#Same with fabric. Even if I hand stitched everything for the rest of my life I'd still only have 5-8 years of supplies

[garaksapprentice]

Operation Stash-Down

This post was originally published on my blog: https://garaksapprentice.blogspot.com/2024/01/operation-stash-down.html

***

Last month, I spent a week thoroughly cleaning and reorganising my workroom so that I could actually get to all the shelves, and not have my back to the door. I even made space to fit a skinny bookshelf (I can finally have all my books out where I can reach them. It's been more than seven years since that last happened).

Last week, I watched one of my favourite YouTubers issue their now-annual "January is for working on The Pile" challenge. I considered my Piles (what a phrase) and decided this was an excellent use for the rest of January. I went through the mending pile, adding and subtracting as necessary, and updated the running list I keep of the things in there (it's the only way to stop things from disappearing into the aether). I tidied up the cabbage patch, taking the opportunity to go through a few boxes that were stored outside the workroom and sort their contents into piles.

Yesterday, I looked around my workroom (it had once again gone from clean and tidy with actual floor space, to One Big Trip Hazard within half a day), and decided that I have too much bloody stuff.

This was almost completely clear twelve hours ago. L-R, T-B: for coleslaw (green), cabbage once deconstructed (yellow), actual recycling (blue), and rag rug bits (red).

More specifically, I have too many supplies. Despite spending the last two years cleaning and decluttering and KonMari-ing and making a concerted effort to start with what I have before I go shopping for new stuff, I still have overflow.

There's an entire garage shelf in what is technically the spare bedroom (in reality it's my partner's room - they have their own place, but I have air conditioning and they don't) full of knitting yarn, embroidery supplies, and fleeces. There's more fleeces and some sewing notions on top of a bookshelf, and a couple more boxes of knitting yarn on a different bookshelf. To top it all off, there's a whopping monster of a raw wool fleece in the back room.

And, to be clear, this is all stuff left after multiple decluttering rounds. This is all stuff that I absolutely fucking love and have no desire whatsoever to part with. I just... haven't got around to using it yet.

Me when I go through my stash nowadays.

Even though I buy 95+% of my supplies second-hand (between the guild and the plethora of local op shops, I'm remarkably spoiled), I'm still not using things as fast as I'm capable of buying them. Saving things from landfill to repurpose later only works if I actually use the things I'm saving. (Yes, I still need this reminder. Frequently.)

Thus were the seeds from which Operation Stash-down was born.

The Goal

I want to fit all my fibre supplies in my workroom. Every. Single. Thing.

That means all the:

knitting yarn

fabric (stash AND scraps)

embroidery supplies

sewing notions

fleece

weaving, sewing, and spinning tools

leatherworking tools and supplies

whatever other random fibre-related gubbins I pick up along the way

The only exception is for things that need a more controlled climate than my workroom. It's on the western side of the house, with a window in said western wall, and it regularly gets above 30ºC in there during summer. So if I end up with any dyes or other heat-sensitive chemicals, I'll have to find a cooler spot for them.

The Plan

Donating, giving away, and selling things are all options. But that hasn't made a much of a dent the last six times I went through The Stash, so I'm not counting on it doing much this time, either. No, the thing I need to concentrate on right now is using the stash.

So instead of my current "shop the stash then go buy what I need when I don't have it in there", my standard needs to shift to "ONLY use stash things, and if they won't work with what I've planned, change the plan".

How does this translate to actual, practical projects for the year?

Longer warps, and more of them on the floor loom. Lately I've been defaulting to inkle bands, because they're 1) fun, 2) fast, and 3) easy to do in all sorts of cool colour combinations. But they don't use a lot of material - I could weave nothing but narrow wares for the rest of my life and still have yarn left over. And I want to start weaving clothing yardage anyway, so this is a good kick in the pants to actually do it.

Stop putting off those patchwork projects. I have a couple of big ideas I've been procrastinating on for a few years now. Sure, they'll probably take multiple years each to finish, and I'm not sure if I even have enough scrap for one of them (a crazy patchwork coat from all the wrap scrap I've been holding onto), but I won't know unless I actually take the time to start working on them.

Scour more fleece. Out of all the spinning stash, the raw fleeces take up by far the most room. Prepping them to spin might not reduce their volume by much, but actually being able to spin them sure will. (Unfortunately, this strategy will require equipment purchasing. My hand cards aren't fine enough to use with some of the fleeces I have.)

Obviously just doing any project at all will help reduce stash levels, too. Some of the things on my list will make a bigger impact than others, though, and I'm going to try to focus on doing those first. (After I've started to reduce the current WIPs, of course. My 2024 goals are still in effect.)

If all goes to plan, I'll update every few months with progress. Maybe even before and after pictures.

***

If you like my stuff, please consider throwing me a few dollars on my Ko-Fi in support.

[crappymixtape]

because of you • part five

PART I • PART II • PART III • PART IV • EPILOGUE // REQ -> @sattlersquarry ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+ | ( 2.5k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )

B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T F I V E 🎶 silhouette, aquilo

❝ DEVIL’S ON YOUR SHOULDER, STRANGERS IN YOUR HEAD, AS IF YOU DON’T REMEMBER, AS IF YOU CAN FORGET ❞

Light fell through the open window in Steve’s parents’ bedroom, washing everything in a soft, eerie orange. Bright, hopeful rays of sunlight choked out by plumes of ash and smoke creeping out of the ground. The curtains billowed softly over the window ledge, carrying with them the all too familiar scent of decay and dirt, damp rotted leaves and thick vines. Demobat wings and the suffocating press of desiccated scales on your neck and–

You started with a gasp, hands fisting into the sheets as you turned in bed and found pain. Sharp and pinching. Freezing you on the spot and pulling a whimper from your lips as your wounds from the night before made themselves known again.

Death had dragged you so close you could touch it, had felt it wrapping around you like a dark cloak until…

Something warm and soft brushed against your waist, a hand moving gently over the sliver of skin there, exposed when your oversized shirt had shifted in sleep. The same hand that had shattered death’s grasp and pulled you back to live the rest of your life. A hand that had so carefully tended to each cut and scrape and gash, had so tenderly patched you up and held you through it all.

Steve.

Brows knitted together in discomfort, you turned your head ever so slightly, lashes fluttering open to see another set of eyes looking back at you – burnt caramel, honey and brown sugar.

Worried, relieved, apologetic.

“You okay?” Steve asked quietly, voice scratchy with sleep and fingers still resting gently at your waist, afraid to move them, afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“It’s my leg,” you squeezed your eyes closed, wincing at the friction of the sheet against the stitches.

“Shit,” Steve whispered, quickly rolling onto his back and bending his knee to create a pocket of air between your body and the fabric. “Better?”

All you could manage was a small murmur of thanks and it pulled his gaze back to you, eyes searching for something. What it was he didn’t know, but he was sure he would as soon as he saw it.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his hand seeking you out, tangling his fingers together with yours.

The long sweep of his dark lashes brushed the tops of his cheekbones, freckles dotting along the bridge of his nose, twin moles pressed at his jaw, lips pulled down in concern. Pretty even like this. Even when he wasn’t smiling.

“Guess I couldn’t handle it last night,” you half-laughed thinking about the way you’d paled when he’d looped thread through the needle and it pulled a little grin out of him until you winced again.

“I don’t think I could have either,” he reassured you, “Six stitches, you took ‘em like a champ.” The look he gave you then set your heart skipping in your chest before settling between your ribs, warm and reassuring.

“Six?” you gaped.

Pulling the sheets up to look down at your leg for the first time since last night you expected to feel sick, but instead found something surprising. Six neat stitches, not quite straight, but clean and tidy and done with care.

“You…you did that?” you asked, eyes blinking back at Steve.

“What? Didn’t think I could?” he teased gently and it made the corner of your mouth pull up into a half-smirk.

“Well–no, but…” your cheeks warmed, heat creeping across your face as you bit your bottom lip in.

He studied you then for a minute, eyes mapping over your face and memorizing every little detail, every little piece of you, pieces he wished he could keep forever.

“Can I ask you something?” he said quietly, fingers still looped between yours and you answered with a silent nod. “Last night, before I went to the Creel house I wanted to ask you if–if I could take you out. You know, after we saved the world or whatever–” he huffed a small laugh and shook his head, “Guess we botched that.”

You almost laughed at the way he’d tried to soften the weight of his question, but his words were running on a loop in your head — take you out. They set something fluttering in your chest, your stomach flipping over and cheeks warming again.

“You want to take me out?”

“Yeah. I do. I really, really do.”

The way he was looking at you, like you held his world in your hands, had you breathless, heart hammering against your ribs and his palm pressed to yours under the sheets sent a flicker of heat up your arm, crept into your bloodstream and swam through every inch of you.

It had been survival, instinct how you hardened yourself against having to watch him walk away and how the sight of it put an ache in your chest more painful than the stitches on your thigh, but it all came back now when he looked at you. Washed over you like a wave on the sand, wearing down all your rough edges and smoothing them slow and sure – you realized you’d been carrying those feelings all along.

At Max’s trailer when he swore to stand by your best friend.

In the parking lot when he pulled you back from Vecna.

With your back to his chest and his hands pressed into yours over the handle of his bat.

The moment he all too willingly put himself between you and death without hesitation.

“Steve…” your throat squeezed around his name and his hand tightened on yours.

“What–what is it?” his brows pinched together, “Dammit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked you—”

“No-no, it’s not that,” you sucked in a breath and squeezed your eyes shut against everything this boy, this man, made you feel. “I just…I hated you, so much. I didn’t believe Eddie when he said you’d changed, told him he was full of shit, but I was wrong. I don’t hate you. Not even a little bit and I’m sorry–”

“Hey, hey. It’s okay,” he hushed, bringing his free hand up to gentle brush away the tears that had started to spill quietly down your cheek. “Don’t be sorry. I’ve done a lot of shit I’m not proud of, so I don’t blame you,” he shifted closer to you under the sheets, careful of your leg. “I hated me too for a long time,” he chuckled a little under his breath and gave you a small smile. “And I know I have more work to do, but…maybe-if you want to-you could give me another shot? A do over.”

You were surprised at the laugh that fell from your lips, a small wobbly thing as you wiped at the rest of your tears. “A do over?”

“Yeah. Here–” he let go of your hand and scooted back just a little and the distance made your fingers want to reach for him again. Come back. “Hi,” he said, smile growing.

“Hi?” you said, more question than statement and a little confused and it pulled a full grin out of him.

“I’m Steve, Steve Harrington.”

You bit back a snort, who was he James Bond? And it made him laugh until his hands found yours again and your skin sighed in relief – finally.

“Nice to meet you,” you said and he shifted back into you, hip to hip, chest to chest, careful still of your thigh and the touch of your skin on his skin melted the smiles from both your faces. Laughs quieted into hitched breaths and racing hearts.

Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, Steve’s jaw ticked as he swallowed down the nerves you’d pulled from his belly. “Would you–I mean…can I–can I kiss you?” he asked, unsure and unsteady, vulnerable and exposed, the real Steve and the Yes that fell from your lips came fast, sounding so much more like please, please, please, and you didn’t have to ask him twice.

His lips caught yours, fit them against his like two sides of a locket, perfect, and it made you lightheaded again, but this time when you opened your eyes you found his – honey and whiskey and liquid amber, warm like the sun and your heartbeat tattooed Steve, Steve, Steve on the inside of your ribs.

He smiled as you traced the curve of his cupid’s bow with your gaze, so soft, so lovely, so much more than you ever could have imagined and his gravity drew you back into him, pulling his bottom lip between yours – more, more, more – and he sighed, running his fingers through the baby hairs at the nape of your neck.

It was slow and languid, searching and curious, but heat simmered just under the surface. Waiting, patient, warm, and when Steve’s tongue traced the seam of your lips your reservations cracked, kerosene on the flames, and you both caught fire.

❝ IT’S ONLY BEEN A MOMENT, IT’S ONLY BEEN A LIFETIME, BUT TONIGHT YOU’RE A STRANGER, SOME SILHOUETTE, HOLD ME ❞

Grazing your teeth over his lip, you bit down softly and a groan rumbled in his chest, a low sound that made you press your thighs together, the want between your legs suspending your pain for a moment.

“Christ,” Steve choked, pulling away from you just enough to suck in a breath, chest heaving and eyes squeezed shut, wrecked already. “Sorry,” he half-laughed, “You’re gonna kill me if you keep kissing me like that, Princess.”

“Kinda defeats the purpose of last night,” you tried to joke, but when he opened his eyes again and looked at you it scattered all of your faux confidence to the wind.

“Yeah,” he breathed, inching closer and closer to you, running his thumb along your bottom lip and settling it at the corner, “But dying like this doesn’t seem so bad.”

And then he kissed you again, but this time it was heated, his fingers pressed into the plush of your hips while yours tangled into his hair and it pulled another groan from him. He swallowed the soft, sweet sounds you gave him and then begged for more as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, your lips parting to let him in to taste you.

None of it felt real – lying in bed next to Steve as he sucked pretty, little, lilac marks onto your skin, not wanting it to stop, wanting him to be this close forever.

He nosed at your neck and your chin tilted up to give him more access, your hands leaving his hair to trace the muscles stretched across back through the threadbare fabric of his shirt.

“Y’okay? Gotta tell me, Princess,” he said, lips moving on your skin as you pulled in a shaky breath.

“Ye-yeah, yes,” your voice pitched up at the end in a whine as he kissed the hollow behind your ear.

He smiled against you and your mouth twitched with a smile of your own.

“What?” you asked wryly, chin still tilted and he pushed himself up on his hands, propped up over the top of you, so he could look down at you.

“You don’t hate me,” he beamed down at you, echoed your words from just a minute ago and it made you blush, your lips twisting. Caught. A little bratty and a lot enamored.

“I don’t hate you, Steve Harrington,” you said again, softening under his gaze and unable to help the way your heart skipped when he dipped down to press another kiss to your lips.

“Say my name again. Please,” he murmured, trailing his mouth down your shoulder, your forearm, your wrist – his hand gently taking yours to lift it and place a kiss to your palm.

“Steve,” you whispered, but it caught at the end when you felt his tongue on your skin. It pulled your gaze up to look at him and you found his brows pinched together, eyes squeezed shut. “Steve?” you said again, your hand turning his to tug it down and hold it close to your chest.

“I just–Christ. I thought you were gonna die out there and after all that awful shit I said to you–”

Leaning up you pushed your lips to his and swallowed his words, mumbling to him, nuh uh. “But I’m still here, make it up to me,” you told him, eyes locked on one another and suspended in time, held in the muddled, amber light falling through the window.

“How? Tell me.”

And you took his hand, the one still held in yours, and trailed it down your chest, over the soft plush of your stomach, across the thigh that wasn’t hurting and down between your legs.

“Fuck,” Steve hissed, eyes closing again for a minute at how wet you were, and he pulled in a shaky breath.

“I’m here–” you whispered again, “–and I want this, with you.”

Nodding he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, fingers moving slowly where you’d placed them, slipping in your slick and it make you gasp. “I’ll never let anything happen to you,” he said and god, you believed him.

He moved his fingers slow at first, a little tentative, a little shy, but the minute he pulled a moan from your lips he found his confidence again. Picked up the pace and moved over you at just the right speed in all the right places. Circled your clit with his thumb and slipped first one finger then two into you.

“Faster, Steve,” you gasped and he answered with the press of a kiss to your jaw, the corner of your mouth, pulled your bottom lip between his and sucked and you felt yourself sprinting to the edge.

“I’ve got you. Let go, baby, let go,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, fingers working you closer and closer. “Here, look at me,” he breathed, heart hammering in his chest, and when you met his eyes – warm honey, burnt caramel, safe, Steve – your hips stuttered.

Wrapping your arms tight around the back of his neck, you wanted – no needed – him closer, closer, closer until finally the coil settled deep in your stomach snapped and you fell apart on his fingers. Arched your back up off the mattress and pressed your body into his, the stitches on your thigh screaming, but the feeling of Steve between your legs was louder.

And there in that room, while the world burned outside the window, you made a promise to each other that even if everything was falling apart, even if you didn’t know what happened next, you’d be there. You’d choose to try again. Choose forgiveness and surrendered to each other. Let go of the past in favor of what was there in front of you. Beating hearts and handfuls of sheets, kisses dragged over skin and breaths taken away and Steve. Steve. Steve.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART FIVE OF A FIVE PART SERIES, POTENTIAL BLURBS MAY COME AT A LATER DATE ;) ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[al-the-remix]

WIP Wednesday

Buck finds the box when he’s helping Tommy pack up his stuff, slouched pathetically in the back corner of the closet in Tommy’s spare room, caked in dust and buried under a pair of old motocross boots. 

It took them less than a weekend to divide the contents of Buck’s loft into a neat truckload of tightly packed boxes. Tommy’s house is a whole different story. Junk collects in the bungalow the same way cobwebs shroud barn rafters; teetering stacks of brittle yellowed paperbacks cover low tables, rolling metal drawers filled with odd tools and bits of machinery are shoved into corners at a slant, and other assorted knick-knacks cake every other spare surface in the house. 

Actually, just about everything Tommy owns looks dated by at least a decade. Buck wouldn’t be surprised if he found something from the precambrian era fossilized beneath Tommy’s hoard of physical media. There are magazines and DVDs and–how do people even listen to CDs anymore? Buck thinks as he pushes another pile to the side to get at the box. 

Buck’s elbow deep in beige fabric before he realizes what he’s stumbled across. Pulling Tommy’s old fatigues into his lap, he runs his fingers over the shallow ridges of Kinard embroidered across the chest tape. The fabric is soft with wear but crisply pressed, Buck kneads it between his fingers, finding the inconsistencies where it has been patched and stitched. 

He digs a little deeper. There are two pairs of boots stuffed in there as well, a tan pair that looks like they have seen better days, and a black leather pair that might have been shiny with polish once but has since dulled from lack of attention. 

Buck rubs his thumb over the hard toe of one of the leather boots. It’s clear Tommy hasn’t touched this stuff in a while. He wonders just how much Tommy held onto over the years; if the rest of his house is any indication, most of it.

“What you got there?”

Tommy’s leaning against the doorway, a smile playing at the edges of his lips as he watches Buck poke through his personal belongings. He knows he’s just doing what he’s been asked, but he still feels like he’s been caught red handed digging through Tommy’s old military stuff. 

“Ah, you found the digies,” Tommy says, coming to hover at Buck’s elbow. Up close he looks pleasantly flushed and serene like he could spend all day moving around boxes and never get fed up with it. 

“Do you ever wear these?” Buck holds up the uniform he’s been swaddling in his lap. Aiming for curious but not too curious. 

Tommy frowns. “Not really. If there’s something ceremonial going on I’ve got my blues, but it’s been a long time since I got invited to something like that.” He reaches down and pulls one of the leather boots out of the box. “Oh, cool, my jump boots. I’d forgotten where I put these.”

No kidding, Buck thinks, eyeing the various sports equipment unceremoniously piled on the floor of the closet. If he'd ever been worried that digging through two decades worth of Tommy’s baggage–both emotionally and literally–would dull Buck’s interest in him, he shouldn’t have been. If anything, getting a chance to inspect Tommy's junk (ha) fanned the tinder of his curiosity till the point of ignition.

Tommy has both jump boots in his hands now, eyeing the dullness of them regretfully. “Twenty-five-year-old me would have been so embarrassed, I used to love these things.”

“How’d they end up in the closet then–so to speak?” 

Tommy snorts and drops them back into the box, causing a small eruption of dust to tickle Buck’s nose. He barely avoids sneezing.

“Sorry–I don’t know, I think I just packed all this stuff away when I got the job at the 118 and the house and forgot about it. Tried to make a clean break, you know?”

Not really. Buck had sort of bulldozed through his twenties with a brick on the gas. No stopping. No slowing down. Whatever snagged and held got dragged along in the turbulence of his life as long as it could cope: people, jobs, places, they all blurred into one and other in an unending train of flashes of light and color. 

“I see why you liked them,” Buck says, switching tangents. “They’re pretty cool. Very punk rock.”

He flashes Tommy a grin and the sign of the horns, pleased when Tommy rolls his eyes, amusement clear in every line and upwards curve of his face. Buck can smell the sweet powdery edge of his deodorant and see the sweat blotting at his temples right where he’s started to go gray. He weighs the pros and cons of yanking Tommy down by his belt and wasting fifteen minutes making out on the floor between islands of miscellanea.   

“Don’t even joke, the only punk rock going on in the Idaho panhandle was of the Boots & Braces variety.” Buck pulls a face and Tommy continues. “They’re more of an honorary thing anyway, you get ‘em after you pass your paratrooper training.”  Tommy nudges the box with his toe. “They’re not exactly practical.”

“They could use some buffing up,” Buck admits, taking a boot in hand, inspecting the scuffed heel. 

“Don’t start,” Tommy huffs. “You’re going to give me war flashbacks. Literally.” Buck stares shamelessly as he pulls the hem of his shirt up to wipe at his brow, making hot, implicit eye contact when Tommy drops it again.

“None of that, we’re on a tight schedule.” Tommy sticks a finger in his face like he’s warding off Buck and his nefarious intentions. 

“Fair enough, where do you want them, Sir?” He quips, all tongue and cheek.

Tommy shakes his head in defeat, grabbing a random collection of items from the floor before making his retreat. The nape of his neck is flush pink. “You can stick all that stuff in the keep pile.”

Buck salutes his back. He figured that would be the answer.

[amalthea-wolfwood]

We're the Same

Summary: Ogata questions Molly about why it decided to kill its husband

Ships: Molly x Ogata

Setting: Canon

Warnings: Abusive relationship, child death

Dividers

"Morgan."

Molly turned at the sound of the voice to find Ogata standing in its doorway once again. He had been here quite often recently, Molly smiled and nodded to him.

"Good morning, Mr. Ogata."

Ogata immediately began unbuttoning his uniform jacket, he peeled it off and tossed it into Molly's hands, "I need it fixed."

"Oh, of course, sir," Molly grinned mischievously, "I feel like I just did this for you not too long ago."

Ogata huffed, "Military's not exactly delicate work, what do you expect?"

"I expected you to throw your coat at me at least once a week," Molly laughed, "I help the other soldiers here too, but I seem to see a whole lot of you in particular."

"Are you implying something here, Morgan?" His eyes narrowed as he watched Molly take a seat on its bed and prepare to work.

"Oh, not at all, sir." Molly replied with a smug smile still plastered across its features.

Ogata stood for a while longer, silently watching Molly work. It seemed unbothered by his presence, by his eyes on it. He wasn't used to someone being so relaxed around him. He gently sat down beside Molly on the bed, leaning in to get a closer look at its stitching.

"You're really good at that." He commented blankly.

Molly didn't look up, simply nodded and carried on, "Yes, sir. My mother was a seamstress and she taught me everything she knew."

Ogata sighed and looked away, "You don't need to call me sir, or Mr. Just Ogata is fine."

Molly smiled, "Oh, alright. Sorry if it bothered you, I'm just used to being formal with all the men in my life. It's a habit now, even if we're familiar."

"I'm not..." He paused, deciding not to finish that train of thought, "You were even like that with your husband?"

Molly paused for a moment, he turned back to look at it, its hands were gripping the fabric tightly, its face was contorted in anger. And then like nothing had happened at all, it went back to sewing, expression neutral once again.

"Yes. He insisted on it."

He studied Molly as it carried on with its work, looking for any more hints of such emotion, but he found none. His cold eyes fixated on the swift, skillful movement of its hands with the needle.

"...Can I ask you something?" He finally spoke.

"Hm. You seem to like doing that." Molly noted.

"What?"

"Asking me questions while I fix your clothes for you. You seem to like it." Molly explained.

Did he? He hadn't noticed. "Do I do it often?"

It nodded, "You do."

He thought for a moment before responding, "What did I ask you last time?"

"Hmm, last time... let me think..." It stopped, looking up, finger pressed to its mouth as it contemplated, "Oh, that's right. You asked if I knew anything about guns."

"I see..." He was silent again for a few moments, eyes following Molly's movements again, "...What made you decide to kill him?"

Molly was startled by the bluntness of the question, its eyes widened and it drew back from him, "Uh... that-... well, that certainly is, uh..."

He continued, "You said he beat you. But you tolerated the beatings for years before you did it. What made you decide he had to die instead of just running away? What was the final straw? That's what I want to know this time."

"You uh... you sure ask interesting questions, Ogata..." Molly took a deep shaky breath in, "It wasn't... it wasn't the beatings."

"Then what was it?"

Molly hesitated, looking at Ogata, he had the same blank expression as usual but somehow it felt so safe, it found peace in his dark, empty eyes.

"I... I was pregnant. But... I lost the baby." Molly said, "It was how he acted after..."

"Will you tell me about it?" His hand slid over its, even if his face couldn't hold the same emotion, his touch was warm and comforting.

It nodded and closed its eyes, resting its hands on its thighs as it thought back to that day. It was so vivid in its memory, every detail. As much as it may have wanted to, it could never forget.

***

Molly had been huddled up in bed for the past few days now, hardly able to walk. It didn't do much but curl up and sob, and when it wasn't doing that, it was sleeping, tossing and turning with nightmares. Michael had hardly looked at it in the past few days, let alone spoken to it. Molly had instead been kept under the care of an old friend, Dr. Basil Grimoire, as well as Michael's servants.

This particular evening, Basil was sat at its bedside as it laid facing opposite the door, curled up into the fetal position, holding its stomach and sniffling. It heard the door to the bedroom creak open behind it and Basil looked up. It didn't need to ask, it could tell who it was by the look on Basil's face. But what could he want now, after ignoring its pain for the past three days?

"Will she be better in time for our trip?" His voice was cold and uncaring.

Basil scoffed, "In two days? No. Of course not."

He sighed in frustration, "Suppose I'll have to drag her along like that then."

"Excuse me?" Basil stood from his chair, teeth gritted and hands balled into fists at his side.

"You heard me," Molly heard the floorboard creaking under his weight as he approached the side of the bed, "I will not be leaving my wife while I go to a foreign country."

"Your wife just gave birth a few days ago!" Basil snapped.

"And yet there is no child to show for it."

Molly felt something snap inside of it when it heard that. No child to show for it? The way he said it was as if she had never existed at all. That was their daughter, no, Molly's daughter. Only Molly's daughter. Because it had been Molly who had carried her tenderly in its own body all that time. Molly who had nearly died to bring her into this world. Molly, who had held her lifeless little body, swaddled in fabric. Molly who had said goodbye, despite never really getting to say hello. And Molly alone who had grieved the little life that never was.

When he had been told the news, he had come into the room and stood over Molly's bed as it held its daughter in its arms. He regarded her with cold indifference. We will simply have to try again. That was all he had to say. All she was to him was a failed attempt.

Basil had been there too that day, and now here he was again, by Molly's bedside, holding back his rage. His face twisted as he breathed raggedly, trying to calm himself down enough to speak, "Morgan is in no condition to travel."

"Well, I'm telling you she's going to."

"Pardon me, sir, but who's the medical professional here-"

Molly sat up, putting its hand up to silence Basil, "Dr. Grimoire, please. It's fine." Molly turned to Michael shakily, "I'll go with you."

He nodded solemnly, "That's right. I know best, dear, I'm glad you're finally starting to learn that."

Molly gritted its teeth and nodded, slowly sliding its feet over the side of the bed, "Of course, sir."

Basil put his hands on Molly's shoulders, gently nudging it back toward the bed, "Morgan, you can't-"

"Dr. Grimoire..." Molly met his eyes, brows furrowed, lip quivering, "I will be okay. I will."

Michael turned and headed back toward the door, "You should begin packing. You're behind."

"Yes, sir..." Molly nodded, "But... oh, I am still a bit weak. Do you suppose... I could trouble you to help, Dr. Grimoire?"

Basil breathed out slowly, head down, eyes closed, "I suppose so."

"Good," Michael paused in the doorway, "I'll be in my study. If you need anything else... call Helen here. I have too much to do to be bothered."

And with that, he was gone. Molly shakily stood from the bed, making its way to its closet, Basil following not far behind. It began sorting through its clothing, Basil stood at its side, allowing it to brace itself against his arm.

"Molly, you really aren't in any condition to travel at all, let alone internationally."

"I know, Basil, but I'm not going to appease him," Molly turned to face him, "I'm going because this is my way out."

Basil looked confused, "What... what do you mean, way out?"

Molly hobbled back to the bed and sat down at the foot of it, "He's been planning this trip for a while now. Ever since I heard word of it, I've been teaching myself Japanese." Molly smiled but tears streamed down its cheeks as it continued, "He doesn't know a word of it. I can... I can leave. Basil, I can run away. How can he look for me if he can't speak to anyone?"

Basil shook his head, "You... you can't be serious..."

"I am. If everything goes well, I'll contact you and I'll tell you where I am," Molly wiped its eyes with the back of its hand, "You can't tell anyone. Please, Basil. I can't live like this anymore."

Basil paused, he took his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they had sat. He sighed and nodded, "Contact me as soon as you think he can't find you again. I'll come. I don't want you to be alone."

"I will. I promise."

Molly stood and began gathering up its luggage and essentials with Basil's help. Molly felt bad for lying to Basil, but it couldn't tell him the truth. He'd be horrified if he knew. Molly had tried so hard to forgive him for everything else, but this was too far. He was so callous about its daughter. As much as it hated him, as much as it suffered because of him, it could never hate her. She was its daughter, and it had loved her. It didn't understand how he couldn't love her. How couldn't he love her? Why wouldn't he love his daughter, if not his wife, why not his own daughter?

At first, the plan had been exactly as it had told Basil. It had prepared for life in Japan, and it was simply going to run away. Until he had told that nurse to take Molly's baby from it, until he had told her to get rid of it. Like she was nothing, less than nothing, like she was garbage. That's when it knew Michael had to die.

***

It hadn't meant to get so wrapped up. It hadn't meant to tell him that much. By the time Molly finished speaking, it was sobbing. Ogata remained silent, gripping its hand tightly, expression unchanged. Molly looked at him through mist clouded eyes, it could've sworn there was something else behind that emotionless face. But it could've just been projecting.

"What was her name?"

Molly was caught off guard, he'd spoken it so quietly, so softly. It almost thought it imagined it. "Wh... what?"

He spoke louder this time, "The baby. What was her name?"

"You know something, Ogata?" Molly smiled, wiping its eyes with its handkerchief, "Of all the people who know, you're the first person to ever ask me that."

"Maybe they don't think you named her. You loved her so much. I figured you must have."

"Yes," Molly nodded, "Annaliese. Her name was Annaliese."

"I like that name. And I think you made the right choice."

"Thank you, Ogata... I..." Molly slowly raised its hand, pressing it against his cheek, staring into his eyes. They were still cold, dark pools of black. His expression was still a blank one, lips flat, no feeling behind his gaze. So why did it feel so comforted, so safe? More than it ever had by anyone else.

It started to lean toward him, heart pounding in its chest, but it froze. Suddenly realizing what it was doing, or what it was about to do, it jerked back quickly, apologizing. Ogata was quick, grabbing it by the wrist and tugging it back toward him.

"It's okay."

He cupped Molly's face with his other hand and leaned in, pressing a kiss against its lips. It stared at him in shock when he pulled back, he relinquished his grip on its wrist and guided Molly gently to lay its head against his chest, petting its hair softly. Molly stiffened, unsure what to make of it all, but eventually relaxed against him, arms wrapping around his back.

"You're safe here with me. Because we're the same, you and I."

[slytherinspired]

Tell Me About the One Who Loved Him - A Sirius Black Imagine - Part IV

I was sequestered in my own ancestral home, 12 Grimmauld Place, with no way out. 

The house loomed over me like a cold prison, its walls heavy with dark memories. Of all places to be trapped, this was the worst. Sometimes I wondered if Azkaban hadn’t been a mercy compared to this suffocating tomb of Black family history. The stale air inside seemed to cling to my skin, and even as I walked the halls, I felt the weight of it pressing down, reminding me why I had escaped in the first place. 

Azkaban was hell—a place where hope couldn’t exist. I shook my head, trying to chase away the thoughts. The Dementors had drained me of everything: twelve long years with nothing but my darkest memories to keep me company. What little I had left—memories of James, of Lily, of Remus, of her – were twisted and faded. I had clung to those fragments of happiness in the beginning, but even they had been erased by those wretched creatures, floating endlessly above the icy, crashing waves that battered the prison. 

The sun never shone there. 

And yet, somehow, I had escaped. Driven by the need for revenge, for justice—anything that could pull me out of that soul-sucking abyss—I had broken free. But two years after my escape, here I was, imprisoned again. This time, in the very place I’d once sworn I’d never return to. 

Grimmauld Place. 

It was like being back with the Dementors. The house whispered to me of torture and pain. The shadows held memories of my family’s cruelty, and no matter how many times I walked its creaky wooden floors, I couldn’t find a single corner of peace. My mother’s portrait was the worst. She was always there, just outside the kitchen, waiting to scream, to berate me, even from beyond the grave. It was enchanted, of course—she had been gone for years—but it felt as though her very essence had seeped into the fabric of this house. 

A sharp breath of cold air hit my face as I opened the back door. I stepped into the small yard, desperate for a moment away from her voice, from the oppressive silence inside. My coat hung loosely on my shoulders, old and worn—a relic from the years before Azkaban. It wasn’t much, but it kept me warm as I slouched against the wall, taking a swig of wine straight from the bottle. My hands shook as I gripped it, not from the cold, but from the weight of everything I tried so hard to push down. 

It was nearing Christmas. I should have felt excited, maybe even relieved to be spending it with Harry and his friends for the first time, but all I could think of was what was missing. 

Her. 

Eliana. 

Her name hovered on my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. Even after all these years, I wasn’t strong enough to speak it, to let myself remember the way her dark hair felt tangled between my fingers, how her laughter used to fill the spaces between my heartbeats. 

I took another long swig from the bottle. 

A few weeks ago, Remus had told Harry that Ellie and I – we had a daughter together. A daughter I’d never met. A daughter who had grown up believing her father was dead. Stella. The name clung to me now, as if it had always been there, stitched into my skin without my knowing. I was certain Ellie had chosen it deliberately—Stella, a star. Just like the rest of the Black family. The irony wasn’t lost on me. 

I looked up at the sky, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars, but in Central London, the city lights drowned them out. Even now, I could barely remember what they looked like. Azkaban had stripped me of that too. But I imagined them, the stars, burning brightly above, watching over her. My daughter. 

The thought of it broke me in ways I hadn’t expected. I wanted to meet her, to see the face that carried the same blood as mine, but I didn’t deserve it. I had missed everything. Fourteen years of her life, stolen from me—and I had been powerless to stop it. Anyway, did Eliana thought me guilty of those crimes? I add so much forgiveness to beg for.

Buckbeak shuffled beside me, his talons scraping the dirt. Poor creature. He was as trapped as I was, confined to this small yard when all he wanted to do was fly. I ran my hand along his beak, offering him what little comfort I could. We were both outcasts now—on the run from a world that wanted to keep us hidden. 

I had one hope left. To clear my name. To prove I wasn’t the man they thought I was. If I could do that, if I could make the Ministry see the truth, maybe I could be a father to her, even if it was too late. Maybe I could meet Stella, hold her, tell her everything I hadn’t been able to. 

But that hope felt distant, like the stars I couldn’t see. 

And the longer I stayed here, the more I feared that I would never be free from this prison, this place that haunted me as much as Azkaban ever did. 

I stayed outside with Buckbeak for what felt like an hour before the cold finally pierced through the fog of wine in my system. My fingers were numb, and the biting winter air had started to sting my face, but wine had a funny way of making you forget the cold, lulling you into a false warmth. Too much warmth, perhaps. I’d been drinking more than usual these days, numbing the endless turmoil inside me. 

The wine helped, not just with the cold but with everything. It took the edge off the restless energy, the spiralling thoughts, the sleepless nights. And it was particularly satisfying to drain my father’s precious collection, bottle after bottle, with no regard for its value. He would have been livid to know I was wasting it like this—wasting the legacy he’d so carefully preserved, and that alone filled me with a twisted sense of satisfaction. 

I gave Buckbeak a tired pat on the back. The beast let out a soft growl, nudging me with his beak, as if pleading for me to stay a little longer. 

“You’ve got fur and feathers to protect you from the cold,” I muttered, pulling my coat tighter around me. “I’m freezing out here.” 

Buckbeak’s large, expressive eyes fixed on mine, and I flinched under his gaze, almost embarrassed by how much comfort I took from the creature’s presence. 

“Alright, alright,” I sighed, finally giving in. “One more hour for you, but I’m heading inside. You can stay out here if you like the cold so much.” 

I headed for the kitchen door, glancing back once to make sure Buckbeak was settled under the tree where he was chained. We both knew he couldn’t fly, not here, not now. If he did, the Ministry would be after him in an instant. No one cared enough to hunt a hippogriff, but it was a risk we couldn’t afford. 

The kitchen was dimly lit when I stepped inside, the flickering of the old lamps casting long shadows across the walls. I tossed the empty bottle onto the table and wiped my hands on the front of my jeans, which had seen better days. I didn’t care. Not tonight. I would go downstairs to the cellar and grab another bottle. I didn’t care if the room started spinning again—I needed to sleep tonight. Really sleep. Most nights were haunted by nightmares and regrets, and more often than not, I lay awake, too afraid to close my eyes in case those memories came rushing back. But the wine helped, at least enough to knock me out for a few hours. 

I reached for the bottle opener, but something made me pause. I looked at the table. My wand. It wasn’t there. 

I had placed it right there before I went outside. I was tipsy, sure, but not that far gone. Kreacher knew better than to touch my things, especially my wand. 

A sinking feeling settled in my chest. Either I was more drunk than I thought... or someone else was in the house. 

A tremor of fear rippled through me. What if they had found me? What if an Auror was waiting in the shadows, ready to drag me back to Azkaban? My mind raced, the all-too-familiar panic creeping in. My friends—Harry, Remus, even Dumbledore—they would fight to free me if that happened. They knew I wasn’t guilty. They knew the truth. But still... 

I couldn’t shake the fear. 

Slowly, I scanned the room. The corners were dark, shrouded in shadow. And then, there—something moved. A figure, hiding just out of sight, watching me. 

My heart pounded in my chest as I took a step forward, trying to control my breathing. 

“What are you doing in my house?” I demanded, my voice harsher than I intended, trying to mask the rising panic. 

No answer. Just the quiet ticking of the clock in the hallway and the faint, rapid breathing of the intruder. 

“Who are you?” I asked again, my grip tightening on the edge of the table. 

The silhouette shifted, and I saw it now—a wand, pointed at me. The intruder didn’t make a move. I tried to steady my thoughts. If it were an Auror, they would have made themselves known by now. But this person was hiding. Which meant... 

A Death Eater? 

“I’m asking you a question,” I growled, my patience slipping. 

“You’re Sirius Black,” came a voice—a young, female voice, trembling with fear, but not enough to hide the curiosity behind it. 

I frowned, stepping closer to try and make out the face in the shadows. “How did you get in?” I demanded. 

It was impossible to enter Grimmauld Place without knowing the Secret. Whoever this was... they couldn’t have gotten past the Fidelius Charm. So why was she here? And why was she hiding? 

“KREACHER!” I bellowed, my voice echoing through the house. 

The house-elf appeared instantly at my side, his ears drooping as usual. “Yes, Master?” 

My eyes never left the corner where the intruder stood. “Did you let someone in?” 

“No, Master instructed Kreacher not to let anyone in. Kreacher did as Master told him,” the elf replied with indifference, glancing lazily at the shadow in the corner. 

“Then why is there a stranger in my kitchen, holding my wand?” I snapped, frustration and fear bubbling up inside me. 

Kreacher blinked, uninterested. “Master knows there are only two ways to enter the Noble House of Black,” he said in his usual grating tone. 

“Yes,” I replied, impatient. “How did she get in?” 

Kreacher turned to the shadowed figure and took a step closer, but the girl shrank back. 

“Don’t,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

“The Noble House of Black will always open for a member of the family,” Kreacher continued, turning back to me. “No spell can break that.” 

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, the girl stepped out of the shadows, and the dim light of the kitchen revealed her face. 

I stared, disbelief crashing over me. 

In front of me stood a teenage girl, her long, dark, wavy hair framing a pale face. She pointed my wand at me, but it wasn’t her weapon that caught my attention—it was her eyes. Silver eyes. My eyes. Her features were a haunting reflection of my own. 

Those eyes, that smirk—a mocking grin I knew too well. 

“Hello, father,” she said, her voice cold, with a cruel edge that sent a chill down my spine. 

[prettyboykatsuki]

can we PLEASE top Scaramouche

✮ cw ; bottom!scaramouche, top!reader, readers genitalia is unspecific so u can imagine whatever but it is referred to as cock once, 18+

"Pay attention to what's in front of you, Wanderer," You hum, hands pushing up under his knees up close to his chest "Only look at me,"

You glance at him underneath you, pushing air out of your lungs in a harsh breath at the state of him. He's naked and vulnerable, fabric covering the curve of his shoulders only barely. But his chest is exposed, body fashioned pretty. His nipples are hard, teeth-marks deep red around them.

Scaramouche looks good bruised. You don't long to hurt him but you think he looks good when he's covered in ache. His hands between his legs, covering his cock that's hard and twitching. He's embarrassed like he always is but there's something else there that you're noticing.

That he enjoys the level of possession you show him. You wonder if he's done it all on purpose. It's cute if he did, but he you don't make any effort to forgive him. Scaramouche hiccups, arm covering his face.

As if you'd forgive him, for looking like that. You laugh, pushing his thighs back until his knees are nearly at his chest. Your bodies are pressed together nice, and your cock is snug inside, all the way to the base.

Unmoving, you pull his hands away from his face. Resting your forearm next to his head. You drink in his expression. Mouth half-open, drool in the corners of his mouth. Eyes screwed shut, blocking everything out. His mouth is so bitten you fear he'll bleed. You feel cruel for wanting to see it.

"Scaramouche," You prompt him again, lower this time - thumb brushing his cheek and going over the shell of his ear "I won't move until you look at me."

This is enough to get him to listen. You can hear his breathing, how deeply unsteady it is. You can feel his desperation for it, how his body trembles under you. He's far from weak, but when he's needy all he can do is buckle his legs and seethe. His eyes beg for your attention even when he can't fix his mouth to do the same.

How endearing he is like that. He opens his eyes, watery lashes. Brows stitched tight, a line between them.

"Did you get what you wanted?"

"I didn't want anything." He spits. You laugh.

"Dishonest as always. You sure can be kind to those you wish. Never to me though, huh? I wonder why that is?"

"You—it's not like that."

"Even if you resent me, I'll adore you. Is that you want to hear? That I'll never covet anyone else. That you'll belong to me for the rest of my life?"

He goes all but limp underneath you. This time he looks at you of his own accord, face betraying any words that might leave his mouth. You roll your hips up inside of him and his whole body wracks with a shudder. You want to ruin him.

"Y-you're one to talk. All of those people at the weaponsmith fawn over you and you—"

Your laugh cuts him off. Is that what it was?

"How cute you are," You say pulling your hips back until you've slide all the way out. He whines at the loss of contact, covering his mouth. You slam back into him, one smooth motion until his spine arches completely. "As if I'd ever give anyone else my time."

"Fuck. Fuck. Shut up and—k-kiss me."

You come to a steady rhythm, dipping your head down to meet his lips. Scaramouche kisses you like you'd expect, like he's been deprived of affection from the minute he was born. You chuckle against his mouth as he melts underneath you, no longer full of resistance as you fuck him - an easy in and out as he comes apart. You reach between your bodies, hand over the head of his cock with a warm grin.

"No more of your jealous charades. Do you understand?"

He gasps as you quicken the pace, the sound of skin hitting skin filling the room.

"Fine. Y-yes, move your hand, let me—"

You jerk his cock in your hands with a laugh, kissing his knee.

"Good boy. Cum for me,"

[youngbeautifuldisaster]

*If I ever see you again* 1:40am

It’s the one thing I’ve dreaded and hoped would never happen in the absence of you. But, I guess in a small town like ours it was unavoidable. It was unrealistic to think I would never see you again, especially with there only being a few big box stores in our little town. I could tell it was you, even beneath the mask of happiness and joy.

It was a Friday afternoon, I was in BJ’s with my mom. I had ditched her before she could even make it to the produce section. I was in a sea of colors and fabric. Then you appeared with your mother. I could hear your mother asking “Isn’t that Alexis?” as my fingers traced the stitching on a sweater. I looked up and smiled as you both approached. You’re mother still sported her outdated jeans, faded tee shirt and rundown sneakers. Her hair was the same boxed-dyed mousy colored hair that framed her aging face. You sported the same baggy Ill-fitting jeans and wrinkled tee-shirt. I noticed you wore the same Nikes I had talked you into getting years before.

Your mother hugged me, although that was the last thing I deserved from her. I deserved nothing for the actions I had caused a year earlier. Your mother asked how I was and how my semester went. I informed her that my life was well and I continued to make the Dean’s list. I asked your mother how she was. She replied, “Oh we’re all just doing fantastic. I better get some shopping done. Y’all should catch up.” Your mother rushed off in the direction of the back of the store, leaving us in silence.

“How have things been going for you,” I asked to break the silence. Did I care to hear the answer or was I being a strained version of friendly.

“Pretty well. Same old, nursing school and work.” In my head I thought, nursing school shouldn’t be that hard for you. They should have kicked you out of the program by now. You never were a smart one. “How about you? Partying it up,” you joked.

There, you said it, the particle that broke us. “Don’t,” I said sternly.

“What? I mean isn’t that why you broke up with me?”

I looked you in the eye with anger. Our relationship had always been about him and he was continuing to make my life centered around him. He was an after thought to my life. He was as relevant to my life as the carton of milk in my fridge that I never drank.

“I broke up with you for myself. I had to breathe after years of strangulation.”

You angrily spat back at me, “I never strangled you”

“You did. I had no life. I felt guilty for everything. In the past year, I have actually lived. I didn’t do a damn thing to try to please you, I pleased myself. I wasn’t worried about staying “beautiful” for you. I did that for my self. I made friends that have been there for me every step of the way. These friends were there for me everyday at work and every night we went out to a club. They helped me live. They held my hand through the good, and bad. Have you ever laughed so much with friends that your insides hurt and you cried? I have. Hell I lived so much on my birthday I puked several times from the fun night before. You know what? I also had sex. Like actual sex so amazing that I had sex injuries from it. You know the one thing you were too much of a pussy to do. Hell, he was more of a man you were. I fucking lived.”

“Shut up,” you said quickly looking around. In your traditional fashion you were worried I would make a scene.

“No,” I yelled back. “I lived without guilt. I felt so damn guilty our entire relationship. But know what? The one thing I never felt guilty about was kissing someone before I broke up with you. I felt myself.”

“You’re a slut!” you yelled.

In that moment I realized how little power he had over me. I also realized how different I was. I was strong, fearless and most of all happy. “I may be a slut, but I’m a damn happy one,” I said with a smile. I turned and walked away from you. As I walked away, I walked toward the rest of my life.

[good-night-doll]

Tis the season~      

•Part 2–Movies

: Tis the time of year where families gather around their desired destination for a relaxing day spent purely on Christmas movie marathons and a long lay out of foody delicacies to accompany the hunger experienced throughout these extended hours.

Word count: 786

Warnings: None

The voices of actors alike have grown akin to my ears over the course of my life, the story plots all seeming the exact same but never failed to hit that requirement box for entertainment and interest nevertheless.

Movies bring people together, spiritually and physically and the freezing fingers of Wednesday Addams hadn't failed me yet. 

Our fingers are sewn together like a neatly knitted sweater of a sort. Where red fabric meets blue in a cross over against the cold weather and the warm fireplace. Our palms press together for comfort and just purely for the sake of knowing the other one is there.

But despite the comfort I'm feeling, Wednesday's face says otherwise as a green man, tall and hairy, waltzes across the TV screen, his little fluff ball of a pup following closely. Her eyebrows are stitched together and jaw clenched with uncertainty.

I know that look all too well.

I squeeze her hand reassuringly, leading to her turning her head to face me. Her lips tilted in a frown and eyes sparkled with the soft lamp's reflection. The golden hue of the light makes her face seem soft and smooth, like it were a soft gold itself.

"What's up?" I inquire, shifting a tad bit closer to the mystery girl I had fallen for months prior.

"What is this?" She asks, looking evidently intrigued by the colour scheme of the one known as the Grinch. "This is for kids"

"It just started, Wednesday, give the movie a chance to prove itself" I share a small smile with the girl as she cautiously turns back to the movie.

I rub the pad of my thumb reassuringly over the back of her hand, feeling every inch of her dead cold skin before I too turn to continue watching the movie.

However, as the movie progresses, so does Wednesday's timid shuffles for closeness. And it had eventually reached the point where we were so close that the side of her chilly outer thigh brushed mine every dozen seconds and our intertwined hands now rested upon her lap.

It's nice to have her this close considering we haven't sat so content like this in a while. I had grown accustomed to the faint chatter of my heart playing its love drunk melody- making it feel like it's pumping at double the normal rate. 

But what I hadn't yet grown so accustomed to, was the serious pummel party I received inside my chest when Wednesday's head had sneakily slumped against my shoulder. The organ had malfunctioned, hissing in a fit of both lovestruck and dread as it sparked a sharp pain through me- like my heart had overdosed by blood vessels on some unknown medication. 

Looking down upon the smaller girl, I can't help but smile at the adoration I feel for her.

Her breathing is perfectly level. Her unbraided, ravenette hair is spiralled across my limb, stretching and reaching out in the most diverse directions in hopes for a glimpse of freedom, resembling that of the tentacles on an octopus.

Her face is bare and relaxed, calm over her inner thoughts as she imagines herself into a world of make-belief where her mind controls everything from the people in it to the conversations they have and even to the bugs and insects that live under their feet.

Her mouth draws open a few times, airy mumbles escape past her plush lips every now and then- clarifying her dreams/ nightmares through the subconscious action. The words are mostly complete gibberish- but still as equally adorable in a way.

Her scented perfume raids my nose, flooding my every sense and damaging my ability to work as a human even more. It's a unique smell- one that only God dreams of creating- and it's oddly addictive too. It's warm but cold, nice but mean, sharing but secretive.

The movie had all but faded into the background, meshing into the whispers and cries of my inner thoughts as I stared at the sleeping beauty on my shoulder. 

My heart still remains strong with its threatening routine- viciously hammering against my ribcage as if it were trying to break out of prison for that independence it so desperately wants but can't have. And I can't help but wonder if it'll ever become tamed again.

Not like it mattered though, because I know it's only bound to happen again for I had fallen for the most naturally beautiful woman the world has ever seen.

[lonely-lost-soul]

Withered

Request 1: Technoblade succumbs to the voices and accidentally hurts the reader

-requested by: anonymous

(Technoblade x female reader)

~~~

Everyone had good days and bad days, recently Technoblade’s life had more of those good days thanks to a certain woman who entered his world. She came in like a whirlwind, messing with his emotions to a point which he never dreamed would be possible. When Phil introduced her to him a few years ago, he thought nothing of the women at first. She was ballsy, matching his sarcasm and snark immediately after meeting him. Not to mention beautiful in his opinion, he thought that might be why Phil kept her around at first. Then he saw her metal working abilities and the weapons she created and he fell hard. Especially when he saw the things she could do with gold, god one day when she visited him covered head to toe in gold jewelry...Techno almost jumped her that day. Even if he didn’t fully understand his feelings at the time Phil knew something was up with his mild-mannered friend. He had to break it to Techno in an awkward conversation that spanned twenty minutes that he might have a crush on the girl. Technoblade laughed in his face at the suggestion, it took a raised eyebrow and another visit from her where she was dripping gold that he finally figured out what exactly Phil meant by a crush. 

It took another year of him only falling harder for you to finally ask you on your first date. Now here they were years later completely enamored with one another, though Technoblade was less likely to show it. He was forever the stoic protector but he melted under your touch, the tough man was wrapped around your gold-clad fingers. 

Today, however, was a rare bad day. 

To start it off, Technoblade slept in later than he would’ve liked and woke up with a splitting headache. The voices which were usually a constant hum, sometimes making snide or unhelpful comments were screaming in his ear. Techno tried to fight it, he did. He tried to think of anything else other than the sweet taste of blood and the beautiful sight of gore tainting the white snow outside. He tried to think of your hands caressing his face, or the sweet smell of pomegranates and oak wood that he came to associate with you. Technoblade pressed his palms to his closed eyes and rubbed them in a circle, trying desperately to release the built-up pressure. He let out a puff of air through his nose. As he opened his eyes his pupils shrunk considerably, and they glazed over. Techo’s usual sharp senses felt dull and muddled especially his smell. All he heard was the thousands of voices that demanded blood, immediately needing to be satiated lest he wished to lose himself fully to them. Through their screaming, he heard shuffling downstairs someone was in his house, an intruder. A snarl erupted from his throat as he tore the down comforter away from his body, shredding it in the process sending chicken feathers flying everywhere. 

He tore his cape from its resting place and connected it across his shoulders, he took his sword from its place on the wall. Technoblade gripped the weapon so tight his knuckles turned white, the voices only increasing in their restlessness and volume as he made contact with the sword. They knew blood was near and was about to be spilled. He slid down the ladder effortlessly and into his kitchen, the smell of bread was seemingly so strong it assaulted his dulled nostrils. Narrowing his eyes he noticed movement in the kitchenette, 

A figure stood there seemingly unbothered by his presence, the voices demanded blood and who was he to deny them their sacrifice.

Bottles and plates fell to the floor and shattered as he charged at the figure. He knocked over the table and more things thudded to the ground, in his wake. The person stumbled back but it didn’t matter, Technoblade would catch them and gut them for even thinking about entering his home. He pulled his sword back a deep growl rumbling in his throat, the person let out a sound and Technoblade put his hand around their throat. Squeezing down, successfully cutting off their airflow, the hands reached up and he felt their nails dig into the skin of his hand. He only smiled wider as the voices urged him to continue, loving the way the intruder was wiggling and desperate against his hand. Even as he felt blood pool on his own hand from their fingernails he still had satisfaction in seeing them suffer. The figure was completely and utterly at the piglins mercy, he lifted them into the air seeing their legs begin to kick out as they dangled. Technoblade leaned forward, thousands of voices chanted the same phrase in his head, 

    “Blood for the blood god,” He spit at the figure as he drove his sword into their chest they let out a scream of agony. Their face twisted up but even through that, they grabbed at the back of Techno’s head, bringing it down and into the side of their neck. 

Pomegranates and oak flooded his senses, and the voices were immediately silenced. They were silenced almost shamefully as the fog cleared in his mind and the figure materialized in front of him. As his senses returned, his pupils blew back to their normal shape and size and he was brought back to the reality of the situation by loud, gurgled choking. His head snapped back and he locked eyes with yours, face blue and splotchy, blood dribbling down your chin. 

     “Tech...no…” 

     “Heh? What…? Princess? Princess!…(Y/n)...no...NO!” His eyes widened in frantic despair removing the hand from around your neck, you let in a gulp of much-needed air into your lungs. He caught you before you could fall, his entire body was shaking in a way he didn’t know it could, for once in his life he was scared. His sword was still embedded in your chest, even through his panic, he knew taking it out would only make everything worse in the long run. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” His big hands cupped your face brushing the hair out of your eyes, sweat was sticking to your forehead as your face scrunched up in agony. “I know baby, I know. It hurts, I’m sorry…hang in there for me my dear one,”  Techno rested you down on the ground on your back watching you wince once more. He stood up, desperately needing to get his spare health potions and bandages. He was tugged back a little by his cape. He knelt back down to look at you in the eyes, they scrunched up in the way he loved so much when you smiled. 

Why were you smiling? This was not the time to smile! 

     “Don’t le...ave. St...ay?” 

     “Oh, Princess. Don’t be cringe okay? I’ll be back I need to get you health potions and bandages. I’ll be right back, I love you.” Technoblade sputtered, out in a panic. Although his words were nothing but the truth; Technoblade loved you more than the stars in the sky. If you asked him to he’d find a way to gift the stars to you in a heartbeat.  

     “Lo...ve you too.” He felt you release his cape and he bolted gathering all the materials he could need to heal your wound. Stumbling back into the room he dumped his supplies onto the floor and knelt beside you, he gently caressed your cheek. 

     “I need to pull the sword out, here.” He handed you a thick piece of cloth, “Bite down for me okay?” He watched you nod and stick the cloth in your mouth, and bite down onto the fabric. He grabbed the hilt of the sword and yanked it out of you in one go, he tossed it across the floor like it scalded his skin. Your back arched in pain, tears weld up in your eyes as you let out a pitiful-sounding moan. In another situation that was much more intimate, he might’ve found your body language insanely attractive. He moved quickly putting pressure on the wound as blood bubbled up from the gash in your chest, it reminded him of Wilbur’s wound, he shook his head pushing the thought away. You weren’t like Wilbur you weren’t going to die and certainly not by his fucked up hand.

He wouldn’t let you. 

     “Good girl. You’re being such a good girl, please hang in there.” He pleaded grabbing the needle and the stitching thread, he quickly dipped the needle in antiseptic, “another deep breath for me.” He commanded you, once again he watched you nod before having the needle enter your skin. Whines of pain spilled from your throat, you tried your best to be as still as humanly possible and Technoblade commended you for your efforts. Eventually, it was stitched closed and Techno put gauze over the stitching to make sure it was protected. Tears were rolling down your cheeks as Technoblade turned to look at you, now he could tend to your less serious wounds. The bruising around your neck was dark and splotchy and in the shape of his hands, he felt guilt tear at his heart once again. He uncorked the regeneration potion and put your head in his lap, he gently removed the rag and poured the contents down your throat. Techno watched as you immediately relaxed in his arms breathing evening out only slightly, you’d certainly need way more than just one potion. 

Technoblade let out a sigh of relief gently cradling you in his arms, you immediately snuggled into them and he melted. He made sure to wipe away any tears that still spilled from your beautiful eyes. You were going to be alright, but he’d never forgive himself for hurting you, he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to you if you chose to stay by his side. He carried you up to his bedroom and was taken aback by the number of feathers floating around the air. He’d need a new down comforter too now? Why was he such a monster in this state? He laid you down on the bed kissing your forehead lightly, you weakly leaned into the kiss and smiled up at him through lidded eyes.

     “Get some rest,” Technoblade whispered “I’m going to make some more potions and call Phil. If you need me just shout, I won’t be far.” He watched you nod sleepily as he tucked you into more blankets. He swallowed thickly reluctantly turning away from you and heading back down the ladder. After all, he was starting to smell the stench of burning bread, which was unpleasant. He descended and immediately frowned miserably at the sight before him, everything was trashed. Glass and porcelain littered the floor as well as a ruined breakfast that you were clearly in the process of making for the both of them. His favorite too, he stepped carefully over the mess and pulled the bread out of the oven with your oven mitts. He was right it was unsalvageable he sighed opening the window and tossing it outside for something else to devour if they saw fit. Sending a quick message to Phil that he needed help and as many regeneration potions that he had, he hoped he didn’t freak the old man out too much. 

Technoblade rolled up his sleeves and got to cleaning up his mess. By the time Phil flew in most of the mess was cleaned up, but the old man looked frantic, he had an entire bag filled with potions with him. 

     “What’s wrong? Who’s hurt?” Were the first questions out of his mouth, “Is (Y/n) alright?”

Technoblade’s jaw clenched and he refused to look anywhere but at Phil.

      “Techno?” 

     “I lost control, Phil. Hurt her...the voices were so loud. I stabbed her, she almost died because of me.” His voice cracked a little as his hands clenched and shook at his sides, Phil bit his lip before hesitantly reaching out to wrap Technoblade in a hug. Surprisingly he melted in Phil’s arms rather easily, 

     “She knows you didn’t mean it mate…” He spoke softly rubbing circles on his lower back, “she’ll forgive you-”

     “But that’s the problem! She shouldn’t! This could happen again but this time I won’t be able to snap out of it. I could kill her, and that would kill me.” 

     “But she will because she loves you.” Phil placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders pulling away from him, “we’ll come up with a plan. Talk about what happened this time, what possibly triggered it, and what snapped you out of it. You aren’t hopeless mate. We’ll fix this, (Y/n), and I are here for you no matter what, remember that.” Techno dragged his hands down his cheeks and gave a small nod of understanding. “Now, take these potions to her and stay by her side. I’ll finish cleaning up and guard against any other dangers alright? You just worry about helping (Y/n) get better.” 

     “Alright…” Techno murmured taking the bag of potions from his friend before ascending the ladder back to you. You were asleep, your breathing was soft and shallow but you were alive at least. Gently, he splashed the potions on top of you, you were completely knocked out not even feeling the splash potion. He shucked off his cape hanging it back up against the wall, he made quick work of collecting all of the feathers that he could put away. He lifted the covers off you and crawled into bed by your side, he gently wrapped his arms around you careful of your wound. He cradled you gently kissing the side of your neck, still asleep you cuddled yourself more into his body heat. He brushed your hair behind your ear and rested his chin on the top of your head. From now on he’d make sure to be better, better for you, better for Phil, and better for himself. He’d protect you through thick and thin and if anyone dared hurt you again he’d rip them apart, and god forbid if he hurt you again. He’d never forgive himself. This couldn’t happen again, he wouldn’t let it. Even if he had to give up all his lives trying, you were his Princess after all.

~~~

Hope you enjoyed and it met up to your expectations! Next up is C!Philza simping over reader!

[howl-core]

I love your account so much! Quick question (that could definitely have a long answer): which era of fashion do you see HMC inhabiting? There are certain context clues, like velvet and petticoats, but it seems DWJ kept it intentionally vague. She mentions the world being a fairy tale brought to life, but what kind of storybook, is my question.

Hi!! Oh my god I’m so sorry it took me this long to answer this😭….. but still! Thank you:D I LOVE this question, especially because we don’t really have a definitive ‘canon’ answer. I’m so curious what Diana herself would say... but even though we sadly can no longer ask her, I think in some ways not knowing can be even better, because it gives us so much freedom! Since you seem amenable to it, I would love to indulge in a long, needlessly thorough answer, to make up for how long it took me to reply:

I think there are two factors to consider. Number one is, “If Ingary is set in an era based on one from our world, what are the clues in the text we can use to help narrow down which era(s) it could be?”

The second factor is, “Ingary is a fantasy land, so does it mirror an era from our world at all? And in what part of our world?”

However, regardless of which “factor” you ascribe to regarding Ingary, it’s helpful to have as much textual evidence on hand about clothing in Ingary as possible when forming an idea of it overall. I skimmed through my copy of HMC and tried to find as many notable descriptions of clothes as possible (which was not as labor-intensive as it sounds, I promise!! By now I know the story very well so I already knew roughly where to find everything.) Here is what I found:

- The hat shop!! Right off the bat, we learn that there are hats made of straw, felt, velvet, and silk; they can be decorated with veiling and ‘hidden twinkles’, feathers, flowers and fruit made from wax and silk, and that they can be wide-brimmed, or bonnets, or ‘smart’.

- Clothing items mentioned in the Mayday scene: “Trailing silk sleeves”, “trailing cloaks and long sleeves and stamping buckled boots they would never have dreamed of wearing on a working day”

- The iconic blue-and-silver suit, of course, is on separate occasions described as “fantastical” and “flamboyant”; on Mayday Sophie observes that “His [Howl’s] sleeves trailed longer than any in the Square, all scalloped edges and silver insets.” When Sophie is mending it after the Green Slime Incident, she cuts it into triangles. It is unclear to me whether the suit actually consists of triangles of fabric, or if Sophie is just cutting triangles out of it: “She hobbled up and fetched the blue-and-silver suit, which she spent the rest of the day cutting little blue triangles out of in order to make a patchwork sort of skirt.” (p. 107) “Poor Lettie! Sophie thought, putting brisk, tiny stitches round her fifty-seventh blue triangle. Only another forty or so to go.” (p. 168) When Sophie and Michael accidentally gigantify it, we learn that it has “a frill of collar” as well as silver buttons. (p. 183-184)

- The grey-and-scarlet suit — Presumably similar in style to the blue-and-silver one?

- The Witch of the Waste is described as wearing: “A sable wrap drooping from her elbows and diamonds winking all over her dense black dress... the lady’s wide hat [had] real ostrich plume dyed to reflect the pinks and greens and blues winking in the diamonds and yet still look black.” Interestingly, while I guess I could picture this ensemble in a 19th or 18th-century style, the first thing this description made me think of was actually more like a 1940’s prima donna/movie star look lol. (perhaps even a bit like Lady Dimitrescu😳)

- p.101 “[Lettie] was wearing a dress of the same kind of pinks and white as the crowded apple blossom overhead. Her dark hair trailed in glossy curls over one shoulder,”

- p.6 “There was one deep rose outfit [Sophie] made for Lettie… which Fanny said looked as if it had come from the most expensive shop in Kingsbury.”

- In another appearance (p.157) she is described thus: “Her hair, instead of being orderly chestnut curls, was a rippling mass of red, hanging almost to her waist, and she was dressed in floating flutters of auburn and pale yellow.”

- p. 151: The soldiers at the palace are “splendidly dressed” in red and wear white gloves (the ones upstairs wear blue instead of red)

- p.51: “Outside stood a personage wearing a stiff white wig and a wide hat on top of that. He was clothed in scarlet and purple and gold, and he held up a little staff decorated with ribbons like an infant maypole... Scents of clove and orange blossom blew into the room.” (Michael also mentions that he thinks this person is the Chancellor’s clerk)

- Michael wears “his best plum velvet suit” to see the king (p. 68)

- The clothes Howl buys Sophie and Michael: “Several pairs of silk stockings; two parcels of the finest cambric petticoats, with flounces, lace, and satin insets; a pair of elastic-sided boots in dove-grey suede; a lace shawl; and a dress of grey watered silk trimmed with lace that matched the shawl... the lace alone was worth a fortune.” “Michael unwrapped a handsome new velvet suit.” (p. 122)

- Mrs. Pentstemmon’s estate: The trio are greeted by “an elderly footman in black velvet”; Mrs. P herself wears “a gold-mesh mitten, on a gold-topped cane. She wore old-gold silk, in a very stiff and old-fashioned style, finished off with an old-gold headdress not unlike a crown, which tied in a large old-gold bow beneath her gaunt eagle face.” (p. 143)

- Howl’s black ensemble includes “a long jet pendant” as his earring (his single earring?? king) on p.184

…Ah fuck I bet there’s more but that’s enough for now. I think I would want to make a separate post talking about the hints we get about the world *itself*… But one that pops out to me is actually that Howl having an indoor toilet is described as a kingly luxury, lol. That definitely helps us narrow down the time frame. We know that indoor toilets of some kind do exist, but having one is very rare. (I kind of don’t like to treat this as canon lmao… somehow I can’t picture the streets of Market Chipping flooded with chamber pot contents, as realistic as it may be) That puts it probably a little before the 1700’s or earlier, if we are comparing it to our world’s timeline. Interestingly:

“In the 18th century, the first public water supply networks (examples of old water supply piping pictured above) were installed in London by private companies. They served limited areas of the city, allowing the wealthy to access fresh water on tap.” According to the same article, “The S-bend was introduced to the design of flush toilets by Scottish inventor Alexander Cumming in 1775. This modification allows for fresh water to sit in the toilet bowl, at the same time as preventing sewage water and fumes from rising into it, generally improving hygiene. The basic technology has been in use ever since.” (Wild I never knew this lol… trivia night here I come!!)

…So that seems to put us roughly around the 1700s?

That mostly checks out with the descriptions of the clothes, I think! Both of these slides seem to at least somewhat match the descriptions of big/trailing sleeves, boots, the “suits”, and general elaborateness:

And these fantastic timelines are certainly compatible with the descriptions of dresses and hats that we get!

Additionally, although the heyday of European fairytales was a bit earlier (1500’s-late 1600’s), lot of fairytales were still written roughly around this time — Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve published the first official version of La Belle et la Bête (Beauty & the Beast) as we know it today in 1740, Johann Karl August Musäus published the Volksmärchen der Deutschen between 1782 and 1787; and Grimm’s Fairy Tales, or Kinder- und Hausmärchen, was first published in 1813. So this would absolutely work as a time period around which to base a fractured fairytale such as HMC, although the 1500’s and 1600’s would also work… If I weren’t deciding to base this entire argument around ONE mention of a toilet………. but anyways. That’s Option One. (Cannot believe I’m basing all this off a toilet…)

But anyway. Option Two — ignoring *our* world’s timeline entirely— is… me doing whatever the hell I want. And that is, essentially, one big historical mishmash! CHAOS!! A Frankenstein-ed together Victorian, Georgian, Elizabethan, and Edwardian tilt-a-whirl of frocks and finery, along with a dash of style that has no equivalent in our world at all!

I must admit, the Ghibli movie has a bit of influence over my idea of Ingary — I absolutely love the post-Industrial Revolution, quasi-steampunk aesthetics of Ghibli’s Market Chipping, and the mid/late 1800’s fashions that the characters wear! I could easily see the Hatter sisters wearing those lovely side-buttoning Victorian boots, and my god, that film did hats SO much justice. I also adore Markl’s little waistcoat+bow tie+trousers combo in the movie and usually mentally give Michael something similar to that, just in different colors. But overall, I don’t see Book!Ingary being steampunk or post-Industrial, as much as I love it in the film. Perhaps little elements of that here and there, but again, I see it as a big mishmash of multiple eras. I love picturing the King’s guards with frilly Elizabethan collars, pageboy/squire haircuts (even though the King’s chancellor has a white wig, suggesting a more Georgian aesthetic) and puffy little breeches. Lol. I think of Lettie’s pink dress in the orchard as very mid-late 1700’s, perhaps similar in design to the 1763, 1785 or 1790 dresses in the dress timelines above. Mrs. Pentstemmon I imagine in full, damely Victorian splendor. Somehow, as I mentioned before, the Witch of the Waste seems almost outside of this timeline entirely, like a grand 1930’s movie star.

And as for for Howl and Sophie… Well, I actually have a project pending this May Day for my official headcanon of Howl’s blue/silver suit and Sophie’s gray dress;) So perhaps you will see that then! But for now, I will say that Sophie’s grey dress has a fairly consistent design in my mind, but Howl’s suit changes a LOT. Sometimes I imagine him in these very crisp 1700’s clothes, almost like Lestat, but sometimes it’s more of a costumey, wizardly, elegant-but-slapdash getup. Like, the blue and silver patches on his suit are all made from different fabrics, almost like a quilt. And rather than the prim silver-buckle shoes of the Lestatcore version, he wears taller, pirate-y boots — elegant and very well-made, of course, very debonair, but much better for dirty work and running around. That’s how I imagine it anyway.

…Oh god, this got SO long lmao. But I hope I was able to give you the kind of answer you were looking for! I LOVE hearing and seeing other people’s versions of Ingary and its chaotic cast of characters. Do feel free to tell me yours, I’d love to hear them! Sorry again that this was so late, thank you for asking<3

[clone-wars-imagine-2]

Bad Batch Preference: How they react when you make a doll for them that looks like them

A/N: This idea comes from a friend on discord, I hope you enjoy this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sergeant Hunter: To begin with, you were hella bored and flying through hyperspace for 10 hours straight was making you insane. Meditation could only pass that much time, so you decided to start a little project for the remaining time until you would reach Coruscant again. Soon enough you gathered all materials and started to make a little doll. You didn’t have any particular thing in mind you wanted the doll to look like but having Hunter sit right across from you with his datapad in hand was a convenient thing. It only took you 2 ½ hours until the doll was finished, now you only had to show Hunter. “Hunter! I need to show you something really important!” You said dragging out the really, a grin plastered on your face. His response was a simple ‘aha’ but he glanced up from his reports to look at you for a moment. He seemed tired which made your heart ache, he is always overworking himself. You took the doll from behind your back and held it out to him. Hunter looked surprised at the sight of the doll and laid his datapad down, reaching forward to grab the little fabric version of him. He could see all the details you did, you even put a little bandana on the doll. The Sergeant was speechless to say the least. “Do you like it? I made it for you.” You made it for him… “Of course I do. I love it! Thank you, kar’ta.” “You're welcome, Love.”

Crosshair: Building something was one of your hobbies you had since you were a kid, it was always something you could do on your own, inside or even outside. You build things out of wood, metal, fabrics, flowers and basically everything you could find. So whenever the boys were out of the ship, getting supplies or doing assignments the thought would be too dangerous for you to tag along on they left you to look after the havoc marauder. This was one of those occasions. You’ve been sitting in the pilot seat for the past few hours making something for Crosshair. You weren’t quite sure if he would like it or not but if the latter would happen you’d just keep the little doll of him for yourself. Holding the doll up you looked it once over before deciding you were finished. It looked exactly like Crosshair, you even went as far as to carefully draw on his tattoo. You smiled and decided to put it away until he came back. It didn’t take long for your boys to come back and leave the planet as fast as possible. When everything calmed down you went to Crosshair, telling him you made something for him. He gave you a sceptical look but followed you to your quarters you had on the ship. Turning around you presented him with the doll.  “You made a doll of myself? For me?” You nod your head and beamed up at him with one of your smiles. “It looks hideous.” You saw that coming. “But it’s you!” “I know.” “You want me to take it back?”  “No it’s mine.”

Tech: Getting to spend time with Tech was hard after the Bad Batch stopped protecting you and your father after they catched the people who were after you. Now it wasn’t certain when and for how long you would see him again and it killed the both of you. The last time he came to visit he gifted you a necklace with a small piece of his armor hanging off it. He said it was so something from him was always with you and protected you. It was by far your most prized possession and you never put it off since you got it. So you decided to make something for him. You were amazing when it came to the knowledge of advanced technologies and new inventions but building something on your own wasn’t something you could say you were good at. So the only plausible thing to do was ask your mother for help which she gladly lended. Together you two made a little doll, it was only a few inches in size but it looked so much like Tech it made your heart ache for him even more. It even had a small replica of his goggles on. Now you only had to wait for him to arrive home. It was another two months before you got the message from Tech that they would be heading back to get some downtime. You were filled with exaltation and couldn’t wait until he was back, but you were also nervous about what he would think of the doll. You would find out soon enough. It wasn’t until a few hours of him being back and the two of you cuddling in bed that you showed him his little present. Tech was more than just surprised and you could swear you saw him stop breathing for a few seconds. A smile spread across his face and he gave you a kiss on the forehead, pulling you closer and nuzzling his face into your hair. “I love it, mesh’la. I will always keep it with me.” You blushed at the little word of endearment and hid your face in his chest. “Glad you like it, handsome.” Guess who is blushing now. 

Wrecker: You were set at home on one of the few days you could take off, waiting for Wrecker to arrive after one of their missions. He had commed you earlier in the day, letting you know he would be there today and that he got some more stuff for you. The clones didn’t earn a lot of money so Wrecker never really bought much but he brought some stuff back for you that he found on his journeys. Be it intriguing  looking stones, beautiful flowers he pressed under some weights to preserve them or shells he found on shores. Seeing all the little things lying on their own little shelf in the living room you took the opportunity of being alone for a little while longer and started making something you knew Wrecker would like. Wrecker owned a tooka doll he so fondly called Lula that you decided it could use a little friend and what better friend would there be than a smaller version of your boyfriend himself!  It took you longer than you would like to admit until you got the hang of stitching the doll together. You were a mechanic, an inventor, not a sewer! But thankfully Wrecker wouldn’t arrive until late in the night as he told you in a message. Great, more time to figure out how to not poke you in the fingers 50 times in a row. You finished the doll around 11pm, mere ten minutes before he arrived. When Wrecker arrived he crushed you in one of his tight hugs which you endured with a smile, by now you were used to his strength. He immediately started rambling about the mission and taking the stuff out he collected for you during his time away when you stopped him. “Before you continue darling, I want to show you something I made for you. I-” “You made something for me?! When?!” You let out a laugh and smiled up at him. “Today, I had some time and thought you might appreciate it.”  Wrecker immediately begged to see it and how could you keep him waiting? You showed him the doll of himself, it was by all means the first thing you ever made in that regard but it didn’t look too bad, and it resembled him which you wanted! His eyes lit up the second they met the doll and he took it out of your hands. “This is amazing! And it looks like me! I will put myself right next to Lula so she isn’t alone!” A laugh bubbled out of your chest and you looked fondly at him. “That was my intention. Glad we are both on the same page.” You got pulled in another bone crushing hug and you savoured every second of it.

Echo: It has been over a year in which you thought that Echo was dead. After the Citadel mission Fives and Rex came to you, bearing bad news. The moment you saw them you knew and cried your eyes out for weeks. You couldn’t believe he was just gone like that, taken from you from moment to the other. Both Rex and Fives tried to help you and they succeeded in some ways until Fives passed away.  You had thrown yourself in your work for the senate, doing everything not to think about how your heart ached for the love of your life and your best friend who were gone. When your body finally broke down, telling you to rest and to process you did. In memory of the both of them you made two little dolls, the one of Fives you put right next to his gravestone. You did everything to make sure he got buried and his body wasn’t used for scientific research by the Kaminoans.  The doll of Echo you always kept close to you. There was no body you could bury or mourn so this was the only alternativ you got, and it helped, it really did. And then Rex commed you, telling you Echo was alive right before one of your most important senate meetings. It was another few days from when they brought Echo back to when you were allowed to see him and your heart stopped when you saw him. What have they done to him? Tears filled your eyes and you threw yourself at him, not letting him go as you thought he might disappear again. Echo was very hesitant at first, fearing he could hurt you with his prosthetics, yet he still forced those thoughts from his mind and enveloped you in his arms.  You talked for the maker knows how long, trying to comprehend what the other went through while giving as much comfort as possible. Every time Echo would flinch at your contact, even if it was tiny, your heart felt like it got stabbed a thousand times. When he carefully reached for your hand and told you he was leaving with the Bad Batch you tried to protest but he shut it down, telling you he had to do it and you only nod. “I promise you that I will come back, I always do, don’t I?” Echo had a smaller version of his usual sly smile on his face and for the first time in a long while you felt your heart melt again. You smiled softly at him, leaning closer to give him a kiss on the cheek. “I know you do, but before you go I want to give you something.” , you mumbled against the skin of his cheek, taking out the small doll you made months ago. Carefully you handed it to him and watched his face for his reaction. You could see tears gather in the corner of his eyes and you pulled him closer. “I made it a while after you… Well…” Echo shushed you and looked up into your face, smiling. “I will keep this close to me so whenever I see it I will think about you, cyar’ika.” 

[gryffindors-weasley]

A Sweeter Ending

Colin Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: After a dreadful day, you have Colin to wipe your tears and make it better.

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: bad day, crying, mentions of food, brief mentions of alcohol, insecurities, comfort, fluff, kissing

Disastrous. That was the best way you could have described your day—absolutely disastrous. It seemed as though a string of clumsy bad luck had wrapped around you from the very moment you woke up, weaving around everything you did and everything you will continue to do. You were certain there was nothing that could go right and you have yet to be proven wrong from that thought.

Presently, you sat in the quiet tension of the carriage, Colin’s blue velvet coat settled around your shoulders as his hand enveloped yours. Benedict sat across from you, Violet to his right, and you allowed yourself to do nothing more than to look out of the small window as tears spill silently over your heated cheeks, one after another. Your lip quivered pitifully from the weight of your frustrated emotions pressing heavily upon you, and it was far too quiet for you to allow yourself to sniffle. You hadn’t even wanted to wipe your cheeks; even that would be far too obvious an action. You were completely and utterly miserable, hopelessly exhausted.

It had started when you had woken up an hour later than you should have, thus making you ridiculously late for your final fitting at the Modiste. For the dress you were to wear at the ball that very evening. She was incredibly understanding as she always had been, but the embarrassment burning your cheeks a more than noticeable shade of pink as you stood on the platform to be fitted was obvious. To you, to her, to anyone in company at her shop. You felt rather rude for being late, a handful—a dozen apologies sputtering past your lips. It had set the tone for your day ahead.

Several little inconveniences had rained upon you since that morning, whether it may be the way you nearly tripped as you made your leave from your carriage. Or the way the drizzling rain had caused your hair to be needing fixed, the once beautiful style now dampened and dull. You felt horrible for the need to have it done again; it was not a simple task and you had already felt annoying from earlier that morning. It felt as though you couldn’t make it a mere five minutes without tripping over your feet or the skirt of your dress either, wanting nothing more than to let your frustrated tears spill over your cheeks. But you couldn’t, that would have to wait.

Then, as the day passed agonizingly into the dinner with the Bridgerton family before the grand ball that evening, the one the Queen would be in attendance to, matters had gotten far worse. All had been well as it always had when you were in their presence. They were a delightfully warm and welcoming family, one full of love and laughter. But your mood had quickly been soured when you accidentally spilled your wine on the front of your newly stitched dress. As if to make matters far worse, your hands instinctively reach to blot the mess, effectively staining your satin gloves a matching shade of deep and unforgiving crimson. You were positively sure your cheeks burned the same shade as the beverage spilled all over you and beaded across the delicate fabric.

Mrs. Bridgerton hadn’t minded the incident, of course not. You had been a family friend nearly the entirety of your life, and her son’s true love. She could never be bothered by such a trivial mishap, she knows she’s made quite a few herself. But you, you felt absolutely terrible. Not only were all eyes on you, not out of mocking in the slightest, but their joined gazes had the tears pressing further behind your eyes. Not to mention, the time and effort put into the making of that dress was now ruined by your blunder. To be completely and dramatically honest, you wanted the fancy intricacies of the floor beneath your feet to open up and swallow you whole.

The ballroom. That had been a disaster of its own. All was perfectly well and as it should be, your first dance of the night had gone perfectly until it tapered off into a myriad of misfortune. You had lost your footing more times than you had cared to even think about for more than a second, bumping into a couple dancing and easily throwing off their rhythm as the debutant in question sent you a rather rude stare. On a good day it wouldn’t have bothered you, you simply would have offered a polite nod in apology and moved on, but today was not a good day. The action paired with your earlier troubles had a small frown tugging at your lips, one Colin had been quick to change just with the softness of his smile and the kindness of his reassurance.

It was wishful thinking for you to believe the flurry of bad luck had ceased after that, but said luck has a funny way of presenting itself over and over. It had done just that. You would have been fine if it’d been left at your clumsy mistake, it would have been more than preferable. But you knew the moment the dreaded Lord Berbrooke had spilled his lemonade on you, on your new and fresh dress, you knew that had been it. Furthermore, Cressida Cowper’s taunting laughter had been more than enough reason to want a change of scenery. To want to go home. It simply was not an option to continue to subject yourself to further upset and embarrassment.

So now there you sat, in the confines of your carriage as you sulk in your own feelings yet you still try to keep them at bay all the same. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been quite so bad on a different day, one that had been more smooth sailing. Perhaps you were being dramatic, they were minor inconveniences after all. But the build up of one thing after another after the next had pushed you to your very limit no matter how minute and silly it may have been otherwise. Everything small had a large impact on your worsening mood, like the hair brushing stubbornly against your cheek or the back of your shoe rubbing against your heel.

You hated to feel this way, to be so overwhelmed when there wasn’t necessarily a reason to be so. It made you feel as though you were acting childish and difficult. It made it worse.

After a while you took a deep breath, shaky and upset, the hand in your own squeezing tighter ever so gently as his thumb brushed over your skin and you could feel his gaze on you. The small action had made your heart flutter, the affectionate kindness of it. You decided against risking a glance at your love, however, you knew you’d break in an instant if you allowed yourself to do so. It was then that you felt a nudge at your foot, shifting your stare to the brunette across from you.

“At least it smells lemony fresh in here, does it not, Y/n/n?” Benedict grins, immediately swatted harshly on the arm by his mother, sent a glare and a complaint from his brother.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth and a soft laugh leaves your lips, however, a brief moment of humor breaking you from your misery if only just for a second. He’d seen the tears glimmering on your cheeks, he’d seen how upset you’d been ever since dinner, he knew he had to do something. And he’s glad his valiant attempt did not prove to be futile.

“I suppose you’re right,” you sigh in amusement, rolling your eyes.

You nudged his foot in return, sharing a mirrored look of scrunched noses and smiles. You appreciated the moment of lighthearted distraction, the tightness in your chest easing some as the soft laughter mingling in the small space began to dwindle and die down.

The rest of the ride had been quiet after that, the obvious tension having lessened considerably and your tears not quite as incessant as before. They still welled upon even the slightest thought of what had transpired that day, of the unsurprising cruelty always emanating from Miss Cowper. You knew better than to let her get to you, but a bad day will change such things.

—

When you arrive at the Bridgerton home, they bid you a loving farewell, Benedict sending you a pout of sympathy. He had even blown you a kiss before his mother had pulled him along by the wrist.

“Are you alright, my love?” Colin asks now that the company had since left, the carriage departing from his family home and towards your own shared estate. Despite the absence of an audience in the current moment, he still spoke softly, his gaze focused on you attentively as he awaited your response.

You nod, trying not to let the question get to you as much as it was trying to but the quiver in your lip had said otherwise. The soft tone he’d used was enough to make you burst into tears for that matter. His frown had gone unseen but his sigh not unheard, and soon you felt his lips press tenderly to your temple. They lingered before another was placed in the same spot as the first, and you finally allow yourself to rest your head on his shoulder.

You had hoped you weren’t being difficult to be around and you had hoped you weren’t being bratty towards anyone you encountered, but the dreadful day had taken its awful toll on you and it was becoming far more challenging to suppress its impact. Grateful seemed to be a vast understatement when it came to Colin Bridgerton. He was impossibly sweet and incredibly patient, and he bestowed upon you the utmost of love no matter the situation. So yes, you would have to say that grateful had been a rather large understatement.

“I love you,” you murmur, leaning up to press a chaste kiss to the scar just under his chin. “Very much.”

He looked down at you with a smile, kissing the tip of your nose. “Have I ever told you that I love you more?”

You laugh softly and let your eyes flutter closed, feeling his kiss on your and a squeeze to your hand.

“I believe you’ve done so today, more than once if my memory serves me correctly.”

He squeezes your hand lightly in playful retaliation at your jesting, exhaling a sigh that mingled with his laughter. “Well, it is only true. I love you more.”

—

You sigh softly upon finally entering the comfort of your bedroom, a place you so longed to return to, shrugging Colin’s coat from your shoulders in absolute defeat. You were desperate to rid yourself of your lemonade stained dress, the pale yellow splotch that splattered across the front only taunting you by that point. Your feet ached and you felt utterly drained.

It was a pitiful struggle to get it off in your terrible mood, one that required several huffs on your end and a chuckle or two from Colin just paces away. But you had done it, hastily draping it over the chair by your vanity and refusing to give it a second glance.

“Would it be so bad to ask for help sometimes?” Colin asks, smiling warmly as another soft laugh leaves his lips while he rolls up his sleeves. His vest lay in a heap on the chest at the foot of the bed, shirt half unbuttoned as he looked at you fondly despite the angry frown you held.

“At this point, yes, it would,” you state, sighing as you smooth down your nightdress, the tears welling once more. They had not been done with you just yet.

His dimpled smile fades only slightly, and he steps across the room to stand before you. He looks at you for a moment, taking your face in his hands. He was gentle as he wiped your tears; his thumbs swiping gingerly across your flushed cheeks, a kiss pressed to your rosy nose. His forehead rested on your own then, his hands sliding down your arms to grasp your hands securely.

“I know that today has been rather unlucky—far more than most,” he chuckles softly, his laugh puffing against your lips and his nose bumping yours. “But do you wish to know something, darling?”

You nod against him after a brief moment, lip still wobbly and eyes still very teary. His eyes fall closed as he smiles, one that goes unseen in the close proximity. “Do enlighten me.”

His lips press to yours before he speaks, tender and fleeting and coming in a flurry of affection. So lovingly sweet he’d just about forgotten what he was ready to say, what he was doing. But he quickly regains his train of thought when laugh softly.

“Even with wine and lemonade dousing your dresses, even with your hair being what you have deemed to be out of place or ruined, even with your teary eyes and reddened face—you are still and always will be the most radiant. It is perfectly well to cry, but you must know that I shall always be here to dry your tears.”

You lift your head, looking up at him fully. “Do you really mean that?”

Your voice was timid and your cheeks flushed softly, and you watched as the corner of his mouth had quirked up as he nodded. You smile, pressing your lips on his in a soft kiss. One that deepened while still remaining gentle and tender and all consuming in love. One full of soft brushes against the other’s lips, small smiles when your breath tickles the other’s skin, where noses bump and nudge affectionately.

He pulls away reluctantly, kissing you twice more before looking at you, sincerity painted across his expression as his smile widens and more so upon the reappearance of your own. In a matter of moments he lifts his hand, leaving you to raise your brow in curiosity though you knew just what he was up to. You always knew.

“What?” You ask anyway, a soft laugh falling from your lips.

“Would you care to offer me this dance?”

You bite your cheek to hide your smile at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, at the sheer amount of love held in a mere gaze. Love for you and all your clumsy mistakes. For your ups and downs. He offered you a dance, something he knew that never failed to set your mind at ease so long as it was just the two of you. With little thought and not a drop of hesitancy you take his hand, allowing him to pull you closer as your laughter follows at the sudden action.

He lifted you and spun once, your squeal eliciting the most delightful of laughs from the both of you as he brought you back down to the floor. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a flurry of kisses to his cheek before he too did the same.

“I must say, I believe this is the best dancing you have done all night,” he says, your playful glare having him tipping his head back to laugh. Soon he lifts your hand and twirls you, pulling you back to his chest and you collide with another fit of giggles. This was certainly not of proper dancing etiquette by any means, not even a little bit, but it was a dancing belonging entirely to the two of you.

You rest your hands on his chest, his heart bounding beneath your fingertips before you hug around his neck once more. Ruffled curls of brown had fallen over his forehead, nearly dipping over his deep blue stare as he gazed at you.

“I love you,” you say, swaying softly about the room as your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Tremendously, I love you.”

The dimples in his smile return as he kisses from your cheek to your jaw, from your jaw to your neck, to the corner of your mouth and most lovingly to your lips. “And I love you more. Tremendously, I love you more.”

The day might have been terribly disastrous from the start, but now, you had a sweeter ending.

—

Tags: @dreaming-about-fanfictions @awritingtree @writeroutoftime @elennox03

[lastxviolet]

Madripoor is for Lovers (Zemo x F!Reader) - Ch. 3

Summary: Y/N is a SWORD agent recruited to help Sam and Bucky track down Karli and the super-soldiers. When Helmut Zemo joins the team, he takes a special interest in her. The friendly union is wrought for disaster, but then things take a turn for the worst when Y/N is taken as collateral. Will Zemo keep her forever? Does she even want to escape? And what happened in Madripoor that made the whole thing so complicated?

Warnings: 18+ / smut / oral sex / f receiving

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32878015/chapters/81589774

The hypnotic bass and Zemo's enthusiastic dance moves almost got you carried away. But over the bouncing crowd, you saw Sharon, Bucky, and Sam on the stairs, looking for you.

“Shit,” you mumbled, breaking the trance. “We gotta go.”

Zemo followed your line of sight and turned to lead you back to the group in silence. You try to hide the disappointment on your face.

“We found him,” Sharon yelled over the music upon your approach.

The five of you went over the plan for tomorrow back in Sharon’s suite. You doubted that even with your experience, you could’ve found Dr. Nagel without Sharon's help. In the states, it was easy to pick a needle out of a haystack, because you always knew what you were looking for. But here, everyone was a criminal. Uncharted territory where you had to find the sharpest needle amongst thousands.

“You good?”

Sam’s voice cut through your thoughts. You looked up and noticed the dissipating group. Sharon showed Bucky to his room, and Zemo sat with his eyes glued to a book on the couch. Only Sam remained standing in front of you, looking like he was about to pass out.

“I’m fine,” you assured him. “Go get some sleep. You look terrible.”

He chuckled and nodded in agreement. “We gotta get the hell out of here. Madripoor has aged me at least ten years.”

“Me too. I miss places where being a criminal makes you the odd one out, not the other way around.”

“Goody two-shoes,” he teased before turning to find his room.

Sharon waved him on from down the hall and they got back into it about her pardon and what she’d missed in the states.

Your attention shifted to the only other person in the room. Zemo’s eyes wasted no time abandoning his book and landing on you as soon as you were alone.

“The Odyssey,” you asked, pointing to his book. “I didn’t take you for someone who enjoys fiction.”

He smiled at the attention and made room for you on the couch.

“I often find that there are elements of truth in every fantasy. The human spirit is sometimes better examined by poets than by professors. This, for instance, is a brilliant study on heroes.”

“Hmm, studying heroes? An attempt to know thy enemy?”

He laughed and turned to you with his elbow up on the back of the couch, bringing him less than a foot away from your face. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the lights down the hall go out. There were no interruptions, or easy outs, now. All that was left was you, and the only man who’d ever made you truly nervous.

“Y/N, if you were in Odysseus’s place, content and immortal, would you give it up to go back home?”

“You’re asking me if I’d abandon my legacy and family to shack up on an island with some mistress?”

He chuckled and nodded in approval. “Very wise. But what does he gain by leaving? Struggle? Hardship? Mortality?”

You tilted your head to match his. “Are you telling me that you’d stay on the island?”

His expression shifted for the first time since you’d stepped foot in Madripoor. The overconfident, smirking Baron dissolved into a man.

A man who hid the sense of riotousness that he carried with dramatic flair. A man whose charm and wit seemed fabricated.

This man now, fighting off sleepy eyes and grappling with the moral quandary posed, seemed burdened. You wondered if his quest for justice would ever get to be too much. After all the destruction he’d caused, could he still see himself as the exactor of fairness? Were the Avengers still his enemy? Were you?

“No,” he confessed looking down at the copy in his hands.

Your lips twitched but you didn’t smile. “You’d make the hard choice — the hero’s choice if it came down to it.”

He looked almost somber at your words and nodded.

“In another life…perhaps.”

His voice wavered, almost as if he regretted saying it out loud. The briefing that Sam and Bucky had given you about him flashed in your mind.

A hero's choice was the right thing to do; the hard thing to do. You knew that he was a soldier before everything happened. Just like you.

Was that not a hero’s choice?

He tore the Avengers apart in an attempt to stitch up his own heart. An eye for an eye. Avenging his country because its destruction had been glossed over by the world. His loss fueled his anger but he was more capable than most. A man without armor, or mystical abilities was able to wreak havoc on those who had wronged him.

Was that heroism?

If losing those you love didn’t permit revenge, you weren't sure what did.

He broke the silence by tapping his knuckle on the book.

“It is the perfect testament to the valiance of heroes,” he continued. "But, I must say that the wisest thing Odysseus did was marry his wife.”

You laughed and nodded, remembering how she saved the day. Without her, Odysseus’s homecoming would’ve been much more perilous for him.

“I often find that behind every great man is an even better woman.”

He smirked and didn’t miss a beat. “Like you with…your Avengers.”

“I stand beside them,” you corrected.

He raised an eyebrow and waved a hand. “Semantics."

You gave him an eye roll in return.

He smiled then, wider than you had ever seen. It almost made him seem shy. Perhaps it was because he was making a genuine point, masked in humor.

You were well aware of your importance to this mission and yet burdened by the fact that it didn’t make you a member of their special club. When this was all over, you wouldn’t be an Avenger, or anywhere close. You’d go back to S.W.O.R.D to wait until called upon again. It hadn’t occurred to you before, but there was a pang of sadness there where the thought rested. It’d be a mistake to let Zemo know but it seemed to be too late.

“You’re making fun of me.”

His hand brushed yours. “No. I am merely expressing my concerns about your allegiances.”

Still aware of the small amount of alcohol left in your system, you looked away from his quirked moving lips.

“Enlighten me, Baron. What wrong decisions do you think I’m making?”

Frozen in place, you let him brush his fingers along your wrist to your arm. He took his time, tracing patterns on your skin and inspecting his work with an unwavering gaze. Only when his thumb caressed your cheek, and his hand landed on your neck did he look you in the eyes again. The air in your lungs was gone and your body betrayed you with a furious eruption of butterflies.

“Living a hero’s life,” he said somber-eyed and serious.

Your heart rate quickened. As if you’d learned nothing in S.W.O.R.D about manipulation, you were back to watching his lips. They parted slightly, as if he had something else to say but thought better of it.

A hero.

You didn't feel like one.

A sidekick, maybe. But even then, no one knew your name. No one sang your praises at home or breathed a sigh of relief knowing you were out there in the world fighting evil. It seemed that the only one who thought of you as more than an assistant was Zemo.

Your heart felt heavy then. The two of you were impossible. An inconceivable pair brought together by chance.

But that didn’t make his dark eyes any less enticing or his words any less intoxicating.

That didn’t make you any further from his lips.

He was a breath away, but so was your own destruction.

In another life, the island might tempt you.

“Look,” you said glancing past him to find something to change the subject. “It’s a full moon.”

Without sparing him another glance, you crossed the floor in four quick steps to the large windows. Never one to give up easily, you heard him follow close behind.

He beat you there and pushed open the glass door before gesturing towards the balcony in silence.

You looked down at your feet until the skyline drew your eyes. The plan to diffuse the tension had not worked in the slightest. The moonlit balcony overlooking the beautiful city had only made it worse.

You heard him stop a few feet from you and then settle on the lone armchair. The reality of the situation hit you like a train. Away from the windows, you had privacy. This high up no one would see you and everyone else was in bed. You'd meant to creep out of the lion's den but instead, you'd locked yourself in.

“The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to,” Zemo mused from behind you.

“Carl Sanburg,” you confirmed, so he knew you didn't think he'd made it up.

Both of you were silent then. Swaying in the tension you'd built. Sanity pulling you back inside, inexplicable hope keeping you planted in place.

“Are you lonely, Baron?”

The words fell from your lips more delicate and intimate than you had meant them to. You let slip that you cared about his answer. That you might even care to cure him of the ailment.

“Me? No.”

You turned and scoffed.

“Liar. You were in a cell for years and you hardly talk to anyone now that you’re out.”

He leaned back in the chair, arms on either rest and a leg crossed with the ankle of his right knee. His demeanor was harmless in the same way that a predator poised to pounce was. Elegant, still, and ready for the kill.

“Not true,” he corrected. “I talk to you.”

“One person isn’t enough,” you said, taking a step closer.

Were you walking into disaster? Or being pulled? You couldn't tell the difference between his seduction and your own reckless desires any longer.

“The right person though…can be,” he half-whispered. “And you, Y/N, are more than I deserve.”

He gazed up at you from the chair. Kings throughout history, in war-won golden thrones and elegant capes, paled in comparisons to how regal he looked. Anointed with a crown of moonlight, ruling over whomever he pleased.

Your eyes widened with the admission. “Baron — ”

“Helmut, please.” He stood then and met you near the railing, his hand grazing your hip. “Only if for tonight.”

You shook your head, knowing this was a bad idea. His hand made its way to your waist regardless. He pulled you against his chest before searching your eyes for any signal that you were going to run. You knew he’d find nothing. You knew you mirrored his look of lust with blown pupils and flushed cheeks.

“Have I gone too far,” he whispered, bringing his other hand to brush loose hair behind your ear.

“No,” you sighed, letting him pull you closer and brush his lips to your cheek and jaw.

“Tell me if I do,” he whispered again before finally capturing your lips with his.

You uttered no complaints as his tentative kiss turned bruising and possessive. His arms wound around your waist, crushing you into him. But you needed to feel closer. He grunted as you sprung to action, flinging your arms around his neck, deepening the desperate kiss. He tasted like whiskey and something sweet. A cool breeze brushed against the exposed parts of your body. You let your hands wander beneath his coat, chasing warmth and proximity. He let you do as you please, only insisting that his lips stayed on yours.

You let out a whimper as his hand explored the front of your dress. He stopped to press his warm hand against your breast, before holding your face.

It was then that he pulled away, steadying your searching lips with a grip on your chin.

“Ich esse nicht,” he sighed, kissing a pattern to your ear. “Ich schlafe nicht, ich tue nichts anderes, als an dich zu denken.”

His teeth grazed your pulse point, leaving you gasping for air.

“I don’t speak German,” you managed to stutter out.

A hand slid up the back of your dress, gripping the zipper before undoing it in one swift motion and the fabric fell to the floor. The cool air seized your naked torso for only a moment before Zemo pressed himself against you again. The coat you’d complained about before, now provided warmth and security. You tipped your head back, almost over the edge of the balcony as he continued worshipping your neck and chest.

“I don’t eat, I don’t sleep,” he said between wet open-mouthed kisses on your breasts. His hot mouth left purple spots that cooled instantly in the chilly night air.

“I do nothing but think of you,” he finished before toying with your hardened nipple between his teeth.

You moaned then, louder than you should’ve, and let your eyes flutter open. The world was upside-down but you made no motion to move. You were making Madripoor proud by being pressed up against a balcony by an international criminal.

Utterly pleased with himself, Zemo raised his face back towards yours, leaning you both over the edge.

“Shhh liebling,” he cooed.

He pulled you back over, kissing your shoulder before removing his jacket and draping it over you. Each brush of his lips feeling more improper than the last.

“We would not want your friends to see you like this.”

In the next second, he swept you off of your feet and hoisted you into his strong arms. You watched the world sway around you and then settle when he placed you on the lounge chair, letting you get some warmth back from the coat and cushions.

He draped one of your legs over an armrest, exposing you to him except for a thin pair of underwear.

“Not with you spread open for me,” he growled. He towered over you for only a moment before kneeling between your legs. The man whose stature made him the tallest amongst giants; the most important in any room he chose, knelt before you.

“What would they say,” he mumbled in a trace. His hands gripped both of your thighs, causing an eruption of goosebumps across your whole body. “If they saw you like this, with me?”

He looked up at you then, raising an eyebrow, and tracing the inside of your thigh with his thumb.

You answered him breathlessly. “They’d tell you to stop.”

“And what would you say to that?”

His voice sent shockwaves through your system. Dark and sultry, with a hint of danger. You threw your head back again, barely able to keep a single thought straight. Your body shuddered but you couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or the need for his touch. When you looked back to him, he was surveying your body with the hunger of a starved wolf.

“Would you want me to stop?” His voice was gentle and sweet then, asking in earnest.

“Meine Liebe," he taunted you for consent as he flashed a smirk and pulled something from his pocket.

Cold metal grazed your thigh. A moan escaped your throat as he unsheathed a serrated knife and caressed your skin with the dull side.

“I wouldn’t want you to stop,” you gasped, almost vibrating with anticipation. “I don’t want you to stop — Helmut — please don’t stop.”

He chucked again, before focusing his attention on the area between your legs. You bucked slightly as the icy knife slid underneath the fabric. He made one strong slash upwards and you felt the fabric fall away from your wet core. One of his hands gripped your ass, but only for a second before he tore the rest of the fabric from your body.

“How could I ever withhold something from you, liebling?” His nose grazed your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to where you needed him most. It was only a moment before you felt his breath between your legs.

“How cruel it would be,” he growled. You moaned and slapped a hand over your mouth as he kissed your sensitive bundle of nerves. “To not give you everything.”

His tongue swirled against you in a tantalizing pattern, stroking you deliciously. He licked you methodically like he was reading the blueprint of your body right then and there. He held each thigh in a punishing grip, pressing you deeper into the cushions as he made a meal of you. The stars above your head blurred and the universe shifted.

If this was your destruction then it was illustrious. You'd do it over and over again until you landed in a cell right next to him.

“Helmut,” you whined with a heaving chest.

“Tell me what you want,” he mumbled between flicks of his tongue. “And it is yours.”

You would’ve begged him to let you cum but he beat you to it, making your back arch and mouth fall open in ecstasy. You trembled beneath him, over and over, but he didn’t let up. Your legs strained from being extended by his unflinching hands. You tried to stutter something out to him but no sound came except for content sighs and haphazard gasps. But his eyes remained closed regardless of the noise.

Without his mouth on you, he would’ve been mistakable for a good Christian, deep in prayer. Brow's furrowed in focus and devotion; lips moving in silent divine appeals. Only he could make you feel worthy of an alter. You couldn't picture anyone ever worshipping you in the same way again. It was his, you thought. I am his.

Lost in pleasure and shock, you reached up to run your nails against his scalp. Only then did he release you, and raise to meet your waiting lips as they trembled.

“You,” was all you could manage to whisper. “Only you.”

He pulled you from the seat, to wrap your legs around him. You brought your forehead to his and let him pepper you with chaste kisses.

“When I have you,” he said, before pulling the coat around you again. “It will be in a proper bed.”

You stared at him, confused and overwhelmed. The space between your legs ached with a longing to be filled but he let your legs fall away, and stood up.

“We can’t…I mean not now — they’ll hear.”

Zemo smiled and nodded while looking for something on the ground. After a moment of searching, he picked up the torn pieces of the red underwear you had been wearing. Before you could retrieve it, he pocketed the shorn fabric and stared you straight in the eyes.

“Worry not, Y/N,” he purred, reaching a hand out to help you up. “We have all the time in the world.”

[ukai-simp-services]

because i love you

prompt: tainted hues: “if you loved them, why did you break their heart?”

@tooruluv | #tooruluv2kparty

oikawa x fem!reader

warnings: heavy angst, poor mental health, depression, heartbreak, small panic attack, alcoholism.

a/n: why am i so sad after writing this,, i think this is my first time writing angst with no fluff T^T

  somewhere in argentina, there is a large penthouse with tall windows and cornered with perfectly trimmed green hedges. the interior of the penthouse is simple, there are no memories cluttering the walls, there are no fairy lights adorning the windows, there are no bento boxes in the fridge, and there are no sweet scented candles in every room of the house.

  there is only dull colored furniture, only overflowing laundry baskets, only a kitchen sink filled to the brim with dirty dishes, and only empty liquor bottles littering the dining table. 

  a home without you, is hardly a home.

  in this penthouse, a young man, barely 25 years old, sits at the kitchen table with a glass of fernet in his hand. one large window is opened, letting the warm evening breeze rustle the thin kitchen curtains and brush over his exposed skin. 

  oikawa still couldn’t stop thinking about what iwaizumi had asked him two years ago. 

  no amount of mind numbing liquor could ever make him forget that interaction -inevitably, the last face-to-face interaction he ever had with his best friend. 

  “oikawa, if you loved her, then why would you break her heart?”

   oikawa gasps to himself, suddenly feeling chills run up his back, as if the memory happened just yesterday.

  he remembers vividly how furious iwaizumi’s voice was and the tired look in his best friend’s eyes - a look that all but told oikawa that he was exhausted picking up the shattered pieces that he always left behind.

  he downs the glass of fernet.

  he pours himself another.

  he remembers that, that was the first time he had nothing to say - the first time that tōru oikawa was at a loss for words. because men like oikawa, men with quick rebuttals and prepared excuses, always knew exactly what to say in every situation. 

  that day, iwaizumi had walked away from oikawa with sadness in his eyes, no trace of hostility to be found anymore. there was no slap to the back of oikawa’s head, no ear piercing screaming of a lecture, and no insults thrown at him. there was nothing.

  but oikawa would’ve preferred a slap to the head or some sort of beating.

  a gentle ache presents itself in oikawa’s throat, threatening a small cry to stumble out.

  oikawa washes it away with a swig to his drink.

  iwaizumi is a faint presence in oikawa’s life now, he calls and texts - the occasional check up - but he had stopped being his best friend a long time ago. 

  losing a brother pains him; it burns from the depths of his core, but losing you practically kills him; it steals every bit of oxygen from his lungs. 

  because, ultimately, you were his reason for living - for breathing; your warmth, your comfort, your presence is what kept oikawa going every day. without you, his days are meaningless, he inevitably lives his life without purpose. 

  but, now he finds it ironic; he chose volleyball over you, his life.

  everyday, from 9am to 7pm, he mindlessly serves, sets, and passes a volleyball. for hours on end, he feels his muscles contract and relax as he tosses the ball up high, just for him to smack it down against a cold and shiny gym floor, he watches at it ricochets back into the air just to fall back down onto the ground again. bounce bounce bounce, till the sound ceases and the ball rests in its place.  

  oikawa now wonders when a blinding passion - a heart pounding desire to play this sport, turned into just a distraction. he finds that now when the very familiar surface of the volleyball brushes up against his palm, he no longer feels his adrenaline pumping with excitement; he feels resent.

  because trying to dissipate his memories of you by overworking his body everyday no longer worked anymore, if anything it only made things worse. 

  every game, every screech of his name from the crowd, every praising cheer after he makes an award winning serve, it all reminds him that you aren’t in the stands cheering him on. faces upon faces, all different colors and all different shapes, none of them are yours. 

  oikawa hisses as he feels a dull ache in his knee, the same knee you would spend hours massaging after practice every day.

  the lump in his throat has become more apparent now, he drowns it out with the bitter liquid in his cup - trying to suppress the feelings that will always be there. 

  he is only 25, yet he can feel his body beginning to give up on him. his muscles are weaker than they were two years ago, his bones throb under his weight with every step he takes, and his mind is continuously drifting off into oblivion. 

  he wonders who he is living for at this point. he can’t lie to himself and say that volleyball is his reason, because then who is he playing it for?

  this country; even with its busy streets and loud music - he still can’t help but feel alone. 

  his favorite memory of you plays in his mind like a film, it’s grainy and colored with a brown, faded hue. your hair whipping in the wind, your dress flowing over your hips, your feet sinking into the sand, your hand intertwined with his, and your mouth open with that melody of a laugh spilling out of it. 

  he remembers your skin felt soft, flawless against his calloused palm. shimmering silver earrings decorated your ears, a gift he had gotten you for your birthday. the air around you was warm, despite the unforgiving ocean winds that was tussling through your hair and clothes. 

  as the memory plays, your laugh begins to fade away in the wind, the already loud noise getting increasingly louder and louder. his ears are ringing now, he can’t hear your laugh anymore. the sky is no longer a heavenly blue, it is now an unsettling gray. your body, your hand holding his, the scenery of the beach, is being ripped from his mind and transforming into a different memory, one he would kill to forget. 

  there you were, eyes big and brimming with tears, standing in front of him. the beach background has now turned into your shared apartment in japan, both of you in the living room. you open your mouth, but oikawa can’t hear your voice - he remembers your words vividly, but his mind refuses to play them. 

  tears spilling down your cheeks, your hands balled into fists; oikawa watches as he breaks down the one person who he deemed to be unbreakable. everything he had built - everything you had built, he watches fall apart for the hundredth time. 

  a sharp pain shoots through his chest, snapping him back to reality.

  he clutches at the fabric of his t-shirt, heaving breaths fall from his lips as he tries to compose himself. 

  the cup full of fernet falls to the floor, pieces of his heart are scattered on the floor alongside the broken glass. 

  oikawa lost meaning in his life the second he walked out the door that shameful day; he lost his motivation, his strive.

  everyday, his body aches with loss. the sounds of cars racing down the busy streets, the loud music playing from his favorite coffee shop, the smacking of countless volleyballs being slammed down onto gym floors, and the lively chattering coming from some rom-com that he left playing on his flat screen tv, all sound like background noise to him - numbly playing in his ears as background music to the memories he constantly has playing in his mind. 

  oikawa never knew about loss or pain until you, never imagined that this is what it would feel like. 

  but, loss has made him wiser; he knows now what will lie ahead for the both of you. he knows that as years come and go, the pain will begin to diminish a little, bit by bit - but he also knows that there’s no way that it’ll ever fully leave his heart. 

  because, as he gets older, he’ll only get more tired. his skin will begin to wrinkle, hair will start to gray, his bones will ache from weight of the world, his lungs will begin collapsing from the pressure constantly on his chest, and his heart will eventually cease to beat, from the death grip you still have on it. 

  he will age unforgivingly, eyes devoid of any color - they have already lost the once charming glint they used to hold. 

  unlike him, he knows you’ll only burn brighter as the upcoming years pass you by. 

  you’ll get back on your feet, your skin will glow again, your muscles will strengthen and your heart will beat with a newfound passion to love yourself - that’s something he’s always admired about you, the passion you held for all things involving love.

  you’ll age with an unstoppable beauty; you’ll laugh and smile so much that permanent crinkles will form next to your eyes, you’ll dance so much that your muscles grow tired, you’ll fall in love again and have all those kids you wanted - kids that will fill every single gap in your heart that oikawa left behind. 

  despite pure science and human biology, your youth will never leave you. you’re one of the few people oikawa has met that have the ability to live young forever. your soul is unbreakable. sure, oikawa may have put a mere scratch on it, but he never came close to cracking it. 

  and that’s the difference between you and him; he will die miserable and alone, heart poorly stitched together and the inside of his body bruised and weak. you will pass away surrounded by people who also - like him - became allured by your kind spirit and your lively energy. his body will fall weak from exhaustion, but yours will fall weak from years of dancing and laughing and singing. his heart will die battered with pain, your heart will die full of love and forgiveness. 

  it’s painful to think about, but oikawa knows this is the truth, and simply just how life works. he won’t sugarcoat it for himself, he knows his ending is exactly what he deserves. 

  so he begins writing a note. the bottle of fernet he was previously so dependent on, is now long forgotten. he holds a shiny black pen in his hand and a white slip of paper in his other. he clicks the pen and holds the tip above the blank page for a few beats; hesitating, before he’s letting the words flow out. 

  it starts, with an answer to a question.

  “i broke her heart, because i love her.”

[dizzydancingdreamer]

The Servant and The Prince | One

I did it-- I wrote something. Was it what everyone wanted? Gods no. But it is something. So do enjoy my lovelies-- a break from my not so regularly scheduled content.

Description: This is very much a Cinderella trope because I cannot help myself and I am in love with Loki 

Pairing: Loki x Female!Reader, third person as I may adapt eventually with an OC 

Warnings: violence but very minor, emotional abuse, some strong-ish language

Tags: Angst but you can imply fluff 

Word count: 3.8k

Next

Master List

“Did you pack my dress!” A shrill voice assaults her eardrums as she scurries towards the door.

It comes from a tall, thin, young woman. Her face and fingers are boney, her blonde hair falling in perfect waves down her back. The faintest aroma of honeysuckles and violets wafts off her creamy skin. She is beautiful, her step sister Anna. At least in theory. The sneer on her cherry lips and the hatred in her cerulean eyes, unclouded and accusatory, can’t be hidden by any length of silky dress or ruby lipstick, though. She is ugly, even if just on the inside.  

Y/n almost drops the bags in her hands- almost. She only flinches inwardly. She is used to the constant demands. Clean the house, cook the meal, wash my clothes. This and that and more. So much more. She’ll never flinch though. No matter what. That is a promise she made to herself too long ago.

“Yes milady. It is already in the carriage alongside the rest of your requested belongings. Is there anything else I can do for you before we leave?” Her own voice is gentle in comparison; a breeze trying to hold its own against a tornado.

Anna’s sneer deepens and she huffs, spinning on her heel, her dress spiraling around her in a show of pink tulle. She does not say anything as she storms away, most likely on her way to her mother’s ornate carriage. That’s another thing that is more beautiful on the inside than out. If only everyone else knew that Y/n’s step family is poorer than dirt. Estrid, Anna’s mother, hides it well under the last remains of her father’s hard earned money. Gold encrusted carriages and a large home and clothing dripping in jewels. He is gone though, Y/n’s father, and the money will soon be completely gone as well. If only people glanced a little further and saw her dress- not terribly tattered but hand sewn out of the plainest fabric- and the overwhelming lack of staff in the big home. The signs are all there, sitting in plain sight. 

That is exactly the reason Y/n is loading the carriage- a last ditch attempt for her step mother and step sister to rise back to the wealth they once enjoyed. There is to be a ball. A royal ball. Apparently it is supposed to be much grander than the solstice festivals her small village holds. She always thought those were magnificent; the dancing and the feasts. She loved attending them before her father had died. He would take her and her mother every year and they would find their seats under the stars, eating and dancing to their heart’s desire. Her chest squeezes painfully; she misses them both dearly. Now that they are gone those few days of the year are her only escape- the nights where she can pretend she is anything but a lowly servant. 

She blanches wondering how much grander the ball will be. Surely it will be more than turkey under the stars and the ribbon dances of her youth. It will be in the castle- in a ballroom bigger than her house and the neighbours combined. Bigger even. She has never been in a ballroom. Sometimes the village hall holds weddings but they are small and serve vegetable stew and play music composed of fiddles and flutes. All the things she is most familiar with. The castle will have things she does not understand. Clothes worth more than her life and the richest foods and music that is so intricate that she wonders if her ears will be able to withstand it. She has heard stories of how wonderful it is- and how magnificently out of her element she will be.

Y/n sighs, pulling her shoulders straight and hiking the bags further up her body. This is no time for dawdling- there is no time that can be wasted now. She drags herself and the bags out the door, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder at her family home. It used to be filled with warmth. The kind that comes with baking bread and knitting beside an open fire and laughter. Now the halls are bare. Almost all traces of her mother and father are gone. She wears them across her chest in her mothers old leather satchel. Along the side of the bag, little green Dahlias are sewn into the worn material. She brushes her finger over the side, taking a deep breath. Maybe the ball will be a new adventure- even if she is not to attend. She will still be visiting the capitol. 

“By Odin, what are you doing? We have to go now or we will miss the opening festivities! Move you little wench!” 

Estrid’s nasally voice sounds from behind Y/n seconds before a hand connects with her back, shoving her forward. The bags on her shoulders and arms add to the momentum from the push, the uneven weight more than enough to have her stumbling over her feet. She tries to catch her balance, rushing down the steps as though being led by the bags themselves, but it is useless. Her heel catches on the last step and she falls backwards, her back connecting with the cobblestones, her elbow piling into the stone step. White hot pain blossoms through her body, pooling like fire in her injuries. She swallows the scream in her throat. It tastes like iron on her tongue- like eating the burnt chips left in the pot after the meals are finished being served. It tastes familiar. 

A red heel stomps next to her, crunching on the cobble stone the same way her spine had. It lands inches away from her hand, narrowly missing her pinky. Y/n looks up, her features as schooled as possible, greeting Estrid with a bow of her head. Even that small action causes pain to spike through her lower back and she has to hold her breath to keep from crying out. She does not look at her step mother for more than a few seconds- she knows better than to do any such thing- but it is enough time to catch the familiar sneer. It is the same one she has passed on to Anna but more hateful. Honed. Estrid has had years to perfect her evilness, even if she does not look a day over thirty. She too is beautiful in her own dark way.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Elstrid spits down at Y/n, already on her way to the carriage as she passes by the crumpled girl. “It is as though you are trying to ruin your sister’s chance for happiness. You can never just be grateful, can you? It must always be about you. How pathetic.”

Y/n could laugh. She can almost feel it there in the base of her throat, bubbling with the scream and cries which are also locked away. Neither are forgotten yet- they never are. They just build and build and build like the wind that blows through her village in the spring, gaining enough speed to wipe out entire fields of crop. Now there is laughter on top as well. The cruel kind that makes her insides twist and burn. 

What a perfect way to describe how she feels; pathetic. She forces herself to her knees, followed quickly by her feet as she gathers the bags, mulling over the word. Pathetic. She hauls them onto her shoulders once again, trying her hardest to ignore the way her back and arm aches and the flood of fresh tears that rush to her eyes. She loads the bags into the back of the carriage, nodding at the driver. He looks at her with pity but remains silent as Estrid climbs into her plush seat. The word rings again, louder. Pathetic. 

Y/n tugs the satchel across her body as she climbs onto the back of the carriage, folding her cloak over her lap. Yes, indeed she feels pathetic, cast to ride to the capitol backwards with her skin exposed to the elements and her hair doomed to be a windblown mess. Pathetic does not even begin to cover everything she feels in this moment. If her step family is poorer than dirt than she must be something even worse than dirt as well. She feels so at least. 

Somehow, though, beneath it all, she also feels a touch hopeful. She is going to the capitol, after all. Her fingers scratch over the green Dahlias, thinking back to the night her mother had sewn them. 

“Little dove did you know that you are like a Dahlia?” Her mother’s voice was sweet and soft- the kind of voice that made Y/n want to lean in until she could feel the words in her soul.

“What do you mean, mama?” She was not really asking to hear the answer, rather speaking in order to hear her mother keep speaking. 

The glow from the fireplace warmed Y/n’s cheek as she leaned further. Her mother smelled of yeast and berries. She could still taste the jam on her lips, warm and sweet from desert. Strawberry pie was her mother’s specialty. The warmth combined with her full belly made her eyes close slightly, her body sagging against her mother’s legs.

“You are so strong my little dove. You are so soft and so elegant,” her mother’s hand smoothed over her cheek, her fingers as soft as silk. “But you are so powerful too, I can sense it. You are overflowing with it and kindness. So much kindness. How did I create such a magnificent little girl, hmm?”

Y/n giggles when her mother tickles under her chin lightly, pulling her hand away to continue on the pattern. Her stitches are meticulous and perfect- just like her mother. She watches as the vibrant green thread weaves below the fabric before reappearing. It happens over and over again, disappearing and reappearing like a little trick. She always loved tricks.

“Why are the flowers green, mama? I have never seen any green flowers in the meadow.”

It was true. There were pinks and blues and the most wonderful oranges. Never greens though. Only the stems were green.

“Oh my darling, you will one day. They do not grow here. They grow in the capitol by the hundreds, though. They surround the streets, growing high into the sky. They are beautiful, my little dove. Just like you are. You will see them one day, I promise you.” 

Y/n blinks away the image of her mother, letting a few of the tears drop as she does so. Nobody can see her here so it is okay now. It is times like these, in the midst of the worst and best moments of her life, when she misses her mother the most. She would do anything for one more gentle hug. One more whiff of berries and rising bread. She shifts on the stiff seat, her spine jostling against the metal frame of the cart and flaring in pain. She lets out a tiny cry, hoping it is masked by the sound of the wheels bumping over the stoney pathway. Her throat aches, squeezing at the stream of tears threatening her system. It is in this moment that she feels something foreign- something that will inevitably and unknowingly change her life as she knows it. Something that she is sure is not her own.

She feels angry.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *      *

Loki strolls over the castle grounds, his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulders straight. The sun is shining on his face, warm and soft. The air, like always, smells like pine trees and fragrant flowers. That is partly the cause of the woman next to him. She is beautiful, there is no doubt about it. From her golden hair, knotted in bands across the crown of her head, to her gown, a soft blue silk. It flows behind her as she walks, like a river carving from each step she takes. One of her dainty hands is curled around his arm. Usually he would mind the touching- contact with other people is not his thing. More so Thor’s, his untamed brother. With her, though, he swallows his pride every time. He would do most anything to keep his mother happy. 

He peers down at Frigga, his face stoic in comparison to the bright smile she wears. She still looks as young as she had when he and Thor were mere boys. Her cheeks and nose are slender, her skin unblemished by age. The only difference is that now he stands taller than her, looking down at her blonde hair instead of up at it from under her arms. He has no doubt that his mother will remain beautiful for a long time- even when her age finally catches up with her.

“You are staring, dear.” Frigga’s voice teases and his neck snaps straight, his eyes flicking back to the gardens of green around him. “You only stare when you have something on your mind. I presume I do not have to inquire to know what it is. I will anyway, though, if that is what you would like?” 

Her voice drips into a worried tone that only she can muster. It is sincere. It makes it harder for him to be angry at the small, beautiful woman. 

“You will anyway and we both know it.” He muses, reaching a hand out to brush one of the green flowers. 

The petals are impossibly soft. Dahlias. He remembers when his mother had them planted all those years ago. It was a week’s affair- the castle had smelt of earth and new flowers for days afterwards. He remembers playing in the mud with his brother. The laughter. It seems like a lifetime ago. That was when everything was simple; when he was not about to get married to a princess he would meet at a ball that he does not even wish to attend. 

Frigga sighs, pulling her son to a gentle stop. He obliges with a sigh that matches her own. “It must be done. By decree your brother and you should have been married a year ago. The royal ball is the way it has been done for many millennia. I have tried to slow tradition- to give you two as much time as possible- but there are some who watch us closely. They wait-”

He turns away from her, a scowl on his lips. “I know mother. They want us to show weakness. I understand the premise, I promise you I am not an idiot. I suppose I just do not see how a wife would make me seem less weak.”

He is a god- a powerful one at that. It is hard to believe there are many people out there able who are able to strip him of that power. It makes no sense to get married because of an outdated tradition- especially not for some sort of ruse. He is strong enough on his own; he always has been. Quiet and capable and strong. Independently so. He has never been much for teams. Besides, he doubts there will be many women attending with the hopes of meeting him. Not when his brother will be standing right by his side. The god of thunder. There are many things Loki can do- most of which are quite impressive. Tricks of the mind and the ability to create fire at will and so on. One thing he cannot do, however, is spout lightning from his fingers. He cannot compete with that level of visible godliness and thus there is no reason to attend. He is not second best and will not treat himself as such.

Frigga catches his chin, pulling him to look at her crystal eyes- the same crystal eyes which she rolls at him. “She will balance you, dear. The point is not to make you appear less weak. You are not weak. It is to make you appear happy. A happy prince means a happy king. Happy means powerful, Loki. it is power.” 

He tenses and her eyes soften. “I am happy, mother. I am happy on my own.”

She lets her hand fall to his arm, shaking her head. Her knotted hair bounces slightly. She is giggling again in the way that only mothers can- the kind of giggle that is all knowing. It makes his skin itch, his hands secured behind his back again. How is it that she always makes him feel seen even when he does not wish to be?

“Is there something you wish to say?” He grumbles to the woman, wishing he could hate the way she grins up at him with a twinkle in her eye. He cannot though, even if he tried. 

“My dear,” she hums gently, squeezing his arm, “I think perhaps you will come to revoke your words. That is all.”

Oh she is truly infuriating. There she goes again, so freely sharing her mind even when he has made it clear time and time again that he has no wish for a wife. Not only because he does not want to marry a woman he has never met but for other reasons too. The tips of his fingers turn to ice against his palms at the thought. He does not have to look down to know they are the brilliant blue that he so loathes. There is much he wishes to remain a secret beyond the confines of his household. He would rather not be married to a woman who thinks him a monster for the rest of his life. He will pass. 

He opens his mouth, ready to fire back at her annoying laughter, when suddenly he cannot speak. Not just that, though. He cannot breath, either, or stand for that matter. Soon the trickster god is on his knees, his hands digging painfully against the cobblestone path. His nails bite against the stones, his icy fingers now burning. It is nothing near the pain in his back though which flares as though he had just been kicked. Moments later his elbow erupts into pain as well, searing down the entire length of his arm. He grinds his teeth through the pain, his eyes screwed shut. 

“Loki?” Frigga’s voice holds none of the teasing it had only moments ago, only pure worry as she kneels next to her son. “Dear what happened? What is wrong? Shall I call for someone?”

His eyes snap open at that, his head shaking frantically. “No, no. I am fine. Do not call anyone.”

Even as he says it he knows that it is not true. His whole body aches as he rolls onto his feet, rising shakily. His mother’s eyes watch him closely, the blue clouded with something he does not recognize. He straightens after a moment, forcing the pain out of his mind. 

“Did you trip, dear?” Her voice this time is guarded, concealed with a falsely loose tone. 

Loki narrows his eyes. “No, I do not think so. It felt like someone pushed me. Do you know something about that mother?”

The scowl on her face is genuine this time, her golden brows creasing. “I sure hope you are not insinuating that I pushed my own son, Loki.”

He sighs again, guilt flooding his aching body. “No, mother. I am sorry-”

The end of his sentence drops into the space between them, cut off by an overwhelming feeling of agony. Not the physical kind, though. Yes, his back is screaming in pain as he stands on those dreadful cobblestones but that is not why he stops speaking. It is the wave of self loathing that hits him out of nowhere. It is hot and angry and cold and desperate all at once. 

It feels like when he was little and his brother had thrown him into the sea to teach him to swim. He had not been ready and he swallowed a mouthful of the salty water. It had been like cold lead in his lungs, weighing him to the bottom of the surf. He had been so scared, clawing towards the faint light of the surface with no luck. Everytime he got close the light seemed to shrink further back. Soon the icy lead had turned molten when he could no longer breathe, his chest constricting under the weight of the water. The fear had turned him into some sort of crazed animal until finally he had kicked his legs hard enough to break the surface and suck in a breath of air. 

It is the exact same way he feels now; panicked- like he has no clue how to get to the air again. He claws at his chest, his eyes blown wide. The world around him begins to spin. He is breathing- he knows he is, he can feel his chest heaving up and down- but he cannot taste the pine on the air anymore. He can only taste iron and salt and hatred, brash against his lips. It turns his vision red, his muscles tensing as though preparing for a fight in which he cannot identify the threat. Like the waves that pushed him under, the enemy is everywhere and nowhere. The only thing that makes it subside is his mothers hand on his cheek, warm and soft through the panic eating away at his chest.

He meets her eyes, squeezing his hands into fists at his sides. He grinds his words through his clenched teeth. “I have no idea what is happening to me.”

The small blonde swallows, her throat bobbing slightly. Her face is not the picture of shock like Loki’s is. Of course she is slightly panicked, he can see it in the way her fingers tremble as she brushes them down his shoulder. Somehow he knows that it is not the same kind of panic he feels. His all-knowing mother is stalling. It only serves to heighten the drowning feeling.

“I think I know what it is, dear.” She tests, her hands folding against her chest, clasping to hide the tremors.

Frigga’s response does little to ease the panic- if anything it makes it worse. Usually his mother is the only thing that can calm him. If he had to close his eyes and picture the person in which he feels most comfortable around- it would be her. Today though, that is to change. She seems scared. He pushes himself through the pain, biting through the iron and salt on his tongue. 

“What do you know, mother.” It is not a question- it is a demand.

She straightens as well, sucking in the air that he cannot seem to find for the life of him. It makes him jealous- angry.

“Well,” she flicks her eyes up to the sky, avoiding the next words out of her mouth. “I think you might have a soulmate, my dear.” 

[utterlyinevitable]

Hurricane (Part 8)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Rebecca Lao) Rating: T+ Warning: angst Summary: A hurricane is falling over Boston. Edenbrook has been evacuated and some very different doctor’s end up seeking shelter together.  

A/N: The ending is trash. But it’s my trash. We’ve got one more chapter to go and then that’s a wrap on this project! 

________________________________________

Naveen drove the car back to the cabin before parking it on the cobbled drive, the engine shutting off with a quick flick of his key. Still caught in an awkward silence as heavy as the rain clouds above, the trio padded back towards the cabin. Ethan watched Becca out of the corner of his eye, holding a few paces back with Naveen to let her approach the porch first. In the doorway, Sienna was waiting with two bath towels draped over her arms. A wave of relief washed over her petite form as she saw them; her big eyes softening and bottom lip quivering with all the emotions she saved for the worst of outcomes.

“Becca!” Sienna called as she closed the distance between her and Becca, wrapping her soaking wet friend in a hug around a large, plush towel. “Are you okay? What happened?” 

For someone who’s life nearly drifted away with the current earlier, Becca seemed strangely quiet and calm. She didn’t even look at Sienna; darkened eyes trained on her peripheral, towards the unrelenting waters. “I’m fine, Si. Just went for a little swim.”

Sienna looked at her with critical eyes, not believing a single word coming out of her friend’s mouth. She would have said something in any other circumstances, but she was too thankful that Becca was breathing at the minute. This conversation would have to wait. She turned her attention to the other rogue swimmer now coming up behind them, handing him the other towel still draped on her arm.    

“Ethan, are you okay?” she asked the attending, her trained doctor’s eyes scanning him for obvious injuries. 

He took the offered towel gratefully. “Please, there is no need to worry about me.” He wiped his face first then draped the burgundy fabric over his shoulders, shivering as the cold wind caught his wet clothes, “Where’s Jenner?” 

Sienna nodded towards the ajar door, her arms still wrapped securely around her best friend. “In with Elijah.” 

Ethan nodded and went inside to his dog, sparing one last glance towards a despondent Becca on his way. 

With a small, resigned sigh, Sienna turned her full attention back towards her friend and guided her to the door. “Come on, let's get you cleaned up.” 

Sienna led Becca inside and up to her room. Elijah didn’t notice the girls as he was in deep conversation with Ethan in the archway to the den. For that, Becca was thankful; they could just slip upstairs and rest.  

 As soon as the girls reached the threshold of the master suite, Sienna closed the door softly behind them and reached for her friend, her eyes severe now that they were blessed with the privacy they didn’t have earlier. “You okay?” She asked with a concerned hand gripping Becca’s forearm; her tone of voice emitting a firm warning that she would accept the truth and nothing else.

Becca shrugged Sienna off, taking a step back to shed her wet clothes and throwing on her pajamas. Biting her tongue this round, Sienna gathered up the strewn garments into a pile and wrung them out in the bathroom, making a mental note to wash them once the power came back on. Becca didn’t waste a single second before immediately crawling under the covers while Sienna watched with a very careful eye.  

Sensing the stare, Becca sighed heavily. “Si, I’m fine. Truly.” 

Her friend wasn’t convinced. “That’s what you say, but you were literally being ripped down stream, you could have died.” 

“But I didn’t.” 

Light pads of sock-clad feet walked to the bed with private determination and sat on the edge of the mattress, her eyes begging. “Talk to me, please.” - a hand reaching for the top of Becca’s thigh - “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

But Becca wasn’t waving, keeping her gaze on the darkwood bedpost in front of her to avoid Sienna’s concerned one. “That I really need to sleep. I’m exhausted.” 

“Bec-” 

There was a knock at the door, making both ladies tense in place. Sienna reluctantly moved to open it and was met with Dr. Banerji’s warm smile, his medical bag cradled against his hip. 

Ever in dire situations like this one, the senior doctor never seemed to run out of positive energy. He stepped in the room and glided closer to the bed, a comforting smile decorating his lips. “I’ve come to take your temperature and listen to your lungs,” he informed them. “And I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Becca rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue. She swung her legs off the bed and sat on the edge, letting Naveen inspect her. Thankfully, she only had a few cuts on her hands that were in need of bandaging, most likely inflicted while she fought to hold herself against the current earlier 

“How are you feeling?” he asked as he applied ointment and bandages to her palms.  

“Tired.” 

“As expected,” he nodded. She wasn’t forthcoming, so he made sure to update her on what has been going on downstairs; “Ethan has a gash on his leg. Dr. Greene is stitching him up.” The gossiper in him carefully gauged her reaction while his more romantic side hoped to see something pass along her features, possibly akin to relief, but he was disappointed there was nothing but the tired eyes of a woman who’s been through hell that afternoon. 

She felt his critical gaze searching her. The third one silently scrutinizing the last hour; and it made her blood begin to boil.  

“I didn’t need rescuing. I know how to combat a riptide. What he did was stupid,” she clarified, indifferent to his comment.  

Naveen chuckled and offered her a kind smile, although one that hid a hint of seriousness in it. “We both know exactly why he did it, Becca.”  

Becca scoffed and shook her head, looking away. 

The older doctor sighed and put away his medical tools. He obviously wasn’t going to get anything out of her tonight, and he’d been around this kind of temperament long enough to know when to resign. It was almost comical just how similar she was to his protégé, especially when it came to their ironclad stubbornness. “You’ve been through a lot today, dear. I’m prescribing you some much-needed rest.” 

Becca rolled her eyes.

With a taut smile, Naveen gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder before taking his medical bag and leaving the room.

  While Naveen was with Becca, Sienna had excused herself to make some tea. The petite resident was now staring at the kettle, transfixed, but not actually watching the steam spill out into the shadows of night. The worry for her friend still ever present in her mind and the creases on her forehead. In a daze Sienna poured two two mugs full. 

She was just setting the kettle back down on the hob when a gruff sound had her jumping out of her trance and turning on the balls of her feet.  

“Let me,” Ethan said quietly. 

The two shared the same despondent look, though one of them had a deeper reason for it. 

Sienna’s eyes expertly roved over him. He’d changed into clean pajamas, his hair wild and partially dry from drying it in a towel. His weight being carried on one side of his body, no doubt from his injury. His eyes were dark, and there were prominent purple circles under his eyes. And his large hand was extended towards her, waiting with all the patience of a dying man. 

With a small smile, she hands the mug over without a single reservation. 

And Sienna watches intently as Ethan gingerly makes his way through the cabin and up to Becca. 

 *

In the few short minutes she was left alone Becca snuggled deeper into the blankets. Rolled onto her side so her back was to the door and her face buried in a pillow begging her to spill everything all over. 

Over her tormenting thoughts she recognized the patter of footsteps against the hardwood of the hallway and sniffled all the emotion back. If Sienna saw her crying it’d become a much bigger thing than Becca ever wanted it to be. She’ll save her tears for later. 

When the steps grew louder, crossing the threshold, Becca muttered, “You should just sleep here tonight instead of going up and down to check on me.” 

“Do you think that’s wise?”

Even in the minimal light of the candle on the dresser Ethan could see her stiffen. Could hear the discontented sigh that escaped her when his words met her ears. 

He stood suspended in the doorway, questioning every instinct he thought he knew.    

Becca shifted under the sheets, moving to sit up in bed. 

“Thought you were Sienna.” Her tone was still and level and wildly indifferent as she chanced a look at him.  

“Sorry to disappoint,” he muttered back. Crossing the distance Ethan held out a mug to her; “Are you okay?” 

She took the offering, a forced smile on her lips. “Peachy.” 

“Becca…”

“I’m fine, Ethan.” She groans, deflating. “What do you want me to say?” 

“You can start with why you’ve been upset with me all day.” 

Becca couldn’t help the absolutely indecent chortle that erupted from her. 

“I’m not upset with you. I’m mad at myself.” 

Ethan made a garble akin to Huh?

And that just fueled the fire that’s begun to rage within her the last day and rivals the treacherous storm this hurricane caused. 

“Why did you come after me?” She all but spat the accusation. “It was so reckless and stupid. You could have been hurt. You have stitches for Christ’s sake!” 

“You could have drowned. I wasn’t going to let that happen.” 

The audacity in his unbridled poise had her stirring under the sheets and gripping the mug tighter. 

“Superman Complex already belongs to someone else. Why, Ethan.” 

It was a standoff between them. Him in his dry clothes - white tee and gray sweatpants, standing at the side of her bed. Becca was shielded by the blankets but still sitting tall and commanding for someone of her stature. He couldn’t read her ever-telling body language in the dim light of the master bedroom. All he could make out was her silhouette, rigid and doing all she could to cloak herself behind an unsuccessful curtain of hair.  

Holding onto the sliver of revelation he had earlier, Ethan spoke truthfully. 

“Because I care about you. You have such a fulfilling life ahead an-” 

It certainly didn’t have the intended impact. For she cut him off with a resoundingly offended; 

“Can you stop.” 

His darkened azure eyes were wide with panic. “What -” 

“I’m sick of these mind games.”

Her tone was flat, and that scared Ethan Ramsey more than anything. It would be better if she was yelling. He found himself wishing she was yelling even if he had no inkling as to what this argument is actually about.  

“I know you care about me, Ethan. But is that all this is?” 

She finally looked him in his eyes. The darkness of the room complimented the depths of her darkened irises, and he couldn’t see a single emotion in them. All he could see was all of his failures. 

“I - I’m in too deep with you. I may have almost drowned this afternoon, but it was nothing compared to this choking feeling of swimming in all this doubt and uncertainty.” 

He moved towards her. Placing his mug on the bedside. This close he could just begin to make out the hurt in the creases of her frown. 

“Becca,” he reached for her. His hand suspended in midair, waiting for her permission to cup her cheek. 

Instead, she looked down at her fingers tracing the Edenbrook logo on the pristine white ceramic mug between her palms. 

Ethan waited. 

And waited. 

Frozen in place until she said something, anything. 

“Be honest with me,” the words came out on an exhale. “No one else is around. Just me.” Her voice so frail as she turned her whole form towards him. “Tell me.”

The outstretched fingers on his hand curled inwards. His fist raised -- once, twice punching against an invisible opponent as his inner self weighed all his options.

He could tell her - he could finally be truly honest. 

He could do what’s right. 

He could lay everything out there and let her take the reins. 

More realistically, he could continue to hold onto the values he’d had all his life. 

The longer the silence hung between them, and the pattering of the storm echoed throughout the bedroom walls, the more a reality without her became apparent.

Rebecca Lao is a strong woman - he knows this. And Ethan is ever so aware that she won’t wait for him forever. If her stint today told him anything it’d be that it is he who couldn’t survive a life without her. 

Every millisecond that passed, every slight turn of her head and stroke of her finger against the mug, he knew he was losing her. And for once, Ethan Ramsey - renowned doctor, known for his belligerent voice and affluent vocabulary - couldn’t find the words.  

Just as she let out a disquieting breath, he took the leap. Knees pressed flush against the side of the mattress. Long, deft fingers grazing the quilt at the side of her hip. His eyes never leave her. Becca was looking down as if all hope was lost. As if his silence spoke for him.  

It didn’t - 

“I want to be with you.” 

Becca felt like the air had been stolen from her lungs. How long had she been waiting to hear them? How long has she been hoping Ethan Ramsey would commit to only her with a promise of forever? Far longer than she’d care to admit, that’s for sure. 

Ethan watched her lips part, her jaw slacken. Every pretty feature he adored more than life itself stunned stiff. 

In true fashion Becca schooled her features as soon as his words rang through the mahogany room. Bitter words formed on her tongue, accompanied by a desolate huff, 

“You sure about that?” 

Not a single hesitation as Ethan responded, “Yes.”  

“You sure have some fucked up way of showing it.” She watched him from the corner of her eye, shifting in his place and a rueful tug at the corners of his mouth. 

Ethan kneeled down beside the bed, coming to her level, “I know.” 

This is never how Becca imagined getting Ethan Ramsey down on his knees. All those fantasies didn’t join a near death experience or a fight. 

His palms spread out on the quilt. All of him itching to touch her. If he could touch her, everything would be okay. 

A beat forced itself between them. Ethan staring at his fingers inching towards her above the horrid colored quilt, and Becca looking blankly at the top of his head. 

And then she murmured;  

“I can’t be with you if you’re going to treat me like shit all the time.” 

“It was never my intention. I just want what’s bes-” 

“Best for me, I know. But you don’t get to dictate that. It’s my life, I’m a big girl. I can make my own decisions.” 

He was listening. He was guilty and listening. 

“I want you, Ethan.” 

Those words were like music to his ears - to know she really, truly shared the sentiment. His deep blue gaze flickered up to her; staring at her from under long lashes and hanging on to her every word. This was everything they’ve both wanted - a proper admission of devotion. Then why did she look so sad?  

“But not if you’re going to keep pulling away from me.”  

Ah. There it was. All his faults coming back - his one mistake at abandoning her after she needed him most digging deep.  

“I’m sorry. All of this was to protect you. I’ll always, always protect you.” 

Becca’s heart skipped a beat at the unbridled conviction in his tone against her better judgment.  

“I don’t need a hero, Ethan.” Becca shook her head in kind admonishment. “I want a partner. Someone who will let me make mistakes and just hold me through it at the end of the day.” 

A bolt of lightning cracked in the distance. Their stare on one another so strong, devoted, that she couldn’t see through the clear blue of his irises and deep into his soul the moment the fleeting lightness peered in. 

“Okay,” was all he said.  

He responded quickly and with such fortitude that she couldn’t help but be skeptical. 

Becca rose a brow. 

Ethan moved closer and grabbed her hand, adding a squeeze. 

In a low voice she said, “I want to make the most of the time we have left. If I get a job elsewhere… I don’t want to regret anything.” 

His brows pulled together as this little known fact wormed its way into his rationality. “You’re thinking of leaving Edenbrook?” He held onto her hand just a bit tighter. 

“I don’t know,” she half shrugged. “If…”

He finished the question for her. “Of course you’ll have a job. The spot on my team is yours.” 

“Yeah, I know. But if…” Becca didn’t know how to accurately explain her fears. If they didn’t work out after all this would she still be able to work with him? Would he be able to? What if she received an amazing offer elsewhere. What happens to them if she takes it? 

“Can we not think about this right now.” 

Taking both her cold hands in his, Ethan simply nodded. 

He could feel the scary stirring in the pit of his stomach. Every pang of it subsiding the longer her warmth was within reach. The last of his fears overtaken by the most adorable sound as she stifled a yawn.  

Ethan let go of her hand just long enough to brush some strands back from her face. Un-showered and salty from the day’s events her cheek was still soft under his touch. He leaned up to press the lightest of pecks to her forehead. 

Ethan was less than a few centimeters away from where she wanted him most. One movement and it could all be right and well. Becca brushed her nose against the stubble of his chin, coaxing him downwards. She could feel his grin against her skin as his stubble marked her nose. Every second he didn’t succumb, the tip grew redder and redder. 

Ethan pulled back - too far for a quick descend down to her lips - and Becca almost threw a tempered fist into the mattress. Almost. 

He was looking at her with such reverence it made her whole entire body tingle. Like his stares were the hand of Da Vinci trying to capture her image - immortalize it for the rest of time. Trying desperately to paint this to memory - this moment where everything for them seemed to change for the better. This was the moment Ethan Ramsey knew. 

Becca was mere inches away. One more movement and she would know - know that he is irrevocably her. One more movement and he’d seal their fate. 

Her eyes flickered down to his chapped lips, and this time she didn’t look away. This time there was no enchanting classic playing on the television, just the person before them. This time Ethan was thankful for her focus. He let out the breath he was holding in. Watched her eyelids flutter as the warm gust met her lashes. Leaned in and listened. Listened to the erratic thumping. Thumping of his heart or hers or the hurricane, he didn’t know. 

Didn’t care. Couldn’t give a damn about anything other than her. 

Their lips met. Softly, tenderly. The shortest, most endearing kiss they’ve ever had. Neither wanting to ruin this with overzealous lust.  

They pulled back, unencumbered smiles gracing their features; and then she yawned again. 

Light with strange happiness, Ethan gently pressed her back into pillows. Pulled the covers around her to tuck her in. 

He kissed her chastely once more. Then pulled away. 

Every step he took from her side of the bed had her chiding herself for being so stupid for believing him this time. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

Ethan moved through the darkness. The raging winds of reality jolted through them, pounding on the expansive windows. Getting louder and more unruly the further he got. 

But then he did something so unexpected. So surprisingly unlike the man she thought she knew. 

He pulled back the covers of the other side of the bed and slipped in. Ethan shifted closer and closer atop the king sized bed until his arm wrapped around her waist, the other snaking under her neck. Becca welcomed him without a single hesitation or ill thought. This is exactly what she hoped for yesterday. 

Ethan had that smile - that one smile reserved only for her - as he dove into the covers with her, never intending to come back up. Their sweet embrace was all the sustenance he needed to survive. In this moment - and all of them to come, he’s sure - he and Becca were the only two people in the universe.

The storm outside was moving miles and miles away. 

________________________________________

A/N: there was meant to be a cute bathtub scene at the end before they went to bed. it required too much effort so it got the axe. oh well! thanks for sticking around <3

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