#Gallery: Rash

[muses-inn]

I've looked at this particular scene before on their own blog, two year-ish ago. Rash definitely slept in their middle, the top pillow having been his. Pimple sleeping with a teddy and Zitz definitely snores 🤣

[muses-inn]

@nightwatchr

He's a fan 🐸🐢

[the-meme-monarch]

tha funny siblings

if you ship scc and/or kr/alsei go Away from me

[ttjisung]

back 2 u 𝜗𝜚

p. jisung x fem!reader smau - exes to lovers

in which jisung does his best to avoid you, his ex, until he realizes his mistake far too late cw: suggestive themes, bad angst, cheating, swearing

i'm not going back, back, back, back, back

masterlist

previous next

chapter xii. (wc: 1k + social media near the end)

Jisung sat tensely in front of both Renjun and Donghyuck, feeling more uncomfortable by the second as the two stared at him intently. It was hard to read their expressions, yet they appeared to be a mix of pity, frustration and warmth. “So… I didn’t know you were going to be here, Hyuck.” “He wasn’t going to be but he insisted, you know how annoying he gets.” Renjun responded, making the other male huff, “Hey! Don’t speak about me like I’m not right next to you, you bitch.” “Shut up and be serious for a second.” The two collected themselves, facing the younger male, and the mixed expressions arised once again.

“We have something to tell you, and it's really really crucial that you hear us out completely before making any rash decisions, alright?” “What is this, an intervention?” Jisung knew something was up when neither of his friends laughed at his attempt to lighten the air.

“I guess I’ll just rip off the bandaid,” Renjun breathed in before opening his mouth to speak, yet Donghyuck was quick to interrupt him, “Y/n didn’t cheat on you!” A heavy silence took over the room after his outburst, and he winced at his irrational, loud behavior. “Hyuck! You dumbass, I didn’t mean that quick.” As the two argued, they failed to realize the grimace that was placed on Jisung’s face. “Who put you up to this? It’s not funny, guys. Seriously, fuck you. You know that this has affected me and you’re just joking-” Renjun cut off his jumbled rambling, “It’s not a joke… Or a lie. I know you won’t believe me when I tell you Jaemin was behind all of this but we have proof. It’s important that you do not confront him though, Ji. Y/n’s friends have their own way to deal with that.” 

The older male took out his phone and opened his photo gallery, handing it to his friend, and Jisung could feel his heart pounding harshly as he scrolled through the videos and screenshots. He couldn’t process what he was seeing so he just began to shake his head, a pit in his stomach growing as he threw the phone back before stuffing his face into his arms, all the while his head was still moving dramatically. “No.” His voice came out muffled. “What do you mean no?” Donghyuck instigated, wondering why he was reacting in such an abstract manner. “No, no, no… Fuck… No. It’s not… It’s not true.” Jisung’s whole body began to shake, and it was then that the two older males heard the sob he choked out. Renjun moved next to him, trying to pat his back in a consoling way, yet it just made him sob harder, the reality kicking in that you in fact did not cheat on him, and he ruined everything. 

It almost felt like a dream - a weird twisted nightmare; as he screwed his eyes shut, all he could envision was images of the two of you… your first date, the beach day you shared, your first kiss, your last date that had gone so well, and lastly, he remembered the day you stepped foot into his apartment, when he hurt you in a way that couldn’t be healed. 

It was all rushing back to him at once and he couldn’t handle it, shooting up from the couch in a rush to find his phone. Ignoring his friends’ concerned questions, he quickly dialed your number into the device, finally letting his tears fall down at the sound of the dial tone informing him he couldn’t reach you. His shaky hands opened your previous texts, wincing at the exchange of words before typing in some clumsily spelled texts, begging you to answer, yet the shade of color quickly turned to green and he began to panic.

“Shit… I have to see her. I need to go.” “Jisung stop! We told you to not act irrationally. Hyuck went to go see her and it didn’t end well.” “Are you fucking kidding me? You knew long enough to go see her but you didn’t think to tell me?! Her fucking boyfriend?” He was seeing red, and was about to storm out of the apartment until Renjun pushed him down onto the couch. “Calm the hell down Ji. He literally went last night, and in case you don’t remember, you aren’t her boyfriend because you broke up with her. Don’t take that shit out on us when we’re trying to help you fix this. Now, you need to calm down before you show up all mad to her apartment and do something you’ll regret, and she’ll hate you even more for it.” Jisung’s heavy breathing overtook the awkward silence that engulfed the room, before an unfamiliar whisper came from his voice, “You… you think she hates me?” Both Donghyuck and Renjun frowned at the sight of Jisung’s anger being replaced with unadulterated sorrow.

“She’s not happy with any of us Ji, not just you. But she loves you, and I know you love her, so I think you have the best shot at making positive progress with her. The only way you can do this is if you calm down, okay?” He nodded at Renjun’s words, slumping over in the chair, and for a while, the two older friends thought they had succeeded in calming him down until it finally processed in Jisung’s brain that Jaemin had caused this because he so obviously wanted to replace him. Ignoring the yelp that came out of the shortest male’s mouth as Jisung shifted away from him, he got up once more, yet this time he trekked to the door. “I’m going to go see her and figure this out. I won’t do shit to Jaemin yet, but I need to see her. Don’t stop me.” Were his last words as he slammed the door behind him, leaving both Donghyuck and Renjun in shock.

Renjun was removed from his trance when he felt his phone buzz from the table, and when he picked it up he saw the reason why - Yangyang and Dejun had made a group chat and added him. It was then that he realized how badly he messed up, as he remembered Dejun’s warning of not telling Jisung, so he picked up the device, trying to find a way to warn you before Jisung’s abrupt arrival.

a/n: cliffhangerrr alert >_< i'm getting nervie and i'm the one writing this... i'm almost done with the taglist so i should be able to use it by the next chapter :3

ALSO GUYS ALERT! i'm starting another smau and do not even worry about me forgetting ab this one because although i'm real bad at multitasking, jisung is my main man and i could never forget ab him... specially when the fic is finally getting good

but i'm gonna be doing a yangyang smau ^o^ spoiler alert its gonna be like an idol x idol one where he has the hugest celebrity crush on you cause i love men yearning. this should be coming out soon :3

i want to give a hugeee thanks to the lovely person who recommended these messaging apps to me <3 saved my life forreal and now i'm going to be able to release the chapters a lot quicker for both smaus

i know someone asked for a jungwoo fic and do not fret either because i'm going to be making a series for him next but i'm still debating making it a smau or written... it'll probably be smau lol. so prepare for these projects if you are interested and if not thats fine too :p i'm still gonna be updating this one c:

[julieverne]

"Why?"

Jane turned away from the game on the tv to check in with Maura, not processing the question, short as it was, like Maura herself.

"Why what?" Jane sipped at her beer, cautious now she'd seen the look on Maura's face.

"Why aren't I.... enough."

And there it was. Maura was insecure; Jane knew intimately how insecure Maura was. She was always pushing herself, trying to prove herself.

Except when she was with Jane.

"Enough what?" Jane stalled.

"Enough for you. You'll come to my spa, you'll come to my charity events and my mother's gallery shows, you'll come rescue me from whatever danger has befallen me. But somehow that's not enough."

"Not enough for you?"

Maura nodded, her eyes averted.

"I'm not enough to keep you from jumping off a bridge." Maura's voice was low, like the depth of that blow. Like the depth of the water that had swallowed Jane whole, leaving Maura screaming into darkness behind her. "I'm enough to raise your baby if you die, but not enough to raise it with you."

That was an even lower blow and Jane flinched, putting down her beer. She'd asked Maura in a moment of weakness, only wanting the best for the child she'd never had, and Maura was the best thing that had ever happened in the entire known world and beyond. Jane would have been an awful mother, but Maura would have more than made up for it. Jane had kind of hoped, when she'd offered, that they'd raise the kid together. As friends. But Maura was right. It wasn't enough.

"I'm not... if you're saying what I think you're saying, I'm never going to be enough for you. You could buy and sell me a hundred times over. I can't talk nice to your fancy friends, and I can't keep up with you financially. I'm the one who's not enough, Maura." She met Maura's eyes. "You're everything."

Maura's eyes were filled with tears that she didn't wipe away. "What if I think you're enough? What if I don't see things the same way you do."

"I'm not good enough for you," Jane said harshly, spelling it out. "My family is a mess. I'm a mess. I can barely get out of bed without getting another serial killer interested in me. I've put you in danger so many times and someone who loves you shouldn't do that."

"You love me?" Maura's voice was low again, timid, afraid to break the spell.

"Yeah. But I know. I'm no Fairfield."

"And that's why I love you. You don't pretend to be better than you are. There's no act here. You're just you, even with me."

Jane met Maura's eyes, then let her eyes slide down to Maura's chest. No rash. She was telling the truth. When she lifted her eyes back to Maura's face it was softened into an expression of pure affection. "I'm everything?" Maura asked softly.

Jane finished her beer and put it down, wiping her hands on her pants before she reached for Maura, pulling her into a kiss they'd both waited too long for. "You're everything to me. So much sometimes that I couldn't... understand. Or face it. It scared me. I've never..."

Maura's lips were soft and met Jane's with no hesitation. "You're enough," Maura said quickly, getting to her feet, dragging Jane up with her, pulling her to the bedroom. "Let me show you."

[polutrope]

Tales come ahead of the heroes. Of great battles that rattled the bones of the bent world; of Morgoth’s cruel, unyielding lieutenant at last overthrown.

From the wall of his gallery, Turgon takes down a sword and clutches the hilt. It has long fallen into disuse in the distant bliss of Valinor. This blade is not his, was never his, but it hangs here in memory among other precious tokens of a drowned continent that found their way from the mountains to the river and from there across the sea. 

The tales say Turgon’s sword surfaced glittering from the dust of ages; that Glamdring sang death to its foes in the hands of a Maia, leading the peoples of Endor to triumph. 

Turgon, in his felicity, envies Olórin. Turgon, though tempered by the Halls, wishes he might have wielded that blade again. Might have joined his soul in harmony with it, one last time, for vengeance. 

But when the heroes land he does not inquire after it.

Eventually Olórin, elusive and enigmatic as he has ever been, pays Turgon a visit. He has kept that raiment he wore among mortals of an old man bent and weathered. He laughs and gathers Turgon in his arms. 

Turgon invites him in for tea.

“It is not so different here,” Olórin muses, nibbling on a bit of cake. “Thank you,” he adds, in answer to Turgon’s inquiring look. “It is a comfort to take tea with a great lord of Elves.” 

“Ah.” Turgon quirks a smile. “So the annals tell it. I fear that was another life, which I scarcely recognise as mine.”

Their conversation ambles the paths of immortal memory that fears not the passage of time.

At last, towards evening, Turgon asks, “What of my sword? They say you bore it.”

Olórin hums. “I had rather hoped you would not ask.”

Turgon beetles his brows.

“You must forgive me — I gave it away.” 

“Gave it? To whom?” Irritation, a prickle of dishonour, tickles at Turgon’s mind like an old rash. Who is left, worthy of such an heirloom? 

“I left it in the keeping of the Queen of Gondor, your grandson’s granddaughter, to defend your line for many more ages of Men. Did I err in this?” 

“Arwen.” Turgon remembers the name and smiles. “No, dear friend. You did not err. She and her descendants are worthy bearers of that blade.” 

[ahundredtimesover]

Fic ideas I’ll probably never write

A The Light or Dead Stars spin-off where Namjoon goes to the ER after a little kitchen accident at his friend’s cafe that he’s managing and meets you, the ER doctor. You’re amused that this built, highly intelligent man is so clumsy, especially when he returns the next week to ask for a prescription to treat the rash he got after catching some crabs.

You see him again on your way home from a night shift bc the cafe is just about to close and he offers to make you tea and you end up talking all morning. He seems like he’s constantly looking for something, or for his home to feel like home again. He wants to stay in one place this time, but when a dream role in an art gallery in New York is offered to him, you wonder if he’ll keep chasing whatever it is he can’t find or if he’ll think you’re finally someone worth staying in Seoul for.

Something like that. But I keep thinking of the contrast in their lives - the chaos of the ER and the tranquility of the coffee shop. How OC finds herself constantly searching for Namjoon’s warmth and how she realizes that much as she’s stayed in one place all her life, she’s not sure if this feels like home, either.

[bubuslutty]

headcanon: John Price likes to play with your clit until it hurts.

pairing: fem!reader x John price

word count: 1.4k

tags: dom!price, sub!reader, overstimulation, cumming untouched, oral (f receiving), subspace, fingering, manhandling, strength kink, pain kink ig, stomach bulge, size kink, rutting, making out, biting, crying, squirting, dirty talk, praise kink, spit kink, face slapping (not too hard tho, doesn't hurt), aftercare, use of words such as cunt + hole, she/her, no use of y/n, 3rd person pov, no physical descriptions of reader

warnings: THIS AINT NO RATED MOTHER FUCKING PG SHIT. THIS SHIT RATED PORN.

summary: uhhh I got this hc from a tiktok slide show abt nsfw cod hcs okay 🧍‍♀️ my gallery is filled with them.

a/n: I had to take multiple breaks while writing this. it's proofread by me so sorry for any mistakes, bon appétit bitches 💞

☆ John would spend hours between his lovey's legs, mouth sucking, licking, nipping and tongue shoved inside her wet hole repeatedly, mean and intense.

☆ would also pinch and rub her little clit, making her whine and cry even more

☆ would absolutely devour her, kiss and suck and bite her inner thighs, making the skin red and sensitive using his teeth and beard

☆ beard rashes!!!

☆ he would beg for her to squirt on his face, "Come on, lovey. Do it, do it for me, please?"

☆ King of dirty talk + praising at the same fucking time!!!

☆ "You taste so good, lovey. Look at your cunt, it's all wet, hm? Are you going to cum? Drench my face?"

☆ At first he would probably go gentle and slow, continuously kissing her stomach and hips while his fingers are deep inside her, opening her up just for his mouth, not even his cock.

☆ "Look at you, drooling all over me pillows. Did I fuck you stupid, sweetheart? But I'm just using my hands and mouth."

☆ "I haven't even fucked you properly, your sweet cunt's crying for me, hm?"

☆ "Sweet little slut, do you like having your clit sucked? Hm, yeah, yeah you do."

☆ Then at some point he would lay on his back, roll his baby on his front, chest to chest, pin both of her hands on her back with one strong hand and use the other to mercilessly fuck her hole with three fingers until she's crying and screaming, clit repeatedly rubbing against his happy trail, leaving wet marks on his skin and making her clit all red and swollen.

☆ John thrives in feeling her shake against him, her sweaty chest heaving up and down while she has her face buried in his neck, mouthing at his skin, unable to shut her mouth and stop any noises from spilling out.

☆ he can even feel her stomach bulging out when he drives his fingers in a bit too hard, which never fails to make his cock jump, all swollen and dripping all over itself and balls.

☆ and it would hurt. her pussy is aching and her clits all swollen and rubbed raw. but it feels good. so fucking good as long John is there. as long as he's the one touching her.

☆ He would keep this up, for so fucking long, changing positions and all, just to turn her into a mess, a literal rag doll, unable to open her eyes properly, or even able to remember her own name.

☆ He would lay her on her stomach and proceed to rut against the space between her cunt and hole until he comes all over her ass.

☆ John would lay on his side, drag his baby on her side, her back glued to his warm and ticklish chest, throw one of her legs over his thighs and bury his fingers inside her cunt while his other arm is cushioning her head and his fingers are holding her mouth open.

☆ He would kiss her swollen lips, spit inside her mouth and rub her own drool all over her pretty pink lips while she's panting and whining.

☆ John would manhandle her the way he wants all the time, not afraid to use his strength to get what he wants.

☆ At some point, he would lay her on her back, hover above her legs, pinning her against the mattress while using one of his hands to pin her arms above her head, to stop her from squirming.

☆ He would grab her chin between his bigger thicker fingers and hum, seeing her glazed eyes, eyes absolutely dark and fucking gone. And he hasn't even fucked her with his dick. But it's alright, because his baby is so fucked out of her mind, she hasn't even noticed.

☆ "Lovey, look at me."

☆ Lovey doesn't look at him, she can't even see straight and just keeps panting with her mouth open, face squished against the soft pillows.

☆ John slaps her cheek, never too hard to hurt, making her gasp and he grabs her chin a bit hard, dragging her face towards his.

☆ When she finally manages to meet his eyes, he smiles, eyes full of love and adoration, "There she is."

☆ "What's your name, lovey?" John asks and watches his baby blink at him, as if he spoke in a different language.

☆ He reaches down with one hand and pinches one of her nipples, making her jump.

☆ "What's your name?"

☆ Lovey frowns, trying her damn hardest to focus her eyes on his face, pouting.

☆ John just waits in silence until she cracks a smile and starts uncontrollably giggling, "I don't know…"

☆ Captain John Price, special forces and captain of task force 141, served over 18 years in the British army, fucking cums right then and there.

☆ He moans, his dick jerking and pulsing hot cum all over his Lovey's thighs and she matches his moan as soon as she feels it, throwing her head back and arching her back.

☆ He didn't even need to touch himself and he came so hard, his vision was swimming and he had to press his forehead against his girl's, collecting himself while his thick thighs kept twitching.

☆ Lovey is not able to understand just what happened, she just knows John came and she's happy he did, but tomorrow she will remember and John will be fucked for the rest of his life.

☆ She will have more reasons to keep him wrapped around her finger, and he isn't complaining one bit, it's just different, from anything he's ever experienced, and it's a bit scary, someone having this much power over this beast of a man.

☆ "I love you, I love you, love you so much, Lovey. I love yo-" John says, trying to calm down, and then Lovey raises her head with all of the energy left in her body and kisses him in the mouth.

☆ John immediately shuts up and lowers his head, deepening their kiss even more, devouring her sweet little mouth.

☆ When his thighs stop shaking, he pulls away, making her whine, and he shushes her, keeping a hand wrapped loosely around her neck.

☆ "I'm not leaving you, Lovey."

☆ After collecting himself as much as he can, he lifts her off the bed, both naked as the day they were born. She shivers, snuggling closer to his warm chest, "I know, but you have to pee, love."

☆ He carries her to the toilet, helping her sit down because she's absolutely fucking useless by her own, and he watches her pee, arms crossed and makes sure she doesn't fall sleep and cracks her head open on the wall.

☆ When she's done, he shuts the toilet's seat and helps her sit down, "Stay here, I'll run the bath, hm?"

☆ Lovey hums, leaning her head against the wall and closing her eyes while John runs the bath as quickly as he can. He doesn't bother with a bath bomb, oils or salt like his girl usually likes. The only reason they're having a bath instead of a shower, is because she's literally unable to stand up on her feet, and he can't wash and carry her at the same time, it'd be dangerous for both of them.

☆ When it's warm enough, he carries his love to the bath and washes her body as quick and as he can, and washes himself, then he stands up, rising himself with the shower head and rinses her right after.

☆ He dries her with the biggest fluffiest towel they own and helps her slip on a pair of soft underwear.

☆ John makes her sit on the armchair next to the window and quickly changes the sheets, leaving them next to the door, he'll take care of it tomorrow. And when he's all done he slips on his own pair of boxers and gets them both in bed, clean and warm.

☆ He's laying on his back, Lovey half laying on him, one of her legs thrown over his, head and hand on his chest, while he's smoking one of his cigars, content and comfortable, muscles truly relaxing and head empty.

☆ Lovey's breathing went back to normal, she's asleep, half of her weight on his body, reminding John that this isn't a dream. And he's never been happier.

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @loveyhoneydovey @cutiecusp @pinkwigonmytv @mandythemint @itsberrydreemurstuff @tapioca-marzipan @fruitymoonbeams-blog @poohkie90 @chaoticevilbakugo @anubis-reed @thefairybird @skytacvia @marytvirgin @cynicalmnm @maechanexe @t0jis-worm @1800imgay @4ndjelij4 @multitargaryen @lilpothoscuttings @mysticalpandabear

[riddle-me-ri]

I love your penguin fics so much I would like to request a fic of btas penguin introducing his s/o to his dear friend Eddie, but gets jealous when they get along so well (the riddler can be rather charming after all)

a/n: this gives me flashbacks to when I did a scenario of eddie stealing reader away after oz turned them away, but thankfully that won't be the case here lol. This story sorta took on a life of it's own so the length maybe crazy and I tried ending this in like three different ways..so sorry if it’s kind of a mess lol BUT I hope y'all enjoy!

Word Count: 1.1k

Content Warning: envious emotions, brief mention of violence, nothing too crazy mosty fluff here folks!

BTAS Penguin x Reader - Green With Envy

You were riding in the backseat of a limousine with your date for the night.

You held his hand as you giddily waited to arrive at your destination. His hand always felt right in yours. 

Even with his webbed digits, you couldn't imagine any other hand extremities entwined with your own. 

“It's a pleasure to see you so eager, dove.” Oswald gave your hand a loving squeeze. 

“I'm always eager to spend time with you, Ozzie.” You squeezed back. “…I am also curious to meet these colleagues of yours, and I’m touched that you feel comfortable enough to introduce me to them.” 

Oswald had kept his more criminally inclined affairs far from you, so that you can never be accused or anything or caught up in any of it. 

However, he figured it was high time you meet a few of his fellow rogues, just for the sake of not having you worry as much or if you were somehow ever in a jam, he knew you would have someone perhaps like Harley to look out for you.

Oswald couldn't deny that soft enlightened look on your face when he offered the idea. 

This strong gesture of trust that the both of you felt without saying a word.  

Oz picked up your hand that was clasped in his and gave a peck to the back of it. 

The car slowly stopped in front of the Iceberg Lounge. 

“Ah, we’re finally here. Well, are you ready, darling?” He asked one more time before the driver opened his door. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be!” You smiled widely, tightening your grip on his hand as you let him lead you into the club. 

Oswald smiled warmly at you at your excitement. 

A smile that quickly faded as the hours passed. 

You had met a handful of the Rogues Gallery. You made quick friends with Harley and Pam. 

Harvey was cordial enough, despite some incredulous comments about your true relationship with Oswald here and there. 

You couldn’t help but feel relief when Joker got rather bored of you after you didn’t laugh at his distasteful violent jokes. 

Then there was Mr. Nygma…or Edward as he preferred you to call him. He seemed surprised by you at first, somewhat in awe. Once you introduced yourself, he loosened up. 

Most of them seemed decent enough. Mr. Tetch and Dr. Crane somewhat kept to themselves, but not impolite.

Killer Croc seemed harmless enough…at least in your presence. 

All the Rogues were interesting, but Edward’s bouts of knowledge that he shared with you were nothing short of fascinating. 

It didn’t take long for Oz to feel third wheeled to your conversation. 

He always did consider Ed to be a close acquaintance, perhaps even a friend who shared common cultured interest. 

Albeit at that moment, he wanted nothing more than to shove his umbrella down the green suited man’s throat. 

Oswald could feel the dense bile of envy boiling in the pit of his stomach. To avoid saying or doing something rash, he decided to get both of your drinks refilled. 

You thanked Oswald as he waddled over to the bar. You turned back to Edward when you heard him softly chuckle. 

“It’s such a shame that Ozzie took so long to introduce us. I couldn’t imagine keeping you cooped away for so long.” 

“Well, there’s no time like the present as they say..besides Ozzie was just looking out for my safety.” You looked over your shoulder to Oswald, longingly and lovingly. 

Yet you couldn’t help but notice he had somewhat of a grimace on his face. 

“Ah, that is true. Better late than never... how long exactly have you been with the old bird anyway?” 

You began rattling about the story of how you and Oz met, with your mind so deep in thought you didn’t even notice Edward getting closer to you. 

Unfortunately, Oswald walked up to the sight. 

You recalled something that made you giggle.

A giggle so infectious Ed began to chuckle with you. 

His hands tightened around the newly refilled glasses. How he longed for his hands to be around Ed’s neck instead.

Friend or not, he was getting awfully close to his lover. 

Ed followed your gaze and his eyebrows rose up in concern. 

You looked up when you noticed Oz coming into your peripheral vision.

You also noticed the strong grimace on his face. The drinkware in his hands shook from the intensity of his grip. 

“Ozzie…is everything all right?” You slowly approached him and gently took one of the glasses out of his hand and replaced it with your own. 

Your lips upturned slightly as your lover's shoulders slowly drooped and he took a strained sigh. 

“Just…peachy..” He grumbled. 

“Why don't we have a moment to ourselves outside on the balcony?” You suggested. 

Oswald didn't answer but silently followed your lead. 

Once you two were fully alone with the confirmation of a closed screen door, you put your hand on his shoulder as you walked up behind him. 

“Want to tell me what happened there, Ozzie? D-Did I do something wrong?” 

Oswald quickly turned to face you, as upset as he was…he knew it wasn't your fault. 

“No, absolutely not darling! You've been doing so well taking in all my colleagues’ well…eccentricities…”

You nodded, slowly trying to come up with another reason. 

“And with Edward?” 

Oswald’s face tightened with a grimace. 

Bingo. 

You wrapped your hands around the contours of Oswald's round and loveable face and made him look you in the eyes. 

“Ozzie…”

“Y-Yes…my dove?” His eyebrows perked up at the contact. 

“You know I love you right?” 

“Y-Yes I do…”

“And of all the…exquisite people I've met tonight…they all pale in comparison to you.”

A bashful smile spread across Oswald's face as a soft hue of red hinted at his cheeks. 

“You'll always have me, no matter what…no one is going to steal me away that easily.” You giggled as you leaned the tip of your nose to the tip of his own nose. 

Oswald seemed to finally take a sigh of relief. “I…I know, dove…I-It was rather foolish of me to…get as upset as I got…”

You shook your head. “It’s how you felt, I'm just glad I noticed before you got back to the table…you looked like you wanted to bite Ed's head  off.”

Oz grumbled. “Well…maybe…”

You playfully smacked him on his shoulder. “Ozzie!”

He flailed his arms up in defeat. “I jest, my love! I jest!” 

“Do you feel better now?” 

There was a brief pause of reflection before Oswald nodded with a content smile on his face. 

“Indeed…thank you, dove.” 

You grabbed the glasses you set off to the side on a glass outside table and handed one of them back to Oz. 

You lifted your glass in front of him. “A toast to us?” 

Oz chuckled warmly as he clinked his glass against yours before taking a hearty swig. 

“To us, my darling dove.”

[sgiandubh]

Anatomy of a lie: the French connection

With a very short day in sight at the office, I exceptionally go back to the whole Rash sightings colossal bullshit, for the sake of science. By now, we know *urv denied sending the submittal to Deux Moi: something I also expected to happen, in the context of her current feud with Miss Marple (way more reasonable and probably also way better informed).

Going back on memory lane, let's remember how the Rash Innuendo started. With this, conveniently kept under covers and then brought to light when Rash's name was out on the market:

I have one very important thing to comment: no one, no woman in her right mind, no matter if she is an art gallery owner, a lawyer, a teacher, a pop star on drugs or a fashionista wannabe (like Rash) would ever wear a baseball cap inside a French restaurant that is not: a) a trucker's pit stop joint on l'Autoroute du Soleil (the Sun Highway, A6/A7, relays Paris to Marseille) or b) a Burger King franchise in Seine-Saint-Denis (the infamous Neuf-Trois, or 93, after the INSEE's topographical code number for car plates and counties: in short, Paris's metropolitan area Bronx, if you wish, where all the riots start). Especially "a bougie" one: you do not have the slightest clue about real, living and breathing bourgeois French women (madame Mère's friends and also my own uni mates), quite a different species from the Californian one. Rash is anything but bourgeois, Canadian or not (yet a Canadian who lived in Paris and as such must be familiar with that code). I am talking string of pearls and tailleur Chanel/ petite robe noire and Vuitton bag and Louboutins. On a daily basis and even on the subway. Not baseball caps and scattered shopping bags at the Hôtel Costes.

No client of that restaurant (I forgot to mention yesterday) would ever take pictures with their phones. This informed me about the fact (FACT) you have never been to France, let alone ever set foot in a French high-end joint. French people prefer living their social life outside of their homes. When invited at someone's place for dinner, you can be sure you are, by now: a) intimate; b) a very close, trusted and valued friend; c) someone to be absolutely included in their social circle, for various reasons (high level networking dinners in Paris come to mind: something I know very well). So, restaurant it is for everything like: bantering, flirting, getting to know each other, spending quality time with witty and hysterically funny people, looking for a new job, getting a new job, looking for a new investor in your projects, the possibilities are endless. That being said, conversation at that table is sacred: your full attention must be there at all times, repartee and consistency are expected. No one, literally no one will spend their time scanning the room for a B-list actor kissing a blonde trophy woman in public, nonetheless. Read my lips: not a soul - they would be all engrossed in whatever the talk is about at their table.

The game shifted to a superior gear with this French speaking Anon:

Someone saw something louche/amiss in all this and reacted:

The French is NOT 'too good'. That French is semi-vulgar and provincial, as in the crude and pauper ils étaient l'un sur l'autre (I was expecting a je te jure/ I swear to you that never came and it usually does). And what to say about elle semble beaucoup plus réelle que les autres filles? It's Google Translate all the way. A real, walking talking French person would have said something along the lines of: elle semble beaucoup plus crédible/vraisemblable que les autres filles (she looks way more credible than the other girls), simply because réel(le), in spoken and written nowadays French, always applies to concepts, never to people: un réel plaisir (very contrived), for instance. C'est quelqu'un de réel means absolutely nothing and I would laugh like a drain if I heard someone telling me something like this. Last but not least, despite insisting it was a different Anon, they all seem to use the same words: they had lots of fun/ils s'amusaient vraiment. Something you use all the time, too. Of course.

Keep your hands off France, madam. Très facile de s'y prendre les pieds dans le tapis. And for once, I am not going to translate, since you speak it so well and I am sure you got the message.

PS: The closest to a real French bourgeois woman (last pics included) is C. And FYI, that is not my style: I dress like a preppy since I was 15 and I am very happy with it.

[kthecutest]

https://www.tumblr.com/kthecutest/723981039939239936/hi-can-i-req-jo-as-bf-also-pls-include-his-love

Hiya, I saw this and thought it was cute. Can I ask this for Yuma as well? Ty 💖

ユウマ Yuma as your bf (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

A/N ೃ⁀➷ I did tried my best to research which scenarios would be best for Yu-kun! So I hope you'll enjoy it! ૮꒰ྀི⊃´ ꒳ `⊂ྀི꒱ა

༶•┈┈┈┈┈┈୨ꕥ୧┈┈┈┈┈•༶

A literal pure, innocent, angelic cutie pie

He won’t be all that shy but that doesn’t take away the fact that he’s the cutest thing ever in the whole wide world. Anything this boy does, he just can’t make it look not-cute

Loves taking selfies, so he’ll take so many selfies of you and him and keep them all in his gallery. Sometimes even post it on his social medias often too. A very frequent selfie-taker and poster

Just like Jo, he doesn’t get jealous because he does trusts you. Would probably not even mind if you were to hang around with guy friends, as long as you told him where you were going. Bonus points, if you took him with you, he’d be like a giddy kitty cat. But if something crosses his line though, he probably won’t do anything rash, but just takes you away from the scene by your hand. Probably gonna warn you about the guy, telling you to keep your distance from him as much as you can

Would probably shower you with pet names like in a very casual tone too – “Baby, could you pass me the salt please?” But the more he misses you, the whinier he gets. Next thing you know, the front door had been slammed shut before you felt a set of warm arms wrapped around you – “Baby~~ what are you doing baby~”

Compliments spill out of this boy’s mouth like natural casual words, very frequently too

Surprisingly it’s hard to make him blush. It’s more of the other way around,  he’ll constantly make you blush with his compliments and pet names

You adoreeee and I mean ADOREEE his baby photos and he definitely plays along with your little likings. If he ever finds an old photo of him while looking through his photo albums, be ready for him to come running at you.

He’s the type of boyfriend who would dry your hair after you wash it just because he wants to. Not to mention how much he loves the smell of your vanilla shampoo. Would probably sniff your hair in the process of drying.

Best hair designer in the world okay. Literally do not even bother going to the salon at this point, he’ll give you any types of hair styles. Braids, ponytails, buns, waves, just let him get his hands on your hair and bro will get so creative. But he definitely loves you the best in braids, you look so adorable to him just like that

In conclusion, he’s definitely more of a lovey dovey little boyfriend rather than a big tease or flirt like some people.. AHEM AHEM Knicho- But yeaaa expect him to shower you with compliments, loving words, pet names and treat you like an absolute precious gem in the world.

[muses-inn]

So, about Rash's forementioned 'hoarding tendencies'...

and a little later...

In conclusion? Yes, he's indeed a little hoarder, and a kleptomaniac as well.

[yakool-foolio]

Ayyy Maria's here! Oh god, now Gregson's claim of evidence fabrication is in hot water. AYAYAY STRONGHART DON'T PULL THAT SHIT! I BELIEVE KAZUMA IS TRUE TO HIS WORD! Gregson doesn't seem like the type to lie either, even with a sword to his throat, especially if it was to help out Kazuma in chasing down the truth.

Mikotoba coming in clutch! Everyone's working together to solve this case! Klint ate a ring?! Phoenix's role model right there! Wait- retract that, cause this ring might actually be the fabricated evidence we were searching for!

This is the first time Kazuma's ever hearing about Genshin protecting Van Zieks, mere days before his arrest as the supposed Professor. Oh he's not happy in the slightest brace yourselves. He wants Van Zieks to be guilty so bad, he can't even comprehend any other possibility. He believes he's staring Death in the face, unable to fathom that the scythe brought down upon his father did not belong to this caricature of undeserving fate he's crafted in his mind.

A change of heart! But not without Kazuma still bashing Van Zieks. It's a step in the right direction. We'll sentence them to a day stuck together in the 'get along' shirt after this trial's over.

WOAH Sholmes wired the prison?! This man is everywhere all at once! Are there secretly clones of him running around doing errands?

They let Genshin have Karuma in his cell?! He may be bringing a sword to a gun fight, but this is a potential serial killer we're talking about! I guess his true weapon is his word. HEY NOW whaddaya mean Klint wrote the fake will? WAIT this will was not of Genshin's, but of Klint's own final words?! KLINT CHOSE DEATH?! VAN ZIEKS IS NOOOOOOOT OKAY!

UHHHHHHHH CHAT I DUNNO WHAT THE SECRET IS I'M AFRAID I'M VERY AFAID

KLINT WAS THE PROFESSOR?!

Now the suffering that Kazuma bore for all those agonizing years is passed onto Van Zieks in this horrid revelation. Two families drenched in blood.

Baskerville mention after all this time! So it's the maiden name of Klint's wife's family, huh. Not surprising that Sholmes wanted Iris' story naming them to be left unpublished, as they're connected to the Professor case with Klint. Genshin killed Klint to end it all on his own terms, because no one else would listen.

"I did what I had to do" YOU GOT KAZUMA'S DAD KILLED YOU FUCK OHHHHHHH AND YOU USED KAZUMA TO MANIPULATE HIM INTO ACCEPTING THE JAILBREAK PLAN RRRRRRRRRRRRRRR HATE. LET ME TELL YOU HOW MUCH I'VE COME TO HATE YOU SINCE I BEGAN TO LIVE-

AHHHHHHH NOOOOOO AND NOW KAZUMA'S UPSET

Damn Stronghart this horse you refuse to get off of is really tall. He thinks he's such a smartass for confessing to being the Reaper in a closed trial. I'm gonna take so much satisfaction in wiping that smirk off his damn face.

AWW RYUNOSUKE N KAZUMA MIRRORED EACH OTHER! Caiden you better give that message to Kazuma RIGHT NOW! Let him hear his father's last words! 'Twist thy head' ooooo wait has Karuma held a secret this whole time?! IT KEPT KLINT'S WILL THIS WHOLE TIME! YOU CAN'T RUN NOW STRONGHART!

Oh shit Genshin and Klint dueled?! That's one cool way to go out. Yoooooo this art slaps! Stronghart ordered Klint to kill these people, including the former Chief Justice that he then took the title from! Klint's final words were metal af.

By the rash orders of Stronghart, Jigoku shot down his friend... You manipulative son of a bitch! GET HIM KAZUMA, TEAR HIM APART! FINISH WHAT YOUR FATHER STARTED!

OH GOD HE'S BECOMING AN EVEN WORSE GANT AND HE'S STILL NOT QUITING UGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH SHUT UP I BEG YOU NOOOOOOOO WHY IS THE GALLERY ON HIS SIDE

OHHHHHHH SHOOOOOOOOLMES! SHUT THIS FUCKER UP PLEASE! AYYYYY HE'S DANCING! BRO WHAT'RE YOU DOING AT BUCKINGHAM PALACE?! YOU'VE GOT CONNECTIONS TO THE QUEEN DUDE?! This just in: Sholmes invented livestreaming.

TRIAL BY FIRE! LITERALLY! HIS GOOSE IS OFFICIALLY COOKED!

(To Whom It May Concern - @raymondshields)

[image-junkie]

Finally beginning to digest all that I saw at my first Miami Art Week. Kicking off this photo dump with these three lovely mixed media pieces seen at Untitled Art Fair:

Katrina Riesing, represented by Asya Geisberg Gallery:

Hollow Hold, 2023 | Swing, 2023 | Origins, 2023

All three are dye and embroidery on raw silk.

"At first glance Katarina Riesing’s dyed paintings on stretched silk and colored pencil drawings betray an infatuation with laborious detail and rich material - especially in the hand-embroidered gold thread, use of silk, or the exquisitely-rendered swirls of patterned stocking, seemingly inspired by a northern Renaissance luxuriance. Yet Riesing's insistence on close croppings, and awkward, unsightly or uncomfortably erotic aspects of the body, reveal surreptitious squirming. The confrontational intimacy of such compositions is paradoxically reserved, as Riesing’s otherwise recognizable depictions leave plenty unsaid. The paintings are made with dye on either crepe de chine or raw silk, a surface both akin to skin and a symbol of delicacy, sensuality, and opulence. To witness its desecration with alarmingly realistic excavations of the body's imperfections - its moles, rashes, scars, or pimples - is at once unsettling and pleasingly subversive. Riesing's works often have a play-within-a-play quality, where other forms of imagery are wittily in focus - tattoos of bodies, negative spaces that suggest caves or sunsets, patterns that form drawing within drawings, sheer garments that create a screen or veil. Riesing's drawings are quieter than the paintings but no less powerfully precise or oddly bewitching. With influences as disparate as Christina Ramberg, Sarah Lucas, or Ghada Amer, and imagery from medical illustrations of skin disease, to prison tattoos, stock photography, and pantyhose labels, Riesing has reinvigorated our relationship to the body, with equal parts seduction and brutality."

[xbalayage]

Hi, i see your Chevalier fics and I love it so much. Could you do one again? If you're not busy hehe

I was thinking about his route where MC had fallen asleep beside him and woke up beside Chevalier. What do you think Chevalier was thinking after witnessing mC had fallen asleep beside him. Something like that hehe

Home

Chevalier/Reader Fluff WC: 283 A/N: It's been so long since I've read Chevalier's route and can't recall this scene very well - so I went about my own twist on it and did something a little diferent. I hope that was okay! :) And for once I took some inspo from a song I was listening to.

A California King bed was what it sounds like; a lavish plush of mattress fit for a king that seemed to go on for miles. Once bared empty and hallow, with the constant threat of death knocking at the door, was now warm and comfortable with the companionship of your ethereal beauty resting peacefully by his side. A romantic at heart, he never dare allow it evidently to lay present in the sea of sheets before. Chest to chest, nose to nose, palm to palm, how simple yet intimate it felt to be so close. To find comfort in the heaven sent seemed otherworldly to experience it firsthand; was he even worthy to bask in the holy light of innocence and purity when he was anything but? His hands were tainted and ruined by blood from the lives that'll never see the light of day once more. Never get to hold their loved ones again like he had the honor of doing; maybe some guilt from realizing his emotions did lay dormant in the void of his mind. The guilt of being this incredibly lucky, he'd happily bathe in holy water if it meant his sins could be repented. He never made rash decisions that wouldn't be the betterment of the nation - some innocent would have to fall. But because of you, he's realized from the flutter of your eyelashes twitching in your sleep that perhaps there were better ways at managing the forthcoming future. And it laid in the palms of your sleeping embrace. To have you, to hold you, to cherish you from dusk until dawn. And at that same given moment, her pure eyes open to stare into his soul and give him salvation. " He reached for her and he saw her smile and the voices melded into a single word from God: Home. " - Mitch Albom, The Five People You Meet in Heaven

taglist; @nightghoul381, @yvelk, @celiciaa, @drachonia, @aquagirl1978, @here-for-gilbert, @alvieeru, @scummy-writes, @randonauticrap, @maries-gallery, @misty-moth, @violettduchess

[dreamersinthedaylightinspo]

A New Song of Spring

Tamlin was conceived on the eve of battle, under a dawn as red as blood. Centuries later, he reflects on his fraught upbringing while he awaits the birth of his first child.

Notes: This fic was written sort of for Tamlin week, though it doesn't quite follow any prompts! It also contains my OCs because I'm just that person. Please enjoy!

Tamlin remembered - that year, the last year of the War, the air itself seemed frozen solid. It rarely snowed in Spring, but a persistent frost coated the gardens, making the roses seem like they'd been encased in diamonds.

Back then, "War" was just a thing that his father was doing, and his father was just a face in the gallery, a golden portrait that stared down at Tamlin with cold and imperious eyes. The humans who had once haunted Rosehall were long-gone, as were the rough, wild men who had once made the bulk of Father's armies. The remaining sentries were older, seasoned - and less prone to rash acts of cruelty, though Tamlin didn't know this yet. He was seven years old, and his entire world consisted of his mother, his tutor (a gnome called Islay), a priestess (Muriel) who was employed to give him music lessons, and Andras and Ianthe, who sometimes came to visit.

There were also the pixies in the garden.

Tamlin felt like he had always known about them - the tiny little faeries, barely the size of his littlest finger, who lived inside of the roses, and the other flowers that normally filled Rosehall's gardens. They wore little gowns of grass and petals, their pollen-dusted cheeks bright, pearlescent wings fluttering like hummingbirds. But, as they had explained on that fateful winter's morning, Tamlin must never reveal their existence to anyone.

"Not even your lady mother," they insisted, in voices like the chiming of so many sweet bells. "Promise us, dear little prince."

"But why?" Tamlin couldn't imagine his mother being upset about the pixies.

"It is because your father planted these roses," the pixies explained. "And if he learns that we are living here, he will be very, very cross. We will be banished - or worse."

Tamlin did not understand, but the fear in their beetle-black eyes made his stomach turn over, an unpleasant heat rising in him despite the frigid air. He shook his head.

"But I want you to stay. I'll miss you."

The pixies murmured and hummed sympathetically. One or two fluttered around his shoulder, gently patting his cheek. Another brushed a quick kiss against his forehead.

"There, there, dear little prince," said the pixie in his palms. "We won't be far away. Your lord father is a mighty king, but we have our ways, too. So long as you do not tell, we shall stay here in the gardens forever."

Tamlin understood that they were speaking of magic. His father, the High Lord, had the power to banish the pixies, but only if Tamlin broke his word. He nodded.

"Okay," he said, a bit miserably. "I promise I won't tell."

"Dear little prince," said the pixies. "Thank you."

The sentiment was echoed in the air around him. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

"In thanks for your goodness," said the pixies, "and your friendship - we will teach you a song."

And so they did. Tamlin spent all morning in the rosebushes, and came stumbling in, red-cheeked and sneezing from the cold. His mother murmured her astonishment as she practically dunked him into a bath - but all the while, Tamlin was humming along to the pixie's melody.

But after that year, his father returned from the War. And after that, Tamlin never saw the pixies again - not even if he sneaked out alone, and whispered their names, or sang their song for them.

And by the time he'd learned to swing a sword, he'd forgotten the words to that song entirely.

///////////////////////

Present Day

They were having a late lunch, just the two of them, when Nomi suddenly winced.

"What is it?" Tamlin's eyes automatically went to her swollen belly - a miracle that she was still walking around normally, in her condition. Their child was due any day, and Tamlin couldn't forget it no matter how much Nomi insisted on carrying on as normal.

Normally, in this situation, Nomi would brush him aside. But not today. She frowned - brows furrowing, mouth pressed thin, in the way she sometimes did when something puzzled her unexpectedly - and put two hands over her womb.

"Nomi," said Tamlin, louder, as if she hadn't heard the first time.

She didn't respond, and very slowly pushed back her chair. She stood, hands clasped tight over herself, and very deliberately cast her eyes on the floor.

Tamlin looked, too - and realized that water was running down her legs.

Ah.

The pair of them looked at each other.

In a very calm, but forceful voice, Nomi said, "I think you should go and fetch the healer now."

Tamlin did so immediately.

////////////////////////////////////

The healer was called Nahida. At first, Tamlin had managed to feel slightly annoyed that Nomi insisted on bringing her own healer all the way from the Day Court - as if the healers of Spring were somehow deficient or untrustworthy - but now, he was glad for the sight of her long, black braid swinging as she stormed into the dining room. Nahida was tall and limber, her dark brown hands steady and gentle as she laid them over Nomi's stomach, examining her with some unseen but sweet-scented magic.

Three of the new sentries were crouched in the doorway, their youthful faces stark with naked terror as Nahida nodded briskly, and declared, "Call for Brighid. Its time."

Brighid was the name of a midwife - a plump Spring fae who always wore a kerchief over her copper curls. A room had already been chosen. Tamlin began to feel fuzzy around the edges, like his grasp on time was slipping quite literally through his fingertips. Nomi was in labor. He had been watching their child grow inside of her body all these months and they'd known this day would come but it was so soon, it felt too soon, he was not ready, it was not -

"High Lord?" Nahida's face was polite, but her voice was firm.

"Sorry?" said Tamlin, who realized that she'd been addressing him while his adrenaline spiked. His hands itched, magic crackling like static in his veins.

"You're welcome to sit in the room," said Nahida. "To be present for your child's birth."

Nomi was glaring at him. He could imagine how he must look to her in this moment - hunched over his half eaten food, slackjawed, pale and clammy. He didn't even want to think about what would happen if he started to smell life-blood, and that was a given.

"I will." He cleared his throat. "I will wait outside."

"A wise decision," said Nomi, and winced, as another contraction wracked her body.

Nahida put a hand on Nomi's back, and clasped her shaking hands, and led her out of the dining room.

Tamlin had the good sense to remain standing until they had gone from his sight. He looked at the sentries - couldn't remember their names, the state he was in - and ordered, "One of you go and get Fiacha."

Then, he sank to the floor, and put his head between his knees.

/////////////////////////////////////////

Bronn and Hart were on leave, but Fiacha and Rosheen were merely down by the stables, working with the horses. Within an hour, Donatella had arrived from the temple, bearing a letter from Lucien which contained a number of pressed flowers and a promise to arrive promptly after the baby was born. Nobody commented when Tamlin spent several minutes fluently and viciously cursing Elain Archeron in response to this.

When Tamlin finally took pause to breathe, Rosheen interjected without heat: "Pull yourself together, now, my lord. Keeper Eunomia is currently bringing your child into this world, and you owe it to the pair of them to at least keep your head on straight."

She was right, of course. Tamlin breathed deeply through his mouth, feeling some of the anxious heat leaving his body in puffs of steam.

"Well, look on the bright side," said Fiacha, reasonably. "She hasn't had any sickness or pain. Perhaps the birth will be easy as well!"

The look on Dona's face could have frozen the deepest fires of Hell. Fiacha's mouth immediately snapped shut, and he averted his eyes.

"H-have you chosen names yet, my lord?" asked Fiacha.

They had, but damned if he remembered them. They didn't know whether or not it was a boy or a girl. Nomi had decided it should be a surprise, but of course, Tamlin had wondered. There was an appeal to having a son, of course - but also, a pressure. A huge, prickling terror, a long shadow, a ghostly hand at his back. And if it were a daughter? Tamlin could scarcely imagine that.

Regardless of all that - he hoped beyond hope that it wasn't an heir. He prayed that not a single drop of his power was passed on. Neither hair nor claw of it, not a single solitary iota of light would flow in those brand new veins -

"Oh, dear," said Fiacha, alarmed. "He's gone pale. I think he's going to be sick."

"He won't," said Dona, in a voice that strongly implied, "If he knows what's good for him."

Tamlin let out a frustrated growl, his teeth feeling sharp and long against his cheek, his lip as he ground out, "I'll be fine."

And to prove it to them, Tamlin stood up. Blood immediately rushed through his body, and it took several deep breaths before he felt fully steady on his feet. Nobody commented on this, but Rosheen nodded her approval.

"Dona, why don't you go? I'm sure that our Nomi could use your support." Dona nodded, and as she strode out, Rosheen turned to the men left behind. "Let's take a walk, shall we?"

//////////////////////////////////////////////

So, they walked the grounds of Rosehall. Tamlin said very little, and was glad that nobody pushed him to respond. Once his replies faded into grunts of acknowledgment, the three lapsed into pensive silence. The servants of Rosehall were mostly departing, as the day wound on. The birth of a fae child was a precious thing, but it was bad luck to celebrate anything before the child was actually born, and so this would be treated just as any other day.

Tamlin regarded the garden path, recalling the bright summer day when his father had come home from the War. The faeries who had been his companions and allies went the way of the wind, replaced with sullen-looking and stern High Fae. There was a tremendous fanfare, a feast - but the atmosphere was morose, because Father had lost the War.

In truth, Tamlin was excited to meet them. His mother had long filled his bedtime stories with tales of their bravery and valor as warriors. And seeing them in real life for the first time - they'd come up this very path on their twin black horses, their shields polished to a mirror's shine, helmets crowned in white and crimson flowers. Ronan, empty-eyed, so fair he was nearly silver, the Lily-of-the-valley that was his crest displayed prominently; Eadric, broad and boarish, his smile easy and cruel despite the somber atmosphere. They seemed like heroes of myth come to life, and Tamlin was awed by his father most of all. The High Lord rode atop a glorious snow-white stallion, and his armor was gilded, the chest carved with the insignia of the stag, it's thorny antlers curling into spiked pauldrons. His long hair swept down his back, tied with a red ribbon - a gift, a token from his wife and mate that he had not removed even once, in all the days of the War.

His mother smiled to see it, and his father bent down from his horse to kiss her - full on the lips - and for that moment, Tamlin earnestly believed that all his bedtime stories were true.

Then, his father had noticed Tamlin, and frowned.

"Tamlin," said his mother, joyous with the reunion. "Come and greet your father."

Tamlin proudly did so. "Welcome home, Father. We missed you."

He'd practiced those words in front of a mirror for days, to make sure he didn't stutter or stumble. But his father didn't look pleased in the slightest. The High Lord regarded his youngest child, and the scent of ozone and roses thickened in the air.

"I thought I told you to get rid of it."

The world seemed to freeze, and it was the dead of winter all over again. His mother's smile thinned, her brows furrowing slightly.

"My love, I was -"

"Don't bother." The High Lord sighed. "Mother's tits but I'm exhausted. We'll talk about it later, won't we?"

His wife also sighed. "Of course, my love. Whatever you wish."

And then, the procession moved on, leaving Tamlin to try and process what had just happened. He had the distinct sense that something bad and wrong had just occurred - he felt the discomfort deep in his belly - but his mother merely said that Father was tired from his long journey, sad and disappointed that he'd lost his war.

"We must be patient with him," said Eseld to her son, as she tucked him into bed that night. "Remember, your father loves us very much. Everything he does is for our sake."

Tamlin had believed her, of course.

In the days after that, his parents were more interested in one another than in explaining the situation to him. The old guard of Spring lingered like decay around the manor, musing out loud about what they'd do now that their human slaves were free. Even his brothers.

Tamlin learned quickly what a slave was, what War and violence were, then. Tamlin learned quickly that his father had been quite satisfied with two sons - Eadric and Ronan, an heir and a spare, groomed just to his specifications - and had little interest in a third except as a convenient punching bag. Within a month of the Treaty, the High Lord put a sword into Tamlin's hands - how they'd trembled, how frightened and confused he'd been. How sad his mother and the old sentries were, the first time Tamlin was beaten for his failure in the training ring.

"Your father loves you," his mother assured him afterwards. "He's only worried about you - that's why he seems so harsh. You must be patient with him."

Fiacha's voice broke through the train of his thoughts.

"What was that?"

The youthful sentry stared out at a particularly large and bright rosebush, the blossoms full and soft under the sinking afternoon sunlight. Tamlin shook himself out of his thoughts.

"What is it?"

"I saw something," said Fiacha, frowning curiously. "In the roses - it looked like..."

He trailed off, thinking.

"Perhaps a rabbit," suggested Rosheen. "Or a mouse?"

"Maybe a bird. It had wings."

Tamlin said nothing but stared hard at the garden, at the endless sea petals and the thorns. A thought occured to him but - did he dare to hope?

"Hmm. Well it's getting rather late. Shall we return? Perhaps fetch something to eat?"

Rosheen addressed her question to Tamlin, who nodded.

They went back inside.

/////////////////////////////////////////////

Looking at the corpse of his two brothers, which were strewn about the path to their manor, all Tamlin felt was relief. He'd always been a heavy sleeper - Rhys used to make a game out of how much noise it would take to draw Tamlin from slumber when they were camping - and it was daunting to realize just how close he'd come to dying in complete ignorance. Pain came only when he wondered if Rhys would have cast the final blow himself, or if he would have let his father do it.

His brothers had suffered mightly. Their wounds were extensive, the clear end result of a fierce battle.

Good, thought Tamlin. Serve you right.

This house had always been full up with monsters, predators. Now that Tamlin had this power - his father's power - he understood properly just how much danger he'd always been in.

Tamlin put the High Lord of Night's body next to his brothers'. He had a feeling that Rhys would not ask for it. Lord Cadogan had been an awful bastard, of course. But Tamlin had once tried to explain to Rhys how he'd rather endure a father whose manipulations and cruelties were predictable, as opposed to a beast who lashed out at small things and struck at random, and Rhys had merely stared at him in confusion.

Then, Tamlin went back for his father.

The High Lord of Night was like a god of sleep. Tamlin stepped over the broken-down door into his parents' suite, and gazed at his father. The blood-soaked sheets pooled onto the floor - but despite the tremendous violence of the scene, it was likely that Tamlin's father had never awoken. Lord Cadogan would have made him suffer in other ways before he finally died. The sentries were gone - likely compelled to leave with Rhysand's gifts, or put into enchanted sleeps by his father. So, none had sounded the alarm. No one had called for help.

It was only a sense of dread that had awoken Tamlin. Just a bad feeling - followed by his mother's final, dying scream.

Pain laced his entire being, piercing him like so many knives. Lady Eseld had no enemies; nobody disliked her. Even the haughty ladies of Night had nothing bad to say, not really. The Lady of Spring was a peacekeeper down to the depths of her soul. She was kind and knew a thousand songs. So how could Rhysand stand by while she was killed so brutally, in her own bed? Which one had held her down, and which one had tortured her?

Lightning cracked, the wind rose, and thunder rumbled, and Tamlin had no idea if there was a storm coming, or if this was just the magic in him reacting to the pain he felt - striking out, trying to eliminate the source of danger.

Tamlin put his father's body on the path.

Then, he went to his father's study and pulled two pairs of Illyrian wings from the walls.

Just looking at them made him feel ill - but touching them? An Illyrian's wings were sacred, the most sensitive and important parts of them. Addie had once let him put his hands over the clawed tip of her bat's wings, and she'd nearly jumped out of her skin.

Tamlin forced himself not to vomit as he pulled both sets from the study, biting the inside of his cheek until his mouth filled with blood. He owed it to Aderyn and Lady Igraine to give them some of the dignity they'd been denied in their deaths.

When his brothers returned with their trophies, smiles sick and serene, his father had forced Tamlin to watch as the wings were put up.

"And if I ever here a whisper of you cavorting with the demons from that Court again," said Lord Arnau, "then it'll be your head that goes here next, and damn what your mother says about it. You understand?"

He had understood. Of course. He'd always, instinctively, understood. His father was the worst sort of monster, a vain creature who truly loved no one but himself. Tamlin was only alive, really, to please his mother, because she had wanted another child, and had him in defiance of her beloved mate's wishes.

After all that, his father had him whipped anyway.

The wounds were still raw, even now, three days later.

Tamlin felt each stroke of the whip as he carried Aderyn's wings down to the gardens. And then, her mother's, after her. Lady Igraine had always complained of him coming to visit, but never ordered Rhys to stop bringing Tamlin around. Her dark eyes had been bright and full of understanding, and she'd seemed sad when she looked at him.

"Its my fault," he said, to the empty air. "I'm sorry. I couldn't save you. I should have tried harder."

The wind was wailing by the time Tamlin had arranged a pyre. Illyrians burned their dead, and so Tamlin did his best to make that sort of funeral for Addie and her mother. He built a pyre from fresh green wood, and laid two of his own Illyrian blades across it. A gift, returned. When he lit the flames, he remained standing, letting the heat sear and scorch him, letting it sting his eyes until tears streaked his face again.

"Addie, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The garden itself seemed to moan, pain cracking the earth.

The wings burned quickly.

In Spring, the dead were buried. But Tamlin felt that his father and brothers did not deserve proper funerals, after what they'd done. So he simply doused the bodies with salt and oil, and lit the torch, and let them burn. Ugly black smoke rose.

Tamlin waited until the fire was nearly gone. The magic in him hungered, urged for more blood, begged to gorge itself.

But Tamlin was tired. He asked the wind to cool the flames, and it did. The charred corpses became ashes, which were carried away.

At last, Tamlin prepared to bury his mother.

They had a plot - a proper tomb, where all the High Lords of Spring and their consorts were buried. But it felt wrong to put his mother there, with the empty faces of his long-gone ancestors. His mother was a daughter of Hybern, of Clan Skye, who dwelled on the pale cliffs of the north, overlooking the stormy seas.

He carried his mother into the forest, until he found a clear spot, and dug the grave as dawn rose. He was sweating, and weeping, by the time he lowered his mother down into it.

And when she was buried, as the sun was rising, Tamlin knelt over the grave. He meant to say something. To pray, perhaps. His fingers creaked and sharpened, slicing his palms. Red blood splashed over the grave. Hair rose on his arms and pain shot through his bones as they lengthened, as his body shuddered and transformed into the beast that was all animals, and like no other animal in the world.

He howled and howled

And then, his mind went blank, and though the beast was awake, Tamlin slept.

//////////////////////////////////////

Present Day

It was taking quite a long time for the baby to come. Brighid had mostly taken over the work of birthing now, but Nahida explained that this was quite normal, especially because it was Nomi's first child.

"Her body is prepared for this," said the healer. "We don't need to rush her. I expect it will be another handful of hours, at most. Be patient, my lord."

Patient? Tamlin wanted to tear his hair out. Talking of patience - the scent of life-blood clung to Nahida's hands even if she'd done a very thorough job washing up. He had to remind himself that she was merely doing her job.

"If you'll excuse me," she murmured. "I must return."

As the door closed behind her, Nomi let out a cry of pain, and all of them winced. Tamlin covered his ears, feeling as stupid and useless as he'd ever been.

Night fell properly as they waited. Fiacha got a bottle of whiskey from the kitchens and offered to make a toast, but no one took him up on it, and he sat, deflated, in the hall outside the birthing room with his High Lord and his captain.

"I suppose there's not much to be done now," said Rosheen, calm as ever. "Strange. The children in my family are long grown. It might be a century before they have children of their own - I'd forgotten what this was like."

Fiacha mumbled something that Tamlin didn't fully listen to, to which Rosheen smiled.

"Well, perhaps you're right. A High Lord's child is certainly an event. There have been no children in this since our Tamlin."

"That's not true," Tamlin corrected, automatically. "Alis had her boys here. And there was Una."

Rosheen smiled, remembering the misbegotten daughter of one of the manor cooks. "Ah, right. Dear Una. I was just a green thing when she was here. A terror."

Tamlin nodded. The memory was a happy one, but he couldn't bring himself to smile. That had been only a few short years before his father had died. Una and her father had fled from Rosehall in terror, though Tamlin had asked them to stay on if they could.

"No offense, now, High Lord but you must see - it isn't safe here. Even with you."

That man was more right than he knew. The horrors that came in the centuries after - wrought with Tamlin's own hands. Now, he was nearly six hundred years old. The walls of this house had been stained with blood so many times that Tamlin could still smell it in certain rooms.

"What do you think?" Tamlin asked Rosheen. "Do you think that this child will be happy here?"

"I do," said Rosheen, surprising him. It was not like her to lie or give false hope.

"Me too!" Fiacha added, of course. "I'm sure you're going to be an excellent father. Even Lady Elain herself gave you that prophecy - about the house full of music. Do you remember?"

Of course he did. Nomi had begged Elain not to reveal any secrets about the child's future to her, so naturally, the most meddlesome Archeron merely remarked that she envisioned a house full of music, or something vague like that. Nomi, rattled with pregnancy hormones, had burst into tears anyway, which seemed to teach Elain a lesson if nothing else. Tamlin was surprised that Fiacha recalled the event. Well, that kid always had too much faith in him anyways, Tamlin thought. He frowned, thinking.

"I remember," he said, "the way this house was, before my father returned from the War."

Both Fiacha and Rosheen fell silent, expressions rapt.

"It was quiet," Tamlin recalled. "I had music lessons. My teacher was some priestess - my father threw her out of the house. Said that no son of his would waste his time on rhymes, when there was a war to be won."

Never mind that the War had been decided. With Lord Arnau, everything was a war. Absolutely everything.

"I didn't want my life to change," said Tamlin. "I didn't understand why all this was happening. My mother said that my father loved his family but - he never should have had children. And I couldn't understand why the stories weren't matching up with reality."

His mother had encouraged her son to love the monster who roared and frightened and beat him. It had taken Tamlin so long - far too long - to realize that this was not the natural course of love. That flowers do not always grow back after you've trampled over them.

"What if it's the same now?" For the first time, Tamlin gave his fear a voice. "The same old story. What if it happens all over again?"

Rosheen treated this question with the gravity it deserved, but the ever optimistic Fiacha said, "It won't be the same story. After all, there are completely different characters in it now. Isn't that right?"

And even Rosheen smiled faintly at that. "That's quite right. None of us will let the past repeat itself. This child will have a house full of music, even if I have to sing all the songs myself."

"But Captain, you're completely tone-deaf!"

Tamlin choked on his laugh at this. It was true, but so like Fiacha to just blurt it out to Rosheen's face.

Undeterred, Rosheen said, "Then I will drum the beat. Lord Tamlin, you can sing."

"I don't play any instruments," Fiacha said sadly. "But I suppose the High Lord's child does need bodyguards."

Tamlin decided that he was going to drop the surprise later - that he and Nomi had decided to appointment Fiacha as one of their child's official guardians. He stiffled a smile, imagining the look on Fiacha's face when he learned.

"You'll still be here," Rosheen assured him. "All of us will work together to raise the child."

Tamlin felt better, imagining this, remembering this. A house full of well-meaning people, who raised their children with all the same tenderness with which they cultivated their gardens.

It was dark now, and a pale, fat moon lent beams of silvery light through the windows. Rosheen opened one, clicking the latches, and let the faint summery breeze waft in, cooling them.

"Its awfully quiet in there now," said Fiacha.

That was true. And Tamlin was feeling much better - at least like he wouldn't faint, and cause more problems for the healers. With a grunt, he pushed himself to his feet and headed for the doors - only to find them opening wide.

Donatella stood there in the warm golden light, beaming.

"Your daughter is ready to see you now."

Tamlin stood there, blinking, utterly flabbergasted. A daughter.

They had a daughter.

"Dona!" said Brighid's voice, warm with laughter. "You've ruined the surprise!"

"Oh, that's alright. We've waited long enough," said Nomi, sounding sleepy. "Come, see."

He took the scene in in fragments. The room was well lit, clean and comfortable. A pile of sheets and rags were tossed in the corner, but Nomi was sitting upright on the bed, a quilt across her legs. She was - glowing. Her skin dewy with the remnants of sweat, but the sweet scent of Nahida's healing magic clung to her skin. The healers were washing up in a basin - but they were smiling. All of them, smiling.

Tamlin's feet carried him across the room without so much as a single conscious thought. There was a chair at Nomi’s bedside, but he missed it, and sank to his knees at the side of the bed. His cheeks felt wet - but Nomi grinned at him, and shifted herself gingerly to show him a little bundle of blankets in her arms.

A shock of dark hair. A little scrunched up face - fast asleep.

"Semele," he said. The name they'd chosen. Tamlin's voice was coarse and rough over the syllables, but Nomi merely sighed.

"She's a little stubborn, as we suspected," said Nomi. "But the good news is - she's an easy sleeper. I saw that she has green eyes."

Tamlin put his head down in the blanket so that no one would see him crying. Nomi gently carded her fingers through his hair.

"Congratulations, Lord Tamlin," said Fiacha. "And you, Keeper Eunomia! You did well."

The sentiments were echoed and Nomi let out another, sleepy little sigh.

"Thank you, everyone. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep for a thousand years."

"Certainly," said Nahida. "You've earned a good rest."

"High Lord," Brighid interjected. "Would you like to hold her?"

Tamlin looked up, mouth agape. Before he could pull himself together enough to protest, both healers had swarmed him and pulled him to his feet again.

"Like this - be sure to support her head. There you are!"

Brighid beamed at him as she passed the little bundle from Nomi to Tamlin, who had never been more terrified in his life than at this exact moment. Semele was too little, too small and precious, and he was sure that he'd drop her, or claw her, or scar her in some imperceptible way -

But she merely fussed quietly, her tiny nose wrinkling, her little fingers curling into fists by her chin. She was heavier than Tamlin expected - or perhaps that was just the weight of expectation. Several tense seconds passed and nothing happened. Nothing changed. Semele merely slept in his arms.

"You see?" said Nomi. "A heavy sleeper, just like you."

Tamlin's heart shattered into a million pieces. His anxiety had not disappeared, but it had burst, and he felt suddenly like he might float into the sky and be lost forever.

"Let's move outside," suggested Nahida. "Keeper Eunomia has been in labor for over half a day - she could use a few hours of peace and quiet."

It occurred to Tamlin that nobody was going to snatch his daughter away from him - that they all believed that this tiny, newborn creature was perfectly safe in her father's arms. Nomi was nestling herself down into her quilts, already preparing to sleep.

"Go on," she said to Tamlin. "I'll be awake in a few hours. You should spend some time with Mely before I come to take her back."

Tamlin said, "You've already nicknamed her? She's not even an hour old."

"Of course I did. I couldn't afford to wait to see what you would come up with."

Tamlin huffed a laugh. "Mely is fine. It suits her."

"It does, doesn't it? Now will you let me sleep?"

"Sweet dreams, love."

Nomi smiled, and tucked herself in, and Tamlin allowed the healers to take him out into the hallway.

"Now, there are a few things you should all be aware of," Nahida said, addressing the group. "Keeper Eunomia responded well to the healing, and she should be up and walking around within a day. However, pregnancy is a long and difficult endeavor, and there are many other factors to consider before she can be considered fully recovered. There is also, now, a child to consider."

That there was. Tamlin let the healer's words wash over him as he regarded the baby in his arms. Everything else seemed unimportant; now that he'd started to believe that no one was going to take her away from him, Semele was fascinating to observe, and became more and more interesting the longer he looked.

There was her hair - interesting, because Tamlin was under the impression that most babies were bald. Her ears showed points, but they were so gentle that her ears almost appeared rounded, like a human's. He decided that her nose must have come from Nomi, as it was already the most prominent part of her face. He counted her eyelashes, observed the way her little hands curled into fists beneath her chin. He wondered if her eyes would stay green; he'd heard that a baby's eyes often darkened after birth. He wanted to see her eyes for himself, but she was so peaceful in sleep, and he didn't want to disturb her.

The world sharpened and narrowed, coalescing until Tamlin felt that everything that mattered in all the cosmos between his hands.

Oh. Oh. He had to apologize to Nomi. He'd once told her that he loved her more than anything, but that was a lie. Semele was the most wonderful, perfect creature that existed. His entire chest hurt with the weight of it.

"High Lord?" Brighid's gentle voice prodded at the edge of his consciousness.

"Hmm? Yes, alright." Tamlin nodded. "As you say."

Brighid beamed. "He hasn't listened to a single word we've said, has he?"

"We'll remind him," said Rosheen. "Tomorrow."

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