#i love writing them......my muses

[gaysparkler]

And yet I quickly might arrive / Where my extended soul is fixt

Early romance moment... Read on AO3 Title from Andrew Marvell's "The Definition of Love"

There was a small, shy knock at Pénthos’ door—and had they been doing anything other than staring mindlessly at the fish swimming on the other side of their window, they would have missed it. They didn’t doubt the magical nature of the Fade, but was their room somehow submerged underwater, or was this an illusion that would end and begin again, in a loop?

“Come in,” they replied eventually, not leaving their contemplation, hoping to catch the loop. Or—prove that the room was underwater. Somehow.

“Hello, neighbour,” Emmrich’s voice rang behind them. Pénthos couldn’t help but to turn around at the sound of it, a smile already on their lips.

“Emmrich!”

Pénthos stood from their couch to meet him halfway, though the nervous flutters of early romance kept them from reaching for him, so they left a small distance between them. Face flushed, they turned their attention back to the large window.

“You’re the Fade expert,” they said, bumping into Emmrich’s shoulder as they walked back to the couch. “Do you think we’re actually underwater?”

They sat down next to each other, legs almost touching. Emmrich brushed imaginary dust from his thighs as he settled; Pénthos crossed theirs.

“I would not discredit it entirely—the Fade works in mysterious ways, to be cliché about it. I suppose we’d need to test it, somehow. However,” he chuckled, “I would not recommend it.”

They smiled. “And that’s your professional opinion?”

“As professional as it will get.” Then it was Emmrich’s turn to lean on them playfully. “Which possibility would you prefer?”

Pénthos blinked up at him. “Preference doesn’t seem very scientific.”

“Not everything has to be. The Lighthouse is a marvellously impossible place. Science need not apply. Maybe this room was even shaped by what lies in your heart.”

Emmrich’s smile was warm and kind. Eager. Pénthos ducked their head forward and bit their bottom lip as they felt their heart skip a beat.

“I think…I’d like to believe we’re truly underwater. And…the light reminds me of the green flames of the Necropolis,” Pénthos said quietly. “I hadn’t been back until we met.”

Emmrich leaned ever closer to them. “Do you miss it?”

“You said you envied me for my travels, but…Emmrich, I miss it terribly. There’s something…comforting, simple, about a Watcher’s purpose. When I left the Necropolis, I felt like I arrived in a world that didn’t understand the very being that I was.”

Pénthos would never be able to get a number of things out of their mind from their travels, but what haunted them was the way so many people looked at his facial tattoos and pointed ears, the constant and literal demonization of spirits, the misunderstanding of their gender expression. The world outside the Necropolis felt so…hostile and determined to reject what it did not understand.

Emmrich sought out their hand; Pénthos laced their fingers together.

“I cannot imagine what that must be like,” he said, compassion written across his features. Pénthos gave him a small, defeated smile, and a shrug of their shoulders. After a moment, they looked back to him through the curtain of their hair partially hiding their face, spying the fond look in his eyes. They straightened up and cleared their throat.

“You’ve only seen the window—can I give you a tour? You were kind enough to show me around the lab.”

He softly gasped, “I would love to!”

Their hands still linked, Pénthos walked Emmrich around the room and pointed out their scant personal items strewn here and there: the Ever-Turning Orb, their final project made during their magical training, still perfectly tuned though it had been created over a decade ago, the (probably counterfeit) elven scroll a peddler rewarded them with after saving his caravan—when Emmrich asked about provenance, what was written across the parchment, Pénthos had no answer, which only served to confirm its false nature, but they were attached to it at this point—the mirror Varric had given them what felt like ages ago, and—

Pénthos did not doubt that Emmrich was interested in everything they had been showing him, but the urn of Baron von Markham did get more of a reaction than anything else.

“The leader of the undead rebellion?” he exclaimed. “You have his urn?”

They feigned nonchalance, though they knew how rare it was for remains to ever make it out of Nevarra. Kind of like Watchers, they figured.

“I suppose Myrna thought it would be a good reminder. To not act so…rashly.”

“Oh, I do believe the reaction was disproportionate. What disorganization this uprising would have caused! And to think of the paperwork…”

They couldn’t help but laugh—of course that’s what Emmrich would be worried about; not the destruction of the undead, not the possibility of corpses invading Nevarra, but paperwork. Ever the pragmatic.

“An ungodly amount, to be sure. I hesitate to even imagine,” Pénthos chuckled, before concluding the tour with a sweeping motion of their free arm: “And here we are! You’ve seen it all.”

“You don’t have a bed?”

They indicated at the green couch in front of the meditation altar while Emmrich settled his hands on their waist.

“This is enough,” they replied. Not like they got a lot of sleep lately, anyway.

“Well, it’s not quite—”

“Emmrich.” Pénthos tapped against Emmrich’s chest, right under his skull collar pin. “The only thing I’ve seen in your laboratory is a slab for bodies.”

Emmrich made the face characteristic of every time Pénthos had flirted with him: raised eyebrows, a slight widening of the eyes—though the teasing smile was new since their talk by the balcony.

“You make a compelling argument.”

Pénthos shuffled closer until they were squarely in Emmrich’s arm, a proper embrace. Partly because they relinquished that closeness, and partly to hide the blush creeping on their face due to the praise.

“Thank you for visiting,” they said, still hidden. “I was—getting in my head. No good usually comes from that.”

Emmrich hummed, “I rather like your thoughts, my dear.”

He leaned back slightly to grasp Pénthos’ chin, his gold bangles clinking delicately with his movement, and angled their head up so their eyes would meet. They could feel their cheeks still warm and their heart fluttering, but did not dare fight Emmrich’s gentle direction, not when they saw the smitten smile on his face.

“You’ll come back?” they asked, hopeful.

“As long as you’ll have me,” Emmrich replied, and Pénthos dived right back in the embrace.

[deoidesign]

Thinking about vampires, death, life, and the space they occupy in between

[whaliiwatching]

the flower (reprise)

[justwriting]

THK Musing of Kant and Bison relationship so far (Ep 1 & 2)

I can’t stop thinking about this especially after I find out that there is a more accurate translation of what Kant said to Bison when he was trying to teach the latter how to bowl (from ep 1)

Source: link (the screenshot is from this link!!!)

Because oh, the 🐈‍⬛ & 🐭 teasing we see after the above scene gives such nuances beyond just Kant flirting and Bison playing hard to get (and also wary with Kant's motive).

The now infamous red room scene - we have Kant doing that little pat on the pillow, it’s a gesture of Kant being dominant (and he strikes me as someone who has always been in control, except when he had to obey Captain Chris, where he was basically coerced into doing the spying for his younger brother sake🫣)

Which led to Bison’s almost incredulous smile even as he felt instant attraction to the gorgeous guy he just met at the bowling alley.

Because Bison himself has never yielded to anyone, apart from Fadel (and he is already testing his boundaries with his older brother) and likely "Khun Mae."

We see the dynamics between these 2 established after that with Kant keeps trying to reigning some sort of command on Bison but Bison resisting, all undertone by them flirting like crazy (heh) (either Bison reminding Kant that he is still his own person or him positioning himself higher than Kant)

Even when Kant has the slight upper hand (because he is just physically taller than Kant), Bison is quick to deny him (like the toilet scene)

Or the garden scene (where again, Bison's is sitting higher than Kant, plus that chin gesture - it may look sweet, but it's a reminder to Kant that Bison remains in control)

Followed by the bowling scene (where Kant was quick to remind he allowed Bison to win)

Bison was then quick to counteract by challenging Kant to prove himself devoted to him by dancing together. The slip up of Kant's mask while Bison sharply observing that change in his face 🧐

And oh, that dance no!!!!

Everyone should take note not only the lyrics (which reflects Bison's heart and mind warring with each other - how clever of P' Jojo), but also the dance itself - I had to watch it several times to notice the first few sequences were the boys dancing on opposite directions (although still complimentary), but as they converged, the boys start to become in sync and came together at the end

I might be alone in this, but I think it was only after that dance Bison realised Kant can yield some of the control and meet him halfway, which then led to himself relenting and giving those sweet pecks on Kant's cheeks/lips.

Anyway, it will be interesting to see their tug of war power balance continues because as the preview in episode 3 shows, Kant continues to push but Bison does the same and refuses to bow down (I suspect Kant will end up liking the loss of some of his autonomy to Bison, at least in the bedroom anyway)

[bonnie-toyour-clyde]

later seasons Sam slamming Dean against the wall and his back cracks and he moans so loud and obscene Sam’s all cocky like “damn, already?” and Dean’s just like “no man my backs been killing me all week and you just popped it, fuck, don’t stop”

[twistedappletree]

Arranged marriage zhuiling AU where instead of being arranged to marry each other, Jiang Cheng keeps trying to set Jin Ling up with random girls from other clans after Jin Ling mentions he’s interested in marrying ‘someone’ because he doesn’t know Jin Ling meant Lan Sizhui, so Jin Ling keeps doing the most ridiculously annoying and unappealing things to scare off every girl who comes to Koi Tower and Jiang Cheng is ripping his hair out because you little brat, you said you wanted to get married???

Eventually, both of them are so exhausted from the miscommunication that Jiang Cheng investigates and finally finds out what’s wrong, then tells Jin Ling he has one more potential spouse for him to meet. Jin Ling is a pouting lackluster mess over it until his entire world stops when the doors to Koi Tower open and Lan Sizhui walks through.

[dogpawsswapgod]

my new thing is writing very erotic CaitVi scenes where nothing sexual is happening it all. it's surprisingly easy, esp if one or both of them are mildly or severely injured.

like, check this out

see? easy.

[mappingthesky]

planymphia wives honeymoon cutesy fluffy and overwhelmingly emotional drabble pleaseee

take my hand (take my whole life, too)

or: it’s their first week of being married - jane can’t stop referring to nymphia as ‘my wife’, nymphia can’t stop crying, and no one has ever been more in love in all of time.

Jane wakes up when Nymphia rolls over and flings a heavy arm across her torso in sleep.

Jane’s eyes flutter. Sunlight threatens to spill in from the other side of the heavy hotel room curtains all too soon. She’s only half conscious, and her eyes are still a little blurry with last night’s wine, and she’s content to drift back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle brush of Nymphia’s fingertips down her sternum, but then-

A little gasp, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god.”

“Mmwhat?” Nymphia mumbles, her eyes still closed as Jane grabs for her hand. Again, when her wrist is nearly pulled from the rest of her arm. “What?”

“Nymphia,” Jane whispers, but it’s thin, because she’s smiling. Nymphia can barely make it out through the dim light of the room and the sleep that clouds her vision, but she knows it just the same. She would recognize that smile by the sound of Jane’s words spoken through it, by the feeling of her soft gaze upon her. She would know it anywhere - even in the dark.

“We got married.”

Nymphia’s eyes blink open and look over at Jane. She’s on her back, holding Nymphia’s hand up to the light. She turns it over carefully, fingertips against her open palm, thumb tracing over the silver band on Nymphia’s ring finger. A diamond glitters in the dark.

“I know,” Nymphia grumbles, still half-asleep, still unwilling to be awoken for anything at all. “Spent eight months planning it, ’member?”

It was longer than that. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of planning, of Nymphia ironing out every last detail, Jane somehow even more stressed than she was, because she’d wanted it all to be perfect. For her.

(“You have a say, too,” Nymphia had reminded her on more than one occasion. “This day is about the both of us.”

“I know, baby,” Jane said, that spot between her brows that creases when she thinks too hard momentarily relaxing as she kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “But it’s really about you. Everything is about you.”)

Jane pulls Nymphia’s hand closer, studies it for a long while. Nymphia’s eyes are just closing again when Jane presses a kiss to her ring finger, then to her palm, more kisses up the inside of her wrist, the length of her arm, up her shoulder. Nymphia whines.

It comes back to her slowly as Jane coaxes her from her sleep, the only one she’d ever allow. Their night. It was everything they ever could have asked for, more than that. Their friends lining the aisle, swearing that they knew this day would come, arguing over who had really called it first. Jane, who had sworn she wouldn’t cry, who had warned Nymphia not to be worried if she didn’t, dissolving into tears the moment Nymphia emerged in all white. Nymphia, unsurprisingly to everyone, openly sobbing for half of the night, dabbing a tissue underneath her damp eyes at the dinner table. They’d had two glasses of champagne each, and nothing else.  They’d promised, because they wanted to remember this: the toasts, the dancing, each other, every moment.

Nymphia is beaming by the time Jane kisses her shoulder blade, eliciting a hum.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Jane murmurs, brushing a dark strand of hair back to kiss Nymphia’s ear.

A smile splits through Nymphia’s sleep, eyes still closed as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, deeper into Jane. “It was perfect.”

Jane kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “What was your favorite part?”

“Mmm,” Nymphia hums, because how could she ever pick just one shining moment to stand out among the rest? How could she even begin to split the single most incandescent day of her life into segments? 

“The part where we went home,” Nymphia says, and Jane is pulling her closer. “The part where we went to bed and you let me sleep in.”

“Can’t let you sleep in,” Jane says, chin coming to rest on the crown of Nymphia’s head where it comes to press against her chest. “Too in love with you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, basking in the warmth of last night as it rolls over to this morning.

“Wanna know my favorite part?” Jane asks, and Nymphia can feel the soft reverberation of her voice through her skin. “The part where we wake up and I get to say that you’re my wife.”

Nymphia can’t help but laugh at the sentiment. “This part?” she says, finally tilting her head up to look at Jane. She’s never gotten used to this - Jane looking at her every day like she’s still shiny and new. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

“Yeah. This part,” Jane beams, one hand coming to cradle Nymphia’s cheek as she smiles. “You’re my wife.”

“This part’s pretty good,” Nymphia stares into Jane, belly burning with butterflies, a love bigger and brighter than she ever thought was possible. “Say it again.”

Jane grins and brings her lips to Nymphia’s, kisses her with a lifetime of devotion. She pulls away, and there’s forever in her eyes. 

“You’re my wife,” Jane smiles. “And I’m yours.”

-

Jane doesn’t travel well.

She puts her packing off until the last possible minute and grumbles all the way to the airport. Nymphia can’t be upset though, because Jane ‘my wife’s’ Nymphia at every possible opportunity - she does it to the disgruntled employee who checks their bags, and the TSA agent who checks their passports, and the barista who makes their coffees while they’re killing time at their terminal. Nymphia rolls her eyes every time, but she’s smiling too, and can’t stop examining the sparkle on her left hand ring finger. 

Jane goes so anxious on the plane that Nymphia has to hold her hand through the takeoff. She doesn’t let go until thirty minutes into the flight, when Jane is finally distracted enough to drop her shoulders and stop thinking about the miniscule possibility that they go plummeting to the ground.

Eventually, they settle in. It’s a long flight, nearly twenty hours, and they shelled out on first class for the occasion. Nymphia’s got the window seat (partly because Jane knows she likes to look out the window, and partly because she can’t stomach seeing the ocean several thousand feet beneath them), and Jane wastes no time getting comfortable. 

(“It’s for my wife,” Jane tells the stewardess when she requests an extra blanket. “She runs cold.” 

Nymphia stares up from her book just long enough to swat Jane’s arm, muttering “that’s not even true.”

“I know,” Jane shrugs. “Just wanted to see what playing the wife card could get me.”

“Careful,” Nymphia warns. “You’re gonna wear it out.”

“What, calling you my wife?” Jane grins. “Baby, that’s never gonna get old.”)

They’re curled up together, alternating between books and movies and laughing at odd little happenings around them. Jane scoffs at shitty jokes on the screen, and Nymphia leans over to read her passages from her book, and Jane hums like she’s listening, but really she’s just admiring Nymphia in her comfy clothes, dark hair pulled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She likes her the best like this.

At the end of her movie, Jane glances over at Nymphia. “Are you excited?”

She thinks she knows what the answer will be, but she’s asking anyway, because she wants it to be perfect - their honeymoon, their first trip together as a married couple, their first foray into the rest of their lives together. They’d debated on a destination for weeks on end. They’d considered a roadtrip across America (too pedestrian - they’ll save that one for another summer), or a week in Vegas where they’d get married again in some cheap chapel (too cliche - they’ll save it for their vow renewals). They’d debated on whether or not to book a room in the most luxurious resort they could find in Thailand, but had settled on a cozy beachside bungalow instead. Jane thought Nymphia would like that the best, knew she would too, because she’d be happy if Nymphia was.

It’s funny how someone can change you so completely and entirely, how they can bring out the best part of you that was waiting to be discovered. Before Nymphia, Jane had always put herself first, even at the expense of others. She was content like that, and then she met Nymphia, and the center of her universe shifted outside of herself. For the first time it wasn’t a chore to care for someone else, and Jane was better because of it. 

“For the honeymoon?” Nymphia asks, folding her book in her lap. She looks down at Jane all nestled in her blankets, hoodie pulled over her blonde hair, and can’t help but smile. 

Nymphia had always been a hopeless romantic, all too eager to hand her heart over to the wrong person. She was a tender thing then, bruising easily in careless hands, burning through her own wells of hope faster than she could replenish them, and after the almost-great-loves of her young adulthood, she felt like she’d been cored. Having her heart handed back to her so unrequitedly time after time, she’d thought she’d been selfish to want a love as big as her own, to expect anyone to be able to return what she gave to them. She’d stopped dreaming of it altogether, and then she’d met Jane. Jane, who reveres her like the Earth reveres the Sun, who worships the ground that she walks on, who straightened out every desire Nymphia had crumpled up inside of herself and gave her more than she could ever dare ask for. 

Now, Nymphia knows she can be selfish. She looks over at Jane and thinks that she wants this for all time - all of Jane, all to herself. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m so excited.” Nymphia reaches over to take Jane’s hand. “Jus’ wanna spend time with you.”

“Good,” Jane smiles, “me too.” She tilts her head up, puckers her lips in a silent request for a kiss, and Nymphia obliges.

-

The plane starts its descent several long hours after they’ve woken up, and Nymphia is grabbing Jane’s hand before she even has to ask, because she knows she hates this part the most. Jane sucks air through her teeth as the last bit of turbulence rocks the plane, and Nymphia rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand. As soon as they hit the tarmac, Jane snaps back into place, blocking the whole aisle just to get Nymphia’s carry-on out of the overhead compartment.

“Sorry,” Jane says over her shoulder to a disgruntled passenger. “My wife. She’s pregnant.”

“Jane,” Nymphia hisses through her teeth. “You of all people should know I’m not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” Jane kisses her shoulder before they maneuver down the aisle. “But when I’m through with you…”

Nymphia scoffs, smiling into the air, because she knows it’s impossible, but if anyone’s love could defy the laws of science, it would be theirs.

-

Despite their sleep on the plane, Jane and Nymphia are so impossibly jetlagged, and the car ride to the bungalow is a delirious haze. Determined to push through the rest of the day, they tumble out of their room and onto the tree-lined streets, perusing the local offerings and getting dinner while they speak to each other in exhausted, two-word sentences that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s all they need.

And then they’re out under the sky, wandering in this beautiful place with blue-green water that laps in whispering waves over the sandy beach, and Nymphia has never looked so beautiful to Jane as she does under the moonlight. 

She’s running up the beach, shrieking as the water splashes at her feet, or when Jane chases her up the shore and catches her, spinning her around and pressing crazed kisses against her hairline. Nymphia is laughing, and then her cheeks are wet with tears, and Jane is wiping underneath her eyes.

“Hey,” Jane says, pushing Nymphia’s hair behind her ears, a careful concern crossing her face. “Why tears?”

“I’m just so happy,” Nymphia blubbers, smiling through the silver-wet stars in her eyes, because it’s all been such a beautiful blur, and it hasn’t hit her until right now that this is the rest of her life. “I can’t believe we get to do this forever.”

“God, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jane smiles. “Here I was thinking you stepped on a sea urchin. Or you got stung by a jellyfish. And I’d have to pee on your leg or something. Wouldn’t that be a great start to our honeymoon?”

“Shut up,” Nymphia sobs. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“M’sorry, my love,” Jane coos, wiping another tear from Nymphia’s face. “You’re the most sentimental girl alive, you know I can’t keep up with that.”

Nymphia just laughs, because yes, she’s endlessly sentimental, but, secretly, so is Jane. She still remembers the first time she’d opened a card from Jane and was met with pages filled almost entirely with ink, letters squished together to make room for as many as possible, words winding around whatever tacky quote was stamped in the middle. Jane had a way with words, despite whatever she’d tell you otherwise, and never ceased to amaze Nymphia with the sincerity she seemed to save just for her. 

(It crosses Nymphia’s mind then what her favorite part of the wedding really was - when Jane had recited her vows from memory in front of all their family and friends, had taken those impossibly beautiful things that were usually relinquished to their most intimate moments and had loved Nymphia enough to profess it in front of everyone. Not that they didn’t know already. You can’t hide a love as enormous as this one.)

“You keep up just fine,” Nymphia says softly, resting her cheek against Jane’s hand. She swears Jane’s eyes go misty just before she kisses her right there on the sand, beneath the stars, beneath the universe that brought them together.

-

Nymphia smiles when Jane crawls into bed. She’s in a gray crewneck that’s cut across her shoulders, and she’s propped up against fluffy pillows, and Jane is pushing the book out of her hands.

“Dinner was perfect,” Jane kisses her cheek before slipping into bed beside Nymphia. “But is it bad that I just wanted to get back to the room?”

“It’s terrible,” Nymphia turns over, slotting her back against Jane’s chest. “Is this the part where we get old and boring?”

“Yes,” Jane envelops Nymphia in her hold, fits against her in the way they’re going to for the rest of their lives, slides a hand down the length of her torso and up the inside of her thigh. 

“Not even gonna call you a whore or anything,” Jane kisses her ear. One hand cups Nymphia’s breast, the other dips between her legs. “Just gonna fuck you good and tell you how much I love you.”

“So boring,” Nymphia sighs, already melting away.

“So boring.”

(It’s not boring at all.)

-

Now that it’s hit Nymphia, she can’t stop crying every time the sheer enormity of it washes over her.

She’s always been emotional, but sometimes there’s a delay. Her life moves so fast, always swept up in the current of whatever dream she’s chasing, and sometimes it isn’t until she has a second to slow down that she realizes just how special every fleeting moment has been.

It’s been a whole week of being married, of wandering through villages and long hikes up mountain sides and afternoons spent sunning on the shore, of dawns and dinners and keeping a distance from the rest of the world as they know it. Now, Nymphia is sitting in a hammock at the edge of the beach, and she’s looking out over the water, and she’s basking in the overwhelming perfection of this moment. It’s something out of a dream, the sort of thing she’d long thought would be impossible for her to experience, and she can’t help but want to slow it all down, to draw out every precious moment long enough to memorize them, to make them last forever.

She’s sniffling just a bit when Jane finally finds her. She slides into place beside her, knees tucked into her chest, and stares quietly at the last of the sun as it sets over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” Jane murmurs, and it’s about the sunset, but it’s about Nymphia too. She presses a soft kiss to Nymphia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to end,” Nymphia sighs, unwilling to look away from the heaven that’s in front of her. They still have another day of this, one more perfect day at the edge of reality, and then they’ll be packing their things, leaving the quiet paradise of their bungalow and flying home. Back to work, back to their crazy, stupid friends, back to the never-ending rush and whirr of the city.

It’s not just that Nymphia doesn’t want the honeymoon to end. She doesn’t want this to end: her and Jane, so head-spinningly in love that nothing else matters, so finely attuned to one another, so freshly devoted to making it last. Nymphia wants so desperately to do it right, for their love to outlive that of either of their parents, for them to see all of their promises through for years to come. The possibility that they can’t pull it off is mind-numbingly terrifying, but the possibility that they can…

It’s an impossible promise to make to one another, and yet they’ve already done it. 

Nymphia sighs, mind swirling, and Jane somehow knows exactly what she means when she says, “what do we do now?”

Jane goes quiet for a moment, staring out over everything she’s ever wanted, and does her best to be brave for Nymphia.

“We sit out here until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open, and then I’ll take you to bed,” Jane says softly. “And then we have one more beautiful day, okay?”

“Okay,” Nymphia says, chewing on her cheek, still unable to look away from the landscape should it all disappear on her. “And then what?”

“And then we go home,” Jane looks over at Nymphia. “We go back to our house. And I’ll take you to work every morning, and then I’ll come home and be pissed about something, probably, and you’ll roll your eyes and tell me to shut up and I will, because I love you and, y’know, I generally think you’re right about everything. And we’ll have our stupid friends over and show them a billion pictures from our trip and kick them out so we can watch Project Runway and fuck. How does that sound?”

Nymphia giggles, and when she finally tears her gaze away from the beach, she realizes there’s another heaven right beside her, one that she gets to take home. And home, their home, the one with the fat cat and the mismatched furniture and their pictures all over the wall, that's another heaven too. Suddenly, the trip being over doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Nymphia is almost looking forward to it.

“Are you scared?” Jane ventures softly, searching Nymphia’s face carefully. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Only a little,” Nymphia mumbles, voice wavering, eyes watering. 

“I’m a little scared too. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Jane continues, looking a little smaller all of a sudden, pushing through every worry that threatens to override her strong front. “I know we’ll have bad days too, Nymph. I know I’m gonna fuck up and not listen enough and piss you off sometimes, but I love you to fucking pieces. I’m gonna give you the best I’ve got, I promise you.”

Nymphia takes Jane’s hand, and there are silent tears streaming down her face, because it’s only been a week and she already loves Jane more than she did on the day that she married her. It’s enough love to override everything that threatens to pierce through their perfect bubble, enough to fuel the years to come, enough to roll over into the next life and the one after that.

“And if you get sick of me,” Jane teases, squeezing Nymphia’s hand. “Y’know. Just say the word.”

“Shut up. I’ll never get sick of you,” Nymphia cries, throwing her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Jane laughs into her neck, pulls her closer into a bone-crushing embrace. This is the best part - Nymphia married her best friend. It’s enough just to hold her, just to be beside her. All those other parts, the sex and the sweet nothings and the swearing each other to forever, they’re just the luxuries of being in love with her. 

“You promise?” Jane says into Nymphia’s hair. She knows what the answer will be. She just wants to hear it anyway.

“I promise,” Nymphia whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Jane says. “With all my heart.”

(They go home two mornings later, back to the city and their couch and their cat, and they aren’t scared anymore, because the warm glow of one another lasts much longer than fleeting sunsets over foreign shores. They wake up together, kiss goodbye on the way to work, hang their wedding photos on the wall and muse over the best day of their lives for years to come. They have lots of good days, and a few bad ones, too. They fight, and then they talk, and they never go to bed angry, just put each other back together in the way that only they can. And then they wake up and love each other more in spite of it.

The honeymoon was great, but here’s the best part: they make it last.)

[reddamselette]

photographer jason grace who has a habit of taking pictures of leo whenever he doesn’t expect it. leo has never seen the photos, jason pretends to have deleted them but in reality, he’s developed the photos and he has them tucked away into an album among many. he’s been taking photos of leo since he was able to handle a camera.

jason thinks that of everything he's captured, of every sunset and sunrise, every field and every snowstorm, every strike of lightning and glass covered in rain, each scene with his friends hanging out; leo valdez is the best muse anyone could ever ask for

[astriiformes]

Guess who signed up for Bad Things Happen Bingo (finally) and will fairly imminently have time to write over Winter Break? This guy!

I don't think I'm planning on taking full-on prompts, and am a little too BttF-brained to write for any other fandoms at the moment, but if there's one of these you'd especially like to see from me, you should definitely let me know.

[daydreamdoodles]

Evard turning himself in even just for a night...... Wally when I find you. When I find you wally

[raytm]

this might be a long time coming but I’m going to take a break from this blog, I might come back here or I might remake in the future but for now I’ll be writing elsewhere.

[sicklymadscientist]

hi, hope this isn't a bother, but do you have any Alastor head cannons related to snz or just sickness in general?

Not a bother in the slightest! I love getting asks! 😃

Al/astor Snz/Sick Headcanons

I had to have a good think on this one because so much of what we see of Alastor is a performance, and sometimes I think I have a good guess at what his motives are, and other times I wonder if he has me fooled. When it comes to sick headcanons, I think I can distill his behavior down to two driving factors: 1) His need to be in control, and 2) How it would benefit him to be perceived (which is really just an extension of his need to be in control). So with that in mind~

He absolutely loathes sneezing for the lapse of control and display of vulnerability, and he obstructs the view of his face as much as possible by covering with a handkerchief, which he conjures out of thin air at the moment he needs it.

Being the powerful overlord he is, he doesn’t get sick very often. So when he DOES, he is personally offended and extremely irritable about it. His smile takes on an almost constant snarl.

His sneezes are overlaid with the sounds of radio static. Sometimes when he sneezes, particularly if it’s a fit, there will also be a loud, high-pitched noise like microphone feedback that makes everyone wince and cover their ears.

How he presents himself will differ depending on who his audience is, and either way it’s a facade. If he’s at an overlord meeting, he will do everything in his power to hide his symptoms and avoid showing vulnerability or weakness. If he’s amidst his hotel fam, he will let his symptoms be seen and maybe even put on a little act of downplaying it, playing the part of the poor sickie trying to power through who doesn’t want anyone to fuss over him; what he gains by this is their sympathy, and them potentially viewing him as more vulnerable than he actually is, making them let their guard down and be more inclined overall to trust him, which keeps him in a position of power over them.

The one person he will slightly lower the facade around is Rosie. He’s a mama’s boy and she reminds him of his mama. He would admit to her that he’s not feeling his best and would allow her to take care of him, and get comfort from it.

He blesses others when they sneeze because it’s good manners, but it’s a “bless you” that seems to say “I see your weakness and I look forward to exploiting it,” or “Your suffering delights me.”

[velvetwyrme]

me while in the middle of writing like 4 other things: what if. soundwave/reader/jazz fic. what then.

[radiaking]

There is one other sad dad monster (possibly) man from vg who is also totally up my alley writing-wise but I have so little headspace available w/coop as a solo muse lol

[dangaer]

one muse kissing another muses bruised knuckles because they got hurt protecting the(ir honour) will never not be the plot(tm) for me.