#until he knits you into a stuffie or something

[megamanrecut]

'Knitter' from Teleportation Tangles (I guess this is better chapter art than what I had before, haha?)

[bunicate]

Alhaitham making his little sister ride her stuffed toy for him! grinding her pussy on one of her favourites as she whines about how it’s gonna ruin her favourite stuffie!

⋆⁺₊❅⋆ 𐙚 ₊˚ warnings ꒱ྀི incest. infantilization. handjob. brief blowjob. pillow humping ﾉ 18+

“this is so unfair .”

you’d cross your arms if they weren’t currently occupied. reluctantly, one hand knits into the bedsheets to keep yourself in place. the other commits to slow sensual strokes of his cock, timed with the messy ruts of your pussy, defacing the once pale pink bunny.

the innocent stuffed animal with beady eyes, now the color of mulberry from your arousal, was ruined. if you didn’t know your big brother so well, you’d easily miss the subtle flicker of mirth in his blue-green eyes.

“how is it unfair? I'm playing with you just as you asked.”

you narrow your eyes at him, but its merely an undignified expression when the stuffed bunny's hard nose pokes your clit.

“t-this is not — hmmph— what I meant.”

his eyes lower and the side of his lip upturns. it’s not audible, but he’s laughing at you. you’re certain of it, and his cock only hardens in your grasp.

“y’got me ruining mr.cuddles. . .” you grumble.

“I can buy you another.”

a curse dies on the tip of your tongue just as frustration settles from his retort. the last thing you want is to add to your torment. as promising as it could be, al haitham had an immeasurable amount of self-control.

he’d wring your little cunt dry, and you don’t think you could handle much more of his teasing, but god, the poor creature was soiled.

you know how much embarrassing you arouses him and you sure don’t miss the pre-cum that deliciously clumps at the tip of his member. you know it’s at your expense because he throbs within your palm.

his fingers, veiny and all encompassing, cup the back of your head, slightly tugging at the roots of your hair.

it doesn’t hurt, but there’s enough pressure to signal his intolerance of your potential defiance.

“enlighten me. tell me what you meant.”

your head lolls back, staring at the scribe with tears blurring your vision. you thumb his tip and whine when you feel a dollop of his warm seed land on your thigh.

“when you told me you wanted to play, let me guess . . . did you mean on . . . my cock ?” 

theres a swirl of something you can only describe as unadulterated desperation at his show of mockery. there’s a sardonic glint as he soaks in how pretty you look jerking him off.

you nod stiffly. “u-uh huh.”

but he only feigns pity.

“that’s too bad, isn’t it ?” he reaches down to grip your backside. he lifts you slightly and sees crystal strings of wetness connecting from your cunt to poor mr.cuddles.

“look at that mess,” the scribe whispers, and that only fuels your need to bury yourself under your sheets.

“this isn’t what you wanted and yet, you’re dripping . . .” he shakes his in farce disappointment, “but nevertheless, let’s problem solve.”

he lets go of you to stop your hand from stroking his leaking member.

he firmly grabs himself, pumping his swollen cock slowly — roughly, until a pretty coat of pre-cum envelops his tip.

he points his throbbing appendage towards your mouth, pressing it towards your quivering lips. he wipes his head messily around the surface until trails of slick begins to glisten.

you physically resist the urge to suck and swallow even when the faint taste of salt drips on your tongue.

there’s a deep hum when you meet his wanton stare.

“would you have more fun if I put my cock in your little mouth instead ?”

you mewl. god, you can smell him. it’s a rich and musky scent mingled with a woodsy vanilla.

your mouth collects spit as he continues to drag his fat tip down the seam of your plump lips.

his cock is just as pretty as the rest of him. it’s wide with an odd number of veins running down his length. it wilts from its own weight despite being so hard.

his eyes glaze over, chuckling before he answers for you, “yeah, of course you would,” he murmurs. “you’d suck it just like how you suck those lollipops.”

al haitham rubs at your scalp, dragging your head so his member slides against the opening of your mouth. by now, you’re panting like needy pup with your tongue lapping up the underside of his cock.

“what if —“ his eyes flicker down to between your thighs, “I put it right here ?”

his fingers skillfully slide past your overstimulated clit to nestle in your little hole. you breathe out a loud sigh of relief when they slowly sink in, stretching your tight walls.

“h-haithy. . .” your mouth parts as meek cries fall from your sweet lips, breath fanning his dick.

“oh, what cute sounds. is this what you want ?”

“mhm. . . I dooooo,” you drawl.

your hand tangles around his wrist. it was a brave action, but he didn’t seem to mind. you were insatiable at this point as you unabashedly hump his thick fingers, chasing your own pleasure.

“I wan’ it, h-haithy. need your cock inside me.”

slick sticks to your thighs and your cunt audibly squeezes around his digits until he suddenly halts his movement.

“what do you do when you want something ?”

you sniffle, “u-use my big girl words.”

al haitham gives you a subtle look of approval.

“precisely.”

he falls silent, giving you a chance to speak but you remain hushed at first. rather, you’d let your actions allow him to draw his own conclusions.

you pull away to position yourself on your back, his fingers slipping out of your warmth.

he watches you closely, anticipating your next move.

your arms come behind your knees, revealing both of your pretty holes. delicate fingers part your puffy folds like pages of his books, displaying the gaping hole he was moments away from fucking.

with pursed lips and gleaming eyes, you ask just like how he taught you.

“big brother . . . can you please make me cum on your cock ?”

your tight pussy clenches around nothing, pushing out a stringy rivulet of creamy white.

there’s a crack in his composure.

al haitham effortlessly pulls his shirt over his head. his strong abdomen on display flexes with every breath he takes. it’s intimidating how stalks towards you, inching towards the bed with purpose.

he’s eager to mount you, his sweet little sister with a perfect ass, and a fat wet cunt he’d milk over and over again.

[archangeldyke-all]

Reader who crochets? And she makes these special sweaters with the left sleeve cut out for Sev’s arm?? Omg

-🥨

ANON did u see logan @sevikasenby 's crochet tapestry of our wife!?!?? THE TALENT IS BEYOND

men and minors dni

there's a superstition in the knitting/crocheting community called 'the sweater curse.' the idea is basically that when you hand make a prospective romantic partner a sweater, you doom the relationship to fail.

you've read countless horror stories on crocheting forums about relationships going up in flames once a sweater is gifted.

'she called the sweater ugly after i spent a month on it.'

'he thought a hand-made sweater was too intimate and i was moving too fast.'

'they left with no explanation the same day i bought the yarn for their sweater.'

you've seen it all.

you know that the curse is something to fear. and you really don't want to lose sevika. but she's stubborn.

sevika thinks the fact that you crochet is so. fucking. cool.

most people think it's a grandma hobby.

sevika thinks it's the most impressive thing in the world. you can make anything. she's watched you knit blankets, sweaters, tops and socks. little stuffies for the neighbor kid next door, hats for your friends' birthdays. mug cozies, coasters, pillow cases and dog clothes-- she's seen you make it all.

and she's dying to have you make her something.

"don't you love me?" sevika whines one night as she cuddles in bed beside you while you crochet a scarf.

"can't stand you, actually." you grunt, already knowing what she's about to bother you about. she huffs.

"you don't understand baby. i was sooo cold at work today-- freezing, really-- and it's not like i can go buy a sweater 'cause of my ar--"

"you're so fucking annoying." you groan. sevika chuckles.

"is it so bad to want to show off my baby's work?" she asks. you huff, shaking your head.

"it is when it means we'll break up!"

she wears you down over time.

you start crocheting her little things, wanting her to feel loved but not wanting to subject the two of you to the curse.

you crochet her a little keychain charm on your anniversary; a hat for winter solstice. in the spring, you make her a few new scrunchies for her half-ponytails.

for her birthday, you give her the first big crochet project you've made for her: a purple poncho in a thick, warm yarn, perfect for the colder windy days when her thin red poncho isn't enough.

she cries when you show it to her. (she nearly gets heat stroke a week later when she tries to wear her new winter poncho on a blazing hot day.)

when you propose to her (kneeling in front of her where she sits on the couch kissing her hands, metal and flesh alike, as you bat your eyelashes at her,) sevika doesn't even let you finish the question before she's pulling you off the ground and into her lap, kissing you breathless, and pulling away with a sob. "yes!"

"you didn't even let me ask!" you laugh. sevika kisses you again.

"you have to crochet me a sweater now. make it white, i'll wear it to our wedding." she cries.

you don't do that. (though you do crochet the neck tie she wears on your big day.)

you wait until you've been married for a year, until you're settled in married life and comfortable, until sevika's not expecting it anymore.

and then, on the night of your first wedding anniversary, you give sevika her first sweater.

it's the most intricate thing you've ever made. the cable crochet pattern you used was complex and time consuming, but it looks fucking gorgeous. beautiful royal purple-- her favorite color-- her exact measurements, and sleevless on the left side.

sevika wears the sweater everywhere. all the time. whenever she can.

you only planned on making her the one, but her reaction (and the wear and tear the sweater receives from being worn by the scary woman of zaun) inspires you.

you knit her a new sweater, every year, for the rest of your lives.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@shimtarofstupidity @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@ellsss @sevikaspillowprincess @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @realgreeniebeanie @k3n-dyll

@sevsdollette @ellieslob

[knightjpg]

landslide | chapter 2

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Ghost's hands are stained black with soil. Dirt caked under his nails. He breathes in the debris until it's part of him, burrowed into the pit of his lungs, his eyes, his stomach. He's not alone— 

(the corpse clings onto him on bad days) 

—a terrible comfort. 

His fingertips scrabble against wood. Darkness presses against him from all sides. The promise of lithification looms—unstoppable force, immovable object. Rock forever chained to its place in the natural order of things. It'd be so easy to give up, to accept he's always been nothing but a stain against the dirt— 

“You set me straight, yeah?” 

Simon grits his teeth. The jawbone comes loose in violent, painful tugs—forearm skin burns against the rough grain cage trapping him underground. Decaying flesh squelches between his fingers, muscle and sinew snapping, bending, come on— 

A way out. Teeth dig into his flesh when he grips it hard and fights— 

(c'mon, his dad's voice goads. show me you're a man, boy) 

—the desire to give in. He'll make his own way through. Dogteeth biting so deep he can't be dislodged, holding on even when he's the one bleeding. Never knew when to let go and he refuses to learn, because Ghost— 

Simon— 

Ghost— 

still has something to do. To get back to. 

When he bursts through the surface the low evening light is blinding. The sun sets over deserted sloping plains, catching a dark figure in its glare— 

A photo camera clicks and flashes. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers her Nikon. No, not hers—borrowed. 

Simon looks. He and— 

The clock on his nightstand reads three in the A.M. Ghost is exhausted. 

Enough. 

He gets up, throws on a shirt, and opens his closet. Shoved deep in the back is a box— 

(a coffin) 

—with the remnants of another life. Tommy's lighter. Simon's first knife. Collectible football cards, scuffed at the edges. And— 

Sun-faded photographs with dates scribbled on the backs in slanted cursive. 

Ghost rarely looks at them. Makes his head hurt, his chest constrict so tight he can't breathe. He won't ever toss them; can bear the pain just enough to know that they exist, here, safe under lock and key. 

He takes the stack of photos and lets it rip him open. 

Tommy and Beth's wedding. Tommy dressed in handsome black, perpetual stupid grin on his face. Beth, beautiful and smiling, stomach showing the first signs of swelling if you know to look for it. 

Joseph, newborn, swaddled in blankets. A young Simon without tattoos holds him, looking stiff and unsure and utterly reverent. 

Ghost swallows. Skips ahead—birthdays, mum's funeral, Christmas— 

There. 

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right—so who took the photo? 

You two look sweet together. 

Ghost flips through the next few photographs slowly, and then his heart stops. Breath slows. Pupils dilate, fixated;  

“He's so little, isn't he?” 

You sit down next to Simon on the sofa, smiling at Joseph. 

“Yeah,” Simon says, shifting to make room for you. Joseph looks up at you with his big round eyes—then swats Simon on his chin again. 

You smother your laugh behind your hand. “Oh, sweetie, no. Your mumma said no hitting. Here—do you want your stuffie?” 

Joseph garbles when you hold it up to him and latches onto his little plush rabbit immediately.  

Click—flash. 

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers the Nikon.  

Fuzzy edges sharpen, filling in the corroded pathways. Bokeh, reversed—the photo in Ghost's hands is grainy and dim, but the memory breaking through the surface is clear.  

Ghost quickly—greedily—flips through more photos, finds a pattern; a red thread. With a reference you're suddenly everywhere. Maid of honour, flowers in your hair. A party, can't remember what for, but you're dancing, smiling, wearing a short dress. Ghost's eyes linger on your legs a moment longer before shuffling to the next print. 

Joseph's first birthday—you baked the cake yourself, Ghost suddenly thinks. A missing memory clicking in place, tethered by context clues. 

...He would've turned twelve in a few months. Just started secondary school, life full of possibility. Pathways that were never traversed. These snapshots of happiness are just that; are a blip on the radar, there and gone again. 

Ghost grits through the pain and continues until he reaches the last snapshot in the stack. 

It's another wedding photo; of him, this time. Or rather, of the back of his head. Best man. He's holding a glass, and so are you. Your face is tilted up to him, open and sweet. Smiling. 

“Okay, I know what people say about the maid of honour and the best man, and I just wanted to tell you that you have my blessing.” 

Simon's brows rise on his forehead. The reception is in full swing; there's drinks and cake and finger food. People are dancing to a playlist blasting from speakers in the corners—Simon burned the CD himself per Tommy's request. 

Beth has joined him on the sides to watch their guests get shitfaced on cheap liqueur. Tommy is getting her a more comfortable pair of shoes because “these heels are killing me, Simon.” 

“Where's this comin’ from?” 

“From me,” Beth answers pointedly. “I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends.” She looks up at Simon and tilts her head, mouth curling up into a coy smile. “Also, I think you're a bit taken by her.” 

Simon chokes on his champagne. He looks away while he coughs and pounds his chest, hoping the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show on his face. 

“Baseless accusations,” he manages through a wheeze. Beth laughs. 

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. Just make sure to dance with her at least, alright?” 

Ghost doesn't remember ever asking you for that dance. He remembers talking to you, making you laugh, and feeling like that should be enough. 

He regretted it all the way home. 

A heavy weight trickles down on him, from the crown of his head to the pit of his stomach. Wishes. Regrets. Could-have-beens in another lifetime. With a sudden snarl he shoves the photos back in the box, locks it, and throws it back into his closet. 

The closet door closes with a smack. 

This is why he never looks in here. There's nothing waiting for him but pain and disappointment, distractions from the here and now. What use is there in thinking about Beth's pretty friend? You don't even know he's alive. Have forgotten about him entirely by now, are probably married with kids— 

Another wave of nausea.  

Ghost just barely makes it to the bathroom to retch into the sink. 

----------

“How was work?” 

You transfer pasta onto dinner plates and garnish with a sprinkle of chives. You serve Dave first, then turn back to the kitchen to get water and candles. 

“Great,” Dave says around a mouthful of pasta. He's dug in immediately. You try to feel like it's a compliment to your cooking. He works hard. He's hungry. You like cooking for people, so that sinking little feeling in your chest must be from something else. 

“Our department's been doing really well. Making top sales for half a year now, so they did this raffle thing,” Dave continues, pausing to take a glass from your hands and down a few big gulps of water, “and guess what?”  

You open your mouth to ask “What?”, but Dave answers before you can.  

“I won!” 

You sit down, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That's great, baby. What was the raffle?” 

Dave leans forward. “One round trip to Bora-Bora, paid in full.” 

“Oh my gosh,” you say, and your smile doesn't feel so forced anymore. “That's amazing, congrats! That's such good timing.” 

Dave's vacation is coming up, and these things are usually plus-one. Right? Maybe that's what you've been needing. Some time away from it all, just the two of you spending time in sun and saltwater someplace beautiful and warm. 

“Sure is,” Dave says with a self-satisfied smile. His plate is half-empty; you're just taking your first bite. 

When he doesn't elaborate any further you hedge carefully, “So... Is it a solo trip? Or...” 

Dave furrows his brow apologetically. “Oh, babe. Yeah, it's a plus one, but it's for people from the company only. I'm sorry.” 

“Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to look too disappointed. Guess that's on you for getting excited without knowing all the details. “So then who are you going with?” 

“Allison from Marketing.” 

Allison from who—? 

You pause mid-chew, looking at Dave with wide startled eyes. When he quirks an eyebrow you quickly swallow. “Do I—do I know this person?” 

“’Course you do, babe, c'mon. I've told you about her—she's like a work wife. Sales and Marketing are pretty much joint at the hip. When we go out for drinks it's always both teams together.” 

Your stomach curdles at work wife. “I don't remember ever hearing her name.” 

“Yeah you do, don't be silly. I talk about work friends all the time.” 

When he was out for drinks on your anniversary is that who he was with? Work friends? Allison from freaking Marketing? 

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay with that?” 

“What? Allison going on the trip?” Dave sounds incredulous. You're being crazy. You're being unreasonable. “Why, don't you trust me?” You're being demanding. Trust issues. Crazy bitch. 

“I do,” you say out of habit. “I do, but that's still—I would want you to ask me.” 

Dave sighs. Your stomach tenses. The pasta feels tacky in your mouth. 

“If it makes you happy, sure. You okay with me going on a trip with Allison?” 

Would you cancel if I said no? 

You can't bring yourself to say the words, but you also can't bring yourself to say of course, baby, you two have fun. 

“...Are you sure there's really no way I could go with you instead of—” 

Dave makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, pushing his empty plate away from him. “Come on, don't be difficult. I already told you, it's work only.” 

“Right. Okay.” 

“So that's a yes, yeah? I don't want you to call me crying about this later.” 

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your hands. “Yeah.” 

When Dave makes attempts to draw you into the bedroom after dinner you claim a headache. Tired. Long day. Looking forward to turning in early. 

Dave shrugs. “Sure, okay. Actually—mind if I just go home early then? There's a match I was wanting to see, could still make it in time...” 

You should feel disappointed. Offended, maybe, that if sex isn't on the table Dave's no longer interested in your company. 

But all you feel is relief. You don't want to be around Dave right now; you feel your skin crawl and your stomach turn when you think about him sitting under palm trees next to some stranger. Your body feels like one big strain, trying to walk and talk and smile like normal. 

Dave gives you a wet cheek kiss before heading out the door and leaves you with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pensive mood. 

Kettlebell breaks you out of it with a chirp. He's come out of his hiding spot, winding through your legs with a purr. Mim hides no matter who is visiting, but after Dave tried to pick Kettlebell up like a sack of flour on his first time here neither of your cats show themselves when you have him over.  

“Cats,” Dave sniffed derisively. “Guess it's true. They're all little assholes, eh?” He'd laughed and given you a playful nudge you did not return. 

You bend down and scritch Kettlebell behind the ears. “Hi little angel baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Hmm? Does this little kitty want a treat?” 

Kettlebell's meows skyrocket to opera volume at the word treat. Mim materialises next to him, making high-pitched little cries that make you fuss and coo and plant kisses on his little forehead before giving them both their promised snack. 

You find that now that Dave's gone you weren't even lying; you are tired. The last thing you're in the mood for now is sex you pretend is better than it really feels.  

You rub your temple and eye the dishes.  

Tomorrow. You'll do it tomorrow—tonight you're allowed to be upset and re-watch Pride & Prejudice for the nth time to drown out Dave's mouth shaping the words “work wife.” 

“I hate men. I hate them all,” you cry. Your nose burns from blowing it so much; the skin chafed raw to match your heart. 

Beth rubs your back, nodding. “They're bastards, the lot of them.” 

“You're not allowed to say that,” you sniffle. “Tommy is so—he's so sweet.” Your eyes well with new tears, and you bury your face in your hands again. “Why can't I meet a Tommy? Why am I so dumb and so bloody naïve—” 

“Okay, hold on—if I'm not allowed to say all men are shite you're not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” Beth hands you a new tissue, brows furrowed. “You know this isn't your fault, right? 

“I just feel so stupid.” You dab the tissue against your eyes. Every time it feels like you can't cry any more a new wave comes on, and you wish it'd stop. Your eyes feel swollen and puffy already, and you know you're going to look terrible in the morning. “Like I should have seen it coming. Should I have seen this coming?” 

You look up at Beth anxiously, lip trembling. When she opens her mouth you interrupt her. “Don't answer that. I don't want the answer to be yes.” 

“Aw, honey.” Beth pulls in for a side-hug, and you rest your head on her shoulder. She smells like the oatmeal cookies she made this morning. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, he was a real cunt and he called you names, but no one would fault you for not immediately jumping to “he's going to cheat on me with your co-worker”.” 

You sigh. A stray tear trickles down your nose. “I just feel like it's my fault. There's always something, and I'm never satisfied, and you remember Cameron?” Beth nods yes. You continue, “When we broke up he said I wanted a fairytale, and t-that—” A sob breaks through, and you hiccup. “That I should—I should start living in reality.” 

Beth purses her lips like she's just bitten into a lemon. “Cameron also cheated on you with his cousin, so I think we're going to have to disregard his general judgment.” 

You give a begrudging shrug. Maybe, but what he said cut deep. It fed into the worry that the flaw was not in the eye of the beholder but the beholder herself, and that you're still just a silly little girl dreaming of starlight romance. 

It's quiet for a while. Rain ticks against the window panes outside. 

“I guess...” you start. Falter. Begin again. “I guess I wish I didn't want it so much. I want to be—to be the cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval, or love, or... I don't know.” 

“You are a cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval.” 

A sad little smile ghosts over your lips. “No I'm not. Because I always—I always want it. I want to find love. You know? And that makes me feel stupid.” 

Beth says gently, “Honey. You're not a bad person for wanting to be loved.” 

Your eyes peel open slowly. Netflix asks you are you still watching? on the screen. You blink, noting a warm weight on your feet; Kettlebell has made a little nest in the blankets. When you crane your neck you see the faint silhouette of Mim perched on the back of the sofa, dozing. 

What time is it...? 

You pat the cushions for your phone and groan. Six in the morning. Oh, your back is going to hurt. You really should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa by now... 

When you sink back into the cushions Kettlebell yawns and stretches, then hops onto your chest to press a wet insistent nose against your cheek. Breakfast time. 

“Okay, okay...” 

Might as well get up and shower. 

As you disentangle yourself from Kettlebell and fuzzy blankets bits and pieces of your dream come back to you. A memory distorted in sleep, but derived from lived reality nonetheless. 

The edges of it are hazy, but you know it was Beth. What'd she say...? It was something nice, to cheer you up after things ended badly with an ex-boyfriend.  

Again. 

Your shoulders sag. Maybe you don't want to be loved. If you did, you'd be happy now—because Dave loves you, and isn't that what you were always looking for?  

Someone you can be comfortable with, who knows you, who says I love you without you having to ask for it every time? 

You pull back the shower curtain and set the water to scorching. 

[kestisvrse]

scars

pairing ⋆ anthony lockwood x gn!reader. angst.

synopsis ⋆ you find a bruised and bloody lockwood in the kitchen late at night.

warnings ⋆ shitty writing (it was late 😔), mentions of blood, injuries, a panic attack and violence, swearing. | wc: 0.9k

♫ - all things end by hozier

something wasn’t right. you woke up at around four in the morning, which wasn’t unusual for an agent but your gut told you there was a reason.

your throat was uncomfortably dry, you unwillingly crawled out of your warm bed into the chilly air, bare feet landing on the cool floor, you quickly grab some socks to warm yourself.

walking down the creeky staircase, careful to not alert your sleeping roomates, but clearly they weren’t all asleep as the kitchen light was left on and a faint hiss was heard. approaching the door, turning the knob slowly to not alarm whoever was in the kitchen, you saw a bloody and bruised lockwood sitting at the table, head shooting up at the sight of you.

“lockwood?” you gasped at the sight in-front of you. the table was littered with medical supplies and lockwood sat there in his white collared shirt, blood seeping through the left side, small cuts littered his face, “what the fuck happened?”

“i’m sorry, did i wake you? i didn’t mean to, i’m fine.” he rambled excuses as you rushed over to sit next to him, you smacked his hands away as he begged you to go back to bed.

“i am not going back to bed, anthony.” you insisted, he was fighting back tears from the pain of his injury, jaw clenching, “let me help you, while you tell me what the hell you did.”

he observed you as you grabbed the correct ointments and bandages to use for his face, as he gripped onto his side, his eyes didn’t leave your face as you worked away on the cuts on his face, he waited awhile until he started talking again.

“i-i went out, the air in the house was too stuffy i needed a walk.” his voice was cracking as he spoke, sniffling every so often, you glanced down at his eyes to catch a tear slip out, anthony lockwood was crying.

you had never seen him cry, it didn’t matter how often he opened up to you, all you saw was his eyes get glossy and he would run off, but you watched as the tear rolled down his cheek and disappear to his neck.

“take your shirt off.” you broke the silence.

“what?” he sniffled

“lockwood, do you not see the huge blood stain on your shirt? i need to check that.” you said softly

“i’m fin-“ he started

“stop saying that. please stop, let me help you.” you pleaded, your eyes were getting glossy just at the sight of him, his face cleaned up and bandaged but his shirt still covered in blood and dirt, the grip on his side loosened revealing his hand covered in blood. he slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, unveiling a huge gash on his side, you gasped at the sight and he flinched.

you got up to wash your hands, and grab extra bandages out of the cupboard, returning to your spot finding lockwood intensely staring at his bloodied hands, you placed your hand in his.

“look at me, focus on me.” you asked, he listened as his gaze snapped up to you, his brows knitted together, “talk to me.”

“there were so many, so many ghosts down at the park, i almost forgot they even existed because of how…” he cleared his throat due to the stinging from you cleaning his side, “..because of how anxious i was feeling, i forgot about them and got attacked, i-i i don’t know how i survived.” his voice cracked, you had never seen him like this.

“keep talking okay? distract yourself from the pain. i’m right here, i’ve got you.” you whispered softly, comforting him as he controlled his breathing once more.

“i did remember my rapier, thank god. gave me an opening to run. i got thrown back into a tree, that’s where the cuts came from and a loose branch stuck into my side.” he whimpered as you disinfected the wound.

“okay, that’s enough. focus on your breathing you are getting too worked up.” he nodded, mouth twitching into a smile just because of your company, you continued to work on stitching his wound and bandaging it.

“all done.” you sighed, you cleaned the table and washed your hands as he watched your every move. bringing him a glass of water you sat next to him again.

“i’m sorry, if i scared you, or woke you i don’t know-“ he stuttered out, you grabbed his hand and interlocked your fingers.

“of course you scared me. i woke up to find you dying in the kitchen. i wish you had come to get me.” you explained, you brought your hand up to his cheek and he lent into it, “i’m here for you lockwood, always, asleep or awake, i am here.” a minute of comfortable silence passes.

“at least i’ll have a cool scar.” he muttered, you laughed at his joke the tears that were welling in your eyes disappeared down your cheeks and onto the floor, he brought his arm around your waist pulling you and your chair closer.

“let’s get you to bed, you need it.” you said, his eyes were drooping as he sipped his water. you hand’s intertwined together as you led him upstairs into his room.

george barged into the room the next morning as lockwood had overslept, only to find you cuddled together in a mess of blankets, lockwood covered in bandages, both sound asleep.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

So Yves doesn't like children, but what about Blanche? Would he be willing to have a child with Reader? If so, I bet he would be very loving and gentle. he would knit baby clothes with the reader and talk about the names he liked.

Anyway, I love your work! I reload your tumblr page every day to see Blanche's content, I want to bite him and eat him with love. I love Monty too! Since your post about what he would be like with kids, I've had baby fever.

Have a nice day! <3

Yes, that is true. Blanche would definitely be very loving and gentle. Perhaps a bit nervous and awkward at first, but he quickly becomes an excellent parent passing on wonderful morals. Yet it feels like something is wrong.

His arms are wide enough to fit the two of you, you would be holding your child while sitting on his lap, as Blanche sways the rocking chair back and forth. Occasionally pressing kisses on your forehead and the baby's.

The mortar and pestle would be out a lot more. As he doesn't have a food processor, Blanche would be making all the baby food by hand, grinding and pounding it down with strenuous love. The child will only eat the most nutritious produce from his garden. Blanche will take note of their likes and dislikes, so he knew which one to plant more of.

The sound of a baby crying may be grating, but never to Blanche. He would simply pick them up and coo until they stopped, or let them babble happily because Daddy is there to comfort them. Oddly, he never got irate due to lack of sleep or personal time. Unlike you, Blanche doesn't necessarily need that.

Unfortunately for you, Blanche would be guilt-tripping you a lot more to stay for longer. You wouldn't need to do most of the hard work anyway, but say goodbye to your social life, as you will have to be with him and the baby 24/7. You wouldn't have to do anything, though. Blanche would cook, clean, and give you backrubs all while caring for the child so much that it wouldn't cry, as it's always smiling and content.

More often than not, you would feel bad. Or get frustrated at the speed at which he's moving. So you would take over his chores and tell him to focus on the child. Blanche would refuse, choosing to hover near you while bouncing the baby up and down in his arms. He wanted to be with the love of his life and his giggling blessing as much as possible.

He would be wearing that baby sling until your child is old enough to move around on their own. Then, it would be retired to the "Chest of Love and Memories" in the shared bedroom.

All their clothes would be handmade, and Blanche would lovingly embroider their name onto them while humming the tune they seemed to like. The same goes for the toys, he would make sure it's safe and age-appropriate. His whittling knife would be out a lot more, but not around the baby.

He would name his children based on flowers such as Rose and Marigold, bringing out a book about botany from his Box of Jolly and Joy, telling you all the names he found beautiful and fitting towards the bundle of joy that is about to be.

Blanche will instill patience, love, and calmness in the child. He leads by example by never being aggressive, loud, or unpleasant, he punishes them firmly yet lovingly. You're just glad they grew up to be mild and mellow, unlike other teenagers who seem to rebel if their parents are too much of a pushover or too much of a stuffy jerk. Your child would strangely prioritize your needs and wants over anyone else's, not even their own. While it's sweet, it is a bit concerning. It's as if Blanche has trained them to devote their lives to serving you, and you only.

Your husband is always present, maybe even too present. You couldn't remember the last time you didn't see or hear Blanche and your child around. Although it's warm and fuzzy to constantly have them around, spending time with you, sharing laughs, cuddling, and bonding tightly, it's undeniable that they're driving you crazy. The three of you are always together if you're not working, Blanche makes sure of it.

If you are holding down a job, your husband and your kid will try everything under the sun to get you to be with them 24/7. They will cling onto you and you will not shake them off no matter what.

Blanche isn't very keen on letting the child go to school, preferring to teach them everything himself with the help of books, exploration, and real-life applications. Your husband would beg to keep them homeschooled, Blanche is an excellent teacher and he can prove it; especially when you realize that your child's vast knowledge in language, arts, mathematics, and science rivaled that of a 50-year-old when they're only 8. When you put them into the public schooling system against Blanche's wishes, your husband would burst into tears, fearing that his child would go through the same levels of bullying he did.

While your child excelled in every class, and every subject and became the favorite of all the teachers, they were alienated by their peers, just like how their father was. At least they're not beating him up like how they did to Blanche in his youth. But still, Blanche would continuously pressure you to pull them out of the education system, trying to convince you that it isn't required for your child to be in this environment. The three of you could live together in the woods, isolated and in bliss.

Your child agreed too. They could not determine what would make their classmates want to be friends. They tried and tried until they were tired, your child wanted nothing but to go back home to their family.

They're so mature, so much more beyond their years that it's unbelievable. It's almost like the fact that parenthood can be hard, painful, and ugly is a myth. They have never acted out, never been disrespectful, always heed your words, and never had to go to you for help on normal teenage things. It's like another mini Blanche was instantly birthed, it's so very eerie.

And you knew that it has everything to do with your husband's way of bringing them up. He's with them every waking and slumbering second of the day, they're inseparable and always working as a unit to care for you.

[cryingatwindermerepeaks]

Ok here’s a little something for those who asked for Marauders Era stuff …. It’s mainly focused on platonic Remus/Lily (but a little bit of Jily at the end) set around 5/6th year. Also this is not edited so yeah… sorry

Little/Remus, Little/Sirius, Caregiver/James, (Not yet established but it will be in part 2 caregiver/Lily)

As far as Lily Potter was aware, The students at Hogwarts held a complete disregard for when their prefects got to bed. Honestly, she’d been on patrol all night and busted about half of the school meandering around the halls (and quite a few hidden away in supply closets. Yes Mary, this is about you). It was eleven-thirty pm by the time she’d finished her rounds, cursing Sirius for insisting James needed his beauty sleep and making her patrol by herself. The boys always acted weird around the full moon. Remus, she understood. But the other three were always inexplicably exhausted the next day.

The Gryfindor common room was quiet and still, par a small lump of blanket huddled at the edge of the couch closest to the fireplace. Lily caught sight of the Mousey-Brown hair and smiled softly. Remus. She figured he’d fallen asleep studying again. However, as she drew closer her face knitted in confusion. Remus was quite awake. However his thumb was firmly planted between his lips and the head of a small black stuffed dog was settled beneath his chin.

“Remus?” Lily called out softly, as not to alarm the boy. It was a futile effort though as upon hearing his name Remus whipped his head in her direction, eyes alarmingly wide and lacking any semblance of the calm they’d just held. His body was rigid and stiff as he pulled his thumb from his mouth and shoved his hand behind his curled leg. Lily approached slowly,

“Love, you’re alright, sorry if I gave you a fright,”

Remus’ eyes grew teary and his grip on the small toy grew tighter.

“M’ sorry.” He whimpered. He began blabbering barely comprehensible apologies and promises to never do it again. Lily stood dumbstruck until it suddenly dawned on her. Age Regression. She’d read about it passingly in a few books. Something about trauma and an altered mental age.

She knelt by the couch, eye level with Remus’ now teary cheeks.

“Are you feeling little, love?” She cooed, “It’s ok if you do, you’re not in trouble,”

Remus took a long shaky breath, “Gon’ be in so much trouble, not sposed’ to go out” He whined,

“Who’s gonna get you in trouble? Hm?”

Remus frowned wiping his flushed cheeks,

“Da,” Lily tilted her head in confusion,

“Well I’ll make sure he doesn’t get you in trouble, I promise” Remus buried his face in the soft black fur of his stuffie.

“Who’s this?” Lily asked gently, stroking the small dogs ear,

“Pa’ft” He answered, his still damp cheeks creasing with a smile.

“What a lovely name,” Lily hummed gently, tugging the sleeves of her jumper over her hands and using them to dry the boys face. He giggled wildly as she did this,

“Ickles!”

“Oh it tickles does it?” Lily smirked, before reaching forward and tickling Remus’ stomach. The little squeaked with laughter and squirmed away from her reach.

Lily smiled climbing onto the couch next to him, gently brushing a few brunette curls from his face,

“Do you wanna tell me what you’re doing down here?”

“No sleepy an’ no wake Da’” he explained quietly, breathing returning to normal as he calmed down,

“And who’s Da?” Remus frowned at her, pointing to the stairs to the boys dorm, “Da.”

Lily nodded in understanding, it had to be one of the other Marauders. Sirius, probably.

Remus yawned, sliding his thumb back into his mouth now he was comfortable around Lily.

“You sound tired darling, let’s get you back to bed,” Remus pouted around his thumb but otherwise made no complaints as he uncurled himself from the couch. Remus kept his thumb firmly planted between his lips but tucked his stuffie under his arm so he could hold Lily’s hand.

Thats how the pair made their way to the boys dorm. Which upon opening revealed borderline chaos. James was standing over Sirius’ bed and shaking him awake in only his boxers, Sirius was pathetically hitting the other boys arm away. Peter came out of the bathroom,

“He’s not in there.”

“Looking for this one?” Lily interrupted the panic. The three Marauders turned to her in shock.

“Moony!” James sighed in relief, finally startling Sirius awake.

“Da!” Remus squealed, crossing the floor and throwing himself against the other boy. Oh, Lily thought. That’s not what she’d expected. James looked at her anxiously, a protective arm wrapped around Remus’ back.

“I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” James nodded, squeezing Remus’ shoulder. The boys seemed to calm down after that, clearly trusting Lily as she already knew about the other stuff.

“Thanks for bringing him back,” Peter sighed, collapsing onto his bed.

“Moony you know the rules, what were you doing out of the room?” James reprimanded sternly.

Remus frowned, looking at Lily.

“He was just in the common room, no one else saw him it’s ok.”

James sighed, “You gave Dada a big fright.” If he was hesitant to show Lily this side of his relationship with Remus James certainly didn’t show it.

“S’rry,” Remus sighed around his thumb, still leaning heavily against James.

“It’s ok buddy, why don’t you get to bed now, Dada’s gonna talk to Lily.” Remus nodded and climbed into Sirius’ bed. Now Lily actually looked at Sirius properly she realized that the older boy had his own stuffed stag clutched in his arms, antler in his mouth. How many other secrets were the boys keeping from her?

Remus climbed into Sirius’ bed next to him and James led Lily out of the room.

The pair sat at the top of the stairs. Silence enveloped them for a few moments.

James sighed, “Look. I know it seems weird-”

Lily reached for James’ hand, “I don’t think it’s weird,”

James smiled at her softly, “They’ve just, well, neither of them had brilliant childhoods and I just want to help them however I can.” Lily nodded in understanding,

“How old are they?”

“Remus is around eighteen months and I’d say Sirius is around three,”

“So they regress often?”

“Yeah, I mean, it tends to happen more around the full moon, for Remus at least.” Lily leaned against James’ shoulder, enamored by the soft tone in his voice as he spoke about his friends,

“I think you’re adorable with them,” James’ face lit up, like it would when Lily asked him about his quidditch games or practices, pride beaming off every inch of his skin.

[picturespurple-68]

Rusame/Amerus Secret Santa 2023 Gift

This is my secret santa gift for @vodkanburgers

I'm not really used to writing fluff so I hope you like it!

Summary: Cardverse au, Alfred is away on business and sends Ivan a few gifts to keep him company in his absence.

Rating: Teen (mostly sfw but the ending is suggestive)

To Ivan, Alfred was many things: a loud mouth with a lack of impulse control, a gifted magic wielder praised far too much throughout his land, and, just like himself, a grown child forced into the role of ruler much too soon. At least, as neighbors, they found they could confide in each other what few living could understand. Their circumstances had led to a deep kinship between the two, and that kinship had recently found itself evolving into a courtship (with the approval of their queens and aces of course). However, the little differences in how their kingdoms go about "dating" (as Alfred would call it), has led to a few instances of rendering Ivan more flustered than he’s ever been in his life.

Within the Spadian kingdom, gift giving is seen as the most celebrated of gestures because to them, it shows just how much someone really knows about those they love and to give them the things they want without ever having to ask. Truthfully, Ivan saw it more as an excuse to flaunt one's wealth and to monetize some of the most inane things, however he couldn't deny the giddiness he felt whenever another one of Alfred’s presents showed up at his castle's steps.

That's why, with Alfred out on a trip to the Diamonds’ kingdom for the next several weeks, Ivan wasn't surprised when he found the first gift of many placed neatly on his bed with a deep indigo envelope sat next to it.

Gift #1

"To my dearest,

Ivan, I hope in my absence I fill your thoughts just as much as you fill mine. In times like this I wished I had had a memento of yours to keep at my side, but I guess that’s why hindsight is 20/20. That’s why I've taken the liberty of capturing a photo more special than any ever made just for you.

With love,

Alfred

P.S. Don’t be afraid to take a closer look at it~"

The note was sappy, more so than usual. Ivan wondered if maybe the dramatics of the over emotional Diamonds’ people had rubbed off on the Spadian in such a short amount of time.

The accompanied box was thin and carefully wrapped in a golden ribbon that Ivan didn't hesitate to open. What he saw inside was a silver, ornately metal frame of tiny vines and flora that held behind glass a picture of Alfred. The glowing smile he always wore displayed prominently as he was captured mid wave to the camera. It was adorable.

Pulled in closer as told, he ran a gentle thumb down his framed face and a second later almost dropped the thing when Alfred moved. His hand was actually now waving at him and his smile transformed into an open silent laugh. When his movements slowed, he gave a smooth wink and mouthed something to the viewer before it suddenly reset to its original still image. In fascination at this new feat, Ivan watched it loop the same thing over and over until he was able to read the words on Alfred’s lips, “I love you”.

–

Only a few weeks had passed when a second package and letter was delivered straight to Ivan. He didn’t hesitate to rush to his chambers and open both items in private.

Gift #2

"To my dearest,

Ivan, in the short amount of time I've been here, Francis has asked me just about every question about the two of us (and obviously taking too much glee in watching me squirm). His doting “big brother” behavior reminds me of Arthur and it’s a wonder how they seemingly can’t find a middle ground like us to remain civil.

Aside from him, I've been enjoying my time with Diamond's newest royal Queen Lillie. She's almost as young as we were when called and has honestly been a real breath of fresh air among the stuffy coots in their court. In our free time she’s even begun teaching me knitting, like you love to do, and I’ve made you something special.

With love,

Alfred

P.S. I'm still a bit rusty, so if you really really really love me, you won't judge my work too harshly!"

That last part brought out a chuckle from him. This box now was bigger than the first one and as he lifted the lid, a look of confusion crossed his face. Inside was a "folded" mass of red fabric made of a thin yarn material. Picking the item up didn't really help as the shape revealed itself to be something like a…shawl, but the knitted threads were too spaced out to be of proper use in the cold. It seems he wanted to make Ivan something like a scarf, just as he’s done in the past for Alfred.

While not the best work, the thought definitely still counted. It even made his heart beat and brought him joy when he could smell a faint trace of the sharp cologne the young man loved to smother himself in. He knew just where to put this gift.

Gently, he folded up the fabric and placed it on his bedside table as a new piece of decor. Now it would make a lovely scene for Ivan to wake up to while it sat right next to his specially framed photo of Alfred’s goofy mug.

–

With only a week left before his return, Ivan was surprised when another gift was announced for him. It was the weightiest of all three packages and he was hungry with curiosity to open the, strangely, beige colored box.

Gift #3

“To my dearest,

Ivan, being without you has left me longing for you day, and especially night. I’ve missed holding you, I’ve missed sharing a bed with you, and I’ve missed touching the most intimate parts of your body. As soon as I’m able to see you again, I want to cover your face in the biggest, sloppiest kisses I can make and keep you in my company until we’re nagged enough to go back to our duties.

I know how flustered you usually get after reading your sisters’ romance novels and I can only dream of how you are now. If that is the case, please be sure you’re alone when you open your present. It took quite a bit of trial and error, but the final product is totally worth it. Just about one week left!

With love,

Alfred

P.S. Hopefully you think of me every time you use it.”

The contents of his letter stayed rooted in his mind like a weed in his greenhouse. From the things he referred to, Ivan had an idea of what could be in that box and waited until after dinner to rush off to his room.

On his bed sat the box. With jittery hands, he opened it to find a royal purple satin bag closed by a simple drawstring. By holding the bag Ivan could make out the shape of something cylindrical and when he pulled it out, he saw it was white with a cap to screw off. Removing it revealed– Oh.

A flesh colored inside greeted his eyes and his face flush harder than he’s ever felt since Alfred first confessed to him. He quickly re-capped the thing and sat in embarrassed silence with the object held in his lap. Questions swirled through his head of why, when, and how, but another one dominated them all.

What does it feel like?

Ivan knew when the man got back he was going to be hounded about if he got his gifts and how much did he like them. Curiosity burned inside and it only made sense to use his gift like how Alfred intended it. Just thinking about how happy he’ll be to see him again is all it really took for Ivan to give in and un-cap the device. The two other presents on his bedside table will be of great use tonight, tomorrow, and every night until he’ll get to physically hold Alfred again.

[basicallyahedgehog]

Jeddy - James comes home after graduating from Hogwarts. For @phoebe-delia who is always willing to listen to my writing woes and help me shake some ideas out of the annoying mass I call my brain.

So I have two ideas of how this would go. The first one:

Teddy is an auror, or maybe a field healer who works with the aurors/curse breakers/unspeakables.

Teddy and James got together over Christmas break in Jamie’s 7th year. Not sure on the details, but obviously James has to finish school and Teddy’s schedule doesn’t always line up with Hogsmeade weekends so they’re limited to writing letters.

And Teddy is meant to be at James’ graduation but he gets called out on a mission that goes longer than planned and doesn’t make it back. And James obviously understands, Teddy’s been doing this job for a few years and James knew what he was getting into. But he can’t deny being a bit devastated to not have his boyfriend there to see him graduate

We don’t really have much info on how hogwarts graduation works, so in my mind it’s like my own high school experience - graduation happens about a week before all the other years break up. And as part of that, the 7th years travel home on the Hogwarts Express the day after graduation, just their year, as a final rite of passage. Even though they’re legal adults by now and most of them have their apparition license

And so Jamie rides back on the train, expecting to be picked up by his parents, and probably the entire Weasley family that isn’t still stuck at Hogwarts

But instead there’s Teddy, still a bit grimy and frazzled from the field, and James fucking launches himself across the platform. Feet barely hit the ground

And it’s that jump, catch, spin moment from all the cheesy rom coms, and even though he denies it later Jamie definitely cries, Teddy doesn’t even try to deny it. And they don’t really have a reason to be so emotional - it was one day longer than they’d expected to be apart. But they’re both home and James is going to move in with Teddy (don’t tell his parents, they don’t know yet) and they’re young and a little bit stupid still but a lot in love.

But I also had another idea because I got struck by the idea of librarian Teddy. In big glasses and chunky knits and permanent ink stains on his fingers:

James has been outwardly flirting since he was about 15 but “you’re underage, Jamie, and I’m practically your teacher”

And James turns 17 and argues that Teddy is not an actual professor, just a “stuffy librarian” - a phrase that gets him ignored for a few days until he produces an unholy amount of Teddy’s favourite chocolate and a completely overboard apology

But Teddy stands his ground and is annoyingly un-flusterable

At their wedding Teddy finally admits to casting a lot of wordless cooling charms whenever Jamie entered the library to try and stop himself from flushing

And to be honest James does understand and respect Teddy’s boundaries - and Teddy knows he does - but it becomes a bit of a game to try and rile Teddy up

Cut to Jamie’s graduation. As mentioned above I think the 7th years would take the train back, but it would be the day after because it takes so long. So James is just like, hanging out in the common room or something the evening after graduation, probably planning to sneak out to the party that the professors definitely don’t know is happening (even though it’s happened every year for at least a hundred years…) and a little first or second year pops up “Mr Lupin says you’re needed in the library now”

And James hopes of course, but you never really know with Teddy. It’s just as likely James still has a book out that he’s forgotten to return

But as he opens the doors to the library a hand reaches out and yanks him inside. He can’t even fully see Teddy, what with there being no light apart from a few flickering candles, but he hears a rough “you’re not a student anymore” before he his pushed up against the door and kissed within an inch of his life.

I’d like to think that James becomes a professor, or an auror who does regular lectures or something, and that he continues to visit Teddy in the library and try to get him flustered

Don’t tell anyone, but it’s usually James that ends up flustered, when he walks in and teddy is talking to some students, his hair all ruffled from absent-minded hands and a smudge of ink on his cheek and his eyes alight with enthusiasm as he imparts knowledge about some niche topic or other.

James definitely makes use of the cooling charm trick.

If you want rambling dot points with my headcanons, send me a character/pairing and a situation/theme and I’ll do my best to answer it in a vaguely timely manner!

[quinn-borel]

For that ship questions redux post you reblogged weeks ago: Can I get pre-relationship #7, general #6, love #1 and #10!

 How do their friends and family feel about them as a couple?

It’s….a mixed bag.

On Aymeric’s side, Lucia is happy for them as she sees Quinn as a good…distraction for the Lord Speaker/Commander.  Quinn keeps him grounded and introduces more time for relaxation in his daily activities.

Estinien is very much indifferent on the outside, but on the inside, he thinks Aymeric could have done better.  As Aymeric’s ex, he may have some…lingering jealousy (that he would never admit. ever.).  But truthfully, Estinien doesn’t have the best relationship with Quinn up until halfway through Endwalker where they finally find some common ground.

Artoirel is not surprised as he could smell it from a mile away and just urges Aymeric to remember his duties and not be so caught up ‘betwixt her thighs’. 

On Quinn’s side….well….

Urianger/Y’shtola: Indifferent.  “Good for you, now, please focus on your duties.”

Thancred: Jealous. Very much. So much so that he’s pretty grumpy about the whole thing and rolls his eyes.  Like he KNEW Aymeric had feelings for Quinn because he clocked him canonically before the Grand Melee.  He was surprised Quinn decided to settle down with someone so… strait-laced. 

Alphinaud: Happy for them but worries about the political implications.

Alisaie: Would pull a knife on Aymeric threatening him that if he ever hurts Quinn, he has to answer to her.  Thinks Quinn could probably do better than a stuffy city-state leader.

G’raha: He’s heartbroken, having had feelings for Quinn before being locked away in the Crystal Tower.  As Exarch, he thought maybe he’d have a chance but was not aware that Quinn was dedicated to Aymeric until she told him about it in patch-SHB.  He’s really awkward around Aymeric because of this.

Tataru/Krile/Lyse: Ecstatic when they found out about Quinn and Aymeric’s engagement. 

How do their personalities complement each other? How do they clash?

Quinn is very relaxed and carefree, and a lot of that compliments Aymeric who is a little more tight-knit and focused on his own work…though we see he has a sense of humor about him, which Quinn loves and tries to get out of him more.  They both can be sarcastic at times as well, and they often have a bit of banter back and forth.  She brings out a more charismatic and extroverted side of him that he normally saves for political measures as opposed to social situations.  At the same time, Aymeric has really grounded Quinn into a more loving and understanding person.  She’s grown with him to not be as hot-headed and to think of others rather than herself.

Though they do clash at times, Aymeric’s work ethic really being a point of contention between the two and Quinn’s lackadaisical moments are a bit inappropriate for certain situations.  Still, they work through it.

 Who said "I love you" first, and what was the situation?

It was Aymeric during a very heated and passionate first night sleeping together.  Quinn was a bit surprised he admitted so early in their relationship, but later reciprocated the next morning.

What do they like best about each other? 

For Quinn, she appreciates how he puts up with her.  The way he smiles and shrugs when she says some silly or outlandish things and the way he will banter with her when she goes on some form of rant.  He can be so relaxed and silly at times, which is such a stark contrast from what he’s like outside the house.

For Aymeric, he loves Quinn’s carefree spirit.  The way she’s so removed from the life of nobility and how she is so comfortable in her own skin is truly something he finds so God damn attractive.  She is his sun.   

[crinkled-emotions]

I had a lovely little migraine all night at work tonight (it was not little it was agony there were bright lights and strong smells everywhere) and before I put myself to bed for the next month I got thinking about a fic... enjoy, this is not something that’s part of a series it’s not requested etc etc...

Yes, Miles, you get your groove on- two hands on THE WHEEL-

-

Maverick glanced at the clock and sighed, putting his magazine down to make his way into the kitchen. He poured a glass of water and grabbed the medication from the cupboard. When he put his hand in the freezer he realised he didn’t have any ice bricks cold at the moment and swore just a little, reaching for the nearest tea towel to get damp in the sink.

Of course Rooster had to get sick in the middle of a very humid San Diego summer. It made sense... somehow. Somewhere. In another universe, maybe.

In another universe this could have been Hangman’s job. That would have been a great universe.

-

“Mav,” Rooster called out. Maverick immediately raced around the corner from the kitchen, finding his godson standing at the base of the stairs. He was only dressed in a tank top and shorts, pale despite the warm air running rampant outside. Any other day the Daggers still in Miramar would have shown up by now to raid Maverick’s freezer, his fridge and use his deck to store their things whilst they dipped in the ocean outside or played dogfight football which generally ended with a dogpile on Hangman. With Rooster down for the count, they’d opted to go to the Hard Deck instead.

“B, go back to bed.”

“I have to take another dose, and- uh, there was something else...”

Maverick’s eyes softened when he watched Bradley try to remember what he’d come downstairs for. He frowned, deep in thought for a moment, and then lit up just enough to not hurt his head further.

“Do you know where the spare sheets are? It’s so hot, I feel like I’m sleeping in my own sweat.”

Maverick snorted, reaching to take him by the arm and guide him into the living room. The downstairs of the old house had air conditioning but the upstairs was hopefully going to be fixed in the winter, which meant they were relying on fans to circulate the hot air in their bedrooms and the stuffy small bathroom up there. Maverick knew Bradley was tough, but even he was struggling with the lack of air conditioning at night. More than once he’d ended up on the couch downstairs, like Bradley was now... sans migraine, for the most part.

“Alright, take these, drink this. Do you feel nauseous?”

“No, just tired. Fuckin’ hurts, I forgot how much these hurt.”

Maverick carefully placed the damp tea towel on Bradley’s forehead, gently brushing a hand over his shoulder.

“Lie there a moment, take some deep breaths.”

When Bradley curled on to his side and went quiet, Maverick quietly backed away to the linen cupboard. He rifled around for a moment, listening just in case Rooster’s stomach decided it did want to join the party (as it often did, the bastard), finally producing what he’d been looking for. It may have been the middle of summer, but the air conditioning in the living room was the strongest point of the house. Pulling the weighted blanket into his arms, he hauled it over to the couch and put his hand on Bradley’s side, making sure he had his attention first.

“Have you tried a weighted blanket for your migraines, kid?” He asked. Bradley blinked, confusion crossing his features briefly.

“I barely know what a weighted blanket is, how do you?”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Is that the most comfortable position?”

When Bradley nodded Maverick carefully eased the weighted blanket over his godson, covering him from the shoulders down with the knitted fabric. He watched Bradley grimace first, and then it almost seemed like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders.

Pun intended.

“Thanks, Mav.”

“Try to get some sleep, I’ll be here if you need anything.”

-

When it hit 7pm and Bradley was still asleep, Maverick decided it was probably time to a) cook dinner, and b) check on him. With a pot of canned soup starting to simmer on the stove, he made his way into the living room that he’d closed off and gently nudged Bradley’s side, kneeling by the couch. Rooster yawned, burying back under the weighted blanket.

Truly, Bradley was known for being a restless sleeper. He generally had one arm out of the bed, maybe a leg, and he was constantly snoring so loud Maverick was scared the tree outside his window was coming down. With the weighted blanket, though...

He was still. And silent. 

“Damn,” Maverick murmured as he quietly backed away. He put a hand on Rooster’s forehead, finding the cloth had fallen off but it wasn’t warm like the last time he’d gone looking for the ice bricks. Bradley was out, dozing quietly with his entire body surprisingly still. Maverick put a hand on his chest, double checking he was breathing. The kid was good, but he wasn’t that good. 

“Mav?”

“Hey, Roos. Feeling better?”

“Hungry as fuck... is that Campbell’s?”

“Tomato, you heathen. If you can get yourself out from your cocoon, I’ll get you a bowl and you can take some more Aspirin.”

Even as he got up to get said bowl, Maverick could feel Bradley laughing, and figured that was the win he needed.

-

[fractempyreal]

Birthdays seldom come easily to the Devil anymore, their excitement for the festivities long having waned since childhood. It wasn't until recent years that they had taken to celebrating holidays and birthdays ( mainly due to a particular younger sibling, and his partner ) . He hasn't forgotten this year, even if he makes as if he doesn't know the day, but to determine the appropriate means of celebration is where the true struggle lay. Throughout the entire morning he found himself pacing back and forth, nearing a decision before vehemently striking it down in a firm mutter in aside to himself.

Cake?

He DESPISES sweets.

Going out for dinner?

Too stuffy, too formal, he might not enjoy himself.

Cycling through option after option, he found himself further and further descending into absolute frustration before a voice chimes in the back of his head. A particular, IRRITATING voice of a scruffy younger twin commenting on a carnival on the docks of the city.

Jaw sets, brows furrowing deeply as he considers the option. It would be loud, crowded, with copious amounts of scents filling the air upon being jostled around at the pitched screams of excitement of children and crying babies. Yet, as he imagines Grimmjow's jovial expression and eagerness, dragging them towards a game stand, the Devil comes to the slow realization that perhaps, just perhaps, it wouldn't be so bad if they were together.

His steps slow to a halt, lifting silvery crown as knitted brows smooth out with a low sigh that escapes from nostrils, shoulders dipping in acceptance. It would be enjoyable, if only because it would be worth experiencing the arrancar's joy and excitement at the festivities taking place.

' They've even got a fireworks show that happens at the end of the night. Fireworks, Verge! C'mon, you know you used to love that shit! '

Corner of his lip twitches, arms folding across chest as eyes slip closed as Dante's voice echoes in his mind again. He had scoffed at the insinuation that he had ever enjoyed something so brazen and obnoxious, but as he thinks on it now—

Head turns at the sound of footsteps, the familiar presence that blankets him as the one he had been hoping to see now enters the room. Iridescent gaze settles on Grimmjow, and for a moment it's a faint softening that passes over usually stony expression. The Devil unfolds his arm, a hand extending towards the arrancar in a slight motion for him to step closer.

Once he's close enough, fingers gently entangle with his and draw him closer, guiding that hand to lift and rest flat against his chest, over his heart. That familiar thrum beats beneath death's hand. Infinitely destructive, yet in their lifetime the Devil found them only capable of mending what once he believed wholly demolished. Slow breath leaves him, closing eyes as head dips forward to rest gently against Grimmjow's.

They wonder how to broach the subject of celebration, if Grimmjow would even present any kind of desire to do so ( a part of them hopes he does ), or if he even remembers what day it is or what it means. He dreads the outcomes that could result from askance, and they're certain that Grimmjow can tell something is off from the way that heartbeat now picks up an unsteady rhythm.

' — Vergil? Hey, what's up? ' The voice breaks through the uncertainty that plagues them, unclenching jaw he didn't realize he had clenched. The Devil pulls away, but doesn't break contact entirely ( still holding Grimmjow's hand to his heart ).

' It's nothing. I was— thinking. '

' About what? '

' — What to do today. ' Weight shifts, ' with you. ' Voice softens, scowl resting upon features before clearing his throat, fingers clutching around Grimmjow's hand ever so gently. ' Dante— mentioned a carnival taking place in the city today. ' They hesitate, shrugging shoulders in an attempt to nonchalance, but a ghost in the back of their mind whispers that Grimmjow isn't dull, not in this instance.

' Perhaps— if you would like to— we could attend. ' Pale gaze finds the vibrant blue of Grimmjow's, flickering in between them in attempts to discern what thoughts were passing through Grimmjow's mind in that instance. He feels the slight twitch of fingers in his grip, and he allows it to slacken briefly in order to bring his hand up to his lips, grazing them softly over scarred knuckles. ' To celebrate your birthday, I believed that perhaps— '

How embarrassing, that the Son of Sparda was fumbling over his words like some love-stricken schoolboy. He considers dropping the attempt then and there, before a rough hand lifts to cradle cheek, the iciness of it a shock to the system to the point where any flame of doubt is doused by the hearty laugh that rips from the lips of the man in front of him. Gaze flicks up, brows raising upon forehead in surprise before finding that there's a faint smile that spreads upon lips in response. Barely for a few seconds does it last before hand slips from own and arms wind around the Devil's shoulders to pull them into a crushing embrace.

Surprised grunt leaves him, hands hovering around Grimmjow's waist, uncertain as of what to do in the given moment.

' I'd really, really like that. To spend time with you . ' The gruff voice confirms. Vergil can almost sense the wide grin splitting Grimmjow's face, and his heart slows with embrace slowly returned. He swallows, wetting the dryness of his throat before clearing it, turning head to press lips against temple, low hum leaving them and closing his eyes before quiet murmur dispels into his hair.

' I was hoping you'd say that. ' A pause.

' I heard there would be fireworks at the end of the night. Perhaps we could share a celebratory birthday kiss? ' Teasing lightness edges into his tone, before Grimmjow pulls away, hands firmly resting on the Devil's shoulders as expression grows more serious. For a moment, Vergil finds himself bemused by the look they're given, smile fading if only somewhat.

' Why wait until the end of the night? I want my birthday kiss now. ' There's no hesitation, no room for Vergil to respond or retort before hands on shoulders now move to cup his face and pull him down for their lips to meet.

Happy Birthday, Mi Cielo.

@jaegerjacks

[companionwolf]

pride month drabble challenge #5

prompts: 21. Genderqueer + 6. Magic + 24. "Whatever they told you, it's a lie."

fandom: XCOM (Enemy Within)

TWs/CWs: none

They're in the Commander's tiny stuffy room in the Anthill, Central at a desk laboring over papers and a laptop, the Commander pacing back and forth back and forth back and--

Central swivels in his chair. He has the sweater's sleeves rolled up, his tie loose. His eyes are tired as he gives the Commander a pointed look.

"Could you...stop doing that?" he asks.

The Commander sits on the end of their bed, their leg shaking. Central sighs, turns back to his work, and they study the tenseness of his shoulders straining under the knitted fabric.

They want...

They can't.

The Commander shakes themselves. "Central," they say, their voice tight with stress. "How are we looking?"

He doesn't look up as he answers. "It's going to be a tight month," he says wearily. "Now that Austraila's pulled put of the project--"

"Don't finish that," they say; and fall backwards onto the bed, some kind of frustrated noise hissed through clemched teeth.

Central pushes back from the desk, streches-- his spine pops, he sighs. "We'll be alright," he says. "It'll just be touch and go for a while."

The Commander squeezes their eyes shut, presses their hands against the back of their eyelids. They see stars and God, aren't those the problem? Another slow hiss of air between their teeth.

"Are you okay, Commander?"

They sit back up, rub at their eyes. It is late, and they are exhausted, and they disabled all the bugs in the room thr day they got here (Central doesn't know, of course) so...

They meet his eyes. "No."

Central fidgets with the end of a sleeve, looks away. "You need anything from me?"

Their fingers dance across the skin over the psionic dampener in their neck. "Actually, yeah," they say. "You got a pocket knife or something?"

Central blinks.

"Just for a second," they say.

He frowns, but goes fumbling into his pockets, producing a small Swiss Army knife. The Commander takes it, tips their head. This will hurt but they can heal the minimal damage.

They place the blade on their neck.

Central jumps out of the chair, tries to knock the knife out of their hands. "Commander!"

With their free hand they fend him off; with the other, they cut a sloppy done slit into the space just above the dampener, and then push at the circular implant. Once it's out, the small piece bloodying their fingers and neck running red, they slid it into a pocket.

Central stares. "What the hell is that?"

The Commander presses their damp red fingers to the wound. They lock eyes with their XO. "Whatever they told you," they say, "it's a lie."

And they reach --

Purple sparks at their fingers, at the edges of the cut. Skin stitches back together, the wound closes. The Commander sighs in relief as they let the power course out. They open their closed eyes.

Central has drawn a hidden pistol, has himself backed against the wall. They frown.

"I told you," they say. "It is not what you think it is."

"Stop talking," Central says.

"Can you use your brain for a second?" the Commander asks. "That thing was a leash."

"And you just took it out," he says. "It made you unable to do that, right? The same bullshit the aliens can do."

"It's not the same," they say. "For one, I'm much stronger than a Sectoid." A pause. "At least that's what I was told."

Central remains stock still.

"Bradford, if I wanted to kill you with Psionics, I'd have done it by now," the Commander says, matter of factly, hoping their voice doesn't betray the shallow, fast beats of their heart. "Hell, I don't need Psionics to do that."

"Why are you able to do that?"

"I don't fucking know," the Commander says. "I've always been able to do it, it just never had a name. Until XCOM."

"Are you--"

"Please, Central," the Commander says. "Do I look like a alien? Besides, you're not going to shoot me. If you were, you'd have done so. And if I wasn't sure you wouldn't, I wouldn't have asked at all."

Central glares. "Don't tell me what I will and won't do," he says.

"Yet here we are, talking and not killing each other."

Their XO hesitates.

"Central, I don't know any more than the scientists who put that thing in me," the Commander says. "All I know is it ..."

Their turn to hesitate.

"I think I'm proof humans can be Psionic," they manage. "And the Council doesn't like it. That's why they put me on a leash. Multiple leashes, even."

Central, despite himself, raises a eyebrow. "Multiple?"

"They're not letting me go home, when this is done," the Commander says. "I heard the Councilman talking about it. They're keeping me for testing."

Central lowers the gun a tick. "They can't do that," he says.

"They're the Council, they can do whatever they want," the Commander says, bitter.

"But people will notice you're gone," he says. "Won't they?"

The Commander smiles a strained grin. "See, that's another reason they put me on this job, Central. They wiped all evidence of me off the planet once I got here."

"What?"

"According to the government, I don't officially exist anymore," they say. "To my friends, to my family..."

The implication hangs in the air. Central frowns. "Dead?"

"Something like it," they say.

"But that's--"

"I know," the Commander says. "But you know, I don't get much of a say. It was accept this job or..." They trail off. "It was less a offer and more a directive, to be frank."

Central has lowered the pistol. "What can you do?" His voice is quiet. "What are they afraid of?"

"Besides the implications of a human pre-invasion who can do what the aliens can, and the fact we don't know shit?"

They take a long breath. "Uhh, I can lift up to car sized objects, I can shoot energy beams, I can induce confusion and disoriention in others...no mind control, though."

A long silence between them.

Then: "Central, what do you know about me?" they ask.

He blinks. "What?"

"Tell me what you know about me," the Commander repeats.

With his free hand, Central rubs the back of his neck. "You're 38, you're from Texas, you're... what is that word..."

"Genderqueer?"

"Yeah, that one," he says.

"Anything else?"

"You hate handing out medals because the spectacle makes you nervous," Central goes on. "You pet the SHIVs like dogs."

"And?"

"Uh, you don't like coffee? You sing really badly. Your eyes are like weirdly blue," he continues. "And I guess now I know you're Psionic. And also legally considered dead.  What's the point of this?"

"Do you trust me?"

The quiet is defeaning. The Commander swallows hard.

Finally Central speaks: "Yeah. I trust you, Commander. It'll probably kill me in the end."

Pain pulses across their temples and for a moment--

Central, bloodied and slumped over, at a command console on the bridge, eyes glossy with death in the firelight of a burning falling HQ.

The Commander shakes their head. What the hell?

"Commander?"

The world spins. They stagger forward, grip his extended arm tightly.

Central stiffens under their touch. "Commander?" His voice is incredulous.

"I trust you," they manage, "but Central, you have to promise."

Another flare of pain--

His hand in theirs, pinky fingers interlocking just for a moment. The end of all things.

They shake their head. The image clears.

Central opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again and stammers, "I dont think I can do that--"

"Do it anyway," they breathe.

Silence.

Then: "Okay."

As if to punctuate his words, Central finally holsters the pistol. The Commander inhales. Exhales. Finally lets the tension fall out of their shoulders, out of their face.

They step forward. One hand rests on their XO's shoulder, the other against the wall.

"Central," they say.

His eyes flick to their hands. He swallows. "Commander?"

"I--"

And then he's leaning in, palm pressing against their collar bone, mouth on theirs. They sigh into him, body sagging. When they break apart, faces flushed, the Commander exhales again, mostly in relief.

"Thank you," they say.

"You know they'll find out," he says. The Commander hums. He cocks his head at them. "You're not afraid of that?"

"I'm already dead, Central," they say. "They can't kill me more than they already have." 

Central frowns. "I'm sorry, Commander." he says.

The Commander's head hurts as something in their skull whispers: I'm sorry, too.

[vintersang]

[ 𝐅𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐑𝐒 ] ― sender gives receiver flowers

the five senses meme / accepting / @umbravirtus

Thirteen-year-old Elsa has never met a prince before, not unless you count exchanged portraits that arrived from time to time.

Anna still dreamt up stories of heroic princes, no doubt heavily inspired by the love of their parents when she wasn't making faces at them for kissing in front of her. Oh, how Anna always dreamily admired paintings... Elsa didn't see what the big deal was, not that Anna ever got the chance to ask what her distant sister thought about boys. Elsa would rather analyze the brushstrokes, admire the beautiful range of the color palette of the subject, and marvel at the attention detail of the anatomy. To get lost in the world of art, any form of art, is something she would rather be doing in her free time. Fantasying about boys, prince or no prince, didn't seem very fun.

Though Elsa did not see the point of staring at boys, Anna and her did share a deep appreciation for art. Once upon a time, when they were younger, they used to run down the halls in order to happily talk to paintings. Anna enjoyed talking to Joan the most, but she was always bouncing off to do whatever caught her attention span. Though Elsa always protectively clung to her sister's side in the massive halls, she often remembers lingering at the painting of Joan. She wondered what it would be like to go to battle, shrouded in her faith. She used to wonder, each time she passed the painting of Joan, what would it be like to wield a sword.

The accident happens, handing Elsa the answer to her distant pondering. She begins to wear gloves, solemnly promising her father that she will conceal. Joan fought bravely at such a young age, but nothing could help her as she perished in flames. Joan was ordinary, at least in the sense that she couldn't perform magic, but people still called for her death. What would everyone do with Elsa if she was caught? Conceal, don't feel became her mantra.

One day, a prince arrives to their home. He is not alone, accompanied by a family member that seems to be the royal ambassador to the Southern Isles.

Anna was busy in her studies, no doubt being sternly lectured by her tutors to stop doodling in the books. Their mother was out visiting an orphanage to deliver supplies to the less fortunate, carefully escorted by guards. Queen Induna went out of her way to craft as many knitted clothes, skilled in bringing forth wonderful creations. Anna no doubt begged to go with her for support, but lessons were more important to a growing princess. With a serious expression guarding his innermost thoughts, their father met with the young ambassador. They arrange a meeting in her father's library, sealing their conversation away from prying eyes.

Elsa is the only one that isn't busy on this fine May day, already caught up with most of her studies. She is often alone, but the fine sunshine bleeding into her bedchamber makes her itch to go outside...

She thought about working on her embroidery until she peered down at the hoop, spotting the messy canvas of a bouquet of purple heathers... Mother told her that creations we are frustrated with, things we pour so much time into, sometimes needed to be tucked away for another day. According to her, time away from a current project allows the mind to relax from all the imperfections and negative thoughts. Coming back to a project after some time has passed should allow for a different, perhaps kinder perspective. Elsa always valued her mother's advice, but the pitiful excuse looks more like a purple blob than a proper replication of a bouquet. Maybe she did need to take some time away?

With a sigh, Elsa pulls on her teal gloves. Her hands, though naturally cold to the touch, still feel stuffy within the very thick material of the gloves. She, however, refuses to leave without them. She thought about bringing out her journal, but she ultimately chose to bring a book on her journey to the royal gardens. She keeps walking and walking, carefully maneuvering her way down the longer route in order to avoid bumping into anyone. Once slipping outside, the tension in body begins to crumble from her as she breathes in the scent of the blooming garden.

She hurries past the flowers, not bothering to dwell near them. It doesn't take her long until she finds her favorite reading spot beneath a shady tree, free from the buzzing bees... But not free from boys, apparently.

"What are you doing here in my spot?" Elsa calls out, breaking the silence. He didn't even notice her approach, but this isn't much of a surprise. She is very good at sneaking around, especially since she has gotten very good at it in recent years. She shoots a glare at this very well-dressed intruder as she clutched her book, loose grip hardening into a very tight grip. She knows she is being very rude, but frankly? She wasn't in the mood to entertain guests.

Much to her surprise, the boy turns to face her calmly. Though he is calm, there is urgency in the way he quickly moved to face her. The lack of hurt or embarrassment look in his eyes shows he is very familiar with rough treatments. In his hands were twelve flowers, but each one was vastly different from each other. To Elsa's keen eyes, it looked like he's picking flowers for his own pleasure. He scanned her from head to toe, slightly tired eyes sharpening ever so faintly in his quiet observation.

Without warning, he took a step closer in order to present the twelve flowers.

Elsa took a step back, but she holds her glare upon him. She doesn't know why she is feeling so...so...strange... She knew she hasn't eaten today, it shouldn't affect her this badly. It wouldn't be the first time she has skipped a meal or two. Strangeness aside, Elsa does not accept the flowers. He's a stranger, not someone that she was informed about. Besides, no one was leaning over to tell her to accept the offering. Why should she bother to accept some gift from a potential intruder?

"I apologize for my behavior. Your presence startled me, you see..." Elsa apologizes, though she doesn't completely mean it. She quickly remembered that she must always, no matter what, be polite and kind. Perfect as untouched snow from the first snowfall, nothing like sharp icicles. No matter who this lanky boy was, he is still a human person. Not a threat.

"Who are you?" Elsa asked after taking a quick breath to recompose herself, forcing her limbs to try to loosen up. She is feeling too much today, she has grimly noticed. All these feelings, every last drop, simply must not do. Remember your place, Elsa! She thinks to herself, reprimanding herself in the safety of her thoughts.

"I'm certain I have never met you before. Do you normally give stolen flowers to girls you have just met?" Elsa stiffly inquires, trying to ease her thorny response into a joke. She still does not accept the flowers, but she does slowly lower her gaze to peer at each individual flower. She gives each one their own time, notably not skipping over a single flower. The young princess is very cautious, but a spark of curiosity ignites in her chest on why this redheaded boy chose twelve different flowers...

More importantly, why did he want to give them to someone like her?

[what-i-did-in-the-shadowss]

Smug Face

(DO NOT REPOST MY WORK WITHOUT CREDIT)

Campers, Jamie and Elias make their way back to camp through a wooded tense forest excursion turns into a power play between campers, Jamie and Elias, marked by underlying tensions and the incessant irritation of Elias's face.

The water moves quickly down the thin stream and the burbling sounds it makes filled my ears. The babble of the stream is quickly cut off by heavy breathing coming from behind me. It’s loud and stuffy like they needed to blow their nose. Then they snort, and the sound roars throughout the once-tranquil forest.

“Do you mind?” I whispered, trying not to scare off the last of animals. They did not retort, only looking up at me with a smug face. I hate that face. It's a look that tells you they know exactly what they’re doing. A look that just gets under my skin. I continue to walk, slowly this time. Taking calculated steps in order to avoid twigs and dry leaves. My boots are caked in mud and the back of my tank top is coated in sweat. I had tied my flannel across my waist to save myself from the heat.

“How much more do we need to go, I’m getting blister,” nagged Elias. He grabbed my drawstrings of backpack to slow me down. I swatted his hand and turned around.

“Stop complaining, we’ll get there when we get there,” my tone is stern in hopes of intimidating him a bit. It does not work. He again, looks at me with a smug face. I HATE that face. The face he makes when he’s looking down on me. A face of pure unbridled ambivalence. 

“Whatever, just keep going. It’s getting dark and I’m not trying to get attacked by a wolf or something,” Elias says, with the same smugness his face exudes. We walk for what feels like forever until we finally reach camp.

“Where have you two been? I’ve been worried sick!” yelled our camp counselor, Aria. Elias and I had been trekking through the forest all day trying to find our way back to camp after he wandered away and I, his forest friend (glorified summer camp buddy system) had to go and look out for him. I was about to tell Aria the reason we parted from the group but before I could Elias spoke up.

“It was me, I went to use the bathroom and Jamie waited for me. I took too long on purpose. I’m sorry,” his tone for once sounding sincere. I looked up at him confused. His face didn’t have a smug look on it, it was a look of genuine apology. His eyebrows knitted together, lips uncurled from their usual smirk and contorted into a frown. Aria gripped the bridge of her nose between her pointer finger and her thumb and shook her head.

“You need to be more careful, both of you. Your punishment is cleaning the dining hall after all three meals tomorrow Elias. Jamie, you help him clean up lunch and dinner. Do both of you understand?” we both nodded our heads in unison. “Good now both of you, wash up and go to bed. Goodnight.” Aria walked away before we could respond and Elias had already started walking back in the direction of our cabin.

“Elias wait up!” I shouted, but he didn’t look back. I ran up to him and slid around to his front to obstruct his path. “Why did you do that, take the blame for me?” He looks at me with that smug face of his. I HATE THAT FACE!! The face he makes when he has you in the palm of his hand, molding you to his desired shape. The face of someone who I almost felt sorry for.

“I took the fall because now,” he leaned close to my face moved his mouth to my ear, and whispered, “You owe me now.” He backed away and looked down at me, with that smug fucking face. I hate that goddamn face. I opened my mouth to say something but nothing came out, not a sound. Elias took his hand and placed it on my chin, closed my mouth. 

“Don’t keep your mouth open like that, wouldn’t want a bug to fly in.” he walked away with that same ugly, annoying, infuriating, stupid, aggravating, smug face.

-Jennie

[bobardo]

…. perhaps a harry x reader blurb to spare 🤲 i will take anything u want to give me. fluff or smut or both or neither ❤️❤️❤️❤️ u rock and my name is also evelyn so i feel bonded to u

u've absolutely made my day with this evelyn :((( i hope you like what i've concocted bestie, she's kinda all over the fucking place, but nonetheless, i hope you enjoy <33

wc: 2k

cw: not much, super fluffy, mildly (perhaps majorly) suggestive. not suitable for ramadan!! not proofread. lmk if i missed anything pls!!

Spring is here.

Fucking finally.

All the seasons were lovely to Y/N, each offered something the others didn’t—couldn’t. But spring was different. Special.

Like him.

Like Harry.

Perhaps that’s why her love for it blossomed like the tulips lining her bedroom window; there was something about seeing her usually soft boyfriend get ten times softer as leaves started to sprinkle branches, blades of grass flashed a vibrant green once more, and the sun kissed the earth that got to her tender heart.

It was especially difficult to not melt when he’d planned a small outing for them, centered around the perfectly warm weather. Instead of waiting until nightfall and driving to some stuffy restaurant (although their dinner dates were never anything less than exquisite), they walked hand-in-hand down the boulevard in broad daylight, gentle wisps of wind the only thing surrounding them, as well as the quiet conversation of other passersby.

They didn’t talk. They didn’t have to. They were perfectly content to relish in the mere presence of one another—soak in the rays of sun, and warmth. Love.

Thumbs gave mindless, delicate strokes against the back of palms, rucking up rings, kissing knuckles in apology, and putting them back in place, just to repeat it all over again. The knitted fabric of Harry’s cardigan is soft when it brushes against Y/N’s bare arm (she decided that it was absolutely perfect weather to slip on her favorite flowy sundress, cinched at the waist and flared at the hips, printed with obnoxiously serene-looking flowers and hummingbirds, with a square neckline that farmed the intricate necklace Harry bought her for their second anniversary quite stunningly), but his hand in hers was softer. Better.

Said hand tugs on hers, urging her away from the beaten path and into the ravine of tall, never-ending trees—willows and oaks; sycamores, birches, and maples, too. She resists, no less. Looks down at the cobblestone beneath her soles, and the cute kitten heels that (in her humble opinion) tie her whole spring-era look together.

She pouts.

And then a head of chocolate obscures her view of the pristine, white triangle toes. A hand placed both respectfully and salaciously on her ankle, coaxing her foot to slip from its confines, makes her breath catch in her suddenly dry throat.

Her kind eyes glaze over, ever so slightly.

“Y’don’t have’t—”

“I want to, Bellissima.”

Her shoe slips from her foot with a soft clatter on the ground when he manages to pry her sole from the earth, but it barely registers in her brain. In fact, everything else seems to fade away into the lovely spring that encompasses them when Harry guides his hand further up, along her fleshy calf, and leans in to place a chaste, staggering kiss to the bridge of her foot.

She wobbles, but they both know it’s not because she’s been left to balance on one foot.

Harry smiles, faint—the crater in his stubbled cheek is nearly invisible—and nudges his nose along the smooth skin of her leg.

He works diligently (as diligently as one can when removing a shoe) to rid Y/N of her footwear, relieving her of any worry or pain.

He looks pleasantly boyish when he looks up at her, smiles all cheeky, and winks for good measure. Kneeling on cobblestone in a worn pair of jeans, suede, dirty Adidas, and a vintage band tee that smells of stale coffee, Chanel No. 5 (one of many preferred perfumes of Y/N), and sex no matter how many times they run it through the wash; the green of his seafoam eyes twinkling in the sunlight, sunnies pushing his hair back, and yet one rogue curl still bends and twirls with the wind, falling in a perfectly aesthetic spiral when it settles…

Soft. Boyfriend. Hers.

Her Harry.

He stands to his full height, and they’re much closer than she’d thought they would be, but she’s certainly not complaining. Where before she stood at (about) Harry’s collarbone, now her head barely reaches the underside of his pecs. Her neck strains to keep eye contact as he slips his free hand back into her awaiting palm, the latter of which occupied with their stuffed picnic basket, and now her precious kitten heels.

“Need me to carry you?” He asks, ready to suffer at least a week’s worth of back pain if it meant he’d keep that love-struck, glowy, adorable (subby, stupid, filthy) look on his girl’s face.

Y/N’s eyes widen subtly, though enough for Harry to notice, and he can’t help but have to stifle a chuckle at her bashful demeanor.

“No, thank you,” she squeaks, and now she’s the one tugging his hand, urging them into the abyss of greenery, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

The grass feels soft, ticklish, between her powder pink painted toes; she feels her lips stretch into a small grin because of it. They walk idly until they find a soft patch of vividly green grass directly under a tree, kissed fleetingly by the rays of sunlight peaking through the gaps of branches and leaves.

Harry lets his hand fall from Y/N’s (and can’t help but feel slightly colder because of it) to unpack their picnic basket. He grabs the signature red gingham picnic blanket from its place in the basket, releasing its folded form with a flourish. The material floats gracefully through the air until settling on the grass, near gingerly with the way it stops at just the very tips of the blades.

He kicks his chin toward the blanket in invitation as he settles on top of it himself, beginning to remove the contents inside their basket. Sandwiches, fruits, veggies; assorted cheeses and meats, cake, and, arguable most important, wine. He wastes no time in popping the cork from the rouge, pouring a generous amount into each of the pinot noir glasses he’d carefully tucked in the picnic basket.

Y/N kneels onto the blanket, walking on her knees until Harry is within reach, and his incessantly grabby hands are (surprise, surprise!!) grabbing her. He hands her her wine glass and sets his off to the side for the time being, sliding his bear palms up the full of her thighs, the swell of her bum, small of her back…

She shivers as they pet down again, nails biting at her hips to grip and pull her into his lap.

“Too far,” he grumbles, nuzzling in the space where her neck and collarbone meet. He peppers soft kisses along the strong bone, inhaling the natural, overwhelming scent of her. His girl.

Y/N goes easily, sipping slowly at her red wine while her free hand comes up to his hair, fingers threading through the fluffy tendrils. She snatches his sunnies away when they block her half-hearted scalp massage, muttering delicate apologies when the bend of them gets stuck in his hair and he hisses at the sting.

“Sorry, Baby,” she winces herself, chucking the damned glasses onto the blanket when she’s gotten them loose, kissing along the crown of his head to soothe any ache.

She sips more, tart grape hitting her tongue, sugary plum sliding down her throat, strawberry slicking her lips. She’s borderline greedy with the way she downs it, but they’ve got nowhere to be. Only here. Just here. Now.

She twists in Harry’s laps to grab one of the homemade BLTs, offering the half she won’t stuff her fat gob with to Harry, which he politely accepts. They munch quietly, sharing soft smiles and love-sick kisses in between bites. Conversation is sparse, but not bad. Never bad. If anything, the weight of their words is heavier because they’re so few and far between.

They both like it that way, anyhow.

When their feast has dwindled down to nothing but a few fruits and cakes, Harry fishes his phone from his pocket, and reaches in the picnic basket to grab his trusty pair of wired headphones. Hooking them up to his phone, he looks expectantly to Y/N. She raises her brow, never one to move unprompted.

Harry smirks, “Come, Bellissima.”

Her heart flitters, her stomach flutters, and her eyes round out (Harry tries not to think about how fucking easy—). She crawls back to him, in a way that is unnecessarily intimate and innocent, and simultaneously astoundingly nasty, but he tucks the image into the deep, deep, dark recess of his mind so he doesn’t get arrested for public indecency. Saves it for later (call it his spankbank).

He tucks a loose strand of her hair behind her ear before handing her and earbud, and lying down on his side. She follows, the two inserting the device into their ears at the same time. Her head instantly floods with staggered strings and piano, static, and then bass. Saxophone and acoustic guitar being delicately plucked, followed by a heady, gentle voice, similar to Bowie (but never as iconic).

“About You,” she whispers to him, her lips quirking.

Harry nods. Smiles, “The 1975.”

As the music progresses—the subtle vibrato of Matty Healy’s croon, the crescendo of each instrument and sound blending together to create one beautiful, extravagant, mind-bending symphony—Y/N swears she can see all five oceans in his eyes. The clear, breathtaking reefs, the lines that separates it from the rest of the water, dividing the calm from the chaos, the serene from the danger. She sees the deep, the unknown she wishes the dive further into, explore and discover, treasure for nothing but her own heart. And the seafoam that crashes up against the shore, the way it bubbles with joy and glistens in the light of the sun at the horizon, ever so fleeting as it washes back down the grains of sand.

She sees it all.

“S’pretty,” she mumbles, scooting closer as much as she can.

Harry wraps the arm not tucked under his head around her waist, pulling her closer. His eyes flit dazedly between her two.

She may see the ocean, but he sees the sky. The constellations, laid out for him beautifully, his for the taking. His.

He nods, “S’pretty.” Bumps his nose childishly against hers, smiles softly, triumphantly, when it scrunches up. His eyebrows pull together in the center, and he huffs a breath through his nose, “S’fucking gorgeous, Stellina.”

His mouth is on her before she can ask for a translation (there’s only some many Italian pet names a girl can recall) tongue prodding at the seem of her lips until they give way and he can slide the wet muscle against her own. She tastes of their shared wine and vanilla buttercream, and he tastes of fresh peaches, mozzarella, and tangy balsamic vinegar. And yet, somehow, it mixes together to create something new, something better, arguably. He fits her bottom lip between his two, nipping and sucking at the plump flesh, pulling breathy whimpers and faint moans from his lover. His grunts and groans in response are no less self-deprecating (they were both, admittedly, getting extremely hot over a couple of third date level kisses).

Neither paid it much mind, however. Especially not when Harry flips around so he’s lying on his back and she’s pressed firmly against his torso, belly’s melding, chests grazing. Y/N can’t stifle her soft gasp at the heavy weight of Harry against her inner thigh, but she can’t reprimand him, for she is no better—there’s a puddle in the gusset of her panties.

“Harry,” she whines, lashes fluttering when his hands find the swell of her bum and squeeze through the flimsy fabric of her sundress.

“G'na take y'home now, Bellissima,” he husks against her open mouth, tongue flicking at the swollen mess. “Fuck you the way y'deserve for being such a good girl today—” She bristles, rocking into him and crying out softly because of it. “—and if y'keep it up, we’ll go to tha’ cute little flee market y'keep tellin’ me about, yeah?”

She’s being bribed with his (impeccable; divine; otherworldly) cock and her love for all things vintage.

“Can we go to the botanical garden, too?”

Harry snorts, issues a teasing spank to her bum that makes her squeal, but smiles, nevertheless. “Sure, Baby, whatever y'want.”

(Impeccable; divine; otherworldly) Cock, a flee market, and a botanical garden?

She’s in heaven. In happiness. In full bloom.

She fucking adores spring.