#is it fluff

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pairing: draco malfoy x reader

sypnosis: "i hope i never see what your face looks like going. a face, i swear, that i could spend my whole life knowing"

warning: not proofread, lowercase writing.

note: i hope you like this totally fluffy sweet oneshot. is it obvious i'm currently back in my slytherin boys era? if this does well, i'll post my other wip. :) leave a comment if you want more of these. love, 𑣲hydrangea.ᐟ

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draco malfoy, without fail, steals your blanket every single night.

it wasn't intentional—at least, he says. In his sleep, he somehow manages to wrap himself into a burrito, leaving you shivering beside him for the rest of the night.

groaning, you nudged him through his burrito of a thick weighted blanket. "you did it again." no answer. you sneer, he probably didn't hear you from the privilege of hogging the entire thing.

"draco!" you whisper-yelled, poking again. this time, your boyfriend groans. one eye opens, looking at the thick layers of fabric on top of him. "i don't know what you're talking about." he said huskily, closing his eyes again and comfortably snuggling into his pillow.

"you literally have all of it, you hog." he groans, shushing you. clearly, it wasn't working. so you thought of something better. smiling to yourself, you wormed your way under the blanket, collapsing across his chest instead. laughing against his chest, his hand instinctively finding it's way to the curve of your back. "there." you murmured, "problem solved."

"you planned this all along, didn't you?" you accused after a moment of silence, and all you got was a smirk and a kiss to your forehead.

-

"you should get that." you barely looked up from your tea when you spoke, leaning against the kitchen counter as you heard the doorbell. "you should." draco said in agreeable tone from the dining table, reading over his reports from work.

you glare, "i asked first."

he takes one look at you, huffs, and then stands up to walk over to the door. grinning victoriously, you smiled into your tea as you watched him walk out the door.

draco's face turns into an awkward grimace as he turns the knob. "don't watch me leave, it's awkward." he said, picking up the daily prophet and a package from his mother. laughing, you threw your head back in amusement while he walked over to the counter where you stood. draco hands you the daily prophet, and grabs a cutter to open the package.

"merlin… are these my jumpers from fifth year?" he sighs, chuckling as his hands rested on his hips. you peek, shrieking in delight as you see it. you took the jumpers out and brought it to your face, feeling the material. "they don't even fit me anymore. you know, 'cause of these big muscles." he smirks, a smug look in his eyes as he flexed his arms.

rolling your eyes, you chuck the jumper at his face. "your ego is still astounding until today." draco lets out a huff of laughter, shaking his head. "you love me."

"this is adorable, so tiny." you grin, holding it up. "our kids will probably wear this, someday."

draco scoffs, taking a bite out of your scone. "as if, my kids won't wear hand-me-downs." and to that you roll your eyes.

"our kids," you corrected, "will definitely wear hand-me-downs. our daughter will love my collection of pearls and dresses." you smiled, and draco laughs.

"right, our kids."

- the lights were dim, the rain was once again pouring and the two of you were huddled together in bed. your legs were tangled, desperate for warmth. the two of you coexisted in the silence, reading a book while draco reads articles from the ministry of magic.

he was reading the ministry's section of the whereabouts of death eaters in the battle four years ago. it still kept him awake at night. wondering. worried. afraid. he knew his mother was in hiding. his father in azkaban.

you notice the absent look on his face. you grab the article and quickly hide it in one of the drawers of your bedside table. "nothing's going to happen, honey. it's been two years." you spoke gently, caressing his arm.

draco swallows his words, nodding. he leans into your touch, relaxing minute by minute. "i'm just scared. i don't want to lose this. to lose you."

you smile, looking at him as if that was absurd. "that's never happening. it's you and me forever." draco chuckles quietly, shaking his head with a smile on his face.

"forever isn't real, darling." he says, and you roll your eyes booing him. "do you have no whimsy?" you groan. he chuckles, his hands snaking their way up to your waist and started torturing tickling you. in a fit of laughter, you tried to push him off.

"i was joking, you silly girl." he grins, continuing his attack. in broken gasps, you managed to get his hands off. you sighed, rolling your eyes.

"you sure you want forever with me?" he jokes, and you elbow his side.

with a fake frown, you nod. "i could get used to this face forever, even if he tortures me."

-

the storm only grew louder. hugging your arms to yourself, the familiar green and grey sweater from hogwarts cling to your skin. the house was cold. empty. silent. you opened the cabinet over the stove, grabbing two mugs. the box on the counter was almost full, your hands suddenly felt clammy as you placed them in along with the other things.

wiping your hands against your pants, you moved around aimlessly, your life packed into average boxes. your feet padded into the bedroom, the walls felt tight and the bed…

the blanket still laid messy in the middle, unfolded. it still smells exactly like him.

the door was mocking you. the mugs were taunting.

nothing could have warned you for that day. nothing.

"i have to go." he said hastily, already heading towards the door. you almost choke. "what?" you asked, blinking. the words felt heavy, it made you uneasy. it made you want to throw up.

"leave. i-i have to leave, y/n" he didn't meet your eyes. he couldn't. "there are… there are people looking for my father. if i stay…"

"no… no, draco. we can figure something out!" frantic, you walked closer to him in hopes to make him stay. he shook his head. "i'm sorry. there's nothing we can do."

you choked on your tears as you watched him turn the knob, he smiles sadly and finally looks at you. "don't watch me leave." he said, his voice was small and trembling.

the tears dropped before you knew it, you tried to smile and shake your head. "i won't." but you did.

falling to the ground, you hug your knees to your chest. his jumper reminded you of easier times. when the two of you were only teenagers, not a care in the world. a million promises, baby names you'll never get to use, a face that once promised forever.

Getting lazy with my titles, but open to suggestions. Written for @wolfstarmicrofic February 2nd - Wish

The astronomy tower was most beautiful in early spring, Remus thought. Astronomy classes were theoretical at that time of year, keeping the tower clear every night for post-curfew stargazing. The sky was often clearer too, with fewer clouds blocking the constellations.

In Remus's opinion, Sirius was also at his most beautiful in early spring, especially since running away from his parents. The soft lighting of the moonlight made his eyes shine brighter, the shadows in the contours of his face sharper. The breeze that came with the changing weather pulled small strands out of Sirius's messy bun, just enough to frame his face and make him look artfully dishevelled.

These nights were Remus's favourite - chainsmoking shared cigarettes with his boyfriend, listening to Sirius point out the constellations they could see. Occasionally, Sirius would make up his own ones and Remus would make up a story to go with them. This would be what Remus would miss most about Hogwarts, he thought, when they left after graduation. The quiet nights where he knew he and Sirius would be safe.

And let's just say you of all people are going to be very excited

wot me?

Actually, I really love that, honestly. I wasn’t sure whether I would write it like a reincarnation AU, or if Geralt would keep living while Jaskier kept getting reincarnated, but I decided that that’s simply too sad. So I went for a Good Omens type thingie! (featuring: enemies to lovers)

Disclaimer: I don’t know anything about history, so there’s a big chance I’m being very very inaccurate!

EDIT: I couldn’t help but make it a little sad at the end, but it’s just bittersweet.

---

They first meet during the Hundred Years’ War, in England.

Jaskier is a monk, transcribing Latin scrolls in the dungeons of the castle for a living. Really, he never wanted to be a monk, but it was the only way for a farmer boy like him to learn how to read and write, something he’d always been fascinated by.

He writes. It’s what he does. No matter how cold it gets in the dungeons during the winter, no matter how much his hand cramps up after a few hours, no matter how many times he has to start over when he makes a mistake. He keeps going, keeps writing. 

It’s what he does.

Autumn, 1438. After a particularly long day, writing down biblical text after biblical text, he’s climbing the stairs of the castle, walking through the long hallways to the monestary. That’s when he sees him for the first time.

The most insufferable person he’ll ever meet.

He’s standing by the door that leads to one of the conference chambers - presumably where the King must be at that moment. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, snow-white hair tied behind his head. Amber eyes look at Jaskier suspiciously as he approaches.

He gives the man a curt nod and a tight smile, sighing when the guard flings an arm out, stopping Jaskier in his tracks. 

The scholar rolls his eyes for a split second, before turning to the guard. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The knight cocks his head. “Who are you?”

The scholar frowns. “I’m Jaskier. I’ve worked here for twelve years. And you are?”

“I ask the questions. What are you doing here so late?”

Jaskier sighs, rolling his eyes. “I was busy transcribing in the dungeons. It gets very hard to tell the time when there are no windows, and I accidentally worked too long. As for why I’m here, specifically, this is the shortest way to the monestary. Now who are you? I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”

The knight clenches his jaw. “Like I said, you don’t get to ask questions. Now move along before I make you.”

Jaskier scoffs, continuing his way to the monestary. After a few steps, he stops. “You know,” he calls over his shoulder, “monks are well respected here, and I don’t think the King will appreciate it if he finds out one of his guards has been talking to a monk like that. Just something you might want to keep in mind next time.”

He looks back for a second, smirking at the glare the knight gives him, then turns back around, continuing to the monestary. 

***

They continue like that for the next few months, exchanging quips whenever they pass each other in the halls.

The knight asks him what he’s doing in that specific part of the castle, Jaskier tells him it’s none of his business and asks who he thinks he is, the knight says that Jaskier doesn’t get to ask questions, Jaskier threatens to tell the King.

Of course, he doesn’t mean a word of it. After all, it doesn’t really matter if the knight keeps asking him what he’s doing there, and it doesn’t matter that Jaskier never gets to learn his name. It shouldn’t matter, at least.

He’s started asking around for the whereabouts of the King every morning, changing the route he takes to the monestary depending on what the servants say. He’s doing it to make the days less monotone and change things up a little. He does not do it to make sure he passes the knight every evening.

And when the King is called away a few months later to France to lead their army in the war, taking the white-haired knight with him, Jaskier is not disappointed.

And when he has to move away a few years later to a different part of the country when he realizes the hairs on his head aren’t greying and there are no crows’ feet appearing at the corners of his eyes, he does not feel sad that he didn’t get the chance to see the white-haired knight again.

***

Autumn, 1605, Florence. He’s in the city library, picking book after book on the human body from the shelves, the pile in his arms growing ever higher.

197. That’s how old he is, by now, and he still doesn’t know why he’s been blessed - or cursed, depending on which day you ask him - with a long life. He’s fallen in and out of love countless of times, seeing the beauty in every person passing him by, and he’s had his heart broken twice as often. Death, sickness, growing apart - all normal things in life, but when your life is unnaturally long, those things start weighing on you.

So, five years ago, he went to Florence. He’d heard of the impressive library the Italians had collected, and he had decided that, if he wasn’t going to die a natural death, he might as well find out why.

Except he hasn’t, so far. He’s looked through these books countless of times, thumbed through the pages night after night, coming up empty-handed. There aren’t exactly many books on immortality, and the ones that he did find mostly seemed like a bunch of philosophical nonsense - nothing he could use to figure out why he was the way he was, anyways.

So, now, as he piles the same books into his arms as always, he can’t help but feel a little hopeless, and he knows he probably won’t get the answers he needs. Not anytime soon, at least, and not in Florence.

He reaches up, trying to take the last book from a high shelf, but the pile he’s carrying with the other arm wobbles dangerously, and he almost loses his footing.

Suddenly, a strong hand wraps around his upper arm, stabilizing him, another reaching over his head to grab the book for him, putting it on the pile. Jaskier turns around carefully. “Grazie-” his voice catches in his throat, as he meets the amber eyes of a silver-haired man.

“You,” he breathes out, when he recognizes him, seeing recognition in those golden eyes as well. “You’re the knight-”

The man blinks, then frowns. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He turns around, stalking away from Jaskier.

The scholar deposits the pile of books on a nearby table, ignoring the dirty glances the other scholars shoot at him for not putting them back on the shelves, as he hurries out of the library, into the afternoon sunlight.

He looks around, spotting the white-haired man weaving between the people, disappearing into an alley. 

“Hey! Wait!” Jaskier yells, running after the knight. “Wait!”

His chest is heaving by the time he catches up with the man. He grabs the knight by the wrist, forcing him to turn around. “You. I know you, you were in England,” he almost swallows his next words, bringing his voice down to a whisper, “a hundred and fifty years ago.”

The man clenches his jaw again. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you do,” Jaskier hisses back. “I know you recognize me, I know it’s you, and you know it’s me.”

The man looks around, then leans in closer to Jaskier. “Fuck off and leave me be.”

He makes a move to get away, but Jaskier grips his wrist tighter. “No! You haven’t aged a day. Why?”

He startles as the man’s other hand comes up, grabbing him by his throat, pushing him against the wall. “Keep your voice down,” the knight hisses at him, and Jaskier glares at him until he loosens his grip a bit.

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I’m not going to. Now fuck off and leave me be.” He lets go of Jaskier’s neck, stalking through the alley to the city square. 

“Wait!” Jaskier calls behind him. “What’s your name?”

The knight is long gone, disappearing into the crowd.

***

Autumn, 1718, well... wherever, really. Somewhere between Britain and America. He sighs, the slight swaying of the boat making his stomach act up, and he has to swallow a wave of nausea.

He’d heard a lot about America, heard about people finding their luck there in the new cities and large fields. It would be a new chance for Jaskier, another place for him to build a life before having to abandon it after a couple of decades, when his lack of aging starts to grow suspicious to the people around him. 

Well, at least it’ll be something new, after all these years. He’s getting tired of Europe. 

Tomorrow is his 310th birthday, he realizes, though it brings him no joy. It’s been a while since he’s celebrated his birthday, celebrated the end of another year on this cursed planet.

He’s tired, so tired. Of having to scrape together money, day in, day out, year after long year, decade after long decade, before having to take off again, leaving his life and home behind, after twenty or thirty years.

It’s been a while since he’s had any close friends or relationships of any sort. He can’t risk getting close to people he knows he’ll lose, eventually, inevitably, and he can’t risk them finding out his secret. Because they’ll either claim him insane, putting him in an asylum, or he’ll become a shiny new test subject for scientists to poke and prod at. No thank you.

So, off to America, he went. They’re expected to arrive in a week or so, and he’s looking forward to the moment he can get off this blasted ship that’s messing with his stomach so much.

He perks up as he hears a few men shouting on the top deck, and gets to his feet as he hears the loud pangs of gunfire. He reaches for his own weapon, a dagger strapped to his hip. Though, he realizes now - probably too late - that it won’t do much if someone tries to shoot him.

The door slams open, and he takes a step back, holding his meagre dagger in his shaking hand. He nearly drops it, mouth opening in confusion and realization.

“It’s you again!” he shouts, hand clenching around the hilt of his weapon. “Seriously?”

It’s the white-haired knight again, one hand on the doorknob, the other holding a gun. He looks confused and annoyed, amber eyes fixed on Jaskier. 

The scholar lowers his weapon. “You’ve really fallen far, sir. You were a knight three hundred years or so ago, and now you’re” he gestures vaguely with his hand, nose scrunching in confusion “a pirate? I really expected better from you.”

The white-haired man lowers his weapon as well. “Gotta make a living, somehow.” He shrugs. “The world doesn’t need knights anymore.” And, bless all the angels in the heavens above, he smiles. “At least I’m doing something different with my life. It seems like you haven’t evolved past ‘pansy little scholar’.”

Jaskier gasps in mock offense, laying a hand on his chest dramatically. “How dare you? I may be a pansy scholar, but I sure as hell am not little, sir knight.”

The white-haired man chuckles, rolling his eyes a bit. Footsteps barge down the stairs, and the knight turns back to one of his fellow pirates. “Just people, no valuable cargo,” he tells the other man, “let’s get out of here.”

The other pirate looks a bit confused, glancing at Jaskier. “You sure you don’t want to eliminate any witnesses?”

The knight shakes his head. “No, it’s good. He won’t talk, will he?” He looks at the scholar.

Jaskier shakes his head quickly, hands in the air. “No, won’t say a word.”

The other pirate nods, content, heading back upstairs, the knight following closely behind. Jaskier lowers his hands, eyes squeezing shut tightly. “Shite,” he mutters to himself, “I still don’t know his name.”

***

Autumn, 1915. He hadn’t wanted to go back to Europe, but he didn’t want to not serve his country in the war. So, he had gone back to England, and had enlisted to go to the front in Belgium.

The training officers command him for his fighting technique and quick learning skills, and Jaskier has to swallow back a comment about how it’s easy to pick up a thing or two about fighting when you’ve lived for 507 years.

He spots a familiar head of white hair in the trenches, but it disappears behind a cloud of mud and dirt when a shell explodes between them. After that, he can’t find the white-haired man anymore.

***

Autumn, 1941. He’s standing outside when Japanese planes fly over, dropping bombs on the ships in Pearl Harbour. He spots a familiar form with white hair on one of the ships, and he tries to shout to the knight, but he’s blown to the ground by another bomb.

After that, he has to flee. He doesn’t get the chance to search for the white-haired man between the dead, the day after.

***

Autumn, 1945. He’s sitting in a movie theatre, watching the news about the end of the war. They show the celebrations in the major cities, and Jaskier sighs in relief as he spots a broad-shouldered, white-haired man in the crowd in Times Square.

***

Autumn, 1985. He’s dancing at a club in New York, lifting his hands above his head as he lets the music flow through him. It’s always fun to discover new things after being on this mess of a planet for 577 years, really, and the ability to simply lose himself in the deep bass and steady beat of the music seems God-given, at this point.

He’s tired. Tired of the years weighing down on him, tired of not being able to get the rest he so desperately wants, tired of being pushed down by the heaviness of the ages, yet floating through the years, flitting from place to place, not being able to settle down.

It’s become so hard to hide what he is, with the upcoming digitalization and registration of everyone’s date of birth, place of birth, etcetera. He can no longer just move to a different town and call himself a different name and start a new life. It doesn’t work like that anymore, and he knows it’s only a matter of time until he’s found out, until someone realizes he’s not who he says he is.

The worries weigh down on him, so he loses himself in the music.

Someone bumps into him, and he shouts in annoyance as they spill their drink all over him. He turns around, ready to curse out whoever is so stupid enough to do this, but he freezes, mouth open slightly.

“You again?” he breathes out, and before the white-haired man can say anything, Jaskier takes him by his arm, dragging him out of the club, into the side alley. He turns back around, facing the man, pointing an accusing finger at him. “Before you say anything, what is your name?”

The knight- pirate- soldier- man furrows his brow, shaking his head slightly. “Geralt.”

Jaskier throws his hands up in exparation. “Fucking finally! Do you know how hard it is to try to find someone for 500 years when you don’t even know their name?”

Geralt frowns at him. “You’ve been trying to find me?”

Jaskier shakes his head a bit in confusion. “Yes, of course! You’re like me! You don’t age, either, do you?” Geralt shakes his head. “Exactly. I wanna know what the hell is wrong with us so I can finally just die. I’m tired of this planet.”

“I don’t know why we don’t age, though.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jaskier leans against the wall, head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifts his face up to Geralt, who’s gone to stand in front of him. “I don’t understand. Why can’t we die? And why do we keep running into each other? It’s a small world but not that small, right?”

Geralt shrugs again. “I don’t know. All I know is that I keep seeing that pansy little scholar everywhere I go.” 

Jaskier snorts. “And I keep seeing a thick-headed old man everywhere I go.”

“I’m not old.”

“You’re 500 years old.”

“You’re 500 years old as well, what's your point?”

Jaskier laughs, shaking his head slightly. Geralt smiles back, and something ancient flutters in Jaskier’s chest, which he recognizes as the thing he had felt when he had traded insults with Geralt in the castle hall, when he had seen him again in Florence, when he had been spared on the ship, when he had seen white hair in the heat of the battle, when he had spotted him on Times Square.

He recognizes it as the thing he had felt every time their paths had crossed.

And maybe, for the first time in over 500 years, he realizes what it is. 

Love.

They both lean toward each other at the same time, lips crashing into each other, hands tangling in each other’s hair, noses brushing, breaths intertwining.

And Jaskier can’t get enough of this feeling he always gets when he’s close to Geralt, willingly loses himself in the warmth that spreads through his veins, lifting the heavy years off his tired shoulders, in the fluttering in his stomach that sets his soul alight.

They pull back after a few seconds, foreheads leaning against one another. And maybe, Jaskier realizes, suffering eternity won’t be so bad if he’s got Geralt by his side, this time around.

***

Though, he knows that won’t be necessary, when he discovers his first grey hair, fifteen years later. When he finds his first wrinkle, a few years after that.

When he finally, at last, starts seeing the effects of time appearing on his face. When he sees the lines in his love’s skin.

When their bones start creaking and aching. When their voices grow hoarse and their sight blurry.