Thus, she returns to court for the wedding of Anne Boleyn as Lady Grey, anxiously, agonisingly concealing her marriage and motherhood until the opportune moment arises. Transfixed on aiding her family however she can, when her own actions brought forth a dangerous vulnerability.
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Media in August
Tv/Film
The Gray Man
The Sea Beast
Black
Spirited Away
Wedding Season
Not Okay
Love Is Blind: Japan
Look Both Ways
Royalteen
Just The Way You Are
Sneakerella
How I Met Your Father (season one)
Sex Appeal
Articles
Pinterest, Tumblr and the Trouble With ‘Curation’ by Carina Chocano
The History of the Suit by Decade by Jake Woolf
Why do so many women go blonde? by Emily Sohn
The problem with TikTok's 'clean girl' aesthetic by Tiana Randall
The fallacy of random acts of kindness videos by Roisin Lanigan
The number of lonely, single men is on the rise by Serena Smith
Video (Essays)
The Tumblr Sexyman Iceberg by STRANGE ÆONS
The Weird World Of Mary Sues by Izzzyzzz
Purity, Shame, and Surgery | How Hollywood Warps Our Perception of Puberty by Cheyenne Lin
An appropriately unhinged recap of Glee (part 2) by Mike's Mic
Simone de Beauvoir on Existentialism & God (1959) by Philosophy Overdose
Designing Awesome Gen Z Brands that Improve Everyday Lives | Katrina Romulo by Jesse Nyberg
not okay is... okay? 📱🐹💄 (not okay 2022 movie review) by ModernGurlz
The Problem with Dark Academia by Rowan Ellis
Spring Breakers and the End of Indie Sleaze by Broey Deschanel
Music
Devon Cole
Knox
ella jane
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Jess Watches // Fri 12 Jan // Day 112
Synopses & Favourite Scenes & Poll
The Resident (with mum)
2x22 Broker and Broker
Nic becomes infuriated when Alec suggests she meet with an organ broker in hopes of saving Jessie's life, but after her other ideas fail, she brings the idea to Conrad. Meanwhile, Devon and Irving help Mina piece together details from her night out.
Mina wearing a suit had me thinking thoughts. The relief that nothing bad happened to her while drunk. Unless bro-ing hard with Grayson counts as bad. It definitely did for Mina lol. And Nic made the toughest call but I think ultimately the right one. What did Conrad offer Bell to get Jessie on the transplant list? Also, Sam Huntington at the end with the promise to support the hospital in monthly installments had me cackling.
Frasier (with mum)
5x16 Beware of Greeks
Frasier discovers that the Crane men are not invited to a family wedding because of a grudge Frasier's intense Greek aunt has held against him ever since he gave her son, Nikos, some advice she didn't like.
Patti LuPone was projecting like she was on a theatre stage while I would've preferred to hear more of Martin gossiping to Daphne about his family.
Heartbreak High
1x04 Rack Off
A piece of locker room gossip tests Amerie's new romance. At the drug-fueled Mardi Gras Slay Ball, things escalate when Malakai faces off with a cop.
This ep was written by an Aboriginal actor and writer, Meyne Wyatt. Which is probably why Malakai getting racially profiled and beaten by the cop felt very real and not sensationalized just for the drama. Unfortunately the cop being a p.o.s. was to be expected, but what happened after with Dusty and Harper was also disappointing. They took advantage of him.
Monarch: Legacy of Monsters
1x10 Beyond Logic (Season Finale)
Shaw and May search for Cate and make a startling discovery. Kentaro struggles with his loss.
Keiko Miura, the woman that you are. I'm Lee, gently cupping her face, amazed that she's still alive. I'm also Cate and May in the background, holding on to each other as Keiko and Lee reunite after all these days/years. The Titan fight at the end was epic! Seriously, what is this show's budget? Super hyped at what s2 could have in store. Especially with the return of a dangerously delectable Dominique Tipper.
#the resident#frasier#heartbreak high#monarch legacy of monsters#polls#tumblr polls#jess watches#day 112
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A Jevon wedding day because yes? Yes.
Jake: Why do you keep saying “my”?
Devon: Because I’m the funniest. They’re coming to see ME.
Jake: They’re COMING for our MARRIGE.
Devon: I’m gonna need you to shut that bullshit up, chief. Ain’t nobody coming to see that.
Jake: *pouts*
Devon: Ugh. I kid, I kid. This is your wedding day too, okay baby? I’m sorry.
Jake: *smiles*
Devon: Now, call Lexy up, she’s supposed to be helping me pick out my suit!
Jake: Why can’t I help?
Devon: Jake. It’s tradition. You’re not supposed to see the outfit before the wedding day. It’s bad luck.
Jake: But that’s for the bride?
Devon: It’s for the groom to. Or, grooms in our situation.
Awww omg yes I love that
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Psychologie : Est ce que les célébrités ont ils droit à une vie privée ?
Est ce qu on est épris de la vie des célébrités ? Oui ! Bien sur et puis ils ont choisis d être dans l œil du public donc oui , ils nous doivent quelque chose par exemple la vie privée !
On veut tout savoir ! Ce qu’ils mangent et avec qu ils couchent ! Les femmes, elles doivent être enceintes ou sinon c est pas intéressant et les hommes avec qu’ils sortent ! Mais seulement ! Parfois , c est les vêtements où habitent t ils ? Et puis , les vacances et combien ont ils dans le compte en banque …
La vie privée ? Non , c est rare dans cette société . Moi, personnellement, je sais que j ai des personnes qui espionnent mes stories Instagram pour scruter ce que je poste sur ma vie ! C est triste mais c est comme ça et qu est ce que je peux faire ??
Alors , psychologiquement parlant , pourquoi sommes nous intéressés par la vie privée des célébrités ?
Parce qu ils ont une belle vie et quand il y a un drame, c est comme une série télévision, on veut savoir la suite. C est une addiction ou une curiosité, je ne sais pas…
On a peut être un moment de FOMO. Un événement de louper quelque chose d important. Pourquoi devons nous suivre les mariages de célébrités comme Harry et Meghan puis regarder le documentaire de leur vie sur Netflix. Un sentiment qui nous échappe …
Peut être c est notre intérêt pour la vie. Ce qui doit faire sens , c est de découvrir , faire toujours plus, aller plus haut et tout savoir. Et si on ne le fait pas, on rate notre vie car on n a pas fais attention à nos relations et les relations extérieures. Un sentiment qui nous échappe.
C est l évolution naturelle , c est pour ça qu on s’intéresse peut être aux enfants des stars. Un sentiment qui nous échappe .
Psychology: Do celebrities have a right to privacy?
Are we in love with the life of celebrities? Yes ! Of course and then they chose to be in the public eye so yes, they owe us something for example privacy!
We want to know everything ! What they eat and what they sleep with! Women, they must be pregnant or else it's not interesting and the men they go out with! But only ! Sometimes it's the clothes where do they live? And then, the holidays and how much they have in the bank account...
Private life ? No, it's rare in this society. Me, personally, I know that I have people who spy on my Instagram stories to scrutinize what I post about my life! It's sad but it's like that and what can I do??
So, psychologically speaking, why are we interested in the privacy of celebrities?
Because they have a good life and when there is a drama, it's like a television series, we want to know what happens next. It's an addiction or a curiosity, I don't know...
We may have a moment of FOMO. An event of missing something important. Why should we follow the weddings of celebrities like Harry and Meghan and then watch the documentary of their lives on Netflix. A feeling that escapes us...
Maybe it is our interest in life. What should make sense is to discover, always do more, go higher and know everything. And if we don't, we miss our life because we haven't paid attention to our relationships and external relationships. A feeling that escapes us.
It's the natural evolution, that's why we may be interested in the children of stars. A feeling that escapes us.
Kevin Ngirimcuti
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Elegance Unveiled: Discover Exceptional Wedding Suits in Devon
Elevate your wedding style with bespoke suits in Devon! Explore a curated collection of timeless and sophisticated wedding attire that reflects your unique taste. From classic to contemporary, find the perfect suit for your special day. Unveil the essence of elegance with our exquisite wedding suits in Devon.
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We have provided wedding photography and videography service for this friendly Portuguese bride and groom in their intimate wedding on a sunny day in The Petersham Hotel, Richmond, London. http://www.thesnapshotcafe.com/ This is another typical summer wedding story for us - with family and friends gather together. The bride and groom have their parents, grown up children and a granddaughter came back for witnessing this union. Although there was only a handful of friends, all these people really meant the world to them. They are those who are the closest to their hearts. It is also incredible to have 4 generations together in the celebration. https://www.facebook.com/TheSnapshotCafeweddingphotographervideographer/ The legal wedding ceremony and banquet were held in The Petersham Hotel, Richmond, South-West London. It was our second time in this hotel. Interestingly, our another wedding held there is also an intimate wedding. We love this hotel because of its architecture. It is mesmerising all the colours which are matching with vintage style decoration inside and looked like natural film studio. The groom was wearing blue purple jacquard suit with dark purple blue shinny shoes. The bride was wearing lace a vintage wedding dress. The couple loves old jazz music to be put in the videos, which unfortunately we cannot display, but they will be private videos the couple treasures forever! #vintageweddingdress #weddingvideographerwestlondon #weddingphotographerwestlondon #weddingphotographywestlondon #weddingvideographywestlondon #weddingvideographerinwestlondon #weddingphotographerinwestlondon #weddingphotographyinwestlondon #weddingvideographyinwestlondon #Londonbridetobe #ukweddingbanquet #weddingvideographeruk #weddingphotographeruk #weddingphotographyuk #weddingvideographyuk #ukweddingvideographer #ukweddingphotographer #ukweddingphotography #ukweddingvideography #Londonweddingphotographer #Londonweddingvideographer #Londonweddingphotography #elopementpackageslondon #weddingphotographersurrey #weddingphotographerbristol #weddingphotographynortheast #weddingphotographyprices #weddingphotographyglasgow #weddingphotographytips #weddingvideographernearme (at Exeter, Devon) https://www.instagram.com/p/CqTZZ7yM0J-/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
#vintageweddingdress#weddingvideographerwestlondon#weddingphotographerwestlondon#weddingphotographywestlondon#weddingvideographywestlondon#weddingvideographerinwestlondon#weddingphotographerinwestlondon#weddingphotographyinwestlondon#weddingvideographyinwestlondon#londonbridetobe#ukweddingbanquet#weddingvideographeruk#weddingphotographeruk#weddingphotographyuk#weddingvideographyuk#ukweddingvideographer#ukweddingphotographer#ukweddingphotography#ukweddingvideography#londonweddingphotographer#londonweddingvideographer#londonweddingphotography#elopementpackageslondon#weddingphotographersurrey#weddingphotographerbristol#weddingphotographynortheast#weddingphotographyprices#weddingphotographyglasgow#weddingphotographytips#weddingvideographernearme
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July 21
This tragedy happened on the first day of the new year, which should have been full of hope and joy.
The fire scene was already charred black. The man on the bed probably drank a lot of alcohol and died inexplicably in his sleep. The little girl who had turned into charcoal in the corner was still holding a small cardboard box in her hand.
Fortunately, they lived in remote areas because of poverty, and the fire only affected them.
July 22
The way you shoot wedding videos over and over again is really stupid. Your photographer team looks like a group of people who have given up thinking， yet lost their passion and courage in improving things. the way you're walking down the hallways in your nightgowns doesn't look like you're getting married， instead like a low-end travel pro team. Your group of friends has no temperament at all even in suits, revealing that they have repeatedly jumped between the two extremes of overnutrition and malnutrition without being centered.
July 23
I like to organize my thoughts when I'm about to fall asleep, the fleeting inspiration is like a treasure floating in the water when drowning, precious but not providing buoyancy. Grab the acceleration and enter the interesting dreamland, or disappear into the ocean of inspiration if you can't grasp it, and fall into the deepest depths of the ocean with countless subtle or stupid or straightforward or obscure ideas and never see the light of day.
July 24
Don't chew gum in the bathroom.
July 25
1. Her? She was like a Devon Rex, and the first time he knew it, he called it the answer.
Him. He is afraid of light, but when the screen is brightened, he can see her clearly when he retouches the picture. He closes his eyes, still her face.
2. Her? She has two white hairs she probably doesn't even know about. Her height was just right, and she could smell the scent of her hair as she descended the escalator.
Him. He wanted to read each other's recommended books with her on the bed in the afternoon, and he could think of the feeling of her relaxing her legs on his stomach.
3. Her? She heard him talk about exs, but she regretted them instead. She was small but full of power that drove him crazy.
Him. He likes her, but he worries about himself. He was afraid of losing her again, so he didn't dare to have her.
4. Her? When she expresses the difference between herself and others, even though she is the majority of the mainstream, she still uses derogatory words to describe herself.
Him. He wanted to anger her and lose the possibility of losing her. He thought for her dozens of reasons for rejecting him, he was complacent.
5. Her? When she heard that someone was insulted, it was obvious that she needed to suppress her painful expression, and she pretended to be strong and didn't care when she talked about her own vulnerability.
Him. He lost his sleep for her. He looked at her photo, angry that he couldn't restore her aura. He thought of her crucifying him.
6. What about her？ She looked a little proud and cold but still made him want to be buried with her. She was one of those smiles that hung on the corners of his mouth when he got up.
About him. He opened the curtains. He did a coquettish dance in front of the window, and he laughed unsurprisingly.
July 26
You didn't say over. over.
July 27
Don't get me wrong, it's not that I've lost my interest in messing with flowers, nor have I lost my ability to show mercy. I just want to possess you selfishly, but at the same time, I want to offer my loyalty in exchange for peace of mind. I cut off my
way of escape to show you, and I put the remote control of the bomb on my limbs in your palm, expecting you to press it. You can see the sturdy body I'm proud of is gone, and you're just looking down at me and laughing and wiping the blood from your face. I want to sink an eternal anchor for you, so I can't move an inch in my life. I want to love you, learn from you, speculate on you, and torture you with my whole life.
July 28
How to call for help when your mouth is stuck with tape? How do you feel when you hear the rescuers go away? Isn't it more exciting than waiting for the monster to walk away from the cabinet while holding your breath and listening to your heartbeat?
July 29
Have you ever seen videos of those who are colorblind seeing color for the first time? Do you know why they cry?
July 30
"No, I just want to know what you think. If it wasn't for me looking for you, would you plan not to contact me for the rest of your life?" At 4 a.m., the woman on the other end of the phone asked the man.
The man who was used to going to bed early and getting up early was naturally awakened, but he was not impatient at all and even had a smile in his words and says. "I thought we broke up long ago."
"Did you say it? Did you say it? I just scolded you, and then you thought we broke up?" The woman's voice gradually increased, and it was obvious that the noise from her background could not hide her anger.
The man who didn't seem to care and stood on the initiative side changed his position and lay back on the bed. The moment he was woken up by the phone, he guessed that it was the woman's call and was completely awake. After taking a deep breath, he pursed his lips, not knowing who he was looking at, and in the cold night in Beijing, he held out a hand to the ceiling. The only sound in the quiet room came from the glowing phone in his ear. At this time, he knew in his heart that he had enough courage and energy to turn this one-sided breakup into a mutual one. The empty feeling in his heart had actually been fermented a few days ago. Instead of thinking about how to answer the woman's question, his mind has long since drifted back to the time and space when he was studying abroad.
A pair of lovers who are like glue sticks， frequent and in-depth exchanges in the scorching heat of the United Kingdom, which does not even have air conditioning. The degree of madness is beyond their respective expectations, both physically and psychologically. Even half a year later, this is still the case. Men feel that this urge to not put it down is the freshest. Different countries and different scenes. Even when they are separated from other countries, this sick love has been transformed into dependence on listening to each other's breathing with their mobile phones on. He actually misses talks at night like now. And all these sweet and vivid memories are starting to sting this man at this moment, he kept sighing silently and licking his lips, as if he had already answered by doing so, instead of waiting for a long time. Embarrassed in silence.
"That's it, you don't care anyway." The woman ended the conversation.
The man did not immediately plug in the used mobile phone as always, but abandoned his obsessive-compulsive disorder, and just maintained his previous posture and stretched out his hand. He didn't even know if he was staring blankly at the ceiling above his bed or this arm that he had for more than 20 years. In an instant, the bed under him did not dramatically turn into a sea to devour himself, and he did not suffocate as he imagined. On the contrary, as if the man knew that the pain he had just experienced would never happen again, there was a trace of relief and peace of mind. The phone went off automatically, and the entire space returned to darkness again. The ceiling he stared straight at became a mirror, reflecting a smile on his face. The man looked at her who was still slender, soft, and warm around him. Closing his eyes, the man in the room began to look down at his body from the perspective of a bystander. In his empty inner world, the smirks and the unforgettable murmurs of the two were still echoing, but all of this was only a memory. It was this outstretched hand that couldn't bear to let down.
That persistent arm is like a dry and stiff rotten tree, the ridiculous behavior that can be abandoned by bending the arm, but at this moment, it is endowed with a tragic and solemn resistance to fate. The man cursed himself with other people's voices in his mind. After all, he himself started this doomed experiment. In this way, the man once again declared the defeat of this battle unilaterally but confidently. He only hopes that this is the last time in this war of his life that he and his beloved will lose both. It was clearly his lame reason that he was allergic to alcohol but still wanted to drink until pass out, and it seemed like he jumped off first in the memory of that alternative Valentine's Day tandem skydive. Typically, he listens to the creep and despises the irregular life of others, and is extremely hypocritical of himself. Time and time again unwillingly tortures himself and hurts others.
Not surprisingly, this kind of difficult torment and pain still has to be handled over time. Under the ruthless time scale, everything is vulnerable. Happiness is, and so is pain. At least a few hours later, the sun will rise as usual, and the smell on the pillow will still be fresh and delicious.
July 31
It's the annual birthday of the whipper.
August 1
Forgot to write to you yesterday, bastard. You have brought almost 100% happiness and pain to my life all these years just by yourself. Your arrogance and laziness are the driving force and curses that I can't get rid of. It was you who made me unwilling to give up yet kept questioning myself, and it was you who made me use contempt and anger to force myself to be out of tune with this world. On the one hand, I hope that you disappear as soon as possible, and on the other hand, I hope that you will get worse. Thank you.
August 4
Hello, the first sentence I said to you. This is also the first time in 4 years that I have written a letter with a pen to someone other than myself. Likewise, I haven't seen you for 3 days. There are a lot of words, sent by voice messages or typing that can still maintain a playful tone, but once written down with a pen, somehow it will get very ambiguous and greasy, so let me tell you a short story.
I am a plant, born this way. There are many other animals and plants around me, crawling on me, feeding on, mating, or giving birth, as well as burrowing and nesting. My roots were buried in the ground, growing in all directions at a hopelessly slow pace. It felt as if the clenched toes were being tucked into these tight sturdy boots and trying to stretch them out, to me. Excruciatingly painful. My attention span is very limited as well. The things I pay attention to will be presented in my eyes clearly, while those that are ignored by me will quickly grow old and die without warning.
Today, all my attention was drawn to a caterpillar hiding under a leaf, so small and fragile. But bravely showing its thorns to every predator that covets at it. There's not much I can do other than observe and appreciate it, but concentrate all my energy around it. Even though the young leaves and new branches I spawned in the place where it lived could not receive sunlight or rain, the only meaning of existence was to be eaten by it or just shield it from the wind and rain. I still enjoyed doing so. I don't care about those places where I really need to grab the sun or catch the rain no more.
All those ant turfs, hummingbird hover, spider prey, and mantis mating I used to be crazy about no longer appeal to me. I gave all my attention to the caterpillar. I pushed so hard that it slowed to a near standstill pace in my eyes, but it wasn't enough. The thought of losing it someday in the future gives me bouts of discomfort. And when it gradually rounded up and finally turned into a cocoon, there was only this place left on my huge body were promised Land. Even though withered, broken branches, parasites, and dense vines made me sick, I still stared at the motionless cocoon day and night, uninterested in all the little fatal things that happened to me.
Finally, on a sunny morning, it emerged from its cocoon. When it dried its wings and shook its amazing colorful wings for the first time in its life, the dust falling from above rolled up a colorful airflow under the sunlight. . In the beams of sunlight piercing those leaves, it disappeared from my field of vision. And I was content to let go of the multitude of inconsequential worries at the same time. From then on, there was only one last thing that exist in my mind it is leaving the back view and that light followed.
August 5
No matter what you eat or drink, as long as you fly in the bathroom that much, you disgust me.
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Inspiration
Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader
Requested by anon: Could you do a Fred Weasley imagine where he falls in love with Harry’s younger sister. (Maybe a after the war where he lives)
Word Count: 3.3k (my hand slipped oops)
Genre: Fluff, childhood friends to lovers, mutual pining etc.
Warnings: Slight innuendo, Fred being cute and hot simultaneously
Tags: @self-ship-love @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hufflexpuff @neovannii @jenniweasley @elf-punk @heart-of-tempered-steel @itseatyourdamnapples
Message me if you'd like to be added!
Masterlist
Ottery St Catchpole, Devon, England, July 16, 2000
It was a chilly Sunday evening. The summer air buzzed with excitement and the tender aroma of magnolia as tiny white and pink petals were gracefully falling from the huge cherry trees, carried by the light breeze. Twilight painted the horizon in liquid gold and fiery red, soon followed by mellow shades of dark blue that brought countless sparkling stars.
It was getting the slightest bit colder, but it did not matter; nothing else mattered but the loud cheers and cheerful music, celebrating the official bond between a Potter and a Weasley under the wide night sky.
You couldn't have been happier for your older brother, Harry, who was currently dancing with Ginny, his now wife - now and for the rest of his, hopefully, but not really likely, peaceful life. For the longest time you've been wondering how he'd always manage to get into trouble even as a small First year with no experience in the wizarding world whatsoever. Or, perhaps, that was the exact reason as to why evil-battling and rule-breaking were such common practices when hanging out with him.
However, there was no fighting that day. There was no room for worry and fear when the entire Weasley family and their loved ones were gathered on the clearing in front of the Burrow, chatting, laughing, dancing, singing, drinking, celebrating and living for what seemed to be the first time since Lord Voldemort's fall. Danger was practically nonexistent in that blissful moment which was frozen in time, once having looked agonizingly distant and impossible to hope for. But that dream was no longer just a foolish fantasy to heal wounded hearts. It was there, and it was happening in the most beautiful way imaginable.
And suddenly, all those clichés of a married life weren't even clichés. They were simply humble wishes of people who had witnessed far too many horrors in such a short period of time, and only craved stability among the massive chaos. So when you glanced at Ginny, a twirling blur of flaming red hair and a gorgeous wedding dress, you didn't feel the need to comment on how banal the color white was. You genuinely smiled, admiring the pure, exuberant joy, visible in her eyes and scarlet cheeks. Harry looked just as, if not even happier than his wife, dancing in the ridiculous but wholehearted way that only he could, and old memories of him winning the golden egg, training Dumbledore's Army and kissing Ginny in the common room for the very first time flooded into your mind.
It had truly been a long time since you had seen Harry careless and free like that.
You yourself had spent an ungodly amount of hours preparing the yard for the ceremony all day; rearranging chairs, decorating, making sure everything was going by schedule, only to then dance your tired feet off, and though you wanted to continue having fun with Hermione, Luna and the rest of the girls waiting for you, you really needed a break. And a drink.
Excusing yourself to leave the particularly interesting conversation you were having with distant Weasley relatives, you slipped off your black flats that, despite looking absolutely stunning, hurt your feet terribly after an entire day of fussing over the color of napkins and flower bouquets. Barefoot on the grass, you walked over to a chair next to a table which seemed to have been occupied, but judging by the mostly empty glasses and plates, the guests weren't coming back anytime soon.
You tossed your shoes aside with a sigh and rushed to rub your aching toes, hissing from how sore they were.
How has Ginny been dancing like that for hours?
"Enjoying the party, I see?" a familiar deep, slightly husky voice commented, causing you to look up.
It was none other than Fred Weasley, dear friend from childhood, staring down at you, his ever-present charming smirk resting on features and hands shoved into the pockets of his dragonskin suit. But it was his flaming red hair that made your eyes widen - it was carefully smoothed back, shining under the moonlight like liquid iron.
Fred's eyes still contained their famous, loveable mischief, except now slightly tamer and calmer. His firm biceps had visibly grown in size, stretching out the fabric of his coat just a bit to give you a prominent silhouette that caught you off guard.
It had been two years; he had changed so much.
And you were afraid to admit you had too.
You blinked in surprise, processing his uncharacteristically sophisticated appearance before realizing what he had asked you.
"Would've enjoyed it far more if my legs weren't killing me," you groaned half-heartedly and leaned back on your chair. "What's with your hair?"
"What's with your feet?"
"I asked you first," you cut him off. "I bet Ginny is responsible for this."
"Actually…" Fred trailed off, and, whether on purpose or not, ran a hand through the ginger locks to keep them in place, unaware of how you suddenly wished the hand doing the graceful motion wasn't his. "Mum insisted that I looked my best. What can I say, it's not like George and I usually listen to her, but we thought we'd make an exception this time; our sister doesn't get married every day. But honestly, Ginny couldn't care less about how we looked as long we showed up."
"So like usual, you mean?" you giggled. "Showing up is an achievement for you even if you're underdressed?"
Fred beamed, pearly white smile complementing his formal outfit. You wondered if he used that exact smile to effortlessly allure costumers and business partners at work.
He rested an elbow on the table as he leaned forward.
"Come on now, darling. I know you find my messy hair irresistible either way."
His cockiness only caused you to laugh, though Fred was quick to spot the flash of nervousness in your eyes; it brought him immense pride to know he was the one to turn you from confident to adorably bashful and flustered in the matter of seconds.
He was looking at you intensely, expectantly waiting for you to deny his flirty accusation despite your shyness.
"Nah, Weasley. It only reminds me that even at twenty-two you still do not know how to use a comb."
Fred's eyebrows shot straight up to his hairline, mouth agape. For the first time, he actually needed a second to form a reply.
"Didn't see that coming, I give you that. Courageous one, you are."
Your heart fluttered with joy and you openly grinned, shrugging in half-hearted humbleness.
"Perhaps I am."
Speaking to him felt unusually energizing, as though you had jumped headfirst into a chilly lake. It was unfamiliar and it set your nerves on fire, causing your stomach to twist and turn with sensations that left you dizzy, but unbelievably thrilled. And you wanted more of it, you wanted more of him.
"Fancy a drink?" Fred offered, already pouring champagne into a glass before handing it to you, and you keenly took it.
"Thanks, I've been thirsty with all the preparations I was doing."
"Is that why your legs are killing you?"
"Exactly, I've been running around all day, making sure everything was in order… you know, a lot of organizing and the like."
"It must hurt quite a bit then," Fred commented with a pained grimace. "But I absolutely get you, Georgie and I are just like that when it comes to the shop. It's a lot of accounting if I'm being honest, though I admit he's way better at it. We need to be completely precise; we can't allow any mistakes."
"Woah," you laughed. "Control freak much?"
He wettened his lips, never breaking eye contact.
"Perhaps I am."
You tilted your head to the side, gaze piercing into his in hopes of finding out what those gorgeous brown eyes were hiding. The tiny playful flames in them were eloquent.
Shifting slightly in your seat, you smoothed out your bridesmaid dress and raised your glass, the ghost of a smirk playing on your lips.
"Cheers to us control freaks then."
Fred mirrored your smug expression and your glasses met with a clink. The bubbly liquid tingled your throat, undoubtedly refreshing you and cooling you off. You glanced at the people dancing in the centre of the clearing and giggled - Ginny had apparently thrown away her white shoes long ago, bare feet stepping elegantly on the grass.
"You see, I'd like to chat a bit more with you, but I'm afraid it's a bit too loud here. What about we go to the pond across the field?" Fred suggested, pointing at the woods behind his back. You had visited them countless times when staying with Harry at the Burrow during holidays years ago; the tall trees and the glistening waters had never ceased to bring you comfort.
The noise started to become bothersome, and you felt it even more necessary to continue your conversation somewhere private, the unknown causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach. Fred's presence could only be compared to a shot of whiskey, or the sensation of anticipating a tidal wave to crash into you in less than a second. It was wild and the tiniest bit terrifying, but oh so tempting as it pulled you in.
"I'd love that, but… you know," you grinned and playfully swang your sore feet. "Can't really walk."
But this didn't at all seem like a problem to Fred Weasley who only shrugged and stood up, "You don't have to. I'll carry you."
"Merlin, no! Please, it's not necessary."
Fred frowned, but his confused expression was soon replaced by an amused one.
"You said it yourself that your feet hurt like hell. And even if carrying you around isn't necessary, it doesn't mean I don't want to."
You attempted to tame the butterflies.
"No, no! You seriously don't have to, I promise," you frantically protested as you held up your hands in front of you to reassure him, but he only gave you a weird look. "I can walk on my own. I'll be too heavy for you."
"There's only one way to find out."
Fred walked over to you and leaned down, one hand sneaking around your waist and the other slipping under your knees. You shrieked in terror, arms flying to clutch at his shoulders, and heat rose to your cheeks from the abrupt contact. Your chests were pressed together, and you were afraid he'd be able to feel your racing heart. His skin was warmer than you had thought, and it successfully fought off the night summer chill.
"Are we going?" Fred whispered down at you, lips so close to yours that you recognized the nuance of champagne in his breath, mixing unbelievably well with the scent of cinnamon and sandalwood of his cologne.
Not only is he sinfully attractive, but he smells heavenly too?
"Yes," you breathed and let Fred effortlessly walk across the meadow with you in his arms. They brought this new, odd, yet familiar sense of security, and you allowed your head to rest against his chest, nervous gaze wandering off into the distance in hopes of not meeting his. Nevertheless, curiosity eventually took the best of you, and your eyes would occasionally flicker to his, which were now completely black under the night sky. They could swallow you whole, you swore.
Minutes later, you found yourselves in the company of old, enormous willows which surrounded the pond you so vividly remembered from your teenage years. You thanked Fred as he carefully let you down, and took a few steps forward to look around and drench in the misty moonlight that enveloped the area. The waters were crystal clear and completely still, reflecting the moon and its majestic silver glow. The bushes had grown significantly over the time you were away, and you fondly looked back at the moments when you would pick up colorful wildflowers in the summer before your fourth year.
"Shall we sit?" Fred asked quietly from right behind your shoulder, and you followed him with a nod. You found a comfortable spot on the fresh grass to sit, a few feet away from where the water met the soil and moved back and forth ever so slightly.
"It's more beautiful than I remember," you noted, lips curled up in a barely visible smile. Fred hummed in agreement.
"That's why I always make sure to come here every chance I get when I return. But, unfortunately, that's very rare in my case."
For a moment, there was only the chirping of crickets and the soft bubbling of water.
Fred turned to you.
"Remember when mum used to call for us to de-gnome the garden and we'd hide here? We could stay in the bushes for hours before we eventually came back," he recalled, seeming deep in thought. It was an extraordinary sight; for once the playful spark in his eyes was more mellow, there was no cockiness seeping into the way he was holding himself. He was just Fred, the man who was currently thinking with so much adoration and love about his childhood, the most significant memories of it being marked by you.
You wondered, given you ever had the chance to spend with Fred as much time as your older brother did, if the charismatic prankster would have fallen for you like you had done. You wondered, given the chance you had let Fred get to know you better all those summers ago, if his heart would have belonged to you by now just like yours did to him.
Had you possibly missed your chance?
"Oh, I do," you sighed, the tension in your chest vanishing as warm nostalgia crept in like an old friend. "I also remember when I got this really bad nightmare that night. I was so terrified that you took me on a ride with your broom in the middle of the night to cheer me up."
"That's true! My parents don't know about it to this day," he replied smugly. "I can still hear you screaming like a lunatic."
You jokingly smacked his arm, "I was twelve!"
Fred's grin grew wider.
"Excuses…"
This only caused you to stare at him in disbelief and cross your arms, managing your most serious expression, but Fred was aware you were on the verge of failing to keep your stern facade. He squinted his eyes as a teasing attempt to provoke you, smile threatening to split his face in two.
"Alright then, that's enough about me," you announced, and Fred nodded in mock agreement as he studied your playful pretence. "If you're so much better than me, Mr Darcy, what else do you do aside from stealing ladies away?"
"Stealing their hearts," he said confidently, flashing you a seductive smirk, reserved only for special girls back in your Hogwarts days. You giggled, finding his antic utterly ridiculous, but you hated to admit that it still turned your blood into liquid fire. Fred apparently saw right through you, because when your eyes landed on his, they appeared completely dark once again, but, you suspected, for a reason other than the lack of light.
Your throat went dry, and you found it hard to swallow down the lump that cut your breath short.
He ran a hand through his ginger hair as he began to explain, "I'm kidding, you know. But to answer your question, George and I have been working on this potion that should be able to change the color of the eyes and hair. Fun for those who enjoy experimenting with their appearance, but it can also be useful to the Ministry. They're actually going to send a team of a couple of aurors to visit us next month so we can update them on our progress and negotiate the details."
"Wow! That's certainly exciting!"
"Is it? I mean, it probably is, but I've been having second thoughts lately if I'm being honest." He scratched the back of his neck, and you realised you had only witnessed him being anxious when it came to his greatest passion. "I'm afraid we might not be done on time, there's still plenty left to improve."
You put a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, and said, "I'm sure you'll figure it all out eventually. Keep working as you normally do, try not to stress too much over the deadline, and even if things go wrong at some point, don't go too hard on yourself. It wouldn't take away any progress you've made so far."
Fred's body relaxed just a bit and he looked down at you. He couldn't deny the sense of serenity that he felt only when he was with you. Even as a careless young boy, he was able to pinpoint the way his midriff would clench every time you'd laugh at his jokes or ask him to play with you, without knowing what it all meant.
But now, as a grown man, he had a word to describe the bittersweet fire within.
"You know what?" He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I could really benefit from having someone like you around to give me motivation."
"Motivation, huh?" you raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. Fred sneaked a hand around your waist and pulled you closer.
"Yes, motivation."
"Motivation for what?"
"Marketing strategies, work projects…" he shrugged nonchalantly, "...among other things."
You quickly caught on, suddenly becoming way too self-aware of the way you were practically cuddled into Fred's side, hand resting on his shoulder while his were wrapped around your waist. But his shining confidence seemed to rub off on you, because you asked.
"What's with you offering me a job all of a sudden?"
His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as he took his sweet time devouring you with his darkened gaze. You didn't know whether you wanted to hide from it, or expose yourself even further to the way it burned its way straight to your core.
"Well…" Fred dragged out in his low, hoarse voice, and caressed your cheek with his thumb before slipping it under your chin to guide it towards his face. You could nearly taste the remaining flavour of champagne on his lips. "I've certainly been feeling…"
Fred went quiet as he got lost in the way you fit so perfectly in his arms; you had always meant to be there, he realised. His mouth crashed into yours, hands tightly gripping your waist, and you let out a gasp. Fred's lips were soft, although slightly chapped, and they moved gently but firmly against yours, turning you into their slave. Your palms naturally slid up his chest and he closed any remaining distance between your bodies by placing you to straddle his lap. The kiss was a dance of pushing forward and pulling back, two lovers having finally found their rhythm after years of living in fearful desire. You were positively drunk on his taste, on him, and you wished to never become sober.
When your need for air overcame the one for physical contact, you pulled away. Your chests were heaving with rapid, shallow breaths, hearts beating in synch like they had always done. You let a finger tenderly trace his cheekbone down to his jawline, then it came back up to draw different affectionate patterns on his face.
"What were you saying?" you asked, clearly out of breath. "How were you feeling?"
He fondly took your hand that was caressing his skin, and lifted it up to press feather-light kisses on your knuckles. His lips retraced their path until they reached the tips of your fingers, and he kissed those with the gentlest of touch.
You heart ached pleasurably from the way he was handling you with such care, much more than you ever believed he was capable of.
After minutes of worshipping you by the moonlit lake, Fred looked back at you as though you were his entire world. And replied with a smile.
"Inspired."
Reblogs and feedback are greatly appreciated!
Masterlist
#fred weasley x reader#fred weasley x reader fluff#fred weasley imagines#fred weasley imagine#fred weasley fluff#fred weasley angst#fred weasley fanfiction#fred weasley oneshot#weasley twins x reader#weasley twins#fred and george weasley#george weasley x reader#george weasley#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter imagines#james phelps#oliver phelps
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Hey lovely! Sorry I missed your milestone post! Firstly CONGRATS! You deserve it and so much more!!! 💖 As there's a milestone celebration in my house today, what about celebrating a milestone anniversary with Henry? I'm all up in my sappy romantic feels 🥺💖 LUV YA x
I'm still answering the asks I got for my milestone celebration 🥳 So today I have another prompt based one-shot for you!
Thank you so much for your ask, Lauren and for your sweet words! I hope you still crave a little fluffy romance because that's what I tried to put into words, but most of all I hope you're going to like and enjoy this and you find yourself represented in my story.
Nostalgia
Pairing: Henry Cavill x Lauren
Words: ~ 1.3 k
Summary: It's your wedding anniversary but you have to work and that sucks, doesn't it?
Warnings: RPF, fluff
UNBETA'ED! English is not my mother tongue, so expect bad grammar, wrong spelling, chaotic punctuation and clumsy language. All mistakes are mine…
Disclaimer/credits: I neither own Henry Cavill nor do I know him. This is pure fiction. Pics for the header from Pinterest
My Masterlist
And now... enjoy the ride!
******
It could have been a great day, a perfect day. A trip to Plymouth, a major task your boss entrusted you with, a really important article you were about to write for the lifestyle and culture ressort you'd joined only a few weeks ago as deputy editor. If only it hadn't been exactly this day, the day of your five years anniversary with your beloved husband.
You leaned back in your seat with a sigh, closing your eyes, the rattling sound of the train that was taking you to Devon soothing your nerves a little.
Henry had been nothing but understanding when you told him you would be away for your anniversary. He had been disappointed for sure, you were easily able to tell by the look in his eyes, but he was the most supportive partner you could ever imagine and so he was genuinely happy for you that you were given this great opportunity.
"It's going to be fun, darling. You'll spend a whole day in a theme park and get paid for it," he had said with a grin. "We can celebrate our anniversary the next day, it's not a problem."
Of course he was right, it was no big deal, whether you had a romantic anniversary dinner today or tomorrow made no real difference, but you couldn't help the feeling of missing something tonight.
You shook your head, scolding yourself for being so unprofessional and ungrateful. Get your act together, you thought and that's what you did. You did your job and it turned out soon that Henry was right, it was a fun day.
The theme park that was about to be opened the following weekend, was called Nostalgia and it was really great. Old-fashioned and high-tech at the same time, the magic of the-good-old-days combined with the thrill of modern rides. You and the other journalists who got invited to the exclusive pre-opening had such a good time, trying all the fairground attractions -the rollercoasters, tilt-a-whirls, a log flume, a beautiful vintage horse-carousel, different chairoplanes and a more funny than spooky ghost train. You watched some shows, from stunt action to musical performances, and enjoyed some delicious treats at the candy booths. The only downer was the fact that the huge, historic ferris-wheel hadn't been opened yet. It was so beautiful, a real eyecatcher, being the geographical center of the park as well as the visual highlight.
When you and your colleagues were waiting for the shuttle busses to bring you back to the train station at the end of this exciting day, you were already busy with writing the article in your head. Unfortunately you were interrupted, when the park director approached you, glancing at your name badge.
"Mrs Cavill, I'm sorry to bother you, but would you please accompany me?"
You looked at him with a frown.
"Is something wrong?"
"Nothing to worry about, just a tiny problem with your accreditation. A formality. We just need you to sign some paperwork, so if you'd follow me to my office…?"
"But the bus," you said in a weak attempt to avoid any complications.
"There's plenty of time," the man answered with a friendly smile. "Please." He gestured to you to follow him and you gave in with a sigh.
When the ferris wheel came into sight you stared at it in amazement. It was beautifully illuminated by thousands of little lights that created a very romantic atmosphere, and to your big surprise it was even slowly turning.
"I thought the ferris wheel hadn't been opened yet?"
The director turned to you with a conspiratorial smile.
"Well, we may have given a special permit to someone to use it exclusively tonight."
"Really?" You were confused by his words and he grinned, pointing at something. When your gaze followed the direction of his gesture you gasped, covering your mouth with your hands. Henry was standing by the entrance of the ferris wheel, wearing a tuxedo, his hair neatly done, his blue eyes shining bright, smiling lovingly at you.
It took you some seconds to recover from this welcome shock, but when you were able to breathe and think again, you started to run straight into the arms of your beloved husband. He hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground with ease, before putting you down again to press a sweet kiss on your brown hair.
"Happy anniversary, darling."
His whispered words that resonated softly in your ear, sent pleasant shivers down your spine. You looked up, getting on your tiptoes to kiss him. Your lips met and the kiss was brief but deep and passionate, your tongues tasting desire and anticipation in each other's mouths.
"Happy anniversary, baby", you answered with an ecstatic smile, still equally surprised and confused, "but what are you doing here?"
"Whisking you away for a ride on the big wheel, of course," he said with a grin and you couldn't help but laugh out loud with happiness and excitement.
"How the heck did you manage to do that?" You hugged him, snuggling up against his broad chest, inhaling his scent that was so fresh and tangy. Henry wrapped his arms around your petite body, making you feel safe and sound.
"That has to remain my little secret, darling," he smirked and you chuckled at his attempt to wink at you.
"So hop on, my lady."
Henry bowed down before you, gesturing expansively in the direction of the gondola, being the dorky guy he just was and who you loved so much.
When you entered the little cab you were truly amazed. It was furnished with two upholstered benches and a small table, but what made your heart skip a beat and your eyes go wide was the fact that it was decorated with so much loving care. There was an elegant white cloth on the table, candles that illuminated the tiny space, crystal champagne flutes and a huge bottle of Moët & Chandon, strawberries, filled chocolates and the little truffles you liked so much.
You sat down and Henry took the seat beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to pull you close.
"This is incredible, baby. Such a great surprise," you told him with a grateful smile, visibly touched.
"I'm glad you like it, baby girl."
He kissed you and you laughed out loud in unison, when the wheel started moving, causing the gondola to rock slowly, making you and Henry bump into each other.
Besides the jerky start the ride was very smooth and the wheel kept on turning slowly while you and Henry enjoyed the fantastic few over the park, the delicious treats and the sparkling champagne, cuddled up to each other, sharing uncountable loving glances and kisses.
Just when you thought the night couldn't get any better, the cab stopped at the peak and music started to play softly from invisible speakers. You realized immediately that it was Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen. Your song. The song he had kissed you to for the first time. The song you had danced to on your wedding day, surrounded by your families and friends but still feeling like being the only two people on the planet. The song you had made love to so many times.
You beamed at your husband, unable to say anything, tears welling up in your blue eyes, Henry loved so much. You cupped his face with your small hands and kissed him tenderly, your lips expressing your happiness and gratitude better than a thousand words could have. After making out for a while, completely lost in the moment, Henry pulled away, leaving you breathless and aroused. He raked something out of his pocket and placed it on the table right in front of you, covering it with his hand.
"What's that?" You wanted to know. "Another surprise?"
"An additional one," he grinned, lifting his arm, revealing a plastic card.
"Is that a key card?"
"It is," Henry nodded. "The key to an exclusive suite in the best hotel in town. We'll go there tonight and we won't leave it all weekend."
"Really?" You teased him with a cheeky smile. "What are we going to do in there all this time?"
"I'll show you," he said with a smirk, slipping his hand under your skirt, sounding the bell for the smuttiest weekend you'd ever experienced.
**********
Taglist
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#henry cavill#cavillry#henry cavill fandom#henry cavill fanfic#henry cavill fanfiction#henry cavill rpf#milestone celebration
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being on edge had become the new normal for miller, as of late. the closer they got to the wedding date, his wedding date, that was fully going ahead, up until a few months ago, the worse it got. he couldn’t help it, with the guilt resting on his shoulders, weighing him down, as well as any given thought about actually going through with such a thing, leaving a sour taste in his mouth, both as prominent as ever, especially now, especially today. never did he think that he’d actively put himself in a position to heighten those tensions roaming from within, and yet here he was, as devon’s plus one. that alone came with its own set of challenges─ the two of them finally in a spot where they were comfortable with their relationship being out in the open, but now having to navigate how to introduce the idea to their families, or, well, hers specifically. he had tried to prepare himself for what would come with it, what type of reactions they would receive, but never had he expected an uphill battle before the ceremony even began. she’d been quiet, awfully quiet, on the way here, and he’d been unsuccessful in gaining her attention for more than a few seconds without her parents being within close proximity. he wasn’t normally one to assume, didn’t like to, at least, but he conjectured that the sudden change in her mood was due to the tense conversation he’d overheard not long before they had left. and so, seeing it as his only opportunity to do so before they find their seats, miller finds himself reaching for her arm, guiding her gently along with him, off to the side where it was a little less populated, a little more quiet. he stands in front of her, as if to block any onlookers, though to also have her only focused on him, fingers coming up to fidget with the button on his suit jacket. okay, so maybe he was stalling a little bit too, knowing what was waiting for them behind those doors, or maybe who was a better suited word, the familiar face inevitably within the sea of people, but right now he was more worried about her. even as his stomach churns, his features soften as he looks at her, in that way they always tends to. “ you okay ? you haven’t said much, you know, and at risk of sounding absolutely disgusting, i miss hearing your voice, ” tries to lighten the mood, arms outstretched, hands in search of her own, suddenly in need of her touch, all the while offering his own. “ you can tell me, you know ? i mean, if you want to, that is. it sounded pretty tense, whatever it was they said to you, ” not that he was purposefully eavesdropping, he’d merely been in a position where he overheard some of what was said. / @hurtingkind
#hurtingkind#interactions / miller banks.#um.... i'm not sure what this is bestie but it sure is something x
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The penultimate chapter of my Fake Dating AU is up now! Read it below, or check out the whole story on AO3!
Content Warnings for this chapter:
- Internalized Ableism
- Referenced/Implied Child Abuse
Martin made himself a promise, as he and Jon arrived at the wedding. He was going to enjoy this last day as Jon’s fake boyfriend, and not spend the whole time mourning the fact that their fake relationship was coming to an end.
But that, of course, was easier said than done.
They entered the gardens where the ceremony would be held arm in arm, but Jon soon disentangled their hands and pressed a parting kiss to his cheek.
“I think I’m going to check out the bar,” he said, “It’s been awhile since I’ve been to a wedding, but I seem to remember they’re a lot more pleasant with a drink in hand.”
“Just be glad it’s not a Catholic ceremony,” Martin said, grimacing at his childhood memories, “They’re about 10 times longer, and they usually don’t have an open bar.”
“Well, when I meet the happy couple, I’ll make sure to thank them for that.” Jon lingered for another moment, eyes roving over Martin’s face as though he was debating whether to kiss him again, before he left.
“Get me a G&T while you’re there!” Martin called after him, and Jon waved back in acknowledgement.
Martin watched him go, taking in the way the silver streaks in his hair gleamed in the warm afternoon sun. He’d tied his hair back into an elaborate knot for the occasion, but left a few stray curls loose to frame his face. It looked nice, as did his outfit: a simple black suit with a light grey vest - nothing especially fancy, but it fit him well. Martin was going to have a hard time not staring at him the whole night.
Reluctantly, Martin turned away to look at the rest of the crowd gathered. It was still half an hour before the ceremony was due to begin, so there weren’t too many people. Martin recognized a few of his aunts and uncles, and a cousin or two. His mother, he noted, hadn’t shown up yet. Martin had offered to drive her, but she insisted on getting a ride from his cousin instead. He told himself it was nothing personal - James just lived closer to Devon, that’s all - but it still stung.
He felt a tap at his elbow, and turned to see Jon offering him a gin and tonic.
“Remind me how you’re related to the bride?” he murmured as he took a sip of his own drink.
“Rachel’s my cousin on my mother’s side. Her mum is my Aunt Aniela.”
“Right, right, your mother’s younger sister.”
“Correct,” Martin said. As part of Jon’s preparation, he’d studied Martin’s family extensively. He really didn’t have to; Martin wasn’t particularly close with any of his family - if he made it through the whole wedding without forgetting any of his cousin’s names, he’d consider it a success - but Jon had wanted to be thorough.
“She used to work at an art museum, and would always buy you postcards of your favourite paintings.”
“Correct.”
“She and Rachel’s father divorced after she had an affair with that violinist.”
Martin choked on his drink. He didn’t remember telling Jon that. “Correct, but I wouldn’t bring that up today.”
“I wasn’t going to!” Jon’s tone was defensive, but he was smiling. “Is he going to be here today?” he asked.
“Rachel’s dad, or the violinist?”
“Well, either, I suppose.”
“Rachel’s dad will be, the violinist won’t.”
“Makes sense,” Jon muttered, looking out over the crowd, and Martin noticed a strand of hair had come loose from his bun. He turned Jon back to face him with a gentle touch to his jaw, and then tucked the hair behind his ear.
“Y-Your hair,” he explained needlessly. Jon swallowed and gave a nod. Then he glanced at Martin and set down his drink, saying,
“Here, actually, let me fix your collar.”
Martin held his breath as Jon adjusted his collar and then his tie with deft, steady hands.
“There we go,” Jon whispered, smoothing out Martin’s lapels and letting his hands linger on his chest for longer than was probably necessary. “Have I told you yet how good you look today?” That was something a boyfriend would say, naturally, and not necessarily something Jon actually thought, but there was a sincerity in his voice that caught Martin off guard.
“Thanks,” he said eventually, “You don’t look so bad yourself.” And that felt so wholly inadequate for describing how Jon looked today that he had to add, “I mean, God, you look-”
“Thank you,” Jon said quickly, and turned away. Martin cleared his throat.
“A-Anyway,” he said, “That’s Aniela there in the blue dress, talking to my Aunt Irena.”
“Irena…” Jon repeated, searching his memory. “She’s the one who owned the yorkshire terrier that bit you when you were nine?”
God, why had he told Jon so much? “Yeah.”
“Should we go say hello?”
Martin agreed that they probably should, and they walked over to where Martin’s aunts stood chatting by the aisle. Although (or perhaps because) Martin hadn’t seen them in years, they each pulled him into a tight hug when they saw him.
“Martin, dear!” Irena cooed, “It’s been so long! How have you been?”
“Good,” Martin replied, though his chest was still constricted by Irena’s surprisingly strong arms. As soon as she let him go, he gestured to Jon. “This is my boyfriend, Jon. Jon, this is my Aunt Irena and my Aunt Aniela.”
“Lovely to meet you both,” Jon said, extending his hand, but Irena ignored it in favour of giving him a hug. Martin heard Jon let out a soft oof as all the air was squeezed out of his lungs.
“Let the boy breathe, Irenka,” Aniela chastised, swatting Irena’s arm. Once Jon was released from the hug, she held out her hand for him to shake. “Nice to meet you, Jon.”
Jon reiterated that it was nice to meet her, and offered his congratulations.
“Have you been taking good care of our Martin?” she asked.
“I, uh, I-I supposed that’s a question for Martin,” Jon said, and turned to Martin with a hesitant look on his face, as though actually anxious to hear the answer.
“He has,” Martin said. Jon gave him a small, private smile, and Martin smiled back, and he would have given anything, in that moment, for this to be real. Sometimes, when Jon looked at him like that (and held his hand when he really didn’t need to, and whispered I love you in the backs of cabs) he thought that maybe - but he couldn’t let himself think like that. It would only make things worse.
“Aw!” Irena said, startling the two of them out of their private moment, “What a cute couple!”
“Should we expect to be invited to your wedding soon?” Aniela asked.
Martin sputtered. “We’ve only been dating for less than a year!”
“Arthur and I had only been seeing each other for six months when we got engaged,” she shrugged, “Though I guess that’s not exactly a success story.”
“I thought you were disillusioned with marriage, anyway” Irena pointed out, “Shouldn’t you be with Rachel right now, talking her out of this?”
“Of course not! This venue cost a fortune, it’s far too late to change her mind now!” Aniela said. “Anyway, marriage is fine - wonderful, even! - if you find the right person, and Rachel’s found the right person.” She glanced at Jon, eyes sparkling. “And it looks like Martin has, too.”
The words hurt more than they should have. Jon turned to give him another smile, but Martin thought he could see a flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
“You only met him two minutes ago,” he told Aniela, trying to keep his tone light.
“I have a sense for these things,” she insisted, “And I can just tell you two are a good fit.”
Martin cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink, and silently prayed that the conversation would move on to other things. Thankfully, it did. They ended up talking about the weather for quite awhile, and it wasn’t until the second or third time that they all agreed how lucky they were to get such nice weather, and what a risk the couple had taken having an outdoor wedding in early May, that Irena spotted something over his shoulder and said,
“Oh, Martin, your mother’s just arrived.” Her tone was mild, matter-of-fact, but Martin tensed at the news. He followed her gaze to see that his mother had indeed arrived. He could see from a glance that she was worn out from the long drive, and he knew that however hard he tried to get her to rest and stay out of the sun and drink plenty of water, she was going to be tired and irritable the entire night. That still wouldn’t stop him from trying, though.
Jon turned to him, looking nearly as anxious as Martin felt. “I suppose we s-should go say hello.”
Martin could only nod. He slipped his hand into Jon’s as they walked over, and Jon gripped it like a lifeline.
“Hi, Mum!”
In all of the preparation for lying to his mother, all of the worst-case scenarios he’d stayed up worrying about, he somehow had never considered the simple awkwardness of Jon interacting with his mother - or, more to the point, Jon seeing him interact with his mother.
It was embarrassing. There were other words he could use, but none of them were particularly charitable to his mother, and that wasn’t fair, she was ill, so he stuck with ‘embarrassing.’ He pretended embarrassment was the only thing he felt as he leaned down to kiss her cheek and she grimaced the same way she might if an enormous, slobbery dog had started licking her face.
“Yes, yes, that’s enough of that,” she said, brushing him off. Then she waved a hand at Jon. “Is this the man you’ve been hiding from me?”
“I haven’t been hiding-”
She turned to Jon and said, “He never mentioned you, not once in - how long have you been together?”
“Five months,” Martin filled in miserably.
“Five months.” She swung around at Martin, “And don’t try to tell me it wasn’t serious - your cousin paid good money for this venue and this catering, so if he’s here, it had better be serious.”
“It just never came up,” he said, and that was only barely a lie. Even if he’d had a boyfriend, he wouldn’t have had a lot of opportunities to mention him for how rarely she accepted his calls.
Jon took all this in stride. “It’s good to meet you,” he said, extending his hand, “You’ve raised a wonderful son.”
“Well,” she said, slightly mollified by the compliment even if she didn’t agree with Jon’s assessment, “It wasn’t easy.”
“Should we get our seats?” Jon asked, glancing at the time on his phone, “I think the ceremony’s due to start soon.”
Martin took his mother’s arm and tried to help her to her seat (she hadn’t taken her walker or even her cane today, and she was more than a little unsteady on her feet), but she swatted him away.
“I’m not an invalid!” she muttered. “I can walk!”
They found seats near the back, and Martin took a seat between Jon and his mother. It was a surprisingly hot afternoon, especially sitting in the sun, so Martin was relieved that they didn’t have to wait for long. Soon enough, the music started, the crowd hushed, and they all watched as the bridal party made their way down the aisle.
The ceremony itself was mercifully short. Jon grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze as the officiant talked about love and commitment and the sorts of things people always talk about at weddings. As the officiant described the incomparable joy of finding someone who is both your best friend and your true love, Jon smiled at him, and it was all a lie, and that fact hurt Martin more than it ever had before. He consoled himself that people always cry at weddings, so no one would notice if he did now, but no tears came. In time it faded to a dull and distant ache, as Martin played his part and smiled back.
At the cocktail hour between the wedding and the reception, Jon and Martin made the rounds, catching up with family members Martin hadn’t seen in half a decade. He did end up getting one of his cousins’ names wrong, but his guilt was tempered somewhat when a different cousin called him “Marcus” by mistake. The conversations were largely insubstantial, as despite being family they barely knew each other, but all the relatives he spoke to invariably loved Jon.
Martin tried to keep that dull ache at bay as the congratulations for finding such a great partner came to feel more and more like disbelief that he could ever date someone so hopelessly out of his league. He knew that if their lie were true, he’d be preening, and bragging, and showing off his wonderful boyfriend, but as it was, he didn’t want to call attention to it. Because of course, they were right. Jon would never actually want to date him, no matter how much his smiles and glances and near-constant hand-holding sometimes seemed to suggest otherwise.
The phrase I have high standards flashed into his mind, unbidden, and Martin reminded himself of how many layers of falsehood were required to make this “relationship” work.
At dinner, Martin was seated at a table with Jon, his mother, and three cousins that he had last seen at their great grandmother’s funeral. Conversation was, predictably, sparse for much of the meal, but things picked up eventually. When the youngest of his cousins started telling a story about chasing down a runaway kitten during her first week as a veterinary assistant, Martin chimed in with,
“That actually reminds me of my first day in the Archives!”
His mother dropped her fork in distaste. “Your cousins are trying to eat,” she said sharply. “I’m sure no one wants to hear any stories about that ghastly Institute of yours.”
There was a long silence, during which Martin’s cousins looked down at their food to avoid looking at Martin, before Jon spoke up. “I’d like to hear that story, actually.”
“You were there!” Martin said.
“Yes, but I’ve never heard it from your perspective!”
Martin began, haltingly, to tell the story of letting a dog into the Archives on his first day. Jon listened attentively, as though he hadn't lived it, and flashed Martin an encouraging little smile. He gained a bit of confidence as he spoke, and eventually his cousins grew invested in the story as well.
“What did you do?” one of them asked Jon, who flushed and started stammering.
“Well, erm. Well the thing is-”
“Yes?” Martin asked, voice teasing.
“In fairness to myself, it was my first day, and none of the management seminars I watched prepared me for that!”
“So what did you do?” the cousin repeated.
“Well…” Jon started, but showed no sign of spitting it out, so Martin finished for him.
“He threatened to fire me.”
“I didn’t exactly threaten,” Jon protested weakly. “I implied…”
“Not very subtly.”
Jon hid his face in his hands for just a second before collecting himself and saying, “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m - I’m glad I didn’t fire you.”
“Hard to imagine I would have asked you on a date if you had.”
“And where would I be then?” Jon asked, and for a moment Martin could almost swear he saw a flicker of melancholy cross his face.
***
After dinner, there were toasts, during which Jon once again held Martin’s hand and smiled at him as though love were a secret that he and Martin and the bride and groom were all in on.
After the toasts was the cutting of the cake, and the bouquet toss, and what felt like a hundred more wedding traditions that Martin had barely remembered the existence of. Through it all, the wedding photographer moved through the crowd, discreetly asking guests to pose, or to smile, or to not look at the camera. When he came to their table, he got Martin to put his arm around Jon’s shoulders and smile.
“Say cheese!”
There was a click from the camera, and the photographer glanced at the monitor to see how the photo turned out.
“Adorable,” he said, giving Jon and Martin a thumbs up. “Oh, that’s just perfect.”
Martin checked in on his mother periodically throughout the night, though she brushed him off each time.
“I’m fine,” she said when Martin asked if she needed to sit down.
“Are you sure? It’s been a long day-”
“Yes, I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “Where’s that so-called boyfriend of yours? Why don’t you go fuss over him?”
Jon was standing by the edge of the dance floor, looking awkward, and reluctantly, Martin took his mother’s advice and went to see him. He smiled when he saw Martin walking towards him, but dropped the smile quickly when he saw his expression.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah,” Martin lied, but Jon didn’t believe him for a second.
“Was it your mother? She seems…” Jon, very tactfully, didn’t finish the sentence but Martin could guess what was left unsaid and felt compelled to argue with it.
“She’s not well.”
Jon pondered that for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and serious. “That doesn’t excuse the way she treats you.”
“I mean, it does, though, doesn’t it?” Martin insisted. “She’s had a really hard life, and I wasn’t exactly the perfect son.”
“I don’t think perfection should really be the standard you’re held to.” Jon was agitated, but he seemed to gather himself as he said, “You’re a good person, Martin, and I find it hard to believe you aren’t a good son. You deserve better.”
Martin didn’t have anything to say to that, and the silence stretched for a long, tense second before Jon cleared his throat and said, “W-Well. Should we- should we dance?”
Martin sighed. “Nah, I’m a terrible dancer.”
“It’s a wedding, Martin. Being a good dancer isn’t really the point.”
“Still, I hate dancing in front of crowds like this,” Martin admitted, “Always feel a bit stupid.”
“What about a slow dance? Those are easy, all you have to do is sway and look besotted with whoever you’re dancing with.”
And, well, that didn’t sound particularly difficult. “I do have plenty of practice at that.”
“So you’ll dance with me?” Jon asked, and he seemed so genuinely hopeful that Martin couldn’t possibly say no.
“I will.”
“Good,” Jon smiled. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Aside from dancing, the main activity of the reception seemed to be talking to other guests, and as Martin didn’t know many people there, he spent most of the time sitting at the table with Jon as they tried to keep each other entertained. A few weeks ago, that task would have seemed far more intimidating than dancing, but by now it was easy, it was effortless. To make Jon laugh felt like the most natural thing in the world.
Eventually, they found themselves playing a game, wherein Martin would point out a relative and Jon would try to guess who they were.
“That has to be Rachel’s brother Mike.”
“Okay, okay that was an easy one!” Martin said. “What about her, in the red dress?”
Jon studied the woman in question as she danced enthusiastically to Mr. Brightside. “I’m going to say that’s Irena’s daughter Emily.”
“Nope! Guess again.”
“Hmm… Both of Rachel’s sisters were in the bridal party, so it can’t be either of them, I already met your Uncle Antoni’s stepdaughter Diana, she’s too old to be your cousin Quinn… I give up.”
“That’s my second cousin Lindsay - her grandmother is my Great Aunt Magda.”
“That’s not fair! I didn’t know there'd be second cousins here!”
“I definitely mentioned her, though.”
“I’ll have to check my notes,” Jon muttered. Then a thought struck him. “Wait, is she the one whose family lived on a farm, who taught you how to feed the horses?”
“Uh huh.”
“I can’t believe I forgot about Horse Girl Lindsay!”
That wasn’t very funny - it wasn’t even a joke - but something about the phrasing made Martin choke on his drink in laughter. Jon seemed quite proud of himself, though his pride quickly turned to concern as Martin gasped for breath.
“Are you alright?”
“Fine,” Martin wheezed. Jon took a sip of his own drink to hide his grin.
Martin set down his drink and inspected his now-wet shirt. Jon grabbed a napkin.
“Here, let me,” he said, and suddenly his face was very close to Martin’s, frowning in concentration as he dabbed at the stain on Martin’s suit. He glanced up from his work just long enough to shoot Martin a quick smile. One last swipe with the napkin, and then he leaned up to plant a kiss on Martin’s cheek. “That’s better,” he whispered.
“I-I think I’m going to get another drink,” Martin said, though he wasn’t particularly thirsty. He just needed a bit of space from Jon all of a sudden - a chance to clear his head.
Unfortunately, Jon didn’t seem to pick up on this, as he glanced at his own glass and said, “I could actually use one as well.”
Jon was hovering by his elbow as he went to the bar and ordered a gin and tonic and a glass of white wine. “And a glass of water,” he added on a whim. His mother never drank enough water at these sorts of events, and it was such a hot day.
He walked to the table in the corner where his mother was sitting, and Jon came with him.
“I brought you some water,” Martin explained, setting the glass on the table, “It’s easy to get dehydrated on a warm day like this, and I thought-”
“You thought I was too stupid to think of it myself.” It was clear from her voice that she was tired, and irritable, and quite possibly coming down with a migraine, and this was precisely why he’d wanted her to drink more water.
“No, I just-”
“You thought I couldn’t walk the two steps to get it myself?”
Martin opened his mouth to protest further, but Jon beat him to it. “He’s just trying to help!”
“I didn’t ask for his help,” Martin’s mother snapped, fixing Jon with a withering glare. “And I don’t appreciate being ordered around like a child.”
“There’s a lot you don’t appreciate, it seems,” Jon muttered, and her eyes narrowed in a way that filled Martin with a deep, instinctual terror.
“What did you say?” she asked, voice quiet and level in what Martin recognized as the calm before the storm.
“Leave it, Jon,” he said. Jon looked at him and softened. He seemed ready to let the subject drop when Martin’s mother said,
“No, I want to hear what he was going to say!”
“I was going to say,” Jon said, struggling to keep his voice from rising, “that Martin clearly cares for you very much, and he’s done nothing but try to look after you all night, and if you can’t bring yourself to feel any sort of appreciation for that, the least you could do is not berate him!”
“How dare you!” she hissed, eyes so wide Martin worried she was going to have a fit. “Who are you to tell me how to treat my son?”
“Why don’t we get some air?” Martin asked weakly, and he pulled Jon away from the conversation and out into the gardens. As soon as they were out, away from the heat and noise of the reception, Jon deflated.
“I’m sorry, Martin,” he said. “The entire reason I came was to impress your mother, and I-”
“You’re fine, Jon.”
“I’m a hypocrite, is what I am.” Jon sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, threatening to pull it out of its bun. “I don’t have room to criticise anyone else for not appreciating all the things you do for them.” He swallowed. “But, well, I have come to appreciate them. Too little, and too late, I know. A-And I know that you deserve so much more than my admiration, but I hope you know you have it. I… I think the world of you, Martin.”
Martin reeled, processing what Jon had said. There was no one around, this wasn’t a performance for anyone else’s benefit. This was just Jon, being honest. And of course Martin had gotten the impression that Jon didn’t hate him anymore, but to hear him say this… It took him a moment to find his voice.
“I… think the world of you, too, Jon.”
Jon turned away, doubt and guilt flickering across his face. “I’d understand if you didn’t.”
“But I do.”
“R-Right.” Jon coughed awkwardly. “S-Should we head back in? I believe you still owe me a dance.”
When they slipped back into the reception hall, the DJ was blaring a very high energy pop song that had most of the guests out of their seats and dancing tipsily. Martin could see Jon’s point about not needing to dance well at weddings - a quick glance at the crowd showed that Martin was unlikely to be the worst dancer there - but he still wasn’t eager to join them.
“Not exactly a slow dance,” Jon pointed out.
“Not quite.”
They grabbed seats by the edge of the dance floor and watched the group in silence for a bit. Martin might have been projecting, but he thought there was a tension between them, neither one quite sure how to move on from the conversation they’d had outside.
“That man at the head of the conga line,” Jon said eventually, pointing to one of Martin’s relatives. “I’m going to guess that’s… Antoni’s oldest son, Charles.”
“You cheated!”
“I did not!”
“You talked to him, you must have, or else you overheard something-”
“I just happen to be very intuitive!” Jon insisted, and Martin snorted, and whatever had hung between them in the garden dissipated like smoke.
***
They did dance, eventually. Near the end of the night, a slow song Martin didn’t recognize came on, and Jon’s eyes lit up as he said, “Oh, I love this song!” and Martin allowed himself to be led by the hand toward the dance floor. They were stiff, at first, and awkward, but as the song went on they grew more relaxed, and slowly melted into each other until Jon was resting his head on Martin’s chest as they gently swayed in place.
“Thank you for coming with me today,” Martin whispered into the top of Jon’s head, his words muffled by his silver-streaked curls.
Jon pulled away just enough to look Martin in the eye as he whispered, “Of course.” He held Martin’s gaze, eyes solemn and sincere, and carefully adjusted his grip on Martin’s hands so that he could tap - once, twice - on the back of one of them.
Martin froze. Jon hadn’t tapped his hand since their conversation at the bed and breakfast (except that once, when he was drunk and had asked Martin’s permission to hug him). I’d rather know exactly what I’m agreeing to, Martin had said, and, well, he knew now. He also knew that he didn’t have to agree, that Jon wouldn’t hold it against him, but he would never be able to forgive himself if he let this opportunity pass him by. He tapped, once, into Jon’s palm, and held his breath.
Jon cupped a hand on Martin’s cheek, pulling his face ever so slightly closer as he rocked forward onto his tiptoes. He leaned forward slowly, oh so slowly, as though waiting for Martin to pull away. Martin didn’t. Instead, he leaned forward as well, and their lips met.
The kiss was long, and slow, and tender, and it felt like saying goodbye. Martin tightened his grip on Jon’s back, afraid he’d pull away too soon, but Jon seemed to be in no hurry. When they finally broke apart, he kept his hand on Martin’s face, holding him close. His thumb brushed across the ridge of Martin’s cheek, as he looked up at him with wide, unreadable eyes.
“Martin, I-” he started, voice thick with emotion, but he cut himself off. He cleared his throat, dropped his hand from Martin’s cheek, and grabbed Martin’s hands to resume the dance. He never said what he was going to say, and Martin never worked up the courage to ask.
***
At the end of the night, Jon walked him home. It really wasn’t much of a walk from the sidewalk where the cab had dropped them off to the Archives, but the worms had been growing in number, so much so that he and Jon had to spend several minutes stomping the ones wriggling on the steps before they went inside, and Martin really couldn’t complain about having company.
“Here you are,” Jon said as they entered the Archives. “Home sweet…” he trailed off, the reality of Martin’s living situation apparently too grim even to joke about.
“Thanks for coming tonight. And for… everything else. I mean, you did so much-”
“Don’t thank me,” Jon said, “I had fun. You’re, uh. You’re good company.”
“You’re good company, too,” Martin said. Jon made a little noise of disbelief and opened his mouth as though to argue, and Martin pressed. “You are! You’re- You’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
It was a joke, of course, but when Jon looked at him, his eyes were wide and soft and painfully earnest. “You’re the best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had,” he said softly, and the sentiment felt, somehow, meaningful.
Jon took a step towards Martin, staring at him the same way he had in the garden, and for a moment time stood still. Then Jon stopped himself, patted Martin stiffly on the arm, and said, “Goodnight, Martin. I’ll- I’ll see you on Monday.” And then he was gone.
(View this chapter on AO3)
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At last
Summary: Kurt and Blaine don’t get married when Brittany asks them to. That doesn’t mean that they won’t get married at all.
Notes: Happy 7 year anniversary to Kurt and Blaine, and Brittany and Santana! You four deserved better!
AO3
--
“But... But what?” Kurt asks, desperate to make some sense out of this situation.
“But... not like this,” Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hands. Kurt blinks, and he looks shocked, so Blaine starts to feel the panic rise. They just got back together and now he’s messing it up all over again.
In a rush of panic, he starts rambling. “I love you, so, so much and I do wanna marry you. You know I do. I asked you to marry me and I still want that for us, but our time apart made me realise that it’s okay to take things slow-”
“Blaine.”
“-because I am sorry for rushing us earlier, I was just so afraid to lose you again and I am feeling the same anxiety but I also-”
“Blaine!”
But Blaine’s shaking his head and his eyes are closed. He can’t bear to see the heartbreak that he’s causing.
“-don’t want to to this because I feel like we have to, or because Brittany wants us to, because we should get married because we want to-”
“Blaine! Open your eyes.”
Blaine does and that’s when he sees that’s Kurt gotten down on one knee. He’s smiling and turns to Sue.
“Can I have one of those rings?”
“Gladly, Porcelain,” Sue takes one of the ring off her pinkies. Kurt gladly takes it and then he lets out a shaky laugh.
“Blaine Devon Anderson, will you marry me one day? Not now, but another time?”
“Yes... Always, yes!”
--
Once, Kurt and Blaine told April Rhodes that they enjoyed a long engagement and it’s true. Every time people asked them for the wedding date, they said after college.
And they kept their promises.
Kurt’s looking at himself in the mirror. He can someone move behind him.
“Dude, you look fine,” Elliott says.
“Jitters,” Kurt says and he sprays more hairspray to perfect his quiff. It’s silly that he has those jitters. He’s never been more certain of anything. This day has been years in the making.
The door opens and Mercedes’s head pokes in. “Knock knock?”
“You’re already here,” Kurt says with a smile.
Mercedes extends her arms and she comes in for a hug, but Kurt has to stop her.
“Mercedes, you know I don’t want to wrinkle my suit!”
“He’s jitterish,” Elliott chimes in.
“Well, as the maid of honour and the best man, I think it’s our job to make sure you get to the altar in once piece,” Mercedes says and Elliott nods eagerly.
Kurt turns back to the mirror to smooth his suit again. He knows it’s ridiculous, but sometimes he can’t believe it’s happening. It’s... well, it’s going to be everything. And he’s so glad that they waited. They’re older now. They’ve learnt to communicate better. They’re more secure than ever.
Brittany and Santana obviously went through with their wedding five years ago, despite Brittany’s disappointment when it became clear that Kurt and Blaine weren’t joining them. It was a lovely ceremony, but one part stuck out to Kurt. It’s when Brittany and Santana exchanged their vows and they both said that they were a work in progress.
When they said that, Kurt squeezed Blaine’s hand and they looked at each other.
They really felt that. They’d just gotten back together and it was only the beginning. This marriage will show how much they’ve grown.
“Alright, it’s go time!” Mercedes’s voice pulls Kurt out of his thoughts.
“I agree,” they hear. Kurt’s dad has arrived. Kurt smiles widely when he sees how proud his dad looks and the ceremony hasn’t even started yet. His dad holds out his arm and Kurt links their arms.
The two of them walk to the wedding hall. Kurt and Blaine picked a wonderful location outside of New York. It’s decorated over the top, just as Kurt would’ve wanted. When Kurt and his dad arrive at the door, he sees Blaine. He’s also standing at the entrance with his mom to walk down the aisle.
Now, they did a first look, so they know what the other looks like, but seeing Blaine again takes Kurt’s breath away.
The music starts and their wedding parties go in first. Then it’s time for Blaine and his mom. Kurt’s dad gives Kurt’s hand a squeeze and they follow suit.
Kurt and Blaine couldn’t escape Sue Sylvester, so they let her be the officiant. She makes some weird jokes, but overall, she’s doing a great job. Kurt and Blaine hold hands as they say their vows.
“And now by the power invested in me, by me, I pronounce you married!”
Kurt dips Blaine for a kiss and everyone around them cheers and hoots. When they’re done, they’re running back to the aisle, hand-in-hand. Some wedding guests throw confetti as they pass.
It’s the perfect wedding.
#drabble#kinda#glee#holy fuck I wrote#2022#2021#klaine#LOOK I HAVE HAD THIS UNFINISHED IN MY DRAFTS FOR AGES#I DIDNT EXPECT TO POST IT TODAY#BUT THEIR WEDDING ANNIVERSARY IS THE PERFECT DAY
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