#nothing was undecorated!

[concerningwolves]

Throwback to the time I stood inside a reconstruction of Cappelenstugu, a house where every single surface was painted with rosemaling, and nearly burst into tears because it's so fucking beautiful. The pictures I can find on the museum website don't quite do it justice, but it's just. staggering. artist Olav Hanssen did this around 1800, in an enclosed space without reliable strong artificial light, and covered every single surface in gorgeous, intricate artwork (featuring Adam and Eve hiding after eating the apple, among other things).

Looking at Scandinavian interior design and thinking about how much cooler the world would be if the nordic countries took the South American approach to decor

[plumbogs]

things are fine at the dreamer household this round. darren made art and did not do fuck all this time, dirk isn't experiencing aspiration issues and wanted to get a part-time job in education, it's going great. they went to the mall and sat on opposite fucking ends of the food stall for some ramen then bought some clothes for next season because the art is bringing in some money yippee :)

i keep trying to make dirk make friends because after breaking up with lilith he's literally just friends with his dad but nobody talks to him for more than ten minutes even though i am making him call everyone every day :(

[juicegremlin]

I'm going to try and explain this as best I can, but I'm thinking about Caitlyn's character design and how, at base, she is relatively undecorated. When you look at the characters around her, many of them sport body modifications or elaborate hairstyles of some sort. We've got people with metal limbs, full-body tattoos, distinct facial scars, etc. where the most "unusual" aspect of Caitlyn's design is her hair color. Even then, the blue of her hair is a deep navy -- not nearly as striking as Vi's bright pink or Jinx's teal -- and she either wears it straight down or straight back in an uncomplicated ponytail. Her tooth-gap is also easily hidden behind a tight-lipped smile.

In no way am I trying to say that Caitlyn's design is bland or uninteresting, but I am saying that it is relatively simple compared to the characters around her, which I feel was a very, very intentional choice. The bulk of Caitlyn's visual complexity often comes from the clothes she wears -- the uniforms she wears. She places so much of her own identity into the role she is currently playing. When she is in her enforcer uniform, she is an enforcer. When she dons her undercity getup, there is an obvious shift in empathy towards the Zaunites (I know this is also in part because this is literally the first time she's in the undercity, but bear with me). She dons a skin and wears it like it's hers.

Ambessa recognizes this moldability in Caitlyn: nothing but a blank canvas, a wet ball of clay. Caitlyn's identity is tied to her role, so why not give her a cape and make her into the monster -- the scapegoat-- Ambessa needs her to be? Caitlyn's grief only makes her more susceptible.

“She must have a kind, fat face. Clever to charm her subjects, but pliable, so we can mold her.”

We see a similar dynamic with Mel and Jayce. Jayce's character design is also relatively uncomplicated: no tattoos, no piercings, no scars (save for the tiny nick on his eyebrow). Representative of his pliability. Ambessa taught her daughter to look for and exploit these traits. Granted, Mel is nowhere near as sinister as Ambessa, but the parallel is there, and it is juicy.

Anyway, the character design team went the fuck off with every single choice they ever made.

[parfaitblogs]

i have more than enough ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the holiday season is achingly difficult to get through, when you are spencer reid, who believes he is no longer allowed to enjoy them. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: established relationship. post prison!reid. word count: 2k a/n: and for my final act? the parfaitblogs special (post prison reid fic to a searows song). merry christmas from australia because it IS the 25th here!!! this is the end of my christmas advent calendar!! i had soo much fun writing these stories thank you to all that requested ♡

❄︎ advent calendar masterlist

He does not deserve a Christmas. 

Perhaps that is the only thing that runs through Spencer Reid's mind the second the Halloween decor filtered out of the stores, reindeer mugs entered them; while candy canes and Santa hats adorned every little item, and Christmas trees lit up every corner of every mall.

No matter what state he traveled to, he couldn't escape the festivities of the holiday season. He's pretty sure he's the only person who wants to. 

You waited for him. He feels immensely guilty for just how much waiting you've had to do all year. Waiting for him to go to trial, waiting for him to get out of prison, waiting for him to let you in again. 

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

You're waiting again. A Christmas tree that blandly sits empty and undecorated in the corner of your shared apartment; a Christmas roast you aren't sure if you'll even cook takes up too much space in your fridge; gingerbread cookies you promised your friends weeks ago remaining unbaked. 

He knew you were upset about it. His Christmas loving girlfriend forced to mute the celebrations of her favourite holiday because he couldn't find it in him to be excited about it. 

He didn't know how to fix it, really. 

You had tried everything to get him back into the Christmas spirit he's had for the past three years you've spent together. Baking with him, picking out the very Christmas tree that leaves the room smelling like a pine forest together, Christmas shopping for the presents he had no will to buy for his family and friends. 

Nothing had worked. 

"Spence?"

Sitting awkwardly at his — now — very minimally decorated desk, his head lifts from the papers in front of him, eyebrows frowning towards each other as his eyes land on you.

"Hi," he murmurs, putting the pen in his hand down in an effort to give you his full attention. He was getting better at that, these days. 

"I finished dinner," you tell him, fingers fidgeting with one another; a recent habit he had noticed you'd developed in the months between his arrest and release. "If you want to come eat."

He doesn't, but then again, he never does. And despite how awful he feels, he feels even more so for what he's putting you through, and the guilt that chews away at him is enough to will him to do small things — like eating — for you. 

"Yeah," he breathes out, and stands up from the desk, following you silently over to the meal sitting at the edge of the kitchen bench you had cooked for the two of you.

Silence overwhelmed you two as you ate, as it usually does. Sitting curled up beside one another on the couch, sharing a blanket and yet still feeling so distant from each other regardless. 

"Did you call your mom?" you ask him, and his fork pauses in the plate. 

Right. It's Christmas. The time for calling family members and sharing love for them during this supposed to be joyous time. 

"Not yet," he shakes his head. "I'll... get to it. Before Christmas is over."

"You have a week," you remind him, though it isn't to be passive aggressive at all. You genuinely wonder if he's forgotten the date of Christmas that has quickly crept up on you both.

"I know."

You stare silently at the coffee table after a short nod to his words, and you wrack your brain for things to say, just to keep him talking.

"Can I give you your gift before Christmas day?" 

He lifts his head, and you feel his eyes transfix on you.

"If you want."

You want him to want it too, but you aren't sure if that's a reasonable wish anymore. 

"I do," you nod, and quickly finish up your food, before you stand, and leave the room altogether. 

He places his plate next to yours on the coffee table — he'd remember to get to cleaning those later — just as you return, a square shaped brown paper gift in your hands, a purple ribbon tied in a bow around it. 

"You got me a square?" he asks you, and your heart warms at the teasing tone in his voice. He's trying. 

"Open it," you press, instinctively shaking his shoulder with both hands pressed up against it. 

"Okay, okay."

He's meticulous in pulling the plain wrapping paper off, and you almost want to open the gift for him. 

"Did you make this?" he asks you as he carefully pulls the square apart in front of your eyes, though he does already know the answer before you have a chance to start nodding your head. 

A Victorian Puzzle Purse situates delicately in his hands. Hands that pull it apart ever so slowly, taking note of every little drawn and painted detail on the paper, opening it up to a letter that he spent two minutes reading through — confirming that he was not only reading it once through. 

"Do you like it?" you ask him, almost hesitantly. 

"Victorian Puzzle Purse's were how lovers would communicate for Valentine's day," he says, instead of answering your question directly, as he neatly folds it back up into the intricate origami square it was originally when he pulled it out. "Sorry," he quickly adds, his eyes landing back on you. "That wasn't an answer. I do. I like it a lot."

"I know it isn't much, but I don't want to overwhelm you with gifts this Christmas. I'm honestly not even expecting anything big. We can just order food in and watch movies or something this year, if you'd prefer. You just have to promise me you'll at least let me put mistletoe up outside our bedroom, because it's kind of become tradition and... sorry."

He's staring at you, half dumbfounded, half in awe, as you realise you were rambling instead of sitting in the moment of him enjoying something seasonal, but you can't even find it within yourself to be frustrated at it. For he is letting a small smile grace his lips, and you're leaning forwards with a smile of your own, and for a second or more, he is not the shattered prison man, and you are not his distanced girlfriend. 

"You can put mistletoe outside our bedroom," he says, and you're breaking into an even wider grin.

"Really?"

"It's tradition."

You light up enough for there to be no need for a decorated Christmas tree in your apartment anymore, and you're threading your fingers through his hand to drag him up off the couch. 

Your gift to him remains on the coffee table as you lead him over to your bedroom door, prompting him to stay still, as you disappear to find the piece of familiar fake greenery. 

"Mistletoe!" you present it to him, and he takes it from you habitually, using the pin you also hand him and pinning it above your heads on the doorframe.

"I think we need to buy a new one," he says, hands dropping back by his side. His eyes are trained on you, but your own head is still tilted back, inspecting the faux plant. 

"I think we need to buy a real one," you answer conclusively, finally dropping your gaze to him. 

"Next year," he confirms. "Tradition complete?"

You shake your head. "The tradition ends with a kiss."

Hesitation follows your words, and you instantly regret them. 

It wasn't that you didn't kiss, or weren't intimate in any way. It's simply that it was on occasion now, and almost always motivated by something more important than a silly mistletoe tradition.

"It's okay," you cover your unwelcome disappointment with a smile. 

He ignores your reassurance. "It does end in a kiss, you're right."

"But we don't have to," you mumble.

"Yes," his hands encase your waist to do nothing more than to pull you closer to him. "We do."

"Not if you don't want to."

"Did I say that?"

You open your lips to respond, but the words die on your tongue. 

"What did I do to make you think I don't want to kiss you, angel?" he's frowning now, and you feel guilt settle in your chest. 

"Nothing, really. We just—um—don't kiss... as much. Anymore. Which is fine, by the way, and I can understand it. You're under no moral obligation to kiss me. Obviously."

His frown deepens. "I think we're experiencing a bout of miscommunication."

"What?"

"I thought you didn't want to kiss me," he explains, and suddenly, you're mirroring the confusion on his face. 

"Why would I not want to kiss you?" you ask him, incredulously. 

His shoulders slump at the question, and you force yourself not to fill the silence that follows.

"Prison," he replies, quietly. "I didn't think you'd really even want me once I got out of prison. You don't initiate anything anymore, either. I just assumed."

"I didn't initiate anything because I was waiting for you to initiate stuff."

"I can see that now."

"I didn't want to rush you," you tell him, as earnestly as possible. "I know prison was a lot, and you still haven't told me everything that happened, but I wanted you to not rush yourself. Or... us, I guess."

He swallows the lump of emotion that lodges in his throat. "I thought you were disappointed in me. Or—well, scared of me."

"No," your heart shatters, and you're sure he can hear it in your voice as your hands instantly cup his cheeks, fingers brushing over his cheekbones. "No, oh my God, Spencer."

"You shouldn't use the lord's name in vain. It's Christmas," he jokes, weakly. The smile you give him is weak, too.

"I was terrified for you. I was so worried about you in prison, and—and what they were doing to you in there. But never of you. Not a single part of me will ever be scared of you, sweet boy."

"I'm scared of me," he whispers, and his voice cracks in a way that has tears welling in your eyes. "I think differently, you know."

"And that automatically means I should be scared of you? Or makes you any less deserving of love?"

His silence is enough of a response. 

"I love you," you settle on telling him. "No matter what baggage you came back to me with. You deserve so much love, and I hate that you have been through so much. So much so that you believe yourself undeserving. You are not. You never will be. I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you, if I must. Or as long as you will let me."

"Forever," he replies, and you feel his hands close over your own on his face. "I will let you forever."

"Thank God. It'd be kind of embarrassing if I say all this and then you were to break up with me tomorrow," you say, and his cheeks stretch beneath your hands as he huffs a laugh.

"I won't break up with you."

"I wouldn't let you, anyways."

"Oh really?" his hands slide down to your waist once more. 

"Yeah," you confirm with a small nod, your own hands dropping to his neck, interlacing behind it, as you draw his head closer to yours. "You're stuck with me."

"I have not a word of complaint," he replies, and he's close enough that you feel the words tattoo your lips. "I love you."

And then he's kissing you, and there is an overwhelming amount of neglected feelings you had been missing poured into you, from his soul to yours. 

It was a kiss so unlike what you had grown used to in recent months. Fingers dug into your waist as a violent reminder of what you mean to him, and for the first time since May, you believed it. 

When he goes to pull away, you barely give him time to get air before you're chasing his lips again, and he tugs you impossibly closer with a laugh that vibrates against your face. 

You kiss him until your hands go numb behind his neck, and your legs begin to ache, and your waist is sure to have bruised in the shapes of his fingertips. Chest heaving and eyes full of more adoration than you think one human can have for another, you meet his gaze once more.

"Tradition complete."

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[chubby-bun-bun]

untitled (part 5)

You rope the busy businessman into enjoying the holiday spirit.

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tags: sylus x reader, an au where you're an average citizen, slow burn, fluff, your shot's smoother than stephen curry's

“You set me up,” you accuse, pointing a finger at the culprit before you.

Your midnight-feathered companion merely squawks in your face.

Frowning, you scoop the garnet-eyed traitor into your arms. Try as you might, you can’t resist stroking its feathers, the soft, silky texture effectively subduing your vexation. The bird settles comfortably in your hold, pecking at some lint on your shirt.

Are you still plagued by your embarrassing encounter with the red-eyed Apollo of a man in the park last week?

Absolutely.

Are you being unfair by taking it out on an innocent animal?

You drop your face into your hands with a dejected sigh.

It’s the eve of the Frostlight holiday, and you’ve decided to visit one of the places you hold a lifetime voucher for—a quaint little coffee shop tucked away in a shopping district alley. Aside from wanting to shake off the holiday blues, worsened by the eerie quiet of your undecorated house (save for the tiny Frostlight tree your brother gave you as a gag gift on your fifteenth birthday), you’ve been eager to check out the place after its recent renovations.

You’d been enjoying the shop’s new seasonal latte, sitting at one of the outdoor tables, when the familiar sound of cawing reached your ears. Before you could look for the source, a blur of black feathers descended gracefully onto your tabletop, a tiny red gem bead clutched in its beak.

Normally, your friend’s surprise appearance would brighten your mood. But as the events of last week played out again in your mind, you couldn't help but launch into a one-sided tirade about how your little tag game with the bird had unfolded that night.

“He said his name was Sylus—he was so handsome,” you groan, idly tracing the condensation on your cup. “And such a gentleman, too! And I tripped over him.”

The crow pecks at the stack of tissues on your table.

“But he was bleeding,” you continue, your gaze drifting to your straw, now bent and chewed. “He looked really hurt. I tried to help him, but then he just stood up—like nothing happened!”

It abandons the tissues, opting instead to preen its feathers.

“Do you think it could’ve been his Evol?” you wonder. “If it was, that’s so cool. And really convenient, don’t you think?”

You glance down at your companion, only to find it engrossed in cleaning its glossy plumage, its blatant disregard for your monologue clear.

You huff.

Deciding to leave the bird to its own business, you let your gaze wander to the other shops.

Because it’s the eve of a well-awaited holiday, the shopping district is alive with activity. The booths are adorned with warm white lights, accented by the sparkle of colorful fairy lights. Even from a distance, the aroma of cookies, hot chocolate, and assorted pastries wafts through the air. At the heart of the district where the streets converge stands a towering Frostlight tree, its meticulously arranged decorations glimmering under the festive lights. Decorative wrapped presents are nestled beneath its branches, and a brilliant star crowns the top, casting a warm, radiant glow over the lively scene.

The crowd is a bustling mix: parents paying at booths, teenagers laughing boisterously in groups, children darting around with unchecked energy, pets drawing clusters of admirers… and a familiar, silver-haired man standing by a stall, his towering presence capturing the awe-struck attention of passersby.

You blink.

Before you even realize it, you're on your feet,  weaving through the crowd—nearly tripping over a couple of kids—until you finally reach the stall.

Breathless from your short dash, you rise onto your tippy toes and tap him on the shoulder.

He turns around, brows furrowed as he glances left and right, before finally looking down.

“Sylus, hi!” you blurt out, a toothy grin plastered on your face.

You're pleased to catch the surprise flicker in his eyes.

"Sweetie," he greets, the faintest tug of a smile playing at his lips. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“I was in the area trying this new latte...” you trail off, glancing down, only to realize your hands are empty.

You must’ve left it at the table, along with your little crow. 

You look back up at him sheepishly. (You send a half-hearted mental apology to the abandoned drink and bird.)

“New latte, huh?” he says, lips curling up into a smirk.

You realize his eyes are a beautiful, bright scarlet under the light.

“What about you? What are you doing here?” you ask, eyes curiously trailing over his dark button-up dress shirt. The sleeves are rolled up neatly, revealing toned forearms, the fabric adorned with slashes of deep red embroidery.

Sylus pauses. “Just… handling some business,” he replies, vaguely gesturing to the stall behind him. Around it, several well-built men in black attire and face masks move about—some standing idle, others murmuring in low voices, and a few weaving in and out of the stall's shadowy depths.

Your gaze shifts past them, landing on the vibrant display of oranges, clementines, pomegranates, figs, and other fruits neatly arranged in wooden crates.

“Oh! You own a fruit business?” you exclaim, your face lighting up with excitement.

You miss the slight grimace crossing his face.

“How lovely!” you say, already fishing for your wallet. “Allow me to support such a wholesome endeavor. I’d like two bags of pomegranates, please.”

A brief silence lingers between him and the nearby men. Then, he chuckles, flicking a finger over his shoulder. Two of them—smaller and seemingly younger than the rest, each sporting identical curls—exchange a quick glance before grabbing paper bags and clumsily filling them with pomegranates.

“Here you go,” one of them says with a bow, handing you his bag.

“The freshest of the season!” the other adds cheerily, offering his own.

You accept the bags graciously, about to hand over your payment, when Sylus raises a hand. “On the house,” he tells you, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You hesitate. “Are you sure?”

“Of course,” he replies, gaze roving over your form with a slight smile. “A holiday gift, if you will.”

You take in how striking he looks beneath the soft glow of the lights, his presence almost ethereal against the lively backdrop.

It’s then you realize you only have one life to live. Life is too short for regrets, and you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take. That fortune favors the bold, and that you either go big or you go home.

And so, with a deep inhale to steel your nerves, you seize the moment.

“Sylus, would you like to go get ice cream with me?”

The men behind him perk up. Deeper within the stall, a bound man sits trembling, a gun fitted with a silencer pressed against his temple. He’s being hushed, and the air grows thick with suspense as everyone waits with bated breath for the silver-haired man’s response.

After what seems like eternity, Sylus chuckles, flicking your forehead gently.

“I’d be more than happy to.”

—

You’ve barely spent an hour together, but already, you’ve learned so much about him.

He’s surprisingly chivalrous. You hadn’t expected it, but when you pulled out your wallet to pay for both your ice cream cups, he leaned over, gently swatted your hand away, and handed his card to the cashier.

You looked up at him in protest. “But I was the one who offered to get you ice cream…!”

He merely ruffled your hair, amused, as if you were an unruly feline meowing its head off for not getting the fish on the dinner table.

“I’m not letting you pay. End of discussion.”

Determined to make up for your honor, you dragged him to a weathered claw machine not far from the ice cream stand.

“Fine. But I’m getting you that one,” you declared, pointing at a black-and-red dragon plushie nestled among the other prizes. “You’re not allowed to refuse, okay?”

After a brief scuffle over who got to insert the coin (you lost), you managed to snag the plush on your first try. Triumphantly, you handed it to him, watching as he turned it over in his hands, his fingers gently fiddling with its tiny wings. Your gloating expression faded, though, at the sight of his faint smile, the image strangely sending a dull ache through your chest.

And despite his intimidating appearance, he’s remarkably generous.

When the two of you stepped outside the bustling shopping district for a breather, ice cream cups in hand, a gaggle of children in Frostlight-themed costumes approached. Tambourines and melodicas in hand, they eagerly asked if they could perform for you. Their chaperone stood nearby, wincing apologetically at their loud enthusiasm.

“Do your best,” Sylus told them, leaning against the building wall behind him, eyes gleaming in amusement.

The children hastily formed a crooked pyramid, the instrumentalists awkwardly positioned at the back, before launching into the most gloriously off-key performance you’d ever heard. You struggled to suppress your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, but Sylus regarded them seriously, his head nodding slightly, as if genuinely finding rhythm in their chaotic melody.

When they finished with a burst of giggles, Sylus clapped slowly, laughter dancing in his gaze, before handing over a generous wad of cash. You’ve never heard so many high-pitched “You’re the best, mister!”s all at once.

You’ve been having so much fun—exploring the bustling stalls, petting the pups you come across, checking in on his hardworking fruit stall employees (and happily handing them some of the banana chips you bought), and watching the small fireworks display in the shopping district's adjacent plaza—that you don’t realize how late it’s gotten. Before you know it, you’ve arrived at your house, the neighborhood now quiet and serene, the hum of the city replaced by an almost peaceful stillness.

At your doorstep, you turn to see Sylus leaning casually against his sleek black SUV, his gaze fixed on you. A thought strikes you, and your eyes widen.

“Wait!” you blurt, fumbling for your key. “We never got around to returning each other’s stuff. Let me grab your coat!”

Before you can act, tendrils of black-and-red mist creep along the ground, curling around your feet. Bewildered, you stare at it as it coils upward, encircling you. “What…?”

Despite the way it looks, it feels soft and warm against your skin. Gently, it curls around your wrist, pausing your search for your key, and lifts your chin, guiding your gaze back to him.

“Return it next time,” Sylus tells you, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“But won’t you need it?” you ask, distracted by the way the mist dances around you, one tendril brushing your side playfully. You let out a surprised laugh. “Is this your Evol…?”

The mist retreats slowly, as if reluctant to leave. It curls around his feet one last time before dissipating entirely.

“I don’t have your sweater yet,” he says, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “It’d be rude to accept the coat before then.”

“But—”

“Think of it as my excuse to see you again.”

Your words catch in your throat as heat rises to your cheeks.

To appease you, though, he offers to exchange numbers so you can work out the details of your sweater and coat handover. If he notices the way your hands tremble when his fingers brush yours while swapping phones, he doesn’t mention it—though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth doesn’t go unnoticed. With a reluctant wave and a final goodnight, you step inside and close the door behind you.

You lean against it for a moment.

Then, you bolt to your room, dive onto the bed, and scream into your pillow.

When you finally roll onto your back, breathless and grinning like an idiot, the ceiling above you seems brighter, the world lighter. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this way—like you’re floating, bursting with happiness.

You like him. You really, really like him.

As thoughts of brightly colored ice cream scoops and cuddly dragon plushies swirl in your mind, the weight of the day’s events finally begins to settle over you. You briefly resist, realizing you haven’t even changed out of your clothes or undergone your nightly routine yet, but in the end, you surrender to the comforting pull of slumber.

Just as you drift off, your phone screen glows faintly from your bag.

Good night kitten.

note: tysm for taking time to share your thoughts about the series 🥺 reading through them truly makes me so happy! it's so surreal to know that there are people out there actually looking forward to updates lol!! happy holidays, everyone! 💞

nav: one, two, three, four, five (current), six or: read on ao3

tag list: @thepotatoislost, @xxfaithlynxx, @browneyedgirl22, @vorfreudevortex, @midiplier, @wisteriaflowersss, @euclase0, @leighsartworks216, @keyiswatching, @goldenbirdiee, @delaythings, @datura109, @iloveboysinred, @everythingistaken00, @moonlight-inthe-sea, @blueberrysquire, @mourning-into-dancing, @bookfreakk, @everywherenothere, @vvhira, @laidenbreecatchall, @kyushii, @lucifer-says-hii, @sylus-crow, @carmelves, @nishayuro

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[maidragoste]

Cookies

Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader

Can we pretend I posted this yesterday? lol

Please if you like it don't hesitate to like, leave a comment and share 🥰🥰💖💖

If you have any more ideas for other drabbles please send them to my inbox 🤗💖

Anyway I hope you have a good read!

Aemond felt his body relax as he entered his house. It was warm there, nothing like the cold outside, and he could smell vanilla from the entrance. He smiled thinking that he would soon be able to try one of your wonderful cookies. He had been looking forward to that since you sent him pictures of you and the kids baking while he was at work.

Aemond hurriedly took off his coat and then went to the kitchen.

“Mmm, smells good,” he said, drawing everyone’s attention. You, Naerys, and Daella stopped decorating their cookies while Baelon stopped eating the frosting on the sly.

“Kepa!” Baelon, Naerys, and Daella shouted happily.

Your husband first greeted each of his children with a kiss on the forehead and then went to kiss you.

“Welcome home,” you smiled on his lips while he placed one of his hands on your lower back just to touch you. “How was your day?”

“Good” he replied and was about to grab one of the undecorated cookies when Baelon slapped him. “Why was that?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“You can't eat until they're decorated,” the boy replied.

“Baelon is right, kepa,” said Daella supporting her brother.

“We were waiting for you to make the trees. Muña says you're better at decorating them,” said Naerys.

“Okay, okay. First, we'll decorate, and then we'll eat,” he agreed, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. Baelon, stop eating the icing because otherwise we'll be left without decorations.”

“Baelon!” his sisters shouted angrily.

Before a fight between the children began, Aemond took a sleeve of green icing and began to show them how he decorated the trees. You watched fondly as he took the time to make a cookie with each of your children and complimented them on their work. Aemond pretended not to notice as you took pictures of them, surely you would show them later.

At one point, while Baelon, Daella, and Naerys were busy competing to see who could decorate the best, you motioned for your husband to come to your side. Aemond was quick to do so and smiled as he watched you hand him a cookie from under the counter. With his back to the children and making sure they couldn’t see him, he quickly took a bite. He savored the sugar and vanilla.

“Delicious, as always,” he said before kissing you.

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hotd masterlist

[writersdrug]

Tea and Cigarettes

Chapter 1. Tea Party

Masterlist

Summary: Out for a late-night walk to clear his head, Simon stumbles across an open bakery. All he wants is a tea. Instead, he gets a tea party.

Warnings: mild cursing, reader doesn't do the smartest thing in this situation

It was a common thought in Simon’s head, if not the most common. He shouldn’t have survived that mission.

It’s what was engrained into his head from the very first mission he’d been a part of. It’s what he repeated to himself at the end of every mission thereafter. Lady Luck was too forgiving and magnanimous to him – he should have been killed long ago, well before he reached his thirties and climbed up the ranks to lieutenant. It’s one thing when you have something to fight for, to come home to – it’s another when you have nothing but an undecorated flat.

And, for tonight, a cup of tea.

It was another night between missions; another restless moment in time where Simon found himself walking the streets of the city, rather than trying to get some shut eye. It wouldn’t have worked anyways – it never did. His neurons were too busy firing off at every mistake, every memory, every single thing that haunts him, for him to get a restful sleep.

So that’s what brought him here: standing inside a bakery late at night, staring at the toddler behind the cashier’s counter. His overactive thoughts had certainly taken a backseat to the one, prominent question in his mind; who the hell is this kid, and where is her mother?!

“Hello.” She said, standing on her toes, already balancing herself on a small step-stool. Her head barely poked over the counter for her to look at Simon.

“… ‘ello…” he said cautiously, eyeing the girl like she was a ticking time bomb. “Where are your parents?”

“Mummy’s in the back with Sean.” She said, turning her head and pointing to the doorway to the left. Simon leaned his head over the counter to follow her line of sight – he heard the sound of some sort of machinery echoing from the kitchen-like backroom, but he didn’t see anyone.

“She’s making biscuits!” The girl said, looking back at Simon.

He was utterly baffled. Who would leave a kid at the front of a shop? After hours, with the bloody door unlocked?! “Where’s your dad?”

“He lives with Nancy!”

“Nancy?”

“Yes – she used to stay at home with us, when Mommy had to work – then she took daddy home with him!”

Oh… that’s unfortunate.

He sighed. “Sorry ‘bout-“

“Would you like tea?”

Simon stared blankly back at the girl. This is ridiculous. “D’you have black tea?”

The girl nodded. She hopped off the step stool – Simon followed her little ponytail as it barely bobbed above the surface of the countertops. She rounded the corner and headed to a small, pink play kitchen. She grabbed two cups, one pink and one a royal purple, before carrying them over to a sink back behind the counter. She placed them on the countertop, then trotted back to the cashier area to grab her stool.

“I’m sorry.” she said with a giggle.

“’S fine, take your time…” Simon mumbled, stupefied by the whole situation. He watched the girl as she dragged her stool to the sink and clamored up onto it, filling the two cups with water. This was a very… unnatural situation. He wouldn’t be entertaining it, if it wasn’t for the fact that this girl was clearly alone. He would have gone back to the kitchen to see where her mum was, but he didn’t want anyone to think he was robbing the place and pull a gun on him. If anything, the least he could do was watch over this little girl until someone came around to claim responsibility for her.

So, there he was. Five minutes later, sitting at one of the tables in the bakery with this toddler. “Eating” a fake croissant and drinking “tea” from the little plastic cup (he got pink; purple was her favorite color).

“Do you want butter?” she asked, holding him a plastic plate and knife, with a plastic slab of butter on it.

“Yea, why not.” He replied. He picked up the tiny knife and pretended to slather butter over the one half of his croissant (it intrigued him that the manufacturer of the toy had thought to make the damn thing dividable into two pieces). “Ya got a name, kid?”

“Mummy says I can’t tell strangers my name.” she replied, looking at him with the same stern expression her mother had most likely given when telling her the same thing.

Simon nodded. “Your mum’s smart.” He said, taking a sip of his tea.

“You can call me Pony Princess!” she offered instead, biting into her croissant rather realistically.

Simon held back a laugh. “Pony Princess it is, then.” He said, clinking his cup against hers when she held it up for a toast.

You sighed, shoving the third and final tray of biscuits into the commercial oven. It was hot and humid in the kitchen, and you were thankful that the most toiling part of the batch was over. Glancing at your watch made you grimace at how late it was – Christopher was for sure going to complain about how late you had him stay, especially past closing. You knew he was most likely out for a smoke, but you didn’t have the energy to reprimand him tonight. As long as the doors were locked behind him and the front lights were off, you didn’t care. No one would be trying to enter a bakery this late at night.

You looked to your left, fanning the heat from your flushed face. Sean was fast asleep in his carrier, his little mouth open and fingers twitching as he dreamed. You gently scooped him into your arms and wiped his nose clean with your apron, before maneuvering your way through the kitchen to the front. It had been a while since Christopher came to nag you about hurrying up, and you wondered how long he’d been out smoking – or if he’d come back at all. Ellie wasn’t in her usual spot, coloring in the office chair in front of the computer… you frowned a bit, speed walking into the café as an uneasy feeling settled in your stomach.

“Christpher, are you in here?” you called, adjusting Sean on your hip. “Ellie? Where are-“

You audibly gasped when you walked into the seating area. A man, a brutish man, was seated at one of your tables, after closing. He was dressed in all black, with a black surgical mask dangling from one ear, and his hood up. He stared back at you with a shocked expression on his face, holding an absurdly tiny, pink plastic cup in his hand, and a toy croissant on the table in front of him. Right across from him was your daughter, Ellie, with an aloof grin on her face.

“Hi Mummy!” she exclaimed. “We’re having a tea party!”

A million questions were running through your head. Where the fuck is Christopher? Who is this man? Is he robbing you? Is he trying to steal your child?!

“Ellie…” you said, a slight waiver in your voice. “Sweetheart, come here please.”

“But I’m having tea with him!”

You sent another fearful glance to the behemoth of a man at the table. He looked back at you, seemingly just as taken aback by the situation as you were. He looked back down at the table and cleared his throat, taking a tiny sip from the hot pink plastic cup.

Your daughter was having tea and crumpets with a fucking burglar.

“Ellie. Now, please.” You repeated sternly, holding your free arm out to her.

She reluctantly slid down from her chair and padded over to you. As soon as she was within arm’s length, you grabbed her tiny hand and dragged her into the back kitchen.

“Ellie, what are you doing?!” You whisper-yelled, kneeling down to her level and looking into her eyes. You tried to stress the importance of the situation. “Who is that man?!”

“He’s a customer, Mummy!” she said, with a beaming smile on her face.

“What did he want from you?!”

“He wanted tea.”

“What else? Did he ask for your name?”

“I didn’t tell him.” She said, resolve thick in her tone. “Just like you told me not to.”

You sighed frustratedly, adjusting Sean on your hip. “Where is Christopher?”

“He went outside.”

Un-fuckin-believable.

You pulled her close to you and planted a kiss to her forehead, then looked her in the eyes once more. “Listen to me, sweetie. Go to the desk and color for now, ok? I’m gonna talk to the man. I’ll be right back. And if you hear Mommy yelling or crying-“

“- use the phone and call 9-9-9.” She said.

“Good girl – now go on.” You ushered her further into the kitchen, then stood upright. With Sean still sound asleep, cradled tightly into your side, you grabbed the phone from the wall mount and slowly tiptoed back into the café.

Simon was still at the table, except now both of his palms were flat against the wooden surface. He watched as you emerged back into the lobby; maybe it was an inappropriate time to admire someone, but he couldn’t help himself.

You. Fierce you, you mustering the angriest face you could make (it was quite cute, by the way – you really need to work on it if you’re trying to intimidate anyone). You with your hair hastily pulled back into a messy updo, you with that baby boy on your hip, you with batter on your face that Simon was just dying to lick up. You stayed behind the counter

“Who are you?” you demanded.

“Simon.” He answered. He could tell you were a bit disappointed in that response, given you didn’t know who the hell Simon was. “Not a burglar.” He added after a few seconds.

You pouted even more. “Why are you in here? How did you get in here? We’re closed.”

Simon looked towards the blinking “open” sign by the front door. “Well… mam, the sign says otherwise. And the doors were unlocked.”

You looked at the sign and cursed internally, taking another peek into the back kitchen. Ellie was still back there. Good. Christopher was nowhere to be seen. Fuck.

“I’m sorry about the confusion…” you said, looking back at Simon and adjusting Sean on your hip, “but we’re closed. My clerk should’ve turned that sign off hours ago, and locked the door behind him. In fact, when he gets in here, I’m about to give him a piece of my-“

“Mam, please-“ Simon said, starting to stand up. Your eyes widened a bit and you took a step back; he held his hands up as a peace offering, before stretching up to his full height. You gulped – you’d never seen anyone so large before. How did he fit through the damn door?

“I didn’t mean t’ cause any fuss.” He spoke quietly, slowly approaching the counter you stood behind. “I really am sorry – I thought th’ place was open, n’ I was out lookin’ for a tea. ‘Lil squirt back there was very hospitable. I jus’ stuck around to see where ‘er mum was.”

He pulled his hood down to seem more approachable, and lord, was he. You couldn’t fight the way you were immediately attracted to the cropped, blonde hair, the strong jaw, the few scars that marked up his face… fuck, the way he could’ve been a building next to you, with how much he shaded you from the light…

Didn’t you think this man was a burglar not five minutes ago? You thought. You quickly forgave yourself, once you remembered how long it had been since you were with a man.

You sighed. “I’m sorry, I just- you know, with two kids, you freak out about everything-“

“Perfectly understandable.” He interjected. “But I’ve caused enough trouble for one night. ‘ll be out of your hair-“

“Could I at least get you a tea?” you asked. “Since you’re here.”

“You really don’t need-“

“No, I insist- just, give me a moment-“ frazzled, you disappeared into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind you.

Simon exhaled heavily, clearing his throat. He tried to recuperate himself – he couldn’t be falling for the woman he nearly frightened to death, let alone a woman he’d never met before. You were probably scared shitless of him. The way your wide, glossy eyes had stared at him, those pouting lips… and Christ, the way that baby boy fit perfectly on your hips. He imagined his hands tracing over them –

He huffed, glancing around the café to distract himself. Should’ve listened to Price and gotten a hobby-

You came back out, baby-free, and snagged a paper cup off of a stack near the drip machine. “Just had to put him back with Ellie. Don’t like them being near the- the urns, and such-“ you fumbled, looking for a cup sleeve, before sliding it on and reaching for the tea cabinet. “Black or green?”

“Black’s fine – please and thank you.” Simon grunted out. He shoved his fidgety hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt, watching as you grabbed a tea back and dropped it into his cup.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“None, thanks.”

“Do you always roam around this late at night?” you asked, pouring the water into the travel cup. Steam billowed up and in front of your face, and you scrunched your nose from the heat. “None of the shops are open this late – tea shops, I mean. Or, they shouldn’t be, but most of them have a clerk who knows how to turn off the “open” sign and lock the damn doors.”

Simon huffed. “Figured something was off. I jus’ couldn’t sleep.” He said, accepting the cup as you handed it to him. “Never can get much after comin’ home. Takes a while t’ get used to civilian life.”

“Military?” You asked, placing a hand on your hip as Simon nodded. “I get that. Nick used to have the same problem.”

“Nick?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, an embarrassed flush on your face. “Nothing. Ex-husband. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Simon mumbled, taking a sip of the tea. Don’t be sorry at all…

The two of you stood there a moment, a bit of awkward silence hanging in between you like a thick wall of glass. You cleared your throat – Simon saw the time on the clock hanging on the wall behind you, and decided he had taken up enough of your time.

“Well” – he said, fishing in to his pocket.

You smiled. “I appreciate it, but you really don’t have to. I’m paying you back for assuming you were a burglar – and for watching my daughter. Which, honestly, I really do appreciate.”

“Nonsense.” He said, pulling out a waded up bill. “’S what any good man should do. And I insist – if anything, give it t’ the little squirt for the excellent customer service.”

You chuckled, smiling as he handed the bill to you. “I can’t thank you eno-“ you stopped, glancing at the two £50’s he’d just given you. Words failed to come to you, your tongue tripping over itself as you tried to get past the initial shock.

“Th- I- wait, Simon!” you called, swinging around the edge of the counter – but he was already at the door. “I can’t accept this!”

He held up a hand. “’M not takin’ it back. And it’s not for you – give it to Ellie.”

You huffed. “What’s a five-year-old going to do with one hundred pounds?!”

He shrugged. “Start a college fund. Or get herself a handful of biscuits from the store.”

A chuckle escaped your lips – the sound warmed Simon’s soul. “Yeah, sure. When she’s got plenty of biscuits here. I don’t-“

You stopped, just as the bell above the door chimed. Simon followed your narrowed, angry gaze to the bloke who had just entered. He was tying an apron around his middle, reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor. He jumped when his eyes landed on Simon – he could see the gears turning in the man’s head as his face suddenly fell, right before he turned to you. Simon read the name on the tag pinned to the man’s apron.

Christopher.

A deep, throaty laugh escaped his throat as he clapped the man on the shoulder. “You’re in trouble, mate. ‘N lock the door behind ya.” He then exited the café, sipping his tea and shoving a hand into his pocket, chuckling as your angry voice echoed through the doors.

Thankfully, the nagging voices in his head didn’t return that night.

[babybearnation]

driving home for christmas

⎇oscar piastri x gn!reader - you're spending christmas alone... or are you? (oneshot) ⎇author's note: my first ever oneshot and ofc, it's a gift fic hehe. MERRY CHRISTMAS @koalapastries I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! (also sorry, i know you're australian but i know nothing about australian xmas so uhhh reader lives in england) ⎇content warnings: crying, implied depression, light angst with a happy ending ⎇word count: 1.1k

Y/n sighs, nudging the fridge door shut with their hip, a few things rattling inside. Christmas steadily ticks closer and closer and they were not looking forward to when the day would actually arrive. For the first time ever, they'd be spending Christmas alone, and they weren't looking forward to it.

Y/n sighs once more before focusing on making their hot chocolate, craving that much needed chocolatey warmth. Maybe it would make them feel better. Probably not, but it was worth a shot, right?

A bleep from their phone pulls their attention away and they look down at the device, placing the milk to one side to pick it up. What greets them is a text from their boyfriend, Oscar, who'd gone home to celebrate Christmas with his family. The message preview is just a simple [image attached]. Y/n smiles softly and unlocks the phone, a frown quickly forming on their face instead mere seconds later.

It's a cute photo - Oscar's got a silly little Santa hat on and there are all manner of tinsel and light decorations behind him - but Y/n feels bitter and jealous. Why couldn't they be there, celebrating with Oscar and his family?

Y/n sends back a few simple hearts before locking the device and turning back to finish making their drink with a heavy sign. They cradle the hot cup in their palms and stare around at their undecorated apartment with tired eyes.

"This holiday season is gonna suck."

"Hey baby." Y/n says, smiling as Oscar's handsome face fills their phone screen. His camera is more pixelated than normal and he appears to be in a car, the occasionally jerk to his body being captured by the camera.

"Hey, sorry. Meant to call you at home but something came up and now I have to go somewhere. Still wanted to call though." Oscar's voice crackles through the speakers, and Y/n smiles softly. It's a bit rough, but it's better than Oscar not calling at all.

"Where you off to?" Y/n asks, tucking their legs under themself as they stare at Oscar's form, albeit a much poorer quality version. Oscar hums distractedly before registering what Y/n had said, a soft blush coating his cheeks. Y/n's eyebrows furrow in confusion. What could possibly have him so distracted?

"Just a last minute visit to a family friend, that's all. Travelling across half of Australia for it." Oscar says and Y/n hums, frowning softly as they avoid looking at the screen. "You okay?" Y/n sighs at that. Why did everyone have to ask them that question all the fucking time?

"Just... first Christmas all alone, remember? Not even a pet to keep me company." Y/n scoffs, tears building in their eyes. They sigh and lift their head up, blinking away tears. "Sorry..."

"Baby, please, don't be sorry. I'm not gonna claim to know how you're feeling but I'm always gonna be here for you. I'll spend as much of my Christmas with you as I can, I promise you that." Oscar says, the endearing sweetness that made Y/n fall for him evident in his voice. When Y/n looks back down at their phone after blinking away the handful of tears that had graced their eyes, they're greeted by a softly smiling Oscar. Seconds later, he turns his phone, his mum appearing on the screen instead.

"Hello sweetie. Keep your chin up, okay? Next year, you can spend it with us if you're still alone." Nicole says, beaming at Y/n. Y/n smiles and chuckles softly, wiping away the new batch of tears that had sprung up out of nowhere. God, why did this make them so emotional?

"Thank you, Mama Piastri. That means a lot." Y/n smiles softly. Nicole smiles and wishes them a Merry Christmas before the camera is filled with Oscar's far too handsome face again. He looks apologetic and Y/n knows he's about to say goodbye. It hurts, but Y/n can't prevent it.

"I gotta go now, okay? I'll talk to you as soon as I can." Oscar says, a genuine sadness staining his expression. Y/n smiles and says their goodbyes, the call ending seconds later. Their phone drops to their lap as tears flood down their face.

Y/n winces as the brightness of their phone screen hits their face and fills their vision. December 25th, 7:18am. Still nothing from Oscar. It had been over an entire day of no Oscar and Y/n was starting to worry they'd scared him off with their crying a few days ago.

With a groan, Y/n rolls out of bed, padding over to the window. They tug open the curtains, taking in the frost-covered grass at the front of their house. A unfamiliar car is parked outside and Y/n grumbles to themself about neighbours not having the courtesy to ask to use the parking space before doing so.

The more they observe the random newcomer car, the more they notice. The driver is still inside, and unlike the other, more familiar cars that dot the street, this one seems relatively unblemished by the ice and frost outside. Y/n furrows their eyebrows before sighing and turning from the window.

"What am I doing?" Y/n murmurs. They cross to their dresser and pull out some clothes when an insistent knocking sounds at the door. They huff and drop their clothes onto their bed before traipsing out of their room.

Seriously, who the fuck was knocking at damn near 7:30am on fucking Christmas Day? Y/n was alone, sure, but no one else they knew was alone and all of their neighbours kept to themselves on Christmas Day. So who the fuck was it?

Y/n tears the door open as they reach it before freezing, eyes wide in shock at who stands before them. "Oscar?"

"Surprise." Oscar says. Y/n doesn't let him speak further after that, diving into his arms. His bags clatter and thud against the floor as he drops them, lacing his arms around Y/n's torso. "You didn't think I'd let you spend Christmas all alone, did you?" He whispers into their hair.

Y/n pulls away and cups his face, tears threatening to drip from their lash line. Oscar reaches up and wipes away the dampness, a soft smile on his face. Y/n tugs him into a kiss, not caring who could see. Oscar responds eagerly, fingers dipping below the hem of their shirt, brushing along Y/n's soft skin.

"I love you. I love you so much. I love you, Oscar." Y/n says. It's the first time they've said it, yet they know they mean it with each and every fiber of their being. Oscar smiles and kisses them again, tugging them even closer.

"I love you too, baby. Merry Christmas."

© all rights to babybearnation 2024.

[joyoushyuck]

(minors dni)

14:21

Donghyuck's palm is warm on your stomach.

You are seated on his loveseat, his front pressed to your back, his chin on your shoulder.

He plants a fleeting kiss on your neck; it is barely there but your senses are incapable of perceiving nothing but Donghyuck's touches, his words, him.

He hugs you the slightest bit tighter when his lips land on your jaw. They linger there, sharp teeth grazing skin and tongue licking a stripe across the line of your jaw. You exhale a shaky breath.

The hand on your stomach moves up, thumb slightly brushing your nipple. A shiver runs down your spine, prompting a low chuckle from the devil himself. His chin digs deeper into your shoulder when he takes the corner of your upper lip between his teeth. You tilt your head and attempt to initiate a kiss, but his hold on your cheek is firm and leaves no room for movement. His teeth sink into your cupid's bow at the same time he rolls a nipple between his fingers, eliciting a breathy moan out of you. His warm breath tickles the sensitive skin of your neck, an undecorated canvas waiting to be ruined.

Donghyuck pulls away only to urge you with a convincing glint in his eyes to lay back on the couch. He pulls your shirt off your body in a swift motion, attention focused on the unmarked expanse of your neck, chest, stomach.

Your stomach feels fuzzy, an eruption of butterflies and a stampede of elephants all at the same time, when his soft lips settle on your stomach. He presses a kiss first at your navel, a resounding ‘muah’ that makes your toes curl. (It also makes your core throb. Which is, of course, highly irrelevant.) Another kiss just below your navel, and another one on your hipline right above your waistband. You don't realise how much your chest is heaving until he laughs and mumbles a ‘calm down baby’ into your stomach.

You lose it when he presses his lips directly on your core, another moan forced out of you and hands gripping Donghyuck’s hair in desperation. He clicks his tongue at that, features breaking into a devilish smirk, pinning your hands above your head in the blink of an eye. His gaze darkens at the sight of you laid out bare in front of him, chest pushed out, tears at the brink of falling, all just for him.

He'll take care of you. But before that, he needs to find those handcuffs.

-

Note

My inbox is open. You can send in your thoughts/requests!

[petermorwood]

Hi there I have an arms question for you that I'm hoping you might be able to help me with. So it is commonly accepted that swords should not be kept in their scabbards long term, especially wood and leather ones as they absorb moisture and can end up trapping moisture on the blade and cause it to corrode. Which makes sense and is why most museums seem to try and store their swords out of the scabbard. My issue is I haven't been able to find any hard sources about if this is true or not. Whenever I try to find any sources I just find forum posts and nothing with research to back it up. Are you aware of any sources on the proper care and storage of historic swords?

Storing any carbon-steel blade - kitchen knife or antique sword - for a long time in a possibly damp container - drawer or scabbard - is not a good idea, and the kitchen knife is far more likely to be taken out for use and any incipient corrosion dealt with.

The sword is likely to just hang there, being admired from a distance, until one fine day it's brought down, drawn and OMG Look At The State Of It...!

But, am I aware of any (reliable) sources for care and storage of historic swords?

Unfortunately, no. :-<

*****

What I know is the care and maintenance of modern reproductions, so rather than give incorrect information which might potentially cause irreparable damage to some genuine artefact, I recommend that you send this same question to:

The Royal Armouries, Leeds, England (enquiries@armouries.org.uk).

The Wallace Collection, London, England (enquiries@wallacecollection.org).

The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, USA (enquiries@metmuseum.org).

Conservation advice from any of those sources will be reliable and, based on past experience, they'll all respond.

*****

NB - I've seen "how to restore..." info on-line which is destructive to both historic and monetary value, and I can't shake the feeling that some - though not all, though THEY often require fully equipped workshops - YouTube channels deliberately create "aged items" which they then "restore".

*****

Japanese shirasaya ("white", i.e. undecorated) scabbards are used for storage and transport, though blades stored that way would certainly be inspected on a regular basis.

Blades in museums are frequently displayed "bare", with neither scabbard nor hilt furnishings, though that's as much to exhibit tang / blade inscriptions and hamon (edge pattern) detail as to avoid corrosion, like so:

AFAIK most "complete" swords alongside bare blades exhibited like this...

...are the blade's hilt and scabbard mounted on an insert to hold them together and show what the weapon looks like when fully assembled.

*****

A scabbard's function is threefold:

To carry the sword in a convenient manner.

To protect the blade from adverse conditions.

To prevent the blade from doing accidental harm.

Re-enactment back-carry scabbards which work by having big slots in one side or being hardly there at all ignore (2) and (3) in exclusive favour of (1). They never existed IRL.

*****

I've read a few articles by museum staff about conservation of old swords and when to stop - how much cleaning is enough, how much would be too much, preservation rather than removal of patina etc. - but nothing about the whys and wherefores of scabbard storage.

This may be because as history goes further back, original scabbards become much rarer than original swords, and often when a sword and scabbard ARE found together, they've corroded into one another to such an extent as to be inseparable.

This Etruscan bronze sword and its bronze scabbard are very unusual, not just two separate items but almost completely intact, with only the organic (horn or wooden) parts of the grip missing:

It helps that the Etruscan example is bronze, which doesn't degrade in the same way as iron or steel.

This iron or steel Iberian falcata shows the more usual fate - organic material like its hilt scales are gone, as is the wood and leather of its scabbard, leaving only metalwork behind. Despite that, the blade is in remarkably good condition.

Here's a repro showing how it would have looked when complete. A small utility knife mounted on the main scabbard wasn't unusual, and was also done in the late Middle Ages and Renaissance.

The same happened to this Roman gladius: its blade and scabbard frame remain, but the leather, wood and horn of the rest have vanished, taking most of the tang and deep bites of blade with them.

Again, a repro showing how it would have looked when new.

*****

However, sometimes scabbards survive.

This sword was found a few years ago (2020) in the Oder / Odra River in Poland, and though the grip - wood, probably bound with cord then covered in leather - has rotted away, its scabbard is in a remarkable state of preservation.

What the blade's like, and whether it will ever see the light of day without destroying the scabbard, is another matter entirely up to the museum staff dealing with it.

I suspect non-invasive methods such as X-rays or ultrasound will be used: intact period blades are (reasonably) common, intact period scabbards are not.

Scabbards for Important Swords owned by Important People, including - supposedly - saints are another thing, often far fancier than what originally went with the sword, and tend to be looked after appropriately...

...although a couple of these (centre and right below) have survived remarkably well despite just being entombed with their owners.

The non-metal parts of any working sword were, of necessity, replaceable.

If used in battle they would get stained, sticky and smelly. Over the passage of time they might get chipped, torn or broken. Or they might just be "great-grandad's old clunker", not thrown out yet but not maintained any more, because the style of swords has changed since his day so why bother?

Take a look at this drawing by Albrecht Dürer. That's a one-handed arming sword at least a century out of date and maybe two, while the state of the scabbard speaks for itself.

However though definitely not an elegant hand-and-a-half longsword as seen in other Dürer illustrations...

...that old clunker will still work as intended if sharp enough, and the tatty scabbard means bumping into its uncovered point will not be fun.

Been there, done that, Ouch!

*****

Storing / displaying swords out of their scabbards is sound, for the reasons you mention in your Ask.

However this recalls scabbard purpose (1) as listed near the top, since it exposes the bared metal to other risks such as humidity or inquisitive fingers, so some sort of coating is a good idea.

Oil or grease is messy and wipes off too easily, frequently on things better left without it such as clothing, cats etc., so try "Renaissance Wax" which I believe is used on original pieces by actual museums.

I've even read that it was developed by the British Museum though have no solid proof of that so YMMV, but I've been using it on my own repro swords for years, and can confirm that when properly applied (rub on, let dry, buff lightly with soft cloth) it adds a near-invisible layer of protection and does no harm.

*****

Hope This Helps!

*****

ETA (1) - Thanks to @librarianmouse and @pagecommando for reposting this with links to, respectively, the American Institute for Conservation and Forde Military Antiques Sword Cleaning Guide, links I've added here for completeness and my own convenience.

NB that the Forde Guide is very rightly peppered with warnings about what restoration can do to an antique, and that the swords it deals with are (mostly) mass-produced army-issue sidearms rather than one-of-a-kind weapons.

ETA (2) - @dduane asked "Why didn't you mention Blood Rust Guy?" I mentioned him very thoroughly Right Here. If you want an example of sword "care" not to follow, that's a good one.

[echo-bleu]

“How do you even know he's alive?” asks Fingon.

Maglor watches him for a long moment, his face grave and closed in a way Fingon doesn't remember ever seeing before.

“Come with me,” he finally says.

With a swish of his long cloak, his armour perfectly oiled and silent, he turns around and leads Fingon to a side door. They ascend the winding, undecorated steps in silence. Fingon has a million things to say, to ask, to shout now that they're in private, but in the face of Maglor's stone countenance, the magnitude of the loss of his uncle and Maedhros, he can no longer find the words.

Before the narrow, windowless staircase can grow fully dark, the light of the sun filters in from another opening at the top. They come out on a crenelled tower, far above the rest of the fortress. Fingon looks around, discovering the lands of Beleriand from a bird's point of view.

Maglor stands there and waits him out without a word. When Fingon finally turns to him, he gestures at the North. There, beyond the snow-covered plains and pine forests, looms a sheer black cliff.

“Angband,” Maglor says. “The mountain is called Thangorodrim.”

“What am I looking for?”

Maglor sighs and shields his eyes from the sun with his hands, staring at the cliff face. “Close to the top, where it's the sheerest.”

Fingon squints. He doesn't know what to expect, so he has no time to shield his mind between the moment he spots a figure up there, dangling from the cliff, and the moment he understands.

Maglor reels back, as if struck. Fingon finds that he can't breathe.

He falls to his knees against the battlement. Nothing can make him tear his eyes from the figure of Maedhros hanging by his arm from the cliff. His stomach is trying to rebel, and tears blur his vision, keeping him from desperately looking for any sign of life.

“How long?” he manages to choke out.

“Almost two years, as close as I could tell,” Maglor says. He doesn't sound much less choked up, though this is clearly a habitual sight to him.

Two years. Almost two thirds of the time it took them to cross the Ice.

How has Maedhros survived this long?

“There's a winged creature who comes to feed him once a week.” Maglor must have caught his thought. “Well, force-feed him, really. I suppose Morgoth must think him a valuable hostage.” He pauses for a moment, still staring forward. “He's not wrong.”

Fingon has had too much. The strangled sob in his throat comes out as a cry of rage.

“And you've just left him there?”

For some reason when I was first reading the Silmarillion I got it into my head that they could see Maedhros from Mithrim... It's not geographically correct, but it's heartbreaking enough to share. The years mentioned here are of course Tree years, ten Sun years apiece.

[boobav]

Sanguine

He could offer you nothing.  

During dark hours where his metal hands slithered along your body is when he felt this realisation most deeply. He could give you no warmth, no child- he couldn't even kiss you. Kaleb wasn't even sure if he could love you, a simple thing to most, but to him, one who hadn't felt the touch of such a thing during centuries of life, he wasn't sure at all. 

And yet, time and time again, you came to him.  

You pressed hot kisses against this face forced upon him and sighed in content at each one. His fingers knead the flesh of your hip as you straddle him in his plain, undecorated room, and he listens as your heart thrums quick and hard between your ribs. He undoes your shirt buttons deftly and hums as your hands move to cup his face.  

He was vile. He was the villain in countless stories, the shadow waiting in the dark; he'd told you so countless times. Months upon months piled up like paperwork, but for some reason, you continued to disregard his verbal attacks and senseless force. You stayed, a thorn in his side that continued to remind him that he was still much too human. When he fucks you like a man starved, he finds himself yearning for his long-dead body, for his blue eyes and smooth voice, not for himself, but for you. So you could be normal, you could be warm, and safe, and content. So you could feel more than steel and rage with your gentle touch. 

He brushes his unmoving, metal lips over your neck as your shirt is thrown across the room. He knows that you'll leave him- of course you will. As he helps you discard your shorts, he thinks, and he knows. How could you ever be content with a monster? With a monster who lacks every desirable aspect of humanity, with a monster who can't mutter out I love you, even when it weighs down on his fake tongue and strangles him with its twisting fingers.

And as he enters you, silicone and steel, he knows he will never be enough. No amount of metal can recreate what you need, what you deserve. His hands squeeze your thighs as he fucks up into you, carnally, face shoved into the crook of your neck to stifle his own noises as you moan his name, his real name, and he thinks of what a sick joke his life is; he holds perfection in his hands, he hears it cry his lost name, but he will never be enough. 

"Are you okay?" Your voice comes out breathy, broken, and Kaleb stills within you. You bring a hand to his face, guiding it away from your neck. Of course, you could decipher nothing from his expression, for it never changed, still as the mountains no matter the situation. But you could tell from his silence that something was bothering him behind those yellow eyes.  

"Yeah." Is all he says, and leans in, waiting for you to press a warm kiss against his cold lips. And you do, humming as he moves his hips again, slowing the pace slightly.  

You want to prod; you want to beg him for his real thoughts. But getting those out of Kaleb was nigh impossible. Rarely, on a cool summer night stargazing, something about his past or present turmoil will spill from his lips, and you cherish it, you love his words because you love him. But you knew that pushing him for vulnerability was a mistake, no matter how much your heart hurt for him.  

And he knew he was stupid. He knew that he was ruining the one good thing in his pathetic life by not opening up, by fucking you and pretending there was nothing to it besides lust. His eyes are trained on you as you throw your head back with a moan; he eyes the bead of sweat rolling down your neck, he eyes your lips, your closed eyes, the curve of your nose. He feels the ghost of his heart flutter and thump with humanity, and he hates it.  

He hates it because he knows, deep down in the pitiful thing he calls a soul, he knows that you will leave him. He knows that this will not last, that the butterflies in his chassis that swarm when he sees you will die, because you will realise that he can offer you nothing. He shoves his face back into your neck as he cums, mechanical hips stuttering against your bruised skin, a synthesised groan of both ecstasy and agony crawling from his throat.  

You drag him down into bed with you, and unlike every other time, you are met with no resistance. You cling to his metal frame like ivy, sighing at all the words left unsaid that linger in the air, making it stale and unbreathable.  

"Kaleb?" You ask with a nervous lilt.  

"Hm?" His hum sounds somehow exhausted.  

"You know I'd never leave you, right?"  

"I know. You tell me this every day." He wants to slam his head against the wall for responding to your sincerity with sarcasm. Yet, despite your constant statements, he can't bring himself to believe you- because he knows better. He knows that eventually you'll run off. As soon as you get a taste of the humanity absent in Kaleb through someone else, you will leave. It'll fill your lungs and pump through your heart like fire, and you'll be wondering why you wasted your time on him at all.

But, even so- as you mumble against his chest and hold him somehow tighter, he can't crush that fluttering of hope inside him that maybe...  

Maybe you won't leave.

[cripplecharacters]

Debated on whether I wanted to resend but here goes nothing.

This is Margo, my OC. She is currently being developed into a Stardew Valley mod. I don't wish to spoil too much, but she fought in The War and was injured. She now has facial + body scarring and a cane. I'm still writing the story, but so far, she has two plots: A, which is her learning to open up and accept the player. And B, which is her trying to find a hobby with the help of other NPC characters.

I'm mainly sending an ask in for feedback on her design. As of now, her torn lip has been edited to show her gums instead of all teeth. Otherwise, nothing has changed. Thank you!

Side question: How should her facial difference and cane be addressed, if at all?

[Image description: two pixel drawings. The first one shows the full body of the character; she has light tan skin, a burn scar on her face, and long red hair. She's holding a cane. The second drawing shows multiple versions of the character's portrait with various facial expressions.]

Hey!

She looks good! I especially like the top right one, very cute :)

I think my only concern would be re: her right eye - is she meant to have corneal scarring or a traumatic cataract? I'm asking since it looks like she has corneal blindness, but that's rarely caused by an injury like that (it's mostly a vitamin deficiency/parasitic thing). It's not impossible that she'd have it from a burn, but I want to make sure you're not confusing the two (since I see that a lot) and these two conditions do have different symptoms (outside of blindness).

If you're willing to address her disability then I think it would be a good idea. I'm not sure what kind of narration you're going for, but it wouldn't be ableist for the player character to simply Acknowledge that she has burns on her face (e.g., before the player learns her actual name, the placeholder could be "red-haired woman with a burn" since these are just her most visible characteristics). It also wouldn't be out of place if the player character wondered "what happened" - I know we (disabled people) all hate this question, but I don't think it's weird for someone to just think that in their head when they see someone (thought crime isn't real, etc.). As long as the player character isn't going around harassing her asking why she's disabled as the first thing they do (unless I guess it'd be to show that the player is ableist and has a lot to learn?) it should be ok.

If you want the characters to discuss "what happened" in the actual dialogue, it'd be preferably after they actually develop a relationship. I don't think it's weird to ask one's friend about their disability (as opposed to demand that information). Depending on Margo's personality and/or feelings toward the player she could either explain the whole story in great detail, leave it at "during the War, a building caught on fire, I was in it; it took them three months to put me back together but at least I'm finally back home, isn't modern medicine incredible?", or simply decline to answer that. All three are valid options; it's not like her character arc will fall apart if the player doesn't know what happened. She's visibly a burn survivor, there's hardly any mystery as to what's going on. Not everyone wants to talk about the origin of their disability, even (sometimes especially) to people they're close to - sometimes it's PTSD, sometimes it's the fact that they're tired of being asked that.

Her cane is more straightforward since in her case, her main "thing to address" are her burns and the cane would probably fall under that for most players. If you want you can have the player character compliment the design of her cane* or how well built it is, especially earlier on when it would be more awkward to just go straight to discussing her actual disability.

*Real life (not writing) tip: Not everyone likes that, please don't randomly compliment real strangers' mobility aids, especially if they're undecorated or without anything else that would imply they want to bring attention to it. A lot of people (myself included) will think you're being condescending.

Other than that, there's no reason to ignore her burns or cane; e.g. if the player visits her at home before going out she can mention that she needs to grab her cane, or put a pressure sleeve on before leaving, maybe on some days she's not available to talk to because she has physical therapy scheduled at that time, etc. As long as she has other character traits that have nothing to do with her disability (which it sounds like she already does) it should all be good.

I also like the plot B she's involved in - I wish this wasn't the case, but so many characters with facial differences don't have any damn hobbies ("obsessing over revenge for making them disabled" doesn't count) and almost never seem to have casual friends, so this is cool to see!

Hope this helps,

mod Sasza

[holylulusworld]

The Grinch

Summary: We get to know how you and Lloyd got together.

Pairing: Lloyd Hansen x Assistant!Reader

Warnings: Christmas mood, sweet reader, maybe clueless reader, language, a little fluff, a hint of groping

A/N: This is the prequel to my miniseries: Plant Apocalypse

“Put your Christmas sweater on,” you sing along to the music blaring from your phone. You shake your ass and giggle as the snowman you placed on your desk starts singing the moment you pass him by. “Yeah, you too!”

Lifting the box with Christmas decorations you huff. There are so many people around in this house and no one offered their help with the Christmas decoration.

You walk over to Lloyd’s office, smiling wildly as one of the newer agents wishes you happy holidays.

“Cheery and bright, guys,” you coo and wave at the men discussing the next job, or target. 

You shrug when they don’t look your way. Whatever they are up to is none of your business. From the moment you started working for Lloyd, you knew it was better to shut your mouth and not ask too many questions about his business.

While you fight to open the door and balance the box in your arm the men get louder. They seem to fight over something the newbie said.

“Hey, no fighting in here.” You yell, and the men stop in their tracks. “Mr. Hansen hates it when you demolish the headquarters!”

“Sorry,” they mumble. No one would believe that five bulky and heavily armored men stopped fighting only because you yelled at them.

“That’s much better. It’s Christmas, team. We should be cheery and happy, not fight. In the kitchen are cookies and later we can have hot chocolate.”

You managed to open the door and walk inside the office, huffing as it looks cold and unwelcoming.

There are monitors on the wall and a desk in the middle of the room. The other wall is grey and undecorated. Nothing is making you sadder than a room without decoration and plants.

“I’ll turn this cold room into a nice office,” you put the box on the couch standing next to the door. “Mr. Hansen will love it.”

You clap your hands and cheer yourself up. 

“What the fuck is that?” Lloyd feels like he’s going to vomit rainbows. He looks around his office, shaking his head in disbelief. “I was away for two hours, and someone infiltrated my office and turned it into Santa’s shithole.”

“Mr. Hansen, you are back!” You squeal and walk toward Lloyd. “Welcome to your new office. I decorated it for you to make it look more festive.”

“I-“ He chokes on air as there is a rocking Santa next to his beloved gun shelf. You even dared to sling a fairy light around one of the shotguns. “What did you do? You are…you are…”

He looks you up and down. You’re wearing an ugly Christmas sweater with a snowman and blinking lights.

“I know.” You wrap Lloyd in a hug. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I got a Christmas sweater for you too, Sir. You’ll love it. It matches your eyes.” 

Lloyd opens his mouth. He wants to tell you that you are fired. You violated his sanctuary, his beloved office but he can’t bring the words out. I mean, he killed people for less, but he can’t hurt you, or ruin your festive mood.

“I got you a matching one,” you smile sweetly. “I had hoped you’d wear it when we have hot chocolate and cookies.”

“Cupcake,” he sighs deeply and runs one hand down his face. Lloyd is a cold-blooded man and doesn’t give a shit about people, but he cares for you. “If I wear this thing, my men will believe I got weak and kill me.”

“Oh,” you sniffle. “I didn’t think this through. You’re a dangerous and strong man. Men like you don’t wear Christmas sweaters or kiss a girl under the mistletoe.”

“Mistletoe?” He cocks his head as you point at the mistletoe you hung up above his desk. Lloyd smirks. “So…did you already test the mistletoe?”

“I was alone at your office, Mr. Hansen,” you giggle. “It’s physically impossible for me to kiss myself.”

“Cupcake, you’d wonder about the uncanny flexibility of some people,” he gives you a dirty grin.

You wrinkle your nose. “Gross.”

“Yeah, a pretty girl on her knees is much better than suckin—” You cover his mouth to stop Lloyd from saying something gross.

“Do you like the decoration?” You look up at Lloyd with glassy eyes. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Sighing dreamily, you wait for Lloyd’s answer.

“Let’s see.” Lloyd walks you backward until you stand under the mistletoe. “How about we follow the tradition of kisses under the mistletoe?”

He cups your face and presses his lips to yours. Lloyd kisses you slowly, and almost sweetly. A stark contrast to his personality and profession.

“That was,” you whimper against his lips, ��nice.”

“Not bad, cupcake,” he steps away to watch you stand on wobbling legs. He hums and almost doesn’t hate the decoration until his eyes land on a plant on his desk. “What is that?”

“Oh…” you smile sweetly. “I love plants, Lloyd. Don’t you love plants too?”

“I should shoot it for standing near my laptop,” he grunts and pokes the plant with his index finger.

“You’ll get used to it. How about I show you the plants at my apartment?” He watches you wring your hands. For months you tried to find the guts to ask Lloyd out and now you got him where you want him. “I’ll cook for you.”

“Hmm…” He is considering your offer. “I hope you know I love dessert the most…” Lloyd grins. He wraps his arm around your waistline and moves his hand to your ass. “Maybe we can have dessert first…”

Steve Rogers/Chris Evans/all CEvans characters Tags

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[yandere-paramour]

What would Atlanta do if her darling can’t handle the whole isolation chamber punishment, like I’d probably freak the fuck out if I got put in there . Would she be okay with coming up with an alternate punishment .

Oh yeah, Ata would ABSOLUTELY pick a different punishment. She wants to punish you for misbehavior, not torture you.

Other punishments:

Spanking you

Making you write essays about whatever bad thing you did

Making you write lines

Taking away fun things or privileges

Making you sit in the corner

Literally grounding you in the apartment

Forcing you to come to work with her and be bored (this one in particular if you try to run)

Depending on the severity of the infraction, there might be a combination of these items like a spanking AND an essay.

Also, the Reflection Room really isn't as bad as it sounds. It's just a drab, undecorated room with nothing but a small bed, an empty closet, and grey-carpeted floors. There's even a window (but you're on like the 20th floor so good luck seeing anything worthwhile). The door is unlocked for safety and you are allowed bathroom breaks and food (but she will lock you inside if you keep leaving without a good reason). Even if you've done something bad enough to stay in there for days at a time, she will still take you out to sleep with her in the bed (if she's not absolutely furious), and you just go back inside in the morning. A minor infraction like lying or speaking disrespectfully one too many times might get you an hour or two.

The boredom is mostly what the punishment is; it's to make you think about your actions. It's just the adult version of a "Time Out".

[wandasbbg]

The Woman Nextdoor - mommy!wanda x fem neighbor!reader

Wanda was new to the neighborhood. After a long and painful divorce from Vision, what she and her boys needed was a fresh start. That start came in the shape of four green walls, a white front door, and a fenced in backyard. What she didn’t know was that her new start would also come in the shape of you. 

warnings: 18+ content, sexual themes and language, age gap, blood.

6.6k words, kinda slow burn, it's worth it tho!

this is my first fic, hope u like it :)

Wanda was new to the neighborhood. After a long and painful divorce from Vision, what she and her boys needed was a fresh start. That start came in the shape of four green walls, a white front door, and a fenced in backyard. What she didn’t know was that her new start would also come in the shape of you. 

Sunday Night, two days after moving in.

“Alright boys, I know you’re probably nervous for tomorrow, starting at a new school and all, but just know that Mommy is so proud of you both for being so brave throughout this whole thing. I know we are all going to be so happy here, and I know you’re going to love your new school. I can already tell that you’re both going to have so many friends by the end of this week. It’s going to be good, okay?”

Billy and Tommy looked at each other, and then at their mother. The brothers knew how stressed their mom was, and they both wanted to be strong for her, especially now that their Dad was gone. Despite their fears, they smiled courageously for their mother and nodded in agreement with her sentiments.

“Okay, good. If either of you need anything tonight you know I’m just down the hall.”

Wanda put the boys to bed, kissed them goodnight, and went downstairs. She walked into her unfurnished and undecorated kitchen in search of some wine. She found some, thankfully, and sat down on their new couch in their new living room, in this new town, with everything new. Her worries about the boys and school tomorrow washed away somewhat after her second class. Wanda knew she should stop herself after two, remembering what more than 3 glasses did to her. 

It had been 6 months since Wanda had been touched by another, despite her separation from Vision only being 2 months ago. For some reason Wanda couldn’t name, she poured herself another glass. The boys were asleep and she desperately needed some relief from the copious amounts of stress clinging to her back and shoulders. The red from her wine began to dance its way into her cheeks, leaving her face very warm. That flushed feeling was growing, and it was quickly traveling down her tired body. Wanda placed her glass down on her new coffee table, and unbuttoned her jeans. Her un-manicured nails slid down into her underwear. She felt herself, her own wetness, and a grunted moan slipped out. She threw her other hand over her mouth…and she kept going. Thinking of nothing but that familiar feeling, one she thought she may have lost, came crashing back to her. It soon sent her tumbling over the edge, as she pumped herself full of her own two fingers, using her thumb to play with her clit, breathing heavily into her hand.

Wanda dumped the last sips of her glass in the sink and went to her new bedroom. She laid in bed, drunk, exhausted, and alone. 

Monday Morning, three days after moving in.

“Remember, if at any point something happens you just go and find Ms. Maddie. She’ll help you, and she can call me in an emergency.”

Wanda waved her boys off as they were carried away on the school bus. As she stood there, and the bus disappeared from sight, something caught her eye on the other side of the street. You replaced the image of the bus, as you stood outside and washed your car. Wanda observed your bikini top and jean shorts, looking like Miss Americana. She stood mesmerized as you bent over to dip your sponge deep in the bucket; she watched you flip your hair as you brought the sponge back up to the hood of the red convertible, in what she assumed was your driveway. All those feelings from last night came flooding back and before she knew what she was doing, she was calling out to you. 

“Hi!”

You kept washing, headphones blaring as you scrubbed your beloved car, oblivious to the woman trying to get your attention. Wanda figured you must have not heard her, so she waved her hand and tried again.

“Hello! I’m Wanda, your new neighbor!”

You saw something moving frantically from the corner of your eye, which scared the shit out of you, you being a jumpy person since you were a kid. You quickly turn toward the motion while letting out a tiny yelp. Wanda had made her way over to you at this point, standing a few feet from you and your car. 

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You took your headphones out to be greeted with the kindest smile you’d ever seen. Quickly collecting your thoughts, you threw your sponge in the bucket at your feet and look back at this new woman. 

“Don’t worry about it, I startle easily. Uhm…My name is y/n. What did you say your name was again?” You asked, wanting to know more about this new, insanely beautiful character who stood before you.

“Wanda,” she breathed out with a certain softness, “me and my boys moved in a few days ago right across the street.”

This woman was absolutely, breathtakingly, painfully beautiful. Her auburn hair was tied up in a loose bun behind her head—effortless and stunning. Her shirt highlighted her breasts so nicely, you had to look, just for a second. She wore jeans that hugged her in all the right places, and low-top sneakers like someone your age would wear. She was gorgeous, and she was talking to you, which meant you needed to pull it together and talk back. 

“Oh! So that’s why I don’t recognize you. I definitely would remember someone like you.”

Wanda smirked at your confidence. She admired you already, and couldn’t help but think how beautiful you were. She also couldn’t help but think of all the things she wanted to do to/with you.

“Thank you y/n, you’re very sweet.”

You blushed at the subtle praise, already realizing what deep shit you were in if this woman lived literally across the street from you. It dawned on you that she could be visible from just the opening of your curtain, and thus, you could be visible to her, too. 

Wanda knew she had a chance here and now, so, with nothing else to lose, she took it.

“Well, we’re still trying to get situated and all moved in. It’s just me and the boys, so, if you have some free time, I’d really appreciate some help with the last of the boxes.”

Without hesitation, and in fear of her changing her mind or something equally as horrible, you answered her inquiry with embarrassing eagerness.

“Of course! I mean, yeah. Yes. Just let me know when and I’l be there. So long as I don’t have work, of course, and before I leave to go back to college, but that’s not for another three weeks, which you wouldn’t know–I’m rambling. Sorry. My answer is yes, Wanda, I’ll help you.”

Wanda reveled in your obvious flustered state from her proposal. She felt good knowing how eager you were to help her—to please her. It sent her reeling. She needed someone in her life like you, even just for a little bit. She craved any kind of love. You were shockingly beautiful and Wanda decided that not only did she need you, but that she just had to have you, no matter what it took. She would make you hers. Lucky for her, after only one interaction you wanted that too. You wanted very much to be hers.

“Perfect. Let me have your phone, sweetheart, so I can put in my number.”

You practically threw your phone at her, your hands still being wet from the sponge. You watched her hands work at the task at hand, typing her digits in, and marveled at her. Her hands, her arms, the way a certain vein popped out as she moved her thumb. You were finding it all incredibly sexy, and all she was doing was using a goddamn phone. You were fucked. She finished and handed your phone back to you, smiling seductively. As both of you held each end of your phone, she looked you up and down, unashamedly. 

“And don’t be afraid to wear this little get up whenever you stop by.”

Before you could answer, Wanda spun on her heels and walked back to her new home, hips swaying the whole way. She swiftly made her way to her own front door. She had gotten

herself quite worked up after the whole interaction and needed to relieve some tension in the privacy of her own home. She left you there, absolutely dumbfounded, just as she had intended. 

Wednesday Morning, five days after moving in.

Wanda woke up soaking wet after yet another dream of you beneath her, screaming out her name. This was becoming a recurring issue, one that Wanda needed to resolve soon. She didn’t have time to help herself out, as the clock told her it was time to wake up the boys for school. Thankfully, they were loving it so far, and Wanda could not have been more relieved. They had even asked to set up a play-date with a new friend they had made. Wanda’s heart filled with pride when she considered the resilience of Billy and Tommy. They were her life. Without them, she’d be nothing. She was so lucky to be their mother. This morning, however, she was wishing she could just have a little more time to herself before beginning her day. But alas, mothering is a full time gig. She got the boys up and ready, driving them to school and dropping them off with a kiss and hug goodbye. When she drove back, she realized that her mind had once again wandered to you. She wondered what you were doing, who you were with, what you were wearing… You were like a drug she swore she would only try once, but of course, became addicted. She hoped you were outside doing something when she got back, or your curtains were open and you were in your room. She wanted to see you, even if you didn’t see her. Luckily, she didn’t need to worry about that. You were outside laying on your lawn with a blanket and a notebook, scribbling in it with focus and beauty.

Wanda parked her car and immediately made her way over to you. Without a word, she sat down next to you. You looked at her, then back to your notebook to keep writing. You were trying to play it cool in front of the woman—nonchalant if you will. After a beat, she spoke. 

“Tell me what you’re writing.”

“And why should I do that?” you teased back. 

“Because I want you to, and you don’t want to make me sad.” She looked at you with some kind of evil puppy dog eyed look, and you were helpless.

“No, I guess I don’t.”

Your notebook contained shitty poetry and prose. Half-thoughts, diary entries, random notes. You had been working on a poem about a woman who looked coincidentally like Wanda, naturally. 

“But” you continued “I can’t. It’s embarrassing.”

“Y/n”, she countered, “I promise it’s not. Please?”

“Why do you want to see so bad anyways?” you questioned, genuinely curious.

“Because I want to know more about you.”

With that, you melted. You would be embarrassed, but maybe she would find it endearing. You considered your options, and realized that you really only had one move here.

“Fine.” 

She reached out to take the notebook from your hands, but you quickly swiped it behind your back.

“On one condition. You tell me something about yourself afterwards.”

Wanda playfully rolled her eyes, but agreed. You handed over the notebook, and she flipped to the most recent page. She read the beginning lines of a poem about a woman, with hair like fire and the magic of a saint. She was shocked. You were writing about her? Really? A smile graced over lips that she could not hide. She knew you’d never admit it was about her, but she also knew that it in fact was, meaning that you found her alluring. Opting to save you the embarrassment, she didn’t let you know directly that she knew, even though she was sure you assumed.

“This is beautiful, y/n, you have a real gift. This woman you're describing sounds beautiful.”

“She is.” You said quietly, looking down at the notebook she placed back in your lap.

“Okay then, I guess it’s my turn.”

You smiled up at her, forgetting your embarrassment with this opportunity to know more about your new neighbor.

“Anything specific you want to know?” she asked you.

“Nope. Tell me anything you want.”

Wanda loved your response. She loved that you were willing to take anything she gave you, clearly just happy to hear anything about her at all.

“Alright, dear. Let me think.”

Wanda looked at the sky, waiting for something interesting to dawn at her. You watched her red hair fall gently across her shoulders as her head tilted up. You saw her eyelashes flicker slightly as a bird flew above the two of you. You wished you could reach out and touch her—feel her warmth.

“When I was your age, I fell in love with a woman.”

Your jaw hit the floor with a loud thud. You had not expected her to say anything like that, yet, you were so unbelievably happy that she did. 

“You’re going to catch flies, y/n” Wanda giggled through her words, amused at your surprise. 

You closed your mouth quickly and cleared your throat. 

“I like girls too, you know. Well, now you know. So what happened? To her, I mean.”

“I met my ex-husband. My whole life I was told I needed a husband, that I would die without one. So, Vision came around and offered me a stability that she couldn’t. I loved her more, so much more, but I chose him. I got my boys from it, so I’ll never regret the decision. I just wish things could have been different. No, I wish I had been different.”

“Wow, Wanda. I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry you went through that.”

Wanda could see your genuine concern for her in the furrow of your brow, and the twisting of your ring. It warmed her. She hadn’t felt that kind of care in a long time, it was refreshing. It also made her want you that much more. 

“Thank you, honey. But don’t worry, that was a very long time ago. I’m a different person now.”

“Still, you must have missed her sometimes. Or atleast the touch of a woman. I know I would have.’

Your eyes widened at your own boldness. Why did you just say that? You barely know this woman. Before you could offer an apology, you realized she was laughing. You smiled.

“Yes, I suppose I did. I do.” Wanda smiled at you, and continued. “Especially lately now that it’s just me. I do miss the touch of a woman.” Wanda made fierce eye contact with you as she said this, taking a brief moment to look at your lips. She saw your cheeks get redder and redder, blushing at her innuendo. She smiled with you, enjoying the youthful, playful side you brought out of her. Both of you stared at each other. You suddenly noticed her leg touching yours, your pinkies brushing against one another. You looked back up at her, already looking at you. She was smiling, so damn beautifully. You instinctively leaned in. You couldn’t help yourself. She followed your actions, putting her hand over yours. Then…your phone rang. 

You scrambled to pick it up and answer. As you spoke to your friend, calling over a stupid reason, Wanda took your notebook, ripped out a page, and scribbled a note with your pen. While you spoke and gesticulated with some annoyance, Wanda leaned to you and left a light kiss on your cheek. Your words stopped coming out, even though your mouth still moved. You watched Wanda wink at you, then get up and walk back over to her house, without looking

back. You told your friend you had to go. The note Wanda left flapped in the wind. Your heart leapt at the sight, and you quickly read it.

Thank you y/n. You made my day. I’ll see you soon.

Yours, 

Wanda 

Wanda watched you read her note through her window. She saw you clutch it your chest, and fall on your back, still holding it tightly. She giggled like a goddamn teenager. She really liked you, and she really wanted you. She wanted you to be hers. 

Friday Afternoon, one week after moving in.

With two weeks left before you packed up your stuff and headed back to school, you were busy as a bee. This didn’t stop you, as you hoped it would, from thinking of Wanda. You’d developed a habit of checking your phone every five minutes, hoping she would text you and take you up on your offer to help out. You saw the piles of boxes in her garage, just yesterday, still unmoved. You figured it was only a matter of time. You refrained from making too many plans this week, in case she would call or text and you were all unavailable. You’d never forgive yourself. Thus, you stuck to your front porch, or your front lawn, which clearly had worked out for you. 

You continued to do pre-class readings, sort out plane tickets, last minute roommate communications, etc.. Though it was your second year, you were still nervous to go back. Though, not even your back to school nerves kept your gaze focused on your task at hand. You were currently back out on your porch, watching the sun begin to set, as Wanda’s car rounded the corner and pulled into her driveway. The boys flew out of the car and into their backyard, immediately beginning to play with a soccer ball. They were happy to be done with their first week of school, no doubt. Wanda gracefully stepped out of her car and gathered her things. She glanced over toward your house, expecting to find you on the porch. When she was met with your gaze, obviously staring at her before she had looked at you, she beamed. She had been watching you through her window, without your knowledge, and the sight of you overjoyed her. 

Some might find that behavior strange, but she loved it. At night, she’d open her curtains to find yours already opened. She enjoyed watching you as you danced around your room, talked to your friends (she tried to push her jealousy aside during those nights), cleaning up, or, her favorite, when you would touch yourself. She couldn’t wait to replace your hand with your own. There was also a part of Wanda that was still afraid of rejection. Vision had treated her like she was nothing—like she was completely useless. Those words stubbornly remained in her mind, but your beauty compelled her. She shut her car door and waved to you.

“Hey y/n! Mind helping me out with those boxes tonight? I want to have the weekend to relax.”

You couldn’t hide your smile if your life depended on it. You had been waiting for what felt like forever, (two days) and, though unlikely that Wanda would feel about you the way you felt about her, you had to try something tonight. If it didn't work out, you reasoned, you’d be gone soon enough and could forget about the whole thing. 

“Yeah! Right now? Or later?” you asked.

“Now. It’s already 4 and this might take a while.”

You were up and across the street in record time. Your books were left on the porch steps, along with any dignity you had left. 

“Thank you so much y/n, I really appreciate this” she said as she touched your arm with affection and gratitude. Chills spread from her point of contact over your whole body, and all you could do was nod and say “It’s really no problem, Wanda.”

“Good,” she said, “then let's get started.”

What you soon found out was that by “let’s” Wanda meant “you”. At first she started moving some things here and there, but it quickly became you who did all the heavy lifting and Wanda who praised you and asked if you needed anything. You, of course, were happy to comply. 

“Wow, y/n. You’re stronger than I thought. Do you work out?”

You were flattered at the compliment, it sent a certain warmth through you. 

“Uhm, yeah, sometimes. Not too much I guess. I’ve played sports all my life, so it probably comes from there.”

“Hmm” she hummed in acknowledgment “well you sure know how to put those hands to work.”

The box you were holding fell onto the ground with a startle. You were sure she didn’t mean it like that, but you couldn’t help but take it that way. Especially not after so many nights of imagining her saying something oh, so similar. You dropped down to pick up the box, proclaiming apologies for your clumsiness. 

“No, leave it there. I’ve overworked you. The sun has gone down, and there are only a few more things. I can manage the rest tomorrow.”

“But what about your weekend of relaxation?” you asked playfully.

“Your wellbeing is much more important to me, y/n.”

You swallowed at that sentiment, and gave in.

“Well, alright then, if you’re sure.”

“I am. Now come inside with me, I’ll make you some dinner.”

“Oh, no Wanda you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. And, it’s the least I can do. I really have to insist.”

You were learning that there was really no point in arguing with Wanda, she seemed like a woman who knew what she wanted. However, even the woman’s intimidating demeanor could not rid of your playful nature. 

“It depends. How good a cook are you?”

She fake gawked at your question, prompting a giggle from her. You swore you’d spend the rest of your summer trying to hear the sound of her laugh as much as possible.

“I guess you’ll just have to come inside and have a taste.”

Right away, Wanda regained the upper-hand. You liked the teasing and flirting that seemed to be happening.

“I guess I will then” you offered, running out of sly things to say.

The boys walked into the garage, asking their mother when dinner would be ready.

“Half-hour boys. Oh, and y/n will be joining us.”

“Cool! Y/n do you play soccer?” Tommy eagerly asked you.

“Yeah, actually, I do. Wanna play while your Mom cooks dinner?”

“Can we Mom?” They asked in unison.

“Really? You’re not tired of it yet? You’ve been playing all afternoon! And y/n is tired, I’ve been working her very hard out here.” Wanda looked at you and smiled, as if you and her had some kind of secret communication going. 

“Please mom! We’re not tired!”

Wanda sighed and looked at you. “You’re sure?”

“I’d be happy to.”

Wanda watched you run off with her boys, and she felt something odd. She felt the need to care for you, to protect you. She had only had a few interactions with you, but she had a feeling this whole situation would be more involved than she had planned. You were so sweet, so innocent, so helpful. Wanda was saddened at the thought of you being with anyone else, or you leaving her to go to school. She knew that how these two weeks would go was up to her, if you wanted her like she wanted you. Tonight she was going to find out.

She was lost in her thoughts as she cooked dinner on auto-pilot, making plans for the two of you. She stirred the pot of sauce and imagined you in her bed, trying to be quiet lest to wake up Billy and Tommy. Before she went to call all of you in, she stood behind the sliding glass-door and watched the game the three of you were playing. She imagined a family, a loving home, but quickly pushed that feeling deep down. Even she knew it was too soon for that. She couldn’t handle another loss in that regard, and so she opened the door and called for dinner. 

It was, of course, delicious. The three of you ate like animals, asking for seconds within minutes. Wanda twirled her pasta around her fork, watching you talk with her boys.

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?” she said, snapping back to reality.

“I said this is really good, thank you.”

“Well I’m glad you believe in my cooking now, y/n. You should know that I never disappoint.”

The boys continued talking to one another, but you had gone silent. There was no way Wanda wasn’t flirting with you. You didn’t want to ignore her signs and potentially lose the opportunity to be with this amazing woman, but you also didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. As a woman who likes other women, you were constantly aware of your female relationships and the potential of a female friend taking your affection as flirting, or predatory in some way. This held you back in the love department, but you weren’t stupid. This was flirting, and now that you were more comfortable around Wanda and her boys, you gained back your confidence.

“Well that’s good to know. I’ll have to test you on that some time.”

Wanda smirked. You were definitely reciprocating her advances. The boys finished their dinner and Wanda told them it was time for bed.

“But Mom! We wanna play with y/n! Plus our bedtime isn’t for another 20 minutes!”

“Boys, I’ve had a very long day. Can you please just listen to your Mommy?”

Wanda noticed your breath hitch at her use of the word. She smiled as she felt her own panties growing wetter. 

Remembering their promise to each other to not make their mom more stressed, the boys sighed in defeat and headed upstairs, their mom following.

You stood there awkwardly, waiting for Wanda to return downstairs. You knew you shouldn’t leave, and you didn’t want to either. You wanted her to make a move so bad it hurt. You were confident, and you could flirt, but when it came to actual sex you needed to be led. Lucky for you, Wanda had a similar craving. 

Wanda went to her bedroom and took off her clothes to reveal the lingerie set she had been wearing the whole day. She tied a see through robe-like cover around her, the same color black as her set, beautifully highlighting her scarlett locks. She walked down the stairs to you. She descended, and with each step, watched your eyes darken and your jaw drop more and more. 

“Y/n…” she said, slowly walking over to where you stood in her kitchen, leaning on the counter.

“Yes Wanda” you said more like a statement and less of an answer to her vocation.

“Would you like to join me upstairs?”

“Yes, please.”

You didn’t mean to say please outloud, but you noticed what it did to Wanda. Her pupils grew and her hands found yours. She turned around and led you back upstairs to her bedroom. She opened the door and guided you toward her bed.

“Have you been thinking about me, y/n?”

“Yes” you truthfully answered.

“Yes, what?”

“I don’t…I don’t know” You pushed out in slight confusion.

“Yes you do, baby.” 

All at once it hit you, like a wave of understanding, like some kind of enlightenment.

“...Mommy. Yes, mommy.”

“Now that’s a good girl.” She sat on her knees in front of you on her bed, you sitting with your back against her headboard. She slid her hands beneath your shirt up to your tits and began to lightly massage them. You tipped your head back slightly, pushing your chest deeper into her palm. 

“I’ve been thinking about you too.”

A wave of heat struck you in the face. You looked at her, still finding it hard to believe this was happening at all. 

“You have?”

“Oh, don’t act so innocent, sweetheart. I know you kept your curtains open on purpose. You wanted Mommy to see you playing with that pretty pussy. Isn’t that right, honey?”

“Yes, Mommy. I…I wanted you to see me.”

“I know, baby. Mommy knows how hard it must have been. Was I ignoring my baby girl?”

“Please, Wanda.”

Wanda rolled your nipple harshly, leaving you a gasping mess.

“That’s not my name, sweet girl.”

“I’m sorry. Mommy, please. Please touch me. I need you.”

“Look at you. So eager. You’ll take what Mommy gives you. Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. But baby,” she grabbed your face with both hands so you were looking her in the eye, “if at any point you want to stop, say the word “red”. Alright?”

“Okay.”

“Perfect. Now take your clothes off. Mommy wants to see you.”

You began to strip, dropping your clothes on her floor. Before you began to remove your underwear, Wanda stopped you.

“Wait, honey. Let Mommy do that.”

She stretched your legs apart a little, and ran a finger lightly over your covered cunt. She stopped at the wet spot that, to you, was growing embarrassingly big.

“Oh, poor baby” Wanda cooed and tutted. “I know you need Mommy so bad. I know it’s just so hard. Let me take care of my darling.”

Wanda slowly pulled down your panties, leaving them with the rest of your clothes on her floor. She smiled with pride at how desperate you were, how utterly needy. You were putty in her hands.

“But, what about you? I want to see you too.”

“I know baby, I know. Just let Mommy play with you first, okay? You want to be good for Mommy, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes I’ll be good.”

This was what you had been waiting for all week. The thought of disappointing Wanda brought tears to your eyes. You wanted her to take over you—to fill your senses so intensely that you could only see, hear, smell, taste, touch, all that was Wanda. You laid there obediently, waiting for Wanda to initiate whatever plans she had for you. To consider those plans in your head made you impossibly wet, just like any other thought you had of Wanda. Your stream of consciousness was interrupted by a light touch to your inner thigh. You looked down at Wanda who was looking at you, watching, and waiting for your reaction.

Wanda traced her finger up to your abdomen, marveling at your muscles tensing under her touch. She continued with both hands up to your chest, over your breasts, and up to your cheeks. Wanda hadn’t kissed you yet. She was waiting for this moment. The moment you were totally willing to submit to her, and then to finally lay her claim on you. You looked into her eyes then down to her lips, then back up at her eyes. She knew you wanted her to kiss you, and she knew you would wait for her to breach the gap. Watching your lip quiver in anticipation sent Wanda over the edge, finally, as she leaned in and connected her lips to yours. A tear fell from each eye down your cheeks, from pure joy. Her pillowy lips landed softly, lovingly on yours. Your hands went up to her cheeks, but hesitated before touching her. She smiled into your kiss and took your hands in her own, placing them on her own face. It confused you, but you didn’t think too much about it as your lips began to dance together. Wanda picked up the pace with a certain hunger, her tongue swiping your bottom lip asking for entrance. Immediately you opened for her, and moaned in neediness. You were still completely naked under her laced body, your pussy throbbing with anticipation and need. Wanda continued to kiss you passionately as you whined beneath her. You needed her. Wanda stopped suddenly. She sat back on her knees and held her hands toward you. You grabbed them and sat up looking at her. She pushed your hair behind your shoulders, gently, taking her time.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, y/n. Do you know that?”

“Thank you.” You didn’t know what to say, so you just turned your head into your shoulder. 

She grabbed your chin so you were looking back at her. She kissed you again while pushing you back onto the bed. 

“Mommy’s going to taste you now, and I’m going to make you cum over, and over, and over again, until I decide that you’ve had enough. Do you know why, y/n?”

“Why?” You ghosted, no more than a whisper.

“Because I own this pussy. No one touches it but me, and I am going to ruin it for anyone else.”

You moaned. Loudly. You were almost sobbing at this point. You were so deep in your own head that you were barely registering her words. All you could think about were her hands on your thighs, and her words whizzing around you. 

Wanda heard your moan and watched in awe. She loved that sound. She needed to hear it again, right away. Wanda slipped a finger into you, watching you bury your face in the pillow. She didn’t move it at first, she only watched you squirm around her hand, trying to gain some friction.

“Patience, detka.” Wanda laughed in a low and evil tone. She began to go in and out, tortuously slow, watching you get worked up as she moved. She knew that after all this time you would be close from just these few movements. She added another finger, and began to pick up the pace, just enough to get your hopes up, before she slowed back down again. It was torture. It was marvelous. You could feel your stomach tightening, and you struggled to  believe it. She had done so little, yet, you could feel a need to release building up inside of you.

“Are you close already, baby?”

You hmphed in agreement, not able to open your eyes or mouth.

“Good.” And she stopped. She took out her fingers entirely, and saw the tears begin to pour. 

“Please, no, Mommy. Please—I need you inside of me. I need you to touch me. I can’t wait anymore.”

Hearing you beg like that turned something on in Wanda, something primal. While she was getting soaked herself teasing you out, leaving you a begging mess, she needed more.

“Careful what you wish for” is all she said before sliding two fingers back in and pounding with a merciless pace. Her lips connected to your clit while she pumped you full of her fingers. She licked and sucked, adding a third finger when she heard you yelling, “Oh God! Yes! Yes! You feel so good Mommy, you feel so fucking good.”

You whined as Wanda reached her other hand up to play with your tit. She rolled your nipple between her fingers and squeezed as she continued to pump hard and fast. 

“I’m gonna—I’m—Wan—Mommy please—please can I cum? Please!”

Wanda took her mouth of you to grant you permission, and good thing because you were already releasing into her mouth the second her lips reattached to your center. You had never cum so hard in your life. Now all you wanted to do was curl up in Wanda's arms and fall asleep. But she wasn’t done. You were incredibly sensitive, but her pace didn’t give. She went harder, almost violently, as she slammed into you. She came up to you and kissed you, stifling your moans. She continued to pump in and out with three fingers, as she moved down to your chest. She bit your collarbone fiercely, waiting for you to whine, to then smooth her tongue over it and ease the pain. You could feel a tiny bit of blood dripping down your tits, and you watched Wanda continue to leave hickeys and love bites, absolutely making sure that everyone knew you were hers. She sucked your nipples and smiled into them, feeling your hand in her hair. She might have cared another time, but not now. She felt your walls closing around her fingers, and could feel your rhythm spasming out of control.

“Go ahead and cum, my love. Cum all over Mommy’s hand.”

You moaned so loud your throat burned and your eyes watered, but you couldn’t help it. Your nails dug into her shoulders, leaving little half moons along her beautiful skin, which you might have cared more about if you weren’t feeling the deepest pleasure of your lifetime thus far. You back arched up and your body twitched violently, before slowly coming down and riding out your second orgasm on her fingers. Your hand reached down to push her fingers out of you, as black mascara tears continued to escape due to your overstimulation. 

“All done baby, don’t worry. You were so good for Mommy. I’m so proud of you.”

Wanda removed herself from you and headed for the bathroom, still in her lingerie. She came back with a damp washcloth, which found your thighs and stomach, and then your cheeks. Before she wiped your face, she took in the glorious sight of you.

“You look so beautiful right now. A tear-stained mess, all for me. You took Mommy’s fingers so well, honey.”

Rather unexpectedly, you sat up, and just hugged her. You cried into her shoulder, as she rubbed your back up and down, shushing you gently.

“What is it sweetheart?”

“I don’t know. I’m not upset, I promise. I don’t know” you said in a raspy whisper, your throat very sore.

“I’m right here, it’s okay.”

You nodded, feeling such a deep and loving warmth as she held you. You realized you could stay in her arms forever. So, when Wanda asked you if you wanted to spend the night, it was an immediate and grateful yes.  Wanda gave you some of her pajamas, and you wanted to cry again, just from how happy you were. She made you tea, for your throat, which she felt slightly bad about. She was just happy that the walls were thick, and the boys were heavy sleepers. After you had talked a little in her kitchen, Wanda could tell you were extremely tired. She led you by hand up the stairs into her room and shut the door. You got into bed and, as soon as your head hit the pillow, you were asleep. Wanda wrapped her arms around your waist and faced you, watching you breathe in, and out, for what could have been hours. She would have been happy to watch you all night, keeping you safe and warm in her bed with her. She traced a finger around your face, down your nose, over your lips. She kissed your eyelids and your cheeks, finally laying down and letting her own eyelids fall. She could think about you leaving and her own hesitations tomorrow. Tonight, all that mattered was that you were hers, and she had all of you. She realized, as she drifted off, that she could never let you go. What she hoped, and what was true, of course, was that you had already become just as attached, making these next two weeks extremely turbulent yet magical.

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That's it! Thanks for reading :) I can continue this if anyone is interested, just reply or comment or whatever if so. I can definitely see this going multi-chapter, y/n's last weeks before leaving, Wanda and y/n dealing with that, etc...