#I love how they drew his crest so much

[angelplummie]

ur art baby trapping fic is all i can think abt btw

but but but. what if after the first time it becomes a regular occurrence, and after the first few times, when he buries himself as deep as his long cock can go inside you and cums so hard he loses vision, you think maybe it’s time to be safe again. you’ve taken a few pregnancy tests, and it’s seeming like you’re getting away with the risky sex, but the risk is not worth the reward.

you saunter into the kitchen one morning, were art reads the news on his laptop, sipping a black tea. what a serious man you were dating. your arms snake around his neck loosely, and you kiss this top of his blonde head.

“i’m gonna order some more birth control. what’s that gynos number again? i know i wrote it down somewhere but i can’t remember.”

art stilled. he placed the mug squarely on a coaster.

“you don’t need that.”

he reached up to hold your forearm gently, to ghost the pad of his thumb against your soft skin.

“well, i do a little bit. we’ve been lucky, but if we keep going raw we might be in trouble. then you’ll be stuck with me forever.”

he hummed, stomach flipping. you were so close to figuring him out.

“that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“what?”

he kissed the peach fuzz of your arm.

“i’d like being stuck with you.”

you didn’t let go, but you didn’t move either.

“are you saying you hope i get pregnant?”

“no,” he lied softly,”but if you did, that would also make me happy. wouldn’t it make you happy?”

you inhaled, shocked.

“i guess. i don’t- i don’t know how i would feel. i haven’t given it much thought. have you?”

he moved to get up, and you stepped back, unfurling yourself from him.

the chair scraped against the floor, and you watched arts feet as he moved around it to get back to you. he turned to face you, beautiful face set in a knowing, subtle smile. he took your face in his long hands, one on either side of your jaw.

“i’ve thought about a future with you and being with you forever, and about having a baby with you.”

your lips parted slightly, that rosy feeling cresting your cheeks and nose.

“i love you very much. i want you very much. is it that strange to think i might want to start a family with you?”

a cloudy feeling, humid and twinkly, filled your head. you drew in breath, but before you could make any kind of reply he kissed gently on your forehead, which nullified the part of your brain that might have any problem with what art was saying ever.

“why is that strange baby?”

“it’s not strange.”

“that’s right.”

and he pulls you into his chest. your arms remain tucked to you, and he wraps himself around you. tenderly his chin rests on your hair, and your breath in his smell. art was so clean, and so smart and kind. and he loved you. he wanted to be with you. you were so lucky.

“i love you.”

“i love you too.”

and that night, when he got you on top of him, cock buried deep in your tiny cunt, he made you feel even luckier. you were so wet it spilled down his shaft that split you open, down to his round full balls. his hands were clamped like shackles around your hips, preventing you from moving.

your hands splayed on his perky chest, you frowned in an effort to not fall apart, and he watched you with unbridled glee. you try to bounce, and your tits shake, but he holds you in place, all your leg muscles no match for the few at work in his arms. he watches as your titties settle still, his soft little angel.

“art please,” you dig your nails into his pillowy chest, but he doesn’t even flinch as you turn his pale skin pink.

“yes please,” you whisper. he smiles, thinly veiling his glee.

“you wanna ride me?”

your pussy clenches. even bellow you, he’s so far above. so much wiser and calmer.

“i’ll let you. on one condition.”

his fingers dug into your love handles, leaving white marks on your side. he readjusted himself, burying his cock inside your further, making you huff.

“tell me,” your cunt was so tight he had to pause as it squeezed him,” that you want me to get you pregnant. say the words.”

you blinked, trying to direct any of your attention away from the pseudo-pain of having him inside you still. his demanding tone alone makes your cunt throb, and wet his fat cock even more.

“what?”

“tell me you want me to cum inside you raw.”

your head tips back, and you swallow.

“i want you,” you say, thoughtless, desperate, so cock hungry it makes arts chest heave under your talons,” to cum inside me raw. get me pregnant please. please art, just fuck me.”

art grunted, and squeezed your hips even harder.

“yeah? you want that?”

and he drew you up on his dick, biting his lip hard enough to leave indents, to split skin.

he guided you up, so that only his pink tip stayed hooked inside your tight pussy hole.

yeah was the only word you could form, and you said it over and over like it was his name, like it was a prayer.

“ok baby. whatever you want.”

and he drove himself into you, holding you above him like an oversized fleshlight. you sounded like a fleshlight too, wet and soft and malleable to him. a wet schlick permeated the room with every thrust as he held you, suspended in the air, and fucked you like you weighed nothing.

your grip dragged up to his forearm, leaving a pink trail in your wake, jaw tipping open.

“art, art, art.”

as he moves sharply in and out, pounding your pussy, you legs turn to jelly, and you feel the distinct urge to writhe. you resist, and instead jerk with his every movement, moaning pathetically.

“you’re so tight. god,” he spits through gritted teeth. it’s like he’s angry at you, and he bullies your little cunt like he hates you. but he doesn’t hate you, he loves you very much. he can’t believe your his, he can’t believe you want to be his forever. he will make you happy. he will. you just have to give him a child.

his v-line and his hips crash into the softness of your thighs and make loud slaps. he grunts as he feels the tip split you open time and time again. you feel it, a deep thud inside you every time he presses down, and you whine absently.

“art, hold me.”

“what?”

“hold me.”

immediately, he rises from his lying position and props himself up on his head board, yanking you to him again. and then you were face to face, with his tousled blonde hair and blue, honest eyes, and his beautiful face. just as you asked, he held you. two strong arms encircled you waist, pushing your tits up on his chest.

digging his heels into the bed, he began pumping, buried so deep that he could only work the last increments of his cock into you. your eyes are misty, are big and desperate. your open mouth

"you ok?"

"yeah. I love you."

"mm."

and he kissed you again, tongue pawing at the inside of your mouth, like a kitten at a ball of yarn. he moaned rhymically, with every beat of your little heart. every moment you lived as his was total pleasure. you inched your hips forwards and back, against the force of his thrusts and kissed the side of his mouth, his cheek, his neck.

“you’re so beautiful,” he huffs,”you’re so pretty. i’m gonna get you pregnant.”

“please.”

“yeah, i know you want that.”

“yeah, i want it.”

you fuck yourself on him, and he kisses you again, harder, messier, noses smushing and tongues moving against each other.

“oh,” he says, and you know he’s close. so you say him what he wants to hear. what you know he’s wanted to hear this whole time. your clit presses against his pelvis, and as you tip over the edge you give him what he needs, like a good girl. friend. a good girlfriend.

“daddy, daddy.”

and it’s over. his grip tightens, pressing you harder against him so you can’t move at all in his lap. his hips stutter, and he lets out a grunting, groaning whine into your cheek, into your ear.

his balls tighten and twitch, and a fat load spurts inside you, clinging to your cervix and dribbling out of your spasming hole.

“fuck, god.”

one arms stays around your back, the other reaches up to your neck, to caress the skin and reach up into your hair. to stroke your jaw with his thumb as you both pant, slack jawed and satisfied.

“fuck.”

“art?”

“yeah?”

“i bet that did it. i bet i’m pregnant.”

“i bet you are. are you scared?”

you looked at each other and smiled, wide and goofy, forehead to forehead.

“no. are you? i really mean it, you’re never getting rid of me now.”

“darn.”

[seulgisqt]

𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐄 — aitana bonmatí

aitana bonmatí x fem!espwnt!lyon!reader

a/n: accidentally deleted this when I wanted to edit it ಠ_ಠ (I hate tumblr), so if you feel like you’ve seen this before, you have, just leave a like and keep stepping

word count: 1245

genre: fluff

summary: an adorable aitana meet cute

On a breezy spring afternoon in Barcelona, the cosy bookshop cafe Letras Vivas buzzed with its usual charm. Tucked away on a quiet side street, a haven for readers and coffee lovers alike. The warm aroma of roasted beans mingled with the soft rustle of pages being turned and the occasional tinkling of laughter from patrons. The cafe was the kind of place where time seemed to slow, where strangers might strike up conversations over dog-eared novels or debate the best way to make a cortado.

You step inside, grateful for the reprieve from the city’s lively streets. The team had arrived in Barcelona a few days early to acclimate before the upcoming Champions League final. The pressure was immense – two giants of women’s football going head-to-head – but you had sought this little sanctuary for some peace. As much as you thrive on competition, moments like these were a way to offer clarity amidst the chaos.

Clad in a casual, well-worn shirt and a pair of faded jeans, you seemed a world away from the electrifying football star celebrated in the vibrant match posters that adorned the streets of Lyon. As you moved through the dimly lit bookstore, your fingers delicately glided over the spines of countless books lining the shelves near the entrance, occasionally pausing to absorb the titles that beckoned softly. Your gaze eventually landed on a novel, its cover a breathtaking watercolour that captured the charm of a seaside town, an irresistible pull urging you to pull it from the shelf and delve into its world.

At the counter, Aitana Bonmatí, FC Barcelona’s fiery midfielder, was already ordering her cappuccino. The barista seemed charmed by Aitana’s easy banter, her quick wit and warm laugh lighting up the space. She exuded the kind of confidence that came from knowing you were exactly where you belonged. The distinctive red-and-blue hoodie with Bar��a’s crest proudly displayed was casually slung over her shoulders, and drew occasional glances, but most were too polite to approach her.

As you approached the counter, Aitana turned, her grin wide and inviting, her hazel eyes bright with recognition. It took you a heartbeat to place her–you had seen that grin a hundred times before, from game footage to interviews to across the pitch. The face of Barcelona’s squad and one the most formidable centres in the game. And in just three days, your opponent. Once again.

Aitana didn’t miss the split second of hesitation that flickered across your face, and she seized the opportunity to break the ice with a playful energy. “Hey,” she said, her voice warm and laced with just a hint of mischief. “Nice to see you off the pitch.”

You blinked, caught slightly off guard but managing a smile. “Oh, uh, hi. Didn’t expect to run into you here.” Your Andalusian accent was unmistakable, and Aitana’s grin grew wider.

“You Lyon players just can’t resist the good spots, huh?” Aitana quipped, leaning casually against the counter. Her eyes flicked to the book in your hand. “Good choice. That’s one of my favourites.”

You raised an eyebrow, holding up the book. “Really? You’ve read it?”

Aitana’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm as she nodded, her ponytail swaying rhythmically with her head. “You won’t believe how captivating it is! It unfolds in this charming little fishing village—teeming with intense drama, sweeping love stories, and heart-wrenching heartbreak… it’s absolutely everything you could want! Imagine it like football, but infused with much more romance and way fewer tackles!”

A smile crept across your face as you placed the book on the counter, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. “I’ll take your word for it, but relying on my opponent’s taste in literature? That feels like a risky move!”

“Oh, come on! Today, we’re not opponents at all!” The mischievous glint in Aitana’s eyes mirrored her playful smirk. “We’re just two enthusiasts who appreciate fine coffee and extraordinary tales.”

The barista expertly crafted Aitana’s cappuccino, the velvety foam adorned with an artful heart-shaped swirl that seemed to float above the cup. Instead of making a beeline for the door, Aitana lingered, her presence radiating warmth and curiosity as she patiently waited for you to finish your order, the air around you charged with an electric sense of connection. When you joined her at a nearby table, your conversation flowed with surprising ease.

Listening intently, as Aitana, ever the local, effortlessly wove stories about her childhood in Vilanova. Her voice softened as she talked about watching games at Camp Nou as a kid, her dreams of one day playing on the same pitch now a reality. She pointed out a few must-visit spots within Barcelona, her favourite tapas bar tucked away in El Born and a rooftop terrace with breathtaking views of the city at sunset.

It was your turn to share, Aitana leaned in, intrigued as you painted a picture of life in France. Your voice gained a quiet pride as you described Lyon’s relentless training culture—the way it pushed everyone to their limits and brought out the best in them. The early morning drills in the pouring rain, late-night strategy sessions, and the camaraderie that came from working with some of the best players in the game.

“So you’re telling me you actually enjoy those gruelling training sessions? Compared to the easiness of Madrid?” The brunette questioned.

“It’s not about enjoying them, exactly.” You shrugged, your smile softening. “It’s about knowing they make me better. And there’s something fun about the discipline, the way it transforms you. Being at Real Madrid, I never had that.” You finished.

Aitana nodded thoughtfully, her playful demeanour giving way to a moment of genuine admiration. “I get that,” she said. “I think that’s why I love playing here—Barcelona’s always pushed me to be more, too.”

Her words hung between the two of you, a shared understanding unspoken but felt. Despite the teams you represented and the rivalry that defined you two season after season. You were both, at your cores, not so different. For a moment, the looming match disappeared, replaced by the quiet connection of two people who understood what it meant to give everything to the sport they loved.

“So,” Aitana began, cradling her cup, her tone suddenly teasing, “how’s Lyon feeling about Saturday? Ready to lose?”

You leaned forward, a playful spark in your eyes. “Confident enough to say you’ll be the one losing.” you shot back. Your laughter mingled, drawing a few curious glances from other patrons, but neither of you seemed to care, bantering for what felt like hours.

As the sun began to dip, casting the cafe in a warm golden glow, you both reluctantly stood to leave. Outside, the streets buzzed with life, the distant hum of a guitar echoing from a nearby plaza.

At the door, Aitana paused, turning to you with a smile softer than her usual confident smirk. “You know,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “maybe after the match, we should grab a coffee again. No rivalries—just books and good company.”

You tilted your head, cheeks dimpling into a grin. “Deal. But only if Lyon wins.”

Aitana laughed, backing away towards the bustling street, her voice carrying over the noise. “We’ll see about that!”

As you walked in opposite directions, you felt a strange lightness—a fleeting connection sparked by chance, lingering even as you prepared to face her on one of the biggest stages in football.

[holopossums]

I dmand EVERY picture of CJ you had drew!! Pretty please

Considering I'm super disorganized about my art and don't post everything I draw (sometimes it stays just in my server or among friends, or I just don't show anyone because it's unfinished/I'm unsatisfied), I'll have to find a lot of stuff that I've forgotten about.

Actually, I can just show some stuff that I *haven't* posted! (Everything else I ever have should be here.) Some of this stuff is Krow before I added the white hair because I didn't have that idea until around April.

^ Appropriately titled "Krow Smug Bitch". Everyone has fun with the cowboy AUs so why can't I?

^ He got nervous about seeing Usagi/Yukito I suppose

^ This one is interesting. Originally it was supposed to be just Krow as a magical boy, but then it turned into a bit of a mythology AU. He's the son of Yatagarasu the Three-Legged Crow from Shinto myth. Wasn't quite sure about everything... this was probably the result of watching too much Kamichama Karin as a kid lol

^ For fans of Transformers - TFP Optimus Prime with good ol' canon CJ! I feel like they would get along. Something about that red-and-blue leader drew him in I guess.

^ This was actually my first pass at an older version design of Krow. This was a complete piece too, but I was unsatisfied within a week or two. You can still see that I kept some things, notably the piercings, beard, and the idea of tattoos, as well as the Leo-inspired shoulder pads. The tattoo designs changed and so did the armor color, but it was an interesting first try at the older design.

^ A second attempt and older Krow, I was getting closer. (Still love the fashion on this though.)

^ The point I realized that I can't draw this man thin and have to start drawing him beefier and more filled out more consistently because it would be a crime against god or something. Was still finalizing his tattoos at this point and playing around with the idea of white hair. Considered the idea of the Hamato crest tattoo near his heart before nixing it because it's too cheesy and the Hamato tattoo is something a lot of people do for older/future character designs.

^ Ninpo weapon design for Older Krow! Yes he has a cyan scythe (really more of a kusarigama since it has a chain and weight at the end). Yes it's cool as fuck. No you can't touch it.

He's basically a reaper and it plays into his whole aesthetic as a crow, which symbolizes an omen of death. Crows are also often seen with scythe and scarecrow imagery because they're related to harvests.

I don't know why I never posted this, it *looks* finished... I think there was something off about the anatomy and I intended to fix it and then forgot and ugh. But anyway! There you go.

^ A height chart for younger Krow and Yukito that I never quite finished. But it's interesting to see them to the actual scale that I imagine them to be - Krow is 5'6", and Yukito's height is reversed since he's 6'5". Since both are around 19 when they meet, they're at their full adult heights here. Long live your short king!

^ Older Krow with lightning gloves. Which doesn't make sense actually because his gloves are electrical insulators to keep himself from getting zapped from one of his attacks. But who cares about that! It's cool!

^ Scythe sketch. Just trying to get a feel for the vibe of how he wields one. His cape/cloak plus the scythe probably gives opportunity for some really cool directional flow to occur.

^ Something I doodled just the other day. Old Krow but more cartoony and goofy. Love this silly guy!

I'm sure there's many more that I've missed, probably lots of half-finished sketches and doodles, but this is a lot of what I've found.

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

just some random prompts (up to you how you'll use it or not lol):

Din Djarin x forcesensitive/jedi!reader

Reader actually understands Mando'a, got flustered when Din calls her cyarika, mesh'la (maybe have the reader respond in Mando'a too and let's see how it goes from there)

Reader is some masked vigilante of some sort and has a bounty on her head, Din Djarin unmasked her during a fight and turns out she was also reported missing few years ago by her family (maybe make reader a noble-blood to sprinkle some drama)

I recommend the song Close to You by Neon Trees, maybe it's just me but it reminds me of your Din Djarin x Reader drabbles hehe

also, I love your writing so muuuuch. xx

Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Warnings: mild start to something smutty if you squint lol

Word Count: 1,049 (damn it i was so close to under 1k)

LANGUAGE BARRIER

a/n: i have din djarin brain rot smh. also, ngl, i did not proof read this with the intensity i usually try to so🤷🏻‍♀️ OH AND HEY IF YOU HAVEN'T VOTED IN MY POLL YET GO DO SO, IT'S ON MY MASTERLIST.

Mando’a was an interesting language. It was different. That’s what initially drew you to it. Unlike the other languages you studied, Mando’a texts were hard to find. For a while, you had to make do with just scraps of information. That almost made learning it so much more satisfying though. Then, while at University, you met an elder who had grown up adopted by Mandalorians. He had never taken the Creed, drifted away from the culture, but not without becoming fluent in Mando’a. He was the reason the holes in your education were filled, and that meant he was also the reason you could enjoy Din Djarin’s mumbling.

Over the year you traveled with him, he became more and more comfortable with your presence⏤ at least, that’s what you assumed the reasoning was for him becoming more vocal. They were little statements at first. Din would be clearing out his weapon locker, run into a problem, and spit out a string of curses. Peli had once told him that the Razor Crest would be grounded for at least a week and you hung onto every word of Mando’a of the rant he spiraled into about the last quarry who had caused the damage. You had planned on telling him you knew Mando’a⏤ you were going to casually mention it.

Then, he called you mesh’la.

A nickname you hadn’t expected.

Din had a habit of using a lot of nicknames that you’d never expect from him. Cyar’ika. Ner sarad. Cyare. Senaar’ika. Each new, adoring nickname would bring warmth to your face, but you had missed the normal window of opportunity to mention to him that you spoke his language. Especially when, in a panic, he had referred to you as ‘cyar’ika’ for the first time and you asked him what it meant. Din had answered in a simple way, giving you the definition without missing a beat, as if it were a casual thing. For a while, you thought that meant there was no significant weight behind those words.

Your theory of the nicknames just being for fun was shot in the face when you nearly got shot yourself. While out in a city, you had gotten caught in the crossfire. The quarry himself had spotted you and with a sickening grin turned to put you down. Luckily, he had missed⏤ it only clipped you in the arm⏤ but the rampage that Din had gone into was shocking. Not nearly as shocking as when you heard him speak to the quarry after pummeling his face beyond recognition: ‘I’ll bring you in cold for that, bastard. I don’t show mercy to those who target what’s mine’. For the rest of the night, you convinced yourself that it wasn’t what you thought. Sure, the two of you shared lingering touches and the tension had grown since you came aboard, but it had to be something else. 

Weeks later, while waiting in a cantina for Din to return from obtaining new pucks, a Twi’lek man had saddled up beside you. Despite making it clear you had no interest, the man continued to invade your space. That is, until Din stepped up to your other side and pulled you into his side. The Twi’lek had abandoned his goal very quickly and the words that left Din’s lips stayed with you for weeks on end. ‘Should've known better than to leave someone as beautiful as you alone at the bar’. Still, no matter how badly you wanted to just jump him, you convinced yourself he didn’t want you. He was a friend. That was all.

Until seconds ago. You sat on one of the crates in the Razor Crest’s cargo hold as Din applied a bacta patch to the claw marks across your calf. A run in with a Trandoshan gone wrong. He had pulled off his gloves to provide the care, not something out of the ordinary, but the feel of his fingertips against your skin was not a sensation you’d ever get used to. Din set his entire hand against the upper half of your calf and his thumb caressed the skin there. Without looking up, he murmured, “I will know you forever.”

You fully understood the weight of his words. Din rose to stand and began to walk away to put away the first aid kit. The words fell out of your mouth before you could consider any of the consequences, “I can speak Mando’a, and I am so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier but I panicked.” In the most uncharacteristic move you had seen from him, Din tripped over some of the gear he had been passing in the rush to spin and look back at you. The Mandalorian caught himself before he could do more than stumble. You offered him a sheepish smile, “Sorry. Again.”

“You speak Mando’a?” Din asked in his language. 

“A little.” You nodded then shook your head. “Actually, a lot. I’m⏤ I’m fluent.”

“This entire time?” Din slowly crept back towards you. You nodded. He continued on until he stood between your legs. Din’s hands settled on his hip and you were forced to lean back a bit to keep your nose from being pressed against his chest.

You scrunched your nose in concern, “Are you mad?”

“No. Of course not, my love.” Din replied, his voice low. Din’s bare hand lifted to cup the side of your face. His thumb caressing the side of it. Din pressed in closer again so you were forced to tilt your head up to meet his hidden gaze as he stared down at you. His touch trailed away from your cheek, and he let the pad of his thumb ghost over the outline of your lips⏤ your breath hitched in your throat, heart beating wildly in your chest. Din pressed his thumb against your already parted lips more firmly, the tip of it brushing against your tongue, before he dragged it down further to open your mouth even wider. “But you are in trouble. Are you going to accept your punishment with grace?” Your lips twitched up in a smile as an ache of desire ran down your spine and straight to your core. You leaned in just enough to fully wrap your lips around his thumb. Din chuckled. “Good girl.”

[muzanswaifu]

Sweet Treat Teaser

Tomioka x Fem! Reader

18+

Here is a teaser for an request im working on for the lovely @muzans-stuff.

Summary: After Tomioka rejects her proposal, reader takes a different approach to gain his affection

Warnings: Rejection, Heart-break, Arguments, Reader has big breasts

-

-

The sour taste of bitter sadness and anger always upset her stomach, food seeming bland and tasteless and hobbies joyless and obsolete. The days drew long and slow, chores boring and pointless, yet sleep hadn’t seemed to be the answer either as she lay awake for hours. Mother and Father tried to give her time, but no amount of reprieve seemed to work, so they continued sending her to busy herself around the Wisteria House. Slayers came and went, their time seeming to last for seconds before the next batch would come and replace the others. All of them knew better than to take up too much of her time.

“It’s not you… It’s me.”

“What kind of ridiculous excuse is that?”

With the cold season cresting, more injured corps members required attention, Mother sending for more doctors and nurses as temporary help. She made her (y/n) help as well, despite her lack of medical knowledge, briefing her on the basics of care for those who had more minimal injuries. Harsh weather meant more victims and prey as demons had no fear of freezing to death. She found the cold refreshing, a numb pleasure to erase some of her darker thoughts. Feeling sad just felt so right during times like this.

“We wouldn’t be a good match… You wouldn’t like the lifestyle.”

“You don’t know that!”

Why did everything have to be so dull? Things used to be so worthwhile before what happened. Maybe it was her. She was the one who tried to change everything and had to open her stupid mouth. She could’ve left everything as it was, sure it would’ve been difficult and anti-climactic, but she would take that over this disgust with herself any day. She missed how things used to be. Why did he have to say no? They could’ve been happy.

“It’s not happening… I refuse.”

“Why?!”

“Because that’s my answer. That’s final.”

“You won’t even give it a chance? You were the one who kissed me! Did that mean nothing to you?”

“Enough.”

“I can’t believe you could be so- so heartless…”

“I said enough.”

“... I hate you.”

“ … ”

She should’ve kept silent, but every word from her pathetic mouth just drove her deeper into her pit of despair. Had she given him time to just think about her confession, maybe Giyu would’ve grown to accept it rather than push her away. But all she’d managed to do was upset him further, a look of disappointment falling upon his stoic expression and quickly making her realize what she’d said. She reached for him in the moment, tears welling in her eyes as an apology pulled at her lip, but he was gone, his form disappearing from her sight in only a moment, leaving only a slight breeze of chill. Or perhaps it was her own guilt that caused her to shiver.

She wanted to blame only herself, she really did, but why did he drag her along so thoughtlessly? He was the one who asked for her personally to apply all his bandages and ointments (despite her novice experience.) He was the one who followed her around the house like a lost puppy while she worked despite her mother pestering him to rest and recuperate. He was the one who kissed her when she checked his temperature during his recovery, staring long into her eyes and slowly leaning in to brush his lips against hers ever-so-gently. Although he quickly pulled away and muttered his apologies, excusing his own inappropriate actions, the deed had already been done. She knew he’d had feelings for her for quite some time. Even despite the kiss she’d seen the way he looked at her, his eyes alight with a delicate passion when they met hers, or the clear lust that consumed him when those eyes ventured southward. It was obvious he had some obsession with her chest, his preference evident with his lingering stare and gaping mouth. Tomioka hadn’t even had the decency to keep his eyes up during their first meeting, his head quickly bowing down and mouth gawking as he ogled at her fullness. Sure, she would admit she was decently large, but she had no idea it would’ve elicited such a reaction from the swordsman. He’d gotten more manners later on but it always made her flush when she remembered that despite his nobility, he was a still man as well.

The house was so quiet ever since their fight, the snow muffling any sounds of nature and lulling everyone into a deep tire. The visiting slayers slugged around like zombies with such little energy which gave her an agonizing amount of time to pity herself.  Tomioka hadn’t visited for so many months, she wished she could excuse his absence for lack of injury but the chances that were miniscule. This wasn’t the only wisteria house in his district, so he was likely hiking the extra mile to another to avoid her. Even if he didn’t wish to see her anymore, she wished he would at least come to heal his injuries. Just knowing first-hand that he was alright would be enough, just seeing him would be enough.

Before long, even winter had passed, the air still chilly and dry but the ice starting to melt and thaw. Snow began to turn to rain and the frozen ground turning to sloshed muddy earth. A whole season passing without a single reunion.

She missed his peaceful company. She missed his small smile when he was humorous. She missed the way he’d look at her, how he’d look at her like she meant everything to him. As much as his rejection still stung, she still loved him.

-

The violent sound of clashing awoke her, feet and bodies audibly pounding across the floorboards in the medical ward of the estate. It wasn’t unusual for wounded slayer to come at this late hour, but they usually had the courtesy to arrive quietly.

“Hurry, hurry! Get him to the table now!”

(Y/n) could hear the frantic shrill voice of her mother and the shuffling of a few others through the walls, their panicked movements frightening her completely awake. Whatever was happening sounded serious, likely a life-threatening injury. Perhaps she should help.

She hastily threw on a robe over her nightgown, speed-walking down the hall to the sight of all the fuss. Her face scrunched in disgust as she was met with blood scattered across the floor, leading a crimson trail to one of the medical rooms. It smelled gross, a metallic odor filling the house and watering her eyes, but she continued onward to the room, peaking in to get some clue of the distress.

Blood everywhere, soaked into every article of clothing, several doctors and nurses ambled about the room, throwing commands to each other. Mother stood at the corner, biting her nails and anxiously watching the treatment. Everyone was frenzied but there was only one person on the table. She leaned forward through the doorway to get a better view. It was hard to see with everyone gathered around the patient, but she could see bits and pieces here and there, the body leaning toward male. But she didn’t have to further theorize as a nurse moved out of the way, revealing his face. She could feel the moment her heart stopped.

His face was a bit scuffed but the harm looked minimal, but there was still sweat beaded across his forehead, his teeth clenched together and eyes sewn shut, indicating his severe pain. A nurse’s hand held his slicked bangs back, and she could see the sea of bandages that began at his sternum. His deep blue eyes flickered open and locked onto hers, and she gasped. She stumbled away from the door, sneaking back to her own room quickly and shutting the door. Her heart was pounding, sweat glazing her burning flesh.

(Y/n) had never seen him so maimed, nor had she ever seen him in any pain really. Her presence couldn’t have made it any better for him, in fact, he was probably even more uncomfortable right now. Look at her, making everything worse as per usual.

She finally fell unconscious several hours later after worrying and dreading Giyu’s health. Would he recover from such injuries? Would he be permanently wounded? The pit in her stomach refused to go away, her angst building and building until her body physically couldn’t take anymore and her sunken eyes closed. She woke only a few hours later, dizzy from so many nightmares and promptly setting off to find her mother to ask for any updates. She found her already woken, putting away laundry in the early hours.

Mother explained he was decent, not perfect but not broken either. Apparently he’d stumbled in hellishly late last night, weakened and hallucinating from a poison demon’s attack. He managed to make it to the closest wisteria house, this one, quickly enough and was treated right away. As for his pained reactions, they were also a result from the demon’s art, the venom merely increasing his body’s sensitivity and heightening the effects. He was knocked out from pain killers and was going to be sleeping for quite some time, the actual damage was going to take a while to heal anyway.

Her answer was satisfactory enough, the girl sighing in relief and limping back to bed to get more rest. No wonder he’d come here, he was probably too out of it to realize why he was avoiding it. She wouldn’t put it past him to leave as soon as he composed himself.

But to her disbelief, he didn’t.

She almost didn’t believe her eyes when she walked past the courtyard one morning and saw him active outside, stretching out and wincing from his injuries. She took another route to get to the kitchen. The next day was the same. And the next. And the next. Each day she would try her best to avoid him, finding he most frequented the courtyard and the section of the estate where his room was. He seemed to be doing the same as well, turning the other way when she happened to come into view, staying in his room or training most of the day. Part of her is grateful he’s healing so fast. The other part is bitter. The bad memories still lingered in her thoughts. He was definitely still mad at her, and she was still hurt. If everything went smoothly, he would be out of here soon, she just had to be patient.

To be continued...

[solidlobster1998]

i love how you draw dirk so much, especially the detail of his hair kind of acting like a cat's ears with his emotions lol, he's so cute 🧡🧡🧡🩷🩷🩷

Hehe thanks!!!! I'm very glad that you have noticed this! in fact, I'm more comparing his "hair movement" to the crest of a parrot, like a corella, but you're right too!;]

some time ago, I even drew in more detail the dependence of his hairstyle on emotions and it seems that I did not post this here earlier

[mizunoryuu]

Day 1: Destiny/Favorite Chosen

I came for Tai, I stayed for Sora.

I loved Tai's forwardness and courage. He didn't back down and said what was on his mind (most of the time). As a kid, he was the kind of person I wanted to be like. Forward charging and confidant. But charging forward and blind confidence is reckless. He had to learn that being courageous didn't mean he had to be reckless, and that lesson left an impact on me as a child.

Sora on the other hand, gave me confidence in being a girl. While Tai was what I wanted to be like so I could hang out with boys in my grade, Sora was who I really could relate to. I enjoyed sports and videogames which most girls my age at the time weren't into, but rather guyes. She could hang out with guys through her hobbies. But she still kept her sensitive and feminine personality and didn't have to change herself to be more 'masculine'. Sora was just Sora.

But what really sealed Sora being my favorite Adventure Chosen was her relation to the Crest of Love. For those that know me, I had an incredibly hard time relating to my mother growing up and learning how to love, especially myself. I'll talk about this on the 8th with the bonus posts.

I drew Tai in shadow while giving Sora the spotlight here to show where I began and then who I really related to. Regardless, I have so much love for these two. Thank you, Tai, Sora, for being role models for me as a child and growing up with me through the years.

[foreststarflaime]

All 50 “honest favorite character” prompts for Smaug

( @izunias-meme-hole )

1. Do you project onto this character?

More like the other way around lmao

2. Did you always like this character?

YES HE IS MY PRECIOUS

3. What first drew you to this character?

D R A G O N and also I love riddles

4. Did you initially dislike/hate this character?

I loved him instantly. Great villain counterpart for Bilbo, their interactions are so perfect

5. If this character were a woman, would you honestly still like them? Or in reverse, what if they were a man?

If they didn’t mess with his character/appearance the way they normally do in art I wouldn’t but I do not want to see the weird hourglass figure big lips and eyelashes thing they do to Girls tm in art to him. Let female dragons be cool and imposing. Like Zubeia from the Dragon Prince. If they did it like that nah he could still be cool as a woman dragon

6. Do you have any nicknames or pet names you use for this character?

Does it count if I had a crested gecko named Smaug once that I nicknamed Smecko (Smaug+gecko)

7. Does the character’s age matter to you?

In that he wouldn’t have the same imposing effect if he was just a tiny hatchling yeah but further than that not particularly

8. Does the character’s looks/design matter to you?

Yaya he looks so cooool classic dragon look and total banger. Both in what he looks like in the movie and in Tolkien’s own drawings of him. Although tbh I think I might like Tolkien’s drawings a little more, there’s something fairytale about them that is soooo good. But I also do love how you can see the fire moving up his throat in the movies

9. Does this character remind you of anyone you know? Does that affect how you see them?

No lmao

10. Do you see yourself in this character even without projecting?

Not besides a love of shiny rocks and riddles lol

11. How did you “fall in love” with this character?

I was very young and the Hobbit was an early introduction to all my favorite things (fantasy, dragons, swords). I was primed to unleash all my previously unused enthusiasm upon the first dragon in sight. And he is The dragon

12. If you could write effortlessly and as much as you wanted, what story (s) would you write for this character?

Ooo hmmm probably a Smaug pov of events, that would be fun

13. If you could draw effortlessly and as much as you wanted, what scene (s) would you draw for this character?

Him burning Bard to a tiny crisp 🥰 and/or him and Genesis having fun with arson together

14. Are you physically attracted to this character?

No lmao unless you mean aesthetically he is a very cool looking dragon

15. Are your thoughts surrounding this character usually sexual, non-sexual, or a mix of both?

Non

16. Have you ever cried when thinking about this character? Genuinely?

I don’t believe so

17. Have you ever felt physical pain over this character? (ex: physical heartache).

BARD WHY DID U KILL HIM :( not really lol

18. Do you prefer to see this character suffer or know peace? Angst or comfort? Both?

LET THE FOOLISH HUMANOIDS BASK IN HIS GRAND MAJESTY. ALL SHALL BURN BEFORE HIM and no pesky black arrows and pessimistic hater bowmen

19. Does this character serve as a stress ball/ security blanket for you? Something you run to after a bad day to feel safe or happier?

I have gone back to reading the Smaug chapter or watching the Smaug scenes before yeah and it is such an instant :D warm blanket

20. Do you feel affectionate towards this character?

THATS MY BOYYYYYY YIPPEE ARSON

21. Are your feelings about this character platonic, romantic, or familial? All of these feelings at once maybe?

He is my first dragon…that should be its own category

22. Do you think you will always love this character?

YES NOTHING COULD MAKE ME HATE YOU KING (UNDER THE MOUNTAIN)

23. Has this character permanently altered or impacted your psyche in a way you won’t forget?

D R A G O N S he incited my love of them. He was the catalyst

24. Do you ever dream about this character? If so, describe a dream you once had about them.

I’m sure I have but I can’t remember an instance rn

25. What kind of fan-fiction do you read about this character? If you don’t read fan-fics about them, why not?

I actually have not. I have no idea what I would find if I went looking

26. If you look for this character’s name on AO3, what tags are you including or excluding?

Anything nsfw I guess?

27. Do you like to ship this character with other characters or do you prefer not to?

Nah let him live his life in peace with only his beloved gold. Aroace icon tbh

28. Do you get defensive about this character? If yes, then why?

FUCK OFF BARD I WANTED MORE AND YOU ENDED IT >:( (lmao I know it had to happen but I beef with him on principle)

29. Do you affectionately bully this character?

Not really

30. Are you especially sensitive about this character?

Nah

31. Are you ashamed of liking this character?

NO HOW COULD I BE ASHAMED OF SMAUG THE CHIEF CALAMITY OF OUR AGE

32. If you could make this character a meal, what would you make them?

Roast bowman 🥰

33. Are you “blinded by love” for this character or do you accept any flaws they may have?

HE DID NOTHING WRONG DO YOU HEAR ME. AND EVEN IF HE DID HE LOOKED GOOD DOING IT

34. Does this character inspire you with little things in your daily life?

Maybe? Not that I can think of specifically atm?

35. Has this character ever prevented you from sleeping because you can’t stop thinking about them?

Oh I’m sure he did when I first saw Desolation in theaters, I get excited jitters after seeing movies I’m passionate about like that. And I’m counting all the times I’ve stayed up late reading the Hobbit

36. Do you feel a spiritual/soulmate connection with this character?

HE IS MY BOY HE WAS THE FIRST DOMINO IN MY DRAGON LOVING PATH. IT WAS MEANT TO BE

37. Is your love for this character a secret from people you know in real life?

Absolutely not lmao

38. Do you tend to joke more about dying or killing for this character? Both? What causes the distinction?

Killing. Bard

39. Do you feel lovesick over this character?

I don’t think so

40. Are you very empathetic towards this character? When they feel a certain way in the story, do you feel those emotions too?

It’s more of an I am pointing wildly screaming THATS MY SMAUG THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE at the screen/page situation

41. Do you prefer to interact with this character directly via self-insert/reader type content? Or do you enjoy seeing them mostly with other characters in the story and/or your OCs?

Uhh either way ig. But him and Bilbo interacting is probably my favorite

42. If you could, would you write this character a song or poem?

Sure why not

43. What type of weather makes you think of this character?

When it’s really windy and stormy-overcast but not raining. Just the ominous sense of encroaching doom and wonder

44. Which season makes you think of this character?

Winter bc desolation hehe

45. Do you feel as if you are intimately familiar with this character?

I have known him since kindergarten so I should hope so

46. How much do bad interpretations of this character upset you?

Idk what a bad interpretation would be exactly. I’m sure if I heard one I would loudly defend him. But mostly I do so jokingly lol

47. Does this character ever make you laugh sincerely?

He’s more of a jumping up and down excitedly situation than a laughing one. But if crazed giggling counts

48. What’s your favorite physical/design feature for this character?

He’s a classic red-and-gold fairytale dragon and it just hits so good. Classic trope for a reason. Also I love the mental image of his jewel-encrusted waistcoat

49. What’s your favorite personality trait in this character?

Mmmm I love his vanity ngl, he’s a little shit and I adore that. I think we should all speak in riddles about ourselves. Imposter syndrome would be cured instantly. That might just fix Genesis

50. Link your fav song, playlist, aesthetic board, fan-fiction, reference pile, personal artwork, analysis post, meme, headcanon, or quote for this character. Whichever one (s) you are most comfortable with!

Not gonna put a picture of it here bc I’m too lazy to go ask permission atm but I have a lovely painting of his eye in that close up shot from the end of Unexpected Journey where it opens that @/fridgefanatic did for me around the time it came out hanging in the corner of my room

[bunnakit]

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 (you are here)

Wooyoung nearly sobbed at the intense wave of pleasure that washed over him, body writhing in the ebbing tide. His voice choked out of him, eliciting a deep and fond chuckle from above. He hated how warm San’s laugh was for how very cruel he was being. 

“Sannie please for the love of God move.” He begged, trying to kick out one of his legs only to have it pinned to the lumpy mattress, leaving Wooyoung reluctantly spread open. His cock leaked against his stomach and he couldn't help but think ‘Me too, buddy.’ 

San leaned down, pressing their lips together with lazy, lingering kisses. He was such a juxtaposition of unwavering strength and endless tenderness. He knew Choi San was one of a kind and he was so lucky to have met him that fateful rainy night. He’d never find anyone like him again. 

“Why don't you ask nicely?” San smirked against his jaw and he couldn't help but roll his eyes. 

“San if you don't fucking move I’m going to book the biggest, meanest bastard for your next fi-ah!” Breath swept into his lungs in a harsh gasp, expelled in a low and pathetic whine. It wasn't that San was the biggest he’d ever slept with - he was average, maybe above - it was that every movement was done with so much intent. He rolled his hips, gave teasing touches, and panted crude compliments all for nothing more than the satisfaction of his lover. 

It had been a night a lot like this, blowing off steam from an unsatisfying fight that San felt he won too quickly, when the revelation had struck Wooyoung. He had watched San then as he did now, the concentrated furrow of his brow, the clench of his jaw to stave off his own orgasm until he knew his lover was unequivocally satisfied. All of it came to the same conclusion Wooyoung drew in the current moment; He was unbearably in love with Choi San. 

“Why are you crying, jagi?” San’s movements stilled as he lifted his calloused palm, cupping his cheek gently.

Wooyoung blinked slowly, unaware of when the tears had begun to streak down his face but he could feel them carving tracks backwards. He kept his gaze on San, opening his mouth to speak but a cold tear dipped uncomfortably into his ear. He blinked and when he opened his eyes he welcomed a new cresting tide of tears. 

He was back here, in the almost clinical bedroom in the corner of a house that had never felt like home. His eyes burned with tears and he knew he’d been crying for much longer than the brief snippet in his dream. He stumbled to his feet and tread into the bathroom, grimacing at the image staring back at him in the mirror. His long hair was a mess, greasy and in disarray, and his eyes were nearly swollen with how puffy they were. 

Wooyoung ducked his head, splashing icy water on his face several times. He was so tired of crying, so fucking tired of it, and yet he couldn't stop. Every single morning he woke up and pressed a cold compress to his eyelids until he resembled something close to human again. He ignored that step today, turning off the sink just to turn on the shower. 

He wanted to wallow, to stay in bed all day and cry himself to sleep again, to rot in his silk sheets on his stupidly expensive mattress. He craved a lumpy mattress permeated in the smell of cologne, sweat, sex, and San. It was so tempting to fall back under the covers and shut out the world but he knew, as much as he hated it, that San would never want to see him like this. And somehow that was enough. 

Wooyoung finished his shower quickly, wrapping a towel around his waist and going through his skin care routine that had way more steps than even made sense. He finished rubbing in his moisturizer before he opened the drawer beside him. Multiple watches in a variety of styles lined the inside, save for a vacant spot in the very center. 

His heart dropped through his feet, thrashing and writhing somewhere on his heated bathroom floor. 

Where is it? 

I put it here, didn't I?

My nightstand- Not here. 

The dresser-

No, no, no, nononono- Where is it?! 

His breath came in a rapid staccato, unsustainable and painful. He didn't really care if he ever breathed again, not if he’d truly lost Sannie’s watch. He needed it, needed to feel close to him in the only way he was allowed now. 

“Where is it?” He gasped, black spots dancing at the edge of his vision just before he heard a door open in the main section of his apartment. He yanked on a pair of sweatpants left hanging over a bedpost before stumbling out into his living space. 

“Hyunsoo-ssi, have you seen my watch? The silver one with the big dial-”

“Oh, that atrocity.” He tsked and dread mixed with something else, something sticky and molten, bubbled in Wooyoung’s stomach. “I cleaned out all your old designs for this year’s collection,” He passed a judgemental eye to the sweats hanging off his hips. “Though it seems I might have missed some.” 

Again, Wooyoung didn't feel when the tears started. He could only feel the cold streaks left in their wake as his skin grew impossibly warm. His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing indents into the soft flesh. 

“And where are they now?” He hissed through clenched teeth, eyes closed as those black dots appeared in his periphery again. He felt wound tight, a coiled spring ready to snap - or perhaps a leopard, crouched low in wait for one wrong move, one little -

“I threw them out. Don't worry, Wooyoung-ssi, this year's designs are much-” 

He hadn't made a decision to throw the salt lamp across the room. Wooyoung hadn't even been aware he was holding it until it left his fingertips, hurtling towards the wall with an impressive amount of speed. His nostrils flared as the drywall crumbled and shards of the salt block scattered around his floor. He opened his eyes, vision tinted red as his eyes locked on his father's assistant. 

Wooyoung hated himself for it, hated the way it reminded him of his childhood, but he took a sick thrill in the fear that washed over Hyunsoo’s face. Good. “Get out.” He croaked, voice hoarse with barely restrained screams. 

There was a spot on the rug in his father's office, a deep brown and an odd wobbly shape. Spilled coffee, his father had said, knocked over by one of his visiting business partners who Wooyoung could barely remember. He understood now what that stain really was. 

His mouth flooded with spit the moment Hyunsoo closed the door behind him and Wooyoung had only a moment to sprint to his kitchen sink, more grateful than ever for his open floor plan as he slid to a stop on the tile just in time to eject the contents of his stomach into the shiny silver basin. He’d barely eaten the night before, something his stomach hadn't thanked him for, but at least it was a benefit to him now as he had very little to offer up. Snot and tears spilled down the lower half of his face and he groaned, using the spray nozzle on his faucet to rinse both the sink and his face. 

Wooyoung slammed the tap to shut it off before sliding down to the floor, back pressed against the uncomfortable grooves of the cabinet behind him and knees tucked to his chest. He tucked his forehead against them, the moisture dripping from his hair soaking the knee of his sweats. One hand lifted, rubbing a slow circle over the left side of his chest. 

His last connection to San, gone with something as simple as a careless - or perhaps malicious - act of service. The hickeys had long faded from his sternum, the scent of San’s cologne no longer clung to the clothes he'd worn that night. The watch had been all he had left to prove that he had been lucky enough to have been known - been loved - by Choi San. 

Wooyoung felt the rhythmic thumping against his fingers, an undeniable sign that blood still pumped through his veins. His heart was there, it was still there, so why did his chest feel so hollow? He wanted to thrash, to wail, to make sure the world could hear the pain that scraped his insides raw. Instead, he cried silently, vacant gaze locked on the mangled hole in the wall, lamp cord dangling down to the floor. 

Crying had never gotten him anything but a scolding so he had learned a long time ago to keep silent. 

When Wooyoung looked at himself in the mirror again the next morning another grimace spread over his face but this time accompanied by a nauseating twist in his gut. He lifted his hand to brush through his hair, twisting his fingers around the too-short strands and tugging until he felt a light sting at his scalp. It looked as wrong as he felt but he had an image to maintain now - Father’s perfect puppet. 

The image nearly made him sick, not from an attractiveness standpoint, but rather he missed who he was before. He missed San carding his fingers through his hair as he sang to him softly, half drunk but full of love. He missed San gripping with his fingers close to Wooyoung’s scalp, tilting his head back to press open-mouthed kisses against his neck. He missed San rolling over onto his hair in the middle of the night, coaxing him back to sleep with hushed apologies. 

He had hoped it would feel cleansing but instead it felt like a final goodbye to the man he could have had and the man he could have become.

[marie-12205]

So i finally finished with bothe older version of ant and sophie along side their daughter kila.i will admit am not super in love with the way i drew them but i wasn't going to redraw them so i kept them like that.

Lets start with ant,ant is a engineer in robotics but also still carries alot on both oceangraphy and marinebiology thanks to his parents and mostly his childhood.when jacques unfortunately passed away he left on his will that the marine sanctuary would be given to his children (will and his sister jenny) but ant wanted his parents to rest after a long life of adventures and he didn't want his parents to carrie that kind of resposablity,so he told them that he and and fontaine would take the sanctuary and become the new owners of the marine santuary.ant and fontaine still used the aronnax but not as much since it mostly used to get to the santuary,rescues,and marine resreach.Fontaine and ant go to the santuary at least 1 entire week, returne on the weekends and stay in their house 1 entire week.the only reason they would stay longer is because of emergencies and important stuff. Unfortunately ant had an accidente while working with some machinery,mostly a piece of metal had stad him on the right arm but luckley it wasn't that deep but he did had to get stitched afterwards.when kila was born he always wanted to always be there for his daughter but he knuw he couldn't abandoned the santuary,so he put a communicator in Kila's crib and he would always talk to her at night until she fell asleep sometimes when ant would check his communicator to see how kila was doing in the middle of the night he would sometimes hear Kila's cooing or snoring in her sleep.

Sophie works in a hospital as a nurse along side her college friend niki who is also a nurse.Sophie is the doctor of the house when ant or kila get sick she always gose and takes care of them but when she is sick ant has to stop her from trying to go to work or from doing any house chores.mostly on the day that ant had his accident she was sent to help assist but nobody had told her she would be assist her husband and when she had arrived to the room and saw ant and his injury she could hardly believe it that she was overwhelmed by the situation she had passed out right infront of him,she did eventually woke up but in a seperate room so she wouldn't get overwhelmed again by her husband state.when ant and Sophie were dating instead of talking on the phone and had given her a communicator and every night they would call each other using the communicator she still has it and keeps in on her nightstand and when she about to go to sleep ant would use his communicator to ask her how she's doing.the day that kila was born sophie had said she had given brith to a copy and paste of a female version of ant since kila ended up looking and acting like her father.

Kila is very much a daddy's girl but in a good way she was very much always with ant but she would sometimes get picky with her parents or other family members and most days would cling on to Sophie rather than ant some days but she has wean from her pickyness over the years as she got older so she alot more sociable with people.kila owns a pet hermit crab name newt and a hermit crab named pearl they both lived together in the same tank and they get along pretty nicely.mostly like ant when he was younger they both loved to bluild thing and ant had teached her many things about robotics and since then she has wanted to be like her father.her grandfather will had given her a locket necklace with the family crest on in.kila has gone on the aronnax several times and she sometimes wishes she could live their like her father did.like ant kila is also super stubborn and hardheaded so when Sophie deals with her she feels like she's dealing with her husbands.unfortunately jeffrey did passed away but ant has always told kila many of his adventures with jeffrey and had showed her many photos of him.kila also has a communicator and she uses to talk to her father when his working.

[crookedfivefingers]

Ten x Martha • Mature

WIP snippet. AU scenario where there wasn’t a “Year that Never Was” and Martha continued traveling aboard the TARDIS (against her better judgment). Also AU in the sense that the Doctor is actually willing to smother all of that UST once and for all.

The Doctor walked right into Martha’s personal space, succumbing to her orbit, studying her face as his hands pursued a symmetrical study of her sides.

The tank top she wore clung to her curves: modal and elastane blended into something red and soft beneath the exploration of his fingers. The hem met bare skin over the crests of her hips, which he traced with wide sweeps of his thumbs, dragging the material without ever slipping beneath.

“So,” he began conversationally, choosing not to acknowledge the tremors he could feel running through her body like a dozen little currents. Barely tilting his head, he leaned in close, only stopping once his nose brushed alongside hers. “Have we got a plan, or are we just sort of making it up as we go along?”

Standing this close, Martha didn’t even need to try for him — not really. She probably had no idea that her body was already making short work of his senses, laying claim to them, bolstering his resolve to have her — and in as many ways as she would allow.

In addition to the allure of seeing her dressed down, she smelled clean and lovely: like shea butter and peppermint toothpaste, both of which the Doctor could already taste as trace molecules sought refuge on his tongue.

They barely managed to mask the telltale plume of pheromones that were coming off of her, however.

“I… oh,” Martha gasped as his grip tightened to tug her closer, a nervous smile playing on her lips. “Erm. Well…” She hesitated just before placing her hands flat on his chest, then seemed to reconsider, sliding her arms up to wind around his neck. “Reckon we sort’ve work best when… When we haven’t got a plan, yeah?”

Humming appreciatively, the Doctor slid his hands around to her lower back, reveling in the way his long fingers seemed to splay from one side of her body to the next. Blimey, she’s small, isn’t she?

Steadying his hands, he drew back, smirking at her half-mast stare. “Mm. I knew there was a reason I wanted to keep you,” he purred, husking through each syllable, allowing the heat of his words to pour into her parted lips without an ounce of pretense as he once more brought his face to hers.

Though Martha’s eyes fell shut, the Doctor’s remained shuttered as his mouth hovered over hers — a gentle (and entirely unnecessary) tease. The poor girl was already so far gone, her petite frame all but trembling against him — but he had to admit it was a bit fun keeping her perched there, trapped on a razor’s edge.

It was only a matter of time before he would make up for all of this torture, certainly (and with handsome interest) — but presently, he could hear her heart pounding between every last uneven breath; he could feel so much human heat radiating off of her skin, enticing him further, and… Oh, yes.

They were going to have great fun, weren’t they?

It was fascinating just how seductive this regeneration was proving to be. It felt brilliant. Every nerve, every neuron was alight with wanting, tempting him to draw out every detail, savoring the prelude to what he could imagine would wind up being quite the torrid fucking.

Something told him that was exactly what she wanted — what they both needed — and the Doctor was happy to oblige.

[lonelyredfox]

Thorn and Fox - Pride lore

I have too much lore on the drawing and no one to vent it to so I’m going to post it here.

I think Fox would describe Thorn as his sun. They’re the one who brighten up his day, who make everything more bearable. Fox seems to carry the whole planet on his shoulders and Thorn is always there trying to help him in whatever way they can. The little golden sun (tragus?) piercing in Thorn’s ear was a gift from Fox. They don’t have many credits, so Fox saves up for many months before he can buy it (and spends all the credits he has.) He wanted them to know that they’re his source of warmth, his comfort and one of the few things in his life that still give him hope. When he gave it to them, he said that their love shines brighter than any sun could. Thorn never takes it out, only to clean it occasionally.

Fox is Thorn’s moon. He’s the brightest source of light during their darkest times. He’s the one who takes care of the whole Guard. Who protects their shinies from senators and the other evils on Coruscant, that no amount of training could have prepared them for. One night Thorn tells Fox exactly that. Fox replies that the moon can only shine because it reflects the light of the sun. If Thorn cried, no one had to know. They decide that they want to gift Fox something as well. It has to be something subtle that won’t be noticed and won’t get in the way (Piercings don’t matter because the Guard isn’t ever allowed to take their helmets of outside of their barracks). He gets him a (tragus??) piercing as well. A silver one that looks like it has thorns surrounding it. Fox is over the moon (HA!).

While buying the piercing for Fox (which also cost a significant amount of credits) Thorn finds the little fox earring. They can’t afford it, but the salesperson finds them so sweet that they gift it to them. (It’s the middle of the war and the shop is one of the few that still allowed clones. The owner is a nice Trandoshan. The piercings were objectively not expensive at all. The Guard didn’t really get leave and that’s the only time when the troopers are given money, hence why they all have to throw their credits together to buy a single bottle of alcohol. Also, Stone, Thire, Hound and the Corrie CMO (Break?) somehow found out about the gifts the two were giving to each other so they all secretly put some credits into the stash.) The little Fox will always remind Thorn of him. When Fox sees it he hugs them and doesn’t let go for a long while.

After the war and without the barrier the helmet provided Fox gets increasingly insecure about his scars. Thorn makes sure to remind him everyday that they’re just a sign that he survived and that he saved others. Thorn is not as confident with their scars at they let on but Fox makes sure they know how beautiful they still are

Fox calls Thorn tran (sun) or tranyc (lit. star-burned but translated with ‘sunny’). The first time he called them that Thorn’s smile was so bright it complemented the name perfectly.

Thorns tattoos are the wings that are also painted on his helmet.

The Guard crest was already there for a few months while the Mythosaur in Fox’s tattoo was added shortly before the end of the war when the Guard collectively agreed that Fox was more mandokarla than anyone else. The smoke between the symbols represents the shadows they had to walk through and the generally shady atmosphere in the Core. (The skull in between stands for the death they escaped.)

The ten-ten (his CC number) was tattooed on him by someone Palpatine hired. He wanted to make sure Fox would never forget his place. Fox despised the tattoo with every fibre of his being. He saw it as a symbol of all his failures for a long time but learned to live with it. When he had the option the get rid of it, he declines.

(please have mercy on my writing, English isn't my first language)

[running2reanimation]

@tulipsempai - I blame you for this.

Ketchup

The King of Condiments.

It hadn't been that long since he'd inherited the cart from his old man. Maybe a month, but really, he'd been working the business for as long as he could hold a stick.

He twirled the dog and handed it to the little girl with a long mastered flourish, drawing and excited gasp and a admiring "Ooooh" from somewhere nearby.

A golden child charged down to his cart, only barely avoiding crashing into the girl and her family. They stared wide-eyed at the cart and at the corn dogs prepped and ready for frying, "What are they?"

"Corn dogs," He smiled down at the inquisitive tot, "If you want one you hafta' ask your parent."

"Okay!" And the child was off like a shot back up the hill, just as the tall orange stick crested the hill.

"Dad! Dad! Can I get a corn dog?" The kid asked as the guy leaned down with his hands on his knees, clearly catching his breath.

"That's not exactly a healthy lunch," The tall stick wheezed, straightening up while the excited kid tugged at his pant leg.

"Pleeeease, I'll... I'll eat all my vegetables at supper tonight!" They wheedled, and the Dad placed a hand on their head, clearly about to relent.

"Promise? Even if it's asparagus?" They made a face but nodded with a sigh.

"Even s'gus."

"Okay then," Dad nodded, turning to look at him finally, "How much?"

"Two bucks each."

He dug into his wallet and handed him a five, "Two corndogs, keep the change."

"You got it, big guy. Two dogs, coming right up," With a grin, he set to work his magic. Obviously it wasn't actual magic, but it was enough to have the kid enraptured.

"So what are we putting on this thing?" He asked, twirling the dog casually.

"Put on it?" The kid tilted his head curiously.

"Like ketchup, mustard, relish, mayo." They looked at their Dad.

"I usually just get mustard on mine."

"Then I want mustard too!"

"You sure? Mustard's pretty sour. Usually people like ketchup better - it's considered the king of condiments, y'know?"

"Condiments?"

"The stuff you put on corn dogs. N' burgers, n' stuff," He explained, twirling the ketchup now. The kid put a hand to his chin, before shaking his head.

"I want mustard too! Dad is King, and his con-condeemint is mustard!"

"Okie-dokie!" With a casual flick of the wrists, he drew a little smile on the corn dog, then deftly grabbed and dressed the other one, "Here you lovely folk are, two of the best corn dogs in the city, courtesy of your pal, Ketchup."

Technically his name wasn't Ketchup, but he sold more dogs with a funky nickname than his real one. Having your food prepared by Rust didn't really... appeal.

"Oh! You're King too! King of the Condeemints!" The kid beamed up at him, before taking a big bite of his corn dog, "Mmmm!"

As the two walked away, Ketchup couldn't help but feel more than a little confuse

--

The kid and his Dad came by the park every Saturday. And Ketchup was always there (at least in spring, summer and autumn) to sell them corn dogs.

And eventually Ketchup learned what the kid - Gold - meant. His Dad's name was King. So they were both Kings. So they were both royal, which according to the twig's logic meant they had to get married.

Wasn't that crazy?

--

"Looking forward to the cultural festival tonight?" Ketchup asked, handing the pair their usual, corn dogs with mustard.

"Yeah!" Gold nodded, still full of that same enthusiasm he'd had as a kid, "Are you gonna set up there?"

"Nah, costs too much. Besides, if I'm selling, I can't go as an attendee."

"Oh, you're going? Maybe we'll see you there?" King seemed surprised to hear that Ketchup might go.

"Maybe," Ketchup winked and Gold looked between him and his Dad before giggling. Fortunately King was as oblivious as ever, and just arched an eyebrow.

"I think I missed the joke."

"Don't worry about it," Ketchup reassured and Gold rolled his eyes, "Anyway, I'm actually about to close up. Gotta go get cleaned up if I want to go out in public."

"Alright then. See you, Ketchup!" He really should get around to admitting that's not his name.

[cinebration]

Already Awake (Geralt of Rivia x Reader) [Part 2; Request]

Hii can you please write part 2 for "Already Awake" please i love it so much

And i just wanted to say i love your writing❤❤❤❤—Requested by anon

Part 1 | Part 2

Tagged: @constantshitposter, @whiskeywinter89​, @beautifulsweetchaos, @dreamingaboutyousworld​, @itsrubberbisquit​, @pretty-toxic-revolver, @the-soot-sprite

Warnings: none

Gif Source: dobrien

Everything ached with the fire of a thousand suns, and yet there were still miles to go before you arrived at what you hoped was salvation. To be delivered from this not-dream, you had to travel across the Continent beside the gruff, almost surly white-haired man whose help had been reluctantly given after seeing how piteous you were in this strange land.

Having never ridden a horse before, you were ill-suited to it. The rhythm of the horse’s trot eluded you, reminding you of your old piano lessons. Your teacher, a middle-aged woman with a kind face, had a voice like a whip when you failed to adhere to the metronome. If ever you had disbelieved that rhythm had never been your strong suit, your inability to match the horse’s stride painfully drove the point home.

The sharp chill of the encroaching winter in conjunction with every jolt of pain through your joints from the horse’s trot convinced you that you were not slumbering at all. A faint spark of hope burned in a secret part of yourself, whispering, It’s still a dream, just a vivid one. You’ll forget upon waking.

It grew dimmer with each passing day, burning brightest only in the morning as you emerged from real sleep into this other world. In the wee hours of the morning, the sun cresting above through the trees, its light more diffuse each sunrise as winter drew nearer, you prayed—to whom, to what, to whatever was necessary—that you would wake properly. Bargaining, you offered to sacrifice reading fantasy, even watching it on TV, if only you would be delivered.

If the man, Geralt, hear you in those moments, he kept silent, preferring his own company. The gruff, brooding type had always been one of your favorites in stories, but sitting beside the real thing, sharing silent meals, was less disappointing and more unnerving. You weren’t sure the man was fully or truly human, and you couldn’t help wondering if he was leading you to certain doom.

“How much further?” you asked on the sixth morning, the words a pained croak as fire lanced up your battered back.

“Another two days,” he answered as gruff as he always did, his voice rasping like coal.

“Two days,” you muttered, suppressing a tired sob. “Two days.” It seemed an eternity, the whole week several eternities.

The horses plodded along at a leisurely pace in the early morning sunshine slicing rays through the trees lining the road.

“Will they be able to send me home?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?” You twisted in your saddle, winced as more pain shot through you, and dared to look at his rugged features.

He fixed golden-yellow eyes on you, sending a shiver down your spine.

“There’s no guarantee?”

“Nothing is guaranteed.”

Strangling a noise of distress, you clenched tight the reins of your horse until your knuckles turned white and fresh pain crackled up your forearms. The tiny spark of hope dimmed further, a mere ember in ash.

You didn’t speak again until dinner that evening. The fire crackled and blazed comfortingly, but you loathed the sight of it. You never wished to see a campfire again.

“Who are they?” you asked, chewing on the tough jerky Geralt had produced from his pack. “Your friend.”

The man hesitated long enough for you to wonder if he had heard you at all. “A sorceress,” he said at last.

“A sorceress? With real magic?” The words rang in your ears, hitching your breath and skipping your heart. Magic? Well, of course, you reasoned. If this is a fantasy world, then magic should abound.

Geralt grunted assent, a shadow darkening his rough features. A chill clawed up your spine as you saw the ominous cloud flicker over him.

“Is that…is that a bad thing? Is she a bad thing?”

“No.”

“A-are you sure? Because it doesn’t sound like you are.”

Geralt closed his eyes, his shoulders hunching minutely beneath his leather coat. “It’s…complicated.”

Your guts twisted. “Complicated for me or complicated for you?”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “Both, I would imagine.”

“Great. That’s just…great.” Between the pain and the unexpected news, you lost your appetite, shredding the jerky with your thumbs instead. “There isn’t…there isn’t somebody else?”

“Not with the same kind of power.”

Night birds called from their perches in the trees as the fire cracked and popped. You forced yourself to eat more of the jerky, hearing your mother’s admonition to clean your plate. Your vision blurred as you thought of her.

“I don’t even know how I got here,” you mumbled, your throat tightening as you felt sobs building in your chest. “If I don’t know that, how will your friend know how to send me home?”

The man offered nothing but silence.

Shifting on the log, you gasped with pain as new waves of it rolled through your legs and torso. Curses flew from your lips as you struggled to find a spot that didn’t ache, anything for a slight reprieve. Tears spilled down your cheeks despite your valiant efforts to stop them.

Slumping onto your side, you curled up beneath the cloak the man had given you, the flames of the fire wavering before you. The ground was too hard, the air too cold. Everything would hurt forever, and there would be no relief.

“You shouldn’t have told me I was awake,” you cried. “You should have let me believe I was dreaming.”

Geralt remained silent.

[kindersurprisebacterium]

Disobedience (Simon Riley / Reader) Chapter 3

Concequence

CW: Murder, depictions of blood, hunting

Gender Neutral AFAB Reader

WC: 2.1k

Chapter 1: X

Chapter 2: X

The bright sun beamed down on our inlet by the river. With a watering can in hand, I tended to the garden in the backyard. The asparagus was nearly ripe enough to harvest. Perhaps one more day. 

The back door swung open. Simon stepped forwards, mask adorned. 

“One of the traps went off. How about you help me bring this deer in?”

And so we hiked to a little clearing in the woods, down the hill, and west of the stream. Dangling from a tree was a white-tailed deer. It writhed against the rope trap. A pant of guilt struck me as I watched the animal. After all, I was in a strikingly similar position just a little bit ago. 

“I’ll kill it and you can help me carry it back,” he proposed. I nodded, watching as he carefully sliced the deer's neck. It was a quick death, a matter of seconds before the animal went limp. I hoped it was painless too. 

And so I slung the corpse over my shoulder, waiting for Simon to set the trap again. He set the end of the rope out and covered it with leaves and dirt. In the center of the trap was a small pile of dried fruit.

“Alright, let’s go, love,” Simon slipped his pocketknife into his shorts. We slipped into the tree line, following the familiar path back to the cottage.

A metallic clank drew my attention. Standing in the clearing were two armed soldiers adorned with the crest of Blackburn. I couldn’t recognize them with their visors on, but it could’ve been anyone in my fathers conclave. 

“Your fathers been looking everywhere for you,” one of them spoke. “It’s not a good look on him to have his only child flee before their wedding arrangement.”

Simon stepped forward. I nudged him with my elbow, urging him to stand down. 

“Tell him I’m dead. I’d much rather be here than in Aysgarth.” My words were blunt and uncouth. Much to be expected for someone with a corpse over their shoulder and a devilish creature at their side. 

“Suit yourself,” one of them grunted. The two guards turned away, trekking eastward through the forest.

Simon gently placed a hand on my blood-stained cheek. He leaned in close, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. It was his silent way of showing he understood. 

I’d grown accustomed to his manners in the span of almost a week. He placed his hand on my thigh whenever I’d come down from an orgasm in an attempt to ground me. He’d do the same if I was upset. 

He stopped adding hot peppers to his dishes after one complaint of it being too spicy. If I got pulled away from my reading, he’d bend the corner of the page without me asking him. 

He kept my favorite quilt, the one that smelled most of him, on the back of the couch. 

Love was a word that described this relationship well. It was also his nickname for me. It sounded good on his tongue every time he spoke it. Bliss was a close second to describing how I felt when I saw his fuzzy face.

He made me feel strong when he asked of me to carry the deer. He assumed more of me than anyone else had.

We arrived back at the cottage with the carcass. Simon preferred to prepare the meat outside, so as not to dirty the kitchen. There was a stump from an old willow tree which he used as a makeshift preparation table. 

A small butcher's knife rested on the stump. 

I stepped inside the house and brought a pot of water to a boil. Surely a plate of asparagus would go well with cooked venison. 

After dinner, and before sunset, we shed our stained clothes and went for a swim in the river to wash off. I grabbed Simon by the horns and pulled him in close. My fingers dug into the spot just behind his horns. I knew he couldn’t reach this on his own.

He whimpered, dropping his head to my chest. I laughed, moving my fingers to the space behind his ears. He pressed kisses along my collarbones. It was a moment of vulnerability, something I’d caught more and more glimpses of as we grew accustomed to each other's presence. 

“Simon, you’re so sensitive,” I chuckled. He gripped my waist and hoisted me into the air. I crossed my ankles behind his back, holding tight as he lifted me onto the banks of the river. 

“How dare you mock me like that,” he laughed as he placed me gently onto a towel. 

“Simon,” I whined, “I’m not mocking you. It’s adorable seeing you react.”

He huffed and faked an exaggerated pout as he towel dried me off. He took a bit too long drying my thighs, taking extra time feeling my skin. I pulled his shirt over my head and slipped into some shorts. 

Knowing that towel drying is an arduous task for someone with his coat length, he stepped into his shorts. We’d deal with the damp sheets another time. It was far too late to ponder that now. 

As we slid into bed, he pulled me into his arms. The quilt shook as his tail flicked. The last candle had long since been blown out. It was only the moonlight now which faintly illuminated his face. 

In this peaceful silence, he looked beautiful. His long lashes perfectly framed his closed eyes. And his lips, how plump and perfect for kissing they were. I knew then, looking over his sleeping form, that I loved him. Truly loved him. 

When we rose in the morning, something was wrong with our garden. Our produce was chewed up, withered, and dying. On the underside of leaves were freshly laid eggs. Somehow, slugs and vermin had made it past the fence. 

“It’s nothing we can’t fix. I’ve got some seeds inside. Why don’t we plant a new garden?” His optimism was something to be admired. I supposed for tonight we could just have venison, at least until we found something to forage.

While he looked for the seeds inside, I took to digging up the wilted crops. Stomping the shovel into the dirt would be much easier if I had hooves like Simon. Or at least something more than just ballet flats. 

Despite my lack of adequate footwear, I dug up the garden and divided the land into small sections. Tomatoes in the left corner, carrots and asparagus in the right. Tubers had their own section by the back window. 

I watched as Simon carefully planted the seeds. He gently scooped up dirt with his hand and covered the seeds. He stuck his tongue out when he was focused. I found it adorable. 

I set out to look for game while he finished sowing the seeds. The forest seemed quiet today. The usual chirping and crowing from flocks of birds was no more. Even the chirping crickets had faded. It was eerie, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had their eyes on me.

I wrapped my fingers around Simon's pocket knife. While useless against any stalking predators, it was a reminder that he was only a shout away. 

I reached the clearing, the same one with the bubbling stream that I’d met Simon in. The rope trap hadn’t been triggered yet. Sighing, I stepped forward to check the bait. My eyes widened as I got a closer look at the rope. 

It was neatly cut, as if with a knife. The end of the rope dangled against the tree. The bait was gone, meaning a deer had been nearby. Someone had freed it. 

A small crack echoed through the forest. I followed the noise with my gaze, landing upon a familiar face. Donned in his finest chain armor, with his beard streaked with dirt, was the marquess of Blackburn and a handful of soldiers from his battalion. 

My father’s face was scrunched up in anger. His face was cherry red, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d’ve expected him to whistle like a boiling kettle. In his bruising grip was a torch to light his way through the dense tree cover. 

I turned on my heel and sprinted into the tree line. I could hear my heartbeat swishing in my ears. My hands shook as adrenaline coursed through my veins. Once the cottage was in sight, I shouted.

A set of familiar horns appeared from the side of the cottage. Simon ran to encase my body in his embrace. 

“What happened?” His voice was soft. 

“I’ll tell you what happened…” a gruff voice spoke. The troop of men had made it to our doorstep. My father stepped forward, handing his torch to one of his men. “You went off, dabbling in the sins of the flesh. Do you have any idea what this cost me?”

“Can you at least tell the earl of Aysgarth that I’m sorry-“

“No. Nonono, once he heard of what you did, giving yourself to this…filthy creature, he wanted nothing to do with us. Not even a forced apology could quell his wrath,” spit flew from his mouth as he snarled. He seemed more beastly than the man by my side. “I don’t know how I could’ve raised a whore like you.”

“What did you-” Simon started. 

“I saw the way he touched you in the river. I know how whores like you act. You’re no different from the prostitutes in the brothel.”

My throat ached. I could feel the familiar burn of tears rising in my eyes. I clenched my jaw tightly, concealing my rage from inside me. 

His sweaty hand grasped my wrist, pulling me from the embrace of my beloved. 

“You deserve nothing but to rot in prison,” The Marquess spat. 

In that moment, something ignited in me. Something that I still can’t quantify. My body moved on its own, grasping the blade within my pocket. 

In one swift movement I lashed out, cutting his throat in one quick slash. His grip on my wrist went limp. In a matter of seconds he was on the ground, grasping at his severed throat. 

In that moment, he was nothing more than a deer. Nothing more than a thrashing corpse on a rope. Nothing more than a blockade to my freedom. 

My chains snapped at that moment. The overwhelming sense of freedom coursed through me. 

If the head falls, so shall the body. It was something he’d said in meetings. It seemed especially true when his troop of armed soldiers fell back, dragging his bloated body with them. A trail of bright red blood streaked the grass. 

He scrubbed my body of the blood in the river. Tears ran down my face. My voice came out in ugly, choking sobs. I didn’t quite understand why I felt this way. Why was I crying over someone who hurt me, treated me like nothing more than a possession? 

He carried me into our cottage. My crying quelled once he took me into his arms. He placed my towel-clad body onto the mattress, joining me under the heavy quilt. His lips were soft against my skin as he trailed kisses up and down my neck. 

He ran his fingers up my side. His fingers traced circles into my skin. I hooked my arms around the back of his neck, pulling him closer to my chest. 

“I love you, Simon,” I spoke against the soft blonde curls on top of his head. He pulled back, horns clanking against the headboard. His brown eyes locked onto mine. They seemed more vibrant, even in the low lighting. 

“I love you too, dear.”

As the winter passed, our crops flourished. This time, with no sign of infestation. The birds woke us up in the morning with their chirping, and the crickets sang us to sleep with their song. 

His thick curls shed as the heat of summer slowly crept up on us. Every now and then, I’d take him into the backyard and brush his coat. Clumps of golden fur were swept up by the wind or taken by the birds. 

We settled into a comfortable routine, sometimes stepping out of that safety with a trip to a neighboring village whenever I wanted a new book. Simon would always pick out a ceramic figure or a new bottle to take home. 

One night, the smell of cinnamon drew me from the garden. Simon stepped into the backyard with a silver plate in his hand. 

“This was on the porch,” he explained, handing me the dish. It was a cake, exactly like the ones my mother would make me in Blackburn. Beside it was an orchid. I could smell her perfume lingering on the platter. She picked lavender as her signature scent, adding hints of vanilla for an extra “pop” as she called it. 

And so a new head had sprouted in place of the old one.

Masterlist

[lizardsquisher]

So before I was writing a Veilguard fanfic reflecting my utter adoration for Emmrich, I wrote an Origins/Inquisition-inspired fic about Warden Amell dealing with her breakup with King Alistair and reconnecting with Cullen. If that sounds like it might appeal, check out this sample.

🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹⚔️🌹

A Rose for Lady Amell

Chapter One: Sympathy for the Bedeviled

Midsummer looked good on Denerim. Three years after the Blight had rolled through, spewing fire and chaos, tearing the nice parts of town to rubble and reducing the shady bits to ash, she was almost completely rebuilt. Her weathered face renewed, her stones freshly mined, her daub and wattle houses freshly daubed and wattled, she beamed under the cloudless blue sky like a stately lady instead of the half-maiden, half-crone she’d been before. 

           She would seldom look as fair as she did on a parade day. Garlands of red and yellow flowers bedecked every shop and dwelling, no matter how humble. Gold and silver streamers twinkled from the fences. And the parade route was marked by banners bearing the king’s crest—a pair of mabari rearing towards one another. The hounds were supposed to look fierce. But King Alistair fancied that they were playing with each other, about to pounce and roll through the grass, yipping happily. That would certainly represent him better than snarling beasts. He was not much of a snarler. Although, it had been ages since he’d last yipped.

            He stood on the ramparts of the royal palace. The stretch of road that unfurled ahead of him teemed with people, a rippling, colorful mass waving flags and throwing flowers. And down the center of that sea of adulation, his true love bobbed towards him on the back of her shining black horse. She was a fine sight in her ceremonial armor—the polished silver contrasted nicely with the rich gold of her hair, which had been twisted up on her head to spill back down her shoulders like the plume on a knight’s helmet. Those locks swept here and there as she gazed around in amusement. She always looked surprised by the reception she received in Denerim. As if she hadn’t killed an archdemon three years ago and saved the world. Not to mention spending the years that followed rebuilding the Grey Wardens and driving the remaining Darkspawn back into the shadowy recesses of the earth. But then, she was a mage. People seldom cheered for mages. There was usually more whispering about abominations and waving holy symbols at them when they weren’t looking. Oh, and locking them up in stone towers to be chopped down by Templars at the slightest provocation. So perhaps her surprise was understandable.

           This little display was to celebrate her latest campaign. His advisors told him that it was good to keep her in the public eye. To remind the people of his own heroics by association: the king who once fought side-by-side with the Hero of Ferelden. People devoured the story of their adventures. And they sighed and swooned over their romance. Nothing moved the masses quite like forbidden love.

            Himself, he thought forbidden love was overrated. But no one ever asked him. Probably because he got grumpy when people talked about those stories in front of him. As if he and Renara were characters in a ballad, and not people who’d been rewarded for saving the world by losing the one thing they’d wanted the most. He didn’t feel bad about his resulting snarkiness. That kind of thing would make anyone grumpy.

            Renara drew nearer to the shadow cast by the palace. She was close enough now that he could make out the sweet curve of her cheek and the blue of her eyes. Someone threw her a rose. She caught it deftly. A smile played across her lips as she sniffed it. Then, as if she could feel the weight of his eyes on her, she looked up at him. Smiling, she tucked the rose in her hair and gave him a wave. He waved back. The red rose looked lovely in her hair. And it broke his heart a little to look at it. He wished she hadn’t done that. 

            He went downstairs to meet her. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46538692/chapters/117189202