#its not even like its a lie!!!! but its enough of a lie to not REALLY be the truth and i couldnt stand it ssbbhfdsdgjjjjj

[nanavn]

[ID: second post by @petrichara has a photo and a cartoon; third post by @ink-the-artist has a MRI scan and four screenshots of text from the link; fourth post by @illuminatedpopcorn has a screenshot of tags.

In the second post, the photo is of a mother holding her small child up in an embrace, both seen from the side and looking at Van Gogh's painting 'Madame Roulin and Her Baby' which depicts a seated woman with a baby standing on her lap. The mother in the painting is in three-quarters profile whereas the baby is looking straight at the viewer. The child in the photograph is looking intently at the painting.

'I’m not sure how to look at art' by Lynda Barry is a four-panel cartoon. It's a line drawing and shows a humanoid, larger figure in a dress and a smaller, potato-shaped companion - presumably a mother(-figure) and a small child - looking at a painting on the wall. It depicts a seated figure, tenderly embracing a smaller one on its lap - they appear content and happy.

The few details of the background indicates that the cartoon's setting is a museum or possibly a gallery.

In the first panel, the mother holds her arms in front, crossed at the wrists - perhaps not exactly anxious, but not relaxed either. She is looking at the painting and says: "Im not sure how to look at art."

The child is also studying the painting and says: "Whats sposta happen?" [What is supposed to happen, asked by someone not fully mastering the language - like a child might]

In the second panel, the two are looking at each other. The mother is holding up her arms in front of her chest and, in three speach bubbles, says: "Something big. A revelation. Suddenly you just understand."

The child's mouth is open, as if taking this in.

In the third panel, they both look at the painting. The mother's arms are crossed in front again and she says: "Not sure how to make it happen."

The child now stands between the mother and the art, and says: "How bout lift me up so I can see better?"

The fourth panel has the mother holding up the child in her embrace, mirroring the painting as they look at it intently.

The small child again has its mouth open, and they both seem to feel a connection - like they "just understand."

In the third post, the MRI scan is of an adult person and a small child in profile from the shoulders up and facing eash other. The mother is kissing the baby on his forehead, her lips tenderly touching her child. The four screenshots of text are from the linked article, which also describes the image:

A mother and her child are curled up together inside the tube of a 3 Tesla magnetic resonance imaging scanner in April 2015. The scanner bangs and beeps, shudders and screeches. The baby is finally sleeping, pressed firmly against his mother’s chest, and so is still enough for the MRI to see inside his head. A single MR image, like this one, takes several minutes to capture. Moving just a millimeter leaves a blur on the screen. The mother and baby must hold their pose, as if for a daguerreotype.

While they lie there, the scanner builds up a picture of what’s inside their skulls. Often MR images are made for physicians, to find a tumor or a blocked blood vessel. Scientists also make the images, to study brain function and development. In my lab, at MIT, we use MRI to watch blood flow through the brains of children; we read them stories and observe how their brain activity changes in reaction to the plot. By doing so, we’re investigating how children think about other people’s thoughts.

This particular MR image, though, was not made for diagnostic purposes, nor even really for science. No one, to my knowledge, had ever made an MR image of a mother and child. We made this one because we wanted to see it.

To some people, this image was a disturbing reminder of the fragility of human beings. Others were drawn to the way that the two figures, with their clothes and hair and faces invisible, became universal, and could be any human mother and child, at any time or place in history. Still others were simply captivated by how the baby’s brain is different from his mother’s; it’s smaller, smoother and darker—literally, because there’s less white matter.

Here is a depiction of one of the hardest problems in neuroscience: How will changes in that specific little organ accomplish the unfolding of a whole human mind?

As for me, I saw a very old image made new. The Mother and Child is a powerful symbol of love and innocence, beauty and fertility. Although these maternal values, and the women who embody them, may be venerated, they are usually viewed in opposition to other values: inquiry and intellect, progress and power. But I am a neuroscientist, and I worked to create this image; and I am also the mother in it, curled up inside the tube with my infant son.

The fourth post's screenshot of tags from the previous post:

#it’s not exactly the same as what the post describes but I think it’s the same in spirit #it’s just so… #there’s an edited version of that image that’s been spread claiming it shows chemical reactions in the brain from the kiss #like parts of the brain are edited to look like they’ve lit up as they release oxytocin #made me pissed tf off on Rebecca saxes behalf lmao #thats so much less interesting and beautiful than ‘we made this one because we wanted to see it’

End ID]

Tags from https://www.tumblr.com/ink-the-artist/776580876213649408/why-i-captured-this-mri-of-a-mother-and-child

saw a tiktok of a mother taking her very tiny daughter to an art museum and she’s just walking around going “whoooa” “woooaah” to everything but then they got to a marble statue of a nude woman lying on her back and the girl points and goes “mommy🫵” and i just immediately welled up with tears and all the comments are just laughing about it and of course it’s funny but how are you not insanely moved by the way art connects everyone on earth from a centuries-old sculptor to a toddler in 2023

[aninipanin1]

I am currently listening to classical music, and it reminded me of Your Lie In April, and I suddenly had a thought, so please bear with me:(

Violinist!Reader and Ex!Pianist!Sae who met you in the old music building he used to practice in when he was younger.

For some odd reason, he felt compelled to listen to your spry version of Beethoven's Spring Sonata. It was full of energy and passion, its colour reminiscent of a bright sunny day running through a field of flowers, with nothing but naive thoughts running through the persona's mind.

Personally, he is more of a classical player. Playing pieces from Mozart, Haydn, or even doing some early works of composers like Beethoven or Schubert. It fits his elegant and smart playing more than the passionate and dramatic Romantic era of music.

However, something about the way you translated the usual sonata was different. It felt like you were speaking to him with words, words filled with enthusiasm, joy and weirdly, peace.

It was like a person with a youthful personality, yet a soul and wisdom of an old lady. And simply, because the look in your eyes reminded him of his young self. His young self before he went to Spain to learn more about music and himself, but instead he lost himself, nowhere to be found anymore.

However, that all changed when you stopped playing, and you both started talking for a while. You were annoying, absolutely so. You were helpless, stubborn, and so irrevocably and disgustingly...sweet.

He doesn't like how every time you try to involve him in conversations, never forgetting that he was even there beside you (he had tons of friends do that before) or even making sure to listen to his one liners his heart would start to flutter uncontrollably.

It wasn't a surprise to him to find out you join a few local competitions. You were not bad at your craft and so you deserve to be on that stage of course. However, you do need an accompanist. So you asked him.

At first, he vehemently told you no. Like a huge, capitalized, and bold NO.

He VOWED to never touch that cursed instrument ever again. He had some things to focus on now, such as football. He won't let anything get in the way of that.

However, through a miracle (and a little stubborness from you and a lil alliance between you and Rin) he managed to say yes and went to the event to accompany you.

You were a lil diva with it too, choosing to pick a Mozart piece, knowing full well it was a part of his identity when he gained his fame as a child. Mozart E Minor Sonata No. 21. How long has it been since he even touched any music sheets or read a music note? Years.

He did have like three sessions with you to train the whole piece, but any professional know that that was not enough, especially to win a goddamn recital.

But you insisted, and the performance was a mess. His once calculative, elegant, and perfect playstyle was not even there. Instead it felt like a shrill cry from an infant, preventing everyone to even hear or find your part listenable because the accompaniment was so loud.

But, you did not waver. No, instead, you just smiled before playing even harder and better. Sae was internally panicking though, he has never gone to a recital without atleast practicing a piece a hundred times! What was he doing ruining his already shattered career in music?!

But for a while, at least, he let himself fall deep into the embrace of music once again. And this time, you also awaited him with open arms.

The moment the music ended, the people were still shocked at what they had just witnessed. It felt like a fight. But it wasn't the dog fight kind of sound, but more of a fencing fight between two pros with nothing but respect and admiration for the other.

Itoshi Sae sweated. He felt like he became a little more human in that performance. Like a butterfly coming out of its cocoon.

Has playing ever felt this liberating before?

Then he turned to you, who immediately hugged him in the back stage, thanking him for doing his best even if he was in a stump.

He was supposed to be in a stump. He couldn't write anything anymore, he couldn't even get himself to play atleast one note and whenever Rin would press atleast one note from the grand piano in their house, Sae would look at him with a glare, like a cat feeling threatened as it straighten its tail.

But now... maybe, just maybe. This stump, his period of passionless, dry, and fatal search for his talent and dreams in the wide dessert of life. He found an oasis, one that could bring him vitality and, hopefully, even a direction in life's dessert.

That was all he was thinking about as he kept his eyes on you, bowing and chatting amicably with the staff as the next performance happened.

Blue Lock is WRITTEN by Kaneshiro Muneyuki and ILLUSTRATED by Nomura Yusuke. All credits to the both of them.

[inexplicifics]

I'm re-reading Only Love Proudly and Gladly, and at one point King Vizimir says 'Redania keeps its word'. Was that such a platitude Vizimir didn't think enough about it to make it read a Lie to the Witchers, or do they all think of course royalty and nobles break their word and pretend they're honorable and so ignored the lie? Vizimir was even then torturing Aren for Witcher secrets, yes? Or was Aren just a mage experiment, captured before the Warlord thing, and not yet sold to Redania?

Vizimir is doing the fun thing humans can do of lying through his teeth while believing it utterly. If he were to tell the truth, it might look something like, "Redania keeps its word, when we've given it to someone we respect as well as fear, and it's convenient for us, and not doing so would result in some sort of general disapproval from other nations we care about, and in any case suggesting otherwise is Rude even if we're breaking our oath very visibly because we are Important and Royal and anything we do is correct anyhow".

Geralt just assumes all royals lie their asses off all the time anyhow.

(Yes, Aren was even then in Velen's dungeon. But that was far away and Vizimir wasn't thinking about it.)

[vandme12]

I barely see Ronin as a mechanic! Headcanons/Oneshots!

This was in my drafts for days..

You're not exactly sure how it happened. One minute, you’re flopped on Ronin's couch, droning on about how bored you are—how you could die of it, actually, right here, right now. The next, he's dragging you out to the garage like a wolf with a chew toy, all sharp teeth and brighter eyes, muttering something about “if you’re gonna whine, might as well make yourself useful.”

Useful, apparently, means learning how to fix cars. Because that’s what he does when he’s not busy tearing people apart. A little hands-on therapy. Take something broken, make it purr again. You guess it fits—devils need hobbies, too.

“I still think you should just let me die of boredom,” you grumble, arms folded as you watch him prop the hood open. It groans like a corpse stretching in its grave, metal rasping against metal.

Ronin snorts. "Dramatic much? C'mon, darlin', ain't gonna kill ya to learn how an engine works. Might even save your pretty ass one day."

You give him a look that could peel paint. "Or you could just fix it for me. That's what boyfriends are for."

That earns you a low, wicked laugh. The kind that slides under your skin and stays there. "Oh, sweet thing, you're in for it now. Open up those pretty hands—time to get 'em dirty."

He hands you a wrench, and you hold it like it's a foreign object. Ronin leans over the engine block, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, revealing forearms streaked in grease and little healing scrapes. He’s beautiful in the most ridiculous way: all messy burgundy hair, shark-teeth grin, and a nicotine burn low on his wrist. A devil working the bones of a machine.

And, lucky you—you get to be his little apprentice.

“So, what are we doing?” you ask, mostly to fill the silence. Ronin's in his element, already half-lost to the work. Fingers curling around bolts like he could coax the car to life with touch alone.

“Changing the spark plugs,” he says. Then, when you give him your best bewildered expression, he chuckles. “They help make the magic happen, baby. No spark, no fire, no joyride. Same as people, really.”

“Poetic,” you deadpan. “So, where do I start?”

Ronin tilts his head toward the engine. "Get in here, darlin. I ain't gonna hold your hand the whole way."

That is a lie, by the way. He absolutely will.

You squeeze next to him, shoulder brushing his. The garage smells like old oil, sweat, and something sweetly metallic underneath—not quite blood, but close enough that your stomach flips. His heat soaks into your skin when he leans in, hands guiding yours over the metal innards.

He explains things in that lazy drawl of his, a little smug every time you mess up. And you mess up a lot. Your fingers slip, your grip's too weak, you curse when you almost drop a spark plug into the engine. Ronin just watches, like he's enjoying the spectacle of you struggling.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, breath warm against your neck, “you’re real cute when you’re useless.”

“Fuck you,” you snap back, except it comes out a little too breathy. Which, of course, he catches. His smile goes sharp enough to cut.

"Careful, darlin'. Keep talkin' like that, I might start thinkin' you like it when I'm mean."

Your hands falter, and you feel his gaze crawl over you. Heavy, hot. You don't answer, because what would you even say? He's not wrong.

“Alright,” he says, voice softer but no less dangerous. “Tighten that one, yeah? Let’s see if you can follow basic fuckin' instructions.”

You try. You really do. But the angle's weird, and your fingers keep slipping, and why the hell is everything in a car so awkward? Your knee bumps against the wheel well when you lean in deeper, and suddenly you're halfway sprawled over the engine like a sacrificial offering.

Perfect. Exactly what Ronin wanted.

He catches you before you can slide further, one grease-slick hand curling around your waist. His other hand plucks the wrench from your grip with infuriating ease.

“Clumsy thing,” he drawls. “What am I gonna do with you, huh?”

“You could start by letting me go,” you say, but you don’t mean it. Not even a little. And Ronin’s the last person alive to fall for your lies.

His fingers press harder against your waist. "Nah," he says, low and rough, “I like you right where you are.”

He kisses you before you can fire back. Messy, claiming, dragging the breath from your lungs. His teeth catch your lower lip and tug, pulling a noise from your throat you weren’t planning to make. The taste of him is familiar—smoke and something darker beneath it, something that’s always felt a little like danger. Like sin in the shape of a man.

When he pulls back, you’re half-dizzy. Your hands are still braced against the edge of the car, and you can feel how tightly he’s holding you, like you might slip away if he isn’t careful.

“See?” he purrs. “Told ya fixin' cars could be fun.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, but you press closer anyway.

He grins, blood-red and wicked. "Nah. You love me. Now, quit slacking and hand me that wrench, sweetheart. We got work to do."

Head canons!

"Bored, darling?" If you so much as hint that you’ve got nothing to do, Ronin’s dragging you to the garage. He’s already got his coveralls half-unzipped, grease smeared across his jaw like a smudged halo—saint of the scrapyard, king of the underworld. He’ll plop you in front of some busted hunk of metal and call it a “bonding experience.” (Translation: watching you struggle is his favorite form of entertainment.)

Zero discounts, actually. If anything, Ronin charges you extra. Call it the “boyfriend tax.” He’ll fix your ride, sure—but only after making you bribe him with a kiss (or several). You’re not getting off easy. If you try to sweet-talk your way to a lower price? He just leans in, smirks against your ear, and murmurs, “Ya know, darling, I could break it worse if you wanted somethin’ new. Keep me busy.”

His garage is your second home. He doesn’t just let anyone hang around while he works—this is sacred ground, baby. But you? You get to sit on the workbench, legs swinging while he’s half-buried under an engine. He’ll toss you snacks from his stash (suspiciously all junk food) and occasionally drag you over just to “hold something.” (Spoiler: he just wants you close.)

Oh, sweetheart, you thought you were getting a discount? Cute. Ronin charges extra for you—calls it the “Tax.” Every time you ask, he tuts like you're breaking his poor, mechanical heart. But let your car actually break down? Suddenly, it’s "Nah, baby, I got this." He’ll fix it before you even notice, no charge—he just likes making you owe him. (And oh, you owe him plenty.) "Ain’t about the money, darlin’. It’s about makin’ sure you need me. And you do, don’tcha?"

Every. Single. Time. You visit the garage, he’s sweaty, just to make sure you suffer. Bonus points if you’re there in the summer—he’ll stretch, flex, and wink while holding a wrench like he’s posing for a calendar shoot. Loves to call you his “little assistant”—but gives you the most pointless tasks. "Hold this bolt. No, not like that. With love, babe. Jeez, where’s your passion?" If you complain? You’re getting pinned against the nearest surface with grease-smudged fingers trailing down your jaw. "Maybe if you were good, I’d give ya the easy jobs. But nah, you like it rough, don’tcha?"

He makes you “help” with repairs. Even though you suck. But he’s patient—weirdly patient for someone with blood on his hands. He’ll guide your fingers over the engine, teach you the difference between spark plugs and fuel injectors like it’s the most romantic thing in the world. And if you mess up? He just laughs, leans over you, and drawls, “Cute try, baby. Maybe leave the hard stuff to me.”

Car rides are a whole other game. After fixing your vehicle, he insists on a “test drive” with you in the passenger seat. He drives one-handed, the other resting heavy on your thigh—like he’s claiming both the road and you. “Gotta make sure it’s runnin’ smooth,” he says, voice thick with innuendo.

Grease-streaked kisses. You always leave his garage marked—fingers on your waist, motor oil smudged along your neck from when he drags you close. And if you complain? He just grins. “Looks better on ya than it does on me, darling.”

Your vehicle has an unofficial VIP pass. No matter how busy he is, if it’s your car in trouble, everything else can wait. Doesn’t matter if it’s a busted tire or the whole engine blowing out—he’ll fix it, grinning like he lives for the chaos you bring. Just don’t expect him to let you off easy: “You keep breakin’ shit, sweetheart, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you just wanna see me sweaty.”

His garage playlist is insane. Half industrial metal, half bluesy rock—loud enough to shake the walls. You pretend to hate it, but there’s something weirdly attractive about watching Ronin, sleeves rolled up, half-cursing along to the music while elbow-deep in some Frankenstein engine. (And if you’re lucky? He’ll pull you into a grease-streaked dance right there on the oil-stained floor.)

[icey--stars]

Ew, Love

A very traumatized Eris, in a new relationship with Azriel, post-Beron's brutal death. 1.2k words

A/N: I had a little time to write this little Azris thing for SJM Pride Week! It isn't much, but I had fun. (why do I have SO MANY college papers and then no time for azris???)

For Day 6 of @sjmprideweek (Love Language)

TW: Self-depreciation, past domestic abuse/trauma

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

Eris was stressed. That fact was pretty obvious to probably half his court at this point. He wasn’t his usual put-together self since becoming High Lord only a few weeks ago. He’d been trying to get things settled in the ways he wanted them and making dramatic changes.

But he’d also been trying to figure out his shit with Azriel. They’d gone public with the relationship since one, Eris wanted to show he wasn’t entirely a depraved freak incapable of love, but also to show his court that Beron’s bullshit would not stand any longer. It was overwhelming, though. Before publicity, Eris had simply been happy with sitting in the same room as Azriel. He wanted to do more and he knew Azriel wanted more. At the very fucking least Azriel deserved physical affection.

But here Eris was, curled up in the corner with his knees to his chest, exhausted and completely unsure of how to proceed. Azriel was due to come over anytime now. And Eris, of course, was terrified. Beron had drilled two things into him: a relationship between two males is wrong and to never show weakness which to Beron, translated to any sort of fondness. Eris had been punished plenty enough to know what not to do.

Eris knew what relationships generally looked like from his observations. He knew that there was generally physical intimacy even if not sexual. Hugging. Kissing. Holding hands. All things that Eris had been punished severely for seeking— even from his own mother. He also knew that there were generally other ways to show one’s love. Gift-giving, doing errands and chores for them, even goddamn poetry. And Eris did not have a damned clue on what to do.

He was basically pulling out his hair at this point, half-tempted to literally find philosophy books on love and affection.

This was, of course, the moment that Azriel walked in with more jump in his step than usual and a soft smile on his face. Eris froze, slowly lowering his hands as he looked up at Azriel.

Azriel’s face turned from its somewhat joyful expression to one of worry within milliseconds. Eris grimaced and sighed, standing up slowly with an ashamed look on his face. “Look, I know I look pathe-”

Azriel cut him off before he could finish, “What’s wrong, Eris?”

Eris’s words died in his throat.

Azriel tilted his head, stepping an inch closer hesitantly after Eris’s beats of silence. “Eris,” he repeated softer. “You’re upset.”

“I’m fine,” Eris ground out.

“You’re not,” Azriel insisted. “Don’t try to lie when you aren’t even closing off the bond right now.”

Eris huffed in annoyance. That little string in his chest. Nothing compared to what it could be, according to Azriel and his plentitude of family members in mating bonds. But it was enough to betray him.

“It doesn’t seem like it's the Autumn Court considering you usually spend that stress at your desk. Not in the corner,” Azriel deducted. “So, what is it, Eris?”

Eris couldn’t manage a lie this time. He also didn’t know how to put it into words though. Especially not words that wouldn’t practically shame him the entire time. Or cause Azriel to give him that sickeningly pitying look.

“Just tell me,” Azriel urged gently. “I won’t interrupt if you need to explain or struggle to describe it. I just want to understand why my mate is so stressed that he’s in the corner when I’m used to him flaunting himself around proudly.”

Eris sighed, lowering his head. “You know- you know Beron. By now you know what he’s done to me and maybe some of the stigma that makes this entire mate bond incredibly hard,” he began, feeling himself struggle through the words like he was rambling. His silver tongue seemed to have abandoned him in his time of need. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I know how to flirt with the females for a good night in bed but to hell with all other experience in relationships. Even family ones, honestly. Lucien is probably the only one to have any sort of general idea of the shit,” he finished lamely.

Azriel hummed, tilting his head slightly. Eris’s anxiety spiked for some goddamn reason, watching as Azriel resituated his wings behind him slightly before replying.

“So you’re worried about…” Azriel trailed off, grimacing slightly as if he was also struggling. “‘Showing love’ is the best descriptor I’ve got,” he said, chuckling. “Which you must know, is just as hard for me to say as it is for you to think about.”

Eris sighed and nodded with his head lowered.

“Eris, I’m not worried about that,” Azriel murmured, grabbing a hold of his hands firmly to drag Eris closer and draw Eris’s gaze to his own. “I’m the famed shadowsinger of the Night Court. Practically dead inside and vicious all the time. Even that isn’t all fake. Sure, I probably have more practice than you since I’ve been living with a semi-healthy family for around 500 years, but I understand, Eris. And you should know by now that there is no pressure. Especially not while you’re getting the court together still.”

Eris grimaced. “I know,” he insisted quietly. “But I should-”

“No, you don’t have to do anything,” Azriel cut him off firmly. “If you want to have that, however, that is different.”

Eris narrowed his gaze, brows furrowing in thought. He’d never thought of it that way. “I suck at it, but I…”

“You want to have that with me?” Azriel finished for him with a grin. “What sorts of things?”

“I will burn you alive if you make me repeat any of that mushy bullshit to you,” Eris retorted without any real bite.

Azriel scoffed, chuckling softly. “I expected that from you,” he teased. “Even if you do end up being shit at it, Eris, I won’t blame you for it with Beron as your father. At least I had genuine brothers. You were fucked from the beginning.”

“Thanks for summing that up,” Eris said sarcastically, rolling his eyes as he rubbed a hand down his face in frustration.

“Do you see what I’m getting at though? I understand, Eris. I understand why you’re worried. But there is no pressure and you don’t have to say anything. Just try it,” Azriel urged. “And take a break from your paperwork before you actually go insane.”

Eris rolled his eyes, but sighed. Azriel was right. He might be shit, but he doubted the shadowsinger was that much better. Plus, the male could put him on his ass if he really didn’t like something. Or shut him up if he did something wrong.

“Trust me to show you,” Azriel murmured, daring a step closer so that those cold tendrils of shadows trailed across Eris’s pale skin. “Do you trust me, Eris?”

Eris took a deep breath and nodded. “I do,” he agreed in the quietest of whispers. He stepped closer and dared putting his arms around Azriel under his arms, careful to avoid the wings.

Azriel grinned and also wrapped his arms around Eris, putting one hand on the back of Eris’s head to pull him further into the embrace. Eris couldn’t help himself from burying his face into the junction between Azriel’s neck and shoulders and just breathing. It was stupidly calming.

“You’re doing fine, Eris,” Azriel murmured. “And it’s not just you who has to show affection or whatever ghastly word you can come up with,” he reminded his mate. “There’s two of us.”

“I’m shit at whatever this love is,” Eris muttered, slightly muffled against Azriel’s leathers. “But I do want more of it, strangely.” Azriel just squeezed him harder.

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

Tagged in all ACOTAR Stories: @bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @skyesayshi, @lilah-asteria,

Tagged in all Azriel Stories: @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468,

[themareverine]

Hi!! For your valentines day event I was hoping to get a drabble with Charlie Kenton or Leopold! You pick! I'm leaving this totally up to you and PG-13 is okay, I'm 23 and use she/her pronouns o7

tysm!!

— Renaissance

Leopold Mountbatten x fem!reader

tags: fluff, some backstory added in for context, reader is an ex-girlfriend of Stuart's, Kate x Stuart mentions, definitely some blue balling of a kiss.

a/n: this definitely got away from me, honey! I haven't ever played with Leopold, and it was so much fun! This was quite the challenge. I've kinda been in a writing funk the last few days, so I'm not entirely sure how I feel about this, but, please enjoy it anyway, if you can!

☆ ── 💌FROM MARE WITH LOVE

They don’t lie about the city that never sleeps. 

It doesn’t, not truly. Sunlight may exit left and give way to starlight, but the city’s blood never stops pumping in its concrete veins. Forever time starved and anorexic in the thrumming life of a big city, there’s never enough of the twenty-four seven left.

The clock always spins out of control, there’s always a redline, nothing is ever on time but somehow, also, never truly late. 

Anonymous faces are millions among millions, rubbing elbows and fighting to look away all while never really accomplishing the task – one is truly nameless in a neverending current, without really even having to be anyone at all. 

New York is a Goliath that breathes unlike any other giant of its kind, and she didn’t really realize how right Hollywood got it until her sneakers had scuffed Jamaica Station’s dirty pavement three weeks ago, feet throbbing as her calf muscles all but lacerated from bone.

Still, the chill of spring cutting through her clothes kissed her in the early mornings, watching the fingers of skyscrapers reaching from the earth into flat, gray sky.

It had taken an hour tracking her luggage, fighting the hive of bodies at JFK on a Friday – that crushing feeling of being packed into open air like a sardine had her head spinning, buildings and street signs blurring together like watercolors. 

Veins of taxi-yellow had conquered her dreams the first night she’d dreamed, curled under comfortable blankets in her college best friend’s apartment — she’d lost a cab to a local, who’d all but shoved her off the curb with nothing so much as a by-your-leave. 

Cabs mocked her, public transportation chuckled and would shake its head, if possible, at the naive little lamb behind her eyes, taking in the wilds of the urban jungle all too much of the first time. 

Her first day alone in the city, Stuart had warned her not to venture far from the apartment without escort – his vacation from his mad scientist work didn’t start until the weekend. “We’ll go out and you can get your first taste of the city, just you wait — but stay here. Bart needs the company anyway,” he’d offered nothing else, naturally. Stuart never had felt a need to share important details. 

Simply just thrust the half-abandoned coffee in his Back to the Future mug into her hand as she took up the doorway to his room, speaking around the pencil between his teeth as he wrangled into a jacket.  

And Bart was quiet enough, sure. She liked dogs — her parents had four of them at the farm, coupled with the flocks of geese and chicken, horses and the odd smattering of dairy cows laying around the lazy sunlight of spring. 

They’d all but donned black in grief when she announced she would be taking time in New York to see Stuart, the man she was supposed to be married to, if heaven allowed. 

Overwhelmed at the prospect of their progeny returning to the only man who had ever bothered to date her romantically, they’d deflated as soon as the evidence became irreconcilable — Stuart’s girlfriend, Kate, would be only a phone call away if she needed anything. 

Her mother had gasped so audibly it could be heard from the team currently bunking at the International Space Station. 

But where Bart was good company she could handle, Stuart’s unexplained roommate — Leo, no, Leopold right? –  was not.

Very much unexplained, actually, his presence in her ex’s apartment.

Stranger things certainly happened within the lines of New York City, she knew. And Stuart hadn’t felt it necessary to share this information with her the first night in.

What a guy. 

She’d almost felt her heart eviscerating into atoms when she’d padded out of Stuart’s room in socks, a too-big Batman T-shirt and sleeping shorts — thank God she's opened to sleep clothed. Looking like hell warmed over and in desperate need of caffeine, to boot.

Stuart didn’t possess a mirror in his room, and a passing glance by the TV offered somewhat of a reflection that confirmed she’d slept like the dead. Hair similar to something from the 80s, wilding in every direction – hadn’t even bothered.

Why would she? This was Stuart’s apartment, he confirmed he lived alone. Or, well — had. Past tense. 

Last night’s booze from Stuart’s tragic supply of in-apartment food still lingered in the back of her mouth, threatened to make a reappearance when Leopold had just  stood up from the couch in the living space, stretching long arms over his head in a catlike, very-much-there stretch. 

Stars aligned and her anatomy reborn in places you don’t confess, in the blink of an eye. As he’d come about sharply on his foot, wide eyed and milk white with surprise, as if she were the unexpected intrusion into Stuart’s little apartment. 

Three weeks ago she’d thrown War and Peace at the Duke of Albany’s head, all but threatening decapitation. An offense that, in Leopold’s time, surely, would have her head rolling. 

She believed him, of course. Why would he lie about time travel? Why would Stuart have scientific evidence and K-Mart photographs, all for lies? Stuart didn’t even like K-Mart.

He could barely carry on a conversation with the same barista he’d been getting coffee from for three years. 

It wasn't unthinkable, time travel. God himself had parted seas, held the sun in place for Joshua. Time travel was not beyond the realm of the Almighty, reasons aside.

How and why didn’t really matter, not in the blip of a grand scheme of a person’s life — Leopold had stumbled into the modern age for a reason, bless him. For what, who was to know? 

Divisions of her were grateful, three weeks into the arrangement, to not be the only one in the city not from here. To have company that understood the shock and awe of new wonders, of a city with it’s own voice.

Leopold was as naive and innocent to this world as she was to New York, a combination she found riveting and more thrilling than she’d admit in therapy. A renaissance man in an era that had forgotten renaissance. 

What a trip. “Lost in your thoughts again, hm?” 

Jarred by the light brush of Leopold’s hand against the back of her own as they cut through the bodies clogging  the afternoon sidewalk, she tucks a little closer to his side. Rests a stabilizing hand on his arm, trying not to knock into those waiting at the crosswalk. 

Often during these last three weeks, she got so lost thinking not only about Leopold’s situation, but him — how he takes up more space than God, but not in an aggressive way. A smile as bright and lovely as any Monet, that races the sun.

How his otherworldly charm cracks like a whip when he wants it to but isn’t cutting or belittling to those without — and the way he moves. Regal and alive in a way that’s as raw and natural as the world beneath her feet. 

He’s more alive than any man she’d ever known, so otherworldly. 

Reading a thousand fantasy manuscripts in her nine-to-five had ruined her for most men in the world, the idea so far away in between pages font choice. Nobody of Leopold’s caliber existed outside of fiction, she’d stake her life on it. The upper echelon was an understatement—people just didn’t dare dream about men like him.

A prince charming on a white horse— minus the horse and the Cinderella-esque backdrop. 

“Yeah, just a little,” her spine straightens a little more as his hand comes to linger at the low of her back, a sort of medieval courtesy that’s only ever written about. It sparks low embers in the fire of her gut as they cross the street with the others, she nods towards the subway stairs cutting down into the earth,  “Sorry, just—thinking. We’re going this way, I think,” puffing out a breath, “if my sense of direction is right.”  

He hums quietly, taking to her left to allow her access to the stair’s rail, “You possess more of a head for direction than any other woman I’ve had the pleasure to know,” he chuckles, his elbow extending politely, the nod of his chin gesturing for her to loop her arm through his.

“I trust you implicitly in this, my dear.” 

My dear.

Her heart kicks like a mule against her ribs.

“Such blind faith you have, Leo,” her nose scrunches, and she dips her gaze to her feet lest he notice the pop of color on her cheeks, “Could be leading us to Timbuktu for all you know—I’ve never been to New York. You probably know this city better than me, my lord.” 

His chest rumbles with a low, pleasant chuckle that’s almost growling.

“A venture to Timbuktu does not sound so unpleasant, such company considered."

His smile is genuine, nearly flawless—wrinkles around his eyes deepen with the effort as he leans in to whisper in her ear, “And—do be careful about such flattery, my lady. I’m prone to blushing under the attentions of the fairer sex.”  

Heat pouncing into the pit of her stomach, she swallows the gaps that threaten to knock her back teeth.

For all of a few seconds she expects to be speechless, but his endlessly charming wink produced a wry little smile of her own. 

“Is that right?” Elbowing him gently in the ribs, she giggles, “You don’t strike me as the type to blush, Leo,” brushing a curl behind her ear, “especially not with the ladies—not with all that suave charm. I still can’t believe you’re not married in your world,”

It's a topic she’d been hesitant to address, but he’d assured her he didn’t mind discussion the affairs of marriage over the course of their quick and blossoming companionship.

“But I understand. To give your heart away is a divine act. To love, well — that’s selfless. And hard.” 

He nods, once. Firmly. Too firmly for a man of his stature.

“Indeed. If I recall my uncle’s frustrations properly, ‘tis one of my many fiercely tiresome flaws, I’m afraid,” the venom behind his words is contained, but on a blade’s edge. Wlilling to fly at any moment.

The muscle in his jaw ticks with effort, “And to love is to be selfless, certainly, though in some cases it demands more of us than we think we can bear.” 

Weighty shadows behind his eyes shoves her into silent corners. 

Her arm slides through his proffered one like it’s the easiest thing in the world, more at home at his side than she’s ever felt. Leopold leads her down the stairs graciously, hand over hers on his arm in a sort of protection she’d only ever seen depicted in period films.

The landing comes up quickly, and he guides her a little closer to his side in the crowd, until her hip brushes his. And how the fibers of her jacket kiss the little pull of Stuart’s leather jacket draped across his frame may as well topple mountains in her soul.

The maw of the subway track looms beyond them, dark and ominous, more dungeon-esque than she’d ever imagined.

People pile in. Open air shrinks around them rapidly, forcing her to a snug against Leopold’s side that, by all counts, is far too intimate for her conservative liking.

He doesn’t seem to mind, however, too busy watching people and eyeballing for the train. She can feel the thrum of his heart from here, the bite of aftershave he’d borrowed from Stuart so alive on his skin it may as well reach out to smack her. 

His hand firms over hers still looped through his arm, the rumble of an engine in the darkness signaling the arrival of their train.

“Extraordinary,” he shakes his head, marveled as the subway comes up quickly in a burst of light and steel. It pulls to a sharp stop as the doors pop open with a static hiss, and Leopold is frozen in an airy, almost fond, wonder. 

“Whoever would have thought, beneath this very city. Boggling, simply wondrous.”  

Taking her arm, he tugs her forward into the car not at all unlike an eager child. A sweeping gaze down the length of the car and Leopold decides they will stand, reaching above his head for the standing bar.

His chest opens to a broad that empties her mouth of any and all moisture as she collects her breathing, straightens the line of her long jacket. 

She situates her purse when Leopold’s arm gently slips around her shoulders, drawing her into his chest beneath his arm. His smile down at her is soft, a tender gaze considering the features of her face as she shyly peers up at him through her lashes.

Here against his ribs, she can feel the throb of his heart, how his lungs fill with breath and empty steadily, like the rising of the sun. 

And he’s so beautiful, so everything she’d only ever wrote about in diaries and film and poetry she’d never showed the world. 

His warmth intoxicates her blood, she’s keening beneath his quiet shadow — she can’t breathe properly when his gaze drops from her eyes to her mouth.

It’s that Hollywood moment everyone talks about, but few ever experience, and her skin explodes with chill when he manages to pull in a sharp little inhale that straightens his spine, squares back his shoulders. 

Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, her toes curl within her sneakers — it’s almost surely that moment. Her brain laps with the thought of kissing him, wondering how he’d taste; experiencing for the first time how a kiss could shatter the very glass ceiling of the known universe. 

At one point in her life, she’d never imagined kissing anyone but Stuart—the man her parents loved like a son. How long ago that felt, almost as if it were another lifetime, on another planet. 

She can’t fathom how, in any time, he’d be the right man when the right man stands right in front of her. 

His arm around her shoulders shifts to gently skip his thumb along her arm, tenderly. “Do you know you are beautiful thing?”

A small smile forms around the words when her eyes snap up, breathlessly, and Leopold drops his hand from the standing bar above them to tip her chin up with tender fingers, “I have seen many women in my time, but few so fiercely beautiful,” his eyes hold hers, and she can’t help but notice he swallows a little breath.

“Stuart is a foolish man, letting you slip away if he truly once possessed you as his own. Unimaginable.” 

Tears well behind her lashes, his warmth pounding at walls around her heart. The way he looks at her, his eyes soft and so deeply honest, rattles her places she can’t quite identify. It’s like ripping open heavy curtains to a darkened room deprived of sunlight, flinching at pervasive light. Hurts, but in a good way—like removing a thorn. 

And there are thorns to remove, many of them — Stuart had contributed little to what the world has done. 

Looking away, she goes to step out from beneath his arm. Leopold retaliates, pressing her closer, his arm firm along her shoulders. Unyielding, like a sentinel pillar.

Wanting to rest a hand on his chest, she pulls it away as if he is a furnace — the heavy throb of his heart beneath her hand is all too hot, all too intimate, to fathom. 

His brow lifts, curiously, “It would please me if you’d allow me to kiss you,” with all seriousness he graces her with title, breath shallow and even.

He edges her a little closer, and almost mindlessly, she lifts on her toes to meet his angle.

“I’ve wanted to do so since the first moment I heard you say my name.” His lower lip rolls in, tempted, “Say my name. Speak it, and I’ll be yours.” 

It escapes her, suddenly, how many times she’s said his name in the last three weeks — but it doesn’t matter. Now it takes on an entirely new meaning, a weight that threatens to change the small universe between them.

Only able to be reborn beneath his gaze, she feels her chest swelling with warm pride—with a riotous joy that rattles her all the way down. 

Never had she imagined hearing such words, such love. In seconds, she’s Aphrodite, lost to the ages in the weight of his gaze, adrift in his words. Who even spoke like that, anymore? Nobody, she knows — nobody here, nobody like you. It only could be the words of a man out of time, a man in renaissance.  

Weighing the weight of his name on her tongue, she swallows how wrong the short of Leo feels, now.

He can never be Leo again — Leo was a man shacking up with her ex boyfriend in New York City, starry eyed and funny in his innocence. A friend, someone she could enjoy talking to. 

He no longer existed. Leopold took his place, burying any boyish fantasy between them.

He was a man, standing like the sun, extending to her a sort of thing only ever envisioned. Where Leo was a boyish wonder, Leopold was a man of purpose, driven. Powerful. Man enough to bend the very boughs of time and space. 

Her lips form around the syllables and consonants of his name. And it tastes so good, a sweet thing that she’ll dine on with every breath God decides to lend.

How many times does she say his name to make him hers? A hundred? A thousand?

Uncountable lifetimes of him would never be enough. 

So she says it again, again, again and again. 

“Leopold.” 

@sidkneeeee

@thevoicefromanotherworld

@misscrissfemmefatale

@eternallyfrustratedwriter

@permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88

@laaadygisbooornex3

@itsafullmoon

@kmc1989

@steviebbboi

@matronmothercrone

[oh-no-its-bird]

I cannot lie to u guys. A big motivator driving me to write the Shang Qinghua in Naruto fic (and specifically to finish it) is that I so desperately need to see one very specific scene of Houhua somehow getting zapped into canon

I genuinely don't remember if I've posted about this yet or only written it out in my notes app but like .

Houhua's gets into a fight and his mangekyou (relating to time shit and directly connected to the 'real' naruto universe via the system) kind of smashes into Obito's mangekyou (dimension travel shit) and also possibly even into Sasuke's own (idk whether he has the rinnegan or not in this au / at that point, but he's also there, and if he does have it, it'd also pitch in w time and dimension)

And basically, all three of them get tossed face first into canon naruto for a bit! I'm sure this can't possibly go wrong.

They get scattered across fire country ,,, They were originally fighting in some 3rd location and Houhua lands back inside of Konoha, and assumes (logically) he just got regular teleported and not hit with the fucking dimension travel beam.

So, yk, he goes 'oh FUCK I lost Sasuke' and goes straight for the Hokage tower to tell Tsunade what happened, bc

a) last uchiha(s),

and b) they were quite possibly specifically sent out on some mission together by her when it was crashed by Obito

Maybe they were going to try and hunt down Itachi ?? Sharingan vs sharingan,,,, idk but if they were then Itachi is also probably around here somewhere due to the dimension zap. No one ask me the specifics I have no idea yet, this would be so down the line in the story

But anyways. Just. Houhua bursting into the Hokage's office then immediately bursting into tears and wailing smthn ab having "lost Sasuke" to a very confused Tsunade and very alarmed team of ANBU agents

More realistically, he'd never be able to make it up into the Hokage's office, so like. Houhua being stopped (by people he knows !! that no longer seem to know him !!) at the doors as he is confused and angry bc WHAT THE FUCK YOU GUYS HE HAS TO REPORT IN LIKE YESTERDAY !!! THEY HAVE AN EMERGENCY ON THEIR HANDS !!!

Houhua accidentally manages to bullshit his way into the Hokage's office by just acting so confident (bc ofc he is! He fr thinks he's supposed to be allowed to be here!) and also jabbing his finger into an ANBU's face and calling them out by code name like he knows exactly who they are, going SPARROW U ARE NOT DOING THIS TO ME RIGHT NOW !! THIS IS NOT THE TIME FOR THIS SHIT !!!

Maybe he throws in Itachi's name somewhere in there if the mission he was sent on involved trying to hunt him down

Either way, the ANBU are successfully convinced (and confused) that this guy... must belong here? Is he some higher up? Was he undercover? They dont know but he sure does know them and is acting like everything is ok, so...?

I just need Houhua interacting with canon tbh, au x canon is my favorite thing ever, in the entire world. He deserves to get zapped into naruto canon w Sasuke for a while !!

Meanwhile, Obito is now in an alternate world close enough to the one he left that he doesn't really care (Houhua's existence has not impacted him much tbh) but like. No consequences. Obito doesn't have to worry ab his plans here bc this isn't his world so nothing really matters. But it's still similar enough that the people (read: Kakashi) he might interact with are basically the same to him

So anyways Obito goes to give Kakashi some special 1 on 1 harassment. Could literally go in any direction tbh

Obito probably appears in his room like a little freak and just starts fucking w Kakashi as Kakashi goes through the "who are you how did you get in here" routine (while slowly sliding into an "oh god its Obito" realization fueled panic attack the longer the conversation goes on)

In true Obito fashion, Obito mood swings like no one has ever mood swings before, alternating between making some serious threats to saying straight up creeper shit he'd probably never even voice aloud in his original world

But he can say them all here because there are no consequences, and he wont even have to look himself in the mirror later when he goes home and itll all be fine :DD

Kakashi is having a straight up bad time.

Meanwhile Itachi is just having. A time.

He probably goes back to the Akatsuki only to be faced to face with HIMSELF and immediately checks tf out of just. All of this. He is dissasociating.

The Itachi's haaateeee each other btw, pure self-loathing directed at eachother in such a passive aggressive way. It's very telling, actually.

It would be incredibly uncomfortable for anyone to watch but most of the Akatsuki (Deidara and Hidan especially) are watching with rapt attention while shoveling popcorn into their mouths. Deidara is especially delighted to see that even Itachi himself can't fucking stand another version of him

(As if Deidara could last 1 minutes alone in a room with another him without trying to blow each other up)

Eventually ofc they realize the root of the differences between their worlds (Houhua) tho I think the first real difference they'd note would actually be Jun's existence-- just because he's the easier topic between them, since he's occasionally partnered with (our) Itachi

Idk how they bring up Houhua but like, once he's prought up, (canon) Itachi would be like "Who?" in just the flattest voice as (our) Itachi has a little episode of 'oh. he doesnt exist here.'

Itachi having to describe Houhua to someone else,, but that someone else is himself so he finds himself being more honest than he might have otherwise been w literally anyone else,,, ough,,

(canon) Itachi has Izumi, and mmmayyybe they'll realize that they're just gender bent versions of each other (kind of, anyways) but I kind of doubt it. Either way, thatll be a fun conversation to have

Even more fun of a conversation is the inevitable Sasuke conversation, which I do not even know where to begin with

WHICH ALSO BRINGS US TO SASUKE. WHO IS OUT THERE SOMEWHERE. IDK WHAT HES DOING BUT MAN IS HE LOST.

Sasuke's part of this arc could go in a lot of directions depending on if he defected from the village or not (still undecided on that but for now lets say he isnt, since Tsunade sent him on that hypothetical mission w Houhua)

Just. A slightly healthier and more stable and sane Sasuke who was raised by Houhua after the massacre. Ok and now throw him at his canon counterpart. I think they would also dislike eachother

Canon Sasuke probably burns with envy at the knowledge that this Sasuke got to keep one of their clansmen, and that Houhua helps to shoulder the burden of revenge. But he also has scorn for the fact that Houhua has seemingly "held him back" from revenge or some shit. Not entirely to mask his jealously, tbh

Idk but like, Sasuke vs Sasuke. It's a mess.

Don't let Naruto meet the Sasuke who never left Konoha / possibly came back or he'll lose his mind ab it

Anyways yeah !!! Houhua au meets canon ,,, I need it so bad,,, fuck,,

[chaifootsteps]

Okay, seriously though, I do not get the beef that Spindlehorse has with Lackadaisy, like… at all.

They are so desperate to try and rub its face in the dirt, it doesn’t make any sense. This show isn’t much competition in terms of views, the pilot episode isn’t even at 20 mil, and Iron Circus isn’t as much of an online animation household name comparatively. Is it all really because they rejected Viv’s producer credit donation, and she was irrationally petty about it, so her fanbase was irrationally petty about it in return??? And they’re so petty about it that they’re willing to flat out lie about them harboring transphobes (despite one of directors literally being TransMasculine) working with a pedophile to justify their irrational dislike for them? Oh my god.

That literally all there is to it. Lackadaisy has its little nook, its fanbase that it makes things for; it doesn't have SH's viewcount and while I'm sure they wouldn't kick a bigger audience out of bed, everyone involved with its creation seems pretty content with what they're doing.

But to Viv, SH employees like Hunter, and the diehard stans, that's not enough. They want Lackadaisy to have nothing, to be an example of what happens when you don't kiss Viv's ring.

[neverenoughmarauders]

A cursed blessing

Written for @Jilymicrofics | WC: 921 | February 2025 prompt: Fables

'Can we read the Tale of the Three Brothers?' 

Harry is looking at Lily with pleading eyes. She knows the look well. It is not too dissimilar to the one she would use as a child to bully her parents into reading her favourite bedtime stories.

It would have been endearing.    

'Not today,' Lily says, feeling her stomach tighten in painful, guilty knots. 

'Please!' 

'Another day.'

'Never, in other words,' Harry says, crossing his arms and sending her an annoyed look.

Even at seven, he is so much like his father. His dark hair sticking up at the back. The same incredulous expression when he doesn't get it his way. He is perfect. 

Lily wants to be the mother Harry deserves. But that is only one of the many things she desires for her son; one of the many things she is unable to give him. 

'Why don't I read it to you?' 

Lily turns to see Sirius in the doorway. He's leaning casually against the wall. Typical. She should have known he would ignore her instructions to wait downstairs. 

Sirius' visits are frequent, but not frequent enough to avoid exciting Harry. It had been a struggle separating the two earlier, convincing Harry he had to go to bed, when Harry knew Sirius wouldn't be there when he woke up again.

Sure enough, upon hearing Sirius' offer, Harry immediately sits up.  

'YES!' Then adding hastily: 'Please, mum!?'

His green eyes are shining brightly with excitement. His favourite story, read by his favourite person. Lily wouldn't have been able to say no even if she had wanted to. 

'Of course,' Lily says, trying to smile; trying to sound like she's not swallowing a sob. 'Just behave yourselves, both of you.'  

She tucks the duvet tighter around her son's body as he lies down again. Despite the painful throbbing in her chest, Lily cannot help but fall even more in love with her son, who is now trying to look like the picture of a well-mannered boy. Unfortunately, he's at a considerable disadvantage. He is James' son after all. 

Once Sirius starts reading, Lily escapes downstairs, closing the door to the living room for good measure. She can't bear to think of that cloak. Sirius had been the one to give it to Harry this year. The last time Lily touched it, she swore never to use it again. 

She hated it. She hated James for giving it to her. To Harry, really. 

The owner of the cloak cannot die, if the legend is to be believed. When James had thrown that cloak to her as the door burst open, he had made his choice. In the fraction of a second he could have grabbed his wand, he had chosen the third Hallow, the way his ancestor had. The real power of the cloak is to protect others. Dumbledore had tried to explain this to her later. 

The cloak remains a cursed blessing. Safety at a great cost. The offer of a future, but one which Lily has only partially been able to live. 

James' quick thinking had enabled him to fool Voldemort. He had raced into the corridor, knowing, perhaps, that he was running towards his own death. His last words had been a plea to Lily to take Harry and run. A lie. Lily was not to run. She understood that much. Not then. Just keep still until the right moment.

There had been a flash of green light. The sound of something heavy hitting the floor. It's not James, she had told herself, knowing she was lying. Then she had seen the hooded figure moving towards the stairs. Voldemort had not seen her. Or Harry, who she had pressed closely to her chest, reminding herself why she couldn't fight. Why she couldn't take her revenge. Why, above all, she had to keep living. 

James' cloak had done its job. As she heard Voldemort reach the upstairs landing, she had started moving as quickly as she could manage towards the door. There was no other way out. 

Silently. Invisible. Petrified. Harry's life depended on her not getting caught before she could apparate. 

What kind of mother puts a silencing charm on their child? What kind of wife steps over her husband's corpse? 

'You okay?'

Sirius' question pulls her back to the present moment. He has taken an armchair across from her. 

'No,' she answers bluntly. 'You?'

'As well as I can be,' Sirius says, leaning back and studying her with his grey eyes. 'Spending my day with my Godson and - you.' 

There's a moment's hesitation before he says the final word. Once upon a time, Sirius had used to call her his best friend. 

'And what in Merlin's name does that make me?' James had complained. 

'I would have thought that was obvious,' had been Sirius' constant reply, often accompanied by raised eyebrows. 'My best friend's husband, of course.'

But with James gone, some words; some phrases; some feelings had been stripped away from both of them. Sirius could no longer use the two words because they belonged to someone else. James. His James. Her James. 

Lily met Sirius' eyes. It was a very Sirius like reply. As well as he can be. Because 'fine', 'good', 'happy', are unavailable words—are unavailable emotions. They're not fine. 

They are alive, because they owe James that much. And because James left her something more precious to her than anything else in the world. He left a bit of himself. He gave her Harry.

[infernothechaosgod]

A thing I dont see many people talk about is how in epic mickey one of the biggest and also best flaws mickey has is the fact he figures out he caused the thinner disaster early on but he chooses to never tell anyone untill he's about to make up with oswald and it crushed under him that "alright if were making peace it has to be true I need to tell them now or else it will just beasicly be a lie"

because he does realize that he caused all this earier on but never tells anyone nor does he try to, I don't think its even brought up how HE MADE the shadow blot fully by himself even though it was an accident its something he caused and again he KNOWS he knows that but he just doesnt tell anyone

like its not brought up by the narrative but he was keeping that a secret from everyone and it WAS ON PURPOSE alright like he could have told gus or anyone else or he could have tried to but coudnt get to it and oswald getting angry enough to free the shadow blot still could have happened but he didnt even try to do that before that scene and honestly it makes me wonder if he would try to fully keep it under if not for it

like dont get me wrong mickey obviously is still a good character who helps around ALOT while activley fixing the concequences of those mistakes through the entire game BUT AT THE SAME TIME he does choose to keep everyone unaware of the fact those are concequences of his actions, that does recontextualize the whole thing alot

I love it when characters have bigger flaws and make bad decisions even if the narrative is dancing around it mwahahahahah

[hxffhxrbs]

His words were like a snakes venom, hissing and cutting across her face as his eyes bore into hers, his expression completely unreadable aside from his clear displeasure. Her brows furrowed, green eyes darting in confusion across his glare, guilt now flooding the pit of her stomach. What had she said wrong? Rambled too much? Had he chosen not to forgive her lie? Or her clumsiness?

Her lips parted as if wanting to speak, yet before she could his hand met her forearm, large fingers squeezing around it, inciting a gasp of surprise to sound from her, a sound that was very close to a moan. Though the sound expressed a shock of what could have been pleasure, her eyes read different. Fear filled her gaze, her pupils nearly doubling in size at his unpredictability. What would he do? Was she truly playing with fire? A danger that she didn't know existed within him? It was almost enough to make her cower, but she didn't.

The young professor simply froze, froze until he suddenly released her, as if her very flesh seared his hand. As he stood so abruptly and his book clattered to the floor, she flinched, her now free hand lifting as if to shield her face for any oncoming force, but it met nothing. Only harsh words that demanded her leave. Azalea remained like that for a moment, her eyes downcast at herself, still leaning against the table. Her body grew rigid as if scared to move. What was happening?

She breathed finally, a soft, shaky breath as if she had been holding it the entire time, bracing herself for impact. Was it her? Truly her? Had it always been her? In the new, flooding silence her mind shuffled through memories, pain, loneliness, anger and confusion. Somehow she always found herself at the center of it all. Drawn to darkness, it seemed. Her arm slowly lowered its defensive stance, her eyes slowly, reluctantly dragging up from the ground to look him over, turned away from her as if to hide away his face. Had he known shame? Had he cared?

Involuntarily, against her will even, her eyes began to flood, tears sparkling in her eyes as they reflected the firelight in them. No. She hadn't given them permission to invade, but regardless they did. Her free hand lifted, trying desperately to wipe them away as they stormed down her cheeks like a waterfall without end. But it was to no avail. Her emotions expressed themselves to him, truly, for the first time. This wasn't all the times he reprimanded her as an adolescent, no, this was deeper. It was words unspoken. It was agony.

She pushed herself off the table and dropped the pink, red ribboned box upon it, almost as if not caring for it anymore. That pride was gone. ❝What have I done to make you hate me so?❞ She asked, her voice quivering in her attempt to speak up for herself for the first time. She took a step closer, a stubborn step closer. ❝I have done nothing but try and earn some semblance of respect from you. Since the very first day I stepped foot into your classroom,❞ her breath was huffing at this point, chest rising and falling as she felt the adrenaline claim her. Push her.

❝Your just too trapped in your own pride to give it and I see that now. You reek of it!❞ Her tone was bitter, despite the tears that now stained her rosy cheeks. ❝I'll not go. No. Not until you face me or you make me leave.❞ Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, fingers so tight they turned white. Was she ready for this?

The look. It was a look the young professor knew well from Snape, not only from their relationship as colleagues, but also, their relationship as professor to student. Too many times had she triggered that look from him, and still it seemed she never learned. She'd surely punish herself for it later.

Azalea looked away from him with an expression of shame, fully backing all the way out of his office and shutting the door. With a deep breath to compose herself and ease her nerves, she then raised her free hand to officially knock, waiting for him to give the proper okay for her to enter. With a soft sigh, she did as asked, she entered, her demeanor almost different this time. It was calm. Collected. Though, the firelight reflecting off her green eyes expressed a hint of contentment. Pride. But not at the situation itself, no, but at her creation hidden within the cute pink box in her hand.

With a small smile the blonde leaned against the heavy door, her back arching only slightly to press her butt against the wood, closing it with a soft push, all the while her eyes remaining on his. ❝Good evening, Severus,❞ she nodded with the greeting, her lips curving into a sweet smile as she pushed off the door to approach him by the fire. ❝It's okay to be happy to see me,❞ she teased gently, giving a short breathy laugh as if to break any tension that remained from last week. As she stepped closer, her feet almost carried her with a sense of caution. A caution, that spoke levels of her respect for him. She could feel his discomfort, and the fact it came from her, hurt her in a way she couldn't describe... Azalea had been the punchline of many jokes in her youth. The idea she made someone uncomfortable? Truly frustrated even? Bothered her in ways she never knew or thought she could care about.

She stood before him now, her eyes taking in his expression in a newfound silence, a silence that expressed her thoughts... What could she say that wouldn't upset him further? What could she do, to make him comfortable? Whatever she did do, one thing she wasn't going to do, was give up. She liked him. ❝I'm sorry to bother you so late. Especially during your...❞ She looked across the opened book in his lap. ❝Well. You time. I just wanted to apologize. Truly apologize,❞ her brows furrowed, her tone soft and light as she spoke, expressing the emotions she wore on her sleeve.

❝I'm sorry. For... Well, the entire week,❞ the realization of the messy week caused a small laugh of disbelief to leave her lips, the dimple in her cheek indenting like an invitation to her allure. ❝Firstly. I'm sorry for lying to you... I... Well. I don't have a cat... I'm sorry for spilling pumpkin juice on you, for embarrassing you, and anything else I have done to make you uncomfortable... It was... Never my intention to make you any sort of target when I started... I just... Wanted to be your friend,❞ the admission caused a soft blush to decorate her cheeks. There was nothing but sincerity in her voice.

❝I made something. For you,❞ she began, moving to his left to lean against the nearby table beside his chair, the height almost perfectly matching to her waist. She pressed against it, allowing her butt to just barely push into the edge, indenting into the brown of her skirt. ❝Indulge me. Please? I promise. No more mishaps...❞ Her free hand moved to rest against the arm of his chair, her person so close to him he could smell the sweetness of flowers on her. ❝Think of it like a game. Only, you have to trust me. Close your eyes and open your mouth,❞ she proposed, an amused grin on her face and intrigue lacing her gaze, hoping he would humor her.

[thethespacecoyote]

contemplating what exactly it was about ford that made bill feel important now

[nyaskitten]

ARE YOU FUCKING SHITTING ME??? THEYRE BRINGING BACK THE FUCKING OVERLORD???? AGAIN??? OH FUCK OFF DUDE.

[uncanny-tranny]

It's just... odd to me, I suppose, going from "what is in my pants is completely irrelevant to most anybody else's life" to the expectation that you must be completely open, essentially, about what is in your pants.

I think a lot of people understand the general idea of why it's bad decorum to demand people offer explanations for private information like this, but they don't analyze exactly why it's bad besides, "asking directly is just rude" and not "asking in any way still enforces the often violent nature of gender and sex, and putting people in the 'right box' is a part of that violence."

It's especially odd when seeing other trans people enforcing the idea that "what's in your pants?" is a genuine, good-faith basis for interacting with others.

[manglam-marfach]

dyke!Chilaios has me understanding breeding kink all of a sudden