âEverytime he puts his hands on you,â Fraser says, voice low. âI wish it were me.â
bedmint summer come back to me...
mainly inspired by all those kane-toews edits fraser liked on instagram. for rpf purposes, i'm choosing to believe that fraser thought it would be him and connor one day on the hawks.
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For your Georgebur royal au, I always had this thought of George teaching Wilbur archery flirting
MY GEORGEBUR ROYALTY AU?? I didnât think people still knew about that or cared enough to actually send an ask,, oh my gosh, okay, okay. Gnf teaching Wilbur archery (to flirt) handshake Wilbur teaching gnf ballroom dancing (to flirt) so weâre gonna try to do both of those + an added something :D mostly cause it fits their characters but also kinda fits their roles in the story? Wilbur is the antactic prince from this long bloodline and his family is probably very regal meanwhile George is a prince, yes, but a prince of the forest. Complete different vibes
send writing prompts pspsps
âIâm no good with weapons.â Wilbur isnât sure how their conversation had lead to this topic. Itâs often that their conversations seem to follow no rhyme nor reason. One moment they could be talking about their childhood, the stars, the next; doubling over in laughter over shared experiences with prickly old nobles at balls.
George frowned as Wilbur continued, âThat had always been something that was more of my brothersâ nature. Weâre all trained with a sword, of course, but it never felt right in my hands the way a quill or an instrument does.â He flexed his fingers lightly, grazing the tips of his fingers.
âI think I might disagree.â George, who had been laying with his back against a mossy rock, sat up, arms flexing as he propped himself up. Rid of his outer coat, complaining of the sun rays that beat down on their skin at the clearing which they found themselves in, he sat in a simple tunic which revealed lean yet toned arms and a collarbone powdered like the cream-colored spores on top of mushrooms. Due to Georgeâs unblemished countenance and thin figure, Wilbur had once thought him to seem more elegant than particularly strong. Not once did he think that again after watching the same man who seemed as delicate as the stars take down men twice his size with ease, laughing with his twinkling smile all the while.
âDo you fathom know me better than my old swordsmanship teacher then? Who I brought to tears the last time I tried to wield a sword and nearly cut my little brother's head right off?â George smiled. He knew of the story. Wilbur had told it to him once before, miming the way his sword clumsily soared through the air and then out of his slippery graspâhe always seemed to have loose lips the same way around Georgeâand barrelled right at poor Tommy, bright-eyed and waiting for the day he would be allowed to wield a sword like his strong big brothers.
Needless to say, Wilburâs lessons stopped there, and Tommyâs were delayed for some time until he could trust being around swords again. Not that it hindered his natural talent for the art in any way. Perhaps it is his confidence, and Wilburâs lack thereof, that made the difference.
âI think that they simply gave you the wrong weapon and that your strengths lay elsewhere.â George hummed.
âYes, dear, they lay with the words on my lips and the chords at the tip of my fingers.â
George shoved him lightly, rolling his eyes. The brown and blue hues seem to twinkle. âThat too, of course. You know I mean something else.â Wilbur stayed silent, so he continued. âHave you ever tried wielding a bow?â
âI canât say that I have.â There were some bows in the armory back at home, but Wilbur had never trained with them. Swordsmanship had been the bare minimum for their curriculum, and he didnât even pass that. He knew that Techno and his father were adept, while Tommy, though talented, had no care for it.
âWould you like to try?â
âWhen done properly, wielding a bow should not just use the arms, as many might think, but the entire body. Your back and your core especially.â Georgeâs hand trailed from Wilburâs shoulder down his back, making him shiver.
âGeorge,â he said at length, fingers clenching infinitesimally against the string of the bow. He can almost feel George grin behind him as he pulls his hand away to move more towards Wilburâs side, judging his stance.
âTight here, loose here.â Georgeâs fingers fall naturally against where Wilbur erred, correcting him bluntly with his words yet gently with his actions. He flinches as Georgeâs hands fall on his waist, and George merely raises an eyebrow up at him. âKeep this part forward, and your feet shoulder length apart.â
âDo your people normally teach in this manner or is it just you?â
âIn what manner?â
âSo⌠touchy.â Wilburâs used to having things demonstrated for him, or to learn simply by doing and having his errors beat out of him, more or less. Still quite tactile and hands-on, but in a much more different way.
George hummed, stepping back to look at Wilburâs stance once more. âWhich answer would you like?â
âThe honest one?â
âDeep breath. Shoot when you feel ready,â George replied instead. As Wilbur felt the crisp air enter his lungs, he thought that George would not give him a proper answer. Instead, as the arrow whizzed past his cheek, George whispered.
âMaybe itâs just because itâs me, and you.â Wilburâs arm jerked, and the both of them watched as the arrow embedded itself just slightly left of the bullseye.
âDoes that feel better than wielding a sword?â A callback to their earlier conversation.
âYou did that on purpose.â Wilbur huffed. Again, with no rhyme or reason.
âMaybe so.â George walked over to pull the arrow out of the target.
âIâve found that thereâs something quite more satisfying with landing a successful shot than a successful hit. Itâs a lot more technical, but in a way, thereâs also something melodic about the way that your body moves almost in tandem with the bow and arrow. Like the string of a violin, or the beat of a drum.â
Or two hearts writing their own melody.
âIs that why you always seem to disappear during this time of the night?â Wilbur mused, reminiscing the first time they met. It had been a starry night just like this one, and they are atop the gazebo from back then too, which has now become something of a special place for them both to get away to.
George shrugged one shoulder, but his smile said it all. Itâs awkward in the way it always is when thereâs something George doesnât want to admit but has left out in the open for people to assume anyway. âJust like you never saw a reason to learn to fight-â
âI tried, still,â Wilbur interjected, though he is right. There has been enough bloodshed in the Antarctic Empireâs past to ensure that at least the dynasty of Wilbur and his brothersâ generation will pass mostly peacefully, and if they play their cards right it will hopefully stay the same for the next generation, too.
âYes, of course. Just as you tried, and failed, so did I when it comes to dancing.â
âBut you seem so graceful.â Graceful. Elegant. A number of other synonyms for the words flash in Wilburâs mind.
âGraceful in battle, that Iâm sure of. But when it comes to dancing I literally seem to have two left feet. Trust me, countless have tried to fix my wrongs. Iâd say the one whoâs gotten close to making me seem at least somewhat presentable while dancing was Dream, butââ
âWhat about me?â Out of nowhere, Wilbur blurted out. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, Georgeâs dual-colored irises shining curiously, but he couldnât help the words from escaping when George mentioned the countless others who have attempted to dance with him that made Wilbur realize that they have never shared such a moment.
âWhat about you? You want to teach me how to dance?â Despite asking it as though it were a question, George was already beginning to slide off the roof, the answer known but unspoken between them. He landed gracefully, as always, and held up his hand to help Wilbur down. Not that he needed any assistance, but he took it anyway, if not just to pull George close to him once both his feet are planted firmly on the ground, their shoes squeaking on the marble floor as he brings them to the center of the gazebo.
George stumbled a little, and Wilbur couldnât help but laugh. âIâll step on you, on purpose,â he threatened.
âShh,â if they were quiet enough, they could almost barely hear the music playing all the way from the ballroom. Itâs even fainter in Wilburâs ears, drowned out by his heart beating louder as George tilted his head up towards him. Their lips came together for just a moment, Wilbur allowing himself the reprieve of smiling against soft chapped lips before he moved them into the proper positions.
âYou know the steps?â A nod, bashful. From the kiss, maybe, or the prospect of whatâs to come. George had never liked making mistakes in front of Wilbur, though he loves him even more both despite them and because of them.
âTry leading me, then.â
âWhat?â George snapped, but Wilbur just smiled, ever so patient. He moved Georgeâs hands and waited for him to move. He did, a few moments later, hesitantly.
âDonât think about it too much,â Wilbur advised, his voice a murmur as to not break the moment. He didnât seem too successful as Georgeâs mouth still twisted in displeasure as he took the next step and the next.
âEasy for you to say. How many ladies, is it, that youâve danced with just like this during balls?â
âJealous?â George rolled his eyes, turning them. Wilbur fought back a smile.
âLike you werenât jealous at the prospect of me dancing with someone else, either.â Wilbur couldnât even find it in him to get mock-angry as they stumbled a little on their next turn, Georgeâs face flushing with the mistake before they right themselves and continue on.
âIâd neither confirm nor deny that statement. Only if you tell me if Iâm doing a better job at teaching you than all the rest of them so far.â
âCareful, or your feet mind end up worse than theirs.â
âIâve never let someone else take the lead, if that makes you feel better.â Georgeâs hand twitches where itâs situated on the small of Wilburâs back.
âIt doesnât.â It does.
âI hope perhaps youâll still allow me the pleasure of being the only gentleman youâve danced with whom you didnât ruin the shoes of.â George ducked his head but brought it back up upon the insistence of Wilburâs knuckle underneath his chin. They smiled at each other, fond.
âWeâll have to see.â
On some other night, Wilburâs knuckle would find itself brushing high against Georgeâs cheekbone as his eyes flutter, both tired and bright at the same time.
âIâve never seen eyes quite like yours.â Wilbur would murmur, into the space between their lips. Into the space between their souls. Ice blue eyes against brown and blue. George would only hum in response, and in an infinitesimally small gesture, lean closer into Wilburâs touch.
He knows the other must have heard the phrase more than enough, but Wilbur could write poems about his eyesâ hues. Already has, in his mind, more than enough times. Not just the mismatched color, both the earth and the sky at the same time, but the depth, the expression. Itâs like a renaissance painting that transports you to that time period, except its two portals that transport you to a world where everything just seems right, with no preamble. Somehow, Wilbur finds that heâs already living in it.
ongoing | multi-chap (1/?) | 5.5k | rated M
connor bedard/fraser minten, minor or background relationship(s)
"Are you going to break into my room again?" Fraser asks.
Bedard tilts his head, grinning. "You really think I'm going to tell you if I plan on doing so?"
"No," Fraser admits with a laugh. "Worth a try, though."
Bedard's still smiling. "You're something special, Minten."
Fraser's cheeks burn. "Sweet dreams, Bedard."
oh my gosh I am unbelievably excited to be able to finally get this out⌠I'm so excited to be able to take all of you on this very special journey (for me at least), so I hope you decide to come along with me. there's a lot of worldbuilding in this fic so just ask if you want to know anything, it makes me extremely happy to talk about this au!
Connorâs stomach turns at the thought of breakfast. âIâll eat something later.â
Fraser's eyes search Connor's. "Not hungry?"
Something about Fraser's gaze makes Connor restless. Connor had slept really well last night, better than he had in weeks. He untangles himself from the sheets and straddles Fraser, running his fingers through Fraser's messy, unbrushed curls.
"Not for food." Connor says.
Fraser's fingers tighten on Connor's hips. Connor grins before his lips come crashing down on Fraser's.
trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, mentions of disordered eating, mental health struggles
please, please, please check the trigger warnings before you read! if you've read the trigger warnings and you still decide to continue reading i hope you enjoy this fic. take care of yourself out there đŤđ¤
life has been crazy but another chapter of light it up is ready and will be posted in the next couple of weeks! here's a little sneak peek at chapter two (featuring a certain generational player from the san jose sharks):
spoiler warning! the content below the cut has possible spoilers for the fic this extract comes fromâ view at your own discretion.
âTheyâre planning something.â Fraser notes, staring at the far side of the room where Smith, Leonard, and Perreault have gathered in the corner.Â
âPlease. As if they could pool together the number of braincells necessary to come up with a good plan.â Celebrini scoffs, running his fingers through his hair.
Beside him, Connor grins. âMinty didnât say whether it was a good plan or a bad plan, to be fair.â
âI donât even know if they could put a bad plan together.â Celebrini pauses. âYou may be giving them too much credit.â
âTheyâll find a way to do something elaborately stupid no matter what,â Connor shrugs, eyes widening a split second after the words leave his mouth. Fraser follows his direction of sight and raises his eyebrows when he sees Leonard stride forward, heading for the stage where Mitch and McDavid stand.
âWhat the fuck is he doing?â Celebrini frowns.
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C!Wilbur finding C!George sleeping in the forest with flowers growing around him
you said c!wilbur so i went with kinda revivedbur vibes i think?? and i was gonna write till george woke up but i got lazy and this has been a few days (maybe even weeks now) so imma just post it bc,, yeah
send writing prompts pls pspsps
Wilbur stumbles through the overgrowth, just one more part of the forest that seems to reject him; a bland and horrid eyesore amidst the various hues of brown and green. He understands why the forest fights back. A sanctuary and a ticking time bomb donât often go well together. But something seems to call him further in. Not quite a voice in his head nor a feeling in his heart. Just⌠a calling. He doesnât understand it, doesnât claim to, either, but maybe when he reaches what heâs hoping to findâ
He brushes past a canopy of leaves and steps, nearly trips once more, into a golden meadow. The word sanctuary has never felt so right. It feels less like a clearing in a forest and more like a resting place for something too pure for the world to touch. Bright, blinding. Wilburâs hand twitches at his side, as though his body knows something his mind does not. He doesnât belong here. He doesnât belong here, in this untouched and sacred place. His mere presence sullies it.
But oh, does he wish he could stay. Wilbur yearns for the times in his past when everything had been so bright, so blinding, just like this moment. He wishes the sun could burn away his sins and he could stay here, finally at peace. He moves closer, as though being carried by the breeze.
Rosewood. The name for it beckons in his mind as he catches a glimpse of it between lush green moss, grass, and various other fern and fauna. Between the daisies and the cornflowers. Dark brown locks blow lightly over a peaceful face, long eyelashes casting the prettiest shadows over unblemished sun-kissed skin. Itâs as though the earth and Life itself are cradling him in its arms. It only takes a moment for him to recognize the other, even with most of his features hidden behind the flowers blanketing him.
Itâs an old face. A familiar face. Perhaps one Wilbur thought fondly of once in a blue moon. Thought of in yearning perhaps only slightly more. Then was back then and this is now, but he can still remember the flecks in his brown eyes reflecting the moonlight, the goggles that typically hide them nowhere to be seen. He wonders what those flecks would look like now, in the sun. If they would still be the same.
Georgebur being domestic? Wilbur cooking breakfast and George hugging him from behind, disheveled hair and still sleepy or just them waking up in their bed in the morning.
me? finishing up this little georgebur thing while dnf are in their pride month arc tonight? itâs absolutely more likely than you think. changed up the prompt a bit so i hope u donât mind, dear! and sorry it absolutely took way too longÂ
send me writing prompts pls pspsps
âWil?â George sighed, his eyelashes fluttering in the soft morning haze. The curtains block out most of the early sun rays, but even still George could sense that itâs quite early. Much too early for Wilbur to be getting up, even with his insistence of keeping a good sleep schedule.
A slender hand brushed through his messy hair, the touch so soft and gentle that it nearly lulled George back to sleep with ease. Wilbur tucked a piece of hair behind his ear and bent down to press a kiss to his forehead, humming softly.
âIâm sorry. Did I wake you up, darling?â The sappy pet name almost didnât register in Georgeâs sleep riddled mind, but when it did, he scrunched his face up and buried it in their soft covers, eliciting a warm chuckle from his partner. âGo back to sleep love, Iâll be back in just a second.â
Even though he said that, Wilburâs fingers did not stop running through Georgeâs hair until his consciousness faded.
A few hours later, George is roused from his sleep once more. This time feeling much more awake. As promised, Wilbur had returned while he was asleep. Had curled up behind him, his arm wrapped loosely around Georgeâs waist from behind. Their legs, likewise, tangled up under the covers. It takes a bit of maneuvering to get out of his hold without waking him up, even when George didnât want to, but he eventually stumbles out of bed, leaving a mumbling Wilbur in their mountain of blankets and pillows.
He goes through the motions; washes his face, brushes his teeth, still feeling like this whole morning had just been a dream. After nearly burning himself when beginning to make breakfast, though, George is finally able to come to his senses a little bit.
Itâs not often he gets to cook breakfast for the two of them, with his sleep schedule being nothing short of an enigma, even to himself. Heâs someone who prefers to go at his own pace. That means sleeping when tired and waking up when less so. Unfortunately, this means that heâs usually out of sync with the other. Sometimes even working on complete opposite schedules where George falls asleep when Wilbur is just barely waking up to get the day started.
Heâs just about done with the pancakes when he hears Wilbur shuffle down the stairs, and is just about to turn to greet him when he feels two arms (and their blanket) wrap around him from behind, as well as a head come rest itself against his shoulder, Wilburâs fluffy mess of a bedhair tickling his neck.
âGood morning.â George simply replies, reaching up to pet him as he hums sleepily, nuzzling into the crook of Georgeâs neck further. âWhat did you have to do earlier?â Wilbur mumbles incorregibly, making George squirm as he feels the words against his skin. Wilbur is swaying slightly, bringing George along with the motion, and George is sure he doesnât even realize that heâs doing it.
Heâll never admit it to anyone in the world, but these moments are some of his favorite. When it feels like itâs just them two in the entire world. No eyes on them. Simple, quiet. It suits them much more than any grand gesture would, though George knows Wilbur wouldnât mind those either if thatâs what gets Georgeâs heart racing. It does as well, but not always in a good way.
âLet go. I need to finish making breakfast. Go take a nap in the living room or something.â Wilbur let out another noise again, something along the lines of ânuh uhâ or âdonât want toâ that has George sighing lightheartedly.
George then proceeded to drag the half-asleep Wilbur around throughout the entire process of making breakfast, almost setting the blanket around Wil on fire in the process and burning their entire kitchen down.Â
Spare Georgebur royal au please? I really like your au and feel like it's been years since I read about it!!
anon i am on my hands and knees for you,, oh my god. idk every time i talk about my georgebur royalty au i always feel like the only clown in the whole circus so it really means so much that you enjoy it, so much so to seek it out omgfhgdf iâm crying thank you. this oneâs for you anon i put my heart and soul in it, as i always seem to do when it comes to this AU lmao don't tell the others i have favorites x
send prompts pspspsp
âYou love me,â his voice is so soft Wilbur nearly thinks he imagined it, a mere little thought wondered, pondered out loud. Itâs clear to Wilbur that it was not something he was meant to hear, but he responds anyway.
âYou say that as if it is hard to believe.â Wilbur reaches over to tuck a piece of Georgeâs hair behind his ear, fingers grazing against the jewel attached to his lobe. An icy teardrop, a tiny thing in the grand scheme of things, and yet it still makes Wilburâs heart swell due to what it represents. âAre you not as beloved here, as I am in my kingdom?â George turns his head, letting Wilburâs touch stray against the warmth of his cheek, and smiles quietly at him.
âMaybe itâs because itâs me, and you.â An echo of a former conversation that makes Wilburâs smile turn even more honeyed, and this time he finds that he doesnât quite hate the term nearly as much.
âYouâve not said it back,â he remarks, his tone making it clear that heâs only teasing. Though Wilburâs strength lies with his words, he does not need them to feel secure. Not when he already knows that his feelings are reciprocated, if only from the way that George brandishes his earring so proudly and only ever seems to smile and laugh and blush as much as he does when heâs around him.
Their moonlit garden seems even more lovely in the reflection of Georgeâs dual-colored eyes as he smiles wider, tilting his head further into Wilburâs touch, and he once again is reminded of a cat due to his loverâs antics. âWonât you rather me say Iâm yours?â
âNo,â is his pensive reply after not even a beat.
George quirks an eyebrow. âNo?â
âYou donât have to be mine, though Iâll have you if thatâs what you wish. What I want is your love, not you necessarily.â Wilbur captures Georgeâs lips in his, who softly sighs into the kiss. Part fondly and part exasperatedly.
âMust you always out romance me at a time like this?â
âWell, wonât you humor me and say it? Why are you so shy?â George turns back to gaze at the roses, leaning his body into Wilburâs side and therefore his warmth.
âMy family never did any of that âlove is weaknessâ bullshit,â Wilbur raises his eyebrows at the sudden vulgarness of his words, but stays silent as George continues, âbut theyâve always equated vulnerability to weakness, and I know love makes even the strongest men vulnerable. Itâs hard to unlearn something that Iâve been taught since before I could even walk,â he pauses, a breath.
âBut I think Iâd like to try if itâs with you.â
(âyou are the first person to make me speechlessâ :handshake: âyou make me feel like itâs safe to be vulnerableâ georgebur in my royalty au making me want to throw up /pos)
âCareful, dove,â Wilbur murmurs. He must be drunk on moonlight and their time spent together; he doesnât even realize that the words had escaped his mouth until George turned towards him.
âDove?â George questions, pulling Wilburâs hand away from where it covered his mouth as though he could take the words back. âWhat is that? Not âloveâ?â He tilts his head and Wilbur pretends as though the word in the sense of a term of endearment in Georgeâs voice doesnât make his heart stutter. Most things, in that sense, make his weak heart tremble, but Wilbur is but a weak man himself when it comes to his lover.
âItâs nothing. Forget it, please.â A sliver of desperation to cover up his mistake. He doesnât even realize, once again, how his words seem to mirror something from a past conversation that flickers almost dangerously across Georgeâs face.
âWe know what happened the last time you told me to forget about something,â George says remorselessly, in both a forgiving and unforgiving way that makes Wilbur wince the tiniest bit. âDonât we, dove?â He leans towards Wilbur with a curious âI wonât let this goâ kind of expression, repeating the word mockingly to show Wilbur that he wonât just forget it this time. Not that he did any other time.
âItâs-itâs something my parents would call each other, sometimes. Iâm sorry. It just-it slipped out.â The vulnerability that comes with admittance makes Wilbur almost want to shrivel up. The underlying meaning behind âit slipped out,â the idea that at Wilburâs most honest self, he mirrors the way his parents act is, to put simply, embarrassing. Wilbur thought that he was past embarrassment at this point.
Georgeâs eyes soften. More like, his whole expression both melts and brightens, eyes flickering with a hint of shyness that seems to bubble and bubble until he turns away, looking back to where he had been looking before. âDonât apologize for something like that,â he coughs, bashful. The hand thatâs holding Wilburâs tightens.
(woahh george pov moment!! not sure how i feel about this one. honestly i don't know how i feel about his character as a whole in the fic but I'm trying it out a little and what better to test it out than to write bits and bobs of george's pov of their first meeting?))
âLook, George. All those sparkling lights in the sky are the twin godsâ tears blessing you, and our land.â George cannot remember his motherâs face. No amount of portraits scattered across the castle nor remarks that he and his sister carry her countenance well would ever amount to the gentleness in his motherâs expression that he fights every single day to remember and hold on to til his hands are balled into fists and shaking. He cannot remember her face, but he remembers the sweetness of her voice and her gentle touch on his head as he cranes his head up to look at the blanket of stars that seemed so unfathomable to him, only a childâs mind at the time.
Every time he looks at those same stars, he wishes he had looked longer at his mother instead. What was her expression on that night? Had she known her fate? George does not often lie, but he will admit now that to him, it is not the twin godsâ tears that stain the night on this supposed momentous day.
Frankly, heâs not sure why he said such a thing to the boy with the beautiful starstruck eyes, nor does he know why heâd asked him to stay when normally heâd force him to leave. Maybe itâs because his eyes, if George could go back in time to see his child self, must be the same as his that night. Maybe itâs because of âfate,â as his mother might say if she were still-
If she were still-
Maybe he had been desperate for a distraction. Not from the celebrations, all meticulously prepared, all meant for him when all he wanted to do was count stars til his vision was too blurry to differentiate constellations from each other, and all else that was happening just beyond the closed doors to the balcony they were in. And maybe it was fate after all, though there was something in George that somehow knew that this stranger would be the only one to humor him when he asked to pretend. Pretend. As though foregoing his name and his title and abandoning his claim to this land and the stars above would make everything that happened on this terrible momentous day only a lie and not something that George will have to live with for all his life.
Well, it works. The twin gods must truly favor George, or perhaps they pity him, perhaps they are apologizing and perhaps George simply chose well. The kind and beautiful stranger told the most vivid and alluring tales and spun life with his voice both in speech and in song and George did not forget. How could he, when he knew too well what those icy blue eyes represent? But maybe, he allowed himself reprieve; he laughed harder than heâd had in years and smiled, genuinely, eyes creasing and heart both heavy and oh so light, and for that night that was more than enough.
He laces their pinkies together on top of the pavilion his mother loved. The stranger takes the rest of his hand and George would only find the gentleness to be half-familiar and remember it for years to come.