#<- scar's flirting really badly but that's the extent of it

[birrdies]

alright, alright by birrdie 3.5k, one-shot desert duo / scarian vigilante au

[connorsnothereeither]

Fuck yeah I’ll do this shit-

Ulysses smash or pass cause fuck it.

(Ulysses doesn’t only like boys, but I think he leans for more masc interests).

Aax

1/10: Pass

I have my reasons but there’s too much trauma for both of them to unpack here. They just would not be good for each other on so many levels.

I just don’t wike it. No thank you, gives me the ick.

Caspian

7/10: Smash

I don’t think they’d necessarily be bad together, you know? Like a think a lot of the ways Caspian is good at grounding/supporting Rae he would be good at grounding/supporting Ulysses.

That being said, I think they’d just clash a little too much? Like they just seem like they’re a little too different and I think especially in their attitudes towards problem solving and argument resolution they would butt heads too much.

I think Ulysses would gently trace his fingers along all of Caspian’s scars, and ask about the stories behind each one.

I don’t think it would end badly between them necessarily, but I don’t think it’s super amiable

Centross

8/10: Smash

I just think if they really got down to it emotionally Centross would remind Ulysses a lot of Vess. I think there’s a stoicism there that Ulysses finds attractive, despite the fact it infuriates him.

I think Centross’ way of showing affection is a little more upfront/physical than Ulysses is used to, and it’d throw him off a little, but I think he’d find it endearing that Centross is trying to show affection in the first place. And I think Ulysses has the potential to stand up and push back if Centross gets too out of line.

I think there’s some trauma bonding about war crimes somewhere in there.

Broad, tall, rugged and covered in scars? How could Ulysses resist come on-

Rae

5.5/10: Smash (just, borderline)

Rae is very on the edge for me. Like I definitely don’t think they’d be a bad couple in the extent that say Ven and Rae would be, but I don’t think they contrast each other enough, ya know?

Like I think there would definitely be support and love there, but I don’t think it’s the right kind of support. They would want to help the other but not be able to in the way they need. They would both just continue to retreat into themselves and keep their pain silent, afraid to burden the other, and it would end up hurting them both eventually.

I think Ulysses would want to help Rae to the extent that it would almost become about fixing Rae. Like I think he would go down a path of trying anything he could to make his partner “feel better” without considering if that was what was best/what Rae wanted

(Ulysses never met Seven or Will so I’m skipping them I apologize -)

Ven

6/10: Smash

I think Ulysses is still a little pissed about the house /j

I just think Ven’s style of flirting is a little too sarcastic/antagonistic for Ulysses and he wouldn’t quite mesh with it. He’d probably internalize something Ven said which was supposed to be flirty, and it would eat away at him, but he’s get along mostly.

I think the more bossy/ambitious side of Ven would bring out a more competitive/ambitious side to Ulysses, and I think they would definitely be an effective couple. Probably effective at fucking shit up for other people lol

Wolf

…okay but also 9/10. Maybe an 8/10 if I’m being fully honest.

I don’t think they’re quite the same level of “needs to kiss already” as Rae and Wolf cause that’s just canon at this point (/j) but I think they would really play off each other well in terms of the comfort and support they each need.

I think Ulysses would tell Wolf stories, and Wolf would match them to the stars as they sat beneath the open night sky.

They would curl their tails together to show the other that they were there.

I think from a character level of learning to live with their past they match up really nicely, and would push each other to be better in a healthy way.

Physically I think in a similar way to Centross, Wolf is Ulysses type; broad, tall and a little rugged.

I personally like them better as friends but they can smooch a little as a treat. It’s not gay if they’ve got socks on…

…. so i’ve had an idea

C!Ven FableSMP In-Character Smash or Pass

Today we reject canon and embrace non-canom ships like it’s the 2000’s-10’s again. Let us begin heheheh (also im sticking to masc leaning characters because c!Ven likes 🅱️oys.)

Aax

5/10: Pass

I don’t think they’d be bad for each other, I just think Ven would feel out of his depth yk? Their communication type wouldn’t clash badly, they’d both be able to argue without killing one another, but they just dont click?

I just think Ven would be intimidated? and that should be a dealbreaker in any relationship.

Caspian

6/10: Smash

Caspian would be the cool ex that you still see sometimes in random places, and you stop for 10-15 min to see how he’s doing, before you both leave and forget about each other again.

Cas would keep Ven’s bossy streak in check, and they’d sort out their problems together well. They have aligning interests in knowledge and writing, and overall they’d work.

they actually seem like the kind of couple to fall out of love with each other? which is very sad to me ;-;

They’d care about each other a lot i think, in a Scott’s Street by Phoebe Bridgers kinda way

Centross

7/10: Smash

… there’s only room for one self-sacrificing idiot in this relationship.

Opposite of Rae; Centross is Ven’s type, personality-wise. Also Centross does the love-bickering thing that Ven and Feng would do. They communicate well, they’d argue healthily, over all they’d be pretty good tbh. The sleep schedule between the two of them would be bad though, Ven would forget to stop work and Centross would do the same, they’d forget to check in with each other.

Rae

2/10: Pass

you already know what i’m gonna say about these goobers. they’re terrible for each other

the interesting thing to me; there’s only two reasons for Ven to date Rae. 1) they’re young, and social norms say you should date someone similar to you. So both Vena and Rae would go “he likes what i like” and call it a day. OR 2) Rae would be a rebound for Ven. neither of which can happen in canon. (i love the band au blorbos <3)

Seven

4/10: Pass

they wouldn’t be bad, Ven just wouldn’t know how to approach Seven? Seven has so much going in, and Ven would need to know every detail about Seven’s past in order to feel comfortable in the relationship. Seven can’t really give that, so the relationship is over before it’s begun.

Ulysses

7/10: Smash

Similar to Caspian, they’d get along, they’d be good exes. Ven would learn a lot academically from Ulysses.

bonus point because this fish sounds aussie and that is important to me ok

Will

4/10: Pass

Based on the emotional reactions seen in the spy arc of S2, I don’t think these two would get along. i actually think Ven would get on Will’s nerves in close proximity, if he were to open up and let Will in emotionally. Not that it’d be Will’s fault, they just clash. They would have common interests though, so all wouldn’t be lost.

Will would speak his mind, whilst Ven clams up and avoids conflict, but they’d get around to communicating eventually. (so they’re def not the worst pairing on this list.)

Wolf

…9/10: Smash

ok hear me out, you haven’t seen the half of it in canon yet, but these two work well. They have a lot in common (that i can’t share yet)

they argue so well, maybe even better than Feng and Ven did. Where Feng would speak up with Ven, Wolf sits and listens and waits.

Wolf is Ven’s type physically,tall with long hair and broad shoulders, and comes close to his type in personality.

nodders they should kiss

…So in conclusion; Let Ven join Wolftross, its time for Wolventross throuple takover

[broughttoyoubytheletterf]

If your still taking prompts

#35 E/N

Kissing their bruises and scars Rated T for some flirting? The second the hotel door closes behind them Nadine is shoving Elizabeth towards the bedroom. Elizabeth turns and arches her eyebrows in question. Nadine doesn't feel like explaining. "Strip," is all she says. "I thought we had work to do." Elizabeth replies making no move to follow Nadine's direction. Nadine shoves Elizabeth again. "Fine, the couch will do too. Now strip." Elizabeth unbuttons and tosses her blazer to the side. "Happy?" Nadine growls. "Is there a reason you can't follow simple instructions?" Elizabeth shrugs. "Because I'm difficult? Ask anyone."

Nadine narrows her eyes. "That you are." She pushes Elizabeth back, this time with enough force that Elizabeth stumbles. "Now take your clothes off." Elizabeth undoes a few buttons but then pauses which has Nadine making a sound of frustration. "Not that I'm objecting really, but why do you want me naked so badly?" "Because," Nadine pulls at the sides of Elizabeth's shirt causing a few more buttons to slip loose. "I know you hurt yourself more than you let on when you took that fall. It's those absurd heels you insist on wearing." Nadine frets, focusing intensely on the buttons. Elizabeth's face softens, but her tone stays light. "You love those heels." Nadine purses her lips after finishing with the buttons. "They're attractive," she responds simply, "Take them off." Elizabeth rolls her eyes but sits down on the couch and unbuckles the heels and tosses them to the side. She shrugs the unbuttoned blouse off leaving her in her camisole. "Pants now please." "Well at least you said please this time." Elizabeth snarks with a smile but makes no move to follow directions. Nadine knows she's probably being baited but she doesn't have enough patience left to care. "Take off your fucking pants." Startled by Nadine's tone Elizabeth's eyes widen and she runs a hand through her hair dislodging a few bobby pins. "Nadine," her tone is serious, "I'm really not particularly in the mood for sex, my whole body hurts and I want to finish going over that speech so I can go to bed." Nadine sinks to her knees in front of Elizabeth so she can start dealing with the pants herself. "I'm not really in the mood for sex myself. What I am in the mood for is making sure I don't need to get DS to drag you to the hospital." The pants are unbuttoned and she doesn't miss Elizabeth's wince when she lifts her hips to help Nadine slide them off. Nadine keeps her face impassive when she reveals the extent of the bruising on Elizabeth's legs. She carefully lifts each of Elizabeth feet and pulls the pants the rest of the way off. "That looks like it hurts. We could have gotten you out of your evening meetings you know." Elizabeth shrugs but Nadine can see now that she's finally stopped moving, Elizabeth is feeling the extent of the pain. "It doesn't feel great. You know what would help though..." She says in a suggestive voice. "I though you said you didn't want sex." Nadine doesn't look up as she scans Elizabeth's injuries, poking and prodding a few places, manipulating her knee and ankle. "I don't think anything is more than sprained, we should get some ice though." "I didn't realize you were also a doctor, must have missed that on your resume." "Fifteen plus years of serious dancing means I know enough about lower body injuries. Now are you going to let me help you with this or do I need to wrestle you again?" "I do enjoy wrestling with you." Elizabeth tries to snark but Nadine can hear that her heart isn't really in it. Elizabeth is really going to be feeling the pain in the morning and it has Nadine wishing she had something stronger than Tylenol with her. She makes a mental note to text Blake to push back breakfast. Elizabeth goes to wrap her legs around Nadine and pull but hisses in pain instead. "Fuck that hurts." "I know baby." Nadine soothes and turns her head to kiss one of the bruises on Elizabeth's thigh. "I'm going to ask DS to get us some ice and maybe an Ace bandage or two." She starts to get up. "No don't, you make it better." Elizabeth whines. Nadine indulges her and stays on the floor even though her own joints are starting to ache. "I'm afraid my kisses aren't going to actually fix anything." She still let's her lips trail over the soft skin of Elizabeth's legs. "Does it hurt anywhere else?" "Mmmm, it's mostly just what you can see." Nadine keeps up with her kisses. She pauses at an old scar near Elizabeth's knee. "I never asked, how'd you get this one?" "Shrapnel," she replies simply and there's a world of hurt behind that one word but tonight is not the night, so Nadine just kisses it and moves on.

"You know," Elizabeth says, not opening her eyes, "I hear orgasms are excellent pain relief." "Is that so?" Nadine places a last kiss on top of Elizabeth's underwear. Elizabeth's hips twitch and though she tries to muffle it, she lets out a sound of pain. Nadine tsks and finally stands up. "Let's get you some painkillers, ice, and bandages and then we can talk about sex." Elizabeth grumbles but doesn't protest too much. "Fine, but don't you dare tell Samuel he was right," she says referring to the agent who had tried to take her to the doctor. Nadine laughs and goes off to do just that.

[hollandroos]

Build Me Up (Buttercup)

My imagines ❀ My series 

Summary: Tom receives a knock at his door at half-past one am from his bruised and bloodied best friend. 

Prompts; “Are you hurt?” “No.” “Then why are there bruises all over your face?” (This was requested as a blurb but I got carried away)

Words: 1.7k

Warnings: Mentions of physical fights, blood and drinking 

                                 ─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tom hardly seemed to sleep as of late. He was always typing emails to someone, working on one project or another or chasing after one of his friends. He didn’t seem to mind – especially when it came to seeing to his friends. If they needed him, he was there.

All he needed was coffee and a nap the next day. 

But he didn’t expect the shrill ringing of his front door to flood the apartment at one twenty-six am. At first, he ignored it. Thinking it was a prank from neighbouring teens he shoves the nearest pillow over his head right after glancing at his phone only to see a few texts from Harrison and a game request from one of his brothers. 

But when it rings for the third time he hauls himself out from beneath the sheets, groaning as the cold autumn air hits his bare chest. A shiver runs down the brunette's spine – one that makes him want to climb back into bed but Tessa had already rolled onto his spot, taking place where he once lay. He trusts that she’d shield the warmth until he got back from – most likely – warning off angsty teens at half-past one am.

Tom had to get to ‘em before Mary Jane across the street did with her bat.

Sighing, he pads out to the front door nearly tripping over clothes that long-needed washing and dog toys that he swears Tess lay in the hallway. Tom was totally one to curse but cricky – something about stepping on a chew toy in the dark makes him have to bite down on his lip hard enough to draw blood. This prevents him from yelling out a string of curses that’d make the neighbours hide their 6-year-old boy from Tom for the remainder of their lease. 

Right outside the door, facing the bitter seasonal air stands you. 

You slip your lip between your teeth right before tasting the crimson blood on your tongue. it’s gross - the taste reminds you of when you were in fourth grade and tripped and fell on your face. And when you had that dental operation in sixth. 

You release it, screwing your face up instantly in disgust. By now the blood had probably stained the area around your mouth and beneath your nose, the bruising had probably painted your torso shades of purple and blue. Surely you looked a right mess, without a doubt. And you were tired too – so tired that you could sleep on the patio with Toms glass garden gnomes and the hedgehogs that visited every now and then.

You were cold too, the tips of your fingers numb and toes painfully so in your party heels. The dress you were wearing hardly did anything. You didn’t even have a coat. 

Tom opens the door a crack, opening it fully when he sees you standing there but through that crack, one merely a few inches he doesn't see the extent of your injuries… or any of them. It’s not until the door is fully open that he feels his chest ache and questions begin to plague his mind.

“Holy shit– what…” Tom eyes you up and down, mouth falling open in shock and his knuckles tighten around the front door. Surely it’d splinter, that's how hard he was gripping it. “Are you hurt?”

You shake your head, wincing when the pain hits. “No.”

In any other situation you would’ve pointed out that he was damn near naked and if it wasn’t so dark out then little Mary Jane next door, the elderly who was always out doing her lawn would’ve been scarred. But in any other situation, you wouldn’t be standing on his doorstep drunk and pained. 

“Then why are there bruises all over your face?” Tom says it a little more aggressively then he means too, with an almost hoarse tone. But he feels all traces of still being tired – whatever was left, slowly float away. That exhaustion turns into and in fact– fuels his anger. 

You look broken, both physically and mentally and hardly able to even hold yourself up and with that realisation, he steps aside to let you hobble in. You hold yourself up with little energy, leaning against the wall to stop yourself from tumbling. Feeling as weak as you look, you want to ask for a glass of water or a blanket but all that comes out of your mouth is a string of words recalling the last hour. 

“I was at that bar down the street and I got in a fight with this girl who thought that I was flirting with her boyfriend but really I was just asking him if I could borrow his phone because I lost my own and I still might be a little drunk–”

“Did you drive here?” Tom interrupts, checking if you were still holding your car keys. He doesn’t see any - and he doubts that even drunk you’d do something that stupid. But still, he has to check. 

You shake your head, strands of hair sticking to your bloodied face. “No– no, of course not. I walked–”

“You walked?! Y/N, It’s like one am what the fuck?” Tom throws his arms over his head, raising his voice to the distaste of his poor neighbours. Tom hated the thought of you walking down the streets of London by yourself, drunk and cold. without a phone nor a companion. He would’ve walked you home in sweats and slippers if it meant you weren’t alone.

It leaves a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. One that hadn’t seemed to leave since the very second he saw your broken form. It only escalated when you told him the story. Tom swears that if the feeling gets any worse he’ll quite literally throw up – hopefully on the patio and not the new, four hundred dollar rug in the middle of the living room. 

“Relax, I’m okay. Besides, I think after tonight I’ve learnt that I throw a pretty mean punch.” You try your best to smile, wincing as you pull on the cut on your lip. “If you think this is bad you should’ve seen her.”

It’s a lie. You’re in way worse shape then the other girl but don’t say that out loud. At least not tonight. Usually, Tom would’ve been able to see right through your lies – after many years of friendship that was compulsory but not tonight. Maybe it was the alcohol that allowed you to lie to him so easily. Maybe your best friend was just more concerned with the bruises that littered icy skin to notice the tale tail signs of you slipping in a little dishonest information. 

Tom rests a hand on your cheek, assessing the bruises. “Your eye is bruising pretty badly and your lip is split.”

“You should see my ribs.” You snort, words still a little bit slurred. 

With wide eyes and a heart that skips not one– but possibly Tom beats, your tired best friend lets out an exasperated gasp.“What!”

“Relax, it’s not that bad.”  

By morning, you’d regret the shots you took one after the other and dancing on tables like no one was watching (in reality… everyone was watching) and you’d probably regret causing your poor best friend enough stress to give him a heart attack. Silently, you’d regret trying to fight back with the drunk girl and you’d regret not taking up the bartenders offer of a couple of bags of ice and a free bottle of water to compensate. 

“Just a little… a little bit sore.” You tell Tom swallowing the blood that stains your teeth with a queasy expression. 

With that, you tug the underside of your dress up. It wasn’t anything Tom hadn’t seen before - not the injuries. You. Your body. Besides, it wasn’t hard to focus when bruises were blossoming on your torso. Appearing like daisies in spring.

“Fucking shit–”

You gasp at your friend's curses, blurting out a strong; “Language!”

“You need to go to the ER,” Tom tells you, wondering just how long you’d be able to stand on your feet for. The heels couldn’t be too comfortable.

You had long forgotten about the blisters that up until just recently, had been the causes of your wincing and whining. 

Pressing a firm finger to the boy's chest, you prepare your next statement. Keep in mind that it’s early in the am’s. The moon illuminates the city instead of the familiar glow of the sun and everyone else was curled up in their beds, shielded by layers of cotton blankets and pets that guard the doors – asleep themselves. All except Tessa. 

Yawning, you allow your eyes to flutter open and shut. Sleep sounded nice. It sounded marvellous. Sleeping next to Tom, entangled in a shirt of the boys and the familiar scent that had intertwined itself with his pillow sounded perfect.

“You need to let me sleep first.”

“Sleep after I’ve taken you to the ER.” Tom eyes you up and down, noticing the goosebumps that decorate your arms and the fact that your lips already looked a little discoloured – and not from the blood and bruises that paint your expression. “You can borrow some of my clothes so you don’t get cold. And maybe have a glass of water or two and a protein bar first.”

A pout replaces the purse that once adorned your features. “But sleep–”

“But you need to go the ER, I’m not letting you sleep when you may have a concussion and I’m most definitely not letting you go into work tomorrow.” Taking your hand carefully, Tom tangles your fingers together. It was a little thing the two of you did whenever one of you was nervous or hurt – a kind of ‘I’m here and I’m not leaving’ thing. 

Tom sighs, noticing your face fall from what looked like a combination of exhaustion and slight disappointment. He didn’t want to disappoint you – he wants you to be safe. Fully aware of the alcohol making you a little more receptive to your current overwhelming abundance of emotions, Tom shakes his head.

“Now buttercup, go sit on the couch and I’ll grab you and me some clothes and some food. We could be there for a while.”

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[strawberrysunrisewitches]

Layla Profile

template made by @hogwartsmysterystory

IDENTITY

Name:Layla Ida Caplan-Shields

Gender:Female

Birth Date: 29 February 2001

Species: Human

Blood Status: Half-Blood

Sexuality: Lesbian

Alignment: Chaotic Good

Ethnicity: Spanish-American

Nationality: English

Residence: North Yorkshire, England

THE MAGE

Wand: Alder 12″ Ukrainian Ironbelly horn 

Animagus: Jackal Buzzard with snowflake patterns on the wings

Misc Magical Abilities: N/A

Boggart Form: The spirits plaguing Reyna leading to her death

Riddikulus Form: She and her sisters covered in paint, laughing

Amortentia: (What do they smell like?) chocolate, licorice tea, paint, chillies

Amortentia: (What do they smell?) Lavender, Lemon tea, strong cologne, BBQ smoke, pillows

Patronus: Ukrainian Ironbelly

Patronus Memory: The first time Reyna asks her for help

Mirror of Erised: Her entire family including her grandparents the good ones alive and happy

Specialized/Favourite Spells:

Colovaria

Protego

Skurge (Initially cause she thought it’d keep the spirits away from Reyna) 

Episkey

Tempest Jinx

Diffindo

APPEARANCE

Faceclaim: Dalinah Arekion

Height: 4′10(year 1), 5′11(Year 7)

Weight: 160 lbs

Physique: BUFF AF

Eye Colour: Blue

Hair Colour: Very dark brown

Skin Tone: Slightly dark tan

Body Modifications:

She gets an industrial piercings in both ears, SHe has many tattoos

She has a tattoo of roses covering her calves going up to just above her knee

On her right shoulder blade she has a tattoo of a blue, pink and orange butterfly

On her right arm she has tattoos of black and red roses going down the entirety length of her arm 

On her lower back she has a tattoo of a night sky over a forest enchanted to have falling stars, 

On her chest she has a tattoo of a monarch butterfly resting on a flaming heart

On her left hand she has a tattoo of a starry pink rose

On her upper left arm she has tattoos of different kind of flowers

On her left forearm she has a black tattoo of a rose bush with birds

On the nape of her neck she has a tattoo of a licorice allsort 

Scarring: Two very large circular scars on her stomach from when an acromantula bit her

Inventory: (what do they carry on them?) big blanket, paint brushes and paint, many shrunken canvases, stetson, wallet, wand, glasses case

Fashion: She tends to wear ripped jeans, overalls and not very special shirts so she doesn’t have to worry about getting paint on clothing that she actually cares about which tends to be jackets and non ripped jeans but nonetheless she always has her stetson on her head

ALLEGIANCES

Hogwarts House: Hufflepuff

Ilvermorny House: Thunderbird

Affiliations/Organizations:

Hufflepuff House

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Prefects

Head Girl

Lord Family

Professions: Magical Tattoo Artist

HOGWARTS INFORMATION

Class Proficiencies:

Astronomy: P

Charms: O

DADA: O

Flying: E

Herbology: E

History of Magic: P

Potions: E

Transfiguration: A

Electives:

Art: O

Muggle Art: O

CoMC: E

Quidditch: Beater

Extra Curricular:

Dueling Club

Magical Creatures Club

Favourite Professors: Filius Flitwick

Layla likes how nice and approachable Flitwick is to all of his students

Least Favourite Professors: Professor Sinistra

Layla dislikes Professor SInistra due to the fact that Astronomy requires them to stay up past midnight when its cold and Layla hates the cold due to its effect on her 

RELATIONSHIPS

Sisters: Reyna Andrea and Amara Jade Caplan-Shields

Reyna Andrea Caplan-Shields(Rara) @cursed-ice-spirits​

Halfblood

Hufflepuff

Four years older

Brown hair, tan skin,  hazel eyes

Layla looks up to Reyna but always try to do things without having to ask her as she does not want to put more problems onto everything Reyna already has to deal with in her life and does anything she can to lighten the load even more..

Amara Jade Caplan-Shields(MarMar)

Halfblood

Hufflepuff

Two years older

Dark Brown hair, tan skin, and hazel eyes

Layla is also protective of Amara and after Year 1 makes sure she is always warm and keeps a close eye on her so she doesnt try swim in freezing water again. Layla will sometimes ask Amara for advice if anything is bothering her. Layla also tries her best to help Amara with her fear of Thestrals even if she herself can’t see thestrals.

Mother 1:Lauren Karina Caplan-Shields(Mama)

Half-Blood

Gryffindor

Brown hair, dark tan skin, and hazel eyes

Lauren taught Layla to always be brave and protect her loved ones with as much as power and fury that she can muster to make sure anyone who tries to go against her knows to never do so again. Lauren also instilled in Layla to be very kind to all she meets.

Mother 2: Rebecca Vivian Caplan-Shields(Mumma) @cursed-ice-spirits​

Pureblood

Hufflepuff

Black hair, light tan skin, and hazel eyes

Rebecca is the one who ignited Layla’s love for everything and anything related to art and is the one Layla will come to if she needs ideas for things to draw or paint which generally ends up being her family. After Reyna collapsed from exhaustion in Layla’s first year she also regularly bugged Rebecca for advice to help Reyna with her spirits and such

Father: Diego Caplan-Shields(Papa)

Halfblood

Hufflepuff

Brown hair, tan skin, and dark hazel eyes

Diego taught Layla everything she knows about dueling and fashion, he tried to teach her how to flirt but failed utterly in doing so and instead somehow managed to make it so she can’t flirt at all. Out of all of her parents, Layla is the closest to Diego and therefore her is the first one he will go to for any problems 

Love Interest: Hannah Firahel

Best Friends: TBD

Rival: TBD

Enemy: TBD

Dormmates: (Who’s in your MC’s dorm with them?)

Rebecca Firahel

Pets:

Riya: A european robin that followed Layla to Hogwarts from home

Vanilla: a maine coon-ragdoll cat that she adopted from the streets in her sixth year

Closest Canon Friends: TBD

Closest MC Friends:

Alaire Whitecross @hogwartsmysterystory​

Alissa Firahel

Amaranth Winger @thecursedvaultchild​

Grace Winger @thecursedvaultchild​

Hannah FIrahel

Rebecca Firahel

Rhett Winger @thecursedvaultchild​

Roxanna Firahel

Selene Firahel

BACKGROUND/HISTORY

Layla’s life before Hogwarts was largely uneventful besides the two separate times where her elder sisters saw someone die which resulted in Amara becoming scared of thestrals.

Layla’s first year at Hogwarts was quite chaotic when Amara almost died from Hypothermia rescuing her friend Penelope and Reyna collapsing from the demon plaguing her which worried her a lot and increased her want to protect her sisters very much

It is in her fourth year that she begins dating Hannah Firahel and starts Quidditch to take her mind off having to worry about her sisters for once in her life.

In her fifth year, Layla is chosen to be Hufflepuff Prefect as well as Hufflepuff quidditch captain

In her sixth year she and Hannah explored the forbidden forest where they were attacked by an acromantula which managed to wound her quite badly when she jumped in front of it when it tried to attack Hannah right before Layla blew it up with bombarda and she managed to reach the hospital wing before collapsing in Hannah’s arms

In her seventh year is when Layla gets her first couple of tattoos, she also is chosen to be Head Girl

After Hogwarts Layla opens her own magical tattoo shop in Diagon Alley where she offers normal tattoos and tattoos that she can magically animate. Four years after she graduates, she and Hannah get married with them having twin daughters, Aliyah and Eliana, 4 years after that. Once Rebecca retires from being the head of the Lord family, Layla takes up the position.

PERSONALITY

Layla is the stereotypical hufflepuff, very loyal and compassionate while also being very brave and protective of everyone she knows even her older sisters who suck at caring for themselves which causes her to worry about them constantly especially when they get hurt and she can’t help. She also is always willing to throw hands at anyone who badmouth her friends and family no matter who badmouthed them and she will never apologize for doing so even if she will get punished if she doesn’t  

As a prefect, Layla makes sure her friends don’t get into too much trouble but also knows when to lay off and have let them have fun especially when it comes to pranking Filch or Pince  

She also has no idea how to flirt at all and is a complete disaster when she tries but by god if flirted with she can go stone faced through it all and just brush it off even if she does have a crush on said person flirting with her

MISC

Likes doing morning runs much like Rebecca

Can get cold easily, although not to the extent of her sister Amara but worse than Reyna

her calf tattoo looks like this, her shoulder blade tattoo looks like this, her right arm tattoo looks like this, her lower back tattoo looks like this, her chest tattoo looks like this, her left hand tattoo looks like this, her upper left arm tattoo looks like this, her left forearm tattoo looks like this, her nape tattoo looks like this

Lolo is a nickname reserved solely for family and family friends, anyone else will get a strong elbow in the gut after the first time she says stop

She knows how to play the harp and lyre 

Her first name means Night in arabic and her middle name means work/labour

Really wishes she could fight the spirits that plague Reyna

She has a hebridian black plush that she sleeps with

[rhoeysama]

The “lack of romantic vibes” between Jonathan and Nancy in early S2: why it makes sense

I often see the complaint about Nancy and Jonathan in Season 2 and "not displaying affection/romantic vibes" prior to the big scene, and that their romance was badly written because that kiss seemed “forced” and “out of nowhere” or “rushed”. I understand this complaint, and I’ve agreed with it up until now, and I’ve actually changed my mind, so I thought I'd like to address it and share my thoughts on why I disagree. This is going to be a long one, so I’m placing it under a ‘read more’, and because, well, spoilers. 

So, for starters. I agree that their relationship up until episode 6 was very tell and not show. But the hints were there constantly, even if most of their interaction was very business-like as they acquired the tape recorder, called Barb’s mother, and went on their road trip.

Season 1 set the tone for their relationship, and showed us clearly that they had a strong bond, a connection, that would eventually lead to something more. Even though Season 1 ended with Nancy and Steve together again, it was not a definite happily-ever-after for either Nancy or Jonathan. 

In season 2, the very first interaction the two share is basically Nancy punching Jonathan in the gut with a party invitation flyer and telling him (not asking!) that he's coming to the party, period. When he says he’s not interested in “getting sheet faced”, she says “Just come!” She wants him there; he doesn’t have to get “sheet faced”, just show up is all that matters. Not just for her sake, but because he should allow himself to be more social and meet people, after everything he’s been going through as well. So, he reluctantly attends the party. 

(Just as a parenthesis: imagine how much differently that evening would have played out if Jonathan would've showed up sooner, before Nancy had a chance to go on a binger and get wasted.)

There weren't any palpable romantic vibes or sexual tension between the two up until episode 6, it’s true. But it should be no surprise or wonder, considering that Nancy was not in the romantic kind of headspace AT ALL; she was on a quest to avenge her dead best friend, whose death she had been mourning and blaming herself for - and Steve, to some extent ("we killed Barb"). Jonathan at least got his brother back. But Nancy lost her dearest and closest friend (who was probably the closest thing she had to a sister), and carried the guilt of not only having been responsible for it, but also having to look Barb's parents in the eyes each week, eating their food, in their house (where she no doubt had plenty of memories growing up), pretty much lying straight to their faces about their daughter and feeding into their false hopes of finding her, while everyone else had just forgotten about Barb altogether, like she never even existed. 

The pain and burden of all of that was eating away at Nancy day by day, to the point that she could no longer function normally; it was haunting her and it was all she could ever think of, but had to pretend that everything was okay. Jonathan was the only one who knew what she was going through (having himself felt the guilt of not being there for Will and blaming himself for his brother's disappearance), and the only one whom she could trust, who was also willing to cooperate and help her set things right, at least for her own and Barb's parents' sake. She couldn’t do everything, but she had to do something, and Jonathan had her back, despite her telling him that he shouldn’t feel obligated to help her out.

The only thing on her mind was to carry out a dangerous plan that could potentially get them both killed or detained indefinitely without trial, as Steve had said: "These people can do whatever they want". After all, they DID fake Will’s death, what would stop them from making Nancy and Jonathan disappear?

So, my point is: it's not exactly the right time or situation for a love confession.

They had forced their romantic feelings aside, because what took priority was the humongous task at hand, which they could not afford to blow!

It was at that motel room, as things were winding down for the night, after a long day of traveling and plotting, that Nancy was brought out of her preoccupation and reminded of Jonathan's presence, their past experiences, and her unspoken feelings for him. That was the first time in probably a long time that she allowed herself to touch the subject and bring it up with him.

"Don't you think it's weird how we only seem to hang out when the world's about to end?"

"It's not going to end."

"Feels like it..." she says with a sigh.

Because that's how she feels about her own life, her own world. She was talking about herself. Because this is said before they know about Will being possessed, before they know about the sheer scale of the Upside Down’s spread in their world, and the failure of Hawkins Lab to contain it. 

For a little while, comparing their scars where they’d deliberately cut their hands, she's reminded of the history that they share, and her feelings for him. She wonders what happened to the two of them, why they suddenly stopped being "us” after everything they went through together, and reveals that she waited for him to make a move; to tell her that it wasn’t just her who felt the way she did. But he never made the move, ultimately causing her to seek comfort in Steve's arms instead. Sure, she cared for Steve deeply, and he was good to her, and she liked him well enough. But she didn't really love him, their whole relationship didn’t really feel right, but she probably pushed that feeling out of her mind as well, only delaying the inevitable. That conversation in the motel room didn’t amount to much, because on top of everything on Nancy’s mind already, Jonathan (quite obtusely) complains that she “only waited a month”, rubbing more salt in her wound, and making her think that it was over and done with, that he had moved on, that he probably didn’t share her feelings.

Enter Murray. He is the one who eventually gets them to confront not just the corrupt government and expose its lies and cover-ups, but also their feelings for each other, and their own lies and cover-ups, their bullshitting of each other as well as themselves.

Having taken a serious step towards accomplishing their goal, both of them let their guard down and allowed for a celebration with drinks. And with everything they had told Murray, and from what he could tell from their body language (the shared glances, finishing each other’s sentences, constant physical closeness, etc), he put the pieces together, and told them what he saw, taking them both by surprise and getting under their skin.

“We’re just friends”. 

“You’re young, attractive, you have chemistry, history, plus, the real shit: shared trauma.” 

In other words: what’s holding you back?

It forced them to start thinking about their feelings for each other again, and what all of it really means for them. Nancy started realizing that maybe Jonathan just wasn’t brave enough to make the first move, and Jonathan probably also understood that Nancy was in a similar position. What Murray had said got them thinking that maybe this whole time, what they thought had been extinguished between them was still there, but simply hindered by their own fears. 

The weight of everything comes crashing down onto them like poorly assembled IKEA furniture, until they can no longer just ignore it and hold back anymore.

Nancy has always been someone who focuses on a goal and sees it through till the end, be it with her grades, her plans, or just like the first time she shot a gun; she focused, aimed, pulled the trigger and hit the can. This is why she shoots right out of bed, bolts straight for the door, only to be shocked to find Jonathan standing there, who had the same idea as her: maybe Murray is just drunk and full of it, but in the off chance that there’s truth to what he said, if he doesn’t take his chances now and find out, he probably never will. 

This is why their “business-like”, focused, serious demeanor and lack of flirting/affection prior to the big kiss makes a lot of sense. But I’m of course curious to hear your thoughts if you disagree or agree or whatever.

[logan-are-you-okay]

Marriage Behind Closed Doors

Chase couldn’t stop, no matter how hard he tried the images came flooding back to him. Stacy might’ve seem nice, sweet on the outside, but she was a nightmare dressed like a Day Dream. She wouldn’t believe him when he said that he wasn’t flirting with the girl after a “bro average” shoot, or that he wasn’t off with some slut to have sex. Stacy would always call him every hour to check up on him, but when he didn’t pick up right then... hell would be paid when he would get home. Chase tried everything that he could to please her, but nothing seemed to work.

He slowly raises his hand to the scar that he had on the corner of his eye. She had been very abusive during the whole relationship, but that one scar he can’t not see. Always in the corner of his vision, always when he looked in the mirror, every time he filmed a episode the fans would ask where he go it. Yes he has many other scars from her, but those are all underneath his clothing. Mainly on his back and chest.

Slowly turning over to the opposite side of the bed he looks out the window on this rainy night, he used to find the rain peaceful. The crashing sound of thunder, the brightness of the lightning striking the ground, the soft pitter pattern of rain drops hitting the window. He adored it, it was his one place where he could escape to when everything went wrong... but not anymore. Slowly closing his eyes, he remembers that day. All to recent, it was only a couple months ago.

He had just walked home from the shoot of a ‘Bro Average’ video, and was taking his time walking in the rain. Letting the cold droplets run down his bright green hair and down his face. His eyes where half lidded as he walked, it was very close to midnight after all. Stacy had called him about around nine o’clock and he didn’t answer. His manger wanted to go over an idea for relocating the set to LA, because there was a man by the name of ‘Bing’ who had offered to help progress the series to become global. Chase was so excited to tell Stacy, but when he saw that he missed her call... he wasn’t as excited.

Once he had finally got home, he opened the door and went inside. Taking off his shoes before he walked on the hardwood, Stacy hated a messy house. He was finally able to work the nerve up to walk into the bedroom, and talk to her. He had just hoped to god that she was asleep, so he could think over what to tell her in the morning... his prayers didn’t work. As soon as he opened the door he was met with a hard ass slap to his face. It was so hard his head snapped to that direction and made him fall over. Chase remembered the vicious look in her eyes as she lowered her body down to his eye level.

“Where the fuck where you?” The harsh tone still rings in his ears, even to this day.

“I was walking home from-“ he gets cut off mid-sentence with a sharp tug of his hair pulling him into the room and a large slam against the door that took the wind out of him.

“Don’t lie to me you son of a bitch! It’s nearly midnight and you DARE have the motherfucking guts to tell me you where at that damn SHOOT all day?!” She practically screams.

Instinctively his fingers clench onto the pillow he was sleeping on. Why couldn’t his mind just shut off for two minutes so he can sleep in peace?

“Honey, quiet down... you’ll wake up the-“ this time Stacy grabbed him by the collar of his shirt pulling him closer to her in a fast motion. Almost fast enough to give some one whiplash.

“Don’t tell me what I can or can not do, cunt! You belong to me, not the other way around! You don’t talk to bitches, you don’t look at bitches, you sure as HELL don’t talk to me like a bitch!” She said as she dug her nails into the skin on his arm. He screwed his eyes so that he wouldn’t yell out. It was the middle of the night, he didn’t want his kids to wake up early and be tired for school the next day. Even though how badly he just wanted to call out for help.

“Stacy... I d-didn’t have the car today... y..you did, I had to w-walk home...” he tried to explain with a desperate plea in his voice.

“Sooooo is that suppose to tell me that you didn’t happen to fuck the girl you where talking to when I called? What’s her name... Yolanda?” With that sentence his eyes popped open and he saw the rage fulled eyes staring back at him.

“Y-Yolanda is just my manager... where you stalking m-me?” He managed to squeal out. Why would she have snuck in and spied on him at work? Does she really not trust him that much?

“Like Hell She is, I saw those plastic breast that she was trying to fucking show off!”

“Please baby... lower your voice... swearing is bad for the kids ears-“ He then was met with being thrown across the room and landing on the edge of the frame that held the bed. He wasn’t able to catch himself and his head hit directly on the corner. He was able to land on his knees, but he felt something running down his face as he slowly got up. He slowly touched what he felt, pulled it back, and saw the blood.

“I don’t fucking care Chase! You are MINE and MINE alone!”

Chase Quickly sits up from the bed in a panic breathing quickly and heavily. He doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t! Why should he remember such a horrible time in his life!? He then starts to cry at the top of his lungs and just scream as if he was getting murdered.

Screaming is the easiest way to get it out of his system, people always say that guys shouldn’t hit girls. That women are to precious and can’t handle themselves. Not once as he touched her in anyway to be abusive, never slapped, hit, punch, rape, anything! It’s perfectly fine for a women to grab a man and sexually assault him while she was drunk... while he couldn’t fight back because of morals. He couldn’t even fight back or he would be put in jail... no one ever suspects a man to be getting abused... no one ever thinks that a girl could ever harm someone to such an extent... no one ever thinks that the bruises, scars, dried blood is from the nature of a unhinged mother.

They all think ‘Hey, he must be a real daredevil to get those scars’ or ‘He must be a major cults.’ No one believes him when he tried to tell someone. They all say, ‘take like a man, or your just being a pansy.’

Even being this far away from her and being in possession of the kids, she still manages to haunt him. Still torment him as if she was right there beating him up all over again. Thankfully she was arrested for a DUI so he got possession while she’s in jail... but it doesn’t help. Yes he’s safe with the kids, but the past eight years of marriage can cause some seriously horrible PTSD.

“It’s three in the morning, so would you please stop screaming so I can get some sleep.” A sudden sharp voice blazes through the room.

Chase Quickly stops and looks right at the door frame. His heart nearly stops as he sees Bing in the door way in his tight black tank top and boxers. After Stacy got arrested he took the offer from his manager and moved to LA with his kids. Bing really wanted the show to work so he offered his place for Them to stay at while Chase searches for an official home to move into.

“Dude, have you been crying?” Bing asks with a concern tone.

What had he been crying!? Oh shit, just his fucking luck! Quickly he wipes away his tears as Bing slowly came walking into the room. Bing might’ve been your typical douchebag skater boy, but he knew when it was time to calm down and help someone.

“I-It’s nothing! J-just... just a little nightmare is all!” Chase says trying to reassure, but he was shaking. A dream wouldn’t do that so easily.

He then watches as Bing sits on the bed next to him, and his heart starts going a million miles a minute! Yes he might’ve just woken up, but he sure as hell was awake now! Chase has always had a crush on the most famous ‘BingIplier’ after watching his famous segments on ‘Markiplier TV’ station. He knows it seems bad... but he’s always been bisexual. He always preferred men over the women, but growing up you couldn’t be gay. It was never social acceptable so he just went with the other option. Maybe he should’ve just went against natures laws...

“Chase... I know that it wasn’t just a nightmare. Come on Bro, what do you take me for? An idiot?” He says with a joking manner trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t help.

Chase looks away from him and stares at the thunder storm out the window. He might not enjoy it anymore, but it’s better then looking at the chunk of meat next to him. Trying to calm down his shaking hands and heart he takes a deep breath and lets his eyes go lidded. He just needs to calm down... deep breaths... in and out... not long his brain goes back to a different time Stacy hurt him and his eyes screw up with a small flinch. Why can’t he just escape these memories? What did he do that was so wrong that god had to torture him like this? He’s never smoked, hurt anyone... badly, or kill anyone... guess the saying that bad things happen to good people comes into affect, huh?

Suddenly he feels a pair of warm, masculine arms wrap around him as his eyes dart open as his body tenses up.

“Bing!? What are you-“

“Sh... Sh... it’s okay, I promise.” There was a calming and sense of peace to his tone of voice. At first his mind went a thousand miles an hour! What does this mean!? Is he just trying to comfort him!? Is he just doing this for show!? Is he trying to gain trust and make him like HIM better!? After several minutes of letting this happen, Chase slowly lets his muscles relax into the embrace. Not a single thought of panic crossed his mind. It was... peaceful... warm... sweet... and he felt safe... something that he hasn’t felt in a long time. He even finally starts to fall asleep as he looks up at Bing who was playing with Chases hair.

“I won’t ask tonight, but I expect answers in the morning.” Bing says with a commanding, but kind voice.

Chases eyes completely close with a small nod of his head in agreement, he didn’t mean to, but it just happened. He finally falls asleep, something he hasn’t done in months. The only thing is... is that Bing didn’t leave after Chase had fallen asleep. Nothing wrong with that, just bro’s being dudes... right?

( @untrustworthyglitch I tried the dialogue text you gave me! Also @alaughingfreak tried to make a little angst, don’t know if it worked)

[the-revisionist]

Hi! Just to say, I LOVE your fics! Could you possibly write Things you said on New Year's Eve for Caroline and Gillian? If that's not a good one, then literally any of them will do I'm sure you'll write it perfectly! Thank you

Anon, hope you’re still reading…thank you for kind words and the prompt! Sorry this took longer than anticipated! 

This is a companion piece to “Completely Undressed and Mostly Sober in the South of France.”  @farminglesbian had suggested a continuation of that in some way and since she controls the Lesbian Empire on the European Continent in an Unspecified Rural Location Where They Are Inclined to Wear Lederhosen I must obey or I may never be allowed in Europe ever again.  

This story is a bit of an exercise in style. For dialogue I did not use traditional quote marks. So, you know, it might work, it might not, it’s OK and you can say so, I’m a big girl and I have a lot of wine at the ready, but please don’t be a twat about it. 

This one is post-series 4. 

faithful misrepresentations

i. it’s time to get the brioches

At 5 a.m. on New Year’s Eve, she apologizes for not shaving her legs.

The morning, blue and black with jagged frost etched across a darkened windowpane, rests at the edge of Caroline’s mind. It’s so terrifyingly early that she doesn’t really want to know the time but cracks open a reluctant eye anyway; the bedroom’s digital clock coolly burns a 5:05 on the inside of her eyelids, the blunt serifs morph into an SOS and she thinks, good God, I am awake at 5 in the morning, this is what I get for sleeping with a farmer. Because Gillian stirs warm and restless against her, driven by the undeniable rhythm of blood that always has her racing against the sunrise and who, because she is apparently the master of not only the unwanted spontaneous confession but also the truly baffling nonsequitur, opts not to say good morning but rather randomly and needlessly apologizes for not shaving her legs before this, their trip to France.

Blind as a kitten, Caroline reaches for her and, half-asleep through a tangle of warm limbs, hones in on her calf; the soft hair tickles, the solid muscle undulates, the raspy glory of skin warms Caroline’s palm. There is a scar on this calf, invisible in the dark but vivid in her mind as a distinct but delicate comet tracing a pale horizon. It was, Gillian told her, caused by a jutting, broken spoke on a wheelbarrow.

That’s when I learned not to do farm work while wearing shorts, she had said.  

Caroline replies to the apology by mumbling don’t mind into a pillow; sleepiness translates it into dun mime. She’s cresting the wave back into sleep when she realizes that Gillian is not moving, not rising out of bed with a stretch and a groan and a curse word. Which is odd, because Gillian likes routine. Every morning they’ve been here she’s up before the sun, making herself tea, reading for a bit, and then walking a mile to the village to fetch brioches from a baker amusedly tolerant of an Englishwoman who flirts with her grown son and insists on conversing in rusty French. By the time she returns the brioches are stone cold but she revives them in the oven, makes coffee, and wakes up Caroline by cannonballing onto the bed like a kid on holiday. Winter clings to her skin and clothes but her morning kiss is persistent and sweet and like waking into a warm, summery daydream and not a chilly old French farmhouse lacking proper heat.

She forces herself into a higher level of coherence, clears her throat, firms up a question: You’re not getting up?

Not yet, comes the reply.  

In the dark she aims badly for Gillian’s forehead and gently smashes her palm against a nose.

Are you sick?

No. It’s just—we don’t have much time left. Here, I mean. Want to enjoy it.

They return home the day after tomorrow.

By staying in bed as long as possible, Gillian adds as needless clarification.

Under two blankets and a comforter movement is heavy and surreal, a sluggishly sensual underwater ballet. The blankets move as Gillian slides on top of her, exposing Caroline’s shoulder to a rousing chill, which is briefly warmed by Gillian’s mouth before moving along the inlet of the collarbone toward her breast. She spreads her legs, Gillian settles in between them and presses into her, and even though it’s all so new between them—so wonderfully new, she thinks, as Gillian traces the inside of her thigh—she identifies the variance in tempos and moods better now and knows this time will be slow and sweet and hopefully she won’t bang her skull against the quasi-antique headboard again.

You’re giving up brioches for me?

Nah. I’ll get ’em later. Just delaying gratification, as it were.

So—how delayed is gratification when all you’re doing is merely sublimating it with another pleasure?

Even though they can barely see one another in the porous dark, a bluish outline of morning light traces the contours of Gillian’s face and hair and Caroline can see a hitch of expression, a shift of lines as she smiles.

Shut up, you, she says.

ii. continental beauty

For one horrible aching moment—while wiping down a quartz countertop aged to such an extent that it looks as if it’s survived a hundred years of everyday bacchanals, and this is why housework is dangerous and housewives go mad, she thinks, it sets the mind loose to dwell on so much of life’s chaotic cruelty—Caroline realizes that she never had this opportunity with Kate, that is, a long romantic getaway and not just a mucky weekend at a nearby hotel. Even on that modest level she fucked it up nearly beyond repair. Even on vacation with her husband of eighteen years always she felt—she knew—she was a fraud, nothing but a character in one of his novels. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe it means something. Here in this farmhouse in the Rhone Valley hundreds of miles away from home, she waits for the shoe to fall into a dreaded Grand Canyon of unspecified anxiety.

They spent months not talking about what they needed to talk about. It was easy enough to blame a host of things for this: demanding work schedules involving obstreperous students and sheep, parenting thickheaded boys, coparenting a toddler with a knobhead whose taste in women was obviously on the decline, a bountiful supply of excellent wine from a beautiful young woman who simply would not go away, and complete, sheer cowardice. Acceptance of the status quo has always come easily to Caroline, particularly in this instance because she was getting good wine and properly laid on a regular basis—thus her mother’s interrogations and condemnations, her secretary’s prurient questions (“You have it off with Brokeback Shepherd yet?”), and generally everyone’s bewilderment and clumsy emotional tap-dancing around the subject were all easily ignored.

Then last month, during one of those boisterous family dinners where, as was not uncommon, Gillian looked at her in an indescribably aching way—followed by a self-chastising frown, slight shake of the head, and a protective hunch of her shoulders that seemingly closed off any possibility of rapprochement—Gary announced to all present that renovations to his vacation home in France were finally complete. During this interminable period he had gone from referring to the house as a chateau to deeming it a money pit. It was actually an eighteenth-century stone farmhouse, its interior now as rustically authentic as one envisioned by a nouveau riche entrepreneur from Yorkshire, and Caroline twitchingly recalled Gillian’s proposal earlier in the spring—that they would go there for a few days during the summer and work shit out. But summer ripened and withered away and the promise, representing everything that was seemingly lost between them, lingered bitterly.

After dinner Caroline stood in the doorway of Gillian’s kitchen observing their motley, contented family—Raff playing Legos with Calamity and Flora, Lawrence attempting to show his grandfather and Gary how to play Halo Wars 2 on an Xbox, and Celia, post-two glasses of wine, going on about the life of the theater to the clearly bored yet admirably patient Ellie. She felt Gillian’s presence at her side—churning and restless as a spoon stirring a pot, staring at her feet, then a lamp, then her son, and finally fixing that burning gaze of hers on the woman next to her while the back of her hand glided over Caroline’s knuckles, thus causing the latter to force out a surprising hybrid of a squeak and a gasp.

Let’s—let’s do it, she said. Come with me to France.

Five minutes later they were purchasing plane tickets on the mobile.

Five days into this trip she has learned many things about Gillian: she slavishly embraces routine whenever possible, she likes brioches, she’s reading Middlemarch for the third time now but Caroline cannot imagine why because she herself has never made it past page 50, she’s capable of lingering over a cup of tea and not gulping it down because she’s not running late or has a hundred things to do in a day, she thinks MI6 was involved in Princess Diana’s death, she’s takes no firm side in the great over vs. under toilet roll debate—don’t people have anything better to do than argue about toilet paper? she had said—

—and she is an admirer of great beauty because now she barrels through the door after tromping around the countryside for an hour and breathlessly announces, I’m in love.

Caroline imagines herself unseeded by either the baker’s handsome son or the buxom young woman who works the vineyard nearby, the latter spotted the other day during a wine-tasting tour and whose sumptuous cleavage was the focus of surreptitious glances from Gillian. After half a lifetime of stealthily admiring the physical beauty of women, Caroline knows these covert maneuvers when she sees them. Alas, all she has to counter these continental beauties are certain oral skills and her talent for making a certain orange-ginger biscuit that Gillian loves and who knows, perhaps that will save the day, perhaps even as sun perpetually sets on the English empire all that truly matters is cunnilingus, tea, and biscuits.

I’m confident of your ability to attract, she wants to tell Gillian. But not my ability to hold you.

But while hanging up her coat Gillian starts rambling about a ram, a sheep with a fancy French name. She saw him posing on a hillside, broodingly apart from the herd, a Heathcliff among sheep. His markings and coloring exquisite, his horns symmetrical, his poise exceptional—

Before Gillian can declare herself high priestess of this mythic creature’s cult, Caroline—dimly aware of the unseemliness of jealousy over a sheep—interrupts rudely: What’s it called again? A rum-ball merino?

Gillian rolls her eyes. Rambouillet, she says. She grabs a cup for tea. A Rambouillet merino.

Ripe for plucking, the word hangs in the air and Caroline ravenously seeks its source in a kiss. She holds Gillian’s lower lip gently between her teeth, tongue running the plush length of it, tasting salt and mystery because, frankly, women have always been unfathomable to her.  Sweetly, wonderfully unfathomable. She starts to unbutton Gillian’s thick, lined plaid shirt—only to discover, underneath, a second plaid shirt thin and soft with age. At which she breaks off the kiss and bursts into laughter.

Jesus Christ, you’re like a flannel onion. Layers and layers.

It’s cold, in case you haven’t noticed, Gillian says—also laughing—as she sits the empty cup on the counter.

I’m trying to warm you up, Caroline replies as she sets in on the second flannel layer. In case you haven’t noticed.

Tossing her arms around Caroline’s neck and pulling her into another kiss, another embrace, Gillian says, I’ve noticed.

She doesn’t feel too distressed about fucking Gary’s sister on Gary’s distressed leather couch—burnished leather, she thinks he called it and the color was Churchill cigar—because there is an old blanket on it and as they fall onto it she doesn’t care about much at the moment except the wonderments and sensations of skin and taste, wondering if Gillian has ever called anyone else baby, Caroline can’t quite imagine that she has and would like to reserve that titular honor as her very own, wondering when the last time someone went down on her properly because her reaction and sheer enjoyment of it make Caroline feel like Aphrodite incarnate coming down from on high and she has to cling to Gillian as if she’s riding a rollercoaster by the skin of her teeth.

Afterward she’s sprawled on the couch wrapped in the comforter Gillian dragged out the bedroom, staring at the crisscross of the ceiling’s dark wood roof beams and with her head pillowed on Gillian’s bare thigh. With one flannel shirt back on, Gillian sits cross-legged while drinking one of Gary’s very pricey local Syrahs and pretending to read Middlemarch, pretending because she’s humming, which she usually does while absorbed in the comforting repetition of a task like washing dishes or mending a shirt or soothing a baby and in this instance the task at hand seems to be slowly, rhythmically running her fingers through Caroline’s hair. I like your—your hair, she had said the other day, shy and stammering and nervous after they made love, as if the gentle offering of a compliment would somehow be virulently rejected, and while Caroline loved the sweet awkwardness of it she hated the man who made Gillian terrified of revealing the slightest vulnerability.

She stares at the shadowed, foreboding ceiling beams, thinks that Gary should have picked a wood of a lighter color because the dark beams make her think of crucifixions.

Say it again, she says to Gillian.

What?

The name of the sheep.

Rambouillet.

Oh, she sighs, that’s lovely.

Unexpectedly Gillian drags her finger, damp and dribbling Syrah, across Caroline’s lips, as if soothing an infant with a taste of milk. You’re really weird, she says.

I’m not the one in love with a sheep, Caroline replies.

iii. the search for intelligent ovine life in the Rhone Valley

The afternoon winter sun, useless and pale, emanates as much heat as the moon. They are out in search of the great Rambouillet merino. Gillian insists she needs to get a better photo of the sheep so she can submit it to something called “Google sheep view” and Caroline, who is perfectly fine with not knowing what the hell that is, is nonetheless curious to know what the fuss is about and accompanies her. Leading the mission, Gillian stalks the dirt backroad that runs behind Gary’s farmhouse with her usual dogged, determined pace. She’s been in a bit of a mood since lunchtime and Caroline knows enough to let her be until she’s ready to talk; it’s likely, though, that she dreads the thought of returning home to the questions, the judgments, the expectations that will be laid at their feet.

She trails behind. Outside of the Yorkshire countryside she has navigated most of her life, her sense of direction is rubbish and she hasn’t a clue where they really are. She sighs and burrows deeper into her scarf. It’s the coldest day of the trip thus far. The stiff, expensive boots she purchased for the trip are pinching her toes and the too-high arches dig into her soles. In the distance she sees the vineyard that they visited days ago, the spherical red caps of the buildings distinct against the pale sky, and has a wince-inducing guilty thought about Olga.

Shortly after committing to this journey, she officially ended it with Olga. It was not so much a breakup as an act of disengagement; some days she actually convinces herself of this. Regardless it required some semblance of fortitude to finally override the guilt-ridden, passive-aggressive lust that propelled the relationship on her part. Olga took it well. She also took a case of an amazing Chenin Blanc from the Loire Valley that she had initially gifted to Caroline and now presumably would bestow upon another boozy, middle-aged lesbian—or, more likely, her ex—both nonetheless worthy of her considerable charm and refined palate, while leaving Caroline to the tender mercies of a sheep farmer overfond of cheap Lambrusco.

She stops for a moment to look at red roofs jutting into milk-white clouds and dwell in the newness of everything—place and memory, time and love—while accepting the sense of loss that perpetually nips at her heels. Snow flurries waltz to the ground.

Then she notices that up ahead on the road Gillian has stopped and turned around. Head tilted, she critically eyes Caroline as she would a lagging, miscreant ewe—as if to say, come along now.

Grimacing, Caroline takes long strides to catch up. She apologizes on arrival, insincerity muffled through the cashmere scarf.

Gillian carries a long, sturdy branch found earlier on the road. Alternately she’s been using it as a walking stick and brandishing it as a weapon, whacking at husked, brittle weeds lining the road, sadistically poking at stones. Idly she whips it around her body while frowning at Caroline.

What were ya doing back there? she asks.

Contemplating life’s mysteries. Appreciating the sublimity of nature. Oh, and staring at your ass. Not necessarily in that order.

Bashful at the compliment, Gillian lowers her head and grins. Then, wryly: So you weren’t stopping ’cause those boots are hurting you?

Not a bit, Caroline lies.

You’re limping, she says, and then nods in the direction of the winery. D’ya think they send out Saint Bernards with little wine flasks to rescue snotty English bitches who don’t wear proper footwear whilst they wander about the countryside?

That would be marvelous.

Gillian points up ahead at a copse of trees. The gesture is so startling and beautiful and confident that Caroline wants to seize her hand—ungloved, snowflake caught and melting on her thumbnail—and kiss it.

Right up there, she says, past those trees, is a shortcut through the wood to the vineyard. If you can make it, we could walk there. Couple glasses might revive you for the walk home.

And if it doesn’t?

Reckon I’ll have to drag you back somehow.

Cavewoman.

Nah. I’m not that strong, Gillian says with a roll of her shoulders, but I’ll give it a go.

Au contraire.

That’s the first bit of French out of your mouth since we got here.

You’ve been doing well enough for both of us, Caroline says, so why bother? She leans into Gillian, quietly pleased at the arm that automatically wraps around her waist. Then she presses her face into the crown of Gillian’s hair, kisses it, and says, I’ve always believed—she begins shakily, pauses clumsily—always known—you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.

Gillian pulls back and stares at her, unsure if what she’s saying is an obvious revelation or a faithful misrepresentation of the brutal facts that comprise her life. She thinks that Gillian usually skews toward the latter as a default viewpoint, and realizes it may take a lifetime for her to sort it, to undo it. If ever. What surprises Caroline is not this but the belief, settling into her bones and countering her own misguided self-assessments, that she is finally brave enough to be fully present in Gillian’s life.  

On the walk home, both of them tipsy and tired, they see the Rambouillet merino ambling across an open field into the setting sun. And he is beautiful.

[thekindmagic]

7 deadly sins and FFXV male characters (main4+Ardyn, Ravus, Cor)

Alright, Anon, yeah, this ask is super cool??! Let’s dothis…

(I’m doing the paired-up deadly sins andheavenly virtues, because I like to think about strengths and weaknesses andhow those things correlate and contradict each other, because I’m a big damnnerd)

Cor: Pride/Humility

Not so much from anything in-game as somethingI’d like to see explored with him?? (I’m putting him first because he’sthe only one I wasn’t particularly inspired over and I’m kinda… getting him outof the way…)He was entrusted with King Regis’s protection at age fifteen. He has an incredible reputation, he’sobviously a phenomenally skilled warrior, and people talk about him like death can’t touch him. How do you sustain thatlevel of success and praise from such a young age and not develop some sort ofcomplex, how do you not start buying into your own myth? (These are my CrisisCore feelings bleeding through…)I mean, when he apologizes for Regisdying, he says it like he assumes he would have been able to stop it all byhimself?? That’s fascinating, it’s a level of self-assurance and responsibilitythat would go to anybody’s head and change the way they see the world.I’d like to think that Cor works very hard not to take his abilities andstatus for granted, because he just never fails,but he knows how dangerous it is to fall into complacency… For the short timehe’s in the party, he defers to Ignis for making a plan and constantly keeps aneye out for Prompto, he makes a concerted effort to work with the team. That’san interesting show of humility for a war hero. …But then again, he’s willing to split the three guys off and send them torisk their lives as a diversion because he’s unilaterally decided it’s the bestway to achieve the goal. He balances everything really well, he seemslike a pretty healthy character, but I’d like to see more of how this works inhis head, and the struggle it must have been for him when he was younger…

Noctis: Sloth/Diligence

Yeah, yeah, he sleeps a lot, pfft, obvious Iknow… Just stay with me, okay??Noctis spends the whole game fighting for the “never say die”motivation he needs to play his role in this story. Hell, he spends all ofBrotherhood looking for it, too. For the longest time, he doesn’t feel it. He’s depressed and almost hopelessand can’t see a way forward, so he mentally retreats. I’m not blaming him forit at all, but the sort of… stagnationhe falls into goes pretty neatly under what people usually mean when they talkabout sloth as a sin. He’s unmotivated. He’s young. He’s lost. He’d rather hide and sleep and playvideo games and fish.But he also knows that’s not an option, at least notlong-term.He knows he had responsibilities the second he was born, that people areliving and dying for him, that he has a place written out for him in the cosmoswhether he wants it or not. So he tries.It’s shaky and it’s miserable and it’s hard, but he pulls himself forward andgets his friends to help him push, he holds on to Luna and his father as theserole models for the life and duties he has to accept, and he keeps going. I love this poor little guy so much, he deserved so much better: he ranhimself into the ground until he thought he had nothing left, and then the godsasked for more. If for no other reason, I love the after-credits scene because he finally getsto rest.

Prompto: Envy/Kindness

This one was the easiest for me, I thought ofit even before the really obvious one with “sloth” and Noctissleeping all the time.Because this is the disparity that drives pretty much everything aboutPrompto?? (Ugh, this feels so self-explanatory to me that it’s hard toput it into words…)Just: “All thatpain, and misery, and loneliness, and it just made him kind”But it also left him reeling, and without any realsense of self?? As forgiving and understanding as he is of others, as much ashe believes they deserve support and always jumps to be the first to supportthem, he has incredibly highexpectations for himself, and he hates itwhen he doesn’t meet them. He literally tells Noctis on the hotel roof thathe’s jealous of Ignis and Gladio, he talks about how he feels like an outcastand wants to belong. Since he was a kid, he’s wanted all the things that seemedto come so easily to the people around him, the way they could walk into a roomand feel like they deserved to be there.But instead of that envy making him bitter, it just makes him hyper-aware ofpeople who might feel the same?? He’s so good and respectful with kids, he’s socareful to help and support Ignis after he’s been blinded, he even reaffirms toGladio that they missed him while he was gone after he rejoins the party.Whenever anybody might be in a vulnerable position, Prompto is right there, because he knows how awful itfeels and genuinely wants to help.(Sunshine boy

Ignis: Greed/Charity

I’m wincing at having to put the word“greed” anywhere near thisselfless angel… But at the same time??The knots he ties himself in are all tangled up in the fact that he wantsthings on behalf of other people, (specifically Noctis,) but god, he still wants them. Enough that his good wishes andgenerosity and honest desire to help are strong enough and mean enough to himthat he’s actually willing to potentially compromise his own goals.I can’t tell where the line is anymore between shipping and characteranalysis, but listen: genuinely, what Ignis wants is to be with Noctis. I wrote a whole thing about this, I’m notgonna reiterate it, but… Even their fight in Brotherhood came down to Ignis notknowing how to deal with the communication breakdown between them, and tryingto pull Noctis forward to him instead of acknowledging the distance. He wantsthem on the same page so hard that he sabotages their relationship. (I mean,it’s not entirely his fault obviously -Noctis’s shitty coping mechanisms certainly play their part…) Ignis wants everythingto work, he wants Noctis to succeed, he wants to be there for it and to play apart - he wants all of that so bad that he accidentally misses all the ways hecould actually be helping. He getsbetter at dealing with it by the time the game rolls around, he’s careful toonly ever offer to talk or spend time making breakfast, not to overstep, not tohold too tight… He’s always very conscious of what he’s giving and what he’sgetting back.I said I wouldn’t repeat that other meta, but damn, in Chapter 10, Ignis iswilling to die if it means he gets moretime with the group, that’s how deeply it runs, that’s how badly he wants. He’swilling to die even though Noctis and his friends so desperately want him to besafe. He’s willing to make that incredibly selfish sacrifice, he’s an enigmawrapped inside a riddle wrapped inside a taco, he can’t carve out his love andwanting even for the sake of the very person he loves and wants to be with.

Gladio: Gluttony/Temperance

Okay no wait let me explain?? It’s not just acup noodle joke, I swear!!“Gluttony” as a deadly sin is something I’ve always interpreted as… indulgence, I guess? Gladio does not have self-control. He does not regulate his impulses. He saysand does what he feels like, the second he feels like saying or doing it. He’sapparently socially outgoing, (though I tend to doubt he’s really as successfulat maintaining relationships as he’d like us to believe,) he apparently makestime for sex and flirting and all the rest. He makes jokes without thinkingabout their impact, and when he’s angry he yells and even gets physical. Hedoesn’t appear know how to restrain himself from committing 110% all the timeto every emotion and instinct he has. …At the same time, he’s an impeccably trained warrior, and a bookworm, andgives constant lectures about duty and control. We know from his backstory thathe got a scar that he could have avoided because he’d rather get hurt than hurta citizen in his capacity as the King’s Shield. I think he knows exactly wherehis weak points are, and he tries to compensate with his “knowthyself” routine and the way he kind of lets his job rewrite his identity.To a certain extent, he wants his world put in order for him; he wants to betold where the rules and limits are so he can stick to them. It’s when thingsgo off-book and he loses those guidelines for what is and isn’t allowed that hereally loses track of himself. He doesn’t want to lose control - he just has no coping mechanisms, he’s neverbeen made to confront the idea that he’s outof control.I wrote a whole thing about that too, I don’t want to getrepetitive…(And yes: there’s also his borderline fetish for cup noodles.)

Ardyn: Lust/Chastity

A fairly easy match, actually?? I’m not using “lust” so much in the sexual sense here, (none of theboys really fit that,) but more in the “lustfor power” way… The difference I see between greed and lust is that greed is a desire to have something, and it’s the thing you wantthat perpetuates the problem for you - whether you deserve it, whether you needit, whether you should be grateful for what you already have… With lust, thething itself doesn’t actually matter: it’s the way you feel about it that’s the issue, the obsessiveness, the way itconsumes you. It’s addictive and self-fulfilling, you want to want it, to revel in the desire: that’s what we see inArdyn the whole damn way. Whatever your read on him is, there’s really no end-goal here?? Whether hegenuinely wants to kill Noctis for revenge on the gods, or is secretly hopingto die in the process and put an end to everything… it almost doesn’t matter.Because Ardyn is too caught up in his own story to think that rationally, he’sempty and addicted to whatever makes him feel real and alive. Most of the time, that seems to be spite. But his angerisn’t an impulse like Gladio’s or a coping mechanism like Ravus’s - his angeris sensual. He loves being petty and bitter and spiteful, he loves the way it feels. He loves it almost ironically I think: it’s just so far from anything he ever felt before. The story of him as a king is self-sacrificial, he was a saint and a healerand every “pure white mage” trope character Final Fantasy has everproduced. He didn’t think of or gratify himself, he sort of sacrificed himselfat the altar of other people’s darkness and corruption. And now that darkness and corruption is all that’s been left to him.And in a twisted sort of way, he’s still being a martyr: he’splaying the part designed for him by the gods.The difference is that he’s got nothing pure or honest left in him anymore,and if this is what he’s been driven to, he’s going to enjoy every second ofit.(Honestly the sort of… perversion of him arranging the bodies in thethrone room played a big role in this decision too, as did his constant bedroomeyes and seduction voice. Ardyn lovesmaking a mockery of intimacy, but that’s a whole different post…)

Ravus: Wrath/Patience

What this boy does with his glorified walk-onrole is amazing to me, I’m low key thinking about Ravus a lot lately??He is so mad all the time about everything, and honestly he has the right tobe - what happened to Noctis at the beginning of the game happened to Ravuswhen he was sixteen, except Ravus didn’t have the luxury of best friends and aprophecy to go start a story of his own. What he had was a sister who wasseverely at risk from the same Empire that killed their mother, a country thatwas almost fully occupied, and a shitload of anger that he had to tamp down andchannel and find a way to live with. If we’re talking survival, Ravus really had no choice but to cooperate withthe Empire - I sort of view his grudge against Regis and Noctis as a copingmechanism, him displacing all the hatred he has for his place in the Empire,(all his resentment toward himself,) andprojecting it back on the people he’s made himself believe could have preventedhim from ever having to be in this situation. He’s so mad, it burns him up, but he’s gotten so good at saying “no, Ican’t, not today.” He’s so good at being quiet, for Luna’s sake and for his own, at turning away even whenhe’s humiliated and furious, at holding himself back when he knows it wouldn’thelp.And then obviously, when he doeslet himself get angry, he’s terrifying and unpredictable and does things likesend Gladio flying into a car or rebel against the Empire and get himselfkilled.His death as a daemon is the worst, because even though his instinct hasalways been to fight… Not like this, youknow? He spent so long trying to handle all the violence warring in him, andthen at the end Ardyn doesn’t leave him any choice: he’s made to succumb toit.(Again, compare him with Gladio please, they’re fascinating foils??)

…That’s probably more than you wanted, but it was really fun to do, so??