#Painting Course Tweed Heads

[peachinstitute]

https://pi.edu.au/wp-content/uploads/2022/06/cpc30620-certificate-iii-in-painting-and-decorating.webp

https://pi.edu.au/painting-and-construction/cpc30620-certificate-iii-in-painting-and-decorating/

[jam3sacaster]

“Ya’ want me to touch ya’ like that?”

(Rivals) Declan O’Hara x Reader

Suggestion by my dearest Miranon🩷 / A budding author, you are introduced to Declan O’Hara by your friend Lizzie, and realise your new book has a profound effect…

18+ FANFIC / SUPER SMUT! Finally some more Declan! Super long, I’m so sorry. Reader character aged at 21. As always, request what you wanna see in my asks 💋

“Bloody hell.” Lizzie Vereker remarks, flipping through pages of your first ever publication. “This is… this is porn!” She speaks through a flustered grin. “Oh God, Lizzie. Don’t say that.” You roll your eyes and tut, anxiously chomping at your fingernails as you intently read her expression. It had been 2 weeks since you had published your first book — something of an erotica. You had recently been taken on by Angler Publishing, Lizzie’s agent. Something to be overjoyed about, but you couldn’t help but be frightened about the public reaction you were to receive.

“Well, I can tell you, it has been quite the hit in Rutshire. I’ve handed out a copy to quite literally everybody I’ve met.” Your foxy-haired companion informed you. A wry smile painted your face, half-petrified by the thought of an entire village dispassionately flicking through your novel. “Well, let’s hope it goes down well.” You sigh.

-

Declan O’Hara, recently unemployed and hopelessly bored, was sat in his arm chair. Lighting a cigarette and huffing out the biggest exhale manageable, he picked up the novel that Lizzie has passed to him in the village shop earlier that week. “What a load of shite.” He quipped to himself as he scanned over the title. Starting the book from halfway through, he happened to land upon one of your more risqué chapters — detailing the most erotic and fantastical scenes. Reaching down to adjust his growing bulge, Declan groaned and spoke into the air, “Fuck me, she’s a dirty girl. Mind of filth.”

It had been a while since he’d been intimate — Maud had took off a few months ago now, with no contact or intention of returning. He was a red-blooded mammal with a carnal instinct, he needed to get his release sooner or later, and it wasn’t going to be over a fucking book. He arose from his chair, closing the book and camouflaging it within his bookshelf. A short snap of the letterbox irritated his ears as he began to stride towards the front door. “The fuck is this?” He asked to himself, bending down to retrieve the small, glossy leaflet that had been pushed through his door. The leaflet advertised your book signing, with a guest appearance from established author Lizzie Vereker herself. “Fuck that.” He rolled his eyes, balling up the leaflet between his palms and tossing it into the paper bin.

-

“Will anyone actually come?” You ask as you watch Lizzie, frantically laying out pens and copies of your book on a fold-up table, carefully prepared outside of the village hall. “Of course!” She lies, wiping sweat from her brow with the back of her arm. Lizzie desperately wanted you to succeed and had personally posted a leaflet through every house door in Rutshire. Whether anyone actually turned up, however, was a different story entirely.

Declan, an ever pessimistic look engrained on his face, began to trudge past the stoned driveway of the village hall, furiously puffing on a cigarette and muttering to himself. “Declan! Declan!” Lizzie began to call, and you immediately rested your head in your hands — today was going to be mortifying. The moustached man appeared to ignore her, but Lizzie would not give up. “Come on Declan, come on Declan.” She shouted, waving him over with every word. The man muttered to himself once more, turned on his heels, and began to walk towards your crudely prepared desk. “Hello, Miss Vereker. How can I help ‘ya today?” He asked, feigning friendliness. You took a quick glance at the man and immediately regretted it. Darkened chocolate hair, rather tedious tweed outfit… but an incredibly intoxicating face. “This is my friend,” Lizzie begins to introduce you, but you chime in with your name and give Declan a small wave, to which he shoots you a small smile.

“I gave you her novel the other day. Did you get a chance to read it?” She asked, speaking in a hushed tone in order to avoid embarrassment.. she knew the answer would most definitely be a no. “I did, actually. I flicked through it last night.” Declan replied, raking a hand over his curled hair. Lizzie looked at you with wildly optimistic eyes, to which you nervously grinned. “Wh-what did you think?” You peeped, clearing your throat immediately after. “You’re quite the little minx, aren’t ya’?” He smirked down at you, avoiding Lizzie’s unsettlingly persistent eye contact. Blushing wildly, you giggle and pick up a novel from the top of your almost-toppling pile. “Care for a signed copy?” You ask, a sanguine smile controlling your mouth. Declan scratched at his beard hesitantly and exhaled thunderously. “Go on then.” Clapping her hands in excitement, Lizzie pushed out a small ‘yay’, and equipped you with a pen. Scribbling your signature into the book, you pushed the copy towards him, keeping one hand on the cover. He repossessed it from you, brushing softly across your hand and smirking at you.

Figuring he may as well take his chance, Declan cleared his throat and pursed his lips in speech. “If ya’ free tonight, why don’t ‘ya come for a drink with me and go into more detail about ya’ filthy book?” A rare smile interrupted his question. “Oh… okay. Where’s good for a drink?” You question, flipping your hair to one side. “Ah, nowhere around here. Lizzie’ll tell ya’ which my house is. If you’re comfortable, I’m free tonight.” He murmurs, turning around and walking away from the table.

“Fuck. Me. Lizzie. He is gorgeous.” You groan, rubbing your hands over your eyes. You couldn’t have been more embarrassed at how you handled the situation. “Oh God, Declan? No, no. Dirty.” Lizzie grimaced, turning her nose up at Mr O’Hara.

-

Some few hours after what seemed to be a semi-successful public appearance, you lay on your bed in solitude. Declan hadn’t left your mind the entire day. After some careful consideration, you decided to at least visit him for a very quick, very small drink. Curling your intricately long eyelashes and swiping gloss over your lips, you scanned yourself in your dressing table mirror — chestnut hair curled delicately and a tight floral dress hugging your curves, accessorised with a delicate pearl necklace and earrings. Taking a quick glimpse at the scrawled address that Lizzie had written for you, you begin to make the bitterly cold journey to The Priory.

Gently knocking on the front door of the luxurious country home, you waited nervously and replayed your earlier conversation in your head — unpicking on every stutter and incorrect word. “Oh. I didn’t think you were gonna come.” Declan spoke as he opened the door. Not quite the grand entrance you were expecting. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I just thought-“ You begin to panic, instantaneously blushing and backing away from the door. After a few painfully uncomfortable seconds, Declan allowed himself a stifled chuckle as he extended the door to let you in. “Ahh, I’m just jokin’. Come in. Lounge is the first door on the right.”

Taking a demure seat on his sofa, you kept your hands bunched up in your lap, afraid of taking up too much space. “What do ya’ drink? Whiskey? Vodka?” He bellowed from the kitchen, voice overcome only by the sound of glasses chinking against each other. “A vodka and lemonade will do, thank you.” You smile, watching intently as Declan entered the living room, pouring out two drinks with a trembling hand. “Did you really like the book?” You ask, pulling your cigarette case from your petite, leather clutch bag and lighting it. Declan followed suit, and subsequently swiped the signed copy of your novel from his coffee table, opening it a quarter way through and reading a sentence aloud.

•

“Alice howled in intense sexual gratification as Edward swirled his fingertips across her swollen clitoris,” Declan began, voice assertive and proud, “Jesus Christ, how are ya’ even allowed to publish this?” He asked, barking out a laugh. Rubbing your lips together in self-consciousness. Declan took note of your diffidence and halted his laughter, coughing brashly from the fumes of his cigarette and reading the next sentence of your book inwardly. “Sorry. I, uh… didn’t mean ta’ embarrass ‘ya.” He sighs, as you knock back the entirety of your vodka. “Can I have another, please?” You ask, and Declan obliges, filling more than half the glass with vodka, and replicating the insane measurement in his own.

“It’s erotica, Declan. It’s very popular. Really, it reflects all of one’s needs and desires.” You tut, tucking a strand of chocolate hair behind your left ear. Halfway through a mouthful of vodka, Declan paused and glared at you. It was the first time he had noticed you — really noticed you. The hopeful glint in your lazuline eyes, the gentle undulations of your shapely figure, the sultry pursing of your reddened lips. Your cheeks glowed the most charming shade of rose as the vodka coursed through your veins. “So, what are your needs and desires?” He whispered, voice gravelly and coarse. “Read the next line.” You hush, taking another large swig of your drink. “Her wetness coated his fingers and his erection grew at the smell of her.” He reads, shifting himself in his seat uncomfortably. “It’s how every woman wants to be touched.” You whisper, inching closing to him and resting your head on your hand.

“Ya’ want me to touch ya’ like that?” Declan growled, pulling your knees apart gently and creeping his hand up your thigh. The heat emanating from your pussy made him grunt in pleasure. Shuffling slightly to allow your dress to ride up to the top of your thighs, Declan pulled at your knee once more until your legs were widely spread. He brought his finger to your clit and gasped, “No pants? Fuckin’ dirty girl.” You softly bite your bottom lip at his words. Nimbly swirling circles around your pink clit, you felt yourself dripping in excitement. You panted desperately at your heightened sensitivity. “Does that feel good?” He asked, delving two fingers inside you and moaning at your constriction around him. You squeaked out the smallest yes possible, pleasure making it impossible to formulate coherent sentences.

Removing his fingers from you and standing up, Declan unbuttoned his shirt to reveal his wildly hairy chest. Gazing at him with adoring eyes, you watched as he unzipped his trousers and pulled his boxers from his ankles. Sitting back down on the sofa and motioning for you to copy, you pulled your floral dress over your head and off — substantially large breasts bouncing through the rhythm. Grabbing your hand and pulling you onto his lap, Declan fervidly crashed your lips together in lust — tongue fighting it’s way into yours and hand reaching up to grab a tight handful of your left breast. Desperate for friction, you began to grind your clit against his firm cock, moans escaping through the gaps of your kiss.

Grabbing your petite waist, Declan hoisted you up slightly and lowered you back down onto his cock. A powerful groan left your lips, your pussy slowly stretching open over his girth. Moving his hands to grab handfuls of your area, flesh spilling between his fingers, he bounced you up and down, his head lulling back in pleasure. “Declan, you’re so fucking big.” You exclaim, steadying yourself on his shoulders. “Am I breaking ya’, my girl?” He grunted into your ear, setting the pace of a madman. The way he could so easily raise you up and down created the most powerful knots in your stomach. “Yes, and it feels so fucking good.” You moan.

Feeling you clench tighter around him, Declan moaned under his breath and released his hand, allowing you to set your own pace. Uncontrollable with ardour, you bounce on his cock with a frantic pace, evermore spurred on by his lustful reaction. “Keep goin’, my girl. I’m gonna fuckin’ cum inside ya’.” The Irishman grunted, keeping his hands by his side and allowing you to ride him to release. “Fuck, Declan. Cum for me. I want it so fucking bad.”

Lowering his head to take a nipple into his mouth, Declan moved his right hand to wrap around your waist, thrusting into you sloppily as he neared his ecstasy. “Are ya’ fuckin’ ready for it?” He asked, cock already twitching in anticipation. You nod lazily, losing control of your function. Grunting carnally as he shot his hot ropes of cum inside you, his grip around your waist tightened and you both panted together, relieved and exhausted. Slowly, lifting yourself from him, Declan watched as his seed dripped from your entrance — a successful symbol of your lovemaking.

“You look so fuckin’ good with my cum inside ‘ya.” He smirked, playing a firm smack on your arse. This would most definitely not be the last time you saw each other…

[cloveroctobers]

OCTOBER PROMPTS 🎃 — 4. Ruby Matthews

A/N: yes it is I! Back with another Ruby piece because why the hell not? Thanks for all the new love on my previous works surrounding this layered character. She’s been fun to watch and it’s only right that I do something else for this final season. Thoughts about it? There were great moments for sure but I don’t think it’s my favorite season, I’ll probably have to go back and watch to fully determine that. I still wanted more for lots of the characters and this season seemed to miss something and it’s not me fighting for the main ships like some of you are arguing over lol. Otis needs to be by his damn self for awhile! + Ruby deserves better than the way he treated her, I’ll say that and know she’ll find her person in the near future once she experiences more growth for sure. Anyways this show was gold! RIP.

PROMPTS from HERE + I’m using: caught in the rain + crunching leaves + “you’ve got leaves in your hair.”

WARNINGS: Reader has a name + fem pronouns. Ruby being a little bitchy towards reader + hints of a potential romance?

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚. ⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚. ⋆｡‧

Thanks to Milou's god-mother, she was able to clock out early from the book shop for the evening since a storm was brewing according to the older woman. It's funny really how Milou tended not to pay much attention to science or the weather whether-*wink* in conversation or just the mere thought of the subject, giving that she was surrounded by a bunch of people that worked in that field. Her absent mother was a meterologist who got a kick out of chasing storms, her late father was a broadcast meteorologist, her paternal uncle and ex boyfriend of her god-mother; who also happened to be her mother's best friend is a GIS analyst and finally her cousin and god-brother was studying to be a hydrologist.

As for Milou? She has no clue what she wanted to be in life, she was simply taking it one day at a time and going with the flow. Which she of course got shit for but she knew she loved books and tattoos. I mean hey! look at her god-mother, she didn’t have this goal board of being something fancy growing up she just stuck to what she loved. She came from a small family, a professor for a father, a step-father who worked in a boutique for two decades, and a mother as a florist. Milou’s god-mother always knew she loved books and candles so she eventually got into owning a book shop, making and selling candles on the side.

She did quite alright with her life if you asked Milou. Milou felt she was similar to her god-mother more than her own mother and figured with each day that the sun rose it would all work out…at least she hoped.

In the distance she sees someone dressed in red tweed attire, walking alongside their bike as Milou drives down the hill. It doesn’t take her long to realize that it’s Ruby Matthews and a smirk spreads on her lips then as she presses her foot on the gas. She thinks about speeding right pass her, turning the stereo up to make Ruby’s attention focused only on the back of her ride but it was interesting nonetheless to see Ruby on a bike instead in her own car.

“What’s this? Not the Queen of Moorfield doing actual labor? Where’s the Royal Chauffeurs?” Milou jokes from the driver’s side.

Immediately Ruby rolls her eyes, stopping in her tracks as she stretched a sarcastic smile over her pink painted lips, “oh Milou, haven’t you learned that harassment doesn’t look nice on you? That can lead to loads of things like imprisonment or pillory.”

“That’s extreme, yeah?” Milou tilts her head or the side while letting her wrists rest over the top of the steering wheel, “You call it harassment, I call it having a conversation with my neighbor.”

Ruby scoffs, “what makes you think I want to talk to someone like you?”

“I dunno something tells me you could use a friend…but if you prefer lonely strolls around town drinking that let me guess, pistachio latte on your own then don’t mind me.” Milou shrugs, pushing her sunglasses back up the bridge of her nose, “good day then, your highness.”

Ruby was more of a decaf tea person since coffee stains your teeth but when stress calls so does caffeine apparently!

And with that Ruby watches as Milou attempts to speed off but the smoke and spluttering coming from her car didn’t sound normal. Part of that gave Ruby satisfaction before she could let the sadness fill in more than anything.

Milou’s been Ruby’s neighbor since she was about nine, moving in from New Zealand, and Ruby always liked how Milou moved to her own drum. There was a time where Ruby considered being Milou’s friend but Ruby was whisked off to camp where she met Sarah— “O” and that changed everything Ruby knew about friendships.

Ruby coughed and fanned the smoke away up ahead…she honestly hoped there wouldn’t be a fire but Milou seemed to take her time kicking the door open and out the way. Cautiously Ruby made some steps forward as Milou whacked at her car a bit after popping the hood open.

“Look at that, your get away wasn’t as stunt like  as you hoped.” Ruby mockingly pouted while Milou side-eyed her.

Milou adjusted the cuffed back denim bucket hat on her head saying, “and what about you? I haven’t seen you ride a bike since we were knee-high.”

‘You still are,’ Ruby thought to herself as she peered at the shorter girl.

“Decided to try something new for college and it’s better for the environment.” Ruby stood up straight as she stated her claim.

Milou snorted at that, “you caring for the environment? Not likely.”

“Excuse me? You don’t know my interests.”

“Course I do. I pay more attention than you think regardless if we attend the same college or not. We lived next door to each other for years, I know enough.” Milou replied as she pushed away from her steaming car.

Milou stood by Ruby who held her analyzing stare, “your chains broken by the way.”

“I’ve noticed, thank you! Why else would I be walking?” Ruby sassed, “It’s not like this street is the best runway with its awful incline.”

Milou clicked her tongue and pointed, “Anything to strengthen the glutes.”

Ruby swallows to refrain from traveling her eyes elsewhere. Milou maybe short as ever but she’s always been athletic as a kid and it didn’t seem to change now into their teens, let’s just say that.

“I am the view, these hills better be proud that I’m even passing through.”

“…This is the only route to our neighborhood.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?!”

Milou laughs with a shrug of her shoulders deciding to switch the minor problem at hand, “I can probably fix that for you.”

“I know how to fix a bike! I just don’t have the tools…”

Milou sighs as she squats down near Ruby who takes a step back and sideways to give the girl some room.

“It’s bent…you’re going to need new chain.” Milou observes.

“That’s just great, as if this day couldn’t get any worse.”

Milou stands up at this, “want to talk about it?”

Ruby sips from her cup and pops her tongue, “Not particularly no.”

“We got a long way home on foot. Are you suuure?” Milou backs up towards her car to retrieve her things.

“Sorry? We?”

“Yes. This thing isn’t going anywhere, my transmission’s been on the brink of blowing at any moment.” Milou says nonchalantly while Ruby widens her eyes, “I’ll have to reach out to a friend to tow this baby up for me.”

“Transmission?! Isn’t that a safety hazard?”

“Oh certainly but there’s not much money in the bank to get a new car so…perhaps I’ll build me one in the near future for cheaper.”

“Wait…you know how to do that?”

“I’m a person of many traits my love.”

“Not your love.”

“Not yet.” Milou winks, popping a lolly into her mouth, “want to leave your bike in my trunk? My guy can fix it up for you and you’ll get it back in a day or two?”

“Thanks for the offer but I don’t know or trust this friend of yours. They could be a thief for all I know.” Ruby sticks her nose up in the air.

Milou snorts as she placed a hand on her chest, “does it really seem like I’d hang out with kleptomaniacs?”

Ruby now side eyes Milou staring at her finger tattoos mainly and shrugs, “who truly knows? You probably hang out at sketchy bars, smoke by dumpsters, and illegally race cars on the outskirts of town.”

“Wooow you really do know me,” Milou exhales, “I don’t smoke because I’d like to keep my teeth and lungs. And I don’t race cars anymore for income after crashing and breaking my collarbone last year driving that sweet corvette. So sorry babes, you’re wrong. Is it my turn to assume why you’re in a sour mood?”

Ruby pursed her lips knowing she was laying on the bitchiness but it just seemed to ooze out whenever she had interactions with Milou. It’s not like the girl’s ever had one main reason why they went at it but Milou was never one to take anyone’s shit, despite having her nose in a book reading or doodling and seeming checked out. She had Ruby figured out and Ruby couldn’t say the same with Milou, which is why she did not enjoy that much.

At least that’s what she portrayed.

“If I had to guess…Otis?”

Ruby scoffs and begins walking off.

“What did he do this time?” Milou spins on her feet, quickly locking her doors before following after the long haired girl and says, “Doesn’t seem like he’s been around much lately.”

Ruby spews over her shoulder, “And how exactly would you know that Hm? Are you proving my assumptions by being a weirdo and stalking me?”

“Never. It’s what you show and I’m not just talking about your socials…thanks for suddenly deciding to unblock me by the way.” Milou chats, “I’m talking about your energy, it’s different. Well except for you insulting me this entire time, you do seem a bit sadder these days. I just want to make sure you’re alright is all.”

Ruby feels her shoulders sink in a bit, a little surprised that anyone’s noticed this. Yes she’s been going through a heartbreak, friends being distant, dealing with seeing a old bully thrive in their new supposed “helpful,” role at this new school where Ruby can’t find her footing…it’s all been a bit much and she didn’t feel like talking about it to anyone.

She won’t ever let anyone see her as weak even if the weight was starting to crush her.

Yet here comes Milou in her cool rina sawayama glory, sensing that something’s been up with Ruby and who knows how long she’s noticed.

Milou wasn’t a friend or really an enemy and Ruby wasn’t sure if she could even consider Milou just her neighbor.

It’s quiet now besides the crunching of leaves that Milou makes a show of stomping on as they walk through town together. Milou doesn’t mind the silence or even press the issue but she always had a habit of being honest, “too honest,” in her mother’s eyes but Milou had no problem letting Ruby know what she sees.

No matter what the wannabe diva thought of her.

Ruby pounds her feet after a wave of leaves fly back into her vision after Milou’s just kicked another set up into the air up ahead. The wind seemed to shift not long after, whipping some of those copper and sun dried leaves right into Ruby’s face.

“Hey! Stop that! You’re gonna ruin my outfit.”

“Aw c’mon, it’s awful already isn’t it?” Milou teased as she scanned over the appearance of the girl who suddenly ripped off her glasses.

“I have you know this outfit was made by my mum.” Ruby proudly said as she shoved her bike to the side and strutted right up to Milou, towering over her, “I picked the fabric, tweaked it afterwards just to my liking and I know I look damn good wearing it because of how long and the care it took to make it so I’d shut my mouth if I were you.”

Milou moved the lollipop around with her tongue, slowly eyeing Ruby up and down that Ruby almost had to hold her breath at how agonizingly slow Milou scanned her frame.

She smirked at Ruby once she met her brown eyes again and playfully raised her hands up in the air, “relax babes, I’m just having a bit of fun, just like with the leaves. And I know Mrs. Matthews’ has quite the craft, she taught me how to fix my old hat when I was twelve.”

“What?” Ruby frowned, “when? How?”

“That old lime green hat that I used to wear a lot as a kid? Ripped it right across the top after it got stuck in a tree branch. Your mum witnessed it on her way to work.”

“I don’t even want to know what you were doing for that to happen but…mum really stopped to help and she didn’t bother to tell me?” Ruby tried to wrack her brain to remember if her mum ever mentioned it but tending to a sick father and a mother always at work, usually means the conversations happened to be pretty brief.

Always has been but that never stopped Ruby from loving her mum. She was always the kind hearted one out of the two which translated well being a nurse but Ruby definitely got her fire from her father.

“People have a lot on their minds and I hear it gets worse as adulthood comes along so we better enjoy the better memories now…plus it happened forever ago but I’m always thankful for your mom’s help since that hat is special to me.” Milou shrugged, moving to walk beside Ruby again.

Ruby hums at this and let’s out a small laugh, “that hat was a terrible color but I must say…you wore it well. Framed your perfectly potato sized head nicely.”

Milou rolls her eyes, “thank you, I think?”

Ruby nods, a small smile playing on her lips before she says, “you mentioned if I was okay earlier, yeah?”

“Mhm.” Milou peeked at Ruby as they continued walking.

“Well…if you don’t mind—

The brown haired girl began just as the rain poured down over their heads. Ruby let’s out a squeal in displeasure, quickly leaving her bike behind and sets off into a jog towards the stone fence and nearest tree.

“I can’t believe this!” Ruby yells over the loud rain after Milou makes her way over.

Milou holds out her hand to let the rain drops hit the back of the skin on her hand, “believe it. My god-mommy did mention a rain storm was on its way.”

Ruby wipes the water from her face, “And you didn’t think to inform me earlier?”

Milou folds her arms, “You don’t check the weather when you pick out your outfits for the day?”

“Do you?” Ruby glares, with a roll of her neck.

Milou smirks doing another famous spin with a pop of the collar to her puffer vest, “Always…i mean look at me, don’t I look on theme?”

It’s Ruby’s turn to glance at Milou’s appearance for the day. A cream puffy vest, a nude zip up sweater underneath exposing a black tourmaline crystal wrapped around her neck, baggy cream jeans, the black sunglasses, damp denim hat and some sort of patterned boots.

“…Debatable.” Ruby calls over the pelt of rain while Milou shrugs her shoulders.

“If I like it then I love it.” Milou says peering at Ruby underneath her sunnies, “just like you’ll learn to love it once we become friends.”

“You keep saying that like you’ve been wishing upon a star.”

“No but you were just about to put your trust in me and tell me what’s been up with you lately, yeah?” Milou rests her elbow against the tree, later followed by resting her head against her hand.

Ruby turned her eyes into slits, “was I really?”

Milou lounges just blinking at the eighteen year old, waiting for her next move.

“Okay fine!” Ruby tightens her hold on the ends of her jacket for warmth, “I’m not the biggest fan of therapists.”

“Good thing for you, I’m nowhere near one.”

Ruby sighs, “thank heavens for that! But I better not hear you gossiping about me online or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Ruby,” Milou stares hard at the girl underneath her eyelashes, “that’s not how I operate and never will. Plus I’ve been told I don’t have much of a social media presence in the first place.”

“Did I say that?” Ruby searched the air in thought.

“No, my god-brother did.”

“Smart guy. Now him, I could be friends with.”

It’s Milou’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Okay! So the only reason I’m saying this is because I won’t be running through the rain and we have nothing else better to do. So yes! I Ruby Matthews have felt like complete shit for awhile now and I’m dealing with it all the best way I know how: On my own. It’s also a number of things that contributed to this icky feeling…that you’re probably right about too.”

Milou gave a quick clap and a thumbs up at Ruby, “well done. See that wasn’t so bad?”

Ruby takes a brief sip from her coffee that’s definitely turned warm opposed to piping hot like she preferred it. She also finds that her hands are shaking a bit as she exhales. “You’re not gonna give me any advice or anything?”

“Well no, unless that’s what you want?” Milou now leans her back against the tree as she peeks up beneath the remaining brown leaves on the tree, “Otherwise I’m just here to listen or be a shoulder to lean on, your choice.”

“That works,” Ruby flicks her hair back, eyes viewing the heavy rain that makes it almost hard to see the other homes in the distance.

Milou wasn’t sure what part exactly but she had a feeling Ruby was still working that out herself.

When she reaches a hand out to Ruby, which she catches from the corner of her eye, the taller of the two quickly latches onto Milou’s wrist, “what do you think you’re doing?”

“You’ve got leaves in your hair,” Milou says making Ruby glance upwards trying to see herself.

Milou innocently raises the fingers on the hand Ruby is currently holding, showing that she doesn’t mean any harm and that Ruby doesn’t have to always be on the defense when it came to her.

However she understood and knew it would take time for Ruby to allow that after being hurt a few times. They probably wouldn’t have forever since time does move faster than you think and there were many missed opportunities as children to be something more but at least they had now.

“Thanks for sharing,” Milou whispers, holding the crumbled leaf to Ruby’s view and flicking it to the ground.

Ruby gazed at Milou for a moment before staring back out at the rain, “C’mon then. The rain looks to have lightened up.”

“You sure?”

“Not really,” Ruby cautiously steps into the now windy air, “but be a lady and walk me home. Then maybe you’ll help me with my hair while we watch wives of Miami…since who knows what kind of leftovers are stuck in my hair from the leaves you kicked at me.”

Milou takes her sunglasses to place on the brim of her hat, “that’s not what happened, I kicked away from us not towards you.”

“Don’t argue just accept the invitation because I do not ask twice.” Ruby held her cup out for Milou to hold while she shrugged out of her jacket to tie the arms securely around her head.

Milou cackled, “you look ridiculous.”

Ruby can’t help but to fight the laughter lines that appear on her cheeks, “so be it but we both know who’s the true fashionista here.”

“Yeah and her name starts with an ‘m.’” Milou hands the half empty beverage back to Ruby who struts back some to pull her bike back up into her grasp.

“Right: M for Matthews.”

“Sure but it’s actually M for Mrs. Milou.”

Ruby snaps her head back to Milou who’s all smirks and raised brows.

Was Milou flirting with Ruby? Ruby couldn’t deny that she found Milou attractive but she wasn’t in the mood to get under to get over.

“Please, don’t flatter yourself.” Ruby makes her way back over.

Milou teases, “You like it.”

“Noooo! Stop talking, let’s get going.” Ruby rushes out with a clear of her throat, hoping that the apples of her cheeks didn’t change hues.

Milou courtesy’s and holds out a hand, “lead the way then, your highness.”

Ruby looks forward after walking by Milou, the now light rain making it somewhat bareable to get through on foot, “I just want to say…thank you for always being around when I least expect it and probably need it.”

“Aw, what are friends for?” Milou lightly bumps her shoulder with Ruby’s.

“Friends? I thought you were coming up with a proposal for me.”

Milou raises her eyebrows at this, picking up on the humor in Ruby’s tone, “at least take me out first then we’ll discuss the details later.”

“Are we not heading round to mine now?” Ruby peeks out from underneath the arm of her jacket on her head.

Milou laughs, “I see. Good thing I’m dressed for the occasion.”

Ruby smiles to herself, “we’ll see…”

Milou frowns at that, not knowing what she was getting herself into with Ruby Matthews but she was sure being caught in any other rainstorms along the way, could bring flowers in the end.

⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚. ⋆｡‧₊°♱༺𓆩❦︎𓆪༻♱༉‧₊˚. ⋆｡‧

Continue along with my October anthology prompts here.

[oh-no-another-idea]

15 question OC interview [Paris Edition] 🕑

Thank you for the tags, @autumnalwalker @sleepyowlwrites @pluttskutt @splashinkling @druidx @kittensartswriting and @artdecosupernova-writing (whew!) Now that the votes are in, it’s time to finally fill it out for Paris Carlo!!

Antonio ahems importantly several times, which is blatantly unnecessary as it’s only him and Paris in the room. Paris is fidgeting with the unraveling threads on his tweed jacket sleeve. Antonio holds up his notebook, clears his throat one more time, and says:

Are you named after anyone?

“I don’t know,” Paris answers, looking down. “I’ve never asked, which is funny, now that I think about it. My name is a city, and an ancient prince. It’s just my name, I’ve never needed it to be anything else.”

”Wow,” Antonio says, thinking privately that kind of attitude is rather depressing.

When was the last time you cried?

Paris sighs. "Do I have to answer this?"

"This is a healthy discussion between friends. You have to answer."

"Fine." Paris says. "It was eight years ago at 3:07am March 20th."

Do you have kids?

"Antonio you need to can it with these stupid questions. Do I look like I have kids? I can barely take care of myself."

"But maybe one day?" Antonio can't help but ask hopefully.

Paris shakes his head. "My own father disappeared a long time ago. What if I'm incapable of love too? I wouldnt do that to any child."

Do you use sarcasm?

"Occasionally." He smiles.

What's the first thing you notice about people?

He tilts his head. "The way they stand. Shoulders tipped back and proud? Hunched over? Weight on one hip? Antonio, your stance is pretty strong, which is rather at odds with your indecisiveness."

"Thank you, and how dare you."

What's your eye color?

"Brown. I guess like oak wood in sunlight, if I was being specific. I have a tube of paint called burnt orange. The color is like that."

Scary or happy endings?

"It depends on the story."

"Now who's indecisive?" Antonio demands.

"Fine. Happy endings, even if they're unrealistic."

Any special talents?

Paris lifts a shoulder and puts it back down. "I'm a violinist."

"You're an incredible violinist," Antonio says. "And artist! You paint and sketch better than anyone I know, and you're a wonderful stratagist and you're strong too, from all that unloading work you do."

Paris rolls his eyes. "I thought I was doing the answering, Antonio West."

"Well, your answers are bad."

Where were you born?

Paris squints. "A hot tenement in New York, New York. In October."

What are your hobbies?

"Drawing."

"You're too good for it to be a hobby. Maybe you could draw and play for a living and drop the rough dock work? Stop cutting open your hands?"

"Drawing is a hobby. Its a dream for a kid, Antonio. Don't pretend you understand."

Antonio sticks his tongue out, and then remembers his notebook.

Have you any pets?

"I wish you were a pet, then I could lock you up in a cage and be alone for a time," Paris says, smiling again.

"You love me."

"I'd love you more if you stayed still and quiet and drank from a water bowl."

"Eww!"

What sports do you play/have played?

"Antonio, who did you write these questions for? They're terrible."

"I'll write down you said none," Antonio replies, scribbling. "Because you are a total wet blanket with disgusting opinions."

How tall are you?

"Why the hell does that matter?"

"To get a glimpse of you as a person," Antonio protests, half out of his chair in exasperation. "Stop being so awful!"

"Do I look like I carry rulers around with me?"

"I'm writing down 4 feet," Antonio says crossly. "Everyone will think you're a nasty little gnome."

Favorite subject in school?

"Art," Paris answers. "And math was nice too, I suppose."

"Of course you'd like math," Antonio mutters, and writes it down aggressively.

Dream job?

Paris hummed thoughtfully. "In a world where nothing mattered, I suppose I'd like to sit near the East River and paint till sunset. In this world though, my dream is for this interview to be over."

“Well then consider me your fairy godmother,” Antonio said smugly. “I wouldn’t continue interviewing you if you begged. Congratulations, you’re officially awful at this.”

😁 Not sure who’s done this, so tags for anyone who sees this, and also no pressure tags for @eccaiia @talesfromaurea @sleepy-night-child @drippingmoon @charlesjosephwrites @kaiusvnoir

[eringurumi]

Nomai (Outer Wilds) Pattern

Solanum, my beloved! (just kidding!) I am so happy to share this pattern for the Nomai from Outer Wilds - it is a bit of an involved pattern, and probably not for beginners, but I will do my best to explain what I did! Please feel free to message me if you have questions. As always, if you use this pattern, please link back to my page, and tag me here on tumblr or @ erin.gurumi on instagram! I love to see what people make!

Technical stuff:

I used a 3mm crochet hook and these yarns:

Loops and Threads Impeccable in Walnut Tweed (horns)

Red Heart Super Saver in Warm Brown (face)

Red Heart Super Saver in Cream (hair)

Red Heart Super Saver in Paddy Green (space suit)

Red Heart Super Saver in Gold (trim)

Raspberry scrap yarn (glove/shoulder/thigh)

White scrap yarn (boots)

^Head: Rather than the usual amigurumi method of starting from the top/bottom of the head, I started from the front of the face and worked toward the back - this let me make the back of the head in the cream color to better match those ancient Nomai murals!

6 sc in a magic circle in Warm Brown

inc 6x to make 12 stitches

(1 sc, inc) 6x to make 18 stitches

(2 sc, inc) 6x to make 24 stitches

(3 sc, inc) 6x to make 30 stitches

1 row of 30 stitches

Add eyes (I used 12 mm cat eye safety eyes), and nose/mouth (you can do embroidery, paint, etc... I used marker!)

Switch to Cream, 8 rows of 30 stitches

(3sc, dec) 6x to make  24 stitches 

(2sc, dec) 6x to make 18 stitches

(sc, dec) 6x to make 12 stitches

dec, until closed, stuff and finish off

^Ears:

Make two of these of course! To make a teardrop shape like this I start with a round amigurumi shape then kind of flatten it down -

6 sc in a magic circle in Warm Brown

inc 6x to make 12 stitches

dec 1x to make 11 stitches

dec 1x to make 10 stitches

dec 1x to make 9 stitches

from here, decrease until the shape is closed, then add one sc to the top to make it extra pointy - flatten the drop and attach to the sides of the head!

^Legs/torso

This is the usual method I use to make "standing" humanoid amigurumi, where you make two legs and then connect them by crocheting around them - this time it was a bit more involved because of the many color changes and doing a couple rows of crocheting in the back loops so that I was able to attach her tabards and collar

6 sc in a magic circle in White

inc 2x then (inc, sc)4x to make 10 stitches

1 row of 10 stitches in White

change to Green, 5 rows of 10 stitches

change to Gold, 1 row of 10 stitches

change to Raspberry, 3 rows of 10 stitches

Stuff and finish off one leg, stuff and keep the other leg

Torso:

As I'm making the torso, rather than counting how many stitches until I get to a dec, I just eyeball where the decrease will go (for example, in the center of the back, or behind a leg)

On right leg, color change from Raspberry to Green, chain 1, slip stitch into left leg, sc around both legs (~20 stitches - if it ends up more, just decrease in back to that)

1 row of 20 stitches

1 row of 20 stitches in back loops (important for adding the tabards!)

1 row of 18 (one dec behind each leg)

1 row of 17 (dec in back)

1 row of 16 (dec in back)

1 row of 15 (dec in back)

1 row of 13 (one dec in front, one in back)

1 row of 12 (dec in front)

change to Cream, 1 row of 12 in back loops (important for adding the collar!)

1 row of 12

Finish leaving a long tail for connecting the head

^Front Tabard

This is where it gets a little wonky, as I was really just eyeballing the widths of the front and back tabards and using what I had available in terms of the backloops. I also found that crocheting one way resulted in the "flaps" tending to point upward rather than downward, but... I'm not sure if it has to do with how you hold your hook?

Holding ami upside down, attach yarn by right leg with a slip stitch, sc 4

turn, sc 4 (repeat 11x, or however long you want the tabard to be)

^ Back tabard:

You know, I realized part way through that in the back of the Nomai space suits, they actually have two separate bits of fabric (it's super hard to tell from the front!) So I think if you wanted you could make it more accurate you can split the rest of the back loops in half and do this twice, it is basically the same as the front!

Holding ami upside down, attach yarn by left leg with a slip stitch, sc ~13

turn, sc 13 (repeat 13x, or however long you want the tabard to be)

After finishing both the front and back tabards, I crocheted around it with the Gold yarn. Just slip stitch the yarn into one of the stitches (it looks like I started in the back left corner) and crochet around, possibly going into the back loops at the waist if you need to! In the bottom left pic you can see I tried with a White trim first and didn't like it, so I switched to the Gold!

^Collar:

Quite similar to the tabards, except that I went around the neck a couple times to make the shoulder and back collar before starting to crochet back and forth to make the longer front piece.

Start with ami upside down, attach yarn at ami's right shoulder, sc around the back loops (12 stitches)

On second round, increase in every sc, (24ish) -

Stop when you are where you want the collar's front piece to start (I would say ~ 2 stitches past the center of chest) chain 1 and turn, sc 3ish across (or however many you want , chain 1 turn, sc across again (only two rows tall).

Attach Gold in the back and add trim similar to the tabards

^Arms:

Straightforward, but a bit of a pain due to all the color changes in such a small space! Believe in yourself!

6 sc in a magic circle in Raspberry

1 row of 6 stitches in Raspberry

change to Gold, (inc, 2 sc)2x to make 8 stitches

change to Green, 4 rows of 8 stitches

change to Gold, 1 row of 8 stitches

change to Raspberry, 3 rows of 8 stitches

At this point I attached the arms to the body, saving the head for later (I probably could have attached the head now, I just didn't want to while experimenting with her antlers and hair)

^Antlers:

I was surprised at how not-bad these turned out, as I really was winging it... I used the foundation single crochet (fsc) stitch (look up tutorials for this!) and some futzing with the orientation of the pieces to make the "branches" - I honestly don't know how necessary it is, but here's what I did:

Lower antlers (make 2):

5 fsc, turn piece upside down, 2 fsc

finish off and re-attach yarn with slip stitch at turning point, 1 fsc

Upper antlers (make 2):

8 fsc

finish off and re-attach yarn with slip stitch 2 stitches from end, 1 fsc

Upper connector (make 1):

5 fsc, leave tails for connecting

I used a candle to VERY CAREFULLY burn the fuzz off the antlers, so they would be a bit smoother and shinier. If you want to do this, please be cautious, mindful of the type of fiber your yarn is made of, and if you are little, have an adult help!

I then attached the connector to the two upper antlers (just using the tails and knotting them together, but I am sure a dab of hot glue or fabric glue would work fine!) and attached all antlers to the brown yarn of the face, then finally attached the head to the body! As for weaving in ends, ugh I just tried to tie them off and hide them as best as possible!

Adding hair: I reached the image limit, but adding hair is pretty straight forward - What I do is cut lengths of yarn ~2x as long as I want the hair to be (in this case about 7 inches), and then use the crochet hook to thread them through a stitch. If you want them to be more secure, you can tie a knot, but I never bother since my plushies aren't handled very heavily. Since the back of the head was already done in Cream, I didn't feel like I needed to add hair until all the surface was hidden, so I just added until I liked how it sat! Make sure you add hair under her chin for a cute lil goat beard!

PHEW! That is a lot! Let me know if you try this pattern, especially if something seems unclear or wrong/missing, as I am not sure I did a great job explaining all of it! And please, tag me here or @ erin.gurumi on instagram if you end up making her, I would love to see! Outer Wilds is such a special game and I am very happy with how she turned out! Good luck!

[herbgerblin]

for the fluff prompts, blupjeans for 18!

“you come here often?” “Well considering I work here, yes.”

—

Barry unfortunately knew jack shit about paintings. He knew about popular painters, of course. He even owned a couple of paintings that he liked. But the Art World™ generally bewildered him. And right now he was staring at a collage of photorealistic objects merging into a cacophony of neon-colored, abstract blobs and zig zagging brush strokes. It made him feel even more out of place than he already was.

Behind him was a gathering of other professionals and scholars in various areas of the arcane sciences. He only agreed to attend the luncheon at the local art museum because he had skipped out on two previous work socials, and the department head had been breathing down his neck about it. Now, one opening speech and a shrimp cocktail later, Barry was already wondering what constituted as a reasonable time to sneak away.

Seventeen minutes obviously wouldn't cut it, so for now he was biding his time. He tried to get immersed in the art, but he eventually settled for leaning forward to read the little title cards. The one for the visual mess in front of him was called, "Touch Grass." Artist name, Archibald. It was priced at 69,000gp.

"Nice," Barry murmured.

"I agree," said a voice to his right.

Barry nearly leapt out of his skin! He didn't do that though. Instead, he straighten up to acknowledge the person who daringly snuck up next to him. Maybe not snuck up, but he had been zoning out pretty hard, admittedly. It was habitual.

He was met with the curious face of an elven woman. She was dressed in a white button up, a black pencil skirt and a short apron. She didn't look at all concerned by his sudden reaction. Instead, she gestured with her hand to another painting around a corner and said, "This one's pretty intense. If you need a mental palette cleanser, I suggest that bad boy over there."

She sidestepped to let Barry have a look, and Barry wordlessly obliged. The art piece in question featured a giant, white canvas with three, tiny, silver squiggly lines painted in the center. A row of stage lights illuminated it from above. It was titled, “An Inexplicable Observation of the Continuous Herewith and Ontoward.” Lumalinus. Priced at 5000gp.

“This has High elf written all over it," the lady said. "I can say that, I am one.”

She didn’t look like any of the High elves Barry was familiar with. At least not university faculty. Most dressed in flawless, well tailored suits. Or hand made garments that had been embroidered over centuries. And they carried themselves with the airs of nobility.

The stranger still at his side was leaning on her hip, and her apron had obvious food stains on it. But she otherwise looked very neat. Her thick, curly chair was pulled up into a highly ponytail, with lots of pins to hold back rogue wisps. From where she stood, the stage lights haloed a pretty face with tan skin and warm freckles.

Say something goobus, Barry thought, quickly realizing he was staring more intently at her than he had at the paintings.

“Y-you come here often?” he asked.

The lady smirked and tapped on a little name tag pinned to the right side her shirt. The name read, "Lup Taaco."

She replied, “Well considering I work here, yes.”

"Oh." Barry could feel his face turning red. Godsdammit. He rubbed the back of his neck and tore his eyes back over to the painting. "Well, I guess you've gotten a pretty good look at most of these works already."

"This gallery for sure," she replied, nodding. "But we've just recently updated one of the other wings. Less surreal, and more biology inspired. I recommended it if you're the nerdy type."

Barry felt like that was a light jab at him, with his tweed jacket and bluejeans. But he liked that she was down to earth with her art knowledge.

"Would you mind showing me where it is?" Barry asked, before recalling that there was a luncheon going on. "Oh, unless you're busy."

"Nah, it'd be my pleasure," she replied. As she led him away from the rest of the group, she gestured at her messy apron. "I actually work the front desk, but we were short staffed on catering today. So cha'girl ended up on shrimp duty."

Barry held up his mostly finished shrimp cocktail. "My compliments to the chef."

That got a smile out of her that rendered him speechless once again. Which actually turned out fine, since Lup proved that she definitely knew her ins and outs of the museum. She gave a comprehensive description of each exhibit, in such a way that never left Barry feeling bored.

They exchanged names and bits of info about each other. The pair also took turns determining their favorite art pieces as they continued touring.

There was a chalk drawing of a man eating a bowl full of purple broccoli, titled, “My Friends All Want to Play Fantasy Smash Brothers but I Want to Play Fantasy Mario Cart. This Blows.” Tifty. 20,000gp.

A vacuum cleaner filled with worms on strings, resting on a fuzzy carpet that was also littered with worms on strings. “It’s Not a Phase, Mom.” Shoto-Karagon, 7,500gp.

A photo of a mouse dragging a slice of pizza down some stairs. “Due to Inflation this Image is Now Worth 11,500gp.” Walton. 12,000gp.

"I would drop fat money on that worm-vacuum," Lup declared. "Worm-cuum.”

“I don’t know, the inexplicable whatchamacallit was really speaking to me," Barry said, absolutely joking. "I could see it hanging over my couch.”

Lup snorted and elbowed Barry's arm, which made him blush yet again. He'd completely abandoned the luncheon and had no regrets about it. Time seemed to fly by the two of them with reckless abandon.

“Oh, this one makes me sad," Lup said, her voice softening suddenly. "But I keep coming back to it.”

They paused their tour in front of a large installation of suspended statues. The focal pieces were two humanoid figures made of delicate porcelain. Their clothes rippled around them as they descended down crystalline pieces that collectively made a winding staircase. The figure in front appeared to reach back to the figure right behind them. The figure behind appeared to crane towards the figure right ahead.

“They always look like they're gonna touch each other's hands," Lup explained. She slumped the side of her face on her own palm. "But they never do.”

Barry glanced from the beautiful installation to Lup's surprisingly forlorn expression. It saddened him to think that she always had to walk by this thing that she loved, and never feel satisfied by it. He looked back at it, before quickly spotting a title card on the wall a few feet behind where the figures were suspended.

"Maybe the artist made other sculptures like this one?" he suggested. He walked over to read the card, keeping an eye out for any "Do not cross this line" signs on the floor. There weren't any here, so he felt okay maneuvering around the sculpture. "Like a continuation of the story they were trying to tell."

"This installation was from an anonymous donor," Lup replied. "And as far as I know, it's a standalone piece."

"Huh," Barry said. The title card simply read, "Salut D'Amour." Nameless. No price given. Barry turned around to look at the piece. “Maybe you just gotta…oh shit...”

He blinked and silently gestured for Lup to join him. She did so, curiosity bubbling across her face. Barry scooted over a bit to give her room, and she followed his line of sight towards the statues. She let out a small gasp.

Barry's words came back to him. “...find the right angle.”

From where they both stood, they could now see the point where both figures were gleefully descending the glittering staircase, hand in hand, not letting go.

“Wow,” Lup murmured.

Barry was too aware of how close he and her were squeezed together in the corner. His face was burning like a furnace and he had no idea if this was entirely appropriate in an art museum. But seeing Lup look at her favorite art piece with a newfound appreciation, Barry couldn’t take his eyes away from her. Lup turned her happy gaze at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“I don’t think anyone's figured it out since we’ve put it up," she said, in almost a whisper. "So for the time being, this is our little secret."

"I think this one might my favorite too," Barry replied, matching her smile.

"You have excellent taste."

[moonlitmeeks]

christmas markets - jesper fahey

summary; not only useful for putting large sums of kruge into kaz brekker’s pocket, you learn that your boyfriend’s thieving capabilities have many advantages

words; 523

warnings; petty theft?

a/n; welcome to the second day of my december drabbles!!! today we're combining my love for jesper fahey and my love for christmas markets <3 hope you enjoy!

jesper’s hand in yours was a welcome weight, his touch grounding you as you weaved through the throngs of people attending ketterdam;s annual christmas market. snow was just beginning to fall, dusting the floor with glittering white flakes of confetti.

the markets were always a spectacle, dragging out even the most grinch-like of people in their hoards to marvel at the magical stalls and pretty lights whilst sipping mulled wine from a paper cup.

jesper fahey was no exception to the rule.

donned in his warmest tweed coat and nicest hat, which sat at a permanent jaunty angle on top of his head, he ushered you through the crowds, keeping you protectively close to his side as he did so. losing you in the hustle and bustle of the crowd was certainly not on his agenda for the evening.

joy shone from your features, your eyes alight with excitement and wonder as you moved from one stall to the next, the soft grin painting your face never faltering. jesper couldn’t contain his own cheesy grin as he looked at you, an almost angelic vision to his side. thanks to his intense gaze and keen eye, he didn’t fail to notice your lingering stare towards the stall standing a few feet ahead.

his brow quirked slightly as an idea began to form in his mind.

“one moment darling. i’ll be right back.”

giving you no chance to question him, he left you with a wink as his hand slipped from your own. within seconds, he had faded into the many faces around you, leaving you bewildered.

“saints, what is he doing?” you muttered under your breath, sticking your now chilly hand into your coat pocket to preserve its warmth.

knowing jesper, the amount of trouble he could get himself into in such a short period of time was seriously impressive. the boy had an inherent talent for finding himself in sticky situations, or simply creating them himself. it was as if he was a magnet for chaos and entropy, attracting disorder without even batting an eyelid.

lost in thought, you felt his presence beside you once more, his chin resting on your shoulder as he beamed at you. one slender hand held out a small stuffed toy; a furry, chestnut brown bear with a blood-red santa hat sitting on its head. the exact toy you had been looking at only a few moments ago.

every time you thought jesper couldn’t get any better, he managed to prove you wrong.

you took it gently from his hand, awe-struck at the fact he had even noticed you looking at it, never mind being able to steal it for you. the fur tickled your nose as you pulled the bear to your chest, beaming into it as you tried to muster up words. jesper simply grinned cheekily.

“so d’you like it then darling?”

“are you kidding? course i do, jes.” you let out a laugh, pulling him towards you to press a chaste, sweet kiss to his lips. “god, you’re the best. you’re so good.”

“i know,” he smirked. “because you deserve only the best, babe.”

again,, i apologise for how short this is but i promise, some longer fics are on the way!! i hope you enjoyed nonetheless <3 reblogs/feedback are much appreciated angels🤍

jesper fahey taglist; @wlfstxr @lxncelot @ms-heartbreak-queen @teen-years-suck

december drabbles taglist; @just-cass

six of crows masterlist !

december drabbles masterlist !

[nuttynutcycle]

I just discovered your blog, and I'm in LOVE with your writing! I'm completely obsessed with Familiar, so if it's not to much to ask, could you write a continuation? Thank you so much, your snippets and prompts are greatly appreciated!!

Familiar - Pt 2

First part here

On a scale of one to ten, this was either a -2 or a 12 on the good idea scale. Hero double-checked the address Villain had sent her before looking back at the tiny house. The paint was peeling, steps were rotting and that roof was definitely of the leaking sort. Somehow, she had expected Villain to live on the rich side of town.

When he had invited her over to work on their assignment, her thoughts had been torn between screaming trap and find some evidence. The second side won. If there wasn’t anything in there to prove who Villain really was… Well, she’d have to find another way of getting proof to show the authorities. She knocked and noted the cracked windows to her side. After a few seconds, Villain opened the door.

“Hey, I’m glad you could make it. Come on in.” He led her down the musty hall towards a suspiciously normal bedroom. “Thanks again for making the trek all the way over here. My mom hasn’t been doing too well recently, and I’m trying not to leave her alone for too long.”

“Of course, I get it.” Hero let her eyes trail over the spartan room. The only furniture was a bed and two chairs beside a fold-up table covered with books and scribblers. Funny, the number of times Villain escaped from her with stolen cash made her think he’d at least have better furniture. Or a safe to put the money in. Maybe it was hiding in the closet? Although in this neighbourhood, keeping money lying around might not be the brightest idea. “It’s good that you’re taking care of her.”

He nodded, avoiding her gaze and moving his stuff from the table to the floor. “Hopefully, this next surgery will be the one that works.”

“Yeah, it’s tough watching people you love go through painful things. My sister has a heart problem right now, and it’s terrifying to watch her energy come and go.” Shut up! Stop telling him personal things. “Yeah.” She finished lamely.

Their gazes locked in understanding. Hero was the first to break away. “Ready to start the pain?”

They worked on the assignment in silence for a while. Honestly, there was probably a special punishment designed for whoever invented assignments over ten pages long. This just wasn’t fair. Hero sat back, running a hand through her hair. “I think this is karma's way of punishing me for not reading the textbook.”

His lips quirked. “There’s a textbook for this class? That would’ve been helpful to know at the start of the semester.”

“Want to know how tired I was at the beginning of the semester? I can’t even remember choosing my classes,” she pulled a hand down her face. “I think I just closed my eyes and pointed at the screen.”

“You could have been in differential calculus. Or worse, accounting.”

“Or Phys Ed. Did you know our university has a course devoted to badminton?”

Villain laughed. “What a racket. To think, I could have spent time swinging my arm around and gotten credit for it.”

“But then you’d be missing out on the glories of this assignment.”

“And a friend.”

Oh nope. Big nope. Wait, Hero reconsidered. Were they friends?  They did chat after class and had studied a few times together, but that didn’t mean- wait. Huh. Time to deflect with awkward humour and process these feelings later. “I thought you saw me as a role model, but that’s cool too. I’ll just have to find a new lackey.”

“And here I thought you were friends with me for my brilliance and good looks.”

She felt her cheeks begin to burn. “Yep, it’s all for your looks. If you seduce our professor, then we don’t have to do this assignment anymore.”

Villain rubbed his chin. “I’ve never seduced a professor before. Would I have to wear a sweater vest?”

“And a tweed jacket. It’s the only way.” Her fingers twitched, and she was suddenly very aware of him. The light hitting his hair, the way his lips curled when he was amused… Bad, very bad. This is your official ABORT MISSION alert. Find some evidence on the dangerous criminal and get out of there. She cleared her throat. “I’m parched. Could I get some water?”

Villain nodded, standing and leaving the room. Hero leapt out of the chair the moment the door shut behind him.  Her eyes latched on the only place one could hide anything in the sparse room - the closet. She yanked it open, feeling her heart speed up at the sound of Villain opening a cupboard in the kitchen and turning on the tap.

The closet was small and impressively dull. Clothes and boxes littered the tiny  shelves, with no signs of the files or weapons she was looking for. A flap of a familiar fabric dangling from one of the top boxes caught her eye. Bingo. Hero gingerly reached to feel the consistency, making sure she wasn’t wrong before bringing the authorities in, and accidentally bumped an elbow against the side of the closet. The box plummeted from its precarious placement and met the ground with a thump. No! She scrambled to pick up the box and the spilled-out uniform when a movement behind made her pause.

Villain stood in the doorway, hand clenched around a glass of water. His eyes darted to the clothes on the ground. “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Hero’s throat went dry. She tightened her grip on the clothes and tried to look surprised. “S-something fell in your closet, so I opened it to check what it was.”

“Huh,” Villain said. “That’s unfortunate.”

He knelt, gently taking his outfit from her hands and placing it back in the box. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

“Clearly.”  Hero swallowed and prepared to run if he attacked. Worst case scenario, she had beat him before and could do it again. Theoretically. “I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.” A familiar calculation crept across his face, making her hands shake. Villain sat across from her and blocked the only exit, placing the cup of water between them. She felt trapped against the closet.

“You know, if this had happened a month ago, I would have killed you without a second thought,” he said mildly. “Guess you’re lucky.”

A horrifying reminder that she was not dealing with her awkward classmate anymore. “What are you going to do instead?”

Villain shrugged, seeming far too calm for the situation. “I don’t know yet. Talk, I guess?”

“I won’t tell anyone.” Hero said, lying through her teeth.

“Unfortunately, I’m too old to believe the promises of others so easily.” He trailed his fingers through the thin carpet, tracing patterns through the material. “Even yours. The stakes are just too high.”

“What’s even worth all the stealing and destruction?” she asked quietly. “Why do you do it? “

The  fingers paused. “It started out as one job. My mom needed treatment, and we didn’t have the money to pay for it. Then one treatment turned into two.” He shook his head. “Before I knew it, I was on the city’s most-wanted list.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Will you stop when the treatments are finished?”

“There have been other benefits to criminal activity.” Villain ducked his head, cheeks turning pink. “Lots of amazing people to meet. I haven’t decided yet.”

She leaned against the wall beside the closet, feeling safer with something solid against her back. “I don’t know if meeting people through crime is worth a lifetime in jail.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You’d be surprised.”

Hero picked up the forgotten water sitting between them and drank, if nothing else than for the excuse to avoid responding.

His fingers trailed larger patterns in the carpet. “I never wanted you to find out- this is one of the first friendships I’ve made since I started university. I don’t want to lose that. And I don’t want you getting hurt, but this does put me in a tight position. I won’t let you inform the authorities.”

Hero pressed her back further against the wall.

Villain took one look at her wide eyes and softened his tone. “Just don’t tell. If I get one inkling that you’re about to turn me in, then..." he sighed. "Please don’t make me choose between you and my mom.”

He would know it was her. Hero didn’t think she could after this. Or fight him, knowing it was for his mom’s medical bills. She pursed her lips, making a highly regrettable split-second decision. “Alright. But only on one condition: you stop once her treatments are done.”

He twitched. “I told you, I haven’t decided yet-”

“I’m making the decision for you.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt. "Deals are much easier to trust than promises.”

“No. I’d miss-” Villain stopped, clenching his jaw. “I can’t let certain people from that life go yet.”

Something clicked. The girl he liked was from his criminal life… Oh gosh, Hero probably knew her. The brunette villain from the southside? The redheaded weapons supplier? Stop getting distracted.

“I trust you. Give it up as soon as you can.” The words slipped out before she could stop them. “For me.” That was even worse. Was it possible to die from a foot in your mouth?

Villain relaxed his shoulders. “Yeah. It’s a deal.” He stuck out a hand and Hero grasped it, shaking firmly and ignoring the sinking feeling in her chest. So like, a 5 on the good idea scale.

@revrevrew-personal @spruceandpine @sailor-cat2 @literally-just-kirby @emerqlds @chaoticgoodandu @notsocharmingmagician @flying-paperboat @touchedbyanerdyotaku

[wordynerdygurl]

Hello Everyone! I've been conspiring with @sammy-jo1977 to create a new series of sorts. We want to explore all those characters that started us on our journey into Fandoms, large and small.

This series will be a place for those ladies and gents who haven't had a lot of attention recently, are old favorites or the ones you can't seem to shake. If you would like to contribute a chapter to this guide, please send me a message! We want to have a full and accurate guide, so we are hoping you'll hop in with your character of expertise!

As an example, I'm posting our first story... I'd love to get your thoughts! With Love - Your WordyNerdyGurl

In The Stacks - A Rupert Giles Story

Author’s Note:  This story is due, in large part, to my beta-bestie @sammy-jo1977 and it is part of the afore mentioned series.  This character might be off television, but his fiery spirit lives on!! As always, reblogs/ shares are encouraged as are comments and love!

Pairing:  Female Reader x Giles (Buffy The Vampire Slayer Series) Summary:  You get up to mischief with the librarian, in the stacks. Warnings:  SMUT ahead.  General Buffy knowledge might help, but is not required.  There’s a moment with a bit of blood, but hopefully nothing too triggering for anyone! I hope you enjoy!

“Mr. Giles?” “Just a moment!”  You heard the clipped British voice answer before being drowned out by the heavy thumping of falling books and the rustling sound of shifting papers hitting the floor. As you stepped further into the Sunnydale High library, you weren’t surprised to see the familiar faces of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Cordelia huddled around a small table.  The friends were practically inseparable and clearly close.  You found their kinship adorable and couldn’t help smiling at the group as you drew closer. “Hello to some of my best students!  And of course, to you Mr. Harris.  How is everyone today?”

Willow, stalwart student and overachiever, smiled broadly, “Pretty good.  I did ace my math quiz and got an A on my English paper… but, well, I only pulled a B on my Bio test and I just know that I could have done better.” Offering her friend a consoling pat to the shoulder, Buffy sighed, “It’s ok, Will.  You’ll get those cells next time!” “Tune in next week as Willow passes her AP Biology test with flying colors, on ‘As Sunnydale Turns’!” Before anyone could counter, Giles came around the corner carrying a sturdy stack of texts which he dropped onto the table as gently as the large load allowed, “As always, you four are the best assistants a librarian could ask for.” “Come on Giles!  You know I only hang out here for the beautiful ladies!” Pinching the bridge of his strong nose, Rupert Giles sighed, “I am well aware of where your interests lie, Xander.” “Please, he can hardly handle being with one beautiful girl.”  That was from Cordelia who pouted prettily, her hand mirror open as she fixed her hair. “My girlfriend, ladies and gentlemen!  Thanks for that, Cordy.” Snapping the case shut, staring down her beau, she smiled, “You’re welcome.” “Uh, Mr. Giles, if I may?”  You hated to interrupt but you had come in with a purpose and you meant to see it through. “Yes, of course, how can I help?” Shuffling your feet, a bit nervous now with the asking, you smiled shyly, “I asked at the local library but they were absolutely no help.  You see, I’m looking for a specific point of reference and I was led to believe that you could help me.” “Oh!  Is it something for our Inner Vision collage boards?  I love working on mine, only… It’s not my fault that I only see dark clouds and blood when I close my eyes.” “Well, Miss Summers, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  And the best art challenges us to see that beauty.” “I hate to tell you what I see when I close my eyes.”  Xander retorted. “Ah, Mr. Harris, your collage certainly showcases your, ahem, cultured world view.” “Hey!  The Simpsons are fine art, ok?  Just because they don’t live in a museum doesn’t mean they aren’t culture.” Giles, unable to stand by any longer griped, “Xander, I am almost positive that cartoons do not count as culture.” You started to answer but Buffy cut you short, adding, “Don’t mind Giles.  If it doesn’t come out of some dirty, dusty old book it can’t be culture.” “It’s pop culture!  The entertainment of my generation!” It was your turn to cut in, turning to the tweed clad gentleman, “Actually, Mr. Giles, Xander has a point.  Cartoons and animation in general are all increasingly seen as valid forms of art.  No matter what your tomes might tell you.” Smirking a little, he appraised your answer before replying, “Be that as it may, Mr. Harris, the amount of television you consume is corrosive.” Raising his hands in defense, Xander’s head swiveled between the two of you as Willow chimed in, “Give it up, Xander.  You know you’ll never win and besides, I’m pretty sure that animation and art are different.  Wait.  They are, aren’t they?” “When I was in Rome last summer, the very attractive, very Italian tour guide told us that they’ve found painted graffiti on the Coliseum.  It only goes to prove that times change but people don’t.” “Cordy’s right!  About the art, not the dishy Italian.  And they didn’t paint it, they carved it.”  Bouncing her blonde hair decisively, Buffy made her declaration.   “Wouldn’t paint be easier?  I mean, who wants to carry a chisel in order to deface a wall?” “Oh!  Oh!  I know this!  The kind of paint needed to last for centuries hadn’t been invented yet!”  Willow, lifting out of her seat in the excitement of academic excellence, was giddy. “Yes, Willow, that is correct.  In fact, a lot of the graffiti is simple and very crude.  Mostly of the phallus, if memory serves.  I’m sure I can find a documented case in Agrippa if you’ll all just-” And you watched as everyone rolled their eyes as Giles trailed off, lost now in the hunt for a specific volume which could be sited, should further proof be needed. “Ew.  Pass.” “I’m with Buffy here, Giles.  Keep your Grecian graffiti out of my brain.” “I’ll stick with the Simpsons, thank you very much.” “Yes, well.  It’s not Grecian at all, is it?  It’s Roman-” Smiling broadly, Buffy hopped off the table, “Giles is right.  The Greeks were more into orgies!” “Buffy!”  Willow’s shocked response made you cover a laugh with a fake cough. “-Of course, cites are rare.  Very difficult to find documentation.”  Giles, typically, hadn’t given up the search. Cutting through the chatter, louder than it ever needed to be, the period bell sounded. "Ugh.  Gym class for me.  Why is this even a thing?" "I don't know Buffy, I thought you liked showing off in your little shorts and beating the boys at basketball." "Cordy, that's enough.  And while us boys do love looking at you, Buff... we don't love the beatings you regularly deliver." "Well, I have a free period Giles!  Do you want me to stay and -" Snapping shut the leather book he was gripping, Giles caught your eye and turned to the peppy student, "Uh, no Willow, I don't think so.  I believe I need to see what our Art Department is in need of at the moment." With a shrug, Willow began packing up her belongings as Xander slung his back back over his shoulder, "Will, you can come with me.  I'm going to find a nice little corner, under a tree, and sleep away my study hall." “But, I… I could help find the Agrippa?  Or… some other old Roman book?” Xander wrapped an arm around Willow and took Cordelia’s open hand, “But why do that when nothing calls?” "Another fine example of your scholastic aptitude, Mr. Harris", was your parting shot at the foursome as they walked out the door. "Well. Mr. Giles, now that we’re alone… Could I talk you into helping me out?" “Of course, of course.”  Pushing his glasses further up his nose, fixing his light eyes on yours, “What are we looking for?” Sighing deeply, knowing the chances were slim, “I was hoping we would find some examples of Pre-Columbian deity carvings.” Pausing, his look serious, Giles peered at you, “Interesting.  Anything in particular?” “Yes, actually.”  Again you flushed, more than a little flustered at what you were really looking for, “I’m researching fertility icons.” Raising his eyebrows, Giles started, more than a little outside of his comfort zone, but you had to give him credit.  He recovered from the shock rather quickly, “Oh… I… I see.  Well yes, I’m sure we can find… something.  If you’ll follow me, please.” “I’m right behind you.”  Biting into your bottom lip, you smiled to yourself.  Right behind Mr. Giles?  What a place to be.  Giles led the young art teacher through the deepest stacks of the library, pausing once or twice to confirm that she was keeping up with him.  He was ashamed to admit that he had lost travelers a time or two as he stalked through his overstuffed shelves, knowing instinctively where to find the book he needed most. For her, watching the tweed covered bottom of Mr. Giles was no hardship.  True, he was older and tad bit reserved in the best British way, yet she had the sneaking suspicion that underneath all the wool and starched cotton was the heart of a wild man poet. "Uh... just a bit further, I'm afraid.  Books like this, well, I keep them at a greater remove." "It makes sense.  Don't want the kiddos getting a hold of anything too tantalizing." "Of course not.  As you well know, they don't need much help in the libidinous response department." You chuckled softly, nodding as the air around you grew stuffier, "Too true!  You should see what some of them turn in and call art.  It would make a blind man blush." And at the mention of blushing, you were shocked to see a rosy hue grow on Mr. Giles' cheeks.  You liked it.  It reminded you of the high color in a Vermeer painting.  You couldn’t help the flutter in your belly at the thought, "Mr. Giles, have you ever seen a South American fertility statue?" "I can't say that I have... have... have you?"  Something about the idea of you examining an ancient artifact directly connected to sexual congress made his body stir.  "Hmm... Oh, yes.  I was able to study in Mexico for a semester.  Some of the art work is just incredible and the carvings, they're truly magnificent.  Carefully made.  Usually stone or..." swallowing hard, your throat suddenly dry, "hard wood." Breaking fast at the implication in your words, Giles froze in place which caused you to press directly against his broad, vest covered back.  You had a second to register the soft scent of his aftershave; something spicy and masculine, which made your mouth water.  Moaning quietly, you offered a weak apology, “Oh, I am so sorry, Mr. Giles.” Offering you his profile, the bookcases too cramped for him to turn around fully, you saw his sweet smile, “That’s… that’s quite alright.  In fact, we’re here.” Stepping out of the way, you pushed back against the opposite wall, the shelves digging into your spine in the confined space.  Giles bent over, giving you a great view of his backside, as he extracted a slim book from the bottommost ledge.  When he stood up, directly in front of you, the narrow, book covered alcove caused him to stumble. Giles’ chest collided with your own, forcing the air out of your lungs.  Instinctively, you lifted a leg, curling it over the swell of one trousered hip and lifting the hem of your knee length plaid kilt.  Nose to nose in a compromising position, you exhaled a shaky breath as Mr. Giles inhaled, “Close quarters around here.” Shifting under his deceptively hard figure, it was difficult to ignore all the places that were firm to the touch, especially when you could feel so much through the thin barrier of your cotton panties.  Bracing one arm on the obliging shelf biting into your shoulder, Giles pushed back a bit, lifting his weight off of you without making any other attempts to move away.  He was so close now.  Close enough to feel your fuzzy sweater and all the soft skin that trembled beneath it.  Close enough to see the pound of your pulse in your throat.  Close enough that when you licked over your bottom lip Giles could almost taste it too.  And why shouldn’t he?  “Giles?”  Your voice was whisper soft, fanning hotly over the face of your colleague. “Uh… yes?” “I’m stuck.” Blinking behind his thick lenses, it took the normally quick witted Brit a second to process your words, “You’re stuck?” Nodding slowly, your hair curling over your cheek, “My… My skirt.  It’s… uh, caught.  Caught on something behind me.” “Good heavens!  I’m so sorry, let me help you.”  Slowly, Giles lowered your bare leg to the floor, his hand lingering for a second longer than absolutely necessary.  He was still in your space.  Still incredibly close to you. You arched away from the bookcase in an attempt to free yourself with a groan that sounded heady in the stuffy stacks.  All you managed to do was force your sweater covered décolletage into Giles’ chest.  Stammering, a wave of sweat breaking over his brow, “Allow me?” The way your skirt was caught pulled the bright plaid lower on your waist than you would normally consider decent.  It meant that you had a fleshy strip of skin exposed along your tummy and Giles raised his eyebrows by means of asking permission to touch you.  “Yea, yes.  Please!” Tentatively, gently, you felt the strong fingers of Rupert Giles circle your waist and shivered at the unfamiliar familiarity of his touch.  Your chin rested on his shoulder as he worked and you couldn’t help sighing when he opened his hands and pulled you closer.  Under other circumstances you might have misunderstood the embrace but you were both professionals.  Not that you hadn’t considered the handsome book guardian a time or two before. “I… I think we’re almost there.  If you’ll just, maybe to the right?” “Um, sure.”  Following his directions you twisted in his arms, trying hard not to tear your outfit or rub against Giles.  All the close contact and talk of fertility gods had you feeling a little aroused and it wouldn’t do for your colleague to learn that fact. With a triumphant grunt, Giles set you free, only for gravity to kick back in.  The momentum created by your falling took the gentleman and the entire Grollier’s Gothic Almanac collection with you.  A cascade of papers, scrolls and dust rained down on you both. Coughing, aware that you were laying on something softer than the floor, you struggled into a sitting position, swatting away clouds of disintegrated pages, “Rupert?  Are you alright?” From beneath you a rumbling grumble that sounded like, “Yes quite… you?” was heard.  It was then that you realized exactly where you were.  Straddling your friendly neighborhood librarian, surrounded by debris, but safe, all the same. “Oh my!  I’m so-” “No, No.  Please, don’t apologize.  I’ve been meaning to reorganize this section and well, now it seems I’ve got no choice.” “You’ve got a bump.  Right here…”  Just over his right eye a small bruised egg, the color of lilacs, was starting to rise and you gingerly touched the swelling spot. “Then it will match the one on the back of my head perfectly.” “Poor Giles!  All of this injury in the name of research!” “No one ever tells you the dangers one might encounter in the library.” His dry British wit sent you both into giggles and suddenly nothing could be funnier than the moment you were in with Mr. Giles.  Looking up at you, his fingertip traced over your cheek, suddenly serious, “I’m not the only one with a war wound, it appears.” “Oh?”  Your hand covered his as you realized that you had a small cut, bleeding just a little, over the apple of your jaw.  Smoothing his thumb over your injury, Giles soothed you, saying, “Hush now, I think you’ll live.”  And you watched as Giles sucked the drop of scarlet from the pad there, his green eyes on yours, daring you.  Something about it was so… sinful.  So dark.  So alluring. Then his lips were on yours, suddenly and savagely.  Hands, firm and capable, slid under the fluff of your sweater along your spine as you tangled your own in his dark hair.  Giles, drawing you near, was satisfied only when you were splayed over him, writhing between the piles of text and stacks of piled paperbacks, as his tongue plundered your mouth. Trapped by his bent knees at your bottom, Giles helped center you over the firmness of his excitement, teasing you as you moaned, “Oh, oh Rupert!” “Call me Ripper.”  Before the word had left your throat, Giles was sloppily kissing over your neck, sucking lightly on the skin revealed by the v-neck of your top.  Sitting up quickly, you lifted the soft sweater over your head, tossing it away from you without concern.  Like one of the teenagers you might chastise, you then hugged your lover tight, gasping when you felt the nip of teeth over your bra.  “Giles… Uh, Ripper!  Please, go easy?”  With a hard grip on your upper thigh and one hand on the back of your neck, Giles held you still, smirking, “If you wanted easy you shouldn’t have come looking for fertility icons, my dear little art teacher.  And if this particular article of clothing-” He paused long enough to pinch at your hardening nipple before continuing, “-is dear to you, take it off.” Clenching your abdominals at his crass language, more turned on that you could remember, you reached behind you.  Unhooking the pretty scrap of lace and satin, you shyly covered yourself, biting into your bottom lip, “Fine… Ripper.  Should I be worried for my virtue?” “Absolutely.”  Without waiting for permission, Giles pulled your arms away, exposing your bare body to his blazing gaze, “You have nothing to hide, you know?  You are-” “Just shut up and kiss me, Ripper.”  And he did. Grinding your hips into his, it was impossible to ignore his hardening manhood, even through the fabric of his pressed trousers.  Giles cupped your bottom, under your skirt but over your panties, bouncing you in place as if he was already inside of you.  For your part, you tried to unbutton his pin striped shirt, but the force of his kisses was proving too distracting. “Oh, dear!  Poor thing been kissed senseless?”  He was teasing and cruel, but in the sexiest possible way. Red cheeked and huffing, you nodded, “Yes… let me touch you!” “Tsk… you didn’t say ‘please’.” “Please!  Please, Ripper!  Oh god, please let me!” Unseating you slightly, Giles leaned up on his elbows, cocking his head to one side as he took in the mess he had made of you, “Go ahead then.  Unzip my pants.” “What?” Removing his glasses, eyeing you darkly, “You heard me, I think.” Swallowing hard, your hands shaking with excitement, you reached for Giles’ belt.  Watching him, and only him, you slowly slide the leather from it’s buckle.  When you popped the button of his pants and let your hand drag over his hardened length, Rupert groaned and tossed his head back, “Yes.  Keep going.” Slowly, agonizingly so, you lowered the zipper as you were ordered to do, “What now, Ripper?” “Take me out.  I want you to feel what you do to me.” “I can do that.”  You played it cool, but the saucy words being said in that clipped British baritone did things to you.  They made your thighs tighten, your belly flutter and your breath catch.   Trailing a hand over Giles' barely exposed hip, you moved closer to the prize, your prize, as it pulsed with need.  Wrapping your hand around the meaty girth of Rupert's member, you couldn't help stroking the silky hot skin, so vital in your palm.  That it caused the man beneath you to moan your name only added fuel to the fire of your desire. Slick and sorely wanting, you licked your lips, ready to savor the flavor of your book stacking beau but he stopped you, saying, "Last chance to run back to the studio." "No way… Ripper."  And you felt a rough jerk as your panties were removed by force, the air cool on your overheated core.  Another kiss, full of needful things, distracted you as Giles parted your lower lips with his nimble fingers. Pumping into you, once, twice, just to ensure that you were ready, Rupert swiftly stretched your center.  With your small hand guiding his shaft, you lowered yourself onto the engorged tower of his power, crying out a ragged, "Oh God!" You thought you were capable of handling any man, but the delicious spread Giles' fine form forced you to endure was more than you expected.  Clutching at his bunched up sweater vest, your back arched tautly as Rupert dragged your hips down onto his unrelenting hardness over and over.   In your head, a rhythmic, tribal tattoo that made you think of ancient fires and curved statues took hold and you rose and fell against Giles on the beats vibrating through your brain.  He sensed it too, alternating his stroke, slowing down and speeding up in time with the thrumming pulse only the pair of you could hear.  "I want you to cum for me.  Do you understand?  Tell me you understand." "Yes!  Yes!  I'm so close, Ripper!  So close!" "Good.  That's very good."  Tingling now, your muscles tensed, ready for the release Rupert would provide.  You flung yourself onto his swollen sex without thought or reason, merely searching for the pleasure he had promised.  His thumb, so thick, so clever, pressed against your sensitive clit and your world imploded. Rupert felt it.  The moment your body and his melded together was forceful.  It tore his pleasure from his loins in grunting gasps as he experienced your ecstacy at his hands. Limp and listless, you draped your half nude body over his, dazed and drained.  Who knew screwing the librarian would feel this good?  In your post coital haze you started to laugh.  Giles, his hands roaming over the sweat soaked skin of your back, heard your chuckles and joined in.  It was another release, of sorts, and you found it almost as intimate as the act you had just committed. Folding your hands under your chin, flashing Rupert a wide smile, "Ripper, huh?" Sliding his glasses back into place and carding a hand through his hair, Giles grinned, "Oh, uh… yes.  Ripper.  My nickname in London." Toying with the collar of his shirt, "I'd love to hear about London sometime… Ripper." At the sound of that name in your voice, Rupert flexed inside of you, "Call me that again and you'll miss last period." Gasping against him, nodding weakly, "Hmm… promise?" That made him smile broadly as he handed you back your sweater, "We can't have a repeat of last week, can we?" "It wasn’t my fault you didn't hear the bell ring, Mr. Giles!" Sitting up, you fastened your bra and shrugged into your sweater before asking, "Did you have to destroy my undies?" "I'm afraid I did.  Although I told you to remove anything dear, didn't I?" "What am I gonna do for the next hour, Giles?" Pushing his glasses up, "I would advise you not to bend over." Swatting at him playfully, you used one of the sturdier shelves to stand, adjusting your skirt and fluffing your hair.  Looking around at the absolute mess created by falling books, embarrassed, you asked, "Can I help clean this up?" "No, I don't think that'll be necessary.  After all, Willow will be in-" "Along with Buffy and Xander and Cordelia.  Got it." Standing himself, Giles chuckled as he fastened his trousers and set himself to rights, "Precisely.  Now-" he bent over to retrieve a slim volume, "- The book you asked about.  Fertility iconography in Meso-American subcultures." "Thanks.  Ya know, I always enjoy coming to the library.  I'm surprised more people don't." Walking with you, his hand on your lower back, nuzzling into your neck, "I enjoy you cumming in the library." It was on the tip of your tongue to say something fresh when the overly loud bell clanged.  Lifting up on tiptoes you pressed a kiss to the goose egg over Giles' eye, saying, "I hope that makes it feel better!" Snagging you into a tight hug, Giles stared into your eyes before kissing you deeply, "That.  That makes it feel better." And then the library door swung wide on the four students who called the library a second home, "Um… are my eyes deceiving me or is Giles sporting a black eye?  I was only gone for an hour, big guy, what happened?" "If you must know, Xander, a shelf collapsed in the back.  We were fortunate enough not to be badly hurt but, there were some bumps and bruises." "A shelf!  Oh no… which one?!" Giles turned to Willow solemnly, "I'm afraid all the Grollier’s… and most of Crentist." "On it.  Come on Xander.  You can help me sort!" "Aw, gee.  That sounds like fun." As the pair trotted off, you turned to Giles, whispering low, "Dinner?  My place?  You can tell me about London, your childhood and why you love tweed." Eyeing Buffy, who was distracted and a distraught, Giles answered, "Tonight?  Um…" "He'd love to!  Say 9 o'clock?  And, he'll bring the wine."

Spinning on your heel, surprised that Buffy was your champion, you grinned, "Great!  Awesome!  I will see you then."

As you left you heard the bubbly blonde doling out instructions, "No Giles.  You can't wear that outfit to dinner!  You need to look nice.  Nicer than you do now.  Also, why is there so much dust in your hair?" If Giles answered you didn’t hear it over your big yawn.  You had a lot to do between now and 9 o’clock.  Rupert Giles was coming over for dinner and you could hardly wait.

------ Fin ------- I’m tagging my minxes, even though this is specifically NOT a Loki story.  I do want you guys to send me stories that might fall under the “Hot Characters” banner though!   Minxes:   @scrumptious-finicky-illusion​ @iamverity​ @mizfit2​ @sammy-jo1977​ @wolfsmom1​ @jessiejunebug​ @iluvsumbucky​ @unadulteratedwizardlove @procrastinatinglikeabitch @shxdowofdarkness​ @nonsensicalobsessions​ @ahintofkiwistrawberry​ @alexakeyloveloki​ @rorybutnotgilmore​ @crystalizedcaramel​ @lokislittlecorner​ @capcapcapsicle @jamielea81​ @caffiend-queen​​ @otakumultimuse-hiddlewhore​​ @jenjen8675309​​ @that-one-person​​ @roguewraith​​ @toomanystoriessolittletime​ @vodka-and-some-sass​ @just-random-obsessions​ @brokenthelovely​ @lots-of-loki​ @thefallenbibliophilequote​

[pascalpanic]

‘Nilla Bean (Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x gn!Reader)

Summary: A cowboy in your coffee shop is not the way you’d expected your morning to go, but you’re not complaining; especially not when he’s as attractive as he is.

W/C: 2.1k

Warnings: talk of food/eating, brief allusions to alcohol, lots of flirting, sexual innuendos, I think there’s like a single use of fuck

A/N: okay I’ve been thinking about this FOREVER but I finally went ahead and wrote it!!! hope u guys like it, I’m a sucker for a coffee shop AU as a barista myself :) thx @theteddylupinexperience for helping me name it and motivating me to write it lol

When you started your shift this morning, you’d groaned as you tied the apron around your waist, expecting an uneventful day. Most were. If you were lucky enough to see someone you knew or to have an especially nice customer, you’d consider it a good day. You didn’t know when you walked in that it would be the good day to end all good days: nothing could top this one.

Weekday mornings in the fall aren’t particularly busy. The majority of your customers come around the morning rush, and the remaining ones are usually retirees or house-spouses and their young children. It’s enjoyable, days like these, that don’t require you to dash about the shop.

The only problem, really, is having nothing to do. You clean the coffee grinder, wipe down tables, wipe down everything else, then do it all again. Restocking, usually an endless chore, isn’t even an option; no one’s using anything in the first place. You and your coworkers chat, deep-cleaning the coolers, washing the blender stations, and doing the dirty work. When a customer comes, you’re the lucky one who gets to go take their order and put your task on hold first.

It seems like you’ve done every task twice, even when your manager introduces yet another idea for you to deal with. To bide your time, you prep coffee for later, rearrange the case of pretty little pastries that sits next to your register, and doodle on your station with a paint pen, humming to the soft music playing in the shop.

People come and go, some picking up mobile orders and some ordering from you, some choosing to eat inside and some taking their food to go. You sip your drink happily between customers- a white mocha with caramel.

At one point, you’re in the back and washing dishes when a coworker peeks his head into the back. “Hey, you got someone up front!” He informs you, and you nod and wander out through the swinging doors.

Well. That’s certainly a sight for a Tuesday morning.

The man standing at the register is wearing a painfully well-tailored suit jacket, with gray tweed and patches on the elbows. Beneath it is a white top and a black tie, and the man wears jeans on the bottom half. Interesting.

Perhaps more interesting is the large cowboy hat perched atop his head. The man’s face, below the brim of his Stetson, is incredibly handsome. He has an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache that wouldn’t work on anyone else, and warm brown eyes that make you smile softly.

“Hi,” you comment as you log into the register. “Are you a part of our rewards program?” You ask as part of your regular spiel.

The man furrows his brow then shakes his head. “Uh, no. No I’m not. Can you sign me up now?” He asks, and his voice makes your chest flutter with the tone. It’s rich and smooth, with a beautiful southern twang.

Looking at your register and back at him, you shake your head. “It’s just an app on your smartphone, really easy,” you tell him.

“Ah, damn,” he groans and pulls it from his pocket. “I’m shit with technology. Why don’t you just… type it in here?” He says, handing you his phone with a notes page open. His thick fingers accidentally lock the phone as he hands it to you.

You tap the screen to wake it and find the background to be a picture of a cute little pig all covered in mud. “Uh, you locked it,” you chuckle. “What’s the password?”

The man looks down shyly. “1-2-3-4. Don’t make fun’a me, I’m like a grandpa with these newfangled phones.”

It’s endearing, you have to admit, and it makes you giggle. “Not a problem. I’m not here to chide you on your security choices,” you shrug. You type in the code and find the app, starting the download for him before handing back his phone. “Can I get a name to start your order?” You ask as you look up at him.

His eyes hold a warmth there, radiating off of his smile. “Whiskey.”

“Your mother named you Whiskey?” You tease as you type in the name, returning back to the main page of beverages. “Some kind of legal name.”

The man shakes his head. “Nah, that’s just what I go by at work.”

Whiskey likes conversation, you notice, and it makes you chuckle a little. “You got a real name then?” You ask him, raising an eyebrow beneath your visor.

The man tips his hat. “Jack Daniels, at your service.” He says and offers you a hand, which you take and shake.

“That’s a lie. You’re telling me your nickname is Whiskey and your real name is a type of whiskey?”

The man shrugs. “My momma had a real funny sense of humor, I guess. My daddy loved the booze so they went with it. I work for Statesman, so I suppose it’s fitting.”

“Ah, the distillery,” you nod with a smile, not grasping the depth of what Statesman actually does. How could you? “Well then, Jack,” you say with an honest grin on your face. “What can I get you to drink?”

Whiskey, Jack, whatever his name is, looks up at the menu, scanning the different beverages. “Well. That sure is a lot of choices. I’m new to the area, so I don’t know the menu yet, and I don’t know the first thing about coffee other than how to make it in a machine,” he admits to you. “What would you recommend, sugar?”

Sugar. Your heart beats a million times faster at the man’s words. You’ve had lots of weird and creepy men call you different things, but you’ve never been flustered and enjoyed it. This man is getting to you, quickly. “Well, how strong do you take your coffee?”

He thinks about that for a second, fiddling with the button on his suit jacket. “Pretty strong. A little sweet, with cream. I usually take it Irish style,” he admits with a chuckle, tapping a belt buckle that you realize is a tiny flask. Jesus. That’s not cheesy.

“Well, we don’t serve alcohol,” you laugh and look down at your screen. “We have all kinds of flavors.” You list them all off, off the top of your head, now staring at the ceiling to recite them all. “And our seasonal drink is pumpkin spice.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Wonderful and all, but what do you like? You seem like you’ve got a good taste, darlin’, tell me what you’d recommend.”

God, these names are going right to where they shouldn’t, especially not when this handsome man is leaning on your counter and flirting with you as he orders his coffee. “I like vanilla.” You shrug.

The man laughs and stands. “I hate to say it, sugar, but I’m not a very vanilla man,” he says, his head tilting down and his dark, sultry eyes peeking out at you from just below the brim. His voice is seductive, implying something else other than the flavor.

Oh fuck. “Oh, not like that,” you laugh as your face floods with warm blood, anxiety coursing through your veins. “Not vanilla in that way.�� Fuck, that’s even worse, you think and grip the counter so as to not physically cringe at your words.

“Not like that, huh?” His words are still so seductive and flirtatious it makes you want to combust. Maybe you will, if he keeps this going.

“N-no,” you stammer, looking down at the menu screen again. “I mean, I just think it’s underrated. People dismiss it as boring, but it’s really just as interesting of a flavor as anything else. It tastes really good with our espresso.”

Jack tilts his head to the side, a smirk on his face. His lip pokes out just slightly to wet his lips and you shiver involuntarily, your skin pricking up all across your body. God, you hope he can’t see it. “I’ll trust you on it, ‘nilla bean,” the man drawls and stands up straight again. “Triple espresso with vanilla and cream.”

You nod and ring that in. God, if he keeps going with the nicknames, you’re going to melt into a puddle here and now.

“What are these?” He asks as his fingers trace over the drawings on the counter, lifting them and finding the pink and green powder of the dried paint has transferred to his fingertips.

God, he makes you nervous, but in a good way. In the best way possible, a way that makes you want to knock that cowboy hat off his head and find out if his lips are as soft as they look. “I draw when I’m bored. It’s been a slow day,” you chuckle as your own fingers trace the crawling vines and flowers you’d painted there. “Sorry about the transfer,” you chuckle and your fingertips brush his, making you involuntarily shudder again at the contact. His fingertips are calloused and radiate warmth.  “Uh, can I get you anything to eat?” You ask and gesture at the bakery case.

The man inspects it for a moment, looking at the various foods lined up under the soft white light. “I’ll take one’a these,” he says and pokes a finger towards the chocolate chip cookies through the glass. You nod and take one out for him, putting it in a little paper sleeve and handing it over. “How much is this gonna hurt my wallet?” He asks, pulling it out from the back pocket of his jeans.

“Give me one second.” You type in your code for your employee discount, which takes a moment.

“What’re you typin’ there, ‘nilla bean?” He asks, brow furrowing.

Looking up at him, you push your visor up your face and smile a little. “Oh, I’m giving you my employee discount. It’s ridiculously priced here.”

Jack frowns. “You don’t have to do that for me, sugar. I’m just a regular ol’ customer.”

It’s your chance, you realize, to say something or stay silent forever. “Well, I like you,” you admit and take the credit card he hands you, swiping it through the machine. “And I’m hoping you’ll at least become a regular. I’d like to see you more,” you tell him with a grin.

The man’s face lights up, even beneath the shadow of his brim. “I’d like that too,” he nods and pockets his card when you hand it back.

A beat of silence passes as the two of you smile at each other, both of you lovestruck immediately. “Uh, your drink will be right up over there,” you say and nod to the other end of the café. “Are you going to drink that here or take it to go?” You ask.

“Oh, here,” he nods.

“Perfect,” you say with a small smile. “Then I’ll just bring it to you when it’s ready. Nothing better to do today,” you shrug and wander down to the other end before Jack, Whiskey, whatever can refute you.

You take the cup from your coworker, humming to yourself as you put some vanilla and cream in the cup, pulling the espresso shots. When it’s ready, it barely reaches the halfway mark of the small cup, so you top it with a little whipped cream. You suspect the man has more of a sweet tooth than he lets on.

Pocketing a pink paint marker, you put a lid on the drink and walk out to the dining room, setting the coffee down across from him. He’s munching on the cookie he’d ordered, looking up at you with unintentional puppy dog eyes. “Hey there.”

“Hi,” you smile and pull out the chair across from him, sitting down and pulling out the paint pen. “I put a little extra whipped cream on top. I thought it would go well with the espresso, make it a little creamier or something.”

As you uncap the paint pen, Jack’s brow furrows as he watches you. “Whatcha doing there?” He asks as you bring his cup closer to yourself and write something on the top.

“Being brave,” you chuckle and cap the pen, sliding it back. “I gotta head back. Enjoy it,” you say as you stand and pat him on the shoulder.

Only as you walk back to the register does Whiskey comprehend exactly what you put on the top of his cup. It’s your phone number, in that chalky pink paint, and a smiley face beneath it.

Jack may not be great with technology, like he told you, but he immediately pulls out his phone and takes a photo. Then he enters the number into a contact, filling out the name: ‘Nilla Bean.

-

taglist:

@remmysbounty @mishasminion360 @blo0dangel @binarydanvvers  @sleep-tight1 @apascalrascal @randomness501 @spideysimpossiblegirl @notabotiswear @pedro-pastel @sanchosammy @lv7867 @greeneyedblondie44 @hunnambabe @astoryisaloveaffair @emesispo @pedritobalmando @magikfanatic @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @princess76179 @starless-eyes-remain

[wdwmarveldisney]

🥺👉👈 Could I maybe request a doctor who x reader with a younger, more innocent teenage reader? And the doctor gets protective over them, especially when they could be in danger. Any doctor could fit. (sorry if this is not enough information I'm new to making requests)

Let them go

Eleventh Doctor x platonic!teen!reader

Summary: When the Doctor takes you to your favourite musical, things once again don’t end well.

Masterlist

A/N: Ok so I loved this request and thank you so much. You are so sweet. Don’t worry about how information there is, I just hope that you like it. I may have mixed a little Newsies in here because, well I love it and I honestly think about how I would a hundred percent ask to go there if I was travelling with the Doctor.

Not my GIF

Shaking violently when travelling seemed to be the only flaw of the TARDIS and even then, it was only because the Doctor was a terrible pilot. He had tried to convince you otherwise but you'd met River on more than one occasion and she had actual evidence for her argument so excuse you if you sided with her. But that didn't mean that you hated it; every time it happened, you'd grin real big because it was just yet another reminder of the chaos that came with the Doctor. You had a usual place by the controls, one where you were often moved from during flight to avoid you being in the way. Most of the time you ended up in one of the seats, watching his every move in hopes of learning what any of it meant. River had promised to teach you when you were older, said you could leave the Doctor in the 1920s where he apparently thrived and she'd teach you how to the drive the TARDIS.

Right now however, you were here in 2017 New York, at your request. You had asked to see the recording of Newsies after a small (ok so maybe the exact opposite of small) obsession with the musical over the years. You were surprised when all the Doctor had to do was make a call and suddenly you were right at the front with the opportunity to go backstage afterwards too. The inner fangirl was hard to control as the two of you headed to the doors and you managed to stumble slightly but he had caught you before you could fall into the wooden doors. Pouting as he laughed, you tugged his bow tie hard making him stop with a frown and a hand going to readjust it. He scanned your attire with an amused smile which resulted in a flick to the head from you. "Ow, I didn't say anything!"

You walked out the TARDIS, breathing in the smell of hotdogs and petrol before facing him with a small frown, "You were thinking it. I can wear a Newsies shirt if I want to wear a Newsies shirt," he put his hands up in surrender as he walked out too and then quickly turned to lock the doors. You tugged at the shirt in question as you glanced round the empty alley, waiting for him. It was a few seconds before you felt an arm fall into your shoulders and quickly you began to walk to the streets with big smiles on your faces. In the small time you had come to know the Doctor, he had become like family. You had been quite sheltered growing up, never seen much trouble but that's kinda expected from a small town family. When you started travelling with the TimeLord, you saw a lot of bad stuff, things you had never even thought possible and so naturally, he was protective. He was like an older brother, maybe a dad ish vibe.

Your steps were in time with his as you approached the theatre, huffing at how long the queue to get in was. Finally in line, you tapped your foot patiently and suddenly, the question had slipped from your lips without much thought, "How did you get good tickets?" He paused, reaching up to fiddle with his bow tie nervously before straightening out his tweed jacket. He avoided eye contact and instead stared at the bright lights surrounding you guys, "Well, um, I helped write it. Historical facts and stuff," you watched him shrug with terribly faked nonchalance. Jaw dropping, your eyes went comically wide as you stuttered out, "You- They- What?" Unbelievable. Of course he knew about your obsession with the musical and failed to mention his involvement with writing it.

It was a couple hours later and you were waiting by the Doctor's side as the theatre cleared out. He had spent the whole musical jittery and chatty, clearly not good with just sitting there and watching. Several times someone had complained and you had had to talk with him about it. He was a literal child at times. But despite the fact he had muttered about his hate for Twitter after the girl next to you guys tweeted a picture of herself and her friend there, you enjoyed yourself. The musical was just as great as the first time you watched the recording, if not better. And now, you couldn't stop bouncing in excitement. You were actually going backstage, and you were going to meet the cast of a musical you have obsessed over for years.

But of course, with the Doctor, things never happened that easily.

The TimeLord had pulled out his sonic screwdriver to fiddle with while you waited and frowned at the noise it made. You caught his muttering and huffed, already knowing that look on his face. Concern, anger and a touch of excitement. "Don't say it," his eyes slowly left the device in his hands as he raised an eyebrow at your words. Someone was just leaving the backstage area but neither of you noticed as you sighed, "Why does something always have to happen? One good, non-alien day is all I ask. Is that even possible with you?" He grinned goofily at you with a breathy chuckle before raising the screwdriver in the air and scanning your surroundings. You jumped at the tap on your shoulder, facing the crew member with fists raised like that would do something. "Oh,"

"I was sent to get you. What's he doing?" You glanced to the Doctor, who now stood on one of the seats and you shrugged, arms crossing over his chest. Looking between both men, eventually you answered, "I find it best not to ask until he gets that look on his face," the guy frowned as he watched the Doctor jump from the seat and run up an aisle and look through one of the doors. As the two of you watched him lock the door with the screwdriver, the crew guy asked, "What look?" Going to respond, you stopped yourself once seeing the dark look of his face. The one that ensured mortal danger and most likely ended with the two of you saving the world. Again.

"That look," the guy watched you point to the alien as he made his way over to you by jumping over one of the seats. His arm landed on your shoulders as he huffed slightly from all the running round, "Right okay then, possible shapeshifter, very dangerous and kills for the hell of it. Also, amazing dancers and have a tendency to be really funny. Ready?" As he spoke, he looked the guy up and down in a calculating way as if he was possible suspect. You ignored the shock and fear on the guy's face in front of you and instead tilted your head in debate, "I mean, yeah sure," with a laugh, he clapped his hands together and approached the crew member. He too ignored the expression or he just didn't notice with how quickly his mind was now working. He smiled, hands clasped in front of him as he did another look over the guy before speaking, "Ok, we're ready to go. Should probably check out backstage first," he looked to you and you nodded in agreement. "Well," he paused as he placed his hands on the guy's shoulder, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. Panicky look still clearly painted on his features, his voice shook as he managed, "Carl,"

"Well Carl, lead the way," gripping the clipboard in his hands tighter, Carl turned around and began to walk up the stairs and backstage with the two of you following. You stared at your feet as you walked, pout on your lips as you thought, "So, when you say very dangerous...?" The Doctor paused before backtrack king to you and placing his hands on your shoulders whilst ducking his head down to meet your eyes. He had such certainty and determination that you knew he wasn't lying when he said, "Nothing bad will happen to you, I promise," a chuckle left your lips as you punched his shoulder, smile lighting up your face as he remained unbelievably serious, "Well duh. I've got my own hero. And you know I'd haunt the hell out of you," he shook his head, smile fighting it's way to his face as the two of you began to walk behind the curtain.

-

So apparently the Doctor isn't great with promises or at least, that's what you gather when the two of you were walking down a deserted corridor and something had grabbed you from behind. The last hour had been the two of you searching in the dark, trusting no one since this alien shapeshifted. Two crew members were found dead and another missing so the Doctor insisted on going to find her and well, naturally you followed without question. And now you had a claw to your throat as you whimpered at how hard the alien was pulling your hair. This made the Doctor turn, eyes darkening when he saw you struggling and crying quietly to yourself. "Let them go," it was practically a whisper but it echoed in the hall, making the creature laugh. "Why would I do that?" The voice was deep and distorted and almost robotic, "They'll be so much fun," the last word was spat, venom in the voice making whimper again. You shook violently and the Doctor met your terrified eyes with his remorseless ones. "Why are you here? Order the Shadow Proclamation states Earth is a Level five planet. Do you know what they'd do to you?" He took a few taunting steps forward, head almost bowed in anger.

A small scream left your lips as the claw made a small cut in your throat and the Doctor seemed to tense. Rolling out his shoulders, the TimeLord uncharacteristically smirked as his fingers toyed with the screwdriver in his hands and he laughed almost hollowly, "I know about your people. I have fought your people time again and again and again. And do you want to know what I remember?" There was a pause in his words, only audible thing being your small cries, "You really don't like high frequencies," he raised an eyebrow as he pressed a button and the alien began to freak. His hands slammed over his ears and he stumbled back, essentially freeing you. You managed to make your way to a worried and panicking Doctor before the two of you rushed down the hall and inside a changing room. You fell back against the door as the whir of the screwdriver and the click of the lock and the huffs of your breaths filled the room.

Suddenly the small device was stuck in your face, scanning you up and down before you smacked it away. He gave you a pointed look before carrying on, no doubt scanning for any other type of harm. He was in protective mode which wasn't uncommon but could get annoying when he wouldn't stop checking up on you. With a frustrated expression, you snatched the screwdriver from his hands and shook your head when your eyes met, “I’m fine,” you made sure to emphasise the last word and the Doctor mimicked you under his breath like a three year old. Scoffing, you pointed the screwdriver at him in warning but he just simply took it back with a small huff.

And then there was a bang at the door and the two of you were reminded of the danger you were facing this time round.

[writings-of-a-hufflepuff]

Of Academic Interest

Fandom: Indiana Jones

Collection/Series: Tribute to/Part of @alloftheimaginesblog ‘s ‘Secret’s Out’ Saga world.

Pairing: Indiana Jones x Plus Size Female History Lecturer Reader (Glasses are mentioned very briefly)

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: T 

Warnings: N/A

Summary: You’re one of the newest history lecturers and Indiana turns up to watch your open lecture on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead

Notes: I love Angela’s Secret’s Out Saga, i’m happy that I get to send her requests and see the amazing things she writes for it and lately i’ve been getting the urge to write something for the world/au/series. 

This is a homage, a tribute, to it, obviously none of this is canon unless Angela says so. 

This is set before Indy and the Reader are dating.

All facts come from an essay I did at university on the Cult of the Beautiful Dead, which I also did an hour long presentation on. 

Comment and Feedback Form

Taglist Form

You were relatively new to the history department at Marshall College and were somewhat of a novelty to students and staff alike having only been there for a few months. Being one of the few female professors and on top of that specialising in some more taboo or ground breaking historical takes on the history of gender and sexuality, you had successfully caused quite the stir. 

The majority of your colleagues were accepting, happy to have you and generally interested by your studies and research. Despite being relatively new to academic teaching they were supportive, although there was a small subsection of the humanities department who, in typical old man fashion, talked down to you, treated you like a coffee girl and disrespected your expertise. You had taken to stealing their students from their modules and attracting them to your modules instead as a passive form of fighting back.

Students were clamouring to be taught by you, to get onto the list for your modules or to get to see your open lectures. You were the only member of the faculty who talked about the more riveting elements of history such as prostitution, sexualisation, and even ghosts. In comparison to the same lectures on Anglo-Saxon England and the Civil War, you were significantly more interesting to the student population. That did not, however, remove sexism within the student population. While female students actively enjoyed your lectures, got involved more so than in other modules, and felt a sense of comfort in a more female friendly space, you found that a small portion of the student male population tried at every turn to either explain your own specialism to you or to discredit you. You had long since taken to finding it rather amusing, especially when most of those individuals were failing your course. 

You had been asked many months ago to prepare an open lecture on the history of surgery and medicine, the faculty head had told you to pick any topic you wished so long as it was well researched and you could put on a good lecture for the student population. For some it might well be their first ever history lecture, for others it was just an addition to their usual workload, nonetheless you’d chosen a topic that was of interest to you and that you felt confident presenting. 

Standing before a podium in a large lecture hall, you push your glass further up the bridge of your nose and flick through the pages of notes in front of you to temporarily distract yourself from the crowds of people that were slowly making their way inside and to seats. It was a large hall, one that could hold upwards of 200 people and despite years of public speaking under your belt there was always an anticipation, a sense of nerves, before you began a lecture or presentation. 

You checked the microphone on the podium, happy to find it in working order and smiled at a few familiar faces in the front row, some of your students who had apparently decided to spend their free period listening to you talk some more. Checking the time you waited a few more minutes before choosing to start, letting the last stragglers find a seat or for those unlucky enough to stand at the back after all seats were filled. It was a large turn out and you could feel those nerves buzzing in the pit of your stomach as you cleared your throat and picked up your notes. 

“Good morning, everyone! Thank you for coming despite your busy schedules to hear me drone on once more about dead people,” Light laughter and small chuckles filled the space as you began, your students looking at each other with a shake of their heads. “Today i’m going to be talking to you about something called the Cult of the Beautiful Dead in Victorian medicine. Specifically surgery.” 

You find yourself drifting from the podium, pacing across the stage even as this requires you to speak louder without the microphone. There is a familiar energy in your body that demands you move as you speak, to expend it in some physical way. “The Cult of the Beautiful Dead pervaded the world of art within the 18th and 19th centuries. It has been defined as ‘a subjective fascination with idealised images of the deceased in such a way that permanently embalmed bodies and stable images displace and replace impermanent reality’, but I would characterise it within medical and surgical art somewhat differently.”

You stop briefly, give yourself time to breathe and them time to process your words, in that brief moment your eyes glance across the crowd and spot a familiar face that makes your cheeks warm and your heart stutter. Professor Henry ‘Indiana’ Jones Junior. 

Professor Jones was known throughout the history and archaeology department for his digs, his finds, and his immense knowledge, that and his good looks and charming persona. He was friendly, enticing, handsome, and treated you as an equal. While you could not consider yourself friends, you did have a healthy respect and rather decent crush on the man. In fact, the only reason you weren’t friends, you suspected, was your inability to talk around the man without stuttering. He had no reason to be at your lecture, but he’d come anyway, in fact it looked as if he were the only member of the archaeology department present. 

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away and continue, “It is the idealised image of the female body on the dissection room table or the surgical bed with her flowing hair, her soft, pale skin, her perfect, unharmed nature and her sexualised passivity which characterises the Cult of the Beautiful Dead within medical art. On your seats you would have found copies of a painting by Henri Gervaux and an illustration by Hasselhorst, I will be talking today about these pieces of art and how they fit in with the realities of the dissection room.” 

You move across the stage again, wait as they find out their papers and find yourself looking over at Dr Jones again. He is intent in his observations of the papers in his hands, interested, actively engaged and that is a bigger compliment than anything you think. It would be heartbreaking, you decide, if he were bored by or disinterested in your lecture. While you don’t need his approval, you are an academic in your own right, you do desire it. 

You continue on when he looks up, shifting your eyes away quickly, “In the 19th century women were less likely to be patients of surgeons than men and even when they were operated on they were by no means symbols of the Cult of the Beautiful dead. See Before the Operation by Henri Gervaux,” You wait for them to find the print of the painting, “It is a portrait of Dr Pean, a French Surgeon, and depicts the moment before an operation on a young woman and fits into the ideal of the Cult even though the woman is anaesthetised and not dead.” 

In this fashion you continue your lecture, moving across the stage discussing the sexualisation of the female body in medical art and the realities of surgery in comparison. You’re highly aware of Dr Jones’ eyes on you as you move across the stage, to the point that you stumble at points in your oration. As time goes on you find yourself relaxing under his gaze, accepting that he is here purely out of interest, not to judge you or pass criticism. His active engagement with your lecture, the notes you can see him scribbling down in a notebook, is rewarding and reassures you that he is enjoying himself even on a topic so far removed from his own studies of ancient civilisations and centuries old artefacts and skeletons. 

You reach the end of your lecture, returning to the podium and straightening your skirt, “Are there any questions?”

Hands pop up across the room, but it is one in particular that you are drawn to. You don’t expect him to ask questions, you don’t expect him to have any, but you are a little scared to hear what he has to say. It shouldn’t scare you, this active academic engagement, the meeting of minds, but you so desperately do not want to make a fool of yourself. 

“Dr Jones?” You gesture for him to go on and ask and he stands in response. Tugging at the tweed waistcoat and adjusting his glasses on his nose.

He smiles at you as he begins, “Dr Y/L/N,” He addresses you by your title, formal and respectful. You are reminded, once more, that he has never failed to treat you as an equal. Unlike some of the other male professors, “I was just wondering what your opinion was on the eroticisation of death in this period?” You let out a little laugh, for no reason other than a little relief at the ease with which you can answer that question. 

“Thank you for your question Dr Jones, well art such as Hasselhorst’s helped to eroticise death in the 18th and 19th centuries, death became equated with beauty, even if the reality of the dissection room failed to live up to the standards of the Cult of the Beautiful Dead. What we see is death portrayed often as a young woman. She is often portrayed as beautiful with long flowing hair, a fair face, a soft pale body, naked, open to the eye and most importantly passive. The dead woman in this period is a passive object, dead, yet sleeping, immortally captured at her most beautiful and unable to object to any sexualisation or objectification. She cannot talk back. Death is an obsession of the Victorians and it’s prevalence in medical art like Hasselhorst’s shows just how deeply connected death, beauty and the erotic became at this time.”

“Do you think we’ve continued that desire for passivity today? The way in which we expect women to act?” 

“What do you think, Dr Jones?” You turn the question back on him, eager to hear his opinion, knowing that your own certainly sees the way 1930s society demands passivity from women even if death is no longer eroticised in the same way. 

“I think we’ve perpetuated that desire for passivity from women within our society, demanded they hold their tongue, keep themselves in check and in place and as objects of desire, but not too much or else they’re no longer respectable. I think we expect women to be passively sexual, unknowingly so, innocently so, yet they must be attractive else their worth is diminished. An outspoken or intelligent woman is demeaned, pushed out from academics or workplaces. Don’t you agree?”

“I do.” You take a moment, give him a smile before answering the next question and the next and the next. You expect him to leave like many of the other members of the audience once his question has been answered, instead he stays, listens to your responses to each question and pays you rapt attention. 

You find yourself even more interested in Dr Jones than you were before. His acknowledgement of the treatment you and other women have faced when attempting to make a name in a career or in academics is refreshing and his engagement with your lecture is enjoyable and endearing. You curse him a little for making your crush, your infatuation deeper simply by coming to your lecture. 

You find yourself packing up your notes at the end, listening to the sound of feet leaving as you grab your notes and stuff them into your leather satchel. A tall shadow falls over you as you heft the bag onto your shoulder and you smile up at Dr Jones as he stands before the podium notebook in hand, he folds the glasses off of his nose and pockets them. 

“How did you enjoy the lecture, Dr Jones?” You run an anxious hand through your hair and twist your wide hips in a nervous movement, always finding yourself a little flustered when one on one with the man. There’s a part of you that worries about coming under scrutiny from him, the part that has so often been judged in life for your gender, your area of study, and your weight. Years of nasty comments, suggested diets and family obsession with the size of your body had created a paranoia almost, a sense of expectation. You were just waiting for the scrutiny to be voiced.

“It was one of the most interesting lectures I've had the pleasure of watching. You should write a book, it might be a worthy next research project and please call me Indiana.” 

“Only if you call me by name. I think we can both drop the doctor? I wasn’t expecting to see you here, I...I didn’t think the Victorians would interest an archaeologist.” In truth the idea of Indiana Jones wanting to learn about people not long dead, a period which rarely requires archaeological excavation and has few true mysteries, had never crossed your mind. 

“In all honesty?” There’s a pause as he looks away from you with a charming smirk before turning back to you, teeth showing through his smile. “You interest me. I’ve read all your books, all your papers, every time you lecture I stop at the door and listen. You’re a compelling orator.”

“You listen to my lectures?” You can feel warmth flooding your cheeks, your neck, your ears at his admission. Feel a familiar sense of butterflies flapping about in your stomach. You look down briefly, smiling at the ground before meeting his blue eyes again.

“When I have time, surprised you haven’t noticed me hovering in the doorway. You really are one of the best academics I've ever met.”

“I...thank you.” You’re a little lost for words, you have barely shared more than a few polite conversations with Indiana, too intimidated to talk in depth with him and yet here he is extolling your values and praising you. 

“Don’t let Dr Carr convince you otherwise.” He taps his fingers in a rhythm on the wood of the podium, looking away from you and towards the door where you can see the much older Dr Carr standing waiting impatiently for you to leave the room for his next lecture. 

“You heard...the other day.” You think back to the argument you’d gotten into with the old professor over his sexist attitude towards you, his constant demeaning comments. You had thought it had been a private argument, but it seems not. You were still rather angry about the whole thing in truth.

“Yeah, look he’s old school. Doesn’t think women should have degrees or PhDs, ignore him. You’re a better academic by far and he’s just angry that he’s been passed over for the chair again. He’s a washed up old academic, he’s only still got a job because the Dean feels bad for him.” He says the last part loudly, on purpose you’re sure, loud enough for Dr Carr to hear and turn a glare on him. You know he won’t say anything to him though, Dr Jones was the university’s prized archaeology professor, he brought in more artefacts than the other’s combined and more students. Dr Carr wouldn’t say a bad word against him. Couldn’t. It was enjoyable to watch the old fuddy professor go red in the face and huff at the doors. 

“I don’t know what to say. I...Thank you. I know we don’t...we don’t really talk, but thank you, I. It’s been hard joining the faculty, it’s a very masculine environment and I...it’s nice to know there’s someone in my corner.” You think to your Grandfather telling you that academics would make you barren, cause you to go insane, think to your mother telling you to find a nice husband and settle down, that you should desire the life of a housewife alone. It has been very difficult simply getting this far and to know you have him in your corner, someone in your corner means a great deal, in a new city, a new job, a new career. 

“Always.” The two of you stand there in silence, just staring at each other, despite the impatient noises being made at the door by Dr Carr. You grip the satchel strap tighter over your shoulder and tuck your hair behind your ear. 

“Would you like to get some coffee?”

“Now?” You don’t have any more lectures for the day, just your office hours later to answer any student questions, but the offer still surprises you. 

“Yeah, I don’t have a lecture until later and...if you’re free I have more questions.” He holds up the notebook, little post notes coming out of the side, it’s thick from writings and usage. It flatters you that he’s so interested in what you have to say, in your mind. You think it might be more of a compliment than anything physical. 

“So it’s entirely professional then, Dr Jones?” You’re not sure where the confidence comes from to cause the words to fall from your lips, to cause a little smirk to lift at them as you look at him over the top of your glasses. Flirtation is one area you are not confident in, despite it all. 

“Well, I wouldn’t say entirely, sweetheart...I’d like to get to know you better.” He’s utterly too charming for his own good you think and too charming for your poor little heart, but despite any concerns you have, any worries about his intentions you still find yourself agreeing. You’ve wanted to get to know him better for so long, too scared to talk to him in more than passing that you can’t let this opportunity pass you by. Refuse to. 

“That sounds...lovely.” 

“Shall we?” He offers his elbow out to you and you take it, wrapping your arm through his and pulling yourself to his side. He is taller, broader, and warmer than you. He smells woodsy and a little like black coffee and everything about this moment has your heart skipping a beat. 

“We shall.”  

You take great pleasure in the dissatisfied sneer on Dr Carr’s face as the two of you walk arm in arm out of the lecture hall. 

                                                            ----

Taglists: 

@charradelange @belfry-bat @gabile18 @beccaboo929  @trasheater

[mygalfriday]

you could be happy, i hope you are (River/11)

Prompt #6: Right Person, Wrong Time

He couldn’t just leave her.

Even if she wasn’t destined to be his River someday, she is still Amy Pond’s little girl; she’s still just a scared child with no one who cares. The Doctor understands exactly how that feels. So he turns up at the orphanage as often as he can, cloaking his TARDIS so she doesn’t see his blue box and realize who he is. To Melody, he isn’t the man who ruined her life or the subject of all her nightmares. He’s simply her friend who appears out of thin air and makes her smile.

Sometimes he brings her a new toy and they sit on the floor and play for hours – building whole cities out of Legos and having tea parties with teddy bears and china dolls. Once, he brought a paint set and they competed to see who drew the best self-portrait. He teaches her how to play card games and she absolutely trounces him at Monopoly. Neither of them is very good at origami but they try anyway.

The Doctor relishes the chance to see River this young. He had promised Amy that her daughter would be safe and while he hadn’t been able to bring her baby home to her, it eases a little more of the burden from his shoulders every time he tucks Melody into bed or reads her a bedtime story or arrives just in time to comfort her after a bad dream.

There are bad days too. Some days when he visits, she hasn’t eaten in days or there are bruises on her skin she can’t explain. It always takes every bit of self-control he possesses not to scoop her up in his arms and march into the TARDIS, flying away and never coming back. And once he leaves, it takes that same self-control to come back and endure it all again without changing anything. It’s difficult to witness some of the things little Melody Pond goes through but leaving her to suffer it all alone is unthinkable. The Doctor becomes a safe haven for the child. He is a friendly face when she’s scared, warm arms wrapped around her when she’s tired or lonely. He feeds her when she’s hungry, makes certain she stays warm, and waits until she falls asleep before he uses his regeneration energy to heal any injuries she has.

Tonight, thankfully, is one of the better nights. Melody had a good day. Too busy tending to some crisis elsewhere, Kovarian hadn’t visited once. Little Melody had begged and the Silence had allowed her to visit the beach. When the Doctor arrives, she’s full of excited chatter as she tells him of her sand castles and wave jumping.

The Doctor had brought chocolate chip muffins and hot chocolate just in case she might be hungry tonight and her mouth is ringed with chocolate as she tells him, “I got you a present.”

Widening his eyes, the Doctor says, “A present? Really?” He reaches out a hand and pokes her in the ribs, smiling when she giggles. “I thought I was the one who brought presents.”

Melody bites her lip, looking suddenly unsure as she ducks her head and fishes through her pocket. “It’s nothing special,” she says, looking reluctant now as she holds out her little palm to him. “Not like the things you bring.”

“Of course it’s special, It’s from you, silly.” The Doctor takes the little trinket when she offers it to him – a piece of sea glass the color of the TARDIS, the jagged edges worn rounded and smooth by the rough waves and time. A bit like River herself. Rubbing his thumb over it gently, the Doctor lifts his eyes to the child in front of him and says earnestly, “This is brilliant.”

She smiles, a wide and relieved grin that eats away at his hearts. This first regeneration looks so much like Amy and her bright smile is no exception. “You said blue was your favorite color.”

“Blue is my favorite color,” he confirms, smiling gently. “Thank you for remembering.” He lets her see him tuck the glass carefully into the inner pocket of his tweed coat, patting it once it’s safely hidden away. “I’ll never go anywhere without it.”

It isn’t long before Melody curls into his side, yawning and rubbing at her eyes. He tells her a story about a whale floating in outer space, embellishing his own role just a bit because it’s his bedtime story and he can do what he likes. By the time he finishes, she’s asleep with her head resting on his shoulder and chocolate smeared over her mouth.

The Doctor stares down at her, a lump in his throat. He can almost picture it – Amy and Rory’s little girl all tuckered out from a day of playing in the garden and romping about with her normal, human friends. A mum and dad who love her to tuck her in at night. He wants her to have that life. She deserves that life. And he could give it to her.

“Don’t even think about it.”

He starts, jostling little Melody. Gathering her against his chest when she stirs, he shushes her softly and turns his head with a glare directed at River. She stands in front of the cloaked TARDIS, a vortex manipulator strapped to her wrist and her eyes narrowed warningly at him. He can’t begin to guess how she figured out where he’s been going – she can’t possibly remember it with the way the Silence messed about with her mind – but he has learned to stop asking questions by now. She never answers them.

Setting his jaw, he looks away. Melody slumbers away in his arms. “You don’t deserve this.”

“No, she doesn’t.” River watches her younger self like she’s looking at another, entirely separate person. He imagines it must be easier that way. “But she deserves what comes next. I won’t let you rob her of that, Doctor.”

He swallows roughly, eyes stinging as he whispers, “She’s so small, River.”

A gentle hand curls around the nape of his neck and he leans into her touch, closing his eyes. “She’s stronger than she looks.”

A weak smile tugs at his lips. “Oh, I know.”

With a soft sigh, River settles onto the cot beside him. Staring at her younger self wrapped snugly in his arms, her face softens into something pained and reminiscent. “She has so much to come. So many wonderful adventures. A real family. A career she enjoys. A life she gets to choose for herself. Fantastic hair.”

The Doctor smiles again, a bit more genuinely this time.

River smiles too, reaching out a hand to cup his cheek. “And a husband who loves her so much he went back in time to sing her lullabies.” Her thumb swipes tenderly beneath his eye as she says, “But she has to go through a lot of terrible things to get there. And you have to let her.”

“I know,” he whispers, turning his gaze back to the girl in his arms. He does know; he would never change a thing unless River asked him to. He’d made a promise. Yet he still can’t make himself put her down and tuck her in the way he usually does. It’s always hard to leave but tonight, it seems impossible. What kind of man sees a child suffering and walks away when he has the power to fix it? What kind of man is he?

“This isn’t your fault.” River sighs quietly when he tightens his jaw, refusing to agree with her. “Look at me, sweetie.” Her tone brokers no argument and after a moment, he hesitantly lifts his head and meets her gaze. There is absolutely nothing in her eyes but the same love and devotion he always finds there. No pity, no blame, not even forgiveness because to her there is nothing to forgive. “I’m right here, honey. All grown up. And I’m fine, I promise.”

“You’re more than fine,” he murmurs, humbled by her. In awe of her. So in love it aches between his hearts. “You’re amazing.”

“I’d better be.” River grins, patting his cheek gently. “So let me be amazing.”

Together, they tuck in the littlest Pond and clean up the chocolate muffin crumbs and empty mugs so that when Kovarian visits in the morning, she won’t suspect a thing. River heads for the cloaked TARDIS, slipping through the doors and disappearing. The Doctor turns back, gazes down at the child slumbering on the threadbare cot, and leans in. Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he says, “Sweet dreams, Melody Pond. Until the next time.”

And then he turns and walks toward her future – silently promising to make it a good one.

[let-the-dream-begin]

In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 31: Home For Christmas

Chapter 30

Read on AO3

Christmas morning began with a solid weight on Claire’s back that knocked the wind out of her. Eyes still closed, she let out a stifled oomf, and heard a low chuckle beside her. (They’d both made sure they were fully clothed before falling asleep for this exact reason.)

“Aye, good morning, leannan.”

Claire groaned; of course the man was already awake, and had probably been more than capable of stopping Faith from pouncing on her. When the tiny slaps to her head began, he finally intervened.

“Alright, alright, let’s be nice.” The weight was removed, and Claire finally opened her eyes, rolling over to see that Jamie had lifted Faith bodily off of her, and was holding her up on his shins, holding her hands: playing airplane.

“Merry Christmas,” Jamie crooned up to Faith, and she squealed, kicking her legs. If Jamie didn’t have her hands, she’d have toppled over. But Claire knew he’d never let her fall. “Aye, merry Christmas, lass.”

Claire sighed heavily and forced herself to sit up, smiling lazily at the pair of them. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

Claire might as well have not said a thing; she was still giggling at Jamie and kicking her legs. Claire gave him a look, and he winked at her before letting Faith gently plop on the mattress between them. 

“Hi,” Claire said, bending down to kiss her. “Merry Christmas.”

Faith hummed in response, squirming out of bed by climbing over Claire.

“Merry Christmas, Sassenach.”

Claire looked up to see Jamie sitting up, hair tousled, clothes rumpled from playing with her daughter, a lazy, peaceful grin on his face. Even as Faith relentlessly tugged on Claire’s hand, groaning impatiently, Claire leaned over to kiss him.

“Merry Christmas, love.”

Faith could be held up no longer, and soon both adults were being led to the tree, crouched over so as to have one each of her little hands. Gillian, thank God, already had coffee brewing, having already been trampled by Faith herself on the air mattress. Gillian had offered to get a hotel room this year, not wanting to overcrowd Claire now that she knew Jamie would be joining them, but Claire would not hear of it, and neither would Jamie. Both ladies were wearing their matching set of Christmas pajamas, and Jamie dramatically remarked how left out he felt to not have received his own pair for this year.

“I’ll remember that fer next year,” Gillian said wryly, handing them each their own festive mugs of coffee.

Air mattress out of the way and coffee distributed, Faith was tearing into the first of three bigger boxes before anybody could stop her.

“That’s from Auntie Gi, darling,” Claire said, nestled tightly against Jamie, laying her still sleepy head on his shoulder, smiling contentedly. Claire knew exactly what was in those three identically sized boxes, and she fully expected the joyful stimming that erupted from Faith. It was an Animator Doll, the Anna one. Claire had seen them in the Disney store and decided that Faith absolutely had to have one, then Gi had offered to get her one, and so had Jamie.

Faith handed the unwrapped box to Gillian without so much as looking at her before she moved onto the next one, a gesture that very clearly meant: free her from her box immediately.

The three adults chuckled, Gillian muttering to herself as she headed to the kitchen to get scissors.

“That’s from Mummy,” Claire said, though she was sure it was falling on deaf ears. Claire had gotten the Elsa one, and the box was shuffled over to Gillian, still just beginning to open the Anna box. Faith moved onto the third box, Claire reminding her it was from Jamie as she got up from the couch, abandoning his warmth to help Gillian with the boxes before they fell behind and Faith had a fit.

The third doll was Merida, the one Jamie insisted he get for her. Faith hummed loudly and flapped her hands, squealing with delight. She looked over to see Auntie Gi and Mummy busy trying to free Anna and Elsa, so she picked up the box to shuffle over to Jamie in her silent request.

“D’ye like it, Faith?” Jamie said, setting his mug down to take the box. “She’s our lass, aye?”

Faith nodded, then bounded back to the tree.

“Faith Julia,” Claire called. “I won’t finish opening these until you say thank you.”

She hastily kissed Gillian’s cheek, to which she replied, “Ye’re welcome, Pipsqueak,” then Claire’s, answered by “You’re welcome, lovie,” and then Jamie’s.

“Ye’re very welcome, mo chridhe.”

The next few gifts were from Santa: a few DVD’s Faith had been asking for (one day she pulled up a list on her tablet of every single Disney film ever made alongside their DVD cover and started pointing to the ones they didn’t own, some that Claire hadn’t thought about in years) and a few she had not, a plush of the pig and chicken from Moana, a new puzzle, and a set of Merida pajamas. By the time Faith got through tearing all the wrapping off, all of her new treasures were freed from their boxes and plastic wrapping. The pajamas had come last, and before anyone could stop her, she was pulling her nightgown over her head.

“Faith, wait, that’s not — ”

Before Claire could remind her that she was to get dressed in her bedroom, and that anywhere else was inappropriate, Jamie was already holding the shirt over her head, smiling at her as she poked her head through. Claire shook her head, trying to suppress the smile that insisted on making its way across her face. She just sighed, letting Jamie finish dressing her, and Gillian snorted into her coffee mug.

While Faith got started arranging her dolls and toys on the coffee table and finding spaces for her new DVD’s among the rest of her collection, the adults began their own gift exchange. Gillian and Jamie exchanged gifts first, each giving the other Scottish-themed holiday baubles, causing all three adults to laugh. Claire got Gillian a shot glass with a bawdy quote that served her all too well, and Gillian got Claire a small potted succulent, the pot having been hand painted by her.

Claire was nervous; she was always a terrible gift-giver. Frank had been content to receive the most generic man-gifts known to humankind, but Claire knew full well that Jamie deserved more than that. Yet even as she handed him the box, she was worried she’d still gotten just another generic man-gift.

Jamie grinned at her as he took the box, opening it with care, as if to not disturb the wrapping. He would be the type to open presents that way. He set the paper aside and opened the box.

“Open the card second,” Claire said quickly as he picked up the envelope. He looked at her sideways, then set the envelope aside. After unfolding the wrapping paper, he pulled it out: a gray Scottish tweed cap.

Jamie was grinning ear to ear, examining the fabric. “It’s authentic,” Claire chimed in. “Made sure of it.”

“It’s braw, Sassenach.”

“I saw on Facebook your father had one in a lot of your photos, but I never saw you with one. So I thought I’d give you a bit of Scotland for Christmas.”

His grin spread wider, if that was even possible. “Thank you, Sassenach. I love it.”

“Put it on,” Claire demanded. “I want to see.”

Jamie chuckled, but he obliged, and Claire’s heart fluttered.

“What d’ye think?”

Claire leaned in so their faces were inches apart. “You’re as dashing as ever.”

He captured her lips sweetly, both of them grinning into the kiss.

“Oi,” Gillian barked. “Ye’ve an audience, here.”

They broke apart, still grinning, and Claire rolled her eyes. “Alright.” She swiped the cap off of Jamie’s head and put it on herself. “Open the card now.”

Jamie chuckled, taking up the envelope. “Ye dinna look bad yerself, lass.”

Claire stuck her chin up proudly. “A girlfriend always ensures she looks good in the clothing she buys her boyfriend.”

Jamie shook his head as he tore open the envelope, a blush creeping up his neck.

“What?”

“Nothin’.”

“What?” she demanded, shoving him by the shoulder.

He glanced at Gillian and then sighed in resignation. “I was thinkin’,” he whispered in her ear so that only she could hear, “what ye might look like wearing just the cap.”

Claire’s stomach flipped, her breath stuttering. “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

He bit her earlobe in response, and she squealed.

“Oi!” Gillian shouted. “There’s a bairn. No’ to mention me.”

The pair of them just laughed, and Jamie continued tearing into the envelope. Claire remembered exactly what she’d written; she’d agonized over it for hours and days:

Merry Christmas, Jamie. You’ve changed my life for the better in every imaginable way. I love you.

Your Sassenach,

Claire

He kissed her again, and Gillian was no doubt rolling her eyes.

“Trust me, mo ghraidh,” he said. “Ye’ve changed my life, too. Made me whole.”

Claire briefly indulged his beautiful words, stroking his jaw, before pulling away so he would look at what was inside the card.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a subscription to something called Flaviar,” Claire explained. “Once a quarter you get all these samples of rare whisky. Right up your alley.”

Jamie beamed. “This is unbelievable!”

“You can go on the website and customize your account with your personal preferences,” Claire went on.

“Sassenach…” he laughed. “It’s great. It’s so great.”

Claire smiled back at him. “I’m glad you like it.”

With one final kiss (and an eye roll from Gillian), Jamie picked up his gift to Claire and handed it to her, a large square box. He looked just as antsy as she had felt giving him her gift. She tore open the paper with no such grace that he’d possessed when opening his. There was a plain white box, and Claire opened the lid and gasped. She reached in and pulled out a miniature greenhouse of sorts: a white framed structure of clear plastic, open on one side. There was tissue paper packed inside the structure, and Claire unburied a box labeled: Medicinal & Herbal Tea Indoor Herb Garden Starter Kit.

Her heart positively melted as another small gasp escaped her lips. “Jamie…”

“I noticed yer wee balcony garden a while back, Faith’s party I think,” he said. “Figured ye missed yer wee herbs in the cold months. So.”

“Oh, Jamie…there’s so much here!” She turned the box over and rattled off the list of seeds included. “Chamomile, Lavender, Lemon Mint, Calendula, Yarrow, Sage, Rosemary, Fennel, Lemon Balm, Peppermint, Hyssop…” She trailed off, realizing no one else had any bloody clue what she was saying. “This is more than I was even able to find myself.”

He shrugged. “Amazon has it all.”

“It’s perfect. It’s wonderful.” Her heart was fluttering; she felt like a kid in a candy store. “This, did you get this on Amazon, too?” She gestured to the greenhouse.

“Oh. I made that.”

Claire was gobsmacked, her mouth falling open. “Made it?”

“Aye. Wasna too difficult. Ye could just put them on the windowsill, but I thought it would be nicer in something a bit more decorative.” He suddenly looked very shy, as if apprehensive of the quality of his own handiwork.

“It’s beautiful.” She cupped his face in her hands, having put the box of herbs in her lap. “All of it. You are amazing.”

He was blushing, and Claire wanted to kiss every inch of his face that was splotching red. He still had no idea how bloody wonderful he was.

“There’s, ehm, one more thing.” He pointed to the packed tissue paper inside the greenhouse, and Claire reached inside, pulling out a small, long and narrow box. She tossed her head back, laughing out loud. It was a little dirt poker with a ceramic heart on the end that read: “I Dig You.”

Claire tossed it to Gillian, who also began snorting with laughter. “Oh, that’s awful.”

“Aye, aye,” Jamie said, laughing. “I couldna resist.”

“Oh, God…” Claire said, still laughing as she cupped his face again. “I dig you, too, love.”

Claire felt very much like Faith with her toys, wanting to tear into her gift and begin planting everything immediately. Sadly, it would have to wait, as there was much to do today before they met the Murrays at Jamie’s apartment.

“Faithie,” Claire crooned. She had finished filing away her DVD’s and was now surveying the dolls and toys she’d arranged atop the coffee table. “It’s your turn, lovie. Remember your gifts?”

She did not respond at all or give any indication that she’d heard her.

“Faith, come here,” Claire said, getting an idea. She took off Jamie’s cap. “Do you want to wear Jamie’s hat?”

She immediately picked her head up and scampered over to them, grabbing greedily for the cap. Claire let Faith feel the textures inside and out before plopping it on her little head.

“You look lovely,” Claire said, poking her nose. “This was my gift to Jamie. Where are your gifts, baby? Do you remember?”

Faith just giggled, spinning around with her hands on her head, on the hat. Claire sighed with a laugh, taking her by the shoulders and redirecting her to the tree. “Here, darling. See? Give one to Auntie Gi, one to Jamie, and one to me.”

Claire knew what was inside the shoddy wrapping; Faith had brought them home from school and they’d wrapped them together. She watched as Faith obeyed, handing one to each of the three adults, and Claire had to pull her into her lap to stop her from bolting off. They all opened them at the same time, Claire letting Faith “help” to keep her engaged.

“Oh! Look at that!” Claire said with exaggerated excitement, despite having seen it already. The other adults gave similar verbal reactions. “Oh, who is that? Who’s that, Faith?”

It was a large foam snowflake, each of the three decorated generously with glitter of all festive colors, a photograph in the center. The teacher had asked how many adults were in Faith’s life that would need one, which Claire appreciated. Faith still did not like to be photographed, so only half of her face was visible, due to the fact that she was hiding in Angus’s fur. But, it was better than the ones with her hands covering her entire face. And it was rather sweet, really, the way she was hugging her dog.

“Who is that, Faith?” Claire said again, pointing. Faith jabbed her finger into the picture, humming and bouncing in her lap. “Yes, who is it?” With an explosive squeal, Faith poked herself in the chest over and over. “Yes, good job!”

“Good girl,” Jamie echoed, and Gillian said, “Yay!”

“Who else?” Jamie chimed in, pointing at Angus in the photograph. “Who’s that, Faith?”

Faith gave another little shriek and pointed at Angus, chewing at his Christmas treat in the corner of the room on his bed.

“Ah! Good job!” Jamie gave her tiny thigh a squeeze, and the women cheered quietly as well.

“Thank you, baby,” Claire crooned, hugging her tightly and kissing her temple. “I love my present. Go give hugs.” She passed Faith over to Jamie, who held her tightly to his chest in his lap.

“Thank you, m’annsachd. I love it very much. I’m gonnae put it right on my tree when we get to my house.” He gave her one final squeeze before sending her off to Gillian, who had to call Faith’s name several times to get her to actually come to her.

“Thank ye very much, my sweet wee lass.” She gave her a loud kiss on the cheek. “Best present yet this year.”

Presents all distributed and Faith’s ornament hung on the tree, they moved into the kitchen for their Edible Arrangement breakfast. When Claire had explained to Jamie the Christmas traditions, he’d offered to pick up the ingredients for the cookies. When he’d asked, “What don’t ye have?” and Claire had answered: “Uh…the cookie mix and the icing?” he’d laughed out loud. Evidently, he’d thought they’d be making them from scratch, which was quite bold of him to assume, considering who he was dating. In the end, Jamie brought over ingredients for homemade sugar cookies, and the four of them had a grand old time forming the dough, rolling it out, and using the cookie cutters, all with Christmas music playing, of course.

While they were baking, Jamie encouraged Faith to pick out one of her new Christmas DVDs to watch. Claire had mentioned that she was not a fan of using streaming services, wanting to feel the physical copy in her hands and have a space where it belonged that was in her control. So Jamie purchased half a dozen movies that were already streaming somewhere, being that he wanted to watch a Christmas movie with his girls, but wanted to do it in a way that Faith would be happiest with.

And so, Jamie sat squished into the corner of the couch with Claire curled into him like a kitten, Faith at attention between the cushions with Gillian on the other side of her, with Home Alone playing on the tellie. Claire was nursing her second mug of coffee, warmed by it head to toe, along with Jamie’s occasional kiss to her head, or the deep rumbling in his chest that echoed against Claire’s back when he laughed.

Last Christmas, Claire had confidently told Gillian that it was the best one she’d ever had. And now, the future was bright with possibility, the promise of each holiday getting better and better with Jamie there. Hell, each month, each week, each day, every hour, minute, and second was better than the last with Jamie in her life.

God, she was never letting him go.

——

Jamie had given his sister a key to his apartment for her to use in the event that they were late coming from Claire's apartment because of Faith or any other mishaps. They were, in fact, perfectly on time, arriving at 1:30 exactly, giving them plenty of time to get things in order for the arrival of Jamie’s family.

And yet, Jenny’s rental car was there waiting anyway.

Jamie sighed, rolling his eyes as he parked his car.

“Shoulda known,” he said. “Maybe she’d come when I wanted her to if I told her four.”

Claire squeezed his knee, and he could tell she was trying not to laugh. “She’s going to have all the food out already, isn’t she?”

“Aye, that she is.”

Faith insisted on being carried by Jamie, refusing to even let herself be unbuckled from her car seat until Jamie tried. This left Claire and Gillian to handle the presents and Angus. Gillian had driven over Claire’s car so Jamie could spend the night with his family after they had to go back to Claire’s.

Jamie announced his presence as he unlocked the front door, but there was no need. Everyone was sitting in his living room, everyone except Jenny. Before he could ask, his father cut in:

“We tried tae offer help,” he said wryly. “Yer darling martyr sister shoved us out of the kitchen and told us she didna need us mucking anything up.”

“Out of my kitchen,” Jamie grumbled, rolling his eyes. “Aye, well, Merry Christmas, everyone.”

“Merry Christmas, son.” Brian stood up out of the recliner to embrace his son, cupping Faith’s head gently as he pulled away. “Merry Christmas, lassie. Great to see ye again.”

Jamie took note that his nephew was playing the Wii again, and he briefly wondered which of the three adults had known how to set it up. Unless the wee imp already figured it out.

“Merry Christmas, Claire,” Brian said warmly, embracing Claire tightly. “This is Gillian?”

“Yes! My best friend, and a Scot to boot,” Claire stepped aside.

“Pleasure,” Gillian said, shaking Brian’s hand. “Thank ye so much fer having me.”

“Any family of my son’s lass is family of mine,” he said, genuine as anything.

Ian greeted everyone next, and it only took a few seconds before Maggie was on Claire’s hip. Jamie watched with weak knees as she babbled to the baby and made adorable faces at her, reveling in the sound of their mingled giggling. Offers of playing with the baby was the only way to get Faith to allow herself to be put down, and then Jamie was off to the kitchen.

“Merry Christmas, Janet,” he said, watching as she finished arranging appetizers on a large serving plate.

“Merry Christmas, brother,” she said, her voice chipper.

“I see ye’ve got yer son on more of those mind-numbing video games.”

“Och, come off it. It was the only way to get him out of my hair.”

“Ye could have waited fer us. I could have helped.”

“Nonsense. I’m used to being the host on Christmas. Why should that change?”

“…Because ye’re not the host this Christmas?”

She shot him a dangerous look, and he gave up, putting his hands up in surrender. “We’re just inside when ye’re finished, o gracious host.”

Jamie produced the ornament Faith had made him and let her place it on the tree, and Ian and Brian remarked how lovely it was, how fine it looked on the tree. Shortly after, Jenny fluttered in with the tray of arranged food, and then the whisky and wine was flowing. Wee Jamie was pulled away from the Wii so the repeat marathon of A Christmas Story could be put on, and the adults sat and talked and laughed while Faith went back and forth between her mother’s lap, Auntie Gi’s lap, Jamie’s lap, and the baby mat that Maggie was playing on.

Jamie was going on and on about how great Faith was doing at the stables, how well her transition had gone between therapists. He knew full well that around this time last year, Jenny had been overly concerned with the propriety of this relationship, whether or not it was a relationship back then not mattering in the least to her. He emphasized how important it had been for there to be a boundary set between mom’s boyfriend and horse therapist. Jessica and Faith were developing a really special bond that was really lovely to see from the outside.

Not to mention that standing there with Claire and cheering her on together was one of the highlights of his entire week.

“What day of the week did ye say she goes?” Ian asked.

“Fridays,” Claire answered.

“Oh, and there’s a break fer the holidays,” Ian said, sounding sad. “I would ha’ loved to see her ride. We’ll be flying back before it starts again.”

Jamie’s chest warmed, and he felt Claire melt against him, and looked down to see her genuinely touched.

“I…I have videos, if you want to see,” Claire said tentatively.

“Oh do ye?” Ian lit up, and Jenny and Brian beamed.

“Yeah, hold on…”

Jamie watched as Claire clicked through her photos and found all the ones grouped by location at the stables. She scrolled all the way back to last September, and Jamie’s heart flipped.

“I’ve never seen these,” he said, leaning in.

“Oh,” Claire said, and he could feel her blush before he saw it, heat radiating from her sweater-clad form. “Well, at the time it didn’t seem appropriate to show you. But yes…there are quite a few that you…haven’t seen.”

Before long, Claire was sitting back as Jamie and his family combed through every photo and video of Faith at the stables. There were hundreds from her first day alone, and when they got to Halloween, Jenny smacked her brother’s arm.

“Oh, come on! Dinna tell me that wasna planned!”

“It wasn’t,” Claire said. “Faith chose it because Merida rides horses.”

“She’s sae smart,” Brian said, oozing with pride. Jamie’s eyes twinkled.

“Oh…look at this one…” Jenny put a hand on her heart. “The way he’s looking at her, even all the way back then!”

Ian and Brian nodded in agreement, smiling. Jamie leaned in and felt his breath catch in his throat. He remembered the moment clear as anything.

“Could I get one of her with Pippi before you put her away? Without the helmet?”

“Aye, of course.”

Faith hadn’t wanted to move just yet, and Jamie hadn’t seen the harm in letting them have one more moment together. And apparently Claire had snapped the exact moment where Jamie was struck by how amazing it was that the stars had aligned just so to allow him to have even the smallest part in this child’s life, remarkable as she was.

Even all the way back then.

“I used to stare at that one,” Claire admitted sheepishly, quietly, as if trying to confess to Jamie alone. “Random times during the day, I’d find myself looking at it. And I still managed to convince myself until July that that wasn’t strange at all.”

Jamie chuckled wetly, blinking away unexpected tears. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and fervently kissed the crown of her head.

“It’s like I knew,” Claire said, even quieter, as Jamie’s family started playing a video on the phone. “Like I knew that someday she’d be yours.”

Yours.

Jamie’s eyes lifted up to see Faith rocking and flapping her hands on Maggie’s play mat, bottom lip tucked firmly under her teeth, humming.

Mine.

“That,” Jamie whispered into her curls, “is the greatest gift you could give me, Sassenach.”

She kissed his cheek, and they returned their attention to the phone. After several minutes and several repeated, “Oh, beautiful!” “She’s a fine rider!” and “What a braw lass!”, the conversation steered in different directions. Jamie noticed that Claire kept turning her head toward wee Jamie, and during a lull in the conversation, she called out to him.

“Your uncle told me you play football, is that true?”

“Aye!” the lad burst proudly, eyes immediately lighting up. He shuffled closer to her, standing in front of where she sat on the couch.

“That’s amazing.” Claire beamed. “I wish I could see you play. I bet you’re so good.”

“I am,” he said, nodding curtly. “Ye can come next Christmas, and watch me then!”

Claire looked up at Jamie, who nodded encouragingly. “Yes, I’ll have to do just that.”

“I’ve got videos of some of his games,” Jenny chimed in. “If ye really want to see.”

“Of course I do!” Claire’s voice was filled with genuine excitement, and little Jamie was alight with joy.

“I want tae see! Let me watch!”

“Dinna crowd her, now.”

“No, it’s alright. Do you want to sit with me?”

The boy bit his lip and scrambled into Claire’s lap, and she accepted him into her embrace like it was the most natural thing in the world. Jamie watched, his heart melting as his nephew snuggled closer and closer into her, giggling every time Claire cheered for him on the screen. When he was able to tear his eyes away from them, he looked up to see Jenny beaming at them as well. She looked up, and their eyes met over Claire’s head, and Jenny’s smile widened.

It struck Jamie that of course his wee nephew would feel left out with all this talk about Faith, and he was far too young to understand that her achievements were all the more special because of her disability. So naturally he would feel like nobody cared as much about him as they did about Faith. And it was just so like Claire to notice that, and to take the initiative to make him feel included, make him feel special.

“Oh! What a save!” Claire exclaimed, and little Jamie laughed. Apparently he’d been playing goalie that day, and had actually managed to toe away the ball that was headed at him at about half a mile an hour. “You saved the whole game!”

Jenny flicked her eyes back to the screen. “Aye, that’s one of my favorites.” She ruffled her son’s hair, and Claire smiled at her. Jenny glanced up at Jamie once more, and she winked at him. In that moment, Jamie heard her loud and clear.

She's a keeper, brother.

Before long, dinner was served. When Claire complimented the ham, both Jamie and Jenny answered with thanks, and Jamie shot Jenny a look.

“Just because you put it in the oven doesna take away the marinating and seasoning I did.”

Claire just laughed, shaking her head at the two of them. “I can’t imagine what it was like to have raised those two,” she said, leaning over to Brian.

“Aye, ye’ve no idea.” They shared a laugh like lifelong friends cracking an inside joke, and Jamie had to laugh, too.

Could she have fit in any more perfectly?

After dinner was present time. Wee Jamie was bouncing off the walls nearly as bad as Faith. The kids of course went first, and Jamie made sure to emphasize that his nephew’s gift was from him and Claire both. She had helped him pick it and they split the cost. It was a wooden train set, complete with curves and ups and downs and Thomas and a few friends. Jenny chided both of them for buying something so expensive, but Claire waved it off.

“It’s from both of us,” Claire insisted. “And look how happy he is.”

“Thank you, Uncle! Thank you, Auntie!”

Jamie’s stomach flipped. “Lad—”

“You’re very welcome,” Claire interrupted, accepting the crushing embrace he was squeezing around her legs. “I’m so glad you love it.”

“Aye, you’re welcome, lad. But—”

“No, Jamie, he can call me that. It’s okay.” Claire said quickly. “If that’s how it makes sense to him, then I don’t see why not.”

He looked back and forth between the lad’s shining face and Claire’s flushed cheeks, then up at Jenny, who shrugged with a smirk.

“Aye. That’s…that’s fine.”

By the time Jamie’s head stopped spinning, Faith was already halfway finished tearing open the first box that she’d reached for. It was a horse for a barbie doll to accompany the rest of the gift in another box. Wee Jamie tore open the gift from his grandda while Faith reached for the other box, and Jamie watched with bated breath, knowing exactly what was inside. Claire crouched down next to her daughter, cheering on Faith’s paper tearing excitedly.

“Oh, Faithie, look!”

Jamie met Jenny’s eye; she looked nervous.

“It’s a barbie with a dog, and he looks just like Angus!” Claire opened her mouth to keep talking, but her breath caught in her throat, and her fingertips rested tentatively on the fabric taped to the plastic of the box, right over the dog inside. Her mouth hung open, and she looked up at Jenny, her eyes glistening.

“Where…did you get this…?”

“I made it,” Jenny said sheepishly.

Claire’s mouth fell open wider, and she blinked rapidly. Faith, completely oblivious to her mother’s emotion, thrust both boxes toward her, demanding they be opened. Jamie stepped in to help, having already grabbed the scissors in anticipation of this request. He sat down next to Claire and put his hand on her knee.

“I sent her a picture of Angus,” Jamie explained, poking the fabric on the box. “And Jen hunted down a small enough print, made a pattern, everything.”

Jamie freed the plastic dog first and untaped Jenny’s creation, then slipped it on.

“Look, Faith, see?” Faith took it in her hands eagerly. “Now he’s just like Angus.”

Barbie’s dog now proudly wore a rainbow, puzzle piece-patterned vest that read, in tiny, carefully stitched lettering: “Autism Service Dog.”

“See, lass?” Jenny chimed in, kneeling in front of Faith. “This barbie is just like you.”

Jamie’s heart was fit to burst as Faith flapped her hands with glee, and Claire half laughed, half sobbed beside him.

“Jenny…” Claire croaked. “This is…beyond…” She sniffled and swallowed, quickly swiping tears off her cheeks with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Every wee lass deserves to see herself in Barbie,” Jenny said it like she was reciting a cheesy toy advertisement on the tellie, but Jamie could see the emotion behind her eyes.

Claire leaned forward and threw her arms around Jenny, and she squeezed right back.

“That means���so much to me. More than I can ever say.”

“You’re very welcome, Claire. So very welcome.”

Jamie felt tears pricking his own eyes, and might have succumbed to them if Faith hadn’t been moaning impatiently about freeing her doll and its horse from their confines.

Jamie’s girls pulled away from one another, each smiling wetly.

“If my son can call ye Auntie, d’ye think it’s alright if I call ye Sister?”

Claire’s smile grew impossibly wider, and she nodded. “I would be absolutely honored.”

And suddenly, for Jamie, every single thing was right in the world.

[ponds-of-ink]

Y/N Fnaf Fic: “Why Does the Shrinking Violet Shrink?”

Dumb title, I know, but it was the best I could come up with.

The premise is that you’re a school kid in the ‘60s trying to figure out what’s up with the quiet British kid when he has to go home. Said British kid is a young William Afton.

Side Note: I am seriously thinking about a follow-up because mmm I veered this in a sad direction. You’ll see what I mean when we get there.

—

You walk out to the front of the school. The sun is partially blocked by clouds, your friends are already on their way to the diner, and the street ahead only has a few cars whooshing past you. All in all, a day neither sad nor happy. Just… meh. Well, aside from the assigned reading you had to do when you got home. That was the only thing that made your heart thump in excitement. 

Well, all right, apart from one weird thing. Or, more correctly, one weird kid. And the way he made your heart thump wasn’t from some giddy thrill. That much was certain. Judging what little you saw of him, something was… off. Especially around this time. Maybe it was the sketchy-looking car that you watched pick him up day after day. Maybe it was the fact that he sounded friendly but still didn’t talk to people. Maybe it was the random times when he’d rush home by himself rather than stick around to wait for that car. All strange and minor details, sure, but you just never know. What if he was working for an undercover supervillain? What if he was a mad scientist’s assistant forced to bring home all this new knowledge and report it to his older master? 

Of course, those were far-fetched. But, since he had one of those villainous-sounding accents, one can never be too careful. One can also never be too careful to, say, hang out for a few more minutes and get some answers. Take a page from these newfangled school papers and be a journalist. It wouldn’t hurt, right? At least it’d stop any rumors before they start.

Content with your line of thinking, you sit down and hang out on the grassy field. You scout out the area, looking for him and his uniform. Tucked-in tweed sweater, wavy brunette hair kind of combed “neatly”, and black slacks. You eye every other kid, watching for those details. Waiting… and waiting… for what felt like forever. You shut your eyes and sigh. “Don’t tell me I missed him,” you think to yourself. “He usually comes out when the school bell’s finished ringing. I know he’d sometimes hang back and wait, but this is ridiculous.”

A quick car honk shook you out of your train of thought. You glance over at the vehicle now rumbling a few feet ahead of you. Some beat-up convertible with a horrendous mauve paint job. Your heart jumps into your throat. There was that rush again, but it was stronger now. It’s that car. Cautiously, you approach it. “Hello, sir,” you say in your most polite tone. “I guess you’re here to pick up your son?”

The passenger window rolls down slowly. A well-dressed man stares at you with a grim expression. “That’s right,” he answers coldly, scrutinizing you from head to waist. “Tell him that he needs to get in here, won’t you? I have a few errands to run, and I’m not fond of stalling.”

You nod and mutter a “Yes, sir”, trying your best to not shudder at his villainous tone. Your legs quake a bit as you make it up the top of the steps. Much to your surprise, that Afton kid is already there. And, judging from his posture, he isn’t too thrilled about this either. “Your dad wants you to come to the car,” you explain, motioning to the stupidly mauve vehicle with your arm. “He says he’s got a few errands to run, and he doesn’t want to be late.”

The Afton kid sighs heavily. “I almost want you to tell him that I’m trying to finish  reading my book, but I’m sure that’ll get us both in trouble,” he answers quietly as he walks past you. He straightens his posture as soon as he reaches the bottom of the staircase. Even with that attempt of looking brave, you can tell that he’s trembling even more than you were a few seconds ago. You try to follow after him, but he’s already in the car by the time you make it to the bottom of the steps. However, due to the window being down, you catch a bit of a conversation.

“…Father, I am sorry.”

“William, did you tell someone?”

“Almost…”

You blink as your panting slows back down to normal breathing. What did that mean? How did telling anyone something relate to all of that weird behavior? There’s no way that mad scientist thing was true. The car looked way too beat up to be a crazy but genius guy’s mode of transportation! 

Uh, oh.

What if his dad was a…?

Your heart pounds out of your chest. On pure instinct alone, you race down the road. You raise your arm to flag the car down, but it’s not there anymore. You lower your arm. Your mind re-directs its goal. If you couldn’t stop this guy yourself, then maybe you’d get more help from your friends. If there was anyone that’d be able to prove that this Afton kid wasn’t the son of a criminal, it’d be one of them!

A few minutes of on-and-off running later, and you’re almost at that diner. You notice a couple of them already at the gum-ball machine outside. Your speed slows down to a crawl as you reach your goal. “Hey, Jack,” you pant heavily, leaning on the brick wall for support. “Hey, Matthew.”

“We were wondering where you were!” Jack responded while giving you a gum-ball. “You almost missed out on picking a film to watch at the cinema later!”

“That’s nice, but I’ve gotta get something off my chest,” you say as you put the gum-ball in your pocket. “Matt, you talked to that Afton kid, right?”

Matt spits out his gum instantly. “Yeah, I did,” he answers, giving you full attention. “I had a chat with him during lunch. We were talking about what we were doing for Mother’s Day coming up. I asked him how his mom was doing after that court case, but—“

“He had a court case?” you cut in, waving your hands as if to clear the smoke from your view.

“Yeah, some sort of rough dispute between his mom and dad,” Matt replies, shrugging his shoulders. “But I only know a few things through the ‘papers. Crazy thing is that it just never got followed up. The journalist slacking at the press, I guess…” 

You shake your head in disbelief. “Well, what did Afton say about his mom?” you ask, taking a step forward to grab one of Matt’s shoulders. “Come on, don’t leaving me hanging!”

“Don’t know why you’d want all this, but all right,” Matt huffs, rolling his eyes. “William wasn’t keen on talking about her. I thought I caught him mumbling something about his dad wouldn’t want me knowing what happened, but I dunno. Maybe I heard him wrong, but I didn’t want to mess around and find out. Why are you asking all this?”

You pull out that pocket gum-ball and chew it nervously. Okay, there’s two ways this whole shin-dig could go. One: You find out that Dad Afton did something nasty to his wife and you end up six feet underground for snitching a few days later. Two: You find out that’s she moved out of state and Dad Afton’s just not thrilled about anyone knowing… For some reason. Either way, it’s gotta be something horrible if William gets into trouble for telling anybody else.

At this point, you just have to do something. But how?

You spit out your wadded-up gum and put it back in your pocket. You look at Jack, then at Matthew. “Call me stupid, but I think something’s up with his dad,” you confess, letting your eyes focus on the sidewalk.

Jack, who now has five or six gum-balls stashed in his pockets, leans against the dispenser. “I’d call you stupid for not figuring that out earlier,” he scoffs proudly. “I’ve been trying to reach Will ever since Mrs. Honey-bunch gave us that Mother’s Day spiel! Making dumb excuses to stop by and see how he’s doing, try to get him off those dumb errands and live a little— You know, what I usually do to get ol’ shy-sters like him to get out of their shell. Problem is, his dad’s got him on a tight leash. Can’t get him out of the house fast enough before ol’ Pops barks us down and Willy just runs back inside.”

Your eyes light up. An idea finally starts to form. “You ever try this with more than one person?” you inquire, feeling the wheels of genius spin in your head.

Jack snaps his fingers. A slick, chipped-tooth grin shows up on his face. “No, but I’m willing to try,” he chuckles, rubbing your messy hair for a second. “Hey, Matt, tell the boys that we’ve got business to attend to. If they ask, just say it’s me bugging the Aftons again. They’ll understand.”

You watch as Matt wordlessly enters the diner before Jack blocks your view. “He’ll catch up with us soon,” Jack assures you as he joins your side. “Now, come on! I’ll take you down the side road that’ll lead ya back home too. Y’know, in case things don’t work out.”

“Thanks, Jack,” you mutter as relief sets in. Finally, you were going to get to the bottom of this— Even if the method was a bit convoluted.

After a few minutes of walking and catching up on other things, you and Jack finally arrive at the house. Your eyes immediately bounce to the mauve car parked outside in the driveway. “They’re definitely home,” you tell Jack, feeling that dumb quiver of uneasiness again.

“Which means this’ll be a piece of cake,” Jack adds in, striding up to the front lawn. But, remembering what he told you, he stops and waits for you to catch up. “I’m no chicken, but I don’t want to fool with ol’ Billy Bones at the door again,” he admits, picking at his chipped tooth with his pinky. “How’s about you deal with him this time? You must’ve made a great first impression, since you didn’t get a door slammed on your face.”

“Don’t you mean ‘in your face’?” you question, the phrase knocking out your anxiety for a moment.

“Nah, I meant ‘on’,” Jack grumbles, his eyes averting your gaze. A second pang of uncertainty hits you at the implication, but you swallow it down. You give a few pats to Jack’s shoulder for good luck, then walk up to the front door. You ring the door bell as soon as you find it. Your heart starts pounding again. Your knees shake, but you position yourself to make sure it isn’t noticeable. You straighten your back and take a deep breath.

This was it. The moment of truth.

Here he comes…

The door slowly creaks open. You watch as that older man, now a little bit more casually-dressed, towers above you. “You’re that child who got my son back on schedule earlier,” he says with a smile that you can just barely notice. “I would thank you, but you bring here is— to be blunt— getting on my nerves. So, instead, I’ll mimic your generation and say ‘Buzz off’. I’m not one for visitors, especially on… afternoons like these.”

As soon as he finishes his sentence, your ears pick up on a sound like faint banging. No, actually… Like knocking on a door? Wait, no— Banging on a door. You notice that the dad grimaces like he’s a robber with a hapless accomplice ruining his plan. Your body freezes in place. What if Will’s—?

You snap yourself out of this brief state of panic. “I was actually wondering if he’s finished with that book he was reading earlier,” you claim, not really lying at this point.

Mr, Afton clicks his tongue. His eyes dart to and fro. “No, not yet,” he tells you, giving some sort of sick, wide grin. “In fact, I might give him a reminder thanks to you.” He almost closes the door on you, but you know you have one last question. “Well, when he’s done, would you mind if I let him tag along with me and my friend?” you cut in,  involuntarily lifting your hand. “I think he needs some fresh air and good times, you know?”

“I think he gets enough ‘fresh air’ and ‘good times’ with reading those books of his in the backyard,” Mr. Afton snarls, his eyes shifting from you to something behind you. “I do not want him being with the likes of you meddling brats. Good day, ‘gentlemen’.”

You try to sputter out a rebuttal, but it’s too late. You wince as Mr. Afton shuts and locks the door. You can hear muffled footsteps storming down the hall before everything goes quiet. Too quiet.

You turn around and race down to where Jack is still standing. “I thought for sure you had ‘im,” Jack fumes, stomping his foot on the pavement. “Good try, though, champ. I’m sure someone’ll break poor Will out someday.”

You can feel all the pent-up emotion about to crash down. The choked-up throat. The wet eyes. The shaking legs about to topple over. You walk past Jack to the next house down and sit down on the edge of the front lawn. Without any other warning, you rest your head on your knees and bawl your eyes out. It took a bit, but you did do it. You got your answer, but in the worst sense possible. The real reason why Will was so dodgy all the time after school.

His dad was an absolute trash-bag of a father.