#I queue you would forget forget-me-nots

[sageandscorpiongrass]

could you do a web about loving someone who doesn’t love you back

certainly!

I Wish That You Loved Me.

I Swear Somewhere This Works, Trista Mateer | For the Best, Gregory and the Hawk | Today Means Amen, Sierra DeMulder | from the unsent project | poem I wrote sitting across the table from you, Kevin Varrone | The Garden of Eden, Ernest Hemmingway | Cascando, Samuel Beckett | Hungry Thread of Nerves, Fatima Aamer Bilal | Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude, Ross Gay | @/haematiclove on twitter | Lullabies, Lang Leav | In a Dream You Saw a Way To Survive, Clementine von Radics | Don’t You Dare (Make Me Fall in Love With You), Kaden MacKay | Honeybee: Baggage, Trista Mateer | If This Were My Book The Ending Would Be So Different, Natalia Vela

[text transcription in alt text]

[coughdontfeelwellcough]

Sicktember - The only place we're going to is the pharmacy

Fandom: my own ocs Sophie and Casper.

Words: 1225

Author's note: Let me introduce you to my latest ocs, Sophie and Casper. This will be the first part of a trilogy with these two as they get to know each other and suffer (just a little bit.)

Part two will be posted on Sep 14th and part three on Sep 21st.

Hope you enjoy!

Part 2 Part 3

The Wildcraft Bakery sat in a quiet corner of Notting Hill where it had been run by three generations of the Morales family, Sophie Morales was the youngest and current owner at just 27 years old, having inherited the business from her Abuela. Sophie’s mother had shown about as much interest in baking as she had in raising her daughter so Sophie had  been left to continue the family legacy alone. 

The sun had barely risen when Sophie arrived at the bakery and It didn’t take long for the smell of freshly baked bread and cake to fill the premises, a small queue of people forming outside ready for their fresh loafs, warm from the oven. It always made Sophie feel like what she did mattered, that people would willingly queue outside in the cold for a chance at her baked goods. 

“Morning,” she greeted as the first customers filled into the warmth of the shop. 

“Morning Sophie, got you any sourdough loaves today?” asked Mr Donald, a man in his seventies who came in every day and always asked for the same thing. 

“Yes, I’ve just cooked up a batch this morning. How many would you like?” 

“Two please, and throw in some of those delicious churros of yours,” 

“Of course, coming right up.” 

The early morning rush never lasted long then there was a lull before the real morning rush began. Casper who worked in the bookshop next door was usually one of the first ones in but it seemed he was running late. Sophie tried to ignore the niggling feeling in her gut when he didn’t appear. She’d grown so used to seeing him, they’d actually become quite close in the two years he’d been coming in. He was easy to talk to and seemed to genuinely care to hear about her day, unlike most customers who only cared about catching their next train. 

Sophie was brewing a fresh pot of coffee when she heard the door squeak open, she looked up to see Casper walk in. He was almost an hour later than normal, he was also bundled up in more layers than was necessary for the October weather, wrapped in a thick coat, hat and scarf. 

“Good afternoon,” she teased. 

“I don’t know what’s good about it.” 

His voice sounded like his swallowed gravel, raw and painful. 

“Oh no, have you got a cold?”

Casper shook his head, swallowing painfully. “Just a sore throat, I’ll live.” 

He sounded like someone had taken a lawn mower to his throat and judging at how pale and clammy he looked it properly felt like it too. 

“Do you want your usual?” Sophie asked. 

“Could I have tea instead? Think I might need it..” he said, breaking off into a few hoarse coughs. 

“Of course, I’ve got some honey in the kitchen, would you like some in your tea?” 

Casper nodded, not trusting his voice. 

Sophie quickly went about making his drink, adding a few good helpings of honey. She hoped he would take it straight back to his flat and get some rest, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard someone sound so unwell. 

“There you go, and I didn’t forget your croissant,” she said. 

“Thank you,” he croaked, his voice getting weaker by the minute. “I guess I should go and open the shop.” 

“You’re planning on working? If I were you I’d be going straight back to bed,” Sophie said. 

Casper shrugged, coughing dryly into his fist. “It’s just a sore throat.” 

Sophie doubted that, she could see his swollen glands from across the counter and it was a mystery he’s breathing at all judging by how scratched up and swallowed his throat sounded. Not to mention the way he’s clinging to his tea like it's the only thing keeping him warm. 

“Are you cold?” Sophie asked, it was as hot as it ever was inside the bakery but still Capser stood trying to suppress a shiver. He opened his mouth to speak but only a croak escapsed, he tried to clear his throat but it just made him cough. Each one sounded like they were tearing at his throat. 

Sophie didn't understand how he was still standing. If she was in his place it would take a nuclear explosion to get her out of bed, and maybe not even then. 

“Should probably get to work,” Casper wheezed, there was an audible crackle to his breathing that Sophie didn’t like one bit.

“No, the only place we’re going is to the pharmacy,” 

“We?” 

“Yes, you obviously can’t be trusted on your own and I don’t want you infecting all my customers.” 

Casper looked like he wanted to protest but was overtaken by another coughing fit, leaving him weak and dizzy. 

“I.. I don’t feel great,” he admitted. 

“I can tell, at a guess I’d say you’ve got strep in which case you need some drugs so let’s go.” 

Sophie placed the ‘back in ten minutes’ sign in the bakery window and together they started down the street. 

Luckily the pharmacist was only a few streets away as Sophie didn’t want to leave the bakery for long plus Casper was looking dead on his feet as he slowly shuffled along beside her. She couldn’t fathom what had possessed him to get out of bed, he clearly felt miserable and was no doubt running a fever. Was he trying to infect half of London? 

They arrived at the pharmacist, Casper coughing into his sleeve as they entered the building. 

“Now, what do you need?” Sophie asked. 

Casper shrugged. “Medicine, I guess? I haven’t taken anything.” 

Sophie had to resist rolling her eyes, how could someone be this useless at taking care of themselves? 

“Okay, let’s get you some help.”

After a quick visit to the pharmacist on duty and a rapid test it turned out Casper did not in fact have strep throat but he did have laryngitis. As well as having a fever of 102.4, his vocal chords were so inflamed she was amazed he could still talk. 

“Well this sucks,” Casper rasped, clinging on to his bag of antibiotics. 

“You’re lucky it isn’t strep, I’d have killed you if you’d gotten me sick.” 

Casper tried to glare at her but he looked too pathetic to pull it off and Sophie laughed at him. 

“At least you’ll feel better in a few days,” she said. 

“Sophie.. Thank you. I wouldn’t have gone if it weren’t for you and then I’d be even more miserable.” 

Sophie felt her heart swell, a tiny crack in her armour. “You’re welcome.” 

They walked back toward the baker until Casper stopped outside a Chinese restaurant, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. 

“This is you?” 

Casper nodded. “My flat is above, nice place if you don’t mind the smell of noodles.” 

Sophie laughed, it was the first mildly funny thing he’d said all morning. A little bit of the normal Casper peaking through. 

“Get some rest, I don’t want to see you until you no longer sound like a member of the undead.” 

Casper chuckled, coughing lightly. “Okay, thank you again.” 

“My pleasure.” And it had been, the chance to spend a few extra minutes with her favourite customer was always a joy. She just wished it could last a little bit longer.

[katsukisbeatingheart]

sing to me

soulmate au where you can hear the songs stuck in your soulmate’s head. the closer you are to them the quieter the music becomes, before the voice changes altogether.

word count: 2,440

a.n.: helo i have a few of these typed up and a few others in progress explicitly for soulmate aus. it’s the least angsty one so far so here you go friends.

(psst here’s dabi’s)

(psst here’s sero’s)

(psst here’s bakugou’s)

listen while you read 👉👈

ao3

Shinso Hitoshi did not sing, and isn’t the type to give even so much as a hum. But when he did—of his own volition, mind you—he never did so in front of people.

Which is how he knew this soulmate bullshit might not actually be all that contrived.

Sometimes he’d catch himself embarrassingly humming or whistling in public—usually to the absolute amusement of his friends and family—stuck with songs in his head he hadn’t even ever heard of. And it was in times like that he’d begin singing something ridiculous back, as his own petty way to clearly say ’stop’.

When the music would disappear, he’d chuckle lightly to himself and continue about his day.

Only to fall asleep that night to you whispering sweet, sweet literal nothings from the far side of his mind. Barbie Girl was a slap and a half, but if he had to check out with it rolling around in his head at two a.m. for the third night in a row, he’d dedicate his waking hours to annoying the hell out of you.

See how you liked it being startled awake���hopefully, he wasn’t 100% on the time difference—by Caramelldansen.

There were even a few times where you’d try to push music into each other at the same time. Like hijacking a radio frequency, you’d change channels on each other all day and all night until it was a warbled cacophony of noise, bordering on a headache big enough for a small city. Rarely would either of you concede, but if and/or when you did, you’d make sure the song was something you both liked.

At any other rate, Shinso had to give you credit for your taste in music; even if he didn’t recognize a fair few, he’d remember the lyrics and scour the internet later looking for them like his life depended on it. He already had a building playlist of the songs you’d sing to him—separate ones for the songs he knew, the songs he didn’t know, and his personal favorites. He kept those to himself like trade secrets, deflecting questions about what he was listening to or what kind of music he had on his phone.

Oftentimes, it was easy to guess how you were probably feeling if he just listened. There were queues of songs that made him feel relaxed and incredibly focused—which he assumed did the same for you—and others that just set him on fire.

Then there were days he felt like he was walking around with water in his shoes and a storm cloud lamenting with taut strings and frail keys. It was days like those that he liked to physically, consciously hum meme audios—or if the sadness was particularly dour, he’d find a quiet place, and sing songs that meant the world to him. Shinso wouldn’t hear anything back, and assume you were singing too.

The music said a lot about you, which was a considerable feat as he had never met you before, and he wanted to be selfish. He didn’t want to spoil what was special to you and him before he even got to see you.

You definitely worked your way around that, the maddening anonymity—using song titles to give away bits of information about one another as generously as you could. Favorite colors, films, seasons; all objective small talk suddenly turned scripture. He amassed everything in a small journal like priceless treasures—carrying around the value of another life in his pocket as casually as a to-do list. He had the music, but something tangible like this put his mind and heart at ease. You were really out there, and Shinso could meet you someday.

It wasn’t a known secret to anyone that subject posed one of his greatest fears. One day finding someone to spend the rest of ever with, with someone else’s song playing in his head.

In more than a few ways, you helped him remain largely optimistic. As long as he could hear you, he could find you, and as he got older and he acquired more freedoms and was just a little surer of himself, there was a chance.

That hope suddenly burned like ice on one derisively beautiful day.

Shinso dragged himself up the flights of stairs leading to his apartment, sliding around the stacks of moving boxes cluttering up the only way home. He tottered down the hall, and stepped through the threshold inattentively humming a new tune he’d heard that day that he thought you might like.

If there was one thing he could ever count on, it was your consistency.

Ever since you were kids, he grew up with annoying, made up nursery rhymes he still had memorized, as though he’d written them himself. They quickly turned into fun jingles, which then morphed into some of the most beautiful melodies he’d ever heard. Those didn’t usually have lyrics though, so it wasn’t like he could look them up to be sure—and yet he somehow knew they were original to you.

It was then that he realized, he had never gone a single day of his life without music.

So, when he sat back after a long night of work and readied himself for at least a few hours’ sleep, he froze. Shinso hadn’t heard a beat of song all day. Not anything besides what might have been jumping around him as he went out for errands or to the agency. 

With a harsh shake of his damp hair, he swiped a towel over his stony expression. His clenched jaw was starting to drive an ache into his skull.

You probably slept all day, he reasoned.

Even though he was sure you’d sent songs to him in sleep more than a few times in your life…

No. Absolutely not.

He shook himself free of worries, refusing to end the day with fear in his heart where the music should be.

Instead, he closed his eyes and slipped into a tune he’d fallen asleep to before—one that he was sure you created. It rained over his restless consciousness like sun-drops and star-dew, pulling steady, even breaths out of him and pushing a gentle weightlessness in.

The next morning, however, brought even more questions Shinso was just slightly afraid to have answered. Still no sign of the little voice that sounded like him, but was not his own. He absently picked up on a lilting murmur somewhere from upstairs, and anchored to it the more the weightlessness slowly began disappearing.

Shinso shrugged off his nerves, whistling light and roses into the bathroom mirror through his teeth. He splashed cold water into his face and closed off the tap with a huff, sending a final apprehensive glance to his reflection before heading out the door.

He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly ineffably compelled to turn into the shop on the corner after a quick run to the market—but he is. Maybe it’s the incoherent and yet still familiar ringing in his ears, clear as a bell ushering him along his spontaneity.

Shinso’s morning started jittery and threatened to boil over in anarchical agitation. Strolling down the street with the absence of his wonted metronome, hands in his pockets tapping to the beat of an abandoned drum, he felt he stuck out like a loose screw. He was mindless in his trips to each store as he blindly reached for things he was vaguely sure he needed.

It was when he had stepped out onto the corner that something inexplicable snapped into place.

Shinso jogged across the street and through the inviting doors of a building whose name he hadn’t even bothered to read. He found himself surrounded by chrysanthemums and dahlias before he realized he’s in a floral parlor.

The redolence of fresh soil and ingratiatory verdure engulfed his wearied demeanour; the petals brushed his cheeks, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d suggest that the bouquets were reaching for him. The salvia and larkspur waved from the other end of the aisle, and he followed their purple buds to the other side of the shop.

He stopped to admire the camellias and daffodils, lightly taking them between the pads of his thumb and forefinger.

Butterflies.

Hitoshi’s eyes widened with a start, his posture straightening like he’d been struck with lightning.

They fill my guts when I look in your eyes.

He pivoted back and forth on his heels, desperately looking to the flowers for an explanation. A voice filled his head for the first time in nearly two days.

A heart that’s young is filled with sweet surprise.

This time though, the voice isn’t his. It’s clear and ringing and it doesn’t belong to him. The usual warmth he felt basking in the sound of music you whisper in his voice does nothing to compare with the exhilaration frothing in his chest now. Shinso ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, sliding it down his neck and over his shoulder.

It’s really not his, he inwardly surmised. It’s like listening to someone from inside a bubble, though; it’s a round and full sound, but he just knew if it were only slightly louder, the barrier would pop and he’d be free.

Only the innocent can sympathize.

It’s yours.

He brushed past the water lilies, clearing row after row as casually as he could in a futile attempt so as to not appear deranged.

I don’t care

The voice bled into his mind clearer, like watching the gentle shift of river to ocean water through facile currents. He turned the last corner with a breath of anticipation. In a final bit of direction, the lilac, heather, and baby’s breath spilled out of an ornate frame, unquestionably pointing to a figure facing away from him.

“About the funny way you wear your hair,” you crooned. You turned to tenderly repot the rosy begonia cupped in your palms, tucking it in place with the most serene gleam Shinso Hitoshi had ever seen. He sighed, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding for years.

“Someday you’ll let me put my comb up there.”

“’Till then you’re beautiful and I just stare,” Hitoshi finished softly.

You almost dropped your armful of forget-me-nots. Your strangled breath caught in your throat, hooked solely on the man standing there waiting. He gazed at you with an amused smile and crinkled, bruised eyes. It’s reminiscent of a sleepy kitten and if you hadn’t been so shocked, you’d have melted in your shoes.

“I missed your voice yesterday,” he drawled almost lazily, crossing his arms over his chest. You cleared your throat, rolling upright with a swing of your hands as they lock together at your back.

“I was going to say the exact same thing.”

His movements reminded you of a large jungle cat, stalking forward with a controlled lethargy tensed in anything but. As eager as you were, you matched him beat for beat, dragging your quivering legs in delicate strides down the aisle.

“So, is this supposed to mean we met sometime yesterday then?”

He stood right in front of you, finally close enough to recognize as the nameless and faceless childhood friend you’d been listening to since you could think on your own. You stepped into him, coming to a stop just before the tips of your shoes met his.

“It’s likely.”

“No way,” he said with a resolute shake of his head. “I’d remember you if that were the case.”

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

He stared you down with a focus you wouldn’t expect from eyes as exhausted looking as his.

“I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.” You bashfully tugged at the fabric of your clothes, the warmth in your chest spreading upwards to beam across your face. Flattening your palm against the expanse of his collar bone, you idly swung your hands over the surface like a pendulum.

“Maybe we just missed each other then—crossed paths without finishing them,” you suggested, twirling a lock of purple around your finger.

“You wouldn’t happen to be moving in somewhere, would you?”

Your head jerked with a small start to twist at him quizzically. How could he possibly know that?

“In a complex a few blocks away from here, yes. Why?”

Shinso’s smile broke into parts amusement and incredulity.

“Looks like I’m your new neighbor,” he grinned. My neighbor? You lit up, eyes twinkling with excitement.

“That means—!”

“You’re stuck with me, yeah.”

“That can’t be such a bad thing,” you started, dropping your voice to push into him more, “—after all, I’m a little new to the area.” You blinked, letting a coquettish simper slide across your features.

“I could do with some sort of guide if I’m going to survive out here, you know.”

“I think I know a guy,” he murmured, a strained husk in his volume.

“Oh, you do, do you?” you whispered under fragile breaths.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning down to angle his face with yours. Just as you reached in to touch his lips, he pulled back suddenly, tapping his finger to his chin in thought. “Tall, blond, black streak of lightning across his bangs—hard to miss. I’ll introduce you; probably just your type.”

You rolled your eyes and punched his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt in an iron fist.

“How could you possibly know my type?”

You pulled his stupid happy face to yours and kissed the mischief out of him, and he dissolved into a tender mess under your fingertips. All of this was new and unexpected, but he imagined seeing, meeting, and eventually kissing you going much different. Shinso hadn’t expected colliding like old, familiar friends; Shinso hadn’t expected missing the way you pressed into him, as though you’d done it a thousand times before. This was a first kiss between two people, but not the first time you’d ever touched.

“Be careful,” he sighed, voice richly warm, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

You languidly pressed your lips to the corner of his mouth, tracing time signatures into his jawline.

“Have been since we were kids, thanks for noticing.”

“You mean to tell me Mr. Snuffles Is My Best Friend was actually for me? I’m flattered.”

“Oh yeah, definitely. Absolutely not about one of my favorite stuffed animals.”

“That’s good to know. And here I was thinking I would have to challenge a teddy bear for your hand.” You laughed heartily, pressing your forehead into his chest.

“Can I walk you home?”

You fingered the fabric of his shirt, leaning in to feel the rhythm of his heart. It was the prettiest song you had ever heard.

“I’m already there.”

[midnightmoonkiss]

I was told by your wonderful wife, birds-have-teeth that you were in need for some asks/requests. How about Izuku and S/O on their wedding day?

She truly is a wonderful wife 🥺💜

Ahh! I dont usually take requests, but this was just too cute to pass up!

I hope you don’t mind that these are headcanons!

Izuku Midoriya X Reader

Wedding Day.

Category: fluff

——————————

First of all! I think their wedding would be set sometime in spring. The time of year where it’s not too hot and not too cool, just after all the leaves and flowers bloom. I mean think about it, Sakura petals flowing in the wind on your wedding day? What a dream.

It sounds crazy, but I always imagined Izuku as the type of person to want to have their wedding outside.. Kind of like- in a garden? Or a forest? You know that the wedding Bella and Edward had in the forest? Kind of like that! Except surrounded by flowers!

Flowers like.. Magnolia, forget-me-nots, tulips, and of course - sakura! Or, well, Cherry blossoms~ Just! Flowers that really brighten up the secluded space. You’d need seclusion, after all, especially since you are marrying the number one hero.

Wouldnt it be so cute to be married under a willow tree, a brilliant white arch covered in white roses and vines standing above you both? Ackk vines.. So beautiful. Oh! Maybe there’s even a little rock pathway down the aisle?

The air is fresh.. Because you’re in the countryside! Maybe even in the mountains. Somewhere where a little babbling brook is not too far behind the trees, its soft bubbling noises relaxing the party-goers. 

Speaking of! Wouldnt a little plant themed engagement ring be the cutest? Something like this! 

Wedding ring.. Well you both have to pick that out dont you?

The wedding day is obviously going to be the most important day for both of you! But also, nerve-wracking as hell. Im positive Izuku has probably freaked out five times since he woke up at 6AM. Maybe a mental breakdown. Yknow. 

He’s a sensitive guy! And he’s terrified! Nono, he doesnt have cold feet. He wants to marry you! He cannot imagine his life without you in it, but God is he absolutely terrified that you might be the one leaving him at the altar.

Not that he doesnt have faith in you! It’s just.. His insecurities and anxieties taking over him. Even after all these years of unconditional love, he still cant help but feel you deserve someone way better than him. And he fears one day you’ll wake up and realize that as well.

But you’d have to be absolutely crazy to even think about doing that, huh?

So yeah. Wedding day morning is filled with Izuku’s best man - Shoto - trying to calm the sporadic man down, bringing Toshi and his mom in to aid as well. He may have thrown up. Who’s to say.

You, on the otherhand, are having a great morning. You’re bouncing with excitement! Ready and oh-so impatiently waiting to marry the man of your dreams in the most scenic area you could find. It truly was a catch! A relatively cheap place - the majority of your funds were spent on food and flowers. You can get pretty good deals on wedding dresses if you’re marrying the number one hero, apparently. So long as they get to display one of your wedding photos.

Hell, it’d help a local business boom, and who wouldnt want that? You got a discount on your bridesmaids dresses as well~

A dream.

But the start time was quickly approaching. Tick-tock!

Soon enough, the both of you are ready to start a new chapter of your lives together.

The scene is set! Your husband-to-be stand beneath arch drenched in morning dew, light breaking through the trees reflecting on each little droplet and showering the little patch where your wedding was being held in brilliant lights 

It honestly looked magical, straight out of a fairy tale. Hell, you were about to marry your prince, after all

God this wedding is like every outdoorsy kid’s dream

The piano starts up once the player gets the queue that everyone is ready.

Your friends walk down the aisle first in pairs, bridesmaids with bridesmen, silky gowns flowing in the gentle spring breeze

Soon enough the flower girl trots happily down the aisle, throwing Sakura petals every which way with a happy little smile on her face, dress as white as snow and a little pink belt. 

It was truly a miracle no one tripped on the rocks yet.

Once everyone was in their place, a traditional wedding song began to play. 

Showtime.

Izuku swore he saw an angel the moment those vines swayed to reveal you.

A sunbeam hit you from behind, its golden glow cascading down your body.

Tears formed in his eyes as he watched, paralyzed, as you walked down, heels clicking against the floor

The biggest, goofiest smile cracked onto his face, eyes connecting with yours. All was going to be alright. He had nothing to fear.

He’d probably openly sob while stating his vows, hands trembling as they hold onto yours.. It’d probably be something along the lines of.. “Ever since the day I met you, i’ve become a better man. You helped me grow into who I am today. You guided me towards the path that would lead me to happiness with your loving embrace, with every word of endearment you’d whisper to me, and with love as a whole. I always wondered what it’d feel like to be loved like this, and now that I have it, and that I have you, I don’t ever want to let go of it. Because you’re it, princess. You’re the love of my life, my one and only, my soulmate, and so much more. Every day we’re apart I always think of you. You keep me going. Without you, I wouldn’t be me.”

Something cheesy, yknow! Somethin sweeter than candy corn. <3 what a sap. 

He may have had to wipe his tears a few times… cough.

Surprisingly though, his hands are super steady when he slides that ring on.

A shaky yet firm “I do,” green eyes now a shimmering viridescent as he stares at you with the purest form of love swirling in his gaze.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

His hand reaches up, delicately placing itself on your cheek. He cant help but take this moment in, condemning your smiling, angelic face to memory, the flashes of photos being taken completely ignored as he slowly leans in. 

His lips are softer than they had ever been in that moment, the kiss itself so sugary sweet - the embodiment of innocence and passion. Love.

Eyes fluttering closed, he cant help but kiss you over and over again, each one making both your smiles grow larger until giggles erupt between the two of you.

Oh boy. He had lipstick smudged all over his lips. He couldnt care less, though. Pulling you close to his body, he smiled cheekily over at the photographer for a photo.

HE’S YOUR HUSBAND NOW! IZUKU IS YOUR HUSBAND! Praise the lords. (Y/N) Midoriya has a nice ring to it, doesnt it?

Inko welcomes you to the Mrs. Midoriya family with a hug.

The rest of the day was filled with you and Izuku being stuck together like glue, surrounded by friends and family.

The wedding photos would be filled with you two standing in a meadow, sun raining brilliantly down on the two newlyweds.

ackk just.. sakura petals flying in the wind~ how pretty. Maybe one even lands in your hair and he gets to pluck it out. <3

He’s the happiest he’s ever been.

Hell, he’s sure this is what being high felt like. 

He cant stop smiling! He’s just so so cute.

Of course, a few goofy photos have to take place! Maybe Uravity uses her quirk to make it look like the number one hero is floating away whilst you ‘run’ to try and get him.

There was even one where he and his bridesmen wear parts of their hero costumes to show off a bit. Like Deku wears his hood, Shoto wears his.. Bracelets and backback..? Stuff like that! Truly it’s a weird fuckin photo. But so so dorky and so them.

His favorite photo is definitely the one where he has you sitting on his arm as he flexes. Yep. He turned into a bit of a show off. Could you blame him? Haha.

At night is when the real fun begins. Mainly because of the party! Lanterns are set up everywhere, and due to being so far from the city- the stars are shining in the sky! Much more than youre used to.

Izuku took a dance course, unbeknownst to you (Shoto and Bakugou were forced to join him- talk about chaotic!), so that first dance together is honestly breathtaking. He’s so gentle with you, leading the way and twirling you around.

May or may not have bawled when you danced with Toshinori. 

CUTTING THE C AKE. OKAY OKAY.

It’d probably be forest themed. Green and white blending beautifully together, maybe even a little frosting stream cascading down the side. Hand made models of you and Izuku stood proudly at the top. I guess the flavor would be something you both chose together?

He loves touching your soft hands so holding that knife together is awesome for him.

Oh yea. After the perfect photo is taken, he definitely smears frosting on your cheek - just so he has an excuse to lick it off.

Sticky!

You both leave in a black limo, a “Just Married!” sign placed on the back.

Ahh. honeymoon time.

It’s going to be a long night,

Mainly because..

Well. Traveling- and.. Y’know (;

All in all! It starts off as stressful, and ends in the sweetest way possible.

[revasserium]

Grey Gardens; Iwaizumi?

hq!!reqs temporarily: closed ; all other reqs: open 

send me a number a character and i’ll write you a drabble ;

11. grey gardens iwaizumi ; soulmates!au, with a twist 

when the colors go, the world is quiet. there’s no outrage, no protests, no blood to flood the streets. when the colors go, the world watches, empty eyes and empty gardens, no more flowers and no more loud-mouthed vendors. there’s no mourning, only stolen-voiced acceptance. 

he meets you like he meets anyone, accidentally, your shoulders brushing by in queue of people, waiting for something or other. he doesn’t quite remember. but what he does remember is the flash of blue at the corner of his eyes. he glances up before turning to try and find you. 

(had he seen right? was that the color of the sky?) 

when he finds you, he thinks he can almost imagine the pink of your cheeks, the ribbon in your hair (would it be pink too? or maybe blue, like that brilliant flash of sky). he wonders if your voice would be the color of sunrise, your laughter the shade of the ocean at night. 

“hi uh -- sorry,” he says, because what do people usually say when they meet someone new. someone they wished would become something more than just another person, just another friend, just another passing presence in the vast, colorless world spinning about in a careless universe. 

you look up and gasp, the kind of gasp that makes him think you must’ve seen it too. that flash of blue, or maybe something else -- the color of his shirt (he’d forgotten what it was, but he hopes it’s a color you like) or the dark of his hair or the bright of his eyes. something. anything. 

“hi,” you say, your head lilting to the side. and he was right, your voice does sound like the color of sunrise -- warm and sweet and perfect. and when you smile, he thinks this must be what it’s like to see color for the very first time. it breaks through them like a dawning day, the eggyolk sunlight cracking over his grey horizons, inking his world in color. 

he smiles. 

“the sky,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. he hopes you understand. 

you nod, glancing up, “yeah, i know. i think -- i think i saw it too.” 

he nods too, laughter bubbling up within him like a shaken drink, it spills from him in rivulets and streams. and then a moment later, you’re laughing too; and you're both still a little shy, a little unsure, but of one thing, you both know you’re not mistaken. 

(i found you.) 

it’s uncertain how the phenomena begins, color returning to the world in flashes and flickers. all he knows is that falling in love seems to be the only answer, because the first time he kissed you, there were no fireworks, just the startling green of the grass beneath your hands. and the second time you kissed him, he saw the lemon-yellow heart of a dandelion flower for the very first time. 

and when he presses you into his sheets, the pale moonlight kisses pink along your cheeks, and god, it’s just a beautiful as he’d first imagined it. you bloom for him like spring, shivering against him, but he promises with his mouth on yours that he’ll trace fire through your veins like setting a forest aflame to remind the sky how to burn -- 

he kisses you with smoke on his tongue and tells you that there’s nothing more terrifying than falling in love. 

“are you scared?” you ask. 

he nods, curling his body around yours in the aftermath, the sheets tangled around you both like the last tendrils of a stolen daydream. 

the moon hangs fat and yellow in the autumn sky; stars gleam against the velvet blue night. 

“scared shitless,” he says. 

you laugh, swatting him with a hand. 

“aren’t you?” he asks when he’s kissed the laughter from your lips. 

you sigh, turning to look at him in the evening light. his lips are red and kiss-swollen. just the way you like them. you smile. and he kisses you. again, again, again. 

“terrified,” you say. 

he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his nose nuzzling against yours. 

“but not shitless.” 

you roll your eyes. 

“what is it with you and shit.” 

he laughs, “nothing! just, it’s a funny word.” 

“and you’re such a funny person.” 

he squawks at your implication. 

“am i not?” 

you shriek as he rolls over you, smattering your cheek and neck with kisses. 

“okay! you’re hilarious! so funny i could -- i could --” 

he grins as he pulls back. 

“shit your pants?” 

you narrow your eyes as you shove a pillow into his face. 

“i’m not wearing any pants right now -- so no.” 

he hums, pressing one more kiss to your collarbone, nipping gently with his teeth. 

“hmm, i like it when you don’t wear pants.” 

“you like it when i don’t wear anything.” 

he tucks his face into your shoulder. 

“yep.” 

you let out a long sigh. 

“well, i guess we can just toss out all my clothes tomorrow. and i can parade around the whole city --” 

he yelps, pushing himself up to look at you. 

“no one gets to see you naked but me. got it?” 

you grin, “greedy, aren’t you?” 

he licks his lips, leaning down to bite at your nose. you make to push him away but he catches your hands and pins them over your head with a vicious sort of grin. 

“nah, only when it comes to you.” 

the next day, you let him buy you flowers -- tulips red as dawn, forget-me-nots the color of the summer sky. you press your noses in them and smile. 

“what’s it smell like?” he asks you, his lips lilting up in a tease. 

(like love.) 

“like flowers,” you say. 

like sunlight after a morning of rain, like stars falling into a sleepy sea. 

like colors, after so long in a world without them. 

like learning to see for the very first time. 

he smiles. he kisses you, before leaning into press his nose to them too. 

he nods. 

“yep. just like flowers.” 

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

Of Poetry and Valentines

I’ve decided that even though I may not participate in every day of @ineffablehusbandsweek I might as well at least write a story for prompt #1.

1. Valentine’s Day -- (3,400 words)

Chocolate Love-A Cake.

Million Heart Cheesecake.

Mint-To-Be Chocolate Candies.

Some sort of cupcake simply titled Heart of the Batter.

Crowley had been standing in Aziraphale’s favorite bakery for over forty-five minutes. He’d stopped even trying to hold up the queue, which now simply flowed around him

Even the pastries without disgustingly twee names were covered in little frosting hearts and other nonsense. Not to mention all that pink.

“Are you ready to order yet?” asked the girl behind the till, handing yet another customer an absurdly elaborate confection that represented exactly six pounds and thirteen pence worth of I love you.

“Nh,” Crowley said, glancing at the coffee list. The flavors of the month started with Cupid Cappuccino and it went downhill fast from there. “Euh.”

“I’ll give you five more minutes,” she said, with far more chirpy good cheer than was strictly necessary.

--

The streets of Soho had been transformed. Paper hearts and cupids in every window; massive displays of roses, orchids, tulips and lilies spilled out in front of every shop, regardless of what they sold; even the nearest pub was covered in bright pink garlands and little red fairy lights.

Did no one in this district have even an ounce of self-respect?

Crowley stepped up to the Bentley and groaned. Someone had tied a red heart balloon to the wing mirror of every car on the street. Someone else had stuck little pink animal and flower shapes all over the windscreens.

The Bentley now sported a paper rabbit with Some bunny loves you! scrawled across it, as well as a large paper flower reading:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

Here’s a Valentine

Just for you!

He pulled them both off and shredded them to confetti, yet all the tiny pieces still managed to look like little hearts. The balloon he transformed into a pink-and-red football and kicked it as far down the street as he could.

Crowley slammed the door of the Bentley as he climbed in, and angrily shoved one of his favorite Wagner CDs into the player. Of course, what emerged was not the prelude to Das Rheingold but Queen’s “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

He slapped the radio off and glared at the dashboard. “Cut that out. I swear to Someone, if you even try and pull that on me today…”

Leaving the threat to hang in the air, he turned the radio back on and skipped to the second song, which was now “March of the Black Queen.”

“Better,” he muttered, and pulled away from the kerb.

--

Aziraphale had never taken to Valentine’s Day, no more than any other saint’s feast day, in any case. He hadn’t commented at all when, almost six centuries ago, it had been co-opted by certain European courts as a day of romance.

Crowley, on the other hand, dove right into it, reveled in it: the poetry, the elaborate tournaments, the sighing tales of courtly love. He was in his element.

After all, a celebration of love might be considered Heavenly, but a day devoted to pageantry and dramatic empty gestures? With an undercurrent of lust masked by a noble myth of pure adoration? That sounded downright demonic.

At least, that’s what he told Head Office. Humans, as always, did ninety percent of the work. Crowley simply observed and dropped a few well-placed suggestions. The poetry got worse, the eloquent love declarations more empty.

By 1800, the exchange of awful verse and sappy greetings in mid-February had become so entrenched in English society that printers had begun to mass-produce cards for the holiday. By 1835, thousands of Valentines – store bought or handmade – were sent through the post every year.

A few more whispered words into the right ears. In 1840, postal rates across the kingdom dropped, and the first postage stamp was introduced. The next February, four hundred thousand Valentines Day cards were mailed all around the country – and, thanks to the changes in the postal system, they could now be sent anonymously.

--

On the thirteenth of February, 1841, an envelope was delivered to A.Z. Fell & Co. Bookshop – there was no sender’s address, no salutation, just a number and street name, hastily scribbled. Inside was a simple piece of white card, covered enthusiastically but inexpertly with white lace; pasted in the center, framed by a heart, was a printed image, a bouquet of red roses and blue forget-me-nots. Below, a bit of gold ribbon surrounded a single word: Devotion.

“I don’t know, Angel,” Crowley grumbled when Aziraphale showed it to him. “Could be anyone. Could be one of your customers. Maybe one of them has a thing for rude shopkeepers.”

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale said, turning the card over to study the pattern of the lace. “There’s something very familiar about it…”

“Familiar?” Crowley demanded sharply.

“I mean, the sender is being very familiar with the recipient. As if they’d known each other a long time.” He ran his finger across the single word. “Perhaps it was misdirected?”

“Nrg.” Crowley shrugged.

In 1842, another envelope arrived. This one held a pre-printed card, a single flower on a pink-and-gold background. A bright red heart, tucked behind a pink ribbon, carried the message:

Paeonia, symbol of happiness sublime

Wilt thou be my Valentine?

More pre-printed cards followed.

In 1843, two birds built a nest, filled with hearts instead of eggs.

In 1846, a couple strolling through a watercolor landscape under the words Valentine Greetings.

In 1849, a little girl in a white dress with a basket of roses, and the words With True Love.

In 1852, the angels started appearing. The first was surrounded by morning glories and gold filigree. Loving Greeting.

1853 brought back the lace and forget-me-nots, surrounding a winged figure wrapped in lace and gauze and little else. With Love and Devotion.

In 1854, a chubby cupid crossed a serene lake in a white-and-gold boat filled with pink roses; a line of white swans bridled with more roses pulled it along. Love’s Message to my Valentine.

“They’re just pre-printed messages,” Crowley pointed out in 1856. “They don’t mean anything. Whoever sent it probably just picked one that looked nice.”

“Oh, no, there’s real feeling behind it, I’m sure. Look at this.” It was the most elaborate yet: white lace, roses, hearts, a dove delivering a heart-covered envelope to a little angel, white ribbon framing a poem, tied in a perfect bow.

Crowley rolled his whole head in an exaggerated gesture. “Trying way too hard,” was all he said.

“Are you jealous?” Aziraphale asked with a grin.

“Jealous? What, that you get sappy misdirected mail? No, I’m fine without.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, studying first Crowley, then the card. “Sixteen years? Without missing one? Surely it must be intentional.”

“Angel, a million of those are sent every year. There has to be some mistakes in all that.”

“Perhaps you’re right…” His eyes ran across the poem one more time.

May this bow of white

Which gives delight

And which I send to you

A token be

Of love divine

Oh, will’t thou be

My Valentine?

“Truly horrible verse,” Crowley muttered. “Does that even scan?”

1857 saw the return of the hand-made cards. Skillfully cut paper, lace, ribbons, flowers – sometimes painted, sometimes embroidered onto linen. Pre-made pieces, painstakingly glued together with endearing imperfection. The messages were short, but hand-written: To My Star. Valentine Greeting. Love Always.

“They have different handwriting,” Crowley pointed out. “Different senders.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale conceded. “Unless the sender is disguising their handwriting.”

“Wh-what? Why would anyone do that?”

“I don’t know. But look – all the ribbons are pasted on exactly the same way.”

Crowley squinted at three different cards. “I don’t see it,” he said flatly. “I think it’s your imagination. Do you want a secret admirer?”

“No,” Aziraphale started slowly, glancing at Crowley from the corner of his eyes. “No, on the whole I’d rather have an admirer I knew.”

“Mh. Why do you keep those, anyway?”

“Oh, I love a mystery.” Aziraphale felt the grin slide across his face. “Anonymous cards, mailed to my shop every Valentines Day for almost twenty years? Simply irresistible, wouldn’t you say?”

Crowley, apparently, had nothing at all to say.

In 1862, the poetry returned, pre-printed again but at least somewhat better verse. Around a watercolor that was possibly meant to depict Romeo and Juliet:

I may wander over land and sea

Pass many days away from thee

Yet my heart can never rove

From thee, my own, my love.

Aziraphale professed it was his favorite yet, but Crowley only scowled.

--

The greatest shock was the card that arrived in 1864.

Aziraphale had not expected anything that year. The envelope sat in his hands, as simple and anonymous as all the others. Inside, a heart-shaped card framing an almost embarrassingly cute cat.

This little kitten,

Valentine,

Has come to ask you

To be mine.

He suddenly realized he had made a grave miscalculation. If these cards were still arriving after…after certain recent developments…that could only mean…

Well. At least Crowley was no longer around to realize what a foolish conclusion he’d jumped to.

Another print arrived in 1865, a young lady holding a tulip to her nose.

Oh! Would I were the flower that sips

The honied kisses from your lips.

My Darling Valentine.

The card tumbled from his trembling fingers.

Why? Why did he even bother opening it? Why did he keep them even now?

Aziraphale grabbed all twenty-five Valentine’s Day cards and thrust them into a box. He found a spot on the highest shelf of the bookcase furthest from the door, tucked the box into a corner so gloomy even he could barely spot it. He was absolutely determined to forget any cards had ever arrived.

The envelope that arrived in 1866 was tucked, unopened, into a thick volume of Greek philosophy and pushed back onto a dusty shelf. Aziraphale swore no matter how many more arrived, he would never look.

But, as if a spell were broken, no more Valentines were delivered after that. And the last one remained unopened for over seventy-five years.

Until, two nights after a certain incident in a church, he found it again, hands shaking from the exertion of the search, from the unnamed emotions racing through him.

The card inside was gold and silver lace, simple yet elegant in a way he hadn’t remembered the others being. There was an earnest charm to the way the edges didn’t quite line up to the white paper underneath. In the center, a printed poem, surrounded by hand-painted flowers in more varieties than Aziraphale could name.

Valentine –

Fain would I guard thee through life’s desert drear

And fling around thee love to soothe and cheer

For thee I live might I but call thee mine

I’d be forever thy own Valentine.

He didn’t know how it was possible, but only one being in all Creation would send such a poem.

Aziraphale sat down on the floor of his shop. The tears he’d been holding in for two days finally began to fall.

--

After Crowley woke from his extended nap, he was disgusted to find how the holiday had spiraled out of control, how it only grew worse with every passing decade. Chocolates. Jewelry. Mass-market commercialization. It became a million-pound industry, and eventually a billion-pound one. Where once hopeful lovers could send a chintzy greeting card for a few pennies, the fools now spent a week’s pay – or more – on useless trinkets, somehow convinced it would ensure a return of affection.

And the engagements! The diamond rings, the elaborate proposals.

It was an absolute mockery of the cheap, empty exchange of sentiments he had spent so long cultivating. Was nothing sacred?

He was sure the Americans were to blame.

And yet now, when the holiday was devoid even of the anti-meaning Crowley had worked so hard to endow it with, now Aziraphale took notice? Now he began decorating his shop with angels even more absurd than the ones he usually collected? Now he put vases full of dried flowers on every table – roses and carnations and tulips in pink and red and white?

Every year, the traditions grew worse, yet Aziraphale only embraced the holiday more.

--

The Apocalypse had come and gone. The world had changed. For eight months they’d stood on the cusp of…something.

It was absurd. They each knew how the other felt – there was no denying it at this point – but somehow, after six thousand years, Crowley suddenly couldn’t find a way to say the words. Now it was Aziraphale waiting patiently on him, and if that wasn’t embarrassing, he didn’t know what was.

He just needed the right time. He’d hoped Valentine’s Day could be it.

But here it was, the fourteenth of February, and all Crowley felt was fed up. He couldn’t bring himself to buy the overpriced flowers, the punfully-named treats, even a racy gag gift (of which there was never any shortage in Soho). It just felt…empty.

He walked into the bookshop and prepared to disappoint his angel.

--

Aziraphale had set up a garland of sorts, too, but not paper flowers or bright red crepe paper. Across the two pillars nearest the door – where no one entering the shop could miss them, let alone Crowley – hanging from a string, were twenty-six Victorian Valentine’s Day cards.

Some were handmade – clumsy and uneven. Some were pre-printed – cheap, mass-produced. All were just a little tacky, but in the light of the shop, they seemed to glow with love.

“Ah! You’re here.” Aziraphale emerged with a pile of 19th-century romance novels, which he proceeded to arrange on the front table, to more easily chase customers away from them. “How do you like my decorating?”

“Oh. Uh. You. You kept those.”

“Naturally.” He didn’t even turn away from his task. “They were sent by someone very important to me.”

Crowley gulped. “You worked that out, then?”

“Yes, dear, in 1843.” Aziraphale chuckled, standing a copy of Wuthering Heights on the top of his display.

“Uh…Nh…” Crowley felt his face getting very warm. “You could have said –”

“I assumed, at the time, this was the beginning of some very elaborate prank on your part, and I was curious to see where it might go.”

“You – you said it was a mystery!”

“Yes, that was me playing along.” Satisfied with his display, Aziraphale turned back. “Now, if we’re finally going to talk about this, I do have a question.”

Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet. No avoiding this, it seemed. “Fine. Right. I wanted to tell you how I felt, but it was…it was too much. Too big.” He looked at the ceiling as he talked, the walls, anywhere but at the angel who was now watching him with rapt attention. “You’d just reject it, and I didn’t want that kind of…y’know. So I just – I devalued what it means to say…that…on Valentine’s Day. Made it cheap and easy and meaningless so that when I told you, maybe it wouldn’t seem so big. Maybe you’d be able to accept it. Or at least maybe the rejection wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Soft footsteps across the floorboards, and Aziraphale’s hand on his cheek, drawing his face back down to meet that blue gaze.

“I know. I worked that out, oh, seventy years ago.”

“You what?”

“Once I understood how you felt, well, it seemed rather obvious. I also know why it never worked.”

Crowley hadn’t felt this completely lost since the night the world had almost ended. He reached up and grasped Aziraphale’s hand for balance. “Please…enlighten me.”

“Crowley, dear. A meaningless bit of frippery bought for a few pennies? A quiet I love you disguised as a joke? That’s not who you are. You need a big, grand show of affection, a blazing banner across the sky, or it won’t ever feel real to you. So even when I told you I liked the cards, you couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. The holiday was all wrong.”

“Thanks,” Crowley grumbled.

“Well, I was going to say something when you next sent me a card, only you never did. And so I, well, I decided to encourage the humans to, as you say, ‘go bigger.’ I thought you wouldn’t be able to resist a culture of grand romantic gestures. Only I’m not very subtle and it got rather out of hand.”

Behind his glasses, Crowley blinked.

“So…all – all that,” Crowley waved a hand at the window. “All that was you?”

“Oh, yes.” He smiled apologetically, though the bastard had probably never been sorry a day in his life. “The holiday generally, and also more specifically the state of Soho just now. I’ve been rather giddy lately and it seems to have gone contagious.”

Crowley thought of everything the day had come to mean – the heart-shaped sweets, the over-the-top dinners, flowers that cost as much as an outfit, jewelry that cost as much as a car. Piles of gifts of every description, sky-diving marriage proposals, holiday getaways to Paris or Florence or tiny cottages in snow-filled forests.

“Aziraphale,” he laughed, found he couldn’t stop laughing. “Angel! You…you made a whole holiday of big, stupid, over-the-top romantic gestures for me?”

“Only because you started it.” He slipped his arms around Crowley’s neck, pulling them together, resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. “Happy Valentine’s Day, dear.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s hips, pressing their bodies close. The words he wanted to say danced on the edge of his tongue, waiting for the right moment.  Not yet, not yet. Instead he asked, “Didn’t you have a question?”

“Ah, yes. How did you do it?” Aziraphale pulled back enough to look up at his eyes. “The last three cards arrived while you were asleep.”

“Oh! That’s easy enough.” His hands found their way into Aziraphale’s and, without anyone needing to suggest it out loud, they walked together to the back room and the well-worn sofa, where a bottle of wine waited for them. “I didn’t want to lose my nerve, so I would buy and send the cards five at a time. I gave the post office instructions to mail them one per year. I told myself each time, ‘After the last card, I’ll say it out loud.’ But, well, I always wound up buying more cards.”

Aziaphale froze two steps away from the sofa. “Are you saying you haven’t bought me a Valentine since 1861? This is outrageous.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, flinging himself down and pulling Aziraphale after him. “Have you seen what passes for romantic verse these days? Pathetic. I’m not going to pay…five pounds or whatever it is for that nonsense.”

“Mmm.” Aziraphale shifted to lean against him, flashing another bastard smile. “I suppose the card selection has been disappointing lately. Still, an angel likes a little poetry now and again.”

“Poetry, is it?” Crowley pulled off his glasses and tossed them aside so he could meet that breathtaking blue gaze straight on. Caught one of Aziraphale’s hands and held it to his chest.

Women have loved before as I love now;

At least, in lively chronicles of the past –

Of Irish waters by a Cornish prow

Or Trojan waters by a Spartan mast

Much to their cost invaded – here and there,

Hunting the amorous line, skimming the rest,

I find some woman bearing as I bear

Love like a burning city in the breast.

I think however that of all alive

I only in such utter, ancient way

Do suffer love; in me alone survive

The unregenerate passions of a day

When treacherous queens, with death upon the tread,

Heedless and willful, took their knights to bed.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured. “Well, that’s hardly appropriate for a card.”

Crowley tried to raise Aziraphale’s hand to his lips, but discovered he was shaking too much. “It’s – You’re probably right. But it’s how I’ve felt. For a very long time.”

Aziraphale pulled his hand back, then leaned in to softly brush his lips against Crowley’s. Hesitant. Shy. But when he finished, he didn’t pull back. Crowley could feel the trembling of Aziraphale’s breath, mirroring his own.

“I love you, too,” his angel whispered. “I hope you know that.”

-- end --

Inspired by the pastries at my local bakery, and by a conversation with @angel-and-serpent 

All the Victorian Valentines described are actual cards (I tried to do all vintage, but some may have been replicas/modern cards in “Victorian” style), slightly altered to be easier to describe. I also changed a word or two where the poetry was especially bad.

The final poem is by Edna St. Vincent Millay. I’ve said many times I default write the Husbands as asexual, but then Crowley goes and picks one of the sexy sonnets, so I guess interpret where things go from there as you see fit. (I’m ace myself and not going to try and deny the power of Millay’s sexy sonnets. Look at that thing. I become 5% more allo and 8% gayer every time I read it.)

[writingamongther0ses]

I posted 8,820 times in 2022

563 posts created (6%)

8,257 posts reblogged (94%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@writingamongther0ses

@existential-dread-in-the-am

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I tagged 5,781 of my posts in 2022

Only 34% of my posts had no tags

#queue don't worry - 1,501 posts

#art - 1,191 posts

#animals - 835 posts

#inspiration - 795 posts

#storytime - 523 posts

#other writers - 400 posts

#writeblr - 355 posts

#other wips - 318 posts

#wip - 276 posts

#character - 252 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#sci-fi so she has a holopad. red casing slightly cracked because of times she’s been possessed and threw it at a wall basic white background

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

They said that Lover’s Pond was haunted.

The story depended on the person. Child, spouse, future. From drowning, from dying of despair from a person who never came, to simply being lost. It seemed that every family had lost someone, one way or another, at Lover’s Pond. Ghosts had been seen and bodies had been dragged out. But the water at Lover’s Pond was still clear, allowing you to see your face.

It was said that was because of the ghosts.

Despite the ghosts, the ritual still lived on.

Make a crown of marigolds and forget me nots and take a candle. Walk to the pond at midnight. When you look into the water, you would see your future. It was the subject of many a sleepover, many talking about seeing themselves in wedding clothes or holding a child or being wealthy. All versions of their success. It was the stories that were said out loud.

But it leads you to wonder...

How many looked and saw their own dead face?

149 notes - Posted June 15, 2022

#4

You hate your soulmate.

How long did you spend pining after him? It was after the first scribble appeared on your skin, wasn’t it? Your parents told you it was your soulmate sending a message. They had to run around the house for two hours when it was bathtime because you didn’t want them to wash away your messages back.

You learned art for them. You sketched out pieces of art that you drew on your skin so they could have something pretty. The messages back were always loving- I love your work. This is pretty! I can’t wait to meet you.

He’s the bully at your new school.

Your sketchbook sits open. It’s not the first sketchbook he’s ruined since you’ve entered your new school. But it’s different, since it’s your soulmate sketchbook, and his sleeves are rolled up to show your designs. “I’m sorry,” he says. Unlike the other times, it actually sounds sincere. “I didn’t mean-”

“Get out.”

Your parents are behind you, glaring. They’ve been after the school since day one, when you came home with bruises.

“But we’re soulmate-”

“Get. Out.”

He leaves.

At your request, your parents are allowed to switch schools. You burn that sketchbook. Your parents tell you it’s alright. Not everyone gets with their soulmate.

Maybe next time, they will love your art.

154 notes - Posted January 6, 2022

#3

Aphrodite loves passionately, with violence and breaking and tearing.

The skies, the seas, the sand is red with blood as proof of her love.

“Is this not enough for you, my Helen?”

195 notes - Posted April 27, 2022

#2

She hates white now.

On the day she died, she had been overjoyed to see white. It was the color of her wedding dress, of the flowers she held, the decoration of the chapel. It was supposed to be a joyous color. It was the color she was going to get married in to the love of her life, her groom.

Her groom never showed.

White was the paper that he had written his letter, his apologies that he couldn’t marry her, that he had been having an affair.

White was the wedding dress she still wore when she fell down the stairs. People said she tripped, but she just wanted something else. Red was nice. The red of the blood staining the white of her dress was nice.

And now she wears it forever.

203 notes - Posted January 22, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

The Head Wizard takes a deep breath.

"Dragons more closely resembled birds than lizards."

An outcry of disbelief is the crowd's response.

210 notes - Posted April 23, 2022

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[silversweetpea]

Petal, mi amor, I would actually *die* if you made soulmate Steven or (or, even better, *and*) Marc  content. My absolute favorite kind of AU (I love fluff, ok?) *and* the Moon Boys, *plus* your writing?? An absolute dream come true. If I had a diary, I'd be convinced you were reading it in some way. But yeah! I'd absolutely be interested in reading it, multichapter or otherwise! And I'm still completely obsessed with the Moon Boys. Show or no show.

Sorry I poofed for a few days, I kinda stayed off of Tumblr for a bit after the Moon Knight finale. Gotta learn to cope with the fact that my comfort show is done and there's no confirmed season two at the moment, I guess 😅. I'm glad you're doing better after 'going through it', though!

I'm glad you liked the wedding idea! If you ever do write it, I fully expect to be tagged 😤. (You don't have to, but I would love it if you did.)

Oooh, yeah, I can see how rewatching the movie right before I made the comment about the forget-me-nots might have made it sting more.

Of course I have blog notifications on for you! I made it clear that I love your work!

I've always loved the idea of the little origami stars in a bottle, but I've never actually tried it. Maybe I will some day.

I am receiving all of your origami flowers and kisses and blowing some back your way! I also see that I've got my own emoji tag now. 👀

Now if you'll excuse me, I see two new fics in your masterlist that I haven't read yet so I'm off to get myself some serotonin. 🏃‍♀️

Well the good news is that I have received enough validation and am suffering from enough Moon Knight brainrot that I’m definitely going to do some soulmate material. It’s a weak spot of mine also and I’m in desperate need of more of the boys. (Also Wednesdays suck without them. Marvel please I need season two). 

you’re completely fine! You don’t have to justify taking time away from tumblr, especially not to me. I chronically take days offline when I’m not feeling up to it and just rely on my queue to keep things moving. I do hope that you’re doing good when you’re not online though!!

Oh yeah, wedding with Marc is a story that is in my drafts I’m actively working on it. It’s going to take a second cuz I want to make sure that I’m doing my research and making sure things are represented right for him even if it is just a self indulgent fanfic intermixed with flashbacks but I have major hyperfixation on him right now so I can’t resist. I’m a little anxious still on the idea of tagging people but when it’s done I’m more than happy to tag you if you still want me to!

Right??? I had just rewatched poor peter struggling in the coffee shop and then i opened my inbox and ‘forget-me-nots’ was waiting for me and I lost it fdjlafkdjslakfdjsa [although speaking of movies have you seen Multiverse of Madness yet because I have Thoughts(tm) on that movie]

slkkafjdlksjflsdkajfdlksjafldskfjaioejflkdsjfkldsajfsdfoiejflskajflkejioghrajdsfsda I have no words I’m reduced to a puddle of pure emotion and glee

Oh yeah I love origami stars. But they fall into that same genre of busywork that like knitting does for me? Which is that its simple and repetitive and keeps my hands busy while my mind wanders which is really key for me since I’m super fidgety. I used to make them and put them in my friend’s bags and lockers at school to mimic shooting stars although now that I think about it I have no idea how many of them they actually found. 

Listen I got tired of scrolling through my blog trying to find your asks when i wanted to reread them. I had to do something and the blue dino emoji was right there! it was perfect! 

fdjaflkdjflkadsjfldsajfdsa I hope you like them! And I hope you’re having a fantastic day and taking care of yourself!!! This is your reminder to drink some water if you haven’t yet!!!!

[zoe-engels]

Human Interest Story: A Love Letter to London

 If there is a depiction of gloom in the form of a city, it would be London. The sun never shines, rain is a daily companion, the buildings are dark and cramped, shoved into every possible space, and just stepping out of the house is likely to get you run over by someone rushing past. The city is stress and bitterness in its purest form.

But I love it.

A year ago, if you had asked me, “Zoe, how is London?” I would have responded with something along the lines of, “It’s good I suppose. It’s a city, nothing special really.” Oh, how naive I was. The city had taken my heart piece by piece and I had not even noticed. A year later, and all it took for me to recognise this was to move to the other side of the world. To the sunniest city in Australia, where the buildings are wide and flat, where space is an abundance and cafés close at three. A city that feels like a hug. And yet, the hole in my chest yearns for London.

My heart’s first piece perhaps, I lost to London’s diversity. Soho with its luminous window displays and hipster coffee shops. Kensington with its parks and museums. Notting Hill’s gorgeous house-fronts and flower shops. Brixton, home to the best concerts and night outs. Shoreditch for the best vegan food and street art around every corner. Camden’s markets. Westminster, the Queen’s home. Do I need to say more?

The city took another chunk at Pride. Everybody that has ever attended Pride in London knows how much of a pain, yet immense pleasure it is. Every major road in the city is blocked, which is amazing because it means you can see the parade almost everywhere but at the same time there is nothing more agonising. See, when you are trying to meet up with friends to enjoy the parade, it will leave you wandering around forever, trying to figure out how on earth you are supposed to get to the other side of the barricade. Or it leaves you to find some food in Tescos, only to discover that you have to queue to even get in and when you do, you find all that is left are frozen ready meals. But then, when you sit outside with some fruit you almost gave your arm for, still waiting for your friends that are lost in the crowd somewhere and you start talking to some gay guys next to you, everything is okay. These are your people, this is your city and today is the day you celebrate this, a whole capital joining in.

My next piece fell to the fashion. The street-style is somewhere between hobo-chic and artfully paired designer pieces. The first time I noticed how much it had grown on me was in spring last year after I came back from a trip to Paris. Prior to this, I had just purchased an oversized denim jacket made to look ‘vintage’ with frayed edges and discoloration. Paris had a clean, polished beauty. Paris did not appreciate this height of comfortable fashion. I had neglected to pack another jacket, so I was stuck with it for the rest of the trip and I felt out of place wherever I went. The very day I came back to London, I was sat in a ramen restaurant, wrapped in my jacket and staring out at the red buses driving past, when the waiter came over to ask if everything was alright with the food and to tell me that “oh I really love your jacket” and where had I gotten it? I smiled. I was home.

Now, the next thing is so close to my heart, you better not fight me on it, because I will win. My heart’s next piece went to sandwiches. Whether from a Pret that slowly seem to take over every corner in the city, or in a meal-deal alongside some crisps and a drink, sandwiches are England’s true delicacy. Forget fish and chips, there is nothing better than a store-bought sandwich when you are out running errands or hungry at the end of a long night. At this point, I also have to mention Spoons. There has been no pub-chain more reliable than you, with two for one pitchers and banging meals. I miss you.

The next splinter I passed on to the Metropolitan line. If you ask me it is highly underrated as a tube line. But I also used to live in Harrow, so the Metropolitan line was a literal lifesaver. Later on, the Victoria line got another piece; fast, and free from the usual tourist crowd, it is truly a blessing. London’s transport system in general, although horribly expensive, is one of the best I have seen. Switching tube-lines is effortless, buses go pretty much everywhere 24/7… Just don’t travel at rush hour. Or in the summer.

The last piece of my heart I lost to the people. I have yet to see another city where the ratio of business people versus artists is so balanced. Sure, creatives lean more towards Hackney, with its grungy facades and roomy cafés perfect for spending the day at with your laptop. And sure, you will find more business people near Square Mile, the capital of corporations. But they all share the streets unlike anywhere else, along with families and tourist and celebrities. London is an extraordinary melting pot of social classes and characters. I was lucky to be a part of it.

Yes, London is a metropolis made of exuberant rent prices and constant complains about the weather, but in the midst of it are rainbow flags and passionate people, running towards their dreams. It is the city that accepts everyone and puts a smile on your face with reluctant sunshine. But be careful, you might lose your heart to it.

Target Publication: Time Out London (Print)

[modernwizard]

Operation Save Bill Potts continues with Shalka Dorks on the case!

More chapters of [[ Scream of the Shalka / S10 finale fixit fic, ]] Where There’s Life, There’s Hope, are up at AO3. It’s about Alison Cheney, her robot [the Master], and the Doctor bouncing over from the Shalkaverse to save Bill from the terrifying Twelfth Doctor. Things become slightly complicated as they realize that Bill is working with another version of the Master [Razor] to de-Cyber people and overthrow Dystopiaville’s totalitarian regime. In this excerpt, the Shalka Dorks demonstrate love as only they can: through snark.

“You put the water in my special pot with the forget-me-nots!” says the Doctor. “How was I supposed to know it wasn’t all mine?”

“My dear Doctor,” says the Magister, back to them, “since my Domina has been living with either myself or both of us for the past ten months, I should hope by now that the fact that she too takes tea with her breakfast would have sunken into your exceptionally fact-impervious brain.”

“I am not impervious to facts. They just have to go through a very careful vetting process before they get in. Lots of them become bored and wander off after a day or two in queue.”

Alison drops herself in her tree chair. “Frrrrgggh…it’s too early in the morning for sparkling repartee. Save it till at least after eight.”

[sageandscorpiongrass]

Wisterical, Genya Turovskaya

[roseloverbi]

i was tagged by @ozzery! 

rules: answer the 20 questions and tag 20 amazing followers you’d like to get to know better

name: bri! nicknames: i started going by quincy/q/queue early in high school to avoid being found by friends and family irl! i came out and got scared they would somehow find me,,, so many ppl call me that so it feels weird to stop now   ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  zodiac sign: pisces baby!! height: 5′6″ or 5′7″ orientation: i? love girls?  favorite fruit: blueberries! favorite season: winter is lovely but only when it’s snowy the whole season otherwise it’s fall <3 favorite book: oh gosh i haven’t picked up a good book in ages but,,, i still have a huge soft spot for the winnie the pooh stories? i’ve been reading them to my baby sisters a lot lately and they’re super cute favorite flower: forget-me-nots!! most little flowers in general are Good favorite scent: i almost always pick up candles with cinnamon in it bc it’s super calming. the smell of a warm rainy day is lovely too favorite color: rose gold is very pretty! varying shades of purples have been a fave most my life too favorite animal: i adore blue jays tbh coffee | tea | hot cocoa: i drink coffee daily (probably too much lmao) and hot cocoa when i feel like being warm and cozy average sleep hours: ummmm usually 7 hours but when the babies don’t sleep well sometimes it’s just 4-5 cat or dog person: both! but i’d probably only get a cat favorite fictional character: i have a lot? right now i love and adore lucretia from taz <3 <3 number of blankets you sleep with: just one! unless im sleeping out in the living room with my sisters, watching in a movie or something then it’s an assortment of them dream trip: ummm i don’t really have one? the most important thing about trips for me is who im with! blog created: oh gosh i think it was in the middle of 2012?  number of followers: 197 thank u god,,,, idk how some of u deal with so many people following u lmao random fact: ask memes are fun but a lot of the time i don’t do the ones im tagged in bc im stuck on mobile

im,,,,,,, not tagging 20 people lmao but i will tag @seafucker @wolfhalls @santsebastian @shimmerberrie @tikkitavi @aceraleigh and @homrabubbles

[i-like-yoongi-a-latte]

blog tag 💜

tagged by @firefighter-diaz thank you dear! 💕

1. Why did you choose your url? - I've talked about this in so many tag games etc but I wanted to change my previous url and I didn't want a player specific one. Hockey and bad puns describe me quite well, so then i-like-hockey-a-latte was born. I think it's a cute one too!

2. Any side blogs? - no, it's just this mess 💜

3. How long have you been on Tumblr? - since December 2016 👀

4. Do you have a queue tag? - no because I don't use queue

5. Why did you start your blog in the first place? - I wanted to share some of my drawings in a place where people I know in real life wouldn't see them (except Iina bc she's cool and she talked to me about tumblr) because I was afraid of them judging me. Then I reblogged a ton of different anime things and d&p and then somehow ended up in hockeyblr - oof I rambled but that's what I do

6. Why did you choose your icon/pfp? - because Chan is the best boy 💖 he's my current favorite idol, he makes me smile a lot and I see myself in him somehow~ 😍

7. Why did you choose your header? - forget-me-nots are one of my favorite flowers and it's a cute photo that I took after a lot of tries. I like the colors a lot!! (and they make purple if you would mix them hehe) I have thought of changing it but haven't because I'm lazy 😂

8. What’s your post with the most notes? - this one, a shitpost in Finnish

9. How many mutuals do you have? - 75 if I counted all the sideblogs correctly... I'm so bad at remembering urls and sideblogs 😭

10. How many followers do you have? - 334

11. How many people do you follow? - 154

12. Have you ever made a shitpost? - have you seen my blog? Almost every post I make is a shitpost ❤️

13. How often do you use Tumblr each day? - too much, I find myself coming here if I feel even a bit bored, even if I just left the app, it's a cycle. But I love it here.

14. Did you have a fight/argument with another blog once? - I think I could count this one case but it was mainly others who argued with the person who decided to argue with my post about corona and hockey... But not really, I try not to argue and fight, or cause unnecessary drama. I try to respect everyone's opinions even if I don't agree with them.

15. How do you feel about “you need to reblog this” posts? - Everyone has the choice of reblogging/not reblogging but sometimes the posts make you feel really guilty if you scroll past. So I don't know, kinda mixed feelings.

16. Do you like tag games? - yes I do!

17. Do you like ask games? - yes!!

18. Which of your mutuals do you think is Tumblr famous? - define tumblr famous - is it that they get a lot of anons? They have a lot of followers? Their text posts get a lot of notes? What does one do with tumblr fame, whatever that is?

19. Do you have a crush on a mutual? - ohh you got me, of course I am crushing on my mutuals, they're all cute 🥰

tagging: @heiskasmiro @fangirlinglikealoon @smileysepe @summerteukka @reeddx @prettyboyroope @himbos-on-ice @punkrockmutiny if you like to, no pressure as always x 😇 and I tag everyone else who wants to do this!

[sageandscorpiongrass]

Machine, John Ciardi