#i have No idea what symphony would need his assistance with but this is the first thing that came into my mind hbKSDBFHS hope it's okay!! )

[criticallyinneedofadar]

An Artist's Gaze

A/N: This is my first time writing for Celebrimbor, let me know what you think!

Pairing: Celebrimbor x Reader

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

The ringing of hammers and the hum of the forge fill the space around you, a symphony you’ve always found soothing, even exhilarating. But today, there's a heightened anticipation in the air as you catch sight of Celebrimbor across the workshop, quietly absorbed in his work. His concentration is intense, his brow furrowed, his gloved fingers moving with expert precision over a small circlet he’s crafting—a piece fit for a High King.

You’ve only spoken with him a handful of times over the years, as your own work takes you often to other cities, each with its own demands and requests for your intricate armor designs. But today, you've been summoned here by Celebrimbor himself, a request you couldn’t easily dismiss.

When he notices you, a flicker of a smile lights his face, though it’s softened by a slight shyness. “Thank you for coming,” he says, his voice gentle yet purposeful. “I’ve been working on a new set for Gil-galad, but I wanted your opinion on some… details. Especially to match this,” he gestures to the circlet, setting it carefully on the bench between you.

You examine the circlet, noting the fine etching of stars along its band, the delicate but powerful shapes carved with unmistakable expertise. “This is beautiful,” you murmur, meeting his eyes briefly before your attention returns to the piece. “The stars… are they a nod to Gil-galad’s lineage?”

He nods, seeming pleased that you caught the detail. “Yes. I wanted it to reflect his heritage, but I also want the armor to carry the same strength. Subtle, but… unmistakable.” His gaze flickers back to the circlet, and he runs a hand through his hair—a touch of nervousness you wouldn’t expect from one so skilled. “Your work, though… the precision of your designs. It’s unparalleled. I thought you might have ideas on how best to harmonize the pieces.”

You find yourself smiling, a bit surprised by his earnest praise. “Flattery from the master himself? I’ll try not to let it go to my head.”

His cheeks flush a soft pink as he laughs quietly, adjusting a tool on the bench to avoid your gaze. “Merely the truth,” he says, clearing his throat. “But I appreciate your humility.”

You lean closer, studying the circlet’s design again, envisioning how it could complement the armor’s larger surface. Your fingers brush his on the table as you reach for a sketch he’s begun, and he goes still, a breath catching, though he doesn’t pull away.

“The armor,” you say softly, “could carry these same stars, but larger, perhaps along the chest and shoulders, so they appear as if they’re guarding him from all sides. A constellation of protection.”

His gaze lifts to yours, admiration shining through his reserve. “You always find a way to bring lightness to strength,” he murmurs, as though the words slipped out unbidden. He holds your gaze a moment too long, his shyness momentarily forgotten, and in that quiet space between you, the warmth of the forge seems almost unnecessary.

The silence stretches, charged, until Celebrimbor seems to realize how intensely he’s been looking at you. His eyes widen slightly, and the faint pink deepens in his cheeks as he glances back down at the circlet, quickly busying himself with adjusting a few sketches on the table.

"Thank you," he says, clearing his throat as he tries to recover his usual composure. “Your insight is… invaluable. I would be honored if you would consider assisting with the chest plate. Gil-galad deserves a piece crafted with the care and precision you bring.” He’s fidgeting now, his fingers adjusting the circlet for the third time, his voice losing a little of its steady confidence.

You smile, reaching out to gently stop his hand as it fusses over a perfectly aligned sketch. “I’d be glad to work on it with you. No need to be so shy, Celebrimbor. We are, after all, just discussing armor.” You tilt your head, letting a hint of warmth seep into your tone. “And if you’re interested, I know a lovely spot near the river—a quiet place for tea and lemon cakes as the sun goes down. Seems like a perfect end to a day at the forge, don’t you think?”

His hand stills under yours, his mouth opening slightly in surprise before a hesitant, boyish grin breaks across his face. “I—I would… I would like that very much.” He’s still blushing, but the usual shyness has melted, replaced with something softer, more open, as though the promise of an evening by the river has somehow lifted a weight from his heart.

“Good,” you say, letting your fingers linger just a second longer before releasing his hand. “Then let’s finish this work so we’re free to enjoy it.”

For the rest of the afternoon, he works by your side, his quiet confidence slipping back into place but interspersed with glances your way, a little less guarded each time. You both work in the comfort of an unspoken promise, the memory of warmth to carry with you until the golden light fades, leaving only the sound of the river and the sweetness of lemon cakes in its wake.

[angelsleepinggurl]

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓: 𝘕𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘒𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

'𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘯 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩.' '𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘦𝘵'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬.'

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

𝙄𝙣 𝙬𝙝𝙞𝙘𝙝 𝙖 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙮𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙣 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙖𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙗𝙪𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙤𝙬𝙣𝙚𝙧, 𝙉𝙖𝙣𝙖𝙢𝙞 𝙆𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙤.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

0- 𝙋𝙄𝙇𝙊𝙏

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

What a sinful sight intercourse is.

The two bodies pleasurebaly roll against each other. Their exposed and bare bodies emitting the heat and tension felt as the two work toghter to create a symphony. No matter how many times one attempts to deny it, the gratifying cries that filled the room, like an opera singer in a vast and endless theatre, were like music to ones ears.

Their skilled bodies would work in ways, that made the rush and feeling of this intimate ecstasy feel addicting, like sucking the sugar of one another lips.

Desperation; though it truly is compulsive.

In a dim, dark setting is where they find themselves. Her smaller figure repetitively lifting  up and falling back down again at a faster rate, as her hand rests on the man's large and broad shoulders, for support.

He penetrates deep inside her, pumping her and filling up a hole she never knew needed to be. She would roll her hips, and aggressively snap the back before whining breathy whines. Her moans would drag out as she would drop her head into his shoulder; no strength left within. All she could do was slide her hands down her faintly sweaty body and rub her overly sensitive clit that throbbed needingly.

Without and hesitation, the man would pick her up, sliding his dick in and out of her slippery pussy.

The amount of dependency the two have on one another, the vast amount of rhythm and synchronisation the sinners have within them should be applauded. Many should marvel at the ability they have to make others around crave for the intese feeling that builds up deep within them, the  high that they have to chase.

Is it really that gruesome?

The idea of it being looked down  upon, almost forbidden to engage with activities of someone higher up and of authority. The simple concept alone is enough to increase the tempo, and the vocal dynamics of the two. Its enough to cause legs to tremble and breathing shudder. Its enough to make them reach pure bliss.

Not shortly after, do the fnaikar ropes of tainted innocence, come leaking out if their stimulated sex organs. They coated each other in this sticky warm substance and painted the decorated sheet beneath.

No feeing in the world will ever compare to the overwhelming sensation of an orgasm taking over their bodies. At the end of it all, the sinners stay close, loving ach other in the aftermath.

It's a truly sensational act.

DISCLAIMER: this chapter's writing style was inspired by stqrlverr and their book 'sinful watchers' on wattpad. the words are my own, everything else is my own it's just the style of writing i wanted to recreate. thanks.

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟏

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

[𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐧�� . . .]

Name:Y/N L/N

Age: 23 Job: Personal Assistant Role: Main Character

Name: Naaila Khalsa Age: 22 Job: Social Media Influencer Role: Best friend

Name: Nanami Kento Age: 25 Job: Business Owner Role: Main Love Interest

and more characters .  .   .

Welcome to PERSONAL ASSISTANT

█ ✪ █▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓█ ✪ █

ɴᴏᴛɪᴄᴇ i do not own jujutsu kaisen, nor the characters! i only own the plot, and my OC Naaila Khalsa, Darios and Annalise.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ Strong language

Sexual Scenes

Started on 21/05/22 Kento Nanami x Reader ©All Rights Reserved

𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫…

[fizzingwizard]

I checked my stats to see how many of the achievements I got.

Push it - Knock down every statue in every park. Go on, do it!

Run to the Hills - Reach full stamina, you'll need it.

Conversationalist -Talk to every creature who has something to say.

Bursting with Inspiration - Reach the highest level of inspiration.

Just Gazing - Discover all gazing spots and take a well deseved break.

Sightseer - Discover all the vistas and enjoy the view.

Appetite for Destruction - Destroy everything in Fillyjonk's garden.

Wreaking Havoc - Destroy the Park Keeper's garden.

Fire Fighter - Extinguish all the flames.

To the Rescue - Help Sniff rescue his beloved Cedric.

Garment Grabber - Help Ninny retrive her clothes from the garment thief.

Artist's Assistant - Find water for the painter so he can finish his artwork.

Deep Down - Find Little My in the well and help her out.

Not a Monster - You upset the spider. Now make him feel better.

Beauty for Beauty - Find something for the horse which rivals her beauty.

Fern Inferno - Play your drum for 50 ferns and see how they like it.

I dunno how common this is bc I don't play many games, buuuut I find it a stretch to call things that are literally part of the required gameplay to win "achievements." I guess it makes more sense to me that they would pertain only to the side quests, or to quests where you're able to go beyond what's necessary to win... Like maxing inspiration I suppose isn't actually necessary, for example (kinda too bad about that).

So for example "knock down all the statues" I guess maybe this means you don't have to...? but it sure seemed like you did. OTOH, I really loved getting the Fern Inferno achievement, because I had no idea my enthusiasm for flattening ferns would count as an achievement. That was silly and fun.

(also what's with the typos..?)

Here are the ones I missed:

Pages of Genius - Find all the missing pages of Moomınpappa's masterpiece.

Keeper of Bees - Show every lost bee the way back to their hive.

Humming in Harmony - Play for every singing bird you meet.

Wooden Symphony - Play a lovely tune for every woodpecker in the valley.

1 hidden achievement remaining

I found several pages of the masterpiece, wonder how may I missed. Met several of the bees and birds too, but I got confused because I expected an explanation of what I had just done, and eventually decided it was just pointless silliness. (Which I guess it is, but you can get a pointless and silly achievement too lol). As for the one I didn't unlock... hmm, I wonder if it's to do with those inexplicable eggs and nest?? Or something I never encountered... Looking forward to playing again, but more slowly haha

[starlingsrps]

no way to say goodbye.

“sidney, darling, thank god you’re here.” mum kisses him in each cheek and starts to steer him towards the sitting room, as casually as she’s capable of doing anything. “the-“

“heat pump?”

“heat pump,” she responds gravely.

“i got it, kitty,” he says, hanging his hat on the newel post and his coat on the rack. dorey catches this conversation as she’s coming down the stairs and he gives her a broad wink and mouths “favorite” at her. 

dorey wants to roll her eyes but knows it’s likely the truth. it’s december and he’s been coming around long enough to slip easily into her parents affections. she’s learned that it’s very easy to like sid- he has the easy disposition of a friendly labrador and mum adores him. he eats whatever she comes up with when she improvises from the rationing cookbook without comment and can fix the frequently broken heat pump seemingly by magic. they had even presented him with a wrench on his birthday a few weeks ago, the kind of recklessly thoughtful gesture that they’re prone to. 

“you tried, didn’t you?” he asks when she joins him on the rug.

“maybe.” she had yesterday, a bit too cocky after the last time when she’d fixed it herself with only minimal input from him. they’ve yet to be able to find a replacement gasket but if keeps sid coming over, her parents seem all too willing to tolerate it. they were slightly less enthused when she’d made it worse but perked up after promised he would be there to fix it soon.

he clicks his tongue and shakes his head. “you stripped the screw, dore.”

“i don’t even know what that means.”

he laughs. “exactly. you’re back to assistant duty.”

she tugs his earlobe and then kisses the back of his neck. “prat.” her mother calls from the kitchen, likely to witness the triumph of her newly created vegetable loaf emerging from the oven. “you’ve just lost your assistant.”

it’s just the four of them for lunch today and mum cheerfully encourages seconds of the vegetable loaf. it’s been quiet since jane left to study in new york and jessa is visiting cas in galway with the intention of hauling him back for christmas. the loaf has a similar appearance to a bit of firewood and is about as dry but with enough brown sauce, it’s not the worst thing to emerge from the depths of her mother’s imagination. sid takes thirds and doesn’t seem at all disturbed by the fact that it bears a striking resemblance to something from the forest.

she draws the line at bringing the idea to the ministry of food. it’s hardly her department and anyway, haven’t the people of britain suffered enough creative use of turnips?

after they finish, dorey and sid are m wrapping up to go for a walk, maybe go to a movie (and make out in the back row of the movie) when the news interrupts the mahler symphony playing in the sitting room. the words wouldn’t have mattered much to her before sid but when she hears the words about an attack on an american base in hawaii, her attention turns to him. he’s frozen, half in and half out of his coat and she realizes that she’s never seen someone at the exact moment their life changes. 

“shit.”

“sid-“

“i have to go, excuse me. i need to - fuck, my hat?”

she picks it up from the newel post and silently offers it. he takes it, trying to kiss her cheek as he does. he misses, bumps the bridge of her nose instead. he swears and grips her chin to kiss her hard. “i’ll-“

“when you can,” she interrupts. “be safe.”

by mid january, she’s fairly certain she’s been dumped by a man she wasn’t even technically dating.

she hasn’t heard a word and the note she sends him at base come back return post. when she finally gets brave enough to call, she’s told he’s no longer there and no, they won’t say where. she arbitrarily sets her birthday as a deadline and then resets it for february - they met then and it seems only fair to wait at least that long.

still nothing. 

she lets herself stew on it another few days (making a list of things she could have possibly done wrong before burning it) and then throws herself into work. foolish to let herself forget it. there will be time for romance, time for a life when the war ends, if that ever comes. she thinks in code and spends her time with the other codebreakers, all of whom are blessedly uninterested in anything but codes. her free time dwindles and her life becomes a triangle between her room, hut six, and the occasional visit to jessa to sit on her sofa and drink wine. she can’t quite bring herself to cross the river and have to explain sid’s suddenly very conspicuous absence to their parents, nor can she bring herself to cut out jessa.

“have you talked to sid lately?” jessa calls from the kitchen. 

it’s april and she hasn’t said a peep about him in weeks but dorey should have known she was simply biding her time. she feels a deeply unwelcome pang in her stomach. it’s been at least four days since she thought about him and she’d been so proud of herself, as though she was trying to win a one woman contest. “no,” she calls in response. “i haven’t.”

jessa makes a sad little sound that only pisses dorey off. “i’m sure he’s just busy,” she says, handing her a glass of wine. “nothing to do with you.”

“no, of course. but it’s been three months.” she frowns at the wine. “four. it’s hard to not take that a bit personally.”

“do you want to talk-“ 

“absolutely not, thank you.” she takes a deep gulp. “i’ve been dumped before. i’ll survive.”

jessa pats her leg and gives her a look that makes her want to jump out of a window. “you should talk about it, love. you’ll feel better.”

“i will not. i feel fine,” dorey lies. “he’s very busy and i’m very busy and it was never all that serious. jessa, there’s a war. please be reasonable.”

“everyone needs someone to love them, dorey, war or not.”

she sips and thinks of sid’s sweet, sleepy smile against her skin and the way she felt herself bloom under his attention. it wasn’t as though she’d never dated before or been in a relationship but unlike half the cambridge dons she’s been with, she never felt like he was humoring her until she took her top off. he listened and she couldn’t have imagined how quick she could get used to that. she misses his easy laugh and feeling wanted. she feels a spark of tears and blinks them away quickly. “i wouldn’t call it that.”

jessa rolls her eyes and settles back against the sofa. “of course not. what are we calling it then? for future reference.”

“very good sex and conversation,” she says, returning to caustic. it feels safer this way.

“and that’s half the battle, isn’t it?” she sighs. “i don’t know, i thought-“

dorey kicks at her. “don’t think anything.”

[colindotpdx]

William Andrews Clark - Father and Son

William Andrews Clark made his fortune in the Gilded Age mining copper in Montana and died with a fortune equivalent to $5 Billion today. Not Elon Musk money but enough to do mischief and in the same league as the other Robber Barons of the day like JP Morgan, Vanderbilt, or Carnegie.

His reputation was exactly what you would expect and I’ll leave it to Mark Twain to describe the man:

“He is as rotten a human being as can be found anywhere under the flag; he is a shame to the American nation, and no one has helped to send him to the Senate who did not know that his proper place was the penitentiary, …To my mind he is the most disgusting creature that the republic has produced since Tweed's time.”  

We’ve since elected many others that could easily compete for this title … but I digress.

His son, William Andrews Clark Junior, inherited a chunk of this money, never went anywhere near Montana, but dedicated his life to art and philanthropy. He was married and widowed twice but his ultimate focus was his gay lover Harrison Post. 

He built a large compound in Los Angeles and surrounded it with a high wall to to keep prying eyes away from the bacchanalia that happened at his parties and built a house across the street for Post, that is now a Zen retreat.

Clark Jr. reveled in the echoes between his life and that of Oscar Wilde and acquired probably the world’s largest collection of Wilde material - manuscripts, letters, and the only life size portrait of Wilde. The library that houses his collection was donated to the local college that became UCLA; it is still owned by them but managed by a board that still includes various Clark family members. He also endowed the creation of the LA Symphony.

The library is an astonishing love letter to Harrison Post. The foyer ceiling has allegorical depictions of wisdom, art, music, and science separated by fourteen nude men ALL with Harrison Post’s face.

...

I came across this whole story when learning about Los Angles history and reading “The Twilight Man: Love and Ruin in the Shadows of Hollywood and the Clark Empire” by Liz Brown. Here’s a blurb for that book by someone we know

 …“Twilight Man is a peek through the keyhole of history into a scintillating, secretive demimonde filled with gilded mansions, bibliophilic lovers, hush-hush dealings, and tragic twists of fate. Liz Brown probes the previously-invisible dark matter of California mythology with a painterly eye for detail and an uncanny ability to read between the lines. This is the queer noir you didn’t know you needed.” – Claire L. Evans, author of Broad Band: The Untold Story of the Women Who Made the Internet

We wanted to visit the library but their website seems to suggest it’s only open for academics. Undeterred, we just drove into the library grounds and wandered around with no idea of how to visit the place until I accidentally woke up the security guard asleep in her car. We started chatting and, as we appeared to know something about the place, she called a curator who agreed to show us around. 

We ended up there for almost an hour getting into every nook and cranny and fact about the place. From the nature of the collection that now includes original Shakespeare folios and papers of Newton to the bronze bookshelves built from Clark copper. The young post-doctoral curator who volunteered to show us around was filled with infectious excitement and reverence for the importance of the place. The collection has grown from 20,000 to 110,000 books since Clark’s death and built from his endowment.

I can highly recommend The Twilight Man about the intertwined lives of these two men, the social consequences of their relationship, their time, and the history of early explosion of Los Angeles importance. A fascinating story. 

I love the understatements on the plaque for the book in the library … “..Post appears to have been more than assistant librarian” and “the ceiling paintings can be interpreted as a veiled homage to Post”.  

Nothing even remotely veiled I would say.

[maskedbeskar]

⟢  ❛  I’M  NOT  A MERCENARY.  GO FIND SOMEONE ELSE TO HELP YOU.  ❜  while with a hint of harshness to his decline, there is a hint of weighing exhaustion through the modulated voice of the helmet. with a simple side step, he attempts to move past.    /  @naboocrowned​  requested a short starter.

[thecameronchronicles]

Never Enough

TW: Smut. Rough sex. Language. 

SUMMARY: You decide to tease Drew until he’ll ‘do something  about it’, uncertain he actually will, until you find yourself in a rather compromising position…

WORD COUNT: 1600

*Requested* 

Never Enough

It started with that look of warning he'd tossed in your direction as you shared breakfast with his friends. The slip of your hands over his clothed thigh that tightened once realizing it affected him in such a way in public had pushed you further. The idea of being able to please him directly under their noses would counter the way he was otherwise behaved. The extent of lecherous activity was chaste in public as the more carnally charged had been more reserved for when he could savor you entirely, no curious gazes of judgment or need to be quiet. Unbridled and limitless and kept solely between the two of you. And yet, he would keep you under his thumb by promising to take care of you later and leaving a sweet line of kisses over your shoulder or against your cheek. But today, it wouldn't be enough. You wanted to see just how far you could push him. And so you did... 

"Drew?" You purred into his ear as you sat at the red light, returning from breakfast, your body pulled against him in visible need as he tensed beside you. Everything you had done from the positioning of your fingers to the back of his neck that teased his chain to the proximity of your lips to his skin was meticulous to garner a specific reaction. 

"What has gotten into you today baby?" 

"Well I was hoping YOU would..." He carried his focus to you in humored disbelief, a scoff leaving his full lips as you offered a smile of victory. 

"I promise tonight that I'm all yours-" 

"But..." You took his hand to your thighs as you sat further back in your own seat, taking him closer towards your sex as he struggled for allowance. 

"Baby-" 

"God, Drew...I'm so wet..." You brought him higher still, his rejection now irritating as you couldn't help but continue. 

"Someone can see us-" 

"I don't care...I need your fingers inside of me..." Just as he would trace your panties, he would retract his fingers. 

"Later baby, I promise." You groaned, throwing yourself against the seat with an attitude before unfolding your legs and leading your fingers between your lips. 

"Oh God..." You began to koan, his name taken in vain as his eyes flashed to the motions made of your fingers to your heat. 

"Jesus, you're gonna get me in an accident!" 

To this, you ignored him and focused on the pleasure he was denying you. And yet, even despite the way your sounds were arousing enough for him to shift in his seat from the sudden tightness, he didn't pull the car over or assist in your release. He simply tried to keep his focus on the road, looking over to you with a lip captured between his teeth every so often, before you decided he would need to earn the sound of that release. He spoke of it often at how your moaning as you came for him was almost a symphony of sorts and he craved it as his grand ambition. Which was why instead of allowing him this, you would drive your fingers out from their plummet and bring it back to his lips. Offering a sort of tilt to your head as if to challenge him, he opened, and quelled only a fraction of your need. 

"I'll be back in a few hours baby..." He kissed your lips softly, making his way to the front door in order to accomplish his attendance to a meeting of an upcoming project of his. But as he looked back once more, having denied you as much as a kiss until this parting since your interaction in the car as he'd shower and be due there rather promptly, you decided to continue your torment. 

You waited until you knew he would be in his meeting, about twenty minutes after he had originally left, before you sent the first text. 

"I miss you..." With an emoticon of swelled tears and a pout following. To this he sent a picture of himself within the waiting room of the building, leading you to grin at the goofy smile looking back at you. That goofy smile you wanted on every inch of your body. 

Because of this, you'd position the camera just a bit lower than your usual selfie, before snapping a photograph of only your lace bra and bedroom eyes staring him down, before pressing send. 

"Jesus Christ, you're so beautiful..." You illuminated at his message before sending another, this time from the reflection of your bedroom mirror, the full length of your lingerie. 

"I think I need to make the bed..." You teased, the disheveled sheets set just off center the picture as you used this as a guise for your photo. 

"How am I supposed to focus now?!" 

"You're not?" You teased as his responses stopped. Because of this, you removed your remaining garments and snapped a multitude of angles of various poses before sending them all in rapid succession. The single 'read' beside each picture sent your heart alight even if he wouldn't respond. You knew this affected him.

By the time he had come home, he was frustrated to greet you with his usual kiss. 

"How did it go?" He ignored you, pulling himself over the counter with knuckles pressed over the surface as he paused in thought. 

"Drew? I want to-" You were suddenly pulled into him as he took you to the edge of the table, hand wrapped deeply either your hair as his desperation brought him somewhere between dominant and feral. 

"You wanna know how it went?!" He scoffed, "I had a goddamn erection the entire meeting from your fucking pictures! I had to keep looking at them and-" You were suddenly turned against the table, palms forced to its surface for some form of stability. But you would be denied this as he had you out of your pants and pulled against his chest while his second hand worked his out bottoms loose. 

"This what you wanted? THIS is what makes you act so fucking desperate? Huh?" You relished in his need for you, the dominance, the aggression. It excited you as he existed in collected contentment prior to this. 

"Answer me!" 

"God, Drew, yes!" You exclaimed as he nodded. 

"So shut the fuck up and take it then-" He was thrust inside of you. Every ounce of compassion he would usually showcase was whittled and left in raw conviction. 

A collection of slaps to your ass as your hair was pulled tighter through his fingers had you pleading for him as he would only motion harder. The speed of his thrusts were painful and yet the depth was enough to find pleasure in the discomfort. But not enough to bring you to the edge. For this, you took your hand to your clit before feeling him drag your hands behind your back to press them in imprisonment. 

"You don't get to feel good after pulling that shit today. You're gonna wait until I let you!" He spat as he used this hold behind your back almost as reins as he bucked into you, pulling your hair until it ached and grunting in repetition as well as unison to each burial quickened in succession. 

"DREW!" 

"Frustrating isn't it?!" 

"I'm sorry!" 

"You will be-'' He grunted, the table creaking in belting out its own mercy before he led your leg to its surface. This new angle had you desperate. Nothing intelligible but pleas left your throat as he continued to batter into you, for every action made, this having resulted as the consequence. 

"Please, Drew!" 

"Fuck!" He groaned, the way you clenched around him having battled his stamina to a near expulsion. 

"Make me come...fuck me back-" He gripped even harder through your locks as you cursed at the sensations. The pain, the pleasure, the depth, the speed-it was enough to garner that pressure of a familiar release. 

"No! You make ME come first-" He moved faster, grips only existing in pain against you, before he brought your hips harder against him. 

"Fuck! Goddammit!" He belted, tremors of his release sent through you as his flexing cock pulled your own release to its edge. 

"Drew..." 

He was suddenly absent from you, readjusting himself to now find modesty behind his clothes, and leaving some place between you. Without a word, he left you heaving with need, too sore between your legs to offer yourself any form of a release, as you followed behind him. 

"Drew-" 

"I gave you what you wanted, didn't i?" 

"And you're still mad at me..." 

"I'm mad...I'm mad because it's hard enough not doing that every time we're together and today...shit, baby, you almost made me come in my pants when I had to work and-" He ran his fingers through his hair. 

"I'm sorry..." You spoke sincerely as you sat beside him on the bed. 

"I just wanted you-" 

"You don't think I do?! Those pictures, those messages...the way I had to wear you on my lips all day-" 

You smiled at this as he shook his head in continuation of disbelief. 

"God, you're gonna kill me, baby..." You pulled yourself over him in a straddle as he met your gaze, apology on the edge of his lips. 

"Then take it out on me.." You kissed his neck as he left a deep exhale, hand wrapped in your hair as he pulled you to his command. 

"Didn't get enough?" 

"Never..." 

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @my-baexht-Is @slut4starkey 

[mylittlemystery]

Having Fun Yet?

Summary: the two daycare assistants have some fun together.

A/N: I love them dearly, therefore I must wreck them.

“Well, are you having fun yet? Huh? Are ya?!”

Moondrop could muster nothing but a flurry of flustered giggles in response, desperately trying to worm his way out of this situation and bury his flushed face into the rubbery floor simultaneously.

“Hey, why are you trying to stop playing so soon?” Sunrise whined, the wide smirk playing at his lips betraying his true intentions, adjusting himself just a hare so that his torso wasn’t being prodded by the other’s bony elbows. “Lemme hear more of that absolutely adorable laughter!”

Moondrop barely managed to bite back a yip of surprise as the fingers tapping away at his sides picked up speed, all but melting into a pile of mirthful mush at such a delicate touch. “Ihi cahan’t!” he gasped. “Pleeheeheease, it tickles!”

Sunrise merely let out a giggle of his own in response, shaking his head at such a cute display of embarrassment. “Aw, you don’t need to worry about all that! That’s what it’s supposed to do, silly!”

Said reassurance did little to quell Moondrop’s mounting anxiety, especially when those sneaky fingertips managed to flit all the way up to the back of his neck. He could feel his cheeks grow even hotter at the newfound attention being given to such a direly sensitive spot, and he wound up having to hold his breath in order to prevent any more reactions from slipping out and subsequently adding more fuel to the fire.

“It’s supposed to tickle until your tummy hurts and there are tears brimming in your eyes!” Sunrise prattled on, too wrapped up in his own little world to actually notice the state of his buddy precariously pinned beneath him. “You’ll laugh yourself silly until you’re gasping for air, and then we’ll do it all over again once you’ve caught your breath! Isn’t that-”

“Stahp!” Moondrop suddenly hissed before he dissolved into a breathless heap of rapid giggles and twitching limbs. “Dohon’t tease!”

Sunrise could only blink lamely at first, but he quickly managed a cheek splitting grin that might’ve come across as warm in any other situation. “Oh, I think I hit a sweet spot~!” he trilled, deliberately making an effort to go against the other’s plea. “You’ve got a ticklish neck, don’t ‘cha? Of course ya do, otherwise you wouldn’t be making all those cute little noises that you’re doing! Wow, you’re not even trying to wiggle away - you must be really enjoying yourself, huh?”

“Pleeheeheeheeheeheeheease!” Moondrop was in stitches by this point in time, burying his atypical expression away in his forearms. “Ihi cahan’t stahahahahahahaaand it!”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’re already laying down then, huh?” Sunrise quipped, heart fluttering triumphantly at the knowledge that the other wasn’t able to groan at his corny sense of humor. “Hey, I’ve got an idea!” he suddenly exclaimed (he was never renowned for his attention span). “How about a couple raspberries to help keep your energy up?” Without bothering to wait for a response, he drew in an unnecessarily deep breath and blew it out against the tender area.

This resulted in Moondrop letting out a sharp squeal that was unnaturally loud for somebody such as himself, breaking into a delightful symphony of breathy hysteria that shook his lean chest. “Eh-ehehehehehehehehehehe!” The poor thing didn’t have a prayer when it came to composing a plea for reprieve that was even remotely comprehensible.

“Yeah, there’s the laughter I’ve been waiting for!” Sunrise cheered with such adoration that one could almost set aside the fact that he had another giggly robot trapped beneath him. “Don’t you worry your pretty ‘lil head off; I’ll be sure to stop once I’m sure that smile won’t be leaving for a long, long time!”

Moondrop could only vaguely wonder just how long that would take before a second raspberry sent his thoughts swirling around until they were nothing more than indistinguishable mush.

|||

“AAAAAAAHHHHHHH!”

Any security guards unfortunate enough to be patrolling near the daycare might’ve thought that someone was being flayed like fresh livestock under a butcher’s knife within, but the scene was much more innocent than the noises it produced.

“That’s right, you little bundle of energy,” Moondrop crooned as he delicately scratched his lengthy digits behind the other’s direly sensitive kneecaps. “Giggle all day~”

Sunrise could scarcely make out those taunting words over his own maniacal squawking, but it didn’t seem to matter all that much what with his face already a lovely shade of orange rather than its typical yellow. “NAHT THERE!” he pleaded as he slapped his open palms against the ground in a sort of frantic drum solo. “Th-that’s myhy tihihihickle spahaahaahaahaahaahAAHAAHAAHAAHAAAAT!”

Moondrop only snickered sinisterly in response, eyelids fluttering halfway down as he observed his other half going to pieces at such a gentle touch. “What a ticklish little thing you are,” he hummed mostly to himself. “It’s like these knees of yours were just made for the Tickle Monster’s hands…why, I think I might just let them rest here for quite a while~”

“NOHO, YOHOU CAHAN’T!” Sun wailed in an odd tone of voice that was a cross between utter fear and gleeful excitement. “IHIT’S TOOHOO MUHUHUHUUUCH!”

The line that twisted Moondrop’s lips could hardly be considered a smile; with the malintent that lay behind it, it was more like a grimace. He tutted his metallic tongue against the roof of his mouth, shaking his head in delighted pity. “Tsk, tsk…what a shame - can’t dine on what you serve, mm?” he inquired rhetorically in that special lilt that he would be mortified to be caught using in any other situation. “I could keep you here for hours upon hours, you know; the only thing you’d be able to do is laugh yourself hoarse, isn’t that right~? Doesn’t that sound like so much fun~?”

Sunrise was too busy shrieking his nonexistent lungs out to respond, pounding his lower legs on the floor with such a ferocity that one could attribute it to a rabbit trying to escape the snare of a fox.

“Oh yes, I think that sounds like a wonderful idea,” Moondrop spoke as if he had received a verbal confirmation from the other. “That would certainly tire you out, wouldn’t it~? Don’t you worry about a thing - we’ve got all night, after all…”

As the fingers at his knees continued their dance that was slowly driving him into the depths of madness, Sunrise could only hope that his twin would honor those words.

[yostresswritinggirl]

Albedo. I just rolled him and finished his quest.

I would love to talk about travelling with him, or at least being someone who brings in the ingredients for alchemy. Someone who goes out of their way for him and gets the best. Maybe the only gardener in Mondstadt to grow alchemical roots and grasses.

I'm happy for you, rolling the cute alchemy boyo ywy I only rolled in his banner to get Bennett in five rolls I'm sorry Albedo, my primogems are for Xiao and Hu Tao- *shot*

Back to business! I really, really like this cute idea awww thank you for distracting from the angst fics in my head haha (TUMBLR DIDN’T SAVE IT PROPERLY AND SO THE POST IS HORRIBLY SHORT WAIT- FIXED IT WOOHOO)

Albedo's Personal Botanist

Background

Most ingredients in alchemy usually come from ores and liquid ingredients formed by chemistry methods. Stuff like Tuttia, Bismuth, all that shindigs-

So while plant life can be useful for alchemy, not everyone recognizes its utility straight away, and provide for the common plants for arrangements rather than scientific inventory

I can imagine that you'd be a normal gardener at first but very passionate of their properties.

Might be a Dendro vision wielder too, the Dendro archon loves those who wield the power of knowledge, more so when they use it on nature.

You carry with you a lil book about all the plants and shrubs that you've personally cared for, down to their finest detail and properties. But you're a gardener, not a master of Alchemy, so some parts of the notes you couldn't really figure out yourself.

The first time you met Albedo, he was around a year into staying in Mondstadt. He was forced to go out and take a breather because of his workaholic schedule, and instead of relaxing in a bath, he ended up drifting to the market area to get more ingredients local to Mond.

Unlike the other flower stalls, he was pulled into yours because of the wide variety of your wares. Roots, grasses, shoots, plants you couldn't just find outside of the walls.

You were tending to your mini greenhouse in the back and left your botania book on the shelf outside, and this LIL SHI- Albedo, having no proper training for social interactions, straight up just opened that shit and read it all.

"Oh, hello there, mister- HEY, THAT'S MY STUFF, WHAT THE HECK"

Flustered, confused and alarmed, Albedo tried his best to quickly reason with your garden-spade-wielding self. And with his pretty boy self, you managed to calm down and listen.

You may or may not had smacked him with a bouquet of horsetail for good measure.

"Such vast knowledge and detail orientation, why waste away your talents in selling productive fauna when you can wield them into something more?"

Master Phytologist of the Knights of Favonius acquired!

Working with Albedo!

Your greenhouse in the Knight of Favonius HQ is most definitely connected to Albedo's laboratory! And very spacious too.

More than one occasion, you've seen the Chief Alchemist casually sneaking around the area, plucking a Flaming Flower or scraping dandelion seeds from the pot while you were busy tending to other flowers on the other side of your area.

65% of the time you caught him red-handed and you will be met with the rare sight of a fumbling, queasy Albedo.

30% of the time you just find out something is missing after checking inventory for the day, usually ends up with you hunting and shouting for Albedo. Because the guy seem to have a sixth sense as to when you find out his thieving adventures.

5% of all of that, Kaeya would be the one stealing from your 'safer' floras to woo a random citizen in Mond. And as a master of botany, your precious babies are always in tip top shape. Top quality bouquets all day, all night.

Those moments are the ones Albedo hate more than getting smacked with your spade. Those are your flowers, and by association, his. Grown to their maximum potential by your calloused yet gentle hands FOR HIM-

Kaeya: *reaching out to pluck a perfectly healthy glaze lily*; Albedo: *his short ass of a shadow looming over him*

NOW IT IS HIM WHO WIELDS THE POWER OF THE GARDEN SPADE

The atmosphere of your work area is significantly different from his own messy laboratory. The glass walls and roof that lets in just the right amount of sunlight, with a perfect view of the scenic landscape of Mondstadt and beyond.

When Albedo reaches a wall on his research, he picks up his sketchbook and just- waltz in to your workshop through the door connecting your workspaces.

The fresh air, the soft kiss of the sun, your humming, it was all a symphony of heaven concocted just for him.

He’ll find himself sketching your babies, dozen or more times you are included.

Your notebook’s illustrations are mostly courtesy of him, and he greatly basks in your pure admiration of his drawing.

To help him focus, you once took on the great task of organizing his laboratory, to no avail. Even if you manage to fix and align his inventory, it’s gonna go back to chaos after three days minimum.

It’s okay tho, it’s normal for him, more excuse to visit you-

Guilty, he wants your spacious and refreshing greenhouse and often asks for a redesign of his laboratory to share similar workspace with you.

Acting Grand Master Jean had to decline this idea just because it costs more than a million mora.

He’s definitely gonna sulk in your greenhouse after that, back leaning on the warm glass wall as he does nothing but sketch you and your plants the whole day.

Don’t stop him

Just admire the pout

Actually Working with Albedo! (Finally)

Whenever Albedo discovers/explores a new area, you’re always sure to tag along whether willingly or by force

YOU BET YOUR FROZEN ASS YOU’RE COMING WITH HIM TO DRAGONSPINE

DEFINITELY BY FORCE

I imagine that despite being his assistant/student, Sucrose and Timaeus are more focused on research and the application of Alchemy, so they’re not much of the resource gathering type. That said, Albedo is very thankful of your existence, it’s a breather to his already full schedule.

Albedo is both considerate and inconsiderate unconsciously : While he may run off to experiment on the traveler and leave you scouting the area yourself, he doesn’t willingly set you on fire from the inside.

Every time he comes back to camp after finishing the step by step experiment with/on the Traveler, he makes sure to check up on how you are doing.

TAKE NOTE: Our prince is very occupied and busy with his own work a lot, so he’s never really seen you in action when you go out to get the the materials he needs-

So he is purely horrified when he saw you hanging off the cliff with nothing but a rope around you to keep you safe, carefully investigating a petrified tree branch up close.

Suddenly, elevator.

Again, Imma bet, he’s gonna be accompanying you in all your expeditions after that. He’ll need to know where and how you acquire every ingredient outside of your greenhouse.

Does it require you to climb a mountain? Are there any Hilichurl camps nearby? Maybe mobs that are attracted to that type of flower?

He would be very attentive of your inventory reports and would recognize if a dangerous gathering journey is near. He’ll be right there with you.

Violetgrass x1000

He’s gathering more than a month’s worth just to make sure you don’t go back to make that dangerous trip. It’s very impractical, but let him rest his heart.

You and Albedo: Resource Gathering Expedition; Other Knights: Outdoor Dates Disguised as Work-Related Outings

Flower crowns are good and all but have you heard of flower bracelets?

Omg so cute hhh imagine a Flaming Flower Stamen bracelet for his Dragonspine expedition- it’s not gonna last forever but it’s so precious he’s definitely keeping that shit even when the heat already dissipated from it gah-

“Paimon wonders, what’s that thing around your wrist?”

“A flame bracelet, made to keep the cold away.”

“Woah! Sounds very useful! Sure would be handy for exploring, you think we can borrow it-”

“No.”

Something angst-y: Albedo has yet to make a Dendro affinity potion and he’s really, really devastated about it and himself. You’ll have to forcibly pull him out of his self-deprecation, force him to get a breather.

Overall, Albedo greatly appreciates not only your utility but also your consistent company. He values your tenacity and comfort, sharing unadulterated curiousity as you both venture the great unknown. There’s a lot of stuff he can pray about to thank whichever archon has graced you. And despite his Vision lacking the function to actually help in the advancement of his research, he is now thankful for it, for he has found with it a greater purpose: Ensuring the safety of his precious Gardenia.

I CANT BELIEVE IT, THIS THING WAS 30 TIMES LONGER BUT TUMBLR DIDN’T SAVE THE DRAFT PROPERLY AND HAD TO GET EVERYTHING BACK THROUGH MEMORY, AND MY MEMORY IS B A D. I’M SORRY I KNOW YOU JUST WANTED TO TALK BUT IT ENDED UP BEING SUPER LONG AND LOOKS LIKE A HEADCANON THAN ANYTHING, MY FORMATTING IS REALLY LIKE THIS AAAAAAAA- I hope you enjoy ywy I like your brain, it brings good ideas and gives me good ideas too!

[riintarro]

PLAYTHING ♡ ││ BAKUGO KATSUKI

Summary                         ║ Bakugou goes through his toys quite quickly. Perhaps a new doll will satisfy his needs? Pairings                        ���    ║ Bakugou Katsuki, f!reader Word Count                   ║   1k Warnings  ​                     ║ MINORS DNI , 18+ Author’s Note    ║ dude honestly i had this idea while thinking about being fucked senseless and not being able to move or react after 👍🤠 please mind my poor writing skills, it’s 3am. spare me

“Shut it, whore,” a growl erupted from the back of Bakugou’s throat. With a tongue lolled and drool dribbling onto the soaked sheets, the glistening body whimpered before another mewl bubbled from their lips. The bed creaked and shook at the immense thrusts of the blonde, grunting as the puffed mouth sloppily swallowed him. His grip on the back of the neck tightened and his jaw clenched as he watched his load spilled and spewed along the body’s thighs and his abdomen. Pulling out, his brows furrowed when the body no longer stirred. His hand landed a smack on their ass, “Oi,” and they hiccupped as their body twitched, attempting to recover from the overwhelming pleasure. 

“Are they... Alive?” Kirishima winced, taking a good look at the sinful mess his best friend made.

“You said this one was decent.” Bakugou pointedly said while pulling his pants up.

“They said they could handle it.” Kirishima shrugged, typing something on his phone ─ probably to have someone take care of the limp cum-covered body. “Don’t worry though,” the red-head grinned, “I already found another pretty thing for you.” Pulling out a tablet, Kirishima scrolled through a list of pictures before landing on yours. A display of your information and how to contact you was written out but Bakugou paid no mind. Buttoning up his shirt, he walked past the assistant.

“Tomorrow. Seven. They better be good.” The blonde said before closing the door.

“Excuse me. Are you Mr. Kirishima?” Turning around, the chirpy assistant was met with you, a pretty dolled up thing, fumbling with your fingers. He smiled. You would be perfect for his explosive friend.

“You must be Y/N! I’ve been waiting for you.” You placed your hand into his outreached one, “You’re cuter in person.” Glancing away, pink dusted your cheeks. You knew what you signed up for ─ knew who you were about to meet. In fact, you desperately planned this months in advance. Your delicate fingers could no longer please you and after seeing Katsuki’s picture, dress shirt hugging his broad chest and pants clinging to his toned thighs, your pussy throbbed and drooled from him.

After being guided and explained the evening plans ─ basically how you were about to be fucked and the slight dangers of it ─ you were left to wait in a warmly lit room. It wasn’t long, though. The door opened and with a soft gasp you stood up. His figured loomed, the slight lightning accenting his chiseled features, causing you to wet your dry throat.

“W-welco─”

“Strip.” His command was curt and exuded dominance. Your body instinctively shrunk. Not wanting to anger him, you did as he demanded, pulling the strings off your coat as he sat himself on the bed, leaning and showcasing his assets. Letting the jacket slide off your figure, you could feel the burn of his stare, breath hitching when your eyes met his.

“Come here.” As if your legs belonged to him, you walked towards him. A squeal escaped your mouth as he grabbed the top of your head, pushing you down. “Did I say with your feet? On your knees.”

“What d’you want?” Your eyes could not shift, staring straight at the bulge begging to be freed. Your nose practically brushed it, allowing you to get a whiff of his musk, eyes rolling at the scent.

“‘m want your dick.” You said, having no more control over your desire or thoughts, mouth salivating at the feast before you.

“’heard that before,” he scoffed, mocking your pathetic plea, “where d’you want it?”

“‘don’t care. Just, in.” He menacingly smirked, as if he liked your answer. 

“Then this should be fine.” Without warning, he pried your mouth open, a startled noise gurgled from your throat. With his other hand, he freed his cock, gave it a few pumps before shoving it down your cavity. He hissed as your teeth grazed his length. “Wider, bitch.”

Tears clung to your lashes, gagging on his size. Your hands gripped his flexing thighs, eyes rolling while his tip repeatedly kissed the back of your throat. You pressed your thighs together, drool and cum dribbled from your mouth and fell onto your breasts. You wanted more, toes curling at the thought of being pounded by his dick as your pussy deliciously devoured him. Your muffled moans mixed with his groans created a lewd symphony, ringing in your ears. 

His movements stilled, thick ropes of his creamy seeds coated your mouth and burning your abused throat. You whined as his iron-grip pulled your roots, choking on his load. He kept his heavy cock in your mouth, watching, waiting. Waiting to see his beautiful cum flow down your throat, not bothered by the way your walls pulsed around his length. As soon as the lump was no longer visible he pulled himself out, jaw clenching as your lips continued to suck him.

“W-where are you going?” Unable to mask the desperation in your voice, panties feeling wet, sticky, and uncomfortable. Your cunt throbbed, begging to be touched, abused. He watched your sad form, knees scarlet, mascara running, and crawling towards him. “You still haven’t─”

“Haven’t fucked you? I don’t think you deserve it.”

“I-I’ve been good, haven’t I? I took your cock, didn’t I? I made you feel good, right? P-please,” he liked how you looked, pent-up and a mess. The silence poked your anxious body. “Please, fuck me. I want your dick. ‘m want your dick so bad. You’ll give it to me, right? I’ve been a good girl. Please, please, fuck, please, me.” You sobbed, body burning from the frustration of being denied pleasure.

“Pathetic, whore.” Shaking off your desperate hands, he dressed himself, ignoring your pleas. You clawed his pressed pants, whining for him to stay and fuck your sopping pussy. Your need to quell your heat soon became too overwhelming and you searched for something ─ anything ─ to help. His warning eyes made you stop, thinking that if you obeyed and didn’t touch yourself, he would indulge you and give you what you craved.

A cry left your body as he closed the door on your hot, limp, body.

©riintarro 2021. do not repost/copy, alter, or share any of my works onto any other platforms.

[stopeatingwhales]

particles x damon albarn

the lyrics to this song are genuinely so beautiful, like i honestly cannot describe enough how much i adore this song my goodness

Pairing: present day damon x reader

Warnings: none :D

Word count: 1.881

Requested by anon <3

༉‧₊˚✧

It had been two months since I had last seen him. Two whole months since he had set foot in our home; two whole months since he said goodbye to leave for tour. The home that we shared had began to inhabit a sense of eeriness, some nights the walls began to feel as if they were closing in on me, trapping me from any interaction with the outside world, as if to hold me hostage by my own insanity, although other nights the space felt extremely large, almost too big for one person to be able to waste their nights alone in, encapsulating my mind in a constant conflict of obstructive thoughts, forcing me to overthink every tiny detail that was conveyed on the pale stained walls, the wooden floorboards, the arrangement of the furniture, resulting in many a time of me moving around heavy tables and chairs until the image of the room settled my mind’s anxiety. Allowing distance to get in the lines of mine and Damon’s relationship, it was simply uncanny that I was going to miss him; he was the carcass that kept me sane, the being that granted me peace in myself, ease on my mind to prevent such mania from enrapturing my brain, the person that engulfed me into a stupor of adoration and affection that one could never understand the authentic strength until felt - what some perceive as paramour, true love, something so overstimulating that once separated such thing desperation beguiles you to surround yourself with, only a mere sensation of emptiness is all that is felt inside, as if your limbs are damaged, your insides constantly in a state of sickness that you are convinced you’re in need of some form of professional assistance, but it is simply the alchemy, the poison of the apprehension that captivates you from the estrangement from your significant other. Though that wasn’t to say that wasn’t proud of Damon; I embraced fondness and admiration for everything that he did and was so dedicated in doing, his talent and immense knowledge for the art form that speaks to you demonstrated his ability to move millions of people, uniting as one in concerts, all touched from the same, simple string of melodies, proving his true gift and genius that is inside his brain.

I tried to pry my thoughts away from the excitement that had been seeping into my veins from the fact that he was returning home today, in an attempt to focus my mind on whatever had been showing on the television, but there was no use. To be cradled in his arms was all that I had longed, the thought clouding my brain almost every single night that I had thrown my body onto the linen sheets, trying to wrap my body around the duvet to replicate the specific warmth that had enveloped my body when in his arms, his body completely dominating mine, his hands running through my hair gently, apologising with a kiss on the top of my head when he accidentally pulled too roughly, my face buried in his chest as a blush would suddenly creep onto my cheeks, our embrace fulfilling me with a nest of blooming butterflies in my body, a poignant sensation of nervousness and reverence for the man that had me cooped up in his arms, the same feelings that would embody you whilst walking past your first crush during primary school, accidentally brushing your hands against one another’s, sending your mind into overdrive as if to think that the person was the love of your life. Such emotions never left, and I doubted that they ever would; supposing that is true love, he could make me feel like a little girl squealing over her teenage idol because of how perfect he was, just from being himself.

“I’m home, love,” I heard a voice call out in the hallway, accompanied by the soft slam of the front door, the tone of voice lacing a certain amount of raspiness, perhaps from a cigarette that had just been inhaled. My head instantly turned to the door of the living room, eyes settling upon the sight of Damon, who had a small grin curved on his lips, his gaze captured with joy and desire, perhaps from gratification towards the understanding that the tour had finally ended, as well as the fact that he was able to finally see me once again - my expression equally reciprocating his happiness. Instantly jumping from my seat on the couch, I rushed over to him as I threw my arms around him, resting my ear against his chest, listening to the soft pattern of his heartbeat. As usual, his arms wrapped around my figure, tightly embracing my body, the swarm of butterflies breaking out of their cocoons, my limbs growing weak from the recognisable thrill of affection that I had desired for far too long, and had sadly not received. Feeling his lips grazing against the top of my head made my mind go fuzzy, my cheeks flushing a heat that made me feel as if I was under the beating warmth of the sun during the summer months. This is what he does to me. “How’ve you been darling? I see you’ve rearranged the place, again.” he mumbled into my head of hair, my mind still relishing in the pleasure of being in his arms again.

“I’ve missed you,” I replied, reluctantly pulling my arms away from the embrace, in order to gawk at him. A gentle chuckle rumbled from his throat, though his features accentuated pity, understanding how I must’ve felt being away from him for so long. Lightly taking hold of one of his hands, I dragged his arm, guiding him to the sofa, where both of us sat next to each other. “You were gone for so long!”

“I know love, I’ve missed you so much,” he replied, squeezing my hand in reassurance. “At least I’m not gone for any longer though.” he added, his lips curving slightly as I nodded, a similar grin planted on my lips.

“How was the tour then?” I asked, pulling his arm to wrap it around my shoulders, my body already aching for more attachment to him. “The videos I’ve seen online made it look very good.”

“It was great, honestly. Loved every bit of it.” he replied, the grip on my shoulder tightening as he attempted to haul me closer to him. Humming in agreement, I placed my head on his shoulder, cradling the moment we shared together, the moment that I had imagined and adorned each and every night he was absent, cherishing every single time that he was able to be in my presence. I depended on him greatly, as did he, and though that may be a toxic strand which can only result in turmoil; our appreciation for one another held such poise that it would draw us closer together each and every time we had conjoined together after months of being separated. “I’ve actually got something to show you.” he added, shifting from our hug and slowly stepping to his feet, taking his hand in mine, his soft but coarse palms gripping onto mine ever so slightly, urging me to stand up too. “Come with me.”

Following him closely, we headed towards his studio. I had forgotten the last time that I had set foot in it; usually I would leave Damon to work on his craft alone, since having me prance around messing with all sorts of instruments and controls wasn’t going to provide much assistance. As well as that, sitting in the room, knowing that he was away and would be for many days on, would only make me yearn for his presence more, which is the last of what I would need when not being able to fall asleep. Though whenever he would call me into the room, he would always show me the most beautifully crafted symphony, in which he would perform it so effortlessly, as if it was simply created from the top of his head at that moment. Talent like his was so scarce; it would only prove to me that it’s something you are gifted with at birth, like an extremely high intelligence quotient - he always had ideas running through his mind, melodies that would be formed from a simple tap of the table in front of him. It was a wonder in the fact that he seemingly never got burned out with creating music, it was evidently his passion, and it touched me that he would constantly ask me for my opinion on his music, as it always resonated with him, always held such importance.

When we walked inside the studio, I followed him to the grand piano that was standing by the corner of the room. I kept my body upright, behind him, as he pulled out the black stool underneath, moving it back slightly in order for him to sit on it. “Over the tour, I had some free time, so I wrote this song, it’s called Particles,” he began, his voice quiet, as if it were intertwined with a certain anxiousness about what he was about to perform. “It’s still a work in progress, but I wanted to know what you thought of it.”

As I admired his fingers softly grazing the elegant, pale keys of the piano, the melody that in which played forth me instantaneously sufficed me in a trance, bewilderment encompassing my my mind as I listened to the sounds of the alluring chords echo throughout the room, bounce off the walls, the waves of noise crafting mountainous regions of goosebumps to prickle on the bare skin exposed from my forearms. Sculpted with such elegance and formality, my mouth fell agape as he played with such ease - in that significant moment, I was subdued to his music, hypnotised into his magnificence; I could do nothing, absolutely nothing, except admire the grace that fell from his lips once he started singing. As I allowed my gaze to drift onto his face, I gawked at his demeanour, his eyes almost screwed shut, his face almost frozen in place as his body rocked back and forth to the melody that was omitted from the piano. Every word, every string of lines carried a lugubrious essence to it, a tone laced with such beautification; obvious that there were deeper implications behind said lyrics. Each line that escaped his throat exemplified the nature of what earnest fervour, authentic devotion and expertise can embody. Such melody, paired with his voice embodied with pure ethereality, as if I was being greeted by a herd of the most quaint angels, welcoming my soul into the seven heavens. A beam crawled onto my lips, my heart thumping at a million miles per hour from the amount of love I carried in my body for the man in front of me.

Once the song ended, a moment was held in the atmosphere of mere silence, as if to take in all that was felt, all that had vibrated through the sound waves and blessed my ears. Shifting his body so he could connect eyes with me, a gentle, welcoming smile tugged on his lips. “That’s for you.”

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 6

A/N Where does the time go?  I lugged my laptop 7,000km round trip with the sole intention of working on this fic, but that apparently didn’t happen.  For those who found the last chapter hard to bear, I apologize in advance.  I am not quite finished being cruel.  With that said, trigger warning for character death, childhood disease, suicide ideation.  The chapter title is Sleeping in the Clouds.

The first five chapters are available on my AO3 page.

Five Months Later

A persistent mechanical bleating lifted Claire from the indeterminate depths of medicated sleep.  The emergency contact number she provided to all her patients was programmed to forward to her mobile, where a particularly aggravating ringtone ensured she would never miss a call.  Even at one am on a Tuesday night.

Fumbling for the device, she glanced at the unfamiliar number before answering.

“Doctor Beauchamp speaking.”  Her voice was gritty and rough.  She reached for a half-filled tumbler of water while waiting for the caller to identify themselves.  Over the line she could make out muted traffic noise, and perhaps a distant foghorn, but no-one spoke.

“Hello?” she inquired, torn between concern that a patient needed her and frustration that she might have been woken by a misdialed number.

“If you’re one of my patients, you need to talk to me so that I can help you.”

There was an intake of breath, a weepy sniffle, and then the click of the call being terminated.  A prickle of gooseflesh washed over her.  She couldn’t say exactly how, but she knew who had called, and that he needed her.

One of the grim perks of her job was that she had backdoor access to reverse look-up for telephone numbers, in cases where there was a threat of self-harm or harm to others.  As Claire hastily donned socks and grabbed a winter coat, she waited on hold for the PSAP operator to provide an address.

“We’re in luck, Doctor Beauchamp.  It wasna a mobile number.  In fact, tis a telephone booth.  Gote Lane, in Queensferry.  Down near the... umm, next tae the bridge.”

Without so much as a thank you, she hung up and frantically punched the app for an Uber.

Fifteen nail biting minutes and an excessive tip later, she stood in front of an empty phone booth.  Predictably, the directory had been torn out, leaving only a thin metal cord and car-key graffiti inside the cramped interior.  But on top of the phone itself she found a familiar ecru business card, her name and credentials embossed in black font.

“Damn it, Jamie,” she muttered to herself, palming the card.

If he’d hung up and started walking towards the bridge, she might be able to catch him if she ran all out, but something called her towards the nearby shore instead.

The tide was out, leaving a narrow strip of beach and sharp, slimy rocks exposed to the heavy air.  Her nostrils were assaulted by the briny vegetative rot of the retreating sea.

On a weathered bench facing the river, encircled by a cone of foggy streetlight, sat a man, his eyes trained on the smudgy lights of the Queensferry bridge hovering high above.  Even bundled in a heavy black jacket and watch cap, she would recognize his long limbs and the set of his shoulders anywhere.  She let out a long breath of relief.

She approached the bench cautiously, not certain if her presence would be welcome.  Instead of turning to greet her footsteps, Jamie addressed the bridge.

“Maggie passed t’day.  I called ‘cause I wanted ye tae know, but then I couldna find the words tae tell ye.”  Despite his refusal to look at her, his words were calm and without a hint of the bitterness she’d expected.

“Oh, Jamie.  I’m so terribly sorry.  I didn’t know her well, but she was a very special little girl who loved you dearly.”

He nodded in acknowledgement of her words, but didn’t reply.  She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, suddenly aware that she was still wearing her pajamas, her hair doubtless a veritable cumulus of tangled curls.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.  “I still have some contacts at the hospital, I could...” she broke off, knowing it was ridiculous to offer professional assistance when she’d been the one to sever their relationship.

“Would ye, if it’s no’ too much tae ask, would ye mind jus’ sittin’ here with me fer a bit?”

He finally turned to look at her, and she could see the spider web of red veins that surrounded his irises, testimony to his heartbreak.  His mouth, usually such an accurate barometer of his mood, was strangely inert.  She nodded, unable to deny him such a simple request.

It was the time of night when the daytime symphony of the city broke into its component parts, every passing car, every lapping wave a single instrument singing its own plaintive song.  They sat in silence for long enough that she could feel the damp creeping up the legs of her pajamas.

“Maggie loved tae cross that bridge,” Jamie said at last.  “She’d lower her window, rain or shine, and stick her wee arm out, sayin’ it felt like she was flyin’.”

Claire smiled at the image, trying to picture the little girl with the giant imagination.

“What colour was her hair, Jamie?” she asked.  “Was it red, like yours?”

“Nah, dark, like Jenny’s and our Da.  But wi’ curls like mine and my Ma’s.  A little like yours, actually, Sassenach.  That is, before the chemo took it away.”

She grimaced, not knowing what topic to choose that wouldn’t lead Jamie on a path directly back to his grief.

“She fought sae hard,” he continued before she could attempt another distraction, “but the cancer wouldna let her win.”  Tears were rolling down his cheeks, glinting in the sodium light like stars, but he didn’t seem to notice or care.  “She was the best person I knew.  Sounds strange tae say of a wee lass, but she truly was.  An’ it made me a better person tae love her.  What the fuck am I gonna do now?”

Jamie was looking straight at her, as though he truly expected her to offer useful guidance.  All her training, her professional distance, fell away in the face of one broken man.  She swallowed, searching for words that weren’t a platitude.

“You’re going to go on living, because she can’t.  Because your happiness, when you are ready to feel it again, will be a gift to her memory.”

Jamie sniffed, then wiped his sleeve across his face.  He placed his hand on the bench between them.  Without allowing herself to think, Claire reached for it, finding his skin surprisingly warm.  There was an agonizing fermata, when all the instruments held their breath, and then he turned his palm upwards to meet her own.  Beneath the fog the river slipped by, blending endlessly into the sea.

"Look, Jamie, I know it’s not the right time, but I want to tell you that I’m sorry.  For the way I treated you, and ended things, and...”

“Nay, Sassenach, it’s me who should apologize.  I had no right tae throw my diagnosis at ye like some kinda weapon.  An’ when I think of how I heedlessly brought up yer becoming a mother.  I, of all people.  Weel, suffice it tae say I’ve spent many an hour regretin’ my words an’ actions.”

She squeezed his hand, wordlessly declaring them equal in remorse.

“How have ye been?” he inquired, peering at her as though trying to read her state of mind on the planes of her face.  She chuckled, looking away when the intensity of his gaze became too much.

“About the same, I suppose.  Better some days than others.  Geillis has started ordering my lunches for me, so I no longer have any excuse not to eat.”  Jamie nodded, seemingly pleased with this news.

“And you?  Are you still seeing Dr. Rafferty?  I... uhh, I know his office requested your file.”

In fact, Giles Rafferty had called her the week after her confrontation with Jamie, wondering why his new patient’s record of treatment contained no more than his biographical details and the time and date of each of his appointments.  She told him the same thing she’d told Geillis when she asked the same question in significantly cruder terms: that her weekly interactions with Jamie had never led to a professional diagnosis or a recommended course of treatment.

“Aye. He’s a good man, although tragically immune tae my charms.  Unlike some.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Fraser,” she warned, although his rakish grin warmed her from the inside out.

“I’ll be darkening his doorway wi’ some frequency, after t’day,” he continued with a return to solemnity.

And yet you called me, Claire wanted to say, but didn’t.  When his beloved niece had slipped away, hers had been the number he had dialed, despite everything.  The very idea made her thoughts flit about like fireflies.

“I missed ye, Sassenach,” he confessed quietly after a time.

“I missed you too, Jamie.”

They sat together through the thin hours of the night, talking, sharing memories of Maggie, but mostly in silent companionship.  As dawn brightened the eastern sky, the fog began to lift, revealing an overcast sky.  The lights of the bridge blinked out, and the city’s music began anew.  Claire wished futilely that day would never break, knowing that it would bring them both the pain of two very different kinds of goodbye.

Her hand, when Jamie finally let it go, felt strange, as though it had been separated from its source.  She tucked it quickly into her pocket.

“I.. errr, I need tae be goin’,” Jamie said by way of apology.  “Ian and Jenn will be needin’ me.”

“Yes, of course.  I’ll just, um, call myself an Uber.”

They were both standing, neither seemingly knowing how to part.

Jamie opened his mouth, paused, shook his head in frustration, then looked away.  Her traitorous hand escaped her pocket and found its way to his chest.

“I’ll be thinking of you.  All of you.  If there’s anything, anything at all..”

“How long until your no’ my doctor anymore?  Ethically speakin’.”  He was looking at her in a way that made the fireflies whirlpool about.

“What?” she asked to buy herself some time to breath.

“Before I go an’ face everything that is wrong about t’day, I want tae ken, how long must I wait before I can kiss ye again wi’out riskin’ yer reputation?”

“There’s no written timetable,” she stalled.  “It’s a question of a doctor exerting undue influence or the exploitation of the patient’s trust, and there’s really...”

“Those rules are meant tae protect the patient, aye?  So I should be allowed tae waive them, no’?”

“Jamie...”

“Fine, let me rephrase my question.  Doctor Claire Beauchamp, when can I, James Fraser, ask ye tae look upon me as a potential suitor and no’ a former patient?  Six months?  A year?  Two years?”

“You really are the most infuriatingly stubborn man,” she huffed.

“Aye, I ken.  Sae, two years?  Do we have an agreement, Sassenach?”

“Fine, yes, two years, but Jamie, I don’t expect you to...”

A finger was placed across her lips, silencing her protests.

“Two years are naught if I can kiss ye again once they have passed.  Until then, Claire, please take care of yerself.”

She stood by the bench long after Jamie was gone, staring out across the river.  A flock of geese flew by in formation, broad wings nearly touching the surface of the water as it reflected the steel gray clouds above.  She thought of little Maggie, and her birdhouse surrounded by clouds.  A sob wrestled its way up her throat, surprising in its urgency.  And then, she allowed herself to cry.

[kitsu-katsu]

Ghostbur and Wilbur are just so sad

Wilbur created a full nation with others, they fought for it, they gained independence after a war, everything was fine, but then got carried away by his own desire for power trying to rig elections and it fired back, resulting in actual competition, which he still would've fucking won if it weren't for him again, getting carried away by a desire for power and making coalitions legal only thinking about it benefitting him against Schlatt, which also fired back, and he got defeated.

Now he lost his nation and started to see that all of his actions from the start of the election plan were rather bad, thus seeing himself as the villain, and with nothing to lose letting himself go full forward with that, eventually just becoming more and more reckless, more paranoid that everyone would just leave him because he didn't have any power anymore, becoming more anxious because of that, and so embedded on the idea that he was completely bad and that all that made L'manburg what it was had been lost when Schlatt came in, he just wanted to destroy it all.

While all of this mental turmoil was going on, he also had his own son tearing down the walls, burning rhe flag and denying he was his father to his face, just to come back and reveal that he was a spy at the last minute, by this point his trust in people was so fucked, of course he wouldn't entirely come to trust him again either. His paranoia is a BIG part of his character as Vilbur, and we could say that it all also stems from Eret's original betrayal back when L'manburg was still part of the greater SMP.

Also while this was going on, he had Dream just egging him on, playing him like a pawn to his own ends, and taking advantage of his mental state which was already in favour of just blowing it all up and giving him all the supplies needed even if Dream was technically fighting for the other side, because in the end Dream never ever cared for any form of L'manburg, Dream benefits the most with L'manburg being gone, and with Wilbur there he wouldn't even have to do it himself.

Then he dies of assisted suicide in his father's hands, remembering the song and making it clear that it's all in past tense, blowing up his creation, with a crazed laugh and leaving his symphony forever unfinished with the same words once used by the original traitor when trying to destroy it at its roots. Most people end up just remembering him as "the crazy bad dude" even if they miss him, "my bad dad" in one case, "my dear friend" in another.

And he comes back really quickly, but not as himself, but as an incomplete version, a ghost that's the embodiment of innocence by virtue of being physically incapable of remembering the sad things. He can't make amends with his son because he can't remember the bad times. He can't make up for the things people resent him for because he's just as informed as an observer from afar, one that people won't even tell much to because of how sensible the topic is and because of how Ghostbur is, especially with how avoidant he is.

But he reconstructs. Where Wilbur destroyed reaching the end of his straws, Ghostbur built back up again, making everything so much prettier, and only wanting people to be happy, giving blue to suck up everyone's sadness all the time.

Once Ghostbur told Tubbo that he was surely a better president than he himself was, adding as evidence the fact that he didn't even get a grave, no one cared that he died. To which Tubbo responds with "You're still here so we don't miss you yet". To which he says "I'm not him, Tubbo... I'm not Wilbur"

And he remembers dying as a happy memory, his father stabbing him as "the hero slaying the dragon", even if he doesn't have the reason for it clear, he knows people only see Alivebur as "the crazed bad guy".

Phil then blows up New L'manburg, killing friend and only saying he's sending a message that Ghostbur won't understand, he just talks to him as a toddler, and it's so telling when Ghostbur has his outburst and says that he knows he's an amnesiac, and the comedic relief in all of their stories, but he still feels things, all the while throwing his blue at himself. He laments the loss of Friend, laments the loss of the town that he rebuilt where everyone lived, where all their stuff was, where memories were made. "I sowed the seeds of peace and yet I'm the one who pays for war".

And he decides he wants to be revived. Not because he wishes to stop existing as Ghostbur but because he doesn't see himself as strong or apt enough to lead people to a better way, to get everyone out of a rut, even if he only knows that the last of Alivebur was "the crazed bad guy", he knows he was a good leader, and he does remember times when he was ok and happy.

But then the resurrection attempt fails. And Ghostbur disappears.

And that's the end of it.

He just up and disappeared.

Never revived by the people he told. Not left alone in death either.

Now Dream wants to revive Wilbur and use him as a pawn again, but much more explicitly. Now he's planning to tie Wilbur down by the idea of being grateful for his life being given back, even if Wilbur has expressed a desire to stay dead (different from Ghostbur), and use him to escape, make him his playing piece that he can let die and revive when wants, possibly. And Tommy said he got worse while dead, but we don't exactly know how much worse. Did his paranoia grow in the afterlife? Or just a want for destruction? All we saw was that he saw his death as a good thing, because him and Tommy are at the root of all problems, so he sees himself coming back as inevitable chaos and destruction again, "I know what I'm like, that's the issue"

Basically, his character is tragic, be it as Wilbur or Ghostbur and he doesn't seem to catch a break. I love his character so much, man, he makes me sad

[drarrymybeloved]

Love in a Five Part Act

my third entry for the summer writin challenge! prompt: crashing a party, trope: fake dating & craft: reverse chronology. many thanks to @the-starryknight for holding my hand through this one <3

Harry is pacing. He’s walking in tight circles in the entryway, drawing curious glances from everyone passing through. He tugs at the collar of his robes, the same ones he bought with Draco. No cravat this time, though.

Draco likes to show up to these things twenty five minutes after the indicated time – “You mustn’t seem too eager nor must you be tardy” – so Harry’s been pacing for the last twenty minutes.

His stomach is a shivering ball of nerves and there’s the slightest of tremors in his hands. He could have just written a letter, or shown up at Draco’s house, but Draco likes grand gestures and Harry’s the all-in sort of guy, so here he is. Pacing.

The main doors open just then. Harry looks up, gut tightening. Dressed in peacock blue with hints of dark green, Draco looks gorgeous. Harry’s nerves calm for a second as he takes in the familiar sight – despite everything, Draco feels like home. And then Draco’s eyes find his and the nerves are back tenfold.

Draco’s mouth drops open a bit and his brow furrows before he quickly schools his features into a polite mask. He approaches Harry and asks without preamble, “What are you doing here?”

“Attending the ball?” Harry attempts feebly. He hadn’t bothered to think of exactly what he would say to Draco. Not one of his finest ideas, in retrospect.

Draco arches one unimpressed eyebrow. “Obviously, Potter. I meant why are you here?”

“Draco,” Harry whispers, giving up on a heartfelt speech and letting the one word encompass everything he’s feeling.

Draco’s eyes widen, surprise making his mask drop. He takes an uneven breath in. “We agreed, remember? We don’t need this,” he pauses and looks around before continuing in a lower tone. “This arrangement anymore. You got what you needed and so have I.”

“Yes,” Harry agrees. “I got what I needed. But what about what I want?”

A moment passes. The silence between them stretches and swells, the din of the nearby party falling away.

“And what do you want?” Draco asks finally, his voice nothing more than a whisper. His hands are restless, the tips of his fingers coming together in patterns only he’s privy to. Harry remembers Draco doing this before, when Skeeter wrote a vicious article on how “Malfoy’s Death Eater nature” was going to “corrupt our Saviour.” He remembers wanting to catch those fluttering hands in his own, to tell Draco no one listens to Skeeter anymore, tell him that he likes having Draco around and to hell with Skeeter and her ilk.

Harry allows himself to reach out this time and gently laces his hands through Draco’s.

“This,” he says, heart pounding but voice sure. He squeezes Draco’s hands once. “For real this time.”

Slowly, a smile blooms over Draco’s face, his body relaxing. “I’ve been told I’m high maintenance,” he says slightly breathlessly.

Harry laughs, relief flooding through him. “Nothing I can’t handle, I’m sure.”

“No, you did rather well,” Draco murmurs, genuine under the banter.

Warm with fondness, Harry presses a kiss to his cheek before gesturing to the ballroom. “Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm. Draco smiles and tucks his hand securely in the crook of Harry’s elbow.

They are yet again subjected to stares that have not gotten any subtler and conversations that keep prodding at personal boundaries. But none of that matters because this time when Draco calls Harry “darling” he’s not holding anything back, and when Harry calls him “love” it’s because he wants to and not because he’s fulfilling a role.

-----

Harry steps through Draco’s Floo into his living room, letting the bright space settle the apprehension he’s been unable to shake off ever since he got Draco’s letter. He loves this room, with its neutral toned furniture interrupted with colorful cushions and throws. It suits Draco. The kitchen was more of a surprise. When he had first come here, about a week into their arrangement, Harry had been expecting modern fittings and a minimalist layout. Instead, Draco’s kitchen has exposed brick walls and buttery yellow cabinets. A honey oak table stretches through the length of the space and potted plants sit in the windowsills. Now that he knows Draco’s penchant for baking and how he likes to unwind by immersing himself in time-consuming recipes, Harry thinks nothing could suit Draco more.

“Malfoy?” Harry calls out. He’s Draco now, really, but only in the privacy of Harry’s head.

“Kitchen,” comes the answer.

“Hey,” Harry says, smiling a little at the sight of Draco in a cozy jumper bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. “Is this about the gala day after tomorrow? You think we should attend it?”

An uncertain look crosses Draco’s face before he takes a deep breath. Harry feels his smile slipping.

“Yes, I think it would be a good opportunity to meet a few people I’ve been hoping to talk with,” Draco hedges, and Harry can hear the “but” coming from a mile away. Sure enough, Draco continues. “But, I think we’ve done enough damage control, both in terms of everyone’s opinion of me and your situation with the press. I can’t keep pretending–”

He cuts himself off and presses his lips together, hands clutching the counter behind him. He’d look almost relaxed if it weren’t for the tension evident in his shoulders, his pronounced knuckles. Harry remembers kissing those knuckles, tipsy on champagne, and spinning Draco to some fast number.

“Right,” Harry says hoarsely, unable to formulate a response over the echo of “I can’t keep pretending” in his head, a mocking symphony.

He can’t think beyond the roiling in his gut and the ice pooling at the base of his spine. This was coming, it had always been coming, so why is he so surprised?

“So, that’s it then?” he asks, even though he knows the answer.

“Yes,” Draco says stiffly. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Harry nods woodenly. Manages a “You too,” before he turns and leaves.

-----

Harry hears the Floo flare from downstairs. A second later, Malfoy calls out, “Potter?”

“Yeah, up here, second floor,” Harry answers from his room, wrestling with the complicated tie – “It’a cravat, Potter, honestly” – Malfoy had him buy for the Ministry event they’re attending tonight, along with a whole new set of dress robes.

He hears an annoyed huff from near the doorway before Malfoy comes to stand behind him.

He meets Harry’s eyes through the mirror. “What on earth are you doing with that? Here, let me.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but starts to turn around. Malfoy stops him, holding onto his shoulders to make him face the mirror again.

“What are you doing?” Harry asks, steadfastly ignoring the quickening of his heartbeat at the brief contact.

Malfoy shrugs. “It’s easier this way,” he says, reaching around Harry’s chest to tie the cravat, the movement bringing him tantalisingly close to Harry.

Harry stays perfectly still, painfully aware of Malfoy’s proximity. He can feel Malfoy’s body heat, can smell his sweet vanilla scent – one tiny step backwards, and his body would be flush against Malfoy’s.

Harry closes his eyes briefly, swallowing forcefully. He opens his eyes and fixes them firmly on Malfoy’s hands in the mirror, competently manipulating the cravat with slender fingers.

Oh Merlin.

“There we go,” Malfoy tucks the cravat into Harry’s robes and smoothes his hands down Harry’s chest in a perfunctory fashion, making gooseflesh erupt all over Harry’s arms.

“Thanks,” Harry all but gasps, stepping quickly away from Malfoy, hoping he can’t see the furious blush on his cheeks. “Let’s get going then.”

It’s been a while since he’s had any good reason to attend a Ministry function, but Harry’s been to enough of them to detest the entire enterprise. He’d much rather make his donations from the safety and privacy of his own home, thank you very much. So it’s with no small amount of trepidation that Harry enters the ballroom with Malfoy on his arm.

People immediately take notice, the whispers spreading like wildfire. Harry can already feel a headache building.

“We knew they would stare – let them. I’ll do the talking, you try to look like you’re not being tortured,” Malfoy murmurs at his side, smiling charmingly at the guests they pass.

Despite himself, Harry snorts. “Who says I’m not?” he whispers back, feeling a pleasant jolt at the genuine grin Malfoy shoots him before he turns the charm back on.

As the night progresses, Harry has to admit, he’s not being tortured. It’s definitely not his idea of a fun time, but with Malfoy there, it’s at least tolerable. Each time the conversation starts heading towards Harry’s personal life, Malfoy subtly changes the topic with a well-placed enquiry.

“Would you get a glass of champagne for me, darling?” Malfoy asks, turning towards him a little, a private smile on his face. Harry’s breath hitches. The endearment is a new addition to their arrangement. But of course, it would only be natural for Malfoy to use one, especially where others could hear them.

“Sure, love,” Harry answers, not deciding to use an endearment of his own until he had already said it. Along with Malfoy’s champagne, he returns with a glass of Firewhiskey for himself, letting the spicy warmth settle his nerves.

They don’t stay for too long – Harry had been adamant on no more than an hour and a half and was surprised when Malfoy had agreed without any complaints.

“That wasn’t so bad actually,” Harry tells Malfoy as they walk towards a secluded part of the lawns to Apparate home. Their respective homes, obviously.

“Yes, it went quite well, I think,” Malfoy responds with a bright smile. “I was a little worried people might not buy us,” he gestures between them, “together, but they lapped it right up.”

Something cold and heavy sinks into Harry’s stomach, replacing the tentative warmth that was glowing through him not a minute ago. Of course. In between all the touching and the endearments and Malfoy’s surprisingly considerate nature, Harry had somehow managed to forget that this was all a show.

“Right,” Harry says, throat tight. “I think I’ll head home now, tiring night and all that.” He gives Malfoy the best approximation of a smile he can manage and Apparates away.

-----

They step out of the restaurant together, holding hands. The number of reporters camped outside had been steadily rising as Harry and Malfoy fed each other bites of food and exchanged fond looks — all carefully planned and executed of course.

The questions come hurtling at them from all sides, accompanied by bursts of camera flashes. Most of them are directed towards Harry.

"Mr. Potter, are you courting Draco Malfoy?"

"Mr. Potter, sir, did Ginevra Weasley leave you because you're interested in men?"

"Smile for the camera sir!"

“Was your relationship with Ms. Weasley a sham?”

Too much, it’s all far too much. Harry has never been good with dealing with the press, and he’s out of practice now. The flashes blind him and the questions echo oddly in his head. His chest burns with every sip of air he struggles to take.

He feels an arm snake around his waist, gripping firmly for a moment, before withdrawing to his upper back and rubbing faint circles between his shoulder blades. Malfoy steps forward, smoothly answering questions, appearing totally unruffled, while his hand continues to move over Harry's back. Harry isn't listening to a word of what Malfoy is saying. Instead, he focuses on Malfoy's hand on his back, letting the point of contact ground him, the repetitive movement soothing.

When they land on Harry's doorstep, Malfoy shoots him a curious look. His hand still rests on Harry's back — once he had answered all the questions he intended to, he'd neatly stepped back from the gaggle of reporters and Apparated them to Grimmauld right then and there.

Harry makes the mistake of looking at Malfoy. Caught up in his intense gaze and feeling a little discombobulated from the restaurant, Harry freezes. His mind is still stuck on the comfort of Malfoy’s hand on his back, of his solid grip on his waist, and his feelings are a tangled mess. Some of it must be showing on Harry’s face, because Malfoy’s expression changes and he turns more fully to Harry, the beginnings of a sentence on his lips.

Hot panic bursts in Harry’s chest. Hastily stepping away from Malfoy, he stumbles over his words. “I should, um– thanks for today, er, send me an Owl for next time,” he says, backing away towards his front door. He shuts the door before Malfoy has a chance to say anything, leaning against it for support.

-----

“It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement, Potter,” Malfoy insists.

Harry scoffs, turning back to stare at his tumbler of whiskey — the muggle variety. He rarely visits wizarding pubs now, not unless he wants to make the front page of the Prophet and every other godforsaken wizarding tabloid.

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Malfoy rolling his eyes.

“I know strategy hasn’t always been your strong suit, Potter, but do think for a minute. Ever since your break up with Ginevra Weasley, the media attention you receive has increased tenfold. You can’t even have a drink in peace, can you?”

Harry turns back to face Malfoy, raising a pointed brow. Disappointingly, Malfoy doesn’t take the bait.

“You want the media to stop hounding you about your love life and I want to not be undesirable number one,” he continues. “It’s a simple equation, Potter, put the two together and the solution is obvious.”

“And yet, you’re the only one who’s arrived at it,” Harry says flatly, ignoring the whisper of it could work, actually floating at the back of his head.

“Please, Potter, we both know who the smart one is in this relationship and it certainly isn’t you,” Draco says, smirking.

“I never actually agreed to this fake-dating nonsense, Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Malfoy deadpans. “It’s been, what, five months now since your relationship ended? The press isn’t going to stop any time soon. Not unless you do something about it.”

“Thrilling that you’ve been keeping count,” Harry mumbles into his glass before taking a healthy swig. Malfoy’s right and Harry knows it. He’s tried everything — polite non-answers, straightforward “no comments”, pointed silence, and even snarled insults to leave him the fuck alone. None of it worked. This might just be his only option. No, it is his only option.

Harry sighs heavily and turns to Malfoy. “You’re going to be really high-maintenance, aren’t you?”

Malfoy smiles, languid and satisfied. “You know it, darling.”

[gentlemancrow]

Ohh prompts! Maybe 21 and some shippy JonTim?

OK I know I agonized about this one but NO REALLY THANK YOU IT WAS GREAT <3! It was a GREAT exercise for writing in so many ways for me! Also I know the prompt "Maybe you should sit down" sort of implies getting bad news or something more than what popped into my brain, but this is what popped IMMEDIATELY into my brain so I went with it 83 Also again this is my first JonTim so be gentle with me uwu! Honestly it's my first time writing Tim in general for longer than one sentence so there's that too jfhlsajf XT Anyway enjoy!

Jon would have infinitely preferred to think of his bungled little excursion as a calculated risk that the whims of capricious probability had simply decided he had lost on that particular doomed occasion. What it truly was, however, was an infinitely predictable culmination of skipping his physio stretches for three mornings in a row, deciding a quick jaunt into the stacks to hunt for a statement to cross reference with the one he had been working on all morning did not, in fact, require the aid of his cane, and several cups of black tea on an empty stomach with their resultant caffeine jitters that had left him splayed and wobbling like a newborn fawn with one hand anchoring him in a vice grip to the handle of a file drawer. His bad leg ached in that special way it did that he knew all too well could be catastrophic if he moved it even slightly wrong, and set him back significantly on his physio progress. That oft repeated foible would also attract the ire and derision of literally every single person who knew him, never mind the physical therapists at the clinic, and he was very much not prepared to deal with that on top of everything else.

Lucky for him he wasn’t even supposed to be back at the institute in the first place, so no one would be looking for him, and he was reasonably assured that he would have plenty of time to figure out how to escape unscathed, or at least enough to hide a suspicious limp for a day or two. Unlucky for him, probability it seemed, also liked to double down.

“Alright there, boss man?”

Tim’s jovial voice echoed through the file cabinets like the worst song on the juke at the pub out of all of the hundreds of better selections just as Jon was preparing to gingerly move his spasmodic leg. He sighed and closed his eyes bitterly.

“Oh, yes, just fine, just dangling precariously from this file cabinet to try out a new stretch, it’s called the ‘mind your own business’,” he growled.

Tim chuckled, the echoes of it raising pinprick hackles of irritation on the back of Jon’s neck as he emerged from the shadows, hands on his hips and wry, crooked grin on his scarred face.

“Maybe you should sit down.”

“And pray tell where, Timothy?” Jon snapped in a low growl.

Tim made a low whistle.

“Yikes! Busting out the -othy today? You must be in a bad way.”

“You think so? Whatever gave you that brilliant idea?” Jon drawled, rolling his eyes, “Are you going to stand there gawking and making me feel even more like an invalid or are you going to deign to render me aid?”

“I think I can spare a moment, just for you,” came the predictably smug retort, “What exactly would you like me to do?”

“I just need to sit a moment and massage it out, so fetching a chair from somewhere ought to suffice.”

Tim pondered the request as he strolled to Jon’s side, chewing his lower lip pensively.

“Well, I could do that for you, but seeing as you’re not actually supposed to be here yet I am a little concerned that dragging a chair randomly down to the archives would attract… unwanted attention? You know Martin would have a conniption.”

Sighing heavily, Jon pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

“Good point.”

“How about my lap then?” Tim continued without missing a beat.

Jon choked on his own tongue as the tips of his ears burned like cinders.

“TIM! Is this really, truly, and honestly the appropriate moment to be… making a pass at me?”

Unfazed, Tim pressed a dramatic hand over his heart.

“Jon, I’m wounded! Ordinarily I’d be deeply offended you’d think my flirting skills so inelegant and crass, but I was actually being sincere this time.”

A dark brow slid skeptically, pointedly up Jon’s forehead.

“Beg pardon, but how could that possibly have ever, in any situation, been construed as sincere?”

“Well, we’ve determined a chair is too risky, the floor isn’t going to do you any favors, and I know you won’t let me carry you back to your office, so I won’t even bother to ask, so where does that leave us, hmmm? Plus, if you recall, I had much the same physio you did, I know the massages and the stretches, I can have you patched up and out of here in no time,” Tim elaborated, counting off on his fingers.

Jon hated it when anyone other than him was making the most sense in the conversation, and he gnashed his teeth and growled his begrudging acquiescence.

“…Fine.”

“Brilliant. Alright to touch?” Tim asked brightly, hands hovering a respectful few inches from Jon’s hand and shoulders.

Eyes narrowing to smoldering brown slits, the last embers of a dying fire, Jon made him wait a few moments for the wordless nod of approval.

“Okay, just taking your hand there, my other hand’s got your other arm, and easy does it…”

With surprising finesse and gentleness, Tim took Jon’s hand and eased him onto the ground with him and into his lap, taking great care to keep his seized-up leg straight and comfortable. Jon melded against his assistant, looping his arms loosely around Tim’s waist while he tipped his head against his shoulder and let his twisted-up bones and sinew go slack against the radiantly warm aegis of him. His shirt was screamingly loud and his hair was freshly pink and he always smelled crisp and free and wild, like a sea breeze on a sun-soaked twilight. Jon liked the way he smelled, and the self-assured posture of his broad shoulders and the heartening solidness of a body meant to be shirtless as often as possible holding him so secure in the humming powerlines of his care. Just to be touched was a visceral melody of nerve endings and synapses, to be touched by him was a blinding symphony of electric light and sound perfectly in tune to the aria of his core where so few dared to go.

“Not so awful right?” Tim teased, squeezing his affected knee with care.

“Get on with it, Stoker,” Jon murmured languidly into the crook of his neck.

“Ohoh, last name now. I’m on real thin ice, aren’t I?” he chortled in reply, pads of his fingers feeling out the ridge of a patella and skating down his calf.

Jon winced, opening one eye to glance guiltily up at the ever-chipper mien of Tim.

“I-“ he stuttered, his protest melting into a sigh, “No, you’re not. I’m sorry. You’re being helpful and I’m being an ass.”

“Mmm, that’s a smidge hyperbolic. You’re being snappish because you got caught being naughty, and you’re in pain, and you also got caught being in pain, which is probably the worst offense out of all of them.”

“I suppose…” Jon conceded, closing his eye and letting his body go slack again.

“Okay to roll your cuff up? Or would you prefer trouser leg down?”

“You can roll it up, I don’t mind.”

Tim promptly, neatly, folded the cuff of Jon’s trousers up only to just above the knee, baring the cratered mares of his leg. His fingers felt them out, felt the places where the worms bored holes in him that had forgotten which way to mend and pulled and tugged in a confused riot of fibrous muscle and scar tissue, and rolled through them with slow, deliberate tenderness. Jon hissed softly in pain, but Tim’s fingers knew the weft and trail of his muscles, and he squeezed and massaged and tilled them with expert care. Unhurriedly, painstakingly, Jon’s knee unlocked, and it bowed gratefully outward with the sigh of relief into a Hawaiian print collar.

“You’re allowed to hurt you know,” Tim whispered at length, fingers just stroking idly now.

“Everyone’s allowed to hurt,” Jon replied automatically, “It’s only that those of us who can bear it have the duty to do so for those who can’t.”

Tim chewed his lip in the wake of that, weighing his feelings against his words carefully.

“And what god decides who is who?”

Only silence from the clinging, boneless and wounded creature in his lap.

“I’m just saying. I was right there with you, the same thing happened to me, so maybe share a little of this one, hmm?” he tried again, nudging at Jon’s temple with the tip of his nose, letting the silvered chestnut hairs tickle.

The strings of Jon’s body wound taut again around Tim’s fingers still tracing blind patterns on his shin, and he glanced up, daring to ensnare his irises only for a moment.

“I’ll try.”

A soft, breathless laugh whisked past Tim’s lips as he shook his head fondly.

“I guess that’s the best I’m going to get out of the high and mighty head archivist,” he huffed, “But I’ll take it. Now, where can I kiss it all better for you?”

It took Jon a full cycle of pouting, scowling, and digging vengeful fingers into Tim’s back before he could conjure an answer.

“Forehead, please.”

“You got it.”

Jon ducked his head to receive Tim’s lips pressed against his creased brow, and while he knew he bore a burden too great to be carried away with velvet kisses and frank words, for a moment at least he could feel just a bit lighter.

[jessicanjpa]

Can you do me a favor and just list some of your favorite Edward headcanons? Maybe one with each member of the fam? I'm in a mood.

I don’t know why this took me so long! I couldn’t decide on the tone I wanted. In the end I decided to stick with happy. Enjoy!

Once Carlisle learned that Edward had played the piano as a human, he literally ran right out the door and bought a piano. (This may have actually been the first time he left Edward alone, so it was a bit nerve-wracking for both of them.) Since it was too risky to have a human come deliver it, he had it delivered to a sham address and carried it the rest of the way home when no one was looking. Edward was grateful, but he was afraid to try his new piano because he had already broken several things around the house accidentally. He didn’t trust his strength. The piano sat there unused day after day, week after week. But one time when Carlisle had gone out to get a few quick errands done, Edward finally inched over to the piano and c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y tried it out. When Carlisle got home that afternoon, he was overjoyed when Edward surprised him with a song. It was the first time Carlisle had ever heard music in any of his houses. In the months that followed, whenever Carlisle was on his way home, Edward would always be sure to sit down and play so Carlisle could hear the music welcoming him home.

 Edward and Emmett once surprised Rosalie with a 1925 Rolls-Royce Phantom I (this pic, this chapter).They actually found it in a junkyard—it had been totaled in an accident and a lot of parts were missing and there was a lot of rust, but it was salvageable. Rosalie had a blast working on it. She was already something of an expert on auto maintenance but this was the first time she’d actually gotten to restore a seriously damaged car to its former glory. Edward was in love with the car as well (he had wanted it back in the day but Carlisle wouldn’t let him get it), and they actually worked together on it quite a bit. It was glorious when it was finished. But the first time Rosalie lived away from the family to play married couple with Emmett, she sold it. She and Emmett had somehow managed to get into debt and they needed the money. Edward was furious, or more accurately heartbroken. He loved that car, and although he would never admit it, working with Rosalie on it so long had been really special. Years later, when he was down in the dumps about something or other, Rosalie managed to trace the buyers and bought the Phantom back to surprise Edward with it. At first he thought it was just a random Phantom but when he looked under the hood, he realized with a shriek that it was the same one. She was all “It’s nothing—” but he grabbed her and spun her around and they took a long drive together and reminisced. That was a good day.

 Before Jasper came along, Edward was Emmett’s de facto assistant in modifying sports equipment for vampire use. During their world travels in the early ’40s, they got really interested in soccer for the first time. The challenge was a tough one: how to make the ball still usable without it being light enough to fly out of state every time someone kicked it. They didn’t have a permanent home at the time, so they rented a big warehouse and like… filled it with soccer balls and all sorts of research equipment and materials so they could keep experimenting without a break. Rosalie didn’t see either of them for nearly two weeks because they barricaded themselves inside the warehouse. In the end, they had to burn down the whole operation because they would never be able to explain away the hundreds of ball-shaped indentations scattered along the walls and ceiling. That and the 4,327 deflated, incinerated, melted, and generally deformed soccer balls inside.

 Alice was feeling a little depressed on October 5, 1957. For the first time (not counting the false start in Calgary), she was going to high school with Rosalie, Emmett, and Edward. She was so looking forward to making human friends and participating in human rituals and laughing at human jokes… and it all came to nothing. She was especially bad at playing human in these early years, and the harder she tried, the more her peers backed away. She’d also had no idea how boring school could be. And after the first few weeks, Rosalie was grumpy and had no patience for Alice’s attempts at enthusiasm. Alice just felt really let down; going to school, with Rosalie especially, was one of those things she had been looking forward to during her years of waiting. But it was turning out to be a flop. So Edward decided to do something to cheer her up. He bit the bullet and suggested they join an after-school club together. Alice perked up right away and dragged him over to the big bulletin board that held all the information about the various clubs. In the end, they never found one to stick with, but they had a good time trying out the possibilities. Edward enjoyed glee the most and Alice’s favorite was art club. They always felt isolated from their human peers, but at least they had each other.

 I think I’ve written about this before, but Jasper really loves to be near Edward when he’s playing piano. The whole family enjoys the music, but Jasper can feel this sort of… emotional symphony when Edward plays. There’s a predictable “journey” that he feels with each of Edward’s favorite pieces, so for certain ones Jasper will come downstairs whenever he hears Edward start playing. He’ll bring his book or whatever hobby he’s working on, or he’ll just sit there on the carpet and close his eyes, letting Edward’s deep concentration carry him along. The stakes are higher when Edward is composing; the emotional high when a new phrase writes itself is incredible, but there’s always a risk of frustration and sudden anger at any given moment. Jasper sticks to him like glue if the muse is flowing, but he’s got one eye on the nearest exit. Still, Edward knows what to play when Jasper is having a bad day.

 Edward wrote Esme’s favorite song (the one mentioned in Midnight Sun) in 1978. He was tinkering with another composition, feeling a little stuck, when he got distracted by a cute little moment between Carlisle and Esme upstairs. Carlisle was in his office, working at his desk, and Esme was hanging up one of her paintings on the opposite wall. It was one of those “a little to the left, no MY left, wait now a little to the right” moments, and it ended with Carlisle reaching around Esme with both arms to “help” her adjust the painting. There was just something about the domesticity of that moment and how Esme was hanging her painting just inches from one of those horrid vampire paintings that Carlisle insisted on keeping around, and the way it dissolved into dorky teasing and hair kisses and snorted laughter… Edward was just struck by the beauty of the love that Carlisle and Esme shared. He thought about how that love was carrying the whole family through what otherwise could have been a dark, monotonous eternity. His fingers shifted keys without his even thinking about it, and the song was born.