This is where all my fandom shenanigans live!! Mainblog is Alydra, Writing blog is bluejay-writes. I'm your friendly internet birb aunt. I have fanfics older than you. Get off my lawn. (In my universe, old is apparently 37.)
Hey Fam! I'm shifting how my sideblogs work, so I wanted to make sure to have a handy dandy guide for the rest of the universe (and my forgetful brain, but that's neither here nor there XD )
alydra: (asks and DMs available) Mainblog is and will always be alydra. Everything that's not my writing goes here. I hope you're excited for my fickle shenanigans.
bluejaysarecorvids: (Nothing works here.) This blog is shadowbanned, and nothing I have said to staff has fixed it. But this is my writing handle and you will have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.
bluejay-writes: (asks and DMs available) This is where I'll be posting all of my writing. Pinned post is a masterlist that is on average 98% up to date. It might be missing something if I just started writing for a new fandom, or in the middle of fic binges like the month of October tends to be.
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Congrats once again Violet!! â¤ď¸â¤ď¸ I hope you get lots of requests to your liking and have fun!! Thank you for all your hard work and the amazing fics you give us đđťââď¸ Can I please have...Napoleon + laughing while kissing? đĽşđ Gahh im excited!! Have a great day!!
A/N: Here you are @kissmetwicekissmedeadly đ
Napoleon x reader
WC: 1174
You blame it on the fact that you still havenât quite gotten the hang of operating an oven from the nineteenth century. Youâve watched Sebastian use it and Napoleon, of course. They make it seem effortless. And yet somehowâŚ.your efforts have resulted in your Hato Sabure, traditional Japanese dove-shaped butter cookies, looking less like doves and more like blackened crows. A frustrated sigh shuffles past your lips as you look over your personal baking disaster. All you wanted was to make Napoleon a treat, to thank him for the time he has spent with you. All the walks through town, where he points out little things around the city most people would not glance twice at, introducing you to his students, the ones who stare at him with starry-eyed admiration, and especially for coming to your aid the other night, when you were out too late in a town that is too dark for a lone woman hurrying home by dim streetlight. A shudder runs through you at the memory of that circle of men with their hungry eyes and yellow smiles. And Napoleon, appearing like an avenging angel out of the shadows, scattering them back into the dirty corners of the city from whence they came.
The kitchen clock chimes, shaking you out of your reverie, sending a jolt through you. Napoleon will be back soon! You barely have time to make a fresh batch. Your lips press together in a stark line of determination. You have to try.
And you really, really have to hurry.
The Hato Sabure are a beautiful gold, edged in crispy brown and still warm from the oven when you knock on the door of Napoleonâs room. Your heart surges forward when it swings open and he is there, his jacket hanging over the wooden chair by his desk, his crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
âNunuche,â he says with a smile that reaches the beautiful jade of his eyes, warming them like the waters of the South Pacific. âWhatâs this?âÂ
You step inside, holding the plate of cookies, willing yourself to steady your breathing in the hopes that your heart will follow suit and settle down.Â
âI wanted to thank you for the other night. ThereforeâŚ..cookies.â
His smile grows and your heart is beating so wildly at its beauty that your lungs are starting to follow your heart's lead, ignoring your brain's commands to breathe evenly.Â
âCookies are always welcome,â he says in that voice of his, that deep, sonorous voice that melts you like chocolate powder in warm milk. He takes the plate from your outstretched hands, his fingers lightly brushing yours. Your skin tingles at the point of contact, his touch sending tiny fireworks of excitement cartwheeling through you. He sets the plate on his nightstand and sits down on the edge of his bed, reaching for a cookie and eagerly takes a large, enthusiastic bite.Â
You watch his expression carefully, your lower lip caught between your teeth. They may just be cookies but they are also a piece of you, your homeland, your history, as well as a token of your affection for him.Â
Your admiration.Â
Your yearning.
He blinks those beautiful nebulous eyes, his chewing suddenly slowing.
He stifles a polite cough behind one large hand, swallowing the mouthful down. This time his smile doesnât quite reach his eyes.
âThey areâŚ.unlike anything I have ever tried before.â He takes another bite but you notice the way he tenses while chewing.
Oh noâŚ.he doesnât like them.
Despair floods you, too warm and too quick. It leaves you dizzy as you step forward, taking a cookie from the plate and quickly taking a bite. You have to know what's wrongâŚâŚor they bad...or is it you?
And just as quickly as you bit it, you spit it out with a gasp.
It definitely isn't you.
âTheyâŚ.theyâre so salty!â You stare down at the cookie, feeling betrayed and then despair gives way to horror. You were in such a rush to make a new batchâŚ.and the salt was in an identical crystal bowl as the sugarâŚ..
âNapoleon, donât eat anymore! I mixed up salt and sugar!â
âDieu merciâ, he mutters, setting down the half-eaten monstrosity and then at the look on your face, his eyes widen. âNunuche?â
You canât help it. You've started laughing. âYouâŚ.were eating that horrible thing. My god. I am so sorryâŚ.IâŚâ Your words are being swallowed by your relieved giggles. The cookies were truly awful. It really wasnât you.Â
Your laughter sparks his own and he reaches out, taking your hands in his and pulls you down onto the edge of the bed next to him. The sound is warm and welcoming and when mingled with yours, it's music to your ears.Â
âY-you were going to keep eating thatâŚthatâŚsalt lick, werenât you?â The idea of him choking down those terrible accidents fills you with equal parts amusement, affection and admiration of his kindness.Â
He squeezes your hands, nodding even as he laughs, his gaze downcast as he takes in the sight of your hands in his, a perfect fit. When he looks up, youâre still laughing, softly, eyes bright as you meet his gaze. And then like magnets, youâre both leaning in at the same time, unable to resist each otherâs pull, hands gripping each other tightly as the laughter trickles away at the press of his lips to yours.Â
Your heart explodes with sunlight, warmth spilling forth from its chambers and filling you with a glow that only he can ignite. A small, final, breathless laugh escapes you and you feel the curve of his smile against your mouth before he begins moving his lips in earnest, his kiss blossoming from something small and contained into something bigger, something new and beautiful and utterly delicious.
When he pulls away, your lips parted in silent protest. He inhales, then gifts you a smile that would brighten even the darkest of midnights. He lifts your hands to his lips, placing a kiss on the top of one, then the other. You allow yourself to be so bold as to run a hand over his soft hair like youâve been aching to do ever since you laid eyes on him.
âI believe, â he murmurs, turning his face to where your raised arm is stroking his hair and placing a kiss on the inside of your forearm, âthat this may be the key to removing the taste of your well-intentioned but dreadful treat.â
Again laughter bubbles up from within, from this new-found well of happiness that Napoleon has formed in your heart.
âIs that so?â Your voice is soft with tenderness, effervescent with joy, warm with desire.
He nods, reaching out and winding an arm around your waist, pulling you closer. âOui. I am sure of it.â His gaze is bright. Playful. Sultry.Â
He leans in, capturing your mouth again like the conqueror he is.Â
Even as he recovered from the explosion, he felt guilty and shameful for how the situation played out. No matter how much he begged, pleaded, or lamented with her to leave him behind and save herselfâshe refused to let him be alone if that was the end of his lifeâand her blood was on his hands because of it.
Neither died from the explosion, instead, they were left with scars that wouldnât leave no matter how many years passed by. He could live knowing that he had marred his flesh because he just couldnât do anything rightâhe couldnât dispose of himself properlyâbut the scars on her body felt like they were his to take the blame for in the end.
She mightâve stayed with him, knowing what that meant in every way, but she didnât choose to carry the weight of his sins. She chose to stand to with him so he wouldnât be afraid to⌠you know⌠go away by himself. He spent too many years alone and afraid⌠and his selfish wish was the ugliest of all, because he felt ultimately grateful that someone was there with him.
Even though the guilt was just as powerful to him as that relief. Even though itâd been a few months since the explosion, he couldnât shake these feelings away no matter how hard he tried. They were a part of him now⌠and he doubted the emotions were going to stop vexing him anytime soon. It mightâve been easier to bite his tongue, lay down in the cabin V decided to hole them in, and cry.
But, he couldnât do that.
The pain of immobility was worse than the pain of a gentle breeze hitting his body like a thousand paper cuts.
who wants angst crumbs from my book (rn my book is just a collection of scenes i will likely not even use bc iâm considering scrapping and restarting)
đđ iâll rb this and post the scraps of yâall get me brave enough
